#clinging to my own self-worth in a fucking death-grip

[missmisnomer]

repeating this mantra like my life depends on it

[willsimpforazula]

New WIP

because I can't seem to actually sit the fuck down and finish a fucking story due to IRL stuff (work, mainly just work) here's another WIP after rewatching EP11 of 86 cour 2 (kenot recc this anime enough, worth all the rewatches and then some) Notes: - it kinda sorta ties in to the christmas gift thing i did last year, so you might wanna check that one out before you start. link is here.

it's pre-relationship fic so if that's not your jam consider other fics like my sokkla saturday submissions for 2020 / other assorted one shots.

put on either Voices of the Chord or Avid at the part where you see an * trust me, it helps set the mood. alternatively, just have the ep playing as you read.

lastly our girl azula (+ a whole bunch of atla characters) is slightly (or very, depends on how you wanna slice the pie) OOC but it be like it do when it comes to AUs. i don't make the rules.

Anyways....

Enough. 

The dead belong to the past.

They must be separated from those who still remain in the world of the living, Sokka thought to himself as he piloted his Feldress towards the sentient railgun, using the fact that it was distracted by Kiyi placing the muzzle of his pistol against her temple. Firing off the grappling hooks, he maneuvered himself up onto the grotestesque machine, keenly aware he only had one shot left in his gun, the weight of his comrades' sacrifices hanging heavy on his mind, the last being Zuko's crippled mech seemingly obliterated by the field gun they were tasked with destroying.

Bobbing and weaving amongst the deadly appendages that threatened to slice his own machine like a hot knife through butter, Sokka put on a masterclass of Juggernaut piloting for a non-existent audience, even as his thoughts churned and swirled like the River Styx of the underworld.

What good is there for you to so desperately cling on to this sham of a life?

You can't go anywhere.

You're nothing.

So let go. 

Sinking his machine's piledrivers into his target, he depressed his gun and shoved it down at the central nervous system of the railgun and pulled the trigger. With a dull roar, the one remaining shell exited the barrel of his gun and slammed 20 pounds of HEAT into it, blowing a hole out the other side and sending fragments of hot metal in all different directions. In that split second, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by an external voice, as he felt a phantom hand grip his own.

Tsk, take a look at yourself in the mirror.

We're closer than you like to admit. You, and I, have nothing left. 

No, you want to die in battle more than you ever wanted to live, correct? Then why are you still alive?

As the phantom voice left him with the one question Sokka did not wish to answer the most, the self-destruct sequence that had begun counting down since he blew its metaphorical brains out hit zero, initiating a chain reaction of explosive charges that reduced it to a hunk of burning metal, the force hurling his machine into the air like a toy tossed aside by a petulant child. Knocking his head against the headrest, he blacked out as the machine sailed through the air, before crashing into the field some five hundred meters away.

Dream sequence one

Slammed against the wall of his bedroom, Sokka could only whimper, his hands scrabbling against Katara's as she attempted to choke him, her face twisted with rage as she blamed him for the death of their mother, the phrase "If it wasn't for you….if it wasn't for you…."

Dream sequence two

Just as the chant grew to a crescendo, it just as suddenly ceased as the scenery now changed to the rolling grasslands, the spiteful hurting tone his sister used now reverting back to the kind and gentle voice as he now felt the shard of his sister's Juggernaut in the palm of his hand.

You won't be bothered by me anymore. Just forget me.

No, no no no no, wait for me sis!

Just then, a familiar voice called out his name, startling him.

"Sokka!"

Turning around, he saw a bloodstained Jet, the trademark stalk of wheat hanging from the side of his mouth at the head of a group who all sported similar injuries, a distinctive patch of dried blood on the side of their heads.

"Thank you, Sokka." The spectre of Jet spoke, prompting a flurry of gratitude from each member of the group, thanking him for not letting the Legion condemn them to an eternal existence as ghosts in the machine before flickering out of existence. 

Out of nowhere, the mocking voice of Kiri interjected once more with his sneering words

You are nothing.

Belong nowhere.

Nothing to live for, no end goal in sight.

No one to bid farewell to, no reason to live.

Killing me was the one thing that kept you going all this while. So what are you going to do now?

I mean, you don't have anything else to live for, right?

Dream sequence three

Before he could even reply, Sokka found himself chipping away at the metal husk of the Juggernaut with his bayonet, trying to extract a piece of his sister's Juggernaut, even as the kind voice of his sister seemed to mock him with every blow that he swung.

Of course, I'm not expecting you to completely forget me. Just, y'know, think of me occasionally.

Live, Sokka. Be free and happy.

"Freedom?! Happiness?! Easy for you to say! You. Left. Me. Alone!" he snapped back. With a final blow, the blade on his bayonet shattered, grazing him above his left eye.

"Why does everyone have to die and leave me behind ?" he half sobbed, half whispered to himself, the burden he bore threatening to sever his already tenuous link to sanity.

It can't be helped, can it?, Kiri's voice answered. I mean, you've always been putting your life on the line like you've got a death wish, dragging your friends and companions into the jaws of death every single time you go out to combat. Kind of selfish, no?

Looking up, he found himself at the memorial site staring at the first person he performed a mercy kill on since leaving the Republic on a suicide mission all those months ago.

"Thank you…Shin." it smiled, showing him a portrait of a small girl in a locket before closing it and vanishing.

Out of nowhere, he heard Kiyi's voice come from behind "Your heart has already been hardened, hasn't it? That's why it hurts so much when your friends show care and compassion for you, doesn't it?"

"You don't have to bear this cross alone."

"You can count on us."

Turning around, Sokka saw his comrades Zuko, Suki, June and Lu Ten approach him in a column with Kiyi leading them. Upon seeing them, he stretched out his hand towards them, only to have it sliced clean off as his field of view narrowed down to a slit.

"Looks like we're leaving you behind. Again." Zuko's phantom commented in a tired tone.

"Wait, wait, wait no!" he cried. Suddenly, he felt his body jerk and Sokka found himself back to reality, his hand stretched out as if reaching for some distant object over the horizon.

Glancing around, he saw that the railgun he and his team set out to destroy a little over two days ago was now a smouldering wreck in the distance. Turning to his other displays, he saw that the rest of his friends showed no signs of life, confirming what he suspected to be the case.

He was alone. 

Left behind. Again.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the fragment of his sister's Juggernaut had fallen out of his pocket. Bending his body forward, he stretched out to grab it when an alert blared out, informing him that there was a hostile approaching him.

So naive to think it's all over.

Did you really think it would be that easy, Reaper? Surely not. Kiri's mocking voice sneered at him, one last cruel joke from beyond the grave as a lone Amiese scout crawled ever closer.

At this, Sokka finally snapped and he screamed "Kill me already!", tears of frustration flooding his eyes as he awaited the inevitable.

Opening his eyes, the last thing he expected to see was a Republic soldier running towards him, the ubiquitous battle rifle slung over her shoulder as she approached his stricken mecha. Pressing the loudspeaker option on his side panel, Sokka called out "Hey, you there, are you from the Republic of San Magnolia?"

At this, the girl stopped and turned, before replying "Yes. Who are you?"

"We're at the westernmost limit of the Federal Republic of Giad. I am affliated with the 177th Mechanized Corps. To maintain our defensive lines, we initiated a long range reconnaissance patrol to neutralize the railgun, which has been codenamed 'Morpho'. Thank you for your support."

"Thanks, but are you….alone? Being sent on a suicide mission like this deep behind enemy lines? That's a harsh and inhumane thing to do!" Azula replied.

"Thank you for your concern. The main force is only a few clicks away. See you again someday."

"That's good to hear."

"Do you want to come with us?"

"What?"

"I mean, there can't be too many of you left, right? If so, we can protect you." At this suggestion, Azula's face hardened.

"No. To suggest that I do so is to spit on the blood sacrifices this country and their soldiers made so that others may live. I have a duty to them as their commanding officer even….even if I might fail." Azula responded, the last part coming out as a whisper as her mind flashed to the recent memory of close quarters street to street fighting in the heart of the capital itself, the stench of blood and gunpowder still fresh in her mind.

"I will stay here and keep fighting to my very last bullet and last breath."

At this, Sokka snorted and replied "Keep fighting? For what? Do you have a death wish or something? If not, then why?"

At this, Azula marched forward, intent on giving the pilot a piece of her mind (and a couple of hard spankings with the butt of her rifle if need be). Behind her, a Republic Juggernaut in olive green scuttled up to her, only for Azula to activate her para-raid and order the Processor to stand down.

"What the hell are you thinking? Get the fuck out of there, Your Majesty! The hell do you think you're doing prancing around the battlefield with no armour on?" a familiar voice rang out to Sokka.

*"No. Besides, how would you know if anything were to happen, if at all. Besides, if I didn't run then why would I run now? Until my last dying breath, I'll keep fighting. There's a lot of people who hold the same belief as I do, it's only right that I catch up with them and lead them forward!"

"Listen up, I am the commander in chief for the defense of the Republic, Captain Azula and I will never, ever, abandon my people and my country!"

"Ma-ma-major?" Sokka hesitantly asked, immediately recognizing her voice and prompting a gasp from Azula as the gears in her mind started to click into place.

"Those whom you speak of have already gone to the land of the dead. What obligations do you have for ghosts and spectres?"

"Because someone once told me 'Don't forget me.' Because of him, I survived the Legion's assault on the capital. That is why I keep fighting, so I can meet him one day. Even if they're all dead, I want to keep living. Because that's what they would have wanted for me."

Pulling out a faded Polaroid and a sketch of a pig dressed like a princess, she turned it around and showed it to him.

"That is why I fight. Because they wouldn't have had it any other way. Surely you think the same way right? After all, you fought so hard to get to this point, I think you should be proud of yourself."

At this, Sokka choked up again, relieved to hear the familiar voice of his beloved major.

Pressing the hatch release, Sokka could only stutter "Ma-major, I-" before the chatter of approaching Legion forced him to reseal his hatch. Grabbing the controls, he gritted his teeth and attempted to have his mech get back on its legs.

Just then, the olive green Juggernaut skidded to where Azula stood and interrupted her "Gran Mur's calling, Legion are approaching!" 

"Shit! You from the Federacy, come with us!"

"No." was Sokka's reply, just as artillery shells streaked across the sky, before slamming into the horizon.

"No…no way..you've got to be-"

"What's wrong Cyclops?"

"You don't recognize that mark?"

"That's a Federacy emblem right?"

"No, that-well, you wouldn't have seen it before."

"Huh?" Cyclops replied, as the corps commander strolled out from a helicopter.

"Good work, Lieutenant."

"Sir, please don't assume we're all dead, y'know." 

"Exactly, I mean, did you Suki was crying non-stop for five hours straight?" Lu Ten chided.

"I was not!"

"Well now Sokka, I did warn you what would happen if you made her cry again." June added.

"You dumbass, we thought you died after you failed to move from that blast." Zuko lectured. "Well, the good news is we all survived. No one has gone ahead of the other. So rest easy."

[smaidjor]

and i pay for my place by the ring (Chapter 2)

This chapter took me so fucking long but after much struggle I have completed it!

It was supposed to be 3-4k words. It was exactly 6069 pre-editing according to google docs.

You're welcome.

Chapter Title: with your blessing i will go

Chapter Wordcount: 6073

Content warnings: suicidal thoughts, self-esteem issues, discussion of death, non-graphic injury.

AO3

Chapter 1

i know they're losing (companion fic)

Actual fic under the cut:

The next few weeks are miserable, and if Scott tried to claim anything else, he would absolutely be lying to himself. Not that he doesn’t already do that, but he’s not too proud to admit that not seeing Jimmy is torturous. He knows he can’t, he’s firmly placed Jimmy on the off-limits list, but that doesn’t make the self-imposed rule any easier to follow. There’s still a part of him that wants to go running back to Jimmy’s arms, to beg for forgiveness and pray that Jimmy’s warmth is enough to curb the chill in his bones.

Scott shoves that part of him down firmly. He has no time to hesitate or regret, and he will not spend his days pining and sighing over a human. (Or so he tells himself.) He will be the perfect model of an elven king if that’s what it takes to gain his people’s respect, and he will make his parents proud, not that they’re around to see it. He will . Because Scott may not care about what the Council of Elders thinks of him- he hasn’t for twenty years now- but he does care that the people of Rivendell get a leader who cares for their wellbeing. It’s the least he can do, really.

So he takes on the meetings and the paperwork and the aching, gaping hole in his chest with grim determination, ignoring the way his hands always seem to shake a little and he can never quite get warm. It’s fine. Scott is fine. He’s not going to think about golden smiles or warm brown eyes or the look on Jimmy’s face when Scott told him it was over. He’s fine .

Flipping through the stack of official mail he’s received, Scott’s startled when his hand falls on an elegant cream envelope stamped with the crest of the Ocean Empire. How long has this been here? He hurries to get it open, nearly slicing himself on the letter opener in the process.

Out slides an official invitation in neat cursive.

To High King Scott Dangthatsalongname Smajor, Lord King of the Rivendell Empire,

You are cordially invited to a royal ball to be held at the palace of Ocean Queen Lizzie Ldshadowlady, Queen of the Northern Waves and Reefs, at 8 pm on the fifth of August.

Formal attire is required.

RSVP as soon as possible.

At the bottom of it, there’s a note in slightly more rushed handwriting.

Smajor- elvenking or not, I will not appreciate it if you mess with Jimmy in any way, shape or form. This ball is to be a peaceful affair, and I will not hesitate to intervene should anything occur.

Lizzie

Scott winces. He...can’t say he doesn’t deserve the warning, any more than he can say that it doesn’t hurt to be warned away from his own husband. Ex-husband, he quickly reminds himself, reaching for stationary to pen a response.

Dear Ocean Queen Lizzie Ldshadowlady, Queen of the Northern Waves and Reefs,

He stops, giving it a bit of thought. Would avoiding Jimmy be worth the political consequences of refusing an invitation like this? No, he concedes reluctantly, it wouldn’t. He can always just avoid Jimmy at the ball- Lizzie would probably be happy for it, honestly. She’s been protective over him from the start. Scott puts the pen back to paper.

Luckily, I will be able to attend the ball. It sounds like a wonderful event and I eagerly anticipate it. As for your note, I will avoid antagonizing Jimmy as much as possible. I would hate to sacrifice diplomatic relations between our kingdoms for a petty squabble. Will that be satisfactory?

Sincerely,

High King Scott Dangthatsalongname Smajor

What’s going on between him and Jimmy is far more than a petty squabble, but Lizzie doesn’t need to know that. It’s fine. It’s not like he’s going to run into Jimmy anyways, right?

The day of the ball arrives, and Scott spends far too long choosing an outfit. He’s not vain, not usually, but...Jimmy will be there. You’re not supposed to want to impress him , Scott scolds himself, but that doesn’t stop him from wearing his nicest golden jewelry. The rest of his outfit is far more strategically planned- long skirts to hide how terrible his balance is when he’s near-constantly struggling to get a full breath into his lungs, gloves to keep his dance partners from questioning his cold hands.

The ball is already in full swing by the time he arrives, the trip from Rivendell taking longer than he thought it would. He’s still greeted by the Ocean Queen herself, though, gliding over in her stunning ballgown of blue and green.

“Welcome!” Her smile is bright, warm in a way he almost envies.

Scott dips his head just enough to be respectful but not so much as to truly defer to her. He thinks that’s right, anyways; he hasn’t had to think about that particular part of etiquette lessons in some twenty years. “Thank you, Queen Lizzie. I apologize for my lateness, the trip was a bit harrowing.”

“No problem at all, I just hope you enjoy the ball!” Lizzie’s smile gains a sharper edge. “I appreciated your letter, by the way. Thank you for your promise to keep it civil, King Smajor. Now we just all have to follow through on our words!” She accompanies that bit with a little laugh, but Scott’s not a fool enough to take it as anything but a warning. She doesn’t want trouble at her ball, and who would, really?

“Hopefully we can manage at least that,” he offers wryly, earning another laugh and a bright “Hopefully!”

Scott doesn’t mean to cause trouble at the ball, he really doesn’t. But before he has a chance to even get a look around, Jimmy’s standing in front of him. And oh, this really isn’t how he hoped it’d go.

“Lord Codfather,” Scott greets, swallowing the lump in his throat. Jimmy cleans up nicely- really nicely- but Scott’s eyes keep going to the scar on his throat, the permanent reminder of how fragile and mortal Jimmy really is.

“Elvenking,” Jimmy says. The formality sounds awkward in his bright voice, and Scott wants to kiss the uncertainty right off his face. “Care for a dance?”

He can’t- he should, Scott knows. There would be value to an alliance with Jimmy, and he has no good reason to turn him down. That’s not why he says yes, though. It’s that look in Jimmy’s eyes, the hope poorly disguised by indifference. He’s so optimistic. Scott shouldn't encourage it, but he can’t find it in himself to break that fragile hope just yet.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind,” Scott says finally. He takes Jimmy’s outstretched hand in his own gloved one; Vilya rests on Jimmy’s finger, still, and it’s a battle to keep the memories of giving Jimmy that ring at bay. He wins that battle, though, letting Jimmy put a hand on his waist as they start into a simple waltz.

Jimmy is a terrible dancer, and Scott knows it. He steps on Scott’s feet, he gets off-rhythm- he’s frankly not made for dancing, much as the way he hums along to the tune is adorable. His hair, which was probably once nicely styled, has already fallen out of place, and his tunic is a little wrinkled. His hands are rough, tough from all the work he does with them, and his face has a tiny bit of mud on it that he must have missed when getting ready. He looks very much like a sweet little swamp boy, out of place in the midst of all the more elegant and powerful rulers.

He’s the most beautiful thing Scott’s ever seen.

Unlike the last time they danced, back in 3rd life where Jimmy leaned on Scott for balance as he tried to learn the complicated steps, this time it’s Scott clinging to Jimmy for stability. He feels bad about how harsh his grip gets, but he can’t afford to show weakness. He has to stay on his feet.

Scott’s silently thankful when the dance ends and he can lead them off the dance floor. He’s exhausted and shaky, and he’s not sure how much longer he can be around Jimmy without breaking down or doing something very stupid.

“Thank you for the dance, Codfather,” Scott says. He takes a step back, banishing the lingering emotion of their dance.

A beat of silence, and then.

“Can we please stop acting like we don’t know each other?” Jimmy demands, earning a ripple of gasps from nearby guests.

“What else do you want from me?” Scott snaps back, anger rising to fill the gap in his chest.

“I- something! Anything! Just acknowledge that I exist, won’t you?”

Scott swallows down the lump in his throat. “Acknowledging you exist doesn’t mean I can still be in love with you, you know.”

“I know,” Jimmy says. He sounds so bitter, so tired. “I know , trust me. I just want you to stop- to stop hurting yourself to try and avoid pain!”

“That’s not what I’m do-”

Jimmy cuts him off, a rare occurrence. “Then what are you doing? Enlighten me, o wise elf! You told me it would destroy you to lose me, but you’re losing me now by pushing me away!”

His chest tightens, and he can barely force the words out. “I’m trying to do what’s best for the both of us, Jimmy.”

“No you’re-”

It’s Scott’s turn to cut him off. “I am an elf, and I cannot love a mortal. Humans are quick flames, burning and changing quickly. You’ll fall in love again, and you’ll forget me.” It hurts, but it’s true. There will be a mortal who loves you- I’m sure there are many already.” Jimmy’s so wonderful, there are bound to be others who see it.

“But I don’t want a mortal,” Jimmy says. It’s almost childish, but his next words still break Scott’s heart. “I want you. ”

“You can’t have me.” Scott is vividly aware of the fact that there are eyes on him, that their little spat has attracted the attention of the rest of the ballroom.

“But why? Why, Scott?” Jimmy’s voice breaks, and the crack in it is damn near enough to make Scott lose his tiny bit of remaining self-control. “You said you loved me, you promised me all the time we’d be able to- to carve out, to steal from the universe.” It sounds like an accusation, and maybe it is. Scott did promise him that, after all, and then he went back on it.

It wasn’t for no reason, though. He needs Jimmy to understand that it was for a reason. “I can’t give you that!” He snaps back, and his hands tremble when they try to form fists by his side. “You’ll live sixty more years, maybe, a fraction of my life, a blink of an eye to an elf, and I can’t even give you that long! Not when I have to be the elvenking before anything else. Nothing I can do will ever be enough for you.” It’s bitter, but it’s true. Scott can’t be enough for anyone, in the end.

“Enough for me? For ME?”Jimmy’s voice rises in outrage. “All I want is for you not to die to your own dumb plan and acknowledge my existence once in a while!”

Scott’s voice rises in response. “And all I want is for you to realize I can’t love you again!”

“Why can’t you care about me?”

“Why can’t you move on?”

“You’re not moving on, you’re just trying to forget!” Jimmy shouts.

Scott falls silent, breathing hard as the ballroom goes quiet around them. He spots Lizzie sweeping through the crowd, coming to a stop next to Jimmy.

“Is everything alright, boys?” She’s smiling, but it’s strained, and her eyes promise death if this quarrel was Scott’s fault.

“My apologies, Ocean Queen,” he says, and he tries to gather his composure as he dips his head to her. “Everything is alright, but I am afraid I will have to leave early.” He doesn’t look at Jimmy.

She smiles again, dangerous this time. “No need to worry, Lord Smajor. Do try to avoid picking fights with my allies, next time, though.”

“It won’t happen again,” he promises, and he only nearly stumbles when he turns to leave.

Distantly, he can hear Jimmy shout after him. “Coward!” The word is harsh, but there’s hurt beneath it. “You’re a coward, Scott!”

Scott stumbles away all the quicker.

He keeps composed all the way out the doors and most of the way down the stairs until he’s sure no one can see him from the ballroom. It’s only then that he breaks into a run, lifting up his stupid skirts so he doesn’t fall. One shoe falls off, a twisted parody of a children’s fairy tale, and he doesn’t bother to retrieve it. The prismarine stabs at his exposed foot, but Scott doesn’t have the energy to care. Instead, he beats his wings, trying to get enough momentum for a good takeoff.

For a few precious moments, he gets off the ground, and then he remembers Jimmy’s face as he left, wingbeats stuttering with the sudden emotion, and tumbles back to the rough prismarine path. It hurts , it does, but it’s nothing on the pain in his chest. Nothing on the words still echoing in his head. Coward! You’re a coward, Scott!

Scott lays there for a moment, half-wondering if anyone’s coming after him. It’s unlikely, he knows, given how badly he messed things up. He tells himself that that’s a good thing, that he doesn’t want anyone to come looking. He doesn’t need them. He should be strong.

Before anyone has time to notice or be concerned, he’s forced himself back to his feet, starting the takeoff sequence all over again.

This time, he gets in the air with little difficulty, though he lists to the side as he favors his right wing, which took the brunt of the fall. It’s fine. He’s fine, he doesn’t need help.

If Scott believed in the elven gods anymore, he would thank them for the fact that he gets back to Rivendell at all. There are tears blurring his vision, and every part of his body aches, his chest most of all. His flight is shaky at best, outright dangerous at worst, crashing into trees and rocks and the ground multiple times. Each time, he barely picks himself back up before mobs arrive. Sometimes, he questions if he should at all. He’s as good as dead anyways. And yet, the tiny stubborn part of him that got him through 3rd life won’t let him just lay down and die. For some reason, even though he’s slept enough recently (he thinks, anyways), there are phantoms on him. They sense when their prey is sleep-deprived, Scott knows, and wonders if he’s just weak enough to seem that way to them.

By the time he crash-lands on the mountainside, it’s pushing two in the morning, and Scott is more dead than alive. Not that he hasn’t been for a while now, he thinks, and laughs aloud to himself, bitter.

The night watch give him strange looks, but both elves on guard duty obligingly dip their heads when he stumbles by. He barely musters the energy to nod back.

Finally he makes it back to his house, slamming his door behind him and burying his face in his hands. This is the right thing to do, why does it hurt so much? He already lost Jimmy once, why does it feel like he’s losing him all over again when he never really got him back in the first place?

Someone coughs lightly, breaking through his thoughts. The voice is familiar when they speak- one of his advisors. “Lord Smajor? Any major events we should know of at the ball?”

Cold. Calm. Scott knows this is the way of the elves- their royalty cannot dare be human. “The Codfather’s our enemy and the Ocean Queen probably hates us too.” He doesn’t bother trying to make himself sound calm and collected, pushing off the wall and stalking towards the stairs.

“What?” The advisor’s voice pitches up in shock. “What did you do?”

“None of your business.”

“You cannot have embarrassed the elven realm at the largest event of the year-”

“It wasn’t like I was fucking trying to,” He snaps.

A gasp. “Language.”

“Fuck off.”

They hurry after him, making to follow him up the stairs. “Lord Smajor-”

Scott turns to face them, taking in the shock and rage painted across their ancient face. “Leave me be.”

“Do not disrespect your elders,” the advisor scolds. “I remember when you were a child, you always were reckless, but this is a new level of disrespect! Why, Xornoth would never-”

“ Enough ,” he hisses. “Do not talk about my sibling.”

They freeze, a bit of genuine fear creeping onto their face. “My lord-”

“Get out of my house,” Scott snarls.

They wisely obey. Scott slumps against the banister as the surge of adrenaline abates, suddenly exhausted. He’s freezing, he realizes, a bone-deep chill that he doesn’t bother to pretend is from his trip home. Scott’s done lying to himself- he’s in pain, and he’s in love, but then again, those equate to roughly the same thing when all’s said and done. You can’t have heartbreak without love or love without heartbreak. (But oh how he wishes he could.)

Scott doesn’t get out of bed the next day, and no one dares try to force him. Varying members of Rivendell’s Council of Elders make a decent shot at trying to convince him, but all it takes is him fixing them with his dead-eyed stare to make them leave. The people of Rivendell are used to their ruler’s odd sleep schedule by now, brushing it off easily, and the empire itself is mostly functional without him. So instead of getting up and dealing with the corruption or making sure Rivendell’s stores are prepared for winter or any of the things he should be doing, Scott lays there in his own misery and thinks about Jimmy screaming that he’s a coward.

He’s right, that’s the worst part. Scott is a coward. He’s scared of Xornoth and the corruption and never, ever being enough, he’s scared of responsibility and his own mind, he’s scared of fading and dying alone, and- most of all- he’s absolutely terrified of how much he loves Jimmy.

His father warned him about fading, once, back before Scott was expected to carry a crown on his brow and the weight of a nation on his shoulders. He bounced Scott on his knee and told him that elven hearts are fragile, too fragile for how strongly they love. “Don’t fall too deep in love, son,” he said, and the words carried the weight of years of grief. “Don’t care too much about any one person, not if you want to live to be a legend of the ages. Doesn’t matter what kind of love it is, love can be lethal.”

Scott didn’t listen, of course- reckless, rebellious Scott, who never once listened to his elders, went and did the most dangerous thing an elf could do. He fell in love with a human.

And now he’s dying. Surely that gives him a pass to wallow in his own misery for a day or two. He’s been brave for so long, can’t he just rest a few moments? Just...just a few. He’ll just lay here a bit longer.

At that moment, the front door creaks open somewhere below him.

“My lord? Can I come up?” Someone calls from below. Their voice is also familiar- Gilnar. Gilnar’s a good captain of the guard. Dutiful, clever, and far more willing to respect him than most of Rivendell’s high ranking elves.

“If you’ve come to convince me to get up, it won’t work,” Scott calls back.

Gilnar’s head peeks over the railing a moment later. “Nope, not here for that. Just thought I’d check in, y’know?” The Sindarin words sound almost musical in their accent, rolling up and down with a unique sort of rhythm.

“Alright.”

“Are you okay, my lord?”

“No.” He’s done lying. “Leave me be.”

Gilnar shakes their head. “Sorry, my lord, can’t do that.”

“If you’re going to tell me my people need me, don’t waste your breath. I know .” Scott’s voice cracks on the last word, just a little.

“Not that either. But with all due respect, seems a little like you’re givin’ up on yourself just a bit, my lord.” They lean against the railing.

“What do you mean by that?”

They cough, a little awkwardly. “The soul-sickness. The fading.”

Scott’s mouth opens and closes, and he sputters. “How-”

“Trainin’ with the royal guard a few weeks back, your hands were freezin’ and your balance was off. You haven’t gotten up at a reasonable hour in weeks, and, well, with all due respect- I know what heartbreak looks like.”

He’s silent for a moment, utterly floored. “What do you mean by giving up?”

“Well, Lauriel and I were talkin’, and….your love’s still alive, isn’t he? The Codfather?”

“How did you-”

Gilnar flashes him a tiny grin. “He’s not subtle, and neither are you. Plus, he has Vilya.”

Deciding to shove that to the back of his mind for now, Scott sighs. “He’s a mortal, Gilnar. I’m not giving up anything that I won’t already lose in sixty years or so.”

“Luthien loved Beren, didn’t she?”

“I am not Luthien. I cannot sing so well that the gods grant me pardon.”

“And Idril loved Tuor.”

“I am not Idril. I cannot bring Jimmy to the Undying Lands.”

“Arwen still loved Aragorn.”

“I am not Arwen. I do not have the choice to give up my immortal life.”

Gilnar’s smile turns sad. “Caranthir still loved Haleth. And Celebrimbor loved Narvi just the same, didn’t he? The doomed love all the more fiercely, my lord.”

“The rest of the elves won’t be happy with me,” Scott points out.

“You think Thingol and Turgon and Elrond were happy when their daughters loved mortals? You think Luthien’s people didn’t scorn Beren at first?”

Scott doesn’t have any retort to that, and Gilnar hops up from their seat on the banister. “Well, I need to get back to my duties, my lord. Good luck with your swamp boy!”

They’re gone as soon as they arrive, and Scott stares up at the ceiling, his thoughts dragging him along a spiral of emotion.

“Coward! You’re a coward, Scott!”

Scott is a coward. He’s a liar and a coward. Nothing he does will ever be right.

“Don’t fall too deep in love, son.”

Scott did, though. Like the idiot he is, he fell in love with someone the universe didn’t want him to have.

“Caranthir still loved Haleth.”

He did. And he paid for it. Does it matter? Scott thinks that losing Jimmy might be a price worth paying for the joy of loving him.

“You cannot have embarrassed the elven realm at the largest event of the year-”

Scott didn’t mean to, but he still messed up and shouted at Jimmy. He’s a failure. Jimmy could do better. He deserves better.

“I don’t want a mortal. I want you .”

Jimmy’s so stupid. Stupid Codfather with his stupid bright eyes and stupid, stupid insistence on not giving up on someone he should never have loved to begin with. Scott loves him so much more than he could ever put into words.

“With all due respect, seems a little like you’re givin’ up on yourself just a bit, my lord.”

Jimmy deserves an apology. Scott won’t give up.

(Not on Jimmy, anyways.)

It takes him nearly a month of furious work to make the precious mithril bracelet, refining it over and over again. He picks the flowers and their meanings carefully- love, hope, protection- and the crystals too. Amethysts for protection, carefully traded for filled with any bit of magic he can spare for them. The lettering carved into the underside is yet another layer of blessings and meaning; he does it in Quenya, the Tengwar script, which Scott knows Jimmy can’t read. He has to look up how to write in it after so many years of never so much as looking at elven script, pouring over old books by candlelight. By day, he rules an empire, relying on the rush of adrenaline and motivation to carry him through even on the days when he’s swaying on his feet by the end. By night, he works on a courtship project like none he’s made before until at last, at nearly three in the morning one night, it’s finished.

It’s not the most beautiful it could have been. Scott isn’t one of the great Noldor smiths of old, he’s just an elf in love. His hands are perpetually shaky nowadays, and he has limited time to work on it between every other responsibility in his life. But every centimeter of it is handmade with all the care he could muster, and that has to count for something.

Scott hardly wants to wait to give it to Jimmy, but he forces himself to try and wait for morning. His anxiety doesn’t let him sleep much, exhausted as he is, but he curls up under the covers and stares at the bracelet on his nightstand. He doesn’t want to take his eyes off it, half-convinced it will vanish if he does. Eventually, his eyes slide shut of their own will, carrying him into an uneasy sleep.

He wakes up long after the sun's risen, staggering out of bed and throwing on a cloak for the journey to Jimmy’s. The cold that he’s been banishing with the warmth of a forge has returned tenfold, and he’s shivering despite elves normally being resistant to chills. When he takes a glance at himself in the mirror, he finds that his hair is out of place, there’s a streak of ink across his cheek, and the dark circles under his eyes look like bruises. He looks a mess, and he doesn’t care. Jimmy is all that matters now.

The journey’s both long and rough, and his landing in the swamp is more like a frantic swan dive out of the sky. Luckily, though, the ground is soft here, and Scott’s able to pick himself up and hurry for Jimmy’s house, ignoring the stares of a few Codland citizens. He knocks, heart in his throat as he waits for the door to open.

The hinges squeak, and suddenly Jimmy’s standing there, a mix of emotions that Scott doesn’t even want to try and comprehend scattered across his face. He looks a little sleepy despite the fact that it must be near noon, and so very sweet with his hair falling in his face. The sight of him knocks the air right out of Scott’s lungs, and he has to struggle to remember why he’s here again for a long moment as they stare at each other.

“Hi,” Scott says weakly.

“Scott? What- why are you here?” Jimmy sounds outraged, and Scott can’t blame him.

Scott swallows hard. “I came to apologize.” His tired brain scrambles for words, something, anything to convey how truly sorry he is. “I was scared- I am scared. I’m terrified to lose you again. But I shouldn’t have pushed you away and hurt you.”

“No, you shouldn’t have!” Jimmy snaps.

“I know.” God, he didn’t expect it to hurt this much to hear the rage in Jimmy’s voice. “I- uh- fuck.” Scott fumbles to get the box he put the bracelet in, holding it out. “I brought a gift as an apology.”

Jimmy’s silent for a long moment, examining the bracelet. Scott barely dares breathe as he turns it over and over in his hands, tracing the flower designs with his fingertips. “Did you make this yourself?”

“Mhm. I did my best, but it’s not as nice as I’d like.” And, well, isn’t that just the story of his life?

“It’s pretty,” Jimmy says. He sounds genuine.

Scott lets out a breath, letting some of the tension go. “It’s spelled, too. Protection, good fortune, that sort of thing.”

“Do the flowers mean something?”

“They do.”

Jimmy doesn’t press for details.

“I-” Scott starts, and then pauses. What does he say? An apology would be a start, maybe. “I’m sorry, Jimmy, I really am. I won’t ask you to forgive me, but I needed to apologize before my time ran out.” It’s the truth, as wholly as he can bear to give it.

“Is it that- that dire?” Jimmy’s voice shakes a little, and Scott gives a tiny nod.

“This is what I chose to do with it. Making that, coming here. You deserved an apology.”

Jimmy goes quiet again. His eyes are still on the bracelet, and Scott can hardly breathe again.

Finally, he can’t take the tension. “It wouldn’t be fair of me to ask you to love me. I can’t promise you eternity. I can’t promise you happiness. I can’t promise you that I won’t have to be the elvenking first and a husband second. But I am still yours-” he’s always been, really- “if you’ll have me.”

The silence that falls after that is even more stifling than the previous two. Scott doesn’t expect Jimmy to want him back- far from it. He’s putting his heart in Jimmy’s hands, but he doesn’t expect anything other than it shattering on the floor. Maybe Jimmy will be kind enough to let him down gently, but Scott’s fragile enough that it would only take a tiny nudge to break him. And yet he can’t stop the tiny bit of hope that blooms, though it dwindles minute by minute as Jimmy stares and stares. Finally, he opens his mouth to make his apologies again and leave to his frozen, icy empire-

And then there are hands in his hair and lips on his, warm and sudden and bold. Scott gives a little startled gasp, which is swallowed up by Jimmy’s kiss. Their noses knock together and Jimmy’s teeth click against his just a little in their haste, but Scott’s far too overwhelmed by the sudden rush of warmth to care.

When Jimmy finally pulls away, Scott’s left breathless, cheeks warm in a way no part of him has been since Jimmy died in 3rd life.

He barely pulls himself together enough to manage a wry little “So, I’ll take that as you want to stay married?”

“Of course I do! You absolute idiot!”

Jimmy sounds so startled and offended at the idea that he wouldn’t , Scott’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. “Just checking.”

Jimmy kisses him again in response, and who’s Scott to protest? No, he’s more than happy to let Jimmy pull him close and kiss away the lingering sorrow. When Jimmy pulls away this time, he’s left dizzy, half caught up in the euphoria of being loved, half terrified that this is only a cruel dream.

By the time Scott collects himself again, Jimmy’s holding out the bracelet to him. “Can you help me put this on?”

Scott can only nod, fumbling with the clasp a little. It’s not complicated, but his hands aren’t steady, and it takes him a moment to get it. Jimmy grabs his hands when he lets go, and he’s so warm that Scott can’t muster the energy to even question why.

“Come in and catch up with me?” Jimmy offers.

Scott nods again, and he can’t bear to let go of Jimmy’s hand when Jimmy turns to go inside.

They talk a lot, Jimmy more than Scott. Scott learns that Jimmy’s been picked on by other rulers (no surprise, but his blood still boils at the thought), and he shares minimal details about what he’s been up to. Jimmy doesn’t need to hear about Scott’s issues, he’s already dealing with enough.

Eventually, though, the sun is starting to set.

“I need to get home,” Scott says, though he has to force himself to. “You need sleep, not to stay up all night talking.” He goes to get up, and Jimmy immediately lunges, catching his sleeve.

“Don’t go! Please.” Jimmy sounds almost afraid, which instantly sets off alarm bells.

“Jimmy, darling, we both need to sleep,” Scott tells him, very patiently.

“We can sleep! I just….nevermind.”

Now the alarm bells are really going off in Scott’s head. He knows when his husband is hiding something serious, and Jimmy’s frantic tone isn’t helping his worry. “No, no. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Jimmy claims.

Scott frowns at him lightly. “ Jimmy .”

That’s all it takes. “I don’t want to be alone!” Jimmy blurts. He’s blushing a little. “It’s just, I’ve been alone for a long time, and there’s this demon thing that keeps showing up, and I’ve only just got you back, I’m not ready to let you go, and-”

Oh, Jimmy . Scott holds up a hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Hold on. What was that about a demon?”

“There’s this demon creature that I keep seeing, and it’s really messing with me. It sounds like you, sometimes, but all distorted, and I can’t handle it! You know me, I’m not brave or smart or anything, I’m just Jimmy!” Jimmy’s voice pitches up with distress, and Scott’s heart aches for him.

“Alright,” he says, as gently as he can manage. “How about you come to Rivendell for the night, then? I can protect us both easier there.” More like, Aeor can protect them. Scott’s useless, even with Vilya.

Jimmy nods and takes Scott’s hand with a tiny little “Thank you.”

“Always,” Scott murmurs. It comes out softer than he means it to, though it’s the truth. He’ll always do whatever he can to protect Jimmy, which is why he asks “Do you still have the ring I gave you?”

“I do, I just… give me a moment to remember where I put it.”

“Good. It’s important.” Vilya is one of the most important parts of his heritage, actually, and his advisors would pitch a fit if they knew he had given it to a mortal. For once, he can’t bring himself to care what his advisors would think, though. Jimmy is important, more important than any piece of jewelry.

Jimmy follows Scott to Rivendell, and Scott can’t resist a proud smile when Jimmy praises the buildings. He takes Jimmy inside, lets him curl up under the warm covers, his head tucked against Scott’s chest, and it’s only once Jimmy’s asleep that Scott lets himself break. He’s so tired , so utterly exhausted from being brave for so long. Even now that his husband is curled up next to him, warm and solid and real, he can hardly believe that Jimmy actually wanted him back- wanted him at all, really. Scott doesn’t want to move for fear of waking up Jimmy, but luckily for him, he’s good at crying silently. That’s what he does, tears slipping down his face to wet the pillow below. Only the faintest whimper escapes his lips, a tiny broken noise that he’s embarrassed of even in this emotional state. And when another slips out, he buries his face in Jimmy’s hair and forces himself back into silence. He’s not going to cry over the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he isn’t , but he’s just so tired of being alone that being with someone else is almost painful in contrast; he’s so cold that the slightest touch of warmth feels burning.

Jimmy shifts in his sleep, mumbling something that sounds vaguely affectionate and pulling Scott closer, and Scott nearly chokes from the effort of restraining a sob. Gods, Jimmy . He could die like this, tucked in his husband’s arms, and he doesn’t think he’d regret it.

“I love you,” he whispers into the night. It comes out choked. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry, Jimmy, I’m so sorry.”

Jimmy mumbles something that sounds a lot like “I love you too”, and that’s what really breaks Scott. It’s a miracle Jimmy doesn’t wake up, really, with Scott’s quiet sobs shaking the mattress. He cries until he’s all out of tears, as silently as he can manage, and only then does he slip into a sound sleep.

[writethelifeyouwant]

Lost

Summary: When Dean finally finds Castiel in Purgatory, their reunion is all consuming.

Pairing: Dean x Castiel Rating: 18+ Warnings: Non Con/Withdrawn Consent, Major Character Death Tags: Destiel, hint of Denny, Lovers to Enemies, Erotic Cannibalism kinda… IDEK ok Word Count: 1,102 Created for: @spnkinkbingo - Leviathan!Cas | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Lovers to Enemies Fic | @spndeanbingo - Rough Sex

The sight of the angel by the stream is euphoric. Thrilling, incandescent. Dean doesn’t know when he turned into such a fucking pussy but seeing Castiel again feels like being whole. Cas has been an extension of him since he put that goddamn brand on his shoulder four years ago. And even though the scar isn’t there any longer, Cas had marked Dean in other ways. Deep, invisible ways Dean never intended to admit to, but recognises in himself now, with Cas standing stoically and bedraggled by the water’s edge.

“Cas!” Dean laughs as he pulls him into a hug, one the angel doesn’t return. “Damn, it’s good to see you.” He makes himself let go and pulls back to look at Cas more closely. “Nice peach fuzz,” he pokes at Cas’s unkempt beard, raising his hand as if to run his fingers across it, but then remembers Benny and lets his hand drop. There was a lot that had gotten complicated since they’d been separated in this hellhole.

“Thank you,” Cas responds in his grumbly timbre, and Dean can’t help the smile that comes to his face at finally hearing his voice again after so long. And to hear him speaking sanely again, back to his old grumpy, wooden self. Dean’s missed this Cas. Now they can finally get out of this god forsaken cesspit of crazy and creepy.

Except Cas doesn’t want to go.

“Cas, buddy, I need you,” Dean admits with a breathless laugh, the closest he’s ever come to saying what he really wants to say. Cas’s expression drops, forlorn in his convictions.

“Dean,” Cas shakes his head, but Dean doesn’t let him finish.

“And if Leviathan wanna take a shot at our ass, let ‘em. We ganked those bitches once before, we can do it again.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Cas protests.

“Let me bottom line it for ya. I’m not leaving here without you, understand?” Dean isn’t taking no for an answer goddammit, not after how long it took to find him, not after everything else. Cas pauses, takes a deep breath, considering.

“I understand,” he nods gravely, and Dean breathes a sigh of relief, pulling him in for another hug. He hears Benny scoff behind them but decides he doesn’t care enough to break away. Cas tucks his head against Dean’s shoulder, his new beard scraping roughly against his neck. Dean shivers in his grip, but reprimands himself. Now isn’t the time.

As if Castiel had read his mind, and it isn’t the first time Dean’s wondered if Cas can do that, Cas pulls out of the hug and kisses him. He grunts in surprise against the angel’s lips, greeted with an onslaught of tongue and fervour reminiscent of what Dean could recall of Cas kissing Meg against the wall of that grimy warehouse. Dean remembers feeling incredibly conflicted about that, simultaneously jealous and turned on. Experiencing it put him on a whole new plane. For an angel who was still a fucking virgin so far as Dean was aware, the guy knew what he was doing in the tongue department. He could hear Benny trying to talk to them but his mind was far too distracted to discern any of the words.

Suddenly Cas pulls back and Dean is left staggering, staring blindly at the angel, who is panting hard and staring back at him.

“You two done yet?” Benny grunts, arms crossed over his chest, clearly unimpressed, and if Dean’s reading it right, just a touch jealous. He’s flattered, really, that he’s so desirable. Dean grins sheepishly at the vampire, with a shrug of his shoulders as if to say ‘well, can you blame us?’, and Benny rolls his eyes back.

“No,” Cas grunts, and both Dean and Benny turn to him. It takes Dean a moment to realise that Cas was answering Benny’s question. “No we’re not done yet.”

The breath is knocked clean out of him as Cas pulls Dean down to his knees and shoves him roughly back onto the bank of the stream, climbing over him and kissing him again, fierce as ever.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean hears Benny groan somewhere behind them. “Come find me when y’er done.”

Dean tries to grunt out an agreement but it turns into a moan as Cas’s fingers fumble down his chest and land on his jeans. Cas isn’t careful with the clothing, and Dean’s not inclined to care about that right now, though he may regret it later. He reaches down to get Cas stripped out of his garments too. The trench coat comes in handy as a blanket to lay down so he doesn’t get mud up his ass.

It’s rough; messy. Just like everything else in Purgatory. Dean is wide open, vulnerable as he’ll ever be, but even in a place like this, he still feels safe. This feels right.

The pain of Cas pushing in is dulled by the pleasure of the angel’s hand on his cock, pumping him roughly in his spit-soaked palm. Dean’s eyes squeeze shut against the onslaught of sensations, too overwhelming, and he lets himself go, losing himself to just another primal urge that seems to be all he can cling to in this place.

“Fuck, this was worth it,” Cas grunts above him, and Dean groans in agreement. This was absolutely worth the wait; Cas filling him up, finally being inside of him, not just near, not just touching, not just scarring, but actually inside. Part of him.

“God, Dean,” Cas groans, thrusting harder, hand dropping from Dean’s cock as he chases his own pleasure, arms dropping to either side of Dean’s head as he falls forward. He fucks into him without mercy, Dean’s hips banging into the ground with every push, and even though Cas isn’t jerking him off anymore, this new angle is getting something inside him that’s pushing him over the edge.

“Shit, Cas!” Dean moans, punching his hips back, trying to force the angel back inside him. “Fuck, gonna cum.”

“Almost,” Cas hisses through gritted teeth, breath hot and sharp against Dean’s ear. Then in a blinding rush of heat and pain, everything is over.

Cas straightens up, pulling out of Dean’s body with a relieved sigh. He cracks his neck, shrugging away the tension and ache in his muscles. He’ll be refreshed soon enough. Dropping the obsidian blade back to the ground he stretches his mouth wide and roars as his teeth sink into his prey, devouring from the head down.

Other Leviathan frowned on it, but he always thought it was more fun to play with your food first.

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[mccall-me-maurice]

LOTF Drabbles for every single one of my ships based on songs on my playlist while I wait for the movers to finish

Jalph [Boom Clap - Charli XCX]: “You’re the glitter in the darkness of my world.”

Jack glances at the fair boy’s face from across the classroom. Somehow, even with the disgusting lights the school provides for their students, Ralph manages to make them appear as if they’re worth $100. It’s probably just the way that the redhead views him, only knowing portions about the boy, as if he was glancing through a keyhole. The feelings that boil under Jack’s skin - froth spilling over the edge of the pot and into the fire - consume his every waking day, plague every thought that rushes through his skull. But he has to place a glass lid on top of the water because god forbid anyone figure out that he was in love with Ralph Allebach. God forbid anyone figure out he was queer. Because in the end, he was just a fucked up kid drunk on the love he had for his nemesis. A kid the real world would tear apart, limb by limb.

Rogermon [Walk Away - The Script]: “(S)he finds colour in the darkest places, (S)he finds beauty in the saddest of faces.”

A flower bud sprouts in the garden of Eden, without even knowing that it had just entered paradise. It sinks its roots into perfect soil, the plant itself never realising that it had found a home where other’s didn’t even know of its existence. Simon Cortés was like Roger Volkov’s garden of Eden. Every time the boy created a scar or slashed open a mental wound, Simon was there to heal it. He would administer the pill, absorb the bad things with his own light, stitch every laceration that used to leave Roger doubled over and overflowing with rage. Simon Cortés was an angel trying his hardest to turn a devil to the right side of the coin.

Mauram [The Other Side - Jason DeRulo]: “This could be perfect, but we won’t know unless we try.”

Maurice always felt like there was nothing in the world to fight for. No matter who came in and out of the house inside of his brain, nobody would stay for very long. Nobody could stay for very long. He never made room for anyone in the four walls, knowing that he had enough space for himself and that was good enough. Or, it used to be good enough. But one can only live in a house all alone for so long before they start to long for someone there with them. At the very least a neighbourhood surrounding him, so maybe he wouldn’t be all alone. Which is exactly what Sam Pinch did. He slowly found the materials and built his own residence right next to Maurice’s. A boy who the brunette never wanted to talk to, who he actively avoided at the beginnings of their friendship, had opened the front door and never swung it shut. Because, in the end, Maurice couldn’t call anything home if he didn’t have Sam.

Robric [Capital Letters - Hailee Steinfeld]: “When we lie so still, but you’re taking me places.”

Robert was honestly bored with his life before he met the twins. It was the same daily routine, get up, get ready, go to school, attend choir practice then rinse and repeat. Falling into something familiar did feel nice at times, knowing that every hour of the day was used to it’s fullest and that he could predict when things would get done or when he’d have free time. But the twins brought a specific spice in his life, one that everyone else had failed to do. In the end, it was mostly Eric who forced Robert up and out of his comfort zone, aiding him in more mischievous tasks and generally becoming the brunette’s backbone. Eric was there, in the hospital, when Robert sprained his wrist, apologising profusely about ever making him try to climb a tree to grab an apple. And even in the immense pain shooting through his wrist, he blamed himself for ever doing. It occurred to him then, in the hospital waiting room, that no matter what happened to the two of them, Robert would always find a way to defend Eric. Even if the boy was clearly in the wrong. When all was said and all was done, Eric was the most important thing in Robert’s life. And he was oddly okay with that.

Billiggy [Breaking Your Own Heart - Kelly Clarkson]: “The very thing you’ve been the most afraid of, you’ve been doing from the start.”

Bill can’t remember ever apologising to anyone. For anything. His pride has always been greater than that, never letting the blonde stoop so low as to get on his knees and beg someone for forgiveness. In all honesty, he’s never done anything bad enough to need to beg someone to just let him have another chance. If you really wanted to look at it through a kaleidoscope lens, then one could assume Bill was petrified of hurting someone’s feelings and then needing to apologise. But that heart gripping sensation was something he had to conquer upon apologising to Peter Curtis for past mistakes. He’d known he was probably in the wrong at the time and convinced himself that he was right in some sick, twisted manner. So when he stuttered out the words to try and excuse his behaviour, Bill knew that they didn’t sound as genuine as he wanted them too. But Peter just chuckled and claimed that he had known for a while that Bill didn’t mean it, and out of everyone in the choir to forgive, he was more than willing to part on good terms with the blonde. And that’s how Bill Borg found himself in an unusual friendship with the boy he once called Piggy.

Wilrold [Jet Black Heart - 5 Seconds of Summer]: “But these chemicals moving between us are the reason to start again.”

Of all the people in the world to fall in love with, Wilfred Lucio chose his childhood best friend. And he’s almost certain that Harold Miracle has fallen in love with him too. Between the way he spends every waking hour with Wilfred and how he clings to the boy as if they’re attracting sides of magnets. He’s never that way with anyone else, in fact, Harold gives most people serious attitude when they ask him innocent enough questions. It is almost as if nobody else in this world matters to him quite like Wilfred does. Which is probably why the two do everything together, they’re practically conjoined at the hip. And that’s why nothing hurts the teal haired boy more than watching Harold run off and be free on his own, blind to the fact that his own best friend was drowning in an unconditional love for him that couldn’t be stopped, no matter how many barricades were built.

Perciberry [This Town - Niall Horan]: “And I know that it’s wrong, That I can’t move on.”

Max’s worst fear was always losing Percival. It was always watching the soft smile that breaks out on his face dissipate like sugar in boiling water. So when the brunette comes to Max, tears streaming down his cheeks and nose tinged red from the crying he’s still doing, the boy assumes the worst. For once, his intuition is right. Percival doesn’t give a reason, doesn’t let the other have any insight. Just sobs out a break up and retreats, broken cries still ringing in Max’s ears. Weeks and weeks pass and the boy knows that he’s still in love with Percival, he still loves the way he laughs as if everything is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, he still loves how Percival insists people call him “Percy” because it’s easier for the boy himself to remember. Despite every path Max taking leading him directly to the feet of Percival Wemys Maddison, he knows that deep down in the base of his heart, something made him unloveable. He was the one who tore them apart, he was the thorn in their side. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but he’d lost the one person who swore to love him until death. And Max would still take Percival’s hand and grip it tight if he asked.

Jalter [Use Somebody - Kings of Leon]: “You know that I could use somebody, someone like you, and all you know and how you speak.”

Johnny is one of the only people in Walter’s life who doesn’t judge any of the choices he makes. He tries to advise the boy in the right direction; steer him on the right path, but he will never tell Walter what he can and cannot do. This fact is endearing in a way, making the dark haired boy want to wrap his friend up in a tight hug and spin him around until they couldn’t stand anymore. Everlasting support was something Walter always lacked from others, so getting it from the strawberry blonde just boosted his self confidence and the image he chose to paint himself as. It takes him years upon years of being Johnny’s friend before he realises that the boy was always by his side not because he just wanted to be there for Walter. But because he couldn’t stand to watch the boy do it alone. Johnny has made Walter the centre of his galaxy subconsciously, just letting the raven haired boy become the sun and letting himself revolve around him. But to Walter, Johnny was the sun and he was the moon. The boy would light him up no matter what happened, always shedding the pure radiance of joy onto Walter. He wouldn’t trade anything in the world for the feeling.

[psalloacappella]

Red (oneshot)

Title: Red  Pairing: SasuSaku legit i don’t write anything else  Word Count: 3400~ Rating: E, for like explicit, not for everyone. NSFW. Ya get it. Tags/What you’ll see: Sakura getting the office and oral she deserves 

Summary: An old dress, a new office — Uchiha Sasuke offers regards to both.

Ao3 | FFN |  ↓

(I have to preface when I post this that my top-tier amazing friend convinced me to do so and reminded me not to delete it this morning in the cold sober dawn lol. I consider this absolutely self-indulgent)

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“Ah, Sakura?”

Jade eyes alight and ringed with red, her subordinate regrets interrupting what seems to be a bout of sickness or sadness; she’s been busy lately. They all are.

Spine bent in bass clef camber, in exhaustion, she straightens at his words into a ramrod illustration of diligence. Over scrolls and haphazard paperwork, empty mugs sitting in their own fossilized dregs, she snatches up a fountain pen to preserve her dignity and reputation. At her age she’s been handed enormous tasks that she only imagined in her wildest dreams, and most of those, in the past, were of love and marriage and not the nightmares and duties which replaced them.

Extreme stress manifests in mysterious and chaotic ways; she intuitively knows this, especially today, as she basks in the quiet glances, the way their eyes follow her long, long legs leading into ankles in heels that feel like cages. Her choice of a dress underneath her white coat today feels like a wanton beacon, but her battle reputation precedes her, legendary and terrifying; no one will dare blithely approach legs like those or earn the ire of her dangerous hands, so delicate until they’re crushing mountains and throats.

Electricity, a buzzing in the marrow of her bones; she taps the pen on the desk in a stilted rhythm.

She regards the young medic with a hazy gaze for a moment, then waves a hand. “Sorry, I’m just—”

He steps over the threshold; Sakura raises her chin, lips taut.

“No no, I’m sorry,” he insists. Under her bright eyes he feels the beginnings of idiocy and bumbling; his boss makes him tongue-tied, stupid. Younger than him, in a league of her own as she stands at shoulders with new legends; lethal, inured to all the stories about herself.  

He notices the ochre on her lips like an invitation.

“I wouldn’t come too close today,” she says. Grants him a demure smile, the type that doesn’t quite fool her friends but still works with fools like him. “I’m not feeling the best. It could be contagious, and that wouldn’t be helpful to our operations right now.”

“Yes, of course.” Agreeing, nodding fervently with the obedience of a particularly compliant breed of dog. “If I may — you work so much. Too young to be feeling so tired.”

A laugh, it bubbles — starts from her chest as a giggle and drips from her lips as honey. Makes her quake, mottled red seeping through the skin of her chest as a sieve, collarbones sharp.

She looks feverish; she looks like a dream.

In turn she struggles to keep the waver out of her voice, knowing she’s lit up as fulgent as rouge festival lanterns and there's no way to kill the current.

I’ll never live this down — have to get him out of here

The cough she musters up is weak and if this was Ino, or gods forbid, her teacher, they’d call it pathetic. For a young man trapped in her sphere of admiring attraction, it does nothing but induce sympathy. But her legs are shaking, the situation is dire, and she’s loath to have another round of torrid rumor on the flapping lips of civilians and staff.

“Ah!”

At her cry, she lets her temple fall into her hand and her subordinate rushes forward. Gasping, she raises her other one, trembling.

“No, please. That sounded worse than it was. Just a headache coming on. In fact,” she rasps, “if you can let Shizune know I’ll be taking the next hour to recoup? A nap, maybe that’ll help.”

“I don’t know if I can leave you like this.” His tentative step earns her sharp gaze again, pursed lips that start his mind wandering in a way that makes him blush. Physically shaking his head to clear it, he nods slowly, finally, backing out of the doorway.

The hollow sound of Sakura’s kneecap hitting the underside of the desk rings in the space. Her gullible underling starts forward again, but the foreboding slap of her hand on the desk stops him cold. Acute, like it’s one to the face.

Sakura brings her knees together, swift, crushing his damn near regal bone structure and the handsome high bridge of his nose between the muscle of her thighs. A warning.

She glances down at him, he’s slicked with sweat — the glimpse of his glittering black eye and swirling purple one bring her too close to a wave she can’t indulge; she’s still this unwanted visitor’s boss until he closes the fucking door.

“Just me being clumsy! Do as I’ve asked and let her know, and,” here her breath hitches, hand leaving the desk, fingers burying themselves in dark messy hair, “th-thank you for worrying. I appreciate it.”

She’ll pay for the smile she gives this man, a sparkle of hope, like he’ll ever earn his boss’s favor in that way, as if he’ll measure up in any lifetime to the man that has her heart, the man on his knees under her desk.

“Sure. I mean,” horrified at his own too-familiar tone, “of course, right away, ma’am. Miss. I—”

“Oh go now. ” It stutters out in jete musical meter, resembling pain — or other things. “Please.”

She doesn’t have to tell him to close the door, though she’s surprised he didn’t find another excuse to stay with her. Oh, he has it bad. But there’s no time to think —

Sinking into her chair, her hands grip the armrests with an intensity that forces music from them, cracking underneath her fingers. And now all the words of the last few minutes tumble from her lips, an unintelligible medley of curses and pleas cradling the half-formed shell of his name.

Without warning, she yanks him back by the hair and almost comes right there:  His eyes scalding her, the mess on his stupid and incredibly fuckable face, a talented and dangerous mouth settling into a smirk as he thumbs an errant bit of her off his lip.

“That was close. Ah, so are you.”

He says it with such smugness and vanity. Quivering in her office chair under nothing but his stare, still in the grips of the unrelenting buzz and hum he’s enticed, and he absolutely notices.

“One of these days, we’ll be caught!” Tries to sound stern even as he rolls his neck and shoulders with a pithy nonchalance. “Stop that. So arrogant, preening like that—”

“Me? That’s rich.” He lazily trails a finger from her swollen, hot clit to her opening, lingering and lush to force all the heat and sounds he’s craving — her fingernails dig into her thigh while the pallor of her skin and dress seep and marry, reflections of one another. “Why did you wear this, Sakura?” Nudges the fabric with his nose, and she mumbles something hazy under his resumed touch; lost in orbit, in a void, in a place unearthly.

He starts the routine again, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. Frowns at the irritating strip of fabric that constitutes clothing; it’s been twisted and pushed aside anyway. Her skin burning against his face, a lean cord of muscle taut underneath her pale skin. Vaguely threatening, but she’s yet to crush him to death and he’s on the second round of bringing her there and back again, and close calls such as those seem to stoke something smoldering. Some days, it feels like the only thing worth pulling himself out of bed for.

He fucks like he fights:  Relentless, consuming. But that essential difference for the former is he never gives an inch; here, he pours it all in, something like an endless apology. Maybe she knows and that’s why she wears the red dress he won’t admit he prefers and paints her lips and runs the entirety of this village hospital system with grace and her own brand of gentle ascendancy — why he’s desperate for just the ragged edge of danger.

One of her legs shudders, the frenzied tap-tap-tap of her heel stammering against the floor in a cadence fit for instruments. “Sasuke-kun.”

Between the presses of his lips leading a hot, agonizing march back to her core, an arrogant noise in his throat escapes, rich and amused. “So this — is your new office?”

“Mmm,” she confirms, still clinging to the chair. The only support she has; the room’s spinning and every cell is vibrating, pink eyebrows knitted as she fights to remain upright and solid and somewhat human because the door’s not locked and she knows he knows, knows he doesn’t care and frankly neither, really, does she. Melting like basalt in unending, stifling heat.

Calloused fingers walk up the soft skin of her calf, catching and searing, sundering the delicate layer where they brush to release the pent-up steam underneath.

He’s fire; she is earth.

Always, all of him ablaze —  possessive in its own discipline but a thing begging for taming. He builds the pyre here, as he has been for the last hour or so, to focus himself, patiently coaxing it into something chaotic but fruitful. Lately all he’s felt is the joyless, sober embodiment of a tool to be used though perhaps this is the same, a compulsion by any other name.

But it can’t be, not with her looking like this. Striding down her hallways with purpose while bending the horrors and ills of the world to her indomitable will. Certainly this dress is no accident, as it never is, not with him coming off a mission full of blood and necessary evil.

Dragging the thin, sorry excuse for fabric down the burning skin of her leg, Sasuke’s tongue finds her clit with terrifying precision and rips a moan from her throat, pulling a jerk of her hips against his mouth. The shockwave shared, vibrating as wires intertwined, a forcible current.

Leans back, takes her in:  Her trembling, knuckles white from the fatal grip on the arms of the chair, knees sinking inward toward one another. The sight of this rich red dress against the stark, starched white of her coat blending with the mottled pinks and crimsons painting her cheeks and chest. Unraveling before him, extraordinary, even while this space belongs to her.

This, sometimes, feels like undeserved forgiveness.

Because she is always, always in living color.

Adjusts his own knees, shifts, a catch of air in his throat as he accommodates the hard length of his own caged cock. They’re no stranger to claiming desks and other surfaces as their own, but she has strings on him and there's authority in here now, where she holds men at the door with a flicker of her gentle jade eyes borne of the grueling process which created her.

Sliding the useless fabric into his pocket, raises his chin to her. Stares as she bites her lip and struggles for composure, though it’s difficult under the gaze of a man like this.

He waits, and the only sounds are ragged breathing from both.

“Please,” she whispers. Quivering, even at the ask. “Before someone comes back.”

“You worry so much,” he says. “Relax.”

“I’m sorry, I just—”

“What did I tell you,” he hisses, “about apologies?”

She blinks, startled, and her lips part. A sparkle, a brilliance emerging in her eyes as she clenches and unclenches her fingers. Still, they shake a bit, the anticipation and remnants of the rise and current before still lingering, lying in wait. Predatory. A wetness floods to her lips and she swallows it down, leveling her eyes to his glittering, savage gaze.

With a deep inhale, she spreads herself before him, knees apart. Blushing invisible, lost in the red that’s already dappled every inch of her, she exhales the rest of her timidity with an edged, sharp expression and hopes she’s being clear—

Sakura just barely glimpses the fierce red in his gaze before he answers with his tongue, deft, ardent, and divine.

Breaking the chair arms beneath her delicate hands again, scrabbling to stay on the beautiful planet before it turns her loose. Sinking, again, the boundaries of atoms dissolving — they are nowhere but bliss.

Like before, the careful building of a fire, the agonizing escalation:  He drops a kiss here, employs a firm tongue there, skirting the easy option in favor of the tease as he peels her back, layer by layer. Running it the length of her slit, heart skipping a bit at the dangerous quake of her thigh muscle; how long it's taken to differentiate between pleasure and impending crush. Again, the sensation of crawling into the den of something prized and feral. He feels it, her writhing and the pace and canter of her breathing and she’s liquid gold, fucking melting —

Her hips jerk, hard, when his tongue swirls around her clit, the cry coming from her jagged as broken glass and trembling like music, all things that make his own situation difficult to manage but he will, because these sounds entrench him firmly in reality. Alive. Knees screaming on the hardwood floor, unyielding as his cock cradled only by fabric and not as he wishes, by her hands or her red, red lips like the kind she’s wearing now.

Instead he slows her down again, pendulum swings between teasing and a furious rhythm that coaxes the full spectrum of human sounds from her beautiful throat. Rewarded for it with a whiny gasp as if breaking the surface of water, mingling with his own as he catches his breath. The end of it careens into words, something rough, he’s not even quite sure what he’s saying but he imagines, neither does she.

This—fucking dress—!

Nice, isn’t it?

Gets you attention

But only from you, S-Sasuke-kun

And her hand lands on his head again, thin fingers yanking his hair and guiding him as he splays her open, lays her bare. His name never quite fully leaves her lips, dancing with fragments of alternating pleas and curses. Just for that, for something he’d never thought he’d ever hear in his life, he grimly knows he’d write a fucking sonnet just to hear her like this — and with his tongue, he does, or at least approximates. The tremors of her shift deeper now, approaching release; she’s so slick it feels vile, indulgence in sin. All of which is smeared on his lips, his face, tasting of tang and salt; how many times has he been told he’s selfish? Guilty. Greedy, too, as he pauses to breathe—

looking up at her, he has an idea but can’t possibly know the extent of this, how she’s absolutely wrung out and beyond this dimension, hell, this galaxy, every inch of her humming in tune with the universe and brimming with absolute, inescapable heat, muscles taut and and begging for climax. Though the soft edges of her green eyes that see through him and everything else, rolling back, mouth open and lips parted in mimeo of an oracle, sunken in the weight of divinity, might give him some clue.

Don’t stop, please—!

— he’s there, with his fingers buried and soaked and deep, playing that just-right rhythm with a thumb on her clit that’s been worked to the edge and back again over the span of her busy afternoon. Hairs part from his scalp without remorse; her nails scrabbling and fingers clinging as she prays and sighs and curses occasionally, quietly, into the limp back of her hand. As if she’s really still trying to maintain a semblance of professionalism in the throes of being launched into orbit.

So very close. He knows by the slightly erratic rhythm, the pulsating of muscles inside and out and around him, tight and he steals a quick breath to endure and ease his fingers out to redouble effort with his mouth because the way she’s sounding, that sharp icy note on the ragged edge of pleasure and pain, tends to be the signal, the tipping point. The tremor her free hand sends through the bones of the chair. Knees apart as far as she can manage and desperately meeting him at the hilt —

Steady through until the end.

Release comes as glass shattering, atoms splitting. Unintelligible words trapped in amber, in a moment, in desire. With a mouth full of fire, he rides it with her through every wave, persisting through her slow and ebbing tumble back down to earth. To him.

He leans back at last, groaning at the pain in his knees. Watches her tremble and twitch, wringing out the very last dregs of her orgasm, displacing everything coherent left in her head.

Seconds stretch into minutes, and he gets to his feet as she languishes in a pool of pleasure, steeping as scalding tea.

At some point her hand rises to her own lips, limp and wavering, to clean her own unabashed drippings with an expression of dizzy surprise. The white dissipates from her vision and she finds his eyes on her again, one still richly red in its sole mission of memorizing the glowing after.

“Oh.” That’s all she says, breathless.

Sasuke brings fingers across his own mouth, rolls his jaw side to side, and something about his expression of smug satisfaction resonates, strings of a plucked instrument, a pull again of desire that threatens to ruin the sanctity of this brand new office and the role that comes with it.

For a moment she leverages the chair to rise, then loses strength — she lowers herself back in it, arms still quaking.

She reaches for him, plucking at his shirt. Hair flyaway, askew from her frenzied fingers, still in his mission gear.

Yanking him down by the collar, she crashes her mouth against his, red and hot, the tang and taste of herself immiscible with his own. Whatever sound he makes, this growl or rumble or ache, splits them open.

What pulls them apart is the grating sound of their former sensei’s voice:  “I heard from a bird that someone in here was sick?”

Sasuke feels them in the room now and pulls away. Half-turns, finds himself leaning on her desk in a way that’s almost too casual, but necessary — his knees are shot through. Sakura smiles too widely, masking a secret; after all, both still feel the pinpricks of liquids drying in the new air.

“From your darling subordinate,” Kakashi twinkles, grinning underneath his mask.

“That one who follows you around like a puppy,” Naruto supplies, pouting.

Kakashi tilts his head toward him, both still lingering over the threshold. “Terrible, hm?”

Naruto misses the jibe and instead turns his wide ocean eyes on her new space. Whistles. “Man, Sakura-chan, this office is niiice. I’m jealous.”

“You’ll be in your new one soon enough,” she says, and there she is, her usual self. “I have faith. Anyway, this office comes with responsibility.”

“Well if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“He was under the impression you were sick. Looking at you now, though,” and here Kakashi pauses in a manner all too deliberate, eyes sweeping over Sasuke’s cloak and belongings in a chair, and ends it with looking right at him, “you seem all right. Exhausted, I imagine.”

Her flush threatens to undo them both.

“He’s . . . sweet. To care.”

“He’s a fool,” Sasuke mutters.

“Perfect, you’re dressed nice,” Naruto crows. “How did you know we’d come make you celebrate? You didn’t eat, I bet you didn’t!” He eyes Sasuke up and down, at his unusually ruffled appearance, and clicks his tongue. “You didn’t even go home first, did you? Shitty boyfriend.”

The damage he committed on his recent mission pales in comparison to the crimes Sasuke wants to indulge now.

“Anyway, we’ll wait out here. After all,” Kakashi says, inclining his head, “this is your space now.”

Sakura exhales long and slow as they step out into the hallway. Covering her face with her hands, she groans. “No matter my job, I’ll never escape embarrassment, huh?”

Standing at last, she readjusts her clothes and kisses the underside of Sasuke’s chin. She reaches for his pocket and he moves easily out of her grasp.

“Sasuke-kun!”

“Pointless now. I’ll keep it.”

No matter what time, season, dimension, he regards all of her — the dress, the lips that held their color, the new flush simmering on her neck and chest — and craves, endeavors, to always love her red.

[my-brothers-corrupted]

Book Four - Part 14

Anti's "puppets" take a final stand against him.

Tws for violence, fighting, grief, death, blood, and extreme distress.

Part 14 - Gone

unpredictably-ghostly asked: O-kay, whatever up with Anti can't be good, what's happening? Dapper, do you know what he's doing, have you seen it before? You're all so close to the happy ending you deserve, and we're so proud of you for making it this far, please keep fighting!

Dapper stares up at the corrupted version of himself from the ground, coughing hard, his body exhausted from what little fighting they’ve done so far. He’s hot and his head pounds. He can’t tell if this is real or not. He’s afraid.

“Look at you,” signs the being above him, cold white eyes, pupil-less and uncolored, staring back at him. Strings rope the monster from head to toe, pure white strings wrapped so tight they leave marks behind and drain all blood from his porcelain form. He is so young he may as well be a child, wearing a suit which is choking the air from him. “You really thought you could ever get away from us? From yourself. Psychotic and weak and mute to all the world but Anti, the only one who really knows exactly who you are. Pretending to be Christ’s little lost lamb. You’re just Anti’s murderer. Anti’s smiling, stupid, helpless little murderer.”

Blood fills up the monster’s mouth and comes drizzling down his chin, staining his neat beard. Blood follows from the eyes and ears. Blood coats the hands and drains from beneath the strings. He is coated in it. Those bloodied hands reach down and grab Dapper by the throat, hauling him up to look into those dead white eyes.

“And you always will be.”

He shudders and cries, clinging to the wrist of the amalgamation.

Anonymous asked: None of them belong to you. Let them go or die right here and now. At least lose with dignity, you bastard. Jack never intended for you to win this fight, and you're absolutely right on one thing. None of you can escape the destiny of your story.

“I won’t fall down like this!” Red shouts, even as he feels his heartrate pick up and his skin begin to tingle and hurt, everything too cold and too close and too overwhelming. “They’re right and I finally realized it! You were always meant to lose. You were always the villain in this story!”

“But it took us so long to realize,” answers a voice beside him, somehow both too loud and too quiet, and always entirely unaware of it. He drags his gaze up to the being beside him, sitting in the grass and rocking himself, eyes closed and hands over his ears. A black hood covers his face, but everyone can see the tears running down. He’s thin and his nails are filthy and broken from scraping against chains and locked doors. “So, so long. And we weren’t just passive - we were part of it. We hit them… we yelled and insulted them, dragged them by their hair and their throats. They hated us. They still do. And they’re scared, too, everyone but Blue. If Anti goes away, all of them will get sick of us. We’re so pathetic. No one can take care of us and we can’t take care of ourselves. You were a coward when they needed you, blind and cruel to them!”

Red feels something in his chest begin to shake. He’s sobbing again despite himself, shaking his head.

“Look at you, crying again,” sneers the Anti-Red, gritting its teeth. “You weren’t enough for Anti and you’re not enough for them. You didn’t save them. We drove Max away and he said he loved us exactly as we were! Even now, look at you - writhing in the grass. We have to go back to Anti. Go crawling back and beg he forgives us. If we’re not his attack dog, we’re nothing.”

Anonymous asked: No more, Anti. They won't take this from you anymore. You're right, not a shred of pity left for you. You've abused and used them for years, this isn't betrayal, this is comeuppance. Well deserved, at that.

“I won’t take any more from you,” breathes Blue, trying to hold himself together, digging his fingers into the earth even as the foot crushes against his windpipe. He feels his power moving in his fingers, soothing at the steady earth, where trees and flowers grow, warm and loving. “I am Blue, the witch, the one who takes care of them. I’m not scared of you, Anti. They’re right - this is comeuppance.”

“How noble,” whispers the cold version of himself. Its hair is grown out long and silky, surrounding the eyes like emeralds that glitter at him from a ghostly face. Its ears and throat and fingers are hung with jewelry and it is dressed in a clean blouse and jeans, a fine black boot pressed to Blue’s throat. Its whole body seems to glow, somehow. It is so beautiful it makes his heart throb and his throat tighten painfully. “Now, after you have lost everything and have no way of saving them, you are ready to scream against him. Stop fighting. You lost, Marvin.”

“I’m not - I’m not - ”

“You’re disgusting,” sneers the alternate, drawing its foot away as though repulsed even to touch him. “What an ugly, scarred-up, hollow little bitch you look like. Masculine and emasculated at the same time. You think you’re powerful just because you got your magic back? It was never enough to save us from him, Marvin. We will never be enough. All we can do is care for them when they’re in pain, nursing them through these last few years of their life before Anti gets sick of all of us. Don’t you see? It’s already too late. And now that you’ve chosen to fight back instead of taking care of them like you were told to do - ”

Blue is hoisted up by the throat, choking. He lets out a scream of pain, not for the hand on his neck, but for this - the sight of his family writhing and crying out in the grass, begging someone to make this stop.

“This is all your fault,” whispers his shadow.

Anonymous asked: You think you're going out with a bang when you're going out with an overdrawn tantrum. Enough. You cut corners, so now you get to cut your losses. It's your fault that the loss is literally everything you've built so shoddily.

For a moment, Anti is there, is himself, is visible to you.

He is in the middle of them, something black dripping from his eyes. His face is scrunched up in pain, his form flickering so weakly its hard to distinguish him from the background of the forest. He gazes around himself, panting. One moment he is not-Blue, not-Red, not-Dapper, not-Trick. He leans over himself and spits black gunk into the grass.

“Anti,” comes that same weak voice as he heard before, small and soft.

“Jack,” answers his voice from meters away, glitching and shattered.

“You’re killing yourself. You have to stop. Anti, Anti.”

Trick is in the grass nearby, lying on his side. Nearby, a shadow hovers over him, crying in silence over a dead cat in its arms. The smell of booze sweats from its skin and it shivers in the cold, bandages wrapped around its head and wrists.

“I want this to stop,” whispers the corruption, wiping at the tears in his eyes. “Let’s just go back to how we were. We just want to feel loved again. Don’t care what I have to do or who I have to be. We can’t do anything. We’re not the protagonist. We can’t even stop him.”

“Anti,” cries Trick, head pounding. He tries to drag himself to his hands and knees, but the dark image of himself kicks him back to the ground. He hears a faint squeak and shields the little body in his pocket as best he can, struggling to focus, struggling to do anything, just like always. “Please.”

Anti’s eyes flutter shut. He dissipates again, power over-exerted in the corrupted forms he’s manifesting, no longer able to control his own tangibility.

Anonymous asked: There is no shame in how long it took you to realize Jackie. Abusers are good at disguising things, especially if they have the power to give you amnesia and change your brain. You have nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about, especially not being neurodivergent or being afraid Heroes can be afraid too sometimes. Your brothers loved you as the old Jackie, and they love you now! You are their hero, and everything you've ever done has been to keep them safe. Don't lie down in fear Jackieboy!

Ro closes his eyes, trying to listen to you over the turmoil in his own brain.

“He made me forget,” he agrees. “He - he made me feel fond of him. I tried so hard to love him.”

“And still weren’t enough,” answers the broken version of himself.

“Well, maybe he was the problem!” cries Ro, letting Blue’s fiery warmth soothe against his palms. “Blue loves me even when I breakdown. Max thought I was someone worth spending months searching for. And my brothers forgave me for the things I did because I - I tried to get better. Not like him! I’m not!”

“You still failed them!” shouts his other self, gripping his shoulders. “You’re nobody’s hero! Just a burden to everyone around you! You were supposed to protect them, but you just watched! You let this happen!”

“I have a chance to save them now,” gasps Ro. “Don’t I have to try?”

aether-mae asked: Hey Marv, something I’ve learned recently is that hating yourself or feeling uncomfortable in your body is something that is confined to the moment, and can ease or change with time. Right now you feel this way but slowly with time and patience you can find the things that bring you one step away from those feelings. Think less about your ideal ‘fixed’ self and look more towards how you can make urself comfy in the moment, one step at a time

“There’s no comfort to be had from this,” snarls the Anti-Blue, eyes full of the same derision he’s seen in the mirror for days. “It’s your own fucking skin. No escape. No relief. Or Anti’s skin, more like it. You will never, never be rid of the feeling of him making your flesh his own. Just a fucking puppet.”

“I hate you!” screams Blue, striking his hand against the earth, but the cry, no matter how fierce, only seems to make that dark version of himself more tangible, its form straightening up and becoming less translucent while Blue sinks towards the ground, holding his head.

“You may as well give up.”

“I didn’t always hate myself like this,” sobs Blue. “I want to go back to that. Like they said. I want some comfort.”

“You will never get it.”

Anonymous asked: Don't fall back into his lies JJ! You are already free! Fight it, fight him as hard as he's forced you to fight others! Show him what 'carver' means, Jameson!

“How are we going to fight?” asks the other version, anguished. “Even if we could get away, what then? What will we do? We can’t touch others without being triggered. We’re scared of both open spaces and being locked away. We can talk to hardly anyone and none of our brothers even remember who we are! All we’ve been for years is Anti’s pet in the attic! We’re evil and we deserve to be locked away.”

“I’ve done bad things,” Dapper manages, his hands fumbling and tired. “But I… I don’t want to give up. I do want to fight.”

“As if. You don’t have the strength.”

Anonymous asked: You are not disgusting, Blue, you are not an object either. Don't let this bastard objectify and make you sick any longer. You are more than just caring for them, you are fire as well as flowers! You can be whoever you want as soon as you get away from him. You will be worthy of love and happiness no matter who you are, no matter if it's Blue or Marvin or anyone you wish! You are beauty and danger together as one! Show this bastard who's boss, wonderful magician.

“I’m not disgusting,” whispers Blue, trying to pound it into his head. “I’m not, I’m - I’m not. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” snarls the other self.

“No, it is,” gasps Blue, determined now. “I know it because that’s the same sort of bullshit Anti would always tell my brothers. That they’re broken, somehow, because they’re different and because they’ve been through shit that hurt them. Well, I - I don’t believe it about them. I won’t believe it about me. I won’t.”

He pulls at his hair, eyes gritted shut. He can’t make himself stop hating the way he looks and feels right now, but he can’t give up either. They need him!

Anonymous asked: You are enough Jackie! Being autistic doesn't make you less than, don't let that ableist bastard warp your thoughts! You're more than enough to protect your brothers, everything you've ever done for them has been an effort to protect and take care of them! You've beat him to ashes before and you're strong enough to do it again, you brave, tremendous hero!

Ro hears Blue’s words faintly from a few meters away. Isn’t this what Blue has told him before? That he’s not less because he’s different or because he breaks down sometimes? If Blue won’t believe it about himself, well - Ro has to try not to believe it about himself either.

“Cause we fight side-by-side!” he cries, striking the earth, and flame bursts against the grass. “I was manipulated for a long time, but I remember what Dap said. I needed time, but I never stopped trying to protect them. And I won’t fucking stop now!”

“No, just surrender!” screams the Anti-Red.

“Why? Huh? Why, cause you don’t think I’m worth it? Cause you don’t think I can handle it?”

“Because we’re afraid!” cries the shadow, grabbing his shoulders. “We’re afraid, I’m afraid!”

Red feels his heart pounding so hard he’s scared he might die. It’s true. He is. Jackie would never be this afraid…

“We’re not Jackie,” sobs the shadow. “We’re just… just… the brokenness that remains.”

Anonymous asked: You are strong enough, Jameson. You are powerful, and wonderful. You can heal if you give yourself time being free! You need to show yourself kindness and fight the words of this asshat. Anyone can heal and work through their triggers with time and therapy, but you can never start healing if you don't get away from him. Remember, you are a strong, capable, powerful man who deserves freedom and happiness.

“I deserve a chance to heal,” his hands whisper.

His eyes are closed. He’s bent over himself as though kneeling.

“I deserve a chance to be free. To be happy. The chance that Anti took from me…”

In his pocket, pictures of times when he was happy, if only for a moment. In his pocket, a torn prayer card. In his pocket, tickets to go back home.

“I’ve come so far,” he signs against his chest, bowed and exhausted. “I’m so tired.”

“If we were healthy, maybe then we could fight,” signs the Carver, grabbing his hair to force him to look at his hands. “But Anti’s ruined us permanently. We’re just ash now, Dapper.”

“Ash to ash,” signs Dapper weakly. “Dust to dust.”

“Don’t parrot Christianity at me like God gives a fuck.”

“I think everybody’s just ash sometimes,” says Dapper, almost dazed. “I… I think we’re all sinners. I’ve done bad things, but I deserve a chance to give back some goodness to the world. I want to be nice. I want to make other people happy. I want a chance to grow old. I have to fight for it.”

But, oh, he’s so tired. Carver’s hands rest on his back. Dapper sinks against the earth, unable to get up.

“You always know what you have to do,” signs Carver, derision in white eyes. “But you never have the strength.”

“No,” protests Dapper softly. “No.”

Anonymous asked: You can find comfort Blue! But comfort starts with learning to love yourself. You need to fight this self hatred, Anti wants you to hate yourself. The biggest spit in his face you can do would be to say "fuck it, I love myself!". You are powerful and magical, The Magnificent. Find freedom first, then we can work up to comfort. Right now, your family needs you to fight this! It wasn't your fault, not in the slightest, but right now you have a chance to fix it, get your family back!

“I can find comfort, I can find comfort.”

Azul is chanting it to himself, trying to get up off the ground.

“I can, I can. I can help them still. I can avenge them and protect them and love them, even through everything that follows. It hurts, I - I’m trying to keep fighting, but I - ”

He glimpses his own body. His filthy hands and his scars. His shirt too big on him and his hairy legs.

He’s on his knees, overwhelmed. Eyes full of tears, he looks over and sees Ro looking back, their misery reflected in each other’s faces.

Anonymous asked: Boys, this is a difficult battle, but remember you're not fighting it alone. All your brothers are here with you, see? You know each other, way better than some glitch bitch does. Draw from that!

Trick is holding Dok’s little body in his hands.

He’s shaking in the grass, consumed by his own thoughts and intrusive desires, desires that never seem to go away no matter how hard he fights. His corrupted self sits beside him, crying and crying, no longer able to keep up the fight.

Dok moves against his palm.

Soft and warm. Soothing. His tiny nails scrape against his fingers.

Trick sucks in a deep, desperate breath, heaving for air. His own fingers stop scratching so hard at his wrists, no longer trying to get the blood out.

And the fat, fuzzy little body of that rat, sick and tortured and exhausted - that rat, his brother, staggers its teetering way out of his pocket and comes crawling all the way up to sit between his neck and his shoulder, and comfort him.

“My brother,” croaks Trick.

Fuck, a rat. He’s a goddamn rat and he’s still comforting him through his pain.

That’s how much he loves him.

Trick cups his warm body against his neck, tears dripping down his face. Dok’s nose pokes lovingly at his cheek. He is already ready to fall asleep again, his big dark eyes sliding shut.

“It’s better to die than live,” cries Trick’s darkness.

Trick looks up at it. He sees his own face, his own faults, his own regrets, his own pain.

“Hey,” he whispers, dragging himself up. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

“It’s true!” cries the other version of himself. “The cameras are wrong! We’re alone. Who would want to fight for us? Nobody will ever love us.”

Trick stares down at his hands. There is a burn scar in his palm. He set a fire to keep his brother warm. Dok crawls into Trick’s hood, curling up against his neck, and Trick can feel him there, beside him, just like through every dark night that never seemed like it would end.

He looks up at the other version of himself, sobbing and scarred.

“We’re already loved,” he says. “And we always have been.”

He sits up. He reaches out.

And in that moment, Chase hugs Trick to his chest.

Anonymous asked: Blue, Ro, Dapper, you don't have to suffer alone! You're both worthy of love, respect and comfort, right now, regardless of what those shadows say. If you can't love yourselves right now, that's okay, you can get there later if you must, but right now, you can love each other. Would you ever want anything the shadows say to you being said to your brothers? Why would these poisoned words would only be true for you?

“Dap deserves everything,” Ro agrees in a croak.

“I don’t want to see Blue in pain anymore,” signs Dapper weakly.

“I need to get to Ro. I want him to feel okay.” Blue staggers to his feet, shoving at the shadow when it grabs him, baring its teeth as it pins him back on his knees. As he fights, he sees the others.

Dapper is tussling with Carver. Ro and his shadow watch each other warily, both self-soothing with the same motions. And Trick?

Trick -

Chase.

Chase is on his feet. The corrupted being is no longer beside him.

He looks back at Blue and reaches out for him.

aether-mae asked: I wanted to let u know, bud (any bud who needs to hear) that once anti is gone and you’re away from him things won’t instantly fix. They won’t fix a little and they certainly won’t fix a lot. Taking away the pressure doesn’t heal the wounds, only time and patience can do that. You need to be patient with ur selves, however long that will take and how ever it may happen, let it happen and don’t force healing

Blue reaches shakily out to touch the shoulder of this other version of him.

No. Not another version.

This is a part of him.

Chase takes his hand, trying to smile at him despite everything that’s happening. His perfect little brother. In so much pain of his own, and he chose to come over and help him. That’s how much he loves him.

Isn’t that worth something?

The shadowy being is disappearing from beneath Chase’s hands, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“It won’t really be gone,” says Chase. “These parts of ourselves still exist inside of us. Maybe they always will. But Blue, we will deal with them together. That’s the only way we can. We can’t fight them alone, but we are not alone.”

Blue touches his cheek.

Cups his little brother’s face, eyes full of tears.

“And we… we never will be again?” whispers Blue.

“Never,” swears Chase, just as soft. “You will always have my love.”

They move together the way that trees which grow side by side wrap together.

“I love you,” whispers Chase. “So much.”

“I love you too, Amata,” answers Marvin the Magnificent, drawing back to kiss his cheek. “Go help Ro, okay? I’ll get Dapper. It’s going to be okay. Not today, maybe, and not even tomorrow. But someday.”

Anonymous asked: Wrong, wrong wrong, and wrong again. You are Jameson motherfucking Jackson! You are the philosophizer, the violin player, the man braving our hallucinations in a safe laundry room, you are the most powerful magician in the world, a strong and capable adult man, and most importantly you are A FUCKING FREE MAN! Fight it, you know who you are, even through his breaking of your identity and his claws at your mind. JAMESON JACKSON, RISE UP AGAINST YOUR TORMENTOR!

Dapper can’t see past the blood. Can’t smell anything but copper. It’s in his mouth, on his tongue, down his throat. His face is wet - with tears, with the lifeblood, he doesn’t know. With both?

He can’t breathe.

He feels sick.

His heart is this fading, flickering thing in his chest, pounding so hard and so weak at the same time. He pukes into the grass, but Carver is still signing at him, still dragging him by the throat and head, still pouring venom into his head and bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

It never stops. It never stops. It never stops.

“Give up,” signs Carver. “Just lie down and die already. It’s what you’ve wanted for years now, isn’t it?”

“No,” signs Dapper shakily, trying to keep from crumpling into the grass. “No. I want to go home with my family and be happy and safe. I want to fight.”

“But you’re not strong enough.”

“You bet your ass he’s strong enough!” screams a voice of rage, like a clap of thunder from the sky, and vines burst from the earth and begin winding around Carver’s tortured body. “That’s my little brother and he’s my fucking hero!”

Dapper sobs aloud, reaching blindly for help. Warm arms encase him in a hug, in a shield, in a promise, and he feels their bodies rock in time, soothing, soothing.

“This is my little survivor!” cries Blue, kissing his face once, twice, all but ignoring the struggling Carver. “This is my fighter, my time traveler, my friend! Clever, powerful, kind, sly as a fox. My perfect darling. I’m here. I love you.”

“Don’t, no, please,” protests Dapper, and Marvin pulls back in surprise. “No, I don’t want you to touch me or kiss me. I’m so filthy. No one should ever touch me again.”

Prepared to draw back at a request for space, the explanation only makes Blue’s eyes harden with determination. He lunges forward again and wraps his brother in his arms so tight it makes Dapper cough, kissing his filthy, bloodied face and the side of his head over and over again.

“My darling, my love,” whispers Blue. “There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s nothing dirty about you. Oh, Dap, don’t you know you deserve the whole world? You, little brother, have spent your life surviving Anti. In all his hatred, in all his cruelty, in all his lies and manipulation. You survived. You even fought, goddamn! This is the man who slapped him! This is the man who pulled so hard against those strings! And here you are now, my brother, still striving to get up from the ground. Sick and exhausted and still trying.”

He cups Dapper’s face and presses their foreheads together, letting his little brother ugly-cry in front of him and slump against his shoulder, truly worn, down to the heart of him.

“I will help you through everything that comes after this,” Marvin vows, rocking him against his chest. “Don’t be afraid of what we’ll have to deal with. We will deal with it together.”

“Please,” prays Dapper, nodding his head against him. “Yes, please, that has been my wish for so long, though there were times I did not even recognize the desire inside myself. Marvin, Marvin. Don’t let go.”

“Here I am, my heart. Here I am.”

Carver is slumped back against the grass, staring up at the sky with despair in his white eyes. Blue looks over at him and feels the urge to snuff this deranged version of his little brother out - but it is Jameson who stops him.

With the last of his strength, JJ gets to his knees and crawls over to where the vines bind that broken, hurting child tied up in string and coated in bloodshed. Tears well in JJ’s eyes and fall down on Carver, clearing, for a moment, the trails of blood away.

“We’re not going to be a prisoner anymore,” he says, reaching out for Blue’s hand. He presses the witch’s fingers to the vines and the string.

Blue understands his request without words. Glancing once more at JJ, he turns to the strings and let the vines grow careful thorns, tearing through the white lines which cut into his flesh.

The strings fall away.

Carver’s eyes clear. For a moment, they are blue instead of white, and he is looking up at the sun.

He disappears from view, fading into wisps of smoke.

Anonymous asked: Jackie was afraid sometimes too! Stop putting the past you on some pedestal, Ro, Jackie. Listen to me, you are the same person as the past you, you just have a little more hardship you've seen. And that only makes your stronger! Heros are allowed to be afraid, Jackie! Your fear doesn't make you weak, it pushes you to fight harder!!

“I can fight harder,” pants Ro, squaring up with this dark version of himself, this useless, pathetic version of himself. He hates it!

“I can fight harder,” he repeats, louder. “I can fight harder. I can fight harder! I can fight harder!”

He throws himself at his shadow with a howl, grabbing its shoulders and shoving it to the ground. He knows how to fight! The other him fights right back, yes, snarling and scratching at him, but Ro is past caring. Blood seeps out of his cheek from a long scratch along his face and when it drives its knee into his stomach, he stops breathing for a good thirty seconds, but never once does he stop fighting.

“I’m going to be a hero again! I can fight harder! I can fight til it fucking kills me if it keeps them safe! I’ll kill you, I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Red!” someone is screaming, grabbing at his arms. “Ro, stop, this isn’t helping!”

“I’ll destroy it! I’ll kill it like a bug! I can fight harder, longer, dirtier, I don’t care!”

He drives his thumbs into the double’s eyes just like Anti’s taught him to, feeling the juice squelch beneath his fingers.

“Stop! Ro, stop!”

Chase’s hands wrap around his own, tearing him away from the other being, which is too beat to rise again, groaning and sobbing with pain. Chase tears Ro back even as he screams and thrashes, trying to get up to attack it again.

“Lemme go! I’m going to keep you safe! I gotta make it up to you! I can fight! Don’t get rid of me! I’m useful, I’ll fight for you, I’ll protect you, let me show you!”

“Ro… Ro… stop, bud, just - shit, man… I’m here, okay?”

Ro is sobbing, striking the ground.

“Look at me,” he cries. “I can’t be what anyone needs me to be. I’m not warm or comforting like the rest of you. I’m not a medic or a magician or a problem-fixer. I’m just a dick.”

“Reddy, you just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“It’s not that!” Ro howls, shaking his head against Chase’s chest. “I get these horrible thoughts. When I’m angry, I want to hurt people. I have hurt people. Not just my enemies, but the people I love too. I’ve done horrible things… to you, to Dapper, to anyone Anti sicked me on. You five deserve to be free and happy. I’m just a mean person with a horrible fucking temper. And yet I still spent so long cowering from Anti when I should have been angry for you. I forgot my own fiance… I’m a monster. Just like Anti.”

“That’s not true,” whispers Chase. “No, hey, don’t go protesting right away. It’s not true. Red… we’ve all done bad things. For different reasons - anything from mind control to having a bad day. It doesn’t make you a monster. Shit, Red, look at all of us. Look at all this baggage we’re all carrying. This darkness… it’s a part of all of us, Red.”

“What if mine’s worse than yours?” sniffles Ro, wiping at his face. “What if I’m genuinely a bad person?”

Chase is draping his weight over his shoulders, holding him tight.

“Ro. Bad people don’t change when they hurt someone else. Good people do. When they do bad things, they do everything they can to make it right. They try not to let it happen again. They apologize.”

“Then I’m sorry,” begins Ro. “For - ”

“Bro,” laughs Chase, hugging him tighter. “We already did that, remember? The only person who hasn’t forgiven you… is you, Red.”

unpredictably-ghostly asked: Ro, you don't need to be Jackie! You're enough, and worthy and deserving of love as Ro, as who you are right here and now. You don't need to be Jackie to be a hero, or help your brothers. You've already done so much good, Ro, and you're not a failure or a burden. It's okay to be afraid, this is really, really scary. They say courage isn't the absence of fear, but acting regardless. You can still fight afraid, but please remember you don't need to fight alone.

“Can I tell you something?” whispers Chase, cuddled up close to him. “Something I never even told Dok?”

Henrik pokes his little head out of Chase’s hoodie.

“Yeah, bud, what?” asks Ro. “Anything.”

Chase knocks their heads together, swaying gently against his back. “You were always kind of my hero.”

Ro starts. “What? You hated me! We fought all the time and I was awful to you.”

“You kept me and Dok fed,” says Chase. “Gave us blankets and medical supplies even when it meant you didn’t have enough for yourself. Took fucking beatings for us, Ro. Even when you thought I didn’t like you, you still laid yourself down for me and my twin all the fucking time.”

Ro is quiet beneath his hands, staring at his double, now panting against the ground. “I didn’t know you knew that I would… maybe give you more than I gave myself. Sometimes.”

“You starved for days sometimes for us,” says Chase, feeling his voice tremble a little. “We never told you no because you were in charge of us and you always told us to do what we were told so Anti wouldn’t be mad. But we knew, Ro. And when Blue came to stay with us and you started to get some joy back… I just felt sorry I hadn’t been the one to make you smile like that to begin with.”

Jackie chuckles wetly, swiping at his eyes. “You two were my only happiness when I couldn’t see Dapper. I didn’t think you’d ever like me, so I stayed away. But when I got a chance to see you happy or hear you laughing, I would hold on to it for days. It was what I lived for… the only thing I lived for. Protecting you. Making sure you ate. Making sure you stayed together. My twins in their nest in the corner, guarding me through the night.”

He threads his hand through Chase’s hair. A soft nose touches his hand and he laughs, reaching back to steal Henrik out of Chase’s hood. Body beginning to relax, Jackie closes his eyes and nuzzles his head against Henrik’s, stroking his round grey and white body with one hand.

“My healer and my guardian,” he whispers. “I love you.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one more secret,” says Chase, sitting down beside him. “Dok and I talked it over, and we’ve come to an official consensus - we love you too.”

Ro closes his eyes, hugging both of them against his heart.

“And we want to make you happy too.”

They stare at that fading shadow on the ground for a long time. It won’t drain away completely.

“I’m still afraid,” whispers Ro. “That’s why it won’t go.”

“I’m afraid too,” says Chase. “Scared out of my mind. So is Dapper and Blue, and maybe even Dok, but he’s just a sleepy little guy right now. But Ro, I think they’re right. I think Jackie was scared too. And he was still my hero.”

“You didn’t know Jackie,” laughs Ro.

But Chase doesn’t laugh. His face is serious.

“No,” he says. “But I see him in you. And that, Jackie - that has always been true. My big brother. Being scared together - that’s what families do.”

Ro rises slightly, getting to his knees and looking down at the other Red. He thought he saw weakness in him, weakness and anger and a threat. Now, all he sees is fear. His own fear.

He doesn’t want to hate himself for it anymore.

Jackie watches the other being fade away.

nikkilbook asked: Oh, Jackie. How many times are we gonna do this? In Norway, when we first met Red, the first thing I realized? Was that Red did what he did to draw the fire. You kept your brothers quiet and in line, so that if anything bad happened, you were the odd one out. You drew Anti’s fire. Maybe you don’t have any of what makes your brothers special. What you do have is love. Even if it comes through out of focus, you love, Jackieboy. You love with a love that always tells the truth. Lies do not become you. You do not become lies.

And all this talk of “you’ll fight til it kills you”? Frick that noise. You’d crash like a falling star if one of your brothers gave their lives—what makes you think they’d mourn you any less if you were gone? What makes you worth less? What makes you any less important or cherished or loved? I’ll say what I’ve said to you in a different life—you’re a trauma victim, not a bread loaf.

Stand up, Jackieboy. Be afraid, be overwhelmed, be uncertain of what to do with your own thoughts—but stand up, just one more time.

“You draw the fire for everyone,” says Chase, cupping Ro’s warm, gloved hand, where a small blue flame flickers. “Sometimes literally.”

Jackie laughs softly. He turns at the sound of crunching grass and sees Blue and Dapper walking towards him - or, more accurately, Blue walking towards him with his little brother in his arms. Immediately concerned, Jackie reaches out for him, and a moment later, Blue settles JJ into his arms.

“What’s going on?” he asks, brushing Dapper’s hair from his face. “He’s still sick?”

“He hasn’t had any good rest,” says Blue softly. “And yes, I think still a little sick. He’s not feeling up to walking. Maybe as he calms down he’ll feel a little better, but right now I think he’s just overwhelmed physically and emotionally. He’s not a healthy guy, really.”

Jackie holds JJ’s head against his heart. “We have to get him somewhere he can rest.”

“We have to all get somewhere to rest,” says Blue. “They’re right about you… always worried about everyone else. You try to tell me that’s a mean person.”

Jackie smiles gently, turning away with a slight tint of pink in his face.

“We’re not fighting til death today if we can help it,” says Blue, kneeling down beside him and pulling him into a hug. Close to his ear, he murmurs, “don’t you know it would kill me to watch you die for me?”

Jackie just hugs him back, closing his eyes. Chase is pressed against them a moment later, squishing all three of them in close around JJ.

Dok peeks out of Chase’s hood, poking at Blue’s face.

“And how’s my poor Deutsch?” asks Blue, immediately starting to baby over him again, patting and stroking him. “Shit, Chase, how long will he be like this?”

“I don’t know, it was his magic necklace.”

“Well, at least it makes it easier to move him around. He and Dap are going to need a lot of recovery time… all of us, really.”

“Don’t go just yet,” mumbles Ro, pulling Blue and Chase back into the hug and making them laugh.

“Is this… done, then?” asks Chase. “Did we scare Anti off? Because - ”

A gunshot. Chase hears one of his brothers scream. Jackie’s on his feet, Dapper in his arms. Everyone’s moving. Everything’s loud. Chase’s head spins. Someone drags him standing upright and they’re sprinting towards the trees for cover, shouting and calling for each other.

Red and Blue shove their younger brothers behind the fallen body of a great tree, tucking them into the side.

“Stay here!” shouts Jackie, touching Chase’s face and placing the slingshot and fighting staff down beside him. “Protect them. I love you.”

“I love you,” agrees Blue, leaning in to kiss Chase’s cheek before summoning his power and turning away. “We’ll handle this.”

“Guys,” cries Chase, his heart shaking. “No, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

They’re already racing off towards the figure in the yard.

“Oh, holy shit,” breathes Chase, his hands taking up the tremble as it spreads. “I tried to warn him… Anti…”

Anti can no longer be mistaken for a human being.

His body seems to drip coding and black gunk, making the air around him distorted and wavering as the air above hot pavement in the summer. Most of his body is consumed in glitching. What can be seen is no longer opaque, perhaps not even tangible. His eyes glare straight ahead, blank and unseeing, his mouth flat and unfeeling. His whole body glitches and for a moment, he can be seen screaming. In his hand, Dok’s gun.

“I’m here, guys, I’m here,” breathes Chase to JJ and Henrik, shakily loading a stone into the slingshot. “Please… please don’t let them get hurt.”

Anti feels his thoughts from meters away, eyes sliding shut.

“I should have killed you all the day I found you,” he whispers, in a voice layered and faltering, and he drops the gun aside, and draws out a knife instead.

He is the movement of the fire, the leap and bound of it, the blaze. He has strength again and courage, too, in the face of all his own fear. Blue is beside him. This is all that matters.

They fight.

There is no way to ward off something that moves as fast as Anti does in most circumstances, but now Jackie burns with heat and fire and Anti stumbles as he transports, sometimes forced to fall to his side for a moment of rest. Blue always presses these advantages. Anti screams as brambles wind around his neck, cutting deep as they can go, and struggles to get back to his feet, tearing at the thorns.

“Choke on them,” shouts Blue, leaping at him and pinning him down. Anti draws his legs back and kicks Blue hard in the chest, throwing him off and glitching away again. He makes a swipe at Jackie from behind and suffers a burn even when Jackie dodges away, his older brother following up with a swing of a fiery fist at his head. Anti stumbles away, recovering with a flip of his knife that sends it spinning towards Jackie. It’s Jackie’s turn to fall to the ground, throwing himself away hard enough to fall.

“Where’s all that power now?” hollers Blue, jumping right over Jackie to leap at Anti again, plants tearing from the ground, catching fire and throwing dirt into the air. “Where’s the snide comments and the mockery? The death threats and the flashy tricks? Where’s the dog, Anti? Where’s the wolf bite, huh?”

Anti turns his head and coughs, pixels and gunk flooding down his lips. He glitches back, panting, as Jackie gets to his feet.

“You were jokes when you were created!” shrieks Anti. “At least Jack gave a fuck about me being frightening and strong! You two are pathetic. A onesie and a Game Grumps cape - he never even tried.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we, unlike you, have the presence of mind to realize Jack is in the past,” answers Jackie, his flame turn brighter as the heat increases. “This is now, and you can’t stop us.”

For a second, Anti’s head snaps towards the trees to his right, his flashing eyes going wide and his mouth parting.

“Dark? Is that you?” He takes a shaky step forward, head whirling. “You came to get me?”

There’s no one in the trees but the others. If Dark is there, hidden from all sight but that of another monster, they do not act.

“Just surrender, Anti,” says Jackie.

“No,” snaps Blue. “Let him keep fighting til he destroys himself all over again.”

He races forward, palms full of aconite.

And Jackie -

Jackie falls back.

He remembers what Jack told him.

He turns and picks up a camcorder dropped in all the commotion. He makes sure you can see.

Anonymous asked: get 'em guys!! your audience is here with you, we are here with you.

“Are we really going to hurt him?” Jackie pants, finding himself back-to-back with Blue as they circle, warding off blows from Anti. “It’s like he’s losing it. He’s weak.”

“Yeah, we’re going to fucking hurt him,” spits Blue. “Remember everything he’s done to us, Ro.”

“I don’t want revenge, I just want my family to be safe from him. We - where’d he go?”

There’s a moment of silence as they stare around them, waiting for Anti to leap out of the flame-licked trees. Then Ro hears Trickshot screaming from a few meters away.

“Oh, that’s fucking it,” he roars, tearing through the foliage towards them. He tackles Anti the moment he sees him trying to bring his blade down on his little brothers, slamming the glitch into the ground. Anti tries to transport away, but Jackie’s hands are digging into simulated flesh and Anti doesn’t seem to have the strength to tear off.

“Stop it!” he screams, finally throwing Jackie aside and leaving a dark gash across his stomach. Jackie grunts in pain, gripping at the hot wound as his blood comes forth. He gets back up to his feet and starts after Anti again, grabbing him with hands full of fire. Anti shrieks from the pain, his form melting like plastic where he’s touched.

“You’re hurting me, Red, you’re hurting me!” Anti wails, tearing at his hands. “Stop, stop!”

He transforms weakly, making himself look like Dapper, complete with soft curls falling into his face and sad blue eyes. Jackie falters and Anti swipes again, tearing a second line into his chest. The stone of a slingshot whips through the air and strikes Anti’s head so hard Jackie sees the blood burst into the air for a moment as Anti crashes to the ground, gasping and clutching at his skull.

He tries to get up. His eyes roll. He crawls away on his back, panting roughly and trying to see as his vision blurs and his head throbs with pain. He blinks blearily at the log of the fallen tree and sees Trick staring back at him, face ashen, the slingshot in his hands.

Anonymous asked: Jackie, he won't stop. Even now, at his weakest, he's taking advantage of your emotions and the love you have for each other. Killing for vengeance is one thing, (and we could talk morality all day and still not come to a proper conclusion on mercy vs consequence but I digress) but killing out of self defense might be a necessity if all of this is to truly stop for good.

Anti pulls out a knife and throws, but his aim is shot and his hand is unsteady. The blade goes flying past Jackie and clatters to the ground.

“You’re really done for, huh?” asks Jackie softly, staring at him.

Anti drags himself to his knees, reaching for another knife. He’s shape-shifting wildly - losing control, Jackie can see - and he looks like a different version of Jack or of them with every moment that passes. The rapid shifting only seems to make him feel more ill. He struggles to get up, but then dandelions and creepvine are exploding from the earth, wrapping him up so tight Jackie hears him begin to wheeze, splitting the wound on his throat and crawling inside. Jackie closes his eyes, nauseated. It’s not a sensory issue this time - Anti just sounds like one of his brothers, choking and crying in pain.

“Fuck, fuck,” whispers Jackie. Blue comes to stand beside him, staring down at Anti.

Anti lets out a fragile scream, and then another, fighting clumsily against the plants that pin him down, trying so hard to glitch that Jackie is scared he will burst into pixels and fall apart completely. His energy is drained and his face has gone shock-white, but still he writhes, looking up at the pair of them with something like terror in his eyes. For a moment, he is a snake, a dog, a bird, a person again. He keens in pain, blood slicking his face from the wound Trick put in his skull.

“This is horrible,” cries Trick, getting to his feet and coming to stand beside his brothers, putting hands on both their shoulders. “Please, make it stop.”

Something flickers behind Anti. Blue grabs Trick, ready to shield him from one last battle as something appears on the ground in front of them, but nothing attacks.

“Jack, Jack,” cries a weak, warbling, glitch-broken voice. A shadowy version of Anti sits behind the imprisoned one of the ground, his hands reaching out. “Sean, help me, I’m sorry, don’t go.”

His throat is wrapped up in bandages. He’s clutching a pumpkin in his lap, a knife sticking out the side, and as they watch, his form begins to sprout feathers, clawing their way out of his skin. The other Anti cries out in pain, pulling on his soft green hair.

On the ground, Anti has gone frighteningly still, his eyes dropping as the blood lists out of him. His fingers twitch around his last blade.

“He’s passing out,” mumbles Trick.

“He didn’t mean to manifest that,” says Blue. “He just doesn’t have control over his magic anymore. Look at him. It’s all his fear and insecurity brought to the surface at last. Not that he was ever very good at hiding it.”

“Jack?” The other Anti is staring up at Trick. He coughs and there’s blood on his throat and fear in his eyes. “Why won’t you help me? Please, please. I’m scared. Don’t let me get stuck again! I don’t want to be an animal! I can’t move!”

Feathers tear his face apart and he howls, scraping at his skin. Trick’s chest heaves and he moves forward, but Blue grabs him and holds him away.

“I’m sorry, Tricky,” he says quietly, keeping him back. “You know we gotta do this. Ro?”

Jackie stares down at hands full of fire. He looks back at both Anti’s. His chest shakes.

Clapping draws their attention and all three of them turn to see JJ shaking his head and signing at them.

“Don’t hurt him anymore,” he begs. “Let him go with Dark. He promised Red this would be the last time he tried to make us his servants.”

“He will never stop following us!” shouts Blue. “He will never stop trying to hurt us! You know that!”

“I can’t watch this,” weeps Dapper. “My brother.”

They have been together since the day he was born.

Anonymous asked: We hear you JJ, but Marvin's right. If you let Anti go, he'll be back with a vengeance as soon as he heals - if not to enslave you all again, then to kill you all one by one. There's no way he'd let this go. This is painful and traumatic, and you have the right to feel like you do, but Anti is not your brother. Your brothers are beside you, protecting you, loving you. That writhing creature before you is not your brother. It is a monster who has only ever tried to break you down.

Dapper covers his eyes, pressing his head against his knees. He’s too sick to deal with this right now, unmedicated and running a fever.

“They’re right,” says Blue softly, reaching out to take Jackie’s hand. “Ro. Come on, okay? He’s in pain anyway. He’s ruined himself. He won’t recover from this, not really. End him.”

Jackie steps close to Anti.

His monster is lying on the ground, still. One green eye slides open and stares up at him. His mouth moves like he might speak, but nothing comes out.

“Anti?” asks Jackie.

Anti’s throat bobs. He closes his eyes. Jackie’s palms fill with fire.

And extinguish again.

“I can’t do it,” he says, backing away. “I’m so sorry. I know I’m big brother. But I can’t do it.”

He turns away and goes to Dapper’s side. They wrap around each other and breathe.

“Blue?” asks Trick anxiously.

Blue is staring down at Anti, chest heaving, face stony.

“Why do none of you want to do it?” he asks. “Don’t you know I’m right?”

Chase blinks down at Anti, a little sick to his stomach.

“I think you are right,” he answers hollowly.

“Great, then go for it,” says Blue, turning to him. “Look, Dok’s right there with you. If he were human, he’d be telling you the exact same thing I am.”

It puts a little fire in Trick’s blood. He coughs like he can expel the sickness from his stomach and reaches down to take the knife from Anti’s hand.

And suddenly, he wants to do it. He wants to. Oh, fuck. So bad it hurts.

He remembers everything since the first time he was reset, remembers torture and barbed words, remembers getting slapped for kissing a girl, being trapped for his suicide attempt, being forced to pull triggers on people he didn’t want to kill. He remembers, most of all, every fucking time he saw Dok cut, bruised, beaten, crying, hurt - all because of Anti.

“All because of you,” hisses Chase, tears pouring down his face. He flips that knife in his hand and grips it tight. “You, goddamn it.”

“Jack,” asks the shadow Anti, its arms wrapped around itself. “Jack, please.”

He thinks it’s him. His creator.

Chase sobs and drops the knife, turning bitterly away, hands clenched into fists. Blue stares at his brothers, face cold. But he doesn’t move.

unpredictably-ghostly asked: Dapper, you've known Anti as long as you've been alive. Do you really think he'll keep his word? You know how long and intense his obsession with Jack has been, do you truly believe he'll be able to let you all go and live without him after all this time? Also, would any of you ever be able to feel safe, knowing he could find you and try to capture or hurt you again?

Trick circles back to Blue, touching his shoulder. “Let’s just call Dark to come get him, Blue. We can’t do it. I know he’s hurt us, but he… he was one of us for a long time. Or we thought he was. We all tried to love him. Some of us… some of us still do.”

“That’s not true,” says Blue flatly. “We didn’t all try to love him.”

Chase squeezes his shoulder, face softening with sympathy. “Blue, it’s okay to admit. We did it because we’re loving people. That’s not wrong. You weren’t wrong. But look… you can’t do it, right?”

Blue doesn’t move.

“None of us can,” sighs Chase, scraping his fingers through his hair. “We… we’ll have to figure it out from here, buddy. And the cameras, I - I’m sorry to you guys too. I know you’re probably seeing clearer than we are right now, but none of us can do it. I definitely can’t.”

Blue is still.

Chase sighs again and lets him go, turning back to the others.

“Maybe you can’t,” says Marvin, and he grabs that knife off the ground, and he stabs Anti, once, twice, thrice, even as his brothers let out screams of alarm, who cares, it’s all in the background, they don’t try to stop him despite their weak little cries, so all that matters is this, is the faint way that Anti’s last sobbing scream shudders from his throat, in the hot spluttering flood of something not-quite blood, is the writhing beneath his fingers, and he stabs, and he stabs, until he has gotten past the chest, yes, dug it open and gotten past the ribs, until his hands are full of blood and he finds, between his fingers, a simulated mass of muscle meant to be something almost like a heart.

Can you tear your eyes away? Some of you are watching. I know that for a fact because, in that moment, Anti’s life passes out of him, and his glazed green eyes stare up at the merciless sun, and he is dead without a final word to mark his passing.

Marvin can hear himself laughing aloud.

“I fucking told you,” he spits, crushing blood and muscle between his hands. “I promised you from the beginning, you goddamn parasite - I will kill you for what you’ve done to my family.”

No answer. No answer from anyone. Overhead, the fluttering of birds.

unpredictably-ghostly asked: Is this Anti's end? We are ready and watching. You deserve to be free, and we will be here to support you, whatever happens.

Free. Yes. Free. Marvin’s laughing, clutching his shoulders. No more. No more. Free.

“You are never going to get under my skin again!” he screams, drawing back that blade again. “You are never going to torture my friends and then leave them with me to care for while they cry for mercy! You are never going to hit us, you are never going to possess us, you are never going to hurt my family again! You - ”

Warm arms wrap around him, pinning him as much as hugging him, and someone wrestles the blade from his hand before he can stab anything else. He lets out a scream without even knowing why, so loud it sends deer dancing away for miles, and lets his body slump back against the one beside him.

“My twin, my twin,” Ro is whispering, rocking them in time, pressed close together. “It’s over, okay? We’re okay. Look at us, Blue. We’re all okay. Or - or alive, okay? We’re all alive. I’m here. Blue. I’m here.”

Blue closes his eyes, light-headed.

“I don’t regret it!” he cries out, because it’s important to say.

“I’m here,” Jackie repeats softly, again and again, until Blue is breathing clearly again. “Just rest. I’m here.”

Anonymous asked: It's over?

Trick and Dapper stand together a few feet from their siblings, staring. Trick feels numb. He reaches for his hood and finds Dok fast asleep despite all the commotion, exhausted from all that’s happened. Trick doesn’t know if he’s okay. He rubs his thumb over his twin’s back and some of his soft grey fur falls away, leaving a patch behind.

“I think I need to get him back to the house before he transforms,” mumbles Chase.

It’s true, but it doesn’t really address the fact that Dapper is standing beside him on shaking legs, sobbing so hard he makes no sound at all.

Jackie turns back to them, looking eerily calm, though his eyes have a sort of desperate shock which manifests in a slight tremble in his hands.

“Get them both back to the house,” he says flatly, face pale. “Blue, come on, you go with.”

He pulls his twin to his feet, holding his hands. “I need you to look after them,” he says,squeezing his hands gently. “Focus on that right now, okay?”

“What - what do I do?” coughs Blue, wiping at his teary face.

“You know how to take care of them. It’ll be okay. Get everyone cleaned up and fed and bandaged. Try to find Dap’s medicine and help Trick take care of Schneep. Then you go through the house and you get absolutely everything that you think we can pawn or sell. There’s enough in this house to keep us going for a while. Pack bags with clothes and all their things and all the food that can travel. Put out some food and water in case Noodle comes back. Lock all the doors and stay out of the forest. It’s going to be okay, alright? Can you do all that?”

“Yes, Roser.” Marv tries to catch his breath again. Tries to be strong for the others. “What will you do?”

Jackie’s eyes flicker to the body on the ground.

“Are you sure you can handle that?” asks Marvin weakly. “You’ll have to…”

“I’ll start a pyre,” says Jackie softly. “Just go, okay? You shouldn’t all be here for this.”

Blue sniffles and nods, glancing back at the others. He knows he has to get them back to the house. Has to look after them. Anti may have been the one who told him it was his place to care for everyone else, but right now, it’s what he wants to do for them. His family.

“Be careful,” whispers Blue, leaving him with a squeeze of the hands. “Come back as soon as it’s done.”

Jackie nods and watches as his siblings walk away. He sees Dapper turn his gaze back, his eyes red with crying.

Jackie doesn’t move for a long time.

The ground is dark with ash. He never let the fire blaze out of control, but he’s burned the earth and the trees for meters around his feet, leaving everything warm and silent. Soon it will be cold and silent.

The body will be too. In fact, leaning down, Jackie finds that Anti’s skin is already chill as frog skin to the touch. Jackie wonders if he was ever warm to the touch at all. He seems to remember his hands being cold every time he struck him.

“I meant it.”

His voice is the only sound in the clearing.

“I would have loved you with all that I am.”

Anti’s still face does not answer. In death, he looks very small. He’s beautiful in a way that hurts Jackie down to the heart of him, beautiful like all his siblings are beautiful.

Jackie scoops that body up, and there, in the woods, he lets Anti’s body burn.

“Over,” he reads your question softly, staring as the pyre burns. “Over, I guess… I guess this is what over is.”

The fire crackles. The wind breathes.

Over.

Anonymous asked: Dapper, honey, I know this is hard, but you have to let them do this. Anti will never leave you alone. He has to die or you can never be free. Find acceptance in this fact: you will never be free from him until he has died. All the happiness you deserve will never come to you. You must let him go, let go of the attachment, and see, as you always have, his true nature. You know his anger better than anyone. He will never leave you free and happy. You're just a prisoner to him.

“Is this freedom?” cry his white hands.

“Shh, baby, shh.”

He’s sitting in the bathtub in the master bedroom, still crying his heart out. Blue is cleaning him with a washcloth, stroking clean, warm water across his face and lathing the blood from his hands.

“You killed him,” sobs Dapper. “He was already beaten, Blue. He promised Red that would be the last time.”

“He doesn’t keep his promises, angel,” sighs Blue. “Come on, Dap, I’m so tired… just let me get everyone cleaned up, okay? I thought you were fighting with us. You poor thing, you’re so hot. Do you know where Anti put your medicine? We can’t find it anywhere.”

“I was with you - I am with you. But that was - I didn’t want - and now I - I - ”

“Dap, Dap,” whispers Blue, cupping his chin. “You’ve got to just try and rest for now.”

Dapper hugs himself, red eyes staring straight ahead as he lets Blue clean him. He covers his eyes as he cleans his hair. He takes his time despite his exhaustion, getting every inch of filth and blood out of his baby brother’s skin and soothing at the heat in his head. Dapper closes his eyes.

“Okay, come on,” murmurs Blue when fifteen minutes have gone by. “Let’s get you out.”

Wordlessly, Dapper lets himself be pulled from the bath. Blue towels him down with the fluffiest towel he can find hanging up and wraps him in a fuzzy green bathrobe stolen off the hook on the door. Dapper shivers and hugs himself, sniffling.

Blue takes his hand and kisses the side of his head. “I’m going to try and find some food,” he says. “And then we’ll get you all tucked up in bed so you can rest.”

“Do I have to stay up here?”

“No, honeybee. You’ll come stay with us. We’ll all be together now. Okay?”

Dapper stares at the floor.

“Okay,” he signs finally.

“I’ll be back in a few,” says Blue gently.

He leaves him alone.

Dapper sinks to the floor of the bathroom, water dripping off of him, and he doesn’t speak for a long time.

Free.

Is this free?

He had thought it would feel better.

He drags himself back to the bedroom and he crashes onto the bed, sobbing into the pillows. Anti does not come and lie beside him.

Anonymous asked: Trick, how are you? Is Henrik human again? This can't be easy, so I hope you can support each other through whatever happens next.

“Hey,” Chase whispers, picking up the closest camera and pressing it into his brother’s hands. “Look, the cameras are here. You love the cameras. Do you want to talk to them?”

Only soft, shallow breathing answers. The hands he places you in do not wrap around the body of the camera.

“Dok, look at me, look at me,” pleads Chase. You see his side moving as he leans forward, murmuring reassurances. “You’re okay now, Deutsch. I’m going to look after you. Don’t be scared.”

“Trick?”

He turns around and his movement knocks you to the ground. You clatter to the ground and there is Henrik.

“He’s not doing well?” asks Blue, his voice starting to shake.

He isn’t doing well, no. He’s human, at least, but about as white as the rat was, with blue circles under his eyes and a terribly blank look in his face. He’s just staring, straight ahead. Trick strokes his hair, but Dok doesn’t respond.

“He - he gets like this sometimes,” croaks Chase. “He’ll snap out of it.”

“Is this because we turned him into a rat?”

“No, he was all silent and frozen beforehand too. Dok, Dok, come on, you’re scaring Blue.”

Blue doesn’t even deny it. He hurries forward to stand over him where he’s lying in bed, pulling his blankets away.

“Oh, no,” he whispers. “He’s… this was torture, Trick, this was… this… intentional and - these will all scar and he must be in so much pain, oh, we - we need to go to the hospital! We’ll walk again, can you carry him? Come on, we - ”

“No,” cries Chase, bending over his brother’s body. “No, I’m his nurse. I’ll handle it, okay?”

“Let me help you. He needs to get cleaned up.”

“You need to go look after Dapper and please, Blue, make something to eat. We need food and water more than anything. I promise, I can look after him. I’ve… treated worse.”

Blue touches his shoulder, his fingers shaking.

“Just go get me all the first aid stuff, okay?”

“Okay,” whispers Blue. “Okay. He… he’ll survive?”

“Just go get me all the first aid stuff.”

Anonymous asked: Chase! How's you and Henrik doing? Has he turned back from the mouse form now?

“Yeah, yeah, we’re… good. We’re okay. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine. He gets like this sometimes. Don’t you, buddy? Yeah. The cameras have seen you like this before. They know. You’re okay. Just take your time. I’ll look after you.”

Henrik is wounded and weak.

“I’ll look after you. I will. I’ll be okay tonight so you can get through this. We’re going to be okay.”

As Chase adjusts that unmoving body and begins to help put him back together, you can see the cost of their freedom littered across his skin. Chase does not cry, though his mouth shakes. He stitches his brother together. Soothes bruise cream over black and blue injuries. Brings him painkillers and antibiotics and helps him swallow them with cool water. Cleans him from head to toe with a washcloth and redresses him in a clean grey t-shirt and soft pj pants.

And even an hour and a half later, when there’s nothing left to be done, Chase is still right there, lying beside him, hugging him against his body and speaking to him.

Chase always bore a resemblance to Jack, but so did all of the others. If you want to know why Anti always saw more of their creator in him, it was this one ability of Chase’s: the ability to speak comfort for hours on end. The words don’t have to mean anything. He’s there.

“And I won’t go,” he whispers, watching Henrik drift off to sleep beside him. “I won’t let anything happen to you again.”

Anonymous asked: It's not over. Anti may be over, but you're all still here. Together, breathing, living. What comes next may not be easy and processing everything is going to take an ungodly amount of time. The future will be scary but it's already brightening up and eventually, I believe you'll all be shining again. I hope you know that too.

Blue stares out the kitchen window as he waits for apple crisp to bake in the oven, his eyes watery and exhausted. In the other room, he can hear Trick soothing his brother, and he lets everyone’s words of comfort wash over him and hold him steady. Hope and comfort and love and bright futures. He did what he had to do. His eyes well up and the tears run over. He curses softly and brushes them away, mouth trembling. When he can see again, Jackie is walking across the lawn towards the house, leaving dark trees behind.

Marvin gives a dry sob. He tears open the back door and he runs out to meet his twin. Jackie scoops him up and lifts him off the ground. In the grass, beneath the sun, Jackie holds him and does not let go.

“I love you,” cries Marvin.

“I love you too,” answers Jackie, so fiercely his voice could turn tides in the other direction. “And we will survive this - together.”

Marvin’s arms wrap tight around him. They are pressed in close to each other, breathing in sync, in harmony, together.

They do not let each other go for a long time.

Anonymous asked: Marvin, you did what you set out to do. I'm proud of you. You're not out of the woods just yet and God, none of us could have predicted what's become of you and your brothers since that first day but... we're on the other side. A little worse for wear all around, but strong nonetheless. I really don't know what I can say, it's hard to pinpoint where you are in your head sometimes but I hope you know that walking by your side was worth it. And whatever comes next, we'll remain here as long as you need us.

“I don’t know where I am in my head,” laughs Blue frailly. “I… I don’t know what to do with myself. But thank you. Yeah, I… I just… I just want us to move on. I don’t know what to do.”

“How about for now,” murmurs Jackie. “We just go get some food and have a nap.”

Blue laughs again, soft and broken. He hugs his brother one more time.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

And that’s what they do.

They bring a camera along and they get the apple crisp out of the oven, adding stale chips and canned green beans for their lunch. They fill up cups of water and go back to their room, where they find Trick and Dok dozing on the bed.

Blue goes to bring Dapper downstairs too, to get him fed and look after him.

“I just want to be alone right now,” Dapper tells him.

Marvin blinks, touching his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he asks carefully. “Do you feel - ”

“Don’t worry,” Dapper signs back, face grey with fatigue. “I’m okay. I just really want to be alone right now.”

Marvin sets a plate and some water beside his bed, feeling a flutter of unease. “You’re sure?”

“Leave me with a camera,” recommends Dapper. “Then they can tell you if I’m in trouble. But yes, Blue, I’m sure. Please, I… I just want to… just to be alone.”

“We’re right downstairs if you need us.”

“I know.”

He leans down to kiss him again, but Dapper pushes him away and hides under the blankets of the bed. Blue draws back, worried. He gets his bear out of his backpack and sets it down on the pillow beside him, and then he goes back downstairs.

He finds Trick and Red cuddled up close, sharing green beans and talking quietly, warm under the blankets of the bed. Blue lets out a low, fluttering sigh. Food and togetherness and a feeling of safety at long last… it’s what this was all for.

He closes his eyes. For a moment, he just breathes.

The other side, at long last.

“Thank you,” he whispers to you.

Then he goes and joins his brother, and warm arms wrap around him, and he thinks, just maybe, that things will be okay.

Anonymous asked: (Oh god, oh no. Please... please tell me noodle is going to be okay. I'm going to be wrecked if anything happens to this baby)

That’s when there’s a knock on the door.

It’s almost comical how fast Chase, Jackie, and Marvin all shoot up in bed. Henrik’s first expression in several hours is vaguely judgemental.

“Who is it?” Jackie asks you, voice soft and dangerous.

Outside the front door, a familiar man in a grey hood, shifting nervously in his unlaced running shoes. He is carrying a box.

Jackie slides towards the door, picking up his fighting staff. When he sees Shep, his posture relaxes, but not entirely. Slowly, he opens the door, holding his weapon beside him.

“Uh,” says Shep, trying to smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” answers Jackie cautiously, lifting an eyebrow.

“Um, I kind of expected Anti to answer. Wasn’t sure if I should come at all. Hope you guys are getting things figured out. But, uh, I just wanted to apologize for what happened. The viewers asked me for a favor, so, uh… here.”

He hands the box to Jackie. Jackie pushes aside the top and -

“Noodle!”

It’s Chase, sprinting towards them from all the way on the other end of the hall.

“My cat! My cat!”

He goes crashing into Jackie and steals the box from him in one swoop, pulling his kitten out and hugging him tight against his chest, tears running down his cheeks. Noodle beeps and meows, taking a moment to adjust before tilting his head up and beginning to lick Chase’s beard like nothing has changed in the whole world.

“Thank you!” cries Chase, covering his cat in kisses, so overwhelmed he thinks he might just keel right over. “Thank you so much! My cat, my cat. Oh, Noodle, I missed you so much…”

He sees Marvin smiling nearby. Jackie speaks with Shep, thanking him and telling him about their plans. Noodle meows and snuggles up close to him, warming him, comforting him. Chase cries into his fur.

Maybe things will turn out okay after all.

Anonymous asked: Death never feels like the correct way to end things. When there's hope and love and trust and promise of change in the world, death just seems too final a consequence. But Anti was a denier of all those good things, and sought to replace them with spite and animosity and hopelessness. I know none of these words will help you all feel better but... I understand the sense of loss all the same, justified or not. Mourn how you need to mourn, feel how you need to feel. And hold tight to each other.

Dapper sits upstairs, alone.

Fuck, the room is quiet. The room is so quiet. Not that it was ever very loud up here, but damn.

“It wasn’t the correct way to end things,” he tells you. “He could have… he could have… I could have…”

But the truth is, he knows you’re right, and he knows Blue’s right, and he knows, he knows, he knows.

He buries his face in his hands, shuddering.

You watch him get to his feet and head into the bathroom. The thick smell of the lotions and bath salts fill his nose until nothing else is distinguishable. He sits down against the side of the tub and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t have the strength. He doesn’t have any strength at all.

But he needs to do one more thing.

A silver light flickers in his eyes.

.

The Northern lights waft through the sky like the body of a slow-moving dragon, vivid and ethereal. Their cold, swirling colors drift over the side of the mountain and illuminate the ocean in blue and green and pink. He knows because he can see for miles from the window above his bed. The trees, stretching out around him, the birds flickering through the sky, the faraway ocean, moving forever without him - yes, he remembers.

A young man in a big yellow jumper stares out at the Norway sky. His eyes burn with the colors of aurora borealis.

“What are you looking at like that?” asks a soft, familiar voice.

Dapper turns and finds Anti lying beside him, grinning up at him. He smiles back and Anti reaches out to grab him, holding his waist and yanking him back down onto the bed. Dapper laughs, falling onto the mattress beside him, and when Anti pulls him to his chest, all Dapper does is wrap his arms around him and hold him in return.

“Tomorrow’s going to be good,” says Anti, rubbing his back in slow circles, looking up at those lights through their window. “I’m a fucking genius. Finally. Finally I did it.”

“What, Anti?”

“What? Don’t play dumb with me. Finding Marvin.”

He has soft hair, dyed dark, and clear green eyes. Warm at his side and glowing in the light, Anti is relaxed and beautiful, soft to the touch and at ease with the world.

“I’m heading out to go get him soon as my intel finishes downloading,” says Anti. “Sneak up on him at night and have him back by morning. I’m so sick of Red moping around. He’ll finally have someone to cheer him up again. Fuck, and the pair of them will be so badass. We’ll be able to get whatever we want. I’ll have him look after all of you, actually, or that’s what I was thinking. Would you like that? Someone checking in on you sometimes? Someone other than me, I guess.”

Dapper stares up at him. Memorizing the lines of his face. The way he looked when he wasn’t scared or angry or lost in his misery. These moments - these moments where Anti seemed to love him - this was what he always held on to. It was the only way he survived.

“Dapper?”

“Yes,” he signs distantly. “Yes, I would like that.”

Anti nods decisively, settling down again, looking up at the stars. There’s a smile on his face. He rubs warm circles against Dapper’s spine. Downstairs, through the floorboards, he can hear Trick and Dok and Red talking - about nothing, about everything.

“Yeah,” says Anti, letting out a low breath. “Tomorrow, I’ll have Marvin. And then everything will finally feel right. And nothing will ever be able to hurt us again. Tomorrow, everything changes.”

Dapper is there. Against his side. Breathing in time with him. His brother.

“There’s his face,” smiles Anti as his security feed footage finishes downloading on the computer beside him, his eyes changing to blue as he sorts through it. “I’m so fucking good at this. Yes! Okay, I’m heading out. Be ready to reverse if something goes wrong. It won’t, though. It’ll go perfectly. I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Dapper reaches out for him, but Anti is already out of bed, changing his form and packing his things. He’ll take Red and he’ll be gone.

He’ll be gone.

“Okay,” says Anti, hoisting up his backpack and turning back to him, running his hands through Dapper’s curls. “I’ll be back soon, little brother.”

“I love you,” he signs.

In just a moment, he’ll be gone.

“Do you have to go?”

“I have to go. Little dork. Bye.”

Anti leaves Dapper behind, heading down the stairs. But right before he goes, there’s a moment where he pauses and looks back.

“I love you too,” he signs. “I’ll be home soon.”

It is only a memory. Nothing more.

He’s gone.

End Chapter Four - the Witch’s Promise

[mrsunderhill678]

The last one liners of 2020!! Let’s go!

“Discoveries of self are only grand so long as they give you a deeper meaning, but all mine have done is haunted me.” - Calliger Cougar

“Justice that harms the innocent is no justice after all.” - Calliger Cougar

“I fear I have yet to meet all of me, and if this sinful being is what I have met, I fear what I have not.” - Calliger Cougar

"I've spent life searching for a deeper purpose, only to realize, all I had to do, was be me.” - Espekarla Killovitch

“It took so long to accept myself, so long, that I believed no one would ever accept me.” - Espekarla Killovitch

“Life can beat you down and make you someone you don't like, but soar above that. See the stars, burn in the sun, become ash so long as it's you.” - Espekarla Killovitch

 “I am such a crime against myself.” - Duke Marston

“Loving me, I imagine, is a death sentence. Hold my heart only if you wish to place yourself on death row or the electric chair.” - Duke Marston

 “I am no brave little mouse, I am no Desperaux, it is as if I am Borticelli, a sewer rat, feasting on my grime, throwing the brave little mouse to the crowd, allowing them to cheer as the cat bats at him like yarn, watching him bleed, watching him fight, if only to keep my throne." - Duke Marston (If you get this reference I will fucking love you)

 How I yearn to be something other than this twisted creature, sitting upon a throne of other's blood and bone. But I never leave this throne, I never knock this life studded crown from my head. I guess that makes me haunted queen of the hill, fearing the descent yet staring down at the bottom, wondering what it would be like... To fall. But I fear my sister would catch me, deny this death wish of mine. She'd snag a cigarette from my lip if she knew it burnt my lungs. I fear myself, but she loves me, I'll never know why, I'm just a beast, a wicked creature of broken tusks and teeth. And my brother, he would carry the crucifix on his back and nail his palms to it's oak if he knew it'd spare me the trouble.” - Carlota Calico

“I am a cruel woman, my eyes glazed over with glossy regret, and yet all I do is weep the blood that I've spilled. I am a haunting of every grave I've dug, every life I took, and try as I may, it is never my blood I'll weep, but the blood of another.” - Carlota Calico

“My regret is spoken so much louder than my rage, it leaves me to wonder how my rage leaves more glasses shattered than my regret, when it's my hauntings that raise the decibels? They say to roll with life's punches, but what can a man do when the fists are his own?” - Max Tripp

“It was I who took my life and set it on fire. And everyone watched from the pyre as my ship sunk, and you know what? When this ship sinks, and I with it, I'll cheer along with those on the fucking pyre.” - Max Tripp

“I won't make it to heaven. I'd never pass the first step to the pearly gates, let alone a mile from the stairwell.” - Max Tripp

“I'm a gambling man, and I gambled this life of mine for a rusted lie and a nickel. Worth bout as much as me, I suppose.” - Max Tripp

“Raise a glass to the loveless man, raise a glass, for this shot of my tears and regret never runs dry.” - Max Tripp

“I'm tangled between my little flaws and my love for my children, I imagine my love for them heals me, I just... Wish it would heal, them.” Violetta Flint

 “Is the world, perhaps, just as self destructive as we are, causing pain to those who love it?” - Violetta Flint

“I wish I could've protected my boy, but life took him down the beaten path too soon. I was supposed to protect him from the thorns on the rose, but he gripped it before I could. He bled before I could bleed in his place.” - Violetta Flint

“Life can be so terribly cruel to the kindest of people, but don't let cruelty make you cruel. Remember that kindness is never forged from an easy life.” - Violetta Flint

“Revenge is a luxury I can't God damn afford, yet here I am, payin' the fuckin' price.” - Andraak Flint

“With a single snap 'a my fingers I killed the light that basked my soul, stepped on my own back ta reach heaven, just ta kill the man who claims himself a god above others. Oh he's above others alright, but when I meet him eye to fuckin' eye, sins on my wrist, with my rage and love he stole from my still tremblin' hands, he ain't gon' be nuthin' but below me.” - Andraak Flint

“You must inflict pain to know my wrath, and for a man that's inflicted more pain than the end 'a times, I reckon I ought to be more wrathful than the God that decided it fit for him ta live.” - Andraak Flint

“Revenge is a luxury I can't afford, because the price is this life I've lived and the corpse 'a the man I hunt. Ta pay the price, I got ta die, cause ain't no man damned as I am, seein' more sunrises than the devil he seeks. So be it, may the sun rise without me, so long as it rises without Quentin." - Andraak Flint

“Sometimes, crime is survival, and you can condemn me all you want, but all I'm tryin' to do is stay on the topside of the concrete. An old friend always said his corpse had already dropped, that he was already buried beneath the skyscrapers and subways, that he was just another corpse of New York. And I agree. We're all just corpses of New York city, because this place in of itself is a corpse of dead concrete goliaths and lost souls once filled with hope.” - Angeles Vance

“We are the revolution, built of scars and corpses of New York, and maybe one day, they'll hear our battle cry and call us heroes. But it's more often than most that heroes are labeled lawless and cruel, before ever, they put an end to the very tyranny that labeled them, enemy of the world." - Angeles Vance

“Evil is often a torch, passed down from one ruler to the next, but I've found, that we only take the torch, for we fear he who holds it, only to fear our own hand, in the end.” - Theodore Malrosa

“All you'll ever need in a kill or be killed world is a six shooter and your sins on your sleeve.” - Theodore Malrosa

“I'm a ragged bone man, with fur drenched over my shoulders like a tattered cape, but in the shade, all they ever see is the silhouette of a hero's torn cape. Shade hides all, my friend, even the most damnable of offenses.” - Theodore Malrosa

“He who mocks the peasant will find himself bowing to his feet miles down the road, just ask the brother's of Joseph. For they mocked his dreams only to realize always was he a prophet, in all his glory, and his coat of every color only aggrandized his robe of dreams and prophecies to be.” - Theodore Malrosa

 “I could drown in holy water and still, I'd be damned, all the holy water would do is grant me a painful death of scalding flesh and boiled blood. I wear a cross round my neck if only to remind me, I was once holy. But he who is nailed to the crucifix is often bled dry before ever he is forgiven.” - Arrow Holloway

“I sling these bullet casin's like regrets and charms, never knowin' what it is I'll get from this chamber. There's a spark in my chest, and I's long since learned, the spark in me chest and revolver are one in the fucking same.” - Arrow Holloway

“I am a hail of bullets in the crossfire, hittin' every soldier, I am the blood spilled and the bodies that drop. I suppose I'm everything death every grew, if only to be reaped for my simple existence. But it ain't simple, is it? Never were I 'spose, always was this life complex and bloody.” - Arrow Holloway

“I could face myself in a draw fight and still I'd lose.” - Arrow Holloway

“Take this ride 'a mine as you will, one of a wicked outlaw or a deputy corrupted by crimson burnin' justice, either way you spin the tale, you get blood spilled and bullets flyin', so I spose it don't matter which path ya take. It all ends the same. No matter what road you go down, there's a cliffside, a steeple or a river, and ain't none of em leadin' you ta salvation. Cause the biggest lie the preacher ever told is, "You're forgiven." - Arrow Holloway

“What is hope, really, but a single shared delusion of the human race? We cling to it so desperately, but it was never there, we were always battling ourselves and callin' a damn peace treaty. Cause when we fire against our selves, what do we call it? Freedom or murder of the highest degree?” Elliot Terminus

“We're either lambs or wolves, and only those with stained teeth'll make it through. We're already in hell, my friend, the demons are huntin' the angels and the sheep are bein' led to the slaughter. Ain't no sheep makin' it out with a white coat.” - Elliot Terminus

 “I'd gladly wash myself in the blood of the lamb if it meant soakin' the fields.” - Elliot Terminus

“You think the flock is safe just cuz there's a shepherd? He's as mortal as the sheep and he who protects the weak should be weary of the strong.” - Elliot Terminus

“This crucifix of secrets on my back weighs me down like the thought of my casket, I fear I shall carry this weight on my back for miles, only for none of it to ever matter in the end.” - Mason White

“It's often secrets lurk in those who have been silenced. These days, you can't cut off a man's tongue to prevent the truth from spilling out, but threatening all he loves does the same damn thing. When a man dares silence you, shout to the heavens, maybe God will listen and smite him down, render him speechless. No man can disarm you of your voice, it's the strongest weapon you've got.” - Mason White

 “For all who come for my sorry hide, tomorrow's an empty promise at best, and a threat at it's worst, cuz steppin' up to me is a losin' fuckin' battle. You wanna step up ta this plate? Then prepare for them pearly gates, cause ya meet the lord today, and ya don't got time for a fuckin' confession.” - Rafe Linton

“Honor ain't nuthin but a lie soldiers use ta steal the advantage, I'd rather cheat than die, and I'd rather scarper on my mah knees than be the poor sod bein' shot at point blank range for sins deemed worthy 'a death.” - Rafe Linton

“A man offers ta count ta three, shoot him at two.” - Rafe Linton

“Steppin' up ta me is a losin' fuckin' battle because I cheat, I lie, friend, only truthful word that ever come from my mouth is, I'm alive. I'd light a match and tell ya it's cold, I'd shoot a man six times in the chest and say he's breathin' just fine. The pearly gates await ya because you choke on all your truths, when a lie's the only thing that'll save you, these days.” - Rafe Linton

“The act of raisin' the dead is a simple act 'a redeemin' a man who's coffin lid is nailed shut. Yet for a man like me, it's complex as can got damn be.” - Alaric Alistair

“There was a time I believed the good guy always caught the thief, and the sun always rose, but look at me now, sittin' in the dark.” - Alaric Alistair

 “You could cut me down and I imagine I'd laugh, cause I can't imagine sumthin' darker than my life other than the end 'a it.” - Alaric Alistair

“I'm just roadkill on the highway that's risen, my antlers are broken, my fur matted and bloody, and I'm just fated ta pretend I'm still breathin'. But the breath from my lungs is stained from the blood on my teeth.” - Alaric Alistair

“In the end, it don't matter who ya were, what ya did, cause hell don't exist and devils were only myths of us.” - Alaric Alistair

“All I ever do is follow orders. I bark when told ta, I bite when aggravated or let off my leash, but the sad thing is, even the leash stabs inta me. The bruises and scars round my neck tell the sorrowed tale of a barkin' dog forced ta bite. This blood on my teeth tells the pain soaked tale of a dog, skinny and starvin', all because he bites, if only ta put another down." - Alaric Alistair

“For a man who's lost everything, I sure got a lot. My whole life I been swallowed by the fires yet remaining un-scorched, because all my life I've had love. For my wife, for my sons, for the lord, and even if many I knew are now nuthin' but a memory, I still find light in the intricacies of their smiles, cause I see em in my own.” - Balthazar Pennington

“We're beautiful creatures, really, holdin' one another ta show love, speakin' in languages so complex that not a word has ta be spoken to say, "I love you." - Balthazar Pennington

"Go on, kill us, kill us by the fucking dozens, Mr. De Niro. But you will find that the human resolve is a helluva lot stronger than your God damn conscious." - Cody Scarrow

"Oh I don't need savin' from me, brother. I may not be perfect, hell, I ain't even decent. But I can be damn proud of the fact, that I ain't you, and I never God damn will be." - Cody Scarrow

[jaggedwolf]

TSCOSI Ficlets #2

Not being from the US

"So, Jeeter, what'd you learn this week?" Arkady plopped into the seat opposite him, stealing one of his fries. "The horrors of Fahrenheit?"

"Man, that was day one of international student orientation. We're on to way more advanced terrors now." Brian considered a token protest at the fry-theft. Eh, he'd get her back when she got dessert.

Arkady shrugged off her backpack. "Why do you even bother still going?"

"It's mandatory."

"Like you give a crap about that."

"Gotta be up to date with all these cultural differences."

"You're Canadian."

"Hey man-"

"And you told me you spent every summer in the States, anyway," Arkady said, looking suspiciously at him. Well, she tended to look suspiciously at a lot of things, so it wasn't the worst sign. "There's no reason for you to subject yourself to-"

A wide grin crossed Arkady's face. Oh no. "Wait, they're also an international student, right?"

"Maybe," said Brian defensively.

"Now, remind me what you said about their cheekbones?" Arkady's voice sounded even more delighted.

Brian pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, and buried his head in his arms on the table. His voice muffled, he said "Drinking with you was a mistake."

"I for one, could not be happier that Tripathi took pity on a couple of freshmen and did us that favor."

Brian groaned. Three months into the school year and he still didn't understand how or when Arkady and him became friends.

"Should have guessed you'd be a poetic drunk." Arkady clapped him on the back. "Woah, speaking of-"

She tugged his sweatshirt. Brian reluctantly looked up, following her gaze to find the subject of their discussion striding towards them.

Yep, Krejjh looked about as handsome as they always did. That was fine. Their pace slowed as they approached the table. "Hey, it's Brian, right?"

"That's him," chimed in Arkady. "And I'm going to get some actual food now instead of skimming off Jeeter's"

She abruptly stood up and left. Krejjh seemed startled by her departure and asked "Is this a bad time?"

They sounded oddly hesitant, not at all like how Brian had heard them speak with their friends.

"Nope." Brian shoved back his hood. "Arkady's just like that. Do you want a fry?"

Holding your hand in mine

Arkady's always appreciated privacy. Couple of decades of sleeping in crowded rooms will do that to you. Being alone can be nice.

Being alone sucks a hell of a lot more when you're dying in one of Zone Z's dim-lit hallways.

Asshole shot her and her comms before she took care of him, and she supposes she'll only have his body for company as blood spurts out from under her collarbone. The instinctive pressured she applies slows it down. Not quick enough. He'd picked his shot well.

It's a waiting game now. She might as well distract herself. After all, hiding from the world in foolish dreams is a talent she's cultivated.

It's easy to paint a picture, as the world becomes fuzzy. No one could fault her for it. If someone wants to, she's not exactly going to be around to take their complaints. She squeezes her eyes shut. Folds herself smaller into the corner. Presses the heel of her right hand harder into the bleeding wound. Ignores how slick it feels. She's going to lose this fight, but like hell she's not clinging on all the way down, fingernails dug deep into life.

Back to the imagining.

What does she want, in these final moments?

What doesn't she want, is the better question. Her dreams had always been too stupidly big for reality. And yet. This is...this is a better death than she ever thought she'd get. Not much more to ask for. To her mind's rendering of the scene, she only adds a couple of selfish touches.

Long, soft fingers curl over the back of her right hand. They push insistently, added pressure to the wound, steadily, as if confident they can fix this. Fingers she's seen idly drum the table in the mess hall, fingers she's seen wrapped around a hypodermic syringe, fingers she felt trail through her hair just this morning. A presence that refuses to leave.

A rougher palm meets that of her left hand. The resulting grip is firm. Gentle. The calluses have a different contour from her own. Earned from building, where hers were made from breaking. They press against each other in a way that feels right anyway. Feels right, like twice-offered new beginnings. And even now, offering more.

It's good, Arkady thinks, that this is how it goes. Her alone.

Wouldn't be fair to them any other way.

Lesbian gaze

The ship turns out to be a monstrous patchwork, but Tripathi promises it'll fly, so she busies herself with staring at her new ID card. Arkady Patel. The card is new, nothing like the faded, scratched-up one in her back pocket. She'd gotten that one when she enlisted, been excited as hell about it, actually.

"Hey, Arkady?" asks Tripathi, sounding apologetic and swiveling the pilot's seat. "Could you check the local channels to see if they're tracking us?" Tripathi nods her head towards one of the panels.

She grunts in affirmative, shoves the ID card into a pocket and makes herself useful. She's mostly blocked out the pain. The channels are clear, takeoff goes without a hitch, and an hour later, they're as free as can be.

She could fish out that ID card again. There's a lot of people she's imagined being. Arkady Patel's the first one she actually will. If the IGR doesn't end up finding them first, that is. But that's not the name echoing in her head.

That would be Sana Tripathi.

Who's busy piloting, which means she can get away with looking her over. Tripathi's hair had been longer back on Cresswin, a single black braid that moved with her head through with every point made in those meetings snuck into. Now, Tripathi's hair isn't even shoulder-length. Nice and practical. Grey roots too. Tripathi seemed a little young for that. Not that she actually knew the woman's age, come to think of it.

There was a lot she didn't know about Tripathi. Maybe less if she counted Cresswin, and maybe she should, since Cresswin's what landed her here but - people changed. From time. From the war. From working a shitty job day-after-day. Easy enough to slip on an old skin if it got you a desperately needed crew member.

Not that it matters. She isn't looking for the noble, non-existent hero her teenage self had fantasized about. Now that she's on the IGR's bad side, she's pretty fucking good with settling for a place to sleep and food to eat. She can wait this out. See who Tripathi ends up being, and see if Tripathi figures out she isn't worth the trust.

Till then, she'll keep an eye on her new boss.

Low Expectations

It's ludicrous, he thinks, how exposed he feels without his eyepatch. Even more so when Violet's gloved fingers rest on his skin where the edges of the eyepatch would have. No matter. The feeling is a sign he has let himself become too comfortable. He's been far more exposed.

"Can you open the eyelid?" asks Violet.

There's that familiar half-second where he expects his range of vision to expand, and it grates on him, that his body has not yet adapted to its new reality. He opens his eyelid as wide as he can.

If Violet is perturbed by the sight of an empty eye socket, she doesn't show it. Her head comes closer to inspect it, fingers shifting slightly along his skin, and he tilts his face towards her to make it easier.

"Thanks," mutters Violet.

His hands start to tremble.

They're not in Violet's line of sight. He has the time to compensate, and the freedom to move his hands, so as carefully as he can manage, he grips his knees. He forces himself to start speaking, informing Violet of the current status of his eye socket and how the IGR had healed it.

It's no challenge to keep his face still. Whatever they do could only hurt more with unexpected head movements, they'd told him.

Eventually, Violet pulls back. Her fingers leave his face. Before he can even take a breath of relief, Violet pauses midway through turning to grab something, a concerned look on her face. "Park, you're shaking."

"I-" When Park looks down, he sees that his knees have joined his hands in trembling uncontrollably. His mind blanks. "My apologies," he acknowledges, "it shouldn't affect the checkup."

"What?"

He'd given an uninformative answer. Needed a better explanation. "My head. It shouldn't affect my head, so-"

"Park," interrupts Violet quietly, a slow frown taking over her face, "I think we're done for today."

Wooing with sharp-edged gifts

As soon as Arkady was unhorsed for the last time, and her opponent declared the victor, Sana appeared out of nowhere to act as her crutch.

"You should be escorting Rumor, not me," Arkady pointed out, her helmet weighing down her free hand. Her left foot throbbed when she put any weight on it. "Who knows what she'll get up to without your supervision?"

Sana huffed, her armor clanging against Arkady's. "I could say the same about you. Besides, Krejjh is handling her fine."

Sure enough, a glance behind revealed Krejjh eagerly chattering away to Sana's steed. They swung a leg over to ride even that short distance to the stables.

"Showoff," muttered Arkady. "Krejjh bribes your horse with too many sugar cubes."

"Be that as it may," continued Sana, "I'm afraid there'll be no escaping the medical tent today. It's tournament day! We're safe, you need to get your leg taken care of, and if something happens you'll have the simple pleasure of saying 'I told you so', won't you?"

"It's not a pleasure."

Sana ignored her, holding up a flap of the tent they'd arrived at for Arkady to hop under. She did so, making sure to look as annoyed as possibly, and Sana followed, supporting Arkady over to the nearest cot...where Violet stood expectantly.

Sana flashed a quick grin at Arkady. "You know what, Kady, you're right, I should go check on Rumor. Just remember you did your best out there." With that, Sana nodded at Violet and exited the tent so quickly it was as if she were never there.

Arkady frowned at Violet. "Liu. Wasn't your shift yesterday?"

Looking amused, Violet replied. "They're hardly going to complain about an extra hand. Let's get that armor off your leg."

They did. Arkady winced the whole time, cursing herself for her choices. Jousting, really? Arkady would have fared better in the melee, her own two feet and her weapon of choice to depend on.

They could hear cheering from the lists from even inside the tent. Another bout ended, then. Violet examined Arkady's foot, fingers pressing various spots around the swollen ankle.

As if reading her mind, Violet asked, "Why the joust?"

Embarrassed, Arkady shot back, "You mean, why'd I pick something I'm so piss-poor at?"

"You won your first two bouts," said Violet mildly.

Oh. She'd been watching.

Of course she'd been watching, how else would she have known to come to this very tent? Even Sana's encouragement didn't extend quite that far.

Violet continued, "You've never mentioned it when talking about other tournaments."

The simple, foolish answer was the smallest prize the winners received. A single rose, fresh from the royal garden, to be presented to whoever they chose.

The melee was an ugly, crowded thing. It was not the melee's rose lauded in those songs she'd loved as a child, snatches of music caught in taverns and lyrics sung in street games, and it was not the melee's rose she had wanted to give to Violet. It was not the melee she had wanted Violet to see her fight in.

It was not after the melee she had wanted to broach a topic she had thought unbroachable.

Yet it was the ugly things in life that Arkady was good for, and so she was left here with empty hands and another injury.

Arkady half-smiled at Violet. "Thought I'd try something new."

"I...don't think that's the whole answer," said Violet, but she didn't press as she normally would have. She turned to her satchel, retrieving a cloth bundle and unwrapping it to reveal a dagger, sheathed in dark leather. It was good work, deceptively simple. She wondered how much coin it had cost.

Violet took a deep breath and then spoke slowly. "You probably haven't been counting the days but, um, it's been a year since you saved me from that ambush. A little less than that since you cleared my name."

Had it been that long? Had it been that short?

Violet pulled the dagger out of the sheath. The dagger's edges gleamed in the snatches of sunlight filtering into the tent, but Arkady only had eyes for the sharpening of Violet's gaze.

"You told me, once, that I didn't know what you'd done. What you'd do." Violet sheathed the dagger. "I do now."

She offered out the dagger, pale fingers around the sheathed portion of it, her face tentative yet determined. "A gift. A thank-you. You don't"-A short laugh escaped Violet-"Refuse it if you will. I just thought I ought to say it."

"I-" For once, Arkady didn't have the words to respond.

Instead, she took the dagger, and let the slowly growing smile on Violet's face be answer enough for them both.

[tarithenurse]

Agent of Hope - 27

Your world falls into ruin together with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcements Logistics Division when you find out that your boyfriend isn’t one of the good guys. Pairing: Brock Rumlow x fem!reader, Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader Contents: Errors (trying to stay awake to switch to night shifts), pain, detailed violence, quite nasty hints, angst, fluff, sadness, basically everything horrible you can imagine. A/N: You’ll find the previous chapters through my masterlist. Lots of love for liking and reblogging!!

27 - Kick Ass and chew Bubble Gum

It’s a tension at the back of your knees. It’s muscles itching to work overtime – fight or flight. It’s a sour taste at the back of your mouth at the point where no amount of water can wash it away. Still it doesn’t matter because what you’re doing, your mission of sorts, is going to be worth everything.

It’s taken much too long to get to this point where your walking up the dusty lane towards an inconspicuous house in the outskirt of…where’s this again? Somewhere in Sierra Leone. You had known, memorized the town’s name as well as anything else. Memorized the plan. Now, however, it’s replaced by a memory of something that hasn’t even happened yet, making your skin crawl as cold shivers run down the spine. Red sand clings to the boots (much too warm for the temperature). Like blood.

“Something nice…” you mumble, grasping at a flicker spark of joy before it’s swallowed, “…something nice…”

Red like fiery hair. And suddenly, it’s possible to recognize the blue of the sky in the teasing sparkle of a pair of grey eyes capable of looking into your very soul, making you feel safe and at home. The churning lead in your guts lessens. Now you can let the shoulders sink and even look up towards the goal: a heavy door painted green behind which Rumlow waits.

 …   Rumlow   …

Every single note and stick-figure drawing Brock has received from [Y/N] is kept in a tin as evidence. At first her replies had been brief, hesitant in the wording and quite confrontational…but that was to be expected. She has still to admit her feelings for him, but it’s obvious as the communication extends how she recognizes the true nature of the Avengers. Why spend resources on catching someone, when they are willing to come on their own.

Brock isn’t a fool. Far from. There’s always the risk of a double-cross, his own plan mirrored to out him or more of Hydra. And regardless of the reasoning for [Y/N] to come today, she will have to be processed and vetted before he will allow himself to trust her. But it will be much easier this time.

Watching the screen, the ex boyfriend sees the hesitation melt away from the figure to be replaced with resolution. Come to me, baby. All the other screens show…nothing. No, would-be heroes. No pesky Mister Rogers with a shield and the American flag so far up his ass that he can’t relax. No red-head traitor. All alone? It’s hard to believe, so Brock doesn’t, flicking a switch instead that light a tiny, orange diode in the two free-rooms, as the team have started calling the scan-blocking basement sections. On your marks.

There’s a muted sound of footsteps outside preceding the knocking on the door. Twice, a pause, and once. Good girl.

He’s smiling as he unlocks and pulls the door aside just a crack to see the nervousness on [Y/N]’s face, but it’s not enough to drown the stubborn set of the jaw or the air of…excitement? Eager to come home?

“What’s a girl like ya doin’ in a place like this…?” Such a cliché, but it rolls off Brock’s tongue with a neat drawl.

The hint of an eyeroll also hints at times passed. “Girl’s just wanna have fun. Nice decoy to free me up from ‘em.”

Them. Not Natasha or Steve or whatever. “Only the best for ya, as always.” She has said the password but hesitates to enter when Brock opens the door fully. “C’m’on in, babe.”

“How long we got?”

“They’re smart, but th’ain’t that smart…I’ll guess an hour.” There’s a tickle of something he can’t place in the woman’s smile. “The cool air’s escaping, get it.”

Like in a dream, she really does step over the threshold, carefully keeping a bit of distance between them. I should’ve expected that. It still gnaws inside Brock, tugs at the side of him that needs the bitch to understand, to accept her place. But he bites it back. All the anger and possessiveness is shoved deep down somewhere dark because he knows he’ll bring her to her senses. Soon.

Brock casts a brief glance to a screen out of the girl’s view showing a mix of live feeds from local and global news stations, a few of them covering the draught and the lack of safe drinking water while the majority heralds the wedding of some celebrity. No breaking news. It’s not typical of the Avengers to work quietly, especially not if the glorified tin can is flying around blasting rock music. Well…at least one of those idiots has style. Haven’t they taken the bait?

“All alone?” There’s an air of something studied mixing with the playful tone. “I’d half begun to think I was –“

“Shut up.” Thankfully, [Y/N] does as told, body ripe with fear to the point where he almost can smell it. “Why’re ya here? Really?”

“Really?” Perfect confusion. Innocence. “’Cause we’re not over yet, Brock.”

Something beeps from the console of screens and the hydra agent is about to turn to see what has caused the alarm to go off when [Y/N] reaches for him. Such a simple gesture, still it sparks an old habit in the man and he takes the hand in his for a long second – one he would wish could last forever. But he has to let go, hand slightly sticky from her sweaty touch. Another alarm begins, and he can hear the sound of the agents in the free-rooms banging on the doors though an oceans rush in his head. The world sways, unfocused. What the fuck? Oh, yeah, there comes the sea sickness even if he hasn’t felt it since he was a kid.

“You know,” [Y/N] softly whispers from far away into his ear, “when I said we’re not over…” She has a stronger grip than expect on his arm and shoulder, somehow forcing him on his knees. “I should’ve said I’m not done with you, Rumlow.”

The world might be reduced to a stormy sea, but he can still feel the nauseating pain as the shoulder dislocates. I’ve had…worse. That much is true. It’s not even the pain, really, making him sick to the stomach, rather the knowledge of what [Y/N] wants to get even for.

“[Y/N],” he slurs, the tongue too thick in the mouth, “I-I-I…lllo’ ya…” That lands his face pressed onto the dirty floor at an uncomfortable angle. She’s…holding my ass…

“No, Rumlow, you don’t love.” There’s a sound of metal against metal. “Let me demonstrate what you do.”

 …   Romanoff   …

“Damn, sweetie…”

Even Nat is impressed, and slightly grossed out, at the creativity her girlfriend has shown. So much so, she almost feels sorry for Rumlow who’s passed out on the floor in a sticky pool of almost every bodily liquid of his own. Well if almost means not at all.

Sam had taken one look and then gone outside to hurl, and even Thor looks shocked. “My lady, your enemies will surely know not to stir your wrath from this day forth.”

“My track record with coping mechanisms isn’t great…so…” Tony can’t look at it either, but at least he hasn’t lost the bad humour. “Let me know if’t works, ‘kay?”

“Oh, it feels very…cathartic…” [Y/N] looks at the guy with a distanced calmed.

Too calm. Cathartic or not, this will undoubtedly have consequences both legally and emotionally for Rumlow’s former prisoner. None of it can be explained away as self defense. It can’t be by the time the person is face down, ass up, and the metal sheathed where the sun don’t shine.

“I’m gonna take her to the quinjet, you guys stabilize him and see if he can talk…ever…”

And so Natasha leaves the men behind, steering a dazed woman by the arm across the uneven terrain through a patch of dried out shrubs behind which the plane is waiting.

Once onboard, she observes the mechanic reactions as [Y/N] complies with every order without uttering a single word. Come back to me, baby. The former assassin can only hope that the words reach far enough, somehow breaking through the shell her girlfriend’s mind has build in record time to prevent any of the grotesque happenings from settling. Eventually the good advice of reason are spent, leaving nothing behind but an insufferable ache.

You were doing so well, why did I let you go? “I’m sorry, love,” Nat whispers hoarsely, fingers stroking the blank face, “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have been here. It’s my fault, please come back. You can get through this too, alright?”

On and on, the pleas dripple out similar to a hushed prayer that knows no end. The tears falling aren’t [Y/N]’s this time because for once Natasha can’t be the strong one. Kneeling before [Y/N], she wraps her arms around the living statue’s waist and buries the face in the heat of the soft breasts where she can hear the heartbeat. Slow and steady as opposed to Nat’s own that beats so frantically, she couldn’t hold her hands still if she tried.

Some things change the very foundation of a person.

In the Red Room, the girls were taught not to show mercy, to follow orders unblinkingly even if it meant the death of an other. Though the first fatalities weren’t at the students’ own hands, they knew what the consequences were once they forced another child to give up or be flunked. The changed had already started. By the time a girl graduated, became an adult though never a woman, the transformation was completed. It was expected. A flinch. A faint taste of regret in the dark of night. Nothing more.

Outside the Red Room, for people growing up in normal lives, only a low percentage of people are prepared for the Graduation, and most of those never have to complete the change themselves. For the lucky ones, violence and unnatural death will not become a habit of theirs.

[Y/N] had been one of the lucky ones until the day Hydra captured her, placing her at the mercy of Rumlow. Her change had been forced upon her, nearly killing her in the process. Perhaps Natasha, the team, even the victim herself had been fools for thinking she would be alright and the metamorphosis never would be complete. My fault. Today had been Graduation, and the ex-Russian brought the student to the test.

“Shhh,” gentle and soothing against red hair, “It’s okay, Tash, I’m here…it’ll be okay.” Gentle fingers cart through the fiery strands, nails scraping against the scalp in a calm rhythm. “I know what I did…I’ll never do it again.”

They’re both crying as they lock gazes.

“Do you know that?” Be honest. “Have you seen it?”

“This is the first time you ask me what I’ve seen.” The smile is gentle and almost reaches the [Y/E/C] eyes. “I have to continue therapy, but yeah…never again.” Soft lips kiss the salty water away from the upturned face. “I’m all yours now.”

 …   Reader   …

Of course the clock isn’t ticking. After ages of therapy, you should be used to that…instead it makes the silence way heavier than strictly necessary. Or maybe it’s because this session is so important? Double session, actually. Pinching your brows, you manage to divert the attention from the missing tick-tock to the bit of dirt under a nail as you wait for the team consisting of a psychiatrist and a psychologist to ask the question they want to. It’s silly really. Anyone can rehearse an answer fitting with the “need”.

“So, how are you feeling, [Y/N]?” one of them final begins, glasses dangling from between to fingers and a pen in the other hand.

You take a moment, do a mini body scan. “Right now I’m nervous…” They both nod at your answer. “Generally speaking…pretty good. Still get the odd nightmare where it’s like I’m back.”

“Back?”

“M-hm.”

They want you to define the term, but it’s fun to see them try to be correct and direct at the same time. “To when Rumlow first held you against your will or…?”

“Or when I took revenge? Both.” You give them time to scribble ferociously before continuing, “I don’t think there’s some specific reason it’s one situation instead of the other…not always at least. And the technique to guide myself away from the nightmare is beginning to work a bit.”

The glasses are pulled down again, so the Psychologist can look at you directly. “Is there a difference in the intensity?”

“No. Both…events were horrible. For different reasons, sure, but horrible. What I did…” Both doctors hold their breaths as you ponder your words. “There’s an explanation for it…but no excuse. I know that.”

With all the nodding they’re doing, it seems only fair if they get a kink in the neck eventually. Sometimes the bobble-heads ask more questions, about the house arrest in the tower or your relationship with the Avengers. They never once get into specific about Natasha and you, although it’s there like some elephant in the room. Even professionals can have issues.

By the time the two hours are up, you’ve got them smiling genuinely. Perhaps, maybe, if you’re lucky…will they clear you?

…

“Who sends letters nowadays?” Tony scoffs, dumping a big, brown envelope on the newspaper you’re reading.

Justice Department! It’s damn near impossible to tear open the thick paper because your hands a shaking so much, and when you finally do, the words barely make any sense, so you don’t protest when the genius billionaire snags it out of your hands.

It feels like forever, longer than the months you’ve waited to hear what the psychiatrist’s and psychologist’s decision is, before Tony finally looks up. “Jarvis!”

“Yes, sir.”

You can’t read his face, allowing the nerves to run amok. “Call the team, Pepper, and Happy.”

“May I inquire as to the occasion?”

“Yeah.” Finally, his face splits into a huge smile. “We’re gonna celebrate.”

[chalantness]

fic: Come Back (Just a Little Closer)

Rating: PG-13 Word Count: ~5500 Characters: Steve/Natasha Summary: She’d give anything not to relive the fleeting hurt in his eyes when she told him that all she had was this job. Because even when she had nothing, she had Steve.

For: @mamaladykt and three anons

A/N: Yes, I already wrote a fanfic with almost this exact same concept but this one has Sarah Rogers and it also has James Rogers again and - yeah, that's it. That's my reasoning.

ALSO I THOUGHT I WAS BURNT OUT FROM FANFICS BUT THANK FUCK I WAS WRONG

Read On: [ ao3 ]

“I would offer to cook you dinner, but you seem pretty miserable already,” a voice says, lilting ever so slightly at the end—bittersweet and melancholic, even as he attempts to crack a joke—and Natasha feels her breath catch in her throat as she pulls her hands from her face. She can feel that her eyes are wet, her arms shaking ever so slightly.

No. No.

She wants to laugh, wondering how the universe could possibly stand to be even crueler to her, somehow, by making her relive her memories in death. She supposes that the saying that one’s life flashes before their eyes must hold some kind of truth if she finds herself back in this moment in time, what had been only days ago. Before she’d jumped off the edge of that cliff. Before she and Clint had ever heard of this godforsaken planet. There must be some saving grace that she can’t remember hitting the bottom. That she can’t remember feeling any sort of pain, just before her world had gone black, bringing her here. But her mind could have picked a better memory. One where those blue eyes—bright and clear and endless—didn’t look quite so solemn. One where she wasn’t fighting back tears. One where she couldn’t feel the helplessness in her chest, squeezing tight.

Her lips move on their own, reciting the same quip she’d given him before: “You come here to do your laundry?”

“And to see a friend,” Steve replies easily, his lip twitching ever so slightly on the last word, fingers fidgeting with the keys in his hand. She hadn’t quite noticed it the first time.

She exhales a breath, forcing nonchalance in her voice as she folds her hands across her stomach. “Clearly your friend is fine,” she murmurs, her words sounding faraway, even to her own ears. She remembers what Steve had said to her next, about seeing whales in the Hudson. Remembers how, even in that moment, at the lowest moment she’d ever felt—that the both of them had ever felt—he wanted to cheer her up. He wanted to give her some glimmer of hope to cling onto. The memory plays out as she recites the same empty threat that she’d given him before, acting as though she didn’t want his comfort, and he’d seen through it easily. He always had. She wishes she didn’t have to be stuck in this memory. She would rather relive any of the horrors she’d gone through, the terrible acts she’d committed, than remember the self-deprecating speech she’d given Steve.

She’d rather be smothered in her guilt over and over again than relive the words she’d recited to Steve. She’d give anything not to relive the fleeting hurt in his eyes when she told him that all she had was this job.

Because even when she had nothing, she had Steve. The last five years had seemed like a haze of anger and heartbreak, going in the same cycle, over and over—and now that it’s over, now that she’s gone, she realizes just how stubborn she had been to push him away. By not accepting his comfort.

She hadn’t wanted to forget. She hadn’t wanted to move on and feel like she’d given up, and she knows he hadn’t, either, no matter what he told preached to everyone else.

“I keep telling people that they should move on, and some do. But not us.” Not us.

But there hadn’t been an us in that moment. Not for years. They were both drowning in their guilt, but she thought if she didn’t cling onto him and pull him under, he’d find his way out. He’s moved on from worse once before, and he’d do it again. She was convinced of it.

Except he refused to leave her. He refused to let her be consumed by her grief alone, and if he couldn’t convince her to move on with him, then he’d live in the past with her.

“Staying together is more important than how we stay together,” she’d told him once, and he had asked her what they were giving up to do it. He felt it wasn’t worth it to give up their freedom to work within the law. He was ready to surrender his shield, his suit, his right to fight for others, because he didn’t want to compromise his beliefs for it.

But his future? He’d given that up in a heartbeat for her. He’d given up five years of healing and rebuilding his own life, of moving on, so they could do it together.

She simply hadn’t seen it until now, now that it’s too late.

“Sounds like we both need to get a life,” Steve says, voice barely above a whisper—and now that she’s paying attention, she recognizes the plea in his voice. She recognizes the longing in his eyes.

“You first,” she echoes, reciting the words from her memory, even though she knows they’re the worst words she could have said to him in this moment. Even though he had practically begged her to move on with him, had expected her to hear the real meaning in his words, like she used to so easily, but she didn’t.

The room grows quiet, just as it had before, and she waits for the message to come in. She waits for Scott to save Steve from the rejection of those two little words.

Except, he doesn’t.

She watches Steve’s expression shift as he holds her gaze, his jaw setting almost stubbornly, eyelashes fluttering—unlike her memory. She watches with her breath caught in her throat as he stands from his chair, walks around the table, an odd sensation squeezing at her chest as her heart beats wildly against her ribcage. This is wrong. This memory is all wrong, and she doesn’t quite know what’s happening. She can’t find her words, can’t find her voice, as Steve gently takes her hand in his. It feels just as large and warm and calloused as she remembers. He squeezes her fingers lightly and it feels real, even though she knows without a doubt that this never happened. This isn’t how it had gone.

He moves to kneel by her chair, his thumb running over the tops of her knuckles. “Not without you,” he says, his voice low and rough. Determined.

“What?”

She’s afraid to say more. She’s afraid to move an inch out of place and break whatever delusion she’s found herself in. For once, she wants to indulge herself. For once, she wants to pretend, if only for a little.

“Not without you,” he repeats, a little louder this time, a little clearer, the wisps of a smile tugging at his lips. “Never without you, Nat.”

“Steve,” she breathes.

“I should have said so sooner. I should have done more in the last five years, more than just watch the woman I love”—his voice cracks on the word, just a for a second, but that’s all it takes for the pressure squeezing down on her chest to crack wide open—“drift further and further away from me.”

She lifts her other hand – the hand that Steve isn’t gripping onto for dear life, like she’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this world – and covers her mouth. She feels a tear drift down her cheek. She feels her bottom lip quiver just under her fingertips. The woman I love. She feels a little bit like she can’t breathe, but then Steve is reaching up and gently prying her hand off of her mouth, cupping her cheek, and she exhales shakily as he runs the pad of his thumb over her lips, then moves to brush another tear away.

“Marry me, Nat,” he says, the words coming out in a rush, like he can’t possibly hold them in any longer.

“You don’t mean that,” she whispers, but rather than being upset – rather than pulling away at another rejection – his smile only grows. His hold on her hand tightens.

“The life I want—the one I wanted to work toward for the last five years—it’s built around you.” He strokes her cheek with his thumb and she leans into his palm, needing his warmth, his touch. “I know what it’s like to wait too long,” he tells her, drawing her closer, until his breath is warm against her face. “I’m not taking that chance again.”

Then his lips are pressing against hers – gentle, almost tentative at first, skimming over her in a tease of a touch that has her chasing his kiss when he starts to lean away. She pries her hands from his and cradles his face, thumbs skimming along the lines of his jaw, relishing in the slight prickle of his stubble against her skin. It feels real. It feels so damn real, and she wants to drown in it, in him. She wants to pretend that this is real. She wants to pretend that she knew how she felt about him before it was too late. That they carried each other through their grief. That, in some version of reality, in another lifetime, she heard him begging for her to take his hand and she held on for dear life—

“Natasha?”

She blinks once, twice, then quickly, turning quickly—perhaps a little too quickly as she feels her body sway, but only for a moment, until someone is catching her and drawing her back against a broad chest, letting her lean her weight against them as their arms wrap around her from behind.

Lips press against her temple, lingering, as his voice is low and clear as he murmurs against her skin. “Is there something particularly interesting about this wall?”

Steve. She reaches up, wraps her hands around his forearms as she turns to meet his gaze over her shoulder. His mouth is curved in amusement, eyes twinkling as he gives her a dimpled, boyish sort of grin. Something in his expression seems – lighter, almost, despite the fact that they stand in a small, shadowed hallway, and warmth tugs at her chest as she glances around them. She knows that this – whatever this is – is another memory that doesn’t exist. She doesn’t recognize where they are, though it only takes a matter of moments for her to realize that it must be a house. Picture frames line the wall, and, just down the staircase a few paces from where they stand, she can make out the vague shapes of furniture in what must be a living room. She turns to Steve again, still grinning down at her in amused affection, though something over his shoulder catches her eye.

Her. She finds herself staring at her own likeness in a photo. Even with her head turned away from the camera, her red hair half-falling over her face, she recognizes herself in an instant. Just as she recognizes Steve beside her, his eyes wrinkled in a bright, wide smile, lips parted in a laugh. Seated beside Steve is a little girl with scarlet hair falling in wild curls around her sweet face, her clear blue eyes framed with ridiculously long eyelashes, both of her little arms wrapped around Steve in a hug as she laughs right into the camera. Beside Natasha is a little boy, not much older than the girl, with the same red hair falling over his forehead and the same blue eyes wrinkled in a smile for the camera.

And seated between herself and Steve, pulling their attention from the camera to where she’s perched on Natasha’s knee, is a baby girl with wisps of blonde hair tucked under a birthday crown. Her smile is bright and wide and giddy, her little hands touching her flushed cheeks, the photo having caught her in the midst of a delighted fit of laughter.

“I know it was only two weeks ago,” Steve says, his gaze having followed hers onto the picture, “but it’s my favorite one of all of us.”

“You say that about every family photo,” she quips, the words falling from her lips with ease despite the fact that, in the back of her mind, she knows this is another false memory. Maybe death is being kind to her after all, by giving her something pleasant to part with.

By giving her one last chance to hope.

His chest vibrates in a low chuckle, not denying her words, and she lets herself lean into him a little more as her eyes travel down the hallway. The two doors behind Steve are both left open, just a few inches, each adorned with a small chalkboard with words swirled across the surface.

Not words, she realizes—names. Tatiana Antoinette and Sarah Laurel. They send a warmth through her veins, though she can’t quite place why.

Not until her eyes land on the door in front of them, with the name James Samuel written across. James, as in James Barnes—Bucky—and Samuel, as in Sam. Two people Steve considers his best friends. Two people Steve wouldn’t hesitate to name his son after.

Natasha feels her heart flutter, feels her chest tighten ever so slightly as her eyes shift back to the other two names: Tatiana Antoinette, as in Anthony. Tony. Tony Stark. Someone of undeniable importance to both her and Steve. And Sarah Laurel, as in Laura—Laura Barton, the first woman Natasha had ever called her family—and Sarah.

Sarah Rogers. Steve’s mother.

Natasha swallows lightly, her throat feeling just a little tight as her gaze catches on that same photo, her eyes settling on the image of those children—their children, the ones she and Steve had named after some of the most important people in their lives—as a strange warmth unfurls in her stomach, fluttering, making her feel airy and light. Making her feel happy. It’s an odd sensation to have such affection and adoration flowing through her veins, to have it feel so real, even though she knows all of this is simply a dream.

“Come on,” Steve says, his grin hitching up at the corner of his lips again as he guides her toward the door in front of them. “Let’s see what’s keeping this little guy up.”

Natasha feels a smile pull at her lips as he guides her into the room, faintly illuminated by a nightlight plugged into the wall. The low glow of it casts shadows over a small silhouette as it squirms under the blankets, sitting up against the pillows, and then a small voice, rasping with sleep, asks, “Mommy?”

Her body takes her forward before she can even think to respond, crossing the short distance to the bed as she gently sits herself on the edge of the mattress. Clear, bright blue eyes—Steve’s eyes—gaze back at her, and she reaches over to run her fingers through his disheveled hair, drawing a sleepy smile to his lips. He carries so much of Steve in his face, even at this age, that Natasha knows that, one day, he’ll look exactly like his father. It’s ridiculous, but she wishes that she could see it. That she could watch him grow.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve says softly as he kneels beside the bed, one of his hands finding Natasha’s in her lap. “Bad dream?”

James shakes his head, rubs a fist over his eyes. “No,” he mumbles, then shrugs his shoulders, as if to say that he doesn’t know what else could have woken him.

“How about a quick story?” Steve asks, and James’s sleepy smile grows wider as he nods, then burrows himself further under his blankets, tucking his hands under his head. His gaze shifts onto Natasha, and it’s instinctive, the way Natasha trails her knuckles lightly down his cheek and taps her index finger against his nose. As if she’s done it a thousand times. “There once was a soldier who was brought back from another time,” Steve starts, his eyes twinkling in amusement when Natasha glances at him, one eyebrow arched.

But James shakes his head, tugging his blanket over his shoulders, all the way up to his chin. “Just the end,” he says, his smile widening. “The part about Mommy.”

“Well, isn’t that a coincidence?” Steve laughs softly, squeezing Natasha’s hand in his as he winks at her. “That’s my favorite part.”

“Mine, too,” James declares, peering up at Natasha once more, and the pure adoration in his eyes is enough to make her heart stutter in her chest.

“Close your eyes, buddy,” Steve says gently, and James does exactly that, his long eyelashes fluttering as he lets his eyes fall closed. “There once was a soldier who had won a great war,” Steve starts again, drawing Natasha’s hand close to his lips and brushing a quick, soft kiss to her fingers, as if he needs her touch before continuing. “It was a battle of good and evil—a force of evil so strong that, for the first time ever, the soldier felt like he was truly going to lose. He’d lost almost all of his family. He’d lost so much,” he says, his voice cracking ever so slightly as his gaze shifts onto Natasha, hurt flitting through his eyes, “that when he was knocked down what felt like the last time, he didn’t know if he could get back up.” He squeezes her hand in his. Not tight enough to hurt, but enough to feel just a little bit of the desperation in his voice. “But he knew he had to.”

Natasha slips her other hand over his, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, urging him to continue, even as her breaths grow a little quicker and a little shallower.

“And so, he got up,” Steve goes on, holding her gaze as he whispers, “ready to fight to his very last breath, even if that meant fighting alone. Because if he didn’t, then everything he’d lost would have been for nothing.”

Because if I didn’t, then losing you would have been for nothing. She knows those are the words he wants to say. She can see it in his eyes.

“But just when the soldier thought he was finally at the end of the line, a miracle happened. The stones he and his family collected had brought back their friends, and with all of them together again—with all that goodness and strength and hope—the evil force didn’t stand a chance. They used the stones to banish the evil from the galaxy one last time. And, with their purpose served, they had to return the stones back to their rightful place in time.” Under the blanket, James squirms, only for a moment, clearly anticipating the next part of the story. Natasha rubs her lips together, stifling a soft laugh as she glances at Steve, the two of them sharing a smile. “You’re trying to sleep, right, bud?” he asks.

“I am,” James promises quickly.

“Okay,” Steve indulges, eyes glinting as he continues. ���Now the soldier realized that, as he returned the stones, he had a chance to return to his past. To get back the life he thought he’d lost after he’d woken up in a different era. And it was tempting. There was a woman from his past—the first woman he had ever loved—and he thought he could stay in that past with her. His fight in the future was over, and it was time for him to come home.” His gaze shifts onto Natasha, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, almost as though he’s bemused by his own words. “But when he danced with his first love like he had always promised, he felt content, but he didn’t feel relieved. He didn’t feel whole.”

Natasha blinks once, twice, her vision blurring ever so slightly at the edges. He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, his expression softening into a smile as he gazes at her, his eyes filled with affection, with awe.

“Because even though the solider had lost his life from the past, he’d found a new one in the future, with a family all his own, and a love unlike anything he’d ever felt,” he goes on, his voice barely above a whisper. Natasha brings her hand up to cover her mouth, not quite trusting herself to keep quiet for James. “And even though he had lost this love to the stones, he knew he couldn’t walk away from the life he’d wanted for them together. He couldn’t walk away from the family they’d found. His first love would always have a place in his heart, but that part of his life was over, and it wasn’t until the soldier was about to leave everything that he’d come to know did he realize his home had changed.”

Steve draws her hand to his lips once more, letting his kiss linger against her skin, gentle but palpable, sending a warmth rushing through her veins.

“And so, once the soldier finished his dance with his first love, he parted ways with her one last time. He had one last stone to return—the stone that he’d lost his love to,” he says, the words coming out in a pained sort of rush, “so that they could undo the evil that had torn their family apart. It would be the hardest thing the soldier had ever done. He had been prepared to say goodbye to the love of his life, as properly as he could—but when he returned the stone, it had one last miracle for him.” Steve’s eyes are on hers – glinting and glassy with tears, but bright – and she lets a soft noise slip from the back of her throat. “Now that it no longer needed her soul, the stone brought back his love.”

James is laying so still now, his shoulders rising and falling in gentle, steady breaths—fast asleep. But still, Steve goes on.

“Then the soldier took her in his arms, and he took them back home, ready to live the rest of their lives together, ready to return to their family. Ready to live out their new dream together.”

A soft, breathy cry falls from her lips as she leans forward, grasping his face in her hands, and her cheeks are wet with tears as she kisses him. Just as it had the first time, in the first dream, this kiss feels. He feels real under her fingertips, against her lips, and she lets herself get pulled into the illusion. She lets herself drown in the dream.

Until she pulls away, blinking her eyes open, and finds herself alone in James’s bedroom. The bed is empty, and Steve has disappeared from where he’d been kneeling, and yet—

Yet, she still feels warm. Her heart still flutters in her chest, happy, content.

“Natasha.”

She turns at her name, the voice gentle and sweet, and feminine, drawing Natasha’s attention to a woman standing in the doorway to the room.

Natasha knows that she’d never quite believed in angels, but if she did, she’s certain one would look just like the woman smiling back at her. With her fair skin and light, elegant curls of hair falling around her gentle face. With her cheeks pink with a blush and her lips full and curved into a smile.

A smile that tugs at Natasha’s chest, squeezing over her heart, especially as she brings her gaze back up to the woman’s clear, bright blue eyes. It takes Natasha only seconds to recognize those eyes—to recognize Steve in this woman’s face, in her glowing, ethereal smile—and realize who she is. Or rather, who Natasha’s imagination has pictured her to be. Sarah. It’s easy to see how much Steve takes after his mother in this illusion that Natasha’s mind has pieced together, and Natasha clings onto the belief that there must be a truth to this. She may never have met Sarah Rogers, never caught a glimpse of her in a salvaged photograph. But somehow, Natasha knows there’s a truth in her likeness.

Everything seems brighter now, and Natasha isn’t entirely certain if it’s no longer night in this false memory, or if it’s simply because of Sarah.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Sarah says, her voice light and lilting, chiming like bells. She watches with a warm smile as Natasha stands from the bed, her eyes wrinkling in a smile. Just like Steve. “It’s not nearly your time to leave your reality. Not when you’ve finally found your place in it.”

“I fulfilled my purpose,” Natasha points out. This illusion, this dream, only exists because this is true. Because Natasha had jumped off of that cliff and fell to the bottom for that stone. She wouldn’t have escaped that kind of death.

“You didn’t,” Sarah answers, as if Natasha had spoken the thought out loud. “A soul for a soul—an exchange you were so ready to complete.”

Natasha feels her chest tighten, feels herself shake her head. “I—” I didn’t want to. As selfish as the words are, they’re the truth. She would have never let Clint sacrifice himself. She would have never chosen for his family to live without him. But that doesn’t mean it had been an easy choice, and before, maybe she would have felt guilt over it.

Before Steve, she would have given it all up without hesitation. Before Steve, there had been nothing she truly wanted in her life above redeeming for her past.

Of course, it wasn’t until she had been falling that she realized this.

Sarah holds her hand out to Natasha, her smile gentle and warm and encouraging – motherly – and Natasha finds herself walking forward to take it without a moment to consider. Without an ounce of hesitation. Somehow, she’s not surprised that Sarah’s hand feels solid and real to the touch, and she lets the woman guide her out of the room and down the staircase. She can hear the sound of laughter—faint at first, but growing louder as they descend the steps, and Natasha turns toward the sound of it, her feet halting just a few steps from the bottom as she catches sight of them – of her and Steve, and James and Tatiana and Baby Sarah, gathered together in the living room, all of them spread out on the plush carpet. Natasha stares at her other self as she holds up a picture book above their heads, Baby Sarah babbling happily as she points up at it.

Natasha watches as James rolls over and whispers something to Tatiana that makes his sister burst into giggles, and Baby Sarah lets out a delighted peel of laughter in response, her head turning toward the sound of her siblings as she stares at them with pure fascination in her eyes.

Natasha watches as Steve reaches for her other self, hooking a hand over her hip and pulling her toward him, rolling her over until she’s half on top of him. She dips her head lower, her hair falling in curtain around their faces just as her lips touch his, though, as her hand moves to cup his cheek, the glinting diamond on her finger is easy to see.

“I’ve watched over my son all his life,” Sarah says, her voice soft, almost faraway, and Natasha turns to find the woman giving her this little, knowing sort of grin. “Over the last few years, this means that I’ve also watched over you.”

Natasha doesn’t quite know why she’s holding her breath, but then Sarah squeezes her hand, just as Steve had done countless times before, and the air rushes from her lungs.

“Leave it to my son to find a woman just as stubborn as he is,” Sarah muses with a light laugh, turning her gaze forward once more, and Natasha can’t quite help but do the same. Her other self has rolled off of Steve now, her fingers tickling at James and Tatiana, who squirm and squeal in laughter, and Steve sits up and draws Baby Sarah into his lap, bouncing her atop his knee as she watches her mother and her siblings with bright, innocent glee in her eyes, clapping her hands in front of her from all of the excitement.

“He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met,” Natasha whispers, her gaze fixed on Steve. On the wide smile on his lips, and the adoration in his eyes as he peers down at Baby Sarah.

“He thinks the same of you,” Sarah tells her. “He always has. That’s why he protects you the most, even from himself.”

Natasha turns to look at Sarah, her gaze still fixed forward, her expression soft and wistful. “Why would I need protection from him?”

“From his uncertainty,” she answers easily, her smile widening ever so slightly, glinting in amusement over the truth of her words. “It took death for you to realize what your soul truly wanted,” Sarah points out, turning to Natasha with one eyebrow quirked up, the expression reminding Natasha so much of Steve that it almost hurts, even as a grin pulls at her lips in response. “My son is no different. Just as you couldn’t look past your years of guilt, Steve couldn’t let go of his old life. He felt he wasn’t ready to move on.”

“And now he is,” Natasha says, as the story he had told James floats back to her thoughts, settling over her heart.

He may have never spoken the words himself. It may have been a figment of her imagination, conjured by a dream, but she knows that every single part of it had been born out of truth. A truth the both of them knew, down to their bones, down to the corners of their souls—and yet, they’d been too stubborn and too afraid to acknowledge it.

Until now. Until it was too late.

“I would tell him,” Natasha whispers, her voice soft, even to her own ears. Sarah gives her a patient, motherly smile, waiting for her to get the words out. Natasha swallows past the tightness in her throat, feeling the tension in her chest ebb as the truth cracks it wide open, pouring out of her in a rush. “If I got another chance, I’d tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Sarah asks, though Natasha can see it in the woman’s eyes that she knew the answer. She’s known it all along.

“That I love him.” She exhales a shaky breath, feeling her smile widen, her gaze finding Steve once more. Just as it always does. “That I want a life with him.”

“You lived a life with him,” Sarah points out, and Natasha can practically hear the smile in the woman’s voice.

“I want a life together.” The confession tumbles out of her in an exhale, making her feel warm and light, and though she expects the sensation to taper off—for reality to settle in and remind her that she’s dreaming of impossible things—it never does. It only grows warmer, and brighter, and greater. “I want the life we’ve earned. The life we want.”

Sarah turns toward her, eyes twinkling, eyelashes dotting with tears as her eyes wrinkle in another smile. She reaches up, gently tucks Natasha’s hair behind her ear.

“Well, then it’s a good thing my son is coming back for you,” she whispers, gently cupping Natasha’s cheek, “because you two deserve a second chance.” Natasha feels her eyebrows furrow, feels her question tug at her own expression, and Sarah only smiles brighter. “A soul for a soul, Natasha. But what if the stone is brought back?” Natasha sucks in a breath—an eternal exchange, a second chance—but before she can begin to react, before she can think, Sarah tilts her head, glancing over her shoulder. Natasha follows her gaze to the front door of the house, left open just enough for a voice to filter through, the words muffled, but it doesn’t matter. Natasha recognizes it in seconds.

Steve.

Natasha shifts her gaze back onto Sarah as the woman squeezes her hand again, a little tighter.

“Will you do me a favor when you see my son again?” Sarah asks, and Natasha exhales a shaky sort of laugh as she nods, her vision blurring at the edges. Steve’s voice grows louder and clearer beyond the door, stealing Natasha’s attention for a moment, but Sarah hardly seems to mind. Her eyes twinkle. “Make sure he knows that I love him.”

He already does. Natasha knows it. She’s certain that Sarah does, too.

“And make sure he knows that you love him,” Sarah tells her, her grip loosening on Natasha until she lets go of her entirely.

“I will,” Natasha promises, her gaze drifting back to her other self as she lays between her children, a lightness in her smile that Natasha has only ever come close to feeling with Steve. Always with Steve. Her gaze shifts to him, lingering on the sight of him holding their daughter as his voice reaches out for her from their reality, coaxing her home.

See you in a minute.

[thatonebirbnerd]

Giving In

Word count: 2295

Trigger warnings: Suicide (but not exactly?), body horror, mind control, amputation, vomiting, a little swearing. Contains depictions of severe frostbite on a nonhuman, death, and mild body horror.

The Dream and Nightmare protect sylvari from corruption by elder dragons, but when someone like Siocánta (sho-KAHN-ta) rejects both, it's only a matter of time. She dreamed of Jormag, and her love of the cold and morbid curiosity may get her more than what she bargained for as she ventures north toward the dragon beckoning her. Sons of Svanir be damned: she'll find a way to be cold enough, even if it kills her.

So this is what I’ve been hinting at for the past few days. I really thought it couldn’t happen, but here we are!

AO3 link

It seems so long ago that I first heard its voice. No, not Mordremoth’s. We all heard that. No, I mean Jormag; for in my mind, the voice of one dragon was merely replaced with another.

I’d left the Nightmare Court by then, and was well into the Shiverpeaks, desperate to leave the stifling heat of both sylvari territory and civilization. As much as I liked the ideal of rejecting the laws of life and morality, I couldn’t believe how many of the courtiers genuinely enjoyed torturing neophytes - or how much I overheated even in the coolest reaches of its territory.

Even after Mordremoth’s death, a whisper nagged at the back of my mind, too quiet to hear. Was this the remnants of my link to the Dream of Dreams, trying to rekindle itself and find a lost soul? I certainly assumed as much. But as I reveled in the cold around me - finally, somewhere that didn’t feel like it was killing me slowly! - I felt pulled toward every shard of corrupted ice I encountered on my way northward. No, it was just the call of the void.

Well, it might have been, until it grew louder as I made my way into a Svanir-infested cave.

To be blunt, I realized I’d made a fatal mistake after it was too late to turn back. The cultists called me a wench and a slave to a dead, heretical dragon - but they figured that either I’d die here, or I’d become their minion if this somehow worked. What a fucked-up win-win situation that would be. But it somehow meant that they didn’t butcher me on the spot. Instead, they led me over to a secluded patch of frozen ground. Spikes of magic-clouded ice, gleaming blue and purple, surrounded me. As the Sons of Svanir bragged about their plans for me, for the first time, I could understand something the faint whisper said.

Let me help you.

Against all the judgement I had, be it better or worse, I let the cold creep in as I listened to what this strange new presence had to say.

I must have been in that cavern for hours, maybe even days. I sat there, alone and numb, with the inklings of words infiltrating my consciousness to keep me company. Every surface around me was covered in ice, and I saw myself change in each shimmering wall and crystal. The frost touched every corner of me with its magic, curling leaves and petals and tracing filigrees over my fading bark. Most of my armor fell off, dead and dry. I stared into the clearest facet I could find, refusing to blink as my once-green irises shifted to the bright turquoise of my surroundings.

But at some point, I simply gave up. Nothing had come to me to bargain. I was still alive, still sane, and apparently intact. I walked out - straight into a Vigil patrol.

Their norn leader spoke up first, a burly dark-bearded man. “C’mon. Get up. What’s a sylvari like you doing in a Svanir den? You’ve gotta have a death wish.”

A sandy-furred charr replied to him. “Hold on. She’s as frozen over as one of them. How does that…”

A sylvari - and let me tell you, I did not want to see another one here in the mountains - interrupted the charr. “We plants get frost. Figure this one’s no exception.”

“She’s not in good shape,” they continued. “And I’ve never seen eyes the color of that ice before, but hers are so bright I’m worried she’s genuinely turned. I don’t think camp has enough resources for what she needs. Get her to Hoelbrak.”

“I’m still a pathetic grandchild of Mordremoth, much to my chagrin,” I retorted. “I’m not quite sure what took me into that cave, but hell, I’m in one piece, and that’s what matters to you folk.”

The charr signaled me to climb on her back. “I’ve carried rucksacks bigger than you,” she wisecracked. “We’ve got no spare gear, and I figure you shouldn’t be in the snow even for another hour.” That bad, eh?

You can’t trust them. Kill her. No. Why would I bite the hand that feeds me? Couldn’t do that.

Which was probably a good thing, because my condition was that bad. Lost most of my fingers, and nearly my legs below the knee, but got away with just some toes missing. They’d grow back, but no telling how slowly. The charr got some of her friends to make what they joked were the smallest combat prosthetics they’d ever made, a pair of metal gloves with articulated fingers. Moving what remained of my hands let me control the gloves to grip things and do simple enough tasks - and at least I could fight.

---

But enough about my reckless four-years-ago self. It’s not even worth bringing up how I got this big old doofus of an ice drake. Thing is, I’m a lot further north now. I have the Vigil to thank for taking me on the long road up. And here, the whispers are a hell of a lot louder. They are now a voice. Jormag’s voice.

I’ve seen others of your kind here. Curious things, you sylvari are. Every single one of you is desperate for control over your own lives. I can give you that. And so much more.

After spending nearly a year stationed in Frostgorge Sound, I’ve finally made it to the edge of the world, as far north as anyone can go: Bjora Marches. Once the norn heartland, now the den of the ice dragon’s champion, Drakkar.

It’s so cold here. Yet not cold enough, even as I walk amongst glaciers. Everyone here can hear the dragon. It’s disturbingly soothing. Alluring, even. Its voice is androgynous, and able to morph into anything, usually the reassuring voice of a loved one. I cut all my ties long ago, but sometimes I hear the voice of a friend from the Court, and wonder what went wrong. Why did you leave? You could have brought so many with you.

You can’t trust the soldiers, Jormag tells me. They will say they want to help. They don’t. You’re better with me. But I’m not ready to believe that yet. Instead, I wander off.

The inland sea to the west of Jora’s Keep and the kodan settlement of Still Waters Speaking, once called Drakkar Lake, is completely icebound. I follow the frozen waters southward, past crystalline cliffs and treacherous crags. The lake is still at night, empty of kodan fishers, but I still have to evade Svanir as I duck into a lonely passage - one that leads to a moonlit cave.

It’s beautiful. And it’s… familiar. I saw this in my Dream, the Dream I swore to forget. Here, Jormag’s voice presses on my mind nearly as much as Mordremoth’s did. No, more than that. But instead of a headache, its presence exhausts me, in a way that just makes me want to fall into a deep, refreshing sleep.

Now that I think about it, I could sleep here. Give in. Sleep.

I could rest. Yes. Rest.

It’s freezing, but I feel warm. Hot, even. I take my coat and boots off, and snap off my gloves. I stretch what remains of my hands. You could stay here forever. Maybe I could.

I lie down, spreading myself over the smooth, icy floor. Some repressed instinct inside of me makes my bark scream in pain, threatening to spill its blackening death into my heartwood. Then it dulls as I go numb, and I let my consciousness slip away. For a moment, I hope it doesn’t come back. Why would you ever leave this place? But instead, for the first time in a decade and a half, I dream - a dragon’s dream.

---

I find myself in… is this the same cave? No. I’m still looking up at the sky, but in every other way, it’s different. A deeper voice growls around me, echoing against the walls, deafening yet near unintelligible aside from a single phrase: You are here…

There’s even more ice here, and it’s… green. How strange. I talk as I stir. My voice is not mine. My voice is the dragon’s. Something rises inside me, forcing the words out of my frost-chapped lips.

You have done well, child. I will give you the strength you seek. But you must first let go.

I stagger to my feet. My leaves are as frostbitten as they were in that Svanir den. My fingers and toes are still stubs. Every movement I make is wrong, every joint at once tense and limp. My head clings to my neck at an odd angle. It could snap, and I could fall down. I am a puppet. Jormag’s puppet.

Ice fortifies. Ice protects. Yet you still fear that which can save you?

My veins are still. My sap is frozen, expanding, ready to burst out. The cold fills every cavity of my body.

I limp to a gleaming wall, smooth and polished as a mirror. I see myself. I am not myself.

This is what you could be. With me.

Don’t you like it?

I can’t respond. The chill creeps up through my throat, seizing my tongue.

My limbs creak, laden with ice, as I reach for my neck in a panic. Then I keel over, tipped off balance, as my head swings forward. For a moment I can see my hands growing back, corrupted crystals pushing through the bark, the new digits covered in rime, before everything goes black.

Then I wake up, gasping for air, still the same old me, in the same place I was before I drifted off.

Jormag continues to plead to me as I put my armor back on. Don’t you want this? Don’t you want what you lost?

The stumps of my hands and feet have lost feeling, and darkened to an ugly shade of blue-black. I can’t lose more of myself and still fight.

I have no choice but to say yes.

Then I will take you, child, to the place where the ice is green.

---

The frostbite is bad enough that it’s hard to walk. But if Jormag says I’m not going very far, then I should trust it and push on.

Indeed, I only have to retrace my steps back to the center of Drakkar Lake. There is a tunnel leading beneath the surface. No one has gone in and come back alive, short of Sons of Svanir. I think I know why.

Everything in the tunnel averts its gaze from me. Must be Jormag’s blessing - because I’d be too slow not to get caught by any of its minions in here.

I’m stumbling, now, as I wind through this strange new cavern. But it isn’t long before I see it: green ice. Not this chamber. Not yet. Soon.

I’m warm again. I leave my armor and gloves behind. My arms and legs are numb. I have to crawl.

Just a bit more. Come on. Not much longer. But the entrance to this chamber, the one I dreamed of, is a ledge. It must be a twenty-foot drop to the ground below, and I can’t walk, let alone climb-

Jump.

If you say so, Jormag.

It takes all my strength to get to my feet and brace myself. I fall, and for a moment I’m aware that my head is… in the wrong place -

---

Is this the end?

No. Not for you. I have plans for you.

Get up.

I’m… awake? So cold. Talking. Not my voice. Familiar… that dream… YOU ARE HERE. I’m moving. Stiff. Ice all over me. Ice inside me. Neck feels… wrong. Cold is good. Finally enough. But need my coat…

My arms… they… hurt! Not numb anymore. Not black anymore? Trying to scream. Something in my throat. Can’t… breathe!… no… don’t need to breathe. Wait - my hands, they’re…?!

Calm down, child. Let it take hold. Take your weapons.

They’re so… beautiful. I can… move my fingers. One by one.

Your dagger broke. But you can do better than that.

AGH! - still choking back something - a spike of ice is… coming out of my hand. There are more coming… all over my wrists. The reason they hurt. They’re so… swollen…

Take the big one. Snap it off. See? It’s a new dagger. You’re welcome.

Thank… you…

Need to bend over. My neck - oh, no. Have to… fix that. There we go. Something in my mouth. I gotta… urgh.

Everything inside… the shards… won’t stop coming. There’s spit frozen on my lip. I try to talk to Jormag. The only one who will listen now. All that comes out is ice.

Now go home. They will let you in. Then you kill them.

---

“I’m not sure what happened to that strange sylvari, the one with the mechanical hands who kept insisting she liked the cold. She came back to camp last night in a silent daze after wandering off a few days ago, leaving her drake behind. We placed her in the infirmary immediately, as her frostbite seemed so severe, she should have been dead. I say “should have” because she summoned icy daggers out of nowhere and utterly butchered the medics who were about to save what they could, then fled. Someone told me there were crystals all over her arms. I heard someone else say that she opened her mouth to speak, but frozen flowers and petals fell out instead. She’s… she’s a sylvari. She can’t be icebrood. Can she?

“Spirits save us from her deranged wrath, but we can’t speak of her anymore. For as the kodan say, her voice is not her own.”

- Final notes in a fallen Vigil soldier’s notebook

[artificialqueens]

Overpowered Part 2(Branjie)- athena2

Chapter 2 is here and the angst train is getting rolling. I want to thank all of you for the amazing feedback on the first chapter. Your comments really made my happy and I appreciate each one of them. It would be great if you could leave some for this chapter too! ***This chapter does have mentions of anxiety, mild violence, and mentions of self-destructive behavior. Please be cautious.***

“Hold up! What the hell you mean I was dead?”

“Vanessa,” Silk warns.

“Don’t ‘Vanessa’ me! You want to just have a meeting after Professor fucking Trelawney here told me I’m gonna die!?”

She slams her fist on the table and faintly registers Brooke jumping at the noise–she makes a note to apologize later–and turns to Yvie. “What. Did. You. See?” She forces out through clenched teeth.

Yvie pales. “I saw a clock tower by a cemetery.”

“That fucking fits,” Vanessa snarls, her nose almost touching Yvie’s.

“The clock was cracked. It was stuck at 11:03. There was snow on the ground. Your hair was up–that’s why I didn’t realize it was you at first. Brooke’s face was bleeding and she was holding you. That’s all I saw.”

“How’d you know I was dead?”

“I can’t explain it, but I know. It’s a feeling I get.”

“You can’t see more?” Vanessa demands.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Yvie retreats with a sigh. “I get them randomly, I can’t control it. Usually I don’t even know what I’m seeing.”

Her hands curl into fists, heat pulsing in her fingertips.

“Can we avoid it?” Silk cuts in. “Or is it inevitable?”

“Well, they always happen, but sometimes not how I expect. Like, one time I saw a guy bleeding, but he was attacking someone. He was the bad guy. They’re not always what they seem. Maybe we can save you, or-”

“Me being dead seems like me being dead!”

“If you’re done yelling, you might want to take care of your girlfriend,” Scarlet interrupts coolly.

She suddenly notices the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Brooke is hunched over the garbage while A’Keria rubs her back. She straightens up and walks out, whole body shaking.

Shit.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says to Yvie, rubbing her eyes. “Gimme a minute.”

She sprints into the hall and is greeted by a hole in the wall flecked with red. Brooke’s head is in her hands, the knuckles on her right hand already light purple and bleeding.

“Brooke,” she whispers. Brooke looks up and Vanessa’s heart breaks at her red eyes and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Her breaths are quick and shallow.

“Baby,” she breathes, wiping Brooke’s tears with her thumb.

“I don’t want you to die!” Brooke sobs, sounding like a wounded animal.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Breathe, Brooke.” She puts on her brave voice, not sure who it’s for. “You heard Yvie. There might be a way around this. I ain’t going down without a fight. It’ll take more than that to get rid of me. I’m like a damn cockroach.”

Brooke smiles weakly but the tears are still flowing, and Vanessa holds her and pets her hair. Her own tears well up but don’t fall.

She whispers that it’s okay as Brooke’s trembling eases and her ragged breathing steadies.

If only she believed it. —

They get Brooke’s hand bandaged and Vanessa almost wishes she could wrap herself in a bandage, like a cocoon, and never come out.

“Do you need anything?” Brooke asks once they’re home. Vanessa truly can’t figure out what she needs.

“I’m going for a walk,” she says.

Brooke nods wearily. Vanessa hears a choked scream and something shattering after she leaves.

The sky is gray. She can feel the rain coming but keeps walking, leaves crunching as she stomps down the sidewalk, feet carrying her to her mother’s grave. Not that there had been anything to bury after the fire.

There’d be snow on the ground. The snow was usually gone around March. Did she really have less than six months? Did she really survive the fire, survive everything the past few years, to be denied seeing spring flowers poke through the ground?

No. Her throat is tight and she refuses to think about it. She’s cheated death once. She can do it again.

Thunder cracks like the sky has split in two. Raindrops pound against the earth, everything awash in gray.

Pouring rain while she cries in a cemetery. What a fucking cliché. Within seconds she’s soaked, but she doesn’t move. She stands there until her clothes are heavy and dripping and she can’t tell if the wetness on her face is from tears or raindrops.

She has no idea how much time passes, rain chilling her bones, teeth chattering, when suddenly a too-big coat is draped around her shoulders. She looks up and sees Brooke, T-shirt clinging to her shivering skin, hair drenched. Her eyes are redder than before and Vanessa figures she must have cried the entire time she was gone. Vanessa can just discern Bertha parked behind her.

“You drove here? Brooke, you’re afraid to drive.”

“I had to come get you.”

Vanessa slams her face against Brooke’s chest and cries as the rain beats down, her life one cliché after another. Brooke’s arms are so strong and secure it feels like Yvie’s vision isn’t a possibility. Like nothing could ever hurt her.

Brooke drives her home, white-knuckled grip on the wheel, worry shining in her eyes. Vanessa won’t let go of Brooke’s coat; not as she shuffles past tiny beads of broken glass from whatever Brooke smashed on the floor, not as Brooke puts her into warm pajamas and tucks her into bed. The lavender scent fills her as she drifts off. —

Two days later Vanessa wakes up thinking Yvie’s vision might be better than her stuffy head and burning nose.

Brooke rolls over and coughs harshly. “Ness, I think something’s wrong with me,” she says fearfully.

Vanessa feels a tiny stab of guilt, but at least there’s someone to be sick and miserable with her.

“We’re sick, Brooke,” she rasps, throat desert-dry. “That’s the last time I dramatically cry in the rain.”

She hears a key clicking in the lock, muffled cursing as something clatters against the door.

“Do you think someone’s coming to kill us?” Brooke sneezes twice and fumbles for tissues on the nightstand.

“If they are I might let them,” Vanessa groans, burying her face in the pillow to smother her pounding headache.

“Your savior has arrived,” A’Keria chirps in the doorway, bags hanging off her arm. “I knew you two were getting sick.”

A’Keria unloads a pharmacy’s worth of tissues, orange juice, and pills. She gives them cold medicine and steaming bowls of chicken soup. Brooke seems shocked to have someone taking care of her when she’s sick, and Vanessa tries not to think about that, not sure her body can hold any more anger toward the lab.

They huddle in bed and watch Schitt’s Creek, and Brooke falls asleep with her head on Vanessa’s shoulder, and aside from feeling like shit, it’s kind of nice.

Vanessa hopes the nice days aren’t numbered. —

Despite the ticking clock above her head, the next few weeks just…pass by. Like nothing is wrong. It’s mostly because Vanessa won’t acknowledge it. She has plenty of practice burying problems. (They have until it snows. It’s fine. She’s fine).

She’s never backed down from a fight. She liked the thrill, the energy. The problem is, there’s nothing to fight. There’s no villain, no secret lab. She can’t fight her way out, and that might be the scariest part.

She patches things up with Yvie and Scarlet. (If you blow this I will kick you to the curb, Silk had threatened). Luckily they weren’t upset after the meeting, and, inspired by A’Keria’s 5-star “Bitch can bake” review of Brooke’s cooking, they’re part of the Sunday brunch crew.

And Brooke. She sees Nina constantly. She apologizes over and over for the glasses she broke that first day, throws herself into training with Scarlet and Yvie. She nods off during their mostly-uneaten dinner twice in one week.

Vanessa’s not doing much better, despite the lies she tells. It’s like she’s fracturing into different Vanessas, slowly losing the real one. Practical Vanessa does research with Silk and Yvie, reviewing the vision, brainstorming plans. Avoidant Vanessa wants to hole up in bed and never leave. Normal Vanessa doesn’t quite work, as she finds herself desperately clinging to each kiss, each laugh, even each Trader Joe’s run, wondering if it’s the last.

And the Vanessa that’s slowly overpowering the others. Reckless Vanessa, the Vanessa that has decided she’s basically immortal until the snow flies, that destroys speed limits without her seatbelt and takes on dangerous criminals without backup or ear comm. The Vanessa that is daring Yvie’s vision to be wrong by acting in ways she knows full well can get her killed.

She should talk to Nina, talk to someone. But she can’t. She can’t watch Nina’s overly-kind face say her feelings are valid and it’s expected for her to act out but she should cope in a healthier way. (Her coping methods could be worse. She hasn’t even touched her liquor cabinet, though she gazed longingly yesterday). Besides, right now, she can pretend it’s not real. It’s just an image that’s months away. But if she talks about it, it’s a real problem. A problem she has to admit she is helpless against.

“We can talk about it if you want,” Brooke offers one night.

She refuses. —-

“I’m going on patrol,” Vanjie states firmly.

“But Scarlet and Yvie are out-“

“I’m going.”

“I’ll come with you-“

“No. You should stay. Get some sleep, you look exhausted. Don’t wait up or anything.”

Cold winds hits her face. She uses her police scanner and sticks to the streets, and for 4 hours she is in total control, each punch, kick, and smack letting her fight the fact that she can’t fight what’s coming.

She gets home at 3am and finds Brooke half-asleep on the couch, baking show on TV and mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table long since turned cold.

She can’t help but feel that a crack is forming between them.

And she’s holding the chisel. —

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?” Vanessa cuts her chicken so it looks like she’s eaten.

“I might ask Nina about the anxiety meds.”

“That’s a big step for you,” she says gently.

“Yeah. It’s just…I feel…I feel like I’m always waiting for something bad to happen. And I’m so tired but my brain can’t quiet down, and the flashbacks and panic attacks are getting worse and I just…it’s a lot,” she finishes quietly, head down, and Vanessa sees how deep the bags under her eyes are.

Guilt floods her. She’s noticed Brooke’s body tight like a coiled spring lately, but she’s been too wrapped up in everything to see it was getting that bad, that Brooke was suffering so much. “I’m sorry, baby. I should have known you haven’t been doing so well.”

���Don’t apologize. You have to focus on yourself too.”

“Still,” Vanessa insists. “So, meds, huh? You know there’s no shame in asking for help,” she says, sensing Brooke’s apprehension.

“I know. But I…I’m still kinda scared to take them. The lab never–it was bad to take anything besides what they gave me, and I’m afraid the meds will make me feel like theirs did…”

Sometimes Vanessa doesn’t think she can hate the lab more than she does. Then she hears this and wishes she could have personally ended everyone that worked there. “Brooke, you’re not bad for taking them, okay? The meds won’t be like the lab’s. They’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

She still hasn’t brought the prescription home. —

They have their first group patrol, Scarlet in a deep red suit with gold piping and a gold double-S and Yvie in bright green with a purple eyeball, all of them with reinforced ear comms to protect against Scarlet’s screams. They follow Silk’s call to a street cracked down the center, pavement warped and crumbled like a giant stomped on the road.

“It’s like an earthquake,” Vanjie mutters.

“Does anyone hear crying?” Scarlet asks.

Vanjie hears faint wailing down the street, where a black car is upside down. “Shit, there’s a kid.”

The parents are unconscious and Vanjie doesn’t want to risk moving them. The girl is maybe four, screaming her little lungs out.

“Third Eye-”

“Yvie!”

“Whatever, call an ambulance,” Vanjie commands. “Frost, Scarlet, hold the car steady.”

She rips the door off and chucks it on the sidewalk. The girl’s cries pierce her ears. “I’m gonna help you,” she whispers as she undoes the car seat buckle and catches the girl.

“You’re alright.” Vanjie sets her down. She reaches for the emergency candy in her belt and hands her a chocolate bar, which she munches happily.

“She’s bleeding,” Frost notes, pointing to a cut on her forehead.

“Paramedics are coming. A doctor can check her,” Yvie tells them.

The girl squirms in fear. Vanjie scrapes her brain for any remnants of her brief and unsuccessful babysitting career as a 16-year-old. She’s prepared to comfort her like she comforts Brooke, minus the kisses, when the girl cries for her mommy and Vanjie freezes. How can she compare to a mom? What if she makes things worse?

Another small voice, one she ignores, rings in her head: I want my mom too.

Frost drops down on one knee. “Doctors can be scary, huh?” She asks softly.

The girl nods passionately.

“I get scared of them too.”

“But you’re a superhero!” She exclaims in surprise, tears slowing.

“I know. Even superheroes get scared. But you know what? Whenever I go to the doctor, my friend Vanjie stays with me, and it’s not so scary. And I-I’ll stay with you now, and it won’t be scary. Okay?”

The girl nods as the ambulance pulls up. Frost stands beside the stretcher while the EMT’s bandage her forehead, tells her she’s so brave, and Vanjie melts at the exchange. She finds herself dreaming of a future for them–a future with a cozy little house and the animals at their feet, without secret labs and death visions looming over their heads.

“I think this was someone with powers. There’s no damage anywhere else,” Silk reasons in her ear, cutting through the fantasy. “There’s a break-in at a warehouse two blocks over. Could be the same person.”

“Ready?” Yvie asks.

“Ready,” Vanjie answers, and they take off, meeting an old industrial warehouse, windows boarded up, paint peeling and grimy.

“It looks abandoned,” Frost observes. “Why would someone break in?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Vanjie leads them through the rusty door.

The inside is clearly not abandoned. There’s shiny lab tables covered with vials and chemicals, armchairs against one wall, and a fridge in the corner.

They’ve barely entered when the door slams shut. Vanjie pulls with all her strength, but it doesn’t budge.

Her fire, Frost’s ice, and Scarlet’s sonic-screams all bounce off harmlessly. They try to reach Silk and receive crackling static.

“We’re stuck,” Yvie states plainly.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Vanjie snaps. “Funny you couldn’t see us getting stuck but you got no trouble seeing me die!”

“For the thousandth time, it doesn’t work like that!”

“How long before Silk realizes something’s up and comes to get us?” Vanjie shifts gears.

“Time is a construct.”

“Fuck off, Yvie!” Vanjie and Scarlet bark together.

“This was a trap,” Yvie replies calmly.

“Again, no shit.”

“No, think about it. Comms blocked? The walls being fire and ice and Scarlet-proof? They wanted us specifically.”

“Who, though?” Vanjie softens. “And why us?”

There’s light tapping on her shoulder. She spins around to see Frost, sweat beading on her forehead. “Windows,” she says quietly.

“Windows!” She exclaims in realization. “Alright,” Vanjie waves the others over. “The windows are boarded up. We can break through, we just need a way up.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice says suddenly.

Two men appear out of the shadows, one in bright yellow, one in muddy brown.

“Who the hell are you?” Vanjie demands. “You got some ugly-ass costumes. You look like a damn banana.”

“Call me Shockwave,” the man in yellow says.

“Quake,” replies the man in brown.

“Am I supposed to know you and your cheesy as hell names?” If she distracts them long enough, the others can escape.

“You don’t, but she does,” Quake jabs at Frost.

Vanjie does not like where this is going.

Frost’s head snaps up. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, maybe I misspoke. Precious little Frost wasn’t allowed to see us.”

“I’m surprised you’re still functioning,” Shockwave taunts. “I thought your brain would be mush by now. That’s what happened to the one before you. The General put her out of her misery. But I think we’ll have some fun with you,” he sneers. He rushes at Frost, whipping out a knife and holding it against her throat as she quivers.

“If you hurt her…if you even touch her, I swear to God I’ll kill you,” Vanjie feels the heat rising, hands erupting into flame.

“Anybody moves, your girlfriend gets it,” Shockwave threatens. The flames die out.

“I-I don’t-” Frost starts.

“You don’t know us, but we know you,” Quake says. “We made the drugs that made you. We spent years on them. Then the General stole our ideas and used them on you and his other pets. We never got any credit. It all went to you. And you didn’t even deserve it.”

It hits Vanjie like a truck. Two scientists that made drugs at the lab. Two missing employees from last month. But it can’t be. They’re dead, Silk had proof–

“But guess what?” Shockwave tosses the knife away and shoves Frost to the ground. “You’re not the only one with powers now.”

Circuits of lightning buzz around his hands. He forms the crackling tendrils into a ball and aims it at Frost, who hasn’t moved. She has that blank, far-away look in her eyes that still scares Vanjie no matter how many times she sees it. She’s trapped in her mind, and Vanjie can’t get her out.

She won’t even know it’s coming.

Shockwave rears his arm back and she launches a fireball. It distracts him enough for Yvie to lunge at him and Scarlet to go after Quake, the noises faint and distant as Vanjie rushes toward Frost.

There is no recognition or awareness in the green eyes. All she can do is wait for Frost—Brooke, really—to come back to her. She moves Frost into her lap and takes her hand, ice-cold and clammy, forcing down the fear as the seconds tick by and the fight rages on.

Frost bolts up, head whipping around wildly.

“You’re okay,” Vanjie soothes quickly. “I’m here.” She helps Frost control her breathing. She squeezes her hand tighter, feels her pulse slow.

“They escaped through the back and we lost them,” Scarlet mutters, appearing from a corner of the warehouse. Her lip is bleeding but she’s fussing over Yvie, who looks unharmed and swats her worried hands away.

Their concerned gazes burn into her, and she shifts to cover Frost better. They don’t know what happened to her and Vanjie plans to keep it that way.

The door flies open with a clang. Silk stands in the doorway, bolt-cutters in hand.

“Get in the car,” she barks.

Vanjie helps Frost into the car, allowing herself a sigh of relief once they’re speeding away. But she knows the relief won’t last.

A storm is coming. —

It’s a quiet night. They’ve hardly said two words since Silk’s call that Shockwave and Quake match the descriptions of the two supposedly dead employees, and Brooke’s voice is hoarse when it tickles Vanessa’s ear.

“Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m ready to read my file.”

[ombreecha]

The Uchiha’s Wife

FF.NET Fandom: Naruto Pairing: SasuSaku Rating: M Summary: She was an otherworldly being of healing. An absolute nymph of spring. He was an otherworldly being of destruction. An absolute god of war. In a world where war makes him death, and chaos she will be the life, and love his people will talk of for years to come. AU x Warring States Period.

Author Note: Ayyyyye, dooooooooooope I'm still alive. Somehow? My dudes I'm officially 27 today haha and so with this birthday I present to you chapter 19. I've been up to my eyeballs in foam, glue, and more with Katsucon being next week. I wasn't about to not keep my word though, and so here we are. I get to dip my feet deeper into ol' maidhood, and you get new content.

Anyways. . .Man I'm gonna eat some motherfuckin tiramisu to celebrate when I get back from Katsucon and it's gonna be fuckin great #inserttonythetigerhere

Until then, please get some cake or whatever the fuck ya'll like. I love celebrating with you guys even if I can't IRL until after my shoots. Fanfiction is a pretty sweet way to celebrate yisssss.

Chapter 19 The Pandemonium 

Exhausted and worn she’s fallen with her hands digging within the earth. Those scarlet locks the only thing vibrant in this state. It’s those strands that keep him connected to the present.

The oxygen she’s taking in makes it perfectly clear how much this task has drained her. The nine tails is no longer bound by the Uzumaki. They’ve seized him and taken control. 

Words linger upon his tongue never entering the air even as he watches Obito reach down and grip a hold of her arm. After everything she’s done to remove the tailed beast they’re still not done with her. There’s a part of him that feels the need to stop this—there’s something eating away at him as he watches this.



This feels wrong, but this is what Madara demands.
 All of this feels like it’s too much.

What they’re doing right now—could you possibly say this was right?

Was this what their ideals had turned into? Had they become as cruel as the Senju and Uzumaki who had painted their love in the blood of others?

Were they truly any different? Were they not one and the same using such methods?

“You know what you have to do.”

He doesn’t need to be reminded of what’s expected from him. He remembers the words scrawled upon the scroll. He knows what his part in this is. Yet, it doesn’t lessen the way this continues to dig further and further upon his moral compass.

Hesitant. Unsure. He’s of two minds. Yet, he gives that nod of his head.

The way this man drags off his teammate has him wanting to reach out—to yell for him to stop.

To extend his hand and take a hold of her. Protect her. To save her.

He won’t. He can’t. To do so would be to go against what Madara has already put into motion. The way their treating her—she’s no more than a tool.

She was a person. She held a heart. She held a purpose beyond that of a tool. She was no different from him or them.

She had a worth beyond this plan.

“Sasuke! Help me!” her hand flies out as if to reach for him before being yanked without care.

As if she is nothing more than an object.

She’s never dared to say his name without a horrific attached. No apology he gives will ever be enough for what he’s allowing them to do—for allowing this person who had stood beside him unwavering and all on her own to be used so maliciously.

And now against her own will.

The scream she produces and the desperation that echos with the night haunts him. It twists him in uncomfortable ways. Refusing to lift a finger as she tries in vain to stay only makes this feel even more disgusting—more sickening.

He can do nothing. He is not the leader of their clan. He is just an heir meant to inherit the throne.

That’s how he’ll battle the guilt—the wrongfulness of his part in this. He’ll cling to the fact he’s not in control.

Inhaling deeply and removing his eyes from her only increases the disgust before he casts his eyes upon the male who can no longer defend himself.

Step after step—each one slow and careful. Naruto Uzumaki is no longer a threat. He’s on the verge death after having lost the nine tailed beast. Madara had gotten what he had wanted. Obito had succeeded and now all that’s left was to finally be rid of the blonde.

Yes.

Madara demands this. He orders it.
He will follow his leader down this road.

He’ll further dirty his already scuffed moral compass. He’ll ignore the increasing cracks that form upon it. He’ll ignore the voices screaming within his head. 



It’s bittersweet as he watches the weak rise and fall of his chest. He’s known this boy since he could remember. Their mothers had been close friends—a war separated them but they defied refusing to lessen their bond. It was overlooked and it was ignored all because she was a direct heir.



Whispers had filled the funeral when she had passed. —they had mocked and made claims no child should hear.

If she hadn’t been friends with that Uzumaki maybe she’d have lived.


Maybe she wouldn’t have left her children behind.

Traitor.



His tongue slides against the roof of his mouth. The resentment from that time has lessened over the years. It has become a dull ache.

This boy hadn’t harmed his mother—no, she just happened to be on her way home from visiting them when she was murdered in the name of war. Senju and Uzumaki were one and the same to him. They stole his mother from him, and robbed him equally of his father. The days where they played in their garden were nothing now. 



Could you have called them friends? 
Naruto had chosen the Senju, and he had chosen the Uchiha.
 They knew nothing of each other now outside of the battlefield.


No. They were never friends.
Their mothers were, but they, they, were never friends.



What would his mother say if she saw him preparing to kill her bestfriend’s son? 

His throat constricts at the thought. He loved his mother far more than that. He would do whatever it took to avenge her.

He feels lost in time—if he waited here forever would this feeling die? 
Would this sudden fear that his mother will forsake him disappear?

 He won’t cry if he kills this boy his mother had doted on as a child.

He won’t regret this.


They had tried to kill each other plenty of times before this—
Never had they been so close.



This is different. This situation is real. He’s going to kill this man—he’s going to kill Naruto Uzumaki.
He’s going to kill someone his mother had cherished.

She’d understand. She’d know he was doing what was right by her brother’s decree. There would be no shame upon her face for doing what he needed to in times of war. Fingers curl around the hilt of his sword and as it clicks from its hold it’s slide is slow and steady. That floral pendent his wife had given him swaying equally as slow with such movements. 



“Sasuke-kun! Stop!”



Freezing he can’t help but follow the call of her voice—how? How had she found him deep within the chaos? The grip upon his sword becomes loose as he takes her in. She’s out of breath and followed behind.

Seeing someone so close to her makes his grip tighten once more until he can clearly see who is with her—this man had made it clear he adored his wife during the festival.



“This is war Sakura.” 



Can she see how conflicted he is in this moment? Can she see how much it’s twisting him to know he’s going to kill someone so precious to his mother? 
Can she see the way his moral compass is spinning erratically?

Does she see the disgust brewing inside for himself? Does she know he’s dying inside?



Those even steps are there and there’s no missing the wounds she’s suffered on the battlefield. They’re not serious. They’re not fatal—but there is blood, and discoloration upon her skin and that’s terrifying enough.

It’s around her throat, and so many other places.

But as terrifying as that is there is something far more frightening in this moment that he’s clinging to. Is this where her love came to a halt?

She’s stopping him. She’s keeping him from slaying the enemy. They knew each other. Naruto had said it right before her dance. He hadn’t asked. He hadn’t meddled and now it’s clear he should have. 

Had they always been close even before she became his wife?
Was he also cherished by her as well?

Naruto had gained his mother’s affection and now he would take Sakura’s from him just the same.

This. This is what hurts. This is what makes him question what he’s done to deserve his enemy taking everything from him. All of this—everything he’s ever lost—was thanks to the Senju and Uzumaki.

He loathes himself or being so weak. For playing into such thoughts—but how could he not?

He had reached out for her when he had known better. He had known not to give her any part of him. He had—he had given in to her. He had fallen for the anguish he had put her through. He had been desperate to fix all the cruel things he had done to this woman he had finally begun to see as his wife.

He rightfully deserved such things—yet the self pity in him refuses to accept that. He had lost so much already and the world was continuing to take everything from him.

He hates this blonde. Because projecting his self hatred onto him is easier to accept.

Fingers tighten around the hilt only to loosen a moment later. He wants to scream at her—she’s the one being cruel now.

How can she stand with them when she said she supported him? She’s not with him—she’s betraying him.

She is the one who’s cruel for coming into his world and lowering his guard. She’s the one who had made claims she wasn’t intending to keep in this moment.

She is the one he had desired to go further down the road of life with and now they were diverging.

He’ll loathe her too instead of overcoming his own faults—his own disgust for what he’s willingly becoming.

If it wasn’t for her he wouldn’t feel like this.

His mouth has gone dry as he tries to keep himself composed. She’s ruined him. She has completely destroyed it all. He wants to take back everything he’s ever tried to do and every attempt he had made to understand her better. He wants to take back believing she had become an Uchiha.

—as if it had been her birthright. As if she had loved him deeply.

He had never asked for a wife. He had never asked for any of this. All of it had been decided for him.

He wasn’t given a choice in any of this. Yet, he had been the one to let her in.

He wasn’t good enough for her. He wasn’t good enough for her to put him before the enemy.

The tightening of his jaw slackens and then the control he always seems to have in place breaks in two. There’s no way to stop the way his eyes flutter and the way his mouth quivers alongside his heart that drops so painfully within his being. His eyes descend from her to the dirt below only to clamp down in an effort to keep himself together.

“S-Sasuke-kun?”

Teeth dig painfully into his bottom lip as she speaks—she sounds as if she’s panicking. She has no reason to be panicking. She’s not the one being betrayed. She’s not the one being cast aside—he’s not the one abandoning her.

It’s just her pushing him away for the family that came before him.

He had wanted a family with her—he had wanted her to be he one that brought a new life into his world.

He had wanted her.

His eyes snap open and it’s here and now that he realizes he has to stop her. He had done what his leader had told him not to—there’s was no guarantee she wasn’t carrying his heir.

He would not have her rip more from him.

Hands shake. Palms sweaty. Eyes burning. Sword raised high.

She had dug her roots deep—she had squeezed through iron and pushed through stone.

He would cut them down. He had said he would not gaze upon her with these eyes so many feared.

He had been wrong.

He can barely hold his sword still—his heart is loud and the trepidation it sends throughout his body only seeks to send his mind further into the confusion and loathing that’s painted within him.

“You don’t have to do this! Sasuke-kun, please!”

That’s all she has to say to dislodge his voice from the bottom of his throat—it’s filled with petulance soaked in disquietude, “Shut up!”

The way she shrinks back before him sends his heart aching before him, “Not another word—not from you!”

“S-Sasuke-kun—This isn’t war! This is a slaughter.”

He’s seen this look upon her face before. He saw it when he murdered that medic so long ago. He saw it upon that woman’s face when she begged him to give mercy. She’s covered in terror as if he’s already run her through—

He can’t take her back—not when she’ll betray him again. If he can’t have her he’ll be damned if the Senju will.

Can she see how he’s vacillating as she protects Naruto? Can she see how much her choices have completely twisted his world?

Does she know how much he’s dying inside?

He won’t cry if he kills her. He’ll rebuild what she’s dug her roots into.
Their ideals had truly been far too different—

He’ll burn everything down.

His spring wife is daring a step closer and those fingers that had brought him comfort within their two years are raising. She’s stopped all at once with a hand on her wrist.

Yes. He’ll burn it down to the ground.

“This isn’t her betraying you.” there’s an exhaustion in those words as that male he had trusted in Konohagakure to keep his wife safe restricts her from coming closer. 



Here she is against him—not with him. Yet, this man claims otherwise.



He is a criminal without a crime. His good fortune had run out this time. There’s always a reason. There’s not always a rhyme to follow behind it. Those eyes of hers are glowing and just as equally those viridian are showing all that she intends.

She stands before him unable to compromise. That much is clear.

When he was already so hesitant and so lost in the direction his leader was taking them she does this to him. She sends him over the edge, and she casts him aside. Why should he care if the Uchiha are no better than the Senju?

Why should he care?

“Sasuke-kun.”



He’s not crying. He won’t do so in front of her again.



Those shallow breaths, and those twitches that come from her muscles. Tense cannot even begin to describe this moment between them. He’s out of time. He must make a choice, he must follow a faith, and he must cast this ache aside and move forward. Not once has she ever stood before him quiet like this, “Sasuke-kun!” 



No he’s certainly not crying.
 But he is most definitely dying. 



He’s absolutely running out of time. He’s lost in time and he’s certain this ache will never die. He’s truly a criminal. 
—and he holds all of their crimes. He is the one meant to be the example. He is the one meant to show his people where to go.

He’s choosing his leader. He’s choosing what he knows is wrong.

He’ll choose anything that’ll hurt her the way she’s hurting him right now.



She’s never turned against him. She’s never been one to lie. That look upon her face—the tightening of her jaw, and that gaze that bleeds through the night—she’s always been honest and she’s always held her heart upon her sleeve.

It’s the joining of two people. A union. A marriage.



He can question it all, and yet he knows he won’t find the answer of how they now stare back at each other at odds. This woman was his wife, and the one he meant to keep beside him. This woman was one he had allowed himself to trust, and the one he had wanted to bring new life into the world.



This woman.
 He trusts her.
 That’s what makes this bittersweet.



She loves him. 
 Deeply. 
She asked for his love to be just as deep.



He had agreed and allowed himself to feel such a way when he decided that the Uchiha clan was just as much her birthright.


He had trusted her. He had felt so much pride in her.

If I could bring all of that pain you hide onto myself I would do so.

He knows this battle is wrong—he knows it’s exactly what she says. This is a slaughter. There’s no denying the claim. This was no longer war. This blood bath while great and one of the largest was no battle. She was here to rein him in. She was here to make sure he didn’t falter and head down the wrong path. She was the voice that would lead him back from the chaos.

She was the voice inside his head as Karin was dragged from him.

Could he kill her? Could he kill what he had allowed her to obtain? Could he close her out as he had when they first met?

To anger and fight Madara would be to go against the Uchiha. Could he go against his leader? Could he go against his family?


Isn’t that what he is expecting of her?


A shift of his foot and the fall of his crimson from her viridian comes. He doesn’t know what the answer is. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to pick.

Would following her down this unknown road be the right choice? Would he regret not killing Naruto down the line? Would he forever harbor feelings of distrust because of what she’s doing now?

Why do you continue to follow blindly at his call?

His hand wavers and with it his sword scrapes the earth. He’s at the end of the line. Alone in his head—waiting for something divine to answer him. Drowning in silence he prays to make it through. Out on the edge as all these things echo internally.

The storm winds are blowing. His dreams are falling apart. Just like her.

He’s crying internally. Because he cannot do this—he cannot harden himself to do what he has to.

That concept of him and her. It’s blowing away.

And he hates himself for it—he places such hate upon her to make it easier to live with.



It’s that lack of time that seeks to make it clear he’s lowered himself upon the battlefield. It’s that pounding of his chest and that pain deep within his gut. This man. This Senju always catches him when he’s bewitched, and it just proves she would be his end. 



It’s her voice that makes his eyes force themselves open as the contents of his stomach cover the grown and upon his person. The gravel and stone he had set to walk upon with her has given him padding but scratched all that it could touch—

he’s here. 



The force is harsh and enough to send his head back and mind reeling. That punch has made his mind halt to two simple questions—what was he doing here, and was this ever even truly a war?



It’s the collapse of waves echoing out internally.
 Why does his heart feel like it’ll break further than just in two?



“Kisetsuma-san!”



He cannot control the roll of his head and that blur of his eyes. She’ll leave him and there’s nothing he can do. She’ll return to this man who sought her out so violently. 

He can’t protect her—he can’t protect any of them.



“It’s okay.” there’s so much warmth in Kisetsuma’s words for his wife, “We’ll take you back here and now. I’ll protect you from him.”



He feels it deep within—



“Kisetsuma-san, what are you—?”



“I won’t let the Uchiha hold you any longer. You will no longer be a prisoner of war.” 



This exchange. 
 It’s the death of a desire—



The vexation. The distress. The exasperation. The absolute loss.


It’s her choice. It’s always been her choice.



She could hate him. She said she loved him.
 She’s slipping through his fingers. This man will take her even though they—



“Kisetsuma I am not a prisoner—”



“What lies have they been feeding you all this time? These Uchiha—they’ve done everything they can to turn you against your family and friends”



—even though he’s the one she said she loved with all of her heart. He must confess that he feels like a—

“I will protect you.”



Monster.

All of that loathing, and poisonous vexation he’s placing upon everyone but himself. It’s revolting.



He’s barely aware of what he’s even doing. Everything in his world has fallen out of reach. He can’t protect her. He can’t protect the Uchiha. He can’t even protect himself. He’s lost his sword somewhere. He’s lost the ability to feel just the same. He’s lost his mother. He’s lost his father. He’s lost his brother. He’s lost his uncle. He’s lost his grandfather.

—and now he’s losing his wife and any possibility of a child. He’s losing the possibility of a family.

His heads thrown back as this Senju strikes him once again, but that doesn’t stop him from throwing his own fist right within their jaw. Dirt finds its way deep within his nails as he twists to make himself rise.

“Sasuke-kun move!” her voice is shaking, and terror-stricken as it comes within his ears.

She’s calling out to him—if he caught sight of her right now would she be in tears? Hadn’t she abandoned him already? Why is she calling out for him at all? She had chosen to protect Naruto over standing beside him.

She had chosen them over him.

He’s managed to do as she’s plead out, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s raising his hands up and lacing his fingers together before bringing it down upon this Senju’s back and preparing to raise another fist. All of these things are barbaric. All of these things aren’t strategy. They’re literally beating each other down. They’re doing everything in their power to harm the other.

She’s clouded all of his judgment with her abandonment—that’s what he tells himself when he feels that foot connect with his stomach before the ground shakes with an almost godly force. It’s enough to make them both halt and look to her.

She’s taken her arm back, and that male of silver stands beside her ready to attack, “Don’t touch my husband.” her breathing is erratic as if she’s been sent over the edge just the same.

It’s enough though to send his mind back into pandemonium. She’s claiming him. She’s making her position as his wife clear—even though she stood against him.

Even though she—

“Don’t you want to come home?”

His knees are weak but he’s pushing himself up. There’s a stagger to his stance, but he’s not backing down. There’s swelling in his left eye, but that doesn’t stop him from looking at her with his right just the same. Pressing his hand against a tree he’s steadying himself even more, “Sakura.”

“He is my home—” her voice has broke and it’s as those fingers twist within the fabric of her warn torn clothes against her chest that she finds it once again, “To hurt him is to hurt a part of me!”

He’s still and there’s the lightest of feelings within his chest—this woman saw him as home. It hadn’t just been him looking to her for that feeling of home. These words. These feelings.

They’re a lie.

He can’t trust what she says. She’ll trick him once more.

She’ll lower his defenses and then twist the knife she’s dug between his shoulder blades deeper.

How can she say these things?

Yet, here she is. Here she is making her feelings clear even to this man who had sought her out. She had said she loved him with all of her heart—and that’s what makes his mouth drop. She felt that his pain would harm her just the same. She saw him as a direct part of herself.

Is this what marriage was? A union? A joining of two?

His fingers curl into a fist and his teeth grind together—he had never asked for a wife. He had never asked for any of this—but he definitely wanted her. He wanted to keep his trust in her. He wanted to keep that unbelievable pride for her.

He wanted to have a family with this woman. He wanted to continue walking down this road with her. He wanted to travel through the gravel and stone. He wanted to come back to that world of spring she makes a possibility—yes, he wanted her.

God, does he want her.

He can’t. He won’t.

Because it’s all a lie. Everything this woman spills is for show and not out of love. If she had loved him she wouldn’t turn against him at a time like this.

Yes. She’s brought him into complete disarray.

His mind had broken out into pandemonium—and she almost sadistically continues to shove him into it further without remorse.

He can barely hear her. All he hears is noise. It’s loud. It’s hot upon his ears. It’s too much to take in. Shaky fingers hesitate to raise. Lightning flickers upon the tips. To reach for her out of comfort or in an attempt to harm her he’s unsure. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

She’s thoroughly split him in two. He’s of two hearts.

It all truly echos internally. 
Failure. Just like him.

He can’t find such things like that right now—she’s completely out of arms reach as his head cracks against the tree he had used for support, and his body is thrown up within the air. The instinct to defend himself is there but it doesn’t lessen the blow of being tossed across the battle field as he seeks to shield himself with his arms.

Her voice is so much further now than it ever had been—it’s masked and drowned out. He’s crying.

[eddsworldshippinghell]

Forgive and Forget Ch7

[Ch1][Ch2][Ch3][Ch4][Ch5][Ch6] [Peru Fic]

Here we finally are! I’m so sorry about the wait, I hope this chapter was worth it!

~~

It feels like Tord’s scream lasts forever, echoing piercingly through the small area filled with the faces of those he once thought he could trust. His eyes close, unable to handle the look of acceptance upon Matt’s face. He can feel the fragile threads of his sanity ripping apart, the vivid and haunting memory of Edd’s death playing in the front of his mind, Edd’s whispered last words echoing through his mind as loud as if they were being played through a sound system blasting directly into his ears.

It feels like time stops as he sits there; he always thought it would happen when he was dying- and maybe it’s fitting because it feels like he is. Despite the faint warmth of Tom a foot or so away from him, he doubts anything will ever be the same again. As he sits, his life flashes before his eyes, and he wonders if perhaps it’s some cruel form of self-torture to prolong his suffering until Stephan finally puts a bullet in his head.

He watches as Matt’s eyes close for the final time as he accepts his fate, watches as the man behind him -Ivan- lifts his gun, watches the wide and sadistic smile upon Stephan’s lips, and then suddenly Ivan’s head is on the floor.

His body slumps to the side and hits the ground with an unpleasant thud, and Stephan’s wide eyed gaze turns upon Tord, meeting the Norwegians gaze with undisguised fury.

“What did you do?” He snarls, and Tord fumbles for a response.

“I- I didn’t do anything!” He stutters, and Stephan pulls his gun out and aims it at Matt’s head.

The redhead flinches away, Tord screams, and then the gun is shot out of Stephan’s hand. He whips around, and his gaze focuses upon someone Tord can’t see, standing several feet behind the brunette.

“You!” He growls, and Tord almost cries with relief when Patryk’s voice sounds from behind him.

“Get away from them, or the next one is in your head.” He warns, and Stephan arches a brow.

“Oh? Are you sure?” He smirks, gesturing to the few dozen men surrounding him. “You’re outnumbered, boys.”

At that, Paul smirks.

“Are we?”

Tord barely blinks, catching the barest hint of a white blur, and suddenly the only person standing between him and Matt, is Stephan himself. His chains take a bullet, courtesy of Paul, and he scrambles to his feet.

While part of him wants to throttle Stephan, the other part of him drives him to Matt, hands twisting into the redheads tattered sweater and practically dragging him away, tripping and collapsing across Tom’s lap.

“What’s happening?” Tom asks. He flinches at another gunshot, and then his chains are snapped and he’s got his arms around Tord and Matt.

Matt’s chains are last to break, and the trio scramble to their feet and quickly backward toward Paul and Patryk.

“What’s going on?” Tord demands, voice trembling, and Patryk grips his shoulders while Paul keeps Stephan at gunpoint.

“Take this.” He pushes a gun into his palm, and makes sure to meet his gaze. “You need to be strong, I cannot explain everything to you Red Leader but please trust me, trust me and take this and get us out of here.”

Tord stares at him for a moment, and there’s silence between them, and then he nods. He nods, his face sets, and he turns to face Stephan.

“You filthy son of a bitch.” He snarls.

Stephan smirks at him.

“What’re you gonna do? Kill me? That won’t bring him back.”

“No.” He agrees. “It won’t.”

He lifts the gun, presses it to Stephan’s temple, and pulls the trigger.

There’s a tense few moments before his body crumples and hits the floor, and a ragged and strangled breath escapes him as he staggers a step back. A hand touches his shoulder and he whips around, wide eyes meeting Tom’s gaze.

“I-“ He chokes, and shakes his head as he stares at him. “I’m sorry.” He manages to choke out.

Tom shakes his head.

“It’s okay- we need to go, please-“

That snaps Tord out of his, and his expression steels again.

“You’re right.” He steps forward so he’s at the front of the group, and takes a deep breath. “Stay behind me.”

~~~~~~~~

It takes them a while to get close to the exit, and eventually Tord instructs then to wait for him so he can scout ahead. He walks for a few minutes, and once he’s alone he slips out the door and sags against the wall.

The fresh air helps clear his mind, but he doesn’t get all the answers he wants from his head clearing; how the hell did they get out of that? What the fuck was that white blur- how did Paul and Patryk find them?

He stiffens when the door opens next to him, and Patryk slips out. He relaxes and grunts, and Patryk frowns.

“Are you okay? Why aren’t we leaving-“

“No I’m not okay!” He explodes suddenly, leaping to his feet and startling Patryk to the point that the man leaps a foot into the air in surprise. “What the fuck is going on- what aren’t you telling me? How the fuck did you find us and what the fuck happened to Stephan’s henchmen- am I going crazy? Losing my fucking mind?!”

Patryk shrinks away.

“S-Sir, I-“ He breaks off when Tord starts rambling again.

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, Patryk! Tell me what the fuck is going on!”

Patryk’s wide and frightened gaze flicks slightly to the right, at a point behind Tord, and the agitated Norwegian whirls around, intending on hitting the first thing he can.

He freezes, however, his entire body going cold in a single instant. He thinks his heart stops beating.

“Tord..” The gentle voice says, and Tord staggers back a step, his arm dropping limply to crash into his side.

He can’t even say a word in response, head spinning as everything goes black and he collapses toward the ground.

~~~~~~

He wakes hours later, on the couch in the living room of their home. He wonders idly in the back of his mind who fixed the couch,  but more of him wants to know how the fuck they got home.

His brain drags up a memory, reminding him of how he had lashed out at Patryk, but his mind quickly rejects that memory and shoves it away, filing it away as a trick of the light. He couldn’t have seen what he thought he had.

He stands, tugging his sweater into a more comfortable position, and staggers out of the room, legs tingling as blood properly flows back into his limbs.

“Paul?” He calls, propping himself up in the kitchen doorway and peering into the room. “Patryk?”

“They’re not here.”

He goes rigid.

His heart stutters, breath coming in rapid pants, and the voice comes closer to him this time.

“Please don’t faint again.”

He takes a few brisk, staggering steps toward the sink and turns it on, splashing cold water into his face as fast as he can.

“What are you doing?”

He chokes on air, trembling as he shuts the tap off and hangs tensely over the sink, unsure if he’s going to faint or vomit.

“Trying to wake up- this isn’t real-“ His voice distorts, choking on a sob, and his knees give out, sending him to the floor. “I can’t-“ He breaks off on a choked wheezing noise, and suddenly there’s arms around him.

His chest tightens and he almost shrieks, body shaking to the point he thinks he’s actually having some kind of stroke and is about to die. A pitched and ugly wailing noise escapes him and he attempts to writhe away from the arms, terrified of the contact, but the man holds him tight.

“Shh, Tord. I’m here, it’s me.” He whispers gently, stroking his fingers through the trembling mans hair, and Tord screams.

He can’t help himself, he can hardly breathe except to scream and cry. He struggles and protests, but the man holds him tight and gently whispers reassurances in his ear.

“No- this isn’t happening- I’m crazy- I’ve lost my mind-“

“Tord, I’m here, it’s okay-“ He breaks off and spins them around suddenly so they’re face to face, hands gripping the mans cheeks. “Christ Tord, will you please just look at me?”

Tord, whom had slammed his eyes shut as soon as he was moved, shakes his head determinedly, struggling to quiet his sobs.

“I can’t.”

“Please.”

“I- I can’t- please, I can’t-“

“Tord..” His voice is tender, and Tord whimpers, cracking a single eye open.

His gaze lands first on an unmarked throat, and looks up toward beautiful, brilliant green eyes. His heart breaks in his chest, and he almost chokes at the look of love in those familiar eyes.

“Edd.” He chokes, and the brunette smiles brilliantly at him.

“There you are.” He whispers, and Tord’s expression twists.

“I’m sorry.” He chokes out as he lurches forward and wraps his arms around Edd’s shoulders, unable to choke back his soft sobs as the brunettes arms encase him.

“It wasn’t your fault.” He murmurs. “I’m so sorry I didn’t find you sooner.”

“How- how are you even alive?”

Edd chuckles sheepishly and shrugs.

“Superpowers.” He admits, and Tord pulls back to meet his gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were alive?”

Edd hesitates to answer for a moment.

“Don’t misunderstand, I did die. My powers fixed my neck and brought me back. I didn’t tell you because, to be honest, I didn’t even realize you were still in the house. I thought you were with Tom and Matt, so I went straight there.” An embarrassed flush covers his cheeks at that, and he grimaces guiltily. “I’m sorry.”

Tord shakes his head.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, I-“ He breaks off, and exhales shakily. He shakes his head to himself, and then lurches up and connects their lips.

Edd doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, gently cupping Tord’s cheeks, and he only pulls back when he feels tears hitting his fingertips.

“Oh, honey.” He murmurs gently, pulling Tord into his lap where they sit on the kitchen floor. He pushes his face into Tord’s hair before pulling the Norwegian closer so his head can meet Edd’s chest. “I’m here. Shhh, I’m here.”

Tord is unable to stop the meltdown and simply weeps, blubbering apologies as he clings for all he’s worth to the man he’d believed with all his heart was gone forever. He listens as he weeps, to the steady beating of Edd’s heart, and feels part of his own knit itself back together, but the tears don’t stop.

Edd doesn’t know how long they sit there, holding each other without speaking, until Tord finally asks where the others are.

“Paul and Patryk took them on a walk. They’ve both had their meltdowns, and we thought it would be easier on you if it was just me here.” He explains, and Tord nods, tightening his grip on Edd’s hoodie. His breath shudders as he struggles to calm down, pushing his face harder into Edd’s chest.

“I’m sorry I brought all of this to you.” He whispers. “I’m sorry that all of this happened- I’m sorry you died because of me-“

“Tord.” He says firmly, and the man manages to raise his gaze. “I didn’t die because of you.” His voice is softer now, eyes holding nothing but love and forgiveness. “I died because of Stephan. He’s gone now, he can’t hurt us anymore. We’ll be okay.”

Tord sniffles and looks away.

“Promise?” He whispers.

He hates himself for asking such a childish question, but he needs to hear it. Needs to hear Edd promise to him that they’d be okay from here on out.

“I promise.”

He exhales softly and nods his head slightly.

“Thank you.”

Before Edd can reply, they hear the front door open.

“Edd?” Matt’s voice calls out, and Edd squeezes Tord in reassurance before replying.

“In here!” He calls, and a moment later Tom and Matt appear in the doorway. Their expressions immediately brighten, and Tom is first to move.

“You’re awake!” He cries, rushing across the room and embracing Tord.

“Hey.” He whispers, arms wrapping around the brunette to firmly squeeze him, gaze falling upon Matt. “Are you okay?”

“We’re okay.” Matt confirms, crouching to join the hug. “I’m glad you’re awake.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two days.” Edd is the one to reply this time. “We fixed up some of the house, and got rid of the um..” He coughs. “The bloody sweaters.”

Tord nods, squeezing he duo in front of him once more, grimacing when tears prick his eyes.

“I’m happy you’re all okay. We’re together again. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay.” Edd confirms, lips pressing gently to Tord’s cheek, and Tom and Matt echo the sentiment.

He exhales shakily and for the first time in a long time, he feels safe. Happy. Like they’ll be okay.

And they will be. He knows it.

[spidermando]

“Best Friends” Pt. 4

Pairing: Peter Parker X Reader

Word Count: 1700+

Warnings: Just some stuff from the movie. 

A/N: HELLO! So, I think this is going to have way more than 4 parts, so if you’d liked to be tagged then please let me know!

Masterlist

[Prev] [Next]

Even when I was younger, bus trips were one of my favourite things. They were always a time to talk, joke around and play games with each other. Would the driver of that small car be sweet or sour? Would the truck passenger wave back at us? Not to mention it meant you were going somewhere. School was out for that day and you were going to a place you’d never been before, where all your friends would be next to you. Most of the time it was fun, a day to remember. And because of that I loved bus rides and all the memories that came attached to them.

Despite this, I wasn’t having the best time right now.

“Y/N!” My head snapped to Liz, who stood at the front of the bus holding question cards. “You haven’t answered a question this whole trip. C’mon, you got this!”

Not trusting my words, I nodded my head.

Peter had showed up this morning and re-joined the team. Everyone, apart from Flash, welcomed him with open arms, including me. Although our walk yesterday ended badly, I thought we were once again best friends and that made me overjoyed. After everyone else had gotten on the bus, I ran over to give him a hug. Just as my arms were about to wrap around him, his own came up and blocked me.

“Don’t touch me.”

Not saying anything else, he walked straight into the bus. Leaving me to walk in alone, both confused and embarrassed. My head hung low, as tears pricked at my eyes. If anyone had seen it, they didn’t say anything.

Now Peter sat in front of me, a bell in his hand as he jumped to answer the questions. Why was he so mad at me? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Was he really angry at me for having a crush on Spider Man? I mean fuck sake, it’s not like anything is going to come from it. If that’s what the problem is then he’s just being a brat.

Instead of glaring holes in the back of Peters head, like I had for the whole trip, I turned my eyes to the window. DC is fast approaching, meaning it would only be another half hour till we were out of this stupid bus and into the hotel. All I wanted to do was crawl up into a ball and sleep. Plus, it was already the afternoon, as the trip was roughly five hours long.

Maybe MJ could go protest without me.

 “Are you okay, Y/N?” Liz sat down next to me, both of our feet dangling in the water. “You didn’t seem very happy today.”

The day had gone as expected. When the bus ride was over we made our way to the hotel, where we checked in. I had made serval attempts to talk to Peter, but he just left in a cloud of his dust as he hurried off in the other direction. Now I sat at the pool, my legs dangling in the water. Almost the whole team was here, playing games and splashing water, but I’d never felt more alone. Why was he so mad at me? Why was he ignoring me? Maybe he realised how much of a bitch I really am, and how I’m not worth it anymore. The negative thoughts were like a storm in my head, shocking me with sadness and evaporating my self-confidence. If my best friend couldn’t stand me who else would?

Sighing, I started at my hands.  “Yeah, I’m fine. There’s just somethings going on between Peter and I.”

“I’m sure everything will be worked out; you guys are best friends.” She smiled, before dipping back into the pool. “I’m always here to talk.”

Smiling at her offer, I nodded and looked up through the glass roof. ‘Best friends’. The stars shined so brightly, as the moon glowed. It was so beautiful, so peaceful. A flash of red and blue light appeared, causing me to squint my eyes.

No way, NO WAY. Spider Man stood at the window, looking around as his suit dulled to its normal complexion. It almost looked like he was talking to someone, pointing down at his arm as he continued to look around.  After a few seconds, he placed both of his hands on his hips and nodded.

“Y/N, what are you looking at?”

Turning my gaze from the masked hero to Liz, my mouth fell open. “T-There- s-spider-” Looking back up, the figure was gone.

 After my wild and confusing encounter, I went back to MJ and I’s hotel room and slept. The next morning everyone, apart from Peter, met in the hallway and went to the Academic Decathlon. Thanks to our fast thinking, and MJs final answer, we won. As a celebration, we went to the Washington Monument, where MJ read her book and the rest of us got in an elevator to go to the top. We were almost there when a bright blue light penetrated the room and made an outline in the ceiling. Panic and fear overtook me, as I couldn’t help but scream out: “SPIDER-MAN!”

 “Oh, I’m going to die.” Jumping, I flew over the helicopter. Using my webs, I swung off the railing and through the glass window. Sliding over the floor for a few seconds, the elevator roof broke off, causing it to fall.

My webs used the detached roof to fall down and catch the lift. The weight slid me across the room some more, as a I spread my legs and stopped both myself and the metal box from falling.

“I did it!” Just as the words escaped my mouth, the doors came off.  Falling into the shaft, my body slammed against the walls as I tried to regain my bearings.

The lift got caught on something, as my body came down and smashed onto the floor of the lift. My weight caused the wheels to snap off, as the elevator started to fall once again. Thinking fast, I shot my webs straight up and onto the broken roof. My body flew up, as I steadied myself on the edge of the elevator. “Hey, how you doing?” I coughed a little, “don’t worry. I got you.”

Just like the screaming, the lift stopped and stood still. Using this as a chance to catch my breath, I glanced around the room. Y/N stood in the corner, both her hands clinging to the rails as her wide eyes stared straight at me. Guilt flood through my body, as I thought of the last thing I said to her. Don’t touch me.

The only reason I was even cold to her was my own mixed feelings. Her having a crush on Spider Man was the same as having a crush on me. We’d been friends for years, and originally the thought grossed me out. But after sleeping on it, the feelings turned mutual. I mean, how couldn’t I like her? She was beautiful, caring, funny, smart, cunning and literally everything you’d want in a girl. How had I only just noticed, and why? I knew everything about her, and she knew almost everything about me.

But she had a crush on Spider Man, not Peter Parker. If I took off the mask she’d just be left disappointed. She didn’t like me, not really. She saw me as a brother and best friend, nothing more. This caused me to get frustrated. Why couldn’t she just like me? What was it about Spider Man that she liked? And why couldn’t I have it?

I was so confused about the whole situation, that when I was trapped in the damage control deep storage unit I talked to Karen about it.

“Should I tell Y/N I’m Spider Man?” The question left my mouth as I laid on the storage box.

“Who is Y/N?” Karen responded, her voice soft.

“Who’s Y/N?” A chuckle left my mouth. “She’s the best, she’s awesome. She’s just a girl that goes to my school, and I- Uh yeah. We’ve been best friends for years and I just really want to tell her, but it’s kind of weird. You know? Hey, I’m Spider-Man.”

“What’s weird about that?”

“What if she’s expecting someone like Tony Stark? Imagine how disappointed she’d be when she sees me.” A frown seeped onto my face.

“Well, if I were her, I wouldn’t be disappointed at all.”

“Yes!” Ned cheered, causing the elevator to jiggle slightly.

“Aye, big guy. Quit moving around!” Using the web, I pulled the elevator up.

“I’m sorry sir, so sorry.”

It took a while, but I eventually got the elevator up enough that Mr. Harrington, Ned and Liz could jump out. Y/N was the last one in there, “Y/N.”

Just as she moved towards the door, the part my feet were pushing on broke off the roof. The elevator started falling once again.

“Y/N!” Her name escaped my lips, as I put my hand out for her to grab. Her own hand came up, but it was to late.

Using my webs, I took hold of her hand. The elevator dropped away from her, as she dangled in the air.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” Pulling on my web, I brought her up to me. When she was close enough I gripped her hand, “you’re okay.”

Bringing her up to the ledge, a group of people helped her to safety. She turned and looked at me. We stayed like that for a moment, before I let go of her hand and just hung there, staring at her.

Even after staring death in the eyes, she was beautiful.

“This is your chance, Peter. Kiss her.” Karen voice was soft in my ear.

Maybe I should kiss her. Right here, right now. It would probably be my only chance to do so. After all, I didn’t want her to get into danger again. And it’s not like Spider Man could just appear on her fire escape and make out with her.

“Kiss her.”

I hung a little while longer, still staring at her in all her beauty. Oh, how badly I wanted to kiss those lips. To feel them against mine, as her hand cupped my cheek. I wonder what she would taste like, maybe strawberries? What type f kisser would she be? Rough? Soft? The questions were endless, just like the colours in her eyes. If I moved just a bit closer I coud remove the bottom of my mask. However, before I could make a move my web snapped, leaving me to fall down the shaft.

“Are you really friends with Peter Parker?”

Part 5

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