#so much pain and ache and self-hatred. but it's worse to be afraid of living than to die
Text
Black
Prompts: After POF, Roman takes over the abandoned color black. He becomes the hated side that Virgil used to be. By most, anyway. Janus and Virgil are concered. Patton chooses to ignore it. Romans room is really cold? and boy is he touch starved - anon
(Sanders sides Prompt) Any one of the sides is touch starved. fluff. (You dont have to do this just thought I might ask) - anon
Hello there!! I just wanna say that I love your work and I think you’re such a talented writer. Idk if this is a weird ask but would you consider writing Roman angst with the song “it’s OK I wouldn’t remember me either” by crywank as like inspiration? Thank you so much <3 -anon
buckel up babes this one's a doozy
Read on Ao3
Warnings: implied/reference self-harm by way of self-negligence, pretty intense self-hatred and neglect that could verge on suicidal, but NO ONE DIES, everyone's fine at the end, we don't break shit and not fix it in my house
Pairings: it is platonic found family hours
Word Count: 5697
Do you know what no one ever tells you about the color black?
It’s seamless.
There are no cracks, no tears, no imperfections, because everything’s so dark you can’t tell what’s a trick of the light and what isn’t. Everything blends together. At first, second, even third glance, it’s perfect. Pristine, even. It hides absolutely everything. It’s intimidating, honestly, that level of deception. The way it can make anything look like it’s meant to be there, as if to live the colorless and lightless life is all it was ever destined for.
Darkness has always found a way of feeling like home, even to the ones who are afraid of it.
You either die the hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
Roman hadn’t wanted to go to the wedding. He didn’t want to go, but it’s what Patton wanted. It’s what Thomas would’ve wanted. If Roman hadn’t been so loud. But it hurt, it did, when they said that they shouldn’t go to the callback because there was such a slim likelihood of Thomas winning. Because Roman couldn’t win. But Roman wasn’t supposed to be the villain and do something bad so he sent Thomas to the wedding.
Bruises were supposed to be yellow, or green, or purple, not black.
But if he had yellow, green, or purple bruises, he would’ve blamed a yellow, green, or purple Side. And that was bad.
So he hid them, because as he learned, no one was looking for them anyway. Patton cared when he didn’t show up to the video and then he was there and oh, having someone there, even if they only cared a little, was like rainfall in a desert, it was wonderful, Roman would’ve sung if he thought it wouldn’t make everything worse. But Roman was good, so he never complained, and he did his job to the best of his ability.
But what if his job was bad?
But there are two Creativities, a Roman and a Remus. And no one else liked Remus, because Remus was bad and Roman was good. But Remus isn’t bad, he’s just the opposite of Roman. And Roman didn’t want to be Remus because Remus was bad. But Remus isn’t bad.
Creativity isn’t bad.
Bruises aren’t supposed to be black but they can’t be red.
Roman isn’t supposed to be the villain but what else do you call someone who laughs at vulnerability, who scorns people’s earnest attempts to help, who single-handedly ruins someone’s life?
Roman isn’t supposed to be the villain, but bruises aren’t supposed to cover every inch of his skin unless he deserves it.
His skin burns. It crawls and aches and screams and darkens into bruises. His throat aches from the wordless screams and the horrible things he’s said to everyone. He’s been so selfish, he’s tried to make everything go his way, tried to make it about him, not about Thomas, because everything they do is supposed to help Thomas, help Thomas, that’s what they’re supposed to do, they’re supposed to help Thomas, not themselves, why is he doing this, why is he doing this?
Because he’s the villain.
Roman cries.
What else is he supposed to do?
He cries until the tears grow thick, sluggish, oozing out of his eyes until he can’t see anything but them, until his breath grows thick and his chest heavy. He cries until he has to struggle to open his eyes because of how swollen they are, how globulous the tears have become on the ends of his lashes. He cries until his head splits and his chest wails from the pain he isn’t supposed to have but deserves, deserves every little bit. He cries until his body is consumed by the bruises.
His costume is a straightjacket. He needs it off. The white hurts now, it burns his arms and cuffs his wrists. He doesn’t deserve it so he rips it off. Every seam that he ruins is another bruise. The rips are so loud they burrow into some soft part of his brain and live there. The white is still imperfect because it’s on him.
Only when his costume lies in tatters around him, his sash torn off and thrown away, far away, does the white look pure.
He cries himself to sleep with a smile on his face.
Far, far away, a black hoodie is tugged back into the Conscious Mindscape.
When Roman wakes, his head is full of static.
His lungs inflate and collapse on autopilot, driven by the merciless pump of some distant machine, turning the crank to draw air in and out, in and out.
His hands are numb, fingertips rubbed raw and inflamed from tearing relentlessly at fabric. He turns them slowly and it’s like watching himself in a video game.
His face is cold. He paws at his cheeks and feels sticky residue, etched into his skin. His eyes stick slightly when he blinks and he doesn’t know if that’s just his face or if there’s something else.
He is swathed in black fabric, an old threadbare hoodie that has gone years unloved, untouched, unseen. It’s selfishness that makes him tug it closer, feel a faint bubble of pressure on his screaming body.
He should get up, he should go make sure he hasn’t hurt anyone else with his tantrum again, he should apologize.
But…what would be the point?
Like Patton asked, does there come a point when someone keeps apologizing so much that you just have to admit they’re bad?
Roman isn’t good. Has he ever been?
Something interrupts the pleasant numbness and it shoots from his chest to the soft points at the base of his wrists, making his hands tingle. He decides he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t want it. He wants everything to stop.
He’s selfish, they all know that, he’s just going to end up hurting them anyway, so why bother trying to fix it?
Apathy, his tired brain supplies when he lies there, unmoving, on the ground, for hours and hours and hours, unwilling and uncaring to fix things.
But that can’t be right. Roman is here because he cared too much, he did too much, he was too much. How can he now be the epitome of not caring at all?
If only he never cared, if only he wasn’t so attached, if only.
If only he had been Apathy, maybe he wouldn’t have been so hurt.
His pride got him here. His pride, his wants, his his his. He wanted everything and burned down the things that would’ve helped him get there because he couldn’t do it right. He is the villain and villains always have too much pride.
Pride. Apathy.
Prapathy.
Apride.
I’m not Creativity anymore, he thinks to himself as he lies there, still on the floor as his chest aches and his eyes sting and the sticky residue drips down his cheeks onto the bruises. He stares and stares and stares at the wall and a faint part of his mind that exists outside of the static realizes he never did get around to fixing that crack in the baseboard.
Pride, apathy. It doesn’t matter. There’s a much easier word that he can use to describe both of them.
Wrong.
—————————————————————
“I don’t know, Thomas,” Logan sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I don’t think that’s a valid solution either.”
“But it makes sense,” Virgil protests, shoving his hands into his pockets, “all we have to do is not talk to anybody else—“
“But that will hurt their feelings!”
“But we won’t hurt ourselves.”
Janus and Patton look at each other for a moment before Patton sighs and scratches the back of his head.
“I—I don’t know, this…this feels weird.”
“None of us are happy about this, Padre,” Virgil mutters, “but it’s the best solution we’ve got.”
“Real high bar we’re setting there, isn’t it?”
“Listen, Snake Face, if you’ve got a better idea—“
“Virgil, enough.” Logan shakes his head. “We need to keep thinking.”
“We’ve been at this for an hour, Logan,” Thomas says cautiously, “I don’t know what else you think we’re gonna get to.”
“We’ve already passed the optimal point for productivity, yes.”
“Oh, well, we can’t just give up now!” Patton puts his hands on his hips. “I’m sure if we just keep at it for a little longer—“
“You said that half an hour ago, Patton.”
“And I’ll say it again!”
“Because that’s going to make everything go much easier.”
Thomas sighs as the Sides fall back into bickering. Normally, this wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary—pretty much all they do is argue back and forth—but Logan’s right. They’ve made almost no progress. He finds himself staring at the TV.
Why is he staring at the TV?
He frowns, tilting his head. It’s literally just his TV. Why is he so fixated on it right now? It’s not like it’s gone anywhere, it’s sitting right where it always is. He stares at it most of the day, why is it so weird that he’s looking at it now?
Wait—
“Guys,” he interrupts, still staring at the thing he’s not supposed to be able to see like this, “where’s Roman?”
The room pauses. Then Logan sighs.
“Oh, of course, that’s why we’ve been having such a hard time coming up with solutions, we don’t have Roman.”
At Virgil’s side-eye, he glances around to see similar looks of disbelief on the other’s faces.
“What?”
“Did you…did you just admit we need Roman?”
“He is Creativity, it makes sense that if we are struggling to be creative, he isn’t here.”
“Okay, that makes more sense.” Virgil shakes his head. “Thought you were admitting he was important or something.”
“Please, his head is big enough as it is.”
Janus hides a snort.
“Why didn’t he show up earlier,” Thomas asks, “he’s normally one of the first of you to get here.”
Virgil shrugs. “I dunno, I haven’t seen that much of him lately.”
“Is he…okay?”
“Who the hell knows, he’s Roman.”
“My guess is he’s been in his room,” Logan says, glancing at Roman’s usual spot, “I haven’t seen him either.”
Thomas doesn’t miss the way Janus and Patton glance at each other. “If you two have information now might be the time to share it.”
“Roman…hasn’t come out of his room,” Patton says after a beat, “not since…”
“Wait, he hasn’t come out since the wedding?”
Janus shakes his head. “I’ve barely seen him open his door.”
“That doesn’t…normally happen, does it?”
“No,” Patton says, “and, uh, he doesn’t normally ignore us either.”
“Ignore you?”
“We’ve tried knocking. It doesn’t work.”
“Perhaps Thomas can summon him,” Logan offers, “you have more power than any of us do, he’d have to answer you.”
“Well, here goes nothing. Creativity!”
Someone pops up in front of the TV.
Someone in a white costume with green embellishments and a mustache.
“Remus?”
Remus glares at them, his Morningstar at his side, his costume white, pristine, and light.
“What the fuck have you done with my brother?”
—————————————————————
It’s been weeks.
The fans have accepted Remus as Creativity. They think that the videos are better than ever. They think this was Thomas’s plan from the beginning.
There is one end card where the Sides are watching a movie and some of them spot a dark figure in the corner. Who could this be? Is this the mysterious orange Side everyone has been waiting for? Is this the Side that’s been hurting Thomas so much?
Zoom and enhance. It’s Virgil’s old hoodie. They’re sitting where Remus used to sit. They’re not staring at the screen, they’re looking at the others. What could this mean?
Someone spots the faint outline of a tiny crown perched atop the figure’s head.
And then, well, then it all makes sense.
There was always one Side that messed up everything, that made everything more complicated. There was always one Side that, if you thought about it, you could trace everything back to. There was always one Side that was told he was making the bad choice and yet, never seemed to learn.
They start to put together timelines, evidence, essay-length meta posts on how of course, this is the plan, why didn’t they see it before? Those that had disliked him from the start crow about how they were right, how everyone doubted them but look who’s laughing now. They point out how he’s become a Dark Side, maybe he was always a Dark Side, and how incredible would that storytelling be? To warn against the pressures of society’s expectations, the idea of good versus bad, or authentic versus forced. How of course, they’re wearing Virgil’s old hoodie because they’re the hated Side now. How they’re not looking at the screen because that’s not what they want, they want to be a part of the famILY.
Vitriolic rants. Accusations. Vent fics. The unsympathetic tag is overflowing.
Because who else could the villain be?
—————————————————————
Roman lives in the cold now.
His fireplace isn’t lit anymore. The door to the Imagination doesn’t work anymore. The blankets on his bed aren’t thick enough anymore. He drifts through a haze where only the emergency systems in his brain are online, where only the awareness needed to sleep, breathe, and move the little bits he needs to move are present.
He doesn’t know that there’s nothing behind the red door anymore, that when Janus and Virgil come to knock on it, worried, or when Remus storms through the Imagination and tries to knock it down by force, there’s nothing for them to find.
He doesn’t know that a new door, a black door, leads from his room to the hallway, far away from any of the other rooms. He doesn’t know that it’s so dark back here that no one would be able to tell there was a door if they didn’t put their nose right up against it.
He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care.
A new kind of ache settles in his bones now. Pain is an old friend, but he’s yet to give suffering a proper handshake.
He misses when he could go and ask someone for help.
He misses when Patton would turn to him without any judgment in his eyes, without any ‘well, you know, kiddo—‘, without any ‘let’s start off with—‘, just the soft words of I’m here, I’ll help you. He misses being able to walk up to Patton’s door and knock on it and know that he would be safe on the other side.
Patton would open the door and soften, his mouth curling up into a small smile as he says hey, kiddo, come in. He would sit Roman down on the bed and press a glass of water into his hands. He would rub his back as he drank, taking the empty glass gently and cupping Roman’s face in his hands. He would ask what’s wrong, sweetheart, what can I do? And Roman would say he just wants a hug, he just wants to not be alone for a bit. And Patton would smile and coo about how Roman was always welcome here, sweetheart, I’m right here, I’ll take care of you. And Roman could fall asleep with his head on Patton’s chest and believe that everything was okay.
He misses when he could walk up to Logan and ask for help and he wouldn’t be scoffed at or turned away, he wouldn’t be looked at suspiciously and asked what he really wanted. He misses when Logan could come to him too and just spend time together.
Logan would knock on his door and ask if you have a moment, would you like to walk with me? And Roman would smile and say, of course, he always has time for Logan, and they could go somewhere in the Imagination and just talk. And Logan would say that’s an interesting idea, I wonder if—and they would walk and talk for hours. And Roman could bustle up to Logan’s door and say I’ve just thought of something, and Logan would open his door and be happy to talk with Roman and it would be okay.
Roman curls up tighter and feels nothing.
He wishes he could have something to miss for Virgil. He wishes they could have bonded over their love of Disney, their want to talk about the things they’re interested in, or even the need to just have someone else in the room with them for a bit. He wishes their relationship wasn’t just spitting barbs at each other, each hoping to hit the bullseye first and knock the other one out of the race. He wishes he could’ve done better.
He wishes he could have something to miss for Janus. He wishes they could’ve done this right, that they could’ve bonded over the want to keep Thomas safe but also have him be himself. He wishes that he hadn’t laughed, hadn’t scorned, hadn’t fallen back on his pride to keep himself safe at the expense of Thomas. He wishes that maybe, just maybe, if he had been a better puppet, then he wouldn’t have been dropped so suddenly.
But as it stands now, more than anything he wishes he could hear them when they say the things they say about him because then he could figure out which bruises were theirs and take comfort in knowing that they still touch him in some way.
The bruises are a constant now. From the online hate to the casual remarks from the others to the way that Patton hasn’t even tried to come find him anymore—he can hear that, you know—he can’t turn over without landing on a new smattering of bruises. The hoodie helps to cushion the blow a little bit.
He misses Remus.
Remus was…
…Remus was everything.
Roman misses his other half. Roman misses his brother. Roman misses his Creativity.
When they were small they would curl around each other as if they could fuse if they focused hard enough. They would wrap their arms around each other so tightly that it would be a pleasant ache when they woke, never minding because they were tighter. Remus was always so warm and Roman hoarded every single bit he could get.
Roman was cruel to push his brother away and now he understands how it feels.
He misses Thomas.
He misses when he was allowed to go and see Thomas. When he could talk to Thomas. When his presence was celebrated or at the very least, tolerated. He misses it. He misses helping.
But he’s helping now, by staying away.
He’s cold.
He’s so cold.
—————————————————————
do you remember what it felt like
to be touched?
press of fingertips against shoulders
bump of a forehead against yours
palms meeting and parting a mere second later
in days gone by
do you remember
warm?
humans thrive off physical contact,
we’re not built to hold each other
at arms’ length.
infants will die
if they aren’t held enough.
and I am so
so
cold
—————————————————————
Something is wrong and even Patton can’t ignore it anymore.
The Sides shuffle uneasily in front of the red door until Remus raises his hand to knock against it.
“Roman?”
Silence.
“Roman, please, please, just—just say something.”
Silence.
“Where the fuck are you, Roman?”
“Don’t yell,” Logan mumbles, “you’ll make him think we’re angry at him.”
Remus takes a deep breath.
“We’re not angry, Ro-bro, we’re just—just please make some noise.”
Silence.
“…we’re coming in, Roman.”
But they can’t. Because as Remus turns the knob on the door, it falls forward. The entire door comes off just to reveal—
A blank wall. With no sign that there was ever a room behind it.
Thomas can hear the scream.
—————————————————————
Roman hears the scream and can’t move. But he can close his eyes and reach out and see what’s going on. After all, he hasn’t done anything, so something must be wrong if someone else is screaming.
He feels something in his chest twist and snap.
“Re?”
Across the Mindscape, Remus’s head jerks up.
“Ro,” he breathes, getting to his feet and rushing off down the hall as the others hurry after him, “Ro!”
“Remus, what’s going on?”
“Why isn’t Roman’s room there anymore?”
“Where are you going?”
They barrel into the hallway and smack into a black door. Logan’s eyes widen as he realizes what’s happened.
“Roman’s become a Dark Side,” he says, fingers scrabbling where the door meets the wall, “he’s—he’s really hurt, we have to help—“
“Move, L, I’m gonna break the door down.”
“You’re not gonna do it without me.”
“Roman!”
Roman turns his head to look at the door. Are they…here? The hoodie rasps against his undead skin and he winces. There are still bruises.
“Roman!”
The door shudders its frame. He could open it. He could. He just has to reach out and—
“Ro!”
Remus.
The door unlatches and his brother pours into the room, letting out a wail when he spots Roman in the bed.
Janus hisses as soon as he crosses the threshold, this room is freezing. It feels as if no one’s moved for years inside, as if the heat has been sucked out entirely. His gaze flies to Remus, who’s over on the bed, his hands scrabbling at something in black material.
Roman.
“Oh, little prince,” he whispers, horrified, “no, no, no—“
“We have to get him out,” Logan orders, startling Remus into action as he scoops Roman into his arms, “we have to get him warm. His core temperature is too low.”
“Shower? Bath?”
“No, if we shock his system we could make it worse. Janus, I need your heating pads, Patton, something warm to drink.”
Janus and Patton vanish.
“Virgil, weighted blankets, Remus—“
“I’m here.” As Virgil ducks away as well, Remus helps Logan cradle the limp and freezing form of his brother in their arms as they begin to rush out of that horrible, horrible room. “You thinking bathroom?”
“Get him to Janus’s, that’ll be the safest place.”
“Got it.”
Sure enough, Janus has no objection and sweeps them inside, setting down the heating pads as Patton bustles in with two thermos flasks and a mug. Virgil pops back with thick blankets as they lay the cold form on the ground. Roman’s eyes blink sluggishly as he stares up at Remus.
“...Re?”
“Yeah, Roro, it’s me, I’m right here, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here faster.”
“What’s…wha’s going on?”
“You’re too cold, Roman,” Logan says gently, “we need to get you warmed up.”
“Oh…”
“It will be easier if we take a few of the layers off,” he explains, still careful to keep his voice low and even as the others scurry around, “is that alright?”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to unzip the hoodie.” Logan works slowly, patiently, stopping when any flicker crosses Roman’s face. “That’s it, you’re doing very well, I’m almost done.”
By the time he’s coaxed the hoodie off of Roman’s shoulders, there’s a little bit of color back in his cheeks.
“Very good, Roman, you did well. Virgil’s brought a few warm blankets and Janus has heating pads for you, do you think you can sit up?”
“Don’t know.”
“That’s alright, you’re doing alright.” Logan glances up at Janus.
“Little prince,” Janus murmurs, sitting by Roman’s head, “if you can sit up, I can sit behind you and help warm you up, does that sound alright?”
“Okay.”
“Thank you, sweetie, we’re going to sit you up now.”
Logan and Janus sit Roman up slowly, only to pause when the long sleeves of his shirt fall down.
“Roman,” Logan asks, trying frantically to keep his voice calm, “are you hurt?”
“Mhm.”
He bites back the fearful response and patiently asks where, how bad, can he see?
“Everywhere.” Roman lifts his arms weakly. “’S all bruises.”
“…can we see?”
“Okay.”
Logan’s hands begin to tremble as he works the shirt over Roman’s head. He wasn’t kidding when he said everywhere.
There’s barely an inch of skin that doesn’t look bruised black and blue. Patton stifles a cry as he drops to his knees next to them, looking at Roman like he’s never seen it this bad before.
Oh, Roman, how did they not know? How could he just ignore him like that?
“Get him covered,” comes Virgil’s voice, “he’s still too cold.”
Janus grabs one of the blankets and wraps it carefully around Roman’s form. It should help distribute whatever pressure they apply so it won’t aggravate his injuries too severely. He takes one heating pad and scoots forward, bracketing Roman’s legs with his own and wrapping one pair of arms around him to press the pad to his chest.
“Can you feel that, sweetie,” he asks softly, “is that too warm?”
“No.”
“Good, good, little prince, you’re being very brave.” He turns away to reach for another and so misses the little shudder that goes through Roman. “Do you think you can handle another if I press it to the back of your neck?”
“Mm.”
“Let’s try, little prince, and if it’s too much, I’ll stop.”
“Okay.”
“Here we go, sweetie—“ Janus presses it carefully to the base of Roman’s skull, just at the edge of the blanket— “there, does that feel okay?”
“Mm.”
“Good, sweetie, you’re doing so well, so good for us, that’s it, you relax now.”
Roman starts to tremble.
“That’s alright,” Logan soothes, “you’re warming up, it means you’re going to shiver a little more, you’re alright, Roman, you’re safe. You’re doing well.”
It certainly doesn’t seem that way once Roman’s breath starts to come in gasps. Virgil nudges Patton out of the way and sits, gently calling Roman’s name until his gaze snaps to Virgil’s.
“Hey, Princey,” Virgil says slowly, “you gotta stay with me now, okay? We’re right here, no one’s angry, nothing’s going to hurt you. Just focus on me.”
He ignores the startled noises when Roman starts to cry thick, black tears.
“Eyes on me, Princey, that’s it, stay here. We’re just gonna sit here and breathe for a moment, okay?” Roman nods and Virgil starts to take big, exaggerated breaths. “Good. That’s it, Princey, you focus on me and you breathe. It’s okay. You’re doing great. Just stay here.”
When the viscous black liquid slows, Virgil reaches out and begins to tuck Roman’s hair back. A moment longer and he pauses, noting how the scratch on Roman’s face is covered in the thick black tears.
“Princey, can I clean your face off for you? You’re doing really well at breathing, I’m proud of you. Can I help you with the rest of it?”
“O-okay.”
There’s a bottle of micellar water and a pack of cotton circles pressed into his hands. He moves in slow, careful strokes, changing out the circles as often as he needs to. A pile of them grows beside him as he works, doing his best to get all the black off of Roman’s face. Roman just cries.
“It’s alright, sweetheart,” Patton murmurs when Roman’s cry gives way to a wail, “it’s okay, you cry all you need to, we’re not going anywhere, it’ll be alright.”
“We have you, sweetie,” Janus says against Roman’s neck, “we’re here.”
Remus lets out a broken noise.
“Oh, Roman, you didn’t…”
Logan’s head whips sharply around to scold Remus only for his mouth to fall open in shock.
Remus’s costume is bleeding too. The same black that drips down Roman’s face is slowly coloring Remus’s costume again, back to what it normally looks like. Remus’s mouth is agape, staring horrified at Roman.
“Oh, Ro—“
“What’s going on?”
“Check the bruises on his neck,” Remus orders as Janus pulls back the blanket, “are they still there?”
“They’re here, but they’re…lighter, how is that—?”
“Roman is the Ego,” Patton mumbles, “he gets bruised when—when—“
“Oh, shit,” Virgil curses, before quickly hushing Roman’s discontented mumble, “and with all the hate that’s been gunning for him—“
“Oh, sweetheart—“
Roman lets out another sob and the tears run clear.
“The Ego is kept healthy by positive attention,” Logan says softly, scooting closer and rubbing Roman’s shoulder through the blanket, “you’ve been starving, haven’t you?”
“He’s not cold because he’s hypothermic,” Remus blusters, “he’s touch starved.”
“It’s still not safe to introduce him to direct contact all at once,” Logan warns when Patton and Remus look like they want to rip the blanket off, “we have to take it slow.”
“So what do we do?”
Janus just leans down and presses a kiss to Roman’s temple. “You’re so brave, sweetie, you’ve been so strong.”
They watch as Roman’s tears begin to wash away the black.
“We love you, sweetheart, you’re so important to us.”
“Stay with us, Princey, we need you.”
“You’re doing very well, Roman, we’re very proud of you.”
Roman cries, ducking his head into Virgil’s waiting hands as Remus’s costume colors itself black again.
After a long while, when Remus looks like he normally does, Roman shakes his head and looks up at them.
“Where am I,” and he sounds like Roman again, “what’s happened?”
“You were starving, sweetheart,” Patton mumbles, “and we didn’t notice until it was too late.”
“O-oh,” Roman blinks, “is that…is that why I’m so cold?”
“You’re touch starved too,” Virgil adds, “and we, uh, L said it wasn’t a good idea to try and shock you out of it.”
“Try and drink something,” Logan says quickly as Patton reaches for the mug, “you’ve been crying for a while and you’re dehydrated.”
“Is that…hot chocolate?”
“Your favorite, kiddo.”
Remus sits down at Roman’s side as he drinks, staring at him like he’s not seen him in ages. Which, well, none of them have, really.
“I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” Roman repeats, looking sheepishly at all of them, “I, uh, well, the last video I messed up a lot. I, uh, I shouldn’t have laughed at your name, Jan—where are you?”
“Right here,” Janus mumbles, giving him a gentle squeeze, “and you’re forgiven.”
“Oh. Uh, that was easy…are you sure?”
“I’m sure. Yes, it wasn’t great of you to do, but I’m not exactly blameless either and…”
He squeezes him again.
“…you’ve been hurting enough.”
“Logan, you too, I—I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Roman, but I agree. It’s alright.”
“Why are you all forgiving me so fast?”
“Because,” Remus mumbles, cupping Roman’s head and resting their foreheads together, “this happened.”
They all watch as Roman shudders as Remus shows him what happened.
“Oh—oh—I—oh no—“
“It’s over now, sweetie,” Janus reassures, “we’ve got you. You’re okay, you’re safe.”
“C-can I have a hug?”
“Of course, honey, come here—“
“Let’s get the blanket out of the way, L, is he—“
“It should be safe now, yes.”
“Remus, I—oof!”
“I gotcha, Ro-Bro.”
“It’s still—I’m still—“
“Patton, grab that end of the blanket.”
“This one?”
“That’s it, yes.”
The Sides end up swaddled in the blanket, their heads poking out, as each of them pulls a little bit of Roman into their arms to warm up. Janus and Remus wrap around his upper body, mindful of the few bruises that haven’t been healed yet. His legs are in Patton’s lap, as Logan and Virgil each hold on to his hands. The poor thing is still shivering, still shaking, still a little overwhelmed.
But Janus coos into his ear as his head lolls back, Remus holding him tightly. Logan’s thumb strokes over his palm as Virgil lets him squeeze as tight as he needs to. Patton makes sure he’s off the cold tile and he’s warm.
They’re going to have to work out what to do about the fans, about the videos, but right now they need to worry about Roman.
Speaking of Roman—
“I—I need to apologize to Thomas.”
A cry goes up as he says so, Patton reaching up to pat his knee. “You don’t have to do that right now, sweetheart, rest, it’s okay—“
“I won’t—he won’t be able to rest until he knows what’s happened.”
As if he can hear them, they feel the familiar tug of one of them being summoned. A quick glance around shows that if one of them is going, all of them are, so they appear on the floor of the living room, swaddled in the blanket.
Thomas’s mouth drops open and he rushes to their side.
“I was gonna ask if you found Roman, but I—Roman, buddy, are you okay?”
“I…I don’t know,” Roman mumbles, “but I’m sorry.”
“For what, buddy?”
As Roman begins to apologize, for being away, for hurting Thomas, for being selfish, Thomas just shakes his head.
“No, buddy, that’s not all on you. You—yeah, okay, some things happened, but it’s not entirely your fault. You don’t need to think of it like that.”
“Well said,” Logan mutters, “now help us get Roman to rest.”
“So what Disney movie are we watching and how many pillows do we need?”
A lot, as it turns out, is the answer. And they have to bite back laughs at the way Thomas makes a noise when he’s swept into the blanket too. But Thomas is warm and Roman is still cold and the movie plays on the screen.
“Hey, Roman?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re my hero.”
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#sanders sides#dragonbabbles#fic#roman sanders#roman angst#roman sanders angst#virgil sanders#logan sanders#patton sanders#janus sanders#deceit sanders#sympathetic deceit#sympathetic remus#remus sanders
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So Dathen brought up the idea of Martin going with Jon to America in the Discord. Things snowballed, and all I could think about what Jon expecting the worst after he finds he’s dependent on the statements. I mean, our boy has like. NO self-esteem and is prone to martyring himself for what he thinks is right. It seemed like something he’d do.
AKA I had another excuse to write Jon being sad and then being comforted and I took it. Also they kees :3c
CW: panic, addiction (statement dependency) discussion, Jon’s incredibly low opinion of himself/depression
***
Jon leans over the balcony and watches the smoke of his cigarette drift up into the night sky like impossibly long fingers. He shudders and tries not to think about Michael. Tries not to think about the Circus. Just...tries not to think.
He...he wants to believe that there’s a perfectly rational explanation for why he feels...better. Martin had been fussing over him for days, now, trying anything to make him feel better, and that should have been all he needed! But now...well, he knows—perhaps Knows—that the statement was all he needed.
And Elias...he’d known and done nothing! Was that the point? To turn Jon into his little puppet to tug around along a string of statements he needed in order to...to what, exactly? He’s dependent on them, now, he’s sure—no matter how awful it is. But does he need them to...live? Is...is this what Jude meant?
He lets his head droop, despite feeling more awake and alive than he has for a week, and takes another drag of his cigarette. He doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want any of this.
There is movement behind him, and he doesn’t need to turn to know that it’s Martin. He smiles internally; Martin has been...so much more than he’d ever dreamed. He never complains when Jon passes out on his shoulder during a long travel time. He’s pretty sure he remembers him wrapping an arm around him one of those times. He always takes Jon’s concerns seriously, even if they seem completely ludicrous. Hell, he even agreed when Jon mentioned he thought they were being followed. And he…
Jon doesn’t deserve him. Martin deserves so much better.
“Hey,” Martin says softly, leaning on the railing beside him. “Are you...how are you feeling?”
Jon lets out a dry laugh. “I feel good,” he rasps. “I shouldn’t, but…”
Martin looks over at him. There is something dark in his eyes, and Jon knows it’s because of what he is. “So it’ll...it’s going to ‘tide you over’, then?”
“I-I think so. Yes.”
Martin looks away again and starts picking at his fingernails. He doesn’t say anything, and his face is pinched in thought. Jon wishes he would just tell him off already. Tell him he’s disgusted and walk away.
His throat constricts. He knows it’s coming, and he hates it. He hates what he is, he hates Elias for doing this to him, he hates that Martin is trapped in this hell with him. He hates that he’s going to lose the only person who seems to care about him.
“So what do we do?” Martin asks, still not looking at him.
Jon swallows back his emotions and reels himself in. He will not cry here. He’ll save that for when Martin leaves; he doesn’t deserve to be pitied. “Th-there’s um...there’s a train leaving for Washington in the morning,” he croaks. “And...there’s a plane to London with a layover in Chicago leaving in 5 hours. I can...I’ll...stay- o-out here while...while you get your things together. Th-that way y-you don’t have to- to see...me.” He finishes with a half-choked sob. He doesn’t want Martin to go. He doesn’t deserve Martin to stay.
He wonders: will he treat him like Tim does? Or will it be more like Georgie—distancing himself? Honestly, that might be worse than violent hatred. Maybe it’s what he deserves.
Martin is looking at him, his expression twisted into confusion. “What? What are you talking about?”
His entire body is shaking, and he can feel the dam starting to break. He can’t—he can’t—let himself break, no matter how terrified and horrified and awfully good he feels. He is a monster. He deserves nothing. Nothing but pain and terror and abandonment.
He’s hyperventilating. There’s a panic attack tingling in his bones. It’d be so much easier if he were alone; he wouldn’t have to pretend. He could let everything out that he’s keeping bottled up right now. But he’s not, and he can’t.
There is a hand taking his. He thinks he hears Martin say his name. He thinks he must be hallucinating.
“Jon,” Martin says again, his voice urgent and stressed. He has both of his hands in his, now. He’s staring intensely into his eyes.
He can’t speak. He tries anyway, and all that comes out is a quiet whimper. Pathetic.
“Oh, Jon.” Martin’s hands leave his, and he screws his eyes shut because he cannot bear to watch him walk away. But then there are arms wrapping around his torso, and he is being pulled against a broad chest. “I’m not going anywhere, Jon.”
The dam overflows, and Jon crumples. His legs give way to the concrete floor beneath him, but Martin holds him. He gently settles him onto the ground, never letting go.
He tries to speak. He tries to apologise. He tries to do something that isn’t burying his face into Martin’s chest because he does not deserve this no matter how scared or upset he feels and he doesn’t understand why Martin isn’t walking away nor why he’s holding him so tightly and gently and warmly and he is scared and Martin is not leaving.
He’s whispering things that Jon can’t understand through his guilt-ridden haze, quietly shushing him and rubbing circles into his back the way he’d always wanted someone to but no one ever had.
Slowly, his sobs taper off until he can only shiver under Martin’s bulk with an occasional painful, wet gasp. Martin loosens his grip, and Jon doesn’t want to move even though he knows he should because he is a monster and Martin is wonderfully, beautifully human.
“It’s okay,” Martin whispers. “It’s okay; you’re not alone. I’m here. We’re gonna figure this out.”
“I don’t understand,” Jon gasps. He doesn’t understand why Martin is still here. Why would Martin want to stay—to help him?
“I know,” Martin replies. “None of this is your fault.”
“How could it not be?”
Martin shushes him. “You didn’t know. None of us knew. I’m not going to throw the blame on you just because- because you think you deserve to be hated, Jon.”
Jon finally finds the strength to pull himself out of Martin’s embrace. The warmth is gone and he is cold and afraid and he doesn’t understand. “I’m a monster,” he rasps. You should hate me.
Martin’s hands cup his cheeks and softly caress away the tears. “You’re not a monster,” he says, “not to me.”
If he’d had any tears left, they would be falling now. His whole body aches and his head is pounding and Martin is looking at him with an open yet unreadable expression and he has never been so close before.
He is slowly leaning closer, then stops when their noses touch. Jon searches his eyes and finds hesitation, fear, concern hidden in their oceanic depths. He is dizzyingly close and his fingertips are gently pressing into his cheeks while they’re sitting on the floor of the balcony of their shitty motel. Jon closes his eyes, barely breathing, anticipating, fearing, wanting.
Martin’s lips taste like mint. They are soft and gentle and do not pry. Jon balls his hands into Martin’s shirt and leans into the kiss like it’s the last drop of goodness in his hellish world.
It only lasts a few glorious seconds before Martin pulls away. Jon lets out an unconscious breath. He is still shaking, he is still a mess, he’s still a monster. But Martin...doesn’t care. Martin is going to stay. He doesn’t have to do this all alone.
“Where you go, I go,” Martin murmurs, resting their foreheads together. “Okay? I’m not going to leave you. Not ever.”
Jon takes in a shuddery breath. “O-okay…,” he whispers. “Th-that’s the deal.”
Martin is still smiling when he kisses him again.
#tma#fic#fanfic#cw: mental health#cw: panic attack#jmart#thanks alex and elian for giving me more to write lmao#i DID try to resist#but the concept was to good not to write
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SQUAD UP! It’s time for Yuna and his crew of miscreant demons!
(Picrews are here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here, and here!)
The characters are, top to bottom, left to right--
Nakajima, Yuna: A human with unusually high magical potential. His specialty is the binding of demons into servitude, which he utilizes to stop particularly troublesome demons from threatening human populations across the globe. Most of the demons under his care were seduced by him, as he has quite a knack for making men want him. As such, several of his servants are vying for his favor, but, in his own words, “I don’t play favorites~”
Obviously, Yuna is a bit of a flirt. His tastes extend well beyond demons, into just about any non-human he can get his hands on. He has a ravenous appetite for handsome men, but no plans to settle down any time soon. It isn’t that romance doesn’t appeal to him, more that he’s still young and a little too free-spirited for anything permanent. The way he dotes on his servants, though, you’d certainly think he was in love with them, Nihil in particular.
Mourning Dove: Affectionately referred to by his coworkers as “Dovey”, this little fellow was the first of Yuna’s servants, and is therefore his most staunch defender. The details of his past are hazy, even in his own mind, but he was born into the slave trade, nameless, nothing, the psychological toll of which would not become apparent until his eventual escape. He was full of hatred for the humans who had callously treated him as property, and claimed many lives before Yuna was able to soothe his aching heart. “You’re pretty as a mourning dove,” Yuna told him. From that moment on, he decided that this would be his name.
Dovey is, above all, an empath. Much of his time recovering from a life of slavery was spent learning to feel again. Once he got the hang of it, however, he found that he felt a little too much, so much so that he’s become somewhat of a crybaby. When others are in pain, he is often the one to comfort them. His sweet disposition and cute appearance have earned him his coworkers’ love, although they still get a bit miffed with him whenever he tries to hog Yuna’s attention.
Dr. Callaway: An interesting case, and a tough nut to crack. Only Yuna knows his full name; no one knows his story. All he’s shared is that he was fingered for human experimentation, and that, no, he has neither learned his lesson nor wishes to. Still, he behaves himself well enough, perhaps because he is entirely obsessed with Yuna in the most unhealthy way. While most of his coworkers consider one another family, Dr. Callaway is detached and often mocking of their sentimentality.
As expected, Dr. Callaway is a terrible sadist. He takes great pleasure in hurting others in any way he can. Nowadays, this is limited almost entirely to insults and threats, but he has been known to get physical with others when Yuna isn’t looking. It doesn’t help that nothing seems to bother him in return. You could beat the man senseless, and he’d come out of it grinning like a jackal.
Corvo: This one was a misunderstanding--or, rather, a case of cultures clashing in a very gruesome manner. Corvo is a hybrid of demon and crowkin. Beastkin are not true demons, but are often lumped in with them, so mixed-race families are not uncommon. Unfortunately, this can lead to some problematic offspring, particularly when one or both of the parents are detached from human society. Corvo, like many crowkin, was taught that food is food, and that human meat is the most delicious of all. He bore no ill will toward humans, but his view of them as, essentially, cattle culminated in a visit from Yuna.
Following his binding, Corvo began the lengthy process of finding something he liked more than human flesh. This, as it turned out, was sweets--all sweets, from pastries, to ice cream, to candy. He had never had sweets before, and everyone agreed that they suited his bubbly, affectionate personality more than human flesh anyway. He is certainly the gentlest of all of Yuna’s servants, dedicated to his family and to protecting those in need. He’s especially fond of cats.
Erebus: Known by those who worship him as the Master of Crows, Erebus is an ill-understood being. He is ancient, but has had little to do with his own kind since time out of mind. Instead, he appears to have become so entwined with his worshipers that he can no longer live without their faith to sustain him. During the Northern Crusades, a great many of them were persecuted for their faith, and Erebus fell into a centuries-long slumber. Only when his followers began to grow in number again did he wake--and command those loyal to him to seek vengeance for their fallen brethren. Naturally, Yuna had a thing or two to say about that.
Erebus is highly asocial, but does not dislike his coworkers. It would be a stretch to say he views them as family; even so, he gets along well with them on the rare occasion Yuna can talk him out of his comfortable pocket of darkness. As the oldest of his colleagues, he is respected and even admired, but he cares little for the love of his own kind. He desires mortal love, which he receives through his worshipers. Due to their number still being relatively low, you’ll rarely catch him awake. Only Yuna seems able to rouse him, and only because Yuna is his “most cherished one”.
Mage: A troublemaker with a bark worse than his bite--but he can and will bite, so mind your fingers. Like Dr. Callaway, his true name is known only to Yuna. His coworkers know him as Mage, taken from Magenta, the name of the rather nasty chemical he produces to draw in his prey. He doesn’t harm them, but he has seduced many a married man away from his wife. Causing strife among couples is what he does best. As an incubus, he finds the taste of a married man’s energy too sweet to resist. So, of course, when he found himself seduced by Yuna, he was completely baffled--and absolutely obsessed. He still toys with married men now and then, when he gets the chance, but spends most of his time trying to talk Yuna back into bed.
Though rare, Mage can be persuaded to bust heads, and does so with the best of ‘em. He’s highly territorial, meaning that although he rather likes his colleagues, he often tangles up with them over Yuna’s affection. He is particularly hostile toward Nihil, who rather delights in teasing Mage with his closeness to their master. Outside of his romantic conflicts with his housemates, he tends to be rather lackadaisical, spending much of his free time lounging on every comfortable surface available. People find his presence enjoyable due to his easygoing disposition and passion for mischief.
Nihil: Of all the demons under Yuna’s employ, Nihil is the one who has come closest to winning his heart. Theirs is a strangely intimate relationship, one which Yuna insists is platonic--and yet, Nihil is at his side always, his obedient shadow. Of course, they weren’t always so close. Nihil is an inherently violent, cruel man whose sole purpose in life is to cause as much pain and grief as he possibly can. He is absolutely, positively insane, for no other reason than this is how he believes a demon should be. This is his aesthetic, and a demon’s aesthetic is absolute. He minds his P’s and Q’s now that he’s bound to Yuna, but never lets his “family” forget what he is, Yuna least of all.
Nihil loves no being, except, by his own admission, Yuna. He teases his master constantly, always pushing his limits, always pushing his buttons. “I am your loyal dog,” is a favorite line of his, spoken, with a pointed smile, whenever Yuna asks something of him. For some reason, it never fails to fluster Yuna, which allows Nihil to worm himself further into his darling’s heart. Unlike his colleagues, he is not afraid to get physical with Yuna, and many of their more heated arguments have ended in the bedroom. Whether Nihil actually enjoys servitude remains to be seen, but for Yuna, he would pull the moon from the sky.
Pox: The general consensus on Pox is “unfriendly, but not unbearable”. A life of self-isolation has made him difficult to approach, even more difficult to befriend, especially given that everyone he’s ever loved, he has killed. He is a demon of sickness, of plague and of rot, of suffering so old as to be carved into the bones of the earth. When he was young, he could not control the disease that spread from him. Though his mortal mother tried desperately to guide him, eventually, she was overcome, and Pox left the village he had once called home, now populated only by the dead and dying. He learned then that he could not live among his mother’s people, but he knew nothing of his father’s. Rather than seek them out and put them at risk as well, he exiled himself to the outskirts of human society, interacting with it only when necessary. With time, he came to understand his power, and was able to control it--but his peaceful life came to an end when one of the few humans he had allowed himself to love was killed in a botched robbery. Pox designated himself judge, jury, and executioner, and it wasn’t long before Yuna showed up on his doorstep.
Pox hides his self-loathing under a cold, hard outer shell. His mask is flawless, perfected through a lifetime of guilt, and he allows no one near enough to break it. His coworkers believe that they are despised by him, but in truth, he loves each of them with every inch of himself. Saying so is difficult, though, and such an admission would only encourage them to endanger themselves. He may be in complete control of his magic most days, but there are times even now when he catches himself slipping. He is desperate to protect Yuna and the strange family they have all built together, so much so that he would rather suffer in silence than risk their lives asking for help.
Seta Sericum: The peculiarity of his name has led to his coworkers calling him Silky, a moniker which he has accepted only begrudgingly. Silky is a Nephalem, the product of a love between angel and demon. Typically, his fathers’ love for one another would have ended in tragedy, but the two stayed together even after their angelic half was cast from divinity. Silky was raised in a happy home, albeit a mobile one; his fathers couldn’t risk staying in one place for too long, lest the Church track them down. Ultimately, it was the Church, their greatest fear, that was their end. They were cut down while protecting Silky, who was forced to flee in the vain hope that his absence might somehow save his fathers. The Church searched for him, but he had hidden himself well. Now an orphan, he swore vengeance on his parents’ murderers--and he got it too, once he was old enough to control his immense magical power. He despises the Church, but killed only those among its ranks who had directly harmed him. Regardless, Yuna came for him, and he submitted to servitude as recompense.
Silky’s demonic father was a real fop of a man, and his son is no different now that he’s had a chance to adjust to a normal life. He insists that everyone pull their own weight, that everything be in its place at all times, and has a fondness for indulgences such as expensive wine and imported chocolates. Without these little luxuries, he would surely have gone mad, for both his mischievous master and his trouble-making housemates frustrate him to no end. He has tried, with mixed success, to serve as a role model for them, but, oh, they are all such children. Dovey is far too naive, Dr. Callaway is far too sadistic, Corvo is far too oblivious, Mage is far too flirtatious, Nihil is far too violent, Pox is far too cold, and Vincent is far too reclusive. Erebus, at least, is well-behaved, though Silky thinks he could stand to mingle more with the group.
Vincent Blythe: On the forefront of medical progress during the Victorian Era, Dr. Vincent Blythe has become little more than a shell of his former self. When his prostitute mother was murdered by one of her stags, something snapped in him. He began targeting, torturing, and finally killing any man who frequented brothels or whom he had seen with street-walkers, believing himself to be the protector of his mother’s people. It was only then when he realized he was something more than human. His father, it turned out, had been a demon who had fallen terribly in love with his mother, but whose feelings had been spurned by her. After receiving a near-fatal wound in a skirmish with a prominent vampire hunter of the day, Vincent tucked himself away in a dark corner of London to heal. He slept for over a century, and when he woke, attempted to pick up where he’d left off. Confused, his trauma still fresh in his mind, he killed all who drew near. Phone calls were made, flights were booked, and Yuna arrived on scene to bring him back to his senses.
Vincent is terribly withdrawn. On the one hand, he is distrustful of all humans, and men in particular frighten him. On the other hand, he has had little to no experience with his own kind, and so struggles to fit in among them. He finds himself at an impasse, unable to shake the trauma of his mother’s murder, and equally unable to bond with his father’s kin. Because of this, he is prone to bouts of violent madness when he feels that he is being threatened, or when he wakes from particularly vivid nightmares, in which he witnesses his mother’s murder and can do nothing to stop it. Dr. Callaway has oft remarked that Vincent is a genius, a true medical prodigy, and that it is too bad he’s so “broken”.
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“We can’t give up. We have to keep going.” - Daryl Dixon
A/N: Aaahhh I’m so excited to be joining @crossbowking ‘s three year anniversary writing challenge! And at the same time publish my very first piece of writing on this site! I really hope you guys like this.
Warnings: Blood, lots of angst.
Word count: 982
Prompt: “We can’t give up. We have to keep going.”
Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female reader (no Y/N used)
The roar of the bike’s engine echoed over the streets, almost loud enough to drown out her pained gasps whenever they drove over a bump in the road. Daryl couldn’t remember ever hitting the gas harder than he was doing at this very moment. Panic was clawing around in his stomach like a wild beast demanding to be set free, but he gritted his teeth and kept it locked inside.
The scene kept repeating itself before his eyes like some cruel joke and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it. The job had been simple, a run like any other, nothing they hadn’t done a hundred times before. And yet...If only he’d been on guard more, maybe he would’ve seen the thief on time. Maybe he would’ve seen the shadow creeping closer towards their campfire. Maybe he would’ve seen the gun before the trigger was pulled.
It was just a man, scrawny but starved enough to forget his fears. He’d attacked their camp in search of food. She saw him first, drawing her weapon but the stranger was faster, knocking the gun from her hands and grabbing it himself, pulling the trigger to get to his prize. Her scream had been worse than any other sound he’d ever heard before. It tore right through his bones and left him shaking. The bullet had left a gaping wound in her shoulder and the thief had run off with their food. Daryl hadn’t even tried going after him, his entire focus on her as she lay there on the ground, so much blood.
She was so small as she lay there, curled up inside herself while she whimpered. Frantically he’d torn up the blanket they’d brought, using the cloth to press down on the wound. Within seconds his hands had been colored red with her blood. It set his veins aglow with rage but the anger was nothing compared to the freezing fear that was slowly taking over. He could treat scrapes and cuts, he’d been doing so his entire life, but a gunshot wound was beyond his skills. And so he’d taken her in his arms and put her on the back on his bike, racing towards Alexandria, hoping they’d make it on time.
‘Daryl, can we please stop,’ her voice sounded in his ear over the roaring of the bike. She sounded so weak and he couldn’t possibly say no to it. Part of him wanted to ignore her, keep on driving, because time was running out. But he could feel her grip around his waist loosening, which didn’t leave him with much choice.
And so he hit the brakes and came to a halt beside the road. He hung his head, preparing himself for what he was about to see, then he turned around to face her. Her skin was pale and sweaty, her eyes red and tired. The cloth he’d bound around her shoulder was soaked with crimson blood, so much blood.
He got off the bike first, holding out his arms for her to lean on as her trembling body slowly managed to get off as well. Her legs gave out almost immediately and he carefully lowered her to the ground, a pained yelp leaving her lips, hurting his heart. He took a trembling breath and was about to turn away from her, needing a second to push away the tears threatening to spill but she reached out and took his hand, forcing him to look back at her.
‘Hey,’ she spoke softly. ‘I’m gonna be okay.’
He rubbed his thumb over her ice cold skin. ‘Ya better be,’ he managed to say.
She offered him a smile, that damned smile that always made his heart skip a beat and set his veins on fire. He couldn’t lose that smile. He’d known it from the very first time she smiled at him, though at the time he had tried as hard as he could to deny it. He’d spend so long trying to act like she was just a friend, just a partner but they both knew he was lying to himself. And now he hated himself for wasting so much time, for pretending he could live without her.
‘Don’t do that,’ she said, her voice stern despite the obvious pain lingering beneath her tone. It scared him to death how well she knew him. How, with one look, she knew he was getting stuck in his head again, drowning in his self-hatred.
He shook his head. ‘I never should’a taken you with me.’
She scoffed. ‘It’s adorable that you think you could ever stop me from joining you.’
He knew she was only joking to try and brighten the mood, but he couldn’t bring himself to smile. Not when tears were shining in her eyes, illuminated by the sunlight so they almost seemed like tiny diamonds
A soft sigh left her lips. ‘C’mon, Daryl, humor me.’
With an aching heart he knelt down beside her. ‘Yer impossible,’ he mumbled, stroking her cheek, his fingertips burning where they left traces on her skin.
She squeezed his hand. ‘We’re gonna make it,’ she whispered. ‘We have to keep going.’
He nodded, then placed a kiss on her forehead. For a moment he lingered there, afraid to pull away and be faced with reality. But time was running out, and her shivering form beneath him shook him from his thoughts. He pulled away and wrapped her in his arms, putting her back on the bike. So much blood.
He clenched his hands, not wanting to look at the red stains left on his skin. ‘Hold on tight, kay?’ He said while taking place in front of her.
‘I’ll try,’ she said weakly.
He hit the gas and they were off again, flying over the asphalt towards home. They were gonna make it. There was no other option.
#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl dixon#daryl dixon oneshot#daryl dixon imagine#the walking dead imagine#the walking dead#twd#daryl fanfiction#crossbowkingwritingchallenge#nelly unlocks her mind
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One shot? Klaus hargreeves x best friend! Reader where her sleeve slips down and he notices her scars. She rushes off and aviods him for the rest of the day until he corners her and she tries to push past him but he won't let her and he confronts her about it? If it's alright with you may i ask that you make it long and Fluffy? . Thank you 👉👈🥺
A/N: Thank you for your request Nonny. I’ll admit this was a pretty heavy topic, and I wasn’t sure how comfortable I felt with it, because it’s one that takes a lot of care in how it’s approached. But I gave it a try and I hope that it’s good.
Word Count: 1312
Content Warnings: T - depression, self-harm, past self-harm, self hatred, destructive behaviors, references to drug use.
If anything in how I have written this is insensitive or grossly inaccurate, please let me know (politely) and I will work to correct it.
‘Stupid,’ you scolded yourself. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never should have let your guard down like that. What were you thinking?’
Your eyes stung with tears as you stormed away down the street, leaving the diner and your best friend in your wake, him probably as distressed as you were.
‘If he doesn’t just hate you now,’ you continued to insult yourself for your perceived self-failing. ‘Probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak and wants nothing to do with you.’
You and Klaus had been friends for years and told each other practically everything. But this had been one secret you kept from him, kept from everyone. Part of it was out of guilt: what right did you have to feel this way when your pain was nothing compared to everything he had been through. Another part was out of shame, out of fear that he would look at you, like so many did, in pity.
And now suddenly your secret was out with one little misstep. You had reached across the diner table to steal a bite of his food, as you so often did when the two of you got breakfast together. But this time your long sleeve had snagged, the edge of it sliding upward in what felt like an instant and slow motion at the same time, revealing the careful lines like ladders marching up the inside of your wrist toward your elbow, years’ worth of moments where the world had been too much and the sting of a razor was all you had.
Klaus’s green eyes had widened to a roundness that would have been almost comical in a different situation. His mouth opened to speak, but before he could you were up from the table and running out the door, trying to put as much distance between yourself and the revelation as possible, even if you couldn’t get your mind off of it.
~
The rest of the day had been spent seeking distractions that would keep you both out of your home and out of Klaus’s path. You didn’t want to see him; you didn’t want to know what he thought of you now. And he hadn’t seemed to be looking for you, which part of you took as a good sign even as you ached with the potential of losing your best friend.
Finally you decided it was safe to go home, planning out your evening with reheated boxed mac and cheese and curling up in your bed under a pile of blankets to cry until you fell asleep. Unfortunately, when you got home, he was sitting on your couch, the curtains of your living room window fluttering in the breeze behind him.
“Y/N, hey,” he said, standing to approach you. “I was wondering when you’d get back.”
You shoved past him, bee-lining for your room and slamming the door in his face behind you. It wasn’t until the lock had flipped that you let yourself release the sob you had been holding back.
You had taken the fact that he hadn’t chased you down when you left the diner as a sign that he wasn’t going to, that he was going to just write you off and disappear, as he should have, as so many people had before. You thought he would be just one more scar at the end of the day. In reality, he had done so much worse. He had stayed. He had sat and carefully laid a trap, waiting for you to vulnerable and lulled into the strange sense of security that your aloneness brought.
You wanted him to leave.
You wanted him to hug you close, folding his whole body around yours in that unique way of his, and tell you it would be alright.
You wanted…you hoped he understood. You had just wanted the world to stop hurting, and his method of numbing it all had never worked for you, so you found your own.
You were so scared of what he might say, so you wanted him not to say anything at all just as much as you wanted him to tell you it was okay.
“Y/N?” he called, and you could tell from the way his voice was muffled that he was sitting outside your door, cheek pressed to it, probably giving you those sad, all-knowing eyes.
“Go away Klaus,” you sniffled, brushing angrily at the tears coursing down your cheeks.
“Not until you talk to me. I need to know you’re alright.”
You sighed, shooting a half-hearted glare at him through the wood before you got up off the mattress where you had face-planted and opened the door. The lack of warning meant that he nearly toppled over when you did and you couldn’t help cracking a slight smile.
“There you are,” he said softly, standing up and brushing a hand over your cheek to wipe away your tears. “You had me scared there for a second.”
You raised an eyebrow at him in question.
“It’s not often I have people fleeing to avoid being in the same room as me. Usually they just want to be closer,” he drawled with a joking smirk.
You rolled your eyes. “Klaus…I…”
“You don’t need to explain it to me if you don’t want to, Y/N. I mean, I’m hurt that you wouldn’t trust me, your very best friend forever, and tell me about something like this. But I also understand.”
The way his voice cracked on the last word made you swallow thickly, knowing just how much that statement was true. You had lost count of the number of times you had held him and helped him through his suffering, the highs and the withdrawals, the ghosts, the torture his father subjected him to in the name of ‘improving’ his powers. If you had reached out to him at any point, he would have been there in an instant, but the darkness you felt was strangling, suffocating, keeping you silent and cutting off your voice.
You pressed your lips together in a thin line and shook your head. “I couldn’t Klaus, I just…”
His arms raised, silently offering without presuming and you tucked yourself between them, pressing your face to his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. He rested his cheek against your head and you breathed deeply, calming more the longer he held you.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you mumbled eventually. “And that I ran out on breakfast and stuck you to the foot the bill…”
He laughed and you felt the vibration of it through your whole body. “We can never go back there by the way, I didn’t pay.”
You couldn’t help joining his laughter or rolling your eyes. “Of course you didn’t. And they had such good hash browns.”
Eventually you found your way back to the couch, him practically sprawled on top of you while music played softly in the background, everything feeling back to normal. As one song faded into the next, he picked his head up to look you in the eye.
“Can I ask you something?” he said softly.
Your blood rushed in your ears and your heart raced fearfully of what his question might be, but hesitantly, you nodded.
“Are you…I mean…are those…recent?” he asked, ashamed of his own question, of his need to know, and afraid of what your answer might be.
“Well no. It’s been…two years since I actually…but the temptation has been there once or twice,” you admitted.
He frowned, eyebrows knitting together and you longed to smooth away the worry wrinkle there.
“I want to help. You’ve been there for me through my shit…will you…tell me if you’re ever feeling like that again?”
“I…can’t promise that Klaus. But I appreciate that you’re willing to…stay. And I’ll try.”
He nodded, pressing a quick kiss to your temple.
“That’s good enough for me.”
#tw: self harm#tw: self deprecation#fic request#Klaus Hargreeves x reader#The Umbrella Academy fic#reader insert#platonic Klaus x Reader
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the truth is like blood underneath your fingernails (chapter 2 - end)
Summary: Love, Hunger, pain, anxiety.
Jon feels it all at once in the wake of statement withdrawal, and can hardly bear it.
(Chapter 1 here)
CW: panic attacks, use of exercise as a form of self injury, self-hatred, language
(Jon’s thoughts are formatted in italics. The Eye speaks in glitched text.)
tag list: @urbanpineapplefarmer @transcendentalbf
7am.
The morning sun begins to creep into their room, spilling over their blankets and onto the floorboards in a stark white glow. Though the birds begin to wake up at the sight, the frost on the window tells Jon that they will soon fly south for the winter, if the majority haven’t already. He hadn’t managed to sleep at all last night—he had cradled Martin into the early hours of the morning, long after his tears had subsided into snores. Eventually, though, the sensation simply grew too much for his overwrought nerves. Now, as he sits against the headboard in the cold daylight, even the blanket is beginning to grate on him.
God, this is miserable.
Looking over at Martin, Jon can tell he’s still going to be dead asleep for quite some time, perhaps even hungover when he does awaken. The now-familiar twinge of guilt grips him as his eyes pass over the puffiness of his face, the lids of his eyes still reddened with the tears of the night before. Shaking his head in rising fury at himself, he wants nothing more than to have what they did in their first few weeks of living at the cottage—just to hold him, effortlessly, lovingly as the day passes by in a quiet warmth.
But now Jon is starting to think that this trembling through his body will never stop. Everything in him is screaming at him to get up, to move move move just to get the cursed buzz of the static down to something manageable. It’s too much—it’s all too much, and the gnawing hunger begins to eat away at him, threatening to reach out for Martin’s sadness, for his pain—
I’ve got to move.
I’ve got to run run run run
When his breathing begins to pick up speed, Jon knows he can’t risk staying here any longer. He glances apologetically at Martin before rising as carefully as possible from the bed, taking extra care not to jostle him or to step on the creaking floorboards as he makes his exit. Descending to the main floor, his movements pick up urgency as he pulls on his running clothes, knee brace, and trainers—hands trembling almost too violently to tie the laces. He nearly bolts from the room as he finishes at last, anxiety pulsing and swelling into some nightmarish thing, before he thinks to write a note to Martin, in case he wakes up and finds him gone.
He cannot risk Martin thinking that he’s left him.
Can’t imagine anything worse than that.
Scribbling quickly onto an old receipt, he slides it across the table and makes a break for the door.
---
Exhilarating and excruciating: that’s how Jon would describe this general sensation. At this point, he finds himself beginning to revel in the pain that shoots down his leg with every step, knowing he’s deserving of it, knowing it will distract him for as long as he can just keep going.
And that, well…that he can do.
He runs until his feet grow numb, until his chest no longer feels like a gaping wound, until his mind is utterly clear and for once—for once—the Eye closes. Unable to hold back the elation this brings him, he allows an awful screeching laughter to burst from his throat, smile wide and clenched tight as he keeps running—far further than he’s ever run from their cottage, unwilling to face the terrible truth that no amount of distance he runs could ever be far enough to satisfy him. For now, for these few moments—Jon revels in a freedom he hasn’t felt since this entire nightmare began.
But of course, all things good and free must come to an end—this time, it comes in the form of a rainstorm. The first drop that hits Jon’s arm sends a spark of lightning through him, his cursed skin so sensitive to any disturbance now that the steadily falling droplets feel like being pelted with small stones. Spilling over him in a deluge, the magnitude of abuse he’s just put his body through drags his feet to a stop—limbs trembling so violently that he barely remains upright as he does so.
Damn it all damn it all
Jon knows in this moment, gasping desperately in the downpour, that if does not keep moving, he will be unable to start again—and god knows if anyone would ever find him out here.
S̚t̂oͣp̾ͥ ̩̿m͉̹o̫̍̿v̘̫ͤi͙̳̍n̻ͬ̎ġ̞̩ͦ ̯̯̞͍a̫͙͗͛ṅ͍̽ͭḋ̥͉͛ ̱͔ͧ̎y͚͉͛ͦō̟̋̚ȕ̩̗̭'̝̔͗ͩlͦͤ͋̾l̳͖͈̒ ̘͆̔̔s͋̉͑͌ț̹̌͆o͙ͦͩ͌p͈̫̯ ̠̺̐b̟̌͋r̳̋ͨė̪a͓͗tͦ̚h͔̄i̗nͭg͌,, some cruel and terrifying voice from within him says with glee.
Everything in him screams at him to collapse as he picks up one shaking foot, instead jogging himself back into a run in the direction of home, the light shower quickly becoming a storm.
---
Jon will never know exactly how, but he makes it back to the cottage, forced to take the last half-mile or so at a miserable limping pace. Breaths heaving with an audible wheeze, his vision comes in and out of focus as he trudges up this final hill, drenched to the bone and aching aching aching. Through the grey rain-curtains, he can just barely see the outline of Martin sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for him to come home. At the sight, Jon can’t help but let out a cry of relief, thoughts flooded with nothing but Martin Martin Martin.
He must have heard Jon’s shout, for as soon as he walks a bit closer, Martin jumps to his feet—blanket falling free of his shoulders as his eyes widen in horror.
“Christ, Jon,” he yells, running out into the rain towards him.
Jon wants to cry out, tell him to turn back, he’ll get soaked—
Then everything begins to swirl sickeningly around him, and he can no longer tell which way is up.
“Oh, Christ,” he hears from somewhere far, far away—and he is suddenly encased in strong, warm arms.
“I’ve got you, I’ve got you, can you walk?” Martin says, barely audible above Jon’s own panicked breathing.
He tries to support himself for a brief moment, limbs shaking, before a violent pulse of static blacks out his vision and buckles his knees. With dim awareness, he feels himself being swept up into Martin’s arms near effortlessly, feels the rain hitting his face and neck and it hurts, God it hurts—
When he opens his eyes again, he’s being laid gently on the sofa, Martin muttering to him all the while.
“Alright, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” he repeats, voice thick and trembling as his eyes begin to scan Jon’s body for the source of the injury.
S̗̋e͓̹͋e̖͗̋̒ ̞͙̱̇ͫẅ͔̘̰͔̌̍h̳̙̙̯̋ͧ̿ȁ̟͔͖͕̱̌͌ť̹͓͍̝͕̗͂͗ ̦̫͈̽ͫ̄͊̍̚y͉̥̼̼̦͓̙ͤͬǒ͕͓̥̄ͣͥ̿ͅū͓̫͙̠ͭ̓ͯ'̬̮̤ͫ̓̒ͩ̅v̦͓͔͂͐͆̚e͕̝̤̬͓̮ ̥͙̍̐̉d̩͇̳͎o̻̗̽n͆e?
Static once more bursts through Jon’s mind, the Eye overwhelming his senses—head spinning, ears ringing, breaths picking back up into short and shallow gasps—
“Jon? Hey, are you with me? Are you hurt?”
Martin’s voice reaches him as though through many thick sheets of glass, nearly drowned out by the explosion currently taking place in Jon’s mind. As best as he can, he grabs hold of it, feels the weight of Martin’s hand on his arm, willing it to pull him from the depths—
The sounds of the cottage around him come back in a rush, the pounding rain echoing through his mind. Bending over him with eyes as wide as saucers is Martin, rain-soaked fringe hanging down over his panicked face.
God, look what I’ve done.
This is all you’re meant for
To hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt
“Jon? Are you with me, love?” he says shakily, brushing his damp hair away from his face with gentle hands.
Why do you love me why do you love me
It’s too much; it’s all too much. His wrenching breaths choke off quickly into sobs, an arm reaching up to drape over his eyes.
“Oh god, what’s happened, Jon? Where does it hurt?”
“I’m sorry, Martin—I’m s-so sorry—I ca—” he breaks off to gasp desperately for air, the oxygen in the room suddenly not enough to sustain him.
For a moment, Martin freezes—hands hovering above him in shock before he jumps into action.
“Okay, okay—J-Jon, you’re hyperventilating. It’s alright, just…just try to breathe with me, sweetheart, I’m right here with you. Let’s sit up, okay? Come on—” he soothes with a forced calm, gently pulling Jon up by the shoulders to sit with his feet on the floor.
“Head down by your knees, that’s it,” he continues, sitting on the coffee table in front of him, grounding him with a sturdy grip on his upper arms.
Jon reaches out to clutch at his shirt like it’s his only lifeline.
“That’s right, I’m right here,” Martin encourages, not letting up on his grip. “Just listen to my voice, and follow me back, okay?”
I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him I don’t deserve him
Even with this panicked train of thought, the gentle music of Martin’s voice gives him something on which to focus—something warm, and loving, and home. His breaths begin to gradually slow; his pounding heart no longer audible in his ears—though he is left trembling and cold and so hungry.
“What’s happened, Jon? Is it your leg?”
I wish that more than anything.
Everything is still too much too much too much, and Jon buries his face in his hands, sniffling in the wake of his tears and shaking his head. Martin remains silent for a few moments, and Jon can feel his gaze boring into him—can feel him carefully considering what to do next.
Is he…afraid of me?
God.
“Hold on, I’ll get you a towel,” he murmurs at last, standing and walking quickly toward the bathroom.
As soon as he leaves the room, tears sting at Jon’s eyes again, and he’s too exhausted to do anything but let them roll freely down his cheeks. It’s been weeks since he’s felt himself able to cry, too distanced from his own emotions—but they feel neither relieving nor cathartic, the hot trails of them merely seeming to pull all his pain from within to the outside. Martin returns after a few moments, a glass of water and a bath towel in hand.
“Oh, darling,” he sighs tremulously, and Jon can hear at once that Martin is coming close to tears himself—the incredible strength of his own empathy drawing Jon’s pain onto himself.
He refuses to give in, however, seeming to steel himself for Jon’s sake as he begins to gently rub the towel over his sopping hair, his chest, his back—taking extra care over his unbelievably swollen leg before tossing it to the side. Job done as well as he can for now, he returns to sitting on the coffee table in front of Jon, their legs bumping together slightly.
“You’ve got to tell me what’s happened, Jon. You’re scaring me.”
Jon Knows it’s true, knows he has to tell him—but the words feel so heavy in his throat. After a few more moments of sitting in silence, Jon continuing to tremble in front of him, Martin pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over Jon’s shoulders. He then grips the edges of it lightly, leaning in to try to catch Jon’s gaze.
“Please, Jon. I’m begging you. Please tell me,” he murmurs desperately.
I’ve got to tell him.
He’s frightened, and I’ve got to tell him.
“You’ll hate me for it,” Jon warns in a whisper, head still drooping toward the floor.
At this, Martin sputters briefly, seemingly hurt by the very suggestion.
“Sweetheart, I—I very much doubt that,” he soothes gently, running his hands up and down Jon’s upper arms to warm him up.
You’re too good you’re too good you’re too good
Words spill from him in a rush, biting through the shame.
“I just…I-I can’t think, I can’t breathe, I…I can’t do anything because I’m so…” he chokes, breaking off with a sniff.
“…I’m so hungry, and I hate it,” he confesses at last, voice whittled down to a mere whisper.
“Hungry…?” Martin questions, head tilting in confusion for a moment before understanding dawns on him. “Oh, hungry. Right.”
Hearing the words in Martin mouth renews Jon’s shame at once, and the sobs bubble up in his chest once again.
“Hey hey hey, listen, Jon,” Martin says softly, keeping a gentle hold on his biceps. “When’s the last time you read one?”
At once, the shame becomes a hot knife, anger flaring like a beacon as he raises his voice.
“I don’t want it Martin, I can’t—”
“Jon—”
“I can’t bring anymore nightmares into the world. I just can’t. I-I won’t,” he shouts, bracing his hands against the couch cushions as he tries to stand—
And immediately goes down again, vision spinning and greying out, leaving him winded and silent.
The weight of what he’s just done comes crashing down on him, and he lifts one hand to cover his eyes—as if that could do anything to cover the magnitude of it.
God, what is wrong with me?
“Alright, just…just try to stay calm, okay? Here—” Martin says, ever patient, holding out the glass of water toward him.
When Jon takes it and brings it up to his lips, his hands shake so badly that Martin is forced to keep a hold on it as well.
“Christ, Jon,” he mutters under his breath, brow furrowing deeper with worry.
They sit in silence for a few moments after that, Martin placing a grounding hand on Jon’s good knee, just watching his heaving breaths which show no sign of easing. Jon can nearly hear the thoughts turning over in Martin’s mind, as he frantically considers what to do under an exterior of forced calm.
“Let me read you one,” he says at last, voice leaving little room for argument.
“No, I-I can’t—”
“You have to. You have to, Jon—just look at yourself.”
Jon drops his head again, staring at his knees as he can feel the tremors wracking his entire body.
“You’re ill, and this is the only way to treat it for now. I know you hate it, and I know how guilty it makes you feel but…if this is what it takes to keep you alive, then I will do it if you won’t. Because I love you, and I refuse to see you hurt.”
Tears begin to flow anew halfway through his words, the shaking growing even more violent with the awful realization that Martin is right. Jon does not reply, cannot make himself voice it—but does not try to stop him when he stands from the coffee table, collecting a statement from the folder sitting in the drawer of the end table. When he returns, he sits on the end of the sofa, reaching his arms out toward Jon’s shoulders.
“Here, lie down, love—just lie here, and I’ll read.”
Jon cannot find it in himself to refuse, slowly tilting his body to rest his head on Martin’s thigh. Pulling the blanket up over his shoulders, Martin cards a hand through Jon’s hair as he begins to read—sobs wracking his rail-thin frame even as he does. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tries desperately not to hear it, tries not to See—but the Eye is relentless now, drinking in this stranger’s account of terror with elation. When Martin’s voice comes to a halt at last, he sets the statement down on the arm of the sofa, looking down toward Jon.
“I’m sorry, darling, I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, bending over to plant a kiss on Jon’s forehead, resuming stroking his hair afterwards.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Jon can feel his insides beginning to knit back together. The godawful static is barely audible now, where it had roared in his ears just moments ago, and his stomach no longer feels like a hollowed-out cavern. Even so, he is disgusted with himself—for needing this, for feeling better afterwards—and most of all, for the nervousness he can still detect in Martin’s gentle ministrations.
He’s still frightened.
And I caused it.
Because that’s who I am, now.
…I’ve got to make this right.
He opens his eyes—warm hazel meeting aberrant green.
“I’m so sorry, Martin,” he starts, voice hoarse and thick. “For all of this. I…I know I’ve hurt you, and it’s not right.”
Martin’s hands come to a stop, one coming to rest on his chest, the other cupping his face.
“This is why you’ve been running, isn’t it? And why we had the row yesterday—you were hungry?”
“It’s still my fault,” Jon corrects him quickly. “I won’t…I won’t try to deny that.”
Martin sighs, looking away for a moment to swallow down the bitter memory.
“Alright, but…I’m sure it didn’t help.”
“…no, it didn’t,” Jon is forced to admit in a whisper.
A few minutes pass by in silence, Martin resuming his gentle brushing through Jon’s hair as Jon holds his other hand close to his chest, willing the warmth to seep back into his bones. In—out, in—out—his breathing at last breaks even, his heart feeling lighter than it has in weeks. At last, Jon moves to sit up, bracing heavily on his arms and tipping his head on Martin’s shoulder with a groan.
“Still dizzy?” Martin asks quietly.
Jon hums his assent, allowing his eyes to flutter closed against it.
“When’s the last time you’ve eaten? Actual food, I mean,” Martin continues, turning to face him with a start.
“Hmm. Not sure,” Jon mutters, burrowing into his shoulder.
Martin sighs, looking upwards briefly to shake his head before pulling Jon closer, wrapping his arms firmly around him.
“We’ll have to work on that,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into his hair before resting his chin on top.
In response, Jon turns his head slightly toward whatever bit of Martin is nearest him and presses a kiss upon it—drawing a soft huff of laughter from him, before he pulls Jon even closer and continues.
“I’m sorry this is so hard on you, darling. I know I can’t…I can’t truly understand. But from an outside perspective, you reading these statements to stay alive is just doing the best you can in an impossible situation, you know? And if everything goes right, if…if we can figure out how to end this, maybe the nightmares will be gone. Maybe you won’t have to do this anymore.”
Everything in him wants to rail against this optimism, this hopefulness—out of sheer terror that it couldn’t possibly be true. Nevertheless, without the static pulsing through him, he is able to bite his tongue—choosing instead to picture the future he knows is in Martin’s mind: one where they’re together, where they’re safe, where they can spend all their energy and time learning to love each other well.
A ghost of a smile passes over his face, and he turns to kiss Martin’s shoulder.
“I really hope you’re right,” he whispers.
“…you don’t think I am, though,” Martin replies, sorrow evident in his tone.
Oh, Martin.
It never ceases to amaze Jon how well Martin can read him—somehow able to infer his thoughts with no powers at all, without even looking at him.
“I’m…I’m trying to learn to hope,” Jon admits with all the honesty he can stomach, lifting his head to gaze into the warm depth of Martin’s eyes.
He’s sure there is no sight more gorgeous than the one right in front of him.
“You…you are my hope, Martin,” he murmurs, cupping his face with his hands. “You, and nothing else.”
The blush and sunny smile he draws onto Martin’s cheeks sparks a joy in his heart he has not felt for weeks.
“Cheesy,” Martin giggles, and Jon is done for.
He pulls him into a gentle kiss, slow and languid, cherishing Martin’s soft noise of pleasure when he strokes a hand through his faded curls. Though his battered body shakes with the effort of it, Jon pushes forward—wanting nothing more than to shower him with all the love he has to give. Seeming to sense his exhaustion, however, Martin breaks it off, tilting Jon’s forehead to rest against his own.
“I love you, you know. I don’t think I could ever stop loving you. Please…please tell me next time it’s getting bad, okay? So I can understand, and I can help you before you hurt yourself like this,” he chokes off, closing his eyes against rising tears. “It breaks my heart.”
“I know. I know, Martin, and I’m so sorry,” Jon replies, brushing their lips together briefly before returning to press their foreheads back together. “I’m sorry for everything—for not explaining, the yelling, the hurt, just—just all of it. I-I love you, and you deserve better than that—you deserve my best, and I haven’t given it to you, and I am so, so sorry.”
His voice trembles and breaks and fades into a whisper by the end, tears threatening to spill over once again—and they do when Martin plants a lingering kiss on his forehead, then pulls him to rest against his chest.
I love him I love him I love him
“You’re forgiven, Jon. You’re already forgiven.”
The weight that lifts from his chest at these words allows Jon to breathe for what feels like the first time in months. Curling up against the warmth of his body, both still shivering in the damp, they listen to the thunder outside—both fearing that the worst is yet to come, but strengthened in the knowledge that they will be together when it does.
#tma#the magnus archives#tma fic#jonmartin#angst#whump#injury#unhealthy coping mechanisms#cw panic attack#cw self loathing#cw self injury#my writing
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03.My heart is cold
trigger warning: Gavin is suicidal in this one, so that, also references to self-harm
He doesn’t know how many times he’s done it already, the exact number keeps getting away from him. Must have been somewhere between ten and twenty. It doesn’t matter anyway, nothing does to him. Cowards don’t die easily. But Gavin is a persistent one.
The first time he tried to stop breathing was when he was just fifteen. It wasn’t because he was bullied or because his parents didn’t love him enough, he was just tired of living with himself. And maybe the fact that he was a dumb teenager who didn’t have the word ‘responsibility’ in his vocabulary might have contributed a bit. Getting wasted every chance that presented itself and even when it didn’t he’d find a way to ruin his body some. His mental health didn’t appreciate this self-destructing behaviour and one mistake lead to another… but it didn’t work in the end, just one of the myriad of failures to add to his ever-growing collection.
The second attempt was more of an accident, running at a speeding car without really trying to stop. He tells himself it was his carelessness that made him spend the winter in hospital, but he knows that he’d do it again if he had the right reason. That had been before he decided what he wanted to do with his bleak life. It was either becoming a criminal or hunting them down. He wants to say that he chose right but truth be told it still doesn’t sit right with him, even after all those years.
Nothing got much better after he had obtained a secure position in law enforcement, other than not having to struggle financially. It’s a miracle that he was able to pass his psychic evaluation, but considering the sort of scum he has encountered during his service, he’s not all that surprised. Maybe he belongs among them too. Even if he hasn’t killed someone who smelled of innocence, he’s still done some pretty fucked-up shit. Not that he can remember ever being nice to anyone (does his cat count?) - tolerable, at most. The one who gets the worst of it being none other than Gavin himself. There is not a single drop of self-love inside of him, quite the opposite. If there is someone who he unconditionally despises, it’s him and his stupid, weak, aggressive self. No amount of pain and blood could ever fix him. He tried punishing himself in any viable way, splitting himself open for the demons to leave him but it only made things worse. Even when other people justifiably hurt him it did nothing to alleviate his pain. So he increased the force of which to harm his body - he tried to remove his soul. If he became nothing but an empty shelf maybe than he gets the coveted relief. His flesh burned and drowned and bled, got poisoned and infected, yet he’s still here, filling his lungs with ashes. There is still one option he is too afraid to try, lest it actually steals his life away.
It feels like his heart has died a long time ago, becoming nothing but an icy hole leading nowhere, but at times he can see something there, something that isn’t rotten and veiled in hatred. And it’s all the prick’s fault.
Androids pissed him off enough as they were, but something about the plastic that sauntered to the department like he was to be just another new addition to their force set off his super-destructive tendencies. He had made an effort to hold back before, shutting out the merciless voices in his head by means that wouldn’t cause harm. But Connor made him regress. And he hated him because of it, for the longest time. In reality, it has only been till the revolt happened and the time it took him to accept that there is more humanity hiding in those machines that there has ever been in him.
When spring arrived, something else took a turn to the unexpected. The android (who has resumed his work at the DPD) started paying attention to him, which came as a volatile shock to Gavin. At first, there were just random glances, whose meaning he couldn’t begin to understand. Then there were exchanged messages, disguised in casual interest. He was aware the Connor was treating everyone in the department with equal congeniality, wearing that aggravating charm and spreading politeness everywhere he could. Still, Gavin started feeling regret, a vile little thing he somehow managed to avoid till then. Maybe if he had treated the guy with little less hostility, they could have become… what, friends? That thought was too idiotic even by his standards.
This all had happened when he didn’t have the slightest idea what impossible things would follow next. The messages turned into spoken words and he was eventually coaxed into apologising. He mustn't even have faked it, since he observed his world getting fractionally brighter right after. Something inside of him must have snapped. Whenever Connor was near him, the desire to die would diminish sometimes it would even completely disappear.
One day, the android brought him a cup of coffee sprinkled with the most brilliant smile he has ever seen, to which he reacted by running to the bathroom and sobbing like a baby. He didn’t know how to handle those feelings that made him this outwardly broken, so he did what any sensible person would do.
He screamed at Connor, in anger or agony, he couldn’t tell. The hurt look he received from him created a crack in his frozen heart, allowing the accumulated ache to leak out, tainting the small quantity of good he had borrowed from the person who made him want to live.
Since then their mutual tolerance has been reset. Must have been a week already. It feels more like a year to Gavin, for every second of his existence has been much more unbearable from the moment he let his stupid problem affect Connor too. But there is still the one option, one escape route he hasn’t dared to take yet. Maybe because it’s too often irreversible, too final for his cowardly taste. The longer he waits the more oxygen gets wasted on him and so he stands up from his desk, abandoning the mundane paperwork that doesn’t need him to be completed and runs for the nearest highest place.
The roof is eerily silent, despite the noise coming from the busy streets below. He comes here regularly to have a smoke, so he’s certain that no one will bother him when he gets to it.
Nobody comes here, it’s too out of reach, too inconvenient. That’s why he likes it.
He stands at the edge, looking down at the blur that might be cars or people, he doesn’t care. The tears won’t let him see and for that he’s grateful. All it takes is one step. One little movement and it’s all over, no more pain.
He won’t be able to hurt anyone, not anymore.
But that’s a lie, isn’t it.
“Move away from there, it’s dangerous.”
Connor’s soft voice. His favourite sound in the world. That’s why he has to, b̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶a̶n̶’̶t̶,̶ ̶C̶o̶n̶n̶o̶r̶ ̶w̶i̶l̶l̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶a̶d̶.̶ So tired. If he turns around and looks at him, his resolve will vanish. So he doesn’t. He just stands there, eyes transfixed by his imminent grave.
“Gavin. Look at me.” NO!
“Please.”
Gavin is a coward with a heart made of snow, but it’s spring now and all that is cold must make way for beautiful, warm things.
He doesn’t resist when he’s being pulled away from the death trap he made for himself, melting to nothing when he’s being held like there’s something worthwhile inside of him
.
“You… you didn’t take your lighter with you, so... so I thought…”
The words disappear in his hair and he wishes he could speak right now because there are a thousand ‘thank you’s he owes.
“I don’t hate you, Gavin, I promise.”
He just hopes the tears he’s leaving on Connor’s body are enough of a response.
@convinseptember hope it wasn’t too bad xD
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Heavy
- Cordelia Goode x Reader
- Trigger warnings for depression, self harm.
- This needs proofread, but it’s been a hard few days, so I may do some editing some other time.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
It’s the crying in the middle of the night that wakes her.
You have been spiraling downward for days, but tonight, the bottom of what felt like an endless pit finally reared its ugly head. Today felt like the end, like your sadness was ready to take you away from here and keep ahold of you forever. The sounds of the coven had been overwhelming, circling around you in a way that made you feel claustrophobic, like despite being surrounded by all of this life, you were alone; an isolated part of the house’s inhabitants. Tonight though, despite crawling into bed with your lover almost five hours ago, you have yet to sleep. Instead, you had lain awake, eyes open and staring as your thoughts grew and grew and grew.
Now, curled up on the bathroom floor, you hurt. You sit beside the small nightlight plugged into the wall, hoping to minimize the light creeping under the crack in the door and into the bedroom. You’ve stuffed a washcloth between your teeth to try and muffle your misery, but how can anyone sleep when your brain is screaming so loudly? How can they sleep when everything is so fast, and heavy, and sharp?
When the door opens and Cordelia’s silhouette slips inside, the crushing weight of failure knocks the breath out of you, bangs on your brain in a way that says bad, bad, bad. Arms stretched in front of you, you drop your head onto your knees, letting the cloth fall in your lap. Delia flicks the switch, and you screech as the brightness of the overhead light suddenly blinds you, scrambling into the corner and pulling your arms into your chest, mumbling a mantra of no, no, no.
Your girlfriend’s steps are calm as they approach, light and delicate, and so, so Cordelia. Despite the urgency she feels, she doesn’t rush, she doesn’t want to overwhelm, doesn’t want to frighten. She can see the blood running down your arms, and the red marks on your legs where you’ve pinched your skin, the blade still grasped in your hand.
“Sweetheart,” Cordelia says gently, kneeling a foot away from you with her hands up, like I won’t hurt you, let me help you, let me take away this pain. “Look at me. Can I touch you? Will you let me take care of you now?”
You bite your lip, blinking hard to try and rid the tears from your eyes, but they just keep coming and coming, like they could make their own ocean if given enough time. “Wait.” You whisper, pushing out your elbow to protect yourself, as if she would ever do anything without your consent. “There has to be three. They have to be in sets of three.”
Cordelia nods simply, like you’ve asked her for something easy, something that isn’t hard and hurting. But truly, you have requested she allow you to drag a blade across your own skin. She doesn’t understand, isn’t okay with you harming yourself, but you think she grasps the idea of how important it is that you finish, of how much worse things would become if she didn’t allow you to follow through until the end. Cordelia does understand hardship, she understands pain, she understands how it feels to be your own worst enemy.
Two more lines are required to complete the third set of three’s on your right arm, and it’s hard, knowing that she’s watching you, feeling that intense gaze upon the blood bursting up from inside of you. She waits patiently as you glide the sharp metal across your pale skin, not saying a word, not touching, never judging. When the cuts are uniform and perfect, evenly parallel on the wrist of your freckled skin, your eyes meet Delia’s and she holds out her hand. Anxiously, you place the blade into her palm, blood dripping off your arm and onto the expanse of tiles between you. This is real and raw and bare; distressing. Cordelia is seeing you at the peak of your suffering, seeing how ugly and dirty and stupid you can be. No, how ugly and dirty and stupid you are.
Cordelia sets the blade aside and wraps her fingers around your own, scooting forward to tug you onto her lap. You make your home against her chest, knees coming up and arms tucking in as you fold up like a fearful child. You don’t deserve this, don’t deserve to be held and comforted, but Cordelia is your girlfriend, your safe haven, and there’s always some weird invisible force gravitating your body towards hers. Despite your self hatred, despite your current belief that you should ache and struggle alone, you don’t want her to leave you.
Cordelia’s free hand traces your spine, lips lingering against your temple as she speaks. “Tell me what’s happening, baby. Tell me why you hurt.”
“I’m so tired,” you choke out, taking your hand from hers to fist onto her shirt, squeezing tight. It’s not the answer she wants, not the answer for what has led up to this moment, this bleeding and blades and pain. You fidget in her lap, trying to move your body closer to hers, but there’s no more space between you, and it still doesn’t feel like enough. Frustrated with your feelings, you rip your hands away from her shirt and into your hair, tugging hard, like it might slow down the thoughts in your head, might help you gain control over the emotions too large for your small body to handle.
“Shh, love,” Cordelia eases, gently unwrapping your trembling fists. “No, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. I’m here.”
You are crying so loudly, almost howling with the torment churning inside you. You reach to pinch at your thighs again, but Cordelia catches your hands and refuses to let go. “No more pain, tonight,” she says. “You’ve hurt enough. What’s happening in your head?”
“Too much,” you croak, hiding against her neck so you won’t have to look at her, too embarrassed for her to walk with you amongst this storm. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You never wanted her to see this, never wanted to put this burden on her. “I’m sorry for being too much.”
“No, sweetheart,” Cordelia soothes, stroking her hand through your tangled hair and gently working out the knots. You wish she could do the same thing with your brain. Simply wave her hand and the tangles inside of you would carefully and painlessly unbind. “I’m worried about you. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“You’ll be mad.”
She pulls back to look into your eyes, lifting your chin so she can convey the seriousness of her next statement, how there’s no room for argument when your emotions are clouding your thoughts, making you believe things that could never be true. “No, I couldn’t ever be mad at you. Not for something like this.”
“I can’t- I can’t-,” you finally begin, gasping in air, leaning back a little to stretch out your stomach. You want to stayed hidden against her, nestled into the crook of her neck where everything is safe, but the curled position smushes up your lungs and makes it harder to breathe. “I can’t do this anymore. I have to get out of bed and get dressed and eat and shower and eat again and it’s all such simple shit. Simple, everyday shit. But Delia, it’s so hard.” You break out into a sob, feeling overwhelmed and pathetic. You should be able to handle menial tasks, the same sorts of things everyone else completes. “I hate myself so much. I’m tired of feeling ugly, of feeling lonely. I’m tired of feeling stupid and fighting with myself. My head feels like it’s spinning. Nothing will calm down. Make it stop, please make it stop.”
You begin yanking on your hair again, scratching at your scalp in desperation. The blood from your arms has stained everything, your head and hair, Cordelia’s shirt, spreading like the pain within you. “I don’t want to exist, and that’s not me wanting to end everything. I just need a break, need for everything to slow down. I need to not feel for a little while.” Because how are you supposed to get out of bed, act normal and go about your day when you just feel so awful and worthless?
Cordelia’s hands cover yours, but you jerk them away to cover your face, like covering your eyes might rewind the last few moments, might make the fearful look on your lover’s face go away.
But your head isn’t done spinning, isn’t ready to cease the explosion that has already begun. “How do I know this is all worth it? When I’m crying in the middle of the night, and I’m alone, and my existence feels like more of a burden than something special, it really, really doesn’t feel worth it. Nothing does.” You’ve run out of air, lungs burning and gasping and begging for the reprieve your own body won’t allow.
“Close your eyes for me.” Delia’s arms wrap around your body, holding tight so the pieces of you will stop falling every which way. “Just breathe, pretty. Let’s calm down."
You do as she asks, and things are quiet for a long time as Cordelia talks you down, murmuring promises and soothing words against the war in your mind.
“I want you to understand something,” she says. “I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Don’t let your head tell you any differently. When it lies, or you hurt or feel confused, find me, baby. Find me, and I’ll make everything better. You aren’t alone, even when you feel like you are. You aren’t stupid or worthless, nor are you too much. You aren’t a burden to me, sweet girl. You are worth so much more than the way you make yourself feel.”
“I’m sorry,” you whimper from the space against her shoulder; guilty, guilty, guilty. “You don’t want this, Cordelia. You don’t want everything that comes with me.”
“No,” she says fiercely, cutting you off. “You have the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t live without that funny face you pull when our eyes meet across the room, or the way you send me good morning texts even though we sleep in the same bed. Honey, you are so gentle. I love that you’re afraid of bugs, but you make sure I release them, adamant that they have a family to provide for, loved ones who care for them. The way you want to hide against me when you’re afraid or upset, just the way you know that I can and will protect you. I love you. I want all of you, sweetheart, and I always will."
“You can’t mean that,” you whisper, doubtful that anyone could ever truly love you, admire your random quirks and habits.
Cordelia pulls you away from her again, forcing you to look her in the eye. “You don’t have to believe me, sweet girl. I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding you every day if that’s what it takes, okay? I’ll leave notes on the refrigerator, whisper it to you every morning and night, get it printed on every birthday cake you’ll ever have for the rest of your life, whatever it takes, love.”
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding somberly. It’s nearing three a.m., and exhaustion is taking over, slipping out from your bones and making you yawn.
Cordelia’s hand traces along your cheek before she presses her forehead against yours, noses touching. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright?”
You collapse against her, needing one more minute, sixty seconds more of quiet and calm, safety. Once you move, life continues, but here, right now, it’s as if the world is paused. The hurt lingers, clawing for you from the background, but not quite able to reach.
When you finally nod, detaching yourself from Cordelia so that the two of you can stand, everything begins again. Pain clenches your heart, and you bite down on your lip as the tears return, but there’s a soft hand in your own tugging you along. She leads you toward the shower, helping rid you of your clothes.
“I’m sorry,” you say before she has the chance to take off her shirt, your eyes lingering on the bloodstains across her breast. “I’m sorry I ruined your shirt.”
Cordelia just smiles softly, cupping your cheek and shaking her head. “You haven’t ruined anything.”
Your girlfriend guides you under the shower spray, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around you to help support your weak legs. You know you are making this difficult, that the tub would have been easier with your fragile condition, but Cordelia knows how you hate to sit in your own filth. You feel like you should apologize for that, too. “I- I’m sorry,” you whisper again, and your guilt grows and grows and grows, your mind once more becoming fast and tumbling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m-“
“No.” Cordelia speaks firmly and palms your face with both hands, bringing your eyes to meet hers. “No more sorries, baby. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“But I-“
“No,” she says again. “But what? But you think me helping you, taking care of you, loving you, is more than you deserve? Honey, in my eyes, you’ve hung the moon. I can never do enough for you. Caring for you isn’t something hard and heavy, it’s… it’s like freedom. Like fitting the last piece into a puzzle, like the joy of adopting a cat multiplied every second of every day. Loving you is easy, sweet girl. Loving you is the greatest thing I could ever hope for. I never, ever want to stop.”
Face crumpling, you wrap your arms around her, clutching onto her sides as you sob. Cordelia is so much more than you deserve. Her hands stroke down your back, and then she begins massaging the shampoo into your hair as your head rests against her chest. Delicately, she turns your bodies so that the spray can rinse out the soap, then she adds conditioner and repeats the process. Cordelia takes her time scrubbing over your skin, ensuring she removes every crimson stain, like she’s worshipping every freckle, every stretch mark, every inch.
When the task is complete, Cordelia dries and dresses you, then sets you on the floor near the vanity while she dons her own clothes and readies to bandage your wounds. You curl up, feeling vulnerable now that she is no longer attached to your side. Cordelia smiles as she sits down cross legged next to you, like everything is okay, like you hurting yourself isn’t even the slightest of inconveniences. “You’re cuter than cat snores, you know?” She says out of nowhere, and it brings a smile to your own mouth. “Let me see them, now.”
Trembling, you allow her to take your left arm, and she slowly and carefully slips it away from your body for her eyes to inspect. Though the cuts are rather shallow, many of them still bleed. Cordelia has seen the old scars along your wrist before, but it hurts her to see scabbed over injuries from recent days, weeks. It hurts her to know you have been suffering silently, have been hiding. She stops studying your cuts, and her eyes slip up to yours. “Tell me, okay? Always tell me. No matter when, no matter where. Don’t do this on your own.”
She doesn’t wait for an answer, she doesn’t need one because she trusts you. Her fingers delicately apply antiseptic to your arms, gliding across the broken skin like it’s nothing, like you haven’t done this to yourself. A few layers of gauze are looped around your wrists, then Cordelia taps your nose and tugs you to your feet, leading you out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you into bed, and I’ll be right back with some Tylenol for you.”
You shake your head, grip on her hand tightening as you intertwine your arm with hers. You don’t want her to go, don’t want her to leave you alone. Now that you’ve found an anchor of safety, of comfort, you never want to risk it leaving.
Like a lost child, you follow her down the stairs, content to stand beside her as she digs through the medicine cabinet, eventually procuring the solution for your needs. You know you’re being stupid and clingy, but you can’t find it in yourself to let go of her hand. You don’t think you would be able to survive should anything separate you, even if it were for her to just walk across the room.
Upstairs, you slip into bed together, your head falling to rest upon her chest. Your hands fist onto her shirt, one of her arms wrapped around your waist to hold you close.
“Cordelia?” You whisper into the silence of the night, and it feels like you’ve broken something, like the acknowledgement of your presence is a burden on the whole world.
She hums delicately, one eye cracking open to peek down at you.
“Do you think… maybe… you could teach me how to be happy?”
#Cordelia Goode#Cordelia Goode x reader#Cordelia Goode imagine#ahs#American horror story#American horror story coven#American horror story apocalypse#ahs imagine#American horror story imagine#ahs coven#ahs apocalypse#ahs coven imagine#ahs apocalypse imagine
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love
the flystep hanahaki au no one asked for
word count: 2480
cross posted here on my ao3
for maximum angst listen to already gone by sleeping at last while reading
--
Kieran didn’t even have to see the flowers to know what they were like.
Rose bushes were lodged in his lungs, making their home where they were not welcome. They took up all the room, expelling the air and oxygen that should have been coursing through his body in favor of growing black roses that clawed their way out of his throat leaving behind blood and aches that sucking on ice cubes could not fix. Black roses because that was the color of their eyes - eyes black and as deep as miles beneath the ocean and holding just as many secrets as they did sins.
Daniel could have tried hiding it (a futile endeavor, but maybe it would have helped settle his mind), but he just showed up to their meeting spot without bothering to mask the raspy voice or red-rimmed stare that never found itself able to meet Kieran’s. It broke a piece of Kieran to see him like that. Daniel was Herald, the Golden Boy, lovable, sweet, kind, and the poster boy for how much good the Rangers could do. He might have been beaten, stepped on, and defeated, but Kieran had never seen him look so broken. Even after the fight at the museum, his screams hadn’t turned into something to be pitied. They were created from the pain that Kieran had spun with their own hands, but filled with frustration, anger, and humiliation. The fear that Kieran had known Daniel was feeling never leaked through, something that they had to give him credit for.
It was different when Daniel grabbed them this time. Forget the fact that it was cloudy when it was usually sunny, tense silence filling the empty void that used to hold quick smiles and light jabs, the way his arms felt wrapped around them felt unequivocally wrong. What typically felt like a shield from the world (such an odd thought that was, Daniel protecting them) felt like a vice squeezing both their body and their heart to the point of bursting. Kieran was almost surprised that Daniel didn’t cough up any petals from the contact, but as they shot through the city past glass buildings and reflective metal both they and Daniel could feel the tickle beginning to build.
Daniel didn’t utter a word, too focused on not dropping Kieran from shaking arms and fighting back the rose that was inching its way up through his windpipe. His thoughts tended to race to and fro like butterflies being swirled into a panic, but during the flight they were slow. A creeping sludge of toxic self-loathing and sorrow that it made even Kieran hold back tears.
Desolate.
Terrified.
Grieving.
Yet here Daniel was, holding the source of his misery tight in his arms as if afraid Kieran would try to leap from his grasp to escape him.
For the millionth time in their life, Kieran wished they could love.
---
The first petal came out after Kieran’s first punch. It was almost comical in a sick, twisted way. Daniel had been too slow, and Kieran, in typical Kieran fashion, had socked him right in the stomach. As their fist slammed into his midsection, he coughed up a blood-splattered petal as if the force of Kieran’s hit had forced it from where it had been resting idly at the base of his throat.
The world seemed to cease movement. Breeze stilling, sounds of the traffic and bustle of life around them quieted as Daniel and Kieran held their breath. One lone black smudge tainted the darkest of reds fell gently to the roof below their feet. It swung back and forth, holding some hypnotic sway over the pair. As it touched down softly time started again. Kieran exhaled so heavily it hurt their chest. Daniel seemed frozen, dull blue gaze locked onto the unmoving petal despite the blissfully cool breeze that had picked up again.
Tentatively, Kieran raised a solitary arm to tap hesitantly on his shoulder. “Daniel…?”
He recoiled as if Kieran’s touch had wounded them (and it hurt, it hurt more than it had any right to considering the circumstances), breathing going from nonexistent to fast and hard in a matter of seconds. Daniel’s eyes were filled with unshed tears, half sobs escaping his chest in a wet ragged sound that scraped against Kieran’s ears and soul. The sludge thoughts had once again turned into the butterflies. However, instead of buttercup and golden sunlight, they were made of razor-sharp metal edges and torn up paper. They swept around Daniel’s mind, leaving bleeding gashes wherever they touched until his psyche was bleeding more than even his throat and lungs were.
“Daniel,” Kieran said more firmly, taming the fear that threatened to overtake their voice knowing it would only make everything worse, “Daniel, look at me.”
For the first time that day, blue met black.
That was, of course, when it all went to hell.
Daniel started choking and Kieran rushed to catch him without even thinking about what they were doing. Hands going under Daniel’s arms, they pulled to keep him from sagging to the ground as his chest spasmed. Guilty tears filled Kieran’s eyes as Daniel gagged and retched, body trying to evict the blossoms that bloomed in his airways. Finally, after what seemed hours of Daniel’s awful noises, he vomited up whatever meager breakfast he had eaten (fruit from the looks of it), blood, and an entire rose. It was mangled. The stem was twisted and torn, the petals had been crushed, and yet Kieran could not help but find some semblance of beauty in it.
Kieran had to hold in a shriek as they studied the flower.
Daniel sagged in their grip and Kieran slowly knelt to the ground while holding Daniel against their chest. His eyes were half-closed, a bleary look being thrown Kieran’s way before they closed completely. Kieran wasn’t sure what it was, perhaps the hopeless aura that Daniel wore like a mantle around his shoulders, but they let loose a desperate whisper of, “I’m so sorry.”
Daniel, being Daniel, responded weakly, “I know, it’s ok.” His hand fingers softly tapped an insignificant pattern on Kieran’s thigh where his hand rested. “I...I love you.”
“I know, Daniel,” Kieran said, wobbly and wavering. “But I-I can’t - ”
“I know.”
But that was the thing.
He didn’t.
---
Kieran had been created to do two things.
Infiltrate.
Listen.
Anything outside of that never should have occurred.
Kieran wasn’t sure what was different about them - wasn’t sure they had the emotional or mental capacity to study it. But they had the capacity for more. Kieran could feel things they never should have felt - happiness, sadness, anger, despair, excitement, and yet…
Kieran had never been able to love.
For everything they could feel, the emotion that everyone held most dear and closest to their hearts was foreign to Kieran. They had never felt the fluttering of butterflies in their stomach, had never wanted to hold someone so close to them that they became one, had never desired to intertwine their soul with another.
Before Heartbreak, Kieran had had exactly three people they would die for, but to live for someone? To be able to open up and show every leaking wound, every scar that marred their body, every tattoo that lined their body in bright, disgusting, neon orange? It didn’t make sense. There was no guarantee that the person would stay, that they would see what was hidden and not flinch from horror. There was no guarantee that hatred wouldn’t rear its ugly head and strike when you were most vulnerable and leave you half dead and grasping at the strings of life that were slipping away.
Kieran had never felt it, had never understood it.
All it did was further prove that whatever abomination Kieran was, they were most certainly not human.
Under three layers of clothing (far too many for the heat of Los Diablos) Kieran sat trembling. They were parked on a bench in the dog park. The sun sat high in the sky, a big yellow yolk against a cheerily blue and cloudless expanse. It seemed the universe was mocking Kieran today. Everything seemed more vivid and strikingly beautiful, as if the contrast on the world had been turned up by ten.
The dogs ran to and fro, happy minds leaving streaks of pastel pink and gold against Kieran’s when they dragged against the last of Kieran’s inner defenses - a wall that they had been building since they had enough conscious thought to do so. It was sturdy, but simple, and thick enough to keep out even experienced telepaths. Over time the outside layer had grown battered, pieces chipped away and different colors splashed against the sides from where other minds had left lasting impacts. They couldn’t be washed off, Kieran had tried many times. The mental paint stuck no matter how Kieran tried to remove it. But the excitement today was leaving without any say so from Kieran. No matter how much they tugged and pulled at the remnants they fled from Kieran like water slipping between their fingers.
With a violent shudder, Kieran jolted from their thoughts just in time to catch Steel walking towards them.
Suddenly they couldn’t breathe.
It had been a week since the rooftop with Daniel, and Kieran had not seen him since then. It hadn’t been his choice from what they had heard. Daniel had fought tooth and nail to be able to try and see them, but he had been held back by doctors, Ortega, and Steel. The only contact they had had since the fateful day was a single phone call that Kieran would rather forget.
---
“Dan-Daniel?”
Hey, Kieran.
“I-how are you doing?”
I’m...I’m not doing that well, honestly. The doctors told me I only have about a week unless I get the surgery.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
...I’m not getting it.
“...what?”
I’m not going through with the surgery Kieran.
“What do you mean you aren’t going through with the surgery?”
I’m not going to lose all my memories of you. They told me that I run the chance of completely forgetting your existence and I...I’m not doing that. Not just because of you, but because a lot of my memories of my brother are...tied with you.
“Daniel, do you even hear how you sound? Your voice is paper-thin. I don’t even want to know how much weight you’ve lost or when the last time you ate was. This is your life we’re talking about - ”
I’m not losing that. Memories are all I have left of him.
“Daniel if you don’t get the surgery you won’t have to worry about not having th - ”
I’m not getting the sur -
“YOU’LL BE DEAD!”
…
I’d rather be dead than not have the two most important people in my life.
CLICK.
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
---
A sour taste filled Kieran’s mouth as Steel solemnly told them, “Figured you’d be here. He wants to see you.”
His voice cracked halfway through and his eyes were rubbed raw enough that the pink shone in the sunlight. Steel, despite his namesake, was just as human as the rest of the world. For all he said about Daniel, there was a fondness there that Kieran didn’t quite understand.
Love, but not in the way that they had come to expect it.
“Is-is it - ”
“It’s time.”
The car ride was a blur comprised of shaking hands and a head filled with fog. Kieran couldn’t see straight, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t do anything but sit and tremble and stare out the window as if something would jump in and clean up the mess that had been created.
Kieran felt like their head had been shoved underwater. Their vision was skewed and everything sounded muffled like someone was trying to speak while they were under. They had done enough research to know that they were dissociating, but as the car ride went by in silence, Kieran couldn’t help but feel slightly grateful. At least, like this, they couldn’t feel anything.
They couldn’t feel the grief that was already welling up in their throat, the heartache, the terror, the desperation that tasted like metal and felt just as heavy on their tongue. It was a poison that the fog blanketing their brain and senses kept at bay.
Before they knew it, Kieran was standing outside of Daniel’s room struggling to open the door. With a shaky inhale, Kieran pulled it open and nearly broke down at the sight that awaited them.
Daniel, the perfectly golden butterfly boy, heart and soul of an angel had had his wings clipped. His thin body lay under white covers (too white, too pure for the toxic disease that Daniel held in his lungs) covered in pale skin that wore a thin sheen of sweat like another layer of clothing. Blue eyes that had once burned fever bright with determination and passion were dull and wrapped in shadows made of purple and red.
Kieran walked over numbly, not quite believing that what they were seeing was real. Any minute now, they would wake up twisted in their sheets from this horrid nightmare and go off to beat Daniel’s ass in a few hours. That had to happen. It had to.
But it wasn’t.
Daniel gave one weak smile underneath the ventilator, eyes glowing as Kieran sat in the chair waiting for them and grabbed Daniel’s hand. It was clammy and he was only able to give a slight squeeze in response to the death grip Kieran had on it.
For minutes, maybe even seconds, they sat there together.
Daniel and Kieran.
Kieran and Daniel.
For once, the light losing to the darkness.
And then he was gone.
Kieran could feel the moment he died. The last butterfly flapped its wings to the beat of their name Kieran Kieran Kieran Kieran before dropping to the ground of Daniel’s mind. The last glimmer of light went out like a flickering candle in his eyes.
It was there it was there -
It was gone.
He was gone.
There was no long speech, no ‘I love you’.
One minute he was there, looking into Kieran’s eyes like they were the sun he revolved around (as if Kieran was more important than him) and the next he was dead.
Kieran didn’t remember anything after that.
---
Not even two days later as they lay wrapped in their blankets as if they could save them from the pain that clogged their lungs with mucus and some invisible force that pushed mercilessly on their chest, Kieran felt a tickle at the base of their throat. With a shudder they coughed, they heaved, they gagged, they choked and -
A petal.
A petal blue as the sky and twice as bright - exactly like Kieran remembered Daniel’s eyes.
Kieran could love after all.
#flystep#fhr#fallen hero retribution#sidestep#herald/sidestep#daniel sullivan#angst#hurt no comfort#this really isnt happy guys#i cried 4 times writing this#it is currently 1 am#hanahaki au
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wicked games | jurdan
the aftermath was more devastating than one would have initially thought
post-the wicked king
Since he had exiled his seneschal away back to the mortal lands of her origin, not a single soul could deny that the High King was... different.
His air of boredom and ease that had formerly clung to him like perfume was now gone, dark circles and exhaustion having since replaced it.
More often than not his perfect lips were stained with gold and his eyes glassy with wine, though despite it all he managed to end up sleeping alone every night.
His dreams were plagued by his wife, the High Queen.
Jude.
Sometimes he woke up tangled in a mess of sweat and sheets with her name on his lips, the bitter ache clawing at his chest far too painful to ignore. Sometimes his heart beat so fast with something between fear and longing that he thought he might drive himself mad.
Most times he imagined her beside him, the heady scent of her mortal skin and her body flush against his. It was the only thing that kept him sane, yet simultaneously managed to destroy him piece by piece every subsequent night they were apart.
The land greedily drank in his suffering, the colors startling and almost painful in their intensity, the air thick and sweet, every breath tasting as if one was drinking a mouthful of honeysuckle.
Any mention of her name brought storms rushing in with thick, dark clouds and droves of freezing rain.
It was quickly learned to avoid speaking of the mortal girl around him.
And though quite surprisingly the High King had since come to embrace his role as ruler, no one could deny that he was Cardan Greenbriar no longer. Cardan was not sitting in on council meetings, the man who slumped on his throne before them was a mere shell of what he had once been.
Instead of listening he was clinging to thoughts of his seneschal, lost in a sea of dreams and blurry memories.
He had lost himself in her. She had taken him with her into exile, his heart clutched unknowingly in her grasp.
That epiphany came to him like the shock of ice water one night as he lay curled up in the comforts of his grand bed.
But funnily enough, he didn't resent her for it, his former hatred had faded in the face of the realization of how much he needed Jude Duarte. Everything that he had once despised about her he now craved more than ever, her mortal beauty, her sharp tongue, her growls of frustration and flushed cheeks. The knowledge that she more than likely hated him even more than she had previously was painful in its reality. Even more painful considering he had finally actualized his feelings of her into something breathtakingly sensible.
He had betrayed her, but he had done it for her. To keep her safe.
Because he was in love with the very mortal that he had once resented with every fiber of his being.
That was his one solace in the dark, as he laid amidst a heavy swath of blankets, that despite everything, she would be kept from harm. Every last second of agonizing suffering, of painful, shattered breaths and miserable exhaustion was worth it. Even every soft, muffled sob as he cried into his pillows, because very quickly he had come to find he was so completely and utterly alone without her by his side.
He had done it for her, and he would have done it again a hundred times over.
But even still, he reached out for her in the dark, whispering words of regret accompanied by soft promises that one day, he would find a way for them to be together.
***
Most nights she didn't sleep.
The abrasive sounds of traffic and the city accounted for a part of why she tossed and turned late into the night, the unfamiliar sounds frustratingly loud and obnoxious compared to the peaceful quiet of Faerie.
But more than that, her eyes stubbornly refused to close mainly due to the fact that she was utterly terrified of dreaming.
She was afraid of dreaming of him.
Her anger was white hot in its intensity, often she found herself trembling with fury, her hands balled so tightly into fists she began to leave increasingly bruised marks on the soft flesh of her palms.
She hated him more than she ever had, more than all the times he humiliated her or spat stinging insults or made her feel like she was nothing.
Because worse than all of that, for the briefest of moments, he had made her feel like she could belong.
Like she could belong with him.
She hated him that much more because, somehow, he had made her want to belong with him.
Her days stretched on meaninglessly, her movements listless and her eyes clouded with thoughts of another world as she moved about her sister's apartment not unlike a ghost. She didn't fit into this world and she didn't make an attempt to either.
Most days she did nothing at all. Most days she ate nothing at all. Most days she didn't even speak a single word.
Most days she could do nothing but think of him.
The lack of control she had in her dreams was what frightened her from succumbing to sleep, but while she was fully conscious she could do nothing but concoct convoluted plans of retribution, of bitterly cruel revenge against the High King. She grasped at the memory of holding a knife to his throat, of his fear and desperation and self loathing. She lived on the thought of his pain.
And yet.
More often than she would ever admit, without her even realizing it her thoughts would shift. Instead of holding a knife to his throat it would be her lips. The memory of his skin was intoxicating, she easily got drunk off of the thought of his breath mixing with hers, soft quips snapping between them amidst panting pleasure.
In those moments she would bite her lip so hard she would draw blood, plunging herself back into the shockingly cold waters of reality.
Reality was that he had exiled her, and even if he somehow eventually ended up begging on his knees for forgiveness, she would never give it to him.
Despite everything she told herself, still, she could think of nothing but him.
And despite everything, her only comfort was his name on her lips, whispered like a sinful prayer into the quiet darkness that threatened to consume her.
***
Neither of them knew how often they talked to the other in the dark.
#tcp#the cruel prince#twk#the wicked king#twk spoilers#the wicked king spoilers#cardan greenbriar#jude duarte#jurdan#jardan#cardan x jude#jude x cardan#the folk of the air#tfota#jurdan angst#darklesmylove#1k
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When it comes to the concrete things that Sylas could be afraid of, or feel guilt over, in regards to Fiddle’s mimicking of his young self during the events of Demacian Heart, there’s a lot to work with, a lot to handle overall that Sylas is either still afraid of, still feels guilt over, or remains traumatized by (either consciously or unconsciously) regarding the event that inevitably sentenced him to his loveless and painful life.
There’s guilt, first of all, in what happened not only during the fateful event which Vannis’ actions catalyzed, but also in what had happened before then, in the youthful years in which Sylas is constantly described as feeling guilt over his cooperation with the mageseekers. He regrets the countless lives he ended up ruining, tearing apart and watching die with the fading hope that ousting even the most innocent of mages, was good, was justified among the flames and the tears of his fellow countrymen and kind, as being what was righteous in the eyes of the law and morality alike. He inevitably ended up hating himself over these doubts, ruinations, and the guilt that built slowly within him, culminating in his attempt to finally protect just one family with both his words and his body, just one person he could save in hopes to gain some semblance of forgiveness, true goodness, or catharsis in, to give everything he would ever have up (his life, at the very least) to right the wrongs he’d led this father and daughter to, that in the end, still ended so terribly for all of them despite his desperation and grief. There’s untold helplessness in that. A fear and a feeling as if you’re running in place in a nightmare, that no matter what you’ve done and what you could try to do, there is something terrible in yourself, and something worse inside others that you cannot help people run away from no matter how hard you try.
Sylas’ abuse during this period of his youth is also horrible to consider in regards to the fear he felt in this era of his life. He was a child at this time, frightened, inexperienced with the world, naive, and emotionally alone in unfamiliar places, environments, and amidst people filled with nothing but adversity and spite towards him. The adults in this period of his life used him like a punching bag, a pack mule, a service animal, and a scapegoat all in one. He was hardly considered a human being in his service to the seekers, let alone the child that he rightfully was, frightened and helpless in his drive to do good, rarely if ever shown that same kindness in turn.
On top of it all, this sort of event, and the deaths that occurred within Demacian Heart, both of the people he loved and cared for (who he was told died from his blunder alone), and the innocent who lost their lives, the ugly hatred, tragedy, sorrow, and pain he saw in others, and the stress he was under being thrown into the center of it all, is something that would honestly and truly traumatize anyone who would be there to witness it in his stead for years to come, not only into their adolescence, but also into their adult life even subconsciously. Trauma and post traumatic stress rarely care how old you are, what you believe in, or what you’ve decided to do with your life fifteen or more years down the road. They can affect you at the worst of times, either subtly or on a grand scale, depending on little more than the day, especially when, like Sylas, you have had no one to talk you through them, or your feelings regarding them.
The deaths of this family, and of Marsino and Vannis, ruined Sylas’ life not only with the regret he felt afterwards, but also with what they caused his life to be condemned to for the rest of his future. He was wrongly blamed for these deaths-- for this honest to god accident he didn’t mean to happen regarding the hidden truths to his own magic. Rather than be pardoned for the accident, and for doing what he thought was right in the face of the true aggressor, Vannis, Sylas was the one who was painted as the malicious, ruthless, dangerous and infamous criminal, and was sentenced to be locked up for the rest of his life as a result despite his pleas to heed the truth he alone knew. This event was traumatic enough as it was, but only led to a life that somehow became worse and worse as time went on. The torture, neglect, fear, and loneliness only got worse.
Having something or someone bring this event life altering event up so intimately, with the voice of all his pain, regret, guilt, fear, anger, and helplessness all bundled up into the one moment that broke the camel’s back, “Vannis, don’t hurt her”, is just. Raw. Raw and painful, even for a hardened, violent, rebellious revolutionary. Sylas is still a good man deep, deep down. He didn’t want his life to end up the way it has. He has a past that’s ached him, an unfortunate life that’s worn on him among the teeth of a system that’s chewed him up and spit him out as what he has now become. It’s a lure of a phrase to draw him in for closure and clarity as much as it is a trigger to remember this period of fear in his life like no one but he can.
#under cut because i legit cant be concise ever in my life i guess#anyway i spent an hour on this and cant remember what my point was? maybe? i dont know#its a good quote to evoke emotion in the poeple who like sylas and pay a lot of attention to him#but also to evoke emotion in the man himself#at least thats my onion#wizard prison. - { ooc }#canon character death mention in here be careful !!!
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So, I’ve been dealing with some really intense mental health stuff lately and as a result I’ve been on a p rough art block. Be prepared for some meh art and meh posts. Recently I’ve been having some intense nightmares so here’s a super edgy, self indulgent self insert fic I wrote.
CW: Assault, Wound Mentions, Yandere, Implied Violence, Mental Health Stuff
((Note: Slabak= Dweeb in Russian, Lyubov=Love)
It all happened so fast. A blur of punches, kicks, slurs, blood erupting from my throat, none of it was processed mentally until I stumbled through my front door. I heaved, my arms trembling as I hoisted myself up, attempting to crawl inside. “Ivan! Viktor!” I weakly whimpered, my vision blurring slightly with each movement. My chest felt rattley and frail, each breath hurting deeply. Tears fell down my puffy cheeks. Ivan and Viktor bounded into the room, taken aback by the pitiful sight I’d become. Immediately they fell to their knees, scooping me up in their arms. Ivan’s face was panic stricken, while Viktor’s worry was more subtle, yet palpably evident. I shook in their arms terribly.
“Lyubov what happened?” Ivan panickedly asked, his large hand cupping my cheek. I’d never seen him look so frightened. I shook my head.
“These men.. I was just walking back from a cafe and… They kept yelling and yelling, and before I knew it they were hitting me..” I replied, the memory alone frightening me. Viktor’s eyes darkened, a look of raw hatred and venom reflecting in his crimson irises. Viktor turned to Ivan.
“Grab the baltics immediately, make sure they call a doctor over now. I’ll take them to bed, if they move they might open their wounds further.” Said Viktor, prying me out of Ivan’s grasp. Ivan nodded, scrambling off. Wordlessly Viktor cradled me, my head resting against his hard chest. The sound of his heartbeat was soothing, despite it’s rapid pace. He glanced down at me as he walked, taking in my haggard appearance.
“Aaron.”
“Yes hun?”
“I know you’re in lots of pain, but I need you to tell me where you were and what these men looked like. Please.” His tone was uncharacteristically desperate. My heart waned, the stress I clearly brought them riddled me with guilt. Someone like Viktor never gets this outwardly stressed. I buried my face in the fabric of his coat. I gave him a brief description as he listened intently. I told him which cafe I was at, and what time. Gingerly he placed me down on the soft mattress, pulling blankets over me. Suddenly, the world went black.
.
.
.
Aaron completely blacked out, their body going limp against the cozy sheets. Viktor stroked their hair out of their face, accidentally smearing blood across their cheek. He growled, slamming his fist through the wall by the bedframe. An unsuspecting Lithuania jumped, shakily leading the doctor in.
“V-Viktor he’s here..” He nodded, shaking the doctor’s hand briefly, giving him an emotionless glance.
“Do what you must, excuse me.”
Viktor silently slunk out of the room, finding Ivan shuffling through a large cabinet in the living room. He unveiled a large metal pipe. Opening the cabinet doors further revealed a large array of guns, knives, and other weapons. “You’re already ahead of me.” Viktor jeered.
“It is not the time for jokes Viktor.” Replied Ivan, in an eerie tone. He passed Viktor a pistol, he slid a loaded magazine into it.
“Those foolish bastards have no idea who they are fucking with da?” He crouched down, sliding on his boots, tying them briskly. Ivan nodded in agreement, chucking sinisterly.
“No, no they do not.” The pair slipped out the door silently.
.
.
.
I awoke covered in bandages and aching terribly. A sweet old doctor looked over me as I laid in bed, smiling politely. “Aaron! I’m happy to see you awake, how do you feel?” I surveyed my surroundings. It was just me and him, no sign of my russian husbands or the baltics. I attempted to sit up, but was overwhelmed by excruciating pain. I rubbed my forehead.
“Achy… But, I think the bleeding stopped.” He nodded, shuffling through his bag.
“Ah, that is to be expected. However I’m glad to hear the bleeding stopped. Here, take this painkiller for a week, it should alleviate the pain. Is there anything else I can help you with?’ He passed me a small packet of medicine.
“How bad was the damage?... I kind of mentally blocked out the details..” He rose up from his chair, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“You have multiple cuts and scratches, along with some rather severe bruising. The blood loss was the main concern, however with a few stitches and meds I fixed you right up.” My face turned pale.
“Oh.” I’m not the best at dealing with medical stuff to say the least. My stomach dropped at the word ‘stitches’.
“Please give me a call if anything pops up alright? Get plenty of bedrest and try not to move very much.” He waved as he left, leaving me alone with my thoughts. The incident sent chills down my spine. I glanced at my hands, examining the scrapes covering them. I sighed, tears welling up. I brought my knees to my chest, curling up and sobbing quietly.
“I’ve never been great with pain, nor have I ever been in a fight before. Well.. Not necessarily a fight, more like a one sided attack. I can’t even punch properly! Why did this have to happen?...” I thought to myself. I balled up my fists, gripping the blanket. “What’s worse is that I made Ivan and Viktor worry.. I wonder where they are.. I’ve never seen them make faces like that..” A knock on the door interrupted my self pity. “C-come in..” I hastily wiped my tears, attempting to fake calmness. Ivan and Viktor came into the room, both of them looking much more calm.
“Hello little one!~ I brought cookies and your favorite tea!” Ivan cheered, walking over and setting a bag on the nightstand. Wordlessly Viktor crawled into bed with me, not even taking time to kick off his boots. He wrapped his arms underneath me, pulling me up in his lap very carefully. He rested his chin on my shoulder, sighing contently.
“Aw hey guys! Ivan, you did not have to indulge my grocery store frosted cookie addiction, but thank you..” I smiled weakly, my cheeks still red from crying. I kissed the top of Viktor’s head. Ivan came onto the bed as well, sliding his legs underneath Viktor’s. He kissed me sweetly as I sat in their laps.
“You look like you’ve been crying.” Viktor bluntly stated. I looked away, refusing to meet Ivan’s eyes.
“There’s a slight chance…” Their arms tightened around me, Viktor nuzzling into the crook of my neck. His prickly stubble tickled my skin. Ivan’s hand embraced my cheek once again, his caution and care evident in each move he made.
“My sweet little lyubov.. Were you scared?” Ivan’s question caught me off guard, I guess someone like him hasn’t felt truly afraid in a long time.
“Yeah… I’m not the toughest person ever, far from it.. I thought I was going to die. I tried fighting back, I really did. Fuck I’m so weak guys…” I choked, my sadness creeping up on me once again. Wow, so much for stifling my emotions.
“That’s why I love my little Aaron though! Cherubs are delicate, innocent things, yet they sing the sweetest song. Don’t worry about being tough, leave that to us da?”
“I think I’m gonna puke from all this cheesy shit.” Viktor groaned. I laughed at his cynicism, smooching Ivan’s hand as it cradled my face. The stark contrast between them was eternally entertaining.
“You’re such a charmer Viktor. But, Ivan do you really mean that?” He nodded.
“Of course lyubov, but there’s no more reason for you to be afraid da?” Viktor chuckled.
“Very true, and just to be sure; I will be keeping a very close eye on you da?” My heart sunk.
“But I don’t want to trouble y’all like that! I’m a lot to babysit, I’m just gonna take up unnecessary time.. I’ll be fine really! It probably won’t happen again, and I can.. Just run faster if it does.”
“Trouble us?” The both simultaneously asked.
“I watch you frequently, you know, it never hurts to peek more da? It’s far from a waste of time, if anything it’s a wise time investment. You don’t get a say in this.” Strange how marriage makes you normalize your yandere husband’s stalking.
“You’re far from being difficult or a waste of time! I love my little Aaron, and I’ll do anything to protect you da? Nobody will ever hurt you again..” I smiled warmly, pulling Ivan closer and leaning back on Viktor. The warmth of being between them subsided the pain that burdened me; both physical and emotional.
“I love you two… Don’t ever get hurt for my sake okay? Please, if you can avoid it at all costs do so. And I can protect you guys too! I’m not nearly as strong as y’all but god damnit I’ll defend my husbands at all costs.” Both of them chuckled against my skin. Ivan drug his fingers along my side, tracing light circles on my sore skin.
“Love you too slabak. And you may attempt to protect me, see how far I let you get.” I snickered at Viktor’s empty threat.
“Bet.”
“I love you too, and I’m happy to have my little bodyguard.”
#mental health ment#nightmare ment#f/o#vodka and apple juice#fictional other#fictosexual#fictoromantic#self ship#self shipper#self insert#self shipping#f/o fic
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Nowhere Else
Post 3x19
read on ao3
Alec wakes slowly, the early morning sunshine dusting him in gold.
He smiles a little before carefully turning to face the wall of warmth that’d been at his back.
The sight he sees steals his breath for the millionth time.
Magnus is always beautiful. Hands down, he’s the most attractive man that Alec’s ever laid eyes on. But it’s times like this that he can’t quite believe that he gets to have this. Magnus’s mouth is open on slow, deep breaths. His lips are a little chapped and there’s a smudge of eyeliner on his cheek from where he didn’t quite manage to get all of it before tumbling into bed last night.
The arm still over Alec’s middle suddenly tenses and Magnus grins, just a little, just enough to be noticeable.
“Watching me sleep, Alexander?” His voice is teasing, slow and sleepy with the faintest rasp, and Alec feels it curl around him.
“And if I was?”
His own voice is equally soft. He doesn’t want to ruin this bubble they’ve found themselves in. It’s far from the first morning Alec’s woken up and studied Magnus but it always catches his heart in a vise grip.
Magnus’s eyes open, gold catching the light. “A picture will last longer, you know,” he offers lightly as his thumb starts sweeping low on Alec’s hip.
With a raised brow, Alec laughs and moves to get up, turning away from Magnus to where his phone is charging on his bedside table. “Well, if you insist--”
“Get back here, Alexander.”
Without warning, Alec finds himself on his back, Magnus looming over him. There’s a gleam in his eye as he studies his fiance. Alec feels giddy at the attention. It’s like syrup’s moving through his veins, slow and sweet and distantly, he wishes that they never had to leave this sanctuary of theirs.
Magnus must catch a shifting of Alec’s expression because he tilts his head, prompts, “Darling?”
Speaking through the sudden lump in his throat, Alec manages to ask, “Can we stay here? Just like this, just you and me.”
Magnus’s eyes widen for an instant before his face softens. Resting a hand on Alec’s cheek, he leans down until their lips meet.
The kiss is achingly gentle and Alec feels tears burn his eyes, feels the icy chill as one escapes and leaves a damp trail in its wake.
Magnus pulls back and wipes it away.
“How long, Alexander?” Alec must look confused because Magnus clarifies, “How long do you want me? How long do you want to stay here, just the two of us, away from everything else?”
Alec has a brief moment to think Magnus’s question is ridiculous. There’s only one answer-- will only ever be one answer.
“Forever,” he replies hoarsely. “Stay with me forever. I don’t need the world. I just need you and this and us.”
Magnus looks stunned for a moment before his eyes turn molten and dull color sweeps across his cheeks.
“Your wish, my darling,” Magnus whispers. “We’ll stay here until hell freezes over.”
He leans down again and Alec’s breath catches as his fiance-- the love of his life-- kisses a trail along his jaw, down his neck to his pulse. He tilts his head back, giving Magnus more access as his eyes fall shut, bliss and yearning and so much damn love pouring through his veins. He barely hears Magnus’s reply over the thunder of blood in his ears but when he does, his chest cracks open in the best damn way.
“I’m yours, Alexander, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here beside you. Nothing on this goddamned earth could tear me away from you. I’m here as long as you want me.”
“Always,” Alec manages, throat aching with unshed tears. “Forever.”
Alec wakes up slowly, mouth upturned as he reaches an arm out, expecting warmth.
When that doesn’t happen, when his hand sweeps over cold sheets, his mouth turns to ash.
He’s filled with a self-hatred so intense that he knows he’d collapse under the weight of it all if he were standing.
Sitting up, Alec scrubs his hands over his face, pushing his palms into burning eyes hard enough to hurt.
The dream was nothing but a bitter reminder of what he’d given up-- what he’d thrown away to save his boyfriend and give him back his life.
Even if Alec feels like a zombie, like a heartbroken zombie whose life has turned into a wasteland, he tells himself that it’s for the best.
He’s woken up from this dream every morning for the past two weeks and Alec doesn’t know how much more he can take. He feels like he’s going insane and oh, God, how he wishes he didn’t have to wake up. He’d happily sleep eternity away if it meant he’d never have to wake up and face his decision all over again, day after day, each morning slicing his goddamned heart to ribbons.
Rubbing a hand over his chest, Alec wonders how much more he can take. Sleep is his only salvation, dreams filled with Magnus. He stills feels the echo of happiness from his dream and it makes him ache down to his very soul.
With a sigh, Alec looks over at his bedside clock and sees that it’s just shy of dawn. Throwing the covers off, he stands on shaky legs and pulls on a pair of sweatpants.
The training room’s always empty this time of day and if Alec’s going to feel pain, he’s always preferred it be physical.
Magnus gasps as his back hits the wall. Alec’s a long line of heat against him, his hands rough and possessive and everything Magnus could ask for.
Everywhere his boyfriend touches burns. It’s like he’s burning from the inside, so much feeling rising up that it threatens to choke him.
He feels tears burn behind his eyes at the reverence Alec pours into him but it’s not enough.
Harder, he wants to demand.
Give me more. Give me everything.
He wants Alec’s love to sear into him, yearns to feel the depth of love that sometimes seems to light Alec up from the inside out. It pours out of him in waves, washes over Magnus like gold, warm and heavy and irresistible.
He’s never cold when he’s with Alec.
Pulling back, Alec sucks a bruise over Magnus’s neck and Magnus keens, high and insistent.
“So good, darling,” he says on a breath. “You love me so good.”
“That’s good,” Alec mutters hoarsely, resting a hand over the thundering beat of Magnus’s heart. “Because I love you with everything I am. I love you more than anything. I want you more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”
Magnus hears the words, lets them fall on him, wrap around his heart that’s so battered and bruised that it’s a wonder how he gets out of bed most mornings.
“Stay with me,” he says. “I need you, Alec. I need this, us.”
At Magnus’s plea-- and oh, how he wishes his voice wasn’t so damned vulnerable, that his request didn’t sound like he was begging-- Alec pulls back and Magnus is immediately washed with icy fear.
Oh, but how Alec’s eyes flash, hot and full of so much love that it almost knocks him to his knees.
His boyfriend raises a hand, sweeps a thumb over his bottom lip. “And where would I go,” he asks softly. “There’s nowhere else that I’d rather be than here, with you.”
He leans into Magnus’s space and Magnus’s breath catches at the kiss Alec places behind his ear before whispering, “Are you really afraid I’m gonna leave you?”
Magnus closes his eyes, loathe to admit to the fear that sometimes strangles him at the thought of Alec packing up and turning his back on him.
It’s nothing new. Magnus is too much, he’s not enough.
No one ever stays but Magnus needs Alec to be different. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Alec turned out like everyone else in a week, a year, a decade.
He knows he wouldn’t survive it.
Still, people always leave and Magnus is always left standing amidst his own devastation as he watches them walk away from him without a backwards glance. And sometimes, when the darkness wraps around him and he’s lost in memories, he can’t help but wonder when Alec will become another bitter lesson, another person who couldn’t stand Magnus Bane for who he was.
“I love you, Magnus. I’m yours, forever.”
Magnus shakily nods his head, eyes still closed. His throat closes on the words that he refuses to let out.
Make me yours. Make me believe it.
He lets himself get caught up in the overwhelming wave of Alec’s desire. His gasps turn to moans and he loses himself in a body that he knows as well as his own.
He pretends that it’s enough. He pretends that he’s enough for Alexander, that he’ll be enough for the rest of Alec’s life.
He pretends that forever doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth and that this is his to keep for as long as he wants.
Magnus wakes on a gasp that sounds like a whimper in his bedroom.
It echoes in his ears long after it’s faded and Magnus feels like he’s suffocating under the pain that rides him in agonizing waves.
Damn you, Alexander, he seethes silently. Damn him for making me believe that they could have forever.
He swings his legs over until they land on the cold floor. Throwing a robe on haphazardly, Magnus leaves his empty bedroom and heads for the living room.
Wincing as the afternoon light burns his eyes and makes his headache worse, he walks straight to the drink cart. He grabs a glass and pours a splash-- or two, or five-- of whiskey into it, downing it in a few efficient swallows.
If he’s going to make it through the day, he needs reinforcements.
His chest feels like it’s been cracked open and Magnus absently rubs a hand over his heart, dully surprised to feel it beating after all.
The dreams plague him. Every night he sees-- feels-- Alec loving him and he’s so damned close to believing it when he wakes up, reality crashing over him all over again.
He thinks he’s going insane.
Every time Dream Alec whispers in his ear, every time Magnus feels the weight of calloused hands against his skin, he believes the lies. Alec’s a particularly persistent ghost and all Magnus can wonder is how much more he can take before there’s nothing left.
Eyes blurry, Magnus calls his magic to him and watches as blue sparks fall harmlessly to the carpet.
Magnus has been taught lessons that would break lesser men but it’s now that he wonders if Alec wouldn’t be his destruction after all.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, Magnus refills his glass and takes it back to his bedroom.
Asmodeus should be here within the hour and his father does so hate a rumpled appearance.
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Warning: Mention of dysphoria, self harm
Sexuality and gender are confusing. Even after years wearing one label you may find it's not quite right, other times you have to face the fact that you don't conform to the "standard." I've recently realized- Or more accurately; admitted- That I am not cisgender. As I have mentioned before, I've been closeted to all but a few people my whole life. Sexual orientation (or lack thereof) was loud and demanded to be dealt with, but I feel like gender was quieter.
We live in a society where gender isn't questioned. We don't sit around and talk about our genders like we talk about sexual orientation. If the default for sexuality is to assume straight until proven otherwise, this is ten times more true for gender. It's not just that we don't talk about it, we actively avoid questioning it or bringing it up.
I'm reminded in this thread of a trip my family took to Key West in Florida, USA. Key West is famous for its nightlife, music, and most of all; drag queens. Cross-dressing is so prevalent in Key West that it almost becomes more of the norm than the minority at night. My parents took me on a walk down main street and I saw many new and exciting things. Women wore whatever they wanted, some barely anything at all. Men openly wore skirts and dresses, often decked out with heals and make-up even when they weren't in full drag. All through this wonderful experience, however, I remember my mom reminding me over and over "These are just men having a good time. Some are role playing as characters who will sometimes hit on guys, but most of them are actually straight. Even if they wear dresses and big earrings they are still men." In the words of John Mulaney, we don't have time to unpack all of that.
What I'm getting at here was the strict reminders and clear message that even when men did feminine things, they were still men. (If only she had this stance of trans men) At no point should you question their gender or sexuality even if they were making it clear they didn't fall into the heteronormative societal roles. I'm also reminded of a crossplaying panel I attended hosted by an AFAB non-binary cosplayer. They mentioned that even wearing a full beard people would still refer to them with she/her pronouns. People stuck to the role that they thought they belonged in, even with an obvious outward sign that they were nonconforming. Both of these are examples of this unwillingness to open the discussion at all. People are so afraid of stepping outside of the binary structure as they understand it they will willingly misgender a person.
With a society that works to ignore binary-non-conformity I feel like gender exploration becomes taboo. It was much easier to ignore my own discomfort than confront it, especially when I had no idea what else there was. Experimenting with labels and pronouns is really only possible anonymously online until you are pretty sure of your place, and when you are ready to bring it up it's a big deal. The fear of people saying your feelings and experiences are "just a phase" can make it really scary to experiment in case the label or pronouns don't fit.
What the hell is actually wrong with phases, anyway? Sure you are going to grow out of them, but that's natural. You can't teleport from point A to point Z, there are a lot of places to go through in between. I had a phase of being a child, but I became an adolescent and eventually an adult. (by age at least) If I tried to buy alcohol with an underage ID it wouldn't be legal, even though my age is just a phase. See, we need phases to grow. Everything has phases. Until we as a society accept that; experimentation is going to remain terrifying.
So here I am. Living on my own. Out from under the roof that forced me to stay closeted, but rather than feeling free I felt more trapped than ever. It was like loosening the lid on a shaken soda, more space just increased the pressure. It wasn't the first time I had experienced dysphoria, but it certainly was the worst. There was one day where I couldn't manage to put on clothes for hours since my entire wardrobe reeked of binarism. I wanted to cut my hair off, all of it at once. I wanted to cut myself. Suddenly the quiet discomfort that had been growing inside of me for years was very loud and very present. I was forced to use introspection, something I had procrastinated for far too long.
Why, though? Why did I avoid confronting the topic until it became life-threatening? It's not that I am afraid of LGBTQIA+ topics, I already went on the whole journey of realizing I was asexual homo-romantic, which is definitely not one of the garden variety labels. I have many friends who are trans and/or non-binary, as well, so it's not like I was unfamiliar with the subject. I think it really boiled down to two problems, one internal and the other external.
First, I didn't feel like I deserved to have a "special" identity, basically I told myself I was close enough to Cis to deal and therefore didn't need to make my problems other people's problems by talking about them. Dumb, I know, but this type of thought process happens when you struggle with anxiety and self-hatred.
Second, and possibly more importantly; I was afraid to go outside of my gender box. I was scared that other people would call me a snowflake. I rationalized that I would never pass as anything other than my assigned gender, and I reasoned that my family would be confused and disappointed in me if they found out. The same reasons I struggled with my Ace label, but with a new and fabulous seasoning of "my gender identity doesn't actually affect my life that much." The hypothesis obviously being disproven by my own mental health problems.
I thank God that I do have supportive and accepting friends, but my main concern after finally admitting my gender situation to myself was still "am I confident enough in this to tell other people? Could it be a phase?" Sexuality is hard and gender is confusing. The lack of ability to comfortably experiment is what makes self-exploration so frightening.
You would be bored to tears if I detailed the amount of research I had to do just to find reliable information on gender labels. This not mentioning the self-reflection required to determine how long I had felt disenchanted with binarism and what parts of my identity were direct results of my Asexuality. It took a lot of painful time. Painful? Yes. I felt anguished, out of place. You can wear shoes that are the wrong size for a short amount of time but if you wore them all day they would start to hurt badly. Longer than that and they would reach the point where they were unbearable to wear and you were unable to walk. I had reached that point, and I couldn’t wait to slip into a better fit. The more shoes I looked at, though, the more I thought about my aching feet, and the worse I felt.
Alright, alright. I have danced around it for a long time, I'm sure you are dying to know what shoe- I mean gender- I picked. To continue using the dead analogy with the shoes I realized I was better off barefoot. The only labels that felt okay were genderqueer and agender, agender being the more comfortable of the two.
I honestly don't know at this point if that's always how I will identify. Also, the finer details of pronouns and names are difficult. I like my name, it's not my fault it belongs to an arbitrary binary system where certain syllable combinations are code for which genitals I had at birth and are associated with assumptions about my gender, personality, and upbringing. Pronouns are weird, too; at the moment I'm just going with whatever people assume since I have no kinship with any particular set, however, this still feels uncomfortable. Gender is an adventure just like everything else in life, and I haven't reached the story goal just yet.
Sexuality and gender are still confusing, but I think healthy exploration and education can really improve the experience. I don't know right now if my labels are permanent, but that's okay. Everything has phases, even the moon, and everything has ebb and flow, even the ocean. I'm learning to accept myself a little more all the time.
#gender#questioning#questioning my gender#dysphoria#gender dysphoria#agender#asexual agender#aspec#personal#self harm#trigger warning
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You’re More Important
A whumpy fill in fic for the pyre scene in Shanarra season 2. Riga captures Mareth and Allanon, and they face the possibility of death together.
@swingrlm suggested this and helped find the movie quotes so this piece could flow.
(gif credit: loisfreakinglane)
Allanon slowly dressed himself. He felt a little light headed, but it was nothing compared to the pain he’d been in earlier. He was about to go out and speak with Mareth when he heard someone call him from outside. “Druid!” It wasn’t just anyone. It was Riga. He could recognize that voice anywhere.
“Where is the Codex?”
He could hear the question sounding clear in his mind even though no one had spoken. He felt as if a lump of ice was nestled in his stomach. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt too tight to breathe. Cold sweat covered his body as he tried to fight the sharp tang of fear polluting his mind. He’d told himself he could take a beating, but all he could see was the torture chamber. He could hear the brand searing the skin off his flesh.
He wanted nothing but to flee, but he couldn’t. His fear of Riga might be crippling, but his love for his daughter was stronger. He didn’t know where she was, but he wouldn’t leave without her. He forced one foot in front of the other until he was out of the tent. He looked at the men surrounding him. All their faces were covered in hatred. He wondered how many of them had lost loved ones to the demons, and instead of finding closure they chose to blame him.
Allanon saw the elf that visited him in his nightmares. The elf that terrified more than he’d ever let anyone know. He paused mid step and rewarded by one of the guards shoving him forward. “General Riga...” He stated the name coldly his voice showing none of the fear that he was feeling. He was weak and outnumbered, and he wouldn’t be lucky enough to escape twice.
Riga stepped to the side. “I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
Allanon saw Mareth on her knees, blood running down the side of her face. He moved forward to rush to her side. Riga slipped his sword in front of him, with a cruel grin. “I thought that might get your attention. Bring me the Codex or your daughter dies.”
Allanon looked back at his daughter. He closed his eyes and reached out with magic. He wanted to absorb her pain. He could feel the gash on her head and sent a splintering ache through him, but that was nothing to the fear she felt. She was afraid of dying, afraid of losing him, and even more afraid that he would hand Riga the Codex. He rocked forward a little as the connection dissolved. The effort had cost him. He rapidly blinked his eyes refocusing himself.
“Don’t do it.” Mareth shouted. Her bravery was rewarded with a back hand across her face. She was nearly knocked down by the hand of the guard.
Allanon lifted his hand in the direction of the guard. “Don’t touch her.” He could tell the small gesture seemed to scare the man, but the sword at his throat never wavered.
“I suggest you tell me where the Codex is, druid.” Riga hissed. “You won’t like what happens next.”
Allanon looked back to Mareth. She was so strong, struggling to remain composed. He’d been here before. It hadn’t been the same, but he remembered as if it was happening in that moment……..
“Bandon, what did you do to him?” Wil question him.
Allanon was struggling just control his breathing, let alone speak, but he attempted to form coherent words. “....pushed him too hard, went too fast... Was trying to save the Ellcrys...” He managed to get the words out. He struggled to focus on Wil. He was the last person he’d expected to attempt a rescue, and it was clear it wasn’t because he wanted to.
“Someone else you sacrificed for the greater good?” Wil scoffed.
Allanon took the words like a slap across the face. “Bandon strayed off the path, because of me. I accept that. It is the reason I tried to keep you out of this. But destiny is stronger than the wishes of one man.” It had been his hope to stop Bandon by himself, but clearly that wasn’t going to possible. He was running out of time, and this detour was wearing heavily on him.
He looked up as Riga reentered with a cart. He hated to admit it, but a spark of fear flared up in his chest. His heart rate sped up and he looked down for a moment just to compose himself. He’d fought many evil forces; he couldn’t let him get under his skin this way.
“ Welcome Will... I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you.” Riga’s voice dripped with disgust.
“Whatever you think I can do for you, I can’t.” Wil’s response was brave, and Allanon feared for him. Riga didn’t like bravery. He liked to crush it beneath his boot.
“Dont sell yourself short” Riga picked up the device on the cart and stepped up to Wil’s side.
“Riga!!!” Allanon called out, as he was forced to watch him plunge the drain into Wil’s neck. He wanted to beg him to leave Wil out of this, the boy had suffered enough. Why make him go through this? This was his fault again. Riga hadn’t broken him yet, so he would force Wil to suffer.
“With the valve wide open I can drain all the blood in his body within minutes. Tell me, where is the Codex of Paranor?” Riga demanded. He waited for a response, but Allanon didn’t answer. “I guess the longer you live the colder your heart gets.”
“Allanon doesn’t give a damn about anyone. He didn’t care about Amberle, and he certainly doesn’t care about me.” Wil smirked at Riga despite the pain he was feeling.
Wil’s word hurt worse than the touch from the brand. Did the people in his life truly believe that he never cared for them? He knew Wil had hated him, but he didn’t realize how deep the hatred ran. Wil actually believed that he would be fine just watching him die. Wil had been almost like a son to him, and he thought that perhaps they’d come to form some sort of bond. Instead it was clear, that Allanon was alone in this thought. Perhaps this was punishment for all the missteps he’d taken in life. He’d foolishly thought that rejection would just get easer, but it stung just as much as it had before.
“You can drain me dry, and he still won’t crack.” Wil’s icy blue stare pieced what was left of Allanon’s heart.
He knew what Riga was capable of. He couldn’t let him hurt her the way he hurt Wil. He had let Wil believe that he could stand by while he suffered and do nothing. He couldn’t abandon his daughter. “Give me your word that you will let her go unharmed.”
“No….no you can’t.” Mareth pleaded. “You can’t.”
“Fine. Give me the Codex, and she goes free.” Riga smirked.
Allanon stepped back. “I’ll bring it to you.” He wondered if Mareth was disappointed, but he couldn’t let her believe that he didn’t care about her. He wasn’t good with emotions, but she was all that was left in this world for him. She reminded him so much of her mother, brave and passionate. He would not fail her.
“I don’t think so.” Riga snapped his fingers and one of his men handed him a collar. “Put this on first.”
His stomach turned over as he looked at the collar in Riga’s hand. He could see blood crusted up the sides of it. It was the same collar he’d worn before. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his heart was racing. He was afraid that it was about to explode in his chest.
He took the collar from Riga, somehow managing to keep his hand steady. He didn’t want to put the collar back on, to be powerless. He couldn’t go back to that place. He looked back at his daughter. He couldn’t fail her this time. He slowly snapped the collar around his neck. His magic vanished and he felt weaker than before, but he also felt panic setting in. He was back in the Warlock Lord’s strong hold, facing a fate worse than death.
He walked calmly back into the tent, once the flap swung shut behind him his fingers slipped up to the collar trying to pry it off his neck. “Please.” He whimpered, choking back a sob as the steel refused to budge. He could feel his breathing escalating to hyperventilation. He stumbled forward and grabbed the table to balance himself. “He won’t harm Mareth. It doesn’t matter what happens to you.” He stated the words firmly and picked up the book with trembling hands, trying to believe the words he’d just spoken.
“We should have had more time.” He said softly to himself. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. He had no delusions about his situation, the Codex could free Mareth, but there was no hope for him. Riga would finish what he started. He could only pray that it would be quick.
He took one last deep breath and walked back out into the sunlight. He clutched the book in his hands as he walked toward Riga. Every part of his mind was screaming for him to stop. The Codex couldn’t be handed to this elf, but he would gladly risk everything for his daughter. If she lived perhaps she could find a way to get the Codex back.
Mareth looked at the book in his hands and her shoulders slumped. “No...” She whispered under her breath.
Riga took the book from Allanon, if he notice the druid flinch he didn’t let on. “At last.”
“You should have let me die.” Mareth shouted, but she didn’t understand. He’d see so much death that he couldn’t watch her die, and Riga would never grant her a quick death.
Riga turned the book over in his hands and smirked. “You are a shadow of your former self Druid, not at all the man I met at Graymark.” His looked up at Allanon with his piercing look, and he knew in that moment that Riga understood just how broken he was.
The guards grabbed him pulling him away from their leader. He looked to his daughter, but she wasn’t freed of her collar yet. “You said you would let her go!” The panic was rising his throat again. He’d always known it was possible that Riga wasn’t a man of his word, but he couldn’t have done this for naught.
“Are you really that naive? She’s as guilty as you are and will share the same fate.” Riga held the Codex up in front of him and smiled. “Thank you for this.”
“You have no idea what you are up against.” Allanon growled under his breath. Riga would surely be murdered once Bandon had succeeded and for the first time in his life, he wished death upon someone. He wanted Riga to come face to face with the thing that he hated the most, and be torn to pieces.
“With your death, I am one step closer to purging the four lands of magic.” Riga announced to his followers, who all seemed keen to cheer him on. He turned to the troops that were approaching them, and listen to their report.
He could barely keep the smile off of his face. Riga’s days were number. If Graymark wasn’t responding he could only imagine why that was. Bandon was close to calling his new master to earth. It was a strange feeling to feel relieve that even though he was to die, at least Riga wouldn’t survive much longer.
“We leave for Graymark at once. Burn the Druid and his daughter at the stake and scatter their ashes to the wind. I want nothing left.” Riga turned back to Allanon one last time giving him a look of disgust.
Allanon looked at Mareth. He could see the free in her eyes, and the anger. He knew she saw it on his face. He looked back at Riga wondering if he knew that he was picturing his death in his mind. Magic didn’t work on the bastard, but he’d never been restricted to the use of magic. He jerked his hand free of the guard and smashed his elbow into the man’s face.
The guard fell back to the ground and he dealt a swift kick to the other guard’s knee. He heard the joint give way beneath his boot. He lunged forward feeling a small thrill of delight at the look of surprise on Riga’s face. The elf had thought that he was completely broken, but he couldn’t be more wrong. His fist connected with the side of Riga’s face.
The general dropped like a fly and his guards surged around him. Allanon spun to the side greeting the first guard with a fist to the jaw. He heard Mareth shout and saw her on her feet fighting off a few other guards. He turned to fight his way toward her, shoving an elf out of his way.
They were being overwhelmed and he felt a since of desperation. If only he could just generate enough magic to push the men back. He tried to use the magic even if he knew it wouldn’t work. He drew on the power of the earth feeling the tightening in his chest. He cried out as his skin tore open at his shoulder and then further down his arm, the skin on the back of his hand shredded as if knives were bursting out of his skin.
He stumbled to his knees unable to keep his balance. He’d suffered all the affects of magic use, but he couldn’t even perform a simple spell. He watched in despair as Mareth was tossed to the ground in front of him. He looked up at the sky above him. The world that he bled to save, was cruel. The cost was too much, and he didn’t want to pay it anymore. He didn’t want Mareth to pay it.
Riga pulled himself to his feet and spat blood across Allanon’s face. “Pathetic.” He hissed, turning his back to the druid.
The guards forced the two of them to their feet and marched them to the pyre they’d constructed. He was surprised he was actually able to walk to his fate. He was almost certain he’d have to be dragged there. He felt a strange sense of calm taking over him. He could stand the idea of his own passing, but he couldn’t stomach the fact that Mareth would die beside him.
They were tied back to back on the pyre, as the guards circled them. “This is all my fault.” Mareth’s voice cracked as she spoke.
“No.” Allanon couldn’t let her blame herself for what had just happened. In the face of death, she was concerned about a dusty, old book. It all seemed so meaningless when you thought about it that way. She was so selfless, and he didn’t deserve to be her father.
“Yes, you only gave Riga the codex to protect me.” Mareth’s anger at herself, made her sob.
“You are more important to me than any book.” Allanon told her firmly. He would do it all again, if there was even the slightest chance of saving her. She deserved a life, free of magic. She deserved happiness, love, and to grow old in the arms of someone who cared about her.
The guard slowly lowered a torch to the pyre. “Will your magic save you now Druid?”
He wasn’t surprised that the guard felt no compassion, the fool was dense. If he took this collar off now, he’d see just what magic could do. In his last moments he wasn’t going to focus on an army of foes. He tried to turn his head so that he could see his daughter. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. It wasn’t meant to end this way.”
Mareth cleared her throat. “This isn’t the end. ‘Though we die, our struggle lives on.’”
Allanon smiled a little at the familiar words. “Your mother would have been proud.” He had no doubt that Pyria would have been pleased with everything that Mareth had accomplished.
“I guess I can ask her that myself soon enough.” Mareth’s voice didn’t hold any animosity it simply was resigned to her fate.
“In death just as in life....” The words brought a sense of comfort. I’m sorry Pyria. Our daughter is truly the best thing that I ever did. I’m sorry that I failed her, and that I failed you. It’s selfish of me to hope that we’ll be together after this……but I hope that you will forgive me.
“Burn you abominations!” Someone shouted.
Allanon could barely caught the words as the heat of the fire started to burn his legs. His robes were catching, and he knew they didn’t have much longer. Oh how he wanted to take away all the pain that Mareth would feel, he wanted to save her from a terrible death, but all he could do was reach of her hand. He was almost surprised when she accepted his hand. It was the only form of comfort he could give.
He gritted his teeth together as the skin on his legs began to burn. He tried to move his feet a little bit more, but it wasn’t helping. His collar suddenly jolted and fell from his neck. For a second the world seemed to move in slow motion. He watched the collar slowly fall into the fire, and then he felt the magic surge through him.
The flame vanished and he pulled his daughter off the pyre. He still had a little magic left, as he channeled it into her so she could heal herself. He tossed his robe off him tossing the flaming material away from himself. He stumbled back ward peeling the melting boots from his feet. He gasped as the skin of his feet peeled off with the boots.
Mareth was at his side. He didn’t see her run over, but her hands rested on his shoulder. “Let me help you.”
Allanon knew that the burns spiraled up over his calves, but he didn’t care about the pain. He cupped his daughter’s face in his hands. “You’ve done enough for me, little one.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Just seeing you alive is all the help that I need.”
#whump#whump fic#burning#mental torture#allanon#Shanarra Chronicles#Shanarra#Mareth#General Riga#collars#fear#PTSD#my works
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Unlikely || Chapter 2
Pairings: General Hux x Reader
Words: 2237
Warnings: Violence, choking, angst
A/N: It took me so long to post a second chapter but I’ve been meaning to write this story for quite some time and I wanted to make sure it’s polished. Hope you’ll enjoy!
Series Summary: As you rise through the ranks of The First Order you find yourself drawn to a certain ginger general. But when your deepest secrets see the light of the day in the process will it be your new beginning or a bitter end?
CHAPTER 1 || CHAPTER 2
The ride in the elevator was a silent one, the air tense with anticipation and subtle hints of anxiety that you could easily pick up in both yourself and Armitage.
As you were carefully building up your defences, the general once again tore his down in order to ask one more thing of you, his voice worn but still kind. "Whatever happens, my dear, I request you do not intertwine. I'm afraid it would only make the matters worse."
He turned his head to steal a brief glance at you and you offered him a weak but reassuring smile. "I will try my best, general."
He calculated the time he's got left before the door slides open and quickly took your hand, pulling it gently to his lips to place a soft kiss on your skin. His grip lingered and you were forced to pull away because the next floor went past already, delivering you dangerously close to the throne room level. A barely noticeable sign of longing and concern surfaced on his face before it was transformed back into his usual mask. You sighed, dropping your gaze to the floor stung by this all too familiar ache in your chest.
You could no longer see his face but you knew that his spread legs and hands folded on the back were his only means to hide a light shiver going down his spine with every passing level. It made you realise just how hard this conversation might turn out to be.
And you had a bad feeling about this.
The sound of the loud ding shot through the air, letting you know it was your stop. Armitage straightened up, preparing to keep his chin up and you took a long breath to rid yourself of the remaining doubts. Your secrets were kept under a heavy layer of fear that was only partially fabricated by you consciously, and another consisting of your admiration towards the ginger general.
It was hard to remember that when you first met him the boiling hatred aimed at him was almost too apparent to contain and after the handshake you shared you battled with the urge to wash your hands immediately.
The door slid open revealing a huge throne room you've heard so much about. You looked around in awe, seeing it properly for the very first time. Needless to say, it wasn't a particularly pleasant astonishment one might feel while looking at a work of art. This place was crushing your bones under its weight. The ominous red-lit space was almost empty, echoes of your steps bounced off the walls, creating a dream-like scenery. You felt tiny and insignificant but gravest of all - ambushed.
The throne itself was situated in the middle, placed on a small platform as if the surroundings weren't enough to make sure everyone knew who was in command. The chair was dark with subtle traces of silver and you could swear you saw old blood still staining its feet as if Rey had just sliced Snoke in half moments ago. His guards who had shared their master's fate were replaced by the Knights of Ren, clothed in dark robes and rare pieces of armour wielding weapons ranging from spears to blasters alike. You noted that not an inch of their skin was visible therefore making it harder to perceive them as humans, a blatant advantage in combat.
On the throne sat Kylo Ren, the mighty Supreme Leader, the self-appointed successor of Snoke's abhorrent legacy. But in fact, he looked anything but powerful on the chair. His arms were resting on his knees rather than the armrests and he was slightly bending forward as if the thought of his back touching the same place Snoke's had was unthinkable. His face was almost expressionless, his hair falling freely on his dark eyes. The scar left by Rey's lightsaber was in a strong contrast to his pale complexion. He was like a child sitting in father's seat trying to grow to be like his role model but something was bound to be awry.
Armitage stopped abruptly, keeping a distance between him and his superior. Everyone knew it wouldn't protect him if Ren decided to add a few new bruises to the collection but you allowed him to keep up appearances.
"I heard about the base, general," Ren begun, threat and displeasure clear in his voice. "Are you still going to try to convince me your pathetic troops are worth anything?"
"Supreme Leader, I assure you--"
"You," Ren pointed at you. You stiffed, feeling the heat sweeping over your body. Kylo's eyes were dark and impenetrable and you were sure you have just been discovered. "I want you to take notes of everything happening here today. I don't trust the droids."
He wanted to turn his head away from you but something else caught his attention. His gaze lingered and it took everything you had to withstand his mental attacks. Hux turned back to look at you, his expression filled with terror, and his fists clenched. He hated the very idea of Ren recognizing your presence as if the fact alone could put you in trouble.
Apparently, Ren failed at finding something interesting because his attention was once again focused on the general in front of him but still the twitch that was supposed to hide a smile didn't escape your attention. The green eyes were still fixed on you in a frantic attempt to search for any signs of discomfort or pain. You knew he wouldn't have been able to act upon his fantasy of overthrowing Kylo but witnessing you being tortured by his abilities could have still made him try.
"General, can I get your attention?" Kylo mocked.
Armitage's lips opened and you noticed a tremble dancing on their soft surface but soon enough he faced his leader without the shadow of fear.
"Supreme Leader," he began again. "The troops are in a flawless condition and I assure you that their next mission will prove to be a victory."
Ren scoffed and you heard a grave tone in his voice. "I don't care about your poor excuses and declarations anymore, general."
"I do not wish to--"
But he was cut off mid-sentence. Soon his hands were desperately pulling at the invisible hand locking on his windpipe as if it intended to crush it. A sob tore from his throat and it hurt you more than you'd be pleased to admit. Hux was lifted off his feet which were now dangling in the air, searching for a spot to rest his weight on but with no success. You turned your head in distaste, adding another layer on the most precious thoughts buried deep within your mind. The room was quiet and the complete silence was interrupted only by Armitage's heartbreaking efforts to break free.
When yet another raspy sob tore out of Tidge's throat you closed your eyes only to regret it a second later. Without your vision, your mind replaced your surroundings with a mental image as if enhancing the strongest individuals in the room. You could sense Ren's energy and unrelenting passion, his guards' confidence and eagerness to fight if required, and you could even taste your own panic. And what's worst of all, Hux's spirit slipping through the fingers of the unseen hand.
You stole a brief glance at Kylo even though you knew you weren't supposed to. He wasn't driven by hatred or fury and his annoyance was kept under check, and yet he wasn't stopping himself, sending the general at the edge of consciousness and risking tossing him into the sharp claws of death. He had so many opportunities to finish his existence but for some reason, he was keen on keeping Hux alive until now. What changed? And what's more important - what were you going to do about it?
You wouldn't dare to look directly at Armitage who was all too quickly fading into the void. Besides, you didn't need to see to know how hopeless he was. Once again, you shut your eyes and tried to lock those feelings away, telling yourself that it was for the best and that there was a greater cause bigger than the both of you. But it took one mere memory of Hux's soft smile that he allowed himself to show during one of the few particularly bad nights to break you down.
Before you could further question your actions, the general fell to the floor with a loud thud. A slimmer, delicate hand seemed to have slipped under the grim hold locked on his throat and set him free. Armitage was a panting mess, kneeling on the floor constantly shifting between losing and regaining consciousness. The bloody marks left by his own fingernails were blooming with scarlet against his pallid skin. He was barely aware of the situation but he did feel it. The familiar touch that had tended to his wounds has now saved his life. His mind was still throbbing and he couldn't connect the pieces of information but deep in his heart he already understood everything.
And so did Ren.
"I was beginning to think you'd have me kill your beloved general," he spoke, folding his arms on his back. "Thank you for saving us a rather embarrassing show."
There was no point in playing your part anymore. You looked up at him, making sure that your face was showing no signs of fear in your time of dying. Because he was going to kill you, wasn't he?
For how long did he know, you wondered. Was it before the meeting or did you betray your true purpose upon arriving here? Did it even matter?
"I should kill you with the cruellest strike, you know that, don't you?" he said with a slight smile sending a shiver down your spine. His master was dead but apparently, his teaching was meant to live on for now. "But I think it would be a waste."
Gracefully and with no sign of the previous brutality, he outstretched his hand and lifted you up off the floor. Your whole body tensed preparing for the torture to come but it never did. Kylo was looking at you with a spark of curiosity in his gaze. He didn't take you for a threat and you knew that it could be his undoing but for know, he had the upper hand. "I think your heart, unlike someone else's, can be turned."
"I wouldn't count on that," you scoffed, your stubbornness originating in pure hatred.
"So you've already taken the side, then?" he asked.
But you weren't given a chance to reply. The shuffling could be heard from the centre of the room and you focused all your strength to turn your head and determine its source. You saw Armitage, crawling to where you were being held, struggling to hide his pained expression. It didn't take long for Kylo to notice as well and with an almost bored wave of his hand, your lover was tossed on the wall, the impact rendering him unconscious. Your rage was about to break through but you knew better than that. You concentrated on the brute force trying to sneak into your mind, almost grasping at your most hidden thoughts. You wouldn't let him have it, there was too much at stake and you didn't have the privilege to give in.
His attacks ceased and his lips parted in pure amazement. "Very well, then," your body was suddenly dropped to the ground. "I'll see you tomorrow during our very first training session. We'll see if you remain loyal to the defeated then."
He left the room without a word leaving you and Armitage in the company of his guards. You weren't sure what to do next. You had anticipated it could go bad but not nearly as tragic. Ren knew everything and yet you were allowed to live.
You crawled over to Tidge's limp body, hoping to find comfort in his presence. It was foolish of you to assume he'd still be by your side after all your lies but as soon as you touched his shoulder, his green eyes opened, filled with concern and bewildered. "Did he hurt you?"
were the first words he spoke and you were about to burst into laughter at the irony.
"You're the one who barely survived the conversation," you reminded him. He tried to sit up and managed to do so only with your aid. You helped him get to the elevator and the guards weren't interested in stopping you at least for now.
"Would you kindly explain this to me?" Tidge asked once you left the elevator and headed towards his quarters. You tried to search his voice for signs of hostility but failed.
"Gladly," the word was spoken with an utter belief and it surprised you but it was the truth. After months filled with lies and hiding, you were almost happy to share a bit of truth with your unlikely lover. Or at the very least, the least harmful parts of it.
Thank you for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts on the story so don’t be afraid to reblog and add your comments! ♥
Tagging: @ayo-minty-jess @kylo-ren-is-my-supreme-leader @sophiasescape @accio-zara @trelaney
#general hux#general hux x reader#general hux x you#general hux imagine#hux x reader#hux x you#hux imagine#armitage hux#armitage hux x reader#armitage hux x you#armitage hux imagine#star wars imagine#hux angst#general hux angst#star wars angst#star wars x reader#angst#mywriting
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