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omg-im-such-a-masochist · 3 years

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WORK FOR THAT

Prompt: Requested, by a lovely anon. Hope you’ll like it, sweetie

Word Count: Long-ish

Pairings: Rhea Ripley x Reader

Warnings: +18, smut, oral sex, dirty talk

Editor: @thenightmareismyreality

Tag: @sassymox , @waywardwrestlewritingwaif , @yungbludjazz360 , @placeoffreedom

Notes: If you’d like to check out my previous works, you can find them on my Masterlist 😉

“I think she’s into you” Asuka smirked, as she stared at Rhea, who was sitting down in one of the catering tables behind me “You should’ve seen the way she was eating you up with her eyes when you were interviewing Drew earlier” She giggled

“She is something! But also seems like trouble, so uh, no thanks” I laughed

“Come on, Y/N, how much trouble could a one night stand cause?”

“A lot when you know that it probably wouldn’t be a one time thing!”

“Oh” She smirked “And why is that?”

“Do you know me at all? If you think I could ride that face only one time and that’s it, then you don’t know me as much as I thought you did! Have you seen her? She looks like she knows exactly how to eat a pussy, ok?”

“I sure can” Rhea whispered in my ear “And if you ever want a free test drive” She slid a piece of paper on top of the table “Let me know, so I can prove it to you”

She stepped back towards the door, when she reached the doorway, she turned around and mischievously stuck her tongue out at me, the piercing in the middle catching the light

“I fucking hate you” I slapped Asuka’s arm

“Ouch” She dramatically screamed “You’re welcome! And let me know if she means it” She laughed when I got up from the table to go to the bathroom, so I could splash some water on my now burning face

……………………………………………….

My phone buzzed on top of the hotel bedroom’s nightstand

Rhea 😈: Good morning, gorgeous. When will you stop being so stubborn and come here to get that free test drive? 👅

Y/N 🍑: In your dreams, Ripley

Rhea 😈: C’mon, princess… Don’t pretend like you don’t want to 😏

Y/N 🍑: It’s not a matter of wanting, it’s a matter of doing what’s right

Rhea 😈: Exactly! And what’s right is for you to come to room 635 right now and ride my face 👅💦

Y/N 🍑: 🤦‍♀️ You’re no good...I gotta go now, I need to shower

Rhea 😈: Can I join you? You know, just in case you need some help of course 😇

Y/N 🍑: Yeah, that’s exactly why you want to join me 🤥

…………………………………………………

Later that day as I was heading to hair and makeup, I heard someone wolf whistling at me. I turned around to find the blonde and female version of the Devil, right behind me

“You scared me”

“Sorry, princess” Rhea leaned against the wall “I just had the perfect view of your ass and fuck, it looks so good that I couldn’t help myself” She smiled

“You are so filthy” I tried to hold back my laugh

“But you love it, don’t you?” She roamed closer “I know you wanna laugh” She teased “Or at least giggle”

She dipped her head down towards my neck, nuzzling her nose against my skin

“You drive me crazy” She mumbled

“Rhea...” My words died on my lips when her arms circled around my waist and her hands rested against my ass, pulling me even closer to her

“I know you’re playing hard to get, but I’m reaching my limit here” Her hands caressed my ass “I’m starting to wonder if I’m doing the right thing, because it feels like I’m pushing you into wanting something you’re not in the mood for”

“You’re not doing anything wrong” I caressed the back of her neck and let my nails lightly scratch her scalp, which made her growl

“So I’m not overstepping here?” She asked

“No, you’re not”

She lifted her head up, and tightened her grip around my waist

“So you won’t mind if I do this?” She leaned down, brushing her lips against mine, testing the waters but also giving me a chance to pull back if I wanted to.

When she realized I wasn’t going to stop her, she fully captured my lips in a breathtaking kiss. Biting my bottom lip, until it slid out of her teeth. I opened my eyes to find a dumb smile glued to her lips

“Oh, you like me” She teased, kissing my lips once more “You like me a lot” She smirked

“You’re so childish” I cackled, as an intense pink shade took over my cheeks

“And you’re blushing?” She hugged me tightly “You really like me” She attacked my neck with several nips, making me squirm and laugh loudly

“You’re so cute together” We heard Asuka say, as she passed by our side in the hallway

We both startled when we heard her voice “Fuck, I thought it was boss lady” Rhea chuckled

“I know, I almost shit in my pants thinking I was going to be fired” I laughed along with her

“Come get dinner with me tonight?”

“I don’t know, Ree...I don’t like to think someone can take a picture of us together and put it on the internet, just so then people can say that I got this job because of you”

“But you didn’t!”

“Yes, but you know how people are, they just assume things, and suddenly fiction becomes truth, even when it’s the farthest thing from it

“Ok...my hotel room then? We can order some room service, have a chit chat, make out” She growled playfully

“That’s all you want me for?” I teased

“No” She giggled “But I’m not gonna sit here and lie to you either! I feel very attracted to you and would love if we had sex, but that’s not the main reason why I like you”

One of the things I loved the most about Rhea was her raw honesty, she’s always one to tell you the truth, no matter how harsh or sappy it is

“Ok, I accept your invitation”

“Really?” She smiled widely, spinning me around the hallway

“Rhea, you’re gonna make us fall!” I laughed

……………………………………………………….

“It looks fine, Y/N!” Asuka said, chewing on a handful of popcorn

“Right” I rolled my eyes in annoyance, staring at the full length mirror in front of me “It displays my pouch beautifully” I poked my belly

“First of all, you’re beautiful! Stop putting yourself down like that!” She stood up from her bed and stopped by my side “Secondly, you could be wearing a trash bag and Rhea still would think you are the most beautiful woman on the earth! Trust me, I know what I’m saying” She smirked

“You heard her say something?” I asked, hopeful

“I heard a thing or two” She smiled wickedly “But I’m not telling you anything!” She laughed when I scowled

…………………………………………………………

I knocked on her door, already regretting my choice for an outfit (which basically consisted of a pair of yoga pants, with a loose crop top shirt and some sneakers), but before I could run back to my room and change outfits, she opened the door and her whistle was what made me get out of my self deprecation daydream.

“Fuck, you look hot” She smirked

See what I meant about the raw honesty?

Shaking my head while chuckling, I said “Thanks”

She offered me her hand, pulled me inside her bedroom and pressed me against the closed door, kissing me as if her life depended on it

“What happened with the ‘food first, sex later’ rule?” I laughed, as she pulled me towards her

“That was before you showed up at my door looking like this” She smacked my ass “This is your fault, princess, not mine” She hugged me tightly

I stepped away from her, turned around and walked towards the bed, giving her the perfect view of my ass in the light grey yoga pants

Do I know my ass looks insanely good in those pants? Yes!

Did I do it on purpose? Hell yes!

When I reached the bed, I placed myself in all fours on top of it, wiggled my ass in the air and looked over my shoulder at her

“Come, Rhea” I purred, and cackled at the low growl she made

She ran towards the bed, grabbed my hips and pushed me down on the mattress, locking me there with her body weight

“You’re in some big trouble, missy”

“Am I? What did I do?” I batted my lashes innocently

She chuckled “You’re no good, woman!” Her hands dipped underneath my crop top, and grabbed my breasts through the bra “And to think I was worried about corrupting you, when in fact you’re as dirty as I am” Her tongue traced patterns along my neck

“Rhea, please” I moaned

She pushed my pants down, but suddenly stopped to sit up

“Where are your panties?” She smirked

“Oh damn it! I knew I was forgetting something” I smiled devilishly

“Fuck” She panted, dipping her head down to my core

I sighed deeply in content, when her tongue met my clit “You’re so fucking good” I looked down and she winked. My hand quickly grabbed her short blonde locks at the same time she pushed two fingers in

“Oh my fucking -” I pulled on her hair when her fingers inside of me curled and her lips began to suck on my clit

I looked down to find her gaze glued to my face “I’m gonna cum” I moaned “Fuck you’re gonna make me cum so good” I bit my lip in order to control my moans

The next touch of her tongue piercing against my bundle of nerves was what made me explode around her fingers.

Rhea’s fingers and tongue actions became softer and softer as I came down from my high. Smiling, she made her way up, towards my lips and kissing me softly

“Why are you so good at this?” I asked, completely mind blown

“Told you I could eat pussy” She chuckled

“Fuck, I think you ruined me” I panted

“Oh no, princess” She grinned “I’m not even close to ruining you yet”

Please, if you’re comfortable with it, let me know your thoughts on this? Feedbacks are always appreciated 🥰😘

#rhea ripley imagine #rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader #rhea ripley smut #wwe x reader #wwe smut #wwe imagine #wwe fanfiction #wwe one shot #wwe superstars #masochist writes

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impaladolan · 4 years

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Capture - Grayson Dolan [2/-]

summary: after an unsuccessful attempt to escape, Y/N is in for more than she bargained..

warnings: lil bit of smut, swearing, and bdsm undertones

a/n: this is part TWO of this little series! check out part one before reading this!

Your senses slowly began to settle back into you, and you finally realized just what kind of mess you were in..

Right after his bold exit, your exhaustion caught up to you and your eyes became as heavy a dumbbells. But when you awoke for the second time that evening, the situation truly hit you right in the noggin.

You were in a foreign place, that you were incredibly scared to even attempt an escape out of. The foggy memory of the stunning man that had entered the room, was becoming a false reality. Had you dreamt of him? Was he just a twisted piece of your imagination?

Surely not.

It seemed so utterly real that the nameless man had to be an actual human. And even that thought scared the absolute shit out of you. If he were to barge right through the same door, you wouldn't know how to even address him, let alone look at him. So you stayed hidden beneath the large comforter, softly shaking with fear as your eyes began to water. You were starting to miss things you never thought you could miss. Like the pumpkin-apple candle that you'd light from time to time, or your piano you love to play, to wake you up in the mornings and settle you down in the evenings. Hell, you were even beginning to miss your refrigerator that held all your favorite foods and drinks, and your spacious bathroom that you regularly took a soaking bubble bath in.

Oh god, a bathroom. Just at the mere thought, your bladder revolted and signaled it's everlasting need to be freed. But you were too scared. Though, you couldn't last much longer without accidentally pissing yourself, but that'd just make this dreadful day even worse. So with your fears in mind and the shaking of your body reminding you, you pushed back the covers and lifted yourself from the cushiony mattress, your toes curling at the frigid touch of the marble floors. You oddly looked left and right, in search of what could possibly be a hidden camera or worse— a person, but came short with nothing of the sort. You began your tip-toeing steps towards an open door that unmistakably led to the sacred toilet you were literally yearning for, and ever so softly shut the door, for at least a little privacy. It was an expensive looking bathroom with even more expensive looking appliances.

But without further examining you rush to the porcelain bowl and pull down your undergarment, quickly seating yourself and letting all the filtered tension go. A relieved sigh escaped your lips, but your asscheeks sure did feel sore.

Maybe it wasn't a dream..

You let your thoughts roam as you emptied your bladder and tore a piece of toilet paper from its roll and wiped, finishing with the click of the flushing button and directing yourself towards the sink. The women in the mirror caught your eye, though she looked oddly untouched. You thought you'd at least have a bruise or two fluttered across your arms or your face, but it appeared as though you were as good as new and unbothered. Whoever had kidnapped you didn't fully intend harm, but rather some other premeditated plan that you weren't truly sure of.

Though you felt somewhat at ease, your frightened thoughts lingered and you washed your hands quickly and tip-toed back to your aclaimed warm bed that you slightly missed the absence of. You could've gone for round three of sleeping that day, but yet again, to your dismay, the familiar sound of a door opening and closing kept your eyes open, and an unfamiliar scent glided into your nostrils and made your stomach growl profusely.

"Hungry, darling?" The same voice from your dreams questioned the air around you and just as before, you couldn't refrain from laying your eyes on him. He was undoubtably real, except this time he was fully clothed in a tucked white dress shirt and pants, a belt tightly wrapped around his waist. He was even dreamier than before with his hair all done up and his fingers clad with shiny rings that hadn't caught your eyes before. You drew your attention away and slowly nodded, bringing the large blanket up to shield yourself from his eyes. He set the platter down on the nightstand with what looked to be a sweet smile and grabbed a little portable table to set just above your thighs. He neatly settled the prepared food onto it and seated himself at the end of the bed, motioning his hand for you to begin.

You were hesitant to eat anything he could've made at first, but you were more scared of him becoming mad, so you gladly picked up your spoon and began to chew on the nice noodle soup, it's brothy flavor feeling nice on your throat. You almost whimpered at the taste when you finished your very first bite, your eyelids shutting and your head titled back in sensation. "Good?" His deep, softened voice brought you back to reality and your head was nodding before you could detest anything of it. "For how mouthy you were this morning, you sure haven't said much at all." His words struck true as you thought back to the prior events, his seething words and your snooty comments that arises the anger in him.

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you, but you had caught me in a moment of weakness and I will forever regret it. I was taken against my own free will, without the ability to even fight for my freedom, and you think it's fair to treat me like a whore who "deserves to be punished" and was in quite a drowsy state of mind. You're a sick bastard whether you've been told that or not." You seemingly growled at him, but he didn't seem to be angered, let alone offended. With all the stillness and subtleness in the world, he answered;

"Yes, it may have been a moment of weakness, Ms.

Y/L/N, but when was the last time that that pretty pussy of yours was touched, hm? How long has it been since you've came by someone else's hand, or cock perhaps? Darling, I may be a stranger to you, but you're no stranger to me." And with that, he left you stunned (and regrettably horny), all alone in the same room you've been trapped in for who knows how long? Ugh, it was so angering the way he could flip what you say into something far from being similar to anything you were trying to argue.

But he was right..

Yes, it's been a rough couple years in the dating life for you. Though, it never had to do with "supply of men" because here and there, you'd get a little flustered by a handsome man wondering if you'd like to get coffee sometime. But you'd always sweetly decline and carry on with your day. You were a focused, driven person that had their mind set on nothing else but your arising business endeavors. You simply didn't want to begin a relationship because you weren't fully ready to give so much attention to one thing while you were too focused on another.

And being honest, men are very clingy. And mysterious..

His final little statement about "You're no stranger to me" really confused you. Had you met him before? Was he from your hometown? It was truly a mystery. Who's to say he wasn't some sort of stalker whose been following you for the past five years? But that sounds absurd. Why would such a handsome, dreamy, sexy— a'hem, man want to have anything to do with you? Whatever it is, you weren't exactly mad about it. Because just like earlier, when you were hazy and half asleep, you felt the same tingling and flutters right down to your core. He was so smooth with his words, it's hard not to fall to your knees and become his beckon call. Fuck, anytime you laid eyes on him, your body begins to writhe with shudders, creating that pooling sensation where your core throbbed the worst. A large part of you couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow, throw some sly comments at him or even try escaping, anything to catch his attention.

So before drifting asleep, your mind raced with loose plans and tactics for tomorrow, when you’d awake in the same room for presumably the third or fourth time.

Go time.

Initially, you had planned to sneak out only to anger him, but now that you were thinking about it, why not at least try to escape the clutches of the room and run away, hopefully home if you could.

You were missing it so much already, though you’ve only been gone for approximately thirty-two hours (maybe). But you were becoming bored with the view of absolutely nothing except gray walls and the one large painting on the wall. It looked like a countryside, a barn with a red roof-top and white siding while trees decorated the entire area around it. It was an odd picture to be put in this room, it didn’t really match the minimalist vibe the entire rest of the proximity put off. But anyway, it felt weird getting out of bed and twisting the handle on the door, and to your satisfaction, it opened with a faint click and you were finally able to be freed of this room.

The even more so frigid air smacked you straight between the eyes the moment you fully opened the door, it made your eyes water slightly. Taking the very first step out of the room, you notice that the walls in the long hallway are a powder color, which brought a weird grin to your face.

Those gray walls just weren’t doing the trick.

You slowly begin to tip-toe to the right of the entryway, looking in every direction possible. You didn’t really know if he lives alone or with others, but you were banking on the possibilities that there were others in the nice, freezing home.

Why the fuck does he keep it so cold?

You continued your slow, padding steps until you came across another door-less room; the kitchen. Thankfully there was no one in the huge kitchen, and your stomach jolted to the smell of just another soup, you just couldn’t recognize it. You almost scavengered for a spoon, but the faint sound of shallow footsteps corrupted your hearing and you b-lined straight to a cabinet, that happened to be a pantry once you were enclosed inside. Before entering, the pairs of footsteps let out a few hoarse chuckles and cackles, ultimately placing them as men. From what you could see in the tiny, barely visible crack, you could for sure make out who was standing directly left to the cabinet you were stuck in; the panty-dropping hottie from earlier.

You were just praying to God that he wouldn’t find you.

You took every breath as carefully and slowly as possible, not moving a muscle as the two men conversed, though it was muffled and incomprehensible. After what seemed like hours, you swore you heard a few goodbyes and a loud door shut. You wanted to sprint out of the damn tight-knit cabinet and run for your dear life, but you slowly opened the door and breathed in a large breath once you were finally free of your slight claustrophobic fears.

“Better run, sweetheart.” His deep, distasteful voice scared the wits out of you, which made your instincts ignite the moment he took a step closer to you. Before you knew it, your feet were pacing back and forth in long strides as your arms pumped up and down, though your blanked mind came to a loss on the directions out of the house.

This was it.

There was no way you’d make it out of here. He was obviously much faster and actually knew the layout of his own house, while you, on the other hand, had no damn clue where the front door is. So your heart sank deep in your chest when you felt his warm, muscular arms wrap around the entirety of your waist before you hand could even grasp an unknown handle that you were violently reaching for.

“Think you’re fucking smart, princess?” He whispers in your ear, carrying you away, presumably to your prior settings while you helplessly let him. You didn’t even thrash against him, or even attempt a kick to his groin.

You just.. let him.

“Fuckin’ lucky I don’t tie you up and spank your ass until it’s numb again.” He murmurs to himself, dropping you off on the same bed you’ve been sleeping and awakening in whilst he shuts and locks the door too. Just his little comment to himself made your mouth water and your pussy clench. It was hard enough being in such a close proximity with him.

Once testing the door to see if it was locked properly, he turned back to look at you with a cold, lustful stare that had you aching all over yet again. For someone that you don’t even know their formal name, you sure did have the ‘hots’ for him. In a flash, his shirt was off and his pants were unbuckled, the heat arising in your cheeks as he strode over to you in his nakedness. “Knees. Now.” He points to the floor below him, watching with demanding eyes. You, of course, reacted before thinking. You were on your knees in seconds and had your hands wrapped around his increasingly large girth. You really hadn’t looked at it before, you were honestly terrified to. But now that it was right in front of you and your fist was slowly pumping it, you craved it.

“Since you haven’t been very nice to Daddy, you’re gonna have to give him a little sweet treat..” He caressed the top of your head, looking down upon the sight of you stroking him made his cock jump slightly. With your own eyes in him, you ran your tongue along the protruding, red vein of his cock, suctioning off his tip like it was a straw. He threw his head back with a pleasured sigh as your warm and thick muscle made his erection grow. With a few internal encouragements in your head, you let your mouth intake more, slowly edging its way to his public bone. What you hardly couldn’t fit, you let your fingers glide over. His sharp intakes of breaths and groans had your own self a mess, and you almost wanted to creep your own two ‘flimsy’ fingers down there and relieve it.

You let your hands travel to his constricting balls, fondling them with the slightest of touches. He squinted his eyes and held himself back from coming right then, but it was too late. For his thick, hot ribbons of cum released all the way down your throat and to your chin.

He didn’t last long..

It unusually tasted sweet, compared to others who seemed to be sour and gummy. Though he was done and physically drained, you continued slow motions, only quickening them by the second. Overstimulating has and will always be one of your favorite kinks. To see someone shaking and aching from their own sensitivity made you all the more horny and sexually-frustrated. But the overstrung man put an end to the real quick, pulling you to your feet and shoving you back onto the cushiony bed where your comfy gown rose and his intense stare darkened.

“Don’t you make one fucking sound..”

(masterlist)

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bakubaewritings · 4 years

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Lost (4)

Warning Cursing

(1) (2) (3) 5(coming soon)

If you’d like to be tagged in the next part feel free to comment or private message me <3

The air was thick with tension; it loomed over the two of you like a dark fog, in complete silence. No one dared speak a word. Outside there was no sound of traffic or bird song, just silence.

"Y/n." Emotions consumed Todoroki all at once. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold you in his arms. He missed you; he missed everything about you, how you smelled, how your skin felt against his, the sound of your voice, the taste of your lips. Those long sorrow-filled weeks without you, without speaking a word to you after having you run out of his life, due to his fault.

"Get out," your voice was low and harsh. The coldness in your tone bitterly nipped at Todoroki's hopeful aura. His eyes began to swell with tears at her words.

"Y/n?" He beckoned again, walking over to the hospital bed. He craved your touch, the warmth that radiated off your skin was so much more than superficial. It warmed his heart; in your time together you had become his safe place. He found comfort in your voice and calmness in your eyes.

However, the look painted all on your face was not one of joy; it was rage and disgust.

"Get out, Todoroki." Your voice grew louder, down an octave as it fell to a low growl. He wanted to convince himself that you didn't mean him. However, he understood. You deserved to feel angry at him for his actions; he would be fooling himself to think you'd ever be able to forget and forgive.

"I know you want me to go, but hear me out Y/n, please." His hands balled to fists at his sides. Heat radiated off him in waves as his emotions began to fule into his quirk. The way his heart pounded against his ribcage rang in his ears. Shoto had never been one to show so much emotion, he was always calm and cool, however when it came to you, maybe he wouldn't demonstrate it, but you were what connected him to his genuine emotions. You had introduced him to emotions he'd never felt in his life. You had become his gravity, the center of his whole world. You kept him human, while still pushing him to follow his dreams, something he'd never really had as a child.

You stayed silent, biting down on the inside of your cheek in an attempt to distract yourself from the urge to begin sobbing. You refused to look him in the eye; to you his eyes only held betrayal. You'd already spent the entire summer attempting to scrub away the image of Shoto and Momo. You didn't need a reminder.

"I betrayed your trust, and I know that . I was an awful partner ,and you have every right to be upset and angry at me. I know me simply saying sorry will not erase the situation; what I did was unforgivable, but for what it is worth Y/n L/n I am so sorry, I never met to hurt you at all." There was a brief pause, Todoroki swallowed the lump in his throat. It took every bit of strength to hold back his tears. He made his way towards you; his gaze never left your face as your eyes desperately tried to keep starting at objects around the room.

"Y/n you know me, you know me better than anyone. You know how much I love you, and I'd never do anything to hurt you purposefully." He was next to you, knees firmly on the ground. You could feel his quirk radiating off him in polar temperatures. His face burned in the white hospital sheets that clung to your lap.

"You didn't kiss her." The words fell from your lips as clarity began to paint your thoughts. Shoto hadn't properly hugged a girl that wasn't in his immediate family before you, he was always reserved and respectful, never one to demonstarte so much emotion, especially kissing a fellow classmate in a dormitory gym. It was completely and utterly out of character for the bi-hair colored boy.

"I'd never, disrespect you like that Y/n." His words muffled against the sheets, you could feel his burning skin through the thin fabric as the heat began to dance on your thigh. "I love you."

There they were, for the first time in what had now been months you'd finally heard him utter those three words. You'd remember how patently you waited for him to feel comfortable enough to understand the feeling of love between two people that were more than just friends.

"Forgive me for assuming it was mutual but you can't blame me Todoroki, You became so distant from me. All it became was Momo this and Momo that. How was I supposed to feel?"

His head shifted from your lap. He looked up at you with small tears wetting his long lashes. "I have no explanation, to be quite honest, I was oblivious. I should have taken your feelings into account, you were always so patient and understanding, and I took advantage of that. I assumed you didn't need me as much to help you, and when Yaoyorozu asked for my help, I just wanted to be kind, just like you. You're always putting others before you, helping people with everything you can. It's the quality of a true hero, an amazing hero. I wanted to be like you." You'd be lying to yourself if you said his words did not affect you. No, every sentence was another tug at your heartstrings.

" I did notice we weren't spending as much time together, and I didn't like it either. I let another girl occupy the time I should have been giving to you. The one girl who's been by my side through it all. I have no excuse for what I did, I know it was incredibly wrong, but please Y/n, I love you. Give me another chance." Your hands, so petite compared to his much larger frame, came to cup the sides of his head lovingly. However, that was also when you noticed it, the diamond that shone brightly on your finger, placed on there by his own brother.

Dabi, Todoroki Touya. The man who had comforted you in the last days, a man who you'd grown incredibly close to, a man who you were to marry.

Unfortunately, the cold band did not go unnoticed by the youngest Todoroki either. He flinched away from it in confusion. He was peering down at it in a clear face of disdane.

"Y/n?" It sounded more of a warning than a question. Like a desert, your words had dried out in your troat. Your mind only drew blanks. How were you going to explain that you were to marry his brother?

The sound of the door creeking open tore your attention from one another.

"Hey, little brother, finally decided to make a comeback." An apparent scowl was on full display on Dabi's face as he walked into the room, a white paper bag in hand, letters decortating the bag displaying the name of your favorite restaurant.

"Touya? What are you doing here?"

"Bringing food for my Fiance." He said nonchalantly. Oh, how you wanted to smack him square in the face. The atmosphere changed into a hostile one. Shoto's eyes looked as if they were to pop out of his head at the moment.

"Fiance?" He asked blankly. His face was fully corrupted with anger and confusion.

"Yep, you can ask the old man about more details, but after you graduate this little cutie is gonna be the next Mrs. Touya Todoroki." Your mouth hung open, every word of of Dabi's mouth was laced with venom. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under his perfect little brother's skin.

"What the hell is going on? Y/n?" He looked at you for any sort of answer, he hoped you'd just laugh it off as a joke. A hilarious way to make him feel awful for what had happened, but when you gave no such indication of a joke he knew. This was real.

"I.." You couldn't speak. No string of words that formed in your brain were coherent. There was nothing you could say that would fix the situation. Of course, you had to tell him all this eventually, but this was way too soon.

"Someone explain what the hell is going on?" A deep growl came from Shoto as he glared daggers at Dabi.

"Why don't you leave Shoto, Y/n needs to rest. She doesn't need you here with your petty apologizes."

'Dabi." You let out a gasp at his words.

"You leave Touya. You have no part in this. Y/n is mine." The two men advanced at each other, getting into a fighting stance.

"Shoto, Dabi stop!" You pleaded with the two boys. The gap between them getting smaller, ready to use their quirks against each other at any minute. Shoto's right side had begun to cover in a thin sheet of frost, while the left began to heat up. Dabi, on the other hand, his aura turned dark as a blue glow emitted from his hands.

"Enough!" You shouted out, now using your quirk to gather any water from the room and using a technique to shape it as tentacles and pull both boys apart from each other.

"Dabi, Shoto and I are going to have to talk about this. This is sooner than I'd would have wanted, but It's going to happen." You huffed, at the dark hair colored boy, turning to Shoto, "we may have a lot of talk about, and you will get an explanation, but both of you need to control yourselves and not try to kill each other! Now can I please get discharged then we can go to Endavour and, he will explain everything because I'm, not wasting my breath talking about this whole bullshit anymore!" Wide eyes stared at you, as your voice rose in anger. You were annoyed, you couldn't seem to catch a break. You just wanted to disappear.

Pent up anger and frustration towards everything had been coming undone just by seeing Shoto.

"I'm so over this bullshit!" Never one to curse, never one to raise your voice, always the perfect little lady. The facade was coming undone.

"I can't catch a god damn break; when everything seems to be going okay another damn brick is thrown my fucking way. I'm just trying to get better, does no one care how I feel?" Your voice was getting louder by the second. A crowd of people, doctors, nurses, and even your fellow classmates were at your door.

"Does no one care I had no time to grieve? Does That asshole of a god damn man take pleasure in fucking with my future? Does my own family really care more about our god damn imagine than to let me actually live and be myself?" To be honest, eveyone had faded from your eyes. All you see was an empty red color as you continued to rage.

"Grieve?" The word played in Shoto Todoroki's head like a broken record. Grieving what? He asked himself.

You hadn't realized, but you were standing now, your water tentacles wrapped around the men's torsos tightening with your quirk.

"Doll, calm down now, please. It's getting a little too tight." Dabi struggled to attempt to wiggle out of the grip.

"Too tight!?" You know what's tight?" You yelped, hot tears falling from your cheeks. "This god damn burden, I have pushed my god damn chest inward. I'm going insane!"You cried, falling to the ground. You lost your control on your quirk, and the water splashed into the ground.

Shoto's mind was moving 50 miles a second in attempting to understand what was going on. Had you felt a burden for being engaged to his brother? Surely he knew his father was responsible, but why you had agreed to, he still coudn't understand. Nevertheless, he was first to rush to your side. Falling against his chest, you laid silent, letting your tears finish falling.

Crying, felt like the only thing you could do for these last months.

"Let's get you home. Okay, let's get you out of this place." Shoto whispered softly in your ear, brushing yout hair back so you can bury your face deeper in his chest. He couldn't lie, having you this close again, this made his heart sore.

Now Dabi could only stand and watch holding back his own emotions as the girl he'd come to love fell right back into the arms of the man you truly belonged with.

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highladyluck · 3 years

Text

Random meta/worldbuilding thoughts on the theme of eschatological time

Went down a Wikipedia hole today on the Millerites, a religious movement based around a specific prediction about the timing of Jesus’s second coming, and now I have three more Wheel of Time worldbuilding things to gleefully complain about and/or theorize on, as is my custom. (As usual, ‘ware whole-series spoilers.)

1) The Millerites apparently believed that Jesus would return "literally, visually, in the clouds of heaven" and I can't help but wonder if that's what RJ was borrowing for his 'Rand and Ba'alzamon fight in the clouds above Falme' aesthetic? The whole thing always struck me as super super weird since there's no in-world explanation for it except 'it's in the Prophecies', which doesn't tell you how it's done. Like we know the One Power can do projections/illusions, but there's no note anywhere that Moiraine or whoever was doing One Power cinematography at that moment. (However, I will consider headcanons that Verin was doing it for mysterious Verin reasons, just because that seems fun. Verin is extremely fun and mysterious, especially in book 2.)

I thought maybe it's the same kind of thing as the ta'veren television effect that the boys all start getting in later books- the swirl of colors in their heads that resolves into images of the other ta'veren, triggered by thought? But I think the color swirls are more related to 'reading the Pattern' and are similar to Egwene's Dreaming/the scenes Perrin sees in the sky in Tel'aran'rhiod/Min's visions. But 'floating images'/'images in the sky' does seem to be like... a way the Pattern appears to people, so maybe it is connected? And it's been a while since I read book 2; it's possible that Rand and Ba'alzamon are fighting at least partially in Tel'aran'rhiod, maybe due to the appearance of the Heroes of the Horn, who live there? In which case, sure, giant sky projections, sounds plausible, Tel'aran'rhiod is batshit like that.

2) I'm unreasonably annoyed that the calendar extant in the Westlands at the time of the books is set at 998 NE and the events of the books take 2 years, so that the apocalypse is RIGHT ON SCHEDULE at the end of the millennium. I CALL BULLSHIT. NOBODY'S APOCALYPSE ARRIVES ON TIME. That cute little note about the calendar at the end of every Wheel of Time book? Where they're like 'oh yeah we lost a ton of records at various points in the Third Age, there were a bunch of different calendar systems before this, and the Farede calendar dating from the arbitrarily decided end of the War of the Hundred Years is now in use'? 'ARBITRARILY DECIDED', MY ASS.

Honestly the only way this makes sense is if the books were written in the 'far future' and either the author or (from an in-universe angle) their civilization fudged the dates of events so that the end of the War of the Hundred Years was exactly the time needed to have the Last Battle end right at the millennium. Actually, this also explains why the timeline is so extraordinarily compressed and everything supposedly happened in just two years. It absolutely didn't, they just fudged the timeline from the distant vantage point of the future. XD

In RJ's defense, that does appear to be part of the conceit. I think the implication is supposed to be either that Loial wrote the books, presumably 100s of years later knowing Ogier lifespans/project timelines, or someone else is writing this based on Loial's notes/book. This is supported by that FASCINATING opening verse in Lord of Chaos, with the skipping rhyme from 'Great Arvalon, the Fourth Age' which is clearly future Tar Valon. (I've always been obsessed with that verse, and I think the only other Fourth Age quote we get opening the books is at the end of AMoL, and that's about the Breaking and doesn't tell us anything about the future except that there is one.)

3) What are the odds that the Seanchan still use FF (From the Founding, the calendar Artur Hawkwing tried to establish that now 'only historians refer to') for their calendars? Pretty good, right? I wonder what wacky stuff they were expecting around whenever their millennial date was. Everybody would have an extra-keen eye out for omens once the date drew near.

Actually, it would kind of make sense if they had a false dragon around then. Didn’t one of the Westlands false dragons pop up around the turn of one of the earlier millenniums? Also, because the only thing more fun than one weird headcanon is another even weirder headcanon... what if there were Seanchan false dragons who were female? I don’t think male channelers with the spark in Seanchan live long enough to get much in the way of delusions of grandeur, plus the prophecies got corrupted so maybe people weren’t necessarily expecting a male Dragon (granted, this is a stretch). Mostly I’m thinking that a female false dragon in Seanchan would have similar motivations to Logain and Taim, like ‘eh, who’s to say I’m not the Dragon Reborn, also this might allow me to get more power/escape my otherwise inevitable fate.’ I know people have run with the Female Dragon idea, but I haven’t seen anyone write a female false dragon or a false dragon in Seanchan. (If you have, point me to those fics, I’m curious!) In the 1000+ year history of Artur Hawkwing’s Seanchan there would absolutely have been at least some channelers who were like ‘yeah no thanks I don’t want to be damane, what are my other options?’ I’m not saying any of them succeeded in exploring other options in the long run, but somebody must have asked the question. I’m just constantly chewing over the idea that Seanchan is really, really not as culturally homogeneous as Tuon believes it to be and Imperial propaganda says it is; the last rebellion was put down 200 years ago, but there’s absolutely damane who were alive then and even people with ordinary lifetimes can still hang on to bits of their culture (and/or anger/fear about how their ancestors were treated) for that long. My best example of this is Ajimbura, who is manifestly not fully assimilated; he’s a permanent exile from his culture, perhaps, but you definitely get the sense that he’s following Karede out of some sort of personal honor code that comes out of his cultural background even if it doesn’t match up to it completely, rather than because Karede successfully absorbed him into imperial Seanchan culture. You can take a man out of the Kaensada Hills but you can’t take the Kaensada Hills out of the man. (Also now I’m thinking about how Ajimbura is to Karede as Mat is to Tuon, in terms of loyalty/house-train-ability and it’s blowing my mind...)

#wheel of time #wheel of time meta #wheel of time worldbuilding #seanchan #calendars #false dragons #the fourth age #falme #wheel of time spoilers #idk who will be interested in this but presumably you're all following me for some reason #it would be very flattering if it were for my weird wheel of time headcanons #or my aggrieved yelling about wheel of time worldbuilding

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afoxysunny · 4 years

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Pixel as Spectra

My mind first connected him with the Peacock Miraculous because of their shared colour scheme and ended up loving the combo more and more the longer i thought about it

Pixel lived in Lazytown for as long as he can remember. Being probably the most introverted person in the friendgroup and not as excitable he still tends to feel a little removed from them though. Still he always tries his best to help out with his more or less successful inventions, giving him a bridge to connect with the others by combining the comfort he feels in the digital world and his wish to be there for his friends even when he doesn't fully understand them.

Because for most of this design i went with "he'd think this is cool so let's do this" i didn't have a ton of references this time around

With almost all of these designs I'd tweak them a little bit if only i knew what bothered me and how to do better but, man, am I thrilled with how Pixel turned out! I love him exactly as i drew him!

Design Notes:

Colours - so many of them. The only thing that I was initially not 100% sold on was the sheer amount of colours in this design but damn it really grew on me. The peacock Kwami Duusu and Pixel (puppet design) share two main colours, Dark blue and white so those were a must. But then i also had Duusu's pink that had to stay and Pixel also has light blue and orange. I feated it would be too much but peacocks are damn coloirful and beautiful so it worked out after all

Orange + green hair - and of cause i had to add another colour: green. I knew i really wanted to keep his dark skin from the tv show but god i love the green hair he has in Glanni Glæpur í Latabæ so much! I couldn't help myself. I also kept that cool crown like part his visor has on the puppet design as it, together with the mask shape resemble the natural peacock's face pattern very well

Cape/Top thing - i just googled "men cape fashion" or something like that and didn't expect too much but when i saw that pic i knew exactly that this and only this had to be included. I'm kinda obsessed with it and i want one! So Pixel gets to live this dream for me. Being an extreme introvert a cape like this to quote unquote hide and protect part of himself behind suits him so well in my opinion

The fan - the weapon for this Miraculous is a fan and Pixel is a video game nerd so naturally he's very excited about this super aesthetic weapon. As far as i remember he's left handed in the show (i think i remember him using the mouse of his computer with his left hand?) but i already put the cape and Miraculous Brooch on hif left so the fan gets fixed to his arm. Like this it doesn't really matter that his right hand isn't as proficient as the other would be and he can be dramatic and open the fan like a bird spreading his wings if he feels like it

Miraculous Brooch - the Peacock Miraculous grants the power of Emotion, symbolizing this, i put the brooch directly on his heart. Not only to be easily protected with his cape but also to show where his powers come from

Feathers - in the show Miraculous Ladybug the peacock is one of the corrupted ones and the white feathers turn dark purple when charged to use. With Pixel they gain orange strands in them to look just a little bit like they are glowing and also sunshine

Reasoning:

Duusu, while also corrupted in canon like Nooroo, seems not as bothered by that. Firstly because he appears a little dense and playful in the few times we see him but also because the user isn't doing evil because she lost her way. No, Mayura is still using the Peacock's power as intended to help another miraculous holder.

But more than that this is about Pixel. I don't remember where exactly but i read on multiple occasions that he has a form of autism. While I'm not the most knowledgeable person at this topic and I'd love someone to enlighten me more about it i did understand that this manifests strongly in each depiction of him with being very introverted and only able to understand and properly communicate with others via help from what he's most comfortable with. This is precisely why i believe the power given to him by Duusu, to sense others emotions, would be an incredibly valuable help for him. While simultaneously not getting crushed by the constant stream of feelings around him like someone as emphatically sensitive as Sportacus who must struggle a lot with getting that same power from Nooroo. Furthermore the power to give form to someone's strongest emotion matches perfectly with his usual role of building gadgets to help other!

Story:

I already slipped into this very heavily in the reasoning section so sorry if i repeat myself bit I'll try my best not to

First up, I'm absolute Trash for Pixel x Jives so that means, spoiler alert, most of what i have thought up for either of them is related to their journey from best friends to boyfriends

But i think a "lovestory" where that's the only defining feature of both characters sucks so I'll go into detail with characters a little more here

The Peacock Miraculous is meant to be used pretty defensively as him losing his strength would also mean the Amok, the powerful creatures he creates out of people's emotions, would disappear with him transforming back. Also he'd need to stay back for a good overview of the situation to make a better judgment, i definitely think he's the perfect fit for this role but besides that he wouldn't enjoy just that. If video games taught him anything then that standing back and watching others fight is not what a hero should do. His set of powers and given weapon may not lend themselves as easily to physical combat as the others but that doesn't mean he won't try. And fail. Obviously he'd beat himself up over this a lot and end up training way more on his own than the others.

You see, after Lucky Bug and Pitch Serval have a good long talk with the Guardians of the Miracle Box they get the job to pick up their friends and help them choose a Miraculous for each if and when they trust them enough to fight alongside them. After that they train as a group to master their new powers but Pixel also trains on his own as directly fighting isn't really something he's meant to do with his powers so it's not included in their training sessions. The only one who joins him, finding out kinda on accident is his best friend Jives, who gladly helps him of cause

Name:

I knew from the start off that i want to give him a name relating to colour and computer. Thankfully my sis is a lot wiser with both those topics and gave me a few options. One of them was Spectrum and, god, it just clicked with that one! Not only did i always headcanon him as bisexual, one spectrum he's on but also there is the autism spectrum and just colours in generl, three specrta for him so the name was the most obvious and best fitting i could pick

Thank you so much for your attention! I hope this was relatively understandable, my rambles can get a bit hard to follow and i was very excited to share this one so let me know if i ended up confusing you more than explaining anything. Thanks again

#Lazytown #miraculous ladybug #Lazytown au #Miraculous Lazybug #revive the lazy #pixel hyperbyte #pixel lazytown #Pixel x Jives #Mentioned #goggi mega #Duusu

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bgn846 · 3 years

Text

The Niflheim Experiment Chapter 13

The dust settled after fifteen minutes which allowed Ignis and Aranea to explore their makeshift prison. What Gladio had initially thought of as being one explosion had actually been two, thereby sealing them inside the hallway from both sides. Sighing quietly he turned to check on the others. Ravus was awake but had his eyes closed, his only movement being the hand that was carefully petting Luna’s hair. She was still unconscious but appeared to be comfortably resting and using her brother's stomach as a pillow.

Loqi hadn’t stirred once, since Luna had finished healing him. Gladio hoped he would be okay, the kid seemed fine but looks can be deceiving. Unwilling to relinquish his hold Gladio simply sat cradling the former Nif in his lap. So far Loqi was the only person who’d actually be able to relate to what he’d gone through. Well, not all of it, but at least the nearly being consumed by the scourge.

Suddenly wondering how long he’d been out after Luna had healed him Gladio couldn’t help but ask. “Ravus, how long did it take for me to wake up after Luna healed me?” The man in question groaned softly before shifting his head slightly. Aranea had been nice enough to lend her jacket as a pillow for him. She was rough around the edges but it was clear she had a strong desire to ensure the safety of those she considered allies.

“Wasn’t quick,” Ravus offered after a beat. “M’guessing nearly twelve hours or more.”

“Probably means blondie here is gonna be out for a little while longer then, huh?”

“Maybe, but he was in good health before he was corrupted, I’m sure that will make some difference.”

“Careful Ignis!” Aranea shouted disrupting Gladio’s train of thought. Looking over he was alarmed to see Ignis crouched down with his arm in between a rather large chunk of rubble.

“Nothing has shifted, but I need to see if I can feel an obstacle on the other side. If this debris pile is only a few feet thick we may be able to breakthrough.” Ignis defended as he pushed his arm even further into the small gap.

“Iggy, please be careful, I don’t want you to lose your freaking arm.” Gladio scolded, he was terrified the pile of unstable concrete would shift and trap him.

“Fine!” he huffed, “it’s of no matter, I can’t feel anything besides more hard surfaces.”

“Good then you can stop doing that,” Aranea commented right before she roughly pulled Ignis back and sent him sprawling backward on his butt. “You may be okay with endangering yourself like that, but I’m not.” She accused after Ignis shot her a glare.

The two came back over to sit down. It was clear they couldn’t escape from this place. They had no choice but to wait for backup or see if this Ardyn character would attack them again. The guy could easily set off another round of explosives and kill them all. That realization made Gladio’s stomach turn. It wouldn’t be his first choice of how to die but they were at the mercy of this mad man.

“So, tell me again what happened when you came in to get us?” Aranea asked once she’d checked on Luna and sat down to rest.

“We came in and then someone who looked like Luna approached us, but didn’t say anything. They were injured and kept holding out a hand for help,” Gladio explained.

“What do you mean looked like? Were they blonde and resembled Luna or--.”

“It was the oracle,” Ignis cut in. “If Gladio hadn’t stopped me from assisting her then I’d be in the same boat as Loqi.”

“So an exact copy of Luna? How’s that even possible?”

“I dunno, but when I ran it through with my sword nothing happened.”

“Wait you stabbed Luna?!” Aranea exclaimed.

“It was Ardyn!” Ravus growled, “he’s got magic remember.”

“Still, I never saw him impersonating someone, that’s creepy as shit!”

“You think that was Ardyn I stabbed?” Gladio asked in disbelief. “I thought it was a monster or a daemon.” The idea that he’d already come nearly face to face with this guy was not sitting well.

“I’m almost certain of it, Ardyn is a tricky bastard,” Ravus breathed out harshly.

“It would explain why he was able to seemingly disappear after you attacked.”

“How did you know it wasn’t Luna?” Aranea questioned with a furrowed brow. “If it looked exactly like her how’d you know?”

“Uh, I--,” Gladio wasn’t exactly sure how to describe how he knew. The feeling he’d experienced was nothing he’d ever dealt with before. It was like a sixth sense had awoken in his body, one that specifically reacted to Ardyn. “I felt bad, honestly. I can’t explain it properly but I knew it wasn’t Luna and that’s about it.”

“Huh, I wonder if butterball over there will have the same reaction as you when he wakes up,” quipped Aranea.

“Do let us know if you feel that sensation again,” Ravus added with a wave of his hand. “I’d like some warning, small or not, of Ardyn’s return.”

Nodding Gladio stayed silent, he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He couldn’t exactly see a way to beat someone that could survive being run through. He’d aimed for the heart, there was no mistaking it, but the fake Luna, or Ardyn, simply laughed and ran away.

A soft moan drew Gladio from his ruminations. Glancing up he noted that Ravus seemed very alert, his focus being on his sister. They all stared intently as Luna worked to regain consciousness. After a few minutes, she blinked her eyelids open and peered back at them owlishly. “Did we crash?”

Aranea laughed sarcastically, “no, we got blown up.”

Luna’s eyes widened at the admission, “Is everyone alright?”

“Yes, mostly, aside from some expected bumps and bruises we are all okay,” Ignis supplied calmly. “Though, I can’t say with certainty how Loqi is feeling as he hasn’t woken yet.”

“I healed him, I know he’ll be alright,” Luna affirmed with conviction.

“Until he wakes up to tell us otherwise, we’ll have to take your word for it,” Aranea sighed.

“Are we trapped?” Luna asked with worry as she looked around the dimly lit pile of rubble around them.

“I’m afraid so, I’m not sure what Ardyn wants from us but he’s clearly not done yet,” Ravus added while scowling.

“So far, our only advantage has been your ability to heal the scourge,” Gladio threw in to try and make himself feel better. Things were not looking good and he needed some form of good news to latch onto.

“I wish we could harness that power into a weapon,” Aranea huffed, “I know it’s probably impossible but I can still dream.”

Luna remained silent after the comment, it was clear she was thinking hard about something. “Wait, I might be able to bless an object, enchant it in a way. It might actually have an effect on him, it’s worth a try right?”

“When you say enchant what exactly do you mean?” Ravus asked with narrowed eyes.

“If I can heal the scourge then I must have power over him. I might be able to actually heal him!” Luna was getting excited and Gladio hoped she might be onto something. Though it was hard to see how in her current state. She still hadn’t sat up and looked exhausted to boot.

“You’re barely awake from passing out earlier, and now you want to go around making our weapons into instruments of the gods, themselves. Don’t you think that’s a bit much?” Ravus retorted.

“If he has the power to spread the scourge then he must be stopped, I don’t care at what cost.”

Groaning loudly Ravus threw an arm over his face. “You’re going to try no matter what I say aren’t you?”

Luna attempting to get up was her answer; she struggled at first until Ravus begrudgingly supported her back. “We don’t have much time, he’ll be back I’m sure of it,” she chided reaching out for her brother’s sword.

Watching the oracle work her magic was something to behold. Gladio wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing, but Luna appeared to be gathering her powers and somehow imbuing them into objects. Not that it was obvious except when you handled whatever she’d work on. His own broad sword now thrummed with new energy. Something similar to what it felt like when he used the armiger, but this feeling had more raw power behind it.

After about an hour Luna’s complexion began to pale. She was fading due to working so hard. Ravus noticed right away and ordered his sister to stop what she was doing. Figures Luna would be trying to literally energize every single weapon they had in their arsenal.

“I must finish this last one,” she murmured.

Wincing with pain Ravus sat up fully and gently pulled the dagger she was holding away. “Rest, I believe you’ve given us a fighting chance.”

“No, I – I must continu--,” she offered weakly before fainted mid-sentence and falling straight into her brother's arms.

“It’s selfish of me to let her push herself, but this may be our only chance at making a dent when it comes to Ardyn.”

“She seemed pretty excited about the idea, I don’t think she’ll hold it against you,” Aranea supplied as she stood to stretch. “How much more time do we have to wait before the cavalry arrives? I’m getting sick of just sitting here.”

“Would you rather the alternative?” Ignis asked. “I do think this barrier of rubble is keeping our attacker at bay.”

“Then what is he waiting for? Back up is coming so we won’t be stuck in here forever.”

“Perhaps the person he wants isn’t in attendance at the moment,” Ignis lamented. “I wouldn’t be surprised if his real target was Noctis.”

Panic gripped Gladio once Ignis’ words had sunk in. “Is there any way we can warn them? If he comes then Ardyn could attack when they arrive or go to the city to ambush him there. We’re divided and vulnerable!”

“Calm down!” Ravus growled. “We must stay focused or the fight is lost. I know you’re concerned but we can’t let our emotions rule.”

Gladio knew Ravus was right, but the idea still stung. Having to simply wait and see whether they would survive or not.

“Do you have any of those potions left?” Aranea asked suddenly. “We sorta need Luna to be awake if we actually end up catching Ardyn.”

“Damn, you’re right,” Gladio groaned. “Sure, she gave us magic weapons but without her to deal the final blow we’re kinda just left holding a ticking time bomb.”

“If we can hold him,” Ravus corrected.

“If he lets us get close enough to try,” grumbled Ignis.

“You lot are so depressing. I for one am not dying at the hands of a creepy dude. We need to help Luna right now and wait for backup.”

Healing Luna enough to wake her up ended up taking 2 elixirs and 1 potion. The oracle again regained consciousness looking exhausted and not at all rested. Gladio felt terrible for doing this to her but Aranea was right, she needed to be awake for them to even have a fighting chance.

“Wha’ppened?” she slurred.

“Waiting for Ardyn,” was the response that Aranea choose to offer as she paced the small space. “We needed you awake, sorry.”

Luna simply nodded and worked to gain her bearings. “How will we know when help has arrived?” she asked after a moment.

“I wish I knew the answer to that, but I’m afraid we will have to wait to find out,” Ignis sighed.

And wait they did, for nearly another two hours. The beam on their lone flashlight was growing dimmer by the minute. Soon it would flicker and go out leaving them trapped and in the dark. Gladio hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He was about to comment on what their backup plan might be when a distant rumble shook the floor. “What was that?!” he exclaimed hurriedly. “You all felt that too right?”

Based off the wide eyes peering back Gladio figured they’d heard and felt it as well. Wasting no time he began shouting at the top of his lungs. It didn’t take long for the others to join in. Ignis had to shush them a few minutes later when shouts could finally be heard through the rubble. Gladio felt like he could cry, they’d made it! Help had arrived. The only fear left was Ardyn.

The light had officially gone out by the time the others had broken through the immense pile of debris blocking their exit. Gladio had summoned his shield and done his best to keep the dust off of Loqi and Ignis. The only other shield in the armiger had been given to Aranea and she was protecting Ravus and Luna. The rush of stale, but to them, fresh air hit and they all sighed collectively in relief. It was at this moment they could finally see their rescuers.

An entourage of glaive stood on the other side of the now penetrable barrier with Cor and Nyx in the lead. They all hobbled out of their little concrete prison quickly, the risk of getting stuck again too terrifying to consider.

“Who needs medical attention?” Cor asked once they’d cleared the small opening that’d been created with what appeared to be a lot of hard labor and sweat. Granted the glaive had a few more tools at their disposal than they’d had. Namely what looked like a pneumatic jackhammer. That would explain the odd noise they’d heard early on.

We’re all mostly tended to, Marshal,” Ignis offered as he kept walking forward. “I’d like to get outside of this facility as soon as possible.”

Cor nodded and waved the remaining glaive forward. The small sliver of daylight coming out from the door was a sight for sore eyes. Unable to slow his pace Gladio practically ran the rest of the way and promptly collapsed on the grass outside. Thank the astrals they’d made it out of there!

“Big guy? Did –did we die?” Loqi rasped a second later from where he still wrapped in Gladio’s embrace.

“Loqi! Ha you’re alright! We’re still alive but it was a close call there.”

“What happened?” he asked tried to roll his head to the side to see around Gladio’s bulk.

“We got blown up,” Ravus spit out as he approached. He looked the part considering Ignis was half dragging him along.

“Shit, no way, I didn’t wake up at all!”

“Yes way, now do you think you can walk?” Gladio checked as he went to release his hold.

“Walk? Are you fucking kidding big guy? I’m going good holding my head up.”

“Need some assistance?” Cor asked as he strode up next to them.

Gladio shook his head and peered around to see how they’d all managed to arrive. A combination of militarized vehicles was spread out around Aranea’s dropship, dusty from their rigorous journey. It was at that moment that Gladio spotted something terrible. There, in one of the trucks was a familiar silhouette. “We need to leave now! You shouldn’t have let Noct come!” he shouted in a panic.

Cor merely shrugged, “He was acting like a baby, so I let him come.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Gladio quickly thought of another problematic issue. “Is the king with him?”

“He couldn’t leave Insomnia. You know your father wouldn’t have let him anyway.”

“Still --,” Gladio didn’t have time to finish when a dark shadow passed over them, he could only look over in shock as the rays of the setting sun highlighted the figure of Ardyn standing before them once more.

“Oh joy, you’ve brought me more playmates, how exciting,” he drolled. “I was beginning to think you’d never show up.”

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#ffxv #fanfic #gladio

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elizabethemerald · 4 years

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Dreams of Drowning: Chap 11

Bular has come at last to end the Lakes. With Toby by his side, his magic now awakened, plus most of the rest of his family, Jim is ready to face him. But he needs to hurry. Claire's time is running out.

AO3

Jim raised his shield just in time to stop Bular’s charge. He was sure he would have been sent soaring again, however his legs felt like they were glued to the ground. A quick glance downward showed orange flames licking at his ankles, holding him in place.

He blocked another swing from one of Bular’s blades then connected his mind to Toby’s in an instant. Toby released Jim’s foot allowing him to step forward, driving Bular back. Barbara joined the connection a second later, a navy blast of light from her disrupted Bular’s next swing.

Jim watched as his mom’s magic cut across the blackened, coal like skin. Her magic looked like it was causing the skin to unstitch itself, cuts opened in his skin, which would turn ashen and fall away with each wave of magic.

Bular roared as the injuries spread across his skin. He pulled his arm back to swing but was unbalanced as one of his swords unexpectedly weighed almost nothing while the other crashed to the ground, each surrounded by orange flames. Jim used the distraction to dart forward and carve several deep slashes across the stone skin.

Toby followed quickly after with several powerful blows from his hammer. Each one knocked the monster back a step. Meanwhile Barbara darted around his side and unleashed another powerful blast of her light. Zelda and Walter circled with her, each carefully aiming their shots for wounds she caused, where they seemed to have greater impact. Jim smiled grimly as his blue flames roared down his arms. He jumped inside Bular’s guard and knocked away one of his blades with a powerful cerulean blow.

He only had a moment to celebrate before Bular grabbed him across the chest with his now free hand. He slammed Jim twice into the pavement, each impact earning an airless grunt of pain as the breath was forced from his lungs.

Bular lifted Jim again to finish crushing him into the asphalt when Toby’s magic whirled around his massive forearm. He couldn’t bring that hand any closer to the ground. A wave of navy light washed over Jim and he felt air rush into his body again as his mother healed his injuries.

Jim knew he only had a moment to act, but Bular still held him by the chestplate of his armor, one massive hand almost as large as Jim’s whole torso. He breathed, allowing his armor and weapons to dissipate and return to his amulet.

He slipped out of Bular’s grasp, landing on his back. He caught his amulet and pressed it back to his chest as he rolled forward. The armor reformed around him, Daylight reappearing in his hand and Jim thrust the blade forward with every ounce of strength he had.

With a deafening roar and a blinding flash Jim drove Daylight deep into Bular’s chest. The light burned through his body, falling in embers from the cracks and injuries and blazing out of his eyes and mouth. The roar of magic was almost drowned out by Bular’s scream of rage and pain as his body slowly petrified into stone.

Jim tried to crawl out from under the falling statue but knew he wouldn’t be fast enough. Just before he was crushed a blazing hammer briefly filled his vision as Toby smashed the statue away, scattering rubble that had once been a man down the street.

“He’s gone.” Barbara said softly. She took a step towards Jim, but stumbled and would have fallen had Zelda not dove to her side to catch her. She helped her wife sit down as exhaustion suddenly made her limbs feel like lead.

Toby plopped down next to Jim, his legs splayed out in front of him. He breathed out, allowing his cheeks to puff up as he did so. He slowly slouched back until he was laying flat on the ground, his chest heaving.

Strickler was looking around at everyone and pulled out his phone. No doubt he was calling some of his less savoury contacts to help cover up the evidence of the battle that had just happened.

Jim looked at the rest of his family then pulled himself shakily to his feet. Barbara made a concerned noise at him as she watched rise. If he felt this tired he couldn’t imagine how tired Toby and his mom were. He had his magic for weeks. Barbara was barely sitting at one week, and Toby less than 30 minutes.

“Young Atlas what are you doing?” Strickler put his hand over the mouth piece to address Jim as he continued to drag himself over to his car.

Jim ignored him in favour of stepping into his car and trying to start the engine.

“Little Gynt, this is no time for rash decisions! We need time to rest and recover!” Zelda said from where she was trying to help Barbara stand. Jim glanced over to her and was shocked, but also less so, to see her eyes were glowing green. It wouldn’t be long till her magic was awakened to, some tired part of his brain thought.

“I have to go. They’re hurting her again. I can’t just let it happen, I have to go.” Desperation tinged his voice as he turned the key again and again. The car refused to start, the engine just whining to itself each time he tried. “God damn it car!”

He smacked his hand against the dash and in a flash of blue fire the car started, roaring to life. He leaned out his window as he pulled out of his driveway, carefully avoiding Toby’s overturned truck.

“You all need to rest, I’ll be ok. I’m just going to go and stop them hurting Claire and then we can get back on schedule to break her out. I… I can’t…”

“We understand Jimbo.” Toby waved from the ground. “Go do your hero thing. We’ll back you up if you need it. As soon as the world comes back into focus.”

Jim shook his head, a small smile on his face at his friend’s antics, before it slipped away. He could well remember how terrified Claire had felt in that last vision. And now he couldn’t sense her at all. He needed to get to 49B, and find some way to stop Le Fay from hurting her.

It felt like no time at all before he was pulling into the parking lot where he worked. He sat for just a moment trying to sense Claire, but she wasn’t responding to his thoughts. Corrupted Heartstone. They were going to kill her with the cursed stone if he didn’t stop them.

He left his car and hurried to one of the side entrances, this entrance was on the opposite side of the facility as the kitchen, so hopefully no one would notice him coming in. With a breath his armor fully covered him, including his head and face. Gunmar and Le Fay didn’t need to know who was breaking in just yet.

Jim drew Daylight and was considering how best to wedge it into the door to get in when a cough behind him made him whirl around. He raised his sword ready to have his second fight of the day, but behind him stood the old man who had changed his amulet.

“That might be a little suspicious.” He said in his same gravely tone. “Allow me.”

He stepped forward and Jim stepped back. The man put his hand close to the card reader where staff swiped in and a small green spark jumped from his hand to the reader and Jim could hear the door unlock. He grabbed the door and pulled it open.

Jim stepped inside and jogged down the hall towards the elevator. The older man followed at a more leisurely pace. Jim noticed he wasn’t trying to cover his face at all.

“Aren’t you worried about the cameras?”

The man shook his head, then held up a hand with his thumb and forefinger a small distance apart. A green spark jumped in between the two digits for a second before disappearing.

“Handy.” Jim said softly. “Why are you helping me?”

They had reached the elevator. Jim pressed the call button then pressed himself against the wall. The man seemed to think for a minute, then as the elevator opened with a ding he spoke.

“Consider me an interested party.” He said.

Jim nodded and stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the bottom floor. His only thoughts now were on how terrified Claire had been in his vision. She had been trying to scream even though she was under water. The chains on her arms had been so tight he could still feel the memory of her arms straining in their sockets. If this stranger could help get to her and save her this pain, then Jim didn’t care about anything else.

When the door opened on the research level, Jim stepped out Daylight in his hands. He had been expecting guards or researchers like he had seen when he had delivered food. But there were none. He stayed in his fighting stance while he slowly crept down the hall. From his and Toby’s observations they knew that there were researchers here at almost all hours of the day. And the guards had a set rotation that never left the facility unprotected. Yet there was no one here.

All of Jim’s senses told him this was wrong that there should be someone. He crept forward while the stranger walked calmly behind him. He was almost to the door where he had sensed Claire from before when another cough sounded from behind him. He turned cautiously and his mysterious helper gestured toward another door, not the one Claire was behind, or the room where he had danced just the other day.

“I believe that you might find the easiest way to help her in here.” Without waiting for a response he opened the door and stepped inside. Jim hurried in after him.

“Why? What’s in here-”

The words stopped in Jim’s throat. Before him stood an open pool of some strange liquid. It was electric green and the surface seemed to spark and fizzle.

“What-?”

Again the words wouldn’t come. Before his eyes the green liquid began to change. It became dark, like someone was pouring ink into the pool. It was soon black as pitch, black as-

“Corrupted Heartstone!”

Then the door slammed shut behind him.

Jim spun on his heel bringing Daylight up but it was knocked out of his hand by a powerful backhand from Gunmar. Jim took a step backwards as he saw the massive man, who had been hidden behind the door. On the other side stood Dr. Le Fay, with a smug grin on her face. He turned away from them to the stranger in green.

“You did this?”

“Yes.”

The man stepped up to him, his hand flying to Jim’s amulet. With a tug the amulet came away, bringing his armor with it. Jim fell to his knees as all of the pain and exhaustion of the day suddenly piled on top of him. His vision failed and everything went black for just a moment.

Just as his vision was clearing, but before he could rise chains snaked out of the open pool, each lit a golden light. Jim tried to fight them off, to wrestle himself free, but slowly, surely, they bound him hand and foot. He growled and squirmed, desperately trying to get away from them. Dr. Le Fay’s golden boot entered his field of vision as she stepped up to him.

“So you are the one entity bonded to. I thought as much James.”

Jim bared his teeth.

“Entity? You mean Claire? The woman I love? The woman I will not rest until I free?” Jim snarled at her. “Why don’t you call her by her name? Her name is Claire! And I will free her from your control.”

“Free her? Oh no James. You are going to join her.”

Morgan Le Fay smiled at him as she gestured lazily with one hand. Jim felt the slack in the chains disappear. He turned as best as he could, away from Le Fay, away from Gunmar, away from the stranger who tricked him into coming here. The black pool filled his vision and fear filled his mind.

Jim reached out with his mind, a wordless, terror filled cry as he was dragged forward. Dragged closer and closer to the inky darkness. He tried to brace himself on the edge of the pool, fighting with everything he had to stay on land. And then he felt a foot on his back. He glanced backwards to see Gunmar’s cruel smile.

“Worm.” The man sneered and pushed Jim over the edge.

A single last scream echoed in his mind before the blackness swallowed him and consciousness was stolen from him.

#jim lake junior #Barbara Lake #toby domzalski #zelda nomura #walter strickler #morgana toa #merlin toa #gunmar the black #bular the vicious #Trollhunters #tales of arcadia #dreams of drowning #writing emerald #please reblog

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fantasyoverreality98 · 4 years

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Fight the Darkness Pt. 4

Masterlist

Pairing: Gaius x MC

Summary: The fight against the darkness grows harder as Amy discovers she can walk in the daylight.

Word Count: 3,884

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For so long, the hope of walking in the sunlight had been a mere dream. Amy had no idea what possessed her to even try it, but she had a feeling that it would all be okay. And so, once she had dressed, she had stepped out of the hotel room and into the sun.

A minute passed. Then two. Fighting back a grin, she started to walk further away from the safety of the hotel room. There was a park nearby, and a bench that was under direct sunlight. Amy took a seat and watched the people around her go about their day. Once it had been an hour, she knew she had been right.

She could walk in the daylight.

Amy laughed, throwing her arms out as she basked in the warmth that hadn’t touched her skin in twenty-five years. She closed her eyes and reared her head back, grinning wider than she had in months. The energy that coursed through her was intoxicating. After a few minutes, she stood and made her way toward the center of the town. She smiled and nodded at the people she passed by, feeling normal for the first time in forever.

“Excuse me, do you know where the nearest clothing store is?” Amy stopped a random man to ask for directions, and once more she found herself holding back hysterical laughter when he pointed a shop out to her, all the while never knowing who, or rather, what she was.

The woman behind the counter smiled at her, and Amy stopped to have a long conversation. Life had never felt so normal. She’d never realized how much she missed being human until this very moment.

“Thank you,” she said with a final wave as she left the clothing shop with new outfits for both her and Gaius. No more cloak for him.

This wasn’t darkness. No, it was light. She had been foolish to fight it off for so long. Rheya’s powers wouldn’t corrupt her. Amy would use them for good. To live the life she had been robbed of when Rheya twisted Gaius’ mind thousands of years ago. Now they could be happy together. They could live an almost normal life. It was going to be okay.

Gaius was still asleep when she got back to the hotel. With a smile, she made sure he was safely out of harm’s way before throwing a curtain open, bathing in the sunlight once more. A quarter of a century without this warmth had been what caused her grief. She knew that now.

Rustling from the bed drew her attention, and Amy turned to Gaius, grinning. “Good afternoon,” she said in a sing-song voice. “Have a good sleep?”

“I—You—What—” There was no mistaking the fear written across his face.

“Who would’ve guessed, huh?” She held an arm out, watching as the sun bounced harmlessly off the smooth skin. “I went outside today. The world sure isn’t the same at night. I’ve forgotten how it feels to interact with people.”

Gaius sat frozen in place. Thinking he was scared of the sun, Amy pulled the blinds shut, walking across the room toward him once the light vanished. He kept his eyes on her as she took a seat at the foot of the bed, wariness clear in his eyes.

When she crawled further into the bed, he recoiled. Amy frowned, sitting back on her knees. “What’s wrong?”

“You can walk in the sunlight.” He studied her face, awe mixed with horror. “Should I be concerned?”

Laughing, she shook her head, trying to move close again. “No! I feel greater than I have in a long time. There’s no more darkness. It’s only light.” Amy dropped beside him, running her fingers across the hotel sheets. She felt unstoppable.

“Amy, that means the power is growing stronger.” Gaius did not share her enthusiasm. He watched her the way her friends in New York had before she left. She did not like that.

“It’s fine. I’m in control.” Amy rolled onto her stomach, moving closer to him. She smiled and leaned in, reveling in the surge of power that flowed through her. Gaius hesitated for a moment before he pulled back, shaking his head.

Anger flared inside her, but Amy controlled it. “We need to talk,” Gaius said, the worry in his eyes extinguishing the fear she had that he did not want her.

With a sigh, she pulled away, standing from the bed to walk to the window again. Amy kept the blinds shut, but she already missed the sun. It was a small luxury that meant everything to her.

“Are you sure that you feel fine?” Gaius asked, throwing the covers back as he slowly got out of the bed. “Last night it seemed like you had no control over anything.”

Amy kept her back turned to him, remembering the fear that had coursed through her when she nearly killed the young driver. She hoped he was okay. “For the first time in months, I’m certain that I’m fine,” she said, not wishing to have this conversation right now. “I fed until I was fully satisfied, and that seemed to help. It was like…” She had no idea how to describe it.

“Like you grew stronger from feeding?” Gaius was now standing a few feet behind her.

“Yes.” Amy stared at the wall, feeling how close Gaius stood, his body so close all she had to do was lean back and they would touch. Desperate to change the subject, she glanced back at him. “Have you taken a shower yet?” she asked, smelling the swamp that still lingered on his clothes.

He took a deep breath, and she closed her eyes when his lips brushed against her neck. “I know you’re trying to change the subject.” She felt his lips curve up in a smile against her neck, his hands moving down to grip her hips. “But I’ll play along. Is that what you want me to do?”

She nodded, knowing her voice would shake if she spoke. God, did she want him more than ever. The entire night before felt like a fever dream. It still felt like she was trapped inside a dream world, as though she would wake to find herself still unable to walk in the sun. Like maybe she had never made it out of New York. Perhaps she had died all those years ago, and was stuck in some strange dream world of her own making. Nothing felt real anymore.

Gaius stepped back, and Amy didn’t move from her spot at the window until she heard the shower start. Breathing heavily, she turned to examine the hotel room. The bag of clothes sat on the floor near the door. Her eyes were drawn to the bed, and, desperate to distract herself, she started to make it. Anything to stop the darkness from creeping back in.

Five minutes later, Gaius emerged from the bathroom, raising an eyebrow when he saw that she’d made the bed. “Trying to distract yourself?” He’d returned to his usual self, the hint of fear gone.

“Mhhm.” Amy sat down, dragging her eyes up and down his body. “Sadly, it didn’t work very well.” The voice that spoke no longer sounded like hers, a certain undertone in it that startled her.

The initial feelings of excitement were starting to fade, replaced by something else entirely. She tried to keep her composure, shoving the alarm aside.

Embrace it.

No, she had to keep fighting the darkness.

Stop resisting.

The tendrils of darkness swept over her, slowly wrapping around her heart and her mind. Amy ignored it, latching onto the pleasant feelings of when she’d walked in the sun. One moment of pure joy in the sea of hopelessness was all she needed.

She sat up and watched Gaius, smirking to hide the silent war going on within.

“I got you some new clothes. It might be a nice change for you.” Amy pushed herself off the bed and grabbed the bag from near the door. “Hopefully they’ll fit.”

He didn’t look thrilled about the idea of wearing new clothes. The mild irritation was obvious, though he kept quiet. Amy held the bag out to him with a smile. She couldn’t wait to see what the outfit would look like.

Resigning to the fact there was no getting out of it, Gaius grabbed the bag from her and walked back into the bathroom. While he changed, she pulled the blinds back and held her hand out to the sun again. This was what true power felt like. She could hear the people pass by outside, sense the shift of the gentle breeze, feel the air that surrounded her. And all of it belonged to her if she so chose.

Amy looked at the pot of fertilizer again, envisioning a garden sprouting from the barren dirt. Nothing happened. The world outside grew quieter again, and her attention shifted to the sounds that came from the bathroom. She heard fabric brush against skin as Gaius pulled on the new outfit.

“Do they fit?” Amy cleared her throat, shaking her head in an attempt to snap out of the hazy sensation that swept over her mind. “I had to guess.”

Gaius didn’t answer, instead tugging the door open to reveal himself. She crossed her arms and hid her mouth with one hand as she grinned. It really was something else, seeing him in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

“Well, at least you’ll blend in better,” she said, studying the clothing. After seeing him with a cloak for so long, it almost seemed a pity to say goodbye to the iconic outfit. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”

“You are enjoying this way too much.” Still, despite his obvious annoyance, he broke out in a smile. “The things I do to entertain you.”

Amy stepped away from the window and crossed the room to him. “I really appreciate it.” Her senses were still heightened, the sound of his heavy breathing like music to her ears. “What else would you do to entertain me, Gaius Augustine?”

“Anything you want.” He leaned closer to her, studying her face as if waiting for a command. “I’m yours.”

She grinned at the words, something deep inside stirring. “Take off your clothes.”

Amy had no idea what had come over her, but it felt good. The thought of having someone at her complete mercy turned her on. It had been so long since she felt like the one in control of anything.

Gaius stepped back, pulling the shirt over his head. He stared into her eyes as he finished getting undressed. Thoughts of their first time together on the boat ran through her mind. It had been a moment of pure recklessness, of ignoring every rational thought screaming at her not to do it, but she’d never regretted it. She’d spent most of their time apart wishing for another opportunity.

“Are you certain that you’re okay?” He watched her struggle to get her jacket off, her breathing growing ragged as the world came alive around her.

It had taken her a while to get used to her heightened senses as a vampire, but they felt even stronger now. The once distant buzz of electricity that hovered all around had grown deafening. Amy shut her eyes, willing herself to focus. She let out a frustrated groan and sat on the bed when it didn’t help.

The room was quiet as Gaius stood nearby, watching with concern in his eyes. Neither of them had to say what the problem was.

“I need to go for a walk,” Amy mumbled, not bothering to glance back as she stood and hurried toward the door. Without thinking, she threw it open, slamming it shut behind her when she remembered it would likely hurt Gaius if the sunlight hit him.

The sound of traffic roared around her, and she began to pant, shoving her way through the crowd. People stopped to shoot glares at her, but Amy didn’t care. She needed to get away. Now.

After walking for nearly half an hour, she walked to the top of a hill to rest underneath a large tree. A gentle breeze blew across her face, and Amy rested her forehead on her knees. She could still hear people moving about in the town below. Their energy called out to her, the desire to pull all their energy in almost overwhelming.

“It’s nothing,” Amy mumbled to herself, closing her eyes. “You’re fine. Ignore it.”

Talking to herself was hardly going to help, but she didn’t care. All she had to do was hold on just a little longer. Mydiea held the answer to overcoming Rheya’s power. She just knew it.

Her phone started to ring, and Amy pulled it out of her pocket, tears filling her eyes when she saw Adrian’s name. She took a shaky breath, debating whether she should continue to ignore him, before ultimately deciding to answer.

“Hello?”

“Amy, thank God!” Adrian’s panic was clear in his tone. “Where are you? Why haven’t you been answering my calls?”

Amy leaned back against the tree, biting hard on her bottom lip as she closed her eyes. She took a minute to answer. “I’m with Gaius.”

Silence. She only knew Adrian hadn’t hung up because she could hear him breathing on the other end. Finally, after what felt like ten minutes, he answered. “Please come home. We can help you.”

“I don’t think you can.” She held her arm out in the sun, examining the blue veins underneath the beige skin. “Adrian, I can walk in the daylight now.”

It took even longer than the first time for him to answer. “Amy, please, you need to come home. We can all figure this out together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I’m not alone.” She thought about the moments spent with Gaius, and for a moment, she felt like it would all be okay. Maybe he could help her overcome this. “I have Gaius.”

Adrian sighed. “He won’t help you. Have you forgotten all the horrible things he did? I know you think that he’s worthy of forgiveness, but what if he encourages it? I can help you. I’m here for you.”

“I’m sorry, Adrian, but I have to go.” Amy stood, looking out at the town. She could sense the darkness moving in again, and tried to shut it out. The next words were meant as a goodbye, as if she knew it would be a long time, perhaps the last time, she ever talked to him. “I’m sorry.”

The desperation in Adrian’s voice almost made her stop, but she knew what had to be done. “Wait, I—” She ended the call, shaking as she turned her phone off and shoved it back in her pocket.

Gaius was pacing the room when she entered the hotel room again, rushing to her when she stepped inside. “Where have you been? I was worried that something had happened.” Worry shone in his face as he studied her, though she noted the way he kept some distance between them.

“I just went for a walk. I feel better now.” It was a lie, and she knew that he could tell, but she no longer cared about trying to hide it. “We still have a few hours before the sun sets,” she said, staring at the planter of dead flowers.

“Amy—” Gaius reached out to grab her by the shoulder, turning her around to look at him. He was frowning, his eyes searching her face. For what, she did not know. “What happened in New York?”

The question felt like a blow to her stomach, the thought of that night rushing back, and she stumbled. She struggled to breathe, aware that if she said the words out loud, it would make it more real, and yet knowing there was no way to avoid the question. Not anymore.

The room seemed to close in as Amy took a seat on the bed, staring at a tiny blood stain on the floor from her frenzied feeding hours earlier. She couldn’t stand to look at Gaius as she said the truth she had been avoiding for two weeks. But it was time. There was no holding off any longer.

“I killed someone.”

Two Weeks Earlier

“Twenty-five years of superhero movies, and I’m still obsessed.” Lily walked a few feet ahead, excitedly talking about the latest Marvel movie they’d just seen.

Yes, they were still watching Marvel movies.

Amy laughed, her face sore from smiling so much. “You know what? Me too. The special effects don’t hurt, either.” Her grin faltered when they passed a familiar building.

Jax Matsuo Youth Center.

“He would’ve loved that movie,” Amy whispered, the ache in her heart that she was able to ignore most days returning with full force. “Lil, do you ever think about how it would be if Jax were still here?”

Lily looked like she was holding back tears, her movements slow as she made her way to Amy. “I miss him too, Ames. So, so much. But he would be happy knowing we made it. You defeated Rheya. That’s what he wanted.”

“I just can’t stop wondering what could have been. Wishing that he was still here.” She knew the grief bordered on obsession, that her inability to let Jax go was getting in the way of everyday life, but she couldn’t bring herself to forget.

She looked away from the sign when Lily placed a hand on her arm. “We all do. But there’s nothing you or I could have done. The best way to honor Jax’s memory is to go on, and to live a happy life. That’s what he’d want for you.”

Amy shook her head, the strange feeling that had been appearing every few months returning. She ignored it and continued to walk down the street with Lily by her side. “You’re right. I just need to stop—” The image of Jax turning to ash flashed in her mind and she had to lean against the wall of the building, struggling to bring air into her lungs. She had no idea why the guilt was so strong, but it had never fully gone away.

“You okay?”

But Lily’s words fell on deaf ears. Suddenly, Amy felt a need to feed. It was stronger than ever before, even worse than when she’d first been Turned. She could sense a human nearby. Their heart pounded in a steady rhythm. Their blood coursed through their veins. Her mouth watered and she felt her fangs emerge.

“Uh, Amy, when’s the last time you fed?” Lily looked worried, her lips turned down in a frown. “You don’t look so good.”

Amy tried to shake the feeling off, pushing herself off the wall as she attempted to continue the walk back to their apartment. “I’m fine. It’s okay, I just—” But the desire was growing stronger. “I’ll be fine. It’s nothing. Let’s—” She gasped, feeling the world fade away until all she could hear, feel, taste was the blood pumping through the arteries of whoever was nearby. If she didn’t feed, she would die. The need for that blood consumed her.

Before she took the time to think about what she was doing, she took off at a sprint, heading in the direction where she could hear a beating heart. Lily tried to grab her, but she was too slow.

Something about this felt different. It was almost as if she hadn’t fed in years. The desire to feed was stronger than ever before. Amy ignored the calls from Lily and weaved her way through some alleys, locating the human within seconds.

The young man jumped when she appeared out of the shadows, a voice inside her telling her to feed. She wanted to ignore it, wanted to turn around and go back to Lily. Instead, she pounced, silencing his screams before they could properly begin.

By the time Lily caught up, it was too late.

Power surged through Amy as she drained the human’s blood. She closed her eyes and clung to the young man’s body, only letting go when Lily grabbed her from behind. Her best friend staggered back when Amy opened her eyes.

“Your eyes. They’re glowing.” Fear shone in Lily’s eyes as she stuck a shaking hand in her pocket, pulling her phone out to call someone. She only looked away for a moment before focusing back on Amy, as if to make sure she didn’t go anywhere. “Adrian? We have a problem.”

Amy finally snapped out of her bloodlust after a few minutes, looking at the body in horror. She shoved the darkness inside back down, praying that she hadn’t killed the human.

Less than five minutes later, Adrian and Kamilah arrived, not bothering to hide their shock when they saw what she had done. Amy tried to think of something to say, but she knew there were no words that would make this better. She had crossed a line there was no going back from.

“How did this happen?” She thought she saw disgust in Adrian’s face, and took a step back. “Amy, this isn’t like you! You killed someone!”

She tried to speak, but words failed her. Seeing no other option, she turned and ran, knowing that her friends would never leave her alone after this. They had sensed that she was struggling to control herself for years, but this situation confirmed it. There was no way to control her urges anymore. The darkness crept its way back up, and she knew without a doubt that Rheya’s power still lived inside her.

After running for a few more minutes, the apartment building she lived in with Lily appeared. Amy didn’t think. She just grabbed whatever she could, feeling the heaviness in her chest when she strapped Jax’s sword to her back and ran back into the night.

As she made her way to the airport, she could think of only one person who might understand. It was someone who she hadn’t seen since the night she’d decided to spare his life two and a half decades ago. Maybe the person she found—if she found him at all—was nothing like the one who’d left her behind in New York. Twenty-five years was still a long time for her, even if she was immortal. A large part of her wanted to believe that he really was trying to redeem himself, but another small part worried that maybe he’d gone back to his old ways.

It didn’t matter. There was only one other person who had been under Rheya’s control for an extended period of time. And while this might not be mind control, she could still feel her mind withering away, picking at who she was throughout the years, until she would no longer recognize herself. Amy knew that if she didn’t try to stop it, the darkness would consume her. So, seeing no other way, she boarded a flight to Europe, not knowing where to go, but knowing that this was the only chance.

She had to find Gaius Augustine.

#choices: stories you play #choices fanfiction #bloodbound #gaius augustine #gaius x mc #gaius augustine x mc

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

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⁂ Flaws (Jirou Akutagawa) [1 of 4]

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Mafia AU, Dark, Crossover ☁

Word Count: 1,458 ☁

Pairing: High School Reader x Jirou ☁

World: Prince of Tennis & Katekyo Hitman Reborn! ☁

WARNING: This fic contains mentions of rape/sexual assault and has dark themes such as murder and gore. Reader discretion is advised.

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Can you forgive my flaws?

Your eyes widened in fear as they stared into the brown eyes of your boyfriend. They were as wide as yours but filled with more than just fear.

Terror, disbelief, horror.

Those were the most prominent, the ones that stood out the most to you. He had every right to be terrified, you knew, but what killed you was that you didn’t know if he was terrified of you or of what he had seen. If you had to guess, you’d say it was a little bit of both.

Something like that… it’s something the young boy could never have imagined, even in his wildest of dreams, but he was seeing it now, before his very eyes.

And he knew it wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare.

8 Hours Earlier

“Y/N,” Reborn’s suave voice echoed through the Sawada household which was currently empty aside from the aforementioned man and yourself. He sipped his coffee as he waited, listening closely to the sound of your footsteps as you descended the stairs.

“What’s up, Reborn?” You asked as you grabbed a bottle of soda from the refrigerator.

“I have a new job for you. The request came in this morning.” He slid a manila folder across the table.

You blinked, setting the drink down. There was only a single sheet of paper inside the folder, bearing all of the information you needed for the new mission, including a picture of the man you were after. Your eyes slid across the lines of words, picking up a few keywords that made you realize how serious this job really was.

Rape. Murder. Child. Brutal.

Your eyes hardened as your grip tightened on the folder.

Reborn lifted his head just enough for his dark eyes to land on you, shining with infinite knowledge. “Will you accept?”

“I’ll handle it. An undercover mission isn’t something I prefer, but I have no problem with doing so. Is there a specific persona I should take on?” You threw the folder on the table in order to grab the soda.

“Dress professionally. A suit would do fine.” He sipped his coffee, his fedora pulled back down to shadow his eyes. “He will think that you’re there to tip him off to a group of young girls. When you see the opportunity to strike, do so.”

“Does Tsuna know about this?”

“…”

“I didn’t think so.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I won’t do it without his approval, Reborn. You know that.”

The corner of his lips twitched, wanting to turn into a smirk, but he held it back. “That’s fine. And while you’re waiting for Tsuna to return from his vacation in a week, think of how many innocent girls that man could have in that time. He works fast, I hear.”

Your body tensed, hand frozen in mid-air and the bottle inches from your lips which were now pressed into a fine line. Your eyes narrowed at the older man, knowing that he was messing with your mind. Even so, he was right. Men like that… they wasted no time. There’s no telling how many victims would have appeared by the time Tsuna returned.

You closed your eyes and breathed out slowly, not even realizing that you had been holding your breath.

“You’ll do it, then?” He pressed.

“Fine, I’m in. When and where?”

“Five thirty this afternoon, Hyde park.”

“I’ll be there.”

Reborn smirked as you left the kitchen.

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After getting your mission from Reborn, you returned to your own home to gather the things you’d need. Your mind was so focused on the task at hand that you were thoroughly surprised to find your boyfriend standing outside your house, waiting for you to return home.

Jirou smiled brightly when you stopped in front of him, pushing away from the door to greet you. “Hiya, Y/N-chan~!”

“Jirou… what are you doing here?”

“Oh. Well, Atobe-buchou let us out of practice early today because he had something to do. So~ I decided to come and see you!” He wrapped his arms around you, snuggling his face into the crook of your neck. Feeling you tense beneath him he pulled back enough to look at your face, a frown marring his features. “You’re not busy, are you?”

“No, not at all!” You responded quickly. ‘Maybe a little too quick’, you thought when his brow furrowed. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all. I’m free until tonight.”

“Do you mind if I stay with you until then?” He asked softly, head tilting to the side. He was so adorable, you couldn’t say no even if you wanted to. Which you didn’t.

You set your hand on his cheek with a smile tugging at your lips. “Of course I don’t mind, Jirou~”

He grinned brightly, grip tightening as he nuzzled your neck again. The mission temporarily forgotten, you let your arms snake around his torso, bringing his body closer to your own.

The relationship you had with Jirou was complicated on every level, even if it didn’t seem like it at first glance. First off, there was the age difference. You were eighteen years old, fresh out of high school. Jirou had only just started high school.

You couldn’t go so far as to say he’s as innocent as his teammate, Choutarou, but he was pretty close. He was ignorant of the real horror that lie hidden within this world. He could so easily be corrupted… and that terrified you.

You were, after all, a hit-person in the strongest family in all of Japan and Italy. You killed people for a living, drew blood and put blades and knives through people’s hearts. They were all scumbags who didn’t deserve to live, but it was murder either way. Your hands were tainted with blood, but Jirou didn’t know that.

He probably didn’t even know that the mafia really existed. You didn’t want him to find out – about any of it. You didn’t want to scare him away, you didn’t want him to think that you were a monster, even if you were in reality. Your biggest fear was losing Jirou, the love of your life.

You had managed to hide it from him so far, but… just how long would that last? The thought terrified you, which was saying something considering you looked death in the face every day of your life.

“Why don’t you come inside, Jirou? It’s pretty chilly out here,” You suggested, gently pushing the younger male away before heading toward the front door. Jirou followed behind closely as you entered the silent home, heading for the kitchen. “Would you like anything to drink?”

He shook his head. “No thank you,”

“To eat, then?” You glanced at him over your shoulder before rifling through the fridge.

“Nope~”

You glanced at him again before shutting the door. “Alright then. Did you have anything in mind for us?”

His cheeks gained a little color as he looked away, grinning sheepishly. “Umm… I thought that, maybe if you wanted to, we could…” he shook his head violently before looking at you, his hands held out in front of him. “No, never mind. It’s stupid.”

“Jirou,” you called softly before approaching him. “Nothing you say is stupid. Tell me?”

He looked down at his hands in defeat. “Fine~ I was hoping we could get Fuuta-kun and go to the park. We… we had a lot of fun last time…”

“Why would that be stupid?” You blinked in confusion.

“It’s, umm…” he glanced at you before quickly looking the other way, “…really childish.”

You smiled, almost bitterly, as you placed your hand on his cheek, forcing the boy to look at you. “Who cares if it’s childish? You should enjoy your youth as long as you can, Jirou, because once you lose it… it’s gone forever.”

“Okay!” He sprung up, throwing his arms around you and bringing his lips to your own.

It was a simple, chaste kiss, but you found herself melting in it as his arms tightened, bringing your bodies closer. With that single kiss, you actually felt like things would turn out okay, but you knew that was a false sense of security. It was a lie, a bold-faced lie that liked to taunt you every time your lips met his.

But even if it was a lie, full of spite and with a bitterness that even you couldn’t believe, you would welcome it fully, because it might just be the only thing that’s keeping you sane.

All too soon, the kiss ended and Jirou was left beaming, waiting for you.

You smiled, putting your coat back on.

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You sat back on the park bench, watching Fuuta and Jirou chasing each other through the trees. Seeing the two smiling and laughing, so innocent and happy; it warmed your heart and almost made you forget about who you are the sins you’ve committed. It was short-lived, though, as a scream pierced the Autumn air. You reacted on instinct, rushing toward the direction of the sound. What you found enraged you.

A young girl, maybe around fourteen or fifteen years old, was on the ground crying.

Blood dripped from an open gash on your forehead. A man much older than herself was ordering her to be quiet in hushed whispers as he held her wrist tightly.

Seeing the sight sent fury coursing through your veins. You could feel the anger beginning to take over. Blood pumped loudly in your ears, blocking out the cries of the girl and the yells of the man. Your movements were automatic, as if someone else were controlling your body. Your hand grabbed the back of the man’s dirty jacket and ripped him away from the girl.

“What the hel -”

His words were cut short when your fist connected with his face. You could feel the crunch of his nose as the bone shattered into pieces. Blood poured from his face, but you were far from done with him.

“You think this is okay?!” You punched him again, busting open his lip with your Vongola ring. “Huh?! You think it’s okay to attack someone?!” Your fist reached his gut with such a force that his feet left the ground. “She’s a fucking child!” Your last punch sent the man flying, landing flat on his back a few feet away. “You won’t hurt anyone else, mother fucker.” You pulled out a pistol from the back of your jeans and aimed it at his head.

“Please! Please! I swear I wasn’t gonna do anything! I just wanted a feel!” The man started to sob, his tears mixing with the blood that covered his face.

“And that makes it okay?” You growled out, cocking the gun. It clicked and the man started to shake.

“I’ll never do it again! I swear! I’ll change!”

Your eyes scanned the man’s face before narrowing. It was a bit difficult to tell through the blood and tears covering his face, but that was definitely the same man from the file Reborn had given her. He’s wanted for various sex acts, most of which are against minors, along with various other offenses. You remembered the conversation with Reborn and glanced at the watch on your wrist.

Five-forty in the afternoon.

Reborn knew that this guy would be here around five-thirty. You had completely forgotten about it after speaking with Jirou, who always made you forget about the horror of your job.

“Please…” The man whimpered.

“I’m supposed to bring you in alive.” You slowly lowered the gun. “But your actions are unforgivable!” As quick as lightning, you raised it again and fired.

The man’s crotch exploded in a mess of blood and skin. His screams were high pitched, grating against your head.

“Enjoy your trip to hell, asshole,” You growled before pulling the trigger once more. The bullet ripped through the air before piercing the center of his forehead.

The park was now silent. His screams stopped as soon as the bullet hit him – an instant kill. A pool of blood formed below his body at this point, slowly dripping towards you. With a scoff, you turned away from the mess only to freeze, the weapon falling from your hand. The sound echoed in your brain as it clattered on the pavement.

Your eyes widened in fear as you stared into the brown eyes of your boyfriend. They were as wide as yours but filled with more than just fear.

Terror, disbelief, horror. Those were the most prominent; the ones that stood out the most to you. He had every right to be terrified, you knew, but what killed you was that you didn’t know if he was terrified of you or of what he had seen. If you had to guess, you’d say it was a mixture of both.

Something like that… it’s something the young boy could never have imagined, even in his wildest of dreams, but he was seeing it now, before his very eyes.

And he knew it was not a dream, it was a nightmare.

“Jirou…” You swallowed hard, taking a step forward.

He only shook his head and backed away. “What have you done?”

“Let me explain. Please!”

He took off running, tears spilling from his eyes. It felt like your heart shattered into a million pieces, and he just ran off with them all. You couldn’t move; it felt as if your feet were glued to the ground as a heavy weight pushed down on your shoulders.

You honestly wanted to die.

A soft sob snapped you out of your daze and you remembered the present situation. You made your way over to the young girl who was shaking violently; though you couldn’t be sure if it was caused by your attack on the man or the attack on her by the man.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” You spoke softly, making sure to stop a foot away from her. You kneeled down and held your hand out like you were approaching a frightened animal. “You’re safe now,”

The girl only stared at you for a moment before pushing off the ground and almost flying into your arms. A new round of sobs escaped the girl’s throat, growing louder as her brain processed the situation. You wrapped your arms tightly around the girl, whispering softly into her ear in an attempt to calm her.

At the same time, you were trying very hard not to break down yourself.

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▸Part 2 of 4

📜 Read more by checking out my masterlist 📜

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velerodra-valesinger · 4 years

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An Abridged Overview: The Sleeper and Related Topics

by Velerodra Valesinger, Sun Speaker of Dead Sun Harbor

Contents:

1.Introduction

2.The Immediate Threat: The Sleeper

2.1.Known Abilities

2.2.Characteristics

2.3.Relative Power Level

2.4.Known Weaknesses

2.5.Recommendations/Precautions

3.Recent Background

3.1.Old Allies

3.2.The Keys

4.Greater Context

4.1.The Dreameater

4.2.The Dreamer

4.3.The Cycle

5.The Seven

5.1.The Sisters

5.2.The Red Web

5.3.The Lord of Deals

5.4.The Great Worm

5.5.The Puzzlemaster

5.6.The Hunter

5.7.The Keymaker

6.Closing Remarks

1.Introduction:

The purpose of this document is to provide a general understanding of a threat that has plagued Dead Sun Harbor to those who are new to the Harbor. This overview is limited by my own knowledge. While I have endeavoured to keep track of this situation, I do not claim to be an authority on the matter and further insight may be gained from speaking to others. The information contained in this document is derived from my personal notes on this matter and my own experiences. However the basic information contained here should be enough to provide those unfamiliar with the current threat with a good framework for further understanding.

I have attempted to arrange this document by providing the most vital information first, followed by supplemental details. For those only concerned with the immediate threat, sections 2 and 3 should be sufficient. For those who seek more context, I have included sections 4 and 5.

My objective is to present the most accurate information I can, in a clear manner. It should be noted that the nature of many of the topics covered here remain somewhat mysterious, so the information shared in this document should not be taken as a matter of fact. Rather, it is what I believe to be most accurate information at this time.

I also have endeavored to avoid editorializing. While I have my own opinions and speculations, this document is not the proper place for such things. While such conversations are worth having, the primary goal of this document is to quickly bring someone with little knowledge of the threat up to speed.

2.The Immediate Threat: The Sleeper

The entity known as The Sleeper is the immediate threat. It has plagued the harbor for over a year. The exact nature of The Sleeper has been difficult to gauge. However the following is what I believe can be said with a fair degree of accuracy. It should be noted that the Sleeper serves a greater entity which is discussed further in sections 3 and 4.

2.1.Known Abilities

The sleeper has displayed a variety of tactics and abilities. It’s primary tool is void energies. It has used such energies to corrupt other beings. The Sleeper does not always appear directly, and has been known to make use of void corrupted minions or void spawn. Not all of it’s attacks are physical, the Sleeper often preys upon the mind and senses. It has shown itself adept at making one see and hear things that are not real. It also has displayed a knack for using the contents of one’s mind to try and manipulate one into doing it’s bidding - or to cause distress.

At least once it has induced a sort of mass illusion causing many members of the harbor to fight an illusion form of the Arbiter and the Admiral of the Harbor. There have been reports, though not confirmed that the Sleeper has tampered with dreams, inflicting nightmares. The Sleeper has also shown an ability to pull others into strange realms. And to corrupt other realms and even powerful entities (more details in sections 4 and 5). This is not a comprehensive list of its abilities, but should provide a basic idea of what the Sleeper is capable of.

2.2.Characteristics

The Sleeper’s presence is marked by a distinct chill in the air. A deeper chill than mere cold. Reality often becomes confusing or distorted. The Sleeper does not always show itself. When it does it has been known for distinct pinhole eyes. The Sleeper has made use of void spawn or void corrupted minions, which can come in a variety of appearances, however - often are accompanied by the same chilling sensation. The Sleeper has been known to speak, but it is not an entity to be trusted. I have not personally spoken to it, but others have.

2.3.Relative Power Level

The exact power of the Sleeper is not entirely known nor understood. It seems to prefer isolated targets. Yet at times it has shown no issue standing before a group. And at times it seemed overwhelming powerful. Other times it has seemed like something that can be damaged. The variance in its level of strength could be accounted for by various things, such as proximity to locations, or the strength of its master. It is unclear. It is advised to assume it is in a powerful state to er on the side of caution.

2.4.Known Weaknesses

When dealing with Sleeper or its minions, a few things have proven effective at inflicting damage. Arcane energy, and the Light, stand out. However it is not advised to try and fight The Sleeper or its minions without backup unless there is no other option. There are other entities that oppose the Sleeper that have been useful in combating The Sleeper as well. These are detailed further in section 5.

2.5.Recommendations/Precautions

If one senses The Sleeper’s influence may be present, it is advised to seek back up as quickly as possible. Mental wards, or defense against void magic is advised as well. Having arcane or Light infused weapons or armor may be useful. Though it is NOT ADVISED to try and confront The Sleeper alone. Suggested courses of action are to request backup, or to flee. This concludes the most vital information regarding the nature of The Sleeper in the most immediate sense. It is also encouraged that any interpersonal disputes be temporarily be set aside, as allowing The Sleeper to foster or worsen rifts between us, would be playing into its hands.

3.Recent Background / Motives

Of course the natural question is ‘why is The Sleeper vexing the Harbor?’. But fear not gentle reader, I have anticipated your question, and in the following sections I will attempt to explain what The Sleeper seeks and why it continues to attack the Harbor.

3.1.Old Alliances

To the best of my knowledge, we first drew The Sleeper’s attention while searching for relics. The Harbor at one point was allied with The Blackholme League, a group that sought to collect a series of relics and hunt void spawn. In truth, that is all I know for certain of the League. We worked in conjunction with them and along the way we encountered several relics and - encountered a few keys. The Harbor’s alliance with this League has since dissolved. However our collaboration with the League led us to the first in a series of seven keys. It was likely the moment we encountered that key that The Sleeper began to pay attention to us. It has been suggested that The Sleeper, in it’s own way, even manipulated us into seeking out the other keys.

3.2.The Keys

The seven keys are what The Sleeper seeks. The Sleeper’s master (more in section 4) is currently sealed away and can only be released by the seven keys. It is believed that The Sleeper cannot touch the keys itself. Thus it requires others to open the gate on its behalf. While we currently have all seven keys, The Sleeper will continue to try and achieve its goal by some method or another. This may involve trying to coax or coerce us into doing the opening for it, or by eliminating us, and recruiting some other minion to collect the keys from us in order to use them to open the gate. This is believed to be the primary objective and motivation of The Sleeper.

4.Greater Context

The prior sections covered the basics of the Sleeper, and why it plagues us. The sections that follow seek to provide a greater context. As I have alluded to earlier The Sleeper servers a greater entity, an entity of void. A great darkness that has been sealed away in the sands of Tanaris. This entity is known as the Dreameater. It is opposed by an entity of life energy known as the Dreamer. These two entities seem to exist in perpetual opposition. It is at this point gentle reader, where the details are not entirely clear, but I shall share what I believe is accurate.

4.1.The Dreameater

The truth of the matter is, very little is known for certain about the Dreameater. Given it is locked away, it is difficult to speak of it directly. However it has been said that whenever Azeroth falls into darkness the Dreameater’s cage rattles. And when the cage rattles, the Sleeper rises. The entity itself has no discernable motives other than to be free of its’ prison, and to cause destruction.

4.2.The Dreamer

As if it exists in order to serve as opposition to the Dreameater, the Dreamer awakens. I have spoken to the Dreamer, and she has offered aid in opposition to the Sleeper. The Dreamer’s realm is a grove of some sort, and from what I understand there is a realm - with a mountain, where the realm of the Dreamer and the Seven (see section 5) all intersect and border the Sleeper’s realm. The Sleeper at one point managed to corrupt the Dreamer’s realm. However we lent aid and dealt with the corruption. It is unclear if The Sleeper was directly responsible for the corruption or if it was one of his minions. The minion attacked us in The Dreamer's Grove, and was felled. The Dreamer can be contacted by druidic magic, or perhaps merely by speaking to the pond outside of Stormwind nicely. The exact details of how to contact her are not entirely clear, but a druid is likely able to reach her through the pond. The flowers from her Grove also may facilitate a connection.

4.3.The Cycle

I confess, gentle reader, that this section is one that I still do not fully grasp. I will avoid speculating and stick to explaining things to the best of my understanding. The Dreamer and the Seven refer to cycles. Each time Azeroth falls into darkness, the Sleeper rises, and the Dreameater rumbles within its prison. I am not sure how many times the seals have been needed to be sealed. I know there were once Seven entities that sealed the Dreameater. Some of them remain the same, others - may not be the same as the originals. In the realm with the mountain I spoke of, there is a display of the original Seven in statues. Since I am unclear on the exact nature of The Cycle, I will refrain from speaking more on it. I will note that the keys did not exist until after the original Seven sealed the Dreameater away, at which point one of the Seven, the Keymaker, created a key representing each of the seven. And at some point these keys seem to have been used to seal the Dreameater again. It is possible this has happened multiple times since. That is all the information I feel comfortable sharing on this topic. As I may be vastly misunderstanding it as it is.

5.The Seven

Have you made it this far? I know the previous section may have seemed rather confusing or vague, but it cannot be helped. My understanding is limited. However it would have felt incomplete to ignore it. While the Dreamer and the Dreameater and the Cycle may seem rather abstract, the Sleeper is connected to them both. And the Seven are connected to them both as well. Though each of the Seven is a different entity, and while they have sealed the Dreameater, and have keys that correspond to them, not all seem as willing to lend aid as others. Little is known about most of the Seven. Though I have been trying to learn more of each of them. Sadly, progress has been frustratingly slow. While I am hesitant to speak of the Seven as ‘allies’ - they have lended aid to us, and so they should not be viewed as threats.

The Seven seem to be powerful entities, not quite what I would call demi-gods - but something not unlike demi-gods. Though they are not as powerful (presumably) as the Dreamer or the Dreameater. To avoid any metaphysical confusion, I refer to them all loosely as ‘entities’. At least a few have been confirmed to be Loa - or Loa-like. I will offer what little I can say about these Seven, and leave it to you, gentle reader, to maybe learn more about them and help me eventually fill in the many blanks I have.

5.1.The Sisters

While I personally have little knowledge of the three sisters, I believe we encountered them in temples. Others may have more information about these entities, but I have very little, nor do I know if they can be contacted. Based on the statue depicting them, I believe the three sisters are all aspects of one entity. Shegora (The Puzzlemaster) once referred to one of them as The Harbinger, and noted that the sister were less inclined than she was to end the cycle. Based on comments made by the Great Worm, and confirmed by Shegora, The Keymaker also wishes an end to the cycle. The Great Worm seemed more resigned to the Cycle, and seemed to imply that Shegora and the Keymaker were among the younger of the Seven.

5.2.The Red Web

The Red Web is mysterious to me. Though I have been to it’s domain and it has provided aid more than once, by providing webways into it’s realm. The Dreamer says the Web is made of many fractured souls. It does not seem to be able to speak in a direct manner, which makes sense if it is a web of fractured souls. However, it does seem to act as one. Among the Seven, the Web has seemed among the most eager to lend aid. Others have more insight on the Web than myself, I encourage you to seek out Reveria if you would like to know more.

5.3.The Lord of Deals

The current Lord of Deals is known as Saakes, a Lao. His temple is located in Zul’duzar and he resides in a realm called the Crossroads. I confess, I do not know all that much about him, other than his assistance likely requires a deal be made with him. I have been urged by the Arbiter not to speak with him, and advise others also follow this advice. For further information on this Loa, Eilithe likely is the best source.

5.4.The Great Worm

When we first met the Great Worm, he was corrupted, and we entered his realm. He was called the Leftover then. But now, I am unsure what he prefers to be called. He is currently recovering from when we destroyed him. If one wishes to speak with the Worm, please speak with me. Though he requires a great deal of sleep, and can be difficult to follow. However he has become more intelligible since he has been reborn.

5.5.The Puzzlemaster

Currently goes by Shegora. Prefers to appear as a brightly colored squirrel. Has a bit of an attitude. Though, others seem to find her endearing. She can be contacted by speaking with Mairdrin. She often occupies his hood, and the Dreamer referred to Mairdrin as her champion. She has alluded vaguely to tending to a maze, which I assume is her realm. I believe I was there when she was under the Sleeper’s corruption. At some point, she was cleansed of this corruption. I do not know the details regarding how. Mairdrin likely does.

5.6.The Hunter

Little is known. Believed to be in Northrend.

5.7.The Keymaker

The maker of the keys. As the name implies. Has been in hiding for quite a while according to Shegora. I have no further information on this one’s location. He is apparently considered young by the Great Worm. Though, I’m not sure who the Great Worm considered old. So - that may not be that useful of a metric.

6. Concluding Remarks

Thank you for sticking with me, gentle reader. I hope this has helped give you some idea of the threat we face, as well as the context that surrounds that threat. I apologize for being vague in many places, but as I said, I am limited to my own knowledge. And I also wanted to avoid my personal speculations and thoughts - as that would have made this document even longer than it already is. I will continue to try and learn more of the various entities, and I encourage anyone who knows more than I do, or learns something new, to - please - inform me - so that I am able to further document things and keep people Also note, that this is my first draft, as I wished to make sure I was able to help get people up to speed as quickly as possible. There are likely a few errors contained in this, and I will be revising this in due time. But for now, I hope this has been of use! If anyone with more knowledge than I - wishes to share it with me, I will revise accordingly. Thank you for reading. Be careful.

--Velerodra Valesinger

Sun Speaker of Dead Sun Harbor

@deadsunharbor, @eilitheduskbringer, @revthepunchbear, @mairdrin

#velnotes #ic #(based on Vel's imperfect knowledge)#(with her own opinions filtered out)#(to avoid too much confusion)#(hopefully this is helpful)#(The formatting doesn't look great - I am sorry!)

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casual-eumetazoa · 4 years

Text

i’m a perpetually broke grad student so instead of buying gifts for Christmas and birthdays i write fanfics or short stories for friends. Christmas 2019 i asked my best friend to pick up to three genres for his gift story and he told me political drama + classical literature + self-help. i added steampunk sci-fi to that and took that as a challenge...

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A Yule Anthem

(or how to end the monarchy and overthrow the government in twelve* simple steps)

a memoir by Erasmus Waynard Smith, a once royal circuit keeper

Season’s greetings to you, dearest reader. Although I have no way of verifying this, it is quite likely that you are starting this book on the dawn of a Yule, as this is the date my memoir is set to be released. If that is the case, then happy holidays! I wish you all the best. May the spirits of old Earth guard you and support you in all of your endeavors in the upcoming cycle of the Suns.

It is with an unsteady hand that I begin this story, for I have never intended for it to be heard. Indeed, the book you are projecting onto your cornea as of this very moment would not exist if it wasn’t for the efforts, diligence, and, if I may be so frank, stubbornness of a certain someone.

Thirteen months ago, you see, I was approached by Theodosia Pruce – a talented and perceptive lady from the distant, exotic shores of the planet Zanzibar. Miss Pruce was the one who convinced me to put my memories into words, for the sake of future generations. And although I do not give as much as half a bitcoin for the future generations, I was, nonetheless, swayed, by the most generous offer of a personal mansion on a resort world and a fully paid pension for the rest of my physical existence. And so, I am sitting here now, a tall glass of rapidly cooling Roomas juice by my side, and a touchscreen quill pressed tightly in between my fingers, trying to jolt my memory and produce exactly as many words as I was asked for, not a word more, not a word less.

Conveying all the truth and nothing but the truth about these events is an earnest challenge for me. I am an old man of a hundred and fifty now, dearest reader, and 2237 seems centuries away from the present. Back then, I was a young lad of hardly forty, and my mind was full of foolish desires, far-reaching ambitions, and cotton candy. I worked as a royal circuit keeper in her majesty’s planetary servers - a skillful but simple and honest occupation - and, like so many before me and around me, dreamed of preposterous things. Dreamed of success, and money, and love, and a glorious revolution…

Lean back, dearest reader, adjust your mindscreen settings, and let me bring you with me on a trip to the past and tell you how to accomplish what I have somehow accomplished.

step 1: identify your project

This story begins on a dark, uneasy, snowy evening, on the first day of Yule of 2237. The shifts down at the factories and the river banks were rolling to the end, and the work hours just came to a close for all the royal employees. I – your faithful servant – had only about arrived at my usual spot, the Drunk Mongoose pub, when a roar of thunder shook the ground and shattered the glass in the liquor cabinet.

-The forecast didn’t say no thunder snowstorm. - Said my best friend Arabella, as she fell down into a lumpy seat beside me. – I left Boy outside. If he will get struck by lightning again, I’ll never get the money to replace his burned-out batteries.

-Chill. – I advised, and took a generous sip of my drink. – It don’t seem to be a big one.

As if to disavow my word, the thunder crashed again, with twice as much strength this time. It pulsed through the floor, crackled in the walls and shook the roof above our heads.

-I ain’t likin’ it. – I whispered.

The lights and sounds of the pub were starting to flicker.

-Same. – Arabella retorted, clutching the rackety table with utmost strength.

Side by side, we watched as every single candle and kerosene lamp in the building lingered and died, blown out at once by a rush of electromagnetic wind. A low, irritating murmur reached my ears, and I realized that the entire holographic engine must have gone caput. For the second time this lunar cycle.

-Not again! – Came the exasperated moan of Octavius, the pub owner.

I sighed, and forced myself out of my seat, intent on helping the man with the machine.

-The entire network’s down. – Arabella informed, pointing at the blank projected screen of her pocket watch. – I’m so sick of this, Ersh. They’d promised to fix this back during the wet season!

-Sick of the government? – Yelled some drunken gentlemen from the other side of the pub. – Sick of his majesty’s empty promises?

-Yeah! – Another random visitor of the establishment supported the man enthusiastically.

-Well big mood, I tell ya. – The first man snorted. – Everyone hates them, but ain’t no one gon’ do a thing about it. So get back to your work.

Now I cannot put my finger on why that simple remark had such a profound effect on me… Was it the man’s voice, so full of despair and apathy and subdued anger? Was it my own exhaustion, the quiet rage at the thought of coming back home by foot, through the howling thunder and snow, in the absence of a sky bus? All in all, something must have short-circuited in my mind, as a sat back down, looked Arabella in the eyes and said, in a voice most confident:

-You know what? Let’s overthrow the government.

step 2: define goals and objectives

On my way home, I was drowning in feverish frenzy, drunk without wine and hopeful beyond reason. Oh, for how long I have dreamt of this! Many a morning I have spent imagining what it would be like to live on a planet fair, unburdened, free from the thralls of corrupt government and incompetent king. I knew that I wanted it, and I knew that every one of us wanted it, and, somehow, despite all common sense, I knew that I could do it.

I stumbled out of the pub and wondered on unsteady feet towards the docks. The snow swirled and raged around me, and my blurry eyes struggled to focus on my surroundings. I stopped at the slope of the northern canal and gazed into the clouded sky, feeling the snowflakes land on my eyelashes and the wind slash my face. I cannot tell you why, dearest reader, but I felt so utterly happy.

-How much for an uber these days? – I announced cheerfully as I approached the line of carriages waiting by the canal.

-Three fifty for a mile. – Echoed one of the drivers – an older lady, who was stroking the head of a white, shabby-looking horse.

-Steep. – I whistled, and swung myself into the carriage. – Hampton Hall please, down at the cross of Richmond and Westby.

She nodded at me, and pushed the minute counter switch. One word to the horse, and I could hear the sound of its metal hooves striking against the cobblestone. I half-sat, half-laid in my seat, staring at the hole-ridden ceiling of the carriage, and listening to the sounds of the dreaming city.

‘Alrighty then’, I thought, pulling out my notebook. It had hardly any charge left, so the bleak night mode would have to suffice.

“Tasks for tomorrow”, I noted down, and drew a flower on each side of the line. “Destroy the government from the inside. Make King Edmund step down from the throne. Profit”.

step 3: define tasks

It was only at noon next day when the realization of what I just committed myself to hit me like a bolt of lightning. I was enjoying my Roomas (the good kind – they don’t grow it right anymore) with my colleagues at the servers, and suddenly it dawned on me – I was going to take this planet apart, bit by bit. So powerful that was, so profoundly terrifying, that I had to excuse myself and sit in a locked bathroom stall, wheezing, my heart pounding in my chest. A few girls and a man must have heard me, as I was asked repeatedly whether I was okay.

I was not, but I was going to be.

I went straight home after the workday was over. I forced myself to gather my thoughts, and look rationally at this situation. This task, though ambitious, no doubt, could surely be accomplished. I knew this planet, knew it through and through. I knew politics too – it was the first thing I ever studied in university, and I hated it, I’ll admit, but it was useful nonetheless. All I needed was to sit down, think it through, and draft a plan.

And that is precisely what I did.

step 4: build your team

We met in the abandoned park by the lakes at dawn the next morning. The air was bity with cold and static electricity, and the seven of us could not help but shiver as we walked towards our gazebo. It was buried underneath a thick layer of snow, and I laughed as Arabella pretended to push the fluffy heap onto my head.

-Good morning, everyone. – I greeted, inviting them inside before myself.

-Skip to the important bit, please. -Arabella yawned, and took her seat at the table.

-Fair enough.

I took a deep breath in and gazed upon my freshly assembled crew. Arabella, a fellow circuit keeper and the fastest hacker I have ever met. Ambrose, a talented but not extensively successful journalist. Cecilia, an up-and-coming politician herself, but currently a secretary to one of the most famous politicians on the planet. Wilhelmina, a social media manager with hundreds of contacts at her fingertips. Josiah, an artist and designer, currently one of the official dressmakers to the king. Euphemia, a policewoman in the past, now a social activist and respected public figure. Matthew, a writer and a poet, who happened to be the lover of three separate government figures, all of different genders, all filthy rich. And me, a humble sysadmin with a dash of organization skills and arrogance to spare.

-Esteemed guests, - I said, and paused to clear my throat, - you all know why we are here. Now allow me to explain to you exactly what we will do.

step 5: create a timeline

-This is flippin’ insane, Ersh. – Wilhelmia exclaimed, glaring, and I was forced to shush at her.

-Quiet. – I reminded, and she swallowed hard, remembering that anyone in the building was at liberty to overhear us.

The upcoming revolution was now two days old. On the surface, we continued to lead normal lives, working, complaining, gossiping, and counting the minutes to the end of the shift. In truth, we were right in the middle of action. Meeting all over the city – in undiscovered pubs and inns, in unguarded computer cellars, on the rooftops of nuclear boilers, and in the dead-ends of dark alleyways. We communicated over quantum radio and made sure to burn all of our transmissions after every call. We were brave, and vigilant, and determined, above all else, to bring this to a close as soon as possible.

-But that is too fast. – Wilhelmia insisted in a hoarse whisper. – You don’t seriously believe that this will be over before the Yule ends, do you?

-Indeed, I do. – I replied, and had the displeasure of being poked in the ribs. – What’s more, it is the only way to accomplish what we set out to do.

-How so? – She questioned.

-Conspiracies are short-lived. – I elaborated, and shifted in my tight, deeply uncomfortable sit.

The server ventilation shaft was far from a pleasant place to be inside of.

-The longer it goes on, the more likely it is to fall apart. Especially as we begin to bring more people into it.

-But ten days, Ersh! – Wilhelmia repeated. – How would that ever work?

-Simply and elegantly. – I smiled. – Remember, my friend – I am brilliant under tight deadlines, especially when said deadlines are self-inflicted.

Wilhelmia chose not to argue with me – for she knew, deep down, that I was right.

step 6: adjust your plan accordingly

I did not get a wink of sleep on the fifth night of the revolution. The visions of failure haunted me like vicious yet intangible ghosts, and I tossed and turned in bed until the second moon grazed the sky. Giving up on sleep altogether, I got up, mixed up a glass of dehydrated water, and turned on the radio. I expected to be lulled back into calm by its soft, crackling static – but instead, I had my anxieties validated.

-Thank heavens, Erasmus. – The voice of Josiah erupted from the speaker. – I’ve been trying to reach you for hours!

-What is it? – I asked, and slumped down to the floor, my head dizzy all of a sudden.

-It isn’t working. – Josiah confessed, and I could practically taste his desperation. – Not a tad. He is listening to me, but he doesn’t believe me in the slightest, I fear.

-Okay. – I said, though I was as far from okay as one could be. – It’s fine. – It was not, in fact, fine. – Roadblocks happen. Let’s talk. We’ll think of something, I am sure.

And, unlikely as it was, we did.

step 7: be flexible

The sixth day flew by so fast; I hardly noticed the night arriving. Eleven pm, and I found myself on the top floor back row of a double-decker, moving smoothly on its set path, the electric engine buzzing and murmuring somewhere far below. Outside, the snow was replaced by a thick fog, with neither of the moons in sight. The bus was almost empty and deathly quiet. I sighed, turned to my left, and met eyes with Matthew.

-How many in total? – I inquired, my voice down, still aware of the potential danger of being overheard.

-Forty-seven. – He informed, and the hint of a smile touched his lips. – Which makes it almost a third of the entire government.

-Not enough. – I shook my head, unsatisfied.

-Not enough? – He pouted.

-Time is not in abundance. – I said, and he looked away, avoiding my gaze. – We need to accelerate. Do you agree?

He sighed, but nodded.

-Good. – I glanced sideways, and drew a spiral on the mist-covered window. – You know what to do, Matthew.

-Yeah. – He said, smirking. – Unleash them memes.

step 8: communicate with your team

All of us gathered together again on the afternoon of the seventh day, in a tacky, brightly lit and empty tea room. The forecasts mongered another thunderstorm, and the atmosphere was heavy still, but, somehow, it did not bother me in the slightest. I smiled as the maid droid placed a tray in front of me, and the smell of cinnamon and lemon zest reached my nose.

-We’re on the right track. – I proclaimed confidently, and took my acai rice pudding bowl and a steaming hot cup of Earl Gay off the tray. – Cheers.

-Cheers. – The team echoed, and we clanked our china cups together.

We spent the hour discussing the current affairs, congratulating each other, chatting, laughing, and feeling oddly optimistic about the whole endeavor. My step was light as I was leaving the tea room. We had a few challenges ahead, sure – but, overall, everything was going according to plan.

step 9: address any problems before they occur

Then the eighth day arrived, and, all of a sudden, nothing was going according to plan. News rushed in through the radio one by one; they piled all on top of each other, and right as I was leaving the server maintenance room to enjoy my well-deserved Roomas break. I felt drops of sweat form on my neck and roll down my spine as I scrolled through the message feed of my wristwatch. Nothing terrible has happened so far, I admitted – but it could. So shaky. So many opportunities for it all to go to hell – and in rapid succession. Three seconds later, and I was overtaken by fierce, unwavering panic.

It must have been twenty years at least of sitting in the memory cube closet, hugging myself and trying desperately to remember how one was supposed to breathe, when someone knocked on the door. The first aid droid, I realized.

-I have detected alarmingly high levels of adrenaline and cortisol. – The droid’s voice sounded even sillier than usual, obstructed by the door. – Would the gentlemen like some treatment? I can offer morphine drops or deep brain stimulation.

-No. – I yelled back through the closed door. – No, thank you.

-Very well, sir. – The droid responded. – If you will need me, I’ll be at my re-charging station.

-Yes. Fine. Now leave me, please. – I groaned, and gently bumped my forehead against the wall.

I cannot tell you why, but somehow, that brief exchanged kicked some sense back into my mind. I let go of my shoulders, took a deep breath in, and told myself – “think”. Yes, the opportunities for disaster were plenty. Yes, we were on shaky ground now, even more so than before. Nevertheless, not all was lost. In fact, nothing was lost yet, I realized. You see, dearest reader, the benefit of having anxiety is that you can foresee potential problems and overcome them before they arise.

Fifteen minutes later, I had a solution for every single issue that could occur in the last phases of the plan. I thought about it further over my Roomas (with just a few drops of morphine), then found an excuse to leave the server buildings for a brief pause. Outside, it didn’t take me long to find a kid aimlessly wandering the streets.

-Any spare change, sir? – The kid asked, big blue eyes full of sadness. – I am all out of coins to buy Fortnight mods.

-Just your luck, your little rascal. – I smiled, and ruffled the kid’s curly hair. – I’ll give you a tenner – if you can bring this, - and I handed him a memory stick, - to lady Euphemia O’Malley. You will find her somewhere in the city center, most likely close to the town hall.

-Alright, sir. – The kid said, and snatched the memory stick out of my hand even before I transferred the payment. – I sure will try.

I nodded, said my farewells, and felt completely tranquil at once. Whether it was the effect of having dealt with the problems, or the morphine kicking in, I had no clue.

step 10: learn to say ‘no’ and accept help

I took a break on the ninth day, knowing that the revolution was beyond my grasp at that point, and all I could do was step back and watch the dominos fall into place. I ended the shift early, and went to the ice rink up at Thatchley Square. It was full of preschoolers and noisy beyond tolerance, which prompted me to push my airpods deeper into my ears. I would take the majestic, sophisticated sounds of Ed Sheeran, Gwen Stefani, and other classics over the offensive modern chaos they played in public places any day.

Half an hour of skating back and forth across the artificial crystalline surface, and my muscles were starting to betray me. I sighed and leaned against the nearest wall to rub my aching thighs and ankles. Alas, I had not been built for physical labor. I was about to leave the rink, when something – no, someone – rammed into me at subhuman speed, making me cry out in shock and stumble backwards into the snow.

-Oh lord, - the someone exclaimed, - I am so sorry!

And I mumbled something incomprehensible in response, for there, in front of me, covered in snow and helping me get up from the ground was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Tall, lean and bright-eyes, she had bubblegum pink hair and a pierced nose and a tattoo of a rose on her neck. And she was staring at me… goodness me, she was staring at me as if she knew me.

-Erasmus Smith? – She asked, frowning, and my face lost all colour.

-Shush. – I said, immediately on guard. – Come to the dressing room with me.

We sat there, talking and drinking those awful food machine concoctions out of cellulose plastic cups, and she told me everything she knew about the revolution, and how she came to know of it. It brought me concern at first, but soon enough it left my mind, for I was told that she had no intention of upsetting our plans. And what’s more, she even wanted to join in – and take it up a notch.

-Out of the question. – I responded immediately, once she had laid out her scheme for crashing the entire political system. – We are not risking the original plan on a dare.

-But… - She protested.

-No. – I shook my head. – We’re sticking to our goals.

-Oh well. – She sighed. – It was worth the shot. Say… can I help you out, at least?

I considered it for a moment, then gave her a singular nod. It made her eyes glow with excitement and pride. Such a stunning smile she had…

-I have a different proposition for you, though. – I found myself saying. – What do you think about going to the holographic theater next week? With me.

-Oh. – She looked away, and a soft shade of blush touched her cheeks. – I’d be honored.

And thus, the exchange was not all in vain.

step 11: write tomorrow’s task today

On the dusk of the tenth day, all – now as many as fifteen – of us gathered together by the docks, next to the roaring powerplant, where the moons were shining, making the freshly fallen snow glow and sparkle. We drank warm beer, talked, and watched the dodo birds and the pterodactyls play and chase each other on the canal slopes.

-All set to run. – Arabella concluded, after we revised every minute step over and over again. – Shall we?

I paused, took in a full lung’s worth of fresh cold air, and said yes.

We followed the first sparks of the fire on social media, observed as politician after journalist after king’s man turned all against each other, throwing accusations, spilling dirt, and digging political graves for each other – and we thought it lit. I did not wish to stay there at the docks for the entire night, so I brought the meeting to a close.

-One last thing before we go. – I announced, just as the people were turning to leave. – Write down a tweet for me, people.

“All political parties on the planet have fallen apart. The entire government has resigned. King Edmund is stepping down from the throne to marry a commoner. Bitches, let’s party.” I finished, and every single one of us cheered.

step 12: celebrate milestones and victories

And bitches did, indeed, party the next day – party day and night as the biggest scandal of the century shook the planet to its core. I do not recall where I was for most of the Yule Tide. All I know is that by midnight I ended up in the town hall, which was utterly wrecked and overflowing with people. I came to my senses sitting on the floor, wearing nothing but booty shorts and an undone tie, and smoking weed through a pipe. It was the most splendid party I had ever attended in my life.

-To the revolution! – I shouted it, and half a hundred people – most of whom I have never met in my life – joined in cheerfully.

-All hail Ersh, - Ambrose added, - for without him, this wouldn’t have happened.

-All hail Josiah, - Arabella interrupted, - for if he hadn’t sucked the king’s dick, this wouldn’t have happened either.

-Oh leave it. – Josiah dismissed. – I’ve always wanted to do that anyway.

-When are you gonna tell him? – I asked. – That you aren’t marrying him after all, I mean.

-Well. – He shrugged. – I think I might actually like… do that.

-Wouldn’t that be funny, - Euphemia said, - if Josiah became a prince.

-Anything is possible now. – Arabella pointed out.

-Yeah. – I agreed. – Anything’s possible.

And that’s when yet another crucial realization dawned upon me, and made me instantly sober.

I have accomplished my goal – no question about that. Brought down the government, destroyed the monarchy, did away with every major political party – all like I had imagined. But the more pressing question was – what are we going to do now?

And here comes *step 13, dearest reader, which no one had the courtesy of warning me about. The step is to ask yourself: what in the name of holy fuck you are doing in the first place, and why.

I advise you to complete this step before all the subsequent ones, for it took me all but twelve days of the Yule to bring my entire planet into chaos, and more than twenty years to carry it out of it and back into order.

Which is why I always say to the young, overly ambitious people who seek my wisdom – before you fuck some shit up, you better come up with a plan of how you will unfuck it – or do not go fucking it up in the first place, my child.

Signed, Erasmus Waynard Smith.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #short story #steampunk #sci-fi #paradox nerd post

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edmunddantesisdead · 5 years

Text

Boats Against the Current

AO3

Gatsby keeps dying, and Nick decides to save him. A natsby time loop au.

Trigger warnings: - canon character death (temporary) - canon suicide - period-typical internal homophobia and racism - vague descriptions of blood and a dead body

Two days.

The events of Nick Carraway’s life took an irrefutable and unavoidable turn within the mere course of forty-eight hours, drenched in the heat of August.

The swelter crashed over the city like a tsunami, soaking its inhabitants with sweat and foul temperatures. The black pavement sizzled pitifully underneath the cruel, unrelenting sun. It was the very day in which Gatsby, temper running hotter than the boiling, broiling, burning world, demanded Daisy leave Tom and run into his arms.

She didn’t.

Of course she didn’t.

Daisy Buchanan had gold dust running through her veins, not blood. There was a silken scarf where her backbone should’ve been.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Nick realized it was his birthday.

Then Tom’s mistress was hit in the Valley of Ashes, then Nick found Gatsby, bathed in moonlight outside of the house of the woman he so believed loved him.

“I just have to see, old sport,” he murmured, eyes dark and distant. “I just have to make sure he hasn't hurt her.”

Inside, Daisy and Tom Buchanan whispered like grand co-conspirators over plates of cold chicken.

Gatsby, that stupid, stubborn, wonderful man, refused to leave. Nick left him alone in the moonlight.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

There is a restlessness in his stomach, a churning, miserable sort of thing. He dresses before he can think better of it, goes into Gatsby’s home before he can stop himself. It seems to him that something is about to change. Electricity crackles in the air; Nick can feel it, zipping over his skin, raising goosebumps.

“Nothing happened,” Gatsby says wanly, wilted over a table in the entryway. “I waited, and about four o’clock she came to the window and stood there for a minute and then turned out the light.”

He traces the wood grain in the table over and over, an endless loop.

He tells Nick everything that night. They poke through dusty, old rooms and dusty, old memories. He tells Nick of Dan Cody and a girl more mystery than woman and the lies he told, just to be able to touch her hand.

“I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport,” he says, and Nick doesn't flinch.

He's used to it by now, used to the feelings he doesn't dare name. He can't dare name.

Rosy fingered dawn creeps over the horizon, and a gardener says something about draining the pool.

Gatsby wants him to stay so badly it aches at something inside of Nick, but he can't. He doesn't trust himself here any longer.

“Twelve minutes to my train,” he says instead of the ardent cries clawing at the inside of his throat.

He is crossing the lawn when a red-hot fury takes over him. Perhaps at Daisy for throwing away hearts as easily as jewels. Perhaps at Gatsby for not knowing what he's worth. Perhaps at fate for throwing him into this mess. Perhaps at himself for these feelings, these wrong monstrosities brewing in his chest.

He turns around.

“They’re a rotten crowd,” Nick Carraway shouts across the lawn. “You’re worth the whole damn bunch put together.”

Gatsby nods at first, slowly, but then, like the sun rising over the Sound, his face breaks into that blinding grin. He's gorgeous like that - his pink suit shining against the white marble steps and his eyes glowing with happiness.

But it’s his smile that seizes ahold of Nick. It's always that smile.

It should be the last time he sees Gatsby alive.

It isn't.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

There’s a miserable lump in his throat, suffocating him. Gatsby.

Gatsby is dead.

Shot by Wilson for a crime he didn't commit.

He was Nick’s friend, his best friend, his only real friend. There was something about him, something in those eyes like molten gold and smile like a the most wondrous secret, one just between the two of you.

Nick cuts those thoughts with a painful jerk of his head.

Gatsby is dead now. Nick won't dishonor the deceased with thoughts like those.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Someone's banging on his door.

Nick blinks blearily awake, and there’s a blissful moment before the events of yesterday come back to him, a singular moment where he wonders if Gatsby will want to take tea with him today.

His memories come crashing down the next second, crushing his fantasies beneath them.

The knocking persists, and it is more of a knocking, really - light, apologetic raps, as if to make up for his lost slumber.

“I’m coming.” His voice is rough with sleep and emotion, and he doesn’t bother to do more than wrap a ratty old robe around himself before shuffling to the door.

Someone is speaking before it's even open fully.

“Decided to sleep the day away, have you, old sport?”

Nick’s heart stops in his chest.

“Gatsby,” he stutters after a moment. “You’re… you’re here.” His voice comes out breathy, wondrous, and the man before him gives him a queer sort of look.

“We’ve got a date!” Gatsby says gilbly. “My gardener was telling me the pool should be drained before the fall, but I haven't made use of it all summer.”

He is almost manic, a strained smile plastered on his face and hands flitting around. His dark hair is wound into tight curls for once, as if he had forgotten to relax it.

He keeps talking, rocking back and forth on his heels, gesturing with his hands, but his voice fades into a low rumble beyond the roaring in Nick’s ears.

“I don’t…” Nick stammers. “I don’t understand.”

“The pool?” Gatsby looks at him inquisitively. “It’s alright if you’re worn out, old sport. I just could… use a listening ear right about now.”

Nick says nothing, mind still trying to comprehend the sheer possibility of Gatsby standing before him, and Gatsby continues, rambling on in that way of his. A hand rubs at the back of his neck.

“I was actually hoping you’d come over earlier - not that I’m upset you didn’t! - because I have some… things I’d like to say. Some stories to get off my chest.” He looks studiously at something over Nick’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of a liar, old sport. And I don’t know why, exactly, but I want you to… to know. Who I am.”

Nick takes one step forward, then a second. He puts a hand on the center of Gatsby’s chest, where the bullet had gone through. Gatsby stills entirely, looks at him with those golden hazel eyes.

“You were dead,” Nick says, helplessly. “Wilson found out. He thought you were driving. He shot you.”

It’s only when Gatsby’s eyes fill with alarm and his hands go around Nick’s arms that Nick realizes he is trembling.

“I’m right here, old sport,” he murmurs. “I’m here, Nick.”

Nick collapses against his chest, and Gatsby only goes stiff for a moment before he is slowly, carefully putting his arms around the other man.

“It was just a dream,” he murmurs into Nick’s hair. “A bad dream.”

Nick pulls back soon, embarrassed as he wipes his face. “Don’t know what came over me,” he mutters, staring at the floor.

“Yesterday was a trial for all of us.” Gatsby squeezes his shoulders comfortingly. “I’ll tell you what - I’ll go get the pool ready, and you can come join me just as soon as you change, alright?”

A brief glance at the clock tells Nick his train to work has long since left.

“Alright,” he says, almost smiling.

The last he sees of Gatsby is the flash of a pink suit as he strides across their conjoined lawn, back to his gilded manor.

Nick pads into his room and slowly, methodically, strips. His hands are still shaking as he pulls on his swimming costume. A dream, just as Gatsby said. A terrible dream.

He hears a gunshot.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

He crosses the lawn to Gatsby’s house, and finds him wilted over a table in the entryway.

He knows everything the bootlegger is going to say before he says it.

Part of him, some small part, still cries out that this is insane. It ralls against the corruption of logic and physics and time, but a bigger part - the part that makes him a writer, the part that quietly watches the world without judgement, the part of him that’s a romantic, the part that drew him to the elusive Mr. Jay Gatsby and now draws him to Gatsby, his best friend - understands. It understands that, for whatever reason, he is being given a second chance. Well, third. Maybe more.

When Gatsby beseeches him to stay and make use of the pool, he accepts.

The water runs down Gatsby’s sun-kissed skin, pooling in the curve of his collarbone, slicking his costume to his stomach, glistening against his arms.

A wave of something that should be nausea rises in Nick’s stomach. He looks away. Digs his fingernails into his palms until they ache.

They are lounging at the side of the pool, drying off in the sunshine when Gatsby carefully wets his lips and looks away. “There’s something else, old sport.”

Nick blinks. This is new. “Something else?”

“There’s another reason I was so… desperate, I suppose, to shed James Gatz. You see, I…” He breaks off, working his jaw. “Tom,” he says instead, and Nick starts.

“Pardon?”

“Tom is a moron. We are in agreement on that, yes?” He looks at Nick, so intently he shifts.

“Of course.” Really, it goes without saying. “Gatsby, what does this have to do with-”

“I’m getting to it.” He jitters with restless energy, tugging on a curl of his hair. “You see, James Gatz was… discriminated against. In the way Tom is so fond of. My father was white, but his - my mother was…”

“Oh,” Nick says softly. That desperation for the American dream, that optimism that, as long as the world believed he was white and rich, he could do anything - it’s as if something about the other man has shifted into focus, given context.

Nick responds the only way he feels he can at this point. “Sé cómo se siente.”

Gatsby blinks. “You speak Spanish?”

“My first language,” Nick says, and waits for it to sink in.

“Huh,” Gatsby says, then: “And Daisy?”, which Nick really should have expected.

“Latino as well.”

He watches for a moment as something shifts behind Gatsby’s eyes. In the end, everything he was chasing turned out to be a lie.

“But your-?” Gatsby waves vaguely at his eyes.

Nick shrugs. “Green eyes aren’t too uncommon in Mexico.”

“Oh.” Gatsby is quiet for a long moment, then, unexpectedly, he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs, clutching his stomach in mirth, and Nick can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed.

“What?”

“It’s just” - Gatsby slowly sobers, laughter fading to just a shine in his eyes - “I thought I was alone all this time when, really, all I had to do was look.” He rests a hand over Nick’s. “You were right there, in front of me.”

Innumerable emotions well up in Nick’s throat, silencing him. He flounders, mouth working uselessly, but Gatsby just smiles.

“Thank you, old sport.” He squeezes Nick’s hand. “For everything.”

Vaguely, Nick knows there is a soft thud behind him, but he doesn't register it. Call he can focus on, all he can sense is the warmth of Gatsby's hand in his own. Golden hazel eyes shine at him, and Nick can't bring himself to look away.

Gatsby laughs, a little self-consciously, when Nick doesn't respond, and makes to stand, brushing imaginary lint off of himself. “I'm a bit melodramatic, I know, I just-” He looks up and his eyes widen.

The loudest crack Nick has ever heard splits the air.

Gatsby falls, and his blood billows out in the pool water.

Nick is screaming. He knows he's screaming. Can feel it scrape at his throat. He doesn't feel in control of his body, piloting it from afar as his eyes land on Wilson. The man is pale, with strings of greasy hair plastered with sweat across his balding scalp. There is something wild in his eyes.

“Myrtle,” he says, hoarsely. “He… he killed my girl. My wife.”

“He didn't,” Nick wants to shout, but he is frozen, trembling.

“I'm sorry,” Wilson says, although it's not clear if he's addressing the dead or the living.

He puts the barrel of the gun in his mouth.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

This time, Gatsby sees Wilson.

Just in time to shove Nick out of the way.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

It’s Gatsby. It has to be.

Gatsby is the only common thread connecting his days to each other. Gatsby has died four times, and Nick has lived this day four times over. Something, someone out there refuses to let the world go on without Jay Gatsby in it.

Nick doesn’t blame them.

If he can only stop Wilson, if he can only save Gatsby’s life, then this nightmare will be over.

He convinces Gatsby to take a walk with him this time, along the Sound. He skips rocks and doesn’t look at Gatsby, shining in the golden light. Wilson finds them.

He plays it the same way the next loop, turning just as he remembers Wilson jumped out. He tackles Gatsby to the ground as the bullet whizzes over their heads, and he shudders at their proximity. Wilson just aims again and fires.

Nick wakes before dawn and goes down into the Valley of Ashes.

He finds Wilson, talks to him gently and hides his gun. He tries to explain that Gatsby isn’t to blame, but Wilson’s eyes widen.

“Gatsby?” He says. “Who said anything about Gatsby?”

Nick hastily excuses himself to make them some soothing tea. When he comes back, Wilson is gone and so is the gun.

He jumps in front of Gatsby once, wondering desperately if blood must be shed for this curse to end. The bullet is hot and thick inside him, trailing blood in its wake. His vision goes blurry as Gatsby screams, a raw, pained noise. A hand presses against the wound, trying to staunch the crimson tide. He loses consciousness somewhere between the span of one labored breath and the next. Gatsby, mouth agape in a scream Nick can no longer hear, eyes brimming with tears, and face scarlet with emotion.

He's beautiful.

The last thing Nick sees is Gatsby falling backwards as the second bullet hits him.

Nick awakes the next morning and runs his hands over his side again and again, just to make sure he's still whole. He's never fully convinced.

He tries again, twenty-six more times.

Twenty-six more times, Gatsby dies.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn. He goes into town and buys a pistol.

He goes to Gatsby.

He refuses politely when Gatsby asks him to swim.

“I'll just sit on the side, if that's alright with you, Gatsby,” he says with a rueful smile. “I'm afraid I'm not much of a swimmer.”

From where it's tucked into his waistband, the gun digs into his back.

He watches as Gatsby cuts sleekly through the cool blue waters, doesn’t watch as Gatsby flashes his cajoling golden eyes and pouts, asking once more for Nick to join him. He wouldn’t be able to resist long.

He knows he’s wrong for these feelings he forces onto Gatsby. He knows. He just can’t stop. If he were a stronger man, perhaps he could latch onto a less addictive vice - whisky, cigarettes, gambling. But time and time again, Gatsby has waltzed straight through Nick’s defences, past barricaded walls and a careful disillusionment, with nothing more than that smile.

Maybe that’s why Nick doesn’t hesitate when he sees the door behind Gatsby - who is toweling off - swing open. With steady hands, he grabs the gun from his waistband.

He aims it at Wilson and fires.

Wilson falls to the ground with a sick thud, and Gatsby turns around, eyes round. He hadn’t even seen Wilson come in. The expression freezes on his face when he sees Nick, eyes dark and smoking gun in hand, and the body of Wilson, slowly, quietly losing heat into the cool marble of Gatsby’s pool room floor.

“Nick?” He looks scared, aureate eyes wide and confused. He's a golden child, alone and bewildered by the world, and Nick tucks the gun away. Tries for a smile.

“You…” Gatsby swallows hard, clamping a hand over his mouth as his golden skin turns as ashen as that damn valley. “You killed him.”

“He was going to kill you,” Nick says, easily. He kicks at the gun clutched in Wil- in the body’s hand. He's in shock, Nick thinks vaguely. He had tried to ignore it, the reality of what he had set out to do, and he thinks he's done it far too well. His voice comes to his ears through water, and the light is milky, far away. “I… I couldn't let that happen.”

Wilson’s body lies quietly between them, crimson puddling out sedately against the glistening white marble. Nick’s legs tremble beneath him.

He doesn't realize he's swooned - swooned, like Daisy would when trying to avoid an argument - until Gatsby is beside him, cradling Nick to his chest. He’s still damp from the pool, but Nick can’t bring himself to care about the chlorine seeping into his tartan jacket.

“Hey, hey,” Gatsby shushes him, although Nick hasn't said a word, and suddenly Nick is the child, shaking and afraid in Jay’s arms. “It's alright, old sport. None of that now.”

“I didn't- I couldn't-” Nick shakes his head desperately, head light and chest heaving. There's a tempest rising in his stomach, waves of emotion and agony crashing over him, so deep he's sure he'll drown any moment. “I couldn't lose you again.”

“Again?” Gatsby is rocking him gently, murmuring onto his hair. “I'm right here, Nick. I'm here. I haven’t left, not at all.”

“You have.” Trembles against him, burying his face in Gatsby’s chest and breathing in his scent - sharp and clean, like the ocean. Fear sweeps over him in waves, this day playing over and over and over. This moment, lasting for eternity. “You have, and you’re going to again. Just as soon as I wake up tomorrow.”

“Nick, I’m not going to leave you.” Gatsby clutches him tighter. “I swear I won’t.”

“You will,” Nick murmurs again. “You always do.”

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

After killing Wilson, Nick fell asleep at Gatsby’s house while Gatsby got some of Wolfsheim’s men to deal with the mess.

“I suppose I should be grateful, old sport,” Gatsby murmured quietly, once Nick had calmed down enough to be embarrassed by the way the other man held him.

“No,” Nick said, nausea rising back up in his throat. “I’d much prefer it if you weren’t.”

He fell asleep in Gatsby’s bedroom, tears drying on a silk pillowcase. He wakes with cotton scratching at his cheek.

He’s home, but Nick Carraway has never felt more homesick.

Nick rolls onto his back, stares at the ceiling with wide, unseeing eyes. Gatsby lived. Gatsby lived, and that wasn’t enough? There had to be areason for all of this, this cursed heaped upon him. If it wasn’t to save Gatsby, then why did Nick have to endure this torture same day after same day? Sisyphus labores on, but with no knowledge of his crime.

Has he not lived his life as a kind man? Has he not, as his father once said, reserved judgement on others? Indeed, the only person he’s ever scrutinized so roughly so as to be critical is himself.

Whatever.

It doesn’t matter.

There’s got to be a way out of this. There has to be.

Otherwise, Nick doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

He tries again. Gatsby lives.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

He tries again. Gatsby dies.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

He tries again. Gatsby lives.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

Nick fails. He fails. He fails. He fails.

And he tries again.

Nick Carraway beats on, a boat against the current, borne ceaselessly back into the past.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

He goes to see Daisy.

“Nicky?” She's wrapped in pink silk, rubbing at sleep-mused eyes. “Is something the matter? It's awful early, and I was up late last night.”

“I need to talk to you.”

She shoots a scandalized look at him. “Dressed like this? Oh, dear, you are carrying a torch for me.”

He casts a side-long look down the hall, at the maid’s retreating figure, and leans closer. “Necesito hablarte en privado.”

She is immediately all smiles and fake laughter. “Oh, Nicky, you silly!” Her nails dig into his arm, and she drags him into the library neither she nor Tom has ever used.

“What was that, cousin?” She perches on a white armchair, fluffing her stylishly short blonde hair. Her words are innocuous enough; her eyes anything but.

“A wake up call.” Nick remains standing, resting an arm on the mantelpiece. “I know you're the one that hit Myrtle.”

She gasps, immediately going pale. “Nicky, how could you accuse me of something like that? Gatsby was driving, and, really, it was that woman's own fault for running into the road like that.”

“And what about Tom?” Nick asks.

Daisy crosses her arms, petulant. “What about him?”

He looks at her long enough for her to start shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, then smirks, watching her temper flare up. “Él no sabe qué tú eres.”

“Nunca la hará.” Daisy snaps before her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes, darker than a white woman’s should be, fill with tears. Shoulders shaking, she turns away, looking through billowing white curtains, out over Tom’s perfectly groomed lawn.

“I need you to leave, Nicky.” Her voice is soft, no hint of an accent.

“Tell everyone Gatsby didn't do it.”

“Salir!” She snarls, turning on him with flashing eyes before she realizes what she said. She wilts back into her armchair, looking up at him with tear-rimmed eyes. “Get out, please.”

“Careful, Daisy,” Nick says, clipped and terse. “Your roots are showing.”

Daisy makes a small, pained voice, hand flying to her bleached hair.

Nick walks out, and the door trembles on its hinges long after he’s gone.

“I… I understand,” Gatsby stammers on the phone, “but please understand that none of this is Mrs. Buchanan's fault. I-”

Nick carelessly presses down on the receiver, ending the call as he saunters past.

“Old sport!” Gatsby cries, rounding on him. “What was that about?”

“You know, you're the second person who's said that to me today.” Nick sighs and drops onto Gatsby’s couch, flinging his feet over the side. It's nice, like everything else in Gatsby's manor is.

“I was trying” - Gatsby stresses, lifting the receiver to his ear and redialing - “to fix this muck up. Apparently, Daisy has been saying that she was the one who hit that poor woman.”

Nick lifts his head lazily. “Wasn't she?”

Gatsby waves him off. “Doesn't matter.”

Nick groans and lets his head flop back down.

“Don’t you get tired of it, Gatsby?” Maybe it’s his somewhat elusive statement, maybe it’s the way he says them - resigned and almost bitter -, or maybe it’s the look he gives Gatsby - full of longing and empty of hope.

Whatever it is, Gatsby puts the phone down. “Tired of what, old sport?”

Nick waves a hand vaguely. “Trying so hard to be the person everyone else thinks you are.”

Gatsby is quiet for a long moment. “Now that you mention it, Nick,” he says, softly. “There are a few things I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

They find themselves walking along the Sound as the sun sets, rich amber light spilling across the waves. There should be a green light, somewhere in the distance, but Nick can’t see it for the sky’s brilliance. The story of Jay Gatsby, once James Gatz, is laid out before them on the rocky shore, with Nick’s own heritage bared in turn.

“I just always thought Daisy and I were… destined for each other.” Gatsby laughs bitterly. “I suppose I sound like a fool, going on about destiny, don’t I, old sport?”

Nick takes his time to answer, bending down to snatch up a smooth, round stone. He and Gatsby have been here… oh, he can’t even begin to remember anymore. This route is new, but the shining sunset, the swooping birds and their echoing cries, and even the placement of the best skipping stones are the same.

Somewhere around a thousand, Nick decides. He’s lived this day about a thousand times.

“No, you don’t,” Nick says pensively, flicking his wrist and sending a stone skipping along the still waters of the Sound. “There is such a thing as destiny. It may not be Daisy, but there’s one person out there, and…” His voice falters, and the stone sinks beneath the waters, only the slightest rippling to ever indicate it was there. He swallows hard. “You’re meant to be with them. Forever.”

And forever is such a long time.

Gatsby laughs, as soft as the summer rains. “And here I thought I was the hopeless romantic, old sport.”

“You are romantic,” Nick says wryly. “I'm just hopeless.”

He scoops another stone, warm and smooth in his palm and sends it off again, dancing lightly over the waters. It bounces until it is out of view.

A long, low whistle escapes Gatsby’s lips as he peers over the edge of those ridiculous sunglasses. “Pretty good at that, aren’t you, old sport?”

A wry, ironic grin flickers at the edges of Nick’s lips. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

A thousand days. Maybe more.

Gatsby plucks up a stone and hefts it in his hand. It is a nugget of gold in his hand and in the late afternoon night; it splays over him as if its been filtered through a stained-glass window, and Nick thinks, in that idle author’s way of his, that he’s never seen a chapel as beautiful as the one before him.

Gatsby’s hand flies back, and the rock lands in the water with an unimpressed plop. He looks at his hand as if it has personally betrayed him, and Nick bites back a snort of laughter.

“Need some help there?” Nick asks, teasing.

“No,” Gatsby responds stalwartly, because of course; he never needs help. “I’ve got it.”

“All yours then.” Nick makes a grand, sweeping gesture towards the sound, the city, the gold-streaked sky, and the glowing-amber waters. It would be, if Nick had his way. Everything, everything in the world would be Gatsby’s, if that could somehow make it okay - this feeling in his chest every time he sees Jay smile.

“How kind of you, my liege,” Jay drawls sarcastically, tamping down a grin as Nick snorts with laughter. “I assure you, however, I will prove to be a master in no time.”

The stone soars, a graceful arc over the waters.

It sinks with no preamble.

Nick can not help it. He breaks into raucous laughter, almost bending over under the weight of his mirth.

It takes him a moment to notice Jay’s face is shuttered closed, his arms crossed over each other. The sight sobers him immediately.

“Come now, Gatsby,” Nick says softly, straightening. “Don’t be cross. I’ve had much more practice, you see? Plus, you’re, ah” - he nods at Jay’s stance - “you’re doing it wrong.”

The edge of Gatsby’s sourness ebbs away with the lapping of the water against their bare feet. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got to-” Nick waves a hand helplessly, unsure how to describe it. “It’s more horizontal than that.”

Gatsby looks at him, blankly. “Just show me, old sport.”

“Oh, um.” Nick swallows and convinces himself the spots of color in his cheeks are invisible in the golden-amber light. “Let me just…”

He touches Gatsby’s back, gently, almost breathless as Jay moves easily beneath him, a stone already in hand. Nick’s fingers draw down the line of Jay’s arm, nudging him into place. “You’re not throwing it at the water,” he says, voice barely trembling, “but across.”

Gatsby huffs out a frustrated breath. “I don’t quite understand.”

Nick’s breath catches in his throat. “Can I-” He gestures vaguely, but Gatsby nods, like he knows everything Nick is asking.

Gatsby’s shoulders are smooth under Nick’s hands. Nick moves, slightly, and Gatsby shifts with him, gentle and oh-so yielding it makes Nick ache. “Bend down,” Nick breaths, and Gatsby leans in, golden eyes bright. Nick nudges his chin up, the rasp of stubble against his fingers sending lightning crackling down his spine.

It’d be so easy, in times like this, to draw the other man closer, yet closer, until Nick can taste the honey in his smile. But he won’t. He can’t. These feelings he has… he can’t hoist them so carelessly off on Gatsby, even if he won’t remember it.

Nick steps back. If he didn't know better, he'd say he sees his own dissatisfaction mirrored in Gatsby's eyes.

“And… throw,” he says.

Gatsby tenses, drawing himself up, and he snaps, sudden as the firing of an arrow. The stone bounces once, twice, three times, dancing out of sight until it's melded into that horizon and neither of them can see it sink.

Gatsby looks at him and smiles that wonderful smile. “Perfect.”

“Yes,” Nick murmurs, an unidentifiable emotion swelling in his throat as he watches his golden man, alive and alight, “I suppose you’re right.”

Gatsby lives that time, and he is smiling as he bids Nick goodnight.

Nick tries to stay awake that night, but his eyes droop, and his limbs fill with sand, and he only blinks-

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window.

Nick wakes before dawn.

He doesn’t roll out of bed immediately this time, doesn’t race to the Valley of Ashes to stop Wilson or storm the Buchanan household to demand things of Daisy. He doesn’t even cross their shared lawn to see Gatsby, to hear his life story for the thousandth time over.

He lays in bed and puts a hand on his chest. It feels like something’s trying to tear itself out.

He knows what it is. Of course he knows what it is.

He’s always known, on some level, why he can’t help but stare at Gatsby’s smile. Why he spends nearly every moment thinking of him. Why he finds him gorgeous beyond measure. Why not even the sordid details of Gatsby’s past and present could prevent his heart from swelling every time he heart Gatsby laugh.

He’s in love.

Nick Carraway is in love with Jay Gatsby.

Nick pulls a pillow over his face and laughs until he cries.

He visits Daisy, threatens her, and then he goes to Gatsby’s.

“I… I understand,” Gatsby is stammering on the phone, “but please understand that none of this is Mrs. Buchanan's fault. I-”

Nick presses a hand down on the Ameche. The line clicks dead.

“Old sport!” Gatsby exclaims, affronted. “What on Earth do you mean by-” He cuts himself up as he sees Nick, still leaning against the front table, looking at Gatsby with dark, serious eyes.

“Nick?”

“I just wanted to make sure,” Nick says, “that you’re doing alright.”

Gatsby stares at him for a long moment before the manic energy drains away. He wilts against the wall, a bitter sort of irony playing on his lips. “I’m just swell,” he says hollowly.

“You’re exhausted,” Nick notes, brushing a limp curl out of Gatsby’s face. “How long have you been dealing with this?”

“I haven’t slept, if that’s what you mean.” Gatsby finally puts down the phone, static crackling away to nothing. “Do you think it was for me?” He looks up, something like hope fogging his eyes.

He's the single most hopeful person Nick has ever met, but this is beyond simply peering at the world through rose-tinted lenses; it's the most toxic sort of delusion.

Nick turns his head away, fixes his eyes on the waters of the Sound, gently lapping outside of Gatsby’s back windows. “I told her to.”

He can’t bring himself to see the moment Gatsby’s eyes sharpen yet lose their shine. To know he was the one who dulled Gatsby’s radiance.

“I see.” He collapses onto the couch like his strings have been cut, cradling his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, sitting next to him. He’s done any of this before - never told Gatsby the truth about his dearest love, never apologized for doing so, never offered a simple consolation for the twists of fate and societal pressure that fractured and pressed James Gatz into the harder, shinier, fiercer Jay Gatsby.

“It’s not your fault, Nick,” Gatsby idly plucks at a loose thread on the couch, watching it come unraveled. “I suppose we weren’t meant to last.” He laughs, a low, bitter thing. “I can’t describe to you how surprised I was to find out I loved her, old sport.”

Nick hears Gatsby’s life story again. He can practically deliver the entire speech verbatim by now, but he doesn’t mind hearing it again. Not enough people have truly listened to Gatsby in his lifetime. Nick would very much like to be more than a mere statistic in this man’s life.

“...my mother was,” Gatsby stammers, “and I, as well, am, you see, Black,” he manages.

Nick just reaches over and covers Gatsby’s hand with his own. “Gracias por decírmelo.”

It takes Gatsby a long moment, but his eyes widen. “Latino?”

Nick nods. That one word isn’t as important to him as the ones Gatsby didn’t say. What about Daisy? Nick hardly dares to think about what that might mean.

Gatsby smiles - a small, teasing thing. “Keeping secrets from me, old sport?”

“Takes one to know one,” Nick fires back.

He laughs then, pure, unabashed peals of joy and relief. “I suppose you and I are simply a matching pair.” He flips his hand over, laces his fingers through Nick’s.

Their palms press together. It’s simple, chaste. Yet, somehow, it overwhelms Nick, filling him with sunshine. “Always,” he murmurs. He, of all people, means it. “Even through all this mess, I’m here for you, Gatsby.”

Gatsby huffs out an exasperated breath, letting his head loll against the couch back. “Things haven’t quite been normal since yesterday, have they?”

Nick groans, shaking his head. “You’re telling me.”

“I mean think,” Gatsby continues, “just yesterday, it was- Oh!” He startles, turns to Nick. “I forgot, didn’t I?”

Nick blinks slowly. “Forgot what?”

“Yesterday!” Gatsby says impatiently, rising to his feet and digging through a drawer in the nearby armoire.

Nick flexes his empty hand.

“It was a rather momentous day, wasn’t it, old sport?”

Nick can barely remember yesterday. He knows the broad strokes of it, of course - the city sizzling like an oven, Daisy mowing down Myrtle, Gatsby waiting outside the Buchanan house in the moonlight.

“I’m afraid I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Gatsby,” he confesses.

“Oh, come now, Nick, It’s bad enough one of us forgot it.” Gatsby makes a triumphant noise and holds up a small black box, lacquered and shiny. He turns to Nick and smiles that smile. “Happy thirtieth birthday, Mr. Nick Carraway. I meant to give it to you after we got back from the city, but, well…”

Nick is stunned speechless for several moments. When he finally regains his tongue, all he can manage is: “I never told you when my birthday is.”

“Yes, I- I know.” Abashment colors Gatsby’s face and forces him to look down at his shoes. “I asked Daisy. Sorry if you didn’t want me to know, old sport, but I just figured it’s the sort of thing a man should…” He trails off, swallows hard. “Nick, you” - his golden eyes dart up to meet Nick’s, but just as quickly shoot away - “you always do so much for me. I guess I just wanted to let you know that… I’m grateful. That I care.”

Nick could fall in love with him right now, if he hasn’t already been falling for so long, so easily and so imperceptibly he can’t pinpoint a day or a place.

“Thank you,” Nick says, as he rises to join his golden man. “Thank you, Gatsby.”

Gatsby’s smile doesn’t fade, but it grows softer, fonder somehow. “Come on, then.” He pushes the box into Nick’s hands, foot tapping. “Don’t you want to see what it is?”

“I’m going to love it, regardless,” Nick laughs, turning the box over in his hands, admiring. “You’re the only one who remembered.”

He flips open the lid.

Nick’s eyes widen.

It’s a watch. It’s an achingly beautiful watch - all shining golden band and sleek, dark face and faintly ticking gears. The light glimmers off of it when he holds it up. Wondrously, he turns it over to reveal an engraving.

To the dearest friend I ever had. Yours always, J.

“‘J’?” He questions, looking up at Gatsby.

“I always knew I was going to tell you,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “About my past, that is. About me. I’ve lied to just about everyone in my life, old sport, but, you… I just want you to know who I am.”

“J,” Nick repeats, smiling. “Jay Gatsby and James Gatz all in one.”

Gatsby smiles back, anxiety melting away. “Exactly.”

“I love you,” Nick says. He didn’t mean to, but he doesn’t take it back. Instead, he lets the words - three syllables, eight letters, infinite meaning - hang, shimmering in the air between them. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until the band of the watch starts rattling. He tries to unclasp it and slide it on his wrist, but his fingers are fumbling and his eyes are fogging over and he can’t work the damn clasp-

Gatsby touches his wrist, gently. “Let me.”

He’s quiet, eerily quiet as he easily unlatches the watch. He takes Nick’s hand and slides the gift onto his wrist, golden fingers brushing against soft, sensitive skin. He turns Nick’s arm over and reclaps it. His fingers rest over Nick’s pulse long after the task is over.

Nick can’t bring himself to speak.

“Did you mean it?” Gatsby asks, hesitantly. Staring down at his fingers on Nick’s wrist, he looks like he’s more afraid of the answer than he has any right to be.

“Of course I did.” Nick covers Gatsby’s hand with his free one. “Gatsby, how could I not?” He waits until those golden eyes are trained on him to continue. “I love you.”

Gatsby shudders, turns away again. “You can't say such things like that.”

Nick, a horrid sinking feeling growing in his gut, makes to apologize, but Gatsby cuts him off.

“I’ll believe them, Nick.” His voice is rough, thick. “No one has ever… You can’t just…” His voice cracks, breaks, and Nick realizes he is crying.

“Gatsby!” He fights against his instinct to wrap the other man up in his arms and hold him until the tears abide. “I’m so, so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have! I… just can’t help it.”

The sound of his voice seems to be helping, somehow, so Nick keeps blabbering on, as if he can solve this whole mess with pretty words alone.

“You’re… you’re the single most hopeful man I’ve ever met. Do you know how incredible that is? You believe the best in everyone, even when you shouldn’t. Of everyone I’ve ever met, you’re the only one who’s ever escaped even the slightest modicum of my scorn.”

Gatsby’s tears are slowly drying, and his head rises gradually, ponderously towards Nick.

Others may have taken it as an invitation to stop, but Nick finds that, now that his speech has begun, he simply cannot conclude until Gatsby knows exactly the depth and breadth of what Nick feels.

“And your smile! Do you even know what you do to me with that smile? You smile understandingly — much more than understandingly. It’s a smile with a quality of eternal reassurance in it. I could live four or five lifetimes and never find another like it. It faces the whole external world for an instant, and then concentrates on me with an irresistible prejudice in my favor, as I see it.

“It’s like you understand me, just as far as I want to be understood, and believe in me as I could only pray to believe in myself. Except for this moment, I’ve never questioned what you think of me. You’re my dearest friend in the world, Gatsby, and I can see nothing but kindness in your smile.”

“You really do love me, don’t you?” Gatsby says, quietly. If not for the redness tinting his nose, Nick would never be able to tell he’d been crying. Throughout Nick’s impromptu tyrade, he had wiped clean his face, and now he looked at Nick, eyes shining, although Nick can’t tell if the effect is from residual tears or emotions.

“Yes,” Nick admits, “and I know you’re in love with Daisy-”

“-not sure on that front,” Gatsby interrupts, quietly. “The more I think about it, the more seeing her run down an innocent woman seemed to… mitigate some of my softer emotions.”

Nick huffed out an ironic laugh. “That’ll do it.”

Gatsby quirked his lips in return. “Quite.”

“But, I…” Nick tugs at his sleeve. “I know I’m not what you want. I've made my peace with that. I know there are things about me that aren’t-”

“What about you?”

Nick blinks. “What?”

“What about you isn’t what I want?”

“I’m a male, for starters!” Nick cries. “I’m not a doll like Daisy, I don’t fit in with your high-society associates, and you can never been seen in public with me! Isn’t that enough?”

“I trust you, Nick,” he says, simply. “That’s enough. I’ve never done that with anyone before. You’re… you’re the only one I know will always be there for me.” His words come slowly, as if each one is a fresh revelation he savors the truth of. “You’re the only one who’s ever cared for me, not just my money. I can rely on you and confide in you without any fear. I care about you. I trust you. I…” He cuts off, worrying at his bottom lip.

There is a long, long pause.

“Do you love me?” Nick can hardly bring himself to break the silence, can hardly dare to hope.

Gatsby’s golden eyes trace the lines of his face. “Yes,” he says, voice far away. “God help me, I think I do.”

He cracks a smile, and Nick can’t help but lift one in return, and then Gatsby is chuckling, softly, and then they’re both practically howling with laughter, although nothing is particularly hilarity-inducing. Instead, it’s relief that propels their outburst. Pure, simple relief. Relief that the other party returns their affections; relief that, for now, at least, the nightmare is over.

Relief that neither of them has to be alone any more.

Nick takes Gatsby’s hand and doesn’t let go. “You’re fantastic, Gatsby. Truly.”

“You know,” Gatsby says, over-casually, “you could call me Jay if you wished, old sport.”

Nick tilts his head, considering his golden man for a moment. “Would you like that, Jay?”

“I think,” he says with a wry quirk to his lips, “I’d be quite alright with anything you called me, as long as you said it like that.”

Nick can’t help but smile in return. “Like what?”

Jay shrugs, almost bashfully “Like I’m something precious.”

“You are,” Nick says with far more honestly than he intends. “You’re gold and diamonds and jewels and everything else in the damn world to me, Gatsby.”

“There you go again,” Gatsby teases, squeezing his hand. “Too shy to call me by my name, Nick?”

“Gatsby is what I know you as,” Nick says, eventually. “It isn’t any more or less intimate than Jay or James or Gatz. I fell in love with Gatsby, but I would and do love Jay and James and Gatz just as tenderly.” He takes Gatsby’s hand and squeezes.

“What’s in a name?” Gatsby murmurs to himself. “That which we call a rose…”

“I love you, Gatsby.” Nick presses a kiss to his forehead. “And I love you, Jay.” His cheek. “And I love you, James.” His nose. “And I love you, Gatz.”

“And I love you, Nick Carraway.” It’s Gatsby who finally draws them together, their mouths slotting in place like pieces of a puzzle, but Nick can’t begrudge him that.

It should feel dangerous. Instead, it feels like coming home.

Nick knows it won’t last. He knows, even as Gatsby draws him closer, closer, and slams the bedroom door behind them, that he’ll wake up to the sound of cicadas. Alone.

But for now, with Gatsby’s mouth burning against his and golden eyes smiling down at him, Nick can ignore all that.

After all, he has some much more pressing issues to deal with.

Cicadas are hissing outside of his window. Nick wakes before dawn.

Nick’s heart sinks. He knew it would happen. Knew that it never lasts, that he’ll always be trapped in this damn loop, but…

He had hoped.

In his eternal foolishness, he had hoped.

He sighs, just a little, and makes to pull himself out of bed and do it all over again. Maybe he won’t make Gatsby cry this time. The sight was devastating.

His movement is stopped by an arm tightening around his chest.

“Hm?” A groggy, sleepy noise comes from behind him. “Nick, what’re you doing?”

Nick’s heart stops in his chest.

“Gatsby,” he says, and waits for the small huff of confirmation, “what day is today?”

“Wednesday,” Gatsby responds after a moment, “the sixteenth. Two days after your birthday. Why’s that?”

“No reason,” Nick says, heart glowing so fervently in his chest he’s surprised light doesn’t fill the bedroom. “Just wondering.”

It could be confessing his feelings to Gatsby that broke the loop. It could be kissing someone that did it. It could even be falling asleep with someone else.

Yet, somehow, Nick thinks he knows how he did it. The way he was living, the way he carried around disgust and hate for himself, for who he loved - he couldn’t go on like that. So he didn't go on until he knew it was okay to love a great man like Gatsby.

“It’s not even dawn, Nick.” Gatsby yawns, rubs at his sleep-crusted eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

“Alright,” Nick says, voice miraculously not breaking. He nestles back down on a silken pillowcase, and Gatsby’s forehead comes to rest on the nape of Nick’s neck.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Gatsby murmurs, already drifting back off.

“Okay,” Nick whispers, lacing his fingers through Gatsby’s. “In the morning.”

Their life would be lived behind closed doors. It would be a life of hastily stolen kisses and hands pressed almost close enough to hold and standing just far enough apart not to draw eyes.

But it would be theirs.

On the nightstand, his watch ticks on.

#natsby #the great gatsby #natsby fanfiction #natsby fic #jay gatsby #nick carraway #jordan baker #daisy buchanan #tom buchanan #greenlightjulyevent

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optimizche · 5 years

Text

Angelic : The Kiss (Park Chanyeol/Reader)

Full masterlist

Her

It was the warmth that drew me in. The slightest of brushes against the curve of my neck.

I would've mistaken it for a warm summer night breeze, but the next caress, placed at the corner of my mouth was far too deliberate to ignore.

A hand cupped my cheek, gently turning my face. The skin of my face, where I was being touched, felt like it was burning.

But instead of recoiling from the heat, I leaned into it. Purely on instinct.

When I opened my eyes, all I could see was darkness. Pitch black and impenetrable.

The only source of light came from a pair of glowing amber eyes that were looming above me.

A sudden jolt of fear paralyzed me, rendering me unable to scream, even though I wanted to.

I scrambled away, pressing my back into the headboard of my bed.

"Its alright," a voice came. Deep and velvety and undeniably masculine. "Don't be afraid of me."

His voice sent a shiver down my spine. Which he noticed.

Two of his hands came up to cradle my face, and I sighed at the pleasant heat of his flesh on mine.

The fear I felt began to dissolve, melting with the sultry touch of his skin on mine, turning into a curiosity the longer I looked into his amber eyes.

"What do you want?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Who are you?"

But he heard it all the same.

Leaning in closer, the glow of his eyes seemed to intensify, the deep gold swirling in his irises.

"I'm someone who has dreamt about you for as long as I can remember," he spoke, in a voice as quiet as the night itself. "I'm here to make you dream of me..."

He leaned in. And with the growing proximity, I could scent him on the air. Dark and musky. An intoxicating mix of mystery and desire and...

Sin.

Hands on his shoulders, I attempted to push him away, sudden realization dawning over me.

He was one of them.

Satan's children.

Effortlessly, he clasped my wrists in his large hands, halting my efforts to push him away. Pinning my hands to my sides, he leaned in even closer.

Until his nose was pressing into the curve of my neck. His lips brushing against my shoulder.

"You smell of flowers, little one..." he breathed, every exhalation hot against my flesh. "Flowers and purity and... chastity."

I could hear the utter arrogance in his voice, feel the smirk against my skin.

"Get out," I spat.

He chuckled, and his hands that were holding my wrists suddenly gave me a sharp yank. Pulling me towards him, into his chest.

I shoved at him again. But he didn't budge.

The first thing I noticed was the heat that was seeping from him. It felt like the fires from the deepest pits of Hell were simmering under his flesh. Wherever his form touched mine, I felt hot. Like I had placed my hand into a burning flame.

But despite the heat of him against me, I didn't flinch from the contact, which was surprising to say the least, since my kind always recoiled from theirs.

Instead of feeling pain wherever our bodies met, I felt a strange, vague sense of.... pleasure?

"No, no, no," I muttered to myself, under my breath, my wrists struggling against the iron grip he had on me.

He chuckled, clearly amused by my futile attempts, before giving me another tug, so that I was fully in his arms.

"You let me go, you vile creature. I command you to let me g-"

I was never able to complete my sentence, because his mouth was upon mine, silencing me.

For a moment, I froze completely. Unable to comprehend what was happening. Unable to understand anything, because this was an entirely different sensation for me.

Something I had never felt before.

Of course, I had kissed men before. Men of my kind. But this wasn't like the soothing kisses Junmyeon used to give me as he lulled me to sleep. Or like Yixing, who had the singular ability to heal every pain in me with a touch of his lips on mine. It wasn't even like Baekhyun's kisses, which always filled my eyes with light. Or Jongdae's, kisses stolen in complete innocence, when he'd serenade me with his songs.

This was different.

If the heat of his flesh on mine was pleasant, the press of his lips against mine was... incredible.

His lips were soft. Like velvet. And the urgent pressure of them, as they moved against mine, signalled that there was something else lurking beneath the surface. Something dark. Something sinister.

His hand came up to cradle the back of my head, before he pulled away from me just a little bit.

"Open your mouth for me..." he said.

"I..."

"Open, princess."

And then he was back, a hundred times more eager. He wasn't just kissing me anymore, no. Frenzied nips of his teeth, his tongue licking across the seam of my lips. Begging. Pleading.

Even though every instinct in me screamed at me to push him away and be done with it, my mind was overwhelmed by an almost dangerous curiosity.

What if I did open for him?

What if I did let him in?

Just once?

Only once?

This morbid curiosity was steadily melting away my reluctance. As were his needy, almost agonized groans against my closed lips.

"Please, princess," he pleaded, running his tongue along my lower lip. "Please let me have a taste..."

When his lips closed the distance once again, I relented.

And the moment I parted my lips for him, he dove in.

His tongue slipped into my mouth, coming to meet mine. And when they met, I was lost.

Lost.

He tasted like...

....like the forbidden fruit.

Nothing like I had ever tasted before in my millenia long existence.

Tart and sweet. Honeyed spiced wine.

Inviting.

Luring me in.

I moaned into his mouth and he sighed, the kiss losing its chastness and becoming deeper.

Achingly deep.

Our mouths growing greedier, ravenous against each other, wanting to consume as much of each other as was possible.

I could feel the brush of his nose against my cheek, his lips sealing mine to allow a hungry exploration of my mouth, his hands clutching at the roots of my hair, holding me to him.

My own hands were in his hair and I was kissing him back, again and again, with a fervour with which I had never kissed anyone before. Not even my brothers.

My entire being felt like it was being burnt away in the sweetest, most sinful way possible, his lips on mine incinerating me from inside out.

And behind my closed eyes, I could see red.

A deep, swirling, hypnotizing red.

An endless ocean of red that I wanted to drown in.

So mesmerizing was this red, that I felt almost euphoric....

Triumphant.

Until I realized that the ocean of red was in fact the blood of my fellow angels.

My brothers.

I whimpered against his lips, horrified by the vision I was being made to see.

My hands pushed against his chest, wanting to break away from this lascivious entanglement.

But he held me tighter, his arms an iron cage around me, his lips relentlessly working into mine, the ferocity of his kiss causing my own lips to sting.

It was this very sting that began the shift.

The sea of blood vanished and I felt a sharp burst of pain beside either of my shoulder blades, right where the roots of my wings were.

The pain was blinding. Intolerable.

I moaned into his mouth, fingernails digging into his shoulders. Yet he remained latched almost fiercely to my mouth.

Every flick and lick of his tongue felt like lava. Pure liquid heat, that was serving to heighten the pain in my furled wings.

Through his kiss, it felt like he was penetrating my very being. Right down to my soul. With every passing moment, he was embedding something deep inside my soul. He was seeding something dark, something infernal within me. And the growing pain in my wings was a sign that my instincts were trying to push away this corrupt, damnable entity that was attempting to meld into me.

I didn't know for how long he kissed me. But when he finally pulled away from me, I was trembling from the pain.

Weakened considerably and unable to stay upright any longer, I fell back onto my bed, the scars on my back itching and throbbing, smarting as if someone had raked their nails through my vulnerable flesh.

It was incredibly foolish of me to think that the pain would lessen when I broke contact with him, this man who had just kissed me.

Instead, the pain only grew in intensity. Coming to me in sharp, pulsating heaves.

I gasped, my face twisting in pure agony as my entire being resisted and fought against whatever his kiss had implanted within me.

"Wh-what have you done to me?"

He laughed. "It has begun, sweetling."

I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant, but the pain drew forth a loud, agonized scream from deep within my throat.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to my forehead.

"You will be mine soon..."

And that was the only thing I remembered hearing, before the pain consumed me in all its torturous absoluteness.

_________________________

I sat bolt upright in bed, trembling from head to toe. Gasping.

Wild-eyed, I looked around, my skin drenched in a cold sweat.

The door to my bedroom burst open and Yixing and Baekhyun rushed in.

"Princess, are you alright?" Yixing asked, falling to his knees before me, his hands cupping my face. "Look at me."

"You were screaming," Baekhyun asked. "Was it a bad dream?"

It was a dream.

But it had felt so real.

So true.

I brought a hand to my lips, touching them gently. Trying to remember his kiss.

"I'm so sorry," I breathed, tears brimming in my eyes. "I'm sorry..."

Baekhyun and Yixing looked puzzled, exchanging a glance.

"For what, princess?" Yixing asked me.

For kissing the devil, I wanted to say.

But I remained silent.

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bountyofbeads · 4 years

Text

I Worked for Alex Jones. I Regret It. https://nyti.ms/2PiTeFr

This piece by former InfoWars "video reporter" (?) Josh Owens reveals all the insanity you'd expect but also the pathetic sadness of those who continue to enable, peddle, and profit from his malicious lies.

Confession is good for the soul, but I'm trying to get my head around the fact that the author continued to work for Alex Jones for several YEARS after the latter made his vile claims about Sandy Hook.

Josh Owens was drawn to #InfoWars while "vulnerable, angry & searching for direction"; after 4 years w/Alex Jones, he saw "virulent nature of his world." Read if you can stomach Jones' deeply disturbing behavior. This model has infected right-wing media.

Josh Owens is a seriously good writer. Too bad he didn't make the subject of this piece himself. Why was he angry, why did he stay with Jones so long, how did he feel as he did his work? These unexamined questions are the heart of the story, not how disturbed a plainly disturbed man Jones is.

"Owens admits that his personal mental and emotional issues led him to Jones. We should be glad for him, that he found the strength to recognize it, address it, and walk away from a bad situation. Owens shouldn't be vilified for his past mistakes, but celebrated for his return. Prodigal son, no? But forgiveness does not imply absolution."

"This can't be the end of the road. As he is responsible for a lot of anguish and grief. Is he even an accessory to murder? The pain that he enabled will live on in families for decades and become part of our national fabric. How does he intend to make amends? This written catharsis is a good first step, but it's only a first step. Is he the little girl in the airplane, seeing the world for the first time? What does he intend to do with this revelation, and fix the damage he has done?"

"At 23, Josh Owens quit film school to work as a video editor for Alex Jones. This is his account of the years he spent within the Infowars empire." /1

"At first, he found it easy to brush off Alex Jones’s fever dreams as eccentricities and excesses. But he eventually found that he had his limits." /2

"Once, at a private ranch, Owens said, Alex Jones picked up an AR-15 and accidentally fired it in the writer’s direction. The bullet hit the ground about 10 feet away from him, he recalled. Jones claimed he had intentionally fired the gun as a joke, he said."/3

“Over time, I came to learn that keeping Jones from getting angry was a big part of the job, though it was impossible to predict his outbursts,” he writes."/4

“There was a time when I shared his anger. In fact, I was still angry. But this is where we differed: I wasn’t angry with others; I was angry with myself. And once I realized that, it was easier to walk away”/5

I WORKED FOR ALEX JONES. I REGRET IT.

I dropped out of film school to edit video for the conspiracy theorist because I believed in his worldview. Then I saw what it did to people.

By Josh Owens | Published Dec. 5, 2019 | New York Times Magazine | Posted December 6, 2019 |

On Election Day 2016, I sat in the passenger seat of Alex Jones’s Dodge Hellcat as we swerved through traffic, making our way to a nearby polling place. As Jones punched the gas pedal to the floor, the smell of vodka, like paint thinner, wafted up from the white Dixie cup anchored in the console. My stomach churned as the phone I held streamed live video to Facebook: Jones rambling about voter fraud and rigged elections while I stared at the screen, holding the camera at an angle to hide his double chin. It rarely worked, but I didn’t want to be blamed when he watched the video later.

Four years earlier, Jones — wanting to expand his website, Infowars, into a full-blown guerrilla news operation and hoping to scout new hires from his growing fan base — held an online contest. At 23, I was vulnerable, angry and searching for direction, so I decided to give it a shot. Out of what Infowars said were hundreds of submissions, my video — a half-witted, conspiratorial glance at the creation and function of the Federal Reserve — made it to the final round.

Unconvinced I could cut it as a reporter, Jones offered me a full-time position as a video editor. I quit film school and moved nearly a thousand miles to Austin, Tex., fully invested in propagating his worldview. By the time I found myself seated next to Jones speeding down the highway, I had seen enough of the inner workings of Infowars to know better.

Before we left the office, Jones instructed me to title the video “Alex Jones Denied Right to Vote” when uploading to YouTube. He knew before we left that they wouldn’t let us walk into a polling location with our cameras rolling. I don’t think Jones even intended to vote. Rather, he hoped to turn this into a spectacle, an insult to him personally, another opportunity to play the self-aggrandizing victim.

“Look at this great city shot,” he said pointing out the window at Austin’s skyline. As soon as I pulled the camera off him, he reached for the white Dixie cup. Is this really how I’m going to die? I thought to myself, imagining the scene: Jones veering too close to the guardrail, ranting about George Soros and Hillary Clinton. Sirens echoing in the distance, flashing lights reflecting off oil-soaked pavement as he grabs the camera and utters his final words, “Hillary ... rigged ... the car.” His listeners would have believed it. Years earlier, I would have believed it.

Fortunately, there were no sirens or flashing lights, and I was relieved when “Vote Here” signs began to appear. A line stretched out the door of the polling place, in a local strip mall, by the time we arrived. As I expected, Jones was told multiple times that he couldn’t film at a polling place, and he decided to leave. Walking back to the car, still taking sips from his white cup, he began noticeably slurring his words. A friend of Jones’s who tagged along — for “security purposes” — offered to give me a ride back to the office. Jones revved his engine, tires squealing as he sped out of the parking lot.

I began listening to Jones’s radio show — the flagship program of what is now a conspiracist media empire with an audience that until recently surpassed a million people — in the last days of George W. Bush’s presidency. The American public had been sold a war through outright fabrications; the economy was in free fall thanks to Wall Street greed and the failure of Washington regulators. Most of the mainstream media was caught flat-footed by these developments, but Jones seemed to have an explanation for everything. He railed against government corruption and secrecy, the militarization of police. He confronted those in power, traipsed through the California redwoods to expose the secretive all-male meeting of elites at Bohemian Grove and even appeared in two Richard Linklater films as himself, screaming into a megaphone.

But it wasn’t the politics that initially drew me in. Jones had a way of imbuing the world with mystery, adding a layer of cinematic verisimilitude that caught my attention. Suddenly, I was no longer a bored kid attending an overpriced art school. I was Fox Mulder combing through the X-Files, Rod Serling opening a door to the Twilight Zone, even Rosemary Woodhouse convinced that the neighbors were members of a ritualistic cult. I believed that the world was strategically run by a shadowy, organized cabal, and that Jones was a hero for exposing it.

I had my limits. I can’t say I ever believed his avowed theory that Sandy Hook was a staged event to push for gun control; to Jones, everything was a “false flag.” I didn’t believe that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama smelled like sulfur because of their proximity to hell or that Planned Parenthood was run by “Nazi baby killers.” But it was easy to brush off these fever dreams as eccentricities and excesses — not the heart of the Alex Jones operation but mere diversions.

Once I started working there, however, it became obvious that one was impossible to separate one from the other. Soon after I was hired, Jones’s Infowars-branded store — which sells emergency-survival foods, water filters, body armor and much more — introduced an iodine supplement, initially marketed as a “shield” against nuclear fallout. Still learning the ropes, I was tasked with creating video advertisements for the supplement, which he ran on his online TV show. One of these ads started with a shot of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant as it exploded. I doubled the sound of the explosion, adding a glitch filter and sirens in the background for dramatic effect. Jones stood over my shoulder as I edited. “This is great,” he said. “See if you can find flyover footage of Chernobyl as well.”

Shortly after Jones began selling the supplements, someone posted a video on YouTube holding a Geiger counter displaying high radiation readings on a beach in Half Moon Bay, Calif. The video went viral, stoking fears that radiation from Fukushima was drifting across the Pacific Ocean. Jones saw an opportunity and sent me, along with a reporter, a writer and another cameraman, to California. We had multiple Geiger counters shipped overnight, unaware of how to read or work them, and drove up the West Coast, frequently stopping to check radiation levels. Other than a small spike in Half Moon Bay — which the California Department of Public Health said was from naturally occurring radioactive materials, not Fukushima — we found nothing.

Jones was furious. We started getting calls from the radio-show producers in the office, warning us to stop posting videos to YouTube stating we weren’t finding elevated levels of radiation. We couldn’t just stop, though; Jones demanded constant real-time content. On some of these calls, I could hear Jones screaming in the background. One of the producers told me they had never seen him so angry.

We scrambled to find something, anything we could report on. We tested freshly caught crab from a dock in Crescent City, Calif., and traveled to the Diablo Canyon nuclear plant in Avila Beach, asking fishermen if we could test the small croakers they caught off a nearby pier. We even tried to locate a small nuclear-waste facility just so we could capture the Geiger counter displaying a high number. But we couldn’t find what Jones wanted, and after two weeks of traveling from San Diego to Portland, we flew back to Texas as failures, bracing for Jones’s rage. (Jones did not respond to detailed queries sent before publication by The Times Magazine.)

Over time, I came to learn that keeping Jones from getting angry was a big part of the job, though it was impossible to predict his outbursts. Stories abounded among my co-workers: The blinds stuck, so he ripped them off the wall. A water cooler had mold in it, so he grabbed a large knife, stabbed the plastic base wildly and smashed it on the ground. Headlines weren’t strong enough; the news wasn’t being covered the way he wanted; reporters didn’t know how to dress properly. Once a co-worker stopped by the office with a pet fish he was taking home to his niece. It swam in circles in a small, transparent bag. When Jones saw the bag balanced upright on a desk in the conference room, he emptied it into a garbage can. On one occasion, he threatened to send out a memo banning laughter in the office. “We’re in a war,” he said, and he wanted people to act accordingly.

I also saw Jones give an employee the Rolex off his own wrist, simply because he thought the employee was mad at him. “Now, would a bad guy do that?” Jones asked as he handed over the watch. Once, when I went to interview a frequent guest of Jones’s, I was sent with a check to cover a potentially lifesaving cancer treatment. A few times I came close to quitting, and like clockwork, just before I pulled the plug, I received a bonus or significant raise. I hadn’t discussed my discontent with Jones, but he seemed to sense it.

Jones often told his employees that working for him would leave a black mark on our records. To him, it was the price that must be paid for boldly confronting those in power — what he called the New World Order or, later, the deep state. Once my beliefs began to shift, I saw the virulent nature of his world, the emptiness and loathing in many of those impassioned claims. But I was certain that after four years working for Jones, I would never be able to get another job — banished into poverty as penance for my transgressions, and rightly so.

When Jones wanted to blow off steam, we would travel to a private ranch outside Austin to shoot guns. Among other firearms, we would bring the two Barrett .50-caliber rifles he kept stashed in the office. Because we never missed an opportunity to create more content, we also brought along cameras to turn whatever happened into a segment for his show.

I remember one trip in particular. It was the summer of 2014, and I rode to the ranch in the back of a co-worker’s truck, surrounded by semiautomatic rifles, boxes of ammunition and Tannerite, an explosive rifle target. A few of us left early in the morning, arriving before Jones to film B-roll and load magazines; he had no patience for preparation. When he came hours later, after eating a few handfuls of jalapeño chips, he picked up an AR-15 and accidentally fired it in my direction.

The bullet hit the ground about 10 feet away from me. One employee, who was already uncomfortable around firearms, lost it, accusing Jones of being careless and flippant. This was one of the few times I saw someone call Jones out and the only time he didn’t get angry in response. He claimed he had intentionally fired the gun as a joke — as if this were any better.

I stood by silently, considering what might have happened if the gun had been pointed a little to the right. After a while the upset employee let it go, and no one brought it up again. We cracked open a few more beers, filled an old television with Tannerite and blew it up.

One weekend, a few people from the office went hunting at a game reserve. On the following Monday, I was handed a hard drive full of video files and told to edit them for Jones to air on his show later in the week. “There are clips in here that are pretty bad, things we don’t want to get out, so let me take a look at this before we upload it,” one of my managers said.

The first video I clicked on came from a cellphone. The camera pans across a blood-covered floor in what looked like a garage. Dead animals were scattered about: eyes lifeless, tongues hanging from their mouths, crimson streaks splashed on their fur.

In another video, a bison grazed quietly in the shade of a large tree; it reminded me of a tableau at the American Museum of Natural History. Then the camera panned over to Jones, maybe 20 yards away, holding what looked like a handgun. Jones began firing at the bison, tufts of hair flying with every hit. The animal remained standing as Jones shot round after round. Finally, the hunting guide yelled at Jones to stop and handed him a high-caliber rifle. Jones took a moment to make sure the cameras were still recording and fired a few more rounds as the animal finally collapsed.

I shared a large room with three other employees, and Jones often walked into our office after he wrapped for the day. His first question was always “How was the show?” If anyone said it was great — someone, if not everyone, always said it was great — his response was the same. “Really?” he would say, moving over to their side of the room. “Did you really think it was great? What did you like about it?”

Working for Jones was a balancing act. You had to determine where he was emotionally and match his tone quickly. If he was angry, then you had better get angry. If he was joking around, then you could relax, sort of, always looking out of the corner of your eye for his mood to turn at any moment.

Late one night, after an extended live broadcast, Jones walked into my office shirtless. This was normal; he removed his shirt frequently around us. He pulled out a bottle of Grey Goose from a storage cabinet and filled his cup. He stumbled into his private restroom, changed into a clean black polo shirt and stepped back into our office. “Hit me,” he said to an employee in the room. When the employee refused, Jones got louder, his face redder. “Hit me!” He kept saying it, getting closer each time. Finally, knowing Jones would never relent, the employee gave him a weak tap on the shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” he said, “hit me harder!”

The employee punched him hard in the shoulder. Jones grunted on impact, seeming to enjoy the pain. Then, it was his turn. Smirking, he planted his feet, reared back and lunged his body weight forward as his fist connected with the man’s arm. I could hear the dull thud of impact, then a wincing sigh. They traded a few more punches, each time seeming less playful. Jones became wild-eyed, spit flying from his clenched teeth as he exhaled. On his last hit, the sound was different. Wet. I thought I could hear the meat split open in the employee’s arm. Jones roared as he punched a cabinet, denting the door in. A few weeks later, I heard that Jones had broken a video editor’s ribs after playing the same game in a downtown bar.

Having aligned himself with Donald Trump during the 2016 presidential race, Jones might now be considered a version of a conservative, but his perspective is much more complicated than that. Infowars was like a lot of digital-media outlets, in that we reported on the things our top editor thought would go viral. But because our boss was Alex Jones, this was a peculiar process. Assignments were often handed down live on the air during his show. We were to have it playing throughout the office, always listening for directives. Ideas for stories mostly came from what other news outlets reported. Jones wanted us to “hijack” the mainstream media’s coverage and use it to our advantage. If it fit into the Infowars narrative, it played.

When I wasn’t at the office, I spent much of my time traveling for Jones. I inhaled the tear gas in Ferguson, Mo., during the Black Lives Matter protests, retching as I hid with protesters, corralled by cops in riot gear. I stood next to armed cowboys and ranch hands as they faced off against the Bureau of Land Management to retrieve Cliven Bundy’s cattle in Nevada. I had dinner with the leader of the Nation of Islam, Louis Farrakhan, at his home in Phoenix and spent a weekend at the compound of Jim Bakker, the televangelist who spent time in prison for fraud. Jones’s instinctual desire to distance himself from the mainstream led us to unusual and sometimes dark places.

In December 2015, the day before Jones interviewed Donald Trump, still a candidate at the time, on his radio show, I made my way to upstate New York on assignment, along with a reporter and second cameraman. We were sent to visit Muslim-majority communities throughout the United States to investigate what Jones instructed us to call “the American Caliphate.” After the California Geiger-counter debacle, we had meetings with Jones before trips in order to ascertain exactly what he wanted. If we “hit some home runs,” he said, we would get significant bonuses.

We landed in Newark at 12:30 p.m. on Dec. 1, 2015. The first stop was Islamberg, a Muslim community three hours north of Manhattan. It was founded in the 1980s by mostly African-American followers of a Pakistani cleric named Mubarik Ali Shah Gilani, who encouraged devotees of his conservative brand of Sufi Islam to establish small settlements across the rural United States. Gilani was suspected of association with the organization Jamaat ul-Fuqra, which was briefly designated as a terrorist group by the State Department in the 1990s; Gilani has denied any connection to the group. His followers in Islamberg had no record of violence, and some of them had denounced the Islamic State in an interview with Reuters earlier that year, saying they didn’t believe Islamic State members to be real Muslims. But unfounded rumors circulated around far-right corners of the internet that this community was a potential terrorist-training center. Jones, who thought the media consistently ingratiated themselves with Islamic extremists, believed them.

We pulled in, unannounced, to a dirt drive leading to the community, stopping at a flimsy cattle gate guarded by two men. The reporter, wearing a hidden camera, approached the entrance as we filmed the interaction from the vehicle. The men were calm and polite, if a little suspicious — reasonable given the circumstances. They denied our entry into Islamberg but took our number and told us we could return after they verified who we were.

It was only later, after listening to the audio from the reporter’s hidden camera, that I heard what he told the two men guarding the gate. “Basically, what we do is, we go around, and we do videos debunking claims of stuff,” the reporter said. “The word is, people say this is some kind of training camp, so we wanted to come in and get some footage and kind of put that whole rumor to rest.”

He gave them his real name — a name that, with a quick Google search, would lead back to Infowars, with its headlines like “Inside Sources: Bin Laden’s Corpse Has Been on Ice for Nearly a Decade,” “Special Report: Why Obama Brought Ebola to U.S. Exposed” and “VIDEO: ‘Demon’ Caught on Camera During Obama Visit?” Those headlines could be described by many words, but none of them would be “debunking.”

Because of the conspiracy theories about the place, Islamberg was a constant target of right-wing extremists. That April, a Tennessee man was arrested and later convicted of plotting to raise a militia to burn Islamberg’s mosque to the ground. Only days before we arrived, the F.B.I. issued an alert to law enforcement to be on the lookout for a man named Jon Ritzheimer, the leader of an anti-Muslim movement in Arizona who posted a video threatening violence against Muslims less than two weeks earlier. In the video, he brandished a handgun, saying: “I’m urging all Americans across the U.S. everywhere in public, start carrying a slung rifle with you, everywhere. Don’t be a victim in your own country.”

So the phone call we received later that night from a law-enforcement agent shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The officer who contacted us said he simply wanted to verify who we were after receiving a concerned call from someone in Islamberg. We told Jones about it, and he chose to believe the call was a veiled threat, an attempt to intimidate us into silence. To him, this verified that we were onto something. He even went so far as to include Michael Bloomberg, the former mayor of New York City, in the purported conspiracy, claiming he wanted to abolish the Second Amendment — and that somehow intimidating us would achieve that.

Jones told us to file a story that accused the police of harassment, lending credence to the theory that this community contained dangerous, potential terrorists. I knew this wasn’t the case according to the information we had. We all did. Days before, we spoke to the sheriff and the mayor of Deposit, N.Y., a nearby municipality. They both told us the people in Islamberg were kind, generous neighbors who welcomed the surrounding community into their homes, even celebrating holidays together.

The information did not meet our expectations, so we made it up, preying on the vulnerable and feeding the prejudices and fears of Jones’s audience. We ignored certain facts, fabricated others and took situations out of context to fit our narrative, posting headlines like:

Drone Investigates Islamic Training Center

Shariah Law Zones Confirmed in America

Infowars Reporters Stalked by Terrorism Task Force

Report: Obama’s Terror Cells in the U.S.

The Rumors Are True: Shariah Law Is Here!

Our next stop was Hamtramck, a Muslim-majority city embedded within Detroit that alarmists in neighboring communities called Shariahville. As we headed west, my phone vibrated, and a news alert appeared on the screen. There were reports that a mass shooting that week in San Bernardino, Calif., had been perpetrated by Islamic extremists, making it at the time the deadliest Islamic attack in the United States since Sept. 11.

I knew that when the details emerged, they would substantiate the lies we pushed to Jones’s audience. It didn’t matter if the attack took place on the other side of the country or if the people in Islamberg had no connection to the perpetrators in San Bernardino. Jones’s listeners would draw imaginary lines between the two, and we were helping them do it.

I quit working for Jones on April 7, 2017. When offered another job, an introductory position with a 75 percent pay cut, I jumped at the opportunity. Instead of giving two weeks’ notice, I left in three hours. Jones had gone home for the day, so I didn’t speak with him in person. I said goodbye to co-workers and managers, handed over my company credit card and hoped that would be the end of it. Two nights later, I received a call from Jones: “Let me tell you a little secret,” he said in his gravelly voice. “I don’t like it anymore, either.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I don’t want to do it anymore,” he said, “and I got all these people working for me, and you know, then I feel guilty. I don’t want to do it. You think I want to keep doing this? I haven’t wanted to do this for five years, man.” I sensed that he was pandering, but I couldn’t help thinking that for the first time since I started this job, Jones and I finally had something in common. Sure, there was a time when I shared his anger. In fact, I was still angry. But this is where we differed: I wasn’t angry with others; I was angry with myself. And once I realized that, it was easier to walk away. When I left, I tried to put myself in his shoes, to figure out why he said and did the things he did. At times I saw a different side to Jones, one that was vulnerable, desiring validation and acceptance. Then he would say something so vile and callous it became impossible to look past it.

Even though I was no longer beholden to Jones for financial security, I couldn’t be honest about how I felt. I was to blame for my actions, unequivocally, and yet I resented Jones for creating an environment of rage, fear and confusion that diminished discernment, increased self-doubt and left me feeling as if my brain had short-circuited. I wanted to say these things to Jones, but I didn’t.

He offered to double my pay, suggested I work remotely and even proposed funding a feature-length film of my own. I said it wasn’t about money and turned him down. To this day, I still don’t know why he wanted to keep me around. He said it was because he cared about me, but if I had to guess, I would say his main concern was losing control.

The next morning, he called numerous times, and then again that evening. I let the calls go to voice mail.

There wasn’t a single moment that persuaded me to leave, but there was a turning point: a moment that stuck with me long after it happened. I thought of it as I sat next to Jones speeding recklessly down the highway on Election Day, when I walked out of the office for the last time and when I decided to sit down and write this article.

It was early morning, and we were headed back to Austin after the trip that began in Islamberg. As we boarded our flight, I took my window seat close to the rear of the plane. An older woman wearing a hijab sat next to me. With her was a young girl, giddy with excitement, who bounced in the middle seat, holding a bag of pretzels. The woman leaned over and asked if I would let the girl sit by the window. “This is her first time on a plane,” she said. I agreed and moved my bag from under the seat.

I thought of the children who lived in Islamberg: how afraid their families must have felt when their communities were threatened and strangers appeared asking questions; how we chose to look past these people as individuals and impose on them more of the same unfair suspicions they already had to endure. And for what? Clickbait headlines, YouTube views?

As I sat on the aisle, the plane now lifting up into the pale blue sky, I glanced over at the little girl staring out the window in wonder, her face glowing from the light reflecting off the clouds. She was amazed, joyful, innocent, carefree and completely unaware of the world beneath her.

Josh Owens is a writer living in Texas. This is his first article for the magazine.

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