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johnkrrasinski · 3 years

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i want your midnights;

full masterlist

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 1,749

Warning: fluff!! pure feelings

Summary: this one’s written for the @mypoisonedvine‘s festive writing challenge with the prompt “kissing at the new year’s eve count down.” there was only one person that you wanted to celebrate new years with and it was bucky barnes, the love of your life.

a/n: not my best work but eh, i needed some holiday fluff with bucky. comment and reblog if you like!

⭒☆━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━☆⭒

You straightened the skirt of your dress, trying to make yourself look presentable as you took a deep breath. To say you were nervous would be an outrageous understatement. You haven't played for a big crowd, let alone a crowd in awhile. The last time you were standing with identical emotions swirling through your stomach was when you were in your adolescent years. It wasn't because you grew bored of it, it was simply because you grew up and life had its funny way of surprising you. This occupation wasn't merely a job, it was a lifestyle. And this lifestyle didn't allow you to think that you'd ever have the chance to revisit this forgotten passion.

But here you were. About to perform one of your favourite songs on the grand instrument placed in the centre of the room and you feel like your stomach was sinking. You were good and you were adored. Suck it up and don't be a coward!

The ticking clock shows that it was three hours away from midnight. And the party was in full swing because it's New Year's Eve and Tony Stark was a man of flamboyant parties. And may God help you if he discovered your hidden talent.

"You should sing on New Year's Eve! Entertain the guests before midnight. What's better than live music at a party?"

"I don't know, Tony... I haven't sung in so long."

"You literally just did two minutes ago!"

"Okay first, that was in my room where no one was watching and second, you weren't supposed to see that!"

Tony walked up to the mini stage with a microphone in one hand and a glass of Champagne in the other. "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention? I shouldn't be asking, after all, you were invited to my party." The elicited a few chuckles from the guests. "Let me start by thanking all of you for coming here tonight..."

Tony's speech was muffled by the grasp around your waist by a familiar pair of arms. "Nervous?"

"Extremely." You smiled despite the averment.

"Baby, don't worry. I've heard you sing and you have one of the loveliest voices in the world."

"You're just saying that cause you're my boyfriend, Bucky..."

"That's true, but the latter is also true."

You turned around in his arms and threw yours around his neck. "Thank you for the encouraging words. I feel a bit lighter knowing that you'll be in the crowd."

"My pleasure, darling." He kissed you with his hands still on your waist, holding you close but Tony's words disrupted your moment.

"We have a special and exclusive performance tonight. Please welcome, my friend, ____ ____!“

The soft claps welcomed you and it was your turn to take the stage.

"Good evening, everybody. I'm y/n and I hope you enjoy my performance tonight."

A sprightly "whew!" was heard and you instantly recognized Clint's voice.

Your fingers pushed the first few notes of the intro and the sound immediately changed the atmosphere in the room.

"There's glitter on the floor after the party, girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby..." You sang to the microphone. "Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor, you and me from the night before but..."

"Don't read the last page but I stay when you're lost and I'm scared and you're turning away, I want your midnights but I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on new year's day." You still hadn't dared to gaze at the audience so you focused on looking down on the black and white keys.

"You squeezed my hand three times in the back of the taxi, I can tell that it's gonna be a long road. I'll be there if you're the toast of the town babe," you didn't know why but your heart drove your gaze to the crowd and you instantly found the person you were singing for. "...Or if you strike out and you're crawling home..."

"Don't read the last page but I stay when it's hard or it's wrong or we're making mistakes..." You didn't look away. You couldn't. Not when the love of your life was staring right back at you with those warm steel blue eyes. "I want your midnights, but I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day." You meant every word.

"Hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you, hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you, hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you." This time your eyes wandered to the crowd, familiar and strange faces staring back at you with contented looks and you hoped these words would cling to them.

"...And I will hold on to you." Because they did to you and you did to the man standing a few feet away from you but your hearts and your minds remained connected.

"Please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere, please don't ever become a stranger whose laugh I could recognize anywhere..." A brief flashback played in your mind; the lovers turned strangers, the friends turned enemies, the loved ones turned ghosts. You barely heard from them anymore these days, but you could still remember their laughters, an epitome of the good memories. You hoped that this dynamic ragtag group of vigilantes would never turn into one of those tragedies. Another buried name that goes up to the monument.

"There's glitter on the floor after the party, girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby, candle wax and polaroids on the hardwood floor," your heartbeat hummed the euphonious melody, "...You and me forevermore." There he was. Smiling at you. Always smiling because you were the light of his life and his simpers were genuine and frequent now.

"Don't read the last page, but I stay when it's hard or it's wrong or we're making mistakes, I want your midnights, but I'll be cleaning up bottles with you on New Year's Day, hold on to the memories, they will hold on to you, and I will hold on to you." You chanted the closing lyrics and when the last note resonated, the guests' claps were louder this time, invigorating your confidence.

Everyone returned to their own things; catching up with their friends, laughing on the couch and drinking by the bar and Natasha was even standing behind it like a professional part-time bartender. Some were slow dancing and the others are already a little too drunk.

"That was beautiful, doll."

"You think so?"

"I know so. You got a gift, you shouldn't hide it from the world."

"I'm not trying to hide it, Bucky. I just... I didn't have the time with the world-saving and all. And music makes people happy, but it doesn't save lives."

"Well, if I don't know when I'll see you play again, then I'm glad at least we got tonight. And you're wrong, doll. You certainly saved me."

"Your words will be the death of me, Barnes."

Everyone gathered around, watching the big screen displaying the countdown to midnight. As the numbers go down, the more energized people become. Your arms were tangled with Bucky's, not wanting to be far away from the person you loved the most seconds before the year finalizes its chapter.

For a moment there, you felt happy. You looked around to see your teammates with smiles on their faces, stress-free and humans. This job hadn't allowed you to be just a human living a normal life. But tonight was one of the rare moments where all of you could just be normal people celebrating holidays.

And then there was Bucky, the man who had lived for a century, whose entire life was stolen away from him, and the man that your heart chose to fall in love with, and you were lucky enough that he chose you too. You had spent two Christmases together, and now you were entering another new chapter together, and there was no one else you'd rather wake up with an awful hangover with. There was no one else who would be there to give you Advil in the morning and deal with your mess.

5,4,3,2,1...

"Happy New Year!"

You and Bucky kiss, as all the cheers and noises, faded into the background. Bucky grabbed you close by the waist, and you had your arms around his neck trying to hold onto his lips as long as possible. You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling all the overwhelming affection you had for him. Bucky felt it too deep in his bones, who would've thought that despite all the atrocities his hands had to commit, someone as beautiful and wonderful as you would love him despite it all? Would kiss him on New Year's Eve and would stick with him through another year?

"Happy new year, darling."

"Happy new year." You couldn't fake the smile forming on your face. “I can’t believe it’s our second New Year’s together.”

“There’s no one else I’d rather spend the rest of my New Years with.”

“Are you saying you’re willing to spend the rest of your New Years dealing with my cranky hangover moods and pulling my hair back when I throw up?”

“As long as it’s you, I’m ready for pretty much anything. You’ve had my back and picked up my mess when I was at my worst, doll and I didn’t deserve it, but you did so without asking for anything, and I’m willing to do the same for you.”

You nearly teared up at his words, the past two years hadn’t always been the smoothest road with rainbows and butterflies for you two. You stuck with Bucky through his nightmares, panic attacks and his therapy sessions and you loved him despite all his open wounds and permanent scars, and Bucky had never felt luckier to have fallen in love with you too along the way. It began with a friendship and bloomed into something deeper, and the last two New Years that you had spent together reminded you that you could walk through every hurricane that life threw at you as long as you were together.

“You always knew how to calm down my fears and lift up my spirit and I’m eternally grateful for that.”

“Guess we’re just perfectly imperfect for each other, huh?”

“Guess we are.” He kissed you again with a huge smile on his face and zest for writing the first page of 365 pages with you.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan fanfic #sebastian stan fic #sebastian stan one shot #sebastian stan fluff #bucky barnes au #myfestivevine

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kimberly-spirits13 · 4 years

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Burning Kingdoms and Runaway Rulers Pt. 1

Pairing: Dick Grayson x reader

Note: So, this is an OC reader insert where this story is taken from the story of an OC I have but instead of the OC, it’s reader. I didn’t really know if I wanted to post this but then again, why the heck not. This is the same OC that I used for that mood board one time, I’ll post it at the bottom if you ave no idea what I’m talking about/ So part one is an intro and it takes place the night that you arrived in Gotham. The italics are what happened before that

Warnings: Mentions of death (not explicit)

Word Count: 1,808

To say you weren’t close to people was an understatement. The fire found a home in you and you were too busy trying to keep it contained to be concerned with those around you. Some children are born with tragedy in their blood, it was something you’d gotten used to seeing in people other than yourself. The last light in someone’s eyes before the kill, the glimmer of hope of a better fate, it was telling. You saw it in ballrooms and on battlefields, but now you were somewhere different. Now you were in realms unfamiliar to your senses. Adaptation was a choice, but in order to return home, survival was key-

-3 Months Ago-

No one knew where you were. You intended to keep it like that. The assumed lost Princesses of Amara was not be forgotten until it was your time to return home and reclaim the throne. That was a nice thought. Going back home and resuming life as usual. If everything was normal, you’d be on a mission into the rebel country of Ingram off to kill one of the high rulers to whom was setting the country into total and mass chaos by order of your father, the supreme ruler and king of your home planet. But that was yesterday’s news and your old team’s mission. Today you were in Chicago, on Earth, the only near planet you had never visited.

The clock on the wall was the only thing keeping you company besides the ever -intrusive thoughts bogging down your memories of the past 48 hours. It all happened too quickly, the death of your family, the fall of an ancient monarchy, and the discovery of the hidden Chamber of Magic in the core of your home planet, something that you were immortally entrusted in keeping safe in all past and future lives you might have lived. It was something to take time in understanding.

Your father, a man of top royal and intellectual status was never a truly sane man as some tend to be. He kept it well under wraps as far as you were concerned. It wasn’t until one time, in a fit of dismay and disarray in one of his now more frequent walks, he discovered the chambers that you wandered through every night in the shadows of the hallways and the glow of the golden strands of light that floated ever weightlessly through the air without anyone’s knowledge. That was when he discovered it. Amidst the ancient and crumbling catacombs, down winding stairs, and across underground streams of magic that might have replaced a mass amount of water, he found the source of all magic in this universe. He found what you were entrusted in keeping safe your entire existence. That was when he went mad.

On the night of his breaking, you were coming back from a mission meant to take down part of the Ingram Royal Army. It had been a success but the mission was draining and the royal guards still needed you, their leader to keep yourself in your place for one last briefing before they could disperse. You were sitting at the front of the ship when a guard came to you saluting you before handing you a letter with the golden seal of the Amaranian king and then leaving. You carefully opened it and read it, finding out, much to your horror that he was holding your family, the rest of the royal family hostage and would only let them live if you relinquished all your power to him.

That was where it began, the ending however, was much worse. Your entire family was dead now including your father. His blood was on your hands, but the rest? His. You finished off the traders in the guards and carried on, leaving on a ship, no possessions but your training and coordinates to Earth.

The chime of the bell snapped you out of your never- ending trance in time for you to realize the time. A few seconds later, the shadow of a ship graced the window and floor of your hotel room floor. It was time to leave Chicago, it was time to leave for Gotham. You knew not of what would happen in this crime filled city, only that your guide told you to go. That was enough for you to leave with Batman. That was enough for you to think of possibly starting a new life.

You leapt out of the window and on to the roof of the building before being met by the bat clad vigilante.

“Queen Y/N.” He greeted formally calling you by your newly gained title, “Are you ready to leave?”

“I am, and please, just call me Y/N, I am no princess nor queen on this planet.” You answered before getting into the jet.

“Very well... Y/N, I have accommodations for you at Wayne Manor as said. Alfred, my butler has prepared a room, if you’d like to change it, you may seeing as this will most likely become your permanent residence.” The bat explained as the city disappeared from under you.

You gazed out of the window and watched as the world seemed to become smaller and smaller, clouds rapidly going in and out of view. It was mesmerizing to see but you were pulled out of your thoughts for the 100th time tonight once more.

“I assume that you would like to carry on fighting?” He asked shooting a glance your way.

“I-I would.” You answered.

“What name will you go by?” Batman asked, “You don’t have to rush, but you do have to follow my one rule.”

“Let me guess, this is going to be the opposite of what I was raised to do and I suspect an impulse training segment. I cannot kill? Is that your rule Mr. Wayne?” You said rolling your eyes.

“It is.” “And for simplicity’s sake, please, call me Bruce.” Bruce stated making a sharp turn and then diving down, “This isn’t the Thanatos Royal Army anymore, this is Earth, this is Gotham. By code, people allowed to work in Gotham as vigilantes cannot kill.”

“And you are going to make me partake in vigorous training to control the possible impulse or habit of killing those guilty of a crime? People who might not have committed crimes against the high or superior kingdoms, or even those who make their citizens beg for quick death rather than life, but instead a different breed? The Gotham made mass killers?”

Bruce sighed, “Yes. As much as you question it, this is not debatable.” He informed you in a stern tone.

You kept a neutral expression, but that did not mean that internally, you were questioning this man’s will to live or even intelligence on the sharp turn and his rules. You were however pleasantly surprised to find him landing in a massive cave, and a boy, around your age coming down a stair case.

“Hey B!” The young black -haired teen said.

Bruce nodded at him, acknowledging his presence before turning to you as you landed next to him from jumping out of the jet with no sound at all.

“Y/N, this is Dick Grayson, my ward.” Bruce said as you nodded, “Dick, Y/N L/N. Y/N has just arrived from her home planet Amara, I expect you to make her feel welcome.” Bruce emphasized the last part.

“You got it Bruce.” Dick said before turning back to you, “Do you want me to show you your room?”

“That would be most appreciated.” You replied following him before meeting Alfred.

“So, you’re a queen?” Dick asked as you two walked around the house and up the stair case in the front.

“Technically. I have not had a proper or official coronation yet, however, I am the successor to the now empty throne.” You replied, a ping of sadness hitting your chest.

“I’m sorry.” He said, “I lost both of my parents when I was younger. Used to be part of the circus.”

“My condolences.” You said, “How long have you resided here?”

“I’ve been here around 4 years now.” Dick answered turning down another hall, “Trust me, once you get used to everything, it’s not totally terrible.”

“But I’d presume that there are some terrible things. More than the fighting?”

“Yes, flashing lights, paparazzi following everywhere, sometimes B, he’s well, not that great with emotions and opening up so that gets weird. You should be fine though, and if you need anything, I’m always here.”

“Thank you.”

Dick led you to your new bedroom, opening the door to let you inside first. There was one other door, leading to a bathroom, a massive bed, a small desk, nightstands on either side of the desk, a sitting chair, dresser, and bookshelves. On the floor by the bed, a Persian rug. The room fit the theme of the manor very well in your opinion. It did not however, fit your idea of a suitable bedroom. Bruce said you could change it, so you would tonight when Dick wasn’t in the room as to not make you seem ungrateful.

“It’s lovely.” You said walking in further, “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem really. I’ll leave you alone now, but if you need anything, but room is the next one to the left.” He said, “Alfred has already prepared the room with whatever you’d need but clothes, you can get those tomorrow.”

“Oh, there will be no need for that.” You said before walking to the closet.

“What are you doi-“ Dick stopped talking when he saw you mumble something to the air and put your hand out.

Without warning, the closet was filled with Earth clothes. That was something you were informed was important by your guide. They were your mentor or sorts. It came straight from the magic in the core of your home planet and was eternally bound to you as an advisor, something you found yourself needing more and more as of recently.

“T-that was amazing!” Dick exclaimed.

“Thank you.” You smirked some, “These are suitable Earth clothes to you, correct?”

“Oh yeah, perfectly normal clothes.” He looked around not noticing anything wrong with what he saw.

You nodded when he told you goodnight and left your room. You changed the room to your likings when he did leave, but after that, you had work to do on these people. It was important that you knew who you were “bunking “ with for the next while and what was to possibly be expected from these next few days, weeks, or even years. Your guide would be by your side, but also something that you had just gotten used to, a laptop. It was a strange thing, but at least it beat the old royal archives, even if those were more magical.

Okay so that’s the mood board that this is inspired by. Anyways, I hope that you guys liked this one and are also staying safe and healthy. Have a wonderful week and day and take care of yourselves!

#dc comics #dc x reader #dc characters #batfam x reader #batboys x reader #batfam #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #dick grayson imagine #dick grayson x y/n #young justice x reader #young justice #young justice robin #young justice robin x reader

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antoxsmith · 4 years

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Over (Part 1)

Warnings - Angst, Hurt, Tragedy, F/M, Fluff

Pairings - Negan x Reader

Summary - You and Negan have been in a secret relationship for years. Then, you happen to see him get his throat slit.

I am in AO3 as @antoxsmith:)

NEGAN MASTERLIST

Negan asked her not to come. But she was stubborn, just like him, and wouldn't make any excuses on this war. Their little rendez-vous would not make her stay at The Sanctuary while all of her friends and the man she loved were fighting out there.

She had been part of The Saviors for as long as she could remember. When Negan started flirting with her, she really tried not to give into him, her mind wrapped around him being only his boss. She didn't want to end up as his wives, all humiliated while being the shadow of a man who would only use her.

But of course, it didn't work.

Negan carved his way into her heart and soul. She loved every single piece of him now. And he loved her too, even when he had never said the words exactly. So, when the war started, she stayed by his side, not letting him put her aside to protect her. It was pointless to try to change her position on this.

It had been her decision to keep their relationship a secret. And it surprisingly worked, everyone thinking she was just his lieutenant.With her heart beating out of her chest, she pointed to Rick and his group, everyone waiting for Negan to make the call. She didn't have a good feeling about this. She was scared as fuck but she knew they could win... they had to. Her breathing was steady but cold, anxiety washing over her.

"3... 2... 1"

Everyone started shooting, but something stopped her from doing so. Maybe it was the shock, maybe it was her gut. When she came back... everyone was already dead. She quickly looked at Negan, her and the other saviors who were still alive not knowing what to do, gasping, frightened to what had just happened.

Everything happened so fast, the world as she knew it going to hell... again. Her hands were trembling as her eyes followed Negan's figure, her heart aching when she saw the wound on his hand.

She tried to fight back but Laura was right: this was over before it even started. They didn't stance a chance on winning now, so they surrendered. With her hands up and her knees on the ground, her heart started getting shattered from the sight in front of her.

Negan was fighting Rick just down the hill.

She knew he could win. He was bigger, badder... and he had a bat. But, what next? What if he won against Rick? The rest of his people would still take him out. Shit, her mind was yelling for her to do something.

But she couldn't do anything.

For a brief second, Negan looked at her direction. Their eyes met and just then she realized she was crying. Not that desperate, whimpering crying. No. The tears were just rolling down her cheeks as she saw how the man she loved was trying to save his own life. But it was probably pointless now.

"Get up" someone from Rick's group ordered them. She got up, slowly, her eyes still locked on Negan. She saw him talking to Rick and she thought that, maybe, they were finally trying to make peace.

They weren't.

"No!" She screamed as she saw Rick slit Negan's throat. She tried to run to them, but two of the other saviors held her in place, knowing that, if she tried to interfere, she would get killed. She fell to the ground, her back taking the fall, one of her friends still holding her strongly so she wouldn’t run after Negan.

Negan was lying on the ground, the scream of the woman he loved being the last thing he heard. He could feel how more and more blood would come out of his throat, taking his life away from him.

So that was it? He would be left to die there?

He was a little disappointed. He would make a joke on it if he could.

He couldn't see it, but he did hear how Rick walked away, then the loud screaming of the widow that wanted him dead. And he probably would've cared only if he didn't know there was someone important for him seeing this. Looking at his defeat. He felt even shittier because he was failing in front of her.

Those minutes felt like eternity, for both Negan and her. She was in shock, her hand against her chest trying to stop the pain in her heart. Her lips were open, her whole body trembling. Memories flashed before her eyes. She wouldn't have his kisses anymore, his big hugs when she was tired, or his silly jokes when she felt sad. He wouldn't carry her on his arms or cuddle her against his chest at night. He wouldn't tell her about all the things he knew or saw. He wouldn't ask her to shave his beard or make him lemonade just because he enjoyed looking at her doing it.

There wouldn't be any happiness in her life anymore.

When she heard Rick say he was still alive she tried again to run to him. They wouldn't let her. Alongside the screaming from a woman that she knew as The Widow, she would cry to try and get to Negan. She had to get to Negan, her desperate arms trying to break free from her friends’ hold.

She waited. She waited for what felt like an eternity till Rick walked away, and she ran as fast as she could towards Negan, not caring about the other saviors or anyone else looking at her and now realizing she was in love with the fearless leader.

"No, no, no" She was still crying when she kneeled on the ground next to him. She pressed her hands on his throat and placed his head on her thighs. "Love," she whispered to him. "Can you hear me?"

Negan looked at her. Fuck yes, he could hear her. He tried to talk; he really did. But words didn't come out. He moved his wounded hand, catching her attention, and she quickly held it. He pressed hers as firmly as he could, trying to let her know he was okay. He really was now.

"What am I gonna do now?" She asked as tears rolled down her cheeks, the pain on her chest making her insides feel cold, like she was already dead. "What are they gonna do to you? What am I gonna do without you?"

He just looked at her, his own eyes filled with tears too. He couldn't speak or tell her how much he loved her. He should've said it before. He knew he should've.

She kissed his cheek. "Please don't forget about me" she said, her voice breaking. He pressed her hand harder, letting her know he wouldn't. He would never.

"That is enough." Someone from Rick's group said as they approached them.

Negan was starting to feel like he was going to pass out. He knew the others were coming for him, and he knew, somehow, that this was the last time he would see her.

He took a very good look at her eyes, her lips, her everything; eyes roaming quickly on her features.

He opened his lips and tried, but his voice did not come out. Still, she managed to read his lips.

"I... Love... You." His eyes showed true sadness as he mouthed those words.

She kissed his lips briefly, her tears falling to his cheeks. "I love you too" she whispered to him when she broke the kiss.

That was the last thing she was able to say before someone grabbed her and took her away from him, her screams and kicks not enough to let her go. Negan passed out, the last thing he saw being his girl getting carried away as she fought to stay by his side.

And just like that, it was over.

Part 2 Here

#negan #negan x original female character #negan x y/n #negan fanfiction #the walking dead #twd #negan x you #8x16 #negan fic #negan x oc #negan x reader

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judgement-free-sideblog · 4 years

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Blood, tears and sea breeze

Warnings: ANGST, mental health issues, graphic depictions of violence, blood, cursing, mentions of sexual assault, mentions of sex, substance abuse.

Summary: The not so peaceful town of Broadchurch face dead again, while Alec Hardy continues his journey to redemption will this school teacher be the key to solve the mystery or just another victim of the ever watching evilness that seems to reside in the town.

First Previous Next

Chapter 19: Espresso

A defective faucet was leaking in the kitchen, and the sound echoing in the empty room was loud enough to drive someone mental, but for the broken ma siting in the empty room, and looking at nothing in particular it was just something else to listen to.

Alec hardy start pacing the room, thinking about everything and nothing at the same time, he was glad his daughter was already back in school so she was not there to see the spectacular way he destroyed his library the moment he saw the videos of Y/N in his computer a few moments after Harford took her away from him. Daze would have been worried, and he didn't want that. He just wanted to ease the pain and shut down all the screaming inside his head.

Again... was the only word his mind was coherently producing at the moment, Again... the smirking face of Claire Ripley laugh at him You love to fall for the defenseless girl act, don't you Alec? She said and and suddenly the pain in his chest became more real, his hands began trembling and the air became hard to pass AGAIN... the imagine of Tess playfully touching the shoulder of one of his colleagues in front of him while she pretended it was nothing You are being paranoid, you have to trust me. She had said so many times until he found out...

The pain move to his back and her neck and he knew it could be bad, and for a brief moment he considered the possibility of staying there and let his heart fail for once, and shock at his own perceived weakness and altered thoughts he walked slowly to his bathroom and frantically searched the cabinets desperate to find the small bottle Isosorbide, it was still good for another month, and it was almost full since he had been almost a year without needing it, he took one out and crushed it to put the white powder under his tongue, it was bitter for a moment, it had been so long he had almost forgot the taste.

But he needed it, to get better, and to go back to the station, he needed to make it right for Miller, even if it meant to put her behind bars for ever...

Again... he thought for a moment siting on his floor with his back on his bathtub before the darkness consumed him, he remembered that feeling he had that night of summer, after they caught Trish offender, a few years ago. He saw Miller go away without him on the piers, knowing too well he loved her and that it would end up badly, it was the same feeling he had for Y/N when she left, it would take everything from him to send her away, but he had to, he had to do his job, regardless of his own feelings...again.

****

"So she confessed huh?" Agent Ramos said reading Y/N declaration, "I mean I'm glad we have them, but I still think this is confusing, she didn't play the insanity card, and she didn't even wanted a lawyer" he pased the pages of Y/L/N file desperate to find something missing "She insists that she doesn't remember shaggin Langford, but she admits she asked him to murder Norbury?"

"And that she saw him putting his body on her cottage, but Langford keeps saying he didn't killed him, he just says they were together" Miller pointed out, she was sure that the partiality in her confession was insufficient to charge Charlie for anything but she needed time to put all the pieces of the puzzle in place.

She checked her phone, Alec hadn't call yet, and she was desperate to go to his place and find him, but first she had to be sure Y/N was guilty, that was the only way she would talk to him "Katie would you please bring me the DNA results from the ring?" She said, already knowing the cut on Charles' face was made with that rock, how she was not sure yet, but something about the clean cut told her it was. She was interrupted in her train of though when a very flustered Harford entered her office barely looking at Ramos, or better said desperately not looking at the man.

"Is that lipstick?" Miller asked, noticing a nice shade of pink on the agent lips who almost dropped the papers, and now was Ramos the one acting nervously.

"Yeah, it was a present" she said and Miller look at them both, and couldn't help but laugh, it was the single most unexpected thing that could happen that day and yet she was happy for them, and she was surprised to wonder what took them so long since they were quite perfect for each other.

"Just talk to HR before something else happens" she said to relief of the young detectives, "It's quite nice color, by the way" she said taking the results from Katie's hands.

"I was nervous she will be mad that I got the idea from the case, but she found it funny and ironic" Ramos said once she exited the room, and Miller was glad to have something else to talk about if merely for a moment.

"How come?"

"The lipstick, is the same brand we found in Norbury's car, is not the same femme fatal red, but I thought she might like it, like an inside joke, of course I didn't engrave 'My goddess' on it, only her ID number, you know professional" he said and Miller's world stopped for a moment that felt eternal, as the images of pink discrete lips and red seductive ones passed trough her mind she took her coat and the last piece of the puzzle fall in place, Y/N was right this was not over, she needed to find Hardy and fast.

****

Reverend Coates hanged up the phone, with his heart aching for the poor lost soul on the other line, and then he prayed for his own soul still doubting about whether or not it was worth it to break the seal of confessional for a woman.

But Y/N was not just any woman, he said to himself, she had been so much more in the past, his steps guide him to the graveyard where he had spent so many sleepless nights before. She had been so much more than just a woman for him, and at the same time she had been just the woman for him, and at risk of being selfish or vane, he kept dearly to him the memory of being the first man on her life, in a simpler, easier time... and he will be lying if he denied that seeing her next to DI Hardy didn't bother him, he was okay with Jonathan, even when he had given him ideas about the proposal he never really thought they would go trough with the wedding, something about making it more about his mother than the bride, and he will be there like always to heal her wounds, and maybe when they were both older they would end up together, but of course Paul never thought it will get to that horrid situation.

But it was different with Hardy, he made her laugh effortlessly, and the way her eyes bright and her voice flowed happy when she talked about him make him jealous, not just for losing an unspoken empty promise but one if not his best friend, and at the same time he was ready to let her go, and his childish selfish fantasy, specially knowing Alec Hardy was a good man, who will protect her no matter what, specially since right now she needed someone just as Hardy to protect her.

Since the shadow that desperately seek for her doom was advancing diligent to her end, and he had his hands tied by his faith. Even when he had loved her, he wasn't sure about throwing everything away for her. She had loved him too, when the sadness in her life that drowned her to his arms, and then they just fall out of love when those tragedies were gone, and he became such a different man that their growing apart was a blessing, he spent the next years looking after her knowing too well she was desperate to fly away from the town, but too remorseful and scared to do it.

And he couldn't help but thinking most of this situation was his fault, he thought again of God's ineffable plan and how the gears of destiny started to move the moment a pair of blue eyes sitted across him on his AA and said:

"Hi everyone, my name is Jonathan Norbury, and I'm an alcoholic" Paul committed the sin of prejudice the moment he entered the room, thinking he was just another rich man trying to superficially ease his guilt, judging by his city clothes and posh accent, but there was a sincerity in his voice that make him change his mind as he listened "I did something bad... is not like is the first time, but I need it to be the last one, I'm new in the the town, Broadchurch, my father... that's not important... the thing is I'm on my own for the first time in a long time, I have been drinking and doing a bunch of stupid stuff since I was 14, but I have been specially stupid for the last 72 hours, and something happened last night and I just need it to stop..." he said and Paul listened closely every word. "I meet this girl at the club, she was gorgeous, we danced, we drink, and I tried to take her home, but she refused, then this bloke, the bartender he said I will help you, I was too drunk I didn't understand what he meant, but he gave her another drink an then..." all of the present, specially those that had been there sober for a few years now shared a look, and Paul was horrified by the implications of the story "She was acting like a new born deer, and I help her to walk and she begged me to takeher home, she was needy, trying to kiss me and I realized I didn't even knew her name or who she was, so I drove her to a 24/7 coffee spot, and gave her some espresso... " someone audibly sighed in relief and the man let go a side smile "She sober up and we talked for a while, right now I am almost sure I forgot her name, but for the first time I understand what my father wanted me to see, that my actions had consequences, and I realized I'm not willing to keep hurting people with my ways, so I'm here, I'm willing to do the job, and I'm willing to change" he then smile with that timid disarming smile that Paul was about to know people found so charming.

Coates approach him after the meeting, they exchange numbers, and less than 12 hours later he called, he wanted to drink, and ask him to distract him.

"Just don't send me to read the bible" he said and laughed nervously and he could feel his desperation so he invited him to his church, not to the service but to paint some old benches. "And the lord will heal me?" He asked sardonically.

"No, but you could use some hard work and soul searching, city boy" he said and made him also replant some flowers.

The next day he repair a cabinet, and the third day they just talked, he was definitely not Broadchurch material, but his tortured soul was getting better, and he was glad to have a friend, and then he meet her.

She was scolding Danny Latimer for a poorly written essay, while Tom Miller was trying to make his mother old laptop to work with Paul.

"They are just kids, let them have some fun" He said and she gave Paul and inquisitive look since she didn't knew the man.

"Mr. Norbury is helping me with some work around the church"

"Mr. Norbury, really mate?" He made a disapproving gesture "I'm Jonathan, you can call me John or Johny, whatever sits you love" he said trying to pull out the London charm.

"I'll stay with Mr. Norbury, thanks" she said to him and his smile disappear immediately, making the boys laugh. And just like that Jonathan fall for the same spell Paul had fallen many years before, and his life turned around, Broadchurch suddenly was fun to him, the need to drink was almost nonexistent compared to the need to prove himself to her, and he was happy, and Paul was glad he put them together at the time, maybe that was God's plan, but things turn for the worst as suddenly as they started.

Pretending Paul didn't ask him to tell her the truth was useless because he did, so much that Jonathan changed AA groups, he wanted his past buried, and he understood it, but he was sure Y/N deserved the truth How do you know what is best for her? He had said the last time he confronted him I'm her fiance, I know what is best for us. And Paul hoped it was true, but as trouble with his store and tensions with his parents rose Jonathan went closer and closer to his older ways, and his restraints grew thinner and thinner until they break, and even Y/N compassionate soul was not enough to pull him back to his path.

And the shadow desperate to consume her, luring around her since she was a child took advantage of his weakness to finally take vengeance on her.

That tortured creature on the phone had confessed a few days ago, the how, and the why of Jonathan's death, and his heart was still aching to know it wasn't in pursuit of redemption, but to torture him with his own vow of silence so he could not help her, the woman he once loved so deeply, and now another call, to gloat on the fact that the teacher was paying for Jonathan's death, and since charging on his soul the truth without avail to help her was his punishment, he feared for Alec Hardy, since this shadow was determined to consume every source of love Y/N ever had.

He saw the sun setting on the horizon, wondering again what to do, he ask God for forgiveness, and finally picked up the phone.

Tag list:

@allonsymexgirl @laciesaito @tf18unipups @dazedkrosupreme @timey-wimey-lovi @coffees-and-constellations @ladyaziraphale @acid-gurkerl @moonuvert @tennantious

Hello there!! How are you coping with all the issues going on? On a personal level I am sick of people spreading misinformation about the virus and seeing the elderly die because their caretakers don't get them to the hospital because is "fake" and a "hoax by the government" like sure Karen the Government that make me use 5 times a single use pair of gloves is conspiring for you to use a mask 🙄...Anyway, we are closing to an end, and I hope is satisfying for you as readers as it was for me, I will take a break from writing once this is finished since work won't be easier with our death toll on the rise. So please stay safe, use your masks even if other people say it's ridiculous or unnecessary. Take care of each other.

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yeoldontknow · 4 years

Note

so I watched brief encounter last night because I was curious... I don’t understand what the main character meant by her committing the violence of falling inlove. I don’t think I understand how being in love could be violent- is it because she’s married?

hi anon! ahhhh! im so happy you decided to watch it! and then came to discuss with me pls do you know how delighted that makes me ;^; if youre not used to classic cinema, or even classic melodrama, i can see how the film would be a bit slow or a bit difficult to connect with. so i really appreciate you taking the time to watch and come up with questions for things. when i say this made my day i mean it lmaooo

the quote i believe youre pulling from is this:

I’ve fallen in love. I didn’t think such violent things could happen to ordinary people.

there are several layers to this statement - emotional, moral, political, societal, etc. im happy to break these down contextually so you can have a better understanding of why this statement is painful and, also, why love is an extremely violent experience. going under a cut because...i have this entire masters degree in film and im not using it so im gonna use it here lmao

at its most basic, yes, you are correct. she says love is a violent experience because she is already married. to love, really love, is an act of violence, especially when you are already promised and making a family to another person. there is an element of ruination here that plagues laura, love as a threat to the stability of the home and family. and we can see this when her son is playing in the street and gets into an accident - a completely innocuous event, but one she sees as an omen of her violence against her own family. karma, but at a level that would start a war among her family and community.

in most filmic universes, romantic comedies especially, we are used to the relatively easy expectations that come from learning to love someone - you meet, you flirt, you are both, ideally, free to experience these types of intense emotions, you come together, you separate (due to...any sort of obstacle), you come back together. in this traditional narrative, we are presented with the notion that falling in love happens in a linear fashion and that, once the two characters have ended their arc and achieved their happy ending, there is not much else that occurs. they lived happily ever after, ever after being an indeterminate amount of time in which we are meant to assume they exist within this state, ceaselessly.

in general, there are two types of love stories - tragedies and comedies. where romantic comedies (in the modern sense, and i am stressing modern sense) end with ‘happily ever after,’ the other alternative for lovers is death. you either overcome your initial obstacle, or you perish, in love, where love becomes a death. so where does that leave brief encounter? neither party have been put to death, but the death is of the will, the passion. and, in brief encounter, it is killed by morality. by choice. i will be coming back to this. because passion is an extremely important element of this film, and it carries the narrative from start to finish.

at its core, brief encounter is a melodrama. melodrama has its own sect of film theory, but in this case ill do my best to keep it simple. and its really important to recognize that this film is british - british melodrama are two extremely different experiences and come from two completely different places of expression.

american melodrama, the most broad sense, was a stylistic set of films, usually from the 40s-50s (even some released in the early 60s) which use a lot of the tropes of classic cinematic narrative story telling - but as irony, parody, or pastiche. great examples of these films would be rebel without a cause, mildred pierce, from here to eternity, imitation of life, etc. in all of these films, and again i am paraphrasing because there is so much relating to melodrama as its own theory and practice, there is an onus on emotional expression and sensationalism. the narrative is driven by passionate action, emotional action, and, almost always, the swell of music weve come to recognize in hollywood cinema. music swells with character emotion, thus assisting in informing the audience in how to feel, and so we are ok regardless if these characters are successful in their plight, because we have felt.

british melodrama operates from an entirely different perspective. yes, like their historical theatrical roots, they favor spectacle and avoid realism. and, again, there is a reliance on the music to lead the narrative. however, the focus shifts from the societal body to the familial body; body concrete rather than body politic. culturally, this is a significant change from the usual reserved emotional experience within britain. and that is where brief encounter becomes something extremely important.

brief encounter was released in 1945, in a post-war period when there were significant changes to womens daily and societal lives, and this film really hones in on the causative anxieties that are born from these sudden changes and, yes, sudden notions of emotional liberation from their families - a new found independence. with the context of this film coming off the tails of WWII, in a post-war society in which there is meant to be peace, laura calls the act of falling in love violent which, for an audience member at the time of release, would have immediately associated that element of violence with war time violence. love is a threat. its dangerous. love at this level is repulsive. love is an insurrection - love is a revolution. and it came to her without her permission. she is bereft. she is on the brink of collapse - and ordinary women, the traditional family house wife, is never meant to feel so eager to ruin her family for a sensation that is, inherently, selfish.

so this brings us back to passion. something that comes up quite a lot in brief encounter, most explicitly at the cinema when alec and laura see a trailer for a film called flames of passion (this is a real film btw! and you might be able to watch it - it too is a melodrama. theres also a queer reading within brief encounter, because of the inclusion of flames of passion, but thats for another day). this brings us to the moral question of love as violence. for this, we can turn to hume and his 4 thesis on moral philosophy, the morals that drive humanity. primarily we will look at the following points:

1. reason alone is not enough to motivate the will, but rather is a slave to passion 3. moral distinction is derived from moral sentiment: feelings of approval (praise) and disapproval (shame, blame) through our inter-relations with others, or through the perceptions of others as they perceive us

for hume, the passions are simply emotions, but they are broken down as direct or indirect. desire is a direct emotion and it arises, without thought, from a place of good or evil, pain or pleasure - and it is only after these feelings have arisen that we are able to consider the feeling. by that same token, bodily or carnal appetites, our carnal desires, is another instinct that arises from unknown origin and only is able to be thoughtfully experienced after we have been confronted with it. and that is the most important piece - desire and carnal desire is an instinct. for hume, love, on the other hand, does not directly cause action - because love is not an instinct. love is learned.

in brief encounter, laura is admitting that not only does she thoughtfully love alec - love in a way that would not necessarily cause action, but brings her unparalleled pleasure in comparison to a man who simply helps, but she desires him. desires him enough to take action, to release the shackles of her political body and engage in her carnal body, with an appetite that is almost reductive in theory, aligning her with something base. this pleasure inherently causes her pain, yet still, she craves it - without morality.

and through her perception of those around her - her friends, her acquaintances, her own husband - she distinguishes this moral experience as shameful. but, in that shame, she still does not surrender her carnal body. her apetite is awakened, unable for her to be returned to its normal, thoughtful state. at war, now, with herself and her desires, laura is conflicted and ruined, simply because she learned to love and to desire, a violence an ordinary housewife should never experience.

#the cutest anons!#this was literally so much longer than it really needed to be #but i hope you understand now why that quote is literally so painful #why its one of the most quoted lines in film history #there are still so many layers to this #i didnt even talk about concerto no 2 and the agitation of the score #the violent swell and laura enacts violence against her heart #and her heart enacts violence against her mind #youre right anonie that its violent because shes already married #but the context of the film and the moral propriety of post-war england #makes that line an earthquake :(#Anonymous

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perpetualcontrolleddrowning · 3 years

Text

JonMartin and Breekon & Hope are meant as relationship parallels

*Conspiracy theorist voice* I’m about to break this whole thing wide open

Ya girl’s been relistening to tma for the third time and started to notice some strong parallels between Breekon and Hope and JonMartin that make me think I might have picked up on some foreshadowing for the end of the podcast.

Talking about the formation of Breekon and Hope’s relationship:

Breekon: We started in a plague. Not like the nasty crawlers, but like bringing any other doom.

Breekon: Two strangers rolling towards them, unstoppable and uncertain, wearing faces they would only half-remember, bringing a fate they would beg their god to forget. They could not hate us, anymore than they could hate the rock that falls on them from a crumbling cliff.

This is very similar to how Jon talks about the journey they are currently on.

Jon: Yes. (brief pause) Yes, sort of, we’re – (exhale) I don’t know how to phrase it, we’re – something between a pilgrim and a moth. We can walk through these little worlds of terror, watching them. Separate, and untouched.

Jon: Healthy? I am an Avatar of voyeuristic terror, who unquestioned craving for knowledge has condemned the entire world to an eternity of torment; healthy i-isn’t – i,it’s not –

Both relationships start out with two people traveling from terrible place to terrible place, causing much of the fear themselves. The journey itself is described really similarly too:

Breekon: The journey was magnificent. No waiting, no searching for a delivery. Every moment moved us towards, towards the completion of the task and the culmination of our charge’s terror.

Jon: You could see that tower from anywhere on Earth. And it can see you. And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in between.

So, two couples with two similar beginnings to their relationships and similar journeys. Also, Jon views Martin much in the same way that Breekon viewed Hope.

Breekon: ‘S not right, on my own. Not right. No point in doing it on my own. Don’t know what happens now. (pause) Thought I might kill you. Missed my chance.

Breekon: We failed, but I have at least that comfort. I am without him now. I am. I can feel myself fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver.

Breekon: it’s lost on it’s own, no partner, no - purpose

Jon: W-Without trust. W-Without a reason. Gertrude needed both the purpose her mission gave her and the control her position allowed. To be here, like us, without a – a reason, without someone to ground her? She – She’d have power, but – no control. No real purpose. Perhaps she’d have dedicated herself to a d,doomed quest like us but – (quieter, contemplative) No. I think this would have broken her. And she’d have resigned herself to – ruling her domain.

Jon: Yes, Martin, you are my reason.

Here are the things that we know for sure:

Both relationships started through a journey throughout a terrible environment

Both relationships have individuals who caused serious harm and terror, contributing to the world in an actively malicious way rather than just watching

Both Jon and Breekon see their partner as their purpose/reason/motivation

Johnny and Alex have confirmed that “no one is going to be okay” and that tma is a tragedy/horror

So, assuming that Breekon and Hope are meant to parallel JonMartin, we can look at the end of Breekon and Hope as foreshadowing of what is going to happen to JonMartin.

I think that Martin is going to die before Jon does, leading to some clear parallels with Breekon:

Breekon: Maybe if we were complete, we could’ve done something, but as is… No. Can’t say I want this to be my forever. Besides, it hurts all the time. The Eye won’t ever stop watching, and [sigh] it ain’t great for an anonymous thing like us… like me

Moving into these quotes, I like to think that Breekon sees Jon as the all-powerful being that made all of this happen, while Jon sees Elias the same way.

Breekon: The way I figure, you’re the one that made all this. So if anyone can end it, you can. Can you do it?

Jon: Ceaseless Watcher, gaze upon this thing, this lost and broken splinter of fear. Take what is left of it as your own and leave no trace of it behind

In the same way that Breekon came to Jon to end it all, I think that the series is going to end with Jon confronting Elias, maybe stopping the apocalypse, but peacefully dying in the process.

tl;dr: The parallel between Breekon and Hope and JonMartin means that Johnny is going to make me suffer while I watch Martin die and Jon mourn his death before he dies stopping the eyepocalypse.

#tma #jonmartin #breekon and hope #the magnust archives #meta #foreshadowing is a bitch #jonathan sims #martin blackwood

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punkcupcakestyles · 5 years

Text

Love Song

Part 8

“And what happens when I fall in love with you, Harry?”

“If one of us is gonna fall in love, it’s gonna be me.”

Catch Up!

BTW: I gotta say a big huge thank you to @for-fucks-sake-h for this one

I didn't want to do this. I wanted to go home, and maybe hide under my bed. That was all I wanted to do.

Fuck.

I wasn't in the mood.

"Sorry," I whispered after what it felt like an eternity of silence, Harry looking at me patiently from the door. "S'not your fault. I was the one that said yes to this stupid thing.”

His jaw clenched just a bit. It was hard to miss, the hinge of it popping out of his already structured faces. That was a thing about him: He was so sharp around the edges, it was almost impossible for him not to cut deep.

"Want out?" He asked simply, but just that was enough to make my stomach drop.

Such a good question: Did I want out? I probably should.

"That's Midge's decision," I replied softly. It was easier to say than the turmoil of words that flooded my mind.

"That's bullshit." My eyes met his, and at that moment I couldn't decide if his smile was sour or sweet, if he was being sarcastic, or he was mad cause I wasn't saying what he wanted me to say. I didn't know him at all. For a brief moment, I felt the urge to fix that. To take back my words, and make him smile just like he did in the morning, and find out every little detail there was to know about him. Did he wash his hair with warm water? Did he put sugar in his coffee? I didn’t know that.

"Think whatever you want, Harry," I shrugged instead, forcing myself to get up from the bed. "I need to get ready, I have a busy day."

He didn't move, looking at me as I made my way to the bathroom. I could feel the energy of the room prickling on the tips of my fingers, running through my body with each step closer. It was suffocating.

And I almost made it safe and sound into the bathroom. But his fingers wrapped around my wrist as I walked by him, pulling me back softly as he did so.

And I knew he meant no harm. I knew. I still couldn’t help the panic that exploded in my chest, and that put me on high alert. Quickly, I scanned the room, looking for ways out: the window was a no go, we were on the 7th floor. He was blocking the door, and something told me he was a lot stronger than he looked.

I was full-on panicking, the air stuck in my throat. It felt like an elephant had decided to sit on my chest and I was pinned to the floor. I couldn't get up, or think, or breathe, just sink to the floor. It felt like the world was burning and I was standing in the middle of it, fully aware that I needed to run, and unable to do so. Useless as always.

“S…” Harry whispered as if he were talking to a wounded animal, afraid that it might launch into attack if he wasn't careful. I peered back at him he released my wrist and put his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

He had noticed the fear that was prickling on my skin, there was no doubt about it, and he was making himself smaller to calm me down. I had seen my mom do the same a bunch of times before. Only I was not a ball of fire, spitting danger around me just for the fun of it.

He had nothing to be afraid of.

And he knew that much, cause he smiled, patiently waiting until I turned fully around to look at him.

“Are you ok?” He asked.

I wasn't. I felt tired and dizzy. All of the energy that had electrified me seconds before was now draining out of me.

“Yeah…” I said in a voice that didn't feel like my own. It was hoarse and soft like I could burst into tears at any moment now.

He took a step closer and his shoulders relaxed visibly as I looked at him in the eyes. Soon, his cold fingers were on my clammy neck, and his thumb was caressing my cheek. I smiled at the touch and closed my eyes as I allowed myself to lean closer to him.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“S’okay. It’s a bad habit of mine,” I said in the same low voice, worried that if I spoke up, I would cry. I let him pull me closer until my forehead was resting on his chest and he was all I could feel. His fingers drew soft circles on my back, as I meekly let my hands wrap around his waist. Every little touch sent a new shiver down my spine, excitement bubbling in my tummy as if my own body knew what was coming, and simply couldn't wait any longer. “You smell nice," I mumbled as I nuzzled my nose against his skin, taking him in for just a little longer.

A moment of silence took over the room, and I found myself wishing I could take all of it back, that I hadn't said a single thing, and just let it be. It was all going so well.

"Want out, S?" Harry's words rumbled in his chest, sweet and alluring, and oh, how good it felt to hear him. “You can tell me, I’ll even take the blame.”

"Harry...don't."

"S..."

"Don't." I finally untangled myself from him, taking a step back to look at him. “Please, don't do this. I really can't risk it."

"Do what? Risk what?" He asked, his voice getting louder.

"Everything!! I have everything to lose and you don't understand! You come here thinking this is all a fucking game. But it's not, Harry, not to me."

"So let's end this, Sofia."

"No!" I bit my bottom lip as it rolled into my mouth and gazed up at him. The whole world was blurred at the edges, and all I could see was him, all I could sense and care about. The only problem was that nothing else made sense. "Please..." I begged.

The world slowed down and I could see everything playing out in slow motion. We were right at the part of the movie where the protagonist remembers the biggest tragedy of her life.

Harry's jaw clenched, but if he had anything to say, he chose not to. He took a few steps away from me and left, even when I could feel the uncertainty that was eating him up.

For a couple of seconds, I couldn't move. My knees were too weak and my mind was too fuzzy to attempt to do so, so I stayed put, balling my fist tightly and blinking the tears away. It was all I could do not to crumble to the insidious feeling making a home of my tummy.

***

A tragedy: Due to bad weather conditions, my crew had been delayed in LAX and was just now getting to New York.

An even bigger tragedy: I might have to do my own hair for national TV.

It was honestly hard to care.

Diana kept pacing around the room as she gave me instructions on how to behave during the interview: “smile”, “look at the public when telling a story”, “be relatable: no one wants to know you owned a pony...Or a yacht.” Ordering me around was her way to calm herself down.

I had already done my makeup. I had learned a few tricks along the way on how to make my eyes look bigger and enhance the natural plumpness of my lips. I knew that if I put a tiny bit of blush on my nose I’d look more lively and that my eyebrows looked way better if they were kind of bushy and thick.

It also gave me something to do, the opportunity to distract myself from the stupid sadness that had sunk in my chest. Cause Harry wasn’t there, and some part of me wanted him to be. I was expecting to see him when I arrived at the studio, with his smirk and careless attitude, leaning onto a wall while he chatted with someone. I was craving to see him, actually, and for him to take my hand when he realized I was a nervous mess, just like he had done when we were on the plane to New York. But it wasn't like I could blame him for choosing not to see me.

“You ok? They’re about to get here, you’ll make it just fine,” Diana assured me right after she checked the time one last time.

“Yeap.”

“You sure?”

“Yeap...where’s Harry? I figured he’d be here.” I tried to sound casual like I didn’t care. I tried to hide the fact that I felt like a balloon that had just been punctured a tiny little hole, and was deflating slowly.

“He...uh, he is back to work. He wanted me to let you know that he’s going to go on a bit of a tour, traveling around the world to show his friends his new album before releasing it. He just...decided to do it a bit earlier.”

“Oh.”

“He will go to London, Tokyo, Paris, Rome, everywhere, really, but he will allow us to use his image to feed the press about your relationship if that’s what you want.”

“Oh,” I repeated, like the idiot I was.

“And he also wants you to know you’re welcome to join him in any city you want. Your choice. He was very adamant that you get to decide. Not me, not Midge, but you."

“Oh…”

“You’re going on a tv show, Sofia. I need you to start saying actual words,” Diana snapped at me, and I let the corners of my mouth twitch, offering her a quick and sour smile before walking away as they called my name.

The show was about to start.

I didn’t even get to fixing my hair.

***

“So, the game’s pretty simple,” Jimmy Fallon smiled at me as we both stood in front of a line of shots. “I ask you a question and you can either answer it or take the shot.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound dangerous at all.”

“Just a warning, though. We’ve heard you hate the taste of pineapple, so one of these is a pina colada. And we’ve heard you’re allergic to peppermint, so we’ve made you a mojito. Let’s do this! First question for a chocolate martini: you can choose any guy in the world to spend the rest of your life, or you can spend one night with Rihanna. Which one you choose?”

“Rihanna. Can I still have the martini?”

“Sure. Second question for the pina colada…”

“Shit. That is strong!”

“I told you so. Second question: bang, marry, kill: Noah Centineo, which rumor has it will be your love interest in your next movie; Jacob Elordi, who you were pretty heavy with during your last movie; and Harry Styles, cause he’s Harry Styles and I like him.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna have that drink…”

***

New York, with its hectic schedules and the endless string of public outings, was finally over and I was back home.

I much rather be in L.A., and all of its chaos, endless meetings with Diana and Midge revising screenplays and projects, long hours spent on hair and make-up, and even longer days in photoshoots. It didn’t matter, cause I was home, and I could lie in bed with my mom when she got back from the hospital, and bake with Cat and watch movies with Sam.

One thing was the same, though: No Harry.

It had been two weeks since I last saw him, that awful morning in New York, and he hadn’t texted, called or talked to me since then, not even a stupid message through Diana.

It was starting to be painful.

Fuck.

“Honey, you’re not being very useful,” my mom smiled at me, pushing an onion my way, so I would dice it. It was the first task she had given me since I sat down to watch her cook, and I sighed sorrowfully before I put myself to work.

My mom cooked when she was happy. When we were growing up, and Cat was just a baby, she would cook every day, she baked cookies, and made pasta from scratch, or curry for dinner. My favorite was the Khao Soi, a soup recipe she learned back when she lived in Thailand for a couple of months before she married my dad. My mom was adventurous and happy when she was young, and it was hard to even imagine how she turned into the shy and reserved adult she was.

I would come back from school and run to the kitchen to help her, even if it meant just stopping Cat from getting things into her mouth. I loved the smell in the air and the fact that she would allow me to eat the cookie dough, or taste the sauces. We would sing and laugh, and I never noticed the fact that she was always wearing long-sleeved shirts, even during the hottest days of summer, or how sometimes she covered a side of her face with her long hair.

Ignorance was blissful.

She was in a good mood today, it was Sam’s birthday, and we were making Rigatoni Alla Harry, his favorite dish. I was pretty sure he had asked for it just to spite me, so he could make a funny face every time he mentioned the name of the dish, which he did, constantly and unnecessarily.

I had offered him whatever he could want: a quick trip to Paris? He got it; to party until he couldn’t remember his name? I would’ve paid for it in a heartbeat; a fancy watch with his name engraved on it? I couldn’t even imagine why he would want that for, but I would’ve bought it. Instead, he chose to spend the day in and to cook his own dinner with my mom. He couldn’t get any better.

I was only halfway through the onion when my phone started to buzz on the counter. I looked up and realized my mom was already giving me an exasperated look. “We already had this discussion, Sofia. Family time is sacred”, her voice rang in the back of my mind. I smiled apologetically and quickly picked it up before she would actually say the words.

It was Diana, texting me from her trip back home, where she was visiting her parents. I wasn’t the only one having trouble with boundaries.

I think it’s time for us to make a little trip.

Btw, I loved your outfit yesterday.

Her text came with a link to a magazine, one of those gossipy ones that I hated so much. For a second, I hesitated. I didn’t want to know what was being told. Most often than not, it was bullshit, but it still messed with my head.

I finally opened it, closing my eyes as a rush of anxiety ran through my veins. What could I had possibly done? I couldn’t think of a single thing, I was the most boring person on earth.

I shouldn’t have.

LOVE IS IN THE AIR

Spotted: Harry Styles and Camille Rowe having a fun night out in London, with a few friends. The on-and-off couple looked cozy while having dinner, with Styles' arm draped around the beautiful model for most of the night. According to sources, he’s beyond happy to be back with his muse for his long-awaited second album.

Who’s not so happy about this recent development? Well, that would be Hollywood darling Sofia Walsh-De La Rosa, who was dating Styles up until very recently. The actress is said to be heartbroken…

The actress felt...empty.

I knew I should’ve been pissed, but it was hard when there was a void where my heart was supposed to be. And intense sadness that had nothing to hold on to, so it was expanding everywhere else.

I felt sick.

My fingers kept scrolling through the article without really reading the words. I only stopped when I realized there was a photo posted. They were so beautiful, both of them, that it was hard to look away anyway. He was gorgeous, almost painfully so, and I could feel a fluttering feeling in my chest as I looked at him. He was walking out of the restaurant, frowning and looking down at the floor, while she was behind him, almost hiding from the camera. They made a fucking beautiful couple, there was no denying it. No wonder he still wanted her.

Get ready. I’ll get back tomorrow. We’re leaving in the afternoon.

***

It wasn’t my choice. It was never going to be.

We got to London in the early afternoon, and it was raining, so we went straight into the car, a black SVU with tinted windows. Tired as I was, I closed my eyes and fell asleep on D’s shoulder, while she checked her email on her phone and muttered quick reminders to herself.

I didn’t even notice when we arrived at our destination, a tall, black building with reflective glass in downtown London. It didn’t have a name on it, but it looked modern and expensive and Diana rushed to it, trying to avoid the rain that was starting to pour down. I followed her inside, squealing as my foot fell into a puddle of water and my white converse got soaked.

I looked rattled, to say the least. Diana hadn’t allowed me to go to the hotel first, so I tried to rake my fingers through my hair, so it wouldn’t get puffy because of the rain. I also shifted on my feet, already uncomfortable by my wet shoe.

The old man sitting by the reception desk didn’t bat an eye when he saw us. He looked at me from head to toe disapprovingly, and with a sigh, he let us in. It was almost as if he was used to seeing people walking around looking like crazy.

The building was some sort of artists’ studio, with paintings and graffitis all over the walls. It was exactly the kind of place where you would expect to have a sudden stroke of genius.

I followed Diana into the elevator and we remained in awkward silence as we went up to the 7th floor. I was about to ask her where the hell were we when the bell rang, and the doors opened to a floor full of recording booths.

It wasn’t until that moment when my half-asleep brain caught up with the fact that we were in Harry’s territory. And I was about to see him. We walked down the hallway to the very last booth. From the looks of it, it was the biggest one and the only one with a key card door. Diana knocked on it and my heart picked up the pace as I heard the steps coming.

Music was playing in the room when Jeff opened the door and he looked at us in surprise, as if he couldn’t possibly remember he had guests over. He blinked a few times, right before his eyes traveled from Diana to me, and he stepped aside to let us in.

“Harry’s in the back,” he murmured when I walked in. I nodded and went straight to the semi-open door in the back of the room.

It was where music was coming from, a soft ballad sang in a slow, chocolatey way. It was alluring and sexy in a way I couldn’t describe. I couldn’t put a name to the feeling that bubbled in my tummy at the sound of it.

Harry didn’t notice when I walked into the room, not for a while anyway. He was wearing a blue sweater and dark blue jeans, and his hair was a bit shorter than I remembered it. He was focused on the music, frowning lightly as he moved his head to the rhythm of it.

“I like the song,” I said after a while, calling for his attention as he still hadn’t noticed my arrival. Harry was already smiling when he turned around and I felt like a billion butterflies were fluttering in my tummy at the sight of him.

“Hey,” was all he said, but it was enough to ignite a spark in my chest.

“Hi. It’s really good.”

“Makes you wanna fuck the singer?” He asked, and I had to hold my breath as I watched him take a couple of steps closer and lean over me to close the door behind me. It was just the two of us now, no Jeff or Diana to listen to us. “It’s kind of what I’m going for.”

“I wouldn’t know, I have a boyfriend,” I whispered in response. There was no need to speak up, he was so close, I could feel his breath, and the tickles of the ghost of his lips on mine.

“Oh, then does it make you wanna fuck your boyfriend?” he smirked, dimples showing on his cheeks as he kissed me.

Neither of us was in any rush. His hands traveled to my waist, as the weight of his body pushed me back to the door, trapping me there while his tongue grazed my bottom lip. I sighed, giving in to the kiss as my knees started to tremble.

It almost felt like he missed me, the taste of my lips and the shape of my body was making up for the lost time. He explored my mouth and allowed me to suck on his lips, the pressure of his fingers growing as he pulled me closer.

I forgot what I was there for, forgot about the photo and the gossip and the fact that he was back with his ex. I only cared about his kiss and the way he was holding me.

His nose bumped against mine when he broke the kiss and a shy smile spread on his lips, looking at me as his fingers pressed lightly to my neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t.”

“Too bad, cause I kinda missed you.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” I smiled softly at him. “I think you’ve been doing just fine without me.”

“S.” My name came out of his lips like an annoyed grunt, followed by an exasperated sigh. “I didn’t get back with her.”

“You don’t owe me any kind of explanation, H.”

“I do!” He urged. “And I need you to believe me: I didn’t get back with her and I didn’t fuck or kiss her or anything. I’ve been a fucking saint since that morning.”

“Why do you need me to believe you?”

“I have no fucking idea, S. I just need you to. I need you to trust me.”

“I trust you.”

“Good.” His smile was bright and sincere and a little bit relieved. And it took a lot of effort not to kiss him again.

“You don’t have to be a saint, though,” I blurted out when his back was already facing me and he was looking for his phone on the control table. “That’s not what this is about.”

“I know,” he smiled in response.

“Maybe we shouldn’t kiss anymore,” I forced myself to continue, now that I had the strength in me. “Not when we’re alone.”

“We’ve had this conversation before, babe.”

“Yes, and we keep ignoring it.” And because of it, my heart imploded when I saw a photo of him with another woman. “So maybe we shouldn’t do that anymore.”

“Are you scared you might fall in love with me?” He asked rather cockily.

“I’ve seen what love does to people, H, so ‘terrified’ would be a better word to use,” I said to his surprise. “I think I should go take a shower. I’ll be at the hotel.”

I wasn’t expecting him to take my hand, or to look at me like a lost child that wasn’t so sure about what he was going to do next.

“Don’t go to a hotel, S. Stay with me.”

“H…”

“Just tonight. You can sleep at your hotel tomorrow.”

“Why?” I chuckled.

“It’ll be nice to spend some time with you, just us. I’ll bet we’re gonna have to do a lot of things just for show these days. I’ll be good,” he promised.

How could I say no?

***

His bed was soft.

I was supposed to be taking a shower. Harry had left me in his room so I could have some privacy, but I kept staring at his bed, soft and warm, as it called my name.

Just 10 minutes.

I stripped down to my underwear, letting my clothes pool down on the floor, and sat down on the bed, letting out a relieved sigh, before I lay down and got myself under the covers. I was hoping that Harry was one of those guys that believe women take ages to get ready, and he would let me be. All I needed was 5 minutes. Maybe 10.

I didn’t know how long I had slept, but I knew I was hot and that maybe it was time for me to get up. I didn’t want to, though. Maybe if I stayed in bed for 5 more minutes, I could continue sleeping. So I pushed the covers down to my waist, so the cold air could freshen up my skin and I turned the pillow to the cool side of it, letting myself slip away until I fell asleep one more time.

The dipping of the bed woke me up, and I opened my eyes to find that Harry was already staring at me. He was right next to me and had changed to a pair of black joggers and a rattled blue shirt, a far cry from the Gucci model the world knew him to be. He smiled at me, and I was sure I had smiled back, although I wasn’t too sure.

“What time is it?” I heard myself ask, my voice pasty and hoarse.

“Almost midnight.”

“Mmmmmm.”

I closed my eyes and nuzzled myself against the pillow, ready to go back to sleep. It was then when I felt it, a sharp feeling on my shoulder, followed by Harry’s playful laugh.

I sat up and turned to him, only to see him bite back his stupid smile. He looked guiltily at me for a second, before he let his eyes wander down to my body, noticing only now that I was in my underwear. His eyes quickly flew back to mine and I could notice the slight flush on his cheeks.

“Did you just bite me?” I asked, and even if I wanted to sound mad, I couldn’t help but smile at him.

“You were the one to tell me I shouldn’t kiss you anymore,” he shrugged off in response.

“If you’re gonna go around biting me, I would rather you kiss me instead.”

“You sure? You keep changing your mind.”

“No biting, Harry,” I refused to answer his question. Maybe cause I didn’t know the answer to it. But all I got from him was a shit-eating grin.

“We’ll talk about biting later...let’s go back to that kiss.”

“Harry…”

“I have a counterproposal,” he smirked softly. I realize I could smell his perfume, soft and breezy, and I could feel the warmth of his body as he scooted closer to me. Sleep was slowly fading away and I was all too aware of the loud beating of my heart.

“What?” I would say yes to anything he asked.

“Let’s have fun. No rules.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s a lot safer than just...not doing what we really want.”

“And what do you really want, H?”

“Right now? You. I want you, S.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Technically you are my girlfriend, babe.”

“And what happens when I fall in love with you, Harry?”

“If one of us is gonna fall in love, it’s gonna be me,” he snorted. “Don’t worry about that.”

“How do we...start this?” I asked, his eyes falling on mine as he offered me a mischievous smile.

“It already started, baby.”

“Then what do we do?”

“How about a shower?” He asked and I gulped down just at the thought. It was a lot to think about, his wet body, his kisses, the fact that we both would be naked. It was a lot.

“Let’s do that,” I smiled.

_________

#Harry Styles #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry smut #harry writing #harry styles writing #harry fanfic #writing #hs #Hi #I know you might have forgotten about this #but it's here #come and talk to me!

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riviae · 5 years

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I love Regis' and Geralt's friendship with all my heart, but then I remember that Regis will outlive him and most of his other friends. Is anyone else thinking about this or is it just me?

oh anon, you’ve got a storm coming because i am /always/ thinking about this:

—

Mourning does not come naturally to their species, that much Regis knows. Nothing is lost forever. Only the truly ancient vampires, the ones old enough to recall a time before the Conjunction of Spheres, know what loss is.

Or so it goes for most higher vampires. But Regis has never quite been an ordinary higher vampire.

As a youth, he chose to ignore the parts of himself that yearned for genuine connection. He made a reputation as a rabble-rouser, someone good at creating superficial ties between vampires who didn’t quite fit in–they were the lonely ones, the wild ones, the ones who took to drinking in excess, pouring drinks in favor of talking about anything important at all. The superfluous charm he had as a storyteller, a vampire whose drunken escapades were revered and shunned in equal measure, made it so he always had someone, some company to entertain. He was never alone with his thoughts so he never had to face the consequences of his actions, the families he destroyed, the ugly addiction that made him irritable and callous when sober.

And then he died–or came as close as he could to death. Dismembered and buried under layers upon layer of dirt, all he had to pass the decades of slow healing was his mind. His memories repeated over and over behind his eyes an innumerable amount of times. Burned villages. Empty bassinets covered in blood. Laughter–his own, he knew it had to be his own, but it sounded unfamiliar. Foreign. As if his sense of self had been neatly cleaved in half. There was the monster that he was before his regeneration, and then there was the monstrous man who took its place. Not a monster–not anymore, but perhaps still the relic of one. A relic of monstrosity learning to be a person, something not quite human, but as close as his distinct biological structure allowed.

In the years that followed he felt the burden of his prior choices, allowed them to age him, to steal the dark from his hair, to mark his face with lines and age-spots. The first step to being something human, he surmised, was to age. So he did. It suited him, Regis thought, to wear a different appearance after his regeneration. One that more easily brought to mind that of a kindly barber-surgeon.

He traveled the continent for centuries, acting as a barber-surgeon on the battlefield (because there was always a war somewhere, wasn’t there? bloodshed somewhere. a constant reminder of what he denied himself floating through the air, as sweet as honeysuckle, as pungent as copper.) and a door-to-door physician at whatever village he chose to settle down in as winter took hold once more. Regis preferred to travel the human way, using a donkey that he always gave a rather obvious name to, and he would not lose a good animal because of frozen roads and waist-deep snow.

It was during the particularly long and chilling winters that Regis felt the cold sting of loss. Humans could die in so many horrifically tragic ways. He had helped bury babies and mothers and young children and young couples and elderly widows and everything in between. But in the winter, it was as if Death walked amongst them, pacing the doors of the young and old with equal ferocity. First, the livestock died. Then, as the snow continued to fall, as the ice grew more solid and insidious, the weeks turning into months, food storages dwindled. People grew hungry. Disease spread. And Regis could do nothing but act as a comforting hand, a gentle voice in the dark once the tallow ran out, nothing to make candles from. There was no cure for hunger or cold in those days, not when there weren’t any animals around for miles, when Regis spent most of his waking hours at dying people’s bedsides, watching as the life trickled out of them, heard their heartbeats slow and slow until everything grew silent. He thought he might grow mad–so many deaths in so little time, people he had joked and played cards with in the fall, whose homes he had been invited into with the promise of a hot meal and stimulating conversation, were now cold and dead, gone to a place he could not follow.

And then, just when he thought he had enough of it all–humans die so quickly; why did he think it was worth it? this pain? this bone-deep ache when they inevitably took their last shuddering breath? his penance was never abstaining from blood; it was this wellspring of grief he felt at every severed connection, every life cut short in a world that damn well seemed devoted to inflicting as much agony as it could before finally pulling them into a shallow grave–he met Geralt and his company.

He knew he shouldn’t get close. He could taste their deaths in the air–knew that they would likely be gruesome, drawn-out events. Deaths that would never leave him, not entirely. He knew that if he lingered, allowed himself and his damnable curiosity to take hold, he would never be able to leave. A logical vampire, one that traipsed through society in the shadows, who only formed bonds with other vampires, would have let Geralt and his company get drunk on mandrake moonshine and leave them there in his home amongst the ruins of the elven graveyard. He had thought about doing that. Saw their pink, dozing faces, saw how easy it would be to lull Geralt into a deep, dreamless sleep.

(He also saw how easy it was to love them. Geralt and the brilliant mind he hid underneath a facade of indifference and stoicism. Milva and her golden heart–so strong, so lovely, so dedicated to living life as free as a red kite, a bird of prey. Dandelion’s passion for art, for music, for all the beautiful things that humans could make–a scholar, a romantic, and a loyal friend, this much was obvious to Regis.)

That was why he left Dillingen, wasn’t it? Not because of the encroaching war (though the thick scent of blood nowadays only made his spine curl in revulsion as he associated the scent with loss, his days of playing the demon long behind him). But because he was tired. He wanted solitude. Peace. A time to heal. A time to devote to his studies. A silence not gifted by death.

But if Regis had what would eventually be called a fatal flaw, it was this: from the beginning he had been drawn to humans in a way most vampires were not. He hadn’t known it in his youth, so blood-drunk and warm, so far gone out of his faculties, that he would have been just as satisfied with a night-long conversation with any of the charming humans he encountered then a goblet of their blood, or their body sprawled in his lap, drinking his fill and more.

He hadn’t really ever seen humans as beneath him–even when he killed them. Their deaths were just an unfortunate price to pay for their sweet, addicting blood. Something he had not been able to stop drinking until his head was severed from his neck.

Now, knowing that he would likely lose his new company much too soon, Regis joined in their journey to rescue Geralt’s daughter. He wanted to do something good. He wanted to make friends, to have people to share stories with, to eat with, to doze with in front of a small campfire. A sense of belonging, even if brief, was better than centuries of living in the dark, cold and alone. He’d brave anything for that warmth.

Or so he thought.

—

He had survived the hansa’s death at Stygga–it had taken blood and time and the hope that, at the very least, Geralt and Yennefer had survived, had saved Cirilla, and made a home for themselves somewhere. And for once, fate was kind to him. He reunited happily with Geralt and Yennefer, and Cirilla, now a young witcheress, no longer bound by the destiny in her blood. He had even gotten to see Dandelion and Zoltan again, his visits to the Chameleon his favorite holidays away from Beauclair.

In fact, the years after the events in Beauclair, after tempering Dettlaff’s fragile state into something that could, one day, trust humanity again, were the most peaceful years of Regis’ life. Beauclair was a warm, wine-drunk place, almost as if out of a fairytale. It made him complacent. Lax. Lulled into a sweet daydream.

Regis had forgotten that he wasn’t living in a fairytale. It was what made the tragedy all the more painful.

He was here now, in front of a single gravestone.

There were a string of lilacs surrounding the grave, as well as a wooden sword, the size a small child might wield. Regis placed his own offering: the last bottle of moonshine they had shared together.

The vampire surveyed the graveyard, looked at the cloud of ravens that had flocked to him in his grief, their dark, questioning eyes boring into his prone figure as they perched in the pines above. Regis waved them away with a hand. He did not want the company. Not now. Perhaps never again.

He felt his bones creak as he moved to sit behind the gravestone, leaning his back against it. If he focused hard enough, he could almost pretend that it was him, not a cold slab of rock.

“Hello, Geralt,” Regis says, knees curled up against his chest, fingers toying with the strap of his satchel.

He was met with silence–not that he expected anything else.

“I’m… I’m not sure if I believe in an afterlife,” he starts, because what else was there to say? Geralt was dead–it would always be a one-sided conversation now. For eternity. “But I hope there is one. Wouldn’t that be grand? You could see everyone again. Milva, Cahir… even dear Angouleme.”

The last name drove another achingly sharp stake into his heart. “So young, they were all so young. I failed you all then. At Stygga. I couldn’t keep them safe. I’m immortal and I can’t even keep one human safe.” A weak chuckle escapes him.

What was the point of power if you couldn’t use it to protect those you cared for? It was a sad thought–how they should have all been at their safest with him beside them; but they had died as he flew across the battlefield, their deaths part of what sent him into a whirlwind of rage when he spotted Vilgefortz. Why he had gone for the mage’s eyes instead of his throat–he had wanted Vilgefortz to suffer. To feel even a passing inkling of the pain Regis had felt as he flew to protect Geralt and Yennefer from the mage’s wrath.

The memory only increased the pain. “Wherever you are–or aren’t–know this, my dearest friend: you are so deeply loved. You thought yourself a monster, well, here is the truth. You had a monster weep for you. I miss you, already. It’s only been a few days, but time moves so slowly. I sometimes think of coming to Corvo Bianco, to sit out on the porch with you and Yennefer like before. She’d be pretending to read a book, you would be sharpening a blade–or perhaps attempting to write a letter to Cirilla. I would be regaling you both with some tale or another. You’d sigh that familiar sort of fond sigh that means ‘Regis, I wish you’d shut up already,’ while Yennefer would try to hide her smile behind the pages of her book. And then, just as it started to grow dark, the sun making its slow descent below the horizon, Marlene would call us all inside for dinner. I wish I hadn’t taken those days for granted. If only I had known just how little time we’d get. Years, yes, may seem long to some–but for me, it was like the blink of an eye.”

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the approaching hooves. Didn’t hear as the rider swung off their horse, their footfalls growing louder and louder as they drew closer to him.

“Regis…” a voice called to him sweetly, their tone achingly gentle. It reminded him of how he spoke to patients on their deathbed, when they had but only a few moments and he comforted them as best as he could.

(”It’s safe now. You can rest. That’s it, I’ll be right beside you. Close your eyes, my dear. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”)

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” Regis replies, hollow. He would cry, if he had the strength to. If it were possible to cry anymore than he did after seeing Geralt’s lifeless body at his crypt door. Still, it was almost a selfish thing to say; no one important to Geralt got to say goodbye. He regretted saying the words immediately.

“I know.” Cirilla crouches down beside him, their knees knocking together as she mimics his position. If she is offended, she doesn’t show it. Her green eyes are lidded with grief, their usual bright spark dulled by a death none of them expected. But when was death every expected, really? Even the old expected to wake the next morning from their sleep.

“I wish I had. If I could go back in time–if I could have stopped him from taking that contract…” he trails, biting at his lip.

Ciri shakes her head sadly. “There’s no point in thinking like that, Regis. You couldn’t have known what would happen. You can’t blame yourself.”

“But I can. Did you know that when I woke up that morning, I had the oddest sense of dread? I couldn’t shake it at all. And then the sun was setting and I was feeling relieved because nothing bad had happened. Then, just as I smiled to myself, I heard the thud outside. The sound of Geralt falling in front of my door.”

“That still doesn’t change the truth. You are not to blame. No one is,” she paused, voice going soft again. “Regis, I know what you did. I saw his body before it was burned.”

The vampire’s gaze fell to the ground. “Then you know that I failed him–both as a friend and as a barber-surgeon. He could have survived if I had been just a few moments earlier. He was still warm. If I had gotten a raven to alert Yennefer faster, if I hadn’t spent precious moments in a state of panic over the sight of him, then… then perhaps… perhaps he’d be here. Sitting with us. Not laying in the dirt below us.”

(Ciri had seen it–the extent at which Regis had tried to bring Geralt back to life. The way he had performed chest compressions again and again, creating a series of post-mortem bruises across the man’s otherwise pale skin. How he had then tried to massage the heart into beating, to coax out a rhythm as he reached into the exposed chest cavity. How he had no human blood on hand to replace the blood Geralt had lost so he ripped open his own veins, pouring his own blood into the witcher’s mouth from his wrist.)

Regis startles at her touch, at the gentle hand covering his own. This was the first time he could ever recall being comforted. His occupation as barber-surgeon usually had him taking on the role–but here Cirilla was, mourning her father, and she had chosen to carve out her time into comforting a centuries-old vampire.

“Regis, it’s alright. We know you did all you could. We’re not upset with you. And I know Geralt isn’t upset with you either. Although, he’d probably be upset to see you moping by his grave so much.”

Regis laughs and it almost sounds happy. “You are certainly right about that.”

They are silent, for awhile. Regis listens to the sound of the leaves skirting over the ground, he listens to Cirilla’s heartbeat, its steady rhythm a balm of sorts. Geralt was gone. He wasn’t going to come back. But he still lived on, in a way. In the bonds he forged. The family he chose. In the way Cirilla stood up abruptly, dusting off dirt from her trousers, sporting a familiar grin, one hand offered to him.

“Now, come on. I came to invite you to dinner at Corvo Bianco. Yennefer will be upset if I come back empty-handed. And, Regis… you’re allowed to grieve with us. We’re a family. It wouldn’t be right for you to grieve alone. Not when we’re all still here.”

Regis, smiling, takes her hand and lets himself be lead back home. The ache in his heart is dulled, somewhat, and for now, it is enough. It has to be.

#Anonymous #emiel regis #geralt of rivia #the hansa #[me: i'm not emotional]#[also me: sobs while typing]#tw death #tw blood #tw medical #also i meant to tag ciri but just realized i didn't ughhh #cirilla fiona elen riannon #wow this is like the angstiest thing i've written in years??

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occult-castiel · 4 years

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Secret Santa gift for @fallenoriath! Hope you enjoy it, this was my first time trying to write these two, hope I did it some amount of justice! Title: Pillow Talk

Word count: 4842

Characters: Gabriel, Beelzebub, Aziraphale, Crowley, Micheal

Summary: Beelzebub and Gabriel disagree about when things started

Gabriel's fingers ghosted across Beezbub's exposed skin in the early morning light. It was warm, like always. Their heat seeped into him every time they went to bed together, every time their skin brushed. It was always almost like a shock, their flame-charged essence.

Maybe it had something to do with the fall.

Either way, it was something Gabriel found out slowly and quickly, and was reinforced every morning when he cracked his eyes open, staring at the room that shouldn’t be, in the apartment that shouldn’t be, all on the planet that definitely, completely shouldn’t be.

A trifecta was appropriate. But that was the only proper thing about having a Lord of Hell tucked under his arm, burning away and soundly asleep.

Cuddling. A corner of his mind provided, quite dryly.

"How the fuck did this happen."

It wasn't a question, he had a habit of not asking too many of those, unless it was on the backend of an accusation at someone clearly not doing their job. But Beelzebub groaned.

Beelzebub flipped themselves over, and more of their smooth, unnaturally warm skin pressed against Gabriel's.

He almost shuttered.

"Does it matter?"

He frowned and picked at their unruly black runaway hairs, and hummed in disapproval. "Probably the Fall. I was glad everyone else was gone."

He could remember that very clearly. One minute, he was in a conversation with what used to be Beelzebub, the next, half of Heaven was missing.

They had been beautiful, stunning as an Angel. Not much was different, except for a white robe a subtle heavenly glow, and hair that flowed down in perfect locks of a black that put creation to shame

And their eyes-- their eyes were like two shimmering blueberries. The Angel was up for a briefing, they were to be the patron of the moon, a new promotion that would put at almost equal levels of power. Almost.

"Asariel," Garbiel smiled as the Angel took their seat. "Good to see you."

He’d been on edge, most of the day. Still a hard monolith of a man, he stood straight and held his head high.

But a new scream echoing down the now baren Halls of Heaven was enough to leave a crack or two. Enough, after a few hundred, to all sound the same. Almost like it was one long, uninterrupted.

When the Angel walked in, crestfallen face on display, he figured they must feel the same.

But all the falling really was for the best, so he smiled. Business as usual. “I have good news for you!”

The pulled out a chair across from Gabrial at his always immaculate desk.

“Isn’t anything good about today.”

He ignored the tightness in his throat. “SIlver lining, then.”

A new scream sounded from behind the door. Asariel’s face tightened. They were glaring at their clenched hands.

His own shoulders slumped. “It’s for the best.”

Their gaze snapped up, and fire was shot at him in their deep blue eyes. “Lying doesn’t suit you, Gabriel.”

He scoffed, visibly taken aback. “I am not—”

All the color drained from the Angel’s face, their eyes froze to the icy, lifeless color it would stay for the rest of eternity as a scream was ripped out of them.

It didn’t take long for the fire to consume them.

Gabriel sat there in silence, staring at the soot-stained spot where the Angel once was.

Beezlebub laid still, their breathing all but stopped.

“That doesn’t count.”

“All I’m saying is— “

“It doesn’t count.” They eyed up at them, there was an edge to it, and pinched upon look. “If you want something that early, then it was when we met.”

“When I assigned— “

They let out an irritated huff of air. “No, Sodom if we’re going that far back.”

Sodom was a city of sand. It seeps, stuck, and whisked in every direction under the pale moonlight. The pillars were lined with it, homes drenched in it, and Beezlebubs shoes were full of it as they trailed two Angels across the dimly lit city— two they were all too familiar with from before.

Eventually, they parted ways, Sandolphone taking refuge in some humans house, and Gabriel ventured off to a nearby pub. Wine had recently been refined again, and the human wasted no time in sharing the fruits.

The little building was bursting with people, all chattering, drinking. Ripe for a bit of tempting, bit that never was Beelzebubs primary objective in any situation.

They beelined for Gabriel. An untouched cup of wine sat in front of him.

Quietly, over his shoulder, they whispered, "What's a little angel like you doing in a place like this?"

Every muscle in his body stiffened. "Asariel."

They yanked a fistful of his hair back, forcing his inhuman eyes on them.

"Do I look like that person?"

"Vaguely," Gabriel said, a weariness in his voice.

"I have half a mind to discorporate you." They released his hair.

"Well, it'd be pointless. What's done is done." He rubbed his scalp. "This place is all going to salt and sand soon."

A spark of rage shot threw them and they grit their teeth. "You Angel's are ruining my work again."

He shrugged. "Ineffable plan. Divine work. One day you'll get their souls."

He looked tired. Not necessarily sad, but like the humans do, when they've decided sleeping could be put off for a day or two.

It'd be easy, to make good on the threat. But he'd looked tired that day too.

So instead, they left. What was done is done, and they weren't interested in fighting two Archangels today.

“I was there for decades.”

“Tsk.” he rolled his eyes. “It was disgusting. The place was full of rapists.”

“Yeah, and your lot isn’t? If I recall right, the girls you spared raped their father that very night.”

“Look, that wasn’t my policy decision, okay?”

“This is the problem with you Angels. You all have superiority complexes.”

“Whatever. The point is, that wasn’t it.”

They glared, and shocked a finger into his chest. "If you're suggesting it was at that wenches implantation, I'll douse you in Hellfire myself."

The sky was black, a deep, unrelenting blackness that only came from the depths of nothing itself.

Which, honestly, should’ve been the first clue.

In the distance stood a small shack. A faint orange glow whispered through the shabby little windows.

The whole house looked run down and muddy, but everything on the planet did. But the son of God was meant to be born into humility, so Gabriel just shrugged it off and briskly walked towards it.

The place smelled. And the silly tunic itched horrendously. The heat of the Earth was nothing like the constant chill of Heaven, and it made the tunic, already uncomfortable, cling to his skin.

He had no idea why the Metatron was so insistent he couldn’t just have Aziraphale tell Mary about the child. It’d been ages since Eden.

A mass of black moved near the corner. Gabriel jerked to a stop.

He cleared his throat.

Nothing.

He lifted a hand. Golden streaks of yellow cracked over his skin. Heavenly light seeped from them. “Come out now, or be killed. Your choice, demon.”

There was a huff, and suddenly, a familiar voice behind him. “I’m not some demon, Archangel.”

He swiveled around, more of his corporal skin cracking to golden light as he sneered.

"Of course it's you." His hand dropped, and the light died down. A deep breath filled his chest. "Now, why are you here?”

They balled their fists. "Why am I here? Why do you think I'm here?!"

"There's nothing you can do about it."

"Oh?" A hoard of flies popped up around them, buzzing, flying erratically. "You're wrong. Your lot loves free will, yeah? Well if Shes going to come be one of them for a while, wants to experience it or whatever, then I have the free will to kill the mother here and now."

Gabriel threw his hands in the air. "And what? I'm supposed to let you? Not happening"

"Just give me a reason. How is this fair to the plan?"

"The humans are supposed to kill him. It's good for both sides."

"I don't care." Their hair raised, and floated as unnaturally as their tunic. A subtle black mist pooled at their feet "If She wants to come here, She should do it Herzzzelf."

"So you want Her to pay, yeah?"

"More."

"Okay," Gabriel started, "Deep breaths. If you want any kind of vengeance, this kid needs to be born, end of story. Then your," he winced, "corrupting will do something."

"You already destroyed the work I put into that," they snapped.

"Look, what if I tell you the next time something like this is happening? Keep the plan in motion and any, uh, spite aside."

They crossed their arms. "I'm listening."

"Had to have been that. Besides, you're the one who skipped over the Tower."

Beelzebub pressed themself impossibly closer, and they painted Gabriels exposed skin with small pecks, each warm press as skin-meltingly warm as they last. His hand tightened around their waste.

“The tower was a tragedy,” they breathed across the exposed skin of his neck. He shivered, just a bit.

“And attempted murder isn’t?”

“Perspective.”

Their lips pressed together, and, like every time, it felt like diving into a warm pool of water. Gabriel’s entire body relaxed into it, turned to mush.

A hand like fire trailed across their back, pulling them in. Gabriel’s hair was always sickeningly soft, Beelzebub took every chance possible to grab it, twist it, make it messy. Their fingers trailed up his side, over his chest, and grazed through ever perfectly placed strand, and pulled.

A thought occurred to them, and they pulled away.

“Did I ever tell you,” they said over Gabriel’s protesting, “That Michael came to Hell?”

He stilled, “after she was attacked?”

“Attacked,” they rolled their eyes, “Is an overstatement.”

Ligur, in his infinite stupidity, got into a tiff with an Angel, which Gabriel had called them into a meeting for not an hour earlier.

Gabriel’s hands were clasped tightly in front of him. He tilted on the back of his heels every few breaths, eyes shifting up and down the impossibly long staircase.

"So. Michael was attacked."

Beelzebub eyed him. Nervous fuck. "I don't care if an Angel gets hurt."

He glared. "It was one of your people that did it!"

"And we're at war," they said as they turned to leave.

Gabriel's hand snapped out to grab their wrist. The warmth of the steely grip burned. Beelzebub ripped their hand away and glared.

"Hey! You don't have to be defensive!"

A flash of anger dashed through their veins. It didn't show.

"Better defensive than nervous."

His face twisted into a picture of indignity. "I am not nervous." But his eyes still shifted.

As a rule, Angel's were liars, and not worth an ounce of loyalty. Not that their subordinates were any better, but no one was trying to lie about it. Lying, throwing things away, that was Heaven's business.

Loyalty was dead in Hell, it went down screaming in the Fall. That was the point of it all.

Of course, it was an Archangel Ligur pissed off. Of course, it was Michael.

"It's her fault for trusting a demon."

He rolled his eyes. "Michael doesn't trust demons. She was attacked. In cold blood."

"She set up a backchannel. The demon didn't like the deal."

"Don't be ridiculous. This," he motioned between them, "is a fluke."

Of course Gabriel thought he was the only one with backchannel.

Idiot.

They both left without resolving anything, but Beelzebub’s newfound frustration at the situation got him an unrelated punishment.

Seeing the affronted Archangel in question was a surprise, though.

Michael, in all her glorious, white, crispness, crossed her arms in front of Beelzebub. Her gaze was ice but her posture slouched.

"You aren't doing anything to him."

Beezlebub stared. It was sort of a sight, some creature of Heaven bothering to sully themselves by venturing into the basement. They'd been in contact with Gabriel for a few hundred years and neither of them ventured to the other side.

After a few beats of silence, Michael continued on in a puff. "You do realise he attacked me?"

They almost smiled. "I don't take orders from Angels."

Her hand balled into fists. "We had an agreement!"

"My fault you made a bad deal, then?"

She sneered and turned to leave, but hesitated at the hallway entrance. They raised an eyebrow.

“We could have an agreement instead. An exchange of information, little help if needed.”

They felt something at that. A creeping sense of nausea, but something.

Gabriel was an idiot, probably a liar. But he wasn’t slimy. “No.”

She huffed. “What? Do you already have one?”

“And why would I tell the enemy that?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Because, I hear everything first, and I probably have some troubling news about your best field agent.”

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Even if they said yes, the words already sounded like lies. Beelzebub knew everything they needed to, regardless of if Crowley, they assumed, had done anything he ought to have not. Heaven really overemphasized the apple bit.

Gabriel was a liar too, but not like the others he’d seen. He lied to protect an image or save his own ass

“Get out of my sight.”

And she did.

Gabriel pushed Beelzebub off of him, albeit softly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Just did, didn’t I?”

He huffed. “It would’ve been good to know my associates were— were—”

“Associating?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Either way, at least I actually chose something when that bloody Angel popped in, not just some circumstance.”

“Oh if mine aren’t good enough, do I need to remind you I came to Hell too?”

“Because you were out of options.”

“Because I wanted your help.”

Gabriel had been the most cross being in all of existence, after. Everyone had backchannels. His primary earthly agent was a traitor. Humanity, in all of its stupid bumbling, remained. As did the irritation.

Barely a week passed before Gabriel, for the first time ever, entered Hell, and very publicly requested Beelzebubs presence.

Each ding on the elevator down, each floor passed, was another memory ticking by. His hands clasped themselves in front of him like steel, very unsteady, almost fidgety, steel.

This was the best option. Beelzebub understood. Beelzebub had helped him on a few occasions, he knew them from before. Certainly, they must understand each other a bit by now. Maybe.

The doors opened. He took a deep breath and stepped into Hell, the corporate end, anyway.

Several demons coward, a few hissed, as he pushed his way past them to the short walk to the throne. No need for this little meeting to be a secret when everyone was doing it anyway, it seemed.

If they were phased, it didn’t show. A single eyebrow raised, their arms crossed, and a little frown was notched into place like it was sculpted there.

“What brings you to my domain, Archangel?” They said in a bored, uninterested tone.

And this was it, wasn’t it? All the Angels in Heaven, a whole Holy army at his disposal, and he crawls to Hell before saying a word, except for putting in a leave of absence.

“I want your help.”

A faint smirk twitched into, and just as quickly flickered out of existence. “I’m listening.”

“Tsk, you knew Angels would be useless here—”

“— You say that like we’ve done anything—”

“But this place,” they motioned around the room, “that’s… notable.”

It took about a week for both of them to decide that a base of operations was a good idea. So they took residence in a flat across the street from the demons. Somewhere to be while they kept watch. It was large and sleek, full of deep brown wood and dark walls and counters. Unassuming and empty, aside from what little furniture the place came with.

“Mn, no. This place was useful. But, we were tailing them on dates. So, maybe that?”

Gabriel glared at a plate of food.

The lightening of the place was dim. It was mostly grey, with little splashes of yellow and green in pieces of artwork hung sparsely about. Every plate was about ten times as expensive as it ought to be.

Gabriel’s plate had what appeared to be a pile of expensive goop on it. In the corner of Beezelbub's eye, they could see the traitorous little Angel devouring it.

“What is this atrocity?” The Archangel shuttered.

Beelzebub studied their own plate, a mirror of Gabriel’s own. They decidedly snatched a fork, stabbed the grey, slimy glob, and swallowed it whole.

Oysters, the menu called them. More like a mistake. They felt them crawl down their throat the whole way down. “Disgusting is what it is. Now eat it.”

He huffed. “I am not putting that in my body.”

“You wear clothes, don’t you?” They stabbed another. “It’s about fitting in. Not that you’d know much about that.”

“We’re watching them, not playing human.”

They shrugged. “Not much of a difference. Unless you have an early exit strategy. Eat up, Archangel.”

He plucked a fork up, and proceeded to swirl the atrocity around his plate. “And I have no idea what you’re talking about. I can fit in just fine. Archangels are the epitome of perfection.”

Beelzebub huffed a laugh. Gabriel shot a glare. “We’re Her chosen Angels. Not that you’d know much about that.”

They took another bite, and washed the thin coating of slime down with a swig of wine. “Then prove it. Play human. Unless you can’t, Because,” they stabbed another piece, “I can.”

He shoved three on a fork. “Anything a demon can do, someone of my stature can do better.”

The oysters disappearing into his mouth, and he almost choked. Unfortunately, two coughs later and he was fine.

“I’m getting these reclassified as a deadly sin.”

They took a sip of wine. It was sweet, not nearly as bad. “Sins are liberating. Humans enjoy them if they’re the kind we get.”

“Well look at that shameless display!” He motioned wildly to their good for nothing underling and the angel, who was still thoroughly enjoying the meal. “If he likes it, it can’t be holy. Aziraphale is backwards.”

“Hell could take him. Maybe holy water would work then.”

He looked disgusted. “And what? We take the demon?” He laughed. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” They pushed his untouched glass of wine towards him. “Try the wine.”

Tentatively, he plucked the glass up and swirled it in the cup. The red liquid almost spilled over as he examined it, nose up.

Eventually, he took a sip. And then another.

“Hm.” He gave the cup another swirl. “Not bad.”

A few weeks of tailing the two from one restaurant to the next, and a wine rack appeared in the apartment’s living room. When Beelzebub looked at it in question, Gabriel just shrugged.

They even got a bit drunk, a few times.

Dust plastered every available surface. It wasn’t something they had to deal with in the etherial plane, so they didn’t deal with it. Little pitters of rain thumped against the windows, the sole reason they were in the apartment for more than roughly a half-hour. Gabriel couldn’t be bothered to get his hair wet.

Ridiculous.

It took Beelzebub almost no time at all to suggest actually drinking some of the wine that was also collecting dust, and that was all the convincing it took.

Three bottles later and Beelzebub sat in a lone chair, scrunched in on themself, wine glass in hand. Gabriel was slung about on the couch. By all means, the wine should’ve been in a puddle on the floor, or the coach, or on his suit.

But Beelzebub figured the liquid must know what was best for it, so it mostly stayed in place, decidedly not spilling. Though the thought of him being that frivolous with miracles was amusing.

“It’s— It’s holy, Beez—”

“Do not call me that.”

He rolled his eyes, and flung into a proper sitting position, however uncoordinated.

“Fine. But the wine, it’s holy. How aren’t you burning alive?” He sounded bewildered

They tsked and took a sip. Warmth radiated from their cheeks, had been for a while now, but it was a comfortable thing, nothing like what they’d seen of holy water. Certainly nothing like the fire of falling.

“People sin with it far more often.”

His face scrunched. “Not as often as they use it in communion.”

“You’re wrong. It’s one of the easier tickets to Hell.”

He hesitated, staring at the glass of liquid like it might burst into fire. They sighed.

"Good for blending in though, hm?"

He glanced at the cup, then at them, then at the cup again.

They tried a toast. "To blending in."

He drank, albeit wearily.

But not so much the time after that, or any subsequent.

Other outings happened too, they trailed them to museums, parks, a particularly messy child’s birthday party once.

“I did enjoy the tempting of it, never got out much after the Biblical days.”

“It was not a temptation.”

They snickered. “Just like the whole scarf thing wasn’t flirting, hm?”

Gabriel blushed. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Sure.”

“I hate this… whatever it is.”

Gabriel pipped up, almost bounced in place. “Hey! I know this one! The humans call it Fall.”

They clicked their tongue. “Falling was scorching. Not,” they motioned to Gabriel’s scarf, annoyed that they even needed such a silly, frilly thing. It was bulky and white and only drew attention. “whatever the Heaven that is.”

“It’s fashionable. And if you think food is the only way to fit in, you’re wrong. You don’t even have a jacket.”

“I’ll just be noticed, then.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re unbelievable.” And, before Beezelbub had a word in protest wise, his silly, stupid scarf wrapped around their neck in a swift motion.

Its warmth radiated down their neck and yanked a slew of goosebumps to their skin. An odd sensation, one you would never get in the depths of Hell.

Gabriel sneered. “Better?”

They didn’t answer.

Gabriel chuckled. “You looked so embarrassed then.”

Beelzebub was on top of him in an instant, and whispered into his ear, “Need I remind you who started this?” They motioned vaguely to the bed.

“That was only because you’d said how amazing sleeping was—”

“— So I tempted you— “

“No, I chose you, consciously, after we saw those two dimwits sucking face. No temptation.”

December came, and the traitors were still going out for a nice little walks in the snow-dusted paths of Saint James Park. It was dark and cold, and the human’s inefficient lights barely glowed orange enough to properly light anything, but it was enough.

Enough to see how Aziraphale clung to the creature. To see the way he clung back with an arm over his shoulder.

They weren't often close enough to make out words, but tonight they were lucky when the two stopped under the bandstand.

"You look cold," the demon said.

"Well, tis the season, my dear."

And then, very carefully, Aziraphale let the demon kiss him.

"Better?" He sounded so smug. Aziraphale yanked him back down.

And they didn't explode. Like they should’ve.

Beelzebub shivered.

When they got back to the apartment, Gabriel saw it with frightening clarity. The records were strewn about, the bottle of nail polish on the dresser. Tailor-made clothes were thrown neatly in a hamper.

They had shampoo. There was food in stock.

Beezlebub pushed past him and grumbled they were going to sleep and to keep it the fuck down. Since they watched movies humans made on a tv humans enjoyed.

A wave of dizziness struck him. He barely heard the slamming of the bedroom door. It all looked big and empty, but still too small, too full of something intangible.

They were native. Both of them. They'd gone native.

Just like their two uncooperative field agents.

For the first time, Gabriel really imagined.

God, he was stupid

“You did this.”

They paused at the door. “Did what?”

“You,” he huffed out a breath in disbelief. “You tempted me.”

Beelzebub’s face scrunched. “What the Heaven are you on about?”

He motioned wildly. “This is all an indulgence!”

“You,” they snapped, “Invited me here. Your idea.”

Anger churned in his blood, a white-hot fury. “To punish them! Not play human!”

They crossed their arms. “And have you figured out a way to do that yet?”

“No, that’s not the point—” he groaned, and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m leaving” he called over his shoulder, the door already shut before Beelzebub would say a word.

The dinners, the music, the clothes, and the rituals. It wasn’t bad, and the traitors did it all together. Seemed to like it so much more together.

For the first time, Gabriel imagined. Really imagined.

What if he’d done this alone? If Beezelbub had laughed in his face when he asked them to go to earth? What if Aziraphale got the Mary assignment after all?

He saw Aziraphale and Crowley under the bandstand again in his head, but instead, Beezelbub was under his arm, clung to his side, and after seeing them kiss, he'd turn to the side, look down at the little hellspawn and—

Aziraphale’s bookshop stared him in the face. How long had his… fraternizing been going on? Why had it been going on?

Months later and he still didn’t get it.

He only had to pound three times before the stuffy little Angel answered the door.The door rushed out the tantalizing heat from within, the shop reeked of sugar and dust. And brimstone. But he was mostly nose blind to that. Mostly.

“I’m sorry but we’re very closed— Oh, Gabriel.”

His eyes bulged like little saucers, any haughtiness from the failed execution wiped out.

“Aziraphale.”

“I, ah,” his eyes shifted towards the cave of books, a dark and yellow cavern full of dust Gabriel had never been the keenest on being inside of. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon”

He smelled the demon before he saw him saunter around a corner, inspecting a wine bottle. “Hey, angel, when did you get— What the Heaven are you doing here, Archangel?”

The demon was next to Aziraphale in an instant, his open hand clutching the doorframe, the other behind the Angel. His yellow slits were blown wide.

He sneered, “I didn’t come here to talk to you— “

“Well then, best get to leaving then.”

He ignored him, and focused his attention on Aziraphale, “You’ve got him trained so well.”

His face pinched, a look of disgust crossed his face. “Trained?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Now, if we can get on with it, all I have is one question."

"Very well," Aziraphale patted his clothes.

"No, Aziraphale, this psycho has been tailing us for weeks, you don’t owe him anything!"

A bout of annoyance flared inside of him. "See?" He motioned towards him, "this is why I don't consort with demons."

The demon sniffed the air. "Yeah. Sure smells like you don't."

"Crowley that's quite enough, if he’s here for a question it's best to answer it and move on." The demon honest to God pouted.

Gabriel sneered at him.

"But not if you're going to be rude as well, Gabriel. What is it you need?"

"How did this," he motioned vaguely between the two of them, "Happen?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"If you cooperate, I'll," he heaves a sigh and shook his head, "personally insure Heaven and Hell leave you both alone."

Aziraphale bit his lip and glanced at his disgusting demon boyfriend, who, after a moment sighed and said, "Sure, go for it. Whatever."

"Oh, well that's quite a long story. Unless you'd like it abridged? Or just the bit about Armageddon?"

His insides coiled, but this was for the best.

"The beginning."

He hummed, "Well, that starts at The Beginning, so you may want to come inside."

Several hours later, he left with a bit of bike in his throat and a bottle of wine from the early 19th century, apparently, an important part of the process was alcohol. "Extraordinary amount of alcohol."

Beelzebub laughed. "I was wondering where you got that."

"So you see, no temptation."

"Mm," they pressed themselves into his side, skin warm and flush. "Should fix that. Tempt you to some breakfast around the corner? Need to pay my old subordinate a visit."

"You do?"

"Yeah. Someone's got to let him know that wine tasted like shit."

He snorted and agreed. It was on okay breakfast, and miraculously enough their old employees were indeed there, and weren't the happiest to see them, but, as with most things, a bit of misery thrown in that wasn't exactly his, made things a bit more fun.

#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #GoodOmensSecretSanta

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madewithonerib · 4 years

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Don’t Wait to Be Done with Sin | April 16, 2020

What Mercy Says in Calamity

When they told JESUS about the horror that had happened, HIS response caught them completely off guard.

Pontius Pilate, from what we know from the Gospels & the Jewish historian Josephus, was a politically & morally pragmatic Roman governor willing to employ humiliation & brutality when he wanted to exert imperial authority over a fomenting rebellion.

He did both when he ordered the assassination of some Galilean Jews while they were offering sacrifices in the temple according to the law of Moses.

We aren’t told the historical reason behind the killings.

Perhaps these particular Galileans had engaged in some seditious act against Rome, or perhaps they happened to be in the right place at the wrong time when Pilate decided to send a general message of terror to the agitating Jewish people.

What we are told is Pilate had the Galileans’ “blood... . . . mingled with their sacrifices.”

This added the insult of religious defilement to the horror of the murders, ensuring whatever message he was sending would spread throughout Palestine with the speed of fear & outrage [Luke 13:1].

We’re also told when JESUS received the news, HE completely ignored whatever message Pilate was sending.

And HIS answer to the people’s theological question as to why this happened likely shocked HIS hearers almost as much as it shocks us today.

Unexpected Message

JESUS’s response was brief & blunt:

Do you think that these Galileans were worse sinners than all the other Galileans, because they suffered in this way? No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish. [Luke 13:2–3]

What JESUS didn’t say was shocking.

HE said nothing about a messianic deliverance of GOD’s people from the humiliating Roman oppression & the grievous Gentile occupation of the Promised Land.

HE said nothing about the offense to GOD’s glory in the temple’s defilement.

HE said nothing about specific sins the Galileans may have committed to warrant GOD’s allowing such ignominious deaths — nothing that might allay HIS hearers’ fears that such a horror could befall them.

HE didn’t even say anything about forgiving one’s enemies.

What JESUS did say was even more shocking: the Galileans’ tragedy should lead HIS hearers to repent before GOD.

The fact that they were still alive was owing not to their goodness, but to GOD’s mercy.

Before these hearers had time to formulate questions or objections, JESUS drove HIS point home with a different example:

Or those 18 on whom the tower in Siloam fell & killed them: do you think they were worse offenders than all the others who lived in Jerusalem?

No, I tell you; but unless you repent, you will all likewise perish. [Luke 13:4–5]

In both the premeditated murder of the Galileans & in the accidental deaths resulting from the tower’s collapse, JESUS wanted HIS hearers to hear an urgent message from GOD:

REPENT.

Why This Suffering?

The people listening to JESUS that day were looking for an answer that all people of all eras look for:

Why this suffering?

Why this evil, & why did it befall these victims?

What can I do to escape from it befalling me?

We know, not only from this text in Luke 13:1-5 but from numerous places in Scripture, that many held to a theology of suffering that drew direct lines from an individual’s specific suffering to a specific sin against GOD.

We hear it in Job’s anguished spiritual wrestlings & centuries later in the disciples’ question about why a man was born blind [John 9:1–3].

The answer JESUS gave accomplished, in one stroke, a number of crucial theological corrections.

It removed unwarranted social stigma from victims of such calamities & their families by emphasizing that their guilt wasn’t necessarily worse than anyone else’s.

It undercut anyone’s errant belief that their current lack of suffering amounts to GOD’s endorsement of their righteousness.

And most importantly, it revealed the sin-guilt of every person before GOD.**

‘Unless You Repent’

That last point was JESUS’s main point, the urgent message HE wanted the people to hear in the headline-news tragedies of the day.

Whether perishing came through the agency of evil human volition [Pilate], or the various effects of futility-infused creation [falling tower], or, as HE would address just a few verses later, the effects of evil spiritual oppression [Luke 13:10-17]

— for JESUS, the primary issue was the perishing itself, not its agent.

The primary issue wasn’t how people died, but that people died, & death’s eternal ramifications.

That’s the problem JESUS had come to address.

The collective human problem is that “all we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned — every one — to their own way,”

& JESUS had come to have “the iniquity of us all” laid on HIM [Isaiah 53:6].

The wages of our sin is a death far more profound than the ceasing of life in our bodies, & JESUS had come to provide us GOD’s “free gift of eternal life” [Romans 6:23].

HE hadn’t come to deliver the Jews from Rome’s temporal oppression, but to

deliver all people everywhere who would believe in HIM from eternal perishing, & to give them everlasting life in a Promised Land

of which the Israel of this age was but a copy & shadow [John 3:16].

And this is why JESUS responded to the news of the Galileans’ deaths with the shocking words “unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.”

It may sound harsh.

But there are moments when seemingly harsh words are great mercies, as every parent of a young child about to dash into the street knows.

JESUS’s hearers didn’t need to know the specific guilt of the Galileans or Pilate’s political motivations or any other secondary issue.

They needed to know if they still had breath, the offer of forgiveness for sin & escape from terrible perishing was still offered to them

— if they would repent.

And the same is true for us today.

Judge with Right Judgment

JESUS is not simplistic when it comes to the agonies of human suffering.

Reading through the Gospels, we see that “repent” is not the only way HE responds to our afflictions.

HE responded with manifest compassion & kindness to many, such as:

a mother about to bury her son [Luke 7:11–15],

a leper who longed for healing [Matthew 8:1–4], &

a man paralyzed for 38 years who thought he’d never walk again [John 5:1–17].

But JESUS said something during the controversy erupting from that last example that we can apply here.

Having healed the paralyzed man on the Sabbath, HE was rebuked & opposed by the Jewish leaders.

HIS response to them was, “Do not judge by appearances, but judge with right judgment” [John 7:24].

In other words, the leaders & observers had not seen the most important reality in the man’s suffering & deliverance: the mercy of GOD & the offer of repentance [John 5:14].

When we examine our own suffering or someone else’s, we are often tempted to ask why.

What did we or they do to deserve this?

Or we may try to decipher GOD’s purposes in a Gordian knot of secondary causes.

But this is far above our creaturely pay grade, for GOD’s purposes are often opposite of our perceptions.

Instead, the most helpful truth to hear, & heed, might be JESUS’s words “Do not judge by appearances, but judge with right judgment.”

Headline in Every Tragedy

We are called to respond to the myriad human suffering in the world in many ways.

But one takes precedence above them all.

As with HIS original hearers, the urgent message JESUS wants all of us to hear in the headline-news tragedies of our day is

“unless you repent, you will all likewise perish.”

These are shocking words to hear in the face of suffering.

They catch us off guard, because they are answering a question most people are not asking.

But coming from JESUS, especially hearing them this side of the cross, we know they are not the heartless ravings of a hateful prophet.

No one loved like JESUS [John 15:13].

Rather, they are the mercifully frank diagnosis of the Good Physician, who offers to bear our eternally terminal disease HIMSELF

if we will repent & receive HIS free gift of eternally healthy life.

Jon Bloom [@Bloom_Jon] serves as author, board chair, & co-founder of Desiring GOD. He is author of three books, Not by Sight, Things Not Seen, & Don’t Follow Your Heart. He & his wife have five children & make their home in the Twin Cities.

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finestcreation · 5 years

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Titan

@goddess-mothra liked this post for a starter

Life is beautiful, Satan knows this for a fact.

Long ago he was once happy in Heaven. An angel created to be just as powerful as a God. An angel capable of powers beyond comprehension. Not that he ever knew that. His six pairs of wings were a sign of his divine capabilities. Yet he was so benign, so innocent, so incredibly pure that he never knew it until finally he had grown spiteful. Angels are not loving, they are not caring, they are cruel to their own kind and are jealous of the life created. If he had a coin for every time he ran to his room in the Palace of Heaven and trembled in terror of his own kind, he’d be wealthy beyond belief up in Heaven. If only he knew the strength he possessed... Something that came to his knowledge when he finally ran away. He was a young angel, merely a child when he found the demons living among the dinosaurs. They were so beautiful, so hellbent on survival, they never killed their young and they never thought that life was too infinitesimal to be allowed the chance to survive. Demons respected life in a way that Lucifer grew to love. Here he made a home, learned the name of the planet, in accordance to demons, which was Terra. They worshiped him like a king, much to the angels dismay, and soon enough he integrated himself into their lives. A benign mother that cared for them as best he could.

After a while he heard stories of an extremely powerful being that was sealed away as a mere infant in the Triassic period... He was locked in a moon created from the petrified remains of those who dare try to remove him from it. However Lucifer was blessed, as such he could plunge deep into the maze of Amon’s Moon unaffected. He reached the beast, freed him, and showed him the same tender care that he showed the rest of demon kind. However... there was more here. Lucifer fell in love with Amon. He fell so deeply in love that he did something angels never do, that angels refuse to do-- he allowed the demon to take him to his bed. Married him in the way angels marry in Heaven, something that has only been recorded once. In the end the angel found themselves at risk for becoming and Irea, a mother, due to the unique physiology of angel kind. Their singular gender giving them the capabilities to both father and mother children, similar to many animals in the animal kingdom. It was an inevitability that the two of them, without their knowledge, would end up conceiving. But an angel’s body is frail. It’s no surprise that when angels began attacking and trying to get their golden seraphim to come home, in the throws of conflict, he’d loose the baby he was carrying. The baby that archangel Michael labeled a mere parasite. With the infant dead, a miscarriage born premature, Satan waged war against Heaven, finding his true strength in his feathers.

The Heavenly war was a blood bath, only brought to a close by the KT Disaster, with the demons defeated Michael struck a deal with God. Lucifer will be locked away to suffer an eternal nightmare upon Earth, he will repeat his tragedy over and over again with Amon, killing him repeatedly. However should he ever break free of the time loop, if he should ever learn to create a miracle and escape, than he will be free of Heaven and Michael’s torment. He will get the dimension known as Hell and he will be permitted free reign of the mortal realm. What Michael didn’t know was that God was aware of Lucifer’s true intention. His mere desire to protect demons, not to bring down Heaven and taint grace, as such he made a flaw in the punishment without Michael’s knowledge. A guarantee that Lucifer will escape. The flaw’s name was Akira Fudo, and he was to be a conduit for the love that Satan felt. Winning his affections would not be easy, but it was enough to give him a chance.

And a chance was all he needed.

~✧~✧~✧~✧~✧~✧~

Lucifer had escaped a long time ago, but he was all alone. He didn’t find any desire to truly stay on Earth when there was no life there. He would come back when life began to return, instead he had his own kingdom to run. Hell was a place that was infinitely larger than Heaven, something which shocked the angel as he wandered through the levels that Dante had predicted. The first time he stepped upon the quieted and empty landscape that was to be his kingdom, he felt a rush of inspiration alongside something else. Something more... knowing. He could feel everything that was happening here, almost as though the actions were being done to a phantom limb. Every turn of a stone, every gale of wind, he could feel it. Retreating deep into the center of Hell, Lucifer began to build up his kingdom. Demons began to appear from their energy forms in this world and began to aid him. Every demon who had ever existed, every beast that had ever lived in history came back in this world. The demon king recognized almost every single one of them. They built up the kingdom and then when they were finished with his palace, he gave them full reign of the world that would form all about them. Approaching his throne, he sat down upon it, giving demon kind strict orders. ‘Should you ever find Amon or Akira down here in Hell, you are not to harm them, you are to subdue them and bring them straight to me!’ He knew that eventually one of them would appear down here, but all the same he doubted it to a degree... Why would he ever be given that happiness.

On his throne he sat most of the days, the Earth was still in his periphery-- it always was. But all the same it was a distant place. If he doesn’t tune into the mindless drone of static, than he won’t notice any change. That was... until a major change began to occur. His head wings perked and he began to listen in to the sounds of the planet. Of the planet he had fought so hard to protect and ultimately destroyed. It was thriving with life again, that much he could make out but... what was this unique sound. A rumble of energy. Something larger than-- His mind cut itself off as he recognized the power. It was a deity of some sorts. Normally one would just ignore this but Satan has always been infamously curious. How do you catch the devil? By making him ask a question, by confusing him, and by satisfying his urge to learn about anything and everything. How many times have angels tied his wings due to his curiosity? Too many times he can count. They would make him wonder ‘what is that’, and then when he came to investigate, pin him and tie his wings so he cannot escape. It was a full proof method to get the ever curious and inquisitive (albeit mischievous) Lucifer to behave. “Jenny!? Sirene!?” The seraphim called out, the two appeared soon after, the fuzz ball and the demon bird. Both of which he had grown so attached to by this point. “I’m going to Earth, watch over Hell for me will you... Call to me if Akira or Amon is found.” With that he began to ready himself for his journey back to Terra.

~✧~✧~✧~✧~✧~✧~

Truly Earth has changed so much since his last time here. The planet has since gained a harden crust and has since bypassed the many epochs that he has grown to know as his brief time studying archaeology. It felt so long ago that he himself believed he was a human, almost like a bad dream. Part of that human still lived in him, but all the same Ryo Asuka felt like the name of someone that should be buried where he was born. But where he was born is the question to be asked... In the end that boy, Ryo, would never be buried. The pain that he felt was also Lucifer’s pain, and the pain the angel felt was also Ryo’s-- in the end they were both crybabies that fought for survival just like the demons they aligned with. For a while Satan watched humanity as they went about their lives. Wandering about, chattering and minding their own business. This was around the time the apocalypse happened for him wasn’t it? This era of life? This time of human history? Where there was peace, and yet knowledge that there was no possible way that the peace could last... Nuclear war would probably happen eventually, but that wasn’t Satan’s problem. What humans chose to do with the planet they roamed wasn’t his problem. He just watched from the background, heeding the call of demons and bringing them back to hell with him. They needn’t interfere in what caused them so much trouble in the first place. How he wished he could take this planet and mold it to something absolutely beautiful. But in the end, there was no way he could possibly do that.

He continued to follow the pulsating energy that he felt. A silent disturbance in the world he knew so well. If anyone knew Earth, it was probably Satan himself. He has spent eternity on this planet before he found Hell and after he was cast out of Heaven. As such he knew every nook and cranny of the planet. He knew when something wasn’t quite right. The fact he didn’t notice it sooner peeved him in fact. The feeling and energy brought him to an island... He didn’t remember this place. A phantom location that would, mathematically, make no sense to be here. But all the same it was here and he couldn’t refute what his eyes were telling him. Six pairs of wings gently guided him to the shore, he landed against moist sand with a soft ‘splsh’ as the draw of water brushed against his pale feet. Folding his wings close to him, he pushed onward in investigation. This place was thriving, he supposed due to the energy that radiated from some unknown place. Passing through the trees, past the foliage, eyes falling upon beautiful animals and insects, Satan followed the energy like a dog follows the smell of food. He was a blood hound on a mission, he wanted to satisfy the curiosity he held. The primal desire to know and be aware of all that was happening around him. He had heard stories of ‘titans’, creatures that were so close to God in power that they could be deities in their own right, often times however they were not conscious enough to realize the potential of their own power. Lucifer was considered a titan by angel kind, but as far as he knew him and Amon were the only ones left... If Amon still was alive that is. Perhaps this was someone, or something, else that fit into that category? With the ability to rewrite space and time, with the ability to distort reality should they choose. An eldritch monstrosity.

Soon enough he came to a place that he found to be the source of the energy. The creature he saw there made his blue eyes go wide, head wings drooping in shock as he stared in wonderment. What was he seeing? He wanted to take flight and return to Hell. Not because he was scared, but because it became obvious that this planet was no longer his to love and hold. To tend to and adore. Once again he felt the loss of a piece of himself. Somehow he felt benevolence in this creature towards the planet and its life. How long have they been on this planet? How long have they been here without his knowledge. He held no fear of them, didn’t believe that violence would ensue, but he did feel a sense of silent jealousy. Something that he would not admit to in the slightest. No, he would bury it and ignore it-- get on good terms with the creature that now protects the Earth and maybe, just maybe, you can still have a piece of it. He shouldn’t be selfish after all... He had Hell. But somehow his love for Earth and its beauty never died, even after all he’s been through. “So... you were what that energy was... What I heard from Hell...” He spoke aloud, not sure if the entity could understand him or not.

#goddessmothra #goddess-mothra #verse:post-awakening #terra's foreign miracle: mothra #thread:titan #tw #tw:war #tw:miscarrying #tw:miscarriage #miscarrying #miscarriage #war #tw:death #death

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tragedienes-archive · 5 years

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@fiinalgiirls,

astrid feels even more out of place in america than she did in jamestown, no matter how much freedom it’s afforded her. it depends from day-to-day whether or not she regrets the decision to leave. mostly, she’s happy she did. jamestown was predicated and propagated on a throne of her father’s lies, but at least she knew the rules of the game there. here she was a a woman removed from time–an anachronism, a naive anomaly. there was no power or prestige in being the daughter of james crone outside of the universe he’d created for himself. she wondered if he regarded her as a threat to him now–as he had surely considered her mother and brothers–or if, perhaps, he would if he found out about the documentary that was slated for releasing all the secrets she could divulge. if she even wanted to go back, would her father welcome her with open arms and offer her a loftier position to keep up his charades of an apocalyptic wasteland outside of their sweet city–a messiah who had walked the deserts with billowing gold hair for sixty days alone, only to return to them unscathed. or would he have her shot on sight and bury her in some unmarked grave where she would be doomed to an eternity of solitude with no one but her father and executioner to mourn her.

maybe lauren would see her as an ally, but she thought, perhaps, that he might see her like their father. that cornsilk haired boy had found himself a position of power of his own, had he not? still, she would have to tell him about her decision to tell her own story–as much as it was his as well–to the public. she didn’t know about the tabloids that had blasted his photo in the papers or how life had been for him once he’d left. she didn’t know a single thing about him save what his favorite toys were when they were growing up or that he had always been nice to her in a way that was different from how he spoke to the adults around them. that felt important. if nothing else, she could hold onto that and hope that, at least, someone else in their family wasn’t a monster.

“thank you.” she feels like the tone is awkwardly formal and wishes that they had more in common than tragedy and lies. she wonders if he thinks that she blames them for leaving her and, it’s true, she used to. it took years and years before she could understand that their mother had made a choice to save two and leave one just as she had made the choice to stay–even if their mother should’ve pulled her away kicking and screaming, she understands. “i left.” she tells him simply. it’s two words, but it speaks to so many more. she wasn’t forced out. jamestown didn’t fall. she made the choice to leave and here she is in lauren’s sterile living room to prove it. “he knows.” she tells him, feeling uncertain and out of place in her brother’s world. or, at least, if james crone didn’t know, he certainly does now. “at least, he must know.” cowardly, she thinks, just as before. she couldn’t leave and when she finally did it wasn’t in the brilliant rebellion she’s dreamed about on hot, sticky summer nights. no, she let some documentarian smuggle her out like fireworks or perishable fruit. it feels like such an awful confession to make to her brave brother, who seems to have lived so much more boldly than she.

it’s hard to reconcile the image he’s had in his head of astrid for years with the visage of the woman in front of him. it had been so long ago when they left, it’s sometimes hard to imagine what the compound is like these days, if it’s become more extreme or if it’s lessened as time has gone on. sometimes, it’s all he can think about. sometimes, his mind can only be occupied with thoughts of his childhood, of his family, the family. he escaped when he needed to, when his father’s godhood was destroyed and just before james’ adoring love for his first son twisted into absolute hatred, before the father could destroy the son, abraham and isaac before interruption. linda, her faith in james had dwindled in increments; perhaps she never had that much faith in her husband—enough to allow him to relocate their family to bolivia for a communist cause, but not enough to view him as a prophet in the end times. peter, sweet peter, did whatever was expected of him; meek, weak, he needed to leave the compound before his sweetness led him and tortured him into a loyal solider. james’ godhood had not been destroyed for astrid. she stayed because she loved her father, her god. who could blame her? well, lauren. lauren had blamed astrid for staying just as much as he blamed himself for leaving. he had to leave, but sometimes, in his sickest moments, he misses it. he misses his father.

it’s hard to realize the astrid in front of him is the astrid left behind, but he knows it is; despite the lack of pigtails and gingham, this is astrid crone. youngest sibling, only sister. she is blonde, thin, angular, much like himself. she, even in just these brief moments, calls to a hidden place, a place far off and dim from disuse, a place reserved only for the true crone children. since leaving the hospital, leaving for bristol then london and then finally washington, lauren seldom calls peter and peter seldom calls lauren; their mother calls them both, but lauren rarely picks up. despite the heady last name, despite the internet never forgetting anything, he’s almost quite... anonymous in washington. not truly, he’s prolific enough for the good work (or bad work, depending on your side of the issue) he does, but the city is full of heady, recognizable surnames. most may belong to fathers that are senators, governors, journalists, but they are names that carry just as much weight as his own does. even so, the origins of lauren crone are more of an interesting footnote than a reason for distrust or alienation. rarely is he confronted with his past, certainly not aggressively.

oh, his past is confronting him now, alright. might as well be screaming him in the face, though astrid’s voice is airy and quiet, much like it was when she was a child. i left. he knows. is it selfish of him, to have wondered for years how their father took his own leaving? that year in hospital, worrying james would arrive to take him back to hell disguised as paradiso, force him back to the compound by his shirt collar like he was still a little boy, caught red-handed spying on the nearby village. it seems it was all for naught; if astrid can simply just leave, did james not spiral with linda and his two sons suddenly no longer under his control? in his years of wondering, lauren had assumed his father went nuclear, locking down the compound even more than he had done increasingly over time, making sure no one would ever be able to slip past the fence ever again. never did it occur to him that his leaving meant nothing to james, like they were just some other wife and sons, not the original wife and first sons. lauren is vaguely aware of his own narcissism, but it didn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that he had mattered to his father. of course, nothing really mattered to james crone except himself, not even his family, trueborns or not.

his sister looks out of place among his professionally bought trinkets and furniture. she’s tanned, ethereally beautiful, lively in a place of crisp lines and artificial messiness. even the framed picture of his wife, estranged as they may be, sits in a three hundred dollar silver frame that’s been purposefully tarnished and marred, bought by some interior designer recommended to him by his employer’s own wife. she does not belong among the falseness. “oh, wow.” lauren says because he can’t think of anything else to say, filler in place of something that should be genuine; that concept does not exist in this apartment, nor lauren’s personal or professional life. “how... how did you get here? how did you get out, i mean?” and most importantly, “how did you find me?”

#fiinalgiirls #lauren crone › narrative.#( lauren. ) astrid.#cult mention tw #um... i'm plotting with kt and it inspired me to do this even tho i said i was going to bed #the muse was just too strong!!

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chogisad · 6 years

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A Prayer For the Storm, a Shot of Vodka For the Fire | PT. 1

SUMMARY: The night the tank room collapses, everything changes. Some are searching for forgiveness, and some are searching for each other.

GENRE: Angst. POWERS AU. (WARNING: Brief mention of character deaths.)

Length: 3K.

TRAILER HERE

------ PART ONE ------

Monday

Maracaibo is quiet for a Monday afternoon. The lights around the town begin to spring to life and Jongdae tells himself to enjoy the tranquility while it lasts. When summer starts, the streets will line with tourists and researchers, all hoping to experience Lake Maracaibo's "eternal storm."

On some days, Jongdae can see the lightning from his apartment's balcony. Its been months but every time, he becomes transfixed by the luminescent rays. They envelop the sky, over and over again, and on the bad days, when his own powers flare inside of him like thunder in the dead of night, they also help hide the way he loses control. On the bad days, when the electricity bursts out of him, Jongdae wishes he could be like Maracaibo; a sight to behold rather than terror and tragedy.

He walks the aging streets of his make-shift home. He's grateful for the Venezuelan color that helps him repress memories of ashen training rooms and botched simulations, of fires and flying, of telling Minseok to go on without him. It's all different here. It's quieter, so much that on the good days, Jongdae pretends he's safe. On the good days, Jongdae enjoys the persistent heat of Venezuela and forgets about how much he loved the frost of winter, and how beautiful Minseok looked with snow in his hair.

He finds a seat at one of the local bars and keeps his eyes down as he orders his drink.

"Quien estas tratando de olvidar?"

Jongdae stiffens at the sudden question, his heart clenching in cold fear. The glass is frozen midair as he gets caught under the gaze of the timeworn bartender, and Jongdae's vision blurs with panic.

"Estas tomando a las 7 de la tarde. Qual chica te daño?"

Jongdae almost cries with relief. The old man is simply making conversation, asking about the possible flame that broke his heart, rather than the stormy past he ran fast and far from. He smiles, hoping the other man did not register his overt alarm.

"La chica es la vida. Ya sabe como es," Jongdae replies, hoping he didn't trip over his gender pronouns too badly. The bartender nods solemnly but gives him an encouraging smile before placing another glass of whiskey in front of him.

"A la vida, mi chavo. Que un día nos sepa amar."

Jongdae drinks to that-- "to life, who may one day learn to love us."

Tuesday

Sehun checks his rearview mirror once, twice, three times in the course of five minutes. He takes a detour home, a different one every night, and parks down the street instead of in front of his building.

He takes the stairs instead of the lift. He checks to make sure the thin, unnoticeable ribbon is still in the door before he opens it. This is how he survives.

He only turns one light on at a time. The wooden floors of his flat creak under his weight; he likes it this way. Every step reminds him that he's still standing.

Sehun makes tea--three sugars-- and two slices of toast. He wanders alone in the darkness of his apartment until he reaches the right room. There's only a chair and a desk and the walls are papered with newspaper clippings and red marks, each pin pointing someone Sehun is trying to find.

He opens his laptop and stays illuminated in the fluorescent light of the screen.

"EUROPE - frost." He types into the search bar.

"NORTH AMERICA - floods."

"NORTH AMERICA - fires."

"ASIA - lightning."

Sehun takes notes in a worn journal. It's the eclectic collection of sketched dates and throwaway coordinates. Most of them are useless; only a few of them give him hope that one day he'll find his family.

Sehun showers and sits in the empty ringing of his living room. There's no furniture, only a blanket and a sheetless pillow. He tucks his knees under his chin and stares out the only window he left without a curtain. The blue haze from the city around him filters through the open blinds, and Sehun remembers nights they'd sit together in the dark, after a successful training session, and contain their powers to the palms of their hands.

Sehun loved the way lightning would dance across Jongdae's fingers. He remembers when they were younger, Jongdae would touch one of them and they'd all laugh as Minseok's or Yixing's or Jongin's long hair would stand on end.

Baekhyun knew how much they all hated the dark. He'd illuminate their dorm with orbs of light that'd twinkle brighter every time he laughed. Sehun remembers how Chanyeol would keep the room warm, and Baekhyun would keep it vibrant.

As they grew older and their powers strengthened, became more volatile, they became more weary of their abilities. After the fire, Jongdae stopped touching people. Minseok stopped making snowflakes. And Chanyeol was sent to sleep in his own room. After that, Baekhyun could never hold the light for very long outside of training rooms. The orbs would illuminate the space for a few minutes, but then they'd flicker and die out. They all grew accustomed to the darkness like that.

Before going to sleep, he fills a glass with water, and leaves it next to his makeshift bed, just like Junmyeon used to do. Sehun lays down on the hard floor. He tucks a tired arm under a tired head and tries to hold on to the memory of Junmyeon singing him to sleep. Sehun is afraid of all the people hunting him down. He's afraid of the things he's done, of everything he could still do. But despite the tragedy in his wake, Sehun is terrified he'll never find the people who learned to love a tempest storm.

Wednesday

Minseok often only remembers running. He remembers the tank room collapsing. He remembers the way pine needles raked at his skin and how he could count the sharp rocks embedding themselves further into his bare feet. The earth trembled underneath them; somewhere, Kyungsoo was determined to die before they took any of them again. He remembers tugging on Baekhyun so forcefully, remembers how the wind howled in his ears louder and louder as Sehun panicked someplace else in the forest.

Minseok comes home with groceries that night. Baekhyun is asleep on the couch and Minseok can't help but tuck the worn blanket tighter around the younger boy's shoulders. Baekhyun can't seem to ever get warm enough. He shivers on sunny days, and Minseok always feels like he isn't doing enough. He knows before, Baekhyun always had someone as warm as fire to go back to.

He tries to measure his steps as he makes dinner but Baekhyun wakes up eventually. He's ruffled hair and blanket around the shoulders and Minseok's heart softens. He makes Baekhyun tea and tells him about his day, about the new drink he tried at the coffee shop, about the little old lady he helped across the street. He keeps talking, forcing himself to fill the empty spaces Minseok created when he ran through the woods and away from the sounds of rushing water, away from the echoes of thunder.

He steps away from the stove, stops to take a breath, and meets Baekhyun's nervous smile. Before he can say anything else, Baekhyun's voice cuts across the kitchen counter; shaky but determined.

"There was another dust storm in Edinburgh." Baekhyun says, and Minseok's jaw clenches.

"Another earthquake in Colorado. And people are--"

"People are what, Baekhyun?" Minseok interjects, feeling the clench of his heart, knowing he always has to play the villain in these conversations. "Seeing a disappearing man in London? Another fire in Arizona? I don't know what you want me to--"

"I want you to help me fi--"

"Baekhyun, please--"

"These aren't coincidences! Minseok--"

"Look-- we just cant--"

"They could be waiting for--"

"There's other natural disasters out there besides us, Baekhyun!" Minseok snaps, too loud, too harsh, regretting it as soon as Baekhyun flinches and goes quiet.

"I need you to let me mourn them," Minseok mutters. He turns off the stove and retreats into the silence of his bedroom. He lays in the dark, his stomach twisting with guilt, and he falls asleep as the tears begin to dry on his pillow.

Hours later, he jolts awake to the first crack of thunder.

It sends him spiraling. He fists the bed sheets as his mind flickers through memories and he becomes entrapped to his own recollections.

Brown eyes and easy smile.

"Hi-- I'm Jongdae."

Static.

"I'm sorry."

Static.

"I can't always control it."

Static.

"Min, are we gonna die here?"

Static.

Junmyeon couldn't control the water and Luhan was drowning; they were all drowning. A gentle hand in his, shocking life back into his fading heart. The walls of the tank trembling.

''JONGDAE! JONGDAE!"

"GO! TAKE BAEKHYUN AND GO!"

"It's okay. It's okay. It'll pass." Baekhyun's gentle voice soothes him back to the present. Minseok clutches Baekhyun's hand under the covers, and squeezes his eyes shut as the entire room blazes with the first bolt of lightning. These storms always trigger memories Minseok tries to let go of; they trigger his remorse, calling for penitence. Its unspoken, the way Baekhyun finds his way into Minseok's room to ease him out of his nightmares. This is not the first storm they've weathered together, and Minseok knows it is not the last.

Thursday

Yixing knows he shouldn't but he can't help it. He can feel the small child hurting. He can feel the pain, sharp and hot, radiating off of his skin as his energy wanes out. Its like watching a camp fire die down; this small boy is nothing but smoke and embers, and Yixing knows he's not going to make it.

Yixing knows his parents are in the lobby, praying, unaware that their child is on the brink of nothingness, fate sealed long before they brought him into the emergency room. He knows he shouldn't draw more attention to himself but the boy, with his short hair and lanky figure, reminds him of another boy, who couldn't always time his landing and had the record for most broken bones amongst them.

Yixing remembers the night the proctors forced Yifan to fly higher, forced all of them to watch. Sehun was barely four, and shaking with fear, his own powers agitating the sky until Yifan fell. None of them reacted in time and in his nightmares, Yixing can sometimes hear the shattering bones he was not strong enough to heal.

He places gentle fingers over the boy's cold hand and focuses. He was not able to save Yifan, but maybe he can save someone else instead. The room hums suddenly with warm energy, and Yixing can feel the young boy absorb his power, can feel his heart strengthening, can see the color returning to his skin. The boy takes in a gulping breath of air, and the monitors around him being to keep loudly. Yixing leaves the room quietly. Like on so many occasions, he makes his way to the camera room and erases the tapes from that room, on that day. The people of this hospital will accredit another miracle to God, and Yixing will sleep with a sounder conscience.

Friday

Junmyeon finds it ironic that the darkness feels like drowning. It sits heavy on his heart, reminding him of everything he's lost.

Once upon a time, he was rather good at isolation. He was born in the institute. He had no family to be ripped away from. He jumped when they said jump, he ate when they decided he'd earned it, and he spent his first few years of life thinking the world was made up of their commands and his submission.

Sehun and the others changed that. The institute wanted them to be weapons; they tried to teach them to kill and maim, but in their hearts, they taught themselves otherwise. The deaths they encountered were always accidents, always the consequence to losing control. They never blamed each other. But whether it was the smoke, or the fall, or the tank, someone always felt at fault. Someone would always carry a single name on their conscience.

Junmyeon thinks of this, of his family, as he suspends two tons of water in the air. He remembers the tank room, the way the walls stood like gravestones, and the way he could not get them out. With a flick of his wrist, the water propels as a jet into the wall of the empty pool, cracking the concrete. He does it again, stepping back as giant shards of rubble twist through the air. If only he could've been strong enough to save Luhan.

He fills the pool and walks on water. This too is ironic. The Professor once told him he and the others would be like gods amongst men. Junmyeon knows these gods are vengeful, and one day, the people who hurt him will pay for their sins.

Saturday

"Energy cannot be created or destroyed; that is the basic law of the universe." The physics professor instructs from the front of the lecture hall. Jongin writes down information from the powerpoint. He takes careful notes despite knowing that the universe sometimes has loopholes; he's proof of that.

The lecture ends and the stooped hall begins to empty. Jongin gathers his belongings and makes his way to the courtyard. He pulls his peacoat tighter around himself as the frosty England air stirs the leaves, and his eyes wander over the Oxford cobblestones; all mismatched, all placed around each other to create something coherent.

"Hey," Kyungsoo brings him out of his reverie. He holds a paper cup out to him, and Jongin scrunches his nose.

"I don't drink--"

"I know," Kyungsoo sighs. "Its peppermint tea."

Jongin smiles, adding a little bow of gratitude. He makes space for Kyungsoo on the wooden bench, and they sip their drinks in the silence. They watch other students pass them by; Jongin feels out of place amongst people who are so paradoxically ordinary.

"How was your lesson?" He asks Kyungsoo, who takes a comtimplary drink before answering.

"The professor read medieval lit again. It was interesting." Kyungsoo shrugs. "Yours?"

"She talked about the laws of the universe; said matter can't be created. I thought about Jun and Minseok. They created a type of matter, right?"

Kyungsoo looks at the sky. He avoids Jongin's questioning gaze.

"Logic doesn't really apply to us. I think we'd be considered anomalies."

Jongin only nods.

"Lets go home," Kyungsoo says and they make their way to the main street in a pensative quiet. They take a cab home; Kyungsoo never teleports with Kai. They both know it reminds him too much of the last time it happened.

The night the tank room collapsed, Jongin made one choice to change everything. The others laid around him, sputtering, trying to swallow down as much air as humanly possible when the alarms started blaring.

"The-- the fence! Jongdae! Short circuit the fence!" Minseok yelled, helping a shaking Junmyeon to his feet.

They'd all looked, panicked, at the fence that was on the verge of collapse but still humming with electricity. They'd talked about escaping. They'd all fantasized about living different lives where their gifts were not weapons. Each of them had dreamt a version of life where they could be normal, and this was their one chance.

The forest around them was illuminated by Jongdae's lightning but Jongin's gaze was focused on Luhan. His eyes were closed, his wet hair matted on his forehead, as he lay amongst the rubble; dead.

"They're coming! RUN!" Junmyeon ordered, and Chanyeol was the first to turn his power against the men clad in white security gear. The trees came toppling down, giant flares of fire consuming their old trunks, and the entire forest became a war zone.

The wind howled, loud, angry and frightened, and slabs of steel flew through the air with it. Jongin could see his breath as razor sharp icicles cut through their surroundings, embedding themselves in the guards firing their weapons.

Jongin was immobile, his ears ringing with white noise as the entire world shook.

Yifan. Luhan. Tao.

He couldn't fathom watching someone else he loved die. Not like this. Not again.

"JONGDAE! JONGDAE!"

"GO! TAKE BAEKHYUN AND GO!"

The earth trembled beneath him. Someone screamed in pain. The air was cloying with dirt and dust and the smell of sulfur.

"SEHUN! WE'LL FIND YOU. GO." Junmyeon ordered and Jongin was choking on his desperation, useless as the legions of men clad in white came closer and closer.

Not again.

Jongin made his choice. He prayed they would forgive him. He prayed one day he'd get the chance to apologize.

Jongin reached out and placed his hand firm on Kyungsoo's shoulder. The universe went black and dry and Jongin felt a familiar compression on his lungs before their feet were touching solid concrete.

"YIXI-" Kyungsoo's shout died in his throat. He whipped around, eyes wide and furious.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" He snarled, rounding on Jongin.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, feeling the ground beneath him vibrate dangerously.

"TAKE US BACK. TAKE US BACK, NOW." Kyungsoo demanded, grabbing Jongin by the white collar of his uniform.

"I'm sorry." Jongin repeated, letting Kyungsoo shake him.

"HOW COULD YOU? HOW COULD YOU?" Kyungsoo screamed, and Jongin braced himself. He would take the brunt of Kyungsoo's fury, would take every angry hit, if it meant Kyungsoo was alive.

Instead, Kyungsoo fell to his knees. The sobs that raked through his entire body echoed down the empty street and Jongin only stood motionless. He prayed they would forgive him. He prayed one day Kyungsoo would forgive him.

Sunday

The room is black with smoke. Somewhere, someone is screaming for help but Chanyeol can't see anything, can't hear through the panic pulsing hot and red in his ears. The flames don't stop coming. They lick at his palms, set more of the world ablaze and he tries to close his fists but that only makes them stronger.

The curtains, the bed sheets-- everything around him is fire. He stumbles toward Baekhyun's bed, toward Jongin's bed; empty.

The dream shifts violently and Yixing is crouching next to Tao's body. Chanyeol wills himself to wake up; he's lived this too many times. Yixing concentrates and the room buzzes with a warm energy but as soon as it starts, it goes cold, like a graveyard, like a coffin, like wilted flowers in the middle of a winter freeze. The colors are draining fast from the world, turning sleep into nightmare. Yixing's voice echoes with familiarity, sometimes angry, sometimes disbelieving, sometimes full of so much grief Chanyeol wishes the fire were corporeal enough to scorch the memory away; "He's dead. It--it was the smoke..."

The real walls of his real life come into focus. Chanyeol tries to lie very still, but it feels like the shadows are crawling, unearthing a culpability he tried so hard to forget. He reaches over and turns on his bedside lamp; it's been two years and he isn't accustomed to darkness. He always had someone made out of pure light sleeping next to him. Chanyeol stares at the ceiling and wipes the sweat from his forehead. He ignores the taste of salt on his lips, the dry tear streaks on his cheeks.

"It wasn't your fault. We know you can't control it."

His movements are robotic, a monotonous whir of motion that barely get him through the day. Chanyeol never feels the cold of the tile floor, never even notices that the hot water stopped working in his shower weeks ago. He dresses in dry colors that never attract attention and makes his way to his small kitchen.

"Took you a while to wake up."

Chanyeol almost screams, his fists instantly sparking with orbs of flames as years of training kick into overdrive.

"Woah-- woah!" Sehun shoots up from the couch, his hands up in surrender. "Its just me!"

The air in Chanyeol's apartment stales and he drops to his knees, shaking his head in disbelief. The flames are extinguished. He's imagining this. He must be imagining this.

"Hyung?" Sehun whispers, frightened, the excitement in his heart deflating more and more with each second.

"This isn't real. This isn't real." Chanyeol whimpers, digging his nails into his palms. He spent weeks imagining Tao after the fire, all sad smile and empty eyes. Tao would never say anything, never throw blame, he'd just observe Chanyeol's life from the shadows, not letting Chanyeol forget.

"Hyung-- Its just me." Sehun tries again. He steps forward, kneels in front of his friend, and places a trembling hand on Chanyeol's shoulder.

"I'm sorry it took me so long to find you." His voice is an unsteady murmur, heavy with the sudden realization that they were together, after two years, Sehun wasn't alone anymore.

"Sehun?" Chanyeol's voice is quieter than a gust of wind, afraid, already broken.

"Yeah, its m--oomph!" Chanyeol doesn't let him finish. He launches himself at the younger boy and squeezes him in his arms. Sehun holds Chanyeol tightly, buries his face in the crook of Chanyeol's neck and half giggles and half sobs; relieved, ecstatic, and terrified all at once.

They both cry into the embrace, hearts swelling with unimaginable hope as the seconds tick by. Chanyeol's mind is buzzing, and he holds fistfuls of Sehun's shirt in his hands, pulling him even closer. Chanyeol wonders if this is what it feels like to be saved from drowning.

"Hyung," Sehun pulls away. Chanyeol runs his eyes over every aspect of Sehun's features, trying to memorize him, never wanting to forget any detail of this single moment.

"How did you find me?" Chanyeol whispers and Sehun gives him a tear stained smile.

"Google." He answers, before he's helping Chanyeol back on his feet.

"Hyung, the others. I know where they are."

Chanyeol takes a deep breath, deeper than any he's been able to manage in the past few years.

"Together-- we'll find them together."

MASTERLIST

#EXO #EXO FF #EXO FANFICTION #Baekhyun #chanyeol #suho #chen #ciumin #sehun #lay #kai #do #jongdae #junmyeon #minseok #bbh #pcy #exo au #exo powers #power #exo power

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bixshits · 4 years

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Lost Odyssey - A Thousand Years of Dreams - Story Seven Transcript

The Upstreamers

Strong winds have always blown across this vast grassy plain.

Perhaps the area's topography has something to do with it, but the direction of the wind remains constant, irrespective of the time or season:

From east to west, from the horizon where the sun rises to the horizon where the sun sets. Swept by the unceasing winds, the misshapen trunks and branches of shrubs all incline to the west. Tall grasses do not grow here, and the grasses that do grow all lie flat on the ground, bending westward.

Caravans and herding folk traverse the single road that crosses the plain. They do not “come and go,” they only go, moving from east to west, using the wind at their backs to gain distance. Travelers heading west to east always use the circuitous route that snakes around the southern mountains. It is much farther that way, but much faster than crossing the plain head-on into the wind. The road across the plain is called the Wind Stream. Just as the flow of a great river never changes direction, the footsteps of those who use the road have not changed direction since the distant past, nor are they likely to change far into the future: from east to west.

Human shapes that appear from the horizon where the sun rises disappear over the horizon where the sun sets.

They never pass oncoming travelers—with only the rarest exceptions. The first time she passed Kaim on the Wind Stream, the girls was just an infant.

“So, my grandmother was alive then?”

In response to the girl's untroubled question, Kaim smiles and answers,

“She was. And I remember what a nice old lady she was, too.”

Looking back down the road, the girl points toward the line of hills fading off into the distance.

“My grandmother crossed seven hills on her journey.” “Is seven a lot?”

“Uh-huh. Grandma lived a long time. Most people end their journeys after five hills. The people they leave behind build a little grave where they ended their journey, and then they keep traveling...”

The girl points down at the ground where she is standing.

“This is as far as I've come,” she says with a proud, happy smile.

The religion of the girl and her family professes a pious believe that if they devote their lives to walking eastward, against the flow of the Wind Stream, they will arrive at the easternmost source of the Stream itself. People call believers in that religion, “The Upstreamers.”

The word carries a hint of fear and sadness, but also a trace of contempt and scorn.

The Upstreamers are devoid of worldly desires. They live their lives for no greater purpose than traveling eastward on foot. They are free of doubt. They give birth to children en route, and they continue their journey while raising their children. When they age and their strength gives out, their journey ends. But their family's journey continues.

From child to grandchild to great-grandchild, their belief is carried on. The journey of this girl's family was begun by her late grandmother, who began walking from the Wind Stream's western verge with her son, who was then the age the girl is now.

The Upstreamers do not walk for the entire year, of course. During the season when the winds are especially strong—from the late autumn to early spring—they take up residence in various post towns scattered along the road and earn day wages by performing tasks that the townsfolk themselves refuse to do. Some Upstreamers choose to stay in the towns, while others, conversely, take townspeople with them when they return to the road in the spring.

These are people who have fallen in love during the long winter,

Or boys who dream of travel,

or grown-ups who have tired of town life. Such are the reasons the townsfolk look upon the Upstreamers with complicated gazes.

The little girl's mother was one of those who joined the journey mid-way, and he girl herself, some years from now, might fall in love with someone in a post town somewhere. She might choose to live in the town, or she could just as well invite her lover to join her on the road.

She has no idea at this point what lies in store for her. The girl's father calls out to her: “Time to go!”

Their brief rest is over.

She seems sorry to leave and stands up reluctantly. “Too bad,” she says. “I wish I could have talked to you more. But we have to get to the next town by the time the snows start.”

Constantly exposed to upwinds, her cheeks are red and cracked, her lips chapped, but her smile is wonderful a she wishes Kaim a safe journey.

It is the serene smile of one who believes completely in the purpose of her life, without the slightest doubt. “Will I see you again somewhere?” she asks.

“Probably.”

Kaim answers, smiling back at her, but he can never match that smile of hers. He is now in the midst of a journey that will take him beyond the western end of the Wind Stream. He heads to the battlefield as a mercenary, and by the time the western battle is over, a new battle will have begun in the east.

It will be a long, cruel journey, with nothing to believe in. When he meets he girl again along he way, Kaim's smile will have taken on even more shadows than it has now. Perhaps as a parting gift for him, the girl sings a few short lines for him:

This wind, where does it blow from?

Where does it start its journey here?

Does it come from where life begins?

Or does it begin where life ends?

“Goodbye, then,” the girl says, trudging on, one labored step at a time, hair streaming in the headwind.

Ten long years have flowed by when Kaim next meets the girl.

It is spring, when the grassland is dotted with lovely white flowers.

She has become the wife of a young man who does tailoring and shoe repair in one of the post towns.

“This is my third spring here,” she says, patting her swollen belly fondly.

In a few days, she will give birth to a child. She will become a mother.

“And your parents...?” Kaim asks.

She shrugs and glances eastward.

“They are continuing their journey. I'm the only one who stayed on here.” Kaim does not ask why she has done this.

Continuing he journey is one way to live, and staying in a town is another.

Neither can be judged to be more correct than the other. The only answer for the girl can be seen in her smiling face. “But never mind about me,” she says looking at him suspiciously.

“You haven't changed one little bit from the time we met so long ago.”

For the thousand-year-old Kaim, ten years is nothing but a change in season.

“Some lives are like that,” he says, straining to smile.

“Some people in this world can never grow old, no matter how long they live.”

He looks at the girl, now grown into a woman, and wonders again, 'Living through endless ages of time: is it a blessing, or a curse?' Kaim's remark hardly counts as an explanation, but the girl nods with a look of apparent understanding.

“If that's the case,” she says, “You should be the one who goes to the place where the wind begins. You'd be the perfect Upstreamer.”

She could be right: after all, the lifespan given to humans is far too short for anyone to travel against the Wind Stream as far as the starting point of the wind. Still, Kaim responds with a few slow shakes of his head.

“I'm not qualified to make the journey.”

“No? Anybody can be an Upstreamer. Anybody, that is, who wants to see where the wind starts with his or her own eyes.”

Having said this, however, the girl adds with a touch of sadness, “No one has actually seen it, though, I guess.” The place where the wind begins: that place is nowhere at all. Even if, after a long journey, one were to arrive at the eastern end of the Wind Stream, the wind would be blowing there, too. And not just an east wind. West wind, north wind, south wind: winds without limit, without end.

Human beings, who cannot live forever, daring to take a journey without end. This might be the ultimate tragedy, but it could just as well be the ultimate comedy. Kaim knows one thing, however: one cannot simply dismiss it as an exercise in futility. “How about you?” he asks the girl. “Aren't you going to continue your journey soon?”

She thinks about this for the space of a breath, and caressing her swollen belly, she cocks her head and says, “I wonder... I might want to go on living the way I am now forever. Or then again, I might feel that desire to reach the starting point of the wind.” All the Upstreamers without exception say that you can never know what might trigger a return to the journey. One day, without warning, you slough off the entire town life and start walking.

It is not always a matter of running into an Upstreamer and being lured back to the road: plenty of people set out on their own all of a sudden.

The teachings of the Upstreamers say that all human beings harbor a desire for endless travel. They probably are not aware of the desire because it is stashed away so far down in the breast that it is deeper than memory.

The instant something brings it to the surface, a person becomes and Upstreamer. “Even if you have the desire,” the girl says to Kaim.

“I wonder...”

“It's true,” she says. “No question.”

The look in her eyes is as straight-on and free of doubt as it was the last time he met her.

Fixing him with that look, she points to her own chest.

“I haven't completely lost it myself.”

“But I'm sure you're happy with your present life?”

“Of course I am.”

“Do you really think the day will come when you will want to set out on the journey even if it means giving up that happiness?”

Instead of answering, she gives him a gentle smile. Many years flow by, but every now and then, something reminds Kaim of the girl's words—that everyone harbors a desire for endless travel.

For Kaim, living itself is a journey without end.

In the course of his journey, he has witnessed countless deaths, and he has also witnessed countless births. Human life is all too short, too weak, and fleeting.

Yet, the more he dwells upon its evanescence, the more he feels, inexplicably, that words such as “eternal,” and “perpetual” apply more properly to life, finite as it is, than to anything else. Traveling down the Wind Stream for the first time in many years, Kaim spies the funeral of an Upstreamer.

A boy in mourning dress stands by the road holding out wildflowers to passing travelers, and urging them to “offer up a flower to a noble soul who has made the long journey this far.”

Kaim takes a flower and asks the boy, “Is it a member of your family?”

“Uh-huh. My grandma.”

The boy nods, his face the image of one Kaim knew so long ago.

The old woman lying in the coffin must be the girl. Kaim is sure of it.

“Grandma traveled a long, long time. She brought my daddy with her when he was just a little boy. See that hill over there? She started walking from way, way beyond it, and she got all the way here.”

So, the girl must've set out on her journey after all.

Turning her back on the town life, leading her child by the hand, she trod her way along the endless journey.

Her wish to aim for the place where the wind begins would be passed on to her child, her grandchild, and on through the succeeding generations.

To head for a land one could never hope to reach, and to do so generation after generation: this is another endless journey. Is it a tragedy?

A comedy?

Perhaps the serene smile on the face of the old woman in the coffin is the answer.

Kaim lays he flower at her feet as an offering.

The family members who have traveled with her join together in a song for the departed:

This wind, where does it blow from?

Where does it start its journey here?

Does it come from where life begins?

Or does it begin where life ends?

The wind blows.

It sweeps the vast grassland.

Kaim takes one long, slow step toward his destination.

“Have a good trip!” calls the boy.

Red and cracked as the girl's were so long ago, his cheeks soften in a smile as he waves to the departing traveler.

#lost odyssey #kaim argonar #sarah sisulart #seth balmore #cooke and mack #cooke #mack #jansen friedh #ming numara #a thousand years of dreams #1000 years of dreams

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rawcatlawnchair · 6 years

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Chapter 12 - Octavia

Octavia awoke with a groan. Last thing I remember was that lasso, and then-

Her hands shot to her face, trying to feel it through the bandages around her head. She felt a thin strip of cloth bound to her face by a knot. She sighed, scratching her hair at its roots. Tracing it to its ends, she felt the tips and noticed it's rough, ashen texture. She had probably sustained a burn to her face, and would have to wear this bandage for a while. Once it had healed, she could probably take it off. She could only hope it didn't scar too badly.

Patting the ground beneath her revealed that she was laying on something soft. A bed? Maybe, but she couldn't confirm it. Without her sight, even the most trivial things became nigh impossible. She used her elbows to prop herself up, and leaned back onto a pillow, wondering where she had ended up.

She heard the soft click of a door closing, followed by a few sets of footsteps, the exact number remained a mystery to her.

“I see you're the first to wake up.”

The mysterious voice sounded a lot like the councillor’s back on the bridge, but she could take no chances. “Where exactly am I?”

“The eastern city of Shuyong, miss. To be more exact, Shuyong Castle, in the infirmary. You and all your comrades survived the battle, with... varying levels of injuries. Right now, the elf and the dragonling are still sleeping, but they'll make a recovery within the week.”

“And who are you?”

“Councillor Shi-an, miss. I sit on the Paragon Council in Shurei, and from there I help govern this alliance. I was travelling with the shipment you gave up so much to defend, and for that I am eternally grateful.”

His words came through, but they made no sense. Gave up? She had just fought and sustained some injuries, nothing to write home about. She wanted a look at this elf councillor, so she tugged at the knot at the back of her head, and felt the bandage tumble away, landing in her lap.

And she saw nothing. Her eyelids refused to open.

At first, she patted her face a few times in disbelief. Surely she was mistaken in her exhausted state, or perhaps there had been a second layer of bandages. As she frantically attempted to deny her new-found disability, Shi-an sighed and spoke.

“The healers tell me you will heal in time. Magic users always do. The fire scarred your eyelids shut, but in time they will open again. A month, or maybe even longer. You will see again. In time.”

“That promise doesn't sound very watertight to me.”

There was a brief pause, as if Shi-an shrugged. “I’m a career politician. Making empty promises is my lifeblood. Whatever the case, the best healers in the city will be trying to help you. And you never know, this could be a good thing.”

Borrowing a maneuver from Ruzuli, she raised an eyebrow. Or at least she hoped she had. “And in which world is losing your sight a good thing?”

She heard the sound of a chair being dragged briefly, followed by a soft bump. “There’s an old elvish story,” Shi-an started. “An elf once lost his horse when he was out riding. He thought tragedy had befell him, and his life was over, for it was his only horse, but his horse came back to him, and this time brought with it another horse, allowing him to have two horses.

“So it was a good thing for him to lose his horse?” Octavia asked quizzically.

“Not quite,” Shi-an continued.“The new horse was still wild and untamed, so when he tried to domesticate it, it flung him off and he broke his ankle.”

“I’m sensing one more twist to this story.”

“And you would be right, miss.” Shi-an said with a laugh. “Just weeks later his country went to war, and with a broken ankle he could not be conscripted. A bad thing turned to a good thing, and so on and so forth. You can never know until it's all over.”

She thought about some of the bad things that had happened to her thus far. Her foiled escape, her bad fall from the walls, the fight against the agents hunting them, and now her blindness, temporary or not. While most of them had ended up for the better, her luck could not sustain forever.

“Well then,” Shi-an clapped his hand twice. “I must get going. The healers shall return in several hours. Please rest well. I'll send in the gnome, if you will.”

As he clapped, Octavia activated her essence, without even thinking about it. Her subconscious pushed its power into enhancing her senses, giving her access to a new world of information. For an instant, as the sound waves of his clap bounced off the walls and the floors, in her mind's eye she could picture every aspect of the room. The flower vase by the chest by the door. The beds around her, with the faint silhouettes of her teammates laying in them. Even tiny details, like the patterns in the window became clear to her. She knew not what had happened, but for a moment the outline of the world returned to her vision.

Another soft click entered her ears, and footsteps followed. Without warning, her powers deactivated, leaving her blind once more. It was unexplained, and seemed impossible to her. But she had glimpsed a possibility, and a small part of her was already eager to discover what had happened to her.

A familiar voice spoke to her. “Doesn’t seem right for all of you to get yourself hurt, while I got off scot free.” The voice was high pitched and gentle, with a small tinge of shame behind it.

“Well as the saying goes, ladies first. Into the fray, that is.” She smiled in the direction of the voice, and Trixi and Octavia shared a laugh at her joke. She heard a bump as he hopped into a chair, making himself comfortable as he watched over his three wounded teammates.

Octavia continued, “What happened after I passed out on the bridge? Jirei did something and made some sort of elemental, but I see what it did.”

Trixi whistled. “You should have seen it. That titan was just flat out imposing. In fact, I'd say it could smash apart the walls of the Chalice. I'm not sure if she was in control of the elemental, but after a while the goblins ran off and sailed away. The other boat did the same, and before long the help came from the outpost as promised. Jirei saved your lives, but its taken its toll on her.”

Octavia pictured the elf, slumped on a bed much like hers. “It turns out creating and controlling elementals consumes nearly all your essence. Right after she scared off all the goblins and forced their retreat, she promptly collapsed from overexertion. Not a single sign of physical injury, so we're hoping she wakes up soon,” Trixi continued. Octavia just sat in silence, deep in thought.

She threw herself headfirst into battle not only because it was all she knew how to do, but also because it was what she could afford to do. Between her physical strength and her essence barriers, she could take twice the beating of anyone else in their party. If anyone were to be injured, to fall in battle, it had to be her.

Which was exactly why her frustrations were beginning to bubble up. Not only had she been unable to save everyone, or even defeat that infuriatingly strong goblin mage, but someone else had to save her. It wasn't that she minded the fact that Jirei had to intervene, but rather the fact that she was not strong enough to stand alone against the enemies that stood against them. And now with her injuries, her growth would be hindered. What good was a warrior who couldn't see?

“Is something the matter?” Trixi asked. “You’re sweating buckets.”

“It must be the weather,” Octavia lied. “It's awfully warm.” She hated lying to anyone, but she couldn't let them know about her fears. She had to be strong, or at least look the part. The bandages and scars all over her were definitely not helping either.

“You do know Shuyong's on a mountain, right?”

“Yes?”

“That means its cooler up here.”

“Oh.”

“Well, I’m not going to pry into you,” Trixi said, hopping off his chair with an audible thump. “But you've earned your rest and we're safe in this city now. If you'll excuse me, I have a dwarf to meet. Should I ask the healers to bring food?”

“Some soup would be nice,” Octavia murmured. She hadn't realised just how hungry she was, and some hot food might do her mood some good.

The door clicked once more as Trixi left the room, but before he could step out, Octavia called out to him once more. “Thank you for coming to see me. It was - nice, I suppose.”

Trixi paused, as if he was beaming at her. “We’re teammates now, like it or not. I hear these are the kind of things teammates do.” And with that, he turned and strode out the hallway, boots clicking along the wooden floors as he left.

With her mind hinged on his parting words, she sat and thought, with the darkness all around her.

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The next week passed in a flurry. Everyday the healers came, applied some herb paste to her eyes, and changed her bandages. She hated the smell, but would endure it for her eyesight to return. Meals of soup and some buns were filling, and Octavia spent her days resting up.

The evening after she awoke, Ruzuli returned to the realm of the living. The very first thing she did was curse Zazelle, and pledge vengeance if they ever met again. The next thing she did was mourn her beloved patchwork shoes, which had been burnt to a crisp by the flaming lasso. Thankfully, someone had the grace of getting her a new pair, albeit in so-called ‘disgusting’ colours of red and green. Soon after waking up, Ruzuli was already up and about, slowly getting back into fighting shape, something that brought immense jealousy to Octavia. Here she was, crippled and useless, unable to even leave her bed without any assistance.

Two evenings after that, Jirei rose from her slumber. As no physical harm had come to her, she was up and at it almost immediately, although she was recommended not to use any of her magic so soon, in fear of another collapse. When Trixi rushed in to excitedly yell about the elemental titan, Jirei had to sheepishly confess that it was a druidic technique that was extremely dangerous to the body, and should only be used in extremely dire circumstances, as it not only called upon the users essence, but also the natural essence of the surroundings. Upon hearing that he would likely never see another massive elemental titan, Octavia could practically hear his tiny gnomish heart shatter.

Watching, no, hearing her team move about and reclaim their freedom should have made her happy, but instead it only filled her up with a mixture of disappointment and regret. It only reminded her of how little she could do.

And the evening after that, Trixi brought a cane to her side.

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At first she had not even been aware it was there. She had merely assumed he had returned from one of his countless meetings with Harlin and wanted to share his new discovery, as the rest of the team was off doing something else, presumably. But he placed it in her hands delicately, and waited for a response. She moved her hands over it and rapped her knuckles against the bottom. Solid iron, as expected of a dwarven builder.

“I’m blind, not limping.” Octavia tried to roll her eyes, but with her eyelids sealed she was unsure if it was even possible. “Why’d you give this to me?”

“I didn't,” Trixi said. “Harlin did. He had a spare sitting around, and he reckons you could use this to move around, even if you can't see.”

Octavia pondered for a moment. “Alright, so I can hit stuff in front of me to figure out what's in my way. But that still wont let me see, will it?”

”He told me to ‘Tell ya friend to think like a bat’. No clue what that means.” Trixi attempted an awful dwarven accent. “Hold on, I think I know. Do you have super hearing?”

“What kind of ques-”

“No, I meant using your essence magic.” Octavia could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he descended into a brainstorm session. “You can use it to make your punches strong and run fast, right?”

“That’s a vast oversimplification, but yes.”

“Then do the same for your ears! Your senses! Just hear the sounds as they echo - hold on, I need to go tell Harlin I've figured out his hint! You take this cane.” Before Octavia could voice protest, he had disappeared, leaving her very confused but slightly inspired.

With the peace and quiet he left behind, Octavia began to focus. I can enhance every part of my body. Does that include my senses? Only one way to find out. She tried to shut her eyes to focus, before remembering that her eyes were already shut. Right. She should have remembered that, seeing as it was exactly why she was in this situation.

Sitting upright on her bed, she lifted her leg gently to rest on her other knee, and did the same for her other leg, entering a meditation pose. Using as much self control as she could muster, she activated the most miniscule portion of essence, and allowed it to roam her body. First it roamed to her hands, then to her feet, allowing her body to become accustomed to the essence within it. Finally, it went to her head, allowing it to pass into her mind. She felt it resting there, then began to pray. Goddess above, you have given me strength. But now I want to hear. I want to listen to every cricket’s chirp, every creak of the floorboards, every sizzle of oil in this city. Lua, may I?

As if her goddess herself had smiled down on her, she felt bizarrely in control of her powers for a brief moment. Seizing the moment, she willed her hearing to amplify, and to her surprise, it worked. A bird chirping, the soft whistle of the wind, children playing in the street. But she needed this hearing for something else.

She grasped the cane in her hand, and knocked it against her wooden bedframe. Instantly, it produced a hollow knocking sound, bouncing off every object in the infirmary. In her mind, the sounds painted a slightly fuzzy picture, albeit one that was slightly familiar to her. After a few seconds, the image faded away. With every knock, it produced an identical image. And once more, Octavia began to smile.

Tapping the floor beneath her, she used this new-found ‘sight’ to get a good look and got off her bed. I will be strong once more.

And Octavia took her first step.

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For the first time, Octavia was seeing Shuyong beyond the confines of her infirmary. Tapping her cane as she walked, she was able to use this to ‘see’ the hallway, nimbly avoiding tables and servants rushing about.

At the end of the hallway sat a small dining room, where she found Ruzuli and Jirei sitting and chatting with a surprise guest.

“Honestly, I’m amazed all four of you survived that battle. I thought the human was a goner.”

Using her cane, she hooked out a chair and plopped herself down. “It’ll take more than that to kill me, Feng.”

“It’s Captain Feng now, actually. Shi-an says he liked the way I handled the situation on the bridge, and he'll be pushing for me to be given a post to handle the goblin issue in the eastern parts of our lands. Stakes are higher than ever, and he needs every elf he can get.”

“What issue? I mean, besides the two massive warships and a small army casually attacking civilians deep into elvish territory,” Octavia snapped.

Feng made a noise with his mouth, muttered some Elvish words under his breath, then continued. “We’ve traded our information with the scouts here in Shuyong, and our worst fears have been realised. As we suspected, the Three Princes, and likely most of their army, has managed to infiltrate the border and are now lurking somewhere on this mountain. They control the largest portion of goblin territory over in the basins, as well as the strongest army. While we doubt they could take this city by force, we suspect they're here for something else.”

Ruzuli snorted. “There’s nothing up in these hills but a bunch of trees and stones. What could they be here for?”

Jirei cleared her throat and began to speak. “Shuyong is the ancestral burial grounds for our royalty, even if we haven't had an empress in over a hundred years. They've found nearly all of their tombs, but some remain hidden. Plenty of treasures for the goblins to take.”

“Smart,” said Feng, standing up. “The only reason that they haven't taken over all of the basins to the southeast is the fact that they haven't proven their strength. Since they came to power with the death of their father a year ago, all they've been doing is squashing small splinter factions who wanted a slice of the pie and slowly growing their territory. They haven't even begun a single campaign against their stepsister in the desert. If they can steal a huge amount of treasure from right under our noses, it'll prove to their countrymen their immense strength. Goblins will flock to their banners and kneel so fast the dirt will have imprints.”

“Which is why they've hired me.” Feng made a shuffling sound, then produced a large piece of paper and placed it on the table, much to Octavia’s annoyance. Her ‘sight’ could see objects, but paper was as flat as could be, meaning she couldn’t see a thing. “I’m a native of Shuyong, and I’ve got my own...special cache of maps of the mountains around us.”

“A mercenary and a tomb raider? The Elvish army must be desperate if they turned to you for aid.”

Octavia couldn't see it, but Feng must have fired off a glare. “My past is of no concern. The only thing that matters now is what I do in the future. After the festival of Umie, I'll be taking a small task force out to the hills and eradicating the goblins.” He made tapping sounds as he jabbed his finger into the map. “All those spots are known unexcavated tombs. We’re going to set up traps and see who turns up.” To Octavia, it seemed like an excellent plan to capture the goblins. Their ambition and fervor would backfire as they recklessly charged to their deaths.

“One more thing, Captain,” Ruzuli said, as sloppily as possible. “Who was that Zazelle goblin we fought? She isn't one of the princes, and doesn't seem like some ordinary warrior either.”

Feng sighed and sat back down. “Each of the Three Princes have a Captain that serves as their second-in-command. Two of them were there on that boat assault, Zazelle was one and the other one was-”

“Karlo,” Jirei sputtered out, drawing stares from everyone, even Octavia.

“Not asking how you got that name, but Karlo is his name. There's a third one that goes by Lisyana, but we think she's been hiding out in the hills. They're strong, and if rumours are true, the princes themselves are even stronger.” Feng finished. Octavia heard a chair scrape along the floor, and Feng presumably rose. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have duties at the garrison. Which the gnome should stop hanging around.”

“He’s only there for Harlin. He’s kind of a mentor of sorts,” Ruzuli protested.

“Tell him I catch him in the garrison one more time, and I'll tear his-”

“Tear whose what?” Trixi’s voice warbled from the doorway, innocently curious.

Feng sighed loudly and stomped out of the room, muttering something about infernal midget spawn. Octavia was thankful that Trixi had not heard any of Feng’s words. Minute as he was, he would have gladly picked a fight with Feng, and being evicted from the castle was the last thing they needed right now.

Trixi hopped onto a chair and began to speak. “Anyway, I told Harlin about the bat thing and finding your way around using sound bouncing off things and super hearing. He wants to call this technique echolo-”

“Friends,” Jirei interrupted Trixi in an extremely uncharacteristic manner. She stood, and Octavia immediately began tapping her foot, using its subtle sound to look around. She gazed in the direction of Jirei, and observed her face. In their two months of travels, she had seen countless emotions on the elf’s round face, from intense focus to worry, or her personal favourite, joy. This one was new, with downtrodden eyes and a slight frown, with her head dipped to face the earth. This look, without a doubt, was one of regret.

And her mouth opened to speak.

Next Chapter｜Start from the beginning

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