#its still pain but in a different way for him

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Ever Since We Met

Spoiler: Jason dies in the warehouse. ~1.5k words

Jason Todd is six years old and snot nosed when he falls in love with his best friend. Sure, he doesn't exactly know what love is, but he makes sure he's standing next to you when the class lines up so he can hold your hand.

He gets a weird feeling in his stomach (he’s not completely convinced that it’s jealousy, despite what the teacher tries to explain) when you follow other kids around the playground instead of him.

But, he does recognize the excitement he feels when you seek him out to be coloring partners during class instead of the girl sitting next to you.

He loves you as much as a six year old can. Especially when he gets to sleep over at your house and you turn your bed into a fortress of blankets and pillows for you both to sleep in. Those nights are his favorite, and you both drift off to whispered stories and hushed giggles.

Jason Todd is ten years old and getting used to growing pains when he develops a crush on his best friend. At least, he thinks it’s a crush. It feels different than being in love, even if he hasn’t quite grasped the fact that he is in love.

He's more hyper aware of what he does now, how he treats you. Sometimes, the way you smile makes him stumble over his words, and his face go hot. He distracts himself and you from it by asking about homework or that one TV show you that you watch on Saturday mornings.

Jason decides he likes that you’ll press to his side when you’re reading, lost in your own worlds together without a need to fill the silence, crush or not.

He likes that you’ll trade half of your sandwich for his and sneak him doodles and notes during class. (He won’t admit it, but he keeps them in a box under his bed. Sometimes they’re the only reason he doesn’t run away from it all)

He doesn’t bother to mask his obvious preference for you, even when the other kids try to tease him for his crush.

You’re always quick to threaten anyone who tries to put him down, anyway, and he’s more than happy to do the same for you. And when you offer him a high five for scaring off some of the older kids, He decides it doesn’t matter if it’s a crush or not, as long as you stay his best friend.

Jason Todd is twelve when he becomes Robin. It’s hard, well, not being Robin, that’s a magic entirely its own, but being away from you.

He lives in a manor that's bigger than the entire floor of the apartment building he used to live in. He's learned how to do a backflip while throwing a punch in midair. He has more at his fingertips now than he's ever had in the entire first eleven years of his life.

But he misses you. Sometimes, it feels like a phantom limb. Something he's always reaching for, but never quite grasping. It helps that you've gotten a scholarship to his new school, but it's still not enough.

He can't explain it, but he gets greedy for your time. You don't seem to mind the sporadic hangouts, or how often he has to cancel or leave. He kind of wishes you would, just to show that you care as much as he does.

He redoubles his efforts to be a good Robin when you tell him about the dealer that moved into the apartment next to yours. He resolves to be a better friend when you tell him the fancy suits he has to wear to galas look good on him.

His feelings don't change once, even if he hasn't quite found a balance between vigilante and civilian, he knows you're the one thing he can't let go of.

Jason is fifteen years old and about to die when he realizes the person he wants to see most is you. He's always known it, in the back of his mind, but as the blaring red numbers tick lower and lower, he just wishes he could hear your voice one more time.

It's you. Always been. And he's never said it. Never let you know.

His body aches. His leg is twisted the wrong way. His breathing is shallow and raspy. His vision is blurring, and he wants to live. But his mom is still trapped in this warehouse with him, and he's Robin. Robin helps, and that's what he'll do.

Jason drags himself to his mother's side to help, moves despite the gnawing, indescribable pain with every movement.

He's still trying to help, trying to sheild her from harm, as the numbers drop to zero. Zero. Zero. Zero.

What happens next doesn't hurt more than anything else did. And he has enough time to picture the color of your eyes before it all goes to black.

Jason Todd is eighteen when he dons the name Red Hood and becomes Gotham's biggest crime lord in a matter of months.

He stays far away from you, even if your memory has haunted him since the moment he woke up in that cursed pit. (and if he tries to remember, the moment since he first woke up in his own grave)

He's eighteen still, when his empire crumbles and he's left without a path, a purpose. He carries the weight of his years with the league, sags under the strain of not knowing who he is anymore.

He stays far away from you, sticks to the cracks and shadows of Gotham until his name is no longer whispered in fear. Then, and only then, is he brave enough to take off his helmet in front of you.

It's a relief and a terror all at once to finally see the color of your eyes from something other than a memory, and when his heartbeat starts to stutter, he knows he's never really grown out of being in love with you.

You've gotten older. (He shouldn't be surprised, he has too. He just always pictured you growing old together)

Your eyes still light up like he's your favorite person in the room. (He thinks he's allowed to be surprised about that)

But it's when you breathe out that he's home, that he figures out you've been waiting for him. Neither of you seem to know what to say after that, but you don't run for the hills in terror. And for the moment, that's enough.

Jason is twenty-one and passing the first (legally) acquired bottle of alcohol you've ever bought. You laugh about how it still tastes the same, and his heart nearly leaps out of his chest at the sound.

He loves you. It sings in his blood, settles on his tongue, he just doesn't know how to say it. He shows it, or at least he tries, but sometimes he's still waiting for this all to be a dream. It should have been impossible, how easily he slipped back into your life.

It was easy. So easy. Everything was easy with you. That's probably why he spills his guts.

He doesn't quite say it the right way, doesn't manage to get the word 'love' out. But he says enough to get his feelings out.

It's not poetic, not grand as you deserve, but somehow he manages to articulate the way butterflies create a hurricane in his stomach when you're around, how his gaze is always drawn to you, how he can't help but lean into the sound of your voice, the warmth of your touch.

Maybe he says a little too much about how he's been head over heels since the day you've met, because you just stare at him.

He's almost ready to run, to blame it all on the one measly shot he's had. This is, until you kiss him. And oh, it's everything he never dared to dream it would be.

It's a little messy, sure, the angle a little strange as you crane across the couch to tangle your fingers in his hair. But it's perfect, it's you, and Jason falls in love all over again.

Jason Todd is twenty-three and still learning how to say I love you. It's not that he loves you any less, if anything, he loves you now more than ever. It's just still something he's getting used to.

Love is something you've given to him so freely, something he's happy to return. But it scares him, sometimes. He worries that if he says it out loud too much, the universe will realize how great of a gift he's been given, and rip it away.

It might be irrational, but he holds the word love close to his heart anyway, unwilling to test fate anymore than he already does by putting on that red helmet.

He whispers it to you in the dead of night instead, says it with touch instead of sound, shows it with soft, shine of his eye. He squeezes your hand when you say it to him, does his best to make it clear he feels the same, even if he can't get the words out.

He'll get it eventually, figure out how to get it off his tongue. He has to.

Especially if he wants to show you the pretty little band of shining, precious metal he has tucked away in a velvet box.

[nenoname]

It's still interesting that TBoB called more attention to Stan's control over his mindscape (And if you go with the interpretation that the lost pages are partial truths that are heavily influenced by Bill, then he's the one insisting that only someone with training should be able to have that much control over the mind.)

Meanwhile we have a memory!Stan. Someone who apparently knows too much and is rather aware for being a simple memory.

From the Wheel of Shame, we know Bill was able dig up all kinds of dirt on Stan but... that wasn't why he was there in the first place, was it?

Bill couldn't find the code immediately despite a memory of Stan opening the safe being a few hours old at most and decided to have Mabel try find it for him (The original concept of the ep had it far more hidden but this was likely cut because of time constraints)

Ford did experiments on Stan's mind which likely meant using Project Mentem and actually looking around his mindscape, and his only reaction was to comment on his jokes-- despite what little we the audience know being enough to render us sobbing wrecks

(yes I refuse to shut up about this part cos the book's intro is extremely underrated)

Stan was able to replace his memories of Ford with the swingset instead and managed to hide Ford in his Bar Mitzvah memory. And that's not even mentioning the lack of visible Portal and Stan o' War which noticeably show up in Ford's dreamscape (the broken swingset manifesting anyway pains me tho)

He subconsciously has misdirects for his secrets that are both silly and manages to disturb everyone too

And while Bill-as-Soos being bored by the vending machine memory is a joke that's basically the crew's way of going "hey remember the thing way back in the first ep that's going to show up in the next one?" and in-universe appears to be Stan slipping up, it's interesting that they had Stan input the wrong code when it's consistent literally every other time its inputted (especially when it shows up correctly in the very next episode)

It's even possible that the safe code that Bill found could have been a misdirect too but we'll never know since the safe got blown open by dynamite.

Stan was able to buy time by making his mind blank despite being genuinely terrified when Bill enters his mind (to the point that he breaks character and uses his own voice to yell), and could conjure up his living room (in colour opposed to his mind's regular greyscale) to make sure Bill didn't have enough room to flee, slamming the door in his face before the effects of the memory gun kicked in.

(EDIT: Random door analysis here)

And maybe the twins eventually told him that Bill had already been inside his mind after their W3 reunion, but all we know was that his conscious self was left in the dark for ages and wasn't really aware of Bill until Weirdmageddon.

TBoB showing McGucket's dreamscape also brings up the idea of the effects of the memory gun manifesting differently to each person. To Stan's mindscape, the memory wipe manifests as blue flames which immediately brings to mind Bill's powers but it's a far lighter shade (maybe to more closely match the memory gun and its eventual fade to white?)

The end of TBoB and the website poem also firmly reminds us about Stan's connection to fire but there's also the question if Stan himself is actually aware of it...

[buckevantommy]

Buck could fill a small bakery with the amount he's baked in the past few weeks. He cleaned out the flour shelf at his local corner market, used a coop's worth of eggs, pushed his mixer to the limit, and had his oven working near constantly. Every neighbor on his floor and everyone he's passed in the lobby has had a loaf of some kind left on their doorstep or politely shoved into their hands. Everyone at the station is begging him not to overload them on anymore sugar - they'll take the carb-loaded meals he makes at work but avoid Buck the moment he enters the bay doors with a basket of saran-wrapped sweet bakes.

The worst part is that it's not even working anymore. It never really distracted him enough to not want to call Tommy, just put his hands and head to use for an hour or two at a time so that he couldn't text or call.

But now there's nothing left to bake with. And Eddie is looking at houses in El Paso. And everyone has family to go home to, except for Buck. And every reason he has for not being the one to reach out first goes out the window.

After a few rings, Tommy answers with a questioning: "-Buck?" and it's a gutpunch he doesn't need today but he's already feeling like shit so the pain just gets absorbed into the rest of it.

"H-hey, Tommy." It feels good to say his name under- well, not better circumstances than addressing his broken heart, but something with a bit of tentative hope at least.

And it's good to hear his voice. The voicemails and audio notes and videos from their time together have soothed him and tormented him at different times, but hearing Tommy respond sends a pang of longing through him.

"Um. I-I, uh."

"Are you okay?"

A bitter sound trips its way out of Buck's mouth. "No. No, I-I'm not okay."

"Are you hurt?"

The urgency in Tommy's voice thrills him; he still cares. But Buck doesn't want to misrepresent himself, doesn't want to trick Tommy into caring about what he's going through.

"Guess that depends."

"On what?"

"What kinda hurt you mean."

There's an inhale across the line. "What can I do?"

Tears prick at the corners of Buck's eyes. "I just- need someone to talk to." He doesn't say: even though we're not together anymore, can we still be friends? because even though he's missed Tommy being in his life, he doesn't know if he could be just friends.

"Okay." Buck hears some rustling in the background, footsteps, background noise receding. "I'm here. Talk to me."

Tommy wants to hear what Buck has to say, he always did. So Buck talks. He tells Tommy about Eddie moving away, and Tommy listens. And when it gets too much he tells Tommy about a new niece or nephew of his on the way, and Tommy offers his sincere congratulations. And then he tells Tommy about his baking coping mechanism and Tommy quiets.

So much so that Buck checks to see if the call dropped.

"I'm on my fifth engine," Tommy admit. "I keep taking them apart and putting them back together until they work better than before. But everytime I was done I had to start again, fix another broken thing, because I couldn't fix.."

Buck takes an unsteady breath. Us. "Me."

"No," Tommy says emphatically. "I couldn't fix me. Too broken to be good enough for you."

It's a heartwrenching confession, but Buck feels a smile beneath the tears sneaking down his face. "You don't think I'm broken? Nobody stays for me, Tommy. At some point I gotta realize I'm just not someone people wanna stick around for in the long run."

"Evan.."

Buck breezes over the sound of his name in Tommy's mouth, can't dwell on how good it feels because it won't last. "Guess neither of us are forever guys, huh." His heart, bruised and battered, bleeds a little more. The tears stream freely now. He sniffles, but manages to steady his voice as he says: "I loved you. That was real."

Tommy's breath hitches. "I was a coward."

Buck nods. Cries some more. They're both fucked up.

Tommy hesitates, but then: "I'm off-shift soon. We could.."

He leaves it hanging. There's so many ways Buck could finish that sentence, most of them unbearably hopeful. He doesn't want to stay in his empty apartment anymore. "Yours?" His voice is a little wet. "Maybe I could help you with that engine."

Tommy's breath of amusement is a balm to Buck's aching heart. "You know something about vintage cars I don't?" It's teasing, and gentle, and Buck has missed this.

"Maybe. Maybe trying to do it alone is the problem."

Another breath of laughter, followed by resignation in Tommy's voice. "Yeah. Maybe you're right."

Buck listens to him breathe for a moment: in, out, in..

"I'll meet you at mine."

Buck's poor heart beats a little stronger.

*

It was more than an hour later, of battling crosstown traffic and then letting himself into Tommy's house because Tommy had explicitly told him to use the spare key. They never gotten to the point of swapping keys. That probably should've been a step they didn't skip over. Buck's too-long legs had skipped too many for Tommy's comfort.

He pushes all thoughts of that aside. He's not perfect, he's too much, but Tommy agreed to see him. Tommy wants.. he's not sure.

Buck stands in the little living room, surveying Tommy's space while his mind spirals, heart yoyo-ing between hope and hopelessness. He doesn't know how much time passes when the front door opens and Tommy appears in the entryway.

He looks good. Tired, if the dark circles under his eyes are anything to go by, but good. His hair is a little longer all over, and it suits him. Buck wants to tell him as much but he can't seem to say anything.

Then Tommy says, "Hey," soft and concerned and fond, a sad smile at the corners of his eyes.

And Buck's tears threaten back into his own. "Hey." His voice is watery and brittle.

Tommy's there in three strides, gathering Buck into his arms, and Buck lets himself be wrapped in an embrace. Winds his arms around Tommy and presses into his solid warmth. Breathes him in as the tears come.

He feels safe. Seen. His heart cradled in care the way his body is cradled in Tommy's arms.

Buck takes a deep, steadying inhale of Tommy's scent and pulls back enough to look him in the face. His hands loose their grip at Tommy's shirt, smoothing to palm him through the cotton.

"About that engine.."

Tommy's smile is wide enough to crinkle his eyes in that way Buck loves, with joy etched in the creases.

"I wanna help you, if you'll let me. We could make it work. Together."

Tommy's eyes glisten. His smile breaks into a grin. "I'd like to try that."

buck probably called tommy every chance he got when they were together. driving home from work and stuck in traffic, it’s time to call tommy and tell him about his shift. late night in bed and he’s struggling to fall asleep without him, tommy’s soft voice will lull him to sleep from the other side of the phone. both on shift and the calls had been particularly slow, he will go and sit on the roof with tommy on loud speaker and they will just talk about anything and everything.

and when buck finds out that eddie is thinking about moving back to texas, tommy is the only person who he wants to talk to about it. so he finally gives in and calls. and of course, tommy will answer.

[santaasi]

story of my life

pairing: jj maybank x fem!reader

summary: what are you willing to do for the love of your life?

warnings: !major spoiler for obx4 final!, angst, establish relationship, nearly death experience, no use of y/n, english isn't my first language

word count: 2.8k

a/n: requested by this ask. i still haven't found the strength to watch s4, but i like to write about it. you know, after all this emotionally difficult month, all your requests help me not to go crazy. so thank you very much.

ᯓ★ now playing...

one direction - story of my life

YOU HAD ALWAYS LOVED LIFE. Even through all the chaos and heartbreak, you clung to it with fierce devotion, treasuring every moment. Your greatest dream wasn’t wealth or fame — it was to live boldly, to see the world in vivid color, to grow old with stories of wild adventures alongside the Pogues, the family you had found and held so dear. They were your anchor, your everything.

But life, for all its beauty, has taught you a bitter truth: it isn’t always fair. More often than not, it is harsh and unrelenting, a storm that leaves you scrambling for shelter. You’d learned to accept that, to carry on, to find joy even in the darkest corners. And you did, always.

What you never prepared for — what you could never imagine — was just how cruel it could truly be.

You weren’t ready for the knife. You weren’t ready for the split-second decision, the instinct that drove you to shield him, to put yourself in harm’s way without hesitation. All you cared about at that moment was that JJ would be safe. And he was.

But you?

No amount of planning or foresight could have prepared you for this — the searing pain, the hot Moroccan sand beneath you, and the endless blue sky above, eerily reminiscent of home. You’d spent your life navigating every twist and turn, surviving every trial fate threw at you, but now your strength ebbed away with every heartbeat.

Life really was cruel.

You and the Pogues had always known that, enduring its relentless trials together, earning your scars the hard way. But this? This was different. This was a cruelty you’d never known — a cruelty you couldn’t accept.

It wasn’t the dying that broke you, even though your dream of growing old with stories to tell burned brightly in your chest until the very end. Death itself wasn’t what hurt most. You had danced with it so many times before, always escaping, always one step ahead.

No, what shattered you was the sight of JJ Maybank, the boy who had stolen your heart and become your everything, cradling you as life slipped through your fingers. His tears fell like rain, his voice hoarse from screaming for help that wouldn’t come. His hands trembled, desperately trying to hold you together, trying to stop the bleeding, trying to defy the inevitable.

That was the real cruelty. Watching his world break as yours faded.

But now, as you stared up at the endless blue sky, its hue so much like his eyes and the tranquil ocean, it didn’t seem so cruel after all. Dying to save the person you loved most — it wasn’t a punishment. It was a gift, wasn’t it? To offer your life for the one who taught you how to love — that was a blessing.

A soft smile touched your lips as you reached out a trembling hand to his face, your fingers brushing his cheek, catching the tears that fell like rivers. His pain was unbearable to witness, but the warmth of his skin under your touch grounded you, even as the world slipped further away.

“Jay,” you whispered, your voice thin and fractured, each word scraped from a well of pain you refused to show him. You had always been strong — for the Pogues, for him. You couldn’t stop now. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He froze, his frantic movements stilling for a moment as your words cut through his panic. You swallowed hard, pushing down the agony clawing at your chest, determined to ease the fear in his eyes, if only a little.

“The luck had to run out eventually,” you continued, a faint chuckle escaping despite the weight crushing your lungs. “And, honestly? Dying in the arms of my first and only love… That’s pretty romantic, don’t you think? I’m like the main character in one of those cheesy teen dramas you hate so much.”

The effort of your laugh sent a sharp jolt of pain through your body, pulling a wet cough from your lips. The metallic tang of blood filled your mouth, and your chest burned with the force of it. You tried to hide it, but JJ saw — of course, he saw.

His face crumpled, and the desperation in his voice pierced through you like the knife had. “No. No. No. You’re not dying. I won’t let you die.”

His hands trembled as he held you, his grip firm yet unbearably gentle, as if afraid you’d slip away entirely if he let go. He rocked you slightly, his movements uneven and frantic, his voice cracking as he screamed for help, calling out for the others, begging the universe to give him just one more miracle.

“You can’t leave me,” he choked out, his words tumbling over one another in a broken, frantic rush. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy, you hear me? I’ll pester you until you’re old and gray. Forever. That’s the deal, remember?”

His words wavered, drenched in panic and pain, as if sheer determination alone could defy the inevitable. You wanted to tell him it was okay, that he’d be okay, that you didn’t regret a single thing. But the truth was, seeing him like this — the boy who was your whole world shattered and breaking — hurt more than the knife ever could.

 A soft, broken laugh escaped your lips, each tremor in your chest sending ripples of pain through your body. Breathing felt like trying to hold onto smoke — fleeting and agonizing. Why did it have to hurt so much? You drew a shallow, shaky breath, your hand brushing over JJ’s tear-streaked cheek. He clung to you like you were the only solid thing left in his crumbling world, his eyes squeezed shut, his face twisted with anguish.  

Even now, even like this, he was beautiful. It wasn’t fair.  

You’d thought it a hundred times before, over the years spent by his side. No matter the situation, no matter how disheveled or broken, JJ Maybank always carried a beauty that was effortless and infuriating. He was a contradiction — a masterpiece painted in chaos — and you could never look at him without being reminded of how deeply, unfairly he had your heart.  

You had seen him in every state imaginable: bloodied and bruised, grinning through the pain, laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe, or asleep under the stars with his face softened by peace he rarely found. Even in his worst moments, when life dragged him down to its cruelest depths, he was breathtaking. You used to joke that Aphrodite herself must have crafted him, a cruel trick of divine perfection meant to mock you.  

But it wasn’t a joke now, lying here in his arms. Because you knew you’d never see the life you’d imagined with him.  

You’d thought about it more times than you could admit: the way his children would carry his same irresistible charm, the way his hair might gray but his smile would never lose its boyish mischief, the way you’d both grow old together, teasing and bickering like you always did. But none of that would happen now.  

You wouldn’t be there to see it.  

You wouldn’t see the Pogues again, wouldn’t see John B and Sarah raising a family, wouldn’t wake up in JJ’s arms to greet the sunrise and talk about life like it was endless. All those dreams, those plans — they were dissolving, fading into the hot Moroccan sand beneath you, slipping from your grasp like water through trembling fingers.  

But at least you’d die saving him.  

JJ’s voice cracked, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. “We should have stayed... I should have listened to you... I...” He repeated the words in a frantic, looping mantra, his tone raw with regret, his breath hitching as though saying it enough times could rewrite the moment. As though this were some nightmare he could will himself to wake from.  

And maybe it would have been a dream — a bad one — if they’d all just listened to you. If they hadn’t chased after the crown, if they’d let greed and desperation go. Maybe you’d be lying in the chateau right now, the sunlight warming your skin, talking about tomorrow with hope instead of fear.  

But life didn’t work like that.  

You knew this outcome was inevitable. You’d known something was off, a shadow lurking on the edge of this adventure. You’d felt it in your bones. But even so, you couldn’t walk away. You couldn’t leave your family behind.  

Because they wouldn’t have made it without you.  

You were the glue that held them together, the one who kept the chaos from consuming them all. You cooked when they forgot to eat, bandaged wounds when they refused to stop, made plans when they leapt without looking. You were the mother, the voice of reason, the protector. You carried their burdens as if they were your own, no matter how heavy they became.  

And you’d never leave them in trouble. Even if it meant leaving the world behind. 

“Hey, hey, it’s not your fault,” you murmured, your voice trembling but steady enough to cut through his despair. With a shaky hand, you wiped the tears from his face, your fingers brushing against the salt trails on his skin. “I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t... leave you alone.”

“But that’s what you’re doing now!” JJ cried, his voice cracking like a child’s. A loud, broken sob tore from his lips as he pulled you closer, holding you as if sheer force could tether you to him. The raw pain in his eyes shattered you more than the knife ever could. “You’re leaving me! It should’ve been me! Why— why did you take it all on yourself?”

“JJ...” you whispered, your fingers threading weakly through his hair, softer than you’d ever imagined. The sunlight kissed the golden strands, turning him into something otherworldly — a fragile angel, aching and broken. Your vision blurred, the world dissolving into a haze, but you clung to him, fighting to stay present. For him.

“I did it because you have to live,” you said softly, your voice cracking under the weight of your words. “Because you deserve to live. You deserve a happy ending.”

Your breath hitched, and a cough wracked your body, leaving a metallic tang on your lips. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, but you ignored it, your focus entirely on him. On the boy you loved more than life itself.

“You deserve a happy life more than anyone, JJ,” you continued, the words fragile but unyielding. “You have to go on your adventures, see the world, make your dreams come true... I...” You paused, gathering the last fragments of your strength. “At home, under my bed, there’s a box. It has the money left from El Dorado...”

A faint, bittersweet smile touched your lips as the truth of it all washed over you like the tide. Every decision, every moment over the last few months had led to this. Saving that money, denying yourself fleeting indulgences — it had all been for this. Deep down, maybe you’d known. Maybe you’d felt it all along, the shadow of inevitability hanging over you.

From the very beginning, when the crown became a glimmering temptation, you’d sensed it. Something about it felt wrong, like a weight in your chest that wouldn’t ease. You hadn’t wanted to go — you’d begged them to stay, to stop chasing after danger and live, just live. But they wouldn’t have listened, not even to you.

And so you’d gone. Because they needed you.

The irony struck you now, sharp and bitter, and you almost laughed. All you’d wanted was a simple life — a reprieve from the constant running, the relentless searching, the near brushes with death. You’d only wanted one quiet moment to breathe.

But life had never let you stop.

“Take the money,” you whispered, your voice thin but insistent. “Leave. Start over. Find your happiness, JJ. Live... for me.”

Your fingers lingered on his cheek, memorizing the warmth of him, the boy who had been your whole world. The tears falling from his eyes pooled at the edges of your smile.

Even as the edges of the world began to fade, you clung to one truth: you would give everything for him. And you had.

“Don’t you dare do that,” JJ choked out, shaking his head as if denying the reality before him could rewrite it. His trembling hand brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, the tenderness in his touch breaking your heart anew. “Don’t you dare say goodbye,” he sobbed, pressing a desperate kiss to your head. His arms rocked you gently, cradling you as though the rhythm alone could anchor you to him. “We’ll do it all together, you hear me? We’ll start over. We’ll visit every corner of this damn world. We’ll grow old together... I won’t — I can’t let you leave me like this.”

You tried to answer, but your body betrayed you. It was slipping further out of your control, growing lighter, weightless, like a feather carried off by the wind. Still, you smiled — soft, faint, but filled with all the love you couldn’t put into words.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the pull of oblivion so strong, but you forced them open again. Over and over, you fought against it, clinging to the fragile thread of life. Not for yourself — for him. For the dreams you had spun together in quiet moments, the ones you had whispered into the dark when the world felt too heavy.

You thought of those dreams now, pulling them close like a lifeline.

You’d planned it all, written it down in the little diary you kept hidden away since you were a child. Its pages were filled with messy sketches of hearts and scrawled dreams, and in so many of them was his name — your best friend, your everything. Back then, you were too shy to confess your feelings, too scared of what losing him might mean. But that little girl, the one who poured her heart onto those pages, would be over the moon now. She’d never believe JJ Maybank had become hers.

How many times had you imagined the life you’d build together? Leaving Kildare behind, hand in hand, to find new adventures in the wide, open world. Finding that perfect spot by the sea — a place that felt like home. Slowly, brick by brick, you’d build a new life together, one where all the scars and broken pieces of your pasts didn’t matter anymore.

You could almost see it. The day JJ would propose.

He’d plan it for weeks, determined to make it perfect, pouring over every cliché from the romantic comedies you adored. He’d rehearse speeches in secret, dragging John B and Pope into his schemes, pestering them to help him nail every detail. And yet, on the day itself, when he finally saw you, everything he’d practiced would vanish.

He’d forget the rehearsed words, the plans, everything but you.

JJ would drop to one knee, his hands shaking as he pulled out a small, worn ring — the one he’d kept hidden for years, a precious piece of his mother’s legacy. He’d hold it out to you, his voice cracking as he whispered the only words that mattered: Be mine. Forever.

And you would be. You’d take his hand, slip on that ring, and promise him everything. You’d become the happiest girl in the world, every piece of your soul woven into his.

Forever.

But now, forever felt impossibly far away.

“I love you, JJ Maybank,” you whispered, the words barely audible but carrying the weight of a lifetime. Your gaze lingered on his sea-blue eyes, anchoring yourself in their depth, memorizing every detail — the way they shimmered like sunlight on water, the way they always felt like home.

“You’ve become my dream.”

The words left your lips like a prayer, soft and eternal. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy with the pull of exhaustion, and slowly, they closed. Darkness crept in, warm and quiet, wrapping around you like JJ’s arms — steady, protective, safe. If this was death, it wasn’t cruel. It was peace. And if this was how it felt to go, you thought, then you would gladly endure it a thousand times over just to feel him near.

But as the silence deepened and the void seemed to pull you further away, a voice rose above it — a sound so strong, so certain, it cut through the emptiness like a lifeline.

“I won’t leave you. Never.”

His voice was raw, desperate, but unshakably firm, as if willing the universe to bend to his promise.

And you believed him.

You fell, your body surrendering to the weightlessness, but the thought of him grounded you. You held on to his words, letting them guide you like a beacon through the dark.

Even as the void swallowed you whole, there was a certainty buried deep within your heart.

When you opened your eyes again, you knew he would be there.

thankx for reading <3

I love one direction. I love jj maybank. and I love this fic. but I don't like killing characters. I can't write about death after Liam and JJ's death, it's very hard for me, so I decided to leave the ending kinda open? for me, the reader is still alive, but if you like dramatic endings, then you can end the story on the death of the reader.

and as usual, you can always share your opinion in comments or my inbox :3

                                    – your santi 🪐

masterlist

[dolligguk]

was it all just a memory?

note : a vv quick drabble, unedited, and wrote this specifically as i have a fever.

word count: 2,639

closing his eyes, all that he felt was the ache. in his eyes, in his body after consecutive hours of practice in the studio, and in his heart.

something in jungkook's gut gnaws at him. he's been feeling off since 2 years ago. its been this way till now. and now, he sits alone on his bed, face stuffed in his palms. like usual, he brushes those thoughts off.

-ding!

laughter is heard along with the voices of his fellow group members.

"jaykay! open the door!" jungkook has slight relief at hearing his group members voice, hoseok. the company of others would help keep his brain from going in too deep.

opening the door, jungkook presses his lips into a smile and hugs taehyung as he pushes in to enter first.

after all of them settle on the velvety beige couch, jungkook is busy to pull out some beer and jin reaches for the remote. the living room was warm, a contrast to the rainy and breezy weather outside.

as they all sit down and start chattering about upcoming events they have to attend, jungkook sits there quietly. jimin chugs the glass of beer that jungkook presented as the rest of the members drink little by little talking with one another. taehyung gets up to retrieve some water as he doesn't like the taste and jungkook turns to him.

"tae hyung can you give me the whiskey bottle?"

"tough morning huh?"

jungkooks tongue pokes inside his cheek as his eyes smile slightly. taehyung retrieves it as jungkook fills his glass with ice and the whiskey. instead of trying to interact with the members and even trying to listen in so hes on par with the schedules, the fizzing sound of the whiskey filling up the cup with ice, fills his ears, like slow motion, the ice hitting against the glass and the background sound of banter. the texture of everything around him, the feeling he got when he was with you, it was always the small details that took over him. the softness of the couch under the pads of his fingers as he presses them onto it, sitting back down and resting his head on the headrest. the pattern of the wooden table in front of him, the tiny puddle of whiskey the dripped from his glass and the feel of his own skin. and in these moments which never happen anymore, he hoped to be engulfed by the sweet scent and comfort of you. but it didn't come. and its like something snaps him awake, into a different reality.

taking sip by sip, his stomach churns.. this isn't right. it wasn't unusual for him to let the others talk since he doesn't really like to interfere. but that still means he does take in account what's going on around him. today however, his ears start to take in the sound of the rain softly hitting against his large glass windows, his eyes play flashbacks like a movie scene. he gets goosebumps on his skin, as if reliving those moments with you. right now felt like a mere dream.

" jungkook." you whisper.

no. no no no.

you didn't say anything, you're not even here, what the fuck?

"jungkook?" the familiar deep voice called again. and like the feel and sound of the world fading back in, jungkook blinks. his tired eyes were veiny red as they blur with tears from the pain and feel of it all.

"ya ,,, jungkook." another voice called, cold fingertips tapping softly against his bare tatted shoulder, jungkook snaps out of it.

whatever "it" was.

all the members stared at the man. he realized yoongi had been calling him. and now they all looked concerned, he was completely shattered. jungkook didn't realize that he was a mess, his body was shaking and heart was beating fast. like a in a haze of a fever. he once again closed his eyes and let out a shaky exhale. they stayed quiet, surprised by his sudden change in behavior.

in their eyes, this didn't make sense.

after jimin had tried to gently ask him what's wrong, jungkook wiped his tears and gave a small smile saying he was just exhausted after days of no break. the members weren't fully buying it but since in their minds there wasn't any other reason, they gave him time as they begin to leave after patting his back for a moment of comfort.

"so", namjoon cleared his throat softly and closed the door as he turned to face jungkook who was a little confused on why he didn't leave with the others. jungkook smiled and tried to take a few deep breaths before talking with namjoon.

"jungkook, i need to know what's been going on.. this might have been the first time but," namjoon calmly sits beside him and looks down at his lap, "you dont seem to have been okay for a very long while now, but today you just.." namjoon licks his lips and presses them flat against each other as he struggles to find the right words to express his deep concern.

jungkook stares unemotionally, his mind in other places and as if namjoon can read his mind;

"i say a few months, a few months after you two separated."

jungkook narrows his eyes before letting out a bitter laugh. "funny you bring her up"

"had a feeling" says namjoon before he slightly squints at jungkook. he sets himself comfortably on the couch, pulling out a cigarette and handing another to jungkook.

"yeah?" jungkook lights it up and rubs his eyes before smoking, staring at the other mans expression through the grey smoke he blows out from his aflush lips. his voice was quiet and raspy as he smiles sadly. "you know.. if she was here, i dont think i wouldnt be touching this cigar"

"it was all you" namjoon says taking a deep breath while flicking off some of the cigarettes end. he lifts his eyes up again, calmly continuing, "tell me if im crossing a line, but this is coming from a brother."

jungkook slightly shakes his head as he shuts his eyes and blows out another puff. before namjoon can part his lips to speak, his eyes shoot up as jungkook says something, letting out a choked whisper.

"what if i killed her?"

his head was still tilted up, resting against the couch and his fingers have already given up, the cigar burning into the expensive couch before going out, his face was stoic except the tears that had started to stream down his face, following the pattern of the droplets of rain against the glass window. jungkook tried swallowing the lump in his throat, but the ache in his heart and churn in his stomach would never go away. namjoons face showed slight shock.

jungkook parted his lips, his voice barely above a whisper. "i made it worse for her, i.. i could've helped, but my fucking ego"

"you dont know where she is"

the next day, jungkook woke up in a deep headache and on his bed. namjoon was nowhere to be found and jungkook figured that he helped him get to bed after he passed out.

there it goes again, that off feeling.

after taking a shower, he fixed his bed and changed. finally sitting down on the edge of the bed, he looked up. seeing his reflection in the wide mirror. the eye bags that had started to form made him feel even worse. this whole morning, alone, with no distraction, he was quiet. no TV, no phone, no food, and no music.

spontaneously, he got up and took his keys, he didn't know where he was going, but all he knew was that he missed her so bad that he was going insane.

"you dont know where she is"

such a small contexted sentence and literally didn't make sense. but yet, jungkook found himself crazily staring into the road, his fingers gripping so tightly on the steering wheel that his knuckles were white, clenching and unclenching his jaw. he was angry at himself. and after 2 hours of driving- no break, he started to get view of the once familiar town , soon following the neighborhood. a contrast to his. it was homey and all the houses and apartments were small and very very close, usually had a few kids frolicking around or the aunties coming out to visit each other while having the deliciously scented desserts in their hands.

today, wasn't any different. he parked his car and some kids moved out the way, staring at him, an unknown and never seen person on this street, walking to the small single apartment complex.

a few old women owned the place and took younger girls in so they wouldn't live alone in fear. his girl lived in the house beside it, with a housemate. at least from what he remembered.

his hands were shaking, heart was beating so fast and he felt so scared, practically smelling your scent and seeing you run to him smiling so widely like it was just yesterday, but it was all years ago. he shakes his head and takes a deep sigh.

man up jungkook, dont think about anything els-

a woman appeared from the small gate that lead to a yard in front of the apartment complex. she was short and had glasses on, looking like she was in her maybe 50s. Jungkook stood there and tried to compose himself to get to the point since he was still nervous, the grown woman eyed him and raise her brow, pushing her head forward to get a better sight.

"you knocked?"

jungkook stuttered, trying to catch his breath as he bowed politely, clearing his throat before gently speaking.

"hi" he clears his throat again as the lady tries to decipher him, "i-i .. im here to ask about someone that lives here?"

"in this building?" the grandma asks.

"n-no.. i think she lives close by-"

"then why are you here son?" she cuts him off feeling a bit impatient.

jungkook doesn't reply feeling so nerve-wrecked. the grandma slightly senses as she lets out a chuckle.

"you must be an old boyfriend, huh? well fortunately, i deal with a lot of those for the young ladies here, come in come in." the grandma opens the door a little wider, cueing jungkook to enter. one of her hands are on her lower back and jungkook realizes she must be tired of standing.

he doesn't know how to reply except for giving a slight nod, even though knowing this is much complicated than the grandma thinks. he helps her in as she shows him a way to a main living room that leads to staircases. jungkook figures that's where the small apartments are as he sits down in front of the fireplace in the small couch, the grandma sitting in front of him.

a young girl comes in and bows a hello at jungkook, as he does the same he realizes, they have a similar style. he exhales as the girl places a glass of tea for the grandma and leaves to the kitchen.

"s-so.." jungkook starts, the grandma was quiet and calm just slowly staring off out of the glass window, where a beautiful sight of the yard is shown.

"tell me about her" the grandma says after noticing his hesitance.

"she lived in the house by this building.. __?" jungkook slips her name out hesitantly, hoping the woman would recognize it.

"ah" she clicks her tongue and shakes her head sighing, setting the glass down and massages her temples.

"__ ah.. was she one of a kind, huh?" jungkook stays quiet, furrowing his brows at what the grandma says. "well, i'm sorry if you didn't hear, but she's not here son" she looks at him slight empathetically.

"i-im sorry.. what?"

"you said __ right?" jungkook nods not quite understanding.

"well the poor girl suffered a heart attack around maybe last? year. it was a mess for the whole neighborhood"

Jungkook's eyes widen, his brain, trying to protect him doesn't process this as he whispers. "is she fine now?"

the grandma sadly smiles but exhales, "i know its hard to believe and let go, .. but she's not here son. not on this earth."

the grandma gets up and calls the girl over for more tea. she turns around to excuse herself to the bathroom, but before says;

"if you'd like, we have a few photos of her in the bin over there, we keep all photos of people we're close with in there when we do a wake." she gives a small smile that makes jungkook's shock calm a bit so he can at least give a bow of respect and thank.

after the grandma walks away to the bathroom, the girl appears with what seems a full kettle now and as she sits down to pour some into the grandmas cup, she realizes jungkooks state.

hes shaking, his eyes opening and closing, he doesn't seem fine. she clears her throat softly and pats his shoulder. as jungkook composes himself he looks up at the girl, desperately and crazily.

"so.. how come your here, i've never seen you before."

jungkook try's to put out a smile but fails, he shakes his head ready to go. "was just looking for someone"

"__?" jungkook whips his head back.

"sorry, i heard you talking about her, its really tragic" she empathizes and jungkook gives a small nod. "d-did you know her?"

"yeah, she was a sort of friend, it was the issues with her previous boyfriend.- o-oh.. you, right?" jungkook stares off as he tilts his head and presses his lips. "yeah?"

"well she was severely depressed after you left her because of your parents, and she was not good mentally in that moment when it happened" she smiles sadly and gets up, holding the now warn kettle in her palms. "we do have photos if you want to see." she suggests.

jungkook was confused since this had never happened. his parents were never involved themselves in his relationships, but he brushes it off thinking maybe she remembers wrong and before he can decline and leave, she came forward with the photos, making jungkooks brows furrow.

"did you get them mixed up?"

the girl raises her brows softly and shakes her head, "thats __"

"im sorry, maybe you got them mixed up? .."

the girl was completely confused as she shakes her head again, "im pretty sure i would know who my friend is."

"thats __ __?" jungkook asks

the girls eyes squint, "no thats kang __"

jungkook shakes his head, terribly confused, who was this "kang __"?! his girl did not have this surname.

"w-wait? is your name minho?" the girl drops the photos and walks closer.

jungkook feels even more dumbfounded, "no, my name is Jeon Jungkook."

"oh." the girl seems to have been also terribly confused before she raises her brows.

"__ __, you say?" he slowly nods and she sits down thinking before saying; "im sorry i dont know a person by this full name, if you want to- check with the police records, maybe they know someone if shes lived in this town before."

jungkook feels dumbfounded as he drives to a police station and asking for a persons check.

"do you know her name, full name specifically"

"__ __, not to be mixed up with kang __"

"we have many __ but not with the surname that you claim."

the police man returns the huge stack of files and moves away from the computer looking at jungkook as jungkook shakes his head, a wave of dizziness hits him.

"so.."

the policeman fixes his cap and raises his eyebrows.

"so.. the person you have stated, does not exist."

[ideasnstuff]

Not an idea but a short thing nevertheless.

One of my favourite skk scenes.

A description.

Looking at Chuuya at that precise moment had become extremely awkward.

Well, in reality it had always been embarrassing to look at Chuuya, when the boy shone as brightly as a blazing flame.

Looking at Chuuya had always been simultaneously embarrassing and a source of inexplicable irritation.

But now... now that he looked at the boy in front of him... the one taller, now felt small.

Blood bubbled violently in the pale veins, producing human heat that Dazai was not even aware of its existence.

It contrasted, therefore, with the cooled air of the light and melancholy night.

The previous conversation had been done casually, in an attempt to calm Chuuya, who - Dazai had realized - hadn't needed any reassurance.

But seeing the face covered in pungent stains of dried blood on the white skin, writhing in an expression of irritation and frustration, it had been enough to confirm Nakahara Chuuya's usual state.

The boy was fine, as he always was.

And Dazai, faced with so much willpower, so much resistance, stronger than the burden of fate, could only feel a certain respect.

Looking at the boy had become wrong. Looking at someone who had been through hell on earth was extremely shameful.

But Chuuya didn't seem fazed by this, speaking and treating Dazai, a mere mortal, as if nothing had happened.

Who would have thought, that the annoying boy and arrogant, had become the remedy for Dazai's eternal and inherent boredom.

Surely, a year ago, Dazai wouldn't have guessed such a thing.

Even though from the first day he had laid eyes on the boy, he had felt something different, something protective and... necessary... he'd never thought that would be enough to continue playing the game that people called life.

And for that very reason, Dazai looked with different eyes - or rather, with his only eye - with a feeling of admiration, respect and some inferiority towards Chuuya.

He felt small next to the boy.

Oh- how his heart beat with atrocity against the fragile ribs...

He felt almost alive, the wind passing between them, like a caress from a mother's hand that neither had ever felt...

It was strange, but a pleasant and exciting strangeness.

So when Chuuya - altruistic and carefree Chuuya - had shown signs of wanting to sacrifice himself - the only person Dazai would eventually feel something for after his imminent death - had shown signs of his sacrifice - Dazai felt the need to at least try to stop that madness.

More for his own selfish sake, that for the city's sake.

He knew he was selfish, but he couldn't let the flame that still burned, albeit a little less than usual, go out.

But... and so he told him what he felt, feelings camouflaged by excessive logic.

Chuuya had looked at him, eyes gradually larger with each passing second, the storm looming over his captivating iris and his features more surprised than he had planned.

Would he be... surprised?

Why would he be surprised?

In order to find out why, Dazai took a moment to look at him.

A mistake.

A big mistake.

Chuuya's eyes pierced into his soul as if trying to see behind the superficial layer that Dazai covered himself with.

Even with the layer of baggage in his eye.

Terrifying.

Absolutely terrifying.

But... so... magnetic.

It was the pair of eyes that had made him want to live a year ago.

Stormy, confusing, misty... beautiful...

And with his face dressed in pain and chaos... Dazai thought that Chuuya was... even more fascinating.

And as a source of attraction and interest, Dazai had to look away, feeling a certain heat in the cheeks, cooled by the night air.

Chuuya didn't look away, his gaze seemed to see everything, revealing everything.

The visible and invisible.

And Dazai felt even smaller and more naked, stumbling over the words and feelings implied.

He knew nothing would change Chuuya's decision, but he didn't want to be the one who got in Chuuya's way.

Just that once... he allowed himself to open his heart, because... someone as deserving and fascinating as Chuuya Nakahara deserved it.

He deserved honesty and Dazai could give it to him.

It was the least he could do.

And at the end of it all, with the boy asleep in his arms, Dazai finally allowed himself to release the breath he had suppressed.

A small, relieved smile appeared on his lips, looking down at Chuuya in his arms...

He could say, now for sure, with honesty and a delicacy unknown to him...

"Sleep now Chuuya."

And Chuuya, like the obedient dog he was, or out of extreme exhaustion...

And he was so peaceful and quiet and so... so... Chuuya... unlike.

Stayed still.

His relatively misty eyes met Dazai's single eye before falling asleep in his arms... making Dazai suppress the emotional surprise that had invaded him, as soon as Chuuya had turned his head against his chest.

Chuuya was safe in those arms-

Dazai's arms.

He had trusted Dazai.

The guy that nobody in the mafia trusted.

But Chuuya? Chuuya... Chuuya did.

(Dazai convinced himself that it was because he had no other choice and not because of the trust he had in him-)

But either way... he was lying in Dazai's arms, sleeping in his arms, using Dazai's chest as a pillow... and Dazai fed the fantasy that at least Chuuya had-

Chuuya had trusted him.

Chuuya had trusted his life to him.

He couldn't let him down.

He laughed a little, a laugh that was more desperate and relieved than funny.

(He ended up leaving Chuuya on the ground, after a brief caress on his bloody face, cleaning it with the sleeve of his coat.)

[aonemanarmy]

The look of surprise in Vincent's eyes didn't escape Sephiroth's notice, although he didn't understand why the gunman would react in that particular manner. Emotions had always been a difficult thing for the madman to comprehend beyond their most rudimentary form, which left all forms of expression he might've expressed largely flat and off-putting. It was unnecessary though, because from as far back as he could remember he'd always been told that emotions were things meant for humans, not things.

Not him.

Perhaps that was why he lacked the capacity to understand Vincent's line of reasoning. Sephiroth knew Shinra and what they were capable of and while he was intelligent enough to realize not every paper pusher or bean counter might've committed atrocities directly, the metaphorical blood was still on their hands because at the end of the day they had a choice. None of Shinra's countless employees were forced to do the corporation's bidding, but they had chosen to do so of their own volition and they could've resigned at any time. They didn't though, and that was what made them different.

So it was laughable that the ex-Turk would suggest they didn't have a choice. There were other jobs to be done in the world not related to the company, but they had taken the easy way out at every turn heedless of who or what may have suffered because of it. Sephiroth wasn't the slightest bit surprised as it was in human nature to avoid hardship, but it was nonetheless disappointing.

“Here I had thought that Shinra employees chose to sign their own contracts.” He said dryly, his expression remaining as immovable as stone as he spoke. “I had not thought that Shinra forced them to work while compensating them with paychecks out of the kindness of their heart. It is really quite touching the stark difference then between the two of us.”

Sephiroth had never been given a choice. If he had been ordered to do a task then he did that task regardless if he wanted to or not and if he refused all that awaited him was further pain and suffering with no compensation whatsoever even when he complied. He had been caged like a beast, allowed nothing of his own that the company didn't grant him and which they would gleefully take away should he disobey. As such, he didn't have a single item to his name that they didn't own, not even his own freedom...until now.

“As a Turk I had thought that killing was part of your position, so what difference does it make? Do you think yourself merciful sparing other killers who would hold no hesitation in doing the same thing to you?”

While not a part of the Turks Sephiroth knew of the department and what Shinra used them for. They were corporate muscle, used for all of the underhanded and less than palatable jobs that needed to be done. In that vein it wasn't uncommon for their organization to delve into everything from bodyguard work, blackmail, and threats to extreme causes involving beatings, torture, and even assassinations. The Turks were criminals in everything but name and they hid it all behind the veneer of pressed suits and corporate smiles.

It disgusted him.

“Besides, I had thought after all that has been said and done that you already had plenty of blood on your hands. So what does any more matter?”

The not so subtle jab made at him didn't even sway Sephiroth in the slightest. It wasn't the first time that humans had thought themselves to be above him and it certainly wouldn't be the last. The difference was that he knew that he was different and he had never lied to himself about that fact or tried to dress it up as anything else than what it was. Thanks to Jenova he now knew that he was the rightful inheritor of the Planet, its savior, and he would fulfill that destiny whether the humans fought the inevitable or not.

“I am aware of what your kind think of me.” There was no emotion in his voice as he held the ex-Turk's gaze, his own unwavering as it bore into Vincent. “You like to think that you are better, when in reality I am the monster that you have created.”

'After all, where were you back then?'

'Where were you when I needed you most?'

'You were never there.'

'Now like all the rest of them you blame me for it all.'

The accusatory thoughts flowed unbidden through his maddened mind, their words like jagged glass that ripped and tore at what small shreds of sanity Sephiroth had left. It was an avenue of thought he usually avoided just for that reason, even if he wasn't consciously aware of that fact. All because it opened up an old wound that had never truly healed, one that stemmed all the way back from the young and broken boy that he had been all those long years ago and that still cried out for mercy in the depths of his fractured psyche.

Sephiroth shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he lifted his gaze skyward, noticing the break in the clouds. “Where were your fears back all those years ago? Why did you not end me back then when it would actually have counted?”

The night wore on, and as the two made there way up the mountains through the snow, morning had begun to break, eventually casting a light glow over the land. However, it didn't give off its usual warmth. Even the sun's warmth was in competition with the impending terror that was wading through the snow and towards the Whirling Maze. Even the planet itself seemed to tremble the closer Sephiroth and Vincent approached their destination. It seemed all but certain the planet would meet its demise. Vincent could feel the planet's pulse grow stronger, tugging at his chest as if begging him not to move further. But if he were to spare the lives of those he cared about, he had no choice but to follow the planet's most feared enemy, knowing he was also now an accomplice.

All the while, neither of them spoke a word even though both were hyper aware of one another's presence. One was tirelessly hastening towards his goal with reckless abandon, while the other was feeling the weight of every footstep getting heavier, and more blood stained the closer their destination became. Vincent's mind was trying to puzzle the pieces together, contemplating what all would befall Cloud and the others once they did meet up.

No matter how one could spin it, the fact that Vincent was now serving as a protector of Cloud's and the planet's worst enemy, not to mention his friend's murderer... it spelled betrayal on a level that would have put Cait Sith aka Reeve to shame. If the entire party turned against him, so be it. Perhaps it would be better in the long run for their sake. Vincent had sworn to never get close to anyone again. But here he was worrying about the bond he had with his friends, especially Cloud-- the fragility of life, friendship, and forgiveness. If things went exactly the way Sephiroth and Jenova intended, Vincent would lose them all, including Lucrecia. Even if they managed to defeat Sephiroth and Jenova, the planet was already on the verge of death. Sephiroth was merely enabling and hastening the inevitable. And once the planet had had enough, he would still be left alone, and Lucrecia's spirit would be lost to the abyss along with every other soul Vincent had ever cared about. So why was he going through with this...?

At this time, the snow had all but vanished, being exchanged for some more harsh winds that threatened to cast off any and all over the depths of the canyon. No sane individual would cross such a dangerous path. The essence of death was growing stronger from within the caverns of the Maze, indicating to Vincent that several had made this place their resting place. He could already tell it would soon become a tomb for countless hooded figures, should they dare to venture further in pursuit of Sephiroth.

Vincent's thoughts were diverted once he heard Sephiroth's voice, guiding his attention to the large edifices and winding path before them. Though he had never ventured into this place before, Sephiroth’s words told him everything he needed to know when it came to how close their destination was. The sinking feeling was more keen than ever.

Vincent watched as Sephiroth turned towards him, crimson and mako colors clashing in a brief moment of mild confusion. The question wasn't exactly surprising. But the genuine curiosity got Vincent's attention more than the question itself. Why did Sephiroth care? Was this just a ploy to pull out any weakness from the gunslinger? Or was Sephiroth actually curious about what made Vincent a sympathizer instead of a cold-blooded murderer?

For a moment, Vincent stared at Sephiroth, a hint of surprise in his eyes before he decided to answer. "Not all who bear the mark of Shinra are mindless killers. Humans aren't that simple." Vincent began, looking off the side to look at the canyons around them, or perhaps he was sparing himself Sephiroth's gaze. "Sometimes... they don't have a choice when it comes to committing atrocities. Just like when you didn't have a choice to become what you are today." Perhaps Sephiroth could understand that much, but even then, Vincent knew it would have been ludicrace to hope for Sephiroth to have any sympathy for humans at this point.

"If I didn't spare them, then it would be easier to take the lives of many more." In essence, he would become numb to killing. He furrowed his brow and shut his eyes for a moment, keeping some thoughts to himself, the wind tossing his hair and cloak in a chilling breeze.

A moment later, he lifted his head and allowed their eyes to join once again, a slight hint of determination in his gaze. "...and should I fail to quell the beast inside, I would become no different... than you."

[maidflowery]

Fortified Wager ♣♣♣ 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 8

♦︎♦︎ Aventurine x Reader ♦︎♦︎ 𝕀𝕝𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕

🄱🄰🄲🄺 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ 7】

𝕋𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥

𝐂𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 𝐕𝐒 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐁𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 (𝟏)

╔══ ≪ ♥♦♥ ≫ ══╗

“See? You should have just kept quiet and done as you were told. The truth is, I actually like you. You’re quiet and obedient.”

When Big Baddie stood up, you realized he was twice your size.

So, you let the gems fall, teetering on the edge of the table as bait.

Sorry, Aventurine.

Meanwhile, you let your watch slid over your knuckle as a makeshift brass knuckle. There was no way you’d deal any real damage otherwise.

“I was just trying to save you, you know? I’m sure you also don’t know this, but that Avgin slave over there killed his owner.”

The moment he leaned in, eager to grab a hold of the gems, you swung your fist straight into his face!

“Of course I know, you piece of shit!

Otherwise, what kind of Aventurine’s fan were you?

“Uuoorrggh—!!”

As your fist connected with his nose, you felt the sharp impact reverberate through your knuckles, followed by a sudden, jarring crunch. Big Baddie took the punch square in the face and staggered backward. Soon, he lost his balance and fell, crashing to the ground in a heap.

Regret always came too late.

As you watched your wristwatch fell, shattering its glass on the floor, you realized you still loved it after all!! Also, your hand hurt like a bitch! Shit! Fuck! You could feel tears welling up in your eyes.

Above all, you were furious.

Aventurine never even brought up his past, so who the fuck gave this guy the right to do so?!

You recalled how the pair of violet-cyan eyes looked so lifeless and devoid of emotion the moment his past was mentioned. It was clearly something difficult—something he preferred to keep private, and for obvious reasons.

If Aventurine were a male lead in a romance novel, it would have taken over 100 chapters and three different arcs before he revealed his past!! Even then, it would be only to the person he trusted most, someone he felt comfortable being vulnerable with!! That was just how delicate this was!!

And yet, and yet... this guy, heartlessly, in front of everyone...

In the past, Aventurine's entire family and clan were massacred by their enemies. Though he survived the ordeal, he was soon enslaved. Only God knows the depths of trauma and torment he suffered at their hands—enough to drive him to kill.

“—Hahahaha! Of course! Of course she doesn’t know! That's what you get for letting his looks fool you!”

“Do you know how hard I’ve been holding back my laugh?! I was wondering how to break the news this whole time! Hahahaha!”

Of course, taking a life was rarely, if ever, justified.

But that is not a reason to laugh at or shame him?! Especially not this bastard, who drove two innocent children to seek revenge!!

A single tear rolled down your cheek. Regret, anger, sorrow and pain washed over you all at once—mostly pain.

While shaking your stinging hand like crazy, you screamed at Big Baddie, “But so what—?! So what if he killed his master?!”

If you were beaten within an inch of your life every day and treated far worse than an animal, what would you do?

If you had nothing left to live for but to await your death at the hands of your enslaver, how would you respond?

“—I’d have done the same!!”

Your shoulders heaved up and down as you struggled to regain composure. All you knew was that you were ranting out of sheer rage.

“Shut up!!” Big Baddie stood up while covering his nose. He glowered at you like a beast, blood oozing out of his hands. “You're just a pathetic slut serving tables!! Do you really think I can't destroy you?! That worthless slave won't protect you from me!!”

“...!”

You instantly went quiet.

Seeing this, Big Baddie grinned with triumph, blood staining his gold and white teeth.

...That’s right.

Back when you were merely a third party, you could easily dismiss the whole incident with Big Baddie as "unreasonable." As much as you hated to admit it, you didn’t see it as that big of a deal.

Why didn’t the staff just skirt around the problem, make some excuses, and feign ignorance? Or, even better yet, fight back. Then, call the authority if things escalated. Easy-peasy.

Well, the reason, as it turned out, was plain and simple.

It was the same reason you didn’t pick a fight with every professor who imposed outrageous assignments or feedbacks on you. Or why you hadn’t shoved your middle finger down Erin’s—your actual manager at the restaurant you actually worked at—prissy throat yet.

Because you’d be a dropout and without a job. Now, you wouldn’t say that you knew how every single staff in Primavera felt, but you certainly wouldn’t survive without your job, let alone switch colleges.

Facing against Billy Burnett, the infamous iron-fisted loan-shark, the stakes were even higher. One wrong move, and your entire life could be in jeopardy.

“Need I remind you what kind of authority they have? A single word from them could ruin the lives of many. I wouldn’t care if you’re the only one affected, but I also have something to protect, so stay in your lane.”

You recalled Marius’ words.

You wouldn’t blame him either—or anyone, for that matter. Everyone had their own circumstances. It was called “picking your battles.”

Which was why, only you could do this.

If it wasn’t you—who would?

You grinned.

Thanks for the reminder, Big Baddie.

Thus, as the waiter of the high-end nightclub Primavera, you shot back, “Watch your language! Aventurine is one of our most valued customers, and we do not tolerate any form of abuse or mistreatment toward him!”

“Wha—?!”

Big Baddie had a dumb look on his face. Perhaps this was the first time someone had called him out so boldly.

Also, you weren’t even lying!! Who else could singlehandedly quadruple the profit of a luxurious nightclub?! Calling him Primavera Jesus would be more fitting! Obviously, the staff would want to cling to him—especially after what you were about to do in their uniform, using their name!

While Big Baddie was still flabbergasted, you continued.

“—Given that this behavior has persisted, we are left with no choice but to ask you to leave and ban you from returning!”

After enduring his tyranny for so long, those were likely the words the staff had been dying to say, but couldn’t.

Then, your gaze briefly landed on your crisp, black uniform. Her uniform.

Of course, you wouldn’t pretend to understand how Judith felt either.

Still, when everyone else was too terrified or stunned to do anything, her manager took a punch in the face for her. If you were her, you’d be happy, knowing that most managers out there wouldn’t do even half as much—and at the same time, sad. But above all, angry.

So, you thought of saying this for her.

“—Also, that’s for punching my manager, asshole!!!”

Yes, only you, or specifically, Aschenputtel, could do this.

Aschenputtel, who was destined to lost her job either way. Aschenputtel, who had neither family nor friends, and would disappear past midnight.

Hence, you, Aschenputtel, decided—

—I’m taking you down with me, Big Baddie.

╚══════╝

🄾🄽🅆🄰🅁🄳 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ ９】

I realized that at the rate I was doing it before, the update will only come once a month, or even 2 months in case anything happened. ૮(˶ㅠ︿ㅠ)ა I don't want to keep you guys hanging for that long. So I decided to post it as soon as a part is finished. Do tell me if any of you prefer that I just finish it as a whole before updating :D

[latexb0n3z]

Renewed

Wade loses his head and comes back… different. Without his memories and his old face.

Logan stood over what remained of Wade Wilson, his claws still extended, jaw clenched tight. The fight was over-if it could even be called that. It had been a slaughter, and Logan had arrived too late to stop it. The mercenary's glowing axe had already done its work, severing Wade's head clean from his body.

Now, Wade's lifeless form lay sprawled in the dirt, his head several feet away, his mask shredded and stained. Logan should have been used to scenes like this, but something about it felt... final. Yet he knew better than to trust appearances. Wade's healing factor had a way of making the impossible possible, no matter how gruesome the damage.

Still, this time seemed different.

Logan crouched beside Wade's body, glaring at the broken pieces as if sheer willpower could force them to reassemble.

"C'mon, you idiot," he muttered. "Don't make me carry your pieces back to Xavier's. You'd never let me live it down."

For a long moment, nothing happened. No twitch, no spark of life. Logan's stomach tightened. Then, finally, there was a faint shimmer, almost imperceptible, in Wade's hand.

It began slowly—a spasm in the fingers, a flicker of red tissue stitching itself together at the jagged edge of Wade's neck. Logan stepped back, watching with a mixture of relief and unease as muscle and sinew began to weave together, layer by layer, like some macabre time-lapse of life returning to a broken body.

And then the face started to form.

Logan's breath caught in his throat.

This wasn't the face he expected-the ruined, scarred mask of a man who had seen too much pain. What emerged was... different. Smooth, pale skin stretched over the newly grown skull, unmarred and almost youthful. Thick, dark hair sprouted in messy waves, and the ridges of his features came into focus, too perfect, too clean.

Logan stared, dumbfounded, as Wade gasped and bolted upright, clutching his throat.

Wade looked at his hands first, then down at his body, before turning his gaze to Logan. His wide, brown eyes were unscarred and startlingly vulnerable.

"What... What's going on?" Wade rasped, his voice hoarse but softer than Logan had ever heard it.

"You tell me," Logan said, crossing his arms. His claws retracted, but his tone was guarded. "Do you remember anything?"

Wade blinked at him, confused. "I... I don't even know who I am." He looked at Logan, frowning slightly. "But I know you. At least, I think I do."

Logan stayed silent, his eyes narrowing.

Wade reached up to touch his face, brushing his fingers over his smooth cheeks and down to the faint scars on his neck.

Wade groaned as his head wobbled on his shoulders, trying to shake off the fog. He looked over at the dead, masked head that used to be his a couple feet away from his body beside him.

“My head… was cut off, right? That’s a fun Friday night. I’m feeling a little off, though. Like, something’s missing, but… also, everything’s missing? That about right?”

Logan knelt down, his expression hard to read as he watched Wade carefully. He wasn’t sure how to handle this version of him—the clean, almost innocent-looking Wade, like he hadn’t been through the hell that turned him into Deadpool. Like he hadn’t been through Logan’s version of hell, too.

“Yeah,” Logan said, voice gruff. “Some guy with a glowing axe took your head off. I got there too late to stop it. You were dead for a while. But you regenerate, so here you are.” He paused, eyeing Wade’s unscarred face, the almost too smooth skin. “It’s not the first time.”

Wade’s eyes flickered as he processed this, his brow furrowing. “Glowing axe… yeah, okay. That sounds like a fun night. Shoulda stuck with the bowling alley.” He rubbed the back of his neck, noticing the faint scars that lingered there. “But no, I definitely don’t remember that. Or you, for that matter. Hell, I can barely remember me.” He looked up at Logan, giving him a crooked grin. “But something about you feels… familiar. Like you’ve been around long enough to get sick of me. So… tell me again, who am I?” Oh he definitely could tell Logan was important… the utterly human, unmistakable chest deep feeling of attraction and want when he looked at Logan remained.

Logan shifted, uneasy with the lack of recognition in Wade’s eyes. “Your name’s Wade Wilson. You talk far too much, you make bad decisions, and you’ve been annoying the hell out of me for… too long.” He crossed his arms, trying to sound unaffected. “I’ve had to patch you up more times than I can count. You regenerate. You never stay dead.”

Wade looked down at his hands, as if willing the memories to come back, but nothing clicked. He gave Logan a tight-lipped smile.

“Alright, so… I’m an idiot with a death wish. Got it. But, uh… I’m guessing I was more than just an inconvenience for you, right? ‘Cause you’re still here. I can tell you’ve seen more of me than you probably wanted to. You, uh… don’t look like you hate me. Maybe a little? No? Maybe?” He leaned forward slightly, studying Logan with a quiet intensity.

Logan shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, trying to mask the sudden tightness in his chest. “You’ve been through a lot, Wade. We’ve been through a lot.”

Wade nodded, his smile softening for a moment before his usual playful demeanor slid back into place. “Yeah, I get it. You’ve got my back. Just… funny, because I’ve got this feeling like I’m supposed to be standing right here. With you. Whatever that means.” He paused, his grin turning sly. “You sure you’re not just putting up with me out of obligation? Because I really don’t mind if that’s your thing. I’d still be happy to—”

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan cut in, his voice rough, but the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t remember it, but yeah. We’ve got history. And you’re damn lucky I’m not leaving you out here to rot.”

Wade’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was no sarcasm or jokes. Just an unspoken understanding between them. “Alright, so you’re… what? My unwilling savior?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Logan let out a low growl, shaking his head. “You’re gonna drive me crazy.”

Wade just smirked. “Wouldn’t be any fun if I didn’t.”

Logan sighed, shaking his head with an exhale of frustration. But there was a softness in his eyes that he couldn’t hide.

“Soooo… did we have a thing or?— because I’m really sure I’m totally into you even thought I can’t remember you.” Logan’s lips parted slightly, his brows furrowing.

They didn’t have a “thing”… not officially or anything— but Logan supposed it was a “thing” nonetheless.

None of them admitted it seriously though, even though Wade had always made jokes about their tension.

“No. We didn’t.”

“Oh? Well— that’s embarrassing isn’t?” He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck “Why not?”

Logan didn’t know how to answer that question, he choked out a couple sounds, attempting to start a sentence, but he couldn’t form an explanation- he just finally came out with, “I don’t know?!” Clearly, bashful.

Wade felt around his body to see if he had a phone on him. He did— one with a pink Hello Kitty case and a charm on it. He opened the camera and gasped at his reflection. “God damn I’m sexy. You didn’t wanna piece of this? Oh— what’s your name? Can’t remember, silly me, right?”

“Not to burst your bubble but this is uh… new.. and my name is Logan, dumbass.” Logan grumbled, and Wade just returned his words with a confused expression. “What did I look like before?”

“Like Freddy Krueger.”

“So— what you’re saying is I got an upgrade?”

“Well… it’s definitely different.” He didn’t want to admit Wade was really hot to his face. He found him attractive even with his scars, so seeing him look… well… normal like this was even weirder for him.

“My question still remains, Logan. You didn’t want a piece of this? Because I’m definitely sure I want a piece of you.”

“Shut up before I cut your head off again and drag you back home while you’re still dead.”

“I’m soaking wet now, give an amnesia ridden girl a break.”

Logan’s claws came out in response.

[sabine-smitten-obviously]

And YOU will feel healed of the last 15

... when you read this fic. That is, as long as you suffered from an abandonement wound like i did.

Ello lovelies, i have another wonderful fanfic-rec for you! 🤓

But you are an ocean by @ineffably-good

Coverart by @ineffableclassics

What it is about:

After Aziraphale's defection, Crowley tries to figure out how to live life for himself.

Notes:

Ok so, the end of season two broke me. Figured I was maybe done writing stories about these two after that. And yet, several hours later, a sentence appeared in my head, and then this happened. Guessing at chapter totals… I'm finding I like the idea of Crowley going off in a different direction than what I'd initially expect. Not just raging, not sleeping for a century, but actually trying to move on. And why the hell shouldn't he just move to the South Downs by himself? So here we are.

What i like about it:

🩷This fic doesn´t jump in on pushing the story - their story - forward. Instead it goes a totally different path. A quite big part of it is dedicated to Crowley mending the pieces of his broken heart. It´s endearing, it´s breathtaking and it will have you cry. Not only for Crowley but for every single person who ever had to endure heartbreak.

🩷Fun fact no.1: in real life I am a relationship-coach specialised in toxic relationships and heartbreak. And the way Crowley´s heartbreak is described couldn´t be any more accurate. Every thought, every pain, every action he takes, the strength it costs him, the weight of it all - its written absolutely to the point. I could have copied several pages for the "most beloved quote".

🩷So Crowley tries to build a life for himself. Not just living without the angel and rotting in a pit, but really trying to carve out a nice little existence for himself. He is doing his work, he is healing and you can follow along with him, as he learns to build at least new "friendships" - though he would never call it that himself, thanks a lot.

🩷This healing-journey takes quite some time and somewhere in the middle of it i started to think - he could do it. He COULD heal his hurt, mourn the loss and still somehow at least live a life on his own. Maybe feeling the missing part of himself for the rest of his existence, but not being miserable about it the whole time. And that is a thought - a wish - i would have for my dark angel.

I could see him living that life and at one point i almost thought - i would love to see how that would´ve played out for him. A life without Aziraphale. What connections would Crowley have made? How would he have coped with the loss of those humanly connections lifespan after lifespan? Would he have relocated each century? Would he have moved to Australia and learned surfing at one time? Would he have become a timelord and travelled - i mean seriously, Crowley could do that probably?

But you, my dear, are an ocean.

And oceans are ancient

And can survive everything,

Even the wrath of weather and planets.

-- Nikita Gill

SPOILERS AHEAD - if you don´t want to know the plot, stop reading here.

Stop reading if you dont want spoilers!

Ok - you´ve been warned! Here we go: 🤗

🩷Fun fact no.2: I actually downloaded this fic some time ago but had another fic in mind i wanted to start next. So after i finished the last one (also really brilliant, i wrote a rec on it too), i started my e-reader the next day, THIS fic was already open instead on page 1. Huh?

I have absolutely no idea how this is possible, but i DO believe in hints-of-the-universe. Or little demonic miracles on their own. Because i needed this fic.

🩷Because of course - this is a Good Omens fanfic and eventually the other angel arrives. And without giving away to much: Aziraphale has to fight for Crowley. A long long time. He has to be steadfast and consistent and earn the trust of his has-been-companion-for-millenia. Nothing is a given any more.

And i am NOT saying that this is what Aziraphale needs to do or that he was wrong in any way. (The fic doesnt say that either by the way.) But what cracked ME personally about the last 15 was my own abandonement-wound which got triggered massively. I felt retraumatised even.

So reading and feeling that Crowley does not jump on the next best possibility to be back with the angel was a big thing. Having the Angel slowly earning his trust and simply showing up again and again - I needed that. I needed Crowley to take his time, not be the sick lovefool he is often proclaimed to be. For him to have doubts, to feel conflicted, to feel love and the need to self-preserve at the same time.

All these ambiguities we all have. And to take the steps with him. Watch the turning point, when the fear of losing Aziraphale again becomes less and less and the fear of wasting time gets stronger. Taking one step at a time, sometimes even backwards. All those things, typical for a healing process, which is never straight forward but most of the time a rollercoaster instead. I loved this. I needed this. I could sit back, breathe and watch my own heart grow. Just. Wow.

Most beloved quote:

So if you feel like maybe you need a fic in which Aziraphale really shows up and cares while Crowley really takes his time to learn to trust again... And not because one of them has been an idiot, but to experience them both learning and growing together ... and that might be something for your own healing journey, this might be just THE fic for you. I absolutely loved it and so will you.

Reading is therapy! 🤗

[akutasoda]

salvation is unreachable, and your my salvation

synopsis - he never deserved you and so he hates you for it

includes - blade

warnings - gn!reader, angst, no comfort, wc - 1.2k

a/n: a little gift for my pookie @https-sourlimes although its probably a bit too angsty to be a gift..

blade abhorred you.

there was absolutely no doubt about that - from the way he spoke to you and how he physically looked irritated or somewhat angered to the way he always actively avoided running into you. although the last one wasn't the easiest of tasks as you did work together but that made the message even more clearer when you couldn't find him anywhere if he wasn't required to be there.

but you never understood why, neither did anyone that knew you two. blade was always the more secretive type of person, someone that never shared more than necessary so it was truly anyone's guess as to why he felt such strong feelings of detest toward you.

occasionally, someone would try and reassure you that he simply just didn't like anyone. however that was only partially true. blade clearly was not a people person and could be described as “intimidating” or even rather imposing, so it wasn't exactly a surprise that he glared at the average person or they found him to be a formidable presence.

but he wasn't like that with you, there was a very clear difference and it was so confusing to you. from the very first meeting with blade, you tried your absolute hardest to be nice to him and get along with your new co-workers. there was nothing that could be recalled that would cause him to behave in such a way to you.

although, as tragic as it may sound, you had gotten used to the way blade treated you - just because blade was always rude towards you didn't mean you should let that get you down, or even discourage you from being nice to him. but unknowingly, that was the problem.

there was once a man, a blacksmith, who was human. he was someone who had feelings that were mainly positive, someone who had a passion for his work - but he was no more. he had destroyed himself, in a way akin to how he used to melt down failed weapons, and then had painfully built himself back up to physically embody what he had once found a great joy in crafting.

he had become a weapon.

one armed with a similar blade that had once been used to pierce his body over and over, that caused him so much pain and suffering. killing any remaining remnants of the man he once was - any part of him that was still there after the mara spread through his very body and infected his mind.

and ever since that man had died. blade was born.

blade embodied all the pain and suffering that past figure caused. he wasn't used to any sort of positive feeling whether it be experiencing or receiving. and so when you came along, a positive presence that entered his life, blade wouldn't admit it, but it felt so foreign to him that it was scary.

blade would've preferred his first experience with you to be one of violence than you being genuinely kind to him. at least that would've been something he was used to, something familiar that would make him more likely to adjust to your presence quicker - but that affection that was so distant to him made it harder.

somewhere along the line, blade had noticed something different. the pure hatred he held for you had begun to morph into a foreign feeling that confused him - why was he feeling this way? what had evoked these feelings?

blade’s lack of comprehension when it came to figuring out his feelings wasn't doing him any favors. he couldn't figure out exactly what these feelings meant or even what they were and even though he desperately tried to push them away, they always came back stronger,

in all honesty, it scared him. so eventually it resulted in more anger resonating inside his mind, hatred that eventually became associated with you - before you came along, blade was somewhat content with his life as a weapon, it was simple. but now you entered his life and now he was experiencing all these confusing feelings that evoked more fear into him than any fight ever could.

so to him, the solution was simple. you needed to go. blade knew that was quite the impossible task to fulfill so he did the next best thing and tried to distance himself from you. limiting all your interactions and therefore limiting his exposure to your kindness.

although blade obviously was completely oblivious to the simple fact that he had developed some sort of “crush” on you - so the solution wasn't as simple as avoiding you. blade would soon find that out by the fact that you consumed his thoughts,

blade despised you.

more accurately, despised the fact that he probably could pick you out in a sea of people, that he could recognise your voice anywhere. blade hated how he visibly unconsciously perked up at the sight of you before immediately resuming his usual facade, how he would occasionally catch himself thinking about you.

he detested you. so why was he slowly becoming more welcome to your presence?

why had his plan to avoid you slowly devolved into him doing the exact opposite?

however, you had interpreted this as him finally coming around to you - something that was somewhat accurate but blade didn't want you to notice his sudden change in behavior. you noticed the small signs that slipped through his facade and you secretly were overjoyed that he finally had stopped seemingly hating you.

although, you didn't change how you acted around him. a small part of you was scared that it may destroy the progress you two had made. maybe he truly did just need some more time to get used to you being around, get accustomed to your presence?

but blade was no better off. spending even that little bit more time with you had led to those unknown feelings brewing inside him grow even more. they consumed his brain and what was left of his heart, warm, fuzzy feelings that he wished to desperately rip from his body - for the first time, he even began wishing that his mara would begin to act up and bring some sense back to him.

although there seemed to be nothing blade could do to drag himself away from you. he began craving your presence, wishing to hear your voice and admire you. each time these thoughts consumed him, he quickly caught himself and tried bringing some semblance of sense back to his mind.

and so he resorted to what he knew best - violence.

he could try and block out the pain and betrayal in your eyes when he drew his blade at you, pointing it directly at your heart.

he could try and convince himself that it wasn't him who was spitting insults and threats at you. words that seemed to be pure words of hatred and disgust but really masked the pure affection and longing he had for you.

but he was scared. loving you would mean letting you past his walls and facades, showing you the very little human sides of him that remained intact and could experience vulnerability. but letting you in was exactly what those parts of him would want.

unfortunately, blade hated you.

he hated longing for the life that he could have with you. he hated how you made him feel.

and even if he did accept his feelings, you deserve someone better - perhaps the man he once was, not the just the fractured remnants.

taglist - @little-miss-chaoss, @frankiesteinn

[thunder-wolf64]

Ugh okay I'm about to get very not silly.

Content warning for: Sexual Assult, Body image issues, self harm, probably some depression.

Hmm. I want to talk about this incase I can give strength to anyone else. I know my problems are not as bad as others, but that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt and it's not valid.

Ive mentioned my fear of small children, I've mentioned really not liking a family friend (to a point that being forced to stay in a cabin with them made me feel so bad I dug my nails into my skin and scarred my arm and hand)

This all partly relates to one incident many years ago. I dont remember how old I was? Must have been earlier middle school?

The family friends I'm referring to have a son. He's a lot younger than me. He's neurodivergent in some way, he doesn't have the best idea of social anything.

I was staying at the family friends' cabin, my family and theirs. There was a guest cabin. I had just taken a shower to clean off the lake water. I was standing in the guest cabin looking at myself in the mirror by the beds, brushing my hair. I had major body image issues with good ol' puberty. I hated how I looked and i felt shameful when my shirt clung to my chest extra tight. I knew I would dry off more, and it would be less form fitting. I thought i could just stay in the guest cabin until then.

Then all the little kids, the boy and my two sisters, burst in, chasing each other around as kids do. I was still brushing my hair.

Something immature boys find funny is the word "boobs" he laughed at me and kept repeating the word. I adjusted my shirt as best I could I wanted to tell him off, but I was scared I would get in trouble if I made him upset.

I went back to looking in the mirror and brushing my hair. He ran past, giving my boob a poke as he sprinted out the door, my sisters in tow. That was it. That is what the warning was for. A touch. Over in a second.

I was panicked, I didn't know what to do. I sat on the bed for awhile, crying and thinking of what to do. It felt like forever. And as embarrassing as it is to say... at that time in my mind I felt as if it was my fault, as if I had a sign pointing to me saying "touch me". And with that in mind, I calmed myself down, told myself i wouldn't say anything, and walked back to the main cabin.

And when I walked in, it was tense. The boy was getting a talking to from his mother, and mine walked over to me.

She asked me if i was okay.

I said I was fine, confused. Thinking its not like he shoved me, punched me, hurt my physically. My mind did not corelate the emotional anguish rushing though my head as I felt even more shame that people knew. that they had told on themselves somehow.

I was not okay, i am still not okay. And it really sucks. I can't blame everything on one incident. But oh man can I corelate a lot of my problems with that incident.

Tight clothes made me feel like scum. Ive only ever worn sports bras that leave me with terrible chest pain. I still cant stand a tight fitting shirt, a v-neck. I can't stand my feminine traits. Because that's what got me into the mess in the first place.

Something so small can mess you up so much. And I'm sick of not acknowledging it. Everyone has forgotten or said nothing. And I feel like I'm going crazy.

So if you made it this far, your struggles are valid. Your feelings are valid. No matter what happend, everyone takes things differently.

And i don't know if I'll can call this sexual assault, but it feels like it was, and that's what should matter.

Everyone stay safe

[beegomess]

M.R. || Take me back to the night we met

Summary: Years after leaving London, Mattheo returns accompanied by his girlfriend, Catherine, only to be confronted by a past he believed he had overcome. An unexpected reunion at the Nott's house brings up intense memories and unresolved feelings, while he faces the new life of a love that was left behind. Between dialogues full of tension, unexpected revelations and the weight of past choices, Mattheo needs to decide if it is still possible to move forward or if he is condemned to be a prisoner of his own memories. Warnings: None, just some broken hearts. - word count: 4.4k

If you were to define your love life in a few words, maybe you would say that time, kind and ruthless, was both a curator and a sculptor. He resignified the wounds, turning them into scars that today carry stories, and not pain.

You will always love him, always. Mattheo was undoubtedly the love of his life.

But there is something about these loves that no one warns: sometimes, the love of your life doesn't make you the love of his life. Confusing, but real. And now, years after that sudden breakup on a cold night in the communal, this truth echoed in you. It was like a distant note, but still capable of making an impact.

The pain of that moment was inevitable. The end came without warning, between a mixture of tension and an almost unbearable weight, just before the great war. Time, however, fulfilled its promise. He didn't erase the past, but he smoothed its edges. The painful memories gave way to something kinder: the good moments, the laughter, the intensity of a youthful love that seemed infinite, but was as fragile as a glass.

Mattheo, on the other hand, moved on as he could. For him, the process was no less complicated. Your absence was a shadow that he had to learn to get around. Life, as you learned, didn't expect anyone. And the choices they made shaped them, even if they were separated.

And so, another day began. You, in your routine, walked to the cafe near the Ministry, the same one where you always bought your favorite candy before work. The typical London rain created a constant rhythm outside, while the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room.

Mattheo was also in London. He had returned that week to introduce the wizarding side of the city to his girlfriend, Catherine. She was everything you would expect from someone coming from Beauxbatons: graceful, with an almost unreal beauty and that air of natural sophistication. He walked next to her around the small center near the Ministry, describing school stories with a hesitant smile. As much as he was there, a part of Mattheo seemed distant, wandering somewhere that not even he knew for sure.

So, chance - or maybe fate - interfered. When Mattheo entered the cafe with Catherine, his eyes immediately caught something familiar. A silhouette that he would recognize in any crowd, even after years.

You were there, analyzing the sweets in the window, unaware of his presence. The attendant smiled at you as he did every day.

- You'll want the usual, Miss. Nott?

- Well, I think so. I just can't decide... - you answered with a light laugh, the same joy that used to enchant you in the past.

Mattheo was paralyzed. His body didn't move, while his mind seemed to run in circles. Catherine, without realizing his internal conflict, advanced, analyzing the sweets with curiosity. He couldn't say anything, but his eyes never left you.

When you finally turned to leave, it happened. His eyes met his. And the world stopped for a few seconds. The coffee was still full of murmurs and movement, but for both of you, everything disappeared. He looked different, more mature, but there was still something so unmistakably "Mattheo" in him.

His eyes showed surprise, but soon softened into a smile. That smile that made him relax, even without realizing it.

- For Merlin, what are you doing here? - you asked enthusiastically, approaching for a brief hug, but loaded with a nostalgic heat. The touch, no matter how fast it was, reignited memories that Mattheo had been trying to bury for years. - How are you?

- I... I'm fine. - He finally managed to answer, still processing the moment. - I brought the...

- Does Theo know you're here? - you interrupted him, excited, your mind already running to the reunion with the friends from Hogwarts. - We need to get everyone together again!

Before he could answer, Catherine appeared next to him, interrupting the moment. She was so different from you, and yet, so present. With perfect blonde hair and striking green eyes, she looked like she was out of a painting. He held Mattheo's arm naturally, a gesture that did not go unnoticed.

- Oh, sorry! I'm Catherine. - She said, offering her hand to you. The French accent was charming, but somehow you felt the impact of what it represented before you even touched it.

- Nice to meet you, Catherine. I am... - you started, but she interrupted you with a sweet smile.

- I know who you are. - The statement sounded casual, but there was something almost calculated in her tone. - Matt told me about you and the Hogwarts group.

The word "Matt" fell like a stone on his chest. It was small, but heavy, because it sounded so intimate coming from her. However, you kept your composure.

- Oh, of course. - You answered naturally, looking back at Mattheo, as if you wanted to find some explanation in his eyes. - You should go to our house today. Theo would love to see you.

- As long as it's not a nuisance, we don't want to get in the way. - Catherine said, with her impeccable politeness.

- Not at all. - His voice was gentle, but there was a sincere firmness in his words.

Mattheo just nodded, uncomfortable, while Catherine smiled next to him. You noticed the discomfort, but decided to put it aside.

- Well, I need to get back to work. See you at night, right? - you said, looking back into his eyes.

- Of course. - Catherine answered before him.

- Great. Our house is at the same address as always. - You addressed Mattheo, hesitating for a second before adding: - I hope you like it here, Catherine. It's not as sunny as France, but I swear there's something special in the rain.

You waved and left, opening the umbrella from the outside. Mattheo remained motionless, watching you cross the street. He couldn't look away. The rain blurred the glass, but he still saw you with absurd clarity. It was as if, for a moment, nothing had changed.

Outside, you also felt the weight of the meeting. As much as time had transformed the wounds into scars, some still throbbed, remembering that certain loves leave marks that not even time can erase.

______________________________________

Your family's house, the one you and Theodore currently shared, was almost as Mattheo remembered, but now there was a different touch, a warmth that didn't exist before. Still, every corner seemed loaded with memories that came back to his mind like a flood. He always knew that this house was part of you, but now, when he entered again, he felt as if he was stepping on a territory that was both familiar and strange.

The cold marble of the entrance hall still reflected the lights that floated gently in the air, but something was different. The wooden hanger next to the door now supported not only an umbrella, but also a scarf of yours and a bag, objects that made you realize that you had transformed that place in a subtle way, making it more yours. It was an inhabited, lived house, full of history. Nostalgia squeezed Mattheo's chest. He couldn't ignore the echo of the teenage steps he used to take there, running furtively to his room, while waiting for no one to notice his presence.

In the main room, the photos caught his attention immediately. Delicately ornate frames decorated the main bookshelf, showing a timeline of you and Theodore. In one of them, you were sitting next to Theo, Draco and Astoria in front of a perfectly decorated Christmas tree. The image seemed to exude a calm and cozy joy, but for Mattheo, it was also a cruel reminder of what he lost. He should have been in that photo.

There were also portraits of smaller events: birthdays, trips... Mattheo delayed his gaze on each of them, unconsciously looking for traces of himself that were not there. The absence hit him unexpectedly, as if those frames also enclosed a piece of his life that he had left behind.

Catherine seemed fascinated by everything around.

- What a beautiful place. - she commented, genuinely enchanted. - It seems so... full of history.

The dining table was another example of the care you had put into that space. A simple floral arrangement adorned the center, accompanied by scented candles on silver supports. The hand-embroidered towel looked like something inherited from past generations, and the dishes were perfectly arranged, as if they were for a special occasion.

Theo received everyone with his usual charm. He hugged Mattheo warmly, without hesitation, before shaking Catherine's hand.

- I hope you're hungry. - he joked, guiding them to the table. - Dinner prepared by magic hands. Literally.

You tried to disguise the slight tension throughout dinner, but Mattheo didn't. He couldn't look away from you. The way you smiled, the sound of your laugh - everything seemed exactly as he remembered, and at the same time, new. He saw you in a new light, someone who had grown and changed, but was still the same person he loved years ago.

While Catherine got involved in Theo's stories, Mattheo got lost in memories. He could imagine you sitting at the table, still a teenager, laughing at something Theo said. He remembered going up the stairs in silence, feeling his heart race as he entered his room. The smell of your perfume still seemed to be impregnated in some corner of the memory, as well as the sensation of your touch.

After dinner, everyone gathered in the living room. It was a smaller and more intimate space, with shelves crammed with books, a comfortable sofa and an armchair that Theo occupied while serving whiskey to everyone. He lit a cigarette, and the strong aroma of tobacco mixed with the air already heated by conversations and laughter.

Catherine was completely at ease, laughing while Theo narrated compromising stories about Mattheo.

- For God's sake, how did you get rid of these things? - she asked, between laughs, looking at Mattheo, who looked away, embarrassed, but amused.

- For some reason my father didn't kill him. - Theo replied with a mischievous smile, blowing a cloud of smoke. - Not that there was a lack of reasons.

- But what were you doing so wrong, Matt? I'm curious. - Catherine insisted, excited.

You, who were next to Theo, tried to divert the conversation:

- Theodore is exaggerating. - You start, with a light smile. - Our father was not the kindest person in the world and he never needed reasons not to like someone.

However, his brother excited by the drink, let go without thinking:

- Oh, right. Let's pretend that Dad thought it was normal to find Mattheo's pants in his room.

The silence fell like a rock in the room. Mattheo looked at you, visibly uncomfortable, while Catherine processed the information.

Before the tension in the room could suffocate everyone, hurried steps echoed through the house, cutting the charged air like a cruel warning. A male voice, firm and distant, sounded in the distance:

- Slowly!

A little girl appeared at the door, her messy black hair framing a radiant smile. She ran directly to you with the purity of someone who did not know the weight of a past.

- Hey, how are you? - His voice came out so sweet and natural, as he took it easily and raised it in his arms, as if that gesture was part of his daily life. You laughed, a sound so light that it made Mattheo's chest hurt, as if that laugh was something he could never claim again.

- Hi, Uncle Theo! - The girl waved to Theodore, pulling a warm smile from the man who always seemed to be at ease, even in the most uncomfortable situations.

But Mattheo was frozen. The world around you seemed to be reduced to a blur, while only one question hammered in his mind: did you have a daughter?

His heart, which already seemed overloaded, took an empty leap, as if it was unable to process the possibility that you had built a life so far from what he still secretly imagined.

And before he could organize the fragmented thoughts, the door to the room opened again.

A man came in. Tall, impeccable, with a perfectly aligned suit and a posture that exuded confidence. He looked out of a painting - with striking features, deep eyes and a magnetism that made the environment revolve around him. But it was the way he looked at you, with intimacy and possession, that crushed Mattheo.

- Hi, dear. - The man's voice was soft, but every word sounded like a blow. He approached you with a sharp familiarity, depositing a brief but intimate kiss on your cheek.

You turned to him with a smile - that smile - and, as if the universe had chosen that moment to destroy any remaining hope in Mattheo, you said:

- Tom, these are Mattheo, an old friend from Hogwarts, and Catherine, his girlfriend.

Thomas stretched out his hand with the naturalness of someone who had no idea of the impact of his presence. Mattheo squeezed her, like a mechanical reflex, while his mind was spinning. So, you finished, casual, without noticing that each word was like a dagger:

- This is Thomas, my fiancé.

"Getroved"...

The word ricocheted in his mind like an endless, deafening echo. He felt the ground give way under his feet. Like an automaton, his eyes sought his hand, and the brightness of the ring on his finger seemed to mock him, a cruel reminder that he was too late.

Catherine, noticing the tension, tried to intervene, smiling kindly:

- Is she your daughter?

You laughed, a quiet laugh, and exchanged a look with Thomas before he answered:

- No, she's my niece. But he loves spending time here.

The explanation should have brought relief, but the knot in Mattheo's chest just tightened. It was more than the child. It was the man next to you. That's what he represented: a future that Mattheo didn't have by his side.

The little girl, oblivious to the charged atmosphere, pointed to the glass on the table.

- Aunt, what is this?

You smiled, still so light, and answered without hesitation:

- Apple juice.

- Can I drink?

- This one is hot. Let's go to the kitchen to get a very cold one. - You got up with the girl on your lap, moving away from the room, but not before adding, with a caress that seemed so natural: - After that, you go to bed, agreed?

Your voice disappeared as you moved away, and Mattheo remained motionless.

Everything around seemed to fall apart inside him. It was a suffocating mixture of longing, jealousy and a pain that he didn't know he could feel again. He wanted to move, he wanted to breathe, but the air seemed too heavy. You were everything he had wanted - everything he still wanted.

But now, he felt like a shadow, a spectator of his happiness. And as the sound of his steps moved away, something inside him broke irreparably. Mattheo's heart finally accepted what his mind already knew: he was looking at the life that could have been his, but would never be.

He looked away to the window, to the cold night outside, and for the first time in years, allowed himself to feel the weight of what he had lost - and what he would never have back. Feeling the weight of everything that would never be his, a new wave of pain hit him, more subtle, but still devastating: guilt.

He felt the overwhelming weight of having been so deeply shaken by you, by your new life, while Catherine was there, by your side, full of confidence in what they had together. She didn't deserve that. Catherine was good, kind, full of enthusiasm for life.

And yet, there he was, unable to look away from your memory. Unable to silence the storm inside you.

He hated himself for that. He hated the fact that a part of his heart - a part he thought he had buried a long time ago - still belonged to you, even with Catherine so close. Her smile was real, her intentions were pure, and yet he couldn't match everything she offered.

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather strength to mask the whirlwind inside him. When he opened them, he forced a smile to Catherine, who looked at him curiously.

- Is everything okay? - she asked softly, the concern tinging her voice.

Mattheo nodded, the lie stuck in his throat.

- Of course, it's okay. - he replied, his voice sounding distant even to himself.

But he knew everything wasn't okay. And the weight of that would consume him long before the end of that night.

Thomas returned to the living room alone, walking with controlled but firm steps, as if he were perfectly at home. He removed the suit with an almost automatic movement before looking around and announcing:

- She went to put Amélie to sleep. - Her voice was low and well modulated, and there was an almost rehearsed tone in softness.

Mattheo hated it. He hated the way Thomas looked so natural there, as if that space was as much his as it was yours or Theodore's. It was a visceral feeling, almost childish, but he couldn't ignore it. Thomas was the stranger, the intruder, and yet he was the one who was by his side now, who was part of his life.

Thomas approached the armchair that was previously occupied by you and sat down casually, crossing his legs while pouring more of the amber drink in the glass you had used before. Catherine, always friendly, leaned slightly forward with a polite smile.

- So, Thomas, do you also work in the Ministry? - she asked curiously.

Thomas looked up at her, the smile he answered seemed polite, but calculated.

- Yes, I work as a strategic advisor in the International Cooperation Division. - He folded the sleeves of the white bed to his forearms while talking. - It's an interesting position, but also very stressful.

Theodore let out a slight laugh, leaning against the arm of the sofa.

- Believe me, this is nothing more than an elegant way of saying that he deals with annoying people all the time.

- Something like that. - Thomas replied, a skewed smile appearing on his lips.

Mattheo, until then silent, finally manifested himself. His voice was low, but loaded with something he himself didn't know how to name:

- And how did you meet her?

The question seemed innocent, but the look he gave Thomas carried an intensity that neither Catherine nor Theodore could ignore. Thomas did not hesitate, but the brightness in his eyes seemed to change slightly, as if he was calculating the impact of each word.

- We met during a conference in Paris, at the International Division. - he began, with a polite tone, but something darker seemed latent. - She was presenting an alliance proposal for the British section. Intelligent, articulated... - He paused, as if savoring the weight of the next words. - I confess that it was fascinating to meet her. She... seemed to have a lot to overcome, even though she was so young.

The silence that followed was dense. Mattheo narrowed his eyes, and Theodore, perceptive as always, turned his gaze from Thomas to Mattheo, capturing the subtle change in his friend's posture.

- She's good at it - Theodore intervened, trying to ease the mood, but sounding uncomfortably aware of the tension. - It always was.

Mattheo didn't answer immediately. He knew that Thomas knew more than he was letting it show. That last sentence, "she seemed to have a lot to overcome", was an indirect, almost a provocation.

Thomas tilted his head slightly, the smile on his face more contained, but still with that touch of provocation that Mattheo began to recognize.

- But what about you, Mattheo? - Thomas asked, his voice low, loaded with intentions that he didn't need to hide. - What have you been doing since you ran away... sorry, did you leave London?

Mattheo looked up slowly, a look that masked the whirlwind inside. There was something lethally controlled in his posture, like a stretched rope about to burst.

- Just living my life. - The answer came coldly, each word deliberately measured. He took a sip of his drink, as if that was enough to swallow the discomfort. - Sometimes, leaving London is the best thing you can do.

Thomas smiled almost imperceptibly, as if he knew exactly what was happening under the surface. The silence hovered for a moment, heavy and sharp, until Catherine, always insightful, intervened with a polite smile, trying to dissipate the suffocating tension.

- So, have you already scheduled the wedding date?

Thomas turned to her, and his smile seemed to gain a warmer air, but still calculated, as if each word had been carefully rehearsed.

- Oh, yes. Actually, it will be next week. Something small, intimate, but, of course, you are invited. We couldn't leave out old friends.

Mattheo squeezed the glass in his hand, his knuckles turning white as he processed that. The idea of you marrying Thomas seemed like a low blow, even though he knew he had no right to feel it anymore.

That's when you returned to the room, the steps echoing softly while your gaze carefully evaluated the scene. There was something in your eyes, a glow of caution that suggested that you knew the atmosphere was loaded.

Mattheo straightened his posture, as if his presence had taken him out of the torpor. He put the empty glass on the table with an abrupt movement and got up, fixing his coat with slightly trembling fingers.

- Dinner was great, but it's already late. - he said, his voice firm, but low. He avoided staring at you directly, giving Catherine a brief look. - We'd better go.

You nodded, offering a little polite smile that seemed loaded with unsaid words.

- It was good to see them. - You said moments before hearing the phone ring in another room and going to answer while they left that room.

Theodore accompanied them to the lobby, where Mattheo, already eager to leave, noticed something that had previously gone unnoticed: a wall covered with magical photos.

His gaze was immediately captured by a particular image. It was you and Thomas on a beach, illuminated by the golden sunset. Thomas lifted you up easily, a sincere smile on his face, while you laughed, his arms around his neck. In the sequence, the photo showed you two running back to the water, the brightness of the foam captured in the constant movement of the image.

Mattheo stopped for a moment, unable to look away. That scene was not just a static memory; it was a glimpse of a life that seemed so distant from him now, a happiness that he knew he could never have given you.

Catherine lightly touched his arm, her soft voice breaking the moment.

- Shall we go?

Mattheo took a second to answer, forcing a brief smile and waving to Theodore.

- It was good to see you, Theo.

He took one last look at the photo before turning and leaving, each step heavier than the previous one. As he and Catherine appeared away, the snap echoed through the night, but the silence that remained behind seemed to speak more than any word he could have said.

Inside the house, Thomas stood in the same place for a moment, watching the door through which Mattheo and Catherine had left. A half smile curved his lips, loaded with the certainty of someone who knew exactly what he had provoked. There was something almost triumphant in the way he released the air, as if silently celebrating a won battle without raising a wand.

You entered the room soon after, your gaze immediately capturing Thomas' face and that smile that, although contained, brought an enigmatic air.

- Have they ever gone? - he asked casually, trying to ignore the persistent feeling that he had left something unresolved.

Thomas nodded, approaching you with calm steps, his hand landing on your waist with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly where it belonged.

- Yes. - He took a brief look at the corridor before turning his attention to you. With a subtle gesture, he began to guide her towards the stairs. - Who was on the phone?

- Your sister. - you answered, letting out a light sigh. - Asking if Amélie had already slept.

Thomas let out a short laugh, full of affection.

- Always so worried... - He dramatized with a playful smile, his hand still on your waist as you began to climb the steps.

The sound of the steps echoed softly through the environment, and the weight of that night seemed to finally give way to fatigue. But as his feet followed the usual path down the stairs, his mind wandered for a moment into the past.

Mattheo's face, the way he looked at you during dinner, the way he seemed to carry so much on his shoulders - as if the weight of the years had transformed him into something you barely recognized - all this throbbed in his mind. It was like opening a chest that you swore never to touch again, only to be enveloped by the dust and memories that had accumulated.

But when you looked at Thomas, who guided you with a gentle smile, reality came back strongly. He was the constancy you never had, the gift you chose to build in the midst of the ruins of a war that had taken you so much. Mattheo, as important as it had been, now it was just a shadow of what it once was. The past, he realized, was a place where you no longer belonged.

Meanwhile, outside, Mattheo walked silently next to Catherine, the darkness of the night swallowing every thought he couldn't control. Thomas' face, the ring shining on your hand, the happiness that seemed to emanate from you - all this corroded him, but nothing affected him as much as the feeling of guilt.

He cast a brief look at Catherine, who walked next to him with a serene expression, apparently oblivious to the storm inside him. The guilt grew, overwhelming. It wasn't just the weight of still feeling so much for you; it was the fact that, by drowning in the past, he had neglected the woman next to him.

Catherine deserved more than the shadow of a man attached to something he could never be again. And while the click of the apparatus took them away, Mattheo knew he needed to choose: continue carrying the ashes of what it once was or finally learn to leave them behind.

masterlist

A/N: I'm finally back!

xoxo, bee🫶🏼✨

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 22: This Misery We've Made

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Approval numbers and public perception of Tommy's personal life force him and Lucy to face some painful realities.

Word Count: 3,519

Notes: Not really sure if I'm entirely happy with this chapter, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and I just need to move on. Hope you all still like it! Warnings for depictions of insecurity and references to past abuse and polyamory.

Previous Part • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 1: Too Late

“No.”

Lucy sighed, looking pleadingly into Tommy’s glacial eyes as they hardened over with stubbornness. 

“Tommy, love, we both know it would fix all of these problems…”

“As we’ve already discussed to exhaustion.” His jaw ticked. “I won’t do it.”

“Sweetheart,” she broke eye contact with him to look down at the papers settled in her lap. Her hands fiddled with her rings, gaze glued  to the infernal numbers emblazoned upon the reports, as if staring at them hard enough would cause them to shift and change. “It’s not getting any better. If anything, it’s only going to get worse.”

“The constituents don’t seem to care,” he huffed, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. “Considering that they elected me.”

She frowned. “Because we bribed your way in. And besides, I’m not sure if a lot of them even knew then. You weren’t exactly shouting your marital status and Ruby’s parentage from the rooftops.” Not that he’d hid it, per say. He just avoided discussing it during the campaign and while in settings related to his work. “And they might not care now, but what about when your political rivals start harping about it in the press? They’re already using it to try to shut you out of certain things. Not to mention that arsehole from Oxford who keeps using it to try to cut down all your arguments in the house.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” Tommy shook his head, lighting his cigarette and releasing a puff of smoke from his lips up towards the ceiling.

They were seated in his office in the House of Commons, the big wooden double doors that led out into the workroom that she shared with the other secretary, Adam, closed. Not that they needed to be. Adam had already gone home for the evening, as had most of the other MPs and their staff. No one would be interrupting them. It was late, nothing but darkness and a flickering streetlight visible out the window. 

She was still getting used to spending her days working in the offices of the House of Commons rather than the betting shop or the office in Birmingham. While the general decor and design of the building was not all that dissimilar–outside of just being bigger–there was something distinctively different about this place. A stuffiness and sense of propriety that served as a thin veil for the egos and superiority that radiated from so many of the men who sauntered through its halls. It was a bit of a shock to go from Small Heath, where just about everyone knew her name and she was decidedly near the top of the food chain as far as both authority and respect goes, to here where she was lucky if the MP just next door could even remember her name. In these offices, she was not the Red Demon, or even Lucy Winters. Here she was just Thomas Shelby’s Assistant. And was treated as such. 

It wasn’t all bad, of course. She still got to spend most of her days at Tommy’s side, and the work was not that different from what she’d been doing for him before. 

“I agree, but that’s the way that things are, love.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “And your constituents do care. That’s what these numbers are all about,” she nodded to the report in her lap. “More and more of them indicated that while they’re happy with your performance and policies, they’re troubled by your conduct regarding your personal life.” She held out the papers, and he took them with a reluctant sigh, pulling his glasses from his pocket and sliding them onto his nose so he could look them over himself. 

“Doing…doing this,” Lucy swallowed, unable to bring herself to utter the thing that, ever since Ruby’s birth–and certainly ever since he was elected–hovered threateningly over them. The guillotine teetering precariously above their heads. “It would help improve your standing with the more traditional and family focused members of your constituents. And might even open up some more doors for you here with the conservative MPs. God knows we already have a hard enough time working with them.” Bunch of racist, classist dickheads was what they were. All too eager to look down their nose at the man who had clawed his way from the bowels of Small Heath’s dirty streets to the halls of power. They already had enough reasons to attempt to shut Tommy out, they really didn’t need to be giving them anymore ammunition. 

Tommy met her eyes, and she saw a crack appear in his resolve. Deep down, they both knew that she was right. This needed to be done. 

Even if it was going to break both their hearts. 

Tommy closed his eyes, head tilting up as he released another stream of smoke from his lips. His brow pinched with stress, the skin around his temples tightening. 

She forced herself to be strong. “You know just as well as I do how important image is to the people we’re now surrounded by. And to the people you’ve been elected to serve. We can’t just…shrug off what other people think of our personal lives anymore. Presenting the image of a proper family will solve nearly all the current problems outlined in those numbers.” 

His lips pursed. He was not seated behind his desk, but rather in the chair next to hers in front of it, one leg crossed over the other. One of his hands lifted to touch the side of his face, thumb moving across his lips while he examined her shrewdly and listened to her argument.

“We can’t ignore this forever. It has the potential to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for.” She looked him hard in the eye, beseeching him to understand. He still just stared at her, clearly fighting against the knowledge that he knew she was right. “There’s only one clear solution that I can see that fixes pretty much all problems at once.”

How many times had they discussed this? Too many to count. And he always shot the idea down instantaneously. When Polly tried to push it harder on one of their more recent meetings, he’d nearly ripped her head off. 

“Look, you know what my suggestion for a solution is. If you have any others, I’m happy to hear them.” She was suddenly in dire need of a cigarette. Sensing her need, Tommy silently held out the one clutched between his fingers towards her. She took it with a noticeably unsteady hand, bringing it gratefully to her lips. Tommy watched all of her movements closely, knuckles pressed up against his lips, frown still firmly in place. Picking up the report of his approval numbers, his eyes skimmed over the front page once more before tossing it onto his desk, removing his glasses and putting them back in his pocket.

The silence while he mulled over her words seemed to stretch on forever, only interrupted by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. Lucy had to fight back the desire to fill it with more near nonsensical babbling. 

Why was she even arguing for this so bloody hard? She should be happy that he’d instantly dismissed the suggestion the very first time that she brought it up. Hell, she was, from a purely selfish standpoint.

Tommy’s hand dropped from where it was resting against his lips to take one of hers, thumb running along her knuckles. 

“I don’t want to marry Lizzie,” he said softly.

She met his gaze sadly. “I know.” I don’t want you to marry her either. But she knew if she told him that, she would never manage to convince him to go through with it. He’d refuse forever all on account of her feelings, even if it meant that he could lose everything he’d worked so hard for.  

The idea that he could lose it all and it would be her fault made her feel sick with guilt.

“But we’re being backed into a corner here, love,” she chose her words carefully. “Being unmarried with an illegitimate child makes some of your constituents think that you don’t value families. If you want to stop your approval numbers from dipping, and even have a shot at reelection in a few years…”

“I haven’t even thought about reelection, yet.”

She gave him a look that was both stern and fond in equal measure. “Now, we both know that isn’t true.”

His lips quirked upwards slightly, eyes warming at how well she knew him. But when he scooted closer to her, sadness quickly leaked back into his expression, lips turning downwards.

“I don’t love her.”

“I know,” she repeated, feeling even worse at the spark of relief that statement brought her. Poor Lizzie. 

He shot her a look of deep, unending regret, brushing some hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered at the warm press of his palm against her cheek when he cupped it. “I promised you that I wouldn’t marry her,” he whispered. 

“You said that you didn’t plan to,” she corrected, recalling the conversation when he first informed her of Lizzie’s pregnancy. The things he’d murmured to her whilst holding her on the floor of their bedroom while she cried. “Plans can change.”

“I am not leaving you,” there was zero room for argument in his voice, jaw shifting stubbornly. 

“Lizzie might not agree to marry you if you don’t.”

Tommy shook his head. “It’ll be a marriage of convenience only. You and me still being able to be together is non-negotiable. I’m not budging on that.”

She smiled a little in spite of herself at his devotion, leaning her face deeper into his palm. “It feels terribly unfair to her.”

“She can always say no if she really can’t handle it. We’ll be clear about what it’ll all entail, so she doesn’t get the wrong idea about any of it meaning something between me and her. Besides, she’s been warmer towards you lately.”

That was true. Though who knew how long that would actually last.

Scooting his chair closer to hers, Tommy leaned forward, holding her face with both hands, forehead resting against hers. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” he asked urgently. Lucy swallowed hard. The thought of watching him stand up at an altar and make vows and promises to another woman, of having to live under the same roof as Lizzie and share him with her for the rest of their lives…

It burned harshly in her chest, cracks forming in her already fragile heart. 

But she could live with it. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make if it meant that Tommy would not lose all he’d worked so extremely hard to achieve. 

Maybe…maybe it actually wouldn’t be all that bad. He was right that Lizzie had been kinder and more amicable towards her as of late. Perhaps she would even be agreeable to all three of them sharing a bed from time to time, like they used to. And it would be nice to have Ruby in the same house as them so they could see her more. She and Charlie could be raised as proper siblings. 

“Yes,” she said, unknowingly sealing both their fates. “So long as we don’t have to break up.”

“I won’t ever let that happen,” Tommy promised. She leaned in closer to him, hands resting on his forearms. Tommy gave her a little tug. “Come here,” drawing her from her chair, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmured into his chest, arms winding around his neck. “I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but…”

He snorted, lightly pinching her hip. “Yeah, yeah.” Lips ghosting across her temple, he silently urged her face back enough so that he could kiss her softly. “I mean it. I won’t let us be torn apart.”

A small smile pulled at her lips, his reassurance like a band-aid over her fracturing heart while he kissed her again. 

∗ ∗ ∗

“Well,” Lizzie said, adjusting her fingers around her cigarette, straightening in her chair. Even sitting down, she looked tall, the way in which she sat with her spine entirely straight only adding to the effect. She looked between Tommy and Lucy seated before her at the other side of the round table in front of the fireplace in Tommy’s Birmingham office. “That’s one hell of a way to propose to someone.”

Lucy winced a little at the underlayer of bitterness in Lizzie’s voice, looking down at her hands in shame.

“Technically you aren’t being proposed to until we know that you agree to our…conditions,” Tommy was much less phased by Lizzie’s reaction, puffing on his cigarette whilst eyeing her from around the vase of deep red roses on the table between them. 

“I’m pretty sure that I know what those are already,” Lizzie huffed, shifting in her seat, briefly glancing at the fire crackling away in the hearth. She looked back at them, and gave a little gesture with the hand holding her cigarette for him to continue. “But let’s hear them anyway.” 

Tommy adjusted himself in his seat, leaning forward with one of his arms resting on the table. When he spoke, his voice had taken on the commanding edge that Lucy had heard him use when giving orders to his men or family members. 

“After we are married, you and Ruby will come to live at Arrow House. You will enjoy all luxuries that the home and the title as my wife offers. All we expect is that you help take care of the children and manage things that have to do with the household. You can continue to hold a position on the company’s board, if you’d like. But most importantly,” he glanced over at Lucy, holding her gaze steadfastly before turning back to Lizzie, “Lucy and I will still get to be together.”

The area around Lizzie’s lips tightened slightly. “So you aren’t offering me a real marriage, but only one of convenience.”

To his credit, Tommy did not flinch away from her stern, accusing gaze. “Yes; that’s exactly what I’m offering you.” 

Lizzie leaned back into her chair, nursing at her cigarette as she contemplated. Lucy struggled to meet her gaze when it shifted periodically over to her, guilt roiling through her like a tempestuous storm. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that if she were not around, Tommy and Lizzie may have actually stood a chance together. And she was pretty certain that Lizzie thought the same exact thing. 

“I want you to promise that you will be discreet,” Lizzie finally said very slowly. “I will not be publicly humiliated by my husband openly fucking another woman.”

“Of course,” Lucy nodded. They already had toned down most displays of physical affection whilst in public, presenting instead as simply colleagues who happened to be good friends. Gestures of romance were saved for behind closed doors. It was not unlike it was prior to Grace’s death, when the three of them had to practice restraint to avoid a scandal. “And we’re willing to make accommodations to make sure you and Ruby are comfortable.”

“Within reason,” Tommy interjected quickly. 

“I want a honeymoon,” Lizzie said decisively. “A real one. With just you and me.” Her eyes wavered from Tommy to fix on Lucy, then darted back to him. Lucy thought she caught a glimpse of pleading in her face. 

The mere idea of them going on a romantic vacation together without her left insecurity brewing beneath her skin, but Lucy forced herself to ignore it. Considering what they were asking of her, it felt like it was the least that they could do. “Okay.”

Tommy shot her a glance. “We’ll have to talk about it,” he modified. 

Lizzie nodded. “Of course.” The clock on the mantle chimed. “I have to head home. I promised the nanny I’d be back by half past five. I can come by this weekend to work out more of the details if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be good. You have a ride home?” Tommy asked, both he and Lucy standing after Lizzie stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and rose to her feet. 

“Yes, Skudboat offered to drop me off.”

“Right. We’ll see you this weekend, then.”

“Give Ruby a kiss from us,” Lucy requested timidly. Lizzie shot her a smile that actually seemed half genuine. 

“I will.”

They bid her goodbye, Lucy waiting until the door swung shut behind her before sinking exhaustedly back into her chair. She was struck at how transactional the whole exchange had been. Like ironing out a business deal rather than arranging a marriage.  

The floorboards creaked under Tommy’s heavy footsteps as he approached her. Reaching out, he rubbed a hand up and down on her upper arm, bending to kiss her forehead. 

“Are you alright?”

She stuffed the guilt bubbling up within her back down, locking it away in a far corner of her mind. “Yeah.”

“I can get out of the honeymoon if it makes you uncomfortable. Or insist that you come along.”

“It’s fine,” she probably said it too quickly to be convincing. “It’s the least that we can do for her, considering.”

“I don’t like the idea of going without you.”

“Me neither,” she admittedly, finally looking up to meet his concerned blue orbs. “But it’s just one week.” She knew him better than to expect that he’d be willing to take more than that off work. “We’ll live.”

He stroked her face tenderly, brow furrowing slightly. “You don’t have to give her everything that she wants. I know that you feel bad, even though you really shouldn’t, but…” he trailed off, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, thumb brushing down her cheek. “If she pushes too far, if she’s unkind to you, or asks for something you aren’t comfortable with, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll take care of it, alright?”

Nodding, she turned her face to kiss the center of his palm. “Thank you,” covering his hand with hers, she smiled weakly. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Ugh,” he made a face as though he’d just been told he was sentenced to be executed, rather than engaged to be married, and dropped his head forward until it was resting against her shoulder. Lucy wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her face into his hair, breathing in the scent of his soap and cologne. “I wish it was you,” he mumbled sorrowfully against her throat, and for a dreadful moment Lucy actually thought that she might start to cry. 

“I know.” And though she did not say it–for fear that if she did, he would call the whole damn thing off and throw his reputation and all professional prospects in the bin–they both knew the words circulating within her head:

Me too.  

When he first brought up the topic of marriage, all the way back in 1918, before Grace had even walked into their lives, she had told him that it was not something she was sure that she wanted. She was still living with the trauma of being previously engaged to a monster who hurt and abused her, and the only example of marriage she’d had was the loveless, horrific mess that was her parents. It was something he’d respected, unconcernedly promising that marriage or no marriage, he would still love her forever.

After Grace died, the topic had passed briefly every once in a while across her mind. With times changing and modern perspectives growing in popularity, it was no longer a necessity that she stop working if she were married. And with the slow passage of time, the idea of marriage no longer seemed to her like a cage to be bound and gagged within. She knew that Tommy would never expect her to change simply because he placed a ring on her finger. 

But she didn’t bring it up to him, both of them were still aching too terribly from Grace’s death. It was too soon. For them personally, for Charlie, and for either of their reputations. 

And then the vendetta had happened. And for a bit of fun they took Lizzie down to the canal for a fuck like they so often did before Grace stepped into their lives. 

If only she hadn’t still been so messed up on the topic the first time that he asked. If only she’d expressed her changing feelings on the matter with him before Lizzie got pregnant. Maybe things would be different. 

She could not say anything about it now. If she did, he would abandon this plan that was poised to solve so many problems for him. Not to mention that marrying her instead of Lizzie would create a whole new set of issues for him to deal with, some with the potential to wreck everything he’d accomplished.

It was too late.  

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[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

🪓 Hewn and Sewn 🪡

I’ve been thinking a lot about Háma’s death again lately and started this fic for Tolkien Horror Week. And then I both failed miserably on the timetable for that and realized that what I needed for myself was to find a way for his horrifying end (it’s there in the books, and it’s not pretty) to not be totally devoid of consolation. And so it maybe wasn’t right for a Horror Week event anyway. Your mileage may vary on whether you find anything remotely consoling in it. I just love my guy, my #1, and want him to be happy. I don’t know if this accomplishes what I want, but I tried.

CW: canonical character death. He met a brutal end, per Tolkien, and that’s here, along with a fair amount of battle/war reality, incl. some blood and guts and general violence/death.

Art by @ rinthecap

**********

A body is surprisingly hard to kill. 

The first thrust of a spear may bring a man to his knees, the second fills his mouth with blood, the third can barely be extracted again from the depths of his chest, but only the fourth brings mercy at last. Until then, the body clings to its life like a sailor adrift in an ocean storm, scrabbling after any tiny scrap of floating debris and clutching with bloodied nails and broken fingers to the last vestiges of a smashed and splintered ship that somehow hasn’t yet totally disappeared beneath the roiling waves. The body finds its greatest strength at the moment of its greatest vulnerability, stubbornly refusing to relinquish its desperate hold on survival and rallying to endure unimaginable suffering for just a little longer — one more boot to the skull, one more arrow through the gut, one more blade in the back, one more, and one more, and one more — to see whether the body’s will to live can outlast the enemy’s will to kill. 

Háma knows all of this now.

He knows that the great tales of history have left out much of the truth, that the epic songs of invincible riders who slice through enemies like a scythe through wheat are more fantasy than fact. They have left out the hard work of dealing death, the sweaty, gruesome, arduous labor of cleaving into skin and muscle, hacking through sinew and bone, splitting open hearts and stomachs and lungs. They have left out the vomit and the blood and the entrails, the slippery gore that loosens grips and unsteadies footings, sending blows wide of their marks and into places that deliver pain rather than ending it. They have left out the soul-deadening horror of looking another man in the eye and realizing the only way to end his misery is to first give him more.  

These realities are seldom spoken of, threatening as they are to the necessary project of war. New soldiers each discover them on their own, and Háma was no different. He came to the army while still hardly more than a boy, an idealist raised on stories of grand, heroic campaigns and aspiring to the honor of being one of the king’s own guards. None but his mother had tried to warn him of the cruelties he was sure to encounter, for she knew well the gentle heart that beat in her son’s chest. Always the first to smile, to extend a hand of welcome, to offer quiet encouragement, to assume the best even of those who had done him harm, she knew how such a heart would rebel against those inevitable cruelties. But he had so little experience of all that was vicious and foul in the world that he couldn’t truly comprehend the warning, no matter how carefully he listened, and in the end her bleak, abstract prudence was no match for the vivid potency of his dreams. He kissed her farewell and went off in trusting pursuit of all that was noble and righteous, blissfully innocent of the ugly truth behind the fantasy.

It took only one battle for him to realize that the valiant and glorious contests of poetry were neither valiant nor glorious but rather panicked, messy slogs where nothing was simple, nothing was clear and nothing was as he expected it to be. The shock of it nearly got him killed, frozen fast in horror amidst a raging squall of bristling spears and glinting blades and hearing nothing but the echo of his mother’s words, suddenly so palpable and so obvious. Only the panic and the mess and the general disorder saved him from meeting his fate before he was able to rouse himself at last to the grim necessity of action and do what was expected of him. He waded into the carnage, he added to it, he turned aside from suffering that he couldn’t relieve, he tried not to look at suffering that he had caused. And somehow, by the grace of Béma, he survived to see the victory, though the word itself now caught in his throat, devoid of meaning.

He cried after that battle, hiding alone in a darkened corner of a stable and wracked by huge, shaking sobs that both embarrassed and reassured him, proof that the day’s bloody brutality had exposed his naive ignorance but not taken his humanity. He wondered whether that humanity could endure even one more such pitiless trial or if it would break him, changing the very core of who he was. He wondered if he was already broken in ways that he couldn’t yet understand, ways that would be revealed to him only later in the long dark of a sleepless night or the cold grip of a relived memory. He wept for the man he had been and for the man he had wanted to be, someone who might now be a stranger to him forever. 

He may have quit that very day had an older soldier not stumbled upon him and his tears, pulling him to his feet and tossing him a scrap of cloth to dry his face. We have all felt what you’re feeling, the soldier said. Anyone who is untroubled by taking lives should never be trusted with a sword. The soldier walked him over to a nearby field where neat rows of villagers were laid out to await burial — old men holding canes, young mothers in bright dresses, a few girls and boys with skinned knees or milk stains on their upper lips — all caught unaware by the enemy before the forces of Rohan had arrived to drive them back. Remember that you have killed so that people like this might live, the soldier said, and he left Háma to keep watch among the corpses, to contemplate death anew.

It seemed a simple reminder, a basic truth so obvious that it need not be spoken, and yet he had needed to hear it all the same. To be a guardian, using his strength and abilities to protect others, had been his earliest aspiration, and now perhaps that dream could protect his own heart as well, offering him the sense of purpose that would help to make the suffering feel worthwhile. He walked slowly from the silent field and back into the center of the village, where water was being drawn, animals fed, children minded, lives lived despite the tragedy to befall them. He rejoined his éored with a brief nod to the older soldier, and when they rode out again, he did so with the rent in his heart not healed but at least knit loosely together again, mended with stitches of duty and honor.

*****

Since that day he has killed many times, never unprovoked or with wanton disregard and never with the overpowering horror of that first battle, but also never with the clean, simple ease that he had once been led to expect. Each time he is forced to inflict pain on another, he feels it in his own limbs, and though he hates no man, he comes closest in his despair over those who fight him the hardest, who persist through blow after weary blow and refuse to yield or retreat. Do not force me to do this to you, his mind pleads silently, and sometimes, though it means the same thing, do not force me to do this to myself. In direst conditions, compelled to keep defending himself from an opponent with the white glimmer of bone shining out from mangled red flesh or with a dark, empty space where an eye had just been, he cannot keep these thoughts contained to his own head. Barely audible amidst the clash of metal and the thunder of hoofbeats and the groaning of the injured and maimed, he speaks the words aloud. I am sorry.

Many of these men linger in his memories, images of them emerging suddenly and unbidden from the depths of his mind while in the middle of doing other, more benign things. The man who stared up at him from a puddle of gore, tears streaming from eyes that were the same pale green as those of Háma’s youngest sister. The grievously wounded man who had spit in Háma’s face when offered mercy before plunging a knife into his own throat. The man who whimpered one word over and over as they grappled for control, a word Háma later learned meant ‘please’ in the tongue of the Easterlings. These memories tear at the stitches in his heart, testing their strength and threatening to sunder him anew.

One man in particular haunts his thoughts, lurking always in the shadows of his waking mind or the hazy, fragmented mirages of his dreams. Part of a company of Dunlendings who crossed the Adorn without leave, this man was a talented warrior, and had he only been taller or slightly larger of frame things might have ended differently. As it was, it took three heavy strokes of Háma’s sword to bring him down, and the battle-notched edge of Háma’s blade caught on something as he sought to pull back the final stroke. Forced to lean in close, to brace his foot by the dying man’s chest as he struggled to free his weapon from whatever barbed hook of metal or bone had trapped it, he found something he did not expect on the haggard, shivering face that was now only inches from his own — a smile, small but clear, and growing only wider as the man pulled in his last rasping breaths and the light slowly dimmed from his eyes.

The memory of that smile never truly leaves Háma. It follows him everywhere, as attached to his mind as his shadow is to his feet. He sees it when he stands long, lonely hours on watch in the cold and when he sits in a crowded tavern that swelters with the heat of a hundred bodies pressed side by side. It creeps up on him in the quiet wandering of his thoughts while his hands perform some common, repetitive task, or it appears with startling suddenness in the middle of pressing matters, insisting on claiming a share of his focus with the urgency of its unknowable mystery.

He dreams up a thousand different reasons why a man would smile through such agony, somehow finding happiness in the moment of ultimate despair. Perhaps the man hated his life and was glad to be rid of it at last, or he felt honor and pride in the idea of dying for his cause, though that cause was repugnant to Háma himself. Perhaps the smile was brought on by a delusion or hallucination, a vision of pleasure or comfort that shimmered with false loveliness for that Dunlending’s eyes alone. Perhaps it wasn’t even a smile but rather a spasm or tic, an arbitrary contortion of muscles masquerading as a familiar emotion and torturing Háma now with a futile search for meaning in the utterly meaningless. The only man to know the answer has taken it to his hastily dug grave. 

Háma lives these years balanced on the knife’s edge between revulsion and understanding, doubt and certainty, heart and gut. But with each battle, he learns better how to fight in a way that feels true to himself, anchored to his decency, and he learns better how to strengthen the parts of him that quail at the task, reinforcing those weak spots so that they prove all the harder to wound a second time. He patches himself with reminders of all that he fights for, and, in time, life gives him more and more to add to that armor. A beautiful wife who brings warmth and light into all of his days. A daughter who owns him, body and soul, from her first breath. Hard won respect and admiration, first from his commanders, then from the men entrusted to him, and finally from his king. He will never be a battle-hardened veteran, numb to the business of death, but he finds his way forward, refusing to let the sharp edges of those old memories and doubts carve and pare his spirit until it is shorn of all that is hopeful and joyous. Instead, he embraces the business of life, of being a husband, a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a King’s Guard, a captain, a doorward, all of his selves linked together like the rings of his mail and bringing him just as much strength. He is happy, and he is whole.

*****

And so it is that he finds himself strangely at peace on the ride to what will prove his last battle. He has spent a lifetime preparing himself for this moment, this challenge, and he will meet it with honor. The hand of fate has landed on Helm’s Deep, an unexpected turn but one that he welcomes. He knows this place, its gate, walls and keep, unbreached by any outsider in all the long years of history. A fortress and a refuge at once, it is everything that he holds himself to be: strength and shelter, protection and not aggression. If the Rohirrim are forced to this step, with the point of a sword at their backs, there is nowhere else he’d rather make their stand, defending the inviolable.

They have been warned that this fight will be unlike any other in the lifetimes of this army. This is no skirmish over the placement of a border, no periodic flare-up of ancient, simmering tensions. This is existential, a contest that will decide whether Rohan endures a little longer or falls entirely, and among their old enemies of Dunland there will be new enemies as well, orcs of Isengard that are taller, stronger, unafraid of the sun, more desirous of blood. They drink in the joy of death like a cat laps up cream, he is told. Show them no mercy, for none will be shown to you. He sees the logic of this advice even as he has no plans to follow it. He has worked too hard to keep the cruelty of the world from making him cruel in turn. He will do what must be done, but he will do it as himself, from goodness, and not in imitation of those he deems wicked.

Final commands are given. Théoden sends him to hold the gate, and though he feels ill at ease to leave the king, his one and only charge, he knows it is the greater need and he goes willingly. The ragtag assortment of defenders at the gate are his charge now — cavalry riders preparing to fight from foot, farmers of the Westfold, teenage boys whose beardless faces catch the moonlight — and he assures them that it is alright to be afraid. They will face the fear together. He feels some of that fear himself, more aware than ever of his captain’s uniform that will distinguish him among the masses, drawing attention in the one place where such attention is least welcome. But he would sooner die in this symbol of all he believes in and all he has worked for than to hide in common disguise. His uniform clothes him in courage.

The fighting itself, once it begins, passes quickly, as do most things that overwhelm. There is scarcely a second to take in what is happening before it’s happened, and things grow only more chaotic as the late night stretches into earliest morning. Fear keeps him moving, because to give in to the exhaustion, to stop for even half a second of stolen rest, is to expose yourself to the heavy stroke of an axe or a sword or a pike or any of the other tools Isengard has devised to sever the loose connections that hold a man’s body together. Fear keeps him on his feet, and courage keeps him pressing forward, unwilling to give ground toward that precious gate.

He fights this battle his way. He leaves those enemies who are injured beyond the point of threat to be collected by their countrymen. He dispatches mercy to those whose injuries have already guaranteed death, bringing an early end to their suffering. He takes no action from anger, only necessity. He kills, many times over, but always as a last resort and each time with a heavy heart, for even the orcs are living creatures, once descended from elves if old tales are true.

He is not unscathed in the struggle. Bloody weals, red and shining, cut across his cheek and throat, and his left arm hangs dead now at his side, the muscles needed to raise it severed by the point of a spear. But he is undaunted and rallies, again and again, as men and boys, soldiers and herders, guards and merchants, fathers and sons, fall all around him to the seemingly endless waves of new opponents. His luck holds, until suddenly it doesn’t.

The first sharp blow slides neatly into the narrow band of exposed leather near his shoulder, where a piece of his armor has been forcibly pried from his body. It slices cleanly through the layers of hide and cloth, cleanly between ribs, cleanly into the center of him. It stops him in his tracks, not from the pain, which is strangely delayed, but from the abrupt sensation that all the air has gone from his lungs, which leak uselessly now into the hollow of his chest. He is still standing, struggling to pull in delicate half breaths that each slice like a blade of their own, when the second blow lands, a sword at the knee that sends him to the ground. The third, a heavy, percussive jolt from a bludgeon, shivers the bones that don’t shatter outright and leaves him sunk helplessly in the muddy grass, surrounded by a pool of blood that started out as someone else’s but is soon more his than not.

A burst of flame to his left draws attention away as both sides rush toward the noise and light, and he is left for a moment on his own. Above him hangs the black, blank sky, the stars now blocked by clouds and haze and smoke. Beside him are an elderly man with no helmet and a split skull, eyes fixed open in unseeing horror, and a teenage boy, face gone grey and breathing shallow as the contents of his veins empty steadily from a gaping hole in his side. Háma would comfort him, take his hand and bid him a swift journey to the halls of his forebears, if he could only lift an arm or force a word from his lips. But there is no strength in that arm and no air to carry the sound. He manages only to inch his hand next to the fading warmth of the boy’s fingers, and he hopes the boy will feel it and know that he is there, that they are not alone. It isn’t enough, but it will have to be. 

A burning pressure builds in his chest, pushing out against his broken ribs and mangled muscles with a force that could tear apart whatever is left of him that is still intact, and somehow, above the screaming and the thunder and the clang of weaponry, he can hear a wet, bubbling sound each time he tries to inhale, as though he is drawing breath through a sopping cloth. He wonders if he might drown, miles from any river or lake or tide except his own blood that is rising in his lungs, and he uses his last gasp of energy to weakly raise his head, eyes searching desperately for a friendly face that might be able to drag him to help. But the eyes that meet his are instead cold and cutting, and they sparkle with sharp malice when they recognize the fine armor and burnished insignia of the captain of the King’s Guard. 

A voice calls in a tongue that Háma cannot understand, but he needs no translator to know its meaning or that of the answering calls. Fingers are pointed in his direction. Grips are tightened around axes and knives and clubs. Lips curl into wicked smirks as many feet advance toward him, the defenseless prey whose brutal end will send a message to no less than the king of Rohan himself. No mercy will be shown to you.

The crushing realization hits him in an instant, though perhaps he should have known it all along. This is the end. There aren’t enough allies left standing to save him, even if his wounds could be healed. The gate, the one object of his focus, is being torn now from its hinges, riven with deep fractures and fissures, and these men and orcs will pour through the gaping rupture just as soon as they are done with him. It will matter to none of them that he is as good as gone already, slowly choking to death on his own bile and blood, because they mean not just to kill but to destroy. They mean not to leave him in one piece, not to keep him recognizable even to those who love him best. They will take his life, but they will also take his identity, his dignity, his grace, his chance to be mourned over by those who would hold him, stroke his hair, kiss his brow, touch his cheek. 

He turns his head again to the young man at his side, to see one last Rohirrim face, but it has gone stony and lifeless, an unmoving mask of arrested youth. Háma studies this face, the soft down of a first beard, the skin unmarred by old scars or new wrinkles, and his heart trembles at the thought of all that this boy never got to do or have. A whole lifetime that was yet to be lived, with loves to be found, achievements to be celebrated, misfortunes to be endured, contentment to be earned. His death is a tragedy of lost hopes, of all that might have been had the boy been given even the twenty extra years that Háma himself has had. And that is the thought that brings a sudden and utter calm to Háma’s spirit, quietly reassuring despite the looming specter of gruesome execution treading closer and closer each second.

He cannot see his own imminent death as a tragedy like this boy’s, for Háma has lived — not as long as many men, but fully and well. He has loved and been loved. He has made himself and others proud. He has laughed and cried and grinned and gasped. He has seen great beauty, heard words of great kindness, tasted much that was sweet, felt hands of true tenderness. He has served a land he reveres, one that he knows in his heart will prevail and find a way off its knees to stand tall once again. He has joined himself to people worth dying for, people that he would weep to leave if not for the knowledge that he was more fortunate than most to have ever had such people in his life, no matter how briefly. A wife who was the love that made all the others irrelevant. A daughter who was every bit as perfect as she adoringly believed him to be. Another baby that would arrive in four months’ time and bring consolation and joy to its mother when she’d need it most. They will be pained to lose him, but he trusts their strength, the kind that isn’t sharp and brittle like iron but binds and flexes like thread.

Amid all the suffering of the world, he has been blessed, his fate woven together so tightly with filaments of gladness and fulfillment and favor that those things can never be sundered from him, even now at the very end. When the first axemen crowd around him at last, he doesn’t feel fear or hatred or regret. He feels only gratitude for all that he’s been given. When an enemy first takes his leg at mid-thigh and then his arm at the elbow, he isn’t thinking of the pain. He is thinking only of how one man could be so lucky, how he had somehow managed to claim not only his share of good in the world but many times that much. When a blade takes his ear and iron-toed boots prod where his ribs no longer provide resistance, he hears Brytta’s sweet voice calling his name and feels Hálwinë’s soft cheek rested against his chest. And when the last rattling breath leaves his battered lungs, sighing softly from his bloodied lips, he looks right at the man above him and smiles. 

[kay9leo]

WIP Tag Game

Rules: Share a snippet from whatever you’re currently working on, and then tag 5 people.

@myokk tagged me and seeing how I needed something to get me back into the writing world again after a hiatus, this seems like a good way to get back in 🤗

So while not a "true" WIP, it's an idea stuck in my head since in my original WIP (written and hidden in my computer files) of where Iñaki Martinez Cariaga (or MC) is used, I have Hogwarts Legacy take place in the late 2000s...but what if Iñaki's Ancient magic takes her back in time...to the year 1890? As a play on the name of a title of a famous Mark Twain book, I present a small snidget of an idea that's been flying circles in my head:

A New York Yankee in Hogwarts' Courtyard, 1890

Iñaki walked around Hogsmeade, trying to reconcile the past with the future wizarding village that she remembered before she was sent back in time over more than a hundred years ago.

Hogsmeade was still Hogsmeade with its quint shops, townhouses and stone ruins nearby its town entrance, but it was also different from how she remembered back in 2008.

For one, the MCC or the Muggleborn Cultural Center hasn't been made yet, a place where all muggleborns would go to get a taste of home away from home (even though it wasn't truly a taste of home for her, with her home being an ocean away in New York). Two, the Shrieking Shack building didn't exist yet and three, there was no Tim Howards Coffee Shops yet - the only American magical coffee shop chain that somehow made it across the pond.

If you think about it, I might be able to run into Tim Howards when he's still a baby in this time period. He doesn't become a famous Quidditch player until the 1920s. Iñaki frowned at that thought.

"So, what do you think? Is Hogsmeade up to your standing Yank?"

Iñaki blinked out of her thoughts and looked over to her right to see a brown haired boy, Sebastian Sallow giving her a confident smile despite the nervous look in his eyes. He was currently giving her the grand tour of the place. To her surprise, Sebastian wasn't the cocky boy he made himself out to be before the duel that he lost in DADA class. The entire walk, Sebastian was friendly, jolly and curious about her homelife back in America, never once meeting a Yankee. Soon that became her nickname when he saw how it made her smile as he asked questions to get to know about her a bit more.

It was hard to be tight lipped about her homeland. Especially as far as he and everyone but Professor Fig knew, she was just another girl from their era and out of her element because she was the new kid in a new country and NOT being stuck in the wrong time period. She had to be careful about what she said, to reveal little about the future as possible like Professor Fig and all those time traveling books and movies taught her before.

While she ran into some more recognizable names - Weasleys were a dime a dozens, Prewett was an extinct family name in her time period with their remaining line married into one of the Weasleys' family branches and Gaunt was the original family name of the founder of Ilvermorny- there were a few she didn't recognized.

Onai was one. So was Sweeting. And then there was Sallow.

Sebastian Sallow was a name that rang a small bell in her head, but she couldn't remember for what reason it was for as she smiled at its owner with a light smile as she pulled up a half lie.

"I think it's cute, like it's from a storybook. It reminds me of another wizarding village I visited in the past at home..." Or was it future? It didn't matter, it was in her past. Iñaki thought with a small painful smile as she looked over the smaller village in this era.

"You really miss home, don't you Iñaki?" Sebastian said as he placed his hand on her shoulder. Iñaki looked up to him with a tight smile, fighting back tears that suddenly appeared in her eyes.

"Who me?" Iñaki chuckled, waving her hand off playfully as if she could physically fight off the emotional pains that came every time she thought about the new country she found herself in due to her dad's new job, the time period that she didn't belong to or the possible reality she might be stuck here for good and might never see her parents, family, friends or even her neighbor's pet dog ever again.

Heck, she might be in the history books of another country and her loved ones would never know what happened to her.

And if she let one tear escape, the whole dam would break and she wasn't certain if she would survive the floods of her emotional pain since she woke up in 1890 after accidentally tampering with a magical place she thought nothing of. It wasn't like it was a time turner. Just a bunch of standing stones that reminded her of Stonehenge that stood in up in a forest nearby Feldcroft that called to her for some reason when she was flying around, trying to free up her mind from the thoughts of being homesick.

She was really far from home this time around.

"Yes you. You seem to keep your distance from everyone you know? We don't bite." Sebastian smiled at her. "Take it from someone that had to move before, you'll find yourself fitting in sooner than later. Natty practically befriend you -"

True...Iñaki thought.

" -Ominis seems relaxed and happy to be around you since you met him your first night-"

It probably helps that my first thought of his surname that I told him was that one of his ancestors founded Ilvermorny and rejected her family's prejudicial pureblood beliefs and not of his infamous descendent that is Tim Riddler...or what ever his name was.

" -in the Slytherin Common Room-"

I was a Gryffindor in my time period.

"-and I do need a dueling partner in Crossed Wands." Sebastian winked at her. "Yeah." Her voice croaked. That's what it seemed it was good at doing since she moved to London for her Dad's work. "I-" She cleared her throat with a smile. "-I DO like dueling."

Dueling made it easy to forget, to not remember that she was no longer home. That there was no DeLorean or ruby heels she can tap together three times to bring her back to her time period, to her world.

It wasn't until the Troll fight she had with Sebastian that she thought, maybe she didn't need a time traveling car or magical red heels to go home. Not when she felt that same magical force that brought her to this time period flow out of her when she defeated -no vanquished- the troll.

If Ancient Magic brought me back to the past, I'm going to find a way to use it to get back to my own time with no problem. Iñaki thought with a smug smile as she helped repair the town back, unaware of the only flaw in her plan as Sebastian Sallow gathered her for a quick drink at the Three Broomsticks on him.

And never once did she notice the awe in his eyes as he looked at her or the growing heart he wore on his sleeve for her the longer she remained stuck in the past. She would have noticed it if she looked back, but the only flaw in that was this:

Iñaki was too busy looking forward to finally go back home, back to the future where she belonged.

No Pressure Tags: @theladyofshalott1989 @ps-cactus and whoever sees this and is interested in writing as well/needs a small push to return to the writing world 😁

Thank you @myokk for tagging me and helping me to slowly return to the writing world for a bit after the hiatus I took💖🥰💖