#i wanna expand on shades a little more sobs
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gonna try and do a comic methinks
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What if Xavier had a kid he didn't know about and he meets them for the first time after he's already a ghost? Maybe there's a kindergarten group that takes a trip to the camp, and he just has this spirit intuition as soon as he sees them and KNOWS it's his child. Do you think you could expand on this idea? I'd love to see what you come up with!
A/N: This was so fun, thank you for this idea dear anon!! I'm sorry it's late but hopefully u like it 😶. Also, I apologize this is so dark and heavy- I didnt intend for it.. it just, kinda happened lmfao. I turned this into a 'x reader' and it starts with Xaviers POV and ends with readers perspective!! First few paragraphs are pretty dark and then the rest is weird.. angst fluff LOL.Hope yall enjoy 💖💖💖
Warnings: First few paragraphs discuss Xavier's thots about dying SO, it highkey gets dark yall I'm so sorry, mentions of anger?? issues, mentions of murder, stops getting dark roughly around paragraph 6 if u wanna skip all that, MAJOR ANGST, reuniting, very brief Xantana reference 😈, mention of kids, bit of fluff.. think that's it :)
In Xaviers eyes; the worst part of being killed in a desolate camp and having to reside there for the rest of eternity; wasnt the fact that he would have to handle Richard Rameriez and tolerate his peers for eons to come. Sure, both of those things required an adjustment period but.. the realization that his life with you was abruptly cut short, was what truly broke him.
It took him being stripped from everything he once knew to truly appreciate how heavenly life once was before Camp Redwood. He had a steady job, good friends, and a relationship with a actual living, breathing person.. Not to shade Montana or anything, of course. However he had taken all of those things for fucking granted; moving to Camp Redwood definetly had made him become humble- at the very least. He was now nothing but a mere shell of the person he once was; nothing to bring him out of this absolute living nightmare he found himself in.. At first this mindset nearly consumed him, it drove him to kill multiple times.
There was no point in trying to conceal the anger he felt, no way of trying to channel it out into a more socially appropriate way and at this point.. there really was no point in trying to do so. Out here in the forest, espically after he was killed, life outside of the forest soon seemed as if it was some type of myth or fairytale- something not real or attainable. Time in the redwood forest felt different- days quickly bled and melted into weeks, and then months.. trying to guess the date was something Xavier gave up on doing after about the first week.
As much as he tried to deny it, being dead and becoming trapped here had completly made him lose his grip on reality and his previous life. Soon enough, the thought that life even fully existed outside of the camp and that there was actual fucking laws against killing (something which was now a leisurely hobby) had completly slipped his mind momentarily in the beginning as well. Out here in the forest, nothing felt real execpt for his anger that he held onto so tightly.
It was really the only thing he had left; atleast for a while.
The pain of losing his partner, (y/n), still remained but letting that grief not consume him was easily the hardest battle he had fought in his life. Xavier realized he still had his friends - and if he really was going to live for eternity, he sure wasnt going to spend it angry.
After so many years of being 'cursed' to spend forever in this forest, keeping track of the time was something Xavier rarely bothered with, but - it was obvious by the suns posistion, and even the slight mist that made the grass wet that it was just starting to cut into morning. Xavier walked through the forest alone, nowhere in particular to go or to necessarily do, only a sudden need to go and be alone. Almost a beckoning, for him to go and be somewhere else. To witness something.
His days were more often than not purely mundane; he had absolutely no excuse to not listen to this odd and sudden attraction he felt toward a very particular spot in the camp.. so, that's what brought him to where he stood now. Close to the road that brought visitors (a nice word for victims) into Camp Redwood, right next to the mess hall which was rarely used close by.
Xavier felt wildly uncomfortable standing so close to the place which previously held so much trauma - and honestly still did.. The place where Chef Bertie died. Xavier paused, about to just say 'fuck it' and just give up and go back to where his friends resided (or atleast Montana) when.. he heard it.
His sign, the thing that seemingly enticed him in the first place.
It first sounded like the old, familar sounds of tires coming across a gravel road - Xaviers mind immeadietly jumped to perhaps this could be new people.. new vistors.. new victims.
His blood ran cold when he heard something else; an eerie ringing of chains hitting against the ground. Something that was mostly a associated with buses.. and hauntingly familar. He had little to no time to think or even act on his suspicion when he noticed that a yellow school bus full, and nearly combusting with children was pulling into the camp.
Xavier wasnt exactly certain the bounds that ghosts had when it came to certain bodily functions like vomiting, but hes sure that under normal circumstances he would certainly be sick by now. Nevertheless he could feel his body tense up and the other natural symptoms associated with anxiety also kicked in. Urging him to clumsily get out of vision; he stumbled behind a few trees that poorly blocked him from sight. He continued to watch in complete and utter horror as the bus came to a stop, and it didnt take long for kids to start pouring out of the bus. Xavier felt his heart drop and his blood run cold every time a kid exited the bus and stepped on the dirt soil of Camp Redwood.
Xavier whipped his head around; scanning the surrounding area to make sure no other ghosts were here to bear witness to this.. Xavier was nearly always down to commit murder, it was really the only thing that kept him from fully going insane from pure fucking boredom but - kids? There was no fucking way he would let anyone touch them.
While he thoroughly scanned the area, he noticed a few adults leave the bus out of his periphery vision. He thought nothing of it, chaperones were to be expected on elementary field trips but.. the strange beckoning feeling he felt ealier visited him again, urging him to turn his head fully and look at one of the chaperones more closely. Instantaneously, he then automatically realized why he felt so compelled to come to this spot.. Why he was meant to be here at this exact moment.. It was you.
At first he thought he was merely hallucinating; you definetly looked significantly different from the last time he had saw you but.. he knew it was you, his partner that he had before his life completly went to shit (minus the catastrophe that occured with Blake, of course). He knew instantly, it was your eyes, your stature and just.. your overall warm and familiar aura that gave your identity away. He couldnt believe that the person he had so fucking desperately wanted to see more than anyone or anything was only a few feet away - and now, that you were finally here... All he wanted for you to do was to leave.
As soon as he saw you he felt a sudden tightness posses his chest and throat which accompanied the formation of tears burning his eyes; hastily blurring his vision. He had to physically restrain himself from sobbing outloud; trying his best to just swallow down his tears. His whole body felt as if it was on fire with anxiety, but he chose to continue to stand still behind a few dainty trees - trying to pull himself together so he could actually have the chance to think critically and choose what the ever living fuck he was going to do next.
While he waited for his blurry vision to clear, he chose to focus on the semi distant figure that he knew was you. He took in the little details; like how the sun highlighted the colors in your hair and your simple but charming outfit. It took him several moments to think of why you would even be here in the first place, with a school bus- and thats when another dreadful realization hit him.
Only parents were mainly chaperones when it came to elementary field trips.. meaning-
No other thought crossed Xaviers mind as his eyes flicked down inhumanely fast to the child where (y/n) stood next too.. and immeadietly he knew.
The features the child shared of both you and Xavier were partially a giveaway, but most importantly.. it was the feeling he had that confirmed his belief. The initial anxiety he felt of the kids arriving still remained but was significantly muted and mostly replaced with a overwhelming sense of pure love. The feeling spread to every fiber of his being, and so did a odd urge to protect this small being which he knew was his.
Not ever in his entire life had he felt this way about someone (execpt for perhaps, you). He felt himself taking a few steps forward, at first completly involuntary but he knew he had to talk to you. Just the idea of reuniting tasted so fucking good but, he knew he couldnt get too greedy if he was going to talk to you. He knew confronting you had to be solely done in order to save you and his child, he couldnt get carried away. He wouldnt.
He tried his best to appear casual as he submerged from behind the trees, his hands held behind his back - the only way he could get them to stop shaking. He tried to relax his shoulders and appear confident as he strided up to you; your back turned toward him. He continued until he was directly behind you, he wanted to tap your shoulder but - touching you seemed out of the question. That would confirm everything, it would make it seem actually real and not like this just some torturous dream.
"(Y/n)"? He spoke.
Xaviers breath hitched as he watched you whip around to face him. He studied your features as you went from looking utterly confused to surprised beyond belief.
"Xavier, what-"
"We need to talk".
Xavier quickly grabbed your hand, leading you away from herd of kids and the few sparse chaperones that were amongst them. A few of them gave you two a few odd looks but neither you or Xavier particularly cared, after all this was the first time in years you two had seen eachother. You hastily followed his lead, feeling slightly embarrassed that it was obvious how nervous and simply caught off guard you currently were. Your palms (one of which was still holding onto Xaviers hand) were starting to moisten with sweat. These feelings only amplified once Xavier turned around to face you. The intensity that was in his eyes put you on edge - never in your time of dating or knowing him did he ever look so serious with you.
"What are you doing here"? Xavier spoke, his voice was still in a higher pitch, slightly breaking.
"What"?
After years of not being able to see you, in fact; years of you not even knowing where he went - this was how he chose to greet you?? Automatically your blood ran cold with the sudden realization that something was wrong. Seriously wrong.. but the feeling didnt just apply to your ex boyfriend. It was the entire camp.
"Its not safe here, you need to take the kids and leave". Xaviers voice more visibly shook this time as he spoke; as if his words physically pained him.
Your heart skipped a beat, the sudden pain and anguish starting to fully settle in. You couldnt believe it; after years of not seeing you - this was all he had to say? Was he fucking joking?
"What? A-are you kidding? Xavier, I havent seen you in years- I didnt even know you would be here-"
"I'm sorry (y/n). I'm so sorry but you have no idea what this place is like. You just need to go, and the kids. And promise me you wont come back".
It was torturous to watch tears gather in Xaviers eyes, and watch as they streaked down his cheeks. The sadness you previously felt was now washed away with red, hot rage. The feeling spread throughout your body like a wildfire that he was seemingly rejecting you.. but you knew now this wasnt some pathetic excuse. Something was seriously wrong here; and now it was starting to become too obvious to ignore.
Xavier looked hauntingly the exact same from the last time you saw him. He forever, looked as if he was still stuck in the same moment of time - like in the summer of 1984, which was when you last saw him.
You didnt realize you were still holding onto one of his hands until you reflexively tried to move it to brush away his tears that were still staining his cheeks; but awkwardly.. you chose to do so with your other hand. Squeezing the one hand you were still holding onto a bit tighter.
He winced as you touched him, and as much you tried your damn best to hold it together - you could feel tears starting to burn your eyes as well.
"I cant promise I wont ever come back, Xavier. I need to see you again, and what about-" you said softly, about to reference the child you two shared together.
"No, you'll see me again (y/n). I promise.. okay"?
He brought your hand up to his mouth to kiss your knuckles; the tears you trying so desperately to hold in were now sliding down your cheeks. Your breathing was now horribly choppy. You were on the brink of full on sobbing but you held yourself back - it was nearly time for you to go.
The fact you would have to go back to go the others and make up some bullshit excuse to leave, put a bitter taste in your mouth.. but your sure Xavier had a valid reason for ushering you to leave. Even if he didnt want to tell you right now; you trusted him with your life.
"Okay.. Fine. I'm coming back though, and I'm sorry I couldnt find you sooner". You admitted.
You dropped his hand that you were still holding in order to wrap your arms around him. To get one final touch to remember him by. You were desperate to fully touch him and to be wrapped in his embrace, something you had desperately and madly missed. As he held you; you tried to soak in his scent, his aura.. just the fact that he was even here seriously with you, in this moment.
You previously assumed Xavier had passed away; that was easier to come to terms with rather than thinking he willingly ran away or.. that something else more sinister had happened. A part of you wanted to be frustrated that you were leaving with more questions than answers but.. you didnt care. Your heart didnt care. You were just happy you were able to see your boyfriend.. no matter the circumstance or conditions it came with. Even though you were stupidly happy, your thoughts kept annoyingly circling back to the same question - how was Xavier here with you, living.. breathing.. in the flesh. How was this possible? You were about to speak your thoughts outloud when you first felt Xavier break away from you. You didnt get as much as a second glance just when you felt something soft on your cheek. Perhaps a goodbye kiss? and then.. just like he wasnt there at all, he was gone. Almost as if he completly disintegrated into the fresh, morning sky.
You felt your entire body stiffen as you realized he was gone.. again. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly how you felt. It was a nasty mix of both grief and anger that left you completly speechless and deathly still. You took a step back to combat the feeling, and attempted to look casual (and not like the person whom you were just hugging had completly fucking vanished). Sheepishly taking a look at the group you had arrived with and making sure none of them noticed your.. odd behavior.
Sure enough, none of them did. They all stood, and continued on conversing just like they were before you had broke away from them. Smiling and laughing as if nothing was wrong; just like they didnt have a care in the world - just as if the love of their life wasnt ripped away from them for a second time.
Even though Xavier was now gone, that odd, unsettling feeling still lingered with you. Like something was terribly wrong here, in Camp Redwood. The feeling wasn't entirely bad though; sure - the overall air in this place reeked of something terrible but.. now you felt something else mixed into it. A comforting essence of safety; Xaviers presence. You knew he wasnt directly beside you anymore but he was somewhere.. lurking. Watching you, as you begrudgingly walked over to the group you came with. Making up a bullshit excuse in your head so you could escape whatever this place was pretending to be.
Taglist: @michaellangdonstanaccount @langdonsexual @jimmason @blakewaterxx @dark-mei-rose @9layerdevilfoodcake @prophecy-is-inevitable @matildaofoz @beautyiswithinchaos @frenchlangdon @instincts-baby let me know if u would like to be added!! :)
#xavier x reader#xavier plympton x reader#xavier plympton fanfic#ahs fanfic#cody fern fanfic#my fic#inbox is officially empty now 💅🏻#hopefully the pov switching wasnt weird LOL#it was my first time writing like that hehe#i lowkey feel bad i made this so dark so hopefully its still enjoyable LOL#also this doesnt rlly follow canon details that well but- idc djdjd
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Drarry + Facing Demons and Finding Family
Tw: mentions of symptoms of depression, anxiety, ptsd, and child abuse. All are resolved with a happy ending.
Draco Malfoy walks the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, and it’s different now. The way it had bustled with a vibrant vivacity in his younger years is long gone now, replaced by the mediocrities that come with running errands and making stops for work. It had been repaired, for the most part, after the war, but something about the shadows of buildings that used to be constructed just a little bit different haunts Malfoy in his steps.
He turns to glance over his shoulder when the sound of a child laughing fills the spaces between bustling bodies and adult feet. A familiar tuft of blue hair comes dashing forward, and Draco feels a momentary reprieve from his own hollow dissonance. His face lights up as the boy throws his arms around his neck, crying “Cousin Draco! What are you doing here?”
And behind the vivacious grin is the humble one of Harry Potter, the boy who really did end up saving the world. Draco doesn’t hate him; how could he? If it weren’t for the testimony of the man standing there now casually in his Muggle plaid shirt and ripped-up jeans, Draco wouldn’t be walking these streets.
“Malfoy,” he puts his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth a bit on his feet. “What sort of business are you up to these days?”
“Oh, just... dropping off a package for the boss. You know.” He shrugs, suddenly vacant. His momentary reprieve shrinks into a daunting reality.
“Wanna come get ice cream with us?” Teddy’s toothy grin eats at the edges of his impending monotony.
“Oh, well, I wasn’t-“ he starts, but Harry Potter has stepped his foot forward.
“No, please. If you’re not too busy, we’d love to catch up. Teddy misses you.” And, allowing the package to feel a bit lighter in his coat pocket, Draco turns on one heel and heads to the parlor with them both.
***
Having Teddy Lupin run through his life is like chasing a tiny piece of dynamite. You never know just when it will explode, and when you’ve got it in your fingers it seems to roll invariably to the floor. Draco’s been waiting now for quite some time for his own destruction, but his regularly timed meetings with Harry (wow- really on a first name basis now) and his cousin had brightened his steps countably.
It seemed that the sparking fire may just never come.
***
Draco Malfoy doesn’t visit Malfoy manor, and its empty rooms are surely hung with cob webs and dust mites and other small creatures that have made it home. The stone exterior is beginning to succumb to a green vine that twists its way up the foundation, and apparently small children dare each other to knock on the door of the “Death Eater House.”
Draco doesn’t have to visit Malfoy Manor to know which ghosts roam its halls, apparitions of tortured souls and the results of his own mistakes. If only he’d stood up to his father. If only he’d run. If only...
Draco swallows, once, then twice, before straightening his stare ahead. Harry’s coming over soon, and this time Teddy is at the Burrow. They’ve never hung out like this, quite alone and unsupervised by Teddy’s string of home-made knock knock jokes. He’s not sure why, but he’s nervous.
***
After the war, Draco had considered himself a work-in-progress. He’d ventured through the stages of grief, mourning his losses and wishing he could change the past. He’d also picked himself up off of the floor, vowing to start new. None of this was easy. Panic followed him around every corner, but around every corner was the reassuring laugh of Teddy; smile of Harry. If he’s honest with himself, he’ll admit their great assistance in his own healing.
But that doesn’t stop the nightmares. Or the constant feeling of dread. And when Draco Malfoy is alone, his guilt consumes him. Why hadn’t he done the right thing? Why hadn’t he stood up to his father?
***
When Draco was eight, he’d drawn a portrait of his family. It was an assignment by his private tutor, a sort of busy-work while she prepared more practice for magical theory. He’d drawn them, stoic and cold, using shades of gray and black to fill in the spaces between them. They didn’t touch, didn’t love. Lucius told him that artists didn’t make any money in the Wizarding World. Draco ripped up the drawing and threw it in the rubbish bin.
***
When Draco’s lease on his London apartment is near its end, Harry finds him with a nervous twitch of his lips.
“You know, Draco, you don’t have to move into another building. I know you hate your neighbors because they remind you of your family. Our flat is large enough for a third member.”
Draco had almost immediately rejected- his first instinct was to scoff at any such attempts at pity. But Teddy’s eyes had met his, bright and foretelling- and his pleas almost melted Draco’s shoes to the asphalt.
“If you really want me to,” Draco smiles, “I’m sure that can be arranged.”
***
Draco hadn’t realized that his ghosts would follow him here. But as he watches the shadows dance upon the walls of his very own room, he knows he’s not dreaming. It’s his father, reminding him that he will never be good enough.
It’s his mother, watching with irrefutable silence.
It’s himself, pointing a wand at Dumbledore. Leaving with Snape. And abandoning his dreams to follow in his father’s foot steps.
It’s a portrait of Draco’s family, stone cold and frozen against the frosted window pane.
He doesn’t realize he’s screaming.
Not until the door is thrown open, and Harry’s there, sporting nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and a concerned purse of his lips.
He’s on the bed, and now Draco is crying. Yelling. Laughing hysterically. Because he’s fucking insane, sitting in a bed half-naked with Harry Potter and telling himself to shut his fucking mouth before Teddy wakes up.
But Harry is gentle. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and whispers “I know. But it’s not true. None of it is real.”
And Draco sobs, without really knowing how to stop, and Harry’s skin is warm against his own. It’s the first time he’s ever really felt whole.
Hours pass, though the clock reads otherwise. And Draco tells him that he needs to go back to bed. That they’ve both got work in the morning, and Teddy is visiting Andromeda...
But, no, Harry whispers, this is more important. You are more important. When had their relationship morphed into this... whatever this is?
Draco Malfoy allows himself to be held, and it is surprisingly wonderful.
***
Working for the ministry is like working in one of those Muggle cubicles. He should be grateful for the opportunity, but Draco hates his job. His boss is monstrous, a poised figure that reminds him far too much of his father.
He gets a bit panicky when requests are made, unable to say no. Draco Malfoy never thought he’d become a push over, but his inherent desire to please, to win, to have a second chance is tumultuous.
He doesn’t know how to live without it.
***
Teddy is spending the night at the Burrow, and Draco and Harry are doing their usual dance of washing and putting away the dishes.
“Fancy a movie?” Harry asks, and something soft flutters in Draco’s chest.
“Sure.”
***
It’s midnight when Draco feels the gentle presence of Harry slumped against his shoulder, his quiet snores a rhythm that he begins to memorize.
He doesn’t move, and the stillness is what allows him to feel the sporadic twitches that begin to ripple through Harry’s body.
“No, no,” he murmurs, “Please, no. Hermione... Cruciatus...”
Draco freezes, and he immediately understands the inner workings of Harry’s psyche.
He was there when his aunt Bella inflicted near irreparable damage to Hermione Granger. He didn’t stand up. He didn’t stop her.
There’s a tightness in his chest, and it fluctuates with his heart rate. Harry is having a nightmare, and it’s all his fault.
“You’ll never make up for what you’ve done,” he hears his father say, and the words are a gun to his head.
“Harry,” he whispers, desperately running his fingers along the side of his arm to calm him. If he couldn’t go back, the least he could do is aid his sleep.
Harry settles, and Draco breathes a sigh of relief. His father is laughing at him.
Ghostly shadows dance along the walls, flickering in the dim light of the TV. The world seems to grow around him, and he is infintismal.
His palms are sweaty as the guilt settles, rotting a hole in his stomach. And then there’s a whisper, a subtle word that shifts everything: “Draco.”
He glances at Harry’s face twice to make sure he’s not imagining the slight tug at the corner of his mouth. He said Draco’s name. And, from the depths of his slumber, he’s smiling.
Draco’s eyes are prickly, and he’s not sure why there are tears surfacing at such an inopportune moment. Perhaps he’s gone completely insane... or maybe...
“Not your father, Draco... amazing... need you... love you...”
A light seems to dissipate the shadows, which morph and expand into unidentifiable shapes before they slowly vanish. Draco’s hands are still clammy, but his mind is on overdrive.
The Savior of the Wizarding World is dreaming about him. Believes in him. Maybe, even...loves him?
And the remaining shadows come crashing down, spirits that find rest in redemption. If Harry Potter, with his stupid scar, and his stupid broomstick, could think highly of Draco Malfoy, the ex-death eater... maybe he could forgive himself.
Maybe... and then there are images flashing through his mind. Of stone family drawings and cruel and unjust punishment.
Of the desire to please, so much, that if his father pointed a wand at his throat he’d beg for forgiveness. Of pretending to have dignity for so long that he’d lost his own along the way.
And then, another sleepy rasp from Potter: “not your fault...”
And something snaps inside him.
“Not my fault,” he repeats, barely audible, yet it rattles an earthquake that cracks the floor. The ground faults, and everything he’s ever know crumbles before him.
“You are pathetic.” The voice of his father shakes the walls, breaks the foundation. Rips open the fortress of his solitude, jagged lines coursing through his very being and down to his core.
There’s a wand at his throat.
Harry isn’t here. Here, it’s a Malfoy’s paradise, and Draco’s skin crawls at the realistic image of his father before him. He’s so fucking life-like, the drawl of his criticism dripping with the poison of a basilisk. He’s smiling, and that hurts. It’s malicious.
But then, another whisper. A distant proclamation that rings through the periphery of his hearing. “Draco... always... good enough...”
Fuck. Harry?
“Good enough,” he repeats, the syllables a solid reality, just like the man before him. And, in a sudden fit of realization, Draco realizes the epitome of his salvation.
“You’re not real,” he says, and the words are a bit shaky as they permeate the air. His father’s face twists into something unreadable, a cross between a scowl and utter shock.
“You’re not real.” The wand lowers. His brow narrows.
“You were never real. My father is in Azkaban. You are just the ghost of what he did to me.”
His hands are drifting into the atmosphere, like grains of sand dissipating toward the floor. His expression morphs into utter fear, and, for once, Draco feels powerful.
It was never about defeating him. He could have dualed his fractured subconscious for years, constantly bettering himself, only to fall again. And the wand would always be pointed at his throat
But Harry, Harry said he was good enough. And he can hear the distant titter of Teddy’s amusement, the padding of his socks as they bounce along the hardwood floor of their flat. Of their home.
Harry cares. Loves. And so Draco must love himself.
“You could never kill me,” he says to the air, as the whisp of Lucius Malfoy’s presence fades into nothing. “It was just me, all along. Hurting myself because you trained me to. It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fucking fault.”
There’s a sudden whoosh, and the room is spinning. And then it’s not. And Draco Malfoy is sitting next to a blissfully sleeping Harry Potter in a London flat.
The movie is over, and all that remains of the last few minutes is a line of scrolling credits.
The shadows, they’re gone. And somehow, Draco is no longer haunted. The house is peaceful, and a serenity seems to fill it’s every crevice, binding the cracks that once cleaved the walls. He pulls Harry closer, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Taking a risk he’d never had the confidence to execute.
Harry smiles, stirring a bit before turning his green gaze upward. “That’s nice,” he says, and Draco chuckles.
“Yeah, it is, hm?”
“Hey Draco?”
He doesn’t reply, but meets that vibrant stare of his with irrefutable honesty.
“Thanks for being a part of our family.”
“Family?” The word nervously slips his lips. He’s never done this before.
Harry nods. “You, me, and Teddy.”
His eyes are prickly again, and he swallows a hard lump in the back of his throat. “I love the sound of that. Of family.”
“Good. Because I’ll hex you if you go anywhere. Old habits do die hard, you know.”
Draco laughs, hearty. Whole. Harry snuggles into his shoulder, falling asleep lightly as he thoughtfully plans his next project.
***
The next day, Teddy enters to find Draco drawing a picture of his family at the kitchen table.
“Whatcha doin’?” He asks curiously, hopping onto Draco’s lap as he sketches.
The picture before them is a family, a blonde, a brunette, and a tuft or blue hair between them. There are no spaces, no empty holes between their bodies, and the sky is a vibrant array of purples and oranges.
“Let’s hang it on the fridge!” Teddy exclaims, grasping it and running to attach it to the front of the surface.
Draco eyes the picture smiling, and it is the best he’s ever felt.
#drarry#draco malfoy#harry potter#teddy lupin#lucius malfoy#narcissa malfoy#draco x harry#drarry squad#draco malfoy x harry potter#dad! draco and harry#facing your inner demons#post war#draco malfoy will forever be my muse for kicking daddy issues to the curb#this was therapy for me
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A Shot in the Dark: Chapter 3 (Author’s Commentary)
(Read the fic here)
General Notes:
The final chapter! I don’t have too many general notes for this one (though the passage-specific notes below the cut stretch on for miles--there was just a lot going on in this chapter lol). But I will say that this is my favorite chapter of the three. It’s what the previous two have been building up to, and it really is the “heart” of the story, so to speak. That, and I finally got to make Glitter Wings Nari canon to The Immortal Bonds! (picture below the cut) I genuinely teared up a little bit while writing a couple of these scenes. I don’t know if that means they are very good, or that I was just absolutely exhausted after cranking out the first two chapters, but maybe you can be the judge. Friendly reminder to go listen to the song “Protector” by City Wolf if you are so inclined. It was a huge part of what inspired this story, and now that all three parts are published, I feel like it perfectly captures the theme and feel of A Shot in the Dark as a whole.
Passage-Specific Notes:
“...Please, Nari, I would not be doing my duty as Douxie’s...as your friend if I let you run thoughtlessly into this kind of danger.”
Another small line of dialogue that means a lot to me. I didn’t see Archie as making the instant connection with Nari that Douxie did. I think it took him a while to see her as anything more than “Douxie’s Ward.” He was always kind to her and took care of her, but I think it took him until now to realize that he had grown to really love her as part of the family. So the fact that he corrects himself here reflects that realization. I think under normal circumstances, the moment Archie finds out Douxie is in trouble/hurting, he would dive headfirst into hell without a second thought in order to help his boy. But because Nari is now also under his protection--and more importantly, now that she also has a special place in his heart--Archie has to force himself to slow down and come up with a plan that will keep BOTH of his kids safe.
The phone rang once--twice--six times. Then it went to voicemail.
Nari lowered it with a look of pure dejection as Claire’s pre-recorded voice cheerfully told them to leave their message after the beep.
I felt like calling Claire for backup was the most sensible thing they could do in this situation--but I also needed Nari and Archie to take on Project Rescue Douxie by themselves, in order to reinforce the family bond these three have. The moment when they all reunite at the end wouldn’t have had the emotional impact I was angling for if there had been others present. So I had to pull a tiny plot contrivance and make Claire unavailable. I didn’t feel the need to explain why she doesn’t answer her phone (people miss calls all the time) but my personal theory was that she was taking a nice relaxing shower and couldn’t pick up the phone. (look, I need SOMEBODY in this story to be having a nice time lol).
“By Ambrosia’s Gleam...” Archie breathed. A pair of dazzlingly beautiful wings reflected every light of the city back at him as Nari folded and unfolded them experimentally. They were unlike anything the cat had ever seen in his long life, vibrantly colored with rich shades of green and gold, glittering like morning dew, yet delicate as a newly budding flower.
Anybody remember last week, when I said the Most Self-Indulgent part was yet to come? This was it lol. I don’t remember when I started imagining Nari with sparkly butterfly wings, but back in early October, I drew this:
and I have been absolutely enamored with the idea ever since (but also it was a convenient way to get them to the warehouse without having to go through the ordeal of walking/taking a taxi/busting out the flying boat). So yeah. Nari’s Glitter Wings are canon to The Immortal Bonds series now. I have spoken.
He had no idea how long he had been enduring Rivan’s torture. It may have only been a few minutes, or it may have been a few years. Hell, he was getting to the point where it felt like this excruciating ache in his bones had been there his whole life. He tried not to sob as Rivan slowly pulled his magic back to himself, the agony abating for just a short moment of sweet relief. Douxie sucked in gulps of air, desperate to replenish the oxygen that had been ripped from his lungs by his own screaming.
First time really writing whump, so that was...something (I was exhausted after just the one paragraph lol). I tried to keep it as vague as I could because I don’t want anybody coming to my fic expressly for a graphic torture scene and nothing else (I don’t do the hurt-no-comfort thing, and I don’t want anybody to use my fics as such). But putting Douxie through a bit of hell does make the ending SO much sweeter. And if he hadn’t been experiencing pain, Archie and Nari probably would have taken longer to decide to come to his rescue. But there is still a part of me that detests every letter of that paragraph.
The small dragon let out a roar of fury and leapt at Rivan, his form twisting and expanding into that of an enormous black panther. The two crashed together in a flurry of red sparks and tearing claws.
Archie turning into a black panther and going to town on Rivan is also a bit of self-indulgence. I just really love big cats, and black panthers especially are beautiful, mysterious, and powerful creatures that just SCREAM Magic and Otherworldliness to me. (also I really want to draw Panther!Archie now).
He slammed against the concrete with a yowl of pain that tore Douxie’s heart into a thousand pieces, and dropped to the floor, where he lay quivering and heaving.
That line right up there 👆 is the most heart-wrenchingly painful thing I have ever forced myself to write. 😥
Nari grabbed Douxie by the shoulders and pulled him upright. One of her hands reached around him and pressed against his heart, and he felt her aura slam into his. Instinctively, his soul opened, and he let her magic pour into him, filling his veins with the warmth of a hundred suns, wrapping around and tangling with his own magic so tightly that he could barely tell whose was whose. Nari’s voice filled his head, drowning out every sound in his ears, every thought in his mind. My magic is yours. Use it. He threw both of his hands out and felt power unlike anything he had ever known surge into his palms and explode out of his fingertips.
So this ties into a headcanon of mine that, while Nari’s magic isn’t well-suited to direct combat, she is able to augment Douxie’s powers. But this scene is also probably the culmination of every relationship-building moment I have ever written for these two. I established in A Moment to Breathe that to let someone interact with your aura in this way--to basically channel their magic directly into you--requires a great deal of trust. Douxie let Nari heal him in that story, but that was after she had asked permission to pour her magic into him. Here, she doesn’t have time to ask--she just has to go for it, and Douxie’s trust and familiarity with her is so intense at this point, that his response is to immediately surrender completely to her power. Not only that, he is so familiar with her magic, that he is able to use it himself--he combines it with his own power and casts a spell that Nari is likely unable to use herself. I intended this moment to be a representation of the way family relationships can shape and empower you. You carry elements of the people you love with you wherever you go; their influence, their stories, their love for you--it all helps shape you into the person you are. And these things are often so deeply intertwined with your own personality, that it becomes impossible to fully separate them.
They had risked everything--the fate of the world, even--to save him. He should have scolded them. But instead, Douxie suddenly found himself overwhelmed with the ridiculous urge to cry.
This was the reason I wrote Douxie in Distress--and also one of the reasons I wrote A Shot in the Dark at all. I wanted him to experience being stripped of everything that made him powerful--useful-- and then witness his family risking literally everything for him. Not for his powers, not for what he can do for them, but because they love him. This poor, sweet boy gives and gives and gives, and the world has done nothing but take from him, and I have said “ENOUGH.” I wanted the serotonin of seeing him realize that he is valued and cherished for himself, and BY THUNDER I WAS GOING TO GET IT EVEN IF I HAD TO WRITE 9000+ WORDS FOR IT.
She pulled back a moment later, roughly drying her face on her sleeve, and untied the black hoodie around her waist. She draped it around Douxie’s shoulders with her magic, and he sighed contentedly as the warm fabric settled around him. He slipped his arms into the sleeves and closed the garment around himself gratefully, giving Nari a tired, heartfelt smile.
I didn’t realize it when I initially drafted the story, but Douxie’s hoodie is actually a really nice visual representation of how he and Nari pass the role of caretaker/protector back and forth. Douxie is wearing it for the first half of the story, when he is acting as Nari’s guardian/brother. Shortly after he lends it to her though, he’s captured by Rivan, and Nari takes on the role of protector in turn. But yeah, originally it was just “Them trading the hoodie back and forth is pointlessly cute and I wanna do it.” (Poor Archie has to be the Adult 100% of the time. He doesn’t get a break).
Most of Douxie’s mornings began with the harsh, clattering sound of his phone vibrating and whistling next to his ear. But that Sunday morning began with a deliciously warm silence. Douxie’s eyes blinked open slowly, finding sunlight lazily shining through the windows. He was lying on his side, with Archie’s soft, familiar body tucked against his chest. A gentle warmth against his back told Douxie that Nari was curled up beside him, wrapped in her own little cocoon of blankets, her back against his. The ache in his bones was gone. He was nestled safely in the warmth and love of his small family, the world outside and all that occurred within it nothing more than a distant echo.
Wrapping his arms around Archie and pressing his back more firmly against Nari’s, Douxie closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
This final scene wasn’t actually in my original outline--originally, the story ended with the three of them beginning the long trek home together. But I felt that the story needed just a little extra time to savor in the happy ending. And so, it came full circle--ending just like it began, with the dawning of a new morning. I noticed that I spend a lot of time in this story comparing the mornings of different characters/days. I think that might have been a subconscious expression of my belief that every morning is the beginning of a new opportunity--to strengthen bonds, to do good in the world, to just live for another day. Douxie’s Saturday morning started off a little rougher than he wanted--he woke up early and had to rush around to get ready for a long day out on the town. And wouldn’t you know it, his Saturday ended pretty badly too (though I think he’s probably just grateful he got to go home in one piece haha). This Sunday morning plays out in the exact opposite way. It’s quiet, peaceful, unhurried, and full of hope. Douxie’s been through hell and back, but he survived long enough to see another beginning. And I think that’s the beautiful cycle that all human life follows. There’s pain in life, darkness and hopelessness, but if you can hold on, strengthened by the love of the people you hold dear, you will always find a new beginning waiting for you on the other side of the valley.
...And that’s it. Thank you to everyone for reading my work. Seeing everyone who enjoyed it, hearing from you guys in the comments, knowing that I was able to give someone a good story--it really does mean the world to me. So again, thanks for joining me, and I hope our paths cross again soon. 🤗✨
#fanfiction#author's commentary#the magical siblings#and their therapy cat#a shot in the dark#thanks for reading <3
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Not Ready To Be Alone
(I wrote this in less than an hour after watching the finale. It’s written as platonic, considering Chidi is still fresh in Eleanor’s mind and heart, but can be seen as shippy if anyone wants, like a pre-distant relationship.)
It’s rare that he ever hears a knock on the green door. Wait, not rare. Never.
The Leader of the Good Place is renowned for having an open door policy for every single resident. No problem is too small or trivial, he’s always ready to invite constructive criticism or take on new ideas to keep the eternal paradise from becoming the cesspool of stoned zombies it had become on his arrival all those thousands of Bearimys ago.
And no one is more welcome, or appears more often with a carefree burst through the door, than one of his humans who had helped to reform the afterlife at his side. In return, Michael has always been allowed the same freedom to waltz into their homes as if he was living in every one of their spare rooms. That’s what family did, so Jason once told him.
It comes as a surprise then when he hears the three sharp knocks.
Putting his guitar aside, he rather cautiously goes to the door and opens it.
“Oh...Hey.” He says, feeling a little knocked back at what greets him.
Eleanor’s eyes are damp as she blinks at him. There’s a twitch in her cheek as she struggles to form a smile.
Her lips open for a second only for whatever words to get lost in the ether.
Michael doesn’t need words. He knows. Fork, he thought he felt something shift in the fabric of the Universe, early that morning. As if a little drop of wisdom had fallen back into the waters of the Universe and every bookmark turned a shade of black in mourning. He had contemplated going through the door, to check on her, only to hold himself back. Wait for her. She’d come for him if she wants him.
And she has...he thinks. He sure hopes that’s the case as he bridges the gap between them and wraps his arms around her.
When she doesn’t ask him what the fork he’s doing or push him back, instead sniffles against his shirt as her head leans into him, he tightens his arms around her. And now - oh shirt - he’s crying as well, the two of them standing in the threshold of his office with Eleanor and Chidi’s house (yes, it will always be their house) on the other side. He looks over the top of her head as it rests against his chest into that living he’d designed to be comfortable and clown-free for the two of them to be together forever...and it simply feels wrong for the brilliant nerd not to be sat reading on the couch or scribbling notes on the chalkboard.
Feeling Eleanor’s tears soak through his shirt, he regrets - just for a selfish half-a-second - ever inventing that stupid Door. He curses himself for creating the one thing that could ever truly tear these two apart.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, his voice breaking.
Anything, please. Let me help. Let me do something to lessen this pain.
The human in his arms nods; “Can I stay with you for a little bit? I’m not...ready to be in that house alone. Not yet...”
Michael sighs, moving a hand up to stroke her hair. He strokes his palms down the sides of her head, cradling it as he pulls back to look at her.
“Of course. As long as you want.” Forever, if she wanted, not that she would.
With a wave of his hand, the room expands, stretching out to include the large futon, mini-bar and giant tv screen that appear at the same time.
Ten minutes later, they’re lounging on the mattress, Michael not giving a crap as Eleanor spills seafood sauce on the bed as she eats the plate of endless shrimp he conjured up for her.
“What did you think of the calendar?” He has to ask, as they’d hoped that would ease the blow of her loss a little.
“Did you help him make that?” She asks with a grin.
“It was all his idea, I just...suggested a few poses, based on your psych profile and...took the photos, while Janet crafted it all together.” It had been a fun day. A ridiculously enjoyable day which he hadn’t appreciated enough, at the time, would be the last great day he would have with the man who helped turn him from evil.
“Well thank you very much, bud.” Eleanor smiles, her hand touching his arm.
Michael sighs; “We tried our best, didn’t we. To stop him going...?”
“It was his time. There was nothing we could’ve done. Or, better put, nothing we should have done.” She states to him.
“I had a chat with him before me and Janet left, last night.” He has to confess to her; “I tried, Eleanor, I really did try to convince him to stay! I even offered to erase his memory to before he had that ‘feeling’ but...”
She glances up at him in anticipation, the tears forming again.
Michael hesitates to continue, so unsure if it will help or make her feel more sad, but it feels only right she hear his words.
“He said that forgetting you the last time had been enough torture for one lifetime...Never again, even if it was just part of your time together.”
The droplets spill, swiftly, down her cheeks as she leans forward.
Michael’s chest feels tight. He tries to reach out with his handkerchief to dab at her face. She lets him fuss, giving him a grateful smile.
“He loved me, didn’t he.” Does it even need repeating? “He loved me so much and I...didn’t deserve him.”
...
What?
Michael sits up at that, grasping for her hand; “Hey. Don’t you ever say that! Don’t even think it! You deserved every moment of love and happiness that the two of you shared together, Eleanor! If I knew of some way to give you more, I would, if I could snap my fingers and somehow create some philosophical dilemma that had yet to be attempted to solve by any of the dorks in this place just so it meant Chidi’s essence would reform and return, I would do it! Oooh, maybe I can get Aristotle to pass his test and make it here, I mean I heard he’s so close to getting there as it is and no way would Chidi wanna pass up the chance to...”
His speech trails off when he notices that Eleanor’s tears are interrupted by her own soft chuckles.
“What?”
“Nothing, just...” She brushes her own cheeks; “Just you, dude. Like you haven’t done enough.”
He’s not entirely sure what she means by that.
“I don’t feel like I have.” He tells her, heavily; “I mean...My whole purpose was getting the four of you here so you could be happy and...You’re not. You’re miserable. And that means I’ve failed again, damn it.”
Eleanor frowns, this time the one who reaches for him.
“No, Michael...You haven’t failed anything.” She explains to him, her fingers curling around his wrist; “I’m sad...but I’m not miserable. I just...feel a little lost, that’s all. Chidi was my compass and without him....I mean, I just don’t get how he was able to find what his feeling was and I have no idea. Chidi was the one who helped me to learn all the stuff in this crazy world and...how am I supposed to find what makes me complete without him?”
He gives her a smile and waves his hand again to refill the plate with more shrimp after she’s devoured every piece, for the fifth time already.
“Well, I know I don’t hold a candle to Chidi,” he has no problem confessing what is obviously true; “I accepted that many years ago. But I will do my best to spend every waking moment helping you find what makes you Complete. And as I don’t sleep, that’s also a benefit.”
Eleanor smiles, the sadness still weighing down her face, as she reaches out to brush her hand against his cheek.
“Thanks, bud, but you don’t have to-.”
“No, I mean it! Chidi told me what you said on the bridge, about how you’re alone without him and, don’t worry, you won’t be here much longer.” he says, ignoring the pit in his essence that appeared from the moment he heard those words; “Perhaps I can tweak the Door to let you go through, even if you’re not ready? Or maybe, as the Judge is all knowing, she has the answer? I can sneak into her office or trade something, fork, if it means sacrificing myself to bring back Ally McBeal as a bargaining chip then I’ll-.”
Eleanor cuts him off with a fierce hug around his neck as she bursts into tears again. Her fingers reach up to pet the back of his head as she holds him to her, Michael a little frozen from the abruptness of it all.
“...D-did I say something wrong?” The sobbing would say yes but the hug confuses him, as nice as it is.
She shakes her head; “N-no...No, dude, I’m not crying because I’m sad right now. I’m crying because I’m....so forking happy.”
Hooray!
Wait.
What?
“...Happy?”
“Yes, dummy.” She pulls back to meet his eyes; “Because I just realised the forking obvious. That I’m not...I’m not alone. Am I.”
Michael’s lip wobbles; “I...I didn’t think...” He doesn’t count, surely. Not like the others.
“Of course I’m not. I could’ve gone looking for anyone but I didn’t even think of going to find my other friends or my parents or some imaginary perfect mail man when I knocked on the door. I only had one face in mind.” Eleanor smiles, a couple of fresh tears spilling down; “The one I’m staring at right now.”
“Oh...” That’s him!
Wow, that’s him?!
Michael feels that glow warm through him as he wraps his arms around her to hold her close.
“I’m not alone. I have my best friend. I have you, Michael.” Eleanor says, for herself, giving him a squeeze.
“You’ll always have me. I promise to be here until you’re complete, Eleanor, no matter how many Bearimys that may be. I swear on every turtleneck in Chidi’s infinite closet that you will never, ever be alone. Promise.”
Time loses even less meaning than it had before in the Good Place as Michael keeps a hold of Eleanor throughout the night. He doesn’t sleep, neither does she, as they spend what could be an entire Bearimy wrapped up safe and content in their tightest of hugs.
It’s the one time in eternity that the new Architect keeps his door closed, allowing no one else to disturb them until Eleanor is ready. For as long as she needs him, the rest of the Universe can wait.
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Deep South
Original spooky fic based off of Deep South by Cartel.
Word Count:1,736
She closed her eyes and hummed. She could smell the storm coming in. Feel the lightning light up the distant sky. She could hear her feet tap against the cobblestone walkways in a steady rhythm with her heart. She could feel the weight of the summer air press against her as she perspired a prayer for a breeze.
She knew the way. It just took one step after another. The sun felt good on her skin and her eyes opened when she heard the moss shift in the trees.
Instantly she was back into her body like a rip chord went off. She slumped from her pose on the floor and huffed in annoyance. So close. So very far away.
She slapped her hands upon the wood floor of the tiny apartment as she stood up and went to the window to see the freak ice storm that roared outside. The day was dark from clouds but the ice and snow twinkled anyway.
She glared at the weather as if it was openly mocking her before she kicked the wall below the window and went back to her spot on the floor. She took a deep breath.
"Again, honey," she muttered, "Try again.I can do this."
She exhaled slowly, squeezing her eyes shut before relaxing and trying to find a rhythm to breathe in. She crossed her legs before purposefully extending her arms and planting her palms flat onto the floor.
She inhaled slowly, and with her exhale she pressed her palms deep into the floor. Her muscles flexed and instantly she was back on the beach, feeling the breeze across her face like opening an oven door. She felt her hands press into warm sand and water the temperature of bath water caressed her forearms.
This time, she didn't open her eyes. Instead, she could feel the lighthouse in the distance, it's visitors cooing and taking photos of the old place. She felt the boardwalk down the way bustling with families and couples buying ice cream to beat the southern heat.
She slowly lifted her hands from the sand and water and turned her back to the sea, squinting at the waterway that turned into a river and led back to her home. She shifted along the waterway until her memory could place her along the riverbanks and her feet touched the cobblestone again. She thoughtlessly waved at the statue of the woman waving her laundry at the sea.
She strolled along the shops, her hands wistfully touching the old buildings as she went. No one that passed her even took a glance. She licked her lips as she passed the taffy store, watching the man pull the sugar long and slow in the window.
She did not stop. If she stopped now, she might not find her way back.
She ran her hand along the brick hotel that was once a mighty cotton gin company. She could feel the old building breathing, expanding and contracting with memories. She almost paused, but continued on.
Her time was short, and her energy was constantly depleting. She had to reach him. She had to see. She only had this much energy because she was stronger on the day she was born. Sunday. And time was short.
The day was winding down and street lamps slowly came on. She passed one of the dozens of beautiful squares. This one had a memorial fountain under the massive oak tree covered in moss.
A sudden urge to sit on the edge of the fountain and touch the water moved through her so violently that her steps faltered for a moment. The breeze whispered in her hair, begging her to stop and touch the water. Her breath stilled. She took another step.
One more trip past the old cemetery, she thought, pushing herself on.
She thoughtlessly ran her hand across the metal fence as she walked past it, looking at the unearthed headstones across the far wall that had been desecrated by union soldiers. Names were changed, dates were scratched over. Sorrow poured from it's gates as it beckoned her in. She walked by, gently squeezing the metal gate before letting go.
"Not today, honey," she said.
She was almost to the flat. It was a quaint little apartment space in the attic of an old Victorian home, repurposed to be a string of low-income apartments rather than a massive plantation for an elite family. Her steps felt heavier as she locked her eyes on the attic window beckoning her with it's soft yellow light.
Would he be there?
"You don't want to go up there, baby," a soft voice called from behind her.
She startled before turning her head and seeing a middle aged woman walk across the street to stand beside her. The woman's black hair was expertly curled, and her dark dress shirt and slacks were covered with a charcoal apron that the woman patted as she looked at the house.
Her skin was deceptively smooth with minimal aging lines around her dark eyes, and her voice was soft and smooth with the native twang of the south.
"He's not there no more," the woman said. Her tone held an edge as the girl stiffened beside her. "Child, don't be mad at him. Time works differently on the other side. He still thinks of you. Life continues on, just like we do."
"Who --" the girl started, "how-- how do you know? How do you see me?"
"You can call me Momma E," the woman said as she slipped her hand into her apron, bringing up a red wrapper decorated like a strawberry and pushing it toward the girl. "I'm here to smooth things along, honey. Sometimes people get lost and need a push. That's what I do."
"Momma E," the girl says incredulously. "How am I lost? I know where I am. I belong here."
"Baby," Momma E said, dark eyebrows raising like angry wasps, "you might know where you are, but you don't KNOW where you are."
She took the strawberry candy from Momma E and inspected it before popping the candy in her mouth.
"Why can't I return here?" She asked quietly, deflated.
"Do you remember how you got to that apartment?" Momma E asked softly.
She jerked her head down with short images of running, blood, screaming. She inhaled sharply before slowly shaking her head. Momma E patted her on the shoulder.
"There, there, baby," Momma E soothed. "You just suck on that candy and focus on here. We don't have enough time for you to blink out now."
She focused on the taste of candy and crumpled the cellophane wrapper in her hand before shoving it into her jean shorts. Momma E nodded in approval.
"Now," she drawled, looking down into the girl's eyes, "Listen closely because there isn't time for repeating. They're gonna find your body in three days, child. That could feel like a minute or a hundred years. We all move differently through time here. But in three days, they're gonna find you and they're gonna put two and two together. You ain't gonna be stuck no more. They gonna find your parents and they gonna bring you home."
She inhaled a sob of relief as tears started to form around her eyes. Momma E hushed her and with quick fingers rubbed the tear off her cheek.
"I ain't done yet, baby," she said, gently holding her chin. "You gotta go with 'em. You gotta go with your bones. 'Else you ain't ever comin' home, child."
She hiccuped with a jolt, grabbing the woman's hand.
"But that means---" she started.
"Shhh," Momma E said, putting her finger to her lips. "I know what it means, child. You're gonna have to go back to that dark place and wait. I know it's scary, but it's only the only way to bring you home. Don't you wanna be home?"
She nodded, gasping in between sobs.
"Alright, then," Momma E soothed. "Then you're gonna have to go back, honey. You're almost used up as is, you gotta let yourself go back and be found. Then you can be here."
She clutched the woman's hands, looking up into her dark eyes and tried to steady her breathing. Fear was etched into every feature as she slowly let go of Momma E's hands and disappeared slowly. Momma E quickly grabbed the candy wrapper out of the air and stuffed it into her apron. She looked back at the house in front of her and let out a sigh.
"Poor child," she whispered. "Soon, baby, soon."
------
He sometimes walked this way, remembering how it was her favorite. Not often, mind you, because it was so out of his way, but just often enough to remember.
She loved the moss-filled trees, the cobblestone, the meandering trail of it all. Most of all, she loved the graveyard.
He never understood why she took solace among desecrated gravestones, but she always had to go and trace her fingers over them.
It had been years and he still thought of her. Of their fight and breakup before she uprooted her life to go to college up north. Of how they found her body. She'd always be the 'what if' in his life. He'd never forget her.
He thoughtlessly put his hand up on the metal fence like she did, slowing to peer in like she always did. He froze in panic.
There she was. She was sitting on the memorial, book in hand, hair behind her ear in the shade of the trees. She smiled softly to herself, lifting one knee to her chest to lean on as she continued her book.
He inhaled sharply, hands clutching the fence spokes until his knuckles were white. He almost said her name, but hesitated.
Her back straightened suddenly and she looked up at him, eyes locking. She gave him a soft smile before blinking out in the afternoon sun. He paused, searching the graveyard for her. No one had been buried there in hundreds of years. She was there. He knew it. With no other indicator of her presence, he exhaled the breath he had been holding.
"Hi darlin'," he whispered softly, letting go of the fence and stuttering his footsteps until he found an even rhythm again. "Hi, darlin'," he said even softer, but what he meant to say was goodbye.
Masterlist
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Mutually Beneficial Ch. xvi
First - Previous - Next
Recommended listening: Faouzia - Bad Dreams
Tw: Brief mention of blood, detailed panic attack
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“Remus! Remus?”
On a normal day, Deceit rather enjoyed the Imagination. It was calming, certain parts of it susceptible to his sculpting. In the past, he'd spent hours at a time, cultivating his pet project—a flower garden. Drooping daffodils, wilting irises, withered tulips. He'd tried everything—more shade, less shade, fertilizer, regulated water. Nothing he did kept the flowers alive, but he never abandoned it.
Now, however, he walked briskly past it. He wasn't here for a relaxing session of digging up the weeds that seemed to pop out of nowhere. He was on a mission.
“Remus!” he called. Nothing. Birds twittered, cicadas buzzed, the quiet rumble of a dragon sounded nearby—an almost sure sign that Roman was somewhere near. Deceit chose not to track Roman down to ask him about the whereabouts of his brother.
The choice was rejected by some deity, though, as a figure in white burst from the forest Deceit was about to venture into. Roman appeared to be running for his life, but stopped short when he saw Deceit. His still-bruised face paled a shade,, and he looked like he was about to turn around, when he seized with pain and fell to his knees.
Deceit really didn't want to help—was loathe to even approach—but continued forward on the dirt path until he stood by the prince's side, and looked down at him.
One hand was on the ground, the other clutched to his side as little gasps hissed through clenched teeth. His hair was plastered to his forehead, drops of sweat rolling down his cheeks. Deceit wasn't sure how to help. He was certain that anything he could offer, Roman wouldn't want. Eventually, he settled for something neutral.
“Have you seen Remus?”
Roman fell further, flat out on the ground, then rolled onto his back. He seemed to have not heard, not even acknowledging the question, instead undoing the clasp at the top of his uniform, then yanking it over his head. Crisp white bandages were wrapped around his torso, bright red pinpricks blooming in places on his chest.
“Mother Gothel,” Roman gasped. “Logan will kill me.”
Deceit sighed. Already knowing the response, he asked, “Can I be of any help?”
“No—no, no,” Roman said, a little too quickly. “I just—I'm fine.”
That was a lie, Deceit noted wryly. Roman looked like he was about to pass out. The gaunt shadows under his eyes told tales of sleepless nights, stark against his pasty face. His eyes were bone-weary and fearful, peeking out from under heavy eyelids. He seemed barely able to stand, let alone get himself home.
Despite the answer in the negative, Deceit crouched down, unsure as to what to do, but hoping a hand on Roman's shoulder would help ground him. However, the opposite appeared to be true.
Almost as soon as he touched him, Roman went from slowly gaining his breath to utterly hysterical. His breathing came faster, cries sounding like they came from a wounded animal tore from his throat. He writhed for a moment, then as Deceit removed his hand, Roman's muscles all locked and he began to shake uncontrollably.
“Roman?”
A sob wracked the prince's body. Deceit could see how tight Roman's jaw was clenched, skin stretched taut over his cheekbones. His eyes were blank, clouded over, staring into nothing. Deceit didn't know what to do. His mind raced as he tried to understand what was happening.
“Roman, can you hear me?”
“Y-yes,” came the whispered reply. “I—gosh, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die—”
“Roman?”
“M—my sword,” Roman managed, his teeth clacking against each other. Deceit spotted the hilt, the blade hidden by the sheath at Roman's hip. He knelt beside him, took his wrist to guide it to the sword. Roman choked at the touch, but Deceit moved quickly, leaving Roman's hand wrapped around the hilt.
He peeked around the corner, hearing something from the other side. Curled up against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, was Anxiety, in all his dark glory. Tears dripped from unseeing eyes, ragged gasps came from his chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked timidly.
No response. Anxiety didn't even seem to hear him. Slowly, Deceit backed away, resolving to never mention it again.
Deceit blinked the memory away. He'd realized, not long after that incident, that Virgil had been suffering from a panic attack. He could now draw the parallels between that moment and this one. Roman, while displaying some different symptoms, was clearly in the same boat.
He really had no clue as to how to calm down Roman, especially since his touch appeared to have set off the attack. Roman had earlier seemed to not want Logan to be aware of his plight, the only Side who would actually know what to do in this situation. With no other option, he decided to wait it out.
Of course, he could continue looking for Remus—in fact, he should, who knew what condition Patton was in—but was loathe to leave Roman's side. He had nothing against the prince. It wouldn't do to be hated even more, so an act of kindness was in line.
Eventually, Roman sounded like he was gaining control of his breathing. Deceit looked over from where he'd been drawing in the dirt (a prim house, smoke curling from the chimney) and saw that Roman's eyes were more clear, though his knuckles were still white around the hilt of his sword.
“So,” spoke Deceit, trying to act as if nothing had happened. “How was the dragon?”
“M-manticore, actually.”
Deceit nodded sagely. “Of course. How silly of me.”
Roman struggled to sit up. The pinpricks of red on his torso expanded.
“Maybe you shouldn't do that.”
The prince froze; his eyes flashed with fear. “Don't—!”
“Don't what?” His mind filled in the blank, though. Don't hurt me. Something deep down stirred. The words were achingly familiar. Deceit fidgeted. He didn't have time to deal with Roman's feelings. He needed to get to Patton before Remus did who knows what to him.
“Roman.”
Roman flinched, then met his eyes.
“I'll leave, just say the word. But know this.” Deceit stood, dusted his gloved hands off. “This isn't about you. It is a matter between Virgil and myself.”
Roman looked away. Deceit almost left—he was practically bouncing, needing to find Remus—when Roman whispered words weighted with despair.
“Then why did you break me?”
It almost physically hurt, twisting a knife in his heart and waking an old instinct, making him want to tell Roman over and over that they would get through this together, that it would be okay. Deceit pushed the words back down his throat.
“You got in the way.”
-
TAGLIST (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @i-can-get-extra-with-my-ships @stop-it-anxiety @kai-the-person @shitpost-sides @bl00scl00s @charakitcat @ainsleyf @sandersstuffsblog @ginnyfox617 @enragedbees @minty4green @eggy-boyo @escalatingtoofast @hayden-going-insane @piixelations @supersoftsupersleep @crowsmadreadful @hpdmmdundtl @imnotjustanxiety @thenewlarislynn @mooniecoockie @emilybaker607
#mutually beneficial#thomas sanders#sanders sides#sanders sides fic#fanfic#ts#ts sides#deceit sanders#ts deceit#is deceit actually being nice??#sanders sides fanfiction#sanders sides fanfic#roman sanders#ts roman#i'm sorry roman#angst#the next chapter is weird#do y'all actually listen to the songs?#genuine question#show week is next week!#probably won't post another chapter until the week after next#but if i do#send a knife emoji#to my inbox#panic attack#also y'all heard beetlejuice: the musical?#i am in love with that show#love you guys
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2, 3, 7, 11, 15, and 19 for meta fanfiction asks!
2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project
Once I have more time on my hands, I really wanna get back to writing the second chapter of “She is the moonlight”, like there’s so many fun scenes in my head I wanna write down (as you should know becc;D) and I really wanna get back to it.
Also I had a few Eri ideas and it has been ages since I wrote for my daughter, which is a travesty, and I need to get back on that XD
3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)
gaaaah which one??? Like, there’s one where Bakugou grows a moral center and gets on his hands and knees for deku to forgive him for telling him to kill himself (but that would take an entire fic’s worth of set up to properly build up and fuuu-).
Or I would really like to write this like short inbetween scene with Inko. Just after they get the news from UA that the students will move to the dorms but the night before All Might comes to visit to convince Inko it’s a good idea, but I wanna write a bunch about Inko’s life before that, maybe expand on her own personal experience with heroes? Maybe give her some prior reason to doubt Izuku would be safe with UA? Nana cameo to explain her earlier hairstyle like maybe Inko was a hero fan but grew out of it and saw a bunch of heroes get hurt and-...fuck it:
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
It isn’t. It isn’t even slightly okay, but Izuku has that smile on his face. That fragile one, the kind she’s broken before. She remembers that night, as clear as if it were yesterday; her little boy crying and shaking in front of a computer screen after being told all his dreams were worthless.
There’s a pit in the bottom of her stomach, and as it grows the urge to tell him no grows with it. She felt Kamino from her kitchen, her TV screen a peak into the apocalypse.
Not even a week before he son was on a hospital bed with his arms broken in two dozen places, and then his teachers, and even some of his friends, were neck deep in something even worse.
She should say no.
She has every right to tell him no.
But he has that smile on his face.
“Of course dear.” Her mouth is full of lead, her smile feels heavy and fetid on her face. “Go see what you need to pack.”
He hugs her, kisses her cheek, rushes off to his room while calling her the best, and she can barely register any of it. She finds her way, somehow, to her couch, and puts her face in her hands.
Heroes die Inko, her mother’s voice echoes out, cold but afraid, they help and they save and they win, but at the end they die.
She was young before All Might showed up, very young, be she had memories of before; of early heroes crashing against overwhelming odds, of mass funerals and of hero agencies closing down not from lack of funding but lack of personal.
She thinks back to the summer camp (do you really need to come back?), to the shopping mall (he’s smiling put keeps putting a hand to his neck), to the sports festival (his fingers are a shade of purple so vivid she can see it even when they zoom out), to that last week before middle school graduation (Where did all that confidence come from, she thought she broke it all...). She remembers her little boy, covered in bruises and wiping away his tears (Mitsuki asking what her “brat” did this time, Inko doesn’t know what to say).
She thinks of him smiling and crying as he showed her his acceptance letter, of him pouring over his homework every morning, of unwrapping bandages from his broken fingers as he promises her (again) that he’ll be more careful.
She sees, as clear as day, her son, her baby, her Izuku, motionless and bleeding as the world burned around him and some monster without a face and without a heart laughs at him.
(All Might barely made it out alive. Kamino is a warzone. Her son, with broken arms and a broken smile and broken-and broken-and broken-)
She gets up from the couch in a rush, races for the faucet in her kitchen, and vomits so powerfully she starts coughing and tearing up.
She breathes heavily for a few moments, silently wiping her mouth as she waits for Izuku to rush down the stairs to check on her. He doesn’t, mercifully he didn’t hear her. She rinses the taste from her mouth, cleans her face, sobs, cleans her face again, and then goes to her computer with a stomp in her step and her lips in a thin line.
With a heavy heart but a steady, determined hand she types in “Hero School admittance and transfer” into the search engine and spends the next two hours reading about Shiketsu, and Ketsubutsu, and Isamu, and a hundred other names she only heard about in vague news snippets.
She’ll break his heart, that smile, like ten years didn’t pass and nothing changed, but she forges onward. He’ll feel betrayed, he’ll feel lied to, but she is done with UA, she is done with her son coming home with broken bones.
She is done and she afraid and she will not let her son be chewed up and spat out like he means nothing, like he’s just another sacrifice for the system that promises All Might but only fills out graves.
She won’t take his dream, he needs to know she still believes in him, but Inko Midoriya is done trusting her child’s safety to someone else who doesn’t know him, doesn’t know his wounds and scars like she does, doesn’t know his hopes and his heart and all the tiny little things that makes Izuku who he is like she does.
She doesn’t know who will come in a few days to convince her, but they will be wasting their time. She feels guilty for that, but only for a moment. She made a list, it has a dozen or so names on it. Options, choices, for Izuku to decide and not her.
She raises from her computer chair with a groan and a pain in her lower back and the bottom of her chest. She climbs the stairs to her bedroom, stopping briefly to look at Izuku’s door. The same childish All Might sticker proudly staring back at her. There’s no noise behind the door, he’s asleep, and after everything the last few days had thrown at him, she doesn’t have the heart to take even a minute of sleep away from him.
She lays down on top of the covers without changing out of her day clothes, exhaustion in her bones. She looks at her bedside table, sees the one picture she still has of her husband. A hand on her shoulder and a baby with grass green hair in her hands.
He’s smiling widely at the camera, reaching for it with his hands.
She buries her face in her pillow and waits for sleep to take her.
(FUCK DONE HERE HAVE IT BLAH)
7. What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?
Personally I think my style is descriptive. Like most of the time I describe what’s going on in like a “third person narrator” sort of way and dialog is actually relatively short and to the point. Like, there’s a lead up to what a person says, their expression and body language plus an action, the line, and then a follow through on that and then repeating with the next person and so on.
Also I can go on tangents if a story is character-centric, like focuses on a single character then I go ham on introspection...as demonstrated by the above ^^;
11. What do you envy in other writers?
The ability to write down and rely on an outline. Like, I just cannot for the life of me really stick to a plan for too long, like I have the general idea and just add to it as I go. Writing by the seat of my pants is the only way I know how and it either gets me something I like the look of or it doesn’t get me anything at all.
15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?
Titles are the last thing I think of, so I guess that XD I usually try not to stress out about summaries too much, usually I just either pick an interesting line from the fic, say something vaguely deep, or depend on a template. Like with my Eri shorts I always use that Two Lines for the summary, “character does something, the result of that action in as vague wording as possible”
Tags are also kinda confusing, like, do I tag everything about it XDD that’d take me longer than it took to write the damn thing!
19. s there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)
Adding shit (like this) is so much fun, though I try not to over indulge XD Also a smile either “crawls” or “forms” on someone’s face, that’s the only way. Also long sentences. Also lots of “,”
Lots of short sentences describing something vaguely.
(Long paragraphs in parenthesis describing something that happened in the past or a character having deep thoughts because that shit can’t just be a fluid part of the text nooo it needs to be it’s own separate things it needs to break up the flow for a second that’s the whole point-)
and that’s what I can think of XD Call me out on other stuff I’m sure I’m blind to plenty of my bullshit XD
Thanks a lot Becc!
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When You’re Gone... (DeanxCastiel).
Words: 1k.
rated: Mature.
by psyleedee.
(takes place after the events of s14, au, where dean finds out about Castiel’s deal with the empty).
Dean slammed Cas against the wall, eyes glaring into the other’s glassy blue ones.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
The taller man’s voice was strict, yet broken at the same time. Castiel clasped onto his wrists, which were buried in the lapel of Cas’s trenchcoat. He was overcome with this… this primal urge… one he had only sensed with April when he was human, but take that and multiply it by thousands.
Dean grit his teeth, his lip twitching upwards for a fraction of a second.
“Tell me, Castiel. Fucking answer me.”
He threatened, but only Cas could decipher the layer of betrayal lacing his words. Betrayal, agony, rage… Cas could read it all in Dean’s head.
“I-”
Cas choked, overcome with shame and desperation.
“So, we were just supposed to know when we’d find your body on the floor?”
Dean growled, eyes peering into Cas’s, searching for some kind of justification, some kind of answer.
“I didn’t have a choice-”
“Shut the hell up. You always have a choice!”
Dean yelled, making Cas avert his eyes. Cas could just press his fingers to Dean’s forehead, and he would fall asleep on the place, but no, Cas didn’t want to run away from this. He deserved this. Dean deserved to be angry.
“Dean Please-”
Cas whispered, soft and heavy, making Dean’s grip on him falter. Dean stepped back, eyes melting into cold, blank shades of green. Cas realized that Dean was building up his barrier, and before Dean could pry further, Cas spoke up.
“It was either me or Jack. If you wanted me, you wouldn’t have had Jack. It was a proper compromise.”
“No, no, it was no fucking compromise… You think I would’ve let you do that? Did you ever stop and think about me? About how I’d fucking feel?”
“It was the right decision at the time… We were all so broken… We needed Jack…”
Dean sighed, and Cas glanced at him. Dean found and held his gaze, and Cas could clearly see the light reflecting off his glassy eyes.
“Cas I-” He paused, taking a deep breath, “-I can’t lose you… not again…”
Dean allowed himself to spill his tears, and Cas watched as it rolled down the inside of Dean’s eyes onto his lightly freckled cheek. He spoke up again, voice heavy and hopeless, and this time, it sounded more like regret rather than anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I knew you’d… you’d be angry. You were happy after Jack came… and there was Micheal… I didn’t want to bother you all with my problem…”
“Your problem? Huh? Your problem?” Dean chuckled hysterically, before fixing his eyes onto Cas again.
“You dying is not just ’your’ problem, it’s all of our’s fucking problem. And I had to know from Jack?! You didn’t trust me enough?!”
Dean yelled, literally yelled. His voice echoed through the entire room and Cas winced.
“You son of a bitch- I want to fucking punch you, you fucking idiot, for not telling me… You… Why didn’t you tell me?”
A sob escaped Dean’s throat, making Cas jerk his head up. He watched Dean cry, watched as he bit his bottom lip, trying to refrain himself from breaking down further, refrain himself from saying what Cas wanted to hear most. Yet instead of an assurance, what left Cas mouth was…
“I thought I was dead to you, wasn’t I?”
Castiel mumbled, watching bitterly as Dean’s jaw parted, eyebrows rose and face faltered.
Dean swallowed hesitantly, before clenching his fist.
“You can’t say that.”
He mumbled.
“Why? Wasn’t it true?”
Cas retorted sourly.
Dean’s eyes widened, and he bunched Cas’s trenchcoat in his fist and shoved him against the wall, but this time Cas grabbed his hands, pushing them away, trying to let himself out of Dean’s iron-strong hold, but eventually giving up.
“You wanna know if it was true? You want to know if I wanted you dead? You bastard, you wouldn’t know how much I cried for you, how much it hurt me, how hopeless I felt, how broken I was- You don’t get to say that to me-”
Dean snarled, lips quivering with every break in his voice.
“Why?”
Cas asked, breaking down the wall Dean had built up piece by piece. Dean didn’t answer, so Cas shook him once, speaking with a desperation so intense, Cas himself had no clue why.
“Why Dean? Tell me. Say it out loud.”
This time it was Dean’s turn to look away shamefully. His hands loosened on Cas’s trenchcoat but stayed where they were. Slowly, with closed eyes, Dean rested his forehead on Cas’s, making Cas shut his eyes in tandem.
Dean breathed out softly on Cas’s lips, bodies pressed so close, their heat seeping into each other’s. Cas dragged his hand up from where it had been on Dean’s wrists up to his neck. Dean’s hand traveled downwards to Cas’s waist, faces still molded against each other’s.
“You already know Cas…”
“I want to hear it. Once, please…”
Dean pulled away, and for a second, Cas regretted pushing his limits, but Dean simply cupped his cheek, and Cas leaned into the tender touch.
“I… can’t lose you… because I need you…”
Dean whispered softly, voice heavy with sobs.
“Why do you need me, Dean?”
Dean opened his eyes, a silent plea within them. He took a deep breath, before finding Cas’s gaze and holding it.
“‘Cause I…” Dean gulped, and Cas sensed a flicker of uncertainty within them before Dean stared into Cas’s eyes, full of resolution.
“ 'Cause I love you. And I don’t know what to do without you… You’re… you’re a part of me that I can’t lose… I don’t want to break again… you’re what… you’re what makes me… whole…”
Dean breathed out, finally letting his hands fall down, away from Cas’s body. He took an indecisive step back, and Cas found he had nothing to say to this… this confession? Declaration? Plea? He didn’t know what it was… Maybe he didn’t want to know. Cas pressed his lips together, refraining himself from spilling out the tears collected in his eyes. Dean started stepping back, turning away from Cas, completely silent.
“Dean.”
Cas called out gently, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he walked away farther. Dean didn’t turn, not instantly, no, but he tilted his head ever so slightly towards Cas, who stroked his thumb over Dean’s pulse point. Cas sighed, tugging at Dean’s hand, urging him to turn around.
“Dean please… don’t do this… don’t turn your back on me, not again, no…”
Dean turned around slowly and watched as Cas stared down mindlessly at their linked hands. His eyes softened, and mouth parted in relief as he stepped into Castiel’s space, allowing himself one guilty privilege to touch Cas’s face, compassionate and warm.
“I’m not turning my back on you Cas… never again…”
Dean moistened his dry lips, and with one cautionary look at Cas’s lips, he leaned in, pressing his lips onto Cas’s. It didn’t take much time for Cas to reciprocate, as he slid his fingers up Dean’s taut biceps, and up to his nape, tugging at his neck as he sucked eagerly on Dean’s bottom lip. Their eyes were shut, eyebrows knit together, mouths latched onto each other’s, and hands sliding all over each other’s body to touch whatever inch of skin they could find. Bare, naked, warm skin. Breaths getting heavier. Bodies getting hotter. Spit running down their chins. Clothes completely ruined. They were in a game of tug of war, but one where who could please each other the most.
Dean wanted to touch, kiss, worship every inch of Cas’s body. Cas wanted to pleasure Dean to limits he never knew existed. It was a perfect sum of desire. Dean expanded his limits, going lower, kissing Cas’s jaw, pressing feather-light kisses along Cas’s jawline until he made his way downwards, nipping and licking at Cas’s neck, burying his face in the warmth of Cas’s neck, listening to Cas’s broken moans and whimpers, as his hand traveled down, pulling Cas’s shirt out of his trousers. Cas’s hand gripped onto Dean’s hair, his chest rising and falling as Dean licked around the little nips he had marked on Cas’s neck, face a pure portrait of pleasure. Dean slipped his hand under Cas’s shirt and Cas gave out a soft gasp, every nerve in his body reacting to the sensation of Dean’s cold hand coming in contact with his heated flesh.
“Fuck-”
Dean moaned, sliding his hand up until his fingers grazed Cas’s nipples, pulling a broken moan out of him.
“Dean… I need to- I need you- please-” Cas stuttered, nudging his leg between Dean’s, thigh grinding against Dean’s prominent erection.
“Will it make you happy?”
Dean questioned. His ministrations on Cas’s body halted gradually, confusing Cas, who was deeply overwhelmed with arousal.
“More than anything…”
Cas replied mindlessly, needing, wanting Dean to kiss him, bite him, lick him, make love to him, right then, no matter what. But Dean, to his utter surprise, stepped back, his hands vanishing from Cas’s body, as the cold air filled up Dean’s space instead.
“Wha-?”
Cas opened his eyes to see Dean adjusting his shirt, moving backward with small steps, eyes cold yet assertive. Cas opened his mouth to protest, but Dean spoke up instead.
“If it’s what makes you happier than anything, I’m sorry, I can’t do it… It’s the least I can do to keep you alive.” Dean stated, and Cas watched him incredulously.
“No, don’t walk away- don’t you leave me like this, Dean-” But Dean paid no heed to Cas, as if what had happened between them, was just a dream, a dream too far away to pursue.
And just like that, every trace of Dean, every evidence of his hands on Cas’s body, every proof of Dean’s lips on Cas’s, every testament of Dean’s love, had vanished. All that was left, was a miserable, broken mess of Cas’s heart, to prove, Dean had been there, touched him, held him, whispered he loved him, but not for long. Cas knew what would come ahead. It wasn’t long until the void would swallow him up. But maybe, just maybe, he could convince himself to stay content with what he had felt. What he had lost.
#destiel#destielfanfic#destiel fanfiction#destiel feels#supernatural#supernatural s15#supernatural ficlet#destiel ficlet#destiel oneshot#dean winchester#castiel#jack kline#alternate universe#angst#sadness#love#romance#kissing#smut#mature#making out#canonverse destiel#deancas#casdean?#fanfiction#fandom#destiel fandom#destiel shippers#gay ships#pride
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very huge spoiler warning for v’s after end! just wanna give some of my Thoughts
it is very late over here and ive juuust finished one of the endings (560 hourglasses! miscalculated before! holy shit!) and i have a few. feelings. about it. gonna keep it all under the cut so check it out if youre interested uwu
now i’m gonna start at the top with all the Good, and then we’ll keep descending down the line ajhdgcvkjgf
The Good:
- the artwork! god bless everyone on the art team!! it was all Spectacular and the shading could break into my house and stomp me dead and id thank it
- the voice acting! theres a lot of high-tension scenes in this end, and i think everyone handled them all amazingly! i feel like at this point they’ve all gotten a really good grasp of how each character responds to each situation, and you can really hear the different ways they approach their character’s mannerisms and aiughjsjc Basically Its Very Good
- the translation work! if anything this after end gave us a lot of really good and - uhhh for lack of a better word - Deep dialogue, and the translations definitely captured the sentiment to a poetic T. rarely did any lines sound stiff, so definitely props to them there! translating is So Hard guys and they did so well!!
- the reunion between the two Forbidden Twins! AMAZING and SHOWSTOPPING and BREATHTAKING and even though it was SHORT it did exactly what it was trying to do!!!!! which is!!!!! make my sad little heart feel emotions!!!!! i was feelin pretty numb and confused for most of the after end but then the two twins saw each other and my heart jumped out of my chest and it went skinnydipping
- im a SUCKER for “where are they now” montages and v’s after end did about the most cliched ‘they get a kid’ version but YOU KNOW WHAT the kid was ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT and she is a tiny little criminal goblin who stole my heart and wont give me any refunds
- lucy: makes any kind of noise
me, absolutely sobbing: fuck everyone else i respect YOU
The Not So Good Ouch Parts:
i actually only really have one big complaint about this ending and it’s that. i don’t really know why it exists like. i don’t get why it unfolded this way. it kinda overshadows the conclusion of ray’s route and now im gonna try explain myself in human language instead of annoyed monkey speak
- two things that happen in v’s after end -- the twins reuniting, serving the Tea abt the prime minister -- were promised to take place in ray’s after end, and it was ray’s route that properly and primarily set up the foundations for these events to happen. because yknow. the prime minister was a key player in ray’s route. and i may be remembering incorrectly but i don’t think he was mentioned at all in v’s.
- while i am On The Moon to know that saeran’s alive, it really just seemed like more of a copout than anything, especially considering the amount of time they spent establishing seven’s guilt and his torment regarding his brother (and the pacing seems somewhat stiff when you take into account that they spent 3 episodes on Seven Going Sicko Mode and a fifth of an episode on Seven Seeing Saeran Again). bringing him to life (wake me up inside) undid a lot of that emotional setup. it relieved a small bit of tension for a Temporary Moment Of Really Nice Things, while simultaneously creating a lot more questions in the process.
- basically all i’m trying to say is that if they’ve already covered all these plotpoints - even including rika’s redemption arc - then my concern lies in what they have left for ray’s after end. it seems a bit like they’ve taken the elements that made ray’s after end worth anticipating, and shoved them into v’s after end for... user satisfaction?
- i get in theory that ray’s route was meant to expand on saeran’s character as a whole, but ray’s route also had the alluring concept of the twins reuniting, and they also spent a good chunk of time establishing the Prime Minister Pandora Box subplot, as opposed to v’s after end just shoehorning in rika’s youtube speech (which Definitely gave me ray route vibes)
- all in all, it just feels a bit like the existence of v’s after end nullifies the need for ray’s route in the first place. although saeran isn’t exactly in Tip Top shape in this after end like he’d be in his own route, he still gets to the same destination: road to recovery, reunited with his brother. if v’s route has already explored this, then is there really anything for ray’s after end to bring to the table?
- thinking more optimistically, though, i suppose ray’s after end would focus more on the twins, rather than rika. thats still content! just not exactly what i thought itd be
tl;dr: v’s after end was aesthetically pleasing but overall very confusing and v wasn’t even there for like 90% of it
#not a quote#long post#half of saeran's lines were coughing and that speaks volumes for this after end JHBVJDGHCJVKFGH#in the end im just a bit bitter because i Love And Treasure Ray's Route#But I Am Also Unsure Where We'll Go From Here
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Five time - Chase Brody [Fin]
Suicide attempt tw.
A Failure’s Plight
[Not super pleased, it’s kinda scattered, but I tried]
Chase didn’t remember much beyond his wedding day. His first wedding day, that is. Past that day, he wonders if he really even does have a past. He’s not a real person, and neither are the people he calls his family. His kids, his ex wife, his ego children. None of them are real, are they? They’re all doomed the moment they’re forgotten by an ever-expanding mass of fans. One day those fans will lose interest, one day Jack will quit youtube. Then what?
The egos die.
The egos fade.
Sometimes he wonders what the point is, then, if that’s the case. Why try so hard like Schneeplestein does, when life is so fickle for an ego. They could be gone in the next week, no trace of them left. Yet they still live life like it matters. Like they’re real people.
They’re not.
He’s hollow as he regards the mirror. His face his pale, circles dark under his eyes. He hasn’t slept properly in god knows how long, and for what? The other egos, of course.
The only things that gave his life any kind of meaning.
Currently, the source of his agony.
They didn’t do it intentionally, he understood that well. The lack of worry on their part was because of hard work on his. The lack of gratefulness he knew stemmed from his striking in their weakest moments, when their minds were just a bit too boggled to really stop and appreciate what was being done.
Not to say they didn’t thank him because they did, but they never seemed to know the lengths he went to for their sake. Hours and hours of his life spent repairing a mask that could easily just be replaced, hours making the soup just right for the “german doctor,” hours staying awake to make sure the hero didn’t sneak off to fight crime again, hours keeping himself up to make sure the glitch and the creator had a peaceful sleep.
What was he, in all of this? The piece that was important, but only for the fact it kept the others running. He wasn’t important because he did anything. His ex-wife could tell you that much.
Stacy wasn’t unkind. He’d treated her wrongly, he deserved some of what he got. Some of it he felt may have been to much, but at this point he wasn’t so sure anymore. Maybe he didn’t deserve to see the kids anymore, maybe he deserved to have her leave him with the kids in tow. Chase didn’t deserve much, did he?
A hollow laugh left his mouth as he glared at his mirror self. No, he didn’t deserve anything. His anger built suddenly, and he struck out. The glass shattered under his fist, cutting into his knuckles and spilling scarlet over the sink. He leaned back, cursing softly and looking numbly at his bleeding fist.
He left the bathroom in relative silence, bloodied hand dripping at his side. He slipped into his room to grab his gun, the real one this time, and headed outside. No need to make a mess for them to clean up, that would be mean.
Time becomes a blur as he settles outside, the birds chirping and the sun casting rays through the trees around the backyard. In front of him in the treehouse he built for the kids and Anti, by hand. All alone.
The kids never visit anymore, and Anti goes there to avoid him. He wishes he had burned it.
As he presses the gun to his temple, he vaguely hears the sound of someone crying out. Maybe it’s his name, or maybe just a cry of horror and shock.
Either way, they’re a bit late.
He wakes up to steady beeping and a warm hand on his.
It’s bright as he slowly blinks his eyes open, squinting against the lights in the room. He finds he’s been shaded a bit poorly from the worst of it, eyes fluttering as he tries to find the face of the person holding his hand. They leave as someone else comes in, but Chase has fallen under again before he can process who.
Schneeple watches as Chase slips back into unconsciousness, glancing over to Marvin who’s a sniffling mess again. Sighing, the doctor adjusts the iv bag before motioning the magician over for a gentle hug.
“Go tell zhe ozhers he’ll be vaking up regularly soon, okay?” He asks gently, and Marvin nods.
“Y-Yeah. Okay.”
As the magician shuffles out, Schneeple allows himself a moment to crumble. A moment to tear up, shoulders shaking with the effort not to cry. They’d almost lost Chase twice now, and both times he could have stopped it.
He could have.
He should have.
So why didn’t he?
When Chase next comes around, the room is darker but the beeping is still a constant sound filling the room. He finds it a comfort rather than an annoyance, and breathes in time with it. Sort of. Looking around, he finds a mop of green hair resting on the bed beside him. The color of it assures him it’s not his glitching son, nor his creator. No, this is either the magician or the hero. Not the doctor for the lack of a coat or the normal clothes Schneep would wear.
The figure, who is soon revealed to be the hero, snorts and lifts his head. He meets Chase’s eyes, and Chase watches as his widen in surprised horror. Chase is about to speak when the hero stands, chair clattering noisily behind him. Chase grimaces at that, but watches in bewilderment as the hero dashes out.
He comes back in with Schneep, and Chase holds his breath.
“Ve need to talk.”
Chase feels like crying as Sean helps him into the house and to bed. Wants to cry as Sean sits and holds his hand for a little while, neither of them really knowing what to say so they let their actions speak for their words.
Sean calls him dad as he leaves.
Chase is just letting the loneliness set in when Marvin comes in, smiling despite the pain in his eyes.
“Marvin the Magnificent is here to provide you with endless entertainment!” He exclaims, but his voice isn’t loud enough to cause Chase any pain.
He’s planned this, and Chase appreciates that. Marvin stays for god knows how long performing as many tricks as he can for Chase, and by the time Chase murmurs he’s tired there are at least twelve doves in the room.
Marvin looks panicked before he sees Chase smiling softly at one of them as it coos to him, and realizes this mistake might have been the right one to make. (He leaves the door open, just in case).
Chase sleeps a lot that week, but in between Marvin and Jackie provide him with entertainment. Sean comes by one afternoon to give Chase a few options for mental health, and while Chase feels embarrassed he needs that help he’s still relieved Sean cares enough to have gathered so much info. He finds out later that week Sean made a very emotional video begging those watching to get help rather than take their lives. The emotion in the video worries the fans, Sean tries to explain it away as something he’s worried about. It is, and always has been, but now it’s even more of a concern.
Chase hasn’t seen Anti, but as though summoned the glitch appears. He looks upset, expression dark and stormy. He approaches Chase too quickly, like he’s going to lash out. Chase braces for it, draws in a breath he knows he’ll need if-
Arms wrap tightly around him, holding him close, and the glitch breaks down. Chase is caught off guard by it all, and quickly holds him close. Tries to comfort him, but nothing is working. Finally, Anti finds his voice.
“You aren’t supposed to leave! Dad’s aren’t supposed to leave!”
Chase winces at that, holds Anti a little closer.
“You’re right, they aren’t-”
“But families support each other. You kept us all afloat, but we left you adrift.” Anti’s sniffling and still sobbing a bit, but he’s determined to get it all out.
“I’m not mad, Chase, but-”
“I’m not leaving again, Anti, I promise.” Chase lets it out suddenly, and Anti blinks at him.
“We aren’t going to give you reason to leave.” Anti states, and while the whole dialog sounds odd Chase feels better.
“Wanna go get your favorite injured dad a milkshake?”
“Only if I can have one too.”
“Y’know what? Call everyone in and we’ll have a milkshake party. Just the family.”
He wasn’t okay, but maybe- just maybe- he could be.
Even if he wasn’t, he had his family with him.
#chase brody#antisepticeye#dr. schneeplestein#jackieboy man#marvin the magnificent#snarky writes#suicide mention#suicide attempt#suicide tw
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Let’s ask the upper-middle class white women
I don’t have beef with white women. I really don’t. Now...I do think they have beef with themselves. Time and time again their problematic tendencies have gone unchecked. When it was time for some female essence at the American polls (but also the other poles too if you wanna talk about sexual liberation), Black women were left out of that picture. Even when women of color began to receive clout for intersectionality, there was an overwhelmingly “All Lives Matter”-esque response from white women. Now? They’re voting Trump into office and come in the Tomi Lahren variety. So excuse me if I’m a little wary of their being the driving voice in yet another story. Again, no beef with ‘em on my end. But according to my coworkers, I’m letting my “biases shine through.” But I recognize the overestimated importance of the white women, and the often unacknowledged narrative of poor white women and women of color.
We’re working on a project to examine water contamination throughout the DMV area, ya know, important ish. Of course there are implications we have to consider:
Microeconomic
Macroeconomic
Family dynamic
Community response (or lack thereof) and relations
Government and big business
Race
Gender
Maybe because I don’t identify with a power demographic like men or white people I am ~hypersensitive~ to any instance when an issue doesn’t address the intersectionality of these issues. I’ve considered this before. They don’t occur in a vacuum. Life isn’t a textbook.
We met to discuss our progress with the project and while I’m more responsible for figuring out how to collect data, I’ve also gone on a lot of the interviews...and they’ve been lackluster to say the least.
I raise my hand. “No shade to Phil who has really done a great job reaching out to sources, but we need to expand our range of interviews.”
Phil looks up from his tablet and blinks real slow at me, as though he is waiting for me to explain further.
“Look at the locations and demographics for the interviewees we have thus far.” I get up and head to the presentation computer and begin a series of searches on the excel sheet of source information.
*types “D.C”*
*3 results: 2 Georgetown, 1 the Hill*
*types “Maryland”*
*12 results appear*
“Look at that: Potomac, Bethesda, Howard County.”
*types gender*
“More than half of these are women.”
*types race*
“White,” I pause and look at them.
“Okay you said no shade, but that was definitely shade, Amina,” Salsa chimes in as she pops a bite of quinoa into her mouth.
“Alright I can’t win. Look. All I’m saying is, you can’t expect people to want to read OR care about a piece that you’ve managed to shut them out of.” I start out. “How y’all drive miles and sit in traffic to interview people out in Bethesda and Howard County...but not Baltimore City or southeast D.C.? Shoot, even PG County down the road.” I realize.
“We have a demographic to cater to. Ya know, the ones who actually purchase subscriptions and pay us to work here? Plus focusing on Blacks or Hispanics or whatever disadvantaged group you want creates yet another sob, victim story” Phil said. Heads nodded slowly in agreement.
How could someone be so naive and shallow? HOW? How did you make it thus far, in this life, in this publication, as a lead on every damn project, believing that? I coulda fired that mf myself.
While I understand Phil’s point about victimization, as a seasoned journalist, you should be able to craft your interview questions around letting the interviewee take HOLD of their narrative and accurately represent them.
But hey, what the fuck do I know right?
“First of all, last I checked, advertisements paid my bills, but you got it Phil. If every newspaper only produced stories based on the majority demographic of their readership...matter of fact, just the majority demographics in general...where would we be? Please tell me. These issues do not occur within a vacuum, so when you begin to realize systemic issues ain’t that simple, let me know and maybe I’ll consider hearing what you have to say. I don’t know what the pushback is for us to expand upon this story, but y’all have some introspection to do.” I closed the spreadsheet on the computer and head back to my seat.
“Well how bout we take 5?” Boss Lady breaks the silence. “Melanin, can I have a moment with you?”
Y’all...this trick…I damn near creased my foundation looking at this bih.
I’m good, luv, enjoy. “I’m all set.” I pack my laptop into my shoulder bag and take my 5...5 hours that is.
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