#cw referenced deaths

[zuzuelectricbugaloo]

Tête-à-Tête: Deux

Rating: Teen

Pairing: None, though Cross and Epic’s relationship is left romantically ambiguous

Synopsis: Nightmare takes the first shot, striking at Epic’s deepest loves and insecurities

CW: Referenced Epictale characters’ deaths

Word Count: 1, 085

Part 1, Part 2 of A Guardian, A Scientist, and A Parlay

With that solid shake, they let their hands return to their sides. Nightmare’s form rippled, his body melting and shifting from blobs moving from one direction the next before it stopped at one mold of a body.

A familiar one, as lines settled in and the fluidity cleared to reveal the form of Epic’s best and dearest friend.

“Cross” dropped his chin in his open fist and propped his elbow up. His eyes lower and he places his other hand on the table invitingly, ivory eyelights flickering cyan (teal?) as he smiles, fond and crooked just like Cross would.

But Epic knows this isn’t Cross, and watches in careful neutrality as Nightmare takes the first shot.

“So, tell me,” apart from the sultry lilt to his tenor, Nightmare mimicked Cross’s cadence perfectly, even matching him pitch for pitch. “How does it feel, dude, to constantly live with the fact that you failed your dearest friend? That you let me die and lose everything important to me.”

Nightmare’s forlorn melancholy is betrayed by the way his mouth lifts at the corners. “My memories, my sense of self, my family, my worth. I lost everything, falling into an endless pit of despair that I dragged the multiverse into while you were gallivanting off in the Omega Timeline making new friends.”

“That’s not how it—”

“Cross’s” mouth quivered, tears welling in his sockets. “How could you abandon me like that?”

It’s not Cross. Epic knows this. And still the guilt simmers low in his nonexistent gut, burning him from the inside. To hear Cross’s voice, so broken and betrayed, it hurt. His Soul aches hearing it, a dark voice in the back of his mind murmuring if that was truly how Cross felt.

Even though Epic at the time didn’t know what happened to Cross, didn’t know how to find him or if he could, or how he’d still apologized and his bruh brushed it off. He couldn’t help but always worry if Cross truly meant it.

And Nightmare played those insecurities and fears like a well worn instrument, plucking his strings one by one until he fell apart.

“Do I mean nothing to you, Epic?”

His Soul weeps. Of course not! How could you be nothing, when you mean everything?

“Cross” sobs into his hands, tears flowing and melting away with his body as Nightmare shifts once more.

His Soul crumbles with him. He hated seeing Cross cry, wanted to wipe away his tears and kiss his tear-stained sockets and nuzzle his jaw and hold him close

Epic tries so, so hard, but he always, always falls.

“And it’s not only Cross that you’ve failed, is it, Epic?”

The form of the Frisk he once knew appeared, eyes hidden by their bangs. “You let your Gaster kill me,” they murmured.

Another pang in his Soul for the loss of such a young, innocent life.

He’d gotten there too late.

Chara replaced them. “You let him possess me, used my body to fight you.”

Another child he couldn’t save.

“You should’ve died.” They accuse. “You did die.”

He always did.

“You died, and he killed Papyrus next.”

They condensed and grew until they towered over Epic as Gaster. “And let me live once more.”

“If it weren’t for your oh so precious friend,” Gaster’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. “Destroying the barrier and stealing our AU’s code, you’d still be dead.”

Ha, as if that bothered him. Dying was easy for Epic. It was living, wanting to and enjoying being alive, that was hard. “Got me there.”

Everything was…murky, after that. He remembered the AU resetting because of Cross’s Determination. How Gaster still had his own body but he and Papyrus kept the Eyes, Chara and Frisk were nowhere to be found, and Epic…

Epic made and lost a best friend in one. He lived in the Omega Timeline after, while his brother chose to stay in their AU, befriended Color and Delta, and never once stopped thinking about his best friend. Cross had disappeared from what he now knew was an Overwrite, all his memories of their friendship gone, and Epic was left with memories of what was and will never be again.

But what Nightmare didn’t know was that Epic understood people would always change. That Cross and he would always be the bestest of friends. Epic didn’t love Cross any less and never would. Cross still had the same crooked grin, the same laugh, the same fire in his eyes and heart made of the unfathomable and infinitesimal galaxies Epic adored.

Epic was more than happy to create new memories with Cross as long as he could still hold his hand in his and watch the same silly shows together or laugh over the tacos Cross had made. As long as he could still cradle his face and tell him how much he meant to him and watch Cross light up with the loveliest lilac blush that made Epic’s Soul sing.

Epic may have failed over and over again, but as long as he had people to love he’d never stop trying to amend for his failures nor stop trying to keep what’s most precious to him safe and happy. Epic was useless – he couldn’t save them or help them when they needed him. He knew this.

But that didn’t mean he’d ever stop loving them, or ever stop reminding them how they are loved and wanted in his life and what made it worth living.

A skeleton with a black bandana decorated in the royal rune beams at him in his mind’s eye, calling his name and waving at him to join the rest of their friends.

His Soul warms and it’s enough to push away the ice and claw out of the dark hole he’d been thrown in. He’s fallen into it plenty of times. This isn’t the first time he’d fallen nor would it be the last he dug himself out.

Evidently his affirmed resolve and reminiscences must’ve disgusted Nightmare. “Gaster” vanished with a low, curdled sneer, as Nightmare took his place once more.

“Nothing to say, Epic?” Nightmare goaded. “Not even going to try to defend yourself?”

It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts, his chest still tight with regret. But when he puts it all away as he does, saving it for later, for when it’s safer to fall apart, he will. Now, he’s got a part to play.

It's curtain call, and he was born to perform.

[kiaxet]

HOW ABOUT THAT @somerandomdudelmao DISASTER TWIN REUNION, HUH

Went a little feral to the tune of 2.2K words of self-indulgence. What else is new?

~~~~~~~

Donnie can't sleep. More accurately, he won't sleep. Not until he's done. He'd never been one to leave a project unfinished; death and resurrection hadn't changed that.

He taps incessantly, repetitively, on a keyboard and screen, the motions long since past inputting data and now only serving to keep him awake. The repetition is soothing, easy, and - counterintuitively - he finds his head drooping forward into sleep-

And he snaps back upright. No. Not until he can confirm Leo is okay.

Leo is behind him, he knows. Breathing. In bed. Asleep. Very much alive. And-

He jumps and whips around as a thud sounds behind him. "What the-"

Leo is on the floor.

Well, that answers the question as to whether his twin is awake.

For a fraction of a second, part of him wavers uncertainly. He loves his idiot twin. The question he hasn't been able to answer is whether his reaction to Leo waking up will fall on love or idiot twin-

"Leo!"

He can hear the exasperation in his voice, and yep, it's the latter. He takes a knee next to Leo and hauls him into his arms, lecturing him all the while, and if he can hear the annoyance in his voice then Leo sure as hell can. Sleep deprivation for the purposes of keeping his brother's soul alight had done nothing for his temper. "I swear to God, all you had to do was make a sound! Why are you such a difficult patient?"

He deposits Leo carefully on the bed - "Sit still!" - and checks him over, running every scan he can think of and making sure his brother's new body really is in good working order, spouting increasingly irritated commentary all the while. Of course the fall didn't hurt him - Leo is tougher than that, and Donnie does better work than that - but he still can't help the rising anxiety in his throat.

This almost didn't happen.

"-stupid, stupid selfless idiot!"

Donnie almost couldn't save him.

"Grrhh-"

Leo nearly died for real. Permanently beyond Donnie's reach. Well and truly gone-

"Do you have any idea how close you were to having nothing left to save?"

And now here Leo is, in perfect health, sitting on Donnie's bed with a big dopey grin on his face as Donnie chokes on his anxiety and damn near shakes himself apart-

Oh for fuck's sake.

"Hey. Are you even listening?"

Leo speaks up for the first time since he's woken up, voice shaky from disuse. "D-Donnie?"

And that is not a goddamn answer to anything Donnie has been saying, because of course it isn't. It's Leo. He's always had his own priorities. "Yeah. No. You're not fucking listening." Donnie heaves a long-suffering sigh, sinking back into the routine comfort that irritation at his twin provides. "At least you're talking." Small favors. "Although I'm surprised you're not throwing your stupid jokes at me." Even smaller favors.

He stops short as Leo's hand closes around his wrist, drawing Donnie's arm to Leo's plastron. "You're real," his brother breathes, looking from Donnie's hand to Donnie himself with tears streaming down his face. "You're real!"

And then, in the space of a thought, Leo's joy breaks, his smile turning desperate. "Are you?"

For a moment, Donnie stares at his twin, wondering at the sudden change in expression. He takes a breath-

And the part of him that had lain dormant for so long after he'd woken up - the part of him that had been screaming for his twin's safety ever since they'd recovered the few scattered embers of Leo's soul - gasps to life, blooming like a time-lapse video of a flower and reaching to the edges of Donnie's soul. Leo had called it their twin sense, and Donnie hadn't had it in him to argue after a while. Whatever it is, it's back, connected to Leo's renewed presence, and-

Donnie's heart floods with emotions. Relief and joy sprout quickly and are nearly swept away in a tide of exhaustionanxietyfearfearfearfearFEAR-

But down beneath it all, steady against the rising wall of terror, is the little blue spark of hope that his brother always carried. His core. The thing that let him continue on in the face of insurmountable odds, and lent that same strength to everyone around him. A ninja's greatest weapon.

It's Leo. It's Leo-

And Donnie can't leave him alone in his fear. Not when there's no need for it. Not when they're safe.

He lets that breath out, and sits next to Leo on the bed. "Mhm. I'm alive. And you're alive. We're safe. The Krang are gone." That's all the news that's fit to print, or at least the most important parts. What else does he have to say?

Oh.

"I'm sorry I..uh…"

He's sorry he what? Died? Left a mess for Leo to deal with? Didn't do enough while he was alive to keep everyone else alive in turn after he was gone? Kept his brother's soul in a fucking mug, because that was the only way he could ensure he wouldn't break it while Leo was still fragile? All of the above?

…yeah, it's all of the above.

He owes Leo one hell of an apology, and he's never been good at any of this, so instead he shrugs haplessly and leans forward, pulling Leo into his arms and hanging on tight.

It's a matter of moments before Leo has him flat on his shell on the bed and is sobbing into his arms. Normally he'd hate seeing his twin cry, but it's proof of life - proof that Leo made it, that his soul is intact enough for him to still be Leo, that he's alive and awake and here - and Donnie will take it.

And if he's squeezing Leo back pretty hard himself, well, that's fine too. Nobody else needs to know.

~~~~~~~

Donnie is yelling at him.

Donnie is strong enough to have picked Leo up off the ground, well enough to be on his feet without support, running tests and reading Leo the riot act over his latest boneheaded maneuver - in this case, forgetting he was missing an arm and falling out of bed.

Donnie is yelling at him, because Donnie is here to yell at him.

And Leo is smiling, because he couldn't be happier. He lets the words wash over him, draping over his shoulders like a favorite cozy blanket that he'd lost so many years ago, and he basks in the warmth that is his brother's voice and smiles.

It's enough to interrupt the yelling for a question, though he doesn't really hear it - just keeps smiling, and says Donnie's name, and it's so nice to be able to say it with a smile now, because Donnie is here-

-he is, right? This isn't just a dying hallucination on Leo's part, right?

(It couldn't be- he remembers his death, remembers breathing his last, remembers being trapped- but this-)

He reaches out, taking Donnie's wrist in hand, and pulls his brother closer to him. "You're…real…" It certainly feels real - skin and scales, softer than his own, and his fingers barely fit all the way around the wrist instead of encircling them with room to spare - and he stares down at it, tears rolling down his face as he finally looks back up at his twin. "You're real!"

The Krang show you what you want to see.

The thought strikes him unbidden, turning his joy and relief to ice. It's a well-known fact: a Krang infection can show its host what they want to see, visions of comfort and family and home, and extract intel from the host's reactions. He knows that- he knows that, and-

And he'd died surrounded by Krang- and even if he couldn't see or hear or feel, he knows he'd been held captive-

But it's Donnie- he wants this to be real- he needs this to be real- he wants his twin back so badly he can't think, and the idea that this could be a Krang hallucination is almost too much to bear-

"Are you?" He can hear how choked the words are as they leave his lips, but he needs to know-

And Donnie stops, and sits down next to him, and tells him everything he wants to hear - everything he could've ever wished for. They're alive. They're safe. The Krang are gone. It all sounds too good to be true.

And then Donnie offers him an apology and a sad half-smile, pulling him into a strong hug-

And the ice in Leo's mind shatters in a flood of warmth as his twin sense opens for the first time since Donnie's death. He feels his twin's irritation, and deep-seated exhaustion, and a choking wave of guiltguiltguiltguiltguilt-

And beneath it all, steady and strong as ever, the thrum of unending determination, powered by an unfathomably deep well of love. It's the backbeat to the melody of Leo's life, the point-counterpoint to his own heartbeat- it's something he'd never had to live without until he did, but it's back, rushing in to fill the silence he'd known with the strength to go on and the knowledge that he is loved loved loved, strong and overwhelming and all-encompassing in the way only Donnie can love-

It's something the Krang could never imitate.

This is real. This is all real-

He throws himself against his twin, toppling them both over on the bed as he clings to Donnie, unable to stand even a fraction of an inch of space between them, as though he could push their hearts together through their plastrons, and he cries, sobbing out worry and terror and grief and the slow, crushing exhaustion of a losing battle finally lost. He cries as though the world was ending - and it had, once when the Krang had invaded and again every time he'd lost a member of his family, over and over until he'd sent his last hope through a portal that had cost his littlest brother his life and succumbed to death himself.

And now he's alive. Here, wherever here is, with Donnie. Clinging to his twin, and being held in turn as Donnie gently sits them both up, never letting go as Leo cries himself out.

It takes a while - long enough for Leo's gaze to settle into a stare and his thoughts to settle into a comfortable static. He's alive, Donnie is alive, and he has no fucking idea what else is going on, but he's just going to be okay with that for now.

His thoughts rouse enough to inform him of something wrong - the line of tension Donnie is carrying down his neck and over his shoulders. That won't do. Leo could try to massage it out with one hand, maybe try to get Donnie to talk about it, but Donnie never likes to talk about it, and Leo isn't one for slowly soothing away tension when he can just take an axe to the release valve instead. Plus, it gives him something definite to focus on, instead of…this whole situation. Whatever 'this whole situation' actually is.

Donnie had mentioned his stupid jokes, right?

"H-hey Dee?" His voice wavers from disuse, thick with tears, but he pushes through. "Why did- why did the tree buy a camera?"

"What?" Oh, Donnie is not going to see this coming. Excellent.

"To do a photosynthesis." It's nowhere near the level of pizazz he normally uses for a punchline delivery - he's still too tired and frazzled and clinging to Donnie entirely too hard for that - but that beautiful pause of a terrible joke sinking in tells him it had hit home nonetheless. Donnie moves - he can hear the telltale slap of face meeting palm - and then breaks down into helpless laughter, smacking the back of Leo's shell as the tension Leo had felt in his twin's shoulders abruptly relaxes. Good. It worked.

"This is so fucking stupid," is all Donnie manages as his laughter fades, and he slumps fully against Leo with a murmur. That's...abrupt. Sure, Leo had felt Donnie's exhaustion, but he hadn't realized it'd been that bad. He takes hold of Donnie, gently laying him down on the bed to rest-

Remember what happened last time Donnie fell asleep next to you.

He gasps sharply at the thought - not again NEVER again - and keeps his hand steady as he moves, laying both fingers gently against Donnie's neck and feeling for his pulse. It's easy to find, strong and steady and even, like it had been before the infection had taken Donnie's vitality and then his life.

But he's alive, and healthy, and sleeping. He's okay. And Leo-

Leo moves his hand to the side of his own neck. His pulse is also easy to find, quickened with the adrenaline of an unknown situation and multiple consecutive shocks to his system.

Okay. Take stock. Assess. Figure out a plan from there.

He's alive. Donnie's alive. The Krang are gone. And everything else…is a big fat question mark, with no easy answers and no indication as to where to begin looking for them.

Well.

Uh.

"What the fuck," Leo whispers to the room at large, as though the walls could answer.

~~~~~~~

(A world away and still very close, a younger pair of twins cling to one another the way a drowning man clings to driftwood: desperately, clutching tight, as though letting go will spell their doom. Neither of them know where the emotions came from, or why; all they know is that each of them are damn glad the other is alive, and they'll do everything they can to make sure that continues to be the case.)

(What the fuck, indeed.)

[queermentaldisaster]

Rumor has it that the Riley family is cursed. First, their youngest son, kidnapped under mysterious circumstances. The nephew? Hit by a motorcycle that just happened to roll off the road. The oldest and his wife? Crashed into a tree that was in the middle of the asphalt. The father? Murdered in his hospital bed. The mother? Overdosed on pills she'd never had.

Task Force 141 knows the rumors. Who in the UK doesn't? One day, 141 is sent out to help a team in Las Almas called Los Vaqueros. Apparently, the Las Almas cartel is having a territory dispute with the neighboring city's cartel, the Zaragoza cartel. While Los Vaqueros is handling the Las Almas cartel with Gaz and Roach's help, Price and Soap go to handle the Zaragoza cartel. They go undercover, and discover someone with brown eyes and blond lashes, wearing a balaclava, being passed around like many of the blunts in that room.

Soap manages to get his hands on this person, who's clearly out of it. After some finagling, he manages to get them outside, wrapping them in his coat to provide them with some decency.

When they wake up, they're in a bed in the Los Vaqueros base. Soap asks them for their name and pronouns, and he introduces himself as Ghost.

[gemidoriwillbarelyusethisaccount]

Finally got around to writing a second IJaC fic!!!!

It's REAL heavy tho

[leighsartworks216]

Endings and Beginnings

Father-figure!Halsin & gn!OC

My first time writing Halsin and it's because I had this thought of him helping my dnd bard Rynd learn to accept death and moving on from the past. If you have any questions about Rynd, please do not hesitate to ask

@shenanigans-and-imagines You had to read this idea when I first had it, and now you get to read it come to fruition lol

Warnings: references to past abuse, depression, self-destructive behaviors, crying, animal death, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2,348

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

The fire crackled late into the night, long past when it should have been reduced to embers. It chased away the darkness and radiated warmth, but its light hid the stars and illuminated decay.

Rynd turned their hands over in the firelight. How many times they'd done so was anybody's guess. They only stopped to throw more kindling in the flames when it began to die down. The irony of it wasn't lost on them; they destroyed themselves for months using necromancy to raise the dead, and now they refused to let the fire die, just so they could see the effect the dark magic had on their body.

They rubbed their fingertips together.

They remember visiting Astarion months back, desperate for the Necromancy of Thay. He'd smelled the rot then. He refused to hand over the book until they could explain why they needed it. They’d never been good at lying, so they told him: Now that they were free of the monastery, of the tadpoles - free to make their own choices, they wanted to find the parents that left them on that doorstep to begin with.

They asked everyone who could have an inkling of who their parents were. They even went back to the damned monastery to ask the monks that tortured and abused them what they knew, though they told Rynd nothing, merely cursed their existence as they always had. They searched everywhere for any hints of a Tiefling with blue skin like theirs, who had musical talents, who had white hair - any scrap of identity they could have shared with their parents.

When they could not find any hint they were alive, it seemed only natural to turn to darker magics.

The book had been a waste of time once Astarion reluctantly handed it over; nothing useful for their needs, just a lot of voices shouting in their head.

He must have told Gale. Or maybe Gale just knew. He was always better at magic than they were, always connected to the Weave. When they appeared on his doorstep, he lectured them for almost an hour about self-destruction. Once he calmed down, he finally let them inside.

He was right, of course. They were destroying themself and he knew how to spot it best after his own struggles.

Necromancy decayed the user. Weakened muscles and bone, left them ever fatigued and exhausted where no amount of sleep ever seems like enough, cut circulation from fingers and toes until they're left black and cold.

Gale had forced them to stay in his Tower until the long-term effects had lessened, until their fingers returned to a normal shade and they didn't look on the edge of death themself. Tara had been a great comfort, even if she would scold them just as much. When they were well enough, and anxious to get back on the road, Gale made them swear never to use necromancy spells ever again. Agreeing hurt more than letting the spells take their toll.

They turned their hands over again. Despite the blue tint of their skin now reaching to their fingertips, they remained cold and numb. It was harder to play their ocarina, but when had they last cared to play anyway? Music felt hollow. They felt hollow.

"You have been troubled from the moment you returned, little cub." A hulking figure, large but never intimidating to those who knew him, sat on the ground beside Rynd. Halsin held out a large handful of berries, contained in a handkerchief. All of their favorites. "I have not seen you eat or sleep. If you'll allow me, I would like to help you carry your burdens."

They stared at the berries for a long moment. When had they last cared to eat? When Gale cooked dinner for them, a few weeks ago? When did they forget the comfort of being able to eat when they wished; food that was not stale or moldy, but fresh and sweet?

They opened and closed their hands, stretching their fingers as though it would bring some feeling back to them. It didn't. They picked up each corner of the handkerchief, lifted the berries from his hand, and rested them in their lap where they grabbed a raspberry. They were fresh, of course. Halsin would only pick the best of the best for times like these. And that first bite - a shudder ran through their body, as though it was suddenly aware what it had been missing.

The tight knot around their heart, intricately woven and pulled taught, loosened ever so slightly. They leaned against Halsin, doing their best not to let their horns poke him. He didn't mind, he was used to dealing with Tieflings less considerate than them. Instead he wrapped an arm around them and pulled them closer. They closed their eyes, relaxed into the warmth he himself radiated in spirit as much as body, and slowly ate each berry one by one, until they were all gone and the sun was beginning to rise. They fell asleep with a sunbeam on their face.

-

Despite the comfort and food, when they awoke, tucked tenderly into their bedroll, it felt like nothing really changed. The sun shone brightly at its zenith high in the sky, but their mind was still so dark. The rampant thoughts that tore them down repeated over and over, cursing their very existence. They sat on the ground by a trail of ants and watched them march along, allowing the thoughts to consume them.

The children of the Grove no longer spoke to them. They begged Rynd to play every day, every hour of that first week. When there was never any response, they stopped asking. Now, they no longer came near.

Rynd had at first appreciated the isolation. Now they just wish they would ask again, even if the answer never changed.

They did not hear Halsin approach despite the scraping of his sandals over the dirt. They only noticed his presence when he lightly touched their shoulder. "Come. Let us go for a walk."

It wasn't a question, but their gut reaction told them to refuse. They clenched their hands into fists, fighting against the horrid weight dragging them down, the disparity of trying to do anything, and stood when they found a crack to break through. No matter how much they wanted to continue being alone, Halsin had always been a source of comfort and a force for good. Even if they couldn't help themself, he could find a way. They had to believe he could.

He smiled warmly. They did not feel it. He turned and led them into the woods.

They expected him to speak, to ask why they were so changed from the last time they visited. The fear that he would hung over their head like the axe of an executioner. How would they answer? Would they tell the truth or lie? What if he saw past the lie? What if Gale already told him? What if Astarion had told him? Would he ask them to leave? Their body was tainted with dark magic, surely he'd want them as far from the Grove as possible. Where would they even go? They just wanted to be alone. They just wanted to hide.

Some small part of them cringed at the thought. Isolation felt altogether safe and scary, their salvation and destruction. They didn't want to be alone. No, of course not. That's what had started this whole mess; being a lonely little orphan, trapped in their small room. Alone.

Halsin pointed out a patch of flowers growing in the shade of a sycamore tree. Rynd stared at them for a minute, thinking. They didn't know there were flowers who could grow so vivaciously in shade; the tree seemed to block the sun from every angle, preventing it from shining on most of it at any given time. For a flickering moment, their mind was not consumed with the journey to find their parents.

It reminded them of the monastery where they grew up. The big tree in the center of the courtyard that towered high above the walls, with brilliant white flowers that filled the air with the sweet fragrance of spring. When they were too small to lift themself up and see through the high window in their room, all they could do was look up at the tall branches. They’d yearned to sit under that tree, climb it, feel it and be at peace. The only times they’d ever gotten close, they’d snuck out of their room through secret passageways, but lingering meant getting caught, which meant being punished, so they never got to be around it for very long.

They loved that tree. But thinking of the monastery soured any positive thought they'd had. They could see now how terrible that place really was under the golden haze of naiveté. They grimaced as they continued to walk on.

Halsin led them along an invisible path through the trees and underbrush. If he had any thoughts about where he was taking them, Rynd couldn’t tell. For a while they’d stared straight ahead at his back. They were starting to regret coming along; they didn’t want to keep walking aimlessly through nature. All the life, the bustling world of bugs and birds… Maybe they should have gone to Baldur’s Gate instead, wallowed in Ramazith’s Tower with Rolan, Lia and Cal. Maybe there they would have found the strength to read or practice magic. (They wouldn’t have. Being so close to that much knowledge would have destroyed them.)

After quite some time, they gave in to their restlessness and looked around. Green leaves and dark bark - thrilling. They would have found it so, once upon a time. They’d loved finding books about flora during their time in the monastery. They would write countless notes on the shapes of the leaves, the types of sap and so on. Now it was just a cruel reminder of their failure.

They glanced at the ground as they passed a large oak tree and stopped in their tracks. There, curled up by the thick roots and hidden under a leafy plant, was a little mouse. They watched it for a moment, but they knew. They’d surrounded themself with death for months. They knew.

Rynd knelt down in the dirt and instinctively reached out a hand, hovering it over the tiny creature. But then they stopped. They did nothing. They promised Gale they’d not use necromancy spells ever again, but… Why did this mouse deserve to die? Why should this creature pass away into obscurity? It had lived a life, too; maybe it had a family nearby, waiting for it to come home. The thought made their heart ache, the knot in their chest tightening ever more.

But they couldn’t. They promised Gale.

Their hand hovered a moment longer still, beginning to shake before they finally dropped it to their lap. Just one spell and it would be able to scamper off. But even they knew it was one spell too many.

The mouse’s fur was white. Pure. No blood. The only dirt that could be found stained its little paws. They wondered when it died. If it was sudden or slow. It was curled up like a fetus, tail pulled toward its chest. Its pink ears seemed to stand to attention, like it was still listening to the world around it. They could almost imagine it was just sleeping.

The large druid knelt down beside Rynd, hands resting on his thighs as he took in the dead mouse and the Tiefling that mourned it. It was the first thing he’d noticed Rynd take an interest in this entire trip. And slowly the pieces started to fit together.

Despite the somber mood, he wore a soft grin as he quietly dug a small hole. He piled up all the dirt next to it, working to ensure it was deep enough for the little thing to fit inside. After all his years as a druid, it still amazed him how tiny nature could be.

Rynd watched wordlessly as he delicately scooped up the mouse in his large hands. It limply followed every slight jostle. He was careful as he laid it down on a leaf.

Rynd’s eyes burned. Their lungs felt tight in their chest.

Halsin picked up the leaf by its pointed tip and its stem, and he lowered it into the hole he made. “May the winds carry your legends forward, and the spring flowers blossom with the same richness and beauty as the life you’ve lived,” he prayed quietly. He heard Rynd sniffle beside him, but he gave them what privacy he could as he began pushing the dirt back into the hole. The mouse and leaf would decay and be returned to the soil, becoming nutrients for the large oak, so that it may continue to live on and provide homes and nourishment to thousands more creatures just like it. This was merely the next step in the never-ending cycle of life.

Before he could push the last pile of dirt onto the pile, smaller hands intervened. They tenderly guided the soil to its place, forming a small mound over the little body. A little grave. Gods, how many graves had they seen? How many had they walked over, desperately searching for any hint of familiarity? None of the headstones or mausoleums had stirred any reaction in them. Now, tears seemed to fall endlessly for a life so small.

They sniffled and gasped around their sobs, muffled by habit more than a conscious effort. Halsin touched their shoulder. In a heartbeat, they were clinging to him, trying to wrap their arms around his hulking frame as they pressed their face into his chest. He wrapped his arms around them, rubbing their back and gently massaging their scalp, combing his large fingers through their unruly curls. “Release your emotions, little cub. You do not have to hide them anymore. You can let go.”

The knot around their heart unraveled.

[whumpiary]

technically a follow on from this piece. could probably stand alone. this piece has been 80% done in my google docs for three years so if you see any big holes in it uhhh. no you didn't.

if you've ever wanted some vague exposition on cass' powers or choices, then this is for you

content warning: mentions of death, victim blaming, aftermath of violence/assault, referenced dubcon/noncon, brief mind control

-

The common room at Bergen Estate gets quiet at night. Most of the charges prefer their own rooms as it gets dark. Hiding from the bogeyman.

But Harley liked the large, dark emptiness of the common room.

The curved chairs, the pillars, the rows of books and video games lined up along the shelves. The big oak tables. Bean bags in the corner. Rugs here and there. The whole place had the energy of some sort of bizarre combination between a kid’s playroom and a university library. But Harley wanted a space to think, and this was the easiest one.

Their intuition had been right and wrong in equal amounts tonight. They’d known they would be called to Christopher’s lounge tonight. And they were. And they knew that they would be fine after. And they are. But… if they were so fine why do they feel so God fucking awful?

“Harley can go, right? It’s not like we need them.”

Every time they try to push the memory from their head, it bobs to the surface again like an apple in water.

“I have to say, Harley… I really am so disappointed in you.”

They stare out the large bay window, at the leafless trees silhouetted in the mix of light from the garden and from the moon. The whole thing looks ghostly. Gothic. The dark through the glass makes the whole window reflective; a giant mirror just waiting to show them their face. But it’s dark in here too. It’s a dark room reflected on a dark night. That’s why it’s so obvious when there’s a shuffling flash of light behind them, making their heart skip.

The door opens, someone steps through, and then it closes. Dark again. Harley stiffens, freezes, trying to catch another glimpse of who it is in the reflection of the window but it's back to shadows on shadows on shadows.

They listen as the person shuffles to one of the cushioned seats. Shuffles. Like it hurts to move. They sit so carefully that Harley can barely hear them. Then there's quiet. Stillness. An exhale.

Harley doesn’t move. They know stillness. They know silence. Have known it for longer than they’ve been here.

But then there’s another exhale.

And another.

Any hitch of breath that might be happening in between is more or less silent.  Which means, usually… crying. 

Harley feels themself cringe. The Bergen Boys don't cry. Those are the rules. Not Christopher's rules but the deeper, unspoken ones between the lot of them. You don’t complain, you don’t ask for help, you don’t cry. Or if you did, it got beaten out of you quicksmart. Everything else was a free for all as far as Harley has ever been able to tell. 

So the shadow person has come to the common room in the middle of the night. Assuming, like Harley had, that it would be empty. That it would be safe.

Guilt washes over them all at once, guttural and nauseating and they realise all of a sudden that intentionally or not just by sitting here, listening, they're imposing. Intruding. Doing the wrong thing. And then the fear beneath that, on top of that, around that, that if they wait too long and the shadow person notices them, they may well end up on the wrong side of thrown fists. Again.

Harley shifts on the couch where they sit, exaggerating the whisper scrape of fabric on fabric, and leans back on the left side where they know the leg creaks.

The shadow person's breathing stops immediately and Harley hears them stand.

"Who's there?" 

Harley freezes again, regretting making their presence known. Cassius. 

"I can see you. On the couch. Get over here." His voice is sharp and violent. Deeper than usual. There's a childish part of Harley, not as far beneath the surface as they’d like, that wishes desperately they’d just stay silent and hidden. Safe.

But, like they were told, they uncurl their legs. Stand. Turn. Start to walk. 

Harley can see the moment that the light from the window must catch their face. Cassius' face softens, eyes fluttering closed and body sagging with what was maybe relief. 

“Harls,” he says, running a hand over his face as he sits back down. Harley doesn’t miss the wince. “Jesus Christ, man, you scared me.”

“Sorry.” The apology flies out of them like a verbal flinch. “I’ll leave.”

“No, ple-” Cassius stops himself, eyes shuttering closed. Harley watches him take a deep breath, brow furrowing briefly. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t ask for help. “You can stay. If you want. I don't mind.”

Harley hesitates for a moment, glancing around half-uselessly, before choosing a seat across from the other charge and folding into it. 

“What are you doing up so late?” Cassius asks, as though they’ve bumped into each other at a truck stop. At a bar. Fancy seeing you here. 

Harley shrugs. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep. I kept…” thinking about what you were doing. They bite down on their tongue to keep themselves from saying more. It’s stupid. 

They trail off as Cassius looks up at them and the dull light from the window catches the shape of his brow. At the blood smeared along his temple. The bruising already flaring up along his cheek. “Did… did Beauche do that to you?”

Cassius huffs out a half laugh, running his tongue between his teeth and the obviously bruised tissue of his cheek. He drags his hand up, knuckle brushing softly against his brow. “Yep. What a gentleman, huh?”

“But Christopher said he wouldn’t be violent.”

Cassius scoffs, “Yeah and Christopher’s such a shining beacon of truth, huh?”

Cassius sits back in his chair, eyes hard, and Harley holds their breath. With the shadows of the trees outside dancing across his face, the shading of the bruises and the swelling there, Cassius looks half monster.

Then his expression softens, his body relaxes. “Nah, it was my fault." He lets out a sigh, hand running back through his hair. "The guy wanted me to cry.”

“And did you?” Cassius’ glare is immediate. Has Harley slamming their jaw shut so quickly their teeth click together. “Sorry.”

Cassius shrugs a shoulder in acceptance of the apology and leans back in the chair. He closes his eyes and all at once it’s like some mask comes down. He looks exhausted and hurt and… young, actually. Harley always forgets that. He’s younger than them. About a three year gap between them.

“Why are you up?” Harley says, after the silence gets unbearably fragile. “Here, I mean. I thought you’d be…” They struggle for a tactful way to put it. “In the other wing.”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to stay, thank fuck. And Christopher doesn’t like me coming in af-... Um. He doesn’t like me coming in too late,” Cassius says, picking non-existent dirt out from under his finger nails. He clears his throat a little as his face flinches in and out of a frown. “Plus, the sooner I see him, the sooner I have to… you know…”

He gestures loosely at his face and Harley frowns. The sooner he’d have to do what? Get rid of the bruises? Get rid of the pain that keeps making him flinch and close his eyes? None of them talked about it but they’d all seen it. Bruises fading on Cassius just to bloom on his brother in minutes. Always after a visit to Christopher. Always without a word spoken.

Harley can’t help their own contempt, “Isn’t that a good thing for you?”

Cassius looks at them with an expression Harley can’t place, dark eyes flicking between both of Harley’s, as though searching for something. He looks angry. Murderous. Violent. Then he snorts and it’s gone. “Yeah. Sure.”

He drops his head, hands fidgeting between his knees. With the angle and the shadows, Harley can only just make out the shape of his nose, his eyes half hidden behind his hair. It sticks out at awkward angles around his head like a terrible crown. Frizzy waves in some parts, kinked curls in others.

It'll suit him more when he leaves and he grows it longer.

The thought comes unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. Like the predictions always do. Just a slice of truth falling into the head with the right prompt. An understanding that that's just… how things will be.

It's not the first time Harley's thought something like it. That Cassius will do much better once he leaves. The notion of it is almost horrifying. Cassius has been here longer than they have. It’s hard to imagine Bergen Estate without its golden boy. 

Harley chews on their cheek and “If I ask you something, will you answer truthfully?” 

Cassius shrugs. Smirks. “Probably not.”

Harley rolls their eyes and looks away, annoyance settling in their gut. They don’t even know why they bother with Cassius. He’s always the exact same. They're about to stand up to leave when Cassius clears his throat and-

“I’ll trade you for it,” he says softly, dark eyes shining with something unnameable in the dim light. “You ask me something, I ask you something. No lies.”

“Promise?”

Cassius just shrugs. Which is probably as good a promise as Harley’s going to get, really. They sigh and trace the patterning of the rug with their eyes before pursing their lips together and looking back up at Cassius with a focussed sincerity.

They swallow. Inhale. Hands grip the arms of the chair. "You hate it here.”

Cass’ eyes skitter to the side and back. "That's… not a question."

"Why don't you leave?"

“Same as you, dumbass. Legally binding contract.”

“No, I mean-” Harley bites down on their cheek and tries to figure out the right words to say what they mean. “You can make him do whatever you want, right? You can make anyone do what you want. So why don’t you just… make him get rid of you."

Cassius exhales in a way that could almost be a laugh. But probably isn’t. “It’s… complicated.”

“Because of Henri?”

He shrugs, looking bored as he meets their gaze. “Sure.”

“No lies.”

Cassius sighs, leaning back slouched in the chair. He shrugs. “Just because I can make someone want to do something, it doesn’t mean they’ll do it.”

“Like… he’d resist you?”

“No.” Cassius pulls a face. “I mean yes, maybe. But no… It’s like…” He makes a sound hallway between a sigh and a groan. He rolls his neck, eyes roaming around the room like he’s trying to figure something out. He leans his chin on his hand, fingers skirting over his lips before looking back to Harley. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

Harley stands instantly. They turn on their foot and move to the door and for the first time in their life everything is certain. Everything is clear. Everything makes so much sense and all they have to do is… Is to… 

“Um…”

Cass half smiles. There's something vicious and cruel behind his eyes. “Dᴏ ɪᴛ, Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ. Sᴏʟᴠᴇ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ.”

They step forward, compulsively, and for some bizarre reason they start raising their arms in front of them, as though their body can’t figure out a way to solve the issue even though they want to and as soon as that thought hits them the frantic desire starts to dissipate, filling instead with deep dread and panic. 

They turn their head towards him, eyes wide. Frozen. "I…" 

Cassius’ gaze is dark and heavy. Hungry and calculating. His jaw sets. “Hᴀʀʟᴇʏ, ɢᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ Cʜʀɪsᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ.”

The feeling that floods them is white hot and immediate. Desire and rage running through them like lava. They’re not sure they’ve ever moved so fast, wheeling on a foot, making it to the door, but no sooner are they reaching for the handle then-

“Nah, ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ. Cᴏᴍᴇ sɪᴛ ᴅᴏᴡɴ.”

All at once the desire dissipates, and the panic sets in like shame. Like failure. They come back over. They sit back down. Then their thoughts catch up and they look at Cassius with fury. How dare he do that? How dare he go into their head and make them feel that? 

Cassius just smiles. Shrugs. “Sorry. Figured I’d show not tell.”

‘’I could’ve killed him.”

Cassius shrugs, unshaded and unconvinced. “Nah. You would’ve got halfway down the hall and changed your mind.”

“But what if I didn’t?”

“Then you would’ve gotten to his room and realised you didn’t know how. You wouldn’t have killed him.”

“I might’ve,” they protest, still indignant.

Cass shrugs, smile lazy and tired, “But you didn’t.”

They try, for a few moments, to hold on to the anger. The indignation. It’s so, so easy to hate him when he’s far away. When they can’t see him or only see him at a distance. It’s much much harder three feet away from him, where the moonlight show the bags under his eyes as dark as the bruise blossoming above his temple.

“He takes you away from here sometimes,” they say eventually. “You could… when you were away from here. You could leave. Make him let you leave. That’s not that hard.”

Cassius just looks at them, chin resting on his hand, fingers covering his mouth. He raises his eyebrows at them expectantly, foot bouncing like a motor. He’s probably trying to look annoyed. Sarcastic. But he just looks like a sad little boy.

Understanding clicks in.

“But Henri…” Harley voices for him.

Cassius shrugs a shoulder. A tear manages to make it all the way to his cheekbone before he swipes it away with the side of his fist. The Bergen Boys don’t cry. “Told you. Complicated.”

This isn’t how things are meant to be. Cassius is meant to stay in the other wing, up on his damn pedestal and away in Christopher’s bedroom. He’s not meant to cry in the common room. He’s meant to be the golden boy in his golden room. It’s meant to be easy to hate him. He’s meant to be arrogant and selfish and mean and rude and-

“Your French isn’t better than mine,” they say suddenly. They can’t quite say where the compulsion to say it comes from.

Cassius blinks, “What?”

“In the office before, you said your French was better than mine. It’s not.”

He looks at them for a moment, frowning and annoyed and then suddenly he’s laughing, eyebrows shooting up in exhausted amusement, “You’re weird as fuck, you know that?”

“What? No I’m not,” Harley spits, suddenly self-conscious and antsy.

“Yes you are,” Cassius says. “I did you a fucking favour and a half tonight-“

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“And you know what, you’re welcome by the way.”

“I never asked you to-”

“Oh, save it. Yes you fucking did. You know what I can do. You know what I can feel. You were basically fucking screaming at me.”

And that, they do remember. Closing their eyes. Drowning Christopher’s voice out in their head. The huge loud static of I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I don’t want this.

The air stills. The atmosphere between them settles like dust in the shadows and darkens again. Guilt creeps over Harley's shoulders and rests with heavy claws. They shouldn’t have said anything. 

“My French is more usable than yours,” Cass mutters.

They’re truly unsure if he’s being genuine or just trying to break the ice that’s frosted over. They try for the latter, “Your grammar sucks.”

“Yeah, well we didn’t get much further than ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’, so I don’t think I did fine,” he gives them a dead-eyed smile that they assume is meant to cast the comment in humour. They don’t really find it very funny.

After a few awkward beats, Cassius gives up the ghost. He clears his throat, “Alright. My turn,” 

Harley readjusts in their seat, straightening their spine, tucking their hair behind their ears to listen for the question. They wait one moment. And then two. The whole time the golden boy seems to scrutinise them, looking into their eyes as he sizes them up, makes some sort of assessment.

Cassius’ voice is low and jarringly sad as he finally lands on a question, “Why do you hate me so much?”

If it was possible for Harley to feel every cell in their body crystallise… that was what this feeling was. “I don’t hate you.”

Cassius smiles. Tilts his head. The blood along his temple catches in the light. “No lies.”

Harley frowns and looks away, turning their head to look out the window across the other side of the room. They wonder if he remembers the day they met as well as they do. It was in this room. Just a few feet from where they were sitting now. He’d been sitting on the arm of the couch making some smart mouth comment to someone and they’d thought he looked friendly. And then his eyes had met theirs and prediction hit like an epiphany:

You’re going to kill me one day.

Unprompted, unbidden and with the utmost certainty. A slice of truth falling into their head.

You’re going to kill me one day to save yourself.

They knit their fingers together in their lap, pressing knuckle to knuckle. They press their lips into a thin line. Something with wings — a bird or a bat, they can’t tell — takes flight from one of the trees outside the window. Darkness reflects darkness back.

After it becomes clear they’re not going to answer, Cassius prompts again, “Was it something I did?”

They shrug one shoulder. Like he does. Look down at their hands. The shadows across the room dance and shimmer.

“Is it because of…” out of the corner of their eye, Harley sees him wave a hand at himself. “You know. What I do.” A pause. They see his Adam’s apple bob. “The way I do it.”

Harley frowns, ducks their head lower so they don’t have to look at him, even in periphery. They manage to shake their head this time. 

“Is it…” Cassius stops and starts. Stalls. Clears his throat. “Is it something I’m going to do?”

Harley finds themself looking up, despite themself.

They meet his eyes. Time stops for a second.

Cass looks so full of grief for a moment that Harley’s certain the rest of the world must’ve been robbed of it. All shoved into one person to hold for a second. His voice sounds wrecked, “I’m sorry.”

They almost believe him, too. And they hate him all the more for it.

Did he have to be so perfect at this, too? Did he have to be forgivable for this, too? Can’t they just hate him? Can’t they just hate his guts and let him get whadt he’s owed for the things that he’s done, does, is going to do? They want to ask him. They want to tell him. All of it. They want to see his face as he tries to figure out how to respond. They want to know how he feels when he finds out he’s gonna be a murderer.

“It’s okay,” is what tumbles out of their mouth instead.

“Yeah,” Cass laughs and another tear makes it out of him. They hate him for it. He swipes at it with the side of a closed fist. “No it isn’t.”

They hate him as he stands up. 

They hate him as he cuts the conversation short.

They hate him as he passes and gives the back of their chair a pat.

“See you around, Harls.”

They watch the window for the flash of light as the door opens, a yellow glow spilling into the room for a moment like blood from a cut. And then the door shuts with a click. And the room is back to its inky darkness. And the golden boy is gone. And Harley isn’t.

And their hatred is an unspooled ball of yarn in the middle of the floor.

[songbirds-and-bows]

FFXIVWrite2024 - Day 24: Bar

"Can't you read the sign?" The voice behind Koke was almost a sneer and the Xaela's tail stilled before she canted her head back to stare over her shoulder.

Hyur. Male. Spines on the center of her tail flared uncomfortably.

"No." The admittance soft and with barely a hint of song to her words, carrying a note that sounded like a sigh instead. "♪It didn't have pictures.♪" Very lightly her voice was almost cautious, the song hesitant like she was a bird about to take flight and barely staying on the ground, the Qalli's voice light as her tail wrapped around her waist.

Maybe it was surprise or something else unreadable on the hyur's face but he folded his arms and stared at the sign, eyes reading line after line, then looked back at the Xaela. "Why'd you come by this old house anyways?"

Words caught in her throat as Koke tried to read and listen to the emotions in his tone, her tail tightening again. "♪My friends live here… I haven't heard from them in a few suns so I was coming by to see them. I used to live here with them, but I was traveling and thought they were going to meet me.♪" Her voice was softer and she turned to look at the sign, the lines and letters and symbols that twisted and flitted across the parchment and never, ever made any sense.

There was no melody in the ground. The path was quiet, the walls silent at first as the hyur reached a hand out and Koke stared up at his face, blinking at what was on his face now: pity.

Her breathing stilled, tail stilled, the Qalli froze as his hand landed on her shoulder then reached out to draw her back away from the house, away from the walls, and to a bench. He spoke quietly, then, of sickness. He explained the words on the door were a notice of plague, that the house was unsafe. Would be destroyed by fire in a few more suns, and there was no one allowed inside. He watched her with pity as he said that they had all been in the house, likely, when sickness struck, and that they wouldn't meet her.

The hyur cried out in worry when she bolted from the bench, running for the yard and the house, jumping over the fence as a note of worry tore from Koke and she touched the house; now there was no silence. The walls screamed, begged, pleaded, cried, sobbed, moaned, coughed- died. Over and over the house trapped itself with what had been inside it last, the anguish and agony, the terror, the weakness, the fear, the grief, the rage, the acceptance. And then it became still and Koke stared vacantly as the man dragged her away from the walls which cried and sobbed, tears streaming down her face. The garden had sung before but now it was dead, all of it dead and gone gone gone gone like their voices, like their memories, and the only thing left of them was wailing death and screams and racking, twisting coughs flecked with blood and black as bodies failed.

Her voice was frozen and the hyur said something, shook her, but her horns were anguish and grief and sorrow and rage and everything so loudly that when he spoke she couldn't hear him anymore. Concern, maybe? She couldn't tell but magic rushed for her and she fell asleep when he cast repose, catching her and mumbling something.

[home-for-wayward-fawns]

༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 9: 𝒩𝑒𝑒𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈, 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒾𝓁𝓁𝓈

What should've been a simple game of role-play goes terribly wrong when Carla is thrust into a flash back of the past.

TW: Hi everyone, thank you for your lovely comments and kudos! I want to give a HEAVY trigger warning for this chapter. It contains heavy references to mental health problems, substance abuse, and references to a character overdosing.

Carla sat on her armchair in the lounge, sewing circle in her lap as she continued her floral design. Alastor stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder as he peered down at it. Carla had a soft smile plastered on her face as Charlie explained her latest little game to the residents who sat on the floor in a circle. 

It reminded her of little Poppy dragging all her big brothers down to the living room for a tea party. Of course, they’d always indulged her, indulged the little miracle that blessed their lives. 

Charlie started, clapping as she sang her little introduction, and the snake followed suit. Carla hummed to herself contentedly as Alastor tapped his fingers on her skin in a smooth rhythm. 

“This is stupid,” Angel interrupted, rolling two of his eyes. 

Carla looked down at him, noticing the tension in his shoulders and the twitch in his hand. She’d seen that before, and it left a sour taste in her mouth. It was the struggle before the storm, the moment just before the walls came crashing down. Angel was after a fix, and this game wasn’t helping. Carla noticed Charlie’s eye twitch, and let out a cough for attention. She felt Alastor’s rhythmic tapping cease and didn’t need to look back to know he was doing that curious head tilt in her direction. 

“You don’t have to play along, sweetheart,” She said gently, hoping her soft voice would coax him away from whatever demons plagued his mind. 

It never did. It never worked. It never worked with Junior either. 

“This–is–not–stupid!” Charlie interrupted, still clapping and Carla had to bite back a sigh. It wasn’t her fault; the poor naive thing just couldn’t see that this was not what Angel needed right now. “It’s just a game! Sir Pentious did it well, so now please try to do the same!” 

“Charlie, that isn’t very kind. Angel, if you don’t like this game, what do you want to play?” Carla asked, keeping her tone soft and light. 

She felt a sharp claw scratch along her collar as Angel got a sly smirk on his face. Husk groaned, apparently aware of something Carla was not. 

“A productive game,” Vaggie interjected, her voice laced with suspicion. 

Why was everyone so harsh on the boy? Husk got to drink himself into oblivion; Pentious got to build his dangerous contraptions; why was Angel looked upon so harshly? 

“We could do some roleplay ,” Angel suggested, his eyebrows moving suggestively, specifically in Husk’s direction. 

Husk rolled his eyes, but Charlie quickly jumped to her feet in excitement, oblivious to the obvious tension in the room. She pulled Vaggie up by her arm, with a surprising amount of strength for such a lanky young girl. 

“Roleplay!” Charlie exclaimed, her entire body already shaking with anticipation, “I’ll go write the scripts!” 

The tall blonde quickly dragged her girlfriend out of the room, and Carla chuckled at her enthusiasm. 

“This oughta be fun,” Angel snickered, but the tension in his shoulders seemed to subside slightly. 

“Thank you, Angel,” Carla said to him earnestly, “It means a lot to her that you’re trying,” 

“Huh? Err, yeah, sure,” he mumbled, looking down at his phone, but the beginning of a blush had spread across his face. 

Small steps, gentle steps; you didn’t change problems like this overnight. She couldn’t save Junior, didn’t see him slipping through the cracks of the family unit. She couldn’t save him in time, couldn’t make him feel seen before it was too late, but she could save Angel. He was a part of this little family they were building, and she’d keep him safe. She’d make sure he felt safe. 

“Pet,” She heard Alastor purr in her ears and she turned her head to look at him. His smile was broad across his face as he spoke— he was beautiful. “I’m afraid I must take my leave to make arrangements for this evening. I’ve instructed Niffty to take care of dinner for the evening so you can focus on dolling yourself up for me tonight,” 

Carla bit down on her lip in concern, that was a big task for one so small. “That’s a big meal for such a little one, are you sure we need to go out for dinner? I don’t mind cooking before we leave.” 

“I assure you I have never given her a task she cannot excel in. She enjoys cooking just as much as you do. You trust me don’t you, doe?” 

She pressed a gentle kiss against his knuckles, and he raised an eyebrow but made no move to take his hand away from her. She felt a shift in the air, the usual soft thrum of static that surrounded them seemed to thicken for a moment before he tilted her head up to steal a soft kiss. She gasped in shock, and he took the opportunity to deepen it. 

“You’re bad.” She whispered against his lips and he chuckled. 

“You’re mine.” He whispered back, before pulling away. 

She watched him as he took his leave, not able to hide the wistful expression on her face. She returned to her sewing circle, and she’d almost feel at peace if she wasn’t blatantly aware of Pentious’ eyes on her. 

“Do you trust him?” He hissed, rolling his tongue on the s sound. 

“We know our roles, and we play them well.” She replied, her tone clipped. 

She had promised Charlie she would try, she would play along. That didn’t mean she owed him any more information than she was willing to give. It was hardly any of his business how she felt about Alastor. Or Kek. 

“Forgive my intrusion, I was under the impression you were wed to another,” 

Her head snapped up and she narrowed her eyes, her smile still firmly glued in place. The snake eyed her nervously, aware that he had just prodded at a particularly sore nerve. It was laughable, wed to another. Last time Carla checked, death do us part was very much still in her vows. She had waited her whole life to move on, how much time did she owe Clarence? How many tears, how much misery? How many dead kids?

“How interesting; I’m sure Alastor would be very interested in finding out you keep tabs on me.” She said evenly, keeping her smile gentle while she pleaded with her heart to calm itself down.

“Don’t Smiles got a problem with your and Vox’s whole,” Angel said, waving his hand in the air, “situationship,” 

“Me and Vox do not have a situationship to discuss. I was never married to Vox ,” She hissed out his name like a curse, a disease. 

“Damn, toots, you really hate him,” 

She narrowed her eyes in Pentious’ direction, the rage bubbling beneath her skin, threatening to spill over. She was so much more than Clarence’s wife and the mother of his children. She had made a life for herself. She had built entire charities designed to help the needy, the desperate. She had created foundations to help men with mental health problems, and help the young with addictions they weren’t able to deal with on their own. The Gill name was so much more than the legacy he’d left them with. She had built something for her family, her children. He might’ve been the worst of her, but he was by no means all of her. 

“I advise you to keep your comments on my love life to yourself in the future,” She said with a tight smile before standing up to dust off her skirt. 

She had just about made it to the door, hand on the knob when she felt words that stabbed into her back like thousands of knives. 

“I mean no offence, Mrs. Gill ; I just did not think you were that kind of woman,” 

She stopped in her tracks, her grip impossibly tight on the handle. They didn’t know her, none of them did. They didn’t know what she’d gone through, what Vox had done to her, to their family, to their children. 

She was not just the woman he left behind; she was the woman who survived him. 

“You have no idea the kind of woman I am.” She bit back before gently closing the door behind her. 

She pressed her back to the door, willing the black hole that had formed in her chest to cease and she began to count to seven, one for each of her beloved kids. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She was fine. She was safe. She had done it. She had raised them alone, and she had done a damned good job. She had never needed a man; she had never needed him . It wasn’t her fault what happened. It wasn’t her fault. She had spent an entire life alone, and she would not be told by anyone she didn’t deserve to be happy. Alastor was perfect and she wouldn’t be told otherwise. She lifted her necklace, pressing a gentle kiss to the charm. 

Clarence had chosen for death to do them part; she didn’t owe him a damned thing. 

She was going to bake a fucking pie. 

Carla spent hours in the kitchen baking more than she’d ever know what to do with. Pies were simple, a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. You couldn’t get pie wrong, not when you’d made it so many times. She focused on the latticework, a separate intricate design for each one. They didn’t come out perfect—nothing did in Hell—but they sure were pretty. 

“Everyone is in the lounge doing this ‘roleplay’ bullshit,” Husk told her with a grumble. 

Carla pulled her final pie out of the oven, a pretty little spider design on the top. She hoped Angel would like it, that it would at least appease a very different hunger deep within the boy. 

“...You alright, love?” Husk asked, eyeing all the pies that covered the kitchen counters. She might have to ask Alastor if there was somewhere to donate them all. It wouldn’t do good to waste the ones that wouldn’t get eaten. 

“Just a spot of baking,” She said dismissively, untying her apron to hang it on the back of the door. 

Once upon a time, Clarence would’ve finished that sentence. ‘Does wonders for the soul, don’t you know?’

She followed Husk to the lounge, content to leave her pies to cool before she dusted them with sugar later. She sat down to join Charlie and Vaggie on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. She looked up at the scene before her, chewing nervously on her lip. She had a sudden urge to call for Alastor through the necklace. 

This didn’t look good. 

Angel stood in a dark trench coat reading from a terrible script. It was evident that their dear spider was playing the villain to Pentious’ childlike disguise. She felt her stomach drop as the words left the poor boy’s mouth. She clenched her fists in her lap, digging her nails into her palms as she tried to stay present. This was all wrong. This had never been how it went down. It was never a scary man in a dark alleyway; it was always so much closer to home. She could feel herself fading away, disappearing into nightmares that she’d never be free from. That was the true curse of motherhood; you never escaped the guilt of your mistakes. 

She stood crouched by a large bed, damp cloth in her hand as she wiped her son’s sweaty brow. He panted heavily, his entire body shaking, and she cooed at him gently. It wasn’t his fault; it wasn’t his fault ; he just needed some help. 

“I’m so sorry Mama, so sorry,” he panted, as she gently dabbed the cloth across his face. 

It was hard for Junior, so hard. Clarence had given him everything he had. He got the name, the face, the problems . Carla couldn’t quiet the voices in his head, couldn’t save him from the guilt that plagued his heart. It wasn’t his fault that he’d fallen into the wrong crowd; it wasn’t his fault he just wanted the voices to stop. 

“You’re doing so good, baby boy. Just a little longer. We just need to get it out of your system, and then Harry’s going to take you to a doctor with Grandpa. Won’t that be good?” She said softly, holding back tears. 

“I’m so cold, Mama; I’m freezing to death,” 

“I know baby; I know. Mama’s here; I’ll be here all night.” She promised. 

She knew Harry was outside the door, pacing angrily. He’d promised to let her do this bit; he meant well, but he was so rough, so angry. It wasn’t his fault either; he was just scared. They’d already lost Peter; already lost Mathew. Their numbers seemed to dwindle every year, and she knew he blamed himself. She couldn’t blame him; she blamed herself instead. 

“What about when the voices come back, Mama? I can’t do to my kids what Dad did to us,” He sobbed, and she felt a pang of pain in her chest. 

A dark thought crossed her mind, one she quickly flicked away to focus on her son. 

I hate you, Clarence. I fucking hate you. 

“Mama will be there then too. You just come home to Mama, and I’ll fix you right up. Nothing fairy kisses can’t fix, little champion,” she said quietly. 

“I’m so sorry Mama,” 

She was breathing heavily as she was unceremoniously dropped back into reality. Her hands were bleeding from where her nails had dug too deep into porcelain skin. That wasn’t the last time Carla had to do that with her Junior, not the last time Harry dragged him to her by the scruff of his neck. Harry was always red in the face; rage always swimming in his perfect blue eyes as he dropped Junior at her feet. Venom laced his voice as he spat at Junior that he didn’t deserve to be his brother, didn’t deserve to be her son, but Carla always calmed him down, sending Harry out to get her things she didn’t need just so he’d feel useful. She knew why he was really angry; he couldn’t fix Junior and he couldn’t stand it. 

Junior spent his whole life like that, even when he was married, even when he became a father. Always Harry, always Harry dragging him back to her by the scruff of his neck. He fought so hard, her little soldier, fighting against his need for needles, powders and pills. It was never as simple as just saying no . Carla could feel tears begin to fall down her cheeks, staining her face. He was the same age as Clarence when Harry found him, cold and empty with the final needle in his arm. Her baby boy dragged home one last time, but she couldn’t help him down this time, and Harry held her when she cried. He held her tight and didn’t let go, and she wanted to scream at Charlie . 

She wanted to grab her and shake her because she had no idea . She didn’t know what it was like to hold her grandchildren while they sobbed, to hold her daughter-in-law’s hand because she understood. She understood the pain, the tears; the rage . She wanted her son back; she wanted each and every one of them back. She wanted to laugh, to scream in Vox’s face because he wanted to give her the world, but he couldn’t give her back what he’d already stolen. 

She looked up to see Charlie hugging Pentious, praising him , while Angel stalked away up the stairs looking dejected. She willed herself to be still, to be calm, to be present. 

“You alright?” She heard Husk call out to her, but he sounded a hundred miles away. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Four for Junior. Four for Junior. Four for Junior. 

“I do not know who you think you are young lady ,” Carla hissed, unable to hide her anger, “but that was vile ,” 

“But…” Charlie tried to say, but Carla interrupted her. 

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You have no idea what it’s like to love an addict, and it shows. Have you ever stayed up multiple days to hold them when they come down, to remind them you’re still here; you’re real? Have you ever held your child as they burn but they swear they’re freezing, and they’re so sorry, and you forgive them, you always forgive them knowing they’re going to do it again, and again, and again? It was never as simple as just saying ‘no’. It isn’t some shady guy in an alley. It’s your best friend, your cousin, someone you trust,” Carla ranted, panting, “My Junior was not a bad boy, and he was not unloved. I gave him enough hugs; I drowned that boy in love.” 

Her entire body was shaking with rage. Junior was good. Junior was her good boy, he’d just had a hard life. Angel was good too. He just needed help .  

“Carla, I didn’t mean…” Charlie began, tears in her eyes, but Vaggie cut her off. 

“Leave her alone; you’re upsetting her!” 

“Perhaps you should’ve thought to suggest a warning for such content then, sweetheart ,” Carla hissed at Vaggie before turning to Charlie, “It doesn’t matter what you meant . It matters what you did. Angel is not bad because he needs help . You never should have considered having him play ‘the crackhead’.” 

She took a deep breath, counting to seven as a cold, suffocating silence washed over them. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle.

She’d go talk to Angel; she’d keep him here; he wouldn’t go out, and he didn’t need to go looking for that stuff. He had everything he needed right here. 

“Now, I am going to take a pie up to your big brother’s room and see if I can get him to eat something. I advise you to write a very heartfelt apology,” Carla said, a smile back on her face before she left for the kitchen. 

She was barely out of earshot as Charlie whispered to Vaggie. 

“Did she just call Angel my big brother?”

[fairydares]

WIP Wednesday

This is from a oneshot I'm working on when I can about Acnologia, just some fanon history/background i came up with. [Please check the tags before reading.]

He tread the cracked and searing earth, and became agitated whenever the scent of blood dissipated. He swelled through dark skies and light ones, and seethed when they were not red.

He inhaled hatred, exhaled boredom, and pursued chances to quench the parched thirst he had become like iron pursues north. Dimly, like a person might recall their first memory, he could remember when the thirst came on. He could remember hating it—fearing it, really, as all weak things fear power. It had been when he soaked in the blood of that she-dragon who tried to heal her disgusting spawn with the last of her strength, inciting a wrath that ripped a hole in his memory (there were fewer holes back then, when ages were still ages).

It was one of the few baths that didn’t haze together with the rest. She’d been weak, especially for a dragon, but her final conviction had caused far more magic than usual to pulse and flood into his body. He’d opened his eyes to find a girl’s broken, dying body at his feet, one of the ghosts he trailed constantly, and realized, in all his unshed weakness, that he could not remember her.

Was she a stranger? His daughter? Had she known the name he went by once—a name he also couldn’t remember, or remember forgetting?

He’d roared, destroying everything that was left of the she-dragon and her spawn before storming away from the site.

[kjack89]

34 for the spotify wrapped thing!! (whatever ship you want)

34. "no body, no crime" by Taylor Swift (feat. HAIM)

Let's be honest, we all knew this was going to be E/R.

Decided to go a very literal route with this one. Canon Era, on the barricade. CW: referenced canonical character death.

Feuilly sat with his back propped against the barricade, his gun laid across his knee. Courfeyrac paused in his careful scan of the horizon to frown down at him from his vantage point. “Sleep,” he scolded gently. “The People will need you at full strength come the morning.”

Though Feuilly managed a tight smile in response, he knew that no sleep would come, least of all because he knew that not even every man on the barricade being at full strength would be enough come morning.

Still, he knew that his own inability to sleep would inevitably distract Courfeyrac, who would be incapable of stopping himself from japing or trying to keep him amused at the expense of the job he was meant to be doing, and just when Feuilly had resolved to close his eyes and appear to sleep, he heard a curious scraping sound, as if something heavy was being dragged across the stone of the street. 

Most curious of all, the sound did not come from the National Guard, huddled down for the night. Instead, it came from behind the barricade. 

Feuilly looked again at Courfeyrac, who was frowning. “I hear it, too,” Courfeyrac told him, and Feuilly nodded, resolved.

“I shall investigate,” he said. “And report back if needed.”

Courfeyrac jerked a nod, his expression troubled, and Feuilly squared his shoulders before standing, gun in hand as he crept away from the barricade and toward the noise emanating from the darkness. He braced himself against the corner of a building and peered around, squirting against the darkness to try to make out the large, strange shape he could just see.

He raised his gun to aim it at the figure. “Halt,” he commanded, “in the name of the Republic.”

The figure paused but then continued its lumbering movements, and Feuilly scowled, stepping fully around the corner. “I said—” he repeated, breaking off when the figure half-turned to face him and for the first time, he caught sight of his face. “Grantaire?”

It was Grantaire, but Grantaire as Feuilly had never seen him, and not just because he was dragging what appeared to be a body down the road. Grantaire’s expression was haunted, his eyes wide and wild, and only when he stumbled slightly in his step did Feuilly realize that Grantaire was obviously still drunk.

Then Grantaire spoke, and all but confirmed it. “Ah, Feuilly,” Grantaire said, tripping over the familiar syllables in such a way that Feuilly marveled the man was able to stand upright, let alone drag a corpse down the street. “How does your evening fare?”

Feuilly ignored the question, certain that Grantaire would neither remember nor care about his answer. Instead, he frowned down at the body he was dragging, his eyes widening when he recognized it as the murderer Enjolras had shot earlier. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice sharper than intended.

“Corpus delicti,” Grantaire grunted, and Feuilly’s frown deepened.

“You know that I am not trained in the law as some of our brethren, but—”

“If there is no body, then a crime cannot be proven to have been committed,” Grantaire told him, with the kind of clarity of conviction only a drunkard could possess.

If Feuilly was merely confused before, now he was much closer to baffled. “I reject your premise that there was any crime,” he said, his voice low. “It was a just death. The man was a murderer.”

Grantaire shook his head. “And to punish him for his crime, Enjolras must too become a murderer,” he muttered.

Feuilly bristled, his loyalty to Enjolras outweighing whatever pity he had for Grantaire. “Listen here, Wine Cask—” he started, but Grantaire ignored him, still muttering to himself as if Feuilly had not even spoken.

“In war, one might say that all deaths are just deaths, if, at the least, the war itself is just. Jus ad bellum, jus in bello. And perhaps even at the hands of the Republic, following the laws as determined by the People, so too might there be a just death. But an unarmed man, no matter what crimes he has committed – how can we consider that just?”

“Such belated conviction, Feuilly said scornfully. “Revolution has made murderers of us all.” He paused. “Save for you, of course. I suspect the only blood you shall find on your hands at the end of this will be your own.”

Grantaire looked at him, his expression suddenly sober. “For him, I would have,” he uttered gravely, and it took Feuilly a moment to place his meaning.

“Surely you don’t mean—”

Grantaire jerked his shoulders in a shrug without lessening his grip on Le Cabuc’s corpse. “Better by far for this man’s blood to be on my hands than on his.”

Feuilly swallowed against the cold conviction in Grantaire’s tone. “Enjolras would not want that,” he said.

A horrible smile spread across Grantaire’s face. “And since when have I cared what Enjolras would want?” he sneered, though his sneer froze in place as he stared at something over Feuilly’s shoulder.

Even without turning, Feuilly knew who it must be, knew who else would be roused by this conversation, and he acknowledged Enjolras when a nod when he felt the man briefly touch his shoulder. “Return to your rest,” Enjolras ordered quietly, and Feuilly hesitated. “This is a conversation best had with just the two of us.”

Though Feuilly again nodded and stepped away, he found he could not force his feet to return to the barricade. Instead, he ducked around the corner, close enough still to observe as Enjolras approached Grantaire, his back straight and his shoulders set.

“Leave him,” Enjolras said quietly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “It is over.”

For the first time, Grantaire released Le Cabuc, dropping his body and straightening to meet Enjolras’s eye, his horrible smile for before long gone. “You commanded before that I not disgrace the barricade,” he said, his voice a broken whisper that Feuilly had to strain to hear. “Leaving him would.”

Enjolras swallowed. “So you think it a disgrace, then?” he asked. “What I did?” Grantaire did not answer and Enjolras was a silent for a moment before saying, tired more than anything else, “So be it. I have told you before, many times over, I am but human.”

“And never have I doubted it,” Grantaire told him quietly. “But I could not bear if this man’s corpse ended up buried with Jean Prouvaire, or any of our friends who may still fall.”

Enjolras winced at the mention of Prouvaire. “Who told you?” he asked, and Grantaire lifted one shoulder in a sort of half-shrug.

“My slumber was not absolute.”

Something flickered on Enjolras’s face. “Grantaire—”

“Please.” Grantaire’s voice was soft, but determined. “I have failed you so many times, in so many ways. Let me at the least do this, so that when you too are cut down, you might not go to eternity thinking that I did nothing for the Cause.”

There was a brief pause before Enjolras repeated, “For the Cause?”

Another brief pause, then— “For you,” Grantaire whispered.

Enjolras shook his head. “I have asked nothing of you,” he said, his voice low and strangely urgent, as if he sought to convince Grantaire of the same. “Nothing – save that you leave.”

Grantaire bowed his head. “And in that, too, I have failed you.”

“You need not fail in that,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire lifted his head, searching Enjolras’s expression. “If you are taking that body from the barricade, you need not return.”

Grantaire smiled again, but it was a soft sort of smile this time, nothing like the grotesque facsimile he had worn earlier. “You know that I must,” he said gently.

Enjolras did – Feuilly could see his resignation in every line of his body. And still, Enjolras asked, “Why?”

Grantaire shrugged, something almost helpless in the gesture. “For the same reason that I must remove this corpse.”

It was Enjolras’s turn to bow his head. “I have not asked this of you,” he said, his voice low.

Grantaire shrugged once more. “Some things are offered freely.”

“And if I refuse?” Enjolras asked sharply.

Grantaire’s smile widened. “It would hardly be the first time you have refused me.”

Something like a smile tugged at the corner of Enjolras’s lips. “And yet still, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Grantaire said the three words simply, plainly, and Feuilly could not help but feel that they were substitutes for three other words that Grantaire would much rather say. He suspected Enjolras knew it too, and was unsurprised when Enjolras sighed, resigned. “Then I shall wash my hands of it. Do as you must.”

“I shall,” Grantaire said.

He turned to take up his burden once more, to continue his plodding journey into the night, but Enjolras caught his hand. “Grantaire—” Enjolras’s voice trembled, just slightly. “Fail me once more.”

Grantaire’s voice was impossibly gentle when he responded, like the caress of a lover instead of a broken whisper amongst the wreckage of dreams. “I always do.”

He twisted his wrist to raise Enjolras’s hand to his lips, bestowing a fleet kiss against the pale knuckles, the gesture more tender than any Feuilly thought he had witnessed.

Feuilly knew that he could not bear to see anymore, and so finally followed Enjolras’s command, retracing his steps back to the barricade. Courfeyrac tensed when he spotted the movement, relaxing only slightly when he saw it was Feuilly. “Well?” he asked, his call quiet so as to not disturb the rest of the men. “What was it?”

“Nothing,” Feuilly told him, knowing in his heart that he would never speak a word of what he had witnessed, and he settled down again in his spot from before, resting his back against the barricade and closing his eyes before adding, more to himself than to Courfeyrac, “Just someone saying their goodbyes.”

[obslorsed]

a little color practice thing

[bn-brightflower]

This book was so sweet I can't.

[eggmuffinwaffles]

AAAAAA

Hugo could still place exactly where that stupid blue streak flowed against the rest of his hair. He could still count the freckles that dusted the tip of his nose and the edges of his cheeks. He could just about remember how his lip would curl when he smiled. It was lopsided- the left side of his mouth always pushed up just a little bit more than the right.

He was a shadow, an echo of something he never deserved. He could still feel the rough calluses on his hands lightly scratch across his cheeks. His lips still tingled with the memory.

Or:

The bridge connecting the human kingdom of Ingvarr and the fairy kingdom of Corona has been shattered. After being forced into hiding after the events of last year, everything familiar to Hugo was now gone.

And yet somehow, ghosts from his past still manage to sneak their way back into the fragments of a life he had cobbled together. Who knows how much longer he can hold on.

Chapter 3: Returning

Things don't quite go according to plan

[stories-of-the-multiverse]

So... Darnell made me research his condition-

((So. I just started looking into migraines and chronic migraines, because up until now, I’ve only been Darnell’s migraines on my experience with migraines, but intensified, but.

Bruh, migraines can be worse than I fucking thought. Especially chronic migraines.

Apparently a symptom you can get from migraines is dizziness, nausea, and even vomiting.

Holy fucking shit-

Like, I had a headcanon that Darnell wasn’t in Pico Vs. Convict because his migraine was so bad that day, that he had to skip school, but jesus.

Bruh. I did not know migraines could be this bad, mine were always so fucking tame. Like. Mostly annoyances that at worst I had to go to bed for.

This could also go on to explain a few things about him.

For example, in Pico Vs. Uber Kids, their teach Mr. Flacit says the trio was chosen because after the shooting, the school’s best was dead, so they had to settle for those three. That is despite all three of them being above average intelligence. [This was measure by the outdated IQ method, but follow me on this.]

Now, while Pico is above average intelligence, Pico’s father is implied to be neglectful, and the lack of support from your parents can make your grades suffer.

Nene has “superior” intelligence, but she’s also go ADHD, and let’s be real, schools, especially back when the games were first made, aren’t exactly very... accommodating to neurodivergent children. Especially those with attention span issues. Plus. Anxiety and Depression. They are also bitches.

But Darnell... He has “gifted” intelligence. He’s smarter than both Pico and Nene. And I doubt this school was exactly for the best of the best, because. *wildly gestures at it* look at how badly it’s failed to even protect their students. Hell, some of the policies actively endangered the student body. Remember how the only school exit Pico could get to was chained and padlocked? To keep kids from leaving before school was over???

And as far as we can tell, from what little we know of his family, Darnell had a caring mother, and he’s not confirmed with any learning disabilities, or similar disorders that could make school difficult.

Except. For chronic migraines.

If the migraines were bad enough, it could have made focusing on school damn right impossible. If he could go at all.

[The trio did also experience some major trauma with the events of Pico’s School and Pico 2 at least at that point, and trauma can affect your grades, but I don’t think they took recent grades into account.]

And let’s be honest. Grades are a shitty way to determine a child’s intelligence.

And as for the poster that’s kind of a running joke-

While he still could be full of shit characterwise, If his migraines are bad enough to have him missing school, then it could either be a school rumor he took advantage of for his campaign, or he’s just fucking around based off of his condition.

Could the migraines themselves really be that bad, though? How bad are chronic migraines?

Chronic migraines are defined as at least fifteen head ache days a month, with full migraines at least eight of those days. And the pattern persists for at least three months. At least from I’m reading on ClevelandClinic.org.

According to Mayo Clinic there’s actually a lot of shit that can happen even before a migraine happens.

One or two days before, you can get symptoms like a stiff neck, food cravings, mood changes, constant yawning, aaaand bodily excrement issues I am not saying, thank you.

And then sometime before the migraine happens, or even during, some people get this thing called an aura which can last of to an hour. They’re usually visual disturbances, but can be other disturbances. They can be seeing spots of colors or shapes, outright vision loss, pins and needles feelings in the limbs, weakness or numbness in the face or a side of the body, or difficulty speaking.

The migraines themselves? They can last between four hours and three fucking days. And aside from terrible fucking headaches and nausea, they can make you more sensitive to light, sound, and even smells and fucking touch. Holy fuck.

And even after the migraines past, they can leave you drained. Like genuinely exhausted and even confused for a day.

Yeah. Basically they fucking suck.

What can cause them?

Well, general migraines, either stress, sensory stimuli, sleep changes, physical exertion, medication, food [salty processed food, aged cheese, and food additives, as well as skipping meals] and drinks [alcohol and caffeine], and even fucking weather changes. [For women, hormonal changes are also a factor.]

Chronic migraines though?

Again, medication, mood disorders [IE depression, anxiety, etc.], on going disrupted sleeping patterns, excessive caffeine intake, and physical and/or emotional trauma. I believe family history of the affliction is also a factor.

Now possible triggers for general migraines for Darnell?

Stress is a good one. Especially now a days.

Sensory stimuli? Considering he enjoys fucking with fire, light for sure. But I’d argue smell has to do with it too, considering fire accelerants? Probably smell. Not to mention what he makes his bombs out of. And spraypaint. Can’t forget spray paint. Sound probably works too, seeing as his FNF sprite has headphones. He could very well put those on to block out noise when the time calls.

Physical exertion? Especially now a days, yes.

We don’t know shit about his medicine intake or his eating or sleeping habits, so I can’t make comments on that.

As for what may have caused it to be chronic?

We don’t know much about his family, so we can’t say too much on that. Again, same with medication and sleeping habits.

I doubt his mom would have just given him coffee, maybe soda? Who knows.

There’s no confirmation or even indications in canon there’s anything up with him other than his pyromania. And that’s not a mood disorder. As far as I know.

Trauma, though?

Wellll... divorce is pretty traumatizing for a child. And it’s confirmed that his parents are divorced.

Probably not helped by the shit he has to deal with in like. Middle school.

Man. Research is fucking great. It gives you more ways to make your muses s u f f e r .))

[chaoticjestervibes]

Unfortunately, multiple.

For most, actually

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[kaga-ribi-612]

She has used the blue orb on him... it seems like he has calmed down... His face... his eyes... they look so empty... so... lifeless... She's probably carrying him to the infirmary now... he's injured. Badly. He looks like back then, when the wounds were fresh... before they became scars... I remember how he looked back then... the right side of his body, from the shoulder to the knee... Back then I thought we would lose him... And now the same feeling is creeping up again...

Make it stop...