#i need a fic fix later

[luvrodite]

lover, be good to me. jason todd [3.4k]

synopsis. in the third summer of your love, you get sick.

cw. gn!reader, sickfic, mental health issues, descriptions of weight fluctuation, angst, hurt/comfort. medication. this one is a bit heavy so please exercise discretion. written from the perspective of chronic illness but nothing is specified beyond discussion of mental health symptoms.

There’s a ghost that lives in your home.

This thing lives between you and Jason, a haunting in every room, a presence you can’t not feel. You feel its baleful eyes on you in dreams and upon waking, strongest in the winter, when the East Coast chill sinks its teeth into your arms hard enough to reach bone. 

It goes like this: sometime in the third summer of your love, you get sick. There isn’t anything to point to what it is exactly, only that one June morning you don’t get out of bed. It’s nothing until it is, the next several weeks spent making a home in the four walls of your shared bedroom. 

A flip switches seemingly overnight, and you’re further from your lover than you’ve ever been. 

Jason - and the part of you that knows better, dormant now, buried beneath the rubble - watches in mute horror as you bring yourself to ruin. The desire to be good, the control you’ve held over yourself, slips free of your grasp in seconds. Invisible threads are picked at until you’re frayed at the ends and your beloved home, this reprieve the two of you had as good as built from the ground up, falls victim to it. 

You pick fights. You slam doors and hide in the bathroom for hours on end. You want to scream yourself hoarse, your fingers itching for violence, longing to shatter something if only to give life to this sickness that lives in you, as if by breaking, you’ll cast it out. The exorcism does not come, but a cloying feeling sits beneath your skin, strangling, blood sitting stagnant in your veins and rotting. 

There are moments of clarity, when you lift your head from the haze and the gravity of all you’ve done barrels into you like a freight train. Those do not last long, invisible hands pulling you back under before you can correct your course. It's as though you take the backseat, replaced by something entirely that takes the controls, watching in mute horror as you destroy everything around you.

Jason gives it back just as good but even then, even in the anger, there’s something else in his eyes. You catalogue it, feeling as though your very soul has split – it’s the you from before that weeps at this, reaching out for your lover in prostration, begging for forgiveness. The being that lives in you now, volatile, ever shifting like a burning flame, burns too bright to feel shame. He is there, and he loves you – enough to bear the brunt of your pain, apparently. Shards of shrapnel, your anger is explosive and shatters everything in its wake. It cares not for sentiment, for history and love. You hurt, and it is blinding. 

The doctor’s appointment is booked far later than it ought to be, after weeks of tumultuousness that have left a dour cover over your home, seeping through the cracks in the walls and into the surrounding apartments. Your neighbours must loathe you. You’re too detached, too selfish to care.

The night before is the most clear headed you’ve felt all month, haze lifting as if to show you – look what you’ve done, look at all you’ve wrought. The devastation floors you, the grief you’ve caused to the one you love most curdles your blood and you weep in Jason’s arms. Knelt before him, you press your wet face into his lap. 

I’ll be good. I promise, I’ll try to be better, I’m sorry. 

You can barely breathe through your tears, broken hearted, sure you must be dying. Has anyone ever felt such grief, you wonder, and the thought is immediately followed by a tidal wave of self loathing. Selfish, so focused on your own misgivings. This is no way to live.

He tells you he loves you and it feels like a kindness you don’t deserve. Too good a man for you, an exhaustion from the last month lines his features. The thought terrifies you, that you’ve veered too close to the precipice of forever splintering him, that under your hand he knows other, less gentle things. Yours has not been a peaceful love as of late, and you wonder if this will be the straw that breaks his back.

In the waiting room, his hand finds yours. A good man, one you do not deserve. He doesn’t let go. Not when your name is called, not when you tell your doctor what’s been happening.

You hope, foolish, desperate thing that you are, that they’ll offer a quick fix. It’s laughable, but the soft turn of the doctor’s gaze makes your stomach twist. So begins the year of doctor’s visits.

You become very familiar with waiting rooms, sterile rooms and the low buzz of the news channel playing on TVs, pale walls and water coolers, paper cups shredded in your lap. 

The first shrink you talk to is, at first, the answer to all your problems – Jason balks at it, in the beginning, and you hear him muttering to his brother on the phone but he doesn’t breathe a word of it to you. If it helps you, that’s all that matters. The man listens. He understands how hard things are and how your hurt is poisoning you. He makes the right noises and his cardigan lends him an air of sincerity, brown eyes framed by thick glasses that in the glare of the light feel kind, almost like kinship.

You’re desperate for a solution, even if it means taking the prescription pills that after about a week, leave you with hands that shake violently anytime you raise them, shedding too much weight, way too fast. The insomnia comes next, and then the pills that are meant to fix that. Orange, smaller than the nail on your little finger. The tremors do not go away, but in settles a new drowsiness, bringing with it vivid dreams that feel terrifyingly lifelike. You wake in a sheen of sweat to the already awake gaze of your boyfriend, eyes wide and wary, hands finding yours in the dark, whispering reassurances when you cry again. 

How many tears have you spent this year, and how many have you subjected him to?

His kindness feels like a balm over your jagged edges, and you shake your head when he first tentatively suggests that the medicine isn’t working. You’re determined to stick to your vow. You love him, you need to get better. You can’t keep living like this, can’t do the fits of rage, can’t do the mood changes. You can’t keep hurting the both of you.

Still, sleep evades you, a cruel thing dancing out of reach even when you’re told to double down on the dose. The dreams only worsen, virulent hues of fluorescent greens and red, blood and viscera on your hands. 

It feels like a condemnation when Jason mutters one night, after you’ve woken from yet another dream, body stiff with fright and reaching out for him, less hesitant now in the face of your tears, “This isn’t working.”

Bitterly, you find you can’t argue with him. Worse, you’ve shelled out a horrifying amount of money simply to vent to a yes-man. The pills are disposed of in the morning and another appointment scheduled.

Back in the waiting rooms, back to discussing other, not-shrink options, Jason’s hand finds yours once more. You watch the news, watch tired parents wrangle their sick children, watch the colourful plastic toys. 

“I hate this,” you whisper, leaning into his side. 

You’ve been unwell for a month and then some, by now. The waiting room feels like a taunt – you are sick, you are suffering. The sickness festering in you, the rot you can’t explain, makes you feel smaller than ever, frail in a way you haven’t known before. 

Before, you used to like that Jason was so much bigger than you, that he could protect you. This, though, he cannot save you from, a fact you’re sure frustrates him just as much as your weakness does you. There is the anger, of course, but there is also fear. What is to become of you now? Your life, through your failing health, has been torn from you. You feel robbed, feel a distinctly you-shaped loss in your frame that leaves you teetering on a precipice. How quickly things had taken a turn, and there was nothing you could do about it.

Jason sighs, turning to press his mouth against your hairline. “I know. I know, baby.”

You’re sent off with forms for another blood test. Maybe it’s something different, and there burns a beacon of hope. It is also entirely possible you’ll spend another six months on medication that doesn’t work. 

You don’t care for this. There is a hopelessness and vulnerability to feeling sick that you do not care for, catching sight of yourself in the bathroom mirror and doctor’s office scales and fluctuating weight – you begin to turn your head away from the numbers at this point like you're being stuck by a needle, meeting your lover’s eye while the doctor takes his notes and finding comfort in teal irises, in the small grin he gives you when you’ve done something he thinks to be brave. You don’t care for any of it, but you must. For him. 

He hasn’t breathed a word of contention to you – a good man – but you know it weighs on him. You’ve woken once or twice in the night to find him watching over you, something in his eyes like he fears you’ll slip away, a hand always in yours, or holding you close to him. 

Guilt, ever-cutting, roils in your stomach. The anger cedes these days to make way for it, and your eyes burn, shame becoming a familiar friend.

“I’ve put you through the wringer, haven’t I?” you whisper on one of these nights. He blinks, unaware you’ve woken, and it speaks to how tired he must be that he’d not noticed, too lost in his thoughts to feel your eyes on him.

He cradles your jaw tenderly with one hand, kissing your temple. “No more than I’ve worried you.”

It’s true that you’ve faced your own set of troubles with him. Still, it feels distinctly different – his anger had been the product of fear, a genuine terror at the thought of letting you get too close. There’s decay in you, one you aren’t sure has entirely left, despite your placidity these days. 

“I’m sorry.” You apologise and he narrows his eyes, but you reach for his hand, intertwining your fingers. “You’re a good man.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he grumbles. “Obviously I’m going to fuckin’ look after you.”

Do I deserve it? You think.

“Wish you’d let me do the same for you,” you whisper, instead. It’s a truth you’ve often spoken, but feels like a lie in this moment, a deflection of your feelings. Guilt, once more, settles on your tongue, cloying against your tastebuds.

He kisses you sweetly, and you wonder if he can taste it. Something in the slant of his lips tells you he knows. How could he not? Once, twice, he brushes his mouth over yours. Chaste, loving. “Just get better. Then, maybe. I’ll consider it.”

Your eyes burn, fear like the tide, washing in once more. “What if–” your breath hitches, a lump forming in your throat.

“What?” His voice is soft, encouraging.

“What if it isn’t–if I don’t–” you can’t make out the words. The pad of his fingers brush over your lips.

“You will,” Jason whispers, voice thick. His eyes are bright in the dark, you realise, horrifyingly, sapphires covered in a sheen of liquid. “You will, ‘cause you promised me. And I’m holding you to it.”

You hear it for what it is – I’m here. I’m here and I’m not letting go of you. Don’t let go of me.

He’s asked for so little. Good men are rare to find in Gotham and you’ve got the best of them. You reach up and clutch his wrist, hands turning until your fingers slot comfortably between each other. 

“Okay,” you tell him, and you know he knows. I’m going to get better. 

The diagnosis comes eventually. In your relief, there is also bitterness. Another step forward, it still feels entirely too late. It should have come before, you think. Before you’d taken a sledgehammer to your love, before you’d fractured yourself and Jason from the inside out, before you’d put scars where there had been none, invisible lacerations lining the walls of your chest.

The medication – pills, pills, always pills – is difficult to adjust to at first. It leaves you short of breath, and more anxious, reaching for Jason to ground you. You cry a lot and though it isn’t anything new, there’s a misery in Jason’s eyes that only makes you weep more. You want to be okay again. You want to smile at him without the weight of all you’ve done, without knowing you’ve made him cry when he thinks you’re asleep, tears bleeding silently into the space of the pillowcase above your head. You want to go back so bad it makes your hands shake.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Jason, on his side, brushes a finger over the swell of your cheek.

“Can I say something.”

You hum, sliding your eyes over to him. He gives you a tentative smile - the barest quirk of his lips. 

“Maybe I’m being hopeful, I don’t know,” he mutters, eyes tracing the slope of your nose. “Tell me to shut up if I start talking too much.”

This bashfulness makes you laugh a little. It’s so much like before, and you ache for it. For a moment, you can pretend nothing bad has happened, that the two of you are just in love and home. 

(You wonder if you will always be reaching for before. If you’ll ever get it back, if you’ll always long for it. You wonder if Jason does too.)

“What?” you breathe out.

“Think the meds are working.”

Your breathing shallows and you blink at Jason. Hope is a fickle thing, and it feels tremulous, dancing just before your fingers, as if coaxing you to reach out. You trust him more than anyone in the world, but you’re scared to hope. “What?”

His knuckle brushes over your cheek. “You don’t look as tired.”

You avert your eyes. “Maybe I’m just sleeping better.” Tell me. I’m selfish, I know, but tell me I’m doing better. I need to hear it from you.

He shakes his head, and you quietly marvel at the bloom of pleasure in his face, a contentment you haven’t seen in months in the crease around his eyes. “It’s not that.”

The doctor confirms this when you go back a few weeks later and Jason, so like himself for a brief moment, meets your eyes over the man’s head and mouths, I told you. You bite back a grin, still wary, barely out of the woods. 

“You’ve gained weight,” the doctor says when he gets you on the scale, and he sounds so pleased the sound shoots straight through to your heart, flintstone striking a light, kindling hope for the first time in months. You look down to the numbers flashing back at you, to your lover – but he’s already watching you, eyes creased in silent pleasure. 

You are the last to accept this tentative beginning to peace, to healing, but he waits for you at the threshold, hand outstretched. 

There is no tangible evidence of the destruction you’ve wrought in your home but it lingers, even as you begin the slow crawl out of the woods. You see it in the lines of your lover’s face. There are corners of the room you cannot bear to look at for the first few months following your appointment, too reminiscent of words you’d bellowed in a rage induced haze, captive to your own body. 

This history is one too fresh, too tender to accept just yet, wounds still pink and raw. You cannot face yourself yet. There is too much to do, too much work to do, too much at stake to jeapordise if you slip and fall now.

But Jason is a good man. Much better than you think you deserve – but he’s said the same about you, so perhaps…just maybe…you think it might even out. 

He doesn’t shy away from the worst bits of you, the ugliness you’ve bared to him does not run him off, not like how you flinch from it. You made a promise. I’m holding you to it. He’s hard to shake off, but you don’t want him to. You’re thankful, even, for the dog teeth he’s sunken into your forearm, bound together in blood.

There is grief in beginning to heal. 

Perhaps heal is not the right word, and yet there is no other for this, overcoming the last few months feels like it ought to be called healing. But this is a forever thing. You will know this deficiency for the rest of your life, will know doctor’s appointments and bloodwork – strictly cautionary, we need to make sure the dose is right so we can adjust it accordingly. 

There is grief in finding your footing. It lingers, the horror of falling victim to a biological response – that your mind should so easily be lost, it feels indicative of something greater, a weakness you need to cut out at the root. Jason shakes his head when you voice this one night – you are only ever honest like this under the cover of darkness, sleep softened and gentle enough to be frank with him. 

“You’re not weak.” He says this with love in his voice, but a thread of steel weaves through his words. “Don’t fucking say that. You’re here. That counts for a fucking lot.”

He tugs you closer and you feel it again, that fear that grips his heart. Like you might dissolve in his arms in the middle of the night. 

“I feel better–than before,” you tell him, peering up at him, eyes burning. You press a hand to your heart. “But I still feel it. It’s still here.”

He presses his forehead against yours. “I know.”

And you suppose he would know. “Is it gonna be like this forever?”

He takes a moment to think, and you have to tuck yourself into his neck to hide your tears. Raw – this year has left you raw. You’ve spent a fountain of tears, but they’re yet to run out. You find solace in the hollow of his throat; if you could, you think you would attach yourself there permanently.

“Yes, but no.” You make a questioning noise and he smooths a hand down your back. “‘S gonna be different, now. Not always going to be bad, or good, just – different.”

“Different.” The word fits oddly in your mouth, and whether it’s the late hour or your grief, you can’t make sense of it. He shudders out a breath, weary, and you press closer.

“Yeah,” he whispers into your hair. 

“I just–” you swallow with some difficulty, a lump in your throat. What is there to say that you haven’t already? “I hate this.”

His lips twitch into a tired, sympathetic grin. “I know, baby.”

Silence follows his words, where you mull over all that there is to say, sorting through the jumble of words in your head. You shift until there’s a little room between the two of you, looking up at him.

“Hey.”

He hums, and you feel his hand raise from your back to cup the back of your neck, thumb sweeping over your nape gently. 

“I’m gonna –” your breath hitches, stumbling over the words. “I’m gonna be good, I’ll – I’ll be better. I promise.”

And he knows you’re not talking about your health. This is a forever thing, after all. Your words point to the hidden cracks in the walls, the foundation of your home and heart – I’ll be better. 

Tourmaline eyes crack open a little wider to look at you, tired, but hopeful. “I know, baby. We’ll be alright.”

Ah. Of course he knows. You grin tremulously up at him and press forward to smudge a kiss against his jaw, breathing your promise once more against his skin, hoping it takes root. 

Jason waits at the threshold of your new normal, arm outstretched, knowing you’d join him eventually. He’d known, of course he had – every inch of your soul was his. He holds his hand out. 

Out of the woods, you take it.

fin.

this fic has been in my drafts since 2022 and it always felt too vulnerable to write and finish. like there needed to be a big ceremony about it. this fic is incredibly personal to me, and i always thought i had to be 'ready' to finally finish it, whatever 'ready' means. but it's a sunday night and the semester begins tomorrow, and i'm writing this in bed listening to whatever my spotify plays for me. i'm not sure if this will make sense to anyone but i hope it makes you feel something regardless.

this is a love letter to myself first and foremost, because i'm no longer afraid of reopening an old wound!! i carry her with me always and i love her and i'm taking care of her. i love her and i love you.

[sunsetsandsunshine]

~ 𝚆𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢?! ~

💙👻💚👻💙👻💚

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝚃𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙻𝙴𝚃𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝙳𝙰𝚈 𝟷: 𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚈˚*• ̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊·̩̩̥͙

𝙶𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎: 𝙵𝚕𝚞𝚏𝚏

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜: 𝟷,𝟸𝟺𝟽

𝙻𝚎𝚎: 𝙹𝚊𝚢 ⚡️💙

𝙻𝚎𝚛: 𝙻𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚍 🐉💚

𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝙻𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚍’𝚜 𝚘𝚑-𝚜𝚘 𝚢𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚑 𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐…𝙸 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎?

(𝙰/𝙽: 𝙺𝚒𝚗𝚔/𝙽𝚂𝙵𝚆 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚜 𝙳𝙽𝙸!!!)

𝙸𝙼𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃𝙰𝙽𝚃: 𝙸 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝙹𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙻𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚍’𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚌 𝚜𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙳𝙴𝙵 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 <𝟹

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚃𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚢𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚢'𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕 😉

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚𝚂𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙳 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙹𝙰𝙶𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙲⁉️⁉️⁉️ 𝚂𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙳 𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙹𝙰𝙶𝙾 𝙵𝙸𝙲‼️‼️‼️˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

“LLOHOHOYDIE PLEHEASE! H-HAHAVE MERCY!!” Jay cried as he writhed and wriggled underneath his little brother, laughing up a storm as the blonde squeezed his sides mercilessly. 

“I’ll 'have mercy' on you once you tell me the truth, Jay Walker.” The younger glared, moving his hand to scratch alongside the other’s underarms.

The lightning ninja squawked helplessly, hugging his middles as he shook his head back and forth, “I AHAM! I SWAHAH— squeak! I SWEAR IHIHI’M TEHELLING THEHE— squeak! TRUHUTH— squeak MY GAHAHAD!!” The older whined.

Now, as you know, dear reader…today marked the official start of October.

And a couple weeks before to celebrate, Lloyd bought a bunch of candy bags for two wonderful people…

…Him and himself.

So consider the blonde’s absolute surprise when all of his candy bags…mysteriously vanished from his secret hidden pantry…

…Guess it wasn’t so secret now but still!!!

“PlahEASE!! Ihi dihihidn’t taHAHAKE yohour DUHUMB CAHahandy staHASH!!” The brunette squealed, pushing on his brother’s chest in a small attempt to get him to stop tickling him.

The smaller teen just rolled his eyes, pinching the other’s hips and in result, Jay squealed once more as he flailed his arms around, banging his feet on the ground.

The freckled face teen held his brother’s wrists, “L-LLOHOYD!!”

“Hm~?” The Green ninja hummed.

“DUHUDE PLEHAHEASE!!”

“'Please' what~?” The youngest asked smugly, “Pleeeease keep tickling you?” 

“NOHOH!!” The brown haired boy yelled, “NAHAH— squeal! NOHO!! LLOHOYD COHOHOME OHAN!! NOHO F-FREEHEEAKING TEHEHEASING!!” 

“I’m not teasing you.” Lloyd giggled as he scratched alongside his brother’s ribs, “I’m just asking you a question, big bro.” The blondie said as he abruptly scribbled his fingers on Jay’s stomach. 

“LLOHOHOYD!!”

“Yeeeeees~?” 

“CAHAN YOHOU FUHUCKING STOHOP?!”

The hazel eyed teen rolled his eyes once more as he poked the older’s lower stomach rapidly, “Not until you tell me where my candy is.”

The freckled faced teen whined through his laughter once more, shaking his head back and forth like a ball during a tenis match, “BuhUT— GAH! I-Ihi dohoHAH! IHI dunnohoh whehere IHAT IHIHIS!!” 

“Suuuuuure you don’t.” The Green ninja hummed sarcastically, “And I’m the Grinch.” 

“Yohou suHUHURE ahare buhuilt LIHIKE hihim— WAHAIT! WAHAIT NAHA— squeal!! NO! NONOHOH! I’M SAHARRY!” The lightning ninja cried, his eyes widening like saucers as his younger brother effortlessly held his wrists above his head and started nibbling on his neck.

Not to mention, the youngest of the ninja team had legit fangs that was further putting Jay into a giggly blob.

The brunette squealed and screamed as happy tears started to form in his eyed, “I SAHAID IHI WAHAS SOHORRY! IHIHI SAHAID IHI WAHAS SAHAHARRY!!!”

“Oh, I heard your apology…I just don’t care for it.” The Green cladded teen giggled. 

“COHOME OHAN!! I-IHI’LL DOOHOO AHAHANYTHING!!”

“Tell me where my candy is.” 

“FOHOR THEHEHE M-MIHILLIONTH TIHIME!! IHI DUHU— squeak! GAHASH NAHAHAAAAAA!!!” The Blue ninja howled as the other dug his thumbs into his hips as he ruthlessly nibbled his neck. 

The older bucked and flailed and squawked continously, trying to make his brother loosen his grip just a little…but his attempts to stop the blondie just ended in complete and utter vain as the other continued to torture him. 

I mean, in all honesty, what was happening right now was a genuine crime. 

Originally before all of this nonsense happened, Jay was chilling in his room, playing Roblox Piggy (fire ass game btw) but was interrupted as his gremlin of a brother basically bolted into his room, bombarding him with questions.

That’s breaking and entering.

Then the hazel eyed freak of a teenager dragged the elder by the collar and threw him in the living room!

That’s assualt and battery.

And if the freckled faced teen continued to let the shortest of the ninja group carry on with his henious crimes…Jay would be a dead man.

And if you were unaware…dead men can’t sue.

“IHI squeal! IHI. DOHOHON’T. KNOHOHOW!!” The elder said for probably the millionth time today. 

The younger just shook his head, tsking like some wannabe anime character, “Oh don’t give me that, Bluey. When I was little you used to steal my candy aaaaaaall the time.” 

“HNFFAHAHACK! YOHOU squeal STIHILL AHARE LITTLE!”

“YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN!!!” The other shouted, scribbling his nails in the crook of Jay’s neck, “Just tell me where you hid my candy and you might be spared.”

“'MIHIHIGHT'?!”

“Well, as much as I hate to admit it: your laugh is genuinley cute and funny…I can’t get enough of it~!”

“SCREHEHEHEW OHOHOHAFF!!!” The freckle faced teen hollered as he banged his heels on the carpet living room floor, his face starting to change color to a beet red, “YOHOU BRAHAHAT! STAHAP squeal THIHIS INSTANT OHOR YOU’LL BE IHIHIN A squeak WORLD OHOHOF HURT!”

“Oh really?” The blonde said, completely un-phased by the threat. 

“YEHES REEHEEHEEALLY!!”

“Are you suuuure?”

“YES!”

“Positivley sure?”

“YEHEHES!!”

“Absolutely 100% sure?”

“YEHES— N-NOHOH! NOHOHO!!! IHI’M NAHAT SUHURE!” Jay cackled as Lloyd went back to squishing his sides. “But you just said yeeees~!” The youngest taunted, “C'mon~! Show me this 'world of hurt' you were referring to.” 

Almost immediately, the dark blue cladded teen used his powers to lightly send electric buzzes to the kid’s sides, “G-GYAH! Hey! Hehey! No! Noho yohou— EEP! StaHAP!” The Green ninja squealed but stubbornly still continued to tickle his older brother.

He would get his candy back if it was the last thing he did…

“That’s it!” Lloyd shouted, getting up and wrapping both of Jay’s feet in a headlock with both of his arms.

The curly haired teen gulped, bracing himself as his younger brother was about to absolutely murder him…

…Which honestly would not look great on the hazel eyed teen’s crime record but who was Jay to judge? 

“I-Ihihis squeak ihat squeal toohoo squeak l-lahate to sahay I’m squeak sohohorry squeal again…?”

“How’d you know~?” The blondie grinned as he ruthlessly scribbled his fingers over the other’s feet and the other in question went BALLISTIC. The lightning sparks coming from the lightning ninja’s hands were shooting anywhere and everywhere and they would be lucky if the power didn’t go out by how much sparks were flying… 

“NAHAHAH OHO SQUEAK SHIHIHAT!!! SHITSHITSHIT— SQUEAL GAHAHASH NOHOHO—!!!” The brunette screamed. 

“Ihi’m barely touching you—”

“SHUHUT UP!! SHUHUHUT. UHUP!!!”

“Uno reverse, big bro…you’re the one hollering and tollering like a five year old.” 

“BEEHEEHECAUSE YOH—GYAHAH! OHO JEEHEEZ NO! WHYHY THEHEHEHERE?!” The elder loudly cackled as happy tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Bad spot, huh~?” 

“SHUHUHUT UP— SQUEAK AHALREHEADY!!” 

“Is that seriously the only remark you can come up with? 'Shut up?'” The blonde smugly said as he tickled the middle arch of Jay’s foot, “Cmon~! You can do better than that, Jay-Jay…”

“OKAHAHAY!! OKAHAHAY STAHAHAP!! STAAAAHAHAP!!!” 

“I’ll stop once you show me where you hid my sweets!” The hazel eyed teen huffed, “And speaking of sweets…maybe I should go to this sweet spot over here~!” He said as he tickled underneath Jay’s toes. 

“NAHAHAH SQUEAL N-NOOOOOHOHOHOH!!!” 

“Should we help…?” Cole said to Kai as he munched on one of Lloyd’s bag of Skittles, leaning on the living room doorway and casually watching the youngest completely murder the Lightning ninja. “Nah. He’ll be fine.” The red cladded teen shrugged carelessly, leaning on the doorway as well. 

“Besides, this is entertaining to watch…want a gummy bear?” Kai offered. 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Cole grinned, taking a handful of gummy bears from the bag the other was holding and plopped them into his mouth.

💙👻💚👻💙👻💚

·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚🎃𝙵𝙸𝙽🕸️˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙ 

(𝙿.𝚂.: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚌, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!!!)

[carlyraejepsans]

Halfway to the sofa, they stopped, making a small sound like a grumble of annoyance. For a second, the red glow in their eye grew faint. "Sleep," they rasped out in a low, halting whisper, "I saved you an ache in the neck." It took him a second to register that the kid wasn't talking to him. Mostly 'cause Frisk didn't speak. To him. Or ever.

Sans wakes up late into the night and sees something he shouldn't have.

[kerryweaverlesbian]

How do you go from Wanting to Having? I think this transition would be hard on my man Castiel.

I was going to do a cute little nice Cas Returns fic - so convinced, was I, that this would be teeny tiny that I only wrote it out here in a tumblr draft and not on my notes app! Anyway I have no idea how long this is and it is...uh...there's elements of cuteness I'd say, but it's more significantly emotional comfort of mostly Cas, ft selective mutism Dean. (Implied offscreen alcoholism.)

Cas is spat back out at 2am on a Tuesday, staggering hard onto the cold dungeon floor. It's pitch black in there, but with Cas’s angelhood restored (though still patchy) he can see well enough to find the stairs. When he tries the door, it's locked from the outside. As dungeons tend to be.

On pushing it open regardless, he finds that a cabinet had been pushed in front of it too. He's certain a human would have a hard time with it, but he shifts it aside with ease. He maneuvers it softly, aware of the time. Angels are always aware of the time. He felt the 40 years of battle through Hell for Dean's soul, he'd known the year-and-change of fight-and-flight through Purgatory, he'd counted every precious second of Jack's beloved company. The only place time didn't exist was the Empty. Or it didn't, until Cas broke it further.

He hopes, briefly, that those he woke up for aid had made it out as smoothly as him. Meg had, as ever, proved invaluable, and it had been a (tempered) joy to find Anna again. He sends silent thanks to Billie, for Their part in his return; They had been as angry as the role of Death allows that They'd been forced into Chuck's narrative once again, furious enough to value sabotaging his ending over Their objections to letting people back. Castiel had sworn that this would be the last time and Billie had said "Yes. It will." though he's sure they both know it's unlikely to be.

It's been 3 weeks and 5 days since he'd sacrificed himself to save Dean. It's strange; he'd thought since making the deal that if he was stolen away at his moment of happiness, he would fall into despair himself. To be ripped away at the time he found what he so deeply wanted, that would surely have broken him, and left him ready to be subsumed. Instead it had galvanised him. The Empty had made a fatal error; it had forgotten that stored within happiness there is always, always hope. Hope is intrinsic to happiness.

He follows that hope to the cracked open door of Jack's room: he's in there, sleeping, curled around his pillow affectionately. Castiel knows there's a knife under his pillow, but he still sleeps with his back to the door. Cas lets him be. He isn't quite ready to explain his absence in a way that would be kind to his son. He has someone else to talk to first.

Cas stops outside of Dean's bedroom. Light shines out from the cracks around the door, but he can tell through reaching out through the ether that Dean is sleeping. With a touch to the handle the door opens silently, and Cas closes it behind him, equally quiet. Every light in the room is on.

There are significantly more lights than there had been when Cas had last seen it. A cluster of floorlamps clutter the footspace, and every flat surface bares as many of the Men-of-Letters flat-roofed table lamps as it can fit. Even some of Dean's guns had been excised in favor of wiring to attach extra overheads that hang somewhat precariously above Dean's supine body.

Though Dean sleeps, a deep frown mars his brow. He's on his side too, facing the centre of the bed, though his arms cradle a bottle of scotch - opened and hours since spilled on the bedspread. To see him again in such bright light is a privilege. He finds, as he does every time that he has been reuinted with Dean, that he is indeed just as beautiful and vulnerable as he had remembered. Sometimes, near the beginning, he had made himself almost convinced that his feeling was exaggerated, his devotion practical and their connection shallow. Every time he found himself in the same room as Dean, he found himself proven wrong.

Privilege though it might be to see him like this, Castiel also wants to see his frown alliviated. Without regret, he turns his hand in the air, dimming every light to a soft glow. He spreads his hand on the mattress and wills away the wet spot that's crawled under Dean's face. Balancing one knee on the mattress Cas maneuvers the bottle out of Dean's hands, gentle and smooth, then stretches back to put it on the floor since the lights crowd the bedside.

Turning his gaze back to Dean, he finds his efforts were for naught. Without the bottle, Dean's hand has balled into a tight fist, squeezing so strongly that it shakes, and his frown has, if anything, deepened. He must be having a nightmare, though its the quietest Cas has ever seen him in one. Typically he thrashes, shouts, fights against fear even in his sleep. Now he's so still with it he seems almost dead, rigor mortised in his own bed.

Castiel remembers a time, less than a decade ago, when he would watch Dean's nightmares run their course. It wasn't impassivity that stayed his hand, but inertia. It had been an as yet uncured habit to stay out of the affairs of the Earthly, to restrict himself to speech-when-spoken-to. In short; he didn't know he could. Now, he has no such reluctance.

He curls his hand over Dean's left shoulder, a mimic of his print on his right, and slides a tender calmness into him, which finally relaxes Dean's posture. His brow smooths over, his jaw goes slack, and his breathing deepens. He's beautiful.

Then he snaps awake. A hand clamps hard over Cas’s wrist, holding him firmly and frightened eyes catch his in the dimness.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is hushed and croaked, as if he'd been sleeping for a long time.

A gentle irony strikes Cas, that Dean was resting while he was fighting his way home. It makes him smile, and that seems answer enough to Dean. He's grabbed fiercely and pulled into a thick hug, one that would render him breathless if he were a human. He holds Dean right back, deliberately softer. It feels important to be careful with him right now.

"I'm here, Dean. I'm sorry that I-"

Dean shoves Cas back and claps a hand over his mouth. Cas is caught in his serious, troubled gaze, and it takes a moment to interpret the slow shake of Dean's head.

Cas nods, and Dean draws his hand back. "I understand. I won't apologise."

Contrary, Dean huffs and rolls his eyes, as if to say, when do you ever? He doesn't speak. It's more than a little worrying. Not one to go unheard, though, Dean takes one of Cas’s hands in his and laces their fingers together, giving Cas a defiant expression. Cas’s heart catches.

"You don't have to," he makes himself say, "It's alright, Dean. What I said doesn't have to change anything between us. I love you, and that's..."

He was going to say, that's all you need to know, but Dean had rolled his eyes again and pressed a kiss to the back of Cas’s hand. At Cas's trailing off, he smirks, which slides away quickly into indecision. Dean tilts their joined hands back and forth together for a while, clearly thinking something through, and Cas lets him, trying not to squeeze too hard from his mounting, perilous hope. His hope in the Empty had been merely to live. To exist in a world where Dean knew the truth; that he is both lovable and loved. Now he is hurtling towards - something else.

It's funny (in the human, unfunny sense): he'd spent so long tamping down his possible happiness in fear of the Empty that now that it can be accessed freely, the idea of great happiness is a little frightening. What does a world look like where he gets what he wants? It's unimaginable.

He tries to untangle their fingers, at that thought, but Dean holds him fast, both with his grip and with a raised, unimpressed, eyebrow. It seems his attempt at absconding has made Dean's mind up. He reaches past Cas and opens the top drawer of his bedside cabinet, and drops a notebook into Cas’s lap.

The notebook is spiral bound and cheap-looking, its cover merely denoting the word 'Notebook' and its A5 size. The plastic of the cover is rough under Cas’s thumb. It's a far cry from Dean's leather bound hunting journals.

Correctly interpreting Cas’s tactile investigation as cowardliness, Dean impatiently flips it open with one hand to a random page.

You can have it.

That's what it says, all the way across the double page spread. Written over and over again in ball point pen, uncaring for or deliberately defeat of the evenly spaced blue lines meant to corral the written word.

You can have it, and variations thereupon: You can have it, damn it; could have fucking taken me, asshole; what do you think is supposed to make me happy now, you arrogant, stupid son of a bitch?

The me of the last is underlined so harshly that the paper is ripped. This outpouring is repeated on every page but the first, which instead says only, Come back. Those two words have been traced over enough that the message is engraved over the next three pages.

"Dean, I..." Cas begins, then has to stop, overwhelmed.

The magnitude of Dean sharing this work of grief is not lost on him. Perpetually making themselves vulnerable; is that not the story of their relationship? He follows the lines of Come back with his finger until Dean taps his chin up. He's leaned in close, the ends of his hair tickling Castiel's forehead.

He opens his mouth, but this time only manages a click in his throat that Cas thinks is supposed to be the start of his name.

"I understand," Cas says again, because he does. He brings a faintly trembling hand to the back of Dean's neck to keep him from pulling away - and, more, to keep himself from doing the same. "Dean, I never anticipated this. This is frightening to me. My heart is-"

Cas presses Dean's hand, still linked with his, to his chest, showing him the dizzying speed of its beating. Then he laughs, faintly, at having dropped another sentence:

"I think I left all my words in the dungeon."

Dean answers with a swift smile, his gaze radiating pure affection. He brings their hands to his own chest, where his heart beats just as fast. Dean kisses him, then, on his left eyebrow, then the cheek when Cas looks back at him.

"Dean," Cas says, half-warning, half-encouragement when Dean ducks around to kiss the ridge of his ear, and then "Dean..." in a half-moan when his teeth catch his throat.

Undeterred, Dean kisses whatever point of Cas’s face that strikes his fancy, rendering Cas a trembling mess before their lips even connect (which they do only when Cas holds Dean still and kisses him himself. The noise Dean makes is almost a laugh, and Cas will remember it for the rest of his life).

It's only a few minutes, though, before Cas has to stop. He's progressed from trembling to shaking, and the pleasant tingling across his limbs had turned sharply into pins-and-needles.

"I'm sorry," Cas says on an inhale, pulling away from Dean, and clarifies quickly, "I don't think I'm ready for this. It makes me too happy. I'm afraid. I can't lose you again."

Dean is tender with him, brushing Cas’s cheek soothingly with his thumb. His mouth and jaw work, and this time he gets out a "Ss", and then a "Shh".

He keeps on shushing as he wraps Cas back up in a hug, tight enough that all the rattling parts of Cas feel like they're slowly compressed back into his body. Dean breathes deeply and deliberately, and Cas copies him, noticing for the first time the room's stale-sweat-stink, and the familiar scent of second-hand gasoline in Dean's hair. It takes time, but eventually Cas is able to clutch at Dean too, which earns him an extra squeeze around his ribs.

"I love you," Cas says, and it feels too loud for the room, so he whispers it instead, "I love you, Dean."

Dean buries his face into Cas’s shoulder, in what could be charitably imagined as a nod. Neither of them says another word for the whole night.

They're both terrified of what they want to give - terrified of happiness. But in that awful, devestating, harrowing joy is the glimmer of what is going to get them through it: always, always hope.

[illithiddatingsim]

…a little close there bud

[omaano]

…. Just so we all know this is the stage from where I need to pull my little clone portraits together

[thequeenofthewinter]

There may be times when you read over your past work and you feel proud of yourself (As you should. It IS something for you to be proud of.), but other times--other times you might look at it and you just can't help yourself from going "why did someone give me a keyboard" and "why and how did anyone read this".

Be kind to yourself. Everyone improves. You were doing your best.

[vilyanenyavilya]

[good-wine-and-cheese]

The indomitable human soul update Fucking Finally it took me a million bajillion years to be happy with this chapter LMAO

Each step inside was grounding; familiarity began to pull at him, an instant knowledge that even now, he could find his way through this place with his eyes closed. Despite it all, this was still the home that he had raised a family in. Tenma settled easily into the old skin of himself: the parts of himself that he'd never shed, only buried. He could feel it coming alive in this autopsy of his past.

[zuzu-draws]

Can someone explain to me why I, a sukuna fan from day 1, want to cry over Gojo's death. Feels like i'm going through a withdrawal of sorts, :') I just know that once the series is over and everyone's dead (Sukuna included), the fix-it fics are gonna hit soo good ..

[the-sparkling-diamond-satine]

first draft of chapter 1 of bijou fic exists! all 5 people in the fandom are gonna know about bijou (satine's oc cat that i made up)

[actual-bill-potts]

Let's try Orodreth with "weary and content" so maybe your poor lil guy can have a nice time for a change 😭

lsdjkfskldf a nearly impossible prompt. but i have done my best

There was a timid tap-tap-tap outside his door.

Arafinwë groaned inwardly, and wished it would go away. He had been awake for days on end in Tirion, helping Nolofinwë to soothe Fëanáro's latest political mess. This was his first night at home, and he had hoped to sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Perhaps if he stayed still and silent, his son would give up. Eärwen beside him had not yet stirred.

He heard light footsteps enter his room hesitantly, and then a tugging on his sleeve.

Silently offering a prayer to Varda for patience, Arafinwë sighed and opened his eyes into Artaresto's enormous brown ones.

"Atya," whispered Artaresto, loudly. "Atya!"

Arafinwë sighed again. "Yes, Artaresto?"

"I had a bad dream," said Artaresto. "I cannot sleep."

Eärwen pushed herself up on one elbow beside him. "Artaresto," she said, "you must go to bed. Come, I will tuck you in."

Artaresto's lip trembled threateningly. "No!" he said. "Want Atya!"

"Atya is tired," said Eärwen reasonably.

"But he has been gone," said Artaresto. "I missed him! And I cannot sleep," he added petulantly. "I do not want to be tucked in!"

Arafinwë sighed for a third time, but rolled out of bed and tucked his feet into slippers. "It is all right," he said, smiling a little at Eärwen. "Artaresto and I will go to the kitchen and have something to drink, and then he will go back to bed. Won't you, hinya?" he added, turning to Artaresto.

"Yes," said Artaresto, nodding vigorously, eyes lighting up. "May I have yullas, Atya?"

"You may," said Arafinwë, taking Artaresto's small hand in his own and leading him out of the room. Artaresto padded beside him, seeming quite content, and Arafinwë's tired exasperation quickly abated at the little fingers clutching his own tightly.

"I missed you, Atya," said Artaresto again, as they entered the kitchen.

Arafinwë felt a little pang. He begrudged even the short days spent away from his children; they were growing up so quickly! Artafindë was already grown, and often wandered far from home. Soon Artaresto would follow him, no doubt; he idolized his older brother.

"I missed you too, hinya," he said, smiling down at his son. "Now, what sort of yullas would you like best?"

Artaresto's eyes lit up. "Oh! I would like ornemalin!"

"Very well," Arafinwë said, putting water on to boil.

Artaresto sat down at the table, snuggling further into his night-shirt. "I am cold, Atya," he said.

You could go back to bed, Arafinwë almost muttered; but he refrained, shrugging out of his outer robe. He draped it around Artaresto's small shoulders.

"There," he said, "are you warm enough?"

"Yes!" said Artaresto. He sniffed at the robe. "It smells nice," he said. "It smells of the Sea!"

"Yes," said Arafinwë. "Ammë Sung such into the weaving."

"Could she do that for me?" asked Artaresto eagerly.

"Perhaps," said Arafinwë. "Or perhaps she could teach you how to do it yourself."

"I would like that," said Artaresto, swinging his small legs.

Arafinwë sat down beside him and put an arm about his son. "Would you like to talk about the bad dream?" he asked. Where Artafindë would confide his troubles without prompting, Arafinwë had found already that Artaresto was shy about his innermost heart. If he was not asked, he would keep his troubles buried deep until they burst forth in upset that had festered.

Artaresto shuddered, a movement that seemed almost too big for his small body. "There was a lizard," he said. "Like the ones that like to sun themselves on the rocks by the palace, but much bigger. So big it blotted out the whole sky. And I could not see the light of the Trees! Then it looked at me and laughed, and I felt as if - as if I had done something terribly naughty. Then I woke up."

Arafinwë wanted to laugh - a huge lizard? - but refrained, for Artaresto's eyes had filled with tears. He tightened his arm about his son's shoulders. "That sounds frightening," he said.

"It was," admitted Artaresto, trembling again.

"Well," said Arafinwë, "there is no chance of a giant lizard coming to attack us here. Tulkas and Oromë would hunt it down before it gave us any trouble; and in any case I doubt Yavanna would create such a thing. It was just a dream."

"But -" said Artaresto. Then he hesitated.

"Yes?" said Arafinwë.

"What if -" said Artaresto, in a very small voice, "what if it was a true seeing? It felt so - so real. I have not had a dream like that before."

Arafinwë felt a chill. Foresight did run in their family. And Artafindë too sometimes had terrible dreams.

What was Vairë weaving for them, his gentle and shining children? Why could he not see it?

He shook it off. There was no reason to alarm Artaresto without need. "It may," he admitted aloud, "or it may not. There is no way to know unless it comes true - and I cannot think of a way that would come true! So let us put away worries for tonight."

"But what if," said Artaresto again, "what if the huge lizard fights its way past Tulkas and Oromë, and rips our house down? With us inside?"

"It will not," said Arafinwë.

"But if it does?" persisted Artaresto. "What will we do?"

Arafinwë exhaled a sigh. "It will not," he repeated. "But supposing that it did, it would doubtless already be friends with Artafindë. And upon seeing your brother, it would pause and apologize, and they would soon be dining together in great friendship. Though I do not know if your lizard would fit at the table."

Artaresto giggled. "You are silly, Atya!" he said. Then he sobered. "But what if Artafindë was not here?"

"Then I would simply have to tell the lizard very sternly to leave, and of course it would listen. I would use my fiercest, angriest voice!"

"Do you have one of those?" asked Artaresto, smiling.

"I do! But I reserve it for particularly annoying nobles," said Arafinwë, "and lizards who threaten my sons."

"But what if you are not there?" said Artaresto.

"Of course I would be there," said Arafinwë. "You are my son! If you were in danger, I would be there, even if I had to gallop across all Aman to do it."

Artaresto leaned his small head against Arafinwë. "Thank you, Atya," he said; and Arafinwë briefly had to close his eyes against the swell of feeling. The silver hair, so similar to Eärwen's - the little hands clutching at his sleeves - the warm press of his son's body against his own! How he loved his children!

The kettle began to whistle, and Artaresto sprang away from Arafinwë's side. "Yullas!" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Arafinwë, rising to prepare two mugs. He poured the water over the ornemalin, briefly mesmerized by the swirl of silver light and shadow over the pale-yellow dye of the leaves. Then he turned back to Artaresto, and could not decide whether to laugh or groan.

Artaresto was slumped over the table, fast asleep, chubby hands clutched in his borrowed robe, hair falling over his face.

Love once again swelled in Arafinwë's breast; and fear for a moment clutched at his heart. So small - so defenseless! If the visions were true - !

They could not be. Perhaps in Endórë, where his father had grown up; but here in Valinórë evil could not touch them.

Arafinwë smoothed Artaresto's hair away from his face; then, when his son did not stir, gathered him up in his arms and carried him to bed.

[thecollectionsof]

a little drabble from postcards to get me in the writing mood :)

"That shirt looks nice."

Crystal laughs, looking down at the sweater Gigi gave her for her birthday before looking back up at her. “You made it!”

“No! I mean—yeah, but I like seeing you in something I made. It’s… nice.” Gigi’s cheeks glow brilliant red as she looks away, her gaze resting somewhere past her for a second.

“Oh.” Crystal feels something burning in her, something hot and electric, “I like wearing things you made for me.”

That feels like something. This feels like something.

It’s not like she has the courage to do something about it, to take this further, to poke and prod and flirt and test the boundaries of their newfound "bestie era", so she looks away to hide her blush. "It's nice," she says, parroting the words Gigi said only seconds ago. There's so much she could say, but that sums it up without pouring her heart out to her.

She doesn't say it though. She just keeps watching the person walking past the window who's walking their very excited poodle, or looking at the way the wind blows through the trees, or looking at anything but Gigi.

Gigi reaches out, lightly adjusting the way the sweater rests on her. It's quick, light adjustments, but she feels every single one. Especially a quick graze of the back of her hand against Crystal's bare side, her fingers slipping around the bottom of the sweater.

Once again, it's electric.

And then it's over.

"Okay," Gigi starts, taking a step back. Crystal lets out her breath, not that she knew she was holding it, and nods. At what, she's not sure, but it feels like the right thing to do. "Ready to go?"

Crystal nods again, clearing her throat. "Yeah," she agrees shakily, clearing her throat again, "yeah, okay, let's go."

[velvet-pumpkin]

Fish on, Jayj.

[scionshtola]

not as much as i wanted but still. prog.

[ginneke]

already too late (if we arrive at all) - #2

we've got some exposition & lore coming up this time, whoo! but only a little bit. got to leave some for later.

should have mentioned last time -- the title of this fic/collection is from a Poets of the Fall song, "War". I rate this band so highly. their lyrics truly are poetry.

anyway. on to the fic.

--

Pairing: Revalink

Rating: T

(A soulmate AU, sort of.)

-- Prompt #2: you can do better than this --

The thing is this: these days, soulmarks are something of an oddity in Hyrule. The earliest recorded story claims they were a gift from the Goddess, to help fated lovers find each other – and to help them use the time they had together wisely. Whatever the truth of it, this much is known: they are most commonly found among the Hylians and Sheikah; seldom encountered among Gerudo and Zora; a mere peculiarity among the Gorons.

And never spoken of in the Rito histories.

Their only source of information regarding the marks stems from their Hylian neighbours, whose own knowledge of the myth is limited: nobody in Tabantha Village had been the subject of a soulmark in quite some time.

It wasn’t the sort of thing that happened anymore, they said.

So, Revali would argue – if indeed he was ever compelled to defend his purely scientific curiosity, which frankly needed no defending at all and would merely indicate unspeakable rudeness on the part of his hypothetical interrogator – so, it was only natural that he might hold some curiosity about the marks, and what they were supposed to mean. An idle interest, that was all, in—

“—just the most ridiculous, vacuous notion imaginable; I’m sure one could divine more accurate fortunes from a river-snail’s slime.”

Well. That.

“…Evocative,” Urbosa says, a glint of emotion Revali can’t decipher in her eyes. “Do go on.”

Her words have the weight of a trap behind them and, almost too late, Revali recalls the whispers. It’s enough to make him realise the comparative wisdom - for once - of silence.

“No?” Urbosa probes, and when Revali stays stubbornly silent she just smiles, and the quirk of her blue-painted mouth is a shimmer of mirage on the horizon, the curling danger of desert heat. “Should I take a guess, hmm?”

Mipha, who’d been looking down the path in hopes of seeing any of their fellow Champions approaching—not that it was likely; the three of them were all far too early to arrive at the proposed meeting-place, and would no doubt have endured in silence if not for Revali’s refusal to let the opportunity for answers pass him by—well, anyway, Mipha chooses that moment to look back at them with the same sharp huff of disapproval that Revali heard from her, and had endeavoured to ignore, at that dismal attempt at ceremony earlier. Of course she must have steel, to be chosen as a Champion, but still it takes him aback to be confronted by it so.

“Of all people,” says Mipha in that mild, reproachful voice of hers, “I would have thought you might speak of the marks with more respect, Lady Urbosa.”

Urbosa tips her head on one side — a remarkably Rito gesture, which makes Revali wonder if she’d once had friends among his tribe. She eyes Mipha, considering. “My apologies,” she says, in a voice just this side of sincere; “I forget how seriously the Zora regard these things.”

Revali glances between them. The Zora are strange, he reflects. In years, it’s possible that the Zora Princess is even Urbosa’s elder; yet in terms of lifespan, she’s far closer to his own peer. (In maturity, she surpasses them all: he’d think it the weight of a crown, yet their appointed leader is far from Mipha’s equal in that regard.)

And though Urbosa could overpower her with but a click of her fingers, Mipha stands firm and unyielding: allies, but not yet friends.

The same goes for all of them — except perhaps for Daruk, who seems to regard strangers as a friend he hasn’t met yet. But Daruk isn’t here, and after earlier, Revali is inclined to think of that as a good thing.

Instead, while Urbosa’s attention is drawn away by Mipha’s intercession, Revali cannot help but let his gaze dart down to the twist of flowers that ring a washed-out grey band around the Gerudo chieftain’s lower leg.

Brazenly brave of her to walk into Hyrule Castle with a proclamation inked upon her skin for all to see: that she, Urbosa — not King Rhoam — had been the soul-marked intended of the late, beloved Queen. He hadn’t heard of it until a day ago. It was something which had dominated whispers in certain quarters — whispers far more interesting than those he’d heard about other parties — and a question he’d quite forgotten to ask.

It had made him wonder…

“Do you… know somebody with a soulmark?” asks Mipha, giving up on playing lookout and walking across to where Revali is rooted to the spot, determined not to move lest he somehow betray his secret.

Something like that. He tells her so, as curtly as he can muster. Mipha looks at him like she can see straight through him regardless.

“Still,” she says, softly, “it is peculiar… The marks are so rare, these days, and yet…”

She shares a meaningful look with Urbosa, and doesn’t seem at all willing to give up her advantage just yet.

…He wonders. Even he knows that the marks are rare, and yet they’re the only thing she might be talking about. So. Something about the marks. Something about the Champions. Urbosa, obviously. As for the other…s, it definitely isn’t Mipha: none of her adornments are designed to conceal a soulmark, her red and cream scales unmarred by fate’s brand. It’s unlikely to be Daruk on probability alone, since the marks are supposedly so rare among Gorons. Which leaves the most predictable of possible soulbonds in all of the kingdom, trite and underwhelming.

The princess and her knight, of course. He starts to say it out loud, but trails off mid-sentence; Mipha is shaking her head with a look of utmost alarm on her face, her hands twisting in a plea for silence. Revali frowns.

“Not her, no,” Urbosa says in a low voice, “and you’d do well not to poke that courser hive. Particularly not here.”

Dinraal’s accursed flames, but Revali detests the doublespeak of Hyrule’s court and the knots it makes of people’s tongues.

(Much later on, he’ll realise — they didn’t deny that Link has a mark. The thought leaves him irritated. Fate really does favour that dull-witted knight.)

“Shouldn’t they be here by now?” Mipha says abruptly. She’s taken the opportunity to turn back to the path, and a faint crease of concern twists the corner of her mouth. “…I wonder if something has happened.”

If Revali were to hazard a guess, Hyrule’s princess is licking her wounds, her knight’s presence is salting them, and Daruk… Daruk is probably just lost.

“I’m sure everything is just fine,” Urbosa says, and there’s no spark of danger in her smile now. Only a languid warmth like she’s decided that Mipha and Revali are people she approves of.

Mipha shakes her head and turns back to him. “…How long?”

What.

She looks at him with mild reproach, waiting for an answer, and Revali rustles his feathers in annoyance, snaps out a defensive, “What?”

She explains, in more detail than he’s entirely ready to take in. He does his best to keep up anyway. Marks that unravel from gold to grey, threads that join souls together regardless of whether they’ve met before.

Threads that guarantee at least an encounter, it’s said, though it’s up to you to recognise them and Mipha can’t say how that works.

Threads that measure out the span of years allotted to your fated person.

Revali hadn’t known that. His wing twitches towards the wrapping that hides his soulmark from the world. How would one measure such a thing?

She hesitates. “…I can try,” she says, sounding unsure, uncertain, the steely confidence with which she’d faced down Urbosa draining away. “Or - a sage could say with more certainty, or — well, it’s said came from the Goddess Hylia originally, so maybe Princess Zelda…”

Revali thinks of what Urbosa said — best not poke that courser hive — and comes to a conclusion. Of the remaining options, Mipha’s the only person on that list who has earned his trust.

Mipha makes a soft noise of confusion as Revali gingerly pulls the covering away, exposing his soulmark to another’s eyes for the first time since he was young and childish and didn’t know better.

“…Oh.”

She doesn’t say anything else for a long time. It leaves Revali twitchy with agitation. “Well?” he snaps, eventually, and Mipha shakes herself out of her stupor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and the words are a shock of cold against his auricles, creeping inside his head and draining slowly down into the hollows of his bones. Sorry — sorry for what? “I — I’m really not sure if I’m reading this well, but… I think it’s a century and a half? Maybe closer to two… The twists are so close together, I’m afraid I can’t really see them clearly, but…”

“Are you sure?”

She hesitates for a long while before saying, “…Yes.”

It narrows some things down. It leaves some things far more unsatisfactorily done, and casts a shadow over his mood through the rest of the day.

In almost five years, the only thing Revali has ever had from his supposed soulmate is silence.

—

You see, there’s been no suggestion in the long history of the Rito that any of them have ever been possessed of a soulmark: not the Cuho, nor the Torpa, nor any one of the wandering clans have ever mentioned such a thing; and the rarer the event, the more likely it would be to be commemorated in song and passed down with fine-tuned precision, sung to chicks in their eggs when their hatching was still far from certain.

Indeed, not even the ancient sage and her trickster prince were marked by destiny’s strings, the way Hylians so often were, and they are at the heart of several songs, passed on through generations.

So when an orphan fledgling — on a date far too close to the archery contest in which he’d hoped, at long last, to prove himself the victor — finds the indignity of his adult tailfeathers finally growing in marked, similarly, by the presence of a golden band forming against the grey of his scutes, it’s… beyond strange.

Nobody knows what to make of it.

Least of all Revali.

Early curiosity doesn’t last for long. Soon the mark is nothing but a silent brand, and he can only wonder if some day there might be an answer. Until then he hides it from sight, and waits.

And waits.

And soon he grows tired of waiting.