#i feel like i focus on how angry and miserable i am and forget about how happy i am too sometimes

[m00ngbin]

Ugh my face hurts right now I went to the alligator farm and had a lot of fun oh woe is me

[lovevalley45]

#fictober24 - day fourteen

"Let's try this."

original fiction (power payback) (continuation of yesterday's prompt)

word count: 1059

Sprout tapped her fingers against the paper cup of coffee in her hands. She wasn’t thirsty, but she’d grabbed it when she came in to have something to hold. 

That had been a mistake. It put her gloves on full display in the circle of chairs, unable to hide. In this room, however, she doubted they caught the same glances they had the few times she’d had to leave the house before this. 

Not all the teens in the room showed the mark of their burnouts. The ones who did were kinetics like her; the pyro whose face was covered in partially healed burns, the electro whose arms bore Litchenberg scars up to her neck. She seemed particularly upset to be there, more angry than anything. When Sprout met her eyes, she bared her teeth. 

The counselor took the last empty seat, next to the pyro with the face burns. He looked out at the small selection of teens. “Thank you all for coming today. I see a new face, so I’ll introduce myself. My name is Dr. Lynwood, but you can all call me Jerry.” 

Sprout shrunk in her seat as he turned in her direction. He extended a hand. “Would you mind starting us off?” 

“Um. Hi.” She dropped her hands, still holding the cup, to her lap. God, she hadn’t expected to be put on the spot so soon. “Daisy Marotto. Sprout. That’s what everyone calls me. Botanokinetic. Formerly. Ha.” 

“How long ago was your burnout?” Jerry asked her. 

“It was late February. So about three months ago.”

“You don’t have to talk about what happened if you’re not ready. But can I ask how you’re feeling about it?” 

“Lost.” The word, four little letters, felt like she had to force them out of her throat. “Like I no longer have the one thing that made me me.”

He nodded serenely. “Feelings of loss, especially loss of identity, is common for many Talents who’ve experienced a burnout. But being a Talent is not your whole identity. Let’s try this: what are some other qualities about yourself that you like?” 

“Uh…” As she tried to think, she ignored the electro girl’s chuckle. “I’m a good student. Even though I’ve had to miss school since it happened. My friends think I’m pretty funny. And nice.” Sprout decided not to mention that those friends were just Magni and Basil, who wasn’t even talking to her right now.  

“That’s good,” Jerry said. “Dwelling on the things you still have, that’s a good way to handle those feelings of being lost.” 

The electro girl raised her hand. “Jerry?” 

“You don’t have to raise your hand, Kitty.” 

“Sorry. I always forget.” Kitty smacked her gum in a way that made the therapist flinch. “Aren’t you always telling us that shoving those feelings to the side isn’t good in the long run?” 

“This isn’t me asking Sprout to shove her feelings to the side. I am saying that focusing on the positive can help her move on and find something that she can identify with.”

Kitty flopped back into her chair, scratching back against the floor. “Fine. Doesn’t sound like that to me.” 

“Well, how would you advise Sprout on how to handle those emotions?” Jerry asked. 

She turned to look at Sprout. Her hair was a mess of yellow and red dyed sections, the brown peeking through at the roots. “What you’ve got now, that’s kinda boring. You’re just gonna be miserable if you focus on how good of a student you are. Find something new-” She glanced back at Jerry and added, “Not to try and fill the hole with dangerous behavior or something illegal don’t worry, Jerry-” before looking back at her. Her hazel eyes were intense as she said, “Find something new that will make you wanna keep living life.” 

Something new. It was those scary two words that taunted her. Once, she’d had her future sorted out - following her mother’s footsteps. But Kitty made it sound like it wasn’t some frightening concept, but new fuel - something to keep her going. 

“That was some good advice, Kitty. Thank you.” Jerry chuckled. “Though I’m glad you added the part about not doing anything illegal.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what gets you sent to juvie, so-“ She flashed Sprout a grin, tossing her multicolored hair. 

She was suddenly wishing she’d worn something nicer than sweats. 

At least she was out of the hot seat when Jerry turned to the shy-looking girl two seats from her, who looked like she wanted to vanish into her hoodie. Literally. 

Sprout let the rest of the meeting go by in a blur, listening to the variety of her peers. The shy girl, Cresida, was a camoflaguer who’d burnt herself out hiding too long, while the pyro, Bernie (and she thought her name was bad), was slowly urged by Jerry to open up more about the lead-up to her burnout. 

She was just glad she didn’t have to talk about the incident with Kent yet. Hopefully, Primrose, her mother, and Dr. Merlo would be satisfied by her progress before it had to come to that. 

Finally, the meeting was called to a close. Sprout was ready to duck out and call Primrose that she was ready to leave, but Kitty cut her off. 

“Hey there, newbie,” Kitty said. 

“Hey,” Sprout said, shutting her flip phone. 

Smacking her gum, she grinned. “Don’t look so scared. I’m not gonna take your lunch money.” She looked her up and down. Mostly up, since the girl was half a foot shorter than her. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a nerd.” 

Sprout crossed her arms. “I’m not a nerd.”

“‘My best quality is that I’m a good student’,” Kitty said. “That you?” 

“Okay, maybe I am a bit of a nerd.” 

She extended her phone. “Gimme your phone. Don’t worry, I won’t blow it up.” 

Sprout did so, though reluctantly. “Why?” 

“I’m adding my number. In case you need someone to talk to.” Kitty pressed in her number and handed it back to her. “Or need someone to hotwire a car for you. I’m your girl for either.” 

She chuckled. “Alrighty.” 

Kitty took a cookie from the table near the door, before stepping out into the hall. “See you around, Sprout.” 

Okay. Maybe these meetings wouldn’t be so bad after all.  

[spacecrows]

The thing that really sucks about ADHD and ADHD meds for me is that it’s so difficult to tell if I am medicated properly or not? Like I know I am very lucky that the only other meds I ever really need are the occasional ibuprofen for a headache or something to help with nausea a few times a year (and like contraception and vitamins lol) - but when I am in pain I notice the pain I think “I should take an ibuprofen” and once I do the pain gets better and if it gets worse again I notice and take another. Same with nausea. It’s easy. But with ADHD, most of my “symptoms” when I am unmedicated just feel like character flaws? So for 20-something years before I knew I had ADHD I just thought I was just a procrastinator and stupid for not being able to read long texts and that I was really lazy and that I just got exhausted way too quickly and had to try harder and harder and harder and if I couldn’t, that was on me.  ANYWAY, when I finally did get my diagnosis it was already such a relief and such a help and therapy has also been really really good. But. The meds! I started taking meds and at first I didn’t notice much of a difference, because for me ADHD means that I have very high highs and very low lows, both in terms of mood and in terms of focus, productivity, etc. So when I started taking them, I thought I just had a few rather productive high functioning days. And since even on meds, things can still be difficult and the highs and lows are not gone completely, things were sort of blurry. But after a few weeks I forgot to get my prescription and went a couple days without them, and I realized this huge difference. I have not found my perfect meds yet, so I still struggle. But it is such an enourmous difference. Things are so much less difficult for me. Functioning is so much easier. It’s not like I am suddenly great at everything, I still forget 50% of the things I need to do and still procrastinate and still struggle with motivation, but things are doable. And I feel better about myself. Well, a month ago I changed my meds (mainly because I want to find something that gives me some inner peace and quiet once in a while? if anyone has any recommendations please let me know! magic mushrooms worked like a charm but ideally i’d like something. you know. legal. a girl can dream I guess). And I started with the lowest dosage. And that was evidently not enough for me. But I didn’t realize that I was not medicated properly, because there wasn’t some sort of distinct “symptom” to alert me. Instead, my sleep pattern slipped. Food was a struggle. Chores and urgent paperwork started to pile up. I felt days slipping by where I couldn’t get myself to do anything, really, not even hobbies I enjoy. And because it was gradual, and these are all things I struggle with (to some degree) even on meds, I didn’t realize what was happening. Instead, I got frustrated with myself. I thought “Wow, I am so lazy, I can’t get anything done. How do all my friends have their shit together and I just can’t cope? Why am I so stupid? Why am I such a procrastinator? Why don’t I have any energy? I am so undisciplined! I just really need to try harder!”. Needless to say, getting angry at myself didn’t really change much - except making me miserable. Until I realized that when I forgot to take my meds, I didn’t notice any difference. So I tried a higher dosage and suddenly, magically, I had the energy to do one or two small chores a day and answer one email and get out of bed and read a book I like and hang out with friends a few times a week.  But even after all that! I forgot to take my meds this morning, and I had the worst day. I was completely exhausted, felt weird, didn’t manage to reply to urgent messages from friends, took a depression nap and felt worse. Read the same page in my book over and over and over and over again and couldn’t make sense of it. Hated every single person on public transit that even breathed too loudly. Wanted to break out into tears on the tram (and nearly did). Only to realize around 5 pm that I hadn’t taken my meds. Took them, and pretty instantly felt better. I think I’ll tidy up my room a little now. And maybe even read a few chapters before bed. Things are fine. But I really really want some sort of inner alert that tells me if I have taken my meds and if the dosage works for me. Something like that. Please!!!

[uncle-fruity]

There are probably a lot of people who think they've won an argument or "got me" because I don't tend to respond when people try to argue with me online.

I used to be online arguing with people all the time. I still like to post about things that get me fired up, though I'm less likely to go all-in on a conversation unless it really seems like the person I'm talking to is capable of reasonable conversation. (And even then I sometimes forget or don't have time to respond.) I prefer to say my piece on my own terms and if another person chimes in to clown, I'm usually just not having it. I have a couple reasons for this.

It's miserable arguing with people all day. It's a traumatic thing for me, because my family was always arguing and fighting and bullying people around them all the time. I was trying not to be like them, trying not to catch their ire, trying to just be a little guy who liked nature and who read books and who generally stayed out of sight as much as I could when they were in a bad mood. And, of course, sometimes I was forced to fight back or speak up or argue with them even though I did my best not to. I have completely cut that part of my family out of my life. So to then go online and pick fights or trade insults and get myself so angry my heart is racing just feels counterproductive and negating all the hard work I went through to get away from those people. I was a worse person for it, and I have no desire to be that negative force unless it is truly important. Targeted anger is better than constant raging. And I'm sorry, but online interactions are just not where I should be spending my spoons.

I remember where I was emotionally when my worldview radically shifted, and a lot of the people looking to argue are repeating the same unhealthy habits that I once had. Arguing as self harm. Arguing as a way to establish yourself amongst the chaos and horror that is the State of Things These Days, What With All the Oppression and Suffering and Profit Hungry Power Grabs. Arguing to prove to yourself that you're doing something -- even something small -- to rail against the system & the culture of hatred. Arguing because people push your buttons and you feel the need to defend the things and the people that you love. Arguing yourself ragged until you have no energy or joy for anything that actually matters. ... I am not going to be the person who enables that kind of thing for someone else, if I can help it. I know it won't stop them from arguing until they realize it for themselves, but they'll have each other to insult and dehumanize. I don't have to stick around to see how it plays out.

Relatedly, I have more stuff to focus on offline that matter more than arguing my right to exist and define myself. If I use all my spoons getting into the material reality of transgender people existing & being worthy of existing, then I won't have enough energy to organize a queer community art group. I won't have energy to write and work on my comics. I won't have time to make kissy faces at my partner and my cats. I won't have time to try out new recipes to share with my friends. I would be foolish to spend my time countering bullshit in my notifications, because the people who matter most already agree with me on the important things, or at least have good discussions with me when we disagree. I already lost a handful of years to internet/social media based depression & anxiety. I don't want to go back.

It feels dehumanizing. People hurl insults that are barely even related to you based on their own weird stereotypes cooked up on whatever corner of the internet they live on. It can't even get a rise out of me because it's just... not relevant to anything about me. Like "insulting my intelligence for being blonde, except I have black hair" kind of obviously not about me (& not even based in fact to begin with even if I did qualify). What is the point of talking to someone like that? Why validate their thirst to argue when all they have to offer is Fox News levels of misinformation and a vitriolic attitude? Or when people insist you don't understand your experiences as well as they do when you *know* that they only know you as the small square image of a man with a raspberry head against a pink background who represents a stereotype they want to reinforce to prove a half-baked theory they've come up with about how you exist in society. They'll use academic (and pseudo academic) terms and categories to refer to you without ever even learning your name. And then they say they're the ones fighting for justice and who are the morally superior ones. They are fooling themselves, and I think many of them never see other users as anything more than a collection of pixels & a cog in the machine. But we are all complex humans with intricate lives and most of us are just trying to get by in a harsh world. The extent of human experience is vast and probably beyond the scope of understanding & learning for most people. If we are to get along and build a better world, then we have to approach each other with grace and be committed to community and lifting each other up and hearing each other out with a baseline respect. If we want justice for everyone, then we cannot afford to tear each other down. If that's not the goal, then our goals aren't aligned & it's not worth my time to convince randos from the internet. It is much easier to connect with someone and see them as a full person offline. It is better to have important conversations where there are stakes and meaningful connections that have already been established. It is harder to insist on a stereotype when the person you are face to face with clearly defies it. When humanity is established, it's a lot harder to write off the person you're arguing with.

And, finally, the one that maybe is a little paranoid/least grounded in hard evidence or fact or reason, but I think a fair precaution considering The Real Challenges and Horrors of Historical Civil Rights Movements. I learned about COINTELPRO at some point in my 20s. I also grew up at a time when you weren't supposed to tell people who you really were online & so much of your data wasn't connected to every website you joined, so you could pretend to be anyone if you wanted to. I pretended to be a 15-year-old boy named James when I was 12 and role-playing with people. I like that Tumblr doesn't demand as much identifying information because I'm more comfortable that way, though the information I *do* share is true these days. But I guess what I'm saying is that you *can* pretend to be just anyone on Tumblr if you want to. I *know* that there is historical precedence for infiltration of a group of marginalized folks fighting for their rights and sowing discourse and distrust to weaken the movement. So if the only thing a person is bringing to the table is bad faith logicfucked bullshit designed to push our buttons, I'm just going to assume that's a fed. That's someone I do not need to entertain or embrace as a peer. And usually I reason with myself that it's just a real person with a much different and oppositional worldview to mine. But as far as I'm concerned, that's just carelessly helping the feds and I'm not about that life. That's why I tend to block anyone who's really toxic or dismissive & stubbornly misinformed. We don't need that.

And then there are good faith discussions I have from time to time that are actually decent. There are times when I wish I had more energy to properly educate people and gather sources of all the things I've read and learned about. Most of the time, I "abandon" those conversations because I get overwhelmed with tasks & completely forget to respond or follow up. Those are the ones I regret not answering properly, but the point about needing the spoons for things offline still holds. I'm just not a very active user outside of casual reblogs and a comment or two here and there.

Anyway, I guess this isn't about anything or anyone in particular. I was just thinking about it & figured I'd share my mindset with the Tumblr void. And to encourage folks to really consider who you're arguing with and why you're arguing and if the arguing serves the goals you're working towards more than something else you could put that energy into. I'm not saying to never get into it & I assume people's tolerance for it is higher than mine, but I am saying that you should think about when and why you argue. I am definitely saying that it's good to have clear boundaries that you will hold yourself to. This stuff can get toxic and destroy your health something fierce. Be careful out here.

[aljackdaw]

I think my definition of forgiveness is fundamentally different from a lot of people's, and I think that's why so many people in my life assume I hold unhealthy grudges for years when, in fact, I don't.

To me, forgiveness and letting something go are not synonyms. In fact, they can be entirely unrelated to each other.

When I cut my abusive father out of my life, people kept telling me I would need to forgive him 'for my own sake', even if I never spoke to him again. This is simply not true. I never forgave him. But I don't hate him, either. I'm not angry, or resentful. I feel almost entirely indifferent, actually, because whether or not I forgive him I certainly don't want to wallow and let him hurt me more, you know? So I let it go. Now all I feel when I think about/talk about him is a very vague disappointment over what could have been and very distant fond nostalgia for the good times we did have in between the bad. I never forgave him because he doesn't deserve it and hasn't earned it, but I let that shit go because I simply do not have the energy to care that much about someone I haven't spoken to in years.

In the reverse: my mother, in the lowest moment of her adult life, made a decision that hurt me, and had lasting consequences that hurt us both for two whole years after. She didn't discuss with us, she didn't give us a choice, and at first she refused to admit she'd done anything wrong. I forgave her instantly.

But I was still bloody angry and hurt, and I carried that anger for months as I slowly worked it out. Even though I'd already forgiven her. Because feelings don't just go away with the snap of a finger, and since I wanted to keep a close, honest relationship with her I couldn't just forget what she did. We had to work through it. I forgave her the instant she did it, because I know she'd normally never hurt me, and I knew she needed help, and I love her. But I hadn't let it go yet, either.

I don't know, just. They're very different things, to me. Forgiveness and moving on/letting things go are entirely separate actions to me, with different meanings. I can forgive someone and still be absolutely furious with them for a while after. I can never forgive someone and not be angry at all anymore, just indifferent.

I don't know, someone told me I'd poison myself if I didn't forgive. She said she'd be miserable all the time if she didn't forgive all the people who've done awful things to her. That's what made me truly realize just HOW differently I think about these things than the other people in my life.

I even see it in movies/shows/books-- otherwise very good ones with messages I can agree with, then they'll throw in some "you must forgive for your own sake" bullshit and I'm sitting here like??? No?? I mean don't wallow in anger and resentment, move on with your life and focus on YOU instead of wasting energy on them, but don't FORGIVE the piece of shit, what??? They cannot be absolved for what they've done and honestly they shouldn't be even if they could? Just move on with your life and focus on healing, and let them move on with their life and hope one day they change for the better, and do so somewhere far away from you.

Does anyone else separate these things in their head or am I just insane?

[izzysarchivedblogs]

WAKE UP YOU SACK OF SHIT! GET UP!

That was NOT his voice; actually why was he hearing right now? It was not often that he would forget to take his hearing aids out. That meant that what he had done to himself had been BAD.

VIOLENTLY. It was with violence that he his shaken awake, the bow arm; his left one that acquired the injury, throbs in searing pain and he jerks it which only makes it worse.

WAKE UP YOU SACK OF SHIT! That was not his voice, the one that's been in his head for the last, let's be honest Clint, it's been way longer than month of his own voice calling himself a piece of #$%@ and now there was someone else's saying it.

THE FACE OF ANGER IS MET WHEN HIS EYES CAN FIND FOCUS.

As he had gone through everything in his head, knew the plans he had been making would have outcomes that left him without anyone friends. The bad guys had said it, the good guys had said it. When he was accounting for everything that could be lost; Natasha had not been a factor.

Would she have been anger with him, would she have helped him, would she have looked this aside because ultimately her crimes were greater and he had given the chance and looked them aside? The answer to those questions he had thought would be yes.

He had always known her to be a woman of risk, of gambles, of leaps because the one thing about her, an assassin and spy; she was incredible at seeing the long game, of making calculations. Natasha always had something. She was a better con-artist than Clint had ever been. TO GIVE UP ON HIM? WHAT HAD SHE SEEN TO CHOSE THAT?

Now he was met with the face of anger, of the actual person who was here for him. The literal last one. WOULD THERE BE NOTHING LEFT? NO CHANCES? For all the sourness he had felt after the nap, the bitter fear of what was to come, the last ditch efforts to continue the self destruction and push him away, tell Tony how awful Clint was and that what was the point, he should on trial again. HE DIDN'T HATE TONY. Lashing out in anger sure because he didn't know how to cope anymore, because thy both know what would happen if he lashed out at himself.

The other had taken that in strides. Talked to him with honestly of what was going to happen. HEARD HIS CRY AND HELPED. He had blown that all up because the only thought to cope, to sleep, was to numb; was to give in the craving to search for a drop, and he found it and didn't even question the repercussions.

Even with all he had done; he had known there would be repercussions if he got caught, it was that fear of getting caught that changed his plans. The drink he had found which he doesn't even know what was there hadn't been a thought.

SO I ACT WITHOUT THINKING. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT. YUP, THAT'S THE CLINT BARTON WAY -- "SHOOT FIRST, GET SCARED LATER."

Clint sits himself up; feels himself about to be sick again and holds it together. THIS WAS A PROBLEM. Like actually a problem, because he doesn't know what he was looking at right now.

The last person giving up on him, defeated by him; leading Clint to be the victor in a game he really hadn't wanted to win. HIS LAST SHOT AND HE HAD MISSED? Tony, who had been the first person to give him a second shot at life, at who he was, given up after the first person he had known as Hawkeye already turned away on her heels and walked away. If Tony Stark had given up...

IF I THINK ABOUT IT... I WON'T... I CAN'T... WHAT GOOD AM I?

He's silent, there's no fight as he sits there in a disgusting state with an angry man over him, WAKE UP YOU SACK OF SHIT, and he feels it all weight on him. Clint's silent for a long while, just processing everything, miserable and at the bottom.

Spiderman had been there the day he gave up Ronin, though he couldn't have seen it; he knows that the man behind the webbed mask was smiling when Clint had declared himself Hawkeye again, as things had started to become right with the world again, as Clint returned to who he was. ONE LAST CARD I CAN PLAY. He begged him to trust him as his friend, and look what he had done anyways. Still sold him out to Cap, but he had been right to do so.

Clint doesn't care that he woke up in a pool of his own bile, he still brings his shaking hands up to face and simply pushes the ball of his palms into his eyes; applying some pressure to feel it and sort through his thoughts. MAYBE HE WOULDN'T HAVE TONY STILL, BE COMPLETELY ALONE AFTER THIS; BUT THIS WAS A PROBLEM.

❝ I'll- I'll try to shower. ❞ He won't ask Tony to help him with that; Clint really does not want to push any further. Certain, that they were both thinking of how quickly to get rid of him. THIS WAS A PROBLEM. YOUR PROBLEM. Clint hates that slept with his hearing aids in, and a lot of other thing right now.

Everything was too loud, too bright, a colossal hang over, and he threw up and hadn't bothered to move. IT WAS A BAD. A PROBLEM. He's reaching for his crutches, he should have just taken the chair for the few weeks. ❝ I might take a bit. ❞ He could fall, hurt himself; his range of motion was not great. TONY HAD BEEN ANGRY. VIOLENTLY WOKE HIM. IT HURT. For once, he did not want to push his luck or ask too much. He had helped more than he deserved.

❝ ⸻ after, uh, show me the- uh- where I'll be going? ❞ He means rehab.

Tony leaves Clint to it. He can't just sit around babysitting Clint all the time. He was a grown ass man. He wasn't acting like a grown ass man, but he was. And Tony had other shit he needed to take care of.

He went and did that as best he could first. He helped out on a mission, remote piloting a suit. He was pretty sure Steve didn't even notice he wasn't in it. Then he did some remote teleconferencing for SI. He sent some emails back and forth with his mom and MJ.

Finally he just went down to the workshop and worked. He had spent so much fucking money today and he needed to do try and do something to bring that back in. Too many people were reliant on that income.

He's not sure how long he's in the lab for. He can narrow it down to hours, but how many hours, he's not sure. He gets an alert from Robbie saying that the only one who had come back to the HQ was Jennifer and she wasn't exactly in childcaring mode and he needed to get home.

Tony told him to bring Brandy here. He knew it wasn't the best idea with Clint in his current state, but someone had to take care of the baby. Tony wasn't going anywhere and he was already looking after a baby. What was one more?

He realized he was hungry and he needed to warn Clint that Robbie was on his way there so to stay in his room until after he left if he didn't want anyone else to know he was there. And Robbie did know Kate. Sometimes Kate took care of Robbie's cat.

He went up to Clint's room and when he saw Clint lying in a pool of his own vomit, he didn't even feel sorry for him. He just felt angry. One day! Clint had called him begging for help and he couldn't even make it one fucking day. This was above Tony's capability. He needed to get him into rehab as soon as possible.

He stormed over to the bed and shook him. Knowing it would hurt his arm. Wanting to hurt it. "Wake up you sack of shit!" he shouted. He knew that was useless. "Get up!"

[harcove]

you uh. wouldn't mind an angst request would you haha because I have had this one scenario stuck in my head where leon (probably resi 6 leon) has been drinking a lot more and has been neglecting his s/o and they finally call him out on his shit

anyway ooga booga they fight and decide it's best they give leon his space and take a break and maybe he finds them at a bar he goes to to get wasted to already find them drunk off their ass

Angst is absolutely one of my most favourite things to write and to read like damn I do be out here making myself CRY. So I definitely don't mind angst like hell yeah!

I was gonna end this was a happier note- but uh, I really love angst so I left it semi-open ended but also pretty sad I think. Also not really dialogue-heavy, more like... I write too much detail-heavy :,) Also this isn't edited, I spent days on this cause I was overthinking it and felt it was just not good so oof I'm sorry!

Length: 2k

Request: in the ask

Warnings: angst, drinking, lowkey it's alcoholism on Leon's part, being drunk

Leon x Reader - "I know."

How long had it been since you had held your boyfriend's hand? Since the two of you had really sat together and done something together, fully, completely, involved, and focused on one another. You didn't even remember, which was agonizing to think about.

You had been through so much with Leon. And you knew where his deepest thought lay, but you could never truly know. And it didn't help that over the years the two of you had together, he had started to become more distant. And instead of finding his comfort in your arms, he found it in some glass bottle.

At first, you didn't really protest much, you didn't say much about it. A drink every once in a while couldn't hurt. Yet, it wasn't every once in a while. It was more often than you'd have liked. And he was using it to forget. To focus on anything else but his life and his memories. Your soft words trying to talk to him didn't do much to stop him or dissuade him. He brushed you off more often than not. It tore you up from the inside out that you couldn't help him, that at some point a bottle was his chosen form of comfort over you.

The guilt mixed with sadness, and then with anger. And in the end, those feelings came together and created an explosion between the two of you one night.

Your throat was hoarse as you swallowed as much air as you could. You couldn't exactly remember what the argument stemmed from but you knew it had to be related to him drinking.

"Will you just listen to me?!" You shouted, the words coming out uneven as your throat begged you to stop, "put that shit down Leon, and look at me!"

The man sitting at the aisle in your kitchen put the flask he had down in front of him, but still had his hands on it. He turned his head to look at you, barely even moving at all, and his eyes were looking at you like he was unimpressed or annoyed.

"I'm listening."

You wanted to pull on your hair and scream because he wasn't. He wasn't listening, and he hadn't been, at least not for a while.

"No you aren't, you are not listening to a word I say, you never do!"

He scoffed, turning back to his drink and taking another sip.

"Where am I going on Friday?"

"What?" He looked at you incredulously, completely lost as your voice went from yelling at him to speaking relatively peacefully, but there was no peace in your voice.

"I said, where am I going on Friday, Leon," you repeated with clenched fists, "if you listen to me if you even bother to pay attention to me, you would know the answer. So where am I going on Friday?"

The silence was your answer, as you expected it to be, you just hadn't expected it to be so painful.

"I'm going to visit my family in the town over," your voice was low and tired, and you wanted to cry but you couldn't even find it in you to do that, "I told you that a thousand times Leon I..."

Biting your lip hard, you felt yourself break skin, and the metallic taste of blood invaded your taste buds. You were so angry at him moments before, angry enough you had been yelling. But suddenly you weren't angry anymore. You were just so sad; sad for yourself and sad for him. He wasn't going to listen to you, not right now, that much was clear.

"I've been busy Y/N-" whatever he said was wasted on deaf ears as you drowned them out unintentionally, your eyes trained on the flask he nursed.

For once, you knew you had to let it be. You had to give him space, and give yourself space.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room," you offered lamely after the long silence between the two of you after he had finished whatever he had said. Leon looked up at you, with a look of surprise, and confusion, "we both need space. From each other. I just... Don't stay up drinking all night."

"Y/N-" his words once again fell upon deaf ears, and his fingers just missed your arm as you turned and went upstairs to the room usually used by people like Claire, or Chris, sometimes Sherry.

When morning came, you had gotten up later than usual, Leon was already gone as he usually was early in the morning with his job and everything. Your heart felt heavier as you walked into the empty kitchen and noted the vodka bottle you two had been given as a gift was half empty. Something in you asked if it was all worth it; did it really do so much that he drank more than he should've? Did it take away the feelings of hopelessness, like the one you were currently stuck in?

Those were the thoughts that followed you the entire day as you went about your routine. They followed you all the way to the spare bedroom of one of your old friend's homes as you decided you and Leon needed to take a break. If you didn't do that, you feared you would only lose him completely. Or lose yourself. It was exhausting.

But what was even more exhausting was not seeing him. You worried for him, and even if you sometimes felt like he didn't, he worried for you.

It would take about a week before something would crack, before the storm that had been brewing between you two, the one that laid dormant after you walked out to take from your relationship, would begin to thunder again, but in a much different way.

"We're here to have fun," your friend who had been letting you stay over said as she pushed a shot of... something into your hands, leaning against the bar from your side while you said on one of the barstools, "and loosen up. You specifically."

You rolled your eyes; this wasn't in your plan for the day, going to a bar. But it was more than you had done in the past week now. Your routine consisted of going to work and heading back to your friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

You wanted Leon. But you couldn't have him right now. You were still upset, and you didn't even know if he wanted you right now. Everything was a mess.

Things seemed to blur together over the course of the night in the bar, your friend insisting on you trying each new drink she got, some not new too. You had had one drink that you ordered of your own volition, and it had been a regular bottle of beer. But the shots your friend got for you two, and the sips of the drinks your friend ordered, culminated into more than you realized and you could say you were a bit more than just tipsy.

For some reason though, your friend seemed to be chugging along much better than you, you must've been a lightweight.

You hadn't even seen your friend in a while, but you also were so out of it that you couldn't exactly comprehend time properly at that current moment in time.

A hand on your arm and a familiar voice seemed to sober you a bit as your eyes met familiar blue, but they were clouded over with pain, with worry. Confusion too, and a bit of shock. Your fingers twitched, aching to touch his arm. His face. To smooth the furrow that seemed to be etching itself into his brow, threatening to become a new and permanent feature.

But the sober feeling you experienced also stopped you from doing any of the above. Rather, your body stiffened a bit and you pulled away from his touch, only barely missing the look of hurt that glided over his features as you did so.

"L-Leon?" the alcohol in your system made it sound more like you were questioning if he was real rather than saying his name, "What are you-"

The question you were going to ask didn't even need to be finished. It didn't even need an answer from him, because even if you were drunk, you knew Leon. And you knew why he was there.

"Oh," you couldn't help but scoff, "you want my drink? It'll start you off-"

Leon wasn't going to pretend that he hadn't come to the bar to drink away his sorrows; to forget all the pain he held onto and the nightmares he couldn't escape, and now the pain of not having you around. But when he walked in and saw you? Something in him stopped. Something in him twisted and he felt nauseous and for once it wasn't because of a hangover, but it was because of you.

You looked so miserable. Not that you realized you were wearing your heart on your sleeve at the bar, with the dejected look on your face and the limp hand holding onto a beverage you clearly didn't enjoy. Whilst at the same time, you looked empty.

Is that what you saw? Is that what he looked like to you when he was drinking? When he was at home or at a bar, focusing on anything but reality?

Leon didn't want a drink anymore, he wanted to get you out of a place that didn't suit you whatsoever. He wanted to take you home, he didn't want you to be him.

"You didn't come here alone, did you?" He cut off whatever you were trying to say as he looked into your eyes sternly.

"What? N-no I'm not stupid... I came here with a friend."

It didn't take long for Leon to figure out the friend because he spotted her coming near the bar, and recognized her.

"Hey, I'm taking Y/N home," Leon tried to not sound aggressive when he spoke, but it may have only made him sound more upset.

"Leon? Oh, ya, of course. Are you two...?"

"We'll be fine," Leon replied as he helped you stand up, "thanks for being with them."

He hadn't just meant in the bar but in the past week. It was left unsaid, but it was laid bare.

As much as you wanted to pull away from the man who gently wrapped one of his strong arms around your waist, and used the other to hold your arm behind his neck, you couldn't. You didn't have the strength to, and you missed him.

Leon was glad he had taken the car and not his motorcycle. There was no way in hell he would've been able to keep you on a motorcycle all the way back to your home that you shared, or well, you hadn't for the past week. But that wasn't the point.

"You're so mean Leon..." you mumbled as he helped you get into the passenger seat of the car. He all but carried you into it like a child and leaned across you to put your seat belt on. You leaned your face into his neck as he did so, breathing deeply.

"I just... Want you to be happy," you continued sloppily, "but you won't... Let me in..."

Leon's breathing stopped for a moment as he stilled, his hand still on the seatbelt he had just finished putting you in. He quickly pulled himself together and pulled back, adjusting the belt on your body so it wasn't digging into your lazy form, but it was still doing its job.

"I know."

There was so much more he could say, but he couldn't.  He wasn't sure if he ever could.

He settled himself into the driver's seat and got ready to start the car up.

"I still love you though..." your words were slurred as you rested your head on the car window, feeling your eyes grow heavier.

"I..." Leon's hand was turning white at the knuckles from how hard he was holding the steering wheel. He didn't deserve you. And you didn't deserve this.

"I know..."

[kaunis-sielu]

Sidelines: Head’s Up!

TW: mild violence, mild sexual harassment

First game is a rush, it’s pure adrenaline and when you’re done you’re grateful for the ride home from Natasha.

You’ve seen Steve around since the party but you’ve made sure to steer clear. Even with him trying to talk to you and get your attention. It kills you that you can’t even talk to him, and you know that he’s tried.

As much as you like being his friend you don’t need a pissed off Peggy Carter on your ass to make things miserable for you.

You’re waiting for the Avengers to be done with their practice so you can mark out the new routine on the field.

Most of you are stretching, not really paying attention to the boys as they finish practice. Most of you.

“Steve is looking over here.” Wanda mutters and you keep your gaze firmly on her.

“I do not care.” You hiss back narrowing your eyes at her. “I am working. He is working. And he’s probably looking at Peggy.”

“Who’s on the other side of the group. Okay.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble.” You mutter and both she and Nat laugh. “Seriously knock it off.”

Ms. Carol calls you all over and you all gather, you’re at the back of the crowd.

“Okay ladies! Let’s get ready to get on the field! We’re going to start with our new halftime routine!” You start to split up when you hear one of the guys yell,

“Heads up!” You turn just in time for several of the girls to scream, but you reach out and catch the ball cradling it to you like your brothers taught you. Someone lets out a low whistle and Bucky holds his hands up as a target for you as Brock rolls his eyes and starts jogging for you.

“Here. I’ll take it.” He says as you wind up and throw a perfect spiral into Bucky’s waiting hands.

“It’s good.” You tell him with a wide smile as the group, both the football team and the cheerleaders, stare at you in surprise.

“Damn, if we need a back up Quarterback it looks like we could use Cat instead of Brock.” Sam says and Brock flips him off. He goes jogging back to the group when Steve catches him by the arm. He looks like he’s scolding Brock, who turns and comes back toward the group of you.

“Sorry ladies, ball got away from me.”

He says and you’re surprised to see Steve fold his arms over his chest and shake his head when Brock turns to go back. Brock turns back toward you, “Sorry.” He says then jogs back to the team. You roll your eyes at Natasha then the Avengers start to file off of the field while the Avengers Cheerleaders all start to file on. You watch as Peggy gives Steve a flirty smile, one that he doesn’t return. Instead his gaze locks on yours,

“Can I talk to you for a second?”

“I really shouldn’t, I have to practice.” You tell him, well aware of the eyes on you.

“Just a minute?”

“How would your coach feel if you took just a minute?” You ask before attempting to skirt him but he side steps into your way.

“After then?”

“Steve I have to go. I’m sorry.” You slip past him feeling guilty and looking mad. You don’t want Peggy to get any ideas. She still doesn’t look pleased but Brock does as he jogs past you a small smirk on his face.

Practice is a blur, you’re so worried about the counts and working on positioning that you forget to even worry about the whole Steve and Peggy issue.

Nearly three hours later Ms. Maria calls it, you get to go back to the locker room to change. Peggy glares at you as she leaves but you don’t know why she’s so angry with you now. You’ve been doing everything you can to stay away from Steve and just focus on doing your job.

You’re digging in your bag as you walk out of the building, looking for your keys.

“Hey.” A male voice says and your gaze snaps up, Brock is leaning against the wall, his arms across his chest.

“Hi?”

“Let’s go out tonight.”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” You ask, your hand wrapping around your keys.

“What?”

“Are you asking me to go out with you?”

“Yea?”

“Um, no thank you.”

“Right,” he says with a laugh before throwing an arm around your shoulders that you shrug off.

“I’m tired, I’m going to go home and go to bed.”

“Yea, okay.” He says throwing his arm around your shoulders again.

“Brock. Stop.” You tell him moving away from him again. His face darkens as he moves closer to you again, he catches your arm and pins you between him and the wall.

“You don’t get to say no to me too.”

“What? Let go.”

“I know you’ve turned down Rogers but you’re going to go out with me.” He says giving you a little shake.

“I didn’t. Stop.” You shove his chest and duck under his arm he grabs your bag but you drop it and sprint back toward the locker room. Just then the door to the Avengers locker room opens and the man of the hour comes strolling out. Those startling blue eyes of his meet your frantic gaze and he looks confused.

“Cat?”

“Hey, Kitty, you dropped your bag.” Brock schmoozes but you make no move to take it from him. Rather you stay behind Steve, as far from Brock as you can get.

“I can take it. Thanks Brock.” Steve says reaching for the bag.

“It’s hers.”

“I got that.” Brock makes a disgusted noise then drops your bag on the ground before he turns and storms away. It’s not until he’s gone that Steve turns to you,

“You alright Cat?”

“He-, yea.” You tell him and he studies your face for a second then frowns.

“Alright.” He says before he starts for the parking lot. You follow, scooping up your bag,

“Can I walk with you?” You ask and he gives a curt nod.

“Will you answer a question?”

“Yes.”

“Why have you been ignoring me? Did I do something to upset you?” You should’ve known this was his question but somehow you’re unprepared.

“Oh, um. No it was nothing you did.” You say slowly as you walk with him, you can feel his eyes on you but you don’t look up at him. He stays quiet as you walk together and you sigh heavily. “I’ve been told to stay away from you. That you’re off limits.” You admit and he hums lowly.

“From Peggy?” You don’t respond, “I’m not going to beat around the bush here, I’m interested in you. If she’s going to make things hell for you, if you’re interested, I’m okay with taking things slow and keeping things quiet.” He tells you softly and you want to cry he’s so sweet.

“I want to keep this job. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not interested in you.”

“Do you want me to talk to her?”

“No! No. I just, I don’t know what to do.” You tell him honestly, “it’s not like you’re not well known around town. You’re Player of the Year, MVP for the last two years, Rookie of The Year Quarterback Steve Rogers. I don’t know if quiet is a thing you can do.”

“I don’t want to not try.”

“Can I think about it?” You ask softly before stopping at your car.

“Of course. How’s the car running?”

“Better. My brother is a mechanic and said she’s on her last leg but I’ll drive her to the ground.”

“I get that. Can I give you my number now? Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you want to text me. Or in case you need help with your car or something, or if Brock makes you uncomfortable again.” You stare at him for a moment then nod once. You pull out your phone and pass it to Steve before he puts in his number. He passes you back your phone then watches as you put your bag in the backseat.

“Let me know when you’re home safe?”

“Okay.” You agree readily, “Thank you.” You tell him before you climb into your car, start it and pull out of the lot.

🏈🏈🏈

AN: This is a series of one shots. There is no timeline for these. If you have an idea for Steve and Cat let me know.

Tag list:

@memyselfandmaddox @thefanficfaerie @patzammit @dsakita @dramadreamer14 @killcomet @thesassmisstress @sophham @andahugaroundtheneck @loving-life-my-way @thefridgeismybestie @dumblani @im-just-another-monster @mywinterwolf @giggleberts @biskwitmamaw @geeksareunique @paintballkid711 @lumar014 @also-fangirlinsweden @connie326 @inkedaztec @eralen @valsworldofcreativity @strangersstranger

[jolalibrary]

Stood Up + Salads

Diego Hargreeves x Fem!Reader Words: 1.5k AN: Set with a S1 Diego but not S1 or S2 storyline. For a friend, you know who you are.

He didn’t need to look up when the door goes, he knows it’s you. Because when it rains, it pours.

Diego wonders if he should be more upset about his father, rather than being upset he’s had to see the others. Only for him to take his frustration out on you, consciously or not.

The fact you allow the door to meet the frame with such a loud thud is enough of a signal to him that you’re pissed.

Diego takes a second, thinking of his next steps as he swipes his tongue over his teeth, staring at the punching bag, as if it’s going to provide any answers on what he should do. How he could get out of this. Because if he plays this wrong, which he will, it’s going to spiral. Becoming so much worse than it already is.

A whole lot fucking worse.

And it’s already bad.

Hitting the bag once, twice and then thrice, he pays attention to your footsteps nearing. Not turning, not needing to see if your arms are folded, lips pursed and giving him one of you signature dead expressions. He knows you will be, because Diego fucking knows you and you know him.

And he hates it.

He despises that you know about his tick. About his family. About his upbringing, talent and everything else in between. He hates that you suggested calling off the meal before he did, and he hates himself for agreeing to go even if he knew he wouldn’t attend.

Because he’s decided he hates being happy.

He likes being miserable, likes fighting petty crime without anyone to come home to.

“Asshole.”

Rolling his head, he casts his eyes over you. Finding you exactly as he’s imagined. The only—slight—difference is the look in your eyes.

Sadness. A look which doesn’t suit you. One which stands out to him, because he’s seen it so rarely.

It swirls in your eyes, mixing with your usual shade, darkening them as they pin him to his spot. Or try to.

Letting his hands fall to his sides, he lets out a sigh before he can help himself. And the glare you send him is enough to force him to turn to face you.

When it comes to you, he isn’t sure if he hates how close you are to him physically or metaphorically; not sure if he dislikes it more that he wants to kiss you or let you love him.

“Hello to you too.”

Your lips twitch into a smirk. “You don’t deserve a hello.”

“Touché.”

“Surprised you know that word.”

“Under all this, I’m clever y’know?”

“Are you?” you snap, and you roll your lips together.

Those painted plump lips that’s kissed every inch of him. That he’s woke up dreaming about and gone to sleep pressed against.

“You’re angry—“

“Oh, I’m past angry, Hargreeves,” you says, tapping your foot on the gym floor. “I was angry when I was on my second glass, wondering where you were. I was fuming when I left, embarrassed and ready to hunt you down. Now, now I’m almost murderous.”

He hasn’t been called his surname in sometime. Hasn’t found himself in hot waters, with you at least, in sometime. Even angry, he feels your eyes rake down his frame, following a bead of sweat which falls from his neck down his chest and stomach.

Pulling the gloves undone with his teeth, snaps your eyes back up. And he finds himself smirking at you and his own foolishness simultaneously.

Because deep down he’s known this day would come, where you—like most—tired of him. Finding yourself irritated with his ways, of his selfishness and his impulsiveness.

“Let me have it then.”

He throws the gloves to the floor, shifting his weight as he notices the slight narrowing of your eyes. The way your lips twitch, whether a smirk or a smile, he can’t be sure. Usually, there’s less talking when you’re like this; usually you’re already pinned under him or against something. Now, you don’t even look at him like you’d welcome that.

Diego hates you for that too.

Despises that you have gotten under his skin, throwing him off his game. He’s dated. Well, since Patch they’ve not been constant. Real or permanent.

But you, you got to him. He still doesn’t even know how.

You don’t bend as easily, don’t surrender as you should. You fight him, sometimes tooth and fucking nail, and fuck, he doesn’t hate that about you. He loves that. He loves it when you steal the wind from his sail; when you cut him down. You don’t pander to him, you call him out, and he needs that even if he can’t admit it.

He even doesn’t mind that you sooth the insecurity, recognising when enough is enough. Halting anything before it goes too far, leaves too many wounds. You make him want to try to be a little better, even if he fails most days.

“No.”

“No?”

You snort. “No. Because if I rip you a new one, you’ll find some way to say sorry. And, then you’ll kiss me, and I’ll melt, and then you will forget that you’re an asshole.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

Your jaw tenses, almost impossibly so. “For someone in your position, you have a lot of snark.”

“Be careful, you may hurt my feelings.”

Nodding, your lips twist before straightening to an unreadable expression again. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m done.”

His muscles relax.

And his heart stops.

Yet Diego is somehow, not as surprised as he should have been.

Even if he looks at you, staring at your eyes and hoping to see a tease, a jest. He looks hoping you will change your mind, that he hasn’t successfully pushed another person away.

“Took you long en—“

“Im done talking,” you continue, cutting him off. Taking closer steps, slow ones, full of purpose as you dig your eyes into him. “I’m not gonna ask you to do right by me, I’m not gonna ask for an explanation why you decided to stand me up tonight. Hey, you don’t even have to talk to me.”

His forehead creases, flicking his eyes from your eyes to your mouth.

“Because I know why. You want me without the commitment, without the expectations of being a good person. You want a hole to fuck, so here I am, Hargreeves. You’ve got one.”

Fuck.

He stifles a sigh, especially as your finger press into his chest, nail digging down into the skin as you roll your lips and then he has to focus on not groaning. Especially when you bat your eyes lashes and smirk so condescendingly he wonders if you’ve been sent to test him.

“You want to pretend you don’t crave normal, that you don’t deserve it,” you continue, looking up at him, “I’ll play pretend. Hey, I’ll become the best damn actor in your movie you’ll ever know. But, I’m done talking.”

You place your other hand on his, moving his to your hip as you smirk.

“So, lights camera action, baby. Where do you wanna fuck me first?”

He feels your lips ghost over his. His hand clenching around your hip. Everything inside of him telling to just go with it, to not talk, to not burst open in front of you.

To kiss you.

To throw you down on the mats and not talk for hours.

“I-I’m s-sorry.”

“No. No you’re not,” you says, full of sadness, your expression not changing to match your tone. “If you were, you’d have come to dinner. You’d have stabbed your fork into the salad before I’d have told you I want street food.”

You didn’t move, and neither does he. Your hand spreading over his chest, his hand still on your hip.

“You don’t let yourself enjoy anything, because what? Your dad was an asshole and your brother went to the moon?” You ask, head tilted. “Diego, I don’t give a shit if you’re number two, you’re number one for me. But you have to try. You have to try at least ten percent otherwise it’s just me, forcing you to be with me.”

He never feels forced. Not with you.

You’re sometimes the only thing which is good. Which isn’t fucked, tainted or ruined. You’re good, if not a bit too sweary and a bit too good at drinking. But, you’re… nice, and unwilling to let him settle.

“You’re m-my number o-one too.”

“Cool.”

“I mean i-it.”

“Nice.”

“Baby, c'mon?”

You sigh. “What, Diego?”

Diego. He’s Diego again.

He doesn’t smile, even if he wants too.

He doesn’t kiss you, even if he’s fighting every part of himself.

He just stares, using his other hand to cup your cheek. “I am sorry.”

“Salad at a fancy place too good for you?”

He smirked. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Good. Because it’s too fancy for me too.”

“So why we’re we even fucking going, baby?”

“Because,” you say, defiance in your tone, “it’s what normal people do. They don’t meet over a bad game of darts and several beers, and fuck on a boxing ring. They don’t fight a literal mugger with trained assassin-level knife skills a month after beginning to sleep together.”

Your shoulders sink, your expression softening. “They date, at restaurants who charge too much and hold hands across parks. And for a second, one tiny fucking moment, I wanted that for you. I wanted normal, meet-cute type romance before we grabbed whatever was in a cart and we fucked on my new sideboard.”

His thumb brushed over your cheek. “I’d have liked that.”

“You’d have loved that. But—“

“I’m sorry,” he says again, softer, more meaningful, “I’m s-s-sorry. I really am.”

“I’m still mad.”

“That’s okay.”

“You owe me a fancy salad.”

Smirking, he nods. “Baby, I’ll give you a salad bar if you want it.”

“I don’t like salad.”

“No?”

“No.”

Smirking, he cups your cheek with more purpose. “What do you want then, baby?”

He watches your eyes darken. "Oh."

"Oh, indeed. You have a lot of making up to do.”

[oingo233]

Rapture is a Boy (5)

Summary: Remus and you have always had a playful, loving relationship but his behavior around the full moon leads you to assume the worst. A huge fight ends with the two of you heartbroken. Will Remus reveal the truth behind his behavior?  And will you still love him afterwards or has he truly lost you forever?

Young Remus Lupin x Reader (Neutral)

Warning: angst, cuss words, self-doubt and self-hate, mention of cheating, lotsss of angst in this one, maybe even more than before. 

Authors Note: Now, this chapter is a bit on the longer side but it is my favorite one so far.  We get POV’s from Remus, you, and Sirius(excuse how much there is of Sirius, it’s not entirely intentional he just owns my heart), each filled with ANGST.  And the lack of communication and the full throttle of angst is almost painful, but oh so juicy.  I hope you all enjoy it, only a couple parts left, or one, until the end yall!  I love you so much!  Sirius POV in italics. 

Word Count: 3k

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven - Part Eight

                                                  Part Five

                                        ****Letters To My Love****

Remus POV

Breakfast was over by the time Remus made it back to his dorm, but he didn’t leave to go to 1st period.  Because on the endless and lonely walk back, his mind began to spin.  He knew he wasn’t a cheat, but he was a liar.  He lied to you about his being a werewolf for years because he was petrified of what you’d think of him when you found out.  That you’d stop seeing his scars as beautiful stories but rather the makings of a monster. 

 He was more of a beast than he was a man, and for one night each month, a beast was all he became.  How could you love him knowing that? Remus had yet to stop pacing the length of the boys dorm, ignoring the way little sticky notes on the walls with prank ideas came twirling down with every gust of wind Remus’s sharp turns created. He was a storm.

He repeated this thought for the better part of 1st period.  How could you love him?  You won’t love him, he tells himself, you never will, Lucy said it herself, he was just a disturbing truth. The thoughts made his stomach lurch.  You will never love him again.  These horrible, tantalizing thoughts were accompanied by beautiful moving pictures on his wall, which his eyes darted to every second despite how miserable they made him.  

One picture was a large polaroid of the two of you laying on the common room floor, while your friends are all laughing around you, your arm was wrapped securely around his shoulders and he is laying his head on your chest.  He was fast asleep, but a ghost of a smile was painted on his lips, your head was leaned back in laughter.  While the picture moves, you only seem to laugh harder and Remus shook, his smile growing ever larger as he awoke to the sound of pure joy.

You will never love him again. With that heavy thought, and another glance at the picture he rushes to the bathroom, just in time to find the toilet, as he vomits into it.  Utterly sick and riddled with anxiety and self-hate, but so much anger filled him.  Why did Lucy have to ruin everything?  Why did you have to leave him?  Why did he have to be such a fucking monster? Why’d he have such god awful luck!

Sirius finds him in the bathroom, sobbing for not the first time that morning nor the last. Sirius rushed over to him, patting his back as he choked up extra pieces of last nights dinner. Sirius forgetting to retrieve his class book he forgot this morning, and was excused from class to quickly get.  Herbology can wait, Sirius wasn’t going to spend his future with plants anyway.

“Remus, what’s wrong?  What can I do?” Sirius knew it was about you, but why was he so sick?  Little did Sirius know, that love and heartbreak is both the enlighting of the heart, and the sickness that plagues so many.  

Remus was not immune to such poison, his strength lies elsewhere, it lies in the mornings after full moons and the steadiness of his hands before.  It lies in his courage, in his determination and empathy.  It lies in his silver tongue, but his strength does not belong to his heart because he gave his heart to you so long ago.  And perhaps you gave him the greatest strength of all, love. Love, love, love, you gave it all to him and more.  Now he was left empty and he felt it now in his stomach as much as he did in his heart.

“I am alone Sirius.  I was alone in the room, then I saw our picture, (y/n) was laughing.” His voice cracked, fighting a sob. “They are the most lovely thing I’ve ever seen Pads...Pads do you think I told em’ that enough?  That I love them?” Remus then turned to Sirius with the most gut dropping look of remorse, with a breath to match.  Sirius nodded fervently, not sure how else to comfort a person in such a state. He rubbed circles on his back and reached for a tissue. 

“Yes Moony, we all heard you say it a million times.  But...Moony it isn’t over.  Lucy lied to them, if you are honest -and I mean fully honest about everything- you two will be one again. Practically married again.  So, gather yourself Moony.  I will wait with you till the bell rings, yeah?” Sirius hands Remus the tissue and smiles down at him, trying his best to be encouraging Remus knew, it was the same smile Sirius gives him after hard full moons and the whole lot of them want to stay in bed.  

But it did not work, Remus’s whole body sank into the floor as he wiped at his mouth.  Sighing at the mess he was, flushing the toilet he stands.  

“No. I can’t tell them-”

“Remus-”

“No!  Leave it alone Sirius, you don’t understand.  (y/n) deserves better than...than this this thing that I am, and will always be.  This monster.” Remus throws the tissue down and storms out of the bathroom, back into the expanse of their room and now flouncing his arms around as he speaks.  Voice thick with emotions.  “Do you think they’ll still love me after they know the truth?” He sneers, almost laughing humorlessly to himself.  Sirius stared at him in horror, still in the doorway of the bathroom.

“They’ll leave me Sirius, I would lose them twice.  Twice!  No,” Remus shakes his head, “Better I let them go now, I’d rather not go through this whole ordeal twice.” He motions to his vomit lined collar and messy locks.  “Better (y/n) hates me for a lie, than the truth.”  And that was the end of it.  Remus turned his back on Sirius and began to pull clothes from his drawers, deciding that it would be best to go to second period.  If he was to get over you, he must start soon.

Sirius was left speechless.  Remus was angry, that was clear to see but he was often the only one who could get himself out of these ruts of self-hate.  Him and you of course.  So Sirius got his almost twice forgotten book and left.  Before he left the room completely he turned in the doorway to say something to Remus, but he only watched as Remus softly tore the photos of you off of his wall, Sirius shut his mouth and left.

Your POV

The bell to second period rang through loud and clear, yet it wasn’t until the movements of the students around me, rushing to be free from History of Magic, that I began to move myself.  Even then my movements were slow, sluggish and reflected the droopy feeling of my heart hanging loose in my chest.�� Like a portrait hanging sideways on one of the hallways, knocked loose by a groping couple, but my heart was knocked loose my the image of Lucy and Remus I’ve spun up in my head.  Oh, I can just picture them together, so clearly.  

His large hands roaming the plains of her back after making love, tracing words mindlessly as he has once done to me.  His lips glued sleepily into the crook of her neck, as they cuddled after a long school day...just as he once did to me.  It’s only been a day but my fingers are twitching to cling onto his and never let go.  To hug and grip him, and my lips...well they tingle at just the thought of his kiss.  My whole body abuzz with the idea of Remus, it has not yet caught up with my head, it does not yet seem to realize that Remus is no longer ours to hold and feel.  He is no longer mine.

I finish packing all of my belongings into my satchel and hug it to myself instead of around my shoulder and waist like I usually have it. I thought this class would be much harder than it was, considering it is the only one I have with Remus today, but he never even showed.  Coward, the bitter side of me thought, fucking coward.  But I nonetheless picked out double the pages of parchment, and never once raised my head from the block of wood that is my desk.  I was too focused on taking double the notes, both just copies of one another.

Now, as I walk out the door, not missing the way our professor seemed to pity the sullen look on my usual bright face, my only thought is on finding Sirius.  Things have been tense between me and all The Marauders, but I like to think Sirius and I, though on very tense terms since our fight, are more amiable than James or Peter and I.  

I was knocked off focus, and quite literally, by a blushing first year girl. “M’ sorry,” She mumbles, looking up at me like a scared mouse.  I quickly glance up just in time to catch the retreating figure of a running Lucy, knocking even more people along the way. 

 “S’ alright, wasn’t you,” I smile sweetly at her and that seems to calm her nerves, she walks off with a little smile.  But I was left with a rather large frown, was Lucy off to see her boyfriend, Remus? Is that what they are now?  The thought made me sick, and the words made me even sicker.  But there was little time to dwell when in the dwindling crowd I caught sight of a tall man with the messiest bun I have ever seen.  Yet, Sirius pulled it off, I almost wanted to roll my eyes, he can pull many hairstyles off (many of which, I myself can not).

“Sirius!”  I call, flapping a stack of paper in the air while trying to make my way through the crowd and towards him.  He tells some friends of his from 1st period to go ahead, and waits for me with a tight smile.

“(y/n),” He greets, rather stiff.  As if this whole thing was my fault, and we didn’t just have our whole friendship break through last night.

Sirius was staring down at you, soaking in the sadness of your eyes and the exhaustion shown through crinkles on your forehead.  He took quick notice of the wrinkles in your outfit, and the totally clashing colors of the clothes underneath your robes.  He wanted to frown, usually your outfits are well put together.  But then again, Remus stormed off in his pajamas this morning, guess heartbreak makes you do even crazier things than love itself. But either way, Sirius felt awful after your argument last night and was having a rather difficult time expressing his emotions, so instead of apologizing like he knew he should, your presence just made him feel uncomfortable.  A reminder of how he failed both his mates when it came to this whole breaking up thing.  He regard the stack of papers with a raised brow.

I shove the papers into his chest, he cups them stiffly with one hand, peering down at them quickly and titling his head down at me in a frown.

“(y/n)...” He starts, but I cut him off.

“Before you start Sirius, you should know that Remus missed a very important class this morning,” I say, rocking on my heels and oddly nervous.  A person can only take so much rejection and emotion in one day.

“But...why?  If you think he cheated on you, I mean,” Sirius uncomfortably held the papers, waiting for me to respond.  But I drew up blanks, why did I write him notes?  Why did I go through the trouble of writing till my hand ached and protested?  Was it because I still loved him? Yes, but also it was the way I dreamt last night of our first kiss and then the way he stumbled up the stairs with James, crying.  It was guilt.  But then I was angry, fuck this, I think, he doesn’t deserve to pass History, prat should re-take the whole boring class ten-fold!

“Nevermind Pads, just give them back,” I growl, tearing the papers from his hands and nearly ripping them.  But then the wind seemed to remind me of how it is the season of the N.E.W.T.S and Remus so long ago said that maybe History of Magic will aide him in his test.  I growl again and shove the papers back into a surprised, and quite frankly annoyed Sirius.  His chest was really starting to hurt.

“No, you must take them.  Give them to him...” I can’t bring myself to look at Sirius, oh what he must think of me.  Such a silly girl to tend to Remus after all that he has done to me.

Sirius glanced down at the papers, your handwriting clear as day and neat.  You clearly tried to make it easy to read, and the notes were well taken, informative.  He looked between you and the papers and fought a smile.  Even a blind fool could see how much you still adored Remus, but then he thought back to the conversation he had with Remus this morning. His heart overcame with something that felt all too much like real, physical pain.  Sirius hands began to shake, how could Remus let you go. You’re one of the best things that happened him. Then another thought occurred to him, how was Remus to get out of the dorm again, or even smile again after reading your notes?  It would break his heart all over again.

Sirius shook his head at me, placing the papers into my hand and ignoring the dumbfounded look on my face. “Merlin (y/n), are you trying to bloody kill him?” He says, addressing my notes and the sweetness behind the gesture.  Perhaps it was too soon.  But I was prepared.

“Oh, shove off it Sirius.  My name isn’t even on the parchment, he won’t know it’s from me.  Just say ya got a friend to take ‘em for him, yeah?” Sirius still looked uncomfortable by the matter.  I cut him off before he even began, I could see him thinking.  “Don’t want him failing N.E.W.T.S do ya?”  Sirius takes a deep breath and tucks his lips in a disapproving frown wordlessly taking the papers and stuffing them in his bag.

“ave’ a good one!”  He calls over his shoulder, almost wincing as he spoke, it was second nature to call such a thing in parting with a friend, but he was unsure of your friendship at the moment, and it was quite clear you weren’t going to have a good day.  He turned to you with a tight smile, and loosened up at your own large smile.  You finding the situation with an almost bitter sense of humor but humor nonetheless, he thinks to himself “good lad.”

The both of you part ways, reminiscing on easier times and missing them dearly.

Remus POV

Remus sat in his bed to study, which none of the boys do because they’ll fall asleep, and they usually did it together on the floor in a heap of papers, books, and spilled ink.  But tonight Remus grew rather somber as Sirius handed him a collection of notes from 1st period.  “aye, a friend wrote em’ for you.  N.E.W.T.S comin’ up n all.” Sirius muttered, slowly placing them atop Remus’s chest, not looking him in the eye. Remus sat up in his bed to examine the papers, his hands shaking and crinkly the edge.  He knew.

He quickly grabbed his parchment, and book, quill and ink before closing his bed curtains.  He then proceeded to cuss and scream(more of a groan) under his breath.  Of course he knew the notes were from you, it was silly of you to assume he wouldn’t.  He long ago memorized every curve and line in your handwriting.  Why did you have to care about him still? Why did you have to be so sweet and perfect?  His heart wanted to run away to you, but he tried to focus on other things.  But his mind went back to you once again, like a broken record.  He remembers all the letters you’d write him, all the things you’d say.

He first memorized your handwriting over the summer after first year.  He got several letters from James and Sirius, one or two from Peter, and one every 2 weeks from you.  You adored hand written letters, and so he came to love them too.  Then again 2nd year, then 3rd and 4th your owl came to his window time and time again, always sent off with a letter of his own writing.  But 5th year, the year you two started dating, your friendly letters changed to love letters and it was those ones he clipped to his wall or kept in a special drawer, never throwing out one.

On particularly difficult nights, like ones before and after a full moon, when his body was drained and he was desperate for the warmth of friends and the dull ache to leave his body, he would pull out the letters his friends wrote him and read them.  Then he’d pull out every love later you sent him and read it.  He’d walk over to his bed and re-read them a million times, relaxing into his comforter and sighing with the memories of you that overcame him with each word like tidal waves. He’d hug them to his chest, then pull the next one out to read, all with the softest smile.

His pain long forgotten, he’d fall into a peaceful slumber with parchment and letter sprawled all around him.  All greeted with...

My love,

And all signed with...

All my love to you,

(y/n)

Remus traced over your handwriting and hugged the notes under his chin and deep into his chest.  As if they would become apart of him, and in that way you will always be with him.  But you were, you were everything to him. I won’t part from my love, he thinks, my love is apart of me. 

He decided then, that he would do anything in this world to win your affection back.  He would bare his soul naked to you, just for the word “love” to slip from your lips and into his being.  He was no longer afraid of your rejection, he just craved the chance to see what you would do, of what good could come from his truth unfolding itself before you. He craved your acceptance of all that he was, and above all he craved for you to love him once again.

Taglist:

@crazylokonugget     @beyondprincess     @1975weasley    @nicodoesntexist  @goto-hi-this-is-my-brain    @yoyoitsbella    @ftwert   @sognatrice-as-a-hobby   @dontjudgemyobsessionpls   @blackpinkdolan​    @holdenviolet​  @katie-lupin05

[forcefully-awoken]

Disruption of Nowhere

Chapter One: It Happened One Night

Read on ao3

Masterlist

Summary: You were a mechanic just trying to make it in the resistance, working on the Falcon. A confrontation between you and Rey leads to one of the most thrilling moments of your life. You two fall into each other, and into a relationship that explores the darkest parts of each other. Set during The Rise of Skywalker, though I will be playing fast and loose with canon.

A/N: This was originally posted to my ao3, I’m in the process of moving it over here as well.

Warnings: force choking, horny dreams.

Word Count: 3,019

Pairing: Rey x Reader

This wasn’t the first time you had been called to work on the Falcon, not by any means. But this was the first time you had been called by name for it. It was the first time someone had seen something in you. Now you would be in charge of servicing possibly the most important vessel in the resistance.

At least that’s the mantra you repeated to yourself as you walked down to the Falcon, making sure not to trip over any of the vines criss-crossing on the ground. The jungle was alive around you, the gentle hum of all the machinery blending in with the distant animal noises. It frightened you when you first arrived on Ajan Kloss, the thought that there could be anything out there, but nothing had ever happened. This was your biggest moment to date-- now you would have the chance to prove yourself in your own right, that you were not a leftover from parents who were better and more skilled than you. Now you would be able to prove that you were a skilled mechanic in your own right.

And then someone bumped into you, barely even glancing back to see if you were okay. You huffed, adjusting the supplies you were carrying before moving forward once again. You didn’t want to let anything ruin your day: this moment was yours. That was, however, before you saw the condition that the Falcon was in. It looked like someone had tried to make the Kessel run in it again and failed miserably.

“POE DAMERON!” you shouted, momentarily forgetting all pretense of professionalism, as you knew the so-called daring pilot and incredible pain in your ass had to be around here somewhere. The call had come to you quickly as the Falcon needed immediate repairs. “I know you are around here somewhere!”

“IT WAS FINN’S FAULT!” came Poe’s immediate reply as he quickly came around from the back of the Falcon. He pointed accusingly at the man following him. “He distracted me and I’m only so good, you know!” They both looked about like the Falcon on a good day- just slightly scuffed up.

“I did no such thing!” the former stormtrooper shouted, pointing his own accusatory finger right back at Poe. “I heard you yell at Poe last time!” Both of them were distracted by the approach of Rey and Leia. The approach of the General and the last Jedi forced them to quickly abandon their argument.

You rolled your eyes as you marched forward to the Falcon. You made small notes on your datapad and annoyed noises under your breath as you took in the damage, of which there was a lot. You sighed when you realized that it would take a week to fix everything. Maybe less if you worked through the night, which you were often asked to do. The Falcon was a symbol to the resistance: the ship they toted out the most. It would have to look as good as it could and fly like new.

“Get out of here and let me get started,” you muttered before looking around to see that there was nobody else around now. You wondered what you had missed now, stuck in your own little mechanical world. With a small shrug, you went about the first and easiest round of repairs. Despite these repairs being the easiest, they still kept you working well past dinner. You were only aware of the passage of time when your stomach began to growl. You blinked a couple of times, in an attempt to wet your eyes again. You came to a stopping point and rolled your shoulders, forcing yourself to release the stress that had gathered there.

With your most recent repair finished enough not to explode or ruin anything else, you made your way back through the jungle to the main camp. The one tent that had been designated as a cafeteria was barely even a quarter of the way full of people. You grabbed some food off the table, not caring what you got. You sat down at a table alone like you did most nights, even when the caf was full of people.

It wasn’t necessarily that you wanted to be alone, but people were complicated. Especially now, with everything seeming so dire after everything that happened on Crait. You thought there was a rumor of a spy going around camp, but that side of the resistance was foreign to you. Another reason why you often ended up eating alone--too busy thinking about the next repair to try to carry on a conversation.

“You’re working on the Falcon,” a voice said, jarring you out of your thoughts as you ate. You looked up to see Rey. You knew of her, of course, having been rescued by her along with everyone else, but this was probably the first time Rey had spoken to you. You were struck very suddenly by how close she was to you, and for the first time you truly saw her face up close. There was something about her eyes that sent a pang to your cunt. They were dark, and there was something that looked like anger in them. You couldn’t figure out why she would be angry at you

“I, uh, I am,” you managed to mumble out, swallowing hard to clear away any nerves before you dared to speak again. Rey had her Jedi powers, which was frankly intimidating, but from all accounts she was a decent enough person to not use them on you. “I am working on the Falcon. Why? Was there something you wanted me to do?”

“I want you to not break it,” Rey immediately fired back, a frown on her delicate features. “That’s Han’s ship, you know; you have to be careful with it.” You were taken aback by the hostility in her voice. You two had never spoken before, and you had been making smaller repairs on the Falcon for ages before someone finally noticed you doing more than the average mechanic and called for you. Where did she get off with this superior attitude?

“I’m well aware of whose ship it is! I was in this fight long before you showed up,” you replied, not bothering to watch your tone with her. New Jedi Order be damned. Suddenly you weren’t that hungry anymore, and the food on your plate looked less than appetizing. You stood up, forcing her to back slightly away from you. Rey was taller than you, you realized now, by a few inches. You had to look up at her. Your eyes met, and you could see something in her eyes--curiosity? You imagined almost everyone on the base naturally deferred to her, but you had been here for years with your parents, and quite frankly, you didn’t care about her weird powers.

“I’m going back to my repairs now,” you told her. You were forced to move around her when she stood directly in your way. Your arms brushed for just the briefest of moments, and there was no denying there was a spark this time.You made sure not to wince when Rey jerked herself away from you. You told yourself you didn’t feel her eyes on the back of your head as you walked away, thankful there was nobody else around to see you.

You made your way back to your tent in a haze, trying not to read too much into the interaction. You knew what desire felt like, having had previous partners. But never had you felt anything from someone intentionally trying to antagonize you. Part of you wanted to turn around and go back to apologize. The other part of you wanted to go back to demand an apology from her. You did neither.

It was only when you had gotten back and your roommate commented on it that you realized you still were holding your dinner. You put away your leftovers, in case your appetite returned later. You sat on your bed, scrolling through your datapad and prioritizing the remaining repairs, adjusting the list until you were happy with it. The leftovers would give you an excuse to skip breakfast the next morning and get back to work faster. With a plan decided on in your mind you set the datapad aside to finally sleep. As you tried to settle into bed it seemed impossible to quiet your mind enough to drift off to sleep. Your thoughts compounded upon themselves, and you tossed and turned until you were too exhausted to keep your eyes open a moment longer.

Her lips were soft but insistent upon yours, parting your mouth with ease, pressing her tongue in right after. You moaned into her mouth, eagerly trying to grab at her, only to find your wrists held down by some invisible force. You struggled against it, your naked torso needing any sort of stimulation, but the woman in your dreams only pulled away from you and chuckled, her voice dark.

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” she asked, the voice sounding so familiar to you, but in your lust you could not place it. Her face was obscured by some sort of mist, and you were only able to focus on her mouth. You nodded, agreeing to whatever she wanted, desperate to get her hands or her mouth back on you. The woman laughed again, and it sounded dangerous.

Without warning, her hands shot between your legs, pressing them apart so she could settle herself between them. She reached up to part your lips, her fingers going immediately to your clit. The sensation of her fingers there shot pleasure through you like lightning. Her touch was not yet quite what you needed, too light to truly send you into an orgasm, and you threw your head back with a loud groan.

“Please,” you begged, looking down into brown eyes as the woman’s face finally swam into focus, “please, Rey..”

You woke up with a jolt, breathing heavily, trying to ignore the lingering tingling between your legs. You couldn’t believe you had had a dream like that about Rey. It had been a while since you had been laid, but to have a wet dream about a stranger was completely outside the norm for you. Your thoughts tended to stray towards previous encounters, or the intense novels you kept hidden on your datapad.

You were too keyed up to go back to sleep, though, and decided to work through some of your dream-induced lust with some more delicate repairs on the Falcon. When working, you were free to drop into a peaceful, thoughtless zone. Your hands would be the thing you had to worry about. Just the parts in your hands, and nothing else. The focus of doing repairs on the Falcon would help you ignore your dream.

You slipped through camp as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake anybody else at this time of the night. You had barely dressed, only tugging on proper pants with your night shirt to give the appearance that you weren’t running naked through the night. You didn’t need to add any gossip that you were having a secret tryst. You wanted to focus on yourself in the wake of everything that had happened.

It was the best time of night. Everybody had finally gone to sleep; even Poe and Leia had ceased their battle planning for some much needed rest. The two were prone to working late hours, with others coming and going as they planned out as much as they could. The camp was as quiet as it could be despite strange creatures making their strange noises all around you in the forest. There was an undercurrent of mechanical whirring, something that usually lulled you to sleep. But now it only reminded you that there was still more work to be done to get the Falcon to rejoin the symphony.

Everything in the Falcon sounded too loud when there was nobody else around. The hiss of the ramp as it went down. The lights as they clicked on. It all sounded like it would wake the whole camp and bring them running. You made your way up the ramp, fingers tracing over the familiar paneling as you made your way towards the cockpit. The Falcon was something you could see--and had seen before--in your dreams. It was beneath your eyelids when you blinked after you had worked on it so often. You weren’t sure when its repairs had become your job, but they had. Today was the first day of many, you were sure, when they would call for you to focus on it until you had fixed everything. You were one step closer to your goal of becoming a lead engineer.

You settled into the pilot’s seat, picking up a couple of frayed wires, as you reached around into the toolbox. You weren’t sure what the hell Poe had gotten into this time, but it must have been bad for the Falcon to have such extensive damage. You didn’t like to think about all the dangerous missions the others went on while you were stuck planetside. You had known Poe nearly your entire life, thanks to your parents. But that had been before everything changed. For a time you had wanted to be out there too, risking your life, but you knew deep down you would be better working on the ships rather than flying them.

Time slipped past you as you worked methodically, checking and double checking your work as you went. You were on the very last of the cockpit repairs when you realized you could hear someone else on board the ship. You figured it was another engineer, someone else who couldn’t sleep and wanted to be useful rather than toss and turn. The footsteps came closer, and you thought about pausing to see who it was, but decided that if they truly needed to talk to you, they would.

“What are you doing?!” Rey demanded, her voice harsh. Before you could reply, you were thrown out of the chair and slammed into the wall beside you. Her lips twisted into a snarl and she threw her arm out in front of her, using the Force to keep you suspended above the ground. You felt pressure around your throat, like her hand was there, squeezing it.

“Who said you could do this?!” Rey asked, though it didn’t seem like she was interested in an answer as she increased the pressure around your throat with a twitch of her fingers. You tried to gasp, fingers flying up to claw at the invisible hand around your throat--your lungs screamed for air. As they burned, your head started to swim. Everything combined to bring you teetering to the edge of pleasure.

She leaned in close to you, her eyes ablaze. Unbidden, your lips fell open, and your tongue darted out. Rey’s eyes immediately traced it as it happened, and they darkened in a different way. She changed the pressure on your throat yet again, and you moaned.

With that, the vice around your throat disappeared and the moment was broken. Rey jerked away from you like she had been burned. You took a long breath, sinking to the floor as she released the Force pressure that had held you in place. You felt a throb between your legs that you ignored as you looked up at Rey with wide eyes. Her face was completely red, a deep blush coming up from her neck. Her eyes were wild in a different way now; there was nothing but fear in them as she stared at her hand in horror.

“I-I-I’m sorry!” Rey burst out, running from the cockpit as soon as she realized you weren’t terribly hurt. You knew there would be a bruise forming tomorrow. You struggled to your feet with blood rushing back up to your head. You wanted to call out after her, but you weren’t sure what you would say. You didn’t think you should apologize for your reaction, but something nagged at you. Maybe it was the look on her face.

You finally made your way out of the Falcon a few moments later, as soon as you were totally sure you would be alone again. You rubbed at your throat lightly, trying to make sense of the reaction to the Force being used on you. You had never experienced anything like it before.

The sex you liked before always had been a bit on the rougher side, but there was something dangerous about adding the Force into the mix. You were forced to totally surrender yourself to something in that moment--you had no control over anything that was happening at all. It thrilled you.

But, besides, even if you had liked it--what about Rey? The look on her face had been horror struck; she seemed afraid of what she had done. You knew nothing about Rey and her previous experience. A new fear crawled into your mind--was Rey afraid of what she had done or was she afraid of the reaction you had given?

Sleep evaded you for the rest of the night, and you tossed and turned in your bed. Your mind raced with the different possibilities. Should you seek Rey out? Would she come to you? Were you to simply ignore everything that had happened? Part of you wondered if you should tell someone else that Rey had so easily lost control of herself. Nothing about this had an easy path out.

You heard your roommate stir when it was time to get up for the day, but you buried yourself in your blanket and waved her away, mumbling some vague excuse about not feeling well. You knew someone would eventually come to check on you, but you hoped to be asleep by then.

After a few more attempts to get comfortable and push the thoughts of your night out of your head, you were finally able to drift off, and thankfully, your dreams were pure nothingness.

[evolutionsvoid]

Maw of Despair, Keeper of the Mournful River, Cocytus is one of the five aquatic beasts that dwell within the rivers of the Underworld. She lurks in the freezing waters that share her name, living in the heart of misery. She crawls along the bottom, marching along on some mournful pilgrimage. It appears she crawls up and down her river endlessly, wallowing in her own sadness and wailing the song of despair. What this achieves is not known, but all who dwell in the underworld knows what will happen if they disturb her journey. If one is to approach this miserable river, keep your ears open to the haunting melody of her cries. Even when she is submerged deep in this icy river, her song of sorrow can easily reach the surface for all to hear. If one can hear this tune, then leave quickly and quietly. Disturbing the river or causing any sort of commotion upon its shores may catch her attention and break her from her singing. With her song cut short, she will grow even more miserable and bitter, causing her to rise to the surface. Emerging onto the frigid shores, she will bring her sorrow to those who disturbed her, as well as to any poor soul still in the area. The River of Lamentation is where she lives, and she embodies every aspect of it. Once free of its waters, everyone will see that the miserable river was actually dampening her powers. With no fluid to hold her song, the droning despair of her melody is greatly increased and becomes dangerous to those exposed to it. When she sings, the air and music that flows from her mouth is ice cold, able to slice through the thickest of coats and chill right down to the bone. The temperature of the area around her will begin to drop drastically, turning sweltering summer days into a frigid winter night within minutes. Those caught in this place without proper protection can suffer from hypothermia quite easily, but that is not the worst thing to deal with. As she sings, her insidious voice and song will creep into the minds of those who listen. As they absorb her tune, they shall gain the sorrow she wails about and begin a slow descent into misery. Depressing thoughts and lifelong regrets will begin to grow in the minds of her audience, and they will have a hard time thinking straight as they sink into despair. It is important that one fights against these thoughts and focus on either leaving the area or dampening her song. Those who fail to fight it will not be able to escape her effects, as they will be too busy being miserable than to realize they are freezing to death. Those who fully give in will be frozen solid, transformed into icy weeping statues. When she wanders into the mortal realm, her path will be cold and dead, leaving an icy picture of a land's final moments. Though Cocytus dwells in misery, she is not blind to the world around her. It appears that she can see the sorrows of others, and that is how her songs cut so deep. It also seems that she can see the hearts of those who create such misery, as she grows angry in the presence of such wicked souls. When she senses one who has lived a life of cruelty, she will burst forth from her river and give chase. Though she is not the fastest, she can vomit forth her wailing tendrils and use them as grabbers. Seizing the offender, she will drag them into her maw and swallow them whole. Once ingested, the condemned will be trapped within her gut and be forced to soak in her despair. As they melt away, they will be exposed to every ounce of misery and sorrow they caused others in their life. They will feel every bit of this agony, and they will break. It won't be long before they are transformed into one of her weeping tendrils, forced to live with this sadness for the rest of time.       As one can expect, Cocytus is a rather sad individual. Her tragic singing is a constant, and her few moments of silence are just mournful meditation or guilt-ridden sleep. Talking or interacting with her is almost a fruitless endeavor, as she cannot find a moment of joy or interest. As the living embodiment of woe, she brings every conversation and chat to a miserable level, always finding the rotten core of every topic. It is said that even the most tortured souls of the realm are cheerier than her. Due to her powers and general attitude, she is often avoided by many who dwell in the underworld. There is, however, one individual who can change her disposition. One of the other keepers of the rivers, Lethe, is able to snap her out of this depressing state. Since Lethe emanates forgetfulness and is able to infect the water around her with memory loss, her presence around Cocytus can relieve her of some of this misery. When exposed to this water, Cocytus seems to forget these troubles and lose a part of this great burden. While she doesn't instantly become smiles and sunshine, this bit of upbeat and actual pleasant conversation is a huge improvement. In these precious moments, Cocytus can relax and enjoy a sliver of life, but this won't last forever. Eventually, the two must part and return to their respective waters, and all the haunting thoughts will come flooding back. It seems this misery will hit even harder than before, as Cocytus admonishes herself for ignoring these troubles and tragic realities. On a lighter note, those in the underworld have running debate about Cocytus. The burning question is: which way is up for her? Due to her boneless anatomy and adjustable limbs, no one is really sure of which side of her is the up and which is the down. Her body plan is mirrored and seemingly identical, but folks believe there has to be a definite answer. The problem is, she doesn't seem to mind being right side up or upside down. If she is flipped over onto her "back," her legs just flip down and she carries on just like normal. So which is it? It isn't the most serious of debates, but most people talk about it because it gives them something more fun to think about rather than focus on the living pile of depression that haunts this realm. ----------------------------------------------------------- Here is another Beast of the Infernal Rivers! No matter what, I am pretty sure I will always find a way to put in a sea cucumber creature.

[flying-elliska]

Headcanons for ADHD characters Masterlist

I was asked for this a while ago and I feel this is a good discussion subject because the canon representation for ADHD is kind of abysmal and is often a caricature or a joke.

usual disclaimer, I'm not a therapist, this is not a diagnosis tool, just for fun, etc etc...basing this on my own experience/knowledge with ADHD and meeting a lot of ADHD people IRL. I'm going off the main symptoms first (inattention and/or hyperactivity, restlessness, impulsivity, problems with emotional/focus regulation, daydreaming, messiness, hyper-focus, fidgeting etc) and then looking at character traits that are not a necessary symptom but often associated (substance abuse and addiction, need to please, sensitivity to rejection, compassionate and creative, thrill seeking, very imaginative, charming and witty or withdrawn and shy or angry and irritable, whimsical and fun and a bit child-like, out of the box thinker, self esteem issues, unstable life, comorbidity with anxiety and depression, very intense feelings, functions better with adrenaline/in an emergency, disregard for rules and problems with authority OR extreme compliance, codependency, perceived as weird, clever in an atypical way, problems in school, extremely good at one specific thing, etc)

Also I found this list with actual canonical representation

BOOKS :

The 'fits to a T so I'm seeing it as my personal canon' list :

note : doesn't mean that the authors actually meant to create representation but it's very likely they at least got inspired by people who did have ADHD (even when the diagnosis itself did not exist) and explained it with 'it's just their personality' OR the story happens in a setting where the label doesn't exist as such. also not meant to be exhaustive.

- Helen Burns (from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë) One of Jane's school friends from the start of the novel, fits the inattentive type to a T : she can't seem to focus or learn her lessons, is constantly daydreaming, describes herself as messy and careless, forgets rules, and is easily distracted. She talks constantly about her own 'defective nature' and seems very sensitive to criticism but incapable of changing. She doesn't defend herself against the nuns' harsh punishments as she thinks she deserves them. She's presented as kind-hearted and compassionate, almost too good for this world, and hyperfocuses on her faith. Apparently sb even wrote an academic article on this. She dies so it's not super fun representation but it is interesting to see in an older book, to push back against the idea that ADHD was invented yesterday by Big Pharma lol.

- Grantaire (from Les Miserables, Victor Hugo) Part of the student revolutionary group Les Amis de l'ABC and resident skeptic, does not believe in the cause but is fixated on the group's idealistic leader (and yeah it sounds very gay, they die holding hands, there is a lot of Symbolism). He spends his time ranting about things that are only vaguely connected, is described as brilliant but incapable of sticking to any one profession or hobby, is an alcoholic, has a creative streak (was a painter at some point), likes wandering around the city, has massive self-esteem issues and is a general mess but does seem to care about his friends. This is not a very flattering portrayal as Grantaire is described as morally deficient but again, interesting in an old book. ADHD!Grantaire is a popular take in the modern fandom (i was in it before I was diagnosed it brought up a lot of Things) and it's very cathartic to see him get actual therapy in fic lmao.

- Luna Lovegood (from the Harry Potter series) JKR sucks but this is probably the most high profile case of a possible inattentive ADHD character so I didn't want to leave it out. She's a daydreamer, she is a big space cadet and seems to live in her own world, she has a very out of the ordinary sense of style, she's bullied for being weird, but she's also very kind and perceptive and cares a lot about her friends, and good at coming up with out of the box solutions. I wouldn't call it good representation, she's described as a wacko whom a lot of characters find cringeworthy but she's also pretty heroic, so. And she does seem to hyperfocus on magical creatures. Plus her father could also have it (and it runs in families).

- Jasper Fahey (from Six of Crows duology, Leigh Bardugo) Part of a young group of thieves with a heart of gold, he's a charmer and a compulsive gambler who quits college and incurs debts so massive he stops talking to his father out of shame. He's also an extremely talented sharpshooter and the scenes where he describes how the whole world slows and the rush of adrenaline when he is shooting sound like hyperfocus to a T. He's a loyal friend but also quite dependent on Kaz, the leader of the group, to keep him in line. He's witty, messy and he likes danger. His boyfriend later in the series, Wylan, is dyslexic and the way they learn to accommodate each other's issues honestly makes them one of my favorite couples ever. I need to reread these books and I am so stoked for the series I hope they do Jasper justice.

- Julian Diaz (from Cemetary Boys, Aiden Thomas) Love interest of the book, introduced as the 'high school resident bad boy', energetic motormouth who can't sit still and actually very endearing, has issues in school and gets bored easily, main problem is that he's a ghost...sort of. The whole thing was very cute and I love that Julian's personality is described as fun and attractive instead of annoying (which is, if you haven't noticed already, a pattern).

- Evie O'Neill (from the Diviners series, Libba Bray) She's a flapper in 1920s New York who ran away from her boring little town to make a life for herself ; she's a party girl and an impulsive thrill-seeker who hates standing still and is always looking for excitement to 'fill the void'. She craves fame and attention and pretty things, she can be a loyal friend but is also frequently self-centered and forgetful, she's street smart, resourceful and very charming and witty. She's also grieving, drinks too much and is definitely depressed. She's obviously meant as an archetype of the era, caught between trauma and excess, but it does come over as very hyperactive ADHD as well. Her powers to read objects also really pinged me as a good metaphor for the ADHD tendency to be overwhelmed by details.

The 'bit more of a reach but there's a vibe' list :

- Emma Woodhouse (from Emma, Jane Austen) Frequently cited as a character with ADHD, I didn't come up with this one but she fits. She's daydreaming, easily bored, has flights of fancy and hyper-focuses on matchmaking, is a bit impulsive and thrill seeking, clever in an unconventional way, described as a bit immature, mix of caring and self-centered.

- Ronan Lynch (from the Raven Cycle, Maggie Stiefvater) Ronan just has Neuroatypical Vibes, even though it's not entirely clear what, and I've seen people label him all sorts of things which is very valid. As for ADHD, he's restless, impulsive, likes to Go Fast and do street racing, he has very strong emotions he doesn't know what to do with, and big self esteem issues esp. at the start, is very all or nothing with people, snarky, drops out of school to be a magic farmer, problems with authority, looks like a scary mean goth but is actually a big softie (but like, with a few people), pulls shit out of his dreams. Is kind of dependent on his best friend at the start too.

- Sherlock Holmes (from the eponymous series by Arthur Conan Doyle) Again a character who has been diagnosed with all sorts of things. The biggest ADHD vibe for me is 'my mind rebels at stagnation' and the way he needs drugs to function outside of the thrill of a case, and the way he hyper-focuses on information he needs to be a detective while completely ignoring common knowledge. Also sort of dependent on his best friend Watson and isn't great at social interactions. Doesn't care much about upholding social conventions either. The RDJ adaptation is the one that has the most ADHD vibes to me.

- Harley Quinn (DC Comics/Movies) Big codependency issues (that's arguably the thing she's most known for) and sadly people with ADHD are often prone to getting into abusive relationships. It depends on the story too but she's very energetic, zany, impulsive, she likes shiny things and bright clothes, she's fun and chaotic and likes to break the rules, she's a criminal but she does seem to have a heart, she's also frequently immature and rash, etc.

What are your headcanons ? I would love to hear if you have some so I can add them to the list. I'll make a TV/Movies list soon.

[soulmate-game]

Okay, I’m not sure if what I was trying to say in my last post was said very well.

I completely understand the tagging situation from the First Wave with the DC fans. That’s discourse that is mostly solved and we can’t do anything about those who are forever gonna be bitter or lazy. I’m not talking about that stuff.

The stuff I want to prevent/limit is the hate that comes after our fandom deliberately. And yes, I know I can’t stop it. None of us can stop bitter, antagonistic people from being bitter and antagonistic. None of us can stop people who just want to be angry.

I’m not talking about stopping them, though.

I’m talking about what we can do to protect ourselves as creators and consumers in this fandom. As people who love and appreciate what the creations and people in this fandom have to offer. In simplistic form, I’m saying we need to learn how to shield ourselves from bullies. And there are methods we can use to make ourselves less of a target to the people who go after us, and methods to cut their attacks off short. None of these methods are fool-proof, but they will work to filter out a good majority of the shit we would otherwise be showered by, like a big umbrella against Assholery. Sure, the wind might still blow some in our face and we might splash in a puddle or two by accident, but at least we aren’t soaked.

So let me list the various things that can help you shield yourself from hate/harassment/antis who might just be out to get you.

1) leave the fandom.

The most effective, but least attractive method possible. This is limited to being a last ditch effort, if things have just gotten too hard to handle. I’m covering it first though, because we have to acknowledge that it is a viable method. If you feel trapped, hated, bullied, I’m sure all of us in this fandom would prefer you take a break and leave us for a while in the sake of your own health and safety then stay where you are miserable. This is less of a problem for us though, because mostly this option is gonna be for fandoms where the discourse and attacks are internal. Maribat is largely a peaceful and supportive/healthy environment once you’re inside our little bubble, the main discourse comes from outside in. So let’s focus on the main point of this post— how to keep our bubble from popping.

2) Make it apparent right away that you are Unapologetic.

Whenever you post content or are approached by someone about the topic of your fandom, don’t you DARE ever apologize for liking what you like or posting unproblematic content. You need to make it clear right off the bat that you are not gonna be swayed, bullied, or shamed out of your fandom. Stand with pride and make it clear, but don’t be verbose about it. A simple “Don’t like, don’t read” is classic but sometimes if you’re posting/talking during a more confrontational period of the fandom, you need to up your game to reflect that. The funny thing is, people can easily be intimidated by swearing if it isn’t directed at them or clearly antagonistic. If you’re swearing in a joking, casual or even in a manner that shows you’re not taking yourself too seriously, people will usually avoid picking fights with you. For this, my favorite lines to use on my work include;

“Don’t like, I don’t fucking care. I fell down the rabbit hole.”

“Don’t bother reading if you’re not into this, this shit bitch-slapped me and dragged me along on it’s adventure.”

“I’m addicted to this fandom, don’t bother trying to save me. If it bothers you, I don’t give a fuck. Save yourselves.”

3) Don’t approach or interact

Unless someone comes at you first, never try to persuade someone away from hating us. That just makes you a target in an empty field, for the vultures to surround and gang up on. If someone approaches you with provocative but not overly insulting or intelligent language— I.e; trying to start a fight, vague insults not always relating to the fandom itself, trying to insult your character/judgement— do not respond. Delete the message, block the account, and surround yourself with fluffy good stuff to forget the wanna-be harasser. These people are often not brave enough to outright start a fight, and want you to get defensive first so they know the weak points in your armor to exploit. Defensive statements declare your own insecurities, don’t get defensive. It gives them a way to win without having to defend themselves or feel vulnerable— it’s like exploiting type differences in Pokémon. You wait for an unfamiliar Pokémon to expose it’s type, then snipe it with the moves it’s weak to. Then, you have a near sure-fire win even with under leveled Pokémon on your team.

Don’t be a proud Infernape that gets sniped by a weak-ass level 5 Piplup. We’re strong, don’t show them the chinks in our armor.

4) Have a support network. Even if they don’t know they are your support network.

The fandom as a whole serves this purpose, and this is mostly gonna be a tactic you use when the discourse is inside the fandom, but there can be uses for this in discourse from outside the fandom as well. If someone tries to act like they like your story/art “but...” they passive aggressively state things they “would prefer” or they try to make it sound like you made stupid mistakes (a tactic to make you insecure about yourself) instead of kindly pointing out errors or offering constructive criticism (ex: “you know you put your trigger list somewhere where it’s useless right? Love your story though.)—THESE ARE ALL PROVOCATIONS. They are trying to make you insecure so that you change things about yourself, your work, or jump through hoops to try to “make it up” to them when you did nothing wrong and there are no problems to fix. Do not fall for it! Instead, politely as possible, bring the issue into a public space where you feel safe/trust the people in that space to keep the bullshit from escalating. For me, I straight up explain my reasoning for the placement of my trigger list as if I’m advertising a particularly boring but important product that I’m selling, then offer places for them to bring the issue into a discussion with others. I send them to a discoed group or right here to my tumblr, and I immediately make the issue into a big discussion (do YOU think there is anything to change? Let’s ALL talk about it) so that I am no longer isolated and easy for them to harass. They might refuse to join the discussion and further try to pressure you, but do not cave. Merely say that a public discussion has been started, and if they are actually, legitimately concerned about the way you do things then they can debate it in a public setting. This way, you have back up. 9/10 people who try to target you this way will back off and never enter the conversation you started.

5) Do not fight back.

This sounds counterintuitive, but a lot of the time once discourse gets this bad, arguing/defending/ trying to prove your point only fuels their rage more. I have found that people hate very little in this world more than they hate being wrong. And people who hate being wrong will fight to the bitter death about their opinions, no matter how invalid or hurtful they are, in the favor of their blissful ignorance. Remove yourself from harmful discussions or those that seem to be going in circles as soon as possible, and try to surround yourself in your support group. Never let people make you feel stupid, your opinions illegitimate, or your likes/dislikes invalid or evil.

6) Try to learn how to recognize bullies in disguise

It’s too much for me to try to cover here, but you need to PLEASE look into how to spot gaslighting. Tactics of gaslighting are often used to attack others and try to make them feel like their own opinions are invalid or their mindset untrustworthy. People will often approach you in the guise of friendship/support/ “I am not into this, but...” and while this is not always a red flag, we have to keep our eyes open for any signs of this person or their approach being rooted in anything other than legitimate curiosity or kindness. Not all suggestions that say they are out of concern actually ARE. Keep an eye out for warning signs, and cut off interaction once things seem like they may lead to an argument or you being in a vulnerable position if you continue interacting.

(Brief mention of s**cide and threats in the section below)

7) If all else fails, BLOCK THEM.

No hesitation, we don’t need this shit. They make a second account? Block that too. Don’t respond, only take screenshots or reblog if it is directly harmful information that can/should be documented (words that encourage suicide, threats, insults that seem a little too specific for comfort) and give the evidence to someone you trust to look out for you. A therapist, a family member, or even the authorities if you deem that necessary. Just don’t handle it alone.

We are not responsible for other people’s actions, opinions, or anger. Take the steps to protect yourself instead of trying to reconcile. Sometimes, reconciliation isn’t an option. Both parties have to be willing to reconcile, and it is clear they have nothing in mind but hurting us. So raise your shields and protect yourself and your friends, we’re not gonna lose a war to petty jerks.

[sunflowerim]

I LOVE YOU 3000!

-PART 42

Weekend 8

When you want time to slow down, it happens to roll faster. Saturday had arrived in the blink of an eye.

"As much as I like having you, don't you think you gotta talk to Lou?" Niall said Saturday morning, handing Harry his cup of coffee. Harry had taken to crash at Niall's place random times of the day since the uneventful incident on Wednesday. Not a single text exchanged with Louis. And lots of media training.

"And say what exactly?" Harry replied coldly, taking the cup from Niall, "that I have to stoop so low for the publicity of my movie?"

"First of all, stop that. Celebrities need publicity and you're new to this field and it'll do you good with the general public. But yeah I don't consciously agree with the whole "stunt" thing," Niall frowned, "and that's why I want you to talk to Louis. Explain stuff to him before he gets the wrong idea."

"No Niall you don't understand."

"Then enlighten me."

"It's all very new to me okay. My feelings for Louis. Me coming to terms with my sexuality. It's all new. And I'm scared Ni. I really am."

"H, but you told me Louis likes you too right? And I know him man, he's a good friend before everything else. He'll understand."

"Louis didn't have a very good image of me okay- and it took me some time to make him trust me, and to low-key make him believe that my media image isn't me. Trust me, I don't have it in me to tell him that I'm a guy who fakes a relationship for the sake of promo. I value relationships man and he does too. So if it's making me angry, rest assured he'll be pissed too."

"God Harry you're overthinking. You never cared what people thought of you."

"Louis isn't people Niall."

"Then TALK TO HIM."

"I don't want him to hate me."

"He will not. Trust me."

"And it's not just that," Harry fumbled with the coffee cup, "Taylor is involved too. And you know how Louis worships Taylor, I don't want him to think less of his idol either. It'll crush him."

"But it's not your fault Harry, and I think it'll be easier for you guys if he knew it was for show."

"I suppose you're right Niall, but I don't have it in me to tell him. He'll think of me as a shallow spineless celebrity. Again."

"You're being paranoid."

"And you're not being a good friend," Harry said, setting down the cup rather too hard.

Niall softened at that and said soothingly, "ok how about this, today's a Saturday. Go to Louis', spend some time with him and just skip this topic. You're missing him. I'm sure he's missing you too."

"How will I face him after what I did last time?"

"Just go on with whatever story you made up that day, since you don't wanna tell him the truth," Niall said, sounding a little disappointed.

"I hate lying to him," Harry replied sadly.

"Ok I'm running out of options here. Just go meet him alright, everything will be fine."

"Fine," Harry sighed, "if you say so," Harry said getting up.

And he drove off to Louis'.

-

Back in the apartment, Louis was distractedly stirring his fourth cup of tea. It was 11a.m. and he hadn't had any breakfast owing to the fact that his helper was on a sick leave and he didn't feel like ordering either. Clifford was kept prodding his knees, probably sensing Louis' sad demeanor.

He was wondering whether he should just visit his sister for lunch when the bell rang. Louis' heart skipped a beat. It couldn't be Harry could it, Louis thought with a start. No that'd be absurd. Harry had possibly lied to him, abandoned him and ignored him for three days. Why would he come here now.

With his heart in his throat, Louis opened the door. And there standing with his silly gorgeous green eyes and stupid beautiful curls was Harry.

Louis' heart sank to his stomach.

"Hi Lou," Harry said slowly, eyes struggling to look into Louis'.

"Um hi?" Louis asked still standing at the door.

"Can I come in?"

Louis was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the question. His mind was burning with questions. Why was Harry here? To apologise probably. He surely had a reason for his behaviour last day and Louis will listen to whatever Harry has to say.

Harry cleared his throat and repeated, "Will you not let me in Lou?"

Louis' mind came back to the boy in front of him and he moved aside to let Harry in without saying a word.

Clifford leapt up to Harry and barked madly with joy. He was clearly missing his friend.

"Ah good to see you too Cliffy," Harry said, bending low and scratching Clifford's fur.

He stood up again, facing Louis, "I'm really sorry for the other day Louis. It's just I couldn't find a way out." Harry's eyes kept flickering down to his hands, which he was nervously wringing. Still lying, Louis thought.

"Are you sure it wasn't something else?" Louis asked in a calm voice.

"No," Harry replied, still looking down.

"Okay then," Louis said, walking over to the couch and picking up his cup of tea again. "Make yourself comfortable," he said before sitting down himself.

"You're having tea now? How many cups have you had already?" Harry asked.

"This might be my third one." Louis wasn't looking at Harry either. He kept his attention on his phone.

"I'm sure you haven't had any breakfast."

"And?" Louis looked at Harry and raised an eyebrow.

"Nothing. I'll make you some," Harry said, walking over to the kitchen.

Louis didn't find it in his heart to stop him. Maybe if Harry was trying to fall back in their normal habits, he'd eventually talk about whatever the fuck was going on.

Louis didn't join him in the kitchen where Clifford kept running around Harry. He stayed in the couch listening to Clifford and Harry's conversation. Clifford had missed him. Louis had too, but he'd eat avocados sooner than admit that.

Harry made a quick breakfast and called Louis over. Louis ate in silence, aware of Harry's intense gaze on him but every time he looked up, Harry would look away.

"Okay, are you gonna tell me what's bothering you?" Louis snapped.

"Wha- nothing. Nothing." Harry stammered.

Louis took a deep breath to calm himself. "Sorry for that. You know what, take your time. I'm here. I'll listen whenever you're ready."

And Harry could've kissed him, but he kept himself in check. He'd probably had lost his privileges. Louis was so understanding, Harry didn't deserve him.

"I just wanted to spend some time with you and maybe watch a movie."

"Oh yeah," said Louis, remembering something, " the last one's left, I'll put it on."

Louis didn't set up the projector this time. He simply connected the player to the television and settled back in the couch as Avengers Endgame started playing.

Harry didn't know about Louis, but he could hardly focus on the movie himself. His mind kept replaying his previous visits to the apartment, to various funny incidents, to some heart warming ones, to last weekend-

No. Harry couldn't think about it. That hurt. He couldn't imagine how Louis must be feeling at that time.

The movie was showing Iron Man tucking his daughter in bed and his daughter saying, 'I love you 3000'.

Harry glanced sideways to see that Louis had a little smile playing on his lips. Harry made a mental note to remember that it probably held importance to him.

Harry kept fidgeting in his place and in a few minutes, Louis had paused the movie.

"What's wrong Harry?"

Harry didn't know what to say so he kept staring at the motionless character in the television.

"Is this about last weekend?" Louis continued, "Did I cross the line? Do you regret it? Because if so I'm really sorry about that."

Harry looked at Louis with a horrified expression on his face, trying to ignore the pang of sadness it was causing him to know that Louis thought that way.

"Regret? What? No Louis. I don't regret anything. I could never," Harry said earnestly, hoping Louis would understand.

"Then why are you ignoring me?"

"I'm not-" Harry replied, sounding unsure.

"You are Harry. You're making me feel like I was some random hookup for you and trust me, it doesn't feel good." Louis' voice broke.

It made Harry miserable, seeing Louis like that and he wondered for a brief moment if he should take Niall's advice and tell Louis everything. Louis' presence made the decision easier. He was ready to blabber everything to Louis when his phone rang. Fucking Manager.

"Hello," said a gruff voice from the other side.

"Yeah?" said Harry irritably.

"Where are you?"

"That's none of your business it is?"

"Turns out it is. Did you forget about your outing with Taylor?"

"Ofcourse I didn't. It was on 3rd of July," Harry wanted to punch his manager.

"Which happens to be today."

"Wha-" Harry quickly moved his phone from his ear and checked the date on the lockscreen. July 3rd, 2021. Harry wanted to punch himself. "Okay yeah, um, I didn't notice the date, so uh, is there any way we can postpone this? I'm really busy right now-"

"Taylor is already here. The car is waiting outside your house. So, no."

"Damn it. I mean yeah-"

"Hurry up."

"Yeah I'm coming."

Louis obviously could hear only one side of the conversation and he clearly understood that Harry had to leave. Again.

Harry turned to look at Louis, his eyes apologetic, but Louis looked away.

"Lou-"

"It's alright, just go okay."

"I'm sorry about this."

"Sure you are," Louis replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"What- what's that supposed to mean?"

"Are you sure you're not doing this intentionally?"

"How could you even think that?"

"I'm trying to understand the situation Harry. In two months we became closer than ever, so what exactly did I do in the last few days for you to avoid me. I'm sure it's not work related problem, because then you'd have told me."

"No Lou you don't understand-"

"I think I do."

"Lou please, you have to believe me, whatever I'm doing, it's because I don't wanna hurt you."

"Well, guess what, you already did."

Harry tried to reach out for Louis but he moved back a few steps, away from Harry's touch. "Just leave Harry."

Harry's face fell at the last words. He tried to speak again, to make Louis understand, but no words came out and eventually he thought it best to leave. With great difficulty he made his way towards the door and left.

And after a while, Louis left for the gym to channel his frustration to someplace useful. He didn't let himself feel sad about the fact that him and Harry were no longer close, that some unknown barrier had introduced itself in between.

The Next Day

Zayn was overjoyed to see the mail. He could actually see Louis' face as he told him about it. Louis would be thrilled. And his designs on Harry! He had some amazing outfit ideas for Harry. Zayn remembered that the first time he'd heard about Harry being his client he'd refrained from telling Louis about it because back then Louis wasn't exactly on pleased at Harry's existence in general. But now that he was absolutely smitten by Harry, this was going to be nice.

He set off for Louis' at once deciding to surprise him with the news being oblivious to everything that was going on between Louis and Harry.

He stopped by McDonald's drive-thru to grab Louis' favourite milkshake and hash browns.

Harry knew what was coming and he couldn't hold himself back anymore. Louis would be seeing the article soon. He couldn't imagine what Louis was going to think about him. Once again, he felt courage build up in his stomach. He was gonna tell Louis. He dashed to his car and drove off before his paranoia returned.

Back in Louis' apartment, things weren't looking that good. Louis had forgotten that he'd turned on twitter notifications for Harry's update account. So, when his phone vibrated with a notification, he clearly wasn't prepared enough to absorb whatever he was seeing. He hastily clicked on the notification and froze at the contents of the screen.

Louis was stunned. He waited for a few seconds before he clicked on "undo retweet". No he wasn't gonna mope about Harry, Harry who simply didn't ever care about Louis, Harry who kept lying to him. Louis shuddered to think about all those times he thought him and Harry actually had something. Was Harry lying through it all? He couldn't think about it anymore. No,no, no. He won't think about Harry. He won't let him affect him. Enough of all that shit. He sat frozen in his spot in the couch when the bell rang.

Louis absent-mindedly made his way to the door. His heart sank when he saw who was standing outside. Harry.

"Louis believe me! It's not what it looks like," Harry said, panic stricken.

"Get out of here," Louis' ocean blue eyes bore a thunder like expression, his voice steely.

"Lou I'm sorry."

"As you should be."

"Louis, pl-"

"You broke my heart Harry Styles."

"But-"

"Good. Fucking. Bye." Slam.

Louis shut the door in Harry's face and slowly made his way back to the couch. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

No sooner did he fall back on the couch than Clifford came running to him. He leapt up on Louis' lap and Louis broke down.

"Harry broke our heart Cliffy," he said between sobs. "He never liked us. It was all a big lie."

Clifford lapped up the tears keen on making Louis stop crying, but Louis went on and on. "We shouldn't have made friends with him. Such a waste!" Louis hugged Clifford tightly and Clifford made a sad whimper and settled his head on Louis' shoulder.

For a few minutes, no other sound could be heard in the apartment other than Louis' sobs and hiccups.

Suddenly the bell rang again. Clifford jumped from his lap and began sniffed around the door. Thinking it was Harry, Louis decided to ignore it but then the bell rang twice again and Clifford started to bark happily. Louis wiped his tears and walked up to the door and there stood Zayn grinning ear to ear and holding a McDonald's pack, but his grin faded when he saw Louis' tear stained face and red-rimmed eyes.

Louis flung himself on Zayn and began crying again. Zayn hugged back the shaking sobbing mess in his arms and asked slowly, "hey hey Lou, what happened? I'm here. Tell me."

"Harry-", that's the only word Zayn could make out from Louis' muffled sobs.

"What about Harry?"

Louis stepped back from the hug and pulled out his phone. He showed Zayn the tweet and Zayn was equally shocked. "What the fuck is this? What? No this can't be true. I'm sure this is some rumour. Remember he told you once, how he's set up with every girl he's spotted with."

"It's not just that-" Louis replied before breaking down again.

"Hey ,hey please don't cry. You know what, let's go for a drive. Let's get you out of here and you can tell me everything that happened."

Louis silently nodded and bringing Clifford out of the house, locked the door behind him. Dropping Clifford off at the dog park, so he could play with his friends, Zayn drove off with Louis.

Zayn offered him the milkshake and and hash browns and let him eat in silence as Louis slowly regained his composure. One by one, Louis told Zayn everything that had been happening, from the day out with Harry, Theo and Lux, to the sudden change in behaviour two days later, to yesterday's almost argument to Harry showing up today after the article was dropped.

Zayn listened in silence and tried to make sense of what Louis was saying. The incidents didn't add up. He'd really taken a liking to Harry and he couldn't process that Harry would do something like that.

But then again, the sight of his best friend sitting miserable next to him, was making his heart harden towards Harry. He tried to reason with Louis, who refused to listen to anything. Zayn sighed and asked, "music?" hoping that'd calm Louis a bit and help Zayn think.

Zayn tuned in to the radio and a soft melody sounded,

"I want her long blond hair

I want her magic touch

Yeah, 'cause maybe then

You'd want me just as much

I've got a girl cru-"

One look at Louis' face and Zayn slammed the music shut.

Why was everything so difficult?!

Zayn had driven them to a club on the outskirts of the city. The club was pretty famous but owing to it's high maintenance, was mostly accessed by celebrities or people connected to celebrities and was much less crowded compared to the other. Well, a quiet cafe would have been nice too except, now that more people knew Louis and connected him to Harry, if anyone spotted Louis like this, it'd raise an issue. Hence, a club with dim lights and loud music it was.

Zayn led Louis to booth and after making sure Louis was a bit stable, went off to buy drinks.

Zayn didn't drink because he had to drive Louis back but after 3 rounds of drinks Louis was feeling lightheaded, but at the same time, it was very distracting. Zayn kept talking to him about different topics, not bringing up Harry until Louis did that himself.

Eventually Louis started talking.

"I don't understand one thing Zee," he slurred, "that if this was indeed some rumour, why didn't he talk to me? He was clearly avoiding me this week."

Zayn knew whatever he said won't have much of an effect on him, so he just kept rubbing soothing circles on Louis' back. Talking for so long had efficiently tired Louis out and he asked to be taken back home when suddenly,

"Louis! Zayn!"

The duo looked up see a blond haired someone walking towards them, but they couldn't make out the face. It wasn't until the person was right in front if them and the lights fell directly on the face that they made out who it was. Taylor Swift.

Taylor smiled down at the two boys who stared unblinkingly at her, unable to say a word.

"Hi? You guys okay? Can I join you?"

Zayn came back to his senses and smiled, "yeah sure."

Taylor joined them in the booth and looked at Louis again, who was still staring with a blank expression at Taylor.

"What's up with him?" Taylor asked Zayn.

Zayn looked at Louis and then back again at Taylor, "uh, nothing, just work stress. We just came to get some steam off." There's no way he could tell what really had happened.

"Huh, tell me about it. I'm so tired with all the promo work," she replied.

And that's when it hit him. Taylor was dating Harry too. Up until now, he was just thinking about it from Louis' point of view and thinking about how Harry broke Louis' heart but now it dawned on him that it meant Taylor was involved too. Taylor, the person Zayn had liked for quite some time and had to bury his feelings for the sake of his profession.

Here he was, consoling his friend, trying to mend his broken heart, when the reason his own heart ached had decided to grace them with a visit. Things couldn't be worse. Zayn pushed down the pang of sadness he was feeling and tried to think of something to say when Louis started sobbing again. Taylor's presence seemed to have reminded him about Harry.

Louis didn't take Harry's name but went on and on about a certain someone who'd broken his heart. Taylor listened with interest and tried to console him best as she could. Her words were actually effective on Louis who had eventually stopped crying and was listening with rapt attention to Taylor. Zayn himself tried to take in some of the advice, and surprisingly it was good. Taylor really had the magical ability to comfort sad people.

After a while Louis got more drunk and insisted on taking a picture with Taylor and Zayn happily complied because Louis' mind was finally off Harry's.

Soon they bid their goodbyes and left the club, and Zayn drove back with a less sad but slightly drunk Louis.

---

When Louis shut the door on Harry's face, he didn't see how crestfallen Harry looked. He didn't see how Harry ran to his car, barely able to control his tears, which had started falling incessantly thinking that Louis hated him. Harry drove to his apartment, not wanting to face Niall. He knew what Niall would say, I told you to talk to Louis. You should have listened.

No, Harry needed to be alone for a while.

Dave, Harry's personal assistant, noticed something was off and made a whole flask of hot chocolate for Harry and quietly slipped it in his room.

Harry spend quite some time drinking the hot chocolate and thinking about the good times he'd spent with Louis when his phone rang with a notification.

Harry was taken by surprise. What on earth was Louis doing with Taylor? Especially today? What could have possibly happened for them to hang out and for Louis to even post a picture?

Probably Harry was the only person he hated, probably he adored Taylor way too much to think bad of her. Whatever might be the case, Harry was sure of one thing- Louis hated him and Harry had lost his chance at love. Yes, love.

At this point Harry knew, that he was head over heels in love with Louis and he had ended up hurting him.

He'd lost Louis, probably forever.

PREVIOUS / NEXT [ note ]

INTRO

[peninkwrites]

A Talk Long Overdue - Ch 8 of 8

(The final-ish chapter. May add more to this fic at some point!)

(Shroud in the end of this chapter btw. and of course the usual, suicidal tendencies, abuse mentions) (overlaps a bit with ch 4 of my Tubbo fic!)

Tommy wants to keep moving forward. Resolutions must be had first, or something like them.

crossposted to ao3

Ch 1

Ch 7

~

Tommy hates how surprised he is when Tubbo reaches out first.  He’d been so sure Tubbo didn’t think about him anymore.  Or maybe not.  Depended on the day, the mood, whether he’d eaten, had a panic attack, he still thought Tubbo cared.  Far too many contributing factors.

The panic attacks were growing rarer, that he had to admit.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a sensory overload.  That didn’t make things good, but it made things… something.

“Hey, Tommy.  I… I wasn’t sure if you’d be here,” Tubbo is on his front walk when he steps outside, looking unsure.

“Where else would I be?” Tommy, surprised, responds bluntly.

Tubbo gives him a look. “So many other places.  You tend to wander, bossman.”

“Well I haven’t wandered in a while.”

Tubbo nods instead of shooting back a witty retort.  Another indication that this is something gravely serious.

“What’re you doing here, Tubbo?  Did…” Tommy feels nauseous.  “Did something happen?”

“No, nothing bad,” Tubbo reassures him quickly.  He turns back towards the prime path.  “Walk with me?” He asks weakly.

“Er.  Okay.”

“So.  The other day.”

“When you shouted at me?”

“When you told me Wilbur was your family.  Like we weren’t,” Tubbo shoots back immediately, still hurting, despite clearly fighting against it.

Tommy pauses, mulling it over.  “Yeah.  Yeah I did.  That’s not that’s not what I meant, but yeah I did.”

Tubbo takes this as apology enough and continues.  “I am mad at Wilbur.  I am not mad at you.”  He stops, turning on his heels, looking out over the hillside.  Tommy stops as well, he doesn’t speak, just watches as Tubbo thinks.  “Wasn’t fair.  For me to put that on you.”  Tubbo still doesn’t look him in the eye, focusing on the skyline.  He does that a lot now.  Tommy doesn’t mind it, it feels calmer.  Easier.

Tommy mulls over a reply.  It’s warm out today, the sort where the air is sticky.  It’s an uncomfortable sort of weather at the best of times, and for Tommy it feels like the whole world is clinging to his skin.  Doesn’t exactly make it easy to focus.

“I got all defensive about shit.  Wasn’t fair either,” Tommy knows he sounds gruff and begrudging, even though he means every word.    He doesn’t think he ever learned how to be gentle.

How quickly he forgets his careful tending to Henry, how he had helped Tubbo change the bandages after the festival, the days Wilbur couldn’t get out of bed so Tommy brought him food and stayed by him, the fact that despite everything Tommy doesn’t want to hurt anyone.  Tommy hasn’t been able to stop being gentle.

Tubbo doesn’t comment on it.  He just nods.  So Tommy continues, silence no less unbearable now than it had been when he was dead.

“Why’d… Why are you mad at Wilbur?  I know you- I know you sort of explained then, but I was, uh, too busy being a dick to pay attention,” Tommy laughs uncertainly.  “Or just like, explain it different.  ‘Cause… Okay, can you explain why you’re mad at him for you?  Not for me?  Because I don’t want to be mad at him, Tubbo.  So you telling me he hurt me is… the opposite of what I need right now.”

Tubbo exhales slowly, leaning back against the wall of the old guard tower, Tommy remaining across from him.  “I can try,” he says, acknowledging it before he continued his thinking.  He’s not in his Snowchester coat.  For once it’s hot and miserable enough that he took it off.  He’s not in his green button up either, just a plaid shirt Tommy thinks he’s seen under his coat before.

“Okay, I know you said, you said not to be angry for you and such, but bear with me for a minute, it’ll make sense, I think,” Tubbo stops his pacing, turning to face Tommy but his serious gaze remains focused on the worn wooden boards of the prime path.  “In the first bit after– after I found the pillar,” Tubbo gives him a weighted look.  He didn’t need to say where.  Tommy knew exactly what pillar he was talking about.  “Do you know what I thought of?”

“No?”

“I thought– Well, I guess it wasn’t right after, because I was busy thinking about… you know,” Tubbo trails off, unsure how to say thinking about how you were dead and it was my fault to someone who had also actually died later.

Tubbo’s hands are balled into fists at his sides.  Tommy isn’t sure if he’s even aware of it.  Tubbo nods, seemingly having made his mind up about something, and when he next speaks there’s only a bitter conviction.  “I thought of Wilbur.  How you wanted to be just like him.  I didn’t know to blame Dream yet, so… I blamed him instead.  When I wasn’t busy blaming myself, I guess.”

I thought of Wilbur.  How you wanted to be just like him.

Tommy feels like those words are ringing in his ears, like he’s going to be sick.

He hadn’t–

Surely he had realized, he’d thought about it enough in exile, to know that killing himself was just another piece of Wilbur’s legacy.  It didn’t feel real, but maybe that was the truth of it.  Tommy had considered ending it because Wilbur had shown him that was an option.  It wasn’t fair.  If Wilbur got to abandon him, if everyone else abandoned him to exile, surely he had the right to take the same plunge.

Tubbo is looking at him now, expecting a reply, but what does he have to give?  Wilbur killed himself, that he could stomach– bitterly– as truth, but to link that one act of self inflicted martyrdom to the desperate feeling of bitterness and terror and loneliness and no way out no way out no way out– that feels cruel.

It was different.  It had to be.  Because Tommy had no one.  There had only been Dream with his cruel demands and mocking and claims of friendship and Wil–

Wil had him.

Through all of it, Wilbur hadn’t been alone, because Tommy had refused to let him be.  That has to mean something.  It has to.  Tommy doesn’t know if he has the right to be angry at Wilbur for leaving him, nor does he know if he can confront the idea that it might be worse than him failing Wilbur, but that maybe he never had a chance to begin with.

“Tommy?” Tubbo eventually catches on that he’ll have to be the one to break the spell.  “You alright?”

“What?” Tommy’s voice comes out soft and trembling.  He clears his throat.  “Fine– I’m fine.”

“I’m pissed off at Wilbur for more than one reason, okay?  You didn’t– You never actually–” Tubbo stops, exhaling deeply.  “You didn’t kill yourself.  So.  I’m… Well, to be blunt, I’m trying not to blame Wilbur for your suicidal tendencies.”

“Former… I’m good now…” Tommy mutters.

Tubbo gives him a look.  “Don’t make me have to reply to that.”

“Point taken.”  A moment of pause, cogs turning in Tommy’s head.  He’s tired of having to think through what he says to Tubbo.  There was a time where he could’ve said anything to him.  “I didn’t think about Wilbur, you know.”

“What?”

“When I…” Tommy trailed off, his mouth very dry.  He leans back against the fencepost breaking up the prime path.  “When I thought about it.  In exile, he wasn’t– I mean, yeah I thought about Wilbur, I miss him.  Missed him,” Tommy frowns, it’s strange to think of a dead man in the past tense now.  He still misses him.  He wishes he didn’t.  “But I wasn’t– I wasn’t planning shit going ‘oh yeah, this’ll be fucking awesome, maybe I’ll blow myself up just like my big brother’!” Tommy says it mockingly, but there’s something beyond anger behind those words.  “I wasn’t planning at all, really.  Not until that last day.”

Tubbo’s stomach is in knots.  He joins Tommy against the fence.  “You haven’t… you haven’t talked about it.  About that part of it.”

“Why would I?” Tommy says bitterly.  “Why would I want to tell my best friend about how I– What I– about that.”

“I dunno.  Just want you to know you can.”

Tommy exhales a dry laugh.  “Thanks, bossman.”  Tommy wasn’t intending on talking about it, just as he wasn’t, well, intending on killing himself.  As with before, things changed when he didn’t expect them to.  “If you really want to know,” he knows Tubbo doesn’t, but he can’t stop himself.  Tubbo gave him this way out and he’s taking it.  He’s tired of keeping so much tightly wound within him.  “I, uh.  I stopped caring.  About a lot.  That’s how it started.  Didn’t take long, and part of me–” Tommy stops for a moment, words caught in his throat.  He could still stop.  He could still turn back.  He looks to his left, sees Tubbo leaned forward, worried eyes staring up at him through his bangs, paying close attention, fully there and waiting for him.   “Part of me thinks maybe I was like this before, y’know?  Exile just– put all the bad and all the reasons in a bottle.  Didn’t plan it, though.  Just had moments… I’d be in the nether on some edge and think, you know.”

Tubbo nods, like he does know and somehow that hurts worse.

“Dream didn’t let me.”

Tubbo’s concern turns to rage lurking behind his eyes in an instant.  It almost scares Tommy how quickly Tubbo finds that shadow.  That doesn’t make him stop.

“So maybe, when I finally built that pillar, it was almost like being brave again,” Tommy laughs, weak and scared but still pushing on.  “This is going to sound fucking insane, but I think if I hadn’t gotten so fuckin’ far at the end of my rope that I was desperate enough to disobey him like that, I don’t think I would’ve gotten brave enough to run either.  Like– Like my suicide attempt is why I didn’t actually end up doing it, as fucked as that sounds.”

“But you…” Tubbo sounds hoarse.  “You weren’t making plans.  Early on.  You just had those… moments.”  It’s odd, Tubbo says it like it’s less concerning somehow, like in his mind these moments shouldn’t scare them.  Like it’s common somehow.  Dark implications.  Tommy is too tired to ponder that, worse as he understands it.

“Wilbur planned it,” Tommy states a fact they both know too well.  “He planned it and he was ready for so so long.  I don’t– I guess I can’t know for sure, if he planned on dying in the explosion from the start, but he… it seemed like he was planning on it killing him.  He was gonna press it, days before the war, and Big Q and I stopped him, but that day there was…” Tommy trails off, a different scene pressed into his eyes.  “There was TNT in the room.  In the final control–” Tommy shakes himself.  “W-Wasn’t the final control room, but it… felt familiar, huh?” Tommy laughs and it sounds cruel.  “We stopped him then.  I think…” Tommy doesn’t want to say he hopes.  He doesn’t want to have any hopes regarding Wilbur’s choice in suicide.  “I think he stopped ‘cause me and Big Q refused to leave him.”

Tubbo nods, understanding.  Tommy can’t read what he’s thinking as he stares out down the prime path.

“He’s not evil.  Wilbur.  I don’t think he is,” Tubbo says it like he has something to prove.  “He can be… dangerous and not be evil.  Not be bad, even.  He’s just…” Tubbo stops, jaw tense.  “He breaks things.”

Tommy feels like a weight is pressing down on his chest and yet he still replies, soft and weary and longing.  “Yeah.  He does.”

“You said you think about him.  Or, thought about him I guess, at least when it comes to thinking about him in the past tense.”

“What?” Tommy turns, Tubbo is looking at him now, curious and unsure.

“I was just… I was wondering if you’d thought about it much.  What he did?” Tubbo doesn’t shudder back from the accusation in Tommy’s eyes, just persists, eyes calm and steady.

Tommy sputters wordlessly for a moment, huffing irritatedly.  His first thought of reply is not at all soothing.  “Which thing?”

Tubbo knows there are several options to choose from, but he has one on his mind.  And he thinks Tommy knows it too.

“About how he killed himself.”

Tommy knew it was coming but it still feels like a knife twisting in a wound.  He nods.  “Yeah.  ‘Course I have.  Hard to not have.”

“Okay,” Tubbo hesitates.  “I kind of wanted to hear your thoughts.  I could give you mine first, if that helps?”

Tommy scoffs, not meeting his eyes, instead squinting in the bright sun.  “Puffy’d be proud of the two of us.”

“Yeah,” Tubbo manages a smile.  “Maybe that’s not so bad, right?”

“Yeah.  Maybe.  So, whatcha got, Tubso?” Tommy sighs, resigned.

Tubbo thinks it over.  “I’m gonna be honest.  And you’re just gonna deal with that, okay?  Because Wilbur did it to hurt you.  Maybe that wasn’t the only reason or the biggest reason, but he planned for it to hurt you,” Tubbo’s voice shakes, half rage, half grief.  “D’you realize that, Tommy?  He was gonna kill himself.  And if that didn’t hurt enough, he set it up so everything was supposed to come crashing down on you, Tommy.  I was his second pick.  His second choice for the person to get buried, as if he didn’t know him dying was gonna bury you anyway.  That’s part of it, right?  You acting out just before exile, part of it was Wil.  Maybe I’m assuming, I dunno,” Tubbo trails off, anger and bitter resentment curdling into an iron fist in his stomach.  He doesn’t know where to put this hurt.  It’s survived plucked and bottled inside of him this long.  These last words slip out before he can stop himself, even as he knows it’ll deepen an already open wound.  “And he said he loved us.”

Tommy doesn’t protest this time.  He doesn’t get angry.  Somehow that’s worse.

Tommy starts by avoiding the subject.  “Come on, we both know by now… Exile wasn’t ‘cause of what I did, it was what Dream wanted,” Tommy doesn’t want to fall back into this particular crater, even as he had some sense of pride that he could say with certainty that exile wasn’t his fault.  That shouldn’t be so hard.  He pushes on, even as that might be even harder to face.  “He– Wilbur, in the end, I think he wanted us to hate him.”

“He didn’t know that wasn’t an option for you,” is how Tubbo puts it.  Tubbo carries that anger for the both of them because he doesn’t think Tommy can stomach it.

“Now you’re speaking for me, Tubso,” Tommy gives him a look.  “You know me better.  I’m good at anger.  ‘Course I’m pissed at him.”

Tubbo stares, exasperated and fond.  “Don’t get all huffy with me for saying this, and maybe you are good at anger.  But you… I mean, hate and anger aren’t the same.  You aren’t good at the hating bit, Tommy.  You are good at being pissed off, though.”

Tommy scrunches up his nose, puzzled.  “Hate and anger aren’t all that different, why would they be?”

“Mhm, sure,” Tubbo teases him, an attempt at keeping the mood from sinking even further into the dark.  “Maybe it is, maybe I’m just making up lines between stuff,” he shrugs.  “Maybe I wish I could be angry for the both of us.”

“Yeah, nah. I… Maybe I should hate him.  Maybe I do,” Tommy trails off.  “That’s not really a good thing, I don’t think.”

“Maybe.”

Too many uncertainties here.  Too many maybes.  Tommy nods, not really in reply to anything.  He stares down at the boards of the prime path, fixating.  One of them is starting to rot around the edges.  He should replace it.  He knows no one else will.

“I remember the blast.  Of course I remember the blast,” Tommy’s voice turns soft and shaky.  Tubbo hates that it doesn’t sound like his best friend and sounds exactly like him at the same time.  “I remember after too.  Wil was still alive.”

Tubbo knew this, everyone did, even those who hadn’t been there.  Wilbur wanted to burn his legacy and in doing so he carved out a new one.

Tommy quickly wipes his cheek, refusing to look up.  “He survived.  He could’ve pulled himself back then and there, L’Manberg–” A shuddering exhale, “L’Manberg be damned, he could’ve come back.”

“I know,” is the only quiet reply Tubbo can manage.  Some part of him had been desperate for Tommy to reach this truth and now that he’s finally voicing it aloud he wishes he could go back.  That Tommy could just move on and have his big brother back.  Tubbo can keep him safe and Wilbur can be whatever he is now.

“He begged someone else to kill him.”

“I know.”

“Didn’t even– He survived the blast so, he c-could’ve taken that as a sign or something.  Wil was all about fate n’ shit, right?!” Tommy is almost pleading now, pressing his hands onto his eyelids for a moment, trying to refocus, furious, not hateful.  “And instead he gets desperate and scared and– and–”

“Couldn’t even find a way to do it himself so instead he put that shit on Philza,” Tubbo finishes for him, cold and bitter as they finally get to the rotting innards of the matter.  “Not fair…”

“Y-Yeah,” Tommy laughs, bordering on hysterical.  “Yeah, when has my life– fuck, when have either of our lives ever been fair?”

Tubbo’s first thought is a cruel one.  L’Manberg was fair.  That’s why we loved it enough to die for it.

He doesn’t voice it aloud.

“And now he’s back,” Tommy continues, rambling and unsure as this whole conversation has been.  “What do we do with that?  You know– I had a thought, about all this.  What if…” Tommy finally looks back at Tubbo.  “What if when Ghostbur died, that killed all the good in him too?  So the Wil we got back, that’s not our Wil, it’s just the anger, the leftovers.”

Tubbo doesn’t have a reason to say otherwise.  He can’t make any promise or assessment that somehow the Wilbur they got back had the good left in him too.  They didn’t really know what Ghostbur was, an echo or half of him left behind.  They didn’t know what this new Wilbur– old Wilbur?– was either.  It’s an ugly thing, one without answers.  So Tubbo has no reply.

“D’You think–” Tommy starts and then stops.  He knows Tubbo won’t thank him for this, but out of everyone, he knows his best friend will be honest with him.  “Did I kill him, do you think?  I got Ghostbur killed, didn’t I?  It’s my fault.”

He sounds so sure.

Tubbo doesn’t respond at first and Tommy feels this horrible vindication weigh like a stone in his chest.

“It’s not fair,” Tubbo repeats it softly and for a moment Tommy is all the more afraid that this is the only reply he has to give.  It’s not fair that Ghostbur died.  It’s not fair that you lived.

“I don’t think that,” Tubbo sounds calm and sure when he next speaks, soothing almost.  Tubbo doesn’t really know if he’s ring honest, he just knows it’s what he needs to say right now.  “I don’t think it was anyone’s fault but Dream’s.  The plan wasn’t… good.  And I won’t pretend you didn’t scare us, me and Ranboo, but we helped you.  So if you can take responsibility for this, then it’s on us too.  We helped.  But none of us killed Ghostbur.”

Tommy manages a nod in reply.  He hates how much relief washes over him at these words.  He had hoped for this, he hadn’t expected it.

“I’m sorry, Tubbo.  That I got angry with you when the truth of it I was just freaked out ‘cause if I can’t like, hold onto him properly, he’s gonna slip away from me like a little slime ball,” Tommy has never been good at apologizing, not real apologies, but this one feels easy.  It’s Tubbo.  That was once always easier.  Maybe they’ll get back to that one day.

“Can I ask you something?  About what we were saying before?”

“That’s all we’ve been doing, innit?”

Tubbo doesn’t laugh.  “It… It sounds strange and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but why didn’t you, y’know, do it?”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you jump?”  Tubbo waits for a reply, but for the moment Tommy is frozen.  “You said something like, you never would’ve gotten brave enough to run, to not end it, if you hadn’t felt desperate enough to do that first.  And okay, fair enough, but why not?  When did you change your mind?”

“Ah,” Tommy’s voice shakes, rough and unsure.  “G-Good question.”  He isn’t sure if he has an answer.  “It’s gonna sound fucking insane, but everything there was insane.  Broke every fucking rule of reality I’ve got.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Dream was my only friend and I thought he was gonna leave me.”  Tommy says it and his mouth tastes of iron, like the blood in his mouth after a particularly harsh slap.  He hates this.  He had considered ending it earlier on, but it wasn’t losing L’Manberg, it wasn’t losing Tubbo or Wilbur or any of them that actually got him up on that tower, it was the idea of Dream not visiting.  Dream being angrier with him.  He supposes that was what Dream was trying to do.  Manufacture a piece of hell where Tommy would grovel and gladly lay his life in Dream’s hands.  Dream had dug his claws in so deep he even infected Tommy’s suicide.

“O-Oh,” the way Tubbo said it made it clear he understood exactly the dread this created.  He regrets asking, but his question isn’t answered yet.

“And I only got off that ledge when… I realized he wasn’t there for… He wasn’t– He just came out there to watch me,” he says forcefully, like he’s still on that ledge trying to convince himself.  “He wanted me contained in a neat little box and there had to be a reason for that.  And the only one was he had to be scared of me or something.  Somehow… knowing it wasn’t my fault, in some fucked up way, that made it easier.  I wish I could give you some shit about how it was ‘cause I realized there were still people out there who cared about me, but actually it was…” Tommy laughs, barking and broken. “It was the opposite.  I realized no one cared about me, so there wasn’t a point in clinging to Dream.  He wasn’t the only person I had left because I didn’t have anyone left.  Fuck, that sounds bad… well, ‘cause it was bad…”

“Huh,” Tubbo doesn’t sound as heartbroken as Tommy feared he might have, just disappointed.  Tommy looks to him for an explanation.  “I didn’t… I didn’t think it was gonna be some pretty answer about realizing you were loved, but I guess I…” Tubbo sighs.  “Guess I hoped maybe it was because you wanted to live.”

“Mhm,” Tommy agrees bitterly.  “Yeah.  That would’ve been nice.”

A weighted silence fell between them, one Tubbo had no clue how to break.  He reaches out from the fence post, towards Tommy’s hand hanging loosely off the wood.  He pulls back.

“You know, I don’t think I’m like that anymore,” Tommy says it, calm and sure, not simply to reassure Tubbo, but because maybe he even believes it.  “I’m not perfect and sometimes I’m not even okay but I am better.  And I think I’m strong enough to keep getting better.  You know?  Like, I can’t say there aren’t… as we said, moments or whatever, but I think… You said you were hoping I wanted to live.”  Tommy thinks of a pillar piercing the sky with nothing around it for miles, only a fall into nothing, of a dark prison and all the people he wanted to protect and failed to protect.  “I think… There was a time, not that long ago, not long enough, where I didn’t want to die because being dead scared me, not because I wanted to live.  That doesn’t feel as true now.”  Tommy thinks of his best friend, careful and waiting and wanting to help.  He thinks of new friends, caring and unsure but trusting him nonetheless, of someone who listens even when he forgets, who cares enough to write him down and keep him precious.  He thinks of an old brother returned and holding onto the memory of the man he’d follow into fire.  Of little things, of flowers outside his house and a spider he let follow him home, of a little zombie Piglin who knows him as Uncle Tommy, of family dinners where he no longer feels out of place.  Tommy thinks on the last few days and he can’t remember a time in them where he still dreaded tomorrow.  “I guess it’s… I want to want to live.”  Tommy looks at Tubbo and he’s standing up straighter, eyes wide and blue and so much brighter than Tubbo last remembered.  Tubbo stands by what he said.  Tommy doesn’t know how to hate.  There isn’t any room for it beside how much he finds to love.  Tommy takes Tubbo’s hand, both of them sweaty and clumsy and holding onto one another all the same.  “That’s good enough for me, I guess.”

“Then it’s good enough for me too.”  Tubbo smiles, bumping shoulders with his best friend, holding on tight in reply.  “Come home with me.  Me and Ranboo.  We’ll do something.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno.  Anything.”

Tommy nods, a smile rising up, refusing to die.  “Yeah.  I could do anything.”

Tubbo laughs, looking over at his best friend, and this time it doesn’t hurt.  He’s here.  “I’m glad you’re still here, Tommy.”

“Me too.”

~

Tommy wanted to talk to Wilbur.  He was supposed to talk to Wilbur.

Didn’t make seeing him any less disarming.

“Wil-?” Tommy hates the moment of fear when he sees that figure in a tattered brown coat.  He still feels like he must be looking at a ghost, at something deader than Ghostbur.  Wilbur doesn’t stop walking at first and Tommy’s panic persists.  This pull of dread leaves him frozen, as Wilbur walks down the prime path, a swaggering pace, hands deep in his pockets.  He’s smoking.  Tommy can see the smoke from here.  He’s still walking away.  He’s not real.  He’s not here.  Why would Dream give you your brother back?

“Oy– Wil!” Tommy snaps out of it, running after him.  He didn’t think he’d have to keep spending his time running after Wilbur.

“Oh!” Wilbur jumps, turning back to look at him with wide eyes, the bags under them deep and dark.  “Hey, Tommy!  I was hoping I’d find you.”

Tommy’s initial plans are set aside, caution returning, stopping a metre or so from him.  Wil looks taller somehow.  “...you were?”

“Yeah!” Wilbur steps closer, clapping Tommy on the shoulder, cigarette waving erratically in his other hand.  “I’ve got loads of ideas to tell you about.”

“That’s– That’s great, Wilbur, but–”

“I’ve been thinking.  About Las Nevadas, you know,” Wilbur spins around on his heels, leaning back and sauntering lazily, trusting Tommy to keep up beside him.

“Hold on, I got to say something first–”

“In a minute, Tommy. This has been on my mind for a while now.”

“Oh?  Well then where the fuck were you, it’s been w–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I’ve been busy, but trust me, I think this’ll be worth it, alright?”

“Wil, you’re being an asshole, I’ve got to say something–”

“–Quackity has been a bloody nuisance, so we’ll be a nuisance right back–”

“Wil– Hey– WIL!” Tommy shouts at him, frustration outgrowing his worry, his need to treat Wilbur delicately now.  Wilbur stops, looking back at him with mild irritation.  “I– I want to fuckin’ talk to you.”

“About what?”  Wilbur smiles inquisitively at him, but there’s too many teeth.  His teeth look pretty clean for a dead guy.

He’s not dead anymore.  And neither are you.

Puffy adding to his inner monologue might be helpful at times, right now it just feels like a harsh reminder of something he still doesn't believe.

“Where– Where have you been?”  Tommy stops walking, keeping some distance between them, hands swinging at his sides.  He feels so much smaller, like he’s still some frantic kid asking Wilbur where the tnt is.

Wilbur laughs, and it’s light enough he almost sounds like his old self.  “Aw, did you miss me, Tommy?”  Wilbur is too relaxed, still just teasing him, still refusing to take him seriously in the slightest.  “I’ve just been… getting caught up, seeing the sights.  Thirteen years of planning and already there’s so much I need to change, to factor in.  Don’t hold that against me, alright?”

“Yeah, but you could’ve checked in,” Tommy remains sharp.  He won’t let Wilbur worm his way out again by treating one more problem like a joke.

“Hm,” Wilbur eyes him carefully, making some assessment of him.  “You’ve spent plenty of time without hearing from me, what’s a little longer?  Look, I’m not exactly used to being around people.  Okay?  This is… an adjustment for me, surely you of all people can understand that,” Wilbur steps forward, cigarette still lit at his side.

Tommy doesn’t step back.  “I’m not asking for us to go on some boy’s weekend, I just wanted to know that you were okay.  Last I checked, when you disappear on me bad shit happens.”

Wilbur hums something like agreement, sauntering away, trusting Tommy to follow.  “Yeah, alright, fine, I’ll try and keep that in mind for next time, okay?  Good?  Good.”  He didn’t wait for Tommy’s reply.

It’s not malicious, it’s not the cold, desperate panic of Pogtopia, he’s just off somehow.  Tommy can’t help but wonder if he’s the same, if something about him just screams that he was never meant to come back.  He hopes not.  But he knows better than that too.

“Hold on, just– just wait a second, I still need to talk to you,”  Tommy jogs ahead, cutting him off on the prime path, Wilbur stops with a raised eyebrow.  Tommy is breathing more heavily now, words building in the back of his throat, kept and coveted and buried and waiting for this moment to finally let them go free.  He thinks once he starts he won’t be able to stop.  “You left me, man.  You fucking left me and you hurt me.  What’ve you done to make up for it?  Huh?  What’ve you done to be my fucking brother again?!”

“Tommy, I don’t understand, of course I’m still your brother, how could I not be?” Wilbur is too calm, Tommy is trying to rage at him and Wilbur just furrows his eyebrows, looks at him with a bit more caution, more startled than scared.  He’s not cheerful or harsh about it, in fact he does seem concerned, but it’s too calm.  It’s not enough of anything.  Maybe even talking to a ghost would’ve been easier.  “And I want to make up for it, believe me, I really do, I just don’t know how to yet.”

Tommy doesn’t even know where to begin.  He  has no instructions or requests to give him, he just wishes things were better.

He wishes they were how they were before.  He knows that’s so far past impossible, but it still hurts.  He almost wants to let it go, but Tubbo’s words come back to him, he stares at Wilbur, unashamed and confused with a cigarette at his side in that same old coat and he’s breathing and tangible and more of him than he’s been here in so so long– and all that hurt wells up again.

“No– No, fuck this, you didn’t just leave me, you didn’t just hurt me, you– you factored me in,” Tommy says it like an accusation, hands balled into fiststs at his sides, he can hear his blood pounding in his ears, but the anger is insignificant compared to the longing in his chest.  He still doesn't know which one will win out.

“I… I did what?”  Wilbur laughs, baffled.

“You factored me in to your fucking suicide, Wil.  You did,” Tommy has no doubt or shame or mercy left, only the brutal conviction of learning that Wilbur had survived the blast and begged to die instead.

“I didn’t…  It wasn’t- you shouldn’t call it that-” Wilbur stumbles over his words, not quite angry, merely taken aback.

“What should I call it then, eh?  You planned this for me.  With me in mind at the very fucking least, you did.  You made me president so you could fulfill that grand fucking promise that I’d never be president.  You thought L’Manberg was gonna die with you, you just didn’t factor in Tubbo being more resilient than me, right?  Tell me I’m wrong, Wil!” Tommy can’t stop himself from turning to shouting, anything, anything to make Wilbur see him for once.  For once Wilbur is stunned out of words.  “Tell me I’m wrong,” Tommy repeats it and it is no longer an accusation but pleading.

“Please, Tommy,” Wilbur pleads right back and he just looks so tired.  “Please, I– It’s been so so long, why are you– Please don’t make me do this.”

“It’s been so long for you, Wil. One year ago you were still here for me,” Tommy is harsh.  He’s not harsh enough.  “So you need to give me more than this.  Y-You–” His voice shakes and he tries to force himself to steady but maybe it’s easier to crumble a little.  “You said you still love me.  You said you’re still my brother.  I need more.  I need more than… than this,” he nods at Wilbur, at all of him.  He doesn’t even know if what he’s looking for is still in there, he doesn’t know if it’s fair of him to ask, but it’s all he can do.  The rest is in Wilbur’s hands and he hates how hopeless that makes all of this feel.

“And I need time, I’m trying, believe me, that’s why– that’s why I wanted to talk to you! I want to do things with you again!”  Somehow Wilbur still seems surprised by this turn of events.  Tommy doesn’t know how.  What other way was there for this to go?  “Tommy, I– I know you can’t understand this, but I never thought I’d get here.  So, now that I am here, I don’t know where to go just yet,” he says it like an explanation can fix things.  Tommy doesn’t want to know why he just wants to see something change.  Maybe this isn’t fair to either of them.

“Yeah, but you left me, Wil.  So, I guess what I’m saying is, you can’t just walk back into my life, gone for a year, gone for thirteen– it doesn’t fucking matter.  Don’t you get that?  It’s– I want to have you back, but at the same time you don’t have the fucking right, do you have any idea how hard that is?!”  Tommy feels so fucking helpless.  He can’t make Wilbur change.  He doesn’t know if Wilbur can either.  The problem isn’t the now, it’s all the blood that came before.

Tommy’s voice shakes and he sounds like a little kid, his eyes blurring but he refuses to give this man his tears.  “You promised to take care of me, so why aren’t you?  Do you even know what that means?”

Wilbur always knew what to say.  Words were what he was best out.  Words and explosions.  Now there is nothing.  How can he reply to that?  A promise that’s true and harsh and unfair.  He does know what it means.  For so long Tommy had been all he had and he’d done everything to protect that boy from the world until he just couldn’t anymore.  Then, what, the moment he failed once he just gave up?  Did he really think Tommy laying his life on the line, dying twice in one day and giving up everything for a country Wilbur had burdened him with, somehow meant Tommy no longer needed to be protected?  When, if anything, that should’ve told him how desperately Tommy needed his help?

“Did I let you die?  Did I kill you?” Tommy says it like an accusation, something wild behind his eyes, growing and festering and rotting.  “What did I do that made you leave me?” That brutal rage is mixed with choked tears.  “Why did you leave me, Wil?  I’m so sorry I failed you and I let you down and I let you die and me loving you wasn’t enough to save you and–” Tommy struggles to catch his breath.  “When did you give up?  When did you give up on fighting with– with our words and-and trusting each other and trusting me?  You fucking killed yourself.  You hurt me.  What did I fucking do to deserve that?!”  He can’t take it anymore.  He shoves Wilbur back, he stumbles a few steps down the prime path but he says nothing, he does nothing, he just stares.

“Fucking say something, you coward!” Tommy steps forward, he wants to push him to the ground, he wants to hit him on the chest, to ram past him and storm off, he wants to hug him.

Wilbur speaks honestly, and maybe that’s worse than a honeyed speech.  “Tommy, I lost everything, and I wish I knew how to get it back–”

“Yeah, but you chose to do that, Wil.  You chose to do that.”  Tommy snarls, a fire building in his chest, burning him up from the inside out.  He’s always been a short fuse, and Wilbur had grown very adept at lighting a match.  Wilbur isn’t entitled to being the only one mourning himself. Tommy is dead too.  “Don’t fuckin– Don’t talk around it, man.  You left me and you wanted it to hurt.”

“Thought it’d be easier,” Wilbur says hoarsely, still pleading but an age old wall is coming down.  “If you– If I hurt you, you wouldn’t miss me or mourn me or whatever– you were supposed to move on, Tommy.  You were supposed to–”

“You really think…” Tommy is disbelieving, anger fading in an instant as none of these broken pieces link back together.  “You think I’d do that to you?”

“What?”  Not the response Wilbur had expected.

“You think I could hate you, Wil?  Do you– You thought I… did you really think I’d stop caring about you because you hurt me?”  They’re both just as shocked at the other.

“I…” Wilbur hadn’t thought it, he had hoped it though.  Easier than the guilt.  Although, the guilt was there either way.  “I wanted you to let go, to keep on living.  If I’d stuck around, Tommy, you would’ve found another way to die for me so I had to go first.”

It feels like an excuse, week and indefensible.  Tommy scoffs, “right, thanks for that.  Really saved my life there by abandoning me.”

“You weren’t alone–”

“Yeah I fucking was!” Tommy is shouting now.  That makes this easier somehow.  “Are you fucking stupid– Yeah I was, y-you even said you knew, you said– You fucking saw exile and you–” Shouting deteriorates into tears far too quickly.  He tries to bury them.  “You fucking defended him.  That’s– That’s sick–”

“What do you want me to say– he saved my life,” he says it slowly, every word a pointed jab.

Tommy’s grief is traded for rage in an instant.  It still isn’t hate.  He wishes it was.  “I was there for you in Pogtopia! I never gave up on you, I never fucking gave up when everyone else wanted to– and if you’d been there– you would’ve left me alone with him? With him?!  Knowing what you know?” He snarls every word, wishing it wasn’t from an open wound, now he steps forward, jabbing an accusing finger into Wilbur’s chest.  “You would’ve left me to die with fucking Dream!?”

“But you didn’t die then–“

“YEAH I FUCKING DID!” Tommy’s voice breaks as he screams it out, grabbing fistfuls of his jacket, refusing to let him go as Wilbur tilts back.  It’s as close to a hug as they’ve gotten.  “He fucking killed me out there and I still crawled out.  All that blood, all that hurt, ‘cause I was actually fucking alone, Wil.  Don’t pretend you know what that’s like,” disgust grows for the man Tommy had wasted himself to save.

Tommy comes to something like sense, letting go, pushing Wilbur back, stumbling away, chest heaving.  He’s no longer screaming, staring at the ground between them, still trying to catch his breath.  “Until he got the chance to fuckin’ finish the job in t-that– in that place.”

“This wasn’t– This wasn’t supposed to go like this,” Wilbur looks all the more haggard.  He’s spent the most time away and yet he’s the one surprised by how much Tommy has changed.  “I wasn’t– I wasn’t disregarding what Dream did, Tommy, I told you I was angry.  He exiled you again, humiliated you, took you from your country, I might be the only one who fully understands what that’s like,” he says it slow and pointed like he’s teaching him some valuable truth.

I might be the only one who fully understands what that’s like.

Tommy sees red.

“I hate you, Wil!  I fucking hate you– Or worse, maybe I don’t but I wish I did, I wish I fucking hated you!” Tommy stumbles back, pulling at his hair, a hysterical laugh slipping out against his bidding.  Only Wilbur could have this kind of audacity– how could he forget?  “If I’d at least done that before, it would’ve been easier.   If I could’ve hated you when you’d left me, maybe loving you now wouldn’t hurt so fucking much.”

Wilbur is grated with hurt and shock.  He looks feeble, mortal, less corpse and more human and worse off because of it.  He doesn’t say anything, no reply or defense or denial, he takes this all in as bitter truth.  Just as Wilbur grows more unsteady, Tommy is calm.  A few deep breaths and he settles, like a switch being flicked, an eerie change.

“I’m stronger than you, you know,” Tommy doesn’t care if he’s being cruel anymore.  “I survived.  I kept living and you didn’t.”  All that doubt and feeling and hurt is drained away, for better or for worse.  Tommy takes a step back.  “So I’m gonna be okay, Wil.  And whenever you sort yourself out, come see me.  I love you.  That hurts, but I do.  But I don’t want to see you.  Not now, probably not for a while.  Not ‘til you’re better.  Until then…” He steps further away, eyeing over the man he had died for and lived for and loved.  His brother.  “I’m done,” he shrugs and that irrefutable calm within him is somehow worse than grief.  “I’m just done.  So.  Have a good second life, Wil.  I’m not gonna let you ruin mine again.”  Different words ring in the back of Tommy’s head, you ruined my past, Dream.  But you are not going to ruin my future.

He cannot compare the two of them.  He doesn’t mean to.  It hurts all the same.

And then he’s gone.  And Wilbur stands alone.

~

“Hey, Tommy!  You’re here early,” Puffy greets him at the door.  “I was thinking we could go have lunch back by my house.  The view is kind of nice–”

“I talked to Wil.”

“O-Oh,” Puffy steps back, nodding him inside.  “Yeah, uh, that’s a big one.  Come on in.”

“I talked to Tubbo too.”

“Huh, you’ve been busy, then. How’d it go?”

“There was the good and the bad, y’know?  All scrambled up together.  Better stuff with Tubbo,” Tommy sits, relaxed in this office now, but he takes a moment to think it through.  “Maybe even something good with Wilbur, but not in… like, the simple way, you know?”

“That makes sense,” Puffy had learned to be quick on her feet when working with Tommy, but these kinds of sessions were rare.  Normally Tommy did his best starting the conversation about animals or a project or something he could make fun of.  Not today, Tommy had arrived with a plan.  “Where do you want to start?”

Tommy thinks for a moment.  “Tubbo, we were fighting, yeah?”

“I remember.”

“He came to me first, and it’s weird that that’s surprising, but it was.  He apologized first and it was easy to like, say sorry back.  Never was much good at apologizing for shit, especially like this.  We talked about Wil.  And… how he died, how I died, or almost anyway.  And it wasn’t…” Tommy feels warmer now, no longer the weary heat of the day but more like the sun is inside of him.  “It wasn’t hard, Puffy.  Like, it wasn’t easy either, but I talked to Tubbo… Not like we did before,” an ache joined the sun.  “Dunno if we’ll ever talk like we did before, but it was something good.”

“That’s really good, Tommy.  I’m glad.”

“I, uh.  I haven’t even talked with you much about this one, but I talked to him about… when I almost jumped,” Tommy refuses to let the words get caught in his throat, instead trying to make himself let go.

Wilbur’s return had thrown him off in every way imaginable, in the same breath, seeing Wil again, the good and the bad, it reminded him of how far he’s come since being the little soldier who believed in war and sacrifice and some bloody beacon of love.  That distance makes it easier to let go of things, maybe even of him.

We don’t give up on Wil.  This isn’t giving up.  Letting go is something else.

“Things feel… blurrier now, y’know?  I don’t remember exile as vividly which should be a good thing, but I just feel empty sometimes instead, so, it’s not really fixed, is it?”  Tommy scuffs his feet on the floor, gesturing vaguely into empty air.  Puffy gives a nod in reply, encouraging him to go on.

“Like– Like I still got the bad shit, but then some other stuff is fading away and some stuff is getting better but it’s not the same as it was so, like, fuck, right?  What do I do?”  Tommy laughs, irritated by the thought.  “Keep moving, I guess.”

“Yeah.  And you figure out what you want, Tommy.  Try and move towards it.  Figure out what you need, too,” Puffy tilts her head, trying to piece together where Tommy is right now.

“I don’t know what I need,” Tommy huffs.  “What I want is fucking bullshit.  Can’t– I want things to be how they were, of course I do, but, like… If I went back to that, without what I am now, would I even be me anymore?”  Tommy shudders, sitting up.  “Yeah, maybe not gonna go down that hole.”

“I get missing the past, but we’ve only got one direction to go,” Puffy sighs.  “Forward, right?”

“Yeah,” Tommy thinks for a moment, looking somber.  “Guess that bit of me is still in here somewhere, eh?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Tommy that first came here, before the wars, when it was just me and Wil and Tubbo, Fundy, Eret.  That was good, Puffy.  I was good,” Tommy laughs, soft and longing.  “That’s still in here, right?  Buried under all the muck and shit.”

“It’s not all muck.  There’s lots of good in you from more recently too.”

Tommy scoffs.  “Maybe that’s just the old Tommy bleeding through.”

“He is you.  You’re the old Tommy and the new Tommy,” Puffy points out.

“Feels scrambled together enough I guess,” Tommy shrugs.  “Wil coming back dragged all this out, right?  Spring cleaning or whatever the fuck.”

“Spring cleaning,” Puffy snorts.  “Yeah, I like that one.”

Tommy smirks under the praise.  “Yeah, thought so.”  A pause, then he keeps going.  Tommy pushes through all of this, determined and unbreaking.  “Wilbur is another thing entirely.”

“Yeah?”

“Thirteen years,”   Tommy shakes his head.  His face scrunches up, something like distaste.  “Shit, I think… Pretty sure Wil was in that void for as long as I’ve known him.  Maybe longer.  That’s… trippy to think about.”

“Yeah, I’d expect it would be,” Puffy is out of her depth here, the most she can do is respond, encourage him, give what she can.

Tommy frowns, cogs turning, bitterness returning.  “He told me he saw exile.  When he was in there, in the void, he saw bits and pieces through Ghostbur.”

“Oh,” Puffy is beginning to think out of her depth might be an understatement.

“He uh, he said some fucked up shit about it too.”  Tommy doesn’t continue this time, wringing his hands in his lap, weary.

This Puffy has something to offer to, not something gentle, but maybe something towards progress.  “You compared being dead to exile.”

“What?”

“Last session, you, sorta on accident, said ‘when we were in exile’ instead of ‘when we were dead’.”

“Oh.  Right,” Tommy laughs, sharp and too loud and panicked.  “Am I wrong?”  He raises an eyebrow at her, like he can joke and tease and bluff his way out of this one.

“Are you?” Puffy turns it back on him easily.

Tommy falters, scowling.  “What do you want me to say?  It was me and Wil and we were stuck and couldn’t go home and he got scary sometimes and I just wanted to go home.  Dead, exiled with him, there isn’t all that much difference there,” Tommy folds his arms over his chest, defiant and petulant.

“Fair enough,” Puffy doesn’t push.  “What’s changed?”

“Wot?”

“What’s changed?  Now you’re here, not trapped, and Wilbur’s back and you’ve talked to him.  This isn’t like Pogtopia or being dead, so what is it?”

“...Something new?  I guess?”  Tommy sighs.  “I don’t want new.  Sucks that we don’t have a choice in that one, eh?”  A pause, thinking.  “I’m still homesick.  I think.”

“Homesick?”

“Yeah,” Tommy grows more sure.  “And… It’s something I can’t ever go back to and sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t really there to begin with.  Like afterwards my brain turned L’Manberg into something extra pretty and cool and maybe it just wasn’t.  I mean, if exile is getting fuzzy, then wouldn’t something even older also be all bugged out and shit?”

“Well,” Puffy begins slowly.  “My best guess, would be that you’re forgetting exile because of the trauma.  Brains do that sometimes to protect us.”

“Doing a shit job of it,” Tommy scoffs.

“Your brain would want to hold onto the good stuff, surely.  So the L’Manberg you remember?  That’s as real as you’ll let it be.”

“Huh,” Tommy exhales a laugh, slouching back against the chair.

That’s as real as you’ll let it be.

It was never meant to be.

A van by a lake, in a secluded valley, nothing there but trees.  It wouldn’t stay that way, not with his big brother and that mad gleam in his eyes and his guitar on his back, laughing and promising Tommy adventure.  With Tubbo in tow, how could he say no?

Nights by the fire, sharing shitty stew and some good stories, Tubbo and Eret building walls to protect them and Tommy feeling invincible with or without them, Fundy pouting and chasing after them, Wilbur doting on his little boy.

Tommy mostly remembers the summer days, the sun stayed up longer and they took advantage of it.  Before the taste of war Tommy knew the scent of their forest, the sticky sweetness of honey from Tubbo’s bees.  Tommy sewed uniforms before he picked up a sword, because they were going to fight with their words.  They were going to win.

Even once he learned blood and hurt, fear couldn’t sink its teeth in, not with Wilbur still beside him, not with Tubbo, steady and sure and just as determined.  Fundy tried to grow into his uniform, Niki and Jack came soon after, with laughs and pranks and Niki sewing a new flag.  Tommy misses that flag.  He misses when it meant family.

“H-Huh.”

“Yeah, Tommy?”

“I’ve just realized something,” Tommy’s voice feels thick, words catching in his throat.  His white and red shirt feels more suffocating than that thick uniform ever did.  “Well, maybe not just, but I have.  I think… I think I spent more time away from L’Manberg than I ever did with it.”

He breaks.

More anger than tears but tears nonetheless.  “F-Fuck, it’s not fair– it’s not fucking fair–”

It’s not just the anger, but that’s resilient through the tears too, it’s also mourning what he’d lost despite dying for it.

“Fuck– I’m done, I– I’m done,” Tommy gets to his feet, but he doesn’t go to leave yet either.

“Tommy, hey, it’s okay,” Puffy stands with him, but she doesn’t step closer, Tommy looks more likely to bite her than let her give him a hug.  Fair enough.  “We can end the session now–”

“Not that, Captain Puffy, not the session– all of it.  My Wilbur is still fucking dead and so is my country and everyone in it.  That life?  That family?  I– know what I want, Puffy.  I want it back.  What I need?  To fucking mourn all this so it doesn’t hurt so bad and how can I do that with him here?  With Wilbur still here?”

“Maybe you can’t,” Puffy raises her hands slightly, passive and calming.  “And that’s okay, Tommy.  It’s okay.  You don’t need to stay, you know.”

“Wot?”

“You could… you could leave.  Take some distance, Tommy.  Find some peace.  No more trying to put all the pieces back together, not right now at least.”

Tommy had only considered running away a few times in his life.  He never liked the thought.  The first time had been with Tubbo, their little house hidden away, we’d have everything we’ve ever wanted.  We’d have everything we needed.

The second time, before he had the chance to run he had to jump from a tower.  That felt less like running away, that was finally running towards something.

This is something else entirely.

“You don't even have to leave! Just… keep away from all this mess,” Puffy continues.

“Okay.”

“That’s it?” Puffy eyes him carefully.  “Just okay?”

Tommy wipes his eyes, not ashamed of the tears, just no longer finding them needed.  “Can we… I think I want to take a break.  From all of this.  Including therapy.”

Puffy, if she’s surprised, doesn’t show it.  “Okay.  That’s fine.  If you know that’s what you want.”

Tommy looks out the window behind her.  It’s another warm day.  He can see the grass flowing like waves on the ocean.

“Yeah.  Yeah, this is what I want.”

Tommy doesn’t return to an empty house.  “Hey, buddy!” He coos at the monster nested up in his ceiling.  Eight red eyes stare back at him and Tommy almost thinks that hiss sounds like a greeting.  When Tommy sits on the floor Shroud scales down the wall beside him, looking up at him with those glittering eyes.  Tommy isn’t afraid as he reaches out with one hand to scratch the spider’s head.

“How about you and me go do some travelling, eh?  We’ll… We’ll be around.  If anybody needs us, but… I don’t want to be stuck here anymore.”  Shroud doesn’t reply.  “Nah, we’re not stuck.  We’re gonna go outside, and we’re gonna go find some cows,” he cradles the strange, hairy head of the arachnid.  “And you are not going to eat them, right, Shroud?”  No reply, but Tommy smiles fondly all the same.  “Have I ever told you about my old pal Henry?  I think you would’ve liked Henry.  He didn’t talk much either.”

Tommy steps outside into the sun.  He’s saved himself before.  He’ll be damned if he can’t do it again.