#this is referencing another fic ik
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Part 1 | Part 2 (you are here!) | Part 3 | Part 4
“So you’re telling me,” Pearl giggled, trying to speak through her amusement, “that you two–don’t laugh at me, I’m serious!-- that you two got kidnapped, and you,” She pointed to Scar with her stick, a half-toasted marshmallow impaled on the end, “convinced them you were soulbound, which saved you from turning into drumsticks,” the stick jerked over to Grian and the marshmallow slipped a little from the force, now dangling onto the tip with and half-hearted corner, slowly oozing it’s way to the floor, “and the experience actually soulbound you?”
“I– well, what else was I supposed to do?” Scar stammered, a grin cracking his face almost in two. Grian cackled, falling over onto him, knocking the marshmallow into his hair with an impressive display of balance, his feet flailing, hands clutching his stomach, lower end nearly slipping off the one of the logs they had dragged around the fire earlier.
“Maybe–” Grian snorted, pausing to compose himself while Scar grabbed his shoulder, doubling over, “--maybe. Don’t! Fall in love with the bird!” He leaned back, clumsily squirming so he was leaning his back on Scar’s front. It was quite an effort, as Scar was still struggling to breathe around his laughter.
“I couldn’t help it! You’re just too cute!” He hugged Grian to his chest, resting his chin in his messy hair.
“Scar! Stop that!” Grian’s cheeks burned red, the blush only half-masked by the low lighting. “I am not cute!”
“You’re a little cute.”
“Pearl! Don’t join his side!,” He grabbed Scar’s hand in his own, “See, you’ve even turned my sister against me!”
“They’re not wrong, though,” Mumbo called from where he lounged by their cave entrance, keeping watch on the surrounding forest through the blizzard flurries, his back to the fire, “You are pretty adorable, especially when you– oh, look, he’s doing it now! When you get all annoyed, and your face scrunches, and–,” He ducked, dodging a marshmallow viscously targeted at his head, “-- And your fathers get all poofy–,” He dodged again, laughing, “Stop wasting the marshmallows! There better be some left when my shift is done!”
“Impossible!” Impulse grabbed the bag, snatching four marshmallows and spearing them on the tip of one of Scar’s arrows, “Knights, new mission: eat all of the marshmallows in the next 10 minutes!” He tossed the bag over the fire, across the circle to where Pearl sat on her tree stump. She was wrapped in Mumbo’s coat, which miraculously didn’t have any marshmallow bits on it, a seemingly-anti-marshmallow-debris aura surrounding Pearl and about two feet on either side of her.
“Aye, aye!” Pearl saluted him, catching the bag and loading another marshmallow onto her stick.
“Oh– You jerk!” Mumbo glanced away from the dark forest in front of him, towards Impulse, “Treason!”
Impulse raised a fist, turning as well, “I serve the king!”
“I don’t,” A hooded figure, previously hidden in the shadow of a tree, stepped into the light, brushing snow from their shoulders.
“I– WAAAAAAH–!” Pearl yelped, slipping backwards off her stump and landing shoulders-first on the cave floor. She reached for a sword that wasn’t there before glancing up, suddenly acutely aware of her party’s casual lack of armor. All but Mumbo, on guard, and Scar, who didn’t wear much armor as a marksman anyways, had settled down and disrobed their heavy guards and weapons.
“Oh, hi, Cub!” Scar called.
Mumbo held out a hand, fistbumping Cub as he passed, “That was a good one, we finally got someone!” His mustache wiggled mischievously.
“You two–” Pearl hoisted herself up onto her elbows, “-- are spoons.”
“Yep!” Cub slid his hood off, shaking the length of his white cape to get the remaining snow off. It wasn’t a knight’s cape, but it did bear the crest of the king on the lapel. Several potion bottles clinked under his light blue robes. “You the newbie?”
“Yeah, uh. I’m Dame Moon, or Pearl. Boatem sect, Eighth season, this idiot’s–” she nudged Grian with a foot, “--older sister.”
“Cub. Nice to meet you.” He turned back to the cave entrance, beckoning with a gloved hand. “X!”
“Heyo,” a shape in the dark responded.
“Stop that!” Pearl, from her spot on the floor, startled again. Grian grinned at her.
“L.”
“I hate you,”
“Awww, you love me.”
Pearl rolled her eyes, hauling herself back onto her seat. The figure in the dark ducked into the cave, stooping a little to fit. He kept his hood up, unlike Cub, but his cloak required no brushing; even in the dying firelight, the knights recognised it as a mage cloak, specifically one for a bone mage.The garment, made of a black fabric as deep as the void, was lined with white runic patterns that met and convoluted on various points just above the fade-point– the part where the cape began dissolving into mist, gradually becoming more shadow than fabric. The hood, which sat low over the mage’s eyes, altered specifically for this mage, was similarly filigreed, with long slits down its length that revealed a pale white inner lining, a cowl resting over the lower half of his face. “‘Sup.”
“Hey, X!”
“Impy.” he nodded. His voice was soft, a contrast to his looming figure and noticeable, gigantic iron cavalry sword strapped to his side.
“Impulse, you know Isuma?” Mumbo shifted, turning so he could both see out into the forest and into the mouth of the cave.
“Impy?” Scar mouthed at Impulse.
“Shut up,” He mouthed back. “Yeah, I worked with him a while ago, slew a dragon. You still got that egg, X?”
“Hatched last winter. She’s doing well, hanging around the Lunar Mountains for now.”
“Nice.”
Cub stepped forward, “We’re here because of a rogue mage that’s been terrorizing the locals over the mountains. They’re probably a bonemage, like X here, but we’re not certain. They could be a lost mobborn too, like an illage-humanr or piglin-human mix, something with supernatural strength and speed. Not one of us, though,” He nodded to Scar, “I checked.”
“So you’ve met them?” Scar leaned forward, lifting his chin off Grian’s head, “What bonemage is powerful enough to fight off a vexborn alone?”
“Not alone– it was a vexborn, a bonemage, and a small but enthusiastic dragon named Suzie. And we’re working on that second part. In fact, that's why we’re here! And for your marshmallows, of course.” He stepped towards Pearl, who offered the bag of sweets to X and him.
“How magical are we talking here? They would have had to have a decent amount for you to assume a born or mage, but is it more innate or drawn from something?” Pearl warily glanced to Grian, determinedly keeping her voice nonchalant. They hadn’t teamed up in their Watcher forms for a long time, but if this person was as powerful as Cub made them seem, they might be forced to.
“X, you got this one, you got closer.” Cub’s response was muffled by an indeterminable number of marshmallows in his mouth.
X stepped forward, shifting the low trim of his hood out of his face with an annoyed flick of his head. The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows that danced from the curves of his cowl up to his eyes, which flashed in the night. “Oh, sure! I got the impression that it was more innate, nothing like a Bonemage, where we have to borrow power from whoever’s around us. But, however they functioned, they weren’t really like any born I’d met,” He swiveled a little, glancing down to retrieve a book from his pocket. “I’ve been doing some research, and there’s a possibility– only a possibility at this point, so there’s no need to panic– that this individual could be a Watcher.”
Pearl again glanced to Grian. The Order probably knew about Grian’s Watcher form, but Pearl had neglected to tell them– and the Order didn’t take kindly to being lied to. She had been able to mask her magic with the help of an inhibitor necklace, hidden under her tunic, but nothing would be able to mask the look of a biblically-accurate sphere of eyes and rays of divine light. Probably. She’d burn that bridge when she got to it.
“So let’s say we’ve got a Watcher on our hands,” Impulse leaned in, “because we both know you wouldn’t have called us if they were anything else. Or brought in Isuma, for that matter. What sent them off the edge? And what can we do about it? We could take this person down without force if we can snap them out of whatever triggered them,”
Grian nodded. “Watchers nearly never go full-angel-mode unless we’re provoked. If we’re dealing with an open, full Watcher, something bigger is almost certainly happening behind the scenes that we have to be ready for.”
“That was my thought, too,” X sighed.
“So what do we do about it?” Mumbo said, still peering out into the dark, “Or, what is it that we’re dealing with?”
“That’s why I’m here. There’s something stirring here, something old. The bones of the earth herself are shifting. I fear something may awake,” He gently grabbed a marshmallow and chomped into it with gusto, ignoring the tension in the air, “and me personally, I don’t want to encounter something that can vaporize us by thinking about it.”
“I’ve noticed that too,” Grian reached into his pockets, taking out a mossy stone, “The grass has been telling me her secrets.”
“... the grass has what?”
“The grasses hold the key, I’m telling you. There's this tall grass, one I’ve been searching for, one that the trees whisper about when you walk past them really quietly. They hold knowledge, these grasses.”
“Grian, have you been talking to the grass?”
“Yes?” Silence.
“... uh. Ok. Let’s table that revelation for now,” Impulse sideyed him, “Game plan. Do we go for the Watcher–”
“--Probably Watcher–”
“--Yes, thank you X. Do we go for the Probably Watcher, or for the ancient stirrings of the world itself, first?”
“I’m going to be honest, neither of those sound like good options,” Scar wrapped his arms more tightly around Grian’s torso. “I’m more worried about– Well. If one Watcher got triggered out by this great stirring, who’s to say that it won’t trigger another? Is it the best plan to get close to this situation, knowing we could make it worse?”
Cub glanced at X, his eyes shifting between him and the knights’ seats. “That’s… the difficult part of this. We need your help, but we can’t get any other Watchers too close. Gods know we don’t want to fight anyone who gets taken over by this thing,” He paused meaningfully, looking Grian in the eyes, “we need the knights, but we need anyone fey out of action. That includes me,” he turned to Scar, “you, your soulbound,” to Pearl, “and any other Watchers who may or may not be in the room with us right now.”
“No.”
“I– no? Mumbo?”
“If they’re out, I’m out. I don’t know about the others here, but I took an oath with the Order to stick together.” He looked at Cub, defiant, but his eyes softened at the worry on his old friend’s face. “I’m not fighting for something that’s going to put my fa– my friends– in danger.”
Pearl nodded. “I’m with him.”
“I’m out too. We fight together, or not at all,” Impulse said. He eyed Cub. “And more of us are fey here than you seem to think. You’ve managed to approach the most fay-filled section of the Order that there is, dude.”
Cub sighed. “I guessed as much. You’ll have to investigate the backside of this, then, if you’re still down to help. Find who this person is, what they want, what’s causing all of this, while X keeps them from destroying the entire countryside.”
“Will you be able to hold your own?” Pearl plunked another marshmallow onto her stick, “You already said this person managed to hold you two off, how will you keep them back?”
“I should be okay,” X said. “I’ve already messaged a few mages from sects in the area. We should end up with one of each of the branches, if everything goes smoothly, with an extra Stonemage to spare.”
Impulse stood, marshmallows abandoned. The arrow he had them speared on was smoldering. He ignored it. “Good luck then, X.” He shook his hand. “And you, Cub. We’re a call away if things go bottoms-up.”
Cub smiled, adjusted his glasses. “You always are. Best of luck to you, knights. We’ll be off, we have some Stone–” he glanced at X, who shook his head, “Soul–”
“Nope.”
“-- Earth?”
“Bingo.”
“Yep, Earthmages to meet.”
#boatem knights au#this is referencing another fic ik#it'll be up pretty high in the bkau tag if you're interested but im kinda too nervous to tag the author lols#the gist is: past kidnapping. scar is a vexborn (vex-human ish). they got out because scar claimed grian was his soulmate. which ensured he#would get medical treatment#i'm also making shit up again lols#so soulbinding happens when there's a suuper intense emotional situation between ppl#doesn't have to be romantic!#uhh also there are mages here. haven't explained those yet but it'll come :)#if you've read mistborn the idea is kinda similiar. at least for stone mages.#hermitcraft#boatem#i miss boatem#yippee im writing again this is wild#my writing
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I’m acting on a whim and posting some unfinished(?) fanfic stuff I wrote like a year ago. Part of my many branches of caterella aus that has vague reference to one of my rsa ocs (dañarte)… but with a cater/idia main plot with jamil/azul happening in he background. My blurbs ended in a bit of a sad spot BUT it was always the intention in my mind that there would be happy resolutions 🙏 these were just little things I wrote for my friend and me bc it was an au we talked about…
Context: idia and cater are bonding, but only online over magicam, and idia is kinda catfishing cater (though not maliciously). when i was trying to name my original rsa oc (char) and looking at names, eppa was one of my initial possible choices. It was maybe my friend who had the idea initially of idia having a fake, RSA princely identity that cater gets to know over magicam?
Eventually I picked char for my actual guy, and dañarte became his cousin via me making typos and more discord sillies lol, but prince eppa became a pseudonym for idia and created another branch for the story. I’ve talked a bit about the dañarte lore and some of that comes into play here. Char I guess would too but I don’t think he got mentioned anywhere lol sorry buddy. But ya idia is pretending to be a prince at rsa named eppa who “secretly likes video games” or whatever I think lol. Idia likes his bond with cater but can’t even begin to think of how cater would react if he found out idia was lying to him.
Anyway. This is more cater/idia (and board game boys friendship) focused than anything (lots of idia pov pining lol) and idk if anyone would wanna read it but I’m putting it here to record keep anyway. No ao3 Bc It’s very unedited and unfinished and just kinda blurb writing lol
But it’s the only time if technically written for caydia. And I do like it. It’s just embarrassing bc I get embarrassed with my oc things and my love for romance drama but i guess I’ve been exposing more of it lately lol… shout out to anyone who recognizes the fic I’m referencing that I DID post lol.
Anyway. Copy pasted from my Google docs:
Idia’s computer pinged as a message appeared on screen.
C.Dia - eppa, are u awake?
Idia looked at the clock, startled. It was 3AM… Idia was still up because he was grinding a new event in one of his many, many, many games, but what the heck was Cater Diamond doing up at this hour? Had he just gotten back from a party?
PrinceEppa: ya, why r u tho? It’s crazy late lol
C.Dia: lol ikr
C.Dia: i just cant sleep rn >.<
PrinceEppa: how come?
C.Dia: i got into a fight w/my bf again…
Idia sighed at his computer. Right… Cater’d started dating that prettyboy from RSA.
PrinceEppa: 0~0 thats like the third time this month…
C.Dia: ya ik ;-;
Idia fiddled with the strings on his hoodie. He didn’t really know if his heart could take hearing Cater talk about another guy, but the thought of Cater laying around sad and alone made him ache just as bad… But what was he supposed to say in times like these? Idia didn’t know anything about comforting someone about relationships! He barely talked to people in general!
Thankfully, Cater kept going and spared Idia the anguish of trying to figure out what to do next.
C.Dia: are u going to bed rn?
PrinceEppa: no lol ill be up for a while longer.
C.Dia: royalty keeps busy at all hours huh?
Idia tensed at the mention of his lies.
PrinceEppa: something like that. Balancing the princely duties and the princely gamer sessions is tough work 😌
C.Dia: LOL. never change eppa <3
His face grew warm, a bittersweet swelling filling his chest.
C.Dia: can u chat with me a lil longer then?
C.Dia: tell me about ur day or ur games or w/e? I kinda just want a distraction, i dont really wanna be alone rn
C.Dia: if ur not busy anyway >.< it’s oki if you wanna focus on ur gamer mode lololol
Idia paused for a moment, before moving his mouse and closing out of his game. The rest of the event grind could wait.
PrinceEppa: im never too busy for you, cay.
C.Dia: thx <3
Sometimes, even for the prince of otakus, there were more important things than gaming…
But only when those things were really, really, really special.
*
“I heard Cater and that RSA boyfriend of his broke up.” Azul spoke after several minutes of silently moving chess pieces around the board.
Idia frowned. “Don’t try and use that as a distraction from the game just because I’m winning.”
Azul kept his face neutral so as not to betray any bluff he might have. “Perish the thought. I just thought his sweet prince eppa would be interested in such information.”
“SHH!” Idia hissed. “Not so loud! Besides, I-I already know. He told me…”
Azul raised an eyebrow. “He told you, or he told Eppa?”
Idia focused on the chess piece he moved. “Same thing.”
Azul sighed as he took his own piece and contemplated his next move. “Hardly. Honestly, how can you ever expect to move your relationship forward if you don’t unmask yourself? All this bonding will be for nothing if you don’t use it to the full extent!”
Idia rolled his eyes. “I don’t wanna hear it from you of all people. How long have you been saying you’re gonna ask Jamil out?”
It was Azul’s turn to shush Idia, face reddening. “How is that even relevant?!”
Idia grinned. “Cuz you keep going on and on to me about how I should be more confident with Cater, but you won’t even take the plunge with Jamil! Hypocrisy much?”
“I’m simply waiting for the right time. I would be a fool if I didn’t stick with my patient strategy of getting him to warm up to me before striking! Move too early, and I’ll undo all my progress…”
Idia sighed, thinking back to all the hours he’d spent DMing Cater under a fake name. They’d gotten quite close, but as far as Cater knew, Idia was still that vague acquaintance in the back of his classes.
If he messed up by telling him his identity at the wrong moment, or didn’t phrase it right…
“Lost progress… that’s exactly what I’m afraid of…”
*
“Idia!” Cater’s cheerful voice called out as he approached the lecture hall desks. “You’re in person again today; that’s three for three this week!” He spoke with a smile as he slid into the seat next to Idia.
Idia jumped at the sudden appearance of his classmate. “O-oh, uh, yeah…”
“Oh, B-T-W, did you hear that Azul and Jamil were on a date Friday night?” Cater said in a half-whisper, leaning close to Idia’s ear.
“Uhh…” Idia didn’t really know how to answer that. Sure, he knew Azul had some overly complicated date-but-not-a-date plan to get Jamil to hang out with him, and then ask him out for real, but how did Cater hear about…?
“I was hangin’ out with the pop music club on Friday when Ruggie texted Kalim that he was serving their table! Isn’t that just crazy?”
Ah. Kalim and Ruggie. That explained it all.
“I mean, I always wondered if those two had something goin’ on, y’know? Like, they had that ‘will they, wont they, playing hard to get’ kind of vibe. Super cute, if you ask me.”
Idia wasn’t really sure that ‘cute’ was a good way to describe anything those two were involved in, but he simply nodded his head along to Cater’s blathering, as he discreetly pulled his phone out of his pocket and switched to his Prince Eppa magicam account, reading the messages from that morning.
PrinceEppa: howre u feeling?
C.Dia: like total trash lol…..
C.Dia: ik he was a jerk but like i miss him, yknow??
C.Dia: or maybe i just miss having someone there. And its almost valentines day lol. Shit timing amirite?
PrinceEppa: that really does suck… im sorry, cater.
C.Dia: thanks, it’s oki tho. Better to get it overwith lol
C.Dia: i really dont wanna get out of bed or go to class…
PrinceEppa: mood
PrinceEppa: u really should tho. Ik it’s hard but itll feel worse if u stay there all alone
C.Dia: urk. Idk if i have the energy to be around people today
PrinceEppa: tbh i get that… i dont rlly wanna go face people either today…
PrinceEppa: how about we try it together?
C.Dia: i wish u went to my school so we really could go to class together <3
C.Dia: but oki. I'll try, for you :)
PrinceEppa: :)
If Cater really was feeling as bad as he felt, he was pretty good at hiding it with that blinding smile and bubbly laughter.
Sure, Idia’s first instinct would be to immediately enable anyone that wanted to spend the day hiding in bed, but… The thought of Cater lying alone in the dark with his thoughts just made Idia sad.
And, if he did that, Idia wouldn’t get to see him in class today…
“Oooh, do you think Azul and Jamil are gonna go out again on Valentine’s day?”
That depends on what Jamil answered on Azul’s questionnaire, Idia thought to himself. He was sure he’d get a full report from Azul later that day at their next club meeting.
Cater sighed. “Another Valentine’s day, and Cay-Cay’s single yet again!” He smiled, but Idia felt that his eyes weren’t lit as bright as they normally were as he spoke. “But, I’m sure some of the boys at Heartslabyul will be hangin’ around like always. It’s never lonely when you live with friends!” He turned to face Idia again. “What about you, Idia? Any steamy plans for Valentine’s day?”
“U-uh…” Idia started fiddling with his hair. It was now or never. ‘A-Actually, Cater… M-my dorm, Ignihyde, we’re h-hosting a movie night that night… Y’know, ‘cause a lot of us don’t really have plans for Valentine’s day and don’t wanna be sulking alone…” He swallowed a lump in his throat and took a deep breath. “...Y-you can come join, i-if you want…?”
Cater blinked a few times, a look of surprise on his face, before breaking into a smile and giving Idia’s arm a small squeeze of a hug. “OMG, movie night at Ignihyde?! I hear you guys have like, the sickest setup! That sounds great; count me in!”
Idia breathed a sigh of relief as the professor began class.
A few seconds in, his phone quietly vibrated as a single message came through. Idia glanced at it from down in his jacket pocket.
C.Dia: a rlly sweet guy in my class just invited me to hang out w/him and his dormmates on valentines day
C.Dia: u were right about getting out of bed. i think ill be okay today ^.^
***
“Hey, Idia…” Cater put his phone down, magicam abandoned where he’d paused on a video of a turtle swimming around an aquarium. “We’ve gotten a bit closer lately, huh?”
Idia paused the game he had up on his tablet. “H-huh? Oh, uh, y-yeah…”
“So, uh,” Cater played with a strand of his hair. “Do you mind if I talk to you about something a little… personal?”
Idia froze. Abort mission, find an escape route, he was not a high enough level for this kind of topic yet! Maybe Eppa was, but Idia!?
And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to just say no when Cater was looking at him with those soft green eyes.
“S-sure…”
“Thanks! Y’know, you’re really sweet, and like, such a good listener…”
Idia hoped the redness of his face was hidden behind the flames of his hair that flickered in every direction.
“And I’ve just been feeling so… confused lately, about where my heart’s at. My feelings feel like they’re being pulled in so many different directions!”
Idia could feel his heart hammering in his chest.
Cater sighed, laying his head down on the table. “My ex asked me on a date today. He wants me to give him another chance.”
The burning sensation from Idia’s insides made a 180 as he felt his blood go cold. This was the last thing he wanted to hear his normie crush come and tell him without warning…
“And the craziest part? I said I’d think about it.”
Oh god.
“I know that’s like, totally insane after everything that happened, but… I dunno, seeing him around now that he goes to school here just has my head all scrambled!” He picked his head up from the table, opened his phone again, and gave the turtle video a like before standing back up suddenly. “Gosh, sorry, I don’t know why I just came over here and dumped that on you, Idia. I guess I just find you so easy to talk to, I get a little carried away!” He said with a nervous laugh.
Lucky Idia.
“But, don’t worry about it. I’ll figure things out for myself. It’ll be A-okay!” Cater gave an unconvincing thumbs up before turning to leave.
Super lucky.
*
“Azul, today might actually be the worst day of my life.” Idia said as he dragged himself into the clubroom and plopped down in the seat across from Azul in their usual spot.
“...Hm? Oh, hello, Idia.” Azul looked up from his phone. “I believe you said the same thing when you came in here to lament about Cater getting together with his… boyfriend, a while back.” Azul seemed tense at the very concept of Danarte. He hadn’t exactly been a fan of the guy since he transferred to not just NRC, but into Scarabia specifically, where he’d made a point to hover around Kalim and Jamil as much as possible.
“I mean, it’s basically the same level of despair. Cater just told me Danarte not only asked him out, but that he’s considering it!” Idia dropped his head facedown onto the table in sorrow. “Like, how could I lose to the same guy twice!? Ugh, honestly, there’s no one as pathetic as me. I am having the WORST time, and NO ONE could possibly understand the agony I’m in right now!”
Azul chuckled, his tone solemn and hollow. “I’ll do you one better. Jamil broke up with me today.”
Wait, what?
Idia’s head shot up as he squinted at Azul, who was gazing sadly at his phone again. “Huh!? Wh- Huh!? What happened?”
Azul sighed. “We had another fight- and I mean, you know how we are. We have our differences, our disagreements, and the two of us can be a bit… stubborn at times. But we always figure it out! We were doing so well… At least, I thought we were.” Azul rested his chin in his hands. “But I suppose Jamil didn’t feel that way. He said he’d had enough of the relationship. Enough of me.”
Azul bowed his head to stare down at the table.
Idia wondered if he was trying not to cry. He looked out the window, both out of respect, and also because it felt kind of awkward to stare at his friend who was clearly just barely holding it together after getting dumped.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, when it was clear neither of them wanted to discuss their woes anymore, Idia spoke. “Uh, wanna play the VR headset boardgames today? Now’s kinda the perfect time to… Escape reality, right?”
Azul lifted his gaze to Idia. “...You just want to make me use the virtual dice again because you know I can’t use my perfected dice strategy on them, don’t you?” He straightened his posture, standing up to get the headsets. “I’ll have you know I won’t let your silly game of virtual chance best me today!”
Oh thank god that worked. Idia didn’t think either of them could handle any more emotions for the day, so he stood up and followed Azul with a grin. “Hehe, we’ll see about that, Azul.”
#cereal writes#ocs#oc: dañarte#kind of. he’s not here but he’s involved#uhhh I’m not putting my mess in the main tags#ur allowed to rb or whatever I just dhfbgbgbg I can’t put this in the tags#it’s by will of god if u see it. or if you happen to be looking on my blog for things I guess LOL#I wrote these bits spaced out over time too#each chunk was as I had a later idea and it was in order as I went#but Idr how far apart they were#last time was apparently sept last year#anyway the point was cater and idia could be a lil more real with each other online#cater a bit more open about his melancholy#and idia more encouraging and then#pushing himself to be in person more both motivated by cay to see him#and bc their convos make him wanna be better or whatever idk#sorry the jamiazu bits may not make sense if you haven’t done the prerequisite reading LOL it’s not a big deal tho
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texting fics for the fic tropes ask?
somehow A++ and a big fat red F at the same time LOL
okay so like. you may not know this about me, but i love social media fic (ik ik, hold your shocked gasps til the end). i absolutely love epistolary stories in general--i am a huge, huge fan of outsider POV and unreliable narrator tropes, and epistolary stories are so well suited to one or both of these things. epistolary stories put either a very, very narrow telescope on and/or a very broad/vague/heavily filtered overview of a narrative and i love reading between the lines and teasing out the story that way. plus, especially with a lot of neat ao3 works skins (which i...don't use because im lazy 💦), a lot of these stories play with the traditional way to tell a story and explore narratives told through different types of media, often very punchy types of environmental storytelling, and more, which is so cool to me. i'm not even talking about all the ways epistolary fic can play with character voice, and the differences between speaking vs texting, conversation habits across mediums, etc!!
chat fics...sometimes manage the above.
unfortunately though, many also often fall into referential humor traps and like...sitcom storylines (i'm not sure if that made up term makes sense lol). my point though is that some chat fics are really just treated like those incorrect quotes blogs but in a format that can be posted to ao3. and i already have a lot of irritation with incorrect quotes--it's very rare that a genuinely funny joke can just be ripped from its original context and still be funny, and a lot of people use referential humor as a crutch because they're scared of writing their own humor/jokes. but the thing is, the more references you use, the more you isolate and/or narrow your audience because not everyone is going to know what you're referencing; and it's one thing as a reader to skip over one joke you don't recognize, it's another to skip over multiple jokes in a row that make no sense to you. this goes doubly for chat fics that rely primarily on memes, which are esp flavor-of-the-week references whose original context gets lost almost immediately. and then on top of the humor crutch, a lot of these fics forget that like...epistolary stories still have a narrative? they still have a plot? you still have to explain how the characters started talking to each other, why they're still talking to each other, wrap it up in a good end goal, etc. and a lot of fic just...doesn't. i have zero interest in reading a fic that throws everyone into a groupchat with zero regard for how the individual characterizations, just to ramble out a bunch of ill-fitting references with no end goal or point in sight. sighs
so yeah! epistolary/social media/texting/etc fics are almost always the first set of tags i run through when i first enter a fandom tag and i'll often read those first over everything else because when they're done right, they're so. good.
but if there's no explanation to the how or the why, or zero regard to characterization or voice, or too many memes, i'm immediately out and will probably even mute the story so that it's easier for me to navigate the tags in the future 😂
.❤.
send me a fic trope!
#inbox games#i tried VERY HARD not to go full ramble city#didnt really succeed but I Tried#i also did not just gush about the texting fic i RLY love here please admire my strength 🤣#but also does anyone want texting/socmed/epistolary fic recs because oh boy do i have recs
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enough of this 'in as few words as possible' I want the entire history of how your music taste got where it is; i'll start.
so anyway I wasn't allowed to listen to anything besides gospel music (and even then only certain types) till I was like 11-ish. Despite that I was allowed to listen to disney music, so when I was 8 and heard Immortals by imagine dragons in big hero six I lost it. I listened to that song constantly it was always playing. Anyway, 11 year old me found out about the music app having a search bar, i had only ever been allowed to listen to things my dad had predownloaded into the library. So I found fall out boy, and imagine dragons and for months listened to nothing but them. Just me sitting in my room at midnight feeling like i was breaking rules listening to Sugar we're going down and radioactive. Then i found Bastille and 21 Pilots through finding the recommendations tab and then eventually MCR; and the Avril Lavigne And then uh, yeah my music kinda stayed there, it was mainstream pop-kinda-sorta-punk. But it was clean, i literally would not listen to a song that had a single bad word in it bc I don't say those words i'm a good kid. I listened to teenagers through a youtube clean cover like, i was so careful.
Anyway, my mother, the most awesome person i know and i'm not even joking I love her so much. Took me to Hella Mega Tour for my birthday bc I found out fall out boy was going to be there and convinced myself I was going to DIE if i did not see them live.
(Note my mom was 14 when green day got popular, she reasonably could have been listening to them as a teenager. Except that same year my moms parents joined the cult we were in and she was forbidden from listening to that type of music.)
back on topic, fall out boy finished I was PUMPED, i also had school the next morning and it was already getting late. So my mom told me "I've heard of this next band, but I don't really know any of their songs we can leave now if you want" I decided to stay, just to hear the first 2-3 songs and see if i had any interest, they started with American Idiot and halfway through the song it was decided the only way to get me out of that stadium while they were still playing would be kicking and screaming. Billie Joe Armstrong changed the trajectory of my life completely that night and he doesn't even know it.
after that it just kinda? spiraled? Royal & the serpent got me with hearing overwhelmed, Alkaline Trio with Calling All Skeletons, I started listening to Teenagers uncensored ik so scandalous. I found Grandson bc of a norway cosplay tiktok that used Blood//Water (no i'm not joking); and Sabaton bc of a hetalia fic about the winged hussars. My friend introduced me to Des Rocs recently, another friend Sueco, i don't actually remember how i found Ghost :\ And Daisy Grenade opened at the fall out boy concert I went to a few months ago and I love them now <3
And then i stumbled head first into folk punk due to a pinterest comment that referenced Ramshackle Glory, AJJ, Bitch & Animal, Mischief Brew my beloved. Folk punk is my moms least favorite genre i've gotten into. Then a guy told me if i like folk punk to check out Petey and now my favorite song like scream in the car after a bad day song is Pitch A Fit, it's so good man.
but anyway Fall Out Boy is still my favorite band bc they were the first band I ever listened to.
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would it be okay if I referenced/used the concept of the disabled ford AU in a fic of mine? i wanted to ask for permission now just in case if I had to figure out something else for him (this fic hasn’t been written yet. tis a sequel) (and if you wanna know HOW I can explain. but I need permission first.) :>>
That would be more than okay!! I’m so honored you want to write something inspired by my ideas!! If/when you write it (since Ik life can get in the way of doing things sometimes) DM me or tag me or send another ask bc I’d love to see it! :DD
Also yes, I would like to know more abt what you’re writing/how it’s a sequel!
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Braid Me a Home
summary:
"Braid my fucking hair, Theseus. Braid it.”
It had sounded like a plea falling from Techno’s chapped lips, blood caked under his nails as he sat in front of Tommy on a tree stump, slowly itching at his wrists.
“Wilbur told me to stop you if you ever started doing that-”
“Wilbur isn’t fucking here. Just...braid, Toms. Braid.”
or
A story about the Sleepy Bois being family, told through braids.
word count: 2.5k
warnings: child neglect, hurt/no comfort, canonical character death, implied/referenced mental health issues (like it’s obvious but there isn’t much detail to it), brief blood mentions (ik this fic sounds kinda angsty as hell but its not? imo its light angst)
a/n: first dream smp fic and im ALREADY projecting? christ. anyways. go easy on me pls this is far from my best work i just havent written a fic in like 5 months (more if you dont count the fucking chat fics) mm also i may have posted this like a week ago on ao3 just to test the waters and its already gotten way more comments and kudos than any fic of mine usually gets this early on so hopefully tumblr enjoys it too :]
—
When Wilbur Soot was born, he came out crying, as most babies do. Covered in vernix and blood, he weighed just barely above the seven-pound mark, gasping out sharp cries that only a parent could truly stand, or worse—love. Though he was the second baby born into the family that day, he was fussed over far more than he would ever be again.
Technoblade, on the other hand, had barely made a sound when he came out, a trail of blood smeared across his forehead, almost as if it was meant to be there. He made small noises that were more akin to confused mumbles, weakly grasping at his father’s hair when he was eventually passed on for the second child to be welcomed into the world.
Only when both boys were held in their father’s grasp did Wilbur quiet down, his soft head leaning into his father’s beard as he stared wide eyed at the boy across from him. Though they looked similar enough, Technoblade’s nose was squished further back into his face, appearing almost snout-like to Philza. Of course Wilbur noted this, wiggling until their father somehow managed to get them pressed right up against each other with minimal damage done. Though Techno never stopped squinting like an annoyed old man at Wilbur, he allowed the other to press a fist against his nose, his eyebrows unfurrowing just the slightest bit at the touch.
From that day on, Philza was the father of two twin boys—a loud boy who cried easily, but always calmed down for his older brother, and a rather monotone one, who’s face seemed to be permanently stuck in a scowl, unless said face was being smushed around by the younger. And things worked like that for a while. Not forever, but...a while.
—
Philza taught Wilbur to braid on a hot Monday afternoon.
It had been a rough day for the boy, though Phil hadn’t a clue why. Maybe he had just woken up on the wrong side of the bed? Or maybe he hadn’t slept enough between bedtime and the time Tommy had started crying again, the youngest boy’s crib being right beside his head and all. Though it might’ve seemed cruel from an outsider’s perspective, Wilbur had been the one to ask for it. Something about Tommy being his little brother and how he needed to teach the boy the ways of the world in the same way Techno had taught him—because apparently that was all Techno’s doing now, not Phil’s.
Regardless, Wilbur had been a bit too snippy for Phil’s liking that day, complaining about every little thing they did until finally, the day was over.
Well, as over as it could be with Techno leaving mid foam sword fight, an annoyed shout of ‘I quit!’ leaving his mouth before he snatched up Tommy’s carrier and brought him inside for god knows what reason.
It had only been around four P.M. by that time—too early for dinner, yet too late for Phil to really demand the boy stay outside and continue to entertain himself with a brother who was clearly not entertained himself.
Details aside, Phil isn’t really sure how they got to braiding. He just knows at some point they did and by the end of their outside time, just before the clock struck six, Wilbur had made two thick, messy braids in his hair. They stuck out awkwardly, looking all too similar to Pippi Longstocking’s iconic hairdo for his comfort, but he’d be damned if he took out the braids his son had so happily rushed inside to show his older brother before demanding to do his hair as well. After all, Wilbur didn’t have long enough hair for braids, but Technoblade sure as hell did. It was only at his shoulder blades back then, brunette curls wrapping around his narrow shoulders and thin arms like thick vines.
Wilbur had always enjoyed brushing it out with his fingers and putting cute, handmade clips or flowers in it at random, decorating the waves for his brother who was more than happy to let the boy do as he pleased. Though he would never admit it, Technoblade liked how it felt when Will played with his hair. He was always careful not to tug too hard, prioritizing the comfort of his other half more than the beauty of his work, as he so often referred to it.
So when Will had presented him with the mess that was his first two braids, he wasn’t hesitant at all to let the boy practice on him. Instead, he walked to the couch with a small smile, removing his glasses gently and getting comfortable before his brother plopped down into the space behind him. Long legs draped over long legs with no warning, thighs pressed together as if they were meant to be like that all along—and they might as well have been, for how often they did this.
Phil had watched them from the doorway in content silence, Tommy sitting behind him in a wooden high chair looking bored, but not making a fuss for once. And as he left that doorway to begin dinner, he listened to their muffled conversation and soft bursts of laughter with a small smile on his lips, for he knew things wouldn’t always be this way. They would have to grow up eventually, and when they did, things would change. Phil could only hope it was for the better.
—
When Tommy turns nine, Wilbur teaches him to braid under circumstances not too different from the ones he had learned under himself.
Well. Not too too different.
Philza and Technoblade had been...busy as of late. In the house for three days, out for a week, in for a week, out for three more, over and over and over again. Wilbur had become more like a father to Tommy in recent months than he should’ve been, his fourteenth birthday fast approaching as their father took Techno out for yet another job, one that Wilbur couldn’t come on because he was too fucking weak to do anything Techno could do, too fucking stupid to learn all the techniques Techno did, lacking all the strength and agility his older sibling possessed, like the useless prick he was-
Right. This is about Tommy.
When Tommy was nine, his hair rested gently against his collarbones in the exact same cut and color as their father wore. If Wilbur was a lesser man, he would’ve hated the kid for it, but it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t see what a selfish git their father truly was yet. All he knew was that their dad was busy a lot and that, for some reason, Techno needed to go with him. Apparently, that was enough for him to keep holding onto the idea that one day, the man would stay longer and maybe, just maybe, show him some of the same care that his older brother did.
If Wilbur was a better man, he would tell Tommy the truth. He would tell him all about the way Philza had called him useless in a fight, forcing him to instead stay home and care for a child while still being one himself. He would mention how Philza had given him no instructions on how to care for a developing child, how he left out key details to parenting on his own as a goddamn thirteen-year-old, yet remembered to tell him things would be better this way because god forbid he does his fucking job as a father for anyone but Technoblade—
Who he missed. He missed Technoblade, his other half, so fucking bad it hurt sometimes—so bad it left him gasping for breath at two A.M., his head pounding in tandem with his uneven heartbeat, lungs burning as his snot and tears soaked into his brother’s cold, cold sheets. And it made him feel fucking pathetic because the truth of the matter was that...Techno had left him behind too. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to hate the older boy, no matter how hard he tried. Couldn’t hate Philza either, if he were to be honest with himself, but it was a lot easier to pretend he did when his father was the one putting them all in this position to begin with.
So, Tommy was nine when he learned how to braid.
Phil had promised him and Techno would be back Tuesday morning.
It was Wednesday afternoon.
Tommy didn’t fucking understand, and as frustrating as it was that the prick decided to take it out on Wilbur, he couldn’t blame him. Who else was he supposed to take this shit out on? Certainly not the man who had yet to return.
Wilbur had started the braid as a way to distract him. It was simple, really—tell him you know something he doesn’t and that he won’t get to know if he doesn’t sit the fuck down and listen.
When he had started tugging the boy’s hair back from his face, his immediate reaction was to jerk away, swatting at the hands that hovered over his shoulders. This only happened once or twice more before he let it happen naturally, his posture stiff as Wilbur ran his fingers through the boy’s hair with practiced ease.
Though it may not have seemed like it, Tommy was significantly more averse to touch than Techno had ever been. The only reason Techno even seemed averse to it was because of his hesitance to initiate, something he and Wilbur had discussed in depth. Rejection was one of the few fears Technoblade truly had and Wilbur held that fact close to his heart, ready to die with it if need be. Tommy, on the other hand? He was very particular about where and when and why someone was touching him, and it had taken Wilbur a long time to get used to that fact. But, he wasn’t about to make his little brother uncomfortable just so he could be happy and, eventually, he learned the ins and outs of how to touch TommyInnit without causing issue.
Pulling a few of the shorter strands towards the front of Tommy’s face loose, Will separated the blonde’s hair into three sections. They were rather small, what with how thin and short his hair was, it just barely being long enough to even have a proper braid in it, but Wilbur knew he could make it work.
“Now, Toms, you gotta listen to me here, because I can’t show you this bit, yeah? Phil and Tech aren’t here, and my hair is too short, so you’ll just have to feel it out for now, but...this is how you braid hair-” Wilbur had said in a soft voice, brushing the pad of his thumb over the boys neck slowly to ease the tension out of his shoulders. The effect was immediate, the boy slouching forward as if he had just noticed he was holding himself so sternly. Smiling softly, Wilbur instructed him on how to weave the strands together, answering questions and pulling lightly at Tommy’s hair so he could feel exactly where everything went. After he was done, Tommy had reached back to feel the bumps in his hair, all his earlier anger seemingly gone as he gave a small smile. And then he tried it himself.
Of course he got a bit of help at first, Wilbur’s larger hands guiding his own with gentle corrections, but after that Tommy worked on it alone, his older brother watching in silence from a patch of grass beside the porch step.
That night, Tommy and Wilbur slept in Techno’s bed, a soft, blue blanket wrapped tightly around them. And if another body woke them up at some point that night, shoving its way into the mess of limbs, their chest pressed right up against the youngest boy’s back, then that was only for them to know.
—
At eleven years old, Tommy takes a pair of scissors to his hair. With flushed cheeks and salty lips, his hands shaking and his eyes foggy, he cuts, cuts, cuts, until he can no longer braid his hair—until he can no longer look like fucking Phil.
Even though Wilbur had once said he hated Tommy’s long hair—hated how similar he and their dad looked—he felt like crying as he ran his fingers through the uneven strands. He didn’t tell his brother this though, instead grabbing his face and planting a wet kiss on his freckled forehead. In a fierce whisper, Wilbur had said, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Tommy. So fucking proud.”
Tommy never forgets the way he felt that day. He doesn’t forget Wilbur’s words either.
—
When Wilbur loses his last life, Technoblade tells Tommy to braid his hair.
It wasn’t a question either, but a demand forced out between gritted teeth, his face red, his nose stuffy and his lashes wet with unshed tears. Still, his words were clear as day.
“Braid my fucking hair, Theseus. Braid it.”
It had sounded like a plea falling from Techno’s chapped lips, blood caked under his nails as he sat in front of Tommy on a tree stump, slowly itching at his wrists.
“Wilbur told me to stop you if you ever started doing that-”
“Wilbur isn’t fucking here. Just...braid, Toms. Braid.”
Tommy sniffled, but did as he was told.
Maybe it was because he was too tired to argue with the only person he even had left. Maybe it was because he could tell Technoblade was mad at their father for the first time in his life, and he knew how bad his first time had felt. Or, maybe, it was just because he knew Techno fucking cared. Nobody else seemed to, but he knew Techno did and...that was enough for him.
As long as someone else cared—as long as it was fucking Technoblade—that was enough for him.
Just as Tommy had finished the braid, curling his finger around the light pink tail that tied the whole thing off, Techno yanked it forward. Before he could even register that the hair had left his hand, the older boy had taken an axe to the top of it, letting the rest of his hair fall around his face in uneven curls. Though it was a good ten minutes of work wasted, Tommy couldn’t say a damn thing as he watched Techno pocket the braid, muttering a thank you and heading in the direction of Wilbur’s unofficial grave.
In that moment, he felt relief for the first time in a long while.
—
Wilbur Soot was born covered in vernix and blood, weighing just barely above the seven-pound mark, and he came into the world much like he left it. Everyone had heard his cries—even if they weren’t there, even if they didn’t know him well—they had saw the way he spiraled, desperate and afraid and paranoid, searching for help, but never receiving enough.
And though he was the second child born, he left the world first, returning in a yellow sweater with a small braid tucked behind his ear. He didn’t really know why he had one, but he remembered braiding Techno’s hair and he remembered teaching Tommy how to do his own and he remembered, he remembered, he remembered the braids.
#dream smp#/dsmp#dsmp#sleepy bois inc#sbi#tommyinnit#wilbur soot#technoblade#philza#ph1lza#fic#fics#fanfic#fanfiction#the dream smp#shit self#dami writez#/rp#dsmp fic
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MCYTtober day 1 - Origins.
I had a few ideas for this but most of them were pretty vague. I decided to do the 'origin story' of Rythian from The Blackrock Chronicles series. (ik the prompt is referencing the origins mod / origins smp, but I don't watch that series)
First pic is just a simple drawing inspired by his canon backstory, and I was going to stop there but I had another idea.
The second pic is a scene from an AU fic I wrote, set about 10 years pre-canon timeline, so, origins ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ that's why this post has my au tags on it tho
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Gimme the newsies fic recs blease? 👉👈
This is really long, sorry. I’ll post the second half of my fic rec soon.
Name: Keeping Promises
Link:
Rating: Mature
Characters: Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, Katherine Plumber, Racetrack Higgins, Crutchie Morris, Spot Conlon, Sarah Jacobs, Buttons, Smalls, Les Jacobs, Mayer Jacobs, Esther Jacobs, Medda Larkin, Bryan Denton
Ships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - FBI, Modern Era, Enemies To Lovers, Enemies To Friends To Lovers, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Francis Sullivan’s A+ Parenting, Judaism, Jewish David Jacobs, Warning: Republicans, Jack and David hate each other at first, except not really, Jack hates David and David is confused, I recognize that I’m writing about law enforcement but also...defund the police, Cancer, It’s not David or Jack but it appears in the plot
Summary: David Jacobs is desperate to leave the past behind, so when he gets offered a promotion and a transfer out of town, he takes it. Now he has to deal with a new city, a new job, a criminal investigation so big that all three branches of the federal government might have to get involved, and - perhaps worst of all - Special Agent Jack Kelly.
My Extra Comments: Okay it’s been a hot minute since I read this but I think the Republicans are only mentioned once or twice, so they don’t make a huge impact on the story.
Name: Oh, It’s You
Link:
Rating: Teen
Characters: Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins, Albert DaSilva, Jack Kelly, David Jacobs, Crutchie, Romeo, all the newsies tbh
Ships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins
Additional Tags: Slight angst and then a lot of angst later, background javid, background blush, background redfinch, background spromeo, background newsbians, Reincarnation AU, High School AU, Nightmares, background ikeshot, background jomike, background belmerttons, They all die, but don’t worry they all come back, Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Summary: Race is well aware that his friend group is strange. For one thing, they’re the entirety of their school’s drama club. For another, there’s always a sense of deja vu when a friend joins the group. A kind of... “oh, it’s you. Welcome home. Why did you stay away so long?” It doesn’t at all feel like meeting someone for the first time.
Then Race meets a boy in his 1st period class who gives him a feeling way stronger than just a vague sense of deja vu.
My Extra Comments: I put this in my ‘to recommend’ list twice if that counts for anything. Also there’s a sequel now.
Name: Stare Down The Odds, May They Be In Your Favor
Link:
Rating: Mature
Characters: David Jacobs, Jack Kelly, Les Jacobs, Katherine Plumber, Medda Larkin, Kloppman, Smalls, Oscar Delancey, Morris Delancey, Joseph Pulitzer, Wiesel, Sarah Jacobs, Esther Jacobs, Mayer Jacobs, Bryan Denton
Ships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Violence, Character Death, Graphic Violence, Child Death, Heavy Angst, Major Character Injury, Permanent Injury, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Developing Relationship, Battlefield medicine, Mild gore, Suicidal thoughts, Post-Tramatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Summary: "And the second Hunger Games Tribute from the Manhattan District is...Les Jacobs!"
Davey's entire world freezes. No, not Les. Anyone but Les. Anyone... "I volunteer! I volunteer as Tribute!"
---
Newsies in Hunger Games setting.
My Extra Comments: This is probably my favorite fanfic ever, I’m not exaggerating. The tags may seem like a lot, but it’s literally just The Hunger Games. The plot is so well developed and I’ve read this ten times. The authors also done the second book and is currently working on the third. I very very very very very very very highly recommend this.
Name: All This Time Did More Than Pass Us By
Link:
Rating: Teen
Characters: David Jacobs, Jack Kelly, Racetrack Higgins, Spot Conlon, Katherine Plumber, Mush Meyers, Kid Blink, Albert DaSilva, Romeo, Specs, Sarah Jacobs, Les Jacobs, Elmer, Smalls
Ships: David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, Kid Blink/Mush Meyers, Romeo/Specs
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Modern Era, Slow Burn, Slow Build, Alternate Universe - College/University, Other Additional Tags To Be Added, Trans Character, Trans Racetrack Higgins, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Elmer, Underage Drinking, Enemies To Friends To Lovers, Friends To Lovers, Friendship, Mentions of/reference to homophobia
Summary: New York, 1899.
David Jacobs fights alongside his fellow newsies. He is with them. His voice is sore from yelling, his legs are tired from running.
New York, 2019.
David Jacobs wakes up in the middle of the night. He is alone. His hands are shaking, his forehead is burning up, and he suddenly remembers names and faces he should not know.
Flashes of memories are making their way through his mind, flying through at a rapid pace. He’s walking through central park, holding hands with Sarah in pigtails. Then he’s running through the same surroundings, laughter in his chest, adrenaline shooting through his veins, and with the figure of someone much larger than Sarah running alongside him.
My Extra Comments: abdksjsjshsjsv I love this so much
Name: Lines
Link:
Rating: Teen
Characters: Spot Conlon, Racetrack Higgins, Jack Kelly, Kid Blink, Mush Meyers, David Jacobs, Tommy Higgins (oc)
Ships: Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins, Kid Blink/Mush Meyers, David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Albert DaSilva/Elmer, Buttons/Henry, Mike/JoJo, Ike/Finch
Additional Tags: Angst, So much angst, Soulmate AU, Soulmate- Identitying Marks, Every kind of Soulmate AU, Spot’s the angst this time, Autistic character, Autistic Spot, Mental Health Issues, Implied/Refernced Child Abuse, Implied Relationships, The Newsies and Mental Health Issues, Trans Jack Kelly, Autistic Mush, Deaf Jack, Snyder is evil, what else is new, why did I do this?, APSS is messed up, You thought you hated Snyder?, Protective Race, Marvel - Freeform, Star Wars - Freeform, Spot loves Carrie Fisher just like the rest of us, All the cuddles, Spot needs love, Sharing a bed, meltdowns, Race is the best, Race’s little brother is a little shit, Hospitals, a given at this point, but ANGST TRAIN IS PULLING OUT OF THE STATION, There will be more pain, choo choo, Implied/Refernced Self-Harm, I never tagged those?, Fluff and angst
Summary: Racetrack Higgins had a soulmate.
They had deep, beautiful brown eyes. They didn’t have a good living situation, if the dark brown spots that covered his back and slashes over his ribs were anything to go by. They were ambidextrous, and they had been cutting neat lines into their arms since Race was 14.
Spot Conlon had a soulmate.
They had bright blue eyes, never seemed to get hurt badly, and were perfect. In every way, Spot was convinced. They wouldn't want him. He was convinced of that too.
My Extra Comments: I cried both times I read this
#newsies#92sies#newsies 1992#newsies broadway#newsies movie#1992sies#newsies strike#david jacobs#racetrack higgins#sarah jacobs#jack kelly#spot conlon#newsies fic recs#newsies fanfiction
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Ik that this is random but in your fic lightning crash, noshiko had monologued something about having burying another child. What happened to the mentioned child? Was the nogitsune involved with the childs death? absolutely love ur fic btw </3
Okay so I have been sitting on answering this because I didn’t quite know how to answer it without spoiling the next chapter which I have been writing since I got this because you ignited my LC muse because the answer to this question is LITERALLY in the next chapter. But also not. Because its said by the nogitsune to Liam, in the form of lies because Akio is a lying liar who lies and nobody should trust him about anything ever, but also, its true.
Anyway, I’ve been setting up my writing discord all week and hopefully will be able to like, make it accessible to people tonight at some point, and also my other plans for tonight are to finally finish that LC chapter and a ficlet that’s about Jason and the Joker after the Joker brainwashing Dick and secrets coming out, and the dialogue for both fics are competing in my brain so I’m just trying to get them both out in an orderly fashion, and that’s literally what the discord is for and if this is of interest to people, they’re welcome to hop on by. As soon as I get the link up.
BUT Anyway, the sequel, yes this is a big part of the next LC chapter.....its three parts, a Kira and Scott section in Kira’s POV, an Allison and the Beacon Hills pack section in Allison’s POV and a middle section with Liam and the nogitsune in Liam’s POV. The first and third are mostly written and I have all the dialogue for the second, and just need to flesh it out.
BUT BUT part two, if you don’t trust me on that because valid, and also want spoilers that are in the next chapter but also probably will give you a lot of clues where all that is going in general because I am about to be sooooooo not subtle here:
SPOILERS
In the Lightning Crashes ‘verse, Noshiko has had three children before Kira. Her first was a son, born about nine hundred years ago in her first century of life. She had another child about two hundred years later, that I will be very vague about here because their part of the story is one of the still murky parts that I don’t want to actually canonize until I’m for sure about a specific thing that I am being vague about here. And then Noshiko’s third child was a daughter who died about three hundred fifty years ago.....with her first and third child both being referenced in the first chapter of the fic. As they are both extremely relevant to the fic and Noshiko’s actions throughout it....well, all three of Noshiko’s previous children are, just in different ways.
(Also in case anyone was concerned, just because they’re referenced as her children....none of them died AS children. When Noshiko talks about burying her daughter 350 years ago, that daughter wasn’t immortal, but she didn’t die in childhood or anything like that).
Also the father of Noshiko’s first daughter is extremely relevant as well, and its not Alberich just FYI though that would be a logical guess. Alberich is intricately tied to Noshiko’s family history and everything that’s happening now because of it, but not like that. The Noshiko that lives in my brain is horrified at the very thought. She does NOT like him like that.
And Ken knows about all of this, and is extremely supportive and considerate of Noshiko’s entire history and how this plays into her interactions with Kira.
Anyway, Noshiko’s middle children are going to be referenced heavily in the next chapter in Liam’s encounter with the nogitsune, BUT I will say that just because Akio says a thing doesn’t mean that thing is truuuuuuuue. He has Claims about what happened to them and his role in that but there’s definitely more to the story and this is perhaps not quite accurate. BUT I will also say that Akio has definitely had feelings about Noshiko’s prior children and so there absolutely was precedent for Noshiko being concerned that now that he was free, he would target Kira to get back at her.
And if people draw other conclusions about the Yukimura family history from what I just said there, well, my subtlety, it abounds.
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BTHB: Touch Starved (Danny/Nate)
@badthingshappenbingo request answered! Anon requested: Would you be willing to write the ‘touch starvation’ prompt with Nate and Danny? Thanks!
I had initially thought I’d do a post-rescue piece, but this ended up going in a during-captivity direction, so if that isn’t what you wanted, Anon, I’d be happy to write another one, just send me an ask and let me know! Timeline: Late October the year Danny turns 25, so post-Happy Birthday.
Tagging the Danny people: @bleeding-demon-teeth, @spiffythespook, @special-spicy-chicken!
CW: Implied/referenced sexual assault/rape, implied/referenced/visible evidence of torture and violent abuse, discussion of harm to animals (no animals harmed in this fic). Brief suicidal ideation (just a mention)
“How long is he going to be gone?” Danny asks, stopping by a large fallen log, dropping into a crouch to look at some mushrooms that were growing out of the decaying bark, a hint of green moss. He pulls at the rough leather collar around his throat, wincing at the always raw or half-healing skin underneath that stings when exposed to the air.
There’s a little padlock on the buckle now to make sure Nate won’t take it off before Abraham gets home. He used to, and Abraham caught him, once, when he was trying to rub antibiotic cream on Danny’s throat and Abraham came home earlier than they expected.
Now it’s padlocked on.
“He s-s-said three to f-four days this time,” Nate replies, standing a few feet away with his own eyes watching a little moth that had settled itself against a tree trunk, nearly invisible with wings the exact shade of the bark, with the same appearance of rough texture.
“Good. I like when he goes for four days.” Danny just watches him for a moment, looking at the older man with his black hair a little shaggy, hanging down to his eyes, the stubble he lets grow on his face when Abraham doesn’t care if he shaves today. There’s a focus in those green eyes, as they watch the moth close its wings and then open them again, that Danny loves.
He wants that focus on him, but he can’t have that, because Nate belongs to Abraham and Danny’s not a person anymore. He’s not allowed to have things, to want things. To want people. He’s not allowed to want Nate.
He doesn’t even want Nate, does he? He just wants… someone. Anyone who isn’t Abraham Denner. Someone to care about him, to love him, to touch him.
No, it is Nate. He wants Nate to love him.
He wants Nate to care about him, because he can’t remember what it was like to be cared about in a way that didn’t involve… all of this.
I wish you would touch me, he thinks, and then banishes the thought and turns back to the moss, trying not to be all too aware of Nate’s shoulders beneath the warm, dusky blue cable-knit wool of his sweater, the way he stands in the loose-fit heavy khaki pants, the way Danny knows exactly how well they fit around his hips.
Walking traps is hard on Nate the last few weeks, the whole circuit takes a few miles when you do it all at once and having to step over the logs and tree branches and other things, following the marked trail from snare to snare, leaves him limping by the end, teeth ground together, jaw set. Danny’s not sure what happened exactly, only that Nate and Abraham had some kind of fight when Danny was last in the cellar, and Abraham came away with scratches on the side of his neck and the first bruise Danny has ever seen on him and Nate came away with a leg that got hurt, somehow, someway.
So the trail is harder for him, now, while it heals.
But Danny’s not allowed to go alone, and he’s not allowed to help Nate walk, either, because that would mean touching him. No one but Abraham touches Danny now, except when Abraham thinks it’s funny to have Nate hurt him.
When Abraham laughs at his protests, looks right in his eyes, and then Nate can’t say no, just like nobody can say no, after a while. Nate turns white as a ghost after and drinks until he passes out and he probably doesn’t want to be anywhere near Danny anyway, it’s just that they’re the only people here who aren’t Abraham, they only have each other.
But Nate stopped touching him at all, after the last time Abraham made him do it. He thinks months ago, but Danny doesn’t know time as well as he used to, he forgets. Not too long after Abraham said it was his birthday, that he’s twenty-five now.
Not long after that, one night it was really bad, and Nate hasn’t so much as brushed against him since. Hasn’t snuck out at night to watch movies with him, invite him onto the couch, touch his fingers while they work together in the garden.
Nothing.
Nothing but Abraham’s hands.
It’s been so long and Danny just wishes, just for a second, that there was someone to touch him where it didn’t end in something else, something worse. He wants touch without shame, touch that isn’t forced on him or part of a barter, touch that doesn’t end in a knife or demands or orders or that barking high-pitched laughter that worms into his head and won’t stop.
He wants someone (Nate) to put a hand to the small of his back, just rest it there, and remove it again without having to trail fingers up his neck to the carved-in scarring of who he belongs to. He wants a hand in his hair that doesn’t pull until it hurts. He wants touch without pain, without the guilt in Nate’s eyes, without crying or exhaustion or being told what to do.
He can’t have that, though, and all he wants - all he wants in the whole world, now, a world that is narrow and caged-in - is just to hold Nate’s hand, maybe, just for a goddamn second.
No. Not allowed.
Wrong thoughts.
(who do your hands belong to? is this body yours, or mine?)
Y-yours, it’s yours, it’s not mine anymore, not my body.
(good boy)
He’s not going to think about Nate’s hands, calloused from when he chops wood, too, from the work he does alongside Danny in the garden during spring and summer. The way they went from looking almost delicate and meant for opening books, taking annotations and typing lectures, to roughened and coarse outdoorsman’s hands. He won’t think about the way Nate had brushed sweaty hair back from his face when he was sick and sometimes slept beside him on the floor.
He’s not going to think about the sweetness of Nate’s eyes on his, sometimes, when Abraham isn’t looking. He’s not going to think about how that stopped, too, after the bad night where Abraham had had a new idea and made Nate carry it out.
He’s not going to think about what he wants and cannot have.
He’s not going to think about any of it because it’s not for him.
He’s not going to think about how sometimes it’s not just his stomach that’s hollow, but his skin. His scarred-up worthless skin that feels hungry, for someone, for anyone who won’t hurt him. Right down to the tips of his fingers. He’s carved out into a yawning nothing that can’t stop craving someone, something else, something more, something better.
There is nothing better.
This is the best life will ever be again.
Don’t think about his hands.
Danny squints at the half-decayed hollow log, trying to distract himself. Did he read in one of the books they make you read in school that moss mostly grows on the north side of things? He feels like he might have heard that, once upon a time, in the life that he never lived, that doesn’t exist, because there was never anything before Abraham.
The mushroom cap gives a little under the touch of his finger, and he wishes he could feel it better, that his hands weren’t rough and calloused and half-numb after so long, the only part of him that never notices the cold. He wishes it was someone’s (Nate’s) skin. The moss he can kind of feel, a sort of soft brush of texture, and he looks at the deep dark green of it, smiling faintly.
Moss only grows on the north side of trees. Wasn’t there a character in a book who got lost, and they remembered that trying to find their way home? Which would mean if he walked the other way, the way the moss didn’t grow, he would go south. South and south and south, walk out of the woods one day, cross the border, go home. Take Nate with him and then maybe one day ask if he wanted to, if he could-
Stop it.
This is home.
Don’t think about that, that belongs to Abraham now.
(you’re here until I’m done with you, little Red, and let me reassure you that you don’t want me to be done with you)
Besides, he didn’t know shit about moss. He’s not allowed to read the navigation parts of the survivalist books the body left behind in the cabin, Abraham ripped those pages out (“H-how fucking d-d-dare you, Bram, that’s a book, you c-c-can’t just r-rip apart books l-ike that! That’s like a fucking s-s-sacrilege!”) and left him only the cooking and the ways to make your own medicine. Danny only knows what he’s allowed to know, what it’s okay to know. He only knows what Abraham says he should know.
Everything else is buried in the pain, and he lets it stay there, down in the muck, like the animals in the tar pits Dad took them to see when they were kids (no he didn’t, you never did that, you’re making it up). Abraham is always telling him his memories are wrong, full of holes, fucked up beyond repair. That he shouldn’t try to use his mind or think, because thinking isn’t what he’s here for, is it?
(you’re here for me)
Yes, Abraham, for-… for you, I’m here for you.
(good boy)
Danny bites his lower lip, and thinks about the bruise on his hip, still aching and made of dark purples and blacks today, teeth marks in perfect half-circles on each side of where the bone stuck out under the skin, slightly scabbed. Abraham had drawn blood, last night, a gift to remember him by, since he was going on a supply run and leaving the two of them here.
A reminder, but it was still better than it used to be. He used to chain Danny up in the living room for supply runs, take the key with him. Nate would bring him food from the kitchen and he could reach the bathroom on the chain, so it was really okay, he didn’t mind, he didn’t.
Especially because when Abraham was gone, Nate would sleep on the couch out in the living room, or next to him on the floor, just a few inches away, and sometimes when he woke up Nate’s hand was warm on top of his.
Once - just the once - Nate had said he could sleep on the couch, too, and they’d taken the cushions off the back to make it bigger and crammed themselves onto it, Danny’s long body meaning he had his feet up on the arm of the couch with the chain running off the side, but Nate had been warm next to him underneath the blanket they’d stolen from Abraham’s bed, and he’d almost felt safe.
And Abraham never knew about those wrong thoughts, about that disobedience. He never knew.
Abraham didn’t chain him up any longer, because he knew Danny wouldn’t run away anymore. Where would he go? They were so far in the woods he couldn’t possibly know how long to walk to find another person, and he couldn’t really remember his directions any longer.
He’d tried to run away a few times, and the punishments when he was caught - and he was always caught - had made him shy away from even thinking about trying to run ever, ever again.
He didn’t need to think about anything but Abraham. What Abraham wanted, what would make Abraham happy, how to be good enough for Abraham. That was all he should think about, it hurt too much to think about anything else.
(nothing should live inside your head, little puppy, but me. what I like, how I take my drinks, what I want for dinner, whether or not I’m going to cut you up today, how to make me pleased enough that I don’t need to.)
Yes, Abraham.
(there is no life before me. just our family, Nate and I and our puppy)
Just our, um, our family.
Danny twisted his mouth into a mean little smile and stared fixedly at the moss, made himself think about before.
It might be the smallest rebellion, but he had been here for years and he had almost no rebellions left, and he had to cling to even the smallest unpunished disobedience to try and remember that he’d ever been anything other than this. It felt like defiance, like waving some kind of flag, just to let himself question whether or not moss only grows on the north side of trees.
Maybe Ryan read it in school, and told him, and that’s why he can’t remember the book. Danny’s throat catches, a drift of an image of his little brother’s face the night before he’d gone to see Nate and lost everything. They’d played video games all night long, just hanging on the couch in Danny’s apartment playing Halo and drinking, bitching about the way Halo 5’s storyline went, the way their parents had acted at Christmas around Ryan’s newest boyfriend (who they didn’t like, but not because he was a boy. At least Corrine and Patrick never gave a shit about that, because if Danny had to add being in the closet to the laundry list of bullshit he had to do because of his parents, he wasn’t sure he would even have made it to adulthood). He and Ryan had spent the night being absolutely perfectly normal people with no idea they’d never see each other again.
I wish I’d hugged him before I left the next day instead of telling him he was too sweaty coming back from the gym. I wish I’d said ‘I love you’, or something else nice, just anything, anything better than ‘I’ll be back late, wish me luck’ what the shit was that, like I was a fourteen year old with a fucking crush-
No, stop it. No life before Abraham. I’m a good dog.
Besides, who even knows if that happened? Maybe you didn’t play video games at all, maybe you had a fight and you just don’t remember it, maybe you did something to deserve this and that’s why it happened, maybe you’re making this bullshit happy memory up.
I’m a good dog, I want to be good.
Maybe you just don’t remember what you did to deserve this.
(you let this happen because you knew you were born to be mine)
Maybe Ryan knows what you did to deserve this.
Abraham always says they’re not looking anymore.
(don’t you ever fucking forget)
Maybe they know why this happened to you, and that’s why they’re not looking.
There is so little sleep, never enough to eat, sometimes Abraham puts stuff in his water or just lays a pill on his tongue and he doesn’t really know, anymore, what happened and what didn’t, beyond the days and nights Abraham wants him to hurt. He’s so good at hurting, is the thing. Abraham is always telling him it’s irresistible, finding someone like him. That you can’t just put a starving man before a buffet and tell him not to eat.
He’s good at jamming himself down deep into the tiniest places he has left, and Abraham turns the rest into Red, and Red is so good, Red wants to be good, to be try harder, to be a good boy…
Danny presses at the moss again, thoughtfully, and he almost asks Nate if he knows what direction moss grows, but then he keeps is mouth shut, because… what if it’s a stupid question? What if he’s wrong? What if it’s another memory that isn’t real, just like all the others? Danny remembers a lot of false things, now, and forgets most of the true ones.
It’s safer, that way.
(up above your head. perfect, that’s perfect, that’s my good boy, trying so hard for me. oh, don’t look at me like that, puppy. you’re the one who chose the knife)
“We’re g-going to be late coming b-back from traps if you k-k-keep staring at logs,” Nate says after a long pause. Danny jumps a little, startled out of his thoughts, and turns back to him with an apology on his tongue before he realizes Nate’s voice was teasing, not upset, that he’s smiling down at Danny with that odd look he gets sometimes, where he looks at him like Danny’s a book he’s always wanted to read but he doesn’t know how to open it.
He tries not to think about that look in his eyes too often, but sometimes it follows him everywhere he goes, makes him feel like he used to feel when he was a person, shivery and awkward and a little too big for his own skin.
He tries to stop himself, but sometimes Nate’s face, with that slight half-smile that pulls at the little scar in his lip, is all that sticks in his mind at all.
“Sorry, Nate. We’re almost to the first snare, let’s, um, let’s go ahead and get to it.” Danny jumps back to his feet, towering a little over Nate when he stands all the way up, rolls his shoulders, straightens his back. Being tall, though, means opening himself up to the breeze and he shivers a little as the autumn air cuts right through his T-shirt and pajama pants, the thin sneakers he’s allowed to wear already damp around all the edges, the wet soaking into his socks.
He’ll get sick again, and as long as he can keep doing chores it’s okay, but if he gets too sick for chores, Abraham will lock him in the cellar. Danny gnaws on a bit of chapped skin on his lower lip, rubbing his hands together. He has to not get that sick. As long as he can still do his chores, it’s okay, Abraham just laughs at him when he sees his brother and talks to him through the kitchen window, just laughs because if the dishes still get done, if dinner still gets made, it’s okay.
He won’t get hurt if he can still do his chores.
He makes elderberry syrup and fire cider, takes some of both every single day. There isn’t enough food (yes there is, there’s plenty, it’s just not for you) but Abraham doesn’t care if he drinks the medicines he makes out of the survivalist book, he doesn’t care how much he has of those. Sometimes he drinks the fire cider until the acid in the vinegar makes him sick, because at least then he doesn’t feel hollowed out and light-headed from hunger.
None of it helps the sense of emptiness under his skin, the wish for something gentle, and sweet, and soft in all the violence.
Danny can’t help the twist of sadness in his chest when he finds the rabbit in the first snare still alive, but exhausted and worn out from trying to get free, little chest heaving, just lying on its side. “I’m sorry,” He says, softly, under his breath, as he crouches next to it. Nate stands close by, hands in his pockets, watching him. “I get it, you know. I get you.”
(don’t tell me you’re apologizing to the goddamn prey, little puppy)
He always apologizes to the animals they catch, and Abraham laughs at him, laughs and says dogs hunt and only the dumbest puppy would stop to say he’s sorry before doing what comes naturally. But this doesn’t come naturally, it never has, he always worries about what the little animals think of him before they die.
Sometimes he wonders if they recognize him, if they see that he’s prey, too, that he’s in a snare like theirs, the leather around his neck just like the rope.
Danny shivers hard enough to rattle the little tag that hangs off his collar, then takes a deep breath and says, all at once to Nate like the whole sentence is a single word, “Please let me have your knife for a second.”
Nate pauses, then slips the little knife he’s allowed to carry out of his pocket, opening it up. It was one of his birthday gifts from Abraham, and it’s got a black handle with silver tooled into it in the shape of vines and a deer (it’s a fucking stag, puppy, get some goddamn culture - when I was little, I met a god with a stag’s head, you know) and even Danny could admit, when he saw it, that it was gorgeous.
Before Abraham forced Nate to cut him with it to show how sharp it was.
Nate’s a person, he’s Abraham’s true love and best friend, Nate is real and Danny isn’t - so Nate gets knives. Not that knives would do them any good, here, not with Abraham. And Nate doesn’t like the knives, anyway, because he gets cut with them, too. Once he was done cutting up Danny, after all, Abraham had cut him.
“F-figured you’d w-w-want me to slit its throat,” Nate says softly, the offer still there in his voice if not in his words, the compassion in his expression. He knows Danny hates having to kill them, to take the little lives away when all they did was be born in the wrong forest at the wrong time. Abraham always makes Danny do it, laughs at him when he hesitates, or hurts him if he refuses.
“I don’t want you to do it,” Danny says, fighting the urge to pat its sad, tired little head. It’s probably crawling in bugs, honestly, and it wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, but Danny wishes someone would pat him on the head with understanding sometimes, and not just because he’s the dog.
If only someone would touch him and it didn’t hurt. That used to happen, didn’t it?
(no life before me)
“I kn-know it’s your j-job, Red, but he’s gone, for f-f-four days, so it’s n-not like he’ll know. You kn-know I n-n-never tell him any, anything like that, about y-you.”
“I know, but I still don’t want you to do it.” Danny shakes his head. “This is mine, to do, this is my job.” He takes a deep breath, my name is Red, counts to five, exhales slowly I belong to Abraham Denner.
Then he takes the knife with a murmured thanks (be grateful for every gift you are given) and reaches out, cutting the rope and not the rabbit. He cuts the rope again a few inches further down, and then again. Again and again and again, until it can’t possibly be tied back together this way.
The rabbit doesn’t run. It just lays there with the broken shreds of the snare around it, too tired to escape, staring at him with one wide eye while its little body heaves with its breath. Danny reaches out one hand, slowly, and then pulls it back.
“R-Red, wh-what did you do that for?” Nate asks, his voice slightly faint. Not angry, not upset, just… curious. “Why did you cut th-the rope? If you c-c-cut them all… we’ll have to redo th-th-them before B-Bram gets back, you… you know that, right?”
“Don’t tell him I cut the rope,” Danny whispers, hugging himself, it’s so fucking cold already and it’s only going to get colder. “I’ll fix it later. Don’t tell him.”
Did the rabbit remember a family? Are there rabbits born in little burrows in the spring to this one rabbit, that grow up and then leave and does she (or he, he supposes) remember them? When they’re gone, are the babies remembered by someone? If they disappear, or they die, does someone know that they were ever around?
Do other rabbits look for the rabbits that disappear in the woods?
“I w-won’t, Red, you know that.”
Danny just watches the little rabbit breathe, the way it lays so still you’d think it was dead except for the occasional movements of its eyes, the quick, shallow, panicked little breaths that start, gradually to slow and to settle.
Do rabbits touch each other? They must snuggle up in burrows, right? And it doesn’t have to be anything more than that, more than being warm together, reminding each other they’re alive, still here, that they made it through one more day without the wolves getting tired of playing with them, without the jaws closing around their throat.
(how much blood do you think you can lose before you black out, puppy? let’s find out)
Wh, whatever you want, Abraham, I can do whatever you want-
(I know you can, and you will, because you’re my good boy, aren’t you?)
Pl-please, please, I don’t want to die, please, please don’t kill me, please
(you’re not going to die. not tonight, anyway. if you die, you stop being my good little pup, hm? so let’s hold still and focus on staying alive tonight, there, just like this…)
Eventually, the wolf’s jaws are going to close around his throat. Eventually, he’ll be just like the rabbit, and there’s no one here to cut him loose from the snare.
It’s just Abraham and Nate, a family all their own, with their puppy.
“H-Hey.” Nate shifts from foot to foot - his leg is probably already aching, it takes nearly a third of the marked trail to even get to the first of the snares. “R-Red, we need to get moving-”
“I-I know, I know we do, I just… I just don’t want to kill them anymore,” Danny says softly, and he doesn’t move from his crouch on the ground. “I don’t want to kill the things like me, I just want to let them go. I just want them to go home.”
“Red…”
“I know, I know how it sounds, Nate, I know. Just let me be sad, okay, just for now, while he’s gone. Let me, let me be, um, be D-… be, um, me.”
That’s not your name anymore
(this body doesn’t belong to you)
Stop trying to remember the old name, it’s not yours
“Just let me not be Red, for just a second,” Danny says heavily. “While we’re alone.”
Nate is quiet, then, for so long that Danny can’t stand it and jumps up to his feet, stalking back and away without looking at him, forcing himself past the markings along the trees, not even trying to be quiet. A bird flees his noise in a flutter of wings, and he stomps on the fallen leaves, the red and yellows rotting to browns and giving under his feet, the cold damp sinking further into his feet through these stupid fucking canvas sneakers and the socks.
That was stupid, don’t tell him you think things like that. That’s dumb. Rabbits aren’t the same as you, rabbits have a fucking chance to run away. Rabbits don’t wear collars, rabbits don’t get tied to the bed, rabbits don’t, they don’t, they don’t have to-
“Fuck!” At the sudden outburst, more birds light up and squirrels shift in the branches up in the trees, leaves falling down around him. He kicks at a bush, shoves a low-hanging branch that nearly snaps back to hit him in the face, stomps as loudly as he can.
Be good, god damn it
(puppies don’t get to be angry)
Stop it, Red, stop it!
(bad dog, Red)
I’m good, I can be good, I can stop
(very bad dog, Red, now you’ll have to be fixed again)
I can do better, I’ll try harder, I can stop
He can’t. He can’t stop it, it’s boiling up inside of him and it all comes out too quickly for him to stop it, and his heart starts to pound as he kicks again, kicks at nothing but leaves, watching them float uselessly into the air and back down, bashes his foot against a tree. He’s not allowed to be angry, but he can’t stop.
Somewhere, Abraham is driving, somewhere he’ll feel it, he’ll know Danny had wrong thoughts, and when he comes back the muzzle will come back out and Abraham will lick up the blood running down his neck and laugh in his ear.
(I know everything about you. I know everything inside of you. I know every thought, every feeling, every neuron that fires inside that pretty, useless, broken little brain)
Abraham will come back and he’ll know, and there will be more hands, there are always, always hands but they never, they’re never hands that just want to hold him, it’s always hands that hurt. He’ll put the muzzle on and the headphones in so he can’t go away, so he can’t be someone else, so Abraham can watch him cry.
(god I wish I could bottle those fucking tears, puppy, you taste so good)
He screams, wordlessly, an animal sound of fear and rage and his hate for himself, the shame that he can’t run anymore, he doesn’t even want to. Where would he go? There’s nowhere, no one is looking for him, no one will ever find him here. Abraham is right, he’s right about everything, people like Danny were made for this. Only this. Forever this, until Abraham gets tired of him.
He screams, and he screams, and he screams because when Abraham comes back he won’t be able to scream anymore. He screams himself hoarse and Nate doesn’t stop him, doesn’t even move, just watches him and Danny can feel the eyes on his back.
“What did I fucking do?” He screams into the woods, his voice ragged and broken, and the trees don’t answer, and the birds don’t answer, and the animals don’t answer. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, but it must have been horrible, it must have been worth hell, because hell is what he’s living in, and he’ll be here until he dies.
When Nate grabs him by the elbow he spins around too fast and makes himself dizzy, stumbling to try and catch his balance. He wants to hate Nate Vandrum - the person, the true love, who gets to sit on the couch and sit at the table and eat all the food he wants, Nate who gets to be human - but he can’t, because what he wants more than to let the anger inside of him take over is for someone, anyone, to help him stop it; to stuff it back down where it’s safe, where Abraham can’t cut or burn or bleed it out of him again.
“R-Red,” Nate says, softly, and his grip on Danny’s arm is firm but it doesn’t hurt, and it’s been so long since anyone but Abraham touched him, really - even when Nate does it’s because Abraham tells him to, and that’s not the same, that’s just an extension of Abraham’s hands, wearing a different face. “Red, please-”
“I’m sorry I did that dumb thing with the rabbit,” Danny whispers, throat aching, eyes hot with tears but they don’t fall, he won’t let them, he keeps them glittering against his eyes, blurring the vision of the older man watching him, so he can’t see his face. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not allowed to be angry, I know I am, I know… I’m so sorry-”
“N-No, it’s okay, I, uh, I l-liked that you d-d-did that thing with the rabbit. That you let it go.” There’s a note to Nate’s voice, something he knows but doesn’t know, it’s been so long since he’s heard it.
Danny rubs the back of his hand against his eyes and blinks, looks at Nate more closely. The green eyes are warm, on his, and he swallows hard against a sudden awareness that Nate’s eyes are always warm when they look at him, aren’t they?
“You did?” He doesn’t mean his voice to come out so soft, barely above a whisper, but it does. Nate’s other hand moves, jerks a little, like he wants to do something with it but he doesn’t know what. “You’re not mad that I got angry? Puppies aren’t allowed-”
“I’m not mad. And you, you’re, you’re n-not…” Nate loosens the grip on his elbow, and he doesn’t want him to but he has no idea how to say it. Please, you haven’t touched me in weeks, please, I need touch that doesn’t hurt me. “We h-h-have plenty stored up. It’s f-f-fine. You’re right, th-they should get to go home… the rabbits.”
“I want them to go home,” Danny says, a little miserably, and sees the depth of understanding in Nate’s eyes and he clings to it, to the shred of being a person that Nate still seems to see in him. “I don’t want to see them in the snares anymore. I just want them to go home, where-… where there aren’t any people like, like us - like him - where there aren’t any… hands, that won’t stop, I just…”
I want to go home.
There is no home but here.
I want to go home.
“I kn-know,” Nate says, softly, and he takes a step closer, and then another. Danny can feel him, almost, the way he’s warm when everything else is cold now. “I know. I w-w-want them to go h-h-home, too. Y-you can go back to the cabin, if you w-want, I can walk the traps the r-r-rest of the way by myself.”
“No,” Danny says softly, and he can’t stop looking down at Nate’s hands, which he’s not supposed to think about. How they’ve changed since they got here, gone all rough and so have Danny, just in a different way “I don’t want to be by myself right now.”
“A-Are you sure? You c-c-could sit on the couch. He wouldn’t know. You kn-know I don’t tell him anything ab-about you, or what you say to me.”
“Does he ask?” Danny takes a breath, watches Nate step even closer, close enough that Danny can smell his cologne, the bottle Abraham buys him for Christmas each year. The forest around them seemed quieter now, just the usual rustle of leaves in the slightest breeze. “What I tell you, what I talk about?”
Nate pauses, watching him thoughtfully, and then he nods. “He d-does.”
“You tell him anything he wants, when he looks right at you,” Danny says, but it’s without a hint of blame. He was angry, at first, that Nate gave up and gave in so easily. He understands, now. You can’t do anything else, if Abraham looks at you long enough. You can’t do anything but what he wants, what he tells you to do.
He’s close enough now that the change in the air is real, the hint of another person’s presence, someone he isn’t afraid of. The only person left he isn’t afraid of. Nate swallows hard, in a way Danny can see shift the muscles of his throat the faint lines of pale circled scarring there from his time with Abraham before. “I d-don’t have to tell him about y-y-you.”
It’s an admission, Danny thinks, some kind of confession, but he’s not sure to what.
“What does that mean?”
“I d-don’t know. Just that it… doesn’t always w-w-work, when it’s about y-you.” Nate looks him over again, licking at his lips nervously, pressing them together in this habit he has that Danny has seen, over and over again, while they’ve been here. “It d-doesn’t always… I’m sorry.”
Danny laughs, bitterly, hands slowly going up over his face, blocking out the world around them. “I’m fucking sorry too, Nate. I’m so goddamn sorry, and maybe when I’m dead I’ll get to say I’m sorry for whatever I did to, to earn this, to make this happen to me. Maybe when he gets tired of me and I’m dead-”
“You w-won’t die here.” Nate grabs him by the arms, and Danny stumbles forward until Nate is holding onto him, arms so tight around him, and Danny’s knees nearly buckle. “N-not you, Red, n-n-not you, I won’t let you die h-here…”
He hasn’t been touched in so long like this, just held, just hugged and held onto, and he drops his head down, curving over himself until his head is on Nate’s shoulder.
Scratchy sweater fabric against his cheek, against the itching, healing muzzle scars, and Nate’s hand is in his hair, and Danny doesn’t cry but he feels the scream still bubbling in his throat, trying to make its way out.
“You n-never did a single fucking thing wrong, Danny,” Nate whispers, fiercely, and Danny’s eyes close at the name, the name he only thinks to himself sometimes just to try and remember that he used to have one, a person’s name, a people name, that he was something better than this, something more.
“You h-h-have to c-call me, call me Red, Nate,” Danny whispers. There’s a pause, and then he puts his arms up around Nate, too, slides them around his waist, and he knows this waist so well for so many terrible reasons but for just now, right now, he tries to know it for a good one.
“I don’t. I can c-c-call you whatever I want, r-right now, when he’s not here, and I w-w-want to call you Danny, so please, please l-let me, just for n-now, just for r-r-right now, please,” Nate whispers against his ear, and holds him like he’s real, like he deserves it, and Danny can’t let go of him.
“Why did you stop touching me?” He asks, and he keeps his head buried against Nate’s shoulder so he won’t see his face at the question. “It’s been weeks, I can’t live with only him touching me, why did you stop?”
“He m-m-makes me hurt you,” Nate says softly back. “I, it’s so hard to, to think that I h-h-have to hurt you all th-the time, and then I thought you m-m-must hate that someone who h-hurts you would be anywhere near, near you, I just… I just th-thought you wouldn’t want me to.”
“I do want you to,” Danny says softly, lips moving against the fabric of his sweater, feeling the warmth of it, the warmth of his body through the fabric, the strongly muscled shoulders, the rough hands that slide up into his hair but that’s all they do, they don’t pull, they don’t hurt, they’re just… there. “I want you to. I want something good, too, I can’t-… I can’t be in the snare alone, I can’t, I n-need you with me, too, Nate. Please, please, please don’t stop touching me, don’t, don’t make his hands be the only ones I remember anymore, please…”
“Sssshhhhhh. I’m right h-here with you.” Nate presses a kiss to the side of his head, just something gentle and reassuring, and Danny moves back to look at his face. Nate swallows, hard, taking the movement as rejecting the kiss, as not wanting it, and starts to pull back from him. “S-sorry, Danny, I’m sorry, I sh-shouldn’t have, I-”
Danny leans down and kisses him, all at once, a press of his cold lips to Nate’s warmer ones, the barest brush. When he pulls away Nate doesn’t go after him, doesn’t force him back down, doesn’t get angry. He’s not going to be hurt for that, or by it. That kiss was… safe.
Nate looks dazed, like maybe the book he wanted to read opened all on its own, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s going to find in there.
“Don’t stop touching me,” Danny says softly, and grabs Nate’s sweater with both hands, pulling him close, leaning down to kiss him again.
This time, Nate’s hands go up to his arms, curve around his shoulders. Danny moves in stumbling steps until his back’s against a tree, and Nate’s chest and stomach are pressed to his, the pressure of hips against his own is safe and nothing bad will happen to him here.
Nate’s mouth is gentle against his, the hands don’t move from around his shoulders. They don’t roam. They stay right where they are, and the buzzing despair and Abraham’s voice in his head goes quiet, goes silent, and all he hears is the birds and the breeze in the trees and Nate breathing, the soft sound of their mouths together.
“Danny-” Nate whispers against him. “Danny, is this r-r-really what y-you-”
“Shut up,” Danny whispers back, slides his hands up behind Nate’s head, kisses him again and again and again, and none of it hurts. “Call me Danny again.”
“D-Danny,” Nate whispers, and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Danny,” and a kiss to the scar along his cheekbone. Another whisper, another kiss to his cheek, then one to his jaw, then one to his neck just above the red skin rubbed raw by his collar, back up to his mouth. Everywhere his mouth skims Danny's skin it lights up - the way it used to feel when boys kissed him, when he kissed them, when it used to be something he wanted. It's something he wants, now. “Danny. You’re sure?”
“For now I am,” Danny says softly. “While he’s gone.”
“Okay,” Nate says, and presses one more kiss to his mouth, looking up into his eyes. “For now. Wh-wh-while he’s g-gone.”
Danny gives him a lopsided grin, slides arms up around his shoulders, and holds onto him for dear life.
This is the best life will ever be again.
#Daniel Michaelson's story#bad things happen bingo#bthb Daniel Michaelson's story#nate and danny#touch starved#captivity#pet whump#dehumanization#caretaker whumpee#caretaker#broken whumpee#defiant whumpee#tw: implied/referenced noncon#tw: implied/referenced torture#tw: knives#tw: blood#tw: discussion of harm to animals#caretaker and whumpee romance#hurt/comfort#h/c#whump#tw: suicidal ideation (briefly mentioned)#creepy whumper#intimate whumper#mentioned only whimper#noncon implied
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