#sleep hollow fanfiction

[lee-by-thy-side]

OVER 2K WORDS WRITTEN IN ONE DAY FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER

WE'RE EATING GOOD

[abby-howard]

Hhhhiii genuinely can't stop thinking abt you and art and also Scarlet Hollow specifically and I have so many things I wanna ask, so sorry for being a bother!!! I'll stick to the two most burning questions right now, which are: do you have any time left to draw leisurely for your own pleasure behond the games and other projects (or maybe leisure drawing is for other projects in and of itself??) AND when you draw sprites for the charactera in SH, do you also draw their legs beyond what is shown on acreen??

Have a wonderful day and may your wrists be free of carpal tunnel!

Aw, thanks for being so invested in our work!!

My leisure time is indeed full of other projects right now 😅

I usually work every day of the week (every time I've tried to institute a "weekend" it lasts for maybe two weeks before I have some new deadline that steals it from me,) so leisure time is between 7pm and sleep, and currently I'm spending that on the fun parts of a work project. So it kind of feels like I'm not working, because I'd use that time to draw, anyway.

I alternate what I spend my off-hours doing based on what I spend my on-hours doing. So if I'm in a writing period, I draw at night, and when I'm drawing all day, I often write to cool off. That sometimes even includes non-work! Like fanfiction, which I find to be a great way to hone my prose skills.

Also for anyone who hears this and feels like they need to be doing more: don't be like me, I'm exhausted 24/7 XD I want to take more breaks but I don't know how anymore. And I gotta finish all these projects before I die!!

[amora1tarada]

Notes: This is the first fanfiction that I had the courage to post! I’m super excited but also a little nervous. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. English isn’t my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes, and I’d be grateful for any tips you have! I’m considering a part two with some smut, but I’m still building up my confidence in English to try it. Have a nice reading, and please don’t forget to repost, leave kudos and comments—your thoughts mean the world to me!

World count: 2k

nightwing/dick grayson

The sound of footsteps dragging across the hardwood floor was what broke the silence of your apartment, jarring you awake from a fitful sleep. The clock on your nightstand blinked red: 2:47 a.m. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. You’d recognize his tread anywhere, the slightly uneven steps that meant he’d probably taken another beating tonight. A familiar knot of fear tightened in your chest, but a wave of relief washed over you as well. He was here. He was alive, at least for now.

With a sigh, you threw on the robe hanging by the bed, clutching it tightly around your body as you moved through the darkened hallway. You were so tired—exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep could ever fix. It was a weariness that lived in your bones, a heaviness that came from watching someone you loved throw themselves into the jaws of danger night after night. You tried, every time, to tell yourself it wouldn’t happen again, that you’d close the window and let him figure it out on his own. But the truth was, you could never turn him away. Every time he stumbled through that window, beaten, bruised, and bleeding, you were there to catch him.

When you reached the kitchen, he was standing by the sink, his back to you, gulping down water like he’d been running for miles. His shoulders slumped in fatigue, his usually immaculate hair disheveled, and from the faint reflection in the window above the sink, you could see a small cut on his lip, a bruise darkening along his jaw. He looked… worn. He always looked a little worn, but tonight there was something different. The way he leaned against the counter, his hand gripping the edge so hard his knuckles had gone white, it was like he was trying to keep himself anchored to the ground.

“Hey, sweets,” he said, not even turning around. His voice was rough, more from exhaustion than pain, but you could hear the tension in it. “Sorry for waking you.”

You took a shaky breath, closing the distance between you and him. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.” You tried to sound lighthearted, but the words felt hollow. How many times had you said this? How many nights had he apologized, and how many times had you brushed it off like it didn’t matter?

In truth, it did matter. Every time he came to you like this, a little more of your heart chipped away. Every bruise, every scar—it was like you were carrying them too, bearing his pain in silence. There were so many times you wanted to scream at him to stop, to beg him to leave this life behind. But you knew he never would.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and loaded. He finished his water, setting the glass down on the counter with a dull thud. You could feel the question hanging in the air, the one you always asked even though you knew the answer would be the same.

“What happened?” you asked softly, stepping closer, your hand brushing lightly against his back. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he didn’t pull away.

“It’s nothing. Just… a long night,” he replied, his voice barely a whisper. But you knew him well enough to know it wasn’t just that. He leaned into your touch for a moment, letting out a long, shuddering breath, and then you felt his body sag, as if all the weight he’d been carrying suddenly became too much.

He turned to face you, and that’s when you saw the rawness in his eyes. There was guilt there, a deep, gnawing pain that he was trying so hard to hide, but it was spilling over, cracking the mask he always wore. He reached up, his hand trembling slightly as he touched your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. “A woman got shot tonight,” he said finally, the words falling heavily into the quiet. “She… she was just an innocent bystander. If I had been faster, more careful… maybe…”

“Dick,” you murmured, placing your hand over his, trying to still his shaking fingers. “It’s not your fault.” You spoke the words gently, firmly, hoping he would believe you, though you knew he wouldn’t.

But he just shook his head, a haunted look in his eyes. “It feels like it is. Every time someone gets hurt, I… I can’t shake the feeling that I should have been better. Done more.”

You took a deep breath, fighting the tears that threatened to spill over. You wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to be perfect, that he didn’t have to carry the world on his shoulders. But you knew he wouldn’t listen. His mission, his need to protect Gotham, was woven so deeply into his soul that nothing you said would change it.

Instead, you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. He stiffened at first, but then he melted against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel his breath, warm and uneven against your skin, and his grip tightened, like he was afraid that if he let go, he would fall apart.

“I’m so tired,” he whispered, the words barely audible. You could feel the exhaustion in him, the weight of every battle he’d fought, every person he hadn’t been able to save. And for a moment, you wondered if he would finally break, if he would finally let you in, let you carry some of that burden with him.

But then he pulled back, his expression shuttered once again, and you knew that he wouldn’t. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

Still, you took his hand, leading him toward the bathroom. He followed silently, and you could feel the tension radiating off him, the heaviness of everything he couldn’t say. You wanted to tell him how much it hurt you to see him like this, how every bruise and scar he bore felt like one etched into your own skin. But instead, you just filled the bathtub with warm water, your fingers brushing against his as you gently helped him undress.

As he sank into the tub, you knelt beside him, reaching for the shampoo. Your hands moved carefully, massaging the lather into his hair, washing away the dirt and blood from his night. His eyes drifted shut, his body slowly relaxing under your touch, and you could see some of the tension melting away. Here, in this quiet, dimly lit bathroom, it was almost like everything was normal. Like he was just a man, and you were just the woman who loved him.

You could feel your own tears slipping down your cheeks, though you tried to hold them back. Watching him like this, so vulnerable, broke something in you. You wanted so desperately for him to stop, to give up this life and just… live. With you. But that was a dream, one that would never come true.

When you were done, you helped him out of the tub, drying him off with slow, careful strokes, your hands lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You dressed him in fresh clothes, guiding him to the bed, and he didn’t resist as you brushed through his hair, letting your fingers trail gently against his scalp.

“It’s enough, sweets,” he murmured, his voice soft and thick with sleep. “Can we just… go to bed now?"

You hesitated, looking down at him. You wanted to tell him everything you felt, all the fear and pain that you kept bottled up inside. But he looked so tired, so worn down, and you couldn’t bring yourself to add to his burden. So you just nodded, slipping under the covers beside him.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, his face buried in your hair. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “For everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you pressed your face against his chest, hiding it from him. “It’s fine, Dick,” you whispered. “I’d do it all again.”

The silence filled the room and it was almost sacred, a rare moment of peace in a life filled with chaos. He was holding you close, his arm wrapped securely around your waist as if he was afraid you’d slip away, vanish into the dark. You could feel his heartbeat, steady and grounding beneath your hand on his chest, and for a moment, you let yourself pretend that this was your life—that he wasn’t Nightwing, that he was just Dick, and that he was yours.

A sliver of moonlight streamed through the curtains, casting a pale glow across his face. His eyes were closed, his lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks, and you let yourself study him, unguarded and still. Every line of his face was familiar to you, etched into your memory from a thousand stolen glances. But there was something fragile about him tonight, something that made you want to reach out, to hold him a little tighter, as if you could shield him from the life he’d chosen.

He must have sensed your gaze, because his eyes fluttered open, soft and filled with an exhaustion that went beyond the physical. For a long moment, he just looked at you, as if he was searching for something, some answer hidden in your face. And you held his gaze, your own heart pounding as the weight of all your unsaid words settled between you, heavy and unbreakable.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he raised a hand to your cheek, his fingers brushing against your skin with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs. “I don’t… deserve this,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

You shook your head, covering his hand with yours, feeling the roughness of his calloused fingers beneath your touch. “Don’t say that,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “It’s not you who decides.”

For a moment, he looked like he was going to argue, to turn away from you ignoring your feelings. But you saw the vulnerability so clearly in his eyes in a way you’d only seen glimpses of before. His hand moved from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and your breath caught as his forehead rested against yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Why do you keep doing this, night after night? Why do you keep letting me in?”

You swallowed hard, should you tell him you love him? That you had always loved him and always will? That you just couldn’t leave? No matter how hard you tried? The words were almost spilling from your lips, But you couldn’t bring yourself to say them out loud. “I don’t know, I just care so much about you, that it hurts. I can't seem to let you go.”

A shuddering breath escaped him, and he closed his eyes, his face a mix of pain and guilt. “I’m just so sorry for everything I put you through. I…I thought you hated me at this point.” he murmured, his thumb tracing slow, soothing circles at the base of your neck. “For dragging you into this shit. I’m sorry, I really am.”

You shook your head, your fingers reaching up to tangle in his hair, holding him close. “I could never hate you. I just… I wish you didn’t have to carry this alone. I wish… you could let me in.”

His eyes opened, locking onto yours, and in the soft glow of the moonlight, you could see everything he’d kept hidden—the fear, the longing, and now there was a new feeling that you couldn’t quite decypher what it was.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours in the lightest, most delicate kiss, as if he was afraid that if he pressed too hard, you’d disappear. It was a kiss filled with hesitation, with years of longing and fear, with all the words he’d never found the courage to say. And as his lips moved against yours, slow and tender, you felt your heart shatter and mend all at once, as if this was the moment you’d been waiting for, the moment you’d always known would come but never truly believed.

You kissed him back, your hand moving to cup his face, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips, the faint scrape of stubble against your palm. It was soft, unhurried, a gentle exploration that spoke of all the times you’d imagined this, the way his lips would feel against yours, the way his breath would mingle with yours. And in that kiss, you poured everything—all the nights you’d spent worrying, the tears you’d shed for him, the love that had grown quietly in the depths of your heart, waiting for this very moment.

When you finally pulled back, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His thumb traced slow, lazy circles on your back, grounding you, and for the first time, you saw a glimmer of peace in his expression.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost didn’t hear it. “Just… stay with me, like this. Please.”

You nodded, your hand moving to brush a stray lock of hair from his face. “Always,” you whispered, and you knew, deep down, that it was a promise you would keep, no matter how many nights he stumbled through your door, broken and battered. Because this was where you belonged—right here, by his side, in the quiet hours of the night, holding him together even as he held you.

As he pulled you back into his arms, his lips found yours again, a little more certain this time, a little less hesitant. And under the soft glow of the moonlight, in the silence of your shared space, you kissed him like you’d always dreamed, like he was the air you needed to breathe, like he was the very heartbeat of your soul. Because, in a way, he was. He always had been.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, a gentle exploration of everything you’d both kept hidden. His hands moved up to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if he was committing every detail to memory. And in that kiss, you felt years of pain and fear melting away, replaced by something softer, something that felt like hope.

When you finally broke apart, he held you close, his head resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. Neither of you spoke, because words felt unnecessary. Everything you needed to say had been shared in that kiss, in the way his hands held you, in the way his eyes met yours with a vulnerability he’d never let anyone else see.

And as you lay together in the quiet, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten, you knew that this was what you’d been waiting for, what you’d been fighting for. In that moment, you knew that you would always stay with him, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much you wished he would stop, you knew you would always be there for him. Because even though he was breaking you, piece by piece, you loved him. You loved him more than you loved your own heart, and you knew you would stay by his side, no matter how many nights he stumbled through your door, broken and bleeding.

Because that was what love was, wasn’t it? Holding on, even when everything in you wanted to let go.

[abyssruler]

to you, who loved me most

scaramouche x gn!reader

four snippets, four drabbles, four realistic takes on popular tropes with the person scaramouche was before he became the wanderer. or — soulmate au, time travel, reincarnation, and isekai with the sixth harbinger.

character death (reader), scaramouche being a horrible person, implied dark themes

SOULMATE AU - soulmates share each others’ pain

For as long as you could remember, your heart has always felt hollow. Empty. Your mother once told you that your soulmate must have a heart disease of some kind—but no, this isn’t pain. You know what pain is.

Pain is the electricity crackling through your veins, sharp pinpricks like a thousand needles trying to protrude from your skin. It is staying up in the middle of the night, unable to sleep because of the ache in your joints as if someone is pulling you apart only to glue you back together, like one of those porcelain dolls you always see being sold at the market.

You know what pain is, and it is not the apathy you feel when you discover who your soulmate is. It is not the stark-white heat that overcomes you as your soulmate’s hand pierces your empty, hollow chest.

Pain is the ache you finally feel in your nonexistent heart, a moment before you close your eyes.

And you’ve never known comfort—you’ve never known a lot of things—but you think comfort is the arms that hold you as you choke on your own blood. Comfort is the cold chest against your cheek as you breathe your last, dying breath.

Comfort the voice in your ear, a whispered plea, an apology, one last wish for you to stay.

TIME TRAVEL/TIME LOOP

It’s pointless and foolish and he’s a monster, and you know you should stop coming back, stop greeting him with that same smile you always give whenever you first stumble upon him, dazed and confused and so, so kind and innocent after awakening from his slumber.

You should run from those deceptively angelic looking eyes, but you can’t. No matter how many times you’ve died and come back—the amount of times you’ve died by his hands—you can’t stop coming back and hoping that this time, maybe it’ll all turn out different. That this time, he’ll turn out different.

And perhaps this time, he’ll finally love you back the way he did during your first loop.

REINCARNATION

It was your fault. You shouldn’t have been so kind to him. So warm and bright and innocent, giving him all you have without expecting anything in return. All he knows is to take and take and take until not even you had anything left to give. And still, he continues to take what he perceives to be rightfully his until you’re carved hollow from the inside out.

But you shouldn’t blame him, it was your fault in the first place. You should have known better than to treat strangers like him so kindly.

He has bound your soul to his. Til death do us part, but Scaramouche will not let even death take you away from him. So even if you decide to take your own life, you can never truly escape his grasp.

In your next life and the ones after that, he will always find you, and you will always love him back until you see the monster hidden beneath the veneer of a pleasant smile.

ISEKAI

You’re here. You’re really, truly here in Teyvat.

The most logical thing to do would be to seek out the Traveler, a fellow outlander who would keep you safe until they reach the end of their journey, but you’ve always been reckless and stupid. So you seek out the most disliked Harbinger and join the Fatui under his ranks.

You thought it would be like the fanfictions you secretly read, where he’d notice you and fall in love with you and you’d live happily ever after. But reality is often different from what you expect.

He is harsh, but not the fun, amusing kind of harsh you once watched and read. He is living and breathing and right in front of you, spitting the most horrid words anyone has ever said to you. You once fantasized the scenario of him being mean to you, back when he was fictional and dreamy and not an inch away from taking your useless, pathetic life.

And as you stood in place, blinking back tears that would send him over the edge should he see it, you wonder why you ever thought you’d enjoy it.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

post-s2. good omens mascot here, coping unhealthily.

This is the first proper post I'm writing since the audio breakdown, good thing I queued a POTC one last week, I suppose. Yes I slept through the entire day today, missed the theatre workshop I was supposed to attend and may or may not be listening to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square on loop. Have an update on my coping because my social life and family are both Tumblr now:

Every song is about them now. A lot were before, but now every single one. Even an old Hindi song from a 1900s Indian military movie that I have not watched, by the way. But the lyrics (thank you Google translate) are: Everybody wants a handful of the sky, everybody searches for a handful of the sky, there is a world waiting to be hugged to the chest, the moon is a fair full of stars, but this heart is still lonely. And of course that makes me think of Crowley as the starmaker. Ow.

I made the very intelligent decision to rewatch the first three episodes of season 2, knowing what the Job minisode and the Edinburgh minisode do to me. I'll be here clutching Crowley, well, hugging him close to the chest, just like that song... ah, fuck, here we go again.

I listened to you all and am drinking a lot of water, since my tear ducts were emptied yesterday and now I'm unable to cry. I also ate too much chocolate.

I searched for sad Aziracrow edits and watched them. Don't look at me. I'm in a hell of my own creation.

I used too many emotions last night and now I feel hollow and achy. Maybe I should cope with humour and write the summaries.

Or maybe that will backfire and I will be filled with horrifying levels of emotion.

I slept. A lot. Many hours. Lots sleep.

So. Well. You know. Adopted child of divorce. You were all right, this is exactly like dealing with a breakup or divorce, but much more painful.

Someone please, please, please stop me from clicking the Crowley whump tag to find fanfiction.

I remember my initial Good Omens posts. I remember calling the fandom sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, and also pointing out how you all blame Neil and then sit and make headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

I was so right. Look at me now, sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, making headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

Wahoo.

[w0menaresuperi0r]

I am actually so in love with Simon Riley. It’s insane but every time I try and look up a fanfiction of reader almost dying I can’t find a lot so when I can’t find it, I write it.

To bring a ghost back to life.

Simon “Ghost”Riley

The battlefield was chaos. Gunfire echoed through the air, punctuated by the sharp crack of explosions and the shouted orders of your team. Dust and smoke clung to your skin, the acrid tang of burning metal filling your lungs as you pushed forward through the ruins of the enemy compound.

You were Ghost’s partner on this mission, tasked with providing cover as he led the team into the heart of enemy territory. The two of you moved as one, a rhythm built on trust forged over countless missions. He was precise and methodical, clearing corners and eliminating threats with unerring focus.

“Keep close,” Simon barked, his voice sharp through the comms.

“Copy,” you replied, your tone steady despite the chaos.

But then it happened.

A sniper’s bullet sliced through the air, too quick to track, and struck you square in the side. The impact knocked you off your feet, and a searing pain radiated through your torso as you hit the ground hard.

“Y/N, status?” Ghost’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with urgency.

You tried to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. Blood pooled beneath you, soaking into the dirt as darkness crept at the edges of your vision.

“Y/N!” Simon’s voice was louder now, panic bleeding through his usually calm demeanor.

You heard his footsteps pounding against the ground as he raced toward you, but it was too late. The world tilted, and everything went black.

Simon dropped to his knees beside you, his gloved hands trembling as he pressed them against the wound in your side. Blood seeped through his fingers, the sight of it threatening to paralyze him.

“No, no, no,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a desperate plea. “Stay with me.”

Your face was pale, your breathing shallow as he worked to stabilize you. The rest of the team had pushed forward, leaving the two of you behind. For once, Simon didn’t care about the mission. All he cared about was keeping you alive.

“Ghost, what’s your status?” Price’s voice came through the comms, but Simon didn’t respond.

“Y/N’s down,” he finally said, his voice tight with barely contained emotion. “She’s… she’s not—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The medevac arrived too late to give Simon hope. The last image burned into his mind was your lifeless body being carried away on a stretcher, blood staining the fabric and your hand hanging limp at your side.

For days, Simon waited for news. No one on the team could tell him if you’d made it. The medics avoided his gaze, their silence feeding the gnawing ache in his chest. He shut himself off from the others, retreating into the shadows of his own mind.

He didn’t sleep, didn’t eat. The Ghost everyone knew—the unshakable soldier—was a hollow shell, haunted by the memory of your last moments.

“Price,” Simon finally said one evening, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Tell me. Is she…”

Price’s expression was unreadable, but his tone was gentle. “I don’t know, Simon. The medics aren’t saying much.”

Simon clenched his fists, his jaw tightening as a storm of emotions threatened to overwhelm him. He turned away, retreating to the solitude of his quarters.

It wasn’t until three days later that a medic approached him, her face pale but determined.

“Lieutenant Riley,” she said, her voice cutting through the fog of Simon’s thoughts.

“What?” he snapped, though there was no real bite to his tone.

“You need to come with me,” she said, motioning for him to follow.

Simon’s heart lurched. He didn’t dare ask the question burning in his mind, afraid of the answer. He followed the medic through the base, his steps heavy with dread.

When they reached the infirmary, the medic gestured toward a closed door. “She’s stable,” she said softly, then stepped aside.

Simon froze. His hand hovered over the doorknob, his chest tight with a mix of fear and hope. Finally, he pushed the door open.

You were lying in the hospital bed, pale and fragile but alive. Bandages wrapped around your torso, and an IV was hooked to your arm. Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of the door, and when you saw Simon standing there, a weak smile spread across your face.

“Took you long enough,” you rasped, your voice barely audible.

Simon’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then he was at your side, dropping into the chair beside the bed.

“You’re alive,” he said, his voice raw.

“Barely,” you replied, your smile fading as you saw the anguish in his eyes. “But I’m here.”

Simon reached out, his hand hesitating before finally brushing against yours. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, his fingers trembling.

“I thought I lost you,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t,” you said, squeezing his hand weakly. “I’m too stubborn to die.”

He let out a shaky laugh, though it was more relief than humor. “You scared the hell out of me,” he said, his voice breaking.

“I scared myself,” you admitted, your eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Simon leaned forward, resting his forehead against your hand. “Don’t ever do that to me again,” he said, his tone both a plea and a command.

“I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice soft but sincere.

For the first time in days, Simon allowed himself to breathe. You were alive, and that was all that mattered.

[too-much-tma-stuff]

Fanfiction masterlist

DCxDP

Multichapter

Hyena Danny!AU

Finally Getting Help

Socializing the Demon Twins

SFW one-shots

Mutually Assured Destruction (pt. 1)

As Weak as You Are Strong (pt. 2)

No Body to Bury (pt. 1)

Neither Gone Nor Forgotten (pt. 2)

Hail Black Sheep

Never Love Another

NSFW one-shots

What They Can't See (18+) (Dead on Main)

Let Me Take Care of You (18+) (Dead Serious)

Who You Love Isn't Always Who You Need (dead tired and dead on main)

As Long as it's You (Dead on Main)

Don't Stop (Dead on Main)

TMA One-shots

Girls Night!

You Deserved it More (Jon/Sasha)

Hunting Again (Gerry TMA/Casper Date with Death)

I've Been Lonely pt. 1 (Oliver?Mikey)

I'll Always Find You pt. 2 (Oliver/Mikey)

Not So Bad Actually (Dog!Gerry)

Hollow Victory

Better then Home (Werewolf Gerry)

I've Got You (Resurrected Gerry)

Before It All Went Wrong pt.1 (Babysitter Michael)

Don't Trust Doors pt. 2

Stay A Few Days (Martin/Jon/Oliver)

Which Part is a Lie (Doorkeay)

A Strange Moth (Jmart)

Slenderverse

(AN: A lot of these are older and I've improved a lot. I am aware I didn't know the difference between does and dose then)

One-shots

Warmly Freezing (EMH)

I See You As You Are (Trans!Jay)

I Support You (Trans!Milo)

Safe Together (EMH)

Down to the River (TT)

Wanna Dance (Evan/Michael)

I'm Not Leaving You (Kevin/Firebrand)

Did You Really Believe That (Evan/Vinny)

Doing What's Best For Us (MLA0)

Go To Sleep Blue Bird (MH)

A Happy Home (EMH)

Looking After Each Other (MH)

Domestic Bliss (Vinny/Evan)

I Can't Stay but I'm Here (TT)

A New Host (EMH)

NSFW one-shots

A Pleasant Surprise (Noah/Observer)

I Need to Feel You (Jeff/Evan)

We Were Friends (Alex/Jay) (Warning: torture)

Let's do Something Else Instead (Masky/Jay)

A Good Ending (Alex/Operator)

I'll Keep You Up All Night (Habit/Noah)

How Much Do You Hate (Masky/Alex)

An Invitation Accepted (Jaw/ToTheArk)

Just Another Bad Memory (Habit/Vinny)

Misc

It's Good I Belong to You (18+ BTD)

More Time With You (Creepypasta, Ben Drowned/Eyeless Jack)

Link to my AO3 if you prefer

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 10!

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9 /// part 10

WERE ALMOST THERE LESSGO

Everyone say thank you to my friend Aster who has no interest in Call of Duty whatsoever, but let me talk to them about this fic for almost two fucking hours and use them as a rubber duck to fix some issues with the plot. Thank you, Aster! And sorry for ranting to you about Call of Duty fanfiction for TWO. FUCKING. HOURS. :,)

edit: why does the formatting always break after i post 😭

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

...

The plan was simple, in theory.

Before the war began, tunnels had been dug into the mountain; At the time, their numbers, both of men and supplies, were outgrowing the fort, even with it being as big as it was. It was supposed to eventually become a store room, winding passageways connecting to create an outline.

Then war came knocking. Their supplies dwindled, they lost men, and the tunnels became nothing more than a forgotten project. Once they sat as an odd reminder of how far the fort had fallen; to have gone from carving through stone for extra room for all of their supplies to barely able to avoid hypothermia at night was a haunting ghost of their fall from grace.

But, perhaps now they could offer their salvation.

The Captain’s men were to set a scene; They hid the evidence of the medical center the once formidable fort had become and made it look like it had been bustling with life. 

Initially, they tossed around the idea of moving the sick and injured out but abandoned the idea quickly. It involved too much risk, too many variables; Some wouldn’t have survived the trip.

Instead they prepped the unused warehouse and war room. They moved the worst off into the buildings and those who had a better chance at fighting into the walls. Snow would cover the amount of movement that had happened over the course of executing their plan. 

The healthy few would  silently tell the story of a panicked and hasty retreat that looked as if it had happened just minutes prior.

They laid false tracks, leading to the tunnels. Tunnels that could perhaps be mistaken for an evacuation route by those unfamiliar with the area or a group in the rush of a promised battle. Tunnels that could trap those who charged in blindly. Tunnels that had one entrance, one exit.

And they waited, placing their trust in the reluctant apostle of a forgotten god.

…

Ghost had returned to camp well into the night; the air didn’t feel as frigid after sleeping on a mountain. The trek was much easier the second time, having two advantages with setting out earlier and not losing his fucking mind in a dead man’s cabin.

The general hadn’t asked him any questions. Just said that it was a shame he didn’t catch anything and that dinner had already been served.

That first night, Ghost fell in and out of a fitful sleep, unable to rest. He kept his weapons placed strategically, waiting for the ambush. There was no way they did not know of his betrayal.

Yet, the ambush never came. They marched on. 

It took weeks for the entire camp to make the journey that had taken him a single day. The snowy weather only worsened in protest of spring looming closer.

When the general sent out the platoon, Ghost was filled with so much  dread that he couldn’t feel anxious. He knew how to stay calm in dire situations, but this wasn’t that. He wasn’t calm, it was like he had hit his limit of how much stress he was able to process and was left hollow.

The morning was far too calm for the bloodshed that was bound to occur on either side. Tragedy was imminent and the sun hadn’t even crested the horizon.

Staring at the closed gates of the fortress in formation with men he should have called brother, he had a sinking feeling that he was going to be reunited with his old friend before the next sunrise.

He thought he might have heard that friend telling him to breathe.

Ghost was not the one leading the charge, no, he wasn’t trusted enough for that, but he was on the front lines. He was one of the first to push through the gates, to search for the enemy, and perhaps might have even been the one to pointedly stare at the obvious trail leading to the tunnels.

He may or may not have been right behind the commanding officer that followed the trail with his weapon drawn. 

And when they realized that the tunnels were nothing more than a circuitous dead end, they filed out in reverse order. The passages were not wide enough for two armored soldiers to pass by each other, forcing them to slowly and awkwardly work their way out of the commander’s shortsightedness one by one. 

The commanding officer, Ghost, and whatever other poor fools that had been stuck on the front line were still at the back when the Captain called to fire. 

Archers that had been lying in wait, hiding atop the walls, picked off the soldiers that made their way out one by one. The Captain’s men were greatly outnumbered, but those numbers offered no help when the only soldiers that made their way out were turned into pincushions.

It did not take them long to realize that the exit was impassable, and they fell back, looking to their commanding officer for an order.

Their commanding officer, whose head had been cleaved in two by someone who was once on their side. Some were frozen in fear, some charged towards the defector, and some attempted to flee. 

Those with delusions of bravery were cut down quickly, same went for the ones that froze. As for the rest, the traitor found a perverse satisfaction from attacking the back of a fleeing man, just as they had done to their enemies. 

The only light was from the few that had carried in torches. As they dropped, the shadows grew twisted and distorted, corrupted by the betrayal. 

The soldiers that made it to the exit found that swordsmen had joined the archers in blocking the exit. They turned back once more and saw the carnage caused by a wraith covered in the blood of their allies. 

They had a choice, not to live or die, but of which blade to be struck down by.

The mountain reeked of copper.

The sounds of a slaughter quietened.

The swordsmen did not holster their weapons. The archers did not drop their arrows. The Captain did not give the order to stand down. Each and every one of them waited to see who would exit the tunnels.

The silence was cut through by the sound of squelching, the sound of piles of corpses being stepped on as one man exited.

The traitor emerged, black cloak turned red. 

The Captain’s men cheered. 

The traitor did not.

They relit the fires that had been snuffed. The bodies were removed and treated with an undeserved amount of care as they were lined up and piled. Despite just cheering their deaths, they gave the felled enemy the mercy of a proper funeral.

They knew that their own allies had not been given the same treatment, but refused to stoop to the enemy’s level. The Captain watched as the pyre was lit. Soon after, they dispersed, preparing the fort for regular, day-to-day life.

The Captain stayed and kneeled by the roaring flame, tending to it, making sure it continued to burn. 

The traitor approached, stood next to him. He took off his armor piece by piece and tossed it onto the fire. It was soaked in blood, the insignia that once denoted him as one of the mighty general’s soldiers was hidden beneath the carnage that he had wrought. 

They both watched the fire.

The traitor walked towards the gate. The Captain stopped him. Thanked him. Held out his hand to shake. It was stared at for a long time.

The traitor accepted and shook his hand. He found that the Captain held money in his palm, an award for his treachery. Blood money. It was still accepted.

The Captain wore a gaze too kind for the size of the pyre behind him. Told the traitor that should he need it, he would have a roof for himself at the fort. One that did not require pledging a blade nor a life to his army.

The Captain said that they all owed him their lives.

The traitor disagreed but said nothing. He walked down the path to his steed, covered in the blood of his old allies, money in hand.

…

Ghost came back to himself sitting in a freezing river.

Ice and snow dotted the muddy banks in clumps. 

His horse was hitched to a tree. 

Water lapped at his neck; he was kneeling and hunched over enough that only his head was not submerged. Blood trailed away from him, following the flow of the river. 

His sword had been dropped on the snowy bank, pulled slightly by the water but still secure where it sat. His halberd had been buried into the riverbed, the ax slammed into the mud with enough force to hold it in place against the current.

First he realized someone was humming. 

Then he realized someone was holding his head to their chest. 

And then that they were wiping his face and neck, cleaning what the water could not reach.

Ghost closed his eyes and let himself collapse fully into Soap’s arms.

His tune did not stutter. He just held the broken man closer, pressing his lips against his hair and rocking them back and forth.

Ghost clung onto the arm stretched across his chest like it was a lifeline. And it might as well have been. Soap might as well have been. 

He couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

A former gladiator, forced to the ground and shaking because he had to kill people.

He was cold, but not as cold as he should have been. Submerged in a frozen river, he should have already been dead, but Soap didn’t let him feel more than a watery chill.

His fingers weren’t numb, yet he couldn’t feel them. He was trying. He wanted to feel the current, to feel the flow of water, but they might as well have not been there, refusing to respond.

He would never return to camp nor meet the general’s ire ever again.

There was a bird on the ground. A little waxwing. Hopping around and pecking the dirt. It scratched at the rocky bank for a moment before taking flight, landing in the branches of a leafless tree.

The little waxwing ruffled its feathers and shook its head. It called out a few times before taking off again, flying somewhere Ghost couldn’t watch it anymore. He wished it had lingered just a little longer.

He would have thought he was hyperventilating if not for the fact that he watched  his slow, steady puffs of air freeze in the wind.

After spending too long drifting away, Ghost found it within himself to ask, “What happens now?”

Soap hummed, “Find somewhere safe for tonight, eat something warm, and rest.”

He said it so simply without even having to think about it. It was obvious to Soap.

“And then after that?” Ghost asked, not able to accept that it was that easy.

“One step at a time,” he said gently, running a wet hand through his hair.

Ghost shook his head, his anxiety growing, his breathing getting quicker. He knew what Soap was trying to say, but to him it sounded like there was no plan. Like the only thing he could do was focus on tonight because there was no tomorrow. 

“Hey,” Soap pulled him back, pressing his lips to his temple, “Heroes for hire, right?”

“I’m—,” Ghost stuttered a moment before he remembered confiding in him about an old friend. “—Surprised you remember that,” he finished in a mumble. It was said so softly, a mortal man wouldn’t have heard it over the rush of water.

The god smiled, “Of course. You said it, didn’t you?”

The words bounced around in his mind but failed to process them.

“It’s up to you to live out the dream, for both of you.” Hope came so easily to Soap and Ghost would have given anything to have a fraction of his love for the world.

Soap paused the rocking as something spooked a small flock of birds that were sitting in a nearby tree. Ghost could see out of the corner of his eye the way the god glared over at them, daring anyone or anything to intrude on… whatever was happening.

As soon as Soap was certain that there was no imminent threat, he returned to his rocking and rested his head against the top of Ghost’s.

Ghost, ever the contrarian, cynically asked, “The dream of running around, demanding money from people in need?”

It was the very thing that had him itching for a fight when getting the kid medical attention; Someone taking advantage of another’s desperation for a little bit more change in their pocket. 

Was that the life Ghost was meant to strive for?

Despite the (surely by now, very annoying) pessimism, Soap easily amended, “Running free, helping people in exchange for a warm meal.”

“You remind me of him,” Ghost said before he could think better of it.

Soap was silent, Ghost didn’t know how long for. His thoughts were split between regret for voicing the comparison and guilt at the reminder of his long lost friend. When he found it within himself to pull far enough away to see Soap’s face, he found that he was wearing a soft smile.

Soap asked gently, “What’s his name?” 

Ghost wasn’t used to so much gentleness directed towards him of all people and struggled with the question. Ghost wanted to answer, but he couldn’t.

Soap, in all of his kindness, waited. Let him sit there and flounder under a simple task with enough patience to ascend him to divinity if he weren’t already a god.

Ghost took a deep breath and closed his eyes. 

He exhaled shakily.

“Roach. His name was Roach.”

Ghost felt years upon years of delayed grief hit him at once.

“He—” 

His voice broke. After all of that, his voice broke after six words. 

Fucking years of never-ending torment made bearable by one man’s presence and he didn’t have the decency to give out more than his name? Gods, the amount of fights he wanted to lose just so it would be over but kept going because of him and that was all Ghost had to offer? Six fucking words!?

“—Is very proud of you, I’m sure,” Soap finished his sentence for him, “And happy that you’ve come so far.”

I am.

“Both of you need to shut up,” Ghost grumbled, his lip curling at the nauseating words from both of them. 

He reopened his eyes slowly. The snow was still just as bright as before, the water was still moving, and the wind continued to shake empty tree branches.

He stood very slowly; He didn’t know how long he was kneeling for, but he did know that it was long enough for his legs to lock into place and one of his feet to fall asleep.

Soap stood with him, holding onto his arm to make sure he didn’t fall. He couldn’t be embarrassed, he certainly needed the help (not to mention he had done the same thing to Soap not too long ago). 

With his foot only half-assedly responding, he limped towards Taxes. Soap did not let go until Ghost grabbed onto her and started petting her mane. 

It took Ghost far too long to realize that his clothes were inexplicably dry. It should have been the first thing he noticed as soon as he stood, and yet…

He couldn’t afford to get lost in his own head again. 

Ghost removed his gloves to feel the coarse hair of Taxes’s winter coat beneath his hands and stared down at his feet, noting any and every detail about the snow and twigs beneath him.

Soap grabbed his weapons from the river for him and set them against the tree. Part of the ax and speartip were muddy, a line showing where they had been sunk into the riverbed. 

He watched, entranced, as the water on the blades frosted over and coated the metal in a sheen of white. He couldn’t tell how cold it was with the god shielding him from most of it, but if it froze that quickly…

It only served as yet another testament to how much Soap did for him with little to nothing in return. 

There was a tangle in Taxes’s mane.

He brushed through it slowly. Soap patted Ghost’s shoulder and let his hand linger there. Part of Ghost wondered if the god was as touch-starved as he was.

“Do you know where the nearest town is?” Soap asked. He was probably about to have to leave again.

Ghost nodded slowly. 

Ghost was going to a town. To find a hotel. So he could rent a room. And stay there. Because he wasn’t going back to camp again. Ever. He couldn’t. 

And again, it was Soap who pulled him back. 

Soap dropped his hand to grab Ghost’s, squeezing it with that complicated look of emotions that Ghost wasn’t willing to unpack. Nothing was said, but Ghost squeezed his hand back.

They stared for a while, Ghost still trying to process how to function under the crushing weight of freedom and Soap doing whatever it is that Soap does.

Soon, the god was stepping back but did not let go of his hand. The complex array of emotions was taken over by one he knew very well: An unwilling goodbye. 

It was the sad smile of someone not wanting to leave but already anticipating their next reunion; Seeing it on Soap and about him made him feel… odd. There was a pain in his chest, but one he wanted to seek out instead of avoid. Ghost still managed to find guilt in causing Soap any negative emotion.

Soap said in a voice that was only just loud enough to be heard and no louder, “Well, I’ll… try to see you there.” 

He admitted the “trying” part reluctantly, as if ashamed by his own limits. Ghost wanted to reassure him that it was okay, but words were never his strong suit.

You should kiss his hand.

Ghost pulled Soap’s hand closer and pressed a kiss to Soap’s knuckles like some stupid scene from a stupid fairytale. As he pulled away, he rubbed his thumb across where he just kissed and let go.

Soap’s eyes were wide and a blush was just visible against his tan skin. Ghost felt pride well up from somewhere deep inside him; He, Ghost, a mortal man, just made Death blush.

“Until we meet again,” Ghost said with a sarcastically pompous tone and a burgeoning smile as he got on his horse, hoping a message that he himself wasn’t clear on was clear to Soap.

The god was still gawking at him, frozen in surprise even as Ghost rode towards the faint path in the snow. It wasn’t until he checked behind him and saw that the god was gone that his brain turned back on and practically screamed at him that he’s an idiot.

Because, yes, the god was frozen in shock, but why the fuck did he assume Soap was frozen because he was happy about Ghost kissing his hand?

Ghost closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. 

This was the fucking bar fight thing all over again. He had assumed that Soap wanted or needed his help to get down and made a fool of himself back then, and the same had happened once more. 

Except worse. Because he just fucking kissed his hand. Unprompted.

Well… unprompted from Soap, at least.

Quit your whining. Soap’s a god, if he didn’t like it, he’d have done something about it.

Which was the same excuse he had given after the cabin.

I was correct then, and I’m correct now!

He buried his face in his hands. Gods, why didn’t Ghost just fucking ignore him like he always did? Everything would have been fine if he hadn’t acted on some stupid little voice inside his fucking head—

You’re gonna thank me when all of this is said and done.

Ghost couldn’t take it anymore and yelled in exasperation to an empty, snowy forest, “When all of what is said and done!?”

Predictably, the trees held no answer and he heard the faint echo of a familiar laugh from somewhere in his own head. Ghost resituated and mocked the voice, hoping his annoyance was clear.

The town was hours away, and he’d spend every minute of the ride stewing in the agony of knowing he was an easily manipulated, stupid idiot. He sighed, although it quickly turned into a frustrated groan.

“Fuck you,” Ghost grumbled.

Aww, you’re so nice to me!

Ghost could picture his stupid shit-eating grin without even being able to see him. He shook his head and reminded himself that he was angry at him and shouldn’t smile at his joke. Fucker.

…

The room he had been given was comfortably small, most of the area taken up by a large bed centered on one of the walls, with a floor that creaked every time he shifted his weight.

Most of the light streamed in from the windows that overlooked the tree line although a few dim lanterns were dotted about the room. A wood stove in the corner was working to fend off the frigid weather with a small table and chairs under one of the windows.

Ghost barely took the time to check the room before dropping his gear and outerwear unceremoniously to the floor. It was warmer than what he would have expected and the bed was calling his name even though it couldn’t have been past noon.

He still needed to give the god an offering, both as a part of his daily routine and as a thanks. Ghost couldn’t help but yearn for when it was warm enough for him to go searching for Soap’s temples.

He missed the thrill of exploration, the rewarding feeling upon properly reading the environmental clues, and comfort once near one of his old shrines. As soon as spring began to scare away the snow or he was far enough south for it to warm up, he’d have to find one again.

He stared at the ceiling above him in case it had any ideas for possible offerings hidden in the wood grain. Nope. But the bed was more comfortable than he expected.

The quilt overtop of it was rough, scratchy, and heavy in a way that he knew he would not struggle to stay warm that night — It reminded him of one his mother had made years and years ago. The unrefined stitching was charming; whoever made it cared more about functionality than looks and wanted something warm as opposed to pretty.

Uncomfortable, lumpy pillows sat against the headboard. The last time he had slept with an actual pillow was… probably back in Soap’s temple after the bookstore debacle. (He still had no idea where Soap had gotten it and the blanket from).

Sure, most people would probably call it pretty shitty, but he wasn’t on a cot, in a sleeping bag, or staring up at a canvas tent. To him, it was perfect.

While he was cold, he did not get under the covers. He knew that he was lying to himself that he would be able to stay awake if he did.

But he definitely wasn’t lying to himself about staying awake as long as he just laid on top of the blankets. The fact that he blinked and suddenly the sun was much closer to the horizon than it had been a moment ago meant nothing.

The cause of his vexation was sitting at the table. Soap was staring out the window with his chin propped up on his hand, Ghost could only see the back of his head. He was tapping his fingers against his arm.

Ghost reluctantly sat up and stretched, afterwards having to blink several times for the world to return to normal.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” Soap commented without turning away from the window.

“Should’ve woken me, then,” Ghost grumbled. He was surprised by the rasp in his own voice, making a face of confusion, only then realizing how deeply he must have slept. He moved his legs over the side of the bed like he was going to stand, but as soon as he realized that standing meant leaving the bed, he changed his mind.

Soap chuckled quietly, now looking at him. “I’d rather kill myself than interrupt your sleep.”

“Fucking hell! Alright, gods…” Ghost responded as if he wouldn’t make a similarly grim joke. “How long have you been waiting?” he asked, fruitlessly trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Not long.” Soap answered fast enough that Ghost knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was lying. He rubbed his eyes harder, now wondering how long Soap had to wait on him.

When he finished, he found Soap staring at him. As soon as he saw that Ghost had noticed him, Soap looked away, shifting in his chair and messing with his hands.

It was Ghost’s turn to stare now as he tried to figure out what made him so antsy and… was he blushing? What— 

Oh yeah. 

That.

Fuck.

How does he even begin to apologize for kissing Soap’s hand?

Tell him you want to kiss him on the lips.

Ghost wanted to throw something out the window. That stupid little voice was the very reason he was in this fucking predicament to begin with!

Oh, boo hoo. Now kiss.

Ghost took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry about earlier—”

“I’m sorry I made you—”

They started speaking at the same time, both apologizing but cutting each other off before the reason for the apology could be revealed. They paused and a slightly awkward laugh was shared as a tense air fell over them.

“You first,” Ghost said before Soap could, delaying the inevitable.

“I’m sorry I made you do— well— all of this,” Soap said, looking anywhere but at Ghost, gesturing around.

“All of what?” Ghost asked.

“This,” Soap said again. “The— The betrayal, the cabin, the ambush— all of it.” He finally looked back at Ghost, his voice filled with regret. “I’m glad you’re not there any more—” If he said it with any more anger, smoke would have been pouring from his lips. “—But I wish it hadn’t come with… everything else.”

Ghost sighed sadly, upset at the idea that Soap believed he owed an apology for pushing him to leave the general’s side. “Soap��”

“Nope! Your turn! What do you think you have to apologize for?” he interrupted quickly, his tone pulling a 180 with a hypocritical denial to hear any push back on whether he needed to apologize. 

The last part of his statement didn’t make any sense; It should have been obvious why he was apologizing. Ghost had just kissed his hand out of nowhere, of course he needed to apologize for that. 

Did Soap somehow forget? Was it that bad that he immediately repressed it to the point he didn’t even remember Ghost’s fuck up? Did he just want to pretend it never happened and brush it aside in the hopes it wouldn’t happen again?

Well, Soap would be right about that — Ghost sure as shit wasn’t going to make a mistake of that magnitude again. He owed that much to Soap, at least. He couldn’t let himself establish this pattern of constantly and consistently overstepping—

“Ghost?”

His head shot up. Soap was looking at him concerned. 

Right. They were talking.

He started his apology, “I’m sorry about earlier…” 

But Ghost always has been and always will be a coward. “With— um, not giving you an offering.” Gods, what is wrong with him? Stupidly, he stuck to his lie. “I, I tried to think of something— of an offering—”

Unless pretending he wasn’t upset about it was a test to see if he’d still apologize without Soap having to mention it, to see if he was actually sorry, and he just failed.

He was staring firmly at a knot in the floorboards as his hands mindlessly picked at his nails. He was never sure if it was a habit he formed to distract his hands or if it was because he wanted the pain of picking them too far.

Breathe.

“Ghost.” 

Soap had stood up, was standing in front of him. His eyes widened, not having heard the god’s approach. He grabbed Ghost’s hands and pulled them apart. When his thumb absently moved to keep picking at his nails, Soap clasped their hands together to prevent the action. 

Soap, perfectly fine with turning Ghost’s world on its head with just a few words, said so softly, “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. You do not owe me. You have done more for me than I could ever put into words.” Soap brought his hands together and kissed his knuckles.

If Ghost wasn’t blushing before, he definitely was now. And he wasn’t even wearing his mask.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU, YOU STUPID LITTLE BITCH.

Ghost snorted. 

Which was not the right response to Soap’s heartfelt words, but damn if dead people don’t have awful timing. Knowing just how bad of a response it was made him chuckle more, shaking his head.

“I— I’m sorry—” He was still giggling.

“What?” Soap thankfully sounded more confused than offended.

“Roach, he—” Still giggling. He could feel the dead bastard’s smug grin in his sudden silence.

“What…? Wait, did he say something?” Soap asked, catching on. “He did, didn’t he? What did he say?” Soap had a growing smile, almost laughing along with Ghost even though he had yet to find out what was so funny.

“…Nothing,” Ghost said unconvincingly. Gods, how does he explain what he said without recounting every time the asshole demanded that he flirt with Soap.

“He was making fun of me, wasn’t he?”

“No, no—”

“No? Then what was it?”

“He’s mean to me,” Ghost tattled, trying to stop laughing.

Am not. Pussy.

“You’re not gonna tell me, are you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Ghost said honestly, shaking his head. Without thinking beyond just wanting to hide, he dropped his head and closed his eyes in embarrassment, the crown of his head resting against Soap’s sternum. 

Which solved his problem of wanting to hide, but created a new problem in not knowing what to do with his hands as Soap let go. 

Gods, so much was fucking happening and he was still barely awake.

Shakingly, hesitantly, his hands fell to Soap’s sides. He was still too caught up in his own issues for the forefront of his mind to pay much attention to the action, leaving his subconscious to decide that it was the right move.

His hands were clenched in a loose fist, as if his subconscious thought that it would fix any worry of the motion being mistaken for wandering, grabbing hands. 

Part of him, the stupid part, wanted to pull the god closer and, at first, he couldn’t figure out why. But Roach’s influence must be rubbing off on him because he realized he wanted a hug. 

How fucking embarrassing.

What was even more embarrassing was how much his blush worsened when Soap brought his own hands up, one brushing through his hair and one resting on his shoulder, occasionally rubbing half-circles with his thumb.

Recompense.

That was the only thing Ghost could think of in that moment. What could he do in return.

He just said you don’t need to give him anything, dumbass.

Yeah, thanks, dumbass, but he wanted to give him something. Ghost from a year ago would have scoffed at that idea and probably make fun of him too, but a year ago the only thing he had to look forward to was dying on the battlefield.

“Simon,” he said quietly without thinking about it a moment more.

“Hmm?” Soap asked quietly, neither of his hands pausing.

“My name— It’s Simon.” He lifted his head from where it was resting but did not look up. He would lose his nerve if he tried looking up at the god, so he decided that the third button from the bottom on Soap’s shirt would be just fine as a replacement.

It wasn’t the kind of offering the god needed, it didn’t have much of any meaning aside from another way to address him, but it meant something to Ghost, at least. The gods didn’t care about his weird personal plight with his real name given to him by his Mother versus the moniker bestowed upon him by those placing bets on when he’d die, but maybe it could mean something to Soap too.

“Thank you, Simon,” said Soap, still running his fingers through his hair.

And the way he said it, maybe it did mean as much to Soap as it did to Ghost. It was just his name, but it had tears welling up in his eyes. He did not know how long it had been since someone called him by his actual name.

(He did. It was the last thing Roach had said, his last words wasted on trying to save Ghost, calling out for him to move before acting for him.)

He still couldn’t look up at him, but he did manage to pull up enough to now be staring at the fifth button on his shirt. No one knowing him as anything other than Ghost was a self imposed punishment; He could have, at any given time, told people his name, but he didn’t.

And he wouldn’t. Not after how nice Soap said it. No, he would like to keep that to himself and Soap.

“I think my name was John.”

Ghost heard the way he said it. It was the same way Ghost had confessed his: quick and impulsive, saying it before your fears could talk you out of it. 

He finally pulled his eyes up, making eye contact for a split second before he settled for staring at some point on his cheek. Ghost was still sitting on the bed while Soap stood, the exaggerated height difference only making the moment of vulnerability that much more intimidating.

“John?” Ghost asked to confirm.

Soap inhaled shakily, like finally hearing someone else call him by his name confirmed hazy memories. “All of it’s fuzzy, but… I— I think it was.”

Ghost knew he would never understand the full weight of that confession but he knew that he felt happy that Soap trusted him enough for it, that Ghost may have been able to help him find solace with a question he might never be able to answer.

He would never know the origin of Death and it wasn’t a question he felt too pressed to find an answer for, not when he was sitting in front of it, fucking holding him. Knowing the name he had before becoming Death was more than enough for Ghost.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Johnny,” Simon said, squeezing his hand.

“Is it?” Johnny asked, a question loaded with more than what was directly said.

While Simon did not know what all the god wanted to ask, he knew what his answer was regardless. “Yes, I think it is.” 

The hand that had been on his shoulder moved under his chin and slowly tilted his head up. 

It wasn’t the first time the god had done it, but his breath still hitched; the god did it the same way every time, always careful, always with a touch light enough to be a suggestion and nothing more, never forcing. And like every other time, he obliged.

Simon still dodged the eye contact like it would cause him physical pain if their eyes met, but he took in every other detail of Johnny’s face; The lingering blush, the expression that Simon couldn’t describe as anything other than awe even though that couldn’t be what it was, and (after a courage-gathering inhale) the eyes that were not looking at his own, but staring at his lips.

It took Ghost an embarrassing amount of time to realize, ‘Oh, he wants to kiss me.’

And as soon as he did, a million and one fears ran through his head, all about messing it up or misinterpreting it, but the closer Soap got, the more muffled they became. 

And, well, thinking had never done him any good, so he made an impulsive decision and crossed the last half of an inch between them.

Ghost hesitantly brought his hand to rest on Soap’s cheek, reassured when Soap did something similar and held the back of his neck. Soap held his hand there like it was protection, covering a weak spot during a moment of vulnerability. 

Vulnerable was really the only word he could use to describe it. Normally, where the word would bring fears of helplessness and going unprotected, he only felt comfort. Intimacy, his brain provided.

There was nothing he could do to try to describe it, partially because it broke his brain, but what else is new.

When they separated, Soap’s chest was moving like he was breathing heavy, like he had run out of air. Ghost smiled; He knew it was no physical limitation causing his perceived breathlessness. 

But they didn’t stay separated long. No, now that kissing was on the table, it was going to be taken fully advantage of.

Soap was the one to close the distance the second time, now holding Ghost’s face in both hands, one still on the back of his neck and the other positioned so his thumb could rub his cheek, just under his eye.

Ghost was completely out of his element but he trusted Soap. Johnny stepped closer, resting his knee on the bed next to one of Simon’s own. He almost laughed at himself; Earlier, he had scoffed at the fact that he wanted a hug, and now…

When the contact started to become too much and he remembered that he was supposed to be breathing, he tapped Soap’s wrist and pulled back. Soap thankfully understood, moving one hand back to his shoulder and the other ghosting the back of his neck. It was still contact, but much less all-encompassing; Something easier to digest without taking it away completely.

They sat in silence for a moment, processing and basking in the sudden development. Ghost felt like he was a kid sneaking into a closet to steal kisses from his sweetheart. The comparison made him blush more, and only then did he realize how red his cheeks must have been.

Simon wondered when the hell they had grown so close, wondered when the god managed to fully gain his trust without his notice.

It was anxiety-inducing and exhilarating all at once. And with Soap’s presence alone calming the anxious part of him, he was left with a delighted, fuzzy feeling that made the world feel a little more welcoming, a little bit brighter.

Ghost’s smile grew as he quietly teased, “And here I thought the kiss of Death was supposed to be a bad thing.”

Soap did something between a sigh and a scoff, like he wasn’t sure if he should take it as a compliment or a taunt. It seemed he took it as both, rolling his eyes even though the fond smile never left him.

“Oh, gods…” Ghost groaned in reluctant realization, his head falling against Johnny’s chest.

“What?” Johnny asked, his hands hovering, his worry palpable.

Simon pulled him closer as he groaned, “Roach is going to be so fucking smug.”

Damn fucking right I am, you stupid, lovable, delusionally oblivious bastard.

Soap huffed, clearly not having expected that development. “What do you mean he’s gonna be smug?”

Go on, tell him.

Ghost was now officially trying to hide against Soap, even though it was Soap he would want to hide from after this admission. He groaned like he was in grievous physical pain and (very) reluctantly admitted, “…Roach has been trying to tell me that you want to kiss me or that I should kiss you for weeks now.”

The words were so mumbled, Ghost hoped that Soap didn’t understand them. But of course he did. Simon heard Soap’s laugh as much as he felt it, and damn that pushy, dead freak, he wanted to burrow through the floorboards.

“Is… Is that why you kissed my hand in the forest?” Johnny asked, a grin audible in his voice.

He groaned again, just needing to make his annoyance known, and nodded against his chest. 

Soap’s arms landed on his back and held him, comforting him even as the traitor chuckled at Simon’s misery. “Well, he wasn’t wrong — And I’m very glad you chose to listen to him.”

Ghost held his breath for several seconds, though he had no idea what he was trying to achieve. When he breathed in again, he turned his head to the side, still resting against Soap but watching the sunset through the window.

I believe a thanks is in order.

“Thank you, Roach,” Ghost reluctantly mumbled, forgetting that Soap would hear it too. He needed another nap.

The god echoed his words, “Yes, thank you, Roach.”

Simon shook his head, “Don’t thank him too, his ego was already bad enough.”

“Well, I think he deserves it,” Johnny said, leaving Simon outnumbered. 

Ghost finally pulled his head up and stared at Soap. “That’s because you don’t have to listen to him—”

Soap quietened his petulant argument by kissing his forehead, stopping Ghost in his tracks and leaving him to blink blankly as his blush slowly grew worse as if they hadn’t kissed on the lips just a moment ago.

Haha, loser.

Simon looked away and resisted the urge to feel the spot the god kissed, who only chuckled at his reaction.

…

Although the sun had settled behind the mountains, he still braved the nighttime winds that rolled through the town. It had only been a few hours since he left Taxes in the hands of the local stable, but he couldn’t not check on her. So, to the stables he trekked.

The locals were wandering the street just fine, unfazed by the weather. Ghost, however, was not as acclimated.

It wasn’t long after Soap and Roach bullied him that the god had to leave, still bound by the limitations of his power. Ghost distantly wondered if he could give Johnny food offerings again and claim they were for dates… But the idea was left behind when it made him confront the idea that he might be dating a fucking god.

Flowers would still have to do… 

…Which are also something given on dates. Fuck.

He hugged the buildings, the store fronts and porches offered some protection from the wind that billowed down the street. There were more people out and about now, but even the nighttime rush was still quite quaint.

The hitching posts in front of the tavern were almost all taken. Fortunately, the building didn’t look too rowdy from where he glanced through the windows from the other side of the street; Soap would absolutely kill him if he got into another barfight.

When he finished trudging through all of the snow and got to the stable, he found that predictably, Taxes was fine, but that didn’t stop him from letting out a sigh of relief. When he went to pet her, she was reluctant for only a second or two before she remembered that she liked to be petted and demanded that Ghost continue and never stop.

He loved his stupid horse.

“We actually made it out, huh?” he mumbled, still not believing it himself.

Ghost’s small smile only grew when he realized that she didn’t even know that her life was about to change for the better; She’d never have to march into battle or deal with the general’s men ever again.

Tomorrow was going to be stressful, trying to figure out a plan of action and leave to avoid having to spend what little money he was given on another night in the town. But, now that he thought about it…

It was stupid beyond belief and proof that his survival instincts had been thoroughly fucked, but part of him considered taking the Captain up on his offer.

Out of one frying pan, into a second frying pan, out of that frying pan, and back into yet another fucking frying pan. Brilliant.

But he wasn’t indebted to the Captain, there was no reason for him to stay longer than necessary, and, well… 

Fucking hell, he wanted to trust what Captain Price had said about helping him, alright? Yes, it’s fucking stupid, but fuck he just wanted it to be true.

Maybe… Maybe he could “take a sabbatical” or some shit, follow through on the idea of finding a temple of Johnny’s, maybe shake the bastard by the collar and demand to know what the hell happens if you date a god, and then see if the Captain’s offer still stands.

It felt like it should have been suicidal to return to a military after finally breaking his chains, but— but he wanted to have hope, dammit.

Taxes let out an ear piercing whinny and stomped around, at which point Ghost realized she was probably pissed that he hadn’t brought her a treat. No doubt the stable hands had already given her something, but he’d like to keep the horse in his good graces.

Glancing around, there wasn’t anything left out in the stable for him to pilfer for her, meaning he’d have to go all the way back to his hotel room, get an apple or oatcake or something from his bag, and then come all the way back to give it to her.

“The lengths I go to for you…” Ghost mumbled in mock annoyance.

Softy.

“Shut up,” he demanded without any bite, rolling his eyes. He could still hear Roach’s chuckles echoing faintly from his own mind. He patted her nose in lieu of a goodbye and when he stepped away, she moved around in her stall, stomping some more. 

He shook his head and took a courage gathering inhale, dreading the frosty wind; He hoped Taxes appreciated that he was facing a snowstorm just to get her a snack. 

Making sure his cloak was pulled tight, he stepped into the snow, and made it three steps before hands grabbed him and his world went dark.

[stellaluna33]

The thing with Jess saying, "I need the music on to sleep," is that there could be any number of reasons for that, and we're never given a definitive answer in canon. So... Is it tragic? Or is it something more innocuous? The fact is that we really don't know! Is it that he's used to living in a noisy city and can't sleep in the silence of Stars Hollow? (That's definitely a Thing, and we do see him sleeping without music in Season 3) Is it that he has a neurodivergent brain that needs stimulation at all times? (ASP does tend to write very neurodivergent-seeming characters, probably without doing so intentionally. We still exist as observable types of people, even if you don't label us.) Is it trauma from horrible past experiences? (We've heard all sorts of worrisome tidbits about the way Liz has been living) Honestly, ANY (or all) of these explanations would be equally plausible, given what we DO know, but there's really no definitive right or wrong answer, and there's no way of knowing for sure!

It's fun (or potentially depressing, haha) to speculate about or to explore in fanfiction! But I also think it's important to remember that, at the end of the day, ALL of these explanations are personal headcanons or fanon, and if someone else has a theory that differs from our personal favorite, that doesn't mean they're WRONG, haha!

[lfcgirlie866]

You Called ~ JB TAA

Hi! I'm so nervous to post this ahhh. It's probably awful, but hopefully you guys like it! I should also warn you that it's most likely too overdramatic and unrealistic but I guess that's why it's fanfiction, right? That, and I like writing angst apparently...

Summary: Jude is feeling down about everything that's been going on with his team lately, and there's only one person he wants to see

Pairing: jude bellingham × trent alexander-arnold (or it could just be them as platonic besties/brother vibes. It's open to your interpretation ☺️)

He shouldn't be doing this.

He really, really should not be doing this. But he is. For him.

Trent should be at home, asleep, recovering from the game last night but instead he's on a private jet heading towards Madrid at 1 in the morning. It's the one city he definitely should not be seen in right now, and he has no idea what will happen if the media spots him there. He's risking everything; his contract with Liverpool, his vice-captaincy... all of it. But he's doing it.

For him. For Jude.

Because Jude has never been the type of person to let things get to him for too long. He's too mature for that. Usually, the media's chatter about his performances is just annoying background noise that he can drown out with the help of his family or friends. He's the type of player who loves the game, loves to play no matter what. If you give him a challenge then he'll take it, and despite what people think, he's not in it for the glory. He doesn't need to be the 'golden boy' all the time. Jude just loves to play.

So when he called Trent a few hours ago, his voice shaky and devoid of anything good, Trent knew that something wasn't right. At all.

He'd watched Jude's recent games, or as much of them as he could fit in around his own demanding schedule of fixtures and training, so he'd seen the way Jude was being run into the ground every game. He'd watched one of his favourite people in this world give everything he had and more, but with nothing back in return. Trent knows better than anyone just how quick the media and 'fans' can turn on you after a bad performance, but Jude didn't deserve this.

Trents knee bounces up and down uncontrollably as he sits and watches the little plane graphic on one of the screens inch closer and closer to its destination. Each minute seems to feel like ten, and every single one of them is a minute too long. He's never wanted the ability to teleport more than he does now.

The haunting sound of Jude's hollow voice echoes around in his mind, scaring him in a way he didn't know was possible. In all of their defeats, even the huge ones, Trent has never heard Jude sound so lost. It had almost felt like even the younger man's underlying love of the game had been diminished, too.

This need Trent has to see Jude, to protect him, to soothe away the hurt... it's overwhelming. And it's not going to go anywhere until he's there with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jude's shoulder was in agony, his ankle not faring much better either, and all he could manage to do about it was lay there on the couch, staring at the ceiling for hours on end. He couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. Couldn't even be bothered to get up and take some painkillers.

Maybe he liked the pain a little too much. Maybe it quietened his mind just enough for him not to drown in his thoughts. Maybe it stopped him from replaying his games over and over again in his head, berating himself each time for all the mistakes he'd made.

Or maybe he's a liar. Maybe he just wanted to punish himself even more.

The large house was silent around him, shrouded in darkness now that he was here alone. He'd thought that was what he wanted. That's why he told his mum to go back to England to visit his dad and Jobe. She hadn't wanted to leave him, especially not when she knew he wasn't doing very well, but he'd ended up practically forcing her to go by booking her flight for her.

In his defence, all he'd wanted was some space to breathe. Some time alone to get himself together. So why did it feel like all the air in the house had disappeared?

His family are usually his saving graces. They keep his feet on the ground and support him through everything. They're his safe space in this world. Jobe especially can always seem to put Jude at ease and lift any weight from his shoulders. But Jobe was doing incredible at Sunderland this season and Jude didn't want to zap any of the focus away from him. His brother deserved all the glory. He was on a high, and Jude couldn't risk pulling him down from it with his own problems. So he'd called the only other person who felt like home to him.

Trent.

It was selfish, he knew that. His best friend had more than enough going on without him adding to it, but even just hearing his voice down the phone had brought some relief. That scouse accent that grates on most people's nerves was like a soothing balm to Jude. He didn't know why. Maybe because it was so familiar at this point. Maybe because it reminded him of all the good times they'd spent together over the years. Maybe it reminded him of how incredible it felt when they connected on the pitch. Or maybe he just loved the person behind the voice.

If he was being really honest with himself, Jude wanted Trent here with him. Their whole 'we ain't inseparable' spiel was mocking him right now, but that was one thing he definitely did not care about at this point. So what if they liked to be around each other? So what if they were each other's support systems? So. fucking. what.

He'd seen all the comments about them during the international breaks, saying the two of them were 'like a married couple' or that they were 'so touchy-feely'. He found them all hilarious, to be honest, and Jude finds himself wishing he was there at an England camp right now. At least then he'd have his 'emotional support scouser' by his side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Open the door

Trent texts him as he stands by the gate outside Jude's house, his hood pulled up to stay as hidden as possible even though the street is seemingly empty.

What are you on about?

Comes his reply a few minutes later. Trent can't help but smile as he types out his next message.

Get off your lazy arse and come see lad

It's not long before the gate buzzes and unlocks, Trent slipping into the front yard quickly, closing the exterior gate behind him and shutting the rest of the world out with it.

And then Jude is there.

He's standing in the doorway of the house, looking more tired than Trent has ever seen him. Sadder, too. His eyes are wide, a slight frown creasing his brow as if he can't quite believe what he's seeing in front of him.

"You came?"

He questions in pure disbelief, and it rattles Trent in a way he isn't quite comfortable with.

"You called."

And it was that simple. It would always be that simple.

Of course he came. Of. Fucking. Course.

Within seconds the distance between them has disappeared. Jude's hand wraps around Trent's wrist, practically dragging him inside the house. The younger boy slams the door closed with his free hand, the other one remaining tightly gripping Trent's wrist, his fingers digging into the flesh there like he's trying to tether himself back to reality.

"Am I dreaming?" Jude whispers, his voice cracking as if he's about to fall apart any second now.

The sound steals Trent's own breath away. That, coupled with the obvious demons hiding behind Jude's eyes, is enough for Trent to feel like he's falling apart himself. He sends a prayer out to whoever is listening, asking them to take all of Jude's pain and give it to him. He'll bear it for him, do anything just to get the boy in front of him to smile again.

"Nah, 'm real." He murmurs.

And then Jude's in his arms, burying his face in Trent's neck as he clings to him desperately. The relief is instant, Trent's familiar scent and feel wrapping around him comfortingly.

Now, finally, Jude can breathe properly again.

[lee-by-thy-side]

W.I.P Whenever!!!

a sneak peak into Chapter 2 of A Hollow Point.

I wonder who those tendrils belong to? 🤔

anyway, if you'd like to be a beta reader for this, or if your just wanna here me babble about this fic, just let me know!!!

(please note i need you to be 18+ if you wanna beta read)

[viscerawrites]

viscerawrites ; writeblr intro

FOLLOW ME BETWEEN THE JAWS OF FATE. [vore - sleep token]

---

Hey yall!! My name is Cassian (he/him) and I'm 20 years old. I was on here as @mybodyisaflowerbed but tumblr nuked my main blog on that account so I'm over here now!

I write.., a lot of different things haha, usually along the lines of fantasy and/or contemporary! I also write a lot of fanfiction, but I probably won't talk about those projects here unless I'm explicitly asked.

I am a fiend for music; metal is my favorite overarching genre (I'm terrible with subgenres tho lol) and I love to use my favorite songs and bands as inspiration for my writing.

That's about all I have to say for myself right now. My current original projects are listed below! (PS; my main blog is @dream-i-die and that's where all likes/follows will come from!)

---

The list further down on this post desperately needs to be updated, but my main wip im brainstorming right now is surviving sun :] also peep my world; erapiae

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[needs updated] main wips

the sins that make our sons •/ sci-fi. (tag: sins / sons) | wip directory here

Full description tbd.

fearing what the light finds •/ contemporary, eventual portal fantasy. (tag: fearing the light) | wip intro here | series installment for mixtape.

Follows the story of a woman who murders her kidnapper after 9 years of captivity - and finds herself thrown into another world.

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other wip list

mouth of the wolf, eyes of the lamb •/ fantasy/romance. (tag: wolf mouth lamb eyes) | intro here

A man sacrificed to a werewolf in the woods is saved by the very being he's meant to be eaten by. They fall in love.

darcy goes to hell •/ dark fantasy. (tag: darcy) | intro here

Darcy Brisben is fifteen years old when she goes to Hell.

the hollows in our minds •/ fantasy w/ horror elements. (tag: thiom) | intro here

A woman who collects other people's memories is intrigued by the case of nine friends who have mysteriously disappeared. She launches her own investigation, only to uncover a dark, forgotten history.

operation get it right •/ fantasy/supernatural. (tag: get it right) | intro here

A small group of amateur ghost hunters and magic tamers are forced to face their own pasts as their supernatural pursuits lead to more and more devastating revelations.

i dream i die •/ contemporary. (tag: dream i die) | intro tbd

Centers around the story of a woman whose only escape from an abusive relationship is what she believes to be vivid daydreams (but is, in actuality, alternate timelines of her life).

the spiritspeakers •/ contemporary/supernatural. (tag: spiritspeak) | intro tbd

Three grown siblings who have each had unique experiences with the supernatural are pushed back together when they realize that their baby sister is a natural born psychic medium.

our souls on fire •/ urban fantasy/romance. (tag: our souls on fire) | intro tbd

A series centering around soulmate relationships in an urban fantasy world.

[rdr2stories]

"Betrayal" a rdr2 fanfiction.

Arthur hadn't been able to free himself, the wounds he had suffered under Colm's care had simply been too much, his faith was left in Dutch. It was with his whole heart that he had hoped that Dutch would come, after all his life had depended on it, yet Dutch never came.

Loosely based on (I remembeed the drawing not the caption):

The basement had always been a dark and sorrowful place no matter which house, which hideout or which hole they were kept up in, it would always be his least favorite of them all. The air would feel suffocating even if the sun was shining right after a cool rainfall, the walls would feel as though they were cramping in on him even if they were wider than the actual room he was sleeping in, his senses would be overwhelmed, noises, smells and feelings that weren’t actually there would crowd his mind and trap him in a night he would rather forget.

His shoulder was healed, the only remains of the wound that had once hollowed out his flesh being the tough scar tissue that had not managed to patch up the break of his heart. When he breathed it was slow and airy, the kick his former enemies had made to his chest and sides had done something to his ribs and lungs which could not be undone. He was no longer silent, he could be heard miles away by his struggling breathing, but he didn’t need to be silent any longer, his days as a desperate workhorse were over.

He had no doubt that the man in the basement who was suffering the similar wounds he had years ago could hear him, yet he would not know who it was standing there, his mind racing, considering if he was ready to get face to face with a man whom he had love and cared for for years but had not shown the same kindness to him in the end.

One step at a time he made his way down into the suffocating basement, the walls closing in around him and cutting the outside world off like the hatch over the steps had been slammed shut. It was just him, the man and the singular flame of the candle that gave just enough lighting for him to see the face he would remember to his death, that, even when aged, had not changed a bit.

The man was hanging upside down, just like he had, his face was red, his arms hanging loosely down towards the ground as the iron chains wrapped around his ankles and held him above the ground. A wound had been afflicted to his chest, a shallow knife wound cutting over the collarbones and ripping up the fine shirt and vest that he always wore. It was nothing, a mere scrape compared to other wounds suffered in the past, no matter how big the red puddle on the ground was.

His snail-like mustache looked exactly the same, except for the fact that it was no longer black but rather gray with age. The same could be said for the hair that once had curled around his nape but now was cut short as if he was scared it would run off or like he had simply grown tired of maintaining it.

He had not seen that face in years and though he had dreamt of seeing it many many times before, he could not have imagined the emotions that welled up in him. The anger that rose from parts of his core he had not felt since the death of his family, the sadness that made him feel like breaking down weeping on the cold gravel floor and the conflict that he had thought he had overcome. He hated that part of himself felt like hugging the man, embracing him and crying into his chest like a little kid, appologicing as if it wasn’t him who had been left for dead.

The upside down man looked drowsy, his eyelids halfway down his brown eyes that would make you trust him in a mere second even though he had more bodies on his back than he counld count. His lips were slightly apart as if he was simply asleep, but he wasn’t because he reacted when the boy he had left stepped into the light stream coming down from the top of the stairs. He could not yet see who it was, the boy’s features hidden, he recongized the satchel that he carried on his hip.

The man’s eyes seeked upwards to the cold face he had once known as his protegee, as his son. “Arthur?”

“Hi Dutch,” Arthur spoke as he grabbed the chair by the table that the candle stood on and pulled it over to him so that he could sit and face his old mention, his old father.

“You- You are alive!” Dutch’s deep and raspy voice sounded, confusion yet hope and glee to be found in it. “Oh how glad I am to see you! I thought you were dead! Help an old fella down from here and let’s get away! Oh how happy the others will be to know you are alive! We made a little memorial for you back in West Elizabeth since we didn’t have your body, we buried Sean next to it-”

“Sean?” Arthur asked with anger rising in his chest. His brother, his little brother was dead? “Did you leave him as well? Did you leave him for dead too?”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing together in confusion. “Whatever do you mean son?”

“You didn’t come for me Dutch!” Arthur exclaimed, standing up so suddenly that the chair behind him slammed to the ground as it tipped over. “I was waiting for you! I was waiting for you to come get me but you didn’t! You left me for dead!”

“Arthur- My son,” Dutch’s eyes were frantic and confused as he looked over the green clothing of the boy he had raised. “We thought you had gone out hunting- We didn’t think nothing of it until a few days later and by then we couldn’t find you- You were gone-” 

“Hunting?” Arthur asked in irritation as he felt anger well up in him, a hand running over his eyes. “Hunting Dutch?! I told you! I told you I would meet you by the forked road!” He looked directly at Dutch, an accusing finger pointed at him. “I told you no matter what, I would meet you at the forked road! I keep my promises Dutch! I always do! I made that agreement with you so that if something happened to either me or you, you would have known something was wrong! I wasn’t out hunting Dutch! I had been kidnapped!” He took a step closer to Dutch, who’s eyes widened, for the first time being on the receiving end of the anger that was in the monster he had created, of the anger of the man who’s warrant poster said ‘do not approach’. “I had been shot! I was beaten! I was tortured! Hanging upside down as you are, left with hopes that you would come but you didn’t!”

“Arthur-” Dutch tried to cut in.

“Don’t you ‘Arthur’ me,” Arthur groaned, running a hand over his face again. “You left me Dutch, left me. I sat here, clinging onto hope that you would come back for me, like you said you always would, but you didn’t, and do you know who took pity on me? Colm of all people.” Arthur snorted as he slightly shook his head. “That O’Driscoll boy wasn’t so wrong about Colm, he has a way of making you feel special. He took me in when you left me.”

“I didn’t leave you.” Dutch spoke in a soft tone. “We searched for you Arthur, all of us did.”

“Not well enough,” Arthur bit lightly at the inside of his cheek. “Colm was expecting you to come get me, he gave you a clear trail to follow, but you didn’t.” He let out a snort. “In a way I am glad, I ain’t been a workhorse since I have gotten here. Colm appreciates me, gave me my own room and everything, doesn’t send me out to do his dirty work like you did. And your ideals? You cared so much about ideals, about sticking together, yet you didn’t come for me. Your ideals are nothing but lies that you hide behind.”

“Lies?!” Dutch exclaimed, this time with anger sweepin through his voice.

“Lies, Dutch, lies. Ideals are nothing but empty words without action to back them up!”

“Arthur,” A voice came from the top of the staircase and Arthur turned to look at the man descending, the man whom he had once seen as foe but now as friend, the man who had taken him in when he had been beat, tortured and abandoned, even if he had been the one doing half of it.

“Colm,” Dutch’s low voice sounded as he watched his enemy, the killer of his lover, stride down into the basement, the sunlight coming down the stairs highlighting the fur running around the collar of his jacket as he came closer and stood next to Arthur.

“Dutch, how nice to see you are awake,” Colm gave a big grin, knowing that the pain of seeing Arthur against him instead of with him hurting far more than any bullet wound or stab could ever do. “Look who I found.” He placed his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. “The dog you threw away. You know, it is quite a pity because oh how he works, his bite is stronger than any I have seen before. You trained him well, I am not going to lie, I was surprised when you abandoned him, but then again, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”

Arthur let out a low grunt but otherwise remained quiet, it wasn’t the first time Colm had explained the situation like that, but he hated it either way, he hated thinking that he meant nothing more than an empty tin can discarded after being used to Dutch, it hurt him even after all those years.

“Trash?!” Dutch’s voice sounded, genuinely sounding hurt at the way his relation to Arthur was described. “Arthur is my son. He is not trash!”

“Yet you discarded him as such, forgotten in a basement.” Colm patted Arthur’s shoulder. “Ay ay, so be, we got bigger issues, the gang is on their way Arthur, they are coming for Dutch.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, he knew it would happen, he had known it because it was the plan, but it still hurt, hurt far more than he was willing to admit. Deep inside he had hoped that Dutch would have been abandoned too, just like he had been abandoned, that it wasn’t him that was the reason he was left behind but that it was simply the gang. Of course it wasn’t like that. Dutch would always be saved, and he would always be left behind, expected to care for himself.

“Coming,” Arthur spoke in a lower voice than he had anticipated when he turned to follow Colm who had begun to walk up the stairs and out of the basement. As such, he turned his back on his father, feeling his heart plummet in his chest. He didn’t know what he had expected. Some kind of closure? That maybe Dutch hadn’t been as he had remembered him? That he was actually much more of an asshole?  Whatever he had wished for, he hadn’t gained it, he merely felt more conflicted than before.

“Arthur-” Dutch exclaimed, heavily in breath and wide in eyes as Arthur reluctantly halted and hesitantly turned to look at him one last time. “You are my son, we can still fix this.”

Arthur wanted to believe it, oh he wanted to believe it more than anything, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew that what had done could not be fixed, the damage could not be repaired no matter how many sweet words were spoken, no matter how many promises had been made.

The sun was warm and welcoming when Arthur exited the basement and he was let out into the open world again. Normally he would let out a deep breath of relief and take a moment to get back into his own body, but he didn’t do it at that time, he didn’t feel welcomed nor as happy as he normally would being warmed by the sun.

He swallowed a lump in his throat and made his way over to his horse which stood hitched in the outskirts of camp. It’s fur was soft as it always had been, but if it had suffered with the years and patches of the previously brown color had gone gray with age. Other than the few belongings he had had on him when he had been kidnapped, most of which had been replaced over time, the horse was the one thing that remained from his years with the Van Der Linde gang. It was a constant, the one thing he trusted to never betray him.

It didn’t pain him to say that he did not trust Colm with his life, he knew that Colm did not care for him much other than the fact it gave him a leverage over Dutch, bragging rights. He knew that Colm cared for himself first and foremost. He knew that, he accepted it, he was okay with it, he had even opened up about it to one of the girls whom had been around camp at some point. She had asked him why he hadn’t cared when he had cared so deeply about Dutch’s betrayal and he had told her the truth.

Dutch had always pretended to be there for him, had spoken grand words about fellowship and friendship and such, he had spilled lies and he had made Arthur believe them, Colm on the other hand, Colm was honest. He never outright said that he cared for himself most, but never said that he cared for Arthur most like Dutch had.

He liked the certainty of the fact he was on his own more than the white lie that he had someone to rely on. It was that lie that had disappointed him the most, that had given him the heart that had yet to heal.

The repeater in his hand was new, one that they had stolen off a man who had gotten on the wrong side of Colm, it was a new model, shiny and bright, not a single flaw to be found. Arthur had determined to keep it that way.

Colm didn’t do much fighting himself, when Arthur had run with Dutch he had thought it had just been pride, but the truth was a bad hand that he could barely bend his fingers on. Arthur didn’t mind it much, he didn’t need to do a lot of fighting either, but in big cases like this, he did, and in this one he wanted to, he wanted to face his former brothers.

Hiding behind a barrel, Arthur waited, his breathing revealing his location but he didn’t mind much. As soon as the fighting began it wouldn’t be audible over the gunshots either way.

The gang he had run with was loud as always, the hooves of their horses hammering against the ground in one big storm, tearing up grass, dirt and stone with them. They weren’t planning on quieting down, they were planning on raiding in the place, like they had a habit of doing.

He heard when the fighting started, but he didn’t move, it wasn’t his job to. His job was to stay, to protect. Maybe Colm had placed Arthur so far back because he didn’t trust Arthur to kill his brothers, and maybe Arthur was happy because he didn’t know if he could either.

Ever so slowly the shots came closer and closer and Arthur’s heart twisted in his chest, he didn’t know what to hope, what to expect. Did he hope his brothers’ blood would coat another's hand because he loved them too much to kill them himself or did he hope their blood would coat his because he could not bare another taking their lives? He did not know, but in the end he would have to make a choice, he knew that when he saw Marston come near, when he saw his brother’s eyes scan the area and run closer to the basement stairs in the back of the building, away fromthe fight happening in the front.

Arthur’s brother was scarred, much more than he had been before. The marks that the wolves had left over his face were practically gone under what seemed to be burn scars which coated his face. His hair looked far more crusty, far more stiff than it had before, though it had found the strength to grow longer. His brother hadn’t even noticed him as he rose from his spot behind the barrel and drew the repeated, a click sounding as it was pointed at Marston who halted suddenly.

“Go on, shoot.” Marston spoke in an annoyed voice, though Arthur could near the slight tremble. Even the boy who now carried all the scars of being worked to the bone in a field of death still worried about the afterlife. He stood with his hands clenched around his revolver as he held it slightly away from himself, the finger off the trigger, maybe hoping it would show peace.

“If you so wish,” Arthur merely replied, perfectly hiding the conflict that made him rest his finger on the metal above the trigger instead of on the trigger itself.

Marston suddenly stiffened up, immediate recognition of the voice he had not heard for years as he turned around without a second thought, his eyes wide and face conflicted, much similar to Dutch’s. “Arthur! We thought you were dead!”

Arthur raised the gun against Marston’s head as he dared step closer. “Yeah you all did.” He saw when Marston realised that Arthur wore the green bandana of the O’Driscolls around his neck, slightly covering a scar running over his throat which he had suffered after the betrayal. 

Marston took a step back, his eyes wide. “You-”

“You left me.” Arthur simply replied, though he knew somewhere that John had been restricted to Dutch’s decision not to find him.

“Dutch told me you died!” Marston defended, his free hand coming to cludge the fabric of his shirt resting over his heart.

“I always knew you were dumb, but not this dumb.” Arthur snorted, trying to hide the fact that he was terrified, the fact that he knew either he would have to shoot his brother or his brother would shoot him. There was not a chance where they both walked away unharmed, it was simply not possible, the betrayal was too big.

[darkpoisonouslove]

Something You Can Do

Summary: Alicent goes to Helaena to tell her about Jaehaerys' funeral and try to comfort her as best as she can. A rewritten scene from 2x02 "Rhaenyra the Cruel" that pays more attention to the awful choice Helaena was subjected to and her feelings in the wake of her son's murder. The idea of rewriting scenes from the second season of HotD is a great way to engage with the show despite its flaws and I would like to thank @aegoncarney for creating this event. It got me to write my first HotD fanfiction! AO3

The eyes of the Red Keep are like knives in Alicent's back, in her ribcage, in her mind. She wants to turn to the seemingly empty hallways and scream, yell at them, demand their accountability. Always watching, at least a dozen pairs shadow her every movement now but where were they when her daughter had been all alone against the monsters in the night?

They are only here to confine her, stop her from going two steps back for every three steps forward like she's lost her mind. She has to leave herself to the motion of walking, keep her mind on other things to let her feet take her to the quarters where her daughter and granddaughter had been moved on their own.

The thought of what she'll see when she gets there only makes her slow down as she wrestles with the impulse to turn around and storm the Small Council again to countermand her father’s commands. But she can't run from this forever. She has to be there for her daughter, as close as Helaena will allow her.

She had been in shock last night, staying in Alicent's chamber. They'd hardly talked her into letting go of Jaehaera and she'd remained perched on Alicent's bed and watching over her the whole night. The alertness in her posture had been disturbing, her hands stroking Jaehaera despite the distant look in her eyes as if to make sure the girl was still there. Alicent had barely convinced her to lie down and rest her body at least if she refused sleep, gaze penetrating the space in front of her as if she could see something in the distance the rest of them were unaware of.

The knight in front of Helaena's door opens it for Alicent, a little too quickly as if he's ashamed of how little use there is for him, now. She thanks him regardless – for guarding her precious girl, for saving her from agonizing over whether to knock and startle Helaena or risk frightening her if she walked in without warning, and for the sake of announcing herself to her daughter. Maybe even for her own sake, to earn herself another second to steel her nerves and bear the sight of what had become of her sweet girl, all because of her.

Helaena is on her feet again, holding the bedpost for support. She has Jaehaerys' blanket in her hands, hugging it to her to feel any trace left of him – his scent or the warmth that is no longer there. Something leaves her throat but it is unintelligible.

Alicent's heart pounds in her ears frantically despite her resolve to listen in, to never let Helaena feel alone or unheard again. She tries to ask… something but the possibility that a sob would be the only response she gets is an insurmountable lump in her throat. Helaena has every reason to weep and never stop. Why should she herself be allowed anything different?

Helaena turns to her, head snapping in her direction so fast that Alicent almost gasps in fear that she's hurt herself. Her eyes are focused now, her gaze so intense as it lands on Alicent that she nearly collapses to her knees. Whatever her sweet girl is looking for, she will fail to provide.

"I had nothing to give," Helaena's voice is so hollow – as if she knows her mother won't have what she needs.

Alicent chokes down her own sobs but her words are still wet when they come out, bathed in the tears welling in her eyes, "No, you are so loving and warm. A great mother-"

Helaena goes on as if she did not speak, "I couldn't offer myself. They only wanted a son."

Alicent freezes. The blood drains from her; she can't breathe. Her arm only shoots out to brace her against the wall when her knees buckle.

"I only had a necklace they didn’t take." Helaena's fingers are bunching the blanket, digging into it in search for her baby, or at least for an answer to settle her heart and mind. "Did I have something else to give?"

She whips around, eyes running over the room.

"This was my son's," she holds up the blanket. She steps towards the table and picks up one of Jaehaerys' toys. "This was my son's. All of these. He had many things. Why did I not…?"

Her arms fall next to her body, limp, the blanket pooling in her feet. She looks up at Alicent, her lips trembling. "I must have had something to give. If I am the queen."

Alicent runs to her. The moment she opens her arms, Helaena collapses in them and they fall to the floor, the blanket barely softening the thud their bodies make against it. The toy in Helaena's hand clatters to the ground and her nails sink into Alicent’s shoulders like she'd slip away if she doesn't burrow herself under Alicent's skin. She is only grateful for that pain.

She tries stroking Helaena's hair and only continues when Helaena doesn't push her away. Though, she doesn't really seem to notice, still clutches at her and her breaths come in irregular gasps. Like she's stifling the cries before they can form in her body.

Alicent doesn't know what to say, how to encourage her to let it out. She wants to tell her she'll remain with her as long as Helaena needs her but Helaena speaks first.

"What else could I have done, mummy?"

Alicent's heart breaks. She bites herself to blood to keep from weeping; the tremors of her body are already shaking Helaena. That's all she can give her. Not an answer but her own pain reflected back at her.

She has to remind herself not to cling to Helaena like that's the only thing keeping her head above water. She's supposed to be the one consoling her baby.

She has nothing to give.

"I didn't see them," Helaena's voice is so thin, like she'll break under unbearable weight. "Just the rats. In every hallway, swarming together, with a big shadow behind them swallowing the light. They were coming for us and I couldn’t pick him up, my boy…" She buries her face in Alicent's neck. "They were running from it."

Alicent can't help the pangs of guilt cutting through the relief of having Helaena nestled into her neck, safely in her arms where nothing can take her away. It's a comfort only to her while her sweet girl is twisting her mind inside out, looking for a way out of a tragedy that's already happened, that none of them could have foreseen. She has to soothe her, has to find a way to lead her out of the maze Helaena is wandering in her own head.

"There is to be a funeral for Jaehaerys. We’ve been asked to… accompany the procession."

Helaena has gone still, stiff, in her arms. She has to tread very carefully.

"If we show we need them, the people will help us. With them on our side, it will be easier to defend ourselves. You can protect your girl."

Helaena pulls back to look at her and Alicent tries to find her own conviction. She'd do anything for her sweet girl but this doesn't feel right. She's not lying; they need the people. She still feels like retching just thinking of standing next to her daughter while her pain is paraded around.

Her sweet girl needs a second but understands. Her eyes search Alicent’s face and she feels like she's failing her. Tears have already started to blur her vision and she knows her jaw trembles; she doesn't even have the strength to clench it hard enough to stop that. How can she harden herself when Helaena is in her arms? Only gentleness should ever touch her girl.

Only when she sees her tears mirrored in Helaena's eyes as she nods, she knows her girl is braver than her.

Her heart jumps when Helaena leans into her again. She tucks her under her chin immediately and strokes her back.

She wants to say, "I'm sorry."

All she says is, "There is something you can do."

She's not sure if she's talking to Helaena or to herself.

She repeats herself over and over again.

Maybe at least one of them will believe it.

[wumblr]

trying to convince my bf's bf that gilmore girls is like if david lynch was set in connecticut and played for chuckles without sounding like guy who has only ever seen david lynch but to be honest i'm struggling to recall if the story arc where kirk does a durational performance art installation in a large cage suspended over the stars hollow town square is real or from the x files crossover fanfiction i wrote in a fugue state circa 2014 because i was sleep deprived from a coyote getting under my house when my landlord tried to use coyote piss to repel raccoons

[mel-vaz]

the Black Brothers sister

Hi everybody this is my first time writing so please be kind. This a x reader fanfiction the reader is mentioned to be chubby this is SAD injoy   

Invisible. That's what you were. You were nothing but Regulus and Sirius' little sister your whole life, a shadow in the grand tapestry of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. Forgotten and achingly alone, you drifted through the vast, empty rooms of Grimmauld Place like a ghost—unseen, unheard, unwanted.

It wasn't always like this. When you and your brothers were little, you were inseparable—like one big person, three hearts beating in unison. You did everything together, from sleeping to playing, your laughter echoing through the gloomy halls, a brief spark of light in the darkness of your family's legacy.

Those memories haunted you now, phantoms of happiness long lost. You could still feel the phantom warmth of Sirius' hand in yours as he led you on daring adventures through the house. You could still hear the echo of Regulus' conspiratorial whisper as he shared secrets with you in the dead of night. But those echoes grew fainter with each passing day, drowned out by the deafening silence of your solitude.

Nights were the worst. As you lay in your bed, the vastness of your loneliness threatened to swallow you whole. You'd stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster, anything to distract from the hollow ache in your chest. Sometimes, in your weakest moments, you'd sneak into your brothers' empty rooms, curling up in their beds, desperately seeking some lingering trace of their presence. But all you found were cold sheets and fading memories.

The day Sirius left for Hogwarts, a piece of your heart went with him. But it was Regulus' departure two years later that truly shattered you. You were supposed to go with him—you'd spent months dreaming of it, finally escaping the suffocating confines of Grimmauld Place, and having your brother by your side once more.

But then it happened. The incident that changed everything.

It was just a week before you were set to leave for Hogwarts. Your excitement had been building, a crescendo of hope and anticipation. But with it came a wild, untamed energy that thrummed beneath your skin. Your magic, always unpredictable, became a living thing, responding to your every emotion.

You were arguing with Regulus—not about packing, but about Sirius. His letters had become less and less frequent, and when they did come, they were full of stories about his new friends, especially James Potter.

"He loves us, Reggy!" you shouted, your fists clenched at your sides. "He cares about us!"

Regulus' face hardened, a mask of pure-blood pride sliding into place. " No, he doesn't he's made his choice," he said coldly. "He chose those blood traitors and mudbloods over his own family. We're better off without him."

"How can you say that?" you cried, feeling the magic building within you, a storm ready to break. "He's our brother!"

"Not anymore," Regulus spat. "As far as I'm concerned, I only have one sibling now, and she'd do well to remember where her loyalties lie."

Something in you snapped. Your frustration, your pain, your longing for the brother who had left you behind—it all came surging to the surface. Before you could stop it, a wave of raw magic exploded from you. The windows shattered, raining glass like deadly diamonds. Regulus, caught in the blast, was thrown across the room.

The memory of his cry of pain would haunt your nightmares for years to come.

When the dust settled, Regulus was sprawled on the floor, a deep gash across his forehead, his eyes wide with shock and fear. Your parents burst into the room, wands drawn, ready for an attack. But when they saw you standing there, the air around you still crackling with power, their expressions changed from alarm to... calculation.

"By Merlin's beard," your father breathed, lowering his wand. "I haven't seen a display of raw power like that since..."

"Centuries," your mother finished, a gleam in her eye that made your skin crawl. "It seems the old magic runs strong in you, child."

You stood there, trembling, waiting for the punishment that surely must come. But instead, your father stepped forward, his hand closing around your arm like a vice.

"Do you understand what this means?" he asked, his voice low and intense. "This kind of power... it's only been seen in the Black family. It means you're valuable, my dear. Very valuable indeed."

The word 'valuable' sent a chill down your spine. Not special, not loved—valuable. Like a prize cow or a rare artifact.

In the days that followed, your world turned into a nightmare. Instead of anger, your parents showered you with cold, calculating attention that was somehow worse than their previous neglect. Tutors were brought in, not to nurture your gifts, but to shape you into a weapon for the family's ambitions.

"Control it," they would hiss as you struggled to contain the wild magic within you. "Master it, or it will master you."

But you didn't want to control it. You hated it. Hated the power that surged through your veins, hated the way it made your family look at you—not with love, but with greed. You were no longer a daughter, but a pawn in their grand schemes.

Regulus, for his part, never forgave you for the incident. The scar on his forehead was a constant reminder of what you were capable of. "Stay away from me," he snarled the night before he left for Hogwarts. "You're a monster. A freak. I'm glad you're not coming to Hogwarts—I'd be ashamed to call you my sister."

As you stood on Platform 9¾, watching Regulus board the Hogwarts Express without you, you felt nothing but despair. You'd lost both your brothers now—one to a new life, the other to fear and hatred. And you were trapped, a prisoner in your own home, your own body.

You were no longer invisible. You were all too visible, a focal point for your family's ambitions and fears. As the train pulled away, carrying Regulus towards his future, you turned back towards yours, a future that now seemed darker than ever.

How could things get any worse? Oh, but they did. They most certainly did...Nobody cared about you, nobody saw you, nobody heard you, you were all alone. 

    Until one day, when the bitter Scottish winter had seeped into the very stones of Hogwarts, you hurried through the crowded corridor. Your mind was elsewhere, worrying about the upcoming Potions exam and the letter from home you'd been avoiding. The press of students, the cacophony of voices, it all faded into the background as you rounded the corner and—

WHAM!

You collided with something solid, sending you sprawling onto the cold stone floor. Books scattered everywhere, ink spilling from your broken bottle. James Potter, the boy who had taken your beloved brother away. Your eyes locked with his hazel ones, and for a moment, the bustling corridor seemed to fade away.

"Fuck, that hurt. Watch where you're going," he snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. 

You..." you growled, pushing yourself up off the floor. "You're the last person I wanted to see today."

James raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriating smirk. "Well, if it isn't Pads' chubby little sister. Didn't get the good looks, did you?"

The insult stung, and you felt your face flush with humiliation. How dare he mock your appearance, after everything he'd done. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you fought to control your anger.

"You have no right to say that to me," you spat, glaring daggers at James."Not after what you did to my life."

James's smirk faded, replaced by a cold look. "Oh, come off it. Your life? Don't be so dramatic. Sirius made his own choices."

"Shut up!" you shouted, cutting him off. "You have no idea what you've done. You ruined everything!" 

"Y/n," a familiar voice cut through the tension. Your heart sank as you turned to see Sirius standing there, his friends and Regulus flanking him. Sirius's face was thunderous, while Regulus wore his usual mask of boredom.

"Sirius," you whispered, your anger giving way to a wave of sadness.

"How could you talk to James that way?" Sirius demanded, his grey eyes flashing.

You started to get up, desperate to escape this nightmare, but Sirius's next words stopped you cold.

"You're not going anywhere until you apologize to James."

"Why do you care?" you asked, barely audible.

Sirius's lip curled in disgust. "Because he's my friend. And I can't have my chubby, ugly sister losing her only redeeming quality of being a good girl. Now do as you're told."

His cruel words hit you like a physical blow. Something inside you snapped. You whipped your head around, facing both your brothers.

"YOU ARE NOT MY BROTHER!" you shouted at Sirius, then turned to Regulus, pointing accusingly. "AND NEITHER ARE YOU! Now leave me alone!"