#but i do know it's still gonna have at Least a bittersweet tinge to it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

seventh-district · 8 months

Text

and it tastes so bittersweet

“You never answered my question, you know?”

Your words are more of a gentle nudge than an accusatory statement, hoping that maybe you can coax another secret out of the crypt of a man sitting before you.

You watch a small smile surface on his features, and he bites it back before it can grow into a full-fledged embarrassed grin.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy if I tell you.”

The sincere hesitance in his voice pulls a surprised laugh out of you.

“Matthew, I already know you’re crazy.”

Your words are dripping with affection, no malice to be found behind them, and you watch as his shoulders begin to shake with poorly hidden laughter.

You spend a dark evening in bed with your effectively immortal partner (in crime). The two of you open up to one another, eventually getting a taste of each other in a way that you hadn't anticipated.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat - Minors DNI

Pairing: Matt x Reader

Word Count: 7,446

Content Warnings: [spoilers for The Malenkee Saga] [SH / NSSI] [blood] [blood consumption] [death] [watching someone get shot] [bleeding] [violence] [vague & foggy traumatic memories] [scars] [DIY heart transplants] [implied murder] [sensual/sexual(?) desire that is hinted at but never acted upon aside from a few little kisses] [you and Matt are both wanted criminals, mentally unwell, and so, so in love with each other <3]

There isn't any explicit sexual content in this fic, but due to its dark and graphic nature, it's still NSFW. I wrote this from the same perspective with which I watched the entire Malenkee Saga - that of an adult. I've recently become aware that some people view Malenkee/Viewer as being a child. While I don't know why, given that Matt literally confesses his romantic interest in them at one point, and Jim clearly states that his videos aren't for kids, I still feel the need to clarify this.

This fic is not intended for anyone under the age of 18.

The small bead of blood trailing a thin line down along your forearm is darker than it used to be.

There’s plenty of things you’re sure you’ve forgotten in this life, numerous aspects of your past that you can no longer recall with any amount of certainty. After enough years pass, any particular memory you think back on could have just as easily been a vivid dream. But you’re quite certain that your blood used to be red.

It looked green, blue, violet even, as it coursed through your veins, thinly veiled by the skin of your wrist. But whenever that skin was opened and the liquid took the path of least resistance, flowing out in a slow, steady stream across your skin, it was always a deep, vivid red.

The liquid that’s now pooled in the crease of your elbow and is quickly congealing into a sticky, tacky puddle is solid black, though.

It’s not the lighting. Yes, the room is fairly dark, but even when you set your blade aside in favor of palming around in the sheets and find your phone, it’s flashlight shining a spotlight on your arm, it’s still black. You straighten your arm out, twisting it under the light, inspecting it with a dull sense of curiosity. This is far from the most unsettling thing you’ve ever witnessed, but still, it is a bit odd.

Why is it like that?

When you tilt your arm, you half-expect the little puddle of semi-liquid to follow gravity’s pull and slide downward, but it stays put, practically having adhered itself to your skin already. It hasn’t fully dried yet, refusing to spread out and tinge your skin a shade darker like it used to. It just clings to you, growing more viscous by the second.

After staring at your arm in dumb silence for a minute, trying to think of any reasonable explanation for this anomaly, your mind suddenly offers up an unpleasant yet helpful memory.

This is the same viscous black liquid that you watched escape from the bullet hole that one of those bastards put in Matt’s neck.

You felt it before you saw it, hot and wet, spraying across your face as your eyes snapped closed. It was the only sensation you could process aside from the deafening ring in your ears.

As the ringing faded out, it was replaced with the sound of Matt’s heartbeat growing ever weaker, ever slower. You blinked your eyes open to see him sprawled back on the floor in front of you, all but lifeless. The bottom of his mask had ridden up his neck, allowing you to clearly see the entry wound, slowly weeping a thick, black liquid.

Every following aspect of that memory remains as much of a blur to you as it felt when you experienced it firsthand.

Two pulses, yours rapid and his slowing, their alternating beats a pulsing pressure in your ears, your arms, your fingers.

The pressure on your wrists increasing exponentially before vanishing altogether as the chain holding your handcuffs together snapped, its links unable to withstand the newfound force you exerted upon them.

The floor falling away from you as your body rapidly stood, moving of its own accord, acting upon long-forgotten instincts to summon strength you didn’t know you could possess.

As the seconds passed in slow motion, you began to feel less like an onlooker and more… like a commander.

Your body the puppet, your mind the puppeteer.

Now, you’d been making attempts at reconnecting yourself with your unique set of abilities ever since Dimi had made you aware of them. You hadn’t managed to get very far with them, though. The fact that no one was entirely sure of the scope or extent of your abilities didn’t help matters either. How do you train a muscle that you can’t feel anymore?

Dimi had suspected that you may have been capable of more than just telepathy, suggesting that your mind very well might be capable of transferring more than thought. Perhaps it could transfer energy. Perhaps it could transfer force. Perhaps it could… manipulate your environment. Bend it to your will.

So, he’d worked with you to the best of his ability during the time you spent together, to try and help you find that power again. To your genuine shock, his suspicions had been correct.

Though, you never got farther than lifting so much as a paperclip by the time that he…

By the time that Matt…

By the time…

You hadn’t gotten very far with your telekinetic efforts.

For some strange reason that up until that point you had yet to understand, every subsequent encounter you had with Matt left you feeling… more like yourself. Or, maybe… more like some version of yourself that you used to be. For the life of you, you couldn’t describe why, but the more time he spent around you the more you found yourself capable of.

While you laid in the hospital recovering from your… memorable encounter with that man behind the white mask, you filled your free time with practice. Any time you were alone in your room, you’d put all of your energy and focus into lifting the heaviest objects you could see.

Anything to keep your mind off of whether or not you’d ever see Matt again.

The chair beside your bed was too heavy. As was any of the other actual furniture or equipment in the room. So you set your goal a bit lower. Working your way down from heaviest to lightest, you tried at every object in the room until you were able to move something.

You ended up spending a lot of time opening and closing drawers, as well as misplacing all manner of small objects that week, much to your nurse’s growing confusion, and Dr. Roberts’ subtle amusement.

After being released from the hospital, you were finally able to test your abilities on a wider range of objects, and from there your days consisted entirely of keeping yourself alive, honing your abilities, and finding Matt.

You hadn’t gotten much more adept by the time you found yourself in his company once again.

The events that played out that day gave you confirmation of what you’d already suspected, though.

He definitely made you stronger.

Simply being in close proximity had been enough for you to feel the effects, but you had no idea how much potential power he truly held until he literally pulled it out and handed it to you.

Looking back, you’re still not sure if it was the life he gave you or simply the traumatizing experience of having him shot point blank in front of you that spurred you on.

It was probably both.

You’re quite sure that he had no clue what he was doing when he offered you part of himself. Hell, you’re fairly certain that he doesn’t even know what he is, let alone what you are or what you’d be capable of if given access to whatever kind of power he holds.

He was genuinely just trying to give you one more chance at life.

There was no way in hell that you were just gonna take it and run. He’d saved your life, so it was only fair that you return the favor.

The two poor men they sent to execute Matt and take you in never stood a chance. Their guns flew out of their hands before they could even take proper aim at you, and the fight was over before it even began.

Bits and pieces of that day flash in your mind, blurry and out of order. You do your best to sort them.

You remember your nails tearing into skin.

You remember screaming. Begging. Prayer.

You remember muscle tearing, blood flowing, bones cracking.

You remember the weight of a human heart, cradled in your hands.

You remember the brush of your bloodied knuckles against Matt’s skin as your trembling hands lifted the tail of his shirt.

Even now, trying to parse through it all threatens to send you into another migraine, so you just let the memory settle back into the haze of your foggy mind.

The only thing that matters is that the two of you walked out of that room alive, with two hearts beating in each of your chests.

The bathroom door leading into your bedroom swings open slowly, allowing light and steam to flood in. The widening fraction of light spreading across your floor and the smell of soap on hot steam is enough to snap you out of your thoughts, and you realize you’re still sitting there pointing your phone’s light at your bloody wrist. You quickly turn it off, your pulse rapidly increasing at the realization that you’re about to be found out.

You snap your head around to face the motion in your periphery as Matt steps out of the bathroom, looking down as he ties a cloth rope around his waist, cinching his robe closed. As he does so, he speaks to you, meandering his way a few paces over towards the bed.

“You were right, doll! This extra robe of yours fits me quite well, don’t you think?”

His hands land on his hips as he raises his head in a proud display, gracing you with that unabashed grin of his that he has such a penchant for hiding.

This might be the first time that you regret being able to see his facial expressions, though.

You watch as his eyes dart from your face down to your lap, to the blood staining your exposed skin, to the way the light from the bathroom bounces off of the sharp, shining blade resting on your knee. You watch his expression shift from one of relaxed joy to one of panic in about two seconds flat.

He’s sat himself down on the mattress in front of you before he even speaks, his hands anxiously hovering over you, not sure what to do but needing to do something.

“Love, what happened? Why… what…”

His voice is soft and sincere when his eyes look back up and meet yours.

“Did you do this to yourself on purpose again?”

You didn’t have the decency to try and hide this from him, but you do have enough of it to at least look guilty at having been caught. Your head drops in a nod of confirmation, and you mutter a small “yeah… I’m sorry…”

You don’t see the slow shake of his head, but you hear the sadness in his voice when he speaks.

“No… no, you don’t need to be sorry, love.”

Your eyes catch the movement as his hand draws closer to your face, hesitating and hovering a few inches away.

“May I… touch you?”

You nod again slowly.

“Of course.”

You feel the pads of his fingers gently come to rest along your jaw, still soft and warm from his shower. He carefully angles your head up to face him.

“I just want to know why… Are you hurting? What’s… what’s upset you? What drove you to do this tonight?”

You close your eyes and shake your head slowly, contemplative. This side of your self injury is something you hadn’t really explained to him yet, so it’s understandable that he thinks it’s because something’s upset you.

How the fuck are you gonna explain that you were just doing it tonight because it feels good?

“I’m not upset, Matt. Honestly! I just…”

You dare to meet his gaze again and he’s still eyeing you with a level of concern that is far too sincere, far too unconditional, far too gentle.

You wouldn’t think a man that has taken as many lives as he has could ever look at you with such innocence in his eyes.

The saddest part is that you really don’t think it’s an act. He really is just… an enigma.

Well, it’s not like it’ll be the craziest thing he’s ever heard, right? Maybe… maybe he’ll understand.

“I’m not sure how I can explain this to you, honey…”

You glance away from his face, and your eyes catch on the way the sleeve of his robe has slid up his arm, exposing the skin there. Countless raised black lines litter his forearms, and you figure you’ll start out with a question for him.

“So, uhm… you’ve cut yourself many times, right?”

His eyes dart down to his exposed wrist, quickly flicking over towards yours, and then back up to meet your gaze again. He nods as he hums a questioning agreement.

“Mhm?”

“And… like we spoke about before, it’s usually because you’re trying to relieve some sort of pain that’s inside your mind, yeah?”

He nods again, brows furrowing in concern.

“Well, uhm, have you ever just… felt the urge to do it even when you weren’t in any pain? Maybe even when you felt good? Have you ever just… wanted to cut because it feels nice?”

He seems to take in your words for a moment, his gentle grip on your jaw loosening entirely as his hand lowers down to find your wrist instead. He carefully cups the back of your forearm, bringing it further up towards him to get a better look at the rapidly healing lines.

“Is that why you did this tonight? Because it feels good?”

There’s none of the mocking or confusion you feared would be in his tone.

“Yes. I just… it’s been a while since I’ve even done it, what with… everything that’s been going on lately. I’ve scarcely had the time! And- and it’s not like something happened today that upset me, I just… I don’t know. Sometimes something will happen that reminds me of how nice it feels to get hurt, and… I get that urge again.”

His fingers tap rhythmically against your skin as he hums in contemplation, eventually responding with another question.

“So… what happened? What reminded you of how good it feels?”

Oh, yeah. That’s a good question, actually.

Hah.

“Well…” you huff a small laugh at the memory.

“You remember how I was trying to cut that strip of hard plastic yesterday?”

His head nods curtly as he recalls your attempt, realization already seeming to dawn on his features before you can finish explaining.

You can’t help but smile at him a little.

Smart boy.

“And you remember how I gave up and tried snapping it in half with sheer force?”

It’s his turn to smile a bit, his lips quirking up to the side in a knowing smirk before he parts them and finishes your explanation for you.

“And it snapped, broke into several small, sharp pieces, which flew in all manner of directions.”

You nod your head in silence, letting him tell the rest of the story.

“One piece flew up and scratched you… right…”

He reaches up, carefully grazing the pad of his thumb across the apple of your cheek.

“…here.”

You can’t help but sigh and lean into his gentle touch, recalling the way he worriedly sat you down on the bathroom counter yesterday afternoon. You could feel his fingers trembling, muttering about your reckless behavior as he applied ointment to the very minor wound.

“That’s all it was, honestly. That’s all it took to make me crave this feeling.”

You both glance back down at your wrist, still cradled gently in one of his strong hands. Silence lingers for a moment, and you eventually break it with a scoff.

“That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

He pulls in a deep breath, his thumb grazing over a patch of your skin littered with old white scars. His voice is oddly calm, almost… resigned when he speaks.

“…no. I don’t think it does.”

Your gaze flicks back up to meet his eyes at his unexpected acceptance.

“You don’t?”

His eyes meet yours for a moment before he slowly releases his grip on your wrist. You lower it back down to rest on your lap as his focus shifts to his own arms, rolling one sleeve up to better showcase his scars.

“I don’t. I guess… I can understand it, in a way.”

It’s only now that you realize he never answered your question earlier.

“Yeah?”

“…yeah, but… it’s not exactly the same for me.”

You wait for a moment, expecting him to elaborate, but his silence remains. You can’t imagine what could possibly be so different about it for him that has him reluctant to tell you.

“You never answered my question, you know?”

Your words are more of a gentle nudge than an accusatory statement, hoping that maybe you can coax another secret out of the crypt of a man sitting before you.

You watch a small smile surface on his features, and he bites it back before it can grow into a full-fledged embarrassed grin.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy if I tell you.”

The sincere hesitance in his voice pulls a surprised laugh out of you.

“Matthew, I already know you’re crazy.”

Your words are dripping with affection, no malice to be found behind them, and you watch as his shoulders begin to shake with poorly hidden laughter.

You add onto your response with a little more reassurance.

“And I’m right there with you, you know? I’ll be impressed if you’ve got some reason for doing this that genuinely shocks me. So, just hit me with it.”

He glances up at you again, his laughter fading as he composes himself, and you still see a trace of hesitance in his gaze.

“Do you really think there’s anything I could learn about you at this point that would make me shy away from you, Matt?”

His shoulders shrug, and he mumbles his response through his teeth as they chew nervously at his bottom lip.

“…maybe?”

You reach out to grab at his hand before catching yourself, pulling back a bit.

“May I touch you?”

Consent goes both ways, after all.

He nods his head in a definitive “yes” and you take his hand in yours with all of the same gentleness that he graces you with. You idly play with his fingers a bit as you lean forward, ignoring your own injury in favor of focusing on him.

“You don’t scare me, Matt. I know you’re different. Very different. But… so am I, you know? We may be two different kinds of strange, two different kinds of crazy, but… I think we compliment each other’s differences. Uhm… besides, I think we may be more similar at this point than either of us really know.”

His expression shifts to one of confusion at that, and you’re quick to divert the topic back to his confession.

“I promise you’re not gonna freak me out, regardless of your reason for cutting. You can tell me. I want to know.”

He pulls in a deep breath, steeling himself before he speaks.

“Well… it’s true that a lot of the time I do it to… relieve the pain… inside me.”

You nod your head, silently urging him to continue.

“That’s not the only reason, though.”

One of your hands leaves his, trailing your fingertips softly down the heavily scarred skin of his inner arm.

He looks away from you when he finally says it.

“I like the way it tastes.”

Your motions come to a halt at his words, and you sit there just blinking and breathing for a moment as it sinks in. His muscles begin to tense as his fear spikes, and he’s about to apologize, get up and run out of the room in embarrassment when you finally start laughing.

He doesn’t know if he wants the floor to swallow him whole or if he wants to sit here a little longer, taking in the sound of your beautiful laughter. Even if it’s at his expense.

You crane your neck around to look up at him from where you’ve nearly doubled over yourself in your laughter, and finally speak.

“Is that all? Is that what you were so afraid to tell me, Matt?”

His confusion is written all over his features as you lean back up, one hand coming to rest on your chest as you compose yourself. The poor thing sounds so confused when he answers you.

“Uhm, yes?”

You smile, shaking your head at him fondly, as you’re quick to put his fears to rest.

“That’s nothing, sweetheart! I promise you.”

The tension in his muscles visibly relaxes, and he manages to hold your gaze as he speaks this time.

“Really? It doesn’t… turn you off?”

You watch his eyes widen at his sudden realization of what he said, and he’s quick to clarify what he meant as a furious blush dusts his cheeks.

“Not- not like that! That’s not what I- oh, bloody hell…”

You bite back your knowing grin, maybe a bit too eager to watch him fluster himself like this.

“You know what I meant, don’t you?”

You decide to relieve him of his growing embarrassment, nodding as you reassure him.

“It’s okay, love, I know what you meant. And no, it doesn’t freak me out. Nothing like that, honestly. I actually… it’s… hm.”

His brow furrows a bit as you search for the right words.

“It’s curious.”

You think for a moment, before a silly question pops up in your mind. You’re teasing him with it before you can stop yourself.

“You’re not… a vampire, are you?”

Your lighthearted tone works in accomplishing your goal of getting him to relax a bit, and you watch him laugh a little as he shakes his head in denial.

“No, I don’t think so, pumpkin. It’s… not like I crave it, and I certainly don’t need it to live, I just… enjoy it?”

You hum in acknowledgement, failing to keep your mind from offering up a mental image of him making such a discovery. You picture him cutting his skin open just to bring his wrist to his open mouth, tongue lapping at the pitch black liquid that escapes the broken skin.

The… pitch black liquid…

He watches your smile fall as you lose yourself in your thoughts, a look of intense curiosity replacing it. Your head snaps up to look at him, stating the obvious like you’ve just had a revelation.

“You have black blood.”

He blinks at you for a moment, before slowly nodding his head in agreement.

“I do.”

“Has it always been black?”

He glances away from you, his eyes landing on nothing in particular as he gazes into the distance behind you, trying to recall.

“As far back as I can remember, yes.”

You hum as you think, knowing that you likely won’t be getting any solid answers as to the man’s true origins tonight.

No matter. Even if neither of you ever manage to figure out why he is… the way he is, that’s not something you’ll lose sleep over.

Looking down at your own wrist, and the now dried blood adhered to your skin, another question comes to you.

“What does it taste like?”

He seems a bit thrown off by your shift in question, but recovers quickly enough, trying to find a way to describe it.

“It’s… uhm… hm. I don’t know! It doesn’t really taste like any food I've ever eaten, so I don’t know how to compare it.”

Well, that answer is coming from a man who’s genuine favorite food is sopping wet bread, so, you’d be taking his description with a pinch of salt anyways.

With your curiosity now peaked, and with a newfound solid excuse to indulge yourself once again, you allow your impulsive nature to take over. Quickly picking the blade up again, you bring it to the soft skin of your inner arm, near your elbow where the veins are better hidden, and make one fast, shallow swipe across. Just enough to draw blood.

Matt nearly shouts your name in horror as he reaches for your hand holding the blade, keeping a firm yet gentle hold on your wrist.

“What was that for?!”

The panic in his voice is enough to make you wince in regret, and he catches your reaction, misinterpreting it as fear. He lowers his voice significantly, doing his best to keep it level.

“I’m… I’m not mad at you. I’m not going to hurt you. I just… what was that? Why’d you do it again?”

Your eyes stay locked on the fresh cut, watching the blood slowly leak from it. You note how it moves slower than usual, far quicker to congeal and coagulate, moving more like a quick-drying glue than normal human blood.

You act quickly, before it can dry any further, bringing your arm up to your mouth and pressing your tongue flat against your skin. Dragging it upwards, you chase the short trail it made all the way back to the source, sliding the tip of your tongue across the cut a few times before pulling away.

You close your eyes, taking a moment to focus on the taste.

…

He was right. It doesn’t taste like anything you’ve had before.

If you had to compare it to something, the closest you could get would be…

“Bittersweet.”

Your eyes snap open as you utter the word, and you meet Matt’s gaze again.

You couldn’t decipher the mix of emotions currently written on his features if your life depended on it. His tone is nothing short of bewildered when he finally speaks.

“What?”

You crack a smile at him.

“It tastes bittersweet! But- you’re right. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it either.”

At an obvious loss for words, his mouth opens and closes a few times in silence, reminiscent of a fish.

Cute.

You give a light tug on the hand of yours he’s still holding, and his grip tightens slightly. You huff a small sigh, understanding his reluctance to let you go. You offer him a compromise.

“You can take the blade if you’ll give me my hand back, love.”

He reaches up with his other hand and carefully plucks the sliver of stainless steel from between your fingers, reluctantly loosening his grip on your wrist.

You shoot him a grateful smile, immediately reaching down and dipping the pad of your index finger into the little puddle of blood that’s since formed atop the cut. Pulling your hand back, you eye the way it clings to your skin before your eyes flick over to Matt, watching you with what you can only identify as horrified curiosity.

You bring your finger up towards his lips, and to your slight surprise, he doesn’t back away. Attempting to appeal to his recent confession, you offer him a soft-spoken question.

“Aren’t you curious what I taste like?”

You watch his eyes flick back and forth between yours and your blood-soaked fingertip, and you prepare yourself to pull back. You ready yourself to apologize for being so forward, and for scaring him the way that you did. As soon as you make the first move to pull away, though, he parts his lips and finally speaks.

His confession is nothing more than a soft whisper.

“Yes. Please.”

There’s an immediate shift in the air as he speaks, and you watch a sudden, desperate hunger make itself visible in his gaze. He reaches out, fingers slowly closing around your wrist once again as he brings your hand further towards him.

You watch in rapt fascination as his eyes close, he parts his lips, and the pad of your finger is gently pressed down against his waiting tongue. His lips close tightly around your fingertip, and slowly, reluctantly, he pulls your hand away.

No traces of blood remain as you glance at your finger, and you watch as he swallows, his eyes blinking back open a moment later.

You suspect that you shouldn’t feel as much pride as you do when you notice his blush having returned in full force.

Your eyebrows raise as you cock your head to the side in question.

“So? What do I taste like?”

Finding his voice, he clears his throat as his gaze wanders from your eyes, to your smile, and finally down to your blood-stained wrist.

“Better than I do, poppet…”

He can’t help himself as he reaches out a hand, moving towards your wrist before stopping and glancing up at you, wordlessly requesting your permission. You nod, a loving smile gracing your features, and in the back of his mind he wonders what he ever did right in this life to deserve someone like you.

He swipes two fingers through the small puddle of blood that’s yet to finish drying, his touch feather light and obviously trembling. Bringing his fingers back to his lips, he cleans them of your blood quickly, like a man starved.

“A damn sight better than I do, that’s certain.”

You ignore the heat you feel rising to your own cheeks, and counter his compliment with a little playful banter. Taking on a flirtatious tone, you bat your eyelashes at him and wave away his words.

“Why, Matthew, you flatter me!”

That seems to work in breaking the tension a bit, and he chuckles at your theatrics before he speaks.

“I’m serious though, doll. Your blood really does taste better than mine.”

You glance down at the dried blood and quickly healed cuts adorning your wrist, the previously open wounds now sealed off, replaced with thin black raised lines. Just like…

Just like the ones on Matt’s arms.

It’s at this moment that you realize that you never showed him the discovery you made while he was in the shower.

“You know what? That’s… actually a bit odd. I figured mine would taste pretty similar to yours…”

You trail off in thought, and Matt cuts in, his own curiosity now peaked.

“Why’s that?”

You reach out for your phone once again, turning its flashlight back on.

“Well, because… uh…”

You point the light at your wrist, clearly displaying the dried bloodstains on your skin. They’re solid black, and so are your new scars.

“It seems that my blood is black now, too.”

Matt’s eyes widen at the realization, looking back up at you in genuine confusion.

“Wait- but- why? It used to be red! I know it did! It- it got all over my hands when I was pulling all those safety pins out of you…”

You nod in agreement.

“You’re right, it was red then. But I think… something happened since then that caused my blood to take on the same properties that yours has.”

You turn the flashlight back off, placing your phone aside.

“What do you mean?”

There’s that soft, innocent tone of his again. He truly has no idea how giving you one of his literal hearts may have also passed along part of his… DNA, parasites, black magic… whatever the hell he’s got coursing through his veins.

Maybe those bullets to the head really did do a bit of damage to his cognitive skills.

Or, maybe being alive for 160-something years just begins to erode your mind at some point.

Looking up to respond to him, you let your eyes wander across Matt’s features.

His long brown hair is still messy and damp from his shower. A few shorter pieces cling to his temples, framing two small round scars from his past unfortunate run-ins with the cops. You know there’s a third one, from another, older, more… traumatizing entry wound hidden by the hair above his left ear. You felt it one night before you saw it, when you’d been carding your fingertips through his hair. As the two of you laid together, one of your nails had caught on the raised textured skin while you idly scratched them along his scalp.

You’ll never forget the way he sobbed into the sheets, holding onto you for dear life as he shakily recounted the events that gave him that specific scar.

You’d never wanted to kill someone as badly as you did that night, when Matt told you bits and pieces of what that horrible man had done to him.

Hard to kill someone that’s already dead, though.

None of the scars from his various bullet entries have a matching exit wound. So, since you can’t very well take him to a medical facility to have him studied, you really have no idea how his body handles getting shot. It could be anything from simply adapting to living with multiple bullets in his brain, to something more far-fetched like his body managing to dissolve any foreign objects that enter it, and mending itself like nothing ever happened at all.

It’s not like that’s any more far-fetched than his body’s ability to store, remove, and receive hearts like they’re some sort of accessory to be swapped out whenever the situation calls for it.

An ability that has been gifted to you as well, apparently.

Your eyes follow the trails of wet hair that cling to his neck, snaking their way down to his collarbones and disappearing beneath the plush fabric of the robe you’ve gifted him.

Reaching out, you glance at him for permission to touch, and once granted, you gently tease the ends of his hair out from beneath his robe. Laying it out across the cloth covering his shoulders, you nod in approval. That must be more comfortable than wet hair clinging to his skin.

As you move to draw your hand back, you stop as your fingertips trail over his most recent scar. Yet another black, raised circle with little tear lines running out from the center in all directions, reminiscent of a star.

A permanent reminder of the time you witnessed a man blow a bullet hole in your beloved’s neck.

You run the pad of your thumb across it, feather light, and resist the urge to lean in slowly and press your lips to the mark. Shaking yourself out of your contemplation, you struggle to remind yourself of what you were just talking to him about.

Lord, maybe he transferred some of his memory issues over to you as well.

You think hard for a moment, and it eventually comes back to you.

“Do you remember when you gave me your heart?”

You watch him blink back into the present moment himself, and can’t help but notice the way his gaze had been lingering on your lips.

“Of course I do, poppet.”

Pulling back, you allow your hand to drop from his neck, trailing downward along the curve of his shoulder and following the length of his arm until you’re once again holding his hand.

“Well, as you know… I got a whole lot stronger that day.”

He nods, smiling as he recalls the events of that day in his own mind.

His unusual reaction to the memory draws a question out of you.

“What was it about that day that’s got you smiling, huh?”

Your tone is teasing, but the question is genuine.

His answer is immediate.

“You saved me.”

Oh.

“Why wouldn’t I smile at the memory of that?”

You quickly shift yourself forward a bit on the bed, and hold your arms out in an obvious request for a hug. He happily leans in, allowing you to wrap your arms around his torso and bury your face in his neck. Your voice is muffled by the fabric of his robe when you speak, but he hears you all the same.

“And I’d do it again. You know that, right?”

You feel him nod against you, as well as the vibrations that emit from him as he hums an affirmative against your shoulder.

“As many times as it takes. I’ll do it again.”

He pulls you closer, holding you a bit tighter as he breathes his response.

“I would too.”

After a long moment just spent holding him, you pull back, still needing to finish your explanation. You stay close to him though, and lace the fingers of your hands together as you speak.

“Well, I think you gave me more than just your heart that day. I think along with it, I also gained your regenerative abilities, and as a byproduct of that- your black blood.”

He lets out a little contemplative “huh” as his mind connects the dots you laid out before him, and he smiles again.

“That’s a good thing, then, isn’t it? I mean, it’ll just help keep you safer if anything… bad… happens to you in the future!”

His ever-positive outlook shines through in his response, and for once, you fully agree with him. This is a good thing.

“You’re right! I think this is really good. Although, hopefully I won’t have to actually fall back on it, but it’s a good thing to have. I mean… it’s not like I plan on either of us running out into the face of danger any time soon. I think we’ve had about enough unfortunate confrontations for a while, don’t you?”

He nods emphatically, his smile fading to a small frown as he sighs, recalling everything the two of you have been through together.

“I agree, doll. All I’ve wanted to do is go home with you from the first time I met you, and now that we’re finally here… I don’t really want to leave.”

He follows his words with a hint of embarrassed laughter, as if there’s anything else you’d rather be doing either.

“Matthew, you know I’d happily lay in this bed with you until the sun burns out.”

He fixes you with a strange, worried look.

“When’s that gonna happen?”

It takes everything you’ve got not to laugh at the sincere worry in his voice. You try to keep a straight face when you answer him, and you feel yourself failing. So instead, you lean forward, planting your forehead into the soft cloth covering his chest in the way a cat headbutts their owner in a show of affection.

“Oh, you sweet thing. Don’t you worry about it, I was just joking.”

If the two of you somehow manage to still be alive when that star eventually dies… well, you’ll just have to burn that bridge when you get to it.

He seems satisfied with your answer, and brings a hand up to cradle the back of your head as you lean into him.

As you sit there for a moment, breathing in the scent of his soap mixed with the detergent you washed his robe in, your mind wanders to yet another unanswered question.

Pulling back, you look up into his eyes as you tell him.

“I still don’t know what your blood tastes like.”

He huffs a small laugh.

“I mean… like I said, doll, I can’t really describe it.”

He thinks for a moment, continuing.

“Besides, I really don’t think it’s as good as yours. Yours is… sweeter, I guess.”

Well now you’re more curious than ever.

“Well I think mine tastes kinda bitter, so… maybe it’s a thing where you like mine better but I prefer yours?”

He hums as he mulls the suggestion over, shrugging.

“Maybe!”

You nearly shove your face back into his chest at the realization that he isn’t gonna get the hint if you keep approaching it like this. You love him to death, but this fool couldn’t catch a hint if it hit him in the hands.

“Do you… think there’s any way that… maybe… I could taste yours sometime?”

You give him your best puppy-dog eyes, pushing aside the embarrassment you feel for requesting something so… intimate… from him.

You watch the realization dawn on his features, and you await his answer with baited breath.

“Oh! You really want to taste mine?”

You nod your head eagerly, giving him a small, shy smile.

“Well, I mean- of course you can! You can have some right now if you want it!”

You watch him lean back from you a bit, re-rolling his sleeve from where it’d fallen back down to cover his arm. You try to not be shocked at his eagerness and willingness to give you what you request. He’d probably cut off his whole arm and give it to you if you asked him for it. Especially if he thought it’d do anything to make up for the whole finger-removal scenario.

His willingness is a gift, and you swear to yourself that you’ll never abuse it.

You watch him reach over to where he’d placed the blade, noticeably out of your reach, and as he picks it up you suddenly remember your manners.

“T-thank you, Matt. You don’t have to do this for me.”

He smiles at you fondly.

“No need to thank me, doll. I’m more than happy to satisfy my poppet’s curiosity.”

He continues talking as he brings the blade to his wrist.

“Besides, I’m a bit curious myself…”

He quickly makes a small, shallow cut, mirroring the way you made yours, and you watch the blood rise to the surface of his skin. He places the blade aside once again, and immediately reaches out a finger, dipping it in his blood and offering it up towards your waiting lips.

Now that the shoe’s on the other foot, you fully understand why he turned red as a tomato when you did this for him.

It’s terribly intimate.

Taking the tip of his finger between your lips, your eyes close and you lose all focus as the taste of him hits your tongue.

This is genuinely the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your entire life. Holy shit. If yours tasted anything close to this good to him, then you need to applaud his restraint, because good god do you wanna latch onto his arm and drain him dry.

You refrain though, allowing him to take his hand back. When you open your eyes again, he’s eyeing you with hesitance.

“Is it okay? I mean- like I said- I don’t think it’s nearly as good as yours-”

You accidentally cut him off in your eagerness to assure him that it’s incredible.

“Are you joking? You taste amazing, Matt!”

That familiar heat rises to his cheeks as you unabashedly compliment him.

“Way better than mine, honestly.”

His response sounds unconvinced.

“Really?”

You reach out a hand towards the half-healed cut on his wrist, asking him the same silent question that he asked you. He nods, and you swipe two fingers through the remaining blood, bringing it to your lips and savoring the saccharine taste of him.

After another brief moment of losing yourself in the experience, you bring your attention back to Matt. You catch the way he must have been staring at you the whole time, and you give him a warm smile, leaning forward once more to ghost a kiss across the warm skin of his left cheek.

“Thank you.”

He flushes even darker than he already was at your combined proximity and display of affection, and he stutters out a blissed-out, lovestruck response.

“O-of course, doll. Any- ahaha… anytime…”

Your own smile can’t help but grow as you admire him, with his half-lidded gaze locked on your lips. You’d almost go so far as to venture a guess that the act of consuming each other’s blood imparts a slight sedative effect, given the way you feel and the way he looks.

Glancing back down to his wrist, you watch the cut finish closing up, now fully replaced with another little black line. With any lingering hesitancy having flown out the window by now, you bend down, placing a tiny little kiss over the freshly-healed cut. You revel in the way you hear his breath hitch as you do so.

Looking back towards Matt, you blink sleepily up at him.

“You ready for bed, love?”

He subtly nods in enraptured agreement, and the both of you move to rearrange yourselves on the bed. You settle into your respective positions, with you on his left and him on your right.

Draping the sheets over both of your bodies, you pull him close to you, and breathe deep as you feel him fully relax in your arms. You gently rest your head on his chest, and reach down, searching for his hand to hold. Tangling your bodies together, you begin to take notice of the quiet beat of your hearts, gradually falling into sync with one another.

As your eyes close, you feel his lips press a gentle kiss to your forehead, followed by his soft voice, whispering quietly into the night.

“G’night, poppet. I love you.”

You smile in your half-asleep state, mumbling your response as you softly squeeze his hand.

“Love you more, Matt.”

A/N: If you'd like to read my thoughts in regards to the process of writing this fic, as well as the musical inspiration behind it, you can find all of that over here, in the end-notes on Ao3! Header Image Sources: x - x - x Lastly, of course, here's the link to The Malenkee Saga, and here's a link to Matt's videos if you're just looking for him.

#Jimち ASMR #Malenkee Saga #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #🧷 Matt 🔨#dead dove do not eat #cw horror #cw sh #cw death #cw injury #cw blood #cw gun violence #cw blade #gun mention #death mention #blood mention #blood drinking #cw body horror #i guess??? maybe???#idk man. this whole fic is just. weird and dark and i'm doing my best to tag everything that calls for a warning #but that's all i can fit in the 20 detectable tags #am i worrying too much abt tagging this and it's actually not that dark? perhaps. but i really can't tell! so i'm being overly cautious #like. does this need a dead dove warning? i have no fuckin clue! i don't rlly think it's that bad. but i'd rather still use it just in case #like. if you've watched and made it through the actual video series that this fic originates from then you're probably fine #but if ur just stumblng across this and have no clue what tf this is about. then yeah you need a bit of a warning #anyways. i'm doing all this warning and explaining for a fic that'll probably get 0 notes (which is totally fine!)#bc i'm of the mindset that you should post everything as if you have a large audience. cause you never know who'll see it #anyways pls enjoy this raw look into my psyche and uhhhhhhh don't think abt it too hard. i'm normal. i'm very normal and sane #:)

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toodleoorblx · 8 days

Text

Fractured Persona

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal

Word count: 1,329

Summary: Rio gets a room, and goes scavenging.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - /?

Warnings: Cursing.

A/N: Enjoy toodles!

Zombie apocalypse AU

Chapter 2

It's been a few hours since she first met Agatha and it's been… interesting.

"[...] And this is your room," Agatha announces as she pushes open the rickety door, revealing a small beige space adorned with chipped brown wall trim. A solitary bed occupied one corner, accompanied by a modest nightstand with drawers.

Rio's gaze falls upon the cracked window, a grim reminder of the dangers lurking outside. A bloodied handprint stains the glass, likely left by a crawler. Grimacing at the sight, Rio resolves to barricade the window as soon as possible. It's not exactly homey.

Agatha must have noticed Rio's disappointment, "It's no five-star hotel, but it's better than the woods," she snorts, her arms crossed as she leans against the door frame, her gaze cautious as she observes Rio

Rio sighs as she enters the room, the worn floorboards protesting under her hiking boots. Making her way to the bed, she’s surprised to find the covers cleaner than expected. For a moment, she half-expected to uncover a rotting corpse beneath the quilted blanket. However, the colorful pattern brings a small smile to her lips, reminiscent of the quilt her father had made for her when she was young. The nostalgia is bittersweet, a painful reminder of the life she’s lost.

"Are you sure you haven't been bitten?" Agatha's abrupt question cuts through Rio's reverie, her tone edged with a hint of tension but mostly subdued. Pushing off the door frame, Agatha takes a few steps into the room, stopping a few feet away from Rio. Her narrowed eyes bore into Rio's, scrutinizing her with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

Rio stands still for a moment, her thoughts momentarily drawn back to her old life before she turns to face Agatha, her brows furrow in confusion. Mimicking Agatha's stance, she crosses her arms and tilts her head, a silent challenge in her gaze. She catches the slight twitch at the corner of Agatha's lip, but it's quickly replaced by a determined resolve.

"I'm sure," Rio affirms with a nod, her jaw clenches in frustration. "Why would I hide a bite if I'm just gonna die anyways?"

Agatha bursts into laughter, a deep, hearty sound that echoes through the room. Rio watches in surprise as Agatha composes herself, a hollow smile lingering on her lips. "Because, pretty girl," Agatha replies, her tone laced with bitterness. Rio feels a blush creeping up her cheeks at the nickname, quickly disguising it by rubbing her eyes. "People are selfish. If they're going out, they want to do it in comfort and shelter, not alone in a dense forest." Agatha scoffs, her tone harsh.

Rio can’t help but feel confused by Agatha's sudden change in demeanor. One moment, she’s giving her a peaceful tour of the house, making snide remarks, and the next, she’s being hostile. Rio can't seem to get a read on this woman, and it's… irritating.

Rio had noticed that over the course of the months the outbreak started, the infected started to change slower, over the course of a few hours. She remembers a nurse who was talking about it with someone, when she was at that prison. Rio hasn't seen it happen first hand, at least the slower transformation.

"Well, I can assure you, I'm not lying. I'm healthy. I don't know the signs of the slower transformation, but I doubt I'm exhibiting any," Rio asserts, her tone sharp with conviction.

Agatha falls silent, her expression unreadable as she processes Rio's words. Rio watches as Agatha's gaze drifts to the cracked window, a deep sigh escaping her lips as she rubs her nose bridge in frustration. "Fine," Agatha relents, her voice tinged with resignation. "But if I see any signs of you changing, I'm killing you without hesitation." With a pointed gesture towards Rio, Agatha turns to leave the room.

Rio breathes a sigh of relief, grateful for the temporary reprieve. She has no idea how far civilization lay, and she knows she wouldn't have survived until dawn on her own.

However, as Agatha pauses at the door frame, Rio tenses, her muscles coiling with anticipation. Agatha's bruised fists clench at her sides as she exhales deeply. "You can start doing your part by helping me find some edible plants from the forest. Be ready in ten minutes," Agatha instructs, her tone outwardly peaceful but laced with annoyance. And with that, she exits the room, leaving Rio to prepare for the task ahead.

Rio stands there, a bit shaken by the sudden turn of events. She’s barely arrived, and already she’s being put to work. Agatha must be severely low on food if she needs Rio's help already, or perhaps she simply wants to test Rio's knowledge of plants. Either way, Rio’s determined to prove herself. She’s spent years researching flora and fauna, and she isn't about to let all that knowledge go to waste.

With a determined resolve, Rio begins packing her gear. She retrieves her damascus kukri blade and slung her satchel over her shoulder, ensuring she’s enough supplies to sustain them for the task ahead.

Ten minutes later, Rio emerges from the front door, her eyes falling on Agatha sitting on the porch, a pistol in her hand as she fidgets with it. A flashlight by her side. The soft breeze tousles Agatha's raven hair, lending her an air of tranquility. Rio cant help but admire the peaceful scene, wondering if anyone can truly find solace in the quiet of the forest. However, she can't imagine enduring it alone. Perhaps Agatha had been planning to live here alone, Rio muses, wondering if she will eventually come to appreciate her company.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Rio addresses Agatha. "Agatha," she begins, her voice tentative. "It's, um, pretty dark out." The sun had just set, casting a chill in the air and stirring up the wind. Rio hates scavenging at night, but perhaps it would be different with someone by her side.

Agatha flinches, nearly dropping her gun, and Rio hears her curse softly under her breath. With a determined air, Agatha stands tall, brushing imaginary dust off her pants before clearing her throat and nodding towards the woods. Rio nods in response, understanding the silent cue to begin their scavenging mission.

As they navigate through the forest, Agatha takes up the role of lookout while Rio searches for food. Rio notices Agatha's gaze lingering on her from the corner of her eye, causing her to shift uncomfortably. "What?" Rio asks, her voice tinged with unease.

"Why the fuck didn't you bring a gun?!" Agatha bursts out, her voice loud enough to make Rio wince.

"Lower your damn voice," Rio hisses, glancing around nervously. "We're going to attract a herd if you don't shut up." Taking a deep breath, she continues, "I didn't bring a gun because... I don't really know how to use one or aim it. I was never taught. I don't get it. I have my M16 for emergencies, but I haven't fired it in forever. I use knives."

"That won't do," Agatha responds grimly.

"What won't do?" Rio questions, furrowing her brow in confusion.

"You not knowing how to use a gun. Not knowing how to use one can be the difference between life and death. Nobody ever taught you that?"

Rio shakes her head, a sense of frustration gnawing at her. "No. My father said he would one day, but..." Her voice trails off, the memory of her father's promises haunting her.

"Oh," Agatha responds quietly, the tension between them palpable. As Rio continues to gather supplies, Agatha appears agitated, as if there's something she wants to say. Rio is about to inquire when Agatha beats her to it. "I'm uh... I'm sorry for-"

"It's fine," Rio interrupts automatically, not wanting to entertain pity. Not because of pride, but because acknowledging condolences would only serve to solidify her father's death in her mind. “Let's just hurry this along.”

#marvel #agatha harkness x rio vidal #mcu #zombie #alternate universe #horror #surival #agatha harkness #rio vidal #spotify #Spotify

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thehallstara · 2 years

Text

ooooo i got tagged by @lenasai wahoo this is fun!!

i got tagged to do a thing: "recommend 3 of your fics: your most popular and 2 hidden gems"

okay most popular (by a decent amount) is selenography, a mapping of a moon and that which it lights which makes me very happy tbh?? for a couple reasons like i know a lot of the time in blb your fics with the most hits tend to be older and not necessarily stuff you’re as proud of and i was also really nervous to put it out for a handful of reasons (making an irm for a team that’s not mine, antisemitism, ect) luckily i’ve only heard positive things (at least to my face) and have in fact heard that it resonated with people a lot, which means more than i can say. so if you enjoy long character studies, lots of nuance, unconventional formats, or exploring what Fans might look like in-universe, this fic (and it’s sequels) might be for you!

okay hidden gems:

icarus to your certainty is a very old 12x100 i did about edric tosser, morrow doyle, and stu trololol in feb of last year, and even though it’s ancient it’s still one of my faves i’ve done?? definitely some of my characterization and stuff has changed since then but i still really love it. if you like stuff that’s short and sweet and tinged with bittersweet nostalgia, you might like this one!

and then cards fall where they may is a twine anthology i did back in the spring, featuring three stories about morrow doyle, peanutiel duffy, and gerund pantheocide respectfully. I think it’s my most visually effective thing i’ve put out by far and has a lot of writing i’m still very proud of. if you like twines, text combined with visual effects to further story, or big moments in peoples lives, this might be your fic!!

also gonna throw the collection i made of some of my favourite blb fics i’ve written because it turns out i have a lot of them (51!!) so check that out too if you’d so like! and i guess i need to tag people uhhh @tigerquoii @idonthaveanyurlideas @fourteenfifteen hi besties xo

#s.txt #tag meme #fic recs #blaseball #hi gang sorry for the tag feel free to ignore it you don't want to do

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slackalaureate · 1 year

Text

With Lucy Jordan

(If anyone sees this, I have more on deck if y’all want it as well.)

Part 1: Foreword

Danny put a cassette in the tape deck and I pressed down on the white arrow. My eyes flicked backwards as the old house drew further away in the rear-view and a bittersweet feeling tinged in my throat, making it hard to swallow. Claire had her Handycam pointed in my face, eye stuck to the viewfinder.

“Don’t make faces, this is s’posed to be candid!”

I threw my hand up over the lens, so she aimed it towards Danny instead. Twisting around, he gave her a wide smile, exposing his missing top-front tooth.

“Wanna see a magic trick?” A hand reached into the change holder on the console, pulling out a stained nickel. Mitts together, he showed each open palm to the camera, then closed them as he turned his wrists. “I’m gonna make it disappear, watch,” As the sides of his palms slapped together, the small coin fell to the floorboard-

“I saw that, Copperfield!” She pointed toward the nickel with one hand, scratched camera in the other.

We snickered for a while, then fell into a quiet spell. Claire slid the rear window open, then laid down in the back seat, camcorder resting on her bandaged knees. Picking up the fallen coin, she idly turned it through her fingers.

Danny was first to break the silence, “This is the hardest thing I‘ve ever done you know…and Thomas- ”

The nickel once again fell to the floorboards. We must have all been mulling the same thoughts in our mind; Notions of staying a while longer, or else making a reason to find our way back later on. The small possibility that what we’d seen wasn’t reality- that Thomas might show up knocking on the back room window as if he was never gone. But the way Danny’s hand shook said something that his mouth wouldn’t- or couldn't. He knew best of all of us why.

Coming to the same conclusion, I spoke up, “There's nothin’ left for us here…I wish- I really wish, but-.”

The rest of the sentence came out hoarse. Danny nodded. Rolling over in the soft fabric seat, he closed his eyes. He laid there in the passenger seat, balled hands resting against his stomach, for as long as I looked next to me. There was no way to tell if he was sleeping, but his body turned away from us. It didn’t invite much conversation. Rummaging in her front pocket, Claire took out a loose Lucky Strike.

“Mind if I smoke, Luce?”

“Just blow it out the back window.”

We kept driving along the highway until dark, watching the waves crash along each new cliff as they passed from window to window. When I got tired of driving, we pulled into the parking lot of a state beach. I’d not been that close to the water since what happened. It all seemed so long ago now, and so empty. The other two launched into a race to the shoreline, finally collapsing just outside the current’s edge. I crawled through the rear window, finding my way on top of the long trunk. Once through, I scrunched curled knees into my stained white tee shirt and grabbed my dad’s blue Walkman from my backpack. Thumbing the crimson-stained sticker on the face, I set in a cassette with the title “Surfer Rosa” scrawled on the label. I’d let them forget about it for a while. It was all I could do to not remind them. If it could take the pain of remembering from them, at least until the time we’d finally need to put to words- I’d do just about anything.

There I sat for what seemed like forever, watching them play along the waves, teetering between warmth and cold. I knew my jacket was inside, laid down on the passenger seat, but I didn’t much care. We were finally free of it, yet the cold touch still lingered on my palms. The world drew itself in monochrome; a muddy, steely blue.

#writing #amphibiansonly #studentwriting

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storytellerofuntoldlegends · 3 years

Text

gods and the mortals they worship

A/N: honestly this idea started out due to the fact that scott and jack are gonna be housemates, and a friend and i were like "haha what if c!scott moved into Innit Hotel with jack" which turned into "haha what if c!scott was the god of mcc but he just seemed like a Dude to everyone else" which made my brain go brrr and think "haha what if god!scott and goddess!kristin met for tea" and then this fic happened. it got much angstier than i intended it to whoops

Warnings: implied/referenced temporary character death, grief/mourning, hugs, emotional hurt/comfort

Summary: Kristin, the goddess of death. Scott, the god of champions. Two deities that at first glance, have nothing to do with the other. But all the same, the two deities are close friends, meeting for tea and talking about the mortals they adore. However, some conversations painfully remind them of the mortality of their loved ones.

Kristin rather enjoyed it when a fellow deity joined her for tea. Not many would, XD was a little wary of her, being her opposite in a sense. And his sister Drista visited her often enough, but the young goddess was a bit on the rambunctious side, which was expected for the trickster. But the deity's whose visits pleased her the most were Scott's. The god of champions was always lovely to chat with, and she looked forward to each event he organized- always rooting for her husband's team, of course.

They met for tea weekly, but this visit... something seemed off about Scott. He seemed cheery enough, talking about how he had recently moved into the Innit Hotel with Jack and the other servers he was drifting between. But there was a melancholy expression on his face for a brief moment as he traced the flower pattern on his teacup, and a lost, faraway expression would come over his face from time to time. These were expressions Kristin recognized all too well- grief. She saw it in the faces of many mortals when she called their loved ones to her side- and it was unnerving to say the least to see such an expression on a god's face.

"Who are you mourning?" she asked, startling Scott slightly. The god's ever color-shifting eyes refused to meet her.

"The loss of my mcc team, of course," Scott countered with a half-hearted smirk. Kristin gave him an expression of disbelief, and the smirk melted away to something more downcast as he fiddled with something on a chain around his neck. A ring.

"Oh Scott," she said softly.

"Tried the married life thing. It was nice, for a bit. But it was a modified hardcore world, and it didn't end well. For him... or for me," Scott said, hand drifting to his throat with a grimace. Kristin set down her tea, placing a comforting hand on Scott's shoulder. Scott had a unique position as a god- he was one of the few who felt the sting of death. As he willingly lived among mortals most of the time, his godly power had to be diminished to do so. Which meant he could die- but it would never truly stick for him. Granted, death didn't really stick for most of the crowd he stuck around with. They would be reborn into other servers, maybe retaining impressions of the ones before- but Scott was the only one who truly remembered each server he had been on.

"I'm so sorry. Is he..." Kristin trailed off, unsure if she wanted to know if Scott's husband had been reborn into a different server.

"He's on another server with me now. Empires SMP. Calls himself the Codfather these days. I keep hoping he'll remember... but I don't know if I want him to," Scott said, eyes watery.

"Why not?" Kristin asked. If she was in a similar situation with Phil, she absolutely would want him to remember her.

"Because what kind of god can't even keep his husband alive?! I couldn't protect him before, who says I could do it now. Besides with my luck, by the time he'd remember me, I'd only lose him again. Why waste the effort on more heartbreak," Scott said, something vengeful in his tone. The aura around him tinged red, and Kristin drew her hand back with a jolt. Scott took notice of his surroundings, and with a sheepish smile his aura shifted to something more neutral and warm.

"That's why you're hiding in the Dream SMP with Jack, isn't it? You don't want to risk him remembering," Kristin asked softly. Scott let out a sigh.

"I'm not... hiding, exactly. Just lying low, somewhere where I don't have to pretend I'm not a god," Scott explained with a faraway glance.

“What if you were to tell this... Codfather," Kristin suggested. Scott wrinkled his nose in disgust in the name.

"Jimmy. His name is Jimmy," Scott corrected, sounding reverent as he murmured his name the second time. It was almost silly, a god worshipping the ground a mortal walked on- not that Kristin was one to talk. But then again, Phil wasn't exactly mortal.

"Then why don't you tell Jimmy the truth about who you are," Kristin prodded. Few knew the truth about Scott's godly status- Phil, most notably, and Wilbur. And now, she supposed, all who were on the Dream SMP. Otherwise, most knew Scott as someone who had a connection to the god of champions, and carried out his invitations to the games- not that Scott himself was the god in question.

"I... I don't know. Maybe it's safer for him if he never knows," Scott said with a sigh. Kristin squinted at him suspiciously.

"Scott, I've known you for centuries. Tell me the real reason you don't want to tell him," she said pointedly. Scott laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. With a deep breath, his expression settled into something more solemn.

"I don't want things to be different between us. I liked the way it was, on that modified hardcore world. We had a flower valley, with a pond and overgrowth and- and his silly insistence on wanting to protect me, like I was the fragile one, not him. I even experienced a brief afterlife with him, after we had lost all our lives on that world. And that... that was beautiful. But then things reset, and he was reincarnated. And how could I not follow him?" Scott said wistfully. His eyes shone with bittersweet tears, a fond smile on his face.

"You truly have the heart of a mortal, my friend," Kristin said with a soft smile. Scott chuckled, shaking his head.

"Well I certainly can't let anyone know that, think of my reputation," he joked. Kristin laughed.

"Oh please, we all know how much you cherish your champions," she teased.

"Don't tell a soul," Scott said in a mock-serious tone.

"Oh please, the only souls I know are dead ones," Kristin replied with a chuckle. Scott laughed too, but it fell short as his eyes landed on the flowers that decorated the teacups.

"I think the worst part is that he sees me as an enemy. I guess rightfully so, I pushed him away because I was afraid of letting him back in. I don't think I'll be able to look him in the eyes if we end up on the opposite sides of a battle," Scott said, voice fragile as the delicate teacups on the table before them.

"Maybe there's still time to make amends. You could extend some token of peace towards him?" Kristin suggested gently.

"Maybe. I just..." Scott trailed off.

"You just want to mope around in a world of constant hardship and destruction?" Kristin teased lightly, smirking. Scott laughed.

"I guess the Dream SMP isn't the greatest place to hide out," he said, still chuckling. Kristin was relieved to see her friend back to his more genuine smiley self, multicolored eyes glinting with amusement.

"Maybe not. Are Phil and Wilbur staying out of trouble?" Kristin asked, picking her tea back up to sip at. Scott laughed again.

"Staying out of trouble is asking a lot for your family. But I think Phil has forced Wilbur to make friends with Ranboo," he replied, picking up his tea as well.

"Oh? How did that go?" Kristin asked.

"Not sure, honestly. I think they opened a burger place? I've mostly been keeping to myself in the Innit Hotel," Scott said with a shrug.

"I'm sure Tommy loves that," Kristin said dryly.

"Oh yes, cussed me out until I threatened to not let him on mcc anymore. He changed his tune pretty quickly," Scott laughed.

"Doesn't Jack actually own the hotel now?" Kristin asked.

"Yes, but Tommy doesn't seem to know that," Scott answered with a sigh, shaking his head.

"I'm sure he'll get over it. Probably still a little jumbled from being brought back," Kristin muttered, unable to help looking miffed at that. She wasn't exactly fond of people being torn from her domain, especially by an overzealous mortal and the god who he eerily resembled. Although she couldn't exactly blame XD, the book had called him and he was forced to answer.

“Maybe life and death shouldn’t be toyed with anymore,” Scott said softly, after a few beats of silence. Kristin thought of Scott’s struggles with death and rebirth, then thought of her own family. Her husband who survived and lived, never dying- and her son, who fought and died, but ended up living.

“You wouldn’t see me complaining,” Kristin replied, voice coming out more melancholy than she meant it to. Scott looked to her with brows creased in sympathy.

“What a pair we make,” he said with a humorless laugh. Kristin laughed too, just as bleak as Scott’s own laugh.

“The goddess of death whose loved ones live, and the god of champions whose loved ones lose,” she said, voice forlorn. Scott set down his tea, dropping his gaze from Kristin’s.

“I do tend to be drawn towards the lost ones, don’t I?” he said with a weak smile.

“Nothing wrong with rooting for the underdog,” Kristin pointed out with a shrug. Scott looked at the flowers on the teacups, and his smile was a bit brighter this time around, less sad and bittersweet.

“I guess not. Maybe you’re right, maybe there is time to smooth things out with Jimmy,” Scott said, looking back up at Kristin.

“Good! Being mopey doesn’t suit you. And telling him the truth couldn’t hurt either,” Kristin insisted brightly. Scott rolled his eyes with a chuckle.

“Okay Mumza, no need to get on my case. I said I’d try and smooth things over, not reveal that I’m an all-powerful god that was married to him once because I like playing mortal,” he replied, dragging out her nickname with a teasing grin. Kristin grinned back.

“I guess your situation is a little different than when I told Phil I was a goddess,” she said semi-sheepishly.

“Phil was also hopelessly head-over-heels for you when you told him. Jimmy is decidedly not,” Scott pointed out with a laugh.

“Oh Jimmy will come around eventually. If he knows what’s good for him,” Kristin said, sipping at her tea. Scott blinked at her in confusion.

“Are you threatening my ex-husband?” he asked, tone so adorably baffled that Kristin couldn’t help but laugh.

“All I meant was that he doesn’t know what he’s missing. Any man would be lucky to have captured your attention," she clarified with a teasing grin. Scott flushed in embarrassment, the aura around him tinging pink.

“You’re acting like an embarrassing mum trying to convince her son to get out there and start dating,” Scott huffed, trying to play off his flusteredness.

“You’re the one who called me ‘Mumza,’” Kristin pointed out, still grinning.

“This is rude, I’m being attacked and you’re twisting my words against me now-” Scott cut off with a laugh, unable to keep up the mock-offended act as his aura shifted back to being a neutral warm color. Scott finally looked the most himself that he had been all day- aura full of warmth, a smile on his face, and color-shifting eyes sparkling.

“Oh, whatever will you do?” Kristin teased. Scott shook his head, picking up his tea and finishing it off with one last sip before standing from the table.

“I think I’m gonna leave, actually. It’s about time I head out anyway,” Scott said. Kristin looked at how low her own tea had gotten, and sighed before standing with a gentle smile.

“Well as always, it was wonderful to have you. I hope everything works out,” she said softly, holding out her arms. Scott hugged her without hesitation, and Kristin got the feeling he was silently thanking her for her advice through the hug.

“See you next week?” Scott asked after he pulled away.

“I look forward to it,” Kristin replied. Scott smiled, giving a two-fingered salute before disappearing in a burst of color. The lightshow faded, leaving Kristin in her rather gloomy domain. The loneliness after a fellow deity left was always the worst, and the heavy conversation from before didn’t help matters much. Scott and Kristin were very similar beings for two deities that ruled over extremely different things- both of their hearts were too big, too smitten with mortals. Scott could at least compete alongside mortals if he so chose, but Kristin was in a plane of existence that her loved ones could only reach through tragedy. Perhaps Scott had it worse- Kristin could at least distance herself from mortals, while Scott stubbornly refused to. But all the same, Kristin was hopeful that things would work out for the god of champions. And maybe, things would work out for her family as well.

MCYT Taglist: @corazon10000 @damiensaidno @franticfandomfanatic @hetapeep41 @space-ace123

#dsmp #3rd life smp #empires smp #mumza #scott smajor #mcyt #mcyt fic #hurt/comfort #sage writes

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arts-and-drafts · 3 years

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MCYTTOBER DAY 8: Warriors

"The way of the warrior is the resolute acceptance of death" - Sun Tzu Technoblade

"Technoblade never dies."

That's plainly not true.

What would be a more accurate statement is "Technoblade never stays dead". Because even though he's tough as nails and so skilled that no one can touch him in a fight, Technoblade has died before.

When he died, it was for Phil.

The man who took him in, the man who ruled an empire with him, the man that together made nations fall to dust under their attack.

Phil was his everything. His only friend, the only one who looked out for him and saw him as a person instead of a weapon. Techno would rather die than lose him, and true to the cruel irony of fate, that's what happened.

At least it was quick. A split second action, a sword through his heart rather than Phil's. Techno was dead before he hit the ground.

Then, impossibly, he opened his eyes.

A woman was standing a few feet from him, short and round and radiating warmth. She was dressed in a black robe that seemed to turn into mist at her feet, but the thing that caught Techno's attention was the huge scythe she held upright as if it were a formality.

Techno blinked.

"Uh." He said, and his voice echoed. The woman's face grew sad, in a bittersweet sort of way.

"You must be Technoblade," she said, and there was a fondness in her voice that made Techno slightly uncomfortable. He didn't feel he deserved a look like that.

"I've heard a lot about you." The woman said, and Techno tilted his head.

The woman seemed to lose herself in her memories while Techno stared. After a moment she stirred, and looked him over fully with eyes that went through his very being.

"Do you know who I am?" She asked, and Techno hesitantly nodded.

Death smiled again, the same small one that didn't reach her sorrowful eyes.

"I hoped we'd never meet. I'm so sorry, Techno." Death murmured, looking away from him to study the blade on her scythe.

"'s fine." Techno replied, shrugging. "I'm...I went out how I wanted to."

Death looked at him sharply, surprise and confusion in her expression. "...Fine?" She repeated incredulously.

Techno shrugged again. "I mean, I'd obviously not like to die, but. If it meant Phil is safe, then it is what it is, you know."

He shifted uncomfortably under Death's gaze. For once, it was silent, not even the voices having followed him to the afterlife. It made Techno anxious.

"Phil...means a lot to me too." Death finally said, and it was Techno's turn to be confused. Death shyly looked down and absently fiddled with the intricately carved wood of her scythe.

Then, she looked up in indecision, comically puffing a sigh that blew out her cheeks. Techno watched in light confusion as Death squeezed her eyes shut, brows furrowing in what looked to be irritation.

"I...this job is never easy." Death admitted, her tone once again sorrowfully tinged with a deep ache that Techno knew he'd never be able to comprehend. "I've taken children, mothers...beloved souls." Death said. "I feel every emotion from their death clinging to them like cobwebs. I've seen grief, rage, indifference...sometimes a sickening satisfaction."

It was then Death looked him in the eyes, and Techno went cold at the eyes that pierced through his soul. For once, when the voices were not present, Techno felt a squirm of shame in his gut, if he really had that anymore.

"Techno, the grief attached to you is more than I can possibly bear." Death said, her voice breaking with words too thick to say properly. "He loves you so much."

And only now did Techno really begin to feel a sort of mourning for his death. He'd never see Phil again. Phil was undying. He'd never get to the afterlife.

Techno suddenly felt like a fist was rammed right between his ribs.

"...I'm going to do something I never do, Technoblade." Death said, her voice still unsteady but strong enough from the brief recovery in silence.

Death closed her eyes, sighing deeply. "I...can't bear to take you from him. Not yet." she explained. Techno was rigid in shock.

"You died for him. You threw your mortal life in the way to protect him even when you knew he'd never die." Death was looking at him now with shining eyes, a look of what seemed to be awe radiating off of her.

"For Phil, just this once...you're gonna be put on my tab." Death relented, an underlying teasing tone to her words. Techno blinked.

"...Tell him I said hi." Death finally said, and just like that, Techno opened his eyes with a choking gasp in his lungs.

His vision adjusted quickly, though he only had time to see the tear streaked face of the man he gave his life for before he was pulled into a shattering hug.

"Techno!! Oh my god--oh my fucking god--you fucking idiot, don't do that to me, oooh my god--" Phil's ramblings dissolved into sobs of relief, his entire body shaking against Techno's as he held the pigman tight.

"Hey, Phil," Techno rasped, slowly raising his hoof to run it through Phil's blood-stained hair. He buried his face into the angel's shoulder, returning Phil's diamond strength grip in a desperate hug.

"My god--oh my god--h-how? How did you--oh my--" Phil finally pulled away, cupping Techno's cheeks with soft hands. His brilliantly deep blue eyes traced every detail of the pig's face as if he believed he'd disappear any second.

"I..." Techno winced as the voices suddenly returned in explosive volume, slamming his brain like a ravager as they echoed Phil's question along with panicked yelling and morbid curiosity.

Techno closed his eyes and breathed, one two, in and out. The voices returned to their regular buzzing at the back of his mind, allowing him to think. Techno looked up to make eye contact with Phil.

"... Are you dating Death?"

END.

#had a lot of fun with this one #mcyttober #day 8 #meraki post #death!mumza #tw death #tw gore

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dukeofonions · 3 years

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Season Two Episode Ranking

Warning: I get very, very, very, critical in this ranking. Like, angry ranting that’s almost laughable. Should I be getting this worked up over an online series? Eh, probably not. But this is my life and I’ll get outrageously angry over whatever media I want.

Seriously though, this is all just my personal opinion. I’m not saying you have to agree with me and if you like the episodes that I don’t then that’s perfectly fine.

I tend to overthink things a lot and I spend most of my time analyzing every little details of this series because what else am I supposed to do at work?

So yeah, this ranking is definitely less positive than the one I did for the first season. But I hope y’all can still have some fun going over it! And if anyone does their own rankings be sure to tag me because I’d love to see them and see how mine compare!

Anyways, enough of me acting like this is more important than it is, on with the ranking!

I can’t believe season two only has 12 episodes. Now I went ahead and counted Moving On as one episode in this ranking since my opinions on both parts are pretty similar, but sweet cheese and fish this season started on September 1st, 2017 with Fitting in and right now is left on Putting Others First which came out on May 1st, 2020. And as of me writing this it is now May 2nd, 2021. It’s been a whole year since the last episode and we still have no idea when the finale is coming.

Like, bruh.

Also remember how the longest episode in season one was only about 15 minutes long and the shortest one was barely four minutes?

Well the shortest episode in season two is Crofters- The Musical which is 8:42 seconds. The longest episode is Putting Others First which is a whopping 51:09.

And I wish I could say that the writing was on the same level it was in the first season, but there’s a reason I put that warning up there.

Well, enough stalling, let’s get this ball rolling.

#11 Embarrassing Phases

There are no words in the English language that can describe the sheer amount of hatred I have for this episode. If I could rank this any lower, I would, which will happen once we finally get the season finale. I don't know how that episode will go but it'll definitely be better than whatever dumpster fire this was.

Like, okay. I have some positives. Roman, Patton, and Virgil's costumes were cool. I won't lie I live for vampire Virgil. And the message about embracing your past "phases" and exploring how they helped made you who you are. That's neat. I like that.

And that's it.

My biggest gripe with this episode is Virgil. He just acts like a complete bitch in this! And I don't mean that in an endearing way he's literally so mean for no reason!

He's all "You guys are trivializing my past!"

In response to them going "Hey Virgil, we're glad you're part of our group now and are proud of how far you've come!"

Like okay, even if it was insensitive to call it a "phase" literally there was no reason for him to get as angry as he did.

Just a simple; "Hey, I don't like it when you refer to what I went through as a phase because it feels like you're not talking it seriously."

Isnt that what this whole show is about? Communication???

It wasn't fun watching him just insulting the others, it was annoying!

Like poor Patton, just trying to help and be encouraging, only for Virgil to keep treating him like dirt.

What did I miss here? Virgil was fine in the last few episodes, so what the heck happened?

Oh and let's not forget the great advice Thomas offers Patton at the end of the episode in regards to handling Virgil: "Don't do anything to get on his bad side or else he'll do bad things to you!"

Okay I'm paraphrasing here but that's basically what he says! And since Virgil is supposed to be a representation of anxiety, this is a horrible message!!!

What happened to finding healthy ways to cope with your anxiety? What happened to keeping it in check so it didn't take over your life?

Yeah I'm definitely gonna make a full post about this one episode later because there's a whole lot more to unpack here. But yeah -10/10

#10 Putting Others First

There is just way too much going on with this episode. They try cramming so much in here that I don't even remember more than half of it.

I remember the opening song, then the Lilypadton fight and everything that happens from there. That's it.

And those are the best parts of this episode, but even that has problems because everything with Janus feels like a completely different episode.

Also the whole way they try to teach about morality is all over the place. How did we go from choosing a wedding over a callback to deciding whether or not you would die for your friends to self care is important?

And while the video game sequences, while utilized well in some places, were way too distracting and it felt like they were just trying to shove as many video game references in as they could.

You could take out just about all of them and the episode wouldn't change. Everything they were used for could have been done just through having the characters talk to each other, and knowing this makes the fact that this video was delayed for so long because of it just makes the whole thing worse.

Like the animations were well done, and I don't want to downplay the hard work the animator did. They were just doing their job after all.

But the trolley scenes (especially the second one) hurt my eyes with all the flashing (would have been nice to have some kind of warning for that) and some of the voice effects (especially on Logan's) were grating and distracting.

I want to rank this episode higher, but it has almost zero rewatch ability and honestly besides the ending, when I first watched this episode I was just kinda let down.

#9 Crofters- The Musical

Okay look, the song is a bop and I adore the fact that Logan and Roman got two episodes in the spotlight, but it's just kinda "meh" to me. Plus I get just a tinge of second hand embarrassment but that's just me.

And I know this is kinda unfair but another reason why this one isn't higher is because of a couple of things. One is that they set up some angst for Roman, he's clearly not doing well and Thomas thinks the best thing to do is tell him that he might get his own jam flavor.

Then he does, and instead of following up on that little plot point from this video, they just rushed out a commercial and completely ignored and potential story telling or character development for Roman.

So yeah "Return of the Jam" is the main reason why I don't like this one as much as I used to. And I actually just got an idea for a new post comparing these two so add that to my to-do list.

#8 Fitting In

I actually skipped this one during my first official watch through for one reason and one reason alone: I wasn't allowed to watch Harry Potter.

But I realized that my parents wouldn't approve of me of watching a gay man's content either so I just said screw it.

And luckily I understood enough Harry Potter references to get what they were talking about and honestly, this episode is a lot of fun.

It's a good follow up to Accepting Anxiety, and a nice way to kick off season two. Virgil is finding his place among the group and everyone is trying their best to make him feel welcome, it's really sweet.

And of course we get the new costumes (which i hadn't even noticed that they were wearing their old costumes at first) and I dunno it just gives off season one vibes and it makes me happy.

#7 Moving On Part One/Moving On Part Two

Yeah honestly my thoughts on both parts of this episode are the same. What can I say? It's really good.

This definitely one of the more emotionally heavy episodes in the series, and we see the characters at their lowest for really, the first time in this series.

I adore Patton's room and how each side gets their own corners. All the little details they add in, including the changing picture in the background, it really gives off that nostalgia feel they were going for.

What I love most about this episode is how (unlike some other episodes) they actually let the emotional moments sink in and don't throw in a joke immediately after. Like the ending is bittersweet, sad almost, and I love that they stuck with the mood up until the episode ended.

Not to say there weren't some jokes here and there (mostly in the first part) but once the mood shifts and things become more serious they let that mood stay. And when there are jokes they all work really well.

This is one episode I've actually watched the least out of season two, so it'll be interesting when I go watch it again to see if any of this holds up.

#6 Why Do We Get Out of Bed in the Morning?

Honestly I only put this one above Moving On because Logan and Roman are my favorites.

This episode is actually one of the weaker ones, which hurts to say because again, favorite characters, but goodness it's all over the place. It feels like a precursor to POF and not in a good way.

Logan and Roman just basically argue back and forth throughout the whole episode, never seeing eye to eye with each other, to the point where I think think the writers realized they couldn't find a way to get these two to agree so they just had Thomas step in and be like, "You guys make a really good team!"

Dude, were you even paying attention? They never even reached a conclusion on their own. And even though they have their little moment at the end, it's all kinda ruined when nothing in their relationship changes.

Yes, in Learning New Things About Ourselves, they acknowledge that there's more work to be done in regards to them, which makes sense. People aren't going to suddenly change overnight.

Yet despite having come to some kind of understanding with each other twice now (both here and LNTAO) in the following episodes they still act like they hate each other! Heck Roman is downright nasty to him for seemingly no reason and I don't really blame him for it.

More like I think the writers just don't know how to develop their relationship and just aren't as interested in them as the others. Logan's been reduced to being Mr. Exposition and apparently Roman's personal issues aren't enough for him to carry a room episode on his own because they felt the need to introduce two new characters before he finally gets it.

Sorry, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, the episode.

There's some funny bits here and there and the little animations are cute (even if unnecessary) but really it's only saving grace is being Roman and Logan centered.

Even though they felt the need to include a cameo from literally every other character because apparently no one has any faith that Logan and Roman can carry an episode on their own.

#5 The Sanders Sides 12 Days of Christmas

This episode is just pure fun. Look, I'm not a big fan of Christmas, even less of a fan of Christmas songs, but my gosh this episode almost makes me appreciate the season.

The way they're all just bickering the whole time, being very confused, and how there's just so much personality from each character even when they're not talking/singing and just being in the background is *chef's kiss* perfect.

There's so many fun little details to pick out during the song and it's fun to go back and watch how each side reacts to different things.

#4 Selfishness vs Selflessness

Gonna be real, this used to be my favorite episode. Until my overly critical brain started finding all kinds of problems in the writing department but I think I’ve been negative enough on this post so I’ll save it for another time.

Janus steals the show in this one, it’s his first official appearance since his debut and he just soaks up the spotlight. It’s refreshing to have an antagonist in the show again, and he’s the perfect foil for each of the original Sides.

He knows how to play into Roman’s insecurities, know how to feed into his ego and get him on his side. He’s in direct opposition to Patton, who believes that everything Janus represents is wrong. He’s able to silence Logan and take him out of the conversation, speaking over him most of the time.

And I guess he and Virgil have some beef I dunno.

The courtroom scenario is fun, and I love how Janus is the only one who sees how ridiculous it is (even though it was your idea in the first place, Jan) and everyone else seeing it as perfectly normal is hilarious.

I do like some of the more dramatic moments in this episode, especially that final bit with Janus questioning Thomas until he finally gets him to admit the truth. It was intense and reminded me of the scene where Janus confronts Roman in a similar manner.

While far from perfect this is still a good episode and I can find a lot to love about it, like Janus in a suit.

#3 Dealing With Intrusive Thoughts

This episode scared the shit out of me and I loved it.

Okay it didn’t actually scare me. But I stayed up to wait for it to be posted, which wasn’t until 2 or 3 in the morning. So by the time I finally watched it I was half awake and not expecting anything that I witnessed.

The result was me being terrified of Thomas with a mustache and it prevented me from sleeping. I was over it the next day though and had Forbidden Fruit stuck in my head all day. Which isn’t good when you’re running the register at work and you can’t stop singing it.

There’s a lot of reason why I love this episode, Remus being the primary thing. His entrance is iconic, the first few notes from his theme play as he creeps up behind the TV, him smiling at Roman all creepily until he whacks him over the head and knocks him out for most of the episode.

Then we get the song, Forbidden Fruit, which is just great. Slight secondhand embarrassment but seeing the finished product and all they put into it, I can’t help but love it.

Still miffed that Janus hasn’t gotten a song... specifically a villain song... I won’t ever let that go...

Logan is another highlight in this episode (no surprise) and seeing him go head-to-head against his polar opposite without batting an eye was interesting since I was kinda expecting them to show Logan having trouble dealing with Remus but nope. He handled it like a champ and I love them both.

Now I am kinda wary as to how they’re going to handle Remus in the future, especially with the intrusive thoughts aspect. It’s a sensitive topic and they’re already screwing up anxiety. But Remus has only been in one episode so far which means I can’t make any solid judgments until he’s appeared in more episodes, so I’ll have to wait and see.

All in all, great episode! Definitely deserves to be in my top three.

#2 Learning New Things About Ourselves

This episode made me feel so nostalgic. I freaking love puppets and grew up with Sesame Street and the Muppets, so I’m probably biased towards this episode but to me this is really one of the better written episodes.

Perfect? Heck no. But really, really good.

I love that we get to explore a bit more with Logan and Roman’s characters, in a lot of ways this is kind of a Logan episode which has him standing against the other Sides, and it’s really interesting to see just how different he is compared to the three of them and it could just be me but it seemed like he’s becoming more of an outsider and isn’t as close with the original four as he used to be, and this episode is what really kicks that idea off.

I can also relate to the “Well that’s nice but what do you do for a living?” message, except in my case it’s more like I want to quit my “real job” to pursue what I’m passionate about while people tell me it’ll probably never happen or “Yeah that’s a nice hobby!” So this episode really struck close to home and I just have a lot of sentimental feelings towards this one.

I love all of the designs for the puppets, they all just fit perfectly and I wouldn’t mind seeing them make a comeback one day. I know that’d be difficult since they’d need a professional to puppet them but hey, one can dream right?

And oh my gosh the song, it just gives off the same feel from Sesame Street and Muppet songs with it’s jazzy feel. And I won’t lie I flipped my lid when Logan and Thomas were in the same shot together. We hadn’t seen any of the Sides share the screen with Thomas yet and the fact that it was Logan, and he was arguing with Thomas and they were singing over each other? Ah I love it!

Also don’t get me started on how Logan’s bit in the song sounds more villainous than the others. I’m not saying anything just a neat little observation.

I have a lot of happy feelings attached to this episode, so despite the few problems I have with it I could never bring myself to hate it. The only one that tops it is...

#1 Can Lying Be Good?

The episode that started it all. The one that caught my attention and sparked my new fixation on this little series that I had just glossed over before.

I really don’t know what prompted me to watch this episode, other than I wasn’t in the best place and it just happened to pop into my recommendations one day and I figured, “Huh, haven’t watched this guy for awhile. Let’s see what he’s been up to.”

Once the episode was finished my first thought was “Holy shit when did this series start having lore?!”

This episode is probably the closest thing to perfect out of all the season two episodes so far. The writing is clever, pretty much all of the jokes land, and oh my gosh the editing in this one is phenomenal.

The way they show Roman shifting between himself and Joan throughout the episode is what sticks out the most. Having Roman’s voice coming from Joan, or having them briefly change back to Roman, I love it so much.

Not to mention Thomas’s ever changing shirt that reflects what he’s thinking/feeling is a neat little detail.

Did I mention this episode is hilarious? The ridiculousness of each scenario that they act out, with all the little inputs from Logan and Virgil who are both trying their best to do their jobs besides not even wanting to be part of it in the first place is adorable.

And of course, the man of the hour, Deceit. Or Janus as we now know him as.

Is it weird that I like Deceit more as a name? Probably, but that’s just because I don’t like how early his name was revealed.

Okay that was my last negative comment. Promise.

Now since I hadn’t watched Sanders Sides in a while I didn’t notice anything off about “Patton” during my first watch. But going back after seeing the rest of the series helped me catch all the little hints they added to clue in the audience that something wasn’t right.

A lot of it is really subtle, mostly in the acting department, but once you’ve caught on to everything it makes you wonder how you didn’t notice the first time. You can even see Logan and Virgil throughout the episode, knowing that something is off with “Patton” but holding back their concerns until Virgil finally calls Deceit out.

I’ve rewatched Deceit’s reveal so many times. When he finally drops the act after Thomas makes up his mind not to lie, you can just tell he no longer cares whether Thomas knows or not. Then things get even more tense when Logan is silenced, and everyone knows what’s going on except Thomas.

The music starts to build up, Thomas is flipping out, then after Deceit taunts him again he finally demands to know what’s going on and BAM there he is!

I love everything about this.

Like, what else can I say? This episode is brilliant. It really shows exactly what this team is capable of when they’re at their best. The pacing, the build up, the writing, all of it combined together to make the perfect episode.

Season Two has been, interesting. The long waits have caused some problems with the pacing and characters, not to mention the departure of Joan from the writing team with new writers entering the room, not to mention the first welcome now unwelcome arrival of Asides, and with only the season finale left before season three, it makes me wonder just where this series is headed.

I know this series is capable of doing incredible things, season one is still solid and it really holds up even after all this time. But season two just feels like a jumbled mess. Sure, it’s easy to enjoy the episodes individually, but once you try to fit them all together it’s like trying to jam a puzzle piece into a place where it doesn’t fit.

The best way to describe this season is as an experimental season. Each episode has the team trying something new, sometimes it seems these gimmicks take precedence over the story itself. Of course, some of these can work to the episode’s advantage, while others are just distracting and you’d know you wouldn’t miss them if they were gone.

It’s a mixed bag that’s for sure. One that has me watching in morbid curiosity as I wait to see whether it’ll crash in the end or blow my expectations out of the water. It really is fun to analyze these episodes, and yes I know I can be very harsh but believe it or not this is how I engage with media that I love.

My hope is that team will learn from season two and try to take a more simple approach with their production once season three roles around. Because if they continue at the same pace they are now I doubt there will be many people around to see this series through.

And on that note, that was my ranking of season two! I’m actually kinda excited now to go back and rewatch everything, I hope I don’t have to wait much longer to do so but that all depends on when the season two finale comes. Whether it ends up exceeding my expectations or just being “meh” I know it’ll be interesting regardless and I can’t wait to see just how they plan on wrapping this all up before the final season arrives.

#dukeofrankings #dukeofcritical #this one post spawned so many future posts #i'm gonna be a busy onion

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champhangman · 4 years

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No Other

Title: No Other Characters: Nick Jackson x OFC Part: One of ? Summary: I don't know the loneliness you've known. I don't hear the frosty words echo inside. Word Count: 4,750 Warnings: n/a A/N: An extremely loud ‘thank you’ to @adampage and @cowboyshit for listening to me complain about the lack of Nick fics, and helping me create something that’s cohesive from the ideas that I blathered endlessly about late at night. Y’all are my biggest supporters, I hope you realize that. (Side note: when I mentioned I was doing a Nick fic, Emi went ballistic, because we all know she lurves him.)

Tagging: @adampage / @cowboyshit / @baysexuality / @lilmisswhiskeygypsy / @bigpixiefoot / @mindofasagittaruis / @kalliravenne / @sadlittlecountess / @baronsbelleevangeline / @brie-mode-activated / @xbreezymeadowsx / @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch / @allizoneme / @heelsamizayn / @what-does-mine-say / @waywardwrestlewritingwaif / @drewshoneybadger / and @merchfreak because I know Alma loves some Nick

One

"Why do we plan stuff for so early in the morning?" Matt rubbed his face with one hand and groaned. "I'm going to get coffee, you want anything?"

"Yeah, the usual," Nick answered. The lobby was filled with people. Groups of women all wearing the same bright shade of pink. Men in suits. Teenagers in blazers, looking bored as they shuffled along behind two stressed-looking adults. "What time is the interview for the social media thing?"

"Thirty minutes." His brother rolled his shoulders and yawned. "You gonna sit in?"

It wasn't his turn. He almost pointed it out, to remind Matt that they, Cody, and Kenny took turns sitting in on interviews for staff in the company. Sometimes it would be two or three of them. Occasionally they all slipped in to meet a potential new employee. They didn't have to do it. But they did, because they wanted to make sure new employees would fit in and expand the familial bond they felt with everyone. But Matt already knew all that. Sighing, Nick shrugged. "Sure."

"Cool. I'll be back. We're doing it in the ballroom on the second floor. Dylan's meeting me there."

"Ballroom?" Nick chuckled. "Are we that damn fancy now?"

"God, I hope not," Matt muttered. "Just how it worked out today. A bunch of conventions going on, y'know? I'll meet you there."

He watched his brother head across the lobby then headed for the stairs. Halfway up, he stopped and backed up against the wall as a stampede of women in pink rushed past him going the opposite way. Nodding and smiling in greeting, he breathed a sigh of relief when they were gone, the wave of perfume staying behind while their excited chatter and giggling echoed.

As it began to fade, he grew aware of piano music. He moved away from the stairs and saw a grand piano at the far end of the carpeted, ornately embellished area. A woman sat before it, head bowed as she played. A small placard identified the space as the grand foyer, and he was acutely aware of his less-than grand attire as he strolled between mirrored pillars beneath gleaming chandeliers. He saw the entrance to the ballroom and leaned inside, but there was no sign of Dylan or the interviewee.

He turned to watch the woman at the piano. Try as he might, he couldn't place the sentimental tune. Melodious, it rose and fell in tempo. She didn't bang the keys to evoke the strength of the tune. She stroked them tenderly, fingers moving fluidly to coax beautiful sounds from the instrument.

Nick rested his shoulder on the nearby pillar, watching her. He admired the almost loverlike movements of her fingers along the keys. Her eyes were closed, he saw, and he wondered if she thought of someone while she wrought the bittersweet melody. A former lover, he supposed, judging it too melancholy to be a joyful love song. Dark hair fell from behind her ear, shielding her profile from his view.

The tempo slowed. Elegant fingers barely touched the keys to bring forth soft notes. They danced, ending with a chord that seemed to echo in his heart. Then they began again. Deep, low sounds that resounded around him, fading into soft, higher notes, ending on a gentle chord.

"That was beautiful," he said into the sudden silence after making sure she had finished.

She whirled, dark hair catching the light as it fanned around her head. "Oh," she gasped, pushing to her feet with a nervous smile. "I'm sorry. I didn't know anyone was listening."

"Don't apologize. It was amazing." Nick pushed away from the pillar and crossed

"I'm sure they don't want me touching the piano. But I couldn't resist." Her fingers grazed the polished surface reverently. "It's a Fazioli."

She said the name almost worshipfully. Nick saw her love for the topic clearly in her eyes. "I'm not familiar with piano brands, is a Fazioli better than others?"

"It has a clearer tone. Sometimes a Steinway can be a bit muddy, especially with a complex piece. Of course, I learned on a Steinway, so they'll always have a special place in my heart, muddy tones or not." She gave a happy, reminiscent sigh. "And naturally it's all down to the individual which brand they prefer, but I like the Fazioli myself."

"Do you have one?"

"God no." She laughed, a sound as musical and rich as her piano playing. "It wouldn't fit in my apartment, and one costs about as much as Lamborghini. Which is a little out of my budget."

"You live in the area?"

"Yeah. Up until the first of the year I was based in Tampa." Her green eyes clouded slightly, but the shadow was gone in a blink. "I needed a change. Which is why I'm here today…"

"Looking for a piano gig?" he asked with a grin.

"God no," she breathed. "I couldn't play in front of people."

"I'm people," Nick pointed out.

"That's different. I didn't know you were listening. And you're just one person. Okay, there were a few people going up the stairs but they weren't sitting or standing watching me. I can play in front of a few friends or my family, but not in front of people. You know?"

"I know," he said with a nod. "What was the song you were playing?"

"It was—" Her lips twisted into a grimace. "I don't know."

"Original?" he asked, impressed.

"No! I'm not able to compose," she laughed. "I… This is going to sound incredibly conceited but I can pick up a song after listening to it once. Sometimes it takes two or three times if it's an intricate song. But, um, I heard this one on Spotify on my way over, and I wanted to see if I could play it."

Nick was still impressed. He'd only met a couple of people who had that ability, and it took them at least three listens before they could play a song without difficulty. "That's amazing. Why aren't you in music?"

"I tried, but the stage fright said no." She smiled up at him. "I'm sorry for blathering on about pianos and music—"

"No, no, it's fine," he assured. "It's obviously important to you."

"Are you in music?"

"Ah, no. I'm in wrestling."

"No way." She laughed again, cheeks tinging a delicate shade of pink. "Oh god, no way."

"Yes way," he promised, confusion setting in when she laughed harder. "What?"

"Oh my god. You're one of the Jacksons, aren't you?" She stopped laughing. "I thought you looked familiar. If I can be perfectly honest, I've never really watched wrestling but after I put in my application, I realized I should know the product I'm trying to be a part of…"

The dots connected and Nick began to chuckle. "You're here for the interview?"

"Yes… Oh my god." She gave a tiny, embarrassed, laugh. "And I just spent fifteen minutes rambling about pianos. I'm sorry, Mr. Jackson."

"Nick," he corrected.

"Nick." She smiled. "You won't hold any of that against me during the interview, will you?"

"Of course not. We try to encourage passions, Miss…" He didn't know her name. He didn't even know how many interviews there were going to be. He just hoped her skills leveled with her personality. She would be a good fit, he thought.

"Jasmine Burke," she supplied. She extended her hand.

He took it in his for a shake. Felt her elegant fingers press against his palm. "Great to meet you, Miss Burke."

"Jasmine. Or Jazz. Jazzy." She squeezed his hand and her smile softened. "I answer to almost anything."

He felt as though something had slid into place. "Jasmine."

***

Jasmine liked him. There weren't many people she'd met who didn't mind when she gushed about music or pianos. Even her own mother, who had turned her passion for music into a career, sometimes rolled her eyes when Jasmine dissected a song over dinner. Not only had he let her ramble on, he'd listened. And had understood. Had asked questions that made her blathering last longer. No one did that. They either pretended to listen while waiting for a chance to change the subject or they just cut in and talked about something they thought more important.

But this man hadn't. He hadn't said a thing about himself until she'd asked.

She wasn't used to that.

It was probably inappropriate to think of his eyes as beautiful. He was her potential new boss. But they were beautiful. A wonderful shade of bright, deep blue, they sparkled with the sunlight coming through the windows. Potential new boss or not, the man's eyes were mesmerizing.

He released her hand and she lowered it. "Will you be doing the interview?"

"No, not officially. That's Dylan, our head of social media. But me and Matt will be sitting in."

Oh, wonderful. She felt her palms start to sweat with anxiety and, as inconspicuously as possible, brushed them against her slacks. She had the troubling notion that she would get distracted if Nick were there. Because she could feel herself being drawn to him. And she couldn't afford for that to happen.

God, she really couldn't let that happen.

Not again.

"We try to not be assholes," Nick promised.

"Dylan slept through his alarm and is gonna be late, which means I hauled ass for no reason," a voice announced.

Jasmine turned to see the source of the voice and saw a man approaching from the direction of the elevator. Holding a Starbucks cup in each hand, his face held a sour expression until he noticed her, then he quickly pasted on what she considered a public relations smile.

Nick sighed and kept his voice low. "Let me rephrase that. I try not to be an asshole. But him? He's a natural at it."

She choked on a laugh when the other man glared at Nick. He thrust the cup of iced coffee at Nick, then offered a true, charming smile.

"Don't listen to him."

"You don't even know what I said," Nick muttered, taking a sip of his iced coffee.

"I know you, so it couldn't have been nice."

"This is my brother, Matt." Nick looked to the man. "This is Jasmine Burke."

Matt's dark eyes flicked from her to Nick and back again. His smile was as welcoming and warm as his brother's while they shook hands. "Hi, nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she murmured.

He took a slow sip from his Starbucks cup. Again his eyes moved from her to Nick repeatedly, finally settling on his brother. His eyebrows lifted slowly.

Jasmine could tell she was watching them communicate silently. They looked at each other for a long moment, their expressions shifting a few times. Raised eyebrows. Pursed lips. A faint shake of Matt's head. Nick's eyes narrowing slightly, then his head tilting in her direction. Matt's eyes swiveled to her and she unconsciously straightened her posture, a bit unnerved by the lingering eye contact he maintained before looking back at his brother.

"Offer her the job," Nick said softly.

"What?" Jasmine gasped. Neither of them paid any attention to her, though.

Matt tilted his head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Nick nodded firmly.

Matt rubbed the back of his neck. Confusion was etched on his face. "We still have to interview her."

Nick looked at Jasmine and his lips slid into a smile. "Nah, we don't."

"Well. Um, okay," Matt dragged the word out, still obviously bewildered. But he was smiling when he turned to her. "Welcome to AEW, I guess, Miss Burke."

"Jasmine," she corrected. "Or Jazz is fine, too."

"Jazzy?" He grinned.

"Of course." She looked to Nick. "But you still should interview me."

"We don't need to. You'll fit right in."

Jasmine snorted. "You mean there are frequently discussions about the merits of different brands of piano?"

He chuckled. "There will be now."

"You don't even know if I'm qualified," she pointed out.

With a sigh, he nudged Matt. "Is she qualified?"

"Obviously," Matt scoffed. "Otherwise we wouldn't be doing the interview."

"But you're not doing the interview," Jasmine said.

"Apparently Nick already did," he muttered, earning an elbow jab in his side.

"But you don't know if I know anything about social media," she said, unable to believe she was going to be offered the job.

"It's social media. Just throw some tweets out, do a few Instagram stories." Matt shrugged. "A twelve-year-old could do it."

"There's so much more to it than that. There are trends to keep up with, audience engagement, algorithms to study and learn, researching new platforms—" Jasmine cut off when she saw they were both grinning at her. Releasing a sigh, she twisted her hands. "Sorry."

"You know social media. You're qualified. Are you trying to talk us out of offering you the job?" Nick asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"No," she promised quickly. "I want the job. And I really kind of need it."

"Why?" This from Matt, who was studying her intently again.

"I've got this strange addiction to eating," she said without thinking. "And I don't think my landlord will let my looks and personality cover the rent."

Matt's head fell back as he began to laugh. "That's it, I'm sold. Nick's right. You'll fit right in. Welcome aboard, Jazzy."

"Really?" she asked softly.

"Really. Come on, let's go pretend I've been interviewing you before Dylan gets here, and I'll introduce him to you." Matt gestured to the ballroom.

She should thank them. But she knew if she opened her mouth she would begin blathering again, so she nodded. Turning to get her bag, she smiled in surprise to see Nick picking it up. She took it from him. Let herself look into his eyes for a few seconds. Then, hearing Matt still talking as he headed into the ballroom, she forced her eyes to break contact. "Thank you."

"No problem."

"You coming?" Matt called.

"See? Natural," Nick whispered as he and Jasmine followed his brother.

Laughing, she stepped into the ballroom and glanced around. It was just as grand as the foyer, and although all but one table and a few chairs were stacked in neat lines at the far end, she could easily imagine it set up for a wedding reception or a glittering gala. There was a faint hint of new paint, and the floor beneath her feet looked freshly polished.

Matt and Nick drew her into a conversation about wrestling, obviously testing her knowledge. Which, she was sad to admit, was lacking. She had watched some episodes of Dynamite and had even checked out the competition, but she knew so little she had a feeling she would be spending hours watching matches and promos, if only to learn the terminology. Her lack of knowledge didn't seem to bother them, though, and she appreciated Nick's assurance that she would pick up what she needed to know in no time.

Matt asked for her resumé and she reached into her bag for the packet she'd brought, panicking slightly when she dragged out a broken crayon with it. It fell to the floor and rolled, stopping at Nick's bright red sneaker. Frozen, she stared at it, managing to recover when Nick bent to retrieve it. "Sorry," she muttered, handing the packet to Matt. She looked down at the piece of yellow crayon when Nick dropped it into her hand, then stuffed it into her bag. "…My niece uses my bags for her teaching supplies."

"What does she teach?" Nick asked with a chuckle.

"Depends on the students. If it's her stuffed animals, they're learning about dinosaurs. If it's her dinosaurs, she's teaching colors and foods." This was easy. She could do this. "Yesterday she had a group class, so things got hectic."

"Did her dinosaurs start eating the stuffed animals?"

Matt snorted on a laugh but didn't look up from his studying of her resumé.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no it was her stuffed duck that started all the trouble. He's a stubborn meanie and was bullying the velociraptor. The stuffed animals joined forces and tried to massacre the dinosaurs. Pandemonium. Crayons, papers, and feathers all over the living room." Jasmine sighed as she recalled the mess that had taken an hour to clean up. She was certain there were still feathers she and Beatrice hadn't gotten. She'd found three in her purse that morning. And, surprisingly, she didn't mind when Nick began to laugh.

"Feathers?" Matt looked up, grinning. "Feathers?"

"One of my old pillows," she explained, rolling her eyes. "I think she said the stegosaurus used it as a shield?"

"Your niece sounds hilarious." Nick sat back, still chuckling.

"She is. She's also the cutest kid in my world, so she gets away with everything."

"Does she get that from you?" Matt asked sweetly.

Jasmine pressed her lips together to keep from laughing when the comment earned another jab from Nick. "No. My guilty conscience always kicks in and I admit to what I did so I can suffer the consequences and get it over with. Plus if I'm wrong I like to own up to it and use it as a learning opportunity."

Matt sighed, flicking the folder closed. "That's good. We don't like bullshit. Well, unless we're the ones dishing it out."

"Do you dish it out often?" She gave him a small smile.

"Only when it's needed," he answered after a moment.

"Every other day?" she guessed.

"At least," Nick sighed.

***

The production meeting ran longer than planned. Nick couldn't be upset, though, because current storylines had been hashed out further, some extending well into the next quarter. New ideas had been tossed around. Stretching out his legs, he yawned as Matt dropped into the seat next to him.

A thick folder landed on his lap. Nick grunted and sat up straight, catching it before it could slide to the floor. "What the hell?"

"Your social media girl's resumé," Matt explained. "Go ahead, take a look."

"Is it bad?" Nick asked, eyeing the folder warily. Weren't resumés supposed to be just a few pages? He opened the folder and flipped through the pages. Glancing up, he saw Kenny and Cody moving to sit near he and his brother.

"What's that?" Cody asked.

"Resumé for the new girl." Matt sat back and propped his ankle on the opposite knee. "She's way overqualified."

Nick skimmed the cover letter. Jasmine sold herself as passionate about expanding company engagement through social media, and he saw a few words about pursuing a love for technology when she needed to change careers. His eyes slid to the last paragraph, then the swirling signature at the bottom. Passing the page to Cody, he saw a list of schools, colleges, and universities. He blinked in surprise at the degrees attained and looked to his brother.

"Right?" Matt shook his head. "She's got a law degree."

"Why's she in social media if she's got a law degree?" Cody asked, reaching to take the next page.

"Maybe she hated law," Kenny suggested.

"Maybe, but who would hate the money she could make practicing?" Matt pointed out.

"She passed the bar," Cody said in an impressed tone. When Matt looked at him, he shrugged. "Megha mentioned that less than sixty percent pass on their first go."

Nick's eyes scanned the page in front of him. Her most recent work had been for area restaurants and night clubs. Flicking to the next page, he furrowed his brow when he noticed a three-month absence in her timeline. Then he remembered her saying she had left Miami at the first of the year. Before that, she had worked in the same place for five years. He followed the timeline and noted she had started as an intern before moving into paralegal work, then finally as a junior partner.

"I looked them up," Matt said when Nick handed that page to Cody.

"Shady?" he asked.

Matt shook his head. "One of the top firms in Miami. They handled that case a couple years ago. Remember? The woman that caught her husband cheating and dismembered him?"

There was a quartet of shudders, and Nick muttered a curse as he remembered just how the woman had begun dismembering her husband's body. He turned his attention back to Jasmine's resumé, flicking through the page and growing more impressed with each one. She was overqualified.

"I'm stumped," Matt said with a sigh. "I searched her online, thinking I'd find where she got disbarred or something, but there's only old articles about her cases."

"Maybe she didn't like it," Nick offered, echoing Kenny's earlier statement. "You met her. Does she strike you as the type to enjoy defending murderers and rapists?"

"No," his brother allowed. "But why change it up completely? Why leave a career where she had to be making six figures?"

"She wanted a change?" Kenny offered, accepting the resumé from Cody and settling in to read.

"Her references were practically glowing." Cody folded his hands behind his head. "So she couldn't have gotten into something shady and been fired."

"I don't think it's as big a deal as you're making it out to be," Nick said after a moment. "People change careers all the time."

"I know, I know." Matt shrugged. "It's just a mystery. Why would she leave that and come to work for… Well, us?"

"Are we that bad?" Cody grunted.

"No, but c'mon… She's gonna be making peanuts here."

"You're acting like there's a bunch of secrecy. She probably got burned out and needed something different. It happens." Nick shook his head again.

"You're being very defensive," Matt said, tilting his head. "Why?"

"I'm not being defensive."

His brother held up one finger as though he'd won a point. "Now you're in denial."

"How can I be in denial when I'm not being defensive?"

"Now you're being defensive about being in denial over being defensive," Matt pointed out.

Nick opened his mouth to argue. Brow furrowing, he tried to untangle his brother's reasoning. That proved to be impossible, though, so all he could manage was, "Huh?"

Matt ignored him, looking to Cody and Kenny. "He's got a boner for Jazzy."

"I don't have – Don't you dare say I'm in denial," he warned.

"Please," Matt scoffed. "You gave her the job without knowing if she was capable of doing it."

"Oh?" Kenny looked to Nick. "Is that so?"

"I could tell she would fit in with – And she – I don't have to defend myself," Nick decided. "And I don't have a boner for her."

"What's she look like?" Cody's voice was deceptively casual.

"She's hot," Matt announced. And, when they all looked at him, he shrugged. "What? She is. Right, Nick?"

"I didn't notice," he ground out.

Silence. Three disbelieving expressions.

Nick rolled his eyes. "I didn't."

The silence lengthened.

"She's okay I guess?" he offered.

"She's okay," Matt mocked.

"Her looks don't even matter," Nick said, growing weary of the conversation. "She's an employee."

"So's Brandi, and Cody bangs her regularly," his brother retorted. "And you just said her looks don't matter because she's an employee. Which means that if she wasn't, you'd—"

"I'm going to work on BTE," Nick announced, getting to his feet. "You're giving me a headache."

"Because I'm right," Matt muttered.

"You always think you are."

"Because I usually am."

"You'd think I'd be used to this by now," Cody said to no one in particular. "And yet, I'm still amazed that they bicker like kids."

"We're not bickering," Nick said. At the exact same time as Matt. Looking to his brother, he tried to fight the urge to laugh.

Matt's eyes widened and he gave his head a little shake, and they both began to snicker.

"When does she start?" Kenny asked after their laughter had subsided.

"Next week." Matt tossed the folder to Cody. "Which means Nick's got five days to get his boner under control."

Nick turned at the door. "I don't—"

"Have a boner for her, " Matt finished, rolling his eyes. "Maybe if you keep saying it enough, it'll come true."

***

Jasmine climbed out of the car and reached inside for her backpack. Balancing her cup of coffee in one hand, she approached the entrance, trying to fish the temporary pass she'd been given after meeting Dylan from her bag. She grunted in frustration when the lanyard caught on something and yanked, lurching to a stop as a small plastic dinosaur flew from her bag.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" she cried, watching the toy bounce across the pavement.

"That's not nice. His mother's been dead for millions of years."

"I could be talking about his father," she countered, glancing up from the pair of brightly colored sneakers that walked up to the toy.

Nick bent to pick it up, smiling as she headed towards him. "Does your niece know you curse at her toys when she's not around?"

"You remembered my niece?" Jasmine murmured in surprise.

"Hard to forget a girl that has wars between dinosaurs and stuffed animals. Is this one a deserter?" he asked, turning the toy over between his fingers. "He doesn't look like he's seen battle."

"Shows how much you know. Brontosauruses are thought to have been a relatively peaceful species, but they could definitely do damage if threatened." Putting the lanyard around her neck, she enjoyed his soft chuckle. And let herself get another look at his eyes. "To answer your question, though, he wasn't present for the battle. He's been living in my bag for two weeks."

"Prisoner of war?"

"Hiding out because he hates the stegosaurus," she explained. And, as much fun as she was having talking to him, she held out her hand. "I should get inside and get to work."

"I'll walk with you," he said.

She almost asked why. Then she decided that he was just being nice. The adjective rolled off him in every way, from his easygoing posture to his warm smile. To him remembering her niece.

"How is your niece?"

"Fine. A little grumpy that I have to leave for a few days a week, but I think she understands." She tried not to think of the tears she'd seen in those big brown eyes, or the ones she'd shed after closing the door of the babysitter's apartment.

"You two are close, huh?" he asked, reaching to hold the door open for her.

"Very close," she confirmed.

"Does she watch the show?"

"She's watched some with me." Jasmine showed her pass to the security guard just inside the door, then paused, wondering which way she was supposed to go. "She really likes… The two men with the masks? You and Matt had a match with them last week."

"Lucha Brothers," Nick supplied with a grin. "They're pretty great. C'mon, I'll show you the social media room."

Grateful, she followed him along seemingly endless corridors. She knew she would eventually learn her way around backstage, but at the moment she wondered if she should ask for a map.

"Oh, before I forget, you left your copy of the contract when you met with Cody last week," he said, turning a corner. "It's in the EVP office, make sure you get it, okay?"

"Right." She hadn't meant to leave it behind but had found the company's lawyer's assessing look a little unnerving. It wasn't until she had gotten home and looked closely at the woman's card that she remembered their meeting years before. She wondered if she remembered how they met, or if she were just trying to figure out how she knew her name or face. "I'm not usually forgetful."

Nick's smile was understanding as he stopped outside an open door. "No worries. Here you go. I'll see you later?"

He would? Why? Jasmine nodded, though, and peered into the room to see Dylan plugging up a computer. He looked up and greeted her with a wave, and she looked back to Nick. "Thank you."

"Anytime. Have a good first day, Jasmine."

She hesitated in the doorway for a few seconds while he headed away. She couldn't shake the feeling that she had forgotten something. Finally shrugging the notion away, she entered the room and set her bags down, ready to get to work.

It was an hour before she remembered that Nick hadn't given her the toy back.

#nick jackson fanfiction #nick jackson imagine #aew fanfiction #my fics #multipart:NO #asfasdasflkjlj #time to go into hiding

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reviewabeautifulstory · 3 years

Text

Until We Meet Again: Episode 7 Review

(Gonna caveat that this review was written after I watched episode 10)

I’m jumping ahead straight to my favourite moment because that forehead kiss from Win was just perfection! *chef kiss*

I'm beginning to sense a theme here that when Win and Team are on screen together, everything else may just fade into the background! And again, loving these little titbits of information we're learning about this pair; Team being in Uni on a scholarship would mean a necessity to keep his grades up so why not accept some help studying :D His reaction after the forehead kiss was just a delight. It's so obvious he's trying not to let Win's flirting get to him. Of course, he's failing miserably but I don't care! Don't fight the attraction!

OK, now back to order!

I really do admire Intouch in particular for being so strong in the face of adversity. He really did fight incredibly hard for his relationship with Korn. He faced his father’s physical reprimands, Korn’s own self-doubt – which I think might stem a little bit from his family situation, if he’s been that isolated from his peers it’s probably incredibly hard for him to break down those walls to let someone in at this point. But In just doesn’t quit because he loves Korn that much, to him it is all worth it. I really, really admire his fortitude and that despite how heavy that burden must be on himself, he can still smile.

Hm, Pharm is starting to question his dreams a little more and they are definitely now starting to invade more of his waking moments too. It’s sort of like he stops concentrating and has a quiet moment and it allows Intouch that little bit closer to the surface. Interesting. And the boy is getting braver, inciting a kiss with Dean!! It’s little actions like this that really do connect Pharm and In so well. They know what they want and they will go after it, even if Pharm has that little bit more shyness about him that In did.

And Dean is beginning to ask questions too by the looks of it. Searching for Intouch, gun, accident probably isn’t going to bring up the right search results though. It was a stark reminder that Dean and Pharm don’t actually seem to know it was suicide yet. They know they died, I don’t think they’re in any doubt about that anymore but ooh that’s not gonna be a nice discovery for either them.

I was not OK during Korn and In’s scene in the diner. Not at all. His birthday? Seriously? That’s the day they died? I’d had suspicions from last episode where we saw Intouch in this outfit but to have it confirmed it was a direction continuation... My heart skipped a beat because those were definitely the clothes they were wearing from the first episode and I was not prepared at all to watch their last date. My heart was literally pounding in anticipation and nerves, constantly thinking what the heck happens for them to go from this cute date to their deaths?! And they had so much hope in this scene too! Exchanging the key ring, planning what furniture to buy! It’s everything a young couple should be looking forward to doing together and I just wanted to cry! They died in what they’d planned on being their home?! And on In’s birthday – worth repeating because I will never be over that! I felt sick when they were caught by both their fathers. Just let them be together!!

I do love how the show is piecing together their story through the flashbacks, and considering it’s also jumping about in their timeline a little, it’s been made really easy to follow where they are in their relationship. But this episode really upped the tragedy another couple of notches here!

This was really Intouch’s episode to me. A lot of it felt like it was from his point of view and I loved it. He really shone throughout this and it was very insightful into who he was. I hope we get a similar episode with Korn too in future.

I was glad to the reprieve the present day timeline offered but does everyone know everyone in this city?! Seriously, everyone seems to be intertwined with at least two other people!! I was trying to place Don's face because I didn't recognise him out of uniform and if that wasn't surprising enough, Sin is Sorn's partner! I mean, it's great that not a single supporting character is being wasted and that they all serve a purpose but my word does it remind me of a little village where everyone knows everyone else's business!

I really do love Korn and In, but I also hope that Dean and Pharm are able to start enjoying their own moments without being in their shadow soon. It’s so bittersweet. What should be a cute cuddle session is tinged with sadness and good grief every time Pharm starts crying, it makes me want to start!! And for a moment there, that really did feel like In and Korn were talking through Pharm and Dean - or at least it felt that way to me – and it was a little bit soothing to the soul after their fraught diner scene. It felt like Korn and In had finally managed to have a little reconciliation.

Final note: thank you Dean!! Finally spelling it out and Alex might now actually take the hint! I cheered! Goodbye love rival wannabe! You want to know what my reaction was, all you need to do is watch Manaow and Del’s :D And Team was about to make good on his promise from episode 4 to protect Pharm from anyone who approached him! Thankfully Dean and Win swooped in before things got out of hand but still the thought is what counts.

#until we meet again #until we meet again episode review #uwma #dean x pharm #win x team #korn x in #uwma dean #uwma pharm #uwma team #uwma win #uwma manaow #uwma korn #uwma intouch #Thai BL #BL series #bl drama #tw: suicide

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victoodles · 5 years

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Cruel World I’m Gone

A series of snapshots following life for you and Arthur after fall of the Van der Linde Gang. If you have any suggestions for future chapters (domestic fluff, meetups with the old gang, s m u t, hit a bitch up)

Find on AO3!

“I gave you all I had.”

It was his last testament to a mentor - a father - long since departed from this world.

Arthur clutches the heel of Dutch’s boot, desperately trying to hold onto the last tangible evidence that the man he remembered was still with him. Before the Devil on his shoulder known as Micah plagued them with false promises of glory.

Even that is stripped from him as the shell of a leader pulls away and retreats into the darkness, leaving a battered and broken Arthur behind in the dirt.

Alone.

Arthur hurts. Hurts in ways he’s never felt before. He is no stranger to physical pain: having being beat, shot, even tortured. But this was a newfound suffering that leaves the heart he rediscovered shattered. Everything he’s ever known is dead and turning to ash as the last remnants of the Van der Linde’s burn away with Beaver Hollow.

There’s nothing left to salvage. But at least he managed to save those who still had a chance at life, away from the depravity. John, Abigail, Jack, Tilly, Sadie.

You.

It was unbearable to part ways with such a heavy air of finality surrounding the two of you. As he lifted you onto the back of Sadie’s horse with Abigail, your anguish was palpable. To hear you plead with him so desperately, begging to let you go along with him? It was worse than any bullet to the chest.

Regardless, he wouldn’t hear any of it, caressing your hands with bruised fingers as your tears continued to fall. You then tried to reason with him, bless your heart, knowing his stubbornness all too well. Whispering such sweet things, pretty dreams of leaving it all behind and starting over together far away.

Revenge was a fool's game, he was keenly aware, but it was well beyond that at this point. Now it was about making things right, and it was something only Arthur could do. Ever the dutiful guardian - even to a fault.

He finds the inner strength to let you go and swears he’ll see you again soon, to live out those pretty dreams.

Arthur never liked lying to you.

As he drags himself over to the cliff side, inch by agonizing inch, he supposes there’s some truth to his words. Perhaps all those prayers Swanson said on Arthur’s behalf put him in God’s good graces after decades of depravity. If He’s as forgiving as the Reverend foretold, maybe he’ll allow Arthur to watch over you from wherever he winds up. He never thought himself a devout man, but in light of recent events he decides there’s no time like the present.

Redemption had been a tumultuous climb for Arthur. But as he lays at the top of the mountains overlooking Roanoke Ridge, the effort was worth the outcome. He feels lighter, no longer burdened by crosses Dutch forced upon his shoulders. A veil has been lifted, and the colors of the dawn seem so much more vibrant than before. Shades of orange and pink blend together seamlessly and cast an ethereal glow over him and the country he loves.

He almost forgets about the excruciating aches that plague his body as the cool kiss of morning mist hits his cheeks. As the gang’s - ex-gang’s - primary enforcer he never could afford submitting to fatigue. But he feels tired, so tired, and he allows himself the luxury. Just this once. There is nothing left for him to do anymore.

Oh, he muses, the sun’s coming up.

You had been riding with Abigail on one horse with Sadie taking point on the other, rifle at the ready, for what felt like hours. Arthur’s last order of business was entrusting Sadie with escorting the two of you to safety - as far the hell away from this mess as possible.

Everything felt numb, the only sensation registering in your mind was Abigail’s trembling hands against your waist as you all rode onward in silence. Tears still fresh on your face as you brought yourself further and further away from what was now a past life. And what could have potentially held a future.

Arthur.

Yet another pang in your chest as guilt wracks the very foundation of your soul. You had been compliant in sending the man you love into the wolves den. Into the company of men who would spill his blood with smiles on their faces.

You could’ve stopped him.

You could’ve gone with him.

If he dies it’s your fault.

Without a word, you pull tightly on your horse’s reins and bring it to an abrupt stop. Abigail gasps lightly in surprise, peering over your shoulder to see what was the matter. Sadie notices the interruption.

“Sugar, we have to keep moving,” Sadie urged gently, trotting her own horse up next to yours. She was right, they did have to keep moving.

But not you.

You looked at her, gaze firm. “I have to go back.” Sadie opens her mouth to interject. Arthur was a proud man, but on the verge of tears he had implored her to keep you safe - alive. She empathised with your plight, truly she did. But this was her last promise to a man she practically owed her own life to. You stop her before she can protest your obstinance.

“I need to do this, Sadie. You know that.” Your eyes soften and she bites her lip, “You would for Jake.” Sadie’s eyes widen at your mention of her departed husband, knuckles whitening around the stock of her rifle. Her impassioned devotion to Jake began to put cracks in her usually hardened resolve and now it was her turn to shed a tear. She’s quick to wipe it away and takes a moment to compose herself.

Abigail looks between the two of you, disbelief apparent on her face. “You can’t be serious, Dutch has finally lost it! You heard what happened to,” she tries to hold back a sob, “to J-John...” Abigail grips your wrist tightly, “If you go back, there's no doubt he’ll kill you too!”

You smile at her wistfully; all of you had been carrying this heavy burden of grief in one way or another. The heartbreak was insurmountable. An entire way of life, a home - a family - was nothing more than dust in the wind now. Dutch’s swansong of one more score - of a better world for the Van der Linde’s - had enchanted the lot of you. It effectively distracted you from the treacherously thin ice he was willingly leading you on.

But now the honied melody had turned rotten.

“Arthur needs me,” was all you could say. Abigail looks to Sadie for a voice of reason in all of this but she is already dismounting her horse, offering its reins up to you.

“My horse is faster," She says, looking at you expectantly. Suddenly words elude you as you struggle to express your gratitude.

Now it’s Sadie’s turn to interrupt you. “It’s okay. Now get a move on.” She promptly helps you down, holding onto your hand for a beat longer before pulling you into a tight embrace. Her arms are so warm, and it adds to your pain knowing you have to pull yourself from them soon.

“Be safe. And,” she squeezes your shoulders, “bring him home.” The gravity of her request is filled with hope. You find yourself crying again and you nod in affirmation. Sadie had done her best to follow through on her oaths, and now it’s your turn to do the same.

You look back up to Abigail who is clearly devastated with your decision but she tries to make peace with it - for your sake. Another smile tinged with sadness tugs at your lips and you offer her your hand.

“You’re just as bullheaded as that man of yours!” Despite her hard tone, her words are laced with admiration and affection. You laugh genuinely for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“I guess we were just meant to be.”

Abigail brushes her fingers softly across your own. “That you are,” she all but whispers. She finds the strength to let you go and you mount up once more. As you settle into your saddle, you regard your friends for what could possibly be the last time. You turn your horse and prepare to head back into uncertainty, but Abigail calls your name a final time.

“You,” she pauses to mull over her farewell before deciding on, “you both gotta see lil’ Jack grow up. He’s gonna be somethin’ great one day!” Her words are bittersweet but they hold so much promise. You swipe the last of your tears away; there was no room for weakness anymore.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribs but you disregard it as you urge your horse onward through the forest surrounding Beaver Hollow. Determination boils your blood, refusing to sit idly by and let Arthur walk willingly into his own grave. You curse yourself for not fighting harder with him earlier. But this was Arthur Morgan, and persuading him to take you willingly into what would be a bloodbath was always going to be a losing battle.

Arthur wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn.

You cut through every available shortcut on the trails you know; stray branches scratch at your face but you can’t bring yourself to notice or care. The sun is just beginning to peek over the tree-line as you find yourself back at what was once the Van der Linde’s final campsite.

All that remains now is a charred husk as the blaze that consumed it dwindles down to a few meager cinders. Ashes cascade down like snowfall with the morning breeze around all the ruin. What once teemed with so much life had been desecrated beyond recognition. Despite the emptiness, you leave your horse behind a tree near the precipice of Beaver Hollow, away from any lingering eyes that could still be amidst.

At your hip, the pearl-inlaid revolver gifted to you by Arthur suddenly feels heavier. You’re no stranger to a gun, but aiming it at another human in contrast to an animal is still a foreign concept. Arthur had tried to keep your hands clean of blood, but he couldn’t always protect you from the dangers of the world you both resided in. He could at least provide you with the necessary tools.

Embedded in the dirt are multiple footprints - both human and equine - and you decide that’s as good a trail to follow as any. Tentatively you approach the camp, hand hovering just over your holster as you mentally prepare yourself for the worst. You hadn’t been witness to the carnage that transpired here, but the aftermath doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

A single body lays in a crumpled heap at the center of camp. The recognition of its dress wrenches the dread you feel deeper into the pit of your stomach. Before you can begin to parse what’s in front of you, your feet are carrying you to Miss Grimshaw. You drop to your knees beside her, eyes glazed over and hands still clutching at the fatal gunshot wound that claimed her life. A thin layer of soot covers her face and you take care to brush it away with shaking hands as you close the eyes that once held so much fire.

The camp’s matriarch may not have always been the gentlest of women, but she cared for all the girls with a passion you never saw even in your own mother. It was a tough form of love she dished out, but it had emboldened you into a fierce woman much like herself during your years with the gang. For all the grief you girls gave her, all the time spent complaining about her strictness, you are forever indebted to her for teaching you how to be a woman in this harsh world.

You told yourself you wouldn’t shed another tear, but as you gather Miss Grimshaw up into your arms you can’t hold back the onslaught of anguish. Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks as you bring her closer, resting your forehead against her own. You only cry harder when you feel just how cold she is.

As much as it hurts, you have to press forward. You brush the hair off her face and place a single kiss on her forehead before laying her gently back down. You cross her hands over her chest - she looks more at peace, as if she was only sleeping. With a hand to her cheek, you promise her you’ll return for her and continue on.

You turn your attention back to the trail of footprints, following them into the cave’s mouth behind the camp. It had always exuded an ominous aura that left the hairs on the back of your neck raised, but now was not the time for petty superstitions. You have your revolver at the ready as you walk into the cave as silently as possible. Whatever shadows could be lurking within would not get the jump on you.

It’s just like a hunting trip, you tell yourself in an attempt to assuage your fear. It’s a piss poor comparison; you wished it was a simple as keeping yourself hidden from ravenous beasts on four legs. But this was a different kind of animal, one with a human face and no qualms about taking a life.

Every echo that reverberates through the extensive tunnel system has your heart lurching into your throat. But you remain tenacious, continuing onward with two sets of muddy footprints as your guide through the caves.

The trail runs cold at the start of a rusty ladder and you breathe a sigh of relief that you’ll be moving onward and upwards out of the darkness. That solace gets caught in your throat at the sound of rushed steps heading in your direction. Panic singes your nerves and you quickly find shelter behind a large boulder near the ladder’s base.

You clasp a hand over your mouth to contain your shuddering breaths, hoping you don’t give your location away from the faceless cave-dwellers. The acoustics of the tunnels distort most of what they’re saying, but you can make out two distinct voices hurriedly passing by you.

“Dutch I think we should-”

“I believe you’ve done enough ‘thinking’ for the time being, Micah.”

Distress evolves into white-hot ire at the realization of who exactly you were alone with. The betrayal you experienced was nothing in comparison to Arthur’s twenty years of loyalty being discarded, you could admit that. But it still left a hole within you that was just as deep.

You stumbled into the Van der Linde’s just a trepid young woman trying to escape the shackles of an abusive home. As a man who dreamed of fame and fortune, it would’ve all to easy for him to turn you into the numerous bounty hunters your father sent after you. Weave together some extravagant tale of the big bad outlaws holding the wealthy socialite’s runaway daughter for ransom to turn a higher profit.

But Dutch had cast that all aside without a second thought and taken you in as another one of his ragtag children. Who your family was before did not define you. He had given you the chance to change the path life had predetermined for you.

That man was gone. Perhaps he was never really there to begin with - a mere facade. The inability to adapt to a rapidly changing world had broken his spirit and instead left something warped - unrecognizable. Leaving him susceptible to the temptations of a snake’s hiss that lurked just beyond in the underbrush.

The casualties - his casualties. Everyone’s faith he continually prattled on about that smothered with his own two hands.

Arthur.

The fingers clutching your gun feel restless all of a sudden.

You peer from behind your cover as they unknowingly pass you by, an imposing chest being carried between the two of them.

Our money.

The culmination of the gang’s hard work after the mess the two of them created in Blackwater. Plans, schemes, and money that people had bled for - died for. What gives them the right to run off into the night while the remainder of them would suffer from the aftermath of their reign of destruction? You practically draw blood from how hard you bite your lip, holding back your rage.

The barrel of your revolver is quickly pointed at Dutch’s back with quivering hands. It’s a shot as clear as day. You can end everything here and now, make up for countless years of false hope. Avenge those who fell in hopes of earning their keep and Dutch’s eternal admiration.

It was all horseshit, you think bitterly with gritted teeth.

You go to pull back the gun’s hammer when all too familiar voice comes to mind.

Revenge is a fool’s game.

It causes you to hesitate, the shaking of your hands intensifying. Your eyes dart between Dutch and Micah’s silhouettes and the morning light bleeding in at the cave’s summit.

Bring him home…

The finger resting just over the trigger retreats and you lower the gun to pursue someone much more significant.

You leave them with a final sentiment.

“Your time will come,” you whisper and hope that the wind carries that declaration up as far as it can travel. You’ll let the “when” and “where” be decided by a higher authority, whoever that might be.

With haste, you grab a rung and begin to climb up the ladder as fast as your arms can carry you.

Onwards and upwards.

As you continue to push yourself to every limit possible, your body screams from exhaustion. You feel as if your legs could give out at any moment but you can’t bring yourself to care as the steep hills transition into the cliffs of Roanoke Ridge.

You’ve tracked a series of hoof prints as far as you can before they end with the body of Arthur’s precious Appaloosa, Moonstone. Yet another innocent soul taken by this path of indiscriminate bloodshed.

There’s still no sign of Arthur, and you’re too frantic to decide if that's a good sign or not. Your breathing is labored, lungs burning and heavy in your chest. But you can’t give up now, not with so much at stake.

Bring him home.

Again Sadie’s words resonate in your mind; regardless of the outcome you will find him. You have to - he deserves that.

Face me to the west so I can see the setting sun…

A sunbreak slips through the morning clouds over the horizon, saturating them in varying hues of blue and yellow. It’s captivating, drawing you to the cliff’s edge despite the exhaustion in your muscles. A gentle wind that rolls over the treetops of varying oaks and cedars envelops you. You follow its direction in a daze and it leads you around the corner of a mountainside trail.

You briefly entertain the idea that your weariness has finally dissolved into delusion. For there amongst the wild poppies, you find a figure in the shape of Arthur laying under a stone alcove facing the still rising sun. It might be the work of a cruel God, but be it reality or mirage you’re just overjoyed he’s here. You don’t even realize you’re crying again.

And you’re running. Again. Your body is wailing but you don’t feel it, and even if you could you don’t care. You just don’t fucking care.

“Arthur…” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper but as you get closer,

“Arthur!” You cry out this time, desperate to get his attention. To get any sort of reaction.

Please. Please. PLEASE!

You collapse beside him and sob in relief when you see his eyelids flutter open weakly. He’s looks a wreck, covered in bruises and blood - a mixture of his own and god knows who else’s. Ugly splotches of red and purple are scattered across his face and his left eye is practically swollen shut. You realize he was going to lay here until he succumbed to the severity of his injuries and your heart breaks all over again. Your hands find purchase on both his cheeks as you move him carefully to look at you. Somehow he finds the energy to smile.

“An angel,” he manages to wheeze, bringing a hand up to card through your tousled hair. You let out a choked laugh and you place your own hand atop his. Keeping his touch on you to reaffirm he wasn’t just a clever hallucination.

“I...it’s me, my love. I’m here,” you bury your face in his chest. His heartbeat is faint but it’s there. By God it's there. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Your tears keep coming with no end in sight and they mix in with the blood on his jacket.

He tries to shush you, his split lip kissing your temple tenderly. “Why are crying darlin’?” It’s asked so sweetly it practically hurts your teeth and again you let out a huff of laughter. Your amusement quickly shifts to frustration - you can’t help it.

“You stupid fool!" The words are harsh but they have no edge to them. Now it’s his turn to laugh, albeit feebly. He places another languid kiss to the crown of your head this time. “You silly man,” you pound your fists softly on his chest.

“You were just going to-“ the words get stuck painfully in your throat. “Going to d-die here?” The thought of losing him weighed heavy on you and now you’re finally free. The both of you are.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.” It’s enough. He’s enough. He always is.

You’re weeping openly now against him, and he finds himself starting to succumb to his own emotions. With everything said and done, his grief hits him in one tremendous wave. The both of you are sobbing as the sun rises in the East. As it has done, and will continue to do for the two of you.

And so you cry.

For the past.

For the lost.

And now for the future.

#vic's fics!#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #writing this made me sad :)))#but now it's time for FUN

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maandags · 5 years

Text

Eidolon (Angel!Keith x Demon! reader) {part iii}

something resembling peace n quiet (ish) b4 the real shitstorm yeet

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Summary: Keith is an angel, and he’s completed mission after mission for the Upper Hand, the organisation controlling all of the Above. He’s only failed a mission once: when he was assigned to kill you, a surprisingly charismatic demon. He roamed Earth–Middle Ground–for years before he was caught by the Upper Hand again, and things quickly go south.

Word count: 6.3K

Genre: Angst

Notes: ft witch!Coran bc he doesnt get enough love -- masterlist -- {previous} -- {next} --

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small-town boy in a big arcade

i got addicted to a losing game

~ Arcade, Duncan Laurence

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His fever isn't going down.

It's been five days and his fever just won't go down.

He's passed out on your couch, waking up occasionally so you can feed him and give him water to drink. Sometimes you have to shake him for minutes at a time just so he wakes up. You tried everything you knew, but the medicine you give him has no effect and the medicine you probably need is nowhere at your disposal.

It's safe to say you have no clue how to proceed and also are frustrated: you're risking everything here. You're risking being found by everything you have been outrunning for years and years. The combined auras of an angel and a demon are the closest thing to a signal flare you know.

And he just might die, and it will all have been for nothing, and you might still be located by Management and you would have to move. Quite bittersweet, you think wryly.

So Keith dying isn't an option. That much is clear. But as you sit in your armchair and glare at him, arms wrapped around the knees you pulled up to your chest, you have no idea as to how you're going to stop it from happening.

You clumsily wrapped him in a blanket when he collapsed on your couch. He's kicked it off since, and it lies in a bundle at his feet. His skin is ashy and pale and sweaty and his hair sticks to his forehead.

And his fucking fever isn't going down.

Usually you'd go straight to a doctor if any of your human friends were to contract a fever this stubborn–but you suspected bringing a dying angel to the average doctor won't do much good except frighten the poor sod to death. He looks like Death, you remark. What with his black wings and overall dark aesthetic, which is quite rare for an angel to have. You think, at least. It's not like you've met lots of them.

You sigh, filling a glass of water and holding it to his lips. He reacts almost subconsciously–he's not quite all there, but he's gulping the water down with gusto and you can only pray to the Dark Below that he'll hold it down, though that did seem to get better the last day or so.

The first two days were a nightmare. Keith tossed and turned and held nothing down, his stomach too upset. You had him spend his second night in your bathtub because he puked all over your couch. When he was asleep (which was most of the time) he had nightmares and whimpered constantly, and when he was awake he had hallucinations, his eyes clouded over. He even tried to attack you at one point ('tried' being the keyword here–he took a most pathetic swing at your face and cried when you dodged it easily).

If you had any common sense, you would have kicked him out long ago–hell, if you had any common sense, you never even would have considered taking him in.

Yet he is here. And you are here. And you don't exactly know how to feel about that.

Half the time you wish he'd just die already so you could be done at least with all of this. The next moment you feel horribly guilty and internally yell at yourself for thinking that way–because you made this choice. You decided to help him, and you should go through with it, even if it meant to be woken up at three in the morning because Keith was wailing again.

You brush your fingers across his forehead, hoping against better knowledge his fever had gone down, but he's still burning up. He's not tossing and turning anymore, he's not throwing up everywhere anymore. The last time he had a nightmare you actually noticed was more than a day ago. His breaths are shallow and irregular, and while you're no doctor, you know that's never a good sign.

You'd almost gotten used to having him in your apartment, and now you barely even notice he's here.

You've been on some extensive phone calls with Allura since Keith flopped into your life (which mostly consist of you yelling and Allura listening, occasionally muttering "go off, sis" into the horn) and you were itching for one now. You pull out your phone. Allura picks up on the third ring.

"Y/N, love, I have time for like, maybe a ten minute rant, because I'm at work and even though it's my break time my co-workers are giving me huge side-eyes and I still have four hours to go–"

"That's okay," you say quickly. "I'm fine, actually. No rants."

Allura pauses. "Sure about that?"

"Positive. I just had a question." You decide to throw in your favourite excuse whenever you have a weird question. As a nurse and your friend, Allura is often your first choice if you need to fact-check anything health-related."I'm writing this story..."

"Ah," Allura says. "Of course. Shoot."

You feel kind of bad for lying to her. But then again, telling the truth isn't really an option here, is it? "What does one do to break a fever that's been going strong for, say, five days, and literally no kind of aspirin is working and you can't take them to a doctor?"

"Huh. Well. All you can really do without, like, medical intervention, is wait, really. Yes, Jane, I'll be done in a minute. Have them sweat it out. Keep hydrated, remove excess layers of clothing, all that jazz. How high of a fever are we talking?"

"Um..." You glance at the thermometer on the coffee table. You'd taken his temperature just before calling Allura, to see if there was any change. Spoiler alert, there wasn't. "41.2 degrees Celcius."

Allura whistles. "For an adult? 'Cause if this is a kid, they have a problem."

"No, no, it's an adult."

"Okay. Well. You know, fevers aren't inherently bad for you. It's actually a way for the body to, like, kill heat-sensitive bacteria and viruses. So it's actually a good thing. Honestly I'm gonna just advise your character to stay in bed and drink water and sit in front of a fan. They should be fine."

You pucker your lips, poking Keith's arm with your toe. He doesn't move. "All right."

"You sound kind of unsure," says Allura, a tinge of concern to her voice. A pause. "Certain this is a fictional character?"

You bite back a curse. "Well. You know. I was–I was just curious."

Allura sighs. You imagine her rubbing the back of her neck as she shakes out her legs. "You know... as a medical professional–" the sarcasm drips from her voice– "I'm not really supposed to, like, recommend these types of methods to people because generally everyone thinks they're bullshit, but..." She hesitates. "My uncle Coran has this shop. He sells lots of weird, like, plants and crystals and crap like that. God, I can't believe I'm saying this. He might be able to help. Here's the address."

You lurch over to your desk and snatch a pencil and a post-it block, scribbling down the address she dictates. "Thanks, Allura."

"You are very welcome, dearest, but I really need to get back to work now. Bye."

"Bye."

You stare at the note for a while after Allura hung up. You don't exactly know the place, but a quick Google search helps you pinpoint it. It's not even that far, maybe a 20 minute walk. But something makes you feel uncomfortable about it.

He sells lots of weird, like, plants and crystals and crap like that.

It definitely sounds like something you should be a bit suspicious of. Plants and crystals. Hm.

But then again, you think as you cast another look at Keith who hasn't moved in over an hour, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths, it's not like you have many other options.

Allura said to wait it out. But maybe fevers aren't as harmless on angels as they are on humans. Maybe waiting it out will kill him, and you will have to live with it knowing that you did nothing to stop it.

Grumbling through gritted teeth, you yank your jacket from its hanger, write out a quick note for Keith in case he wakes up (he probably won't, but just in case) and dash out the door.

It takes you surprisingly long to find the place.

What was a 20 minute walk turned to a 30 minute walk, then to an hour long walk. You zoom in on your phone's map, narrowing your eyes and combing through every little alley you passed, gnashing your teeth. No matter how hard you look, the shop simply doesn't seem to exist anywhere but on the map. Is this Allura's idea of a prank?

But that's not like her, you remind yourself. And somehow, the fact that you can't seem to reach the place only makes you want to find it more. So you grit your teeth and clench the note with the address (that you just can't seem to memorize, no matter how hard you try) in your fist and march on.

You round a corner and slam into a tall and lanky body.

You yelp, arms flying out to regain your balance. The person in front of you gives a surprised hum–they don't seem to be fazed at all. You look up, prepared to give them a scolding about how they've got to watch where they're fucking going and blink, all words dying in your throat.

"You okay, kiddo?" says the most eccentric-looking man you've ever seen.

"Uh..." you give your head a shake, trying not to stare at the man's bright orange hair and moustache, or the fact that he's dressed like one of those fortune tellers out of fantasy stories, complete with the huge ornate earrings and everything. "Yeah. Fine. Thanks."

The man's light eyes narrow ever so slightly, and you make a mental note to not let his appearance deceive you: you have the feeling he's much smarter than he looks. "Were you looking for something?"

You clamp your mouth shut, running a hand through your hair. "Hm. Actually. Yes." You frown, wondering if this is a good idea, but if anyone would know where Coran's shop is–the shop selling weird crystals and plants and crap like that–this dude would be it. You hold up the crumpled note. "Do you know where this place is?"

The man takes one look at the writing and smiles, a wide and slightly unhinged grin that has you almost instantly regretting your choice. "Well, I sure would hope I know where my own shop is!"

You try and resist the urge to flinch. "Oh, really?" you squeak, shrinking back. It's not a very demon-like thing to do, you think at the very back of your mind, but this guy looks like he could give even the scariest entities of the Below a run for their money. "Neat."

The man–who you assume is Coran–grins even wider and whips an arm around your shoulders. "Well, then! Let's not beat around the bush any longer!" He has an accent you can't place. It fits him, strangely. Everything about the guy is strange.

He whirls around, dragging you with him, and walks exactly three steps before slamming open the door to the shop on the corner. You frown, ducking out from under his arm and giving him a suspicious glare. "What is this? I've passed this shop at least five times." You glance up at the sign and do a double take. Where had previously hung a sad wooden board announcing a tailor's shop hangs now a weirdly pretty sign that seems to be made out of plants. Vines twisting to and fro and entwining and overlapping, fluorescent yellow-and-blue flowers you have never seen before dropping from it in clumps. It sways slightly in the air. There is no wind.

All the hairs stand up at the back of your neck and your fists clench at your sides.

"Maybe you weren't looking hard enough," comes Coran's amused voice from behind you. You spin on your heels, narrowing your eyes at him. You're not unfamiliar with these kinds of experiences–the supernatural, the unsettling, the technically-impossible–yet Coran manages to throw you off in a way nothing really has before.

The atmosphere around you has dimmed, the sole source of light the doorway and the glowing flowers dangling from the sign. You're not in the alley you were in not one minute ago anymore. Coran raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, and you notice how different he looks in this new environment. He fits here perfectly. The slight curl of his lips says, Well? What are you waiting for?

You think of Keith. How he would react if he were in this situation. If the roles were reversed and you were the one dying on his sofa. You push the door open and march into the shop.

You almost slam directly into a tree.

"Careful, careful," says Coran quickly as he grabs your elbow. He slips past you and leads you into his shop that looks like no other shop you've ever seen.

Shelves are stacked with pots and vials and little baggies, all propped one on top of the other. It looks extremely unstable. You resist the urge to pluck out one jar from the bottom and see if everything tumbles down.

Every price tag is hand-written, and when you take a closer look a chill runs down your spine. One never-before shared secret. Three childhood memories. none of the prices ask for actual money, which now seems pretty useless and weighs down the wallet in your pocket. One particular tag says Your deepest fear. How dramatic.

Every plant seems to glow, for some reason. You notice more of those fluorescent yellow-and-blue flowers like the ones hanging from the sign outside, and flowers that look similar but in different colours. There are plants that remind you of grapevines, snaking around trees and shelves and tangling themselves around every support they can find. Clusters of small transparent bells float from the branches, even smaller flicks of light trapped inside them. You squint at one of them, grabbing it out of the air and studying it closely. Something is fluttering inside of the little sphere. A firefly, maybe. Maybe. When you release it, it zips back to its original spot among the other glowing bubbles.

Coran plucks a few dead leaves from a tree stump partially hidden from view by a huge black-and-white striped candle. He grinds the leaves to dust in the palm of his hand and drops them in the candle's flame. It glows bright green for a moment, then a comforting scent begins to spread through the air. You inhale deeply out of reflex. It smells like nothing you've ever smelled before, vaguely familiar scents all mushed into one; your favourite hot chocolate (with a hint of caramel), Allura's fruity conditioner, the animal shampoo you use on the dogs at the shelter. The air when it's just stopped raining. Towels, fresh out of the dryer.

You blink yourself back to reality with a sharp jerk of your head. Coran is already moving on to the very back of the shop and you hurry to catch up with him, ducking to avoid the arms of a rather sad-looking ragdoll as they reach for you. "Hey, hey–who are you?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Coran."

"Yes, I know that, but like–" you gesture vaguely to the general space around you– "who are you?"

Coran thinks about that for a moment, one finger pressed to the side of his nose. "A hobbyist," he decides.

"Right." You take a step back, eyeing the dark and slimy substance shlorping across the floor towards your feet suspiciously. It shrinks back beneath your glare. "What are those hobbies, exactly?"

"You know," says Coran, waving his arms around, "plants. Medicine. The occasional cursed artifact. Just regular stuff like that."

"Regular stuff like that," you echo. Caws sound from above you. When you look up, you spot a bird slightly hidden in the shadows of the tree in which it is perked (was that tree this big before?), glowing red eyes fixated on yours. You raise an eyebrow at it, cocking your head. It mirrors you, feathers ruffling and swooping from one side of its head to the other. It screams again, then spreads its wings and climbs up the tree with a speed you didn't expect. Literally climbs: there are claws on the joints of its wings that it uses to hack into the tree's bark. You brush a bit of dust off your shoulder and continue walking.

Stepping over the puddle of dark slime, you follow Coran even further into the shop. "You said you do medicine," you shout after him. "I need medicine to save my–" The words hitch in your throat. What is Keith to you? An acquaintance? An enemy? A guest? "My friend," you settle on.

Coran throws you a look over his shoulder, throwing off his ornate blue coat and suspending it in the air where it floats obediently beside him. He plants a hand on a bony hip. "Your friend," he repeats, a glint in his eyes you don't trust at all.

"Yeah." He's not getting more out of you, you assure yourself. That's it.

Coran watches you for a moment. "Hm." He turns around and starts rummaging through the shelves packed with jars and boxes and bottles, pulling out a number that all look the same to you, but evidently Coran knows exactly what he's doing. Occasionally he asks you questions.

"Reasonably high fever, is that right?"

"Yes."

He fumbles for a mortar and dumps a clump of brown-reddish leaves in it.

"Hallucinations? Nightmares? Inexplicable bouts of extreme hunger?"

"Yes, yes, and... no? Not that I know of?"

Humming, he adds a few drops of a clear liquid and a pinch of powder from a leather pouch. The mixture starts to sizzle and you eye it cautiously. Its colour shifts from a muddy purple to a darker blue. Coran whistles through his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the many pots around him as he searches for the next ingredient. His eyes focus on something behind you and he gestures with his pestle. "Grab that round orange pot for me, will you."

You turn. The pot in question is small and kind of hard to spot, and you have to twist your arm in strange shapes to reach it from where it's blocked by other plants and rocks. It's dusty and surprisingly heavy, and when you turn it over there's a crudely painted picture of a skull on the lid. Your head snaps up and your fingers tighten around the pot.

Coran rolls his eyes. "I didn't have any other pot to put it in. I'm not gonna murder your friend."

You hand the pot over to him reluctantly, keeping a close eye on whatever it is he's doing. Inside is a reddish-brown paste, and Coran scoops two heavy spoonfuls out and mixes it into the blue mixture. It becomes a pleasant shade of violet. He grabs a round marble-like thing from a vase filled with similar spheres and chucks it into a fire pit at your feet. Flames burst to life, searing hot and sending you stumbling back from the wave of pure heat that comes rolling over you. Coran puts a lid on the mortar and drops it into the fire.

"So, that's gotta bake for a minute," he says cheerily, spinning around and clapping his hands. He snaps his fingers, and immediately vines begin writhing and entwining until a stool has formed. He plops down, facing you. "You have questions. Ask them. Go on."

"Will you answer them?"

he flashes that wicked grin of his. "Maybe."

You grit your teeth, staring into the flames roaring in their pit. The longer you look at them, the wilder they grow. Agitated.

"Oh, dear, don't look at them. They don't like being watched."

Your gaze snaps back to him. "How did you know what's wrong with my friend?"

"I didn't. I guessed," he adds with an eyeroll when you narrow your eyes at him. "It's easier to guess than you might think. When customers are especially preoccupied with something I can usually read it right off of them. You were no different."

"Right." You pause, not sure which of the hundred and forty questions swirling through your mind to ask next. "What if the medicine doesn't work? Can I come back?"

"It'll work."

"But if it doesn't–"

"Are you doubting my abilities?"

"What? No, but–"

"It'll work."

His tone makes it clear there's no room for discussion. At the sight of his dangerously glinting eyes (or maybe they're just reflecting the flickering flames) you decide to veer onto a safer topic. "Can everyone get into your shop? Why couldn't I find it until you showed me?"

Coran slouches a bit in his throne of vines (it's got a back and armrests now, too, and it's growing those little glowing grapes) and considers the question. "Everyone can technically get into the shop," he says slowly, as if carefully choosing his words, "but not everyone will. It's not hidden, exactly–not to the people who aren't looking."

That confuses you. "So you're saying one won't be able to find the shop if they're actively looking for it?"

"Sort of."

"Does that mean that the people who do find it aren't looking for it in the first place?"

"I guess so? Man, kid, you're asking difficult questions."

"I'm curious." You fold your arms, tucking your chin down to your chest. "And that makes no sense anyway because I found it and I was looking for it. So."

"Yeah, but you didn't find it until you actually ran into me and I showed you." Coran leaps up and stretches out his lanky limbs. "So, we still have a bit of time left before that's ready. Do you want to arrange payment now?"

Caution crept into your veins as you remember the strange price tags you saw upon entering the store. But you're not getting this medicine for free, you remind yourself. Keith won't get better by himself. The price was the price and you're willing to pay it. So you nod.

Coran grabs a box. He opens it, and inside are the last things you expected: stacks of paper, each one scribbled upon with minute precision, every sheet adorned with different handwriting. He hands you a blank sheet: it's about the size of a business card, yellowish-white and kind of grainy to the touch. It reminds you of parchment.

He also hands you a pen. It looks like a regular ballpoint pen, and when you shoot him a questioning look–you had expected at least, like, a quill with purple ink or something–he shrugs. "They're cheap. And easy to charm."

Right. You roll your eyes. "So what's the price?"

His eyes are just a little bit too shiny. "What do you want most?"

You sigh, long and drawn out. Your grip on the pen tightens ever so slightly. "Really? The way too overused one?"

Coran shrugs again, gesturing to the blank card in front of you. "It's overused for a reason, kid. It just happens to work really well."

You clench your jaw, tapping the pen against the wooden surface of the table, forcing yourself to think about the question in a serious manner.

What do you want most?

You rack your brain for an answer, puckering your lips. There are a lot of things you want. You want Allura to be safe and happy. She's got a demon for a friend, for fuck's sake. You want to not have to worry every day about Management finally tracking you down and locking you up in the Below. To feel safe.

You bring the point of the pen down to the paper and start writing, frowning when the ink doesn't appear. You go over the lines a few times, even scribble a bunch of lines in a corner to get the pen to work, but to no avail. The ink stubbornly refuses to stain your piece of parchment.

"Your pen doesn't work," you say, irritated.

Coran casts you a knowing smile. "It works just fine. Try again."

You try again. No results. You throw down the pen, letting your head drop and taking a deep breath as you lean against the desk, because you know exactly where this is going. You have experience with these kinds of enchanted objects. You chew on the inside of your cheek, glaring at the pen as if it personally murdered your firstborn.

It wants the truth.

And you refuse. You refuse to give it what it wants because it's ridiculous. Absolutely and utterly ridiculous.

But this is the price. This is the price you told yourself you would pay no matter what.

A deep breath. One more.

You snatch up the pen, gripping it so tightly your knuckles go white, and press it down onto the paper. Immediately the ink flows out, letting you write your re-evaluated answer. It almost seems to sneer at you and when you throw the pen down, handing the card to a way too smug-looking Coran, you refuse to look him in the eye.

The medicine is ready.

Coran pulls it out of the fire using tongs (because it might be magical fire, but it's still fire, and it's generally not a good idea to stick your hand in fire) and drops it in a tub of water you're sure wasn't there before. A moment later he pulls it out and removes the lid.

The paste has transformed itself into a rock-hard ball about the size of a large pill, perfectly round and kind of rough and sandy at the surface, and when Coran hands it to you it's almost freezing to the touch. It startles you so much that you almost drop it.

"Smash it to bits and put the shards in this here baggie–" he hands you what looks like a tea filter– "and let it hang in a glass of cold water for a while. When the thingie's drained of its colour and goes clear and the water has turned bright blue you make sure he drinks the whole thing before it goes warm, yeah? That's very important. He's gotta drink it right away, and he's gotta drink the whole thing. It might not work as well if he doesn't drink the whole thing."

The fact that Coran refers to the pill as "the thingie" makes you more than a bit uncomfortable, but you decide to take his word for it, because what other choice do you have?

"Right." You turn to leave, when one more thing pops into your mind. "Actually," you face him again, "I have one more question."

Coran sighs. "You have a lot of questions."

You ignore him. "How do you know Allura? Or, rather, how does Allura know you? She's the one that gave me your address in the first place," you explain. "She's my friend."

To your surprise, Coran smiles–a genuine smile this time, where his eyes crinkle in the corners, not the manic grin he's shown up till now. "I knew her father very well. I've watched her grow up. She knows she can always knock on my door."

It doesn't make much sense–what business would Allura's dad, world-famous scientist, have with this man? You decided to give it the benefit of the doubt. "How much does she know? About all this?"

"I think she knows, deep down. I don't know how much she believes. What she tells herself is real, and what isn't."

You hesitate. "Does she know about me? What I am, I mean?"

Coran heaves an exasperated sigh. "Yeesh, kid. How am I supposed to know that? I didn't even know who you were up till now!" But you get the feeling he's lying. "Now get going. Go on." He starts shooing you towards the door, gently pushing you through the shop.

You blink in surprise, too stunned to do anything but follow suit. "Wait," you stammer. "Wait, I have more questions! Will I be able to come back?"

But Coran waves you off, giving you nothing but a smile and a "Bye-bye!"

You stumble over the threshold, the pill and its baggie in your clenched fist. Cold renders your fingers almost numb, and you open them, exposing the pill to the night air. White smoke curls up from it, and you turn it over to your other hand, wincing as you rub your fingers to get a bit of warmth in them again. It's like you're holding a hailstone.

When you look up, you're disoriented by the bright lights from street lamps around you, and the fact that you're not in the same alley you were in before you entered Coran's shop. It's not even the same block. You make a full turn, dazed, before you recognise the little grocery store on the corner of the street: it's the store where you do most of your shopping. It's right across from your apartment building. Coran deposited you as close as he could to your home.

You push open the door to your apartment with your shoulder, icy pill in one hand and two bottles of chocolate milk and scotch whisky in the other, letting exhaustion creeping into your muscles as soon as you enter the familiar environment. One look to your sofa confirms Keith has barely moved over the hours you were gone. The note and the glass of water you left for him sit untouched on the coffee table.

You make your way to the kitchen and set down the bottles, grabbing a small tray on which you drop the pill. Smash it to bits, said Coran. The back end of a kitchen knife does the job just fine. To your surprise, the pill shatters immediately, shards flying everywhere. You curse, sweeping them all up and dropping them into the tea filter and filling a glass with cold water. As soon as you hang the bag in the glass, blue drips out of it in wisps, slowly tinting the water a cool blue colour. You drop onto a kitchen chair and watch with your chin in your hands, the droplets of blue seeping from the bag mesmerising.

When the water doesn't seem to get any bluer, you peek into the bag. The shards are completely colourless, now resembling bits of clear glass more than anything else. You carefully pick up the glass, hissing through your teeth at the coldness of it.

Keith is still fast asleep, shivering. He's thin, you notice. You can see his ribs through his shirt. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, you try gently nudging him awake. He doesn't respond.

"Come on," you grumble, grabbing his face and tapping his cheek. "Wake up!" Your stomach twists at the thought that he might not wake up in time. The medicine will have warmed up. You should have woken him before preparing it! "Please," you whisper, swallowing back the lump in your throat. "Don't let this have been for nothing. Come on. Wake up, dammit!"

He groans under your touch. You breathe out a shaky sigh of relief as you coerce him into sitting up. "Don't you fucking dare fall asleep again." He looks at you groggily.

You raise the glass to his chapped lips. "Drink up."

He takes a sip and flinches, bursting into coughs. "Cold," he manages. You almost wince at how weak his voice sounds–barely a whisper. He'll get better, you remind yourself. He just has to drink this and he'll get better.

"I know," you mutter, nudging the glass to his lips again. "Drink it. It'll make you feel better."

He eyes you suspiciously but obliges, squeezing his eyes shut as he gulps down the contents of the glass. He shivers, smacking his lips when it's empty and you put it on the floor. "Ah. Gross." But as he shifts, you can already see the colour return to his cheeks.

"Rest," you say, brushing strands of hair away from his forehead. "You'll feel better in the morning." Your voice is shaky and your hands tremble as you bring the glass back to the kitchen and thoroughly wash it, using about a quarter of the bottle of dish soap, running it under the hot water until the stubborn cold is completely gone.

You're tired. You don't even have the energy to shower, so you brush your teeth and crumple into bed, only taking off your boots and trousers. You keep your socks on and pull the comforter tighter around you. You're cold.

As you turn to face the wall, you think back to Coran's stupid enchanted pen. Wondering if you've made a mistake. The words you ended up writing down looping through your mind, over and over again, lighting up in front of you whenever you close your eyes. What do you want most?

I want to be safe from Management, was your first answer. The answer the pen hadn't let you write down. And it was what you wanted most–or at least what you wanted most until Keith had shown up on your doorstep just over a week ago.

What do you want most?

You drift off to sleep, the question nagging at the back of your mind.

You jolt awake at the crash, bolting up from your bed and racing for the kitchen, where the sound had come from. In your hand is the knife you keep in your nightstand. Your knuckles are white around the hilt. You slam a hand on the light switch, and the person bent over and hidden behind your fridge hits their head and yells in pain, and you brandish your knife and scream at them to Stay back!

"It's just me! Y/N!" Keith says, holding up his hands above his head.

You huff out a breath, letting the knife drop to your side. "Keith?"

He nods, blinking and squinting against the bright light. You're only barely over the shock of seeing him up and about, yet you can't help but notice how thin he looks and how weary and sunken his eyes are. His eyes keep flicking back to the knife still in your hand, and you quickly snap it shut, slipping it in the pocket of your sweatpants.

"So I take it you're feeling better?"

He nods again. "I'm hungry," he says. His voice isn't quite back to normal–it's still quite hoarse from not having used it in over five days–but you suspect it won't take very long. "Sorry for startling you. I'll go back to sleep."

You grab his arm before he can walk past you. "Nonsense. You've slept for five days straight. I'm hungry too, anyway. I can order takeout?"

He gives you a tentative smile. "That'd be great."

And that's how you end up sitting in your brightly lit kitchen at four in the morning, eating out of cardboard Chinese takeout boxes, with an angel whose life you saved. His wings are completely concealed now and don't bother him when he sits in a chair or lies down. While neither of you talks much, you both sneak glances when you think the other isn't looking.

What do you want most?

He looks nervous, and even though he insists he's not tired you can tell he's fighting against the weight of his eyelids, his movements droopy and slow, as if he's moving through layers of syrup. When he almost drops his fork (at four A.M. you're allowed to eat Chinese with a fork) out of exhaustion, you nudge his leg with your foot under the table.

"Go back to sleep."

"I'm fine. I'm still hungry."

"You can eat tomorrow. You're barely able to hold yourself upright, idiot."

He sighs but pushes his chair back and stands up. His knees immediately buckle beneath him, and you shoot out of your chair and only just manage to catch him before he drops to the ground. "All right, okay. There we go. I got you."

"Not feeling as good as I thought," Keith mutters into your shoulder as you practically drag him to the sofa.

"Evidently."

You tuck him in (it seems like such a childish gesture–but curled up like that, looking thin and fragile, Keith reminds you of a small kid and it just feels like the right thing to do) and resist the weird urge to plant a kiss on his forehead. You settle for a somewhat awkward pat on the shoulder.

You stick the leftover food in the fridge and make your way back to your own room. You're still kind of cold, so you keep the sweatpants and sweatshirt on, bringing the knife out of your pocket and setting it back on your nightstand before climbing into bed.

The buzzing of the city outside of your window keeps you up for hours as you toss and turn. Feelings you don't know what to make of churn through you. Relief at the fact that the medicine seems to be working. Fear, because you don't really know how to proceed now. A demon saving an angel's life–that one's pretty much unheard of, you think bitterly.

Oh, if Management were to find out... not only would your fate be settled, you would have signed Keith's death warrant along with it. The comforter bunches in your clenched fists and you twist around, shutting your eyes resolutely.

What do you want most?

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threadsketchier · 5 years

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Whumptober #17 - “Stay with me”

Some of y’all may remember my old Melodramatic Space Trash™, I’ll Come With You. I took it down a few years back after getting epically stuck and then growing displeased with it overall. It’s in Princess Bride “mostly dead” territory, but...only mostly dead. After I wrote “A Hard Question” I decided that if ICWY were to keep existing I stubbornly wanted to connect them by having AHQ become the prologue of ICWY, and just bridge everything with my Zahn 2.0 series. But I digress.

For those of you thinking WTF is this story, ICWY is a “I LOL’ed & then I srs’ed” take on “Shattered Ties” by Jedi_Lover. AKA, Mara suffers irreversible amnesia of the events of Vison of the Future and is stuck with a dubious Force bond that’s not all rainbows and sunshine to deal with. Because, taken seriously, this plot is arguably a disservice to Mara in saddling her with more mental issues for sake of Luke’s manpain, I wanted to take more consideration on the consequences for her in any future revision. BUT I DIGRESS. This is the opening of Chapter 1, which has only had minor tweaks from its original version to make it fit with the new prologue. The first several paragraphs consisted of direct quotes from VotF in order to dovetail the story from there, so there’s a bit of that snipped here. Note the difference in Luke’s catchphrase for attempting to wake Mara carried over from AHQ.

He was standing in a pool just off the edge of the last of the underground rivers he and Mara had passed during their trip through the caverns. Five meters to his left, the torrent that had brought them here had vanished, leaving only the river rippling its sedate way along.

And two meters to his right, bobbing gently in the pool as she floated beside the craggy rock, was Mara. Her eyes closed, her arms and legs limp. As if in death. The precise image he'd seen of her in that Jedi vision on Tierfon.

And then he was at her side, raising her head out of the water, gazing at her face in sudden fear. If the trance hadn't kept her alive – if she'd struck something hard enough to kill her after he'd lost his grip on her –

Behind him, R2 whistled impatiently. “Right,” Luke agreed, cutting off his sudden panic. All he had to do to bring her out of it was speak the key phrase she'd chosen, the phrase she'd wondered aloud if he could handle. Almost as if she was afraid he couldn't…

He took a deep breath. “Come with me.”

There was no response.

A sickening dread began to clench his gut. Forcing calm into his voice, he repeated himself, a tremor still escaping him as he enunciated each word more clearly. “Come with me, Mara.” An almost manic hope that perhaps this was just a fiendish little trick of hers skittered across the back of his mind. Perhaps she had heard him all along and was only pretending, trying to scare the wits out of him for old times' sake. But he knew it wasn't true even as the thought crossed; however brief it was, the disorientation upon emergence from a trance wouldn't have allowed her to pull it off.

Only the quiet rush of the river answered him. Mara lay still and flaccid, eyes closed and mouth slack, a blue tinge to her lips.

“No.” The denial left him in a moan. “Mara, no. Please.” Echoing slightly off the cavern walls, R2's anxious fluting joined his exclamations and went ignored. Despair made his grasp on the Force as slippery as the sodden rock around him, and he crushed it down until it coalesced into a near-physical pain deep within his chest. He needed his senses now more than ever, to find if–

Instantly Luke was hefting her up and struggling his way out of the pool toward the nearest surface where he could lay her flat. She was not gone. Not yet. But she was near the edge and fading fast, her heart locked in either v-fib or a faint spasm of pulseless electrical activity. He didn't know if her lungs were waterlogged, but it was irrelevant at the moment. How many minutes had she already been in this state?

As it had been with the sentinel droids, his entire focus was narrowed to this one desperate task: to revive her, somehow. Fear, fury, and even expectations had to be cast aside as he began vigorous compressions. He could not fight the will of the Force, but he would fight as long as he still had her, even if only by a thread.

“Artoo!” he shouted, splitting his concentration just long enough to seize him in a mental grip and lift him over the water and terrain. “Get your arc welder out. I'm gonna need a charge.” More elaborate ideas were quickly dismissed in favor of the simplest solution. With the extra power packs, R2 likely still carried enough energy to spare at least one, possibly two, jolts strong enough to attempt defibrillation, although the effort would drain it significantly. A monophasic electrical impulse was not ideal, requiring more power and risking serious burns, but there was no other choice. The fact that they were all drenched just made it that much more dangerous. There were so many factors that he could not control without having a medpac's auto-defib for diagnostic measurements and adjustments.

All he could do was listen for the songbirds, to tell him how much and when.

“You ready?” At R2's affirmative chirp and the whir of his arc welder extending, Luke paused compressions for only a moment to gather a fistful of the charred fabric around Mara's shoulder and tear it violently to expose enough bare skin for the tip of the appendage to rest near her heart. The incurable gallantry within him, in a bittersweet way, was relieved that there was no need to fully expose her. Despite her usual crassness and pragmatism, this was not the way he would have ever wanted to see her, the last of her dignity literally ripped away.

“You need to press down hard, Artoo. Now juice it up, and I'll tell you when to shoot, okay?”

Beneath his hands he felt something give way with a soft pop, and strangled down sharp regret at having either broken cartilage or bone. It was almost inevitable with crude manual resuscitation.

Be careful.

Always, Farmboy.

But he hadn’t been careful enough. He’d come here to protect her, hoping to save her. But the harder he tried to prevent his visions, the more inevitable they seemed.

R2 blurted readiness, and Luke plunged into the Force, pleading for that precious guidance. Electrons gathered until…

“Now!” He pushed himself backwards, completely away from Mara and any residual water around her, and the astromech shot current straight into her. He watched her body twitch from the shock. Wheeping urgent queries, R2 leaned back to lift the welder off of her. Luke reached for her neck, but the tension had not cleared from his mind; it hadn't worked. To his horror, he noticed her arms starting to curl up and her fingers gnarling in decorticate posturing, an ominous sign of brain damage.

Gritting his teeth, he resumed compressions. “Again, Artoo. We have to try again. Same thing.” The droid's reply was blatantly nervous; it certainly wasn't accustomed to delivering what, in any other situation, would be harmful toward a non-hostile organic being. Astromechs weren't medical droids, no matter how heavily modified.

If it failed a second time, other options were far less viable. His bionic hand wouldn't contain enough power for that kind of discharge, and releasing energy from the few other electronic items they had left would either be inadequate or potentially deadly. Even after years of study, he knew he did not quite have the same deep, fine biological control that an instinctive healer such as Cilghal possessed. His own body was a living battery, but he had never attempted a Force technique for making any use of it that wouldn't involve Sith lightning, not to mention that he stood the chance of killing himself with such a wild endeavor. After everything they'd been through and divulged to one another, Mara would sooner prefer to die than see him call upon the darkness as a solution to save her.

He would have to let her go.

You've defeated my clone, you've slain a mad Dark Jedi, you've braved vornskrs, you've prevented Thrawn's rebirth, you've spat in the face of death a dozen, a hundred times. Fight back, Mara. Fight back for us.

Again R2's welder came down on Mara's chest. “Go!” he cried, and held his breath.

She convulsed a little harder than before. This time R2 rolled backwards, knowing a third try was beyond its capacity. Electrons dispersed haphazardly, depolarizing wayward cells, and for a split second her heart and his world were still.

Then he felt nerves fire in return, and it might as well have been the ignition of a new star.

Springing forward, Luke sealed his lips against hers and sighed out his pent-up conviction into her lungs, half the battle won. That's it, Mara. Come on. You're almost there. He breathed for her until he felt her diaphragm hitch, and sour water suddenly shot into his own mouth before he could detach; he rolled her onto her side as she gagged and coughed weakly. Her pulse was rapid and thready at first, but gaining strength. Hot pressure built up behind his eyes and a sob of relief escaped him.

“You did it, Artoo.” There had been many times, Luke mused, when his faithful droid had been worth double its weight in platinum, and this was one more of them. No, truly, R2 had no price.

Mara was breathing but not regaining consciousness; her eyes remained half-lidded and rolled back in their sockets. Luke refocused his senses on her to try to discern any injuries she might have suffered from their brutal journey through the lake's drainage that had caused the hibernation trance to fail. He shuddered to consider that it was his fault, that he had not done a thorough job in slowing down her functions and she had nearly drowned from his own hasty negligence. He'd been so certain that it was effective when she'd gone to sleep in his arms.

Across her head, however, he picked up a glaring area of inflammation, and it soon became clear that she had indeed collided with something on the way. It didn't lessen the pangs of guilt. If only he'd managed to hang onto her the entire way…

He would have needed a greater level of consciousness, enough that he would have run out of oxygen sooner and drowned himself. Or even slammed into the same spot she had, and neither of them would have survived. He could perfectly picture her chiding him once more about uncontrollable factors.

“Mara,” Luke whispered, still afraid but now suffused with hope, “we're getting out of here. Hang on.” The words were more for his own encouragement, for he knew she couldn't hear him. He bent and brushed his lips against hers before carefully lifting her again, and set his concentration on healing her as he began to follow the river's path out of the caverns.

#i lived bitch #i mean the fic not just mara lol #whumptober2019 #no.17 #my fics #star wars #luke skywalker #mara jade #r2d2 #ICWY #zahn 2.0

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movesliketacitus · 5 years

Text

More than a Number

My name is Lily, and on the Eugenic Scale, I am ranked a 4 out of 10.

Immediately after birth, each baby is tested for common mutations known to evoke certain disorders, and the results are used to quantify the child’s fitness and future usefulness in society on the Eugenic Scale.

As a 4, I am classified as a “detriment”, or someone whose undesirable genes and medical needs will cause them to leech off the public’s resources more so than produce them.

7s and above are the creme of the crop– a dream come true for any parent. A child ranked below a 5, on the other hand, is a punch in the stomach; few resources are allocated towards healthcare nowadays due to the heightened military budget, and it is considered kinder to have such children terminated before their predicted ailments mercilessly consume them.

The rare parent will refuse to yield their newborn to the lethal injection table, as was the case with my own mother.

I have never met either of my parents, and I doubt that I ever will. But I am grateful for their decision. I now live in a foster home with other detriments like me, and my life is a hurricane of blood-stained hospital gowns, pillows soaked with burning tears, acquaintances made and lost in weeks, and the constant, all-consuming fear of my ever-nearing future. And yet I am grateful still.

Because I am a 4. Not a 1 or a 2, fated to die young as my body rapidly disintegrates from the wretched poison bubbling within.

My genotyping results came back positive for Huntington’s Disease, where the nerve cells that coordinate my movement, speech, and memory are defective and will gradually consume themselves until my body gives out between the age of 50 to 60– 70 if I’m lucky. That gives me decades to enjoy the beauty of this world– almost a full-fledged life. And so I am grateful.

Sometimes, in the dark of the night when nothing but my own thoughts are awake to occupy me, I wonder what it will feel like when the icy grip of my disease triumphs to finally claim my voice, my limbs, and eventually, my mind. What will it be like to watch my own body forget how to laugh, to know that everyone in my life may suddenly become strangers to me when I wake up the next morning, to lose everything and everyone I have lived for? Who will be the last person I ever hug before my arms lie forever limp by my sides?

I used to languish over this constantly, as if I could somehow will my future away or cleverly plan out an escape. But why suffer the sensation of my death now, when I am still in good health, when it will certainly come someday anyway?

I live alongside several other detriments who, like me, struggle with their prognoses from time to time. But we are still able to laugh; we still find joy in everything from the rich smell of undergrowth and pine that permeates through the air every spring to the sly winks of the stars during those tranquil, cloudless nights when even the wind seems to gasp faintly in awe. And so I am grateful.

The first friend I recall ever having was named Adrian. He was radiant, his warm presence saturating every corner of the room until even the gloomiest of souls could be found hiding a shy smile.

We met at a precipice that overlooks the city where the genetically acceptable families live and work. Every night, I would watch the town light up at sundown, mesmerized by the tiny cars zooming across winding highways and the billboards glittering with flashes of pinks and golds in the distance. I observed the liveliness down below with an unquenchable longing, until I met Adrian.

He was gaunt for a fourteen-year-old, but I forgot about his appearance the moment he smiled and stuck out his hand. It was a toothy grin, and yet his eyes captured the glow of the city, his unkempt hair tussling with the mountain wind. His frail body swayed, but his sprightly spirit was interwoven with the world around him. At the recognition of the melancholy in my demeanor, he asked me why I lusted after the synthetic glitter of the city when an endless array of stars danced right above our own heads. I laughed then, but from that night onwards, we lay together on the grass, making up ridiculous constellations and dozing off to the lull of crickets chirping and nearby streams gushing.

We never told anyone about this, but, once the sun had set every Christmas Eve, we both would put on our most expensive clothes, sneak a little money from our savings into our pockets, and head for the city. The journey down was always streaked with a tinge of fear, the petrifying nightmare of getting caught and maligned for entering an “uncontaminated” space constantly looming in our heads. But once we were safe within the main gates, oh man.

The town was always cloaked with a delicate white blanket of snow; sleigh bells tied to door fronts tinkled as the breeze carried their music to our ears.

We caught snowflakes on our fingertips. Watched toy trains filled with laughing children snake around the downtown ice rink. Sat in empty coffee shops scalding our tongues with overly-saccharine peppermint teas. Pulled our coats snug around our shoulders while strolling past bustling bakeries, the fresh scent of gingerbread and hazelnut enveloping us in a cozy joy. Hid bittersweet tears trying to swallow the fact that we were never meant to see any of this.

Returning home was snapping awake from a dazzling but implausible dream. Each step forward felt infected with the dreary lilt of shackles, and when we reached the top of our mountain, the city was once more a mere twinkle in the distance.

A fictional world untainted from our presence once more.

A reminder that we were the sick. The unwanted. The worthless. The detriments.

But we would always get back on our feet eventually. Anyone on the mountain can tell you a detriment’s life is teeming with hurdles and disparities. Yet we still persist. We laugh, we sing, we love, together.

“Hey! Lily! Did you know that our stomachs can dissolve steel? Isn’t that nuts?”

Adrian was full of the wildest facts, thirsting for anything he knew would make us smile. He could tell you how long the smallest snake in existence was (4 inches) and theorize about the creation of the universe for hours.

“”Yo Lils! Did you know that 40,000 Americans die from toilets each year?”

Somehow, basic lessons from class escaped him, but he could memorize the periodic table song backwards in half an hour.

“Lily! Lilyyy– hey, wait up! I just– *cough*– wanted to thank you– *cough*– for helping me study for my math test last weekend. I’m pretty sure I saw Mr. Valdez give me a thumbs up after class!”

He was sweet. But life wasn’t kind back to him.

“Lils. Hey Lils, look at me. It’s all– *gasp•– gonna be all right.”

He was a blazing star, all the way until the end. The brightness gleaming in his eyes never wavered, even as his body quivered with fragility.

*Pant. Pant. Pant. Pant.*

On his last night, Adrian stared at the ceiling, his crackling breathing heavy and brisk. In the dim light, I could see that his forehead was speckled with droplets of sweat and that, for the first time since I had met him, he looked exhausted. His face had hollowed, and his eyes were nestled above dark bags. At 2:37 AM that night, his chest rose one last time, and those beautiful eyes faded forever.

We all used to think Adrian was lucky. You see, Adrian had hope. More so than any of us, at least. On the normal genetic scale, he would probably be at least a 6, possibly even an 8. He should have been perfect. He should have lived.

But his mother had smoked. Heavily. All throughout her pregnancy. He was born a measly five pounds with an abnormally small heart and a diagnosis of chronic lung disease. No one knew when he would die, or even how: would his feeble heart be the one to fail him, or would his lungs collapse to strangle him first? Either way, his body was too weak to function “normally”. So he was sent to us, where he transformed an overstuffed facility of forgettable children into a snug home with hope.

I still lay on the grass at night, albeit alone now, in the hopes of grasping even a fraction of what Adrian understood about this vast universe. Sometimes I see him in the stars, and I wave to him until I feel tears streaming down my cheeks, until my vision blurs and his image dissolves to nothingness.

Occasionally, I’ll look at my palm. Wiggle my fingers. Make a fist. Crack my knuckles. And smile. My body is in my command, and though it won’t be forever, it is in this moment. So I will live, because my number does not define me. I am a 4, but I am Lily first. I will jump, scream, cry, and laugh because that is what Adrian taught me to do with the beautiful life I have ahead of me. I will live for the both of us, because an angelic soul was seized too early from this bleakening world. And when my time comes, I will have a kingdom of priceless memories to remind me to smile when I meet Adrian this time around.

And for that, I am grateful.

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izzy-b-hands · 5 years

Text

Fictober 2019, Oct. 26th, “You Keep Me Warm.”

Fanfiction

Fandom: The Pacific

Pairings: Eugene “Sledgehammer” Sledge/Merriell “Snafu” Shelton

Rating: M (because of death??? I guess?? why am I still bad at ratings after this long as a writer, we may never know.)

Warnings: Mentions of violent death, including descriptions of the state of some corpses. Not like, grossly explicit, but if none of that is your bag, then no harm in skipping this one.

932 words

I would put a proper synopsis here, but I feel like I’d end up spoiling the fic if I did. So, just know that this one is a bittersweet fic.

The last thing he could remember was Ack Ack screaming for them to move.

Then, nothing.

But Eugene was beside him still, so things had to be okay.

He peeked out of the foxhole, but the rest of K/3/5 were gone. It was quiet. Too quiet. And cold...

“The hell? Did they leave us?” Eugene asked, crawling out of the foxhole to stand and look about the deserted battlefield. “Took our gear too...what’s that about?”

A creeping, horrifying realization came over him, and he reached up to try and pull Eugene back into the foxhole.

“What, Snaf?” Eugene fussed. “No one’s shootin’ at us, and I can’t hear anyone, and-”

He watched Eugene’s face crumple as the same terrible realization hit him.

“We gotta find the guys. They must have...I don’t know, but we aren’t...” Eugene stuttered.

“Let’s go find ‘em. Think we’ll know for sure then,” Snafu willed himself up and out, and reached for Eugene’s hand. “C’mon.”

If they’d been anywhere else, cleaned up, it would have seemed they were on a nice walk together. Hand-in-hand down the few wandering and meandering paths that had been established by the soldiers who’d walked the area before them.

“Too damn cold,” Eugene whimpered. “We were sweatin’, how the hell is it so cold now?”

“C’mere,” Snafu replied, and let go of Eugene’s hand so he could wrap an arm around his waist as they walked. “You keep me warm, and I’ll keep you warm.”

“Snaf-”

“We don’t know nothin’ for sure until we see it,” Snafu interrupted, willing away an image of the worst in his head. “Bet everyone is still close. We just gotta keep moving.”

Not a half mile later they found K/3/5 at rest, most of the men in quickly dug foxholes. Ack Ack, Burgin, and Gunney Haney were the only three apart, sitting on the ground near the foxholes.

“I should have said something sooner,” Ack Ack had tears streaming streaks through the dirt covering his face. “I had a bad feeling, and I-”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Gunney Haney interrupted, his sharp, bright eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Got to keep steady for the rest of the men.”

“They’re all cryin’ too anyway,” Burgin spat. “I know we’re gonna lose men. But not them. It was never gonna be them. They were supposed to go home tog....to go home.”

“I knew Burgie had us figured out,” Snafu sighed. “Good catch there on his part, huh? Almost said it out loud.”

“Ack Ack and Haney knew too, I think,” Eugene said. “Respected us for who we were, and didn’t care about anything else.”

Snafu nodded, and gestured towards a few stretchers bearing bodies, set aside from the other men. “Shall we?”

The bodies were only partially covered by their ponchos, a likely result of having been jostled as they’d been transported.

He felt the tears run down his face, heard Eugene’s strangled and pained shout, despite the sight in front of him confirming that none of that should really be possible anymore.

Him, or his body, lay on one stretcher, a huge bloody wound in his neck. Eugene’s body was on another beside him, a bullet wound in his forehead.

Eugene’s whimpering no longer consisted of words, just sobs as they walked back towards the rest of the men.

He held Eugene tight as they sat near the foxholes, even as K/3/5 got up an hour later and left again. The sky darkened, but he ignored it. Nothing in the trees or that came along the trail could hurt them now.

In the dark he half-led, half-carried Eugene back to the beach. The walking didn’t ache his legs or the open sores on his feet now.

There, they waited for the sunrise. Then for something, any sign of what was supposed to come...after.

But the sun rose, and nothing came.

“Think we could somehow leave, and go visit our families?” Eugene asked, his voice ragged from his weeping.

He shrugged as he reached forward and tried to touch a crab passing them by, but his hand went right through it. “Don’t see why we couldn’t. You can show me Mobile; I can show you New Orleans. Like taking vacations together.”

Eugene laughed, but it was tinged with bitterness. “Sorta.”

He smiled. “I know. But it’s somethin’, at least. Long as you don’t mind me stickin’ with ya. Don’t really know where else I’d go...don’t really wanna be alone...”

It was wild, stumbling over his words and emotions, even in death.

“I want you with me,” Eugene replied. “I mean, if you wanna be with me too, and-”

Snafu cut him off with a kiss, forceful and warm, the warmest he’d felt since...it had happened. A blessing he could feel that, at least.

Eugene could clearly feel it too, pulling him down with him onto the sand, one hand behind his neck, the other at his hip.

After a few moments of kissing that would have left him breathless if he’d had any, they paused.

“Been waitin’ to do that and more for a long while,” he said softly as he pressed gentle kisses to Eugene’s face.

“Same. Wish I could have done it before this though,” Eugene sighed. He was finally smiling, and it was wonderful to Snafu. It didn’t matter if any other heaven existed, he’d already found his in Eugene’s smile.

“We’ve got eternity to make up for it,” Snafu replied. And he wasn’t planning on rushing a thing. If they couldn’t have their best life together alive, then they’d at least have their best afterlife together.

#text post #LeeH writes #Sledgefu #fictober19

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365daysofsasuhina · 5 years

Text

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Eighty-Six: Listen to the Song ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Uchiha Itachi ] [ SasuHina ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

“So, this is it, huh? Last collegiate performance.”

Walking beside his brother, Itachi glances over before nodding. “It is...I’m certain it will be bittersweet. But I already have a seat in the city’s local orchestra for the coming season. I won’t be without a place to play for long.”

Sasuke keeps hands tucked in his pockets, expression a bit unreadable.

“...surely you’ll still come to the performances? You’ve never missed a single one.”

“Yeah, of course...so long as I can afford it,” the younger brother replies, managing a small smile but still watching the sidewalk.

“I’m sure I can pull some strings if need be.”

Silence falls for a time before Sasuke speaks again. “...guess it’s just...gonna be weird. Knowing you’re not on campus anymore, or…” Shoulders shrug.

“I won’t be going far, Sasuke. At least, not for a good while. If opportunity calls elsewhere, I may leave...but for now, I have a place here. Besides, I still have two weeks before the semester ends.” Watching his brother thoughtfully, Itachi then offers, “Would you like to come to one of the rehearsals? A little backstage pass, so to speak?”

That earns a glance. “...would that be okay?”

“I highly doubt anyone will mind. Besides, there’s someone there you’ll likely want to see again.”

Sasuke frowns. “...are you doing another duet…?”

Before he can stop it, Itachi snorts. “Well, yes...but that’s not what I mean.” Brows lift. “Hinata will be there.”

“She’s performing again?”

“Sadly, no. But she’s been assisting with setups and arrangements. She’s attended every group practice so far and has been a great help. I’m sure she’d be happy to see you.”

Ever so slightly, Sasuke’s shoulders hunch. “It’s not like we’re friends...we just talked for a few minutes after your last concert.”

“Oh? Well...I must have misread her asking about you then,” the elder brother replies blithely.

“...she asked about me?”

“Yes, every so often. Hinata seems rather curious about you. I indulge her when I can, but I’ve tried to leave some questions for you to answer.”

“...are you setting me up?”

“I might be. Is that so bad?”

“You’re turning into Mom.”

“Oh please, Sasuke,” Itachi replies, looking jokingly offended. “I suggest much better girls for you than Mother does.”

They both break into snickering, and Sasuke can’t help but feel his spirits lighten. As much as he might fear his brother entering a new era of his life, and what that might mean for time they can spend together...it’s good to know that, for now, things are still the same.

“Okay, yeah - I’ll come to your practice - I can just bring my work with me.”

“It will be Friday afternoon - you’ll have all weekend to work, won’t you?”

“Well, yeah...but -”

“Just consider it a small break,” Itachi insists.

Reading him like a book, Sasuke grins. “Okay, okay...I’ll spare more time for talking to her.”

“Brilliant.”

Whatever will make his brother happy.

By week’s end, Sasuke actually has a rather light homework load, anyway. He should be able to finish it all in the following day, then have Sunday to just...do whatever. Not that he tends to do much in his free time, anyway.

So, that’s less guilt about going to the music department Friday afternoon.

He’s only been in here a handful of times, and never for very long - usually just to meet his brother, or have a quick discussion better had in person than over text. Peering in a bit warily at first, he steps in and just...tries to look like he belongs there until finding the proper room.

It’s filled with a variety of instruments, and several are occupied as bits and pieces of warmup are had. Near the front of the room is Itachi, seated at his usual piano. And beside it, going over sheet music with him, is the same woman he dueted with in his last concert.

There’s a few moments where Sasuke watches them, unnoticed by the door. She’s standing while he sits, hip cocked toward him and leaning in, pointing at the paper. In turn, Itachi sits up, angled toward her and paying rapt attention.

“Cute, aren’t they?”

Almost jumping out of his skin, Sasuke turns to see Hinata beside him, looking gleeful at having caught him off-guard. “I...w-what?”

She nods toward the other pair. “Your brother! They were pretty friendly before the last performance...and I think it’s only getting worse.”

Before he can stop it, a glance back to them begets a bit of a pout.

“Not j-jealous, are you?”

“No…”

Only looking all the more convinced, Hinata changes the subject. “So, here to watch?”

“Yeah, Itachi thought I should. I was never...musically inclined, so most of this is all above and beyond me.”

“Aw, really? I’ve always loved music...I’ve practiced harp since I was very young. At first we tried piano, but...it wasn’t quite my style.”

Tearing his eyes from his brother, Sasuke realizes this is the part where he’s supposed to make conversation. “Itachi was always a natural. He was playing before I was even born.”

“He’s...five years older?”

“Mhm.”

“That’s funny, I’m five years older than my little sister! She’s going to be a freshman this coming year in high school.”

“She play anything?”

“Well...not instruments. She’s really into soccer and volleyball. I did a bit of the latter in high school, but...well, I w-wasn’t exactly varsity material,” Hinata laughs.

“Everyone’s got their own strengths.”

“So, what are yours?”

That earns a shrug. “Well...I’m planning on going into law, so...whatever that entails.”

“Oh, I see! My father’s a lawyer!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! If you ever need, like...an internship or something, I can ask him!”

Sasuke blinks. “...okay.”

“Hinata.”

The pair turn to Itachi. “Yeah?”

“You should have Sasuke listen to the song you’ve been working on,” the elder brother suggests. “We’re still warming up, so there’s time before we’ll need your help.”

“...o-oh! Um...okay.”

“Got something you’re practising?”

“S...sorta? There’s a songwriting contest this Summer, so...I’m working on a piece.”

“You wrote a song?”

“Yeah!” Emboldened by Sasuke’s wonder, Hinata perks up, smiling. “It’s not quite finished, but...I’ve been getting some tips from everyone, including your brother! You...wanna hear it?”

“Sure.”

Nodding, Hinata leads them toward the rear of the room where the harp she performed on stands. “Just, uh...don’t laugh if I mess up. I haven’t gone through it all very many times…”

“No way - I couldn’t even begin to play that thing. I’ve got no room to laugh.”

Taking her seat and adjusting some music on the stand, Hinata scans over it before giving a nervous glance. “Okay...um, here goes…”

Fingers lift, hovering over the strings for a long moment before beginning to pluck.

It starts slow, soft, and quiet. Staring out at nothing to better concentrate on what he hears, Sasuke listens as it builds in tempo, fluttering and dancing. He can almost see a scene play out in his mind, following the rises and falls of the music. It’s not like anything he’s ever heard before...though, granted, he tends to listen to anything but harp music. He’s more of a soft rock sort of guy.

Then it slows...and stops. And Sasuke finds himself blinking. Is that it…?

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten,” she admits sheepishly. “I haven’t figured out how to end it yet.”

“Well, what you’ve got is great. It’s very…” He doesn’t know good terms for describing music. “...lively. Like...it tells a story…?”

“That’s what I was going for! It sort of...narrates a little movie in my head,” is her next confession, hunching a bit in embarrassment.

“I think it’s awesome. I’ll have to hear the rest when it’s done.”

“...okay! I hope to have it done - at least the rough draft - by the end of the year. I want to have everyone’s opinions before they leave.”

“I’m sure my brother would still help you after.”

“He did say he would...he’s really nice.”

“Yeah...he’s pretty great.”

“Guess that means I might see you, too…?” There’s a hint of a hopeful lilt to her voice he’s not sure she intended to reveal.

“Yeah, sure. I dunno if I’d be much help…”

“Well, it’s still nice to have another opinion! Itachi tells me you’ve been to all his recitals. You might not make music, but you do know it. Even if you think you don’t. And...it’d be nice to see you over the Summer.” A light tinge of a blush blooms in her cheeks.

Sasuke can’t help but feel his own face warm. “...yeah.”

“All right Hinata, I think we’re ready!” Itachi calls, and both of them startle.

“Oh! I...better get over there. Gonna stay and watch?”

“Guess I might as well.” Itching his neck as Hinata dashes over, Sasuke does his best to ignore an ever-so-slight flight of butterflies in his stomach before following and sitting on a spare speaker. Watching as Hinata helps direct the pair through their piece, he forces himself not to stare.

...maybe it was a good idea to come, after all.

Guh, another late night! Had a lot of trouble getting into the groove of this one, but...I think it turned out all right! So this is a 'sequel' to a waaay earlier piece: day twelve, where Sasuke heard Hinata play her harp in a concert Itachi was also in. Give its musical focus, I figured it'd make sense to connect it to another entry with 'song' in the title, lol Looks like someone's got a crush :3c And by someone, I mean both of them, haha - all the better for some mutual pining before they give in and date! Maybe another entry will give me a chance to write some additional sequels - time will tell! But, for now, I need to get to bed. Thanks for reading!

#sasuhina #uchiha sasuke #hyūga hinata #uchiha itachi #best years of your life [ au ]#365daysofsasuhina

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