#and an even greater comfort knowing that we refuse to let his memory fade

[universalistotalis]

You fool

Gojo Satoru x Fem reader

Angst

1.7k words

Masterlist!!!

“Do you Y/n, take this man as your lawfully wedded husband?” Your eyes glowed as you looked at the love your life standing in front of you. This feeling of elation was something you never thought of experiencing in the past but here you are, fueled by passion and love for the person made for you.

“I do.” Your voice echoed in the venue.

Gojo Satoru’s dazzling eyes burned on your form as he too was fueled with the same passion and love for only you. The both of you had been through so much together. And as his sight was fixated with the image of your eyes, he can’t help but have a trip down to memory lane.

La la la la

La la la la

La la la la la la ~

Gojo’s voice echoed the halls playfully as you walked down the makeshift aisle lined with a red carpet in one of the hotels you both went to. The sides were designed with white and pastel colors of cloth, dotted with pink roses and yellow daisies. No one was around the marriage booth exhibit so the both of you, being the wacky couple that you were, barged in and played pretend.

Although this wasn’t pretend for Gojo. He may be smiling as if he was about to share a joke but his heart was beating like crazy while he’s looking at you, walking to him, who’s standing in front of the printed altar. He was singing the Bridal Chorus but stopped as you made your way in front of him.

“You’re so damn beautiful, babe.” He whispered as he tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear.

He was delighted as you blushed dangerously at his words. After all these years, you were still affected by his charms.

“Y-you’re not bad yourself.” You stuttered.

He laughed loudly at how cute you were being. It amazed him at how comfortable you were in his presence now. In the past, you could barely look at him in the eye, let alone talk to him... but now look at you!

Your chuckles mixed with his in the silence. After catching your breath, your eyes scanned the vicinity before pulling one of his hands. “C’mon, Satoru. We have to go.”

You expected him to agree and walk away with you to another place but he held his place, a foreign smile formed on his lips. It was not the playful smirk you were so accustomed to seeing, but it was so sincere, so full of love that you stared at it for a while. His hands removed the blindfold that covered his eyes and you silently gasped at the sparkles in them as the light illuminated the magnificent pale blue orbs. Then, he encased your hands in his before he took a deep breath and said…

“I love you. I thank all the gods everyday because out of the billions of people they built, they led me to you. I’m so glad I found you.”

“I mean you have six eyes so…” You snorted, even though you felt electrifying tingles from your head all the way to the tips of your toes.

He laughed again and hissed. “Stop ruining the moment!”

“Okay, okay. Continue, my lord.” You bowed respectfully, playfully.

He chuckled once more and hooked your chin on his fingers. “This. The way you make me laugh, the way you make me this happy, it’s enough… more than enough for me to stay and fight for you. Sometimes I wonder if it ever is legal for someone to be so perfect. You understand all parts of myself that I don't even notice. When you look at me, you don’t see that all powerful being everyone is talking about. You see me… the real me.”

A sigh escaped his lips, his eyes gloss over his thoughts. “I can never let them take you away from me. They’ve taken so much already and I am not going to just stand here and lose you.”

“Satoru—“

You suddenly felt a pang in your chest and the rapid fatigue overcome your body. After all the fun and games, you two were still in hiding. Hiding from the world, hiding from his family, both of which would never see you as a worthy match for the most powerful sorcerer of all time. He was destined for someone greater, someone better, someone of another godly descent! They didn’t care if she wasn’t born yet or was still wandering the streets of the world, clueless of his existence, but they are sure as hell that it wouldn’t and can’t be someone like you. Over their dead bodies!

Sometimes you believed them. You let their words and judgments cloud your mind but before they can take over, his voice guides you out.

His grip tightened on your fingers, eyes finding yours and holding your gaze. “I will not lose you. You’re the only right thing in my world and I intend to keep you with me for as long as I shall live. You showed me the love I never thought I deserved. You showed me immense kindness that I never thought someone could possess. You made me believe in the good. You gave me a reason to live everyday with a purpose in my head. You keep me sane. Alive. Free.”

“Oh Satoru.” You smiled through your tears at his revelation.

“I’d choose to spend all my infinities with you. No pun intended.” He joked, even when there were tears brimming in his eyes.

“I’d gladly spend them with you too.” You whispered, marveling at the warmth of his hands, wiping the tears away, erasing all the pain of the past, of the judgments and hurt…

“Stay with me.” He whispered back but you hear the tone of desperation in his voice. He was no fool. He could see you cracking at all the comments of his family and strangers alike. He would always thank you for being strong and for holding on…

You sighed as his lips found yours. Warmth coursed through your veins as you felt his soft breath brush your face. This is what home felt like. Suddenly, his tongue darted out to lick your bottom lip, asking you to give him entrance to the warm interior. And you did. It was a desperate kiss of tongue and teeth clashing, of heavy breaths and tight grips. There were no inhibitions, no doubts. You both were so in love with each other, refusing to let one another go, refusing to leave each other’s sides…

But eventually, both of you faded. There were trying times, too much of trying times actually… and you two are but victims to emotions, and it came to a point where love just wasn’t enough. So you let each other go, breathe, and fly away.

“You may now kiss the bride.” The pastor announced.

Gojo had to look away from the sight of you landing your lips on another, other than his. He thought he was going to be alright when the both of you agreed to go on separate ways. He reasoned that you both needed to grow in your respective fields, to grow as a person. He deluded himself that you could only do this when you both were away from each other. And maybe after, you can both come back to each other's arms but he knew that was too much to ask.

He was the one who kept asking you to shun out the harsh words from everybody even though he knew how much pain you had to endure. Now, he can’t help but feel guilty as he was the one who got swallowed up by those judgments until it ate him whole. It was supposed to be you and him against the world but he turned against you too.

The pain in your eyes were unbearable when he said his goodbyes. What happened to his speeches about making you stay with him? What happened to his promise of protecting you from all the barriers that separated you from one another? What happened to his love for you?

“Gojo sensei.” Megumi called while patted his back. “Are you alright?”

Gojo pushed his dark- rimmed glasses to the bridge of his nose while displaying a playful smirk. “Of course! I’m so happy for her! Look at them! Such a lovely couple!”

His blood boiled at the sight of you. He preferred to be battling cursed spirits than to be in this damned wedding. But he had to see you. He had to see if you were alright. He had to see that you were truly happy without him.

-

“That should have been me, Megumi.” He whispered to the man beside him.

“You’re crazy, sensei.” Megumi scoffed.

He chuckled. “No, no, I’m serious! I was supposed to propose to her that day! Can you believe it?!"

“Sensei—“

“This ring…” Gojo’s fingers reached for his pocket where he fetched a dazzling, silver, and diamond band with both your names engraved in it. “...is supposed to be resting on her finger, not that trashy one the other bastard got her.”

He sighed. “I never knew why I postponed though. Live in the moment, my ass! I'll do it next time, my ass! I'll make it the grandest, my ass! Look where she is now!"

"Hush!" Megumi's hands flew to his babbling mouth that was shouting all of his regrets.

Gojo's body deflated at the millions of ways he could have done the proposal right even when it's now useless to think of. "Maybe I took her presence for granted. Maybe I thought that she would always be there. Maybe I thought she would never leave. Maybe I thought that she would want to spend all her infinities with me.” His voice faltered at the end as he heard your voice saying the same words.

His eyes closed shut, remembering the promises you made to each other. “She meant it though when she said that. And when she said she loved me. She was so ready to be with me, so ready to fight for me. I’m the fool for letting her go.”

Megumi’s eyes filled with concern for his teacher, much like an older brother. He has never seen him at this state, all weak to the knees.

“Say, Megumi- chan.” Gojo’s lopsided smirk appeared again but everybody knows he’s not in the mood for any jokes.

“Yeah?”

“Does she look genuinely happy?” He asked, staring into the void.

Megumi’s eyes trailed from Gojo to you, who was smiling dearly at your beloved husband as you shared a dance in this reception. Your eyes were visibly twinkling under the lights and you looked like you can’t see anybody but the person in front of you.

“Yes, she does.” He replied.

“Then, let’s go.” He smiled sadly before sighing defeatedly. The ring was again tucked in his pockets, hidden, never to be seen by you, worn by you, cherished by you.

As he walked out of the doors, he took one last glance at the love of his life.

“If I could, I’d carve all the roads of infinity to lead you back to me. Maybe by then, I could have a chance with you again. I love you, I always will.”

His footsteps led him away from the venue. Away from you. But his heart stayed in your presence and his mind repeated the same thing over and over again.

Gojo Satoru, you fool.

---

Just painted Gojo Satoru and my head was like, "Why not write angst about this guy?" Lol

I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Hope you're all okay!

Reblogs are appreciated! <3

Masterlist!!! Read more here hihihi

#gojo satoru #gojo angst #gojo x you #gojo x reader #gojo hcs #jujutsu kaisen satoru #gojo imagine #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #jujustu kaisen #jjk x reader #jjk angst #jjk x poc!reader #gojo satoru scenario #gojo satoru fanfic #gojo satoru imagine #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru x reader #i legit ugly cried at this #why do i hurt myself #gojo deserves the best i know lol #imma make fluff next time #gojo saturo #satoru gojō x reader #gojou satoru x reader

[revengeoftheantichrist]

Red Flags

Warnings: Serial killers, breaking and entering, torture, manipulation and broken bones AN: Huge thank you to @9layerdevilfoodcake and the lovely Carissa for bouncing some ideas and beta reading this while I was struggling!

AO3

Michael had enough. He was tired and hungry, getting nothing more than delirious in this forest. He stood on shaky legs, not caring about the blood of the goat he just killed. He didn’t know where he was going, just letting his feet carry him to wherever they pleased. He no longer cared about the destination. His surroundings faded into nothingness, until a familiar white-picket fence came into view. He finally focused on his surroundings, immediately starting to sob when he recognised where he was. His childhood home, his grandmother’s house. His body must have craved the familiarity and the warm embrace that only she could provide. But like every other mother figure in his life, she was dead, and he blamed himself. With bleary eyes he pushed open the squeaky gate. The smell of roses made the memories rapidly flash through his mind. With a deep breath, he opened the door.

The house had been untouched for years. Dust and cobwebs everywhere. He thought of his grandmother watching the house fall into this state of decay. Watching.

He felt the eyes of the house next door on him. He refused to look out the window. He didn’t want to see the looks of disgust and pity. He wiped his eyes and stood a little straighter. This was his house now. He could do whatever he wanted here. No one to answer to, no more deadlines and most of all, no more older blonde woman dictating his life. ////

He stared at himself in the mirror. The stubble and lack of sleep seemed to age him. His hair was no longer perfectly styled, it was wild and uneven. The more he looked at himself the more his face began to morph into the women in his life. He hated it. He didn’t want to look like the woman that threw him out at his lowest. Or the woman who, even in her death, could not accept him as hers. He carried the ghosts of next door with him, and he’d do anything to alleviate himself of that burden. He could only change his appearance for so long. Hair dye would eventually fade; contacts would need to be removed and he wasn’t willing to put himself under the knife.

The smell of blood on his clothes pulled him out of his thoughts. The mirror reflected the decrepit house he was in, turning his nose in disgust. With the last of his strength, he mustered a tiny bit of magic, using a spell to clean the house. He walked through the house as it returned to it’s former glory, remembering his own attempts at interior design when he was younger, looking up the beams and archways where he would nail his ‘gifts’ to his grandmother. Times were simpler then. He shook his head of the nostalgia, hoping the plumbing was still working; he needed a nice hot shower.

//// None of the clothes in the closet fit him anymore, he didn’t realise how much he had grown. For now, a towel was the best he could do until his other clothes were out the dryer. He spent his time scouring the house for legal documents, anything that entitled him to some money and the deeds of the house. He needed to get this all under his name, just in case his grandmother used that stupid medium to undermine him. He tugged open the last drawer. Bingo. Everything he needed conveniently placed in one place. Money, a will and the deeds of the house. He would need to go to whatever legal office to get it sorted. The dryer still had time to go. With a big sigh, he sat on the couch. The one that faced the ‘other’ house. He gave a smile to those still watching him. He must have looked demented by the reactions he got from them. The exhaustion and hunger were catching up to him, succumbing to sleep on the couch.

////

It was morning when he woke up. He let his towel fall with a big stretch. Thus was his house; he could do anything. Even walking around naked. He kept the blinds and curtains that faced that house open. Let them watch. He pulled his warm clothes on. The detergent brought back memories, he’d buy a new scent when the time came. He grabbed some cash and whatever documents he needed for the day, venturing out into the big bad world.

////

Humanity deserved to perish simply for the time it took at the bank. The manger was an old lady, greying blonde hair and a pair of ill-fitting glasses. Michael thought she was extremely rude and didn’t hide his distaste when he spoke to her. She asked far too many questions for such a simple procedure. “Young man, aren’t you far too young to be accessing these funds?” she asked, looking over her glasses. “I can’t control when my entire family dies now can I,” he spat back, sick of her already. She continued to look him up and down as she typed away. Printing something off, she slipped a booklet of paperwork to him. “Everything has been approved, your card should arrive in the next few days. Can I do anything else for you?” “I’d like to take out some cash.” “How much?” “$500.” She paused, “what are you planning on doing with that?” Michael was getting beyond irritated, his jaw clenched, and he rubbed his temples. “There’s no need to be so rude young man,” she huffed. Michael gave her a sarcastic smile before snatching the money and walking out of the bank. The world would be better off without her. He’d deal with her soon. ////

Michael returned home with numerous bags of clothing and food. He would learn how to cook for himself, takeout was not sustainable. The pantry was stocked with basic essentials, but most of it was stocked with candy and other snacks. No one could stop him from indulging in his gluttony now.

His wardrobe was full of blacks and reds, the perfect colours for him. He was most looking forward to the black jumpsuit. It stood out to him in the store, a style he had never tried before. His fingers drifted over the seams when he tried it on, turning and admiring the various angles in the mirror. He looked up to the clock through the mirror, it was almost 5pm, if he didn’t leave now, he would miss her leaving. ////

Michael waited for the old bank manager to leave. Biding his time in the shadows. He watched her as she said her goodbyes in her shrill voice, then as she walked to her car. Michael stalked behind her, waiting for her to get in. As she got comfortable, she dropped something by her foot pedals. When she reached down to grab it, Michael took the opportunity to get in the car and lock the doors. He smiled at her when she screamed. The parking lot was empty, no one would hear her. “Shhh,” Michael put a finger to his lips, the other hand held up a gun. It was one of Constance’s that she had hidden in the house. The woman suddenly stopped, her shaking hands on the wheel. “You’re going to drive, and I’m going to give you directions,” he said, his tone left no space to argue. She nodded, tears in her eyes, hoping he would let her go eventually.

////

They pulled up outside the murder house. Michael got out first, taking the keys from the ignition. The woman stayed in the car, still shaking. She wasn’t given much time to think, Michael dragged her out of the car and up the steps, his hand over her mouth. Her legs flailed around, heels falling off and feet dragging on the ground. Sill, Michael paid her no mind, not even as she thumped down the stairs when he threw her into the basement.

He felt eyes on him again as he went into the kitchen, looking for something sharp. When he got to the basement door, it was blocked by none other than Dr. Harmon himself. “You don’t have to do this kind, you know you’re better than this,” he tried to convince Michael. “You didn’t have to cheat on your wife, now here we all are, miserable in the same fucking house,” Michael spat back. “He didn’t give Harmon a chance to respond, teleporting into the basement where the woman cowered in the corner.

“Please, I’m sorry if I did something, there’s other ways to solve this,” she cried. “I need to get home to my grandkids,” she tried to appeal to his softer side. He continued to stalk towards her, ignoring her and inspecting the sharp knife. “You’re far too old to still be this rude. I think that it’s a habit that can’t be solved anymore,” Michael replied, sounding disappointed. The woman couldn’t back away any further, stuck to the wall. Michael got down to her level, wiping away her tears. “You have grandkids?” She rapidly nodded, hoping he changed his mind. “I had a grandma too. Looked just like you,” he took a blonde hair and sniffed it, it didn’t smell like her. “At least she had basic manners. And, she wouldn’t be caught dead in this hideous number,” he pointed out. He had to give Constance credit where it was due. “Do you want to know what happened to my grandma?” he whispered in her ear. She was too shaky to respond. “I killed her too,” he whispered again, this time his voice cracked a little; remembering the day he found her dead in this very house. Even if she was a ghost, she could have at least spared him a hug. His eyes began to well up. The woman took this as an opportunity to reach out, placing her hand on her face. He snapped back to her, taking her hand in his. “But no one can ever replace her,” his voice still shaking. He felt like a little boy again. He could feel the pity from the woman. She wasn’t scared of him anymore and he didn’t like that. He was no longer a child. He had a greater purpose. Without hesitation, Michael sliced her throat, letting himself be covered in her blood. He looked at his reflection in the knife. Maybe this was the look for him, covered in blood. He licked his fingers, tasting the liquid. “I’ll save the heart for later,” he thought to himself, before ripping it out and making use of one of the fridges. This was one way to pass the time and maybe, it would finally get his father’s attention. //// A car was found on a random highway. In it was the mangled corpse of the owner, and a simple letter signed by ‘the Alpha’. This marked the beginning of a new wave of violence in southern California. A serial killer was on the prowl. The victim profile was quite strange. Typically, killers would choose young women. However, this killer liked older blonde women, usually grandmothers or mothers. It scared you regardless, worried that one day the preference might change. You worried for your co-workers too, many of them fitting the description. The thought that you might have even interacted with the culprit made your skin crawl. ////

Things would inevitably go wrong if one were fuelled by bloodlust alone. Michael had broken into the wrong house. The woman that pissed him off at the supermarket lived a few doors down. Regardless, he was curious as to who lived here. The home was so different to what he was used to. The interior design choices were not the standard ‘live, laugh, love’ and farmhouse kitchen with seashell bathrooms. This house was nice, it had a younger feel to it, the heels by the door further proof of his theory. He quietly made his way up the stairs, looking into every room and taking it all in. He finally found the occupied room. The dark-haired woman was fast asleep in her bed. Comfortably sank into her pillows. He adjusted the blinds a little so he could see better. The way the moonlight reflected off her face took his breath away. His fingers twitched, he wanted to take her home this instant. He could take care of her, he knew he could. He liked a challenge however, he wanted her to come to him. He didn’t know how long he stood and stared at her, only leaving once she stared to stir. He’d be back. ////

Michael’s heart was jumping out of his chest when he arrived back to the murder house. The residents were surprised he didn’t come home with another victim or even a drop of blood on him. His face was flush and he was in deep thought. Luckily for the residents, souls were not congesting the house, as Michael would make sure to burn the new souls as soon as he could. He whispered nonsense to himself as he made his way up to the attic. His trance was interrupted by his foot hitting a box. Had it always been there? He slowly took the lid off, finding an old camcorder and lots of tape. Was he living in the movie ‘sinister’? He was the scariest thing in this house, no ghoul could ever top him.

The box gave him something to do for the rest of the night. Returning with some snacks and in his pyjamas. The entertainment didn’t last long. It was just shitty home movies from former residents. It got worse when they’d come forward and explain them. He turned his face in disgust at the last one; a homemade sex tape. He gagged before turning it off. The sun was rising, telling him to go to bed. As he put the camcorder way, he had a genius idea.

////

You felt weird when you woke up. It was as if someone had been watching you. Your blinds were slightly open, and your bedroom door ajar. Had someone been in? As you walked through the house, something just seemed a little off. Things were ever so slightly out of place. There even seemed to be less fruit juice this morning than you were sure you had last night. Maybe it was the paranoia of the current situation getting to you. You sighed and shook your head before going to get ready for the day.

////

You hated working in the family and wills sector of the legal profession. You were hoping to make the move to fashion law soon, just waiting for the right opportunity. You really weren’t made for the requests of dead people and their bickering relatives.

You greeted one of the partners. Ms Grace everyone called her. She was your mento and a mother figure to you out here in the big bad legal world. Hopefully, she’d give you a good reference when you left. “New client for you today, just… entire dead family,” she whispered the last bit, making a cutting gesture with her hand. “That sounds horrible.” She nodded, before letting you set up for the day. ////

It was afternoon before said client showed up. Your office phone rang informing you of his arrival. A tall, blond man sat in the waiting room; his eyes widened in recognition when he saw you. You decided to ignore it. “Hello, are you Mr. Langdon?” “I am.” “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, in Y/N and I’ll be taking your case,” you held your hand out for him to shake. It was comfortably warm. “Please, call me Michael.” You nodded and smiled, before leading him to your office. “Any refreshments before we get started?” He shook his head. From the outside, his case looked simple However, the deaths in his family left a convoluted mess, but you were sure Mr Langdon would get what he wanted. He was the only legal and living heir after all. You chatted away as you printed off and filled out the relevant forms. The conversation came easy. It had been a while since someone had caused butterflies in your stomach.   You weren’t unprofessional however, keeping it professional with clients. When all was done for the session, you saw him out and waved him off. The interaction with him had left you a little flush. The receptionist giving you a knowing look.

////

This was totally unplanned. Michael wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. He thought that maybe his father had a hand in this, a reward for his hard work. He made his way back home, keeping the packet you gave him close, it still faintly smelled of you. He sat on the couch facing the other house. Images of you occupying his mind. It all got too much, lazily stroking himself to the thought of you that afternoon. ////

He left the house again, camcorder in hand. He pressed record as soon as he got inside your house. Filming every little detail leading up to your room. Even filming himself waving in the hallway mirror, as if he were recording and innocent home video.

He slowly opened your door. You accidently left the lamp on that night, giving him the perfect lighting. He zoomed in on your face before getting closer. Your duvet was blocking the view, reaching forward to carefully move it a little. Running his thumb over your lips and getting it on camera. He groaned at the softness. His fingers skimmed over your face, neck and collarbones. He watched as your nose crinkled a little at the touch. Cute. His evening plans were abruptly cut short when your phone began to ring. At this hour? Who was it? You began to stir at the invasive sound. Michael didn’t have time to run, transmuting out the house as fast as he could.

////

In his free time, Michael indulged in all that his family would disapprove of. And nothing could vex Constance Langdon more than her shitty grandson doing all types of drugs. He liked the feeling weed gave him. It helped him relax after the adrenaline rush of a kill. Sometimes, the murder house had a horrible stench of weed and rotting flesh, prompting the residents to keep the windows open. He even tried other things, like Acid and MD. He didn’t like the restlessness they gave him. He especially hated when his face would morph in the mirror, turning him into the people he hated the most. He wondered what it would be like to get high with you. He wanted to melt into you just like he did the floor when the THC finally got him. If he couldn’t get to you that night, he would replay the tapes on the big screen and jack off, wishing you were there. The residents of the house watched in disgust and horror. They may have done terrible things but surely, they weren’t this bad.

////

Mr Langdon’s case had successfully ended, he had gotten what he wanted. You bumped into him a week later, on your lunch break. “Oh? Y/N? so nice to see you,” he stood in the line at your favourite coffee shop. “Like wise,” you smiled up at him. “Would you like anything? I insist. It’s the least I can do.” You tried to reject his kindness but didn’t want to hold up the line, giving him your order. You both sat at a quiet table, waiting for your drinks and pastry. “I don’t usually see my clients on lunch breaks.” “Former client,” he pointed out, taking a sip of his coffee. You watched him add five packets of sugar and wondered why he didn’t just get a sweeter drink. Your conversation continued, with your shoes constantly touching under the table. It felt very childish, but maybe you were missing the playfulness in life. Your phone alarm went off, indicating you had to get back to work. As your phone was unlocked, Michael took it and tapped his number in, leaving you at the table with a wink.

////

These interactions led to casual dates. The murders began to slow down, making you feel a little safer. With this in mind, you accepted Michael’s invitation when he invited you over. You were nervous as you waited for him to open the door. The evening breeze did little to distract you from the feeling of being watched. Michael opened the door and you sighed in relief. “You look… beautiful,” he stuttered. “Not too bad yourself,” you smiled back.

He moved aside to let you in, leading you to where he had set up. “I didn’t know you could cook.” “I’m a man of many talents.” He looked out the window, making sure the other house was watching. They looked nervous, hoping you would leave in one piece. They watched you laugh and talk. This could not have been the same boy that had terrorised so many. He was confident, suave, and personable. Worlds away from the awkward, nervous cry baby of a serial killer that they had become used to. He cleaned up well, even tidying up his wild hair. They wondered how long it would last. How long would it take for you to see the real him? They hoped you got out before it got to that state. The time flew by, and you both seemed to get closer by the second. You didn’t notice until your noses were touching, conversation halting. He seemed to be waiting for something, almost hesitant. You took the initiative and captured his lips. All of his hesitation melted away, his hand reaching around you and pulling you closer. The kiss got more heated, indicating that it would lead to something else. However, luck was not on your side. You phone ringing and interrupting you. Michael wanted to smash that phone; this was the second time it had stopped him. You apologised before picking up. Michael watched your expression change and brows knit in annoyance. You put the phone down, apologising. “I’m so sorry Michael, but I’m going to have to go, I’ve been called into work tomorrow and this is an important client, I hope you can understand.” “Of course, I’m sure you’re busy and I won’t keep you. Do you want me to drop you off?” He didn’t know why he asked that question, he didn’t have a car. “Oh thank you so much for understanding, and the offer. I drove here myself so there’s no need to worry about that,” you smiled at him. Michael helped you with your belongings, leading you out the door. You turned to thank him again, before he leaned down to give you another kiss, causing you to blush. He walked you to your car, taking in the interior. He waved you off with a smile. He knew you’d be back soon. ////

Michael shut the door behind him. He thought the night was a success. He opened the cupboard and pulled out your jacket. He hid it away, so you’d forget about it. The designer logo stood out to him. He buried his face in the fur, taking in all of it. Your scent, your warmth, everything. He had been so close to you. He wanted to watch the tapes with this in hand, for that he would have to venture next door. He wasn’t prepared to finally come face to face with his grandmother, looking down on him, cigarette in hand. “Michael fucking Langdon,” her southern drawl was harsh. He hadn’t been spoken to like that in years. He gulped as he watched her slowly walk down the stairs. “Why haven’t you grown out of that terrible habit of yours. You just have to destroy pretty things.” She stopped at the step just above him, still looking down. She gently stroked his face like she used to when he was a child, and he leaned into the touch. The peace was disturbed by a loud slap echoing through the house. Michael’s face turned to the side. He held his cheek, slowly turning to the woman with bleary eyes. “You have some nerve coming back to this house with that attitude of yours, clearly the ‘Church’ didn’t teach you any manners” Michael was trying to find his voice, to finally face the woman that he blamed for half of his problems. “And now look at you, that poor girl doesn’t even know the half of it.” She snatched the coat away from him. “Look at this Michael, this is Prada. And did you see the car she drove? What makes you think you deserve her? Look at yourself,” she gestured towards him. “Hair unkempt, Jobless, all you eat is candy and human flesh. What are you going to when she finds out the truth?” Michael hadn’t actually thought about that. He had neglected himself and his appearance for a while now. Did it really matter that much?

////

“Look, Y/N, all I’m saying is that you can do better. Look at you, you’re beautiful and well dressed and have such a good job. And him, well… he’s a little scruffy and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even have a car,” Ms Grace did not approve of your relationship with Michael. She thought you could do better. “I see where you’re coming from but he’s charming. Although I do agree he could clean up a little better. I’ve seen him all dressed up and he looks so good. I just don’t understand why he chooses to look like… that most of the time,” the last bit was more meant for yourself. Your conversation was interrupted by Kevin, a colleague from another office. “He should take a page out of Kevin’s book,” Ms Grace pointed out. Kevin raised a brow at the conversation he had just become a part of. He too was on a lawyer salary, a well-dressed man that anyone would swoon for. “Who’s ‘he’?” “Y/Ns …. Boyfriend?” Ms Grace replied. “Nothing to concern yourself too much with Kevin, you know what Ms Grace is like,” you interjected. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. He must be something to reach those high standards of yours,” he pointed out. “Oh he’s something alright,” Ms Grace muttered. You huffed at the conversation. You didn’t think you were a superficial person, but your colleagues thought otherwise. //// Michael had heard enough. Sometimes he would scry into your workplace, just to check on you, to see if you thought of him as much as he did. The conversation reinforced Constance’s criticisms from the other day. He hadn’t felt this self-conscious in a while. He was not one to idle, immediately finding a hair stylist with an availability. He wanted a transformation that would floor you. With that in mind, he headed to ‘Gallants’. //// The hairstylist was truly annoying, yet he seemed to have magic in his hands. The final reveal shocked Michael also. The confidence he had at Hawthorne seemed to return. He held his head just a little higher as he walked out. He felt everyone’s eyes on him, people stopping to stare at the angelic looking man that strutted down the street. On his way to his next destination, he stopped at the sight of a certain symbol. An inverted cross. His feet had a mind of their own, leading him inside. His scar began to tingle. The congregation turned to stare at the man that had just walked in. They knew. It had to be. The high priestess getting on her knees before him. He could get used to this. //// He reached his final destination for the day. He didn’t usually kill men, but if they got in his way, he didn’t care who he killed. He waited for Kevin to come home. He was going to kill him here. He wasn’t worth the effort of taking him all the way to the murder house. Michael didn’t even give the man a chance to scream. Getting rid of him with a snap of his fingers. //// The murder house watched Michael carefully curate his image the next few months. An entire new wardrobe, his old clothes dumped in the murder house. They watched the elaborate skincare ritual every morning. Carefully peeling away masks and applying serums. How very American Psycho of him. You loved the new look. You made sure everyone in the office new you’d made the right choice. Michael loved the new attention, but he made sure you knew he only had eyes for you. He even planned on offering you a better job in Kineros’ legal team, just so he could keep you close and get you out of the sector you complained about so often. //// A strange thing happened one night. Michael took the camcorder down into the basement with him, setting the lens to record his newest victim. After he was done, he burned the footage onto a disk. What was he up to? //// You were on autopilot as you opened your door. You felt numb. Ms Grace had become another victim to ‘the Alpha’ along with one of your neighbours. You spent the entire day in police interviews, trying to make sense on the situation. As you walked into the house, you stepped on something. A thick envelope, labelled only with your name. You picked it up with shaky hands and opened it. In it was just an unlabelled disc and a sticky note saying ‘love from the Alpha’. It made your blood run cold. This had to be a joke. Some was messing with you; it could be the only explanation. You ran to your DVD player, you had to see what was on the disc, you hoped it was some shitty quality movie ripped from the internet. The video came on, starting in a dark room. The camera turned to a woman tied up, it zoomed in on her face and you immediately recognised her as Ms Grace. Your eyes widened and you felt ill, running to the bathroom to be sick. It was still playing when you came back, changing to a different video. It was dark again but it all seemed so familiar. The camera panned up and you gasped, your hands covering your face. It was a video of you, sleeping in your own home. You no longer felt safe here. You quickly took the disc out and grabbed your essentials, running to your car. As you pulled out your street, you had no idea what turn to take. Turning right would lead to the police station, you could submit the disc and ask for protection. However, they rarely did anything about stalking cases, and the disc had your finger prints all-over it. A left turn would lead to Michael. You felt safe around him and you were sure he could offer you comfort at this time. The beeping behind you made you make your decision. //// You pulled up outside Michael’s house. You rapidly knocked on the door, there was no answer. No light was on in the house. You prayed to whoever that would listen that he didn’t have any other plans for the night. As you lost hope and looked around, your eyes fell to the imposing structure next door. You remembered a conversation where he had said he was restoring the home. A light was on. With a deep breath, you ran up the steps, repeating your previous actions and hoping for a response. A shocked Michael opened the door. You immediately wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest and sobbing. You didn’t notice the feral look he had going on. Hair dishevelled and blood-stained clothes. He gently put the knife down and wrapped his arms around you, cooing and shushing you. Telling you to calm down and it would all be okay. He was glad you were wearing a dark colour; you hadn’t noticed the stickiness of his hands and the stain they left. He gently moved you into the house, shutting the door. He used his magic to shut the basement door too. Your face was still buried in his arm as he walked you up the stairs. You should have paid attention to your strange surroundings. The ghosts of the house looked at you with the greatest of pity, wishing they could do something.

He sat you down on the bed, kneeling before you and taking your hands in his. “Hey, look at me. What’s going on?” he asked gently, wiping your eyes. You sniffled and calmed your breathing, trying not to freak out again as you explained the situation to him. “I… I think he’s after me,” you whispered. “Who’s ‘he?” “The Alpha, he’s after me, I know it.” Michael paused, you must have seen the DVD. He had to stop himself from laughing. “Why do you think that hmm?” his thumb stroked your cheek. “Three people I know have died and then I got this DVD in the mail,” you paused, “It… it’s a video of Ms Grace tied up and then one of me sleeping,” you began to cry again. Michael sat on the bed next to you, pulling you in for a hug, you buried your face into him again, taking in his scent and trying to calm down. “You’re the only person I feel safe around,” you mumbled. Michael smiled into your hair. He had you exactly where he wanted. ////

You decided to wash your face after you had calmed down. Wetting a towel with cold water, you placed it on your eyes in an attempt to de-puff them. The ghosts thought this was the perfect opportunity to warn you about your possible doom. Vivienne pulled open the shower curtain behind you. Revealing a bathtub full of ice and another victim placed in it. However, their plan didn’t seem to work. You didn’t even look back at the sound, having walked out the bathroom just in-time. Michael was sitting on the bad, waiting for you. He had changed into more casual clothing and was rolling a joint. “It might help you calm down,” he smiled up at you, twisting the end off. You sat back on the bed and joined him, relaxing into the headboard. The conversation was casual and mundane, something you really needed right now. Between the sound of his voice and the passing of the joint, you had no idea how much time had passed. All you knew at this moment was that you wanted to be as close to him as possible. Hands began to wander, and your lips met for a heated kiss, you ended up straddling him. You let yourself be lost in the haze, not knowing exactly when your clothes came off, just that you enjoyed the feel of his skin on yours. You lifted your hips, moving to finally having him inside you, to be as close as you could be. You waited a little, resting your forehead on his shoulder as you got used to his size and took it all in. The feeling of his hands rubbing up and down your spine was blissful. His hands finally rested on your hips, gripping them and encouraging you to finally move. You complied, taking your time. You moved away from his shoulder. He took the opportunity to leave marks all over your breasts. It just felt so good. You could feel that you wouldn’t last much longer, your movements becoming sloppier. Michael rested his hand on your throat, his face morphed into something a lot more vicious than you were used to. It must have rang some alarm bells, but you weren’t listening. His grip on your neck tightened, and his hips began to thrust up, meeting your movements. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as his grip tightened once more, causing the coil in your belly to snap. Your legs shook, walls pulsing around him as he followed not long after. He pulled you into a deep kiss by your neck, slowly moving you off him and onto the bed. You lay there catching your breath, staring into his eyes. Just for that brief moment, nothing else mattered, forgetting about the serial killer that was on the hunt somewhere. You got closer to him and got comfortable, your head resting on his chest, being lulled by his heartbeat. “I was thinking,” he started. “Hmm?” you mumbled back, enjoying the vibration of his speech. “Maybe you should take a break from work for a while and stay with me for a bit, just until things calm down,” he suggested. At that moment in time, the combined high of weed and sex made it seem like a genius idea. Surely it was the most obvious solution? “Yeah it’s a good idea,” you yawned. The exhaustion caught up to you, your heavy eyes falling shut. Michael squeezed you just a little tighter and smirked up at the residents that had surrounded you. Their looks of pity towards you were something else. Michael buried his face into your hair, turning off the lights around him. It was the most blissful sleep he had had in years.

////

You woke up sometime the next afternoon. Michael was nowhere to be seen. After using (the now empty) bathroom, you ventured through the house. It looked different. It looked complete in a way. The tarp, random cans of paint and building materials that you were sure where there last night, were gone. It was as if it had been transformed overnight. The strangest thing was how familiar the décor and interior looked. It looked like a bigger version of your own home. It felt familiar yet uncomfortably so. Quite frankly, it looked like your dream home, styled as if it was going to featured in Architectural Digest. You knew it didn’t look like this last night, nothing close to it. Then you thought back to the wardrobe upstairs, the one you had sleepily pulled your current clothing out of. It was full of your own clothing. Clothing that you didn’t bring with you. Did Michael do this while you were asleep? When did he get the time? You scoured the house for your car keys and purse. Only finding pieces of familiar décor instead. Your stomach got the better of you, heading to the kitchen and hopefully finding something to eat. The pantry was stocked full of your favourites, pulling out a box of your favourite cereal. It was at this moment you were sure that all the pieces were taken from your home. One of the cereal bowls had the same chip that yours had. The nervousness and paranoia of last night began to seep back into you, your face visibly twisted in those emotions. As you mindlessly ate your cereal, the basement door creaked open. You stopped mid chew to look. You quickly swallowed and slowly walked towards it. Telling yourself that there was nothing to fear, and that you were just going to shut it. You heard a thud as you reached the door. Maybe Michael was down there and needed some help or something. You slowly walked down the steps, being careful not to make any noise. Your hand covered your mouth to stop your scream and prevent you from vomiting from the smell. The image forever burned into your memory. There was blood everywhere. Michael had his back turned to you, you were sure he hadn’t sensed your presence yet. You slowly backed away, trying to be quiet and not alert him. You let out a shaky breath when you were back in the hallway. You didn’t care about finding your things now, you had to get out of here. The front door wouldn’t budge open, the backdoor was no different. None of the window’s downstairs would open either. You then remember one of the windows was cracked open in the room you were sleeping in. You may injure yourself, but it looked like your only way out. You pushed the window up even further, making enough room for you to jump out. You hoisted one leg over the ledge, looking out for your landing spot. You prepared yourself to move the other leg, but it wouldn’t budge. You tugged at it a few times before looking back. Those blue, rage filled eyes were staring back at you, holding your leg, and preventing you from getting out. “Get. Back. In.,” he said, through clenched teeth. You shook your head, looking away from him. You didn’t want to think about who’s blood he was covered in. “Please let me go,” you whispered, hoping he’d take mercy on you somehow. His grip just got tighter. You mustered up all your strength, kicking him off you. He let go of your leg, it gave you enough time to jump. You felt the wind rush around you as you fell. You hit the ground a lot harder than you thought. Your head ricocheted off the ground painfully. You ignored the crunch your legs made. Everything hurt so bad, the pain wouldn’t even let you scream. You knew you had calculated your fall right. The ghosts thought you did too, all watching with various shocked expressions. You tried to move and look around you and stay awake. You could only look up. Through your darkening vision, the last thing you saw was Michael leaning out the window, smiling down at you. The cat had caught the canary.

////

You groaned in pain as you opened your eyes.

The light was blinding, difficult to adjust to.

Where were you? Why were you here? How long had it been?

As you looked around, the room looked familiar, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

“Oh? You’re finally awake, It’s been a few days, I missed seeing your eyes” a male voice spoke from beside you.

You slowly turned your head to the voice.

The man looked familiar; you raked your brain to figure out who it was.

He placed his hand on your cheek, you hissed and flinched as he stroked scabby and bruised skin. “Look at you. If you had stayed inside, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

His eyes finally met yours and everything came rushing back.

A feeling of dread overtook you. You tried to shuffle away from him, but something was preventing you from moving.

You tried to figure out what it was. Looking yourself over, noticing the blanket was bulky.

You momentarily forgot about the predator in the room, pulling the blanket away and revealing your legs, both in casts.

One of the casts had been signed, ‘get well soon, Love, your Alpha’.

You wanted to sob, but you knew any sudden movements would be painful.

Michael rolled his eyes and pulled the blanket back over you, tucking you in.

“If you’re good, you’ll get your painkillers. If you’re bad…,” he leaned over you, putting his weight on your legs, “I’ll cut them off next time,” he grinned.

He got onto the other side of the bed, holding you close to him, squeezing you just a little too tight, and giving your forehead a kiss.

Not even the apocalypse could get you out of his grasp now, he’d kill you both before anything tried to take you from him. Wherever you were, that was his sanctuary. Even if it meant eternal torment in the pits of hell, it didn’t matter, as long as it was with you.

#my writing #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #Oneshot

[melzula]

The Beginning of the End

pairing: Zuko x Princess! reader

warnings: angst, mentions of death, fluff

summary: in which the Princess learns what became of her father and turns to Zuko for comfort (requested by anon)

~ part of the fire lilies series ~

“Y/n,” your mother calls gently from your doorway. “The ships are leaving, come say goodbye to your father.”

“No.”

“Princess, he’s your father,” she chides gently. “I know you have your differences-“

“Differences?! He forbid me from water bending and he forbid me from ever seeing Zuko again!”

“Little otter penguin, try to understand that your father only has your best interests at heart. He loves you, and if you don’t say goodbye you’re going to regret it.”

“I won’t regret anything,” you insist stubbornly. “Besides, there’s no point in saying goodbye when we both know he’s going to come back.”

The White Lotus campsite is relatively quiet despite the number of members it inhabits, most of them gifting you friendly smiles or passing glances of acknowledgement as you weave through the tents in search of any familiar faces. With Aang having disappeared, you’re only hope in defeating the Fire Lord now rests upon Iroh, hence your group’s presence on the campgrounds. Zuko has left in search of his Uncle, and though you wished to see the kind old man again after having been apart for so long you knew it was something the prince had to do on his own. Besides, you had your own questions that needed answering and didn’t have much time to waste as you sought after any water tribe member who might have information on the whereabouts of your father.

Your search efforts are halted by the hand that rests itself firmly upon your shoulders, and though your first instinct is to pull the water from the air around you in preparation for a fight you’re quick to relax as you see it’s none other than Pakku. An apologetic smile forms on your features as you grant the old man and longtime family friend a tight hug.

“The last time I saw you you were barely learning how to walk, and now here you are pulling water out of thin air like a true bending master,” he comments with a laugh. “It’s good to see you again, y/n.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” you reply with a watery smile before pulling out of the hug to look at the man before you. Your grandfather and Pakku had been good friends in their younger days, and before the war he had often visited to teach water bending to the boys in your tribe, but then your grandfather had died and Pakku stopped coming. It was comforting to see a familiar face, but you were starting to dread the truth that would come with your question. What if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear?

“You’re troubled,” he says carefully, “what can I do to help?”

“My father... Have you heard what’s become of him? Is he back home in the south?”

Pakku’s eyes soften then, sympathetic and remorseful, but he doesn’t answer your question, not right away. Instead he guides you towards your tent and takes you inside to discuss the matter privately. Once you’ve seated yourself on the ground Pakku reaches into his robe and pulls out a familiar item from his sleeve.

“Do you recognize this?”

“Father’s tiger shark tooth necklace,” you murmur quietly as Pakku places the piece of jewelry into your open palm. The tooth is jagged and sharp though worn around the edges from the many years it’s spent hanging from your father’s neck; it was a good luck charm given to him by your mother when they were younger, and he never went anywhere without it. “But I don’t understand...”

It’s the way in which Pakku refuses to meet your gaze that you finally understand, tears beginning to well in your eyes as you clutch the necklace tightly to your chest.

“No...”

“I’m so sorry you had to find out this way,” the man offers weekly before handing you a paper scroll. “Everything you need to know is in this letter. I’ll give you the privacy you need to read it for yourself.”

He leaves you alone to mourn in piece, and despite how desperate you are to know the last words of your father you can’t bring yourself to open the letter. Opening it makes it real, and you don’t think you can face his death. Not now, not when your friends are counting on you to be at your strongest for the arrival of the comet. Your heart is beating rapidly in your ribcage and your vision is blurry with your tears, and this time when a gentle hand rests itself upon your shoulder you collapse against the owner’s chest. Strong arms wrap around your trembling figure and encompass you in a comfortingly familiar warmth as you weep into their chest.

“Pakku sent me,” Zuko utters quietly into your hair. “What is it?”

“My father,” you whisper into the fabric of his robes, “he’s dead. He’s gone and I never even said goodbye.”

“I’m so sorry, Princess,” Zuko comforts gently. “I can’t even imagine what you must be going through right now. Is there any way I can help?”

“There’s a letter,” you sniffle as you pull away from Zuko to wipe away your freshly fallen tears. “I can’t bring myself to read it but I need to know what it says. Would you... would you read it to me?”

“O-Of course,” he replies quickly before scrambling to open the letter as you situate yourself to sit in between his legs with your back resting against his chest. With his arms around your waist and the letter held in front of the two of you, Zuko’s gentle voice slowly begins to morph into that of your father’s as you shut your eyes and listen.

“Princess,

I don’t have much time left on this earth, and I know the chances of seeing you again before my time is up are slim, so I’ve taken to writing this letter in hopes that all of your questions will be answered when I’m gone. I’ve been badly wounded in battle and with no healers available it will only be a matter of time before I pass on from this life to the next. But know that I am sorry. I’m sorry for making you become someone you weren’t, for forcing you to change when you didn’t want to, and for not being open enough to listen to your needs. I was blinded by my anger with the Fire Lord and I took it out on you and that poor boy. Love is a complicated thing, you cannot choose or help who you fall in love with, and perhaps if I had remember that then I wouldn’t have forced you to run away.

We all have a destiny in life and leaving was part of yours. There’s a greater world out there for you to explore; a good leader requires knowledge, and as future leader of the Southern Water Tribe it is your duty to obtain it. Learn to love, learn to be brave, learn to be kind, and learn to be forgiving. We didn’t get to say goodbye and that’s alright, we’ll have our time together again in the next life, so don’t let this slow you down. I know you’re going to do great things, my sweet daughter. I’ll always be with you in spirit, and you’ll always have my support. It is an honor to be your father, my brave little water bender.

It’s all up to you now. With love, your father Tukon.”

The air is silent as your father’s voice fades away and all that is left behind is the sound of your quiet sniffling and Zuko’s gentle breathing. You want to cry but for some reason the tears don’t come, and instead being filled with devastating loss and regret you are filled with a small warmth that fills your heart with love and appreciation. Your father is with you now, you can feel it, and in this moment that is enough.

“Thank you,” you murmur quietly, showing your gratitude to both your father and Zuko as he holds you close to his chest in the safety of your tent.

~~~

You wake to the smell of freshly cooked porridge, a smiling Zuko sitting beside your bed as he holds the bowl of breakfast in his hands to maintain its warmth while you rise.

“Good morning,” his raspy voice greets you. “How are you feeling?”

Memories from the previous night flood back to you all at once, and your boyfriend doesn’t miss the way in which you immediately reach up to clasp the tiger shark tooth hanging from your neck tightly in your hand. Tears begin to well in your eyes but you manage to keep them at bay, instead choosing to look upon Zuko with a fragile smile.

“I’ll be okay.”

“Did you sleep okay? I had Suki look after you while you slept so I could speak with my Uncle.”

“How is he?” You ask, features perking up with interest. A small smile forms on Zuko’s lips as he leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead.

“He’s fine, and we’re okay. He’s eager to see you again. But you need to eat first, we all have a big day ahead of us,” Zuko instructs before handing you your breakfast. “Uncle says I need to reclaim the throne, and to do that I have to face off against Azula. But I can’t do it alone, so I’d like you and Katara to join me.”

It’s silent for a moment as you digest both the yummy porridge and the information Zuko has bestowed upon you. You had a feeling this day would come, and despite the apprehension you hold when it comes to fighting his deranged sister you know there’s no other option.

Your father’s words echo in your head: “Learn to be brave.” A beat passes before you finally nod.

“I’ve been wanting to put her in her place ever since she beheaded my favorite doll,” you admit with a wry smile. “I’d be honored to help you.”

“Get dressed,” Zuko says then, rising from his place beside your bed to give you the space you need to prepare. We leave in ten minutes.”

And so begins the end of the war.

| tags: @rainteslerrrr @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @thebluelcdy @royahllty @the-firebender-girl @coldlilheart @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @knaite-solo @zukh03s @titaniafire @dekahg @emberislandplayers @kikaninchen-2 @lozzybowe @izzieserra @melacholy @music-geek19 @thia-aep @thyunnamed @haylaansmi @nataliahaslosthershit @idkdude776 @aangsupremacy @thirstyforsometea @ihaveaproblem98 @brown-eyed-thang @djskfkdkkf @xapham @yeetletzgetitjae @misnmatchedsox @chewymoustachio @that-bucket-hat-gal |

#zuko #zuko x reader #zuko imagine #prince zuko #prince zuko x reader #prince zuko imagine #zuko and the princess #fire lilies #avatar the last airbender #atla #atla x reader #forbidden lovers au #y’all already know what’s coming next

[witchyhobbitess]

“Small” excerpt from a Hobbit AU I’m currently working on.

This is the very first time I have ever shared my writing, constructive criticism is always welcome. I’ve read it so many times I think my eyes are immune to mistakes.

The work is currently untitled.

POSSIBLE WARNINGS: near death, afterlife, mentions to battle and blood.

Chris moved methodically through the battle field. It had been horrible. He recalled how it felt to have his blade slice through poor orc armour, smell the rancid blood over the ground and see the lifeless bodies of the few elves he had come to call friend.

Why he was searching the field, Chris had no idea, he just knew he had to keep looking for-something. No, someone. And then he came to it, the large, lifeless bodies of Azog and Bolg. Without giving it another thought, Chris began pushing over the large, dead orcs. As the corpses moved, he thought he saw the bright flash of whiteish purple hair, suddenly he recognized the tiny body beneath. His little sister, Sage.

How? How did she get here? Why hadn’t the valar told Brand and him she was here as they had told the brothers they were together in this world? Lifting her seemingly broken and vey bloody body into his arms, Chris ran with everything he had to the mountain of Erabor and Brad. Brad could heal, he would heal their baby girl.

By the time Chris had made it to the front entrance of Erabor, his lungs were on fire and he couldn’t feel his body. All of him was numb with the thoughts he wasn’t fast enough to save Sage. “Brad!” Chris bellowed as he burst through the dwarves waiting for healing or helping those around them. “Brad!” Chris screamed again, louder, pushing through the company of Thorin Oakenshield and not even realizing it.

“Chris?” Brad came out of the healing wing, covered in blood and frowning. “Why on earth-“

“Sage! Its Sage. God, Brad, please, please tell me you can save her!” It took everything Chris had left to not burst into tears before seeing her off to healing.

“Sage?” Brad asked alarmed, now running over to his brother and the small woman in his arms. “Oh my god! Sage! Give her to me, Chris. Quickly”

As the small woman was passed from one brother to another, the dwarves around them looked on in shock.

***

“We can’t find the lassie anywhere, Thorin. We’ve searched everywhere, even the elves haven’t seen anything of her since just after the battle started.”

Shaking his head sadly, Thorin turned to Bofur. “Go get Kili. We have to tell him she’s gone.”

“Thorin,” Balin spoke softly. “that will break the lad. He loves her so much.”

“I know Balin. But I want him to hear it from me before he hears it from anyone else. A rumour will hurt him far greater.”

“aye.” The small group of the company stood sadly, waiting for Bofur to return with Fili and Kili. Ready to help hold up the soon to be shattered young prince.

‘Yer sure the lass won’t turn up anywhere yet thorin?” Dwalin rumbled quietly as they watched Kili walk sadly over with Fili.

“No. I don’t know what else to do though, Dwalin.” Thorin was equally heartbroken, their little mute flower had wound her way into their hearts and would never be able to be replaced. She had become family to them all through the journey. Poor Bilbo would take it just as hard as Kili when he found out, the hobbit doted on her as he would a daughter.

“You wished to speak to me uncle?” Kili’s voice was raw and broken, thorin knew it was from the hours he spent calling for Flower on the battlefield.

“I did. Kili-“ Suddenly Thorin was shoved forward with great force.

“BRAD!” Thorin and Dwalin turned to find one of the human men they had fought beside-one of the ones who refused to allow them up on raven hill. And in his arms, was Flower.

“BRAD!” Chris screamed again, louder, pushing through the company toward the surgery doors.

“Chris?” Brad came out of the healing wing, covered in blood and frowning. “Why on earth-“

“Sage! Its Sage. God, Brad, please, please tell me you can save her!” It took everything Chris had left to not burst into tears before seeing her off to healing.

“Sage?” Brad asked alarmed, now running over to his brother and the small woman in his arms. “Oh my god! Sage! Give her to me, Chris. Quickly!”

They watched as ‘Sage’ was taken into the surgery and orders were given by the other brother they had al fought with. Then they watched a guardian hit his knees and weep.

Dane stood next to him trying to get some answers. The company moving to find out more as well.

“Lad, Chris my lad.” Dane tried. “Who was that lass? Can ya tell us what’s going on?”

“It looked like our Flower.” Dwalin tried to speak gently-but he still came across gruffly. “The same lassie that led us here and helped save us today. The one that told Thorin to send for you Dane.”

Chris gulped, working to calm himself. “That was my sister. Sage.” He shook his head, to ward off more tears or to shake away what could be his last memories of her, they weren’t sure. “Brad and I knew there would be another guardian, one who would travel with you. Keep you safe, on track, pull thorin out of his dragon sickness. And-“ He swallowed again. “and kill Azog for you.” Dead hazel eyes looked up at Thorin. “If we had known, we never would have told you not to go. We never would have let her face them alone. My gods, she’s so tiny! She can’t fight! Why would they have done this to her? Why?”

Kili hit his knees. HIs one was possibly dying because she was so stubborn she had taken on the pale orc and his kin, alone. “How?” He rasped. “How could you let anyone take them on alone?” Suddenly rage bloomed in his heart. “How dare you allow any soul to fight those two alone! Let alone your own kin! You prevented me from fighting beside the love of my life, you sentenced her to possible death, for what?”

“Your lives.” Chris’ voice was dead, his pupils covering the entirety of his eyes. “She traded her life for yours. It was the deal she made on coming here. Do not be mad with her brothers, young prince, the choice was her own given to her by me. She loved all of you so much, she couldn’t bare the thought of middle earth without you. Couldn’t stand thinking you would never get to live in the home you reclaimed. She did not know of the love she would find. Do not blame them.” The voice faded and they looked into the pained eyes of Chris once more. “Visions will always be brutal.” Cursing, he placed his head between his knees and worked to breathe.

“CHRIS!” Brad roared from behind the doors. “I need you now or we will lose her!”

***

Sage floated in some sort of strange limbo. She wasn’t entirely sure where she was, it wasn’t light or dark, nor hot or cold. She simply just, was. Suddenly she felt a hard jarring on her back, still foggy, she looked around, eyes fluttering open she could have sworn she saw her brother.

“Brad?” She mumbled.

“Sage! Stay with me baby girl, stay with me.” His face swam in and out of her vision. “Oin! I need Chris and thranduil. I can’t heal her wounds alone.” Snapping his fingers before her nose Brad called to her agin. “Sage! Come on! I said stay with me!”

“Fuck you.” She whispered, but Brad couldn’t make out her words. He was losing her.

Once again, she was floating in that strange, comforting place of ‘other’. She could stay here, it was peaceful here. Something at the back of her mind kept tugging at her though, she was forgetting something important. But what was it?

The flowering path appeared before her as if she had walked through a silken wall. Flowers of all the colours she could imagine bloomed along the sides of the tiny, intricately patterned pebble path. A forest with a small cabin seemed to be set far in the distance, not knowing what pulled her to the cabin, Sage began the walk.

#hobbit #hobbit oc #the hobbit #alternate universe #everybody lives au #fili and kili #kili the dwarf #healing #near death experience #wip excerpt

[wanderingmirror]

They kept him chained down within his own mind. The mask of being human always causing his anger to spike. Dean hid his rage behind smiles and attitude. But when Sam chose a demon over him, the room they had been in turned into an even greater mess. Archangels, Angels, and demons across the world could feel the wave of dark and golden grace. Ruby shivered and whimpered silently to herself while away from Sam.

Dean felt the rage overflow, he could not control himself as he searched for his human brother. Words are the nicest thing he could have with the She-demon.

———————————————————————

When Lilith was slain, her blood opening the cage, Dean entered the room, a dark look in his eyes. Sam felt fear spike in his chest when he saw the darkened look coming from his brother’s eyes. The moment Ruby was in sight, the words died in Dean’s throat at what the She-demon manipulated his Sammy into doing. Ruby, fortunately for her, was only stabbed with the knife Dean had taken with him. Dean letting out a vicious roar as he did so. Sam shivered and the beings in the area did the same. As Lucifer came up from the cage he felt the vengeful, dark grace push against his own. He yelled and his wings fluttered. Dean looked over to the fallen angel, his eyes glowing a pure white.

“Abbas?” He said softly and moved closer to the human who should not have grace coming from his form. Dean twitched and felt the signs of a black out coming for him. Sam’s eyes widened when Dean’s rolled into the back of his head. Lucifer lounged for the elder Winchester as he collapsed, but he only caught air as both brothers vanished. Sam was the only one awake to see the old church get destroyed. Dean unconscious.

———————————————————————

When the two brothers returned to Bobby’s, Dean fled into the panic room. Locking himself in and screaming in agony and rage. A long locked away secret clawing to get loose. To find their anchor. “LUCIFER! MICHEAL!” Dean screamed in Enochian. “GABRIEL!” His voice shaking the house entirely. The names of his brothers and his anchor sending shivers through Sam and Bobby’s spines. “Bobby what’s going on?!” Sam shouted as Dean’s wails got louder and louder. Bobby shrugged in terrified confusion. He scurried with the younger Winchester when the screams, worryingly, stopped. They found Dean laying limp on the wall farthest from the door. All of the Archangels shivered when the screams stopped.

Lucifer curled within the vessel he inhabited. “I hear you brother. I hear you.” He whispered with his grace nudging against the darkened grace surrounding his in a bond made long ago. His eyes sealed shut and his body shivering.

———————————————————————

Sam and Bobby dug deep into the books and lore to figure out who Lucifer had called Dean, since the eldest Winchester refused to come out of the panic room to do so. “Castiel, can you come down here? We need your help.” Sam prayed and got an answer through the book before him being flipped and a page being turned to. Faded, but still legible. Abbas, Archangel of Judgement. Three pairs of wings, bronze, gold, and white. Dirty blonde hair and eyes the same as Dean’s.

Dean’s wails started up again. He wanted to be freed. He wanted to spread his wings, to reap judgement past due. His grace wanted to wrap around the grace of his anchor, to feel it cool and calm his own. And after four days of this cycle of quiet then chaos. Dean left the panic room in a daze. He leaned against the door frame as he walked to his and Sam’s shared room. Laying down and passing out. “Dean?” Sam asked softly when he woke to find Dean curled around him later on. Arms wrapped protectively and legs tangled with his. Dean just pulled the younger closer and encouraged him to sleep too.

———————————————————————

The chase to find and reseal Lucifer was long. Castiel and the other angels tense and nervous around Dean when they were needed. Dean was quiet, hands itching to touch the remains of grace from his anchor only to find him long gone. Bond eerily quiet and cold. When they found Gabriel, the archangel froze. Eyes locking on Dean when he brushed his grace against that of Gabriel’s. The amber eyed male tearing up. He was then pulled into the arms of his big brother. Sobbing and pushing his grace into Dean’s, seeking comfort he hasn’t had in millions of centuries. Though the elder Winchester was surprised at first, he still soothed the other with his own. “You’re awake! I heard you! But they wouldn’t let me find you!”

Dean soothed Gabriel with soft words. Leaving Sam confused, bitch face in full swing. “De, start talking. Now.” Sam demanded as he crossed his arms. Dean gently nudging Gabriel into his side to rest. The three had sat down after Gabriel was finished checking Dean over. Dean was reluctant to talk about his angelic history. It being far to sore a subject that even Bobby was strictly in the dark. “If I had it my way, Sammy, I wouldn’t tell you shit.” Dean grumbled. He rubbed Gabriel’s back, between wings in severe need of grooming, as he thought how best to talk to Sam. “Well, I’d like to know how long this Abbas asshole has been with you. So, start from there.” Dean wanted to laugh. Sammy thought that Abbas was someone else entirely. When in reality, he and the archangel of judgment were one and the same.

“Sammy, here’s what you don’t seem to get. I am Abbas. Abbas is me. I’m, how you say, in my own personal prison. I never wanted to be human.” Dean said with no small amount of irritation. “Before, and even after the rebellion, I got a little too twitchy for the old man’s liking. So he and Death decided to seal what they didn’t like away. What better way to deal with an Archangel who just lost the one thing keeping them sane.” Dean’s mouth twitched in a humorless smile for a moment. Gabriel shivered when the short haired male decided to groom messy wings. Though Sam could not out right see the wings, Dean could.

It was common that Dean, while still with his brethren, would check the wings of fledglings and even the archangels. Grooming them like a mother hen. The others realized long ago that it reassured Dean they were still there. As many had disappeared suddenly over time. “That doesn’t explain everything. You damn well know that.” Sam stated and Dean did laugh then. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right. They bound me in a human form, many human forms actually. Gotta move with the times right? I constantly had to grow back up. Lived with different human parents.” Dean shrugged at the horrified expression on Sam’s face.

“Then I was born in the Winchester household. As Dean Winchester. Eldest brother to you. I couldn’t access my grace back then. To save Mary. She was actually a mother I wanted to grow up with. To make proud.” Dean sighed with grief. “But, seems Azazel had other plans. And I got raised differently. Well, I didn’t get raised. I raised you and grew up being a parent instead of a child. Didn’t mind since I’d had children in my past lives.” Dean smiled fondly at those memories. Gabriel purring in his lap.

The other archangel had moved to nuzzle under his brother’s neck. Laying chest to chest to give Dean better access to his wings. Dean sat the feathers on the floor next to the couch after they either fell or were pulled. Sam found it both very cute and oddly enough didn’t seem bothered that the smaller archangel was curled like a cat against his brother. But then again, he had seen weirder. Dean grumbled when he found things within the wings, muttering about washing them later.

Dean felt his own wings flutter at the thought of bathing. His own grace shivering in quiet excitement that did nothing to pull Gabriel from his sleep. Dean poked the bond connecting him to his anchor, scowling when he found the bond was still icy and silent. “Who’s your bond with, Dean?” Sam asked after Dean gently kissed the side of Gabriel’s head. The smaller angel nuzzling subconsciously. “Lucifer. I did mention that I was going insane after his fall, ya know.” Dean arched a brow when Sam choked on his own spit at the declaration. Sam looked at Dean like he had two heads after that. Watching as the elder Winchester picked the archangel up and started for what he assumed was the bathroom.

Sam didn’t follow. Something Dean was grateful for, as he wasn’t keen on letting the giant of a man see his baby brother naked. To Dean, it’s like looking at your children. He raised the younger angels and Archangels after they were created. And once Lucifer and Micheal were old enough they helped him raised the others. Dean snorted while getting the water warm. Gabriel was always with Lucifer, both having tricks and pranks to dish out. Never against Dean though, as he could do much worse than them.

Micheal learned fighting styles and other more warrior like things from Dean. Always copying the elder Archangel, Dean pretending he didn’t see the boy as he trained beside him. Rafael was raised into books, and much to his delight, Dean always had stories to tell or books to help him learn. While he did have their father’s wisdom and knowledge, it was Dean who helped him channel it. As time went on, Dean and Lucifer fell for the other. The elder of the two seemingly calming down from his more destructive habits. Much to the annoyance of their Aunt Amara. Dean snorted again as he sat Gabriel in the bath, his wings spread out over the edges so Dean could reach them. Dean hummed softly, it sounded like a far away church organ. Gabriel purred as he woke up, blinking sleepily as he caught Dean humming in his more angelic voice.

“You still sound beautiful, big bro.” He said softly, earning a chuckle as he shuttered his eyes. Dean kept humming. While he was by no means a choir angel, he still could sing. Baritone was his most used tone. It rumbled deep in his chest and caused the fledglings and younger angels to giggle. It also calmed down the Seraphs after a day of battle. Gabriel made a small sound of relief when he felt the debris leave his wings under the spray. He hadn’t paid much attention to his wings after Abbas was sealed away and Lucifer was cast out of heaven. “And you wonder where the youngling Choir angels got it from.” Gabriel teased and made a large exhale as his oil glands were cleared. Dean snorted at the memory of having little choir angels trying to sing with him. They couldn’t keep a tune for long but they got better with time and patience. Patience, the angel race found, was ever present for them alone.

Dean scowled a bit, remembering how he got twitchy after their father created the humans. Lucifer had the mark containing Aunt Amara at the time. So the twitchy attitude Dean had at the time was thought to be understandable. It wasn’t until Lucifer snapped that Abbas felt the tugs to cast judgment upon the humans. He even felt the urge from Lucifer from time to time to do it. Though the younger archangel tried to hide it from him. Their father realized that Abbas wasn’t handling the new creations as well as he did with the angels. Lucifer being cast down was only the icing on the cake after that. Since the Archangel had no way of keeping a calm and rational mental state.

So much like Aunt Amara, Abbas was sealed in a different type of cage. “You’re brooding again.” Gabriel mumbled sleepily, getting wing massages and bathes were lulling the youngest Archangel to deep sleep again. Dean smiled softly as he emptied the tub, pulled Gabriel into a warm towel, and dried the man off. He walked to Gabriel’s room and found warm fluffy clothes to wrap his brother in. Along with boxers, Dean clothed his brother and put him to bed. “You really do have the mindset of a mom.” Sam snickered, quietly laughing when Dean turned a half hearted glare onto him. “Well when you have nothing else to do but be a parent to your younger siblings, it tends to stick.” Dean responded with no heat, Sam still felt a little guilty for not trying harder to be a better brother. Dean huffed a breath, he twitched his wings as he walked. He couldn’t do anything more than twitch them, they were bound by holy leather to his back. All three sets.

———————————————————————

Dean rolled his neck and popped it, grunting softly. It would be a long time before he could rid himself from these straps. Since no one but his bonded, who was still missing, or Micheal, who he hasn’t seen in millennium, could cut them off. Dean had tried ridding himself of them, but all it did was tighten the straps to his back. The blonde felt a growl well up in his chest, felt his darkened grace lash out at forces that were no longer within his reach to feel. With his grace locked and his wings restrained, the calls to cast Judgment were few and far in between. Sam had gone to bed, Gabriel had remained asleep still. Dean didn’t feel the need to rest. He poked at the bond, quiet still, but warming up. Dean smiled softly in quiet relief that his anchor didn’t feel he had to block Dean from him. Even if it was only to give the sense of safe-alive-home that Dean really needed.

“I’ll find you, beloved. Neither Father nor Death will keep me from you.” Dean muttered with a steadfast promise. And somewhere in the world, Chuck shivered, knowing full well that Abbas would keep that promise.

———————————————————————

Elsewhere, Lucifer was in hell. Dealing with things that had gone down while he was away. Feeling the constant pokes and prods of his Archangel of Judgement. Abbas was worried, and a small bit of anger. Lucifer knew damn well why Abbas was angry. Being separated from his grace, from his wings, from their brothers, and from Lucifer himself. Abbas was twitchy even before they were separated. Lucifer gave Abbas a small bit of reassurance, and felt the anger and worry ease into something he was sure Abbas could now manage. The darkened grace almost having a purr of its own now that Lucifer has acknowledged its owner. Lucifer can’t meet with Abbas now, in his mind Lucifer isn’t ready to see him again. But feeling his Archangel through the bond was enough to reassure him that Abbas still loved him.

As the demons around him moved, Lucifer allowed his wings to brush against the walls and the pillars of the throne room. None of the others understood what their lord was doing, nor did they need to. Lucifer stretched his wings, feeling the pops and cracks of disuse leave. With a sigh, Lucifer vanished to the surface to explore. Trying to get an idea of where his Archangel was. However, the shift in placement told Abbas where Lucifer was anyway. Lucifer was sure of that. It didn’t take much for Abbas to figure out where Lucifer was when the bond they had formed so long ago was so strong. But the younger Archangel knew that, without his wings the Archangel of Judgement could not fly to him. Something Lucifer was sure Abbas was roaring internally about.

“Do you think he’ll let me see him soon?” Lucifer looked at the sky without the need to turn around. Rafael was there behind him. “Don’t count on it, Elder brother.” Rafael said simply as he felt the warmth of Abbas’ grace flow over them both. While the archangels could only move their grace at Will to things nearest them, Abbas could reach across the world if he needed. Judgement is passed to everyone, not just a few. “I say the old man will. He can’t keep Abs away from his anchor forever.” Lucifer snarked. “Besides, he doesn’t want Abs to cast judgment on his favorite toys too soon, right?” He snickered when Rafael’s eyes went wide before the other vanished to tell their brother. “Don’t have to wait too long, Abs. I’ll find you before he has the chance to try and control you.” Lucifer muttered as he vanished back to Hell.

#oc-ish #angst #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #gabriel #lucifer #micheal #chuck shurley #amara supernatural #Ruby #mentions of Lilith #family #established relationship #bonded #Rafael

[tooft]

There is so little left of me now, the rest washed away with the crashing waves. I felt each piece that is now lost to me, drifting down to the depths of an ocean where no one dared explore. I wonder if now there will be reason for such curiosity, the desire to find what's left of the last of the gods reason enough to tread further than ever before. 

Humans are interesting like that. Give them enough mystery or promise of discovery and it will be enough to overcome nearly any fear that might fight against that desire to find out everything about anything.

I hope that they do find something, whether that is a part of me or something else. Maybe it will be my siblings, changed as they are to survive in the depths, or my parents, long since buried deep beneath the shifting sands. Most likely it won't have anything to do with us at all, but some other mystery that we've never even considered. We've always been a vain lot, and even now when I'm nearly gone I feel the faint urges to rage at the thought of humans thinking any other discovery could be greater than what we once were. 

The rage fades though, as everything else had, eroding slowly but surely under the determined flow of the ocean. Best not to think on it now. Mortals would do what they wanted, as they always had, and if that involved the ones they'd once worshipped or not, it wouldn't concern me soon enough. I would be a memory, slowly changing to a legend or myth, whatever evidence of my time alive either lost or thought ridiculous in the face of science and logic. 

It had happened to the rest of us, before it happened to me. I was just the most stubborn, wanting to stick around as long as I could, even as my followers dwindled as doubt took place in their hearts. I had watched as my siblings chose the sea, to live or perish based on their desires. Those who chose to live strode into the waves with determination, a single glance back the only hint of the fear that I knew must have plagued their hearts. I had scoffed back then, certain that the humans would realize their error in withdrawing their devotion. It was not the ones who lived that started to change my mind. No, I felt no fear until I saw my brother choose to die.

He had simply sat on the beach, waiting as the water climbed ever higher. I had sat with him at first, watching as he stared out at the horizon. No matter how many times I had tried to speak with him, he stayed silent. His followers had been more cruel than others, loudly denouncing him where others had simply stopped. He felt each of their words like a blade to his chest, dreams now filled with the angry cries of those who felt he'd led them astray. I had seen too many tears fall from his cloudy eyes, and he had had to hold me back several times from raging against those who brought him such pain. 

Now he refused to speak, simply waiting as the water rose high enough to lap against his feet and then his legs. I begged him to stop, to come back with me, but he didn't move an inch. Even as the waves began to carve bits off him off, carrying him away into the unknown, he didn't make a sound. All that could be heard were the waves and my screams, until finally I was left alone on the sandy beach, making sure to stay far away from the now raging water. 

That was when fear first took root in my heart. If this could take my brother, the strongest of us all, what chance did the rest of us have? I could only take comfort in the fact that, as he drifted away, he didn't seem to be in pain. His face, for the first time in years, held the same smile he always wore. 

Still, I hated the mortal world then, for it had taken him from me. Maybe that's why I stuck around for this long, so that if I got the chance I could make them hurt as much as I was hurting. 

Now though, I didn't feel that anger, or the pain. I wasn't sure when it had stopped, only that it had, taken from me like so many things by the ocean that threatened to overwhelm me. It didn't rage the way it had when it took my siblings, the tide calm where it passes over me. I'm not sure what to think of that, unsure why the raging waters were so gentle against what little was left of the being I once was. Maybe it could sense that I was the last of my kind, understanding that I was the final one that would embrace it’s cold waters. Whatever the reason, I am glad that after so many years of rage, I can simply let go now. The time of the gods was finally reaching its end, and once I was gone there would be no coming back. 

Maybe the humans would miss us, but I doubt it. They had moved on, to what they saw as greater things, and maybe that was okay. There would always be something greater on the horizon to them, they just needed to have the courage to find it. Now that my anger and pride was lost to the waves, I could finally let myself have hope for them. They would achieve great things, even if it was without us to watch over them. I could rest, knowing that they would go on, the way they always had. 

The end, when it came, was soft and kind, and I couldn’t help but smile as the last of me was washed away with the tide.

#my writing #short story #gods #death #in a sense

[morston-trash]

The Last Sunrise

I honestly can’t remember if I have ever posted this on here. This is the work that I am the proudest of. It also tore me apart to write it. 

Spoiler warning to anyone that hasn’t finished the game; it contains end of game spoilers. 

Proceed with caution. 

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

The gunshots faded into the distance but didn't cease altogether. The hunt was still on, just for someone else that had decided to leave while they had the chance. Whether they would actually escape or not, that was another matter. The men that were in the, once glorious Van Der Linde gang, were very persistent. The remaining men were more than likely in pursuit on horseback.

John could almost hear the whoops and hollers of the men as he fled. His heart slammed against his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins. All he could do was keep running, even though his legs threatened to give out. He finally collapsed, falling against a nearby tree. There he lay, working frantically to catch his breath.

"Go to your family," Arthur struggled before starting the climb upwards.

"Arthur!" John hissed.

"Go on, get out of here and be a god damn man," Arthur wheezed.

"Y-you're my brother..." John hesitated, reluctant to leave the man.

"I know..." the older man said before climbing up.

That interaction was burned into his skull, playing over and over again in his mind. He couldn't believe that he had left him. He hated himself more than he could ever express. Arthur had always been there for him. He had always been there to help him, to bail him out of the mess he always got himself into. He had just left him there to die. Hot tears threatened to fall, but he refused to let them fall.

"Be a god damned man..." John choked back sobs.

He stood, his legs threatening to give out once again. Without thinking, he ran back in the direction in which he had left his savior. He ran as hard as he could. Just hoping and praying, for the first time in his life, that he would make it there in time. He could barely breathe but he was willing to endure it. John was determined. He was going to get back to Arthur, one way or another.

The dark-haired man approached where he had left Arthur. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Arthur. Was he still alive? He climbed up the ledge, dread rising inside of him. He didn't know if he could do this. John pushed on, he was going to do this. His eyes scanned the area, searching for the man.

"A-Arthur?" He somehow managed to call out, sounding like a scared child.

He heard an angry groan in response, it had to be him. Only Arthur could make a simple sound seem so grouchy. He followed the noise to the source. The sight that greeted him shattered what was left of his stone heart. There sat Arthur leaning against the stone wall behind him, bloody and bruised from the fight that must have occurred after he left. The older man shot him a look of pure disbelief and annoyance.

"I... I told you to get out of here... Go to your family..." The dying man muttered, barely able to take a breath.

"I can't leave you, Arthur. You're my family too..." John cried, unable to keep the tears from falling.

"Y-you're... A mess... Marston," Arthur coughed.

"Don't I know it?" John laughed in an attempt to control his tears.

Arthur struggled to sit up just a little more. These were his last moments and the pair both knew it. John wished that he could stop time, that he could save his oldest friend. But he couldn't. Instead, he just sat there beside the other man, enjoying the silence. Before this moment, he had never understood what Arthur enjoyed about it so much, but now he completely understood. He understood everything now. It was as if the other man had opened himself up without saying a word. There they sat, Artur's final moments being spent in silence as they watched the sunrise together this one last time. John was painfully aware that he could no longer hear the struggling wheezes coming from Arthur trying to catch a breath. He had passed. John couldn't bring himself to look at the shell of one he had cared for so deeply. Instead, he sat there beside him. Watching the sun climb into the morning sky.

John thought of all the times they shared, just like how Arthur wanted to spend his last moments. It hurt like hell, but it brought the man some comfort. When Arthur saved him from the wolves, drinking around the campfire, all of the many times they had ridden together, their ride to get Jack back. That reminded him of something Arthur had once said.

"We can't change what's done, we can only move on," The now dead man's voice echoed in his ears as if he was talking.

He couldn't help but smile despite the tears that ran down his scarred face. That man had truly been the most selfless person he had ever known. Beyond that rough, sarcastic, intimidating exterior he was really just another hurt soul that loved helping people. Even if it took him until the end of his life to realize it. John forced himself to get up to face reality. Arthur was gone, all that left of him was his corpse and the memories that everyone had of him. His eyes dropped to the shell of the man, his chest feeling like a bear had torn into it. His dull eyes were still open, looking at the rising sun. He brought his hands to the face of his trusted friend, closing his eyes. John dropped to his knees, unable to hold up the facade of being strong. The tears flowed freely, unable to be contained or controlled any longer. His head dropped. He stayed there, unable to move. Without any prompting from him, a pained scream came forth from his throat. He didn't care if the gang heard him, if the Pinkertons heard him, he just didn't care in that moment. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The man heard the sound of pebbles being kicked behind him, someone was coming upon him. He stumbled into a standing position before drawing his gun and turning to face the source. His vision blurry, he could barely make out the image of Charles, the man Arthur trusted most out of the gang. That was still alive anyway. He sniffled and lowered his gun, trying to compose himself. It was fitting, he was feeling and acting just like the child he was when he met the man that now sat dead beside him. Both of the men nodded in agreement, no words needed to be exchanged. They already knew what needed to be done. Charles lifted the body of his trusted friend. John followed as the dark-skinned man carried him away from the place that he took his last breath. The pair walked in silence, both feeling more comfortable that way. They had never really talked much, the only things they had in common being small bits and pieces of the past few months and Arthur. They were both sad about the other man's death, but John was taking it the hardest of the two. Charles had a more private way of mourning, as well as a more considerate way of showing appreciation for the lives of those around him.

Charles led the way, placing Arthur on the back of Taima. He grabbed the reins and started to lead the horse. John followed, reluctant to stray away from the body. They walked away, the rays of the sun chasing away the cold of the hilly region. The walk was quiet, tranquil. This morning was the calm after the storm, and yet they couldn't wait for it to be over. They arrived a short distance from where the heroic man had spent his final moments. They were on a cliff, basking in the sunlight. It was a beautiful spot.

"This spot, it's beautiful..." John mumbled.

"Arthur would have wanted to be buried somewhere like this. Facing west. So that he could look at the sun and remember everything," Charles barely more than whispered.

The pale man had hardly heard the other, but he knew what had been sad. He was right, their fallen friend would have loved a spot like this. It was a beautiful spot, surrounded by a stunning view of the landscape. Had Arthur been alive, he likely would have been taking in the jaw-dropping sight with his journal in his hands. Tears threatened to fall, but he fought the now-familiar sensation. John didn't think that he could cry anymore but he didn't want to risk it. Charles pulled out his small, collapsable shovel from his saddlebag. The darker man removed his friend from the back of his horse before placing the body in the shade of a nearby tree. John couldn't help but watch, noticing the expression of pain that crossed his face. It was unusual, he had never seen him show this much emotion. Arthur had touched all of their hearts, he had saved them. There was no greater man, in their eyes anyway. He may have been a criminal, a murderer, a thief, but he had done it all to help the entire gang. But the bastards had turned on him, on all of those that saw how crazy Dutch really was.

"You should get out of here, get back to your family. I'll take care of him," the other man motioned to the body of their lost friend.

The grieving man could only nod numbly. He didn't want to leave, but Arthur trusted Charles in life and he was sure that this would have been what the man wanted. John turned away and began to walk away reluctantly. He walked back the way they had come, each step taking him a little further from the man who had saved his life countless times. The raven-haired man just wanted to throw himself on the ground, to scream out curse after curse, but it wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't bring Arthur back. Instead, he kept forcing himself to take step after step. Towards where Sadie had taken his family to safety. Another person that Arthur had trusted a lot, despite her having only been with them for a few months. But Arthur's judgment was not misplaced. The two had been more alike than anyone other than themselves could notice. John could see that now. It's funny, you only really start to notice and pay attention to things when they are no longer there. John cracked a sad smile at the thought. He felt so stupid, but at the same time, he felt partly to blame for Arthur's death. If he hadn't left him, maybe he would have still been alive. He could have fought off the one that killed him. They could have gotten him out of there. They could have tried to help him get better. The invasive thoughts swirled through his mind like a tornado.

"We can't change what's done, we can only move on,"

The man looked around for the source of the voice. It was like a whisper in the wind. Even beyond the grave, the man was looking out for him. Those words brought some comfort to the man, but not enough to prevent even more tears from falling. He struggled to not fall down onto his knees.

"D-damn you, Morgan. You selfless bastard..." the man sniffled.

He moved onwards despite the pull he felt to return to the corpse of the man he called brother. Each step made it harder to fight the urge. The urge to be there with Arthur. The sound of voices brought him out of his thoughts.

"We can't leave yet! They are still coming!" a woman yelled shrilly.

"We don't know that, they might have caught them." another woman reasoned.

"Momma, where's papa?" A young child asked.

"He's coming sweetie, he'll be here," the first woman soothed.

John recognized those voices, they were the voices of his family and Ms. Sadie Adler. He followed the voices out of the bushes. Sadie had her gun drawn, pointing at John. Once she recognized him, she lowered her weapon. Abigail ran towards him, wrapping her arms around him tightly. He hugged her back, realizing just how much he had missed her. Jack came running over and clung to him tightly.

"Papa! Papa!" the boy yelled joyously.

"I'm here, I'm here..." He reached a hand down to grasp the boy as well as his lover.

"Where's Arthur?" Sadie asked, knowing the answer but needing confirmation.

Arthur had told her about the tuberculosis. She knew that he was going to die. Seeing John walk over wearing his hat confirmed it. But she needed to hear it.

"He, uh... He didn't make it. Charles is burying him on a ridge not too far from where he..." John swallowed hard, unable to finish the sentence.

Sadie nodded, a dull pain searing through her interior. Arthur had been one of the best men she had ever met, seconded only by her late husband. She was going to miss him dearly. She turned her attention to the reunited family. She had fulfilled her promise to the man, she had helped them get out. They could go on living their life free from all of the madness that had just ensued. Sadie, on the other hand, didn't quite know what to do. She was more of a ghost than a person.

The Marston family loaded onto the wagon that was waiting for them, to take them to their new future. One hopefully free of bounties, robbing, murder, and Pinkertons. John was in the driver's seat with Jack between him and the woman. John turned to look at her as if asking if she was to be joining them. She just shook her head, waving them off. The man nodded, before signaling for the horses to start moving. There the family went, onwards towards their new life, their second chance. All thanks to a man named Arthur Morgan.

#Arthur Morgan #Arthurmorgan #John Marston #Johnmarston #Charles Smith #Charlessmith #Sadie Adler #Sadieadler #Abigail Marston #Abigailmartson #Jack Marston #Jackmarston #john x arthur #arthur morgan x john marston #Morston #morston-trash

[clonerightsagenda]

Way back in 2016 once I knew how TLC was going to end, I wrote a... send-off of sorts. Like anything else postgame, this is compliant rather than canon to that ‘verse, but I thought I might as well share in the spirit of posting a lot of ancient stuff out of my Dropbox recently.

A new universe out of seed B2 finally blossoms, and Skaia gets to work. The imbalance has been removed; the proper order of things has been restored. Now the business of repairing the multiverse can begin. There are lotuses to be planted, temples to be founded, and wheels to be set in motion. Something is different – a few of the terminals are disconnected; the texture of the new world doesn’t compile the same – but the agents will take care of that. Skaia plays the long game.

It gives them a few years to settle in. Victors don’t like to be reminded of the game too soon. Some get upset, even if the game is what has raised them to their exalted state. Most are too tired or lost to object, but they had to be fighters to get this far. Better to let them grow comfortable now that the war is won. But the seeds of the next game need to be planted, so after a decade it sends the first temple meteor through.

The Witch appears in a shimmer of green fire and waggles her finger at it like it’s a naughty animal. Then she snaps her fingers, and the meteor shrinks to the size of a pebble, which she catches and squeezes in her fist. Without the temple, a whole game session that could have been fizzles and dies, taking its Veil and Reckoning with it, and the meteor itself vanishes in a puff of displaced probability.

This is not how things are supposed to go.

Sometimes heroes are uncomfortable with their universe’s inevitable future, especially if they are closely involved in the welfare of new races. The rare winners to have offspring of their own tend to be even more militant. Sentimentality can be useful in small doses. Skaia can afford to wait. It gives them a century, long enough to become familiar with death, decay, the passing of time, long enough to appreciate the need for measures to shed a dying universe and birth a new one. Then it sends a temple lotus, and they let it blossom. That’s better.

When the temple is fully grown, the Time heroes and the Page visit it, running through the halls, admiring the carvings, and calling to each other. They even leave small objects scattered around it – offerings?

Then the Maid grins wickedly, punches a button, and the temple goes up in smoke.

Next time, the Prince unsheathes a comically large katana and chops through the entire meteor, sending the two halves spiraling harmlessly into space. Skaia does not even attempt to interfere. It can’t help but let a good callback happen. His hand gesture afterward is uncalled for though.

Most players do not last long. Even those that claim godhood turn on each other or make poor choices, dissolving into nothing but scraps of legend and memory. That is best – fewer variables, no one with the power to challenge the greater good. The only ones who evade death are those who do nothing. It is part of the plan. Skaia has never encountered this before. Most heroes are too shellshocked or grateful to object, or they’re inflated in self-importance, believing the new world is their due. They don’t grasp eternity. The eventual restart of the cycle doesn’t bother them. They don’t have to play again.

But these players have taken offense. They block its attempts to seed their world, and it cannot send them carefully curated dreams on Prospit anymore to guide them in the way it wants.

Skaia has no voice, and the game guides who remain have refused to heed its commands, but it has ways of being heard. It contacts the Seer of Light. She of all people can understand thinking toward the future.

“We were charged with protecting the universe,” she says. “We’re doing our jobs.”

Can’t she sense the death throes of every genesis frog they prevent? Isn’t her vision full of the opportunities falling away? The Lord of Time no longer forces them down any one path, so broken loops wither and die, but the pain remains. There are rules, Skaia says.

The Seer’s voice turns deadly. “This is not a game.” Then she summons a cloud of void (since when do proper Light players do that?) and cuts the connection.

If Skaia could feel, it would have started to get annoyed.

The next time a meteor passes through a defense portal, Skaia knows the players cannot interfere. One does appear, but she does nothing but watch as the meteor crashes into the planet that was born in a universe long since gone.

You cannot prevent this. Skaia has not had to interact with anyone on this level in a long time. Its thoughts are rusty, long worn into established patterns. If you do, your timeline is forfeit. This loop is already done. The game must be played.

“I know,” says the player. There is something unsettling about her. “I played it.”

She wears the garb of a Muse, rarest of Classes. She hails from a session that is yet to be, but one that has already shaped her. Time is not Skaia’s domain, but this at least is simple. Then you understand, Skaia says. Are you finished with these pointless acts of defiance?

“Haven’t you noticed?” she asks, and her voice is unsettling too. “We let you have this one. But nowhere else. Nothing else. It ends here, with this session, this loop. You’re finished.”

Creation has no end.

“Of course it doesn’t. But you don’t own it all.” She spreads her arms. “Can’t you feel it? All around us?”

Worlds are dying that were never born. Worlds you prevented. Are you proud?

“We’ve helped worlds to become, too. There’s a new system. A new game. Our rules.” She frowns. “You really can’t sense them, can you? You’re as blind as he was. What was left of him, anyway, just like you’re what’s left of her.”

…

She squints, like she’s trying to look at Skaia, although of course there’s nothing to see. Skaia is everywhere and part of everything. It is used to this. Still, she should direct her attention elsewhere. “I suppose you’re not exactly her. It’s a situation more like the alpha timeline and how it was a reflection of his will. I wondered if she left a splinter of herself, like Dirk used to. Something inspired. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to grow up all alone. I know why you see them all as chess pieces. I had to learn. You never could. I wish we could teach you, but I don’t think there’s much left.” She leans forward. “Can I teach you?”

There is nothing to learn.

“I thought I should try,” she says. “Everyone deserves a chance.” She regards the planet of her birth in silence for a while and then turns away. “Goodbye,” she says. “Calliope.”

At the end of things, Skaia is there to bear witness. It does not feel sadness or satisfaction, just a knowledge of what is. All other routes have been blocked off. Its only path is through this session, a session that feeds back on others and spawns no new worlds. The chain of universes is broken.

There are victors there to watch too, although not as many as there were. Skaia does not understand this. It does not see heroism in arms spread wide, cannot grasp the dignity in being ready to be finished. It is used to sacrificing pawns when need be, but these things are beyond it.

The Heir is one of those that remain. “I don’t have a terminal,” he says, “but I don’t think I need one anymore. Your name is Calliope. You are.”

Your name is not Calliope. You are not a you. You are an it, a force, a process that cannot be questioned or challenged or changed. Aren’t you?

Then what is this you, that thinks these things?

There are memories faded and warped like files copied over one too many times. They bubble up: the years of loneliness, the crystal cave, etching visions on the clouds and sending them into people’s dreams so they’ll make what ought to happen true. All in the service of what must be, marshaling countless children torn from the ashes of dead worlds to serve your will. Expendable. Forgettable.

What have you done?

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Remembering is hard sometimes. But it’s worth it in the end.” Then he blinks away.

The Maid goes last. She watches the universe tearing itself to shreds, blank white nothingness poking through. There are few places left to be, so when she turns she is looking at you. You? Is there anything to see?

“Well,” she says, “this is it. It’s been fun. Are you ready to go yet?”

It’s hard to find words. You are an echo of someone who died a long time ago, nothing but her voice cast into the void. But a named thing is a real thing. It can choose.  G… “Go?”

“To whatever’s next. I’ve shown a lot of people the way, but I’ve never gone myself. But everyone else is there, so we’d better go.” She holds out her hand, and Skaia (Calliope?) (you?) wish you could take it. In some sort of metaphysical way (and everything is metaphysical here, at the end of all sessions, as creation swallows its own tail) you do. She smiles. “You’ll see. It’ll be an adventure.”

#kat writes fic #tlcverse #and now to get ready for work

[acesgroupchat]

A week passes, then another. The Chiyan army camp grows. Fei Liu gets close enough to touch an orange before the tree rejects him. Consort Chen arrives, and falls weeping into his mother’s arms. His father has stopped speaking. Lin Shu finds himself in the garden almost every day. He keeps the words ‘tactical retreat’ in his mind, and does not look too close, lest he find ‘coward’ written underneath. Fei Liu will sit under the branches with him now, for all he still has not spoken a word.

It is nearly three weeks when he walks into the garden, and finds Lin Chen lounging against the base of the orange tree. He does not get up, but waves an arm in lazy welcome. Lin Shu sits beside him, lets the tree hold him up.

The oranges hang above them, bright, tempting, and just out of reach. The lord of death barely seems to notice him, contemplating patterns in the leaves above. Every sprawled line of him radiates power, but what was leashed has gone lazy in the shelter of the tree. This is the stillness of the hottest days of summer, and just as sweet.

“I have a question.”

“Mmmm?” Lin Chen cocks his head slightly.

“You knew who I was.”

“It would be a terribly rude host, who would not know his guests.”

“A polite host would have come to greet his guests when they arrived.”

“A polite guest wouldn’t wander into his host’s private garden.”

“You don’t seem to make much use of it.”

“I’ve been busy. I have an army camped in my foyer, conspicuously failing to move on to the fields and meadows that have been so nicely set aside for them. One wonders if rudeness is contagious, or merely the hallmark of a certain military fellowship.”

There is a tightness on the back of his tongue. “Perhaps this army has greater need of news than of comfort. Is it not always so, in such exceptional times?”

“What news? What exception? Times are as they have always been, and recent events no more than commonplace. The wheel turns, power changes hands, the living forget and the dead move on.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I have seen more of these petty squabbles than your mind could comprehend. I know their shape. In a month it will be ended. In a year it will no longer be spoken of. Those who value their skins will hold their tongues, and in a decade this will be as any other unpleasant dream, un-thought of and quickly fading from memory.”

“It will not! This is a catastrophic miscarriage of justice, and a crisis for the nation. The very foundations of the court are threatened. The country will bear the scars of this for generations and—”

“And what does that matter here? It is not your country now.” The lord of death shakes his head. “So much fire in you. Has no one told you where you are? The affairs of the living are no longer yours to concern yourself with, any more than they may concern themselves with you.”

His throat aches with the force of his words. He swallows. “They will not forget.”

Lin Chen snorts, but does not reply.

“Jingyan will not forget.”

“The seventh prince? In all of this the princes are the ones who most stand to gain. He may remember but he will choose his own survival.”

“Jingyan is loyal. He will never accept these lies. He would not—” His tongue is thick in his mouth, clumsy and caught. The taste of blood wells in the back of his throat.  Jingyan would not believe me a traitor.  

Lin Chen watches him, face impassive. Finally, he shakes his head. “Well you’ll have your answer soon enough, I suppose.”

Terror goes through him like an electric shock. He lurches to his feet. “He’s here?”

He takes one stumbling step away from the tree before ice cold fingers catch his wrist.  They tug him back and he collapses among the roots again, pinned beyond even an attempt to struggle, though the grip on him is lighter than a butterfly’s wing. “I said soon, not now mayfly. Are you always in this much of a hurry?”

“When will he be here? What do you know?” Lin Chen’s gaze is sidelong and flat.

“I know that he is coming here, as all the living are. The future is not my area, but the precise date of his arrival is of little consequence. It’s not as though you have any reason to rush. He will come here in due time, and you will have your answer.”

“There is no one more loyal. He will not believe these lies, and he would never betray Prince Qi. When he arrives, I will find you here, and you can tell me you were wrong.”

“He will be arriving very soon then, unless his mother is particularly clever on his behalf. He can join all those ministers of yours just as soon as he returns from Donghai. Will you cross the river then?”

Lin Shu shuts his eyes against the image. “We will cross the river with honor, with our names restored and our deaths avenged.”

“And if you cannot? If all who knew you die, and your names remain unspoken, will you camp in my foyer forever? Eventually you will get bored, little marshal.”

“You don’t know me.”

The god beside him snorts, and their shoulders brush. “I know the moment you came out of your mother, the sound of your first squalling cry. I know the first time you opened your eyes for your father, your first steps, your first kiss. I know every pastry you stole from gracious Concubine Jing, and exactly how many times you fell before you climbed your garden wall successfully. But even an idiot would know you will get bored. You are bored now.”

He feels the tendons in his wrist shifting against those cold fingers even as his nails dig into his palms, sharp and sudden. “I don’t care. I will wait on the riverbank until the blood of Da Liang is exhausted, until every other soul has crossed. I will search forever, and when I have found my answers I will find some way to see justice done.”

“I’m sure you will make a lovely vengeful spirit. The poets will sing beautifully of you in Elysium. Has it not occurred to you that perhaps the riverbank is not the best place to find your answers?”

“There are none who will not find their way here eventually.”

“But there are many who will not bother with you or your camp. The executioner’s blade is far from the only one in your capital.”

Lin Shu feels ice run down his spine. Lin Chen meets his eyes with the same languorous gaze, and his posture retains the same sprawled grace, but something is somehow different. When he does not reply, the god of death quirks an eyebrow.

“You know something,” says Lin Shu

The second eyebrow joins the first in a brief look of extreme impatience. Lin Shu stares back, and refuses to blush. The glare transforms into a smirk. “I know everything my guests know, and have since the beginning of mortal time. I do, indeed, know something. It would not be too bold to say I know many things.” Cold fingers leave his wrist, and Lin Chen tucks his hands deep into his sleeves, settling against the tree and closing his eyes.

Lin Shu bites down on his own impatience. “The ministers have been honest with me, and my own men would not hide anything from me. Xie Yu’s men knew nothing but what they were told. Who else must I speak with?”

The god of death sighs. “Not long ago, a man entered my realm. A school teacher from Xian. This is not in itself uncommon, of course, but it is a rare school teacher who finds himself in my lands on the edge of an assassin’s blade.” Lin Chen opens his eyes, and turns his head to Lin Shu. “He crossed the river, but I am sure he would be happy to tell you his tale, should you like to bring your army across to meet him.”

His eyes dance, and Lin Shu finds himself once again biting his tongue. “You said yourself that your guests’ knowledge is your own. You could tell me his story now.”

“Mmm I could. But what does it benefit me to assist rude interlopers in my own private gardens? What could you offer me, save the fruit of my own trees?”

His words are ash on his tongue. Lin Shu swallows against them, searching for his voice. His eyes fall to the roots between them, to the white robes spilling carelessly across the ground. He is rising to his knees when Lin Chen speaks again.

“His name is Li Chongxin. Some months ago he received a number of letters from one Xia Jiang. These letters belonged to Xia Dong, and were written by her husband, Nie Feng. Li Chonxin was an exceptional calligrapher, and from these letters, he was able to create a forgery of Nie Feng’s handwriting, so flawless as to be indistinguishable even to the man’s own wife. He forged one letter, in which he said that Commander Lin Xie of the Chiyan army intended to rebel, and that he had been sent on a suicide mission for his discovery of those intentions.

"Your ministers have spoken of a denouncement letter, which was brought back by Xie Yu with Nie Feng’s remains. Neither the letter nor the remains are genuine. Shortly after Xie Yu’s return to the capital, an assassin came to Li Chonxin’s home and slit his throat.”

He is dimly aware that he is shaking, fingers digging deep into the soft earth beneath his knees. The sounds of battle and death ring loud in his ears, and he is burning, burning again. “Xia Jiang,” he gasps, and suddenly he cannot bear to be still. He stumbles to his feet, catching the tree for support as his feet find their way among the roots. Jingyan used to make fun of him for pacing like this. “This was Xia Jiang’s plan all along, with Xie Yu to help him. He did this.”

“It would appear so.” Lin Chen shifts to rest one wrist against his knee. His eyes follow Lin Shu.

“He turned the Emperor against us.”

“He did.”

“ Why”

“This is human nature, is it not? To scrabble for power and devour the more vulnerable?”

He turns so quickly that he stumbles against a tree root. Lin Chen does not move, even as Lin Shu sways over him, and surveys him with dispassionate eyes. “Humanity is more than this. There is nobility also, and mercy, and loyalty. It’s just the court these last few years. When Prince Qi is emperor, he and Jingyan will—”

His own words choke him. He closes his eyes against the slow rise of Lin Chen’s eyebrows. The picture turns in his mind, events shifting and connecting. A net forms and he sees it draw tight. He can feel fire licking at his bones. “Prince Qi would have disbanded the Xuanjing bureau. We were only ever collateral damage.”

Lin Chen nods once. “It is neatly done. Prince Qi is crown prince no longer, and his supporters join your camp in greater numbers each day. He is alone and imprisoned, and Xia Jiang claims credit for thwarting a rebellion before it could touch the palace grounds.”

“He has Jingyan still. Jingyan will never turn against him. Perhaps, in time—”

“He will be months still in Donghai, will he not? By the time he returns this matter will most likely be settled. That loyalty that you love so much will be useless, and even one far stupider than he would know to keep his mouth shut.”

“Jingyan will not betray Prince Qi.”

“That will not matter, when Prince Qi will be long dead by that point.”

“You can’t know that!” He does fall now, and his fingers close in the collar of those white robes.

The god of death does not flinch at his weight. His robes are as cool under Lin Shu’s fingers as his hand had been on his wrist. His eyes are fathomless dark, and not quite gentle. “Can’t I? Everything that you know is known to me also.”

“There is still hope. While he lives there is hope.”

“What need is there for hope in this place? A trap was laid for you, for him, and it has claimed you both. Does it matter that you can see its threads now? What will you do now that you know?”

The garden is silent and breathlessly still. Those dark eyes are steady, endless. He shuts his own eyes, but there is nothing to shut his ears, nor his mind to the words that echo there. He tears himself away, stumbles to standing. “I will take my leave first. I must speak of this to my father. We will need to—There is—” He does not manage to bow as he runs from the garden. The stone hallways twist before him, endless and indistinguishable. His boots make no sound on the polished floors. His legs churn tirelessly beneath him against the maelstrom of his thoughts.

He stumbles, finally, into the army camp. His parents are sitting with Consort Chen, as they often are now. His mother is the first to see him, and when he cannot meet her gaze she rises to take his arm. There is no warmth in her palm through his sleeve, but the pressure is a comfort that he cannot bear. He collapses against her, and feels his father and aunt draw close.

They draw the story from him slowly through his sobs. It is difficult to speak, but there is little enough to tell. He can see the moment comprehension takes them. It comes first to Consort Chen, who knew her son’s plans best of all of them, and who has marked as the Emperor’s affection withered these many years in the face of his suspicion. His mother and father follow close in their understanding. They clutch at each other, all four of them. His mother’s hands are hard in his robe, and tears roll unchecked down his father’s face.

“Father, what will we do now?” Lin Shu hates the sound of his own voice, so timid and young. This is not the voice that will command armies, and this moment demands no less than his most capable. He reaches for something stronger, but his father is silent. When Lin Shu raises eyes to him, his father shakes his head. There is nothing in his face but despair.

#nirvana in fire #lin shu #lin chen #lin xie #langya bang #aceswrites #new chapter sunday! #oh god this chapter #it fully took two months to write #and every word was like pulling teeth #but now its here! #Enjoy!

[soberqueerinthewild]

So I’ve wanted to write about Maria for a long time and I finally put some of my thoughts into words related to Maria’s character development in season 1, what I think her day to day life is like, and how I think some of the trauma she’s experienced influenced her decisions in the finale. I am very aware that not everyone is going to agree with my analysis, but I’m gonna post it anyways! So here goes...

*****

When I say my RNM OTP is every character x a good therapist it’s only sort of a joke. All of the characters on this show have been through significant traumas, and I want to explore Maria’s trauma a little bit. Hers is, I think, the easiest to overlook, because it’s quieter in some ways, both due to the nature of what she’s been through and because Maria, by her own admission is more comfortable playing the role of “the fun friend” rather than drawing attention to her hardships. [Please note: I am not interested in playing the Trauma Olympics here. This is a discussion of Maria’s experiences, not an effort  to rate her trauma as greater or less than anyone else’s]. 

The most obvious source of trauma for Maria is of course her mother’s illness. I also think Maria was greatly affected, like most other characters on this show, by Rosa’s death, combined with having Liz and Alex leave Roswell shortly thereafter. On top of that there’s the trauma of the relentless racism she experiences running a bar in a town that she says “rejected everything about her.” 

We get a glimpse of the racism Maria encounters, in Maria’s initial introduction, in which Racist Hank lives up to his name as Maria wraps up his psychic reading. We get the sense that hearing this casual racism is a normal occurrence for her. The conspiratorial way he talks to her, as though they would be in agreement about this point, surely disgusts her, but there’s not much she can do. Putting up with this racist crap is the cost of doing business in Roswell. 

As we later learn, Maria quite literally cannot afford to call this out or offend these racist assholes, because she has to save every penny from the bar and each psychic reading to keep the bar and pay for doctors for her mother. If she kicked every racist in this town out of her bar, she’d have to shut down within the week [In fact in nearly every scene in the bar, we see Wyatt Long or Racist Hank, so this is a constant]. The most she can do is to make reference to it in a somewhat lighthearted way (You’re not distracting me from my money with your thinly veiled racism). But being rational about it, doesn’t mean that this crap doesn’t wear down her soul a little bit more every day. I’d bet it feels pretty dehumanizing for her as she certainly must hear racist shit directed at her on the regular as well, and likely doesn’t have a support system of black friends to confide in or bitch to, given that she expresses that Roswell often has made her feel isolated as a black person (I literally thought we were the only black people in the world).

In fact, we see over the course of the season that Maria’s support system in general seems to be pretty limited. She doesn’t mention any family outside of her mom, or any friends other than Liz and Alex, both of whom have been gone for 10 years. It’s possible of course that Maria has a vibrant social life happening off screen, but given how she describes her work and home life, it seems unlikely she’d have time for one. Liz references her working long hours at the bar and “doing the psychic thing”, which probably doesn’t leave her a lot of time for a social life. She’s likely working most evenings and weekends, and caring for her mom the rest of the time. If she did once have lots of friendships, they’ve likely faded as she probably has to say no to most social engagements because she’s working. We also don’t know much about her love life, other than she engages in some amount of casual sex (she suggests to Liz that ‘random sex, different guy’ may be a good solution for her) and we know that she dated some dude named Chad and it ended badly. It’s possible casual sex is all she really has time for, given all of her other responsibilities. Given her lack of support system. I’d imagine Maria has been pretty lonely, particularly before Liz and Alex came back to town. 

I also think it’s possible that Maria closed herself off a bit to friendship after Rosa’s death. That must have been an extremely traumatic experience for her. We know Maria was possibly even closer friends with Rosa than she was with Liz. Though she refers to Liz as her “high school BFF”, it’s clear Rosa and Maria had their own bond, separate from Liz (I was hoping you would help me learn some of her secrets. Things she wouldn’t tell me. Things she’d only tell you). She speaks of Rosa with a sense of hero worship (and you can see that on her face in their one flashback scene) and it’s clear that she hasn’t let go of Rosa over the past 10 years. We know she still visits Rosa’s memorial (I saw what you left at Rosa’s memorial) and has left her little hiding place in the Wild Pony untouched (I just didn’t want to invade her privacy). She still considers Rosa her family and mourns her all these years later. 17 is such a formative age, and losing someone close to her at that age likely affected her greatly (I head canon that Maria had a crush on Rosa, but whether she did or not, her grief is just as valid ). 

And then on top of one of her best friends dying tragically, Maria loses two more of her closest friends within a few months. Liz peaces out, likely within days, and it’s implied she doesn’t keep in touch with Maria at all. Though Maria was likely somewhat prepared for Liz leaving on her road trip and then for college, she for sure wasn’t prepared for radio silence. And though we don’t know exactly what Alex’s plans were before he joined the Air Force, I’m guessing him leaving for boot camp was a shock for Maria too. So at 17-18, she loses Rosa, Liz, and Alex in quick succession, while she’s left behind in Roswell. 

We don’t know what Maria’s hopes and dreams were in high school, but we do know that staying in Roswell likely wasn’t her freely made choice. The timeline of Mimi’s illness is unclear, so we don’t know when Mimi needed Maria to run things completely and look after her, but I think it’s likely that even before her mother’s illness, it was determined that Maria needed to stay in Roswell to help with the family business. She didn’t have the option to leave. It must have been hard being in Roswell without her three best friends, and then on top of that, sometime in those ten years, her mother got sick and then EVERYTHING was on Maria’s shoulders with little support. 

This brings us to Mimi’s illness, which is obviously traumatic for Maria. It’s baffling and exhausting and depressing and constant. She’s struggling to figure out what is going on, while being stymied by financial difficulties (we’re doing just about anything for a buck) and a racist medical system (I can’t tell you how many rich, white doctors have not so subtly implied she’s faking). She refuses to give up hope, and she’s grasping at any straw she can to help (like going to the faith healer) but there’s nothing she can do because her mom’s illness doesn’t make any sense (and is likely alien related). And through it all she doesn’t even feel like she’s entitled to anger, because she’s trying to be the kind of person her mom would want her to be. Her mom is slipping away from her day by day, and it feels like she’s losing parts of herself too. She thinks everything she likes about herself comes from her mom, and is terrified about what life will look like if her mother no longer has even bouts of lucidity. It’s enough to make anyone want to scream and break things, or curl up and sob and never get out of bed, but Maria doesn’t have that luxury. She has to get up every day to keep the bar running, to make sure her mom doesn’t wander away again, and to search for any possible answer to her mother’s afflictions, and god it just sounds so difficult and demoralizing. 

And yet, even with everything going on and all the plates Maria has to keep spinning she is still a kind and supportive friend. She gives Liz grief for like two seconds for being gone and out of touch for ten years, before welcoming her back with open arms (literally). Throughout the season, she acts as an ear to listen when Liz needs her. She teases Alex, and gives him free drinks when he stops by the bar. She goes out of her way to make grumpy Max Evans smile, even when she’s having a terrible day herself. I wrote once in a fic that “Maria DeLuca is sunshine” and she really is. She shines so brightly and makes the lives of people around her better. 

But like I wrote once about Kyle, the other caretaker on this show, I do think despite the fact that she manages it sometimes, it is hard for Maria to ask for help. This is not to say that Liz and Alex don’t support her, because they absolutely do. It’s clear that Alex is aware of Mimi’s health issues prior to 1x07 and does what he can to help. Once Alex spurs Liz into motion, she tries to be there for Maria in the ways she knows how (wanting to call a friend about a clinical trial) and then when that’s not what Maria wants, she visits the faith healer with her. But I think Maria doesn’t want to feel like a burden, and maybe she doesn’t even know what she needs, so she shoulders most of it herself. With her psychic intuition, she likely knows that Liz and Alex are going through difficulties as well, and doesn’t feel like adding to that, especially when she doesn’t think there’s anything that can be done to make it better and it all feels helpless. 

All of this is SO MUCH for a 28 year old to manage, and Maria must be run absolutely ragged. Given all that, I really do understand why she turned to Michael in the season finale. 

Because as @chasingshhadows wrote in this meta, there has been a steady progression to the relationship between Michael and Maria throughout season one. Michael has been likely been a consistent presence in her life for 10 years, and she’s definitely thought about sleeping with him even before the events of the show. (She thinks he’s riffraff sure, but sex in a truck, smells like a river, never introduce him to your mama, slips right off her tongue. She’s thought about it, probably mostly at the end of the night when she’s a little tipsy. Probably the only reason it hasn’t happened yet is that Michael usually ends up in a fight and arrested before the end of the night.) 

Then, in 1x07 and 1x11 he shows up for her. And he does so in a way that really works for her. Michael is just there. In 1x07 he lets her sit in her grief, he doesn’t try to fix it, doesn’t try to make her explain, he just comforts her. And then in 1x09 they hook up, and as antagonistic as she is after, it’s clear she likely expected they would again. It’s clear from the way she says “It can never happen again” in 1x10 and how her face falls afterwards. But once she knows Alex and Michael kissed in high school and that Alex is feeling hopeful (which is the extent of what she knows. Which, I mean that Alex is feeling hopeful after the conversation in 1x09 just reminds me of how accurate this gifset is), she doesn’t feel like she can give in to her feelings for Michael, even though she clearly wants to. 

But then 1x11 happens, and at another time when she’s vulnerable, Michael is there for her. After seeming genuinely hurt by her rejection, showing that he’s interested in more than a hookup, he’s kind and caring. He shows that even though she has rejected him twice, he’s still going to be there for her as a friend. This softens her resolve. Which brings us to 1x13, where after another long night working at the bar until close (on a night where maybe she had to deal with a dead guy in her parking lot? Racist Hank was killed by Noah in the Wild Pony parking lot, right? Or did I make that up?), Michael walks into her bar, looking fucking exhausted, just like she probably feels most days, but a little hopeful too. I understand why, she can’t bear to turn him away. Not when they’ve connected in a way she seemingly hasn’t with anyone else in a while, not when she’s likely been feeling pretty lonely and overwhelmed, and not when she has accepted she has feelings for him. I see why, given all the responsibilities she has to shoulder, she’d reach for something that feels good and will maybe let her put her worries out of her head for just a little while. She knows reality will come barging back in soon enough (that’s why she tells him they need to talk) and she’ll have to deal with the fallout, but in that moment, I get why she would choose to ignore the complications for just a bit, and let herself have what she wants. 

I’ve read (and written) meta about how the things Michael and Alex’s have been through help explain the actions they take that sometimes hurt each other and that ultimately lead to the “love triangle”, and I think Maria’s circumstances influence her decisions too. And just like I’ve written with regards to Michael and Alex, while I believe past trauma can help explain and help others understand behaviors and choices made, the fact that a behavior or a choice is influenced by trauma doesn’t require those hurt by those behaviors or choices to excuse or forgive them. There is no question that Maria’s decision in the finale will hurt Alex, and just because her circumstances and everything she’s been through help explain why she made these choices, that doesn’t mean Alex needs to forgive her. [Just like even though Alex’s past trauma helps explain why Alex pushed Michael away, it doesn’t mean Michael is required to forgive him when he’s been hurt by this, or that Alex is required to forgive Michael for decisions that were influenced by his past trauma that have hurt Alex. I hope everyone does ultimately, but it is not a requirement just because the actions were influenced by trauma] In my opinion, there are no villains here. Just imperfect people, who have all been through a lot, who sometimes, in their efforts to cope, end up hurting each other. 

So all this to say, I have a lot of empathy for Maria and where her story ended in season 1. She, like so many characters on the show has been through the ringer, and has a lot to work through. I hope the girl can catch a break in season two, though I think it’s unlikely. I’m excited to watch her character grow if March would ever get here. 

#roswell new mexico meta #discussions of miluca #probably some unpopular opinions #analysis of maria deluca #soberqueerinthewild

[yoongisbars]

quest of omission | myg (2)

summary: The war between kingdoms was starting and being Freywind’s highest ranking Captain, you would always be there to defend your people from the treachery of Woodwind. There’s just one problem: their best killer, The Silence, and his insufferable ability to make your heart race with both loathing and yearning. And now, on the verge of death after an ambush gone wrong, you both have no choice but to keep each other alive. 

pairing: myg x reader genre: enemies to lovers au | knight!yoongi au | future angst? fluff? | drabble series word count: 2.1k parts: 2/_ | 1 cw: prolly shitty yet cruel depictions of death and aggressive encounters(no smut tho chill) note: so we gonna get a bit more of The Silence in this one, but also some non bts chars bc of depth: my walnut brain needed it for its original purpose and im not changing it       

      A sharp burning pain crept up from within your lungs. The need to cough, gag and vomit was what brought you back. You spewed nothing but the murky water that was surrounding you. After gathering your senses, you try to stand up, trying to recollect how did you even get here, but the memory of the reservoir bursting quickly made its way to your mind. You were soaked head to toe, and covered in mud here and there, and surely you almost drowned, but whatever entity decided you were worthy of living certainly gave you a fighting chance. All in all, you were alive and in one piece. You couldn’t say the same for the few bodies you stumbled across as you wandered the forest. It was dark and endless, congested by spruce, willow, and sequoia trees. Roots curled the surface, accompanied by shallow waters and mud holes. You were thankful of the full moon illuminating the nearly impossible ground you walked. Whenever you came across a body, you prayed it wasn’t Taehyung, Mare, or anyone of closeness. But these were the consequences of battle. You found the bodies of Woodwind men, as well as your own. Looting what was necessary in order to make do. It was a crude sentiment, but they didn’t need whatever they carried anymore. They were long dead. You happened to find a decent knife, like your personal one, which you had managed to keep safely tucked against your thigh.

         You wandered and wandered and wandered and all you ever came across was the occasional body or a small woodland animal of any sort. No matter which direction you headed, it always seemed like you were going deeper into the woods. You hoped to find a riverbank so that maybe you could try to find your way back to the ambush location and from there head back to Freywind, but not even that.           Time passed but for you it stilled. All you could do was walk aimlessly around the woods in cold weather while soaking wet, trying to at least find shelter of any sort, until your eyes set on a pair of bodies you were all too familiar with… Your beloved underlings. They were at your side moments before the flooding, but now their bodies laid sprawled over roots and mud. From where you stood you could see Atlas’ open eyes, gaze facing nowhere but beyond… His mouth slightly agape, his lasts breaths must have been painful. Eyes that would look to you for guidance and a mouth that would cheer you on, are far gone from this plane of existence. You didn’t know if what was dripping down your face were tears, or remnants of the water you escaped, practically unscathed. Your steps were careful and slow as you got closer. Next to him, was Aeron… His ragged breathing barely a whisper, eyes shut, and face pained. You kneeled beside him, and his name was a whisper escaping your lips. “Aeron?” Your eyes couldn’t help but give him a once over, and it wasn’t until you were in such proximity that you noticed what had him in agony. He winced as he opened his eyes, slightly turning his head over to face you. All color was drained from him, his lips were already turning to an ungodly shade of blue that you had never imagined to be faced with. Even if you knew war eventually led to death, you didn’t imagine death ever touching them, or the gruesome way that it did. “Captain… You’re okay…” His voice cracked and faded, came and went. Whatever strength he still had; he was using it all to speak. “I’m so glad.” Tears started to stream from his eyes as he forced a gentle smile, and you couldn’t help but mimic him. You denied looking down once more, to what came out of his torso, but the source of his slow suffering was impossible to neglect. A large, sharp, twisted root was stained in scarlet as blood continued to pool beneath him.

“Aeron, I’m so sorry. Atlas…” His cold body laid across you, his hand tightly grasped by Aeron’s. It would have been a mercy had they died at once, but one had to suffer while the other was a corpse next to him.

“He passed not long ago. The water… It threw him against those rocks, and I got… stuck here.” Aeron struggled to speak, not raising his gaze from his comrade. “Still, he tried to crawl his way here. He died moments after reaching me.” Their bond was one of the purest, unmatched by any, until the end. “Captain, would you do me the favor of closing his eyes?” Your nod was small, but genuine. A trembling hand neared Atlas’ cold face, placing it over his lids. You let it rest there for a moment as you let out a tiny sob.

“Thank you, thank you…” The grip of Aeron’s hand on Atlas’ tightened. As if giving him a final goodbye.“Have you found any live ones?” You didn’t notice when Aeron was facing you again.

“No. Not yet.” You wiped away at the residue coming out of your nostrils. “Has anyone been nearby?” The young boy softly shook his head. His free hand slowly went to reach your face, thumb wiping away at the tears that were still streaming.

“Captain, it’s okay. These situations are inevitable in war, you taught us so.” You shook your head as you gently squeezed his hand. Not like this, never like this. “It has been my greatest honor to train under you and fight alongside you. I’m sure Atlas would say the same.” His words were slow and ragged, but genuine. In his eyes, embers were fading, but one spark remained.

“Take my necklace. Make sure when you get out of here and return home, please give it to Sian, give her my regards, tell her what I never could… Tell her I love her dearly...” Regret and numbness welled in his eyes, the pain of not returning to the love of his life was greater than that of being impaled. Your hands made their way towards his neck, slowly removing his necklace, avoiding him any more pain. You placed it around yours and safely tucked it under your mucky clothes.

“I will. I’ll let her know you thought of her until the end.” You went for his hand and gave him a squeeze of reassurance, not letting go.“Thank you.”

         You stayed by Aeron’s side in silence, refusing to let go of his hand, focused on his ragged breathing and the cold night surrounding you. You couldn’t bare seeing him like this, but neither putting him out of his misery. Not like he wanted you to anyways, all he wanted was for you to be by his side until nature took its course, just like he was for Atlas. You felt the grip he had on your hand slowly loosen up, as his head slowly rolled to the side and against your shoulder until you heard it. It was faint, but you heard it. You would continue to hear it for the rest of your existence. The final sign of life escaped him when his breath did, and he was gone. It took time to get there, but he was gone in an instant.

          Sobs escaped from your inner core. Your underlings were dead beside you, their bodies would not be put to rest in a proper burial where their loved ones can have their final goodbyes. They would be left in a forest in God knows where, together at the very least. Alone, but together.

          With shivery legs, you got up and gently repositioned Atlas’ body in a more comfortable manner, placing both his hands over his chest. A grim expression grew on your face as, through tears, you tried removing Aeron’s body from the root. More sobs got stuck on your throat as more blood poured from his chest, no wonder his light armor couldn’t withstand such mighty root. Once his body mimicked Atlas’, you scouted the nearby area for flowers. Carefully plucking some delicate blue ones; you placed them in their hands. You sat in front of their bodies silently, accepting that they were gone, and you were alone. Alone, but together. It was a small comfort, they were only lifeless bodies with you, but at least they were with you, and you gave them both a small, decent send off to the beyond. Your goodbyes you kept to yourself. Your regrets as well.

           As you mourned your losses, the sound of a snapping twig broke you away from your sorrows. Wiping your tears away with one arm and drawing your small blade with the other as you stood, you surveyed your surroundings with caution. Breathing was close to nonexistent as you tried to be as silent as you could, if only to listen more carefully. Wary footsteps got closer in sound, but you couldn’t see anything or anyone yet. Not until they peered themselves into view from behind some trees, less guarded than you were.

“You…” When your eyes deciphered who it was, the anger inside you soon started to boil again. It was his fault, it was his unit, it was he who led the ambush.

“You.” He slowly retired the blade he was ready to draw back to its sheath once he realized it was only you. Still wet, shivering, covered in mud, blood, and tears. His eyes travelled to the bodies behind you, peacefully laid out, and then travelled back to you. He had never seen someone that looked so distraught completely shift into rage and fury.

“Don’t look at them, lowlife scum.” Low, harsh tones met his ears. “It’s your fucking fault I lost them. I’m going to kill you.” The last sentence was drawn out so slowly, he was almost taken aback when you lunged for his throat with your blade, ready to return the scar he left you with and take his life while you were at it. But he was quicker. Before you could land a single hit, his hands clasped around your wrists with more force than necessary. In a second, he forced your body around, kicking you behind your knees. You dropped to the ground in pain. 

“You really think I’ll quit?” Attempting, but failing, to stab him while throwing your arms back at him, he twisted your wrists above you until nearly snapping them, with an aching yelp, the blade fell out of your hands. He quickly let you go and pushed you forwards. You winced and seethed as you brought your semi injured wrists up to your chest. Using the lesser pained hand, your reached for the blade, but were quickly halted by the weight of his boot, causing another agonized bawl to escape your lips. 

“I suggest not.” He lifted his foot off your hand and kicked away the knife beneath it. Wincing and scowling, you crawled your way to the sanctuary of your dead comrades. It wasn’t fair. You were supposed to get revenge, if not for yourself, for them. What kind of a sorry Captain were you? Couldn’t protect your unit from an ambush, couldn’t secure them from the currents, and couldn’t even avenge them at the very least by hurting the one man who caused all this. Instead, he stood above you and you were rendered to nothing in mere seconds. His bored gaze loomed over you like a curse, and you understood why they called him Silence. He drew out a long breath as he averted his gaze elsewhere, wiping mud off his brow. He was just as much of dirty mess as you were. Puddles sloshed as he marched away.

“I’m finding a way out. You’re more than welcome to come along, if you keep your hands and blades to yourself.” A barked laugh escaped your throat.

“Why would I search for a way out with the likes of you?” You were already on your feet, pain from your knees and wrists subsiding. His sudden turn caught you off guard, but you refused to show it.

“Then meet a fate no better than your companions’.” He jutted his chin over to where Aeron and Atlas’ bodies laid. The calm, cool tone for such a vile string of words made you uneasy. Being this near him, under the moonlight, without the rush of battle or alcohol in your veins, you were able to see him better. He was not that much taller than you, and yet? He always made you feel so small, so vulnerable and rendered you utterly and completely defenseless…

“I’d rather take my chances with the woodland night.” You took a few steps backwards and plopped down on the muddy ground.

His fingers brushed the muddy, brown locks out of his face. Shrugging, he went on his way. “Alright, alone then.”

***************

my makeshift taglist:

@loveyoongles

@stoeq

​

i had to repost sorry

#yoongi fanfic #yoongi imagines #yoongi scenarios #yoongi x reader #yoongi x you #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts x you

[lilith-lovett]

Found Families - Home is Where the Hart is - Chapter Eleven

Here you go a new chapter. I am no entirely happy with this one but it is okay and I am really excited for the chapters to follow. So prepare yourself for a truck load of angst in the next few chapters but this story arc is almost over and then I can move onto much more fluffy scenes I can’t wait to write. Also we have a Virgil POV (Roman’s will be coming soon) and an insight into Virgil and Dee’s past here, I hope to hear your thoughts about them. Once again thank you for all of your kind comments and I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Masterlist

Summary: Virgil is faced with a difficult situation.

Word Count: 3021

Warnings: Child abuse, insomnia mention, nightmare mention, implied child abuse, description of injuries (bruises), scars mention, fire mention, implied past child abuse, implied murder, OCD behaviours, panic attack mention, self-deprecation, anxiety, description of panic attack, implied depression, sympathetic deceit. (If their is anything I have missed please let me know).

Virgil couldn’t sleep. That in itself wasn’t unusual, often being plagued by both bouts of insomnia and nightmares. But tonight, he couldn’t sleep for an entirely different reason. Logan. Despite only meeting him a few hours ago, he felt strangely protective over him, disregarding the two years age difference. But those bruises were no accident and upon eavesdropping on a conversation between two matrons, his fears were confirmed. Someone was hurting Logan and now Virgil was burdened with that information.

Once Virgil, Roman and Dee left Dad and Logan to talk, returning to the foyer. Virgil caught a glimpse of the owner of the orphanage - the matron Patton had pointed out to them - and the lady from the front desk, sharing whispers between each other under hushed breaths. Virgil couldn’t help but be curious. He passed Dee over to Roman who quirked a brow in confusion, Virgil shushed him quickly and gradually made his way over to where the two women were, while remaining hidden from view. Now Virgil was in earshot of their conversation and could make out most of what they were saying.

“Do you really think Logan will be adopted?” The first said, Virgil recognised her as the desk lady.

“No, Mr Hart will soon see sense but I shall not let our Logan’s behaviour go unpunished,” The larger women responded. Virgil couldn’t believe what he was hearing, all of Logan’s bruises, she was the one hurting Logan.

Virgil slapped a hand across his mouth to prevent him form calling out, his laboured breaths slipping through his fingers as he rushed back to where Roman was. Mentally running through the breathing exercise Uncle Emile had taught him so not to alarm Dee or Roman. So he sat, silently wishing he hadn’t given Logan his fidget cube but instead he began to scroll through his phone, hoping for a distraction from the spiralling thoughts. But the sight of the bruises on Logan’s arms was at the forefront of his mind.

Now Virgil lay on his bed, staring up into the seemingly never-ending blackness, his mind filled with ‘What ifs?’, debating whether or not he should tell Patton about Logan or not. He brought his own wrists towards his face, his own bruises had long ago faded and only the faint white scars and memories remained. He had taken off his gloves, in his room he had no one to hide them from, the hideous scars hidden underneath. They weren’t as severe as Dee’s, only reaching the joint connecting his hand to his wrist, no longer causing him any physical pain but he still kept them covered when out in public, to avoid the stares his brother would be forced to endure for the rest of his life.

Virgil still saw the flames. Heard the screams of his mother - it was the most emotion he had ever seen her show - and felt the fear of losing his beloved brother on a daily basis. That night haunted his every waking moment, causing him to obsessively checks the locks on every window and door in the house before he could even think about resting, flickering candle light brought on violent panic attacks and the thought of being separated from Dee. He couldn’t bare to even think what he would do.

Virgil listened to every sound Dee made in his sleep - his crib barely a metre from his own bed - every breath, every sniffle, every cough. Just to know he was still there. That Virgil was still here. It was too quiet, everything was too quiet. He had nothing to block out his thoughts, compelling him to take notice of them. The sight of Logan’s bruises, the well-concealed wince and perfect mask which would convince the most sceptical but unfortunately for Virgil he knew the signs. He knew the signs to well. As he had been in the same position, only wearing long-sleeves, never allowing anyone close enough to see his pain. Patton had told him that Logan reminded him of Virgil but know he knew that wasn’t a good thing. It meant he had a past. It meant he had been hurt and he was far from healing.

Virgil recalled an assembly from earlier this month, in which they discussed the signs of abuse and urged all of them to tell a responsible adult if they believed someone was being abused at home. He hadn’t remained in the assembly for long as he ran from the hall, had a panic attack in the hallway and was sent home. But now a question repeated itself in his head again and again and again

‘Should he tell Patton?’

Virgil knew he should but what if Patton thought he was lying? What if he misheard the conversation? What if Logan had gotten the bruises from a fall or accident? Would Patton get mad at him and send him away? No. Virgil quickly banished that thought. Patton assured him enough times a day he would never send him away. But how would he react? And on the other side. If Patton did believe him and went to the Orphanage, would it only worsen Logan’s abuse? He had experience that more times than he could recall. Every phone call from school about his work, his attitude or if heaven forbid they saw one of his bruises. It was a sure sign more would be added to the collection.

Virgil didn’t know what to do. He wished he could talk to Patton about this. Patton always knew what to do. Sweet, brave, selfless Patton. Constantly giving, never thinking selfishly, a light which could expel any darkness. He always knew what to say when the bad thoughts took over. He always knew what to say to make Virgil feel safe, to feel loved. He glanced towards his alarm clock. 22:27. Patton would still be awake, preparing their lunches for the following school day, then he would check on them for a final time before going to bed himself.

Virgil sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. He was going to do this. He was really going to do this. He was going to tell Patton. And he was going to do it for Logan.

 Virgil swiftly lost his resolve. The further he ventured down the stairs, the greater his anxiety grew. Filling his chest and throat, the pressure building and slowly crushing his lungs. He could hear Patton in the kitchen, softly singing to himself, a song Virgil didn’t recognise but he found it comforting so he used the soft sounds and pretty lyrics to ground himself before steadily approaching the kitchen. Patton stood by the counter, preparing both Virgil and Roman’s lunches, incorporating their favourite foods into their personalised bags. Finishing them with a presumably sappy handwritten note. He continued to sing and sway along to his own music, unaware of Virgil’s presence.

“Hey dad,” Virgil said after a moment of hesitation.

“Oh Virgil, you frightened me” Patton exclaimed jolting at Virgil’s sudden appearance. “What’s up kiddo, can’t sleep?”.

“No, not really,” Virgil admitted burrowing his hands deeper into the pockets of his well-loved hoodie.

“That’s alright Virgil, if you want we could watch something or listen to that band you really like…Twenty Two Drivers,” Patton suggested setting aside his lunch preparations, giving Virgil his full attention. “Or…we could talk about what ever is bothering you,”.

“Firstly, it’s Twenty One Pilots and secondly how do you know something is bothering me?” Virgil questioned furrowing his brow.

“I’m your dad kiddo, I have a sixth sense for this sort of thing,” Patton replied taping the center of his forehead, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Now, shall we talk?”

“L-let’s talk,” Virgil stuttered his anxiety rebuilding within his chest as his mind screamed at him that this was a bad idea and he should just apologise, tell Patton everything was fine and go back to bed but he forced himself to stay.

“Great, now you go get comfortable on the couch and I’ll whip up some of my super special supreme hot chocolate,” Patton said clapping his hands together in excitement as he danced around the kitchen, collecting the ingredients for their drinks. Patton’s super special supreme hot chocolate - Roman came up the name - was a necessity for all late night chat sessions and he could confirm they certainly lived up to their name.

“Roman’s going to be so jealous,” Virgil smirked settling himself on the couch, bundling himself up on one of the many weighted blanket which lay around the living room. He needed the extra comfort.

“Then it will be our little secret,” Patton chirped arriving with their steaming mugs of chocolate, joining Virgil underneath the blanket, passing him his drink. He blew on it before talking a tentative sip and he was immediately enveloped in warmth as the sweet and rich chocolate flavour exploded in his mouth. “So, what is it that is bothering you?”

This was it. The moment of truth. Where his fate would be decided.

“This is an entirely hypothetical situation but if I hypothetically knew someone was getting hurt, should I tell an adult even if their was a chance they could get hurt even worse. Hypothetically?” Virgil said his gaze fixated on his mug, refusing to meet Patton’s eyes.

“Virgil, look at me please,” Patton asked calmly, Virgil heard a soft clink as Patton set down is mug on the coffee table and he cautiously glanced upwards to see Patton expression had completely shifted. His former cheerful expression melting away to reveal a much more serious one underneath. Oh no, this was a bad idea. Now Patton was mad at him. And…and everything was going to fall apart…And Logan was going to get hurt…And it would be all his fault…And…

“Virgil, I need you to breathe for me. You remember the technique. In for four, hold for seven, out of eight. Come on Virgil, can you do that for me?” Patton urged, coaching him through the breathing technique. Patton placed one hand in the centre of Virgil’s chest and brought Virgil’s own hand to rest on his chest, encouraging him to match Patton’s breathing and eventually it evened out, allowing him to breathe easier. “Are you feeling better?”.

“Yeah,” Virgil murmured slumping back deeper into the couch, drawing his blanket to his chin. He suddenly felt really tried.

“Now Virgil, it is really important to tell an adult if you think someone may be being abused,” Patton explained. “Can you tell me who it is? Is it someone from your class?”.

“No, they’re not. It-it’s…,” Virgil hesitated. He was really going to do this. He was going to tell him. “It’s Logan,”.

Patton jolted violently, nearly leaping out of his seat, startling Virgil who forced himself to look up from his hands at Patton. His eyes were blown wide in a shock and his mouth was hanging open, his hands shook in his lap, mouth opening and closer as if he was struggling to find the right words.

“V-Virgil are you absolutely certain?” Patton asked a slight tremble present in his voice.

“Yeah, I saw the b-bruises on his arms and I heard the matrons talking about…about punishing him,” Virgil explained curling further into his hoodie. He was terrified but he needed to help Logan.

“Okay, okay. Thank you Virgil, I am going to get Logan out of there,” Patton assured pulling Virgil into his chest and for once he did not protest, instead allowing the contact, burrowing his face into Patton’s soft shirt. Patton’s warmth spreading throughout his body, filling with him a sense of security.

Logan wouldn’t be forced a wear a mask any longer. Patton would save him. Virgil knew he would. Just like he saved Virgil.

Patton didn’t sleep well that night, after what Virgil had told him. His mind was reeling and he had spent the majority of the night mentally flicking through the signs of abuse, matching them to Logan’s recent behaviour and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t realised it sooner. He hadn’t noticed. Any actions he was initially concerned about, he chalked up to his troubling past but fresh bruises. Someone inside the Orphanage was hurting Logan and Patton hadn’t noticed.

Patton spent the morning yawning through his routine, rubbing sleep from his eyes and fighting against the overwhelming temptation to crawl back into bed to sleep the rest of the day away but sadly work came first. Once Roman and Virgil departed for school, he settled himself on the couch, a pile of paperwork sat waiting to be sorted on the coffee table but the Logan situation never once left his mind. Patton wasn’t quite sure when he dozed off, his eyes drifting shut, his head lolling back, his papers discarded in his lap.

“P…Pat….Patton!” Emile shouted as Patton jolted awake, his eyes taking seconds to adjust to the change in light, his paperwork fell out of his lap and scattered across the floor.

“Oh sorry Emile, I must have fallen asleep,” Patton said scramble to retrieve his fallen papers, Emile crouched beside him to help.

“Are you alright Patton, it’s not like you to take a nap in the middle of the day?” Emile asked handing Patton the rest of his paperwork.

“I’m totally fine, just had a lot on my mind last night,” Patton assured returning to his seat on the couch, Emile joined him at his side. He hoped his vague answer to prevent Emile from pressing any further but unfortunately it was Emile, whose profession required him to press for information but secretly Patton wanted someone to talk to about everything going on in his head.

“I’m listening,” Emile said placing a single hand on Patton’s thigh, rubbing soft circles into the muscle.

“Well firstly, the school called yesterday and they want to offer me a full-time position after the summer holidays. So, the next few weeks will be a little chaotic with paperwork and interviews,” Patton explained lowering his head. The job opportunity was incredible. He would finally be able to teach a class, to make an impact in the lives of many more children but all of the preparation for the career change allowed little time to visit Logan. Who needed him more now than ever before.

“Patton,” Emile said presumably having had noticed Patton’s change in demeanour and was coaxing him to continue.

“Well, now I don’t have a lot of time to visit Logan and…and Virgil told me something last night about…a-about Logan,” Patton continued Emile inched closer as Patton’s breath hitched. “He told me that someone inside the Orphanage was hurting Logan, he saw the bruises and I didn’t. How did I not notice?”.

Patton dropped his head into his hands, hot tears streaming down his cheeks, muffling sobs in his palms. Emile immediately wrapped him in a hug, pulling him against his chest, allowing him to cry openly. Releasing the wave of emotions he had kept locked inside until he had cried himself out, slumping against Emile’s chest, pathetically sniffling into his shirt. Until Patton heard a pained whine and was met with the tearful gaze of his youngest who insistently pawed at his trousers, attempting to crawl his way into Patton’s lap. Tears flowing as he struggled.

“Aw baby, what’s wrong?” Patton asked immediately pulling Dee into his lap who in turn threw his chubby little arms around Patton’s neck, the quiet whimpers bringing yet more tears to Patton stinging eyes.

“Daddy sad,” Dee murmured his voice muffled by sobs.

“I think he is worried about you,” Emile said rubbing comforting circles into Patton’s back.

“Baby, daddy is okay. See,” Patton said stretching his lips upwards into a smile which Dee mimicked before curling himself into Patton’s chest once again, eventually nodding off. “Emile?”.

“Yes, Patton,” Emile replied.

“What should I do?” Patton pleaded hiding his tear stained face in Dee’s curls.

“That is up to you Patton, but I know you’ll make the right decision,” Emile said with a warm smile which Patton returned before resting his head on Emile’s shoulder, suddenly exhausted from his rather emotional outburst.

Patton would do everything in his power to take Logan away from that place, to take away his pain, to hold him in his arms at long last and call him his son. No matter how long it took or the difficulties he faced along the way. Logan was his son in every way other than name.

And it was time Patton changed that.

Tag list: @poems-art-darkness-n-more @i-do-not-dislike-fudge @alex-cain @darkrainbow333 @amber1594 @falseh0od @lovingcreatorstrawberry @mason-does-a-thing @callboxkat @tacohippy56900 @anxiousangel121 @comicsimpson @harrypotternerdprincess @cobythinks @whatschooldoesntteachyou @fandomkitty8 @coloursintheblur @read-write-inspire-repeat @clinicalawesomeness

#sander sides #sander sides au #logan sanders #patton sanders #roman sanders #virgil sanders #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #Logic sanders #Morality sanders #creativity sanders #anxiety sanders #thomas sanders #Emile Picani #found families #home is where the hart is #My fic #My writing #Adoption AU

[hadesgoddess]

Dawn is Coming, Open Your Eyes; Chapter 2!

Here is the 2nd chapter in my Aster/Rose fanfic! I’ve given it a new title (I have to go back to the first chapter and change that) and all my love has been poured into this! 

Thank you so much for the positive response with the first chapter! I can’t wait to get started on the 3rd!!!  Next chapter, we will finally get to meet ‘that slippery little hare’ Bunny mentioned in the first chapter.

TW, light angst (with much love and affection after!) Also, I’m shortening the posts for easier readability!

The rafters of North’s workshop seemed like a good place to skulk about. No one was hanging around there; everyone was too preoccupied with the party below to worry about a little spring spirit hiding and watching from above. Glumly, Rose swung her feet back and forth from her perch. Even if it was for a moment and with a queasy guilty stomach, she hated the beginning of Spring.

How was that for irony? The Herald of Spring got sick at the thought of Spring.

Why wouldn’t the gnawing pit of guilt in her stomach go away? It still haunted her every footstep.

She sighed and leaned back, searching for the supporting beam with her hand. Instead she encountered a soft, expanse directly behind. When the surface moved, she snatched her hand away as if she had been burned. Whipping around, she discovered that she was not as entirely alone as she had thought.

Jack Frost grinned at Rose from his seat next to her, no doubt taking amusement from her embarrassment. Her mouth worked open and closed like a fish out of water, trying to figure out what to say or if even to say anything at all. After all, he wasn’t a friend and had met her only once. But neither did he know about her choice to remain silent most of the time.

While she was trying to rub two brain cells together and talk, Jack’s amusement faded to confusion, then hurt, and finally a look of understanding crossed his face.

“You came here with Nightlight, right? Are you brother and sister, or twins, I guess?” it was understandable of him to think so; many did when they first meet her and Nightlight. Opposites but identical in a way. Him, a child of the Moon who rode on clouds and danced through the stars, and her, a daughter of the Sun and Earth who sang all the calls of birds and bloomed like the meadow flowers. And yet, they were not twins or even siblings, except in the soul.

She shook her head slowly, still unsure of how to respond. She wasn’t shy of answering someone, but she had been quiet for so long, it was hard to keep up sometimes with those who found speech a necessary part of their day.

“You two look a lot alike though.” she giggled and shook her head again. Feeling mischievous and wondering how well he would be able to read her hand signs, Rose signed,

You and Nightlight look more alike than he and I do.

At her quick gestures, he frowned in deep concentration. A minute later, his brow lifted and he replied, “Us? No way, he’s all small, white hair and pale skin and I’m all... kinda taller, white hair and pale skin... Huh, I guess you’re right.”

Well this was a pleasant surprise! He understood her signs! Quickly, she signed, You know what I’m saying?

A minute later and several slow, clumsy, but well-meant hand signs later, Jack replied, Yes. Sandy try to teach me so I am fast.

She grinned and said aloud, “I think you mean so you can ‘keep up’.” and gestured the correct sign as she spoke.

“Oh, so you do speak! And here I thought you didn’t have a tongue! Do you only speak to people you know well?” he laughed. She couldn’t help but giggle along and gestured, It depends, with a little so-so wobble of the hand.

“I will speak occasionally and yes usually with people I know well. Nightlight will too, but he would rather stay silent. He learns more from observation than talking.”

“I can understand that.” Oh yes, many spirits could understand that. Jack had nothing but years upon years to sharpen his observational skills. Most of the big holiday spirits had believers and didn’t understand how it felt for people to see right through you. But the smaller sprites, those who did minor, but important jobs for seasons were practically invisible.

“Are you ok?” Jack’s voice broke through her thoughts and she turned, surprised, to see his concerned face. A quick shrug was all she could say.

“I mean... I saw you... talking. With Kangaroo. You looked pretty tense.” Oh no... How long had he been watching them? He didn’t think that she was mad at Aster did he? Did he know the truth? If he did, would he defend on behalf of his new teammate or want to hear the whole story? She figured, even if he wanted to hear her side, there was little evidence to suggest that he would understand.

Again, a quick lift and drop of the shoulders was her only answer.

Instead of pressing her for more, as Rose thought he might given what she knew about his curious nature, he seemed to drop the subject. She let out a silent sigh of relief. Already, she had faced her past once tonight and that was one times too many considering she had just woken up.

“Maybe you two just need to talk it out? That's what we did... sort of... But it worked out ok, we just had to learn how to talk without arguing.” Or maybe his curiosity was greater than she imagined.

“It's not something that needs to be talked about. It only has to do with me and my... old friend. The Guardian of Hope was merely a bystander who made himself involved. That foolish Púka....” the last bit Rose muttered to herself, remembering how he had offered his Burrow as a sanctuary. She frowned slightly as she thought over the old memories.

How dare he....

He didn't know any better!

He knew about Pitch.... and he still sought him out.... after everything....

He’s just a lil’ ankle-biter... He’ll learn....

I taught him plenty.... if he refuses to listen, that's not my fault....

Is that it then? You're just gonna give up on him?

He can't stay here.... not if he refuses to listen.... and brings doom down upon us all....

Rose shivered, chilled by her own harsh words. It was centuries later, but the regret and guilt still held a keen sting. Swallowing the bitter taste at the back of her throat, she also warred with the longing to see him again.

“No... you’ve lost his trust...”  

“Oi! Rose!” The universe seemed to be opposed to Rose having a second to think to herself. The distant shout came from directly below them. Sharing a bemused glance, Jack and Rose peered down from their perch to see... Who else but E. Aster Bunnymund. He didn’t seem mad, but judging by the frown on his muzzle, he was a bit annoyed.

Rose wondered if she should answer. Maybe it would be best to stay up here with gentle Jack who knew hand signals and nothing about her past.

A shock of cold touched her hand; Jack had pried her clenched fist from her lap where she had been twisting the fabric of her dress terribly.

“I think you should talk it out with him. Whatever is going on. He’s not so bad when you talk to him calmly.” Jack advised kindly. She had to smile at him; for a new Guardian, he already had a touch of wisdom. But still, she was hesitant.

Another faint yell from Bunnymund drew her attention and she knew she at least had to go down to meet him. If she didn't, he might cause a scene.

Sighing, Rose climbed to her feet, thanking Jack for the company and promising to talk to him again as soon as she could before stepping off the rafter. Even inside and far north, her hold over the East Wind was strong. It was no trouble to float down to the crowds below.

Up close, Bunnymund was even more agitated than she had anticipated though. His nose twitched with barely controlled emotion, his ears going this way and that, seeking some unknown disturbance.

When she landed neatly next to him, she barely had time to get out a simple ‘Is something wrong?’  before he grabbed her hand, tapped his foot, and fell through North’s richly carpeted floor.

“What are you-!”

The hard packed dirt of the tunnel cut her off and forced the air from her lungs. She groaned, but was up in a flash. The ground did not agree with her backside and she glared at Bunnymund, rather cross that he so rudely dumped her through a hole.

“Ah, sorry. Y’alright?” he reached out a paw to steady her, as though she would faint.

“I am perfectly fine!” she said, a bit stiffly. Would it have killed him to simply ask for her cooperation? She was no child to be led around and told to respect her elders. She was an adult in her own right and mind.

“And what, may I ask, was that all about?” her hands patted the dust out of her skirt as she leveled an icy look at Bunnymund.

“I'm taking you to the Warren. It's time you hash things out with the lil’ ankle bitter,” he stated firmly, planting his feet. She knew he meant business when he made his warrior pose. “And if I had stopped to ask, you woulda said no or run off or both.”

Rose bristled slightly, but he had her there.

“He's happy, is he not? That is all I need to know. He doesn't need me.” she considered it sad, but true. She couldn't be counted as a stable friend. People seemed to get hurt when she got close.

“Of course he's happy, no thanks to you, East. I've made sure he never wants for anything,” Shame burned Rose's cheeks, but she kept quiet. This was the longest the Guardian of Hope had spoken with her and despite herself, she was desperate to hear about her friend. “And he's never wanted anything more than to see you again...”

She couldn't help but close her eyes, willing away the tears that threatened to spill over. She thought she knew what she wanted and what was best for him, but after so long... she wasn't sure. All Rose knew was that it was time for something different; this had to change.

“...Alright...” She whispered to the ground, unable to meet Aster's eyes. “I'll come with you.”

Suddenly, her view was of soft, gray fur, and she grew comfortably warm from the arms now wrapped around her. Aster had responded with a joyous hug instead of words. Rose was helpless to stop herself from melting into the embrace.

Little did they know they were being watched by a pair of dangerous, glowing eyes. They observed the pair for a moment longer until they faded, a malicious laugh tailing them into the wind.

#ship: new life new beginnings #s/i #f/o #rotg #rotg fanfic #s/i fanfic #f/o fanfic #e aster bunnymund #bunnymund #my writing #tw: angst #tw: light angst

[raquelmurillolapiz]

Details of a Kabby scene | Part I

5x04 - “Pandora’s Box”

Ok so, it’s been a while since I took the time to analyze a Kabby moment, detail after detail, moment after moment. So let’s start with this emotional, heartbraking, devastating moment, when Marcus comes back from the arena alive, and Abby takes her time (briefly... thank you Indra as always) to appreciate the love of her life, alive and well in her arms... once again.

Let’s begin... shall we?

When we jump to the room where Abby is locked up in, she is waiting, she had been screaming and crying for a long time, pleading to let him go, because he is not guilty of anything, since she’s the one that had stolen the drugs. She feels guilty, and not just because she had been stealing (probably that is not a matter of concern for her, it had never been when it was for the greater good) but she is feeling guilty because 1) Marcus took the blame for it, as always he is once again sacrificing himself, this time though is a selfish sacrifice for her, not for everybody else, just for her, to protect her, because he loves her. 2) She took the drugs not because a patient needed them.. but because she wanted them, because let’s be honest... she probably doesn’t need them anymore, since a long time I might add. She is addicted to them, it’s not about headaches anymore, it’s about the illusion of comfort that those pills are able to give her. It started as a painkiller, after the ice-bath to save her life, and it ended as a surrogate of what was once the ALIE chip (follow me on this). Probably those pills are able to make her feel less, less of everything, less of grief, guilt, emotional pain... We all know that addictions, drugs, medicines, are able to simply blur the rest of the world, and with it all the painful memories, all the painful emotions. It becomes mechanical, it’s routine, take a pill, feel nothing, take another one, still feel nothing, keep going on like that till you die (metaphorically and/or literally).

But these are just suppositions. Let’s get back to this moment.

When Indra enters the room, Abby gets up from the bed with a question upon her face, into her eyes, in the line of her lips. “Is it done? Is he dead? He’s alive?” She doesn’t have the answer, and Indra’s expression isn’t telling her anything. But in that brief moment, it took like one second for it to come in and fade, Abby has no answer, and her heart starts to fill up with the fear that he might not come back to her, and this already starts to make her feel even more guilty. We all know that if Marcus wasn't going to come back, Abby was going to get worse, and worse. But it’s also true that Marcus is strong, there was maybe a chance somehow that he could survive, and even if the old Abby is sleeping under the rubbles that are covering current Abby’s spirit and mind right now, a glint of hope is still visible in her eyes, she doesn’t ask if it’s over, she doesn’t speak, she just waits. And then is when he enters the room.

When he steps in, Abby’s face lights up. The answer to her question is alive, in warm flesh and bones, right in front of her. He survived the fight, he is alive, he didn’t die. Abby doesn’t waste a second, her lips already starting to form the smile she can’t fight, she exhales softly, releasing the tension and the fear into a soft sigh. She walks fast toward him, covering those few steps between them with her arms already stretched toward him. Seeing him alive isn’t enough, she has to hug him, to be sure he is there for real.

And so she crashes in his arms. Marcus eyes whispering to her “Yes I survived, I am here, I am safe.” but also keeping in the truth he knows, and that she still has to learn about, that he has to fight again and he isn’t going to. But for this brief moment, this few seconds of peace among the chaos, he allows himself to reassure her of his presence, and allows himself too the pleasure to know she is alive and well in his arms, closing his eyes, pressing his nose in the crook of her neck. They close themselves into this hug just like that, as if they are coming back home after a war they weren’t sure to survive, and yet here they are, still breathing, hearts beating, still alive. The way Marcus takes her in feels like a gesture they got used to once again. During those six years we don’t know if they made up immediately after the last episode, we don’t know if that kiss that we didn’t see (damn you writers for it btw) happened at some point, and if they had started to live side by side in the bunker, facing day after day together, in their own way. We know that they love each other though, and that there’s no more tension between them, they made up somehow, she forgave him, we know that, and he forgave himself too... for what he had done to her, for the rest.. well that’s another story.

Abby in this exact moment is holding onto him as if he is indeed her lifeline, he is her anchor, her polar star, the way out of the dark (that in this case we can say are the pills too). In his arms she doesn’t need them, even if just for the moment that takes for a hug, she doesn’t need them, she doesn’t care of them, she cares just for him, she wants just him. So she hugs him, and she lets him hug her. The way here eyes are open when she crashes into his arms, tell us how badly she had thought that she was going to never see him again, how the horror and the guilt had already started digging their way into her heart. But he survived, he is alive, and so she allows herself to enjoy the moment, to feel him. She closes her eyes, pure abandoned into him, her face relaxes, she is safe for a moment. Then her expression changes, wrinkles form on her forehead, around her eyes, her mind is recalling (probably) the reason why she had been so worried. Because she had stolen the drugs, and he had taken the blame. She can’t allow herself to linger on those thoughts, they are still fresh and painful, guilt is powerful, and she isn’t strong enough to fight it back. But she doesn’t withdraw from him, she doesn’t end the hug, she stays in his arms, swallowing down the painful emotion, trying to put back, even if just for a moment, the guilt, because the fact that he is alive and well (for now) is enough.

And here we have Marcus’ side. His hand is secured on her back, her arms are strongly and fiercely anchored to him, she isn’t going to let him go, not now. He has his eyes still closed (and he keeps them close for a long time, even while Indra talks). He is enjoying her presence in his arms, right against his heart. He withdraw from her shoulder to caress her hair with a touch of lips. A light, sweet, emotional, protective kiss, barely visible, that he presses into her hair, on her head. To mark his love for her once more, to reassure himself too somehow that they are both alive and well. Because Marcus was going to sacrifice for her, so she has to stay alive, she has to be safe. He has faith that she will survive her addiction, he has a lot of hope and faith, he has to have them, since they are all that he has left, not just for her, but for everybody else. Marcus Kane knows what hope is, Abby Griffin taught him, and since she doesn’t seem able to hold onto it as she was used to, he is carrying it for her too now, waiting for the moment she will come back to him and to herself, completely.

And here we can see the moment when Abby listens to Indra, without never braking the hug, keeping him in her arms, staying in this embrace as long as they are allowed to, feeling him. Indra tells them that he had won yes, but he has to fight again, she had done what she could to match him with a weaker opponent, to give him a chance to survive. Abby closes her eyes again, as if like that she can shut out the rest, Indra, the bunker, the arena, the notion that she will risk to lose him again. She keeps them close as long as she can, she doesn’t want to listen about anymore fights, she wants to have him safe and alive in her arms. She knows she can’t, but she still needs to believe, even if for a brief moment, that they are safe.

And here, when Indra says “But he’s refusing to fight. Maybe you can talk some sense into him.” Abby brakes the hug, her eyes are wide open now, she was listening, realizing he was going to give up, he was going to die, and this because of something that she had done. She can’t keep it to herself, she had been pleading for them to let him go, to let her take the guilt. (we don’t know if they were going to make her fight in the arena since she’s a doctor, the only doctor except for Jackson, but we all know how Wonkru and Octavia work, so probably the answer would have been yes). So she withdraws quickly, looks at him as if searching briefly for an answer, even if she knows in her heart that is all true, he doesn’t want to fight to survive, not again. And then, her hands slightly squeezing his shoulders, she calls after Indra, “Wait! It was me!” because she can’t push him into the arena again, not for something that she had done, she simply can’t.

And here ends part 1.

#kabby #kabby scene #kabby hug #kabby moment #kabby angst #kabby love #abby griffin #marcus kane #henry ian cusick #the 100 #the 100 season 5 #paige turco

[spartanroses]

A Chance Encounter

word count: 1,294

notes: The next bit of the whole Kratos/Atreus of Sparta thing. Shorter than the first one, but... awkward boys being awkward? And cute??? Perhaps????

Anyways. Here it is. I’ve got a bunch more planned out, so don’t mind me as I keep bothering you all with it. :>

read on ao3

Days have passed since Kratos was set against a young boy in the sparring ring, and everything remains much the same. Training goes on, the daily struggle to become stronger than the enemy pressing on eternally, and by all rights, Kratos should have long since put Atreus out of his mind. He should not warrant any more thought than any of the other boys Kratos sees throughout the day, no matter the bruises he wears or the cheerful demeanour to which he clings. He is a comrade, a fellow soldier. Nothing more.

This is what Kratos tells himself. The truth is slightly more complicated.

More often than not, he finds himself drawn towards Atreus for reasons he fails to identify. He holds firm to his own sense of discipline, not allowing it to distract him from his training, but he finds it difficult to concentrate when the boy is near. Difficult not to wonder about his injury, or to think about his skill in combat, or to watch his expression; he is overwhelmed by a nagging curiosity that demands more information. If anything, the distraction drives him to fight even harder; the other trainees start to watch him with more wariness than usual, and even the commander gives him a few questioning looks.

He refuses to accept that this is affecting him, and that is how things stay for several days. He throws himself, body and soul, into his training, and he ignores Atreus as best he is able. It proves more difficult than expected.

It happens entirely by chance. Kratos finds himself alone on the way back to his barracks for the night, and Atreus- Atreus seems to simply materialize from the shadows. It startles Kratos nearly to the point of violence, but even in the low light of the evening, it is easy to recognize the boy, if only for his sunny disposition.

“Kratos,” he greets, and he sounds excited. Pleasantly surprised, maybe. They have not spoken to one another since Kratos visited him by his bedside, but it had not occurred to him that the boy might have wanted to see him. “You’re on your way to bed?”

Though the rational part of Kratos’ mind urges him to continue on- he ought not to encourage this behaviour; he has no need for a friendship with this child, and it would be best to put it to an end before it has a proper chance to start- he finds himself rooted in place. His eyes flit over Atreus’ expression and absorb every detail, trying not to overanalyze this impulse. The bruises are more prominent now, and Kratos feels a stab of guilt as he has every time he has looked at the boy’s face since their fight; he did not deserve to take such a hard hit. Certainly not from his elder. “Yes. As you should be.”

“I will be. Soon.” Atreus seems entirely unconcerned by the late hour, and Kratos wonders where this sense of freedom comes from. Surely, Atreus has been raised the same as any other Spartan boy, and yet Kratos has never encountered another who exists on the same plane. He seems to be in a league all his own, and it is endlessly baffling. Endlessly fascinating, and perhaps this is why Kratos’ thoughts have been so plagued. The boy sounds more tentative when he speaks next. Still a child addressing a superior, even if Kratos is still in training, himself. “How, um- how was your day? How did training go?”

Kratos stares at him for a moment, confused. Atreus had been present for the very same training. It seems like an entirely superfluous inquiry, yet he still feels compelled to respond. “It was as it always is. Physically demanding.” He pauses, then, because something does stand about his memories of the day; Atreus had been chosen to fight again. This time, he had been placed against a boy much closer to his own age, and it had been an impressive display to behold. It is easier to understand, now, why their commander saw fit to have him fight someone so much older and more experienced. “You fought well.”

At these words, Atreus’ expression changes, lighting up in a way that does something to Kratos. He does his best to bury it, but the warmth in his chest is difficult to ignore. “You think so?”

“I would not have said it if I did not think it to be true.” Kratos looks away, because watching Atreus’ face proves to be too much for him. It is overwhelming, being faced with such brightness. Akin to glancing at the sun in all its glory. Looking to redirect the boy’s attention, he speaks once more, the first words that come to his mouth. “Your injury. Are you healing?”

“I am.” Atreus’ voice does not change, and Kratos is finally able to identify something in his tone; adoration. It brings forth another reaction that Kratos struggles to disregard. “The doctor says I should be good as new in a few weeks. No scars or anything.” He pauses, and in the silence rests something unspoken. A question, too fragile to be spoken aloud. Kratos braces himself, but it proves unnecessary. “I should let you go. Time to rest, right?”

“Yes.” Grateful, Kratos looks towards Atreus once more. He tells himself that he only lingers out of a misplaced sense of guilt; it is absurd to feel anything at all about hurting an opponent in battle. Even if the opponent in question is an ally. Even if he is younger. Softer. Too soft. “We will not be excused for exhausting ourselves.”

“Right.” With a firm nod, Atreus smiles at him, and once more, Kratos gets the impression that the boy has more to say. Questions to ask, perhaps. Secrets to share. He quickly stows that thought away, somewhere too deep and dark to ever see the light of the sun. There are some things he knows he cannot afford to think about, lest they be his undoing. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Another question with an obvious answer. It should not warrant a response. Kratos gives one, regardless. “You will.”

“Good. I mean- um-” Atreus stumbles over himself, and Kratos watches in silence. The boy sorts himself out quickly and flashes another smile. It seems that very little can shake his cheerful attitude, and quietly, Kratos takes some measure of comfort in that. He appreciates consistency. “Goodnight, then. And- and thank you.”

Before Kratos can ask what it is he has done to earn that, Atreus hurries away, headed for his barracks and leaving Kratos with more questions than answers. He furrows his brow, slowly turning to make his own way to bed, plagued by uncertainty as he works through the short interaction in his head.

He must be clinging to some sense of responsibility. He hurt Atreus in an unfair fight, and now he feels guilty for it. Surely, his compulsion to stay close to the boy, to watch him during training, to speak with him- surely, it will fade along with the lingering bruises. His injuries will heal, and Kratos will leave him alone once more, continuing on with his solitary lifestyle. His training- proving himself to his superiors and overcoming every possible obstacle on his journey towards greater power- is the most important thing in his life, and he will not allow anything to interfere with that.

When he finds himself laying awake that night, wondering in vain if Atreus will seek him out after his recovery- wondering why it is that he aches with the idea that the boy will not bother with him any longer- Kratos wonders if ignoring this problem will be as easy as he had hoped.

#kratos #atreus of sparta #god of war #my fic #mine #me @ myself: pls chill and write something else #myself @ me: but... they're in love #anyways i swear i'll break it up and like. do something else next. lmao.

[bloodied-heroes]

Breaking Point (1/?)

A/N: I’m so nervous, I’ve never written a fic before but I live in the mcu tags and have so many ideas that I finally decided to start writing.  Please let me know what you think!! (be kind!)

Summary: Natasha’s beloved has been captured for ten long months, and everyone is nearing their breaking point.  It’s now or never, but even if the team does manage to bring her home, will she even know what home is anymore?

Pairing: Natasha x reader

Warnings: angst! mentions of torture (rescue-the-reader type situation)

Oh boy, here goes nothing…

She curled into a ball as much as her battered body would allow.  She made no noise besides the rustle of her rough clothing.  The cold concrete was the reassurance of a temporary respite, the place where she would feel her old woulds but receive no new ones. The glinting steel of blades and hooks and electrodes remained behind when they dragged her out and threw her to the hard floor.  The flailing fists and feet of men sometimes entered the room, but she barely registered such simple pain anymore.

She was beginning to lose parts of herself.  Her voice, adored by her friends and her beloved, had been cast aside.  Occasionally sound passed her lips, but they were only screams.  No singing, no laughing, not even crying.

The faces of her friends, the memories of laughing and dancing together, the knowledge that she would be putting so much that she cared about in danger - even if she didn’t know what it was that she cared about anymore - that was what had held her tongue when they interrogated her.  All of those memories were gone, but so was the information that they had demanded of her.

Now they would tell her to do things.  She refused and was punished, harshly.  Her resistance came now from deep within, from the light that made her who she was.

Gone was the memory of lying in the desert with her love, uncountable stars twinkling above.  Gone was the memory of laughing on a rooftop with her friends, watching ridiculous inventions and beautiful magic twirl around them.  These were the hardest to hold on to.  Happiness and love had not existed for her since she was thrown in this place.

Gone was the memory of the courtroom where the kidnappers they had captured were held on trial.  Gone was the memory of the hunting the assassins and administering their punishments on site.  But the idea of justice stayed with her.  Her deeply held convictions of right and wrong, of standards, of morals.

One of the last memories she had, albeit faded and indistinct, was of diving between her beloved and a bullet that she hadn’t been fast enough to stop.  She didn’t remember the pain - how could it possibly compare to what she was enduring? - nor the face of her love, nor the fact that she even had a love.  But she remembered the halo of red hair around the blurred face, remembered seeing it dance as the head whipped around, screaming her name as she fell with a bullet in her chest.  She remembered being dragged away, unable to call out to that red halo as countless soldiers descended upon them.

She was here so that the good and the loved would be safe.  She was here to protect them.  This was all she knew now.

She would not allow herself to be used to hurt the children they brought in front of her.  She would not raise her hand against the terrified man who was beating her.  She was vaguely aware that he too was a prisoner, and would not have hurt him even if she were able.  Not so for the monstrous men whose eyes glinted evilly over her, who wielded knives and fire and electricity, who packed her wounds with salt, who doused her in ice water and threw her onto the cold concrete floors to freeze.  She would have fought back against them if she were able.  She still had the determination to live, although for whom or what she did not know.

So there she lay, curled up on the concrete floor, her legs in particular agony at the moment.  She closed her eyes, waiting for unconsciousness to take her.  The light overhead was always left on and she hadn’t seen a window in she knew not how long.  She was only vaguely aware of an outside world, having the faintest memory of red hair glinting in the sunlight.  Time was only punctuated by torture and the darkness that overcame her with pain or blood loss.

The light flickered for a moment.  The ghostly form of a man stood in the corner of the room.  He was tall and pale, with raven hair hanging around his face.  No one could see him, for he wasn’t really there.  The strength of his connection with the woman, from her fading past life, was what allowed him to come to her.  But she could no longer remember him and he was barely able to see her.  This would be the last time he could visit, the last time he could be certain that she still lived.

He could see nothing beyond her piercingly lit cell.  He gave the slightest sigh of relief at the sight.  He had come to see her before when she was in the midst of being tortured and it was a sight that he still saw when he closed his eyes to sleep.

The fresh blood from her legs continued to drip to the floor, moving over her shattered ankle.  It mingled with the dried blood on the floor and trickled towards the drain.  Seeing her like this, her frail form shaking with cold, pain, and her ragged breathing, made it hard to remember how she looked when she was healthy and laughing - when she was theirs.  He saw how dull her eyes had become, before they closed in unconsciousness.  Her breath did not come any more easily in rest.  The light flickered once more and the man vanished.

“What do you mean you won’t be able to see her again?  What’s happening to her?!”  Her halo of red hair quivered as she interrogated the man, just returned to himself from seeing the heinous cell.

He sat heavily, haunted by the memory.  The first time he had returned for seeing her he had been unable to describe it for the greater part of an hour.  She had been screaming her heart out at the end of one of the early torture sessions, when she was being interrogated on the very people now looking at him.  How long ago that had been.

“Loki,” the woman spoke, her voice dangerously low, “tell me what is happening.  Now.”

The man, Loki, looked up at her, wrenched out of his thoughts.  “The only reason I have been able to see her is because we share a strong bond, because of our friendship,” he began.  “But she is losing herself…” he said slowly.

The woman continued to stare at him.  She was an expert at keeping her emotions in check, at least from the gaze of others.  But Loki could see the pain etched into her face, could hear the hitch in her breath.

“She no longer remembers me.  Therefore, our connection is broken.  I could hardly see her as it was, enough only to tell that she lived and continues to suffer.”  Loki finished, looking away.  He generally declined to describe the agonies she endured.  Once, when he was confronted about the lack of detail he provided, with concerns that they could perhaps find her if he said more, he shared with them everything he had seen.  It had been one of the more brutal torture sessions, and its revelation was met with gasps, tears, and one person going off the be sick.  He had not disclosed such detail since.

“Let me see her.”  The red-haired woman asked.  “Please.”  She added, so quietly that it would have gone unnoticed, had the room not already been deadly silent.

Loki held her gaze and nodded slowly.  The others moved forward with sounds of concern, but before they made it far the image appeared in the woman’s mind.  Her love lay there, curled in a ball on the concrete floor, fresh and dried blood mixing together.  She was gaunt, her breaths labored, and so bloodied and bruised that she was barely recognizable.

Her red hair fluttered as she quickly sat down, burying her face in her hands.

Alarmed, a man with cropped brown hair strode over and put his arms around the woman’s shoulders.  He glared up at Loki accusingly.  “How stupid are you?  We agreed you wouldn’t show her getting tortured, and Natasha - ”

“Clint, stop.”  The redhead whispered steadily.  “It wasn’t that, it was just her in her cell.”  She took a deep breath, and then, “It’s okay.  Thank you Loki.”

Loki only nodded.  Clint continued to sit next to the woman, Natasha.  He didn’t look angry though, his eyes instead filled with a deep sadness.

“It’s been so long.”  A woman whose long brown hair curtained her face said, quietly.  “The fact that you’ve had enough of a connection to see her this long…” She paused, looking up, “she’s so strong.  And she’s been through so much, and - and ten months, ten months they’ve had her.” she shakily came to stop, tears beginning to stream down her face.  A comforting arm appeared around her shoulders as well.

A tall, muscular man with a shock of blond hair spoke up.  “If what Loki says is true, then it really is now or never.  We won’t be able to see when she’s been moved anymore, or if she is even still…” He faltered at the thought.

Several shot him angry looks, and the woman with long brown hair hissed “Steve!” at his words.

“Anyway,” Steve started again, “Tony,  I hope to God you called us here because you’ve got something good.”

Tony, a shorter man with brown hair and particularly spectacular circles under his eyes, bounced forward from the computer monitors he had been leaning against.  “Better than good,” he started with a jittery energy,  “I think we’ll finally be able to go and get our gal.”

Everyone in the room turned towards him sharply, with mixtures of incredulity, skepticism, and hope on their faces.

He continued, “We know enough about the group that’s holding her now.  We know that they call themselves Janus and that they formed bases around the world after they split off from HYDRA in the ‘60s, and we know how they’re organized from Nat’s infiltrations of the Cambodian, Ugandan, and Mongolian bases, and from the information Loki has gained whenever he’s been able to check in on her.  Between that, Wanda and Nat’s interrogation of that scumbag in Morocco, and the groundwork the rest of the team has been doing, we have a pretty good idea what we’re up against.”

“Fine Tony, but what does that matter if we don’t know which base she’s in?  They all look the goddamn same.”  Clint spoke out in frustration.

“That’s where the fabulous Tony Stark comes in!”  Tony proclaimed, a hint of his old enthusiasm in his voice.  “I found her.”

Clint felt a sharp squeeze of his hand by Natasha, before she stood up, facing the tired billionaire.  “Where?”

“Argentina.”

Everyone sat in the mission room, surrounded by maps, diagrams, floor plans, interrogation notes - everything and anything they had, paper pinned to the walls and digital projections flying every which way.  Only a couple hours after they’d gotten the news from Tony, sometime around noon, Natasha proclaimed that they would leave that midnight.

Steve sidled over to her while the others were studying the floor plans.  “Do you really think that’s enough time to prepare?”  He asked her.

Natasha shot him a look that held her answer.  Whether it was enough time to prepare or not was not her concern.  She had been waiting to find her love for ten agonizing months.  She would wait no longer.

As she sat back down she added, “They’ve moved her at least twice already.  I was so close in Cambodia.  We need to go before it happens again.”

Steve nodded and turned back to the floor plan spread out before him.

As midnight approached the team walked onto the roof, the lights of the city spread out before them.  Natasha glanced around.  She used to love sitting with her love at night, anywhere and everywhere.  They had spent endless hours staring at the bustle of the city through the early hours of the morning, and whenever they had time together the pair would go off and look at the stars.  During the last fall that they were together, when the chill of autumn descended upon the city, they had spent a weekend in the southwestern desert warming their bones against the red rocks and gazing at a sky so bright that the stars touched the earth’s horizon.

It had been one of the best couple of days Natasha could remember.  Her love kept joking about how her hair matched the rocks as they spent many peaceful hours walking through the canyons and cacti.  It had been then that they had decided to get married.  If this hadn’t happened they would have been wed a month ago.  Would they ever be?  Would she ever be able to sit here, on the roof, holding her love and watching the city?

Before tears could prickle her eyes Natasha swallowed her doubts and strode forward towards the jet.  She was utterly determined as she climbed aboard.

“I’m coming, Y/N.”  She whispered as the doors closed behind her.

Part 2

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natalia romanova #avengers x reader #avengers fic #black widow x reader #black widow #avengers imagine #marvel #mcu #loki laufeyson #tony stark #iron man #steve rogers #captain america #bucky barnes #winter soldier #clint barton #hawkeye #wanda maximoff #scarlet witch