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crystalirises · 3 years

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In Moonlight We Meet (The Walls of Illusion Part 1)

I crawl from the depths of college to give this fic, and I shall disappear into the void once more.

Anyway, hope you guys like this :D.

Ao3 Link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30512157/chapters/75248370

Fundy gazed out into the vast darkness of the land, his hands grasping at the cracked blackstone that comprised his nation’s walls. Starlight twinkled in his eyes as his ears twitched with every noise that came from the forest beyond. He pulled his hat closer to his head, afraid that the wind would sweep him back into the cage that was his home. He took a deep breath, relishing in the night breeze that tickled and caressed his cheek like a mother would to her baby. He took one final glance back, crouched as low as he was, he could only catch traces of figures and shadows moving about within the country. Fundy looked towards home. Warm yellow light seeped out from the camarvan’s windows as a lone silhouette stood by the window - calm and unmoving.

He held onto the edge of the stone, taking a deep breath before beginning his descent. He paused every so often, the stray sound of footsteps or rustling bushes frightened and coaxed him to return to the safety of his room. He braved on, reaching for every edge or hole he could grasp as he made his way down the side of the wall, grateful that his father hadn’t realized his absence. If he was caught outside, Fundy would never hear the end of the lecture. He winced at the thought.

Fundy has broken rules in the past, but this one - this one - is one Wilbur would never forgive.

He stifled his yip of joy as he felt the soft grass, the blades of grass tickling the soles of his feet. Fundy’s tail wagged from side to side as he hesitatingly moved away from the wall, exhilaration coursing through his veins as he realized that he was outside. He was actually outside the walls!

Fundy pulled his black jacket closer to himself, the freezing cold of the night pierced through his skin as he turned to look out into the dark forest. The fox hybrid knew he shouldn’t let his guard down, tales of the monsters that lurked beyond L’Manburg’s walls rushed to the front of his mind. His father would tell him the stories of zombies, skeletons, and creatures that exploded if one were to get near. He didn’t doubt his father’s words, but he had to see the world for himself.

The hilt of his sword pressed against his side as he walked further into the shrubbery, the moonlight filtering through the trees his only source of light. But for a fox hybrid, the night was but a companion, the world brighter in his eyes despite the darkness that shrouded him.

Despite his bravado, he chose to stay away from the noises, not eager to come across a monster.

As he got further away from L’Manburg, a giddiness overtook the apprehension in his heart as his pace began to quicken. Fundy felt a smile stretch across his face as he started to run, feet thumping against soft grass and fallen branches as he ached to chase the feeling of freedom that had so long forsaken him. He could feel the rush of euphoria as the moonlight graced him with its presence, the forest welcoming as he explored every inch that he could. Fundy had no map of the forest, had no bearing of where he was going, but he had - no, he needed - to run. His nose picked up every new scent, his eyes picked up every new sight, and his hands picked up every new texture that he could get his hands on. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but wish to run until the scorching sun came up over the horizon and cursed the land with its pale yellow hue.

As that thought circled through his mind, his pace quickened, anger fueling him now as he knew he couldn’t outrun the inevitable forever. Fundy could feel the hot tears gathering in his eyes, scowling as he wiped them away with the sleeve of his jacket. A part of him dared to not go back, to flee to somewhere far away and leave the suffocating walls of his father’s nation behind.

Still, where would he go? The world was vast and unexplored, where would he run to? With the war that encompassed the entire land of the Essempy, how could he flee without being caught by L’Manbergian soldiers or by the enemy? Fundy shuddered at the thought, his father’s warnings of the enemy coming to the forefront of his mind. Death would be more merciful than them.

Then there was Wilbur, his dad. Fundy felt his ears press against the top of his head, his pace slowing until he was merely jogging. He couldn’t leave his dad alone, couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye. His dad was doing everything he could to keep Fundy safe and he couldn’t leave knowing that he would be leaving his heartbroken father to forever wonder if his son was still alive somewhere in the world. He let out a sigh, running a hand through his windswept hair. He can’t break his dad’s heart. He just can’t. Fundy shook his head, resuming his run through the forest. He wasn’t going to leave his dad. Never. Fundy would never break his dad’s heart.

He paused, the sharp crack of a branch snapping nearby sending him to a panicked frenzy as he jumped to lean back against the rough bark of a tree. The bushes in front of him were rustling, yet he couldn’t see any of the monsters that his father had warned him about. He felt his heart leap in his chest as the noise got closer and closer, his hands scrambling towards his sword, fingers fumbling between his fingers as he desperately tried to grab at the hilt. He could feel sweat trickle down the side of his neck, the cool night air sending goosebumps down his skin as it whispered of his demise. Oh gods, oh gods, he was going to fucking die here. Fundy huffed out a breath. His dad was right. He shouldn’t have left the walls. He shouldn’t have left the walls! He got his sword out, but it was too late. He screamed as a small shadowy mass leapt towards him.

His eyes shuttered close, the blade slipping past his hands as he waited for the shocking pain to hit. A few seconds ticked past, yet death did not come to claim his soul that night. He took a shaky breath, trying to quell his erratically beating heart. With tremors running up and down his fingers, he slowly lowered his hands from his face, gaze flicking down towards… the fox?

Fundy lowered to a kneel, hands reaching down towards the small fox that had bounded out of the bushes. Its dark brown eyes regarded him with a friendliness that made Fundy’s heart warm, its little paws petting against his lap as it tried to climb onto his shoulder. Fundy gently pushed the fox down, terrified of running and accidentally dropping the fox. It tilted its head to the side, sadness - at least that’s what Fundy assumes - dancing in the fox’s eyes as it let out a whimper, turning around in a circle before jumping onto Fundy’s lap. He barely had time to properly react before the fox’s dirt-stained paws were against his chest, its snout reaching up past his face as it snapped its teeth at something above Fundy’s head. Fundy watched in a stupor as the fox jumped back down, his black hat hanging from its mouth. The fox gave him one last look, a crystal clear look of mischief in its eyes, before turning on its heel and running further into the shrubbery.

“Wha一 HEY!” He bounded after the fox, his feet thumping against the forest earth as he darted between low-hanging branches and the night monsters that lurked. “COME BACK HERE!”

He swore the fox just snickered at him. Fundy growled underneath his breath. He could not go home without that hat! It would draw too many questions, and then he’d have to tell his dad where the hat even went. Oh, absolutely not. No, just no. “Come back, please... Come on, man!”

As he ran deeper into the woods, the moonlight began to disappear underneath the leaves, the world plunged into the darkness with only his eyes giving him the ability to see. He chased after the fox, calling for it to come back as fatigue began to seep into his bones. In his haste to get his hat back, he began to bump into all sorts of things. Fundy began to bump into trees, their harsh bark grazing him on the cheeks as he stumbled and tripped over his own two feet. Mobs got closer to him, rotting hands reaching for his flesh as arrows breezed overhead. Fundy gritted his teeth, pushing himself away from the mobs as he continued to follow the fox who was kind enough to wait for him each time he slowed down or lost sight of the fox. It would glance back at him every so often, wag its tail, before running off again. Fundy was beginning to think that this was the gods’ punishment towards him for disobeying his dad’s rule. “I NEED THAT, YOU一”

He let out a small ‘oomph’, diving face first onto… something. Fundy gripped whatever it was in front of him, the texture soft yet fuzzy against the palm of his hand as he tried to blink away the dizziness and surprise that had taken over his mind. He looked at what he had bumped into, eyes adjusting back to the darkness as he tried to wrack his mind about what he was holding. It wasn’t a tree, his mind helpfully supplied. The surface of whatever-it-was was colored in disgusting lime green, the color a stark contrast to the shadows of the forest. His ears flicked up, his body tensing in fear. There was a strange noise in the air like… a kettle hissing… hissing… HISSING!

Fundy screamed, pushing against what he could only assume was a creeper, knocking it to the ground as he hurried to get away. He tried to ignore the little shriek that it made, surprised to find that it sounded nearly human. GODS, why did they make those monsters sound human?! Fundy shook his head, running until he was a safe distance away from the impending explosion site.

Though… he could have sworn he hadn’t heard an explosion at all.

Fundy managed to collapse into an open clearing, his limbs failing him as he laid there on the ground in pure exhaustion, adrenaline gone from his veins. He felt paws scrabble at the top of his head, teeth gripping his jacket collar as the fox dragged him further into the clearing. He groaned, trying to bite the little pest away but it persevered enough to force him back into a sit. He blinked away the sleep from his eyes, knowing that he couldn’t go to sleep in the middle of nowhere. The fox had curled up in his arms, nuzzling itself into his jacket as though to keep itself warm. He reached up a hand, his hat already on his head. Huh… well, at least his hat was back. An exasperated sigh escaped his lips, a smile forming on his face. Then he looked up, and froze.

The moonlight glistened against the clear surface of the lake, bathing it an ethereal silver glow. Dark shadows darted from its depths as tiny fishes waltzed with one another in their own little dance, undisturbed by his ungraceful presence. With the fox cradled in his arms, he made his way to the shore, his eyes bright as the golden flecks in his dark brown eyes shimmered underneath the glow of the moon. He felt his breath leave his throat, the sereneness of the clearing - dotted as it was by the prettiest of flowers that bloomed underneath the care of the moon - sending a wave of calm through his tense and tired body. He felt safe. He felt at peace.

“You’re a little shit, but… thank you. For this.” Fundy held up the fox so that he could look into its eyes. The fox yipped, licking the tip of its nose as it began to struggle in his hold. He placed it on the ground, the fox whimpering as it tried to climb back up his arms. “Sorry… I can’t一”

His dad would question where he got a fox so late at night. Fundy moved away from it, even as it began to clung to the edge of his pants, its little claws digging into the cloth. He felt his heart ache, wishing that he could just scoop the little guy up and take it home. He tried to take a deep breath, reminding himself of the reason why he couldn’t just take the fox home with him. There was no place for a pet in war. Fundy crouched down, the fox immediately trying to jump into his arms, but he kept it from doing so. He placed his hand against the fox’s head, rubbing behind its ears as it slowly began to lie down, tail wagging excitedly as Fundy continued to pet it. The fox let out a purr, nuzzling further into his hand. “I’m sorry. I’d really take you with me if I could.”

It was the snap of a twig that made him pause. The fox looked up, its ears raised as it looked out into the treeline behind the lake. Fundy strained his eyes to see against the shadows, but he couldn’t see anything. The fox yipped, moving away from him as it headed towards the noise. Fundy took it as his cue to leave. He wanted to stay and bask in the beauty of the clearing, but now all he could feel was fear and trepidation, as if a being was staring at him from the trees. He felt a shiver run down his spine. He was being observed. He could tell. With one last look at the lake and the fox, Fundy turned and began to run back towards where he felt home was. He heard the fox squeak after him, could hear its paws thump against the grass it tried to catch up to him, but Fundy wasn’t as kind to wait for it as it had been for him. He ran until the fox’s cries were but a distant noise, he ran and ran until the familiar look of blackstone appeared within his view.

Within seconds, he was climbing up the wall, reaching for the spots he had used to climb down. There was a hollow feeling in his chest as he reached the top, almost as if he had left a piece of him within the forest that night. Fundy looked into the forest once more, before heading back in.

“Did you believe I wouldn’t notice your absence?” Fundy froze, nearly slipping and falling off the wall as he quickly turned around, jumping down to the ground as a silhouette appeared from behind the tree that stood nearby the entrance to L’Manburg. “Fundy, what was my one rule?”

He gripped the bottom edge of his shirt, scratching as bits of string hung loosely from the cloth. He turned around to face Wilbur. The man looked utterly exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes as a cool breeze ruffled his uncombed, curly brown hair. Wilbur stood at attention, one hand gripping the hilt of his sword as Fundy felt his father grasp his arm. Fundy couldn’t bring himself to speak as Wilbur dragged him deeper into the confines of L’Manburg, soft chuckling from somewhere in the darkness (no doubt Tubbo and Tommy watching Fundy be dragged off into another lecture). Fundy bit the inside of his cheek, the hto dog van coming into view as Wilbur practically shoved him inside. Shadows clung to the furniture, the soft hiss of potions brewing the only source of noise within the small space that Fundy nearly wished that Wilbur would just leave him there to sulk for the night as his punishment. Luck was not on the fox hybrid’s side.

“Have you any idea how terrified I was to find out that you were missing? I was this close to sending out search parties, Fundy. I was this fucking close!” Fundy hung his head, his father’s yelling accompanied by the sickening slam of the door closing. He pressed his lips together as Wilbur grabbed him by the arms, his hold nearly bruising as Wilbur glared into his eyes. Fundy felt a trickle of fear, “I can’t have you doing this again. Do you know how reckless and stupid―”

“I just wanted to take a walk, dad…”

“A walk? A WALK?! What if you got caught? What if you ran into fucking Dream? Have you no self-preservation. FUCK!” Fundy flinched as Wilbur let go of him, only to slam his hands against the table. Wilbur was breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down as if he was calming himself down. “I can’t lose you, Fundy. Dream’s a tyrant, he would do anything to win this war.”

“Why? Are you scared they’re going to use me against you? They probably don’t even know I exist since I’m not even allowed to leave this place! How could they even know you have a son to use as blackmail when you don’t let me wander outside the walls?!” Fundy hadn’t meant to raise his voice, stuttering into a fearful pause as he realized the seeping anger in his tone. Wilbur glanced up at him, shock dancing in those dark brown eyes. Fundy leaned against the wall, the cool metal sending goosebumps down his skin… or perhaps that was the rising frustration. L’Manburg was Fundy’s entire world, he barely knew anything outside those depressingly large walls that seemed to reach up into the heavens above. Wilbur had made it clear to everyone that Fundy was to never leave. “Dad, I can’t live my whole life here. There’s a whole other world out there just waiting to be explored. I… I just wanted to see it. You can’t keep me inside forever.”

“It’s not forever, Fundy. It’s just until the war is over.” He felt a gentle hand caress his cheek. Fundy didn’t even realize that Wilbur had moved closer, “Then you’ll be free to… wander.”

Fundy chuckled at that. His dad was a terrible liar, he couldn’t even conceal the hesitation in his voice. Fundy focused his attention on his muddy feet instead, remembering how the wind felt against his hair as he raced through the forest, the fox that had taken his hat and made Fundy follow after it until Fundy reached the silver lake. His eyes had been his only guide. Of course, he did run into a few trees while chasing the fox, even running into a creeper that he swore made a fucking kettle sound (was that how creepers hissed?) when he bumped into it. He had eventually come to a stop by the clear lake at the center of the empty clearing, watching the dark shadows zip around the bottom of the water. Fundy had petted the fox, enjoying the serenity and peace of the night. Then he fled, the creeping sense of being watched having sent goosebumps down his skin.

“Give it time. We’ll have our freedom and perhaps I’ll let you leave L’Manburg every now and then.” There was a hand on the top of his head, soothing his ears down as a smile formed on his dad’s face. Fundy couldn’t bring himself to return it. “I promise. Just stay inside for now, hm?”

“You promise?” He moved closer, clutching the front of his dad’s coat. Wilbur placed a hand at Fundy’s back, hesitant as if Wilbur wasn’t quite sure if Fundy was asking for a hug. Fundy gritted his teeth at the idea of even hugging Wilbur at such a time. He let out a sigh, willing his voice not to shake or for tears to spring into his eyes as he glanced up to meet his father’s eyes. He hated how he barely reached his father’s chin despite being older than Tommy or Tubbo. “You talk of freedom and independence as if they were inevitable. Don’t you see how hopeless this is dad? You’re fighting a losing battle. You think you can beat a god? A fucking god? We’re all going to die. I-I’m going to die. I’m going to die without ever having lived, dad―”

The rest of his words were swallowed away as Wilbur pulled him into an embrace, a hand pressing his head against his dad’s chest. Fundy could almost hear the erratic beat of Wilbur’s heart, felt the way that his dad held him clser as though his words had actually frightened Wilbur. Guilt trickled into his heart but Fundy tried not to hold onto it. “Don’t say that. You won’t… you can’t die. I’ll make sure of it. We’ll be fine, my son. You won’t die on the battlefield.”

“You can’t promise me that. You can’t promise me a chance against death.” Fundy wasn’t sure if Wilbur could hear him - not sure if Wilbur would dare to hear him - but he had to try. Wilbur began to hum, a discordant tune that sounded more like droning as if he was trying to block out Fundy’s voice. Fundy curled his hands into fists, nails digging into the skin of his palm. His dad was doing it again, ignoring the negative as if it didn’t exist. “Dad… you have to let me live a little. We don’t know how much time we have left before… Let me feel freedom for once.”

Silence ticked by as Wilbur moved away, a pained look in his eyes as he looked down at Fundy. There was the shimmer of tears but Wilbur didn’t cry. No. Never in front of Fundy. Wilbur wrapped his arms around himself and Fundy realized that Wilbur was reassuring himself more than he was protecting Fundy. This wasn’t about Fundy at all… this was about Wilbur’s fear.

“I love you very much, my little champion. I love you enough to say no to what you’re asking of me. I… I can’t have you running about in the forest at night doing gods know what. Not when Dream is out there… waiting.” Fundy rolled his eyes at that. For all this talk of Dream, he’s never even seen the illusive man at all. Fundy was beginning to think that Wilbur had made the man up, like he did once when Fundy was a kid and Wilbur had jokingly said there was a monster underneath the bed. Wilbur regretted it as Fundy refused to sleep alone for an entire month. “Do you know why I built those walls? The walls you are so adamant to hate? I built them for you. I built them to keep you safe, Fundy. I need to protect my sweet little son. Can’t you see that?”

“Can’t you see? I’m not that kid anymore. You need to stop seeing me as a a helpless baby.” Fundy felt his last inkling of hope disappear. Wilbur would never understand, never will for as long as he thought the world would take his son away. Fundy turned to leave, ignoring his dad’s call for him to come back. He stood at the door, hand hovering above the handle.

“Fundy Soot, you get back here this instant. The conversation isn’t over.” He let out a low growl. It was over, Fundy was ending it. He pushed the door open, the cool, night wind blowing through his hair and into the cramped and heated van. “Don’t you growl at me, young man. FUNDY―”

He looked back, snarling loudly that Wilbur immediately backed off, a surprised look on his face. Good. Fundy didn’t want to stay there any longer. Fuck Wilbur and Fuck L’Manburg too.

“You know what, Wilbur? I never asked you to fucking protect me. You made that choice. Now I’m making mine.”

And with that, Fundy was gone.

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Hope you guys like this! :D

*soul gets claimed by mid-terms* ;-;

#fundy #wilbur soot #fundywastaken #dream is but a scary lurker in the forest tho /j #mcyt

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theslashmix · 3 years

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Valzer a Quattro Mani

There was a grand piano on the stage, quietly sitting in dignified and lonely majesty. It was easy to picture a string ensemble or a small orchestra next to it, maybe even a singer, filling the air with emotion and sound. Nix found himself walking towards it- it felt profoundly unjust that such a beautiful instrument should stay there, dusty and abandoned, as if it didn’t contain the potential for one of the few amazing things that humanity had managed to create.

The theatre was empty, dusty, and forlorn when they entered. The air inside was still and hushed, blanketing everything in a very oppressive manner: and yet, there was sort of an expecting quality to it, decided Nix as he looked around, considering. It was as if the theatre was holding its breath. Waiting for somethi ng to happen.

Somewhere in the bowels of the theatre, someone found the main switch, and the electric lights flickered to life, dimmed by globes of opaque glass. It was the same trick they used in the Opera of Paris, to mimic the mysterious and romantic light of candles that reflected so beautifully on the ladies’ jewels.

It was a beautiful place: only a well done Baroque could manage to load such an excessive amount of decorations in a single place and not be tacky. Curls of gilded stucco glinted in the dim light, and chubby putti angels carried horns of plenty and wreaths of flowers around every balcony. The chairs in the audience had been pushed to the sides and piled up unceremoniously: they must have been there for a while, because spiderwebs had already started to festoon them.

The silence was, surprisingly, not broken by the sound of dozens of combat boots stepping on the empty wooden floor of the audience. On the contrary, it seemed to suffocate the noise, as if the theatre itself was shushing them. Nix felt the sudden urge to tell everyone to shut up and take their place. He expected at any moment to hear the discordant, and yet harmonious, soaring sound of an orchestra tuning up. It was a familiar sound that he had heard many times. His mind went back to the many concerts he had seen in his life, especially as a child: a concert was always a moment of peace, a moment when Stanhope Nixon had to shut his goddamn trap and let Nix enjoy something beautiful. Oh sure, after it Nix always had to hear him bitch about how boring these concerts were. But to Nix, the sound of an orchestra tuning up would always be a soothing sound.

“Lew?”

Dick had quietly walked over to him as he fondly stroked the sleek curve of the piano. What a beautiful thing it was, made of briar root, all mottled in various shades of warm brown, with gilded legs and edges. It was a pity that the gilding was peeling off in spots, but it gave the instrument a homely feeling.

“Look at this beauty, Dick” he sighed, as he opened the lid to peer inside. The cords seemed intact, and miraculously rust free. He propped it open and moved to the keyboard, sitting down before reverently lifting the lid and revealing the neat row of ivory and ebony keys. They were not perfectly aligned anymore and some wiggled a little- this piano had been well loved and used, before the war had forced its master to abandon it. He pressed a couple of keys experimentally- the plink-plunk of notes was startling, actually shattering the silence that had weighted on them like a wet blanket.

“You can play the piano?” asked Dick, looking at Nix in mild awe. Nix snorted.

“As much as I hate it, I do come from high society. Of course I can play the piano, Dick. It was either that, or the violin. I wish I could have picked up the pipe organ: then I could have lived in a beautiful gothic mansion while ominously playing Bach’s fugue in D minor during dark and stormy nights and wearing a dark cloak. I would be the perfect Count Dracula. All dark, mysterious and very villainous.” He placed his right hand on the keyboard, playing the first few beats of the fugue. Not bad, although the tuning was slightly off. But that was to be expected. Who knew how long it had been abandoned there, exposed to the ravages of time and war, without the care of competent hands that knew its worth! Nix was honestly surprised that it hadn’t been chopped into firewood already. He was a bit rusty and hadn’t played in a long while, but his fingers were absolutely itching to run wild on the keyboard.

Suddenly, he was aware of a shift in the atmosphere. Everyone was looking towards him- the soldier’s instinct of checking every new source of new noise kicked in no matter what. But now, the tension in the air was different. Nix had played for audiences before, and no matter how small they were, the feeling when you captured someone’s attention was very distinct. That attention was very real and tangible, like a weight on your shoulders. For a moment he was certain, absolutely certain, cross on the heart and hope to die kind of certain, that the theatre itself was alive, and Nix had just had the misfortune of capturing its full, undivided attention. It was all too easy to imagine the thousands of putti turning their little carved eyes towards the stage. It was vast, looming, and a bit more than vaguely threatening as it waited to see what he would do with the beautiful instrument.

He cleared his throat, trying to dispel the sensation and looked up at Dick, who was now leaning on the side of the piano, idly running his fingers on the polished and lacquered wood.

“Well, I’m no Rubinstein, mind you, and I’m a bit rusty. But what would you say to some serenading?” he said with a cheeky grin, knowing full well that his lover would catch the meaning underneath the joking tone. Dick smiled that soft little smile of his that always seemed to radiate comfort and warmth from within him. It was so sweet it hurt, and Nix wanted nothing more than to make him smile like that forever. He promised himself that they would have a piano someday, and maybe he’d even teach Dick to play it. He could picture them in their home, sitting side by side on a stool, as he guided Dick’s long fingers across the keyboard: it was such a sweet, domestic image that he felt his heart ache with longing.

“I would love it.” Dick said, his smile widening: there was no hint of joking in his tone.

Nix turned his attention to the keyboard, and placed his hands on the ivory keys. What should I play? He wondered, as he tested them and his own fingers with a few scales. It was a bit difficult to concentrate, with that nagging sensation of being stared at by the theatre itself- he felt his neck prickle. He repressed a shiver and shook his head. He needed to focus on Dick, not on the eerie atmosphere of this place.

He needed something sweet- this was a serenade, after all. But maybe not something overly lovey-dovey. Für Elise… nah, that was boring and overdone, and too saccharine. His next option was Moonlight Sonata, but he discarded it: even if the general gist was right (moonbeams and sweet nighttime made for a perfect ambience for a secret serenade), the piece was just on the wrong side of too dark to be romantic. Debussy was an obvious choice if he wanted the moonlight theme- or he could just take a little step further and go for one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. The one he liked best was n.2, and let’s face it- it was just perfect. Chopin’s Nocturne, Op. 9 n.2 it would be, then.

He paused for a moment, focusing on the flow and ebb of the notes in his head, on Dick and all the things he wanted to say and couldn’t.

He started playing, and suddenly, it was as if the whole theatre had sighed deeply, and settled down, listening intently, no longer threatening, but still single-mindedly focused.

Dick was focusing on him, too, but at least his attention was comforting and flattering, not threatening or unsettlingly intense. He was almost languid, as he relaxed against the piano to enjoy his secret serenade to the fullest. He had his eyes closed and was swaying gently with the music, while his fingertips were pressed into the wood of the piano, intent on catching every single vibration.

Nix hoped that the vibrations could convey all the things he was feeling. The unexpected depth of his feelings for the redhead, and his gratitude to whatever higher being that Dick actually reciprocated. The fear of losing him and the nebulous fear of the future, of the “what now” when the war would be over and they would need to decide what to do with their relationship. He poured all of it and more into the music, uncaring that there were fifty other men in the room, listening. It wasn’t perfect- he missed a couple of notes here and there. But it didn’t matter.

When the last notes ended, there was a moment of stunned silence before everyone started clapping frantically, whistling and stomping. it was as if they had just witnessed the concert of the century, instead of just Nix mauling Chopin in an abandoned theatre in a bombed city in the ass crack of nowhere, Europe.

He looked up at Dick, blushing slightly. The redhead was smiling openly, his gaze soft. Maybe he hadn’t mauled it too much, then. Maybe he had managed to convey at least something.

“That was beautiful, Lew” Dick said quietly, before moving up to the stool. “What about a duet?” he proposed, sitting down. Nix had to scoot to make space for him. An expectant silence fell again in the theatre, with the boys shushing each other (Bull had to slap a hand on Luz’ mouth to forcibly subdue his cheering), but Nix ignored it in favour of exploring this new facet of Dick.

“You can play the piano?” he asked, surprised.

Dick snorted, in a mocking mimicry of Nix’ earlier reaction.

“Of course I can play, Nix,” he parroted. His long fingers splayed on the keyboard, in the wrongest position that Nix had ever seen- he probably didn’t have a formal education in music, Nix reasoned. His piano teacher, Miss Price, would have had a stroke. “Let’s see… this is one of my dad’s favourites” he said, playing a few notes.

“The Blue Danube?”

Dick nodded, smiling softly.

“May I have this waltz?” he asked, with a mischievous wink.

“Gladly, milord. You lead,” said Nix, feeling his own lips widening in an answering smile.

Dick began playing, and Nix let him go for a few beats before joining, taking his time to see what tempo Dick would set. Then he started to follow, starting an accompaniment melody with a little bit of variation thrown into it just for fun. Dick had picked up an andante pace, but it was a bit too fast for Nix’ taste: this waltz was to be savoured, not rushed.

“Slow- down- a bit” he murmured, staccating his words in time with the music. He gave Dick the correct tempo with his accompaniment.

“Just- like- that,” he said. “One-two-three, take your time with this waltz. Don’t rush it.”

Nix found himself grinning, as Dick followed his lead and their hands danced in synchrony on the keyboard: back and forth, back and forth, weaving a complex pattern, like a boat ploughing through the soft waves of the great Danube. This was a bit like dancing: they weren’t well practiced with it, and they kept bumping their elbows and hands, as if they were dancing for the first time together and kept stepping on each other’s toes.

They couldn’t dance in front of everyone- but they could do this. They could duet and make the music dance for them while they sat close on the stool, their bodies touching, and everyone else was none the wiser to the deeper meaning of it all. Dick nodded and swayed in time with the music, and he smiled whenever his gaze met Nix’.

Maybe he’d take Dick on a cruise on the Danube after the war, he decided. They would wait a bit, so maybe Europe would have time to rebuild. If the state of things on the western front was anything to go by, it would take years for the Old World to rise from its ashes.

Still, it was a beautiful dream to hang on to. He imagined himself lazily lounging with Dick on the deck of a narrowboat, while the ancient landscape of Europe passed by. It would be green and lush, hale again after the war. He could imagine Dick with a cup of ice cream and a tourist’s guide, pointing at the various landmarks.

Nix felt sorry, when the cascading notes of the final crescendo vanished in the air. He would have liked to dance on the keyboard a little longer. But they could do it again, he reasoned. Now they knew that they could dance like this, together.

He followed Dick off the stage as the redhead brushed off the thunderstorm of claps, stomps, “bravo!” and “encore!” with an embarrassed shrug, before sending the men back to their duties. He paused for a moment before exiting the theatre, peering back into the now dark hall: the silence had fallen once more. But now it didn’t feel as heavy as it had when they had first stepped in. The large, looming presence he had perceived was still there, but the threat was gone: their offering had been deemed worthy and accepted. With a shiver, he wondered what would have happened, if this hadn’t been the case.

He promised himself that he would come back and fill that silence some more. This place didn’t deserve to remain silent and empty.

Later that night, Nix was pleasantly surprised by the fact that Dick had snagged them a good billet: the room had a locking door and, ineffable luxury, a double bed. Tired as they were, they still spent an extremely pleasant half hour of slow, passionate lovemaking in the fresh sheets: Dick had felt the pressing need to show Nix just how much he had appreciated the serenade, and Nix sure hadn’t minded.

Now they laid down in a warm cocoon of blankets and limbs, with Dick pliant and boneless in Nix’ arms. It was rare that they could sleep together like this, and Nix considered it a privilege when Dick nestled himself in his arms, exhausted and sated, accepting for once to be held and protected. No one else would ever see Dick like this.

“Thanks for the dance” murmured the redhead, who was already drifting off.

“You’re very welcome” answered Nix, smiling and placing a tender kiss on his lover’s red curls. He chuckled, when he heard Dick snore lightly, and he shifted a bit, settling down. He drifted off to sleep, picturing the pair of them in a grand ballroom wearing their best dress greens and waltzing elegantly, spinning so fast that the world around them was a blur.

Someday, he thought, before sleep finally claimed him. Someday .

#winnix #richard winters #bob #lewis nixon #band of brothers

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

Text

Lonely Together (3k, Barry Allen/Bruce Wayne, M)

ao3 link

Barry needs others, yet whether by his enemies or his own actions, he ends up alone. After Iris leaves him, Barry feels as if he drifts through life. Like lightning humming in the air without a rod to ground him.

Until he struck another lonely soul and entered a relationship he never thought possible. Now, months since he and Bruce began sleeping with each other, Barry feels settles. At peace in a way he hasn't felt in a long while. Since he and Iris started petering out.

But it's not love... is it?

Barry wakes unintentionally, consciousness stirring without say. Currents of electricity that relentlessly hum under his skin strengthen in another’s presence. Especially when it’s familiar. They spark like lightning, striking until he surfaces from sleep’s drowning tides. His eyelids flutter open, though his head remains pillowed by soft down. He watches, shadowed in darkness, as Bruce sneaks around the room. “Hey,” he drawls, voice scratchy from sleep. Grin unfurling lazily while Bruce’s form tensed, “you just swing in?”

Bruce sets something down on a neighboring dresser, turning. He can’t see fine details, like his self-disparaging frown or furrowed brows interrupted by a wrinkled comma, but Barry imagines them easily. Knows these features intimately. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

An unnecessary apology. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep here,” Barry replies, then drags his hand across the comforter. Thumb brushing against a loose seam. “So, I guess we’re even.”

“You didn’t mean to?” Bruce asks, advancing. He sits on the opposite side of his bed, finding Barry’s hand and intertwining their fingers. “What were you doing then?”

“Waiting for you.”

He arrived earlier, vibrating past security and locked doors. Shouted into an empty apartment where his voice echoed, unanswered. Half-a-second spent checking each room, Barry knew Bruce wasn’t there. Slowly, Barry retraced his steps. Stood near the front door, wondering. Debated if he should leave for Central City or stay in Gotham. Both options similar in that no matter what he decided, he’d be alone.

They were different types of loneliness, however. He left Central tonight because what he faced was too suffocating. Barry ran and ran, only it waited there behind every corner. Inescapable on well-tread streets he loved. Growing from cracks on sidewalks like weeds, strong despite how many times crushed. Returning even if ripped out of the soil. And while these desolate sprigs littered his city, it didn’t compare to the jungle in his home. Wild, vast, with hanging vines that slithered across his shoulders. Tickled his neck during particularly quiet moments that made Barry acknowledge how empty it seemed after Iris.

At least, in Bruce’s apartment, it was different. Like being alone in an elevator that crawled upwards.

Less insistent. More manageable. Its presence didn’t insist recognition, merely a temporary visitor. Disappearing soon as Bruce arrived back. Barry walked towards Bruce’s bedroom, resolute, shedding his clothes along the way. He grabbed a book he hadn’t finished reading since last he was there. Settled down and opened to a bent age corner.

He can’t feel the book. Bruce must have removed it. Maybe it’s what woke him.

Leaning forward, Bruce presses a tiny kiss at the seam of Barry’s lips. Pulls him free of his thoughts. “I’m sorry,” he tells him, “I was out later than I expected, than I wanted to be…”

“It’s okay,” Barry whispers. His other hand slides into his friend’s hair, playing with it. Brunet curls soft and damp from sweat. “I’m okay.”

He nods, yet Bruce still looks troubled. Dark gaze piercing, staring deeply into Barry’s own. Drifting closer, their noses brush. Bruce speaks again, breath ghosting over his mouth. Warm and intoxicating. “If you’re able and… in the mood…” he offers, “We can…?” Bruce trails off, not bothering with saying the rest. Barry understands regardless. Because of how he hovers, braced atop him, Barry caged in on either side by Bruce’s arms. Because Bruce asks his own way, through gentle squeezes of their joined hands that he repeats in rapid succession. Because they’ve done this before and grew far beyond the rushed unsurety from their first time.

Barry kissed him, accidentally. Compelled more by a longing for touch than of Bruce. For a distracting, newer sensation besides the soul-crushing hollowness that roared inside his chest since Iris ended things. Needed some reminder he was alive after another harrowing mission that almost cost the League their lives, again. Again.

Like a rowdy storm, Barry thundered with unexpressed adrenaline that demanded release. A lightning rod he could cling to, grounded and tethered in the present.

Bruce was there. Offering Barry coffee from their conference room’s private pot, a gesture of solidarity at being forgotten while everyone else fled for home. He accepted the gifted novelty Superman mug, sipping absentmindedly. “It’s decaf, drowning in cream, smothered in sugar…” Bruce said, “that’s your usual, right?”

It was. Bruised, bloodied, and exhausted from battling ancient, cosmic entities hellbent on planetary destruction, and Bruce remembered how he liked his coffee.

The mug shattered as he dropped it, but Barry did not hear more than a tinny pop. His drink splashed their feet, leaving brown, splotchy stains he noticed hours later. Barry jumped Bruce, hauling him close by his cape. Kissed Bruce as his mind played static. In rapid succession, that static disappeared. Rationality descending with vengeance, circling, bombarding Barry with explosive truths.

He kissed Batman. That’s his friend. He kissed Batman. He’s a man. He kissed Batman. Inside the Hall of Justice, where anyone could find them. He kissed Batman. He kissed Batman. He kissed Bruce.

Drifting apart, he ignored tingling skin to pry a coherent thought out from the overgrown bramble that was his mind. “Bruce,” Barry choked, grip on Bruce’s cape loose and dangling. Gaze dropping, he focused on his chest. Bat fluttering with every exhale. “I… I don’t, I’m so – “

Bruce wouldn’t let him explain, roughly capturing Barry’s lips in response. Frenzied, trapping Barry between his body and the table. With a passionate reception like that, Barry felt his worry melt. Became a gentle tide coaxing him deeper. Willingly swept farther than his cares might reach. Bruce’s deft fingers trailing, tickling, at his sides made thinking about the empty bed in his apartment very difficult. When he pulled his cowl back, pinning Barry with an indescribable hunger burning behind his eyes, any disappointment over an understocked fridge waiting at home disappeared. And as Bruce slid one glove off using his teeth, second hand preoccupied teasing Barry’s waistband, Barry’s sole concern was unhitching his friend’s belt.

“Yeah, like that,” Bruce sighed, “let me make this good for you…” He touched Barry’s already half-hard cock, cupping it. Rhythmically sliding his hand while their hips ground together. Barry softly cursed, pressure mounting. Bruce’s dick throbbed against his and tempted him further, headed for the edge. Plummeting when he twisted his wrist, Bruce sucking an aggressive mark below Barry’s chin that joined a loose collection of already fading bruises.

Barry came, panting, chasing those last few seconds of bliss until his muscles sagged from fatigue. Kept upright by his friend’s strong hold. Bruce joined him with a strangled curse, head resting on Barry’s shoulder. Panting, they lingered in each other’s embrace. Aware that this meager amount of pleasure had redefined their relationship.

Hours later, Barry lay awake in bed. Mind restaging their sordid affair, body igniting at the memory of where Bruce grazed him. He fondled pale skin, unblemished now that his accelerated healing factor kicked on. Barry wished it hadn’t. Admitting that, then, even as a whisper from his subconscious, terrified him. Grabbing the pillow on Iris’s untouched side, he held it across his face. Screamed his frustration, and again when he realized her scent finally faded from the fabric.

Those next few weeks were awkward. During meetings, sitting feet from where he orgasmed and pretending it never happened while evading Bruce’s searching gaze. Boundless excuses, lies, of where he needed to be. Fleeing before Bruce could reach him. Volunteering for any mission, throwing himself into heroics where bad guys needed defeating, lives were saved, and he could act like nothing about his world changed.

Anything that kept him from asking questions he could not answer truthfully.

Despite his best efforts – his superhuman speed – Bruce pulled ahead. Running a marathon instead of the sprint Barry hoped it was.

“We need to talk,” he said, “about… coffee, the other night.” Bruce’s grip tightened on the Javelin’s yoke, glare firm and unwavering out at space. Barry, meanwhile, shrunk in his seat. Conversation he dreaded crashing into him like a meteor.

Oliver radioed Barry for a mission, about a distress signal League channels recorded. From what they deciphered, the code was obsolete and most likely false. However, sparing resources, he figured a small team could check. Confirm their prior suspicions. Barry agreed, racing over. Only he hadn’t realized his teammate for this mission would be the same man he was avoiding.

Following debriefing and takeoff, they traveled in uncomfortable silence broken with Bruce’s demand.

Barry reigned back telltale vibrations, hiding his nerves. “Okay,” he said, “Yeah…” He squeezed his fists and chuckled, “You know how I take my coffee?”

Bruce allowed him this short reprieve. “It always struck me odd, and… hypocritical, how you liked it. Why choose decaf if you’re adding that much sugar?”

“It offsets the bitter taste, is all.”

“Barry…” He wrangled their conversation onto its path once more, tone absent of any levity. “What we did, I…” Bruce paused, testing what he wants to say. Lines around his mouth shifting as he cycles through his thoughts. “I’m not sure how we should proceed.”

“Neither do I,” Barry shrugged, “Not talking about it was working well for me.”

“You’ve been acting noticeably strange during missions. I’ve been… unsettled, too. At times.” Barry’s chest twinged, an annoyance he dealt with by crossing his arms and scowling. “If this continues, affecting future missions –“

“Because it’s always about this mission, isn’t it?”

Bruce sighed, then Barry felt a gentle brush against his elbow. Leaving the Javelin on autopilot, he let his hands wander. They settled on Barry. One at his elbow, another squeezing Barry’s knee. “Do you…” Bruce strained, forcing his next question past with serious effort. It piqued his interest, wondering what he might say. Obviously difficult, Barry sloped forward as the silence grew. “Do you,” he finally continued, “regret… what happened?”

He should. They were teammates. Friends who stupidly jerked each other off. Bruce… was the first man he ever let touch him that intimately. Combined, these arguments battered down like a hurricane, reasons how everything about what he and Bruce did – what Barry initiated – was an enormous misunderstanding. A mistake that never should have been. And yet he could not cobble together some form of regret.

Worse, Barry still yearned for more.

Barry did not believe he deserved more. The ink from where Iris’s name was tattooed on his heart hadn’t fully disappeared; a relic of what he lost, stinging with each beat. Those scant moments, lost in the throes of passion alongside Bruce, were some of the best he had in months. He made Barry forget his failed relationship like a strong drink or the best drug. How was it possible?

Determined, Barry turned his neck slightly. Readied a false speech, about being tired and shaken. That their tryst meant nothing and should be forgotten.

Except he caught Bruce’s stare. His naked gaze, cowl discarded when he wasn’t looking. Layers peeled backwards, exposing a vulnerable side of his friend Barry rarely saw. Shoulders hunched, weighed heavily by an answer Barry hadn’t given. Wisps of disappointment hung in the air like smoke from an ashen cigarette. He cleared his throat, going over what he wanted to say.

Then tossed the script.

“I… No,” he confessed, surprising both of them. Bruce’s jaw shifted and a small gasp escaped. “I don’t.” It was his turn. “Do you?”

His hand slid across his forearm, covering Barry’s hand. “No.”

“…What do we do now?”

Humming, thumb petting his upper shin, Bruce offered a suggestion. “It’s been… hard for both of us, hasn’t it? The lives we lead… there’s little chance for that kind of peace. Boats with no safe harbors to rest at, not anymore.” Not since Iris, in a cold whisper, explained how claustrophobic and helpless Barry left her feeling most days. Not since Selina and Bruce came upon a crossroads and chose different paths. “I think that if we want to… engage in activities like – uh, like coffee, then why shouldn’t we? As long as we’re mature about it, and what we do won’t interfere with our duties…”

Barry weakly snorted, Bruce’s clinical description goading him into it. He laid the idea out logically and he found no flaw in his reasoning. A small crack of doubt shoved its way in, that he misheard. Bruce suggesting, put crudely, a ‘friends-with-benefits’ arrangement? But then Barry remembered how eagerly Bruce flew, chasing his lips. That it was his hand edging him into completion. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like the wishful thinking he assumed.

Especially as Bruce’s hand crept towards his waistband. “What are you -?”

“Incentive,” Bruce smirked, “Showing you how good this will be. That I can make it.” ‘Let me make this good’ was what he said, while jerking him inside the Hall. “Is that okay?”

Chuckling, Barry brushed his wavy bangs back. “I thought you didn’t want this to get in the way of our jobs?”

“Autopilot is an amazing invention. Doing our job at double the speed, leaving more time for… coffee.”

Barry kissed him, punishing him for such a lame joke by nipping his bottom lip. Soothed it with his tongue while he helped Bruce, shimmying his hips. Pants bunched near his knees, Barry’s cock bobbed between his legs.

Bruce climbed out of the pilot’s seat, kneeling at his feet. “So,” he growled, breath hot as it hit his twitching cock, “that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

“This is dumb. Dangerous. And it’s going to end poorly for the both of us,” Barry muttered, grip twisting in Bruce’s hair after he licked a strip up his cock, “Of course we’re doing it.”

He was mostly right. During a particularly harried affair, Barry caught sight of his costumed reflection in one of the League’s interrogation rooms’ one-sided mirrors. Watched as he thrust his cock, Bruce’s ass accepting its length. His face, masked, contorted pleasurably. Barry stuttered, taking in the full picture. Flash fucking Batman, like they were a bad porno. If only the camera wasn’t disabled… Scoffing, he relaxed his grip on his friend’s hips. Instead reaching for Bruce’s cowl, ripping it off. His, too, in the next beat. “What?” Bruce asked.

“This is so stupid,” he huffed, hips rolling slower than before, “What are we even doing?”

“I think that’s pretty obvious.”

Barry sighed, “No, like… objectively. Aren’t we too old to be doing this, or… I don’t know, better than it? I doubt this is what most people imagine heroes do in their spare time.”

“We’re only human, Barry,” Bruce said, grunting as he slammed into his prostate, “We can… can afford a few minutes off the pedestal.”

“I guess…”

“Hey,” Bruce twisted, catching his eye in the mirror, “are you having second thoughts?”

“No.”

“This is good?”

He languidly traced Bruce’s spine, cautious of every bump. “The best.” Then, pressing hard at the dip of his ass, he added, “Even if Oliver expected us at training five minutes ago.” Barry orgasmed, Bruce’s laughter booming and stretched hole choking his cock.

Dumb. Dangerous. Although their situation actually improved since they began, and Barry cannot picture this ever ending.

Bruce noses at his chin, stubble scratching his neck. “Hey,” he asks, “is this good?”

“It is,” he responds instinctively, “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

“Was it?” Bruce lavishes a spot under his ear, one that electrifies his entire body, “Then I guess I’m not really being good, am I?” He sits on Barry’s cock, sliding his ass along its length. “Are you still with me?”

“I never left.” Barry kisses him, smiling wide enough he ruins their embrace. His hands roam, active participants now. Crossing the planes of Bruce’s body for purchase. However, in his search, he brushes against cuts and wounds different from those he knows. Passing a deep valley at his ribs, Barry’s thumb dips into a small lake. Bruce’s breath hitches, coughing a low whine. Barry ends their kiss to study his wet thumb. Copper invades his senses, and his eyes adjust enough he sees red. “You’re hurt.”

“Not badly,” Bruce amends. He rests his forehead against Barry’s. “It’s nothing, I… I took a hit, earlier. Harley didn’t see the blade and – it doesn’t matter –“

“It matters Bruce,” Barry tells him, “Of course it does.” He taps on Bruce’s shoulder, signaling for a dismount. Bruce listens, wincing as he settles onto his side. “This shouldn’t be good for just me. You deserve it, too.” As he speaks, Bruce’s head lists, lashes fluttering. Barry notes the bags pillowing his eyes were puffier and more purple than ever. “Are you up for this?”

Bruce sighs, “You came all this way –“

“Yes, I did. But I didn’t ask about me, Bruce.” He caresses Bruce’s face, unbloodied thumb grazing his lip. “What do you want?”

“I…” Bruce levels his focus elsewhere, gazing past Barry. Afraid. “I’m tired, and I could really sleep. But I, uh… I’d rather not sleep alone.”

Neither would he. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I mean,” he turns, staring at the ceiling, “I was already asleep before you got here. And I bet you were gonna slip in beside me, weren’t you? If I didn’t catch you?”

“I… I was.” Bruce collapses, head landing atop Barry’s chest. Hairs tickling his chin, arms curling around his waist. Yawning, Bruce snuggles him close. “We can finish this later, in the morning… if that’s okay?”

Barry threads his fingers through Bruce’s hair, smiling. “We don’t have to. If we can’t, then we can’t.” He repeats this, a melody that helps his friend drift off. Barry’s voice fades, soon silence overpowering the mantra.

Body leaded but unbidden by shame, Barry continues lazily stroking Bruce. Petting him felt nice. Somehow better than the heavier actions previously done. Reminds him of better nights, when he and Iris lay together in bed. Exchanging tidbits about their day until they fell asleep. Before those cracks in their relationship spread and it shattered.

Thinking about Iris stings, but not like it used to. Dulled by Bruce’s very presence. A man who lived in shadows bringing a new light into his life.

He glances down at Bruce while he slumbers, heart sparking wildly. A possibility flashing like lightning inside grey rain clouds. That Barry could one day fall in love with Bruce, if he hasn’t already.

#batflash #barry allen x bruce wayne #barry x bruce #barry/bruce #batman x flash #batman/flash #barry allen #bruce wayne #bisexual barry allen #bisexual bruce wayne #batflash fanfic #dcu comics fanfic

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spahhzy · 3 years

Text

No title: Chapter 4. Bridge to nowhere.

*Dimension 63 OG*

"Oh boy...Salem was early she really wasn't even supposed to arrive till AFTER the battle..."

"Jaune Arc?" Asked Cinder but all she got was a warm tingly feeling in her grimm arm.

"Yes Jaune Arc, bring him to me THAT is your main priority everything else is secondary" Salem said to her but to which Cinder was a bit confused.

Why did she need that weakling for?

"Master...I am confused why do you want me to prioritize that weakling above the relic...above the winter maiden!" Cinder said to her but all she got was silence.

"He is hardly worth the trouble expending energy for and as sad and pathetic as he is-ack" Cinder couldn't continue her tirade on Jaune as she felt her Grimm hand move and put a hand around her neck.

"What I want should be of no concern to you Cinder; YOU will do what I desire and not to further question me again...do we have an understanding?" Cinder couldn't see it but she could damn well feel her masters murderous gaze even with the Grimm hand suffocating her.

Cinder weakly nodded as she felt her grimm hand release her throat allowing the fall Maiden to gasp for air.

"Good...proceed with your plan...I will join you shortly" Join?

"*cough* join master?" Cinder said feebly and she felt the her grimm hand go warm and tingly again.

"Yes of course...as soon as I am able you'll know of my arrival" and with that the looming presence vanished.

"Like I said Salem was never supposed to return much less talk to Cinder again till after the battle...yet somehow she does"

"So we're still missing... about three more of the team members before we can get back to fixing what's broken and if im not mistaken...a certain gremlin should be plopping through the door soon.."

" anywho uh where was I? Oh right!"

Cinder revealed only the part where she and Neo had managed to find out what Ruby and Co. where doing thanks to the Lamp.

She did not however tell her about the Salem part.

While she was busy talking, Neo was walking up behind Ruby under the disguise of an Mantle civilian with Hush seemingly ready to strike and finally end the silver eyed life.

Or was...

"Ruby!"

Yang had rushed in for her baby sister and took the strike meant for Ruby.

It shattered her aura but worse of all...she fell over the bridge.

"You know the bridge that Ambrosius said NOT to fall over...numpties"

"Sorry sorry...its just...it was hard to keep track of folk when they dissappear into a fucking pocket dimension...or maybe was it hell?"

"No...thats not hell...so was it a pocket dimension?...fuck I'm getting a headache"

"Yang!" Screamed Blake seeing her partner vanish into thin air she tried to jump after her but was held back by Weiss.

Enraged she turned towards Neo who was currently engaged with Ruby.

She ran towards the two throwing Gambol at Neo restraining her arm before coming down with a slash only for Neo to shatter and reappear still fighting Ruby.

Meanwhile Cinder hovered in the air as she threw fire slashes of her sword at Weiss who used her glyphs to block and dodge them.

"Why'd you have to come back!?" Came the voice of Penny who was flying in the air towards Cinder.

"Penny no!" Shouted Weiss as Penny flew rapidly towards Cinder.

"Why didn't you learn you lesson!" She said before punching Cinder sending the fall Maiden flying back.

"Oh Penny...I did" Cinder said as Penny looked back behind her to her friends and mantle citizens in concern which gave an opening as Cinder swiped at her with fire.

The battle continued with both Maidens flying in the air hit after hit on each other with Cinder gaining ground, it wasn't until a black Glyph by Weiss pulled Cinder in distracting her.

Annoyed Cinder used her Grimm arm and spawned in sharp projectiles, Weiss standing at the top near one of the gateways saw that citizens were still coming through she casted a glyph just as Cinder launched the projectiles blocking a few but some went in other directions and a few even through the gateway.

Jaune whom was helping with the evacuation effort in Mantle turned around as screams went out as the spike came through the gate luckily no one was injured though Jaune was concerned. Something was very very wrong.

"Oh indeed something was wrong and not because of Cinder"

Jaune had made sure everyone was safe and not injured, once he was sure no harm came to mantle people, he turned to the gateway and narrowed his eyes.

He turned back to the crowd.

"I'm going in, use the other portal down the line" he pointed to another portal few feet away to which everyone nodded and started running to it.

Turning back, Jaune made his was forward stopping right at the entrance, breathing in and out and steeling his nerves Jaune finally moved right through.

As he was propelled through Jaune felt a sudden headache coming on and before he could blink the entrance to the other side was upon him.

Screaming Jaune went through the other portal expecting to be at the bridge way that lead to vacuo.

So when Jaune made it through the gateway he was surprised to not be standing on golden bridges leading to one big doorway, but it was a room!

Why was he here?...where ever here was!

He felt his head throb again too which he dropped to one knee.

"Woooow! You live here in this castle that's so cool Auntie!" Widening his eyes he turned around to see the boy from his last delusion and that same woman was their as well.

"It is pretty cool isn't it?" The woman chuckled ad she walked around while the young blonde boy just looked around amazed and excited. He stopped at the window before he let out another 'Wooow'.

Jaune stood up from one knee and walked towards the window and all he saw was a vast rocky terrain with purple crystals erected from the ground and the skies were a dark red.

"Hey Auntie...you sure mom and dad won't be mad you took me to this castle?" Asked the little boy to which the woman put a hand on his head and rubbed his hair.

"Will be back before they realize anything little knight...oh...would you like to see something interesting?"

"Oooh would I!" His eyes lit up with excitement and the woman just chucked before pointing a her pale white finger to a black tar like pit outside.

Grimm started to rise out of the tar pit.

"Ooooooh is that how Shadow was created?" At the mention of the word 'Shadow' a little grimm creature, looking almost like an Owl popped out from the boys hoodie and hooted happily at both him and the lady.

"Hmm yes that is his origin but you gave him life little knight" she said as she scratched the owls head gently.

"Coooool!" Before wandering around the room some more.

"Hey Auntie?" The boy said aloud as the pale lady turned around.

"Hmm?"

"Don't you get lonely up here?"

As soon as the boy said that Jaune felt another throb occur as he shit his eyes and opened them back up to reveal...he was no longer in a castle...

"I'm back at this field again...when will the delusion end!" He said to himself looking around but it was all the same as last time, just grass and a faraway mountain range.

"Com- ho-" more unintelligible dribble kept whispering into his ear as his head still kept throbbing.

"I just wanna go back! My friends need me!" He screamed out pacing around in the field while holding his aching head but eventually after futile attempts to find somewhat of an exit combined with the ever going throbbing of his head he stopped and dropped to his knees clutching at the pain he was enduring.

It felt like his skull was splitting in two!

Was he really going to die from a damn headache and in a delusion no less!?

"-ome hom-" and that babbling wasn't helping either!

Everything was going a mile-a-minute....what the hell was goi-

A hand on his shoulder stopped his thoughts suddenly the whispers were gone and the headache went away.

Jaune raised his head and turned around all he saw was a gentle smile and crimson eyes.

"Come home Jaune"

"Jaune!"

Jaune shaking his head only saw his feet tettering on the edge of the bridgeway looking behind him he saw Nora holding his right arm to prevent him from falling forward into the abyss.

"Are you alright Jaune?" Nora asked in concern Jaune just stepped back a little unsure of what the hell was happening, he looked to Nora with a smile.

"I'm fine...it was just the motion-sickness...those crazy doors haha" he said not even so sure of himself.

"Are you sure cause as soon as you passed through you stopped like a rock and then moved forward almost walking off the path" Nora said to which Jaune hugged his teammate.

"I'm fine Nora I promise...what's happened?" Jaune said as he released Nora from the hug and Nora sighed before pointing to the two maidens currently doing battle in the sky.

"Cinder"

" alright...priority one remains the same" Jaune told her as Nora just stared at the two maidens before going off to get the citizens to Vacuo.

Jaune turned his head looking at the fall Maiden and just for a brief moment, he wanted nothing more then to forgo mantle and attack the source fall this...pain and suffering.

Shaking his head he went to get everyone to safety.

"What...comes after well...Cinder managed to knock down both Weiss and Penny, shatter their auras and was going to kill Weiss but Blake managed to intervene"

"The main thing is Ruby, Blake and Neo all fell as in over the bridge fell. Neo bless the little gremlin should have really seen Cinders betrayal coming...I mean come on!"

"'Sigh'...now we get to...that event"

Where did everything go wrong?

Yang, Blake and Ruby had all disappeared off the edge all thanks to Neo and Cinder...and it just Penny and Weiss left...

Dropping down from atop the bridge above Cinder Jaune came down to which Cinder blocked but did not expect to be propelled back by the shield.

She skidded along the platform as Jaune, Penny and Weiss all held out their weapons at her.

"Ahh so there's the knight" Cinder said as Jaune narrowed his eyes at her preparing for whatever attack she was planning until her Grimm arm started flailing about before stopping abruptly, Cinder smiled cruelly.

"She's coming"

Before sending every one backwards from a fire blast and summoning two swords she chucked one at Weiss and one at Jaune before sending a two fire walls splitting Penny up from Weiss and him.

Jaune could only stare in horror as the grimm hand flew through the fire and using its claws...dug itself into penny's chest.

Cinder was trying to steal the maidens power but before she could get any further Weiss came in and continued her attack.

The claws retracted and Penny fell helplessly to the ground bleeding...dying.

"Penny!" Jaune ran in his hands already glowing brilliant gold.

"H-hold on my semblance..."

"No" no? What did she mean by no?

"C-come on theirs no time to be funny" Jaune still had his hands glowing but Penny still didn't use her aura.

"Theirs not enough time...to heal me" Jaune shook his head at her reasoning.

"Weiss is giving us time! Y-you can't let me just let you bleed to death!" He said to her dreading what she was trying to do.

"We can't let her get the staff and the Maiden power..." she reached out her hand weakly and touched Jaunes glowing hand.

"But...their is something you can do" Jaune just looked at his sword.

"I-I don't know where the others are...but like I said Weiss can give us time...theirs no need for-"

"Please let me choose this one thing...trust me" she touched Crocea Mors while smiling weakly.

"Y-y-your asking me to-to " he stammered looking back and forth between his sword and her.

"I'm sorry...I know it's...hard but...please" she begged and Jaune felt tears begin to prick at his eyes.

"B-b-but what about everyone; Ruby, Weiss, Winter everyone...Your father!?" He told her but Penny just shed some tears and shook her head.

"I...I have...no regrets...please we are running out of time" as she said that a scream from Weiss came as Cinder hit her causing Weiss to stumble back.

(Please play World at War 'Vendetta theme')

Jaune held out his sword in front of him the reflection of his eyes staring right back at him. Swallowing the heavy lump in his throat his right hand started shaking as he brought the sword closer to Penny, who was just smiling at him.

"Thank you"

Cinder had gained ground against Weiss and was about to strike down the Schnee before a pained cry rang out.

Jaune with tears in his eyes took the sword out from Penny's chest, his tears fell to the floor along with Penny's blood. Jaune just looked at his sword, one half remained clean showing his teary left blue eye but his right eye was red from...

"I always said...two people died that day Penny and a piece of Jaune died too"

"You!" Screeched Cinder as she summoned her swords, yet Jaune paid no mind as he was so fixated on the puddle of blood pooling around his boots

"My..my god..what have I...what have I done!?" He said to no one but himself.

"Where did it go!?" She questioned in rage as she flew at him but still he said nothing.

"I promised my master I would bring you to her unharmed but unfortunately that won't be that case!" She slashed down her sword downward at him but as she did Jaune just raised his shield still looking at the blood before raising his head towards Cinder.

Cinder looked on in shock as it wasn't a pair of Blue eyes looking at her but one eye, the right eyes,was red.

Red like her masters. Like the grimm. Angry and with malice.

Gritting her teeth she used her grimm arm to bring down the other sword to which Jaune raised Crocea Mors to intercept it...but to Jaunes shock and despair...Cinder's blade cleaved through Crocea Mors.

His right eye flickered back to blue as he just looked at the sword before being knocked down.

"Once more...where did it go?!" She asked before being blasted by energy.

"Penny had managed to transfer the power of the winter maiden to Winter Schnee herself...allowing her to get an edge in defeating ironwood"

A shriek came though as grimm started coming through one of the portals.

on the outside in Mantle, Salem walked towards one of the portals as she used her grimm for eyes to see what was on the other side.

She caught sight of Cinder fighting a women with white hair, which must be the older schnee sibling but that mattered little.

"Where are you my little knight?..." She said before a feeling of joy spread through her as she watched a man with gold hair carry the second youngest of the schnee family.

Now with confirmation that Jaune was their she pressed forward and passed through the gateway...or at least tried to as the portal evaporated in front of her.

"No!"

She looked around as each individual portal kept disappearing.

"No no no no no" The grimm still had sight on Jaune but things were going wrong, her grim were...were falling?

"The pathways are disappearing...but that means..." If Jaune were to fall into the abyss...

She still had sight on him as long as she can reach a portal and get a hold of him all will be okay...all will be fi-

Until the grimm that was finally keeping sight of him finally too fell off and disappeared as well.

"No!" She shouted in despair she couldn't lost him, not Jaune not her s-

Cinder!

She was there!

Priority one bring Jaune Arc to her!

She wouldn't fail her!

Oh she is back! Which means that she must have completed her plan! Which means!

With hope, Salem blasted through to the staff of creation where the last remaining portal was.

"Now I can understand you confusion what is Salem's dedication to Jaune well...you see its a bit complicated...well not really but really does that make alot of sense?"

Winter could only scream in despair as Weiss and Jaune were blown up and tossed into the air, Weiss sailed over the bridge while Jaune slid across the floor his Aura shattering. Winter desperately tried to reach her younger sister who kept falling more and more into the darkness before finally disappearing on a flurry of lights.

Cinder stood triumphantly hold the staff before leaving through the portal that lead to the staff's vault.

Winter floated back up with tears in her eyes, but burned holes in the back of Cinders head as she saw the fall Maiden leave. Swearing vengeance upon her.

"Winter we have to go now!" Said Jaune but Winter kept looking at where Cinder left. Unmoving. Maiden powers still active.

"Winter!" Jaune said as everything started to disappear.

The Maiden powers flared up and Winter flew off towards the door to Vacuo, and Jaune was gonna follow suit...but when Jaune turned to it.. the bridge had already disappeared.

"Now originally Jaune was supposed to follow Winter through the same portal but fail and to dissappear...well that...does happen but..."

Salem had arrived just as Cinder popped through the portal staring at her unimpressed on the outside, but hopeful on the inside. It seemed also that the good general was alive and well...alive enough that is.

But her hope only died as it was just HER that only came through.

"Master I did it...I got the relic...though I could not get the maid-"

"Where's Jaune Arc?" What?

Cinder stepped back for a minute...as her mind processed her question and she paled.

She forgot the main objective...no no her main objective was the staff and Maiden powers.

"Cinder where is Jaune Arc?" Salem asked her voice calm and cold but on the inside Salem was panicking.

"I...I am sorry master by the time I had gotten the staff...the gateways were disappearing" Cinder said to her hoping her master would by her excuse. A blur flew right by her as Salem peered through the portal and gasped at what she saw.

On the other side Jaune needed to do something, the bridge to Vacuo was gone and Winter had all but flown in it but to her credit she did try to get him but he didn't want her to risk it, He'd find a way to Vacuo.

But right now he needed to get out of here, so following around winding paths their was one portal that remained open.

The one Cinder left through.

Shit. If he didn't get captured he would most likely be killed. Dammit it's a lose lose situation all around!

He still kept running finally on the main bridge to that portal.

Just keep running Jaune!

Keep running!

The gateway was insight!

He could jump right through it!

And jump he did as the bridge beneath his feet disappeared leaving Jaune flying in the air towards the gate.

A pale white hand reached out the gate trying desperately to reach out to him, much to Jaune shock , but he too tried to reach out as well.

Salem had reached a hand out of the other side of the portal after seeing Jaune run towards the portal in hopes to catch and pull him back and she was close she had Jaune on her fingertips!

She'd have her little knight back!

Only to her horror as the portal disappeared the shocked face of Jaune Arc was the last thing she saw before he too fell into the darkness and disappeared in a flurry of lights.

Salem looked down at her right hand shakily as Cinder came to her masters aid but was ignored .

Gone.

Her knight.

Her little knight gone just like that...taken from her just like everything else.

The pain came back.

The pain of losing a child.

Had once again returned.

Salem wailed in despair.

" it is wonky but everything is taking its natural course, everything is so far linear as it was supposed to follow"

#rwby jaune #rwby salem #winter #penny polendina #neopolitian (rwby)

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roseredstarlight · 3 years

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he xuan & sita’s first meeting

silly little TGCF intro fic! screams. this is so embarrassing <3

“Are you a god?” Sitara whispered to the man in front of him. The answer didn’t matter. The halls were empty enough that each word, each syllable, bounced off the floors and walls as a reminder of the difference between him and immortality.

“No,” the man murmured, stepping forward. His aura suffocated even the space between them, but there was nothing else that could ever have penetrated those walls, nothing ever more than him. “I’m something worse.”

tags: religion (hinduism), implied transphobia, death (drowning), grief, awkward first encounters, and the Mortifying Ordeal Of Being Known

Sitara Acharya left India for a variety of reasons as a teeanger. Many people would say cowardice, mostly, inspired by an ugly and stagnant future. He was privileged enough to have been born of the highest caste, of scholars and doctors and priests, but the stars still punished him enough to let him have been born impure.

His type of people were not blessed by the gods. This relationship to the divinities was tenuous in those now ancient societies, and it was easy to see the shame that seeped into his family when they found out what he was. He didn’t need to shave his head into a sikha for it to be known. He was defiant enough, and the other Brahmin families whispered his name in the same way feet whispered across the floor when in dance for the gods.

So, he fled.

His story then became more visible to those that now know him. He travelled to a land where no one would recognize him, where his gods would linger, but not stay. The outskirts of a small fishing village near the south seas welcomed him the way they would welcome any other working set of hands - with nods and curiosity. His hair wasn’t a question, as it wasn’t choppy from being grown out, but rather curly and thick, shining under the sunlight, and his work allowed him to be as much of a man as he wanted to be.

The first word that Sitara learned in this new kingdom of his was the word for tea, of course, because he found that the similarities between these words allowed for him to slowly repeat it back and forth between him and the rest of the villagers in a giddy sort of glee. Sita was greedy for a sense of belonging somewhere, and the rest of his tea leaves and spices from home were brewed of dozens of mouths, quickly leaving him to plant the seeds that he took with him before his journey. As the warm spices of his chai rolled down the throats of the villagers, a new sort of laughter bubbled up between them, a new language imprinting on his mind. This was home.

So, when the storm came he had already become a fine young adult.

Sitara would go on fishing trips with the other village men quite often by this point, and the sea loved storms the way meat loves salt. He had learned from the elders of the village how to taste the sea on his lips, feel the electricity of lightning through the hair on his arms before it would come and greet the vast expanses of water like old lovers. Back home, the flashes of lightning would be comforting, a game, even. But the story did not hold the same among such tall and dark waves.

It only made it odd when Sitara, his friends half-drowned, entered a quiet sea. The water was still inky black, the boat treading heavily until Sitara had laid his friends to rest underneath the deck. The boat was slowly breaking apart, and Sitara could not wake his friends.

The lake at the centre of the dead island was all black and no warmth. In the middle of an empty clearing, it looked more like a mirror than it did a body of water, as little ghastly and ghoulish creatures danced within its reflection, nowhere on the surface. Sitara looked at his reflection, his hair made coarse and thick by the salt of the sea, his clothes a stiff type of dry. He found out quickly that, contrary to his original thoughts, this lake was not made of glass, but rather cold, cold water when his fingers parted the surface.

That was how he found himself at the manor.

Sita had never found himself in a place that looked so unlived-in before he found himself here. Grand and dustless, his footsteps echoed across the dark marble like a warning, the walls and flooring sucking up what little light any torches managed to provide like hungry little creatures. Truth be told, Sita did well to ignore the dancing shadows - his mind, at the time, was preoccupied, full of grief. More than his own loss of his friends, how does he break it to the others that their husbands, sons, fathers, brothers, lovers - they are dead? The complexity of such relationships boggled and confounded him, for he forgot what it meant to have a family. He only wished that the tea and food that he brought to his mourning friends would not be stained with the taste of grief in the future.

So, with such thoughts, it made sense that Sita had not yet noticed the man walking before him. His breath caught when he did, though, when he almost ran into him and finally felt the cold, pressing aura of his presence. With pale and washed-out skin, deep brows and hair so straight that it could have been pressed, the man looked like all of his warmth had been sapped out by the darkness of this place. Sita was almost moved to tears, seeing such a beautiful person.

Sita spoke, his voice slow and careful. These treacherous feet of his had carried him into this man’s home and refused to stay still, as well.

You are so beautiful, he thought, and the man said something that Sitara could not catch even if he was thrown the words.

Sitara didn’t want to touch him to see if his fingers were to pass through, he wanted to touch him because something in that voice of his sounded hollow. His feet, in betrayal, stepped forward as well. The sounds were lonely. “May I ask you a question, then?”

Sita’s voice was steady, but his eyes searched everywhere on the man’s face, unable to meet such beautiful eyes. That was always something that Sita struggled with, but he could not tell if the man cared or not. “You may,” he said.

“Is there a proper way to deal with loss? How do you do it?”

This caught him by surprise, Sitara thought, because he saw a little flash of an indecipherable emotion on his face, all eyes. Oh, dear - that wasn’t what the man was expecting, maybe, and his feet shifted under him, looking past Sita, then right through him. “That… is your question?”

“Oh!” Sita caught himself, and with an embarrassed little smile, he looked away. He could never keep his composure under such gazes. His parents always found it disgraceful that he would smile at the awkwardness of death, though it was never his choice to. It was more so the intimacy of sharing loss that flustered him. “Well, um… yes, I guess it is. It probably isn’t the best either, seeing as I’ve just barged into your home without your permission, and just to ask you odd questions, as well…”

“You have?” The man asked, and there was some odd little emotion that was stealing away at his features when Sita looked back at him. “Well, no,” Sita answered. “I’m here to look for wood for my boat. Which… isn’t in your house… hmm.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sita felt painfully human in front of this man, so much so that he could barely look at him looking at him. He could feel it when the man’s gaze broke from his eyes and moved to the rest of his face, and then his hair, his neck, his hands. When he had drunk in enough of Sita’s appearance, he moved to walk away into the darkness of manor’s corridors, even more looming than its foyer. Sita followed a few metres behind, but such a distance betrayed him when he got lost.

Not lost, though. The door closest to him held a small boat made of dark wood, smooth like it was crafted with the yearning type of love. The man must have been some sort of divinity, as well, because the transportation array set up next to the boat guided Sita straight to the beach where the bodies of his friends lay. He took them with him when he went home.

#my writing #sitarambles #SCREAMS #f/o: he xuan #long post #ok to rb #!!!!

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wangxiangiftexchange · 3 years

Text

Winter Solstice Gift for slightlytookish

Happy Winter Solstice, @slightlytookish! May it brings you peace and happiness. I’m (more than) slightly nervous about this gift and I hope the product is to your liking!

References to Chinese idioms and concepts, marked in [], help with but are not necessary for comprehension, and are explained in the Footnotes on AO3 for those who are interested.

Read on AO3

*****

出淤泥而不染，

濯清漣而不妖

— 《愛蓮說》周敦頤 (1017-1073)

For the way it emerged untainted from the muck,

Rising cleanly above ripples of water with an unaffected grace

— “On the Love of Lotus” Zhou Dunyi (1017-1073)

One

Every year, Wei Ying says he’ll wander far and wide with Little Apple; every year, he says Gusu is getting stifling and he needs a breather, needs … no, not anything Lan Zhan can offer — for what he needs isn’t found in the Cloud Recesses, where the air is too fresh, too clean, too cultivated. Every year, Wei Ying explains what he misses is the smell of commoners, free from the promises and ambitions of a golden core. What he misses is the chimney smoke, filthy with soot and stinks of burnt meat and cheap spices. What he misses is the dust that clogs the nostrils, that flies from under the iron hooves of horsemen running their races in jianghu. [1,2]

But Wei Ying always ends up here, inYiling. Specifically, here on this mountain where there’s no chimney smoke. No dust. No kitchens or meat or spices or hooves. No horsemen. No jianghu.

He has never visited the Burial Mounds in winter before. Lan Zhan made a rare request for Wei Ying to help with the revamping of the Library Pavilion, and so he spent his August drunk in the scent of Gusu’s sweet osmanthus.

It was a little too heavy, too fragrant for Wei Ying’s taste. Possibly due to the lack of even a breeze as summer dies. Cloud Recesses can rest within the clouds for this reason. The clouds don’t dissipate.

Here, the wind is strong—it’s the one thing that never dies in this place—and its whistles sharpen into shrieks among the grey bare tree branches. Grey as the sky, bare as the bones that crunch under Wei Ying’s boots only to expose another layer of them. Within the cracks where weak rays of sunlight touch the dead trees, where bones reveal the wounds of their old flesh and blood, white flurries are twirling with the black curls of Resentment.

They look like they’re fighting. They look like they’re coupling.

Wei Ying caps his last jug of Emperor’s Smile and ties it to his waist. He promises Little Apple to be back soon and issues a warning about not doing anything stupid.

The donkey doesn’t even bray.

Well, Little Apple is already stupid. Wei Ying smiles, twirls his flute and scales the slope that leads to Fumo Cave. He doesn’t bother with talismans or setting up borders. He doesn’t mind the Resentment testing him, sending tendrils into the hollowness in him that only here, in Lan Zhan’s absence, does he once again recognise its presence. He doesn’t mind the darkness curling around his limbs, reminding him of how A-Yuan used to cling to his leg while he walked his single plank bridge in the darkest of hours. He doesn’t mind the suffocating pain as the more violent bands of Resentment threatens to strangle him, the pain almost pleasant in how real it feels, like flesh and blood, the pain from all those the Founder of Demonic Cultivation thought he could save but ultimately lost.

There’s an intimacy to the hollowness, the darkness, the pain, the chokehold. The Yiling Laozu is home.

Two

The snow and the Resentment are fighting, after all.

A dark haze swathes the plateau where the Wen clan lived, determined to not let a single snowflake fall upon it.

The lotus pond is frozen, the ring of talismans Wei Ying set around it torn and tattered. The previous summer he visited, like all summers before, Wei Ying filled the pond with water from the Blood Pool — pink water that, supposedly like the water in Cloud Recesses’ Cold Pond, never stops flowing. Like all summers before, he planted tubers stolen from the lakes of Yunmeng, tubers that promised to bloom in the same hue as the lotuses in Lotus Pier.

The time for the first green shoots to appear enumerated the days Wei Ying got to spend in the Burial Mounds. Afterwards, he hoisted a ring of talismans and hurried back to Gusu, feeling more like himself, more guilty as Lan Zhan looked up from his guqin — its strings being plucked, as always, as Wei Ying stepped into Jingshi — and whispered a confirmation that had no cause to exist unless, deep down, Lan Zhan still harboured doubts that Wei Ying would return. From the alleged far and wide wanderings; from taking breaths of chimney smoke and a breather from Cloud Recesses, the Lan Clan, and Lan Zhan himself; from walking among commoners harbouring the spirit of jianghu instead of a golden core.

You’re back. Such excessive words wouldn’t have otherwise left Lan Zhan’s mouth otherwise.

Culprits of the freeze are there for Wei Ying to see; trapped trusses of dark red buried with whatever remnants of a water plant that used to require flowing water to survive. The blood from the pink Blood Pool water has congealed into bands as though it were Resentment’s scarlet sibling, and the bands, the tendrils criss-cross to form a lattice, a prison. Only half a lotus stalk manages to break free, its length above the ice grey as the sky and bare as the branches and bones. Wei Ying breaks it off and stuffs it in his robe, a token for yet another failed Burial Mounds experiment.

The young green shoots never make it into flowers — lotus blooms that, sages say, are untaintable, can purify everything.

The air, in fact, smells even heavier of blood. Violence. No wonder the Resentment is so active today, playful and alive, taking their chance to enter the opened front of Wei Ying’s robe. It traces his ribs before taking off again, like a tease, a caress, a greeting; invasive and intimate as night, as death.

Wei Ying, too, has died before. Once officially, twice in reality.

The first time Wei Ying died, he was here. The first time he was reborn, he was also here.

Liberate. Suppress. Eliminate. The three strategies towards pacifying Resentment leave one mystery unsolved. While the first assumes humanity—with its gratitudes and dying wishes—still living within the Resentment, the other two assume this humanity lost. Gone.

Where has it gone to? Has it left at all?

On the southern side of the pond, Resentment rises and falls into the decrepit huts through broken roofs, dark like the chimney smoke Wei Ying does miss. Humanity remains heavy, too, in the hut once occupied by A-Yuan and his Gran. The chopping board remains by the fire pit, the cleaver on it pitch black as bands of Resentment take turns to lick the blade. Grandma must’ve been cutting what little meat the sect of Yiling could afford then—it was all saved for the child—when she sent herself off to slaughter.

The Resentment can’t let go of blade’s memory of blood. Blood, so reminiscent of wounds, revenges, relief, so unbearably close to living.

Wei Ying was there too—well, here, here on the Burial Mounds, clinging onto his memory of bloodshed. His urge to revenge, to inflict every possible wound onto Wen Chao and his cronies.

He finds the stump that once served as a table and sits, crossed-legged. He brings Chenqing to his lips.

Every one of his flute is Chenqing. It matters not if it wears a red tassel, or comes with a Stygian Tiger Seal. His every flute tells stories that all want to judge but few want to hear. [3]

Cleansing isn’t the song for now or for here. Wei Ying isn’t Wen Ning, whom the Resentment assaulted without consent. By surviving the Burial Mounds, by devising Demonic Cultivation, Wei Ying willingly opened himself up for the Hell Resentment carries.

He plays Wangxian instead.

He plays it as if humanity, its meanings and sentiments aren’t lost to the swirls of black around him, as if they still have gratitudes to be repaid, dying wishes to be granted. As if they’re still worthy of liberation. Of “thank you”s and “sorry”s.

The darkness heeds his call and gathers, ropes against his flesh, closes against his throat in a way that if Lan Zhan was here, if Lan Zhan saw him, he’d be sure to strike with the most lethal note from Chord Assassination.

Lan Zhan…who, over the years, has also developed a habit of closing his hand around Wei Ying’s throat. He does so when their bodies merge into one, when all that remains awake in Cloud Recesses is the vast darkness above their heads, pinned in place by the moon and stars above the rooftops.

I won’t go anywhere, Wei Ying choked out then, as his mind now tells Resentment while his fingers—his body—play Wangxian. He did that, did he? He told Lan Zhan? Lan Zhan, so intent and exposed, his hair loose and robe discarded, his full weight pressed upon Wei Ying as if a man missing a golden core could still sword-fly away right there and then? Lan Zhan, soaked with sweat that had never shedded even in the worst of battles, his usually tight lips gasping to drink in whatever breath Wei Ying could spare?

Or did Wei Ying choke then and said nothing, even though Lan Zhan never used any force on his hand?

The cleaver falls onto the floor with a clang. Music that isn’t coming from Chenqing has flipped it over.

Chenqing leaves Wei Ying’s lips. He shoots up from his seat, turns.

Wangxian only grows louder, its notes from a guqin gentle but insistent above the whistling of the winds. It, too, tells a story all want to judge but few want to hear.

The man in Wei Ying’s thoughts, in Wei Ying’s dreams is on the Burial Mounds.

Three

Wei Ying would’ve seen Lan Zhan’s footsteps if the snow has been allowed to fall.

Wangxian stops, finally, when their eyes meet. The meeting isn’t for long. Wei Ying soon lowers his focus to the dust under his feet, freed of snow and Resentment by Lan Zhan’s talismans and marked by not the imprints of iron hooves but of his own lonely trips here.

“You came.” These words from Wei Ying are excessive too. like You’re back. Of course Lan Zhan did. Lan Zhan, ethereal like the rest of snowy Yiling and the cultivation world, his guqin so feared by yao mo gui guai on his lap. Lan Zhan, who still plays Cleansing at dawn before Wei Ying wakes. [4]

Don’t play for me, Wei Ying said.

I play for myself, Lan Zhan replied.

The Lan Zhan before him offers no reaction, so Wei Ying braves a look at him again. Flurries are still clinging on the familiar silver crown, the black hair shining like no Resentment can. The snow has thawed into beads on the jade-like face, as if to prove its chill is but a lie.

Warm, too, are Lan Zhan’s eyes, which harbour no accusations. There’s only warmth—heat—and patience.

Lan Zhan doesn’t belong to the Burial Mounds. Patience is never one of Resentment’s virtues.

Wei Ying smiles. “I thought the Lan Clan Leader is pre-occupied with the latest edition of Virtue and Conduct.”

That was yet another excuse for Wei Ying’s leave. That tome gives me nightmares, he said. Only to come to the place of nightmares.

Lan Zhan stows his guqin with a wave of his sleeve. “Eliminating rules takes little time.”

Wei Ying should’ve remembered that; the rules have been eliminated because they were no longer reinforceable. They were no longer reinforceable because of him.

As the cultivation partner of the clan leader, he was supposed to be a wielder of the Discipline Whip. Instead, he deserved the whip more than anyone else.

“You followed me here.”

This time, Wei Ying is rewarded by a raise of Lan Zhan’s chin, a measured survey of their surroundings. He follows Lan Zhan’s line of sight. Fumo cave—and the palace it once was—is covered with the same dust that could’ve been rocks or shattered tiles from the Xue Chonghai’s final battle; the same severed ropes from the second siege of the Burial Mounds, the talisman nets used to pacify Wen Ning; the same failed inventions and empty wine jugs that explained them; the same splatters of rust-red ….

But something has changed. Something is different about the place and Wei Ying cannot pinpoint what it is.

Still, Lan Zhan’s meaning is clear. He arrived at the Burial Mounds before Wei Ying.

Which is hardly surprising. For those with a well-cultivated golden core, sword flying between Yiling and Gusu takes little more than a few stick incenses’ time. Meanwhile, Wei Ying took a winding road around the mountains, with Little Apple refusing to climb where fresh grass and apples were scarce. It has been weeks since they left Cloud Recesses.

Lan Zhan’s meaning is also this: he expected Wei Ying to be here too, at the Burial Mounds.

He expected Wei Ying to lie to him.

“I—” Wei Ying’s scrambles for excuses, as Lan Zhan rises from the rock that was once Wen Ning’s sick bed.

“As long as I find you,” Lan Zhan says.

These words dig a sharp knife into Wei Ying’s chest. After sixteen years of waiting, the hope and satisfaction of the legendary Hanguang Jun has withered down to this: as long as he can find Wei Ying. Guilt coils around his innards, threatens to cut his windpipe.

He attempts a grin. “But I’m not lost.” He sounds strangled. Choked. “Whereas you, Hanguang Jun, must’ve been totally lost to find yourself here.” He nods at the cave’s entrance, to the Resentment and flurries coupling, fighting. “The Chief Cultivator must have better things to do than to wander into a ruin.”

“Why do you call it a ruin.” It isn’t a question.

Wei Ying walks around, gestures with Chenqing at the pillars, the split beams above him. “This is hardly what I’d call decor. Hardly palatial enough for cultivator conferences and post-night hunt feasts. Also,—” he remembers Lan Zhan’s first visit, of A-yuan clinging onto him like snow on the silver crown “—I don’t think the kitchen has been supplied with tea leaves yet.”

Wei Ying’s humour, his bid to divert their present conversation down the memory lane is lost on Lan Zhan. “This was A-Yuan’s former home. Your former home.”

“Ah, Lan Er Gongzi,” Wei Ying tries harder, feigns a disapproving head-shake before pointing the end of his flute at Lan Zhan. “Now you’re just saying that I, a sect leader of legendary prestige, can only afford a dump like this.” Which was the truth, and Wei Ying flashes another grin as the winds howl outside. The dust in the cave ripples as their robes flap; Wei Ying secures his belt, sticks Chenqing in it. “I’ve have you know though, the fengshui here is more than exquisite, if you consider—”

“This was your former home.” Lan Zhan repeats, ignoring every word Wei Ying has said. “Which makes this place my home.”

Wei Ying breaks into a chuckle, sincere but more bitter than intended. “Your home? Ai-yah, Lan Er Gongzi—”

Lan Zhan lifts his forearm, retrieves something from his sleeve. “And this,” he continues, raising what he found. “Mine to give.”

Wei Ying receives the gift with a trembling hand.

Nothing like it has ever existed on the Burial Mounds. Its fore-bearers—does it count, if they sprouted from the same soil only a lifetime ago?—were sterile, their seeds withered and poisonous. It mattered not they looked tall and green and strong, or the flowers they had once formed the core of shared the same hue as the Yunmeng lotuses.

The lotus receptacle in Wei Ying’s hand is smaller and a shade paler, but each pod is plump and promises the sweetest seed. Wei Ying gives it a sniff; its scent brings forth memories not only of Lotus Pier but of Cloud Recesses—not the sweet osmanthus drifting up from the foothills but the magnolia tree by the Library Pavilion. Sandalwood.

How reminiscent it is of the ones Lan Zhan handpicked for him on the boat in Yunmeng.

No more exceptions. Wasn’t that what Lan Zhan said then? But he has only made more exceptions for Wei Ying ever since, one after another.

Like polishing smooth the rules carved in stone by his ancestors. Like letting pet rabbits roam the grounds of Cloud Recesses proper. Like permitting dissent in Lanshi, as long as it comes with arguments that withstand the test of Wei Ying. Like asking Wei Ying to be his cultivation partner. Like saying nothing when Wei Ying comes and goes whenever he wants, when Gusu Lan’s has always been about order and predictability.

Wei Ying inhales again, and the change in the cave finally hits him.

Fumo cave no longer smells of blood.

He might’ve identified it sooner if the stink of violence wasn’t as strong by the lotus pond, or the proof of a slaughter, as stubborn in A-Yuan’s hut. But these are excuses. Diminishing every summer, like starlight on the rooftops at dawn, has been Wei Ying’s hope that he can heal the only source of healing on the Burial Mounds—the Blood Pool that used to be the kin of Cloud Recesses’ Cold Pond, the Pool that should never freeze; the Pool that turned into a congealed hell during the second Burial Mound siege. Time has since disintegrated the fierce corpses, their Resentment released from cold bones grey and bare; but despite Wei Ying’s best efforts every summer, despite his channeling its water to plant lotuses, Wei Ying hasn’t recovered a single, clean drop of water to return to the Blood Pool.

The Pool water might have flowed again, but it remained pink and reeked of blood.

Yes, it’s been Wei Ying’s intention to kill two birds with one stone. He intended for the Blood Pool’s ever flowing water to sustain the lotuses through the cold, and in turn, for the lotuses—untaintable, as the sages say—to purify the water that nourishes them. But the Burial Mounds have other ideas, handed Wei Ying a double defeat: the water for the Blood Pool never stayed flowing long enough for the lotuses to grow; the lotuses never survived long enough to cleanse its water of blood, of memories of violence and slaughter.

The two birds Wei Ying intended to kill have joined the flight of the snow, the Resentment.

The lotus receptacle in his hand has surely come from elsewhere.

“Seems like you’ve developed a taste for theft, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying plays with the stalk in his hand, the stalk that is as strong as it is pliant. Two failures back to back, he thought, and he didn’t even get to get drunk. He decided to laugh then—at himself, mostly, for attempting the impossible again; for never learning, for never losing the habits he should’ve lost a long time ago — and escalate his rubbish talk. “I bet you got your hands on some Emperor’s Smile, took this from some lake on your way.” He waves the receptacle. “I should be glad you don’t have a sleeveful of chickens—”

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying stops. Lan Zhan has that look on him, the look when Wei Ying is amused by something he shouldn’t.

Right. Mine to give. Those were Lan Zhan’s words and Lan Zhan doesn’t lie, doesn’t joke. He means exactly what he says — the lotus receptacle comes from the Burial Mounds, from his own hands. His own effort.

“I saw the pond.” Wei Ying deflates, waves at the cave’s entrance. “Nothing’s growing in it. I guess it’s luck, that time I got something going a while ago. Plus, Lan Zhan, you really shouldn’t be encouraging my infatuation with lotuses. It’s not like I have any more business to do with them.” Especially the nine-petalled ones; Wei Ying gestures with the receptacle again and smiles. “So, unless you’re coming clean about how you got this thing, I think we should leave. Little Apple must be furious right now with this weather; bet it’ll throw me off its back on our trip home.” Home, as in Gusu, where Wei Ying swallows the Resentment, hides it in the hollowness in him; where he dreams of Cleansing, and the man who shouldn’t be playing it, as dawn breaks. “Then, you’ll prepare for that conference coming up, while I’ll lock myself in the Library Pavilion and copy Virtue and Conduct a thousand times.”

As punishment. He isn’t about to list his sins in words; the list is too long. Coming here. Lying. The heart of them all being this: Yes, Lan Zhan, I failed to control myself. I couldn’t break the ties between me and the Resentment, as you said I couldn’t.

You’ve walked the single plank bridge for me, with me, while I stare at the bloody, resentful waters below and find it…homely. I want it to grow lotuses in a way I never do with the waters in Cloud Recesses.

It carries my reflection. Do you see that, Lan Zhan? Do you understand that?

“Ah, it should be two thousand times, now that Virtue and Conduct has been abridged.” Wei Ying blathers on at Lan Zhan’s silence, before schooling his expression to something more sincere, more serious. “You know, I can do with a bit of music for the copywriting. You’ll play for me, will you?”

Still, no reactions from Lan Zhan, whose face has only tilted ever so slightly in Wei Ying’s direction. A bead of molten snow traces the curve of his silver crown as it falls, like a shed tear. “Fine. Fine. I’ll play my own Cleansing. I can do that with Chenqing.” Wei Ying sighs. “Look, I won’t do it again. I won’t come here anymore. I won’t lie about my whereabouts. I won’t make you worry. I won’t—”

Lan Zhan turns before Wei Ying finishes, brings his hands to his back and strides towards the alcove, the corridor that leads to what is once Fumo Palace’s Meditation Hall. Wei Ying has no choice but to follow, the lotus receptacle held close to his chest.

Four

Wei Ying has to stop half way in the corridor. “When?” he asks.

Lan Zhan keeps his pace, his robes growing brighter to crescendo-ing rays of sunlight, which have never seen this part of the cave before. Wei Ying grabs his sleeve, catches up and faces him. “Lan Zhan!”

Lan Zhan stops finally. He waits, quiet still, as if the reason of Wei Ying’s question is lost on him.

“You’ve been here.” The light, clean scent of lotuses around them is now unmistakable — not from a receptacle or even a flower, but a pond full of them. “Before today. You sword-flew here, brought in tubers and you—” he points towards the Meditation Hall, where he knows, already, that lotuses are blooming in the Blood Pool. “Why? How many times have you been here since I —”

He chokes; to say more is to admit, in his own words, that he has been lying. He scratches his nose, forgetting the lotus receptacle in his hand.

It gives his cheek a clean slap.

It’s at moments like these that Wei Ying thanks the heavens that few hawkers have a clue what the Yiling Laozu is like.

Lan Zhan’s eyes soften, his lips curved just enough for a smile. “Deceit is no longer prohibited in Gusu Lan Sect.” Wei Ying knows he’s been forgiven then, for everything he has yet to apologise for. “Virtue and Conduct has been—” Lan Zhan heaves a light sigh “— too deprived of chimney smoke.”

True, the chimney smoke from Cloud Recesses blends into the clouds that veil the mountains. Still, Lan Zhan is the better cook between the two of them; he’s the one who’s truly knows jianghu, being wherever chaos is, crosses paths with wherever the iron hooves are.

“I’m sorry,” Wei Ying says.

Lan Zhan does something strange then; instead of nodding an acknowledgement, his lips part, shudder before sealing tight again.

Lan Zhan is taciturn, but never hesitant. The moment soon passes, however, and he reaches out, does a gentle swipe on Wei Ying’s cheek.

It must be water he’s drying; the receptacle is that fresh, that alive.

But then, Lan Zhan’s fingertips come back…

Pink.

Pink, like the water from the Blood Pool.

There’s nothing sharp about the receptacle, however; nothing that can cut into Wei Ying. He lifts the receptor for a better look.

A seed has been displaced from its pod. Red tendrils have clawed their way out from a crack in its skin, before being diluted pink by the surrounding succulent, white flesh.

Wei Ying removes the seed and peels it thoroughly. Something like a drop of blood, old and congealed, soon sits on his palm; or a pearl coughed up by a demon oyster, a freshly dissected golden core. More red oozes out with a squeeze, staining his nails, the fine lines on his skin.

Still, all Wei Ying can smell is the scent of lotuses.

“It’s edible,” Lan Zhan says.

Edible? Wei Ying stares at Lan Zhan, who wouldn’t have made the statement if he hasn’t tried it before. He looks at the seed again. No respectable—or un-respectable—cultivator could possibly have chosen to try this.

“It’s sweet,” Lan Zhan adds.

Wei Ying rolls the seed inside his palm, until the blood—is it blood, if it smells not of violence and slaughter?—renders his hand indistinguishable from that of an executioner’s. Liberate. Suppress. Eliminate. Wei Ying’s straying from the cultivator’s path began with an imagined hand like this.

But he has always known about the sweetness of blood, hasn’t he? In the marketplaces of his earliest memories, fan-waving storytellers used to tell tales of jianghu heroes; those who made a living, they said, by licking the blood on their blades. [5]

Little Wei Ying finally gathered the courage to ask one day. Don’t heroes have something to eat?

The old man, wearing wrinkles deeper than tree rings, laughed. It’s an idiom, he explained, crouching to offer Wei Ying a steamed bun. He whispered then, as Wei Ying replies to Lan Zhan now—

“— But folks do say, blood from revenge is always the sweetest.”

“No.”

With that, Lan Zhan takes Wei Ying’s tainted hand in his own.

Wei Ying soon falls on his knees by the edge of the Blood Pool.

The ceiling of the Meditation Hall has been broken, the snow and Resentment kept out by talismans woven together by guqin strings. Under the light, grey and dreary outside but kind and forgiving here, lotus pads are floating on clear, calm water, green and round putuans for the flowers resting upon them. The hearts of the bloom are a regal gold; the cup-shaped petals are strong and pure white, carrying no traces of blood or darkness, no memories of violence or slaughter. [6]

They don’t even carry the purple of the Yunmeng lotuses.

If lotuses were native to Cloud Recesses, they would’ve looked like this.

If lotuses were grown under Lan Zhan’s care, they would’ve looked exactly like this.

But they, and the dilapidated hall that houses them, smell of the same summers Wei Ying knows, the same carefree laughter, the same…hint of soot and dust, the Lotus Pier being the only cultivator sect residence built within a commoner’s town. The soot that darkens the rooftops also promises delicious, filling dinners. The dust from iron hooves, from their bloodthirsty riders also delivers the xia from jianghu—its brotherhood, generosity and abandon that attempt and accomplish the most impossible.

Only when tendrils of red seep into the Pool does Wei Ying notice his sullied fingers and receptacle have dipped into the clean water. He snatches them back.

“You grew this.” He lifts his head towards Lan Zhan, who has remained standing, his hands behind his back.

Lan Zhan nods, his eyes trained on the flowers.

“Why? How?”

A long silence.

“I want to understand,” he answers finally. To understand what, he doesn’t have to say. It’s the draw of the Burial Mounds, the Resentment; the forces that compelled Wei Ying to visit the first time, even before the decor of Cloud Recesses had shed the last of its marital red.

“How long have you known?” Wei Ying asked. How long have you tolerated my betrayal?

“Three years.”

Three years, and Lan Zhan has never protested, never said a word. Wei Ying forces a smile.

“Ai-yah. I didn’t know my stealth skills were so bad. How did I give myself away?”

He expects an answer like when he asked for the name of Wangxian; a non-answer that will take Wei Ying months to figure out. A non-answer that’ll make Wei Ying further appreciate his own carelessness, forgetfulness.

His own cruelty.

But Lan Zhan replies softly, directly, immediately. “Your eyes turn red when we…” His lips part, shudder again. His head bows. His voice drops. “When I have my hand on your neck.”

When he and Wei Ying were coupling. When their bodies—when they—were supposed to become one.

The red got in the way. Resentment is black until it escapes through Wei Ying’s flesh. Below the steps of Jinlin Tower, Wei Ying’s tears were indistinguishable from the blood on Shijie’s robe.

Wei Ying’s Resentment was indistinguishable from the blood on Shijie’s robe.

Even now, only a flutter of those long eyelashes offers proof to the riptide of emotions that must have coursed, that must be coursing through Lan Zhan. “The red gets more intense every time you return to Cloud Recesses. It fades until you leave again.”

“Hand-on-throat is what you want between bedsheets.” Wei Ying’s voice falls, darkens at the light Hanguang Jun has cast on the truth. “You want me to —”

Shut up, Wei Wuxian. Shut Up.

What do you think Lan Zhan wants from you? What has Lan Zhan ever wanted from you?

“The Resentment in you gathers at your neck.” Lan Zhan does Wei Ying another favour with the interruption. “I thought I should pay its bones a visit; understand why it told my hand it has you, why it told me it can have me.” He levels his chin, his gaze finding a toppled pill furnace on the other side of the hall. His tone returns to its usual, almost distant calm. “I should do it before my fingers close around your throat; I wanted to do that. So I came and stayed some nights. Sealed my spiritual vein.”

It’s always the words Lan Zhan neglects to say that shake Wei Ying to his core.

The Resentment in Wei Ying has tried to drag Lan Zhan into its darkness. Lan Zhan has resisted, but instead of calling Wei Ying out, instead of trying to cleanse Wei Ying of Resentment, he came to the Burial Mounds to understand it, to experience it himself.

To seal the spiritual vein is to temporary shut off one’s golden core. To temporary downgrade into a commoner.

To turn into Wei Ying.

Wei Ying can see Lan Zhan stumbling among the bare branches alone, his Bichen sheathed and guqin stowed. He can see the billowing white robe being the only mirage of light on the Burial Mounds, the winds whistling, as famished bands of Resentment attacked, tore into him.

The bare bones crunched, exposed another layer.

There’s always another layer.

Wei Ying had lived through that before, unwillingly. The first night he spent on the Burial Mounds, he wished not for death but for the Hell in the scriptures where, at least, the executioners are someone else. Here, on the Burial Mounds, the one who elicited all the pain was always himself; the knives, the boiling cauldron, the mortars and pestles.

The regrets. The guilt. The envy and rage.

Resentment has only grown stronger on the Burial Mounds after the treachery of the Jins.

Who would want to live through that, willingly?

“When? When did you do all of this?”

Lan Zhan’s lips part and shudder yet again. This time, however, they move past his hesitance. “I haven’t been at wherever the chaos is—not as much as I’ve claimed.” He pauses briefly, his minute expression morphing from sadness to defiance. “I eliminated the prohibition of deceit from Virtue and Conduct for myself.”

The honourable Hanguang Jun, Lan Wangji, has lied.

Wei Ying hasn’t accompanied Lan Zhan on many of the trips to chaos. Yiling Laozu has remained an unwelcoming sight for most, so he only goes when his expertise is missed. On those nights when he’s in Cloud Recesses alone, Wei Ying watches the moon and the stars; on those nights, Wei Ying gets drunk on the rooftop and misses Lan Zhan.

On a night when a full moon had shattered into Gusu’s first snow, Wei Ying replayed the first sword fight between Lan Zhan and himself. He played Lan Er Gongzi.

That Wei Gongzi was dead. He was dead until A-Yuan climbed the roof to check on him, then offered to play the Wei Gongzi who had snuck in two jugs of Emperor’s Smile.

Perhaps, the rebirth of Wei Ying’s first death wasn’t on the Burial Mounds, but there and then.

If he only knew at the same moment, Lan Zhan was giving his life away for him.

There’s no survival on the Burial Mounds; only death and rebirth.

“Lan Zhan, Resentment doesn’t have me. I might have come back here for…“ Wei Ying doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t have the answer, “but it doesn’t have me.”

“I know.” Lan Zhan offers an unexpected reply. “That was my mistake.”

Wei Ying stares at the water, the red tide from the crushed receptacle advancing towards the lotuses. He has ruined the Pool again. “No, you were right,” he says, a burst of darkness rising from the hollow in him. He slaps the water, taking cold joy in the tide’s breaking into threads, red as those on the deadliest blades. “You were right about me losing control.”

The darkness chokes the I‘m sorry he meant to say. So what? It leers. You think sorry never loses its sincerity, its meaning?

How many times have you, Wei Wuxian, said it to everyone who cared about you?

Lan Zhan doesn’t agree, doesn’t argue. “I also played Cleansing for myself,” he says. “I played to know if it liberates, suppresses, or eliminates.”

He leaves his insight unspoken. Instead, he sits down beside Wei Ying.

The way he does so is surprisingly efficient, surprisingly inelegant. He removes Bichen, his belt, his outer robe; he retrieves some cheap, grass-woven strings—doubtlessly bought from the commoners of Yiling—ties up and secures his sleeves, his hair. Wei Ying watches the silt taint the white of his inner garments, the remnants of red from the crushed receptacle soaking, creeping like cracks into the silk. He knows then, that’s how Lan Zhan works on the Blood Pool, the lotuses; that’s how the Bearer of Light levels himself with the young green shoots, until they thrive against the blood, the darkness, the hell of Burial Mounds.

The darkness in Wei Ying dissipates into a silent scream, which he lets out as he falls back into the mud himself, his face buried between his knees.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan calls, his voice like Inquiry for Wei Ying’s soul. He waits for Wei Ying to look up, for the demons in the scream to vanish between the walls of the Meditation Hall. “You’re not here for the Resentment. You’re here for the lotuses, the Blood Pool that is a kin to the Cold Pond. You were searching for a Lotus Pier that isn’t Lotus Pier, a Cloud Recesses that isn’t the Cloud Recesses. You’re here for a place that knows those differences, that knows you.” He pauses; his chest heaves a light sigh. “The Burial Mounds and its Resentment don’t have you. The Cloud Recesses and I have lost you.”

“Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying closes his eyes.

“You came here because only the Burial Mounds knows, it’s the Resentment that makes those differences. Resentment that is the yin to spiritual energy’s yang, that has a kinship with blood, the lives in which blood flows.” He finds Wei Ying’s hand in the mud as Wei Ying turns away. “My prior misjudgement, and yours, was that we put up those talismans.” He guides them to look at the hole above them, the yellow papers fluttering on strings. Talismans that Wei Ying hung network after network of, when he self-exiled here with the Wens. Talismans that he set up around the lotus pond, before he returned to Gusu every summer. “The talismans keep Resentment away from the blood it wants to reunite with. Resentment is born out of blood and wants blood with it, wherever it goes.”

The bands of Resentment cannot let go of the cleaver in A-Yuan’s hut; the fabled jianghu heroes, riding for one revenge after another, make a living by licking their blades.

“If you and I spill blood in the Pool again,” Lan Zhan continues, “if we drive fierce corpses into it, heal Wen Gongzi in it and leave the talismans hoisted, the Pool will remain blood-filled. Resentment can’t reach the blood, can’t take it away. The blood in the water will congeal at snowfall; the Pool will freeze.” Like the frozen pond outside, Wei Ying can see now. The blood becoming un-moving, unyielding without its energy—Resentment is its life energy turned dark, turned yin. “The lotuses will die without flowing water. I put up this net to show you.”

Wei Ying sees even more: the bands of Resentment above the cave longing for the blood in the Pool below, wanting to reach across the net of talismans and failing. The snow, with its own entanglements with the dark bands. Fighting. Coupling.

“Show me what?” he asks weakly.

“I want to show you three things can co-exist: the lotuses, the Blood Pool—which should be renamed the Cold Pond, like any cold, healing body of water in a spiritual mountain—the Resentment. And on the Burial Mounds, they do co-exist. They do so to survive.” Lan Zhan turns to Wei Ying finally, and looks into his eyes. “They do so in you, Wei Ying, so you survived. My mind understood that, but my heart, not enough. Cleansing tried to liberate a part of you, but it couldn’t do so without breaking you.”

Wei Ying contemplates Lan Zhan’s words. The lotuses, reminiscent of Yunmeng. The Cold Pond, its twin in Gusu, in Cloud Recesses. Resentment, its home in the Burial Mounds. They all live within Wei Ying. They’ve all made Wei Ying the man he is. That much is clear.

But Resentment is also living within Lan Zhan now. Resentment leaves no lives untouched.

“Cleansing cannot liberate a part of me without breaking me,” Lan Zhan seems to read Wei Ying’s thoughts, says it like a promise, with a smile.

He says it the way he said it felt good to walk the single plank bridge into the dark, on the steps of the Carp Tower. He says it as though he will follow if, at this moment, Wei Ying decides to dive into the bloody, resentful waters below the single plank bridge to chase his reflection.

He already followed.

Wei Ying studies the face watching him. The jade-like skin. The clear, gentle eyes that mimic the stars. The mouth from which no muck, no filth has ever escaped. The expression, soft yet open, like Gusu’s famous Autumn moon.

Resentment may have found a place inside Lan Zhan, but Lan Zhan is, like the lotus flowers in the sages’ words, untaintable.

What had Wei Ying’s past-past-past reincarnates done, what saintly deeds had they achieved, for the three lives of Wei Wuxian, the Yiling Patriach, the Founder of Demonic Cultivation to deserve someone like Lan Zhan?

“So the lotuses have nothing to do with the restoration of the Blood Pool.” He knows he’ll never have an answer to that question.

Lan Zhan shakes his head. “They cannot cleanse.”

“The Blood Pool hasn’t helped the lotuses grow.”

“The flowers would’ve bloomed in any clean, flowing water. The beauty of lotuses—” Lan Zhan pauses, as a hint of sadness and—is it envy? Has Lan Zhan ever shown envy before?— flashes across his eyes “— is that it seems to prefer the presence of chimney smoke.”

Chimney smoke, from the kitchens of lake owners who chased after Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng. The smells of cheap spices and meat wafted from the thrown open doors of their huts, and Wei Ying and Jiang Cheng would decide, then, that they were hungry enough to go home.

They wolfed down their loot as they did, each lotus seed sweet and pearl-like.

“What is the red in the seeds then?” Wei Ying asks.

“Colour. The Resentment cannot, or is unwilling to remove it.” Lan Zhan takes the crushed receptacle from Wei Ying and swishes it gently in the water. The red spreads and intensifies in front of them. “The red collects in the lotus seeds over time. It’s nothing but memories.”

Memories of violence. Slaughter. Of how Resentment came to be. “You’re saying,” Wei Ying is being long-winded, he knows, but he only wants to make sure. “The lotuses aren’t tainted.”

Lan Zhan nods again. “The sages are correct. Resentment doesn’t leave a mark on them. The seeds are harmless. Sweet,” he remakes his statement, lets go of the receptacle into the Pool as he turns to look at Wei Ying. “I tried my first when my spiritual vein was sealed.”

A commoner, deficient of a golden core, cannot go without food. Wei Ying cannot go without food.

“Then, I ate more because the seeds reminded me of you.” A tremor has found Lan Zhan’s voice as his gaze lowers, as the tip of his ears goes pink.

Wei Ying runs Lan Zhan’s words in his head. He runs them twice. He runs them thrice.

With each pass, his smile widens, until it turns into a grin. This is the closest to love-speak he has ever heard from Lan Zhan.

He leans sideways, bumps Lan Zhan’s shoulder with his own. “You can go ahead and say I’m sweet. I won’t be offended.” He nods at the trail, the tide of red that connects them, through the water, to the centre of the Pool, the most flourished spot of the lotus bloom. “This red will fade too, am I right? I haven’t ruined your handiwork?”

Lan Zhan has neglected to mention how, or why he began the lotus project, and Wei Ying knows him enough to not ask. He must’ve seen the failure of the lotus pond outside; the rings of talismans marking each summer like tree rings.

And who else has always been there to pick up Wei Ying’s pieces, to catch Wei Ying where Wei Ying falls?

Lan Zhan nods, his blush now extended to his whole ears. They’ve been cultivation partners for more than half a decade, broken enough beds and bathtubs for the Cloud Recesses to hire its own carpenter. Even the folks in Caiyi are not so discreetly joking that Hanguang Jun, the Bearer of Light, reserves his light for the million-year long gazes he casts towards Wei Ying … and yet, Lan Zhan still can’t handle even the idea of himself flirting. Wei Ying suddenly finds all of this a bit funny.

Well. Quite funny. Of all the places they can make up their missing courtships, they’ve chosen the Burial Mounds.

Good fengshui here, indeed.

He laughs, kicks his legs high and removes his boots. “All right. Now I’ll go certify that your claim about the seeds are true.” He throws Chenqing to the side, then himself into the water. He dives, grabs Lan Zhan’s boots and yanks them off too. “And you, Hanguang Jun, are coming with me.”

Five

Lan Zhan is the undisputed chief of understatement. The lotus seeds are the sweetest Wei Ying has ever had.

Only Lan Zhan can eat something so messy and still look clean and ethereal. The red, somehow, refuses to sully his teeth and skin, only adding colour to his lips and the water, no higher than the knees even at the centre of the Pool where they are, has washed away every bit of mud on his clothes.

What isn’t so clean and ethereal are Wei Ying’s thoughts. Perhaps it’s the Resentment they’ve let into the hall upon severing the guqin strings, the Resentment now twirling and gliding just above the water surface, its swath of black accentuating the purity of the flowers, dashing in only to capture every drop of red it can find.

They remind Wei Ying of the cormorants in Yunmeng, hunting for fish.

Hunter. Prey. Violence. Slaughter. The Resentment here, strong as it is, has never haunted the dwellers of Yiling. The chaos that requires the presence of Hanguang Jun has never been about it; instead, it’s about those who’ve barged into its home. Who create it, make it a scapegoat, sharpen it into an executioner’s knife.

Wei Ying pops another seed into its mouth, savours yet another burst of sweetness as he further appreciates the scenery. A black tendril interrupts its own hunting, coils around Wei Ying’s neck to join his stare.

Oh, he should stop pretending the Resentment has to do with his not clean, not ethereal thoughts.

It’s Lan Zhan in his wet clothes, having fallen into the water with Wei Ying’s too forceful pull into the Pool. It’s the thick, dripping hair, half loose from its tie under the lopsided silver crown. It’s the forehead ribbon, perfectly positioned still and waiting to be stripped.

It’s Lan Zhan, who manages to look strong as his teeth sinks delicately into another seed, regal as his mouth curves into a smile at its taste. On the days when both Cloud Recesses and Wei Ying get drunk with the scent of sweet osmanthus, Lan Zhan can be found on the back hill playing Wangxian. The music sounds inebriated too as rabbits hop all over Lan Zhan’s lap and guqin, as if the Chief Cultivator is merely one of those rock decors so prized by the Gusu scholars.

Next summer, maybe, Wei Ying can bring with him a nest of rabbits, see how they fare on the Burial Mounds. The species seems to share similar musical taste as the Resentment—Wei Ying once practiced Cleansing on the back hills and their red-eye glares were quite unnerving, quite hostile.

Lan Zhan will come with him, Wei Ying is sure, to check on the lotuses.

Their eyes meet once more—all right, Wei Ying should also stop pretending their eyes have truly left each other since they’ve got to the centre of the lotus growth, since he’s left a trail of not red but his clothes in their wake—and this time, he bends and picks not a receptacle but a flower petal, rolls it into a needle.

The helpers at Lotus Pier smoked lotus petals when Madam Yu was travelling. Wei Ying, of course, gave the smoke petals a try. He starts a flame, pushes one end of the rolled petal into his mouth while peering at Lan Zhan.

Hanguang Jun has got a little too intimate with the lotuses. The image of him on his fours, as he demonstrated where he’d planted the tubers, caused Wei Ying to choke.

This, Wei Ying bets, slicing the petal tip with his teeth. Hanguang Jun has never tried this before.

He pulls a breath between his lips, feels its whistling down the petal tube, his tightened windpipe. The red seed stain on his lips marks the regal white and the thing caught at Wei Ying’s throat sings. The thing obsessed with red.

At that moment, it finds a peer, a rival in Lan Zhan.

The silver hairpin comes off first; the crown falls off next as Lan Zhan’s hair frees itself of its tie. A gust blows above the cave, raining in fresh snow as those star-like eyes gain a mystifying mist, throw Wei Ying a teasing, dark glance. The flame on Wei Ying’s petal dies, accompanied by a smirk from the usually reserved, well-mannered mouth as the perennially ramrod straight body falls bonelessly backwards, its knees naturally spread, its weight shifted back to rest on its elbows.

The Resentment on the water surface makes way for the fall, a circle of clear, bright water opening as sprays of black temporarily cling onto the white petals nearby, before gathering back into a thick band that relocates elsewhere to hunt.

That thing in Wei Ying is ready to hunt as well.

“Come,” the untaintable Lan Zhan whispers, his head tilting to rest against a lotus bloom, his eyes closing. The protrusion on his long neck pulses to the whistling air in Wei Ying’s throat; the same pulse echoes along Wei Ying’s every vessel, drums as, through the crystal clarity of the former Blood Pool, Wei Ying’s eyes can see what is now engorged with blood between Lan Zhan’s legs and waiting.

He doesn’t need to be asked twice.

#slightlytookish #wangxiansolstice20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter 3 is up!

Chapter 1 (tumblr // AO3) | Chapter 2 (tumblr // AO3)

Full text + content warnings under the cut.

CW: brief claustrophobia; some grief and loss stuff; a few more instances of casual misgendering (not malicious; just some wrong pronouns here and there due to the speaking-in-statements thing, but thought I'd mention it just in case); a single LORGE spider. Also, Jon gets to do one (1) swear, as a treat. SPOILERS through MAG 169.

Chapter 3: Rift

Jon doesn’t remember the hill being this steep.

Or maybe he’s just winded from the long trek through the wasteland. He’d had to pass through a long stretch of territory fought over by the Buried and the Vast. The ground there was practically a minefield, pockmarked with sinkholes. They would start out as quicksand traps and suffocating tunnel entrances, only to be hollowed out into yawning chasms and cenotes, then ultimately collapsed all over again by a retaliation-minded Choke. It was an endless cycle of petty rivalry and animosity, and passing so near their battlegrounds left Jon breathless with a discordant mix of claustrophobia and agoraphobia.

Worse was when the Dark managed to sneak its way into the mix. Whether it was Too Close I Cannot Breathe or the Vast’s abyss, the Dark could always find a way to exploit subterranean spaces – and it could never resist reaching out to needle at an Avatar of the Eye, no matter how inadvisable it was to cross the Archive these days.

As Jon drew closer to Hill Top Road, he left the warzone behind for a mostly featureless landscape punctuated with the occasional foxholes of the Slaughter and pockets of the Forsaken’s fog. Eventually those too gave way to a seemingly endless dust bowl of soot and ash – a sprawling domain claimed by the Lightless Flame.

The house at Hill Top Road is the only thing still standing in the midst of kilometres of Desolation-scorched earth. The charred terrain stops abruptly at the foot of the hill, a stark line demarcating the boundary between the Blackened Earth and the territory that Annabelle Cane has staked out as her own. Jon had half-expected an invisible barrier to stop him there as well – the last time he was here, Annabelle had forbidden him from returning – but there had been no resistance when he stepped over the border.

As he hikes up the incline now, he finds himself worrying over what that might mean. Is Annabelle expecting him, inviting him in? Is she simply tolerating his presence, curious to see what he’s up to? Could he be powerful enough now that even she cannot stop him? Or is he once again wrapped up in the Web’s machinations, doing exactly what the Mother of Puppets wants?

He shakes his head. No. He and Martin talked about this. There’s no point in obsessing over the Web’s motivations, letting the memory of Annabelle’s statement paralyze him with indecision. Better to just… keep moving forward.

And it’s not like he has anything left to lose.

Jon continues up the hill, increasingly winded, his bad leg throbbing angrily, and he thinks to himself again: he really, really doesn’t remember it being this steep.

Before long, he’s standing at the threshold of the house at Hill Top Road. The dread permeating the place is just as palpable as he remembered.

He waits for the Distortion’s inevitable appearance, determined not to let her startle him this time. As if on cue, a door creaks open on the ceiling above him.

“Interesting.” Without preamble, Helen lands noiselessly on her feet beside Jon and peers around curiously. “I wondered whether Annabelle would let me in.”

So did Jon. Maybe he should be concerned about – no. He shuts down that train of thought before it can pull out of the station.

“You still haven’t explained what exactly you plan on doing here.”

Honestly, that’s mostly because Jon hasn’t figured it out yet, either. He only Knows that this is where he needs to be.

The Eye wants things to change – as much as it can be said to want anything. Setting the question of its sentience or lack thereof aside, at the Panopticon he had been able to Know things that the Beholding had previously withheld from him. He might be stronger than the other Avatars and monsters lurking about the world, but he’s not arrogant enough to believe he could overpower any of the Fears themselves. If the Ceaseless Watcher gives him access to knowledge, it’s because his Knowing will facilitate – or at least not inhibit – its plans, which means that he must have the Eye’s… blessing, to be here? He shakes his head; he’s getting caught up on semantics again.

Point is: he Asked a question and – as usual – he was given a scrap of an answer and left to puzzle the rest out for himself. All he Knows for certain is what he wants to happen, and that this is where he needs to be in order to make it happen.

“Jonathan.” Helen says his name with a playful lilt and leans further into his personal space. “Are you going to share with the class?”

Without a word, he sidesteps around her and walks further into the house. In her statement, Anya Villette had mentioned a door under the stairs leading to the basement, but the last time Jon was here, it was nowhere to be seen. He hopes it’s there this time.

“What are you looking for?”

Jon drags one hand down his face and sighs. Having Helen tag along is like taking a road trip through hell with an easily bored and… well, deeply annoying child. Huh.

“I won’t be ignored, Jon –”

Jon bristles, redirects his gaze, and stares daggers at her with a few more eyes than strictly necessary. “Some magically appearing door.”

“You aren’t being very kind to me right now, you know.” She tries to sound wounded, but really she just sounds pleased to have gotten a reaction from him.

Jon gives an irritated huff and continues forward through the entrance hall. He treads softly, all too aware of every subtle creak of a floorboard. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering muffling his footsteps. It doesn’t matter how quiet he is; Annabelle will know – probably already knows – that he’s here regardless. Still, there’s just something about the house that demands a certain amount of fearful reverence. Disturbing the silence just feels like a bad idea.

Helen doesn’t appear to have the same concerns. In fact, it almost seems like she’s going out of her way to announce their presence. Of course.

Jon catches a glimpse of the staircase as he rounds the corner and – yes, there’s a door under the stairs. A plain, painted white door with a brass handle, otherwise unremarkable and entirely unassuming.

And yet…

As he tries to approach it, he finds himself rooted to the spot, overcome with a sense of trepidation. He feels his breath coming faster, shallower; feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Every one of the Archive’s eyes locks onto the doorknob and for a moment he swears he feels tiny, feather-light legs scurrying down his spine. He pulls his pack tight against him, using the physical weight of it to dampen the tactile hallucination.

“I hate it,” Helen says darkly. Jon jumps just slightly at the break in the silence, and a few of the Archive’s eyes suspend their rapt scrutiny of the door handle to glance in her direction. Her posture is tense where she stands, staring warily at the door as if it might lunge at them. Jon has never seen the Distortion look so… unsettled.

She’s right, though. The door is wrong. More than that, it’s the exact same flavor of wrongness that he felt the first time he saw A Guest for Mr. Spider, and again when he reached out to knock on the monster’s door.

Back then, he hadn’t known that the concept of wrongness could be broken down into so many distinct subtypes: the uncanny disquietude of the Stranger feels fundamentally different from the compulsion of the coffin, the sensation of worms tunneling through flesh, the Distortion’s nonsensical corridors, the Lonely’s suffocating fog.

The pull of the Web is in a class of its own, and the sight of the door in front of him drops him right back into the memory of the day he opened the book – the day he took the first step on the winding path that led him, inevitably, to this exact moment. It’s such a fitting parallel, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was orchestrated down to the finest detail. He knows the Web plays a long game, but precisely how much of what has happened was in perfect accordance with the Web’s plans? What even is the Web’s –

No. Stop fixating on the Spider, he reprimands himself for the umpteenth time this… day? Whatever; it’s not important. He forces his legs to move.

“You’re sticking your hand in a bear trap, I hope you know.”

“I knew opening the door was a stupid thing to do,” Jon says, nonchalant. “So I opened the door.”

Helen breathes a surprised laugh. “Was that a joke?”

“The idea that this is all some grand cosmic joke,” Jon rattles off drily, “thousands of us running around spread horror and sabotaging each other pointlessly while these impossible unknowing things just lurk out there, feeding off the misery we caused –”

“Terrible.” Helen groans and puts her head in her hands. “Here I was, ready to compliment you on finally finding a sense of humor, and you have to ruin the moment with – with existentialist brooding.”

Jon chuckles quietly to himself and takes another step forward.

“Wait.” Helen reaches one long-fingered hand in Jon’s direction, then falters and pulls back. For a moment, she seems to wrestle with whether or not to continue. “What’s behind the door?”

“A scar in reality –”

“Yes, I know about the rift. What do you expect to find in it? An answer? An escape? A means of suicide?”

“A metaphysical quirk of this new reality’s divorce from the traditional concept of time.”

Jon pauses, chewing on his bottom lip as he looks inward and browses through his catalog.

“It bends and twists and returns to what it was,” he settles on eventually.

“I told you not to use my words.” Helen gives him a warning look, but it’s fleeting, because a moment later his meaning sinks in and she huffs out a short laugh of disbelief. “Wait – wait, wait, wait. You think you can… what, turn back time?”

Jon grimaces and makes a noncommittal seesawing motion with one hand.

“…could emerge back into the world that she remembered.”

Helen starts laughing in earnest now. “You think you can time travel?”

Jon just shrugs, unashamed. He knows he should feel embarrassed – back when he first took the position as Head Archivist, he would have scoffed at anyone making such a suggestion – but at this point, is it any more or less unrealistic than anything else that’s happened?

“Alright,” Helen says, stifling another giggle, “I’ll grant you that there’s a rift in space and time. People have traveled through it before.”

Jon gives an enthusiastic nod. After her encounter with the crack in the house's foundation, Anya Villette had found herself temporally displaced. What would stop Jon from also –

“However,” Helen continues, “what makes you think you’ll just rewind your position on this timeline? It could just take you to a parallel world, leaving this one behind to suffer and decay. Would you abandon what remains of humanity like that?”

Seeing as Anya Villette appeared to have also been spatially displaced, Jon has already considered this possibility. Helen probably knows that, too – she’s well-acquainted with his tendency to overthink things. She’s just trying to tap into his chronic self-loathing, demoralize him, make him doubt his own perceptions. It’s a familiar pattern, one Jon used to submit to far too easily.

“…better than staying here with this strange woman.”

“Ouch.” Helen brings a hand to her chest in mock offense. “You’re being awfully cruel today.”

Jon flashes an entirely unapologetic smile.

“I was being serious, you know.” A knowing mischief creeps into Helen’s eyes. “You’ve always been selfish, but would you really run away from your mistakes, save yourself and damn the rest?”

Unfortunately for Helen, she’s arrived too late to this particular debate. Jon already spent the entire trip here berating himself and second-guessing his conclusions, and he’s just about gotten it out of his system for the time being. Self-recrimination as an inoculation against the Distortion’s manipulations – now there’s a concept, he thinks wryly.

“Do you honestly believe you deserve to escape an apocalypse that you brought about?”

God, she’s persistent.

“Now there’s only one thing I have left that I value,” he says simply. “That I love. And I cannot lose him.”

It’s the truth: the final deciding factor for him was, as it so often is, Martin.

“You would potentially forsake this entire world just to reverse your own loss?”

“There was nothing left to save.”

It never gets easier to admit it out loud, but that doesn’t change the truth of it. This world is already forsaken. Humanity is dying out, slowly but surely, and Jon harbors a guilty feeling of relief that their torment will not be eternal after all. As far as he can See, there’s no way for him to save the ones who remain. There never was.

His power was never meant to help anyone. For a long time, the only action within his grasp was to hurt – and so, he went after those who deserved to be hurt, because the only other option was doing nothing at all. But seeking revenge never saved anyone, never even made himself feel any better. If anything, it only made him feel emptier, more and more alienated from whatever human part of him still lingered – and that was a very dangerous place to be.

And when he and Martin decided together that he needed to slow down, to maintain some distance between himself and the Eye? Well… nothing substantial changed in the slightest. He didn’t get any worse, but he also didn’t get better. The world continued to suffer just as much as if he were to sit down and take no action at all. Nothing he did or did not do made any impact whatsoever.

He Knows intimately that he cannot banish the Entities from this world as long as one person remains to feel fear. Once that last person dies, there will be no one left to save. Hell, depending on how human he still is by that time, he may very well be that last person, and the Dread Powers will just have to ration him. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve all had a taste of him more than once. He’s an unfinished meal. They could just resume hacking away at him, demanding their respective pounds of flesh one after the other until nothing remains – until finally, mercifully, the Fears themselves would wither and die as well. He just doesn’t want to consider how long that could take – no. Best not to dwell on it.

The point is, there is no future for this world. There is nothing left for him to do here. His only hope is to prevent all of this from coming to pass in the first place, and this… this is the only lead he has. And besides, Martin –

“You do realize that you have a vanishingly small chance of seeing him again, don’t you?”

“I decided to take a risk and try it anyway.”

Helen looks put out at his easy dismissal, but she really ought to know better by now, Jon thinks. He might be chronically plagued by self-hate and a visceral fear of being controlled, but Martin is his anchor in more ways than one. Their relationship is proof of Jon’s own capacity for free will, and his decision to go after Martin in the Lonely remains one of the only things he’s done where he’s never once wondered whether he made the right choice. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more confident about anything than he is about their love for each other, even if he doesn’t always feel like he deserves it. Helen really couldn’t pick a worse seed with which to sow self-doubt.

When she sees that Jon isn’t taking the bait, she changes tack.

“And assuming this scheme somehow works as you hope it does, and doesn’t just get you shunted to some hellish pocket dimension – which it almost certainly will – you do realize that your little scene with Jonah Magnus will mean nothing, don’t you? This future will be erased, he will not suffer for eternity – he won’t even remember that it was ever a possibility.”

“For all her anger, there was no thirst for revenge in the Archivist, only an eagerness to expunge an infection that had gone unnoticed for too long.”

“Then why bother confronting him? I know it wasn’t for closure – if you were at all capable of letting go or moving on, you would never have been a candidate for the Beholding in the first place, and we wouldn’t be here now.” Jon just barely manages to not flinch at that. Luckily, Helen doesn’t seem to notice that she struck a nerve, instead staring up at the ceiling in contemplation, as if trying to decipher Jon’s motivations on her own. “So, why? All those messy emotions it dredged up and for what – the drama of it all?”

“I live for the monologue,” he deadpans.

“Jonathan!” Helen gapes at him in exaggerated shock. “Was that another joke?”

She could stand to tone down the condescension, Jon thinks. It isn’t his fault if people overlook his sense of humor just because they never think to listen for it.

“Are you certain about this, Archivist? You have a history of reaching these points of no return and choosing the worst imaginable path.”

Even at the very end, the Distortion just can’t resist one last chance at undermining his confidence. Despite the cockiness underlying her taunt, Helen has a hungry, almost pleading look in her eye – desperate, like everything else in this place that feeds on fear, for scraps in the midst of a famine that will never be remedied.

Jon reaches out and grips the doorknob with one hand.

“Even the end of the world can’t stop you throwing yourself on a grenade. Can’t say I’m surprised. I’m not following you in there, though.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose.”

“I am trying to have a heartfelt goodbye, Jonathan,” Helen says, not sounding sincere in the slightest. “I doubt this will go as you hope it will, but I’m fairly certain that no matter what happens, I won’t be seeing you again. I won’t wish you luck, but… well, it will be interesting to see whether one of your half-assed plans might pan out for once – not that they ever have gone according to plan.” When Jon’s resolve remains strong, Helen sighs – and this time, her disappointment does sound genuine. “Well, if you’re sure…” She trails off, giving him one last hopeful look – once last chance to fall apart under her skillful denigrations – before her shoulders slump in resignation.

Not content to leave it at that, though, she does offer one last parting shot: “Do say hello to the Spider for me, won’t you?”

An involuntary shudder courses down Jon’s spine as he remembers Anya Villette’s statement – the massive spider legs reaching up to pull her into the crack in the foundation – and compares it with his own memory of the book, the door, and the monster lurking within. Helen breathes a contented sigh at his ripple of unease – basically a snack for her, at Jon’s expense. Fine. She can have that last little morsel of fear from him, as a parting gift.

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” Jon says firmly, turning the handle. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

And, oh, it does.

Miraculously, Helen allows him to have the last word. As he pushes open the door to the basement, he hears Helen’s door creak open in unison. By the time he’s staring down the stairs into the dark, her door has snapped shut and popped out of existence.

The staircase pitches down, down, down, stretching far deeper than it should. It’s too dark to see much of anything, and it takes a full minute of descent until he notices that there’s a slight curve to it. With every step, the air grows warmer and more stifling. The revolting sensation of walking through cobwebs becomes a constant, but any time he reaches up to brush away the web clinging to him, he feels nothing but his own bare skin.

A few minutes in, his bad leg starts twinging again, and he holds on to the wall to steady himself. Before long, his mind begins to wander to the horrifying possibility that the staircase is interminable, and he’s overcome by an image of a funnel web spider waiting patiently for unsuspecting prey. He tries to push the thought away. Just keep moving.

Between the lack of visibility and being lost in his own head, he doesn’t notice the sharp turn in the staircase until he plows right into the wall, a sharp pain erupting in his left shoulder from the collision. He throws one hand back to steady himself and only barely manages to stay on his feet, his bad leg protesting as he throws his weight into it. After briefly taking inventory of himself and experimentally putting weight on his leg again – painful, but not unbearable – he gropes blindly for the wall again and uses it to guide himself forward, more slowly this time. It isn’t long before the stone of the wall gives way to cool, damp earth, and he shivers with the memory of the Buried.

After several more sharp, nearly 90-degree twists and turns, a faint glow starts to permeate the darkness. A few minutes later, the staircase opens up into a large, dimly-lit space, garlanded with spider silk. The ceiling, walls, and floor are composed of tightly-packed dirt, and Jon has to fight back a rush of claustrophobic panic at the thought of being surrounded on all sides by the crushing earth. It’s short-lived, as it’s crowded out by a much deeper, more primal fear when he sees the fissure in the ground ahead.

It’s a repulsive, crooked thing, oozing with a pervasive, tangible feeling of wrongness. It should not be there. It cannot be there. And yet there it is, boldly existing where it has no right or reason to be, a gnawing, open, inflamed wound in the fabric of reality, pulling him toward it like a black hole. It’s a compulsion stronger than the coffin, an abomination more uncanny than the Stranger, a malice deeper than any Dark, an inevitability on par with Terminus itself.

Jon hates it. At his first glimpse of it, every one of the Archive’s eyes fly open, greedily drinking in the oppressive presence of something so unfamiliar and anomalous, leeching off of Jon’s terror as he beholds it. The scrutiny is fleeting, though, as the sight of it turns corrosive and blistering; all at once, the eyes shrink away and retreat, like a school of fish spotting a bird of prey swooping down for a meal. It takes some of the edge off, having fewer eyes with which to see the thing, but it still weighs him down with dread and revulsion.

Jon doesn’t know how long he’s stood there, staring unblinkingly at the fault line, before he senses a presence – something colossal and hungry and wrong, malevolence and foreboding given physical form – climbing inexorably toward him. He hears a faint rustling, the whisper of tiny avalanches of dirt scraped loose and sent sliding down the walls of the crevice. He knows exactly what to expect, and still he isn’t prepared when the first of the spider’s legs peeks up over the lip of the fissure.

How is it that after a lifetime to process a childhood trauma, it still throttles his heart and squeezes the air from his lungs at the mere thought of it? How is it that, despite being the most formidable thing in this world outside of Fear itself, he feels as small and helpless now as he did on the day he met his first of many monsters? Why is he just standing here, letting those hairy, spindly limbs hover and curl around him like an enormous clawed hand, waiting for a fate that is as unknowable as it is inevitable?

Focus, Jon thinks to himself. Listen to the quiet.

He slowly reaches into his jacket and breathes a sigh of relief as his fingers close around the notebook safeguarded there. It’s Martin’s, full of poems and sketches and stream-of-consciousness journal entries. Jon has had it with him for a long time now, but he’s never been able to bring himself to look inside it. Martin would occasionally share its contents with him – mostly completed poems, and only occasionally works in progress, as he was always self-conscious about his creative process – but Jon doesn’t want to accidentally see something that Martin would have preferred to keep to himself. Martin might not be beside him right now, but he still deserves to have his privacy respected.

Still, for Jon, just having it with him is a physical reminder of his anchor, and running his thumb over the cover grounds him in the present. He closes his eyes and looks inward.

The Archive gropes blindly for something solid amidst the noise, some elemental truth to serve as a starting point in the chaotic tangle choking this place. The edges of his mind brush against thread after thread and none of them are what he’s looking for. They stick to him, filling his head with cotton, making him sluggish and confused, obfuscating his sight. The Spider watches as he flails, becoming more and more snarled in the web.

“I closed my eyes and remembered in as much detail and with as much love as I could muster in my despair,” he whispers to himself, anchoring himself in the truth of the statement. He swallows a terrified whimper as something coarse and fuzzy brushes against his face, and he weaves a command into his next words: “Eventually, I opened my eyes again –”

The Archive obeys, hundreds of eyes materializing on his skin and blinking open in the space around him, grotesque satellites of varying sizes all seizing on single question, and suddenly he can See –

There.

A single thread, out of place among the rest, pulled taut and leading down into the deep gloom of the chasm. He spares a brief thought as to its origin point – Is its anchor here, now, or do its roots begin on the other side? – before silencing it. It’s not a question that needs answering right now. The Beholding objects; Jon reflexively shuts it down and takes an aggravated swipe at the nearest cluster of eyes he can reach, like swatting at a swarm of mosquitoes. He doesn’t think it actually does anything concrete, but when they disperse it brings him a small measure of satisfaction all the same.

He gives an experimental tug on the thread and – it feels right. That’s good, right? Well, he supposes it could be the Web trying to trick him into –

God, he’s like a dog with a bone. He could be trapped in a burning building and find part of his mind wandering off to idly ponder the melting point of steel –

…around 1370 °C for carbon steel; between 1400 and 1530°C for stainless steel, depending on the specific alloy and grade…

– which, yes, he has done. It’s a good way to dissociate from a crisis. Unfortunately, it’s also a good way to get killed, and the giant spider is still there, Jonathan, focus.

He holds fast to the thread – make a path for yourself, tune it to the frequency you need –

“Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me,” he tells himself, louder this time, “it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already.”

– and he follows it, stepping carefully around and between the spider’s legs. He has no idea why it isn’t attacking him – what if this is exactly what Annabelle – no. He shakes his head as if it will jostle the thought loose. Just be thankful for it and keep moving before the damn thing changes its mind.

Moments or hours or perhaps days later, he’s standing at the precipice of the fissure and looking down. Several eyes are riveted on the massive hairy form poised above him, but most are staring into the unknowable darkness with a gnawing, longing fascination. He stands frozen in place, torn between an overwhelming urge to flee and an overpowering need to Know what’s down there: something new, something fresh, something different – any reprieve at all from the excruciating monotony of this nightmare world.

The spider shifts above him. It’s now or never. He has nothing to lose, and if there’s any chance at all of changing this doomed future – of seeing Martin again…

“Sometimes you just have to leave,” he reminds himself, shutting his human eyes tight, one hand clutching the notebook and the other clenching into a fist until the fingernails cut into the palm. “Even if what’s on the other side scares you.”

He takes one last deep breath, thinks of Martin – safe hands, warm eyes, gentle touch – and he takes a leap of faith.

Jon can’t see anything. He can’t See, either. There is an incessant, high-pitched whine screaming in his ears and drowning out his thoughts. When he moves to put his hands over his ears, he realizes all at once that he can’t feel his body. He has no sense of up or down, no fingers to flex, no breath to hold, and – and he can’t See.

It’s… terrifying. It’s liberating. It hurts, but in the same way that his first gulp of fresh air hurt after three days asphyxiating in the Buried.

He doesn’t know how long he floats there in that near-senseless limbo, but between one moment and the next a blanket of fog drops over him and the shrill static is muffled. Through the haze, he can just barely make out a voice, coming from so far away – like he’s drowning, and someone is speaking to him from above the water’s surface. He drifts and listens in a daze as the voice cuts in and out.

“– just – thought I’d – by. Check in – how you’re –”

It’s a nice voice.

“– really need you –”

A safe voice.

“– Jon.”

Wait.

“– bad. I – how much longer we can –”

Wait, it’s – that’s Martin’s voice.

“We – I need you.”

It’s Martin. Martin!

Martin is here, he’s here – Jon doesn’t know where here is, but it doesn’t matter, because Martin is here, and – and Jon is so overwhelmed with euphoria that he isn’t actually processing what’s being said. Calm down, focus – focus on the words –

“And I – I know that you’re not –”

Oh.

“I know there’s no way to –”

Oh, no.

“But we need you, Jon.”

All at once, Jon knows where – when he is.

“Jon, please, just – please.”

No. No, no, no, no –

“If – if there’s anything left in you that can still see us, or –”

Martin, I’m here!

“– or some power that you’ve still got, or –”

I’m here, I’m here, I’m here –

“– or, or something, anything, please! Please.”

Martin’s voice breaks, and Jon’s heart fractures with it.

“I – I can’t –”

Jon can just barely make out the buzz of a phone and – oh.

“I’m – I’m actually with him now.”

Martin!

“You were right.” A pause, and a heavy sigh. “I – will they be safe?”

Peter Lukas. It’s Peter Lukas. Peter Lukas is still alive, Peter Lukas is hunting Martin, Peter Lukas wants to feed him to the Lonely, Peter Lukas is –

“Okay. Okay, I’ll do it.”

Martin, don’t –

“Yeah. Sure thing.”

Martin!

“I’m sorry.”

Jon tries to scream, to reach out, to do anything at all, but he doesn’t have a body and he doesn’t have a voice and he can’t See –

“Goodbye, Jon.”

Martin, look at me! Hear me, please - see me!

He tries to thread a command through the words, but the compulsion doesn't come through, and -

Jon hears the rustle of clothing as Martin stands to leave, followed by the soft click of the door as it closes behind him.

Fuck.

End Notes:

me: i could go into some long-winded exposition about the space-time continuum also me: OR, alternatively, i can handwave it and say It's The Power Of Love, Don't Even Worry About It

anyway, my gay little heart knows what it's about.

- Jon’s dialogue is taken from the statements in the following episodes: MAG 146; 054; 151; 139; 168; 101; 134; 010; 037; 008; 019; 167; 108; 103; 146; 048; 013; 146.

- Jon gets some original verbal dialogue starting next chapter. Thought I'd mention it just in case anyone is getting tired of the Archive-speak (though there will still be some of that). :P

- Psst, if you want to read a detour about Jon and Martin's talk about Annabelle and free will and Not Obsessing Over The Web, I wrote that here. (I'm linking it here because it actually originally started as part of this fic but I decided to make it its own thing because my ADHD brain ran with it and it was waaaaay too much of a tangent sdsdhshgh)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #jonmartin #long post #spoilers through MAG 169 #tma spoilers

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ipaintwithwords · 3 years

Text

Christmas Short Story Exchange

Wolves Without Teeth

Fandoms: Life is Strange, Life is Strange 2 Characters: Sean Diaz, Lyla Park, Daniel Diaz, Chloe Price, David Madsen (mention), Brody Holloway (mention) Tags: Post-Redemption Ending, Post-Save Arcadia Bay Ending, light angst with happy ending, mentions of depression/antidepressants, reminiscing, ambiguous/open ending, POV heavy, pretty scenery and dogs and ghosts

And I run from wolves breathing heavily at my feet And I run from wolves tearing into me without teeth

♪♫♪♫♪♫

Millions of stars lit up the vast, deep indigo canvas of the night sky along the coast of Oregon. It was a quiet, peaceful night, the kind that was made for intimate strolls and heartwarming conversations and marveling at the beauty of the ocean, hand in hand, barefoot on the shore, accompanied by the light April breeze and the soft whispers of the waves. It was made for campfires and laughter, grilled fish and cold beer, and acoustic guitar covers of songs that people don’t listen to enough on Spotify, even though they really should - it was a night made for moments ephemeral and eternal at the same time, a series of overexposed polaroid images in the sand.

However, for the young man driving under the endless rows of majestic pine trees, the night was but a spectacular backdrop for his hours spent on the road. Slightly more memorable than the day before, and infinitely longer than any other day of the past week he’s spent driving, one hand on the wheel, the other one either stroking the gentle crosswind with a cigarette between his fingers or buried in the thick, brown fur of the adolescent wolfdog snoozing on the passenger’s seat, curled up like a content, well-fed little roll with her favorite blanket between her front paws.

That night, he was holding onto the wheel with both hands. Eyes fixated on the highway, his anxiety was skyrocketing in his chest, flooding the back of his mind with dark thoughts and his head with an unbearable migraine, building up slowly but steadily, creeping into his skull, even the empty - and otherwise numb - socket of his left eye. Not that he was a stranger to headaches, but unlike all his past encounters with nasty migraines, this time he had no idea what to blame: the cigarettes, the lack of sleep, all the synthetic food he shoved down his throat the past few days, his ridiculous deadline drawing near by the minute… Or perhaps the fact that for the first time in fifteen agonizingly long years, he was back on a road he never thought will see again.

The only difference was that this time, he was on his own. There was no comforting presence beside him, no hula dancer figurine on top of the dashboard, no excited chatter coming from a kid high on adrenaline on the backseat. It was just him and the shores of Oregon, his sad music and his snoring dog (who wasn’t exactly the chatty kind, which, honestly speaking, never truly bothered him; he adopted her for the very same reason) and this stubborn, intrusive, demanding migraine that seemed to have made a cozy little home for itself in his forehead like it was meant to live out the rest of its life under his skin. And somehow, it managed to grow even stronger when out of the blue, the music was interrupted by the steady, low buzzing of his phone.

All of a sudden, violent waves of frustration crashed down over him as he took a quick glance at the device’s screen. Tightening his grip on the wheel until his nails started digging irritated crescents into the faux leather, he grit his teeth while staring at his phone, its buzzing resonating in his temples as if someone was trying to drill into his brain. The buzzing lasted for a solid two minutes before the screen would finally turn dark again and the pulsating sensation in his temples quieted down a little - only giving him a few moments of calm and quiet, though, as his phone started ringing again the moment he was about to sigh in relief.

“Oh for fuck’s sake!”, he grunted loudly in anger, waking the peacefully sleeping wolfdog pup with either his hoarse voice or the annoyed dash of his hand as he reached out for his phone to pick up the incoming call and be over with it as fast as possible. He knew exactly what’s coming for him, and he was in the mood for anything but fighting with his best friend on the phone right now.

“What the fuck, man?!”, hissed a young woman on the other end of the call with a furious whisper-shout, as soon as he pushed the green button. “Are you being serious with me right now? Where the fuck are you, Sean?”, she hissed, and Sean heard a door slamming shut behind her, most likely the backyard door, to be precise, as she stormed out of the kitchen for a smoke.

“You knew I’ll be busy this weekend”, much to his surprise, he magically managed to keep his voice calm and his words collected when he answered after a few moments of hesitation. “I DMed you and I also texted the group chat yest-”

“Yeah, and I thought you’re just trying to back out of going to Walmart with us!”, his feeble attempt of coming up with explanations was met with an angry snap from the young woman. “And I actually can’t believe that we’re having this conversation? Like I can’t comprehend the fact that for whatever fucked up reason, you are actually ditching your own brother’s birthday weekend”, she scoffed, lighting up a cigarette with two impatient click-clacks of a cheap 7-Eleven lighter.

“I have a deadline, Lyla, and it seems like you’re the only person who can’t accept that”, answered Sean with a deep, resigned sigh, only trying to resist the sudden urge of smoking for a brief second before he rolled down the window and reached for his cigarette case. “I talked to Daniel about it, alright? He was the first person I called”, he murmured under his nose, shoving a crooked cigarette between his lips. “And to be honest, I still don’t understand why you guys insisted on throwing this huge ass party for him for an entire weekend... Y’all know he prefers his PS4 and pizza over twenty of us being all over him for three days, right?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was me who’s about to ruin his birthday! Fuck, man, thanks, now I can see that it was me all along”, Lyla let out a burst of dry laughter, more threatening than the sharpest blades in the world. “You are unbelievable, Sean.”

“I’m doing everyone a favor by skipping, y’know”, said Sean, sticking his hand out the window, unleashing the tiny smoke-dragons of his cigarette into the night. “‘Cause let’s be real, we both know that it’s me who’d ruin his birthday” he added with a shrug, making Lyla snort in disbelief.

“I can’t think of a single reason why his favorite person in the world would do that, so please enlighten me with your wisdom, Sean-Wise”, suddenly, her tone softened, bringing a massive lump to Sean’s throat.

“The last thing he needs right now is his useless, depressed brother”, he answered quietly, unable to resist the suffocating grip of anxiety on his neck. “And thankfully, he understands that his useless, depressed brother needs to submit an unreasonable amount of work ‘til next Wednesday, so… Yeah. We’re both doing each other a favor, to be honest.”

“Sean, I… Useless? Why would y- What do you even… Hollup for a sec” sighed Lyla, slightly frustrated, as a small voice suddenly called for her. “Yes, baby, what’s up?”, she said, words and smile warmer than the morning sun, and Sean couldn’t help but smile too when he heard her switch to Korean the next moment, most likely reaching for her daughter Hannah, and gently pushing a strand of dark, silky hair behind her ear like she always did.

“Sorry for that, Miss Thing is getting cranky because she only ate five times today”, Lyla returned to the call after a good minute, and Sean could clearly see her roll her eyes as the door shut close behind Hannah. “So where were we…”

“You were about to give me a Ted Talk on self-love because I called myself useless”, said Sean with a faint smile, before carefully flicking the cigarette butt out the window. Lyla didn’t answer immediately, at least not with words - her silence, on the other hand, was heavy with worry, a calm before the storm Sean knew too well. After all, thirty-three years of friendship teaches a thing or two about another person, especially a friendship like theirs was.

“You know, I had a feeling this is gonna happen”, when Lyla finally broke the silence, she couldn’t conceal the sad, resigned bitterness in her voice. “At least tell me where you are, man…”

“I’m in Oregon… Driving along the coast, actually”, Sean answered, giving his dog an affectionate scratch behind the ear, and making her turn her all-knowing, golden eyes from the night view on him. “Don’t worry, I’m not alone. Chestnut’s here too.”

“Dude, she didn’t even bark when she heard my voice”, said Lyla, with a very obvious and even more dramatic pout on her face. “But wait, what the fuck are you doing there? In Oregon?”, she asked, and this time, it was her confused frown that Sean could see crystal clear as if Lyla was sitting right next to her.

For a brief moment, he truly wished she was.

“I’m chasing ghosts”, when he spoke eventually, it felt as if there was someone else talking with his mouth, unseen powers forcing the air out of his lungs and his tongue and teeth to form the words that echoed for a seemingly endless moment in the car and inside Sean’s head.

And before he could even blink, the echo sunk even deeper, into the darkest pits of his scarred, hurt, lonely soul, as he found himself staring at the unmistakable silhouette of Arcadia Bay in the distance after a slight turn in the road.

He spent the night at Otter Point, in his car, right next to the very same visitors plaque he broke down at, for the first time since fleeing Seattle on that nightmarish afternoon all those years ago, to a man he just met - a man who changed everything, although fifteen years later, Sean wasn’t sure anymore that it was for the better. He wasn’t sure whether he’d still be alive at all if it wasn’t for Brody and his golden heart that night, but he was certain of one thing: that compared to all the horrible things that happened to him, to them, death would’ve been but a merciful release.

Death didn’t come for them, however, at least not in its form that’s known to most people. Instead of taking them, it decided to befriend the Wolf Brothers and tag along on their journey, from the suburbs of Seattle to the iron gates of the Mexican border - and after that, the lifeless, ashen grey walls of a suffocatingly small prison cell in Washington. It was there that night too, in Sean’s car, a worn, cherry-red station wagon just like Brody’s, and inside his head, too, buried deep under the quiet, unsteady chaos of his thoughts. It was in every breath he took, every pill he swallowed, every minute he spent awake wondering what is he even doing, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing that could make it go away, that could make death change it’s stubborn mind and to leave Sean Diaz alone, because, throughout the years, it simply grew too fond of him.

And with time, Sean just… Accepted it. He accepted being handpicked by death itself and stopped fighting it because no matter how hard he tried to avoid it, to get rid of it, to pretend that everything was fine, nothing helped; nothing but the acceptance and the handfuls of numbing bitterness he consumed at least two yellow tubes of each month for the past, God knows how many years. Of course, things could’ve been a lot worse, and Sean was fully aware of that - he knew that he was extremely privileged for being able to settle back into society relatively easily after being released from his sentence of nearly two decades spent in one of the country’s biggest federal prisons.

Frankly speaking, it wasn’t about settling back into society as much as it was about doing something he secretly always dreamed of, even before the story of the Wolf Brothers began on that chilly Friday afternoon, in a completely ordinary, perfectly average October of a past, long-lost life. In fact, if someone told sixteen-year-old Sean that everything that’s about to happen to him will eventually lead to a new life in which he is a comic book artist who gets paid for drawing the weird shit in his head, sixteen-year-old Sean would’ve probably laughed until his stomach hurt and happy tears started rolling down his cheek.

And yet, there he was that morning, on top of a hill above the Oregon coast, moderately enjoying his cheap instant coffee in the back of his station wagon (and after a glance at his peaky-faced reflection in the mirror, extremely judging his lack of self-discipline regarding taking care of his beard) while waiting for his tablet to charge fully so he can proceed with the next strips for the fifth chapter of The Adventures of the Pack. Chestnut was running around in excited circles, chasing grasshoppers and butterflies and occasionally, her tail, not particularly minding either her owner or the breathtaking view of the coast, and along with it, the quiet town of Arcadia Bay.

At first, he didn’t even think of making a stop at a seemingly insignificant place like Otter Point on his not-so-spontaneous journey - for some much-needed inspiration or for bittersweet reminiscence, he wasn’t entirely sure anymore -, but while going through dozens of maps and routes and painful memories on a sleepless night before his trip, he stumbled upon a picture Daniel sent him for one of his birthdays spent in prison. A picture from Away, to be precise, of a cozy little bonfire and four people with marshmallow sticks in their hands and tipsy smiles on their faces - a picture that kept him up awake for the whole night, with tears stuck halfway in his throat, desperately trying to fight their way through the walls Sean has built around himself. And the moment he saw David in the picture, he decided that after all the phone calls and visits and almost fatherly check-ins from the man throughout the past fifteen years, the least he can do is stopping in David’s hometown for a quick page or two on his way down South.

“Man, it must be tough being you”, Sean chuckled as he put his empty mug on the small writing desk in the corner of his on-the-go bedroom, looking at Chestnut playing in the dry dirt alongside the road with a wide, amused smile on his face. “Careful, though… I’d rather not break my neck trying to rescue you if you fall down” he added, climbing out of the back of his car with nimble reflexes, the sudden movement answered with excited bark coming from the wolfdog pup.

“Would you look at that”, said Sean with an impressed little snort, walking up to the fence and bending over to rest his arms on it, eyes roaming the endless, unbelievably blue ocean and the gentle waves washing up against the pale sands of Arcadia Bay’s shores. “Can’t decide if it’s beautiful or the most boring shit I’ve ever seen, to be honest… What d’ya think, huh?”, he raised his eyebrows, peeking down at Chestnut yelping next to him, and giving her a loving scratch behind the ears. “Come, check this out”, he beckoned to the visitors plaque next to them with his chin, patting Chestnut’s side gently as he stepped up to the laminated board, full of colorful images of the local wildlife and the town’s various attractions.

“Yeah? That’s where you wanna go?”, he laughed, as Chestnut suddenly stood up on her rear legs, front paws propped against the plaque, curious golden eyes fixated on the picture of Arcadia Bay’s imposing lighthouse. “Y’know what, why the fuck not, we got all the time in the world… At least ‘til next Wednesday'' Sean sighed, looking up from the slightly faded photograph to the actual lighthouse in the distance, peeking out from countless majestic pine trees, its bright, white light rotating with a slow and steady speed on the opposite end of the bay on top of a cliff.

There was something strange, something unsettling about the tall, robust tower that Sean couldn’t exactly put his finger on. He found himself staring at the lighthouse as if it held all the secrets, all the answers to all the questions he’s been searching for all his life - he couldn’t move, he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t even catch his breath for what felt like an eternity, even though it was but a mere moment. As if something was calling him, an invisible, eerie force locking his eyes on the lighthouse, Sean just stood there petrified, and if it wasn’t for Chestnut and her eager little woof startling him back to reality, he probably would’ve stayed there like that until sunset.

“Yeah, why the fuck not”, he murmured under his nose, shaking his head like he just woke from a weird dream as he turned away from Arcadia Bay and walked up to his car, trying to ignore the uncanny tingling in the back of his head - and the unmistakable feeling of being watched by a pair of all-seeing, otherworldly eyes.

It took surprisingly long to get to the other side of the bay from Otter Point. By the time Sean reached the lighthouse, the sun was high in the spotless blue sky, radiating its warm light so dazzlingly he had to shield his eyes with his hand as he exited the car. He parked the station wagon in a small clearing surrounded by fragrant, sky-high pine trees, at the bottom of a meandrous set of wooden stairs half-eaten by the soil, and began his short hike up to the lighthouse with Chestnut trotting by his side. The forest around them was peaceful and bustling with cheerful and welcoming Spring life; they saw busy bees and chirping birds and dancing butterflies everywhere as they made their way uphill, following the glimmering sunspots on the ground.

“Alright, same rules apply, okay? No running along the edge, it’s rocky down there”, said Sean when they reached the top of the stairs, grabbing Chestnut’s collar the very last minute before the pup could just storm off to explore the uncharted territory. “Stay… Staaay…”, he raised his eyebrows as the pup looked up at him with giant eyes full of excited sparkles, wagging her tail like the clearing in front of her was the last one on Earth to roam. “Good girl. Run along now, but carefully, please”, he said after a moment or two, as he let go of Chestnut, watching her dart off as a fired arrow with a proud, fatherly smile on his face before following the pup to the clearing.

The lighthouse stood tall on the edge of the cliff, watching over Arcadia Bay like a robust, all-seeing guardian. Seeing the tower up close, Sean felt the same magnetic energy that practically hypnotized him from all the way across the bay, only this time, he felt it ten folds stronger, as he stood there and stared at the lighthouse, tilting his head back as much as he could to take in the breathtaking sight in all its mesmerizing entirety. It felt like he arrived in another dimension where time didn’t work as it did on his own; as if a heavy, velvety curtain fell on the world, closing around the cliff and creating an odd, languid void where the pace of time just wasn’t the same. It was quiet, yes, peaceful, even, but at the same time, the air was strangely disturbed, unsettling and mysterious - and eerily inviting.

After what felt like half a lifetime of staring at the lighthouse, Sean noticed a worn bench on the edge of the cliff. He watched Chestnut sweep across the clearing, very much occupied with chasing something that looked like an azure-blue butterfly at first glance, before walking up to the bench and sitting down on it, turning his gaze towards the magnificent view of the bay below him as he reached for his cigarette case in his pocket. With the first puff of bitter smoke, he closed his eyes, and for a while, he just listened to the waves crashing against the rocks at the bottom of the cliff and the squawking of a few stray seagulls circling around the lantern room, before bringing himself to unzip his backpack and pull out his tablet and sketchbook from the messy depths of it.

He only hesitated for a brief moment before he put the tablet back in his bag, and along with it, his deadlines and professional responsibilities, settling with his trusted sketchbook instead. He preferred drawing on actual paper with an actual pen anyway, and he felt like procrastinating a little before letting his work swallow him in one bite. Flipping through dozens of pages of unfinished drawings until he finally reached a blank page, Sean started sketching Arcadia Bay with strainless ease, his eye constantly moving back and forth between the sketchbook and the view until the chaos of thin, black lines started to come together and he didn’t have to look anymore.

And this is when the time truly stopped around him, as it always did when Sean took the pen. It was just him and his vision of the world under the sun, and of course, Chestnut running around the clearing, her lanky, brown form always somewhere in the corner of his eye.

“You’re really pressed about this butterfly, aren’t you”, he chuckled as Chestnut ran across his feet relentlessly, making Sean look up from the content little wolf he’s been sketching for a while without even realizing that he started adding it to the drawing. He didn’t even notice anymore, since this was the case with many, if not most of his drawings - as if he was physically incapable of finishing a drawing without wolves in it, or for that matter, drawing for someone who wasn’t his brother.

“I mean, it’s a pretty fucking stunning butterfly if you ask me”, answered a mischievous voice beside him, completely out of the blue, startling Sean so unexpectedly that he almost fell off the bench.

“De puta madr-!!”, he exclaimed in fright as he turned his head, and the next moment, he found himself staring at a young, slim girl, leaning against the crooked fence on the edge of the cliff. “I mean, ugh Jesus. Sorry, I didn’t see you there” he added quickly, clearing his throat as he looked the girl up and down, wondering how long has it been since she got there - and most importantly, how in the world didn’t he notice her when she arrived.

“It’s kinda rare that anyone does, to be honest” shrugged the girl, stepping away from the fence, piercing blue eyes shifting from Sean’s colorless face to the sketchbook in his lap. She was tall and slender, wearing ripped jeans with a leather jacket and a black beanie, electric blue hair framing her narrow, elfish face. She looked like she was in her late teens, early twenties, maybe, and even though Sean was certain he’s never seen her before, somehow it felt like he’s known the girl for his entire life. “What are you drawing? Can I see?”

“Sure, take a look” he said, scooting over a little so the girl could sit next to her. “It’s a… I don’t even know what, that started off as a landscape sketch” he explained, scratching the inner corner of his empty eye socket and suddenly wishing he put on his eyepatch before coming up to the lighthouse. The girl, however, was way too invested in his sketchbook to even notice that there was something unusual about his appearance, and even if she did, she didn’t seem to be taken aback by it - or at least she didn’t feel the urge to stare, unlike most people Sean has met throughout his life.

“This is really cool, dude” the girl said after a while, looking up at him with a wide, impressed grin before turning her gaze back to Sean’s drawing. “Are you like, an artist or something?”

“Artist is an overstatement but yeah, I draw comics for a living” Sean answered, reaching out for Chestnut when he noticed the pup is running towards him. “This one isn’t for work though. It’s a… Gift. For my brother”, he added, his smile suddenly fading with the words, and not returning even when Chestnut wriggled her way in between his legs and placed her head in his lap, staring up at him with giant puppy eyes.

“Something gives me the impression that he’s the small one”, the girl chuckled, pointing at the younger wolf on Sean’s drawing, chasing a butterfly on the edge of the cliffside looking over Arcadia Bay, next to his bigger, scruffier, one-eyed brother, relaxing under a pine tree.

“I have no idea what makes you say that” said Sean with a faint smile on his face, gently fondling Chestnut’s head in his lap. “The older I get, the more it feels like it’s the other way around, to be honest”, he sighed quietly, feeling his entire chest harden all of a sudden as he took a glance at his sketchbook between the long nails of the strange girl next to her.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” asked the girl bluntly the next moment, carefully closing Sean’s sketchbook and putting it between them on the bench. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in Arcadia Bay before, and that’s pretty shocking considering that we’re talking about a town of 200 people where nothing ever happens…”

“Yeah, I’m just traveling. Thought I’d drive through town and check out the view from here” Sean answered, and as he pulled out another cigarette from his pocket, he couldn’t help but notice the sudden sparks of longing in the girl’s eyes. “You want one?”

“Not gonna lie, I could kill for a smoke… But no thanks. I… Can’t”, the girl gulped, watching with eager eyes as Sean reluctantly put the cigarette in his mouth. “Oh, no, it’s okay, I don’t mind. The smell’s gonna do the trick” she said, exhaling the smoke of the first huff with a strange, almost euphoric smile as Sean lit his cigarette at last.

“Oh man… You got some superior shit right there” she said, her smile slowly growing into a content, wide grin. “But anyway… As much as Arcadia Bay is the most boring shithole in the whole wide world, I hope your trip was worth it in the end.”

“Sounds like you lived here for a while, huh?”, Sean asked, eyebrows raised, to which the girl let out a sarcastic snort. “Oof. That bad?”

“There are no words to describe just how bad, my dude” the girl answered, shaking her head and wrapping her arms around her long legs pulled up to her chest. “I’ve been stuck here my whole fucking life. Wanted to leave since I was fourteen” she continued, the playful cheer suddenly leaving her voice and leaving behind gloomy shadows on her face. “Should’ve gotten the fuck outta here the first chance I got”, she said sourly, planting her chin between her knees and staring blankly in the distance, to a faraway place Sean couldn’t follow her to - and even if he could, he wouldn’t want to.

“So why didn’t you?”, Sean blurted out before thinking twice, but before he could even think of a way to apologize for possibly having crossed a line, the girl laughed out loud and dry.

“Have a wild guess, dude. ‘Cause of love, of course”, she snorted again, only this time, sarcasm was replaced with something much darker in her tone. “I was just waiting for the right time y’know. Back then, I had no idea that no such thing exists. Not for anything, not for anyone. There is just you and time, and time is nothing but a massive fucking trap, waiting for you to get stuck in it” she said, eyes darker than the coldest nights of winter. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to explode like that.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize for anything”, Sean shook his head, placing his burnt-out cigarette butt under the bench next to the previous one. “I’m just not sure I get what you mean.”

“No worries, I wouldn’t expect you to get it anyway” the girl shrugged, and the next moment, she turned her gaze to Sean, all-seeing blue eyes staring right into his soul. “You know, people hardly ever come to the lighthouse anymore, except when they should be somewhere else. And even if they come, they barely notice me. It’s nice that you did. And that you listened, too. I’m not sure where you’re supposed to be now, but I’m glad you’re here” she smiled, patting Sean’s hand with a surprisingly cold palm briefly, retreating almost immediately as he shuddered next to her.

“Yeah, I’m glad I took a little detour too” he smiled back at the girl before his glance wandered off to his sketchbook lying between them on the bench. “But I think I should get going now. I’d love to stay and chat, but… I’m ridiculously late already”, he added, a concerned frown taking over the upper half of his face, and a bewildered grin the lower, as somehow, at that moment, he realized there’s a chance that perhaps he has given into the nonsense of his own depression slightly more than he should have in the first place.

“Yeah, you probably are”, said the girl with a playful wink, standing up from the bench and stretching her long arms above her head. “Man, what a spectacular fucking afternoon. I mean, look at the Sun. Such a radiant bitch boss, for real”, she declared lovingly, making Sean laugh out loud for the first time in the past few days, or even weeks, maybe.

“Need a lift?”, Sean asked the girl as they turned their backs on the lighthouse, and started walking towards the staircase leading to the small clearing at the bottom of the cliff.

“Nah, thanks, but I’m not done here yet”, the girl said, shoving both her hands in the pockets of her skinny jeans. “Got some wandering to do, y’know… Contemplating the beauty of Spring and all” she looked at him with a somewhat shy smile, and Sean decided not to risk crossing any more lines with any more questions.

“I guess this is where we part ways then” he nodded his head when they reached his station wagon, waiting patiently next to the tourist map of the cliff. “Enjoy contemplating the beauty of Spring, I guess?”, he smiled at the girl, opening the door of the passenger’s seat for Chestnut.

“Yeah, thanks, man. You take care too, okay?” answered the girl, and the next moment, before Sean could say anything, her eyes suddenly widened. “And don’t forget to sketch up a cool portrait of me or something if you got the time, will you?”

“Stop reading my mind, a’ight?” Sean laughed, waving at the girl before sitting in his car, a sudden burst of energy washing over him as the door closed behind him. The urge to drive as fast as he just can was stronger than he’s ever felt it before, but somehow, he managed to control it, closing his eyes and leaning back on his seat for a long, silent moment before reaching for his phone. Swiping away dozens of notifications, he then opened his contacts and pressed call on the first name on top of the list - the only number he’s ever called, really.

The ringing stopped right after he pressed his phone between his ear and shoulder, and turned the car key under the steering wheel.

“Hey enano. I’m on my way.”

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Hey! Thank you for reading! ❤

This short story is my contribution to a Christmas Short Story Exchange we did with my best friends. (It is also my first ever fanfiction in English!) I was writing for one of my best friends who got me into Life is Strange years ago, so when we pulled each other’s names and I found out I’m writing for her, I immediately knew that I’ll work with the Diaz brothers and Chloe.

2020 Christmas Short Story Exchange Word count: 5353 | Written December 22nd-27th. I’m on AO3 now! Head over for more fanfictions. ❤

#fanfiction #Life is Strange #Life is Strange 2 #Sean Diaz #Daniel Diaz #Lyla Park #Chloe Price #Post-Redemption Ending #Post-Save Arcadia Bay Ending #under 10k #story #writing #writers on tumblr #short story #fan fiction #fanfic #light angst

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victorywar · 4 years

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( content: bastard getting some alone time w/ himself, so very starrest )

last night had brought with it uncomfortable dreams-- the sort he rarely had, not of nightmare but of pure, unfiltered lust. plush lips pressed on his own, against his throat, over the stained glass patterns of his abdomen. the thrust of hard, lubricant-slick spikes against his valve, his aft, his hands. a warm mouth-- or valve, he didn’t remember now-- taking his spike whole. identities of his dreamscape lovers blurred together, unrecognizable, except for one.

the one he could see in real life, the one whose name was placed over the law which he served.

star saber has no choice now but to dust off blacker’s old collection and choose one for his own use, with a quick prayer to ostensibly ask permission that he knows blacker would have happily given were he alive today. at first he considers one of the small vibrators, only to decide he isn’t willing to spend the time hunting down controllers nor untangle wires and decides to choose a simple dildo-- smaller at the tip, flared at the base. something that looks conceivably doable for his unused valve, versus most of the rest of blacker’s toys. (by god, he knew blacker was a promiscuous mech, but how in primus’ name had he even he fit some of these into himself? they looked too large for star saber, and he was twice blacker’s size!)

he returns to his berth for the act, his panels opening before his back even hits the slab again. his spike stands proudly, his valve dripping. star saber wraps a hand around his spike, first.

his fuel pump is already pounding. unfortunately, he isn’t entirely sure how soundproofed his hab suite is, but he takes comfort in the knowledge that the only other person in the remote vicinity-- that was to say, on board the larger ship-- is tyrest. tyrest’s hab is rather far from his, and the chief justice doesn’t wake as early as he does on a regular day.

and, his mind offers with a thick tone of lust, would it really be so bad if he did overhear you? his spike would feel much better than that toy. his valve would certainly feel much better than your hand.

for once, he didn’t bother to reject the notion. the honest truth was that he wanted that-- wanted him. why suggest otherwise, even to himself?

he nudges the toy towards his valve, gasping slightly as it nudges his stiff node. he turns over on his side, still stroking his spike, and shifts his thighs to better lead the toy towards the weeping entrance of his valve.

but he hesitates as it slides between the thick folds of his receptive array.

star saber remembered this being the part that hurt. careless previous lovers had failed to prepare him properly, not that he was entirely sure it wasn’t a fault of his own frame. after all, blacker had never had problems fitting anything into himself, between star saber’s own experiences with his head acolyte and the implicit knowledge going through blacker’s toys had given him. was it simply that certain mechs were just better built for valve use than others? or was it a matter of...

god, now is not the time to ruminate on his long-dead friend’s sexual capabilities. he adjusts his hips, finds the entrance of his valve, and pushes the head of the toy into himself.

to his shock, it goes in... very easily. yes, he still has to pause after the toy was partly inside, because he is very much not used to having anything inside him, regardless of how aroused he was. he didn’t realize... with his valve so wet, insertion actually feels quite good. trying to shove it too far, where the dildo became thicker the further down he was on its length, was where it grew more uncomfortable.

is this enough? he supposes it doesn’t matter. star saber slowly moves the toy out, towards the rim of his entrance, before sliding it back in. he realizes he’s paused in stroking his spike, too, and starts with that again.

he bites his lip on a moan. the deeper section of his channel still longs for stimulation, but this is good. star saber partially buries his face into his pillow, letting himself sink deeper into the sensations of his mortal body.

as the berth creaks beneath his shifting weight, star saber returns his mind to the thought of tyrest... the thought that tyrest might one day do these things to him. it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility...

he would never be so crass as to assume tyrest’s feelings, of course, but there was still something in the way he spoke to him, the way he touched him. tyrest’s touch was a gentle comfort in a wasteland of cruelty. he was warm, he was merciful to star saber and merciless to the filth that dirtied the universe with their existence.

justice incarnate.

but when he spoke, his alluring voice was the comforting reassurance on the other side of a church confessional. star saber would listen to tyrest forever if he’d have him, if he’d say his name-- dearest saber.

he moans a little. he doesn’t realize he’s slid the dildo in a little deeper, now, without any trouble.

oh, what he’d do to have tyrest speak to him, touch him in these supposedly sinful ways. was it sinful, if it was love? love was not sinful. one of twelve had once tried to convince him otherwise, but it was in that alone that star saber had held true to himself and his own faith, rather than allowing one to convince him of the council’s views.

it wasn’t one��s fault, he didn’t think. it was... surely, only an understandable failure of interpretation of primus’ will. even he had slipped up once, so surely it wasn’t so bizarre to think that his mentor might have done the same?

primus meant for His children to love one another. to share pleasure. to ascend together, hand in hand, to have a taste of where all were one by joining two as one. star saber felt, yes, he could have such a thing with tyrest.

(my loyal enforcer)

“tyrest...” he breathes, driving his hips against his own hands. the dildo strikes the apex of his valve and he realizes with a strangled gasp that over the course of his private session, he’s managed to ease himself along the full length of the toy. his hands are slick with fluids. he can hardly keep his grip on the toy, but the hand around his spike has no such trouble.

overload charges are notching up quickly now. star saber partly muffles himself again, moving quicker. he imagines the weight of tyrest’s elegantly-crafted body against his back, his hand replacing star saber’s around his spike, and tyrest’s spike in the place of the toy hitting his ceiling node. and he imagines that voice, that handsome voice--

(dearest saber)

(i’m glad you’ve returned to me)

(my loyal enforcer)

“tyrest...!” his hips buck harder. there’s a tight coil inside himself, ready to burst.

(star saber, my loyal enforcer. i’m glad you’ve returned to me.)

(dearest saber, you needn’t hide anything from me.)

his mind drudges up the things he wants to say. i am yours, chief justice. let me kneel to you, let me treat you for the king that you are. you alone in this vast and unforgiving universe ease the storm in my spark. you alone give me faith in the moments when even i, primus’ chosen, doubt. as i believe in god, i believe in you, and there would be no greater privilege or blessing than to be your lover.

he imagines the smile on tyrest’s face, spreading across those full, gorgeous lips. he imagines tyrest’s hand guiding his face by the chin to look him in the eye.

(dearest saber...)

(i will have you, and you are mine.)

“tyrest!” star saber cries out in climax.

his valve clenches the toy tightly, as transfluid spurts from the head of his spike. his body arches into the rush, a few more trembling gasps pulling air into star saber’s intake as his hard-running fans scream their burden. his vents dump hot air from his frame, and fluids spill and dirty his hands, his thighs, his abdomen.

once it’s over, his arms drop, and he breathes heavily. it helps-- his mind is blissfully blank for a moment, giving him a moment of peace through the suffocation that his condition had forced on him.

he blinks himself back into reality, of his lonely hab suite and the morning hours’ routine pinging reminders into his hud. his need subsides...

...but only for a moment. between his thumb and his forefinger, his spike twitches, still unpleasantly hard. his valve still aches.

growling, he feels it’s still less enough to ignore for now. he removes the toy, noting with humiliation how filthied it is with his lubricant-- so thickly, it strings between his gaping valve and the dildo’s length. that’s to say nothing of the mess of transfluid his spike has left.

he forces himself to get up, embarrassingly stumbling as his legs momentarily forget what their purpose is, and shoves off to the washracks again. this condition would not get the better of him, he swears it.

(but he holds tight the comfort of tyrest’s image, as his chief justice is his light and mortal heaven, until they can walk on to god’s kingdom together.)

#( IC. )#( rel / MY KING IN HEAVEN. )#( ma / UNHOLY DESIRE. )#( SIN. )#nsft /

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ducktales-wco-oo · 4 years

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‘Beyond The Grave’ [Negs Negs because >3] - ✩ { @aflockoffeathers } ✩

✩ { Meme } ✩

{ ☆ } It’s eerily quiet. A vast blackness, like the emptiness of space but without the stars. Without the slightest light to peek through the suffocating darkness, and yet… Negaduck can still see. Everything around him, clear as day yet dark as night. It’s an unsettling place, to be sure. Feeling like nothing, and yet overwhelming at the same time. Being in it for too long would be liable to drive anyone mad. Or would it? Already, Negs can feel himself growing accustomed to the strange place. With its silence: a terrible, echoing, all-encompassing silence... At least, that’s the initial thought, a voice soon cutting through the quiet.

Laughter, bubbly and joyous. Like the serenade of a songbird, only… rowdier. More chaotic and untamed, sweet and full of ironic life. Negs spins around to face where the sound seems to be coming from, feathers bristling with unease as the noise surrounds him. But no matter which direction he faces, how quickly he turns, he’s never able to catch it. It’s always one move ahead of him, one step too far, one giggle too faint… But there’s nothing. Darkness still stretches on forever. Where is that heart-wrenchingly happy sound coming from?

And what is it doing in a place like this?

“Daddy!” Being tenses when arms suddenly wrap around his waist, gaze darting down to look at a familiar face… Albeit, with a few distinct differences. Eye color for one. Not quite the eyes of the Gosalyn he knows. A shining, shimmering color that’s almost too vibrant. Too perfect. Red locks shift and fade: sometimes touching her shoulder, sometimes just above. Growing curlier, straighter, brighter, duller. As if they can’t decide WHAT they should be. Same with her dress: changing hues of pink, losing and adding ribbons, lace, glitter or no glitter, but all pristine and perfect… aside from the brief flashes when she’s not.

When she appears burnt, broken… Singed feathers and blackened hair, wide, blank eyes and tattered dress. Horrific visions that arise for a split-second, a moment so brief that one would wonder if they were even there at all. Where even is HERE?

Sweet smile slips when she looks into his eyes, her own ever-constant ones growing misty as she sorrowfully says, “You’re not my daddy… Y-You are but- but you’re not too.” He’s not here. He hasn’t come for her… Yet. But someday he will. It’s like before, when she used to wait for him to come home. Sometimes it’d be hours later than he promised, sometimes days. One time it was even a couple weeks… but he always came back. Came HOME.

She hopes that NegaLP isn’t too lonely at home now.

“D’ya… wanna play a game anyway?” Gosalyn asks, a tentative smile forming on her face as arms release the kinda-stranger. Clutching his bright sleeve, she continues, emboldened by the fact that he hasn’t shaken her off, “I don’t really have any toys around here… but we don’t need ‘em to play! Here, lemme show ya-“ Before Negaduck even knows what’s happening, he’s engaged in a game of Slap Jack. Hands hovering above the girl’s, she moves with impressive speed... but Negs is a smidge quicker.

However, as time goes on, she manages to ‘win’ a few games. Which the little apparition girl calls him out on. “Hey! No lettin’ me win!” Brows furrow with adorable determination, eyes burning as she rivers her gaze on Negsie’s hands, a pout tugging at her beak as she mutters, “I have to earn it.” One of the lessons accidentally taught by Negaduck. A few moments pass as the game resumes, occasional warning glances aimed into unfamiliar garnet eyes, before Gos speaks again, “Do you… Do you know my daddy? He looks like you, ‘cept his eyes are a different color. Really dark, an’ his smile is pointier.” Nothing like the soft, melancholy one in front of her. Her Negaduck SNARLS or grins with teeth cruelly gleaming.

She strikes… and misses. However, disappointment is short-lived, expression brightening when Negs silently nods his head. Tail wags, briefly shown when her dress shortens before becoming covered by thick layers of ruffles. Baby-soft feathers fluffing, a smile stretches across her face, “Can you give him a message from me?! I know he can be kinda hard to talk to… but it’s really important.” Not waiting for an answer, the message pours forth. “Tell him that I miss him an’ I’m waitin’ for him to come an’ get me! N-No rush, of course! I know that he’s a busy guy an’ all…” Gaze wanders off to the side, Gosalyn shrugging, “Probably still has lots that he needs to do before he can. Plus, he can’t just leave NegaLP all alone.”

Being alone is the worst.

“I just… want him to know that I haven’t forgotten about him.” Demeanor wilts, gaze lowering and voice growing softer, that horrific visage starting to flicker more frequently. “That I’m not mad at him either. What happened… it wasn’t his fault. I shoulda listened to him. He said it was dangerous… He-he didn’t want me to go.” Of course, he never wanted her to go with him ANYWHERE. How was she supposed to know that this time, would be the one to prove him right? A small smile forms, hand rubbing at her eyes as vision grows blurry, lingering tears causing those constant hues to sparkle brighter as she looks up at Negsie, voice cracking but tinged with joy nonetheless. “H-He tried to help me.”

“Before everythin’ went crazy, an’ I couldn’t see anythin’ anymore... I saw my Daddy.” Tears stream down her face, a light laugh slipping out— appearance sweet and soot-free as ever —as she says, “He was trying to help me.” The world grows hazed, blurry and unstable. The darkness starting to overwhelm, to SUFFOCATE. But Gosalyn doesn’t pay it any mind, just wiping the remainder of her tears away with a soft sigh. “I guess it’s time for you to go. It’s probably for the best. Ya really don’t wanna get stuck in this place...” She starts to fade- or is it Negsie that’s fading? Either way, she’ll be gone soon. He’ll be gone soon.

Everything will go back to the way it was... more or less.

“Hey... Negaduck?” Chimes a small voice, the last lingering remnants of the little girl fighting to flicker in front of him as he reaches out towards him... and baps the back of his hands, Negs having forgotten that they were still held outward. Giggling brightly at having ‘earned’ that point, NegaGosalyn then begins to cheerfully wave him goodbye as the ‘world’ around him disappears. A faded voice echoing through the darkness that encapsulates Negsie, “Oh! An’ tell him to remember some toys or somethin’ for me! It’s pretty borin’ here!” { ☆ }

#(JKDSDFNJKDSNFKDSFDSF... Have my Negs's deceased li'l gorl :'3 )#(.... The reason her appearance keeps shifting is because Negs can't EXACTLY remember what she looks at off the top of his head; he has the-#-gist... but the exact curliness of her hair; the make of her dress; etc... keeps shifting. But her eyes; he always loved the color of her-#-eyes. So bright and sparkly; unlike his DARK hues)#(.... and he doesn't have any Special Places for her; any memories he made or places he used to take her)#(Like how Negarna had that park... Gos is remembered in a limbo-like place/state... he's trying to forget her; WANTS to... doesn't even-#-know what her favorite toy was...)#(*cough*he also can't stop imagining what must have happened to her *cough*)#(hence the flickers of....... Bad :'DDDDDDDDDD )#(*C O U G H S*)#ducktales-wco-oo #Public Enemy Number One || {Negaduck}#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʀᴇᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ʜɪꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ❞ ¦ 「 Headcanon 」#aflockoffeathers #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱᴀᴡ-ᴡɪᴇʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀʀʟᴀᴛᴀɴ ❞ ¦ 「 OG!Negaduck 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴅᴏ ʙᴀᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴏᴏᴅ ʟᴜᴄᴋ ᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ! ❞ ¦ 「 RP 」

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slashersrus · 5 years

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Doctor Who x Female OC - Alone

River Song x OC (not romance)

Alone. I've always been alone, for as long as I can remember, running through my desolate forest and suffocating in the empty solitude that plagues my heart. My instincts, my nature, my inner wolf begs for a pack to run with, to not be a lone wolf anymore, to have my heart made whole. The only pack I have, the only family I have, I hardly see.

I don't remember much, anything really, about my childhood other than the searing pain and the mean woman telling me that everything is going to change. I knew I had a sister though, she was the one to help me escape the cruelty of the mean woman.

"Everything will change now Y/N, you're going to lead us to our victory in this endless war."

I never understood what war they were fighting, or why I had to help them, all I understood was that I had to do what they say, that was my purpose, to listen and obey.

Shaking my head, I push my legs faster, sprinting through the damp forest, leaping over falling trees and small rivers. I could not allow myself to think, it simply brought pain and questions. Thinking made me human and they didn't want that.

A sudden rustling noise made my ears perk up, my body freezing and lowering to the ground, taking on the stance of a true predator. A rabbit, pure white fur contrasting greatly against the sombre dull greens of the forest, popped its head out a bush, scanning for any danger before darting into the clearing, oblivious to the golden eyes watching it. About to give chase, a familiar scent filled my nostrils, the wind blowing the soothing scent to me, the rabbit now forgotten, all I wanted to do was get to the source of the smell.

"What are we doing here, River?" An unfamiliar voice called out as I found myself at the other side of the maze like forest within minutes.

"There's someone I think you should meet. She's around here somewhere. Y/N? Y/N come on out, it's me, Melody." Crouching in a nearby bush, my eyes brightened slightly to see Melody, the only person I have who cares for me. I don't recognise the red haired woman or brunette man next to her.

"Come along then, I promised to take Amy and Rory to-" A new man, an unfamiliar yet strangely comforting scent, stepped out of a blue box, I didn't listen to his ramblings as I focused on his scent, my wolf screaming in pure happiness.

"Y/N? Come on out, I know you're there." Melody spoke with amusement, turning to look at the bush where I was hidden, the three strangers also turning to look at where she was staring.

A low growl of annoyance slipped out as I slowly stalked forward and out of the bush, the strangers jumping back as they saw me causing me to growl again, this time out of sadness as I realise they are scared of me.

"River?" The one wearing a bow tie, the one with the heavenly scent, spoke with caution, never taking his wary eyes off me.

"It's okay, it's okay, she won't hurt you. Come here sweetie, its been too long." Melody spoke in a soothing manner, encouraging me to walk over to her as she sat on the muddy ground, uncaring about the mud ruining he clothes. Hesitantly laying down next to her, I nuzzled my head into her leg, yelping happily as she began to stroke my midnight fur.

"This is Y/N. I know this is going to be hard Amy, Rory, but I was not the only child you had that day at Demons Run, you had twins."

A loud gasp caused me to lift my head slightly, curiously watching the red haired woman hold her hand to her mouth, gaping at Melody, along with the man stood with his arm around her waist.

Eyes widening almost comedically, the man wearing the bow tie stepped forward towards me, crouching slightly to stare into my eyes before questioning Melody, "River, are you sure? How did this happen? It's not possible!"

"Doctor you and I both know by now that the impossible is very, very possible."

"I would know! If I had twins, I would know!" The red head, who I now noticed had a Scottish accent, stepped forward accusingly, tears in her eyes whilst she bit her lip angrily, the male next to her nodding furiously along with her words.

"When we were born, Madam Kovarian separated us and kept Y/N a secret, you were too out of it to notice and you were not expecting twins. She took me and raised me to kill the Doctor, you know how that tuned out, but she only needed one of us to do that." A small, almost unnoticeable tear fell from her eye as she paused, caressing my fur as I stood and nuzzled her face, I didn't like it when she was sad.

"...What happened to...Y/N...then?" Listening to the names being mentioned, I worked out that the one who cautiously asked was Rory whilst he held Amy to his chest as she cried, The Doctor slowly making his way closer to Melody and I as she talked.

"A human conceived on the TARDIS with time lord DNA? Kovarian saw limitless possibilities...she wanted to create the first ever hybrid and she did. Through..."Melody paused, looking at Amy, Rory and The Doctor nervously before continuing,"...experimentation. They managed to replace her human DNA with that of a wolf, leaving her a Time Lord with wolf DNA and that combination made her into what legends call a werewolf."

"I'm so so sorry." The Doctor muttered with despair, crouching down to stoke my fur, jerking away when I leaped up and snarled at him. He was a stranger, he smelled familiar and my instincts where telling me to protect him, yet I still did not know him and would not let him touch me. Melody had been the only person to ever touch me and not hurt me.

"WOAH!"

"DOCTOR!"

"Y/N! No! He's good, he's good. Shhh."

Everyone spoke at once, the strangers looking startled whilst Melody lightly grabbed me and started to comfort me, soothing my fur and stroking behind my ears.

"Why-" The Doctor began to speak, looking confused, before Melody cut him off abruptly.

"She doesn't know you...she's been raised to not trust anyone, I'm the only one she's ever let stroke her." She laughed sadly, looking down as she stroked me.

"She's a.." Rory broke off, staring at me in sorrow. A look of pity in his and Amy's eyes.

"She's not been aloud to turn back into human form since she was three, they would hurt her whenever she tried...they wanted an animal not a human. She's got instincts, she's been living as a wolf for over 22 years."

As River spoke, Amy broke down, turning to cry into Rory's shoulder.

"She can turn back now, though! The silence and Madame Kovarian are gone." Rory spoke determined.

"She can't, can she?" The Doctor reminded crouched next to me and River, a look of understanding in his old eyes.

River shook her head sadly, reaching up I licked her cheek to comfort her, "22 years as a wolf...she can't even remember being human."

I whimpered at her words, cuddling up to her more.

"I can help...if you let me?" Seeing him shuffle closer, River started to stoke my head again.

Looking up to see my sister, her eyes filled with hope. She truly believed he could help me. If River trusted him, I would at least try.

"Doctor...what are you doing?" Amy pulled away from Rory sniffling with red eyes.

"It's a timelord thing." Eyeing the Doctor, I glanced to see River nod her head, so I slowly lifted myself from her to trot over to him warily.

He raised his hands to my head, casing me to flinch back and let out mother low warning growl.

"It's okay, it's okay. It won't hurt, cross my hearts." His laughter brought a strange content feeling to me, his reassuring words made me feel safe, something I haven't felt in so very long.

As soon as his hands touched my head, my vision exploded into thousands of colours, I became blind to the world as everything faded away into the vast colours. A bright, beautiful, blue stood out from the rest, it's essence swirling and mixing with the others. Suddenly, it felt like I was in the middle of a tornado, the blue encasing me. I want to reach out and touch it but my body feels stuck, trapped. The strange light seemed to notice, coming lose and closer till all I could see was blue. Suddenly, I'm no longer in a tornado, I'm in the sea. Floating calmly, my body weightless and free. An suddenly I could touch the blue, so I do.

My eyes fluttered open, I am laying in someone's lap, voices calling my name. Curling into a ball, I was cold, so so cold. Something heavy and warm was draped over my shivering body, a tweed design meeting my blurry vision. I could hear River's voice the loudest, overpowering the other voices, she was shouting but I could not understand the words. Reaching up to paw at her weakly, my body shook in complete shock at my human hand.

I was in my normal, human form again. I wasn't a wolf.

Feeling my eyes become heavier, a smile broke it on my face before I passed out.

I was free.

#eleventh doctor #doctor who #doctor who x reader #the doctor #river song #melody pond #amy pond #rory williams #rory pond #matt smith #fanfic #fanfiction #Oc

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eatspages-a · 4 years

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what Graham calls/would call the Entities (subject to change in the future). he does tend to mix the Entities themselves and their Avatars together, understanding them to be the same thing, essentially.

The Eye -- the V.oyeur, the Singular Watcher; even long before his crossing paths with the Not-Them, he’d felt that creeping sensation of being watched, of being pushed to Seek, like both his parents, and it’s what they called it too, although when he first heard it he was too young to really understand and thought they were just talking about some weirdo (although they’re not too far wrong, are they). singular since it feels like a single watcher, despite it being everywhere. it’s also the only one (besides the Vast) he treats as having a title, but regards it with disdain, rivalled only by his disdain for the Stranger.

The Stranger -- The Stranger, Impostors; he didn’t really know of any other Entities, only assuming that the Eye was... something else, but alone and unconnected. the Not-Them informs him of the widely-known title, but Graham tends to use ‘Impostors’. plural since he’s of the idea that there’s many things associated with the Stranger.

The Buried -- Suffocation. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Corruption -- Infection. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Dark -- Darkness. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet), but he has a feeling that it (or something like it) exists, even before being Got by the Not-Him.

The Desolation -- Burning. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet), but his dad did come into contact with a now-dead avatar / member of the cult and managed to escape.

The End -- Death. he’s always had a feeling that it existed, outside of the obvious, to go hand-in-hand with the ‘Singular Watcher’, but he has no real explanation as for why. one of the few that he names the same as in canon.

The Flesh -- Meat. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Hunt -- Hunters. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet). dangerously close to the original name.

The Lonely -- Isolation. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Slaughter -- Violence. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Spiral -- Unreality. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet).

The Vast -- The Big Blue Yonder. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet). he likes the name he picks out for this one, though, and it’s the only reason it has a title when he regards it.

The Web -- Spiders. he doesn’t know about its existence (yet), but he has come across it before with regards to the Web Table (and its subsequent abundance of spiders in his and Oliver’s flat).

The Extinction -- Annihilation. he doesn’t know about its (supposed) existence (yet). (edit: yes i was thinking of the Extinction before i posted this. and somehow i still forgot.)

#headcanon.#(i have the beginnings of a starter open in another tab help me)#long post cw

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superiordragonlorde · 5 years

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Don’t Forget Me

April 6: Sunset | Forget-Me-Not | Sunshine of Your Love by Cream

Here’s day 6 for @kiridekuweek2k19 . Hope you all enjoy!

Eijirou sat on the edge of his bed, chewing on a nail as his mind ran in circles. It was three in the morning and sleep had eluded him like a bar of soap in the shower as he’d tossed and turned in the large bed. The left side, which he was sitting on, was warm and messy, with the sheets thrown aside haphazardly, while the opposite end was cold and untouched. The mere sight of it made a hole rip open in the middle of Eijirou’s chest.

He stood, wincing at the creaking of mattress springs, and crept down the hallway. Peering into the living room, he could make out the dim silhouette of a body sleeping on the pull-out couch, curled under the blankets. A disembodied hand gripped Eijirou’s heart, digging its claws in deeper with every pained beat. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm.

The world had turned itself upside-down when a villain, going by the name Wasuregusa, had attacked Izuku while he had been out on patrol with one of his sidekicks. As soon as Eijirou had received the call that his husband was in the hospital, he had raced over and tore the place apart in his search. When he’d finally found him, instead of relieved hugs and tender kisses, he had been met with wide, terrified green eyes, and a hesitant voice that had stuttered, “I-I’m sorry, but... I don’t know you.”

Izuku’s sidekick, an anxious yet headstrong girl, had later relayed to Eijirou that while they were on patrol, the villain had tried to attack her. Izuku had shoved her aside and lured the villain away. When she had finally found him again, he’d been lying, unconscious in an alleyway, with a small, blue flower tucked behind his ear.

Forget-me-not, it had later been clarified.

About a week after, the villain had been apprehended, and Hitoshi had called Eijirou, asking to meet with him privately.

“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush,” he had started, his standard eyebags darker and heavier than usual. “This isn’t looking too good. Midoriya’s going to be fine. The quirk doesn’t affect him physically in any way, but according to past records and Wasuregusa, it does affect him mentally. Wasuregusa’s quirk causes a specific form of amnesia, so there’s going to be some... things Midoriya won’t be able to remember.”

“Ok.” Eijirou had nodded, inhaling deeply to center himself as the news swirled around his brain like a hurricane. “Can he... Will his memories come back?”

Hitoshi had slowly shaken his head, looking mournful. “None of the other victim’s have shown signs of their memories returning, and Wasuregusa said that he hasn’t had any luck either.”

“What do you mean ‘he hasn’t had any luck’?” Eijirou had inquired cautiously.

The underground hero had sighed and shrugged. “Apparently, he doesn’t have a lot of control over his quirk, so sometimes it gets out of hand. He’s accidentally used it before on family, friends, and romantic partners. I guess, after seeing its consequences so many times, he’s on an open-ended vengeance spree. Y’know, the whole ‘if I can’t have it, no one can’ mindset.”

“Sure, but—” Eijirou had started, then swallowed before pushing on— “But what kind of memories is he taking away? What is Izuku not going to remember?”

Hitoshi had fallen quiet and he’d fiddled with the trademark scarf wrapped around his neck and looked as though the weight of the world had been shoved onto his shoulders. With another deep, heavy sigh, he’d looked straight into Eijirou’s fearful, red gaze and had quietly said one word that had shattered his heart and world: “You.”

Hitoshi had haltingly explained that Wasuregusa’s quirk made his victims forget about the people they were in love with, which had meant that Izuku would have absolutely no recollection of Eijirou. The very fact that he could be so easily taken out of his husband’s life made Eijirou want to curl under his bedcovers and never see the light of day again. Or run and scream until he’d reached the end of the world.

Two-and-a-half months had gone by since the earth-shattering incident, and Izuku was still no closer to recovering his memories.

Eijirou had tried everything he could think of to help stimulate any of his memories. He’d recreated their first date, took him to the place where they’d first kissed, reread his wedding vows, and when those didn’t work, showed him the videotape of their wedding. Izuku had only watched and listened with a distant, uncomfortable gaze and a slight downturn of his lips, even if he was smiling. So, Eijirou had tried with smaller, more trivial things, like cooking Izuku breakfast in the morning, making katsudon for dinner, and even buying him special hero memorabilia. Each loving action had been met with a bright, excited smile that was still dimmed with confusion, but it had given Eijirou hope. That was until he’d brought home a Red Riot hoodie.

Izuku had held it up, brow furrowed in deep concentration. Eijirou had found his heart rising from its new residence in his stomach, soaring at the chance of Izuku finally getting his memories back.

“Who’s this? I’ve never seen this hero before.”

His heart had crashed to his feet like Icarus and his melting wings.

Maybe things would have been easier if Eijirou had someone to turn to, someone who understood a small part of what he was going through, but he was alone, the only person erased from Izuku’s life. Every member of Class 1-A, even if they had only been a part of the group for a year, still had a place in Izuku’s memories, like pieces to a puzzle. Eijirou couldn’t help but think of himself as a small, insignificant corner piece. Sure the picture was incomplete, but it wasn’t blatantly obvious, like if a middle piece was taken out, like Katsuki, for example.

Eijirou had tried so hard not to be jealous, but it was a herculean feat. Especially when Izuku was so close and happy around his friends, but politely distant with him, his own husband. He would pick up Ochako, pat Shouto’s arm, hug Tenya, hold Tsuyu’s hand, and playfully push Katsuki’s shoulder; all with a beaming, joyous smile that Eijirou would have sacrificed everything for just to have aimed at him one more time. He felt like he was a lone survivor in the desert, and Izuku’s soft, gentle touch was an oasis he would never be able to find.

To make matters so much worse, he knew that it was only politeness and concern for another human being that made Izuku stay in the same apartment as Eijirou. Not to mention, Izuku’s friends had probably somehow managed to convince him to try and be with him, a person whom he had no memory of ever meeting, more or less marrying, and yet knew almost everything there was to know about him.

Eijirou bit his bottom lip and watched Izuku’s chest rise and fall for a few more moments. He gripped the corner of the wall with all of his strength, fighting against the suffocating urge to lay in the open space behind him, wrap his arms around his waist, and bury his nose into the soft, curly hair. He shook his head hard enough he was sure he heard his brain rattle and headed back to the empty bedroom. His mind scrambled desperately for a single idea that could trigger the forgotten memories. One slowly started to form and Eijirou grabbed it tightly with both hands, watching it grow between his fingers with hesitant excitement. It was a long shot, especially when nothing else had worked, but, he decided, it was worth a try.

Eijirou looked out over the pale sand and dark blue water of the beach with trepidation. Izuku stood beside him, rubbing his arm and looking at the vast space in mild confusion and caution. The space between them felt as though it could fit the entire ocean between them, despite the fact that they were close enough to reach out and hold hands.

Eijirou settled on walking through the sand instead, picking out the perfect spot to lay out the blanket tucked under his arm. Izuku timidly sat beside him, knees curled to his chest and arms wrapped around them. Eijirou’s heart constricted at the submissive posture. His mind unwillingly flashed back to the stuttering, anxious high schooler he had first met in Class 1-A. It was like they were strangers again, but only one of them knew any different.

“Do you remember this place?” he asked, head tilted as he watched Izuku with tentative hope.

He nodded slowly, gaze darkened with foreboding, like a man about to be interrogated for the second time that day. “Y-yeah, I, um, I came here, a lot, when I was a kid.” To train with All Might, was left unsaid. Izuku had told him about his quirk after they had been engaged, with twitchy fingers and fearful eyes, like the truth would mean the end of their relationship. Eijirou had kissed him as deeply as he could and held him close to his chest, loving and adoring the new part of Izuku he had just discovered.

“Did you ever come back as an adult?” he pushed, the hope flickering dangerously in his chest.

Izuku cringed like he was waiting for a final blow as he rested his chin on his knees. A long, heavy sigh slipped out of him. “No.”

The hope, with one last, staggering gasp, died, leaving a cold ember in its place. Eijirou held his head in his hands, his eyes growing hot and burning.

He had proposed to Izuku three years ago on this beach after he’d gotten a very tearful blessing from Ms. Midoriya. Her son’s reaction had been fairly similar, except he’d dragged Eijirou up from his knees, without even using One for All, to capture his new fiance’s lips. It had been a day Eijirou had thought would be unforgettable.

He hated how wrong he had been.

“I’m sorry,” Izuku murmured, causing Eijirou to look up. “I just... I can’t remember. I know we’re married. I mean, it explains this—” He held up his left hand, the metal band on his ring finger reflecting the sun’s dying light— “And everyone tries to tell me stories about you. They really like you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kacchan care about someone so much in my life! Well, I mean... I think I’ve seen him like that before, but it’s... it’s kind of fuzzy.”

Because I was there, Eijirou bitterly thought.

“I know that I’m supposed to love you,” Izuku continued on, the words rolling out of his mouth like boulders down a cliff. “And that we’re supposed to be happy together, but I just...” He sucked in a shaky breath and turned to pin Eijirou down with watery green eyes. “I just don’t know you.”

Eijirou sighed. “I know.”

“I’m really sorry,” Izuku whispered.

Eijirou shook his head. “This isn’t your fault, you don’t have anything you need to apologize for.”

“Kacchan seems to think otherwise,” Izuku admitted, a dry smile stretching his lips crookedly. “He told me that if I hadn’t been a self-sacrificing idiot, none of this would have happened.”

“You were trying to save your sidekick,” Eijirou argued, his mouth curling softly up. “And you always put other’s needs before your own, so that’s not really surprising. You’ve been like that since the day I met you, back when you punched that robot in the face, during entrance exam. You were trying to save Uraraka and— damn, that was the manliest thing I’d ever seen!”

A bark of laughter burst from Izuku. “Sorry—” He shook his head, waving a hand to disperse the sharp laugh— “It just still surprises me how much you seem to know and care about... me.” He swallowed and looked down at his hands. His lips moved and Eijirou held his breath to catch the quiet words. “I’m sorry I can’t love you back. You obviously deserve it.”

A dull numbness settled in Eijirou’s chest, like a cheap, knock-off brand of relief. “That’s ok.” A small part of him tried to stop the words coming out of his mouth, but they kept falling off his tongue. “I get it— Well, no, I... I guess I don’t get it. But, I know that you need to do whatever helps you. You give up so much of yourself for others, and that’s what makes you an amazing hero and friend.” He turned to face Izuku, forcing his mouth to morph into a comforting smile. “But, right now, you need to take care of you, and I’m just getting in the way of that by being a really crappy friend.

“I’m... I’m going to be completely honest with you, Izuku. I—” He paused, taking in a shuddering breath as his vision blurred with tears— “I don’t want to lose you. I wanted to help you get your memories back so you wouldn’t forget about me, b-but that just— I made you do things you weren’t even comfortable with, and you went along with them, because you’re— Dammit, you’re so fucking amazing and manly and—” Izuku laughed wetly, covering his mouth with a scarred hand. “Wh-what?”

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “Kaminari said that was a catchphrase of yours and I didn’t believe it until just now. This is the second time you’ve said it in less than five minutes.”

Eijirou flushed and a wobbly grin stretched across his face. “Do you like it?” The question slipped out before he could catch it.

Izuku’s smile tilted into something softer. “Yeah, I do. It... it makes me feel... I guess better? Stronger? I just... I don’t know, but I really like it.”

Eijirou was sure a knife had been plunged and twisted into his chest. “Izuku,” he breathed, voice trembling. “I don’t want this to freak you out, but... I love you, and I know that I’ll never stop loving you—” He reached down and grabbed Izuku’s hand— “ But I think, the best thing I can do for you right now is to step back and let you go.” He took the ring and slid it off with gentle fingers. It sat heavily in his hand like his entire world rested within it.

“I-if you want to,” he started, failing to keep his words steady and calm. “I’d... I’d really like to become friends, with you.” He glanced up to find Izuku staring at the ring in his hand, tears dripping down his face. Eijirou’s quickly brushed them away before he could second guess himself. “H-hey, hey, it’s ok—”

“Sorry, sorry,” Izuku sniffled, wiping his eyes. “I-I— I don’t know why I’m crying. I mean, I don’t even remember you giving me that, but...” His gaze sank back down to the ring. “I feel like I just gave up something really important, and... now I’ll never get it back.”

A twisted, painful smile pulled at Eijirou’s mouth. “You don’t have to worry about getting this back,” he swore. “I’m going to keep loving you, Izuku. This—” he held up the ring— “Is always going to be yours, even if you decide you don’t want it.

“I-I’m not going to lie, I want things to go back to the way they were, when we were married and happy together, but I would still be the happiest and luckiest man in the world if you and I were still able to be friends. Do— do you want to be?”

Izuku’s gaze flickered up to his and a soft, trembling smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Y-yeah, I’d... I’d like that, too. You’re a really cool guy, Kirishima. And very manly.” He giggled and Eijirou would have kissed him if things had been like what they once were. He would have kissed him, trailed his fingers through his green curls, stroked his freckled cheeks, and told him how beautiful he looked with the sunset’s rays caressing his face.

But he didn’t. Instead, he took a lesson he’d learned from Izuku when they were still in high school together. He gave the love of his life the biggest, brightest smile he could muster, even as his heart withered with an agonized cry.

Their silence was both companionable and foreign. If Eijirou let himself imagine the past two-and-a-half months had never happened, it would be almost like the evening they’d strolled together down the beach, a ring sitting lightly in his pocket as a promise for a wonderful future. But Izuku was too quiet, too fidgety, and too uncomfortable for it to be the same.

With jerky awkwardness, Izuku lightly patted Eijirou’s hand and stood. Eijirou scrambled up with him, feeling the end of a soothing lie looming over him. As soon as Izuku was gone, reality would come crashing around him, and Eijirou wasn’t sure if he could survive it.

“Well, I, um—” Izuku rocked on his feet, rubbing his arm again. “I guess, since we’re not really together anymore, I should stay here with my mom for the night.”

“We can still head back and call one of your friends along the way. I’m sure none of them would mind,” Eijirou offered, selfishly wishing for one last moment together with Izuku on the train ride back.

Izuku shook his head. “That’s ok, it’s getting late and I don’t want to bother any of them. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve last visited my mom, so, I think this will be a nice surprise for her.”

It was an obvious excuse, and Eijirou felt a crushing weight slam down onto his already fragile heart. He nodded, forcing himself to stay true to his promise of letting Izuku go. “Ok, sure. I get that. Um, you have my number, so, if you ever want to hang out, just... y’know.”

Izuku huffed a soft chuckle. “Right.” He took a step back then hesitated, biting his bottom lip. “Hey, um, do you— do you mind texting me when you get home? Just so I, um, I know you got there safely?”

Eijirou’s wounded heart warmed despite the suffocating pressure crushing it to dust. His smile curled into something more genuine. “I will. Don’t worry.”

Izuku nodded, relief followed by mild confusion flashed across his eyes before he blinked and they disappeared. He took another step back, pointing his thumb in the general direction of his childhood home. “I-I guess I better, um, go... before it gets too late.”

“Yeah.” Eijirou smothered the longing that tried to slip into his voice. “That’s, uh, that’s a good idea. I, um, I’ll see you around?”

Izuku’s smile was a soft blanket that Eijirou’s heart quickly snatched and huddled underneath, savoring its warmth. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.” He took another step back and raised a hesitant hand to wave. “Bye, Kirishima.” He spun on his heel and hurriedly strode through the sand.

Eijirou watched his receding back, calling out a soft “bye” in return. He hoped it wasn’t a final farewell, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something that would forever be missing from his life. As soon as Izuku disappeared from sight, he looked back down at his palm where the ring still innocently sat, heavy, cold, and empty. He closed his fingers around it, tight enough to leave an imprint in his flesh, and collapsed onto the blanket, clutching his last piece of the past to his chest.

#kiridekuweek2k19 #kirideku #bnha #boku no hero academia #eijirou kirishima #izuku midoriya #hitoshi shinsou #my fic #my writing

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thedarkenedkeeper · 6 years

Text

Glitched: Part 16 - Curious I See

Author’s Note: Oh my GAAAWWWWDDDDD!! FINALLY! I FUCKING LIVE!! Jesus FUCKING Christ! *dies*

How I absolutely LOATHED working on this chapter. Don’t get me wrong, I like it and I wrote it because I felt it was necessary for the story, but jfc, I had such a difficult time writing it out the way I envisioned it in my head. I apologize for just how FUCKING long it took for me to get this out. Things came up in my life, it’s been ridiculously hot the last couple of weeks which naturally made me so hot that I didn’t want to do anything. And I’m going away the next few days, so I wanted to get this done before I leave. SO here it is! Hallelujah!

So I kind of lied, there is some horror in this chapter (surprise, surprise!). I didn’t lie though about it being a “break” chapter so don’t worry - there’s no angst or gore in this, so you can all relax and breathe (’cause believe me, you’re going to need it). Slight warning though: things tend to get quite creepy and uneasy in this chapter (what else is new?). A character is described as a corpse with gross descriptions.

I’m taking a notebook with me while I’m away so I’ll hopefully get started on Part 17.

Read this while listening to this playlist.

Enjoy the (final) break, guys! ;D

Close your eyes and open your mind. Take deep breaths – inhale and exhale slowly…slowly…slowly…

Feel your body going slack, feel your muscles loosening and your nerves relaxing. You’re beginning to feel tired but not sleepy, drifting into a state of unconsciousness but still very much awake. You’re floating away into a sea of darkness, and yet you still have a grip on your body, you can feel it. There’s a comforting warmth blossoming in your chest and weaving throughout your veins, relieving you in knowing that you’re alright and your body – your physical body – isn’t going anywhere. You can’t see anything, even when you open your eyes. There’s nothing but never-ending black – that is until there isn’t.

The void – an otherworldly dimension of space, a dream within a dream. A haven that you and you alone can escape to and warp to your exact liking, a place where you can become a god and shape your own world with a flick of the wrist and a snap of your fingers. A sanctuary for your inner personas to feel safe and content. A mind palace where no one but you holds the power and control over everything.

No one can be let in and no one can be let out.

Because if something were to somehow find a way to get inside, there’d be no telling what would happen.

The darkness would probably no longer be your blanket of security. The warmth would probably be sucked from right out of your chest cavity. The air would probably become tainted with something so putrid you’d find yourself suffocating. Something twisted and unearthly would probably have its nails sunk deep into the roots of your safe place, creating its own diseased world. And you would probably find yourself rotting from the inside out, desperately trying to escape from the place you had built and known to have once been wonderful and welcoming.

The worst part?

You would probably not notice any of it until it was too late.

* * * * *

Why are you out here again?...Oh! Right! ‘Cause you felt like something was wrong and you felt the need to go and see for yourself. Curse you and your instinctive need to make sure everything’s okay!

The lone hero was currently wandering around in the void – not his specific part of the void but the overall spacious part of the void that didn’t belong to any particular ego. Given just how empty the space was, it was quite literally a never-ending black abyss; not a whole lot of light brightened the place, although there wasn’t much to shed light on. And yet, within the darkness, there was beauty and a sense of comfort.

The entire floor wasn’t a floor at all, more so a continuous runway of water; illuminated by bare-branched neon trees rising tall on either side of the paths leading towards each individual ego’s world. Those trees weaved out up high into the shadows, a thick smog clouding the sky and dissipating the closer it reached the ground. Pulses of blinding shades of color originated from the roots and surged upward throughout the shimmering bark every couple of seconds. It was as though the energy and life of the trees were visible to the naked eye. The branches were so thin and veiny; anyone would surely do a double take and think they resembled nerves in the brain, what with the charges of power coursing through each branch.

With each step the green-haired man took, the water beneath his feet rippled and produced a faint glow of ruby red, an indication of which ego was out and about. The color was always different, depending on which ego was taking a stroll through the void. Surprisingly, although the ground was completely made of water and appeared frighteningly deep, the man didn’t sink. In fact, his feet weren’t even getting wet; the clear liquid just ran off of his boots in droplets, not soaking into the material or leaving behind any evidence of him having walked along water. He strolled along the path, a faint trail of crimson following behind him as he took a look around at his surroundings. The neon trees, the darkness, the foggy haze, the pathways leading off to his friends’ own sanctuaries. He hummed with thought, kicking at the ground, sending a splash of red forth.

It was very rare for an ego to ever leave their little world and wander off into the open void. But every now and again, whether it was to go and visit one of their identical twins or to just get some fresh air and have some peace and quiet to think, they’d find their way out into the dark.

So what was the heroic Jackieboy Man’s reason for venturing off into the mystical?

One moment the hero had been rescuing an older lady’s poor cat from up high in a tree and the next he found himself getting hit with a gut-wrenching sense of dread, like something was very wrong. His first thought was that maybe someone was in need of a superhero somewhere in the city. Maybe someone had gotten hurt, maybe someone was being robbed, maybe someone was getting their car jacked. Anytime someone was in need of help or there was any danger, his superhero instincts would automatically kick in and give him a heads up. It had made sense for him to assume it was just his “spidey-sense” notifying him of any nearby danger. But that was just the thing: there wasn’t anyone in need of a hero during that time. He figured it was his brain tricking him and that he just desperately wanted to do more heroic things that day, so he brushed it off and went off on his merry way. It wasn’t until later on when he strolled past the entrance to his world when he was once again overcome with a wrongful feeling. Chills creeped up along his spine and everything seemed to had gone eerily quiet around him as he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the wormhole with perplexity but more so concern.

Was something wrong outside of his world? Had something happened to one of the other egos? He had no idea, and even though he knew very well that Jack was always the first one to be notified of strange goings-on in the void, his instinct was to take immediate action and make sure things were okay. He was there when Jack had shown up, throat slit and choking on his own blood, and he had been there when Chase attempted suicide, lying in a dazed state and bleeding out. He may have been there, but he hadn’t shown up in time. He hadn’t saved them. He hadn’t been the hero he was supposed to be. So if something was really wrong somewhere off in the void, then he was going to make sure he would make it in time before anyone would get hurt.

He had left his world and stepped out into the open darkness, storming off and taking glances around to search for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed fine. The trees were all still glowing brightly in the multiple colors they always interchanged from. The ground was still wet and illuminated red with each step he took. He didn’t see anyone rushing off to someone else’s world out of panic. He didn’t see Jack show up to see for himself what was going on. There didn’t appear to be anything wrong with the void, nor were any of the other egos out in the open. And yet, that godawful cancer of dismay remained festering in his stomach, chewing at his insides piece by piece. Everything may have appeared normal, but he knew – he KNEW – something wasn’t right.

The masked hero slowed his pacing as he finally came to the crossroads, lining out the four pathways to each ego’s part of the void. Marvin the Magnificent’s carnival was straight ahead, a faint purple ring in the distance indicating where the entrance was. Off to his left, in the far vastness of space, a bright blue portal was seen – an entrance to Dr. Schneeplestein’s world – and to his right, a loop of energetic orange, home to Chase Brody. He stopped in the center of the intersection, scanning the area around him for any sign of movement.

“Hello?” He called out into the never-ending blackness. “Hello? Guys? Is everything alright?”

He didn’t receive any sort of response, nor did he manage to make out anyone come out of their worlds to see him. Nothing but eerie, dead silence filled the air, and it didn’t make Jackieboy Man feel at ease in the slightest. He had called out for them – surely someone would’ve heard him. Someone would’ve come out to see what the commotion was about. And yet, there was nothing. He was alone in the dark, and that was something that never happened. Anytime he’d come out into the open for a stroll, he may have been alone, but he never truly felt alone. He knew the other egos were each there in the void with him, off doing their own individual things. He was never truly alone. But now – what with this harrowing leech wriggling through his insides…

Slowly – and barely even there – thin, icy-cold digits creeped up along his shoulder blade.

Jackie jolted and immediately spun around on his heel, sucking in a breath at only seeing eternal darkness in his wake. His eyes darted around the place wildly, searching for someone – anyone! He damn well knew he had felt someone’s hand on his shoulder, so how come he didn’t see anyone around?

An unearthly chuckle of glee reverberated throughout the void, an even more mangled giggle overlapping it and coming from off in the deep black of space. Jackie jerked his head in the direction of where the giggle seemed to be originating from and cocked his head in slight confusion. It wasn’t coming from any one of the egos’ worlds – he was staring directly out at pitch blackness, completely off the paths made for the egos to wander on.

It was coming from out in an open, uncharted area of the void where no light was seen.

He swallowed dryly and parted his lips, still staring at the shadows. “Hello?” His voice echoed. “Who’s there?”

The silence returned for a moment or two with a vengeance, admittedly sending chills up and racing along his spine. He cautiously took a step forward, never taking his attention away from where he had heard the giggle.

“Hello?!”

A shot of ice burned through his spine at feeling someone tap at his shoulder.

Jackie gasped sharply and whirled around, wide-eyed and a tad bit shaken. No one was there. Another childish giggle sounded from the abyss before him, almost taunting him. He frowned, starting to get agitated. Was one of the others playing a trick on him? Because if so, it wasn’t funny.

“Hey!” He shouted, immediately charging forward and leaping over the marked pathway; sprinting off in the direction of where the giggle had come from. He may not have seen anyone, but he had definitely felt someone touch him. He didn’t feel so alone anymore – someone else was there in the open void with him and he was going to find them and put an end to this joke of theirs’.

Into the darkness he delved, the foggy breath of black ghosting over him and sucking him in the deeper he went. He couldn’t see a thing at this point now, not an ounce of light shining through. If possible, it seemed to be getting even darker the further he ran. Whoever was hiding from him let out a mocking laugh, evidently deriving sheer amusement from the hero’s puzzlement and desperate need to find the culprit. Releasing an uneven breath and slowing himself down to a halt, Jackieboy Man scanned around him for any sign of movement. All he saw was black – pure, empty, cloak-of-the-Grim-Reaper black. Even when he reached his hand outward, he couldn’t see it; it was one with the darkness. He searched all around him, turning around in circles until he was dizzy, but there wasn’t any sign of light whatsoever. He couldn’t see the neon trees branching upward towards the sky. He couldn’t see the illuminated watery pathways. He couldn’t see any of the portals to the egos’ homes. He saw absolutely nothing and it was only making the lingering feeling in his gut tighten to a sickeningly discomforting extent.

Where were the paths and the trees? There was no way he had run off that far, and even if he had gone a pretty lengthy distance, he would still be able to see the lights from where he was. So why was everything gone? Why couldn’t he see anything?

An awful, cruel cackle resounded through the place, jabbing pins and needles into the hero’s back and making his heart give a jolt of worriment. His eyes darted around nervously, swallowing thickly as he took a couple of wary steps forward.

“Show yourself!” He demanded, his words getting dragged out of him and floating through the endless space for god-knows-who to hear.

He only received a stifling chuckle in response. Following it, an abundance of whispers began to blossom in the air, each distinct and faintly reaching out to him. He couldn’t pinpoint what they were saying as there were too many voices speaking at once, but each one was using a haunting tone of voice that drove home what he feared: he was now in a dangerous situation and he needed to turn back NOW. Forget trying to find who was behind all of the taunting and teasing, he didn’t feel safe – his wellbeing, as well as the safety of the egos, was his top priority at that moment.

Jackie began to backtrack his steps, trying to recall the way he came, but how do you know you’re going in the right direction when you can’t see a damn thing? A few of the whispers increased in loudness, wisps of them drifting right past his ears and feeding him the most chilling of things, they made him stop dead in his tracks. His eyes widened, a quivering breath getting wrenched out of him so violently he nearly doubled over.

“…couldn’t save them.”

“…dead…”

“Where were you?”

“…you let…”

“Why?”

“…them suffer…”

“The poor souls…”

“…your friends…”

“What kind…”

“Please…”

“…left to rot.”

“The children were…”

“of hero are you?”

“He’s coming…”

“…for you.”

A loud bubbly giggle belonging to a little girl rang out from behind the scared hero, causing him to jump and turn to very vaguely make out something deathly-white race by in the distance. With his poor heart feeling the effects of the festering cancer taking hold, Jackie strode forward. His breathing had picked up and alongside the whispers, all he could hear was the deafening beating of his heart pounding away at his ribcage. He clenched his fingers, balling them up into tight fists in an attempt to stave off his growing anxiety. He was a superhero, he didn’t fear anything! He could take anything on with ease and was never one to back down on a challenge! He would NOT succumb to this scheming individual’s tricks of getting a rise out of him!

“Hello?” His voice echoed. “Guys, if this is some kind of prank, it isn’t funny!” He snapped, a sliver of his building dread interlacing his words.

Another sweet girlish giggle met his ears, his eyes staring straight ahead to find a small pale figure standing still, staring right back at him with what looked an awful lot like a large grin – he couldn’t fully tell given how far away this individual was and with how dark it was. He squinted, trying to make out the figure more clearly. He licked his lips, hesitating to speak.

“Who are you?”

Now hold on, Jackie, think about this for a moment. A little girl was giggling a second ago and that looks a lot like a little girl. Who has a little girl? The doctor does, as does Chase. Maybe she’s one of them. Maybe she’s a part of –

His thoughts got cut short when he noticed the figure begin to move, bee-lining straight for him. As the figure drew closer, Jackieboy Man’s vision started to clear up and the shapes and details of long dark hair and a cute floral dress could be made out. It was a little girl – probably four years old – one who gave off an eerily similar appearance as Dr. Schneeplestein’s youngest daughter.

“Ilsa?” Jackie questioned. “What – What are you doing out here all alone?”

The girl suddenly came to an abrupt stop, her head cocking to the left with a gross crack, sending prickles of unease throughout the green-haired hero’s veins. A bouncy laugh ruptured from her throat.

“I’m not awone, silly! I’m here with you!” She chirped happily.

Jackie, gulping down the fear strangling his insides, warily approached her, shrinking down a bit as he moved, feeling the need to be on her level. As he did, the whispers grew louder as though they were warning him to stay away.

“Ilsa, you shouldn’t be out here.” He coughed, nearly choking on his own breath.

He felt himself struggling to breathe the closer he got to the girl – it felt like a giant weight was slowly but surely being pressed down on his chest, like some force was resisting him and not wanting him to go any further.

“Your,” He cleared his throat, “Y-Your mother is probably w-worried sick.” He coughed harshly and groaned out of discomfort.

The air was growing revoltingly moist and putrid, so much so he nearly gagged. It was heavy and thick, he found himself gulping down breaths of air. He immediately regretted it. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as a waft of rot and decay unexpectedly attacked his senses. He couldn’t begin to describe the smell. Rancid milk, moldy fruit, rotten eggs – none of that could beat this scent. His eyes screwed shut as he clasped a hand over his mouth, hunching over while holding his stomach. Bile flooded his throat and he had to stop for a moment to try and settle down his insides from coercing him into vomiting.

“Come pway with me.”

Jackie hesitantly pried an eye open to take a glance at the girl, who seemed to have closed a good distance between the two. She was still staring at him with cold eyes, lifting an arm and outstretching her hand palm up, almost as though she was expecting the ego to take it. However, there appeared to be something shiny glinting in her hand. Trembling all over from just how nerve-racked he was, as well as from his will power to stave off the need to hurl, the hero swallowed down the sick in his throat and struggled to keep himself upright. He gradually inched toward the child, still finding it quite hard to make out her face or the object in her hand. His heart was pummelling deep inside his chest, the roaring rush of blood racing in his ears making him feel all the more nauseous. It took him a prolonged moment to hear over the noise and make out a faint buzzing coming from around the girl. His brows furrowed in question at not only the sound but finally noticing something dripping from the girl’s hand, and at that moment, an overwhelming odor of iron overcame him. His eyes widened slightly, mouth hanging agape, about to ask what the hell she was holding.

He didn’t get to ask.

His heart jolted painfully in his chest, nearly springing out of his chest cavity at hearing the evil laugh from earlier reverberate from behind him. The masked hero jumped and whirled around to see no one standing there. His breathing was very ragged now, coming and going in sharp gasps. He couldn’t even get himself to speak!

“Come pway with us, Mr. Jackieboy.”

His face contorted with puzzlement at hearing what she said. He began to turn around to face her.

“Us? What do you – AH!” He yelped in alarm, staggering backward at seeing her now standing only a few feet away from him.

The buzzing was more audible, the insistent humming of flies invading his bothered ears. His face scrunched up out of disturbance at seeing an accumulation of flies swarming the girl, quite a few landing on her face and extended arm. Jackie opened his mouth, lips trembling and fighting to part so he could ask her what was going on. But his question got lodged in his throat as soon as she stepped forward, finally revealing herself and looking up at him with her milky-white eyes.

“Pway with us, Mr. Jackieboy.” She giggled, causing her deeply-cut decaying Glasgow smile to stretch impossibly wide; a fly squeezing out and taking flight. She held her hand out to him, causing the horrified hero to cast his gaze downward to find a bloodied scalpel in her palm.

Jackieboy Man’s eyes bulged out of horror, a hand slapping over his gaping mouth. He shook his head, taking a hesitant step back.

“Oh my God – Oh my GOD! Ilsa, what –” He lowered his hand, instantly surging forward and kneeling in front of the girl, grabbing her by the shoulders. His fingertips seemed to sink easily into her bare skin. It felt quite mushy and gross, her flesh and muscle horribly putrefied. The hero nearly choked on his own saliva. His eyes quickly raked over her small body before meeting her fogged-up stare. “what happened to you?! Where are your parents’?!”

Ilsa dropped her hand at her side and chuckled lightly, shaking her head, her whole body moving with her. She lifted a finger to her lips.

“Shhh. I can’t tell you. It’s part of his game.”

Jackieboy Man’s brows screwed together. “His game? Who is he? Please, Ilsa. Come on, please tell me!” He tightened his grip on her, his finger slipping into her rotten meat with ease. “What is going on?!”

The little girl sighed softly and glanced off into space, humming with thought for a drawn-out moment. She looked back at the frightened man before her and shrugged.

“Alwight, I guess I can tell you a secret.” She blinked, tilting her head and leaning in a bit. “Can you keep a secret, Mr. Jackieboy?”

He gave a nod in agreement. “Yes, yes I can. I’ll definitely keep your secret.” He was getting desperate now. He wanted to hear what had happened to her and NEEDED to know about it. Whoever or whatever had done this to her was going to face justice immediately.

Ilsa raised her hand, curling in all of her fingers except her pinky. “You have to pinky pwomise.”

He shifted his attention to her malformed finger, hooking his own with hers’, a chill running down his spine at feeling it squish against his. He eyed her, nodding again. “I promise.”

Ilsa took back her hand and smiled brightly, knowing fully well she was about to tell him something she wasn’t supposed to.

“You can’t find Mommy or Daddy because he’s alweady found them.” She said in a whisper, shaking her head. “And he’d be weally mad if you found them too.”

Jackie jerked away from her, only becoming further confused and looking at her with dread settling deep into his nerves. “Who has found your parents, Ilsa? Did this guy do this to you?”

There was a very long, increasingly uncomfortable interlude growing between the two, the masked man staring at Schneeplestein’s daughter in the dying need for answers. He watched as the smile on her face stretched, the major cuts in either side of her mouth only making her once angelic face all the more grotesque. She giggled with delight and slowly tilted her head backward, staring up at the endless darkness above them. Jackie glanced at what she was looking at, seeing nothing but black.

“What? What’s so funny – why are you laughing?” He asked, shaking her shoulders gently before releasing his hold on her.

Ilsa giggled once more, acting as though someone or something was communicating with her – something that only she could hear. And it was with that realization that Jackieboy Man cautiously began to rise to his feet and step back away from her.

“He’s here now, Mr. Jackieboy.” The little girl beamed.

From the darkness, a few feet above her, a set of piercing neon-green eyes sliced through the black, shooting fear directly into the now-quivering hero’s poor heart. A soft hiss slithered through the dead air, accompanied with a cringe-worthy crack of the entity’s neck; its eyes now boring into his on an angle. Jackie’s breathes were starting to come out panicked and raspy, instantly taking a few more steps back. Ilsa lowered her head and looked back out at her favorite hero, crudely cut-up smile on her face.

“He wants to pway with you now.” She giggled with delight.

A pair of black hands with elongated fingers curled over her shoulders possessively as another hiss came from the creature behind her. The demonic, sinister laugh Jackieboy Man had heard earlier erupted in the room all around them, and that was all it took. He instantly began running backward, wanting to be as far away from her as possible, his wide-eyes fixed on whatever was staring at him.

Ilsa didn’t move from where she was; she remained standing there, still staring at him with a glazed-over expression and holding the bloody scalpel down at her side. It took Jackie what felt like ages until he tore his gaze away from her and that thing, laboured breaths of panic expelling from him as he rushed to get away from Schneeplestein’s corpse-of-a-daughter. He bolted through the eternal darkness, hearing the whispers whine and moan, black sinister tendrils lashing out and attempting to claw at his arms and legs. He had no idea where he was going, but he needed to get out of here, he NEEDED to get out of here, HE NEEDED TO –

The green-haired hero ran smackdab into someone, a dull ache pulsing through his body at the collision. He felt a set of hands grasp his shoulders and gently stop him, holding him a good distance away. However, he was so shaken up from what he’d seen a minute ago that his entire body tensed up all over at being touched by some unknown thing. And not being able to see who or what it was, he immediately started swatting at the thing’s arms, wriggling in its grip.

“Let go of me! Let go of me, goddamn it!” He shouted, making attempts at escaping the entity’s hold. “I’ll break your arm, I swear to God, I’ll do it! I’ll – !”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Jackie, stop! Stop! It’s me!”

With a blink of his eyes, the hero broke out of his terror-induced state and found himself staring into the eyes of his creator, Jack. The Irishman was lightly holding him by the shoulders, astonishment and concern gleaming in his cerulean eyes. He looked genuinely unsettled by the man in red. Jackie blinked rapidly out of stunned bewilderment, taking anxious glances over his shoulder to see if the decaying reanimated corpse of Ilsa was still there, standing in the distance, waiting for him to “play” with the entity speaking to her. She wasn’t anywhere in sight, nor were the set of green eyes. In fact, when the masked hero turned back to Jack, it took him some time to even recognize where he was.

He was out by the crossroads again, standing on the watered pathway with the trees glowing bright on either side.

His brows knitted together as his eyes took in his surroundings. What the hell had happened? He had just been out in the far off reaches of the void – places no one had ventured off into – and he had experienced what he could only call a living nightmare. Everything had felt so incredibly real. The mocking giggles, the haunting whispers, the stomach-churning stench of death, the feeling of being watched, the dead-alive mutilated cadaver of his friend’s daughter. He couldn’t get any of it out of his head. Jack stood there, not taking his hands off of the ego’s shoulders, still looking at him worriedly.

“Jackie?” He asked softly, not wanting to upset him in anyway.

The hero flinched at suddenly hearing his name, his attention immediately shifting back to the YouTuber, eyes blown wide with fright. Jack bent his head down a tad bit, searching the masked man’s eyes for understanding, hoping he recognized him.

“What’s wrong?” He once again used a gentle tone of voice, nearly whispering.

Jackie continued to stare at him with a hybrid of perplexity and fear for a drawn-out minute. He shook his head, taking glances over his shoulder again.

“I…I-I don’t…I don’t understand.” He stuttered, having a tough time getting out the words he wanted to say. “I-I was…Sh-She was there. I saw her and the way she looked, the-the way she…” A whine of distress slipped out of him before groaning out of annoyance for not making clear sense. “I saw her! I know what I saw – it was all dark and she –”

“She?” Jack interjected, tilting his head out of confusion. “What did you see, Jackie? Tell me.”

Jackie stopped his babbling and shifted his attention back onto his creator, staring at him, taking note of just how puzzled and bothered the man appeared to be. He licked his lips, hesitating to ask.

“You…You didn’t…You didn’t see her?” He took another glance over his shoulder, pointing out in the direction of where he had run off. “She was somewhere in there! Ilsa was in there, and she-she was undead, and there was some…some thing there with her, and –”

“Whoa, wait, hold on. Ilsa? Henrik’s daughter?” Jack asked, looking at the ego puzzlement.

Jackieboy Man nodded, still taking worrisome glances over his shoulder. “Yeah, I saw her out there, but Jack, she –”

The Irishman shook his head. “But…But that’s not possible. No one from any one of your guys’ worlds can come wandering about out here in the open – you know that. Only you four came come out here.”

“I know, but I swear, Jack, I saw her. I know I saw her.”

Jack shook his head slightly. “Jackie, I…I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you think you saw, but I didn’t see anything. I just got here a moment ago, and within a minute of my arrival, you suddenly ran into me and started hitting me, freaking out and threatening to break my arm.” He said bewilderedly.

It was Jackie’s turn to be stricken with major confusion. “What?” He blinked, turning to look back out at the eternal darkness of the void. “But…But I was out there…I know I was.” He whispered to himself out of thought. He looked back at Jack to see the man staring at him with uncertainty along with concern.

“Jackie, what’s going on? Are you feeling alright?” He moved forward to feel Jackieboy Man’s forehead. He hummed. “It doesn’t feel like you’re running a fever.”

Jackie groaned and grabbed Jack’s hand, pulling it away from his head. He shook his head. “I…I don’t know. Maybe it’s my ‘spidey-sense’ getting the better of me. I just…” He sighed with exhaustion, “I just thought that maybe something was wrong out here, that’s all. I guess I wanted some more action – more adventure – and came out here in search of it, I don’t know.”

The Irishman was still looking at him doubtfully. “You sure? Because you seemed extremely disturbed a moment ago. I know you’ve got your superhero instincts set to a high alert level and all, but I –”

Jackie’s eyes shot up to meet his. “I’ll be fine, Jack.” He shrugged. “Maybe…Maybe I need to try and distract myself with other things, you know? Get some hobbies – do some things that aren’t hero related. Change things up a bit and not let the adrenaline and need to prove myself get in the way too much.”

Jack searched his eyes, trying to determine if the ego was telling the truth and would, indeed, be alright. After a good long minute of going over everything that had happened and what Jackie had said, he saw through the façade and noticed how the hero was keeping something from him. He was chewing on his lip and continuously looking around as though he was expecting to get jumped by something at any given moment. Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s something else bothering you…What is it?” He took a look past Jackie’s shoulder, seeing nothing but pure blackness. “Is it involving what you saw?”

Jackie didn’t reply, not instantly anyway. He was on edge, the things he had seen and heard repeatedly tormenting his mind to the point he wanted to curl into a ball. His fingers clenched into tight fists, his nails digging into his palms through the fabric of his suit. He bit his bottom lip deeply, almost to the point of cutting it, hesitant to give an answer.

“Jack…nothing can get into the void…right?” His gaze slowly glided back to his creator, trepidation hanging off of each word that slide off of his tongue.

Jack blinked, having not really expected the question. He shook his head. “Right, nothing but me can come and go from here.” He frowned. “Why do you ask?”

Jackie stepped closer, a hybrid of worry and suspicion upon his face. “I…I think there’s something wrong with the void.”

His creator’s brows rose up into his hairline. “What makes you think that? If there was something wrong with the void, Jackie, I would be the first to know about it, believe me.”

The masked hero huffed. “I know, I know – and I believe you. But something doesn’t feel right to me. All afternoon, I’ve gotten nothing but bad vibes, and when I stepped out here to investigate, those vibes grew a lot worse.” He eyed the green-haired man as he motioned out to the egos’ portals. “I even called out to everyone, asking if everything was alright, but no one answered me back.” He scoffed. “Hell, no one even came out to see what the fuss was about.”

This got Jack’s immediate attention, if his eyes widening a tad bit was anything to go off of. “No one responded? No one?”

Jackie shook his head slowly, eyes firmly fixed onto the Irishman. Jack tore his gaze away, staring off at each portal with concern as Jackie continued.

“I know you’re not sick, Jack, and if something was troubling you, you’d tell us immediately, so I know that if something is in fact wrong here, it can’t be because of you.” He exhaled unevenly, taking an anxious look off to his left, spotting the circling blue ring to Dr. Schneeplestein’s home. “Thing is…after everything I just went through...I’m beginning to feel like something else is in here, with us, and my first guess is that it wants to bring harm to the good doctor.” He turned his attention back to his creator.

The Irishman seemed to tense up a bit only to relax almost instantly, turning his head to look at the ego with wonder. He raised a brow. “How would anything, aside from me, manage to get in here, Jackie? And if something were here, how is it you could sense it before me? And why would it target Henrik first out of all of us?”

Something was beginning to feel off yet again – Jackieboy Man could sense it. His heart was constricting tightly in his chest and the cancerous leech of warning and dismay he’d felt earlier on had returned, biting at his insides insistently to the point it was nearly driving him mad. There was something about Jack that wasn’t sitting right with him. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it, but the way the man was acting – the way he was responding, the way he was asking questions – none of it felt comforting. In a situation like this, the Jack he knew would surely try to put his mind at ease, he’d listen to what he had to say and fully recognize just how bothered the ego was. And he most certainly would be concerned about the other egos’ wellbeing after everything Jackie had said. The Irishman would NOT simply brush off his paranoia and retort back with questions about his suspicions like what he was doing now. His questions may have seemed logical and genuinely laced with worry, but with the way his gut was twisting into one tight knot after another, Jackieboy Man KNEW something wasn’t right with his creator. Either he was hiding something…or maybe…

Jackie licked his lips, telling himself to remain calm and not bombard the Irishman with questions. “I don’t know how it’d get in here…but maybe I sensed it first,” Because you’re not really Jack, “because my ‘spider-sense’ kicked in and you were probably busy with something.” He took a brief glance back at the entrance to the good doctor’s home. “As for why it’d target Dr. Schneeplestein first…” His gaze slid back to his supposed creator, “he’s a doctor…he helps people, like me…He’s a necessity in this void…If he goes down, then the rest of us would end up going down with him, one by one. You take out the medic and the soldiers are left to fend for themselves.”

He swore for one fleeting moment he had gotten a brief glimpse of a smirk tugging at the corner of Jack’s lips, one eye twitching almost like he was holding himself back from saying or doing something. It made the hairs on Jackie’s neck stand up on end, only giving him all the more reason to be suspicious of who he was currently talking to. He swallowed and turned, eyeing Schneeplestein’s portal.

“I should go check on him, make sure everything is alright.” He moved to step forward, about to storm off to the doctor’s home.

“Now hold on a minute.” An arm lunged out and grasped the hero’s wrist, stopping him from proceeding any further. Jackie gave him a questionable look. “I’ll go.”

The hero’s heart gave a fierce jolt in his chest, not comfortable with the idea of Jack going in there to check on his friend. Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm…

“Jack, I’m worried about him, okay? I have about as much right as you do to go in there and make sure the man’s fine.”

“I understand that, but Jackie, it’s my job – my sole responsibility – to come and check up on you all every day and make sure each and every one of you is happy, and more importantly, safe and sound.”

“Yes, but –”

“Jackie, just because you’re a hero, doesn’t mean you have to be responsible for every single life here in the void. That’s my job, not yours’.” He stated calmly yet firmly. “I get how your instincts are telling you that you need to make sure everything’s well, especially since it involves a close friend, but you shouldn’t put that sort of stress on your shoulders.”

He leaned in a patted the hero’s shoulder lightly, looking into his eyes and showing sincerity.

“Please. Go back to your world and resume your heroic duties there. Trust me enough to go and visit Henrik myself. I’ll go and see how he’s doing – hell, I’ll check up on the other two as well if it’ll put you at ease. I’ll report back to you, I swear on my name.”

That wasn’t sincerity in his eyes, that wasn’t even genuine kindness he was looking back at. Those blues eyes may have gave off the exact same look as Jack’s, but the heart and care was completely one-hundred percent gone and nonexistent. Whoever this was, they were straight up mocking the hero. Jackie stared at him for a dragged out minute, the cogs in his head turning, attempting to think of a plan. Finally, he gave a nod, tore his gaze away, and released a defeated sigh.

“Alright…Alright, fine, you’re right. I need to stop letting my ego get in the way.” He eyed him. “And I do trust you. You care for all of us just as much as we care for each other.”

Jack gave a reassuring smile and began to move away from Jackie. “Of course. I created you guys, after all. Why wouldn’t I care?”

The masked man could barely breathe at this point what with how tight his chest felt. Those last few words…

Jack motioned for him to go on back to his part of the void as he slowly walked backward toward Schneeplestein’s portal. “Go on. Go back home. I’ll check back in with you within the hour, I swear it.” He beamed warmly before spinning on his heel, nearing the blue ring. “I’m sure everything’s alright. Knowing him, he’s probably just busy.” He scoffed. “Maybe he’s working things out with his family, who knows?” He stepped into the ring and with that, he was gone.

A vivid flash of Ilsa’s reanimated rotting corpse with her mangled face burst through the hero’s mind and he cringed violently, clenching his eyes shut in an attempt to block out the image. Inhaling and exhaling deeply to steady his poor nerves, the quivering Jackieboy Man reopened his eyes, his attention set on the open blackness of the void – the unmarked area for which he knew he had ventured out into moments ago.

He knew what he had seen, he knew that something was here in the void and whatever it was was lurking within the depths of this world. The man he had been speaking with before – he may have looked and sounded like Jack but his overall demeanor was unnervingly questionable. He seemed to come off as knowing something Jackie didn’t and it was racking the poor hero’s body with apprehension. If he was Jack, someone or something must’ve done something to him. But if it wasn’t Jack…

Answers. He needed answers. And he needed them now.

Glancing out at the entrance to the doctor’s home for a split second before returning his attention to the darkness, the masked ego stood up straight, sucked in his one and only breath of bravery, and stormed off into the endless shadows of nightmares.

Jack had left to check up on Schneeplestein and was most likely going to check in on Marvin and Chase afterwards as well. Jackieboy Man had about no more than an hour to search for proof of what he feared – one hour for him to be the hero everyone knew him to be.

Only one hour to wander in the dark. And only one fear he honest-to-god hope wasn’t true.

Part 15 - Good Puppet

Part 17 - Do You Really Like Him That Much?

Author’s Note: No more breaks ;)

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