#so he goes to withers like “please just one more resurrection | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mt-words · 3 years

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Can we get some dream smp fandom positivity posts? As someone who posts mostly analysis and has never once had someone say anything rude in response, I think we perceive the fanbase as more toxic than it is because of a few outspoken individuals. Y'all are pretty chill and I like you.

In no particular order-

I love that Eret’s fans come up with such cool theories, I swear she could give you two sentences of lore and I could see three five page essays on what it could mean about their character within an hour and each of them is unique, intricate, and makes logical sense.

I love the compilations Foolish fans make of him doing ridiculous things on stream, he’s a fun guy that never fails to make me laugh and everything I see from them embodies that energy to me.

I love how creative Hannah’s fans are, you take the awesome ideas she has and turn them into the most amazing designs and concepts.

I love that Techno’s fans might write a ten page essay about his character or just say they enjoy watching him do crime, and you never know which it will be because both come from the same people.

I love how Philza’s fans embrace everything he does with so much enthusiasm. His chat is a flock of crows? Excellent, they can work with that, you will see fifty incredible pieces of art and a hundred theories in the first hour and they’re just getting started.

I love that Niki’s fans are so careful to pay attention and not miss any details. It has been ages and I still see occasional mentions and theories about the “Dear Friend” letter.

I love that Fundy’s fans are very empathetic, they love to find and elaborate on the connections between characters and that’s pretty cool!

I love Tommy’s fans for their energy. They seem passionate about making things right and hopeful that no matter what your situation is things can get better. I’ve seen so many breathtakingly emotional art pieces from this side of the fandom.

I love that George’s fans unapologetically simp for him but then catch me off guard by making deep insights about his character.

I love how Bad’s fans are as genuinely sweet as he is, they’re willing to really look at everything that makes up a character and see the tragedy of it and have compassion about things. And some just want to see an egg rule the server, c'mon, it would be funny.

I love the running gag with Skeppy fans of making Skeppy critical posts, y’all are hilarious.

I love how Purpled fans play up his lack of lore as him being an incredibly powerful cryptid, and they’re right. He totally carried the wither fight on Nov 16th.

I love the balance Quackity fans have between a love of humor, justice, and darker topics. I think like Quackity they are often underestimated and thought of as the jokester side of the fandom to an extent, and then I start reading things they write and it’s well thought out and insightful.

I love that Tubbo’s fans love chaos, cute things, or both to an unhealthy extent. Seeing anything from them reminds me of princess unikitty in all the best ways, and then they turn around and throw a super in depth meaningful analysis at me in the next breath.

I love everything about Sapnap’s fans. Y'all are perfect. The writing and art from the born in fire line? Gold.

I love how Jschlatt fans are generally chill and just enjoy whatever they want to. Their favorite Manburg president was the one who publicly executed his right hand man and gave Dream a resurrection book for firepower, and he looked good doing it.

I love that Callahan has fans. You people are dedicated and I respect it. The fact that Callahan was one of the first names to pop up when everyone was trying to figure out who Harpocrates was even though he rarely involves himself with plot? Your influence knows no bounds.

I love that Alyssa’s fans are simply too powerful. She hasn’t played on the smp since way before I started watching and there are still people defending her barn and drawing pictures of her.

I love that Antfrost’s fans have taken so many ideas and just ran with them and made them awesome. Like him practicing magic? Perfect, he now carries potions and gets a wizard hat.

I love that Dream fans look at a character who has been portrayed as pure evil from many points of view and understand that Everyone has motives based on their situation, even if it isn’t handed to us in an easily understood way.

I love how Jack’s fans are so ready to support any action he takes. Crawling out of hell? Incredible. Killing a child? Good for him! Go team Rocket. Grieving the same child? Learning healthy coping, he’s the coolest.

I love that Connor eats Pants fans are the most reasonable people in this fandom. This is terrifying. Thank you for your service, you always make me smile.

I love that Punz fans unapologetically just love their capitalist mercenary. As they should, his presence always tips the scales and everything he does brings more depth to the characters and plots he interacts with.

I love how much Ranboo fans love complexity. Most of them aren’t afraid to admit that their favorite characters are flawed, because aren’t those flaws what make them interesting and relatable?

I love the variety of Hbomb fans. Half of them may be embracing the cat maid bit while the other half goes on about how impactful and cool L’cast is, but they’re all super chill.

I appreciate that Puffy fans take the time to understand so many perspectives. So many posts I see involving her tie in lore from other characters and find interesting ways to connect them and build them together, kind of like Puffy herself.

I love that Wilbur fans seem to approach the story like they’re solving a puzzle, carefully piecing together details from months apart to figure out how and why everything goes down.

I love how hard Ponk fans work to spread awareness of how awesome he is. Ponk says and does wonderful things and is very fun to watch. I never would have tried his content without them.

I love that Karl fans saw him wanting to be involved and started coming up with such cool ideas around his character that they actually made them canon. Correct me if I’m wrong, wasn’t the time traveler thing a fan theory at first?

I love the creativity Sam fans have with his design and their willingness to discuss complex moral issues. Sam is involved in some heavy lore stuff but he and his fans keep things entertaining and calm.

I’m sure I missed some things, please feel free to add on!

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owvinea · 3 years

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// au, dsmp, rp

- mentions of death, like, a heavy existential crisis

immortal phil au where he is actually an asshole. he's been alive for thousands of years, he's seen people fall innocent or guilty, he's gotten attached and lost everything and repeat more times than he can count.

but after it happens so often - that's all people are to him. an hourglass, with its sand slowly but surely running around, a ticking bomb that could blow his heart to pieces again at any time, for he only knows the timer exists, he doesn't know what time it displays.

he meets techno, someone who's lived for a little bit longer than others - centuries are meer child’s play for phil - and techno is, well. valuable. he's a skilled fighter, and he's clever, and he's fun to be around.

and so phil indulges- but keeps his distance. goes with techno on adventures, starts empires and begins great tales, takes him on flights and resource runs and teaches him, all the while they're happy, and phil's happy, and he's occupied until inevitably techno passes and he'll be on his own again.

there's nights in the empire where techno will almost reach out, almost, almost. he holds out his hand - metaphorically - and almost begs phil to follow, to slide his hand in his and let techno lead them forward for once, to great times of wars and conquer, and phil looks away, backs out, raises his walls and leaves until it gets better, because he- he's better than this, he doesn't get attached, he doesn't need techno in his life, this is just a momentary little friendship that he can milk experience and reputation from until techno dies- that's what he tells himself.

but he's scared, somewhere deep- terrified of opening his heart once more to someone who could throw it in his face the next year, month, day, hour, if he's not careful, because he so painfully knows techno's timer exists and beeps loudly but he doesn't know when it will go silent and play out the last breaths techno will ever take.

and before he knows it, every day spent on his own, every night spent ignoring techno's hitched breath and darkened eyes glossed from nightmares, every day spent dodging techno's attempts at something more, something like a warm presence for his cold eternal heart - he can't wait to get back to techno. he always takes a step back, raises his shield and throws on a brave face, but then he's longing to be spending the nights around campfires again, craving that warm sunlight as they lay in the fresh grass and enjoy the warmth of the rare summers in the arctic.

he didn't mean for it to be this way, he didn't mean for techno to become something- something more than just a playful hot potato game with the slowly emptying hourglass techno really is, but he can't handle life without techno anymore, can't imagine himself without him, because when he wakes he thinks if techno's slept well, when he cooks their food he thinks if techno prefers salted over sweetened, and when he shivers out in the wild arctic he thinks, is technoblade cold, or is he huddled around the fireplace and cozy and everything phil longs to be at night?

and then he finds himself wasting his days away pouring over old books full of knowledge that even transcends him, the bags in his eyelids getting heavier and limbs drooping, aching with lack of sleep as he trails over every word, searching.

immortality, life expansions, revival, resurrection.

he finds nothing.

and then he screams, and screams again, and throws the books into the fireplace with as much hate as he can muster, because they're the reason techno will be dead, the reason why techno's hourglass will shatter and scatter all the precious sand for phil to try and fail to pick up and repair.

he wails and he breaks swords against walls and he cries, loud and raw and heartbreakingly open for the universe to see, because there's no denying or helping it anymore; techno's going to leave him, and he'll be alone, and the warm days will turn withering and freezingly cold, because no matter how much the sun tries to hold him together for a little more, without techno, he'll never be whole again.

he comes back, eventually, thinks it must be the world's disgusting sense of wicked humor that forces him to walk up to the empire's doors again- no, not forced. he wants to be here. he needs to.

and he's open again, back in techno's arms and throat too hoarse to talk, but techno understands and looks at him with eyes that threaten to pull phil all the way down to the bottom of the earth and leave him longing, longing to see the amusement and joy and cheer in techno's eyes instead.

and that night he dusts the old libraries, sets his bed, wipes down the windows and cooks them a meal for the night, and as he looks out into the wild arctic he feels no need to leave anymore.

that morning, he wakes next to techno, and makes breakfast with techno, and feeds their chickens with techno, and he thinks, cathartically in some fucked up way, techno will die one day. he will pass, he will close his eyes for the last time and breathe out the final breath. and phil will be okay.

phil will be okay because when that day comes he'll be there, right by his side, holding his hand and leading him to the other side, and he'll be okay because they'll have precious memories and adventures behind them, and phil will be there for them all.

he'll grieve, and he'll be alone, but he'll be okay, because he'll never leave techno's side again. he doesn't long for immortality, or to have a dance with death to drop to his knees and beg, not him, please not him, not yet, because it'll be okay in the end, whenever techno's day will be, because regardless of what happens, phil would have been there, and he would have made techno's life outweigh the pain in his burning heart.

#dsmp technoblade #dsmp phil #dsmp #dream smp #philza #technoblade #dsmp fanfiction #dsmp writing #dsmp headcanon #dsmp au #emeraldstwt #emerald duo #emeralds duo #angst

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bubblytarts · 3 years

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What if...

*NONE OF THIS IS CANON. I JUST THOUGHT THIS WOULD BE A COOL CONCEPT FOR TALES. IF ANY OF THIS BECOMES CANON, I EXPECT KARL JACOBS HIMSELF TO GIVE ME A SHOUTOUT*

You’re watching Tales from the SMP on Tuesday. You can’t wait to see what all the secrets are that Karl has teased lore-wise. The stream begins. Karl is super excited to show chat what he’s come up with, and the stream begins.

The build is massive, and incredibly detailed. You already know that the theorists are going to have a field day with all the little details.

You meet the players. Some are playing original characters, while there are some familiar faces as well. Ranboo, Tubbo, Fundy, and Quackity are all playing original characters. Bad appears to be playing himself, but he’s acting off.

All of them have slightly altered skins. Time has obviously passed, as they all look a bit older, a bit more weary.

You’re waiting to see the two new players that Karl had teased. One decides then to make his appearance. It’s Philza. He’s playing himself. His skin is unchanged. Karl chooses not to comment on this. Phil mentions that Karl has been missing for years. Karl manages to change the subject.

The second new player is not revealed yet.

The story seems to be a play on Phasmophobia. Whatever ghost is haunting the place is aggressive towards the characters, but not enough to ever truly harm them.

Bad, however, continues to act strange. The characters don’t notice the increasing amounts of crimson blocks in the area. Chat, however, does.

The players solve enough puzzles to continue into the heart of the mansion, and they come face to face with the skull room from Karl’s screenshot.

Waiting in the room, is Wilbur.

More accurately, Wilbur, playing Alivebur.

Karl is rightfully shocked, and chat is exploding. You’re shaking. Bad and Phil don’t seem too surprised to see Wilbur, while the original characters don’t seem to know who he is.

You listen as Wilbur vaguely explains that he was resurrected, but you don’t have enough details to really understand how. Tumblr is already blowing up.

Bad then vaguely references the Egg. Karl finally notices the crimson. He’s not pleased. Bad tries to attack Karl, but the others protect him, and Bad is forced to step back.

The overall story of what happened in the past few years is full of holes that Wilbur, Phil, and Bad won’t answer. The original characters don’t seem to know anything about the SMP, Disc Wars, or the Egg. It’s lightly implied that since Ranboo, Tubbo, Fundy, and Quackity aren’t playing themselves, that they must have died, or been otherwise out of contact with Phil and Bad.

Chat mentions that it’s eerily similar to how little everyone knew about the Disc Wars in Mizu. The only other information that is given is that at some point, Dream broke out of prison. This is brushed off far too fast for anyone’s comfort.

Karl accuses Wilbur of trying to kill them, but Wilbur is confused. He didn’t know they were here.

Chat starts to spam Dream and Techno’s names, but the clues Phil and Bad give point to someone else.

Phil tells the story of Dream breaking out of prison, and how many went to stop him and take his last life. It’s implied that Tommy and possibly Tubbo both died this way.

Phil mentions at the end of the story how everyone who tried, died once and gave up. Except for one. There was one person who lost all three lives to Dream, because they wouldn’t give up.

Karl is confused, but chat figured it out since you all found out Dream escaped. Someone was missing.

Someone calls Karl’s name, and he turns around. Sapnap stands there, with a skin similar to his normal one, but with the same muted colors that Wilbur had when he became Ghostbur.

Ghostnap was responsible for the injuries to the players. He was trying to get them out before anyone discovered they were at the mansion.

Before there can even be a proper emotional scene, the sounds of TNT go off outside the room. The door explodes, and Dream walks in wearing full enchanted netherite. He’s playing himself.

Ghostnap yells for Karl to follow him. Karl does immediately, and chat is left to wonder the fates of the other characters. That is, until messages pop up in the game chat:

Quackity was slain by BadBoyHalo

BadBoyHalo was slain by Ph1LzA

Ranboo was slain by Dream using Nightmare

ItsFundy hit the ground too hard trying to escape Dream

Tubbo_ was slain by Dream using Axe of Peace

The messages end after that. The use of the Axe of Peace is not lost on chat. The implications are not good.

As far as you know, Wilbur and Phil survive. They continue to yell in the voice chat before abruptly cutting out. However, the game chat doesn’t say that they died or left the game.

Ghostnap leads Karl to a nether portal. Karl tries to ask him how he can help, and admits that he’s a time traveller, since Sapnap in the past won’t remember this. He also makes an off-hand quip about his memory loss.

Ghostnap doesn’t know if Karl even can fix the story. But he encourages him to try. But not at the cost of himself. He begs Karl to promise him that he’ll talk to someone in the present about the Tales so that they can help him. Karl tells him that he will.

Chat points out that Karl doesn’t promise.

Dream appears at the end of the hallway, stares for a few seconds, then starts sprinting towards them. Karl goes into the portal, and his face cam turns off.

The pre-filmed section of the Inbetween begins. Karl appears in the nether portal in the Inbetween shown in the Twitter screenshot. Karl’s hair is beginning to turn white. The Inbetween repeats its calming messages again.

There are several Karls running around, but it seems to be a fewer number than the last time.

There is a secret room that Karl discovers when he presses the pressure plate. It leads him to another hallway. There is one main hallway, brightly lit, and there are several smaller, darker tunnels branching off of it. It’s impossible to see what lies down the tunnels.

Don’t stray from the path, chat helpfully reminds.

Karl walks down the main path. There is a wither rose at the end of the path.

As he walks past the tunnels, just over the music, there seem to be voices. Chat can’t agree on who the voices sound like. They are all different. But there are a few recognizable ones. Chat yells Ranboo, Sir Billiam, Wilbur, Crops, James, Jack Kanoff, Tubbo, Ranbob, Bad, Liaria, Ghostnap, Dream.

They yell quotes ripped from the audio of previous Tales. Karl turns towards each of the tunnels, but always continues after a moment.

The voices grow more persistent. They start to say things that you don’t recognize. This is original audio now. The eerie piano has stopped. They are whispering not to stray from the path. For Karl to run. For Karl to come back. To remember. To forget.

Karl is running now. The voices are only yelling KARL KARL KARL over and over, never in unison, causing an overwhelming amount of whisper-yells.

There is a book under the wither rose. The moment that Karl grabs it, the voices silence. He looks back down the path, but nothing is there. He opens the book.

The title is The Path.

Karl opens it.

I’m proud of you. You didn’t stray from the path. Now we can work together to help you regain your memory and protect your friends.

Karl puts the book back without reading the other pages. There’s a single whisper behind him, and he whips around. Nothing is there.

Karl stands in front of one of the tunnels. There’s a weak light far down the tunnel. Without warning, Karl sprints down the tunnel. Eventually, it opens up into a small room.

There’s a red rose in a pot. There’s a book underneath. Karl picks it up. The title is Thank You

Thank you. Now you can work towards save them. Don’t listen to anything they tell you. I want to help you. They don’t.

The next page - the last page - reads:

Are you ready to begin?

The screen goes black, and the end credits play.

While Turn Back Time by Derivakat plays, you go on Twitter.

Sapnap has tweeted “Boo!”

#My writing #bubbly rambles #tales from the smp #tales from the smp theory #karl jacobs #sapnap #ranboo #tubbo #fundy #quackity #badboyhalo #philza #wilbur soot #dream #dreamwastaken #the inbetween #tftsmp #tftsmp theory #dream smp

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gayforbadboyhalo · 3 years

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i have ideas on how i think the wilbur resurrection should go. like, wilbur himself said that bringing someone back from the dead was near impossible because they didn't want to lessen the impact of the 3 death system. so, what if it takes a complicated ritual that is also super expensive.

basically a short short about the materials under the read more.

defying death isn't easy nor is it cheap. phil and eret knew that when they first started the research to bring wilbur back from the dead but to have it quantified in front of them? it would take a while.

phil and eret looked up from the book that dream had finally given up and then at each other. eret moved their eyes towards where fundy, tubbo, and tommy were all standing and raised their eyebrow. phil shook his head minutely and grimaced.

fundy noticed the exchange but said nothing. tommy and tubbo were too caught up in playing chopsticks to notice that phil and eret were done reading the ritual book.

tommy lost so he looked up and at the others. "whats the hold up?" he asked.

"its just," eret paused, "more expensive than i think we were expecting."

tubbo walked over to try and peak in the book but phil slammed it closed before he could. "well thats not suspicious," he said sarcastically.

"snooping hands get snooping punishments," phil replied easily.

tommy threw his hands in the ar and exclaimed, "we just want to help bring wilbur back! why won't you fucking let us?"

"yeah," tubbo chimed in, "let us help."

"well," eret hedged, "it's not that we don't trust you-"

tommy's eyes narrowed. "who said anything about trust," tommy said venomously, "traitor." tubbo placed a calming hand on tommy's arm and shook his head. tommy relaxed but continued to glare at eret.

"as i was saying," eret continued slowly, "it's just the distribution for who gets what items isn't going to be fair."

fundy spoke up from where he was quietly watching. "what does that mean?"

"we need a wither rose and 3 nether stars and i'd rather we leave that to phil." phil looked at them questioningly, but he let them speak. "we also need 5 totems of undying which means we need to talk to foolish. so fundy, you and i should handle that. but we also need a zombie head and 2 blocks of netherite."

"2 BLOCKS OF NETHERITE," tommy yelled. "2 FUCKING BLOCKS OF NETHERITE!"

tubbo winced. "2 blocks is a lot of netherite. are you sure?"

"yes, they're sure." phil spoke up. "i'm sorry eret, but why should i handle the wither rose and the nether stars?"

eret hissed slightly and tilted their head in apology. "i was hoping you would be able to convince technoblade to help you kill the withers and safely get a wither rose."

"uh, actually," fundy cut in, "i have a wither rose we can use." everyone looked at fundy while he looked down at the ground ashamed.

"the fuck?" tommy said.

"i was, uh, gonna give it to dream." he paused and sniffled, "before everything else happened."

phil crinkled his nose but looked at fundy worriedly. "are you sure about us using it for this?"

fundy kicked at the ground. "i should have gotten rid of the flower sooner but... i never did. this fucking works i guess." he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away sadly.

philza raised his eyebrows at fundy's morose figure but he let it go and turned back to eret. "why should i ask techno help me?" he asked.

"because techno is the strongest in the land. he can protect you if the wither starts to overwhelm you." eret smiled sadly at tubbo and tommy and then looked down at the book in phil's hands. "plus, i think of this group, you are the only one not traumatized by withers."

tommy looked down at the ground shamefacedly. "so that leaves tubbo and i to get two blocks of netherite and a zombie head," he mumbled.

tubbo gently bumped against tommy and gave him a reassuring look. "we got this," tubbo said kindly. "we could even make a little competition out of who gets a netherite block first." tommy looked a little happier with the idea of a competition to break through the monotony of netherite mining.

fundy spoke up. "the totems won't be too hard to get, i think," he said. "once we have them, i'll help with the netherite and i'm sure eret will help as well."

eret walked over to fundy and grabbed him in a friendly headlock. "of course i'll help," they said. "just as a heads up, i may ask foolish to come help with the ritual."

fundy twisted and looked up at eret, "why?" he half whined, half asked.

"because," and eret squeezed tighter for a half second, "he's the father of all totems of undying. wouldn't it be better to have his blessing?"

tubbo shrugged and looked at tommy who also shrugged. "makes sense i guess."

phil whistled and everyone turned towards him. "so we all know what were going to do, right?" he looked at everyone and once they all nodded he continued, "let's meet in a week, here, to update each other on how it's going to with gathering all the materials." everyone nodded again and he smiled. "alrighty. i have to go make dinner so i'm going to head back now."

tommy waved to phil as he and tubbo turned to walk away. "it was good to see you again," tommy said calmly, "we'll see you in a week."

tubbo winked at phil, "tell ranboo i said hi, please!" and he started to walk backwards to keep looking at tommy while they were talking.

fundy watched their disappearing figures before he turned to phil and eret. "i know you're hiding something from us." both of them started to speak but fundy held his hand up to stop them. "i... i just don't have the energy to try and figure it out. you'll tell us eventually." he scoffed. "the truth tends to find it's way out there, one way or the other." with that said, he started to walk away as well. "buh-bye," he said as he waved over his shoulder.

"so..." eret hedged.

"so," phil replied.

eret sighed. "i'm not going to tell them." phil looked at them in suprise. "but!" eret continued quickly, "i don't think a sheep sacrifice is going to work."

phil shook his head. "from what other scraps of information i was able to gather," phil paused and talked quieter, "it takes a sacrifice of equivalent value."

eret inhaled sharply. "someone on their last life."

"yeah," phil said, "or someone with only one life."

"i think there's a long line of people who would tell you not to do that."

phil shrugged. "i took him out of this world, i should bring him back in."

eret laughed shortly. "you know, i don't think thats how that quote goes." phil shrugged and they stood in silence.

"i should go," phil said. "i'll see you soon eret."

"see you then." eret gave a two finger salute and started towalk away. they paused and said over their shoulder, "think about everyone you would leave behind, okay?"

phil said nothing.

#i have thoughts on how i think the wilbur resurrection should go #mcyt #eret #ph1lza #fundy #tommyinnit #tubbo #dream smp #fanfiction #my post

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marril96 · 4 years

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In Death’s Way

Pairing: Rowena x reader

Summary: After you sacrifice yourself to save her, Rowena goes down a downward spiral while waiting for you to come back to life.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, gore

A/N: Huge thanks to EmeraldFlames from AO3 for giving me the idea to write this!

Editor: @miss-moon-guardian

*****

It happened so fast.

One moment you were screaming Rowena's name and pushing her away from a razor-sharp blade — pure iron, the perfect witch killing weapon — as it swung at her.

The next that very same blade was buried into your stomach and you were gasping, and then you were on the floor screaming your lungs out.

For a few seconds it was as if time had frozen. Sam flinched, eyes wide in surprise. Dean stared, taken aback. Rowena stood still as a statue. Frozen in place. Unmoving, even as her heart raced a thousand beats a minute and her throat was so tight, so dry that it made it hard to breathe. Her eyes were on you; on your writhing form; on the blood that seeped from your wound, drenching your shirt, forming a crimson puddle around you; on your eyes that were terrified and lips that were trembling even as scream after scream tore free from them as pain spilled over you.

It had been Rowena's idea to take this case. When Sam had called — he was always the one who called, knowing full well she was very, very unlikely to say no to him, the softie she'd become — practically begging for assistance, she'd said yes right away.

Someone had been killing witches; young girls, more children than women. A rogue hunter, all the evidence pointed to. Rowena couldn't decline. There was that pesky friendship she'd hard with Sam that nagged at her, willed her to accept, but for the most part, she wanted to help out because those girls reminded her of her. They were young, inexperienced, just coming into their power. Vulnerable in ways they didn't even know. Buds on their way to becoming beautiful flowers. The same way she had been all those centuries ago. And, just like that, their lives were taken from them. All that potential for greatness, that long life ahead of them, that magic about to bloom and prosper gone forever.

It was wrong.

Rowena wouldn't — couldn't — stand for it. You'd begged her not to go, to call and say she'd changed her mind, but her mind was made up. She was going to avenge those girls. Worried out of your mind, going on and on about the dangers — that Rowena was perfectly aware of all on her own — you decided to join her.

You didn't always accompany her, but for the most part the two of you were a package deal. The Winchesters either accepted both or neither. The brothers always appreciated the extra help, though. A second pair of lips to cast spells could never be a bother (even if said lips, for the majority of the time, ranted about the dangers of what you were doing).

That was the thing about you. You cared about Rowena. You loved her. If she was in danger, you protected her. If she walked into danger, you walked in beside her with your hand in hers. Rowena returned the favour, but there were times when she wasn't sure if this kind of a relationship was a blessing or a curse. She loved being cared for, loved being pampered and showered with attention and affection. Adored it. Craved it. But it came with certain risks, like you doing stupid things to get her out of trouble her own stupidity had gotten her into.

It was true what they said — love made one a bloody idiot.

Tracking the hunter's residence was relatively easy. A simple tracking spell worked wonders with the spots of blood he'd left on his latest crime scene (the teenager he'd killed had scratched him good and drew enough blood to use to pinpoint his location). Sneaking up on him, taking him out — that was a whole different story.

The bastard had had the outside of his home secured with traps. Sam and Dean took what felt like ages disabling them. The house was quiet, all the lights shut down. Figuring he was most likely asleep, the four of you snuck in.

Only to be instantly ambushed by even more traps, and then the hunter himself. The man was old, but surprisingly fit for his age. He may have looked frail, but his skill, the finesse with which he moved pointed to a healthy, extremely skilled individual.

The traps were enough to — at least temporarily — incapacitate Sam and Dean, and the hunter used that to turn on Rowena. His house was encased in iron. The bloody metal was everywhere; in every decoration, every frame that hung on the yellowed wallpapered walls. There were bits of it in the floor, and dangling by the windows. Rowena could feel her magic, but it was faint. She couldn't reach it; it was too far away, almost at the tip of her fingers but not close enough to grab it, to unleash it. It stirred in her veins, warned her blood, but it was trapped, confined within the cage of her body.

As she threw random objects and hurled insults at the assaulting man, she called forth her magic. Almost there but not quite. Not strong enough. Not close enough. Just out of reach. Come on! She spat out spells, which only elicited mockery from the hunter. She wanted to wipe the smugness off his face. If not with magic, then with her nails.

Then the knife struck and she hadn't had time to dodge and suddenly she was pushed, stumbling, almost falling, and you were in her place with the knife buried deep into your abdomen.

The hunter grinned, proud of his work, and slid the blade out in one easy, learned pull. Blood instantly started pouring, and you fell on your back like a sack of potatoes, too heavy for your trembling knees to hold you up.

"No!" Rowena screamed, throat running raw. Tears blurred her vision, a few brave ones slipping free.

No. No. No. No. No.

Killing young witches — children — was bad enough. Harming you, killing you…

No!

She'd lost her entire family. Had lost Oskar. Gavin. Fergus. Each due to her quest for power, her own greed and thirst for greatness and revenge. You were the only one she had left. The only good thing in her life. The one who'd never judged her, never tried to change her. Who loved her just as she was, even when she didn't deserve it. Who showed her that it was okay to love again, that love was strength rather than a weakness. Who wiped her tears and soothed her nightmares and held her tight without her having to say a word. You knew what she needed, when she needed it, and you gave it, generously, selflessly, not once asking for even a kiss in return.

Rowena had done it again. She'd been careless, and, the lovesick fool you were, you got hurt trying to protect her. That had been your thing from the very beginning. Saving her. Even when she didn't want to be saved, back when she thought cruelty and selfishness were just ways of life, you were there to convince her otherwise. Her dame in shining armour, always looking after her.

Fool, she thought. Bloody fool. But you were her bloody fool.

It wasn't that she wouldn't do the same for you. She would, in a heartbeat. But she'd lived a long, long life. Had experienced the world in so many ways. Even if she were to die for the umpteenth time (she'd stopped counting a while ago), she would have been okay.

You, on the other hand, had never died before. Even though she'd secured you with one of her resurrection sachets, Rowena had promised herself to never let you have to use it. To never let it go that far. Dying was a harrowing experience. It wore on the body, on the soul, on the heart and mind. At this point in her life, she was used to it. The last thing she wanted was for you to go through it.

Who was this hunter to think he had a right to your life? To the lives of all those witches he'd killed? What made him think he was entitled to them? Those young women had never hurt anyone in their lives. You had never hurt anyone (anyone who hadn't deserved it, that was). You'd done nothing but love Rowena, save her yet again.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

He needed to pay.

Magic stirred in Rowena's veins. Roiled and coiled, twisted and whirred. A pulsating wave of power flooded her, and it was as if all dams broke at once. As if all the iron guarding the house had melted into nothingness. Magic was strong inside her. Filled her up to the brim, got her high like a drug. Her eyes glowed purple; a threat, a warning of what was to come.

The hunter gasped, frightened, terrified to the bone, and, goodness, it felt good. He backed away, tried to run off, but Sam and Dean, finally freed from the trap, perched in the doorway, blocking his path. There was no running now. No more innocent lives lost at his hands. No more cruelty and pain.

Rowena didn't have to say the words. Didn't have to point. All she did was look at him with her tear-stained eyes and think it, will it, urge it, and the man broke into screams. He clutched his head in desperation, eyes wide, body writhing and shaking. Legs wobbly.

"P-p-please!" he managed to squeeze out, as if it would do anything. As if Rowena would forget what he'd done, what he'd tried to do. Her old ways were behind her, but she was still vindictive. She still dealt justice to those who'd wronged her. He was knocking on the wrong door for mercy.

His legs gave way, and he crumbled to his knees with a thud so loud it was as if his bones shattered on impact. A trail of blood slid from his nose, a thin, watery trickle that soon thickened into a stream. His eyes and mouth suffered the same fate, crimson leaking out of them. He was still able to scream, though his throat had run raw and the sound dialed down; not much, but enough for Rowena to notice, to take pleasure in the fact that she'd done that to him. That it was her magic, her will that, bit by bit, sent him to ruin.

It was a messy scene, even by her standards. It reminded her of her demon-killing spell; gods, it had been so long since she'd last used it. She'd almost forgotten how good it felt to destroy something, to have it fall apart before her. To watch it wither and shatter and crumble, and know it was her that did it. Her vengeance. Her justice.

People — human and supernatural alike — feared her for a reason. She hadn't built herself reputation for nothing. She'd gone soft in recent years, had changed, but that part of her was still very much alike. The only difference was, nowadays she went after the guilty. After the bad and the horrible, the ones that hurt innocents.

The ones that hurt you.

The hunter's snow-white skin flushed the crimson of blood that slicked down his orifices. His screams quieted. Body stilled. A gurgle escaped him as he tried to release a sound — a scream, a plea, all swallowed down. His hands shot down to his stomach, and he laid down, curling up like a child. His breathing was hitched, labored. Moans managed to break through the blood pouring out of his mouth.

His skin got redder, darker, and with it he quieted down. His eyes, filled with cruel smugness a mere moment ago, started spilling out of their sockets. A liquid white resembling pus from a popped pimple. His cheeks puffed up, red as ripe cherries, and then they, too, liquefied. The rest of him followed; skin falling open, sliding down; insides pouring out, mixing with it.

What was once a man was now a mush of blood and flesh. The clothes he was wearing sank into it. The carpet stained with it, absorbed it, let it glue to it.

Amidst her anguish, Rowena smiled. Revenge truly was a proud, massive cunt.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked, flabbergasted.

She paid him no mind, rushing to your side, falling to her knees beside you.

"Rowena," you said, tears sliding down your face.

"I'm here." She reached for your hands, which rested on your stomach, over the wound, and grabbed hold of one of them. Your fingers were warm, sticky, slick with blood. She gripped them tight. "I'm here, love."

"It hurts." Your voice was so weak. So faint.

Rowena's heart shattered. "I know." She offered a smile, a forced one she hoped passed for real. You could always tell the difference. "It's going to be okay."

"I-I-I'm dying," you whimpered.

"Only for a short while," she assured you. "A few minutes, and you will be as good as new!"

Dying and coming back — it was easy. Stressful, but easy. You were going to be okay. Rowena would make sure of it.

"I'm scared," you said.

Rowena tightened her hold on your hand. "You've nothing to be scared for. I'm here now, and I will be there when you wake up. I'm not going to leave you."

You nodded. Released a hurt, terrified whine. "What if I don't come back? What if—"

"You will come back," she told you. Her sachets were foolproof. She knew the spell by heart. She wouldn't make a mistake, not at the cost of your life. "I promise you, Y/N. This is only temporary."

"Okay." Your other hand slithered over your joint hands. Fingers curled around them. "Okay."

"Okay," Rowena repeated.

It wasn't okay. Far from it. But it would be. Once you came back, everything would be okay again.

A small smile crept on your mouth before life faded from you. A breath, a whimper, and you were dead. You looked almost happy. At peace. As if you'd lived a long and fulfilled life, and were ready to greet death with open arms.

"Rowena," Sam said, careful, tentative as always, breaking the silence that settled over the foreign house, "I'm—"

"She will be back," Rowena said before he could say the word. Sorry. He had nothing to be sorry for. You weren't gone. Not for long. "She has one of my sachets." As if to make sure, her hand slid down to your thigh. She caressed the place where she'd sewn in the sachet; it had been messy work, bloody, exhausting, but it was worth it.

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "That's good."

"Do we just… wait?" asked Dean.

"Aye. But it might take a while."

It could be minutes, or hours. Depending on the severity of the death. Considering you'd died by an iron blade, there was no telling how long it would take for magic to put you back together.

"Let's go home, then," Sam said. "We can move her, right?"

"Of course," Rowena said. Better to take you somewhere comfortable than leave you on the cold, dirty ground.

She shuddered as the memory of her last death hit. Lucifer's hard-soled boot slamming into her skull. Flames eating up her skin, devouring it like acid. The fear. The loneliness. You'd only found her after it was over, after she was nothing but a pile of bones, charred beyond recognition.

As much as she hated being there all alone, she was grateful you were out when the Devil had struck. There was no telling what he would have done to you if he'd found you there. Rowena wouldn't have been the only one with trauma. PTSD, you'd called it. She'd never gotten an official diagnosis, but the symptoms fit.

It took a long while for her sachet to heal the damage inflicted on her. It took even longer for the nightmares to subside, for the fear to fade. There were still times she was afraid, and nights she'd dream of it and wake up drenched in sweat. You were there through it all. Had promised to be there no matter what, and fully intended on making good on it.

And, she promised to herself, she would be there for you as well.

Sam took you into his arms. Rowena watched, hating that she had to let go of your hand, that she had to step away. Sam was gentle. He carried you to the car with utmost care, and slowly laid you on the backseat, your head nestled in Rowena's lap.

She caressed your forehead the entire way to the Bunker. Counted the minutes when you would return and look up at her with those warm eyes and make this horrible day into nothing but a memory, a bad one to be discarded and rarely thought of. My sweet girl, she thought to herself. The only good thing she had left. The light of her life. I love you.

Sam and Dean got you settled into one of the spare bedrooms. It wasn't much, but it was clean, and the bed was comfortable enough for you to feel safe waking up. Rowena was immensely grateful. They offered to find her some clean clothes, but she declined. Her blouse and dress pants were good, even if they were stained with blood. Your blood, which, for reasons she couldn't quite comprehend, made it less bad. It would have been one thing if it were a stranger's. Yours was familiar. A part of you.

Rowena, as politely as she could, asked to be alone, and the brothers respected the wish. She sat down beside you and reclaimed her hold on/of your hand. Your skin was cold as ice, freezing, but the touch still made her feel safe. At home. Her fingers wrapped around yours. Squeezed as hard as they could, as if the pressure would make you come back faster.

"Foolish girl," she chastised half-heartedly.

She'd told you countless times your devotion to her would be your undoing. You'd always chuckled and replied with something like, "So be it."

And so it was.

So foolish. Even now, years into your relationship, Rowena couldn't tell what it was about her that made you love her so much. She was sure of one thing — she didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve half the affection you'd given her.

Foolish girl.

"I love you so much."

She'd never loved anyone — not even Fergus' bastard father — the way she loved you. There was something about you, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, that made it impossible for her not to love you. You were a peculiar girl. Strange. Different.

Hers.

The knowledge of it felt… exhilarating. Right. You were hers, and she was yours. Forever, if magic were to allow it. If you wanted it for Rowena wanted nothing more than to spend the eternity with you.

"So much," she repeated, allowing a smile to break to the surface. "You foolish girl."

It had been less than an hour, but it felt as if Rowena were waiting for days. Her hand remained on yours, eyes darting between your face — your calm, impossibly peaceful face — and your wound. Come on, she urged. Hoped. Begged. Wake up.

And, eventually, you did.

It started with a spark. Rowena flinched, startled, as a spark lit up on your thigh. Even through your pants, the light — a beautiful, mesmerizing purple — was bright and clear. It traveled up your body in a steady trail, like neon paint slithering over your skin. The light settled in your chest in a wild burst of color, the magic of life spilling over you, filling you up. Giving back what was lost.

Your eyes snapped open. Mouth fell wide as your lungs craved air. You were panting, heaving, sucking in the oxygen as if you were about to drown.

The light framed your stomach, formed a perfect circle around your gaping wound. As it closed in on it, the flesh knit itself together until your stomach was whole again. No scars. Not a blemish in sight. The only reminder of the injury the dry blood drenching your clothes.

"What—" your voice was coarse, scratchy, like sand brushing against skin, "—the—" a breath, deep, almost painful, "—fuck?!"

Rowena breathed out in relief. Yes. You were back. Good as new, just as she'd predicted. Still, doubts, however small they were, had nibbled at her, sneered from the back of her mind, and she was glad to have proven them wrong. You were back. You were you. That was all that mattered.

"Welcome back, Y/N," she said, as if greeting you upon your return from a shopping trip. As if the predicament you'd found yourself in was an everyday occurrence.

"I-I died." The realization settled like a punch to the face, and your features hardened. "Oh, my god, I died! I was dead!"

"Yes," Rowena confirmed because what else was she supposed to do? You died and came back. There was no sugar-coating it.

"The bastard stabbed me!" There was so much rage in your voice that it made a tinge of pride light up inside of Rowena. You looked to your stomach, ran your hands over it, then breathed out, relieved to find no marks.

"You'll be happy to know he's dead," Rowena said. You tilted your head up like a puppy. "I took care of him myself." Her hand reclaimed the hold of yours. "Nobody kills my girl and gets away with it."

You smiled. "My hero."

She wouldn't go that far, but she supposed it was an accurate description. She'd saved you. Avenged you. And she would do it again in a heartbeat.

She would do anything — anything — for you.

"How long was I out?" you asked.

"Almost an hour." You would've come back sooner had you not died by iron. The bloody metal was tricky. It destroyed magic, nullified it; the sachet's magic needed time to fight it off.

"Damn."

You brought your hands to your face. Slid them down to your neck, chest, legs. Wrapped your arms around yourself, around your knees. Felt up your hair, your breasts, your stomach; your healed stomach coated with the same dried blood that clung to your hands.

"I was dead." It was as if the reality of it only now sank in. Your eyes puffed up. Redness filled them, and tears spilled down your face. A bitter, unstoppable downpour. "Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!"

Rowena was quickly at your side, arms flying around you. You pressed your head to her chest, buried your face in her blouse, and started sobbing. It was a heartbreaking sound. Desperate. Wounded and vulnerable, like the wail of a child seeking comfort.

"It's okay," she said. "The first time is always overwhelming." Hers had been, as well, many centuries ago. She hadn't sobbed, but there were tears and discomfort and the feeling of wanting to escape her own — dead, about to rot, newly resurrected — skin. "Let it out."

"Am-am I gonna be okay?" you whimpered.

"Yes," Rowena said firmly, truth radiating off her words. She hadn't sugarcoated the bad, and she wouldn't the good, either. "This is just shock. Give it a day, and you will be fine."

You nodded. Sniffled. Whined into her blouse like a puppy.

Gods. If she wasn't putting on a strong front for you, she would have broken down as well. She willed her emotions to stay hidden, buried. She could cry later. Right now, what mattered the most was you.

It took a few minutes for you to calm down. Rowena held you, cooed at you, comforted you until you raised your head, wiped your face with your sleeve, and muttered that you were fine.

"Sorry," you said. "I don't know what came over me."

"Like I said, it was shock," Rowena told you. "It's natural. Dying is a stressful process, and so is resurrection."

"Was it like that for you, the first time?"

"Aye. You get used to it after a while." There was a touch of bitterness in her tone. She cleared her throat. "That said, I hope you never get used to it." You looked up at her. She raised a forefinger in what was supposed to be a threat, but she knew you were way past being intimidated by her. She doubted you ever truly were. "Don't you dare do this ever again!"

"It's not like I wanted to die," you defended.

"You put yourself in a bad situation—"

"To save you!"

"I'm not worth it!" she snapped. Why couldn't you understand that?

"You are to me!" you retorted.

You stupid, stubborn girl! "I—"

"You're worth it," you repeated, a tad softer. "You fucking are! I'd do anything for you."

Gods! "And I would for you, but—"

But she'd lived a long and fulfilled life. She'd died dozens of times. She could handle it.

You cut her off yet again. "No buts! I'm not sorry I did it. I'd do it again if I had to." You grabbed your hands, brought them to your lap. Twined your fingers with hers in gentle knots. "I love you, Rowena."

Shatter her heart, why didn't you? She sighed. "And I love you, dearest." You had no idea how much. "I just… I don't want you to end up like me."

"You're awesome! Who wouldn't wanna be like you?" you said light-heartedly.

Rowena gave a small laugh. "You know what I meant."

"I know." You squeezed her hands. "I'm gonna be okay. I promise. You don't have to worry about me."

"That's easier said than done."

"I guess." You smiled. "Now you know what it's like for me when you tell me not to worry. And don't tell me it's different!"

It was. Because she was an almost-four-hundred-year-old formerly evil witch. And you were… you. The love of her life. The only family she had left.

"You're my girl," you added.

"Bloody sap," Rowena accused playfully.

"You know it," you said with a chuckle.

Your arms fell around her, and she found herself enveloped in a hug so tight it was squeezing the life out of her. She didn't mind, opting to return it with just as much ferocity. Gods, she loved you. Her heart ached with it, throbbed with it like a hammer in her chest. She never wanted to let you go. Never wanted to be away from you again. Never wanted to lose you, even if it was temporary.

"I'll try not to die again, though," you said after a moment of silent cuddling. "It sucked."

Rowena could only laugh. "Death is a cruel mistress."

The cruelest of them all.

But the two of you could beat her. Together.

*****

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missstormcaller · 6 years

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CAN’T FEAR YOUR OWN WORLD Vol. II Part 8 Full Translation

This is the first half of part 10 on the app (chapter 9 continued)

Rukongai

Luppi Antenor's fate as an Arrancar, was once completely sealed at the hands of Grimmjow. Thanks to Inoue Orihime's powers which were summoned at Aizen's insistence, Grimmjow's lost arm had been regenerated. In that same way, he urged Inoue to restore the skin on his back as well as the character for Sexta tattooed there. At this point, the situation had evolved to accommodate two Sextas among the Espada, Luppi and Grimmjow —— However, the end had been marked for that overlap in only a matter of seconds. Feeling confused and irritated, Luppi questioned Grimmjow about the intention behind having his numerical digit restored, he received a clear answer by way of an arm running through his chest as a result. —— "That's the way it goes. See ya, 'former' number 6." Grimmjow's words, and the vast amount of Reiatsu gushing forth from the insides of his chest. That is Luppi's last memory as an Espada.

—— I had a thirst.

After regaining his consciousness through the efforts of Kurotsuchi Mayuri, it was Luppi who had somehow displayed a philosophical outlook, but it was impossible to forget the grudge he held when he was 'still alive.' Those who once looked down on him, those who caused him shame, every last one of them could not be forgiven. Watching for an opportunity, Luppi secretly schemed in his mind to one day carry out his revenge.

—— I had a thirst.

He was supposed to be thinking towards that — However, when he was deployed to actual combat as a member of the Kurotsuchi Corpse Unit, Luppi began to cast doubt into his own heart. Hitsugaya Tōshirō. That was the name of the opponent who once gave Luppi his first taste of defeat during the battle in Karakura Town. Luppi came to learn that name only after he was resurrected.

He still distinctly recalls the deceleration he made the moment he was withdrawn from Hitsugaya's location. —— "Don't forget my face." —— "Because the next time we meet, I'll definitely twist off that tiny little head of yours… and crush it!" This wasn't just a sharp parting remark or an act of bravado, but rather words that were loaded with hatred stemming from sincere feelings. Though he was careless, even Luppi himself acknowledged that his opponent was a formidable individual. Nevertheless, even on the basis of having understood that, he decided it must be done. In order to allow himself to continue to exist as himself, he decided that the captain who had the form of a child, must be shredded to pieces. —— Thirst which can not be cured. The opportunity to meet again came sooner than imagined. Thrown into the battlefield as a game piece under the control of the Quincy, and in opposition to himself who was acting as a member of the Kurotsuchi Corpse Unit alongside Dordoni and the others, Hitsugaya Tōshirō made an appearance before them in the most unexpected way. Becoming a corpse puppet kept alive through the ability held by one among the Quincy, he stood in the path before the Shinigami as a brutal and peerless enemy. Yet for all that — the moment he laid eyes on that scene, Luppi realises that the destructive impulses in his heart had began to subside. —— What the heck is that about? —— How is it, that he's broken already? —— He may be just my plaything. But I am the one who was supposed to break him! The Shinigami who appeared next, was a woman whom he also recalls battling. Matsumoto Rangiku. An opponent he described as having a "killer body" and attempted to skewer with a countless number of needles during their past confrontation in Karakura Town. Although Luppi's preference of physique hasn't changed since then, she had been reduced to a walking corpse all the same, her mind in a state of complete ruin. He had taken her as an opponent under Mayuri's orders, but neither the thrill nor the destructive urge, and not even that ecstatic feeling the moment he crushingly defeats an inferior opponent, could surge its way to the surface like it did in the past.

—— Unquenchable thirst.

—— The Corpse Unit huh?

After the war against the Quincies had come to an end, even though Luppi had heard stories that Hitsugaya and Rangiku had returned to their original states, he was not driven once again by the urge to go and kill them. —— Sure, perhaps that suits the current me. —— Why the hell is it, that I feel as if I haven't truly experienced being alive? Spending his days as a lackey working behind the scenes of the Department of Research and Development, he was tasked with things such as the capture of newborn Hollows possessing peculiar abilities. Although he was no longer confined at times other than work these days, that's purely due to the fact that Kurotsuchi Mayuri's surveillance system had become flawless. Judging from Mayuri's character, Luppi knew it wouldn't be unusual for the man to have even implanted a self-detonating bomb inside him. However, even without it — if for instance he was told to "engage in battle with Hitsugaya Tōshirō" under Mayuri's instructions, it appeared unlikely that he would be thrilled at the prospect.

—— The thirst. —— The thirst is constantly expanding.

Whilst fulfilling the instructions he was assigned with, day after day he would feel an unquenchable thirst. Nevertheless, his thirsting is not consequent upon that. There is nothing that can fill that nothingness as empty as a Hollow's hole. Withered away, is it not that very desire itself which is one of a Hollow's roots? Despite such misgivings crossing his mind, for Luppi it was a trivial matter. In this way, he was merely used a tool for the Shinigami, probably until both his body and mind dries up and evaporates. He even entertained such discouraging thoughts. —— Argh, but I've been thinking, to thirst, to dry up, to feel absolute nothingness and then eventually become one with the sands of Hueco Mundo, I don't want it. What was the point of carrying on with life day after day whilst continuing to thirst in this way? On this day, just as he pondered such thoughts that were negative to the point of being unimaginable to his former self —— The moment he caught sight of Grimmjow's form, all his 'thirst' disappeared. It was fear towards the one who killed him. It was hatred towards the one who looked down on him. It was delight at the discovery of the one who must be 'destroyed'. The emotions which had supposedly ran dry before now, came spewing out with fierce momentum from the deepest parts of his body. It's as if water was overflowing from a part of the body which should have been empty -- from the depths of his 'hole'.

Due to the "Gran Rey Cero" fired by Grimmjow, some of Luppi's tentacles had taken severe damage. Even though blood was also streaming out from Luppi's body itself, he didn't flinch from it in the slightest. Rather, it was as if the fury which was cutting into him had caused his Reiatsu to amplify further, the motion of each and every tentacle increased in speed. Grimmjow who continued to take the barrage of hits, daringly utters more words of provocation even in a situation where he was at a disadvantage with the frequency of attacks. Blood went flying around from the tentacles which rebounded off his vigorous slashing attacks, a spurt of blood clung to Grimmjow's cheek. As soon as Luppi had transformed each of his eight tentacles in their current conditions into either a mountain of needles or a pointed blade, he rotated them at high speed resembling the propeller of a helicopter and then thrust them towards Grimmjow. "Don't be… so slow!" Meanwhile Grimmjow boldly weaved his body through the gaps between the flurry of blows. In this way Grimmjow was able to kick Luppi himself away, he planned to unleash "Gran Rey Cero" a second time in order to pursue him, but then —— " ! " From the tips of all eight tentacles belonging to Luppi who went tumbling down, Ceros are shot in quick succession. As expected, one after the other they did not possess power as formidable as that of a "Gran Rey Cero", but perhaps emulating Grimmjow's technique in which one's own blood is mixed in to boost Reiatsu, the flashes of light which were much stronger compared to an ordinary Cero, charged towards the rival Arrancar with vigour similar to a Bala. (TN -- as a reminder, Bala is 20x faster than Cero.) "I told you, you're too slow!" Grimmjow ceased repelling those continuous strikes, remaining unconcerned as he sustained the injuries too, he then unleashed these words. " —— Grind, Pantera!"

Hueco Mundo "Is Harribel really going too? Are things going to be okay with you away from Hueco Mundo?" "…I'm merely going to gauge Soul Society's true intentions. I'll leave the task of bringing back Grimmjow to you." While responding to Nelliel's words, Harribel opens up a Garganta under the dome of Las Noches. As a result of continued investigation following his disappearance, they were able to confirm that remnants of Grimmjow's Reiatsu were heading towards Soul Society. Despite the need to bring him back before things develop into a large-scale dispute, moving into operation with a great number of people, can in itself be taken as an act of hostility towards Soul Society. Understanding that it was pointless to trigger a conflict to no avail at their current fighting power, Harribel intended to keep the headcount to a bare minimum, in other words, she would proceed towards 'negotiations' with Soul Society unaided. Three individuals known as Apacci, Rose and Sung-Sun who are Harribel's Fracci��n, refused to back down saying "we will also go", but in the end they were made to stay behind as an essential part of defence in her absence. "Please leave it to us to take of things here. Harribel sama, please don't push yourself too hard either…" The anxiety that swayed in the depths of Sung-sun's words which sounded serene, is likely caused by the fact that Harribel was taken prisoner by Yhwach in the past. Concluding as much, Harribel extended heartfelt apologies for her own shortcomings, at the same time she spoke in order to put Sung-sun and the others at ease. "…I'm sorry. In order to not allow a situation like that to occur again, it is necessary to act now." Facing her Fracción, Harribel revealed a glimpse of the speculations which had piled up inside her. "Because that Shinigami child… if we leave it to chance, sooner or later it may become an 'enemy' the likes of Yhwach."

While Harribel and Nelliel disappeared into the Garganta, a girl who was observing the flow of their Reiatsu from a separate location, muttered her words in a detached manner. "…They're finally on the move." In contrast with the girl - Liltotto Lamperd - who had a serious tone of voice, Giselle Gewelle who was playing around with a zombified Bambietta Basterbine in the background, raised her voice with no air of tension. "Huh? Really?" "Uuh… Candi… Meni… where?" As she listened to Bambietta's mumbling which were an indistinct assembly of words resembling sleep-talk, Lil speaks of a speculation which leads to an answer to that incoherent gibberish. "Their destination could either be the Human World, or Soul Society…. If that strange Shinigami is involved, then it's probably the latter. Assuming that is really the case, this may be a chance to meet up with Candi and co." "So, what are we gonna do? We should at least go and check it out right?" "Yeah, but we'll wait until after they've made a huge scene. While the eyes of the Shinigami are distracted by that Hollow bunch, first thing we have to do is get hold of Candi and Meni's whereabouts." Thus, the Quincy survivors also began to move into operation. Little did they know that their rescue subjects, Candice and Meninas, were in the midst of being drawn into the conflict caused by that "Hollow bunch".

Soul Society - Squad 1 Barracks. "Well then, I'll just be going out for a bit too, can I ask you to take care of things for me while I'm gone, Nanao chan?" Faced with Kyōraku who had just uttered that while putting on his braided hat, Nanao posed a question out of curiosity. "…? Where will you be heading out to? There's nothing of the sort scheduled for today…" "It's just a little trip to the Central 46, and the Kinin Noble Assembly." "……!" Realising the significance behind that destination, Nanao watches Kyōraku with a nervous expression. "Don't make such a grim face. It's not like I'm going to die." "But… we haven't made any arrangements for that yet have we?" "Ah, it was my intention to make the necessary arrangements properly. But hearing Momo's report, I got a bit of an uneasy feeling." Quietly casting his eyes down, Kyōraku then smiled in order to reassure Nanao. "Anyway, Ukitake would probably scold me." "Ukitake san…would?" At Nanao's words, Kyōraku smiled wryly as he continued to speak. "Because that guy was a good-natured person (i.e. gave people the benefit of the doubt/saw the good in others). Well, I think that was one of Ukitake's qualities which I do not possess." Whilst reminiscing about his deceased friend, Kyōraku turned his attention to memories further in the past. "It was a long time ago, me, Ukitake and that Tokinada fellow were all classmates at the Academy. Tokinada was an individual who didn't particularly stand out, he was neither praised nor admonished by Yama-jii, he passed the time almost like a shadow… but as for Ukitake, he would quite commonly make conversation even with a guy like that. Maybe on Ukitake's side he was considered a friend. That's how it was until a certain incident occurred post-graduation.… No, perhaps Ukitake was like that even after it occurred." The 'certain incident' likely refers to the case in which Tokinada had slaughtered his own wife and comrade. Without asking for details, Nanao who presumed as much patiently waited for Kyōraku to continue speaking. "For the mere reason that they were cherry blossoms of the same year*, Ukitake was even willing enough to have faith in that Tokinada guy. If only he had a change of environment, if only he was given some kind of opportunity, then one day he would surely be reformed. That man will definitely come to confront the crimes he has committed from the bottom of his heart, Ukitake would say." (*TN -- "Cherry blossoms of the same year" is a way of saying "classmates" here, but it has more connotations in that it suggests one would fall and die like the petals of a cherry blossom for the sake of one's peers.) "That's…"

"I on the other hand, was not able to place that kind of faith in him. Having said that, in those days I was not able to kill Tokinada either. The time has come to finally put my foot down regarding those issues I have been sitting on the fence about. It's as simple as that." Despite sensing a turbulent air from the implication of the words "in those days", Nanao did not question his intentions by the hunch that Kyōraku's resolution was present among those few words. "Considering the fact that not only has an unpleasant task been forced upon him, but that he may also have been sent on a fool's errand on top of that… it's possible that I have wronged Hisagi kun." Just as Kyōraku was saying that, Okikiba who had finished delivering instructions to squad 2, had returned. "Hey, Okikiba san. I'm just about to run a few erra-… what's wrong?" In response to Kyōraku who noticed that Okikiba's expression had become stern, the second vice captain presented his report with a tense countenance. "It appears that a request for a Gentei Kaijo has been put forward from Hisagi Shūhei who left for Karakura Town." "…Gentei Kaijo? That's pretty drastic." "It seems this decision is based on the grounds that unidentified hostile forces have appeared… but according to the observation unit, when a reply was issued in order to grant permission, the correspondence was interrupted midway. Furthermore, all equipment that was observing Karakura Town has had their communications entirely cut-off, at present Karakura Town is said to have entered an isolated state…" Confronted with this report which was a matter of far greater concern than originally imagined, Kyōraku pulled a frown, despite this he responded without losing his nerve in the slightest. "…What about squad members Yuki Ryūnosuke and Madarame Shino who have been deployed to Karakura Town?" "Yes, in the same way, communication with them has been cut-off." "Please make contact with the Shinigami stationed in neighbouring towns and instruct them to report on the current situation… Nanao chan, I'm sorry but, since the number of matters which must be dealt with has increased, can I ask you to go with him?" "Understood!" With a firm nod Nanao and Okikiba exit the room in order to prepare, after following them with his eyes until they were out of sight, Kyōraku muttered to himself with a more serious expression than usual. "This is a troublesome turn of events huh…" . . . "…That guy Tokinada, may have gained the initiative by striking first."

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swishandflickwit · 5 years

Text

Deckerstar — paper cut 1/1

Summary: In which Chloe makes Lucifer vulnerable, in more ways than one.

Ratings: General Audiences

Words: 666

Warnings: Post-reveal.

AN: Prompt from Mad Hat Dragon on ff.net—

If you are taking prompt suggestions, I would really like to see one where Lucifer gets a paper cut or something and Chloe is trying to deal with him whimpering and being a huge Drama Queen.

This was fun hahaha.

Also on: ff.net | AO3

Other writing

The Devil’s Lucky Number series: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIV | XX | [ XXI ]

He’d gotten paper cuts in the detective’s presence before, of course.

Many times then, and he dare say this instance wouldn’t be the last.

But what was the point in getting injured if no one was going to play nurse?

“Detective,” he pouted, assuming it would endear him to her.

(It did not)

“It’s a rather deep cut, actually! I mean, look at this mess, I’m bleeding all over my precious Prada!”

She sighed and, as they were walking across the precinct from the interrogation room, glanced at him askance.

“Tragic,” she deadpanned, though what he chose to hear was sympathy.

“Exactly! I knew you’d understand!”

She rolled her eyes then muttered, “What I understand is that the Devil is a huge wuss—”

He gaped.

“I beg your pardon—”

“—who can’t handle a little blood!”

“A little!” he spluttered indignantly, hugging the gushing finger to his chest.

“Look, I’m sorry that I grabbed the file from you,” she interrupted before mumbling, “of course, if you hadn’t been spinning it like an NBA player spun his basketball while I was interviewing a potential suspect…”

“Hmph!”

“But it’s a paper cut,” she patted his shoulder. “It’s pretty common for us measly humans and easy to deal with,” she teased as she took her proper seat and he claimed the chair opposite her. “You’ll live.”

“Will I?” he implored. “Are you certain this doesn’t spell the end of my mortal coil?”

“You’ve survived a knife to the shoulder,” she reminded through gritted teeth, “and more than your fair share of bullets—”

“Most, if not all, of which I took for you,” he rebutted sweetly.

At that, she released another put-upon sigh. Then—

“Fine,” she groaned with an upheld hand. “Lemme see it.”

He could hardly contain himself from crowing.

“Do with me as you please, detective,” he purred, proffering his injured limb. “Or should I say nurse?”

She gave him a withering glare but dutifully inspected the damage.

It was still bleeding, which was expected. What he hadn’t expected was for her to stick his finger in her mouth and suck, her cheeks hollowed and her tongue laving upon the gash.

At once, Lucifer felt the oddest combination of disgust at the unsanitary practice and—arousal. It bloomed quick and stubborn at both his cheeks and… other places.

Totally lower, inappropriate places.

It didn’t help that Chloe kept at it while she scrambled for a tissue. His vivid imagination obtrusively supplied him with images of her tongue curled around a longer, thicker appendage and oh no—

There was a crude squick sound as she released him.

He chocked.

“Got it!”

She wrapped a paper napkin around his less spurting digit before turning to him.

“Why… are you so red?” she asked. “Is this a Devil thing?” she whispered worryingly. “Did the cut actually give you a fever?”

“There’s a fever alright,” he rasped before clearing his throat.

“No need to ring the alarm, detective,” he let out a hysterical laugh before snatching his hand back. “I’m all good now—thanks to you,” he said hoarsely, then bit his lip when her mouth parted alluringly.

Fuck.

“I have to go!” he bellowed, clambering clumsily to his feet. She followed, albeit remained behind her desk.

“Okay?”

“There’s something pressing,” he whimpered. “I must attend to.”

It was then her dumbfounded expression slackened to one of triumph.

“Want a hand,” her stare darted southwards, “with that?”

She leaned into him. His jaw dropped.

“You little devil,” he hummed admiringly. “Yes, please.”

“Too bad,” she murmured, a whisper away from bridging the gap between their lips. “Cause I don’t do wussies.”

She abruptly withdrew, and he nearly faceplanted atop her desk.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he moaned, flopping onto his pitiful plastic throne.

“Uh huh,” she remarked, nonchalantly returning to her paperwork as if she hadn’t just turned his head. “So long as you don’t expect me to play your nurse.”

He groaned.

There goes that fantasy.

AN: Ya'll, the fact that Chloe willingly had sex with Pierce in the evidence room of the bloody precinct really tells me a lot about her character that being our home girl is an exhibitionist. Just saying lol. Also, remember in S1 when Chloe would string Lucifer on one minute only to like, flat out reject him in the next? Remember that Chloe? I miss her. I miss my playful Decker so I'm resurrecting her here.

Also, sorry if from here on out the quality of these fics deteriorate. I'm finding that the closer we get to the S4 premiere, the more paralyzed I feel cause I'm just so. bloody. excited it's giving me tunnel vision so that all I see is MAY 8 then everything else just goes dark hahaha. I'm determined to finish, make no mistake. Just omg I'm sorry but don't be expecting classics from here on out. I'm just trying to get through the day till we reach the 8th XD

The Devil’s Lucky Number series: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII | XVIII | XIV | XX | [ XXI ]

#lucifer #deckerstar #lucifer morningstar #chloe decker #deckerstar fanfiction #deckerstar ff #lucifer fanfiction #lucifer ff #post-reveal #fluff #playful!chloe #remember her?#i miss her #wow guys #getting close to the premiere!#he is risen #the devil's lucky number series #swishandflickwit ff

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portalford · 6 years

Text

It Sure Beats Standing Still

AO3

If Stan finds one more jar, bottle, or bag of undefinable monster body parts someplace where food, and only food, is supposed to be, he’s going to kick Ford’s ass.

He’s been the unofficially designated cook more or less since they set sail, because if the job was left to Ford they would both starve in a week. Besides, Stan really doesn’t mind cooking. He’s actually kinda good at it; nothing fancy, but solid fare.

He was going to try his hand at that potato stew he vaguely remembers from their childhood, because he also vaguely remembers Ford liking it and he’s still trying to work his brother off those fake food pills of his, but when he went to get the potatoes he nearly stuck his hand in a (open, Ford, why) jar of monster guts.

So now, instead of making a nice hot lunch for both of them on what’s shaping up to be a chilly day, he’s marching downstairs, jar in hand (better than hand in jar, at least), to yell at his brother.

“Ford!”

“Stanley!” Ford is in his study, a tiny storage room they didn’t use for anything else. It’s crammed floor to ceiling with books and papers and even more weird jars. Stan can’t figure how Ford finds anything, or even gets into his own study, but that’s Ford’s problem, not his. “You won’t believe what I’ve found, it’s–”

“Yeah? You wanna know what I found?” He holds out the jar.

Ford skips right over his irritation and goes straight to the jar. “You found the Leviathan tentacles! I’ve been looking everywhere for them.”

“And do you know why you couldn’t find them?”

Ford, catching on, immediately gets cagey. “…I may have misplaced them.”

“You sure did. In the kitchen. Right next to the food. That we eat.” Stan wants to set the jar down loudly, because it’d be a great end to that little spiel, but there isn’t a clear space anywhere on Ford’s desk, so he just awkwardly hands it over.

“I’m sorry, Stanley,” Ford says, and Stan can tell he means it. “I was testing the effects of extreme heat on Leviathan skin, and–”

“Wait, hold up, testing heat? How?”

“I just put a tentacle in the frying pan. I used my little electric burner, not the stove,” Ford adds quickly, as if that makes it any better.

“Is that where the frying pan went?” Stan had been looking for the pan this morning, when he wanted to make eggs. He just assumed that he’d misplaced it and had toast instead, but apparently this is one theft he’s not responsible for.

“Yes, well.” Ford clears his throat and twists his fingers together, which is basically his equivalent of squirming. “It turns out that extreme heat has a… very negative effect on Leviathan skin.” A pause. “It melted to the pan.” Ford shrugs, clearly not planning to mourn the loss of their one frying pan. “But now we know how to fight one off, if it comes to that!”

“Ford, is there melted Leviathan somewhere in this room.”

“No, I threw the pan overboard.”

Stan sighs. “Yeah, I guess.” He scratches the side of his nose. “Well, there’s no fixing that. I’m gonna make lunch, and then–” he stops. Reconsiders.

“And then what, Stanley?”

It’s been a month and a half since they set sail, and things are going well. Going great, actually. They’ve fallen into a rhythm, an easy give-and-take that Stan hasn’t really had with anyone since he was a kid and running around with Ford on the beach.

That said, it’s new enough that he’s still a little hesitant to ask for stuff sometimes, to push for things he likes and wants to do, even though Ford’s assured him a hundred times that it’s okay to ask.

(Ford is a hypocrite, because Ford doesn’t ask either. He just thinks Stan doesn’t notice. Still, the fact that Ford is just as wary of pushing too hard, of losing what they have, is kinda reassuring, in its own way. They’ll get there).

This time, Stan opts to suck it up and finish his sentence. “And then maybe we could take a break.”

Ford frowns. “A break?”

“Yeah, genius, a break. Leisure. Just spending time hangin’ out, recharging. It’s a normal-people thing.”

“Ha ha.” Ford pushes some papers aside – most of them end up on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to care – to make room for the jar. “I know what a break is, Stanley. I take them.”

“Sure, when you pass out. You’ve been kinda wrapped up in your work lately.”

“I’m not obsessed.”

Ford’s tone has gone stiff – that’s still a touchy subject. “I didn’t say that.” Acknowledge, but don’t dwell; this is not turning into a thing. “You just need to live a little! Give your brain a chance to think about somethin’ besides fried monster.”

Ford relaxes and offers a smile, conciliatory. “Did you have an activity in mind?”

“I was gonna go fishing.” Stan takes the ritual pause after this announcement, and right on cue, his brother makes a face. Ford’s always hated fishing, so much so that Stan can’t even be offended because it’s just funny. They used to ‘debate’ (Ford’s word, not Stan’s; none of those arguments they had were anywhere near as civilized as an actual debate, but it made Ford feel better so whatever) about the merits of fishing when they were kids, and Stan doesn’t recall them ever reaching a satisfactory conclusion to the issue. Their first week on the Stan O’ War II resurrected the childhood dispute, and Stan would be lying if he said he didn’t actively push Ford’s buttons over it now and then.

He is lying about it, actually, because Ford’s asked and he said no, but they both know he’s lying so it doesn’t count.

“I’m gonna fish,” Stan repeats. “You can just sit out on deck and read one of your nerd books.”

“No, I think I want to try.”

“Try?”

“Fishing.”

“You want to fish?” Stan’s proud of how not-incredulous he manages to sound.

“Yes.” Ford looks absurdly determined, like he’s preparing to take on a Gremloblin or something instead of just sit still with a fishing pole for twenty minutes. “I want to see why everyone seems to enjoy it so much.” He glances up at Stan. “And you’re right. I have been… preoccupied, lately, with the kelpie clan we found. I haven’t spent much time with you.”

Most of Stan is genuinely pleased and touched and all kinds of other stupid sappy feelings. He didn’t say it outright, but Ford wants to spend time with him. Ford wants to do something that Stan enjoys just because Stan enjoys it.

The rest of Stan is gleefully anticipating a hilarious trainwreck of an afternoon and a hell of a story to tell the kids.

Either way, he’s thrilled.

He realizes he hasn’t actually said any of this out loud, and Ford is starting to look anxious.

He clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, sure. I’ll dig up my spare pole.”

Ford smiles, and Stan mentally promises to do his best to make sure Ford has fun fishing, because maybe he’ll do it again.

Even if it’d be really funny to wind him up.

*****

They’re ten minutes into this endeavor, and it actually hasn’t been terrible.

Ford listens to Stan’s explanation of how to set and bait a hook like he’s going to be quizzed on it later. He then listens to Stan’s little song and dance about how ‘fishing should be fun, Sixer, don’t overthink it’ with a little less intensity, but he seems to be trying. He only stabs himself twice baiting the hook, and that’s better than Stan when he started fishing, so.

They’re both leaning against the rail and Ford is rambling about possible upgrades for the fishing rods, some of which actually sound pretty great and some of which… don’t.

“I don’t think hypnotizing the fish to bite the hook is a good idea,” Stan says, butting in on Ford’s tangent.

Ford takes a moment to recall his thoughts pre-interruption before asking, “Why not?”

“It takes all the uncertainty out of it.”

That, predictably, doesn’t work on Ford.

“Isn’t that a good thing? If you’re trying to catch fish, shouldn’t you make it as easy and foolproof as possible? For that matter, you could–”

“I told you, Sixer, fishing’s not about catchin’ fish. At least, not casual fishing, like we’re doing.” Stan draws his line in and casts it out again, motioning for Ford to do the same.

Ford does, a little less smoothly. “Then what is the point? I’ve read about fishing, and–”

“You read about– never mind; ‘course you did. Where?”

“On the Internet,” Ford says. “I looked it up on Wikipedia while you were making lunch.”

It figures. Ford’s been living in the modern world for less than three months and he’s already better with the Internet thing than Stan will probably ever be, and that suits him just fine. Let Ford do the work. “Sure, you can fish to eat. We’ll probably eat what we catch, if that makes you feel better, but – when you’re fishing by yourself, if’s just a way to have something to do, y’know? Like you drawing when you’re just sittin’ around. And fishing with other people is a social activity. Fun.”

“Fun,” Ford mutters, and Stan stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, fun. It might not be your thing.”

“I don’t think it is,” Ford says, absent and gazing out over the ocean, “but it is your thing, so I could do it once in a while, too. If you wanted.”

Stan does want that, a lot, but all he says is “Moses, you got sappy in your old age.”

“As if you’re one to talk. You made that potato stew for lunch because you remembered I like it.”

“I like it too,” Stan retorts, defensive.

“Yes, but that’s not why you made it.” Ford looks smug, like he knows he’s right.

He is, but Stan's not going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Leave monster guts in the kitchen again and we’ll see how much potato stew you eat.”

“Those were appendages, not innards, and I could make it myself.”

Stan snorts, then outright laughs at the offended look on Ford’s face. “You’d get distracted. By the monster guts you left in the kitchen.”

“I would not.”

“Would too.”

“Would not.”

“Would–”

Ford’s fishing rod nearly wrenches itself out of his hand. Startled, but still with his over-fast portal reflexes, he hangs on.

He does wheeze when he gets slammed gut-first into the rail, but you can’t win them all.

“You got a bite!”

Ford doesn’t have enough air left in him to talk, but the withering glare he shoots Stan gets his point across well enough.

Stan means to stand back and let Ford reel his catch in himself, maybe take a picture with the camera phone for the kids (and himself), but another yank on the rod almost takes Ford over the side. Stan promptly steps in.

It feels like there’s a truck tied to the other end of the line.

“Ford–”

An ugly grey-green blob rears up twenty feet from the Stan O’ War, water rushing from its mouth as it bares razor-sharp teeth at them.

“What the hell.” Stan turns to Ford, hoping for an explanation. His brother is practically vibrating with excitement. “Ford, what is that thing?”

“I have absolutely no idea!” Fantastic. Ford lunges back, nearly knocking Stan over. “Help me bring it in!”

“How is the line even holding it?” No way fishing line rated for twenty pounds should stop that monster – it’s not especially big, compared to other things they’ve seen, but it’s angry and determined and that makes it dangerous.

“I modified it.” Ford slips on the deck; Stan catches him around the waist to keep him from knocking his head on the rail. “I didn’t– want you to lose anything you caught because your line wasn’t strong enough. Same with– with the pole.”

It’s so completely out of left field, so thoughtful in the most ridiculous way, and isn’t that just like Ford.

Stan looks at the furious thrashing thing out in the water, then back at Ford, and mentally accepts his fate. He knew what he was getting into when he went sailing with his brother, and he signed up for the whole damn run. Fish monsters included.

He plants his feet like he’s about to throw a punch and says, “Masterclass in landin’ a fish, bro. You ready?”

Ford’s answering smile is all teeth.

Fifteen minutes of swearing, soaking, and fist-swinging later, they’ve landed themselves the catch from hell.

Stan looks down at the wriggling monster, now trapped in one of Ford’s magic warded nets, and wonders if he’ll ever just get to have a normal day.

Probably not.

Ford is already circling the net, trying to get a better look at the creature and skidding a little on the slippery wet deck in his excited hurry. He looks ridiculous with his slime-covered jacket, bruised cheek, and dripping hair.

He also looks happier than Stan’s seen in... forever, since even before the science project mess.

Honestly, if all Stan has to put up with to keep Ford this happy is sea monster guts in the kitchen and the occasional demon fish, he’s a lucky man.

“Stanley?”

“Yeah, Ford?”

“I’ve changed my mind about fishing.” Ford crouches down to the deck, still grinning like he’s won the lottery. “I haven’t had this much fun in years.”

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #stanley pines #stanford pines #my writing #absolute maniacs the pair of them #i thought of the first line in algebra class and i've lowkey been writing it in my head all day until i was able to actually type it up

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bitchfromtheseventhhell · 7 years

Text

idk what this au is don’t @ me

she looks at the white wood, eyes dripping red blood and looks back.

she looks back to a house with a red door, to the moment when viserys’ eyes hardened when he looked at her, to ser willem dead. she looks back to homelessness, she looks back to fear.

she looks back to drogo, her sun and stars--a man who had raped her, a man who had killed for her, a man whose son she had born and whose death she had caused. she looks back to starvation on the red waste, to hatred in the eyes of men who feared her dragons, to cries of mhysa and those she could not protect.

she looks back to the seas, looks back to the darkness, looks back to the sound of dying dragons. what is a dragon queen without dragons?

she sits down in the snow and stares at the face of the white tree, tucking her knees against her chest. jon’s brother--his cousin in truth, but he still calls him brother and thus so shall dany--says that the old gods of the north aren’t gods for true. they are men who speak with power and magic. what are gods if gods are men?

daenerys targaryen is not a godly woman. what gods ever cared for her? by the time the red priests had started calling her salvation she had already born her dragons. she could not believe in their words about her when their words came after her deeds. her brothers, her parents, her grandparents--they had all kept the seven, yet she did not even know the words to their prayers and found little comfort in their seven pointed star. what faith she had, she had in herself and now--

“they do not want me,” she says quietly to the tree. what is a dragon queen without dragons? her dragons had been good enough to save them, to burn the armies of the dead and lay tormented souls to rest, but when they had fallen what was she now? she feels almost as she had as a little girl--except she is older, and wiser, and knows what men were and what they aren’t, what they want and what they didn’t. “my lords, my father’s vassals do not want me.”

they do not want cersei, they do not want any iron throne, or red keep. they want what they had had for centuries--war between them endless war over borders but in the name of what? they sold the blood of their smallfolk for honor. how is that better than what she offered? and how much blood of the innocent would she have to spill in order to prove that point? what is a dragon queen with no dragons and no lords who bent the knee, whose only blood is a nephew whose own bannermen disliked his loyalty to her?

“i cannot make them have me,” she says to the tree. what force does she have? how many of her unsullied had died only to be resurrected, enslaved once again after she had done all she could to make it so they would never know the whip again? and her dothraki, who had braved the poisoned water for her--what of them? they wanted her, but her khalasar was small, and without lands of its own here, and she’d only ever wanted a home.

“they should be grateful that i saved them--me and my dragons.” she says to the tree, and the words hurt her. does she matter? had she ever mattered? or is she what viserys had always told her she was--useless and stupid. i don’t even have a womb anymore. that’s what viserys sold me for. my womb. was that her only worth? her withered womb, now that she had no dragons to offer in its stead? no dragons, no birthright, no hope for children of her own, no legacy--beyond the survival of every man, woman, and child on this continent.

“if there is one thing i’ve learned, it’s that men are rarely grateful for what they should be.” she turns her head just an inch--not fully, but enough to see him, approaching her, dressed in furs and velvet. he kneels down beside her and then--sharply-- “ghost, no, not on the heart tree.”

the great direwolf with its wide red eyes had lifted its leg to relieve himself for just a moment, but at jon’s words goes to find a pine instead. dany feels warm laughter bubbling up out of her, and jon reached a hand out and took hers.

he had not taken her hand since the moment bran had named him cousin.

he squeezes it now.

“how much force would i require to conquer the kingdoms? and what force do i have if i don’t have my dragons anymore?” she asks wearily. “if saving them from an army of the undead doesn’t prove my worth to them, what will?” and then, because she cannot help herself, because it is jon, who has always understood her better than anynoe, “will i never be more to them than my father’s madness--no matter how hard i fight to save them from a fate worse than death? how much must i prove that i belong here? that i belong here too?” her voice breaks and she is crying, her tears hot on her face in the cold. jon’s hand tightens in hers too.

“you belong here,” jon says quietly.

“except the lords who should bend the--”

“no, i meant here. here in winterfell. here with me.”

dany freezes and looks at him. “my lords bannermen would still have me as king, though my trueborn brother sits by my side and should be their king instead. they see my valor and my stark look and my refusal to take the targaryen name as enough proof that i’m stark enough for them, where bran’s legs are enough to hold their approbation from him--as though his sight didn’t save us all.” there’s a subtle anger there that she hears. she loves him for it. “stay with me,” he whispers to her before the gods of his father. “stay here in winterfell. make this your home, where the last of your blood resides.”

“it won’t be mine,” she says dully. “not my true home--not ever.”

jon cocked his head, thinking. then he spoke slowly. “gods be good i never thought this would cross my mind.”

“what?”

“these northern lords accepted lady catelyn in winterfell. they loved her for the sons she bore my father and the daughters too. they esteemed the advice she gave my brother robb without ever damning her for not being of the north. they’ve seen you fight for the north, they’ve seen your dragons die for the north. they’ll accept you as their king’s blood.”

“lady catelyn had northern children,” daenerys said sadly. “i never will.”

“nor shall i, i suspect,” jon points out. “i may be alive, but my life is not as it would be had i never died. my manhood may...” he pauses, unsure of what to say and dany looks at ghost, flushing at the memory of him, of them, loving without care, without knowledge. “may fuction, but i fear for the seed i produce in truth. it is...not the same as it was before.” he’s red as ghost’s eyes now, and dany feels heat on her face now too.

jon reaches the hand that’s not in hers up and turns her face to his. “marry me, dany. my useless manhood and your useless womb will be well matched. my heir can be bran’s, or arya’s, or sansa’s child and the starks can rule the north when we are dead and gone. stay here with me and make this your home. your dragons and all the good they did will never be forgotten here.”

“i rather suspect that your nothern lords won’t like you marrying your aunt,” she says quietly. she remembers the horror in jon’s eyes--her own horror too--at the words. he may call himself snow, but they all know there’s dragon in his blood now too.

“then they’ll dethrone me and put bran on the thing,” jon says. “i don’t care what they think. starks have married cousin to cousin before--what house hasn’t? and if there shall be no fruit in the union, what can they care? i love you dany. marry me. stay with me. make your home here until the end of your days as queen in the north at my side.”

dany goes still. she looks at the bleeding white tree before her. how much endless war must she face for anything else? could she not live for love and peace? does she not deserve that? and jon would share with her...whatever jon thinks--had thought--of their shared blood, it had only led him down a road to this moment.

she turns her gaze to the wolf, lying between them and the tree. he is watching her with deep red eyes. red, she thinks and swallows. if eyes are doors to the soul, and ghost is part of jon’s soul, then these doors are red.

she takes a deep breath.

“my dothraki and unsullied,” she begins.

“the north is vast and wasn’t fully peopled before the army of the dead claimed countless lives. i see no reason why your dothraki can’t roam it, if they’d prefer to remain than return to the great grass sea. they would be subject to northern rule, and shan’t rape and pillage lest their king’s justice comes down upon them, but i don’t see why they can’t ride the plains. nymeria coming to dorne led to a golden age in her principality. i don’t see why the same might not be true here and now. and as for your unsullied...”

“they can do as they please,” she says, eager. “let them build lives for themselves here."

“i’d already thought to give grey worm a castle,” jon says, smiling. “he deserves at least three.”

that makes dany laugh and it is that more than anything else--she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.

how she has missed kissing him, the way her heart swells at the taste of his lips, the way his hands feel in her hair. “truly?” she asks him between kisses. “you want this?” you want me?

jon only kisses her. he kisses her so deeply and pushes her back in the snow and the cold against her back is uncomfortable but she supposes she’ll get used to it.

#gotfic #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #jonerys #jon x daenerys #i do know what this au is: it's me being bitter @ the dany discourse #me: should be doing work #also me: here have this weird au #that is literally never gonna be canon #@ emily i thought of you during part of this you'll know why #1h

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funkzpiel · 7 years

Note

Newt Scamander comes into possession of the Resurrection stone and he uses it to talk to his dead husband Percival Graves (i'm so sorry lol)

“Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from Death. So Death picked up a stone from the riverbank and gave it to the second brother, and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead."—The Tale of the Three Brothers

WARNING(S): Character death(s), Mentions of Thoughts of Suicide, Suggestion of Suicide

No one told him that in beating death, he would still be so lonely, that victory could feel so hollow. That it could get worse. That the stone was more than just a weight in his hand, cold and growing colder - but a weight in his chest, his heart barely warmer.

No one told him how much it would hurt, to be so close to death but still too alive to touch it.

No one told him…

No one told him that Percival would look exactly as he had the last time he had seen him happy. That his hair was still be soft from sleep, that his clothing wouldn’t quite be impeccable yet. His smile still present, still soft, still so loving - still so far away. That his cheeks would still be pink from the warmth of their comforter and the touch of Newt’s hand as he greeted him good morning. That he’d look so alive.

No one told him he couldn’t touch, couldn’t hold, couldn’t kiss. And some days, to speak is enough. It is still Percival, after all. But it is only a matter of time before he forgets. Before he reaches forward mindlessly to brush his fingers through the soft fringe of his husband’s untreated hair or to kiss the frown from the corner of his mouth or to sweep him into his arms that he remembers.

His hands fall through the man as if he were no more than air. No change in temperature as passing through a ghost might provide - not even that gentle, if uncomfortable, mercy. Because then, at least, he’d have proof that Graves was there.

It is only the cold bite of the stone in his hands that proves the man is not a figment of his imagination, and even then…

Newt wonders.

Newt wonders a lot of things.

“Please don’t,” Percival says from the doorway one evening as Newt sips his tumbler of scotch and stares into the fire until his eyes are nothing but light and heat and dried of the tears he can’t bare any more. He hadn’t realized the he had squeezed the stone he always carried in his pocket, but sure enough - Percival was here.

Except he wasn’t.

“Don’t what?” Newt asked, voice rough from drink, and grimaced.

Don’t drink.

Don’t keep calling me.

Don’t do this to yourself.

Don’t stay locked away in my dying home.

Don’t blame yourself.

Don’t miss me.

Don’t follow.

“I wish I could help you,” he whispers instead.

Newt takes a sip from his drink and goes back to staring at the fire.

“You can’t do this to yourself, Newt. You deserve more than-than this,” he said, gesturing to himself. “Some hollow image of what we used to have. You’re going to drive yourself mad, please.”

When finally Newt speaks, its a long and dreadful grating of words that silence the room like the claws of some gnarled and twisted monster, hands suddenly out from beneath the bed.

“Were things reversed and it was you who had to lower me into the ground and take that bloody folded flag as they fired shots in honor of my service, would you be strong enough to resist, Percival?”

And when finally he looks up, his eyes are raw, bloodshot ghosts of the eyes that Graves had fallen in love with. In the doorway, his husband looks stricken. Hand over the place where his heart once beat, the softness of his hair trembling.

“I didn’t want to leave you, Newt–”

“–That’s not what I asked.”

“This isn’t healthy. Just look at yourself, Newt! Please! You’re wasting away and I–”

“–That’s not what I asked–”

“–I can’t watch you do this!” And finally, it’s a howl.

Newt stares and beneath his gaze, something spills down his husband’s cheek. When it hits the follow, the carpet doesn’t change. Newt clenches his jaw.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He watches as Percival scrubs his face with the heel of first one hand, then the other - angry - and something far away pangs in his heart, like the memory of what his husband feels like. Important, like a heart beat. Missing, like his other half.

In his palm, the stone feels warmer than he does.

“If that’s the game you want to play, fine - and what if you were me? What if you had to follow me around and watch me drown in liquor I never used to touch. To stop writing to my brother or stop talking to my friends. To lock myself in my husband’s home and slowly wither. Unable to touch, unable to help, unable to be seen by anyone else, unable to tell anyone else - just watching as I slowly die. Looking for permission with each reunion to follow, and yes, I know that’s what you want,” he says, and his voice cracks in a way it never used to, “Damn it, Newt, please. Please don’t ask me that. Please go to your brother, Tina, fucking anyone, please.”

His eyes feel hot, but the fire burned everything away.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Percival’s lips form a long, thin line. It’s splits his face the way Newt’s heart feels split - angry and bitter and broken.

“You know my answer, Newt.”

Newt just nods.

“Maybe I’ll write my brother tomorrow,” he says.

You said that yesterday, goes unuttered. Percival no longer bothers to remind him. Instead, he says, “It’ll get better,” as though the conviction of his tone alone could make it so.

Newt rubs his thumb against the stone and nods before finishing his glass. He follows his husband to a bed they cannot share in death and lays next to a body he cannot touch. His eyes grow heavy across from the never tiring gaze of the man he lost, merciless as Percival ensures Newt makes it to tomorrow.

He asks him to throw away the stone with each softly murmured reassurance, every almost touch, every wet glance, and only disappears when sleep steals the strength from Newt’s fingers to hold the stone any longer. It tumbles onto the sheets, icy and forgotten.

He doesn’t take up the stone the next morning, but he does write his brother.

I’m sorry.

#newt scamander #percival graves #original percival graves #gramander #mini fic

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frmartinshomiliesandreflections · 5 years

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22nd May >> Fr. Martin's Gospel Reflections / Homilies on John 15:1-8 for Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter: ‘I am the vine, you are the branches’.

Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

John 15:1-8

I am the vine, you are the branches

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘I am the true vine,

and my Father is the vinedresser.

Every branch in me that bears no fruit

he cuts away,

and every branch that does bear fruit

he prunes to make it bear even more.

You are pruned already,

by means of the word that I have spoken to you.

Make your home in me, as I make mine in you.

As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself,

but must remain part of the vine,

neither can you unless you remain in me.

I am the vine,

you are the branches.

Whoever remains in me, with me in him,

bears fruit in plenty;

for cut off from me you can do nothing.

Anyone who does not remain in me

is like a branch that has been thrown away – he withers;

these branches are collected and thrown on the fire,

and they are burnt.

If you remain in me

and my words remain in you,

you may ask what you will

and you shall get it.

It is to the glory of my Father that you should bear much fruit,

and then you will be my disciples.’

Gospel (USA)

John 15:1-8

Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.

Jesus said to his disciples: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vine grower. He takes away every branch in me that does not bear fruit, and everyone that does he prunes so that it bears more fruit. You are already pruned because of the word that I spoke to you. Remain in me, as I remain in you. Just as a branch cannot bear fruit on its own unless it remains on the vine, so neither can you unless you remain in me. I am the vine, you are the branches. Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit, because without me you can do nothing. Anyone who does not remain in me will be thrown out like a branch and wither; people will gather them and throw them into a fire and they will be burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask for whatever you want and it will be done for you. By this is my Father glorified, that you bear much fruit and become my disciples.”

Reflections (5)

(i) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter

As part of children’s instruction for the Sacrament of Confirmation, they are told about the fruits of the Holy Spirit. It is Saint Paul in his letter to the Galatians who lists these fruits, or what he terms ‘fruit’, of the Holy Spirit, namely ‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control’. Paul was articulating there the fundamental attitudes of heart that the Holy Spirit works to form within us. He is saying that if we open ourselves to the gift of the Spirit we have received, our life will show forth this rich fruit. In the gospel reading today, Jesus also speaks about fruit, in connection with the image of the vine. At the end of the gospel reading he declares that it is to the glory of God his Father that we should bear much fruit. A little beyond this reading Jesus identifies this fruit with love, the kind of love that Jesus gave expression to in his own life. Paul identifies such love as the fruit of the Spirit. Jesus declares in our gospel reading that if we are to bear this fruit we must remain in him as branches in the vine. Paul identifies the Spirit as the source of this fruit; Jesus identifies himself as its source. It is our union with the Lord through the Spirit that empowers us to love in a way that reflects how the Lord loved. We cannot live this way on the basis of our own resources alone. We need to be in union with the Lord and his Spirit.

And/Or

(ii) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter

This morning’s gospel reading is again taken from John’s account of what Jesus said to his disciples on the night before he died. Jesus is taking his leave of his disciples but, before doing so, he wants to assure them that beyond his death and resurrection he will remain in communion with them. The image of the vine and the branches expresses the depth of his communion with his disciples, with all of us. The Lord wants to be in communion with all of us, but for that to happen we must remain in him by allowing his words to remain in us, by allowing his words to shape our lives. We can slip out of our communion with him; we can cut ourselves off from the Lord. However, his invitation is always there to return to him and to remain with him or in him. It is in returning to him, in remaining in him, in allowing his words to remain in us, that our lives bear rich fruit, what Paul calls the fruit of the Spirit. According to the last verse of our gospel reading, it is lives rich in the fruit of the Spirit that give glory to God. According to Saint Irenaeus, it is the human person fully alive - alive with the fruit of the Spirit - that gives glory to God.

And/Or

(iii) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter

Those who have roses will know that they need to be pruned if you are to get the best out of them. What is true of roses is true of most plants; pruning brings on new life. Jesus refers to that procedure of pruning in today’s gospel reading. He suggests that in various ways God prunes our lives to make them even more fruitful than they presently are. There are some things we may need to shed if we are to become all that God is calling us to be. Some experiences of letting go, which can be very painful at the time, can help us to grow in our relationship with God and with others. Yet, during those painful experiences of pruning in our lives, the Lord is in communion with us. In the words of the gospel reading, he makes his home in us, he remains in us. We don’t have to face into that experience of being pruned on our own, or in the strength of our own resources alone. The Lord who makes his home in us will sustain us in those times, and will lead us through the painful experience of pruning into a new and more fruitful life. However, for that to happen we need to remain in him as he remains in us; we need to keep in communion with him, as he is in communion with us.

And/Or

(iv) Wednesday of Fifth Week of Easter

The words of Jesus we have just heard from the gospel of John are spoken in the course of the Last Supper. Jesus has been speaking about his immanent departure, his leaving this world and going to the Father. It is in that context of speaking about his going away from his disciples that Jesus also speaks about his presence to his disciples, the new communion between Jesus and his disciples that his departure will make possible. One image of the new quality of communion between Jesus and his disciples, between Jesus and us, is the image of the vine. Jesus says ‘I am the vine, you are the branches’. Jesus has taken the initiative to create that communion, by his journey to the Father and his sending of the Spirit. We are not asked to create that communion; that has been done for us. Our calling is to preserve the communion the Lord has created or, in the words of the gospel reading, to remain in him. We are to remain in the communion the Lord has created and is always creating. We do that by our prayerful communion with him and by our efforts to love one another as he has loved us, to be in communion with each other as he is in communion with us.

And/Or

(v) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Easter

Several times in John’s gospel Jesus makes a solemn statement about himself beginning with the two little words, ‘I am...’ In this morning’s gospel reading ‘I am the vine’. This, however, is the only occasion when having declared ‘I am...’ Jesus immediately goes on to declare to his disciples, ‘you are...’ Having said, ‘I am the vine’, Jesus says to his disciples, ‘you are the branches’. Jesus is the whole vine and we, his disciples, are the branches on that vine. By means of this image Jesus was expressing very graphically the bond that he seeks to create between himself and ourselves. He wants to make his home in us and the wants us to make our home in him. He speaks of a deep communion between himself and ourselves, one that bears rich fruit, the fruit of his loving presence to others. The fruit is secondary to the communion, as Jesus says you cannot bear fruit unless you remain in me. The Lord has taken the initiative to bring about this deep communion between him and us; he has laid down his life for us and poured the Spirit into our hearts. We have to reciprocate, by befriending him as he has befriended us, by allowing his words to remain in us, making a home for his words in our hearts.

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: [email protected] or [email protected]

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

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frmartinshomiliesandreflections · 6 years

Photo

2nd May >> Fr.Martin's Gospel Reflections/Homilies on John 15:1-8 for Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide: ‘Make your home in me’.

Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide

Gospel (Europe, Africa, New Zealand, Australia & Canada)

John 15:1-8

I am the vine, you are the branches

Jesus said to his disciples:

‘I am the true vine,

and my Father is the vinedresser.

Every branch in me that bears no fruit

he cuts away,

and every branch that does bear fruit

he prunes to make it bear even more.

You are pruned already,

by means of the word that I have spoken to you.

Make your home in me, as I make mine in you.

As a branch cannot bear fruit all by itself,

but must remain part of the vine,

neither can you unless you remain in me.

I am the vine,

you are the branches.

Whoever remains in me, with me in him,

bears fruit in plenty;

for cut off from me you can do nothing.

Anyone who does not remain in me

is like a branch that has been thrown away – he withers;

these branches are collected and thrown on the fire,

and they are burnt.

If you remain in me

and my words remain in you,

you may ask what you will

and you shall get it.

It is to the glory of my Father that you should bear much fruit,

and then you will be my disciples.’

Gospel (USA)

John 15:1-8

Whoever remains in me and I in him will bear much fruit.

Reflections (5)

(i) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide

As part of children’s instruction for the Sacrament of Confirmation, they are told about the fruits of the Holy Spirit. It is Saint Paul in his letter to the Galatians who lists the fruits, or what he terms the ‘fruit’, of the Holy Spirit, ‘love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control’. Paul was articulating there the fundamental attitudes of heart that the Holy Spirit works to form within us. He is saying that if we open ourselves to the gift of the Spirit we have received, our life will show forth this rich fruit. In the gospel reading today, Jesus also speaks about fruit in connection with the image of the vine. At the end of the gospel reading he declares that it is to the glory of God his Father that we should bear much fruit. A little beyond this reading Jesus identifies this fruit with love, the kind of love that Jesus gave expression to in his own life, what Paul also identifies as the fruit of the Spirit. Jesus declares in our reading that if we are to bear this fruit we must remain in him as branches in the vine. Paul identifies the Spirit as the source of this fruit; Jesus identifies himself as its source. It is our union with the Lord through the Spirit that empowers us to live in a way that reflects how the Lord lived, how he loved. We cannot live this way on the basis of our own resources alone. We need to be in union with the Lord and his Spirit.

And/Or

(ii) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide

And/Or

(iii) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide

And/Or

(iv) Wednesday of Fifth Week of Eastertide

And/Or

(v) Wednesday, Fifth Week of Eastertide

Fr. Martin Hogan, Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin, D03 AO62, Ireland.

Email: [email protected] or [email protected]

Parish Website: www.stjohnsclontarf.ie Please join us via our webcam.

Twitter: @SJtBClontarfRC.

Facebook: St John the Baptist RC Parish, Clontarf.

Tumblr: Saint John the Baptist Parish, Clontarf, Dublin.

0 notes