#he’ll have nothing left when he gets back and the survivors guilt will eat him alive

[the-real-couchrat]

So did Jimmy ACTUALLY eat Curly? Or was it all a hallucination?

(Pls note that I haven’t actually played mouthwashing myself, just watched gameplays of it)

Bc if he was doing it to survive on low supplies, then why not just eat the other bodies? Everyone else was dead at that point. As much as I ADORE the horror of Curly being force-fed his own flesh by the man he considered a friend, At this point I’m pretty sure it was just a trippy metaphor hallucination.

Maybe everyone has already figured this out. but I learned about mouthwashing last night, and still don’t fully know what’s real and what’s not.

[selfawarejester]

So, someone requested a fic where Blue Team rescues a Child!Reader from a war zone, but unfortunately Tumblr ate the ask. If you’re the one who requested it, please enjoy!

EDIT: found a screenshot! @simp-for-fictional-men-only, hope you like this!

Blue Team x Child!Reader (Halo)

It’s been a long “day”, even by Spartan standards.

Blue Team had been trying to repel Covenant forces on an Outer Colonies planet for over a week… but it hadn’t been enough. Command had called an evacuation, and after destroying a base to help the efforts, Blue Team had been ordered to help with final evacuation calls in the nearest town.

On the Pelican ride to town, there was a brief moment where they thought it was a waste of resources to send Spartans for an evacuation op, especially because the other Spartan teams were still doing the best they could to strike back at the Covenant; not necessarily to stop them anymore, just to hold them back long enough for the civilians to escape and maybe a little revenge. The events of the week, coupled with the guilt of their brothers and sisters still risking their lives, weighed on them heavily.

But at the end of the day, they’re glad they did: they found a group in the Rec center, a dozen people in the boroughs, twenty in an apartment complex — the Marines wouldn’t have been able to lift most of the wreckage that blocked them from escaping.

By the time they’d gotten to the outskirts of town, Blue Team had been left alone to sweep through the dead town. Chief considered just going to meet up with the Marines — surely, they could match the pace of the overloaded Troop Transports — and this area was just dilapidated factories and shady looking establishments that had long since been stampeded.

But a need to fulfil his task to completion stayed his hand… and thank god it did.

At first, it was just soft sniffles that sounded from the inside of the rundown factory. Chief and Kelly, who’d partnered up to search this side of the district, thought it was one of the many Jackals that had been posted in the previous sector wandering, or a Grunt that had been left behind after the Jackals had entertained themselves (in which case, they should probably put the thing out of its misery), so they go inside.

Chief goes first, moving carefully through the debris so as to not dislodge the wreckage, or disturb the corpses of the few soldiers and more civilians. He retrieves their dog tags, securing them in one of the compartments of the MJOLNIR, and Kelly follows, stepping where he does.

Slowly, the sound becomes louder and louder, wheezing and snotty sobbing. Definitely an injured Grunt, he thinks. It’s coming from under a slab of concrete propped up against a wall. Kelly flanks to the right, while Chief goes to the left. He signals that he’ll lift it on the count of three, and grips the edge of the slab. When the slab gets tossed aside, Kelly raises her shotgun, pointing directly at the small figure.

You shriek and bury your head in your knees, pulled up to your chest. You couldn’t believe that after all the gross, awful things you’d had to sit through, holed up in this corner, you were just going to die.

But when nothing happens for a solid five seconds, you chance a peek over your knees and gasp. S-117 and S-087 are emblazoned across the chests of the armored giants… Spartans.

Kelly and Chief exchange confused gazes, having no idea how to deal with children. The last ones they’d had any interaction with was the Castoffs on Netherop, but they were more feral gremlins than they had been children.

(Kelly and Fred still aren’t entirely sure that the whole incident wasn’t a heat-induced hallucination.)

John really doesn’t want to go through another episode like it, but on the other hand, it would be easier if you were pelting rocks at them.

Kelly, being the more personable of the two, kneels to your height (or as close as a Spartan could get) and softly calls. “You don’t have to be scared. We’re here to help.”

You knew that — they were Spartans! The greatest heroes Humanity ever possessed! You were just shocked that you were getting rescued by them.

“Y-you’re Spartans.” You whisper dumbly, but you couldn’t help it! How are you supposed to be cool when you grew up with Master Chief’s action figure on your nightstand. “Like Master Chief.”

You can’t see it, but John can sense Kelly’s smirk as she looks over at him and points. “Well, that’s the man himself.”

* Oh no. By the way your wet, moved eyes stare up at him, it seems you’re a fan.

OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD!!! You hope your pterodactyl screeching wasn’t external.

“Whoa.” This couldn’t be real. You’d passed out from exhaustion, and were dreaming all of this. That could be the only possibility!

John knows that this is the part where he says something witty or inspiring… but he really doesn’t know what to say, so he just awkwardly clears his throat. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head violently, a burning need to not disappoint your childhood hero, and clamber up to your feet… only to wince and lean against the wall, something sticky on your leg.

Now that you’re standing, he can see the dried blood around your ankle. “Hold still!” All the softness is gone from Kelly’s tone as she works on bandaging you up, but you don’t mind, appreciating how careful she’s being.

Co-ordinating with Linda, who informs him that there are patrols scouting the areas — probably only to get any survivors, and not to catch them, but they should still move — and Fred, who tells him that the convoy is flying off-planet via Pelicans in half an hour, John makes some quick calculations.

With the pace you’d set, hobbling alongside Kelly, whimpering every time you put your weight on your left foot, it would take them at least an hour. Too long.

“Whoa…” The sound comes unbidden from Fred when Kelly emerges, with you clutching at her hip, all bloody and dirty. A pang of sympathy strikes as he looks around and realizes all that you must have seen. He was well aware that normal children weren’t nearly as resilient as he and his siblings had been.

“….” He stays silent as you arrive in front of him, staring up at him with slight apprehension, heart racing as he tries to think of something to say — and for some reason, he lands on an awkward, weirdly Southern-sounding. “Hey champ!”

John and Kelly both shoot him weird looks, and he wants to dig a hole and die, when they hear it.

A small giggle falls from your lips, tiny hands covering your mouth as you try not to laugh. Fred sighs in relief, but his anxiety returns when Kelly’s joking voice comes over the comms saying “Well, I guess we know who’s taking care of them.”

Linda drops out of nowhere, and nearly scares you to death as you shriek and bump into John, holding his leg tightly. You don’t really notice how he freezes, confused again.

“…sorry.” She doesn’t sound sorry, you think with a pout and drop from Chief’s leg, careful of your own busted ankle.

“That’s Linda, that’s Fred and I’m Kelly. You can just call him Chief. What’s your name?”

“Y-Y/N.”

“Alright. We won’t be able to make it if you’re walking, so you need to get on one of our backs.” Chief tells you, straight to business. “Which one of us do you feel comfortable with?”

He’s really hoping you pick Kelly or Fred. It wouldn’t exactly be a burden, you’re much tinier than the full grown people he’s had to carry out of a war zone, and you’re handling it much better as well, even though you’re barely ten years old.

“Um…” You look shyly up at Fred. “If you don’t really mind…”

*Aw. That’s… actually kind of sweet. Fred beckons you over, and hoists you up between his shoulders, giving you the rundown on what to do if people start shooting, and to hold on tight when he tells you to.

*You’re much more considerate than the freaked out VIPs he’s had to extract. But he still feels you twitch every time the wind causes something to clatter, so he decides to strike up conversation.

“So how did you wind up there?” It’s not until afterwards that he realizes that, unlike soldiers, civilians aren’t comfortable discussing stuff like that. But you answer that it was your dad’s factory, explaining that it was Bring Your Kid To Work Day.

The Spartans, specifically Kelly, asked you questions about it, having never heard of it themselves. After all, military settings rarely allowed such breaches of protocol.

You only trailed off as you got to the part where he told you to hide, and Fred lets it be.

When you finally get to the convoy, a nurse hurriedly tries to pull you away from the Spartans to help out, apologizing for not doing it sooner when Fred tells her it’s fine and that you can stay. After all, Kelly had fixed you up well, and you seemed terrified at the prospect of being left alone.

All that was left to do was fly up to the ship in outer orbit, with the rest of the survivors. Since there were such few Pelicans, everyone had been crammed into them, military and civilians alike. You’d simply wandered onto the one they’d been on, sandwiched between Chief and Fred.

Chief watches you picking at your shorts, and suddenly remembers the chocolate bar Sgt. Johnson keeps giving him - “you’re not yourself when you’re hungry, Chief” He’d snicker and then leave, Chief just standing there, not understanding the reference - but hey, chocolate was chocolate.

“Here. You did well.” Your eyes go wide, and for a second he thinks you’re going to refuse, but then you snatch it out of his hand and snarf it down. This is how it must feel to watch him eat.

“You’re going to like it up there.” Fred chimes in when your gaze starts getting distant again. “Space is really cool.”

In a twist of fate, you find one of your best friends when you arrive on the ship. Their parents promise to take care of you, and thank the Spartans.

When they start directing the survivors to their quarters, you hug every Spartan, even Linda… or their legs, since you couldn’t reach anything else. (Thankfully, you telegraph it pretty well, so they don’t accidentally smack you or something.)

John just stiffens and then nods, Fred pats you on the head awkwardly and shuffles away (he was very shocked by the affection), Kelly laughs and claps you on the shoulder, and Linda just hums and pets you on the head like a dog, walking away afterwards.

You go on to be a Marine yourself, finding yourself on the Halo campaign, where Chief and Cortana save you once more. You’re surprised he still remembers you.

You leave a bar of the same brand he gave you at his shrine, giving a heartfelt eulogy and catching up momentarily with the other members of Blue Team before you all leave again.

You almost faint when he shows up at Requiem, though. Don’t feel bad, as Lasky fanboys behind Chief for the whole campaign.

Palmer corrals you and Lasky into a break room to make fun of your behavior after it’s all over.

[shootybangbang]

In which peaches are eaten in more ways than one

[Pairing]: Arthur Morgan/Reader

[Rating]: Explicit

[Prompt]: Arthur watches you seductively eat a juicy peach (from @outtricking)

[Ao3 Link]

———

The abandoned manor’s peach orchard is overgrown with tall grass and small white clusters of wild carrot blossoms. Most of its trees stand bare, choked with ivy, the vastness of their skeletons the only testament of their former grandeur. But here and there are straggled survivors, the majority of which have long since been picked clean by other travelers and passing wildlife. The only fruit left is strung up high in the topmost branches, hanging down golden-edged and plump. Ripe enough to make your mouth water.

“I don’t think climbing’s an option,” you say, pressing down on a tree’s lower branches to check its give. “We could get a big stick and try to knock ‘em off, or maybe you could just… uh… y’know… ”

You mime picking up an object and placing it on your shoulders.

Arthur sighs. “You want me to carry you.”

“It’s quicker and easier than anything else.”

“You ain’t paid me to be your horse.”

“That’s true,” you admit. At this point, the number of things you’ve had him do out-of-contract would probably fill a book. A decent person would concede his point and apologize. Instead, you try out a more oblique method. “And I’m probably too heavy for you, anyway.”

He gives you an irritated glance and shakes his head. “You tryin’ to bait me into provin’ you wrong?”

“Figured it was at least worth a shot,” you say, shrugging.

Arthur looks up at the top branches of the fruit tree, then at you, and works out a rough height comparison in his head. He sighs again and kneels down. “Alright then. Get on.”

“What — really?’

“Don’t wanna hear you complainin’ about this later is all.” He looks back in your direction expectantly. “C’mon. You want them peaches or not?”

You place a tentative hand on his right shoulder, leaning against him for support as you swing one leg over his left. “Then do I just… um… like this?”

“Yeah. Just like that. And now the other — yeah, there we go.”

Arthur steadies you by holding down your knees. He grips you firm but gentle, like a man trying to keep something frail and flighty from slipping between his fingers, and stands up.

The sudden shift in balance is startling. Your hands frantically search for something to hold onto for support, and you end up grabbing at his wrists as you reorient yourself. He stiffens at the contact, but says nothing.

When you’ve straightened your back enough to survey your surroundings from your new vantage point, you take a moment to appreciate the new perspective. “So this is what it’s like to be tall. Bet you run into a lot of spiderwebs.”

Arthur ignores this. “Can you reach ‘em?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You twist off a particularly large peach from a nearby branch and take off your hat to use as a makeshift basket, then swivel your hip to reach towards another that’s just barely within your grasp. “Too bad we’re not close to town”, you say, thinking already of possible desserts. “Sophia told me that over in Georgia they eat peaches with cream and sugar, and…”

For a while, you ruminate dreamily about peach cobblers and preserves, about the luxury of vanilla ice cream melting on latticed peach pie. And all the while Arthur clenches his jaw and tries as hard as he can to concentrate on what you’re saying in an attempt to divert his focus from the weight and warmth of your thighs atop his shoulders.

It’s something that he’ll carry with him for some time, he recognizes with a heavy pang of guilt. Something he’ll almost certainly keep carefully tucked away for later, when he’s alone in his own bedroll.

———

Late afternoon, you help him set up camp along the Kamassa River. After the horses have been watered and the kindling gathered, you both sit sprawled and weary against the ruined hull of an old boat half-sunk in the sand.

Resting his head against the sun bleached boards, Arthur briefly closes his eyes.

Through the woods comes the sound of cicadas, deafening in their multitude, ringing like an omnipresent hum, insistent and rhythmic in its cadence. Like a chant, a soft murmur of chitinous voices. Alongside it, the quick, clear notes of riverwater running through the rocks and the rustle of leaves overhead, the sway of branches arching from the wind in slow, lazy waves that merge overhead like a green sea.

And the distinctive scratch of graphite across paper. He drowsily cracks an eyelid open and angles his gaze downwards.

The battered notebook in your lap looks like it’s seen its fair share of miles. It’s tattered and dog-eared, with smeared ink at its edges. The leather cover is scuffed and stained, and the pages don’t quite sit flat, due to the occasional pressed flowers trapped between them.

He watches you scrawl out what looks like a brief itinerary of the day’s route, listing off landmarks passed along the road and detailing what flora and fauna you’re able to remember. Then little snippets of description that you cross out and rewrite with increasing frustration, disjointed but pretty little phrases littering the margins…

Your pencil stills. “You’re reading over my shoulder.”

“Trying to.” Arthur points to the corner of the page, where you’ve drawn a wobbly line with little stick trees atop it. Under it is a crude half-circle labelled boat. “This supposed to be where we’re at now?”

You bristle. “Yes.”

He gropes for something inoffensive to say, then opts for silence.

“Well, you’re the artist,” you say, offering him your pencil. “You draw it.”

“Sure,” he says, taking both notebook and pencil in hand. He flips to a clean page. “Not like I can do worse.”

Brushing sand off the seat of your pants, you stand up and stretch, raising your arms high and fitting your fingers together like interlocking gears. “I’m gonna go check on the peaches.”

———

The Kamassa runs cold, even in the dog days of summer. Earlier, you’d wrapped the peaches in sackcloth and submerged them in its waters, then ringed them tight with rocks to hold them in place. Now, you cut an inelegant figure as you crouch at the river’s edge and fish one out, cupping it thoughtfully against your palm to check whether it still holds the fading glow of afternoon heat.

You pick out the two biggest peaches in the pile before resecuring the rest, then seat yourself back beside him and proffer one to him.

Arthur shakes his head. He’s in the middle of sketching the sandbar in the middle of the river, drawing the shapes of shrubs and other assorted vegetation out from the blank paper expanse. “Don’t wanna get the page dirty.”

“Make sure you eat one later then,” you tell him. “So you don’t die in a ditch before I can hire you out again.”

He snorts. “Didn’t realize peaches could make a man bulletproof.”

“Ah, well… it’s more of a superstitious thing, really. Like knocking on wood or throwing salt over your shoulder.” A hint of embarrassment creeps into your voice. For a moment you seem almost shy — but then you toss a peach up in the air and catch it again, like a performance of the world’s worst juggling act, and it passes. “You give people peaches for good health and a long life. Considering your line of work, I figure you need all the help you can get.”

“Figure a decent gun’ll do me more good than any peach ever will,” he says wryly. “You eat ‘em both. God knows you need the luck just as much as I do.”

———

The rippled light reflected in the water is only just beginning to tint gold. The horizon edges pale, shifting slow to the soft, warm shades of early evening. But only the faint suggestion of it, a subtle gradation filtering in imperceptibly at the present, but that he knows will flood in all at once with the inevitable trajectory of the sun.

Golden hour, Mason had called it. Goes quick, but it’s worth it. I’ve known some photographers to set up camp and wait all day for just that little window of time.

The landscape itself feels soft and heavy, almost drunk from its own perfect interplay of light and dark. The clarity of day dims to a suggestion of itself, and everything is briefly gilded, momentarily transfigured into something striking and achingly pretty, and you no exception.

A sliver of sunset settles over your skin. A veil of amber, a veil of rose, both colors folding in on themselves like silk. The glint of light that reflects across your irises makes visible the ridged corona circling your pupils, the tiny crenellations and impurities of color. Bright and sharp as cut glass.

He watches you bite into a peach, and its dusk-pink skin breaks beneath your teeth with a wet, crisp noise as you tear through to the soft and yielding flesh beneath. Then you bite down again, and your lips are shiny with nectar now, dripping with it.

A clear rivulet of peach juice runs down your wrist like blood. You raise your arm to your mouth to catch it, then trace it back to its source with your tongue, and he can’t help but wonder at the taste — the sweetness of fruit mixed with the salt of your skin.

“Oh, these are really good,” you say with pleasant surprise. “Sure you don’t want one?”

Arthur tries to suppress the sudden twinge of arousal running through his body by staring very hard at a tree. “I’m sure.”

When he’s finally able to settle himself to a manageable level of sexual frustration, he forces his attention back to sketching. He lays out the wash of sand and silt that lies liminal between woods and water, then the ridge of grass that marks the river’s reach when swollen with rain and spring melt. The twinned, twisted alders on each shore whose roots hold fast to the ground as their boughs reach over the water and towards each other, like doomed lovers. The gaptoothed boat hull half-buried and long abandoned.

By the time he’s finished, both peaches have been reduced to their pits, and the light has begun its transition to a deepening red. A last brief cry of sunlight before it’s stifled by the cold blue of evening.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him, when he hands the notebook back over. “If you finally get tired of robbing stagecoaches, you should do this for a living instead.”

He makes a dismissive noise, but there’s a clear look of satisfaction on his face. “You flatterin’ me because you want another favor?”

“No, I’m serious. This is pretty enough to belong in a book.” You touch your fingers to the page with the kind of care he’s only seen you lavish on the things he’s known you to hold very dear: the faded red hair ribbon, the well-thumbed guide to wildflowers, the thin jade pendant you sometimes wear tucked under your shirt… and now this — just an offhand scribble of his of no particular effort.

“I, uh… it’s a real rough sketch.” A flush of embarrassment colors his cheeks, and it’s obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that for him, compliments are a gift as rare as they are precious. “Next time you hire me out, I’ll sit down and draw you something proper.”

“I’d like that,” you say, and nod. “I’ll hold you to it.”

———

A few hours later, Arthur sits by the fire and tries to measure the exact depth of the idiocy he’s plunged himself into.

You’d gone to bed first, citing exhaustion. And he’d taken the time spent alone to jot down a few thoughts in his journal, attempt a handful of sketches, then inadvertently kindle in himself a desperate, hopeless need for intimacy so intense that, were he truly on his own, he’d not have hesitated to take himself in hand for relief.

It’s a foolish thing to do, encouraging his own infatuation like this. But the images are fresh in his head still and his hand itches to put them to paper, wanting to keep them somewhere beyond the whim of memory.

And so he traces with his pencil the soft, indulgent cast of your eyes as you’d cupped the peach in your hand, bringing it to your mouth with the simple decadence of Eve and her apple: the innocent gesture embodying something intensely sinful. Each bite near tangible in his blood, as though it were his heart in your teeth, its every painful beat an ache of barely suppressed impulse.

Then the drip of nectar down your wrist, the pink flick of your tongue lapping it up with a quick, smooth glide across your skin. Peach juice glistening on your lips like honey. And his own base reinterpretations of it all, distorting reality to innuendo and bringing to the surface things he’s only let himself imagine in the confines of his cot, with the tent flaps drawn tightly shut.

The weight of your thighs on his shoulders comes to mind again, and if he shuts his eyes he can nearly place himself into that oft-used fantasy of his — you, sat on the edge of a hotel bed with him knelt before you, whispering hoarse and breathless praise as he licks into you. Your fingers running through his dark blond hair as you speak to him like a favored pet.

The flat of his tongue running against your clit with slow, careful strokes. Your desperate whimpers as he draws the nub between his lips and sucks, the tremble of your body, the taste of your slick. The sound of his name on your lips, the syllables of it faint and shivery with pleasure.

And afterwards, the sight of you sprawled across the sheets, eyes dreamy and soft as you beckon him towards you. Take out your cock, you’d say. Show me just how much you liked doing that to me.

Arthur closes the notebook and walks down to the river. He dips his hands through its surface, the reflected moonlight there rippling into a bright mosaic of broken glass in his wake, then cups the cold water between his fingers and splashes it over his face.

“Dirty old man,” he mutters to himself. “Oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

When he reaches down to repeat the action, he brushes against sackcloth and automatically pulls the bundle of submerged peaches from the water.

Long life and good health, you’d said. He scoffs at the very notion of it. It’s a foreign concept for someone who’s taken so many lives that he’s all but guaranteed his own to be nasty, brutish and short.

And truth be told, it’s been a long time since he’s even bothered to think about any future for himself outside of the immediate. Not much to look forward to save the small, petty pleasures afforded to him, most of which have been bought with the blood of other men. Not much to work for, save the next big score. The promise of stability — it’s not a luxury afforded to the likes of him. Nor should it be, if a man’s fate really is weighed by his deeds.

He’s made his peace with it by now. Kept his expectations low and steered clear of personal commitments. So it’s really very stupid then, that he’s spent so much time nursing the seeds of his own wretched affection that they’ve already begun to sprout.

More and more these days, he’s caught himself marking down points of interest whenever he’s out wandering. Setting up the skeletons of future excursions in his head. And with each new meeting, the possibility of the next looms in him eager and expectant.

Arthur unwraps a peach from the sackcloth and brings it to his mouth. It’s sweet — sweeter than it has any right to be, growing as it has unattended and abandoned in that red Lemoyne dirt.

The cicada song has quieted to a whisper. Fireflies spiral in arcane patterns over the grass, blinking their silent messages through the dark. Night birds are calling, their sounds strange and strident over the rush of river water.

In the midst of all this, Dutch Van der Linde and all his talk of savage utopia seem further away than ever. More past than present.

He bites into the peach again and closes his eyes, savoring the taste. Long life and good health. Probably no more unfeasible than any other thing he’s had preached to him for the last twenty years. And not an unpleasant prospect, if the days spent are anything like this one.

No, he thinks to himself, pulling another peach from the bundle. Not a bad prospect at all.

[dreaminpetals]

Yoooo can I get some norton sfw and nsfw headcanons 😳 your writing is top tier btw !!!!!

⛏ norton hcs ー sfw & nsfw . . .

art credit

SFW ;;

♡ norton deals with frequent mood swings, hallucinations, and intense survivor's guilt, so he had cold feet about relationships for a long time. he views himself as a burden and stain on society, he doesn't want to put anyone through the misery of dating him.

♡ if he had a partner all he'd do was hurt them, norton thought. he'd try to rescue them during a game but accidentally maim them, or lash out at them during a fit of uncontrollable rage and scar them forever.

♡ when he began to develop a crush on you, he was even more gloomy than usual. he cancelled plans with you, walked away the moment you sat down beside him, and refused to heal you even if you were standing in front of him and the hunter was far away.

♡ it was your compassion that made him fall. hard. although you didn't speak much, you always went out of your way to help norton and offered an ear if he needed to vent rather than being scared and fleeing.

♡ he thought that if he made you hate him then his feelings would go away, but it only made you more determined to support the crumbling man who had your heart.

♡ every time he thought about holding you, he would be plagued with visions of him hurting you right after. sometimes he would burst into tears when he met your gaze because he couldn't stop thinking about you dying like his coworkers.

♡ it took weeks of nonstop affection to convince him that you'd be safe with him and that you'd love him no matter what.

♡ he wanted to be as close to you as possible to keep you out of harm's reach, but he also didn't want to be near you in case he hurt you.

♡ your love was like magnets. he pushed you away, pulled you closer, pushed you away, pulled you closer.

♡ the best s/o he could ask for would he a levelheaded and understanding one, if you were calm and nurturing (but not overbearing) then he could have someone to pull him out of his fits of catatonia AND calm him down when he was blazing with fury.

♡ norton's rage would never be directed at you, it was always himself or anyone who posed a threat to you.

♡ he'd give hunters tons of shit for even daring to lay a finger on you. he didn't care if hastur was a god and norton was a man, he was going to calamari that bastard for letting you bleed out.

♡ huge fear of abandonment. he needs constant reassurance that you aren't complaining about him behind his back or planning to pack your bags and leave.

♡ when norton is in a good mood, he can't keep his hands to himself and acts so smug.

♡ you want to keep him in his sleazy money hungry moods for as long as you can, you insist on gifting him with stunning gems or interestingly shaped rocks just to see his face light up.

♡ he gets frustrated and genuinely upset when you tease him or don't give him what he wants but when it comes to teasing you? norton is the most mischievous man you've had the experience of meeting.

♡ he uses the height difference between you to his advantage, if you have a hat he can and will hold it above your head and chuckle as you try to reach for it.

♡ give him sweet food!!! he may not look like it, but pastries and candy remind norton of his childhood and have a calming effect on him. for every donut you donate to him, he'll kiss you in any spot of your choice.

♡ if he has a game on golden cave you'll volunteer to play it for him, he can't handle the claustrophobia and flashbacks he gets when he has games there. he appreciates it so much.

♡ favourite cuddling position is laying on his back with you resting on his stomach or under his arm with your hair splayed on his chest.

♡ burns everything he touches but will still cook and bake for you!!! maybe you should give him lessons?

♡ never knows how to ask to vent. he lets you know by talking to himself, saying "i killed them", that's when you drop what you're doing and console him.

♡ he wishes that he embraced love earlier, nightmares and hallucinations are easier to handle when he has someone clenching his hand and running their palm along his hair to calm him down and remind him it's not real. the voices that asked norton "why did you kill me?" are replaced by his lover cooing "norton baby, it's not real, you're safe in your bed, i love you so much dear" in his ear. he feels like he can handle anything with you by his side.

NSFW ;;

♡ like his moods, norton's behaviour in bed changes like the weather.

♡ norton is a fan of slow, intimate sex where nothing exists except you two. when you can mumble that you're hopelessly in love with him as you give light strokes to his cock, each lick worth a thousand words.

♡ other times, norton is brutally rough and you have to use a safeword with him.

♡ on bad days he'll enjoy humiliation or degradation, by having you beg for him or be called filthy names it reassures him that you aren't plotting to abandon him if you're doing all this embarrassing stuff.

♡ when he tops, he prefers to fuck you from behind and grip your hips until his nails like talons leave a mark, drawing blood. he can't control himself when he sees you submitting yourself to him and spanks you.

♡ holds you no matter what, when he wraps his arms around your belly as his hips snap into yours from behind he feels like he's protecting you.

♡ likely has a breeding kink as well, he wants to cum inside of you as deep as he possibly can and never pull out.

♡ he has such a thing for your hands ー their softness, their size, how your nails feel when they scratch his back, how you play with his hair... he wants those same hands to turn his cock into a red, leaking mess.

♡ candles. norton would use candles to set the mood and lighten the room so he could look at you better, but he would also enjoy watching (safe) wax trickle onto your skin.

♡ especially if you already have cum on you, he'd rub it in with his hands until they stuck to your body.

♡ something about the smell and the mess of it all drives him wild. the fact you're willingly letting him corrupt you like this is enough to make him cream in his pants.

♡ obsessed with claiming you, he would mark you up from head to toe and have you promise you wouldn't leave him while his teeth sunk into your skin.

♡ pulls your hair so hard that some chunks have accidentally come out... in the moment norton growls and fucks you harder when it happens, but once he cools down, he feels awful and wants to give you a massage.

♡ the heavy breathing and strings of curses that fall from his lips make your legs weak, his voice sounds huskier and more primal during sex.

♡ when he eats you out or blows you he digs his nails into your thighs and doesn't let go until you've cum at least twice, the unmistakable scratch marks left on your thighs leave him ravenous.

♡ norton doesn't like when you make references to past sex when he's in one of his happy moods, it's so embarrassing for him. but when he's in a teasing, possessive mood? the same room you mentioned it in would be the same room he jackhammers you in. even if there's other people, he'll find something to stand behind and act like he's fixing your outfit for you... don't try to tease norton when he's horny because he does Not show mercy.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

We Keep Going, That’s All

@whimpers-and-whumpers , this is for you. Hope your surgery goes well today!

CW: Aftermath of near-death, hospital whump, recovery whump, survivor's guilt, alcohol use, referenced drug use

Ryan shows up to the hospital with Coke bottles full of liquid that absolutely is not Coke - or not much of it, anyway - and Nate doesn't refuse the gift.

He twists off the plastic cap and takes a drink, wincing at the burn down his throat. "Jesus, Ryan, this is m-m-more Jack than Coke."

"Yeah, well. Figured we could use some relaxing." Ryan gives him a slight smile, and the bruising that's been along his jaw - the obvious press of fingers - is finally starting to fade. Off-white bandages ring his neck, hiding from direct view the deep, slowly healing gashes rubbed in by the iron collar he'd worn for a year.

There are other wounds, Nate knows, underneath the lightly-draped black t-shirt Ryan wears, under his effortlessly casual, perfectly-on-trend jeans.

There are deeper wounds still entirely underneath his skin, inside his head. Nate knows those even better. He doesn't begrudge Ryan the need to find some way to fuzz out the edges of what must be written in stark, bright blood in his memory.

Nate spent a year and a half doing the same, after all, before Bram came back for Danny again.

"How is he?" Ryan asks, settling into a hard wooden chair with plastic back and cushion in a dull pastel mauve. "Any different?”

"Then y-yesterday?" Nate exhales, slowly, rubbing at his unshaven jaw. The stubble prickles his fingertips, itches a little as it grows in. There's a razor in the private room's little bathroom, but he doesn't have the energy to use it. All of Nate's energy now is focused entirely around staying right here, being right here, for the rare moments that Danny is both awake and himself.

"Yesterday wasn't... great.”

"No, it wasn't." Nate sighs, leaning over in the chair he sits in, next to Ryan, reaching out with his good left hand to gently nudge a bit of wavy red away from over Danny's face.

The love of his life - the man he's killed for, twice, and would kill for again - lays on his stomach with his head turned to one side. The hospital blanket is pulled up nearly to his chin, hiding from view the fact that nearly all of Danny seems made of bandages these days, bandages and tubes and wires. He breathes slowly, a drugged deep sleep to let his body rest and try desperately to heal itself around the nearly-fatal place the knife went into his back.

He sleeps, more than he's awake. But Nate makes sure that when his eyes open, someone is here for him, every single time.

"Today has been a little b-better, I think," Nate says after a moment's though. He brushes a crumb from the corner of Danny's mouth. "He ate a l-little, this morning. Just Jell-O and a little bit of cereal, but...”

"But something." Ryan nods, takes another drink, looks out the window. Outside, the day is bright and sunny, with a cloudless blue sky. The courtyard below is full of visiting families and patients taking walks through the landscaped flowers, all of them in brilliant bloom. "Have you even left this room since we got here?”

"No." Nate doesn't bother to lie.

Ryan looks over at him, and smiles very slightly. "Remind me to bring you by some multivitamins do you don't die of Vitamin D deficiency.”

"I'm f-fine." Nate takes another drink, feels the warmth slowly spreading through his shoulders, relaxing the knots and tension that have been slowly building day by day. The 'bed' he has here is just a visitor's couch built into the wall, lumpy and hard, with exactly one flat pillow with a scratchy pillowcase. But he'd rather be here than anywhere else. He'll be here for every single second Danny needs him. "I eat oranges for breakfast every d-d-day. No sc-... sc-... scurvy for me.”

"Didn't we joke about scurvy once?" Ryan asks, slightly faintly, looking up at the ceiling. "After Danny came home the first time?”

"M-Maybe. Don't remember. Why do you c-care if I feel good, anyway?”

“My brother can’t fuss over you right now,” Ryan says with a casual shrug. “So someone has to. He’ll never let me live it down if anything happened to you while he’s here. I’ll get chewed out if you get so much as a headcold and we both know it.”

“I d-doubt-”

Danny shifts a little and both men go silent, watching him move in the bed - just an inch or so to the right, his eyes tightly closed, body tensing as even the slightest movement brings a wash of pain.

"It's okay," Nate whispers, and Danny's eyelids flicker, slowly open. The blue in them is hazy and clouded, but not empty. This time, at least, it's Danny who is looking at him, and not the other one, the one that Nate knows only as someone else. The one who runs Danny's body when Danny can't do it any longer.

"Hey," Danny says, in a hoarse whisper. He tries for a smile, and it's faded and wobbly, but it's there. Then he lifts his head a little, looking over to see Ryan. "Oh, you're both... here. How long was I asleep?”

"Four hours or s-s-so," Nate says, standing up - ignoring the twinge of pain in his bad knee - and moving the pillow under Danny's head to still support him even as he moves. A hint of freckled shoulder shows, with its swirling trace of scars from Bram's knife. There's a star carved into the back of his left shoulder that Nate did, at Bram's command, once.

Ryan's gaze be damned, Nate leans over to kiss it, and to kiss one by one the carved letters that are still there, faded, in the back of Danny's neck. A. D. N.

He tries not to feel the guilt that twists in him at the ownership Bram had meant to make obvious, there. His own first initial with Bram's initials, his own... his own culpability.

“How do you feel?” Ryan asks, leaning over close to Danny. 

Danny’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like a liquor store.”

“Yeah, well. When your big brother scares the shit out of you by getting himself stabbed almost to death because of you, maybe you need a little pick-me-up now and then.” Ryan manages a half-cocked smile, but it’s fragile, and they both know it.

With a hiss of pain, Danny moves his hand up the bed, offering it to Ryan, who takes it without hesitation, leaning over so his forehead rests gently against Danny’s. 

“I’m okay,” Danny whispers.

“No, you’re not,” Ryan whispers back. 

Nate moves to sit back in his chair, then stands again, restless. He doesn’t want to sit there but he doesn’t know where he does want to be... until he looks at Danny, thin and dwarfed even by a small hospital bed. He sets down the mostly-jack-and-a-little-coke and climbs into the bed without hesitating, laying down behind Danny on his side, letting his good hand rest just next to a swirl of Danny’s hair on the pillow. 

Danny’s smile widens - not that Nate can see that, from his vantage point. Although Ryan can. “I’ll be okay,” He corrects himself, watching his brother. “They said there’s no sign of paralysis. I’ll walk, I’ll probably even run after a while.” He tries moving and hisses again. “A long while. It’s going to be okay, Ryan.”

“You always were way more optimistic when you were high as balls,” Ryan whispers, and he and Danny laugh, until the action makes Danny whimper at a new spike of pain. “What do we do now, Dan, huh?”

“Keep going,” Danny says, voice low, barely audible even to the two men on either side of him. “That’s all. We keep going.”

“I keep thinking I should’ve died back there, ten times over,” Ryan murmurs. “But every single time, you took the pain for me. I should’ve died-”

“Nah. You’re my little brother. I need you here.” Danny manages to keep the smile, then, and his blue eyes are warm. “If you feel so bad about it, sneak me some of that booze next time, yeah?”

"Dan, I am not going to help you mix IV drugs and alcohol-”

“Just leave it in a really easy-to-reach place and I’ll help myself.”

“Danny. No.”

“Danny yes.”

“Daniel Michaelson-”

“Ryan Niall Michaelson-”

Nate’s rumbling laughter interrupts them. It’s such a rare sound that both of them go immediately silent when they hear it, and Danny even tries to look over his shoulder, gritting his teeth through the ache to see the smile on Nate’s face. It’s slight, nearly private - a smile barely noticeable by anyone who isn’t looking for it.

But Danny is, and through the fog of the painkillers still coursing through his system, he sees it. 

“What?” Ryan says. “What’re you laughing at?”

Nate lays a hand over the star he once carved into Danny’s skin, and moves to rest his nose, just lightly, against the warmth of Danny’s neck, breathing in the scent of him under the hospital-smell that surrounds them. “Nothing,” He says, and Danny shivers a little as his lips move against the curve of the D at the back of his neck. “I’m j-j-just... realizing I’m g-going to listen to you two do this for the r-rest of my life.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Ryan’s voice is dry. 

“No,” Nate says, eyes closed. He can almost feel them in the cabin, like this, just the two of them on days Bram was gone. Lying in the bed wasting the whole morning being warm, just them together. Warm and safe. It feels like being in Danny’s apartment during their year and a half of freedom, the way sometimes when Nate couldn’t get out of bed Danny would just stay with him, holding him, until the pain inside of Nate had lessened enough to let him stand. 

Now it’s his turn to hold Danny. 

-

@tiddiroki @whump-it @bleeding-demon-teeth @finder-of-rings @whumpywhumper @endless-whump @18-toe-beans @pumpkinthefangirl @goneuntil @swordkallya @astrobly @evermetnotforgotten @whumpiary @card-games-and-pain @raigash @whump-tr0pes @orchidscript @wildfaewhump @doveotions @eatyourdamnpears 

[jamesholden]

I just got myself super heated thinking about how often fandom seems to reduce Holden down to nothing more than “straight white male hero” with a side of “kinda dumb and nice”. I feel like the darker parts of him, all his internal struggles, get ignored to help push that fanon view of him.

So in the interest of talking more about how Holden really is as a character: What are your favourite “darker” parts of Holdens character, and what things about Holden do you wish fandom would see more?

oh my god this is going to be a lot like a LOT so just brace yourself, nonny. Imma talk about Holden’s burden of responsibility, his guilt center, his PTSD, how he makes mistakes and actually tries to apologize, make up for, and grow from them, and his absolute fucking resiliency so like here we go I guess.

It’s easy for us to be like “oh he had an easy life” and for a long time, he did have an easIER life than Amos or Naomi. But he had a lot of weight put on his shoulders by his family, eight adults. They wanted him to take over the farm, and the message he got from them was “it’s your job to protect this, our home, our legacy, and to carry it on”. That it was HIS RESPONSIBILITY to save his home. The entire reason he was born. Elise feels guilt over his upbringing even years later. That his childhood was devoted to learning how to save the farm. Reading court briefs and GOING TO COURT. That he met ARMED GUARDS AT THE GATES AS A TEEN. for someone who had a normal childhood that seems uh NOT NORMAL.

So he left at his mother’s behest and joined the Navy. Took the officer tract. Was well liked by his superiors and fellow crew members. Until one day when he refused an order to fire on a ship that he believed had Belter refugees on it. He threw a punch, broke his hand, and watched how he was proven right in the end. He was kicked out, and never went home again. Ran from responsibility because all he did was fail people. So he did what he believed he was best at and ran. He lived with a lot of guilt, pretending he didn’t.

And that’s a common pattern for him. He carries a lot of guilt. For home, for the belter ship, for the Cant, Shed and the Donnager, getting the Roci crew into trouble, Eros. Eros was what really fucked him up, what the fans really took the wrong messages from. He lived with not only survivor’s guilt, but PTSD, which fans ignored or wrote off as “assholery” even as the show gave clue after clue that the protomolecule was his trigger. It took him back to Eros. the books had an incredibly sad scene where he actually thinks he IS back there when on Ganymede, and Amos has to snap him out of it. 

He struggles with that, and it colors his actions for SEASONS. destroying the aid ship, the search on Ganymede station and the moon itself. He’s scared of Eros happening again and he wants to stop it at all costs, and he comes to realize how it’s affecting those he loves most. And it still affects him for YEARS after. Miller in his head, the station, SEEING AN ENTIRE RISE AND FALL OF AN ENTIRE CIVILIZATION, the Behemoth, Ilus OH MY GOD ILUS. 

I saw him being called “whiny” for a particularly meaningful scene in S4 in which he tells Elvi he has nightmares of what he’s seen over the years, but specifically what the station showed him. She writes it off because BUT SCIENCE, which bothers Holden in the moment. Holden’s trauma, which has kept him up at night, kept him from eating, changed his behavior so much he pushed his loved ones away, brought him to Ilus to relive parts of it, means NOTHING because SCIENCE.

And like... if that isn’t reflective of fandom’s response to his trauma over seasons 2-4... I don’t know what is. Holden’s trauma was virtually ignored or waved away. While we (rightly!) praised the portrayal and writing of Amos’ trauma, decades older than Holden’s fresh and ugly trauma, people wrote Holden off as an asshole, an abuser, a pointless character who should just die already. Like wow what a way to talk about a character who is traumatized and raw, one whose portrayal was based in ACTUAL RESEARCH OF PTSD BY STEVEN STRAIT. All because... what, we don’t like him? No one has to LIKE Holden, but to be so flippant about what is pretty plainly fresh, horrible, ugly trauma that made him into someone he isn’t and never wanted to be, while praising Amos and Alex for their responses to trauma, even when they also bordered on “bad behavior”... it left a really bad taste in my mouth. I gave up on arguing about it. Holden isn’t WHINY. He’s open and vulnerable about his pain and trauma and fears. Something I thought we WANTED from male heroes. Less toxic masculinity, more vulnerability. 

I love Holden for being a character who makes mistakes, acknowledges they are mistakes, and apologizes or tries to atone or be better for them. He wears his flaws on his sleeve. And he tries to patch them up. He tells Naomi he logged the distress call. He tells Naomi that he almost didn’t go back for the refugees on Ganymede. He tells her he regrets fighting for justice for the Cant instead of protecting them better. He tries to tell her his own feelings don’t matter about her decisions, and goes on to tell her he’ll never like something she did, even though he’d never hate her for doing it. He blames himself for her leaving, admits that his actions pushed her away, even if she denied that. He defers to Naomi SO MUCH after realizing how he’s wronged her or because she’s opened up to him because he realized how he didn’t listen and tries to listen MORE. He’s HONEST. Even when it hurts him or the person he’s speaking to. HE GROWS. Even if it’s imperfect at first. Holden tries, and to me that’s so incredibly important, and it’s not spoken of because for many it’s not good enough just to TRY. and that’s a shame.

Lastly, I love his resilience. It’s what drew me to him from the get go, aside from being someone who tried very hard to do the right thing. Holden gets beaten down so many times, but he always gets back up. Always. He always keeps fighting, keeps trying, keeps learning. His arc plays out SO BEAUTIFULLY in book 8, because he doesn’t give up, and he uses all he’s learned to survive. I found The Expanse when I was in a really dark place, trying to claw my way out. Holden helped me with that because he ALWAYS clawed his way out. And it meant so much to me. Holden doesn’t stop. He keeps moving forward.

SORRY THAT WAS SO MUCH i kept coming up with new thoughts and ideas I am SO sorry but I hope this gives you what you’re looking for! Thank you for giving me the space to rant about my bisexual himbo space knight. 

[pastelchris]

just like oranges.

“wonwoo stiffened beside him, holding his breath for a couple of seconds, he wished there was a button to disappear from there, become invisible or something.”

☀︎︎PAIRING: jeon wonwoo x kim mingyu

☀︎︎GENRES: angst, fluff, oneshot, childhood friends!au, highschool!au

☀︎︎WARNINGS: mention of domestic violence, mention of bruises, mention of violence.

author’s note: hello <3 i’m back with another fluffy angst. i was eating an orange while my dad was screaming to my mum and brother and i got the inspiration. the rest is purely fictional tho. for a better context, the place that i imagined was similar / taken from steven universe. i just love the light effects so much and the coloring is amazing, i love it so much. i want you to read it while thinking about oranges smell and a warm agust sunset. i made this thinking about a platonic relationship but it’s up to you to decide! i hope you’ll like it as much as i did <3

“usually my dad's screams last an orange. i’d watch him walk around the house angrily while screaming and gesturing at my brother, my mom, and anyone who would get in his way at the moment. i’d just swing my legs, sitting comfortably on the kitchen table, peeling my orange, and eating over the sound of his screams. sometimes we’d look at each other, then i’d do my best not to betray any expression, hoping that he wouldn’t have anything to say to me. most of the time it would work, and i’d just stare at the view of his shoulders as he walks away, then i’d go back to my orange. but sometimes I’d stare back a second too long, maybe I wouldn’t hold my emotions enough, so instead of his shoulders, I’d see the shadow of a hand or a foot, and suddenly the orange would be nothing but a crushed pulp on the ground.”

this was one of those days, he said to himself, swinging his legs into the void while he looks at the sea from above a wall: it's almost sunset, and the pink and violet of the sunset match the shades on his skin, making it look like a colorful yet bitter painting of despair.

he slowly closes his eyes, enjoying the quietness of the place, healing after all of the noise he had to stand at home.

or so he tries, until a too well-known noise comes to his ears.

« WONWOO !!!! » he screams, running towards him, waving his arms around.

mingyu has always been pretty, to him at least, since the first time he saw him, playing basketball in the school’s gym, and it’s not news, they’re still in high school, but everyone reminds him of his looks as soon as they get the chance, telling hem that one day he’ll make it big.

but to wonwoo, he’s always been pretty outside And inside, and now, messy hair and skin glowing under the sun, he’s even prettier than usual.

he hears his voice again, calling for him with such an excitement that only puppies have, wonwoo greets him back, hiding the bruises under his sleeves.

« good afternoon to you too mingyu. where are you running to?»

« to you of course » he rolled his eyes, jumping up and sitting next to him, enjoying the warm breeze.

« i tried to call you the whole day but you straight up ignored me, am i that annoying?» mingyu pouts at him, jokingly putting up a scene.

« i promise you i wasn’t ignoring you, gyu. i just had lots of homework to do, some of us actually need to study you know? »

« yeah, and i feel sorry for you...must be hard to have such a small brain »

« oh shut up you idiot » wonwoo sighed, turning back to face the beach, bringing up his legs to hug them and slightly flinching as he hits one of the bruises.

« hey woo, wanna swim? the weather is perfect today» gyu asks him, the same expression of a labrador who wants to go out.

« i think i’ll pass today, but you can go! i’ll watch you from here » wonwoo slightly smiled, chin resting on his knees.

« but i want you to come with meeee pleaseeeeeee » mingyu clung to his arm like a little kid, making the other flinch in pain unintentionally.

gyu looked up at him confused, clinging again on his arm and watching him thin his eyes in pain, looking away.

« what’s wrong woo? did you get you hurt?» he sounded concerned, hand still around his bicep

« d-don’t worry about it, i just stumbled on the door earlier...it’s fine, i’m fine»

« then why won’t you look at me?»

wonwoo stiffed, an unpleasant feeling filling the pit of his stomach: guilt.

he always told mingyu everything, the good and the bad, he never kept anything from him before, well, obviously, everything but episodes like those.

« you always avoid my gaze when you’re lying, has anyone ever told you you’re a really really shitty liar?» gyu pouted like a kid, slightly frowning as a thought took shape in his mind.

« could it be tha-»

« i really am okay mingyu, stop asking please » wonwoo tried to persuade him, brushing off the nervousness with a little laugh.

« but i don’t think i believe you » gyu answered, still looking at him in the hope to find his eyes.

« well i think that’s a You problem, i’m saying the truth-»

« then why won’t you look at me?»

« because i don’t want to.»

« but you never avoid my gaz-»

« JESUS CHRIST WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?» wonwoo finally snapped, looking back at him with piercing black eyes and grinned teeth.

« i just want you to look at me while you tell me the truth...i don’t like it when you lie...» mingyu bit the inside of his cheek, he never intended to make the other angry, but he also didn’t like it when people lied to him, especially since he was the last to judge another over the truth.

« well fine then, i don’t feel like swimming today because all of my body- and i mean Every Single Inch of my body Hurts like hell and you’re making it very hard for me to enjoy some fresh air before coming back inside. » wonwoo breathed in, frowning even more and staring at the sea.

« was it your dad?»

wonwoo stiffened beside him, holding his breath for a couple of seconds, he wished there was a button to disappear from there, become invisible or something.

instead, he just kept silent, staring at the beautiful view in front of him, while mingyu tried to understand his expression.

« i actually had a hunch but you didn’t let me finish, i guess i’ll take your silence as a yes...can you look at me?»

no answer.

gyu waited for a couple of minutes, thinking of a way to get the other to acknowledge his presence beside him.

« is it the first time he does it?»

still no answer, but he could sense the stiffness in wonwoo’s posture, the way his shoulder closed up as if to protect him, he somewhat curled up a bit, making it even harder for mingyu to see him in the face.

« does he do it often?»

this time he got an answer, a slight shaking of the other’s head, telling him that, luckily, it wasn’t a frequent thing, which made it bearable.

« mhnm....i see....i’m sorry if i forced you to open up woo...i just...i want to be as close as possible to you, i want you to trust me with every little secret you keep inside, and most of all, i want you to come to me when you need help or confort, i want to be a still point in your life but i don’t think i’ll ever be able to achieve such goal if you keep acting like a stray cat to me...» mingyu’s words came out rushed, they left him out of breath and he finished the sentence in a whisper, and still, wonwoo noticed the slight flinch of his hand, the way he closed it as a fist; he noticed his posture got stiffer, his eyes lost the playful light they usually had, and became two sharp daggers, staring at him.

« i’m sorry if i made you feel pressured to tell me, i won’t ask anything again but instead wait for you to tell me, but please, keep it in mind okay? come to me first if anything happens, alright? i promise you i’ll be by your side from dust ‘til dawn if you let me.” mingyu was a pretty loud person, he had a deep pouty voice but always talked as if he was selling fresh fishes in the morning, so he didn’t hear wonwoo’s muffled sobs at first, just when he looked at his eyes, and saw them puffy and teary, he realized something was off.

« woo?-»

he couldn’t even finish the sentence that a pair of marked arms flew around his neck, hugging him close to the other’s chest.

wonwoo’s voice was tore from the sobs and the pain

«thank you so much gyu, you really are my safe place»

wonwoo kept him closer to himself, burying his face on the other’s hair, closing his eyes.

the sunset light turned them both into golden statues, just like a painting they perfectly fitted into each other, mingyu’s skin glowing like caramel and wonwoo’s as light and shiny as porcelain, marked by violet and red-ish doodles.

« do you wanna swim now?»

« are you fucking dumb i literally look / and feel / like a war survivor right now »

« right m sorry»

«....»

«.....»

«.....»

«pizza?»

« yup, definitely up for that.»

the end.

[mfingenius]

[Part 1]

Laurent isn’t  trying  to hurt Auguste, most of the time.

The rest of the time...  well .

Logically, he knows it’s not his brother’s fault; he didn’t know, and if he had, he would’ve gotten Laurent out in as long as he took to get to Uncle’s house. That’s the simple truth.

The problem is, it’s not simple.

The problem is, Laurent tried to tell him.

The problem is,  Laurent was  alone  in that place for  three years  and Auguste didn’t fucking notice a thing.

The  problem is, Laurent still feels like he’s stuck in that place and he can’t get  out  and he can’t move on and sometimes talking about it with Paschal only makes him feel worse. The problem is Laurent can’t sleep, the problem is his nightmares leave him gutted, the problem is he hasn’t cut his hair because he knows Uncle liked it long, the problem is he  hates  that, the problem is he can’t bring himself to cut his fucking hair.

The problem is everyone around him who knows pretends they don’t, pretend it’s never happened, and maybe they think they’re doing him a favor but they’re not, because Laurent doesn’t get the luxury of pretending it never happened, of  forgetting about it.

“He fucked me in your room.” When he’s feeling particularly vicious, he mentions it; it makes Auguste’s face do something Laurent both  hates  and relishes. He doesn’t like hurting his brother, or, logically, he knows he shouldn’t, but he doesn’t care about anything, nothing at all is important because he’s so fucking angry. He  needs  Auguste to react, to do  something , to not keep talking to him in calm voices and understanding words as  Kashel  told him; Laurent heard her. He doesn’t need any of that. He  needs  someone to be as angry as he is, to give him any sort of fight, a reason to feel like this.  

“Oh.” Auguste would never forbid him talking about it, but he’s evidently uncomfortable; he probably knows Laurent is doing this only to bother him – Laurent never  really  talks about it with anyone but Paschal, his therapist – but he doesn’t stop him, either, and Laurent hates that even more, because people keep treating him as if he’ll fucking break.

It’s not polite conversation for dinner, but then again, Laurent isn’t eating; he’s just holding his cutlery watching Auguste at the opposite end of the table.

“In your bed.”

Auguste won’t tell him to stop until he can’t take it anymore, Laurent knows.

Sometimes, he steps out into the hallway and breathes until he feels like he doesn’t want to kill Laurent anymore, Laurent also knows; it’s viciously satisfying.

“I’m sorry.” It makes Laurent angrier. Laurent doesn’t want him to be  sorry , Laurent wants him to be fucking  angry . He doesn’t want to have to feel bad about this, too, after he’s done it, wants to stop feeling like there’s fire burning in his throat, wants someone to give him a fair fight if only to prove himself that only because he could never beat Uncle doesn’t mean he’s helpless, he wants to make Auguste feel as bad as he does because it’s not fucking fair.  

Kashel also warned Auguste about Laurent being angry; he’d heard that, too. He doesn’t let anything happen in the apartment without him knowing about it, and maybe it’s an old habit, but it’s a useful one. Before, being uninformed of the smallest thing meant uneven ground against his uncle, even more of a disadvantage than he already had.

Here, it’s mostly useless; Auguste doesn’t really hide things from him, and he’s always been a terrible liar. Paschal tells him there’s nothing wrong with doing it, if it’s bringing him any comfort, and it is, so Laurent doesn’t stop; he’s set some boundaries for himself, mostly with Paschal���s help, but he has more pressing issues to deal with than eavesdropping.

Laurent grits his teeth and looks down at his dinner plate, trying to get some semblance of control over his feelings; he doesn’t  want  to hurt Auguste, he’ll regret it later, and he needs to control his anger; he’s been working on it, really, but he thinks no one notices; how would they? Auguste doesn’t hear Laurent’s every cruel and heartless thought. He hears what Laurent says, but he doesn’t know it’s not even a tenth of what he could say.

“I’m not hungry,” he says, standing and pushing his chair back with a loud screech; Auguste looks at him worriedly. He's always so fucking worried.

Laurent hates that, too.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “You didn’t eat breakfast, and you barely had lunch.”

Most common side effects in survivors: depression, eating disorders, anxiety, dissociative patterns, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  

Laurent had read the article Auguste was reading on his laptop; he thinks it should be nice, almost, but it’s only making him angrier. Everything is always making him angrier.

“I’m sure,” he says icily; he thinks he might throw up anything he eats now, with how nauseous he already is. “I’m going to my room.”

He doesn’t wait for a response; in his room, he buries his face in the pillow and fights the urge to scream, tears burning in his eyes, throat scorching. He can’t fucking think.

Auguste doesn’t bother him; usually, he leaves Laurent alone while he works through his anger, and Laurent doesn’t know if he’s thankful or angrier for it. Partly, he’s glad Auguste isn’t around, because this way, Laurent doesn’t have to feel the guilt of looking at his brother, the shame of knowing he knows what’s happened to him. Another, smaller part of him, wants somebody to hold him.  

Uncle used to hold him when he cried after Auguste left and wouldn’t take his calls.

Laurent barely makes it to the bathroom before he retches; he empties his stomach into the toilet, and, when he’s done, sits back, shaking against the cool wall.

The scissors are in the bathroom sink, and, on a whim, he grabs them.

*

Auguste washes dishes a lot lately; he’d needed to find something to do so he could not think about Laurent’s awful words, about Kashel’s and Paschal’s warnings, about their uncle rotting in a prison cell for three years.

Three years, for what he did to Laurent.

Auguste is seriously considering hiring a hit man when he gets out.

It’s nearly two in the morning, and Laurent went to his room hours ago, but Auguste can’t bring himself to go to his room to sleep; he’s paranoid of not being there if Laurent needs him, now. He’s already failed him so many times.

He rubs at his eyes tiredly, and is considering just lying in bed, even if he’ll be awake, when he hears Laurent’s door open; he freezes, half-hoping Laurent’s going to talk to him, half-hoping he’s going to the fridge for a meal.

Laurent comes into the living room quietly, wearing pajamas; he’s holding big scissors in his hand, and his hair – previously long, up to his shoulder blades – is choppy and short; he has a small cut on his ear.

“Can you even it out for me?” Laurent doesn’t look at him while he says it, but he sounds kinder than he has all week. Auguste used to cut his hair all the time when they were younger, because they’d both thought it fun, and he’d gotten good at it.

He hasn’t done it in a really long time.

He nods wordlessly, afraid of upsetting Laurent, and takes the scissors from him. Laurent takes a seat in a chair, and Auguste pretends not to notice the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fists are clenched in his lap.

He begins to cut Laurent’s hair quietly.

----------------------------------

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[quietlyimplode]

@whumptober2020 - Day 19 - Survivors Guilt.

Day 1 - Waking Up Restrained // Day 2 - Kidnapped // Day 3 - Manhandled // Day 4 - Caged// Day 5 - Rescue // Day 6 - No More // Day 7 - Support // Day 8 - Isolation // Day 9 - Take Me Instead // Day 10 - Blood Loss/Trail of Blood // Day 11 - Psych 101 // Day 12 - Broken Down // Day 13 - Oxygen Mask // Day 14 - Alternative Prompt - Comfort // Day 15 - Into The Unknown // Day 16 - A Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day // Day 17 - Wrongfully Accused // Day 18 - Paranoia // Day 19 - Survivors Guilt

CW - Discussions of Child Abuse.

She’s looks at her hands.

“Nothing. It’s fine. It’s just thoughts.”

“Sometimes talking through your thoughts helps, right?”

“They’re not good thoughts.” She cautions.

“That’s ok, that sometimes happens.” He says carefully.

——-

She’s been cranky all day. He doesn’t want to bother her again with a suggestion to do something so he sits on the laptop and writes up mission specs, research into bows that can have delayed explosions once they hit and anything else that lets him sit with her but not interact. Every time he’s suggested something like getting something to eat or watch or do, he’s met with a ‘no’ or a look. He’s stopped now, the days pretty much gone. She’s been intermittent in reading and staring at nothing, he wonders if he should be concerned. It’s like she’s mulling over something, but whatever it is it must be a big something, because whatever got her into this funk is not going away anytime soon.

He throws a cookie at her and it hits her in the chest. Leaping up, she draws her gun on him. Hands up, he cocks his head. “That’s not the response I thought I’d get by throwing you my last cookie,” he says flippantly for someone how has a gun aimed at his head.

“What the actual fuck, Clint.” She puts the gun back under the pillow (god she has guns everywhere) and sits back on the couch. Where before she was laying down and relaxed, she’s now on edge. Whoops. He hadn’t meant to do that.

“You okay?” He checks in, knowing the answer is no.

“Yeah.. I -“ she lays back down, not finishing the sentence.

“You hungry?” He looks pointedly to the cookie now on the floor. “I can throw you something else?”

“No,” comes the response, then a beat and “thanks though.”

He gives up.

If she wants to be in a mood, that’s ok. He tries not to let it send him into one.

As a last ditch effort, he asks, “wanna spar?”

She looks up.

“Yeah. Yeah ok.”

He grins big. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, just let me get changed.”

He tells her he’ll meet her on the mats, and heads down to the gym, making sure they’re free and that no-one is around. They haven’t spared in ages and he’s seen her take on Steve. They’ve come to an understanding since they spoke the other day to come together in the gym. He knows Steve is going easy on her, hell she knows too.

She arrives in a zip up hoodie and shorts, still not ok with neck things, he notices.

“How you wanna do this?” He challenges.

“Wanna do take downs?”

“Umm. No. How about tagging?” The ‘game’ of choosing a body part and protecting that by all means whilst trying to attack your partners and tagging it. Clint finds it a good warm up game, but also helps to gauge where she’s at.

“Sure. What part? Head?” She follows up immediately.

“God Nat, are you angry with me? No. You’ve lost enough brain cells.” A wry grin.

“Ok, stomach?”

“Nah, how about butts?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But I chose next. Best to five?”

“Ok, but no heads,” he cautions.

They move around each other, Clint throws some easy shots, which are parried by Natasha, each choosing opportune times to attack. They’re up to 2 shots a piece when Clint calls for a break. They’ve been going for 20 minutes and he’s tired. Deconditioned might be the better word. Grabbing water from the nearby fridge he throws one to her, and takes another for himself.

“What’s up?” He says sitting on the mats next to her. “You’ve been in a mood all day, and you’re clearly not thinking here - I left several openings and you didn’t take one.”

She’s looks at her hands.

“Nothing. It’s fine. It’s just thoughts.”

“Sometimes talking through your thoughts helps, right?”

“They’re not good thoughts.” She cautions.

“That’s ok, that sometimes happens.” He says carefully.

“Do you ever think that we shouldn’t be here? That I shouldn’t be here?” She starts. He ponders whether to cut her off or let her go now she’s started, if he interrupts he worries that she’ll shut down. He lets her go on, prepared to cut her off.

“The odds of me surviving the Red Room, the sadists, the torture, the lessons; I can’t tell you how slim that was. It was only by chance that I survived that and others didn’t. Once, they had us locked in the basements with no food, only water and then gave us food after 5 days. I think the expectation was that we’d fight over it, kill over it. But you know, we were smart; we knew what they wanted and even though we knew we’d be punished; we shared it. I think we all thought it would be our last meal, we didn’t say it but I know we all felt it.. I don’t even remember their names. But I know their faces. The repercussion of that incident was, for lack of a better word, brutal.” She pauses takes a drink of water, Clint nods at her to continue, these are things Natasha never talks about. Things he’s only heard snippets of, from dreams or nightmares, from flashbacks to dissociation. Therapy must have opened some wounds right up, because volunteering this information is something he’d never thought happen. “we were separated after that. Only brought together for lessons. To fight each other. To best each other. Kill. Maim. Torture. To weed ourselves down to 28.” She takes a deep breath. “And now. Gods and monsters, we hold our own Clint, but I don’t have your skills, Tony’s armor, Bruce’s abilities. I have a boss who trusts my judgement on others but doesn’t trust me. Not enough to tell me that he’s faked his death or to tell me that Hydra was coming because in my previous life I was a turncoat, a ‘predatel'’ and that I might be playing both sides as well..”

Traitor, Clint’s mind supplies, tripping up on the Russian.

“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder, why me? Why did I survive it, when so many others didn’t? I’m not special or smarter or anything.. I just. I don’t even know..” she stops. Looks up at him.

“You know?”

He does. He really does. But he really doesn’t know how to address it other than talk of his own feelings of self worth. A story for a story, he supplied in kind.

“Barney would leave me, for hours, when we were at the circus. I didn’t trust any of them. Some of the others would pick on me, come looking for me when they knew Barney was out. I didn’t know at the time he was helping them with some pretty illegal shit, but I did know to hide myself, and I did know how to become invisible. There were others, my age, maybe older, that didn’t have that skill so when they’d move on from me, they’d go look for them. Beat them. Make them do tricks for the sheer fun of making them do something over and over again; taunt them. I’d watch, from up high, and wonder if I should save them from it. But if it wasn’t them, it’d be me. Those kids, they didn’t last long; they’d leave, some died and others; well I don’t really know what happened but I know it wasn’t anything good.” he grabs his own water and feels his heart rate quicken. Suppressing a memory.

“My point is, that there’s been shit that’s happened to us that no kid should go through. That’s not on us, yeah?”

She nods, slowly.

“And I suppose as adults we build our own support systems. Look at you, and how much work you’re putting into getting rid of this trigger? God Nat, we’ve made it this far. Not only that, we’ve found each other. And others that have our backs. Look at Tony; he’s done everything to make sure we are safe, Pepper keeps baking us shit, and Steve holds back on whooping our asses daily, Bruce and Cho, even Fury and Maria and May too. What are the chances we’d find them, or find a team that’s as fucked as us?” He smiles.

“Right?”

She nods slowly.

“I suppose.”

“It’s never going to go away, that feeling of why us.” He reckons. “but maybe it’s like the lottery; you win some you lose some.”

Natasha stands. Looking, he supposes, somewhat brighter.

“Come on slowpoke. It’s 2-2, someone has to win. Like the lottery,” she teases.

———

[puppypeter]

Bringing you all a sad ass fic rec this fine Thursday... prepare the tissues!!🥺These are all Peter-centric (some could be in an irondad list too tbh), but the focus is Pete going through some shit cause apparently I like reading about my fave suffering 😞 Please please remeber to READ THE TAGS/TW!!! (There’s quite a few Skip fics). 

PS: do not link any of these fics to the actors or anyone associated with them. Fics are from the fans for the fans, and they should stay within the fandom!

I’d say happy reading! but....

Countdown | Teen & Up | 26741 words

When May gets a new boyfriend, Peter is glad for her. But nothing can ever go that well for Peter. At first Peter thinks maybe he just doesn't like him. But then it gets worse. And Peter just wants May to be happy, at any cost.

or

The classic 'May's boyfriend abuses Peter' trope.

Will you let me, lead you even when your blind? | General Audiences | 3526 words

It all started as a normal day, a normal patrol. It was simple. It was something he had done at least a million times. Stupid bad guys.

Or

Peter goes blind after a problem on petrol and the chaos that follows.

what is stronger than the human heart which shatters over and over and still lives | Mature | 6977 words

Whumptober Day Sixteen - Pinned Down

Nothing matters. He can’t breathe, can’t sleep, can’t eat. He’s an empty shell of broken fragments, whatever’s left of himself.

He’s nothing.

Vacant eyes and a blank expression, pliant limbs and empty words.

He’s gone.

All because of Thomas.

All the pretty pictures in my head are faded | Teen & Up | 1770 words

Whumptober Day Seven - Isolation

Everything was lost in the fire.

Peter’s suit, all of Peter’s belongings, everything of May’s, everything that used to belong to Ben.

May.

Peter lost everything that day.

Your heart will lead you home | Teen & Up | 4591 words

Whumptober Day Fourteen - Tear-Stained

He hates fighting with Tony. He hates the disappointment on his face. He hates the sadness and the pain, hates the way he called this his home and not the cabin. Hates how he left without saying goodbye. Hates the lack of closure. Hates himself more than he normally does.

He hates the insecurities that crawl through his head like vines, entangling him in the thoughts of alienation. Of Unbelonging. Hates the anxiety like acid, like a rope around his neck cutting off his breathing. Hates the desperation to call Tony, to ask him to come back, to ask him to wrap in a hug and take care of him and the thoughts in his head, to convince his head that it’s wrong.

Everything. He hates everything.

But he doesn’t bother trying to fix it. He simply pulls the blanket over his head and wishes the world away.

hold on, i still need you | Teen & Up | 1797 words

He looked about as messy as he felt. A mess of probably greasy hair from having gone one too many days without a shower, strands of hair in every direction. Pimples on a pale face like mountains on a landscape. Picked at scabs leaving marks of dried blood. Dark circles beneath his eyes like someone has stepped all over him, leaving behind dark shoeprints and sunken skin. An emptiness behind dark eyes like an abyss hiding too much underneath for someone so young.

Post-Endgame and Peter's struggling to deal. Morgan can't lose her older brother.

Hitting Every Red Light | Not Rated | 12776 words

Happy Hogan does a lot of annoying stuff for Tony Stark, including driving an annoying spider kid places. But when Peter stops talking so much, Happy starts to think maybe he enjoyed the talkative kid’s company after all. Or A whump story about Peter crying a lot after being punished by Nick Fury for messing up on a mission. Peter feels lots of guilt for messing up, and he fears his favorite mentor will be disappointed. Luckily Happy is there to help.

You wouldn’t understand | Teen & Up | 2926 words > Read the tags!

‘Come on Einstein, it’ll be fun!’ Peter hears echoing through his head as he stares at the familiar face in front of him.

The pale blue eyes that are looking back at him make Peter feel nauseous. He feels his body moving, all but stumbling backwards towards the exit. His vision goes blurry, and all he can hear is the pounding of his own heart thudding in his ears.

Appearances can be deceiving | Not Rated | 3269 words > Read the tags!

Alternate ending to 'You wouldn't understand'.

Peter's doing what he does best - saving people - when one of the people who needs saving is his childhood rapist.

If reality were a nightmare | Not Rated | 4334 words > Read the tags!

When people say sleep paralysis is one of the worst things a person can experience - they aren’t lying.

Peter Parker is no stranger to sleep paralysis.

Except this time, for Peter, it isn’t a dream. This isn’t something he’s going to wake up from in a cold sweat trying to catch his breath.

Repeating the past | Not Rated | 5584 words > Read the tags!

“Why me?” Peter asked, pulling back to look at Tony with red rimmed eyes. “Why do bad things always happen to me?”

Tony pulled Peter tighter against him, never wanting to let go. “I wish I knew, Pete.” Tony admitted. “You don’t deserve this.”

Green Turning Purple | General Audiences | 6239 words

Peter knows he can't fight back with his powers. So he doesn't. He lets whatever he's "earned" come at him. This time is a fucking bat.

Suit of Armor | Mature | 18230 words > Read the tags!

Peter Parker finally had a friend...

...but Skip Wescott was no such thing.

OR:

Peter deals with being a survivor post Skip Wescott. (Based on the PSA comic released by Marvel)

When You Hand By A Thread of Sanity | Not Rated | 87355 words > Read the tags!

Peter Parker has a good life. He has an Aunt that loves him more than anything and now a father-figure, Tony Stark, who would do anything to protect him. Despite losing his parents and his Uncle at such a young age, Peter’s life is good. But will all that change when a teacher at Peter’s school decides to take advantage of him in the worst way.

The New Normal | General Audiences | 24854 words

Life has a tendency to throw curveballs, and this one that's thrown at Peter Parker is one that he and his family never, ever expected.

Some curveballs are temporary, ones that are thrown to make life "interesting" and keep people on their toes.

But some are permanent...and the only thing left to do is adjust, regroup, and move on.

Move on with the new normal.

Don’t Leave Me Now | Teen & Up | 26524 words

Peter wakes up to white noise, static, a weight in his head that makes him feel like he'll never stand up straight again. His whole body is a wreck and every breath he takes is full of nails and pain. He can barely move.

Tony's face is the first thing to come into focus. If the blurry outline of him can be called focus.

"Tell me before May gets in here," Tony says, gravely serious. He rests his hand gently on Peter's shoulder. "I'm giving you that chance. What's going on?"

Peter knows he can't hide it anymore. He wants to sigh, but it hurts too much. Everything hurts too much. It shouldn't hurt this much.

"I think I'm losing my powers."

The Third Option | Mature | 220962 words

Homecoming A/U.

Ben and May divorced before Peter’s parents died, so when Ben is murdered Peter goes into foster care. It takes just a tiny taste of superpowers for Peter to decide he doesn’t want to put up with his horrible foster father anymore—the streets are infinitely more appealing. All he wants is to be Spider-Man anyway.

So he leaves.

Simple.

Simple, that is, until Iron Man needs Spider-Man’s help. Peter isn’t about to turn down an opportunity to fight alongside Tony Freaking Stark, but he also isn’t going to let his hero know that his recruit is a fifteen-year-old homeless dropout. So they strike a deal. Peter will help Tony. In return, the mask stays on.

And that’s when things get complicated.

Always Silent, Peter Darling | Mature | 116135 words

After a traumatic experience at age 6, Peter Parker hasn't spoken a word. Most blame it on the fact that he witnessed his Uncle die in a horrible fire, this is only partly true. Now, almost 10 years later Peter is given the chance to finally speak, but will he take it? Or is the fear of his Aunt to much for him to take that chance?

Either way, Tony Stark can tell something's not quite right about the kind hearted May Parker.

Downfall | Mature | 5307 words

Peter is being abused. Tony finds out in the worst way possible.

...more will be added! Feel free to inbox me any suggestions!

[bookdancerfics]

electric hammer to the heart, a JatP Whumptober fic

No 19. BROKEN HEARTS  Grief | Mourning Loved One | Survivor's Guilt

Summary: Bobby is the last one standing, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Aka the night 3/4 of Sunset Curve died, from Bobby’s POV.

WARNING: canonical character death

Rated T, Gen, 844 Words. Cross-posted to ao3 and ff.net (Bookdancer)

--

Bobby doesn’t notice, at first. Not because he’s focused on Rose, or he doesn’t hear the sirens, or even because he’s inside and his bandmates aren’t. But because this was meant to be their night. They were going to make it big here, and there was nothing that could ruin that.

He’s still chatting with Rose when they realize, sharing a look, that the ambulance sirens they’d been hearing in the distance have stopped almost right next door.

“They’re close,” Rose says.

“Yeah,” Bobby says, and he hesitates, trying to figure out if his bandmates have been gone long enough to be worried.

“It’s probably nothing,” Rose tells him. Her voice is reassuring, almost sympathetic, and he’s not so oblivious as to miss that she’s paying more attention to him now than she was before. At this point though, with the conspicuous absence of his friends hanging over him, he can’t bring himself to entirely care.

“Let me just—” He gestures at the exit the rest of his band used earlier. “—You know, check on them. Make sure they haven’t broken anything.” He tries to mimic Luke’s smile from before, when he’d leaned in to rat Bobby out about eating a burger, but he can tell by the look on Rose’s face that he doesn’t quite get there. She still nods at him though, and he’s out the door in seconds, only stopping to grab a jacket on his way out.

They were right; the ambulances, plural, are close, literally just a block away, and their lights flash red and blue all over the road. He ducks his head when he passes the line into the Orpheum, just in case some girls try to talk to him, but everyone’s attention is on the scene across the street and he doubts he really needed to bother.

Bobby grabs a guy’s shoulder as soon as he’s near the ambulances, leaning in even as he keeps his eyes on what’s happening. “Hey, what’s going on?”

The guy, bearded and obviously older than him, turns. “Honestly not too sure myself, sounds like food poisoning or something? But no one is really sure.”

The guy turns back around, shrugging, but Bobby’s heart is racing. Streetdogs… food poisoning… it’s too much to be a coincidence, and he pushes his way through the rest of the crowd until he stumbles into a paramedic who’s helping to pack up the scene.

“Hey,” Bobby says. “Hey, do you know who’s sick? I know my friends were going out and some guy said it was food poisoning and—”

He stops, stares. He can’t see much inside the ambulances, not with the paramedics moving everywhere, but there’s a pair of Vans at the end of a stretcher and while this wouldn’t normally be enough evidence, he just sees it as another piece of the puzzle. In the next second he’s trying to climb into the ambulance.

“Hey!” the paramedic now behind him yells. “Dude you can’t just go in there!”

Bobby whirls on her. “Those are my friends!”

“Okay,” she says, suddenly much more sympathetic, and Bobby doesn’t want to think about why that is. “Here, you can ride in this one, okay? There’s no room in the other.”

Bobby lets her lead him to the second ambulance, but he doesn’t hear what she says to her coworkers once he’s high enough to see inside, too numb to do anything but stare at Alex. He’s the only one here, which means Reggie and Luke are probably in the other, which explains the lack of room.

One of the paramedics sits him on the bench, smiles at him sympathetically—again with the sympathy—and then turns back to his job. He doesn’t say everything will be okay. He doesn’t say Bobby should expect his bandmates, his friends, back on their feet in time to perform at the Orpheum. He doesn’t even say they have a chance. Instead the door closes behind Bobby and the ambulance lurches forward, sirens wailing, and Bobby is left to stare at Alex’s lax, unconscious face. But he doesn’t dare to touch him, too scared of getting in the paramedics’ way.

Later, at the hospital, after the doctor tells him that all three of his friends are gone, he’ll try to remember what their last interactions were. Luke telling Rose that Bobby had a hamburger for lunch. Reggie clapping him on the shoulder as he left. Alex shooting him a quick smile.

Bobby doing his best to ignore them all because he was more focused on a girl than the band.

That’s the one that sticks out, really. It’s what runs through his mind late at night when he’s trying to sleep, a confession loose on his lips when he gives their eulogies. It’s like a secret he shares with Rose alone that he doesn’t want to admit to. That his last moments with his friends wasn’t performing with them, wasn’t eating streetdogs, wasn’t hanging out.

His last moment with them was built from annoyance, and he’ll never forgive himself for that.

[juju-on-that-yeet]

The One Who Lives

Whumptober Day 19: Broken Hearts Prompt: Grief/Mourning Loved One/Survivor’s Guilt

Summary: It’s one of those days where the weight of Eric’s past keeps him pinned to his bed, crying under the covers. The Jims are the ones who come to comfort him.

Warnings: Self-hatred, references to past death

Read on AO3 (Full Whumptober 2020 series)

Enjoy!

~

Eric is happy. He likes living among the egos, likes being a part of such a big group. He likes hanging out with Oliver at his workstation, walking through the greenhouse with Bim, helping out in the nursery with Ed, and adventuring with the Jims. Even the egos he isn’t directly friends with are kind to him when they pass each other in the halls, and even the more intimidating egos have yet to take issue with Eric and mostly leave him be. The building is warm in winter and cool in summer, there’s always enough to eat, and he’s has a comfortable bed to sleep in with his own room to boot. He has everything he needs, and everything he wants.

But sometimes, some days, he wakes up and there’s a hole inside of him that can’t be filled.

Today is one such day. He doesn’t even bother getting out of bed, just slumps deeper under the covers, curling into a tight, sad ball. His glasses are still on his nightstand, but that’s not the only reason his vision is blurry. He sniffles a little. He’s only just woken up, and he’s too tired to truly cry.

It’s not like he doesn’t know what the matter is. It’s not like he doesn’t have nightmares about it, doesn’t think about it all the time. Even if not consciously, it’s always there in the back of his mind, gnawing at him:

Why am I the one who lived?

Eric remembers the way the bus lurched, then rolled. He remembers how his brothers swore and yelled and screamed as the bus tumbled. It was like being inside a washing machine, getting tossed and turned and smacking into the seats, the walls, even his brothers. He clacked skulls with someone – Leric? Meric? Eric still doesn’t know for sure – and lost consciousness. When he woke up, he had no legs, and no brothers. He has legs now – propped up at his bedside, waiting to be put on – but nothing could ever bring his brothers back.

Tears start to spill out of his eyes. Why was it him? Why wasn’t it one of the older ones, one of the stronger ones, one of the smarter ones? Why was the youngest, most pathetic brother the one who survived? Why was he left alone in a house too big for two, why was he the only one Derek could put his hopes on? He knows Derek thought the same thing, often, but how can he resent it when he asks the same questions? When he laid awake at night – still does, sometimes – wondering why he was spared?

But that wasn’t enough. Somehow fate saw it fit to spare him twice. Because Derek isn’t here anymore, is he? Eric remembers that, too, remembers watching the fans forget about Derek, watching him disappear into thin air. They’d only been at Ego Inc. for a few weeks, only just gotten used to things there, and then Derek died and Eric had to start over. He added another question to his nightly laments:

Why am I the one they remember?

Eric doesn’t know why the fans latched onto him so readily. He doesn’t know what about himself made the fans decide he was the one they wanted to keep. Derek was older, wiser, stronger, stubborn and steadfast and determined to take life by the horns to get what he wanted. Even after Eric’s brothers died, he made the best of it. He brought Eric into his business and tried to move forward. What did Eric do? Cry, mostly, and beg not to work in advertising anymore. What about that is worth saving? Do the fans love him because he’s weak? Because he’s so pathetic and useless they can’t help but want the best for him? If that’s true, Eric doesn’t deserve it.

He doesn’t deserve to be the only one who lived. He doesn’t deserve to be the only member of his family still standing.

Or curling tighter into his blankets and crying harder beneath the covers, as Eric is doing now.

After some time – Eric doesn’t bother to mark how long – he hears a knock at his door. He supposes he should’ve expected someone to come by eventually; it’s happened before. He doesn’t bother to answer.

“Anxious Jim, are you okay?” asks the familiar voice of RJ, “Can we come in?”

Eric is a little surprised. Most often it’s Bim who comes by to snap him out of these funks, and sometimes it’s Ed. But it’s never been the Jims. Granted, Eric is their friend, and it’s not that weird that they’d try to help Eric out of one of these spells eventually. But Eric doesn’t want it to be right now. He likes the Jims a lot, too much for his own good, and he doesn’t want them to see him at his lowest.

He doesn’t want them to see the pathetic person who shouldn’t have survived.

“AJ, we decided we’re coming in!” RJ exclaims from outside the door. There’s a pause, as though he’s planning to break the door down, then the sound of the doorknob turning. “Oh. Good call, CJ!”

That might have made Eric laugh if he wasn’t so miserable. As it stands now, he can’t imagine feeling happy at all. Ego Inc. has everything he needs, everything he wants, everything that makes him happy, but he shouldn’t still be here to have it. Derek should, his brothers should. Not Eric. Eric doesn’t deserve any of this.

He sure doesn’t deserve the Jims sitting on his bed with him, either, but they do. Eric can feel his bed dip down at two different points, one beside him and one just past his legs. Only his messy dark hair is visible beyond the covers, and Eric ducks down under the blanket, rendering himself completely hidden. A slender hand touches his shoulder through the blanket, and another one gently lays over his thigh – RJ and CJ respectively, Eric can tell even through the covers. He shudders and continues to quietly cry.

Eric expects them to say something – or for RJ to say something, at least. That’s what everyone always does. Bim tries to cheer him up, Ed tells him that it’s okay to be upset. Eventually Eric will decide to let their words in and get up, get dressed, and leave his room, but he’ll be less lively for the rest of the day. But RJ doesn’t say anything at all, and CJ doesn’t try to write letters with his hand over Eric’s leg. He doesn’t move his hand at all, and neither does RJ. They both keep their hands on Eric, gentle and comforting, completely still. Eric’s never known either of them to be so motionless when they aren’t asleep. They’re always fidgeting and tapping fingers and bouncing in place. But not now. Not while they’re sitting with Eric. Eric can feel their warmth through the blanket, feel their care and concern. Minutes pass, and Eric still cries, but he never stops registering the twins’ hands.

A while later, much later than it would be if Eric had Bim or Ed talking to him, Eric finally uncurls and sits up in bed. RJ is next to him at the front of his bed, and CJ is sitting in the middle of the bed, just beyond where Eric was laying. Eric expects the Jims to get excited like Bim or encouraging like Ed, pushing him to face the day whether intentionally or not. But while the Jims noticeably perk up to see Eric out from under the covers, they don’t speak yet, they don’t jump or move. There’s a long pause as Eric waits for them to talk, only to realize that the Jims are doing the same for Eric. But Eric doesn’t trust his voice yet. He sits there, hair a mess, eyes red and puffy, tears still tracking his cheeks.

Eventually, RJ moves to gingerly take Eric’s glasses off his nightstand and hold them out to him, smiling nervously but kindly. Eric doesn’t know why that sets him off again, but it does, and he starts to cry in earnest again, shaking his head in response to RJ.

RJ and CJ visibly startle. They don’t seem to know what to do next. Eric is glad he can’t see their expressions through the tears. He feels RJ come closer, slowly and cautiously putting his arms around Eric, as though he expects Eric to push him away at any moment. But Eric could never refuse a hug from RJ, and it’s suddenly the only thing he wants. He lets RJ wrap his arms around his shoulders, though he keeps his own hands balled on his lap as he cries. After a moment, CJ crawls forward, and RJ moves one arm away from Eric’s shoulders to give CJ enough room to hug Eric too. And hug him he does, a little gentler than RJ and no less caring.

The three stay huddled for a long while, heads bowed together as the Jims watch over Eric and rest their cheeks in his hair. Eric doesn’t mind it; it’s another source of contact, another touch giving him warmth. Their arms don’t waver, don’t loosen, don’t twitch, even as the minutes pass. Eric’s crying subsides, but he’s not ready to move just yet. But he thinks he will be soon. Maybe he doesn’t feel like he’s earned the right to be the only one of his family still here, but he is here, and if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t have the Jims’ arms around him, holding him together and lifting him up.

The hole in Eric’s chest doesn’t fill in, it doesn’t shrink. But it slowly films over with something protective, something to keep it closed for the time being and let Eric start to breathe again.

[subjectsix]

The Best Laid Plans

47 was perched on the edge of his seat in the airport, briefcase tucked between his feet. He sat perfectly straight, gently holding the Polaroid with both his hands. The photo made his head swim, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The photo of the boy with icy blue eyes. The photo with his own eyes. The photo of him. The photo from before he remembered.

(3,666 words. Set between Hitman (2016) and Hitman 2, cross posted from my AO3 account, KipRussel)

One month— faster than Lucas expected. One month, only because of dissension and betrayal in ICA. Soders turned to Providence and offered them everything. Another selfish heart to the ranks of the enemy, but a blessing in disguise for Lucas. It brought heat off of him and his militia, if only for some time. But it was still time. Time to move unseen, away from the ICA’s prying eyes.

Hunched over in the rain, Lucas knocked on the small Chicago apartment door. Someone knocked back, continuing the code he knew by heart. Lucas filled in the end and was answered by locks clicking open one by one. He tried to contain his impatience, bouncing his leg, clenching and unclenching his fists. Olivia cracked the safehouse door, peering out to see who on earth was out there so early, then swung it open when she caught sight of Lucas in the porch light, drenched in the downpour.

“You said we’d have to go dark—“ she questioned, stepping aside to let him in.

“It’s alright now. They’re preoccupied.” Lucas knocked the rain from his boots and shed his jacket. “Are you alright?” he turned to face Olivia. She clicked all the door locks back into place.

“I’m fine, are you—“ she stopped as Lucas pulled her into a hug, taking a shaky breath to steady himself. “...are you alright?” Olivia finished, returning the hug.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m alright,” he said, pulling away and wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Let’s go sit so you can dry off. I’m soaked now. Thank you for that,” Olivia replied with a dry smile, moving down the safehouse hall toward the sparse living room. Lucas dropped his jacket onto a bench by the door and followed after. “You said they’re preoccupied? With what?”

“A defector. Their leader sold them out to Providence.”

Olivia let out a single sarcastic “ha!”, scooping her laptop out of her chair and reclaiming her seat in the small room. Lucas fell into a seat across from her, glancing about the small apartment. It housed the odd militia member whenever needed— moving through town, on the run, staying for some time for reconnaissance. So it had what it needed, but nothing more. A kitchen with a stove and a mini fridge. And all the dirty dishes Olivia had let pile in the sink, next to discarded takeaway boxes. A flat, thin mattress with an old sleeping bag stretched out in the corner. A card table with fold out chairs for eating, and a low coffee table surrounded with their two chairs and a new couch. Well, new to Lucas, but a ratty and dirty couch. Someone must have claimed it from the curb at some point.

Olivia opened her laptop in the chair across from him, clicked through a few things, then shut it.

“How’s Colorado?” Olivia asked, pulling her laptop closer.

Lucas took a deep breath, mentally sorting through the past month. “Packed up. Some members are staying behind, but everything crucial’s been scattered and moved. The ICA didn’t interfere after 47 left. I’ve cut my ties from the base, we’re officially not there anymore.” Olivia nodded solemnly.

“I’m… I’m sorry—“

Lucas put his hand up. “It’s alright, Olivia. These things happen. We all know they do.” She didn’t respond.

“Where did you fly in from?”

Lucas pursed his lips at the subject change. “Idaho. Just verifying how safe it would be to move again. Was your bus ride alright?”

“It was fine,” she said, eyes drifting to the floor. “Just like any greyhound bus ride. Long, boring, better with headphones.” Lucas tilted his head, searching her face.

“Olivia. Are you really alright?” he asked gently.

“I’m fine, Lucas,” she snapped, looking up to meet him angrily, but turning away as her expression melted, catching the deep concern in his face. “I’m fine,” she answered softer this time. “I’ve...I've had plenty of time to think about it.” She pushed her laptop onto the coffee table, moving for the kitchen. The rain continued to downpour, hitting against the blacked-out windows. Lucas simply sat in silence, wishing he had more of a way to help Olivia, some way to take the survivor’s guilt from her. He knew it too well. He knew the time it took.

“Soooo do you want crappy bottled water, a capri sun, or whiskey?” Olivia asked, pulling some mismatched cups from a cupboard.

Lucas hummed. “Whiskey, of course. But water too, probably, for the sake of my liver.” Olivia snorted and dug around for a tumbler in the back of the cupboard. Lucas kicked his boots off by the heels, stretching out in the uncomfortable chair and trying to shake some of the rain from his hair. Olivia slid his two drinks onto the table and fell into her seat with a glass of water.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, listening to the rainfall and early morning city sounds outside. Lucas’ mind drifted, from Olivia, to Colorado, to his escape from the Institute all those years before, to his brother, to their promise.

“The man they sent,” Olivia started, breaking Lucas out of his train of thought. “is he…?” Lucas took a deep breath.

“He’s my brother.”

“The one you’ve been searching for?” Olivia’s face twisted into concern. “The one who’s contract hits are, in your own words, ‘practically untraceable’?” Lucas nodded, eyes unfocused, resting his chin in his hand.

“He always was the best of us,” he mused.

“Why did you hesitate?” Olivia asked. She knew she might be one of the only people who could ask Lucas that. “If he’s working against us. If he’s that dangerous. I... I know he’s your brother, but…”

Lucas rubbed his face and leaned back in his seat, his drink nearly spilling. “He is my brother. And I…” Lucas shut his eyes, searching back into those years. “He’s been through more than me,” he sighed and leaned forward again, elbows digging into his knees. “He’s the reason I escaped the institute. We planned to leave together, but things went… wrong, they sent in soldiers, tried to stop our rebellion— in the chaos he made sure I got free and stayed behind to cover for me.”

“Oh,” was all Olivia could find to say.

“They couldn’t risk another rebellion. They tried to inhibit all of their emotions, stop them at the source, control them. Only 47 survived. And then Providence decided to pull the plug. They wanted a fresh start with fewer complications. So they wiped his memories. Took it all away from him and set him loose in the world and told him to be a weapon.”

“So… he doesn’t remember you? At all?”

Lucas took a drink, letting it slide down smooth. “I don’t know. No one truly ever forgets anything, you can bury and hide it and cover it just out of reach, but it’s always there. You just need the right trigger, the key to bring whatever it is back into view.” Lucas scratched the back of his neck. There was something he’d almost forgotten. Maybe… “Do you think you could help me leave breadcrumbs?”

Olivia squinted. “What?”

Lucas sounded more urgent now, a glimmer of hope springing up in his mind. “They have to be noticeable, but not to everyone. Not obvious, but not secret. Providence especially, we can’t risk them finding it.”

“You want him to find us? Lucas, he’ll kill us. He’ll kill you.”

“But if he remembers—“

“Remembers what?” Olivia rubbed the back of her neck, exasperated.

His words tumbled out as they came to mind, Lucas fixated on his new revelation. “After they captured us again, as boys, Providence wanted to see if their investment was really worth it, seeing the trouble we caused. And 47 was our best. So the Constant came to meet him.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. “You mean— he knows who he is?”

“The man came in wearing a Providence pin. I never saw his face, I was punished for my instigation, but 47, he met him, looked him in the eye—“ Lucas gestured, the half-empty glass sloshing with his movement. “I remember the man’s voice, but never saw his face.”

“And you think he’ll remember? That he’ll know enough to identify him after all these years? He’d be ancient now. Lucas, that—“ Olivia leaned back in her seat, half throwing up her hands. “it's a longshot.”

“What else do we have?”

Olivia didn’t answer.

“I can keep running from my brother, while our enemy tries to kill us, or I can meet him again, help him remember, remember our agreement, and have a shot at attacking Providence at the source, in the heart.”

“Your agreement?”

“After 47 met the Constant, we both agreed to our new goal. We were going dismantle the people that did this to us from the inside out. We were going to bring Providence down. Together.”

Olivia picked at the arm of her chair.

“So your plan is to leave a breadcrumb trail for your assassin brother who tried to kill us, hope he doesn’t kill you, hope he remembers you, and then hope he somehow remembers the face of a man he saw years ago?”

Lucas shifted in his seat, abandoning his glass to the table. “Yeah. That’s the idea. ...in less detail. We’ll have to research it, make sure all the pieces are there, but…”

Olivia rubbed her temples and scooped up her laptop again. “Okay. Walk me through this completely. Step by step.”

Agent 47 slid the cab driver more money than he owed him, stepping onto the curb outside his hotel in Sapporo. The GAMA Facility was far behind him now. The only signs he had ever been there included the now abandoned snowmobile, his room booked under his alias, and the “accidental” deaths of two patrons in the hospital. Death in hospitals was not unusual. Mistakes happen. Equipment malfunctions, infrastructure fails, people are lost. The PR team would scramble to account for the tragedies, cover their side, shift blame elsewhere. Providence, no doubt, would get suspicious. Their lawyer and most recent defector, head of the ICA, dying under mysterious circumstances? To an organization like that, nothing is coincidence. 47 wasn’t even aware Providence existed. Not until his search for the Shadow Client lead him to discover them.

Providence had always been a myth, a whispered conspiracy, a tall tale. Even to the ICA. And yet...

Something burned in the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t place or identify. A soft, faded familiarity. Had he heard of Providence before? It was possible. The contracts he took involved countless numbers of people in high ranking positions, both hiring him and the aim of his mission. He never cared for the politics.

47 checked out of his room, handing over his keycard and starting for the train station, shifting his briefcase to his other hand.

Providence. He knew that name. But like most things entangled in memory in his life, he wasn’t sure why.

The safehouse apartment was now littered with maps and papers. Lucas’ sleeves were pushed up past his elbows, and he tapped the red pen in his hands against his thigh. Olivia was walking around their map and notes, holding her laptop close, paging through her open tabs and programs. Their chairs had scooted back some feet somewhere during their planning. New dishes piled in the sink, their drinks scattered on the counter. The glimmer of hope Lucas held to grew brighter as they uncovered more— Olivia had dug deep, and traced the people that took 47’s memory away. The trail led them right to the Ether Corporation (‘of course,’ Olivia had remarked). In the settling dust of the old companies and ownerships, they received the formula for the drug, and had begun reverse engineering it to better understand the chemical makeup of it. There was only one, and it hadn’t been tested— who would it be tested on?— but it existed. And they could get it.

Then it was a matter of following the paper trail to Lucas’ home. He remembered where it was, he could never forget, but it had changed hands and companies too. It sat abandoned and rotting in Romania. It would just take the right offers and right people to purchase it. He tried to not laugh at the bitter irony of owning the home he hated so much.

They had sketched, and mapped, and pinned, and recorded, and planned and planned and planned. And now it was almost 3am.

“This… could work. It could really work,” Lucas said, drumming the pen against his side.

“It is a longshot, but I’ve seen you pull off crackpot ideas like this before. If anyone can make it work, it’s you. But,” she added, dropping her laptop onto the couch. “Hope for the best, plan for the worst. Don’t forget what he’s capable of, Lucas. I know he’s your brother and I know you miss him, but…”

Lucas nodded slowly, rubbing his nose on his sleeve, still focused on their notes and maps on the table.

“Yeah. I know,” he passed a hand through his hair. “I know. But Providence isn’t expecting us to fight like this. We play dirty. We strike hard, at the heart, at the Constant.”

“And if he doesn’t remember?”

“...we keep trying.”

“Assuming he doesn’t kill you,” Olivia deadpanned.

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that, Lucas.”

“I trust him.”

“He doesn’t even know you!” she exclaimed, tossing her hands up. “You don’t even know him. It’s been... how many years, Lucas? He’s a contract killer, and you’re his target.” She rubbed the back of her neck and started to pace. “You told me yourself, he doesn’t make mistakes. You’ve tracked him, you know. And if I set this up, and you meet him, and he—“

Lucas softened, crossing the room to her, reaching for her arm, but she flinched away.

“We both know that’s a risk—“

“I know,” Olivia grit her teeth, her words spilling out. “But I can’t let it be my fault. You— you’re the closest thing to a parent I’ve ever had. I can’t…”

“Olivia—“

“Don’t,” she hissed, more to herself, holding back angry tears.

“Olivia,” he repeated, his voice low and gentle, putting his hands on her shoulders. Her gaze stayed glued to the floor. She balled her fists at her sides, full of anger and sadness that fueled more anger.

“They’re dead because of me, Lucas.”

“They’re not.”

“I hate this. I hate Providence. That they do any of this. It isn’t right.” She couldn’t find the right words to convey what she meant. There was nothing more infuriating than being upset and not knowing how to articulate why. She didn’t want to cry either, which made it worse. And she knew it wasn’t her fault, but it felt like her fault, it burned and haunted her like it was her fault, even if she knew it wasn’t. This was stupid. And she wanted Providence to burn. She choked back a sob.

Lucas’ chest ached. He pulled Olivia into a hug.

“You don’t have to do this. You’ve already done so much more than I’ve ever asked. You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he said, chin resting on her shoulder.

“No,” she protested. “No, I want to. I have to be a part of this fight. Neutrality isn't an option.” She pulled out of the hug, resolved, something in her eyes burning, like it always was. “They’re going to pay for it. And I’m going to be a part of that.” She paused for a moment. “Even if that means being part of your asinine plan,” she cracked with a small smile. “Just. Do me a favor and don’t die.” Lucas shook his head with a chuckle.

Olivia glanced around the room, letting out a sigh, taking mental stock of the place, pushing her worries out of sight. It was even messier than it had been before, which was saying something. She took a deep breath, walking over and peeking out the blackout curtains. The downpour had begun to let up, the rain now falling softly, drifting down the window panes.

“Can we get out of here? Go for a walk, or something? I need to not be in here. It’d do you some good too.”

47 was perched on the edge of his seat in the airport, briefcase tucked between his feet. He sat perfectly straight, gently holding the Polaroid with both his hands. The photo made his head swim, but he couldn’t take his eyes off it. The photo of the boy with icy blue eyes. The photo with his own eyes. The photo of him. The photo from before he remembered.

Diana had passed him as he switched gates, palming the Polaroid to him as they walked by each other, just two strangers in a crowd who bumped shoulders, heading for their next flight. Diana headed deeper into Japan, himself headed further east. She had turned and watched him go, apprehension caught in her throat. He hadn’t stopped to look at the photo until he reached his next gate. Now, he felt both very alone, and very watched.

He tucked the photo into his inner suit pocket, glancing about, almost paranoid someone had seen it. Almost. It would just look like some photo of a boy to any other onlooker. But to him it felt precious. Secret. Dangerous. His head ached, trying to pull some fuzzy, non-existent memory. Looking at the photo felt both familiar and distant. Disassociative. 47 knew that was him. Diana had told him what she was offered, and who had offered it. She figured they had given her the photo as proof, extra payment, extra incentive. A down payment. They told her it was him. And he knew. There was no doubt.

And yet… it felt like looking at something unreal. Something he never knew. Distant, like a dream that slips away the more you wake up. But it stirred something in the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t quite grasp.

And then there was the fact that Providence held this information. Why did they know who he was? Why did they hold the key he had so long ago lost, what the ICA couldn’t find? Did they fabricate this photo just for their own purposes? His head swam. He felt as if the picture would burn a hole in his pocket. His scarce personal life and work were beginning to blur.

The flight attendant began to call boarding groups. 47 mentally shook himself and picked up his briefcase. He could consider it all elsewhere. He couldn’t afford distractions for now. Time would come to sort it. Diana would contact him. For now, it was status quo. For now, he did as he always did: quietly pushed everything aside to focus on work.

And yet, it sat in the back of his mind. Burning. Those blue eyes, burning.

The sun was finally peaking over the city horizon, spilling down the Chicago streets. The blackout curtains kept the safehouse comfortably dark. It kept the apartment private as well as letting any jet lagged or exhausted agent sleep whenever they wanted to. In Olivia’s case, she held a wild enough sleep schedule for the time to never really matter.

She and Lucas and walked through the city together for some time, watching as shops started to open and people started to head out for work or come back. The rain began to let up as the morning grew closer. They’d impulse bought a box of donuts and carved through half of it by the time they made it back.

Now, Olivia was curled up tightly in the sleeping bag in the corner, after insisting Lucas take the couch, claiming she preferred the sleeping bag anyway. Lucas stretched out on it, staring at the ceiling, box of donuts discarded on the table nearby, on top of their maps and marked up papers. The pipes in the apartment hissed as people in other parts of the building started their days. The city life grew louder outside.

Would this really work, Lucas wondered? He stared past the ceiling, eyes unfocused. It really was a longshot. A massive risk. Stupid, arguably.

Did 47 ever wonder? Did he ever search for his origins? He knew his brother knew somewhere, deep down. Even if 47 didn’t know, he knew . Lucas was sure it was in him. They couldn’t take that from 47, not permanently.

Lucas shifted, shifting his hands from behind his head, pulling his left palm into view, tracing the scar shaped like an X he carried with him all these years. He thought of the matching one his brother carried. Did he remember the meaning of it? Did he ever wonder where it came from? Did he want to know? Did he care?

Lucas dropped his hand down again, twisting to lay on his side with a sigh. He and 47 fought so hard to leave the Institute. They almost won. And it slipped through their fingers. And here was the idea again, of victory. He only wondered if he’d get to fight for it with his brother again. If he’d reach him in time.

Olivia shifted in her sleeping bag in the corner of the room. Lucas could hear her sleeping soundly. He’d fight for her. For a better world for her.

The hope and uncertainty and anger and ache weighed on his chest. Lucas shut his eyes and remembered.

What is our purpose?

He missed his brother.

Take the Institute down. Revenge.

He rubbed his thumb across the scar on his palm.

“Don’t follow. If I fail, don’t come back. Go live your life for both of us.”

He remembered that night. Full of fire and fear, and the last time he heard from his brother.

And they would see it all burn again. This time, they’d win.

Together. Providence would burn.

[whatcouldgowrong-ohthat]

Little Songbird

Summary: Various Avenger x Reader one-shots with songs from musicals. In this one — Thanos has decided to use the one thing the Avengers can’t lose. You. Song is “Little Songbird” from Hadestown.

Warnings: Angst, arguments, pain, blood, loss

The sight of Asgardian bodies surrounding you was enough to make your stomach churn. The battlefield was never a sight you had grown accustomed to. The smell of blood…the sight of lost families…the dull ache of guilt was all more than you knew how to process. It was why Thor had taken you to Asgard. You wanted to study, to understand and gain knowledge. A place with the Avengers didn’t fit for Barton’s little sister and that was okay.

He understood.

But now, you were curled in a corner, tucked and hidden away. You watched, feeling helpless now that Bruce had been sent back to Earth.

“If you’re going to earth, you might want a guide.” 

Loki’s voice caught your attention as he offered his services to this monster. How could he so easily switch sides? It took all your strength to bite back the sob that wanted to rip through your throat. Only hours before he had helped the Asgardians onto the ship…now he was interested in the demise of your people? It didn’t make sense…

Your thoughts raced, tumbling over one another as you tried to sort through your emotions. Betrayal, guilt, pain…You needed to warn your family, the Avengers, but Thor demanded you remain hidden, unnoticed. Loki was going so far as to use his illusion magic to make sure you were safe.

So why would he —

“Odinson. The rightful king of Jutenheim, God of Mischief, do hereby pledge to you, my undying fidelity.”

You watched Loki carefully, hands clasped over your mouth as tears welled in your eyes. What was he doing? He bowed, his breath unsteady for someone whose words seemed so sure and determined. 

And that’s when he acted.

His knife came out, a small weapon for someone to use on Thanos, but Loki didn’t have a choice. He raised it, aiming for the throat, but was stopped by that second damn infinity stone. Thanos smirked and immediately your breath caught in your chest.

No, no, no. Thor couldn’t lose his brother too. He’d lost so much already, he couldn’t —

“Undying,” Thanos repeated, eyes watching Loki carefully. From the angle of your hiding spot, you could see the fear in the brother’s eyes. Never had Loki looked so…mortal. Taking his hand, Thanos twisted it away. “You should choose your words more carefully.”

A small cry of pain slipped from Loki as he dropped the knife. The infinity gauntlet wrapped around his throat, squeezing as Thanos lifted him into the air. Loki’s choking cries were the only sound on the space craft, sending a shiver down his spine. You immediately looked to Thor. He was trembling, from anger no doubt, as he watched Loki thrash around in the smallest of attempts to free himself.

“You,” Loki gasped, eyes wide and bloodshot. Thanos’ attention had briefly shifted to Thor, watching as his actions affected the God of Thunder, was brought back to Loki upon hearing his voice. “Will never be…a God.”

Thanos smiled at Loki’s words before giving the final squeeze that would crack the Asgardian’s neck. Thor’s muffled cries earned Thanos’ attention once again and he turned to face him. Loki’s dangling body seeming to weigh nothing in his grip. As if reading the small bit of hope in Thor’s gaze, Thanos assured him, “No resurrections this time.” He dropped Loki’s body with a thud and your eyes grew to the size of saucers as his illusion disappeared before your eyes. 

Ebony Maw, who had been surveying the room, paused when he saw you. He tilted his head — taking note of the tears streaming down your cheeks, your frail, trembling body, the fact that you were wearing Midgardian clothes. 

“Mighty Thanos, supreme ruler,” his chilling voice spoke. “It seems there is one last survivor amongst the dead.”

Thor’s muffled protests grew louder, trying to keep Thanos’s attention away from you, but to no avail. Thanos followed Ebony’s gaze, raising an eyebrow when he saw the last thing he expected. Thanos had heard stories of the Avengers. He’d studied their weaknesses and strengths, finding none particularly interesting other than Tony Stark.

You were not a face he knew.

“What is your name, child?” Thanos asked, stepping forward. You tried crawling further into your corner, the only attempt you could possibly posses to try and get away. However, Proxima Midnight forced you to your feet, a hand on your upper arm.

“The great Thanos asked you a question,” Ebony Maw warned, catching your gaze for the briefest moment.

“I — I’m —“ You cleared your throat, the raw feeling making it difficult to speak. “Y/N Barton.”

Thanos’ gaze shifted, surprise in his features. He didn’t know your face, but he knew your name. You were vital to the Avengers. You united them, kept them strong and dedicated even from across worlds. The Hawkeye’s little sister — a woman with the uncanny ability to write and speak in a way that brought any mortal man to his knees. And yet here you were, the little bird lost in space.

If he had you in his grasp, if he could use you, then the Avengers would have no choice but to listen to him.

Thanos looked back at Thor. Raw emotions shone in that one eye, his jaw was clenched even with the metal keeping his mouth shut. The God of Thunder looked like a live wire, a nerve ready to be toyed with.

And Thanos had found the perfect method.

Looking back at you, he told Proxima Midnight, “Let her go.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion as the warrior did as she was told. You hugged yourself, taking a step back from the purple…beast in front of you. 

“I know a great deal about you, Miss Barton.”

“Y-You do?” Your gaze shifted to Thor, but was quickly blocked as Thanos stepped between you two. You looked up at him, nails digging into your arms.

“Little songbird, give me a song. I’m a busy man and I can’t stay long,” he started, his voice smooth. “I got men to lead, I got orders to give. I got an army to lead, I got riots to quell. And they’ll be giving me hell back on Earth.”

You opened your mouth to speak, wanting to put him in his place, strike him down with words. The way you were once so eloquent with the spoken word, that talent seemed lost as you stood before a Titan. How were you, a mortal, supposed to best him? Especially when he so easily tossed Loki to the side?

“Hey, little songbird, cat got your tongue?” He walked to your side, watching as your gaze shifted to Thor almost immediately. Thanos brushed your hair back, off your shoulder and glanced at Thor. The Asgardian was livid. And Thanos was eating it up. “Always a pity for one so pretty and young. When destruction comes to clip your wings and knock the wind right out of your lungs…” Thanos knelt down, his face so close to yours. “Hey,” he voiced, his tone almost assuring that everything would be okay. “Nobody sings on empty.”

Biting your lip, you looked to Thor, silently pleading with him to protect you. If he could break past the metal prison, he could take you from here. The two of you would be safe. “Strange is the call of this…monstrous man. I want to fly out and run from his hand. I want a nice soft place to live. I want to…be safe forever.”

Thanos tucked his finger under your chin, turning him to look at you. “Hey, little songbird, you got something fine. You’d shine like a diamond down on our side. And the choice is yours, if you’re willing to choose. Seeing as you’ve got someone to lose…and I could use a canary.” His voice, velvet and a threat, sent a shiver down your spine. You knew what offer he was making. If you went with him, you’d be protecting Thor. If you didn’t, Thanos would kill him.

Thor couldn’t save you this time.

But you could save him.

“Suddenly nothing is as it was. Where are we now, Odinson?” you murmured, your voice wavering as you glanced at Thor. “Wasn’t it gonna be the two of us? Weren’t we birds of a feather?”

Tears streamed down Thor’s cheek. All he wanted was to take you in his arms. He wanted to protect you, assure you that he would kill Thanos and let nothing happen to you. But given the circumstances, he was not in the position to make threats or assure you of anything.

Thanos turned you to face him, taking a step back. “Hey, little songbird, let me guess: He’s some kind of hero and he’s one of the best? Give him your hand, he’ll give you his hand-to-mouth. He’ll…swing you a hammer when the power’s out. Hey, why not be the hero this time around?” He gestured to everything — the death and destruction that you were helpless to stop. You were weak, nothing you could do would have prevented anything. “Little songbird, look all around you. See how the vipers and vultures surround you.” 

Ebony Maw and Proxima Midnight smirked and you shuddered, your nails drawing blood in your arms. “They’ll take you down,” Thanos promised. “They’ll pick you clean if you stick around such a desperate scene.”

You look up at him, tears welling in your eyes as he laid out the reality of the situation. He explained, “See, people get mean when the chips are down.” Thanos glanced at Thor, whispering to you, “As someone with no abilities, no strength, how long do you think it will take him to blame you for what has happened?”

Your heart squeezed, twisted as you muffled a cry behind your hand. Thor would hate you when he realized just how useless you are. But if you left with Thanos…

“If I leave with you, you let him live,” you insisted, holding his gaze.

“You have my word.”

You look from him, the Titan offering for you to be the hero, to the God who was always yours. Biting your lip, you know you don’t have a choice. If it were any Avenger in your place, they would be choosing the right thing.

They would be the hero.

Thor’s muffled protests sent a shiver down your spine. He knew you too well. He knew what you would do because it was something you always wished you could do. You were normal, not an agent or enhanced in any way. You weren’t a super. 

“Okay.”

Thanos glanced at Thor, smirking. A piece of his puzzle fell into place, fitting perfectly. He held a hand out to you, gently taking yours as you watched Thor. 

Thanos’ low voice rumbled through his chest and seemed to run through you like a current, sending an uneasiness in the pit of your stomach. “He’ll live, Y/N. I can assure you of that.”

As you turned your back, Ebony Maw waved his hand. A portal appeared and you stepped through. For a choice that was supposed to be right, you couldn’t help but feel like you were making the biggest mistake. 

“Y/N!” 

Thor’s voice caught your attention and you turned back. Your gaze met the baby blue gaze of the eye that stared so intently at him. The metal restraints were gone. He reached out to you, crying out your name as if it were a wish, a plea for you to return to his arms.

“Thor, I —“

The portal closed between the two of you, severing his ties to you. Thor fell forward, his hands landing next to Loki’s body. His body shook with anger, regret, and a pain he’d never felt before. He had one job, to protect you, to love you.

And he failed.

[mwolf0epsilon]

Could I ask for some fallout 4 companion + favorite NPCs headcanons you might have?

I did my top 5 favorite companions in alphabetical order + my top favorite NPC, hope you don't mind! The post would be a bit too long otherwise ^^'

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[[MORE]]

--Codsworth--

Codsworth is (besides Curie, Edna and Whitechapel Charlie) the most self aware Mr.Handy in the Commonwealth. As a result he tends to be underestimated by people in general (since most Mr.Handies and Mr.Gutsies are stuck in their programming to such a degree that they're not really aware of their surroundings concerning a timeline). This causes Codsworth mild anxiety as he thinks he might be broken or perhaps even dangerous to the Sole Survivor if he "glitches any further". A loose cannon can't be trusted right?

The robot workbench, while useful for repairs and upgrades, gives Codsworth the "willies". He doesn't like the idea of being altered beyond what he was made to be. He has the same sort of dread when asked if he'd ever like to acquire a synth body like Curie. He was "born" a Mr Handy he'll remain one until the day he passes.

Codsworth regularly has tea with Sturges and Mama Murphy. Sometimes he manages to get the Sole Survivor, Preston and Curie to join him, but otherwise not many people give him the time of day to kick back and indulge in old pre-war habits. Unless he bakes some of his famous tarberry cobbler, then everyone flocks around him for a taste.

--Deacon--

Every single lie Deacon tells is based on truths. He has a way of weaving words that is impressive because he only really needs to sell something believable to his audience. What's more believable than a story with a few facts switched around? Deacon lies about lying.

Deacon has a terrible temper. One he couldn't exactly control when he was younger but that he'd learned to get a hold of as he grew older and tried to better himself. Barbara's death was the last time he lost control, and since then no one's really seen the extent of Deacon's fury. That person who let his anger get the better of him was scum and caused nothing but pain and death. He wants to help, not destroy.

Deacon has alluded to having lived a good part of his life underground (being quite fond of caves and feeling safe in them) before moving to University Point. While no one knows where exactly he came from, Maccready has suggested Capital Wastelands since he first met him there and he has helped concoct theories on Deacon's origins that vary from cave settlements, to Little Lamplight and even to a Vault. Whichever one it is, this is the cause for his attachment to his sunglasses. His eyes are incredibly sensitive to bright lights (They're also very convinient for his spy work so it's win win in any case!).

--Nick Valentine--

While he's not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship he does seem to be incredibly fascinated by romance novels. He doesn't admit this to anyone however and won't read anything out in public that isn't part of his mystery novel collection. He has a hidden stash of romance novels in a hidden compartment in his desk.

He watched Hancock growing up with his brother and always thought Guy to be a little too aggressive in his stance about the world around them. He hoped the boy would grow out of it but was quickly proven wrong when Mcdonough became Diamond City's mayor. He considered leaving with John and the ghouls before deciding he needed to stay to keep an eye out for the city. God only knew DC would need all the help it could get from then on out...

He has a missing persons case file for Preston which he keeps a secret. Preston's mother approached him after travelling all the way to DC to ask if he'd find her son who was 17 when he ran away. Ever since the Sole Survivor came along and introduced him to her odd group of misfits he's had to keep himself from telling Preston that his mother is worried sick about him. He hopes that when things settle down a bit and that the Minutemen are back into proper shape that he'll be able to tell the lieutenant and bring him to see his mother.

--Preston Garvey--

He was raised by his biological mother (a brahmin farmer) and the woman she later fell in love with and married (a nurse). He never met his father and his moms insisted he was killed by a raider. He later learned that while his mother was pregnant with him, she and his biological father were kidnapped by a group of raiders and that his father was then tortured mercilessly until his mind broke and he joined them. His mother escaped with her life only by pure luck and chance.

Preston's idolization of the Minutemen was always a consern for Mama Garvey, who was deathly afraid of losing her baby boy. When Preston turned 17 he ran away from home to join the militia against his mom's wishes. He hadn't exactly hit his growth spurt yet so his mothers were pretty scared that he might have died alone in the Wastes. After the Minutemen fell apart Mama Garvey went to Nick Valentine to ask for help searching for any signs that her son might still be alive.

He has a passion for learning new things, new skills, any tidbit of useful knowledge he can get his hands on. He's a bit like a Swiss army knife with all the things he's learned from traveling with the Minutemen and Sole Survivor, be it cook a mean brahmin steak, or mend ripped clothes, or even apply first aid when there aren't any stimpacks available, or even origami (although the latter is just for fun).

--X6-88--

After the Institute is destroyed X6 feels mildly conflicted but chooses to stick by his original instructions to follow the Sole Survivor's orders. This of course was an issue at first because he'd shadow Sole like a lost, albeit mildly terrifying, puppy. He's taken up guard duty after he was asked to stop acting like a bodyguard, since he didn't really know what to do with his time. Some of the braver/nicer companions (Nick, Preston, Curie and Codsworth) have tried to give him pointers, but it's actually some of the settlers who have helped him figure out how to somewhat "enjoy" his freedom (mainly Mama Murphy and Sturges who can tolerate his cynicism and disdain for the Commonwealth and it's people).

He's embarrassed by his Fancy Lads snack cakes cravings. As a synth courser he should be a top of the line model with zero attachment to material possessions and no need for indulging in the disgusting Commonwealth foods, be they pre-war or post-war. However since he's a Gen3 synth this is just a quirk he can't really shake off and he'd probably die of embarrassment if anyone found out his stash in his room.

He has a bit of a synth sense. He's not really aware of it, but he gets a strange feeling sort of like deja vu whenever he meets a runaway synth. The Railroad did a fantastic job with facial reconstructions and new identities, but X6 still has this weird feeling that he's seen them before. This feeling is a lot stronger around Sturges and he can't help feel a little put off by him. Not that anyone notices anyway...

--Sturges--

These two [x] [x] headcanons are pretty much my go to for Sturges's origins, but I'll elaborate further!

The original Sturges was born and raised in the Mojave and briefly moved to the Capital Wasteland with his father (after his mom passed away from an unknown illness). After Sturges Senior retired from the NCR the two moved to the Commonwealth to get away from all the chaos in the Capital Wastes. As a result of moving around a lot, Sturges Junior had a lot of contact with experienced mechanics and scientists. Already a bit of a genius himself, Sturges's knowledge was both a gift and a curse, as the Institute took an interest in him and abducted him as soon as they found a chance to do so. The synth copy that currently resides with Sanctuary's people is a bit of an oddity however... He was a prototype meant to spy on Sturges Senior and the settlement they lived in when they moved to the Commonwealth, but there were a few issues with his programming and Sturges actually forgot he was a synth and that he needed to report to a courser that would be sent to meet with him every month under the guise of trading for scrap. Sturges Senior caught on pretty quickly and dispatched the courser, but realized the synth copy was harmless and that if the Institute took his real son then he was already good as dead, so he feigned ignorance and kept Sturges unaware as well.

Sturges left to make a life of his own a few months after his replacement. He learned how to shoot thanks to his dad, but nothing could really prepare him for how ruthless the Wastes could really be. After he settled he swore off fighting as much as possible since he's not too fond of it. He'd still beat up anyone that threatened his friends, even if he had to do it with his bare fists. Those muscles aren't just for show and Sturges can give a mean punch.

Zeke, the leader of the Atom Cats, is Sturges's cousin from his father's side of the family. The two weren't very close when they were younger because Zeke tended to bully him a bit, but eventually the two grew out of their almost sibling-like rivalry and hung out a lot when Sturges moved to the Commonwealth. When the Atom Cats were formed, Sturges was the main mechanic before he decided to lend his services to Quincy. He liked the town so much that he decided to settle there, much to Zeke's displeasure. The two are in good terms and there's really no bad blood between them.

Sturges is as stubborn as a brahmin. This has proven to be both a great asset to Sanctuary and a terrible burden, as when ever Sturges gets it in his head that he can do something, he won't stop until he does it. Preston has had to drag him away from fruitless projects many times so that Sturges could eat, drink and sleep. Others have been less tactful, like Marcy spilling a bucket of purified water over his head because he had forgotten to bathe in a while, or Jun guilt-tripping him so he'd rest for once in his life, or even one time where the Sole Survivor "hired" Tinker Tom to help around the workshop so Sturges wouldn't have to worry too much about repairs progressing in Sanctuary Hills (Tinker Tom spouted conspiracy theories all day and Sturges now wonders if every mirror he sees isn't a two-way mirror somehow connected to the Institute).

Extra angsty headcanon:

The original Sturges ended up as one of the super mutant behemoths that the Sole Survivor can encounter in the Commonwealth. They wouldn't ever be able to tell considering the beast is nothing like the kind and amicable handyman they know.

[bxstiae]

⚜ ; [ GANONDORF'S DEMISE / HC.3  ] WORLDBUILDING │ META

i honestly didn’t know how to go about this making this mainly because there’s so much to talk about for this topic. while i want to talk about ganondorf’s demise in Twilight Princess & the after effects of it, i should also point that that if affects link a lot more than it should -- mainly because it has to deal with the triforce of power and ‘the brand.’ let it be known, link is severely affected by the battle of ganon & absolutely has survivor’s guilt from it. 

first & foremost: i do NOT support ganon as a character for is he absolute EVIL & only wants to conquer the light. he is an antagonist! and if you think i support the antagonist, then please go to a corner to think about what you just assumed. I do not support him!!! but that doesn’t mean that i don’t consider him an important character. he is! he is one of the primary 3 of the triforce, without him, you cannot have the link or zelda. now, without further ado, let me get into this.

ganondorf could be considered a victim of circumstance if you look at it. no, i don’t think he should be pitied, but just consider everybody in the triforce:

link → courage zelda → wisdom ganondorf → power

each one has something special about them, which i will go into some other time, but for the sake of this headcanon, lets look at ganon. ganon is the wielder of power: he represents it! therefore he seeks out only to defend what he represents. Just look what he says in Twilight Princess:

"Your people have long amused me, Midna. To defy the gods with such petty magic, only to be cast aside… How very pathetic. Pathetic as they were, though, they served me well. Their anguish was my nourishment. Their hatred bled across the void and awakened me. I drew deep of it and grew strong again. Your people had some skill, to be sure…but they lacked true power. The kind of absolute power that those chosen by the gods wield. He who wields such power would make a suitable king for this world, don’t you think?"

just look at the fact that while ganon represents power, he also can represent pain, anger, & anguish. zelda, in a way, is supposed be the middle ground, while link is supposed to represent hope. ganon is fear. it’s also important to note that ganon is considered very unlucky in many cases. both zelda & ganon remember their incarnations -- this is a given for ganon because he literally says the following: "Do not think that this ends here... the history of light and shadow will be written in blood!" he knows they are constantly reborn. & zelda knows because she’s the representative of wisdom. link is the only one who is lucky to not remember is past incarnations. it’s set like that for a reason. because he cannot be tainted with the past. he cannon have doubt in his actions, he can only live in the moment. but i dirgess. back to the point: ganon is power, therefore is power-hungry. & he remembers all of his past lives and how he was foiled by link. 

ganon is a man of pride. there is nothing like that, but he resents link because link has it all. link has the god’s gift but link is also loved. link is incredibly humble. he doesn’t know the pains of royalty, he doesn’t know what it’s like living on the streets. he’s been lucky to be raised by people who care for him -- he grows up innocent. ganon doesn’t have that luxury, so yes, he resents link for what link has. but consider this: the brand is both a blessing & a curse. 

they will always be stuck in a battle with each other for all eternity. Their lives are intertwined forevermore. so while ganon spends his lives knowing his past ones, and spends each life trying to take what is always taken from him, link goes in not realising any of this. link legitimately goes in 100% blind at the fact that he will take what ganondorf struggles to have. & in the moment, link is only doing what he thinks is right. he has to take down ganondorf to protect hyrule. he has to. He’s never given a choice: he is told. 

he’s told by the spirits. he’s told by midna. he’s told by zelda. he’s told by everybody. the goddess hylia herself is telling him to because he has to. yet.... while he never questions the WHY, he does feel a sort of emptiness when everything is all said and done. after all, he took down one of the pieces of triforce. he’s fufilled his task, yes, but.... at what cost?

for link, it feels like he’s taken a part of himself too.

( never mind the fact that midna also goes home too and destroys the mirror of twilight as well, that’s another piece of him taken, but i’m focusing on the triforce here )

consider this: link had to kill a man that was like him.

there are only three people that can relate with one another in hyrule: link, zelda, & ganon. even more so with ganon than zelda tbh. like ganon, link still has to go through trials. link can relate to ganon because link has to go through a lot to prove his worth. he’s not given anything like zelda and ganon, and like ganon, link struggles.

so after he kills him.... he realises what he’s just done. he’s killed somebody who was pretty much like him. both are bearers of the brand, but they both didn’t have it easy ( not like zelda ).  he doesn’t realise this like immediately. no, he realises it after the fact. it eats at him. link has seen a lot and has witnessed death, but it’s ganondorf’s death that hits him the most. & yes, he feels somehwat GUILTY that he had to go & kill the only person that could understand him.

honestly, somebody told me that link looks so sad all the time. yes! he is actually! aside from being so absolutely tired & often times grumpy, he very much is sad. he feels used. he’s no longer innocent from the cruelness of life. he sees the world for what it is. the world is not nice. nothing is easy, & you have to sacrifice so much to obtain happiness. but in the end was it worth it? for link: no. 

link is not happy. at all. yes, he’s glad that the people he cares about are safe. he’s glad that the world isn’t ending. but he cannot go back to his normal life in the village as a ranch hand. he was ripped from that life & he cannot go back for the fact that he has all this experience under his belt now. he’s restless, tired, sad, & feels really empty. 

his heart is broken in more ways than one. he lost his best friend -- a friend that he didn’t really know he had or loved until she left and destroyed the only thing to visit her. he lost somebody who could have been a mentor of sorts. ganon could have been a friend to him absolutely, he could have been a teacher ( if he wasn’t such an asshole ). but that didn’t happen cause he had to kill him. he lost a bit of trust in zelda for the fact that she just let things happen & never told him anything. link is extremely jaded after everything & built his walls incredibly high up because he’s just afraid of getting hurt again. note: afraid, not scared! there’s anxiety in him that he’ll lose more of himself. 

lets also not mention that his entire journey was hell. he’s been poisoned, electrocuted, burned, etc.... like as much as he has a high pain tolerance, he’s had many moments where he could have died if it were not for the fairies and midna. not to mention that people have mistaken him for a monster too -- he doesn’t have self-esteem issues, but its given way to the fact that he finds hylians are extremely ungrateful. 

he feels that at this point,nobody really understands him. which sucks cause not only does he suffer from survivor’s guilt, i would say that he has a mild case of ptsd as well. he doesn’t sleep well anymore. he relives his battle with ganon all the time ( ganon image seems to torment him constantly ). he panics when he considers what would have happened if he just let ganon go too. link is not pure anymore. yes, he still represents hope, and yet, he can’t help but to look at things from a neutral stance.at the end of the game. link does, in fact, go from a neutral good to a lawful neutral position.

in a way, it’s all thanks to ganon. his death/end changed link. honestly, i would want to say its for the better. link isn’t a child anymore, & you can thank ganondorf for that.