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mournthebird · 2 months

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The Brand

Warnings: Hydra Trash Party, dehumanization, mentions of physical and psychological abuse, mentions of sexual assault and torture, body modification, medical descriptions, non-consensual surgical procedure, non-sexual nudity, conscious body mutilation, branding. Do not read if these make you uncomfortable.

a/n: Yay first writing post. I wrote this a few weeks ago in time to celebrate the 10 year HTP celebration but my work got busy and I couldn't finish it in time. It might seem rushed at the end and isn't the typical writing style I go with, but I wanted to try something new.

I have a lot of ideas for HTP, they won't be written in such a narrative way, they'll be more involved and not seem so empty when you read it. I wanted to practice this style of writing to get back into it. My future works will be more gritty I promise lol.

Not edited because I am impatient.

WC: 4618

If there was one thing that defined Hydra, it was their insatiable need to flaunt, to ostentatiously display their dominion over all they claimed. The agents of Hydra took a perverse pride in their control and indecorous displays of power, viewing them as a testament to their might and dominance. At the pinnacle of their assets stood the Winter Soldier, the first and arguably most potent weapon in Hydra's formidable arsenal. He was their most prized asset and possession, their most favorite plaything.

To Hydra, the Winter Soldier was nothing more than a weapon, an object to be wielded with ruthless efficiency. Or on certain occasions, he was seen as a toy, something to be played with by his handlers, depending on the day and the specific handler's whims. His existence was one of unending servitude, of being used and abused by what seemed to be a never ending pool of agents. There were times when Soldat liked to convince himself that he had grown accustomed to the pain, to the torment that was his existence. He liked to believe that he had seen everything, that there was no form of cruelty that could surprise him anymore. The agents of Hydra were nothing if not creative in their methods of torture, to put it mildly.

Yet, as each day passed, each time he was awakened from the frigid embrace of cryostasis, he was starkly reminded of how wrong he was. Each new day he was graciously kept out of cryostasis brought with it fresh horrors, fresh cruelties that served to shatter his illusions of desensitization. His life was a grim reminder of the depths to which humanity could sink in its quest for power and control.

He remembers more than what they would like, despite how many times they ‘put his brain in a blender’ as Rumlow would say. Shards of his past that were shattered into an intricate puzzle; the scattered pieces were handed back to him in a cruel game where they never quite fit together. Much of what he is able to recall stems from his intense, grueling conditioning at Hydra or the earliest, most brutal of his tortures. He has vivid recollections of the cold, unfeeling metal table and the burn of harsh straps binding him to it. His memory of those moments is hazy, his sight blurred by the glaring white light looming above, piercing his eyes and blinding him. Vague memories of the sun flashed in his mind, the wet streets of New York and himself as a child running through puddles as the sun shone down on him and provided warmth after the downpour.

At that time, he still possessed a significant portion of his left arm, the remaining limb extending just above his elbow. But the people who held him captive, the people who sought to manipulate and control him, they couldn't allow him to retain that, could they? It simply wouldn't work, wouldn't align with the function of the arm that Zola had painstakingly and so preciously created.

Zola wasn’t the one to amputate the rest of it. The faces of the medical personnel were indistinct to him - were they doctors, or were they scientists? Did the specific roles they played truly matter at this moment? It was a question he didn’t find himself pondering for long.

He remembered tensing as he heard the sickening sound of his muscle being ruined by the small, handheld rotary drill as it raked through his flesh, the wielder running it up and down his arm as if he were cutting through dough. At first, the sensation of his flesh being ripped away so viciously didn’t register in his brain, but his eyes glanced down at his arm, and saw they were taking it in segmented pieces. Seeing it seemed to get his brain to work faster now. The hot vibrations from the bone saw sliding so effortlessly through his exposed humorous nearly made him want to vomit. His wide, icy eyes were glued to the tool despite how badly he wanted to tear his sight away, the inch long piece of raw bone fell off, hitting the metal table with a small *clink* sound. A cloud of pure dread flooded his already struggling mind as he realized what they were doing. Instead of a simple amputation surgery, they were taking their sweet time, ensuring he felt every bit of it in a cruel introduction.

They only took away an inch of flesh and bone.

His anguished cries for mercy were coldly ignored, and the indifferent medical team didn't care that he was fully conscious during the gruesome procedure. Even now, years later, with his state-of-the-art prosthetic arm replacing the one he'd lost, he is haunted by phantom pains that serve as all too vivid reminders of that fateful day. The biting chill of the snow on his raw, open wound is something he can still recall with unsettling clarity, as are the sensations of the invasive surgical tools mercilessly working against him as he writhed in futile resistance against the unbending straps that held him firmly in place. In the quiet moments of solitude, he often has to take a moment to gather his thoughts, to refocus his mind, and remind himself that the gruesome ordeal is long past and that his own flesh and blood arm has been replaced with a sophisticated, very expensive piece of high-tech metal. Yet, the past refuses to be so easily discarded. His mind, an intriguing labyrinth of denied emotions and memories, continues to replay the ordeal, showcasing the fascinating, yet at times cruel, capacity of the human brain.

Unfortunately for Sergeant Barnes, that was all just the beginning of a seventy year long nightmare. His first session inside the seemingly ominous cryo chamber was a jarring experience that he hadn't expected. All he can remember is the sudden, abrupt sensation of being hurled into a sizable, and he's not too proud to admit, an intimidatingly scary device. He would soon learn it was a merciful gesture to be frozen, over the years wishing for it rather than being kept out for them to play with.

This chamber made of metal and steel only had a minuscule, circular window that seemed to serve as his only connection to the world he was leaving behind. Before he could even allow himself to succumb to the primal instinct of panic, the very air around him seemed to solidify. It was as if the invisible molecules of oxygen were suddenly turned to ice, encasing him in a frosty cocoon. He couldn’t even process his initial shock before he began to feel the icy tendrils of cold seeping into his body, freezing him from the inside out. He had mere seconds, fractions of timeless moments, to register the chill before his senses were overwhelmed and everything around him plunged into an abyss of pitch-black nothingness.

The tales of his time spent within the sinister depths of Hydra would surely elicit a shiver of sympathy from the devil himself - such was the magnitude of his torment. Every excruciating moment, every instance of his suffering was meticulously documented by his pitiless handler in that dreaded, damned red book. This was a book that he grew to loathe, a constant, tangible reminder of his puppet-like existence. It contained detailed instructions on how to manipulate him, how to control each string tethered to his spirit and body, turning him into a marionette dancing to their dark symphony. Every mission he was sent on, every dangerous venture he had accomplished was recorded in it. This included even the less polished operations from the early days of his career, when he was still learning the ropes and the art of subtlety.

His few failures, those moments of human error, were written in a cruelly conspicuous red ink. This was a color that symbolized his pain, his struggle, and his sacrifice, forced to pen down these failures himself. He would sit on the cold, hard floor of his bleak holding cell, his hand shaking as he held the inkless pen. This pen would then be dabbed into his body and would stain the pages of the book with dark, inky crimson, watched all the while by his unflinching handler.

He quickly understood that he was not valued as a human being, but was seen as nothing more than a tool for amusement, a commodity to be used and discarded, an object of entertainment for those who controlled him. His training, harsh and unyielding, began abruptly and without mercy, and with each passing day, he was forced to hone his abilities, to transform himself into a more efficient, more deadly assassin. He was taught the art of strict discipline, and the punishing consequences that followed if he failed to meet their exacting standards. Physical torment became a part of his existence, a brutal routine that he had to become accustomed to, but that didn't mean he was immune to the pain. Each strike, each wound was a stark reminder of his position. Hydra taught order through pain after all, and pain was nearly second nature to him by now.

But arguably, what was even more devastating was the mental torture he was subjected to. The psychological torment, the manipulation, the systematic breaking down of his spirit was a pain that transcended the physical. No amount of bodily harm could ever compare to the anguish of having his mind, his very sense of self, twisted and reshaped to suit their needs and desires.

He was slowly, painstakingly being reconstructed with fragments and shards that belonged to someone else, not him. As if the core of his very existence was being invaded, they were diligently, ruthlessly weaving pieces of brutality into the tapestry of his soul, fundamentally altering his essence. He was no longer the man known as Bucky, no longer James Buchanan Barnes, a name that once held so much significance. Hell, he couldn’t even recall his own name anymore, only the harsh, unkind labels they assigned him. ‘Soldat’...mostly. But there were other names, too, cruel and derogatory terms that were as far from his true identity as could be. His sense of self, his identity, who he was at his core, had been brutally stripped away, leaving him nothing more than a hollow shell of the man he had once been.

Over the years, he had found himself under the supervision of many handlers, the names and faces of most he could no longer remember. The current handler in charge of him was Alexander Pierce, who had remained his handler for the longest duration of time compared to the others. Pierce was the kingpin, the mastermind, the one who held all the reins, the dominant head of the Hydra. There were instances when Soldat was temporarily handled by either Rumlow or Rollins, but these periods never lasted too long. Despite his brutish demeanor and cutthroat attitude, Pierce was incredibly possessive of Soldat, almost obsessively so. He didn’t appreciate it when others caused harm to his possessions, like that mattered. And that was exactly what Soldat was to him, a mere possession, an object to be owned and controlled.

Pierce did not view him as a person capable of experiencing feelings and emotions. In his eyes, Soldat was just a thing, devoid of any humanity. Soldat was at his mercy, a mere puppet under his control. He could dictate Soldat's every move, treat him however he pleased, and the asset wouldn’t dare to retaliate. There were fleeting moments, few and far between, seemingly minor delays where the asset would show a hint of defiance, a subtle insubordination that manifested itself in the way he might take an extra second or two before following an order. These moments of resistance, however slight, were met with brutal and harsh punishment, administered by the man who had been assigned to handle him. Pierce was notorious for his severe punishments. Rumlow, too, was cruel in his own right. He took perverse pleasure in blending physical and psychological torture, pushing the boundaries of what the asset could endure. But Pierce...the mere mention of his name by another agent in the presence of the asset, especially during those rare moments when the asset dared to be rebellious, would strip him down to nothing but a small, quivering ball, a mass of fear and anticipation as he awaited for his true handler to lay his harsh, punishing hand.

Pierce liked to think of himself as the asset’s owner, not even just a handler. He liked playing mind games with him, ensuring his submission. He was a master of deception, delivering his taunts and insults with a veneer of charm and affability that belied his true intentions. He had a unique way with words, much like a bee that knows how to produce honey while also being capable of a deadly sting. He liked to create an aura of comfort and ease around the asset, luring it into a false sense of security. Just when the asset would start to relax and let his guard down, Pierce would shatter this illusion of safety. A backhanded strike would come out of nowhere, causing his head to jerk from the unnecessary force. Or he would give a sudden, painful tug to the asset’s chocolate locks, locking his fingers into the asset’s hair and yanking him around as if he were trying to pull his hair out.

These acts of cruelty were always accompanied by seemingly gentle words, and perhaps a caress to his head, creating a confusing and distressing dichotomy that further brought on emotional and mental confusion to the asset. Over time, the asset learned to be wary of Pierce's words, no matter how sweet they seemed on the surface. Kindness was always a precursor to cruelty, and trust became a luxury he could no longer afford. The asset began to anticipate the worst at all times, and unfortunately, this pessimistic expectation was almost always met.

Soldat found himself yearning for the majority of his day to be spent in the confines of the small, austere cell in which he was held captive. This was his preferred solace when he was not being subjected to the whims of numerous Hydra agents who took turns with him; their demands were a source of deep loathing for him. The task of satisfying such a multitude of people was not only mentally draining but also physically excruciating. Despite his body having been enhanced by the serum, it was painfully evident that he was not designed for the purposes for which they were exploiting him. No one would be. He could feel everything at an amplified level, and the agents cared not how he felt during the assaults. Sadistic and barbaric in their violent rutting, the asset was often left motionless in his cell, his breathing jagged and quick before dying down to the deep breaths of plagued sleep.

The discomfort was inescapable: he found it impossible to sit properly due to the chronic pain from his backside, not only the constant throbbing and burning in his anus, but the welts and wounds scattered along his thighs and ass. He was forced to lean at an angle on one side of his backside instead of sitting upright in a normal manner. This odd positioning offered some degree of relief, but not much. His cell was void of any comforting amenities or distractions - it was a cage after all, not a home.

The walls of his cell, a stark combination of cement and metal, were expertly crafted to withstand the immense strength he possessed. This meant that even when he wasn't restrained in chains in the corner of the room, his attempts to break free would prove futile. The stone floors were unexpectedly damp, a surprising observation considering that the cell was completely buried underground, devoid of any direct exposure to the elements. He thought there might be a hidden leak somewhere, a fissure in the stone that allowed the intrusion of water. The thought of snow stirred a melancholic feeling within him. It had been an eternity since he had experienced the outdoor world, the simple pleasure of feeling the crisp winter air against his skin, the sight of pristine, untouched snowfall, or the peaceful silence that came with it. His memories of these sensations were fading, blurred by the harsh passage of time. He was trapped in an endless cycle of monotonous days and nights, to the point where he couldn’t even remember just how long it had been since his last glimpse of the outside world.

His train of thought was abruptly disrupted as the hefty, imposing door started to creak ominously open. The harsh sound of metal scraping against the cold concrete floor echoed throughout the room, sending an eerie screech that sent chills down his spine and made him suppress a shiver. Agent Rumlow stood imposingly in the doorway. Looming ominously behind him was a group of other guards, each of them armed with an assortment of menacing weapons. Among these were electric prods that he had grown to despise. The guards had a tendency to press them against his skin for prolonged periods, the sharp, unpleasant sensation something he could never get used to.

He wasn’t an animal. Right?

Rumlow began to speak, his voice carrying a smug undertone that was all too familiar to Soldat. It was a tone that grated on his nerves, driving him to the brink of madness. He found himself despising the self-assured, arrogant way Rumlow spoke, as if he was perched high on a throne that was untouchable, immune to any form of downfall.

"Rise and shine, we have a unique surprise prepared just for you today," Rumlow declared, sauntering over with a gait that oozed the arrogant confidence he always fronted. His steps were strong and assured, resonating a kind of authority that was hard to ignore. Soldat barely had time to process the situation before he felt the cold presence of the guards clustering around him. Almost mechanically, they secured a thick, intimidating metal collar around his neck and arms. They had done this many times, and were experts at securing them before the asset had time to react.

Tiny rings punctuated the cold metal, attached to long, unwieldy bars. It was an apparatus designed for control, allowing them to maintain a safe distance from him while forcibly guiding him to move according to their whims and direction. The sudden and rough manhandling sparked a primal instinct within Soldat. He began to struggle against his captors, his body twisting and turning, writhing in the unforgiving grip of the bindings.

"Alright, that's enough. You should realize by now that struggling gets you nowhere," Rumlow sternly declared. He then turned on his heels, initiating their journey through the winding, oppressively dark corridors of the clandestine underground base. The team had forcefully guided him along, feeling the solid resistance he put up against his restraints. Despite his efforts, his legs continued to move forward in a mechanical fashion, carrying him onward to an unknown fate. The asset was exhibiting more resistance than usual, a defiance that was palpable in the tension of his body. Yet, Rumlow didn't pay any mind to this show of rebellion. He was well aware that after this ordeal, the asset would inevitably become much more compliant and manageable, stripped of his will to resist.

As Soldat was roughly manipulated through the threshold and into the new room, he wasn’t surprised that it held no distinct visual difference from the rest. The room was devoid of any unique color or material that would make it stand out from the other rooms he had already seen. The walls were the same drab shade, the floor was made of the same cold stone, and the air smelled just as musty. The only detail that caught Soldat's attention was Pierce, who was standing by a small, yet fully functioning smith’s furnace.

Pierce's back was turned to them, his arms crossed over his chest in a display of casual authority. He was engrossed in his observation of the red hot coals in the furnace, appearing to be in deep thought. The coals glowed with a mesmerizing intensity, casting flickering shadows that danced across the room. Tiny embers floated gently through the air, creating a surreal, fiery snowfall whenever Pierce moved around a long iron pole that was submerged in the heat. The pole, silver and gleaming, was halfway buried in the crackling coals, absorbing the heat that radiated from them.

Before the asset could even begin to comprehend the situation, he was forcibly stripped of his clothing, manhandled and roughly shoved against a harsh, unforgiving metal wall. His arms were yanked above his head with such force that it caused a painful strain on his muscles, particularly on the side where his cold, mechanical arm was attached. The pull of the metal limb was relentless, tugging insistently at the already stressed muscles of his back. They then made sure his ankles were securely bound, making it impossible for him to twist or turn his body, effectively rendering him helpless and restrained. His cheek was pressed firmly against the icy cold silver of the wall, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his flushed skin. His eyes, wide with confusion, darted around as he tried to make sense of his predicament, his brows knitted together in a deep furrow.

He was at a loss. He didn’t understand what they were doing to him. Could this be a part of his training? He had been subjected to just about everything, becoming accustomed to various forms of physical and mental torture. But this…he had no clue what this was. He was beginning to feel an inner battle, his brain suddenly felt too loud. He wasn’t used to hearing so many thoughts, the repetitive wiping and cryostasis ensured he was emotionless and focused on a single mission or task. He must be due for another brainwashing session.

Pierce appeared to be lost in a sea of deep thought. The weight of their impending plan lay heavy on his shoulders, a battle between rising to rule or plummeting into the unforgiving abyss of defeat was fast approaching. It was Hydra's chance to shine, to finally establish their supremacy. He seemed to be carefully considering the possible scenarios, weighing each outcome against the other. Although he held a firm belief in their imminent success, he was starkly aware of the risks involved. If they faltered, if they failed, there was a very real possibility they’d lose their most valuable asset. This was not a prospect he relished. As much as it irritated him, he wanted to ensure his legacy, a lasting mark of his leadership on Hydra and ownership of the soldier who became the fist.

In a moment of introspection, he reached out, stirring the metal rod amongst the glowing coals. He observed silently, captivated by the mesmerizing dance of the embers as they burst from the coals and elegantly floated down to the floor. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind nothing but their fleeting beauty and the whispering echo of their sizzle, a stark reminder of the transient nature of power and control.

In one swift, deliberate motion, he pulled the rod from the smoldering coals, the tip of it glowing yellow, a color that faded gradually into a vibrant orange as it traced down the length of the shaft. Pierce turned around slowly, his dark suit miraculously untouched despite him being in such close proximity to the blazing heat of the furnace.

With measured and unhurried strides, he walked over to the asset, his predatory gaze observing the man's body with a level of intensity that was almost wolfish. His countenance, however, remained stern and unyielding, betraying no hint of emotion. Pierce was good at that. He held out the rod towards the asset, the end that burned the hottest bearing the symbol that the asset served - the emblem of Hydra. Fear caught in the asset’s eyes before he could hide it, he found himself doubting whether they were really going to go through with this.

But was that such a thing here? This place, this Hell on earth.

It wasn’t like he had time to react before he felt white-hot pain erupt from his lower back, right above the left side of his ass. The pain was excruciating, and he bit his tongue trying to hold in any sort of discomfort…but it was pointless. No amount of struggle could hold back the scream that left his scratchy throat. The rod melted his flesh and scorched his poor nerves, he could feel it in the tips of his toes, and he swore his metal arm felt hot. This was almost as bad as being wiped in that torturous chair, but at least after a few long seconds even that seemed to fade with his mind melding against his trigger words.

This was different, it got worse as the seconds dragged on, and Pierce didn’t seem like he was going to pull it off anytime soon. He held the rod taut, pressing firmly into the asset’s scarred skin, not like the asset could struggle much with his restraints anyway. With a calculated mind and a discerning eye, he strategically found a spot that was devoid of many scars. He wanted the emblem to stand out, to show without any competition from the numerous other marks that littered the asset’s body. It would shine out prominently against the skin, the deep, bold mark of it. This emblem wasn't just any ordinary mark - it was a sign of ownership, a declaration of dominance. The thought of it, the sheer power it represented, brought Pierce an overwhelming rush of sadistic satisfaction.

When he finally pulled the rod away, it had all but cooled completely, so parts of the asset’s skin were ripped away. The cauterized wound reopened as the metal was torn off roughly, Pierce let out a small grunt from the gesture. He carelessly tossed the pole back into the furnace, now not caring for it. The asset could smell the remains of his flesh burning in the furnace, it made him sick. The asset felt genuine fear, even after the deed was done, he couldn’t see it but the feeling was so agonizing he didn’t want to look at his new branding.

In an agonizingly slow pace, he was methodically detached from the wall by the nameless, faceless agents. As the restraints were removed, his body gave way, too weak to support his own weight. He crumbled to the floor, his body convulsing and shaking as if he were in shock, a reaction to the branding he had been subjected to. Unlike before, the agents didn’t bother with the formalities of restraining him to move him in the same manner. There were no thick, oppressive collars or tight bindings this time. Instead, they carelessly slung his limp arms around their shoulders, and he was unceremoniously dragged out, back to the cold, harsh reality of his cell.

He must’ve been deemed harmless by now, a muzzled, drugged dog without the will to fight. His mind was clouded, foggy with pain and fear by the time he was tossed back into his holding cell, discarded like a worthless ragdoll they had grown tired of. The asset felt his fear of Pierce, the orchestrator of his torment, multiply tenfold. During that horrific branding, the barbaric and dehumanizing torture, he remained as even as stone…Pierce didn’t utter a single word.

He didn’t have to.

..........

Thanks for reading.

-🕊

#my writing #hydra trash party #winter soldier #bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #winter soldier whump #brock rumlow #dead dove fic #darkfic

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spotsupstuff · 10 months

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Remember when you were just minding your own business talking about rain world food and someone brought up eating neurons and a massive influx of people came to profess their love for the taste of neurons? It was me spot, I was the first one to mention eating neurons on that day, and remember when you were tormented by your own creation? A deer with an unrelenting hatred for the universe? IT WAS ME SPOTSUPSTUFF I was the one who made the ask to Kiki that made you want to draw an ancient riding a rain deer, all leading to that fateful post.

And let's not forget the deers friend, Ippeb was it? You already know that IT WAS ME who sent that ask.

But oh where would we be if that was all, let's not forget when someone sent all your iterators a pearl made of hyper realistic cake leading to an unending torrent of cake asks. IT. WAS. ME. I've been there, sewing the seeds of unintentional torment from the very beginning! I'm every bad meme you've regretted making!

(though in my defense I stopped talking about any of them once it became clear the joke was no longer funny, I think my last beppi ask was the "STOP POSTING ABOUT BEPPI!" Among us meme)

-torment inflictor

my gods...

a plague trails after my internet presence, spelling ill will underneath my name without my knowledge. will you imprint the list of your sins across my grave's inscription, if you haunt me with such vigor?

for what reason do you act this way. for what reason should you inflict sick memes and jokes upon me, yet? is it just the unfortune of the universe's decisions that leads your hand and mind this direction? proding those who feast upon brain matter, rageful deer and peaceful fangs, pearls made of dough... what will be your next crime? what will be your next breach of mercy?

what will you break me with next? from what distance? when will my annoyance over ran into the ground jokes inevitably rise again?

oh what vile horros...

#spot says stuff

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denimbex1986 · 10 months

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'Ever since the atomic genie was unleashed at the end of World War II, popular culture has been hooked to the bomb: part morbid fascination, part coping mechanism, hundreds of films, video games, books, songs, art installations and TV shows have had us gaze upon a mushroom cloud. And for every Mad Max: The Road Warrior or Fallout dreaming up a punk rock, fantastical playground out of the post-nuclear apocalypse, there's the Sheffield-set social horror Threads or American nightmare The Day After, mining disquieting terror out of the brutal truth of nuclear war.

On watching The Day After, broadcast to 100 million Americans in 1983, Ronald Reagan wrote in his diary: “It's very effective and left my greatly depressed. […] My own reaction was one of having to do all we can to have a deterrent and to see there is never a nuclear war.” You'd imagine he had more than a few sleepless nights over it.

There's a unique fear factor to nuke movies, after all: they depict an unthinkable, terrifying possibility. Perhaps it was more appreciable an anxiety at the height of the Cold War, but global events of the last eighteen months have reminded us that nukes never went anywhere. Most recently, Christopher Nolan's Oppenheimer, a biopic of the “father of the atomic bomb,” has brought nuclear nightmares back to mass audiences, no doubt compounded by the macabre kismet of releasing in the shadow of the Ukraine conflict. Literal nightmares, according to some reports.

So how can we tackle our renewed, burgeoning fears of the bomb? Some might suggest you run a thousand miles in the other direction and try to find a nice, comfy bunker before the end days come, but we're proponents for tackling terror head-on, with a little cinematic exposure therapy...

8. Oppenheimer (2023)

Oppenheimer is essentially a prequel to the rest of the films listed here — the one that started them all! For better or worse. Christopher Nolan's three-hour biopic covers the life and times of the American nuclear physicist J. Robert Oppenheimer, credited to his later chagrin as the father of the atomic bomb. Part film about men who speak to each other urgently in shadowy rooms, part court drama, Oppenheimer doesn't drop its horror bomb until right at the end, but when it does, it hits with shockwave force. Tormented by his invention, Oppenheimer imagines nuclear war as not a possibility but the terrible inevitability of the weapon he has unleashed upon the world. In his mind's eye, the world is consumed by a gluttonous blaze, like an unending forest fire, until nothing's left. It's a staggering ending that'll have you forcibly removing your clammy, grip-locked hands from your armrests...'

#Oppenheimer #Christopher Nolan

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ambivertwriter · 3 years

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“Happy Birthday, Kaachan!” (Izuku Midoriya and Bakugou Katsuki HC/short story)

TW: major character d34th, tying down, su1c1d3 After years and years of torment and harassment from Bakugou, Izuku finally acquired his favor. Bakugou ended up seeing Izuku's unending smile as determination and stoicism against Bakugou, and he liked that about him. Little did Bakugo know that it was all one big performance. Year 3. April 19th. 10:30pm. Izuku had somehow convinced Bakugou to sneak out onto the rooftop with him to see the stars and stay up til midnight so he could be the first to wish him a happy birthday.

They made it to the rooftop and settled on a nice spot on the concrete to look at the twinkling spots that adorned the night sky. After an hour or so, Izuku excused himself to "get Bakugou's present ready". Bakugou thought nothing of it and decided to have his attention drawn back to the stars.

Minutes passed and Bakugou was too entranced by the night to notice Izuku a foot or two's distance with a broken smile and tear streaming down his face like twin waterfalls. In his hand was a rope and a handkerchief, and only he and the gods above knew why at that moment.

Izuku had taken advantage of Bakugou's lack of awareness to lunge at him and make haste in tying him up with the rope, all the while apologizing that it was gym equipment and would most likely give him severe rope burn if he struggled. After he was bound, Bakugou had the handkerchief tied tightly around his mouth, silencing him for the most part, though babbling and incoherent words still escaped. As izuku finished the hardest part of his task tonight, he kicked off the easiest with no hesitation. He sat cross-legged in front of Bakugou, who was shifted to be sitting on his ankles for comfort. Once Bakugou could truly see Izuku's face, the world seemed to stop for him.

"It's 11:50, Kaachan. It's almost time for your present," izuku said, still smiling his biggest and most broken and still with tears flowing.

"At first, I thought you were mean to me because you were just a bully. You'd always call me names and do mean things to me. I stayed by your side because I looked up to you. I stayed by your side because I saw the moments you were nice to me. I really cherished those moments, Kaachan." As izuku was going on, Bakugou was desperately yelling through the handkerchief, hoping, pleading that someone would help him.

"Years went by and I had to face the facts. You don't like me. Not as a friend. Not as a human. Not as a living being. You despise the ground I walk on and pray each day that I perish. It was hard facing this reality; I cried nearly every night since I realized. " At that, Izuku chuckled. That chuckle sent shivers down Bakugo's spine. He thought he'd known fear, but he'd actually never known true fear until right now.

"I couldn't decide what to get you for your birthday. I was about to give up and just give you a card and some money, maybe an All Might figurine. I know there's a limited edition one that just came out. I was so indecisive until I realized something important: amongst all the great gifts you've been given, there's one that you asked for and never received. Since you were born, you were given almost everything you could ever want. You would bark and holler and it would appear before you, all but one thing. How long has it been since middle school, Kaachan? How long have you waited for your gift?" Izuku checked his watch in excitement. The minutes seemed to be ticking too quickly and simply not quickly enough all at the same time. He got up from his place on the concrete, Bakugou trying to do the same, but remembering his predicament. He couldn't do anything but watch in horror as Izuku hopped up onto the ledge, seeming happy about where he was, as if nothing in the world was happening. He even walked back and forth with his arms out as if he were on a balance beam before turning back to face Bakugou.

"It's 11:59, Kaachan! It's almost time to receive your gift!" Bakugou was screaming his throat raw at this point, the idea of what the gift was had finally hit him.

"10 9 8 7 6 5

Time was running short, and though all his struggles, Bakugou simply couldn’t break free in time. 2 1

Happy birthday, Kaachan!"

With wide eyes and a throat that felt as though it was on fire, the shock for what was already in motion cause Bakugou to be able to do nothing but stare as Izuku leaned backwards off the edge of the roof, arms wide from when he greeted happy birthday in rejoice. It was like slow motion as Izuku disappeared from view. The thud heard not even a second later brought everything back into real time. A final, gut wrenching scream ripped itself from Bakugou's throat as he once again struggled against his restraints. Failing again, and feeling desperate, he leaned forward until his head hit the floor and shimmied his way to the ledge. When he reached it, the reality had set in a final time. There, Izuku's body lay on the pavement down below, lifeless. Through squinting and cautiously leaning forward, Bakugou broke down as he realized Izuku died as he lived: smiling. --------------------------------------------------

A/N: Hiya guys, Bebe here! I’m back after a much needed break from writing. I know my goal was originally to post every day, but it turned into more of a chore and an obligation than my passion. Anyways, I’m back! Requests are always open if you’d like an idea to be written out!

#sadbnha #izuku midoriya #bakugou katsuki #major character death #bnha iida #bnha headcanons #bnhashortstories

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brandyovereager · 4 years

Text

The Phoenix Effect - pt. 7

This is the longest chapter I have ever posted! The conversations in this chapter were so much fun to write, I hope you have fun reading them ;). Let me know what you think, I love to hear from you guys!!!

On ao3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195906/chapters/60178285

Summary: Rowan is in Rifthold with Dorian when a strange phenomenon sweeps the land. Those once dead are popping up alive. Everyday, more and more are Reborn. One day Rowan encounters a Reborn young man who refuses to give his name, only asking to know the whereabouts of Celaena Sardothien.

Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius lounged on her throne. Her posture was casual in a way that made her appear superior, but the grin on her face betrayed the childlike joy within her.

Aelin had heard about the reborn phenomenon in Adarlan from Rowan’s reports, and knew all the miraculous details of what was happening. It shouldn’t have been as much of a shock as it was for her to hear that reborns were showing up in Terrasen.

The first ones arrived in towns near the border between Terrasen and Adarlan. Within a week there were reborns appearing in Orynth. Luckily, Aelin was a swift and wise leader. She was able to quickly institute a procedure for helping reborns similar to the one in Adarlan.

The whole situation was managing smoothly, her mate would be returning home soon, and just three days ago Aelin found yet another reason to be happy.

It seemed there was no real logic to where the reborns popped up. It didn’t coincide with where they died—or even where they had lived most of their lives—because when Aelin last visited the reborn specialists’ center, she was reunited with a dear friend she thought was lost forever.

Somehow the magical force behind this phenomenon had brought Nehemia Ytger to Orynth, alive and well.

Their reunion was joyous and tearful. Aelin had so much to explain to Nehemia, things she never had the chance to say, but all she could get out were incoherent sobs of delight. Several minutes of heartfelt embrace later, the pair was sat close together and calm enough to delve into their much needed conversation.

The story spilled out of Aelin faster than she could think—along with a stream of pent-up apologies and guilt for what happened to her friend. Aelin had blamed herself for so much after Nehemia died, and all that shame came resurfaced as she sat across from the other young woman.

Nehemia adamantly denied any guilt on Aelin’s part, but made sure Aelin knew that she would be forgiven anyway. After sufficient reassurance and long overdue healing, the two friends jumped right in to all the wonderful updates on Aelin’s life.

The young queen excitedly took her old friend on a tour around her castle and introduced her to her court—most of it, at least. Nehemia and Lysandra hit it off wonderfully, and the three spent many hours together with broad smiles on their faces. It filled Aelin’s heart to see two people she loved get along so well. She couldn’t wait for Nehemia to meet Rowan.

Now, three days after their reunion, Nehemia sat beside her in the throne room while she held her court. The two friends exchanged many secret smiles as various courtiers made their—often ridiculous—remarks.

From outside the throne room, Aelin could hear a commotion begin amongst her guards. The Fae queen sat up straighter in her seat and focused her gaze on the large doors ahead of her. As expected, they soon opened and a servant entered.

“Your Majesty, two new reborns have arrived and wish to speak to you.” That was quite odd. Why would her guard have gotten in a fuss over a couple of reborns?

“Reborns should be sent to the specialists’ center to find help. Why should these two be brought to see me?”

“You know these ones, My Queen, they are your family.” A jumble of feelings rushed through Aelin with the servant’s statement, and the look on his face betrayed his knowledge of her reaction.

“My family? Send them in.” Aelin was tingling and buzzing down to her fingertips. The possibility of her own family being amongst those reborn had always been there, but she hadn’t let herself believe it would happen.

The doors to her throne room opened to reveal a male and female, each with golden hair. The male Aelin recognized immediately, and she leapt from her seat to meet him in an embrace.

“Gavriel.” The golden-haired male held her firmly to him with just as much enthusiasm as Aelin felt herself. She had missed him, and Aedion had too.

Stepping back from the beloved Fae, Aelin turned to look at the female beside him. Her heart jumped for a second before she realized that—despite the many similar features—the woman was not her mother. This was Aedion’s mother. There was no denying it, her face so blatantly Ashryver. It was easy to see why Gavriel had once suspected Aelin to be her child.

“I don’t think we ever met, but I am Aelin Galathynius—Rhoe and Evalin’s daughter—and you are Aedion’s mother.” There was no question in her voice.

“Yes, I am Andelin Ashryver. It is wonderful to finally meet you, Aelin. I loved your mother very much, and I owe her everything. You are her spitting image.” Aelin’s heart both warmed and grew heavy.

“I have been told that a lot,” Aelin smiled lightly, “as I’m sure you have too.” Andelin threw a wry smile back at her.

“The Ashryver genes are strong.” Aelin had to agree.

“Aedion got them as well. He looks very much like you.” Andelin’s face softened at Aelin’s mention of her son. Aelin continued, “You would be proud of him—for many reasons.”

“I am incredibly proud of who he has become, but I’m afraid I can’t take much credit for that.” Aelin recognized clearly the guilt and sadness Andelin felt over her son’s upbringing. “Do you know where he is? I need to speak with him.” Aelin grimaced slightly in response.

“It’s rotten timing but Aedion is actually in Adarlan right now fetching my mate for me.” Aelin reached out to grab the other woman’s arm in reassurance. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you’d like, though. I will have a suite prepared for the both of you immediately, right near Aedion’s.” These two were family, she would not have them be anywhere else.

A servant was promptly summoned and sent to ready their suite. Another servant was directed to find Lysandra, who arrived minutes later. Similar to Aelin’s reaction, Lysandra first recognized Gavriel and rushed to meet him in an embrace.

Aelin watched her friend closely as she finally took in the woman next to Gavriel. She could see the shifter piece things together and widen her eyes slightly in realization. Lysandra’s gaze flickered over to Aelin and the queen nodded in affirmation.

“I should introduce you to my dear friend, Lady Lysandra Ashryver. She is Aedion’s wife. Lysandra—you have met Gavriel—and this is Andelin Ashryver, Aedion’s mother.”

————

The journey back to Terrasen was too gods-damned long.

It wasn’t even that Rowan was sick of walking for hours on end, day after day—though that was certainly part of it. Rowan needed to get back to his mate. He had so much he needed to tell her. So much had happened that she would need time to process, and he would have to be by her side anchoring her as she did.

Even more, though—selfish as it may be—he just missed her. He had been separated from his love for too long. He ached with the knowledge that the other half of his immortal soul was not beside him. It was a challenge every night to lay down in a cold bed by himself and fall asleep without holding her. It was wrong. Mates were not meant to be apart.

For the past week he had been walking the long road back to his love, and it was awful. There were far too many miles between them. He wanted to forget about his traveling companions and just fly back to her as fast as his wings allowed. Surely they didn’t need him walking beside them—after all, Aedion had travelled all the way to Adarlan without Rowan. Terrasen’s royal caravan was more than enough enough manpower if they found themselves in trouble.

He couldn’t leave Aedion alone with Sam, though. The young Ashryver had not taken to the reborn assassin very well. Aedion had no great love for anyone from Aelin’s time as Celaena, often choosing to avoid that part of his cousin’s past. During the seven days they’d been on the road together, the male had only spoken to Sam a handful of times—each in a gruff and unfriendly manner.

Rowan supposed that might be for the best. He didn’t put it past Aedion to spill the truth about Aelin in some attempt to torment the boy. Needless to say, the unlikely trio travelled in a state of unending tension.

Rowan managed to keep himself as a buffer between the other two most of the time, but it was exhausting him. The Fae wasn’t exactly overjoyed at the presence of Sam either. The two had spent a fair amount of time together back when Rowan was helping Sam in his search, but ever since the young man’s identity was revealed it was awkward for Rowan to be near him. They had never spoken much—and that was certainly fine with Rowan—but the silent walking left Rowan alone with his thoughts, and he was a little uncomfortable with the thoughts he had when he knew Sam Cortland was beside him.

He was especially uncomfortable when he considered the thoughts Sam might be having himself as they travelled.

Sam knew nothing about what Aelin’s life was now. He had no idea she was the Queen of Terrasen, that she was an immortal Fae, that she was mated and married. The Aelin he had last known was Celaena, and Sam was in love with her.

Yes, those thoughts didn’t sit well with Rowan.

The three travelers and their caravan were currently surrounded by dense forest. Rowan didn’t mind too much—it shielded them from the hot sun—but it did mean they were farther from lodging and refreshment. They hadn’t encountered many others on their journey so far, and they hadn’t seen any intelligent life this entire day.

A bush about three feet to Rowan’s right rustled and the Fae turned to watch as a deer bolted away, startled at the sight of them. His hand relaxed from where he’d reached for his sword, taking notice of Aedion beside him doing the same. They might both be protected members of Terrasen’s court, but the warrior’s instinct to defend never went away. Rowan was sure the guards in their caravan had instructions to ensure Rowan’s—and Aedion’s—safety first, but if an attack did happen, the male doubted he’d be able to run for cover while others endangered themselves to protect him.

He and Aelin had similar opinions on that matter. They were powerful, immortal warriors. As the leaders of Terrasen, it was their responsibility to serve and protect their people, not the other way around.

For the first time that day, Rowan spotted what looked to be human figures ahead of them on the path. There were two of them, with hoods over their heads, unmoving on the side of the road. Beneath the cloak of one figure was a pair of high boots, and beneath that of the other Rowan could see full skirts, indicating the pair was likely a male and female.

As their caravan neared the two travelers, Rowan started to detect more details about their appearance. Their cloaks were high-quality and made from an expensive-looking hunter green cloth, not typical attire for two lone wanderers. Anyone of money or status traveled with a caravan, like he and Aedion were.

The pair turned slightly more towards the large group approaching them and the woman called out at the sight of Terrasen’s flag on their uniforms.

“Terrasen! The royal caravan!” The woman nudged the man beside her to draw his attention to them. “Are members of the royal family with you?”

The caravan’s head—Captain Algaard—stopped their advance and addressed the woman.

“We are of Terrasen, yes, and this caravan is transporting important members of the court.” The guard kept his answer vague so as not to reveal too much to a stranger. “What do you want of them?”

“We must speak to Aelin Galathynius. We need to warn her.” That was concerning.

“What must you warn Her Majesty about, traveler?”

“It may be difficult to believe, but my husband and I should not be alive. Someone has tampered with death, Captain, and we need to tell her.” Aedion approached the captain and grabbed him by the shoulder.

“We are alright, Algaard. Two reborns don’t pose much threat to His Majesty or myself. They are just confused.” Aedion then turned to the traveler woman. “Do you need help, kind woman? Are you in need of provisions?” The couple seemed to notice Aedion for the first time. The woman’s eyes widened in recognition.

“Aedion?” The Ashryver male paused in surprise—an emotion Rowan shared—before walking closer to the couple. Rowan could see the moment Aedion realized who the woman was because something in his face crumbled.

“Evalin?” Evalin. Even if Evalin were a common name—which Rowan didn’t believe it was—a closer look at the woman was all he needed to confirm that she was, in fact, Evalin Ashryver Galathynius. This woman, reborn to a body not much older than Aelin’s, was the near twin of his mate. It stirred something deep within the Fae to look at her.

Aelin’s mother was one of the dead brought back by this strange phenomenon. From the woman’s statement earlier of her husband, the man beside Evalin was likely Aelin’s father. These were his mate’s parents, ones she had grieved for years and missed every day.

Rowan snapped out of his thoughts to find Aedion in a firm embrace with Evalin and Rhoe. They didn’t appear to be speaking, but he had a feeling emotions were being communicated in other ways. These two were important to Aedion as well as Aelin. They had been his guardians during his early years.

Rowan felt a little intrusive watching such an intimate moment, so he turned to address the rest of their caravan. They would be adding a few more to their party, it would seem. Evalin had said she needed to speak to Aelin, and Rowan very much agreed.

“These are Her Majesty’s parents, Rhoe and Evalin Galathynius. We will be bringing them with us. They are members of Terrasen’s royal family and should be included in your protection the same as Prince Aedion and I.” The news was understandably shocking to the guards, but they remained serious and registered Rowan’s statement as the order it was. He continued, “Someone prepare them refreshment.” That was enough to set the group moving about.

When the king turned back to the reunited trio, he found them more composed than before. Aedion met his eyes and Rowan took that as his cue to approach.

“I am honored to meet you, Your Highnesses. I am Rowan Whitethorn—“ Rhoe cut him off before he could continue.

“The Fae warrior. I have heard many stories about you, Rowan Whitethorn. I have to say I have always admired your skill—the stuff of my childhood legends—but we have no want for Maeve’s presence in Terrasen. Thank you for helping Aedion, however you may have, but we should make the rest of our journey alone.” Rowan couldn’t help but smile slightly at Rhoe’s words.

“I can assure you, Rhoe Galathynius, that I no longer have any ties to Maeve. My allegiance lies solely with Terrasen and its queen, both of which I would protect with my life. You can rest knowing my particular skills will only be used for you, not against.” Rowan spoke firmly to hopefully convey how serious he was, and he would have continued had Rhoe not butted in yet again.

“You are blood sworn to Maeve, don’t think I am unaware, you have no choice where your allegiances lie.”

“That oath was broken by Maeve herself. I am now bound to Aelin completely, by ties even stronger than blood.” Rowan had to admit, witnessing Rhoe Galathynius’ face as he explained the situation was quite amusing. “As I was about to say before, I am Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius, mate and husband of Aelin Ashryver Whitethorn Galathynius, Queen of Terrasen. I will, in fact, be traveling to Terrasen with you. The whole purpose of this caravan is to bring me back to my mate, but we are more than happy to have you join us.”

The wry look Aedion gave Rowan indicated that he had not hid his satisfaction well. How could he blame him, though? It wasn’t every day you got to tell your mate’s resurrected parents that you were soul bound to their daughter.

@rowaelinforeverworld

@flowersinvegas

@aelin-queen-of-terrasen

@camixd93

@lord-douglas-the-third

@montse121296

@dank-queen7

@slytheringalathynius

@rhyswhitethorn

@jesstargaryenqueen

@trilogiesrule

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blaster-aichi · 4 years

Text

Cardfight!! Vanguard Extra Story IF 22 things

forgot to post this, heck

Aw, cute shopping trip because they feel things are drawing to an end, barrier or no — [gets distracted by the little girl who looks just like Shingo]

Given the topic of conversation, felt Emi’s downcast expression was a hint of bittersweet realization that her time with Shuka is running down, then get smacked with even ruder sads.

There’s something massive ironic about Majesty Lord being pulled to the antagonistic side of battle after his role in the original Season 1 and embodying unification between Royal and Shadow Paladins when things get dire, now faced against the both of them.

Ren taught Shuka ‘Bukki’, bless.

Very appreciative of the explanation why Majesty Lord was so importaant to Shuka to Realize, though curious as to why he wouldn’t manifest in the first place.

MISAKI SIGHTED. Please don’t relegate her to post-Legion Mate Quatre Knights of voiceless cameos.

Side-eyes Emi for picking cards purely because of their cuteness, your friend’s calling you out.

With the truth of what led Aichi to ruling Sanctuary, Emi’s moment of finding no alternative but for the blame to fall on him is very relatable; at least some of us have been grasping at any explanation because we couldn’t imagine Aichi doing this of his own will, it’s incongruous with his character, and Emi may have been doing the same, but with options whittling down, she’s been forced to face that scenario that this has been all by his design and it upsets those of us who have been trying to figure out any other scenario, but to her, naturally it’s world-shattering.

How dare you fuckers use the same sads track from episode 7 where she was talking about the Aichi she knew.

He looks so worn down and I’m so upset. — Even his tone when speaking reflects his exhaustion and reluctance to deal with shit. Please let me hug him.

Is this the first time he’s said ‘Toshiki’? Feels like this is the first time he’s said ‘Toshiki’.

Even when they don’t meet, fate crams them into one another’s heads. That’s gay. (But doesn’t go the Legion Mate route and make it a clean injection, both of them have become tremendously distressed and pained and I scream).

Takuto, you can’t just say that in front of him?!

Emi actually draping Aichi’s jacket over her shoulders is so cute, she really is giving it a piggyback ride. After he mentioning it aloud how he left it behind, half-expect returning it to be one of her first gestures once he’s brought out of his antagonist role.

Takuto’s referencing Outside World Aichi brings back thoughts of the previous theory that IF Aichi had been doing all this in an effort to reach outside IF, why do you hurt me in these ways after that backstory, Bushi? At the same time, Takuto needs shaking if he had any inclination that IF Aichi would have the mental fortitude to cope with that possibility existing elsewhere after a lifetime of loneliness.

The poor boy hid in the shadows and hunted for Kai-kun just to verify Takuto’s theory and torment himself more, sweetie no... Considering his methods for keeping his very existence from the potential of breaking the IF illusion, it’s consistent, but sweetie no...

Takuto onto Aichi’s bullshit. The post before this clarifies, but his solemn delivery and feeling responsible for accidentally instigating everything, would like to hope he’ll be able to make a move in helping to rectify Aichi’s state.

Two things: You’re saying he had nothing to pass on through Miwa? And why did he never contact Suiko or Rekka before? Because there was no certainty they were inside IF? Isn’t it apparent they would follow once he and Kourin never returned? Did he even try?

Sad Rena howling noises in the background.

If Aichi is banking on her saving him, never let him know there was a moment where it all got too much and Emi gave up on him. — She’s doing the Misaki episode thing again. — Though it’s understandable the guilt she must feel; they might be correcting the timeline, but she’s conveyed her feelings before that each iteration of a person isn’t any less valid than another; though Kai-kun has come to terms with and accepted that there is another version of himself in a “proper” timeline, the same is essentially true for Aichi and Emi, who for all we know, could/will vanish along with him. It might not just be Emi sympathizing with others and not wanting to write them off as incorrect versions, but trying to validate her own and her brother’s existences as well.

Suiko and Shuka are onto the price the group are going to pay regardless; the preview isn’t subtle about it. Whether it’s Shuka having to move onto another place where more cards are waiting for her to rescue them or something more final awaits her, it’s difficult to tell. Though the former is simply a part of her journey and might not evoke the sorrow from someone like Suiko, it might be a sore spot for her, particularly with everything she, Kourin and Rekka lost, faced with having to watch the same happen to someone else. But Emi herself seems already be aware of this, she’s a smart girl.

IF 23

Squad goals. Squad goals.

Aichi looks ready to straight up murder and have to wonder who taught you how to pull those faces, boy?

If you’re going to be fighting in the area, please keep the babies safe from harm. Who knows what they might see?

What space-time commotion did you guys cause to alert all the other major characters across the city?.

On the one hand, more Majesty Lord Aichi aaaaaaa. On the other hand, that episode title, screams. (Now are you guys directing that to Aichi, Kai-kun or Shuka? Sus)

This take on the “They Never Met” story:

It’s taken a while for the fact IF is taking the route it is with the story to sink in; a lot of thoughts and feelings are still incredibly jumbled, but here goes An Effort.

As someone who's childhood has a lot of overlap with Aichi’s, it’s incredibly painful to actually see him endure it without the beacon of hope that gave him solace and the toll it’s taken on him to endure it. Having a loving family and a sibling could alleviate the pain, there are fond memories with things with my family that don’t make my childhood an unending nightmare, and it’s apparent that he and Emi were particularly close; though understand that by 16, he’s exhausted by it all, pretty sure I was.

I want to believe that he was able to find at least one other hobby to keep his life from being completely devoid of happiness; reading, writing, art, a love of animal, photography, meeting people on the internet, there has to be something. There are plenty of outlets that could have channelled his imagination to keep it from building with no freedom. The lack of clarification about what he spent his time doing does nothing to help this belief or deter the fears that he really never tried to find anything, and really hoping that’s able to change before the season is through.

But something about Aichi’s reasoning really doesn’t line up. He claims to be doing this so that he be the only one who has to suffer. And really struggle to fathom how he could think so when Emi and Shizuka, would and are suffering with him. Emi’s own pain has been right in his face and he’s turned away, he can’t be that narrow-minded to think she isn’t in anguish or that forgetting him would magically erase that of her or Shizuka.

My understanding (or interpretation, headcanon, what have you) of Aichi has always been that his unrelenting kindness stems from knowing well the absolute agony of complete loneliness and hopelessness, so he acts to help alleviate or prevent the same feeling upon others. Vanguard shouldn’t have any bearing on that trait staying with him or not; that’s something within Aichi, not created by one facet of his life that appeared one day, particularly when he’s even more familiar with such a rock bottom, even if the exhaustion of it weighs on him; he’s always put on a smile and done his best for someone else’s sake, no matter the cost to himself — and that is what he’s doing, but it’s incredibly difficult to believe he can only manage that demonstration of kindness towards others when he’s connected to or aware of Vanguard.

I can understand Aichi being worn down, I can understand him being a bit hostile and reluctant. But to lack his good heart and throw everything away, to put his family through the nightmare he has been, I can’t understand that, it just isn’t him. He isn’t that dependent on Vanguard to be a good kid.

With how vital the event and relationship are to both Aichi and Kai-kun, to explore the possibility that they would never meet is fascinating, but this feels like a lukewarm attempt at it, at least in regards to what this episode covered and that in itself is saddening, it feels like an incredible premise with wasted potential, just like Legion Mate. It saddens me immensely that this is how they tell that story, more so when it’s the last one we might ever have from this cast.

Late-Bloomer PsyAichi:

The only possibility, and this is very much a last-ditch at this point, draws on ideas from Override (is there an IF plan in the works? laughs with shovel maybe since the day before epi 1 aired), so chances are these might be as swiftly debunked as other ideas.

With the rapid influx of memories breaking through the IF illusion, Aichi’s imagination’s shackles were released, according to Takuto. The result was Psyqualia overloading Aichi, its poisonous nature of the original continuity repeating itself as a result of festering inside of him for years without usage.

By retaining this nature, it amplifies Aichi’s fixation on Kai-kun, maybe through an amalgamation of other PsyAichi remnants in line with the original continuity who became overwhelmed by that obsession blinding him to the pain that other characters have experienced through their connections with Vanguard or the suffering he’s putting his own family through to see IF secured.

His mind struggles to contend with the sudden explosion of power and his sanity withers when viewing possibilities that he was never granted, reinforced by Takuto’s claim that Kai-kun’s life is better as it is, of Aichi’s strength in those other worlds, of longing to reach his alternative selves and feel his existence holds any value. He doesn’t truly have control over himself as a result of this madness, which is why he refers to Kourin by just her name.

How Sanctuary itself formed, there’s just nothing that comes to mind. Unless IF has special properties that just haven’t been explained that allow for more supernatural events to occur — like Sanctuary’s appearance, the battlegrounds that don’t inflict real world damage on their sites — can’t really wrap head around how Aichi was able to create it.

The original distortion’s root:

Something else that still doesn’t make sense is Shuka being led to Blaster Blade as a withering existence. And as Aichi himself never played a part in that, the past couple of weeks had had me suspicious of Nome, and other fans have been pointing fingers his way as of late. His disappearance in episode 1 hasn’t been addressed, and it’s odd for him to so briefly show up only to seemingly play no part.

It’s just a possibility, but he, whether tainted by something Brandt or sibling jealousy, tampered with the Akashic Records to lure Shuka in and cause the accident that prevented Kai-kun and Aichi from meeting, shaping IF Aichi’s life to keep him from deviating from a path that Nome had set for him, using someone else’s brother (and someone known to be a powerful force is let loose) as a weapon.

If Brandt has a part in any of this, perhaps he infected Aichi with it, to allow it/his Psyqualia/imagination to overload him when exposed to the truth beyond IF.

This is all just grasping at straws at this point because really struggle to see Aichi doing this of his own accord and I believe him to be better than this, I want to believe the writers do too.

#Cardfight!! Vanguard #Cardfight!! Vanguard IF #cfv spoilers #idk i'm just sad and other feelings that don't know how to word #this feels even more difficult to take than if he was being completely controlled or manipulated or something

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qqueenofhades · 5 years

Note

Hilary my dear my darling my love...what would you say to some post-Battle of Winterfell “thank god we’re not dead” Jaime/Brienne?

Full disclosure that I have not watched the show since season 4, only know what happened in this episode via my dash, and have not written for these two since… 2014 or something. But also, reasons.

Brienne is unable to stand the silence.

It is tormenting her, every step she takes, every ice-chafed breath she draws into her battered lungs, every instant that the winter world is quiet enough to hear the rushing of her living heart and the crunch of her living steps. She trusts nothing, cannot bring herself to believe it, that the Night King will not suddenly spring together from ice and ash and resume the attack. The White Walkers are gone, the ground is heaped with corpses, the mighty battlements of Winterfell preside over a frozen abattoir. The dead are starting to be retrieved and named, brought in on makeshift pallets, their own House colours draped over them if they can be found and any honourable blazon if they cannot. Brienne has seen Jorah Mormont and his little cousin Lyanna borne in, and Daenerys’ tear-stained face. Theon Greyjoy is fallen as well – Brienne dreads to tell her lady, though perhaps Sansa already knows – and so too the red priestess. There are others, countless others, Dothraki and Unsullied, men whose names Brienne does not know. But their sacrifice will be remembered. The north always does.

She walks slowly, battered and exhausted, into the shadow of the central keep. She needs to find Pod, she thinks. She needs to know that he is well. Then to the crypts to kneel before Sansa and give her the butcher’s bill, and then –

Brienne’s memories of the night already blur, jolted and smashed, raw shards, images and sensations. Her arms ache with the weight of swinging her sword over and over, and she is so exhausted that she wonders if she has become a wight herself, dead on her feet and yet still walking. She thought she would die every moment, up there on the parapet with Jaime at her side and the Arryn men behind, make an end worthy of a knight in a song, as if that was the only fate left for her. Yet she lived, and then again, and again, torn out of the darkest night Westeros has ever known, ripped her survival with teeth and claws and the strength of her sword. They will sing of Ser Brienne one day, and yet, one thing she has never allowed herself to imagine, she may even hear them.

Brienne finds Pod, assures herself of his survival, but is unable to manage anything else, and he insists that she sleep, as if sleep is in the cards for any of them, as if they can wrap their heads around the fact that thanks to Arya Stark, the war – this war – might be over. Brienne is so proud of her that she could weep, and drown, and never stop. And yet she does not. She is numb. She lifts her hand before her face and stares at it. Flesh, as yet. It does not feel so.

She floats into the halls of winter like a ghost herself. She wants to lie down, yet she fears to stop moving. They could come back. It could begin again, the chaos and the nightmare. They could – they could –

“My lady?”

Brienne jumps a foot, turns, and sees Jaime Lannister.

It seems impossible that he has managed to stray so far from her side, when he was never elsewhere than at it, and indeed, here he is again. He looks even more haggard than she feels, and she does not even remember how to speak for an instant, as he corrects himself, almost diffidently. “Or do you prefer ser now? You are entitled.”

Brienne, she wants to tell him. Call me Brienne.

She starts to nod back to him, their careful distance, their delicate dance, as if anything else about their old lives, their old selves, still matters. And then, to her consternation, her legs give out.

Jaime moves faster than she thought was possible for anyone to move after those unending hours of the deepest and darkest of the seven hells, catches her around the waist, and steadies her. A small shock goes through Brienne at his nearness, and she has some clumsy intention of pushing him off, to insist that she is strong enough, that she has always been. But Jaime is the one man that she does not need to beat or overawe, does not need to prove anything to. He is in awe of her, and in some ways always has been. And as their eyes meet, the weary warmth and pride and worry in them is enough to make her fragile heart shake, a coin flicked with a thumb, spinning and spinning, about to fall.

Quietly Jaime says, “Brienne. Let me see to you.”

When he says it like that, she cannot refuse him.

They bathed like this in Harrenhal, once. In tension and anger and pain, his stump knotted with bloody linen, as he told her the tale of the Mad King, and swooned like a milkmaid in her arms. Perhaps it is fitting, Jaime thinks, that it has once more returned to this.

There is not much hot water to be had, and he is clumsy at hauling it, but he works steadily until the tub is filled, and nods at Brienne to get in. She hesitates, as if she somehow still has maidenly scruple about disrobing in front of him, as if there is anything the two of them have hidden from each other. He is about to tease her gently, that being the only kind he can bear, but nor can he bear to be anything less than utterly devoted to her. Especially because as she continues to stand there, staring into space, he realizes it is not that she is too shy. It is because she is too tired to remember how.

Jaime pauses, decides that the wench can push him away if she so pleases, then walks over and begins to unbuckle Brienne’s breastplate, filthy with soot and smoke and the dried detritus of whatever bloody stuff White Walkers are made of, apart from evil. He works at the straps one-handed, takes it off her, and kneels before her like a squire to undo her greaves, to help her step from her boots. Brienne complies without a word, and he thinks wryly, poignantly, that the world is changed indeed if she has no heart to argue with him. Step by step, he helps her disrobe, until she is clad only in her smallclothes, and the air in the chamber is cold enough that perhaps she does not want to take those off. Then she comes to herself, shucks them off as well, and walks, naked as her nameday, tall as a goddess, to the tub, and steps in.

Jaime’s world is consumed by her, he can see nothing else, as Brienne eases her blackened and bruised and battered body into the water. He takes a step as if to leave her to it, but her shadowed head turns, her breath showing silver in the air even as steam curls from the water. “Jaime?”

(Gods, his heart shakes.)

He pauses, then manages to get his fool arse undressed as well, somehow. His frozen, filthy clothes slap on the stones, he untwists his golden hand and lays it on the sideboard, and climbs in with her.

There isn’t much room in the tub for two – this is not the great stone cisterns of Harrenhal, this is not then, this is not who they were then. They sit jammed almost knee to knee, heads bent together, foreheads touching, her fingers linking convulsively with his underwater, taking his good hand in one and grabbing hold of his stump with the other. She almost seems, his brave, brave wench, as if she might finally cry. Her breathing halts and heaves, her shoulders shaking. Her flesh is littered with raw marks. He wants to set his lips to each one, and kneel before her as she did before him. He never wants to rise.

“My lady,” Jaime whispers at last. “I – ”

He does not know what he wishes to say, but it lifts her head, and he stares into her eyes, the eyes that have, from the first moment, entranced him. Even when he was an arrogant two-handed son of a shit, and she beat him reeling. He lifts his dripping hand and cups her cheek, running his thumb over the strong line of the bone, as her eyelashes flutter and her breath catches and even this, he sees, she cannot truly trust. He can only try to wordlessly etch his love into her, to make her feel it without words, and with that, he leans forward – just as she, convulsively, does the same.

The kiss is awkward and badly angled. They almost knock noses, and then they knock chins, and in true predictable fashion, they’re initially both too stubborn to reposition. But then Jaime turns his head and so does she, and he opens her lips with his tongue, and he has kissed before and she has not, and he would teach her, would teach her everything. However he suspects, as ever, that ultimately, he would be the one to learn far more.

It is an endless moment until they pull apart, just a fraction. Her eyes are blank with shock, as if he might have done that by accident, so he leans in and kisses her firmly and with direct purpose, a challenge that she can recognize and accept. She is confident enough to return it this time, and water sloshes over the edge as he pulls her half on top of him. They float in eternity, even as his aching back jams against the side of the tub. The silence goes on.

Jaime Lannister has always wanted to die in the arms in the woman he loved.

(He wonders now, in this instant, in this rare raw beautiful unbearable stillness, in the gloaming, on the first day of dawn, if he might live instead.)

#got spoilers #jaime x brienne #braime #i have a lot of feelings #extasiswings #ask

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the-foxes-fangs · 5 years

Text

You Should

Requested by @bat-yo-us <3 thank you for your patience, this took me so much longer to get posted than I intended!

Warnings: Angst, description of violence

***

It was well into the morning as he sat at his desk writing rapidly, documents piled in an untidy but systematic way around him. He had been away long enough for things to pile up, and had begun to catch up on it as soon as he’d returned, expecting trouble to follow him home as it often did.

He hadn’t slept, he wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway, and it was better to be productive than to waste time waiting in the dark for a shot or a blade. He rolled his shoulders back and sighed irritably at the stiffness in them.

They had followed him to edge of the castle town, he was certain of that, but it seemed they hadn’t come as far as his manor. His patience and energy were both too thin to play the spider in his web any longer, he’d just find them and be done with it.

He stood and stretched, shaking off the lassitude as best he could before heading out. He found her at his door, her face twisted into an expression of worry at the sight of him.

“I’m afraid I haven’t the time to tease you today, little mouse, though I’m sure waiting is its own torment.” He said, his voice huskier than he wanted it to be as he narrowed his eyes against the sharp morning light.

“Have you even slept?” She asked, sweeping a critical look over him. She looked enviably fresh, her beauty marred only by the concern in her eyes.

“What’s the phrase? I’ll sleep when I’m dead. In the meantime, much as I’d rather stay and toy with you awhile, I have business that I can’t delay.” He answered, as he reached out to smooth a strand of hair behind her ear, looking into the shadows over her shoulder. “Run along back to the castle and entertain yourself like a good girl.”

She put her hands on her hips are knit her brows at that, the corners of her mouth turned down as she blew out an annoyed sigh. “Spare me the patronizing nonsense. You look and sound like you haven’t rested in days. Whatever your business, I’m sure it can wait for a few hours.”

“You seem to have mixed me up with Mitsunari my dear, are you sure you weren’t on your way to comb his hair and hand feed him?” He snapped back at her, hoping she would leave him as he began to walk toward the road.

She struggled to keep up with him, her sandals clattering as she jogged alongside him. “I’m not joking, Mitsuhide. Even you have limits. I’m worried about you.”

He snorted in frustration and quickened his pace, heading toward the castle. “My, what monumental arrogance you have for such a weak little thing, thinking that I need care and keeping from the likes of you.” He shot back with a sneer.

He had wanted to deal with his troubles and seek her out as he usually did when the dust settled and the blood was washed clean. Most of the time, her habit of surprising him and her stubborn insistence on caring for him were the things he liked best about her, but after two days running on tension he was in no mood to argue with her or anyone else. They reached the entrance to the castle and he stopped so abruptly she tripped and nearly staggered into him.

“Nobody ever accused you of being agreeable, but come on. I love you and I worry for you, even if you won’t listen to me.” She muttered, searching his eyes. She reached for his hand, but he jerked it out of her grasp and stepped back.

“Oh so you’re well aware that I’m not going to roll over and bark on command when you flutter your lashes at me?” He snapped at her, gesturing toward the castle gate. “Surely even your little mind can grasp the idea that I have better things to do than tarry at your pleasure all damn day.”

“Oh go to hell!” She snarled at him, the sharp hurt in her eyes like a needle in his heart. She turned on her heel and walked away stiffly, her shoulders held straight and high.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead and sighed deeply as he leaned against the cool stone of the castle wall for a few moments to compose himself. There was no point in regret. He hadn’t expected her to have unending patience, and it was less complicated if she hated him.

He turned to trudge to the edge of the town, pushing the dull ache of the encounter aside to put the last of his energy toward his work. There were no more than three, that much he was certain of. Ideally he would’ve brought a retainer with him, but they were especially cautious, so he’d just have to be his own bait.

Soft clouds scudded by overhead and dappled the grass with pleasant shadows, as he crouched and made it look as if he was searching for signs of them. He playacted at losing their tracks in a small copse of trees and turned as if giving up. He heard the faint rustle and pad of feet just as he saw her walking toward him, her hands balled into fists at her sides, eyes red, face flushed with exertion and emotion.

He cursed his own exhaustion, he should have noticed her following him.

“Mistuhide I’m sorry--” she called out as she hurried toward him, and he saw her eyes widen, saw her hold up a hand as she leapt forward without a moments hesitation, knocking him aside as a shot shattered the quiet air. He felt the heat of the lead as it flew past him and struck her, knocking her backward. She landed with a sickening thud that made his mind go blank for a moment.

The front of her pale green kimono was blackened and stained, and her face looked horribly pale and twisted in pain. His ears were ringing as he turned to face his would-be assassins, every muscle in his body whipcord taut with rage and hatred now.

He couldn’t have said how long it took for them to die, but it was too long.

He felt the numb grip of dread strangle the breath out of him as he knelt by her and searched frantically for a pulse with shaking blood slicked hands. He heard her cough and tried to clear his mind and focus on lifting her carefully into his arms, the warmth of her blood soaking his arm as he raced toward Ieyasu’s manor. Her eyes fluttered open and then closed again, her face a terrible greyish white as her head rested against his shoulder as he ran, and she tried to speak but he couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears and the pounding of his heart.

The fear that had paced like a caged animal from the moment he had laid a hand on her had its cold breath on his neck now, cruel laughter dogging his every footfall.

You knew that it would end this way.

He yelled hoarsely at Ieyasu’s door, and followed him down the hall to lay her down on a clean futon. He was shaking, fighting to keep his hands steady as he cradled her head while Ieyasu pulled back her kimono with practiced hands and wiped away the blood to reveal a ragged groove torn through the skin and muscle above her collarbone.

You’ve always known.

“If she were any taller she’d be dead. It looks worse than it is, though.” Ieyasu said, as he cleaned the wound.

He scowled questioningly at Mitsuhide. “What the hell happened?”

“She followed me-- I thought she was in the castle...” He answered in barely coherent fragments, his eyes fixed on the pale blue veins visible in her ashen face.

“Are you wounded?” Ieyasu asked sharply, peering at him.

“No-- I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”

“It never is, is it?” He shot back with a shake of his head.

Ieyasu finished cleaning and dressing the wound, and brought Mitsuhide a basin of water to wash his spattered hands and face, finally giving up the fight to send him away as she rested.

She nearly died for the likes of you, and you’re too weak to do anything but sit here.

He knelt by her, hands folded uselessly in his lap, head hung down. He drifted between checking her breathing with panic and collapsing into nightmares, seeing her fall again and again, always reaching to catch her, always closing his fingers on empty air.

You knew and yet here you sit as if you have a right to even look at her.

His own voice ricocheted and repeated through his mind, dripping potent poison onto the raw guilt that sat like a burning stone in his chest.

All sense of time had left him when he felt a soft touch on his hands and found her groping for him in the dim of the night. Her fingers were cold as he took her hand, eyes stinging, barely able to move when he knelt toward her to kiss her forehead and her hand.

“You’re alright. I was so afraid when I saw those men coming for you.” She whispered, her voice faint and hoarse.

“You shouldn’t be worrying about me! Why are you--” He asked raggedly, interrupted she reached up to put a finger on his lips.

“I told you, Mitsuhide. I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.” He shot back, bitterly.

She sighed and made a noise of pain as she shifted to peer up into his face. “When have I ever listened to you? I’m glad I didn’t listen to you today. I’d rather have you alive and furious with me than live without you.”

She gripped his hand as his body shook. “I’m sorry.” He said, brokenly. He tried to draw his hand away, to make himself leave her, to stay away and keep her safe.

“No. I took a shot for you, so you owe me now.” She said, and caught his sleeve weakly. “Stay with me. Lay down with me. I dreamt that you had died and I...” she trailed off and coughed.

He stretched out next to her, gingerly, sore in his body and his heart, too far gone to turn back now, whatever his fear howled. She knit her fingers through his and pressed her head against his shoulder.

“I’m furious with myself.” He said, softly.

“There’s no point in being angry now.” She answered as he turned to stroke her hair gently. “I’m alive, you’re alive. Be grateful instead.”

“I love you.” He murmured.

“You should.” She answered sweetly.

#cybird ikemen #ikemen sengoku #ikemen sengoku mitsuhide #ikesen mitsuhide #Mitsuhide Akechi #mitsuhide #mitsuhide x mc #requested fic #foxwritesfic #angst and fluff

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snowbellewells · 5 years

Text

Self Promo Sunday: “Scaling the Walls”

Originally, I started this one before the season four finale actually aired, though the idea and set-up were based on the promos, and I didn’t finish it until that episode had shown. Still, this is more my own idea of how the “Emma being trapped in a tower and needing a rescue” plot could have played out. I revisited it the other day and thought that someone else might also enjoy it on Self-Promo Sunday!

"Scaling the Walls”

By: @snowbellewells

Wave upon wave of pain racks her body, radiating through unendingly, nearly rocking Emma Swan off her feet. The only thing keeping her from falling to the floor in an unconscious heap are the chains binding her hand and foot to the stone wall of her tower prison. Her eyes slam shut, and she tries fruitlessly to press her hands to her brow, only to have the motion arrested halfway through by the shortness of her bonds. It feels as if her head may split in two if she cannot exert some pressure to keep her senses together, but all her efforts are for naught. She is trapped and will remain so, no end to her agony in sight.

A strangled scream rises from her throat, pouring past her lips out the window into the trackless woods surrounding her cell and reverberating off its walls. She feels her heart wrenching and shattering as this psychotically unrecognizable version of Snow White plunges her hand once more into Emma's chest and grasps, squeezing and trying to pull out her own daughter's heart. The fact that this is her mother, made bloodthirsty and malicious by some wretched curse, only makes the torture worse, as the face whose kindness Emma has always treasured grins wickedly and Snow throws back her head with an evil laugh. "Oh darling! If you think you will ever defeat me, you're living in a dream world. You as the uprising’s pathetic hope?!? Their promised Savior?" The words are hissed right in Emma's face as the clawed fingers squeeze her pounding organ tighter and jerk at it again, "It’s almost laughable. I am the Queen, and you will rot in this tower, unless you relinquish your lovely heart, and your magic, and submit to my control."

Emma is practically trembling with pain and exertion, sweat running down her forehead and stinging in her eyes, fists clenched at the effort it takes merely to retain awareness through this newest onslaught, petrified by what might happen to her if she slips away. She bites almost through her lower lip, trying not to scream or cry anymore – knowing it only brings this twisted version of Snow pleasure. She has also long since ceased trying to remind her mother of the truth, as it also brought only pain at previous attempts. It hardly bears mentioning that her magic is either not working or no longer accessible to her. She is certain that this Snow won't take that for an answer. Still, can't the other woman see that if Emma had control of her powers she wouldn't stay here at their mercy? Tears fall from Emma's eyes silently at the cruel, unknowing stare focused on her, but she holds back any sound.

The new Evil Queen twists her hand within Emma's chest, and Emma is sure she must be dying. A howl of agony tears from her throat against her will and echoes in horrible crescendo. The sounds of abject despair and torment go winging out the lone window of the tower to be heard for miles around by those who ignore the cries of a rumored hero supposedly suffering at the Queen's hand.

The heartless slave version of Prince Charming steps forward from where he waits in the shadows, hand outstretched in supplication as he urges his Queen. "Your Majesty!" he pleads fervently. "Stop, please! You'll kill her at this rate and never harness her magic for yourself!"

His dark haired mistress darts a dangerous, crackling, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder at him against the far wall, pausing only an instant before her hand shoots out and throws him against the solid stone, where he falls incapacitated. "Silence!" Snow White orders needlessly as he seems completely stunned into submission.

Her shuttered, emotionless eyes, venomous and sharp as any serpent's, flick back to her prisoner and gleam with cold intent. "You're going nowhere, Princess," she purrs, the title cruel and mocking with the inflection she gives it. "You'll die a prisoner either way. But how much more you suffer before I can gain your heart and your power is entirely up to you. Tell me now how I can accomplish this, and put yourself out of your misery."

Emma trembles helplessly where she stands; her abused, aching muscles stretched beyond endurance but unable to gain relief. She wants to cry out to Snow that she is not this monster; they need to fight together to escape whatever alternate reality Gold and the Author have plunged them into - despite knowing her plea will do no good. Though she senses she will need her magic before all is said and done, though she knows she must hang onto what strength and sanity she has left, Emma thinks that in this awful moment, if she knew how to give up her powers, she would allow the Queen to have them. She doesn't know where Killian or Henry, or any of the other people she has come to know and care about, are – if they have been brought along in this nightmare as well, if they know themselves, or if they have been changed. All she has seen is the inside of these stone walls and these horrific mockeries that should never be called her parents.

However, Snow White seems to take her quiet helplessness as defiance and she shrieks in wild rage. "Have it your way!" she yells. An almost electric pulse of energy erupts from the other woman's palm, and Emma feels it crawling through her veins, burning and scorching unbearably.

Her howls of helpless agony as she quivers in her restraints overlap on each other in desperate, unending climax, until she finally slumps, boneless and insensate in her chains, lost to the world.

~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Killian Jones does not know how he got himself roped into such a ridiculous venture. He shakes his head in disbelief once more as he looks behind him to the skinny, bedraggled youth with brown hair flopping in his eyes who follows him through the thick undergrowth at the forest's edge – 'more a fool's errand than a hero's journey' his mind insinuates as he recalls the words of the boy on his heels as he had looked up at Killian with a wide open expression of hope.

What had he been thinking, letting his sense of duty move him to follow this child off his ship, away from the harbor, and on this – what had the lad called it? Operation? Yes, that was it…Operation Swan's Rescue. He had thought himself long past dreams of being a dashing hero and undertaking courageous missions for the good of his people. That was all burned away in the ashes of a Pegasus sail and sunk to the depths with Liam's body long ago, when he was another man. Yet, he has never claimed to be wise or cautious, to do what makes reasonable sense, and he was not able to resist this ragamuffin's precocious grin or the somehow familiar twinkle in his big, trusting eyes, and so here they were, quite possibly chasing a mirage, a dream: a princess in a tower needing a champion to save her.

The lad certainly weaves a compelling tale, Killian thinks to himself as he pushes further into the trees and bracken, keeping well off the beaten path. Of course, he has heard the stories; everyone in this section of the kingdom – where the tower is supposed to reside – has heard of the Savior, the lovely being of hope and light magic, somehow born to the Evil Queen and her favorite plaything, then imprisoned by said mother in fear of her daughter's magical power someday overthrowing her reign of terror. Killian himself had always thought them mere fables – fireside tales to charm and entertain. However, this boy seems so sincere, and so desperate, that he finds himself believing the youth's words.

Beyond that hunch, the sense of trust, his mind cannot help but whisper, 'What if?" If there is truly a Savior, a being of Light and Good, who could restore this land to what it once was, to the beautiful, peaceful kingdom of his youth where he remembers running wild in the fields with Liam chasing him laughingly, where he wove daisy chains to take home to his mother and he could still bask in the love of her pleased, quiet smile. If the Evil Queen's rule can be brought to an end, doesn't he owe it to his people, his country, and Liam's memory, to explore every possibility? Isn't it only good form for one in his post to venture forth and make sure? Not only that, but if such a pure innocent is being held captive, if everyone knows and merely leaves her to such a fate…it twists knots of tension in his gut, not letting his mind rest. A fool he may be. He may be walking directly to his death, but his conscience will let him pursue no other course.

They have come to a stop at a running brook – refilling their canteens, slaking their thirst, catching their breaths – when a wretched wail of agony rings out in the air, silencing the birds and echoing off the trees in harsh, violent waves. Killian's eyes meet the lad Henry's, and they both freeze, horrified by the sound of such suffering. The anguish he hears in that cry lets Killian know for certain he was right to follow this quest. He must stop whatever is being done to this prisoner.

They take off at a run, unheeding of their safety or what they may find. Crashing through thorn bushes and grasping vines, panting with exertion, they both nearly go tumbling headlong to the ground when Killian skids to a sudden halt and Henry plows right into his back.

They have dashed into a deserted clearing, and there before them, rising dark and foreboding into the clouds, stands the tower. The grey stones are cracked and jutting, looking as dark and unwelcoming as must have been intended, and though his eyes search frantically along the base, Killian can see no way in.

Both pirate and youth stand frozen in uncertainty for a long stretch, until abruptly the cries of suffering halt, all goes silent, and Killian finds himself desperately jolted forward. He does not know if this will work, but he simply must take action. The imprisoned woman – according to Henry, their last chance – cannot be dead. They cannot be too late. Grasping at the rugged wall as best he can with his one working hand, he wedges his hook into a crack between stones. With one last glance to make sure his young compatriot is still with him, Killian begins to climb the tower.

~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Awareness trickles back to Emma with the scrabbling, scratching sounds of metal scraping along stone. Blinking her eyes blearily and raising her head from where it had slumped awkwardly on her chest, she vaguely determines that the strange scuffling is coming from just outside her prison's single window.

Emma scrunches her brow in confusion, trying to determine what new threat could be coming for her now. She knows that the tower is high, high enough that no fully sane person would attempt to scale its walls. For the few fleeting instants she has been free of her chains in the years it seems she has been held captive here, she was able to see out over the entire forest, well over the tops of the tallest trees.

Just as she is looking fruitlessly around the barren room for something she can defend herself with against this intruder, a metal hook and strong forearm fling themselves in the window and clutch tightly, soon pulling a messily wind-ruffled head of black hair and a belovedly familiar face over with them. Her pirate, whom she had begun to fear herself lost from forever, practically hauls himself though the opening, flopping onto the stone floor, chest heaving with exertion.

"Killian!" she cries out plaintively, so glad to see him that she doesn't even care how girlish and helpless it might make her sound. "You found me!" She begins to run to him, momentarily forgetting her bonds, until the chains jerk her back.

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, startled blue eyes meeting her gaze. He looks unsure, as if he doesn't know what to make of her awe-filled greeting. Turning quickly in the next moment to stand and return to the window again, he surprises her once more by reaching out his hand to pull someone else up and into the window after him.

Emma's heart swells at the sight of Henry. Both her son and the man she loves are here at last, safe and sound and come to rescue her. Henry doesn't seem to suffer the same confusion that Killian does. Once the man has stopped brushing him off, asking if he is okay, and lets him go, Henry rushes to her with a joyfully relieved shout of "Mom!" and wraps his arms around her – literally bringing warmth and hope back into her cold, lonely false existence.

"You found me," she repeats, a dazed whisper this time, overwhelmed by the belief and determination her son has shown to get here, and the bravery he has exhibited in climbing a tower guarded by the Evil Queen's men, at the risk of his own life – for her sake. She squeezes him tighter, wishing more than she has in all the rest of her time here to be free of the chains so that she can really take her little boy – well, young man now – fully in her arms.

She can only chuckle and shake her head when he grins at her and says exactly what she should have been expecting, "Did you really doubt we would?"

Emma's gaze flicks to Killian again, where he stands back awkwardly watching the reunion. He scratches the spot behind his ear uncertainly, but then he meets her curious, searching glance. She is frozen when their eyes make contact, breath catching with emotion. Not only is he here helping Henry, but he came to her aid even without remembering who she is or what they mean to each other. She wants so badly for him to hold her, for the sort of passionate kiss they have only recently begun to allow themselves to set everything back to rights.

Surprisingly, as the moment stretches on, Emma can see something come over Killian's face. She holds her breath, hoping against hope that somehow what they have, the connection between them, has survived this reboot of their history and who they are in this fictional reality. As she has suffered here alone, afraid she would never see his face, hear his beautiful, lilting voice, or feel his gentle but inflaming touch again, she had come to realize the truth. She loves him with a depth that scares her. She has for a long time, but could never find the words to say it aloud.

Killian tilts his head to the side, beautiful ocean eyes squinting in concentration as he studies her face, almost seeming to look beneath her skin, into her soul. Taking a tentative step forward, he reaches out, taking her hand in his one, gently rubbing soothing fingers over her skin reddened from the heavy shackle. Reaching out with his hook, he smoothes her wild, tangled hair back from her face and over her shoulder; a familiar, intimate gesture he has made several times, whether he realizes it or not. "I know you, Lass. Do I not?" he finally murmurs, eyes searching hers for an answer.

It is as though he has stolen the very breath from her lungs and the words right off her lips. All Emma can do is stare at him, amazed by his unbelievable, inexplicable faith, and nod in affirmation. She can still see wonder and adoration shining from his face, directed at her, even if he isn't sure why. Can he still somehow see what he means to her in her face? Still feel what they have – or echoes of it – despite everything that has been altered? Emma finds herself willing to hope as never before.

Unfortunately, at that moment they are interrupted by the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding up the steps to her cell, harsh voices calling about intruders and securing the 'mad princess'. All three of them whirl to stare at the heavy door of Emma's cell in alarm, knowing the pirate and young prince can climb back out, but that they have no way to release her from her chains. She can't escape with them.

"Go!" she urges desperately, trying to spur both Henry and Killian on. She cannot bear to think what may happen to them if they are discovered here trying to free her. The guards are getting closer all the time and her heartbeat is pulsing in her throat at the danger to her two most precious loves. "You can't be found here! Please!"

Henry's eyes show understanding beyond his years as he nods his assent. Clasping her hand tightly for a split second, he vows, "We'll be back for you, Mom," before he moves toward the window, swinging one leg over the ledge and preparing to go.

Killian's face shows no such resignation. His look is desperate, frantic to save her. "What happens to you when we go, Love? I cannot leave you to them!"

"You have to, Killian…for now…I'll be alright." She gives him a brave, if tremulous, smile, needing him to be safe, even if she is not.

"No," he breathes, shaking his head and not moving an inch, even when Emma hears the running footsteps halt and instead the dreadful sound of a key turning in the ancient, rusty lock.

Whirling to face the door as it swings open, Emma prays that somehow Killian will slip out the window after Henry in the nick of time, or that some echo of the magic she possesses in their real world will shield him from their malevolent foes. Of course, as they have been ever since she opened her eyes in this parallel universe, her wishes are ignored, and with cries of attack four of the Queen's armed black guards charge forward.

Killian steps in front of Emma swiftly, easily shielding her in a single movement. He pulls the cutlass from his belt and strikes down the first assailant with deadly grace; the movement a slash as quick and sharp as a jagged finger of lightning. The second opponent meets his hook and falls motionless at their feet.

For several tense moments, Emma's breath is stolen watching the lethal accuracy Killian employs, protecting them both flawlessly and without hesitation. He ducks the third attacker's strike, and the guard overshoots, running past them, stumbling and falling just in time for the pirate to parry a fourth henchman's blow. They engage for only the briefest flurry of sword passes before Killian has bested this one as well and kicked the unconscious man away. He turns sharply, on guard with the knowledge that one last aggressor is still waiting.

Emma wants to call out to warn him, spare him the shocked pain she sees flare in his eyes when he finds his last foe, but she can't – not with the guard's hand gripping her throat, cutting off her air and her voice. She shakes her head at her sailor, knowing he won't protect his own safety but merely lunge forward to save her. She puts out a hand in an effort to wave him back, urging him to think for a moment, fight as smart as he has been, but somehow Killian misconstrues her motion and lets his eyes follow her gesture. Perhaps he thought she was reaching out for him in fear, but he is distracted one second too long.

The guard stabs forward, arm pushing stealthily from under Emma's outstretched one. He catches Killian in the side, under his ribs, and then drags the sword blade across and up, slicing a long path through leather and flesh with sickening depth.

Those fathomless blue eyes snap wide in shock and pain and a gasp flies from his lips as Killian's forward stride draws up short. Having achieved his goal, the final guard releases his grip on Emma and flings her away. Emma registers that she is screaming, crying out for Killian, but he doesn't answer, falling to his knees and bringing his hands up disbelievingly to the blood flowing from his side.

"Let that be a lesson to you before considering future attempts at escape," the guard growls roughly. "I'll leave him with you, to be sure you understand the price of crossing our Queen."

The heavy door slams shut again behind him, and Emma stumbles forward, clanking chains and all, to fall beside her pirate, sobbing out his name and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him protectively the best she can with her limited movement, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she bends her head over him, fearing he is already gone, the wound is so bad. "Please…Killian…I'm so sorry…" she murmurs frantically, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, trying to ease his pain and keep him with her.

It isn't long before she feels smaller hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a hug from behind, trying to offer comfort before crouching next to her and attempting to staunch the blood still pouring from Killian's wound.

"Henry?" she questions blearily, confused.

He shrugs, "I just held onto the outside wall right below the window. Luckily they didn't check for anyone else. When the fighting stopped, I crawled back in."

She shakes her head at his daring, but her eyes quickly fly back to her pirate. To her shock, he is also chuckling at her son, though the sound is rough and choking. "There's a lad," he manages teasingly to Henry, before a horrible wracking cough interrupts and she sees blood at the corners of his mouth when he pulls his hand away afterwards.

Emma's tears still fall and she begins whispering apologies in his ear once more. He only shakes his head, "No, Lass…don't….be sorry. You are worth it. You and Henry….will find… a way out…I'm…glad I was…part of it…" His eyes flutter closed and his chest heaves mightily to keep moving up and down.

"Killian?...No!" she cries out when his eyes fail to reopen.

"Mom!" Henry breaks into her panic, his hand on her upper arm pulling her back to her senses. "Mom, you have to kiss him. True Love's Kiss! It'll save him. It has to!"

It seems so farfetched that she hardly dares to hope, but Emma is out of options and desperate not to have Killian slip away in front of her. Tracing a hand along his jaw, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans even closer to his mouth. Just before she presses her lips to his, she whispers as she did once before, "Killian, come back to me."

A disconcerting pull in her stomach and a spinning feeling makes it seem for a minute as if the world has turned upside down and the floor has dropped from under her. Blinking her eyes to look around once the whirling sensation eases, Emma is stunned to find them back in Storybrooke, sprawled inelegantly on the pavement in the middle of Main Street. Her fingers are somehow miraculously twined with Killian's as he sits up beside her, whole and unharmed from the sword wound still fresh in her memory, and her other arm is wrapped tightly around Henry. The chains and her tower prison are gone, and she gapes like a newborn baby at her surroundings. Killian turns to her, a rakish grin on his face, and she knows both realities are in his mind too. "It would appear you saved me, Swan," he teases lightly, but real affection brims in his eyes.

"What would I do without you, Pirate?" she whispers, holding on tighter and trying to keep the quaver from her voice as she burrows into his embrace. It is long past time he heard the words, and suddenly so simple for her to add in a whisper against his heart, "I love you."

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @kmomof4 @hollyethecurious @searchingwardrobes @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @jennjenn615 @bmbbcs4evr @resident-of-storybrooke @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @laschatzi @ilovemesomekillianjones @gingerchangeling @blackwidownat2814

#captain swan ff #self promo sunday #season four finale divergent fic #cs one shot #captain cobra #swan believer #canon divergent

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yoosungs-blush · 5 years

Text

Cuddles: when you’re lonely

Inspired due to… recent events in my life ^^;;; I posted an update explaining my frustrations over the quality of my published posts this year, but I was very emotional when I wrote it and deleted it shortly after. I am in a bit of a rough spot atm, but since I’ve been lacking inspiration for a while I decided to grab onto the one feeling I could and so here we are ^^

You sat on your bed, back hunched over your phone while the harsh light strained your eyes in the dark. The message in front of you had pierced your heart, but the pain had not yet bloomed through your chest as it usually did during nights such as these. Those words that had been weary and distrustful - words that you had convinced yourself were entirely true - had poisoned your intent to reconnect with friends you had lost touch with.

I still care about you, but I’ve given up trying to reach you.

You visualised the look of disappointment that would have been etched into your friend’s face as they formed their reply to your very desperate attempt to reconnect after spending many anxiety-ridden nights much like this, wondering whether you deserved to ask for their friendship again. Not just to those you had already undoubtedly disappointed, but to others who you would disappoint in the future.

One part of you whispered that it wasn’t your fault, but every time that voice would arrive, a louder, harsher voice would quash it. You do not deserve compassion, it told you. You have brought this on yourself.

“I’m… I’m so lonely.” Upon admitting it to yourself, tears readily began to flow; eyes already throbbing and red from the anguish that tormented you. I don’t deserve to feel sad about it. I don’t deserve to complain about loneliness. I don’t deserve friends. I don’t deserve kindness! I don’t… I don’t deserve…

Your body turned and your eyes guiltily shifted to the disheveled figure snoring lightly under the covers behind you. The one light. Now you could understand in part how Rika had felt. How she had felt when she compared V’s love to the sun. Because Yoosung, he was your sunshine - his kindness and compassion were unending - unrelenting.

“You should cry when you feel sad, Jagiya. Don’t hold it all in. I’m here, and I’m always going to support you. If you have any weaknesses then I want to help you through it, just like you did for me. I’m always here Jagiya.” The smile that followed enveloped your body in warmth. For that moment, you had never felt safer.

Shuffling closer so you could get a glance at his face - the moonlight streaming across his messy golden hair - you carefully let your fingertips brush across his cheek, the warmth of his skin easily transferring to yours, taking the edge off the bitter cold in your hand. He was always so quick to offer consolations. He would leap up to help you like an eager puppy at any given moment. Yoosung always tended to you with such warm care, his kindness reflected in his violet eyes; always staring at you until the moments when you forced yourself to look away with burning cheeks.

Such a sincere person… How could you say that you deserved his love? Yet even though you knew it, even though you could give yourself a million reasons why you had brought this feeling to yourself and why you alone should bear it - it still couldn’t stop you from craving the touch of another, the hug of a friend, or the embrace of your beloved boyfriend.

A whimper escaped your lips, and your hands fled to cover the sound too late, only going so far as to coat your palms with your tear-stained cheeks.

The covers began to move.

“Mmm… Jagiya…?” The sound of his voice, still groggy from sleep made your head throb.

You tried to wipe your nose quickly, speaking in a whisper so he couldn’t hear you had been crying.

“Yoosungie,” you brushed stray golden hair away from his face, but then swore quietly when you realised they were still damp with your tears.

His eyes shot open, the sleepiness gone from his features in less than a second and he sat up, squinting to study your face without the aid of his glasses.

“You’ve been crying…!” He reached out to cup your cheek but you flinched and his hand dropped back to the duvet like lead. Even in the dark you could tell he was hurt by your rejection.

But it was better this way.

I don’t deserve anyone. You told yourself those words firmly, and somehow you didn’t immediately throw your arms around your boyfriend with reassurances that you were fine.

Instead, all you could do was watch him, knowing that the guilt was all across your face.

“MC?” There was no mistaking the panic in his voice. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Why are you being so nice to me, even after I hurt you? The tears you had tried to stopper came back, your shoulders shaking as you wept and wailed - no longer able to keep the pain you harboured silent.

Please leave me alone. That same harsh voice from before was now quieter, and pleading.

“I love you!” The other voice pushed through, forming the words you had said so many times up until now but had never been so hard to say.

“I’m sorry that you have to deal with m-me,” you sobbed, covering your face with your hands. “I’m s-so sorry. I don’t deserve you or anyone, but I love you anyway and I don’t know what to do…”

Warm arms wrapped you up and pulled you close. You didn’t know how long you sat in his embrace, soaking his t-shirt with your tears, but you took some solace in the safety you felt, and the light scent of sweat that kept you grounded.

“I’m here, Jagiya,” he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking as he tried to keep his own tears in check while he held you. “I told you to cry when you felt sad, and I’d always be here. I’ll always be here. And you deserve every bit of happiness that reaches you… I want you to be happy MC - I want us to be happy, together. You say you’re undeserving, but I’ve never met someone more deserving of happiness than you. Have more faith in yourself, Jagi.”

For a few more minutes you cried, but your tears were softer and eventually shrunk into sniffles against the damp fabric of his shirt. When your eyes were finally dry, and your head throbbed in pain, you finally met the eyes of the person who had held you through it all.

Despite his own puffy eyes, his smile was as kind and bright as it always had been.

“Are you feeling better?”

You took a shaky breath, trying to recall a word to describe how you felt.

Tired.

Very tired.

You nodded, which caused him to lace your fingers together and raise the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a firm kiss on skin. He took the time to tuck you back into bed, placing your discarded phone on the bed stand, face down. The moment he slid back into bed, you instinctively snuggled up to him, placing your head on his chest as you had a thousand times before - the action in itself therapeutic and soothing to your heart.

Just as you felt your consciousness slipping, you felt him press a kiss to your forehead, “Goodnight, jagiya.”

Your heart was safe again.

For now.

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

Text

As Fate Would Have It (Part 15)

Paring: 1940s!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist

Words: 4.1k | Note: Reader’s alias is Elle/Helen

A/N: Listen I know I said I’d take a pause with updating this series like a day ago -and I also know I said the last chapter was the final 1940′s storyline, BUT! I had another bout of insomnia and had this story stuck in my mind!

Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, torture, themes of POW, PTSD

Note: We’re finally using the Y/N abbreviation here kiddos! I haven’t proofread!

Highly recommend you listen to any of these pieces with the chapter: I will find you | Frozen in Time | If You Care (song)

Feel free to ask to be tagged, leave a like, reblog or comment ♥

~Some Time Later~

"Commencing test number eleven of phase two," Dr Zola spoke into the voice recorder placed on the medical table. His small hands flipped the switch of the device you were strapped into and the hum of electric currents rang in your one good ear- the other eardrum was still healing from weeks prior.

"Ahhhhhh!" Your shrill screams overlapped with the buzzing sound of the electric chair. The air was filled with the smell of burned hair and your mouth tasted like foam. Your vision in one eye was blurred with a red haze from the ruptured blood vessel.

Dr Zola flipped the switch off after your screams dissipated into hoarse shrieks, "The subject’s pain threshold seems to have grown exponentially since her last dose." He signalled for the squirmy man dressed in doctor scrubs to go towards you. In silence, he stalked towards you, hand holding a syringe with a six-inch needle and bent your head down so he could administer the contents of the syringe between the ridges of your spinal cord.

"The twelfth dose has now been administered," Dr Zola spoke out in observation. You swore under your breath at him. He simply turned his head to the side like a dog confused by high pitched sounds.

"And now for the second step," he urged his assisting scientist to begin the second part of the experiment. He walked over after having grabbed a scalpel and pressed it into the muscle between your elbow and wrist on the arm with less scaring and sliced down in a perfectly symmetrical line. The blade separated your flesh in a slow and gruelling manner making you hiss behind your clenched jaw. Blood spilt out and dripped onto the floor letting out wet splashing noises every time blood dripped down. The man placed the scalpel back on the medical table before joining Dr Zola's side with a clipboard and pen while the doctor started his stopwatch.

They watched on edge, their eyes skittering from the stopwatch to your still open wound in anticipation of some change they could catalogue. One minute passed and they jotted down something on their clipboard. Two and their faces grew grimmer. Three and Dr Zola looked almost red with anger. Finally after five minutes passed it was clear nothing profound would happen.

You laughed defiantly before you spit out the blood that had accumulated in your cheek. It splattered close to their shoes making them scowl at you in disgust. "Look at that, I'm still a failed experiment!" Your laughs echoed weakly around the room infuriating the two men.

"Do it," Dr Zola said coldly.

His assistant nodded and flipped the same switch from before, this time with the dial cranked a few volts higher. Electricity burned into your flesh from the metal restraints that only got hotter the longer the current passed through them. Your nails were digging into the tattered leather straps that fastened you to the chair, hundreds of half-moon marks accumulating from all the time spent in this particular torture room.

All of a sudden, Dr Zola's eyes lit up as he stared down at your sliced open arm, "Turn it off!"

The buzzing stopped and the current was held at bay, your body trembling as it tried to reset itself. You had a hard time moving your head, but when you finally got it positioned so you could see your arm, your one good eye went wide and then blinked in quick succession as you tried to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Your wound was healing right before your eyes. Sluggishly and very easy to miss if you didn't stare at it for a long time, but it was indeed healing.

"Ha! Ha! We have had our first breakthrough!" Dr Zola cheered with pride as his assistant walked closer to monitor your arm thoroughly.

"It seems you were right Dr Zola. With a controlled amount of your serum present within a subject's bloodstream, rapid cellular regeneration is possible. Perhaps this could finally unlock the secrets to immortality." The assistant said with a naive smile on his face.

Dr Zola paused for a moment, no longer stewing in his glory, "Yes well, hypothesizing is one thing. We still need to find a way to trigger the healing process without requiring an external electric current to excite the molecules within a body."

"One small step Herr Zola!" The assistant said triumphantly.

Dr Zola ignored the younger scientist as he looked down at his watch with a troubled expression, "Log your findings with the rest of the data. Try and replicate the results with a new subject. I am needed elsewhere, Schmidt has asked me to accompany him as he tours the Austrian weapons factory. You will be in charge of the experiments on this level. Return her to her cell."

The young assistant saluted and hailed. Dr Zola mirrored his actions before fixing his collar and walking out of the room.

***

It had felt like months since Dr Zola left for Austria. Despite his absence, the experiments didn't stop.

Your days all blended together to form one long unending day that repeated over and over like clockwork. For a long time, you had held onto the hope that you'd manage to escape this hellish place, but after four failed attempts you had given up on that dream. Your body wasn't in any physical condition to fight as well anymore, the constant tests and drugs flushed in your system at any given time rendered you useless. All you could do was hold onto your last wits to keep your sanity from snapping. Most nights you'd think about your small Brooklyn apartment or the hideous diner outfit you'd wear to work.

You made it a rule to only think about the harmless things. The little things that wouldn't bring you pain or make you feel even more alone in the dark. That was a privilege reserved for the memories of the people you loved and the sweet torment they brought to your dreams. No matter how each dream began it would always, always, transition into an unstoppable nightmare.

You'd occasionally wake up in a cold sweat after dreaming of better circumstances; going dancing with Sally; lounging on vacation with Bucky; playing board games with Steve. Each time they'd all end the same: with them ripped away from you.

A little scatter of sunlight shone down on your face, alerting you to the fact it was day time. You turned to your side to face the wall marked by number tallies. You had stopped trying to keep track of the days after you spent an unknown number of days in a medically induced coma. You'd figured there wasn't any point.

The sound of banging on your door forced you to stand on jelly legs, eyes still foggy as you swayed from your inner ear being off balance.

"Back against the wall!" A guard shouted.

You did as he said, although it took a little effort to keep your knees from caving beneath you.

The door opened and two guards walked in, one bound your hands behind your back while the other kept the door open. When you were marched out of your room, you noticed the entire base was bathed in red light as several other prisoners were ushered out of their rooms -all looking as worse for wear as you did.

"Wha- What's going on?" You croaked out.

The guard behind you grumbled, refusing to answer your question.

"Prisoner transfer," a strange man said from the adjacent line beside you. He was hobbling on one leg while another prisoner helped him stay upright. His bony back was hunched over to the point you could just make out the needle tracks along the base of his spine. It seemed you had something in common.

Your head bobbed from side to side, making sure none of the guards noticed you before you asked: "How do you know?"

He leaned closer so he could whisper a little louder, "I heard the scientists talking next to my cell. Something happened. They're scared. We're being transported to another facility."

You ducked closer with interest, "Where?"

"Russia."

***

The convoy's journey was long and uncomfortable, the flaps from the tarp covering the trucks did little to keep the biting cold at bay. You and several strangers dressed in the same monochromatic garbs huddled together like a bundle of shivering sticks in a futile attempt to stay warm. The guards didn't bother to post people in the back with you. Most of you posed no threat and there would be no chance of surviving this cold without sight of shelter or civilisation for miles.

The truck took the bumpy road with no finesse at all. Every pothole caused the truck to bounce and jostle you all about. The creaking noise of the chassis bumping against the frozen shock suspension had become as synonymous to your good ear as the incessant ringing that persisted in the other. On multiple occasions, you would accidentally slam your body against the cold metal of the truck. You'd groan in protest since your organs were already sore from all the poking and prodding that had become your routine. The entire ride was grievous, it was like being strapped to a piece of debris amidst a tsunami, so when a loud noise cracked through the silence, filling your vision with a hot white flash and overturning the truck, your only reaction was to brace your body for the coming impact.

Akin to dominoes toppling one after the other, each truck in the convoy behind you suffered similar fates. One was heaved off the ground and turned on its side by a controlled explosion below the front wheels while another swerved out of control from a series of sharp whistling noises that left circular holes atop the hood of the car.

Chaos ensued as your vision was bombarded by flashes of bright lights and explosive flames roaring to life. The sound of gunfire and screams and cries of agony mixed together to form a deafening cacophony of anxiety and fear. Your heart caught in your dry throat as adrenaline shot up in pin prickling spikes across your tender muscled back.

The younger you would have seized this opportunity to hunt for a weapon and make a break for it, but instead of doing exactly what you had been trained to do, you simply cowered in the overturned truck -your hands covering your ears as your molars ground against each other.

Another explosion went off close to the truck. Shrapnel tore through the tarp and planted itself into your thigh and shoulder and back. The multiple screams of pain coming from everyone else in the truck proved you weren't the only one whose body was now acquainted with foreign metal shards.

It wasn't until you felt warm liquid dampen the edge of your trousers that you were forced out of your stupor. Blinking erratically, you tried to sit up and make sure none of your arteries were punctured. To your relief, you realised the blood wasn't yours. But as soon as that revelation sunk in, your blood turned cold all over again as you looked over to the one-legged man before going into shock.

"Fuck! No..." You scurried with shaky hands to his side, your breathing escalating to pants. "Hey, hey…I need you to focus. Hey-" You slapped his cheeks in quick successions. "What's your name?"

"What?" He asked, discombobulated from everything that was happening.

"Your name?" You asked again while tearing cloth from your shirt to act as a tourniquet around his leg.

"H- Hans..." he said with a weak smile.

"Okay Hans, I need you to apply pressure here," you moved his ridged hand towards the spot where blood slithering oozing out. "That's good Hans. Now I need you to stay awake."

You turned to the other scared prisoners, looking for a face that seemed less afraid than the other.

"I need you to keep him talking," you ordered a young woman. She was shaking, but her eyes were more astute than the rest. Despite her quivering lips and blue-tipped fingers, you knew she would oblige.

"O- Okay," she quivered as she knelt beside Hans and tried to hold a conversation.

Hesitantly, you left the confines of the truck and headed to the driver’s seat where you hoped to find a first aid kit. Prying the door open was difficult on account of your weak arms. The door had jammed from a dent caused by the flip. You lifted your leg and leaned against the car door as you pulled the handle until it came loose. You cursed, threw the handle and kicked in the glass window. One of the shards was large enough for you to catch a glimpse of your reflection by your feet. You had grown accustomed to the reality that being someone's lab rat would leave you with scars that wouldn't heal, but somehow it always shook you to your core when you were reminded of how unfamiliar your hair colour had become. When the shocks first started, you had noticed a few slivers of hair turning silver. Now… now your whole head was the same colour as the snow you were currently standing in. You look almost ghostly. In a way, you felt that was truer than much else.

You kicked the glass away, not wanting to waste any more time lamenting what had become of you, and slinked your arm through the window. Patting down against the corpse of the driver and underside of his seat.

Bang!

Another explosion went off, birthing black smoke around it. You jumped and cut your arm on some jagged glass before taking three short breaths.

"Come on Y/N, you can do this."

You reached back into the car and kept feeling around for something. Your muscles instinctively flinching when a gunshot went off. Finally, after spending far too long in the open, you found something you could use: a lighter and a knife. You grabbed the concealed handgun from the driver's boot for safety.

Walking back you noticed a trail of red spots that undoubtedly belonged to you. You had to compartmentalise. One step at a time. All you could think of was getting Hans to stop bleeding.

"Hans, hey… Look at that, you're still talking," you said.

He half chocked on a faltering laugh, "Once I start talking, you can't- Tsssss! Can't… Ahhh! Get me to stop..."

You began burning the tip of the knife with the lighter, "I'm going to dig the shrapnel out before I cauterise the wound. I need you to talk through the pain."

"Heh, you know… you kind of remind me of my wife. I drove her to grow grey hairs too early too," he said reminiscently.

"Where's your wife now?" You asked as you removed the knife from the flame. He didn't answer.

After some struggling breaths, Hans asked: "You ever married?"

Your eye twitched at his question forcing you to close your eyes for a second. Then you looked up at his searching gaze with a smile that felt too heavy to carry, "Only in my nightmares." You tried to amuse him.

He let out what should have sounded like a laugh but came off as a series of groans and hisses.

Without warning him, you dug the knife into his wound and fished out the piece of shrapnel in one nerve-wracking move. He bit down on a belt the girl beside you had given him as you finished up burning his intrusive cut closed.

Once he stabilised you noticed the gunfire had stopped. The sound of boots crunching in the snow grew louder. You cocked the gun and pointed it with unsteady aim out towards the open snow. The gun seemed to grow heavier as your eyesight kept going in and out of focus. Vertigo set in as the thrumming of your heart resonated in your ears. When the boots stopped in front of you, the gun slipped from our hands. You looked down and noticed you hadn't stopped bleeding, your skin was beginning to pale.

"Shit..." you said groggily.

Your head hit the ground hard, your body half out of the cover of the truck. Above you stood a woman wearing an eyepatch with short blonde hair and a cigarette held between her yellowing teeth.

She knelt beside you, machine gun slung against her chest, and ducked her head to see into the truck better. She gave a sarcastic salute to the group of scared prisoners before saying in fluent Russian: "Welcome to Mother Russia."

She looked down at you again and smiled, "You look like shit, tovarishch..."

A gasp of air left your blueing lips as your eyelids closed shut.

***

The echoes of the events that transpired played like muffled noises coming through weak walls. Eventually, the noises grew more savage- deafening to the point your body jerked at each reverberation of a gunshot or explosion that your mind brought to life in your semi-conscious state. Soon, discombobulated memories began to overlap with each loud bang.

Bang!

"Report."

Bang!

"You make a habit of flirting with waitresses you just met, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome?"

Bang!

"Only the beautiful ones. Call me Bucky, it's shorter -and that smug mess is Steve,"

Bang!

"You ready, doll?"

Bang…

"You're my safe harbour. I want you to know that."

Bang!

"Sweet dreams."

BANG!

"Gahhh!" You gasped awake, the nape of your neck sticky with sweat. You woke up in a tent, the door flap folded half-open to reveal a dying fire. The horizon breaking with the first glints of a sunrise. Several other tents were pitched up. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and grease was mixed with the cold mountain air. By your bedside was a change of clothes and the same gun you had fished off the dead driver.

***

Yelena had just finished briefing the skeleton mercenary crew about their travel trajectory. They began to pack down their tents after she gave them the last of her money. Her things were already packed so she decided to sit by the dying fire and wait.

Yelena scrunched her nose in disgust. The coffee tasted like piss, but little could be done to correct that. Her yellowing fingertips absentmindedly brushed at her eyepatch. The phantom pain had returned with a vengeance ever since she rescued Y/N from the Hydra convoy. Her stomach grew uneasy as bile crept up to her throat. Regret and anger weighing her down like a stone, drowning her in her own petty sorrows.

Click-

The sound of a guns hammer being pushed back brought a smile to her face.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up, tovarishch..." she took a sip of her piss water and immediately regretted it, but she swallowed it down. “I like the hair."

"Give me. One! Reason..." Y/N struggled to say in a raspy voice.

Yelena flinched at how coarse her former subordinate’s voice had become. Without looking up, Yelena said solemnly, "I can't."

"The fuck kind of excuse is that?" She was seething.

"It isn't."

"Where are the other survivors?"

"We salvaged a vehicle," Yelena looked at her men and shook her head to tell them to stand down. "I sent them off."

"Are you here to take me back?"

"No..."

"I don't believe you!"

"There's nothing to go back to."

The gun in Y/N's hand shook, "Then why come for me?"

"It was always the plan. Once Hydra was through with you, we'd swoop in and bring you home." Yelena lit a cigarette between her bare lips. "And either way, you'd have succeeded in your mission. In place of research, we'd have you."

"You sold me out so I could be a glorified lab rat?"

"You would never have gotten away with it. Faking your death never sticks. Not for long. Your mind has always been limited with thinking of the now. I had to make a tough call that would ensure you lived to see tomorrow." Yelena dusted the snow from her trousers, tossed the remaining coffee on the fire and turned to face Y/N and her loaded gun. "This wasn't a rescue mission. There is no cavalry coming. No one to call."

Y/N hit Yelena square in the jaw with the butt of her gun. Yelena saw the blow coming but chose to let it stick. She chuckled lifelessly after spitting out droplets of blood.

"What of the Red Room?"

"As far as they're concerned, once we lost the war you were declared KIA. It's just me now. I got Intel of the convoy, I took a chance."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Y/N squinted her eye, the other suffered too much trauma to do more than twitch. "You sold me out! You let them take me… You let them experiment on me for months!" Her voice cracked as a tear ran down her cheek.

"Months?" Yelena asked with confusion. "Tovarishch, what year do you think it is?"

Y/N stumbled backwards, "Wh- What? It's… It's 1942… Maybe '43."

Yelena's eye grew wide, "Tovarishch… it's 1947."

"N- No. No, no, no! No. It can't be..." Y/N's breathing became frantic, the gun rattling in her hand. "I kept count. I- I couldn't have been in that coma longer than a week! I- I- I--!"

Yelena saw the trademarks of a panic attack about to ensue and took a chance and slapped Y/N across the face. The lack of warning caused her to fire off a shot from her gun. Yelena was lucky she had already moved out of her sights, but then another gunshot sounded out and one of her men fell into the snow, red staining the white.

Everyone ducked. One of her men examined the bullet hole.

"Soviet slug, no rifling!" He shouted.

Fear soaked Yelena's bloodstream, "He found us..."

"Who found you?" Y/N asked.

Yelena turned to look Y/N in the eye, "Listen to me tovarishch. We don't have time. Here-" She handed her a folded map stuffed with several papers. "Co-ordinates to a safe house half a day’s walk from here. Papers to get you on a boat. There's a village close by, a man rents sled dogs. He knows you're coming." Yelena signalled for her men to assume defensive positions.

"Why are you doing all this?" Y/N asked.

A sad smile crossed Yelena's face, "You were right to want more. To have that moronic idea of freedom. I- I lost everything. You are all that's left. My one good act."

"This doesn't make up for what you did."

Yelena's smile grew wider, "Nothing can ever make up for the things I've done."

Another sniper shot thundered through the mountains taking another one of her men.

Y/N froze at the sound. When she regained her composure she looked at Yelena with a baffled expression, "What happened?"

Yelena's hand returned to her eyepatch for a brief second, "I flew too close to the sun. Now go!"

Y/N shared a prolonged moment with Yelena in silence. In that sacred space, they had said everything they needed to in order to gain closure without uttering a word. Somehow they both knew once it was over, they would be right back to where they were, scrambling to give each other the catharsis they sought after.

Y/N was the first to break eye contact, lifting her weary body up so she could make a break for the cover of the woods. This was Yelena's last chance to say something.

"Y/N!" Yelena forced her to look behind. "Promise me one thing. Leave it all behind. Everything. The past… it will only bring you pain."

"I can't do that…"Y/N looked at the sun breaking through the dusk. “Pain is all I have left."

And then she was gone.

***

Yelena lay on the cold ground, blood pooling around her as the sound of her last man’s dying breaths was snuffed out by someone’s boot.

Paralysed from the waist down, her eyes were glued to the white clouds dancing about. One, in particular, looked like a rabbit. It reminded her of Y/N's white hair. Another reminder of her failures.

"Ahhh, there it is," she swallowed her own blood with a humorous chuckle as she felt that feeling from before return a thousandfold. "I was almost worried I'd gotten rid of that particular taste of self-loathing."

Out of her peripheral, a masked individual clad in black knelt by her side. His metal arm refracting harsh rays of sunlight in her eye. "Where is the girl?"

Yelena was borderline delusional from all the blood loss and frostbite, "The little rabbit?" She cackled. "Why, down the rabbit hole, of course!"

The man brought his metal arm to her throat, pressure squeezing at her oesophagus making her gasp for air. "No matter. You were the target."

Then he snapped her neck like a twig.

Next Chapter we’re in the 80′s!

Tags: @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @500daysofbecky @reidreader @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet

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kumapillow · 5 years

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Episode 7!

As I mentioned in a previous post, the added backstory for Azazel, while brief, was a great addition to this arc. That opening was great, but more so the ending. It absolutely gave me chills in a good way.

And the teamwork these three showed in the episode was also good. I like how they each gave their inputs on narrowing down the location of the gateway to Hell. In the manga it was mostly Theo and Urara (the analyst for MPD Division 0) who figured out where it is, so this is a welcome change from that.

The reunion between Kyouichi and Shiori was also handled more dramatically, and better I think, in the anime.

Now, on to the things I wished they showed in the episode. (Manga spoilers ahead!)

The animation will always be my main gripe, as this has affected the look and feel of some of the characters. Cerberus in the manga looked creepier for me.

Also this part. After having a short discussion about Cerberus before they came to this area, it was Arata who carried out the plan to distract it, thanks to the fact that he understood what it was saying.

And then, when they arrived at Azazel’s territory (Izumi was actually conscious the entire time), they are faced with this dilemma, even if for a brief moment, thanks to Kohaku:

The classic what measure is a non-human? dilemma. She was once human, she may have been transformed into something else, and she should have been dead a long time ago, but is that enough to justify destroying her again?

The woman doesn't want this endless torment, as it turns out, and she has gone mad from getting brought back over and over. And that was enough for Kyouichi to decide to end her. (Just for context, they can move here because Belphegor hasn’t shown himself yet.)

Honestly, this part scared me. I guess the pain of loss of his sister, his desire for revenge, the fact that the woman was already not human, and the woman’s desire to be free of her unending torment, was enough for him to be willing to destroy her.

And he probably would've, if it weren't for Azazel, who considered her another failure and killed her himself.

I also wanted to see the varying expressions in Azazel’s face, actually. The anime did a good job on depicting him as a calm but deranged demon blinded by love, but I still wanted to see his more crazed eyes in the anime haha.

Another one I’m mixed about, is Belphegor. I’m sad they didn’t even mention his name in the episode (though you can see it in the end credits). I didn’t even get to see his hooves! (lol I’m so petty)

On the other hand, I’m glad he actually had more participation in the anime (yea I’m just fascinated by him weird).

That’s my opinion on this episode. Thanks for reading all the way here 😊

And judging by next episode’s title, we’ll be seeing more of Kohaku. I’m actually thinking it might be a partially anime original episode involving him and Seimei; let’s see next week.

#mayonaka no occult koumuin #midnight occult civil servants #mnok anime spoilers #mnok manga spoilers #super long post #episode 7 #volume 3

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dracox-serdriel · 5 years

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Lament of the Asphodels - Epilogue: The Cornucopia of Demeter

Lament of the Asphodels

Title: The Munificence of Demeter Author: Dracox Serdriel Artist: @liamjcnes Artwork: Post 1 | Post 2 Word count: 1,400 Rating: NC-17/Explicit (except on FF) Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, Graphic sexual content, Declaration/threats of sexual violence, Minor character death, Social stigmatization/abuse, Detailed descriptions of hopelessness/depression/inner turmoil, Descriptions of the effects of extreme phobias/social anxiety, including anthropophobia, thalassophobia/hydrophobia, and hylophobia/dendrophobia, Descriptions of shipwrecks and storms at sea

Read Lament of the Asphodels on FF, AO3, LJ, or start at the beginning on Tumblr. Written as part of @captainswanbigbang.

Epilogue: The Munificence of Demeter

To avoid Manticore-inspired panic from each new arrival, Emma and Killian abandoned the sidewalk - and Pegasus and the Manticore - for the interior of the Library. By the circulation desk, they all gathered together: Henry, Snow, Charming, Baby Neal, Regina, Robin Hood, Belle, Mr. Gold, Granny, Red, Doctor Whale, Ashley, Sean, Jefferson, Zelena, Blue, Doctor Hopper, August, Ariel, Eric, Abigail, Frederick, Mr. Smee, and dozens of other faces they thought they'd never see again.

After much jubilation and far too many embraces to number, Killian inquired after the state of the town, and Emma, the cause for the entirety of the town collecting in the Library.

And with many voices they answered.

No one agreed on exactly when it began. A few said it was as soon as Emma made her leave. Others insisted it was the day after, when Mr. Gold and the rest of the rescue party returned without the Savior. And a handful - by far the loudest and most willing to interrupt, given that Grump was among them - claimed that it was several weeks before anything went truly amiss.

Despite the discrepancy of when it started, not one person argued how it began, for a consensus had long ago been reached in that regard. It was when the enchantment that kept a Land without Magic at bay fell with neither warning nor report.

At first this led to nothing more than a rise in belligerent fauna. (And, to this day, many residents of the town will insist that, despite its name, a Land without Magic has its dragons, which, for some reason, are called moose.)

Many attempts were made to restore the barrier, but they all failed. As it seemed more of a nuisance than a true ill, the dwarves took action, setting up deterrents around the town line and shooing away whatever they could with their pick axes.

But then people - confused and ornery people - found their way into Storybrooke. Most departed as quickly as they arrived, scowling at their out-of-date maps and devices, but some did not go so quietly. They became enamored of the town - either from its charm or its mystery - and only relented when Regina and Blue resorted to a memory spell.

Again, attempts at re-enchanting the town line - this time countless in number - failed, lingering at best for a few hours before fading away.

As the weeks turned to months, increasingly drastic measures were taken to avoid the onslaught of tourists. At first, stores locked their front doors and hoisted "CLOSED" signs in their windows, but this only resulted in angry visitors pounding on the doors. (Granny admitted that they might've done better had they considered that resident shoppers were clearly visible to anyone outside the door, but, of course, hindsight is twenty-twenty.)

So then they boarded up windows and abandoned their shops during the day, hoping a ghost town would deter traffic and visitors alike. They set up fake detours and roadblocks, which were quite effective until an official from the Maine Department of Transportation showed up to investigate a shockingly high volume of complaints.

That was when truly drastic measures had been taken.

As the plan required unlawful deception, Snow yielded her mayoral seat to Regina, who, beyond having no qualms with lying, also had twenty-eight years to familiarize herself with the complex government of this land and was at far less of a loss than anyone else. Everything went according to plan, save for a bit of poorly timed desperation and bad paper work.

Thus, Storybrooke was declared a quarantine zone for a deadly outbreak of an unnamed weaponized biological agent in the same month as it was declared a critical habitat for the northern long-eared bat. As of yet, no one from the government has seemed any the wiser, and after confirming the town's abandonment, promptly sealed off the three major roads leading into it.

But, of course, the town was not abandoned. The residents had merely hidden away in the catacombs beneath the Library. And their oddly achieved success was well-timed, for that was when the weather soured, becoming thrice as bitter as any winter they'd ever had. Each day brought punishing storms that uprooted trees and tore at roofs and windows before vanishing abruptly.

Only the bravest dared to venture outside during the lull between storms, and those who did discovered that the weather was not the only danger awaiting them.

Monsters of every shape and size roamed the streets and woods, often incited by the whims of the tempests, rampaging with the winds and hail.

Even the most stubborn of residents finally took refuge in the Library, for Mr. Gold (and - though he would never admit it - Blue) cast layers of charms and spells and enchantments, for only the most intricate of magicks provided protection from monsters and storms alike.

But Storybrooke was far from defeated.

Hunting parties set out each morning to drive the creatures into the woods, where portals that led to the Enchanted Forest were cleverly hidden to transfer as many as they could catch. Those that could not hunt crafted countermeasures to keep the beasts at bay. It was a crawling but steady pace, gradually turning the tides in their favor. Until at last - just one week previous - the most vicious tempest to ever touch Storybrooke descended on the town and drove the last of the monsters away.

And then the storm broke.

With hope and trepidation, they began to repair and rebuild the town, though they always returned to the Library at nightfall - or at any hint of a coming storm - for fear of being caught in an even more powerful tempest, though a storm had not so much as brewed on the horizon in the past seven days.

Once the many voices finished their tale, Henry asked, "But what about you? Were you in the Underworld for all six months? How did you escape?"

"That's actually a much longer story," Emma replied.

"Aye, lad," Killian added. "And, as to our escape, we had help."

A chorus of voices asked, "From who?"

"You," Emma replied. "All of you. Everyone here helped us get home."

"Everyone here," Killian repeated. "And many who are no longer with us."

"No longer with us?" Henry asked. "You mean... you mean like Graham?"

"Yeah, kid, Graham," she responded. "And my grandparents, Eva and Leopold, and the Apprentice, Greg and Tamara, Killian's brother Liam."

"And Milah," he said. "And, though he didn't mean to, Peter Pan helped us a little. Even Cora did."

"My mother?" Regina asked skeptically.

"More your father than she," Killian replied. "But, it's true, without her we might never had made it home."

"Before we get into all of that," Emma suggested as she intertwined her hand in his. "Maybe we should see if we can't seal off the town again, huh?"

------

From the moment the Fates weaved two golden threads into one, a wail of bitter beauty sounded from the deep, equal parts mourning and ecstasy cast about by the wind. And those that heard it knew it was the tears of the asphodels.

These were not the flowers of Elysium, the incorruptible isles deeply stirred from joy, where the righteous dead reside free from toil and virtuous heroes rested evermore, untouched by sorrows. Nor were they the flowers of Tartarus, where gloom and fire enveloped mortals, deities, and titans alike with unending torments as punishment for their wickedness.

No, neither monsters no heroes - the mighty nor the feeble - took their final rest in the Asphodel Fields. It was a place for those whose work was complete, and so, the flowers there knew neither torment and fire nor bliss and glory. They discerned two things, and two things only: peace and beauty.

So when the asphodels wept in elation and grief, it was not for loss or for freedom, but instead for two shattered souls healed into one, the most impossibly beautiful thing to exist in any realm.

And when the asphodels weep, the world is changed.

-----------

The last of the winter came down from the north in wailing waves that corrupted spring's fine morning dew, cruelly cutting down anything that dared to grow before the last of its savage, slackening grasp.

And yet, not too far from the Library, an entire field bloomed in open defiance of the frost, spared by the power of someone who had not set foot in this realm - nor any other like it - for a very, very, very long time.

Persephone hadn't meant to linger, but her curiosity outmatched both her caution and her manners. Why would her husband let a mortal free from his realm? In all her years, he had never once allowed such a thing, not for gift nor service nor threat nor promise. And yet he relented, and not just for any man, but a man who already cheated his mortal's fare for centuries.

Had she been gone for so long that those rules were gone? Or had her husband been the one to change in their time apart.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" someone asked.

Persephone recognized the voice, but she couldn't believe it. She turned with deliberation, her breath held and her eyes downcast for fear that, somehow, the truth might yet rob her of this, the one joy she'd coveted - the one she herself had prayed for - since her wedding day. Even after she caught sight of his boots - dragon hide and wrought iron with accents crafted from a Harpy's feather - she dared not look up.

Hades reached out to her, letting his knuckle sit just below her chin. Then, ever so carefully and ever so gently, he lifted until her eyes met his own.

"How... how are you here?" she asked.

"Can't a husband surprise his wife?"

Did it matter how he came to be here? He was here now. And at once, Persephone's mind began to race with possibilities, with all the places she could share with him now that he could walk in the realms of the living at her side.

As if he'd read her thoughts - and, after a fashion, he had done something akin to that - he smiled with the brilliance of ivory dreams clinging to his every feature and loosed a lighthearted laugh.

Unwilling to waste another moment, Persephone took hold of Hades and kissed him soundly under the glowing ebb of the springtime sun.

---------

As was written before, there are some truths that no living mortal may remember, be they Killian Jones, Emma Swan, or any of the countless number who have since heard their adventures.

Perhaps that is why no one can say with true authority what part of that which follows is truth or legend or pure and wild invention.

It is said that Killian Jones and Emma Swan lived seventy five years with a shared heart before Atropos cut the golden thread that bound them as one soul. They defeated villains, tamed monsters, and protected their home while raising their family in Storybrooke. Their children - and their children's children - all tell the story of the man who sacrificed himself to rid the world of darkness and the woman who refused to surrender him even to death. She disappeared into the earth to find him again, and six months later, they rose like the first sprigs of green in the spring's thaw.

And on that magnificent day, so joyous was the occasion, that every realm had a reprieve: not even a single soul passed to the Underworld from that sunup to the next.

But like so many of the tales mortal tell of the hereafter, the truth of it remains a mystery, or, as the saying remains, only the asphodels know.

End-of-chapter notes: Demeter was the goddess of the harvest and agriculture in Greek mythology. One of her symbols was the cornucopia, the horn of plenty, which represented abundant nourishment.

For next and previous chapters, proceed to the Lament of the Asphodels main Tumblr page.

#lament of the asphodels #captain swan big bang #csbb #csbb 2016 #cs ff #captain swan fanfic #once upon a time #ouat #once upon a time fanfic #ouat ff #captain swan #fanfic #killian jones #emma swan #storybrooke

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cbdessentialoil-blog · 5 years

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Benefits of Lavender Vera

Lavender is effectively one of the most well-known plants and essential oil s being used today – actually, I trust it ought to be a staple in each home. Like the vast majority in this present day and age pressure is something that influences practically we all once a day. Indeed it’s generally viewed as a certainty as we hurry back and forth, attempting to make a decent living and stay aware of the unending changes that appear to puncture each part of our lives.

The miserable the truth is that pressure is in excess of an awkward sensation – it has been connected to the development of a wide assortment of sicknesses and illnesses that can eventually be lethal. Malignancy, hypertension, coronary illness and a debilitated insusceptible framework have all been connected to high feelings of anxiety.

Could Help Treat Skin Blemishes

An assortment of cbd essential oils is additionally brilliant for dermatology use, including lavender. Truth be told, in the event that you have skin break out, dermatitis or skin aggravation, applying lavender oil to influenced regions may assume a job in treating imperfections and simplicity irritation, as indicated by a paper distributed in May 2017 in the diary Evidence-Based Complementary and Alternative Medicine. For those with delicate skin, weaken the cbd essential oil in water or a bearer oil.

It Supports Brain Functions

Lavender has been utilized customarily to battle issues like melancholy, stress, nervousness, and migraines. In November 2013, an examination in the International Journal of Psychiatry in Clinical Practice reasoned that lavender essential oil was viable in treating wretchedness, tension, and a sleeping disorder. Phytomedicine considered the impacts of breathing in lavender essential oil vapor and inferred that the vapor could possibly counteract dementia. The rundown goes on. Different investigations have confirmed that lavender essential oil can help treat post-pregnancy anxiety, post-horrible pressure issue (PTSD), and even stroke. Lavender improves cerebrum work to some extent by improving one of the most significant parts of mental working, for example, rest quality. Appropriate rest quality prompts weight reduction, improved fixation, better cardiovascular wellbeing, mitigates gloom, and improves invulnerable capacity.

Wound Healing

Lavender Essential Oil has amazing disinfectant properties. Applying it to wounds can not just expand cell development making the injury mend quicker, however, it likewise diminishes the presence of scars. The counter microbial activity of Lavender Oil shields scratches and wounds from contamination while permitting them to mend.

Hair Care

On the off chance that you experience the ill effects of male pattern baldness or whatever other condition that influences the nature of your hair, search out a lavender-based cleanser. Be that as it may, a portion of the natural restorative items can be very costly, while others which guarantee to be gotten from it might, in any case, contain brutal synthetic concoctions. You can soak lavender blossoms like a tea and afterward apply the blend to your hair. This will work as a successful cleanser and fundamentally support the wellbeing of your follicle beds and hair.

Treats Sleep Issues

In the event that you routinely battle with a sleeping disorder, apnea or eager rest designs, it can adversely affect your life, as proposed by an exploration distributed in The Journal of Alternative and Complementary Medicine. By blending a couple of lavender blooms in boiling water, you can soak a superb tea that has been utilized to prompt rest and unwind for a great many years. This is firmly connected to the bloom’s effect on the sensory system, and can likewise help clear your psyche of negative contemplations. It is usually utilized in contemplation systems and its essential oils are utilized in fragrance based treatment.

Aids In The Treatment Of Eczema

Dermatitis can be a humiliating skin condition, however just in the event that one doesn’t have lavender oil helpful. This is on the grounds that the oil can calm tingling and lessen the side effects of dermatitis. It likewise decongests the bothered regions on the skin by including dampness, in this manner quickening the mending procedure. It is prescribed that lavender be weakened in a transporter oil before utilizing for this reason.

Promotes hair growth

While lavender unquestionably has numerous advantages in keeping up sound skin, it likewise can advance new hair development. In the event that you need tasty long out lavender an attempt as there are a few examinations proposing its utilization as a hair development advancing operator. At the point when joined with other cbd essential oils including thyme, rosemary, and cedarwood it has been appeared to essentially improve male pattern baldness in alopecia areata (spot hair loss) when rubbed into the scalp day by day.

Pain reduction

Lavender essential oil goes about as a mitigating and pain-relieving making it a viable torment reliever in mellow to direct torment. It has numerous applications incorporating helping with osteoarthritis agony, neck and back torment, period torment (dysmenorrhoea) and cramping. A famous utilization of lavender oil is in fragrance based treatment knead, which has been observed to be progressively viable in alleviating torment in knee osteoarthritis in contrast with back rub without lavender oil. Next time you are feeling a niggle simply rub in some lavender oil blended with a base oil like coconut or jojoba to the zone of concern or even better.

Combat cankers

As indicated by the National Library of Medicine, examine has demonstrated that applying two drops of lavender oil to an ulcer multiple times every day can improve the mending procedure, just as lessen swelling and agony. (Cha. Ching.) Simply apply straightforwardly to your ulcer utilizing a perfect finger or a cotton ball. On the off chance that you discover straight lavender oil is excessively solid, you can mix it with a pinch of coconut oil before applying.

Maintaining Skin Health

Lavender has antimicrobial properties that can profit your skin. Lavender herb oil is utilized together with Aloe Vera to soothe burns from the sun and mend dry, breaking the skin. It likewise mends minor cuts and scratches. On the off chance that you want to reduce your age spots, lavender oil will work.

Lavender likewise has cancer prevention agent exacerbates that help takes out free radicals and poisons from the body. Utilize lavender essential oil to recuperate from bruises and to soothe hypersensitive responses. There are numerous sorts of lavender herb concentrates out there that are explicitly gone for your skin.

Brought to you HB Naturals, Distributed by HB Vitality.

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