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in-tua-deep · 4 years

Note

I would like to see Hargreaves family time please :3

HMMMM have a bonding scene ;3c

it is unedited though bc i never got around to it lmao

...

The thing they don’t tell you about recovering after escaping from terrible experiences, is that there are some things that you miss about them. You can be glad that you escaped while still mourning what you left behind, even if as far as you are concerned there shouldn’t be anything to mourn in the first place.

Five hated the apocalypse with something heavy and terrible that settled deep in his gut and that tended to be vomited out at the most inopportune times. Or perhaps it wasn’t hate at all, but fear that he experienced. Not that he would ever admit it, mind you.

But there were just some things that just - well. Five had spent over forty years in the apocalypse, sifting through rubble and ruin and scratching out equations on walls that were too broken to offer even the memory of the comfort and safety they’d once upheld. He’d spent forty years clinging to life by his fingernails and re-reading a book that was the only thing he had of his siblings outside of the grave sites he refused to visit,

He didn’t want to go back there. His entire life’s work was getting out of that hellscape and making it so that it never existed in the first place. Five hated and feared the apocalypse, but oh there were some days that he missed it with such a terrible fierceness it rather took his breath away.

He missed it on the days when nothing seemed to go right, when every word that came out of his mouth was wrong. When people looked at him with tightness around their eyes and pinched lips, and his siblings looked at him with pity in their eyes. Poor little Number Five, who couldn’t even accomplish the simplest of social interactions without inevitably fucking it up. Poor little Number Five, who forgot that people weren’t supposed to write on walls or hoard food in their rooms or freak out when someone burned food in a kitchen.

Adapting to a normal life was a challenge that Five hadn’t ever thought about - because what about his life had ever been normal? He was a child soldier, and then an apocalypse survivor, and then a temporal assassin and then - he wasn’t quite certain what he was now. Was he a child, or an adult? What was he supposed to do with himself now?

He missed that sense of purpose in the apocalypse. He missed Dolores. His one companion for so many years. He’d actually known her for longer than he’d known his own family, and wasn’t that an odd thought?

He missed the spot he’d holed up in before an earthquake had ruined it almost ten years before the Commission had found him. It wasn’t much, but he’d found a handful of records that had miraculously survived and an old record player that had even more miraculously done so.

He’d admitted to Dolores that he didn’t really know how to dance, not beyond the general flailing and swaying his siblings had used to drag him into when Luther played something from his budding collection.

(Five hadn’t had the heart to go rooting through the remains of the Umbrella Academy for things that could be salvaged, but he wondered about it often. He wondered if he’d find a whole entire collection of records, of if Luther would have lost interest and gotten rid of them all. He wondered if Allison still read through all the trashy magazines she could get her hands on as an adult, if she still tried to balance books on her head and walk regally through the house just because she’d read it once in a princess book or if she’d grown out of that.

He was back now, and perfectly capable of asking, but he didn’t. He looked at his siblings and saw strangers and missed his childhood even with the shadow of Reginald looming over them all. He loved his siblings as they were now, but oh he ached with the knowledge that the siblings he had known, the ones he had tried so hard to get back to, were lost to time. As good as dead. But then again, perhaps so was he.

He wasn’t the child who left on that fateful November day. He would never be him again.)

He missed Dolores teaching him to dance under the pale moon. Or well, not perhaps dancing so much as gently swaying together with his arms around her, cheek pressed against hers, as he closed his eyes and pretended for a moment that he hadn’t met her in the apocalypse at all. That they’d just bumped into one another in the street and gone on dates where he made her laugh and where he stressed about what to wear - a million inconsequential moments that meant nothing and everything at the same time. He’d wished they’d had a life together instead of the slow drawn out death that was the only thing that existed in the apocalypse.

And perhaps, there were other things he didn’t know he would miss until they were already gone and out of reach. Things he didn’t even think about, until he looked up at night and wondered where all the stars had gone.

It was a silly thing to get upset over, to go tearing through the house like a man possessed to figure out what had happened to the stars.

(Or perhaps it wasn’t so silly after all - the almost-apocalypse he had witnessed destroyed the moon. Was it such a reach to wonder about the stars, as well?)

Light pollution was the simple answer. It wasn’t that the stars were no longer there, just that they were drowned out. Only a few pinpricks bright enough to shine through and be picked up by the human eye. There had been no human lights in the apocalypse, with no one to turn them on or off except one lonely man who had a flashlight with scavenged batteries. Not nearly enough to make any difference.

The stars had been so beautiful. On the clear crisp nights, he’d lay next to Dolores on the ground staring up at the brilliant specks of light and tried his darnest to remember the constellations that once upon a time Luther had enthusiastically outlined for his unattentive brother at the height of his space phase.

(“When we get back,” He’d whispered to Dolores ever so softly, in the way he whispered every wish that only seemed appropriate to utter out loud under the night sky, “I’m going to get Luther to tell me them again, and I’ll actually listen this time. I won’t tell him to shut up, or that stars aren’t important. I’ll listen.”

He’d never been very good at listening, even as a child. But outside of a seven day deadline - the apocalypse had taught him patience. It was something the Commission found to be a boon as well - there was nothing more deadly than a very patient predator on the hunt, after all.)

Klaus had told him that the apocalypse was an addiction, and Five had done his best to quit cold turkey.

He’d returned Dolores to her store, mourning what could never be between them. In darker moments, he wondered if she would have ever actually chosen him - in that imaginary world where they met on a crowded street by happenstance. They’d been forced together at the end of the world, and even though he loved her he wondered about things like choice and happiness and shared trauma. Them breaking up was the right thing to do, he knew that, he just hadn’t realized quite how much it would hurt.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that Five sought comfort where he could. That he stole a record from Luther’s collection (it had gotten bigger, a passion pursued into adulthood which was one question answered) that he must have played dozens of times on that record player in their little sanctuary at the end of the world. That he slept on the floor instead of the bed that was far too soft in so many ways.

That he crept up to the roof and lay on his back and stared at the stars that were visible, remembering a sky filled with diamonds and a cool hand in his own and whispered hopes and dreams and secrets from one terribly lonely boy to the uncaring infinity of the cosmos.

And maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise that it wasn’t long until he was discovered up there, gazing at the sky with such careful mourning carved across his face.

(He hated and feared the apocalypse, but he mourned it as well. It had raised him, in the harsh and terrible way that was all the apocalypse knew how to do. He’d been raised by Reginald Hargreeves and forged in bruises and thoughtless brutality, and then delivered into the arms of something else that didn’t care for him either.

He grew into a boy with careless cruelty and harsh criticisms and a love for his siblings that burned hotter and longer than any fire the apocalypse could produce. He grew into a man, or perhaps just something man-shaped, in starvation and desperation and terrible all-consuming loneliness.

Reginald had been fond of telling them, “You will learn through suffering.” It was something trotted out whenever the children were forced to skip meals or run up and down stairs until their insides twisted and they retched on the floor barely held up by burning thighs and weak knees. It was being tossed behind locked doors until they promised their unrelenting obedience to a man who had done nothing to deserve it.

If suffering was a teacher, then surely Five was one of the wisest people alive.)

“What are you doing up here?” Luther asks, too loud in the stillness of the night. Five doesn’t begrudge him it though, it wasn’t every day one was confronted by their teenage shaped brother laying listlessly on the roof at hours when everybody should be tucked away in bed.

“What are you doing up here?” Five parrots back, melancholy mood sharpening the edge of his words into something more pointed than he perhaps meant them to be.

Luther shuffles, looking awkward in his own skin as he so often does. It’s enough to make Five soften, just ever so slightly. After all, Luther isn’t exactly the only member of the house who feels alien in their own body.

Perhaps it’s cruel to take comfort in his brother’s discomfort. But perhaps Five is cruel. It isn’t the worst thing he’s been called in his life.

(No one speaks about the dinner where Five and Diego had been sniping at one another and pushing each other’s buttons where Diego had brought up Five abandoning the family. That had been his exact word - abandoning. Five had frozen and Diego had pressed on, snarling about Five not getting an opinion about Reginald because he’d ditched so early and left the rest of them to Dad’s tender mercies. He’d said far more, but the rest of that dinner was a blur of sound and colors for Five.

Diego had apologized over the incident and then proceeded to not look Five in the eye for the next week. The whole family were so good at picking at one another’s weak spots and hitting them hard and fast. It was practically second nature. They knew which points to leave alone when it came down to it for each other, but not for Five. Not yet.

They didn’t know him anymore. It was a work in progress navigating their respective minefields of trauma in the meantime.)

“I asked you first.” Luther says, childish statement bringing Five out of his own thoughts. At the end of the day, they are brothers.

And perhaps it is that brotherly spirit that prompts Five’s lips to quirk as he offers the equally childish response of: “I asked you second.”

Luther scowls, but he’s fully aware of exactly how stubborn Five could be. That’s Five, built out of spite and pettiness, who never knew how to just lay down and give up. But if he’d been any less himself, they would never be there that night on the roof irritating one another. The thought fills Five up with something that could almost be called fondness.

Luther crosses his arms, and looks away. “I like looking at the stars.” He admits haltingly, and it makes Five sit up from where he was still sprawled on the ground. “I just - on the moon - I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” Five cuts in with a fierceness that surprises them both. Five doesn’t look at Luther, just the sky. “There’s not as many stars, here. Not that you can see. It’s supposed to look different, but what’s left is still comforting because the sky is a constant. Because the stars don’t really change, even when the rest of the world does.”

“Yeah.” Luther sounds surprised at Five’s insight. There’s a moment of hesitation before Luther is gently lowering himself down to sit on the roof a few feet away from where Five is. When Five dares to sneak a glance, Luther’s eyes are trained on the sky with an almost wistful look on his face.

“I know I’m not supposed to miss it,” Luther begins, and the thought sounds so much like what Five was just pondering that he can’t help but startle. Thankfully, Luther doesn’t see. “But - it was always my dream, you know? To go up there, into space. I know it was just a rejection now, that Dad didn’t want me around so he wouldn’t have to face his failure.” Luther’s face twisted as he spat out the last word. He’d taken it hard, learning that he was just as insignificant in the grand scheme of their father’s plans as the rest of them.

“But.” Luther continues, his face smoothing out, “It was still four years of my life. I had a routine. It was lonely, but god Five. The weightless feeling? The stars? The sunrises? There’s nothing quite like it.”

There’s a silence between them for a moment that Five decides to break. Because he’s trying, he really is.

“Sometimes,” Five says, so softly that Luther actually shifts closer to hear him, “Sometimes the apocalypse was beautiful. A decade or so in, when the plants just tentatively started realizing it was safe to grow again, and the weeds came back first. Just spots of green and bright yellow dotted through the cracks and crevices.”

(Five had spent many springs of his life wandering through the rubble, leaning down to pick dandelions to admire before he ate them. Even when he was terribly hungry, he’d never eaten all of them - always leaving some to mature and bring more the next year. Picking them up and blowing softly and remembering the first time he’d seen one - on a mission where Ben had quietly and excitedly informed them that they had to blow on it and make a wish. That he’d read about it in a book.

Five had made the same wish for forty some years. He wasn’t sure what he’d wish for now, now that it had come true.)

“And when the skies were clear, at night - the stars were beautiful.” Five admitted, Luther made a sound but Five ignored it to carry on because if he didn’t speak his mind now he might never. “There were so many Lu, way more than we ever saw out our bedroom windows. And on nights where the moon was just a sliver, there were even more. We’d lay out there for hours.”

Luther coughs. Five looks over and isn’t quite sure why there’s a guilty look on his brother’s face. “’We’ would uh, be you and uh, Dolores, right?”

Ah, that would explain it. Luther always got that look when Five brought up Dolores, no doubt thinking about when he’d held her out of a window as leverage to prevent Five from killing someone. Luther hadn’t known then, Five thinks, about exactly how much Dolores meant to him. He’d known she was important, but hadn’t known why. He hadn’t asked.

There’s nothing Five can do but nod though, in response to the question. “Yeah. She likes the stars, she’s always loved things that glitter.” It was why she loved sequins so much, and Five was secure enough to admit that he liked them as well.

There’s an awkward silence between them now, one that Five can’t help but try and break. “I tried to remember the constellations.” He blurts out, grasping at the connection the two of them had shared before it slips between his fingers and results in them quietly going to their rooms and forgetting this conversation ever happened.

He can’t look at Luther, not as he admits this. So he doesn’t, he turns his gaze upwards to the pinpricks of light. “Do you remember, when we were eight and Mom gave you that book of constellations? And you wouldn’t shut up about it for like, a whole month? You kept waking all of us up and dragging us to the roof and you said we had to listen to you because you were Number One?”

Luther surprises Five just a little by laughing, “Yeah! Yeah I do remember that. Diego threatened to throw me off the roof if I ever woke him up in the middle of the night again after the fourth time and I’m pretty sure Klaus learned morse code to complain about me to Ben.”

Five grins, “Nah, don’t flatter yourself. He learned morse code with Ben to gossip at dinner. Your little nighttime shows were just something else he could yell about in front of Dad without anyone the wiser.”

“Of course he did.” Luther just sounds exasperated at their most colorful sibling’s antics, which is a big improvement on how he would have felt about it when they were actually eight. “To be honest, I didn’t think any of you actually listened to what I was saying at the time. I’m surprised you remembered.”

Five shuffles, not exactly wanting to admit he doesn’t remember most of the content but not quite willing to lie to his brother either. “I only remembered bits and pieces. Some names, other shapes. Those three stars that make up that one dude’s belt or something.”

“You didn’t just find some astronomy book?” Luther asks, looking puzzled. He doesn’t look offended at least, that Five didn’t pay that much attention during those lectures so many years ago. To be fair, he’s had plenty of time to come to terms with the idea.

“It felt disloyal.” Five admits after a heartbeat, only half grudgingly. He isn’t exactly the king of heart to hearts, but there is something about Luther that seems to encourage them in him. Even during the stress of the days preceding the apocalypse weighing on him, it had been Luther who Five had told about finding their bodies and who Five had told not to waste his life.

Maybe it was the certain level of kinship between them, both of them trapped in bodies that they did not choose and did not want. Both of them left alone for years on end, having to relearn how to interact with the general populace. Luther was loyal where Five was rebellious, but they had enough common ground between them to be significant.

“Disloyal?” Luther’s tone isn’t quite questionioning, just offering a way for Five to continue his thought where he’d trailed off.

Five’s stomach squirms at the blatant emotion, but it would have to try a lot harder than that to stop him after he’d gotten used to the hollow aching pain of starvation. “I didn’t want to learn the constellations from a book.” He says, and it’s easier to admit to hopes and wishes in the dark with the stars above him. It’s familiar. It’s not Dolores next to him, but Luther isn’t half bad company when he’s by himself. “I wanted to learn them from you, except you weren’t around to ask anymore.”

Now that he’s out of that hellscape, he can half admit to himself that not allowing himself to pick up an astronomy book might have been him giving himself even more incentive to go back and fix things. Not that he needed it but - half of it might have also been a sort of punishment for abandoning his family to whatever fate left them buried in rubble and dead at the end of the world as well. Never let it be said that any of Five’s coping mechanisms were actually healthy.

There’s a silence where Luther mulls that over, before he opens his mouth with a soft expression, “I’m around now.”

It’s an offer and a question rolled into one. It’s not Luther immediately launching into a lecture assuming that’s what Five wants or needs at the moment, it’s him asking, which is an improvement all in itself. If Five was too raw tonight, he would accept that without a question and they could look at the sky in silence together until the dawn came.

The ball is in Five’s court.

“What - what’s the name of the dude with the belt?” Five asks, hesitant and careful and feeling as brittle as the porcelain vases that Reginald decorated the halls with.

Luther’s answering smile is bright and tender enough to hurt.

“His name’s Orion...” Luther explains, and Five closes his eyes and lets Luther’s voice wash over him. When he opens them, it seems like the stars twinkle just a tiny bit brighter than before.

Or that might just be his imagination.

#ask me #yeAH i volunteered to do a luther and five piece bc very few people wants to tag in for luther #look i'm not luther's biggest fan but he has some rights #then again i haven't seen s2 maybe he loses what few rights he has #but i can't help but draw parallels between his and five's experiences #me holding up luther: stinky but still good #tua #the umbrella academy #far tua long #long post #five hargreeves #number five #luther hargreeves #i don't THINK i posted this before but correct me if i'm wrong #should i put this on the masterlist ????? what would i even put it under idk #Anonymous #oneshots

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bukojuiice · 3 years

Text

merry go round of life.

ೃ pairing: (magical prince! shoto todoroki x fem! reader)

ೃ tags: howl’s moving castle au! studio ghibli au!

ೃ warnings: slight angst, mention of endeavor and war.

ೃ part 1/2 of the howl’s moving castle au.

ೃ word count: 3,807 words

ೃ my nav → my mha writing masterlist → my katsuki bakugo x reader smau

ೃ as the tags and the au suggests, this fic is pretty much the premise of howl’s moving castle except shoto is a magical prince. i’m super excited to complete the rest of this studio ghibli au series and i hope you enjoy reading! ♡

ೃ please do reblog if you enjoyed!! (feel free to add tags too because i love reading them and my heart swells with happiness when people love my work!) ♡

“Find me in the future!”

The voice of a young woman who he didn’t recognize. Amongst the shooting stars and the demons falling from the night sky.

Tonight was the night.

The grassy plains and the meadows that were surrounding the warm cottage that he called home. The loving home that he, his mother, and his siblings lived in. The home that kept him away from the real world.

Things will never be the same ever again.

This was going to be easy right? All he needed to do was trade his heart for the demon’s power and he’d see his father again right?

He’d finally see the real world. The magical world that he always yearned for.

Being confined in a cottage all his life did leave much to be desired. He couldn’t just run around the lush fields with his older siblings and learn magic through spell books all his life, can he? There were things out there that he had to discover.

Now that his mother had passed, his siblings vanished into thin air, and a letter sent by his father, the tyrant king of the Kingdom of Ingary, detailing that he must learn magic on his twelfth year, in order to secure a position of royalty and rule the land with him.

This intimidating man he had never met all his life, except seeing him on newspapers and in history books, would suddenly write a letter to him out of the blue- it must be urgent right? Maybe, this was his calling? Maybe the passing of his mother is the reason the king, his father, contacted him in the first place? Did the most powerful man in the entire continent know about his whereabouts all along?

Was he living a lie all this time?

Shoto needed answers. The king’s invitation and this letter was his only clue.

But, before that, he needed to learn magic and sorcery first.

He was going to turn 12 in a few month’s time, how is he going to do this? He can’t just snap his fingers and manifest magic on the spot, right?

“A m-meteor shower? I-in a few months?” The handsome young boy with half-and-half colored hair and the prettiest heterochromatic eyes, whispered to himself in disbelief. “Take your chance and meet a fire and ice demon who will give you their magic.” He continues to read along the lines of the tabloid, grabbing a worn notebook on the table next to him, and writing down every piece of information that entailed the phenomenon that was about to come. “It doesn’t say when though.” He continues to whisper to himself, his shoulders dropping in defeat as if he had just hit a slump.

The only hope that he was holding on to right now was his luck guiding him on that fated day.

And it did guide him. At a cost.

The fire and ice demon who were to give him his magical quirks, weren’t all that he had seemed.

In exchange for his humanity, he was to become the most powerful and the only wizard prince in the entire world.

Several years have passed.

The once lost boy, who is now a famed prince, was in search for something again.

The effect of the demon taking his heart had made him soulless. Lifeless.

Clinging on to material things and fake temporary pleasures in life were the only things keeping him going.

The once newly crowned prince had wanted to escape his hellish kingdom, in search for peace and solace, a feeling that he did not experience while living in such a wide and empty space and with an estranged father who knew nothing but war.

His skills of wizardry grew stronger and stronger, expanding to more than just fire and ice; the magic that Calcifer, the demon whom he had made a contract with, bestowed upon him all those years ago. He had collected enough knowledge and learned enough encantations to get him out of this castle, and travel the world by his own blissful means.

Calcifer, the oh so powerful yet surprisingly comical demon helped him with his plans.

And what better way of an escape than with a magical moving castle?

This led to Shoto and Calcifer coming to another agreement that the demon would power the castle as long as Shoto would find someone in this world that would break the contract between them.

The prince and the demon were able to escape the confines of the castle scotch-free, however, it was not long until King Enji realized that the heir and the next in line to the throne, disappeared without a trace. Immediately warranting a search party consisting of his most elite soldiers. This prompted Shoto to adopt different identities and aliases, changing his appearance in every other kingdom he visited and lived in so he wouldn’t be recognized. Along his journey, he took in a sweet orphaned young girl, named Eri who became his assistant and apprentice.

The king was growing impatient. It had been a few years and his men have not found a trace as to where the prince might have gone.

He was running out of options.

He wanted Shoto to excel. To be powerful. He never ever planned to see him or even bothered to send a letter telling him that he was the son of the most powerful king in the land, if the boy did not have anything special about him.

The magical genes passed on to the younger Todoroki by his sorceress mother. That’s all that he wanted. Use him. Use him for his power. Make him a prince, raise him, and then throw him away if he was of no use anymore. His son’s magical prowess was all he needed for his quest to conquer the entire world.

The only option he had left was to choose violence.

The king called up his war council and declared war on the neighboring kingdom.

If nothing was going to bring Shoto back, then conflict will.

With the entire continent falling into shambles, kingdoms fighting each other left and right, the peace and the freedom Shoto Todoroki had always wanted to achieve had become short-lived.

He knew he was the reason why a conflict had arisen in the first place, yet, he couldn’t help but fight his father’s forces behind the scenes, and continue to run away, still seeking for permanent liberty. For a permanent home.

He found his home.

In a simple girl working in her family’s hat shop.

And finally, Shoto had something to live for and to fight for.

“Calcifer!”

“Shoto’s heart! It’s MINE!”

“Please! Let go!” You struggle to fight your way through the igniting fire coming from Calcifer and the ember that was about to consume the Witch of the Waste. Her old and wrinkled hands clutching on Shoto’s heart as if her life depended on it.

The remains of the moving castle continue to crumble, as the only power that was keeping it alive which came from Calcifer had become unstable as the Witch of the Waste was holding Shoto’s heart.

“Put it back now! Please!” You try to fight back your tears, still trying your best to remain kind to the old witch yet she did not budge.

“It’s hot! It’s hot!” She continues to ignore your pleas, reacting to the delicate burning material that was on her hands instead. The grip that she had on Shoto’s heart had grown tighter and tighter and you had to do something to stop her.

Time was ticking.

You look around the rubble and the debris, weighing out your options when a bucket of water had appeared in front of you. It was as if telling you that this was the only decision left to make.

You take a deep breath and throw the bucket of water at the Witch of the Waste which also resulted in Calcifer, the demon who has manifested into a form of a destructive inferno for thousands of years, had been put out just like a regular old fire.

Like it was nothing.

There was a short moment of silence.

Eri was clinging on to you, looking for reassurance your face, yet you could not give her that. You hold her tight to try and help cheer her up just a little bit, while Heen, the old service dog given to Shoto as a gift, had his paws on your feet, as he did not know what was going to happen either.

The castle that was still moving with its last remaining energy, grinds to a halt.

Is this it?

“(Y/N)!” You hear Eri call out. You open your eyes and see her hands trying to reach out to you. But, before you could reach her, the remaining part of the castle that all of you were standing on, split into half due to the lack of non-existent energy powering it.

You feel yourself falling.

Heen, the dog, jumps to you before the latter remains of the castle subsequently falls down the cliffs of the Waste. You brace for impact until… you feel light. As if you’ve landed more comfortably than you thought.

You raise your head to take in your surroundings, aside from the few dirt and rubble sprinkled on your hair and on your dress, you were safe. Heen was safe too although the debris that was left of the castle was not salvageable anymore and there were no means to get out of this place with the few materials left.

It looked like there was no way out of here.

Tears swell in your eyes. All these frustrations and all this pain you had to endure because you wanted to save Shoto, was all for naught. Was there still a chance to save him at this point? Or rather, did you even ever have the slightest chance of saving him since the beginning?

Heen quickly trots all the way to where you were. However, you ignore him and continue to stare off into space, thinking about the careless decision you had just made and if what you did was even the right thing.

He barks softly, trying to get your attention, but you barely move a muscle. Even more tears forming in your eyes.

“Heen.. what h-have I done?” Your voice shakes, still trying to process everything that had just happened. “I poured water on C-calcifer… What if I killed Shoto too!?” You bent forward, kneeling down on the rubble around you. Drops of water began to pour out from your eyes, tears streaming down from your cheeks.

Hopelessness and Uselessness.

These were the only emotions you were feeling right now.

You continue to break down in your sorrow. The thought of doing everything in your power to help Shoto but knowing that nothing was enough aches in your heart.

He doesn’t deserve all this pain and anguish.

All you wanted to do was to help him.

Why was fate doing this to you? To you both?

All hope was lost until a glimmering light reflected on the remains of one of the magical doors still connected to the Castle.

Heen continues to bark at you until you turn your head to him and then notice the light glimmering from your ring. The ring with magical properties that Shoto had given to you, to keep you safe and to help you when things go awry.

“It’s moving?” You wipe your tears and stare bewilderingly at the ring that was vibrating on your finger. “Is Shoto still alive!? Can you lead me to him?” You ask softly, slowly regaining your hope and your confidence that maybe you can still save him.

You stand up from the ground, running to the corner of the cliff. The ring continues to guide you, it’s light reflecting on a door that was hidden behind the debris of an iron sheet that was once a part of the castle.

You push it down with all your might, Heen trying his best to help you. The metal sheet falls down with a loud “thud” and the blue energy emanating from the ring continues to glow brighter and brighter, the light pointing to the direction of the door.

You turn the knob, the ring trembles even harder. You slowly pull the door open and a sudden rush of wind blew across your face. The inside was dark and empty. There was nothing of interest here.

But, why did the ring want you to go inside?

You hold your hand to your chest, letting the ring guide your way through the darkness. You stretch your hand out to the pitch black of nothingness, and it ripples at your touch.

It was a portal.

Of course it was a portal. What else would it be? You thought to yourself.

You take a deep breath and with Heen following close behind you, you take a step into the darkness. Praying that this portal takes you to where you need to be.

You were keeping count of the passage of time. It’s been several minutes of you just walking in darkness. But, even if you turned back, was there even a place to return to? You continue to hold on to the little hope you have left. The ring still doing it’s best to guide you to where it was telling you to go as you continue to explore the endless cave of darkness around you.

The ring starts to quiver again, as if it had caught a signal or had detected something. You walk faster, following where the ring was leading you until you catch site of a speck of blue light. Walking even faster, you arrive at the inside of a dimly lit cottage.

It was old and simple. For some reason, it felt like you’ve seen this place before.

There was a table at the center, with papers and books sprawled about, a bookshelf next to it, a worn bed at the side, and a hearth near the edge of the room.

You approach the table to examine the papers that were placed upon there when the ring suddenly stopped shaking on your finger. Heen was barking at you again, so that you would turn your attention to him and see him scratching the door that led to the outside.

“Heen?” You mumble, looking out the window. You approach the door he was trying to open without taking your eyes off the windowpane that reflected a gloomy and plain image of the night sky outside.

You leave the cottage and suddenly, it dawned on you that this was the cottage that Shoto had lived in when he was a child.

This is the same beautiful place he had taken you a few days prior. Yet, there was a sort of melancholy feeling to it. It felt lonely, barren, and there were no colorful array of flowers in the meadows. It felt like a major downgrade to the wonderful place he had shown you. Was it not true? Were the beautiful flowers and the serene view just an illusion? Was this the reality of the place he had lived in most of his life instead?

Before you could even fully process your surroundings, an array of shooting stars began to fall from the sky. It was burning blue and bright, it was ethereal but at the same time, terrifying. These were demons and magical entities from an otherworldly universe. Seeking to make contracts with human beings who wanted to learn more about magic.

“This is the time where Shoto met Calcifer.” You whisper to yourself, still looking up the bright night sky, taking in the beauty and the wistfulness of this particular event and what happened to Shoto because of it.

You look out into the pools of water surrounding the cottage, the shooting stars falling down into the ground from afar. A shrieking yet soothing sound echoed around the area every time a star fell.

You look up to see an unusual shooting star, shining brighter than the others. You continue to look on in awe until you feel the the ring on your hand quivering again, slowly disintegrating.

You were preoccupied with the ring suddenly disappearing that you had not noticed the big and bright star had already fallen down the ground near you, closer than the others did. The rays of the star reflecting brighter and more scintillating than the others. It was drawing you in, like that of a beautiful phantasm.

You notice someone from afar approaching the star that had fallen.

A young striking boy with half white and half red hair, his eyes shining bright different colored hues and his presence, even from afar, was so comforting to you.

This is the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. The man you want to save, the one who made you feel like yourself again, the one who loved you for who you are even though you transformed into an 80 year old grandma with a back problem. He has loved you in your darkest times. He has loved you for who you are.

Will you be there to love him back? Just like he had loved you?

You continue to watch the boy go around the star, examining it ever so curiously. From there, you feel the emotions that Shoto was feeling at the moment.

You could sense the loneliness and the feeling of isolation that Shoto Todoroki has felt all his life.

“That’s Shoto...” You whisper once again, continuing to watch him from where you were standing.

More and more shooting stars fly through the night sky, and you instinctively knew that something was going to happen.

You run down the stairs and sprint your way towards Shoto, ignoring the stars falling down into the ponds, taking forms of dancing wisps, then changing into running pigmy as if they were trying to reach Shoto.

Shooting stars begin to fall around you, barely missing you yet you continued to run with no care in the world. Saving Shoto was the only thing going on in your head at the moment and nothing will stop you from doing so. Something in the grass had pulled on your heel, causing you to fall and flail on the ground. The half and half prince was a small pond away from you yet a dark oozing liquid was taking a hold of you from below, preventing you from doing so.

Before it fully took a hold of both your feet, You quickly stand up from the ground, stomping your feet then backing away quickly. Another shooting star falls down from the sky, and you watch as it swiftly falls into Shoto’s hands.

The sound of the fallen star shrieks and tingles your ears, and you had no choice but to watch in agony as the little Shoto begins to move his lips, talking to the demon known as Calcifer. He had a small smile on his face as he continued to speak. There was so much hope and innocence in his eyes, he was so excited to receive his magical abilities, blissfully unaware that he was about to make a deal that would be the cost of his humanity and his heart.

All he wanted was to see family and go to places he’s always dreamed of.

Was that too much to ask for?

Shoto slowly but surely, brings the demon into his mouth. There was slight hesitance but he gobbled it up then swallowed it. He felt a tinging pain as he clutches both of his hands to his chest, then coughing up Calcifer who had now become his heart.

For a moment, it was as if time had stopped.

You continue to look on but before you could try and run to him again...

Your ring shatters.

A black hole appears from below your feet, slowly sucking you in. You try to move but your body doesn’t want to. Keeping you still, your legs swinging, as if you were in a body of water. All the color around you begins to fade to black, and so does Shoto and Calcifer.

You turn to look at them once more, hoping they would hear you. Reaching your hand out to them.

“Shoto! Calcifer!” In a last minute attempt to get them to notice you, You shout with all your might, tears welling up in your eyes again.

The boy and the demon turn to you with doe eyes, catching your voice yet barely recognizing who you were and why you were there. The young Shoto continues to look at you, still wondering who you were, cupping Calcifer in his hands.

“It’s me (Y/N)! I know how to help you now!” Shoto and Calcifer ceaselessly fade away, as you are consumed by the darkness.

“Find me in the future!”

Mundane life and a mundane everyday routine.

Sew some hats, manage the store, hop on the bus, visit your popular sister in the bakery she works in and then head on home.

This was your life.

Did you want it to change? Yes. But, did you have the will and the magical powers to do so? No.

“It’s your life (Y/N). Do something for yourself for once will you?”

The words of your sister will haunt you for the rest of the day. Well, She is right. But, this was your life. It was dull and uneventful. If this was your fate so be it. There was no point in trying to make it interesting at this point right?

You walk back on your usual route to the station, however, you had to rendezvous to another way to the station due to a road block. Guess life wasn’t being kind to your today isn’t it?

You pass by two soldier guards in an alley to the station. They looked bored and had nothing better to do and you had no intention of mingling with them, even if your sister told you to try and talk to more people.

“What a pretty girl. Want us to take you for some tea?” One of the guards attempt to flirt with you, trying to block your way. The other guard snickers at his friend’s tease.

“No. Please leave me alone.” You deadpan. Glaring at them and trying to let them know that they were crossing the line.

“Oh you see. Ya scared her!” said the other guard, nudging his friend.

“I think she’s even cuter when she’s scared.” The guard replied, hitting his friend on the shoulder.

You were about to run to the other direction when you hear a crisp and handsome voice from behind you, and a reassuring hand on your arm.

“There you are sweetheart. Sorry I’m late. I was looking everywhere for you.”

To be continued.

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cryptiql · 3 years

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untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

#💥.katsuki #bakugou x trans reader #bakugou x trans male reader #bakugou x male reader #katsuki bakugou x male reader #male reader insert #mha x male reader #boku no hero x reader #bakugou x you #trans reader

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weelittleweasley · 3 years

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Amnesia (p1) | Draco x Reader

Prompt: The Battle of Hogwarts was one that was hard on everyone mentally and physically. During the war, you took a brutal fall, hitting your head, which caused you to lose your memory, amnesia if you will. You forget a solid chunk of your life, specifically your last few years at Hogwarts and the relationships you made with certain people, including your romantic relationship with Draco Malfoy. What happens in Part One of this multipart series?

Warnings: language, violence, blood, memory loss, death, mentions of PTSD, anxiety

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: This story is not about romanticizing mental health issues. These are serious conditions and this story is not meant to romanticize or fantasize these topics. It’s used as a vessel to convey a different story. That being said, please take care of yourself and sending everyone lots of love. Enjoy part one :)

Flashbacks told in italics!

War, chaos, violence, and then silence. Peace. The rubble had fallen, the chains had been broken, and the dust had settled. But things weren’t over. No, quite the opposite. This was just the beginning of it all.

Hogwarts, as you knew it, was falling to the ground. Everywhere you looked around you saw stones falling, students running, flashes of light and fire, the echoes of screams, yet the only thing on your mind was finding him. Finding the blonde boy who you loved so much your bones shook and you heart ached. You ran through the halls, dodging falling stones and avoiding spells, curses, and hexes from wands. Your breath was uneven as you ran down the stairs, screaming at the top of your lungs, your throat burning, “Draco!”

As you ran down the hall, your body collided with that of your closest friend. “(Y/N), you have to run, get out of here, Draco is gone, there’s no use searching for him,” Ron grabs your face in his hands, desperately trying to shake some sense into you. He searched your eyes for any sense of hope; he needed it now more than ever. His face was covered in dried blood and fresh blood, his hands covered in dirt and his eyes full of panic. He needed you to survive this war, if it was the last thing he could do. “Listen to me,” he shakes you as you let a sob escape your lips. “Draco is gone. Okay? He left.”

You shake your head ferociously. “He wouldn’t do that, he’s here. He’s waiting for me. He told me he would wait for me and he’d see me at the end of this,” you yell at Ron, your ribs aching and knees weak. You’d recall when Draco furiously kissed your lips hours before this all dissolved into madness, telling you to stay where you were and he’d come back for you. Draco promised that you both would run away from this and go somewhere you couldn’t be found. Away from his father, away from the Dark Lord, away from magic, away from it all. He wanted to escape just as badly, if not more than you. “I need to find him,” you pushed Ron off with all the might you could muster in your frail body. “Draco!” you scream again, your voice cracking, too weak to echo anymore.

Ron grabs you by the waist now, pulling you away as you kick and scream in his grip, demanding he let you go. “I’m not letting you get killed!” Ron yelled. “I already lost Fred and I’m not losing you too!” he screams, his voice cracking with anger and fear. “Hermione, help!” Ron calls to Hermione who grabs your fists that pound on Ron’s chest.

“Let me go!” you sob, breaking down under the grip of your two close friends, completely losing yourself to your emotions. “I need to find Draco,” you manage to speak in between sobs, choking on your own tears and cries. “He could be dead for all I know! Please let me find him,” you grab onto the collar of Ron’s shirt, begging him, staring into his eyes as tears pour out of yours. “I need to find him. He could be out there, looking for me, calling for me. I need him, Ron, let me go, let me go find him!”

Hermione wraps you in her arms, trying to get you to stop crying as they pull you behind a wall. She whispers in your ear that you needed to protect yourself. You couldn’t worry about Draco anymore. He was a lost cause. But how could you forget about him? This was the man you loved so violently that you would die before you let anything bad happen to him. He was your one and only and you knew that the day he kissed you for the first time. “You need to stay here. Right here. You understand me? This is a matter of your life and death, do you understand?” Hermione scolds you. “Under no circumstances do you run for anyone. You run for your life if someone tries to kill you. You fight back. But under no circumstances do you do anything else, do you understand me?” she yells at you, needing you to understand that you needed to survive this.

With a shaky breath, you nod. Hermione looks at Ron before Hermione runs back to the chaos, flicking her wand, sending beams at Death Eaters, protecting the students. Ron looks at you, tears still in his eyes as you hold back your sobs. Ron engulfs you in a large hug before pressing a firm kiss to your forehead. “I need you to live. Please,” he begs you, clinging onto every last bit of hope he has. “I’ll find you at the end of this and we’ll be okay.” You shake your head, giving him a tight hug again. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you tell him before he joins Hermione, running off protecting her and fellow students.

So there you stood behind the concrete wall, looking around as others fought and got struck. People were getting killed all around you and you were being suffocated by the sight. Why were you just standing here not fighting back? Deliberately disobeying Ron and Hermione’s orders, you run from the wall, flicking your wand swiftly, pushing back Death Eaters, defending yourself and other students. You stood proudly beside your fellow classmates, slashing your wands, casting spells and fighting the good fight.

As you fight alongside your classmates, you turn your head, keeping a 360 on the area. But that’s when you see him. His blonde hair covered in dirt, his concerned face looking behind him as his mother and father guide him away from the scene, across the bridge. From a distance, you see him look in your direction as your heart sinks. He was leaving without you.

“Draco,” you whisper, forgetting about everything in the world and focusing on him. “Draco!” you scream with every last fiber in your body. You launch yourself into a run down the stairs and towards the bridge. You push people out of your way in a beeline for your love, hoping that he’ll stop for you, but he doesn’t. His parents keep an iron grip on him, pulling him along the bridge. Draco turns around, seeing you run as he tries to writhe out of his mother’s grip. His face is full of concern, but he can’t escape. His father puts his body in front of Draco’s as Draco screams out in pain and fury. “Draco!” you yell.

Your feet carry you as fast as possible as you run toward the bridge, trying to get to him as quickly as possible before it was too late. Draco claws at his father, trying to get past him. As you run you feel your breath becoming short and your lungs burn, but you ignore the sensation and push. You need to get to him. He needed to get to you. You needed to save each other.

But that all came to a screeching halt when you name being yelled out in horror by Draco. “(Y/N), watch out!” someone screams a blood curdling scream as you look up to see a large rock come crashing down.

And that’s when it went white. Your hearing gave out. You went numb. There was silence. Deafening. Palpable. The silence screamed for a million years and then a million more.

But then there was a roar. Your ears rung and yelled. Your brain thumped against your skull, your lungs burned like you swallowed ash, and your mouth tasted of metal and dirt. You repeated told yourself to open your eyes, but you couldn’t. You tried again and again, but nothing. All you could sense was ringing in your ears and muffled voices. Who was it? Who was talking? You couldn’t understand anyone or what they were saying. It all sounded like a different language. What happened?

Even though your brain was running at a thousand miles an hour, you crashed. Your senses gave out and the silence was back. Deafening. Palpable. The silence screamed again for another million years.

But this time there was a roar and your eyes shot wide open. You sucked in a large breath like you couldn’t breathe before. Your lungs swelled with oxygen, but hurt when you took deep breaths. It took you a second before you felt the rupture of pain that carried from the back of your head to the front. You sucked in a sharp breath, placing a hand where it hurt the most.

As you looked down, you noticed the white sheets covering your body and the small hospital bed you lied down in. Thin hospital robe on your body and on your arm stuck out multiple IVs and monitors. You heard your heart rate monitor picks up speed as your anxiety grew with every passing second. What happened to you? Why were you in the hospital? Who brought you here?

When you try to remember what happened to you, you can’t recall a single thing. You can’t even pinpoint what your last memory was, they all just mesh together. Before you can think about what is going on, the door opens up and a Healer’s assistant walks in. “You’re up,” she smiles. “Hello, (Y/N). How are you feeling?” she has a bright grin and calming eyes. This puts you at ease.

“My head hurts,” you respond.

She gives you a knowing smile. “I’m sure it does. You got severely concussed a few days ago,” she grabs a clipboard from the side table and starts scribbling down notes and checking your vitals.

Your eyes go wide, “A few days ago?” you speak bewildered.

The Healer’s assistant takes your temperature with a muggle thermometer before handing you a glass of water. “Yes, a few days ago,” she confirms. “You were in and out of consciousness a few times before you woke up today. Just to put your mind at ease, you have a few broken ribs, that’s why it may be a little hard to breathe and a sprained wrist. We administered you a healing potion, so you should be fully recovered in a few days, but you should still monitor yourself. Your brain, however, is still bruised.” She places down the clipboard and walks back to the door. “Let me tell the Healer that you’re awake. In the meantime, I think there are some people who want to see you.”

You sit up in bed and patiently wait for your visitors. The door swings open and in floods your mother and father. “Mum, Dad,” you smile as they both have tears in their eyes when they see you. They hurry to your side, crying into your hospital gown, kissing your face, thanking Merlin that you were alright. You hold onto them tight, afraid to let them go, as you let a few happy tears fall from your eyes.

“We thought you were dead,” your mother looks at you as you wipe her tears away, holding onto her and your dad’s hands. “Thank Merlin they got you to the hospital as fast as they could. Madam Pomfrey had taken good care of you before they brought you here,” she tells you. “I can’t believe you are alright.”

You spent a few hours with your parents, the Healer coming in a few times, speaking about how you had to take it easy and how you are lucky to be alive. Your father and mother, however, were acting a little strange whenever they spoke to the Healer. One would get up and speak to him in hushed tones as the other distracted you with conversation, but you couldn’t help but be curious as to what they were leaving you out of. What was going on?

“Mum?” you ask her as your dad whispers to the Healer. “What are they taking about?” you question. She just brushed it off and says he just wants to know how quickly your recovery would be. You knew she was lying, but rather than implore for answers, you let it be. You were tired.

A few more hours past when the Healer’s assistant from earlier came back in. “Hi, (Y/N), visitor hours are almost done, but you have a few more people who came in to see you,” she tells you as you furrow your brows. She motions her hand to let the visitors in.

When the visitor’s step in it takes you a second to register who they were. Your brain was trying to put names to their faces. You knew that you knew them. You felt your excitement grow when you saw them. You could tell that you had a deep connection to them because when they saw you, both of them started sobbing tears of joy. The girl with fluffy brown hair covered her mouth to conceal her sobs, but a large smile was on her face. Beside her the ginger boy stood, taller in stature but tears running down his face as he silently cried when he saw you. “You’re alright,” he whispers.

Your parents give you and these visitors some privacy, leaving the room so it’s just you three. You stay silent, but a smile is on your face. What are your names? The boy slowly approaches your bedside, sitting next to you, and gently grabbing your hand. He squeezes it and brings another hand to brush the hair out of your eyes. His touch was loving and delicate, handling you with the utmost care. That’s when it hit.

“Ron fucking Weasley,” you laugh as he joins in, pressing his forehead against yours. Ron laughs and cries against you as you cup his cheek gently. It felt like forever since you saw him. You give his hand a squeeze before pulling away and looking at the girl. “Thought I forgot about you, Granger? Get in here,” you speak as she laughs and joins the small group hug, still making sure not to hurt you. The three of you sit and cry and laugh for what feels like hours. “Where have you all been?” you ask with a smile.

Hermione laughs, “Well, for starters, you’ve been out for four days since your injury.” She rubs your arm. “We’ve all been really worried about you. Harry, too, but he’s also in recovery right now. You’ll see him as soon as you’re discharged from the hospital.”

You nod, the image of Harry Potter popping up at the mention of his name, significant memories flooding back into your brain of him. You think of year four when you had a crush on him briefly during the Triwizard Tournament and you smile at the memory. You also remember Ron teasing you about it after that crush died out, Harry laughing along with you both. Then a question pops up in your mind. “You guys,” you start. “How did I get injured? The Healer told me it’s mostly a head injury, but I don’t remember it. Did you see it happen?”

Ron and Hermione uncomfortably shift in their seats as Hermione shakes her head to Ron, letting him explain what happened. “During the battle, you were running for Draco when a piece of rubble came crashing down and hit you in the head,” Ron explains gently and slowly, making sure not to disturb any trauma that could be sprung up from the horrific scene. Ron recalls watching it unfold and the wind being knocked out of him as it happened. Ron remembers running to your side, screaming for someone to help pick you up and get you to Madam Pomfrey. Ron shakes the memory away and breathes in deeply. Recalling the day was too emotional for him and it happened to recently for him to relive it. He was careful with his words, stroking your hand as he explained what happened.

You furrow your brows in confusion. “Wait, hold on,” you laugh. “Battle? Is that like a new name for a quidditch match or something? I know that I play quite aggressive during games, but I didn’t think it was going to hospitalize me.” As you attempt to crack a joke, Hermione and Ron’s eyes go wide before they look at each other in fear. It was worse than they had thought. “What?” you asked, the concern raising in your voice. “What are you hiding from me?”

Hermione gulps, “Do you not remember the war?” The scoots closer to your bed, seeing if you were playing a joke on them, but you were deadly serious.

“War?” you repeat. “About what? Is He back?” you question, wondering if the Dark Lord was back. You remember Cedric Diggory’s death like it was yesterday, Harry yelling on the field over his dead body that the Dark Lord had returned. Hermione and Ron stutter, trying to find the words. “What’s going on? Are you guys playing a sick joke on me?” you start to frantically ask. “Did Fred and George put you up to this?” At the mention of Fred’s name, Ron instantly tenses and his breath hitches in his throat. Hermione rubs his back, comforting him, holding him close to her as if something happened to Fred. What was going on? Confusion darted through your brain. “I need to go take a breather for a second,” Ron sighs, rising from his chair. “I’m glad you’re awake, (Y/N).” Ron kisses your forehead before walking to the other side of your hospital room, opening the window for some fresh air.

Hermione looks back at you and grabs a hold of both of your hands. “(Y/N), I need you to be completely honest with me like I am being with you right now. What do you remember from Hogwarts? List out the last few things you remember. I need to know,” she pleads, looking deep into your eyes searching.

Your breath picks up as your lungs fill with oxygen, burning from the rapid movement. Your heart rate sky rockets and the back of your head starts to tingle in pain again like it did when you first woke up. Trying to recall your memories, your brain feels like it’s being squeezed. Not much comes up. “I don’t know, ‘Mione,” you tell her. “I remember Cedric’s death, I remember going home for the summer that year, I remember coming back to school and Harry being on edge because no one believed him about the Dark Lord, I remember that twat Umbridge,” you tell her, “but after that the rest is a blur...” Hermione looks at Ron who’s eyes are wide in disbelief. It was much worse than they thought. “What in the bloody hell is this war you’re talking about?”

Ron looks to Hermione and then looks to you and says, “(Y/N), what year of Hogwarts are we in?”

You take a second to think. If your memory and your timeline serves you right, you were in year five. “Year five...it’s 1995...why?” you respond. Wasn’t it obvious?

“Bloody hell, this isn’t good,” Ron runs his hands through his hair. Your eyes widen and your heart rate picks up, lungs burning from the rapid inhalations you were breathing in and out. Your head was pounding now. What was happening? Were you wrong? You were sixteen, right? How could you be mistaken? Ron paces back and forth as Hermione remains deadly still. Did your parents not tell you?

The more you think, the more your head hurts. “Wait a second,” you stop the small chatter between Ron and Hermione. “You said I hurt my head because I was running to Draco Malfoy?” you ask as your close friends shake their heads. “Why? I’ve had a total of four conversations with him. Why would I be running after him?”

And that’s when the severity of the situation hit Granger and Weasley. “Go get the Healer,” Hermione commands Ron as he dashes out of the room. “You are being honest with us, right?” she asks as you rapid shake your head. Why would I be lying? “(Y/N), you cannot freak out about this, okay?” she looks at your heart monitor as it beeps quickly, picking up the pace with every passing second. “Okay,” she breathes out. “Listen to me,” she grabs your hands, squeezing them. As she does so, Ron enters back in with the Healer from before. They observe what Hermione does. “(Y/N), you are eighteen. Hogwarts had a battle against Voldemort where many people died and sacrificed themselves for the greater good. That’s where you got injured. You were running to Draco to find him because he-”

“Hold on,” the Healer stops Hermione. “Don’t overflow her with information, she can have an aneurysm from the anxiety and overstimulation.” Hermione rises from her chair as the Healer replaces her seat. “(Y/N), I need you to look at me and breathe. Try to relax yourself.”

At this point you are hyperventilating. “What is going on? Did I miss two years of my life? How long was I asleep for? What war happened? Is this what you and my parents were talking about before? Are you all lying to me?” you start to panic. You look around, needing to get out, out of this room, out of this gown, out of your own head. You felt like you were being tortured from the inside out. “Get these fucking tubes out of me,” you claw your arm as the Healer grabs your hands in attempt to cease your manic movements.

“I need you to listen to me, I will give you the answers you want, (Y/N), okay?” he attempts to reason with you as you try to wiggle out of his grip. “I will tell you what you want to know. Hermione and Ron will be with you the whole time. None of us are lying to you, okay? You just need to trust us,” the Healer speaks slowly as not to rile you up.

Slowly, you let your breathing even out as you lay back in bed, looking at Ron and Hermione. You give them scared looks as Ron grabs your hands, giving them a squeeze, Hermione sitting herself next to you on the bed. “Okay.”

The Healer takes a deep breath in and starts. “You are eighteen, recently graduated from Hogwarts. Hogwarts went through the second wizarding war, which you fought in very bravely. In the midst of it, you saw someone you loved and you ran over to him and got a nasty head injury. The head injury has caused you to have something called temporary amnesia or memory loss. That being said, you can’t remember the past two years of your life,” he tells you.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. You don’t know what to say or do. You just sit in shock as your mouth goes dry. You feel like you’re going to vomit, pass out, scream, cry, or all of the above. How could this just happen to you? You just forgot everything that happened over the past two years? So much could have happened and yet you couldn’t recall an ounce of it. You only remembered up to year five and then your brain just shut you out. Your body was working against you. “What?” you ask breathlessly, tears starting to pool in your eyes as the Healer gives you the sorriest look you have ever seen. “I-I-I don’t understand how can my brain just forget?”

“I’m so sorry you are going through this,” the Healer tells you as you look to Ron and Hermione who are starting to cry now. This couldn’t be happening. “But that being said, this amnesia is temporary. It will wear off, but we don’t know when. It can just come back one day and that can be scary, I know. But you have great resources and friends and family and a boyfriend who will help you navigate through this. I will give you a minute to talk to your friends,” the Healer squeezes your arm before leaving the room.

As the door closes behind him, you erupt into sobs. Hermione cradles you in her chest as violent sobs rippled through your body, causing pain to shoot through every fiber in your body, but you didn’t care. Your brain didn’t work like it should and that was a horrifying thought. Why you? Why you of all people? Why was this happening? Who did this to you? How could this happen? Who let it happen? Too many questions danced in your head that you were unable to answer.

Ron pulls your head up to look at him. “We’re going to get through this,” he tells you. “You have me, you have Hermione, you have Harry, you have your parents, you have our friends,” he smiles at you.

“What did the Healer mean when he said I have a boyfriend? Who? Why can’t I remember him?” you speak through sniffles. You had a feeling that your boyfriend was a certain someone, but the thought of him being your romantic interest made your stomach churn.

Your two friends gulp, trying to figure out how to navigate this situation. “You know how I said you ran over to Draco Malfoy when you got hit?” Hermione says. “It’s him. Draco Malfoy is your boyfriend.”

That’s when you think your heart is going to fall out of your stomach. You could only pinpoint a few memories of him throughout what you can remember. You remember Draco being cruel and mean to you and your friends. He called Hermione a mudblood, he teased Ron relentlessly, he always had a bone to pick with Harry, and he made fun of you until you cried multiple times. How could you love someone like him?

Almost as if one cue, the Healer’s assistant came back in and said, “(Y/N), visitor’s hours are over in twenty minutes, but there is someone in the waiting room for you. He insists that he knows you and he’s your boyfriend. The name is Draco Malfoy.”

Everyone and the air freezes. He was here. He came to see you. He didn’t forget about you, but you certainly did with him. Although he was one of the last people you wanted to see right now, there was a feeling in the pit of your stomach that told you to let him in. He may have the answers you need. Ron and Hermione insist that she turns him away, but you halt their demands, you saying, “Bring him in. I want to see him.”

She nods and leaves the room as Ron and Hermione just look at you shocked, knowing that this is not going to end well for anyone. “Why did-”

“Because I want to know if he has answers,” you simply state, eyes not moving from the door. If Draco really was your boyfriend, then he should know you better than yourself. Maybe Draco could bring back your memory. Maybe he could help you recover quicker. Then his nightmare would be over.

The door swings open and there he stood, in all black, hair disheveled, a worried look on his face. Draco looked sick. He was pale and looked thin, almost sickly. When his eyes meet yours, tears fill his eyes and a soft smile appears on his face. “Darling,” he breathes out as he steps closer to you. Ron and Hermione instinctively stand up to protect you as he looks over to them, at first angry, but then he sees the looks on their faces and that’s when his fear worsens. He understands with just a look. The situation was worse than he had thought. He thought you would wake up and you would pick up from where you left off. He had explaining to do, but he was ready to work it through with you. But this situation was one he was not prepared for. Draco looks back at you and says, “You...don’t...”

“No,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry, Draco, but I don’t know you like you think I do.”

In that moment, all of Draco’s memories of you flooded his mind. The first time he remembered thinking that he liked you. You were in the room of requirement when Umbridge busted Potter and you had a horrified, yet angry look on your face. As you left the room, you pushed Draco out of the way, looking at him with a disgusted face.

“You’re despicable, Malfoy,” you spit at him.

Draco let a smirk appear on his face as he bit his lip. “If you want me that badly, (Y/L/N), you should just come to my room tonight,” he spoke, eyes raking you up and down, knowing it would annoy you.

You rolled your eyes before stomping on his foot, him wincing in pain as the boys around him laughed. “If you want to get slapped next time, you should have just asked,” you mimic him. “You’re deplorable.”

Although the memory was not a happy one, Draco was fond of it because he knew you were hard to get and Draco lived for the chase. He knew you could hold your own and not depend on him for everything; you were independent and he found that irresistible. It wasn’t long after that that he had asked you on a date, starting a rollercoaster of relationship. You were there for him in his darkest times, in the hours where he felt himself slipping away, but you were always there to pull him back out and show him the light to which he was forever indebted to you.

Draco knew that he had no greater love than the love he had found with you and if he had to fight like hell for it, then he would, the rest of the world be damned.

So there he was, standing in front of you in a hospital bed, the sight already making him sick to his stomach. He looked over to Ron and Hermione as if to ask them to give him some alone time with you. Your two friends looked back at you, to which you nodded, them giving your hands a squeeze before leaving the hospital room.

Now you were alone, staring at the boy in front of you who you were supposed to know everything about and him to you. But instead, your mind drew blank. You couldn’t remember anything about him besides what you had known up to year five. You got no feeling of excitement when you saw him in comparison to the reaction you had when you saw Ron and Hermione. You didn’t feel like you had a connection with him. You just felt numb. Tingling from exhaustion and burning with pain in your head and lungs. So badly you wanted to close your eyes and go to sleep, hoping that this was a sick dream and when you woke up things would be okay.

“You remember nothing?” he asks, blue eyes like the ocean brimming with tears that threatened to pool over, but disappeared when he took a deep breath in, his attempt to remain strong in front of you.

“I remember up to year five,” you correct him. “I don’t remember any of our relationship,” you confess.

This makes Draco’s heart plummet into his stomach, but he tries to not show it on his face. He slowly tries to approach your bed and reach for your hand, hoping that his touch would make you remember something, anything. But when he extends his hand out to touch you, you pull away, looking at him way too confused and scared to touch him back. You barely know who he was, why would you want to touch him? As if this whole situation couldn’t get any worse. He had run away from his mother after his father was taken to Azkaban, in hopes to find you and fulfill the dreams that you two had of running away from this place and magic to start a new life together. A clean slate. But his dreams came crashing down from around him. Now Draco had to pick up the pieces and build everything back up exactly as it was. Or else he didn’t know what he’d do. Draco had poured everything into this relationship of yours just for it all to be thrown away due to a nasty head injury. This had to be a sick joke crafted by his father in some way shape or form. But he wished it was that simple.

Draco shakes his head, “Right.”

You look at the deeply broken boy in front of you and you feel sorry for him. Even though you cannot remember anything about your romantic history, your heart aches for him. This must be difficult to go through. Someone you love not know who you are. What kind of sick torture. “I’m sorry,” you tell him. “I wish I could remember.”

He offers you a sad smile, “Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.” You just nod your head as the two of you stay in this silence for a moment. “It’ll come back, right? Your memories?”

Nodding gently, you speak, “That’s what the Healer said.”

Draco sits in that moment, knowing that there was hope for you and your relationship. But it was just a matter of if he was willing to fight for it.

To be continued

#draco #draco imagine #draco malfoy #draco x female reader #draco x you #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy oneshot #draco malfoy fanficiton #draco malfoy x female reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x y/n #hp #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter imagine

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crystalirises · 3 years

Text

Death was Fated to Be...

... it just never specified whose.

TW: Implied Character Death, Ghost Children, and Blood

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/83167660

His eyes fluttered open, the taste of ash sharp against his tongue. He felt cold, everything was cold. He shivered, little hands coiled around the stone ground. A red sky greeted him, shrieks and screams echoing in the distance. Faintly, he could smell a metallic scent in the air. A feather floated by, its black hue somehow bright against the red sky. He tried to stand, but a sharp pain ran through his whole body. Tears ran past his cheeks, stinging at his skin. Soon, the mild hurt turned into agony, and he let out a tortured shriek. Arms wrapped around him, the world grew dark. He screamed against the hold, more tears running past his cheeks and burning at his face.

“Shhh, you’re alright, mate. You’ll be alright. Your grandpa’s right here.”

His face was buried in a cloak, the scent of mint and tea reaching his nose as his cries turned into small sobs. He still couldn’t see, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that it wasn’t darkness that covered him. It was a wall of feathers. He whimpered, struggling in his captor’s hold, but they kept a tight hold on him. He could hear explosions, but his captor blocked away the world from his view. He heard the rustle of feathers, their muffled steps, and knew that his captor was moving towards the cacophony of chaos. He whined, hoping that his papa would come save him soon. He didn’t want to be taken, not by a stranger, even if they did have wings.

“I know you’re scared, Fundy. It’s alright. I have you, you’re safe.”

A hand petted the back of his head, fingers pausing at the base of his ears before scratching. His tail wagged, a yip escaping him despite the fear that was still curled in his mind. They curled closer to their captor’s chest, clinging to their calming scent. They smelled old. Fundy would have snickered if he wasn’t a bit too scared to offend the person who was holding him. After a moment, the panic of outside melted away into a tense lull. His captor paused. Fundy sniffed at the air, his nose wrinkling at the strong scent of metal and of withered rot. The wings unfurled away from him, giving him a view of the world outside. He preferred it inside the safety of the wings. His attention focused on the scorched ground and the rubble that scattered the dead earth.

“Phil… I didn’t think you’d be here.”

A gruff and tired voice broke Fundy from his thoughts. He buried his face deeper against his captor’s scratchy cloak. He didn’t like the voice, and he didn’t want to see the voice’s source.

“Well, mate. It’s not everyday you’re told your son has plans to blow up a nation, a nation that he founded himself, mind you.” His captor - Phil - sighed, adjusting his hold on Fundy. The new position didn’t allow him to hide his face. “I just can’t believe it, Techno. He loved this country.”

“Didn’t seem like that to me, Phil. I may have not agreed on the idea of the continuation of government, but I never agreed upon the TNT placement. Wilbur made that choice all on his own. He was the traitor, and I don’t lie when I say that I saw it coming.” The piglin hybrid before them spoke low, his voice barely above a whisper despite the roughness in it. Crimson red eyes met his gaze, a wince crossing the piglin hybrid’s - Techno’s - face. His regal clothing was bathed in blood and ash, the once white shirt now drenched in red. Fundy whimpered, but despite his fear, he tried to hold the man’s gaze. Techno mentioned his papa’s name. Maybe he knew where his papa was. The piglin hybrid snorted, crossing his arms across his chest. “Phil, I know you have an addiction with adopting orphans but this is a bit much, don’t you think? He’s dea—”

“Techno. Not now.” A hand rested on top of his head, petting his… has his hair always been white? Fundy blinked, eyes wide as a strand of white curly hair clung to his forehead. “I’ll tel—”

“Can Fundy ask a question, pwease?” He didn’t mean to cut off Phil, but he was scared and wanted his papa. The man holding him paused, flashing a gentle smile while he nodded for Fundy to continue. He pursed his lips, throwing a cautious look towards Techno. “Where papa?”

The man froze, teeth clenched as he sucked in a deep breath. Techno averted his gaze, attention fixed to the sword that had been sheathed at his waist. Fundy frowned, trying to reach both their eyes, but neither of them could look at him. He tried to squirm out of Phil’s hold, intent on finding his way back to L’Manburg. The sky was beginning to darken, and papa wouldn’t like it if he came home late. Phil didn’t let him go. He whimpered, eyes pooling with tears that were quickly brushed away before they could even touch his skin. Phil shushed him, rocking him back and forth as he paced around the ground. “No, no, no. It’s alright, Fundy. You’re safe, I promise. I’m your grandpa… your Grandza, as I assume Wilbur would have told you to address me as.”

“G-grandza?” He sniffled, wiping his nose on the man’s cloak. Phil laughed, wrinkling his nose, but he didn’t berate Fundy for the action. He looked over at Techno, taking in the strange piglin hybrid who looked extremely uncomfortable underneath his stare. He thought back to his dad’s stories - at least the ones that weren’t as fuzzy in his mind - recalling how his dad would mention his older twin brother who was a powerful warrior. He also mentioned that his older twin brother had long pink hair. Fundy pointed at Techno in awe, all previous fear gone. “Uncle Techno!”

“HEH?!” Fundy giggled, tail wagging as he tried to reach towards his uncle. Unfortunately (or fortunately, if you ask Technoblade), the screams of an angry mob reached their ears. Fundy withdrew, whining as he gripped at his ears. He heard his grandza and his uncle quickly exchange words, and then they were running away, the wind brushing against his hair and cheek.

But… he didn’t feel cold. No. Not at all.

---

Fundy poked at the hole in his chest, phantom blood oozing out in a hue of orange. He wrinkled his nose, the blood splattering against the wooden floor before disappearing into thin air. Grandza had given him a mirror, something to occupy himself with as they continued to build the cabin around him. He wanted to help, but his uncle and his grandza said that he could help decorate the inside of the cabin instead once they finished building. His attention turned back to his reflection, his small frown going back into a smile. He was wearing his favorite sweater. It was orange, warm, and very fluffy. Like his tail! His papa had asked uncle Tommy to make it a few sizes bigger, so he could barely even see his little hands as the sleeves covered them entirely.

His white curly hair nearly covered his blank white eyes, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Eret would feel if he showed them his eyes. They matched now! He giggled, sitting down on the floor after looking at himself in the mirror for as long as his attention remained. He watched his grandza and uncle work around him instead, his grandza having built a small roof above him so that the cold, wet snow wouldn’t touch his skin. Fundy was a bit disappointed to realize that he’d never be able to touch snow or water again. They hurt him, and Fundy didn’t like getting hurt.

“Hey, mate. Need anything down there?”

“No, Grandza!” He looked up, waving at his grandza who was standing on a nearby wall that had yet to be finished. Fundy frowned, floating off the ground for a bit before settling back down. It was snowing heavily now, and he didn’t want to get hurt again. They learned the hard way that Fundy couldn’t touch snow when Phil had placed him down on the snow, in which Fundy began to shriek the moment his feet touched the ground. He sighed, laying down. “Want to help…”

“You know you can’t, mate. Not with the snow.” His grandza stuck out his hand, a snowflake landing against the palm of his hand before quickly melting away. He frowned, turning his head to the white flurry that flowed down around him. Grandza hadn’t thought of how big the space he should have for movement, the two by two wooden roof barely gave him any space to run around in. He looked just as a cold gust of wind slapped against his cheek. He turned back to see grandza back on the ground, his wings had let out a puff of air as he landed gracefully on the ground. Fundy sat up as grandza walked closer to him, ruffling his hair. “Bored? Alright, wait.”

Grandza began to add more wood to the roof, giving Fundy more space to run around in and play. Fundy was happy about it… until he realized that he didn’t have anything to play with. His toys were back in L’Manburg, and his papa was still in L’Manburg. He followed after grandza, the man focused so much on the roof that he didn’t notice the small tugging at his robe. After a few seconds, Fundy gave up on trying to get his grandza’s attention. “When papa coming?”

His grandza winced, eyes darting here and there like any other object was much more interesting than Fundy. He frowned, tugging at grandza’s cloak once again. Fundy heard his grandza let out a sigh under his breath, crouching beneath the wooden roof so he could pull Fundy into his arms. They sat there, Fundy fiddling with the mint tea-scented cloak that helped him calm down. Grandza smelled nice, even his papa didn’t smell that nice. His papa always smelled like gunpowder and freshwater. Fundy only ever liked the freshwater, the gunpowder not so much.

“Fundy…” His grandza’s gaze flicked down, black wings ruffling behind him. Fundy tried not to look as nervous as his grandza, maybe if he looked brave, grandza would be too. A hand petted the top of his head, fingers shaking as it held a strand of white hair. “I need you to understand—”

Fundy looked behind Phil, noticing a familiar figure trekking through the snow in the distance.

“Papa!”

The sword clattered against the blood-stained cobblestone, red ichor dripping past the edge and landing somewhere far below their reach. Phil could hear the loud thump of his heart in his ears, the rush of adrenaline seeping away from his veins as the body collapsed against the ground. He moved before his mind could process what happened, hands gripping at the corpse that had stopped breathing the moment his sword had struck. Not a single word had been said. Not a cry. Not even the chance to say goodbye. His fingers gripped the back of the body’s head, rocking back and forth even as it began to fade away from his hold. The soul was being claimed, he of all people should know there was nothing to be done to stop the process. He held on a little tighter.

He’d flown miles from the solace of his home. He was an old man, at least as old as his real age would imply. He was an immortal, a man who has seen countless wars. He has seen empires rise and fall. He has seen mortals rise from the ashes and return to the earth. He has watched the world change around, adapting to the times, careful to never fall for the charms of mortals. And he’d stuck to that mora; ever since he realized he could never grow beyond the age of 40. He’d stuck to it even after countless forms of death. He couldn’t seem to die. He’d walked the earth, alone and content with his immortality. Then he’d met Technoblade, a warrior possessed with the spirit of the Blood God. Phil has yet to determine what Techno is, a mortal or a god. Then after, he’d fallen in love with the goddess of death herself, and gained the title of ‘The Angel of Death.’

In all his years. In all his lifetimes. This very moment affirmed his moral to never befriend or ever grow close to a mortal soul. He didn’t know why it burned so badly, but it did. And he’d never felt this pain in a very long time… not since his first lifetime. The body beneath his fingertips crumbled into dust, lost to the winds of time. Blood still clung to his fingertips and to his cloak. His breath stuck against his throat, tears springing to his eyes. He held them back, his hands trembling instead. Phil held his hands close to his chest, eyes fluttering close as he whispered a prayer of death and safe passage. Perhaps his wife will receive him in the afterlife, and maybe he’d be happier there than he was in this life. He shook his head. In all his years. Among all the souls he’d reaped and sent away. He didn’t realize how painful death really was.

“Phil…” He forced himself to look up. The sword was no longer on the ground, instead it had been picked up. Blood slid down its steel blade, staining the ground even more. Phil winced at the noise, at the drip-drop of red. He stood, his shaky knees threatening to give way beneath him.

He let out a shaky sigh, forcing himself to meet his son’s dark eyes. “Wilbur…”

=============================================================

Hm... is the Wilbur coming to where Phil, Fundy, and Techno are Ghostbur or just Alivebur?

#fundy #philza #technoblade #wilbur soot #dream smp fanfiction #dsmp

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cheri-translates · 3 years

Text

[CN] Gavin’s S2 R&S - Border (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers from an R&S (边境) which has not been released in English servers!🍒

This S2 R&S features S1 Gavin, but it follows directly after Ch 37 - Gavin’s Farewell. If you don’t wish to spoil yourself on how S1 ends, please don’t read this!

Follow along with the audio here!

[ Chapter One ]

The dismissal bell has rung for a very long time.

With an almost inaudible sigh, Gavin takes a final glance in the direction of the rooftop, then turns around to leave.

The pale yellow light divides the light and darkness, akin to the black and white keys of a piano which are no longer played by anyone.

The companionship and breaths belonging to the girl have become too warm and natural. Having gotten used to them, the temperature seems to have dropped when walking alone in the school grounds.

Gavin walks over to the school wall. Gently exerting force on his ankles and wrists, he leaps over the wall.

“This time, it counts as a proper goodbye, doesn’t it?”

He smiles a little bitterly.

The enclosing wall, trees and plants are silent, leaving the answer to the evening breeze passing through the leaves.

The city is silent.

The Special Task Force has already issued instructions to every team member to be dismissed. Even the team members who wanted to leave last have returned to their families.

The cluster of comets in the sky brush the atmosphere, burning long trails of unclear rays of light in their wake.

In the distance, some dark smoke can be seen rising faintly, probably the embers of a disaster-stricken building.

Gavin looks at the night sky as many meteors streak past. Getting onto the motorcycle, he drives far away.

Since an unknown point in time, he’s been running in the direction of the girl.

Despite not knowing where such inexplicable confidence came from, Gavin has always felt that whether it’s in the form of protecting her, standing by her side or waiting, the end-goal of the path they walk on will always coincide.

When he told the girl to "walk forward", he was already convinced that the girl would follow her own path, no matter how difficult it is. She would definitely reach the goal she’s searching for. As for himself, he would definitely stand there, welcoming their reunion once again.

Walking forward without turning back, they will eventually meet again in the future.

Gavin secretly vows that when the time comes, no matter what happens, he will definitely not let go of her hand again.

The wind howls. The high-speed motorcycle carries its partner, galloping through the devastated city.

Moving a little closer to that place in Gavin’s heart.

[ Chapter Two ]

Although no new natural disasters have occurred for the time being, the wounds inflicted on the city are still dripping with fresh blood.

The pavement that was originally clean and wide have occasional piles of rubble and rocks. The asphalt is cracked, and the iron railings are in tatters, curled at the side.

The originally lively and bustling Loveland City is now struggling whilst at death’s door, providing its citizens a final refuge.

"Ahh--”

A harsh sound of scraping metal suddenly arises from the roadside, followed by exclamations from the crowd.

A large advertising billboard that was originally on the roof of the building is swinging downwards, and the steel bars fixing it in place are gradually cracking, and it’s clear that it’s about to fall.

Gavin pulls in the direction violently, and the motorcycle sweeps half an arc on the road. Amid the billowing dust, the tyres almost create sparks on the ground.

Changing directions, the motorcycle gallops toward the tall building, leaving behind only the sound of rustling wind.

Citizens who sense the danger in the streets rush for cover. But the falling billboard is too humongous, and the shadow from the top hangs over the heads of all who are fleeing.

Finally, the steel bars are no longer able to hold the billboard. Along with the cracking sound of the final steel bar, the billboard quickly plummets towards the ground--

On the ground, some people have already closed her eyes, waiting for the unexpected calamity to arrive.

What arrives before the pain is a gale rising from the ground, rushing into the air with a mighty force.

"Don't panic. Evacuate to an open area."

Gavin raises his voice, giving instructions to the citizens who are still in a state of panic.

The howling wind turns into a sharp blade, slicing the huge billboard into countless small pieces immediately. Amid the sparks, the sliced metal emits a pungent smell.

Another gust of wind rises, wrapping the debris, and landing on an unoccupied area.

In an instant, the shadow hanging over everyone's head disappears. Even the stinging gas in the air has been dispersed by the wind.

After doing all of this, Gavin breathes a sigh of relief. Just as he’s about to leave, the citizens he saved surround him, thanking their hero.

A little girl, with tears still clinging to the corners of her eyes, tugs at Gavin’s clothes, putting the candy in her pocket into his hand carefully.

"Thank you, Big Brother."

"You're welcome."

"Big Brother... are you the Commander Brother who was on TV the other day?"

The little girl blinks, her hands clenched till her knuckles have turned white, not allowing him to leave.

"…yes."

"Will Big Brother protect us afterwards? From the stars?”

She points to the top of her head, eyes filled with anticipation.

"Don’t worry. I’ll do everything I can."

Gavin squats down and rubs the top of the little girl's head. His eyes become much more tender.

“Aside from me, there are also many other people who are doing everything they can.”

"There’s also a very incredible Sister. Even though she isn’t here now, she’s definitely working hard.”

"Is that Sister an even more incredible person than Big Brother?”

"Mm. She’s very incredible. She’s overcome many obstacles and has done many difficult things."

"Is Sister a fairy? After she finishes what she has to do, will she come back?" Ignoring the gentle tug of her mother, the little girl continues asking Gavin questions.

"She will. I believe her."

The little girl nods faintly, then takes out another candy.

"In that case, when you see Sister, remember to give this to her!"

"Okay. I definitely will."

He watches as the little girl finally smiles, pulling on her mother as she hops away. Then, he shakes his head at the apologetic lady, indicating that he wasn’t bothered.

Gavin scans his surroundings. After hesitating for a while, he begins to clear up other hidden dangers that still linger in the city.

The wind rolls up the rubble and bricks that have fallen to the ground, shifting them to the side of the road. Remnants of buildings hanging in the air are either cut or fixed in another manner.

He’s silent, quietly tidying up and protecting the city, no different from the other things he has been doing during this period of time.

[ Chapter Three ]

When Gavin returns to his senses, many people have already gathered on the street.

Everyone is like him, doing things quietly. Whether it’s helping others or cleaning up the city, they simply hope to make this city a little better than the second before, bit by bit.

"Commander!"

Gavin turns his head, looking at the man who called him. Dressed in military attire, the childish aura of his face hasn’t completely faded away despite his dirty face.

Around him, there are several people of around the same age: the same childishness, the same tiredness, and the same fire burning in their eyes.

"We’re part of the Special Task Force Medical Corps, but we’re still reserves. We responded to the call for support, and didn't expect to see you here."

They line up in front of Gavin, standing at attention and saluting, their voices trembling slightly with emotion.

Whether it’s because of fatigue or because they weren’t properly trained, their posture is not up to standard, and their greeting was overly casual.

But Gavin doesn’t care that much, and simply gives them a nod.

"Commander, what instructions do you have next?"

Gavin pats him on the shoulder, getting him to relax. "Don't be so nervous. You should have received the order to evacuate.”

"Yes. But there are minor damages nearby, and there are citizens in need of medical assistance, so we returned to the frontline on our own accord."

Gavin looks at these young people who have yearning and decisiveness in their eyes. Half-seriously and half-jokingly, he says, "So you’re all blatantly violating instructions?"

Another young man stands upright, replying in a bright voice. “The Commander hasn’t rested yet, so we’ll also continue to provide assistance."

Hearing this, Gavin smiles slightly. “You’re free to act anyway you want. Provide medical and follow-up support to the citizens."

"Yes!"

"Take care of your own safety.”

"Yes!"

"Also...”

Gavin's gaze softens, his lips curving upwards.

"Also, set aside some time to keep your family members company.”

The cluster of comets burning in the night illuminates the group of people who refuse to give up even at the last second.

Despite knowing what’s coming, the people gathered here are still igniting with the hope in their own hands.

Hope that this world wouldn’t end.

Hope that there can be a tomorrow.

Light rips through the night, and the people who look up at the starry sky stand hand in hand.

Gavin leans against the motorcycle, suddenly feeling as though what he has always been holding onto, what the girl has always been protecting, and what everyone who’s unwilling to give up has been safeguarding - wasn’t the city or this world. At the same time, they were also the most ordinary, trivial matters in life.

Just a small place, a warm breakfast in the morning, a light left on when one returns late, and a “welcome home”.

Being able to hold the hand of the most important person on an ordinary day, waste time luxuriously, watch the sunrise and sunset every day.

The time on the display board is constantly approaching the number that has been engraved in everyone's mind recently.

It’s as though Gavin has never noticed the ever-changing numbers at all. He simply looks at the picture of the girl on the screen. In a quiet voice that only he can hear, he says things he wouldn’t typically say to a person he doesn’t know when he’d meet again.

“If only this could last a little longer.”

“A little longer than after the dismissal bell rings.”

“A little longer than tomorrow.”

On the screen, the girl smiles very sweetly. The moment her hair blows upwards slightly, it’s the most affectionate caress of the breeze.

"...stay by my side a little longer."

Gavin lowers his eyelids slightly, the final soft whisper being shattered and taken away by the night breeze, following the wind's trajectory toward the horizon.

The sky gradually lights up, and the cluster of comets get closer to the surface, like thousands of unformed suns, emitting fiery light, scorching the planet.

Soon, fragments of the first star descend from the sky, and the flaming tail of the comet burns before it hits the ground.

Then comes the second, the third... Even more tiny fragments begin to penetrate into the atmosphere. They are reminiscent of an advancing army beginning to sound the horn, announcing that the collision of the comets is about to begin.

Before the comets officially land, a flash of light suddenly lights up in the direction of the northern suburbs, followed by a deafening sound.

Gavin looks towards the sound, brows furrowing.

After a while, another loud noise drifts from the northern suburbs. Without much thought, Gavin gets onto the motorcycle, driving towards the northern suburbs to check out the situation, and to prevent other disasters from occurring.

He understands very clearly that at this juncture, doing such things is perhaps meaningless.

But even if it’s the last second, Gavin still hopes this world can look the way that girl likes it.

[ Chapter Four ]

Gavin reaches the northern suburbs, then walks a few kilometres further north. To his shock, he discovers that the ground has split into a giant ravine. But it doesn’t appear to be a crater.

He looks at the ravine, which is so deep that he can’t see the bottom. Just as he’s about to leave, he realises that a strange light is shining faintly in the darkness.

After a moment of hesitation, Gavin decides to go down and have a look.

He dials the communicator out of habit, following procedure in giving a report to the Special Task Force.

"An unidentified ravine has been found in the northern suburbs, and I’m commencing an investigation immediately. No additional support is required."

While speaking, Gavin descends into the ravine.

The ravine is deeper than expected. The sky above his head has shrunk into a thin slit, but he’s still unable to see the boundary of the pitch-dark emptiness beneath his feet. The ramparts around him gradually morph from sand and soil to something thicker and more solid, even with a foreign material with a touch of metal.

Since entering the ravine, the wind entwining round Gavin protects him all the way deep into the ground. The deeper he goes, the muddier the air becomes. Even Gavin is unable to judge how deep he has gone, only that the bottom of the ravine is still far out of reach.

Descending further, even the sky is no longer visible.

Light seems to be swallowed up by the hole, and doesn’t bring back any visual signals. The concept of direction becomes meaningless, leaving only darkness and silence.

Only the sensation of continuous descent and the occasional light passing by underneath his feet tell Gavin that he’s getting closer to the target.

After an unknown amount of time, light finally appears.

At the end of the darkness, the light seems to have a solid body, surging and flowing in a form between a liquid and solid state. Occasionally, the light breaks free from the shackles of that area, escaping and rising, then dissipating. Come to think of it, this was the strange light that Gavin saw earlier.

Gavin makes a preliminary judgment that this is some kind of unstable, strange space. Hence, he presses the communication button again and tries to give a report on the situation. What returns to his ears is the noise of an electric current, affected by the unique magnetic field of this place. Gavin doesn’t know if the information was transmitted.

Speeding up his pace, he plunges into the wave of light that shouldn't exist in this world.

The light is distorted, and his field of vision becomes skewed and odd. The flowing sceneries and figures slip past Gavin. He sees the construction of ancient buildings, the sailing of inter-galactic spacecrafts, the melting of glaciers after the world was frozen, and the formation of the galaxy and then its fall... It’s as though all the hidden information about the universe are exhibited here.

The spatial nodes are dazzling. No matter which one it is, they’re all worth spending more time to study and mull over meticulously.

But at this moment, Gavin doesn’t have time to care about these things. In the darkness, he can only feel that the thing he’s searching for isn’t here.

This isn’t the direction he wants to go in.

He enters a certain node in the space, then comes out from another node. There is neither direction nor goal.

He shuttles through many places, passing by various sceneries, and finally halts in front of the only node that’s different from the others.

Akin to a painting that has never had its curtain drawn, the undulating light stops here. Gavin looks around, sensing that this might be the origin of all the distortions.

So he strides forward, stepping into it.

After a moment of dizziness, a black door appears in front of his eyes, fixed abruptly in the empty and boundless void.

Complicated symbols are engraved in spirals on the huge door, seeming to rustle and whisper the answer to the origin of all things and the mystery to the riddle.

The most eye-catching one is a horizontal, interlocked “8”. It’s surrounded by thorns and irregular geometric patterns. It has an unknown beginning, and he can’t see its ending.

Gavin reaches out to touch the door, only to find that he’s unable to open it.

No matter which method he employs, the door doesn’t budge.

"You shouldn't be here."

Suddenly, a voice appears out of nowhere. But in the youthfulness of the voice, there’s a calmness that does not match this age.

Gavin looks around his surroundings but sees nothing, and he’s unable to determine where the voice came from.

"Who are you?"

Gavin voices out the doubt in his heart.

"I am everything and nothing."

Gavin frowns, clearly not satisfied with the answer that doesn’t count as an answer. After pondering for a moment, he decides to ask another question.

"What’s this door?”

“It’s a question, and an answer.”

"What's behind the door?"

"It's not time to disclose it. Even if I told you, it would be of no help. Even though I don't know how you got here, you should return now.”

The voice once again gives an answer that doesn’t count as an answer, putting an end to the conversation.

"Wait...”

"You should go. There’s someone waiting for you in the future."

Before he finishes speaking, an irresistible force repels Gavin, throwing him out of that space firmly and easily.

Before Gavin has time to digest the information he had just engaged with, he vaguely senses that a strange change has arrived to this planet.

In an instant, sunlight shines from the west, and withered grass turns green.

The universe moves forward in a reversed manner.

And the wind that was brushing past him before entering the crack is rushing in a retrograde motion.

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seasaltmemories · 3 years

Text

Regret

Rating: T

Summary: When the nurse finished her tale, Celica promised herself that she would never become such a pitiable woman. [Arranged Marriage AU] [Trigger Warnings]

The first time Anthiese remembered meeting her father was when she was eleven.

A year after the villa was attacked, Sir Mycen sent a letter to Novis declaring all of Desaix collaborators jailed or executed. Since heirs were now in a sudden short supply, her father had decided it best for her to join him at Zofia Castle.

She had only started to allow herself to view the priory as a home the prior month; nevertheless, Anthiese followed the dark-hair mercenary back to the capital without complaint. With both a decade and the fire under her belt now, she didn’t feel like a child anymore. And because eleven was the oldest she had ever been, she thought that meant she must be ready to be an adult now.

For all her poise, though, it didn’t make that first night in one of the castle’s guest-rooms any easier. It was furnished with the same silks and mahoganies of the royal villa, and no matter how much she tried to reason with herself that such similarities were only natural, she still found herself dreaming that she was choking on ash. That morning she woke up convinced she was buried in the villa’s rubble and scrubbed her cheeks near raw.

Her nurse had scolded her once the episode passed and spent the rest of the morning brushing powder on her face. If she couldn’t act like an adult, then maybe she could at least try to present herself like one.

She hated the process, feeling like a porcelain doll being painted and brushed to perfection. But if someone ever took the time to ask her what she wanted, she didn’t know if she would have protested in the slightest. She suspected she wouldn’t have been able to explain at all what she expected from this journey. It was only the distance that memory provided that allowed her to give words to such a childish desire. That if she bore all her pain with grace and determination, somehow, someway she’d be rewarded.

And so, Earth Mother, she tried. She tried to hold her head high and approach the throne as if it was where she belonged.

The man who sat before had hair as red as hers. It shouldn’t have been all surprisingly, but Anthiese found herself clinging to detail all the same. She liked to think she had never needed him before in her life, but it was thrilling to imagine he might need her in return. So she went through whole ritual of curtsying and giving her most genuine respect.

When she lifted her head again, she found her father looking at her as if he was meeting a god. Trembling, he extended a swollen red hand.

“Liprica?” It was barely a murmur, but the stink of his wine-soaked breath still overwhelmed her. When he moved to cradle a curl of hers, she couldn’t help but recoil.

His eyes widened, as if coming out from a waking dream, and somehow she knew in that instant that he’d never look at her with that same reverence ever again.

It didn’t take long for him to dismiss Anthiese back to her chambers. Once there, the cool mask of maturity she had been weaving since she had received the missive fell apart. She found herself bawling like a newborn, kicking and screaming at any of the maids that tried to restrain her.

Then, like a flash of lightning, her nurse struck her across the cheek. The fear and pain that followed was so overwhelming, Anthiese went silent almost immediately.

“How dare you behave in such a selfish manner! What kind of daughter refuses her own father’s affections?!”

Something deep inside of her started to catalyze. She didn’t quite know what she was becoming, but she had the feeling she wasn’t quite Anthiese anymore.

“Who is Liprica?” It felt dangerous to ask, but the question fell from her lips before she could take it back.

The nurse furrowed her brow in pity. Surprisingly, she picked up the child and gathered her in her lap. In the last show of tenderness she could remember, the nurse recounted the story of the only woman the king had ever loved.

When she finished her tale, Celica promised herself that she would never become such a pitiable woman.

When Celica awoke in Mila’s cell, she felt that same sense of transformation pull at her limbs. While her memory and vision came back to her slowly but surely, some third, indescribable part of her seemed to leak out onto the ground. Like a cocoon cracked open before it could hatch into a butterfly, if she was supposed to become someone else again, she had no clue anymore on how to get there.

She liked to think it was courage or bravery that compelled her to stand, but that felt too optimistic a conjecture to make. Picking up Falchion and climbing past the torn cell bars seemed more muscle memory than anything deliberate. She didn’t know what could possibly be fueling her at this point. With each breath she swallowed, she tasted the ash that still lingered in the air.

Earth Mother...

She didn’t know if it was a prayer or a curse. As much as Celica rather forget it, the memory of Mila’s grasp had been burned into her memory. No matter how many times she went back to try and construct a different version of events, Mila’s claws seemed to tear into her mind each time.

You didn’t take imprisonment gracefully either...

Celica’s mind drifted back towards the Rigelian maid she burned. She must have seemed just as monstrous and terrifying as Mila in that moment. Guilt swirled inside Celica’s stomach like a storm, but she tried to channel it into something positive. If there was hope for her, then perhaps Mila might calm with time.

Are you sure you’re so above reproach?

Celica bit her lip and pressed forward into the darkness of the tunnels. Perhaps this whole underground was her cocoon. She wouldn’t be able to see what she’d become until she left.

It was dawn when Alm reemerged from his grief. Not because the pain had subsided or because he had somehow overcome it, but rather because he was simple too exhausted to sob any longer. All his pity and empathy had been wrung out of him like washing rag.

From the distance, he saw Berkut lead a squadron of soldiers up towards the bastion. And despite how he knew Father meant to Berkut, meant to everyone, a strange possessiveness overtook him. He found himself moving towards the top end of the ramparts, blocking any view of Father’s body.

“Alm--” Berkut struggled to catch his breath, eyes wild and unfocused. “--there you are! Do you have any idea what’s been--”

“I know!” Despite himself, Alm’s voice came out harsher than he wanted. “I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’ve just--”

As Alm struggled to find some words that might capture the last few hours, Berkut pushed past him. Alm couldn’t stop him before he managed to catch sight of the ugly scene.

“Uncle...” Those two syllables managed to break Alm’s heart all over again. There was a weakness to Berkut’s voice he hadn’t heard since the two of them were children. Alm leaned forward to comfort him; however before he could complete his embrace, Berkut gripped his forearms in a tight squeeze.

“Who did this!?” Berkut hissed.

Mila’s shadow hung heavy over the two men. This was a conversation that they had sworn to keep behind closed doors, but what were they supposed to do once everything had been blown open?

“It was her, wasn’t it? Never should have let her out of our sight!”

“What do you want me to do?!” Alm could feel what little control he had mustered start to fray. “He’s gone now! Nothing can change that! Not even a brand!”

Alm wondered what this must look to the outside world: Rigel’s two fine princes yelling like madman. All of Father’s hard work to crafting the perfect golden hero vanquished before he even had a grave to roll around in.

From that thought, the sorrow returned, stronger than ever before. However before the tears could return, Berkut dug his nails into his skin.

“Don’t you dare.” There was a dangerous calmness to his voice. “You don’t have the luxury of grief anymore. You have to be able to do what’s necessary for the country.”

He turned around to face the squadron. “Everyone kneel! You have the honor to bask in the presence of our sovereign emperor!” Berkut fell to his knees in front of Alm, and like dominoes, each following soldier did the same.

“All hail Albine Alm Rudolf II, may his reign be righteous and just!” The cry went out like a chorus, ringing across the ramparts. With each round, another further group repeated it, until the entire castle was shouting as one voice.

It took all of Alm’s willpower not to vomit.

When Berkut rose again, he was quick to issue orders about funeral and burial preparations. As the squadron dispersed Alm wanted nothing more than to fade into the wind--to let the one who truly wanted this responsibility take it. But before he could voice any of those thoughts, Berkut caught him off-guard with one final question.

“Do you have any idea if your wedding gift is still secure?”

Alm was puzzled for a moment. Wedding gift had been their code for Mila since his marriage was arranged. How could he go from recognizing her involvement to asking about her imprisonment?

Suddenly everything came together with terrifying clarity.

Where in the world was Anthiese?

Celica had trouble discerning how long she had been in the underground tunnels. There was no natural lighting to indicate if it was night or day. No people going about their daily routine. For all she knew she could have been unconscious for centuries, and spend another few running around in circles. The only way to prove herself wrong, would be if she kept pressing forward regardless.

On one hand the solitude was, all things considered, welcomed--she still felt too fuzzy to attempt any stealth maneuvers. On the other hand though, the further she ventured, the further she felt unmoored from the rest of the world. When she first descended down here, she had mostly followed the pain in her brand. Without its guide, she had no idea where to go.

After what felt like ages wandering in the darkness, Celica found a green feather lying at a crossroads. Immediately she ran up to it, as if it were a talisman that might save her soul. And while even under closer scrutiny, she couldn’t discern anything further about the feather, she noticed a fresh set of claw marks on the rightmost wall. Whether intentional or not, the Earth Mother had not completely abandoned her. And so despite all odds, Celica allowed herself to believe in the hope that she would not stay lost forever, that if she was meant to die, it wasn’t here.

For a moment, it seemed as if her hopes weren’t for nothing. In time her makeshift trail of plumage and scratches brought her to an room so warmly lit, it almost blinded her. Something about that orange glow tugged at Celica’s heart strings. The relief was so great, she almost believed she might be able to truly love Rigel. That she’d never need anything ever again, and she’d be good and obedient if it meant staving off the dread that seemed poised to swallow her whole. She couldn’t help but run to the light without looking back.

However as her vision adjusted, any comfort she had managed to dream up, evaporated in an instant.

From the slick marble tile and high-vaulted ceilings, she could tell that this once was a place of grand splendor. There was a strange nostalgia to the splintered benches and crumbling columns, but she found her gaze being drawn mostly to the broken slab at the far end of the hall. It was hard to say, but perhaps if she put all her attention to reconstructing what it could have been, then maybe the stench of death and decay would fade away. Things would go back to the way they were supposed to be, and she wouldn’t have to live in this nightmare anymore.

Celica didn’t realize she had continued wandering forward until she tripped and found herself on the cool floor. Blankly, she checked to see what had made her fall. She expected to find a loose stone or cracked board, but instead a limp, bruised arm laid sprawled across the path. When it twitched, she could help but shriek.

However rather than reach out and grab her, the arm did nothing but spasm weakly. Instead the true source of life came from the groan that echoed across the room. She followed the arm to find the source to be Jedah of all people, crushed under a pile of rubble.

“Anthiese...is that really you?” His words were slurred and difficult to make out. The only sign of life on his blood-crusted face was the slight tremor of his lip as he spoke.

Celica shivered. His choked voice made her blood run so cold, her tongue felt frozen in place. She tried her best to get away from the horrid sound, but in the process of trying to push herself up, Falchion clattered against the floor with a piercing ring.

“That sword!” He gasped. Quickly Celica picked it back up, a new possessiveness overwhelming her, but he seemed content to simply follow the light that bounced off the blade. “...that’s why he forsook us. You used our own tools to conquer us.”

“My intention has never been to conquer Rigel.” Celica spat.

“Look around you. Duma’s Faithful have been on death row for the longest time. This is just the noose finally tightening around our neck. Now your goddess can reign completely.”

Again Celica remembered the sensation of Mila’s claws on her chin. She wondered if she looked closely, how many other corpses she might find. She wondered if their bodies would carry the same wounds as her.

“Perhaps this is Duma’s last lesson...” Jedah mused. “In my arrogance, I thought I had tamed you thoroughly enough. Let that boy influence me too much. Now you shall be our undoing.”

Celica’s skin crawled. As much as her hatred for him hadn’t diminished in the slightest, she did not want to watch him die. Even as she tried to look away, she couldn’t stop from noticing all the blood stains that lined the walls. Just how many other corpses were hiding among this room? How much blood would stain her hands before Mila’s rampage ended?

“I didn’t want this.” Celica whispered--as if any of that mattered at this point.

When what remained of Jedah’s life began to fade away--she found herself closing her eyes and raising her face towards heaven. If it was a prayer, then she only prayed her drumming heartbeat would drown out his dying gasps.

When she heard a group of soldier shout for her arrest, she didn’t resist.

News of Anthiese didn’t get to him until late that night. After Berkut found him, he passed Alm off to Massena for a more formal coronation. Even if Rigel Castle hadn’t been in such a dismal state, succession had become a fraught topic since Father ascended to the throne. Up until now, every heir had been required to be blessed by the Duma Faithful before they could rule. In theory such a thing shouldn’t be necessary now that the Emperor also doubled as head of the Church, but wars had been fought over more insignificant details in the past. As a result, Alm spent most of his day signing documents and sending letters, certain Jedah would interrupt him at any moment. When sunset came and there was still no attempt of a coup, Massena finally bestowed Alm his crown and declared him emperor.

The only witnesses were General Zeke and his wife.

Alm was escorted back to his old chambers afterwards. In theory, they’d have a more public ceremony tomorrow, so it be better if he looked like he had at least gotten an hour or two of sleep. Still even his study had not escaped the day untouched. A pile of notes the height of his forearm laid on top his desk, all addressed to Emperor Albein Alm Rudolf II.

Despite the hour, he still felt the vast emptiness from the morning, somehow too exhausted for sleep. So he tried to do what he thought a chosen hero should do. He lit a candle and went to work.

Anthiese’ report was nestled in between a record of civilian deaths and an estimate charge for castle repairs. He’d be lying if he acted as if he hadn’t be thinking of her all day, but he forced himself to read the paper at the same detached pace as every other piece.

It claimed that the lost princess had been found in Duma Temple, next to Father Jedah’s wasting body. Considering the number of Duma Faithful found dead, she was currently being imprisoned on charges for mass murder. However most of the corpses had been found under rubble and other debris; the report argued it was unlikely she had been the only one responsible. The only piece of evidence she could have been involved was the sword she had been found with.

Alm read the last sentence over. Then he read it again and again, until the words started to blur before his eyes. He pushed the document away and took a deep breath. He tried to hope against hope.

He pulled out the charges for repairs. He read the first line of figures. Then he crumpled it into a ball and headed for the dungeons.

On his journey downwards, Alm couldn’t help but be reminded of the first time he made this trip. If he had reported first to Father as expected, would he still be here today? As illogical as it sounded, he couldn’t stop from trying to pinpoint everything went wrong, when Father’s demise had been locked in place.

“Promise me you won’t let her lead you astray.”

That had been some of his last words. And yet despite everything, when Alm thought of Anthiese, he still imagined her flushed face and the sensation of her lips against his eyelids. He didn’t want to open his eyes, see what she must really think of him when not performing for his pleasure.

This time there was no forcing his way in. The minute the guard saw him, she immediately stepped aside and gave a deep bow. “Is this going to be a private interrogation?” She asked while handing him the keys. And maybe this was another mistake, another point of no return he was damning himself to, but he wanted the two of them to be honest for once, about Mila and everything in between.

“Yes,” He answered. And by the time the door slammed shut, she had all but disappeared down the hall.

A long time ago, Father had told him that the worst thing an Emperor could do, was appear anxious. Any physical tics or irregular breathing could turn into a terrible tell for enemies to exploit. Therefore, Alm took his time facing Anthiese, slowly inhaling and exhaling until the rise in his chest was barely noticeable.

When he finally looked up he found her curled up on the floor wearing a torn set of his shirt and trousers. Shackles chained her to the wall, only allowing a short range of movement, yet even that amount of freedom made him uneasy. He struggled to predict what might occur if she got her hands on him.

“Wake up,” Alm ordered.

He struggled to trust what might occur if he got his hands on her.

The only sign of life she showed was the singular cold eye that peeked out behind her curtain of hair. She looked less like the alluring temptress from the night before and more like a stray hound.

“Most of the time, the high judge is the one to lay out the case, but just this once, I’m going to give you the chance to explain yourself.” He tried to speak with Father’s commanding presence.

Anthiese tilted her head to the side. For a moment she just stared. Then a sickening giggle began to scratch its way out of her throat.

“How nice. Do I get to choose the method of execution as well?”

Alm’s eyes narrowed. “I’d stop the jokes if I were you. The high judge lost his wife this morning. He’s not likely to have much sympathy for you.”

Anthiese stopped giggling. “Do you have sympathy for me?”

His brand ached at her words, as if it was just now being etched into his skin. He wondered if perhaps it was something like an infected wound, slowly spreading to the rest of him.

“Don’t mock my mercy,” He took a step forward, ignoring the pain. “Do you even realize what you’ve done? What wielding that blade means?”

“I’m not an idiot.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I know you already know about the temple and how much blood they say is on my hands. What’s the use in asking for my story?”

“A man is supposed to think the best of his wife.” His words caught on something sharp inside of himself. “An orphaned king must be the loneliest creature in the world. If possible, I don’t want to lose you too.”

“That’s your problem,” Anthiese snapped. “You’ve forgotten Jedah’s warnings. How could a Zofian woman be anything but duplicitous and selfish? It doesn’t matter if you pamper her with flowers, you can’t change nature.” She leaned forward and bared her teeth. “You should have locked me up our wedding night.”

Alm could feel his blood hum through his body. It felt like an entire colony wasps was needling at his skin, wanting to burst clean from his body and swarm. Images of a manor in the woods he did not want to think about flooded his mind.

“Tell me you didn’t know you were doing.” He begged. For a moment he believed that was all they needed to return to the magic of their night together.

Anthiese pushed herself up so that they were eye level. “I rather watch the continent burn than become anything resembling my mother.”

He wished he could say he was blinded with rage. He wished his body had acted as a separate creature from him. but if anything, he felt more like himself than he had all day when he slammed his fist into her cheek.

Anthiese hit the floor hard, her chin catching on a loose stone. A slow stream of blood started to dribble down her neck as Alm gasped for breath. Carefully, she picked herself up, cradling her cheek.

“Thank you, Emperor Albein--” Her voice was cold and distant. “--for finally showing me your gentle, tender care.” The giggle returned louder than ever.

But despite all her best efforts, she could stop the tears that were streaming down her face.

A.N. Well, man was last chapter a bad cliffhanger to end on. I'm real sorry for the whole two year hiatus, definitely had a lot of personal projects to focus on. Good news though, this is now the WIP at the top of my "to finish" list. At the very least, I finally feel as confident as I'll ever be with this chapter, while there are still plenty of questions to answer, I thought it important to really get this personal reactions from the two of them, I wanted to show how grief and trauma can really consume ppl in the worst ways, how it can be defined by painful absences as much as vivid hauntings.

#celicalm #fe echoes #celica #alm #fire emblem echoes #my lame writing #otp: I'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home #ships and deserts and swamps oh my #arranged marriage au #definitely mind the trigger warnings on this on guys

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nebraska-is-a-myth · 4 years

Text

Drown your sorrows - part 7

Grab your tissues dude, this one is not a happy one at all. I'm sorry in advanced

special shout out to my pal @hufflepuffkilljoy for helping me with some details for this chapter. I also feel like they’re going to kill me after reading this so wish me luck.

Masterlist

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Tommy is fortunate enough to stay conscious this time.

It's a lot warmer than the warehouse was and he's still just as afraid.

But he feels more prepared for the heat now.

Tubbo was so close to the first explosion, too close. Tommy watches the blast separate them and he can hear his friends desperate coughs from across the burning room. He can't get up, his wrist is hurt and his injured leg burns every time he tries to put pressure on it. He calls for Tubbo but he doesn't think his friend can hear him between his endless coughing and the roaring flames.

He's so thankful Tubbo isn't alone when Eret finally shows, the older man slips masks on both of them and they huddle together for a moment before Tommy hears something explode below them. He tries to cling to Eret as he reaches for Tubbo and they all plummet down into freezing water.

He and Eret sink into the water and the harshness of it makes Tommy gasp.

Water seeps in through his mask and the tightness of it makes him panic

He attempts to take the mask off, as if that might make him less disorientated.

It's doesn't

He takes a big gulp of water into his mouth and suddenly he can't stop.

He's drowning.

His limbs flail about and he cant help but scream into the water as pain ruptures through him. He keeps taking in more and more water and his lungs spasm as they fill with murky liquid. Tommy doesn't know where he is, it's dark and cold and he doesn't know which way is up and if his body wasn't already submerged in water he thinks he might cry.

Tommy doesn't want to die

There are so many things he hasn't done yet, so many things he hasn't said.

He wanted to take Tubbo to his favorite place in the city and go adventuring through the abandoned buildings Dream used to let him demolish when he was angry or upset. He wanted to tell his best friend in the whole word that he loved him, that they were brothers until the end. He never really had the courage to say it before now, thought it would make him sound childish and weird. ( Really he was just afraid that Tubbo wouldn't feel the same, and he wasn't ready to let his best friend go just yet. )

He wanted to thank Wilbur for taking him into l’manburg, for trusting him and becoming the older brother figure he never thought he needed ( or wanted ). For teaching him how to properly aim a gun and negotiate something without shouting, for letting him become the heir to the empire they built.

He thinks about all the movie nights with fundy and Eret, remembers popcorn fights and sleepovers, baking competitions and playing video games till early dawn. He remembers waking up from nightmares and talking to Eret about his scars, sharing the good and the bad with each and every one of them.

As the seconds roll past, Tommy can feel himself suffocating. His lungs fill with more and more water and his body starts to shut down, the pain is everywhere and nowhere and slowly he becomes blissfully aware that he is going to die here.

In the back of his mind he hopes that dream knows he’s forgiven. If he’s going to die he might as well forgive the man, he knows deep down that dream never wanted any of this and he hopes that his death will spark something in the man, and prevent the bloodshed of his friends.

The last thing on Tommys mind before the darkness swallows him is Technoblade, and he wonders if he’ll finally see him again when he goes to sleep.

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“How old were you when you first killed someone?”

“Jeezus Tubbo what the hell dude.”

Tommy swats at his best friend who's laying next to him on the wooden floor. They're all laying on piles and blankets and duvets and tucked up in sleeping bags like campers. Popcorn crumbs litter the floor and Tubbo has kernels stuck in his hair after he used the bowl as protection from Tommy throwing pillows at him.

The group decided to have a sleepover to commemorate Wilbur's birthday, all of them laid in a circle around the couches in wilburs living room and Wilbur almost regrets letting them into his house.

Tommy and Tubbo are layed on the floor, heads close to each other facing opposite directions. Tommy is smiling as he flails his arms at the other boy and has his feet resting in Erets lap. Fundy is on Erets left, curled up in 3 blankets like a burrito, a clear sign of Wilburs handiwork after someone made a joke about fundy being wilburs child.

Wilbur himself is half paying attention to the movie they all put on as background noise as he tries not to look like he’s actually enjoying the night his boys had planned.

Nobody spoke at first, no one was really quite sure what to say. Eventually, Wilbur took a breath and spoke in a slight monotone. “fifteen.”

Even though they may have been concerned, nobody was quite as surprised as maybe they should have been. It was a rough line of work, it wasn't really a shock to anyone that their leader had started so young.

“Robbery gone wrong, cops came earlier than expected. Shot one to save myself, nothing more to it.”

Fundy pokes his head out of his blanket burrito a little more and rests his head on his knees. “Got in a fight back in the Netherlands when I was eighteen, ended badly for the other guy.”

Eret is a bit more hesitant to respond but with a reassuring nudge from Tommy, he gives the teen a small smile and takes a breath. “Got involved with a super serious gang back in England when I was sixteen.”

He doesn't say anything more but nobody really blames him. Eret never really talks about his time back in England much, but the team sees the way he gets nervous around cameras and always makes sure he can never be traced wherever he goes. Everyone is running from something, it's why most of them came to America after all.

Tommy doesn't realize it's his turn until he’s noticed everyone's looking at him.

He laughs and swats at Tubbo for a second time. “It's your question you go first.”

Tubbo looks at his friend strangely but shakes it off and reaches to grab a handful of crisps. “Ummm, technically I haven't.”

Tommy listens to his best friend shove a handful of crisps in his mouth and his throat goes dry, he only distantly hears Fundy ask Tubbo a question but his thoughts seem to drown everyone out.

He knows he has two options here. He knows that lying is the safest one for him, that he could just follow along with what Tubbo said and just get it over with. But he feels compelled to let the truth just spill out of his mouth and let everything into the world. He can't help it when the words start falling from his lips, he so desperately wants to shove everything back into the box he’s kept everything in for years and go back to the fun loving, annoying Tommy everyone knows.

But instead he just had to open his stupid mouth like he always does.

“I uhh, I killed mum.”

Shit

“She uhh, bled out, when I was born.”

Shut up

“So yeah uhh, I guess I win.”

The room is silent, and he’s brought out of his head by Eret rubbing small comforting circles into the bottom of his leg.

“Tommy.”

He really wishes he hadn't spoke

“You know that couldn't have possibly been your doing.”

Wow the ceiling is really interesting

“Tommy.”

He can't speak. If he speaks he’s going to cry and he can't cry.

Tommyinnit doesn't cry.

He feels Tubbo moving to wrap and arm around him and he really wants to just not be here.

He’s lying on the floor of his bosses friends house, crying in front of the people he cares about most about because he couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut.

Tommy feels himself moving and slowly more and more arms are around him. He feels a blanket being draped over him and suddenly he finds himself sobbing into someone's chest.

Someone is running their hand through his hair and he wonders if that's something his mother would have done for him.

Sometimes he wishes life was different, that maybe he might have had a better childhood if his mother had been in his life for longer than three seconds.

But as he feels his own tears soak into one of his friends' shirts, he thinks that maybe his life ain't so bad.

And later in the night when he's stood on Wilbur's kitchen counter with Erets glasses hanging off his face singing loudly to random Hamilton songs with his friends, he knows he wouldn't change it for the world.

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Tommy wakes up confused and coughing.

He can feel the water spluttering out of his mouth and he feels like he's throwing up his organs.

He’s vividly aware that something doesn't feel right

He feels wrong and disorientated and,,,

He’s underwater?

Tommy flails his limbs about and in a matter of seconds he surfaces into darkness

He coughs up all of the water that's been sloshing about in his lungs and his throat stings as fresh air floods into his body.

Through all the coughing and the sound of water in his ears, he hears a voice calling him.

“Tommy!”

He turns his head to find Eret also treading water on the other side of a mountain of rubble, he has a large gash on the side of his head that looks like it would have dried by now if not for the water continuously splashing against it. His glasses are nowhere to be seen and Erets looking at him like he knows something Tommy doesn't.

“Tommy thank god you're okay.”

Tommy swims over to where Eret is still floating and takes a moment to examine the rubble surrounding his friend.

Most of it seems to be concrete and rocks piled up around him, but the two big metal pipes separating him and Eret are what concern him. And the fact that Eret hasn't made an attempt to move past them.

"Where's tubbo?"

"He swam over that direction, tried to find a way out I think."

"Why didn't you follow him."

"Tommy."

"Come on we can't just leave him to look on his own. He'd get lost in a bloody parking lot."

Tommy wraps his hands around one of the pipes and attempts to push it out of the way.

Eret doesn't move.

"Tommy I,"

"Waters rising, gotta move this thing before Tubbo ends up swimming into someone's toilet."

The younger boy changed angles and tried to pull the other pipe towards him.

"Tommy."

He feels Eret place his hand on top of his own but the younger boy swats it away and keeps trying to force the pipes out of the way.

“Come on man, just, just try.”

Eret grabs his hand again.

“Just help me okay!”

Water splashes up Tommys nose and he feels tears pricking at his eyes

“Just, Just do something! Please! please”

Eret grabs a hold of both of tommys hands and holds him as close as the barrier of rubble will let him.

“Please. I can't lose you too.”

Erets voice is soft and calming. Tommy wants him to laugh and point at him and tell him how this is all just a big joke and they can all go home together and watch movies on Wilburs couch.

But he doesn't

“Hey it's okay, you're not gonna lose me alright. I will always, always be with you, no matter what.”

“Don't give me that bullshit. I don't want you in my heart or looking down on me, I want you to stay here, alive.”

“I want that too Tommy, more than anything. But life doesn't always go the way we want it to.”

Eret coughs and shivers in the water, he looks up and realizes that neither of them have a lot of time left before the water fills the room. They both know Tommy can't stay here any longer, and it's only a matter of time before the coldness of the water gives him hypothermia.

“You need to go.”

“No.”

“Tommy.”

“No I am not leaving you here!”

“You don't have a choice Tommy!”

“Yes I do! Now help me move these goddamn pipes”

“For fuck sake Tommy! I am stuck down here! Those pipes aren't going to move and I'm not leaving this fucking basement. You need to go, now!”

“I-”

“Tommy you are my brother and I will always love you but you need to get the fuck out of here right now.”

“Tommy, Eret!”

“Down here.”

Eret hears Wilbur jump down into the freezing water and he can faintly see him swimming towards him and Tommy.

“You guys okay?”

“Yes now get him out of here.”

“I said no!”

“What about you.”

“I'll be fine just go.”

Wilbur takes a moment, a moment of weakness, a moment of emotion and sadness and he looks at Eret, his friend. He feels the water clog his nostrils and nods, with his heart heavy and his mind full, he drags a tired and freezing Tommy away.

“Wilbur let me go!”

“We can't leave him!”

“we have to help him!”

“Wilbur!”

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Later on when everyone's safe and dry and the adrenaline and panic has left his system, Wilbur finds himself gazing up at his reflection in his bathroom mirror. Every time he looks at himself all he can see is the look in his friends eyes before he left him to drown, he remembers the hurt in his face and his willingness to die just to see Tommy safe. Every time he closes his eyes it's all he sees.

Wilbur stands up tall and strong in front of himself and plasters on the face of a warrior, a face that dream and George and sapnap will forever fear. He vows on this day that he will teach them what true fear feels like, no more kind words or friendly disputes.

He doesn't care about making allies or keeping peace.

His city is in danger

His mind is broken

His friends are traumatized

Eret is dead

And Wilbur wants vengeance.

If dream wants war, he’ll give him war.

#wilbur soot #tommyinnit #tubbo #the eret #fundy #technoblade #is mentioned #dream smp war #dream smp #mcyt #crime au #im so sorry about this #this wasnt fun to write #just wait till i get to the part where jshlatt comes to town

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blue-alien-boi · 3 years

Text

It was silent, he hasn’t heard that in a long time.

Normally he would beg for the noise to stop. Constantly hearing Tommy shout insults and jokes making him pitty his parents, or Tubbo who seemed to be a new talkative person every day, even Wilbur’s insane rants and dramatic songs made him long for ear plugs.

He only now realized how much he missed it. Tommy and him singing along to music disks, Tubbo rambling on about his friends or a bee fact he learned, and Wilbur strumming different notes on his guitar letting out a gleeful shout when he found something he liked.

Hell, he would even take their screams, jokes and taunts, anything to fill the soundless home once full of laughter that now felt so lonely.

His healed boots made a click with every step and the whine of a lever echoed against the walls but it wasn’t nearly as loud as his mind which wouldn’t shut up.

The pride in the clink of swords colliding and the blast of fireworks beginning to provide new memories of victory. The gasps when he stood where Tubbo was, blood on his sword. The screams and shouts of the people who trusted him as the explosions from withers and TNT became deafening. The loudest tho, was the look on their his families.

Looks of anger fueled him, made him feel powerful. looks of fear didn’t phase him, he was used to it. Even looks a betrayal he could ignore, after all it was their fault for trusting him but he couldn’t deal with disappointment.

As he stood where he killed tubbo (again) he saw Wilbur’s face from the remains of his button room. He wore a smile but his eyes showed how he really felt. He was disappointed. Not in himself but in him. Wilbur had needed someone to help him deal with his feelings.

Tommy had tried but he was young and just as emotional. Philza was no where and couldn’t offer his dad advice. He was supposed to help. He was the least emotional but he had experience with losing control. Wilbur needed someone to say it was ok to feel angry, betrayed, and sad. He should have hugged him until he could feel the other fall limp, tired out like a kid. Instead he used his feelings to further his plans.

The look Tubbo gave him wasn’t one of fear or betrayal it was acceptance, a I told you do. This kid was so young and had dealt with so much. There was never a peaceful moment for him, they both knew that.

Even when he stood as the new president his eyes darted around anxious. He had been here before, he knew good things never lasted for him. He should have lt the boy be happy even if it was only going to last for a moment longer. He should have been there letting him enjoy himself or even show him happiness as the world burned. Instead he proved his point, good things don’t last.

Tommy was emotional, his face counld never his what he felt. Complete joy when he played his disks, anger when they fought in the pit, even fear when he talked to a slowly breaking Wilbur. He thought he had witnessed every emotion but that day Tommy showed a new side. Sadness.

Unlike Tubbo he let himself feel happy. He danced, cheered, and even had tears in the corner of his eyes. When he turned and saw techno the tears started to fall. Tommy watched as he stood next to tubbo, weapon in hand. Anyone else would have thought nothing of it, he always carries a weapon and Tubbo was his friend, but Tommy knew better. He had seen this all before.

Time slowed down for Tommy as he shook his head making direct eye contact with him. He saw the remains of joy leave his face, fear setting into his features, anger curling his hands into fists, and sadness. His body trembled but frozen in place as the memories of the festival flashed back. He opened his mouth but only mouthed a single word, please. His eyes had started releasing tears, wanting to look away but he watched. He was no longer a warrior but a sad child who wasn’t ready to face reality. He had to look away but he knew Tommy was still watching and after that day he would never look at him the same way.

Those looks hadn’t left his brain and he doubt they ever would but there was one look or lack of that haunted him. Philza, he didn’t look at him, he looked at a monster.

His eyes were glazed over, despite looking in his direction they looked through him. The land he once heard great stories of now lay rubble under his feet. He held his son with his blood still on his hands as he looked out. He watched as he killed Tubbo and Tommy, his own brother.

Philza looked to him but his gaze didn’t meet his eyes. It looked everywhere but there. He stopped to focause on the blood, eyes trancing over scar he had helped bandage years ago. When he look at him he no longer saw a son but a beast destroying his family.

He shrugged off his boots, hung up his cape, and checked what supplies was left. He nearly smiled seeing that they took his words to heart when he said what’s mine is yours. Their looks replayed in his head and the smile stopped in its tracks.

Exhausted he collapsed on the first soft surface he saw. Not bothering to change out of his clothes that were covered in blood, sweat, and tears.

Tears?

He touched his face. He was crying and he hadn’t known. He wondered when it started and when would it stop. His body wasn’t shaking, his breathing was steady, and his heart felt numb.

He smiled. Maybe because he wanted to feel somthing again, maybe out of a crazed tired, or simply because he remembered the last time he cried. It was when he was a younger, he had gotten in a fight with Tommy or Wilbur over somthing childish.

They didn’t realize how upset he was until he said something that he knew would hurt. He should have remembered what he said but he didn’t or maybe he choose not to. Tommy ran away with Tubbo to their fort and Wilbur wouldn’t leave his room not even playing his guitar. It had been silent.

He had thought things would go back to normal they fought all the time this was no different, but when dinner came around tommy ate at Tubbo’s house and Wilbur ate in his room. He was never good with emotions but he knew he needed to say he was sorry. He got Philza’s help to get all gathered and he stood in front of them silent.

He always had hid him heart under layers of armor and sarcasm but under their gaze he let himself become vulnerable. He said some apology he doesn’t remember but he rememberers the realization he was crying.

He closed his eyes trying to get the tears to stop but instead he felt arms around him and Wilbur’s voice shaking with tears saying he was sorry too. Tommy and Philza joined the hug and he didn’t have to look up to know everyone was crying too. He had never liked hugs but he missed that one.

He open his eyes the warmth from the memory fading, his powerful body was still, eyes took in the blacks stone walls of his base, he felt his clothes coated in dirt, blood, and sweat, and he felt tears slowly collect on his chin.

The crown that was lopsided on his head began sliding off and it fell to the ground with a echoing crash. It rolled in place making a lot of small noises before coming to a dull stop.

Staring at the ceiling he was was still until somthing caught his eye. He laughed and couldn’t stop. He sat up and clutched his stomach shaking with laughter as he looked back up. On the ceiling was writing, even now he couldn’t escape them.

One message was in a silver sharpie saying, I’m dad’s favorite but if he was here he would be proud -Wilby. The second was in a red pen saying, I WUZ HERE. He had taught Tommy that if he wrote that the people couldn’t prove he did it and he used it even since despite using the same red pen which destroys the whole point. The last one was upside down and he had to turn around to see it. It was a drawing of him Tubbo, Tommy, Wilbur, and Philza drawn in a green crayon. It was stick figures but the amount of love in it made up for the lack of artistic skill. Underneath the drawing he say the words, love Tubbo with a B written back words.

Despite all the laughter the tears never stopped and as he calmed down and rolled back around he stared at his crown. Unlike the rest of his clothes it was still clean and shined against the black walls.

He watched as a few of his tears fell on it’s surface. It was made of pure gold but it felt fake. Unaware oh what he was doing he reached for the paper crown his family had made him as a joke. He held the crown close.

He decided he hated the silence wishing he could hear their laughter, rants, even them yelling at him would be better. His brain rotated through the same four looks the same silent sound.

His eyes began to give in as his body and heart begged for rest. His brain normally would pile on thought after worry after regret making it take hours to fall asleep, but this time his mind was as quiet as the rest of the world.

Blood stained his clothes as he lay still. The only proof he was alive were the tears slowly streaming down his face. He had survived with hardly a skratch but something died in him that day. The man powerful and feared was curled in on himself clinging onto a paper crown now covered in tear stains. As he drifted to sleep he heard a familiar guitar softy strum the tune to Melohigh. Warmth surrounded him as he learned into the imaginary hug.

A foolish king who tried to destroy everything and ended up destroying himself, is there a sadder sight?

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depressedhatakekakashi · 3 years

Text

Out There Somewhere

Au: Soulmate AU

Words: 2271

Characters: Hatake Kakashi, Minato

Summary: After a terrible nightmare, Kakashi make's a discovery that could change everything.

One haunted angry eye glares at him, blood spilling from Obito's mouth as he speaks words that never reach his ears. Half of his face is covered by the boulder that crushed him, but Kakashi can still see all of the hatred and anger no problem.

Obito's wrath is clear as day, and even as he shrinks away begging for Obito to leave him alone he knows he deserves this.

That it's his fault Obito ended up like this.

His failure

So when a bloodied hand reaches out to him, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him directly into Obito, he doesn't fight.

The only thing that leaves his mouth is an apology as the anger and hatred swallow him whole.

Surging up in his spot, Kakashi's scream echoed in his tiny bedroom. Sweat dripped down his forehead and neck as he scanned the room for any sign of the face that haunted his nightmares.

Nothing.

Where the relief is supposed to wash over him, he instead feels a dull ache in his chest. A reminder of the emptiness that lingered in his heart since Obito's death.

'Soulmates are someone who we share a part of our soul with'

That's how his father had explained it to him when he noticed the first mark on his body. A small owl perched on top of his shoulder in bright blue colours.

The sign of a platonic soulmate according to his father.

Growing up, Kakashi had never put much weight into those little pictures that littered his body, but after Obito's death, he had come to understand just why his father looked so sad when he explained soulmates to Kakashi. It wasn’t just knowing that he’d look at his body and see the brilliant blue colours had faded to a black, but the empty feeling deep inside of his soul.

And the worst of all was that it was all because of his failures as a leader.

It was because of him that Obito was gone. A fact that he had to live with that was imprinted on his skin for the rest of his life. Which was why he had avoided looking at himself in the mirror since his return.

Avoided seeing that brilliant blue owl sitting there, now a dull black. Lifeless and empty.

“Obito…” placing a hand over his left eye, he stared into the emptiness of his bedroom and struggled to calm his nerves. To at least be able to relax his shoulders and get rid of that crushing feeling in his chest. The one that felt like his ribs were collapsing in on his lungs, crushing them under the intense weight and making it difficult for him to breathe. “I-”

His hand dropped to his side.

“Would you even hear me?” he asked, wishing that there was a ghost hovering somewhere in the air around him who could answer his questions. “Could you ever forgive me?”

Deep down a part of him tries to speak. To remind him of Obito’s words, and the promise he made to his friend before he was forced to leave him alone in that cave. Crushed under the weight of boulders that should have killed him instead.

He doesn’t hear it though. It’s too quiet in a sea of anger and hurt.

Giving his head a shake, he settled his free hand on top of his knee and pushed himself to his feet. With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he made his way towards the bathroom.

It might be too early for a shower for most people, but there was no doubt in his mind that he’d find it impossible to sleep again until he did something to calm his nerves.

After a long, warm shower, the tight feeling in his chest had eased just a little. Enough that he could finally breathe without feeling like he was being suffocated by his own body.

Though there was still a troubled feeling deep in his gut. As if he was missing something important that was right in front of his face.

Pushing aside those thoughts for the moment, he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel off of the back of the washroom door.

Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed his towel off of the back of the bathroom door and quickly dried off his body. Once he was sure there were no stray droplets on his legs are arms, he turned his attention to his hair.

A far more daunting task. Since the thick silver strands loved to cling to water for hours, leaving him with few options at his disposal. The best choice was usually to let his hair air dry, which was easy to do when he had to run off to training early in the morning.

But with a glance at the clock to confirm that it was only three in the morning, he decided for the less enjoyable route of wrapping the towel around his hair and leaving it like that for the next hour or two.

Once the towel was in place, he turned to leave the room, except as his eyes glanced over the mirror he couldn't help but notice the soulmate mark on his shoulder.

The one he had been trying so hard to avoid for weeks since Obito's death. Refusing to allow himself to see the truth of the situation.

Scared of the blacked-out owl waiting for him to notice it.

Except, when he noticed the mark in that passing glance it wasn't black.

"Ignore it," he muttered to himself. "It was a mistake. It couldn't be…"

But what if it is?

The question tugged at his heart, demanding an answer no matter how much it might hurt.

What if…

His eyes scanned back towards the mirror, stopping just at the edge and sitting there. Refusing to move, no matter which direction Kakashi tried to look. Denying him the safety of refusing to seek out the answer and refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer. No matter how heartbreaking that answer may be.

“You can do this, Kakashi,” giving himself a moment, he focused his attention on his breathing.

Out

Once it no longer felt like his heart was about to jump out of his chest, he focused his attention on the mirror. The shape of his eyes were the first thing he noticed. That familiar sunken look that many people often mistook for a bored expression, rather than just the way his eyes were.

When he got sick of looking at his eyes, he moved downwards to the mole on the right side of his chin. A secret that few in Konoha knew about, and one of the few things he recalls being attributed to his mother growing up. While everyone loved to talk about how much he looked like his father, even after the white fangs fall from grace, the memories of that laughter in his father’s voice whenever he would poke his mole and talk about how he got that from his mother never faded. A sweet memory that his mind refused to give up, even when he had tried so hard to forget about his father.

Finally, he dragged his eyes down to his shoulder. To that spot that was always covered by his shirt, and that he had avoided looking at since Obito’s death.

The soulmate mark.

Still, the same brilliant blue that it was the last time he saw it. The owl’s eyes sparkling a little under the bathroom’s light. So caught up in the beauty of his soulmate mark, something he had tried for years to ignore, he almost forgot what those brilliant bright colours shining under the light meant.

And then it hit him. The realization smacking him in the face like one of Obito’s punches.

“He’s alive.”

The words burned in his throat. As if his body was trying to tell him that it was a lie. That his eyes were playing a trick on him. No matter how many times he looked at the mark though, it was always the same.

Brilliant blue shining up at him with such vibrant colours that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else.

Obito was alive. He had to be.

He was alive, and they had left him under all of that rubble. Alone and probably scared out of his mind with the crushing weight of all of those rocks on top of him.

“Someone must have saved him,” his mind raced, searching for any logical explanation to how this was possible. If Obito was alive, there was no way he would still be stuck under that rock. He wouldn’t have access to food or water there and would have withered away during the time Kakashi spent ignoring his soulmate mark.

Just the thought of it made him sick. When Obito needed his attention the most, he ignored him, failing to protect him all over again. It was as if the world wanted him to know just what a terrible friend he was. That he shouldn’t be put in charge of any missions in the future, because all that would come out of it is disaster and death.

“Minato-sensei,” picking himself up, he turned towards the bathroom door and made a swift exit. Determined to get dressed as quickly as possible and out the door. “He’ll know what to do. As soon as I tell him he’ll have a plan. I know it.”

He had to. If his Sensei didn’t know what to do, then Kakashi would be lost. Ever since he was five he had looked to the older man for guidance. He was one of Konoha’s best shinobi for a reason. That meant he had to have an answer when Kakashi didn’t.

Once Kakashi showed him the mark on his shoulder, he’d have a plan to find Obito and rescue him. Kakashi was sure of it.

Can’t just leave for a rescue mission.

We need more information.

It could be wrong. We don’t know everything about Soulmate marks.

Minato-Sensei’s words echoed in his ears, but no matter how hard he tried Kakashi couldn’t make any sense out of them.

“You...but, Obito…” his heart broke at the thought of leaving Obito out there, alone with no one watching out for him. “We have to find Obito, Sensei! He’s out there and we-”

Minato held up a hand to silence him, a look on his face that Kakashi had never seen before. Not of happiness or disappointment, but annoyance. “I’ve heard what you have to say Kakashi, but it’s not as easy as you seem to think. If Obito is alive he’s no longer in the same spot. Finding him will be difficult and-”

“I can use the hounds!” Kakashi insisted. “I’m sure there’s still some of Obito’s scent on his stuff. We packed it all away sure, but something must still smell like him. If we go back to Kanabi bridge we can just have the hounds track him from there.”

His idea was met with a sigh.

“Even if we could go back to the cave, which we can’t, it would have to wait,” his Sensei continued. “Lord Third has a mission for you. One that he needs you to lead.”

A mission? He was expected to lead a mission when Obito was out there alive, waiting for them to find him?

“I thought we weren’t supposed to leave our friends behind,” the words burned in his throat, his mind a war zone of emotions. The reminder of what happened to his father for holding and supporting those same beliefs boiled deep inside of him, but for the first time in years, those weren’t the thoughts that overwhelmed him the most.

For once, he was more concerned about the friend that he had lost.

The person he had spent so much time hating and scolding, that by the time he finally started to think of him as an actual friend he had lost him.

If there was even the smallest chance that he could save Obito, he had to take it.

“It’s not up for discussion, Kakashi,” Minato-sensei cut him off before he could even attempt to argue. “Lord Third is sending you out on your mission tomorrow. I know you’re worried about Obito, but he’s going to have to wait for now. Once the mission is done we can try and figure out a way to find him.”

“Yes, Sensei…”

It broke his heart to think that Obito had to wait. That he wasn’t allowed to grab Rin and search for their teammate, their friend, right away.

They were leaving him out there alone, in who knows what kind of condition, and there was no guarantee that they would even be allowed to go after him even after this mission. For some reason, even with that promise from his sensei’s mouth, it didn’t feel genuine.

There was no doubt in Kakashi’s mouth that if another mission came up, the search for Obito would be pushed back again.

The village always came first after all, even before one’s teammates.

He had learned that years ago, and even with Obito’s voice in his ear reminding him to put his teammates first, he didn’t always get the choice at the end of the day.

If the Hokage and his Sensei told him that he had to take care of the mission first, that’s what he did.

To save himself from ending up on the wrong end of his weapon, just like his father.

#Hatake Kakashi #Soulmate Au #Uchiha Obito #taryn's birthday fics #taryn's birthday celebration 2021 #Platonic Soulmates

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evanoracronwell · 3 years

Text

Pieces want to be together

ao3

"So, this is my big secret. "

"You're building something? "

"Uh... trying to. It's like trying to bring a T. rex back to life with a couple scraps of bone"

Michael looked at Alex for a few seconds trying to see what was going on in the airman's head and then sighed. Alex was, as always, wearing a mask that made it impossible for Michael to even begin to understand everything that was going on inside his head.

"No one's ever seen this before. I'm pretty sure it's a console. The ship's central control panel. I think it's the key to everything. I think it's my only way out."

He smiles when he watches Alex approach the table, it was ridiculous how many hours he had spent working on those pieces while thinking about Alex. And now he was here, seeing and touching something that Michael never dared to even show his siblings.

"You built this thing "

"Sort of. It kind of builds itself. Pieces want to be together."

" What do you mean they want to be?"

" When they fit, the molecules knit together on contact. It's like it was never broken at all. If I can find the rest, I can attach this to a vehicle and…"

"A vehicle? You're trying to leave. The planet."

Alex tries to pull the air into his lungs, suffocating only at the thought of Michael leaving and never being able to see him again. He tries to calm his heartbeat and takes a long, useless breath. He was here to understand Michael's story, to be able to protect him from his father. He had to focus on that.

"Why are you showing me this, Guerin? I just told you that my family's been targeting yours for generations."

"I've been sick of secrets for a long time now. And if anyone's gonna destroy me ... might as well be you."

Alex choked on that sentence. With the storm of feelings he saw in Michael's eyes. With the storm of feelings, he felt in his own heart. With the flood of emotions that took over his body while he was there, in front of the man he loved for more than a decade, the man he thought and dreamed of every day while in the middle of a damn war, the man who he called when he was in the middle of the desert under rubble thinking he was going to die.

"No one is going to destroy you," Alex murmured hoarsely and with bleary eyes. "I won't let it happen"

He took two steps forward, enough to reach Guerin and hold him by the face with both hands, bringing him so close that Alex could feel his breath against his face.

"No one"

He murmured again and then plunged into Guerin's lips, invading the cowboy's mouth that allowed it without a fight, his tongue searching, touching every corner of a mouth he had been missing for years. His fingers were lost in the tangle of curls and Guerin moaned helplessly, grabbing Alex by the waist and drawing their bodies closer as if it was never enough as if he could merge his skin into the airman's and so they would never be apart.

"Alex ..."

"I'm tired, I'm so fucking tired of pretending that I don't want you. That I don't miss you every damn second of my miserable life." he pulled on Michael's hair, forcing the cowboy to look him in the eye. "Everything is so fucked up and we have a million things we need to talk about and solve. But right now the only thing I want to do is kiss you, touch every bit of your body and fuck you so hard it will make you scream my name so loud that this whole damn town will know that you are mine "

Alex murmured in a voice so hoarse and so sensual that Michael could only moan and cling to the man's body to keep him from falling like a puddle of goo at his feet. He closed his eyes with the intensity that took over the entire room and let Alex assault his mouth by kissing him passionately, their clothes hurriedly dropped to the floor, their steps taken blindly until they reached the small old sofa forgotten in a corner, the prosthetic abandoned on the floor next to the sofa, hands sliding over their bodies, anxious to touch each piece of skin, the breaths wheezing. Alex pushed his fingers against Michael's mouth and he sucked them eagerly, desperate to feel them inside him.

"Mine"

Alex murmured against Michael's lips as he dug a finger into Michael's tight hole that groaned in despair, pulling Alex closer, begging for more.

"Yours." he replied huskily, his voice muffled by the wet, sloppy kisses he received from Alex. "Only yours"

He stated without any hesitation because it was an irrefutable truth and he too was tired of denying it. Michael had belonged to Alex since the moment he kissed him that afternoon at the museum and nothing could change that.

"Alex ..."

Michael groaned as Alex slowly fingered him exploring his needy hole, his hands tightened on the airman's arms, begging for more, he whimpered when he felt those long fingers leaving him and Alex just smiled at the cowboy's despair and bit down on Michael's bottom lip sucking on him slowly. With one hand he brushed the head of his cock against the entrance of Michael, who whimpered again, wrapping his legs around Alex's waist trying to force him into him at once.

"Always so needy, Michael"

"Please ... Lex ... I need ..."

"I know baby. It's okay, I got you"

With a firm, strong push he sank into Michael's body, violating the sensitive hole that opened up taking Alex's dick longingly, wrapping Alex's cock in that hot, deliciously tight way that Alex adored. Michael screamed at the top of his lungs, tightening his legs around Alex, taking him even deeper, loving every second of that burn from being brutally fucked, letting the crying escape his lips with every thrust that poked his prostate without mercy.

Michael let his head fall against the precarious upholstery of the sofa, moaning without the least shame as his hole was fucked in that wonderful way that only Alex was capable of, the hot kisses and hickeys that he received on the neck and chest, Michael knew that would leave visible marks in the morning, but he didn't cared at all.

Mark me.

He wanted to scream, let everyone see that he belonged to Alex.

His nails, despite being short, scratched the airman's back, leaving traces of the passion that happened in that bunker, his moans muffled by wet and sloppy kisses. Their bodies rippled in an intense dance that always kept them out of orbit.

Always so intense. Cosmic.

When Michael slid his hand to touch himself, Alex held him by raising the cowboy's two hands over his head and looking at him with black eyes of desire.

"You're going to come like this Michael, just with my dick"

"Alex ..." he groaned abandoned, lifting his hips to find Alex, who with each movement seemed to sink further.

"Do you think you can do it, baby? Think you can come with only my dick fucking that tight hole of yours?" Alex murmured, lowering his face until he could suck Michael's lip between theirs.

"Yes ... Lex ... please ..."

"Oh baby, so tight around my dick, taking me so good ..."

"Oh God ... yes ... so good ..."

Michael loses his breath when Alex kneels between his legs holding him by the waist while pushing without any delicacy or pity, fucking him roughly and hard just as Michael liked, in a way he was sure he would feel for days. The cowboy's hands grasped the worn fabric of the cover that served to disguise the sofa's imperfections, trying to hold on to something that would keep him from getting lost in that storm of feelings so intense it was driving him insane.

Alex ruthlessly abuses his prostate, hitting it with each thrust causing Michael's moan to echo throughout the bunker without any shame, the airman's strong hands hold him tightly and when Michael comes with an intensity he never had before, those hands are the only connection he has with reality. His brain and body become just slime and he is absolutely sure he completely loses consciousness, returning only seconds later when he feels Alex using his sensitive and aching hole to achieve his own pleasure. Michael smiles deliciously exhausted, loving the feeling of being used for Alex's pleasure.

"Michael ... I ... fuck ... inside?"

Alex murmurs hoarsely and Michael presses his feet against Alex's ass, pushing him even deeper.

"Yes, inside. Come inside me, Alex!"

It is the only thing Alex needs to hear before he lets his whole body convulse as he empties every last drop of his essence into Michael, savoring the primitive feeling of knowing that Michael will be filled with his seed.

Unable to control the tremor in his body in the face of such a powerful orgasm, he lets himself fall on Michael who welcomes him by wrapping his arms around the airman, smiling at the feel of Alex's lips against his neck, the weight of his body covering him.

"That was ..."

"Yes..."

"Damn Alex, I won't be able to walk for days"

"Good!"

The airman responds as he raises his face just enough to be able to look at Michael and quickly kiss him on the lips.

"That way I can keep you with me."

"Alex ..."

"I meant what I said," Alex replies, taking a serious look at the cowboy. "I'm tired of pretending, Michael. I want everyone to go to hell. I want you with me, I want to take you on dates and let everyone know that you are mine, that I am yours."

"Me too, that's all I ever wanted, Alex."

"Good!"

Alex responds again and then sinks back into Michael's neck, breathing slowly, absorbing all the smell of sex, sweat, and rain that emanates from the cowboy's skin. He knows that soon they will have to get up, tell the others about the Project Shepherd and find a way to deal with Jesse Manes.

But now all he wanted to do was stay here, lying in Michael's arms feeling his heart beating against his chest, delighting in the feeling that his body was still sunk in Michael's, sleepy with the caresses that Michael's fingertips were doing on his back.

Tomorrow ... tomorrow they would face the world.

But today he was going to get lost in Michael's arms and the delicious, familiar smell of rain.

#malex #malex fic #malex fanfic #idontwannamissathing #roswell new mexico #roswell nm #malex is cosmic #otp cosmic #home can be a person #english is not my native language

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thedreadvampy · 4 years

Text

this one IS finished (I wrote it in August 2013) and honestly? holds tf up good job 2013 Ruth

(2013 Ruth was evidently very into a) trauma and b) Bertie not being as dead as initially suspected)

TAKE NO PRISONERS GIVE NO QUARTER

The rage hasn't left him since he heard about Bertie. It's amazing what three simple letters can do to a man whose whole self rests on one person. MIA. Theoretically, that's inconclusive, but in reality, that just means there isn't enough left to find, let alone bury. MIA is a pretty common ending to a young man's story, down here in the tunnels.

The whole tunnel came down on Bertie and the rest of the scouting party, the cracked walls giving up the ghost under the combined pressure of shellling and laser fire. Crushed Lenny and Tommy alike, erasing their differences in one bloody mess, good old boys from Blighty and moonbleached Lenny bastards all rendered down to crushed mess together, There was only one survivor to report back, and was is the operative term. It's hard to get back into active service when you're jam from the waist down, and the poor blighter never even made it far enough to be invalided out to one of the giant Medsats in orbit up above.

So Bertie's gone, and in fairness, Tim never was very stable when left to his own devices, as strings of explosive accidents and charred lab wreckages can attest.

There was shock, at first. The dull numbness of denial, no no no NO no NO it can't be he isn't he didn't no body no proof he'll be found he'll be invalided out he'll be fine he is was will be fine he isn't gone because he CAN'T be gone. But denial's hard to cling to when you've seen death like the boys in the tunnels have seen, you know a tunnelfall is not something you walk away from. Or even crawl away from. Nowhere to run, with tonnes upon tonnes of lunar rock crashing down from above, tasting your own fate in the smoke and dust that are the forerunners of the boulders...a hellish death, a messy death, above all a certain death. If you aren't crushed you'll suffocate or die of your wounds, out in the deadland where nobody's going to hear your cries. Hells, Tim and Bertie did it often enough, that grim tunnels game you have to play, sitting by the crackling radio, rustling and banging your things around, talking, singing, anything to block out the hopeless, plaintive calls from the nearest collapsed tunnel, where hidden charges and weakened structures and exposure to fire mean you'll most likely die yourself before you can help any one of the poor bastards.

So Bertie's...

Bertie's...

For hours, days, he couldn't even bear to think the end of that sentence, and he understands now as never before why the tunnels are filled with euphemisms, those coy lies that partially cover this unbearable truths lurking behind them.

Gone.

Bought it.

Kicked the bucket.

Pushing up daisies.

MIA.

Bertie's...Bertie's dead.

His mind revolted, twisted and writhed away from considering the existence of a world with a Bertie-shaped lack, the world he now existed in where days and nights were cold and alone and silent and only filled by his cold hands and his cold eyes and his cold heart and his raging fire thoughts with nobody to guide them. There were, at that point, others around him, comrades, others in his dugout, but they no longer existed to him They meant nothing. They weren't Bertie. They weren't his. They were man-shaped shadows, who drifted in and out of his awareness to offer orders or platitudes. They weren't part of his silent cotton-wool world. Tim was...is...an ice cold, glass-sharp shard in the centre of soft, soundless, excruciating nothing.

He has yet to be aware of crying over Bertie, though sometimes he finds the salt wetness on his face to be tears, not blood, sometimes he realises with a shock that the hopeless sob he hears is his own. But thus far he has never sat down to cry, never let himself mourn. For days after the news came, it wasn't real, nothing was real, he just shut off. He stared, blank-eyed, into the middle distance, and performed his duties with silent, mechanical efficiency. His comrades muttered, as the days spread into weeks, talked about "mental", "headcase", "shell-shock," and though he heard them, they no more penetrated Tim's dead-eyed daze than anything else happening around him. But there was one, a soft-spoken Welshman by the name Griffiths (bought it at Sinus Roris a few days later), who hit the nail on the head. Looking at the detached, unreacting figure of Tim as he sat slowly dissassembling his lasgun, Griffiths said quietly, "I reckon that's what it looks like when a man gets his heart broke beyond repair".

That, Tim heard, and almost, almost cried. Almost let it fall loose, all of it, weeks of pent-up tears, crippling fear, total bereavement. Almost shed every tear he had, for the times that were and the comfort that used to be, for his Bertie and for his own heart, that he'd barely known was there until it shattered, and for the snuffing of the one and only true light in these dank, dismal tunnels. He almost cried, but he didn't. If he let the feelings in, he was sure they would destroy him; comprehension of his loss loomed poised, a tsunami waiting to break over him.

He didn't cry. The emotions stayed safely dammed back. His face stayed empty. His heart stayed closed.

And he could have stayed that way forever, floating through life in the dazed, unfocused stupefaction of unbearable grief, but for one thing. Bertie had...had died pushing the lines forward, and the Moonies were working day and night, it seemed, to push back. And they pushed hard.

They came in the dead of night, trampling across the fallen rock under which was buried the dead of both sides. Tim was on watch that night, he saw the tiny will-o-the-wisp reflection of lights in their eyes, the firelight gleaming off polished buttons. He saw the soldiers who'd mowed down his Bertie (he wasn't there, didn't see how Bertie died, but in the fevered darkness behind his lids, he sees Bertie dying in that godforsaken tunnel night after night in infinite ways, sees him shot down or crushed or lying moaning in the dark, slowly ebbing away a few pathetic tunnels away from Tim's unknowing form), saw them in the flesh now, saw them coming from the wreckage which still buried the only person who'd been real to him, imagined their boots pounding the rubble above Bertie's ruined body. The tension which had been holding him together for every unimaginably long day since the tunnelfall snapped, and the pain crashed thunderous into his head in a flood of images and memory and raw uncurtailed loss, in curly hair and a dimpled smile and pale grey eyes clouded over lying alone dying alone in a stew of viscera and agony and bone and blood and smoke, mingling contamination, blood mixed with his enemies, crushed into moonwhite corpses, a world apart, a world alone, a world where Tim has no control, where Bertie isn't, where Tim...

And without knowing anything, unexpectedly, Tim found the wave didn't swamp him. Didn't crush him, didn't smash him, didn't destroy him. He rode it. His agony and his loss gave him strength, made him unstoppable. Grief surged in his veins, and he surged with it, eyes alive and merciless. He laid red flowers on Bertie's grave. By the time the rest of the platoon scrambled out of the dugout, sleep-fogged and panicking, the battle was all but over, and Tim was gone in a trail of broken corpses.

He is legend. He is death. The monster of the war. His shadow stalks the tunnels, makes Lenny wake up cold and sweating and reaching for his laser in the dark.

Sometimes he surfaces to find himself slick with gore, panting. Sometimes, the flash and scream of his homemade grenades blast him into a moment's lucidity. Sometimes, surrounded by the dead, he awakes to find himself laughing and crying all at once. Always, he surveys his work with grim satisfaction, but his work is not done, will never be done. The fury which drives him will not be sated, because no matter how many he kills, how many of Bertie's murderers fall before him, there will still be more of the moonbleached fuckers out there, and there will still be no Bertie. No amount of blood is blood enough to repay the loss of Bertie. The tunnels can drown in blood for all he cares, as long as there's a Lenny left on the moon he cannot rest, will not rest.

Lips drawn back, baring bloody teeth in a deathshead grin, skin afire with reflected explosions, hair in bloody ratstails whipping the air, eyes wide and redrimmed and merciless, face soot-streaked and bloody, he runs and he destroys. You can only ride the wave as long as you keep moving. Stop, and the pain grabs you, breaks you, drowns and dashes you, you'll never catch it again.

You know this part. Tim in the tunnels, dancing to the sonorous song of gunfire and grenades, hauling on the lasgun's trigger, a wild onlaught of blood and fire, laughing a chillingly humourless laugh, shout-singing the words that make the Kaiser's men piss themselves and run, take no prisoners, give no quarter. The lucky shot, the sudden blackness that damps the fire in his burning mind. Tim wakes before the Moon Kaiser, unarmed, pained, held by guards.

He isn't like other men, that's what the Kaiser failed to take into account. He's a machine fuelled by love and blood, he runs on the pain-fire that consumes him, he won't stop, can't stop. He doesn't see the world like men do, not any more. Many men would tremble, many men would abase themselves in fear, but Tim is not many men. Many men would be surprised to see the decapitated head of a comrade come alive and wink at them, but Tim's not lived in the real world since the tunnel fell, why would it surprise him? He can't stop, and what the Kaiser forgets, looking upon the animalistic form of the monster of the tunnels, is that Tim is not stupid. He never was, was always smarter than his peers, but now he runs with the liquid fire of revenge, the fire which burnt away fear and hesitation, the fire which burnt down to its white-hot razor-sharp bones one of the Academy's greatest intellects.

The laser fires.

The moon blows up.

White hot victory sears his eyes to black holes.

Not one Lenny is left on the Moon.

For the first time since the tunnelfall, perhaps the last, Tim wears a true, unmitigated smile. His face bloody and bruised, cheekbone fractured, teeth loose in his salt-tasting mouth, lips and beard streaked with blood, burned-out holes where once he had eyes, body a mass of melting pain, Tim spreads wide hands blistered and nailless and torn, and smiles beautifically, his sacred fiery charge at last fulfilled.

Later, there is more pain, and more blood, and metal screaming and grinding bone and screeching glass and merciless, half-familiar voices around him.

Later still, head screaming from the searing, unwelcome clarity of his new brass-rivet vision, he throws away the tenth cup of tea thrust into his hands by the genially smiling wooden man, and goes walking among the wreckage of the Moon. His unfamiliar optics pick out the scorched shell of a British Medsat, palely lit by Earthlight. It's near death, battered, burned, uprooted from its umbilical attachments to the lunar surface. The airlock judders open to let Tim in, red cross shattered and blackened on the pitted and charred surface of the outer door, inside door's glass spiderwebbed with cracks but still gamely holding out against the vacuum of space.

Tim's footfalls are loud in the echoingly abandoned corridors. He passes the dead, nurses and doctors lying where they fell as the satellite buckled and split, some crushed under their equipment, some lying where they bled out, some left bloody marks as they dragged themselves into wards. Behind the airlocked ward doors, surely the dying still moan, soundproofed out of Tim's life. Emergency lights flicker on and off, alternately bright, antiseptic whiteness and total darkness, casting failing, dancing shadows on the crazed, cracked, bloodied floor. The light hurts Tim's head, and he covers his optics with a bandage to spare his tortured brain, navigating the corridors with cracked fingertips and echoing footsteps. Chooses a door at random, steps into the ward. The room is silent, but for a few gasping, cracked, airless breaths. Tim is reminded of the moanings in the tunnels all those eternal weeks ago, the dead men in tunnelfalls who just won't die. He takes another shuffling step, shuffles around when he encounters an unmoving body with his foot, explores the ward in dazed blindness, smelling sickness and death and blood, hearing hopelessness, seeing nothing.

There's a dry cough to his left, and to his right a rattling, juddering last breath, and Tim stops, drawn up short, because that breath sounds his name in impossible, familiar tones, and then is gone.

His heart stops. He rips the bandage from his eyes, flooding his vision with white flickering emergency lights, with blood and the dying, and with the nightmare.

Tim lets out a howl, wordless and meaningless and bottomless, like a wounded animal, like a dying man, like Lucifer falling. Knees and strength give out all at once. Strings cut, he lands on his knees, sprawled across the bed, rocking and shuddering, fists clenched, the unearthly despair sound still tearing out of him from the bottom of his irreparably stained soul.

Under his desperately shaking body, the fresh corpse cools slowly, bereft of the machines that were holding him together, orphaned of their care by the blast which must have blown out both main and auxiliary life support. The dead man has bandaged stumps where once he had long, strong legs, his broad chest has been crushed and crumpled on one side, his smiling, dimpled face now gaunt and etched with unimaginable pain (and now, oh god, waxy and cold and white and bloody-lipped), there's a gaping absence where once there was a laughing grey eye, blonde curls have been shaved away to allow for the livid line of stitches across his scalp, but there is no mistake, could never be a mistake. And broken as he was, he was alive, was awake, was even speaking, and then Tim took his revenge, and now...

And now the wave has broken over Tim a second time, and this time there's no riding it, no using the anger and hatred which fills his every fibre. Because there's no using that white hot fire of revenge when Bertie's killer still lives, will always live, now cannot die.

And now, now he cries, an explosion of tears and pain and keening, hopeless, echoing up from the bottom of the world, thin body wracked, shaking like every world ending at once as he pulls sobs up through every part of him, breathing raw and short and ragged, nothing left but despair and endless, futile pain and rage. Hands tear at his hair and face as if by sheer effort of will he could tear himself apart, kill himself with as much violence and brutality as he killed the Kaiser and his army, but it's hopeless, he can't be killed, he can't forget, he can't escape, it will never be over, he will live forever and he will live with this forever.

Later, Gunpowder Tim leaves the Medsat in its death throes, mechanical eyes unreadable, walks away from the hospital satellite he crippled, returns to the Aurora and the cold, mechanical distraction of her guns, the crew of once-people as hateful as himself. Leaves what was left of his humanity behind in its charnelhouse corridors with the body of his friend/love/victim. Leaves Tim-That-Was to die next to Bertie's body.

Behind him, the Medsat shudders and flares suddenly white in a soundless, soon-snuffed explosion, a funeral pyre for Tim and Bertie. Gunpowder Tim doesn't look back.

#the Mechanisms #gunpowder tim #gunpowder tim blows up the moon #tim x bertie #mechs fic

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