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bloody-bee-tea · 6 months

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24 Days of Satosugu 2023 Day 6 - Easy

Suguru watches Yuki Tsukumo drive off on her bike, his hands in his pockets, before he goes back to his previous seat. He spots Haibara’s empty can in the trash and he briefly wonders what his underclassman will bring back from his trip.

If he even makes it, a dangerous little voice in Suguru’s head says and he doesn’t quite have the strength to silence it completely.

It’s likely the voice is right, after all. One of these days a mission will get the best of them all, one of these days a curse will prevent them all from coming back, and it’s just a matter of time.

If Haibara doesn’t die this time, me might still die on the next mission, or the one after that.

They are all doomed like that, Suguru thinks and puts his head in his hands.

He can still hear Tsukumo’s voice in his head, agreeing with him that his proposed idea is certainly one way to get rid of curses in their entirety and Suguru isn’t sure he likes how seriously she took him.

If he’s being honest, he was waiting for her to laugh in his face, to call him out on his stupid, childish reasoning, but instead she took him seriously and even somewhat agreed with him.

Suguru doesn’t know what to do with that.

His hand twitches with the urge to get his phone out, shoot a quick text to Satoru, certain that he could talk it over with him, that Satoru would set him straight again, but Suguru stops himself. Satoru is out on a mission; has been out on missions the entire month.

Suguru doesn’t even remember the last time he saw him and he’s certain even if Satoru had a moment to spare he wouldn’t want to discuss stupid hypotheticals with Suguru.

Suguru presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, making sparks erupt behind his eyelids and he wonders if he can just stay like this. Stay here, glued to this uncomfortable bench and never have to take on another mission again; never be responsible for another life again, never have to face a curse again.

It would be easier, Suguru thinks, if he could simply walk away from all of this.

“Don’t go,” a voice suddenly rings out to him and Suguru whips his head up.

Satoru is standing right there next to the vending machine, and even though Suguru hasn’t seen him in ages, he looks the same.

Of course he would, Suguru thinks. It’s not as if anything can touch him these days.

“Don’t leave me,” Satoru says, his voice wavering the slightest bit and Suguru watches him with a frown as he comes towards him, spilling himself into the chair right next to him.

“What?” Suguru belatedly asks, because he doesn’t understand what Satoru is talking about.

And it’s unlikely that he just read his mind, though Suguru wouldn’t put it past Satoru to learn something like that just for the fun of it.

“You’re going somewhere,” Satoru says with a flick of his fingers to Suguru’s temple. “Somewhere I’m not sure I can follow you, so please, Suguru. Don’t leave. Don’t go. Don’t leave me behind.”

“If someone is leaving, then it’s you,” Suguru gives back and hangs his head so his hair hides his expression.

Satoru doesn’t need to see how bitter he surely must look.

“You’re leaving me behind,” he mutters to the ground and startles when Satoru leans against him, his head on top of Suguru’s, forcing him to stay in that position.

It might be easier, too, if they have to talk about this. Suguru isn’t sure he could stand Satoru’s searching gaze right now.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Satoru asks and it’s ridiculous enough that it makes Suguru huff out a laugh.

“Yeah, and for how long?” he bitingly asks, because surely Satoru is only here to report to Yaga and then he’ll be gone again, sent on another mission.

It’s been like that for the longest time, after all.

“Dunno,” Satoru replies, and Suguru can feel him shrug. “I’m inclined to stay, though. You don’t look well.”

“I told you, it’s—”

“It’s not the fucking heat, Suguru, don’t bullshit me like that,” Satoru vehemently says and Suguru flinches. “Something is wrong, something is making you leave me and I won’t have it.”

“What does it matter?” Suguru whispers out. “It’s not as if you need me. You’re the strongest. It doesn’t matter if I stay or not.”

It’s the first time Suguru ever mentioned the possibility of leaving and if he’s being honest, it feels kind of freeing.

He could simply walk away. Maybe. If he forgets about Satoru for a moment and tucks the need to protect everyone away, he probably could simply leave.

And he truly isn’t sure if Satoru could follow him. Or would even want to.

“Yeah, I don’t need you to be the strongest,” Satoru callously gives back and Suguru’s heart sinks in his chest.

Of course Satoru doesn’t need him; Suguru isn’t even sure if Satoru ever needed anyone in his life.

“But Suguru, you don’t need me either. You win your fights on your own, just like I do. But the fact that we both can doesn’t mean we want to, right?” he asks and nuzzles closer, brings his arms up to sling them loosely around Suguru’s middle. “I don’t want to win my fights without you there.”

Satoru’s voice is quiet between them, as if he’s giving Suguru a precious gift that he needs to handle with care, and maybe he is.

“Me neither,” Suguru admits and reaches out for Satoru’s hand, tangling their fingers together.

His heart warms when he realises that Satoru turned off Limitless for him.

“What’s going on, Suguru? What’s bothering you?” Satoru asks, squeezing Suguru’s hand and Suguru opens his mouth but he fails to find the words to explain these things to Satoru.

Satoru doesn’t see it like he does, Suguru knows that; Satoru thrives in fights, thrives off danger and strong opponents, uses them to grow and learn and jump beyond the limit of what was previously thought possible.

Meanwhile all Suguru does is break; he cracks around the edges with every curse he has to take in, with every life that is lost and he’s not sure for how much longer he can hold himself together.

“I’m tired, Satoru,” is what Suguru finally comes out with and it’s such an understatement, it almost makes him laugh.

Satoru seems to understand though, because he nods and he doesn’t laugh at Suguru either.

“You want to take a few days off? I’ll talk to Yaga, and I’ll stay, too.”

It’s not going to magically fix things, because Suguru is already too broken for that, but maybe it’ll be a start. Maybe it will mend even the tiniest of cracks and that might be better than nothing.

And so he agrees.

~*~*~

Only half of Haibara comes back.

Suguru and Satoru took a day off and half of Haibara is missing, while the other oozes blood all over the table, dripping down on the floor.

Suguru hears the steady drip echo in his ears, overlapping with the maddening sound of clapping and it feels as if he’s drowning, as if Haibara’s blood is reaching up to take him as well.

It would be what he deserves.

If he was a little bit stronger, just a little bit steadier in his convictions, Satoru wouldn’t have felt the need to stay, and maybe would have aided Haibara after finishing his own mission.

Maybe, maybe, maybe—the what if’s are going to destroy Suguru, he can already feel the spiral starting.

The drip, drip, drip of Haibara’s blood echoes loudly in the otherwise silent room.

“Don’t leave me,” Satoru whispers out next to Suguru, reaching for his hand and squeezing it almost painfully and everything snaps back into focus.

“I’m here,” Suguru replies, and he knows that Satoru is not asking him to not die.

He’s asking him to come back from whatever place his mind took him to, and if Suguru is being honest, that might even be harder than staying alive.

“It was supposed to be an easy mission to exterminate a second-grade cursed spirit!” Nanami tells them from the side of the room, right before he throws a chair across the room. “Damn it.”

He slumps against the wall, a towel over his face and Suguru doesn’t know what to do. And it seems Satoru doesn’t either, because he’s unnaturally quiet at Suguru’s side.

“Their faith in Ubusunagami—that was a local deity. That was a first-grade curse!”

Something Haibara never should have fought against on his own, Suguru thinks.

“You need to rest for now, Nanami,” he says, because someone has to.

“I heard you’re going to take it on,” Nanami almost spits out. “I don’t understand why we don’t leave everything to you two anyway. Gojo alone would already be enough.”

Suguru flinches at those words, because it’s true what Nanami says. Satoru doesn’t need Suguru to come with him to exorcise that curse.

He doesn’t need him.

“I don’t want to be enough, not when that means I’m alone,” Satoru says, his eyes burning into Suguru’s as he’s driving that point home once again.

Nanami scoffs at that, before he gets up, throwing the towel right at Satoru’s face.

“Yu shouldn’t have been alone, either.”

It’s not as if they can say anything to that and Suguru suspects it’s not even like Nanami wants them to say something.

He just lost his friend; Suguru is certain he wouldn’t hear anyone spout useless platitudes at him either, if he just lost Satoru.

They watch Nanami leave, and all they are left with is one half of an almost cold corpse. The dripping is getting louder again.

“Suguru,” Satoru says and Suguru jolts.

Even though their hands are still clasped, he forgot that he isn’t alone.

“Don’t go,” Satoru whispers, pressing close to Suguru.

Suguru knows that he wants a reassurance—needs it even—but Suguru can’t find the words. There is nothing he can say to Satoru, nothing he can promise him and when Satoru’s face falls, Suguru knows he must have read that right off his face.

“I’m here, I promise,” Satoru says, and he is; he is a hot, steady presence at Suguru’s side.

The only question is for how long that’s going to hold true.

“I just need you to stay, too.”

His voice echoes in the room, being met with nothing but silence and the dripping of Haibara’s blood.

They exorcise the curse in less than half an hour.

~*~*~

Suguru can hardly hear anything over the rushing of blood in his ears. His eyes are fixed on the girls in the cage and he’s sure that the non-sorcerers are still talking, are still spouting nonsense at him, but Suguru can’t hear them.

All he can see are the girls; there are wounds all over them and they are clinging to each other, clearly scared out of their minds.

And the non-sorcerers keep talking.

Suguru doesn’t know what they are saying, can’t make out their individual words anymore; instead all he remembers is what Tsukumo said to him.

That it’s up to him which part he chooses.

“Everyone, shall we step outside for a moment?” Suguru asks, plastering a smile to his face, pretending as if his head isn’t near exploding with the sound of clapping and blood dripping but his steps are sure when he follows the non-sorcerers outside.

He watches them turn around to him, clearly expectant of something, and Suguru is going to give them something alright.

The curse is already licking up his throat, his mind almost eerily quiet now that he made his decision but then he freezes.

“Don’t go.”

It’s Satoru’s voice that cuts through the cold haze that fell over Suguru and it feels close enough that Suguru whips his head around as if Satoru was standing right behind him.

There is nothing, except the house with two scared kids and suddenly Suguru can feel his eyes burn.

Satoru’s voice rings out inside his head, pleading with him, and Suguru reaches for his phone with shaky hands.

“Yo, you done already?” Satoru greets him when he picks up the call and a tear slips down Suguru’s cheek.

“I need you here, Satoru.”

“Suguru, what’s going on?” Satoru asks, all traces of humor wiped from his voice.

“I think—I might be leaving you,” Suguru admits, the curse almost choking him because even now Suguru still feels the need to get rid of these non-sorcerers.

Nothing has been easy these past few weeks and yet admitting this might still be the hardest thing Suguru ever had to do.

But Satoru asked him to stay, asked him to not go, and even though Suguru never promised him anything—knew better than to do that, really—he can’t bring himself to go through with it without giving Satoru a chance to set him straight again.

Satoru was looking to him when he wanted to kill everyone who was clapping in that room; now it’s Suguru’s turn to look to Satoru, to let him guide him.

“Where are you?” Satoru asks, an urgency in his voice Suguru has never heard before and he’s quick to tell him.

He knows it’s stupid, knows Satoru cannot be here any time soon, not with how remote this place is, but Suguru has to try.

He has to try or he’s going to lose himself.

“Wait, let me get a map, I can—” there’s rustling on the other end, making Suguru frown.

“What are you doing?”

“Coming to you, what else,” Satoru snaps and Suguru blinks.

“It’s—far. Can’t you just stay on the phone with me?” he asks, because he thinks if he has Satoru’s voice to guide him through the constant noise in his head, maybe it’ll turn out fine.

“Suguru, if you think I’m leaving you alone for even a second when I could lose you, you’re mistaken. Gimme a moment,” he snaps out and hangs up on Suguru.

The beeping of the phone adds to the cacophony in Suguru’s head and he feels as if he’s being swept away by all of it.

It seems Satoru has made the decision for them both, Suguru thinks numbly and turns back around to the non-sorcerers.

But instead of them, he comes face to face with Satoru.

“Suguru,” Satoru breathes out, stumbling where he stands, and Suguru reaches out to steady him on reflex.

He didn’t really expect to make contact, thought maybe his mind came up with one last image to try and deter him from whatever he was going to do.

But his hands meet Satoru’s arms, real and solid, and Suguru’s eyes snap up to him.

“How?” he breathes out and Satoru gives him his trademark grin.

“Long-distance teleportation.”

“You can’t do that,” is the only reply Suguru can think of to say and something in him settles when Satoru reaches out for him, hands tight on his upper arms.

“I can when it comes to you, when it means preventing you from leaving me,” he breathes out and Suguru slumps, trusting Satoru to keep him up, at least for a moment.

“I don’t know where to go,” Suguru admits, whispers the words between them and Satoru’s eyes blaze.

“You go to me. You always go towards me,” he says, his voice imploring and Suguru can do nothing but nod.

It seems as good a direction as any, if he’s being honest, and at least like that he’ll still have Satoru at his side.

“Okay,” he agrees and wasn’t prepared to see the raw relief on Satoru’s face.

“Always to me, Suguru. Promise me,” he still says, as if he needs to make sure that Suguru is not going to slip through his fingers when he takes his eyes away for even a second and normally, Suguru would find it overbearing, would laugh at him for being this clingy, but Suguru is lost, adrift with no anchor and making Satoru his seems like a good idea.

“I promise,” he replies and slumps forward, resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder. “Always to you. I promise, Satoru, I promise. Just—tell me what to do.”

“We’re going home,” Satoru decides and Suguru flinches, his mind going back to the girls in the cage.

“There are—” he points at the house, the non-sorcerers completely forgotten and Satoru nods without needing further explanation.

“If I leave you here alone for a moment, will you be alright?” Satoru asks as if Suguru could wander off at any second and Suguru hates how right he is with that.

“I’ll stay here,” he gives back, blending the non-sorcerers out so he doesn’t do anything stupid.

Satoru nods after one last searching gaze and then jogs into the house. Suguru hears a loud noise followed by silence and then Satoru is back, one girl propped up on his hip, the other trailing behind him, her hand fisted in his shirt.

“Meet Nanako and Mimiko,” Satoru introduces them. “And now we’re going home.”

“Can you teleport all of us?” Suguru asks even as he crouches down to pick up Nanako.

“Hell no,” Satoru snorts out. “We’ll take the train.”

It’s completely ridiculous and it’s enough to make Suguru break out into wheezing laughter. Suguru knows that he’s overreacting, that it’s not even that funny, but Nanako and Mimiko are out of their cage and Satoru’s eyes are fixed on Suguru, promising him that he’ll always have a path to take as long as it is towards Satoru and really, that is all Suguru can ask for at the moment.

“Let’s go home,” Suguru agrees, still chuckling slightly as he reaches out for Satoru’s hand.

Satoru threads their fingers together, squeezing Suguru’s hand with reassuring steadiness and Suguru feels a little bit lighter than he did earlier this morning.

Maybe it’s okay if he leans on Satoru like this, he thinks and when Satoru smiles at him, he’s certain that Satoru will make sure that he’s always steady enough for Suguru.

And Suguru is going to rely on him.

#bt writes #jjk #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #hidden inventory arc #angst #canonical character death #fix-it of sorts #hurt/comfort #codependency

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memelovescaps · 1 year

Text

It had to be done, words poured out of me last night as if in a trance.

And here's the result.

The aftercare, the love and affection that we will probably not see but we all need.

“I’m right here,” he whispers because he needs to say it.

“Joel?”

It’s the way she says his name. Small, vulnerable.

It’s a plea. A prayer.

“Yes, baby girl. I’m here,” Joel says, “I’ve got you...”

He repeats the same words he said in the snow when he first found her.

When he saw her face, full of blood, her eyes wide and wild, her breathing erratic, irregular. Scared, petrified.

Now, she seems to slowly be coming back. At least that’s what Joel hopes, whispering words of comfort to her ear, again and again, as his thumb strokes her cheek.

He doesn’t register what he’s saying, exactly. He represses his own feelings of disgust, guilt and self-hatred for failing her, for almost losing her again.

Instead, he focuses on her.

On her eyes, opening and boring into his. On her hands, shaking and cold, grabbing his fingers. On her face, which seems to drink on his presence, thirsty for so long.

He needs her to know that he wasn’t there when he should have been, but he is now.

And she knows.

.....

@skoulsons @penandinkprincess @timelesslords @not-so-mundane-after-all @mlbloml99 @claryvoyantfray @pandanivanson @dontmindmeimjusttrash11 @livymcavoy @roseypoetsblog @joelmjller @pedritoisapunk @sentientmasstransit @thescoextra @r-ophelia @8marf8 @sailorbananabee14

#joel miller #ellie williams #joel and ellie #ellie and joel #joel #ellie #the last of us #tlou #the last of us spoilers #tlou spoilers #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel and ellie fanfiction #tlou fic #the last of us fic #fix-it of sorts #post-episode 8

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auntieclimactic · 1 year

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“You should let me go,” Kino says. He speaks in short gasping bursts. “Stop being an idiot and catch up with Melshi. You’ll have a better chance of making it out.”

Keef only tightens his grip. “Save your energy and kick,” he instructs.

#Andor #Cassian/Kino #Fix-it of sorts #there's only one bed #Auntie C's Fic #Kino Loy #Cassian Andor #Ur auntie was reading a lot of poetry while writing this and it shows #Auntie's first star wars fic #The jargon is whoa #Wookieepedia makes me want to claw my eyes out #this took me 87 years to write #Happy Friday I guess

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abboz · 1 year

Link

by Abboz

“Merry Christmas, handsome. Bit late I know.”

Clint stopped still in the hallway, his jaw gaping open as he stared at Natasha.

“Clint?” she signed. “You okay?”

She knew sign language? Of course she did. The Black Widow had probably known ASL long before he’d needed it, maybe before they’d even met.

“Hearing aids playing up again?”

An image flashed into his mind, sun streaming through the window, the pair of them before a screen, her agile hands signing his handle. “Tasha… I missed you.”

Read More: Fanfiction.net | Ao3

#Hawkeye #Clintasha #Clint Barton #Natasha Romanoff #Kate Bishop #Yelena Belova #Headcanon #Post-Hawkeye #Fix-It of Sorts #Mentions of Barney Barton/Laura Barton & their Children #Mine

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baconandpie1 · 1 year

Text

The Gift

Rating:

Explicit

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Supernatural (TV 2005)

Supernatural (TV 2005) RPF

Relationships:

Castiel/Dean Winchester

Jensen Ackles & Misha Collins

Characters:

Jensen Ackles

Misha Collins

Alexander Calvert

Dean Winchester

Castiel (Supernatural)

Jack Kline

Sam Winchester

Other actors are mentioned

Summary: It is Jensen's 45th birthday and Danneel is throwing him a party with all of his friends from Supernatural. He shouldn't be surprised when things get a bit strange... It is a good birthday. One of the best. Just ask him after the party.

Notes:

Up until a few days ago I didn't intend to write anything for Jensen's birthday, and then I was watching the con tweets, his pictures, and reading about the SPNFamilyGiving and ... my brain went into overdrive and demanded to write this. So I did.

Hope you like it.

PS - It is March 1st here already - so don't grumble that it's not Jensen's birthday yet. :) 💚 💙

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45406525

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

Jensen is dead tired. He hasn’t felt so tired in a long time. He’s been doing conventions almost every weekend, writing and recording new music with Steve, and then there’s his new secret project that very few people know about. And JJ has been sick and wanted her dad by her side more than ever. He never could say no to her, and when she’s sick, she sticks to him like instant glue. Sometimes, when he lies beside her, telling her stories, he wonders when she’ll stop needing him this way and he forgets he is tired and has a myriad of other things he should be doing. These are the moments he will cherish forever.

He tries to put on a smile for his friends who gathered at his house to celebrate his 45th birthday, but it is difficult when all he wants is a good night’s sleep.

Danneel knows how much he misses working on Supernatural, how much he misses his friends, and that is why this birthday party is so special—all his friends from Supernatural are here: Jared and Misha, Jim and Mark, Richard and Rob, Ruth, Kim and Briana, Alex, and even Eric made it though he had to leave early. Rachel has joined them for a while through Zoom, though she would have loved to be there in person.

He needs some fresh air to wake up, clear his head. He wants to be at his best for his friends and not half asleep on his feet. With a bottle of beer in his hand, he slips outside in the garden and sits on the padded bench swing they got for their children.

They were sure the kids would love the swing and they do like it, but Jensen loves it more than they do, especially when he sits on it in the evenings with Danneel curled up into his side, falling asleep with his arm holding her tight, swinging slowly.

The air around him changes bit by bit, it warms up and smells different. He frowns and shakes himself, because he knows that smell, but it cannot be… it smells… it smells almost like when they were filming scenes in the bunker.

He blinks a few times, his vision blurry, and he wonders if he is drunk already. But it cannot be; the beer in his hand was only the second one of the evening, and he hardly touched it.

He becomes even more baffled when he realizes he cannot see well because of the hot tears running down his face.

His knees hurt and he realizes he is kneeling by a bed, praying.

It is his voice, but somehow, it isn’t.

Through the tears, he sees Dean’s bed in the bunker, and he blinks some more because this is impossible. The bunker was dismantled. It doesn’t exist anymore. But the pain in his knees is still there and so are the tears on his face.

His lips move and Jensen can hear the words, though it is not him saying them. Well, it is, and it isn't.

He is Dean. But he is also Jensen.

And Dean is praying to Jack.

"Jack, I know you said you will be hands off, I know. But Jack... I need him back, please... please help us get Cas back. He is your father too, your dad. you cannot leave him in that cold, devastating emptiness... I beg you, Jack... Please..."

The tears are running down his cheeks as he prays. He's been doing it every night since they defeated Chuck and Jack is yet to respond.

Somehow Jensen knows that it’s been more than half a year since Jack took over and Dean never wavered. Together with Sam, they tried everything they could think of to get Castiel back. They moved heaven and earth, they reached out to all their friends and even to the Men of Letters in England in order to find a way to save the angel.

And Dean prayed to Jack like clockwork. Every evening.

Dean who never prayed before he knew God existed beyond a shadow of a doubt, Dean who prayed rarely even after that, he prayed every day to their new God, to his son, to Jack.

Dread starts to settle in his heart as he finishes his prayer, convinced that Jack will ignore him again.

His head snaps up as a whisper insinuates itself into his mind "On one condition, Dad."

Pure joy and happiness suffuse his every cell, every molecule, the whole of his being, his heart and his soul.

"Anything, Jack, I'll do anything!" Dean-Jensen cries out.

"You must tell him how you feel." The whisper is soft and ... uncertain somehow, as if Jack doesn't expect him to agree.

"What?" Dean swallows hard, playing for time. "What do you mean?"

"Dad... I am God now. I know. I know everything."

Dean-Jensen gasps. Somehow, he's forgotten what it means that Jack is God now. A true God.

"You only need to tell him how you feel, Dad. That's it. Have to go now. There's trouble in a parallel universe. Love you!" His son’s love rushes through him, warm and soft and endless.

"Wait! Jack! Wait! How do I tell him anything? He's not here!"

The silence is deafening, and Dean-Jensen is crying again when the door to his room crashes open.

Jared, no, Sam barges through with his gun in his hand and his hair flying as he searches the room for danger.

"Dean! Are you ok? I heard you screaming!"

His right knee creaks as he rises.

"I am fine, Sam. I hit my knee..."

Sam looks at him dubiously, but he knows his brother too well and that expression on his face says that's all he gets from him tonight. Dean will talk to him when he is good and ready. If he gets there. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't.

His eyes soften as he takes in his brother’s wet cheeks, but he doesn't mention them, nor does he ask why Dean was shouting for Jack.

"Be more careful, Dean. Your knees aren't getting any younger, you know.” Sam smirks at him, trying to lighten the mood.

Dean-Jensen rolls his eyes at him. "And neither are you, Sammy."

"It's still Sam.... jerk."

"Bitch" Dean smiles radiantly at his brother, the exchange as heart-warming as it is familiar.

The days go by at a crawl, Dean still praying every evening, and Jensen wants to slap him silly. He already got his answer. What is Dean waiting for?

After a particularly bad night, when every time Dean fell asleep, he dreamt of black goo grabbing his crying but happy angel and taking him away, and then woke up screaming Castiel’s name, he trudges into the kitchen and makes himself an extra-strong cup of coffee.

He is sipping it mournfully when Sam joins him, yawning.

“Morning, Dean.”

His brother mumbles something unintelligible and Sam sits across from him with his own coffee.

“What’s up with you? Bad night?”

Dean nods and sips black and bitter. “Nightmares.”

Sam grimaces when he tastes the coffee. “What the hell is this? It tastes like poison…”

“I made it stronger… needed it.”

Sam adds more sugar to his mug and some cream, making the taste a bit more palatable.

“I didn’t know you still had nightmares,” he breathes.

“I don’t,” Dean grumps. “It was just last night…“ He sighs, sneaking a look at his brother. “It was Cas…“

“Oh…” That’s all Sam says. He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t push, he drinks his coffee and munches on a cookie.

Jensen gives Dean a push; he cannot make him speak, not really, but he knows by now that he can influence him, if he does it gently, carefully.

“Jack spoke to me.”

“What? When? How? Why didn’t you tell me?” Sam cannot stop the deluge spilling out of his mouth.

Dean-Jensen frowns at Sam, but Jensen keeps on pushing, not letting Dean clamp up again. “It was that night when you ran in…”

“Is he alright? When is he coming to visit?”

Dean-Jensen shakes his head “He didn’t say. He said he was going to handle some stuff in a parallel universe.”

His brother looks at him suspiciously but doesn’t insist. He lets Dean be.

Dean jumps up and gets more coffee, and Sam sighs, convinced his brother is shutting down again. Unsurprisingly.

Dean-Jensen sits back down, opens his mouth, but speaking is difficult. It always is for Dean, and Jensen nudges him again.

The sentences spill out of Dean’s mouth, Jensen helping him word his thoughts, and Sam just sits there listening to how he prayed and prayed and then finally Jack answered.

When Dean stops, Sam’s eyebrows rise in consternation.

“So where is Cas, Dean? Why isn’t he here yet?”

“What are you talking about? Didn’t you hear what I told you? I don’t know how to make him come…”

Sam laughs at him with tears, and the more Dean frowns, the harder he laughs.

"You need to tell Cas how you feel, Dean!" He wheezes out.

"Really, Sam?" Dean is getting angry, not understanding what is going on. "He is not here!"

Jensen is still there, not sure if it's him speaking or Dean. No, it must be Dean... because Jensen is not that clueless. He can feel what Dean feels, as if they were his own feelings, like he never felt them before, not even when he acted as Dean for long 15 amazing years. Dean loves Cas with all his heart. He loves him to the moon and back, he'd die for him if that's what would bring him back to life.

But Dean is scared. Scared of his own feelings, scared of being called a faggot, a homo, or whatever else people say these days to denigrate gay men. He doesn't care that Cas is a man, he never did. Jensen knows he loves Cas, and that his gender never even entered the equation for him.

But what happens if he says the words? What will Sam think? Their friends?

If he says the words and he gets Cas back, what will Cas expect from him? Will he be satisfied with just being friends or will he expect more?

Jensen can feel how much Dean wants everything with Cas, EVERYTHING. But he also feels how terrified he is of getting what he wants with Cas.

Because, whatever Cas said the night he died, Dean is still Dean, he still messes up most of the time, fucks up, says things he shouldn't and doesn't say things he should.

So what if he gets everything and then he fucks it up? He won't survive that, he knows he won't.

It is better if they are just friends, isn't it? Less chance of messing up.

He pulls at his hair with both hands, tears dripping on the kitchen table, unsure if they are the result of the sharp pain in his scalp or in his heart.

"Dean... " Sam has stopped laughing, his brother's distress too real to make fun of him anymore.

"Dean, pray to Cas. Tell him. Tell him everything."

The older brother looks at the younger one, his eyes red-rimmed. "I am scared, Sammy."

For once, his brother doesn't correct him.

"Nothing to be afraid of, Dean. Tell him you love him, and you want him back. Give the two of you a chance."

Round, surprised eyes watch Sam, Dean's voice hoarse with repressed emotions, "You know?"

"Of course I know, you idiot! I've known for years! I was waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass and do something about it, and then... then it was too late."

Sam grabs Dean's shoulders and stares him in the eye.

"Dean, you must bring him back. If you don't, you will never forgive yourself. And neither will I."

That evening, when Dean-Jensen kneels by his bed, he doesn’t pray to Jack.

He prays to Castiel.

“Hey Cas.” His eyes are tearing up already and his throat is tightening with every breath he takes. Jensen tries to soothe him and calm him down, though he would be a mess too in Dean’s place. He’s done it enough times to know how difficult it is for Dean to open up, to let himself be vulnerable when his whole life was about being strong and never showing weakness. Loving someone is a weakness, they both know that. And yet.

His heart is hammering away in his chest, and he remembers that case when the guy’s heart pulsed out of his chest like in a cartoon when he declared his love. How fitting. He smiles and starts over.

“Hey Cas. I miss you.”

He looks around, and, when nothing happens, he closes his eyes again.

“I miss you so much, man,” he huffs. “Sorry, angel… I miss you more than I ever thought I could. We saved the world, you know. Sam and Jack and I, we did it. All thanks to you. I… I don’t think I could have done it all without you. And Jack is God now and he… he said I should talk to you… tell you…”

Dean-Jensen sighs, laying his forehead on the bed. “I wanted to ask you… did you really mean what you said before you died? Don’t get me wrong… a part of me knows that you did beyond the shadow of a doubt, but then… this other part of me, the part that you ignore, the part that you said doesn’t exist, that part wants to hear those words again, wants to make sure, because Cas… how could someone like you, an angel no less, love someone like me? I need to know Cas. I have to know. You said for you it was enough to just be, just feel the love… but Cas… loving you is not enough for me, I need you to love me back, Cas, do you understand? I am not like you… it was hard enough loving you for all those years when I had no idea you could feel like we humans do, but knowing that you can love? Cas… do you love me? Do you really love me? I want to believe it so much, I want to believe I am worthy of that love… though I know I am not, but maybe… just maybe… maybe I can become worthy of you if you’ll be here by my side. With you here, Cas, I could do anything, be anything and anyone for you. Please Cas… Please come back to me… Please love me… “ His throat closes up, and he sobs into the mattress as there is no whoosh of wings nor any other noise that would announce the angel’s arrival.

Dean-Jensen crawls into bed and cries himself to sleep. He didn’t even have the strength to get a bottle of whiskey to ease his pain this time.

The night is blessedly empty of dreams, but Dean wakes in a foul mood, ready to murder the world. He is mad at Jack for leading him along, he is mad at Sam for encouraging him to pray to Cas, he is mad at the angel for dying, for abandoning him, for not coming back. But most of all, he is mad at himself for being weak, for letting himself feel too much, for letting his walls down. It was a mistake. A mistake he will not repeat ever again.

Jensen is just as devastated as Dean is. He doesn’t even have the energy to try to help Dean feel better. He is along for the ride and nothing else at this point.

Like every other morning, Dean sips his coffee, but he doesn’t even bother to answer his brother when he joins him at the kitchen table.

Sam doesn’t need to ask. He can see it on Dean’s face, in the way his shoulders slump, in the way he doesn’t even look at his brother while he sips at his coffee.

“Sorry, Dean.”

His brother’s knuckles whiten where they grip the coffee mug, and Sam hopes it won’t break with how hard Dean is clutching at it.

Dean-Jensen is drowning in his sorrow, not paying attention to his surroundings, not caring if an army of vampires descended on the bunker, screaming like banshees, ready to drink his blood. Maybe he wishes they did.

He doesn’t hear the soft steps and doesn’t see Sam freezing with his mug on its way to his lips.

“Good morning,” the raspy voice is behind Dean and before he can react, it continues. “Did you make coffee for me too, Dean?”

He lurches to his feet, toppling the chair to the ground, and spins towards the entrance to the kitchen.

The most gorgeous sight he’s ever seen lands on his retina—his angel, dressed in pajama pants and one of Dean’s old Led Zep t-shirts, barefoot, a hand raised to his head scratching his scalp making an even bigger mess of the dark hair that is clearly mussed up by a night’s sleep.

Cas smiles sheepishly at Dean. “Any chance you’ll make us some pancakes? I am quite hungry this morning.”

Dean just stand there, his mouth opening, closing, like a fish on dry land, frozen in place. His brother huffs and rushes to Castiel, crushing him in a big hug. “It is good to see you again, Cas. We weren’t sure… Well… I am glad you’re back and I hope you’ll be staying.”

When Sam releases him, Dean is still like a statue, in the same place as before.

Castiel looks at his feet, suddenly uncertain. “If Dean wants me to…“ He raises his eyes and their gazes lock together for a long moment. Very long. So long that Sam gets bored and leaves the kitchen mumbling “Idiots.”

A soft whisper escapes Dean-Jensen’s lips at Jensen’s urging. “I want you to. I always wanted you to, Cas… even when I didn’t say anything, especially when I didn’t say anything. I never wanted you to leave, I always wanted you by my side,” his voice is getting stronger and he moves slowly closer to the angel, “first as my ally, then as my friend, later as my family… and then…,” his voice gets lower, a husky rasp that sends shivers through Castiel, “then as someone… closer… someone who could share my life, someone who would build a new life with me, as someone I love.”

He cups the angel’s face in his hands, “As someone I want to spend my life with, and love for the rest of our days together.” He presses a soft kiss on Castiel’s lips and rests his brow on his, brushing his lower lip with his thumb.

“If you’ll have me, Cas.”

There isn’t much that can still surprise Dean after all he’s been through, but seeing Castiel’s trembling fingers reach for his face, and his beautiful blue eyes swimming in tears, the angel still uncertain that he can have Dean, it does surprise him.

He covers Castiel’s hands with his own on his cheeks “I love you, Cas.” He smiles and says the words again, easier, faster, and Jensen doesn’t have to push anymore. “I love you, Cas. I will love you forever if you’ll let me.”

He closes the small distance between their bodies with a hand on the angel’s hip, and kisses him again, this time letting himself taste and nip, running his tongue between Castiel’s plush lips, and he sighs when the angel opens up in invitation and the kiss deepens, their hands clutching at each other, losing themselves in this perfect moment, bodies touching, moving slowly, grinding against each other, their swelling cocks easily felt through the thin cotton of their pajamas.

Dean is breathless when they pull apart and he chuckles, “Coffee or bedroom, Cas?”

Though Dean-Jensen is all in and he wants to be with Cas in every possible way, he is anxious. He’s never been with a man before.

Half an hour later, he has already forgotten why he was worried to begin with, as his angel rocks inside him, lighting his body on fire. Dean knows that orgasming at the same time is mostly a myth, but then how many people have done this with an angel? How many people can say that they have felt the other person as if they are one? Because that’s how it feels to Dean—there is no Castiel, there is no Dean, there is only one being here, one pulsing life, two heartbeats, thrumming at the same frequency, two breaths drinking in the same air, soul and grace intertwined, he doesn’t know where he ends and where the angel begins.

He's never felt such ecstasy before, and he doesn’t know if it is because Castiel is an angel—he must be, isn’t he?—or because of the outpouring of love that envelops him and rushes through him like a physical presence.

The slap of skin on skin is getting louder, and so do their moans and whimpers, the bitten off curses, the “Cas!”s, the “Dean!”s, the man lost in the bright blue of the angel as he comes screaming his name. Those eyes become almost white as Castiel climaxes and spills inside Dean’s warm body, and spectacular, large black wings appear at the angel’s back just as the lights explode when he roars his pleasure “DEAN!”

Though Dean is floating in the post-orgasmic glow, he expects what happens next.

Sam rushes in and freezes as the light from the hallway falls on Dean’s bed. He cannot see much besides the enormous wings that hide most of the bed and their bodies, barely a glimmer of skin here and there.

“You guys ok?”

Dean snorts, “Sure Sammy. Cas just blew out the lights when he…” The door slams shut before he gets the chance to finish the sentence and he bursts out laughing.

“Dean…” Cas chides him softly…

“What? He was asking for it, bursting in here without knocking. He’ll know better next time…” And just like that, Dean’s voice wobbles as he asks. “There will be a next time, right Cas?”

The angel hums into his neck, peppering his skin with kisses. “And a next, and a next… until you tire of me.”

Dean’s arms tighten around Castiel, through his soft feathers. “That will never happen, Cas. Ever. You hear me?”

It is as if just now he realizes he is engulfed by the angel’s wings. “Cas! Your wings! You have wings and they are here! I can feel them! Are you a full angel again? With all your mojo?”

Castiel pulls his wings back and with a whoosh they disappear; he slides to Dean’s side, smearing his semen on both their stomachs, not that either of them cares.

“I am not sure… I do have my grace and my wings, but I also slept, and I am hungry… Dean… I have wings again!”

Dean is suddenly cold, and he shivers, fear creeping in when he realizes the angel is gone. Fear of being abandoned again. Fear of being alone and lonely. Fear his angel will never come back. Fear Castiel doesn’t need him anymore. Jensen, who is still reeling from the lovemaking, is convinced that Castiel will be back and will never leave the hunter again, but then, Jensen doesn’t carry the baggage Dean does.

Jensen is right.

There is another whoosh and Castiel crashes in the bed beside him, laughing like a little boy.

“Dean! I flew to Kilimanjaro and then to the Emerald Lakes in New Zealand, and… I will take you with me next time—you’ll love New Zealand!”

“I… I thought you weren’t coming back, now that you can fly again…”

It is too dark in the room with the lightbulbs gone, and Dean has forgotten that angels can see in the dark as well. He probably would have tried to hide his teary and scared eyes if he had remembered.

“Dean…,” the angel grasps his hands between his, willing him to understand and believe him. “I will never leave you again, Dean. I love you.” He kisses away the tears on Dean’s face, the kisses slowly becoming more heated as Dean’s need to reassure himself that Castiel is truly his, rises faster than a striking snake. His hands are feverish over the angel’s body, his cock already hard and leaking despite his earlier orgasm.

He stretches the angel’s hole in a hurry, Castiel moaning softly, encouraging him, “I am ready, Dean, I am ready…” And he is. More than ready.

Dean mounts him fast and deep, his need too strong to worry about inflicting pain, though somewhere inside he remembers Castiel is an angel, and he cannot truly hurt him now. They shout their release into each other’s mouth as they haven’t stopped kissing throughout Dean’s thrusting into the angel’s body, a loud whoosh heard in the dark room as Castiel spills between their stomachs. At least there are no lights that explode this time.

Dean crashes on top of his angel, and chuckles softly, as soft wings caress his back, hugging him. “I guess you’ll be doing that every time, won’t you?” And before Castiel can give voice to his doubts, Dean murmurs, easing the angel’s fears “I love your wings, they feel amazing on my skin.”

The next days are all a blur for Jensen, but he knows Dean is happy, happier than he’s ever been since he was four years old.

And so is his angel.

They are sitting on a swing that Dean built with his own hands, up on the hill, hanging from a sturdy oak branch, thick enough to hold them and more.

The sun is setting, and a chill runs down Dean-Jensen’s back. Castiel pulls him closer, and Dean-Jensen leans his head on his shoulder, sighing. They sit in comfortable silence, watching the shadows grow longer, Dean’s fingers stroking the angel’s thigh. He can do this now, any time he wants. It is freeing. Exhilarating. They haven’t decided yet what they want to do next, but neither is in a hurry. They have time now. Jack made sure of it.

Dean-Jensen’s eyes close as he thinks about a future together, who knows, maybe even their own home with a white picket fence.

He shivers, suddenly chilly, and Castiel rubs his back, warming him up. He turns his head and presses a kiss on Castiel’s neck, murmuring “I love you, Cas.”

After a slight pause, there is an amused, yet warm “I love you too, Dean.” in reply.

Something is off.

He opens his eyes, and pulls back from where he was sitting, curled up against Castiel, wait no, this… this is not Castiel. His eyes widen and he croaks, “Mish?”

“Yeah, that would be me.” Misha’s eyes crinkle as they do when he smiles his big, sunny smile at him. “You ok, Jen?”

Jensen searches Misha’s eyes, unsure how to answer. “I… yes, I think I am… how long? How long have I been out here?” He rubs his hand over his cheeks.

“Fifteen-twenty minutes? I came after you. Alex said you looked tired, and that you needed me.”

“Alex?”

Misha frowns. “Yes, why?”

Jensen looks away, a small smile gracing his lips. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Nobody would. Though Jensen himself finds it difficult to believe what happened to him, he knows at a visceral level that this was no ordinary dream. Dreams are flighty things, they disappear quickly from one’s mind, only a little is left even when you remember them. But this… this is vivid in his mind, like his own memories, even more so. He remembers everything, from the pain in his knees while praying, the smell and taste of his morning coffee, to sitting with Cas on the swing, watching the sunset.

He is Jensen now, he knows. And yet, he still feels more like Dean. Maybe that is what gives him the courage to ask.

They never truly discussed it before. Not as fans, as friends. It was such a loaded question, with so many ramifications, and neither has allowed himself to talk about it before, not Jensen, not Misha.

With a quiet voice, not looking at Misha, he asks “Have you wondered what Dean’s genuine feelings were for Cas? What he would have done if Cas had come back to him from the Empty?”

His courage seems to be contagious, because, for the first time, Misha dares to say what has been on his mind for a very long time.

“Many times,” his friend answers softly. “I wish we had been brave enough to do it right…”

Jensen turns to him, and his teary eyes glisten as he cups Misha’s stubbly cheek.

“I know what Dean would have said, given a chance.” He leans slowly in and kisses Misha’s lips chastely, but long enough for it to be meaningful. “I love you too, Cas.”

Jensen jumps up and hurries inside the house, brushing his tears away, while Misha sits on the swing, his own tears sliding down his cheeks as he whispers, “I love you, Dean.”

Later that night, after all the guests have gone, Jensen makes one last round around the place, collecting garbage. They could have people come over and clean up, but he doesn’t like strangers poking around his home. He remembers the beer he forgot on the swing, hoping he didn’t make a mess with it.

He finds the bottle stashed by the leg of the swing, still half full. He is about to turn when a flash of white catches his eyes.

“Alex? I thought you left already…”

Jensen frowns slightly as Alex comes closer, dressed in a white jacket, over a light blue t-shirt and blue jeans. Wait… isn’t Alex blond these days? And he was not wearing a white jacket… Jensen might be forty-five years old, but he is not that senile yet.

Alex smiles at him, a radiant smile lighting up his whole being. “Did you like my birthday present, Jensen?”

Jensen squirms, ashamed to admit that he doesn’t remember what Alex got for his birthday. Maybe he is senile after all.

“Sorry… was it you who got me that whiskey bottle?”

Alex shakes his head, still smiling. “Maybe you’ll remember if I call you Dean…”

Shocked eyes stare at Jack as Jensen allows himself to accept what is happening.

“You are not Alex.”

When Jack shakes his head again, Jensen croaks, “Are you Jack?”

“In some universes, I am.”

“And in others?” Jensen cannot stop himself from asking—is he dreaming? Is he having a stroke?

Jack shrugs, “I have many names. They wouldn’t mean anything to you. Some are in languages you wouldn’t be able to recognize as such.”

He needs to know, he wants to know. Because, though he made his peace with the ending of Supernatural, it felt… off, and sometimes, at night, under the cover of darkness, he let himself imagine ‘what if’ scenarios. Scenarios that, sadly, he is aware will never see the light of day.

“Was it…” he fights to speak the words, “was it real?”

“As real as this world is to you,” Jack looks around them. “It is just one of many possible worlds, and I thought you’d like to know what could have been.”

Jensen closes his eyes and whispers, “Are they happy?”

“Yes, yes they are.” Jack grins, “Dean messes up sometimes, but Cas is there for him. Always. Dean makes him burgers and pancakes, and Cas flies them to the beach when they are in the mood. Sam and Eileen join them often.”

New tears make their way from Jensen’s beautiful green eyes, down his cheeks, and drip down onto the grass.

He lurches forward, stops, but then goes for it and crushes Jack’s smaller frame in a hug.

“Thank you.”

Warmth and love flood him, and he is left standing alone in the garden.

“Thank you, Jack,” he says again up towards the starry night sky.

#supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural destiel #destiel #castiel/dean winchester #Jensen Ackles #Jensen Ackles' Birthday #Jensen Ackles' 45th Birthday #ao3 fic #spn #spn fanfic #Not Canon Compliant with Episode: s15e20 Carry On (Supernatural)#Canon compliant up to S15E19 #Canon Compliant with Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth (Supernatural)#fix it #Fix-it of sorts

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jee-eun · 2 years

Text

The Cost of Victory: 10

They traveled down the Esgalduin for four straight days. The first day was spent in a terrified silence. Everyone was too afraid to make a sound lest their enemies hear them and discover their presence.

The second day Lúthien sang a lament for her fallen father. She was joined first by Daeron but then by the rest of their people. It was a long song, full of pain and sadness, singing of the deeds Thingol did for his people.

That broke the spell of silence among their people who spoke to one another in hushed tones. Among himself, Turgon, and Galadriel, there wasn’t much said.

They fished for food in the water, seeking to ration the rest of their supplies for as long as possible. They would eventually reach the Falls of Sirion and have to cross over the Gates of Sirion once they reached there.

Eventually the Esgalduin ran into the Mindeb. The spell of silence struck once more as they weren’t sure if Morgoth would send orcs from Dorthonion to pursue them.

They sailed that way for another three days. It was deathly quiet, the silence only broken as they fished for food in the water. Then, they reached the Fens of Sirion.

It was once they reached the Fens, that they began to row. The days were long and tiring as they progressed through the Fens but they eventually reached the Falls of Sirion.

Galadriel took charge once they arrived and for ten days they marched across the Gates of Sirion, carrying their boats and supplies with them.

They lost a man on the first day of their march.

On the third, two went to sleep and didn’t wake up.

On the fourth, one fell to their death.

They lost twenty men in their crossing.

Then they made it to the River Sirion.

Galadriel and Turgon quite promptly kicked him from their boat, sending him onto a boat with his brothers instead where they wouldn’t have to deal with any of them.

It took another week of sailing before they reached the Mouths of Sirion.

It was there that he was able to reunite with his King.

“Maitimo!” Fingon cried gladly, embracing him when they reunited a little ways away from the Mouths of Sirion. He looked much better than he had since the battle. He looked healthier, happier.

“Findo,” Maedhros smiled, some of the weight on his shoulders dropping.

“Your plan worked!” Fingon’s happiness was exuberant, “Turgon and even Galadriel made it! So did Orodreth! Everyone made it!”

“Findo,” Maedhros repeated, his smile fading some, “Findo, you might want to sit down.”

“Why?” Fingon asked, doing as he suggested.

Maedhros took in a deep breath, “Thingol did not make it.”

Fingon’s face fell. “He didn’t?”

Maedhros shook his head, “He died giving us all the chance to escape.”

“Oh.”

Maedhros frowned seeing the smile fall off Fingon’s face.

“Why don’t you give us a tour of the settlement you’ve created thus far?” Maedhros suggested.

His distraction worked as planned as Fingon began to chatter, repositioning his crutches so that he could gesture as they went.

Cirdan and the survivors of the Falas had been there for weeks by the time that Fingon had arrived and they began expanding the small settlement to make room for more people.

“He calls it the Havens of Sirion,” Fingon explained to him, “But we’re planning on moving the entire thing to the Isle of Balar in the future. It’ll be easier to hide us there.”

Maedhros nodded along, happy to see Fingon doing better.

“Cirdan also has a person who calls himself a mind healer! He helps heal your mental hurts!” Fingon told him excitedly, “I’ve been seeing him and he really helps.”

The days after that blurred as they stayed within the Havens of Sirion. At first they mostly worried about the construction of temporary shelters for everyone and the healing of the injured.

Once they had enough temporary shelters, Cirdan began the process of moving everyone over to the Isle of Balar.

The process was a slow one as they had to get supplies from where they could to construct permanent structures on the Isle.

At first those on the Isle lived in temporary shelters as they constructed the first permanent ones for themselves to live in.

Then, as the months went on, they were able to construct more. They had schools for children, a building for healers. They had homes for their people and they had farms to feed them.

Then, a little more than a year after their battle with Morgoth and after they had all settled on the Isle, Cirdan began the construction of ships.

The ships he built were vessels of the sea, meant for the long journey to Valinor.

A number of the elves of Doriath boarded those ships in the hopes of sailing to Valinor where they would be safe. A number of the Ñoldor and the Vanyar also sought a place on those ships, hoping to return home.

They never heard from those ships again.

The fate of those ships was unknown. Some hoped that they actually made it to Valinor, that they were able to plead their case with the Valar. Others thought the ships were lost at sea, never to be seen again.

Life continued on.

Maedhros found himself the caretaker of Túrin, the son of Húrin, and Tuor, the son of Huor.

Tuor, being a baby, wasn’t much trouble. He just had to carry him around and feed him and burb him and change him as needed. When he wanted to play, he would play. When he wanted to sleep, he would sleep.

Túrin, on the other hand, proved to be a menace and a troublemaker. He only obeyed one person and that was only when he wanted to. Beleg, the singular person Túrin would sometimes listen to, was also the boy’s favorite person in the entire world. The young boy looked at Beleg like he hung the stars in the sky and declared him the ‘prettiest elf’ (Mablung, on the other hand, terrified Túrin which made for a great many hilarious occasions where Túrin would be caught between elation at seeing his elf and fear because Mablung and Beleg were glued at the hip).

They were soon joined by Ereinion and then Fingon.

If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that things were alright. The oath wasn’t a terrible band on his heart and he and Fingon were still in Valinor, caring for the children of their many siblings.

It wasn’t true but Maedhros found himself wishing it was.

The days were peaceful enough and Morgoth had not yet found their presence on the small island.

As time went on, though, they were joined by refugees from other settlements, seeking shelter from Morgoth’s wrath. Their own settlement grew and shrank as more people came and more people left for Valinor.

Then Celegorm boarded a ship. He didn’t say anything but Maedhros knew him well enough that he didn’t need to. He was sailing, not to return home, but in yet another attempt to regain Oromë’s favor. In yet another attempt to prove himself once more. He was going to ensure the ship reached Valinor.

It would be a very long time before he’d see his brother again.

Then, three years after their battle with Morgoth, three years after the Fall of Doriath, the ships arrived.

#silm #silm fic #silmarillion #silm au #fix-it #nirnaeth arnoediad #fix-it of sorts #ao3 #maedhros #maglor #turgon #elu thingol #angst #silm angst

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