#and also its not just the crying and wailing and screaming its also the atmosphere and energy thats added to it with the instruments | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pesewla · 3 years

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Thank you for the request, @bout-to-snap <3

“This is why I don’t trust him!” Mu Qing fumed. “He’s literally the Lord of the Ghost Realm, Your Highness…”

Xie Lian allowed a small, relaxed smile to grace his lips. He was mediating a fight between Mu Qing, Feng Xin, and Hua Cheng for what seemed like the thousandth time. Though newly renovated, Puqi Shrine was still too small for these massive quarrels, and Xie Lian dreaded the property damage that would ensue if their swords were drawn.

Given all that had happened – the destruction of the heavens and defeat of Jun Wu – why were these three still at each other’s throats?

“I thought we were past this,” Xie Lian sighed. “We don’t get to see each other all the time, so can we please not fight?”

“Exactly, we don’t see get to see each other all the time, so can’t we talk to you in private?” Feng Xin said, fidgeting a little.

Xie Lian looked confused. “About what?”

“You expect me to walk away when you’ve just called me the scum of the earth?” Hua Cheng said coolly, examining his nails. “Gege, these servants are no good.”

“We’re not his servants!” Mu Qing exclaimed. Xie Lian thought it sounded like he was about to say “anymore” at the end, but cut off his speech abruptly, making the outburst awkward and clunky.

“Are you sure?” Hua Cheng asked skeptically. “Because when you’re with him, it’s like 800 years never happened, you can be his ever-most-loyal-servants again. The roleplaying is disgusting, and doesn’t absolve you from guilt.”

Xie Lian sensed the atmosphere in the shrine shift. He stepped forward again and raised his hands placatingly. “San Lang – “

“And what would you know?” Feng Xin demanded. “You can’t possibly understand what we’ve been through, at the time you were merely a mortal child.”

“I understand that you abandoned Dianxia when he was most vuln –“

“San Lang,” Xie Lian said. Hua Cheng’s lips instantly froze at the warning in Xie Lian’s tone; it was a lilt and a dangerous flavor that Xie Lian hardly used on anyone, and never on Hua Cheng.

“…”

“Why can’t they know, gege?” Hua Cheng asked softly. “Don’t you think they deserve to know? Frankly, their ignorance offends me.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing had fallen silent, too, their faces both a few shades lighter. The word abandon seemed to always have that effect on them. Then Feng Xin regained his voice. “Ignor – know what? Taizi Dianxia, just what…”

Xie Lian had folded his arms, his mouth drawn into a line. “It’s old history,” he sighed. “There’s no need to bring things like this up. Do not shame me.”

“Shame you? When that came to visit you, he dismissed your fears as insan –“

Hua Cheng’s voice cut off for a moment, and the temperature in Puqi Shrine seemed to drop. Because, at that moment, an expression entirely foreign to Xie Lian flitted across his face: rage. Neither Mu Qing nor Feng Xin had seen him make that expression since his third ascension, and it didn’t suit him well.

It was gone as soon as it arrived, and Xie Lian’s characteristically peaceful smile returned in its stead. However, the faces of his two ex-subordinates were already white as sheets. Hua Cheng stepped toward, placing a hand on Xie Lian’s shoulder as if to hold him up.

“Dianxia, are you mad… at us?” Feng Xin whispered.

Xie Lian looked at him strangely, as if he had asked a very bizarre question indeed. “No… Not you.”

Hua Cheng snorted, as if he was thinking, too bad. Xie Lian’s face was soft. “In any case, I’m quite tired, so I think I will retire for the night. Please make yourselves at home.”

“Wh – you can’t – after –“ Mu Qing sputtered.

Feng Xin’s eyes were round. “Dianxia, does that mean… That time with White No-Face, when we were on the run… Was it really…?”

Xie Lian had started towards his chambers, but after being addressed, his shoulders tightened infinitesimally. Then, he turned back to the trio, his face still serene. “Yes.”

As if he’d been punched in the gut, Feng Xin slouched over. Mu Qing looked baffled.

“I didn’t tell you this because I knew you’d blame yourself. Yet, in the end, the only one who sinned was me. So, please, do not inquire further into this matter.”

With a nod and another smile, Xie Lian vanished into the back room, anxious to escape the conversation.

Feng Xin and Mu Qing were bursting with indescribable emotion. Some small part of Feng Xin fumed at Xie Lian for leaving them without explaining, but the rest of him just wallowed in a torrent of guilt, doubt, and self-questioning.

If the Taizi Dianxia wouldn’t tell them the truth, who would? Xie Lian had been abandoned with only his parents, who were long dead, so who besides him even knew what happened? The only people must be Jun Wu himself, and –

“Don’t look at me,” Hua Cheng rolled his eyes, leaning lazily against a chair. “I’m not going behind gege’s back for some backstabbing servants.”

“You’re the one who said we deserve to know,” Mu Qing argued.

“So? It’s gege’s story to tell, and he said no, so no.”

“How do you even know?”

Hua Cheng shrugged. “I was just ghost fire at the time. I had to watch.”

The corners of his eyes tightened, and a murderous look crossed his face. Unlike Xie Lian, his malice wasn’t bottled away, but instead broadcast for all to see.

“Watch what?” Feng Xin cried in anguish. “Why must you torture us?”

Hua Cheng snickered. “If only you knew your own irony.”

With that, he straightened and glided in Xie Lian’s direction, back towards the sleeping chambers.

“We – we’ll be back tomorrow!” Feng Xin and Mu Qing shouted at his receding back. Hua Cheng shrugged again.

That night, Hua Cheng was holding Xie Lian in his arms, and casually said, “Gege, this is what you did with Lang Qianqiu, too.” It wasn’t an accusation – it was never an accusation, just a comment.

Xie Lian exhaled. “I know.”

Hua Cheng’s voice grew husky. “Isn’t it enough that you suffered alone then, why must you be alone now, too? Why must you save everyone secretly, then endure their collective ridicule?” Then, “Is keeping it a secret truly doing anyone good?”

Xie Lian was silent. “Maybe I don’t have a good reason,” he finally said. “I don’t like thinking about it, really. I’m weak.”

“…”

“Although, looking back on it, I can’t believe that cute little ghost fire was you,” Xie Lian laughed. “You’d barely popped up and you already had a little cult following, so adorable!”

Hua Cheng grinned, but it was pained, like he couldn’t remember that period of his existence without discomfort. He said nothing, but his grip around Xie Lian tightened, like he was afraid of letting go.

Xie Lian noticed, and, after a beat of silence, shut his eyes. “I’ll think about it, okay?”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing would not give up. Day after day, they visited Xie Lian, demanding answers, so after months of heckling, Xie Lian finally agreed to explain what had happened all those years ago. When Xie Lian, Hua Cheng, Feng Xin, and Mu Qing sat down in Paradise Manor, Hua Cheng started talking first, trying to alleviate Xie Lian’s burden.

“…He’d wailed and screamed and cried and begged for mercy, but the people, having deemed him a sinner, continued without hesitation. Of course, his sinfulness was merely an excuse to save their own skin…”

“…After one hundred fatal strikes, Dianxia laid on his own altar, disfigured beyond recognition. Nothing more than a pile of flesh.”

Feng Xin was not the type to cry. So, when his eyes grew wet and then started streaming, Xie Lian hurriedly waved off Hua Cheng’s stone-faced words.

“Feng Xin, this was hundreds of years ago,” Xie Lian assured him, patting his shoulder. “It’s not sad anymore. Also, I’ve endured worse since then.”

This aggravated Feng Xin even further, and he looked like he wanted to cry some more. “I just can’t… when I imagine it, I can’t help it…”

“Trust me, whatever you’re imagining, it was five million times worse in real time,” Hua Cheng muttered darkly. He stared at Xie Lian with an odd expression, before languidly pulling him into his embrace.

Feng Xin looked like he wanted to rebuke, but in the end, could not. Thus, he motioned for the story to continue.

Xie Lian skimmed over his recovery period, the reformation of his flesh, and Feng Xin’s departure, but before he was in the clear, he was interrupted.

“So that’s why you asked me to leave?” Feng Xin said incredulously.

“There was no need to pull you down with me,” Xie Lian murmured.

“I thought you’d gone insane,” Feng Xin mumbled, nauseated. “I told your mother and father… I left you…”

Describing what happened to his parents was even harder, and when he finally got to saying how he’d put his own head in the noose, eyes filling with blood and collarbone cracking, Mu Qing jumped up.

“DAMN IT,” he roared, picking up a glass and shattering it against the nearest wall. “Damn it, damn it, damn it, Dianxia! What the actual fuck?”

Xie Lian peered at him. “Please don’t break San Lang’s things,” he tried.

“WHAT DO I FUCKING CARE? FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, TAIZI DIANXIA, HOW COULD YOU KEEP SOMETHING LIKE THIS FROM US?” Mu Qing was panting, and Feng Xin was staring off into space, eyes empty. “WE COULD’VE HELPED! IF I’D HAVE KNOWN, I’D HAVE –“

“Come back?” Xie Lian questioned lightly. “Followed me until the end?”

There was a deafening silence.

“No… I wanted you both to break free,” Xie Lian said. “You had a future.”

“SO DID YOU!” Feng Xin cried, broken from his trance. “Why… why did all this… why must it happen to you?”

“For that, I have no answer,” Xie Lian said. “But, if it had to happen to anyone, I’m glad it happened to me.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing looked like they’d been shattered into a million pieces. Xie Lian said ruefully, “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

Mu Qing rushed forward. “GODDAMN IT, THE FACT THAT I DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT IT IS EVEN WORSE! WHY DIDN’T YOU ASK FOR HELP? YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO USE US, RELY ON US, THAT WAS OUR FUCKING JOB AND WE…”

“At the time, you were ganging up with Middle Court lackeys to chase him out of spiritual lands,” Hua Cheng remarked icily, pulling Xie Lian closer to him.

Mu Qing appeared stupefied, like Hua Cheng had just slapped him. “San Lang!” Xie Lian admonished. Mu Qing sat back down.

Both Feng Xin and Mu Qing both looked like they wanted to protest more, but Xie Lian continued with the story before they could. When he described donning the white mask and preparing to unleash the Human Face Disease, both of them seemed to hold their breath. Hua Cheng described his rebirth as a ghost soldier, following Xie Lian’s commands but never believing that he would truly commit the atrocity.

Feng Xin was regarding him with something that almost looked like newfound respect, but Mu Qing turned his head.

The rest was all downhill from there. He described laying on the pavement for days on end, and the one farmer who’d salvaged his faith in human goodness.

“To anyone else, thousands of onlookers ignoring your pain and suffering before one did anything shouldn’t reinforce your faith in anything…” Mu Qing muttered.

Xie Lian pressed forward, practically sprinting through the unleashed Human Face Disease, taking the brunt of the curses, and then Hua Cheng dying for him for the second time. He talked about ascending into heaven, and asking Jun Wu to punish him for his wrongdoings using banishment and cursed shckles.

“…DIANXIA?!?” Feng Xin gasped. “IT WASN’T A MURDEROUS RAMPAGE?”

“Nope!” Xie Lian said cheerily, relief crossing his face as if he was pleased to be done talking.

Mu Qing’s face darkened, and he started swearing again. “I WAS FUCKING WONDERING HOW SOMEONE AS TALENTED AS YOU SPENDS 800 YEARS TRYING TO ASCEND, IT WAS ON FUCKING PURPOSE? FUCKING FUCK, I WANT TO STRANGLE SOMETHING! SOMEONE GIVE ME SOMETHING TO BREAK!” He clomped off in a random direction.

Feng Xin’s face looked shadowed over, too. “Here I was wondering how you suddenly had such bad luck. As Crown Prince, you’d never had something so egregious. Now, learning that you asked for it… it all makes sense.” His hands were clenched into tight fists, and his words turned into cries. “Why… why… why… for 800 years, we felt… we waited, we were waiting, for something, and we thought maybe you’d died, or gone crazy, or vanished… We…”

Xie Lian had approached him, and put both hands on his shoulders. It was an old, but familiar gesture, and Feng Xin’s heart immediately squeezed with pain and regret. He was at a loss for words, and everything seemed wretched.

“Feng Xin, I understand your anguish,” Xie Lian said softly. “But I became very close to becoming that thing which I swore to destroy. And, to be honest, at that point I didn’t care much for godhood. I lost everything because of godhood. What I couldn’t stand to lose was myself, not to that monster, not to anyone. So, please understand. I’m sorry I hurt you, but it was necessary.”

“WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO FUCKING GOOD?” Mu Qing roared, coming to stand next to Feng Xin. “WHY CAN’T YOU EVER BE SELFISH?”

Xie Lian chuckled, and Mu Qing covered his mouth, as if the words had escaped by their own volition. “…I wasn’t being good, I was scared.”

Mu Qing swore more. Feng Xin, on the other hand, fell to his knees, his shoulders trembling. So, Xie Lian acted on impulse, pulling Mu Qing down to the ground, too. Xie Lian then wrapped one arm around Feng Xin, and the other around Mu Qing, enveloping the both of them in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” Xie Lian murmured again, trying to control their trembling. He couldn’t tell, at this point, if it was only Feng Xin, or if it was Mu Qing too.

“We failed. I failed,” Feng Xin said, and his voice was raw with agony. “Why are you apologizing?”

“It wasn’t fair to either of you… but I loved you very much, and it was like you were shackled to a man descending to the bottom of a lagoon. If I didn’t remove your chains, you would’ve drowned too.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, holy shit, I’m so sorry,” Feng Xin said, almost gasping through the words. He looked as though someone had drawn a sword across his Adam’s apple, and he was choking through the blood. “Taizi Dianxia, I’m sorry. I failed.”

“Don’t be so damn self-sacrificing, Your Highness.” It was Mu Qing, this time, and he wasn’t struggling against the embrace. “Every single fucking time. Disgusting. How can we even stop you? Something like this. Damnit.”

“I’m a bit tougher than I look,” Xie Lian assured him. “Drowning is no big deal. Pain will subside. Embarrassment will fade. And look, I’m very happy now.”

From somewhere far away, Hua Cheng laughed slightly. However, even Mu Qing and Feng Xin, who weren’t well acquainted with him, could hear that it was laced with pain, too.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to stay with you,” Feng Xin said. “I wanted to stay, I trusted you unequivocally, you’re my world. But it scared me…”

Xie Lian smiled. “I know. You didn’t have to say anything. Ever since you came to help me at Yu Jun Mountain, I’ve known. And I’m grateful.”

“Stop being so damn forgiving.” Mu Qing’s voice was muffled by Xie Lian’s robes.

“Why? I forgive you.” Mu Qing and Feng Xin seemed to collapse in on themselves. So Xie Lian repeated, “I forgive you.”

No one moved for a long time. The trembling intensified. “You’re so damn forgiving,” Mu Qing mumbled. “It doesn’t mean a thing…”

And yet, they were not willing to break away.

Even after 800 years, Mu Qing and Feng Xin didn’t think that they would ever get used to being dazzled by the Crown Prince.

#this kinda turned into a whole-ass fanfiction so I might post on ao3 too #literally the thought of this makes me cry #it shoulda happened in canon #pain central #hualian #fengqing #mu qing #feng xin #heaven official's blessing #hob #tgcf #tian guan ci fu #xie lian #hua cheng #xian le trio #xianle trio

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years

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COSMIC - S3:E4; Chapter Four, The Sauna Test - [Pt. 5 - FINAL]

A Will Byers x Reader Series

𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦, 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘞𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘌𝘭, 𝘔𝘢𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘠/𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘯 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘍𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘣𝘪𝘯, 𝘚𝘵𝘦𝘷𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘯𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘓𝘺𝘯𝘹.

📝: you have... NO IDEA how long i have been sitting on this one. Just... wow okay. And this is just the beginning, wait till you see the cabin scene 👀 Edit: tell me why I had the main chorus of Timber Feat. Ke$ha in my head on infinite loop while writing the fight scene 🤦‍♀️ LMAO

⚠️: asphyxiation [aka suffocation], several mentions of blood, and graphic (?) depictions of violence throughout. Also, long chapter

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

"MAX! LET ME OUT OF HERE!"

Everyone watched stilled, with pounding hearts as Billy's billowing cries echoed out across the weight room. No one more so than Max. He had barely taken his eyes off of her and his voice fell into a weakened plea.

"Let me out,"

And then it was gone. Replaced with a malice-filled hiss that was beginning to feel a little too familiar for their liking. One by one his eyes flicker between the party members with a twitch in his eye as he began to shift, eyes darting past their shoulders and sweeping the room before his next glare.

"You kids," he pants, each breath like swallowing smoke. "you think..." he was swallowing embers. "this is funny?"

Mike and Lucas share a nervous glance.

Another heaving breath, the flames now licking his lungs.

"You kids think this is some kind of sick prank, huh?" With a snarl, he rears his head back and spits on the glass. "YOU LITTLE SHITS THINK THIS IS FUNNY?!"

Anxiously, Max eyes Will from where he stands beside El and he meets her gaze. The two seem to share the same thought. It was working.

But the sauna's prisoner had caught on, and as the fire was rekindled in his veins, he shifted nervously again; eyes darting once more around the room before landing on the two.

"OPEN THE DOOR!" They all flinch when he throws himself against the window in a fury. He was growing more frantic. And he wasn't stopping. "OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR!" He pressed his nose against the glass, showcasing his darkening eyes. "OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!"

The fire was now ablaze, the blood in his veins felt as if it was actually boiling, cooking him from the inside out and he finally collapsed on the sauna floor with a groan. Will took that as his cue and raced to the thermometer on the wall where the needle rested at the end.

"We're at two-twenty,"

When he returned to El's side, a great wail reverberates from within the sauna followed by a great many thumps.

"It's not my fault," he weeps, catching them all by surprise. "It's not my fault, it's not my fault, Max. I promise it's not my fault."

With a pounding and aching heart, Max crept towards the sauna door. Many eyes darted after her, fearfully, dealing between her and the only barrier protecting her from what lay inside.

"What's not your fault, Billy?" She asks.

When she peers behind the foggy glass, her heart threatens to split in two; he sits before her on the tile floor, beads of sweat blending with his tears and his hands glued together in plea as he looks up at her.

"I've done things, Max," he sobs, his voice threatening to break. "Really b... bad things and I didn't mean to."

As Billy peers up at his sister now, he can feel himself slipping again. He tries so hard to hold onto that sliver of himself, drifting away into the dark. His hands wring together as he pleads, his nails raking into his skin to stop himself - to stop Him - from winning.

His sanity was slipping and everything in him was screaming for him to do violent, inhumane things to the girl before him but he fought it. Billy knew he didn't have much time, and it was getting harder to think. And Billy spat the words from his tongue before he considers the repercussions from the shadow.

"He made me do it,"

Max was certain she knew the answer now. She knew it even as she stood in the living room facing her brother just twenty-four hours ago. But she had let herself believe the tempting lie over the bitter truth that the Shadow Monster had not gotten Billy. But she knew she had to. And so she asked.

"Who made you do it?"

Fear flashed in his eyes as he wept. He looked as something was trying to stop him, and Max knew very well something was, but he managed the words anyway; unknown to all, his final warning. The words that confirmed all their darkest fears and chilled their bones.

"I don't know, it was like a shadow. A giant shadow,"

Y/n's heart leaps into her throat, and her brows knit together in a curious frown when she sees El and Will meet eyes in matching grave expressions. They share a knowing look and nod, and silently they form a wall, herding Y/n behind them. It was likely they had made a prior agreement, she realizes, but her worries still remained on her other best friend inches from the glass.

"Please, Max," Billy weeps.

"What did he make you do?" Max asks through a wavering voice.

"It's not my fault," He cries suddenly, sinking into the sauna bench. "okay, Max?! Please! Please!"

At the sound of his broken cries, Max's eyes squeeze shut, and hot tears slide down her cheeks as she faces the small window. Her heart is torn, but she tries to remain strong.

"Please, believe me, Max! I tried to stop him, okay? I did."

He's trying even now, but the darkness is closing in. Her tearful face is blurring from his vision and he's losing the grip on his body without realizing it. He can already feel the shadow breaking free from his hold when his arm creeps across the tile floor without his permission.

"Please, believe me, Max. Please believe me,"

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she reaches out to Billy; her hand on the glass and speaks through her breaking voice.

"Billy, it's gonna be okay,"

The darkness was spreading to his vision, closing in on his sister and he knew he had only moments. They had only moments. There was no telling when the shadow would let him resurface. As Billy disappeared, he spoke what little warning he could before the shadow stole his voice.

"Max please..." -get away, his mind screams. But the words didn't come. Go away. Get out while you can.

She hadn't heard him. It was too late. The hand that lied hidden beneath the sauna bench, had already found a weapon.

"It's gonna be okay, we want to help you," Max swears through stinging tears.

His fingers curl around the broken and jagged tile.

"We want to help you. You just have to talk to us, okay? You have to talk us."

All too well indeed. He felt it even now.

Will's eyes had never left the sauna door, drilling holes through the glass even when the man had collapsed to the ground. Billy's haunted cries had reached Will in a way it never could the others. He knew the feeling all too well.

An unnatural chill zapped the air despite the muggy atmosphere and his whole body seized up. His hair stood on end and the skin over his body tightened, goosebumps breaking out out all over his skin.

He's activated.

-"What?"

Will has little time to look at Mike and Y/n and realize he had uttered the words aloud before looking back to Max.

"Max, get away from the door," he cautions.

Taken by surprise at his sudden request, Max hesitates. "What?"

"GET AWAY FROM FROM THE DOOR! NOW!"

Max had barely heeded Will's warning when the glass burst inches from her face as Billy hurled his arm through the window. El jumped back, sweeping both her arms in an effort to protect her friends. And with miraculous timing, Max had dove to the left just in time to escape the confetti of glass shards but her arm had not been so lucky.

While he had dropped his tile shard his hand had caught her bandaged forearm in his iron grasp and yanked. She yelped in pain, using the traction of her shoes against the linoleum to keep herself away.

"LET ME OUT, YOU BITCH!" He howls, tugging her arm as she attempts to pry and claw her way free. "I'LL FUCKING GUT YOU!"

"NO!" Came the sudden angered cry of Y/n Henderson as she forcibly broke free from the wall El and Will had created. She pushed their shoulders aside and sprinted forward, throwing her hand out before her. "LET HER GO!"

A powerful blasts burst forth from her palm and Billy cried out, yanking his hand back. He withered for only a moment, a loud hissing breath sucked in from between his clenched teeth as he visibly shook in anger. His hair was still dripping and it hung like a dark curtain over his eyes, but she could see it - they all could. The whites of his eyes were harder and harder to see as he looked upon his festering arm.

Max had scrambled away from the wall, back into the safety of El and Y/n's protection but Y/n didn't flinch.

He was pissed, but so was she.

In an instant, he throws his head up to look at her, his drenched curls landing on top of his head and draping over his seething face. His darkened eyes locked on her, his gritted teeth clenched so hard his entire body shook with fury. His expression finally matched his eyes from the previous night and confirmed to Y/n it had been the Mind Flayer to have spoken to her at Heather's. Never Billy.

What followed next, had unfolded all at once.

His screams return and he bangs his fist against the door once before yanking out the lead pipe and chucking it at Y/n.

She ducks just in time, and El swipes it out of the way, sending it flying into the wall with the flick of her head before it could hurt any of the others. And Lucas releases the pull on his wrist rocket he had trained on the man since he scrambled to load it when the glass first broke.

With an audible snap, the ammo was released and sent flying into its target; crashing into Billy's forehead.

A second time he was sent tumbling to the sauna floor, disappearing from their view with an even louder thump.

"Y/n, come on!" Lucas cried.

She wasted no time, scurrying back to the safety of her friends who engulfed her into their surrounding figures. Their heads all snap towards the ceilings when the hum of the lights grow stronger and everything begins to flicker.

Billy's insides churn with a disgruntled choke, his mouth spitting out fluids as he comes to. With a groan, his body spits and writhes on the floor. The icy storm in his veins spreading. And festering.

Joined shoulder to shoulder, the huddled party backed up in one circle. Each of them faced away from one another, looking around worriedly as the rows of florescent lights flicker violently above them. They all close in on Y/n in a protective stance.

Billy's body twisted and thrashed on the tile floor as he attempted to heave himself up to his feet. The grip of the Mind Flayer had broken free from the barriers of his mind and was coursing all throughout his body, the dark mass staining the very blood in his veins and poisoning his system. Dark lesions broke out all over his back and arms, and black veins rippled out under his skin, all across his body as he clutched the wall. Throwing back his head, Billy released an inhuman, agonized wail before charging for the door.

A second time they all jumped, and a second time El's arms swept out to protect her friends - finally including her Max. Their horror-stricken eyes were fixed on the door as Will inched closer to Y/n, and Max spoke through a fearful waver.

"He can't get out, can he?" She frets as he barrels into the door a second time, the chains testing the pipe anchored to the wall.

Fear gripped his heart and Lucas shook his head, voice filled with doubt in his own words. "No way. No. Way,"

"Y/n, get back," El orders in a flat voice, her tilted head unblinking on the door. "Go with Will."

Y/n gawked over El's shoulder, frantically looking between the door, her best friend, and a pleading Will who grabbed for her hand.

"What? No! No, bullshit! We agreed!"

"Y/n, come on," Will urged, tugging a little harder on her hand.

It grew hot under his touch and she ripped it from his grasp. "No. I need to do this," Y/n cried, her head whipping back and forth between her boyfriend and the fraying thread that was the bowing sauna pipe; the last defense holding back the Mind Flayer's newest host.

The door stopped moving and one split, heart-stopping moment a thunderous cry barreled out deep from within Billy's chest.

The door was thrown open, the pipe bursting from the wall and expelling puffs of steam as Billy tumbled through the open door. The Party jumped back in shrieks, El on the front lines pushing everyone behind her, even still.

With a lumbering breath, the fluorescents still flickering madly above them, Billy rose to his feet to meet eye to eye with the wrong girl. With a fear-inducing glare and an overpowering sense of protectiveness, El had forcibly barricaded herself in between the Mind Flayer and her best friend.

He curled back his teeth, a growl growing in the back of his throat. He was ready to wring her neck but she simply rose a single hand in the air, and the nearest barbell rose with it. In the blink of an eye, Billy was pinned against the brick wall by his neck, gasping for breath.

Everyone watched on in a mixture of shock and awe as El threw another arm up, and the weights sunk deeper into the brick, crumbling them near his head. She was panting for breath, nose dripping with blood but she was determined.

And she wasn't the only one.

"Y/n-!"

But she ignored the Party's cries, as well as the pleas in her gut screaming for her to turn tail and run. But she couldn't stand by and do nothing as El faced it all alone - nor could she sit still when she saw the very monster she had faced the prior year, wearing the very face that plagued her dreams in her last sleep. Y/n Henderson didn't walk away. She couldn't.

Y/n stormed to El's side, throwing her arms up in sync with two large and billowing waves of heat that filled the entire room. Billy howled as the heat consumed him completely, the black veins festering underneath his skin. Across the sauna, Mike and Will watch on in a mixture of awe and worry as El and Y/n stand side by side, their arms extended as they fight with great strain and their guttural cries begin to blend.

Tears pricked Will's eyes as he watched the scene unfold, frightened not only for Y/n's life but El's. He truly feared what the Mind Flayer might be capable of in someone like Billy Hargrove. And already he had every right to be.

What came next stole the breath right out of his chest.

With a husky grunt and a terrifying spur of adrenaline, Billy heaved and broke El's telepathic hold, sending the barbell flying for their heads. With matching screams, they throw themselves to the floor, avoiding the otherwise inevitable blunt force trauma by a hair's width. He stormed to their bodies piled together on the floor. Learning his lesson and counting every precious second, Billy grabs a fist full of El's hair and drags her to her feet and off of Y/n's body. She yelps out in pain, clawing to get free but he had already thrown her into the wall she had just pinned him to. Her head collided with the brick and she sunk to the floor, fighting to keep her eyes open and vision clear but she was losing her battle.

Mike and the others cried out to her, unable to reach her but her blurring vision was fixed on the sight of Billy closing in on Y/n's body. She threw her arms up with a vengeful grunt, her skin beginning to glow. The ground begins to shake and all their hopes rise with Y/n as pulls herself onto one wobbly knee. The spidery veins adorned her eyes, lips, and ears, heat pulsing from her palms as her light began to illuminate the weight room.

And like a candle's flame, it was extinguished under Billy's hand.

Her grunts died in her throat when his hand encircled her throat, cutting off all her air. What strength he possessed as Billy Hargrove had doubled with the Mind Flayer and lifted the young girl above his head with ease.

Y/n tried crying for help but her voice was lodged in her throat with the rest of her breath, leaving her no choice but to claw at Billy's arms as she fought for air and freedom. Her legs were finally listening to her brain's signals, kicking and squirming as she tried to reach him or even the ground but they never did, no matter how close she got. Just as she had foreseen.

"Y/N!" The others cried.

She gasped and choked for breath, any whisp of air she could possibly manage between his fingers as she tried to conjure a fight, but she was losing concentration. She was losing air.

All she saw beside the white spots swallowing her vision were the seething eyes of the Mind Flayer peering up at her. And as he watched the life drain from her eyes, he hissed to the one he had been waiting in agony for all these months his final greeting.

"You."

Y/n could barely hear him over the cries of her frantic friends, nor could she barely register the repetitive snap of Lucas's wrist rocket as he sent rocks flying into Billy. But this time, Billy resisted. Out of spite, or with the aid of the Mind Flayer's mutation, none of them knew but with El out cold on the floor and unreachable without crossing through Billy, little options were left.

And Lucas was already running low.

Y/n's hands latched onto Billy's wrist, at first, seemingly trying to pry herself away as she sucked in as much air as she could capture. And as her bulging eyes began to flutter, she manages to speak through choking, gasping breaths.

"Fuck... you."

Latched hands had locked on and began to glow and Billy's eyes fell to her grip. The skin beneath her palms began to sizzle and a agonized cry grew deep within Billy at her searing touch. And yet still he held, but the same could not be said for Y/n. Like El, she was fighting to remain conscious.

And Lucas had run out of ammo.

Lucas and Will seemed to share the same thought as everything had unfolded within an instant. And with an angered cry, Will charged forward just as Lucas chucked his metal wrist rocket at Billy's head.

His grip still iron clad over Y/n's throat, Billy's head whipped to the party as fast as his other hand stopped in front of his face, catching the wrist rocket mid-air. And just in time for Will to reach him. Billy reared his arm back and smacked the butt end of the wrist rocket into the boy's head, knocking him to the ground without ever blinking.

"Will!"

Those that remained stood back, watching terror-stricken as Y/n begins to grow limp, her eyes rolling back in her head.

Tears prick Mike's eyes as the sights surrounding him become too much; one of his best friends dying before his eyes, and the two people he had probably loved most in the world, fading on the floor. And he snaps into action.

He looks around wildly, thanking whatever force was out there that the burst pipe from the sauna was near his feet. He picked it up in an instant, charging forward with a sudden surge of adrenaline, and crashed it into Billy's skull.

Y/n dropped to the floor, gasping for breath as she rolled away from Billy's fallen body. Mike towered over the man as Y/n came to, a vengeful look in his eyes as he swung the pipe back above his head.

"GO TO HELL YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

With all the force he could possibly muster, Mike threw the pipe down at Billy's back but it had stopped inches from his face. In the blink of an eye, Billy had turned, catching it in his single fist with as much ease as the wrist rocket.

Mike gasped in horror as Billy seethes up at him, much too frightened to even flicker to the sight of Y/n wobbling up onto her hands and knees and risk giving her away. She was coughing on every wheezing breath, her lungs and throat burning but she still felt a spark big enough to hold onto.

Will had just started to come to, the sideways vision of the weight room floor showing to him two things: Billy chucking the pipe against the wall with an earsplitting clang and Y/n's heaving chest swallowing desperate, gulping breaths, the blood steadily draining from her face.

He tried to move to her, but his limbs were heavy. All he managed to do was hoist himself up onto his arms as tears fell from his eyes, slowly pulling himself along as the world began to steady. But he never reaches her in time. Billy had begun to rise, and yet the beginnings of a smug smile curled Will's lips as his eyes trailed her across the room.

Anger battled impatience within the Mind Flayer at the unrelenting children, but killing this one - the Wheeler boy - would be easy. At least, it would have been had it not been for the young girl emerging with the two hot blasts of searing heat raining down upon his exposed chest as Y/n unleashed her fury upon him.

A primal scream grew from deep within her belly, ripping up her throat as she circled back around to face him, arms outstretched before her in two taut claws. What little space he had created from himself and the weight room floor had vanished as the blasts intensified with her screams.

The fluorescent lights about their heads were flashing violently now, enunciating the matching veins each opponent bore. The buzzing of the lights was nearly as loud as the rumble of the shaking room and the cracking of the tile that sounded eerily like thunder. The two blurring bursts of energy were pouring from her palms and pinning Billy into the tile so hard the tile floor cracked beneath him.

His screams blended with hers, the light pouring from her skin illuminating his agonized face and she pushed harder. her arms dug closer to his chest and the deep and inhuman voice returned; the voice of the Mind Flayer cried out in pain.

Y/n felt the sudden force of Billy's untouched leg sweep under her own, knocking her off her feet. The Mind Flayer coughed and hacked once more, and threw himself over her as she lied on her back. His hands were around her throat again, yanking her up before slamming her back into the ground.

With the strobing, flickering lights disorienting their already obscured vision the others could barely make out Billy hunched over something on the floor. His haunched, vein painted back nearly in ribbons as blood drizzled down his back like rain on a window. It didn't take them long to put together the pieces, Y/n's name on their weeping tongues as Billy repeatedly threw her back into the tile until she steadily lost consciousness. Finally, after one last gust of power, he thrust her into the tile and releasing her throat. But only to raise one darkening, blistering fist into the air, ready to strike...

Horrified screams tore from their throats, each of them prepared to tackle Billy. Will had finally stumbled to his feet for the first time without falling, ready to do just that but something had stopped him.

Billy froze, growing horrified as he himself began to choke.

A body hidden away in the shadows that had finally fought her way back into consciousness for the sake of her loved ones

There she was in all her glory.

El, rising to her wobbling knees; the sound of Y/n's broken cries and gasping pleas for help that broke through her subconscious mind had been the final push of adrenaline she needed.

Like Y/n, El's grew from deep within as she pulled herself to her feet, arms outstretched. Steadily, Billy's body was pulled off of Y/n's until even his toes had left the ground. He was pulled far away from the young girl's body as El circled him, once again placing herself in between the Mind Flayer and the girl she couldn't lose.

Will took the advantage El had bought for them and closed the remaining gap, collapsing at Y/n's side. He breathed a sigh at unimaginable relief when he saw her chest moving with labored breaths. She was alive. Hoisting Y/n's bloodied head into his folded legs, he returned his worried sights to El just in time to see her give a great roar, hurling her clawed hands to the side and watching as Billy was thrown through the brick wall in an explosion of dust.

El's knees buckled beneath her, and she collapsed to the ground in exhaustion beside Y/n's limp body. Mike rushed to her side, steadying her arms and looking on with pooling eyes at his waking friend.

Y/n lays in Will's arms on the grounds of the cracked and broken sauna floor, her bloodshot eyes popping out of her skull as she coughs and chokes on what air she hopes to regain. Strenuous marks circle her throat from where she was previously held captive, and specks of blood drip from the back of her skull onto Will's leg. The others begin to crowd around in worry and fear as they jump in to help.

Will cradles her head softly, brushing away the stray hairs from her face as he weeps, desperately wanting to ease her pain though he does not know how. He's doomed to watch her lay suffering, her wails of anguish are strained and hoarse from the Mind Flayer's grip. A similar, deathly grip squeezed the hearts of the rest as they watched her suffer.

With flooded eyes, Will leans down and plants a shaky kiss on her forehead before resting his own against it. Her left hand comes to wrap around his wrist as it still holds her head in place. He breaks away to examine her once more, the puffiness of her swollen cheeks had already subsided a great deal but it was clear she was still in pain. Trembling, she looks out to each of them, her eyes watery and thankful. Reaching out her other hand, it finds El's, and they both let out a sob knowing the other was okay. Each sniffle tore right through his heart, and as if asking for help he looks up at his friends hoping for answers.

But they all stare at her, glassy-eyed and frozen, and that's when it dawns on them; Billy. Each of them, Will included, look frantically to the broken brick wall through which he was thrown. Everyone apart from the young couple on the ground rushed to see the young man, singed and bleeding making his escape into the trees far across the field and into the squalling storm.

Will's gaze is torn back to his lap when he feels Y/n begin to rise. Eagerly, and without hesitation, he helps Y/n to sit up. Tracks of thick tears stream down her face, cleaning her bloodied and dirtied cheeks in their path. His hand finds a home on her back, reflexively trying to run soothing circles into her muscles but she immediately whimpers, flinching. Her back had taken most of the damage, which he realized was preferable to her skull. But still, a plethora of apologies spilled from his lips, his eyes are filled with nothing but worry and heartbreak.

Y/n takes a moment to steady herself, the blood rushing to her head combined with the powerful forces inside her still hard at work as they desperately try to repair the gash in her head. She tries to smile, silently telling him it was okay, but it hardly showed. But Will still knew.

As she attempts to stand - one arm hooked around his shoulder, the other over Lucas's - the energy drains from her quicker than anything she had felt in a long while and when she blinks she realises she is resting her head on Will's shoulder.

Her sobs are weak and drawn out in her taxed state, yet they still demand to be heard even buried in Will's chest. The pain of seeing her this way makes him feel as if he has been torn in two, and yet worse, he knows it's dwarfed in comparison to whatever she is enduring. All he can do is hold her close, and hold her gently, assuring her safety.

Will wishes more than anything to take her pain away, and how cruel of fate to deprive him of this.

With the aid of Will and Lucas, Y/n hobbled to the gaping hole in the brick where Billy had disappeared. Her shoulders rose and fell as she attempted even know to even her breathing, her haunted glare stretching out across the dark and stormy night where the Mind Flayer had made his second escape.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"The girl, was it her?"

Heather's voice cuts through the silence is Brimborne as she sat opposite Billy.

"Yes," he answers with a hiss, eyes darting to the handprints seared into his skin. "Yes it was her, and she knows now. She knows about me. They both do."

Heather's hand and the cool wet handkerchief it holds reaches for his blistered wrists but finds her own entrapped in an instant but neither of them blink.

"She could have killed me." He asserted.

"Yes," she says. "But not us."

She looks out onto the darkened sea of the warehouse, where the very rot of the Mind Flayer had seeded and spread and multiplied. And the numbers were still climbing. Waiting, out in the shadows for their noble sacrifice to the monster of flesh bone known as the Mind Flayer.

Or more specifically, the Mind Flayer's army.

"Not us."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

MN Teen Activists:

Instagram link in comments or @/mnteenactivists

MN Uprising: also posting protest/rally info from across the U.S

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Instagram link in comments or @/mnuprising

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adsosfraser · 3 years

Text

The Stone’s Toll - Chapter Eleven

Read on AO3

They had been so careful. On the supposedly most fertile days of her courses, they had, well they had done other things. She religiously took her vial of posies and fennel each day and used the protection provided from her twentieth-century life. For months now. Still, it wasn’t enough, and she knew the only one hundred percent assured prevention was abstinence. She felt the ghost of a flutter in her womb.

Jamie found Claire on the floor next to their bed, her cheeks stained with tracks of tears and snot crusted against the deer pelt that her face was squished into. The chamber pot full of her sickness had been shoved away from her on the wood in her dejected anger.

“Is it true Claire?”

“Can ye..” he swallowed thickly. “Yer wee herbs can ye-“

“No, that’s the last thing I want Jamie! God!” Her palms rubbed into her eye sockets. “I just wish- there wasn’t so much uncertainty. I could never survive- Jamie promise me, if it ever came down to it, you would save the child, not me.”

“Claire,“ he levelled a determined gaze at her. ”That will never happen. Ever. That I will promise ye.”

“But it might. You made me promise, should the time come, that I’d go through the stones. Of course, I was reluctant, but I did give you that promise. I followed through on it. Now you promise me.”

“Aye Claire, I’ll save the bairn, but it’ll no’ come to that.”

“I’m going to instruct you. On how to help me. No matter if it goes wrong or the delivery is perfect.”

“Ye wouldna prefer someone else? A woman?”

“You’re the only one that I would trust.” She smirked in anticipation of her next words. “And you’re the one who did this to me, you can see it through.”

“Ye seemed pretty enthusiastic, if not overly pleased the many times I did that to ye. And I seem to recall the many times ye were the one clawing at me.”

She laughed at the big goof and then sighed into his embrace, relieving her stress and worry into him.

What if the baby never even made it long enough to make its true presence known? What if Jamie did have to follow through in his presence? Would she be able to survive the birth? She’d never given birth to a live, full-term baby yet. Or, even worse, would she be a terrible mother? When her mind drifted to these thoughts, she shook her head out of the daze. Stress wasn’t good for the baby. And if she constantly worried about her child’s health, her thoughts may very well become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

It was March, and flowers and trees were slowly crawling out of their hibernation. Claire’s pregnancy felt… off from how she carried Faith. It didn’t raise alarm for her baby’s health, but she did have her suspicions.

“What is it Sassenach? Ye’re smiling so hard I fear yer lips will fall off.”

“Well, I have been a bit… bigger than usual.”

“Aye, yer round wi’ my bairn. And I’m no’ complaining one bit. Wi’ yer fine plump arse even bigger than usual.” He grasped a healthy amount of said body part and smirked.

“Well, I think I’m carrying twins.”

“Ifrinn!” All the colour drained from his face. “Two bairns? Two bairns! Sassenach!” He gripped her in his arms as joyous laughter rumbled through his chest and her feet left the floor. More words of love in his native language rumbled out and her eyes crinkled with her smile.

When she was absolutely sure it was twins, Jamie’s daily ritual of one kiss to her belly each morning and night turned into two kisses on either side of her stretched skin.

Not only did one life depend on her at once, but now two. She was terrified. Even with constant reassurance from Jamie that the bairns kicking in her stomach were braw, a twitch of doubt seeped into her mind.

To ease her worry, she thought of something that could reassure her. She traced the design onto the back of a discarded pamphlet. A pinard horn. So Jamie could hear the strong heartbeats of the babies tumbling within her belly. Fergus laboured hard on the project immediately, while his ‘milord’ was off working the lands of their croft. It was expertly crafted, even with her rudimentary designs.

Jamie manoeuvred the hollow horn over the expanse of her belly, brow furrowed in concentration. He paused over one spot and nearly fainted.

“Ah Dhia!” His eyes widened in fascination. “He’s really in there!”

“Yes, they are.” She placed her hand over his on the pinard horn and slid it across where she thought she felt the other heartbeat to be.

His hands were shaky now and he choked on his tears, almost painfully bursting with joy. “Two braw bairns. Wi’ wicked thumping hearts.”

They felt more concrete to him now, actual people instead of the imaginations of what they could be. He spoke every day to them in Gàidhlig, when Claire said they should be able to hear now.

It was bittersweet. She was carrying them for over seven months now, longer than her other children. She was constantly caught between unflagging joy and unrelenting grief. Sometimes it felt like a betrayal to be so happy. But she carried through, with her husband and son by her side, and the promise of the future tucked under her heart.

The day after Jamie’s birthday, she started labouring. Jamie commented on the decency of his children to not eclipse his day with their own arrival. It was as difficult as any other birth, but thankfully there were no complications. Claire had gripped, clawed, and screamed at her husband. She’d scream the promise to have him castrated many, many times. While she paced around the room, Jamie tried to assure her or crack jokes to lighten the atmosphere, but every word he said she turned it against him. He was silent after that, but then Claire would call out for him as each contraction ripped through her body. He stood behind her squatting form above the straw and she dug her nails into his arms as she bore down. A beautiful squalling boy was born after nine hours of labouring. William Brian Beauchamp Fraser. While she felt distraught placing the name Brian within the middle, Jamie assured her it was to not only honour his father, but now the child that they had lost, and she warmed to the idea as well. His brother met the world soon after, almost a quarter of an hour apart, looking exactly the same as the brother who beat him out of the womb. Henry Alexander Murtagh Fraser. Beautiful healthy boys, both with tufts of the same brown downy hair and slanted Fraser cat eyes.

They opted to have their sons sleep in their bed that night rather than the cribs Jamie had carved, tucked in securely between their parents. Neither of them could sleep and Claire was watching the steady rise and fall of each small chest.

“They’re real.” She whispered, brushing her pinky across William’s cheek. His lips tugged up into a smile, just like his father’s did.

“Thanks to ye Claire. Ye were braw.” He squeezed her hand, their arms hovering over their sons. “But I dinna wish to ever see ye like that again.”

“Is it wrong to feel so happy? To rejoice in my sons while-?”

“They’ll be happy fer their brothers. I ken it. And they’re watching o’er them as their angels now. Lord knows how much these lads will need it. These two will be trouble, I can feel it.” He affectionately patted their bums.

Claire finally let her exhaustion take over and curled protectively around her son as she drifted off to sleep. Jamie never slept that night, too preoccupied with the sight of his wife and the children she had blessed him with. His wife learned just how real her sons were in the middle of the night when they would scream their lungs out unceasingly until attention was paid to them. Jamie insisted she rest and recover, and leapt up at every cry to take care of it, but was instantly horrified at what he found in the cloth swaddling Willie’s bum.

Fergus was elated the next day to meet his new brothers. Jamie and Claire had already spoken many times about how the new babies wouldn’t change anything about how they felt for him, but they could still sense some worry.

“Would you like to hold your little brother Willie?” At the indication that it was true, he had a little brother, all his worries vanished.

“Oui maman.” He was so gentle with them with so much adoration in his eyes, and it made Claire cry just to see her boys together.

He traded for Henry next and Jamie pulled Claire into his lap.

It was six weeks after the birth, and Jamie and Claire were equally ravenous. Both the babies had finally fallen asleep together, being unusually generous to their parents.

“I need my wife.” He crawled over her.

“You still want me? After seeing all that…?” Her confidence has waned slightly. She was still pudgy around the middle and there were new scars lining her belly. There was also the fact that he had seen her sweating, cursing, and wailing like a cow on their bedroom floor before the fire, and had taken multiple peeks down there to check her progress. It was apparent, however, that he wanted her desperately despite of and maybe even because of that fact.

“I could never stop wanting ye Sassenach.” He peppered kisses across her abdomen and paid special attention to the fading purple streaks on her skin. The burns on her stomach had long since faded and were barely even noticeable unless one were to look very closely, as her husband was now. She let her knees fall to the side and a moan escaped her lips when he ducked further down.

“Now, as much as I love yer wee noises mo nighean donn, ye’ll have to be quiet tonight.” He covered her mouth with his, silencing the cries that he brought out of her body.

When they both had finished, laying boneless on the sheets, Jamie pulled Claire’s back close to his chest and she curled back into him. Henry began to cry, waking his brother as well and throwing them both into fits of hungry wails. Jamie silently walked over, wrapping his kilt loosely across his hips and placed a baby in each of his arms. The sight made Claire want to ravish him with a sudden ferocity, even though they had just joined together moments ago. But, her babies’ hunger won over and she placed one on each breast. Jamie watched fascinated, as he always did. The babies hungrily gulped down their meal and then slumped against their mom, tired from weeks of growing, crying, and eating. Their tiny fists laid on top of her skin and Jamie slowly adjusted himself to hold Henry. He fell asleep, Henry’s body rising and falling with each of his father’s breaths. Willie stirred again, inquisitively staring up into his mother’s eyes. Claire stroked Henry’s cheek eliciting the same smile she loved so much, and then reached for Jamie’s as well.

“God, I love you, Jamie. So much.” Her attention shifted down to the babe on her breast. “You have such a wonderful father, don’t you Willie?” She spoke down to her captive audience. “And I love you.” She kissed his small nose, then leaned over for Henry’s “And you.” She pulled on Jamie’s bottom lip. “And God how I love you.”

#jamie fraser #jamie x claire #claire beauchamp #outlander fanfiction #craigh na dun #fergus fraser #william fraser #henry fraser #canon divergence #adsofraser writing #claire fraser #jamie and claire fraser deserved to raise bairns together #outlander fanfic

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yukimoji · 4 years

Text

Goodbye, My Beloved. ( Kyojuro Rengoku x Reader )

[ Muichiro pls or a Giyuu or Rengoku Specific request for rengoku that it’s an angst of reader reminiscing about rengoku after finding out he died maybe the reader is pregnant too. Oblivion ]

(a/n: my second attempt of writing angst! as usual, there will be grammar mistakes and typos here and there. thank you reading!)

Total words: 2100+ words

Genre: Angst

!!MANGA SPOILERS FOR THE INFINITY TRAIN ARC!!

---

Within a world full of suffering and loss, there was not much room for the warmth of happiness and love to settle in the dark pits of bloodshed and danger. The vast sky above mirrored this sensation, the shades of dark gray circling overhead as thick clouds threaten to shower the earth below with droplets of heavy rain.

You scurried to the backyard of your humble abode, scrambling to grab the damp pieces of clothing that had been put on the drying rack. You proceeded to relocate them inside, as the possibility of heavy rain was looming over the area. After you took care of such a heavy load, you won't allow the rain to throw all your hard work to waste.

Your shared cottage, which was usually filled with joy and excitement, now felt lonely without the warm presence of your husband. Kyojuro was on a mission to investigate a demon riddled train in the far regions. Reports of Demon Slayers assigned to the train and not coming back were gradually increasing, and the Demon Slayer Corps ought to decide to finally send a Hashira to look into the matter.

It's been days since your beloved had journeyed into the far regions, and the knot in your stomach grew tighter in each passing day. In these lonely times, the feeling of fear and doubt has always been with you. While Kyojuro was out and slaying demons, you couldn't help but give in to the sensation of a knot in your stomach twisting and turning as you pray to the gods above for your husband's safe return.

However, you did not doubt your husband's abilities in any kind. He was a Hashira; one of the best of the best in the Demon Slayer Corps. He had decapitated countless demons with a simple quick slash of his Katana, the heads of the Lower Moon demons he defeated considered as prized victories. His breathing style had been passed down throughout centuries, the techniques filled with such precision and finesse that would have taken any demon down.

He always promised to come back to you.

And he did.

Besides, there was something else that increased his desire to come back to you.

You wobbled inside the cottage, a hand caressing your swollen tummy. Months ago, you announced to the world that you were carrying Kyojuro's baby. He was ecstatic by this news, pampering your face with loved-filled kisses as he lifted you up, laughter escaping both of your lips.

Ever since then, he doubled his efforts in his missions. He would take extra-precautions to keep himself safe, as he could not wait to come back home and meet his child.

You sighed and stood in front of the window, looking over the beautiful and vast plains of the area. The sky was getting darker, and you wondered if a big storm was coming. You were beginning to wonder; how was Kyojuro doing? Did he finish the mission? Is he making his way back to you already?

Humming softly, you tenderly caressed your stomach, singing out little lullabies for your unborn child. You felt your baby kick, and a smile tugged its way to the sides of your lips. You were excited for the day when you would finally meet your child. You daydreamed how your days would go by, the images of Kyojuro and you cuddling with your infant filling your heart with so much warmth that your eyes were threatening to water.

As if the gods had heard your pleas, you heard soft knocking coming from your front door.

Your eyes lit up, your [E / C] sparkling with anticipation as you staggered your way to the door. A giddy smile painted your lips, relief washing all over as as you stood in front of the door. As you lifted your hand to grasp the handle, you were a little confused as to why the feeling of dread did not cease. Surely, it was Kyojuro behind the door, right?

You shook your head from your intrusive thoughts. Kyojuro is alive, he must be. And here he was, waiting in the other side of the door, arms open to surround you in his warm embrace.

As you opened the door, you expected to meet a pair of golden eyes that you loved so much, but you were shocked when you saw a single Kakushi in the doorstep. They had a solemn expression on them, their eyes filled with so much worry and remorse that you felt the knot in your stomach grow tighter than ever before. Behind them was another Kakushi, who held some kind of rectangular object in their hands as they looked at you with a wry expression.

You gulped as you started to sweat. Your hands were trembling, as the unwanted thoughts of the unthinkable began to overwhelm you. Despite your increasing doubt, you forced yourself to give the Kakushi a welcoming smile.

"Hello there! What brings you here?" You asked, a slight tremble evident in your voice that gave away how you truly felt at that moment.

"Are you Mrs. [ Y / N ] Rengoku?" The Kakushi asked, their voice filled with concern.

The feeling of dread rose even further, as your heart began to thump wildly in your chest. You nodded, never breaking your smile as their eyes drooped even more.

You wanted to hurl as fear suffocated you.

"Ma'am, we came here to bring you news." The Kakushi started. Your eyes widened when the Kakushi brought out a letter, and began to read out it's contents;

"On the XX day of XXX, The Flame Hashira, Rengoku Kyojuro has been killed after an encounter against Upper Moon Three."

What?

What do you mean my husband is dead?

"His body is now relocated back to the Rengoku Estate, where his father and brother are beginning to make preparations for his burial."

No, no. There must be a mistake. There is no way my husband is dead.

He promised me he would come back for us.

"As you may know, the Flame Hashira was sent to investigate a train where a demon was thought to have caused havoc. With the aid of reinforcements, Rengoku successfully saved countless human lives while the demon was successfully destroyed. Upon the sudden emergence of Upper Moon Three, the Hashira Flame gave his life to protect those in harm's way. In the end, Upper Moon Three retreated and all the victims of the train returned to their homes."

No.. No.. No..!

"We sincerely mourn the loss of such a strong-willed man. Rengoku Kyojuro will forever go down in the history of the Corps as one of the strongest. His sacrifices and tribulations will live on, as his death will not be in vain."

As the Kakushi continued to speak, the smile on your face was no longer there. You stared at the Kakushi, eyes blazed with disbelief. You couldn't properly comprehend the information being stated to you. Your chest ached with so much pain and pressure that it was suffocating you. The only thing your mind could do was repeat a sentence;

Kyojuro is dead.

With the last of your willpower, you looked up and met the eyes of the Kakushi.

"..I see." You forced yourself to voice out.

At this point, all you could hear was the heavy beating of your heart. Your eyebrows were scrunched together, and your eyes as wide as saucers. You began to draw labored breaths, placing a hand in your chest as you gripped your clothing tightly.

The clouds above became even more darker, as small droplets of rain started to come down. The gloomy atmosphere was unironically fitting, as you could feel your resolve rapidly decline.

Surge of overwhelming emotions overtook you, as tears continuously spilled from your [ E / C ] orbs. Your body shook violently, and your knees were threatening to fall as each second passes by. You felt sick, as the urge to vomit started to arise from your throat. Your knuckles were beginning to whiten from how hard you were gripping your clothes.

You couldn't speak, not when the only thing that came out of your mouth was the agony of whimpers and sobs. Your eyes shut tightly, as the tears continued pouring down your cheeks. You let out a pained wail as your knees finally gave in, falling to the ground as you allowed yourself to be racked with cries and sobs.

The Kakushi immediately caught you, holding you in their arms as they gently placed you down. You were a mess, tears wouldn't stop falling down from your face as you screamed into the horizon. The Kakushi holding you proceeded to draw long circles into your back in an attempt to comfort you.

"..We were also given orders to give you this. Rengoku-san specifically asked to give you a parting gift, along with a letter inside." The other Kakushi spoke up.

Without thinking, you stood up, startling the poor Kakushi in front of you. You hurriedly made your way to the other Kakushi, their eyes drooping from your swollen and tear stained face. Your eyes held a silent plea in them, begging the Kakushi to give you Rengoku's final gift.

They held the rectangular object in front of you, as you immediately took it from their hands. You traced the edges of the box, and with a deep sighs, you slowly opened it. You let out a pained cry as a little stuffed toy was inside the box, along with a piece of paper with your beloved's handwriting on it. Your trembling hands grabbed the letter, and you felt yourself fall on your knees once more as your eyes scanned over your husband's penmanship.

"My dearest, [ Y / N ],

My love, thank you for all those years you had spent with me. I will always cherish those moments were it would seem like that there was more than just a cruel world. Thank you so much for making me feel like the most loved man in the world, even with all my flaws and shortcomings.

I wish I could have met our child. Everyday, I anticipate for their arrival and I had always hoped that we could've had a happy family like you deserve to have. I hope this little toy would always remind our child that their father will always love them wholeheartedly, even though I am no longer here.

I wish I could've written more, but my injuries is against me.

Farewell, my love. You and my child were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I would not dare to replace every little moment that we shared together. Embrace my darling child for me, beloved. I will await the day where I could finally meet you again in a better world.

Always and forever,

Rengoku Kyojuro."

Your eyes stared at the letter in front of you. Your tears dropped into his signature, and you shut your eyes once more as you held the letter and the toy tightly in your chest. Heavy rain rapidly streamed down, as mud and puddles started to form around your body.

Your body was soaking wet, but you didn't care. You continued to wail, your cries almost reaching the heavens above. Images of Kyojuro flashed in your mind, as you continue to scream out for your deceased beloved.

You remember the times were he would always come home to your embrace after every mission. He would whisper sweet nothings to your ear, a declaration of love escaping his lips as he would shower you with affection.

Every time he comes back to you, he would always make love to you in the most intimate and passionate way a man could ever do.

And then, you realized.

His eyes.

His smile.

His warm embrace.

You weren't going to experience that again.

After a while, the rain suddenly died down a bit. Your throat was already sore and raw from your screaming, but you still continued to weep under the rain. The Kakushis were trying their best to keep you dry, even putting an umbrella over you, but to no avail. Your clothes were already stained with mud, and you were soaking wet.

Even so, in your daze, you swore that you could feel a pair of familiar arms curl around you. Warmth engulfed you, which seemed like an attempt to comfort you, as you continued to mourn the loss of your beloved. The wind brushes your hair, and you could faintly make out a familiar voice;

"Goodbye, my beloved."

#rengoku x reader #kyojuro x reader #rengoku kyojuro x reader #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojurou x reader #rengoku kyojurou x reader #rengoku imagines #kny x reader #demon slayer x reader #kny imagines #demon slayer imagines #moji writes

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lets-get-kraken-boys · 4 years

Text

Fantasy AU! Dragon Master! Katsuki Bakugou X Witch! Reader: Hot Damn, Dragon Man~!

(Description: I don’t think anyone has written a story like this before with this particular backstory, but if someone has please let me know right away! With that out of the way, this was just a fun little idea I had that I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing! Also, I aged up both Bakugou and Kirishima in this story to around their early 20s, though this isn’t really important or relevant to the fic, an adult, hunky Bakugou and Kirishima is a treat I think we should all indulge in~! I might make a Part 2 to continue the story depending on how you all like it, but we’ll see! I hope you enjoy and thank you for your time. // PS: Quirks still exist in my version of the Fantasy AU! //)

Fanfiction Lingo

(Y/N) - Your Name

(L/N) - Last Name

(N/N) - Nickname

(H/C) - Hair Color

(E/C) - Eye Color

(F/C) - Favorite Color

“Normal speech.”

‘Inner thoughts.’

Requester: No One!

Reader Gender: Female (She/Her)

Style of Story: Aiming for a multiparter, but who knows! // Fantasy AU! Hope you’re as excited as I am!

Word Count: 6.4K Words

WARNING(s) / NOTE(s): Aged up characters but this story is NOT NSFW, Quirks still exist, cursing (it’s Bakugou in a fantasy world, he’s going to call you some offensive stuff), and a little bit of blood but no real harm is done to (Y/N)!

“Man, I have got to work on my cardio! Ughh…,” you huffed out as you took the last few steps to be on top of the hill you had just hiked up. Stopping for the air you desperately needed, you sat down on the mossy ground below and leaned against a nearby tree, taking deep breaths. As your previously foggy brain became clear again, you noticed the purples and pinks of the dawning sky peaking through the tree’s leaves and smiled, springtime weather had always been your favorite kind. The dewy mornings, sunny afternoons, and clear nights were always a welcome change to the drab winter days. Though, being a Green Witch did make you favor specific seasons more than others.

“Sorry, my lord Hades, but I must admit that I’m a little happy your lovely wife is back with her mother again. Nothing can compare to the plants and herbs that grow back in the Spring. Though, do not fret, my lady Persephone will be back with you sooner than you think.” you spoke to the stillness of the forest, but you felt their presence and knew your gods heard your message.

Looking in your wooden basket, you inventoried the goods you had collected near your secret cove to harvest ingredients. You found the cove three summer’s ago while looking for shelter from a storm that rolled in quicker than expected. You were lost and couldn’t find your way home but the kind nymphs that lived in the area offered you a place to stay that night. In exchange for them sheltering you, you made them a few miscellaneous potions as payment (even though they hadn’t asked for any). Ever since that day, you have been friends with them and are allowed to freely take any of the resources that grow in the area with their permission and in turn you trade them any potions or spells they ask for. Of course you’ve found other places to harvest rarer ingredients for specific creations, but with such a bountiful place so close to your home it is your go-to spot.

“Wicker mushrooms, a bunch of Lavender, Yarrow, Thrumdells, could always use more mint sprigs, Merryquil, Heron’s feathers, I have the mermaid’s bubbles and crystals at home...I think that’ll about do it! Great haul today, (N/N)!” you praised as you set down your basket and stood up. You brushed off your flowy, (F/C) ankle-length skirt and smoothed out your poofy shirt and cloak, straightened the potion holder belt strapped to your hip, picked the basket back up, and continued on the path back to your cottage hidden deep within the forest.

“What should I make for dinner? Zeks enjoys sweet things but I don’t know if Zazel--!” Without warning, a booming roar shook the leaves off the trees, causing you to stumble back in shock. You shot your hand on the dagger strapped to your belt while your eyes darted back and forth through the surrounding terrain, trying to locate where the sound had come from and if there was any immediate danger near you. Shortly after the cry, a loud crash sounded like something smacked the ground hard and caused a tremor that knocked you clean off your feet with a yelp. The shaking lasted for only a moment before everything went still once more as if nothing out of the ordinary had even occurred.

Still in shock from the bizarre situation, you sat on the grass for a little longer, listening to the oddly quiet atmosphere, before another cry shot through the hush of the land and nearly scared you out of your boots. Though, instead of what you thought was ferocity in its tone, it seemed closer to a wail of pain than anything. You stood on shaky legs and took deep breaths while staring into the distance where the noise came from. You wanted to turn around and run to the safety of your home, to go back to the warmth of your cottage and just pretend that this whole instance never happened, but something was pulling you towards the creature. Maybe it was the whines and whimpers that it made, the curiosity caused by something that could make lands quake with the strength of its voice but instantly become like a meek puppy was truly intriguing, but that wasn’t quite it. Maybe you wanted to check if anyone had been hurt by the monstrosity but that didn’t seem right either.

You let out a quiet gasp as one thought in particular struck your mind...could it be...Fate? You cursed yourself, wishing you had brought your tarot cards to check for any possible signs, but you didn’t have time for that right now. You considered your options; be a coward and leave whatever the hell just fell out of the sky alone, abandoning it to most likely die, ignoring the call of Fate, and continuing about your day or appeasing that pesky gut feeling, finding the beast, and seeing what was the matter.

You growled as your legs began to move toward the epicenter of the sound, hating how you can never turn down someone in need of help.

~ Timeskip to a short while later ~

“Where in the fresh hell is that stupid beast?!” you cursed as you trudged through the spongy moss and bushes covering the forest floor. After running for a bit in the direction you had thought you heard the wail come from you had found no evidence of anything out of the ordinary which pissed you off to no end.

“You couldn’t shut your trap earlier, why are you having such a hard time now?” you mumbled to yourself, pushing past a few bushes in your way. Your next few sassy words became caught in your throat as you heard a low growl erupt a few yards away from you behind the bush directly to the right of you. Suppressing your urge to scream in surprise, you composed yourself and poked your head through the shrubbery, only for your jaw to drop at the sight before you.

An enormous creature was laying on its side in the middle of a small clearing of trees, peacefully sleeping in the early morning sunshine. Its horned head and long neck were stretched out while the rest of its body curled around itself in a cocoon like position. The beast took steady breaths, its lungs filling up and stretching its stomach to show off the breath-taking, fiery red scales that coated its entire body. The tail lay still wrapped around the body and reminded you fondly of a litter of kittens your old master cared for. But probably the most beautiful part of all were the magnificent wings that draped over the serpent’s body like a protective barrier from the outside world. You saw the muscles of the appendages and knew that this creature was not one to be messed with. Right there, such a short distance away, was what you could only describe as a humongous, red dragon!

You couldn’t believe it, you almost wanted to pinch yourself to see if you were really awake but you ignored the feeling in favor of watching the sleeping beast in awe. Sure, everyone around knew that dragons existed and heard the legends about them, but it wasn’t like you got to see them very often. The kingdom to the South was well known for its coexistence with dragons but rarely anyone except those in a higher position of power or people who lived in the tribes actually got to see and interact with them.

Judging by the diagrams you had seen drawn of dragons, you guessed that it wasn’t extremely old based on its size and bodily markings, making it less of a threat. As you examined more it led you to notice the reason for the creature’s moans of pain. A huge gash was carved on the right side of the dragon’s chest, dripping with fresh blood. It was so deep that you could actually see bits of the beast’s rib cage. Wincing at the sight, you inspected further and saw the scales surrounding the wound were a contrasting dark black to the shiny red ones all over the body, almost like they had been scorched by a tremendous flame. Either way, if the serpent did not receive some kind of immediate help with that large of a wound, it would surely bleed out within the next few hours or somehow be injured even more. After contemplating, you sent a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and shuffled your way out of the bushes and into the open for the creature to easily see you.

You expected that such a powerful beast in this state of physical distress would not let its guard down so easily, so when its golden eyes shot open to glare at you with its teeth bared in snarl you were not in the least bit startled. You smiled sweetly at the dragon, lowered yourself closer to the ground, set your things down, and averted your gaze as to not cause it anymore stress or let it think you were challenging it. You kept your hand visible as you reached for the knife on your waist, even as the beast hissed at your movements, and threw it far away from your reach to show respect.

“Hey there! I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to help,” you spoke loud and clear so it could hear you, but even if it didn’t understand your language you still wanted to get your point across, “I heard you fall awhile ago, that must have hurt, huh? I came to check up on you, see if you were okay, but then I happened to notice that nasty gash in your side and figured you needed my help!” you gulped with the smile still on your face. You heard another growl before it was cut off by a sharp whimper of agony and that noise alone made your heart drop to your stomach. The smile on your face faded into a frown but you quickly perked back up and continued.

“I promise, I just want to check out that wound and get you healed up. Help you get back in the air again. Please, I don’t want to have to leave you to suffer like this.” you finished as you looked back at the dragon with a desperate look in your eye. The dragon wasn’t snarling or glaring at you anymore, which was definitely a good sign, but as you looked deeper in its eyes it was almost like you could feel the pain radiating off of it. After a brief moment of hesitation, the beast lowered its head back down to the ground in defeat, a sign for you to come closer. You gratefully smiled and picked your things back up, got up, and scurried on over.

When you got close enough to where you could press your palm flat to the warm scales and feel its strong heartbeat, you kneeled and examined the bloodied gash. You first ran your fingers along the outskirts of the wound and the dark marks smudged onto your fingertips and palm, confirming that the dragon had been severely burned by something or someone. The actual slash was about five feet long and two feet wide that dug deep into the body, like something had pierced it rather than just nicked it. You looked closer at the blood dripping from the injury and noticed pine needles stuck in the dragon’s flesh, not just on the surface but deep in the wound as well.

You gasped and looked up at the beast who was already gazing down at it with you to ask, “Did you hit a tree during the fall?” The serpent nodded its head with discomfort and flopped it back down onto the soft grass. A pitiful sigh slipped from your mouth as you explained what you were going to do now knowing it could understand you.

“Okay, first off we need to get these pesky pine needles out of the wound. Then, I need to slow the bleeding and somehow dress it. I do have the right ingredients on me to make you a healing cream but I do not know how I can…,” you stopped and glanced at the cloak draped from your shoulders and smiled, “I know! I’ll use my cloak to soak up the blood!” The dragon shot its head up in alarm and looked at you with a gaze of what seemed to be guilt. You tilted your head in confusion before looking at the cloak now in your hand, back to the saddened serpent, and connected the two together with a laugh.

“Oh, are you worried about dirtying this old thing? Pssh, don’t even concern yourself! It's to help you survive, so it's being used for the greater good either way! Between you and me, I was planning on treating myself to a new one anyways, so who cares if a little blood gets on it!” you joked, trying to calm the dragon’s nerves. You washed your hands with the clean water from your canteen strapped to your hip and shook them dry.

“Let’s do this!” you cheered, readying yourself for the crazy afternoon ahead of you.

~ Another timeskip to later in the afternoon ~

“I must say, you are certainly one of the best patients I’ve ever had, my scaly friend! You’ve been so good letting me take out all those nasty needles and clean away the charcoal and blood from your pretty scales! Thank you for being so sweet.” you praised, scratching the dragon’s chin, behind his horns, and belly as he let out happy grumbles and chitters (Dragon Kiri LOVES belly scritches, and you cannot convince me otherwise) at your kind words. His head was now curled up next to you, watching you clean and disinfect his wound with the utmost care, with him enjoying the pets he got every time you hit a sensitive area or made him hiss from the pain.

You were diligently working at patting away the blood with your now sopping cloak, trying to cease the liquid dripping out of the dragon. As you worked, you made sure to give the creature lots of encouraging strokes and belly rubs to help ease the pain, but whether it was more to help it through this endeavor or to get to pet a living dragon was uncertain. Either way, the job was getting done, and so far no big issues from either party.

Yet.

“Awesome! It looks like the blood flow has slowed down a lot now. Thank the Gods, I don’t know how much more my poor coat could have taken,” you joked while setting the crimson-soaked material to the side, “Now, I’ve got the healing cream prepared for you but how the hell am I going to bandage--AH!” you shrieked as you were suddenly shoved away from the dragon and thrown further back into the field.

You heard the beast let out a concerned roar as your back met the dirt ground with a loud THUD that knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You closed your eyes in pain and gasped, desperate to get the lost air back in your system, but you were stopped as you felt a heavy weight slam on your chest, a hand grab your wrists and pin your arms to the ground above your head, and someone lean over you to block out the sun. Even though your head was spinning with confusion and adrenaline ran a marathon through your veins, your eyes shot open when you felt something sharp press into your neck.

“What the hell are you doing to my dragon, fucking maggot?!” the man on top of you yelled in your face, but you could hardly comprehend his words due to the abruptness of the situation. You wish you could say that you hated him from the moment your eyes landed on him, you wished you could have ignored the way your gut did cartwheels as if the Fate of a lifetime had been completed, but god was everything hard to ignore when he looked so fucking hot. His blonde, spiky hair exploded messily around his chiseled face to give him that ‘I didn’t even try to look good today’ natural beauty. From his striking jawline, cute button nose, strong neck, and those striking crimson eyes, he was just insanely good looking. Even as he glared at you with his eyebrows pulled down in a scowl, you couldn’t help but blush at the intense way he looked at you. Not even mentioning what you could see of his bare torso that was every bodybuilders’ dream, you inferred that he was around the middle of his twenties. His attire was composed of a few pieces of jewelry, colorful arm bands, a blood red cape completed with a fur-lined neck piece, and other things you couldn’t quite see from your position under his knee pressing hard onto your sternum. That pain was actually what brought you back from “(Y/N)’s Hot Guy Dreamland” to realize admiring his looks wasn’t exactly the main issue right now. To be honest, he’d be even more hot if he wasn't pressing that sharp scimitar threateningly to your neck, but sadly even that was sexy.

“I...I...well--,” you stuttered in shock, looking for the right words to spit out to appease the barbarian on top of you.

“EH? Out with it, whelp,” he growled, pressing his knee even harder into your chest to get his point across, “What were you doing to my dragon, dimwit?! Did you try to hurt him?”

“What? No, never!” you defended yourself while weakly struggling to free your arms from his vice grip.

“Did you plan to kill him and skin him for his hide! You sadistic monster!” he roared, pressing the blade closer to your neck, causing your skin to break and bleed. You yelped when you felt the burn of the slice but swore you could smell the scent of burning caramel drifting off of his body that hadn’t been there before.

“I would do no such thing, you creep! I was just--,” you were interrupted yet again by your own whimper as he leaned closer to your face. His frown deepened as you felt the blade press even further into your delicate flesh.

“You know what? I don’t even wanna hear your shitty ass excuses, I might just kill you right now and be done with you,” he smirked as your face significantly paled, “Unless you did something to my partner, then you’re gonna explain what you did, fix it, and then I can take my time slicing--,” the madman was cut off as another voice cut into the conversation.

“Bakugou, stop hurting her!” a masculine voice bellowed from a distance away. The sound of steam expelling filled the tense air as a hot gust of wind swiftly blew over the two of you. Shortly after you felt the man, who you now know his name is ‘Bakugou’, unlatch his grip on your hands and draw his sword away from you neck. You let out a sigh of relief and gawked as he completely abandoned from practically sitting on your chest to sprinting in the direction he had pushed you away from.

“Kirishima!” Bakugou shouted as he ran head first into the warm fog the steam had created. You sat up from the ground and pressed a hand to your neck to stop the light bleeding as deep gasps filled your lungs to contemplate what in the fresh fuck just happened in the time span of maybe a minute. You heard mumbling from the fog and, being the ever curious (N/N), decided to get up on wobbly feet and trek into the steam after the brute of a man.

“This is not how I planned to spend my Wednesday.” you murmured to yourself, walking blindly forward in the mist until you found your assaulter and your lizard patient except...not? No, instead of your new found scaly friend, you saw a red-headed man with horns and scales peppering his body leaning against the bully, Bakugou. His hair was spiked up to incredible heights and it blended seamlessly with his red curly horns hidden within. His face was scrunched up in pain but he still held a brave face as he grinned with teeth that were fit for a dragon. He, too, was around the same age as the blonde, and shirtless with the same body sculpted by the gods themselves, but on the right side of his torso was the same gash your dragon friend had. If the smaller, but still powerful, human sized wings on his back and thick scaly tail weren’t enough to convince you, then the wound confirmed that this indeed was the red dragon from before, now known as Kirishima. And, thankfully, he was nearly fully clothed too.

“Kirishima, don’t be an idiot, de-transform and get some rest, dammit.” Bakugou grunted at the man, causing the spikey haired fellow to laugh.

“Aw, I thought we weren’t partners, Bakugou! Now here you are, caring about some lowly warrior? You flatter me!” Kirishima joked as he coughed into his gloved hand while trying to sit up properly but utterly failing.

“Stupid! Just because I don’t want you to be fucking idiotic and die doesn’t mean we're partners!” he barked, his teeth growing sharper like he himself was a beast. Kirishima chortled and looked over to you. When he noticed your dropped jaw and wide eyes he coughed and looked you in the eye.

“What’s up, dudette? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” he joked.

“I...what...the HELL?! What even...I don’t understand…,” you paced in circles before looking at the two with (E/C) eyes full of confusion, “Who and what the heck are you two?!” Bakugou looks taken aback so he growls, reaching for his sword again, but Kirishima slaps his hand away from the weapon with a grin.

“I’m so sorry for not introducing myself to you earlier, I was in a lot of pain and plus I didn’t know you that well, so I hope there’s no hard feelings,” he smiled while pointing his thumb to himself, “I’m Eijirou Kirishima! And that is my friend, Katsuki Bakugou!”

“You lizard brain! Don’t just give random strangers our names!” Bakugou bared his teeth but Kirishima chose to ignore him.

“I never caught your name before, what was it?” he asked with a sweet head tilt that reminded you of a concerned puppy.

Suppressing the way your heart clenched at the adorable sight, you stopped nervously pacing and spoke, “My name is (Y/N) (L/N), it’s nice to meet you.”

“Such a manly name! It’s nice to meet you too! Hey, I just wanted to thank you for all the help you provided me today. It’s totally not manly of me to ask for that much assistance, but even I knew that I needed it then more than ever! Who knew the perfect person for the job was just an acre away! Ha!” Kirishima laughed as he struggled to stand but fell back down again onto his tail with a groan of distress.

Bakugou had only barely caught him before you rushed over and kneeled down to check his tender wound. Kirishima flinched and flushed red at your fingers traced along his bare abdomen but you were too worried to care. Bakugou openly glared at the way Kirishima blushed at you, but stopped himself short when he realized what he was doing. Why did he do that? He had only just met you, you were a fucking nobody in his eyes! You hurt his friend! Who you choose touch and don't touch wasn’t his problem! Then again, he glanced at your concerned face and noticed the way your soft features shown in the light, how your (H/C) hair framed you like an elegant oil painting in a museum, how your eyes glistened with the rays of sun, how your lips moved with each word spoken. He blushed at that last thought and shook his head. What the fuck? No, he was too great to be dragged down by silly puppy love! But...you did seem nice and strong too...Wait, no! He looked away from the two of you and tried to compose himself as you and the redhead spoke back and forth.

“Woah! Kirishima, what are you doing? I haven’t finished treating your injury yet! Take it easy on your body.” you scolded like you were his own mother, placing a cloth you had fished out of your pocket onto the leaking wound.

“W-Wait...you’re not done?” he stuttered out, thankful the blush on his cheeks was slowly but surely melting away.

You looked up at him in shock, “You thought I was just gonna leave you like this? No way! You still need that healing cream, stitches, and bandages to cover it up so it won’t get infected!”

Bakugou interrupted Kirishima before he could even protest, “Hold on, you weren’t hurting him?” He looked over to the bloody cloak hastily tossed on the ground and scowled at the memories of his actions a few minutes prior.

“No! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, pinhead! I’ve been healing up your dragon while you were off picking flowers in the woods to make friendship crowns! Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to finish treating him so that you two can head on your merry way and go back to wherever you popped out from, got it?” you shot at the brute, causing him to flinch at your harsh words.

“No way am I letting a weakling like you--,” cutting Bakugou off, Kirishima spoke over the next few words Katsuki said, which most likely saved him from a beating by your hands.

“Actually, he doesn’t get a say in this. I would love for you to finish, (Y/N)! Thank you again for great care!” he quickly said, shoving Bakugou a few feet away so he could lay flat on the ground. You balled up the fabric lining the bottom of your foraging basket and placed it under the dragon boy’s head so he could be more comfortable as you got to work again.

You carefully cleaned, sanitized, and tried to get Kirishima back to his peak performance and he took the pain like a champ, but Bakugou on the other hand was getting a little out of hand. He insisted that he keep a close eye on you to make sure you didn’t hurt his “not friend” in any way, shape, or form, and that was fair, but you didn’t like the fact that all he was doing was squatting next to the two of you and just...staring. Not saying anything, just scowling with those pretty eyes of his. What? Just because the man was a bit of a hard ass didn’t mean he wasn’t damn fine eye candy.

“Are you gonna sit there all day and just glare at me and my handy work or are you going to say something, Mr. Negative?” you snarked, watching from your peripheral vision as he jumped at the sudden intrusion of your voice. You smirked as Bakugou scoffed and leaned further in your line of sight to make you acknowledge him.

“Who are you?” he said with a stern tone.

You raised an eyebrow as you added more of the cream onto Kirishima’s wound, “I’ve already told you, my name is--,” Bakugou quickly hushed you.

“Not in that way, moron! I mean as in what are you? Some kind of mage or something dumb like that--,” you swiftly hit Bakugou on the shoulder for his rude remarks but before he could retaliate you flipped the question onto him.

“Don’t call people stuff like that, didn’t your mother ever teach you manners? I’ll tell you what I am after you tell me what you two are.” you countered.

“Bullshit! I’m the one asking the questions here! I ain’t saying--,”

“Bakugou and I are from a Southern Hemispheric tribe called the The Kin Born of Flame,” Kirishima explained as Bakugou’s jaw dropped, “He is actually the son of Chief Mistuki, leader of the Bakugou Clan! How cool is that? As for me I’m half dragon half human, but I’ve started to call my species Dragon Shifters.”

“Wow, not only a dragon but a Dragon Shifter too? This is incredible!” your eyes sparkled as you grinned down at Kirishima in delight.

“I know, right! If you think dragons are rare, try finding more than a dozen Shifters, we’re even harder to come by! Yeah, I’ve been Soul Bonded with Bakugou ever since we were fifteen. He may seem tough on the outside, but once you get to know him he’s really a huge softy!” he laughed as the barbarian cussed him out.

Your heart sank a little as you heard him speak so fondly of the man but the term he used confused you, so you just had to ask, “Soul Bonded? What’s that? Are you two in a romantic relationship?”

“What? Oh, no way! We’re just close buds is all,” Kirishima snickered, “I don’t think I could ever stand to be in a relationship with someone who's so hot headed! But he is still on the market and up for grabs, if you know what I mean~!” Kirishima wiggled his eyebrows at you while you blushed but played it off with a wave of your hand and a teasing giggle.

“What’s that supposed to mean, you hair-for-brains loser?!” Bakugou fumed, his hands twitching at the thought of grabbing the dragon boy’s face and blowing him to bits.

“So, what is Soul Bonding?” you redirected the conversation once again away from the agitated blonde and left him to stew in his frustration.

“Right! Soul Bonding is when a dragon and a human basically become partners, or friends, for life. Bakugou’s people have such a close relationship with my kind that every year a ceremony is held for all the unbonded individuals to try and find their other half. During this process, the human doesn’t get to choose the dragon and the dragon doesn’t get to choose the human, the feeling is sort of hard to describe but you’ll know when you’ve bonded when you see the other and think ‘They’re the only one I can ever fly with again’. Once you’re bonded, you cannot become bonded with another of the opposite species for the rest of your natural life, so if something unfortunate happens to your other half you don’t get a redo. That’s why the practice is so sacred. Some see it as romantic, others see it as a platonic engagement, so Bakugou and I have chosen the latter! Plus, I already have my eyes on a different person~,” Eijirou swooned with a flutter of his scaly wings.

Bakugou groaned, “Please spare us the two hour long declaration of love for another time, idiot. My question still stands, whelp, what are you?”

You huffed, “Well, since you asked so nicely, princess~, I’m a witch,” Kirishima and Bakugou gasped at the answer and glanced at each other nervously, but you raised your hand to stop them from jumping to conclusions, “but if you’re assuming I’m one of the evil witches that only uses black magic and practices necromancy, you’re wrong. I’m actually more of a Green Witch on steroids. I make healing and protection potions, work together with the nymphs who live down by the mountainside, open up my home all the time to the neighboring normal and mythological wildlife, encourage the growth of new, exotic kinds of plants to sprout in my backyard, and more. That is how I was able to make that cream so powerful for you and I, thanks to your guard dog, Kirishima.” you rubbed your neck where the slice had been that had long disappeared from the magical antidote and glared at Bakugou who simply grumbled and looked away in embarrassment.

“Woah, that’s amazing! I was wondering how you made it feel like it wasn’t even hurting anymore! You’re amazing.” Kirishima awed with wonder as he lightly patted the strips of bandages strapped to his side.

“Awe, thank you so much! I’m glad you’re feeling better,” you gave him a scratch behind his horns and his tail began thumping the ground like a dog as you became serious once more and turned to Bakugou, “But I have to ask, what caused Kirishima to get such a huge injury?”

Bakugou froze and let his head dip a bit towards the ground. You looked over at Kirishima who, for the first time, had a truly pissed off glint in his eye. You were taken by surprise at the silence that overcame them and considered taking back the question you had asked but stopped short when Katsuki began to speak again, this time his voice was just a gravely grunt.

“Ever heard of the Dark Kingdom?” was all he had to say as the mood became sinister and heavy.

Your eyes widened and you let out a brief shutter of a sigh as chills swept over your body, “Of course I have. Who hasn’t been affected by them in some way or another?” a grimace filled your now hushed voice. After all, how could you forget the ones who imprisoned your dear instructor?

“Kirishima and I had just made a trade with that damn Prince Shoto in the Todoroki Kingdom to the North last night and we were flying on our normal route back home when all of a sudden this huge blast of blue flames came hurtling towards Kiri. It came out of nowhere, no warning given. I don’t blame Kirishima for not being able to avoid the fucking sneak attack, but I do blame myself for being ignorant enough to not think that an assassin from the Dark Kingdom would try something on our only route home.” Katsuki closed his eyes as his eyebrows furrowed further.

“I should have expected it too, Bakugou. You’re not the only one who wasn’t thinking the smart way.” Kirishima tried to take some of the blame but Bakugou only continued.

“I got a brief glance at the attacker before Kiri fell. While he was falling, he managed to hit a rather large pine tree and instead of breaking it he impaled himself directly on it like a dumbass and further hurt himself. We hit the ground, I checked to see if Kiri was even alive and if I had anything broken, and once I confirmed he was breathing, I ran after the fucker who did this to give him a lesson like a jackass. I ran and ran, but the bastard got away and when I came back to help Kiri I saw you poking and prodding at his flesh and I just...saw red. Look, I’m sorry I jumped your shit and nearly killed you. Just don’t be such a weirdo and don’t go poking your head in business that doesn’t concern a dummy like you!” Bakugou finished while crossing his arms over his chest.

“How did this turn into my fault?” you rhetorically asked the air.

“Well, it’s because--,” Bakugou started.

“Didn’t need an answer on that, dunce,” you rolled your eyes and stood while looking over at Kirishima, “Well, to end this on a happier note, my medical work here is done, boys! You’re all patched up, Kiri!”

“Seriously? Freaking awesome!” he jumped up from the dirt and almost nearly collapsed again if it weren’t for you and Bakugou rushing to help him lean his weight on you two.

“You didn’t let me finish, you overgrown lizard! You’re all patched up, but there is only so much that cream can do. I wanted to say the both of you can come back to my cottage and you can rest up awhile, rehydrate, get some energy back. Plus, I can see about making you a potion that can fully heal that wound for you too!” you finished with a grin.

“Oh yeah? What’s the catch, bitchy witchy? Turning us into frogs to keep as pets?” Bakugou sneered.

You giggled with a smirk, “I haven’t thought of the price yet, but if you’re offering that sounds like fun! I bet you two would be the cutest frogs in the land! Maybe I could as far as cursing you to need a princess to kiss you back to your handsome selves again~!”

The two of them gasped at your cruelty, but you laughed, not noticing the blush on Bakugou’s face, “I’m kidding, guys! You don’t think I’m actually that mean, right?” you teased.

“O-Of course not, (Y/N)! Ha ha! Pleasedon’tturnusintofrogs!” Kirishima stuttered out with a paled face, which made you laugh.

“You worry too much! Let’s get you boys somewhere safe to hang out! Ooo! I have to show you guys everything!” you skipped down the dirt path that ultimately led to your house and you rambled on about your own little world as the two of them shambled close behind, one of them wondering what the hell they just got themselves into getting stuck with a cutie klutz like you and the other way too excited to help these two lovesick fools navigate their way through the world of romance.

~ The End ~

~ Extra Bonus Ending!!!! ~

The figure hidden in the shadows of the trees watched with a smirk as the beautiful young lady led the two idiots further into the forest and away from the clearing where the beast had sadly not bled out.

“Wow, what an interesting turn of events, chiefling,” the blue-eyed figure snickered as they incinerated the bloody cloak of the young maiden previously used to clean the dragon’s wound, “Let’s see how long your princess in shining armor can keep you safe~!”

~ To Be Continued… ~

#mha #bnha #mha oneshot #fanfiction #fantasy au #adventure #romance #katsuki bakugou #bakugou #x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #fantasy au katsuki bakugo #fantasy au katsuki bakugou x reader #kirishima #kirishima eijirou #fantasy au kirishima #fantasy au kirishima eijirou #witch #witch reader

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moonflaregal · 3 years

Text

Nothing to Say Except “Ouch”

This may contain sensitive material for some. Please read at your own discretion. I would say “enjoy,” but ouch. You’ll see.

“Midoryiya,” Shouto began, the boy’s hero name long forgotten. “Midoriya, I need you to stay with me.”

The pro hero was kneeling, rocks pressing into his shins through the fabric of his hero costume, pricking him and telling him to abandon the companion resting in his lap.

Midoriya’s face was beaten and bruised, cuts running along his nose, down his jaw, and through one of his eyes. He looked as if he had walked under a red-stained waterfall, one eye closed, the other always open to witness the crimes of a humanity he needed to protect. The red curtain meant nothing to Izuku, for if he simply held his hand out from under the crimson water, he could still save.

“Midoriya, please, don’t die,” Shouto scrambled as his hands combed their way through the boy’s hair, shivering each time his fingers ran into a knot. He choked on his own spit as he realized hot smoke was curling into his throat, making it difficult to breathe. As much as it tried, it did not stop him from calling out to the boy in his care.

But, the hero in his hands was tired, and half of his hearing had been obliterated by the last hit, and he wanted to move, yet his body was numb. All he could do was listen to half of the world, and he wondered, in his semi-delirious state, why only the screams were audible. Those, and the soft voice of fear that seemed to be attached to the gentle feeling of his hair being smoothed out over and over and over again.

“Izuku,” Shouto tried, “Izuku, I need you to stay with me. With all of us.”

Izuku waited. He continued to take in fifty percent of the world and wondered if Shouto knew how heavy the pain was, how difficult it was to only have one-half of oneself. Asking a question in his state was impossible, but all he wanted was an answer, so he continued to wait.

It might not have been that he desired to wait. It was more likely that he had no choice, with a torn up voice and a shattered-up-everything on the inside.

Shouto began to feel numb, began to slip into the white noise, allowing the world to become nothing, quiet, serene. He was in shock.

His best friend was lying in his arms, slipping away from him down the rapids as he remained on a lonely rock. Where was everyone? Probably dead. Probably fighting. Most likely dying.

Beyond the matted hair in Shouto’s eyes, the tangled, white nothingness, the heroes were winning. If he looked up through the screen of hazy air, he could have seen the shadows of heroes rising up to the challenge. He would have noticed the way the sky was desperately close to clearing into blue.

Still, he focused on the boy he needed to hold.

The boy in question was 29 years of age with his own agency and his own golden reputation. He was a man with trustable friends and caring rivals, one with kindness to spare, as if it were never-ending.

And the boy in question was also just that. A boy. Dying and wheezing, body crumpled and wringing itself dry, hands rotting away as his remaining eyesight clouded over. A strangled whine let itself escape into the heavy atmosphere that pressed him into torn up road.

“Yes? Midoriya? Izuku?” Shouto responded immediately, having barely caught the sound at all.

A scarred hand came up to his cheek and brushed something away, before falling slack again.

The barely living boy then started to rasp.

“Todoroki-kun...”

“Yes, I’m here. I’m here, Midoriya.”

“I hear... half... of the world.”

Shouto froze, not understanding what was being said to him. Midoriya continued on.

“It... sounds afraid...”

More silence as strength was picked up in broken little pieces and stitched together by sheer will.

“I’m afraid... that I won’t live to save it...”

Shouto let out a sob and clutched Midoriya’s hand. His voice cracked. “You already saved the world. You did it. And you can save as many more worlds as you want. You just need to hold on. Just... hold on.”

Was it his imagination, or did cracked and bloodied lips twitch as if they wanted to quirk up into a reassuring smile?

“I know... you got over it... when we were kids,” the boy gargled, “but... remember that life... is not meant to be... half lived.”

Resting his head against Midoriya’s, his body trembled and fought to tear itself apart. Was he hot? Was he cold? What he still? Was he falling? It was glacial and volcanic, and it hurt.

“Please, Midoriya, you’re my friend. You’re the one who saved me. Breathe. Just breathe. Don’t ever stop. Please. Life may be meant to be lived fully, but it’s okay if you don’t take full breaths. Just please keep breathing. Stay with me. Please, please, please. I can’t lose you. You mean so much to me.”

“Shouto-kun.”

Shoto’s eyes snapped open wide, vision blurry beyond the tears.

“Shoto-kun, it’s o-”

“No, no, no, no. Don’t tell me it’ll be alright. I need you to breathe. Cry if you have to. Sob, cry, wail, anything. It’ll mean you’re alive. Even if you have to cry, please just keep breathing.” The irony of asking Midoriya to breathe and then cutting him off was lost as Shouto desperately grasped at straws.

“My chest hurts... it all... it’s fine, really...”

The look in Midoriya’s eyes unfocused further. Shouto screamed.

“Why can’t you just cry,” he shouted at his dying friend, “you used to cry all the time. When did you stop? Why won’t you cry? When did it change?”

The body beneath him shakily hoisted itself up and wrapped its arms around the one holding it, the one tethering it to earth, and green lightning danced along the rubble.

Shouto found it harder to speak through the tears. “It- it’s okay. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to cry.” He repeated himself without ceasing as he clung to the world’s greatest hero, unsure of who he was speaking to.

Then, something warm fell onto his neck, sat there, and cooled. His first instinct told him that it was blood, and his intuition was rarely incorrect.

But there, sliding down to his shoulder, proving him wrong, was a cold tear.

Against his neck, hidden by a mass of green curls, a bewildered voice spoke. “It’s... been so long since I did that. It’s... been so long.”

Utter silence.

“M-Midoriya?”

Quiet.

“Midoriya, M-Midoriya, Midoriya, Midoriy-”

Previously the number three hero, now the number two hero, the son of Endeavor erupted in fury.

#midoriyadiesouchthathurts #mha angst #bnha angst #myheroacademia #onlywrotethisforthepain #midoriya angst #pro hero deku #todoroki angst

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antihero-writings · 3 years

Text

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet.

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

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beyond-the-mirror · 4 years

Text

The Blue Eyed King’s Gift

Welcome back to another chapter of this story! Have you already guessed which fairy tales is it inspired by? You can find one of the answers in the tags below.

Tagging @v-vic, if you wish to be tagged you can let me know at any moment.

I also want to give special thanks to @thottyonmainsquid for beta reading and offering her great and brilliant advice, as well as our discord server for their support and inspiring shenanigans.

Pairings: Vergil x Fem Reader

Warnings: War and violence. Mild gory descriptions, nothing too explicit.

Part One - Part Three - Part Four

……………………..

Part Two

Once upon a time, there existed a vast kingdom ruled by a great and powerful demon who possessed a heart as merciful and gentle as that of a human.

At the beginning of his reign, the Demon King bestowed upon all the humans of his land the ancient magic of his kind, quite unlike his predecessors that kept said magic to themselves selfishly alongside a few nobles of demonic heritage. With this wonderful gift, the inhabitants were able to access greater knowledge, developing more advanced technologies that greatly improved their lives. Soon enough the kingdom grew larger than ever before, making alliances with neighboring countries in order to selflessly share their magic and science with those who needed it most. Such was the will of the Demon King, who reigned over the peaceful land for centuries.

One day, the king fell in love with a human woman, and took the ultimate decision to renounce his immortality in order to spend the rest of his days with her as his beloved queen. From this union, two children were born, twin little boys with pristine white hair and blue eyes. The entire kingdom was overjoyed at the news, a long lasting celebration was held in honor of the newborn princes. As time passed, the twins grew up to become well respected nobles among the people, as well as skilled swordsmen just like their father. The younger one had a spirit like the sun, warm and vibrant; the older one had a spirit like the moon, calm and piercing.

……………………..

Many years later, the Demon King and his beloved queen passed away at their shared bed due to old age, both with a peaceful smile on their faces at the fulfilling lives they had shared with each other. At their passing, the elder brother was crowned as king of Fortuna in a most luscious ceremony which hosted many representatives of their allied countries. The Blue Eyed King was able to reign as benevolently and wisely as his late father; however, he would often question his trust in some of Fortuna’s allies, concerns that he kept even after his crowning.

During a festival at the town square, someone caught the monarch’s attention, a beautiful maiden with a heart of gold lively dancing and twirling to the cheery music. At the end of the song, their eyes locked for a few moments that seemed almost eternal, and he knew he just had to meet her. Love blossomed between them, which some time later led to a joyful marriage between the two. The king and queen lived together with great happiness, their love as profound as the immensity of the universe.

Such happiness wouldn’t last long.

……………………..

After a medical checkup, the couple was informed that the young queen could not bear any children. The news absolutely devastated her, driving her into a severe depression that kept her isolated in her private chambers for months to come. In his despair to help his wife, the king did everything in his power to aid her in her malady. Every single medic was summoned to the palace, doctors, healers, therapists… the young king prayed every day and night for the recovery of his beloved, always tending to her side and holding her close as many times as she allowed him too.

One day, after many painful months, the queen finally gathered some energy and emerged from her chambers, much to the relief of all the servants and the young king himself. She made one single request to her husband.

She showed him a small bag of seeds “My beloved. Allow me to plant these seeds in our royal garden, and tend to them with my very own hands. I don’t wish to be helped by our servants and gardeners, who have already done so much for me these past months. Please, let me be the only one to nurture these seeds.”

As much as he wanted to protest her decision to work despite her health condition, the king obliged. Whatever it took to make his love recover her lost happiness, he would gladly accept.

The next months, the queen would be seen tending to the seeds she planted in the garden, which eventually grew into many exquisite blue roses thanks to her love and dedication. The king was filled with joy knowing that his wife had finally started to smile again, little by little did she recover and soon she was back into her usual cheery self.

None of them would have expected the tragedy that was about to fall upon the kingdom.

……………………..

They attacked at midnight while everyone slumbered. Loud explosions from their cannons shattered the calm atmosphere of the night, reducing buildings and homes to rubble and dust.

Nobody would have expected that this particular allied country would ever consider the benefits given by Fortuna as simply not enough for them. Envious and greedy, they wanted the great kingdom’s power and riches all for themselves.

As his twin rushed to take care of the siege engines surrounding the city, the Blue Eyed King and his army fought valiantly against the enemy who planned to infiltrate the grand palace. He had struck down another group of soldiers with a graceful cut from his demon sword Yamato when an all too familiar scream made his blood run cold. Looking around frantically, he spotted through the corner of his eye the queen running towards the royal garden. The king immediately bolted after his beloved, only to stop dead in his tracks at what he saw once he reached her.

The queen laid lifeless on the exact same roses she had planted months ago, the blooms now crushed and their petals painted red with her blood. Towering before her, the very own general that commanded such an act of treason against Fortuna, standing victoriously arrogant at the murder he had commited.

At that moment something broke inside the king. Everything happening around him became mere white noise as pure rage and sorrow drowned his rationality. A blaze of blue fire enveloped the king as he embraced his demonic heritage, and with a mighty roar that shattered the night skies above and the earth below, he unleashed his fury at the ones that took his love away.

……………………..

Everyone watched in horror as a dark atmosphere consumed the entire city, even the soldiers stopped fighting and froze on their sports as the heavy darkness wrapped around everything it could touch.

And then, it happened.

It was strangely beautiful, the way thousands of light beams shot instantaneously through the air like fractals of blue energy, followed shortly by a delicate hum that resonated everywhere, not unlike the chirping of birds at breaking dawn. The lights illuminated the streets as if it were a sunny day despite being in the dead of the night. All who bore witness to the otherworldly display found themselves hypnotized by its beauty, the sight so alluring, so alluring...

And just as it had begun, it ended, like a lightning breaking through the storm in a matter of seconds. During that time nobody dared make a move, too stunned at what they had just witnessed.

The Blue Eyed King sheathed his sword.

One by one, every single soldier from the enemy country fell to the ground in unrecognizable pieces, a sickening sound as their remains sploshed and bloodied the streets. It was a nightmarish sight, how an entire army was eradicated in just an instant and in such a grotesque manner.

Silence reigned over the ruined kingdom once more, as if a war had never happened in the first place.

……………………..

The prince rushed to the palace, knowing something must have happened to his older brother after realization had hit him. His imposing red wings pierced the sky as he flew, a twisted feeling that tugged at his heart telling him that something must have gone terribly wrong.

As he landed at the now rundown garden, he saw his brother’s true demon form thrashing around in torment.

Overwhelmed by his grief, the king kept ripping and tearing down the now mangled body of the opposing general. Even his own demon sword laid forgotten on the ground as he preferred to discharge his wrath with his very own claws.

The prince immediately seized him, trying his best to calm down his brother. However, the beast inside him had completely consumed him, leaving only a primal creature thirsty for blood and revenge.

Suddenly, an unexpected cry resonated through the garden, interrupting the fight between the twin brothers.

Both demons stood bewildered as the high pitched wailing continued, breaking the silence that permeated the garden. The Blue Demon quickly scanned the area, looking for the source of the strange noise, his breaths slowly evening out as he started to recover some of his lost clarity.

His blue fiery eyes widened as he noticed the sound was coming just next to the corpse of his long lost queen.

Without losing a minute the beast prowled towards her body. Upon closer inspection, her arms seemed to be enclosed around something, as if protecting it and keeping it safe until her very last breath. Ever so carefully, the Blue Demon pried her arms open, minding the sharp talons that had replaced his human nails.

In her embrace, a single intact blue rose laid. The bud was abnormally bigger than the rest of the blooms that laid broken around her, gigantic even. As the king focused on the bizarre flower, he realized that the cries were coming from inside it, just as he too observed a few slight movements on its soft inner petals

In the most gentle and careful manner, the beast opened the rose bud. What he found inside brought tears to his eyes.

Two newborn babies were cuddled inside the unnatural flower, flailing their tiny limbs and crying in distress. The infants had pale rosy skin, soft white tufts of hair crowned atop of their heads.

The king turned beast stood astonished at the sight, not expecting to find such innocent lives at the now crumbled ruins that were once his and his wife’s garden.

Scales turned into flesh, talons transformed into lithe fingers. The king slowly reached for the children with shaky arms, pulling them out of the rose and cradling them against his chest. The babies nuzzled after the warmth he exuded, one that soothed their alarmed cries little by little. It was then that they finally fluttered their eyes open, and the king let out a startled gasp.

One had light blue eyes like an endless ocean at peace, very much like the kings’ own. The other had mesmerizing green eyes like a lively forest, very much like… His heart swelled with both joy and melancholy. The child’s eyes were very much like his beloved queens’.

What the monarch failed to realize at that moment was that this was his beloved’s last gift. Unbeknownst to him, amidst the doctors that had been summoned to treat her infertility, there was an elderly woman who was praised for her unique medicinal practices involving a combination of magic and science. Knowing this, the queen begged for her help as soon as she had recognized her presence in her chambers.

The elderly woman gifted her a small satchel full of magic-imbued seeds, instructing her to add a drop of her own blood as well as one of the king’s into the satchel before planting them, warning that the seeds would only grow by the hands of the queen herself. According to her words, one of the roses would bear a child after 9 months, an heir with the same blood used to soak the seeds at the beginning.

After offering her heartfelt gratitude to the healer, the queen set to work as soon as possible, one night even pricking her husband’s finger while he slept in order to follow those same instructions. She worked day and night, tending to the roses while ignoring the worrying looks of the servitude and those of the king himself. Above all, the queen prayed to the gods every morning she would get up to keep gardening. When she noticed one of the roses growing much more than the others, the smile she thought long lost had finally returned.

The infants stared at the man holding them before raising their small hands, reaching for his face as they giggled ever so sweetly.

For the first time in his life, the Blue Eyed King broke into tears, now understanding why his beloved was in such a rush making her way to the garden.

These children were his sons, his and his queen’s very own flesh and blood.

She had given her life to save their children.

The king hugged the little boys in his arms tightly, tears after tears cascaded down his face. His younger brother, now back into his human self, fell to his knees and embraced his brother, hoping to alleviate some of his brother’s pain as he too broke down.

He could barely hear his brother’s words as he spoke between heartbreaking sobs. “No mortal shall ever cause you pain, my beautiful children. I am your father, and until my very last breath, I shall protect you.”

……………………..

As dawn broke, all the surviving Fortunians were gathered in front of the palace gates. By order of the king, every single inhabitant of the kingdom had been relocated to the citadel which will later be rebuilt and occupied.

Before everyone, the Blue Eyed King vowed and swore to protect his people by all means necessary. And if it meant cutting ties with the rest of the world, then so shall be his will and command. Fortuna had been betrayed by who they considered an ally, and he will make sure a tragedy like this one would never happen again.

For the sake of his people. For the sake of his sons.

The king unsheathed his sword, and with an all-powerful cut, he split the land around the great citadel and the surrounding villages, severing all cuts with the outside world and enveloping it in a magical barrier.

In the blink of an eye, the Great Kingdom of Fortuna was gone.

……………………..

Once upon a time, there existed a vast kingdom ruled by a great and powerful demon. However, every remnant of its existence vanished without leaving any trace behind. As ages went by, nature grew and reclaimed the unoccupied land, eventually forming a thick forest where all kinds of wild creatures lived in harmony.

For the rest of humanity, Fortuna had been long lost. This, however, couldn’t be further than the truth.

The great kingdom still stood proud and prosperous, albeit in another plane of existence cut off from all mundane ties to our world. A plane of existence where even time itself behaved in the most different and unexpected ways possible.

It was a bit difficult at the beginning, but the inhabitants soon adapted to their environment without any more trouble. In no time they managed to rebuild their homes and return to their normal lifestyles, now convinced that the decision made by the Blue Eyed King was the best for everyone.

Peace once again reigned over the kingdom. And as long as its existence remained a secret to the outside world, nothing shall ever take it away.

#devil may cry #fairy tale au #fairy tale inspired #thumbelina #Vergil Sparda #vergil x reader #vergil x you #dadgil #Papa Vergil #fanfiction #fanfic #reader insert

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your-dietician · 3 years

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How intense psychotherapy and a Bel-Air love nest led to John Lennon's classic debut album

New Post has been published on https://depression-md.com/how-intense-psychotherapy-and-a-bel-air-love-nest-led-to-john-lennons-classic-debut-album/

How intense psychotherapy and a Bel-Air love nest led to John Lennon's classic debut album

John Lennon and Yoko Ono in January 1970. (Richard DiLello / Yoko Ono Lennon)

In the months before John Lennon and Yoko Ono entered Abbey Road Studios in London to start work on what would become the album “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band,” the couple were renting a home on Nimes Road in one of L.A.’s fanciest neighborhoods, Bel-Air.

The Beatles were still the most famous group in the world but were in the midst of breaking up, with members traveling to and from London to finish “Abbey Road,” work on various solo projects for their label Apple Records and argue about release schedules and royalties.

Living along a curvy lane behind walls that afforded complete privacy and overwhelming views of the city, Lennon and Ono were a world away from that drama. They woke to the sounds of chirping birds, sprinklers and lawnmowers, enjoyed their tea alone and, when so inclined, chilled by the pool. Lennon worked on some songs, including “Working Class Hero,” “Mother,” “Well, Well, Well” and “God.”

Then, each morning, Lennon would drive down Beverly Glen to psychologist Arthur Janov’s West Hollywood office, enter a darkened, soundproof room and scream as loudly and violently as he could.

“He used to finish a session feeling incredibly good,” Janov once recalled.

This backdrop set the tone for “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band,” which came out in December 1970 and is the subject of an exhaustively documented box set just released by Capitol/UME and the Lennon estate. Called “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band (The Ultimate Collection),” it comes with six CDs, two Blu-ray discs, a hardbound book, poster and postcards. It’s a revelatory set, especially for those with access to hi-fi gear and a darkened, soundproof room.

Newly mixed to increase Lennon’s vocal presence from fresh high-resolution transfers, the set features 87 recordings that have never been officially released, including rehearsal sessions, demo tapes recorded on Nimes Road and a series of alternative mixes drawn from unused tracks — congas on “Hold On” are a revelation, for example. An accompanying coffee table book, “John & Yoko/Plastic Ono Band,” offers an even deeper dive into the couple’s creative partnership.

Story continues

“During 1970, we did extensive Primal Scream therapy for six months, which was very beneficial for us and many of the songs were inspired as a result of those sessions,” writes Ono in the preface to the coffee table book, adding that “John’s songs were a literate expression of his feelings.” (Ono declined an interview request for this article.)

John Lennon relaxing by the swimming pool at his and Yoko Ono’s rented home in Bel-Air during the summer of 1970. (Yoko Ono Lennon)

The result, “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band,” was Lennon’s debut solo album. It was issued the same day as Ono’s companion album, “Yoko Ono/Plastic Ono Band,” and found Lennon in an intimate setting with a few friends purging unfiltered emotions into songs about “freaks on the phone,” isolation, leaders who “tortured and scared you for 20-odd years” and his lack of belief in, among concepts, Jesus, magic, Adolf Hitler, the I Ching, the Buddha, yoga, kings and the Beatles.

“He had changed a hell of a lot because of this primal scream thing, and that was really heavy,” says Klaus Voormann, who played bass on the album, on the phone from Germany. “It was heavy for him, it was heavy for Yoko, and it was heavy for us.”

As with most things Beatle-related, the critics loved Lennon’s “Plastic Ono Band” when it came out. Creem’s Dave Marsh wrote that it was “interesting and even enlightening to see a man working out his trauma on black plastic but more than that, it’s totally enthralling to see that Lennon has once again unified, to some degree, his life and his music into a truly whole statement.”

The Times’ Robert Hilburn called it “nothing short of a masterpiece,” and “a work that is filled with pain and sorrow, searching and struggle. It is frightfully honest, profoundly moving.” That its emotion is tied to a bestselling psychology self-help book is often overlooked, but it played a central role in Hilburn’s review.

Arthur Janov in 1998. (Ann Summa/Getty Images)

“Primal therapy has to do with the traumas you’ve undergone in the womb, at birth, in infancy and childhood,” Janov explained in an interview excerpted in the book. “We have needs that we are all born with, and when those basic needs are not met, we hurt. And when that hurt is big enough, it’s imprinted in the system. It changes our whole physiologic system and all those pains are held in storage, causing tension, anxiety and depression.”

After Lennon and Ono read Janov’s book, “The Primal Scream” (subtitled “Primal Therapy: The Cure for Neurosis”), Ono asked that Janov travel to them in London, which he did. “He was in bad shape. He couldn’t leave his room,” Janov said of Lennon. But Janov had work in L.A., so Lennon and Ono followed him back and rented a home in Bel-Air. Lennon wasn’t the only one enduring pain. He and Ono had been trying to have a baby, but she had suffered two miscarriages.

Forced to return to England six months later to deal with visa issues, Lennon and Ono were barely off the plane before they entered Abbey Road. The sparse, emotionally raw Lennon solo album is dense with echoes of his West Hollywood wails, and the sessions were the same, Voormann says.

Voormann, best known for creating the art for “Revolver,” had met Lennon and the rest of the Beatles long before Beatlemania took hold, when they were rocking the Star Club in Hamburg, Germany, in the early 1960s, and he remained within the band’s inner circle. At the end of the decade, Voormann had just concluded a run with Manfred Mann when Lennon called to ask whether he’d join him, Ono, Ringo Starr and producer Phil Spector at Abbey Road. Needless to say, it was a welcome invitation.

At Abbey Road, Voormann described walking into “a whole vibe. There was crying. There was laughing. There was happiness. There was hugging each other. And we were all part of this amazing atmosphere.”

John Lennon at EMI Studios in London on Oct. 9, 1970. (Yoko Ono Lennon)

Simon Hilton, the box set’s producer and production manager, said that contrary to reports that Lennon “was angry and throwing headphones and stuff and making a fuss” during the week at Abbey Road, “there’s no evidence of that at all.”

Listening to the rehearsal tapes, which find Lennon, Starr and Voormann working through classics including “Honey Don’t,” “Mystery Train,” “Glad All Over” and the Beatles’ “Get Back,” Hilton continues, “you can hear what an amazing time they were having.”

The three were “obviously working really hard but also really enjoying being in each other’s presence. They were such good mates and I’m sure after the tensions of sitting in the room with Paul and George and Ringo, this was a huge relief.” (Hilton stresses that “John never had any beef with Ringo, ever.”)

“There is a playfulness among the three main musicians that in no way represents how earnest the songs are,” says Rob Stevens, who worked as a mixing engineer on “The Ultimate Collection” and oversaw the raw studio mix recordings and outtakes. “The laser beam is turned on right when the take starts and it’s turned off at the end — and there’s some real silliness before and afterwards.”

A Klaus Voormann illustration from the “John Lennon / Plastic Ono Band” sessions in October 1970. (Klaus Voormann)

All you need to do is listen to “Mother,” the wrenching opening song on the album, to appreciate the ways in which primal scream therapy informed the sessions.

Voormann remembers worrying about Lennon’s vocal cords as he sung the track’s climactic ending, which finds the singer pushing his limits. “I was thinking, ‘Oh my God, I hope he’s not going to lose his voice.'” Lennon, the bassist adds, was never trained as a singer, and cited as an example once requesting “Please Mr. Postman” during the Hamburg days. Lennon declined. “He said, ‘No, let’s do it as the last number because if I do that now, I’m going to be hoarse all night.'”

Lennon is on the cusp of hoarseness, Voormann says, in the final version of “Mother,” which is a song that addresses Lennon’s relationship with his mom, Julia, who as a young parent left Lennon to live with his Aunt Mimi and only sporadically reached out after that. (“I lost her twice,” Lennon recalled during an interview. “Once as a 5-year-old when I was moved in with my aunty, and once again when she actually physically died.”)

“His voice is already starting to break on the record,” Voormann says, “and it’s fantastic because he is really screaming as much and as long as he can. He wanted to get that out of his system. The wounds were opened up inside of him, and these wounds he put into those songs.”

John Lennon and Yoko Ono in London on Feb. 11, 1970. (Richard DiLello / Yoko Ono Lennon)

If there was a flaw, for Ono it was in the final mix. Lennon’s voice wasn’t prominent enough. For this new remaster, Ono suggested the engineers make it more prominent. “That was Yoko’s directive right from the beginning,” says Paul Hicks, who mixed and engineered much of the new set. “‘Bring John’s voice out to the fore’ and ‘You’ll find all the emotion in John’s voice.'”

Adds Rob Stevens of Lennon and Ono’s Lenono Archives, “Bringing John’s voice up was a real revelation for just about anybody who had listened to anything else that he had done.” Referring to a microphone effect that adds a sharp echo, Stevens added that Lennon “covered his voice up with a ton of slap. There’s a ton of reverb.” Stevens says that in the process of working on the recordings, he was able to remove the reverb and hear the unfiltered Lennon. “What was there was the same emotion but more nuanced because there wasn’t a slap or two or three behind it.”

The producer and engineer John Leckie was 20 when he landed a coveted entry-level job running tape at Abbey Road Studios in London. He started in January 1970 and, not long after, was in the studio recording “All Things Must Pass” with George Harrison, and half a year later he was working on Lennon’s record.

Leckie, who has gone on to produce essential records by the Fall, Radiohead, XTC, Elastica, My Morning Jacket and dozens more, says that he recalls this early Lennon session as being a relaxed, comfortable environment. Spector was a quiet, unobtrusive presence — there was no “Wall of Sound” at Abbey Road — and Ono was more involved with the creative back and forth.

“Phil wasn’t there all the time, but my memory is that he was there a lot of time and when he was there, it was really good vibes. It’s funny, because when people ask me about this record, they always seem to think there was this angst — dreadful, painful. ‘What was it like to be in the room with John pouring out all this angst about his abuse over the years and the terrible terror he was going through?'”

Leckie continues, “It wasn’t like that at all, and you can tell by this box and the outtakes it was great fun. He was playing with his best friends. He was playing with Ringo and Klaus Voormann, and he’d known Klaus since Hamburg.”

Voormann underscores the sense of camaraderie at play, an experience jarred by hearing the rehearsal tapes anew. “All this came back to me. It felt so good having certainty knowing we were really a group — this little tiny group, just Ringo, me and John.”

Lennon’s solo debut, in hindsight, was an outlier. He started recording its follow-up, “Imagine,” less than a year later, and not long after that, he and Ono separated. Lennon moved back to L.A. and commenced a bender that many nights led him just a block from Janov’s office, getting drunk with Harry Nilsson at the Troubadour. Lennon and Ono reconciled a few years later. The five studio albums that followed “Plastic Ono Band,” while accomplished, seldom matched the feral energy and sharpened pen found on his debut.

Meanwhile, by 1974, Janov was in the pages of The Times being lumped in with Dear Abby, Billy Graham, radio talk show hosts and witches, as a guru who “professes to have an answer for sale.” A documentary called “Primal Process” followed a few years later. One reviewer praised the film but warned that “the continuous crying can be taxing.” In the 1980s, the English new wave group Tears for Fears took its name from Janov’s therapeutic method, and the similarly inspired “Shout” became one of its signature hits.

Janov, for the record, loved “John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band.” Speaking to Hilburn in 1970, the therapist and author, who died in 2017, described it as “a very dialectic album. It is the most personal statement imaginable, yet it has a universal language. It could only be written by someone who has arrived at a state of understanding himself. It isn’t something that any kid with a guitar could sit down and write.”

This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.

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heli0s-writes · 5 years

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One Constant

Summary: It's been five years without Bucky. You and Steve travel to Vormir for the Soulstone to bring him back.

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader x Bucky Barnes

A/N: 3.5K word count. Post-Endgame. Angsty!

It’s absolutely insane the lengths Steve Rogers would go to in order to save the ones he loves. He is feeling this sentiment now as you clutch his hand in one and grip the edge of your seat with the other, warping at top speed into the depths of inky black space. Kaleidoscopic lights zoom by, and he feels dizzy just thinking about the fact that he is traveling through space.

But just a few moments ago, he had traveled through time, so space could have well been a logical next step.

If he is feeling nervous, or possibly about to vomit, he doesn’t show it.

He only grips your hand a little tighter, strokes the bone-white knuckles of your fist a little slower, leans over and kisses you a bit harder.

“We got it, baby.” He soothes, “He’ll be back soon.”

“I swear to God, Steve, if he isn’t, I will personally remove every single one of Thanos’ teeth with my bare fucking hands.”

Steve grins and brings your palm to his lips, kissing the creases. He knows you well enough to trust in your promise. Vormir lies only a half hour away as they reach their destination and descend slowly into the rusty red atmosphere.

You strap the sleek black Ka-Bar to your thigh, fingers running over the handle lovingly, as if you were touching a part of him. And in some ways, you are. It’s one small reminder the two of you have had for five years. His favorite knife. A reminder of the love lost in the snap.

For the first year, you refused to even say his name. You railed against any possible attempt to return your days to normalcy, and even frustrated Steve on nights when you’d stumble through the empty compound completely in shambles, gripping that Ka-Bar, slamming it into the wall, livid and drunk, screaming and crying.

A part of him felt a little sting of jealousy and curiosity. He wondered if you would have cared this much if it was him that had been lost.

The same part of him also felt ashamed because at the end of every episode, you would be curled up on the floor, or in the bed, or sometimes in the shared closet, hugging Bucky’s clothes, repeating the same broken phrase to his ghost.

Come back. Come back to us. Come back to us, please.

Us, not me.

Steve would wrap his arms around you, pull you close, tell you he’s got you now.

Even though he’s clean shaven and carefully coiffed, a picture-perfect representation of his moniker, even though he leads sermons at the VA about moving on and forward, he knows a part of him would never let Bucky go. You would never let him.

Steve isn’t only saving Bucky on this journey; Steve is also saving you.

“Steve.” You whisper, “Steve.” A little firmer the second time. “I love you.”

Then you’re in his lap, forgoing your own seat and squeezing him so tightly his breath gets lodged in this throat. “Don’t go, too. Promise me.”

Steve wraps his arms around you, the lover he always dreamed of having—sweeter than sugar, doe-eyed, a goddess in human form, one part of the third of his heart. You and Bucky had been so close, even in your shared relationship—he always felt a little left out. Even though it was him first. Even though Bucky came later.

The ship whirrs mindlessly forward, autopilot on, technology beyond his understanding steering itself. You shake in his arms. “Take it off.” You mutter, suddenly clawing at his suit, fingers desperate to find his buckles and zippers.

“Take it off, Steve!”

He does as he’s told, albeit confusedly, but soon enough he’s stripped down and you are shedding your clothing too, straddling his waist with frantic breaths.

“I want to fuck.”

“Sweetheart—“

“Now. Steve.”

He always lets you have what you want. Against the backdrop of inky darkness and muted far off stars, swirling planets colored in shades he doesn’t know how to name, you palm him and glide on top.

There are tears in your eyes when you lean your head on his shoulder. “I miss him.” You sob, “I miss him so much.”

“I know.” Steve kisses you deeply, rocks up into you until you shudder all over. He presses his lips to your eyes and cheeks, traces the line of salt down to your chin, and rolls deep strokes of his cock in and out until you both come.

“I love you.” You sigh against his neck, landing a chaste kiss to the lobe of his ear.

It’s been like this for five years, oscillating between tender and torn, high and low, and not much in-between. Before the snap, you had been their shy girl, lover not a fighter, even though your hands could crush granite. Pressed between them in a feverish haze, you were still soft, and they were gentle as a result.

They would always be gentle with you. Even Bucky, who had the pent-up sexual energy of an animal in rut. You would put his fingertips in your mouth, lick the pads with slow flicks of your tongue, and he would melt. Sugar, he’d croon, gorgeous girl, how’d we get so lucky?

Now, when Steve gets you into bed you put his hand to your neck and make him squeeze. You ask him to hurt you and he hates it.

You’re different. Things have changed.

The ship descends, blowing clouds of dust all around and Steve is so beyond thinking about this landscape that he doesn’t give a shit anymore about how they can even survive the atmosphere. Four boots trek on wordlessly until they reach the peak of the lonely jagged mountain.

A billowing cloak and gaunt cheeks appear.

“Schmidt.” Steve hisses, gearing back for a fight, but you put your hand up and step forward instead, that Ka-Bar already in your hand.

“Don’t fuck with me, Skeletor. You know what I want.”

He’s a self-sacrificing asshole and he almost killed you to launch himself off the cliffside. The crack of his skull echoes and is smothered by your shrieking hundreds of feet above the site of his death.

“No! You fucking promised! You fucking promised you wouldn’t fucking leave!” You howl and howl and slam your fists into the rock until it cracks and crumbles into dust.

Those will be the last words he’ll ever hear. Your throat gone raw and the venom and disappointment and hurt inside of you sputtering out wet with blood.

You launch yourself at Schmidt and pass right through his shadow.

“Superhuman or not,” his voice is a ghostly warble, “You cannot kill me. I am free now to roam and leave this planet.” The tight skin peels back to reveal his teeth.

Your head is falling apart. Both of them, gone, and even if the stone will be used to bring one back, you’ll live again with a piece of your heart missing. The tears blur everything, turning it into one giant blotch of orange. The speck of red and murky black stills and whips around, in shock.

“What-- how?”

You wipe your eyes as Schmidt peers over the edge. The planet rumbles and shakes, wailing an ear-splitting shriek and your head spins until there’s nothing left but the pounding of your brain rattling loose.

It’s wet when you wake up. Water laps over your face and for a second you forget where you are, how you ache, but when it rushes back the sea feels like tears.

There is no stone in your clutch.

But there is something else. Soft. Small. Delicate bones and skin so pale, it could be a child’s.

Steve’s right hand reaches over his torso, shrunken, now too small to fit rightly in his suit and it wrinkles and warps around him. The gangly fingers open and reveal the amber gem, shimmering against the darkness of the water and your eyes.

“You’re alive.” You rasp. “You’re here.”

“I-I’m back... t-to before...” He’s half in awe and in shock. There is a disappointment that mars his brow and tilts his mouth down deep until it looks like it could fall off his chin. His hands pat his chest, pulls the bunched Kevlar and neoprene away from him. “I--” Steve clenches his jaw.

You’ll never see him the same again. He’s different now. You’ve never known or loved this version of him. It’ll be just you and Bucky, like he’s always thought and feared. Steve’s mind flies a mile a minute, swirling in self-hatred and pain.

How could you look at him like this? Tiny, fragile, sickly thing that he’s been before. He’ll be invisible again, sinking into the backdrop, eclipsed once more by James Buchanan Barnes’ tall frame and fine figure. You’ll never--

You leap into his arms, knock him backwards with a splash. “Thank god!” You cry, dripping salt down his face, soft lips trailing all over him. “Oh, fuck, baby.”

If he wasn’t so stubborn, you’d pick him up, but instead you settle on dragging him by the wrist back to the ship where you tear off the stupid too-large suit from him, push him on the smooth floor and giggle as the engine rumbles back to life.

The jerk of the ship taking flight smashes his chest into yours. Steve burns red with embarrassment and tries to push you off, but you won’t budge.

He’s too weak now, something that turns him almost purple with shame.

“S-stop— I’m--”

“Don’t fuck with me, Rogers.” You hold his wrists down, “I still love you, no matter what you look like. I love you, you little asthmatic shit.” You kiss him and undress and he’s baffled, heart hammering in its cage- short of breath and wheezing. Your hands make quick work of him and he’s hard like a rock when your mouth goes south.

“Still the same down here, baby.”

When he comes a stuttering, blubbering, mess all over your stomach, Steve’s eyes roll so far back he thinks he needs to add blindness to his list of ailments.

Bucky’s head is wrenched backwards as soon as you find him over the hill. Among the chaos and terror of an enormous battlefield, aliens screeching, guns and blasters, and sizzling ancient magic, you leap, legs wrapped around his torso and kiss him with too much tongue.

“Shit, baby!” He laughs before ducking down, taking you with him, “Fuck! Can ya save it for later?”

You’re different. Your once-blue suit is black and your eyes are painted all the way up to your brow with soot colored shadow, reminiscent of the way he used to as Soldat. Usually, your hair is pulled back and away from your face, but now it hangs all around, whipping over your cheeks with the wind. You look fearsome.

And, God he thinks, you’re beautiful. Although you might have once been a pink and blushing rose, you’re now suddenly bleeding red and silky, overgrown with thorns, still beautiful.

Then, his head turns back and forth, “Wh-where is he?”

You smile shyly and kiss him on the cheek while readjusting the strap of his gun. For a brief second you look like the pink flower again.

“Don’t worry,” You say, “He’s okay. He’s got to sit this one out, but I told him I’d bring him back two presents.”

Bucky squints.

“Two?”

Jesus fucking Christ on a stick Bucky’s heart is going to drop right out of his ass. You are straddling Thanos’ neck with your thighs. The Titan—the semi-god or whatever he is—you are on top of him and wrenching his jaw open.

Bucky doesn’t know if he should scream or cry or faint.

Next to him, Danvers is matching his expression. “What the hell?” She breathes and he has no fucking idea. Mantis is shrieking and you are shrieking right back.

“Don’t be a pussy! Hold the motherfucker!”

Bucky could cross himself right now because their sweet girl, their angel, is digging into Thanos’ mouth with his Ka-Bar and pulling her hand back out drenched in blood.

Afterwards, you’re still sticky. The blood coats all five fingers but you skip past the ash and dust and grab his face with your hand and plant another kiss on him. Wilson shakes his head, mutters about how it used to be the other way around and a part of Bucky abruptly catches up to the truth.

You are different. You’re hard and lethal and it hurts him so much to think that he wasn’t there. The fact that he wasn’t there is all he can think about. His absence left you raw and moldable. It must have hurt so much, for their girl to transform from satin to steel.

“Come on,” You say with a grin he’s never seen before, “Let’s go get Steve.”

And then it hurts differently. The guilt starts eating him through his stomach and up his throat because Steve has been with you all this time, watching helplessly—all because Bucky got dusted. It must have killed Steve to see you crumble and rebuild into who you are now. Killed him to not be able to do a damn thing. Killed him for five years, even though Bucky is the one who died.

Back at the compound, Steve sits nervously in the shared room, chews on every inch of his mouth until the skin hangs from his lip and then he chews it off, too. It used to smell like all three of you: brisk pine and cedar with the faint drift of freesia.

A part of it still does, dusky and sweet, but salty too. Acrid, if he breathes too deeply. Stinging and dark, like bourbon.

Huh. Steve thinks, maybe he’ll have a drink. Now that he can again.

By the time you swing the door open, Steve is piss drunk and wheezing sprawled out on the floor. Bucky’s breath lodges in his throat as you stumble over to Steve’s collapsed body.

“What the fuck!” You cry, patting him down, checking his pulse.

“S-Stevie?” Bucky breathes, “Is that you, pal?”

With a shuddering breath, you turn around and show him your teeth, a wet laugh springing forward, “We— we had to go.. to Vormir. Get the damn stone back in time and— I could have died.”

Steve wheezes again, “Wouldn’t have let you.” He hiccups, fingers lazily reaching up to poke you in the nose. “Nope.”

He pops the p.

Bucky steps cautiously forward, resurrected only hours ago and has no idea what Vormir is. Nor does he care. All he sees are his lovers, transmuted entirely by their loss— by their love for him.

It’s all changed. Everything is different and terribly new. You wipe the dark streak from your eyes and wipe Steve’s face too as Bucky stands speechless. The two of you together, leaned against each other on the floor. Bucky thinks, how many nights did this happen? How long did his two lovers suffer and cry for him?

Softly, he pads forward, kneels, and takes each hand into his. “I love you. Both of you.”

Steve looks away and so do you, nostrils flaring to hold back the torrent of tears threatening to explode. “I’m sorry.” Bucky whispers, kissing your cheek and then Steve’s feeling the sharp bone of him through the face he had known so well long ago. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

The room is so still Bucky’s afraid he might be getting dusted again, back into that terrible split second where the world stops, and he knows nothing else but the speck of sand suspended in motion. Then, a snort.

“The hell’re you sorry for? S’not like you wanted to turn into dust. Or ash. What’s another—hm. Baby powder. Buck, ya got baby powder-ed.”

Even though he’s small and asthmatic again, Steven Grant Rogers is undeniably more of a little shit than ever. It doesn’t help that he’s drunk as a skunk, breath spicy warm with the heady draught of liquor.

To his right, you laugh and ruffle his hair. Steve flinches at your touch and pulls away with a scowl. You freeze and glare right back at him, grabbing his shoulder until he winces, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” You hiss. “He’s back. He’s right here and what the fuck, Steve?”

“Yeah.” Steve grunts, shrugging off your hand, “He’s back. So be with him. Be with him like you’ve wanted to for the last five years.”

Bucky watches the tension roil in waves, emanating from your bared teeth and Steve’s downcast eyes. He doesn’t know when to step in or how to begin to stop the train wreck unfolding in front of him. Steve is piss drunk and pissed off—haven’t had a drink probably since 1942 and is completely off his rocker. You look like you’re ready to snap his neck like a pretzel stick.

It scares Bucky.

It scares him when you dig into your pocket and pull out the tooth he watched you wrench from Thanos earlier. For whatever blessed or cursed reason, it remains as it is, enormous like a half-dollar, shining dully and crusted with Titan blood.

“Here’s this, asshole.” The tooth bounces off Steve’s sternum with a dull thud, landing in his lap. Then you take Bucky’s old Ka-Bar and throw it at Steve, too. “And here’s this, you self-flagellating shithead.”

Bucky winces at your words. He’s never heard them before. Ever. Tears well up in your eyes.

“If you hadn’t come back on that dusty ass planet, I would have thrown myself off too. Fuck the stone. Fuck Earth and Vormir and fuck everyone else, too. I would have died with you.” A choked sob escapes as you glare into the side of Steve’s face, suddenly pinched with embarrassment, “You’re an idiot.”

Bucky sighs in relief when Steve looks up and leans forward onto your shoulder, resting his golden head against you. “Sorry, baby.” He mutters, “I just—I hate… this. I’m not… Captain America anymore. I’m just… Steve.”

Bucky starts to laugh, despite the moment. He laughs and leans back until he slips off his knee and foot and falls back on his bottom. You and Steve turn, bewildered at the sound of him, slight smirks on both of your faces because regardless of it all, Bucky is alive, and he is happy.

“Captain America was an asshole.” Bucky exhales, mirth in his eyes, “Tightwad. Stick so far up there he was chokin’ on it.”

Steve sputters an indignant response.

“I like you much better.” Bucky says, leaning forward and placing his hand on Steve’s jaw, pressing a soft kiss onto his swollen red lips. “This guy… dumb Brooklyn kid who didn’t know when to give up.”

“That’s not the quote goes.” Steve hiccups, drawing from an old memory. His head hangs low, embarrassed at himself, leaning into the warmth of Bucky’s palm.

“Well, I wasn’t there in the forties, but I like this new quote just fine.” You grin, reaching forward to smooth Steve’s disheveled hair back. “You done?”

He nods, reaches out and takes your hand and you return his gesture with a light squeeze.

Bucky grins at his two lovers, sitting cross-legged on the floor. One, who used to be soft, hardened like diamonds, and one, reverted completely... but to Bucky, Steve hasn’t changed at all. He was telling the truth when he said this version of Steve was his favorite.

Five years and the changes have stripped all he’s known away—the transformation of the lives around him makes Bucky sigh with uneasiness. He can’t help it. He feels like he’s always in a state of falling asleep and waking up to an entirely new world.

Steve kisses your mouth, kisses Bucky too. The three of you share quiet gazes at one another before you begin to unhook your vest and look at him behind long lashes. Your hands work nimbly, just like he remembers. Steve strokes your arm, guides Bucky forward to help you with your clothes. That’s familiar too.

Bucky smiles and presses his lips to the apples of your cheeks. Still soft.

“Did you miss us?” Steve asks, steering him further, “Buck?”

“Yeah. I did.”

You moan faintly into his mouth, strip down until you’re naked and then move to help Steve, too. Bucky watches in awe of those deft movement, swallowing when both bodies are revealed to him in the lamplight glow of the bedroom.

When he sheds his clothes to match, he can’t help but smile at the two faces contemplating back at him.

Maybe some things are different now, Bucky thinks. But the love is still the same.

You and Steve run your hands all over his body, kiss him everywhere your lips can touch. Bucky blooms all over with heat and electricity. He melts into twenty fingers and two hot mouths.

Yeah. The love is still the same. And it is so goddamn good.

taglist: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216

#stucky #marvel #mcu #stucky x reader #steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x reader x bucky barnes #steve rogers x reader #bucky barnes x reader #avengers endgame #fanfiction #reader insert

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dibleopard-writes · 4 years

Text

Training Montage

Ao3 (recommended)

Description: Anakin was the Chosen One and therefore the best padawan anyone could ask for, especially Master Obi-Wan. He was so good, in fact, that he had plenty of time for shenanigans or, as he privately referred to them, Shenanakins. Force, he was clever. Several snippets from the training of Anakin Skywalker. Author’s Note: Fanfiction, in 2020? It's more likely than you think. I'm working on several Star Wars projects right now, and here's one that is far less structured with far less need for in depth planning. Original Upload Date: 2020-08-27 Fandom: Star Wars Prequels (post TPM, pre AotC) Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan Kenobi, various side characters Rating: Gen (or T for language) Warnings: Swearing, Canon-typical Violence Word Count: 6490

Chapter 1 of ??

Chapter 1: Moles? In My Mine? It's More Likely Than You Think.

At the age of five, Anakin resolved to never be the kind of moody teenager spacers complained about. At the age of twelve, he decided that not only was that naive of him, but that he would get a head start and be moody right that second.

This change of heart was mostly due to Obi-Wan, who was refusing to take any missions offworld with him even though Anakin got his own lightsaber a whole three weeks ago and was therefore completely qualified.

“Having a lightsaber doesn’t help diplomacy, Padawan,” said Obi-Wan, completely missing the point.

“So don’t choose diplomatic missions! I bet there are hundreds of pirates hanging around… I don’t know, Batuu.”

“Batuu has smugglers, not pirates, Anakin–”

“– And?! We can arrest smugglers–”

“– And anyway, it would be irresponsible of me to take a padawan as young as yourself into a confrontation like that.”

“I’m not nine anymore! I’m not some dumb initiate, I can handle pirates.” If he was the first in his classes to fight pirates, he’d be able to hold it over them for ages. Even Iepa would have to respect him, smug son of a–

“I was still an initiate when I was your age.”

“Well I’m sorry you sucked, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go on missions.”

By this point, Master Obi-Wan had his head in his hands, almost hiding the beard he was trying to grow in order to look more authoritative. Anakin didn’t think he’d respect him any more with a beard than without, but it did make him look less like a clueless teenager so maybe he could fool the senior padawans.

“Look, if I took you offworld, not only could you get hurt or cause a diplomatic incident, but Master Windu would be on my back about it.”

Anakin muttered, “I could take him.”

“What was that?”

“I said you wouldn’t be able to shake him.” Anakin believed both statements emphatically. Sure, Mace Windu was the Master of the Order and invented an entire lightsaber form, but Anakin was the Chosen One, which basically made him the best. That being said, if Master Windu put his mind to it, he could be annoyingly stubborn in his pursuit of wrong-doers.

“My point exactly, and if he decided I was irresponsible – which I would be – we’d both be Temple-bound for months.”

“Oh, so you get to leave and I don’t?”

“Yes, but I’m sure you noticed I haven’t left because I’ve been too busy looking after you.”

“And what an amazing job you’ve been doing.”

“Watch your tone, young one.”

“Tell me, Master, do you remember any of my allergies?”

“Allergies?” Obi-Wan stopped for a second, with a look of genuine concern and guilt working its way over his face as he failed to recall information that Anakin had never given him.

“Yeah, I’m allergic to you and your banthashit!”

“Language, Padawan!” There was something resembling anger in Obi-Wan’s glare, but to acknowledge that would be sacrilege and also a suggestion that Anakin cared, which he didn’t. To prove this, he stormed into his room and used the Force to slam the pneumatic door as pneumatic doors rarely do.

Force, Obi-Wan could be insufferable sometimes.

...

After an hour of staring at the ceiling, Anakin came to the decision that the only real resolution to this conflict was running away and being a Jedi without Obi-Wan to bring him down.

Fortunately, he had spent the last two years building his very own ship and had already put it through an entire test run without anything breaking. Between his technical expertise and thorough testing, the ship was probably the best in the entire Temple hangar.

First though, putting his stealth skills through their paces in order to get there. One doesn’t survive nine years of slavery without knowing how to move silently. The swoosh of the door may have been a bad start, but his slow navigation of the common room more than made up for it. Sure, Obi-Wan was in his own room, probably, like, crying over getting owned so hard, but if Anakin had made even the slightest mistake, he would have come running and demanded a ridiculous amount of meditation on respecting others. The stakes could not have been higher.

He crept out of their rooms and into the corridor, shushing the mouse droid that seemed to regard him judgmentally despite its lack of eyes. From there, it was a simple matter of carrying himself with unquestionable confidence along a convoluted path to the hangar. He passed a few senior padawans with dead eyes and piles of holopads in their arms without raising suspicion. Man, was he good at this.

The hangar was probably the best place in the Temple. Warm Temple stone met flame retarding durasteel in a way that shouldn’t have worked as well as it did. Several decade-old speeders lined up against one wall next to a small fleet of cargo ships and fighters. All of them were horrendously out of date and well worn in the way that a lot of the Temple’s technology was. When Anakin asked why the Jedi insisted on having such terrible tech, Obi-Wan had said something vague about budget and not being materialistic. It was unconvincing at best and Anakin had really shown the whole Order up with his latest project.

After his no-doubt legendary podracer was left on Tatooine, Anakin had taken all of six months to set his sights on building a starfighter that could take him to every system in the galaxy. Obi-Wan, relieved to find a hobby that would promote focus, had pulled some strings and Anakin had aimed akk-dog eyes at the Temple mechanics that he had been tailing for months until they let him at the skeleton of an old Delta-7. Aethersprites never came with their own hyperspace engines, but he could work with that. Annoyingly, the sublight engines in the hangar were nothing like the ones on a podracer so he had to spend a humiliating few weeks with an old mechanic to get them installed and working. On the positive side, there was an astromech droid fitted directly into the ship that could give him diagnostics and occasionally a mechanically-themed joke. The jokes were hit-or-miss but the droid was good.

Two years of sterling work had made the Delta the best ship in the Temple, and it could far outpace any of the speeders in Coruscant’s skylanes. Now, as he made his way ever-so-innocently towards it, he couldn’t help but admire the way the smooth paint looked among the chipped facades of the rest.

R4-P3 chirped a greeting as he hopped in and prepped the starter engines.

“Hi, P3, fancy going on a trip?”

“THERE WERE TWENTY-SEVEN TRAFFIC CODE VIOLATIONS DURING THE PREVIOUS FLIGHT.”

“Me too, buddy. See if you can find one of those hyperspace rings lying around here.” Ignition was smooth. Vertical repulsors engaged. Landing gear retracted. So far, his plan was flawless. A blip appeared on his screen, indicating the nearest hyperspace ring. Latching onto the ring was not something he had ever practiced before, so he assumed the strange rattling noise was normal.

As he ascended, chatter buzzed into the comm system.

“What’s that P3?”

The chatter cleared into actual sentences as P3 adjusted the frequency.

“-ing is not fitted properly. Repeat, Aethersprite Delta-7 please identify yourself-” Anakin flicked it off. Trust traffic control to kill his flow.

“PLEASE KEEP TO DESIGNATED SKYLANES,” bleated P3, taking up the burden instead. Anakin dodged a passing CorSec speeder.

“Will do,” he lied, “While I find one, you wanna do the hyperspace calculations?”

“DESTINATION?”

“Uh…” He hadn’t thought that far. Tatooine was probably weeks away, Naboo had way too much water just lying about– Where else had he been? Oh, that’s right: nowhere, because Obi-Wan didn’t care about him. “Batuu?” He could probably beat up a few smugglers in the name of justice before the Jedi caught wind of it. Talk about selfless heroism.

He hit the upper flight levels and powered through into the mesosphere. Considering the thin air at this altitude, there was a lot of turbulence. The shaking was beginning to make his arm buzz and it became a disproportionate effort to keep the control-stick level.

“LIGHTSPEED CALCULATIONS COMPLETE,” announced P3.

“Great, just in time,” replied Anakin, flicking some switches, at least three of which were relevant, “I’ll just make the jump now.”

As he pulled the jump ignition, P3 began screaming and the rattling grew louder. The pinprick stars became needle-thin lines became the whirl of blue and white he hadn’t seen since the last journey from Naboo. On that trip, the pilots hadn’t let him in the cockpit during the initial jump, so this would probably have been way better if not for the awful clatter of the hyperdrive and the eventual tear of engines sputtering out of commission. Maybe that was why he had never seen anyone make jumps in-atmosphere. Or perhaps the issue was related to the ring’s latching mechanism. Really, it was anyone’s guess.

P3’s wails had become spluttering, staticky sobs, which was honestly a poor display in a droid with no fear subprogram. The ring flew off the Aethersprite, plunging it back into normal space with a roar.

“Well that sucked,” Anakin said indignantly. His flying had been flawless, too!

P3, between choked bleeps, lit up the speedometer – the hyperspace ring was no longer pushing them beyond the light limit but neither had any reverse-thrusters been engaged, leaving them at a healthy constant speed of only-just-slower-than-light, which was probably fine – and the scanner – there was a planet about thirty light-seconds in front of them, which was probably less fine at their current speed.

“Okay, so it still sucks,” Anakin amended.

He slammed on the brakes and almost blacked out as G-force slammed on him in return. Rude. His old pod-racer never had this issue. He tried easing their deceleration more slowly, which involved less blacking out but also made slowing to pedestrian speeds before hitting the planet somewhat less feasible.

No matter; Anakin was an expert pilot and even more skilled at having incredible luck. This would be easy.

Within twenty seconds, they hit nature’s drag chute: the atmosphere. P3 tried to draw Anakin’s attention to their steep angle and high speed as if these weren’t things that Anakin already knew. They did seem more relevant when the entire ship’s hull flew alight, however, so he attempted to shallow out their descent.

The control-stick was uncooperative and everything began to shake as he tugged it as far back as he could. How was he supposed to pilot if the ship refused to do what he wanted it to do?

After five long seconds, the heat died and they plunged into a cloud bank. Everything past the tips of the Aethersprite’s wings was obscured by a white thicker than Obi-Wan’s skull, which was impressive if disorienting. He felt the control-stick hit full lock and a few of the many warning indicators seemed appeased.

Another five seconds, and P3 stopped screaming about their speed and started screaming about their altitude. The clouds remained steadfast.

“I’ve made an executive decision,” declared Anakin, “As captain of this ship, I say we attempt what we in the industry call a ‘terrain-assisted braking maneuver’.”

P3 did not respond particularly coherently, which Anakin chose to interpret as a vote of confidence. It did wonders for his self-esteem.

In a blink, the clouds vanished and a deep green forest appeared. P3 squeaked. Anakin grimaced. His hand was losing all sensation from gripping the control-stick so tightly, still in full lock, but their downwards momentum still overpowered the thrusters even as the Delta’s nose finally rose above the horizon. He gunned the accelerator away from the surface and his body felt heavier than the ship itself.

The ship jolted as it made contact with the treetops. Anakin switched to reverse-thrusters as the nose once again pitched downwards. Slugshot snaps crackled around them as trees snapped against the ship. He scrunched his eyes closed and braced.

Soil and splinters erupted as they collided with the ground. Anakin lurched painfully into his safety straps. P3’s voice cut off. The grinding of earth against hull slowed them to a stop and Anakin fell back against his seat.

Smoldering wiring filled the cockpit with an awful acidic smell so he tugged his straps off and pushed his way out after only a second of shaky breathing. Anakin was nothing if not practical.

“Do you think it’s gonna blow up?” he asked P3 from a safe distance. P3 seemed not to appreciate the thought but ran cursory diagnostics anyway.

As he waited, Anakin looked behind the ship and saw the gaping furrow they had left in the ground. Further away, a clumsy cut ran through the trees and a couple of wisps of smoke trailed lazily into the milk-blue sky.

All in all, an impeccable landing. The forest had looked well dull before anyway, and now it had a sick scar. You’re welcome, forest.

P3 decided that nothing was about to explode, but that the ship was fully inoperational, even if Anakin just wanted to take it on a spin to the nearest mountain range. He acquiesced that the assessment seemed about right, but also loudly proclaimed that P3 was a killjoy and a coward. P3 didn’t seem to care. Anakin kicked a clod of earth in defiance.

The ground was covered in small, stiff leaves from the pointy-looking trees around them. They were waxy little spits that more resembled star stripes than anything useful for photosynthesis. As he knelt to pick some up, he realised that the entire forest smelt like them – a fresh, emerald sort of smell. They were pretty incredible, for leaves; Anakin had certainly never seen anything like them. He shoved some in a belt pouch.

Now that he was looking at the ground, he noticed wooden, grenade-like things peppered amongst the leaf litter. This forest kept on getting more and more curious. Unfortunately, none of them would fit in his pouches. Jedi really needed some good pockets that could fit any important scientific discoveries in them. It was a severe oversight, in Anakin’s humble opinion.

Something rustled abruptly, snapping Anakin out of his Jedi-like contemplations, seed-pod still in hand. He scanned the surrounding thickets. Plants, plants, leaves, plants, thorny plants…

Claws!

A blur of red flew at his face and he stumbled backwards, tripping over a bush. Batting the wild beast away from his face, he felt himself fall further than anticipated through the undergrowth into empty air. For a suspended moment, all he could see was blue sky and grey rockface. Then his back collided with something that promptly gave way and let him fall onto solid stone.

Perfect.

...

Obi-Wan Kenobi was walking at an unpanicked pace through the halls of the Jedi Temple and casually inspecting child-sized nooks and crannies in a manner completely befitting of a master who knew exactly where his padawan was. He had been doing this for half an hour and wasn’t shaking in the slightest.

He was just doing a routine inspection of the gap between a bronzium statue and a wall when Master Windu walked past, stopped, watched Obi-Wan innocently test the screws on a ventilation covering, and said, “Knight Kenobi.”

Obi-Wan sprang upright. “Master Windu.”

“Have you lost your padawan?” Was he really that obvious? No, that couldn’t be it; Master Windu was just unusually perceptive. Perhaps shatter-points were giving him away – nowhere was it written that they didn’t highlight underperforming masters. Even so, it was probably wise not to confirm anything. The last thing Obi-Wan needed was a council member judging his guardianship skills.

“Oh no, not at all. I know exactly where he is.”

Master Windu’s expression was as flat as Anakin’s heart rate would be once this was over. Shatter-points were dirty snitches.

“Thank you for your concern, Master,” added Obi-Wan, respectfully.

Master Windu looked at him dead in the eye for a solid five seconds. Obi-Wan had seen him level a similar look at Qui-Gon several times in the past, and found it unnerving to now be the target. However, Qui-Gon’s experiences taught him that it was best to ride these looks out like a bad spice trip, i.e. with as little motion as possible. How either of them knew what a bad spice trip felt like was irrelevant.

The five seconds were up, only having been slightly uncomfortably stretched, and Master Windu blinked.

“Well,” he said, dryly, “Good luck with your endeavours, Knight Kenobi, whatever they may be.” With one spare glance to the ventilation covering, he continued down the corridor.

Obi-Wan was not naive enough to think himself completely free of suspicion but he was hopeful that nothing would come of it until he could thrust Anakin by the shoulders into Master Windu’s personal space and say ‘See? I have him right here!’ in a serene and Jedi-like manner as if he had nothing to prove. Of course, he would like to prove his capabilities anyway. Just as soon as Anakin was present…

He closed his eyes and fumbled for the Master-Padawan bond that connected him to Anakin. It wasn’t usually strong enough to get much other than vague impressions from, but now it seemed to be stretched thinner than usual, only telling him that Anakin was alive. That was a relief to know, to an extent, but also concerning since there was so little to point him in the right direction. He poked the bond and felt nothing.

Why had he taken on a padawan? Padawans get into fights and then run off and make you worry and then the Council finds out and then you have to try and justify it all and –

Obi-Wan sighed. Running a hand over his beard, he peered down the hallway that Master Windu had taken. Empty. He could probably make it to the comms centre without any more councilmembers calling him out.

Probably. He was hopeful.

...

“Hilari? Is that you?”

Anakin looked up from what appeared to be a now-dismantled porch tarp and saw an old man opening the door to its attached house, carved into rock. A tooka was watching him from behind the man’s legs. It meowed indignantly.

“I’ve told you, the awning isn’t designed for tookas.”

“Myaeeh,” complained Hilari.

Anakin, frazzled from both of his unplanned descents and shocked out of his irritation, opened his mouth to apologise because yes, Obi-Wan he is capable of apologising when a middle-aged twi’lek woman materialised.

“Wohrin, what– Oh! Who’s your young friend?”

“You’ve met Hilari before, Mahj–”

“No, the young man covered in your porch. Blond?”

The man, Wohrin, gave Mahj’s left lek an exasperated look. His eyes were pale the same way Blind Man Mikah’s had been in the bookmaker’s in Mos Espa.

“Mahj,” he said slowly, “I don’t know what colour your hair is, let alone that of whoever it is you’re referring to.”

Mahj shook her head. “I don’t have hair, Wohrin.”

“What?!”

Another twi’lek, who could have been anywhere between fifteen and thirty years old by Anakin’s poor judgement, appeared in order to chip in:

“Yeah, she lost all of her hair when the sky turned red!”

Anakin squinted at the sky… no, it was definitely still blue. Wohrin looked equally confused, which was somewhat reassuring. Somewhat.

“Keht!” snapped Mahj, “Stop lying to people! And no, Wohrin, you know I’m twi’lek; of course I don’t have hair.”

“Twi’leks don’t… Why am I only just learning this? Was no one going to tell me–”

“I’m sorry, sir.” Anakin effectively drew the growing crowd’s attention back to himself. That felt better. Wohrin blinked, only now registering that the crash hadn’t been his tooka after all. “I was in the woods and something jumped out at me and I fell through your… thing.”

“Oh, well,” huffed Wohrin, “Easily done I suppose.”

Anakin clambered to his feet and hopped away from the mess, feeling only slightly guilty.

“Hey what’s with the weird rat-tail, kid?” came a voice from the crowd.

Anakin fixed the human who had asked with a patronising look. He found such looks were incredibly effective when used by children – especially those younglings he was stuck in aurebesh lessons with three years ago. Kriffing infuriating.

“It’s not a rat-tail, it’s a braid. And it shows that I’m a padawan.”

“A what-a-wan?”

“Oh, I know what they are,” chimed another bystander, “One of them beat up my cousin on Alsakan. They’re like really small Jedi.”

“You mean an apprentice?”

“Yeah, only I don’t think they do carving work.”

“Not all apprentices learn stonemasonry, genius.”

Another crowd member interrupted: “Hey, cadaban, have you come to help with the beast?”

That triggered a fervour in the onlookers, all snapping their attention back to him with loud expectation.

“... The what?” Anakin wasn’t sure he liked the way this conversation was going.

“The beast!” exclaimed the crowd.

“It’s massive–”

“–Taller than me–”

“–Big claws–”

“–In the quarry–”

“–The mine–”

“–Tentacles–”

“–Blue–”

“–Hang on, I thought it was red–”

“–It’s invisible–!”

“–No, it’s not, it’s–”

“–Firebreathing!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” shouted Anakin over the clamour, “Has anyone here actually seen it?” Everyone turned to a tall ovissian, who flinched. “What does it look like?”

“Uh, I didn’t see much of it, just– um, mostly heard crashes and saw– saw rocks falling from the ceiling in the mines. But when I caught a glimpse, it sort of looked all–” He made a vague and thoroughly unhelpful gesture which may have indicated size. Or maybe temperament. “–Y’know?”

Anakin definitely did not know, but he wasn’t about to admit that to the congregation. “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said instead. The ovissian sighed with relief. “And what exactly do you need me to do about it?”

One exasperated person shouted from the back. “Kill it of course!”

“Or at least move it out of the mines,” offered Mahj.

“Yeah, we need the mines or our economy will go to chisk!”

“The entire economy?” Anakin couldn’t imagine mines being quite that important when there was a massive forest right… Huh, it was higher up than he remembered. Right up a stone cliff, the one Wohrin’s home was carved out of.

“The entire economy! We’re a mining town, stone-masons and blacksmiths. Why else would build our houses in a quarry?”

This was the first Anakin had heard of ‘quarries’. Really, the whole trip so far had been quite the broadening of his horizons. He didn’t know why Obi-Wan didn’t take him off-world sooner, he was always promoting this kind of thing. Peculiar.

That being said, this whole beast business was not what he had been anticipating and the idea of facing an invisible, firebreathing, tentacled monster on his own was suddenly way more terrifying than the plan of facing a horde of smugglers had been. What if it was like the krayt dragons of Tatooine, wild with impersonal ferocity and an appetite for small humans? That would be an incredibly anticlimactic end for the Chosen One; he was fully anticipating his death to be in a great ball of flame, Obi-Wan watching heartbroken as his awesome and flawless apprentice fulfils his destiny. That would be cool. Dying alone in a mine in the middle of nowhere would not be.

“Um… You know, beasts aren’t really my department. And… I don’t have my beast-removal equipment with me right now.” Airtight excuse. Foolproof.

“You’re just scared!” exclaimed someone who nobody asked.

“He’s not even a proper Jedi yet,” added someone else, “There’s no way he could take that thing on by himself, I bet he doesn’t even have a laser-sword!”

“Now, hold on–” All thoughts of avoiding the beast flew out of the metaphorical window. “I never said I wouldn’t do it! I have my lightsaber right here:”

The crowd stepped back as it ignited in his hand. Yeah, that’s right, he wasn’t some dumb initiate and this was his chance to prove it.

...

The comms centre had several private rooms for important calls and conferences. It also had better hardware than the commlinks Jedi took into the field.

Obi-Wan had plugged his own commlink into a rarely-used port in the console and tried to call Anakin. As he had expected, there was no answer. With the right tinkering of the console’s receiver, however, the target signal had been traced to a sparsely populated planet barely a minute up the Corellian Run. Kaidestal.

He fought the urge to slam his head against the console. If there was a licence for padawan ownership, his would be revoked any time now. Truly, he was having a fantastic day.

He wondered how Anakin had even got offplanet and then wondered why he was wondering. At this point, it was suffice to say, ‘Shit’s fucked’ and move on.

After a few moments of meditative breathing, he straightened up, unplugged his commlink, and whisked out of the comms centre. Knowing Anakin, there was little time before something disproportionately drastic happened. Force, what did he do to end up in this position?

Master Plo Koon was easy enough to locate, happening to be beside the bronzium statue Obi-Wan had been inspecting earlier. He watched as Obi-Wan covered the awkwardly long stretch of corridor in order to get within civil conversation range.

“Master Koon, I am taking a short trip to Kaidestal. I shall be back by nightfall.” He gave no reasons, the man of mystery that he was, and Plo didn’t seem to mind. Plo was one of the gentlest councilmembers and therefore the best one to inform of unannounced, unauthorised trips to obscure planets. Perhaps that was exploitative of him. Perhaps his padawan shouldn’t run away.

(Plo was one of the first to hear Mace’s gossip regarding Skywalker’s potential disappearance and therefore knew damn well what Obi-Wan was doing. Plo was not, however, a snitch. Besides, he liked Kenobi – the man had an excellent taste in drinks.)

Master Koon nodded slowly, “That seems reasonable. I’ve heard they do good stone carvings there.”

“Quite,” said Obi-Wan, impatiently – no, Jedi weren’t impatient. He was merely preoccupied.

“There’s a G8 light freighter in the hangar that you can use.” Plo shifted as if to move, but it was really more of an invitation to leave.

“Thank you, Master Koon.” Not at all in the headspace to overstay his welcome, Obi-Wan began to head towards the hangar.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, young one!” Plo called after him.

“Me too,” muttered Obi-Wan under his breath. He wasn’t that young; he was twenty-eight. He was, however, too young to be dealing with feral padawans that made him feel twice his age. Why did he ever pick up Anakin, anyway?

...

The mouth of the mine was carved into the wall at the bottom of the quarry. It was darker than a Tatooinian night and he was being pushed into it by a gaggle of villagers who didn’t seem to notice his apprehension. While this was ideal for the maintenance of his reputation, it also made things move far more quickly than he had wanted.

No matter. He was a Jedi and Jedi faced terrifying monsters head on.

“This beast is gonna wish he never saw me,” he said, bravely, “Coward. Absolute… kriffin’… clown.”

“What are you doing?”

“Old Jedi trick, it’s called psychological warfare. That beast is no match for Anakin kriffing Skywalker.”

“Is the swearing necessary for psychological warfare?” asked one of the group. “It’s just I brought my daughter along…”

A roar emanated from the mine ahead, echoing terribly. The tall ovissian, now wearing his head miner’s helmet, was shaking more than the nine-year-old behind him. She was delighted by the mine monster and had spent much of the walk loudly exclaiming that she wanted it to eat the entire goddamn quarry. No one else appeared to share her enthusiasm.

“Well,” said the head miner, sounding awfully authoritative, “I think you’ll be able to find your way from here. We need to go. For… health and safety reasons. Yeah, this crowd, in this passageway? Major fire hazard. Need to clear it. I’ll take care of that, you take care of–” Another roar erupted, punctuated by a thud and the sound of rocks falling. “– That.”

Anakin was unimpressed. “Ugh, do you have to have such an aversion to being cool?” He turned to see the group’s response but found the passageway empty. He rolled his eyes. Teenagehood would suit him well, he decided.

Slowly, he took his new lightsaber off his belt. It kind of sucked that his excellent craftsmanship was impossible to see in the gloom. Alone, in the dark, with no eyes on him, he could admit that quite a few things were looking decidedly uncool right now, but Force if he didn’t want to prove Obi-Wan wrong.

He tracked the sporadic tremors to their source, which was conveniently down the single, unbranching passageway in this section of mine. Still, it required a great amount of skill and a lesser man would have walked into five support beams, which was way more than Anakin’s three. He was a credit to the Jedi Order, really, even if they couldn’t see it.

Speaking of, the mine had grown far darker the further he walked until he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. The Force was being unhelpful, merely suggesting ‘forward’, which was a no-brainer. His issue was all of the obstacles involved with ‘forwards’. If only he had packed a light.

Hang on.

Oh, Anakin Skywalker was a genius. Lateral thinking and creative problem-solving had always been his strong point, as currently being demonstrated.

His lightsaber ignited with a kzhhh. Its electric-blue glow lit his maniacal grin in harsh clarity. It also revealed the glinting eyes of something big. The grin dropped from his face as he took five steps backwards.

The passageway had opened into a small cavern without him noticing and the beast barely fit into it. Colours were difficult to make out in eerie saber-light, but its fur appeared as black as the mines, matte with dust. Large tentacles stretched out from its nose, blindly groping the walls and ceiling of the cavern as if trying to judge the environment. Massive, shovelling paws held claws almost as long as Anakin was tall. In short, it resembled a mole.

This meant that, theoretically, Anakin was at an advantage since he was decidedly not blind and had only been known to resemble a mole some of the time.

The beast was also more clumsy than Anakin, knocking support beams left and right. Luckily, none had completely shattered but, judging by their splintering fractures, it was only a matter of time. Time limits were very dramatic; this would be a worthy first mission.

Anakin waved his lightsaber in the vague direction of the mole. It was unbothered. He frowned, put out, and then poked one of its claws. Suddenly, the beast was very bothered. Its nose went from snuffling around to being thrust in Anakin’s face. Apparently it had his scent. Obi-Wan would have blamed it on Anakin’s infrequent use of the shower. Anakin would have responded that he grew up in the desert and then accused him of not caring about wasting water on trivial matters. This would put a glint of annoyance in Obi-Wan’s eyes and Anakin would count it as a victory.

The mole exploited his distraction, dishonourable as it was, yanking him off the ground with a thick face-tentacle and shaking him irritably. He tried hitting the disgustingly writhing mass with the hilt of his lightsaber – ineffective. Then he slashed it with the blade and got catapulted into a wall. His vision failed and the back of his head killed, but he was quickly grabbed by the ankle and dragged across the floor. Massive, sharp claws came swinging at him. This was not good.

Quick, what would Obi-Wan do?

“Hey, you suck!” he shouted, voice wobbling as he dove out of the way of another slash, “No one likes you! You should just stop and go away!”

The mole monster may also have been deaf since it only continued its previous level of violence despite the scathing insults. He dodged a claw, jumping into a swinging tentacle which smashed him into a support beam. Splinters pierced his robes, digging into his right arm as it collided with the beam. His lightsaber flew from his hand and he fell to the ground, spinning to narrowly avoid landing on the hurt arm. All light in the cavern vanished as his saber-blade extinguished.

All of a sudden, the lightsaber argument from that morning felt like a moot point. A lot of things were looking very moot now, in the dark.

He could hear the shuffle of tentacles searching the floor and the scratching of claws against stone. The mole was snuffling loudly around for him. His arm hurt.

Fighting the urge to curl up by the wall, he slowly climbed to his feet and looked the monster dead where he thought its eye could be. Warm air huffed in his face, blowing his braid back. Everything was still for a moment and then a tentacle whipped around his knees and flipped him upside down into the air. He definitely did not yelp.

The sound of a lightsaber igniting came from the tunnel, then pounding footsteps and then Obi-Wan ran in, illuminating the cavern walls around him. Something intangible yanked Anakin out of the mole’s grasp and into Obi-Wan’s arms.

Anakin struggled to escape the strong left arm that wrapped across his torso, efficiently immobilising him. “Hey, I had it under control, you know.” He gave up, reaching his good hand out and calling his lightsaber back to it. “Still do, actually.”

“Sure,” replied Obi-Wan, not letting go even as a tentacle lunged at him. He jumped backwards, slashing the support beam that Anakin had dented. They dove into the tunnel as the cavern rumbled. The mole roared back. There was a terrible creaking of splintering wood and then the cavern ceiling fell in. Dust and rock made the air thick.

Quiet.

Anakin looked up at Obi-Wan from where he was pressed against his chest and saw a strangled sort of sorrow.

“Poor thing,” croaked Obi-Wan. Then he looked at Anakin with a clenched jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those. I could have studied it.”

It was almost enough to make Anakin apologise.

...

Obi-Wan dragged his padawan by his collar until they reached the mine’s entrance. The villagers who had pointed him inside were crowded around and erupted into cheers as soon as they stepped into the light.

One elbowed the head miner playfully. “Told you he was the madawan’s Jedi.”

“Shut up,” said the ovissian, who then raised his voice above the chattering. “Thank you, Master Jedi, for your assistance. Uh, what exactly is the status of the, uh…”

“It’s dead,” Obi-Wan replied, bluntly, “And I’m afraid you may also need to reinforce the tunnel’s structural integrity. I apologise on behalf of my padawan –”

“Hey!”

“Of course, he will also apologise himself.”

Their eyes met in a match of wills. Anakin sighed, just loud enough for Obi-Wan to hear, and acquiesced.

“My sincere apologies,” he muttered, bowing shallowly. Obi-Wan had definitely taught him better manners than this; the child was just showing him up. Ungrateful womp-rat.

Fortunately, the villagers weren’t versed in bows and didn’t seem invested in apologies. Most were preoccupied by the mine and the new lack of angry mole. Small blessings, perhaps.

...

After manhandling the still-hot wreck of Anakin’s Aethersprite into the freighter Obi-Wan had brought and flying the brief trip back to the Temple, Obi-Wan was reaching the end of his patience. He left the ships with the hangar’s mechanics and dragged Anakin away from any chance of helping them. Their trip to the Halls of Healing were brief – the healers were efficient in removing the splinters and wrapping Anakin’s arm in bacta-soaked bandages. He only complained about half as much as he usually did.

They marched double-time to their rooms and Obi-Wan locked the door behind him; he could not cope with Anakin sneaking out at night.

“Master?” The voice was small. Obi-Wan tried not to let his ire show in his look. Perhaps if Anakin was squinting it would work. He was not. Instead he was holding out a hand full of pine needles and another with several small pinecones. “While I was on that planet, I found these for you to study. I’ve never seen them before; they could be revolutionary.”

Obi-Wan sighed, not having the heart to tell him that pine trees were fairly common throughout the galaxy. Anakin dropped his revolutionary finds into his hands, having to scrape off some of the pine needles that stuck.

“Thank you, Padawan. That was very thoughtful of you.”

“There were some bigger ones of these,” he added, pointing to the pinecones, “but I couldn’t fit them in my belt and some of the wildlife tried to fight me for them.”

“A squirrel?”

“I dunno, I didn’t see it very well. It was kinda fast. Reminded me of you, a bit.”

“How so?”

“Red,” said Anakin, nodding to Obi-Wan’s head, “And it didn’t like me picking up things off the floor.”

Obi-Wan huffed. “As long as you weren’t trying to eat pinecones.”

“Is that what they’re called?”

“Yes. Although I suppose I’d have to… study them. To make sure.”

Anakin’s face lit up. “Wizard.”

Obi-Wan’s annoyance was almost forgotten. Not quite. He was still a responsible Jedi master, no matter what the Council speculated.

There was a knock on the door. Obi-Wan looked at Anakin, who grimaced back. He opened it with very little hesitation.

“Knight Kenobi.” Speak of a Sith…

“Master Windu,” said Obi-Wan, far more brightly than he was feeling.

“Have you located your padawan?”

“Of course; he’s right here, Master.” He pulled Anakin out from behind his legs. Anakin attempted a winning smile, but nerves appeared to crumple it slightly. He had always been intimidated by Master Windu – first impressions were a force to be reckoned with. “I knew exactly where he was.” It was technically true, if you were selective about your timeframe.

Master Windu gave Anakin one of his signature piercing gazes, the kind that seems to expose one’s every weakness and warn against them. Anakin seemed to get the message. Hopefully he would keep it for at least a week before he inevitably threw it out.

“If that’s the case, I won’t need to launch a search party. Good night, Kenobi.”

“May the Force be with you, Master Windu.”

After Master Windu had left and Anakin had gone to bed still shaken from the encounter, Obi-Wan contemplated ditching the Temple and his wayward padawan for Bail Organa’s whiskey collection. Alderaan always made the best whiskey…

...

Art by me, @dib-leo-pard

#star wars fanfiction #star wars prequels #ao3 fanfic #anakin fanfiction #anakin skywalker #obi-wan kenobi #fanfiction #fanfic #star wars

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everyonesawhoregrace · 4 years

Text

O B S E S S I O N S - 04 “I’m Not Going Anywhere”

Her fingers danced along the piano. It's the crack of dawn, the beginning of a new day. Music flowed from the keys, dancing its way throughout the couples small home. The smell of camomile tea whisked with a hint of cinnamon.

Cleo hasn't slept very much, the overwhelming urge to hiccup as her acid reflux continued to punish her. She was tossing and turning in bed, unable to do anything but sit up and drink heaps of water.

It was a day after Arthur was over for dinner. A day after Tommy and Cleo slumped back into their chairs and dragged their sorry arses to clear up the table.

She was biting on her lip, recalling what happened only a few hours ago. She recalls Arthur's foul mouth, she recalls Tommy defending her.

Cleo's fingers moved like zipping bees, she was fast as she got lost in thought.

Her eyes watered as she kept on hearing Arthur's hurtful words. You ought to put a muzzle on that one, she's got a foul mouth like her mother.

I am nothing like her, she repeated over and over, trying to keep herself from crying but poor Cleo couldn't help herself.

It was perhaps, the biggest insecurity of hers. Her mum. Greta was frail, and weak, and an addict. She couldn't provide for her child, and it embarrassed Cleo more than anything seeing how well treated her fellow classmates were. Coming to school with full bellies and a clean clothes. She saw all the mums walking their children to school, kissing them away. Cleo didn't know that lifestyle, nearly every morning she'd have to step over her drunk mum to get to the door. She hated her mum, but she also loved her tremendously.

It was a twisted relationship, but it was something Cleo endured for years.

The memory of her mum, the way she'd choose morphine over her starving daughter. Fill her belly up with liquor, while Cleo was forced to suffer.

Cleo's hand fell over her belly, she swallowed, feeling her throat swell up. "I'll never be like her, little one. I promise you, your papa and I, we'll protect you..."

The sound of his screams jolts Cleo to her feet, she races down the hall, to their bedroom. He wails, he arms thrashing all over the place. He screams, begging for someone to help him. She instantly begins to shake, petrified for her husband.

What used to happen to her lover all the time, only happens once in a while. This night terror that didn't seem to go away. She would grab him, and shake him awake, assure him that he's safe. He's home.

She rushed to his aid, and coddled him. Cleo got on her knees, looking at him as she run her hand over his face. He was sweating, but it was chilly indoors.

"Tommy," She breathed, pressing her lips together. "Tom, wake up!" She shook him. "You're home! You're here, Tommy. You're here!"

He squeezed his eyes shut, thrashing. She tried to gather his arms in her hands, but he was too strong.

"Thomas please!" She begged, her getting louder, closing her eyes.

Finally, he had snapped out of the mines that he was suffocating in and gasped a breath. He sat up, grabbing his chest.

"Tommy," Cleo stood and sat down beside him. "Baby," her hands fell on his cheeks. "You okay?"

He stares blankly into her eyes. The two sit in silence as he catches his breath.

"Cleo..." He manages finally, breathlessly. I'm home.

He was stuck in the mines, it was an ongoing nightmare he had. Where it was him, alone, and the dirt around him tremors and it craves in on him.

"I'm just buried alive." He retells the story as she pours him a cup of tea. "It's like, I can breathe, I know I can breathe, but around me is just dirt. No sign of life. And I'm dying, suffocating, six-feet under, being crushed begging for help but no one can hear me..."

She catches a tear from her eyes as she sits down across from him. Rather than reaching for the cup of tea, he reaches for her hand.

"Did I scare you?" He leans in and wipes under her eye. "You cryin'?"

"Yes but-" She shakes her head, "Tommy, don't worry about me!" She sniffles and begins to cry all over again. Cleo wraps her arms around him and rests her head on his shoulder. "I just hate to see you hurting." She exhales, squeezing him, "I love you so much, baby."

He shuts his eyes, listening to the vibrations of her voice drum against his. Here is where home is. In her arms, fuck everything else. There's no one else in this world like Cleo. Not a single soul who'll listen the way she does.

"I love you so much more." He plants a soft kiss under her earlobe and tucks his head in her neck.

There's nothing better than being in her arms, he's certain of this. And she's just as positive about that too, he's such a good hugger.

But it's Cleo who pulls away first, out of curiosity she asks. "Are you feeling better?"

He glances down at her, his eyes a cloudy grey.

Finally, Cleo gets up, I know what'll help.

"Come on," She extends her hand, "Let's take a bath."

The two sit naked in their bath, it's Tommy against the tub, studying Cleo's back. He soaks her skin with the deliciously warm water, that has hints of lavender in it. He listens to her moan as he drags his teeth along her shoulder. He kisses her softly, unable to help himself. She giggles as he kisses the back of her neck, Cleo's always been ticklish.

She quickly pulls herself away, turning around to face him. The two now opposite to each other, looking at one another. He notices her nipples popping up above the water.

"I have to tell you something." He begins, submerging himself beneath the water. He comes back up, the steam rolls off of his body.

He stares intently at her before continuing. "I would be lying if I said I wasn't seriously considering taking up Arthur's offer in joining the Peaky Blinders."

Cleo's natural, and instinctual reaction would be to bicker at Tommy. Call him naive for thinking it was ok to join the Peaky Blinders. The mere thought of him joining the gang, it's borderline suicide!

"So, what's stopping you?" She asks, thinking she should probably have thanked him for being so transparent. It's a quality she always admired about Tommy, he wore his heart on his sleeve. He was always honest, he didn't hide much. Unless it was for her own good.

"I don't want things between you and I to change." He murmurs, a trace of fear in his voice.

Her mouth dries as she digests his words.

He's right, ultimately, things between the two would change if he did join the gang. With a lot of money, the two could create a lot of problems. Not to mention, the lifestyle of Arthur and John was fuck women and get money. There was nothing substantial. They had a fully loaded pistol in one hand, and their dicks in the other!

Tommy had a future in front of him, the two were working towards that. Train horses, teach children, out one of them up in the Darby. Raise a family, be merry, and proud. Grow old someday and have their children take care of them. The two were working towards that! A life together, a good, meaningful life.

Cleo frowns, looking at her hands through the clear water. "Why do you want join them?" She pauses, before meeting his eyes. "Is it the money?"

He runs a wet hand through his hair. "Yes. And the instability, I don't want you to have to count your change at the market. God forbid our child struggles to afford a simple snack..."

"We can find the money in an easier, legal way, Thomas." She looks him straight in the eyes. "You saw how lost your brother looked yesterday..." She hated mentioning it, but it was true! Arthur had red around his eyes, he looked drunk and high.

"I'm just saying I need to support my family, and I trust myself enough to know that I'm not as weak as Arthur is..."

"What are you talking about?" She inhaled. Wow this conversation has taken a turn. "Baby," He's been really thinking about this. Damn it. "What's going on?"

His eyes blaze, and though he doesn't raise his voice, she can tell he's trying to rein in his temper.

Thomas swallows, "The bills are piling up, Cleo, we can barely afford a crib for the baby let alone groceries."

"Then I'll sell the gold I got from my mums friend."

"And what happens when that runs out?" He raises an eyebrow, challenging her.

"Then, then we find you a job in the city. I'll see if I can work-" She responds sternly.

His eyes narrow. "You're pregnant."

"You are not joining them!" She shouts.

Blue eyes watch her closely. Cleo. Thomas almost gives up, he wants to hold her. But Cleo looks up, her lips tilt downwards. She lets out a shaky breath, pressing her hand to her forehead. A tear rolls down her cheek.

"I nearly lost you when you left for France, Thomas. I nearly lost you. It was a dammed miracle that you came back to me. And now you want to join a gang whose motto is, 'don't fuck with us or else we'll blind youse'? Has it ever occurred to you that I have no idea what to do if there is no you?!"

Thomas sits there, petrified to say anything as she weeps. This whole pregnant this is still a shock to him, Cleo cries at everything. She overthinks way too much. Who the fuck said I was going anywhere?

He pulls in through the water and leaves no space between him and Cleo. He tilts her chin up, "I'm not going anywhere, ey?"

"You don't understand how much you mean to me..." She struggles to say, crying helplessly. She clings onto those words, wishing they'd wrap around his head before it's too late.

"Cleo, look at me,"

She does, wide-eyed and sad.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby, alright?"

She doesn't nod, doesn't frown. His eyes shine as he leans down and kisses her gently. Cleo feels herself responding automatically. She latches onto his body, matching her kisses with his. He grabs both sides of her head and kisses her deeply, devouring his mouth with hers. The atmosphere of the bathroom changes, from a rage and arguing, to pure sex.

Cleo gets on her knees as Tommy grabs her hips, she slowly eases into him without another thought. She gasps into his mouth, as he groans, closing his eyes. Clasping the baths ledge, Cleo moves up and down, with the help of Tommy's hands.

"Ahhhhh." She rocks back and forth against his cock, he fills her up, and she can't help but cry out his name. Finally, Thomas kisses her breasts, biting on her nipples.

"Please!" She cries out, begging for more.

Thomas listens and meets her thrusts with his own. Matching hers, each time. She leans down, kissing him firmly. "I'm so close..." She pours into his mouth.

Thomas can feel himself getting higher and higher. He grabs a handful of her hair and pulls, tilting her head back. Thomas kisses her neck, licking her, nibbling on her skin.

"Come for me..." He taunts, biting on her earlobe. "Come on baby,"

He tightens, as she freezes, and he continues. Thrusting harder and faster into her. Thomas doesn't stop as she obviously reaches her climax. But he realizes he should have because once he comes inside of her, she falls backwards and he has to catch her from falling.

"Oh my..." Her eyes open and she smiles all lopsided. "I don't think I can get out of this tub."

He chuckles, unplugging the sink. "I think you're due for a nap,"

She nods. "Good idea."

He carries his wife to their bed and tucks her in. She falls asleep instantly, sex is amazing, but with her being pregnant she wears out pretty easily. Thomas watches her sleep, smiling at her beauty. Her innocence.

"Hey," He whispers into her ear, coming out her hair. "I won't do it if you want to me okay? I love you."

#obsessions #everyonesawhoregrace

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antihero-writings · 4 years

Text

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes:

I've actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry's age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn't have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn't write it because I was afraid I'd bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn't finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I'd just go for it. I'm still afraid I won't finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven't finished any of my other, shorter, long fics...) but I didn't want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don't finish it, at least I'll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue...please please please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Writing fics like this is a lot of effort, and while I do write them for my own enjoyment...it is still very difficult for me to find the motivation to continue them. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me gaining the motivation to continue, and leaving the fic behind.

Also, if there are any artists who are interested in drawing cover art for this fic don't hesitate to say so!! You can comment so below, or message me!!

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

And the world did feel hollow.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled more than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

Theory five: The diary was Tom’s. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was Tom’s, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snakes venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): Tom killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic— like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

Tom stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

An even odder response.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys? Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young. Why did he hate him so much? It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

Tom backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch gross enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yup, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

He could tell he wanted to.

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

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bby-calum · 5 years

Text

Gone - Bucky Barnes

synopsis: an old friend comes to visit and his shocking revelation leaves you feeling lost

word count: 1,372

masterlist: link in bio!

a/n: i haven’t written anything for my man bucky barnes in a hot minute so enjoy this sad fic - also this is my first time writing a pairing where one character is not actually in the fic if that makes any sense, i kinda like how this one turned out!

"Just a minute!" you called as the thundering knocks at your front door continued. Cradling you two month old son close to your chest, comforting him to stop his loud wails, you made your way along the hallway and to the entrance of your house. Through the frosted glass you could make out a tall figure standing on your porch, a man.

"Steve," you said quietly as you opened your front door, shocked to see him. Your son had settled and lay quietly in your arms.

"Is that- is that yours?" Steve asked, not even saying hello, as he gestured to the baby you held.

"Yes, he's mine," you said.

"Sorry, is he," Steve paused, taking a shaky breath. "Is he Bucky's?" You hadn't seen Steve in over a year, not since you and Bucky had broken up. You'd found out you were pregnant a few weeks later.

Nodding your head you stood to the side, gesturing for Steve to enter your home. He wiped his feet carefully on the welcome mat and shrugged off his brown leather jacket, hanging it on the coat hook that stood at the bottom of the stairs, just like he used to when he came to visit Bucky when he lived here.

"He never said," Steve told you.

"He didn't know," you replied bluntly, following Steve into the living room and taking a seat in the plump armchair as he sat on the leather sofa. "Why are you here Steve?" You didn't mean to sound rude, but you were genuinely curious. What could Steve possibly want? You and Bucky had split and moved on well over a year ago and you hadn't seen Steve since, so why had he turned up on your doorstep on this Thursday afternoon?

"I needed to speak to you," he said, his stoic expression faultering. He took a deep breath. "Can I hold him?" You nodded, rising from the armchair and perching next to him, passing over your baby into Steve's gentle clutch.

"Tobias," you introduced him. Steve was in awe, taking in your son's features as Tobias looked up at him, gurgling.

"He looks so much like him," Steve commented, his breath catching in his throat. "Why didn't you tell him, y/n? He would have loved to- he would love- I- he- oh God," Steve crumbled, stumbling over his words and struggling to fight his tears.

"Steve what's going on? Has something happened to Bucky?" You placed a hand on the back of his shoulder, soothing him as he sobbed. He leaned closer to you, laying his head on your shoulder for a moment as he tried to compose himself. Wiping tears from his cheeks, you did your best to comfort him.

"He's dead, y/n. Bucky's dead," Steve managed. Tobias sensed Steve's distress as he held him close, the baby tiny compared to Steve's large figure, squirming in his arms, a small cry escaping Tobias's mouth. Steve sat back up, distracting himself by cooing at Tobias, doing his best to settle him.

Sinking deeper into the sofa you tried to process what Steve had just told you. Despite not seeing him for over a year, despite ending your relationship with him on a terribly sour note, despite not even telling him about the son you shared, news of Bucky's death devastated you.

"How?" You asked quietly after a while.

"Haven't you seen the news, y/n?" Steve asked.

"I don't really watch the television anymore, I don't have the time," you gestured to Tobias.

"Half the population is dead, wiped out, turned to dust." Steve inhaled deeply before explaining with a single word. "Thanos."

A single tear rolled down your face. You felt numb. Bucky was a superhero, for goodness sake. He wasn't supposed to die. How could he be dead?

"I was going to tell him eventually," you thought aloud. "About Tobias. I was still bitter about everything. He, he should have known. What right did I have to keep his son from him?. Now he'll never know. God, I'm such an awful person," you cried.

"You're not an awful person," Steve was quick to react. "You're doing a wonderful job of raising your son, look at him, he's brilliant. And you're doing it alone, y/n. That's not an easy thing."

"I shouldn't be doing it alone though, Steve. Bucky should be here with me." You missed him.

"What happened between you two, y/n? If you don't mind me asking. Bucky didn't like to talk about it."

"Well," you started, shakily. "We were arguing most nights. He was stressed, scared, exhausted. Work was hard for him. The guilt of all the murders he'd committed had caught up to him. I couldn't exactly reassure him that he did nothing wrong. I know, I know, before you tell me it wasn't his fault, but he still did it. It was still technically him. I wanted him to just quit playing the hero. I wanted him to just live a normal life here with me, get married, start a family, just be normal. There was one night, the night we broke up, he was so angry. He'd come home late, I was terrified something had happened to him because he didn't call or text or anything. He said he was training. I didn't believe him, the way he was talking, it was like he was hiding something from me. I thought he was cheating on me. It was like a switch flipped. He was so angry, I've never seen him like that. I thought he was going to kill me, the look in his eyes was terrifying. He was ranting and raving at me, screaming profanities at the top of his lungs. Anyway, eventually he said that he wasn't cheating on me, but he wished that he was." You paused for a moment, wiping away the tears that stung your eyes. "I told him to get out. He left, and I never saw him again."

Steve was silent for a while, struggling for words.

"You don't have to pity me, Steve," you reassured him. "He wasn't perfect but neither was I. We weren't right for each other."

"He loved you," Steve half-whispered. "He loved you so much, y/n. After you guys split up he was a wreck. He would never tell us what had happened. He said he was too ashamed."

"It was my fault," you shook your head. "He needed me to be there for him and all I did was accuse him of shit he didn't do."

Tobias started to cry as you and Steve sat in silence. Steve did his best to comfort your son once again but one glance at the clock that hung on the wall told you it was feeding time. You took your son from Steve's arms.

"He needs feeding," you told Steve.

"I should go," Steve rose from his seat on the sofa, grateful of an excuse to escape the awkward atmosphere in your living room. You followed him out into the hallway, watching as he put on his jacket. Pausing as he reached the front door, Steve turned to you. "I'm sorry, y/n. I'm sorry this has happened and you two didn't get a chance to work things out. I'm sorry he's gone."

"Me too, Steve."

Once Steve had left and Tobias had been fed, you lay your son in his baby bouncer and reached for the box of photographs and memories you had kept from your relationship with Bucky, bringing it down from its dusty spot on the top shelf of your bookcase. Sifting through the endless photographs of you and Bucky, movie ticket stubs and receipts from dinner dates, you allowed yourself to mourn him and mourn your relationship. Quietly sobbing as your son gurgled beside you, you vowed to yourself that Tobias would know who his father was. He would be raised in a household where pictures of his mother and father adorned the walls, he would know what his father did and how many people he had saved. Tobias would know his past, where he came from and who he was. He would know he was the son of a great man.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #boyfriend!bucky #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine #Winter Soldier #Steve Rogers #chris evans #marvel #infinity war #dad!buckybarnes #dad!sebastianstan #dad!bucky

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the-quiet-winds · 5 years

Text

Silence Screaming Over Your Words (part two)

if you all got so upset over part one, just wait to see what @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i have in store for you coming up...

warnings for this story: very blunt conversations of death, but also just death

[part one]

[Part 2: Distance Taking its Toll]

the night, obviously, is a very, very long one.

the physician comes and goes every hour, and jane seems to be getting worse with each visit.

katherine finally cries herself to sleep, tears buried in her pillowcase as she fits through the night, her nurse barely able to soothe her to sleep each time.

by six the next morning, jane is clinging onto her life by her fingertips, sweating and writhing, chest aching, and it pains everyone on her staff to see.

“i’ve seen this happen before,” a maid tells a member of the kitchen staff gravely. “when i was in the household of master cromwell. the lady of the house went first, then the two little girls, god rest their souls.”

the physician indeed checks in on katherine in the morning to see if she was displaying any symptoms after her restless night, but besides her obvious emotional anguish she seems perfectly healthy.

katherine, as soon as her evaluation is finished, plants herself on the floor outside of jane's room, in her nightgown, and refuses to move.

tears flow down her face rapidly as she watches her mother writhe and cough, gripping her chest and sputtering for air, but the staff attempts to assure her that jane is strong enough to pull through.

then, at just shy of ten, jane falls completely still and her chest stops moving.

“mama?” katherine’s eyes are wide, and before anyone can stop her she rushes in. she makes it almost all the way to the bed before the physician steps in, examining jane.

“she’s still alive,” he says quietly. “but she’s getting weaker.”

“come on, katherine, lets give the physician some space,” her nurse tries to usher her out of the room, but katherine stands firm, staring at jane.

“i need to see her!”

the nurse and physician exchange a glance.

“we shouldn’t let you get too close,” he says finally.

with a quick examination of the room, the nurse pulls katherine back a few steps.

“this is the best we should do, katherine,” she explains, “we don’t want you to catch this.”

jane’s face is shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her cheeks and forehead as her chest barely rises and falls.

katherine watches with wide, tearful eyes, convinced she was witnessing her mother pass away without being able to say goodbye.

her mind goes to the stupid argument she had with jane before, where katherine had stormed off and told jane that she wasn’t her mum, and she feels shame and regret fill her entire mind. hot tears spill from her eyes and she hastily scrubs them away.

she sits in the middle of the floor, knees pulled to her chest, unable to look at jane. would the woman go, pass on with her last memory of katherine being a defiant brat?

would katherine never be able to apologize for what she’d done?

as she thinks, face buried in her knees, jane’s wheezing breaths and tight, choked pleas reach her ears, and she suddenly has a memory, one of her birth mother in a very similar situation-

katherine gives a tiny gasp. would both of her mothers die the same way, leaving katherine alone in the world again?

it wasn’t fair. this wasn’t fair. none of it was fair!

was god punishing her for not being a good enough daughter? she got a second chance, but she was ungrateful and so jane is being taken away from her.

she tries desperately and suddenly to scramble to her feet and get closer to jane, wanting to hug her tightly and never let go, but her nurse grabs her and holds her back. katherine kicks and screams, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she knows she must be kicking her nurse but she can’t care about anything except jane right now.

her nurse’s arms are wrapped around her upper chest, holding her tight as she croons reassurances. with slow steps, she pulls katherine back and out of the room, the head of the household locking the door and tucking the key in her pocket.

“we can’t risk you taking ill as well,” she says apologetically. “if lady seymour does pass, god-forbid, we will do everything in our power to keep you safe, katherine,” she promises.

katherine whimpers and goes limp, staring at the doorway and not looking at any of the adults around her.

“mama,” she mumbles, all the fight leaving her. the head of the household and her nurse glance at each other uncomfortably, then the nurse reaches down to her.

“come on, katherine, sweetheart. let’s get you some food.”

katherine can’t fight back, really allowing her nurse to bring her downstairs.

the head of household slips the physician the key, and he goes in for the next examination.

he returns only a few minutes later. “it won’t be long now,” he says gravely. “it’s... it’s likely she’ll pass in the next hour.” he checks his watch. “if somehow she pulls past that, she still has a long way to go before she’s truly safe.”

the head of household looks down for a moment, then back at the physician. “what of her little girl? can she see her?”

the physician sighs softly. “in half an hour it may be worth bringing her in to say her goodbyes, but she cannot get too close to lady jane. we can’t let the poor girl get ill too.”

the half hour crawls by, the physician keeping his mask on as he dips in and out of jane’s room, ensuring she was still alive, but she was fading fast.

“come, katherine,” the head of household says, holding a hand out for katherine to take. the girl gets off the bench where her nurse and her had been eating, and the head of household leads her upstairs and into jane’s room, firmly holding her shoulders several feet from the bed. “you should say goodbye,” the woman instructs, voice thick with her own grief.

katherine stares over at jane, almost motionless on the bed, and her eyes fill with tears for what feels like the hundredth time that day.

“mama, i’m sorry,” she chokes out. she instinctively tries to step closer but the hands on her shoulders keep her still. “i’m sorry, mama. please don’t leave me.”

katherine’s tears turned angry for a moment. “you promised you’d never leave me,” she whispers. then everything inside of her bursts out, a hurricane tearing into the room. “you can’t leave me!” she wails. “i need you, mama!”

the woman on the bed doesn’t respond, other than a sputtering breath weaker than the last.

the physician looks over to the head of household, concern clear on his expression. “it might be best to take her out of here, now,” he says quietly. katherine hears, however, and she panics.

“no! don’t take me away from mama, please!”

“you can stay,” the head of household says quickly. “just- just, calm down, katherine.”

katherine does her best, trying to slow her breathing with jane’s voice giving soft instructions in her head.

“mama,” she whimpers brokenly.

the single word, usually a surefire way to break jane out of any spell or thought, falls on deaf ears as jane grows weaker and paler.

“mama,” she pleads again. nothing.

katherine can barely see, the tears blurring her vision almost completely, and she feels her knees buckle. her mother isn’t quite dead yet but katherine knows in her heart what’s coming next.

and it’s all her fault.

now jane is going to die thinking that katherine hated her, that she doesn’t consider jane to be her mother, when nothing could be less true. katherine wishes she could curl up next to jane and hug her tightly, and tell her mama exactly how much she loves her and will always love her.

the head of the household, as much as she doesn't want to do it, pulls katherine back until they are out of the room once again.

it takes katherine several long seconds to understand what happened, and she begins to fight back. "i want my mama!" she cries, knowing exactly how childlike she sounds, but really doesn't care.

"we don't want you there when she passes," the physician says gently.

katherine won’t stop fighting, though. she’s never stopped fighting before and she’s not about to when her mum is on the edge of-

suddenly, jane takes a breath, choked and heavy but a lot more solid than her previous shallow ones. the physician turns around immediately and heads over to her, and katherine stills in her movements.

“what’s happening?” she asks, eyes wide. “is that good?”

the head of household takes the opportunity of katherine stopping her thrashing to close the door between them and jane.

even through the door, the wheezing, grinding breaths could be heard by katherine and the entire staff.

it drags on for several long minutes, and the maid who had worked in cromwell’s house clicked her tongue quietly. “this is what happened before the lady of the house went,” she whispers to the butler, thinking she was far enough away from katherine, but the girl heard anyway. she begins to cry again, wishing on any star and praying to anyone who would listen that her mother would pull through.

the sounds from jane’s room go quiet, and there’s no noise except katherine’s sobs.

nobody quite knows what the silence means, if jane had passed or not, and the atmosphere through the whole house is grim and melancholy.

katherine’s nurse cradles the girl on her lap, whispering soothing words that fall on deaf ears.

the physician emerges a moment later, and everyone waits with baited breath for his next words.

“she’s alive,” he mumbles, half-obscured by the mask he wears. “but only barely,” he continues, feeling everyone grew far too relaxed. “she’s extremely weak, and, if you want my honest opinion...” he falters, looking down at katherine with sympathetic eyes then back to the whole staff, “she probably won’t make it.”

katherine whimpers and clings to her nurse, closing her eyes tightly.

“no,” she chokes out. “no, no, no.” she shakes her head desperately, as if blocking out her senses and denying the situation will make it not true.

the butler stands and approaches the physician, exchanging quiet words that katherine can’t quite hear.

her nurse holds her and rocks her gently, hoping to soothe her but also knowing it was highly unlikely.

katherine had already lost one mother, how is she supposed to deal with losing another?

a thought flickers across her head, and she bends her neck down to whisper in katherine’s ear. “what if we went and saw her majesty after this is over?” she asks. she remembers how fond katherine was of anna, and maybe the thought of the german queen would help to bring the girl back to earth.

katherine doesn’t seem to register her nurse’s words. she can barely focus on anything except the thought of her mother right now, let alone of the future, of a potential future without jane.

if jane was here, she’d probably tell katherine that everything is going to be okay. she’d whisper reassuring words and tell her that she loves her, and katherine would be calmed down in mere moments.

but jane isn’t here, and it isn’t okay.

katherine’s world once again shatters.

———————————————————————————————————–

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#six the musical #six musical #katherine howard #jane seymour #julie and jess write #silence screaming over your words #flipping through my life turning pages

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