#I regret drawing the boulder like that

[makoto-nihil]

The Ocean Hunter: Eyes of Truth - Log Entry 04-08

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The Kraken gets the upper hand against Torel and Chris by capturing them both, but the two fight back.

Manga Studio, Photoshop

Bonus WIP:

[charnelhouse]

darlin'

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Wordcount: 4k Warnings: rough smut. violence. almost sexual assault (but nothing in detail). me probably knowing nothing about this. Srs hurt/comfort. references to suicide. Summary: You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down. A/N: not sure about the timeline between joel and tommy splitting post-outbreak. I’m really playing fast and loose with canon here since joel is on the move with the reader and not stuck in one place. Hopefully his characterization is somewhat on point.

It’s not like you fall into Joel’s lap. It’s a gradual process where you’re in separate packs of hunters that inevitably dwindle to a few lonely pairs. You’re maneuvering around each other in the same snuffed-out city. The only source of lights is in sewer tunnels. There are familiar faces in the dark. 

One night, both of your groups are cornered in an empty factory by a crowd of infected. It’s silly. A foolish way to lose, but you do. Everyone but you and Joel get bitten, and you feed your friends a bullet. Joel does the same.

Then it’s an awkward stare-off. You think of killing the silence with a dry remark, but nothing about the beefy, stern-looking man in front of you seems dry. 

You recognize him just as he recognizes you. You’ve seen each other during a few trade-offs. Now - you really fucking wish you’d said hi. 

"You need a partner,” you tell him bluntly. Your voice only wavers a little, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, his brows raise in what you think is incredulity. You change course. 

“I need a partner,” you clarify. “I need someone to watch my back. You can’t survive out here in a party of one.”

He frowns, scraping a calloused hand over his beard. You think he’s ready to say no, so you reach back into your coffers to grasp something else to offer him. We have guns.

Bingo.

He finally straightens. His eyes are clear and brown as espresso grounds. Long, girlish lashes. “Show me.”

It’s been five years since the outbreak. 

***

Joel has these dreams where all of his hair falls out. Sometimes it’s his teeth.

In the very corner of his brain, he recalls that there’s symbolism there.

You’ve forgotten something. You’re forgetting. 

He goes and goes and never stops. He does not stop because if he does, all he will have is quiet air and memories. Sarah. The greasy splatter of blood on his chin and beard and how he didn’t notice until days later. He scrubbed his skin until it hurt and turned pink as raw chicken.

What did you do? What did it cost?

Joel cannot find it in him to regret the things he’s done. He lives somewhere in his chest. Not his head - never his head. He doesn’t know what to do with all that emptiness. He wants to fill his nights with something other than the stars or a campfire or a popcorn ceiling in an abandoned house. 

I survived. I did what I had to do in a dead, dead world. 

You were right. He couldn’t do it on his own.

You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down. 

He was gonna say yes even before you brought up the guns. 

***

You’ve become incredibly intimate with his back. He always walks ahead of you, so you trace the broad line of his shoulders and the molasses-dark curls that cover his scalp. You long to draw patterns in the suede of his sand-colored jacket. 

You familiarize yourself with his tells and what it means when he stiffens, hunches or relaxes. His knuckles turn white with how hard they wrap around his gun when he’s somewhere he can’t see all four corners.

He barely speaks. It’s like trying to squeeze water from a stone. Joel is a fucking boulder or maybe a bullet.

A month on the road, you spot a family wailing for help. They’re dragging something that looks suspiciously like a body, and Joel curses. “They’ll have a whole fuckin’ pack on our ass.” He checks his guns, and you think he’s going to shoot them because now their problem is his. 

“They have children,” you whisper.

“They’ll kill us,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Kill us or try and take what’s ours. It’s how it goes.”

“That’s it then?”

He remains silent, dragging his thumb along his chin before readjusting his pack. “You’re free to go play Mother Teresa, but I ain’t helping you. I’m headed North, and that’s the end of it.”

He does leave. He storms off, slipping between the trees that line the charred highway. You wait for a second out of spite before chasing after him. He hasn’t gone far. In fact, you think he deliberately slowed his steps so that you could catch up.

***

Joel asks you to play damsel. Supplies are running low. There aren’t many towns nearby, so when a small group of scavengers draws near, you go. 

You were never a good actress, but your grief is real. You’ve honed and carved it until it became a weapon. You run toward them with your eyes wide and wet with fear. You choke down sobs that churn from some lost place inside you. Your dead family. Your dead friends. Your dead future. RIP to all that. 

Of course, the hunters accept you, their beady little stares cataloging your body under layers of cotton and denim. They lead you into their temporary camp and start a fire. They wrap a blanket around your shoulders that smells like mildew and loam. Just as you suspected, their comforting words begin to have double meanings. 

We can’t just give you these things—shelter costs somethin’. 

Don’t worry, your pretty head, we’ll keep you safe. 

C’mere. 

Your palms are damp with sweat. You nod, swallowing a weight. You’ve done this before, but Joel usually turns up before they start getting familiar. Maybe he's unsure. Maybe, there are too many. 

Where’s Joel? 

It rings through your head. Your ears buzz. 

He’s there. You know it. He’s watching and waiting and - 

One of the men grips your knee before sliding it up further. He chuckles softly, and you dig your nails into your palm and chew the inside of your mouth. 

You remind yourself that this is all part of the plan. You have it down. Act helpless. Get them in a vulnerable spot. Joel enters stage left and makes quick work of them. He’s probably biding his time.

“Now - maybe we can come to -”

Where’s Joel?

Your heart is thudding in the cage of your ribs. It’s in your throat. 

“Did you hear what I said, girl? How about -”

The man grunts. There’s a handle sticking out of the top of his skull. He sputters before his eyes roll back and then Joel is there, ripping that blade free and giving you a quick jerk of his chin.

“Stay behind the trees,” he orders before descending on the rest of them. 

“Where the fuck is my gun?” the bald one roars as he digs through his pack. 

“Mine’s fuckin’ gone, too,” a lanky blonde yells. 

Smart Joel. He must have snatched what he could while they were distracted. 

As you slip behind a tree, you turn to watch the rest of the carnage. You think it’s in the bag up until the big bald fuck manages to knock Joel to the side so that his shot misses. 

Joel up again, which is something he had constantly branded into your head. Never stay down. You’re right fucked if you stay down. 

Joel keeps fighting. He’s broad and full of a rage that ripples out of him and shakes the air. The punches he deliver are devastating. The skill he has at killing is a privilege to watch. He is an exploding star hurtling to the earth. A bull barreling through concrete. He’s older than you, but it doesn’t slow him down. Not at all. 

You remain low in the trees just as he instructed. Your chest tightens when the lanky blonde socks Joel’s face so hard that his jaw audibly clicks. It doesn’t seem to break his stride because he disposes of him quickly, whipping out a switchblade that he plunges between the blonde’s ribs. Then he’s onto the next one. He’s barely using his guns.

Bullets attract infected. 

They’re also precious. Finite supplies.

Right. Good thinkin’, girl. 

The sounds coming from the fight are a sharp blend of sawed-off grunts and insults. Joel is the only silent one as he cleaves his way through the chaos. It’s intimidating. It’s unreal.

Something moves on the ground. 

The blonde he’d stabbed is still alive, wiggling like a snake. He’s crawling onto his knees, red-soaked fingers shakily grasping his discarded shiv from the dirt.

“Joel,” you yell, but not loud enough. He’s too busy with the bald shithead whose red face is straining as he tries to sloppily defend himself against your partner. The man on the floor rises, arm cocked to deliver a stab to Joel’s lower back and you move without thinking. You sprint forward and tackle him to the floor, arms snagging firmly around his throat. There’s a startling pain in your side before it dissipates. You rely on adrenaline to drive you to the second act.

Quickly, you yank your pocket knife from your jeans and pierce the man’s throat. He squeals before it turns wet. You draw the blade out and bring it down again. It’s not easy and requires all of your strength to break flesh.

It’s unnerving. You’ve killed before, but this disturbs you. He squeals again, but it’s muffled. He choked and snorts.

This little piggy…

Somewhere Joel’s voice sings in your head:

Don’t think. Just kill. 

The blonde shivers under your weight, palms slapping out at mud before he curls his fingers into trampled weeds. He takes one final rattling breath and goes still. 

You scramble back on your ass, heels kicking up dirt as Joel whirls around to stare at you. His expression is incredulous and it doesn’t fit his face. It’s alien and wrong. He’s usually far too confident and cautious. He knows all outcomes, but this? You saving him? No - he did not expect that. 

Joel blinks before carefully stepping over the dead man. He moves toward you, lowering himself so he can meet your eyes. He touches your cheek. “You ok?”

“Fine,” you mumble. “Fine - he-he was gonna -”

“I know,” he finishes and it almost sounds like a thank you. 

He grabs your wrist forcing you up. “Let’s do this quickly,” he instructs, gesturing to the backpack, tents, and assorted supplies. It’ll be a good haul. 

You nod, already forgetting about the pulsing cut beneath your ribs.

***

You must be getting sick. Your palms feel like weighted lead. Your steps are slow and clumsy. Your skin is screaming hot, and it takes Joel two full days to notice. You’ve stopped in a deserted garage on a lone suburban street. A stale, sweet smell comes from the door that leads into the house, and you don’t want to open it. 

Joel searches through boxes and plastic cases while you lean heavily against the cool garage door. He glances at you before doing a double-take. Perhaps, it’s obvious - even in the dark. Perhaps - this is the first time he has truly looked at you since they’ve stopped walking. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” you mutter even though your head may topple off your neck. Fuck. 

Abruptly, he straightens and strides toward you. You catch him rolling his eyes before he stops short. He grasps your face with surprisingly gentle hands. He inhales sharply. “Jesus,” he hisses. “Goddamnit, girl, you're burning up.”

You blink at him, and even that is a chore. Your lids are so heavy, each individual lash stings. You lick your lips. “Mm’ok.”

Without another word, he wraps his arms under your thighs and picks you up bridal-style. “Joel,” you wheeze, your arm flying around his thick neck. The short hairs at the nape tickle your skin. “It’s fine.”

“Quiet.” He grunts before kicking the door open and hauling you into the raw darkness of this deserted house. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and places you on the counter. “I’m gonna secure the perimeter…should have done it before hauling ass in here.”

He seems on edge.  He doesn’t usually forget shit like that because that shit will get you killed.

You nod before leaning back into the wall. Your head bumps against a cabinet and Joel has the nerve to tell you to be careful. 

After a few minutes, he returns. 

The kitchen is surprisingly clean. His gaze darts around the space before he picks you up and takes you to the second level. You can hear his boots making soft thumps in carpet. You can see framed photos on the walls. Finally, he settles you on a dusty queen-sized bed. 

“Think it’s a cold? The flu?”

In the current world, it could be any number of things. Regardless, you’re beginning to realize what this is. You’d avoided checking it out. You’d buried its burning ache. The knife - the metal. It had to have been dirty. 

Had you cleaned it? Were you too busy wanting to help Joel sift through everything that you’d ignored it? How fucking stupid could you have been?

You shake your head. 

“You gotta work with me here,” he urges, a brush softer. “What hurts?”

Sighing, you roll onto your side and pull up your shirt. Joel sucks in a breath. Even now it’s throbbing insistently. Feels hot. It had been so small. 

You’d forgotten that small, open wounds can lead to fatal infections. 

Joel’s hand rests on your hip, a fingertip drags lightly under the puffy flesh and you flinch. It smells like something sick. 

“Guessing by your silence, it’s bad.” You try to laugh and it cracks like peanut shells. 

“It’s not good,” he replies carefully. “You need antibiotics.” 

You’re too scared to inspect the wound. You can imagine it: oozing pus, streaking, swelling, beating like it has its own heart.

“Did you get this during the fight?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into the cold blankets. 

“And you didn’t clean it?” Joel’s tone rises. You guess that he’s keeping a tight lid on his anger. 

“Forgot.”

When he says nothing, you glance at him over your shoulder. His nostrils flare. He’s flexing his jaw. His hands are fists at his sides, but his dark eyes remain on you. He’s thinking, perhaps trying to decide if it’s worth scolding you or ripping you a new one.

What would it matter if you’re already dying?

He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and abruptly swings his backpack off his shoulder before crouching to the floor. He unzips it and rummages. “Alright, I can clean and bandage it, but you’ll need antibiotics - somethin’ like doxycycline or amoxicillin. May be able to barter with a few people up near Asheville, but that means I’ve gotta leave you for a day, possibly two.”

You freeze.

What?!

Frantically, you twist around to face him. “I’ll-I’ll be alone?”

He sits down on the bed, touches the back of his hand to your forehead. His mouth tenses at the level of heat, but he keeps it there. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done.

“This is your life on the line, darlin’.” He runs his other hand through his unruly hair. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “I’ll lock the house down.”

You snort. There is no such thing as locks anymore. Zero law. Break a window. It’s enough. 

“There’s no one around here,” he adds pointedly as if reading your mind. “Everything’s been picked clean. I’m sure you’re safe.”

He doesn’t promise it. You’re not sure he’s good at promises.   

Everything smells weird. Like old fruit. 

“Bye,” you mumble as he reaches for his gauze and tends to the cut.

“Haven’t left yet, hon.”

“But you will.”

He clears his throat.

***

Joel moves fast. He doesn’t stop. 

That wound had been festering for days. How did you even fucking walk that far with it? How could you not treat it or ask him to?

He wants to shake you for being so stupid. He wants to watch you wither and die from the injury so that you learn your lesson.

But I’d bring you back. I’d pull you out. 

Joel feels something hard lodge in his throat. The trees are green and full of shadows. The highway is marked by broken cars and a few scattered bones. 

You’d saved him. You’d gotten hurt saving him.

He really doesn’t enjoy the fact that you’ve slipped your way inside him. You’ve wrapped those nimble little fingers around his ribs and ripped them an inch. He’s creaking. He’s old and getting older and the world is fucking dead. It’s just a rotting corpse and Joel really likes when you sing. Sometimes, they’re just on the road and you’ll start murmuring a tune from the forties or the seventies. You have this soft, breathy tongue for old love songs. Ella Fitzgerald. Billie Holiday. Judy Garland. Dolly Parton. 

He can’t stop thinking about your expression when he left. Your eyes were wide with fear, your lower lip trembled as you called after him. You were too weak to sit up. You reached a hand out before dropping it as if it was too heavy. Inexplicably, he rushed back to your side. “I will come back,” he declared.

“Are you sure?” 

He stroked your hair just once. He lowered his face to yours. “I will.”

***

Joel kills for the antibiotics. He won’t tell you that even though he’s sure you already know his game. He’s ruthless. He has to be. He didn’t have time to barter. 

He returns to you as quickly as he can. He’s shocked at his timing. It’s only been twenty-five hours when he bursts back into the house and runs up the stairs. In the daylight, he realizes that there are bodies in the living room. Pill bottles on the antique coffee table. Stained carpet. The corpses are mummified. He’d left you in a tomb and that makes his stomach turn over. 

He’ll clean them up before you come downstairs. You will. You’ll be fine.

He’s almost relieved when he finds you still in bed, but when he gets closer, he blanches. You’re seemingly worse, drenched in sweat and shivering. He folds himself over you, hands on your face as he tilts it up. Your eyes can’t focus on him. 

“Hey,” he says, slapping you gently. “Sweetheart - I’m back. I’ve got the medicine.” He reaches around and presses his hand to the wound. It’s hot as an oven, sticky as a melted sweet on pavement. He can smell the infection and he grimaces. “Let’s turn you around.”

He manages to cradle you against his chest before dripping water into your mouth drop by drop. You lick at it, whimpering as the dry skin of your lips cracks. He wets an old towel and lays it on your forehead. He feeds you tylenol and antibiotics. He cleans the wound and worries when you don’t wrench yourself away from his touch. It should sting fiercely, but the pain is diluted beneath the fog of fever.   

He cares for you and then waits. It’s a little too similar to when he’d stay up with Sarah when she couldn’t breathe right due to bronchitis or unable to keep medicine down because of a stomach bug.

Let me save you. He thinks. Let me save you this once. He has to seal the memory of Sarah away because it’s too much. It’s agony. He shudders as if he’s placed his fingers on a screaming tea kettle. It wrecks him. He can’t fall apart when you’re already half-gone.

***

In the middle of the night, you touch his jaw, scrape your nails across his beard. “You called me darlin’,”  you slur. “Sweetheart.” 

“I did,” he confirms as he circles your wrist with his hand. He could squeeze it and it’d break. “Now - sleep.” 

You pull his arm down to your face, nuzzle your cheek against the cool metal of his watch. It startles him, but he doesn’t pull away. 

“Joel,” you repeat. 

“G’night, honey.”

He doesn’t know why he called you that the last few days. Darlin’. Honey. Sweetheart. He’s never done it before. 

***

That event changed things. It shifted the air between you. You’d saved Joel’s life and he’d saved yours in return. In all respects, it should have kept their relationship on equal ground. One action had canceled out the other. A debt repaid. 

But, it’s different. He is different. He’s always watching you. A bit more protective. A bit more anxious. Sure - he trusts you to handle yourself, but he wants you not to need to handle yourself. 

They’re on the road and it’s getting colder. He has people they could rely on for a few weeks of shelter, but it’s a trek. 

“I say we make it to California,” you grumble as your boots catch on half-melting frost. “Hawaii.”

“Let me build a boat real fast, then.”

It’s all so much of the same. Walking. Supplies. Ammo. Food. Laundy. River baths. Medicine. Holing up in deserted, dusty homes that still reek of family ghosts. 

Then there’s the tension between you. The knot of things unsaid tugging you closer. 

You think about him all the time. The shape of his face and the hook of his nose. The jawline. The big brown eyes and thick, umber hair. He’s so big and bulky and protective and, if you could, you’d huddle inside him. 

Let me bury myself there all winter. Let me seek your heat. 

It comes to a head because it’s inevitable. In a strange house on a strange street near North Carolina, Joel shares a bed with you. Nothing is different. Nothing at all. You roll toward him and place your hand on his chest. He jerks, but doesn’t remove it. His heart is pounding furiously beneath the cotton.

He utters your name gently. You watch his lips fold around the letters. 

“You almost died today.”

He snorts. “No - I didn’t.”

Alright - he didn’t. It was only a small scuffle. One gunshot for a backseat of supplies.

But you wanted a reason. Needed a reason to touch him like he had touched you when you nearly died. 

“You could’ve,” you reply stubbornly.

He huffs a laugh. “I ain’t dyin on you anytime soon.”

“I know.”

You dig your fingers into his chest, rub them deep until you feel his hand slide over your thigh. He squeezes the meat of it and you wriggle under the covers.

“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse. He sounds nervous. Good.

Lazily, he turns on his side, his hand wanders up your leg. He hauls you closer so that you’re intertwined, tangled up in limbs. He presses his cheek to yours and curls his fingers behind the crotch of your panties before sinking two of them inside your cunt. 

“Oh,” you gasp, clawing at his hair. “Fuck.”

He moves deliberately, stroking your walls until it begins to smart like a bruise. His thumb finds your clit and he teases it, circles with a calloused trigger-happy fingertip.

“Is this what you want?” he murmurs despite it just being the two of you and there’s not a soul for miles except maybe the dead spirits in this house. A happy family. A dog. Gone. 

You grip some of his t-shirt and tug it, thighs opening around his hand. You rock down on him as he plays you like his six-string.

You push at his boxers, reach for his cock. It’s hot in your palm. Full and throbbing just like that wound on your side that sewed you both together. He grabs your chin and holds it still. “Tell me,” he demands. “Is this what you want?”

Do you want me?

You nod, chewing your lip as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open. He readies your sex. 

“You, Joel,” you reply to seal the truth of it. “You.”

He lowers his head and captures your mouth. Joel kisses you senseless, his tongue sweeping behind your teeth and making itself at home. He drinks, his beard scraping your chin raw. He tastes like leather and ammunition. Sweat. Wood. Generic shampoo. He lifts his head to catch his breath.

“Alright, darlin’.”

***

It is a smoother coupling than you expected. You didn’t think he’d kiss you. Before, you assumed that if this would happen, it would be a cold fuck in the form of stress relief. Not this. 

He groans against your teeth. You clasp the back of his head and his soft curls. His rests his forearm beside your face as he bears his weight above you. You watch the muscles in his jaw work with every thrust. The vein in his throat tenses. His chest hitches and you can’t help but lick a clean line up his sternum.

He likes it. His lungs rumble.

His hand slides between them, parting the lips of your cunt to press and tease your clit. Your pussy is wrapped around his length. He drives to the end of you before easing back until only the tip remains. He pushes in again so that you feel every ridge of him. Again. Again. You can hear your body take him. It echoes in the room.

You’re tearing me apart. You’re splitting me. You’re branding me. I can’t breathe. 

Do it again. 

“Wider,” he urges as his whole body trembles. “Lift your ass for me.”

You do and the angle allows him to plunge deeper.

You know he’s trying hard to fuck you like it doesn’t mean something. He’s rolling his hips and pinning your wrist to the mattress and it feels like the fat head of his cock is punching the bottom of your lungs. It hurts a little and meaningful sex shouldn’t hurt like this. Or maybe it should. Maybe, that's the damn point. You're close to tears because it feels so good and so much at the same time. You can’t help clenching around him, coming like a fountain as he punishes you with another harsh stroke. 

“Darlin,” he says in a voice that stings like gravel. It’s one sweet thing given between grunts and groans and the wet slap of skin. It’s all he can offer. He traces the cut along your ribs that hasn’t yet scarred over. He pets it with his thumb as he stares at you intently.

“Say it again,” You bring your knees to his waist, skate your nails down the muscles of his back. 

The corner of his lips twitch. “Darlin,” he offers before lowering his mouth a breath from your own. “Darlin.”

[twola]

I always hate like “requesting” something because it feels like a forceful “write this for me now!” kind of thing, but a I’ve always had this smutty idea in my head where Arthur is getting a little weaker from the TB, but is also pinning after some cute girl in camp. Some wooing occurs and things start getting steamy~ but it’s her first time or she’s not super experienced. I feel like HH!Arthur would try to be the gentleman to show her a sweet, gentle time, but wouldn’t have the stamina for missionary, so his partner would pick up where he leaves off by riding him like the work horse he is. I just thin the scenario would be perfect for like sexy words of encouragement (def NOT thinking of his mare voice lines *wink wink wink*) plus Arthur getting taken care of too instead of just doing the caring. I have like 0 writing skills tho lol so if you ever found yourself in need of smutty I soo I would feel HONORED for you to bring my nasty Arthur thoughts to life

Ooh, TB whumpy smut… I’m sensing a pattern here. My poor boah, how I love to torture him…

This was a good one! Still working on a few more. I love and thrive on feedback so drop me a line if you liked it.

Regret Me Not

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

Regrets seem to take up much of his headspace these days... But for one regret of his, Arthur takes action with a little bit of urging on your part.

Arthur wheezes, covering his mouth with the back of his palm, the wet, hacking noise that scrapes out of his throat as he sits on the boulder south of Beaver Hollow, out of earshot of the camp. 

Not that he needed people’s stares. He looks terrible enough that he gets looks of pity from the women, avoided by the men - and Dutch? Well, he is living in another reality.

Another cough rips through him, as he feels as if he were drowning within his own body. A small hand lands on his back. He looks up, rubbing his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

You stand over his shoulder, rubbing gently, concern alight in your eyes. You look down and dig into the pockets of your skirts.

“Here.” You say with a small smile, handing him a bottle of tonic.

He coughs again, butchering his thanks, as he takes the bottle from your hands, uncorking it quickly and downing the foul-tasting liquid quickly.

“How are you feeling?” You ask quietly, hand still resting on his shoulder, slowly, gently rubbing circles into his upper back.

Arthur wants to lean wholly into your touch. He wants to wrap himself into you and let you card your fingers through his hair. He wants to rest. He wants to sleep.

He wants, he wants - but alas. None of that was possible.

“Like hell.” He grits out hoarsely, tossing the empty bottle to the dirt at his feet.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” You say softly. Your other hand moves to his back as well, rubbing at his other shoulder.

“ ‘S alright.” He murmurs, not wanting to let on how good your hands feel on him.

A silence settles in, and you rub at his shoulders for a few moments more before drawing your hands away from him.

“Well… I just wanted to check on you. See how you’re doin’. I’ll see you later, Arthur.” You say, and he can hear the crunch of gravel under your boot as you turn on your heel. You begin to walk up the path back toward camp, as he turns and follows you with his gaze over his shoulder.

Arthur wants. In the embracing of his mortality, the facade of propriety and the painstakingly built walls around his heart crumble in the face of his own death.

He has watched you for months. Yearned for months, wanted and needed your attention, always too self-conscious to reach out and touch.

Sister Calderon’s words echo in his ears with each step you take away from him.

“Take a chance that love exists.”

“D-do you wanna get outta here?”

His voice is hoarse, almost weak sounding. Nothing of the man that he used to be.

You stop, turning around, a small smile creeping across your face. “God, get outta this hell hole? Absolutely. Anywhere is better than these hills.”

His heart hopes.

“I gotta go grab some mail from Van Horn. Ain't much better though…”

“It ain’t here, Mister Morgan. Let’s go.”

—

Van Horn is just as decrepit as the last time he was here. Falling apart and full of the dregs of society, left behind by the churning wheel of progress. He mirthfully counts himself as one of them, he supposes.

He tucks the letters he retrieved into his satchel, moseying slowly toward the back of the dock, where you stand with your elbows on the railing, gazing at the river’s lazy waters. Northward, toward the mountains and the river’s origins.

“Y’ready there, ma’am?”

You look back at him but don’t move. “Already? Ugh. Camp’s just so…”

Arthur sidles up next to you, placing his own elbows on the railing, grunting in agreement. You didn’t need to go any further, he knew where you were going with your comment.

The camp was… well, a gloom has settled upon it. Dutch acting irrational, angry. The loss of Hosea and Lenny. Running from Pinkertons.

And his own impending demise, of course.

“What’re you gonna do after?” Arthur asks quietly and notices the stuttering breath you take as your shoulders drop a little.

“I… I don’t know. I don’t have much else than this.”

Arthur hangs his head, taking in a deep breath. A breath that seems to barely fill his ailing lungs, and he coughs slightly under the rim of his hat.

“Y’got a good head on you. You’ll do fine.” He grits out, voice hoarse.

You remain silent, your eyes set on the water of the slow-flowing river. A boat chugs southbound, heading toward Saint Denis.

“I don’t know how I’ll fare being alone.” You softly murmur.

He sighs. “I’m sure you can stay with Abigail or Missus Adler. Or Charles. You got people to watch out for you.”

“But not you.”

A pang, a sharp pain shoots through his chest, above and beyond the near-constant constriction of his lungs.

“No. Not me.”

You look up at him, a sheen of wetness over your eyes. It pains him as he looks back.

A tear rolls down your face and it’s everything he is not to lean over and cup your face in his hands and wipe your tears away.

“Sweetheart, you deserve-”

“Don’t. Don’t tell me what I deserve, Arthur Morgan.” You spit out, tears openly running down your cheeks.

Arthur sighs, looking back down at the water. It is murky, muddy, dirty right under the dock. Just like this damn town.

You push yourself into his surprised embrace, clutching at his shirt, and it takes him a moment to realize that this wasn’t a dream, and he winds his arms around you, pulling you against him.

“I wish you would stop hiding from me.” You whisper as he holds you to his chest, your cheek pressed against his breastbone, probably hearing the crackling failure of his lungs with each breath he takes.

He doesn’t know how to answer that. For years now, it’s been easier for him to keep that urn with the remains of his heart buried from all.

“I’m here… I’m here now.” He murmurs, resting his chin atop your head.

“I’ve been waitin’ for you, Arthur. Waitin’ and wishing for you to ask me to be yours.” You bury yourself in his embrace.

Fuck.

Arthur’s resolve cracks like a piece of porcelain.

“I’m just a fool. A fool for making you wait.”

You shudder against him, digging your fingers into his shirt, and your breath stutters as you try to stifle a sob. Pulling away, you look up at him, his bloodshot, sunken eyes, still the blue-green pools you would drown in.

You lean up on your toes, arms winding around his neck, but he turns his face away as you draw closer. 

“No. I ain’t gettin’ you sick too.”

You frown, glassy-eyed, about to draw your arms from him before he leans down and presses his lips to your cheek, again and again, moving up toward your ear.

“But…. I’ll give you whatever else it is you want.” He rumbles, arms wound tight around you, his body arcing over yours.

You shiver in his embrace, pulling your head back ever so slightly to look him in the eye.

“I want whatever you’re willing to give me.” You whisper, hands moving up and clutching at his collar.

He leans his forehead against yours. “If you want a dying, washed-up gunsling-”

You interrupt, pressing up on your toes and kissing his cheek, “I want you, Arthur Morgan. I’ve wanted you for so long.”

So long.

So long.

Goddamnit. He’s been looking at you, yearning for you, for months. Before Blackwater and ferries and being chased by Pinkertons. Before Dutch became erratic, before all of these complications. When he was chasing tumbleweeds across the wild and open west.

He gives a shuddering sigh, and draws you closer, pulling you to him and placing his lips on the long line of your neck. You whimper as he pulls a bit of your pale skin between his teeth, suckling on it, hoping to leave a mark.

You throw your arms completely around his shoulders and begin to pant in his ear. Whimpers turn to whines as one of his large hands moves down from your waist to clench roughly at your rear, drawing you against his pelvis and his rapidly hardening cock.

“A-Arthur - please -” You moan, rubbing yourself against him, and he regretfully draws his mouth away from your skin, pink-tinged and wet from his attentions.

As much as he’d love to turn you around, throw up your skirts, and press himself into you for the sake of time, he knows you deserve more than that.

“Lemme get a room.” He pants, letting go of you, moving to adjust himself in his trousers. “Go on upstairs.”

You pull at the collar of your blouse to hide the evidence of your indiscretion and quietly nod, moving past him and slowly climbing the rickety stairs to the second story of the decrepit building. 

He quickly pays for a room, and grabs the key from the clerk with a dismissive grunt, hurrying his way up the stairs to find you leaning against the second-story railing, waiting for him. 

Arthur jams the key into the door’s lock, pushing it open, and lumbering into the room, where he immediately sheds the repeater strapped to his back and places it on the worn table next to the door. His gunbelt follows as you step inside, closing and locking the door behind you. 

He places his hat atop the pile of guns on the table, looking back at you.

“Still want to do-”

You cut him off by closing the distance between you and throwing your arms around his waist.

He pulls you toward the bed, and places his hands on your waist, holding you still, as he sits on the bed, the worn frame creaking under his weight. He doesn’t spare it a second thought, eyes trained on you, and he gently pulls you to sit in his lap.

You cup his cheek gently, thumb tracing along his beard that he’s kept longer to hide the gauntness of his cheeks. His large hand lands on your thigh, squeezing it as he presses his face into the hollow of your neck.

You gasp as you feel his tongue on your skin, clutching at his shirt as you tilt your head back.

You shiver again as his hand creeps up under your skirt, finger gently rubbing against the seam of your bloomers, which dampens quickly under his ministrations.

“It's been a while,” He grunts out, unable to stop his hips from bucking up against your legs with you seated in his lap, the long line of him chasing your warmth.

“M-me too. Ain’t since-” you mewl into his ear as his fingers push your bloomers to the side and brush against the damp skin of your core, “some stable boy when I was sixteen- ahh - we - we didn’t know what we was doin’.” You gasp out as his pointer finger, thick and strong, dips inside your entrance, sheathing to the knuckle within your cunt.

He slides another finger inside you, groaning against your hair when he realizes how tight you are, clutching desperately at his digits, imagining how good you would feel surrounding his cock.

“I’ll be good to you,” He grits out, crooking his fingers within you.

“Oh-” You gasp, “I know, I know you will, Arthur.”

Arthur pulls you from his lap and lays you on the bed next to him, and immediately starts to shed his clothing, tossing it into piles on the floor as you join him, skirts and shirts thrown from the bed, a union suit and chemise - your bloomers land on the floor and he quickly climbs atop you, spreading your legs and fitting his hips in the cradle of yours.

In this old, dirty bed in this old, dirty room, he swears he has never seen something so beautiful as you sprawled out beneath him, the rise and fall of your breathing, the blush crawling down your cheeks to your neck, spreading out across your chest, to your pink nipples, pebbling as they are exposed to the cool air.

He leans down, balancing himself on his forearms, finding that spot on your neck again and nibbling at it, while one of his hands works its way to the space between you, grasping his hard cock and stroking it as he presses the swollen head against your core.

You mewl as he presses in, the head of his cock entering you, his hand moving from its base to frame your head again.

“God, you’re perfect.” He groans as he starts to press himself inside, inch by inch disappearing into your wet warmth, your panting high and fast in his ear as he suckles on your neck once again.

He thrusts, gently, and his hips press against yours as he’s buried himself to the hilt in your cunt. You mewl out a high whine, nails digging into his shoulder.

Arthur presses himself up slightly, looking down upon you. His fingers begin playing with the curling hairs at your temple, waiting for you to open your eyes, a sign that you’re used to his length and girth within you.

And when you do, he’s stricken. Your eyes flutter open and you inhale a breath with a sweet sigh. God, for once in his damn life, he’s doing something right.

Your arms wind around his neck as you press your lips to his cheek, he knows that you want to taste him, to mold your lips together and moan into each other’s mouths - he wants that too, but it’s a step too far. He’s already half afraid of spreading his sickness to you.

Arthur thrusts, gently still, but faster and harder than he had been, you squeal in delight, which spurs him into finding a rhythm, his body moving over yours.

He grunts, panting as he moves his hips, fucking into you and pressing you down into this old, uncomfortable mattress. He swears he’ll bring you to some nice hotel in Saint Denis and make love to you on a plush expensive mattress-

A constriction in his chest stops him mid-thrust.

He pants, wheezing, his hips slowing as he struggles to catch his breath. Christ, what a sorry excuse for a man he is - can’t even please a woman in the state he’s in.

You gently push on his shoulder, and he has the stamina, at least, to raise himself up and look upon you, cheeks blazing in shame.

“Here, maybe I should get on top?” You ask, your hand cupping his cheek while the other gently lays upon his chest.

He groans at the thought, his traitorous cock twitching as he’s buried in your cunt, causing you to gasp out. 

“Alrigh’,” Arthur grunts, and steadies his knees while he pulls his hands to you: one beneath your lower back, one below your shoulder blades. In a jumble of limbs and skin, he rolls over, somehow keeping himself sheathed in you until you’re splayed atop him, your small hips spread out over his.

He has to admit, this was a good idea you had, even before you think to move, what a sight he’s given. His cock fully enveloped in your hips, the dark thatch of hair between your thighs mixing with the curls at his base. Up, up the curves of your waist, he trails his hands, gently skimming your sweat-slicked skin. Your breasts, small yet perky, he’s enraptured by the way your nipples pebble as he rubs his thumbs over them, the sweet sigh that leaves your lips as your head falls back.

God almighty, you’re the sweetest thing alive.

Your hands find purchase on his chest, fingers pulsing, as you roll your hips once over him. His breath stutters, eyes widening as inches of him leave you, only to gently return moments later.

“G-good?” You ask, a self-conscious fear in your eyes.

His hands clamp on your waist and help to guide your movement.

“So good, you’re so good.” He rasps, the end of his lips curling up into a smile.

You smile back, rolling your hips again, taking him and out, following the pathway to your own pleasure and dragging him along for the ride. 

Your murmuring devolves into gasping moans as you continue to gyrate above him, squeezing your eyes shut, your fingers spread wide over his pectorals.

“That’s it. You’re alright, girl.” He urges, one hand moving from your hip to where you’re joined, his thumb parting your folds just above where he’s speared into you.

You moan aloud, giving no qualm to volume as he circles and presses against that little nub of pleasure.

“C’mon, sweetheart, you’re almost there.” He whispers as his hips jut upward into yours, he can see the far-off look in your eyes, the way your lips hang open, the shortness of your breath, and the slightly painful way your fingers are clenching into his chest. He can tell, your pulsing, squeezing, sweet little cunt is so close.

You ride him fast, like a horse at a gallop, and that blooming lava in his gut churns in a way that he knows he’s not far behind.

“A-Ar…” You stutter as your eyes close tightly.

“That’s it, that’s it, Darlin’.” He urges, his other hand tight on your hips, aiding your movement.

“Agh, oh god - Arthur.” You moan out, bottoming out completely as you throw your head back. He groans aloud as he feels your muscles constrict around his shaft, the sweet clutch of your cunt.

He thrusts his hips upward again and is rewarded with the sweetest mewl from your mouth, he cannot help but to whimper as he feels warm, wet slick start to seep from where you’re joined, his swollen and heavy balls covered in them.

You recover, gasping as your hands move to his chest, your hips grinding down on him slowly.

“I wanna-” you pant, catching your breath, “I wanna make you come.”

Arthur groans in response, hips bucking upward as his hands fly to your hips again, clenching them hard.

“Ain’t gonna- augh- ain’t gonna be hard to give you that.” He stutters out, knowing that the pull in his gut is getting stronger with each sweet movement you make.

“You’re so good -” You mewl, rolling your hips over him as he grunts, hands sure on your waist, fingers pulsing as his eyes flutter closed, his mouth hanging open as he approaches that precipice.

“You feel just like I’ve always dreamed.” You sigh, and all he can respond with is a thrust upward of his hips, to give you more, to give you himself, all that’s left of him.

He’s there, he’s there. His eyes shoot wide and he grunts, hands hard over your hips. “Get- you gotta, move.”

But you lean forward, not stopping the gentle roll of your body over his, and kiss his forehead.

“Come inside me.” You breathe, hands steady over his beating heart, “Give me all of you.”

Of all the stupid, childish things… but the resolve of a dying man, it is far less strong than before - weakening much like his ailing lungs.

“Please.” 

He does, he does.

He grunts needily as he pumps his release into you. Staying sheathed in your warmth, not jerking himself into cold air.

Arthur sits up immediately, burying his head into the side of your neck, and suckles gently at the skin there as your fingers start to play with the wisps of hair at the nape of his neck.

He regrets, it’s all he has left, that again, he wasted his time, glancing shyly at you across the fire for all those months. All he can do is offer you a few fleeting moments of pleasure. He regrets, it’s all he has left, that he cannot taste your lips and the sweetness he knows lies beyond them.

“Darlin’-” he trails off into your skin, trying to compose himself.

I’m sorry- I’m sorry this is all that’s left of me - sorry I can’t give you nothin’ but -

You place your lips on his forehead gently before pulling back. You cup his cheeks in your hands and nod your head.

“Let’s not waste any more time.”

[roseeycreates-blog]

Imagine Tenzin, consumed by grief after Lin's passing, deciding to follow her into the afterlife.

After reading the bittersweet fanfic "Meant To Be" by @risingsoleil (check her ao3 page if you are a linzin fan. She's an amazing writer. I love her works!), an idea came to me: what if Tenzin journeyed through the 9 circles of Hell before reuniting with Lin in Paradise? Drawing from Dante Alighieri's Divine Comedy, specifically Dante's Inferno, Tenzin would confront his deepest fears and regrets in each circle, leading to a powerful and emotional reunion with Lin in the afterlife.

So here's Tenzin:

(Sorry about the arrow, I just added that detail because Picrew doesn't have that option.)

I chose a red arrow instead of blue to symbolize that he took his own life, which is why he's in Hell (all life is sacred). I dressed him in a red robe and added a golden choker. Finally, he has an earring with Lin's eye color, given to him by his guide.

His guide, Iroh:

In this story, He is Tenzin's Virgil, guiding him through the 9 circles of Hell. Lin asks Iroh to help Tenzin on his journey and gives him the earring that Tenzin wears. It's a symbol of Lin's presence with him throughout the journey.

Lastly, Lin:

(Can I just say she looks so pretty, I also added the scars)

Tenzin's Beatrice is waiting for him in Paradise. he’s also wearing an earring with Tenzin’s eye color, showing that she’s waiting for him on the other side.

( Picrew link male | female )

9 Circles of Hell:

The First Circle: Limbo

He comes across an unborn child and learns that Lin had a miscarriage after they broke up. He then sees a vision of what their life might have been if the child had lived. When he snaps out of this illusion, he finds himself holding a deformed baby.

The Second Circle: Lust

He reflects on his own desires and the complicated nature of his love for Lin. Temptations hit hard with visions of women pampering him, including an illusion of Pema. Just as he's about to give in, he sees Lin watching him, which snaps him back to his true goal: to be with her.

The Third Circle: Gluttony

He witnesses wealthy high-ranking figures, some from the Earth Kingdom, being devoured by beasts. They endlessly heal and suffer, showing the impact of their excessive wealth on others. This makes him rethink his own lifestyle.

The Fourth Circle: Greed

He sees greedy souls, including mercenaries and assassins like the combustion bender who hunted his parents, being crushed by boulders of gold. This makes him reflect on his own struggles—not for money, but the selfishness that came from the pressure to repopulate the Air Nation after his father’s death.

The Fifth Circle: Wrath

He encounters fallen soldiers from endless wars, especially Fire Nation armies from the Hundred Year War, stuck in muddy rivers that act like quicksand. This scene stirs up memories of the conflicts he and Lin faced before their breakup.

The Sixth Circle: Heresy

He sees people consumed by evil spirits. Unalaq is burning in a fiery tomb as punishment for his dark deeds. It makes him think about whether his own followers, who idolize airbenders, might end up suffering the same way.

The Seventh Circle: Violence

He sees the spirits of Fire Nation leaders who committed violence against innocents. One of them is the person who killed his grandmother. He realizes he belongs in this circle too, as he committed violence by taking his own life.

The Eighth Circle: Fraud

He sees scammers, manipulators, and impostors who deceive others for their gain. Hama, the first bloodbender, pretends to be a helpless old woman to trick people like Katara into helping her get revenge. He also sees an illusion of himself saying he's a fraud, struggling to be himself while trying to meet others’ expectations.

The Ninth Circle: Treachery

Finally, he sees betrayers, including Firelord Sozin and Ozai, frozen in icy pits. One of them accuses him, saying, “You also betrayed Lin—remember, you cheated!” The crowd roars, but as he’s overwhelmed by darkness, the earring starts to glow. Iroh steps in to guide him to the exit.

Reaching Paradise:

After everything that happened, Lin hugged him tightly. They stood there for a moment, just holding each other, overwhelmed by the joy of being reunited. Their smiles said it all—despite the pain and challenges, they were together again, and that made everything worthwhile.

"I died," Lin said quietly. "And you weren’t there."

"I know," he replied, looking down. "I heard from Akna about your last words..."

"Shhh," Lin cut him off gently, her voice softening. "No need to dwell on that."

"But I came here," he said earnestly, his eyes meeting hers.

"You came to find me," Lin said, her eyes shining with happiness.

"Of course I did," he said with a tender smile. "I couldn’t do anything else."

Then Lin gave him a bit of a lecture about his actions.

(lines from Castlevania)

[chronically-ghosted]

First Base.

rating: 18+

pairing: max phillips x f!reader

word count: 5212

summary: you agree to his every precaution. he's not going to kill you, just bite you, a little bit. You hope a lot.

warnings/tags: making out, talking in bed while half-naked, max comes with his own warning, blood but only a lil, the discovery of a new vampire ability (this is so self indulgent), established friends with benefits situation but not a relationship, #pedrostories1k, @pedrostories

a/n: i've only got two parts written. lemme know if you'd like more!

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The instant he heard the term, Max was obsessed. He’d whisper it in your ear in the hallways. He’d growl it into your throat as he split you open on his mattress, fingers wrapped like iron around your wrists – those were times he had to be especially careful. He’d leave notes addressed to you at your desk, or in the apartment kitchen, with it written across the top. He’d even occasionally put “my” before it. Hell, it was your name in his phone’s contacts. 

Monsterfucker. 

Monster. Fucker.

Monsterfucker. 

His little monsterfucker. 

My monsterfucker.

Does my monsterfucker like that?

You’re being so good for me, little monsterfucker. 

I’m gonna come on your chest now, you monsterfucker. 

Was it an unhealthy nickname that he said far too often around the office and dangerously close to your coworkers? Yes. Did you regret showing him that tweet and explaining what it meant? Absolutely not. Because you were. His. And a monsterfucker. 

Unfortunately, outside the truly staggering stamina he displayed, an occasional nip at the kitchen counter after a particularly long bout of mind-blowing sex, and a flash of a toe-curlingly long tongue he gave you only after you’d begged for it for hours at a time . . . Max was often more an annoying, smug fucker than a monster to fuck. Which is to say, the fangs rarely made an appearance. Only recently had he started leaving bags of blood in your apartment’s refrigerator and even those were wrapped up in special bags that prevented freezer burn, as if to say, nothing special here. He still wouldn’t eat in front of you, always more eager to pick up dinner and watch you eat, as if the memory of human food alone would satiate him. 

He resolutely hadn’t let his fangs out anywhere near the bedroom. 

And that monsterfucker in you was finally starting to be annoyed by it. You’d done everything you could think of, short of drawing a bullseye around your jugular vein. For being a vampire with enhanced peripheral senses, he really couldn’t quite take a hint.

“Max?”

“Hmm.” 

“Can I ask you for a favor?” 

“Sure, baby, what is it?”

“I want you to bite me during sex.” 

His fingers pause in their path along the curve of your waist, over the knots in your spine. You face away from him, having just woken up, and you hope that by posing this question so early in the morning and so bluntly, it might unsettle him enough to at least consider it. His hand hovers just above your ribs, before sliding forward into the soft skin between your bones, and he chuckles.

“No.”

You scowl and sit up, glaring down at him over your shoulder. Shit, maybe asking him first thing in the morning was a bad idea. Hair perfectly tousled in a deadly combination of post-sex and sleepy morning bedhead, Max grins up at you, his right arm tucked up behind his head, giving you a full display of his solid biceps and carved chest. You’d never seen him once lift anything heavier than a stapler. Well, except for the one time he picked up your couch with one hand because your earring had rolled underneath it. 

And whoever said vampires don’t sleep was only partially correct. Max didn’t sleep, he went unconscious. Trying to wake him up before he was ready was like trying to crack open a boulder with a rubber hammer. 

You twist your mouth down to perhaps look more serious than you actually are to hide your recklessly ogling. But the instant he sees your naked torso and your tits he is the one staring shamelessly. 

“Why not? We’ve been dating for almost a year now and you hardly even let me see your fangs, much less feel them.” 

“I bit you last week on the couch when we watched that one movie.” 

“You bit me to scare me and didn’t even break the skin.” 

Max’s eyebrow jumped. Arching slightly, he settles deeper into the pillows, a small smirk dripping across his lips. His hand skims up your knee, over your thigh, his intention very clear. 

“And you want me to break your skin, baby?” He purrs.

“Max, stop. I’m serious.” 

“What were we talking about?”

“Max!” You toss his hand off your thigh and he chuckles again, far too pleased with himself. With a big sigh, he stretches, long arms spearing through the slats in your headboard, toes curling under the sheets, before dropping his hands over his stomach, shivering. He reminded you so much of a cat sometimes, it was sinful. You wouldn’t be surprised if one day you blinked up at him and his eyes were yellow. 

The sheets are frightfully low on his slim hips.

“Baby, look, that kind of shit is dangerous. It’s not that I don’t want you to see that side of me – you’re welcome to look as much as you want –,” he lifts his hands as if to demonstrate his own personal work of art, “but it’s not a joke. It’s called bloodlust for a reason. I’ve worked hard to control it, it’s not always that simple.”

Softly, he drags his fingernails over your knee, more affectionate than sultry. 

“And despite my cool and aloof exterior, I would be pretty bummed if anything ever happened to you.” That easy, devil-may-care smile fades from his face and his wide palm flattens across your knee. When he looks up at you, his eyes are soft, concerned. You rarely get Max’s vulnerable side and when you do, it makes you immediately go gooey on the inside. “Especially if it was me who hurt you.”

You sigh and thread your fingers through his. “And that’s exactly my point, Max. I know you would never hurt me. This is about trust as much as it is about the . . . bloodlust, or whatever. I feel safe with you. Safe enough to try this.”

Together, the two of you had tried pretty much every other kink, toy, or play out there and to you, this was no different. Double penetration would take on a new meaning. You didn’t let yourself even consider triple. One thing at a time.

Max’s thumb rubs thoughtfully over the meat of your hand. “We’d have to work up to it, if we’re going to do this. Make sure I remain in control.”

Your heart picks up speed. “Yes, of course. Same rules as always.”

Max pouts. 

“But I’ve been wanting to change our safe word for a while now.” 

You bring your knotted hands up to your lips and gently kiss every one of his knuckles. “If we do this, you can pick our next safe word.” 

Quick as you can, you slip the nail of his thumb into your mouth and nip him just a bit. His eyes go dark.

“That’s cheating. You’re manipulating me.” 

“Just helping my case along. But what were you saying about working up to it?” You can tell he’s losing focus, that it’s only a matter of minutes before he pulls you into his lap, but this is when he’s most pliable. He had the manic attention span of a dog tempted with a squeaky toy. You kiss the back of his wrist. “Max, c’mon.”

“We’d have to start slow. I’m talking high school, baby leagues. Making out. Light petting, then maybe heavy petting.” 

You shift closer to him, breaking your hands apart as you put an arm over his chest to the other side of the mattress. Instinctively, his hand slides up your inner thigh. His gaze watches your breasts as they swing in movement. 

“Damnit Janet . . . but okay, then we’ll go through the bases.”

“Mhmm hmm . . .” 

You brush his hair back from his forehead and he puts both hands on your hips. You have seconds now. “So, we start with first, go up to second, which is under the clothes stuff. Then third. Oral. But that’s for both of us, right?”

His thumb traces your nipple. “Totally.”

“So that just leaves home plate, right, baby? That’s it then.”

You’ve got your hand around his cock and you stroke once. His mouth parts and his eyes flutter. “What’s it?”

You laugh out your nose.

“You’re impossible, Max Phillips.”

First Base.

“Is this entirely necessary?” 

“I’d prefer you in a snowsuit or nun’s habit, but this will have to do.” 

“At this point, I’ll take the Bugs Bunny onesie you wore for Halloween.” 

Max smirks, lighting the last candle in your bedroom. He shakes out the match until it smokes and he turns back to you. You’re pouting in the middle of the bed. 

“I’m gonna sweat my tits off in all of this.” 

As part of his rules, he made you put on thick woolen socks under your straight-legged jeans. In addition to a black bodysuit as the base, he told you to wear:

A long sleeved turtle neck

A sweatshirt

A jean jacket

And a scarf

His aim was to minimize any open and available skin except the bits you intended to use or for him to bite, but the scarf you refused. It was the middle of summer for god’s sake!

But in the end, he had agreed. He was going to bite you during sex so if you had to roll around naked in a giant bubble for two weeks to get to that, you were more than willing to forgo some comforts. In addition to all but wrapping you up in a burlap sack, Max also insisted on a few extra precautions. 

The first one being that a chain of silver is within reach, next to the bed. Max drained a bag of blood about thirty minutes ago so the hunger wasn’t all consuming. A box of Chips Ahoy cookies sat on your dresser for afterwards, along with a bottle of Gatorade, a brown bottle of disinfectant, a bag of cotton balls, and some bandaids. 

“Are we making out or am I donating blood?” you teased. 

But Max only shrugged. “A bit of both, actually.” 

He also laid out an enormous white towel on your bed. You’d offered to do this in his apartment, but he wanted you as comfortable as possible, to which you frowned.

“You weren’t anywhere near this nice to me when we did anal for the first time.”

He hadn’t even dignified that with a real response but just a swat on your ass. 

But, to your enormous surprise, Max Phillips was a romantic at heart. The candles were to set the mood. 

“Plus,” he says as he crawls onto the bed with you, “it’s very gothic, isn’t it?”

“What, porking by candlelight?” 

He rolls his eyes and swoops in to kiss you on the mouth. 

“No, you little slut. Biting you. Feeding on you. So very Dracula.” He playfully raises an eyebrow. 

“Like you ever once picked up the Bram Stoker novel.” You blink owlishly at him. “In fact, I didn’t know you could read.” 

He wrinkles his nose at you and pinches your cheek.

“Of course, I didn’t read it, but I did see the Coppola film strictly for Winona Ryder. What a babe.”

“Would you make her wear five layers of clothing in the dead heat of summer?” 

“Nah, I’d just eat her outright.” Max snaps his teeth just under your jaw. He is only playing, but it sends a shiver down your spine. He chuckles at your reaction. 

“It’s too easy, baby. Sometimes I think you only like me for my fangs.” 

You bite your lip in thought, as you lean forward, draping your arms over his shoulders. His hands cup your waist.

“Well, not only. The Jag’s a nice perk too.” 

You bend your head to kiss him again, but he draws back, his hand against your cheek, gently stopping you. His dark eyes are serious. In the candlelight, they look almost gold. Despite the almost stern expression, you see something else, but you so rarely see it on him, you aren’t sure you recognize it at all. Fear. Max is genuinely fearful he was going to hurt you. 

“What are the rules again?” 

“Use the silver if and only if you don’t stop when I use the safeword.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere as long as it touches your skin.” Your stomach knots. You know it would hurt him, burn him, and you can’t imagine doing that. But he wants you to have that kind of power over him.

“Keep going.” 

You huff, knowing exactly what he’s after, that verbal confirmation. That agreement on your end as much as his. 

“We’re only going to make out. No groping, licking, or grinding.” 

“That’s right, missy, and you better be home by nine.” 

You bend over and tug his ear lightly with your teeth. But that same sincere look is on his face when you settle back again. He taps your chin with his thumb, eyes watching your lips. 

“What else?”

“After you bite me, if I start to feel dizzy or lightheaded, I also say the safe word immediately. 

Max nods, his thumb moving to anxiously skim against your cheek. “I’ll be taking less than what you’d donate to any blood drive, but it might be faster than you’re used to, so I’m not sure how you’ll react.” 

His gaze searches your face as if you are about to crack and crumble under him. The mere suggestion that the boardroom-schmoozing, bad-boy-batman, bloodsucking bastard Max Phillips is this apprehensive over a little bite is almost mesmerizing to you. He’s never been one to handle you delicately and this is the first and only time you’ve seen him so ill-at-ease.

“Baby, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” You scratch your nails into his hair just above his neck, a place that usually has him oozing into relaxation, but not this time. 

He frowns.

“No, I want to. I really, really want to. It’s just . . .” He swallows, further separating you from him and only letting his hands touch your knees. He seems to be on the verge of something and he can’t quite look you in the eyes. “It’s just . . . it can be harder to control it, for a vampire, when they have a connection with the person they’re feeding from.”

You huff. “Max, of course, we have a connection. You’re my boyfriend. We’ve been dating for months now and –,”

“An emotional connection.” If he could blush properly, he would. “A deep emotional connection.”

“Oh.” 

Is he really saying what you think he’s saying? And he’s telling you now? 

Sometimes it’s rather shocking. That an immortal creature of the night can have the emotional intelligence of a six year old. 

With a gentle sigh, you inch towards him and hitch your leg across his thighs. His eyes widen momentarily before you sit down on his lap. You card your fingers through his hair. His hands hover just over your hips. 

“Do you trust me?” 

He nods without hesitation.

“Well, I trust you too. Quite literally with my life. This is just the first step, Max. But it can be the only step if it’s too much. I won’t bring it up ever again, I promise. You’re not alone in this.”

It’s like your words are a balm to a sunburn. He nods again, closing his eyes. 

He goes up to your neck with his hand, but waits for you to initiate. Your heart threatening your throat with swelling emotion, you fold over him and gently, with care, press your lips to his. 

The hand at your neck pulls you in closer and you turn your head to deepen the kiss. 

It stays like that for a minute. Your hands just resting on his shoulders, his fingers cradling the back of your head, and the other hand sitting contently on your knee. The kisses are almost innocent in their sweetness, curious, as if you’ve really never touched each other before. They smack of puppy love and cotton candy and necking under the bleachers. They’re lettermen jackets and prom-posals. Carving names in trees and promising forever with cheap rings in the shape of hearts and hands. 

But sweet is not what you came here for. 

At the first nip of your teeth, his mouth parts instantly, and all but sucks your tongue against his. You take him in long, rich, wet swipes, tasting the heat gathered in the cup of his mouth, in the muscle of his tongue. You think you taste the faintest hint of copper and you do your best not to shiver under his palms. You remind yourself to not let your tongue go searching for sharper things.

Your hips hitch forward and down, off your knees and into his lap. You’re already warm and despite the layers, you know he can feel it. He groans, air rushing out his nose, the hand in your hair tightens down, and his arm curls up against your lower back to pull you even closer. Your fingers knot into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp just the way you know he likes, your heart already pounding, your thighs clutching his waist. He claws at your back, pressing you harder against him, but beneath the layers, you can barely feel his touch. You whine at the growing heat between your legs and the lack of sensation. You have to feel him. 

With a tug, you jerk off the denim jacket, sweat already sprouting against the valley of your spine. He whines, this time a sound of protest. 

“Baby, don’t–,” he pants, your mouth inches from his. He claws at you and the jacket, needing you nearer and distant all at the same time. “It’s for your own good–,” 

“Just one layer. Please, I’m burning up,” you beg. He relents, letting out a breathless frustrated noise. You hurl the jacket off your arm and onto the floor.

He lifts you both then, hands digging into the back of your thighs, your hands going to his collar to keep the seam of your chests pressed together, and he turns to bury you in the mattress. Despite the countless times you’ve been in this exact position, it somehow manages to feel like the first time you made out with him. That same frantic heat, that buzzing energy, that need to touch and explore but not wasting a second to linger. A pulsing warmth swells between your legs and your hips jerk up a fraction of an inch, but they keep from making contact with the seam of his jeans. He’d never do this again if you broke his rules. 

Showing him where you want him to go, you nip his earlobe as he pries your thighs apart with his hands around the back of your knees, out of habit more than anything. You suck down on the back of his jaw, the smell of his hair and aftershave scratching against the rough of your insides to burn you a little bit hotter. Your teeth worry his skin just to the right of the knot in his throat and he jerks, moaning. He shifts his weight down, his pelvis tilting into the cradle of your hips and you eagerly receive him. You’ll go as far as he’ll willingly allow, but you want him to know this isn’t all on him.

“Color?” You tear your mouth away from his, hands nestled around the backs of his ears, you push back to look him in the eye. 

He answers you a second before he lunges in to kiss you again. “Green.” 

“You wanna keep going?” Don’t grind, don’t grind, don’t grind. 

He nods, eyes closing for a second. “‘m okay, I’m okay. Put your hands up my shirt.”

You blink up at him, chest still heaving. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” So you do. You rub your palms up under the lip of his shirt, smoothing them against his sides, his chest, his stomach, which tenses as if your hands are cold. With a gasp, he drops his head into the curve of your shoulder, his breath hot, almost burning. You wonder if his fangs are out. He shifts, pressing up against your chest, deeper into your neck, rocking his hips once, and he sucks on that soft place beneath your earlobe, making you keen.

“Can I see them?” You blurt out. “B-before–,” your voice catches and you swallow the desire in your throat. “Before you bite me.” 

Max’s shoulders still. You’re both breathing heavily and you stare up at your ceiling, afraid to meet his horrified face. Maybe you’d gone too far. Asking to be bitten was one thing, but maybe he didn’t want you to actually watch when he –

“Really?”

He peels back from you, his elbows locked out on either side of your head. He meets your gaze with trepidation and . . . awe.

You nod frantically. “Yes. Yes, please. I even want to–,”

He’s staring at your mouth like if he thinks hard enough, exactly what he wants to hear will come out. 

“You wanna what?” His voice is deeper than gravel, lower than the graves of the earth.

“I want to touch them, Max.” You’ve never felt more exposed beneath him as he stares down at you. His hair is mussed, as if as shocked as he is. 

You think his jaw drops in surprise, but in the glint of the candlelight, you see them shine. White, glistening fangs. Slowly, he parts his mouth even more, jaw opening, and his upper lip raises a quarter of a fraction of an inch. 

In the far back of your mind, in your undeveloped lizard brain, the thing that squeezes out primal, dripping fear when confronted with things unknown, it’s pumping adrenaline. It’s working overtime. It’s going to catch fire. It’s screaming, begging, sobbing at you to run. To run fast and as far as you can because this? This thing that has you pinned beneath him – is a predator. It’s an apex monster at the top of the food chain, a precise killing machine designed specifically to prey upon your weaknesses. You can feel your muscles tighten, adrenaline roaring in your veins, you actually see his face better in the dark light as your pupils dilate, every fight-or-flight instinct you’ve ever possessed knotting together in a snarling, hissing, petrified void, all saying one thing:

Run, you idiot, run. Run. Run! 

But you don’t. You can’t. 

When you first discovered that Max was a vampire you asked him if he’d ever hypnotized you and he said no. And then you made him swear on point of stake that he would never, ever do that to you. 

You wondered vaguely if now he had broken his promise. Because you cannot look away. 

You exhale shakily, blinking up to his glistening wet mouth. With a trembling hand, you reach for his cheek, sliding it along his jaw, over the top of his upper lip, and then down. Down a single white fang, an obscene mockery of your own canine teeth. You’re surprised to find it smooth, just as hard as any of your own teeth, but you continue your thumb down to the very point of it. 

“Careful–,” he warns, the sound garbled, and a second too late. 

You prick your thumb on the razor edge of his fang. He shudders, head dropping between his shoulders. 

Wide-eyed and mortified, you immediately suck your thumb into your mouth at the first well of blood. 

“Max, I’m so sorry! I wasn’t thinking! I–”

“No,” he says gently, but his voice is hoarse. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

He lifts his head, eyes unreadable, but the candlelight brings color back to them, as if they had been consumed by shadow. “It’s okay.” Gently, he wraps his fingers around your wrist, easing your thumb out of your mouth. Watching you for any hint of rejection or fear, Max guides your thumb, wet with your spit and a dribble of blood, between his lips, between his fangs, and smears his tongue across the wound. He tries to maintain eye contact, but he groans, eyes fluttering, his hips swinging down. The noise he makes sends static directly into the pit of your stomach like a hot flare. You can’t fight it; you clench down on nothing. 

Holy fuck, maybe this was a bad idea. 

“Max,” you whine softly. He hums around your thumb, tongue lapping at the tip, eyes still closed as though he was drunk and trying to get the room to stop spinning. Finally, he parts his lips and removes your finger from his mouth. You can feel his rock-solid erection pressing into your pelvis. 

He breathes, slowly, as though he was focusing on every molecule of air entering and leaving his lungs. Finally, Max lifts his eyes to you again and, again, you feel that white hot spark down between your legs. His fingers around your wrist loosen, thumb and forefinger catching around the cuff of your sleeve and slowly push it down. 

“Color?” He husks, his breath coasting over your exposed wrist.

“G-green,” you stutter out. You know it can’t be helping him but your heart is pounding, rushing, vibrating behind the thick wall of your sternum. That same adrenaline that told you to run before has now locked you flat on your back, a different kind of instinct taking over. Your thighs ache to drop open around him. Take me take me take me.

He lowers his head to your blue, pulsating vein and lets the skin rub against his smooth incisor. Your back arches just off the mattress as if he’s fucking you with his tongue. 

“Is it going to hurt?” 

He’s not looking at you now, every sense within him entirely anchored to your wrist. But he shakes his head steadily, as if staving off sleep.

“I won’t let it.” 

A prick. Nothing more. Nothing more hideous or crude than a shot in the arm. And yet you know it’s deeper, closer to bone, through flesh and sinewy muscle, into the deep thready vein. You know it’s deeper because a red ribbon of blood trickles down the flesh of your forearm. You watch it with fascination, your vision going a bit blurry as a sense of peace and ease rises up and greets you. You’re not lightheaded, but there is an ease, a delight, as if something had dulled your senses to the world. Your face breaks into a smile, even though you don’t feel your cheeks moving. 

His licks are gentle, curious, tongue a little cold against your flesh. With your other hand, you stroke his neck, then tangle with his hair. You scratch him like you would the family dog.

“Good boy, Max, you’re such a good boy.” 

And then the noise that’s been hovering at the edge of your awareness ratchets so loud you can’t ignore it any more. A buzzing, a humming, as though a thousand heartbeats were all racing in sync with one another. You don’t know where it’s coming from or what it is, but you don’t mind it – it’s soothing, sweet, peaceful. You ease your hand from his hair, back down his neck, to the knot of his spine and –

“Max, are you purring?” It’s undeniable. His entire chest is vibrating as if powered by a jet engine. 

He muffles a response into your wrist, tongue more forcefully pressing into your skin. 

“Oh my god, you are! Vampires purr?” You giggle. “If we do nothing else, figuring out you’re capable of purring has been entirely worth it.” 

Again a muffled grunt. Your heart beat skips for a moment – what if he doesn’t stop – and then another pinch and you hear the faint chunk of his fangs retracting. The humming from his chest softens, quiets smoothly, fading to silence, as he wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. You giggle louder, that pleasant, sweet feeling still cradling you like a cloud, as he sits up from the bed. 

“Okay, now I’m kind of offended you never purred when I sucked your dick. Or that time I put on that strap-on! Or –,”

“Quiet you,” he grumbles with a bit of a smirk as he kneels down beside the bed and using the white towel beneath you, he wipes your wrist clean. Then, with his head hung down, he swipes his thumb against his mouth again. 

“What are you–,”

The pad of his thumb bright red, he gently brushes his blood over the two pin-prick holes and, to your utter shock, the skin knits itself together. You watch, transfixed, as any evidence that he ever bit you slowly disappears. With the wounds sealed and gone, Max presses a kiss to your wrist. He stands up and goes to pour the disinfectant on your dresser into one of the cotton balls. You sit up and you emerge instantly from that cloud of serenity. You’re clear headed and awake, that adrenaline rush gone. You rub your wrist, the dried blood making the skin there tacky and sticky. 

“That was . . .” You swallow. You know you didn’t orgasm but you still feel that lingering pleasantness, that almost syrup-y haze. 

“How are you feeling?” Max asks over his shoulder, his frown serious. He sits back on the bed and gently takes your wrist from your fingers. His gaze keeps flickering from the dried blood to your face as he cleans your wrist and forearm. “Any pain? Dizziness? Nausea? Do you want to eat something – or drink –,”

“Max.” His mouth snaps shut, his brown eyes open and pleading and concerned. Something dislodges from your chest and pricks your eyes. This is only the first step in getting to what you really want, but you feel infinitely closer to him, like you’ve peeled back a layer and found something as warm and as comforting as sunshine. “Max, honey, that was perfect.”

You all but fall into him, your hand tugging on his collar to bring him into your atmosphere, your orbit, and you kiss him with fervent urgency. He groans in relief, in surprise, his hand cradling your jaw. You pull back, actually a little dizzy, but you’re quite sure that has nothing to do with blood loss. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips and you nod before kissing him again. He smiles, his thumb petting your cheek as if to calm you. “Good. That’s really good, baby. You did so well.” 

You scoff. “I don’t think I’ve ever been less of a participant in something so sexual.”

His eyebrow arches. “You got off on that?”

“Fair question. I guess you have to ask . . . since I wasn’t the one literally purring with delight!”

He rolls his eyes, huffing. “That’s actually the reason I didn’t want to do this. You’re never going to let this down.” 

You pout at him, tilting your head. “Aw, poor pussy.” 

He plucks a kiss from your cheek and snags the cookie box from your dresser. You realize how starving you are and you nearly tear open the box.

“So you’re really good, with everything?” 

You nod, waiting until another time to ask him about that rather orgasmic haze you found yourself in. 

He bites his lip as he watches you lick chocolate from your bottom lip.

“Then it’s off to second base we go.” 

Next | Series Masterlist

[megamanrecut]

And here's the consolidated list (mostly?) All from Diamond in the Rough, character notes below cut (not in same order as pics)

Considered a few different systems for assigning gems (gemstone family, value, etc.) but ultimately just went with color/relative familiarity of gem. There’s so many cool gems out there~ (I was trying to not be too repetitive with types/use more common ones though Quartz has a million interesting varieties!)

Mega Man, Blue Sapphire Sphere I wavered a lot on his ‘trinket’, Sapphire seemed obvious (especially with Proto being a ruby, both are corundum gemstones) but also considered blue diamond, alexandrite (blue/purple color shift), and aquamarine. For the jewelry, was also considering an atomic model (for chemistry?), a screwdriver, and slightly regretting not considering circlet

Roll, Amethyst Earring: primarily always wanted amethyst, but also considered heliodor, padparadscha sapphire (but it wasn’t quite the right color? and perhaps too obscure), tanzanite, morganite, zoisite, kunsite, iolite, (purple gems etc.) For shape, was considering spikes/fangs though that’s also Treble and Punk’s lol

Bass, Emerald Snake Arm Cuff: loosely based on a real arm cuff I saw in a book. Also considered black diamond, green diamond (he’s the titular ‘diamond in the rough’), and black opal

Proto Man, Ruby Aviator Badge: I went with ruby in the end, which seemed most obvious choice, but also considered red diamond and bixbite (red beryl)

Elec Man, Black Opal Ring: Also considered chatoyant Sapphire, Alexandrite (??? color shift?), chrysoberyl, angelite/anhydrite, and even hawkeye quartz (loosely inspired by a real hawkeye ‘lightning’ ring, before that I was thinking cufflinks, but seemed weird for him to become either a pair of gems, or even a single cufflink lol)

Jewel Man, Colorless Beryl (Goshenite) Monocle - also considered rock crystal, diamond, and Padparadscha sapphire. Apparently both beryl and rock crystal were historically used for eyeglasses. Monocle is a reference to gentleman thief archtypes, also they are just fancy. (Also I realized while drawing this that having a plique a jour monocle chain is probably super impractical, oh well lol)

Top Man, Imperial Topaz  Pendant in a Jeweled Egg - also considered alexandrite and spinel (for the pun, heh) and spessertite

Kalinka/Mega Girl, Rose Quartz Blossom Barrette: Pink :) though I considered other lesser known (but more valuable) pink gems

Quint, Alexandrite Wristwatch: Quint is a time traveler (of sorts), also considered model armillary sphere/astrolabe, a screwdriver, and jade or malachite or nanocrystal

Wily, Agate Cameo Belt Buckle: Loosely inspired by his skull belt in some of his game art, also considered amythist

Dr. Light, Alabaster bead on a bookmark tassel:  Dr. Light likes books! Was also considering rock crystal and goshenite

Ring Man, Zircon Hoop Bracelet: Reference to both his namesake and his carney background. Was also considering class ring (before assigning the ring to Elec Man) and a circlet. ‘Zircon’ just sounds circusy, must be the Z

Magnet Man, Garnet Horseshoe Amulet: garnets are apparently magnetic, also considered fridge magnet

Cut Man, Citrine Paperknife: for obvious reasons. I also considered topaz for the gem

Guts Man, Tourmaline Paperweight: funny/fitting pairing with the paper knife, the shape is in reference to the boulder he holds in game art (for a brief week, was a rock crystal until I realized those are clear lol smokey quartz would have made more sense)

Punk, Spinel Motorcycle Chain: ‘Spinel’ may be a derivative from Latin ’spina’ which means thorn

Rush, Labradorite Bone Collar Tag: Went for the pun!

Treble, Howlite Fang: and ditto for Treble

Others that weren’t in chapter (this list has no significance what-so-ever, I brainstormed a list of gems but also ‘trinkets’ and my brain just started associating lol)

Beat, Aquamarine Aigrette: Beat actually avoided transformation, but that’s what he would have been

Gyro Man: Mood Ring

Dr. Cossack: Selenite something or other

Dark Man: D20

Time Man: a pocket watch

Enker: Chess piece

Metal Man: A knife

Shadow Man: Also a knife, maybe jade

Yamato Man: Natsuke

Burner Man: Match Box

Fake Man: phenakite, derived from greek word for deceiver

Magic Man: Card Case

Needle Man: Rutilated quartz (it has needle-like inclusions)

Pharaoh Man: Scarab collar pin/cloak clasp

Star Man: Star Saphire?

And that's it from the notes, haha.

[thinkdust]

August 13th, 2024

I tried not to relate to a lot of the "your 20s are this and that" crowd noise because I felt it to be too generic or label-defining. But in the past few months, it feels like I understand that sense of rush of accomplishing all your goals at once, and simultaneous drag as you watch people around you do everything better, faster and easier than you.

While you just wait, for some happenstance, some miracle to finally push you into overdrive. No matter how much of a hermit-like existence you try to achieve, unaffected by the humdrum of the world, you still get caught up in it's ever-expanding web and before long, you're at the epicentre of chaos, just flailing arms and a bobbing head, struggling to breathe barely enough to survive.

My own 20s are I feel, like this noose round my neck that keeps tightening itself and the more I try to push away and ask for some leeway, the harsher it pulls.

To achieve academically, professionally, financially, socially, maritally, every-fuckin-thing-ally before this unfaithful clock runs out, it's just too much. It's too much of everything, and everything that's wrong.

No wonder people make some of their worst mistakes in these years, but what choice do we have? It's like you were spat out of the womb in your teens and onto an inclined full-speed treadmill in your 20s.

Uncooked, unprepared, unfinished, just navigating through life-altering decisions left, right and centre.

And for those that had or have it easy, well, they're the ones that will shine the brightest and burn the fastest, but hey, that's what counts right? Now or never! It's Carpe Diem not "Carpe at-your-own-pace"!

These are the scariest years and all that we were promised, all the luxury of freedom and adventure, well, turns out mostly it was either a far-fetched dream or a reality just for a select few with the premium subscription on Life™!

And as we tread through these unknown waters, where everything we knew is constantly changing at a rate nearly impossible to keep up with, our only lifeline, we've been told is "ourselves". I wouldn't trust myself to take care of an inanimate object without breaking it let alone a barely-functioning human being.

But hey, all the advice we can get is "C'est la vie though, right?" And I can't explain just how hard it gets when it feels like the universe is hell-bent against you, to "make you learn important life-lessons firsthand and early on", whatever that bullshit is.

And how every day that you make through feels like a boulder collapsing on your head with a catastrophic degree of regret of unlived lives, while simultaneously lifting its weight from us as the release of inevitable death draws nearer.

So maybe the other side of this gets easier and less painful but hey, that's if we make it out alive, and last I checked, the chances of that happening are lowering as we speak.

- thinkdust 💌

P.S. felt a rant boiling up in my cranium so here's the word vomit

[valyrfia]

hellooo deviating from the usual a little bit here, sorry, but would it be okay w you to share a little about your academic career and yk all that because im applying for a STEM degree too so any insight would be really cool!! thank youuuu <3

Hi anon! Sure thing! I'm a little flattered honestly.

I'm currently working towards my PhD in physics (hence my obsession with data haha) so I can really only give advice in that field. In terms of my journey, in school I pretty gifted academically, 99th percentile and all that bullshit and it came to applying for unis/degrees and I had an option between doing a History & English or a physics degree. In school I definitely enjoyed the humanities more, but I've never regretted my decision to go with STEM, physics especially, because it teaches you a certain way to think. In my undergraduate degree I was trained to look at a situation, evaluate the context of it, try and collect data that is unbiased as possible, and draw conclusions, and that's a set of invaluable transferable skills that can be applied to a multitude of fields.

To someone who's just starting out in STEM now my advice would be: network, network, network. My partner and I are both doing PhDs that we got not through applying but through networking. Everyone is as smart as everyone else in STEM. Everyone was an honours kid, everyone did the "smart people" extracurriculars, so STEM, especially academia, runs on who you know. Networking these days can be as simple as asking someone slightly senior than you to grab coffee, as agreeing to go bouldering (for example) with a group of people in the same field as you. Be confident in your skills and abilities, (but beware that arrogance won't get you very far in the being liked game, especially if you're anything other than a white cis man). Don't let your studies get in the way of you being an interesting person! For example, I met a colleague from another university a couple of weeks ago and she and I bantered over our F1 teams, with her defending McLaren and me ride or die-ing for Ferrari, and I've since been roped into her mailing list and am collaborating with her on a grant application, things I'm SURE would not have happened if F1 wasn't an interesting hobby of mine that I can and will take every chance to yap about.

As a final aside, don't let yourself get too discouraged. STEM is NOT for the faint of heart and definitely not the place to go if you want to keep feeling smart. The first two years of any STEM degree are designed to break people in a specific way so that they let go of their ego, yes it is part of the process and YES everyone is struggling just as much as you (that's actually want they want you to figure out!), so that then they can enter the world of research with as little ego as possible (this works to varying degrees of success). But honestly, STEM is so rewarding. To have this really in depth knowledge of how part of our world works is fascinating. Your friends who work in non-STEM fields will understand absolutely none of it, and you'll get to a point where even the effort of trying to explain it to other fields of STEM is too monumental (for example, I understand enough about basic aero in order to get to grips with F1 cars, but a friend of mine is doing aero research and he spent about ten minutes the other month trying to explain push/pull bars in F1 cars to a group of PhD students comprising of: theoretical physicist, astrophysicist, plasma physicist, a quantum physicist, and mechanical engineer before the poor guy almost gave up and had a nervous breakdown because none of us were getting it). I think part of the beauty of STEM is realising how little you know, and how much of it there is for us to still work out.

You got this! You're at the beginning of a beautiful journey and I KNOW it'll turn out brilliant <3.

[cabezadeperro]

Hi friend!! It’s me (always) kindly kindly for darsev (again) (I miss them so much) with this insp tag post https://www.tumblr.com/cabezadeperro/712365374185799680

<3!

hi len friend!!!!!

established relationship, post order 66!au, T, ~600w. as always, i have no idea of what i'm doing with sev but i hope you like it ❤️

---

Sev stops on the shore and breathes in: the familiar, muddy smell of the lake water coats the back of his tongue and fills his lungs. The water is cold where it laps against the sand, and he digs the toes of his foot into the cool mud, leaning more of his weight on his cane. His shoulder throbs, but it’s worth it—he stares at the dark and at the stars, at the moon’s reflection on the still waves, and the world stares back.

The wind rustles the tops of the trees, and Sev shivers. He went out without a coat, trusting the lingering heat of the day to keep him warm, and now he’s cold, the breeze damp and cool on his bare arms and the skin of his face. His shirt sticks to his back, the sweat he worked up making his way out of the house and through the fields on his own drying quickly. 

Darman is a faraway shadow, his dark head bobbing up and down on the waves. He knows Sev’s there, but he’s taking his sweet time swimming back to shore. Sev settles down to wait, his hold on his cane sure and the noise of the waves soothing the prickly feeling of anxiety that shadows every single of these encounters.

Unlike Dar, he can’t say he gives much of a shit about Kal Skirata’s good opinion, but sometimes he finds himself wondering whether it is worth it: Sev’s not what he used to be, and Darman will forever be mourning the mother of his son. Sev feels at war with Etain’s ghost, with himself, with the world; with his brothers’ guilt and shame, with his own resentment and grief, with his body and its limitations.

Dar reaches the shore and stands up. He’s silhouetted in black against the water, the round moon painting his shoulders and his hair in silver. Sev’s eyes are used to the weak light, but he can’t quite tell the expression on his face. He shifts, yesterday’s half-forgotten anger waking itself up within his chest, and the now well-worn trepidation threatens to become regret.

“Where’s Kad,” he makes himself ask. Darman starts walking, his legs cutting the waves quietly. He’s bare, his clothes in a mess on one of the heavy boulders that surround the edges of the lake. 

“He’s at Atin’s,” he replies, his voice low. He sounds tired. Sev shifts his grip over his cane and waits, watching Dar while he approaches him.

Sev likes the boy. He’s clever and he’s funny and he’s very—sweet. He has Dar’s dark eyes and most of his temper.

“I almost didn’t come,” he tells Darman plainly. He needs to hear himself say it—it might be the closest he’s ever gotten to acknowledging this thing that has somehow sprouted between them, strange and fragile and wonderful and awful in turns as it is.

Darman huffs. He tilts his head: moonlight slides down his face, drawing the line of his cheekbone and his eyelashes and his jaw in silver. He crosses his arms: Sev wants to bite him, wants to sink his teeth in the muscle of his shoulders, lick the taste of rainwater and familiar sweat off his skin.

“What changed your mind?” Dar says. He sounds like he already knows the answer. He’s leaning towards Sev, swaying in the night wind like a reed. 

This makes me feel like a person.

Sev shrugs. “I like swimming,” he replies instead. Dar snorts, loud and gross, and then there are wet arms around him, and Sev allows himself to be dragged under the waves, cane and clothes and ghosts and all.

[steveskafte]

WORK OF ONE MAN Every abandoned road holds a nervous and uncertain heart, and Tommy's Branch is no different. Slowly crowding in on all sides, kept barely open by running springs, passing deer, and the rare hiker like me. It's been a long time since water claimed this way, trickling over rounded rocks with just enough regularity to stop any permanent growth underfoot. But there's no restraining what's pushing from beside or above. This precarious path was cut to access fishing on the north shore, still evidenced by a couple rusting lobsters traps by the trail, and bolts for moorings drilled in the rocks. They're more rust than iron now, barely hanging on. The whole hike down is bouldered through the brush, and the beach feels like an avalanche arrested in mid-descent. These steps were a test of my knees and ankles, feeling a little hard-done by the time I reached my car again. All evidence suggests that this road was the work of one man – its namesake, I'd assume. He's no longer here to walk the way, nor anyone who followed in his footsteps after. What's left is like a lingering dew, hiding in the grasses, soaking the toes of my shoes. Faint hint of a deerfly on the back of my neck; don't know if I trust my senses, but the swat I don't make is the one I'll regret. Draw a lungful of fog, with bits of mist that come and go. When I start to sweat, it cools me. Through the years, it's become exceptionally important for me to feel a little overworked. Just enough to the edge that an excursion becomes an adventure. When I rest up at the beach, perched among the cormorants, or pause grazing blueberries like a bear on the windswept bedrock – it's then that I feel I've earned a rest. July 23, 2023 Little River, Nova Scotia Year 16, Day 5733 of my daily journal.

[mountainofgoats]

Back in the Saddle

Midvale, a few weeks post-Phantom Zone. In an attempt to remaster the powers Kara spent months without, she and her two most important people make a road trip home to test her flight.

Or, I just want Kara to be able to fly for the joy of it the way Clark did in Man of Steel.

Read with “Flight” by Hans Zimmer playing. You won’t regret it.

/////

Lena knows the moment Kara emerges from the house up on the ridge. Alex’s eyes flick up, back down, then up again in quick succession. An entirely smug grin alights her face before she pointedly looks back down at her tablet.

“We’re going to have to have a talk about your affinity for making my sister new suits at some point, Luthor,” she says.

Lena feels her face heat up. “No idea what you mean.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Lena scoffs. “She needed a new one,” she hisses at the smirking elder Danvers. “The one she had was wrecked and there was no fixing it.”

“Agreed,” Alex allows, smile growing. “But this is what? The fourth one you’ve made for her?”

“One other! With upgrades!”

“Mmhmm.” Alex types a few more things into the tablet. Pulls out a USB and plugs it into the side. “Sure.”

Lena feels her face go hot. “What are you insinuating, Alex?”

Alex shrugs. “Not insinuating anything,” she says. She glances back up and smiles some more. “Just thinking you’re making a habit of making suits for Kara and I kind of appreciate it.”

At Lena’s questioning look, Alex elaborates. “Winn made her first one,” she says. “And yeah, it did the job, but it was-“ she waves her hand in a so-so gesture, wincing- “not the best. Prone to wardrobe malfunctions.”

Lena snorts. “Patriarchy.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Alex agrees with a playful two finger salute.

After a shared grin with Lena, her eyes travel back to where Kara must have made it down to the beach. “They’ve all protected her, the suits you’ve made,” Alex says. Her voice has gone quiet. Gone is the light teasing. She holds Lena’s eyes for a moment. “And I... can’t tell you how much that means to me.”

Lena’s eyes suddenly mist over, and her throat works against the lump that forms there.

Alex looks pointedly back down at her tablet, where she pulls up a video feed from one of the comm pieces resting on the boulder she’s made her impromptu HQ desk. She clears her throat. “I’ve never made sure you knew that. So. Now I’m telling you.”

Lena absolutely refuses to cry, but fuck if it doesn’t take a Herculean effort. She wrestles with the hot gratitude and affection boiling in her chest as Alex fiddles with the settings on the camera feed.

Alex glances up again, and her smile turns warm in a way Lena knows is reserved only for her sister. “Looking good, sis,” she calls. “Little weird without the cape, though.”

“Thanks! Lena made it!” Kara chirps from behind Lena. “Even has pockets! And yeah, I was going to ask you about that. Is there no cape, Lena?”

She barely dares to turn, but Alex is giving her one hell of a challenging look, and she’s still a Luthor.

And Luthors never back down from a challenge.

She turns her face just enough to look over her shoulder and immediately curses that particular Luthor trait.

Sure, she made the suit. But that in no way prepares her for what it looks like when it’s wrapped around Kara. The dark blue, almost black throws her golden hair, shimmering in the late sun, in sharp relief. The smooth material sweeps over the dips and curves of her shoulders and biceps, the dip in the high collar exposing slightly below the hollow of her throat. She approaches silently on the sand, the soft and supple deep maroon boots smooth and soundless. Lena had left the pants a little loose, a little more comfortable, but that did nothing to hide the muscle that bunches and releases rhythmically as Kara walks across the sand.

And she’s looking quizzically at Lena. Head slightly titled, blue eyes somehow even bluer against the darkness of her suit, the blue and red accents, and the reddish tint of the setting sun.

Lena rips her eyes away from the subtle dips in Kara’s abs and desperately wracks her brain to remember what question was asked of her.

“Cape, Lena?” Alex prompts with a shit eating grin.

“Right,” Lena coughs. She turns fully to meet Kara, hand already pointing to the belt slung diagonally across Kara’s chest. “I figured, since you’re not wanting to be in the limelight just yet, I should make it a bit more understated,” Lena explains. “Did you see the crest on your left shoulder?”

“Yeah,” Kara nods. “I like that it’s so small.”

“Press it.”

Kara’s eyes dance with curiosity, not leaving Lena’s, as she reaches up to press on the tiny S affixed to the dark brown leather.

At the press of Kara’s fingers, the nanites immediately begin to crawl across the suit, gathering and extending down her back and around her chest in a long, deep maroon cloak. Kara lets out a startled sound of delight, swishing the thick material and stroking at it with near reverence.

“More nanites?” Alex smirks.

Lena shrugs, tossing the elder Danvers a smirk of her own. “I mean, I do have an MO at this point. No sense in ditching it.”

“It’s great!” Kara exclaims. She swishes the cloak again, grinning happily. “I can put it away if I want! This would have saved me so many headaches years ago!”

She bounces over to Lena and wraps her up in a warm hug. “Thank you,” she says quietly. Only for Lena. “I love it.”

Lena squeezes her around the back, hands fisting in the material of the cloak, feeling herself flush with happiness. “I’m glad,” she whispers.

“That’s actually a pretty good idea, Lena,” Alex says as they break apart. She’s back at the tablet, tapping and looking over some sort of read out. “She was always complaining how the cape got in the way.”

Lena arches an eyebrow at Kara. “What about your cape tricks?”

Kara grimaces. “Much less useful than I was led to believe.”

Alex snorts. “Understatement of the century,” she mutters. “Okay,” she strides over to a Kara and gently fits a comm around her ear. “That has a GPS and camera built in. We’ll be able to see what you see, know where you are, monitor vitals-“

Kara makes a face. “Wait, if you can track me, couldn’t someone else?”

Lena shakes her head. “The crest has signals built in to interfere with radar. Any signal that’s not Alex’s will get scrambled to cloak you.”

Kara surges forward for another hug, and over her shoulder Lena sees Alex smile with an exasperated shake of her head.

“Always protecting,” she mutters.

“What, Alex?” Kara asks as she lets Lena go and takes a step back.

“Nothing,” Alex says. She inputs a few more commands on the tablet, then looks up at Kara. “So. You ready?”

Lena glances over to Kara for what she thinks will be a quick confirmation.

But in those brief seconds, Kara’s easy smile and eager brightness had darkened.

In the red glow of the sun, she stands with her face tilted upward. She gazes at the sky with unfiltered longing, but her hands are trembling. Her whole being quivers, wound tight like a spring, as if she wants nothing more than to hurl herself up to the clouds. But there’s a tightness in her eyes, something there that just... won’t let her. She just stands there, shaking, looking up with haunted eyes.

Alex reaches out, rests a hand on Kara’s forearm. “Hey,” she murmurs. “You don’t have to do anything crazy. Whatever you’re ready for is all you have to do. The rest will follow.”

Kara nods, but still she hesitates. “But what if- what happens if I can’t- I mean-“

“I caught you floating in your sleep two nights ago,” Lena says gently and Kara’s eyes - desperate, scared eyes - whip to hers. “You can do this. But only if you’re ready to. Okay?”

The near manic desperation in Kara’s eyes cools as they hold each other’s gaze. She squeezes Alex’s hand, takes a breath, and nods resolutely.

“Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, giving her shoulders a shake. “I’m good. I’m okay.”

Alex squeezes her arm, then lets go. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Kara has her eyes on the sky again, gives her shoulders one more fortifying shake. She flexes her hands, rubs them on her pants once. She glances over at Lena and seems to brighten at the reassuring smile Lena gives her.

“Okay,” she breathes. “Here goes nothing.”

She stills, closes her eyes. Breathes in deep, then lets it out slow.

She breathes once more, the tense lines of her face relaxing.

Silently, her feet leave the sand.

Alex reaches over for Lena’s arm and grasps it tightly.

Eyes still closed, Kara rises higher in the air, straight up. She turns in gentle circles as she ascends, up and above the ridge.

Alex is looking over the read-outs on the tablet, eyes darting back and forth with near frantic energy. “Looking good so far, Kara,” she says distractedly. “Vitals are good. You’re at a hundred feet now.”

“Feels good,” comes Kara’s voice through the comms. “I’m not even trying.”

Alex’s smile is so proud Lena wants to cry. “That’s good, kid. That’s so good. Two hundred feet now.”

Alex is still gripping Lena’s arm painfully tight, but she’s rocking up on her toes happily, shooting Lena fervent looks of pure joy.

“Knew you could do it, Kara,” Lena says into her own comms, taking Alex’s hand away from her arm but keeping ahold of it. She squeezes as tight as her own bubbling pride allows.

Kara’s finally in the air. She’s flying. It’s one more step closer to conquering the giant mountain they’ve been climbing since she got back.

“How high now, Alex? I’m not looking.”

Alex glances at the screen, then up towards where Kara is becoming a dark dot among the clouds. “A thousand feet. Still feeling good?”

“Yeah. Really good, actually.”

“Have you opened your eyes yet?” Alex’s voice is teasing.

“No. What if I’m suddenly afraid of heights?” Her voice is childishly whiny, drawing a chuckle out of Alex and Lena.

Lena glances down at the video feed from Kara’s earpiece and has to stop herself from gasping.

“Kara, I think you should open your eyes,” she says slightly breathlessly.

“I’m gonna fall if I do,” comes Kara’s tight reply.

Alex is also staring at the camera feed, watching as the view of the water recedes farther toward the bottom of the screen as Kara rises higher and higher. “Kara, you want to see it,” she says. “Trust us.”

Lena knows the exact moment Kara opens her eyes. There’s a tiny gasp through the comms, and the camera arrests in place. Locked on to the brilliance of the shimmering water, the watercolor of the clouds in the light of the setting sun.

For a moment, Kara hangs motionless in the air.

Alex is anxiously tightening and loosening her grip on Lena’s hand. Looking up to where Kara is barely a speck in the sky, back to the camera, then back up again.

“Kara?” she says, a small break in her voice. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” comes Kara’s breathless voice. “Yeah, no, I’m good.”

There’s another moment of silence, then “It’s breathtaking. I... I’d almost forgotten-“ her voice cracks, and she clears her throat -“How beautiful this planet is.”

Alex squeezes Lena’s hand so tight it hurts, and Lena brings her free hand to grip at Alex’s forearm.

Alex sniffles, swipes her eyes against her shoulder. “It has its moments,” she rasps.

For a few long moments, they three stay silent. Lena and Alex on the ground, clutching at hands and arms in barely restrained joy with the waves lapping nearby.

And Kara, so high they can’t even see her, hanging in midair. Silent save for her gentle, easy breathing and the wind whistling around her.

And then, so suddenly both Lena and Alex flinch, she huffs a breath.

“Wanna see how fast I can get around the world?”

Alex barks a laugh, exchanging a fond and relieved look with Lena. “Your record is what? Thirty four seconds?”

“I can beat that,” comes the cocky reply.

And god, she sounds so happy.

Alex scoffs. “If you say so.”

Lena pulls out her phone and sets up a stopwatch. “On my mark, then?” she says.

“Don’t break anything, Kara,” Alex warns, though there’s no bite in her voice.

“And don’t break that suit,” Lena chimes in.

Kara’s voice has a tiny edge of Supergirl - the first since the Phantom Zone - when she replies. “Nothing’s getting broken here except the sound barrier.”

A shiver shoots down Lena’s spine. She does her best to ignore why.

“In three, two, one-“ she taps her phone- “Go.”

BOOM!

The noise vibrates through Lena’s chest. High above, the sky seems to part for Kara as she rockets towards the sun, leaving a trail in her wake.

Lena and Alex crowd the screen, watching wide-eyed as the ocean zips by far below, clouds whipping past, the camera quivering with the breakneck speed.

“Oh my god,” Lena murmurs almost by accident.

On the screen, a dark line of land rapidly approaches on the horizon as Kara hurtles toward it.

“That’ll be Japan,” Alex mumbles. She checks the read-outs and nods to herself. “Vitals are still good. Heart rate’s a little elevated, but considering-“ she gestures to the screen with a wry smile.

Lena nods, barely holding back happy tears.

On screen, Kara slows just enough for the sound to come back. Air whistles through the comms, her breathing slightly labored, and she ducks her head to watch the cities blink far below.

She won’t break her record by slowing like this, but Lena doesn’t mention that. And neither does Alex. They just watch as Kara picks up speed again, camera angling strangely as she dives.

She shoots west, weaving in huge slalom turns. The camera angles and tilts as she looks across the water, across the trees and grasslands and mountains as she passes them. Cities and towns flash past like street lights on a highway.

On the screen, her GPS tracks her through the rest of Asia, across India and into Africa. It’s a far cry from the speed she’d shot off at, but she doesn’t seem to mind as she dips and rolls through the clouds, hand outstretched as if to catch the swirling vapors.

Once she reaches the distant coast, Kara dips so low her hand reaches out to skim the water. She sails over the waves, fingers dragging, until she finds a pod of dolphins playing in the white water. For a moment, she flies just above the waves with them as they leap and dance.

The camera jerks toward the sky, and Kara gives a loud, delighted whoop as she shoots upwards. Spinning and spinning so fast the camera is blurring with the speed.

And through it all, Kara is laughing. Huge, joyous belly laughs, arms outstretched and head thrown back as she sails back into the clouds.

At 40,000 feet, she slows her ascent. Like a ball tossed in the air, she hovers at a stop for a split second before she starts to plummet. She turns, belly down and arms outstretched as the ocean rushes to meet her.

Still laughing with outrageous joy.

“God I missed that,” Alex murmurs. Her voice quivers and breaks.

Lena doesn’t take her eyes away from the screen. She doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this. But she does give Alex’s hand a squeeze in agreement.

Because hearing that laugh, being here and watching as Kara rolls and dives through the air, is healing pieces of Lena’s heart that she didn’t think would ever even scab over.

Kara’s joy is infectious, like it had always been. And Lena finds that she’s soaking it in like a woman parched.

On screen, Kara shoots off with another mighty BOOM. Her GPS shows her hurtling across the US at breakneck speed.

“Not even close to her record,” Alex laughs wetly. “Guess we’ll have to try again later.”

Lena swipes her hand under her eyes with a chuckle, catching tears that neither of them really acknowledge.

And seconds later, Kara lands with a muffled thump. Sand flies under her feet, and the ground trembles.

But her face is flushed, smile radiant, eyes glistening with tears.

Alex takes a step toward her, but pauses. “You okay?”

Kara gives a sobbing laugh, gestures helplessly with her hands. But her smile is wondrous.

Alex surges forward and wraps her in a tight hug. Kara clutches back, hands buried in her sister’s jacket and face pressed against her shoulder.

After a moment, one hand reaches out, fingers wiggling invitingly.

Lena takes that hand in both of hers and holds on tight. Over Alex’s shoulder, Kara’s eyes crinkle with her smile, sparkling and overwhelmed. She squeezes Lena’s hand, then tucks her eyes against her sister’s shoulder with a huge breath.

In a way, Lena feels as if they’re all breathing that same breath of relief.

“I wanna go again.” Kara’s voice is muffled adorably against Alex’s jacket.

Alex chuckles and rocks Kara back and forth happily. “We can stay out here as long as you want.”

Kara nods. “’Kay,” she says. But she holds on to Alex tighter, fingers digging into her jacket. “But in a minute, okay?”

Alex nods. Presses a kiss to the side of Kara’s head. “In a minute.”

And that seems to suit all three of them just fine. No one’s quite ready to let go yet.

/////

I'm a sucker for the angst just as much as the next nerd but I needed them to just... be happy and together. Just for a moment.

[lovenona]

proteus on the shore

synopsis; remorse is the best adrenaline. or – part five of the odyssey, a pirate!jujutsu kaisen cinematic universe 

contains; lots of meditations on grief + depression + regret, some suicidal thoughts, physical strength + combat training with gojo, more gruesome nightmares and angsty vibes, mentions of violence + blood + death, siren lore and ominous behavior, a lot of personal self-discovery, sukuna is hot uwu

word count; 16.4k

a red sun beats down upon the shore with renewed anger, the harbinger of a long and humid afternoon. there is no shade in the corners of a quiet and lonely cove, no peace against the harsh light of truth. heavy air nests in shirtsleeves and eyelids and fingertips. there will be no dreaming here. there will no longer be a place to hide.

he sits, quietly on his boulder, as the rowboat brushes against the sand. you do not want to look at gojo satoru and his terrible blue eyes. you do not want to remember just how deep the narcissus pool can go.

you focus instead on the ache in your body, the sadness in your limbs, the dull reminder that death could have claimed you. you do not know how long you have been dreaming. you no longer have the desire to ask where you are. instead, you allow the oppressive silence to overwhelm you as you sink into the sound of wind against the cliffside.

(i will take them to him, a voice had said, once, as it peered above your writhing form. we can’t wait any longer. it’s time to train. this can’t happen again. i won’t allow it.

and if they fail? the second had replied.

but the voice would not relent. this one won’t. i know it.)

a parrot chimes in the distance, a light and airy sound. you find that you do not care.

sukuna shifts behind you, stowing the oars and stepping out of the boat to stretch his limbs on the beach. you do not move; you remain seated, uncaring, opting to study meager grains of sand below. sukuna does not speak, you do not listen, and gojo satoru watches you both lifelessly from his stone.

an eternity passes in the dense heat of an unwanted sun. but, unwilling to let unfavorable guests wander upon his island, gojo satoru unwinds his limbs and speaks.

“if you don’t ask, i cannot help you,” he says, voice like honey, tone like distaste. his eyes, once shimmering and seductive, now look upon the rowboat with tender judgement. “and you know how i feel about those who cannot help me.”

“you know what i want,” sukuna says. he does not move from his place in the sand. “i would never be here if it wasn’t necessary.”  

gojo tilts his head and drinks you in, you who will not perceive him. you feel his imploring gaze, all-knowing and all-pleasing, as it registers the sweat on your brow and the loss in your eyes. you thought he was caramel and warmth, once, but now you think of nothing.

“they’re not as strong as the last one you brought me,” gojo observes. “smaller. i doubt they’d make it.”  

“your last student failed,” sukuna corrects him staunchly. “this one won’t. you know our deal. you help me, i help you.”

the parrot sings again in the distance, cool, like chimes against a summer breeze.

gojo smiles mirthfully, leaning forward on his boulder, drawing his siren’s tail from the water. “so it might seem,” he says, “although i can’t quite say that you’ve done much at all, you see, as nothing has changed.”

sukuna shrugs. “you can’t change a curse in one night. and i never break a promise.”

the two men pause, auras circling each other, as you sit listlessly in the boat between them. you recognize that they are dealing with your fate, your future; but you know that you do not deserve one. you find that you do not care where the fates leads you. you wish only for shade from the hot and unruly sun.

“fine,” gojo says finally. “i will teach them if you swear. now give me my legs and leave me to it.”

sukuna nods. “you help me, i help you.”

you watch as gojo satoru and his blue eyes slide off his boulder and into the gentle tide. he pauses for a moment, sinking his head beneath the water before rising up like a man reborn. in this life he has no scaly tail but a pair of strong and sturdy legs, entirely bare until sukuna throws him a pair of spare trousers too tight for his thighs.

so gojo satoru smiles, raises his hands towards the sun, whistles to the sky, steps through the tide towards the beach until all but his ankles remain in the sea. he is both narcissus and the mirror. he holds out a smooth palm and waits.

“come on,” he tells you, as if you should know. “i’m not allowed to touch land. you’ll have to come to me.”

it’s the eyes that draw you in. endless, unwavering, gojo draws you into the clear and endless pool you swore you would escape. you rise from the rowboat, collect your aching limbs, and sink into the scorching sand. you are not sure why you are here, who you are meant to follow; and when you turn behind you to ask sukuna the meaning, you find he is nowhere to be seen.

“don’t worry about him,” gojo says with the easy lightheartedness you remember. “he doesn’t like me much, anyway. can’t face the fact i’m stronger than him.”

you remove your boots carefully and leave them beside the rowboat before joining gojo in the shallows. it’s the eyes, you tell yourself, that never let you leave. “i don’t understand.”

“my unbeatable strength? well, that’s an easy one–”

“no,” you say, although gojo’s antics wish to reach somewhere kinder inside you. “i don’t understand what’s going on. why am i here? didn’t you try to kill me once?”

gojo rolls his eyes with an infuriating grin. “not kill you, no! just consume you, body and soul. besides, that’s before i knew you were important to that righteous dick. don’t worry, i’ve put the entire thing behind us. won’t happen again!”

and although you have a hard time believing gojo satoru and his narcissus eyes, you find, alone on a humid beach, that you have no choice but to trust him.

“and of course – what else would i do but train you?” gojo continues, white hair blinding against the sun.

“train me?”

he shakes his head as if to a misbehaving dog, but his eyes grow solemn as he studies you. “you’ve failed at something you swore you would protect,” he declares. “and now you feel like you will die unless you fix it.”

a somber cry, a pool of blood. you let it swarm you before you push the long and terrible dream from your eyes. your expression tells gojo satoru all he needs to know.

he steps closer to you. “and to fix it, you need to be stronger, better. you knew in that moment you wanted what it takes. and here, for a price, i will give it to you if you ask.”

it’s the eyes that draw you in.

“what kind of training?” you question, but you both know the answer. you do not flinch as gojo satoru, tall and godlike in the summer wind, places a slender hand on your shoulder and demands your obstinate gaze.

he is all play and all solemnity: he is the innocence of the world that has lost something which cannot be returned. you know he could drown you in those eyes, and yet, this time, he holds back the tide. gojo satoru longs for something, and that is a feeling you know.

“you are weak,” gojo says. “you were born to be a printer’s apprentice, not a sailor. and to fix your failings, you must develop the power to wield it. i will do this for you if you do exactly as i say. the task is simple. i will train you as i have attempted to trained a hundred heroes before. when you can successfully wrestle me to the ground, your time here will be complete, and you will be strong.”

your eyes rake across gojo’s slender form, his lighthearted eyes. he should, by all means, blow away in the breeze: and yet, and yet. he must have something to give if even sukuna ryoumen has left you with him.

“win against me,” gojo continues, “and i will answer the question you seek.”

“question?” you repeat; in the distance, the parrot sings.

“yes,” gojo says. “you’re thinking of it now, even if you don’t know. but that’s fine – it will come to you whether you want it or not. your training will reward you with the answer. but in return, there is a favor i will ask of you, too.”

you do not quite understand what it is that gojo satoru aims at. you do not know why you have been taken here, to this cove, to thisplace, when all has been set alight behind you. you would like to know how long it has been. you would like to know how long it will be. but something, be it the oppressive air or the conviction in gojo’s eyes, tells you that no one is going to say.

“okay,” you concede with a sigh, but the admission rests heavy rests upon you. “doesn’t look like i have much of a choice, anyway.”

gojo’s eyes sparkle at your response, and he steps back with a dangerous smile. “you always have a choice, whether you think so or not. but please! no need to hesitate – let us begin!”

––

you would kill sukuna ryoumen if you were not so intent on ending gojo satoru first.

it’s difficult to tell where your limbs end and hell begins: your thighs, quaking with misery, threaten to collapse upon themselves, and you’d sell your soul if it meant a cold bath to clean the sweat from your skin. the red sun hovers above you, unyielding in the cloudless sky. there are no shadows on the beach. there is you, and gojo, and the misery of your feelings.

it may very well have been an eon since gojo satoru clapped his hands and begged you to get to work. but while work to gojo meant assessing your physical prowess, work to you seems to be a slow and sadistic form of torture. you have done nothing but run laps along the beach, from one end of the cove to the other, as gojo merely observes from the waves. with every new lap he encouraged you to step deeper into the sea until you now find that the water brushes against your knees.

still you run. still you drag your legs through the water, gojo’s mirthful one-sided conversation insistent in your ears as sweat drips into your eyes and the sun threatens to burn a hole through your skull. but gojo satoru has not told you to stop, and so you do not.

“and that’s why a raspberry-flavored dessert is to my liking, although i’d take anything if you asked me–”

perhaps it is a punishment from the gods that gojo satoru will not shut the fuck up. he speaks with you as if you have the energy left to respond, as if you have any idea of the countries and people and places he names. he acts as if you have not left your heart and soul on the shore in your attempt to run back and forth like his own personal pet.  

you’d like to fall into the water with the press of the tide. but you fear you would not have it in you to get back up.

you know nothing but exhaustion and hunger for something, anything, to eat. and perhaps, considering the weight behind you, such mundane concerns are for the better.

it’s cathartic, maybe, how with each step your mind strays further and further from your nightmares and deeper into the present. it’s cathartic, maybe, how the pain in your muscles echoes the unceasing pain in your chest, how every step through the water distracts you from the sadness you will not name.

so you step. and step. gojo, watching, lets you go until a particularly large wave crashes against your ribcage and sends you sideways into the sand. saltwater fills your nostrils, burns your eyes; but you let it, happily, because to tumble and hurt feels like the worst kind of release.

a hand pulls you back into sunlight while you cough up the water in your lungs and purge a few stinging tears from your eyes. “that was not terrible,” gojo satoru compliments breathily against your ear. “you can take a break for now. it’s time to eat.”

eat. gojo laughs as your entire body tenses with anticipation, as the life and hope returns to your fragile eyes. he guides you closer to the shore, towards his little collection of rocks and boulders. you hope for a nap. you hope for a feast.

“now there,” gojo admonishes playfully. “you think i’m going to do all the work myself? come on, you can’t really think i’m going to let you leave without teaching you a few valuable life skills.”

are you fucking kidding me, you mourn, but as if reading your thoughts, gojo chuckles.

“don’t worry,” he says, but his expression tells you otherwise. “i’ll catch the fish, but you start the fire.”

––

it’s no reprieve when the sun sinks behind the horizon. the air stands, hot and humid and still, as you push through the foliage to find the island’s alleged campsite. somewhere among the trees, gojo said, at the foot of the mountain, there exists a clearing just fine enough to rest your head.

(no bedding, though, he warned. hard to build my students a cabin when i’m cursed never to leave the water.)

you find that you do not care about this fact as much as you should. your limbs cry, your head swims, and you simply pray for the moment you will be permitted to lie down. gojo forced you to cook a meal only to have you to traverse the beach again, this time with heavy stones in your arms. you watched the sun dip behind the sea as he ate berries and stubbornly shared them when you threatened to pass out from exhaustion.

so now you hunt for this resting place, alone, because gojo satoru cannot leave the water even on human legs and sukuna ryoumen has disappeared into the air. a cricket chatters beyond the green; you reckon the curious eyes of a dozen nocturnal animals trace your every move.

you do not understand why you’ve been carted off to a deserted island to run laps until your vision dies. but, as you stomp down the trail, you don’t have the force to fight it.

after a few hundred feet, a small clearing reveals itself in the shadow of the mountain. the grass, although unruly, is fine and soft, and above your head the sky opens up into a host of constellations. already, a pile of firewood sits nestled and waiting, as if in anticipation of your arrival.

(you slept under the open sky, once, when toji asked you to watch the sea. you hoped then, foolishly, that you would never do it again.)

with an exhale you drop to the ground and spread your limbs across the grass. with the earth at your back and the stars at your forehead, you close your eyes, unfathomably eager to finally rest until it is time to meet gojo again at sunrise.

but that is a dream which will not come. even as your limbs ache, as your head swims and your eyelids grow heavy, there is something unwanted that holds you back. you see them, still, when your eyes are closed: you see a fire that spreads through an unsuspecting harbor. you see a flash of blonde hair as it emerges from the embers. you see atlas, earth and stability, as he collapses under the weight of it and crumbles to the ground.

you see yourself, the choices you could not make, the consequences you must endure. and you hate yourself for it, for the way you could not act when he trusted you to. you hate yourself for the way todou aoi looked into your eyes like he was searching for your betrayal.

the scar of your wound hums, and you let it, because it seems particularly cruel that you should be alive and breathing when it is in all likelihood that the lady erinyes is dead.

you do not deserve it. you deserve nothing but their retribution: and maybe that is why you are here, to run and run and suffer your pain until you die of it. it is all that you have. it is all that you know.

“he’s a fun one, isn’t he,” sukuna says jovially from the shadows. “it’s all right, you know. he’ll only get worse. gojo satoru’s best trait is never knowing when to stop.”

you do not move from your sprawl across the earth, although you pry your eyes open and glance sukuna’s way when he settles down beside you. he does not appear tired or hot or stressed, but the slight tension in his shoulders tells you he does not enjoy it here. you reckon, from the irony in his tone, that there are many places your captain would rather be than inside the siren’s hospitality.

but you are never sure what he wants. so you pause, exhausted, drinking in the hot and humid breeze.

“he tried to eat me,” you say to the silence. “why did you bring me back here?”

you watch sukuna smile from the corner of your eyes. “i can’t say i like gojo – never have, never will. but if there’s anyone who knows how to teach someone to fight, it’s that bastard.”

“yeah, but –” you sit up to level with him. “why learn now? why didn’t you just drop me here to begin with?”

why couldn’t i have learned to be strong sooner? before i failed forever? before i lived with my horror, with their bodies on my shoulders?

but, to your chagrin, sukuna merely shrugs. “you never know what’s necessary until you need it. and now is the right time for this, not before.”

“but–” my mistakes killed everyone i know. and then i left them.

“sometimes, you’ll find that remorse is the best adrenaline,” sukuna says, his voice as honest as you’ve ever heard it. he turns to you, then, and those red eyes drink you in, devour you, comb through the regret you try so valiantly to hide. “ask yourself what you will let it mean. you can’t go back – and you will not leave until you know how to go forward. gojo satoru will make you strong, but only you can know what to do with it.”

you do not speak, only let your gaze drift from his eyes to his shoulders and his hands. you remember them, painful and proud, the remnants of a long and terrible dream.

it dawns upon you then that there is only you, and him, and no one else. there is no malevolent shrine to command his attention. there is no jogo to call him away just moments before a word. for the first time in a lifetime, you are entirely alone with sukuna ryoumen, and you wonder just what you will see.

“why am i alive?” you insist. “i shouldn’t be.”

sukuna lets his gaze drift from your shoulders to your torso to the scar beneath your sweaty shirt, the remnants of a long and terrible dream. “because i allowed it. because that’s how it is. and i did not heal you and bring you across the sea for you to tell me otherwise. now go to sleep before i make you.”

there is no room for an argument, so you lie back down and close your eyes to please him. and with sukuna beside you, drinking in the stars, somehow, against your better judgement, you find a quiet and unsteady peace.

––

“that’s not the one.”

gojo’s silvery voice, echoing in your ears, is a stain on your existence. you know it’s not the one. it’s never going to be the one. but still you search for the exact plant gojo asks for with the insistence of gravity and space and time.

you think it has been a little more than a week since your arrival on gojo’s lonesome island, but between the long days of “training” and the nights of existential dread under the stars, you can’t quite be sure. days stretch too long, night too little. you would not be surprised if something else were at work, if gojo or sukuna slyly bent the laws of time so that everything on the island moved differently.

gojo soon ended your treacherous laps across the beach in lieu of a personal adventure up the mountain. with small stones secured to your ankles, he sends you forth each morning in search of a particular red blossom that grows somewhere near the peak. but, gojo warns, you must descend to check back with him on the beach three times before you are done. each morning you ascend and descend the mountain three times, hands filled with crushed petals and nothing, before gojo bemoans your nonexistent progress and allows you to leave.

and fuck, is that mountain a beast. as the late morning sun pierces your skull, you wipe at the sweat in your eyes, take a long sip of lukewarm water from the flask at your hip. you are beginning to think there are no such things as dainty red flowers that bloom at the peak of the mountain. granted, you’ve only managed to terrorize the side of the mountain closest to the cove, but gojo satoru wouldn’t expect you to journey to the other side of the island, would he?

would he?

the mountain is vast, and your time grows slim. but there are no roses on this side of paradise that will please gojo satoru and end your suffering. you grow weaker in body but angrier in spirit. you hate these assignments and yet they seem to cure you.

“fine,” you tell no one, and thus begins your journey to the other half of the world. perhaps you will find your way back before nightfall. perhaps you will fail. but you are alone on an island and there is no one else to care.

a parrot sings as you clutch branches and bushes in your search for a stable path. white and yellow flowers cower in the humid air; a tree sways in the heavy breeze; hidden beyond the foliage lies the empty expanse of the sea, crystal and impatient. here you exist at the center of the world, at a place that has been forgotten by all except you.

the last time you came to this place, it had been to careen the malevolent shrine before your journey onwards into the deep sea. you stopped on the western side of the island, just north of the cove, and you, with nothing better to do, let yourself wander until you found him and his blue eyes and his narcissus pool. you thought nothing of the experience, then, and filed it away as one of many near-death experiences. you thought gojo’s existence had been an accident, an anomaly.

but now, as you claw your way through dried shrubbery under the hot sun, perhaps sukuna’s decision to careen his ship here of all places had not been a mere coincidence.

maybe you were meant to find gojo and risk death after all.

but would sukuna really plan such a thing? you ask yourself in your quest to step carefully over a particularly large stone and avoid trampling on a swath of delicate flowers riddled with dragonflies. at the time, you hardly knew him – you’d been on the ship for a few weeks at most, still careful to avoid others and still terrified to speak.

why would he have tried it? what kind of test would he have wanted to give you?

(remorse is the best adrenaline, he told you. you do not have the strength to deny him; for if there is anything that drives you forward, it is this.)

maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that time. and then what? you kick the dirt and curse the sweltering sun. so maybe sukuna wanted you to encounter gojo. he clearly wants you here now, months later, hiking up mountains to find certain kinds of flowers for gojo’s sadistic pleasure.

stranded on the side of a lonely mountain you consider the way sukuna uses your body like a pawn, the way he always thinks ten steps ahead and four steps behind. his motions are calculated, cool, undaunted. sukuna ryoumen sees something you don’t. sukuna ryoumen plays the long game of a gamble that you do not know.

favorite sailor. a terrifyingly calculated attack.

you pause in your tracks as a hare darts nervously across the path, as a parrot sings and another responds in kind.  

(it was too perfect to underestimate. you reckoned their arrival was not a coincidence. but lost at the edge of the world, you could not even begin to fathom who and why and how.)

did he know?

the question strikes you like a fatal disease. you should not consider it, but it makes all too much sense. he has always seen something you don’t. maybe captain sukuna ryoumen saw this one too.

as you pass into the mountain’s shadow, the notion buries itself deep inside you like an ache you cannot shake loose. the trees grow taller, the plants larger, burying you in blessed bouts of shade and anger on your hunt for red blossoms at the peak, but you cannot even appreciate this darkness when it sukuna’s whims on your eyelids. you wish he would appear now, here, to answer your troubles, to appease your worry, but you know it is a futile dream. you have not seen sukuna in daylight since your arrival. he settles beside you at night and rises long before morning. where he goes on these long days, what he thinks and what he does, you do not know.

it’s all over now. you cannot change it. but still, even when you cannot win, you would like to understand whose game you play.

it is with a desperate sigh that the sound of running water arrives on the wind. you follow it on instinct, outside yourself, tracing the delicate sound like a miner to his gold. there is water on the mountain, your half-empty flask and your dry throat tell you. why search for a lost red flower when you can search for that instead?

why unwind sukuna’s mind when you can pretend, briefly, that it does not exist?

you stumble over a gnarly root in your hunt for the sound, hanging leaves and earthly shadows growing darker and deeper and more sinister as you walk. do not come here, the shadows whisper, but you do not listen. something coos mournfully in the underbrush, the ghost of the mountain, and all at once, the dream clears, and you find yourself standing at the edge of a spring.

it glides over a pile of perfect stones as it meanders its way down the mountainside and into the distance before disappearing like an impossible dream between a pair of thick and ancient trees. swaying along its shores grow a few rosy plants, yellow and pink and sweet.

(but no red, of course.)

“good idea, trying the dark side of the mountain,” gojo comments. you jolt; there he stands, a few feet away, ankles submerged in the stream, grinning at you with that infuriatingly pleasured expression. “i was wondering how long it would take you to do it.”

you do not answer, but sigh and kneel to refill your flask while gojo splashes in the spring, turning to him only after you’ve washed your face and cleaned the sweat from your eyes and collected yourself. “i thought you were stuck at the beach.”

“in my current state, i am merely cursed never to leave the water,” gojo corrects you, too pleasant for his own good. “there’s no convenient spring for me to crawl up by the cove. just a lot of birds and beaches, you know? but since you’ve found yourself here, on this side,” he gestures to the dirt, “it looks like i get to chat with you. isn’t that sweet?”

“wonderful,” you mumble. “i can’t wait.”

“hey now,” gojo admonishes, “you could just be here all by yourself.”

i have been for days, you’d like to say, but wisdom tells you to hold your tongue.

“so if there’s more water on this side of the island, why aren’t you training me here?” you ask, lying back to soak in the shadows. “there’s more shade, for one.”

gojo merely shrugs in reply. “i like our beach. and this side of the island is not as kind as you think. there’s monsters, you know, and they’ll snatch you up if you step in the wrong places.”

“oh?” you challenge, but even you cannot deny the way your heart tightens at his statement. “like you, oh monster from the deep?”

gojo, light as air and just as elusive, occupies himself by balancing his weight on the smooth surface of a stone. “you’re still bitter about that? i told you, it won’t happen again. we’re friends now, you know?”

are you?

“this side of the mountain has some unwanted ghosts,” gojo explains when you do not immediately respond. “things that won’t die and should stay where they are. on the other side, everything undesirable burns away in the sun. the fruit certainly tastes better from those trees.”

“what kind of ghosts?” you prod. even in the shade of the spring and the trees, gojo’s eyes glow like firelight, white hair threatening to blind you with its splendor. yet, for all his radiance, gojo satoru seems sad, as if your presence here has unlocked what lies hidden and deep.

a parrot sings in the distance; a small goldfish whistles through the spring. gojo satoru looks down the mountain, into the gnarled bushes and the undergrowth, searching for what lies in the distance. it strikes you that gojo satoru is lonely here; that except for you or sukuna or for whoever else came before, gojo shares himself with no one.

“old ones,” gojo tells you finally. “sad ones. things i had once, a long time ago, but don’t have anymore. nothing with a pleasant ending.” he turns back to you, expression unreadable. “things you don’t need to include in your training just yet. not until you figure your own out.”

until you figure your own out. but you wonder just how long that will take.

“gojo,” you say, unsteady, but the thought occurs to you before you can stop yourself from voicing it, before you can close the book and forget. “once, a long time ago, someone told me that sirens are made when something is stolen from them. is that true?”

he simpers at the question, but his mouth will never mask his sorrow. because for all his beauty and might and power, gojo satoru is a hollow being. you can see it now, seated beside the stream, the way he successfully hides how nothing lives inside him. something, you know, has been taken which has destroyed his center and will never be returned.

“whoever told you shouldn’t have known,” gojo says, “but that is how most curses are made, siren or otherwise – they are born through negative, horrible, changes. how you must do this will not always be the same. but that’s a story for another day. in the meantime,” he gestures to the space around you, to the air, to the shadows, “i think you’ve searched for my flowers enough. i’ll see you tomorrow morning on the beach for our next lesson.”

gojo, whistling an unfamiliar tune, starts down the stream, headed down towards its invisible mouth to swim his way back to the cove. he is light and air and fondness, but still you are not satisfied.

“wait,” you start, still seated by the stream, still frozen in time as gojo pauses mid-stride. “what did they take to make you a siren?”

this time, he does not turn back to look at you. “they didn’t take anything. i gave it.”

––

as it happens, those bastard red flowers grow at your campsite. how you missed them, you do not know, but now you pluck the petals off their stems and spread the remains across the dirt as darkness falls and your latest dinner – fish and nuts and soup, again – heats up over the fire.

despite your early dismissal, you did not venture to meet the ghosts hiding inside the mountain’s shadow, but followed your trail back into the sun and descended to the beach as if nothing had changed. and when you did not know what to do with yourself, where to turn, you ran, just as gojo taught you. it hurts, still: but your resolve grows stronger. now the sweat on your cheeks feels like a small victory, the aching limbs a sign that you will soon be different than you are now.

“i hope there’s enough for me,” sukuna says, nestling down in his customary seat beside you. his eyes flash with mirth, but you know that he is not joking.

you are entirely too aware of him as you take the pot from the fire and set it into the dirt. you think of your questions, of your fear, and your fingers freeze beneath the weight of sukuna ryoumen and all that he knows.

but if he notices your odd behavior, he does not mention it. you split your dinner and eat together in silence, drinking in the chorus of birds, the cicadas’ vibrations, the rustle of leaves as another humid night blankets the island. had you known better, this could have been heaven: if you closed your eyes, it could have been home.

and even when you clear the food away, when you wipe your hands on the grass and sit back in contemplation, neither of you speak, but still your question weighs upon you until you are ready to burst.

“back when…” you begin, voice faltering in the overwhelming stillness of the evening. sukuna raises an eyebrow, a red glow against the shadows. he does not speak; shifting his arms, he waits.

“back at the port,” you say, terrified. “did…did you know that was going to happen?”

although his body language remains the same combination of collected, calm, all-knowing, sukuna looks at you like he has been waiting for you to ask him. he studies you for a moment, your nervous eyes and your fluttering heartbeat, before he purses his lips and speaks.

“i could tell early on that the lady erinyes was being followed,” he admits. “they’d probably been tracked by zenin naoya’s fleet for days. but if you are asking whether i planned it – whether the attempted murder of your little ‘friends’ was my doing – i played no part. i merely wanted weapons. what happened that night was no will of mine.”

but it’s the way he says friends, as if he’d seen you and maki and nobara and a series of entwined limbs aboard the lady erinyes, that leaves you with a sensation of loss you thought you could sweat away.

“you knew they could die,” you say finally. you do not know whether you hate yourself or him more. “and you didn’t say anything. do anything. why didn’t you stop it?” your voice raises to a fever pitch and you cannot contain it; you want to murder the deity of the sea and you cannot stop it.

“it wasn’t my fight,” sukuna says so matter-of-factly that you wish you could kill him without trying. “i thought they might win. that loss was theirs alone.”

“i almost died,” you snap, blood in your eyes, “and you want me to think it wasn’t mine?”

you are all fire and all mourning. as you threaten to detonate yourself, sukuna looks at you then, really looks at you, like he has finally discovered something inside of you that he never noticed before. as if you are not the person he thought you would be. as if there existed between you an irreconcilable difference that sukuna has finally come to understand.

“you weren’t supposed to,” sukuna admits, finally, and the sincerity in his eyes shocks you into silence. “that was my mistake. i wasn’t careful enough.”

there are many things you never expect to come from sukuna ryoumen’s lips: love confessions, tokens of friendship, ruminations on the birth of his soul. but the foremost is his apology, unsaid and unspoken, now so potent on his ruby lips that you do not know how to hold it. it is a humanity you did not know he possessed, an emotion you did not know he could feel. it frightens you, the way you cannot look away from sukuna and sukuna cannot look away from you.

(and even now you would never kill him. you cannot hate him, despise him, no matter how many ships he burns and how much life he steals from you. it is not possible for you to try. you cannot loathe what you have chosen to follow.)

“no,” you say, fire dwindling to embers. you run your hand gently across your side, remember the weight of it, the ache you still feel. you could not do it, and you cannot stand that everyone else pays your price. “i fucked up. it was mine.”

“maybe it was,” your captain shrugs, but his eyes do not leave you. “and maybe it wasn’t. but you cannot change it. you can only decide what you want from it.”

and what do you want? and what will you do? they are questions that plague you like flies on the water. you know gojo and sukuna are waiting for you to come to your realization, to your understanding, and you know you must do it, but you won’t. you must untangle yourself from the terror that haunts you, the pain that swims through the sweat in your brow and the ache in your chest. you must come to terms. you must move beyond. but you are unsure of the outcome.

how can you find what you are not sure is living? how can you atone for the lives you let loose?

“back then, you said i was your favorite,” you say instead. you want, if you will accept him, let him, to know. “why?”

sukuna’s shoulders relax, amused. he leans forward and peers into your soul, blood-red and all-knowing, studious and mirthful. he watches you like you share a secret, like he knows everything and waits for you to catch up. he looks at you like you have known each other for a lifetime. he looks at you like you are something he will not lose.

and it scares you, the way he expresses so blatantly the faith he places in you.

“because you are,” sukuna replies, his molten voice swallowing you whole. “because i willed it.”

––

gojo satoru laughs easily at the way you cannot fight. he expected nothing of you, of course, and merely chuckles when he knocks you into the surf like a feather every time you come to blows. it’s not your fault you’re as easy as wind, that you can’t keep track of gojo’s feet or his fists and get too caught up in the seaweed against your ankles.

“i told you to tighten your stance,” gojo admonishes, oblivious to the way you cough up buckets of saltwater from your lungs. you sit in the tide, water lapping at your knees as you look up at him, a minor prince in the sun. it’s all in the stance, he says, but he always sends you flying before you can find it.

at sunrise, gojo met you on the beach, and after a quick breakfast you found yourself coerced into the basics of hand-to-hand combat. but no matter what gojo tells you, no matter how many times he fixes your stances and lifts your elbows, you cannot beat him. you cannot even get close enough to land a blow. seaweed sticks to your ankles and saltwater seeps through your clothes and still you make no progress.

you do not understand how sukuna or todou or uraume could move with such grace when it takes all of your willpower to remember not to lock your knees. you understand why gojo laughs: you just know as well as he that defeating zenin naoya could never be written in the stars.

“how am i supposed to remember my stance and dodge you?” you huff, rising to your feet and mindlessly brushing wet sand from your trousers. “besides, my clothes are wet. it’s slowing me down.”

“excuses, excuses,” gojo dismisses your complaints with a lazy wave of his hand. he smooths back the wrinkles on your shirtsleeves and shakes his head at your pitifully disheveled appearance. “there are never perfect conditions in combat! it’s not about perfection, it’s about adaptation. the victor is only as useful as their environment. i’m just giving you some starting points.”

you glare at him, irritated and obedient, while he adjusts your limbs like a doll. “says you. we’re literally fighting in the water. of course you’re going to do better than me. are we also going to conveniently forget that i quite literally was never raised for this?”

but gojo satoru refuses to listen to you, whether from habit or from his own amusement at your bubbling annoyance, you don’t know. he twists your body into its proper form and admires his artistry without a care for your complaints. here, the narcissus of the sea, the strongest man still breathing, gojo satoru is all silver and diamonds, glitter and radiance under the midmorning sun.

“it doesn’t matter if you weren’t raised to fight,” gojo shrugs. “you are now. and, besides – you’ll never win with that mindset. so what if the water is my home? it’s not impossible to wrestle victory from the sea if you try hard enough.”

(i wrestled it from the sea one night – it’s been with me ever since. maybe his origins always changed, and maybe it spoke, and maybe the serpent never made sense. but fushiguro toji was never lying, because it seems that when you fight the sea the sea wants to fight back.)

but gojo satoru is no serpent, and you are no lover made of muscle and sinew and determination. he is a siren: you are an apprentice. and maybe you are not what the world demands of you, but fuck, would you like to be. you want a reason to exist beyond your childish curiosity and your talent for trouble and your insatiable desire to find yourself in the middle of the narrative.

you may not be him. you may not be the same as the forces against you. but finally, here, with salt in your eyes and a bruise at your brow, you begin to understand.

“okay,” you say. you look at gojo satoru, really look at him, at his beauty and his grace and the ghost he refuses to tell you. you look at him, at the strength of his limbs and the humanity he wishes he held, and nod. he looks at you, really looks at you, at your tired limbs and your desperate eyes, at your wordless ambition and the ghost you refuse to tell him, and nods.

gojo moves, swift, and although he shoves you into the surf like wisps of smoke, you do not miss the surprise in his eyes when you land your first blow.  

––

littered with pale bruises and reeking of saltwater, you watch the embers shift in your evening fire as you search for some kind of release. you never won against gojo; you hardly touched him. but the memory of the moment you did lives in your mind like poison, burning itself to the backs of your eyes.

you savor that feeling. you must harness it, never to forget.

“well?” sukuna says, and his voice mimics yours, once, long ago. he steps languidly into your line of sight like he has every night since your arrival, imposing and cool against the shadows. “who won? you or gojo?”

you roll your eyes. “who do you think?” of course sukuna would be a fool to have assumed that perhaps you took the prize. but he had to ask, naturally, as courtesy.

sukuna leans against a tree, crossing his arms as he watches you tend to your bruises. he is softer this evening, easy, eyes studying your form with the liberty of a man taking his treasure. you wonder if he begs for your absolution, if he would like you to forgive him for knowing. but you do not mention it and neither does he, and so it sits between you, this thing you ignore.

“show me.” it is a command, not a suggestion. your eyebrows furrow at the statement, and your hands pause their musings as you look up at him.

“what?”

his eyes burn with his impatience. “come on. let’s see what you’ve learned.”

“i–” you stutter, but you know there is no room for denial when it comes to sukuna ryoumen. you rise beneath his fiery eyes and shake the grass from your knees. a heavy breeze blows through the trees; it smells like a clear night, like bird-calls and insect songs, like a still breath at the edge of the sea.

it feels like a night that could mean something. like if you let it, the world will shift, and you will learn.

it is with such anticipation you shift your feet into the fighting stance gojo forced upon you under the sun. the movements feel strange now, childish, like you play a game whose rules you don’t know. you stand unsteady, unsure, and let yourself grow warm under sukuna’s unreachable gaze.

“this is…” your voice falters. what are you meant to say? you swat away a lazy fly that orbits your fingertips. “the stance gojo said i should use.”

sukuna says nothing, only steps forward from his tree and circles you like a vulture to a corpse. he says nothing, but his eyes devour you, and at such an intimate distance he smells like smoke and fire and sulfur and mystery. you watch his muscles ripple in the dusk, his smooth skin with its moonlit glow. you hold your breath: because to breathe in sukuna ryoumen would be your undoing.

“don’t put so much focus in your footwork,” sukuna chastises, liquid gold in his voice. he stands behind you, heat radiating like sin, his body so close to yours that you swear you can feel his exhales. “it’s fine for a beginner, but realistically, you’ll never have time to achieve this.” a hand snakes across your ribcage, lifting your torso, while another runs a delicate finger across your arm.

“it’s about balance,” he says lowly, and you think he might kill you with the sound. “the second you lose your balance is the second you lose your fight.”

it makes sense. he makes sense. and you know you should be listening to rare advice from captain sukuna ryoumen, but you cannot think of anything other than the way his fingers sear your skin when he touches you. you nod, weakly, without knowing what balancemeans.

“a good form is helpful,” sukuna continues. with him, you are weightless; like stardust; like air. “but balance – understanding yourself, your energy – that’s essential.”

you think you understand. you think you shift the focus out of your feet. in the next instant, something hard lashes against your back and you tumble, head-first, back to the ground.

“hey!” your cry is diminished by a mouthful of grass. your back aches with an irritating sharpness which spreads through your limbs. the island turns on its axis, laughing at you, laughing at the way you are a second-rate apprentice in a hero’s myth. a fly lands on your cheekbone like cherries on cake.

sukuna hovers above you, a twisted sort of sympathy in his eyes, but he does not offer a hand. “like i said, balance is key. you’ll lose it the moment you stop paying attention.”

“fine,” you huff. the insects jeer when you return to your feet. “then how do i do that?”

“it’s not just a skill – it’s a state of being.” sukuna gestures to himself, to the air and wind and night sky. he stands like a light and airy dream, like the atmosphere could carry him forwards but you could never pin him to the ground. he is the sun, the center of the universe, and he waits for the rest to find him.

“balance is knowing where to conserve and how to use your energy,” he continues. a gentle hand runs along the underside of your jaw, your cheekbone, lifting your chin to meet him. “it’s knowing yourself. if you don’t know yourself enough to find that energy and use it, you’ll never make it off this island.”

sukuna’s fingers scorch you, in the way you wish always to be loved and burned by sunlight. you wish the answers lied beneath this sacred touch; but sukuna’s tongue remains silent, waiting. because if there is one thing he does not know enough, it is you, even when you stand close enough to study the flecks of color in his eyes.

“how, though?” you say, nothing but a whisper.

he chuckles, a low and rocky sound. “i don’t know. ask yourself what it is that you want. you’re the storyteller, puppy. shouldn’t you know what it is you’re trying to say?”

a mischievous hand sails across your collar. your breath catches in your throat. his smoke invades your nostrils; your head swims with the sensation of him, his legend, his being. it has been a long time since sukuna ryoumen was merely a story on your lips, when he was nothing more than an entity you consulted in boredom.

and now, a thousand miles from that first shore, that first glance, he asks you again what your purpose is, and you do not know. you answered him, always, without quite knowing why.  

“when you know, you’ll be ready,” sukuna says. he means it.

“but what do you want? why are you here?” you tear your eyes away from his and look somewhere beyond him, somewhere shadowed and unknowable. an animal cradling a dead animal in its mouth scampers through the dark.

where do you go?

sukuna flashes his teeth in a violent grin, a sign of tender mirth. but, for once, you force yourself not to look. “to make sure that smooth-talking siren doesn’t eat my best sailor. what else?”

“you have a deal with gojo.” you say it as the parrot calls up the mountain, as the wind sings in the trees. you know you are overstepping your boundaries but you are angry, unsettled, tired of the way he both attracts and distances you, tired of the things you do not see.

sukuna pauses as a humid breeze ripples through his hair and dissolves into the evening. that thing writhes between you, neither friendly nor cold, neither hatred nor love. it is as if another layer is torn away, as if another cloud breaks when you and sukuna both acknowledge that you cannot dance around each other forever.

“yes.” he affirms it as something howls mournfully near the beach.

and you think, like always, that sukuna will never tell you what he means, that he will turn away and play with you until he throws you in the lion’s den again without asking for your acceptance. you think, like always, that every threat will remain buried.

until he continues to speak, and you continue to listen.

“there is a reason gojo trains my best sailors,” sukuna says, but his volcanic voice is far now, measured, lingering somewhere beyond his space and your time. “he has a problem i believe i can fix. that’s the deal.”

“what’s the problem?” you search him out, his truth and aura, desperate for the threads of the only real story he’s ever offered you. but despite the sudden mark of vulnerability sukuna remains stoic as ever; his eyes tell you nothing, and his hands, gathered into fists, fall away to his sides, grabbing at the breeze.

he steps away from you. already sukuna ryoumen, fire and flame, retreats in on himself, burying inside all that you wished he would say. his eyes seek out the direction of the beach, the direction of a problem he believes he will solve. he turns away, and already, even as he angers you, as he frustrates you, you mourn the way he will leave you. because sukuna ryoumen, for all your hoping, is nothing but smoke through your fingertips.

“it’s not a what,” sukuna corrects, but his voice is so soft you can hardly pick it up on the wind. “it’s a who.”

––

who.

it is a concept that haunts you as the days drag into weeks and still you do not make much progress. who are you, really, and why have you stayed? why have you, for all your trouble and confusion and grief, not tried to swim away or roll yourself down the mountain until vultures take you? why are you plagued with this horrible desire to succeed, to show gojo and sukuna that you are worth more than you seem?

why do you search for this looming problem they wish to solve, for the answers to these shadows on the sea?

so you find yourself seated on the beach before the sun even begins its ascent. despite being accustomed to heavy air and humid skin, you could not sleep. there is a new dream that has followed you since the moment sukuna told you to find balance. it is a dream of heartache as the world swirls into dust and failure chokes you. it is a dream of a clean knife, of todou’s eyes when he knew you had forsaken him.

and worst of all, it is a dream of a blessing, eyes dark and cool, as you rip the world from his fingers.

you drink lukewarm water from your flask and strengthen your resolve. you will do it for him, for blessings, if for nothing else.

“you’re up early,” gojo says, his head emerging from behind one of his boulders. “ready to get your ass kicked already?”

your lips twitch into a smile against your better judgement. “i couldn’t sleep.”

he nods enthusiastically, wading through the dull blue water until he rests in the surf just a few feet away. “ah, i see. our young hero, plagued by the nightmare of those they could not save – the faces of those they lost are lost once again in front of them, a stain that we must hold.”

you shake your head at his antics, but the smile won’t leave you. “yeah. something like that.”

“and what will our young hero do?” gojo loses himself in his theatrics, arms grasping towards heaven, blue eyes like sapphires. “they ponder their fate as the sun rises, asking themselves: what will they do next? how will they atone for their sins and save the ones they love?”

he looks towards you expectantly, pausing, anticipating that you will contribute to the act, to add your definition to the philosophy of life. you are not the first that gojo has posed this question to. you are not the only one who has tried to understand what it means to be breathing.

“i don’t even know where they are,” you say, and the gentle smile falters. it’s todou aoi’s empty hands that grab your shoulders. “and let’s say they are all alive – i don’t know – what then?”

“no, you don’t know, not yet,” gojo concedes, but his voice does not lose its self-assurance, its awful friendship. “succeed, and you will.”

you will. you cannot deny that their lives drive you forward like waves against the sand. you cannot deny the ache to see maki and nobara and megumi. you cannot deny, either, this twisted desire to meet zenin naoya and watch his face when the tables turn, when you press his deepest fears into his chest and tell him that he will fail.

because you may pay the price of hesitation, but zenin naoya must pay the price of death.

“maybe,” you say instead, and pause to watch the sunrise.

“it’s not a terrible thing to miss them,” gojo says after a beat, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “don’t rule by emotion alone. but ignoring it is worse.”

“i just–” you pause, stones in your throat, grasping for straws. the words you tried to terribly to hide spill over you tongue. “they were – maki, and nobara too – the first people in a long time i thought could really see me. don’t get me wrong, i – i don’t hate my crew. but i spent so long feeling like a burden, and maki – maki was different.”

don’t cry. don’t you dare fucking cry. the stones grow to boulders and you hate it, hate this feeling that gojo satoru might watch you finally shed tears over the people you couldn’t save. but you cannot swallow a grief of this size, so you merely wipe the edges of your eyes as if your tears were nothing but sand.

“they meant something to me,” you confess, “and i failed them.”

gojo’s eyes soften into cotton. “sometimes, you just can’t save everything you love. and it will fucking hurt but it still happens and it can’t be stopped.”

“i never would have done it,” you admit then. even now, the memory of the knife feels foreign in your hands. even now, you cannot imagine a world in which you did what todou told you.

“no,” gojo agrees. he does not attempt to console you with sugar and honey, not anymore. “you wouldn’t have. and that’s not a bad thing. for all you know, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“but it killed todou.” you see it now, pain in his eyes, the girl he will never come home too. you see it, always, this long and terrible dream of yours, this plague you cast upon your being.

“no. zenin naoya killed todou,” gojo corrects. “you merely chose not to kill him.”

“but i–”

gojo throws up a delicate hand to silence you. “not everything has to be about fear and blood and hate. there’s nothing wrong with wanting to see life on these shores. you chose life. zenin naoya chose blood. and what he chose is not a reflection on you. naoya’s decision caused you pain – but what are you going to do about it? what will you fight for?”

you pause as you consider him, as the red sun creeps higher until both of you are shrouded in its early-morning glow. the breeze quickens; the island wakes; you consider, finally, the way the universe springs into being, breathing light and shadow, as life is born in a rippling sea.

“i don’t know if i could kill him,” you say then. “but i sure hate him enough to do it.”

“that is the contradiction that plagues us all,” gojo admits with a mournful smile. “and it is a decision that no one will ever be able to help you make.”

“what about you?” you say, heels digging into the sand. “what are you fighting for?”

“ah.” gojo exhales deeply, cheekily. if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was genuinely embarrassed by your question, that he truly did not want to answer. “see, i’m not a very good example.”

“why?”

sadness pools in his shoulders and drags him to the earth like a mortal sin to its damnation. it is a grief that will never stop chasing him, that laminates his eyes when he imparts his wisdom upon you. it is a curse that eats away at him, flesh and bone, until you fear that one day there will be nothing left but dust.

“you asked me how sirens are made.” his voice, while light and airy, unsettles you with its insistence. “whether it’s true that something is stolen away which renders you inhuman – that binds you, hand and foot, to an eternity of something else.”

he inhales; you hold your breath. across the island, silence falls like a woolen blanket.

“as you know, i was human once, long ago, at the beginning of the world and wind and sea. i had everything that could be offered me: land, wealth, fame. the gojo family owned everything from my eyes to the horizon. if i snapped my fingers, the gods would have answered.” he chuckles to himself, a reckless and cruel sound, narcissus before his mirror.

“but, as befalls all wealthy bachelors, there was something else i wanted that money could not give me. i, powerful as i was, felt lonely. so i went looking, from land and air to fire and water, for something to fix this. but everyone knows that love will never find you if you search too much. so i thought i failed and prepared to return home.

“until i found him.”

(he freezes because he will not say the name, the powerful thing. it is poison on his tongue and yours. it is the name he will carry with him to his grave. it is a name that awakens a sin.)

“maybe i was nothing but a fool confined by his first love, but i would have followed him to death. he was different, you see. powerful, clever, strong. he was the only person i believed could match me. he thought he could achieve things that no one else, even me, ever could – he wanted to form life where there was none. he wanted to learn how to create new ways of being, how to change the foundation of existence itself. and i loved that about him, since it meant we’d reinvent the summit and fit our thrones there together.”

the tide rolls in as gojo pauses, lost to an eternity. you pause, lost to the longing you understand. the island pauses, holds its breath, as it remembers what once transpired long ago.

“of course, i was a young and haughty fool. what we made was not enough for either of us. he wanted to shift the world, control it, and glued to his side, i wanted to let him.

“so later, when he said he wanted to try something, to experiment with the structure of the human being, i believed him; i loved him. i let him shift and take whatever he wanted from inside me until there was nothing but emptiness. when he was finished, i could not touch land. i could never go home; i was no longer myself. afterwards, satisfied, with the rest of me still gathered in his arms, he left. i haven’t seen him since.”

gojo turns back to you now, eyes full of raw unwillingness, where a rising sun reflects onto cool and open pools. he is no longer narcissus; he nothing but the mirage. gojo, you see, has never been anything but the reflection of a self he lost long ago.

(he waits, ghost of the ocean, siren of the sea, until something will drag him back under.)

“you see,” gojo says, “sirens are not the only kinds of curses, but we are among the earliest. you merely have to manipulate a soul to enact the change. he is not the only one who knows how to do it, but he was one of the first who tried. these days i hear he can manifest any curse that he asks for.” he shrugs, then, as if it weighed nothing. “hungry for power, i gave my soul willingly, and now i pay the price.”

gojo stands, water droplets like tears on his torso, and lets the terror fall behind him. the strength and vigor return to his system as he puts away the mirror he is and becomes the man he wishes to be. with the sun on his shoulders you believe him, his arrogance and his pride and the price he paid for it.

“i fight for myself and my power alone,” gojo says, holding out a smooth and welcoming hand. “but you don’t have to. it’s lonely to try and miserable to fail.”

he leads you deeper into the sea, where the cold water laps at your ankles, where the pain of existence welcomes you into its arms. neither speak; neither have to. in the tender glow of an early morning gojo assumes his fighting stance. you, with the future on your eyes and the past at your hips, take yours. the air is different now, heavy with a secret and a confession, an understanding which shifts grief into release.

you do not have to. and you will not, because it is not your face or zenin naoya’s or even zenin maki’s face you desire most but another face, with cool eyes and dark hair and small fingers. it is his face on your memory, his future on your tongue. you are tied to him forever: and you will do it, all of it, because you love him, your megumi, your blessings.

so when gojo lunges forward to meet you, you do not hesitate to match him, blow for blow.

it’s crude, unrefined. but you feel this thing called balance spread through your limbs as your feet slide through the sand and you no longer falter under his fists. it spurs you further, this newfound knowledge that gojo can hit you and you can hit back. sure, you are no dancer. but perhaps, one day, you could be.

still you lose. still, as the morning wears on and your strength wanes, gojo sends you flying into the sea and pins your tired body to the waves. but he breathes a little heavier now, tries a little harder, and you bask in these moments of progress, in these moments of power.

“you’re getting better,” gojo comments as you rise to your feet, clothes stuck to your body, humid air turning you to mold. “a few more days, maybe, and i think you’ll be ready.”

“i haven’t won yet,” you say, but that’s no longer a fatal thing.

gojo grins, stretching his arms to throw victory to the wind. “no, but you haven’t quite lost, either. as long as you don’t lose, your opponent can’t win. see?” he beckons you back to him. “again.”

so you try again. you picture yourself like your stories would: like a hero, the underdog who climbs through the ashes to take their rightful prize. you picture yourself like something out of legend, like the beginning of a long and cherished epic. gojo is your enemy, keeper of all that lies ahead. his skin is cool beneath your fists, air beneath your blows. you consider him like you would a mirror to discern your own movements.

still you lose. but with the sun at your back, you do not mind, because now you are beginning understand how a battle really works.

“watch your left side,” gojo comments this time. “that’s your weak point. and don’t be afraid to stop thinking so much. you’re losing because you’re trying to outwit me.”

you nod but do not stand, water floating past your knees as you relax into the surf. “don’t think. got it.”

gojo laughs then, a light and airy sound, like hummingbirds and pale blooms. after humbly splashing water in your direction he sits beside you to drink in the quiet, to consider the unknown.

“you know, i felt the same about someone,” you say, if only because you feel like you and gojo could have been better acquaintances, once, had life not brought you together like this. “he left too. i wonder if i’ll see him again.”

(you say if, but deep down, you reckon when.)

“you will.” gojo sounds like a pearl, like an oracle, even when the pain of the future no longer scares him. “it’s written in all of our terrible fates to meet the ghosts that haunt us.”

“even yours?”

he runs a gentle hand through his hair and closes his eyes briefly as if he loathed the thought of it, as if the mention of guests brought distaste. “even mine. especially mine.”

a lone cloud sails across the horizon. “i’m scared, really. i wonder if we’ll be the same.”

“we never are.” gojo chuckles ruefully, studies his reflection on the water, and leans back to trace the blue line of the horizon. “and it’s never happy.”

“maybe he’ll give you your soul back,” you say, but you know, even as the words leave your lips, that nothing can ever be so simple. you remember the blue-haired man who came creeping through your quarters, the glean in his eyes when he caressed your soul like it made the stars, the ache in your chest that lingered long after he left you.

(something that can never be returned. you would have to uproot the world to try, and even then you may never find it.)

“i’d probably have to kill him to get it back,” gojo says, lighthearted, as a parrot chimes brightly somewhere on the mountain. “and perhaps that’s the greatest joke of all.”

“why?”

he turns to you, feral, and you fall deeply, horribly, painfully into the fury beneath those blue eyes. “because i have to destroy him,” gojo says, “and even still, after everything, i’m in love.”

––

he reaches out to you with frail hands.

you do not recognize this place, at least not at first: it looks and feels like your hometown, like the home of the printing master and the one-eyed pirate, but the name of it eludes you. the buildings keep shifting, the water nonexistent. it is a town that keeps expanding, contracting, shifting, so that you know it is one place when it should be another.

the room looks like yours, or what you thought it used to be, but megumi lies in his wooden cradle in the center. he watches you expectantly, waiting for the love he knows you will give him. outside, the sky shifts from yellow to blue as if it were both morning and night and nothing at all. you ignore this, as you ignore the low hiss of the serpent in the corner.

your eyes are only for megumi. you cannot explain it but you know, instinctively, that if you look away from him something terrible will happen. you must not look to the serpent in the room or the yellow sky outside. it is him, your blessing, or nothing at all.

i’m here, you want to say, but he already knows it. megumi is warm and tender beneath your palms. you lift him from his cradle, and he feels like a pocket of air against your chest. you grip him tighter, harder, fearing he will float away on the wind if you aren’t careful.

should you sing to him? you wonder what sorts of stories megumi likes to hear. he is soundless against your chest, the obedient thing, hands curling into fists as they rest against you. you are at peace. the serpent’s eyes, luminous and petrifying, study you from the shadow in the corner of the room. all is well.

“we should go get some fresh air,” you tell megumi sweetly like he is your own. “you’ve been in this hot room all day. maybe i can take you to the sea.”

you rise, clutching the baby in your arms, and head for the door. the serpent scuttles behind you, watching, speechless, but reluctant to be left behind. you continue to ignore it, simply because you do not have the time.

it is both yellow and night outside the door when you open it. the road stretches on expansively, curved and writhing, without trees, without understanding. it is your home and is not. down the road, someone drags along a large fish who breathes heavy even when it should be dead.

something is off, the sign of an oncoming storm lying just a breath away. you can feel it, heavy in the air, even if there are no storm clouds and no lighting. it has a presence, a knowingness, an unmistakeable consciousness that finds you on your doorstep.

you know it is coming and you cannot escape it. it is just not just in the sky but in the shadows of your house, in the places you seek comfort. clutching megumi even tighter to your chest, you step out into the street to find safety. an uncomfortable wind screams down the street and you know that the storm is coming for you both.

so you do what you always do: you run. but with every step your legs sink deeper into the mud and you are slower, slower, suspended in time. there is no place for you and megumi to go. sweat beads on your forehead and cotton collects in your mouth. the presence is coming closer, closer, but your limbs ignore you, and in this world you cannot run fast enough.

the scenery shifts and buildings evaporate and you can see down a gentle hill to the beach. the sea, like everything else, is colored in an alarming dark grey, like it contains oil and hatred that would burn to the touch. it churns with an aliveness, a consciousness. its tendrils reach out across the sky, make contact with the clouds, and swallow the universe whole.

alone, bobbing on the water, sits a black ship that should not exist. it is larger than the malevolent shrine by an eon, with black sails and cannons shrouded in a deep purple mist. you fear it as you fear dying, as you fear a long and terrible dream. horribly, it watches you and megumi. you realize it is the presence on this ship which seeks to kill you both.

it is following you everywhere. it will follow you until you die.

you turn away, clutching megumi in your arms, and try to head inland before that thing can catch you. but it is no use when you do not move fast enough and the wind is too strong. you glance back to find that the ship is already on shore, waiting for your body like a ghost.

“it’s him!” zenin maki is beside you with large, panicked eyes and three knives at her belt. “come on! it’s him!” she is trying to pull you towards a dark street where nobara pauses, waiting, where they are telling you it will be safe but you know is not. you know this because there is already the shadow of a hand wrapping itself around nobara’s ankle as she beckons to you.

no, you say, but your throat is too thick to speak. but it does not matter, because nobara is dead and writhing on the ground and maki is bleeding out as she looks at you. they are dead men walking when they reach out to you with bloody fingers and you do not know whether they mean love or harm. you blink once and todou is there, reaching too, life missing from his eyes, blood seeping through his torso where naoya’s sword cut through him.

you hold megumi close to your chest but even he is gone, nothing but air, and you’re screaming at the top of your lungs because you do not know where he is and you need to find him. you have to find him or everything you know will crumble.

but it does not matter. that thing from the sea is here and it is running sharp fingernails into your neck and you’re collapsing, dying, no sky left above you.

––

a cold sweat blankets your skin. your arms reach for megumi, for his absence, but he is not here, and you are not home. you hardly register the midnight quiet settling across the island, the keening insects and unseen creatures who make love in the tender dark. you do not recognize this safety: because that thing is following you, and you are terrified.

you still feel it, those cold fingers tearing you open like you were sewn from nothing. it is an acute terror, one that has existed since the birth of the universe. it is too real to let go, because if there is anything you know, it is that the nightmare which plagues you will always come to pass.

you see the darkness in every corner and crevice of things. it is behind you, now, waiting for you to turn so that it might catch your gaze as it kills you –

“calm down,” sukuna says, “it’s just me.” his footsteps approach with that lackadaisical ease, the echo of amusement on his lips, but you will not listen, will not retreat.

you wonder if sukuna has ever dreamt this dream, if he knows of the evils that follow you both.

“i––” you tell him, but you cannot do it.

you watch, as if from outside yourself, from somewhere else, as sukuna kneels across from you. his frame blankets the shadows until it is only him that dominates your vision. he is warmth, creation. you tell yourself not to close your eyes; you fear for everything except him.

“it’s fine,” he says, “it’s fine.” you do not recognize this unfamiliar tenderness, but still, you listen.

and just as they had many moons ago, neptune’s hands find a home on your skin; they brush against your temples, cradle your head in his palms. he does not speak. his hands grow warm again, like candles and embers, as he had done, once, when he cradled your wound. but where that touch had been urgent and sharp, this is slow and unrefined. where before, sukuna had merely tried to keep you alive, he now spreads through your veins like a potent drug that threatens to send you into an oblivion from which you will never return.

you would like to drown in it, in this sensation of nothingness, in this sensation of sukuna.

the heat from his palms wraps itself languidly around your skull, dives deep into your memories, slowly and gingerly tugging away the nightmare that ailed you. with every deep breath sukuna draws out the poison like a snake bite and discards it, bit by bit.

it feels good. he feels good. you do not know how or why sukuna pulls this darkness from you, but he does, intently, staring past your eyes and into your forehead like he can detect what lies in there.

“what are you doing?” you whisper, soft, eyes and ears full of sukuna ryoumen and his wicked plans.

“helping you,” he says impatiently. “now calm down.”

“but why–” you stop your sentence immediately when he shoots you a dangerous glare. why now? how can you do this? why have you never cared about anything i dreamt before?

“be quiet,” sukuna instructs. you listen. the trees shift and sway in the midnight breeze and sukuna draws forth the memory of your nightmare until there is nothing left but him, his warmth and his presence, carrying you like a baby bird. you do not understand this side of him, and you fear it as you fear the unknown.

you cannot look away from sukuna’s red eyes as he fixates on your forehead and sifts through your memories. you study the crease in his forehead, the flex of his biceps whenever he moves. you recall your encounter with him, once, on the beach long ago. but sukuna no longer sizes you up to determine whether you are worthy of him. he must have, somewhere along the way, decided that you already are.

“how often do you have this dream?” he asks. his thumbs trace your temples, long nails scratching gently against your skin, and you lean into it like you would a lover. he does not sound concerned, but curious, like he has, for the first time all over, begun to acknowledge the depth of your feeling.

“a few times,” you say. “it’s a little different every time, but it always ends the same, with everyone dying.”

“and the ship?”

could he see everything you were thinking? it should be a violation, and yet, obediently, you welcome him into every corner.  

“this was the first time,” you respond. “and the worst.”

“tell me if you see it again.” sukuna pulls his hands away, slowly, heat fading with the distance. you want to ask him to return, to never stop, but you pause at the hard glint in his eyes. you can see it, hiding behind his stoic demeanor, the worry that ails him.

“why?” you say then, desperate for the sound of his voice, for his attention, for his words. “does it mean something?”

sukuna scowls without a reply. he sit back, silent and still, as if he had not performed another act of kindness, another act of care, a perpetual ritual of penance and forgiveness for all he has ever done to hurt you.  

but you are wide awake with the force of his being. you shift closer, close the space, and try again. “how do you do that thing with your hands?”

you reckon he will not respond when he does not move and does not acknowledge you. and you tell yourself adamantly that it’s enough, for now, just to bask in his presence. but as a toad croaks and sukuna runs one hand through his hair, he says, “i just can.”

“so you can heal people or what?”

he shifts. “if i wanted to.”

it is a curious thing, you think, that the king of the sea, the tyrant of death, holds the power of life in his palms. it’s a curious thing, you think, that he is all blood and all terror when he can do this, when he can take the pain from you and make it his own without thinking. you’re beginning to understand, you believe, why sukuna locks everything away and carries the burden of knowing all on his own. sukuna ryoumen holds too much in his hands; and, like gojo, like every entity before him, he is damned forever cradle it alone.

“is there anything else you can do?” besides heal at will and win every battle and know everything i’m thinking?

the corners of his mouth curl upwards. “yes.” it is clear that captain sukuna ryoumen has no intention of telling you what those things are, so you sit back to watch the darkness he watches, to listen to the sound of a lonely island and wade in the shadow of the mountain.

you could almost call it peace, this thing that sits between you. you could almost call it home.

“when this is over – where will we go next?” you ask him, breaking the silence, because it is a courtesy, because it is your right.

sukuna shrugs nonchalantly. “where do you want to go?”

his question throws you off center. his expression does not change, like he has merely asked you about the weather or your training and not the fate of the entire malevolent shrine. he does not give his motives away, his feeling, but you reckon that even now he seeks the favor he nearly lost.

(it is his sorrow, his apology, that reaches out across the empty space between you. and you take it, always, like a lover and a prayer.)

a moth flutters past your eyelids. you let yourself breathe in, deeply, and feel the weeds that bend beneath your fingertips. you let yourself observe the steady rise and fall of sukuna’s chest, the way he watches you without letting you know, the way you could twitch your fingertips and your hands would meet.

“i’d find megumi if i could,” you admit finally, softly. “and maki, too. i don’t think i’d be happy unless i saw them again.”

(you will not be happy. you will not be whole. not until you have paid the price.)

“then that’s where we’ll go,” sukuna says like it is the most natural thing in the world. he says it like you should have known, like he had thought of it first, like that had been his intention long before he ever knew you. it is all you can do to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest from the sheer weight of his statement, from the way he is offering you your second life, from the way he tells you without saying that everyone in your heart has always been alive.

“but – why?” you sputter, trying to meet his red gaze, to understand him. “i thought it wasn’t your fight.”

sukuna is only amused by your shock, jeering at you the way one laughs at a kitten chasing rays of light up the wall. a steady hand snakes beneath your chin, feeling along the curve of your jawline, tearing you apart seam by seam. and you know from the goosebumps that you are forever cursed by him, by his eyes and by his heart, in the same way gojo is forever cursed to a lonely life at sea.

but this too, you know, is merely the curse you gave to yourself: to follow the legend and never look back.

“because,” sukuna says, his voice a fire that seeks to devour you, “it’s yours, and what’syours,” he pauses, traces your lips to draw you into silence, “becomes mine.”

––

this is the morning; it prays in your bones. the island lies paused on a too-bright morning, pale yellows and blues, a tense peace threatening to snap. even the tide is still, too hesitant to roll into the sand, and the sky watches, empty, spotless, cruel.

everyone is watching you. it is the moment. it is why you ran yourself ragged on the beach and climbed the mountain and took gojo’s punches until your sanity bled. you can feel it the way you know your own name: this is the moment. you will succeed or you will fail, but your time here has ended.

you know it because sukuna did not leave after your nightmare. you know it because you woke up with your forehead brushing his thigh as he sharpened his swords beside you, eggs and turtles already caught and cooked and waiting over the fire.

(“are you ready?” he’d asked. and even when he did not look at you, the sizable portions and the clean water in your flask were enough to speak volumes.)

you woke different and he knew it. something finally shifted and you know that you are not the same person you were before.

gojo watches as you make your approach, still and serene with his ankles in the surf, as arrogant as ever with his too-blue eyes and his irritating smile. he is narcissus again, or appears to be, because gojo satoru cannot win if he is nothing but the mirror. he shines like a pearl and holds out his arms to greet you like a god and his believer.

the morning sun beats down on you just a little bit harder. it will be unfavorably hot today.

you let the sea roll across your toes as you face him. you feel lighter than you had been, once, a new hero who has discerned how to balance the heavy weight on your shoulders. it will not kill you, you know. but todou aoi is something that can never leave you, even in your brightest hour. you must move forward for him. for your price. for the faces that you could not protect when you needed to.

you cannot go back, and to run is the only way forward. you understand it now, you think. there weighs heavy in the air all that had been and all that could be and all that waits patiently still. you must hold it as you hold a heartbeat. you must find the lining between the heart and the soul of things, the place you can move without fetters.

and perhaps you will lose. but at least, with this self on your shoulders and a resolution in your eyes, you know that you tried.

(and that in itself is enough. that, at least, is what you could not give him when he asked for it.)

you do not need to take your stance. in your mind’s eye, you already have it; you must only follow the thread of your intuition where it guides you. because this fight, this trial, has never been about you. you see that now. your time here is not about your personal failings, or gojo’s curse, or sukuna’s whims, but about the story you must weave once you collect the words to build it.

gojo holds them. and now, here, it is your time to take.

he nods; you nod. with the chime of a parrot your penance begins.

it is like you know exactly where gojo satoru will strike, as if you have finally memorized his elusive dance. your fists are quick and eager to meet his, to block him the moment he gets close. you are not focused on collapsing the infinity between you, not yet. you are warming up your limbs. you are introducing yourself to the threshold of the fight.

gojo kicks at your shins to shift you; you dodge like a dancer, mirroring his movements as the second narcissus. gojo is swift but you are tender. gojo is earth but you are stars. he is proteus on the shore, the god of the sea and the keeper of the future, but you are no failure beneath his palms. he has nurtured you for this moment, raised you as if you were born from his bones. gojo satoru, ruler of power, does not want you to lose. sukuna ryoumen, ruler of your heartbeat, does not want you to lose.

and you, menaleus, hero of your own keeping, do not want to lose. you remember what you told fushiguro toji, once, that he would have been menaleus if he fought the serpent. but toji is no longer the warrior; it is you. and you will prove it to gojo and naoya and megumi and fate that you will write the future and place yourself inside it.

you can do this. you will. because you are weightless on your feet and the waves cannot hurt you. because you do not even need to be aware of gojo’s movements to know where you must meet him. you do not fear for yourself but for what exists outside you; you throw yourself into a fray of your own making, body and soul, because the only way to succeed is to make gojo fall to the ground.

it will take all of you. it always has. it always will.

you latch yourself onto gojo’s frame and refuse to release. you clasp your arms around his torso, clinging to him like a raft in a stormy sea, kicking at his shins, pulling him down with the weight of you. he writhes in your grasp and promises that he will tear your fingers from your wrists, your feet from your body. his legs change into sharp tails; his skin turns to scales and ash; he undergoes a thousand transformations as he transitions from man to sea and back again in the effort to lose you.

but you will not let go, even when his scales draw blood, when his fists hammer against your skull, when his sirens’ nails dig so deeply into your sides you think he’ll leave scars. you will not let go. you resort to all that you have left and bite him with fury, claw at his back, scream and roar in a voice that is not your own.

you are outside yourself, beyond it. because it is not you that fights but the remorse and rage that pools within you, the love you carry that will drive you to the ends of the earth.

it is a blessing. it is a curse.

like todou aoi did long ago, like fushiguro toji used to do in a small bedroom with a window to the sea, you push everything you have into your chest and throw gojo satoru to the ground.

you do not have to beat him. you do not have to. you merely have to hold him there, flailing with his head in the sea, until he understands that he could kill you and you would never let him go.

after a minute or two he taps your arm, lifts his head above water. with white hair matted across his eyes, gojo softens beneath you and unclenches his fists in a silent truce.

cool waves wash over and gojo smiles, a terrible and powerful thing, a smile that tells you your victory might be worse than your defeat.

“you’ve passed,” he says, ruining your pride as he cheekily adds, “took you long enough.”

you huff and let him go only after you consider shoving that awful grin back beneath the water.

but now when you look at gojo, at his narcissus pool and his sorrow, you do not fear him. perhaps he has changed, but so have you. perhaps the weight of what comes next has finally made its home in your heartbeat. your time alone with your thoughts and your fear is over. you are different now without being entirely sure you are ready.

he watches you. you watch him. the present hits you both like wildfire.

“it’s time,” gojo announces to the silence. his eyes shift from you to the shore, where sukuna, glorious in the sun and gleaning with pride, waits beside the sandy and sun-beaten rowboat. “i told you if you could beat me i would answer your question.”

what’s yours becomes mine. sukuna’s future sits on your tongue like unripened fruit. you cradle it as you would hold his soul in your hands.

“i want to know where megumi is,” you demand. you cannot forget his eyes that unwound you, the bond that exists which can never be severed.

gojo’s slippery grin only widens at your request. “as i expected. you’ll find him, alive and well, hidden away in tengen’s nest. but be careful–” his eyes shift, sparkle with excitement and danger – “because i suspect you’ll find other ghosts on the prowl there as well. after all, you’re still not the only one who’d like to find him.”

(even as he warns it, you do not entirely mind the prospect of meeting zenin naoya again, fair ground to fair ground.)

“and–” gojo stops you before you can move to stand up. he is serious now, no amusement in his expression when he regards you. “don’t forget the favor i must ask of you. if you find him well, bring him to me. i reckon he’d make a wonderful pupil.”

you nod, throat dry, and wring the excess water from your shirt. “i – i will.”

maybe you are not the only person who sees how megumi holds the whole world in his palms. you will not question this final kindness gojo satoru offers you, this final favor, this final request.

so you rise, as you have done and will do, and bow. “thank you. for everything.”

“not a problem,” gojo winks. already his legs blend back into his tail, and as he loses his limbs he drifts towards the boulders like he has done all his life. “it was an honor. you’re the first student i’ve ever had who succeeded. the last one couldn’t do it – but i don’t think he ever listened as well as you did.”

(to my advice or to my stories, he wants to say, but you know from his expression what he means.)

“who was the last?” you know it is a futile question when gojo only simpers in reply.

“oh, i’m sure you’ll meet him,” he replies flippantly, already lost to the stones, already disappearing into the past, “but perhaps you know him already.”

and with a breath gojo satoru is gone, returned to the depths of his curses and his pain. you know, as the tide washes in and you search for him one last time before trekking back to shore, that his future now rests in your hands. if sukuna must break gojo’s curse, then so must you. he sails out there, that poor lover of his, and you wonder what you’ll do when you see him.

“well?” sukuna greets you as you approach. “where are we headed next, sailor?”

together you push the rowboat back into the sea. together you sit in silence as you abandon the cove you had once called your hell and your haven. the sun assails you, the harbinger of a long and humid morning, but you do not mind it. you consider it all, the place you must go, the place you have been, and there is no feeling but anticipation.

you consider sukuna’s question and you consider your answer. you consider the stories you’ve heard and the people you wished you could have become. you think of a young man with a scar on his mouth who once stole serpents from the sea, of a blonde man with cruelty at his side who once took everything from you.

but he cannot touch you, now. you are no longer the observer of a wanted fiction. you will wrestle it from him, tooth and nail, until he prays for your hands to take him.

the wrath of the sea wants retribution. they know you. they know.

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

Privileged (Pt 34/?)

Summary: Lincoln’s death proves to be the breaking point of more than one relationship as *yn* and the rest of the group plot how they can take back Arkadia and save their people.

Warnings: ANGST, swearing, violence

Notes: Based on 3x10 “Fallen” of The 100.

‘Privileged’ Masterlist

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

*yn* could practically smell the fresh water trickling down the rock surface as the group approached the cave entrance.

They had been walking in complete silence for the past hour. Not a single word had been exchanged, not even a glance had been shared.

The tension was palpable, so thick that *yn* swore she could smell it mixed in with the smell of the fresh dew and wet grass.

She could feel her heart hammering in her chest as the group fell into a line as they walked behind a huge boulder, revealing the entrance to the hideout. 

She felt a breath catch in her throat as she turned the corner to see Bellamy standing just inside the cave. His wrists were bound in front of him and she could see that he was chained to the wall. 

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment before she averted her gaze and followed Sinclair inside. She could practically feel the rage radiating from Octavia who was following closely behind her. A part of her was scared to even turn around and risk making eye contact with her. 

“Where’s Lincoln?” *yn* winced at Bellamy’s words.

There was a pause and then, “Pike put a bullet in his brain.” Octavia spoke, her voice void of all emotion. *yn* came to a stand still and couldn’t help herself but look up at Bellamy once more. 

He was already looking at her, clearly trying to gage her emotions. She simply stared blankly back at him. Bellamy swallowed, his eyes growing glossy as he looked back at Octavia who still had her back to him. 

“O, O I’m so-”

*yn* flinched involuntarily as Octavia swung around, a grunt leaving her mouth as her balled up fist collided with his jaw. Miller sprung to his feet as Sinclair and Marcus immediately took a few steps towards the siblings.

Bellamy took a step back as he recovered from the blow, his eyes wide as he stared back at his sister. Octavia glared at him for a few moments before she raised her arm again, this time landing two punches on either side of his face in quick succession. 

“Octavia that’s enough.”

“O, stop.” 

*yn* and Marcus both spoke at the same time as they simultaneously stepped even closer. 

“Stay out of this.” Bellamy ordered, his gaze flickering between them both. Blood was beginning to ooze out of freshly made cuts on his cheeks. 

Moments after the words had left his mouth, Octavia descended on him once more. This time landing blows to his stomach and arms. *yn* could see that Sinclair and Bryan were averting their gazes, both clearly feeling queasy at the sight. All it took was another punch for Marcus to crack, shaking his head as he turned his back from the pair. 

She knew that she didn’t owe Bellamy anything, that she should hate him with everything in her for what he did. For how he betrayed her and her friends, her family. But the sight of him wounded and in pain was making her feel sick. So sick that she knew she couldn’t stand by and watch it continue.

“That’s enough, O.” *yn* spoke once more as Octavia shoved Bellamy against a wall to knee him in the stomach. 

“*yn*, leave them.” Elijah murmured softly, gently grabbing her arm to cease her moments.

“Get off me.” *yn* snarled, yanking herself out of Elijah’s grip instinctively as she watched Bellamy sink to his knees, crimson red blood now pouring out of what looked like every inch of his face. 

She distanced herself from Elijah’s hold despite the protests from the rest of the group. In the midst of her rage, Octavia shoved at her blindly as *yn* tried to pull her off Bellamy. *yn* gritted her teeth and shoved Octavia back, forcefully enough that Octavia stumbled back enough for her to shove herself in-between Bellamy and Octavia. 

“Get the hell out of my way *yn*.” Octavia hissed, her eyes burning with rage as she glared at Bellamy over *yn*’s shoulder. 

“No.” *yn* answered firmly. 

“I won’t warn you again.” 

“Go ahead.” *yn* spoke matter-of-factly.

“*yn*-” Marcus began but stopped himself off when *yn* rose her hand to signal him to stop. “No. Let her hit me if she wants.” *yn* answered, her eyes never leaving Octavia’s trembling figure.

Octavia eyed her for a few moments before drawing her arm back, her fist clenching into a ball. *yn* mentally braced herself for the pain as Octavia’s arm began to sail through the air towards her. However, the blow never came as Octavia stopped short just inches from *yn*’s face. 

“Just move *yn*.” Octavia spoke, her voice growing desperate as it wavered and tears streamed down her face.

“No.” *yn* repeated firmly and she knew in that moment that Octavia was not going to harm her. 

“You’ve made your point. Don’t do something that you’ll regret.”

“How can you defend him? After all he’s done, to Trikru, to us - to you.” Octavia snarled. *yn* ensured to keep her face neutral as she locked eyes with her friend.

“There’s been enough bloodshed. Don’t forget who your real enemy is. Pike is still in control of Arkadia. We all need to be at our best if we want to stop him.” *yn* spoke calmly. As she talked she could physically see Octavia slowly beginning to calm down, her fist was now at her side and her chest was beginning to rise less frequently.

Octavia took one glance at *yn* before moving her gaze to Bellamy. Tears were still spilling down her cheeks at a rapid pace, her bottom lip trembling as she opened her mouth to speak.

“You’re dead to me.” 

The silence following Octavia’s words were deafening as the group watched her shoot Bellamy one last hateful look before she stormed out of the cave. The rest of the group did not dare utter another word as they all began to busy themselves with setting up a fire and gathering food to eat.

*yn* stole a glance at Bellamy as she made her way over to her bag. She felt her heart sink at the sight of him, still slumped over on his knees. Heartbreak was evident on his features, his face now covered in cuts that were still bleeding profusely. She looked back at her bag, spying the small medical kit that Abby had obviously packed for her.

“Fuck.” She muttered under her breath. Letting out a huff as she pulled it out and made her way back over to Bellamy. She could feel pairs of eyes on her as she came to a stop and crouched down so she was eye level with him.

“Sit up.” She ordered, sitting back on her haunches. “Before I change my mind,” she warned as she opened the medical kit on the ground.

Bellamy manoeuvred so he was sitting up right, his back pressed against the cave wall. The pair stayed silent as *yn* began to gently wipe the blood from his face. *yn* glanced over her shoulder to see Elijah staring at the pair. She inhaled sharply and turned her attention back to Bellamy.

Bellamy’s eyes never left *yn*, analysing every inch of her face. He watched as her brow furrowed and she bit her lip lightly in concentration. He wanted nothing more than to cling to her, fall into her open arms as she told him that everything would be ok. 

*yn* could feel Bellamy’s eyes on her and she did everything she could to avoid locking eyes with him. She felt a tug at her heart strings as she places rubbing alcohol into a deep wound and Bellamy winced. Her instincts were screaming at her to envelope him in a tight hug, to run her hands through his curls and whisper comforting things into his ear. 

Those thoughts were quickly drowned out by an overwhelming feeling of resentment that suddenly washed over her. If it hadn’t been for Bellamy’s actions, she would be able to hug him. To kiss him. To love him. But he had chosen Pike over their relationship. She could never hug him like that again.

“Thank you.” Bellamy murmured, breaking *yn* out of her thoughts.

“I’m not doing this for you.” *yn* heard herself answer coldly back. “I know Octavia will grow to regret this one day. If you’re scarred, she’ll be constantly reminded of what she did.” 

Bellamy fell silent once more, nodding feebly at her words as *yn* finished applying the last of the ointment. He glanced down at his restrained hands, blinking hard to keep more tears at bay.

“Lexa’s dead.” He muttered.

“What?” His words made *yn* jerk her hand back from his face and for the first time since she had sat down, her wide eyes locked with his deep brown ones.

“Lexa’s dead.” He repeated. 

“How do you know? How can you be sure?” She queried, her brow furrowing once more as her mind raced at a million miles an hour.

“I know. Trust me on this-”

“Don’t.” *yn* cut him off suddenly, her eyes blazing with a new found anger. “You don’t get to say trust me, not after what you did to me- to us.” She corrected herself. Bellamy eyed her for a few moments, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something before sealing his mouth shut again.

“I need to go talk to the others about this.” *yn* sighed, dumping the cloth beside Bellamy. All too soon, her warm body vanished from his side as she rose to her feet and made her way towards the rest of the group.

“I’m sorry.” Bellamy mumbled under his breath. “Fuck I’m sorry.”

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

“You want some?” 

*yn* looked up from the flames flickering at her feet to see Elijah holding out a palmful of nuts and berries. She nodded, shooting him a grateful smile as she picked up a few and popped them into her mouth.

The feeling of food on her tastebuds seemed to remind her body of how hungry it was and sure enough her stomach let out a grumble. Elijah let out a small chuckle and pushed the rest of the food into her open palm.

“Here, take the rest. You need to eat.”

“Thank you.” She whispered, shooting him another smile which he returned as she greedily shoved the berries into her mouth.

Guilt nibbled at her insides once more at the thought that she was leading Elijah on. Using him as a distraction and a shoulder to lean on.

“We should get a patrol started.” She heard Bryan say. She immediately pushed the thoughts of Elijah to the back of her head. She needed to focus and any thoughts other than survival were a distraction. 

“I agree, although I think we’re too close to the grounder blockade for Pike to come searching.” Marcus remarked.

“Yeah, but are we safe from the blockade?” Bryan queried.

“If we stay on this side of the line we should be fine.” Marcus reassured him.

“They’re grounders. Are you sure they’ll play by the rules?” Bryan spoke back and the tone of his voice caused *yn* and Octavia to send him warning glares.

“What like when Pike played by the rules and slaughtered the army sent to protect us?” *yn* bit back. She clenched her jaw as she glared at Bryan. She could sense Bellamy’s eyes burning holes through her.

“Yeah but-”

“Hey, Pike will want you dead now too.” Miller piped up, raising a brow up at his boyfriend. And everyone knew that what he was really saying was “Are you sure you want to keep arguing with *yn* Kane?”

That message seemed to get across to Bryan who nodded glumly. “If we take Pike out, we can go home.” Elijah added.

“And if we take Pike out, then grounders will lift the blockade.” Harper spoke.

“That’s right. We become the thirteenth clan again, those are the terms.” Marcus nodded. 

“But those were Lexa’s terms. If what Bellamy says is true and Lexa is dead, how do we know the next commander will honour them?” Sinclair piped up, voicing *yn*’s own internal worries.

“One problem at a time.” Marcus shut him down causing *yn* to roll her eyes.

“And what about Clarke? If Lexa’s dead she won’t be safe in Polis.” Miller continued.

“Clarke made her choice.” Octavia snapped causing everyone to turn to look at her. “The only thing that matters now is killing Pike.”

*yn*’s frown deepened. “Octavia’s right. Once we reassume our place in the commander’s coalition, Clarke will be safe.”

“Yeah but we aren’t in the coalition, are we?” *yn* spoke. “Who knows how long it’ll take before we become the thirteenth clan? I know getting Pike is important-” She continued, shooting Octavia a glance, “but Clarke has sacrificed so much for all of us, we can’t just-”

“-We can just.” Octavia cut her off, thrusting her dagger into the ground as she looked at *yn*. “What the fuck is wrong with you? First you let Lincoln die, then you protect Bellamy and tend to him and now you’re trying to stop us from killing Pike because of Clarke? It’s like you’ve got no fucking spine-”

“-Octavia, I understand you are grieving but watch your fucking mouth or-”

“Bellamy, come in.” Bellamy’s radio suddenly crackled to life, interrupting the impending ticking time bomb that was *yn* and Octavia. “It’s Monty, I’m in trouble. Please say you still have your radio.”

Sinclair looked between *yn* and Octavia before slowly grabbing the radio and moved to give it to Marcus but paused. “If we respond and Pike’s listening-”

“Go to channel seven.” Bellamy’s gruff voice spoke up. Everyone turned around to look at him in the corner. “Please say you still have your radio, that’s seven words after the word trouble, it’s code. Go to seven.” He continued, his voice flat and void of emotion.

*yn* eyed him for a few moments before turning to her father who was already looking at her questioningly, seemingly waiting for her to make the call. “Do it.” *yn* nodded, stealing one last look at Bellamy before turning her attention back to the radio. She could feel Octavia shooting daggers at her and felt herself clench her fists at her sides as white hot rage bubbled within her. 

Sinclair gave Kane one last look before hesitantly flicking to channel seven. “Bellamy? Are you there?” Monty spoke.

“Monty. It’s Kane. What’s wrong?” Marcus answered after a few moments, exchanging another glance with *yn*.

“Pike knows that I helped you get out.” He spoke and *yn*’s heart dropped. Even though he betrayed her for his mother, Monty was still family. 

“Can you get to the drop ship?” Kane asked.

“I think so.”

“Go there, I’ll bring you in.” Kane ordered. “Stay off the radio. Over and out.”

“Ok hold on, what if it’s a trap and Pike’s waiting?” Harper queried.

“That’s why I’m going alone.” Marcus sighed as he rose up from his seat on a rock.

“Like hell you are.”

“No way in hell that’s happening.”

Octavia and *yn* both spoke simultaneously, shooting each other glares as they both rose to their full height. 

“They’re right.” Miller added as he got up. “Monty saved our lives, I’m going too.” 

“No you’re not. If it is a trap, I’m not marching our entire group into it.” 

“If you don’t want me going, you’re going to have to kill me.” Octavia answered as she shrugged on her jacket.

“She hopes it’s a trap.” Bellamy remarked dryly causing Octavia to shoot him a glare.

“I’m coming.” *yn* spoke up, locking eyes with her father. “Someone needs to make sure things don’t get out of control.” She added, raising a brow as she glanced at Octavia.

“Well he’s coming too.” Octavia bit back as she turned her attention to Bellamy. “We need a hostage to trade for Monty.” Her tone mocking as she sneered at her brother.

“It’s a good plan.” Kane admitted. “We’ll keep him chained, someone gag him.”

*yn* bit her tongue as she glanced at Miller to see him already looking at her, clearly trying to gage her reaction. He could tell she wasn’t pleased.

“Sir, with all due respect Bellamy’s-” Miller began.

“-He’s the enemy.” Marcus cut him off, sending *yn* almost a pointed look before looking back at Miller. “Do as I said.”

*yn* inhaled a sharp breath, attempting to mask her displeasure at her father’s words as she moved to go begin collecting her things. “Are you sure you want to go?” Elijah’s voice piped up from behind her.

“There’s every possibility that it’s a trap.” He continued once she had turned around to lock eyes with him.

“I’m sure.” She nodded, looking over at Octavia who was sharpening her sword. “Octavia’s a loose cannon right now. I need to look out for her.” 

“You sure that’s the only person you want to look out for?” Elijah queried, unable to hide the jealousy woven through his tone. Regret slapped him in the face the second the words slipped out of his mouth and he could see *yn* visibly flinch at his question.

“Are you seriously bringing this up right now?” *yn* snapped, feeling her face flush at his unexpected question. 

“*yn* I-”

“I can’t deal with this right now, we can talk about it later.” 

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

“Can we talk?” 

Octavia ripped her eyes away from the path in front of her to see that *yn* had fell in line with her.

“About?”

“Take a stab at it and have a guess.” *yn* huffed.

“Not literally though... please.” She added and Octavia couldn’t stop the sharp chuckle of amusement that passed through her lips.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said what I said.” Octavia admitted, throwing *yn* off guard.

“Oh I-”

“I know that you couldn’t have stopped Lincoln. It wasn’t fair for me to say that. And Bellamy-” Octavia cut her off and glanced over her shoulder.

“-I know it’s easier said than done to completely cut off someone you love. But what I said to him was true. He’s dead to me.” She continued, her face hardening as she spoke.

A few moments of silence passed between the pair as *yn* racked her brain to think of something to say. But as she opened her mouth to finally speak, Octavia beat her to it.

 “Look, I mean it when I say that I’m sorry, I don’t blame you for Lincoln’s death.” Octavia sighed as she came to a stop, turning her body to look at *yn*.  “But I do blame my brother and Pike. And if you come in-between me and killing Pike, I won’t hold back next time.” 

Before *yn* could even process the words that had just left Octavia’s lips, she was already turning away from *yn* and marching towards the drop ship once more.

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

“We’re about a minute out from the drop ship.” 

“I’ll scout the perimeter.” *yn* spoke, slinging the gun that was draped over her shoulder into her hands. “Keep close to each other.” She said before splitting off from Octavia, Marcus and Bellamy. 

She moved as stealthily as she could behind the makeshift fence that her and the other delinquents had made to keep the grounders at by. That battle seemed like a lifetime ago now.

“Monty?” She heard her father call out as she came to a halt at an opening in the fence line. It was just big enough that she could squeeze through if needed and allowed her an almost perfect view of the drop ship entrance.

 There was complete stillness as *yn* positioned her gun on a small ledge, placing her finger on the trigger as she waited.

“Get outside! Now!” Octavia bellowed suddenly. *yn* looked over her gun to see that she now had her blade pressed to Bellamy’s throat.

*yn* watched with bated breath as the flaps of the drop ship fluttered and a shaky Monty Green edged out into the sunlight. Her finger flew back to the trigger when Pike stepped out behind him, a gun pointed right at Monty’s temple.

“They followed me. I-I’m sorry.” Monty spoke quietly.

“Let him go Pike!” Kane yelled, but *yn* could see even from where she was standing that he was beginning to shake slightly.

“Can’t do that.” Pike answered calmly. 

A gun shot suddenly rang out, narrowly missing Octavia’s foot. *yn* immediately begun scanning the forest in the direction that the gunshot had come from.

“It’s over. Put down your weapons.” Pike ordered as he stood directly behind Monty, completely erasing any chance of *yn* or Marcus getting a clean shot.

“Come on Marcus.” Pike goaded as another shot rang out. “I promised Monty’s mother that I’d bring him home alive, don’t make me a liar.” 

“Fuck.” *yn* muttered under her breath as she watched her father relent, dropping the machine gun to the ground with his hands raised in defeat.

“Now you.” He ordered to Octavia, who promptly brought her blade closer to Bellamy’s throat. 

Her eyes darted around rapidly until finally she spotted one of Pike’s men peering out from behind a tree. She didn’t waste any time, steading her hand and holding a breath as she trained the rifle onto the target. 

Pike’s head jerked up in surprise as the bullet found it’s target, hitting the man square in the shoulder causing him to let out a groan as he dropped to the ground. 

“*yn*, that wasn’t very nice.” Pike drawled, shaking his head before muttering something into his radio.

Octavia let out a yelp in surprise as Bellamy suddenly gripped her arms and yanked the sword out of her hand. He overpowered her quickly, pulling her down so she fell to her knees. 

*yn* reacted instantly to Bellamy’s betrayal, her rifle finding another one of Pike’s men. This time the bullet went through his bicep. 

“You shoot one more bullet and a bullet will end up in Monty’s skull.” Pike threatened, clearly growing angry at *yn*’s defiance. “And you know I’ll do it. So reveal yourself *yn*.”

*yn*’s finger wavered over the trigger as she locked on to another one of Pike’s soldiers. She glanced over to see Monty shaking, his eyes squeezed shut as Pike pressed the gun further into his temple. “Shit.” She cursed, finally relenting and chucking the gun to the ground.

Pike’s face lit up in smug victory as she inched out of her hiding spot with her hands raised in surrender. “Very good.” He smirked before letting out a shrill whistle.

A dozen more soldiers immediately sprung out of their hiding spots and hurried towards their group. Octavia groaned as soldiers forced her hands in front of her and placed cuffs on her.

*yn* didn’t even flinch as two men grabbed her by the shoulders and roughly forced her hands together to bound them with rope.

“You don’t look so good.” Pike remarked to Bellamy as he leant down to pick up Octavia’s dropped weapon.

“I’m fine.” Bellamy answered back as he glanced over at *yn* who was currently staring daggers at him.

“You’ve got about five seconds to make me believe that you’re still with me.”

“All the other’s are in a cave not far from here-” 

“You motherfucker-” *yn* spat, moving to step towards him but was immediately stopped by two pairs of hands gripping her shoulders.

“You son of a bitch!” Octavia shrieked at the same time, however she was able to break free of her captors hold. *yn* could do nothing but watch in horror as one of the guards stepped forward and shocked her with an electric baton. Octavia fell to the ground in a crumpled heap, her eyes fluttering shut as she slipped into unconsciousness. 

Pike barely spared her a glance before looking back up at Bellamy. “Give me the coordinates.”

“I don’t have the coordinates.” Bellamy immediately answered. “But I can take you there.”

Pike eyed Bellamy for a few moments before nodding. He stepped forward and cut Bellamy’s hand restraints. “Gag the prisoners, we’ll head out immediately.” 

*yn*’s body tensed as she watched Bellamy approach her, the gag that had been over his mouth now dangling in his hand. “Don’t fight me on this.” He warned as he came to a stop in front of her.

The two other guards nails were basically digging into her flesh as they held her still. Her eyes narrowed as their gaze met fleetingly. There was something in his eyes. He was pleading with her to keep quiet, but there was something else. Something that she could not quite place her finger on. Despite every fibre of her being screaming at her to fight back, she didn’t. Instead she stayed perfectly still as he gently placed the gag into her mouth and tied it behind her head. 

“Let’s get going.”

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

*yn* pressed her tongue against the material in an attempt to alleviate some pressure. She knew Bellamy had tied it looser than most would, but the fabric was beginning to mix with her sweat and rub painfully against the corners of her mouth.

She was walking beside Monty who was occasionally stealing glances at her. She looked ahead of her and studied Bellamy’s figure for a few moments before her eyes flickered to her surroundings. They had initially begun on the right path to the cave where the rest of their group was hiding. But *yn* swore that they should have started to travel south a few minutes ago. 

“You sure about the route?” Pike’s voice broke the silence. “We’re getting close to the blockade line.”

“Kane intentionally set up out here, didn’t think we’d risk it.” Bellamy answered and her heart rate increased when she sensed a subtle edge to his voice.

“Well he was wrong.” 

*yn* risked a glance behind her to lock eyes with her father and she knew with one look that he’d picked up on it too. She ensured to keep her face neutral as Bellamy suddenly began to lead the group down a small slope.

Right towards the blockade line.

“Hold on.” Pike ordered causing the entire group to come to a sudden halt.

“It’s alright, the cave’s just on the other side.” Bellamy assured him and if *yn* didn’t hate him for what he had done she could have leapt into his arms and kissed him right then and there.

“Keep a sharp eye out.” Pike ordered, his gaze meeting *yn*’s briefly. She kept her face void of all emotion, simply staring back at him until he turned his head once more.

She inhaled a sharp breath as the group began to move forward, half of them completely oblivious that they were about to cross into grounder territory. All it took was one more step from Bellamy and a loud warning horn sounded, echoing through the trees.

“The blockade!” Pike shouted, grabbing his rifle immediately as he frantically looked up at the trees. “Anybody got eyes?”

*yn* watched as the panic grew in his eyes as the rest of his soldiers muttered frantic ‘no’s’ back at him. “Back to higher ground!”

*yn* watched as Pike turned around and the second his back was turned, Bellamy leapt forward and grabbed the gun out of his holster. 

“Drop your weapon!” Bellamy thundered, pointing the gun at Pike’s head.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pike yelled back, his face contorting into a mixture of confusion and fear.

“Drop your weapon!” Bellamy repeated. *yn* saw one of the soldiers move to aim their gun at Bellamy and she reacted instantly, stomping on one of their feet and using this as leverage to swing her other leg around to knee them in the stomach. The man moaned in pain and *yn* swung around, pressing her boot onto his back to send him hurtling to the ground.

She could hear grunts from behind her and she knew that Octavia was doing the same.

“We bring you Chancellor Pike of the sky people.” Bellamy continued, his eyes never leaving Pike as he spoke. “O, can you translate?”

“osir bring yu chancellor pike gon skaikru!”

“You’ve killed us all!” Pike snarled.

“Take him and lift this blockade.” Bellamy continued, ignoring Pike’s words.

The second that the translated words left Octavia’s lips the sound of arrows whistling through the air echoed in *yn*’s ears. She jerked her head around as the bodies of Pike’s men hit the floor, dead before the could even touch the ground with arrows protruding from their chests.

She could do nothing but watch as dozens of grounders suddenly appeared from the trees and the thick undergrowth, all surrounding them within a matter of seconds. 

As *yn* bent down to grab a knife out of one of their pockets to cut herself loose, she saw Octavia doing the same thing out of the corner of her eye. “Octavia no!” She shouted when she saw her grip the knife and glare at Pike.

Kane reacted instantly, grabbing her by the waist seconds before the knife in her hands embedded itself into Pike’s chest. 

“No. The Grounders are going to need him alive. They didn't get justice for Finn. We won't get away with that again.” Marcus warned her as she struggled against his hold.

“Well in that case.” Pike spoke before swinging around to shoot Bellamy. 

Before *yn* could move to stop him another arrow shot through the air, landing in his shoulder. One of the grounders stepped forward and landed a blow to his temple. *yn* watched unsympathetically as the grounder kicked him in the stomach as he crumpled to the floor, knocking him out cold. 

“Where are you taking him?” Marcus asked as the grounders stepped forward and picked up Pike’s body.

“To the new commander.” The grounder answered as *yn* hurriedly pulled the gag down to around her chin and made her way towards them.

“May I join you?” Marcus asked, pulling up his leave to reveal the mark burnt into his flesh before *yn* could protest. “We’re the thirteenth clan.” 

The grounder eyed it for a second before looking at Marcus. “Don’t slow us down.” He warned before stalking away.

“Dad, what are you thinking? We don’t know anything about the new commander.” *yn* queried the second the grounder was out of earshot. “*yn*’s right, what if they won’t even honour the deal we made with Lexa?” Bellamy piped up.

“I have to try.” Marcus answered. “Being the thirteenth clan is the only way that we survive.”

“Then let me come with you, you need someone to look out for-”

“No *yn*, it’s too dangerous. Especially with them thinking that you’re malak al maut, the new commander may want to take your power for themselves.”

“But I-”

“Go home with the others, tell everyone what happened here.” Marcus cut her off, stepping forward to embrace her in a tight hug. “Our people will need a leader now that Pike’s gone.” He mumbled into her hair. “And I’ll look out for Clarke.” 

“I’ll tell Abby.” *yn* murmured as she realised that despite every bone in her body wanting to protect her father, that he was right.

Marcus smiled softly and nodded in thanks, finally releasing her from his tight grip. “Come on *yn*, I’ll help you out of your cuffs.” Monty offered. *yn* gave her father one last look before mumbling a ‘coming’ and following after Monty, leaving Bellamy and Marcus alone.

Marcus took a few steps forward so that his chest was only inches away from Bellamy’s. He looked over Bellamy’s shoulder to ensure that the others were out of earshot before locking eyes with Bellamy.

“Did you do this for *yn* and Octavia, or because it was the right thing to do?” He asked.

Bellamy rolled his eyes and turned to walk away, “you’re welcome.” Marcus gripped Bellamy’s forearm, ceasing his movements as he leant in closer. 

"It matters. Until you see that, you'll still be lost." 

With that Marcus gave Bellamy one last earnest look before turning on his heel and following after the grounders that were already out of sight. Bellamy eyed his retreating figure for a few moments before making his way over to *yn* and Monty.

*yn* glanced at Bellamy warily before looking back at Monty who was shakily cutting the rope binding her wrists. “My mum turned me in.” Monty mumbled to her as he finished freeing her from her constraints.

She was so angry at Monty for betraying her and the others but as she studied him for a few moments she couldn’t help the wave of sympathy that washed over her.

“We should head back to the others as soon as possible.” She muttered, glancing at both Bellamy and Monty once more before turning her attention to the dead bodies of Pike’s soldiers to see if they had any weapons on them that may be of use. She crouched down over one of the men and began to fish through his pockets.

“You’re family.” She heard Bellamy murmur to Monty. “You’ll figure it out.” He spoke once more and *yn* glanced up in time to see Bellamy patting Monty on the shoulder comfortingly.

She jumped back when the body in front of her suddenly sprung to life. The soldier gasped as he began to sit up, but unfortunately for him he didn’t get very far. 

*yn* flinched as Octavia leapt forward and plunged her dagger into his chest, killing him instantly. She watched with wide eyes as Octavia pushed the knife even further into his flesh as she locked eyes with Bellamy.

“Jus drein jus daun.” She spat venomously. 

Her eyes were dark with blood lust, swimming in the desire for violence and revenge. It was enough to send a chill down *yn*’s spine. She watched as Octavia’s face went as still as stone as she emotionlessly pulled the knife out of the soldier’s chest and began to walk in the direction of the cave.

*yn* swallowed before flickering her eyes up to see Bellamy’s gaze was already fixed on her face. The pair eyed each other for a few brief moments before *yn* rose to her full height and followed after Octavia.

Even though neither had said a single word, *yn* knew exactly what Bellamy was thinking. Despite everything that Bellamy had done, they now had one thing in common.

Both were seriously worried about Octavia and what she was capable of doing.

Part 35

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

osir bring yu chancellor pike gon skai kru = we bring you Chancellor Pike of Sky Crew

Jus drein jus daun = blood must have blood

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

EEEEEEP, *YN* AND BELLAMY BACK TOGETHER AGAIN (KINDA)!!!  As always, feedback would be super super appreciated and you can give it back HERE!

TAGS:

@captainpineapplesbloguniverse @moodboards57 @reyeswritings @sheebthezeeb @endgametike @badbitch101 @previouslyforgotten @nutterbutter2885 @earthtobear @istlynn18 @illyrianbae @fandomcrib @mick--schumacher @wanheda101 @princekooks​ @lilulo-12​

[ibis-gt]

i made a fairytale au for cam and luther and then wrote nearly 5k words of fic for it?? which is wild bc i am not much of a writer. but. that’s under the cut. content warning for a pretty violent scene towards the end but there’s a happy ending i prommy

Once upon a time, there lived a prince. This prince, Luther by name, lived in a kingdom that was plagued by monsters. His father, the king, had gained his throne by feats of heroism, most notably by slaying a fearsome dragon that had ruled the land for years. The time came for Luther to prove he was worthy of the title of prince by slaying a monster of his own… 

Down in the countryside, farmers have been complaining for weeks of an ogre stealing their cattle and frightening their children. So Luther sets off in a splendid suit of armor, with a sword sheathed on one hip, a quiver of arrows on the other, and his bow slung on his back.

Luther rides his horse down to the village where the ogre was last spotted. He talks with the locals and gets a description of the creature. At least forty feet tall, they say, with greenish-grey skin and dark hair and teeth the length of a man’s forearm. Luther leaves his horse behind with the farmers because he doesn’t want her getting hurt and marches off, following a set of giant footprints left behind by the ogre, sword in hand. He would have to admit that he isn’t the best at sword fighting, and that really he’s never faced a monster on his own. But his father gave him a crucial tip: every monster has a weak point. Find the weak point, exploit it, and you’ll win every time. 

The footprints lead through the plains of grass, past the area where the farmers let their cattle out to graze, and into a dark forest. The sun is going down before he manages to find the ogre, so he sets up a little camp with a little fire and rests his tired bones. His armor isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but it takes forever to get on and off even with someone helping him, let alone by himself. He sits with his back to a big boulder so nothing can sneak up behind him and eventually drifts off.

Luther awakens the next morning and groans at how stiff and sore he is. He sits up and pauses, brow furrowed, remembering that he’d gone to bed sitting upright. But just now, he’d been lying on his back. And he’s not the best tracker, but those giant footprints look… disconcertingly fresh. These things add up in his mind. He just about passes out. He crouches down and puts his head between his knees for a moment until he can breathe again and his heart stops pounding quite so hard. He was right next to it! He fell asleep leaning on it! If his father heard about this he’d give him such a beating. How could he not have noticed that the boulder was actually - 

His stomach rumbles, interrupting his panicked thoughts, and Luther remembers that the last time he ate was back in that farming village around two in the afternoon yesterday. He digs out a bit of beef jerky and morosely works at it. His father swears by the stuff, but it just makes his teeth hurt. Luther dreams of the kitchens back home and drools a little.

He gives up on the jerky and manages to take down a couple squirrels with his bow and arrows. He gets his fire blazing again and sets them cooking over it, and sits down to draw in the dirt and form a battle plan. He gets wrapped up in his drawing and loses track of time, but is startled violently back to reality as a deep booming voice from behind him says, “Your squirrel’s burning.”

Luther’s eyes snap up to the fire. He hastily pulls the stick with his squirrels off of it, waving it in the air to put out the bit of squirrel that had caught fire. He blows on it and inspects the damage. Not too bad, a little charred. Still definitely edible. Then realization dawns, and he slowly looks up and over his shoulder.

That’s the ogre. He’s unmistakable. Huge, greyish-green, with shaggy black hair and big tusks that jut out of his mouth. He’s down on one knee looming over Luther, modesty barely preserved by a loincloth stitched together out of the pelts of many different furry animals. Luther wills himself to not faint for the second time that day. 

“You gonna eat that?” The ogre booms. “’Cause I will if you won’t.”

“W-well, yes, I was planning to,” Luther quavers, “But there are two, so, um, you can have one if you want? We can share?”

He takes the non-burned squirrel off the stick and holds it up. His hand only shakes a little. The ogre takes it carefully between thumb and forefinger and tosses it in his mouth. With such a tiny morsel, he’d usually just swallow it whole, but an interesting flavor makes him stop and savor it for a moment. 

“What’d you do to it? Not like any squirrel I’ve eaten. And I’ve eaten a whole army of squirrels.” He slaps a hand on his formidable belly. The sound makes Luther jump. 

“I- I didn’t do much, j-just some seasoning, I-I’m sorry, I d-didn’t mean to, please don’t eat me next." 

"You?” The ogre laughs. “Why would I eat you? You shared your food with me. That’s mighty polite. I’d say that makes us friends now, and I don’t eat friends.” He grunts as he shifts position, sitting down heavily and stretching out his legs. “Bad knees,” he grumbles. “Sat like that too long, but I wanted to see what you were drawing." 

Luther is now horrifically aware that he is directly between the ogre’s legs. He is also horrifically aware that he was drawing himself hitting an ogre with a sword. He hurriedly kicks some dirt over it. 

"Nothing. Nothing interesting. I’m a bad artist anyway.”

“Sure. What’s your name, little tin man? You didn’t seem too talkative when you snuggled up to me last night, but I thought maybe you were just tired. I’m Cam." 

"L-Luther.” Oh god. He was supposed to kill this thing, it - well, no, not ‘it’, he can’t think of Cam as an ‘it’ now he knows his name - he’s terrorizing folks, stealing their livelihoods, he’s supposed to drive him away, save the day, bring peace to the kingdom. Instead he’s sharing his meager breakfast and making friends with the monster. How did it all go so wrong!!

“So, Luther, you made of metal? I thought you were gonna take all that off, looks pretty uncomfortable, but you wore it all night. Unless it’s like… you?" 

"No, no, um, it’s just… it takes a long time to put it on and take it off? And I usually need help.”

 "Well shoot, friend, why didn’t you say so?“ Before Luther can object, a giant hand descends and plucks him up. He panics, struggles in Cam’s grasp, and Cam tsks at him. "I can’t get all that off you if you don’t hold still. Don’t make me squeeze." 

Luther goes still. If Cam squeezes the armor, it’ll stay squeezed. He wouldn’t want to still be in it if that happens. Cam clearly has no idea how to get someone out of armor though. He just pulls at clasps and buckles till they break, then shucks the metal off of Luther like an ear of corn. His helmet comes off first, freeing his dark brown curls.

“Aww,” Cam says, “lookit you. You’re kinda cute for a tin man.” He musses up Luther’s hair with a fingertip. "You’re like a little crab,” Cam chuckles. “Crack open the hard shell to get to the soft stuff underneath.” The food metaphor does not put Luther any more at ease as the rest of his armor is pulled off and tossed aside, piece by piece. Cam even strips the chainmail off of him and dumps it on the ground. This leaves Luther in his shirt and breeches, shaking like a leaf and terrified for his life. 

“Oh, you cold? Here, I gotcha.” Cam sandwiches him between his hands. Luther awaits the pressure and the horrible crunch that will no doubt be the end of his short life, but it never comes. Cam just holds him there, and truth be told his hands are very warm, and it had been a chilly morning. Luther relaxes very slightly.

After a few minutes, Cam lifts one hand a little and peeks at Luther. “Better?" 

"Much better, thank you. Even a little too warm, actually? Can I, um, come out now?" 

Cam laughs and opens his hands like a book, then tilts them so Luther tumbles into the palm of his left hand. "So what’s a fancy little shrimp like you doing all the way out here, with that tough shell and those sharp weapons? You huntin’ something?" 

Luther hesitates. It’s not… technically a lie, just an omission of truth, right? "Yeees…. Hunting.”

Cam laughs out loud, leaning back and slapping his knee with his free hand. “HA! You are just about the worst liar I ever met, Luther. Whew.” He actually wipes a tear from his eye. Luther feels his face heating up with anger and embarrassment.

“I am hunting! I’m hunting you!” As soon as he says it he regrets it. He slaps his hands over his mouth and cowers back as Cam sits up straight again and looks down at him, raising an eyebrow. 

“That so? Huh. Well, you found me, oh mighty hunter. And you fed me, and let me take your armor off you, and left all your sharp things on the ground while you sit in the palm of my hand. So, uh… how’s that goin’ for ya?”

“It… I… um… please don’t kill me?”

Cam grins. It’s not a nice grin anymore. It shows off too many teeth. “Lotsa folks have hunted me, you know. Not a one has succeeded. Most of ‘em can’t find me in the first place, not unless I want them to. Neat little trick we ogres have. We blend in well. The ones who did find me, they regretted it pretty quick. When I heard you clanking along with your silly armor and your little sword, I thought oh boy, here comes another one. But it turns out this one couldn’t find his own ass with both hands and a map, so he ain’t one of them legendary monster hunters lookin’ to claim some bounty. And he’s a little scrawny slip of a thing, too, and he keeps stopping to look at birds. I kinda liked you. And honestly, when you found me, it took me by surprise. Thought I had you pegged all wrong. Then you made your little fire, curled up next to me, and went to sleep, and it took everything I had not to bust my gut laughing right then and there. And now… well, I don’t rightly know what to make of you. Cute little thing, I know that. But cute won’t save you if you wanna tussle with me. So, little hunter… what’re you gonna do now?”

Luther’s nearly in tears. He manages to say, “Then… were you just… toying with me? This whole time? Waiting to see what I’d do?" 

Cam shrugs. "Pretty much.” That does it. The waterworks are in full swing. Luther’s chin trembles, his lower lip wobbles, and then tears are streaming down his face and he’s sobbing. 

“Y- you’re s-so-ho meeeaaaan,” Luther wails. “Y-you’re j-just making f-fun of me, I thought w-we were friends!” 

Cam has absolutely no idea how to respond to this. For some reason he actually feels guilty. “Aw - no - now look, there’s no call for - just… just stop crying, okay? Please?” Luther continues to sob, heedless of Cam’s pleading. “There, there,” Cam tries, patting Luther’s head. “I’m not going to kill you. Okay? How’s that? I’m sorry I called you - well. All those things. I’m sure you’re a great hunter. Look, you got those squirrels. And hey! That one I ate tasted great. You got some real skill there." 

Luther wipes his eyes and looks up, teetering dangerously on the edge of another sobbing fit. His eyes are all watery and a little red-rimmed. "R-really?" 

"Yes! Of course!” Cam clings to the compliment like a life preserver. “I bet you’re like, like the king’s cook or something, right? Cause you’re the best in the land?" 

Luther’s face crumples a little and he looks down, mutters something. 

"What?” Cam holds him up a little closer to his ear. 

“’m his son,” Luther mumbles again. 

“His son? You’re a prince? And you’re all - oh, hell.” Now he’s really put his foot in it. Luther bursts into tears again and curls up in a little ball.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - oh, ugh, you’re getting my hand all wet.” Cam picks him up between thumb and forefinger and shakes the little tear droplets off his palm. “Now look here,” he says, attempting a sterner approach. “You’re a prince, all right? You can’t be crying and going to pieces just ‘cause some big bad monster was mean to you. You gotta kill big bad monsters, right? So here’s what you’re gonna do.” Cam sets him down gently, picks up his sword and hands it to him. “There you go. You’re gonna take that sword, right, and you’re gonna really let me have it. That’ll make you feel better, won’t it?“ 

Luther purses his lips and looks up at him. "But… all I can hit from here is your foot. That’s no good. I need a shot at something vital." 

"Oh fine, fine, Mr. Picky,” Cam grumbles. He shuffles his legs to the side and leans down til he’s practically laying on his belly. “Face shot. Free one for ya. Go on, hit something good.” Luther considers. Just as Cam realizes how ridiculous this whole thing is, he draws his sword back and plunges it into Cam’s eye.

- Almost plunges it into Cam’s eye. The ogre moves suddenly, turning his head to the side to avoid the blow. Luther makes a deep gash in Cam’s cheek, and Cam roars. “Oh, you sly little shit. Very good, very sneaky. You almost had me there. Fine. We do this the hard way.”

He gets to his feet, draws himself up to his full, impressive height, and looks down at the dirt where Luther was a moment ago. Cam blinks in surprise. “Where’d you… goddammit…” He looks around, trying to catch a glimpse of where Luther could’ve gotten to. 

Luther was not about to let the golden opportunity to run and hide during a big dramatic show of power go to waste. He slides into a patch of underbrush, catches his breath, and takes stock. He has no armor, no food, no bow or arrows. Those are all back at his camp, which is currently ogre territory. He has one sword that he’s okay at using. The ogre has the homefield advantage, and some kind of ability, possibly magical, to hide himself from those who want to find him. Luther shouldn’t let him out of his sight. But he should work on camouflaging himself. He takes a handful of dirt and smears it on his face and shirt. The sword he can’t do much about, he’ll just have to try and keep it from glinting. He glances to his left, away from where Cam still stands, turning in circles and peering around. Luther had only gone a little ways into the woods before he stopped for camp last night. He can almost see the forest’s edge from here. He could dart for the grasslands and try to make it back to the village, but he’d be in plain sight as soon as he’s out of the trees and there’s no guarantee Cam won’t just follow him all the way back. The further he goes into the trees the more firmly he is in Cam’s territory, but the more coverage he has. 

Possibilities begin swirling around in his head. His best bet is trickery rather than a face to face confrontation. He’s got a running list in his mind of Cam’s weak points now. Food, monologuing, emotional outbursts. Although that last one’s probably off the table now. Bursting into tears isn’t going to get him out of a second pinch. Bad knees - if he can trip Cam up, he can get a shot at his face again, maybe cut his throat or get at his soft belly and sides. Cam’s a talker and likes to gloat, maybe if he gets him distracted by looking pathetic he could get him to walk right into a trap of some kind. He likes food… but Luther doesn’t have the resources to make a big feast to distract him or sate him, just a pouchful of seasoning that he never leaves home without. His lip wobbles again as he thinks about how that’s back at his camp… he may never see his precious seasonings again.

Meanwhile, Cam is getting frustrated. “Well, the little shit can’t have gone far,” he grumbles. “Just gotta flush 'im out.” Luther watches, petrified, as Cam lumbers over to a nearby patch of underbrush and without warning stomps down on it hard, twisting his foot and smashing every inch of it. He steps back and leans down to inspect what’s left. Luther bites his lip hard to stifle a whimper. 

“Nope, not there,” Cam announces. “Eeney, meeney, miney…..” Another bunch of bushes are mercilessly ground into the dirt. “Moe. Hmmm. Where are you?”

Luther can’t stay in his hiding place for long. It’s only a matter of time before Cam gets to him. He needs an opening to make a break for it though, if he runs now Cam will spot him right away. As slowly as he dares, he picks up a large, flat rock, then skims it like a frisbee off to his right, where it hits a tree with a satisfying thock. Cam whirls around, and Luther bolts out of the brush. Cam hears the leaves rustling and turns back around, catching sight of him as he flees. 

“There you are! Hold on now, don’t go running off! I just wanna talk, I swear. The whole monster-slaying prince thing not working out for ya? I got a better job offer! You can be my dinner!” Luther keeps sprinting as fast as he can, not even bothering to glance behind him. The last thing he needs is to miss a fallen branch or a groundhog hole and trip.

On flat, open land, the ogre would outpace him easily. But if he can get deeper into the forest where the trees are closer together, that could slow him down enough for Luther to get some distance and hide again, have a moment to breathe and think so he can work on his plan. He’s starting to get an idea of what he’ll need. He needs the element of surprise for sure, and he needs more than just his sword. If he had some rope he could set up a tripwire, maybe. He curses himself for not taking his father’s advice about packing, for letting Cam strip him, for being too weak and scared to do anything when he had the chance, for being born in the first place. His eyes well up with tears and he scrubs at them furiously. He can’t afford to have his sight blurred right now, he needs to keep his head clear and keep moving. He can hear Cam’s thudding footsteps behind him, gaining quickly. He can cover so much more ground in a single step. It’s simply not fair. The little bit of distance he was able to gain with his rock trick is disappearing fast and it won’t be long before he’s in arm’s reach.

Almost as if he can read his thoughts, Cam lunges forward and takes a swipe at him, trying to knock him off his feet. Luther hits the deck and Cam overbalances, stumbling and crashing into a tree. The tree snaps when his weight collides with it, and Cam has to windmill his arms to keep from falling over. Luther scrambles to his feet and keeps running. He even manages to put on an extra burst of speed when he hears Cam roar with frustration behind him. He’s not as fast as he could be because he’s lugging the sword along with him, but he doesn’t dare drop it. It proves its usefulness in the next minute. Cam closes the distance and grabs for him. Luther sees the shadow fall over him and whirls around, lashing out at the reaching hand. He slices across Cam’s palm, and Cam howls with pain and pulls back. Luther dashes away, and Cam stomps his foot in frustration. 

"Hold still, dammit! You’re just making it worse for yourself!” He takes off after Luther again, but his stamina’s flagging. It’s harder for a creature his size to haul himself around and he’s used to running down his prey in the first minutes of the chase. This has dragged on long enough to tire him out, but he’s not willing to give up just yet. “When I get my hands on you, tin man, you’re paste,” he growls. “They’re gonna have to come up with new words for how dead you’re gonna be.”

The trees start getting close enough together that Luther has to dodge around them from time to time. He can hear Cam behind him crashing through them, spluttering as he gets a face full of branches and leaves. Luther smiles to himself. That’s nice, at least. At last he gathers up his nerve and dodges to the side behind a particularly large tree, hoping that Cam’s too busy navigating the foliage to notice. His gamble pays off. A few seconds later, the ogre goes lumbering past him without so much as a sideways glance. Luther waits just a moment more, then bolts in the opposite direction.

He’s got a plan now. He probably won’t be able to find Cam again, but Cam can find him. So he’ll set up an ambush. He circles back around to his camp and grabs his supplies as quickly as he can, his bow and arrow, his helmet, his tinderbox, and most importantly, his seasoning. He hunts for deer, takes down a decent-sized buck, and sets up a new campfire, deep in the woods, where the trees are close. He’s hoping that Cam will think that Luther thinks he’s safe in there, and that the smell of the meat cooking will lure Cam in. He takes off his shirt and fills it with twigs and leaves, sets his helmet up on a stick driven into the ground, and makes a decently convincing decoy Luther that he leans against a log. The helmet tilts at an angle that makes it look like he’s fallen asleep. With that set up, and night closing in, Luther climbs up a nearby tree and waits, sword in hand.

He doesn’t watch the fire. He wants to keep his night vision sharp. And sure enough, before too long here comes Cam, moving surprisingly quietly for his size. He squeezes through the trees with barely a rustling of leaves. Cam’s eyes are fixed on the fire and the silhouette that the decoy makes against it. Cam gets right behind the decoy and slams his foot down on it. He grinds it into the dirt with a relish that makes Luther shudder. Then Cam looks at the deer cooking with that lovely smell rising off it, and his eyes go big and shiny. As Cam bends down to pick it up, Luther chooses his moment. He drops like a stone and buries his sword lengthwise in the back of Cam’s neck. The impact sends a jolt up his arms and he hangs on as tight as he can. Cam lets out a garbled scream of pain and collapses face first on the ground. Luther gets to his feet, pulls his sword out with some difficulty, takes a deep breath, and begins to chop.

It’s messy, horrible work. By the third swing tears are rolling down Luther’s cheeks. By the seventh, he’s sobbing. After the twenty-third cut, Cam’s head is finally severed, and rolls to the side. Luther stumbles back. He’s trembling, covered in blood, panting and crying, but it’s finally done. 

And then Cam’s head says, “Wow, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Luther watches, dumbfounded, as Cam’s body sits up, searches around with its hands, locates his head, and puts it back on his shoulders as the flesh knits together again. Luther drops his sword in disbelief. He falls to his knees. That was it. That was all he had. He can’t even imagine what he could do against a foe who can just reattach his own head. 

“Oh,” he says quietly. “Okay. Um. Make it quick, please?” Cam had been planning to crunch the little shit once he was back on his feet, but he can’t help but feel a pang of guilt at how despondent Luther looks.

“Aw, no, no, don’t give up so quick! Really, you almost had me!” Cam scoops him up and pats him on the head. “Look, it was a good effort. I’m sure if you had known I can’t be killed, you wouldn’t have spent all that time and energy trying to kill me. Just do a little more research next time, yeah?" 

"Next time,” Luther repeats, and gives a hollow laugh. “There isn’t going to be a next time. I’m not welcome as part of the royal family if I can’t kill a monster. Even my sister’s done her first slaying already. A whole nest of vampires! And I can’t kill one measly ogre." 

"Hey, watch who you’re calling measly,” Cam warns, but his heart isn’t in it. “Jeez. You’ve got some issues, kid. Not much of a fighter, I take it?" 

Luther shakes his head and sighs. "I’m just not very good at it." 

"Well they chose one hell of a first mission for you, that’s for sure. Ogres are tricky ones. We’ve got a lot of defense mechanisms.” Cam thinks for a moment. “You know what you are good at, though? You’re a good talker. Very convincing. I mean, you really had me going, with the crying and all? It was a really good ruse." 

Luther bites his lip. "Um…" 

"Okay, so it was for real and not a ruse. But you made the best of a bad situation! That’s also a good skill for a ruler to have. You just gotta show your family that your skills are less conventional, but still effective! Like, okay, why do you have to kill me? What’d I do?" 

“You’re eating all the farmers’ cattle and scaring people." 

"I thought free range meant I had free reign. Eh? Eh?” Cam pokes Luther in the ribs. Luther frowns at him. “Oh, fine, whatever. No sense of humor. You know, that’s pretty important for a king too. Yeah, all right, I’ll leave the cows alone." 

"And the sheep,” Luther says sharply. “And the pigs, and chickens." 

"I haven’t eaten any pigs or chickens,” Cam protests. 

“Not yet. I’m being proactive." 

"There you go!” Cam says, beaming. “There’s that negotiator skill! But seriously, if I can’t eat the cows and sheep I’ve got to eat something. Can you make it worth my while? 'Cause I’m not going back to squirrels." 

"Well…” Luther says slowly. “What if… I hire you?" 

"You… hire me?" 

"Yeah. Like, as a bodyguard or something. Then I’d have to pay you, right? I could pay you in food?” 

Cam is quiet for a moment. He brings Luther up closer to his face and scrutinizes him. Luther’s heart is pounding out of his chest. For a moment he thinks he’s made some horrible mistake and offended Cam and it’s all over for him. "You’re serious? Not kidding me, here? That’s your offer?”

“Y-yes? Is that… is it bad?" 

"Bad? Bad? That’s the best offer I’ve ever heard! Pay me in food? HELL yes, kid! That’s what I like to hear!” The force of Cam’s enthusiasm knocks Luther over on his back. He stares at the sky for a moment. His life is so goddamn weird.

~~~~~~~~~

Luther’s father’s dragon slaying days are behind him. He’s an old man now. He has good days and bad days, but even on his best days he frequently needs help getting around. But when he sees that giant ogre enter his royal halls, he reaches for his spear. Luther eases it out of his hand. 

“No, see, it’s okay. I didn’t kill him, but I stopped him terrorizing the countryside, and I kind of… hired him. As my bodyguard. This was easier, and we both benefit, see? Also, um, were you going to tell me ogres are immortal?" 

"You were supposed to figure something out,” his father says. “Since you’re so damned smart." 

"Well, I did figure something out. Just… maybe not what you wanted me to." 

Cam waves lazily. "Hi, Yer Majesty." 

"Cam,” Luther hisses. “We talked about this." 

"Oh, fine, fine,” Cam grumbles, and takes a knee to bow low before the king. “I humbly pledge my service to your son,” he intones, hamming it up just a little. “Please allow me to protect him from all harms, and so on." 

The king glares. His stabbing hand is itching. But he doesn’t currently have a better plan, and this’ll keep the peasants quiet for a bit. "Fine,” he spits, “But you’re taking care of him. Feeding him, walking him, cleaning up after him, whatever. No getting the servants to do it for you. He’s your responsibility now." 

Cam grins at Luther. "So, speaking of feeding… when’s dinner?”

[jj-5656]

We’ll Be Alright

With; Newt (TMR)

A/N: Beware, it’s a sad. Anyways, it’s more Thomas and reader than anything else, both trying to overcome their grief. I also recommend sad music lmao. ALSO I do condone Teresa slander and yes I have read the books. I acknowledge the character development BUT AT WHAT COST?

You rub your fingers across the zipper of the jacket over your shoulders, glaring at the boy in front of you. Blood boiling as he carves her name onto the rock that potrudes from the sand. Each scratch of the knife against the stone, each letter makes your stomach churn in rage. Why the shuck would Thomas even consider putting it there, not after all she’d done. Your heart beats rapidly against your chest, pumping the hot blood throughout your nbody as your mind is flooded with the hate-

“Y/n, just breathe alright? You need to calm down.” Minho’s deep voice instructs softly beside you. Despite his soothing tone, the burning fire in front of the group of you does nothing to relax you.

This isn’t like you, you’ve never been one to get this angry. But it’s different now, you’re different. A lot of times there are moment when everything seems fine, but not when Thomas is carving her shucking name right where-

“Y/n, you’re practically seething just-” Minho’s cut off when you scramble up from your seat between him and Frypan, not bothering to listen to their protests as you March towards Thomas. Tunnel vision making the wide distance between you collapse in only seconds. He’s only halfway through carving out the ‘R’ when you shove him out of the way. No doubt catching him off guard as he looks at you with eyes wide in bewilderment.

“Wh-what the hell-”

“How dare you put her shucking name next to his! You have no right!” You shout instantly, voice raw with anger and hurt as the taller boy straightens himself out.

“Y/n, what are you-”

“You don’t even see how messed up it is, do you? She’s the reason Minho still can’t sleep at night, the reason he does all he can to escape sleep to avoid the awful night terrors. She’s the reason the boy I loved is dead! It’s her shucking fault. And what, because she assisted us the tiniest bit before shit hit the fan she deserves to be on that rock? That’s a load of klunk, Thomas.”

“I lost him too y/n!”

“Then how could you possibly love her Thomas? After all she did to us!” You shove him again, but the boy doesn’t move back this time. He steps to you, eyes filled with anger and confusion at your outburst. His next words tear you apart, and suddenly all the pent up anger you’ve been pushing down explodes as he speaks.

“WCKD took her too! The flare took all she had, she was only trying to make things right!” Without thinking, your fist crashes against the brunette’s cheek with a terrible thump. Pain immediately sears throughout your knuckles and up your arm, but it’s nothing compared to the never-ending ache of your heart.

“You slinthead! How dare you try and justify what she did to us! Does what she went through make her actions right? Does her pain excuse torturing thousands of kids for the sake of what WCKD felt was necessary? It doesn’t Thomas, and no amount of her regret or guilt can take it back. Or bring him back, bring him home!” Your voice cracks as you cradle your fist, warm tears streaming down your cheeks as Gally, Frypan, and Minho come rushing over.

“Take a walk y/n.” Gally yells once the others help Thomas to his feet. He holds his chin, dazed and shocked at your actions.

“Th-Thomas I didn’t-” You struggle to find the words as you slowly back away, stunned and terrified by your own force as you try to come to terms with what you’ve just done.

“I said take a walk!” The muscular blonde repeats, standing in front of you and nudging you toward the edge of the beach. You don’t protest this time, stumbling hurriedly toward the water in a fit of emotions.

****************

When you’ve finally calmed down, your blurred vision can just make out the large rock that stands a few yards from the crashing waves. You don’t hesitate to climb on top of it, settling down against the cold stone and wrapping the corduroy jacket around you even tighter. It still smells like him, and sometimes when you close your eyes you can still feel him.

“Hey, I know you’re scared. But we won’t hurt you, I promise you’re alright greenie.”

“Greenie?”

“That’s what we call all the newbies, I’m Newt by the way. What do you say you get out of this thing, lemme show you around? You’ll be alright greenie, I promise.” Without thinking, you take the stranger’s outstretched hand. You can’t remember who you are, where you’re from, or how you ended up here. Still, his kind eyes and warm smile draw you to him. You don’t know him, but you will.

“Newt, I know we have to save Minho but there’s still time for-”

“Darling, please. We talked about this.”

“No, you talked about it! You can’t make this decision on your own!”

“I know you’re scared, I’m scared too.”

“You don’t get it Newt, I won’t-I can’t do this without you.” He offers a soft smile when he wipes a tear from your cheek, but you can tell it’s not genuine. You grip onto his jacket, pleading with your eyes for him to reconsider. But the way he cups the sides of your face with blood-shot eyes makes the small bit of hope in your hear fizzle away. He’s already decided, he’s gonna leave you.

“Please, please don’t leave me Newt. Mihno’s gonna be here soon okay? He’s gonna bring the serum and this will all go away just...Please don’t go baby, please don’t leave me here. Thomas, Thomas he won’t stop bleeding! Go find Minho! Thomas, get up! We have to do something!” You’re screaming at the boy who only stares blankly ahead, tears streaming down his face as he meets your eyes. Your body wracks with sobs as he only shakes his head, getting up and walking towards the building ahed of you. You don’t attempt to get his attention anymore, grabbing the collar of Newts jacket and shaking him. “Wake up Newt, please wake up...” You throw your arms around him as you sob, hiding your face in his neck when Minho and the others reach you. It’s too hard to look at them, knowing their expressions will only make this moment more real. Is it real? This couldn’t be anything more than a nightmare. You can only mumble out protests when you feel Minho pulling you to your feet, wrapping his arms around your waist when you desperately try to get back to the cold body laying on the floor. “We can’t leave him here! We can’t just leave him!” Minho’s own cries are drowned out through white noise as he drags you back to the jet, Newts fluffy-collard jacket crumpled in your arms as you succumb exhaustion and defeat. He’s gone

Waves crash against the large rock in a rythmic dance. Bringing your knees up to your chest to fight the cold, you rub the stained sleeve of the brown jacket wrapped around you. The deep blue stain reminding you of that horrid night, the lifeless, black eyes that stared up at the sky as you were whisked away from your only love.

“Mind if I sit?” The solemn voice interrupts before you can spiral once more. You nod, not turning around to watch Thomas climb onto the Boulder and shuffle to sit beside you. The brunette looking out at the night sky with an thoughtful expression.

“I think about that night a lot, what we could have done differently. And I think somewhere out there, there’s a different ending for all of us. Where he’s here, and we don’t have to pretend there’s not someone missing at the bonfires or dinner table...I didn’t want to love her y/n, not after what she did to us. But you and I know it’s not something we can control. No matter what I do, I love her.” His voice cracks as he speaks, but he avoids your eyes when you look to him.

“What I said Thomas, what I did...That wasn’t fair. I should have never hit you. It’s just, I’m so angry Tommy. I’m so mad all the time and it’s so scary. Sometimes, I feel like I lost myself that night and I’ll never get her back. It’s like, I don’t know...Like whoever I once was, was left laying next to his body. I can’t imagine how scared he must have been, how alone he must have felt. To feel himself and all his memories slipping away all over again. He never deserved it, he didn’t deserve any of it. A lot of times I wish it was me-”

“D-don’t say that.”

“I do though, I wish it was me. He was too good for this world. He deserved a happy ending Thomas, damnit we all did. I feel like I can’t breathe when he’s not with me, I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I mean, I punched you for gods sake! Same girl who wouldn’t even slice a pig her first day at the glade...” He lets out a small laugh, nostalgic smile pulling at his lips when he looks over at you.

“I remember Newt telling me about that, said he’d never seen a greenie tell Gally to go shuck himself until you.” You let out a pathetic chuckle, shaking your head and rubbing another oncoming wave of tears at his words.

“I miss him so much Tommy, it hurts all the time...I guess I’m still trying to forgive the world, forgive myself. I just wish I could talk to him one more time, hear his voice. I’m still trying to grasp he’s never coming back to me. I don’t know what to do with all these feelings sometimes, all this pain.”

“You could punch me again. You have a mean right hook by the way.” You meet his gaze with forced smile, tackling the taller boy into an embrace when you notice the fresh tears on his cheeks. He falters at the contact, but immediately wraps his arms around you with a sigh.

“I’m sorry Tommy. He loved you so much, I know he’d hate to see us fight. You didn’t deserve what I did, I know that. I should never taken my anger out on you.”

“It’s alright, I know you didn’t mean it. And I also know he would never have wanted you to blame yourself. He wanted you to be able to move on, to look back on all of it and know it was all meant to be. The shank also told me to take care of you, I guess I’m doing a pretty shuck job at that huh?” Your laugh is genuine this time, a little giggle that reassures Thomas he’ll be able to make sure of that promise some day in the future. He’d make sure Newt would have someone to look after you, always.

“He told me the same thing. I think you and Minho are doing all the work though.”

“Not a chance, I think I needed a good punch honestly. Who taught you how to hit like that?” You swat at his chest, pulling away from the hug to lean against his side.

“Gally, I think. Didn’t you get flashbacks from when he kicked your ass at the glade?”

“Hilarious, I could totally beat him in a fight now.”

“Right.”

“We should head back, the others might worry you were jacked enough to finish what you started.”

“Give me a couple minutes? I’ll meet you there.” You mutter softly, offering the boy a soft smile when he kisses the crown of your head and heads towards the firelight in the distance.

You let out a deep sigh when you look back out at the waves, stuffing your hands in the pockets of the jacket to warm them. Movements faltering when you feel something like twine wrap around your fingers. Pulling out the small item, your heart swells when you finally see what’s blocked your hand. It’s a strand of braided leather, a bracelet you recognize as the one Newt wore back in the glade. The frayed ends of the tattered leather warm your heart, surveying his tedious handywork with moisture filled eyes. Suddenly, a wave of assurance overcomes you. As if the boys’ finnally been able to communicate it’ll all be okay. You wrap the fabric around your fingers, pressing it against your lips before heading toward the campfire in the distance. Everything’s gonna be okay.

[yostresswritinggirl]

tw: blood, slight gore : @genshin-rei for the bootiful art

Behind lidded eyes, he relishes on a time when his wings that of an adepti beast carries beauty and elegance as he engulfs you in his arms. Wherever you are in Guyun, eyes distant and gazing the passing clouds with Ganyu, he always manages to find you.

The way you perk up at the sound of his descension before you even gaze at him, how your hands find its way on his arms as he offers a hug from behind, how every bit of worry leaves your body the moment you lay back on his broad chest. Moments like these are what he looks forward to the most. For when you are in his arms the world around you is forgotten, the waging war and looming death does not touch the tranquility when you two are together.

You are a simple adepti that serves to aid the main protectors of Liyue. He's a junior to the Yakshas. Perhaps in a sense you two do seem to have duties in common, and was fairly certainly the main reason you two got together.

Your song and dance of battle were still graced as one of the elegant devotions on protecting Liyue, sometimes red spills on the snow from a crane’s razor sharp wings, foes slain taller than your form as the snowflakes swirls with both of your movements. This was the time during the Archon War, and when the gods have fallen, it was a time of great celebration and relief. At least that was what he hoped.

When he opens his eyes, Pervases is met with more darkness as the looming clouds chases the light of day. The pain had already passed and turned into nothing but an aching numbness, the spear struck through his chest also embedded itself on the boulder he had his back rested on. “Perv...ases?” The urge to inhale deeply passes him, but he only winces as the fresh wound seem to widen more. With a breathless scoff he drops his head at the feeling of touch on his hand, another smaller hand managed to reach his pinky, and the moon reflects the onyx band wrapped around both’s ring fingers.

“My dear, how do you feel?” Pervases chances a glance at your laid form and he feels the tears prick at the edges of his eyes once again. A huge splatter of blood colors the ground beneath you like a veil of gore, the bottom half of your body is hidden by the boulder he was stuck to as well, pulverized and unsalvageable. You wouldn’t be able to dance with him anymore. “Dearest?”

You turn your head to finally face him, half of it drenched with the sickening color as you rested your cheek on the bloodied dirt. You’re struggling to focus from all the blood loss, Pervases figures at the way your eyes seem to unfocus from time to time. Yet you still managed to smile. “Do you still remember our wedding vows?”

“With this hand I will lift your sorrows.” How he wishes to intertwine your fingers right now, to share the last bit of warmth.

“Your cup will never be empty, for I will be your wine.” So instead he musters up the brightest smile he could, like how you’ve always wanted.

“With this candle, I will light your way into darkness.” Your eyes rapidly blink, squinting, before finally closing after your efforts.

“With this...ring, I ask you... to... be...”

“You got this... dearest. T-To be?” Despite how long you two had been there, Pervases right now is wide awake more than ever. Carefully watching your face, every detail, every wrinkle on your skin. A twitch under your left eye that shows a twinge of pain reaches his stare. “It’s to be mine.”

“To be mine...” The way your eyelids felt to have dragged itself open pains him more than the spear through him, battling the call of death to gaze up at him with a bloodied smile. “By wave and storm, we protect those we love.”

“By wind and snow, we cherish what we have.” Pervases finds his eyes glued to the wedding ring you two adorned, smooth and beveled to fashion a black diamond within the jade band. It was more oriental than cosmetic to keep up with your duties, “I love you.”

A minute passes and you do not answer. And the junior of the Yakshas, powerful and brave he may be, felt too scared to meet your now blank stare. Cheerful as he may be, in his last moments he weeps in regret and pure grief, the gap between you too far to hold your hand within his for one last time.

*taps mic* Fuck. *drops microphone and leaves*

@sweetstrawberrybabe @hanniejji @yellowflowre @starfell-traveler