#case fic is HARD

[erinwantstowrite]

Erin the comparison of JL vs the Avengers to Camp Jupiter vs Camp Half blood is toooo accurate 😭

JL: There’s an established system in place and contingencies for every foreseeable scenario

Avengers: fuck it we ball

peter thinks that the Avengers have it all together because they're his teachers and they're constantly telling him to use his brain but it's really because they, for the first time, saw their own "fuck it we ball" mentality in a teenager, and thought "oh my god maybe that is like... super dangerous." like when a parent was younger and they partied a lot and sometimes got into dangerous situations and thought "this is normal" until they had a kid and they quickly realized "oh that's why my mom was insane."

that didn't make them any better, it just made them hypocrites. peter just doesn't know that because they act super responsible when he's around

[sunatsubu]

A scene from Ch 4 of What Keeps You Here by @avoidcrow and @every-captain (link in replies). This laundry scene was what made me really fall in love with the fic, the first of many PAINFULLY relateable moments T_T

[xxplastic-cubexx]

cant stop thinkin bout charles and erik readin together on the couch but instead of reading with him charles is listening to eriks thoughts while he reads. Live mind commentary ……..

[sapphickitii]

do yall ever think abt thalassa giving trucy her bracelet. because i think abt thalassa giving trucy her bracelet

[ghost-proofbaby]

never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)

"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."

warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.

wc: 5.8k+

an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.

if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.

that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.

Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice. 

So why does it currently feel like you’re dying?

The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration you’d gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you can’t currently remember if you’d ever agreed to along the way. It hadn’t been sudden, it hadn’t been with lack of adjusting, it hadn’t been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once – you’d done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands. 

Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldn’t even notice. You shouldn’t be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival. 

It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You don’t feel poetic like the movies, you don’t feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though you’ve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall. 

Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins you’ve used to spread yourself out for consumption. 

We still on for tonight? 

The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. You’re lucky the screen hadn’t broken when you’d thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears. 

He wasn’t a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution. 

A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon. 

Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with? 

You can’t remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall. 

I hate to cancel, but I’m sick. I don’t think I can come out tonight :-( 

What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything? 

Please don’t.

The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead. 

But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you can’t seem to steady. 

Another buzz comes from your phone, but you don’t look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips. 

Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both? 

A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, he’d grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body – a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isn’t imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy. 

Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished? 

Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.

Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasn’t choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it. 

Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure? 

And it wasn’t even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling. 

There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water – you’d never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at. 

There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.

Maybe your feet didn’t even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes. 

You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no. 

Ghosts don’t just appear. They were a vibrant soul once – they were somebody once. 

But it’s hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, it’s hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment. 

A version of you that wasn’t insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence. 

You don’t want the bottle of ibuprofen. You don’t want the busy street. You don’t want the overflowing tub. You don’t even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop. 

There’s a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you can’t get up to answer. 

You can’t move from this very spot. You’re terrified of what will happen when you do. 

Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling? 

Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become. 

You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. That’s the issue. 

The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. You’d thought you’d been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong. 

Does it even matter anymore?

You’d left the bathroom door wide open. 

Were you worth it?

You’d been home alone – past tense.

A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.

A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse you’d used. You look as though you’re ill, like you’ve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night. 

If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy? 

“Hey, Eds.” 

You’re tired. You’re exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern. 

Maybe you were an anchor – maybe being an anchor wasn’t a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship? 

“Jesus,” he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, “You look like shit.”

You felt like shit. 

Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache you’d carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that you’re wrong – hands to promise you that you’re worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. You’re bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay. 

You don’t want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and that’s unfair. 

You’re not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder. 

After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, “Yeah.” 

Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does. 

Because he’s a good friend. He’s a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space he’s earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads. 

He’s good. 

And you’re simply rotten.

You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You can’t dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because it’s all decay. 

You don’t have to let the pit consume you – it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips. 

He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, “You wanna talk about what’s really wrong?” 

“I’m sick.” 

“This isn’t just some stomach bug.”

Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.

You can’t make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess you’ve become. You can’t pull gold from tarnished rubble. 

Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldn’t have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring. 

“Do you ever feel like a waste of space?” you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing you’ve ruined, in hindsight, “Like, this world is filled with great people, and I just�� I just, I’m taking up the space- I’m wasting the space-” 

You can’t get out the proper words. You don’t know how.

How do you say you want to cease to exist when you’re not really sure if that’s the truth? You’re miserable, and you’re selfish, and you’re not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. You’d be too scared to do it.  

Too scared to miss the day that science announces it’s found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage you’ve been comprised of your whole life. 

His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, “What? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?”

It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that you’re right. You have evidence, you have proof, and it’s not just a feeling. 

“I don’t feel like I’m a waste of space,” you finally correct, both yourself and him, “I know I’m a waste of space.” 

“Bullshit.”

“Eddie, don’t-”

“No,” he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that he’s capable of, it’s not offensive, “You’re not. I’m not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim they’re wasting space-”

“I am!” It’s your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You can’t even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, “I really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And that’s such a- such a- that’s such a waste. I can’t read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I can’t even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. I’m letting everyone down left and right, I’m never living up to whatever pedestal you’ve put me on. I don’t even know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t even know where I’ll be in a year from now – I can’t even see that far in the future.”

Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space. 

“I don’t think I’m a good person,” you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, “Every year, I tell myself the same thing – I’ll be better, I’ll be kinder, I’ll be worth it. And every year, I fail.” 

Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors? 

Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?

Can he feel it? All the pressure? 

Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.

“I used to think I could make up for it,” you whisper, “I could offer people things that made them forget I’m… so useless. But I don’t think I’m even capable of that anymore.”

If he’s about to respond, it’s drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls. 

He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear. 

And yet, he doesn’t. 

You know it’s his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest.  And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which you’ve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours – over the last twenty four years. 

He’d probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldn’t have to exist if you didn’t exist.

The thought makes you cry harder. 

If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?

“You’re not useless,” it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, “You’re not- I swear- You’re not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.”

His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.

There’s no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears. 

When you don’t answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?”

And if you hadn’t already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you. 

You can’t pinpoint when it started. You can’t clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. That’s where the hurt starts — that’s where the rot starts. 

“I don’t know.”

In your mind, it’s a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud. 

But on this quiet bathroom floor, it can’t even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who can’t give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that can’t let go, not yet.

Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, you’re scared that you’re going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him. 

The only way you know how to love – a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadn’t so much as snipped this time. 

You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words you’re about to say, “I don’t want to exist anymore, but I wouldn’t even make it off the bridge if I tried.”

It’s not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t be the bridge you turn to. There’s a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him. 

Because exist is just a placeholder. And there’s a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place. 

He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit that’s devoured all that’s left of you. 

“Bridge?” Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, it’s clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, “Sweetheart, no.”

There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that you’re right and it’s not worth it – defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first. 

“I couldn’t do it, even if I want-” 

Even if I wanted to. The words you can’t speak, dying on your tongue. 

Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, “You… you just…” 

He doesn’t know what to say, and you don’t blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isn’t the type of bomb to drop on someone you love. 

But if you didn’t, where would the bomb have gone? You’re not equipped to detonate it. You’re not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldn’t want to survive that explosion. 

“I’m sorry,” your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes – you’re dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. You’re being an anchor. 

He’s all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, “Don’t apologize. You don’t have to apologize. Just-”

He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind. 

“I don’t need apologies,” another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, “I don’t- I just… Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. I’ll do it.” 

It’s not your job. That’s not your job. 

You don’t realize you’ve said the words out loud until he’s squeezing you so tightly that you now can’t breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts he’s lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because they’re gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap. 

All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you. 

How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him? 

“I know it’s not my job,” he finally says, and you know for a fact he’s crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, “It’s never been a job. You’re not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. There’s- Fuck, there’s plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I can’t, so just get that.”

He’s trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better. 

But he’s still holding you like he’s terrified. You did that – you instilled that fear. 

“I’m a mess,” you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what you’ve done. You’ve already apologized, but you’re seconds away from doing so again, “I’m- I’m a mess, and I’m dragging you into it, and I’m sor-”

“Stop being sorry.” Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isn’t budging – he isn’t letting go, “Do you remember when I first met you?” 

You can’t tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if it’s meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.

“Yeah,” you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, “But tell me about it anyway?” 

“Two years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,” he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. There’s still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesn’t stop him, “We were in some cursed fucking diner we don’t even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,” he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words you’d just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. He’s a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, “You were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California – did you know that?” 

“I didn’t.” 

“Well, he did,” his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, “Dropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and I’m getting off track, but…” 

Baited breath, you’re waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom. 

“Anyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.” 

“Oh, God,” your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didn’t seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, “No, I remember how this story ends, and-”

“I’m not done,” he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, “Obviously you know where I’m going with this, but I’m not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and I’m sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, y’know? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-” 

“Please, stop.”

You’re laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures. 

“I was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?” 

You’re there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. “Yeah, just a little bit.” 

“Sorry for that, by the way,” he airily apologizes before continuing, “But I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just… lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.” 

“Nice? I was not nice, I was-” you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasn’t meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. “I was a… a mess that day.” 

“Exactly.”

He pulls away again, and this time, it’s a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face. 

“You were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,” he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. “And even if you’re still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?” 

No bridges.

No failures.

The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day you’d have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things you’d picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddie’s breaths in the silence, and that was enough. 

“I don’t want to die,” you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing you’d been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. “I just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said don’t apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And I’m sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.” 

His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since he’d first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if you’re porcelain still. You know that won’t go away, not tonight. “I’d rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,” he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, “You get that, too. Alright? You’re worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad – give it to me. I’m asking for it. Just don’t… don’t leave me with the nothing.”

You’re worth it. 

He’s found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. He’s sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer. 

It just has to do with you. He sees you, and he’s decided you’re worth it. Even now.

He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, “You wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.” 

You’re quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his. 

“Okay,” his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, “That’s okay. Do you want me…. Do you want me to go?” 

Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, “No. No, just- Stay with me? Please?” 

Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying. 

He doesn’t even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, “Of course. I’ll stay, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere – wouldn’t even dream of it.” 

His words shake just a little less than they had when he’d first entered the room. 

He can’t fix it all magically. That isn’t his job, isn’t his role, isn’t his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh. 

He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.

Hesitantly content. Just for now. It’s enough. 

The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night. 

It’s enough for now. You’ll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. You’ll talk more about why you feel this way, and he’ll offer better solutions. The weight won’t simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten – one day, you’ll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe. 

One day, the seas will calm, and you’ll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor. 

And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.

[birchbow]

Chapters: 1/17 Rating: Mature Relationships: Gamzee Makara & Karkat Vantas, Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Minor or Background Relationship(s) Characters: Karkat Vantas, Gamzee Makara, Lord English (Homestuck), Doc Scratch (Homestuck), Homestuck Ensemble, Calliope (Homestuck), The Felt (Homestuck), It's really a 'everybody is around doing things' fic I genuinely don't know how to tag this Additional Tags: Winter Soldier Pastiche, with everything that entails so read carefully!, Humanstuck, Urban Fantasy, Home-Brew Magic System Shit Don't @ Me, Time Shenanigans, Karkat Vantas Makes Bad Decisions This Is A Forewarning, Polyamory Negotiations, Hurt/Comfort, Lord English's Fun-Time Brainwashing Time-Travel Torture Gang, Aftermath Of...... Everything....., Past Torture, (physical/psychological/spiritual/emotional--largely inexplicit but not entirely), Past Brainwashing, Possession, implied/referenced past rape/non-con, (implied sexually as well but only shown in nonsexual Cal-flavored intimacy/tenderness), God Finds It Funny To Hurt You But He Also Won't Let You Die, Let's be real: plotty gamzee whump with a, Happy Ending

Summary:

Your name is Karkat Vantas. You've got a vigilante team of freaks and weirdos to run, and a city to protect, and a long-dead crab-god under your skin, and a ring on a chain around your neck, and an axe to grind with Alternia City's most infamous gang. You're going to hunt the Scratch down, come hell or high water, and make them pay. And whoever their new pet murderer is, he's not going to stop you.

AKA Winter Soldier Gamkar Fic, Work of Many Decades, Pride and Joy!!!!!!  This is for the folks who have consistently matched my clown-related freak all this time! I love you!! Mind the tags but also enjoy!!!

[breadbartz]

some expressions!! ^_^...

[adarafaelbarba]

Hi, if Ugly Sweaters is still open, could I request it with Barba? ☺️

Confession and Ugly Sweaters

✨ Covering the «Ugly Sweater» square of @storiesofsvu ’s holiday bingo ✨

Warning: This piece has mentions of childhood trauma at the hand of a parent, and mentions abuse towards people in close relations. Please do not read if you’re sensitive to such topics. I’ll be sure to tag it accordingly down below in the tags.

The fun with Christmas in your opinion, was how you could get out all the silly Christmas themed sweaters you owned, and just wear them, and no one, well not that many, would judge you for it. But where you were filled with the Christmas spirit, your boyfriend, Rafael Barber, was more like the Grinch. You still loved him though, even if he never wanted to join in on the Christmas fun. 

He never joined when you decorated, always claiming there was a case he needed to work on. Baking was done either on your own or with your mother-in-law, Lucia. And he never wore the Christmas sweater for the holiday photo. 

Usually, that didn’t bother you. However, it was your fifth Christmas together. And even if you knew you wanted to spend forever with him, you weren’t sure you could spend forever with someone who wasn’t at least trying to indulge in your favorite holiday. So, you decided to just not bother with Christmas and see how long it would take before he would comment on it. You knew it was childish of course, but if it got him at least trying, you would be happy.

So when December 1st rolled around, you continued on as you were the rest of the year. No Christmas music playing, the decoration still in the closet, not a whiff of Christmas in the air. 

It took two weeks for him to notice, and by then your fingers were itching, your whole body, was itching to get the decoration up and the apartment to look like Santa’s elves had thrown a bomb in there.

He came home after a long day of work, walking over to kiss the top of your head, «Amor—are you okay?»

«What do you mean?» You were sat on the couch, going over the tests your students had completed, marking errors and setting points around where it was fitting.

«It’s December 15th—you should have the whole apartment decorated by now—.»

You wanted to scream, but simply kept correcting the tests. «Didn’t feel like it.»

He knew something was wrong, he was smart enough to sense it. Crouching down in front of you, he took the stack of papers from you and placed them on the coffee table, then he took your hands and made you look at him. «Please talk to me, what’s wrong?»

«Why do you care if the decorations are up or not? Whether it smells like a bakery in here, or the Radio City Rockettes are having a show—,» you huffed in frustration, but kept your eyes on him.

«But you love Christmas—»

«Well, you hate it—and I just wish for once you’d just—indulge in it. Your mom told me you loved Christmas when you were a kid.» You could see the hurt in his eyes at your words, but you had to tell him, you had to make him see your side.

He took a deep breath, contemplating his words. «Did she tell you about the times my father would beat me, for asking for a small thing for Christmas? Or how he would stumble in on Christmas Eve as Santa, drunk and reeking of beer? I loved it as a child, sure, but I have so many painful memories from that time that makes it hard for me to see the joys of it anymore. Not to mention t all the horror stories that happens during December, to women, children, people of all ages, genders and beliefs. I don’t indulge in it, cause I can’t stand the holiday. But I never tell you to stop celebrating or be excited over it because I know how much you love it.» He had tears rolling down his face now, confessing everything, laying himself bare for you.

You were in tears too by the end, holding him close and apologizing for asking so much of him.

«It’s alright, amor, I should’ve told you sooner. And—maybe I can take at least one Christmas photo with you, if it makes you happy.»

«But does it make you happy?» It was a simple question, but you did not expect the response you got.

«Whenever you’re happy, I’m happy too.»

You leant in, brushing his lips with yours, smiling through tears as you shared a soft kiss.

For him to agree to a Christmas picture, was just the first step towards mending his heart, and you’d take it, but you wouldn’t make him uncomfortable.

«We can pose in front of the tree—in normal clothes.»

«We’re getting a Christmas sweater for me too. I will try small steps to indulge in the holidays, but in my own pace.»

To hear that he’d agree to, even suggest the sweaters, it made your heart soar and you kissed him again, harder this time. «I love you so much, Rafael, never forget that!» 

«And I love you, y/n, forever and always.»

~~~

Tagging:

@plaidbooks @storiesofsvu @cycat4077 @thatesqcrush @alwaysachorusgirl @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @bisexual-dreamer02 @misscharlielulu @xoxabs88xox @muchadoaboutcj @beatrice-san @meetmeatyourworst @thats-jaywalking @cursedashes @mysoulisasunflower @crazy4chickennuggets @imaginelover88 @beccabarba @itsjustmyfantasyroom @detective-giggles @guitita @ladylionstar @achataa @nessamc @peauxheaux @silversprings-mp3 @polkadotpenguin16 @pepperbstark @im-a-slut-for-this-man2 @chickensarentcheap @irishavengersassemble

Wanna be on the tag list? Fill out this form to be part of the team 🥰

[royjamieism]

please consider reading my hypersexual jamie fic. it starts uncomfortably (on purpose/by necessity) but is a fic about carrying trauma and the messy nonlinear nature of healing. the far reaching consequences of amsterdam. how jamie spent his time on lust conquers all. also royjamie slowburn. thank u 🙌

[spittyfishy]

So not fair they wasted one of the best akumas on the worst episode

[feroluce]

Lucid Dreamer (2/2)

part 1

Gepard stalls almost a week before he finally goes out to the safehouse, and it takes him a couple days to find it because Sampo didn't have the time left to be wasn't super specific about the location. But he does find it.

It's pretty bare bones, really. Gepard knows that was probably to be expected, but… It feels crushing, when he realizes there are so few personal things here. It's nothing specific to Sampo. Just some food, some medical supplies. A cot and a heater and a lot of mismatched blankets. Nothing to remember someone by.

But he does find the letters, in a metal box stashed away under the bed.

There are two for him. Three for Natasha, and two for Seele. One for Hook, one for Serval, one for Pela, one for Bronya.

Bronya's is mostly business. They knew each other from the whole Stellaron incident, but not much beyond that, and the incoming catastrophe is a more pressing matter. Seele's is actually two copies of the same letter, and Gepard realizes why when Seele is so angry she rips the first one up without reading it. He gives her the copy a couple days later, and she slinks off without a word.

Pela seems completely normal after hers is delivered, but Gepard knows better than to trust that. The next day, he finds her asleep in bed with Serval, bottles abandoned on the floor, both their eye makeup smeared and running and Pela's glasses horribly smudged and crooked on her face. Serval doesn't read hers in front of him, but she's clingy with Gepard, Pela, and Lynx for quite a while after. She throws herself into her work a lot. She insists the heater from the safehouse is busted and she needs to keep it. It's too dangerous for use by someone who's not an engineer. Might burn their house down or something. Gepard doesn't argue.

Hook's letter is short, with easy to read words. The rest of it is actually a treasure map, and she and the moles spend the next several days running through the Underground, finding hidden candy and toys. Hook asks them when Sampo is coming back, because one of the marbles she found from his map looks green, just like his eyes, and she wants to give it to him. Natasha shoos Gepard out of the clinic before he can even begin to think of an answer.

Natasha refuses to let him see what's in her letters, which ok, fine, he'll respect that. He hears from Bronya who heard from Seele who heard from Natasha herself though that one of the letters was a map and the other a catalogue, with all of Sampo's hidden "warehouses." Gepard promptly marches himself back out to the frontlines, where he can turn a blind eye. If a ton of stolen goods suddenly enters the black market, and if the orphanage and the clinic suddenly have new supplies, well, technically that's none of his business.

Gepard goes to bed, curls up under mismatched blankets and closes his eyes.

He doesn't dream.

One of Gepard's letters was also business, like Bronya's and Natasha's. He and Bronya follow everything meticulously, down to the letter, because there has to be some good to get out of all this, there has to be. Gepard can't let it all be for nothing, it would bury him.

And so the catastrophe passes. Not without casualties, and not without a lot of damage and destruction. But Belobog survives.

And after that, time just kind of…goes on. Gepard has been a part of the Silvermanes since he was old enough to enlist. The Fragmentum had gotten so much worse in the years before Welt sealed the Stellaron. He knows the statistics, it is literally his and Pela's jobs to keep track. He knows when he sees a face everyday in the camps and then it's suddenly gone. He's not unfamiliar with things like grief and loss.

He still catches himself checking the trashcans and the supply crates and soldiers' footprints sometimes, though.

But there comes a night where Gepard goes to bed, holding the mismatched blankets to his face, and he dreams. And it's strange, it's off, it sticks with him. Sampo doesn't look the same. He's thinner. His muscles have atrophied. He looks like how Gepard has seen soldiers after months in the hospital.

The most unsettling difference is there's a scar across the left side of his head, Gepard can see it over his ear, peeking out past his hairline, carving towards his cheek. Sampo is always careful about his face. Gepard once saw him dodge a Fragmentum monster and literally let it cut across his neck just to keep his face clear. He wouldn't let that happen for nothing.

Their actions in the dream itself aren't new. Sampo seems tired, run down and worn out, but he announces his presence with aplomb by lobbing a bunch of smoke bombs off the rooftops and sending his soldiers scrambling. Same shit, different day.

The new part is what he says when Gepard chases him out to the edges of the camp, tackles him into the snow. Gepard pins him to the frozen ground to detain him and Sampo doesn't even fight it, just looks up at him like he's seeing sunrise for the first time in months.

"I'll be home in one week."

[zuppizup]

Me all morning

[maladaptivewriting]

the problem with atyd remus isn’t anything to do with the fanfic itself. it’s the fact that people who are up their own ass about their own suffering will read remus lashing out, being unreasonable, making bad choices, and sometimes acting like a cowardly dickhead, and they’ll go “yeah he’s just like me. he had every right to act like that”

like huh????? can we get a little more critical thinking here pls. character flaws do not equal “every right”

ALSO if you’re bragging about how similar he is to you without an ounce of self reflection, then i think you should consider that your suffering doesn’t make you unique and it doesn’t give you the right to hurt the people around you.

[lighthouseshepard]

ahhh been too afraid to pm you but hi from a silent mutual!!

writing prompt: john and yorick chat while arthur sleeps :))

HI HELLO!! im also always too afraid to pm everyone! thank you so much for sending this in and so sorry it took me a while! been a very busy few days (:

"Is he fully asleep, my king?"

John groans in annoyance among the relative darkness he'd been sulking within. Ever since Arthur's eyes shut once he fell into an exhausted, heavy slumber nearly thirty minutes prior, he'd been reluctant to try and exercise what little muscle control he possessed to squint them open again. Manipulating those muscles usually woke him regardless of how careful he was, leaving him with a splitting headache neither of them could explain. And at the moment, John couldn't bring himself to disturb the hard won sleep, as fitful as it was.

Yes, he's asleep, he hisses impatiently. Yorick's voice came from somewhere to their left, still attached by the chain threaded around their waist. Arthur's right arm twitches, fingers scrabbling for some imaginary thing, before falling still.

"Excellent," says the skull. "Our master requires much rest after that entire ordeal."

Our master? John snorts. The subtle stirrings of a cool night's breeze brush against the skin of his left hand, welcome after the wet, stale air of the cave. He's your master, not mine. 

"He is master to both of us!" Yorick exclaims, far too loudly. "Just as you are a king to him and myself. An inseparable pair, the dies irae, intertwined inexorably, dominion over one another and all else."

Jesus fucking Christ, John mutters, wishing he could wince. What does that even mean?

“Exactly as I said. Would you like me to repeat it?”

No, no. Can you quiet down? You're going to wake him.

“Certainly, my king.” His reply drops to a tone only slightly less loud than before. 

 And stop calling me that, he adds irritably. I'm not a king.

"You were once a king," Yorick states matter of fact, jaw clacking solidly as he speaks, a peculiarly troubling imitation of human life. "I do not see the issue with proclaiming this."

Once, he emphasizes. I'm not... I'm not that being any longer. I don't claim to be any kind of ruler anymore.

"Fair enough! What shall I call you if not a ruler, then?" 

John, he grinds out, the last droplet of water among the barren desert of his patience threatening to dissolve. John is fine.

"Alright," Yorick says, sounding pleased. "King John, how may I serve you?"

John heaves a haggard sigh. Unbelievable, he groans, and attempts to turn his attention away for a brief, blissful second to collect what surely remained of his sanity.

The thing that called itself vanguard spoke incessantly. Within the caves, climbing out into rain-damp earth and sky, walking to find shelter for nightfall in the hopes of catching at least a few hours sleep - it had not stopped talking the entire way. John had half a mind to untangle Yorick from Arthur's belt when he wasn't paying attention and throw him as far as his eyes could see. He'd never liked the thought of the vanguard anyway, had never wanted Arthur to take the head, keep the tooth. Something about a creature which existed simultaneously in the Dreamlands, the Dark World and their own reality never sat well with him. 

A hypocritical perspective, possibly, considering. Yet that similarity alone made him nervous, straddling a razor's cautious edge. He knew what he was capable of. Yorick remained a mystery.

They'd found an oak tree, its canopy stretching out far enough to provide cover from the last stray rain clouds rolling by, so long as Arthur kept curled at its trunk. He had fallen under almost immediately. One or two words exchanged between him and that damned skull, and he was out, John's name half formed on his lips in what sounded like the start of a question. It would likely be forgotten upon waking. Already Yorick was taking time meant for him.

Regardless, John knew him to be valuable, an asset they couldn't afford to get rid of. Certainly not now, with nothing to their names except the clothes Arthur wore and the bag he carried, no money, no food. If Yorick could be a wealth of information like he claimed, they'd have to put up with him a while longer. 

And then John could toss him into a lake.

In the stretch of thankful silence, Yorick apparently finally listening to his demands, he reaches over and inspects what remained of the wound. Dried blood coated Arthur's wrinkled shirt close to his heart, stiffening the fabric. Laying his palm flat and hesitantly across his chest, John takes solace in the flighty pulse tangibly felt there. Not too long ago there was none at all.

Arthur murmurs something wordless under his touch. John retracts his hand quickly, mildly guilty at having potentially disturbed him.

“You dislike when he sleeps,” Yorick says. Despite his position by Arthur's hip, rolled sideways where he'd come to rest as they laid down on dry grass, his voice still seemed to come from somewhere else around them. 

John waits a second for more to follow. Nothing comes - it's a statement, not an inquiry.

I don't dislike him sleeping, he huffs. He has to rest, obviously.

“Yet it troubles you regardless? The absence of him.”

I don't, John sputters out, struggling to keep his voice level. I'm not… lonely if that's what you're suggesting. Will you just shut up already? We're both going to wake him up at this rate.

“Our master is blind to the world in multiple senses of the word,” says Yorick. “Deep within a dream. He will not wake for some time.”

How do you know he's dreaming? he asks, perplexed. You can't… see into his mind, or-

“I know a great many things.” Another beat of silence, decorated by the cricket song in the surrounding brush shielding them from view. Again John waits for an explanation, growling agitatedly when none is forthcoming.

Such as? he prompts. What is he dreaming about? 

“I do not know the specifics,” clacks Yorick. “Yet I'm aware of the turmoil of his thoughts. There is a string of piano keys tied like wire around his ankles, a bathtub overflowing, a yellow sun-”

Okay, I get the specifics! John mutters. So a nightmare, clearly.

“Precisely! Excellent conclusion, King John.”

He was starting to immediately regret accidentally adding John to that title. Is there a way we can help him, then?

As if on cue, subconsciously aware he was being discussed, Arthur lets out a low, pained breath of air. Instinctively John’s hand jolts to attention, fingers delicately skimming the wound like he would find answers or assistance there. His legs were twitching, again his arm reaching and then recoiling from something John couldn’t see or understand. 

Nightmares were the only times he felt useful, whenever Arthur slept. Lingering in the corners of his mind, stuck between drifting into his own thoughts and keeping an active listen for anything that might hurt them while he was out - it wore him down in ways be couldn't explain. Yorick was right, even though John would rather revisit the Dark World than admit it. He did hate when Arthur had to sleep for the emptiness it left him with. Being able to wake him from a bad dream as soon as he caught the signs left him aware of a strange, disjointed sense of selfish pleasure. Even if it came at the risk of Arthur’s unhappiness, helping him out of a nightmare was one thing he could do consistently right.

“He will not wake until the nightmare is complete,” Yorick says nonchalantly. “He is too deep.”

Which will take how long?

“I know a great many things,” he says for the second time. “Yet this, I do not.”

Another whimper, softer than the last. John taps the side of his head, tugs at his shirt collar, goes so far as to flick his nose multiple times in a row, as hard as he could manage. Nothing caused him to stir. He could slap him, sure, but in this state he might break apart altogether.

Great. John heaves a sigh. So we just have to listen to this, then? Until he’s, what, done dreaming?

“That is correct. We could always pass the time discussing, my King.”

Discussing what? He snorts. The maggots we just crawled through? No thanks.

“Or,” Yorick adds, “you could always return your hand to his chest.”

What? 

“Your hand,” he repeats, jaw clicking knowingly. “It is the one thing which calms the dreams. I’ve witnessed it many times before.”

You didn’t even have eyes, then, John says sardonically. What could you possibly have witnessed?

“I have no physical eyes now, but I can see you and the master. I was aware then, and in a way, I am aware now.”

In the shrouding blackness of Arthur’s slumber, John imagines the two points of white light where the prince’s eyes once rested staring sideways up at them, awash in tendrils of green smoke. Was this how Arthur felt all the time, kept in the dark, left to wonder how everyone was looking at him? 

Carefully, he puts his hand back in the center of Arthur’s chest. Fingers splay out, one wooden pinky, the rest a thin collection of bruises and scars and broken, chipped nails. That fidgety pulse returns, a bird’s caught wing under his palm. The rhythm remains so for nearly a minute, stuttering and jumping to some melody John couldn’t follow along, and he’s about ready to give it up for nonsensical, stupid advice before he hears Arthur sigh.

It’s not the same troubled exhale as before. This one comes calmer, more even-keeled. As he focuses on his heartbeat he notices it begins to slow, calming bit by bit into a steady, softer pattern. Arthur’s movements drift to a halt. He shifts among the roots, mumbling something too quiet to comprehend, and eventually falls silent.

“He sleeps much like the dead in appearance,” Yorick states thoughtfully. “I believe the dream has come to a close, for now.”

Good, remarks John, at a loss for anything else to say. He wasn’t going to tell Yorick thank you; but it was tempting. The gentle rise and fall of Arthur’s breathing is a placid current, subtler than the new rain beginning to break through the clouds overhead in the night. He could plainly picture him, sprawled out uncomfortably, breeze touseling sweat damp hair, a downward curve in a mouth which always seemed to be frowning lately. Protected just enough beneath the oak, protected enough beneath John’s palm.

Well, at least one of us is content.

“I am much content, King John.”

That makes a total of two. Can you please shut the hell up now? 

“If that is what you wish," the skull says amicably. "Then I will."

It is, John bites. Just thirty minutes of fucking silence. Please.

Yorick says nothing. Relief settles over him as the break distends. Minutes pass until he finally accepts his desire had been properly observed. Crickets sing around them once more.

Sleep well, he whispers, hand firmly over heart. Perhaps we can wait a little longer to get rid of him.

[evangelistofmurder]

Chapter 4 Musing + Bonus thoughts in tags

I've been thinking about this recently and realized: Yakou did have a chance of surviving the gas but made the deliberate choice not to:

[Solution Key - Toxic Gas Properties]

Yakou could have asked Desuhiko for a space suit; I don't even think the latter would question it either, this hammers more of the fact that the plan was a murder-suicide from the start. Though, this is the same man who takes dying over and over again in considering and still went through with it.

He really only needed Desuhiko's and Fubuki's fortes to enact the murder, but he brings Halara and Vivia to the lab as well. Yakou knows damn well the peacekeepers, especially Yomi will look for any excuse to arrest/execute the NDA. He brings Halara and Vivia to protect Fubuki, Desuhiko and Yuma; Yomi accuses the remaining NDA detectives for Yakou's 'murder' anyways. It was somewhat fruitless but the fact of the matter is to say even when lying to the others he did still care about them. Just as much as Yakou cared about the NDA the latter cared about Yakou just as much too. Yakou was really the heart of the NDA; Yakou just never took into account that everyone else would try desperately to save his life instead of just leaving him. (Going on a whim, to say he probably thought they'd just leave like how his former detectives left to join the peackeepers).

Yuma trying to beg Yomi to get Yakou medical attention, Fubuki using all her energy to rewind time in order save him, Halara administrating first aid after fighting the peackeepers, Desuhiko having to tell Fubuki to not to turn back time any further so the Chief can rest because it is too late and Vivia just standing there walking away since he doesn't know how to deal with it and express it directly. Hell, Halara was potentially giving CPR to his corpse in hopes that he'd stay alive after Yuma and Vivia checked Huesca's logs.

Finally, there's everyone's collective survivors guilt. It's safe to assume everyone knew what happened before Number One called in whether Yuma or Vivia said something; There's also Kurumi who wasn't even at the lab asking if they made a mistake by going.

In closing, it's a tragedy in every single way and I don't even think I hit everything in this musing; To me this is more focused on the NDA's perception of events

[I'd appreciate if people made responses to this by the way!!]

[stromuprisahat]

The negligible amount of Daemyra pegging fics on AO3 is shameful. Especially if you dare to add more filters. Do people truly believe Daemon never took it up his ass with his wife, or are they too scared to write it?!