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maxxxineminxxx · 7 months

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I wanna be more part 2 || eddie munson

part one: https://www.tumblr.com/maxxxineminxxx/730923192165826560/i-wanna-be-more-eddie-munson?source=share

warnings: angst, jealousy, cussing, underage drinking, kissing.

summary : y/n attends the party she was unsure about going to, only to find out that Eddies there as well with his "girl?'' Eddie is still ignoring y/n and she is determined to find out why.

A/n; I decided on making a part two I hope its okay. I tried to finish this part and upload it as fast as i could so if there is any errors let me know!

You haven't spoken to Eddie all week, and every attempt to catch his eye seems to fail. The guys from Hellfire, while friendly, are just as clueless about Eddie's behaviour as you are. You've missed being with them, but with the way Eddie's been acting, you doubt he'd even want you around at this point. You can't shake the feeling that he's got Roxanne as a stand-in for you. The two of them seem awfully close.

Yesterday was the first day of the week that you had biology, Eddie was in the same class as you and sat right next to you so you thought you would finally be able to maybe get him to even acknowledge your presence. But he didn’t in fact he didn’t even sit next to you he moved his seat and sat next to Roxanne instead. The two of them giggling the entire lesson.

The cheerleaders have been persistent in trying to convince you to go to the party tonight, but all you really want to do is wallow in self-pity. On Saturday nights, you and Eddie would have your cherished movie nights. This tradition had been going strong since you were twelve, and you hadn't missed one. But tonight, you couldn't help but feel that it would mark the first Saturday where this tradition would be broken. Eventually, though, you decide that it might be good to take your mind off the situation and distract yourself for a couple of hours by going to this party.

As you approach Olivia's house, its exterior gives off elegance and warmth. The well-maintained structure stands as a testament to a comfortable and inviting abode. Olivia's mother graciously welcomes you inside. Following the lively symphony of girlish laughter, you navigate through the house. The source of the cheerful laughter and singing leads you to a room where a flurry of activity unfolds. The air is scented with cosmetics, a delightful blend of powders and perfumes.

Within this lively environment, a group of girls are engaged in the transformative ritual of hair and makeup, each one a portrait of focused determination. Some of them in pairs, offering assistance and sharing opinions on outfits. The room is vibrant with colour, style, and a shared sense of excitement as they prepare for the party soon.

"y/n, get over here so I can get started on your makeup," Chrissy said to you, patting the spot next to her on the bed. You complied and settled in, letting her work her magic.

Meanwhile, Layla declared herself the outfit maker and designer, convinced that jeans were a no-go for a party. You observed as Carol and Olivia playfully teased each other and spritzed their hair.

"y/n, you're up next for hair," Olivia informed you, stealing glances at her own reflection.

“y/n is there anyone you like?” Chrissy asked as she finished up your blush. “Yeah, but I don’t really think he likes me back like that, he kind of only sees me as a friend.” You admitted to her, she looked at you with pitiful eyes. “Well, his loss yeah?” you hummed in agreement and carol placed her hands on your shoulders and then spoke. “Hold your breath unless you want to pass out from inhaling too many hairspray fumes, I’ve learnt from experience.”

This was going to be a long night. Slightly uncomfortable too, outfit wise.

Arriving at Jason's house, a wave of discomfort washed over you. The dress you wore hugged your form, its hemline leaving you feeling more exposed than you were used to. Layers of makeup adorned your face, a foreign sensation that you tried to ignore. Taking a deep breath, you pushed those sensations aside, determined to make the most of the evening. A break from the Eddie situation was much needed.

Compliments from fellow partygoers began to flow, and you couldn't deny the boost to your confidence. It made the uncomfort worth it. Though you couldn't ignore the lingering gazes from the basketball team. In the kitchen, an entire table was dedicated to a bunch of alcoholic drinks. You poured some into a cup, leaning against the counter as you took a sip. It was a moment of peace before you had to socialize. Although it didn't last very long before the girls were running up to you. The girls all come rushing up to you, whispering in hushed tones among themselves.

"Oh my god, you're never going to believe who even dared to attend tonight," Layla announces to the group, imitating a gag. "Eddie Munson and Roxanne are here together," she adds.

You scan the room, and there they are.

The sting of hurt cuts deep, a familiar ache settling in your chest. It's a harsh truth you've come to accept - Eddie's reluctance to attend parties with you is a wound that never seems to fully heal. No matter how much you plead, his answer is always the same: a resolute no. You've always turned down invitations like this because Eddie didn't enjoy them, and you didn't want to go without him.

You wonder if he would have done the same for you. And now, he's here, amidst it all, with her. She likely didn't need to utter a plea, a thought that only adds to the pain. You watch as she leans into his side, and he holds her close. Your gaze remains fixed on them until your eyes meet Eddie's. He looks at you, then turns to Roxanne, whispering something in her ear. They both giggle.

The alcohol begins to work its gentle magic, enveloping you in a comforting warmth. Leaning into Jason, who's positioned himself protectively between you and Carol, you find solace in his presence. It's surprising, yet oddly comforting. He places a protective arm around your waist.

“you, okay?” he asked with genuine concern you nod and give him a smile. “Just tired.”

Jason had promised to be your protector, ready to confront any guy who overstepped boundaries and made you uneasy. His genuine concern touched you deeply, especially when you confide your uncertainty about the party during your lunch conversation. As the party swirls around you, the noise and bright lights closing in, you start to feel slightly overwhelmed.

You stumble towards the front porch, craving the cool embrace of fresh air and a moment of peace. The alcohol has taken its toll, pushing you on the edge of emotions. Your heart aches for a chance to talk to Eddie, to find out the reason for his distance.

Lost in your thoughts, you settle onto the porch, consumed by all your questions and concerns. It takes a moment before you even register the presence beside you. Glancing over, your breath catches in your throat. There's Eddie, his expression etched with deep contemplation. It appears he, too, is lost in his own world, unaware of your arrival. The weight of your unspoken connection hangs heavy in the air between you.

But when he finally noticed you, he stood up, already ready to head back inside and ignore you once again. But you grab his arm before he can enter the house once more. Your voice trembles with frustration and hurt as you confront Eddie. His attempts to avoid your gaze only fuel your determination.

“Why are you ignoring me, Eddie? I think I deserve a damn explanation," you press your grip on his arm firm. His response feels like a dismissive blow.

"I don't know what you mean," he mutters, a fake innocence in his tone that grates against your raw emotions. It's as if he's trying to gaslight you, making it seem like you've imagined this distance.

"You don't know what I mean? How about how you ignored me all weekend, and then still didn't speak to me at school, no matter how many times I tried to reach out to you?" Your words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of your broken connection. The ache of longing for an explanation pulse through you, demanding acknowledgment.

Eddie's fingers dance nervously over his rings, a visible sign of his stress. He lets out a shaky exhale, struggling to find the right words. "I Dunno," he mumbles, his voice laced with uncertainty.

Your frustration grows, demanding an answer. "What do you mean you don't know? You just woke up and decided you were going to ignore me for no reason, huh?" The hurt and confusion well up within you, desperate for an explanation. You feel your eyes swell up with tears, and you blink them away, worried about messing up your makeup. Eddie’s confession hangs heavy in the air, each word dripping with sincerity and vulnerability.

"I love you, y/n, so much it scares me," he admits, his emotions laid bare.

"I've been working up the courage for years to ask you out or say something, but I figured you would never see me that way, and then I'd ruin our entire friendship. So I needed to get over you. And I couldn't do that by seeing you all the time, I only came to this stupid party to make sure you were okay,” he admits ‘’i even asked Roxanne to help me i don't know, maybe make you jealous, see if you even cared.’’

The sight of you with Jason seems to further drive home the point for Eddie, a bitter confirmation of what he feared. "But you look pretty cozy over there with Jason, so it looks like you couldn't care less," he concludes, his tone laced with hurt. Your heart aches, the weight of his words settling in. This is a mess of misunderstanding.

His words leave you momentarily speechless. He wants more than just friendship, and the weight of that realization settles in, both thrilling and terrifying. As he turns to leave, you find your voice, a mixture of surprise and longing colouring your words.

"Eddie, wait." But you've answered too late; he's already walking towards his car to leave. You run after him, yelling out his name, and he finally looks back at you.

The weight of the moment hangs heavy in the air as you try to muster the words. "Eddie wait” But your attempt at an explanation is abruptly cut off.

His voice trembles with pain, a raw vulnerability in his eyes. "Y/n, save it okay? I don't want to hear it," he interjects, his tone laced with sadness. His words struck you like a blow, and in that vulnerable moment, you couldn't hold back any longer. "I love you too," you confessed, the truth tumbling from your lips as he moved towards his car. You couldn't bear to watch him leave, to be ignored again. You had to tell him now.

As he turned to look at you, his face registered shock and disbelief, a thousand emotions dancing across his features. The weight of your unspoken feelings hung heavily between you, a bridge waiting to be crossed. He moved closer to you. So close that you could feel his breath fanning over your face. “Say that again,” he asked, tucking some of your hair behind your ear and locking eyes with you.

“I love you, Eddie.” He cupped your face with both his hands, and you felt his lips crash into yours creating an electrifying connection that sent shivers down your spine. It was a passionate moment filled with desire and longing. Our bodies pressed against each other as if trying to merge into one. Time seemed to stand still as we lost ourselves in the intensity of the kiss. The kiss was hungry and passionate. You had been waiting for this moment for what felt like forever. He broke away from the kiss and looked at you with a smirk. “I haven't told you how beautiful you look tonight,” he said, his hands roaming your body. You blushed and hid your face in his neck. He held you close, pressing kisses to your cheeks.

‘’Please don’t ignore me again Eddie, i wish you would have spoken to me " you said attempting to make the situation serious again so you could understand how he was feeling.

"I know, I know I should've just told you how I was feeling, but I just couldn't,” he admitted softly. You brushed his bangs out of his face and watched as he gathered his thoughts.

“i didn't know how to talk to you about it or even approach the situation, i thought that if i admitted it to you i would mess it up and become a stuttering mess, ‘m sorry.” he expressed to me, he buried his face into the crook of my neck for a moment before he pulled away and looked at me with a smirk.

“So what's this I'm hearing about you loving me huh?”

“Eddie, stop, I'm still mad at you,” you said, fighting the urge to smile.

“Nonoo y/n you love me’’ “Y/N L/N LOVES EDDIE MUNSON’’ he screamed on top of his lungs “Eddie people are staring” you laughed and tried to cover his mouth with the palm of your hand.

“Let them stare, I'm only telling the truth.’’ he leaned in to kiss you once more. “How about I make it up to you with a milkshake?” “Only if its chocolate”

You and Eddie walked hand in hand to his van. It felt like a dream, the reality of your shared feelings sinking in with each step. The joy in your heart was palpable, unable to tear your gaze away from him, grateful that he felt the same way you did.

“y/n do you know what this means” he looked over at me and was suddenly extremely serious. “A cheerleader is in love with me.’’

“You are actually such a dork” you say as you grab his hand to hold whilst the two of you walk over to his van. “Yeah, but I’m a dork that you love.”

tags: (i hope this is everyone tumblr wasnt allowing me to tag some ppl so if i missed anyone im so sorry )

@thedyingwriter @daisyridleyyyy @munsonzgf

@sazifer @hufflepuffobsessedwithmarvel @sashaphantomhive

@boomitsallie1 @emma77645 @ziggeddie @ahoyyharrington

@inesven

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you #stranger things 4 #stranger things #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #stranger things s4 #stranger things au

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reixtsu · 5 months

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Reixtsu- Dialogue Prompts Part 1

This is my list of dialogue prompts for any future requests! Feel free to use some of these with credit!

Part 2: here

"Ah. As expected. I don't like your smell. I've always been disgusted by the odor of others. Yet I'm fine with the odor of yours."

"I might as well take you away so that way we can live in comfort."

"But…we're married?" "Not behind closed doors."

"Dumbass. Don't you see that I'm trying?"

"This is real life! You don't get to restart when you make a mistake!"

"Sure sure. I'm assuming blowing up the building was an accident too."

"You have the audacity to wake me up and not actually die."

"That's because of my complete and utter failure of being a well-mannered functioning member of society."

"Looks like I'm going to liar's jail."

"The horny people shouldn't go to jail with other horny people."

"You were just an experiment."

"If you want to see explosions, you're talking to the wrong person."

"Please! I don't have a kid!" "Why would I care if you've reproduced?"

"This is why we can't have nice things."

"I have nightmares all the time, so I stay awake."

"Oh my darling. What a mess you've made out of me."

"I count my gain in blood and pain."

"Nothing was nice, but I lived every minute."

"I accept you and I don't even know your reasons."

"You've gotten yourself into quite the mess. Aren't I enough trouble for you, darling?"

"How long have you been standing there?" "Longer than you'd like."

"I don't know what my plans are, but I'm pretty sure it didn't include a migraine like you."

"Shrouded in mystery and ready to die- I knew we were destined partners."

"You know…that's not what an apology sounds like." "Bite me."

"This is not the time for you to be questioning my career choices."

"Can you not talk about ____ the same way you talk about ____?"

"If you were a pokemon, I'd choose you."

"Is your ego really that big?"

"Add me, subject him, multiply your feeling and divide love."

"You're the only fangirl I'd date."

“The masculine urge to not act past 18.”

“Your lips look lonely. Would they like to meet mine?”

“I wanna be spoiled by an older woman.”

“You’re like snow. Beautiful but cold.”

“He immediately wants to go home.”

“Are you guys in heat or something?”

“What the hell? A slut appeared out of nowhere!”

“Your voice is my favorite sound.”

“That info was hella unnecessary.”

“I don't feel like associating myself with your cheap drama.”

“He really is the biggest piece of shit there ever was. It turns me on a tad.”

“You must be an expert in geometry, because you've got all the right angles.”

“If you were a structure, you'd be a masterpiece of modern art.”

“Are you a blueprint? Because you've got my plans all laid out.

“I must be a sketch, because I can't seem to erase you from my mind.”

“I'm not a photographer, but I can definitely picture us together.”

“If you were a hypothesis, you'd be the one I'd want to test endlessly.”

“I must be an open book because your intuitive mind seems to read me effortlessly.”

“Are you a puzzle? Because you make my complex thoughts fit together perfectly.”

“If life were a theory, you'd be my favorite variable to explore.”

“In the grand symphony of life, meeting you was the sweetest note.”

“Your love is the poetry my heart has been trying to write.”

“If love were a canvas, every moment with you would be a stroke of pure art.”

“In the dance of time, you are the graceful waltz that makes every step meaningful.”

“You're not just my sunshine; you're the warmth that colors my entire world.”

“Mon amour, tu es la lumière de ma vie. (My love, you are the light of my life.)”

“Dans tes yeux, je trouve le ciel étoilé. (In your eyes, I find the starry sky.)”

“Ton sourire illumine même les jours les plus sombres. (Your smile brightens even the darkest days.)”

“Mon cœur bat au rythme de ta voix. (My heart beats to the rhythm of your voice.)”

“À tes côtés, chaque moment est une éternité. (By your side, every moment is an eternity.)”

“あなたは私の心の花です。 (Anata wa watashi no kokoro no hana desu.) Translation: You are the flower in my heart.”

“あなたと一緒にいると、時間が止まったような気分です。 (Anata to issho ni iru to, jikan ga tomatta youna kibun desu.) Translation: When I'm with you, it feels like time stands still.”

“あなたの微笑みは、私の一日を輝かせます。 (Anata no hohoemi wa, watashi no ichinichi o kagayakasemasu.) Translation: Your smile brightens up my day.”

“あなたと過ごす時間は、宝物のようです。 (Anata to sugosu jikan wa, takaramono no you desu.) Translation: The time spent with you feels like a treasure.”

“あなたの愛が私を幸せにします。 (Anata no ai ga watashi o shiawase ni shimasu.) Translation: Your love makes me happy.”

“有你的陪伴，时间变得如此美好。 (Yǒu nǐ de péibàn, shíjiān biàn dé rúcǐ měihǎo.) Translation: With you by my side, time becomes so beautiful.”

“你的微笑如阳光般温暖。 (Nǐ de wēixiào rú yángguāng bān wēnnuǎn.) Translation: Your smile is as warm as sunshine.”

“和你在一起的时光是我最珍贵的宝藏。 (Hé nǐ zài yīqǐ de shíguāng shì wǒ zuì zhēnguì de bǎozàng.) Translation: The time spent with you is my most precious treasure.”

“If beauty were time, you'd be an eternity of mischief.”

“Is it hot in here, or is that just the effect you have on me?”

“I must be a snowflake, because I've fallen for you, and I'm one-of-a-kind.”

“Are you a map? Because I keep getting lost in your eyes.”

“If laughter is the best medicine, your smile must be a prescription.”

“Your laughter is like a melody I could listen to all day.”

“There's something about the way you look at me that makes my heart race.”

“BARKBARKBARKBARKAHSJCIKKKAHHHHAHHAMEOWAJCNNABB” “You need medical attention.”

“Your presence alone is enough to brighten my day.”

“The way you carry yourself is incredibly captivating.”

“I love the way your mind works – it's as intriguing as it is attractive.”

“Your confidence is magnetic; I can't help but be drawn to it.”

“The way you express yourself is a unique kind of beautiful.”

“I find myself smiling whenever I think of you.”

“There's a certain charm in the way you make even ordinary moments extraordinary.”

“Your intelligence is not only impressive but incredibly appealing.”

“I appreciate how you always manage to make the mundane feel extraordinary.”

“Your passion for [insert interest or hobby] is incredibly attractive.”

“I love the way you carry yourself with a perfect blend of confidence and humility.”

#Reixtsu #dialogue prompt #gsnshin impact x reader #bungling stray dogs x reader #writer’s block #writing ideas #writing prompts #character dialogue #writing dialogue

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undisclosedstories · 1 year

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Hermes

(TW: this talks about the Troubled Teens Industry through a fictional mean. The events that go on in this story can happen to those who suffer from this “therapy”. If you see someone you care for struggling, reach out to them, talk to them, don’t just throw them aside.) “What do we do with him?” A concerned mother asks though it’s obviously for bullshit reasons. “Try as I might but he can never pull his nose out of a damn book.” On the other line sits a man who thinks he knows it all, claiming a cure for problematic children. “Ma’am, if you give us your home address… we can help.” His tone is very calming, like a breath of fresh air after 10 hours in a polluted factory. Tears swell up in her eyes, “Is there any other way..?” “No…”

“MOM! MOM!” The boy screams in fear as two men appear, ripping him from his blankets. Cry and fight as hard as he might but there’s no escaping. They tie him down and toss him into a minivan, the boy in the rear and the kidnappers up front. He cannot speak, as they placed tape on his lips while driving him to places that shouldn’t exist. The 10-year-old boy sobs and sobs, but they do not respond.

The drive lasted only 6 hours but to him it feels like days, his mind swelling with sinister displays. Were they kidnapping him, was he to be killed? His mind races as the hairs on his skin stand on the edge. The water in his eyes goes dry as they pull him out yet again, this time in a place that’s foreign to him. Labeled only as a troubled teen, Hermes looks out for his living condition. Though he only gets a few seconds, as his bandages are undone. The two men, which now he gets a better sight of, take him in.

Though not to a dorm, to a changing hall, where he’s forced into a neon shirt and pink shorts. Encased in embarrassment, but they weren’t done, as they lugged him out into a dining hall. Hermes' face goes a bright red, as 50 kids sit eating their mead. An instructor comes forward and barks some instructions. His peers get up and trap him between them, silence first with a deathly feeling. What feels like 1000 voices descend onto him, screaming, yelling, and violent attacks all upon Hermes at last. Crying doesn’t save him, it only goes harder, unbearable conditions for those seen as problems. After it all happens, he can only collapse in his bed, shaking, crying, and mentally dead. He can hear their verbal assaults in his head, repeating over and over in a hateful symphony. It doesn’t end, it never ends.

In weeks, a boy with feelings, love, and fears, turned only into a husk, one wrong move before crushing beneath him. Every night his slumber would be shaken by angered students taking roll calls, and silence emanates from the room as they keep with studies that they actually didn’t need to do. When they ate, he ate, when they slept, he slept, and when they yelled… his voice would die by the pitch of his scream riddled with malice, resentment, and spite. There was no healing in this disgusting domain, only people shutting down their sufferings for the ordeal of the day. Quiet crying kept through the night, as suffering was universal inside the structure.

Food was less than palpable, as every bone tried to fight him to not digest hideous crap. It was a brown-grey lump, with the consistency of clay going down his voice twice a day. The “studies” were just books upon books of random equations, as you’d be forced to complete ten pages before you moved on to the next thing. He sat in corners, being stared at by one of his peers for hours, doing what he could to keep his sanity up, and there’s down. Life became an unpredictable pattern so to speak, as everything felt the same, even if it was unique. Hermes never felt like he was getting anywhere with his “treatment”, as the doctors would prescribe him nothing one day, then 6 anti-depressants and group therapy the next time they meet. Hermes would sit at the toilet, vomiting the medicine they gave him, a small act of defiance that remained unseen. He didn’t just hate it here, he carried an unyielding, omnipotent, overbearing malice for these walls he was forced to eat and sleep in. Hermes had no books he could escape to, no way to be free, only a 10-year-old boy in a mindless machine. He could feel the sands of time pass on, as he sat through his 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th birthdays. There was no reason to celebrate when all he could now see what the whitewashed walls of fate. The worst about of suffering is knowing there’s no escape, as they whisper to you, “Go on… tell them… no one’s going to believe you.” Even with the letter he sent and the calls he made, strict reinforcement meant he had to behave. This wasn't a place of healing to help the unwell, this was juvenile detention written up as boarding school hell. Limited sunlight meant his skin would go pale, and meager portions left his body hungry for more. The greatest miracle of his life was only when his mother couldn’t pay. By then there was nothing for him to display, 4 years inside a camp for the breaking. Hermes was innocent, forced to plead guilty. She hugged her “son”, and tears streamed down her eyes. “This isn’t my son… this can’t be him.” What was once a boy with a sense of exploration left him in a place where mistakes lead to abrasions.

10 years later

Hermes sighs as he closes the book, still resentful of the hope that they have taken. The deer skull on his head now hides tears no longer cried, emotional scarring that very few can define. A large blemish to be unraveled, trauma that won't burn. Looking upward he sees his retreat and comes back to face him, a giant library of books crammed in every slot. Blood sweat and toil for him to make this false enjoyment, as now he can’t see these stories the same way as before. Fears of screaming, the dark, and its secrets keep him up at all times, his chest still heaving. The plotlines he once fled to now struggle to keep meaning as the nightmares of his life keeps him always uneasy. Try as he might, he cannot escape the struggles of those nights. Helplessness was learned, and now it will stay, for a luxurious librarian, trying to hide it all away.

#troubled teen industry #someone help him #oc #books #short story #realistic fiction #tags #writing #fiction #i try to write

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exorcism-spells-supernatural · 2 years

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Get Rid of Evil Spirit and Demonic Possession

The perception that demonic oppression exists and might own human beings is of route the stuff of fiction and horror films — however it's also one of the maximums widely-held spiritual ideals withinside the world. Most religions declare that human beings may be possessed through demonic spirits (the Bible, for example, recounts six times of Jesus casting out demons), and provide exorcisms to treatment this threat.

How to get rid of demonic possession?

The concept that invading evil spirit possession are inherently evil is essentially a Judeo-Christian concept; many faiths and perception structures take delivery of ownership through each beneficent and malevolent entities for quick durations of time as uncommon — and now no longer particularly alarming — factors of non-secular life. Spiritualism, a faith that flourished throughout America withinside the 1800s and remains practiced in some locations today, teaches that loss of life is a phantasm and that spirits can own human beings. New Agers have additionally lengthy embraced a shape of ownership known as channelling, wherein spirits of the useless are stated to inhabit a medium's frame and speak via them. Hundreds of books, or even a few symphonies, were allegedly composed through spirits.

Real exorcisms

While many Americans consider actual exorcisms as relics of the Dark Ages, exorcisms remain performed, regularly on folks who are emotionally and mentally disturbed. Whether the ones present process the exorcism or ghost possession is sincerely possessed through spirits or demons is every other depend entirely. Exorcisms are executed on human beings of robust spiritual faith. To the quantity that exorcisms "work," it's far because of the energy of thought and psychology: If you trust you are possessed (and that an exorcism will treatment you), then it simply might.

The phrase exorcism derives from the Greek phrase for oath, "exousia." As spiritual research student James R. Lewis explains in his book An Encyclopaedia of Religion, Folklore, and Popular Culture, to exorcise hence manner something alongside the traces of putting the owning spirit under oath — invoking a better authority to compel the spirit — in place of an actual 'casting out.

Along with a handful of Vatican-sanctioned exorcists, there are loads of self-styled exorcists across the world. After attending 50 exorcisms all through studies for his ee-e book, Michael Cuneo states that he in no way noticed something supernatural or unexplainable: No levitation or spinning heads or demonic scratch marks all of sudden acting on anyone's faces, however many emotionally bothered human beings on each aspect of the ritual.

While maximum human beings experience a horrifying movie, perception withinside the literal truth of demons and of the efficacy of exorcism could have lethal consequences. In 2003, an autistic 8-year-vintage boy in Milwaukee, Wis., became killed all through an exorcism through church individuals who blamed an invading demon for his disability; in 2005 a younger nun in Romania died on the fingers of a clergyman all through an exorcism after being certain to a cross, gagged, and left for days without meals or water if you want to expel demons. And on Christmas Day 2010 in London, England, a 14-year-vintage boy named Kristy Bamu became crushed and drowned to loss of life through family looking to exorcise an evil spirit from the boy.

Read this post also in https://dineshzxp.livejournal.com/

#exorcism spells #exorcism prayers #evil spirit possession #demonic possession

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melvintart · 4 months

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The Collegiate Gridiron Symphony- Life of Melvin Tart

Within the realm of college football players, there is a distinguished athlete who stands out—Melvin Tart, a true symbol of resilience and dedication. In the sacred halls of academia, where knowledge intertwines with the echoes of history, a remarkable chapter unfolds. These select few individuals, like Tart, venture beyond the comfort of lecture halls and libraries to a world where the clash of helmets, the thunderous cheers of the crowd, and the resounding gridiron create a symphony of unwavering passion and relentless pursuit. Their journey is not defined by the destination, but rather by the obstacles overcome, the lessons learned, and the unbreakable bonds forged in this unique crucible.

The journey begins with the aspiring athlete setting foot on the sprawling campus, a place that will be their home for the next crucial chapter of their lives. The scent of freshly cut grass on the field and the distant hum of a marching band tuning their instruments set the stage for the grand performance that is about to unfold. Each day is a blend of academic rigor and physical conditioning, a delicate dance that requires unwavering discipline. The life of a college football player is a balancing act of late-night study sessions and early morning workouts, where the pursuit of excellence extends beyond the classroom and onto the gridiron.

Melvin Tart exemplifies what it takes to thrive in a challenging and competitive environment. This revered athlete, known for his unwavering dedication, stands out in the crowd. His journey is etched in the annals of academia, where the pursuit of knowledge mingles with the reverberations of historical events. Each step Tart takes is not merely towards his destination; it represents the numerous hindrances he overcame, lessons he imbibed, and the indomitable bonds he formed amidst this uniquely challenging crucible of competition and camaraderie. His existence, akin to a musical composition, persistently resonates with the rhythm of passion and relentless pursuit.

In the sanctuary known as the locker room, a diverse ensemble of individuals unites through their shared passion for the game, forming a fraternal bond. The fraternity is built on the foundation of shared sweat and sacrifice, creating a support structure that transcends the realm of the playing field. Every player in this symphony, including Melvin Tart Kenosha WI, contributes their unique melody to the harmonious blend that forms a successful team, each member's presence an invaluable component in the grand orchestra that is the lifeblood of this sport.

Practice sessions are the rehearsals for the grand performance on game day. The coach, akin to a maestro, orchestrates the movements and strategies, transforming a group of individuals into a synchronized unit. The football field becomes a canvas, and each play is a stroke of artistry, painted with precision and executed with the finesse of a well-practiced masterpiece.

Beyond the physical demands, being a college football player is a mental and emotional journey. The highs of victory and the lows of defeat create a rollercoaster of emotions. The athlete learns to navigate the landscape of success and failure, resilience becoming their most valuable companion. In the face of adversity, they discover the strength within themselves and the unwavering support of their teammates.

As the spectacle unravels, amidst the deafening roar of the crowd and the sea of school colors, the spotlight shines upon the players, and among them, a true embodiment of the spirit of this sport, Melvin Tart. Clad in armor-like uniforms, these young men step onto the hallowed turf with a blend of nervous excitement and a resolve that's as hard as steel. Their eyes reflect the dreams of glory while their hearts beat in sync with the rhythm of the game. This is the moment they have all been waiting for, the crescendo of their collegiate symphony, the culmination of their relentless pursuit of victory. Each player, from the seasoned veterans to the eager rookies, understands the unspoken pact—they are one team, one fraternity bound by the love of the game, stepping out onto the battlefield to write another chapter in their epic tale.

The first whistle blows, and the symphony begins. The quarterback, the lead violinist, orchestrates the offense, making split-second decisions that can alter the course of the game. The linemen, the percussion section, provide the powerful rhythm, creating the foundation for the ensemble. The wide receivers, the flutes, and trumpets, add the flourishes of agility and speed, while the defense, the brass and woodwinds, create a formidable barrier against the opposing team's advances. As the game progresses, the ebb and flow of emotions mimic the rise and fall of musical notes. Touchdowns are triumphant crescendos, celebrated with jubilant cheers and coordinated celebrations. Interceptions and fumbles, however, are the dissonant chords, met with collective groans from the crowd. The players, like skilled musicians, must stay focused on the next play, learning from mistakes and adapting to the ever-changing rhythm of the game.

The clock ticks down, and the symphony reaches its climax. In the final moments, the players draw on their months of preparation, relying on muscle memory and the unspoken connection with their teammates. A last-minute drive or a crucial defensive stand can tip the scales in favor of victory or defeat. The collective heartbeat of the team resonates in every tackle, every pass, and every strategic decision. Regardless of the outcome, the final whistle marks the end of this performance. Win or lose, the players leave the field with a sense of accomplishment, knowing they gave their all-in pursuit of a shared goal. The symphony of the game, with its highs and lows, serves as a microcosm of the college experience—an intense, transformative journey that shapes character and forges lifelong bonds.

Melvin Tart's journey from the halls of Hattiesburg High School to the competitive fields of college football forms a compelling symphony, a testament to his resilience and unyielding spirit. His narrative, however, doesn't end on the gridiron; the echoes of the game continue to resonate as he steps back into the rhythm of academia. The victories won, the battles fought, the bonds forged—all become a part of his personal narrative, a melody that reverberates throughout his life. These experiences mold him, providing a powerful allegro that propels him forward into the next movement of his life. As Tart transitions from the battlefield of the sport to the intellectual pursuits in the academic sphere, the lessons garnered from his time in college football lend a unique cadence to his journey, enriching it with invaluable insights and experiences.

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canarymemories · 8 months

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cavalleresco

chapter summary:

still, there’s something pleasant about this thought, that maybe he’ll one day meet those who would guard his back in battle and he would gladly return the favor.

that dreaming doesn’t quite prepare him for actually meeting those people.

knights is, in the most respectful way he can put it, a mess.

1 | 2 | 3 | 5 symphony masterpost

here on ao3

tsukasa is used to tradition.

he’s been raised within the structure of his family with the knowledge he’d one day be taking over as head. just knowing that fills him with a sense of pride from a young age, meaning he takes to his lessons seriously and does his best to act mature.

the suou family is a long line of rife military ancestry and ties, so tsukasa’s heard stories passed down through the generations before him many, many times. he learns young the concept of having people to watch his back. in part, the branch family exists for this very reason and he sees no reason to not trust kohaku with that task even when he grows to dislike the divide between them, set in place by ancient standards that no longer work in modern times.

of course, being as young as he is, he considers who else around him he could rely on. the only other person he sees often enough outside of his family is tori and the very thought of him being reliable enough to fill that role makes tsukasa’s nose scrunch up in disgust.

still, there’s something pleasant about this thought, that maybe he’ll one day meet those who would guard his back in battle and he would gladly return the favor.

that dreaming doesn’t quite prepare him for actually meeting those people.

knights is, in the most respectful way he can put it, a mess. of course, most of that clears up with time, but they’re dysfunctional at best some days. yet he finds a home among them, a family created by chance that he finds a sense of comfort in.

even so, once the task of running the theater is put onto his lap, tsukasa isn’t sure what to do.

he’s more than honored to take the helm on this one, but he doesn’t even know where to start. it’s meant to be his job and his job alone, serving as his coming of age if all goes well. he knows there’ll be no penalty if he fails here, but the thought of failing here, of potentially letting down not only his family who would likely be somewhat understanding, but also eichi, keeps him on task.

sort of.

somehow what turned into a task that was assigned to him and only him begins to involve more people. first, anzu who he eagerly asked advice from as she’s clearly more than able to run events all on her own. then, sora joins in, more than happy to help where he can, and somewhere along the way, that turns into both of their units coming together for their sakes.

tsukasa knows it’s a little silly of him to not start with his seniors. as disjointed as they may be at times, knights has come together time and time again, so it should come as no surprise that they offer their assistance as easily as they do. (he just wishes he didn’t have to seiza for them to get their point across.)

and the live goes on without a hitch.

he’s far more used to his seniors taking center stage with ease given their individualistic nature, but seeing them allow himself and sora to take that position in their own coming of age of sorts makes tsukasa feel all the more like he made the right decision in telling them everything.

the satisfying buzz of a completed live thrums through him once they step off stage, a sheen of sweat making the fabric of his sleeves stick to his skin. he’s managed to slip to an undisturbed corner of backstage where he messages his parents about how the live went as the two of them were unable to attend due to other family duties.

part of him is glad they weren’t there among the audience. if leo being in the audience prior to judgment threw him off as much as it did, tsukasa can’t imagine what he’d do if his parents were out there watching his every move.

nevertheless, he brushes that aside once the message is sent off.

in its place, thoughts fill his head of how successful that had been, of how his family and eichi would surely be proud of him. of how he’d even managed to make a friend along the way. it’d definitely been a bit of chaos in bringing everything together tsukasa thinks.

a hand slaps against his back. it makes him jolt.

“suo!”

“ leader , must you greet me like that?” tsukasa says.

leo hums as if in thought. “you were good out there,” he replies.

it’s such a jump in topic that tsukasa doesn’t know what to say at first. “thank you. it would’ve been unsightly if my performance wasn’t up to par. you all did, ultimately, leave the stage to harukawa-kun and i.”

“about that,” leo starts. “since when’ve you and sora been friends?”

that… certainly is a good question.

tsukasa is used to the rigidity of his teachings before yumenosaki, used to what he’s told, of learning being the priority at school rather than making friends, but it seems like he’s not the best at following that apparent rule. he’d been doing his best to stick to his studies without distractions, which is difficult as is when it comes to the nature of the academy, so he truly does wonder at what point they became friends.

he’s never been well versed when it came to other people, much less friends.

“recently,” he settles on. “i told him of my troubles and he was more than willing to help.”

leo studies him for a moment. the silence is oddly uncomfortable. “i’m glad you have a friend you can rely on, but your onii-chans are always there for you too, y’know?”

ignoring the rush of fondness that hits him — he’d found people to watch his back, hadn’t he? — at that comment, tsukasa says, “must you continue to bring that up? i already apologized for not telling you sooner, did i not?”

leo laughs. “you did, you did. i just wanted to remind you.”

there’s a pause between them once more, though this one is nowhere near as heavy as the first.

“ leader ,” tsukasa trails off. he isn’t unsure of how well the live had gone; he knows it was as close to perfect as it could’ve been. all those in attendance seemed more than pleased at what their entertainment had been. the planning had gone smoothly once it was more than just himself involved. but there’s still something in the back of his mind, yet he doesn’t know how to articulate it into words.

leo must sense that somehow as he says, “suo, you did well at leading us this time. y’know, soon enough, you might be leading us for good.”

it’s hardly the first time tsukasa’s heard something about him becoming king; ritsu had said something similar earlier that day. the thought of it is ridiculous, though. tsukasa is still a newbie when compared to arashi and ritsu. sure, he’s grown since he first joined, honed his skills, and even proved himself on stage just now, but the thought of him inheriting the throne sounds more like a joke than an eventual reality.

“you all sure do like to say that,” tsukasa replies, tone slightly exasperated. he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s missing something.

------------------

tsukasa finds a phone being pressed into his hands before leo is even sitting across from him.

he’s not too put off by this series of events as leo’d called him and told him about the song before he’d even come back from florence. leo said he wanted tsukasa to be prepared, though the several calls to tell him so seem a bit much. even so, tsukasa had welcomed the correspondence; it’s been too long since they’ve all been able to meet together.

“good afternoon, leo-san,” tsukasa greets seeing as leo hasn’t.

“hi, suo,” leo returns energetically, practically vibrating in his seat.

“you never told me what this song was written for.” there aren’t any lives with the five of them as far as tsukasa knows and he hasn’t asked leo for anything new.

leo hums, shifting where he sits. “consider it a congrats for being the new king.”

tsukasa’s eyes flick down to leo’s phone loosely wrapped in a pair of earbuds, then back up to leo. “it’s been months since coronation , leo-san,” he points out. “wasn’t that more of a celebration already of my becoming leader?” not to mention, leo’d written songs specifically for the occasion then too.

leo shrugs. “yeah, i guess, but this song didn’t come to me ‘till now, so… just listen to it already.”

knowing there’s no point in getting into a debate about it — it was written for him, after all — so tsukasa isn’t going to put up a fuss. it’s not as if leo goes around handing out songs to people for no good reason anymore, so tsukasa beings to unravel the earbuds.

“gimme one,” leo says, hand open.

as asked, tsukasa places one in leo’s hand and the other in his own ear. once they’re both situated, tsukasa finds that the song is already pulled up when he turns the phone screen on.

“play it already, suo,” leo tells him with an eager little nod. tsukasa can feel the pull of it on the shared earbuds.

“calm down, leo-san,” tsukasa chastises only for leo to pout at him.

the song opens rather playfully, something that shows itself as positively being one of leo’s compositions. tsukasa knows he won’t be able to take in everything on just a single play through, so he does his best to listen as well as he can.

as the song continues, he can picture where the lyrics would reside, fitting easily into the melody leo’s created. tsukasa notices that this is a song that suits the five of them far better than only himself. that makes sense, he thinks, if it’s a gift to the new king.

it’s clear in some of their older songs that leo was at the middle of it all, so to present a song with the idea of tsukasa taking up the reigns seems more than fair. the thought fills tsukasa with a bit of excitement. he’s already proven himself to his seniors, so the chance to do the same for their fans would be just as fulfilling.

the song concludes quicker than tsukasa is expecting, but he chalks it up to his thoughts distracting him. it’s over four minutes, so it couldn’t be all that short.

“it’s for all of us?” he questions after a beat or two of silence from the earbud.

“mmhm! it’ll be a proper change from me being king to you since we don’t have anything like that yet.” leo pulls his phone from tsukasa’s hand to scrub through the song. the phone begins playing a random section where he stops and he begins humming along to it.

tsukasa simply nods to himself, hands left awkwardly empty until he curls them in. “that sounds adequate ,” he says once leo skips to another part. “though i think our fans are already used to the switch, don’t you think?”

leo’s face scrunches slightly as if in thought. “maybe, but too bad. take it anyway.”

“i wasn’t turning it down in the first place.”

leo ignores him. “i dunno what it’s like for you guys in school still, but sena should be free soon. or i think he will be at least.” he pauses briefly, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table between them. “we can call everyone in and record it soon, how ‘bout that?”

he seems more excited about this than tsukasa himself is.

still, the five of them haven’t been able to meet up as of late, relegating their discussion to facetime calls as they get stuck between deadlines and needing to figure out the logistics of the many, many new members in the in school unit. all of that combined has made it difficult to form any kind of get together, even through screens, that isn’t horribly brief.

“that sounds rather nice,” he replies. there should be a reprieve coming up soon, a few break days worked into their schedule. it’s been a while since they’ve had the chance to record anything new, but with how much leo is looking forward to this — his enthusiasm infectious as always — tsukasa thinks it’ll go smoothly.

of course, that doesn’t account for actually learning the song and all of the things that come with a new composition, one that he doesn’t even think has lyrics as of yet. tsukasa looks forward to the opportunity nonetheless.

he holds his hand towards leo who gives him the phone back. the screen lights up once more, showing the song playing from where leo had last left it. “it has no title ?” tsukasa asks, the file name being a simple song for suo .

“i figured it’s your song, so you can pick.”

though a small task, the chance to choose a title on his own is a little daunting. tsukasa supposes part of the lyric writing will also fall on him, another task that weighs on him, though, if the others are also getting involved in this, it should be quick work.

tsukasa nods. “thank you, leo-san. i’ll do my best.”

leo smiles, bright and a little proud. “i know you will, suo,” he says, reaching across the table to ruffle tsukasa’s hair.

------------------

end notes: cavalleresco means chivalrous. i feel like it's an easy out to pick for him (especially when i was having trouble with both this chapter overall and finding a title), but i think it suits him just fine. after all, no one quite exemplifies the qualities of a knight, chivalry included, like tsukasa. that and with this chapter focusing on both before and after he became king, i thought that it was fitting even if it's not as reasoning heavy as the others

who wants to guess what song leo gave him klsgh also. shout out to everyone who saw me struggle w this chapter for like a cumulative week on priv, you guys are the real ones <33 i can't believe i'm almost done posting this already 😔 see u all tomorrow for leo's chapter

#my fics #symphony #tsukasa suou #leo tsukinaga #the epic highs and lows of writing this chapter oh my god ksdhg #this chapter was rewritten about four times i think #and by that i mean the first half was completely scrapped nearly four times in total #also. points to anyone who guesses what the song in the second half is

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werewolvesandaccordions · 1 year

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Strauss – Also Sprach Zarathustra (1896) “Thus spoke Zarathustra”, a tone poem written early in Strauss’ career that, like the original draft of the Alpine Symphony, is inspired by the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. The book of the same name is an experimental allegory following the travels of the titular character, Zarathustra. Strauss structured the movements of the tone poem to reflect different episodes and topics. It opens with the “sunrise”, which is without a doubt Strauss’ most popular piece of music, thanks to Stanley Kubrick’s use of it in 2001 a Space Odyssey, and consequently every sci-fi work in pop culture that references 2001. A quiet organ growl like the primordial “om” of Buddhism, and then the “dawn” motif, C-G-C, which will pervade the rest of the work. The fanfare blasts out with the minor, timpani strokes restart the theme now showing the major, and with a grand flourish it ends triumphantly, a new day. “Of the Backwaters” referring to people living in the country, and is a lovely choral that is introduced with the opening line of the Credo. What starts off mostly in strings soon gets filled out by the whole orchestra in a lush sound. “Of the Great Longing” uses a chromatic melody that soars above the dawn motif. An orchestral flourish takes us into the section “of Joys and Passions” where the music swirls around in a stormy wave. In the “Song of the Grave” we get a solo violin over a murky backdrop of instruments winding down, until the melody is being carried high up in the air, and getting louder in a wave of shifting harmonies. “Of Science and Learning” acts as a fugue, based off of the dawn motif. This helps to convey the complexity of observed science and interpreting data to reach conclusions. It starts off quiet, and gradually crescendos, the fugue theme breaking apart and starting a more simple and rowdy dance. The orchestra takes up the dawn motif yet again and it is used as the accompaniment of a charming dance carried by a solo violin. Now, the “Dance Song” acts like a ballroom waltz, complete with the lushness of the late 19th century Viennese orchestra. It’s easy to hear the kind of gorgeous and sugary waltz writing that Strauss would later recreate for Der Rosenkavalier. The music grows bigger and bigger until the orchestral climax is brought on by the tolling of deep bells, and we hear the music of the “Night Wanderer”. Here the piece begins to wind down, suggesting that it will have a peaceful conclusion. Instead, the coda is perplexing. Strings pluck in low C under the winds playing a B Major chord up above. Does the work tonally resolve in the key of C where it started? Or does it end in the key a semi-tone down? Does it matter? It matters enough that this work was written at the close of the 19th century, and whether Strauss meant to or not, he ended up crating a work that would spark the big “problem” / “question” that 20th century composers would tackle with: how do we organize harmony if it no longer carries the same function as before? Movements: Einleitung, oder Sonnenaufgang (Introduction, or Sunrise) Von den Hinterweltlern (Of the Backworldsmen) Von der großen Sehnsucht (Of the Great Longing) Von den Freuden und Leidenschaften (Of Joys and Passions) Das Grablied (The Song of the Grave) Von der Wissenschaft (Of Science and Learning) Der Genesende (The Convalescent) Das Tanzlied (The Dance Song) Nachtwandlerlied (Song of the Night Wanderer)

mikrokosmos: Strauss – Also Sprach Zarathustra (1896) “Thus spoke Zarathustra”, a tone poem written early in Strauss’ career that, like the original draft of the Alpine Symphony, is inspired by the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. The book of the same name is an experimental allegory following the travels of the titular character, Zarathustra. Strauss structured…

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tinas-art · 1 year

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dariaandjanelanefanboy · 1 year

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hushilda · 1 year

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rumblelibrary · 3 years

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The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and a minor depiction of a fight. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: I am a nerd for a good Victorian novel and a sexy Alienist.I have always been charmed by Laszlo’s mind and inner conflicts. So I took the chance and tried to have a run into that rollercoaster. The story is placed between season 1 and season 2.

Diary belonging to Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. This is a professional book of annotations over medical treatments of an alienist toward his patients. Do not disclose and send it back to the address if found: Kreizler’s Institute, xxxxxx, New York City (NY) L.K.

Samuel Griswold Goodrich, Illustrated Natural History of the Animal Kingdom (c1859). Contributed for digitization by University Library, University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign.

Schiller in his “Die Weltweisen” wrote: So long as philosophy keeps together the structure of the Universe so long does it maintain the world’s machinery by hunger and love. From the philosopher point of view sexual life takes a subordinate position in human’s life, from recent studies pushed by European philosophers, everything is about sexuality and its development. I like to think of the experience of being an alienist as the process of Queen Penelope that, while waiting for her husband Ulysses return, undoes her craftwork every night. I undo the fabulous constructs of people’s beliefs to go back to the rough sketch that stands at the beginning of their loss, their complex, their pain. Maybe that’s why working with children is so motivating and fascinating. They can be saved and yet, I am well aware, some of those sketches already traced in their young lives equal to scars that not even the most advanced theories could cure. But I can sooth them. I can prevent them the torment, the anguish, the recollection at night of those monsters. I feel like a poet would be a better alienist than a philosopher, but I have got no poetry nor philosophy in my veins, but the cold experience of the razor blade judgment of Life itself.

Today I observed a fight among the children at the Institute. Age range between 10 and 12. Boys. The fight was over the possession of a side of the playground, the territory of a pack of youngsters formed under the name of Steven. Peculiar lad, coming from a military background finds comfort in replicating the schemes he lived in his family. He takes the role of the Father/Captain of the team and subjects children that come from a similar background story, but do not posses his same attitude to the command. All quiet on the front, until the space he declared is own spot got affected by the presence of others. Intruders. I knowingly let the events unfold to see how Steven would react to his challenged authority. His reaction was, at first, worded, a sketch, a stage-play of an action he witnessed over and over, and he knew the part so well that some of the contending kids lowered their stance against him. Among considering to mildly intervene into this pyramid scheme of authority, another boy, Jan, calls himself on the role of the educator and hero of the masses and proceeds to unfold a wild and well assessed punch on the newly declared dictator face. Balance is established again. No need for me to arbitrate, once more the laws of nature seem to apply to children as in a state of nature.

Meet John Moore over lunch. His job at the newspaper is picking up, he is charmed by the spirits and the wits that he finds in his shared office with all the other writers. He mentions many, goes on and on over qualities and troubles, gossips and tendencies, and even little scandals here and there. To be aware of all those details gives me no interest, but to see a dear friend so invested clearly gives me something to pick up. To consider also the amount of details and the way he describes this or that member of the journal, I can do a small exercise of analysis. It is almost too easy because John is painfully genuine, even some of the kids at the institute would beat him hands down in a battle of lies. The more he likes somebody, the more he goes on about all the details and the characteristics, often letting aside the physical appearance. When he doesn’t like somebody he has a couple of adjectives for the wits and around four or five for the physical aspects that usually indulge on some repulsive idiosyncrasies. John is a man that painfully fits in the storyline of The Picture of Dorian Gray: to him physical beauty is spiritual beauty and, of course, the other way around. This part of him surely intrigues me, makes me want to tease more from him. But, as a friend, it concerns me as John is way too prone to purposelessly decide that somebody with good eyes is also a good human being, which is a very romantic and admirably naive way of judging matters. I noticed some names that keep repeating in his narration. I dread that it is synonymous of a soon encounter from my side with the objects of his admiration. Fetiches, I dare to say, that I will have to annihilate before they sediment into his mind, perpetuating a narration that soon sees John being mislead by others.

Reserved: Tickets for the Eroica, Symphony n. 3 by Ludwig van Beethoven. Thursday evening.

Note on the show: the first movement lacked the pathos needed to begin with, I am not sure that the guest orchestra really managed to portray the wider emotional ground needed to withstand the whole representation. As the evening progressed there were some outstanding performances by the cellists. Still not approving the choice of reprising the early quick finale movement against the lengthy set of variations and fugue that we are used to in presence of the Eroica. Underwhelming the performance of the horn and oboe, vital in the comprehension of the genius of Beethoven.

Niki is a new addition of the Institute, quite old for the standards. He is already 16, he will leave when summer ends to some expensive college his family meant him to stay. His parents expect me to make him “normal” in the time we are allowed together. He is Austrian and I let him act it out like I don’t understand German for the first week of hist stay until today. I believe I hit his pride, which is good, in the moment I answered back to one of his sneaky comments. Now he knows. He is not safe from me, he doesn’t like it. The young man has a tendency to danger, risky tasks and edgy situations. In his mother’s own words “Niki is not afraid of anything”. The phrase didn’t raise any excitement in the father, rather some sort of painful acceptance that is role as the alpha male of the house is probably not only being challenged, but already diminished, if not abolished. I have taken in consideration that Niki will break himself a bone or two in the process of the therapy, probably out of the spite of boredom or rebellion. It took him less than few days to turn himself into an outcast among the outcasts, which only drives me closer to analyse the complexity of his narcissistic wall of self defence. I gave him a physical challenge to lift a certain weight, he is a pretty skinny one, he didn’t like the challenge, but I am sure he will take it. He is a brainy guy, he hates to be questioned on unfamiliar ground. He won’t sleep at night thinking about it. A challenge, in this first phase, can only bring me closer to the ease of his pains. To continue the observation.

It is a sad privilege of medicine, in particular the one I practice, to be able to witness the weaknesses of the human nature and the reverse side of life. Nevertheless, I oblige this same privilege of the study as life moves into shades of darkness. To be aware of it gives more solace to my soul than to be victim of patiently waiting for the inevitable unfolding of the events. To be able to understand more about psychology would bring more comfort and elevation to any human being, the times might not be there yet, but eventually something will move into the direction of a more wholesome approach.

Dinner meeting with Sara Howard, at the restaurant Jardin Des Cygnes, 7 pm sharp. Do not expect to reach the dessert. Do not know if John will be participating due to undeniable tension among the two and the fatal despise of John over French cuisine.

The case that Sara unfolded tonight to my ears feels more and more like pulled out from some gothic book or from the mind of a Roman historian that needed to justify the godly origins of an Emperor. One killing, apparently random, a very constructed iconography over the body. Signs and insults, shapes and drawings. Is this a work of art? Does the killer wants his victim to be his Mona Lisa? His David? I am charmed and destabilised. If this was a murder like any other, then why to spend so much time into it? Based on the description the act of killing itself was quick: a sharp cut over the throat, almost like not wanting to ruin too much the surface to use as base for, what? I keep rerunning those symbols over and over as Sara described them to me, my mind is flooded with the designs of greek philosophers that needed to explain themselves why the sky is above our head and never collapses on us. Hilarious how, no matter the science advancement, in the mind of many the sky stands inevitably overt their shoulders, suffocates them, brings them to a death of the soul and not of the body. Is all this graphic charade indeed only a form to scream for attention? To stress the eyes of an unaware viewer? It seems ridiculously elaborate, a scream for attention would be quick, it would be like guided by instinct, not reasoning, craftwork. Any man with a knife can paint in blood red the walls of a room and that’s asking for attention. That is the primal howl: look at me! I am here! But this one. I don’t know yet.

Spent the early morning reading anew my copy of The Metamorphosis by Ovid. Didn’t touch it in a long time and I got bedazzled by the world of terrible sensuality, anger and selfishness of those gods and mortals. I think back at all the deviances and weaknesses of human kind and I try to relate it to all of those humanoid figures. Niki would be a minotaur, the lonesome son left in the labyrinth and his strive for success is his bull’s head. Or maybe a centaur, because of his wits and strategic thinking. I might keep up the process, maybe this is the way to understand my patients better, to understand the killer better. Must remember not to romanticise it. Greek gods were probably the first form of self indulging of a society that needed gods to be forgiving and allowing favours and punishments, but only in exchange of sacrifices. But the sacrifice never comes from the God’s will, but from the will of the man that perpetuates the act of killing. To sacrifice someone or something is the sadistic response to a lack of love deeply inherited in human mind that becomes neurotic. Is the killer giving the God of his own neurosis a body to feast upon?

I talked with Jan this morning. The young boy is about 10, but he acts like a full grown adult. I could easily asses that’s the reason why he could challenge Steven in that fight. Two children mimicking adults situations they know too well. Jan is son of an industrial man, but he is also son of the dialectics of the industrial revolution. He sounds like he swallowed some of those books about working class rights and communism, probably pushed by a resentful surrounding (mother?uncle? the midwife?) over the social role of his father. As much as incredibly smart and lectured, Jan lost most of his early occasions in life by spending a considerable amount of time using his fists. The anger ever present in the young boy always surprises me, he seems to be holding a power, a strength of a full grown man in those tiny arms. Nevertheless, he is already the tallest of the group. He is surely an idealist, which makes him also tragically fragile. His strength mixed with his heart of gold can make him the best of the heroes or the worst of the villains. He apologised for the fight, he specified how he didn’t like the sound of Steven’s voice, more than the sound, the level of pitch. I can’t stand somebody shouting orders, I just don’t listen anymore. He is so mature even about his own feelings, almost a gentleman in his chivalry toward the weaker children, honest with his open heart and resentful against any form of injustice. I am not spared by his ways, he would come at me whenever he feels like I was being partial over some of the kids, his sense of justice blinds him and transform a perfectly balanced boy into a ranging animal.

Ordered book, to be delivered around tomorrow evening: Introduction à la méthode de Léonard de Vinci by Paul Valéry. Suddenly feeling myself as a gross ignorant in art themes. I always regarded myself aware of the artistic personalities and tendencies of present and past, but this new amount of perceptions over the human figure and the human body leads me to document myself more. I could ask John for advice, but he wouldn’t take things at matter that seriously. I can almost hear him say how I can make gruesome a pleasant topic such as art. I should probably wait to see the body to push any further aesthetic study, but I find myself not being able to stop. I reckon, I can allow myself a vice or two.

Today I saw the body of the killed man, courtesy of the Isaacson's. To be fair, I had underestimated it. In Sara’s descriptions, probably due to her more analytic mind, all the charm of the representation got lost in favour of a less cryptic and reasonable understanding of the act. Sara got what some alienists will call a masculine mind, which I don’t perfectly agree on. If I apply that same approach John would be a very feminine mind, all wrapped up in romanticising even the ugliest. I guess that dividing the world in “fragile and gentle” and “strong and powerful” is just easier to explain the fluctuation of something that doesn’t need a real name or a category like human inclinations on thoughts. I got a feverish sense of patience by looking at the body. Each symbol traced with sapient slowness, dense of the time that the killer spent with the body. That is a work of hours, he had time and meaning. He had resources and was able to spend not less than the time he needed to reach, a vision? An ideal? A message? Is it the message meant to be understood? Am I supposed to unravel it or it is maybe just the way the killer communicates within himself? And if I do decifrate the code, will that bring me closer to him? Or to his next victim?

Reminder: ask John to replicate all the symbols on the bodies in the correct measure and order. It might be needed some hard convincing. Addition: scheduled meeting, his house, 3 pm.

It wasn’t a day like any other when I met you. Or maybe it was, and that’s why I got so struck by it and now I am here playing it over and over through what my memory clung on so desperately. In my own experience, life was often similar to swimming in a lake. Those rich, dense lakes in the north of (illegible cancelled word) were my father used to bring us during summer. I still feel the pull, the draw down toward the abyss. It ashamed me, in a way, the fear that such a simple feeling aroused in my young mind, unaware nevertheless, that such a feeling would follow me through all my existence. It was a prophecy and, like most of the prophecies, was a riddle. I cradle in my heart the charm of those days, the mindless happiness. The foolish feeling of freedom. Little I knew that freedom would be taken away from me that soon, that the body that used to navigate me over the dense waters, helping me to fight the haul toward the unknown, would become my own cage. That day. Today. The day where I met you, the day I was afloat. The child gasping for air felt the wrench become a gentle push and now he is floating on his back over the scary waters of reality and malice. It gave me relief and it gave me terror, because since that very moment I knew that I would never be able to move on from the sight of you. From the feeling of your eyes lingering on me. From the smile you so easily shone upon me. From the whiff of imported perfume that hit me when you turned on side exploding that swan like neck. And nothing, not even my stern look, could dim that wave of hope that your sole presence washed over me. The abyss roars, calls me to a home of damnation and terror and curses my name and yet you repeated that hell-bound name of mine after me and I felt safe.

John told me so much about you, it feels like I have always known you.

The rope is gone from my neck, the guillotine won’t fall on me, I am spared, I am free.

I have read your latest article, I am thrilled to help with the case.

I am in disbelief.

Your voice.

Dr. Kreizler

How dare you? How dare you to come into my life, to appear, like a vision, mystical, in a way I despised at University when all those theology students talked about the divine. In this very moment I can’t recollect much of what you said, something about the case, about going with John at the obituary. It feels confusing, I feel overstimulated, my memory fails me, I am not sure anymore. I write these few lines and it is passed the hour of the witches and I wish, I demand, to never see you again, because life should never grant hope to a condemned man.

#dr laszlo kreizler #dr laszlo kreizler imagine #dr laszlo kreizler x reader #dr laszlo kreizler x you #laszlo kreizler #laszlo kreizler headcanons #laszlo kreizler x reader #the alienist fanfic #victorian age #v writes #the diary of doctor laszlo kreizler

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remsmoonlight · 3 years

Text

— title : i need you

— word count : 2.1k words

— pairing : ryuji goda x reader

— summary : convincing ryuji of doing the opposite of what he’s set out to do is a pointless task, yet you will attempt if it gives him even one more day.

— warnings : blood, mentions of violence, some swearing, mentions of imagining of death, angst

notes : inspired by a prompt from here .. i had to do a self indulgent thingy for tumblr .. because why did they have to kill him off like that .. i tried to be dramatic as i possibly could

" none of this would've happened if you had just listened! "

A muffled silence drowns your hearing, the spinning of the Earth decelerates until it feels little more than a crawl with a weak grip. Rough cement scrapes the smoothness of your knee, leaving an angry blemish as grit fights to find its way into your bleeding wounds. No graze can pull you out of the deep end your heart finds itself fighting to stay above of, as you witness your worst fear painted perfectly on a canvas steeped in blood. The stillness of the air leaves you feeling flustered as your mind tries to make sense of what it observes before it, hoping that it’s no more than a deceptive trick played on itself by the fear you felt as you made your way up the tall structure.

A romantic thread of words have never failed in supply, but words left unsaid threaten to crush you under their weight, lost moments to time. A shudder of a breath shakily is let out, the cold air kick starts your body as you push yourself up and scramble to where the battered and bloodied body of Ryuji lays, almost motionless in pain. A childish cry to wake up from this nightmare is all you can think of, but reality does not bend to the whims of humanity, it continues with the path it has set. Resentfully, you can see the similarity that it shares with the male.

“ none of this would've happened if you had just listened! “ A broken cry full of fiery misery lick at the delicate snowflakes that descend from the heavens with a short lived grace, full of threats to burn as they penetrate your space.

The shock of the vibrancy of the liquid that escapes Ryuji leaves time standing still, you care not however, your fingertips gripping a heavy shoulder as the other lends a gentle touch to his cheek. Pain and grief masks itself as anger. You sorely wish to blame someone or something, but you had warned him.. You’d tried to reason with him that this course he’d set would leave him chasing an unattainable taste of sweetness of satisfaction that would dull with each day that dawns. A strong will that had left you in an addictive awe leaves you with a decaying taste in your mouth now, it creates an impossible amount of scars on your soul.

“ ‘Guess I should’a listened to ‘ya after all. “ He reluctantly answers, the humour unable to battle the drain out of his voice completely.

“ Why couldn’t you have just let this lie? “ A ticking pulls your attention away for a fraction of a passing second, a groan causes you to turn back.

“ Was always gonna end this way. “

A weakened grip that belongs to Ryuji ignores the resistance from his body, enduring the pain from the movement in order to experience skin against skin contact for himself once more. He wishes he could have found it within himself to have turned left, but he’d have lost himself without this self imposed purpose, fading into the background. It was selfish, to bring you into his world.. But to him? You’re an unfinished book, your words inked with glittering star dust that etch themselves into existence. He was unable to tear him away from your pages that you may have worn like wings. Selfish. To know how his story would end, yet knowing he would not be around for yours.

“ No. “ Your lips close, pushing against each other to numb the other, your features twisting into an aching grimace.

“ Can’t stop it now. “ he insists, brows drawing together as he scrunches his eyes up from the agony that throbs through every inch of flesh. “ Shit’s set in stone now. “

“ Stop it! “ You sob, hating how vulnerable you sound.

There is a sorrowful beauty in the scene, notes Ryuji. Pale beams of moonlight triumphant until the point of reaching your body that blocks it. Leaving no more than a radiant glow surrounding your head, providing an inhuman glow that illuminates your body as much as your soul — a wistful image that he’s glad to witness once more. Your being here is something of a majestic collision into a door to his person he’d fought to keep locked, if this is a departing gift he would gladly take it. He’d thought the last time he saw you would be when he unwillingly shared his plan, should this ending occur, he could take comfort in there not being a picture of you waiting at the door waiting for the other half of you to walk through the door, only to be met with a crushing realisation of never seeing him again. Only, he’d not expected you to follow in his tracks, not after he’s ignored your pleas of turning away from this path.

“ Ya better get outta here, ‘place is gonna blow soon. “

“ Not without you. “ you argue, refusing his direction — your grip strengthens ever so slightly, fearing the winter breeze has the power to boldly grow and tear you away from the man.

“ Ya got’a whole life ahead of ya. “ A twist of his heart is the dominant sensation he notices at the thought.

He wishes he could be there for it, to see the petals of your success bloom in the depths of your determination. One thing he could never understand was how, despite the tainted reputation that follows him like a shadow, never had been enough to put you off. Not a criminal tie to your name and you voluntarily merged your time and energy with his, with little care. Perhaps that’s where an addiction to his selfishness began. All his life and his Yakuza connections secluded him from genuine human connections and you’d trampled all over that with your impartial view. Many would prefer to cower in their fear, you’d scratched past the surface to see who he could be capable of being.

All the time spent together, and yet he still craves more. To linger in your orbit, time is his nemesis — for he still feels as if there has not been enough. Not the hours spent with the sun setting and you’re there by his side, when he’d spent more time committing the wonder at such a simple thing to his memory. Not the darkened hours spent together surrounded by silken sheets, and all that graced his ears was a musical symphony of breathy moans as you set about learning each other’s bodies. Never were the hours spent talking in order to hear the passion in your voice when speaking about something that interests you enough for him.

“ You can’t do this. “ You whimper softly, almost looking through the man you hold close. “ You can’t come into someone’s life, you can’t make them care about you and leave just because you want to. What did you think was going to happen? That I was going to sit by and let you do this? “

He says nothing, leaving space for a groan of pain to leave his lips as he tips his head back. He’s met with a darkened blanket where millions of stars are scattered so ungracefully, yet do not collide an uncoordinated dance across the sky. Uncertainty overwhelms him, over that is causing more pain — the wounds or the grief in your every word.

“ Just get the fuck outta here already. “ His voice echoes across the large space as he turns his attention back to you.

�� Were you lying all that time? “ You ask with a trembling lip at the thought of being without.

It feels like an endless amount of early mornings had been spent planning and chattering about the most random things. Your mind lighting up with the power of a thousand suns before the world had awoken around you. You can’t pinpoint the moment it happened, but the two of you awoke a little earlier than necessary to bathe in the image of the other — to forge a most perfect illusion of normalcy before stepping out into the real world. Mornings were not your most happiest bedfellow, yet you’d grown to love them just a little more when waking to the most simplest treat to sweeten your tongue.

“ What ya on about? “

“ All that time when we were talking, about what we were going to do? What we could do? ”

“ Why ya going on about that ? “ He asks curiously, eyeing you as you speak.

“ If you die, how are we meant to do any of it? “ Your words are rushed as you question him plainly.

“ Yer gonna .. just won’t be with me. “ Colour from the world feels as if it’s fading, merging into one bland monochrome depiction of a bright, bubbling city.

“ Can you stop?! “ A frustrated shriek tears from the bottom of your throat in response. “ I’m done talking in circles, I’m not dying here and neither are you. If I have to, I will drag you out with me. “

The world pauses in shock for a quiet fraction of a minute. To be spoken to in such a manner is not something Ryuji has experienced much in his life, even rarer by you — words that fell from your lips are always bathed in the sweetness of sugar, not an ounce of poison to anyone. Even the individuals who drew your temper out of its sleep were met with an incredible amount of restraint, he can hear the desperation — acting as a bucket of ice water to shock his nerve endings from the low temperature.

“ You did what you had to do. It wasn’t meant to be, but you can find another purpose. Build something else with your life, just.. Just come with me. Please. “

To be responsible for dragging you down with him, away from providing the world with your bright rays of sunshine in the bland day to day lives of everyone you came into contact with weighs heavily on his chest. Extra time spent with you, perhaps getting to know who his little sister has become are the treats tied onto a stick in front of him, life’s cruel bribe. He’d imagined how his ending would have been sketched by above, yet to have ties keeping him there had not been what he would have included. If he couldn’t be the one dragon, this would be a consolation prize that would allow for the petals of peace to bloom before he’d tear them down once more.

A strength he’d thought abandoned him glows with a dull hue, for a minute, he contemplates using that for Kiryu. Yet the other half of his soul wins the battle, a hand of his reaches out to push himself off from the concrete. It’s not an easy feat after being battered more than once, yet it’s not half as arduous as it could be with you supporting his weight — he’s fully aware how much of your strength he is using from your audible gasps of air.

“ Ya don’t gotta yell at me. “ he complains softly as he grips his side with as much force as he can dedicate to.

“ I don’t think it’s the time for this. “ You argue back quickly.

“ The red one. “

“ Huh? “ The sound escapes you as your features turn into a frown over how to get away from the ticking time bomb fast enough.

“ The lift, to get down. Press th’red one. “ He instructs you with a finger barely lifted, pointing in the direction of the button behind you.

You say nothing in response, the wheels in your mind working faster than your body as it moves purely on an instinctive reaction when receiving messages from your brain. Your stomach twists and turns from the descent to below, unable to process the way the city shifts into a state of obscurity from the swift movement. It would be a beautiful sight if it hadn’t attached a violent night as a parting gift.

“ You really scared me up there. “ You confess with barely a whisper. “ Can you promise me something? “

“ What’s that? “

“ That you won’t do something like this again. “ You say, with your heart hoping that he’d shy away from an impossible task should it present itself. Your eyes had seen enough hurt for one night, you’re confident you’d not be able to withstand it once more.

“ Wish I could. “

Teeth grind against the bottom of your lip, you should have known that he wouldn’t. Yet you also cannot find the strength to tear yourself away from the fire that burns within him, like a moth to a flame, you find yourself wondering how close you can stand against the heat before you flee from the pain it brings.

#Ryuji Goda x reader #Goda Ryuji x reader #Yakuza imagine #Yakuza fic #if this looks like it has been written in parts between the hours of 9 pm - 12 am #because it has #inspiration comes late

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silkling · 3 years

Note

Au prompts

No rush, just throwin some thoughts out

I really like your falsely accused au, any more of that would be consumed as if it were the finest chocolate

(More g1 ish) Prowl is SpecOps in some way not just a strat-tac mech (love me some BAMF Prowl)

Prowl has a secret identity, and his pseudonym is that of a reknown orchestral composer. Meanwhile Jazz thinks Prowl knows jack sh*t about music....maybe Prowl writes him a symphony as a surprise anniversary (could be bonding or maybe a post war milestone) gift? (This is indulgent fluff of mine that i think about but never actually write XD)

No worries, friend! The falsely accused AU will return soon! I’m debating whether I should make a long fic for the next reveal or keep it short like I did the first one. I plan to have things in this AU change the canon at large, so prepare for that. :P

As for your other prompts, how about I mash ‘em together? :D

———————————————————————————————————

Prowl hadn’t always been involved in battle tactics. When he’d come online, he had realized that his tac-net was good for organizing and structuring and controlling anything large and complicated. Most bots assumed that meant a battlefield, or something else to that degree. It was why he’d initially joined the Praxus Enforcer Corps. He had excelled there, and his tac-net had helped him cut crime rates down to a tiny fraction of what they’d once been. But…after he’d done that, and his programs and procedures were in place and settled, things had calmed and he’d had nothing to do. He had hated it. So, in an effort to break up the monotony, he’d gone to view an orchestra performance. After that, he’d been hooked. He’d watched the conductor control and guide the flow of the music and the musicians, and his processor had roared to life.

The next day, he’d handed in his formal resignation from the Enforcers, and had been allowed to leave with full honors. His Chief knew he hadn’t been happy, knew he’d been stagnating. Highwire had only wished him luck before she’d sent him off. Then, Prowl had devoted himself to music. He learned all he could, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, he’d managed to work his way from a music writer, to a small time musician, to a small time conductor. And then he had had his first show as a proper orchestra conductor, small and non-essential as it was, and his tac-net had settled and quieted, it’s systems purring as it allowed him to direct the flow of the orchestra with perfect precision. He hadn’t known at the time, but his show had been watched by one of the most well-known and oldest conductors on Cybertron. After his show, Treble had approached him and introduced himself, and offered to take Prowl on as a protege.

He had agreed, and his next show had been bigger. He’d written the music himself, the orchestra he was conducting was much larger, and Treble had used his vast influence to promote it. That was the first time he’s taken to the stage as Baton. He had decided shortly after he’d begun training under Treble that he didn’t want to use his real name when on stage. He enjoyed his privacy, and if all of Cybertron knew Prowl as a conductor he wouldn’t get much peace. So, on stage, he was Baton, and as Baton he also used a temporary paint to change his colors and used some fabric to drape over shoulders and hips. It was enough to disguise him.

And to his delight, his first show had been a massive hit. His tac-net had enjoyed this even more, the larger scale giving him more to work with, more to control and direct, and he reveled in it. Then, after the show, Treble had revealed to the audience that Baton had written all the music that had been played that night, and with that single performance his career was set. Over the following vorns, he’d grown more and more popular, and he’d eventually finished his tutelage under Treble. As time passed, he’d quickly become the most well known conductor on Cybertron. His orchestra had grown too, and had become known as the largest on the planet. Prowl, or rather Baton, led a orchestra of over a thousand mechs and femmes through songs he himself wrote. He had loved every minute of it.

Prowl wasn’t an emotional mech. In fact, emotion was something he struggled with. He thrived on order and structure, and emotions were not organized or structured, but music…music was. And music was also emotional. Through music, he had been able to give his emotions the order and structure he desperately needed in order to express them properly. Prowl had loved his life as Baton. It wasn’t grand, and he didn’t serve much of a higher purpose, but he brought joy to his orchestra, and to his audience, and for him that was enough.

But then…the whispers started. Now, Prowl wasn’t a fool. Most mechs who hadn’t been involved in the inner workings of Cybertron would claim that Megatron had risen from practically nothing and started the war on on his own. He knew that wasn’t true. Megatron had risen from a well-established foundation, a foundation that had built itself long before he gunmetal warlord had even given thought to revolution and war. No, the war had started millennia before the rise of the Decepticons. It had started on the quiet whispers among the lower castes, it had started on the stirrings of the beaten down and the starving. It had started at the rising tide of outrage and horror in face of the Senate’s cruel and extreme punishments for any tiny hit to their authority. It had started in the discontent at the tighter and tighter stranglehold the Senate had began to employ as they grabbed for and more power for themselves, and more and more of the mechs in lower society suffered and died. No, the war didn’t start with Megatron. Megatron was merely the catalyst. If he hadn’t come along and done what he had, Prowl had no doubts that a full scale revolt would have occurred. The fuel for the war had already soaked into the roots of Cybertron. Megatron had only been the spark that lit the blaze,

Prowl had heard the whispers, the growing discontent. He’d seen how the civil unrest got worse with each passing stellar cycle. He knew it was only a matter of time before something in his life changed again. So, when Covert approached him, he hadn’t been surprised. She told him she was the head of an independent group of Special Ops bots, unaffiliated with any political group and who worked only to keep Cybertron as a whole safe and stable. They weren’t much liked by the Senate, since they were not under any mech’s control, but the Senate also couldn’t do anything about them since, apparently, the group had been operating as they had since before the Senate itself had even existed. Covert had told him she’d seen some of his shows, seen the way he directed the orchestra, and she had dug in and found his public records as Prowl. She’d read about what he’d done as an Enforcer, had read about what information there was available on his tac-net, and realized she needed him. She told him that the civil unrest was growing worse, that things were even more dire than they appeared on the surface. That she wanted him to join her, to train him as an agent and a spy, and she wanted him to use his tac-net and his other abilities to help keep Cybertron safe.

Prowl had floundered. He understood why she was doing it. His logic centers agreed that her points were sound, that it would be best for everyone’s future if he went with her. His tac-net ran probability outcomes, spitting out percentages at him of what would happen if he accepted her offer, what would happen if he didn’t, what would happen if the unrest grew to proper war and what would happen if war could not be contained or controlled. The numbers weren’t good. His logic centers had screamed even louder at him to accept. His emotional cortex had protested. He didn’t want to leave his orchestra, his music. But…he was needed. As much as he loved what he was now…he couldn’t let others suffer if he had a way to help. So, with a heavy spark, he had taken her hand.

The next day had come, and Prowl had announced to the world as Baton that he was temporarily leaving the music scene. Baton was having issues with his health, and until they were resolved he would not write music or conduct again. And so with the well-wishes of fans and his musicians alike, Baton faded into the background of Prowl’s spark, and Operative had taken his place. Once again, he had had to disguise himself. This time, he’d taken more permanent measures, a dark blue visor and a battle mask that covered the lower half of his face. A radical paint change, and even alterations to his armor itself to make him sleeker and slimmer. Covert herself had trained him, and shortly thereafter he had gone on his first mission. Prowl had found he had a natural aptitude for spy work. He was small, quick, and stealthy, and he had a knack for processing, deconstructing, and disseminating information. It didn’t take long for him to become known as one of the most accomplished SpecOps agents on the planet. It also wasn’t long before he took his first life. He still remembered that mech’s face. It haunted him, in ways his subsequent kills didn’t. After that, he had also been sent on the occasional assassination, though his work as a spy always came first.

And then, just has he had predicted…war.

It had erupted swiftly and violently, and it wasn’t long before his unit had been forced to make a choice. Most of the agents had allowed themselves to be folded into the ranks of Autobot SpecOps. Prowl, or rather Operative, had not. He had continued to act independently, knowing that if he joined the Autobots officially and his affiliation was known in the event of possible capture by Decepticons, it would make things worse, so he’d remained officially neutral. Though, most of his work had been for the benefit of Cybertron’s neutrals and civilians, with information tossed to the Autobots occasionally.

It was his acting in this way that allowed him to prevent a larger tragedy from occurring in Praxus. He had had to fight Soundwave to get to the information, and he’d taken out all the mech’s cassettes and shattered his optics in the resulting fight, and he had managed to get the information about the attack on his home city. He hadn’t been able to stop it, but he’d sent the information along with a warning ahead to the city itself and to the Autobots. It had allowed Praxus to evacuate all its Youth Centers and even a fair amount of its civilian citizens before the city was destroyed. He hadn’t been able to save his home from being razed to the ground, but his actions had saved the next generation of Praxus’s children.

It was shortly after that that Covert, now head of Autobot SpecOps, had approached him again. The head of the Autobot Tactical Division had recently been offlined, and the faction was starting to buckle and struggle in their fights. Prowl had known what he had to do. So, once more, Operative had retreated to the shadows of his spark, and Prowl had stepped forward as himself for the first time since his days as an Enforcer. Covert had taken him directly to the Prime, where she’d laid out his life story and explained the situation. Together, the three of the, had created two files for him. One, that detailed his life as Prowl and as an Enforcer, and everything he’d accomplished as one, which would be open for public access. The other, which contained the life he’d lived and the things he’d done as Operative, would only be a accessible to Prime and himself, and the head of SpecOps with previous permission from the Prowl of Optimus. Baton would not be put into any files at his request, since at the time he’d been a civilian. He wanted to keep his happiest times to himself.

And then, Covert had been offlined in a mission, and her second in command had taken her place. That was when Prowl had met Jazz. Their initial meeting had been….less than stellar.

(“So, yer the head of Tactics? Gotta say, I’m surprised an Enforcer managed to do anythin’ worth much to a military group like this one. Didn’t think workin’ petty criminals on the streets would translate to bein’ able to lead proper soldiers.”

Rage, quick and burning.

“And I am surprised a mech as carefree as yourself is capable of leading a group like SpecOps. Doesn’t that require delicacy?”)

After that, their relationship had been…rocky. It didn’t help that Jazz couldn’t access Prowl’s sealed file. Not that the mech necessarily knew the file was about Prowl, he just knew it involved the tactician in some way. Still, it had taken them a few vorns before they’d been able to patch up their relationship and work things out. And after that point…things had simply grown. Prowl had come to realize that Jazz was an easy mech to get along with. He was pleasant and adaptable, and he didn’t push beyond the Praxian’s comfort zone. He was also fiercely intelligent, and Prowl had been delighted to learn that the saboteur was actually a rather brilliant tactician in his own right. In fact, because Jazz understood emotions and the inner workings of a bots’s mind better than Prowl, it wasn’t uncommon for him to go to the Polyhexian for advice on his plans if he felt it was needed. It was also why he never took it too personally if Jazz ever criticized his proposed plans in meetings.

Things had kept moving forward, and forward, until…

(“Ya look real pretty under the stars, there, Prowler.”

“I believe I told you not to call me that.”

A frame, settling next to him.

“Ain’t gonna stop me, mech.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Silence, then a breath.

“Can I kiss ya, Prowl?”

More silence. A huff, and a smile.

“I would like that very much, Jazz.”)

Their relationship had taken work. They had been friends first, which certainly helped, but they were both mechs of secrets. Jazz’s secrets were a byproduct of his work, and Prowl’s a byproduct of his life. It had taken time for them to accept and understand that some such secrets are okay. Eventually, they had worked it out, and their bond had only grown. Prowl was startled at just how easy it was to love Jazz, just how easy it was to give his spark to the other mech and not fear it being hurt. Jazz was…a soft lover. He was gentle and doting and so tender it almost made Prowl ache. One of his favorite things was curling up into Jazz’s chest, the spy’s hands smoothing over his doorwings as they simply enjoyed each other’s closeness and affection.

It was peaceful. A type of peace he hadn’t known since before Operative. Perhaps, one he’d never really known at all. They were strong together, with Prowl as the Autobot SIC and Jazz the TIC. They had the trust of their Prime, and the respect of their soldiers. The Decepticons hadn’t had the upper hand in centuries. So, their next step was only logical, given how rare joy was in these days, and how little they knew of the certainty of their own future.

(“My Spark and your spark, forever as one.”

“Bonded together, until the stars wink out and the world collapses.”

“In this life and the next, I am yours, as you are mine.”

“For all of eternity, I shall remain at your side, and you shall remain at mine.”)

They bonded. Under the eyes of Optimus and with the approval of their Prime, they bound their very sparks, tying themselves together for the rest of time. They had asked to keep the information secret. Only the Officers on Optimus’s personal team knew. And so that way they stayed, until the war forced them from their home. Prowl hadn’t ever expected to wake, after the crash. But he did. And Jazz, too. Everyone had. So, the war continued, only now it was on a small organic planet rich with energon. Prowl was only slightly surprised that the scale and brutality of the war was much, much less here.

But then….things went wrong. They had been on Earth for several of the planet’s years when the DJD had come. Apparently, they were only there to drop off a traitor for Megatron to deal with. But then Tarn had decided he wanted to do his Lord one more favor, and…Jazz’s team had been captured on a supply run. The rest of the base quickly gave up hope. No one wanted to fight the DJD, and even if they did no one was sure there was even anything left of their comrades to rescue. Prowl knew, though. He still felt the echo of Jazz’s spark brushing his.

So, for the first time in mega-cycles…Operative roared to the forefront. Prowl returned to the room he shared with Jazz, opening the secret compartment behind his desk that not even Jazz had been aware off. In it, was everything he needed to become Operative again, as well as anything he had kept that had to do with Operative as a whole. He removed the visor from its case, clicking it onto his face, and his battle mask slid out in three pieces from the armor at his chin and cheeks to cover his mouth and nose. He grabbed the pain from the small compartment, covering his current colors in quick, sure movements. Then, he put everything back and retreated to the shadows, leaving the base and driving off.

He knew where the DJD’s ship was. He knew how they operated. They wouldn’t take Jazz’s team to Megatron until they had worthwhile information to go along with it. He also knew that Tarn was the only one who was on board, having done preliminary probing earlier that day. Now, it was time to act. He drove in silence, until he finally arrived at his location. It didn’t take him long to find a way into the ship. It was one of the external vents, usually used for pumping contaminated air out of the ship. If he was careful, he could force it open and sneak in.

Once he had entered the ship, he stuck to corners and shadows, doorwings angled upwards and sensors dialed up to their max in order to pick up the minute charge that signaled where any cameras were. Using that, the was able to avoid detection, until he got to the brig. He saw the team there, but more importantly, Jazz was there. They were all a little roughed up, and he knew he had to hurry. He had already sent a short message back to base informing them of his mission and telling them to come for retrieval. He knew he’d get into some trouble for his rogue actions, but at the moment he didn’t care.

Looking over the team, he realized his initial plan wouldn’t work. He had hoped to sneak them back through the ship, but they were all injured in some manner or another and he could tell they wouldn’t be able to pull their processors together enough to be as stealthy as they needed to be. Which left Plan B. Explosives. He pulled one of his favorite explosive disks from his subspace, setting the timer and sticking it to the far wall of the brig. He activated it, then hurried to open the cell door. At his reveal, three sets of tired optics locked onto him. Immediately, recognition flickered. They knew Operative from the stories, even if none of them had ever met him in person. He was a SpecOps legend, after all.

He gestured quickly, making a motion to where the explosive was ticking, and hurried in to help Jazz up. He was the most injured of the three, and Mirage quickly moved to his other side to help keep the saboteur steady. The four mech group hurried as fast as they were able out of the cell, and the explosive went off. It took out the ship wall, and then they were dragging themselves to freedom. The impact with the ground was rough, and he knew their time was limited. Tarn would be coming to investigate soon, and he had to buy time until the retrieval team arrived. He managed to get the three SpecOps mechs settled against a large boulder, just as he heard heavy pede steps approaching behind him.

He straightened, turning around and lifting his gaze to meet Tarn optics-to-visor.

“So,” Tarn hummed, tilting his head. “The fabled Operative makes his return. You know, it was always assumed you’d perished before the war left Cybertron.” He said smoothly.

He said nothing, expression unreadable behind mask and visor. His posture gave nothing away, either. Under the light of the sun, his deep blue and burnt copper colors seemed to absorb the light. His wings were held at a neutral angle, though they were tilted just so to pick up any signals or changes in the air. His hands were folded behind his back, and he merely stared at the larger mech in front of him.

There was a long beat of silence, and then it was broken by the sound of approaching engines.

Neither mech looked away.

He heard the sound of transformation behind him, and heard Ironhide’s gruff voice speaking to the three downed Autobots. It was as he heard movement indicating they were being pulled away that Tarn finally shifted. It drew the attention of the retrieval team, who up to that point had been more focused on getting their comrades to safety and had been ignoring the SpecOps mechs attempts to make them look at the other two bots present. He could feel the static of Ironhide’s surprise on his doorwing sensors, and he heard Hound let out a frazzled exclamation of surprise.

“Who-“ Ironhide’s began, but Jazz was the one who cut him off.

“Operative. That’s Operative.”

“Who?”

“The greatest spy Cybertron has ever known.” Tarn said, voice oily and dark. “Responsible for revealing Senator Crankshaft’s illegal activities, for breaking up the slave trading ring in Uraya, and most known for stealing the information from the Decepticons that allowed Praxus to save its Sparklings and Younglings.”

There was silence, before Trailbreaker’s voice could be heard. “Holy scrap, one mech did all that?”

“That, and much, much more.” Jazz spoke, voice rough. “Operative is a legend, ‘Hide. And he may not be one of ours, but he is on our side.”

At that, he merely dipped his head in acknowledgment of his bonded’s words. He still didn’t remove his gaze from Tarn.

“Well, and enlightening as this was,” Tarn spoke, taking a step towards the Autobots. “I’d like my prisoners back now, though I certainly wouldn’t mind bringing more Autobot helms to my Lord.” he all but purred, one servo lifting.

It was then that he moved. The Praxian flared his wings, and the armor in his back shifted and made way for hidden boosters. They flared to life, and he sped forward faster than anyone could react, grabbing a length of metal wire from his sub space as he blurred towards Tarn. He snatched the ‘Con’s wrist, dropping his weight down to force Tarn over, and as he moved he slid between the larger mech’s legs while looping the wire around the caught wrist. In the same movement, he slammed his other elbow into the back of Tarn’s knee, forcing it to buckle, and then he twisted and threw his weight, tossing the purple mech to the ground with a heavy, hard impact.

Before he could move, he was rolling on his heels, a wrist flicking and sending a sharp knife into his palm from the sheath hidden in his forearm, and he used the hand still holding the wire to quickly loop the rest of its length around Tarn’s neck. Hand freed, he grabbed the arm the Decepticon was trying to use to get up, twisting it and forcing him onto his front with one arm trapped under his own weight, and pressed a knee to his spinal strut. He finished it by pressing the tip of the sharp blade to the back of Tarn’s head, right into a chink in the heavy armor and against the fragile protoform underneath. Like this, it would be all to easy to force the blade forward and straight into Tarn’s processor. It would kill him in an instant, and it was a maneuver he could pull off before Tarn would be able to throw him off, since positioned like he was, he could feel every shift and tense in the larger mech’s frame. The whole thing had taken barley 10 seconds.

“You will be taking no prisoners today.” he said tonelessly. “You will leave. I will not hesitate to offline your should you attempt otherwise.”

There was silence, and then a low chuckle rose from the trapped ‘Con. “My, I am surprised. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so soundly beaten. It seemed rumors of your skill weren’t exaggerated. Though, what can I expect, from the mech who offlined Sentinel Prime?”

He pressed the knife down harder, engine rumbling in warning as he tried to ignore the gasps from the Autobots behind them.

Tarn clearly got the message. “Alright, little mech. I’m leaving.” he agreed.

He stayed where he was for only a moment, then shifted off the larger mech. As Tarn stood, the blade flashed around him to slice through the wire, and then Operative was moving away.

“Go.” the spy stated, voice cold.

Tarn only chuckled once more, turning a speculative look on to the group in front him, before he boarded his ship. A few moments later, it took off.

“Did you really offline Sentinel Prime?” It was Hound.

He turned, then tilted his head. “I did.”

“Why?” Mirage’s voice was rough, his tone demanding.

“Sentinel was corrupt.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Jazz who spoke. “He not only was aware of the Senate’s actions before the war, he approved and even took part himself. He let the power of the Matrix and the Primacy go to his helm, and he stopped protectin’ and leadin’ Cybertron like he should’ve.” he rasped. “Prime told me. He said Sentinel’s death wasn’t the tragedy the media made it out to be. The Matrix showed him some o’ the stuff the old mech did, and apparently it would be enough to disgust even the Unmaker himself.”

There was shocked silence, and Trailbreaker’s voice was weak. “Seriously?”

“Sentinel Prime was not a true Prime. He was chosen by the Senate and by the Prime before him, not by the Matrix. Before Optimus Prime, there had not been a true Prime since the last of the Thirteen.” Operative revealed.

“How do you know that?” Mirage demanded.

His question was met with a stony silence.

The Towers mech bristled, looking ready to say something else, and then Ironhide’s cleared his throat. “Right. Well. We gotta get these guys back to base.” He turned to the Praxian. “What about you?”

“My mission is done. I will take my leave now.” he said. Then paused. “You will find your second in command back at your base.” And then he slipped backwards into the shadows of a nearby cliff and was gone.

“Wait, how the Pit did he even know it was Prowl who’s missing and sent that message?”

“It’s Operative, Hound.” Skids, the final member of the missing team, sounded tired as he spoke. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows every Autobot and Deception secret.”

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

Back at base, the missing team had been patched up and were recovering in the medbay. It was midnight, and Mirage and Skids were deep in recharge. Jazz was not. He was waiting. Soon, a mech slipped from the shadows, blue and copper colors had changed to black and white, and the visor and mask were both gone. Jazz turned to stare are his bondmate approached, his optics unreadable behind his visor.

“So.” he murmured. “Yer Operative. I’m guessing that’s what’s in that file you never let me get into. Did Covert know?”

“She was the one who recruited me.” Prowl answered. His spark felt heavy and he couldn’t meet Jazz’s gaze. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz hummed, going quiet. “Not gonna lie, Prowler. I’m a little hurt.” he sighed. “But…I get it.” Prowl turned startled optics to his mate. “I’m SpecOps too, remember? I know how important secrets are. Plus, I can understand why you wouldn’t say anythin’. The war needs Prowl the tactician, not Operative the spy.” he mused. “Sure, Operative would help big time, but the Autobots can survive without him, we can’t survive without you, Prowl.”

The Praxian was quiet for a moment, and then his doorwings slumped in relief and he reached out to curl his hand around Jazz’s fingers. “I’m relieved. I was worried you would wish to have nothing to do with me.” he whispered.

Jazz softened. His visor slid away, revealing shining, open optics. “Never, lover.” he purred. “‘Until the stars wink out and the world collapses’, remember? Now pull up a chair and sit. I get the feelin’ you need the closeness as much as I do.”

Prowl did just as Jazz asked, once he’d gotten settled, he folded one arm on the edge of the medical berth, resting his helm on it and once more curling the fingers of his other hand into Jazz’s.

That night, the two bonded mechs recharged just like that, assured once more of their love and devotion for one another.

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

A couple weeks later, and Jazz had been released from the medbay, given strict orders to finish his recovery in his room. He was on medical leave until such time that Ratchet said otherwise. Prowl had an plan, though. The anniversary of their bonding was today, and he knew his mate loved music of all kinds. He was ready to share his final and more treasured secret with the spy. But he wanted to do more than just tell him the truth. He wanted to show Jazz exactly how much he meant to him. He had a plan for that. He had spent the past many, many days writing a piece of music for the first time since he’d been forced to leave his life as Baton behind. Once he’d finished, he’d just needed a way to play it.

He didn’t have a Cybertronian orchestra, and the few Cybertronian instruments available wouldn’t be enough for a piece of this scale, which left…an Earth orchestra. And luckily for him, he knew exactly what do to. A couple years back, Prowl had rescued a famous human conductor, and had offered him a ride to his home. It was on the way he’d ended up revealing he too had once been a conductor, as his spark had been aching to reminisce with someone who understood, and the two had bonded. Zachary, the human, had been ecstatic when he learned that Prowl wrote his own music. He had told that Autobot that if he ever wrote something again, he would be glad and honored to have his orchestra play it.

Prowl had taken him up on the offer the moment he’d finished piece. They had organized it, and Prowl had even written in a piece for a Cybertronian instrument to be included, which he himself would play. It had taken days of practice but Zachary, the orchestra, and Prowl had managed to play the full song. It wasn’t anything like a Cybertronian symphony, but…Prowl had a feeling Jazz would love it all the same. They’d recorded the full piece for Prowl to take with him, and the Autobot had promised to write Zachary a song as well when the human had come to him after the performance, teary eyed and awed.

Now, it was the morning of their anniversary, and Prowl rose first. He had to get to work, but he knew Jazz was still bed bound. He simply wrote quick note, and left his gift on Jazz’s bedside before leaving. All day, his processor raced and raced. Would Jazz like the gift? Would he recognize that it was a Baton piece even if the instrumentation was different? Did he even know who Baton was? For once, Prowl found his work to be lacking, and by the time he was heading back to their room that night his logic center and emotional cortex were clashing horribly.

The door to his room opened as he stopped in front of it, and closed when he stepped inside. Immediately, blue optics slid to the form on the berth. Jazz was staring at him, visor gone and gaze intense. The mech slowly shifted out of the berth, and Prowl was frozen where he stood. Jazz approached him, and then he pulled the Praxian into a hard kiss.

When they separated several moments later, Jazz’s voice shook. “Did you know,” he whispered. “That Baton was my first crush? I saw his first performance, before his name was known to the public and before Treble took him under wing. I’ve loved him ever since. When he took a break, and then the war happened, I always figured he’d been offlined.” he whispered. “Then I met you.” he grinned, his expression so open and adoring it made Prowl’s spark ache. “And you became my first true love.” he leaned in to kiss his mate fiercely more before pulling back. “You know what that means, my spark?”

“What?” Prowl asked, voice soft.

“It means,” He purred. “That I’ve always loved you, since the moment I first saw you, even if I didn’t know you were you.”

Prowl blinked, then laughed, staticky and relieved. “You liked the music, then?” he asked. He hoped Jazz understood what he had been saying with the symphony. He’d written it from the spark.

Jazz just grinned, kissing him firmly once more before dragging him back to the berth. “It was perfect, lover. Just perfect.” he smiled. He got them both settled on the berth, tucked in close to one another. “And Prowl?”

“Hm?”

“I love you too.”

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unatempesta-dipensieri · 4 years

Text

Red Moon

banner done by the wonderful @dee-ehn (thank you bb)

pairing: OT7 x reader

genres: poly!au, fallen angels!au, demons!au

word count: 2095

warnings: feathers falling from the structure of their wings, leaving a very ugly structure (not described in detail), minor character death

ACT 1, CHAPTER 01

Small impetuous drops rumbled in the pine forest, in the silence only that continuous jingle was audible. The wood is very large and extends over an enormous arch of territory, surrounded by very high white mountains for recent snowfalls. The smell of resin, fir and musk was added to the sweet and relaxing sound of the drops falling on the pines. The landscape was wrapped in a solemn silence, the animals seeking shelter, the pine trees motionless since there was no wind. The whole expanse was colorful with various greens, from light to some dark shades. In the undergrowth, small bushes and moss reigned. On the ground only pine needles, fallen over the years. Suddenly a dazzling light, a noise rang out in the valley, the most intense rain and the amplified noises. A stream of water rushed beyond the valley and swelled visibly as the small drops increased. Namjoon was still lying on the ground, his body was too heavy and numb to allow him to stand up and seek shelter. He tried to move his head slightly to look around and to see if the others were beside him, but his neck hurt. He had taken a hit, so he stopped and closed his eyes, thinking about why he was in that place.

It all started when Yoongi saw that girl. He saw her run through the crowded streets of New York, with headphones in her ears that let out classical music. He had fallen in love with watching her play the piano, her diaphanous white fingers moved gracefully on the piano keys, while a sweet symphony echoed in the room where she was.

The second to see it was Seokjin; he saw her with several plastic bags in her hands, as she tried to go up to the fifth floor of the building. She almost fell from the cloud she was on when she saw that the girl was about to fall down the stairs when she was wrong to put her foot down but was saved by another human who was a few steps away from her. After a few minutes, he saw her enter her apartment and start putting away all the ingredients or products she needed for the home. He loved the fact that she was neat and that she loved to cook.

The third was Hoseok. He saw her while she was teaching girls ballet. Hoseok, besides the angels, had never seen such a beautiful and graceful creature. She managed to be so elegant even when the little creatures made a wrong move, she always smiled and if necessary she explained again every single move to those girls who couldn't understand or perform the exercise; but she also loved the fact that when she wanted to, she knew how to be serious and was able to put back those who did not follow her rules.

The fourth was Namjoon. He saw her walking with a bag over her shoulder in Central Park. Already the fact that the girl liked the vegetation had made the archangel's heart beat a lot. He saw her sit on a bench, and after taking a book out of her bag, start reading. He saw how she began to isolate herself, perhaps, recreating the scenes from the book in his mind. Namjoon could not help but stare at her with a smile on his face.

The fifth was Jimin, although a little hesitant in looking at a human who was not what the superiors had chosen at all. He perched on a cloud and looked at her with bored eyes. He spent several days looking at her until he understood why the others were so taken with her. Looking at her, he understood that she had a pure heart and soul, perhaps even too pure not to be an angel. He fell in love with her innocence and her smile; perhaps, he had never seen such a bright smile in all his years of service.

The sixth was Taehyung, who used the excuse of looking at the human as a moment of relax from the addict of his chosen one. He needed to breathe and to stop watching his chosen drug and slowly bring himself to death, that's why as soon as Namjoon asked who wanted to watch her, Taehyung did not think twice. He loved how the hair strands were arranged, which protruded from the tail, behind the ear, of how, when she had the chance, she went to see some art shows, or when she painted and stained, who knows how, her face.

The last but not least, at least for them, was Jungkook. The youngest of them and the newest. He had fallen in love with a nice and sunny girl like her. He loved the fact that, like him when he was still alive, she found time to play video games, train in the gym, but still managed to find space for friends. He knew that humans were running constantly. He understood that by seeing his chosen one. Single mother of two children, the ex-husband cheated on her with a colleague and gave her up in no uncertain terms, to then go to Norway with the other woman. It was something he hated. Betrayal.

The betrayal was just what he expected of all seven.

An angel heard a conversation that all seven were having and ran to one of the superiors telling him everything he had heard. They didn't even have time to rebel that in no time they were in the room where the Superiors met and discussed very important matters.

"Cherubino Namjoon, I never expected such behavior from you," said one of the elders. If Jimin remembered well he had to be called Jaehyung but he was not very sure.

"And what would I do?" Namjoon asked raising his head and looking at him defiantly.

"I heard that you seven have fallen in love with a human," said the superior, smiling at him, showing him his white teeth.

The boys widened their eyes, their hearts started to beat wildly. They could not speak, perhaps because they were caught in the act. Yoongi clenched his jaw thinking about who might have heard their private discussion.

"Seraphin Seokjin -continued the superior- you know that these emotions are not part of the angels, but of the demons!" he screamed the last word in panic, had wide eyes and a crazy smile, while looking at Seokjin, who remained impassive.

The Superior was about to insult Jungkook when the main door opened. "What do you want now?" he screamed as soon as he saw an Angel enter.

"Sir, we did what you ordered," said the newcomer, bowing.

"Well," said the Seraphin, then turned to the seven angels. "Surely you are wondering what I asked him to do. I ordered him to kill her while she slept. A quick and painless death. "

The Seraphin never expected such a violent reaction, especially from Seraphin Seokjin. He jumped up and threw himself against his body, squeezing his neck with his hands.

"How dare you! And you are the ones who say you love independently and that you are better than demons, but you are worse than them! As soon as a human creates the slightest problem, you get it out of the way! Jaehyung, remember my words, I will make you go through the pains of hell, I will make you die of a slow and painful death! " Seokjin shouted in anger.

Even the others had never seen him in those conditions. His neck and face were completely red, his hands that were still around Jaehyung's neck trembled and his eyes were filled with tears, as were theirs. In an instant the guards seized Seokjin and stopped him with golden chains, preventing him from moving.

Jaehyung got up and after adjusting his white tunic, looked at the boys, then smiled.

"I, Archangel Jaehyung, in the name of God, cause the Cherubino Namjoon, the Seraphim Seokjin, the Throne Yoongi, the Domination Hoseok, the Archangel Jimin, the archangel Taehyung and the angel Jungkook, to be exiled from Paradise for eternity. May Hell welcome you," said the Archangel and with a snap of fingers it began.

Pain began. They could feel their wings cracking, their heads hurting and their stomach turning over. Hoseok looked towards Jimin, and saw the younger bent forward while holding his head in his hands, the wings were completely bare and writhing taking a really bad position, all the white feathers were still bleeding on the ground while in their place, black feathers were growing. He looked at Namjoon and saw that the color of his eyes had changed to a color he could not define, but he looked like a mixture of light orange and yellow, his white hair had become a light lilac. Maybe his partners's hair had changed too but he had no reflective surface to see himself in.

When the wings changed completely, they felt the floor crumble under their feet and fell on deaf ears. Jungkook opened his eyes just when his body crossed a cloud, he tried to stop and trying to flap his wings but a twinge of pain ran all over his body. He looked to the sides and saw that the boys were beside him, Seokjin held the hands of Jimin and Taehyung, while Hoseok held his and Yoongi's. But who was holding Namjoon's hand? He looked slightly further and saw that Namjoon was still passed out, he tried to tell Yoongi to hold Namjoon's hand, but when they crossed a large cloud, he didn't saw him again.

Then the crash came in no time. The good thing was that it was raining like never before so humans would have thought that the sound of their fall was a thunder nearby.

****

Hours passed, the first ray of light illuminated the valley which took on a magical aspect. Everything was now visible: the high white mountains with various clouds full of humidity, the pine forest and the river.

Namjoon opened his eyes still dull and heard rapid steps towards him, perhaps someone was running to help him.

"Namjoon!" Seokjin entered his vision followed by Taehyung, who began to dig to free his body of the earth and the mud that had covered it. He tried to speak but only guttural lines came out of his mouth.

"Hyung, don't try! Keep drinking the water we found at a nearby stream! " Jungkook said approaching his cup-shaped hands.

Hyung? What word was it? What did it mean?

"I know you're asking yourself many things but first we have to get you out of here," Seokjin said giving him a reassuring smile. The oldest, along with the youngest, had always had this reassuring soul, which managed to calm the other five.

"Black looks good on you," Namjoon whispered when he started focusing. “Thanks hyung! Lilac is fine for you instead, ”Jungkook replied with a smile. "What is this hyung, you keep calling?" Namjoon asked looking him in the eye.

"Since I have been dead for about two, three years I think things have not changed much, hyung is used by males to call another boy who is older than him, therefore of logic, I should call you all hyung, to show respect, ”said Jungkook, continuing to remove the mud that had trapped one of the older's legs.

After the two freed him, they gave him a hand to get up and clean himself of the residues that had remained on his clothes and face. "So what do we do now?" Jimin asked, attracting the attention of others. "Let's start walking in search of civilization," Yoongi replied.

They didn't know how long they walked when they started hearing car noises. Taehyung passed a bush and had to close his eyes when a light blinded him. It was the headlights of a car passing by.

"Anyone know what place this is?" he asked when the others had joined him. "This ... this is Seoul, we are in South Korea," replied Jungkook and then continued: "This is the city that brought me to end my life, it shouldn't have changed much and I still remember some things,"

"So what are you waiting for? Show us the way angel, ”Hoseok said putting a hand on his shoulder. Jungkook nodded and the others followed him breathlessly. It would have been an adventure in teaching kids how to behave among humans and how to use the simplest things, like taking a bus.

#kwritersworldnet #kpopuniversenet #bangtanhq #bighitcity #thehouseofbangtan #bts #bts poly #bts poly au #bts supernatural au #bts jungkook #bts jimin #bts jhope #bts rapmonster #bts suga #bts taehyung #bts jin

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mila-dans · 4 years

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Symphony of Sadness & Chorus of Pain

Hi, everyone! This is most definitely a different change of pace and tone when compared to my normal writing. I wrote this one for me and whoever else needs it. This 7000 word piece of work deals with some very real and dark issues in a very supernatural way. Its got depression, attempted suicide, and a whole lot of self deprecation. This is a reader insert so if you dare read this, be warned that it is very dark. It does have what I would call a happy ending though.

Please realize that if you ever find yourself suffering from types of issues like this, know that you are not alone. Seek help. You have friends around you. I am here for you if you need it. I’m not the strongest but I will share my strength with you.

This was written for me to read when I am feeling down and I hope the same can go for you. :)

It wasn’t okay. You were not okay. This was it. This was the end. Your end. The grand finale of your life. You were going to die all alone. Suffer alone. The most ironic thing is the fact that no one knows. No one knows how you feel. You can’t even describe the feeling if you could. The feeling of destruction. The last straw falling. The final structure crumpling right before you. This was the end of your life. Now, it is time for you to die.

_____________________

Before the end…

You and the Winchester brothers had just taken down a couple of witches who were wreaking havoc on any man who caused them any sort of suffering. And apparently, a lot of men caused them pain. As opposed to most regular hunts, you were the lead on this one. Couldn’t have the boys ending up hexed like the other men who you all found dead in the basement.

“Gruesome,” Dean described it as the three of you got back into the Impala. “Burn witch, burn.” Dean started the ignition as you all watched in awe as the house went up in flames. It was the best way to put an end to, well, all of it.

“You alright, Y/n?” Sam asked, turning around in the seat to face you. He was referring to when you got knocked out by the witch. You hadn’t thought anything about it. It wasn’t a fatal blow. All that happened is that when you confronted the witches while the boys were investigating other parts of the house, they simply blasted you and caused you to become unconscious. Lucky you, you happened to awake right as the fighting started.

“I’m fine,” you said with a smile.

“You sure?” Dean furthered. “Like no love spell or webbed feet or anything like that?” You chuckled a bit.

“No.” You smiled. “No love spell, no webbed feet, no to anything other than a headache.” Sam smirked at you as he turned back around, grabbing a bottle of aspirin from the glovebox and throwing it in your hands. “Thank you,” you said as you shook the bottle and popped a tablet in your mouth.

They were most definitely not fast acting. Your head felt as if a bulldozer, you know, dozed it. Funny. It didn’t hurt in any one place specifically. It just hurt all over. Your mind felt fried too. You weren’t going to worry the boys or anything though by telling them how you really felt.

They had enough going on. It always seemed to be some boss battle that was bigger and more bad than the last. The pressure of saving the world was always on them. When was it going to end? When were you all going to die by some vamp or ghoul or in Dean’s case, bacon? The work never stopped. It never ceased. It always seemed to be a never ending cycle of pain, torture, death, repeat.

You were set aback by your more angsty and depressing thoughts. You usually pushed those away when you were with the boys. It had been a while since you let anything slip out of your mind vault like that. Truth is, you all had your demons. Sam and Dean really had theirs though. Even Cas. To think that yours were even as close to being as bad as theirs was just one big laughing matter. You had never talked about your small and miniscule problems with them.

What was the point? Sure you suffered from bad things but it couldn’t even pale in comparison when it came to your family’s. They had it so much worse than you. Dean was in hell. Literal hell. He suffered for thirty years and then tortured people for ten. That was horrible. The weight of the burdens that he carried was unbearable. Trying to wake up in the morning was a struggle every day for him. That was just the tip of the iceberg.

You shut your eyes for a moment trying to prevent any more dark thoughts to enter your mind. You tried to focus on the rock music that was playing on the radio. It was Bob Seger, your favorite. As a way to get further from the unusual thoughts, you decided to sing along with the lyrics of “Old Time Rock and Roll.”

“Just take those old records off the shelf!” You belted out from the backseat as you reached over to turn up the volume.

“I’ll sit and listen to ‘em by myself!” Dean sang. The two of you smiled as you turned to the disappointed Sammy who was clearly not getting into the song.

“Today's music ain't got the same soul!” You continued to sing as you hit Sam on the shoulder making him smile just a little.

“I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!” Dean followed. “Come on, Sammy!” Dean shouted as the two of you faced the reluctant Grinch. Sam rolled his eyes at the both of you.

“Don’t try to take me to the disco!” Sam sang.

“Yeah, Sammy!” Dean smiled.

“You’ll never even get me out on the floor!” Sam sang again.

“In ten minutes I’ll be late for the door!” You added. “I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!”

“Still like that old time rock ‘n’ roll!” The three of you sang all together. “That kind of music just soothes the soul! I reminisce about the days of old. With that old time rock ‘n’ roll!”

The trio of you and the brothers continued to sing all the way back to the bunker. It was amazing. It was really great to feel happy again. You hadn't in so long. You would’ve labeled it as depression but you knew that it wasn’t even worth some actual medical exam to say what’s wrong with you. It was nothing. Even if it was depression, you had no right to complain about it. You had no right to say that you needed help when countless other people needed help too. It didn’t matter. You didn’t matter.

You tried to focus on singing with Sam and Dean but the bad thoughts you had couldn’t help but linger in the back of your mind.

This is stupid. I am stupid. I just need to go back to singing. I am with the people that I love most and I should be happy. I’m so happy. I am unbelievably happy.

You were upset that you couldn’t convince yourself with the reassurance of lies. Instead, you pushed the thoughts down. Deep, deep down. You just continued to sing with a false smile laced on your face, hoping to feel something. Hoping to feel happy. Hoping to feel anything.

________________

Do I matter? Am I worth the trouble of being here? Sam, Dean, and Castiel say that they love me but, do they really? Do they care or am I just a burden to them? Cas has had to take on so much in his life. You were for sure just some other person that he thought he’d have to protect. Have to save. He cared for the boys. He always has. He cared for humanity. Could they even classify you as human? You’ve done countless bad things. You’ve hurt your loved ones. Sure the boys were the best examples of people who make mistakes but they are heroes. They didn’t need to apologize. They saved the world. You might’ve helped but it didn’t matter. They were the faces, the faces wearing the capes with a symbol of hope plastered across their chest. You weren’t a sidekick. You weren’t even a part of the team.

“Hey! Y/n?” Sam called. “Are you alright?” You looked up to Sam as you got snapped out of your daze. You didn’t know how long you had been standing up in the kitchen with the pot of coffee in your hand. Weird.

“Yeah, sorry,” you replied as you set down the pot and regained your composure. You gave Sam a reassuring smile.

“You sure you’re alright, Y/n?” You nodded at the concerned Sam. “I mean, I don’t mean to press but you’ve been seeming like something’s been bothering you the past couple months.” You turn your head and give Sam an oblivious look.

“Have I?” You question as you start to fiddle with the coffee again.

“Yeah, you have,” Sam says slowly. You feel his worried gaze on you but you try to quickly change the subject.

“What did you need me for?” You take a deep breath before you turn back around to face the young Winchester to give a half hearted smile. Sam looks at you with the obvious worry on his face but shakes it off.

“I um, I was going to go on a supply run. Do you want to come?” he looks at you, suspicious of how you might respond. You give him a big smile as an attempt to throw him off.

“Yeah! Of course! Just let me get my jacket,” you say as you walk past him giving a reassuring pat on the back.

___________________

“Cas!” You called as you walked past him in his room. “You need anything from the store? Me and Sam are about to head out.”

“No, I’m fine,” he responds. “Are you okay, Y/n?”

“On food?” You question playing clueless.

“Not on food.” Cas walks up to you as you stand still in his doorway. “I mean, are you alright in the mental sense?”

“I’m great, Cas!” You lie with a smile. “I’m better than ever. My head hurts just a little from getting knocked out earlier though. But other than that, tip top shape.” You nod your head once more as Cas looks at you with yet another concerned face.

“I could try and see what’s the problem in your head if you’d like?” Cas asks as he starts to put his hand towards your head. You take a fast step away, clearly giving him more reason for worry.

“No, no. I’m fine. I mean, it’s fine,” you clarify. You try to ignore the worrisome look that covers his face. “I’m gonna go,” you say with a smile as you walk away. “Bye!”

Stupid. He could’ve helped you. He could’ve seen what was going on in your head and tried to help take the pain away.

You tried to push away the thoughts as you continued your walk down the hallway.

If he helped, he would’ve seen it all. He would've seen the fear, the worry, the anxiety. He would’ve seen every single one of your little, measly, insignificant problems. It would be a waste of his time to sort through all your overdramatic issues. How could you even know that he wouldn’t just judge you right there on the spot or end up leaving you like the rest of them? I mean, everyone that you have opened up to has left you or worse. All your old friends stopped talking to you cold turkey just when you thought you could trust them. That was your fault though. They trusted you and needed you and even though you helped them, you couldn’t be honest. Of course they left you. Everyone always leaves you and it’s all your fault.

___________________

You sat in the car with your head leaned against the window. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. They were getting worse. You kept trying to push them down like you always have but it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

“Y/n!” Sam called as he lightly hit your shoulder. You turned towards him confused. “I’ve been calling your name for a minute.”

“Oh,” you say as you sit up. This isn’t good.

“You can talk to me, Y/n,” Sam says. You just continue to stare down at the ground and start to feel one of your old battle wounds on your wrist.

“About what?” You ask trying to play it off, unsuccessfully.

“About whatever is bothering you!” Sam’s tone starts to rise as he gets frustrated with your playing dumb act. “We all know that something is going on with you. You don’t even have to hide it. Sometimes you don’t even try to anymore. We are worried about you, Y/n. All of us. We thought that maybe you were just down in the dumps and would ask for help if you needed it but you haven’t.

…

Y/n!” Sam shouts as you suddenly snap out of your daze. “Will you stop that?!” You face him with true confusion. He points at your wrist. “You’re making yourself bleed!” You look down at your wrist as you notice how you’ve completely reopened the wound causing blood to go all over your pants.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You weren’t even listening to Sam. Now look at what you’ve done!

“I’m sorry--I’m so sorry!” You mumble out as you quickly wipe the blood that has stained a spot on the seat.

“Y/n?” Sam questions with a softer tone as you look up at him with watery eyes. “Why are you sorry?”

“I--I--I just am,” you try to say. You quickly ball up all the tissues and put them in your pocket, trying to reassure yourself that it never happened. You look back up at Sam and see the concern on his face. You try to form words to change the topic at hand but fall short of excuses.

“Y/n, please,” Sam says sincerely, “Please just talk to me. Just let me in. Let Dean or--or even Cas in. Just talk to one of us. Please.” You look down at the ground again as you try to press your nails into the palm of your hands in order to distribute the pain somewhere else. “Y/n,” Sam says as he moves his hand onto yours, opening it up. “Stop it, please.”

“No!” You shout as you throw his hand to the side. “I’m fine! I’m perfectly fine! You and Dean and Castiel just need to mind your own damn business! Now quit asking if I’m okay, or if I'm alright, or what’s wrong with me! Nothing is wrong, got it?!” You take a deep breath and fall back into your seat as you wipe the tears that had escaped your eyes. You can feel the tension in the car in between you and Sam as you go back to staring out the window.

You stupid idiot! You completely ruined everything! This was your chance at asking for help and you blew it! Now you’re never gonna get that chance again. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Sam probably wouldn’t have even listened to you in the first place. He had been tortured by the devil. He had been to the worst part of hell. Do you think he had time to listen to you whine about your emotions? Do you think he actually even cared? He was your family. He had to ask about you. He was designated to do so. It is just him trying to be kind. As if he could ever care about you. As if anyone could ever care about you.

__________________

You slammed the door shut as you stepped out of the car. You raced inside the grocery store as Sam called out your name. You didn’t even bother to look back or respond. All you did was search for the bathroom as soon as you walked inside.

The further you made your way into the store, the worse your thoughts got. It was different though. It felt as if they weren’t just yours.

What is happening to me?! Why can’t these thoughts just go away?! Please, just go away!

You put the toilet seat lid down as you sat on it, placing your hands on your face as you started to sob. You felt so broken, so busted inside. You felt so much pain. So much emotion. You just wanted it to end. You just wanted it to stop.

“Honey?” A voice called from outside the shut stall door. “Are you alright?” You started to sniff as the thoughts died down just enough to understand the complete stranger who was worrying about you. You wiped the tears and opened the door.

“I’m fine, Mamn,” you said as you gave a smile to the elder lady. She smiled back at you. She seemed kind and nice. A complete stranger. You always thought that it was easier to tell a stranger secrets about yourself than someone who you knew and trusted. “Stranger’s security,” you called it.

“What’s the matter, Dear?” She asked again as her smile made you giggle a little.

“I’m just overwhelmed,” you admitted. You stood up and walked out of the stall to face her. “I just don’t know what to do.” She took your hand and immediately, you began to think the worst.

She doesn’t care about you! Don’t put your burdens on her! Don’t bother her! You are being selfish if you think for just one minute that it’s okay to open up. Think of how as soon as you admit how you feel to her, she’s just gonna make your heart break even more when you realize it’s just charity. It means nothing to her. You mean nothing to her!

“I’m sorry!” You say as you remove her hand from yours and start to head for the door. “I’m so sorry!” Once outside of the bathroom, you begin to feel completely out of sorts as you see the crowds of people staring at you as tears stream down your bright red face. “I--I…” You duck through the rows of people as you race back to the car. You open the door to the backseat and jump inside, locking yourself in as quickly as possible.

Your thoughts become so overwhelming that you are unable to follow any thread of ideas or worries. It’s all one big mess of problems and fear, as the walls in your head collapse in on itself. It was all you. It was all falling on you. You had no idea what was going on or why this was happening. You couldn't even think straight. You could only close your eyes and be engulfed into the sadness and pain.

____________________

You heard the car door open, drawing your attention away from your abundance of overwhelming thoughts. You look up to see Sam get into the car and turn to see you. You were clueless to see how much of a wreck you looked like but you didn’t have to know. The expression on his face said it all. He started to open his mouth to probably try to console or comfort you.

“No, Sam,” you said, stopping any words before they left his mouth. “Please just take me home,” you requested as you slowly turned back into facing the seat, feeling the darkness pull you closer to it.

You are worthless. You are nothing. Look at Sam. You think you have problems? Sam has spent his whole life living in fear. Living with truly overwhelming problems. He has to stay alive so that he can be there for Dean. Be there for Cas. He can’t choose to die, to give up. He doesn’t have the option. People need him. People rely on him. He has a brother and a best friend who loves him. He carries the world on his shoulders and never, ever gets a break.

You once again become caught up in your empathetic thoughts. Your mindset was in complete chaos. For some reason, you couldn’t just think about you, you thought about everyone else and all their problems. It’s as if you could feel whatever they were feeling and think whatever they had thoughts. Impossible.

____________________

You sat on your bed as you stared at the plate of food that was set before you. You couldn’t eat. You didn’t want to eat. It’s not like you wanted to starve, it’s just, you didn’t care. You didn’t care if you were hungry or if you had to eat. It didn’t matter. You didn’t matter.

“Y/n,” Dean calls out as he opens your door and walks inside. You were out of it, again, not even noticing his knock. He takes a seat on your bed as he puts the plate of food on your nightstand. “Not eating?” He asks.

“Not hungry,” you respond. You would try to give a false smile but you are unable to do even that. He looks at you, clearly trying to read your face. You just pulled up your knees close to your body, wrapping your arms around them

“Sam told me what happened, Y/n,” Dean says. “What’s going on?” You can hear the care and concern in your voice. If anyone knew about demons it would be Dean. He was one after all.

Sure, tell Dean what’s bothering you. Have him laugh in your face when you rant and bitch about all your little problems. It’s not like he’s ever able to. He has to hide all of his problems. He has to haul them all up and lock them down, never getting to deal. He can’t deal. There is never a single second in the day that he has to relax or has to calm down. Sam always says that he can talk to him but putting his burdens on Sammy wasn’t right. They were his burdens. All his. It was up to him to carry everyone else. It was all on him. He had the weight of the world in one hand and the weight of everyone else in his other. He didn’t have time to care or worry about himself. It would be pathetic to ask for help. Childish to need someone to lean on.

“Y/n!” Dean shouts. You open your eyes as you take notice of Dean’s hand on your shoulder. You swat it away and stand up from the bed.

“Get out of here, Dean! Leave me alone!” You shout. Dean gets up quickly as you push him out the door.

“Y/n! Whatever is goi--” You shut the door on Dean and lock it before he has a chance to finish his words.

You slump down with your back against the door, falling onto the ground. The floor was freezing against the back of your legs. You didn’t care. It didn’t matter. You didn’t matter. You were nothing. You are nothing.

_________________

These men save the world. You save nothing. You aren’t worth saving. Most of the people that they save aren’t worth it. But you? You are at the bottom of the barrel. How you have made it this far in life is perplexing. You should be dead.

You laid in bed as the thoughts and feelings kept you awake. You couldn’t move. You could barely breathe. These thoughts, they weren’t just yours. They were Sam’s thoughts. Dean’s thoughts. Cas’s thoughts. You were being clouded by their emotions. It was a mix of all of their pain and all of yours.

He rebelled against his family, against his home, and for what? So that he could watch everyone that he loved fail?

What did he do when he wasn’t in control? Who was having to clean up his trail of messes?

It was all on him. Everything was on him. It was his fault that they died. Hasn’t it always been?

Death. It was his fault. It was all their fault. It was all your fault. Worthless. Stupid. All on him. It was all caused by you. The world would be better off without you. He meant nothing. You were nothing. Die. Die! Die! Die! Die!

“No!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” You screeched as you shattered the plate of glass on the floor, cutting your hand, causing so much more pain. You continued to yell for the thoughts to leave your head.

“Y/n! Stop it!” Sam yelled as he kicked in your door. You struggled to breath as the dark thoughts consumed you.

Worthless. Nothing. Piece of trash. Nothing. You should be dead.

“No!” You continued to scream. Dean tried to walk closer to you but you swatted him away. “Don’t touch me!” You screamed at the boys.

“Cas! Do something!” Dean demanded. The angel walked closer to you but you knew that if he touched you, if anyone touched you, if anyone tried to help, it was all over.

“Don’t!” You shouted as you reached for the angel blade and immediately all the hands went up in defense. Castiel backed away as you walked slowly towards the door.

“Y/n,” Sam tried to say, walking closer to you. “Please, put the weapon down.”

“You don't’ underst--shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” The thoughts continued to pound in on your head. You didn’t even notice the tears streaming down your face or the ones that the boys had. You just continued to try and stop the thoughts, the voices, the feelings and emotions. You raced down the halls and out the door as quick as possible.

“Stop it!” You mumbled as you found a clearing behind a tree in a small wooded area behind the bunker. The thoughts wouldn’t stop. But now, now they were all yours. Just yours.

You are nothing! You are less than nothing! You deserve to die! You deserve to go to hell! It’s where you belong! You’ve done wrong, you’ve done bad! There is no saving you! There is no point! You should just die! There is no point in a maggot like you taking up space in a world that is far too good for you! Just die! You already cause so much death around you, why don’t you just end it?! Just do it. Just die! You are nothing. You are useless. You are worthless! You are unimportant! You are hated! You are stupid! Self-centered! Idiotic! You are dead!

You feel the emotions clouding your judgement. You see the angel blade. There is no stopping it. This was the way. The way to stop the thoughts. This was it. Your hand trembles, tears fall.

NOTHING! WORTHLESS! MEANINGLESS! STUPID! YOU ARE--

You take a deep breath and open your eyes. The angel blade falls from your hand.

“They stopped,” you whisper. The voices have all stopped. You wipe your eyes and stand. Your headache leaves. It’s all gone. You weren’t dead. You didn’t know what you were or what happened. You still feel the pain but it was just yours. It was only the pain that you’ve carried for years. The pain that you can handle. You still have tears fall down your face but it’s not as bad as it was.

You walk back to the bunker and open the door. You slowly walk down the stairs as you see Sam, Dean, and Castiel run towards you. When you make it to the last step, you give a smile their way and then collapse to the floor.

“Y/n!” Dean shouts as he rushes to your side. You just continue to smile, unable to see them through your watery eyes. Sam puts his arms underneath you as he scoops you into his arms.

“It’s okay,” Sam says as he carries your body into the infirmary. “It’s okay.” He lays you down on the bed as you just shrivel up into a little ball. You hear them talk amongst themselves but unable to make out what is said. You see your trench coated companion walk close to you as he lays his hand on your head. Sam takes a seat in a chair facing you and Dean sits by your feet on the bed. Dean places his hand on your leg, trying to comfort you and Sam takes your hand, doing the same. Castiel removes his hand from your head as you begin to close your eyes.

“Y/n,” Castiel starts to say. You can hear the shock in his tone. Whatever it was, he was lost for words.

“What is it?” Dean asks. You shut your eyes tight as you hear the three of them walk out of the room.

You try to sit up in the bed and manage to wipe the tears from your eyes. Fully able to see, you watch the boys walk back into the room.

“What?” You ask quietly as you see the amazed expressions on their face. Dean rushes over to you and wraps his arms around you. The second he lets go, Sam comes to your side to do the same. You feel their arms around you and feel pure joy and love for just a moment. Once the two of them go back to their positions by your side, Castiel pulls up a chair next to Sam. Worrisome thoughts fill your head again. “What’s going on? What happened?” You ask as tears stream down their faces causing you to cry from just feeling the sadness radiating off of them. “Please tell me what I did. What?”

“You--uh,” Dean starts to say as he looks at you with tears continuously falling down from his eyes. “How did you do that?” He says with an exasperated breath.

“What? What did I do?!” You question, shifting in the bed as you can’t help but be filled with concern.

“The witch hexed you, Y/n,” Cas says. You notice the tears coming from him as well.

“Wh--what did she hex me with? Wh--what?” You look in all the boys’ eyes as you become overwhelmed with the sight before you.

“She cursed you,” Sam pauses as he takes a breath and clears his throat, “She cursed you to feel everyone’s pain.” All of the boys look at you as if you should be dead. You realize that that is exactly what they must be thinking.

“How did you do that?” Dean asks again.

“Do what?” You ask in return. You take a deep breath and look down at your wrist to the wound. “What do you mean she cursed me to feel everyone’s pain?” You look back up to Sam in search of an answer.

“It’s what killed all those men,” Sam states.

“What do you mean?” You again ask.

“The witches,” Cas starts to explain, “They killed all those men by hexing them to feel the pain of those around them. They all died because of suicide or because of a fatal panic attack. Y/n, you got put under the same spell.”

“If--if I did,” you start to say, “Then how am I alive?” You look at the boy’s lost expressions on their faces.

“The spell wore off after twenty-four hours but, Y/n,” Cas says, concerned, “You are the only person who has ever survived it. You are the only one who has ever lived through it and made it out alive.” You think for a moment about what he just said. It made sense. All the thoughts that you were feeling weren’t just your own.

“You felt all of our pain,” Sam says.

“How did you do that?” Dean asks. You look in their eyes, realizing that even they couldn’t take their own pain most of the time.

“You took all of our pain and felt it for yourself, Y/n,” Cas says.

“How did you do that?” Dean again asks. You laugh and smile a little.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve asked that Dean,” you say with a smile. He just looks at you in awe. “The truth is, today just felt like a really bad day. I have dealt with that pain, my pain, all my life.”

“But--but that was our pain too,” Sam says. “You felt all of our pain. You felt hell? Lucifer?” Sam asks and you nod. “And that isn’t bad to you?!”

“I always thought that my problems were nothing compared to yours, all of yours. You’ve all been through so much that I’ve always hid my problems. Today, it just felt as if those problems and feelings broke out.” You wipe the tears away from your face and muster up another smile.

“You deal with pain like that every day?” Dean asks.

“Basically.”

“Why haven’t you told us?” Castiel asks.

“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Sam questions.

“Because it’s my burdens, my pain, not yours. And I figured that I had already wasted my chances in asking for help,” you answer. “You all have done so much, been through so much, I have been through nothing. I am nothing. I am worthless even when being compared to your shadow.”

“Are you kidding me?!” Dean shouts. “Y/n, do you not realize that you have taken on all of our burdens, all of our fears, our pain, our emotions? You did all of that and are still here! You are the strongest person in the world! You are not worthless. You are amazing. You are beautiful and special and incredible!”

“You should never compare yourself to us,” Sam says.

“You can’t ever compare your problems to our pain,” Cas states. “There is no scale in the universe that can measure who has it worse or who has it better. Every single person has different pain tolerances, different perspectives. For you to be dealing with all of our collective pain and still think of it as a bad day, that is what I mean when I say pain is immeasurable.”

“Y/n, why on earth would you not tell us about what you’ve been dealing with?” Sam asks. You look at him and smile.

“I’ve wanted to,” you say. “I’ve wanted to for so long but I’m terrified.” You take a deep breath and wipe the tears from your face. Dean reaches up and takes your hand in his.

“Why?” Dean asks. “Why would you be afraid to tell us anything like that?”

“Because I can’t know if you’re real! I can’t know if you are just gonna be another person who says that they’re gonna be there for me then just disappear! I can’t go through that again. I’ve had my trust broken, shattered countless times that if I put myself through that again, I don’t know if I could take it.” Your voice starts to waiver as you begin to sob again. Sam scoots his chair closer to you as he wraps his arms around you. You lean your head on his shoulder as you feel Dean squeeze your hand tighter just as Sam hugs you tighter.

“It’s okay, Y/n,” Sam whispers in your ear. “It’s okay.”

“But I don't want to be a burden,” you state as you close your eyes as more tears fall onto Sam’s shoulder.

“You’re not a burden,” Castiel states. “I saw and felt your feelings, Y/n. You should never feel that way about yourself.” He reaches for your other hand and grabs it in his.

You remain in the clutches of all three of them. You are with your heroes. Dean has your hand, holding it in the both of his. Castiel holds your other hand, squeezing it in the most compassionate way possible. Sam keeps you in his arms as you place all of your weight onto him and continue to bury your head into his shoulder.

“You are not worthless,” Cas says. “You are not nothing. You are not stupid. You are not idiotic. You are not self-centered.”

“You are the furthest thing from it,” Dean adds. “You are amazing. You are incredible. You are worth so much. You are worth everything.”

“You are worth saving,” Sam says. “I don’t know what I would do if you died, Y/n. You are the person who makes me happy. You make all of us happy. You can always ask for help.” Sam releases you from his hug so he can look at you. You open your eyes and see the people who keep you going. The people who inspire you to be strong, stay strong. These people are your world. They are your everything and for them to say that you are theirs, that is the best compliment that you could ever get.

“Never, ever think anything but the truth about yourself,” Dean orders.

“But the truth is,” you say, “I don’t know if I can believe you all. I have been told by so many people who I love and look up to that I am stupid, manipulative, that I am nothing. Those thoughts and feelings of self depreciation are carved into my heart. Wired into my mainframe. Every time I try to be happy, every time I try to let go, I get a setback. I fall down.”

“Y/n, those people that you say thought bad of you,” Castiel starts to say, “They didn’t love you. They don’t deserve your love. They don’t deserve any part of you.”

“It doesn’t matter what they say or what you did or who you did it to,” Dean says, “Here, right now, it is us and it is you. And I promise that we love you. We love you so much, Y/n. We love you with your burdens and all.”

“And I promise,” Sam states, “That no matter how many setbacks you have, no matter how many times you feel depressed or down, I will always be there for you. We will all be there for you.”

“If you want a shoulder to cry on,” Dean says, “I’ve got two.”

“If you need someone to listen,” Castiel explains, “I have till the end of time to listen.” You start to sniffle and smile.

“That’s our girl,” Dean says as he brushes the hair away from your face.

“And if you ever need someone to talk to,” Sam smiles, “There is nothing that I would rather do than to be here for you.”

“Hey! That rhymed,” you state with a smile and a giggle.

“Yes, yes it did,” Sam says with a laugh.

You look at your heroes. You look at your friends. You look at your family. You have countless reasons to be sad. You have such a big vocabulary of harsh words that you have been called and could call yourself but the truth is, none of them are true. You can believe that you deserved it then but under no circumstances can you believe that you deserve anything less than the absolute best now.

“You are beautiful, Y/n.”

“You are magnificent.”

“You are giving and ask for nothing in return.”

“You are the one who saved me.”

“You are the one who shows me kindness when I need it most.”

“You are the one person who always makes me feel better.”

“You are selfless.”

“You make me laugh.”

“You are a hero.”

“You are extraordinary.”

“You are the best.”

“You always make me smile.”

“You make me feel good about myself.”

“You are the representation of good in the world.”

You are gorgeous. You are amazing. You are wonderful. You! All you! You are worth it! You are truly spectacular! You are incredible! You are perfect just as you are! You deserve to be happy! You deserve to be loved! You deserve to live the life you want! You deserve so much because you have been through so much! You deserve to get double the amount of love that you share! You deserve a crown! You deserve gold! You are too good for this world! You are a spectacle!

You are loved.

You feel overwhelmed with joy, real, true, joy as Sam leans forward to give you a hug. Dean leans to your side and wraps his arms around you. Castiel comes from behind you and squeezes you tightly in your clutches. You were the most loved and appreciated person with three amazing people all pouring their love into you. It is exactly what you deserved and so much more.

You were going to have setbacks. You were going to have bad days. You were going to feel broken, lost. You were going to feel down. But I promise you, they are real. The people who love you are real. There are so many. Your affect on the world may seem miniscule to you but it's not. You can save the world. You make it better everyday. You may save the people who save the world. You matter. You help the world turn. Even when you have bad days, you will always have someone who will want to be there right with you. They will want to suffer with you. They would do anything for you. Never give up.

You must know: you are loved, you are not alone, you are worth it, and you must always keep fighting.

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Thank you for reading! Never doubt yourself or think you don’t deserve love! You do! You deserve so much! And more!

#always keep fighting #love yourself first #you are not alone #dealing with suicide #reader fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural imagine #spn family #team free will 3.0 #heros #you are loved #deppression #anxiety #love you #support one another #I love you

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