#CW: self-blame

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Magic and Madness - Chapter Six

To Understand Everything is to Forgive Everything.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Tony Stark x Stephen Strange

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Stephen has a job to do, and it almost destroys him. Where else can he go for comfort?

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 2388

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) Avoidance, GSW, ED mentions, alcoholism, internalised homophobia, self-doubt, self-blame, smuuuuut.

𝐀/𝐍 -> A Companion Piece to Multitudes, exploring the relationship of Tony Stark and Stephen Strange. This chapter best corresponds to Multitudes chapters seventeen and eighteen - I recommend starting there if you're reading both <3. Masterlist can be found here!

Check it out below, or on AO3 here! Dividers come from yours truly.

<- Previous Chapter (5/46) Next Chapter (7/46) ->

I avoided the compound like the plague.

The announcement of Natasha's plurality came of very little surprise to me – delivered, as it was, by a video call with Bruce. He didn’t ask why I refused to attend the meeting, and I didn’t volunteer the information.

I couldn’t face the man who had so unceremoniously dismissed me after almost two days of careful touches and hesitant kisses.

My hands shook whenever I thought about the look on his face when he glanced at me – the pure revulsion and desperation I found in his hollow gaze.

Despite my remorse, though, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it. It had been a glorious, if short-lived, experience. My only sorrow was that it had, by all accounts, left him drowning himself and finding solace at the bottom of a bottle.

I tried to be surreptitious in my probing – simply asking after the team when someone reached out to me, clarifying individual members – Tony included – when they weren’t detailed. Nat, in her rare correspondence via video, always made sure to talk about him first, and was by far the most candid.

I got the call in the evening a few weeks after I absconded, phone ringing out , shrill in the darkness. Steven's panicked explanation was accompanied by a backing track of Nat’s staccato, desperate whimpers as I dressed hurriedly, throwing on the first thing my hands reached for – a painfully familiar hooded sweatshirt that still smelled faintly of sex and aftershave.

Wreathed in an agonising comfort, I stepped through to the hospital.

You know I’ve done this too many times when they don’t even look up anymore. A little wonder would be nice.

“What is it this time, Dr. Strange?” My head nurse sighed as she spoke, eyebrow raised in surprise as she glanced at me. “... You look like hell, Stephen.”

“Thanks, Clarissa,” I snapped, rolling my eyes as I smoothed my hair. “GSW to the lower left quadrant. No known spinal implication, and there’s an exit wound. Patient is showing transient consciousness. ETA four minutes. Is there a team free?”

She nodded quickly, pushing herself to her feet. “Yes, Doctor. You got lucky; it’s been a hectic day. OR two is available.”

I nodded sharply, pacing impatiently as I waited. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wondered if he would be there.

My question was answered as they barrelled through the door, Tony’s hands pressed to the wound in the archer’s side. “BP is 83 over 54 and falling fast. GCS eight, oxygen steady – mostly. Pulse 73 and dropping. Looks like the bullet fragmented after penetration.”

I motioned Nat away quickly, her eyes wide as she trembled, and offered her a quick smile. “I’ve got to get him into surgery. I’ll do what I can, Natash- Nat. I’ll do my best.”

Five hours and six minutes.

His insides were shredded by the shrapnel, and while I lived up to my promise, I hated that I couldn’t do more. My forehead found the wall as I sobbed softly, mourning the parts of the archer I couldn’t save.

But I had a job to do.

So I simply scrubbed a hand over my face and peeled off my bloodied gown, unable to stop the spark of anger that drove me to throw it violently into the contaminant trashcan, jaw set.

I should have done more. I should have been better.

I should have been there. Maybe I could have made a difference.

Natasha was curled on the floor, pressed against the wall, blood trickling through the fingers pressed to her ribs as she stared blankly into the distance. I sighed as I approached, steeling myself. “Let me take a look at you.”

“… Wh… What?” she murmured, blinking owlishly up at us, and I inclined my head toward the blood under her hand, jaw twitching. “I said, ‘Let me take a look at you’.”

She blinked again, blank and disinterested. “We’re fine. How’s Clint?” I offered her a wry smile and an extended hand, pity tugging at my heart. “Let’s make a deal.”

“Clint had a lot of internal damage. A lot. I’ve patched him up as best I could, but…” I sighed guiltily as I slid the needle through the edge of her wound, but she showed no reaction. “You’re lucky he was in front of you. You would likely have lost your lung, but instead it just broke the rib.”

“Lucky,” she scoffed, eliciting a flinch.

“He’s not come around yet. He… We had to perform an ileostomy. There wasn’t enough intestinal tissue left to salvage. He’s been fitted with a bag – if he… That will be permanent,” I added softly, jaw tight with remorse.

I should have been there.

She winced, glancing up. “Will he wake up?”

I hesitated only briefly, the loss of concentration bringing a faint tremor back to my hands. “We don’t know. He lost a lot of blood and sustained significant injuries. He underwent massive transfusions. The fact that he survived surgery is reassuring, but…” I sighed again, head shaking. “I’ve had this conversation too many times lately.”

When she glanced at me curiously, I offered her a weak, shaky smile. “I said almost the exact same thing to Clint, when it was you that may not wake up.”

I spent two weeks in my own alcohol-driven despair, wracked with remorse and selfish thoughts of comfort found in his embrace.

He’d tell me I tried my best. He’d tell me there was nothing more I could do. He...

No.

He’d tell me I repulse him, and that I am wrong.

Two weeks of long and suffering silence was all it took for Clint to start to come around, and I got the call to return. I’d checked on him daily, but they thought I’d like to be the one to break the news to him.

I can’t imagine anything worse.

But the archer, to my wonder, was impassive, seemingly unphased by this permanent alteration to his life, despite my immense shame and guilt.

The only person who seemed to struggle as much as I was Natasha herself. Chained to his bedside, I’d watched her grow steadily more gaunt, refusing all but water – and even that had to be administered intravenously. Not a single morsel or drop passed her lips during her silent vigil, and the weight began to drop from her frame once more.

A quiet word with Bruce when they eventually returned to the compound confirmed my worst suspicions – that she was, once again, skirting danger.

Bruce desperately argued that her weight was holding steady, but I could only snort. “You don’t believe that any more than I do, Banner. We need to find out how this is happening – before it’s too late. And ‘too late’ is approaching far too rapidly.”

The day she ended up being taken, unconscious and severely underweight, I broke.

When I appeared in his bedroom, he was lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

“… Hi. I know I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t be here. I just…”

He nodded slowly, extending an arm to me with a quiet sigh. “Come here, baby boy.”

The name broke me, and I sobbed, falling down beside him and weeping desperately against his chest. “I should have done better. I should have done more. I…”

Shushing me gently, his fingers caressed my back as he held me close. “You did amazingly, honey. You did better than anyone else could have done. None of this is your fault, do you hear me?”

“I knew she was struggling. I knew that something wasn’t right. But I left it to Bruce, and I… I should have spoken to her. Helped her. This is all my fault. I’m not… Fuck, I’m such a… Fuck.”

He brushed his lips against my forehead, pulling me nearer. “Sweetheart, you did everything you could. You were incredible.”

“You never called,” I whispered into his chest, voice cracking. “I thought you hated me.”

He snorted weakly, shaking his head. “You? Never. Myself? Well… That’s a different matter entirely."

“I hate that I made you feel like that.”

“Not you, baby boy. Never you. I… I’ve missed you, Stephen. So much,” he muttered into my hair, fingers tightening against my spine.

“I’ve never hated myself quite so much as I do for what I said to you. I’m so, so sorry.”

I pushed my face through my tears to claim his mouth with mine, hands curling in his hair desperately. “Show me how sorry you are.”

“Aren’t you going to ask-”

“I already know you’re sober, Tony. I’m surprised and impressed.”

“I’ve been sober since Clint’s accident. I… I wanted to prove I can do it. Before I reached out.”

I purred happily, pulling him closer. “Fuck me like it’s you last night on this earth, Stark.”

He raised an eyebrow with a snort, dragging my shirt over my head. “You got it, baby boy.”

I lay in his arms as he smoked, and I scowled. “You shouldn’t substitute one vice for another, love.”

“One makes me significantly less of an asshole than the other, sweetheart.”

“Don’t you also have a ‘no smoking in the building’ rule?”

“It’s my building, who’s going to tell me off? You?” he added with a smirk, and my fingertips trailed his hip lightly, humming with delight at the hard lines I’d missed touching.

“Sounds fun. I might be into that.”

He barked out a surprised laugh, shaking his head. “Doctor Strange, you never cease to amaze.”

I arched an eyebrow, fixing him in my gaze. “Mr. Stark, I am a surgeon who tried to micromanage his own surgery, despite the fact that I would be profoundly unconscious for the procedure. I am nothing if not authoritarian.”

He purred and tugged me nearer, fingers curling around my back to drag me atop him. “Oh, yeah? I seem to remember you being pretty submissive every time I’ve made you beg...”

Smirking, I took his hands from my hips and pinned them over his head, delighting in the soft gulp the motion elicited, pressing my body against his. “You assume I couldn’t make you do the same?”

“Y-You gonna boss me around?” he stammered, back curving minutely against me as he blushed.

I hummed playfully, tongue trailing the length of his jaw. “... Not yet. Maybe when it’s my turn to fuck you.”

He stiffened, and I winced.

Fuck. Why would I say that?

“I-I didn’t mean to-”

“I’m scared,” he ground out quietly, gaze flicking away as he reddened.

I released his wrists and lay over him, watching him with my chin beside the glowing light of his reactor. “... What are you scared of?” I pressed softly, and he grimaced minutely.

“I... I’m not sure. I’m scared it’ll hurt. I’m scared I won’t be... Clean. I... I’m... I know this isn’t exactly straight, but I’m scared that if it’s me that gets... I’m scared that it’s just, y’know, more... g-gay.”

The last word was a pained, shameful whisper, but my heart throbbed proudly.

He’s never said it before. No matter how drunk, or sober, or angry.

He’s never said it.

“Do... Should I talk you through your fears? Or do you just want acknowledgement?” I asked quietly, fingers dancing across his collarbone, and he nodded shyly.

“I-I guess you can... Try and help.”

Smiling fondly, I kept my gaze on him as I thought. “Well... You saw – pretty intimately – my first time. Did I look like I was in any pain?” He shook his head reluctantly, and I pressed a kiss to his chest. “It was... Unusual. A little uncomfortable, at points, but that very quickly gave way to...” I swallowed dryly, cheeks heating. “You’ve seen what you do to me, Tony. It’s... The best I’ve ever felt. By far. By far.” My light shiver made his smirk, hands shifting to caress my back gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever had- No, let me try again. I have never, by far, had so much sex in such a short period of time. And I still want more.”

He grinned at last, palms finding my ass pointedly. “I’m happy to stop this conversation and give you more, baby boy.”

Heart fluttering, I did, admittedly, hesitate thoughtfully before I shook my head. “I’d rather make you feel better... At least first.” He rolled his eyes, but nodded, and I purred. “As for... I mean, it’s not a big deal either way. But there’s ways you can... prepare. Which I could talk you through, but I’m concerned for your blood pressure if I say any more about that,” I teased as his face turned crimson. “But... I’ve never bothered, and we’ve never had a problem, right?” He shook his head slowly, and I grinned, kissing his cheek. “Exactly.”

His jaw tightened in anticipation, eyes drifting further from mine. “As for the last... Tony. My dear, sweet, darling Tony. If you’re straight, all your sex is straight sex, regardless of how you do it. And the same is true for gay people, and bisexuals, and all the other myriad of sexualities out there. It's not more or less of what it is depending on how it’s done. If you’re gay, then you’re gay, and that’s fine. You’re not extra gay if you decide you want to... Be fucked,” I finished, blushing lightly. He was trembling at my words, still unable to meet my gaze, but he licked his lips dryly.

“I’m gay.”

I couldn’t help the blink of surprise, but buried it in a gentle kiss, nipping his lip lightly. “As am I, sweetheart.”

“It... That’s why I never settled down.”

“I tried. I loved her, I truly did, but... She was the only one.”

“I’m... I’m ready to settle down, Stephen,” he added softly, gaze flicking to mine at last. “With you.”

“I... You... Wh... Huh?”

He swallowed again, leaning forward to kiss me lightly. “I want to be yours, Stephen. And I... I want you to fuck me.”

God forgive me, but I am going to commit every sin. Send me to hell if you must; I’ll go with a smile.

The whine that eked from my lips was indecipherable, and he grinned softly. “Stephen Strange... Please fuck me.”

... ... ...

Yes.

Yes.

Yesyesyesyesyesyes-

[chrisbangz]

Count Christopher

[red-garden]

i feel so bad for SJ because i feel like him experiencing an OUNCE of sexual desire towards a man would genuinely fuck him up so much.

like this would be him

Thats why I need more fanfics of him straight up panicking over having romantic/sexual desires towards YQY

Genuinely I think the distress he would feel would be deeply upsetting. He might be able to delude himself about romantic feelings about another man, but lust is pretty unmistakable. And because Shen Jiu can’t conceive of lust as anything other than inherently violent and men as sex obsessed violent animals, I think this would trigger a bad fear response and self loathing from him. If this feeling was towards anyone other than YQY he would probably convince himself that the other man knew somehow and was going to use it to force himself on Shen Jiu and claim he wanted it. If it’s towards YQY, he would turn all of that fear and anger and loathing back on himself. He knows YQY is not only gentle/differential to a fault, he also knows YQY would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, including telling the truth. This is the only man he might ever feel safe around and yet he feels the violence of lust? Obviously this makes Shen Jiu a terrible person and maybe YQY was right not to come back for him. Maybe Qi-ge knew he was just as rotten as the rest and deserved everything QJL did to him. 

[rhapsoddity]

so one time instead of money payment Emmett asked spectrum to hypnotise him, cus hes never experienced it before, and spectrums happy not paying and fuckin with emmetts braincells so~

in my defense i was egged on to make this v self indulgent comic by my discord

[hajihiko]

Fuyuhiko stared back at him, still unable to focus his vision. "You…" Hajime barely kept himself from grabbing Fuyuhiko's hand to try to encourage him. Mikan hadn't bandaged the many, many wounds there, yet. "Yeah. Me."

again, from this writing by @causeitsagame .

[voiceoffenrisulfr]

Multitudes Chapter Seventeen

... Or Are We Many?

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov/Steve Rogers

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 -> Therapy, round two. And a first mission that goes awry.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 -> 1636

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 -> (E) Therapy (but not terrible this time) - guilt, doubt, self-blame, injury, GSW, revenge killing.

𝐀/𝐍 -> Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Please read the warnings, and proceed with caution. You know the drill. A surprisingly feel-good chapter in the end, though. Corresponds to Magic and Madness - Chapter Six. Masterlist can be found here.

Check it out below, or on AO3 here! The snazzy Black Widow divider comes from @/firefly-graphics and I love it <3 The Multitudes Universe one is our own!

<- Previous Chapter (16/72) Next Chapter -> (18/72)

Another day, another therapist.

This one is adorable, though. I really hope we don’t have to shout at her.

She was only mid-thirties at the latest, dressed in a cute, vibrant summer dress, shoulder length auburn hair in a messy bun and sunglasses on her head.

“Y’all must be Nat and Widow! It’s so good to meet you!” she gushed, her firm, confident hand finding mine.

Eyebrow quirked in response, we took our seat – this time in the lounge of my own rooms, at her insistence. Apparently, she’d told Bruce that the formality of the interview room wasn’t necessary. “You don’t have to do that, you know. Address both of us. You can just pick one.”

She sat back, a glass of water in her hands. “Would that make y’all more comfortable,  or are you saying it because you think addressing you both equally is an inconvenience to me?”

I blinked, startled and impressed.

Well, she’s definitely better than the last one.

“I... I don’t know,” I admitted, laughing dryly.

“Okay – how about this. I can use the name of whoever is currently fronting – ‘in control’, I think you called it?”

Another blink, and I nodded slowly. “Y... Yeah, okay. Well, I guess that’s me. Natasha. Nat,” I amended quickly, wincing.

She smiled, warm and genuine. “It’s a true pleasure to meet you, Nat. I’m so sorry for what you went through with your last therapist, but I can assure you, I am fully accepting and supportive of you and your plurality, and if you’d like any help with communication or the amnesia, just let me know.”

“My... What?” I repeated, dumbstruck by her positivity.

“Your plurality. The fact that there’s two of you. I don’t like the term ‘disorder’ as a catch-all; I know unhealthy plurality can be incredibly difficult, but it completely eradicates healthy plurality – either those that have never been disordered to start with, or who no longer fulfil the diagnostic criteria. If y’all never experience fusion, then you’ll always be plural, even if you’re not ‘disordered’.” She shrugged casually, as if this concept wasn’t one that had just blown away my entire world. “But, again, that’s just me – if you’d rather I refer to your experience as dissociative identity disorder, or DID, that’s completely fine too.”

“No…” I murmured, feeling Widow just as awestruck and spiritually satiated as myself. “No, I think we prefer ‘plural’.”

I was curled up on my sofa when Clint found me, sobbing uncontrollably. I’d been permitted a few sparse minutes to myself between the changing of the guard, and despite the tugging urge to use it more productively, I’d only cried.

He bundled me into his arms, panicked. “Oh God, not another one. Bruce even met with her beforehand – fuck, how does this keep happening?”

I buried my face in his shirt, whimpering softly. “N-No, she… She…”

“Love?”

“She was amazing,” I wailed, tears streaming down my face.

“I love her!”

Clint simply blinked in shock, then laughed softly, wiping my cheeks dry. “I’m… Glad?”

“It doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” I sniffed, arms wrapped around myself. “I don’t have to choose between being disordered and being alone. We can have a healthy relationship. We can just be plural.”

He nodded slowly, running his fingers tenderly through my hair. “Is that what you both want?”

Yes. Yes. “Yes.”

Grinning broadly, his lips brushed my forehead. “Then I’ll support you. Y’all,” he amended, and I cocked my head. “While you were in your session, Bruce sat me down and explained something that she’d said to him – that while ‘you’ can be either singular or plural, it can be hard to differentiate, and a lot of multiple folk appreciate y’all, so it’s more specific.”

The word sounded clumsy in his far-from-Southern accent, but I sobbed again, face crumpling. “That’s so sweet.”

He laughed, rubbing my cheek lightly. “Does that seem better to y’all?”

I cried harder, nodding desperately as Widow wiped their eyes on the inside. “We love it.”

His fingers gently brushed my cheekbone, and he smiled. “I’m all for this display of emotion, Little Spider, but if you keep up like this, you’re going to be both incredibly dehydrated and incredibly drowned.”

And so it went, on and on. Every day was the same, made only bearable by the evenings spent being rewarded for our adherence. First level two, and then level three – and with it, my first mission.

“I can’t believe we’re back here,” I murmured, perched on a rooftop with my lover. Clint shot me a grin, full of shining eyes and pride as he handed me my fries.

“Sometimes it was hard to believe this day would ever come, right?” In the ten weeks since we had renegotiated my treatment plan, I’d been caught purging four times, and exercising twice. I’d eaten everything I’d been given, though, and was yet to put a blade to my skin.

“Definitely.” I dropped a mouthful of fries into my mouth, grinning around the salted carbs. “But here we are. Staking out a bad guy, sat on a rooftop, and eating fast-food.”

“Except now you actually eat it,” he added, smirking wryly. Our relationship had flourished along with my health – gone was the hesitation and the second-thoughts, replaced instead with our easy banter and light-hearted bullying.

And the sex.

Dear Lord, the sex.

I’d slowly become more confident, willing to try new things and excited about the possibilities we had before us. He never rushed us, taking the time to check in with both my own self-esteem issues and Widow’s traumatic anxiety.

The therapist – aptly named ‘Luna’ – had made our diagnosis official, and every Avenger now knew about the other person I shared my body with. Other than a few crude remarks from Tony – most of which had been directed at Clint and about threesomes – everybody else had adapted to the changes easily, swapping ‘y’all’ for ‘you’ when referring to us as a collective.

We were getting better at communicating, and sharing the body when desired, and I’d even relinquished control for a few quiet periods alone in our rooms, once we’d earned back the privilege.

Widow was slowly discovering the things they liked – exercise was still a huge part of their identity, but they’d also found endless comfort in fiction, content to curl up with a book while I took a break. They’d not interacted directly with Clint – or anybody else – since that fateful day, but I knew they were always there. Clint had suggested a date night, and they were terrified and excited about the concept – not ready yet to accept, but almost. I was a little jealous, admittedly – but I knew I had nothing to worry about. Widow was as inherent to the person Clint knew as I was, and it was only natural that he would love them, too.

“It’s been too long,” Clint sighed, resting his head in my lap and pressing a gentle kiss to my leather-clad thigh. “I’ve missed this. And I’ve definitely missed this suit,” he added with a purr, fingers tracing my side.

I giggled, slapping his hand away. “Focus on the mission, Barton. Save the monkey-business for after.” His lips found my throat, hooting softly like a chimp, and I squealed in his arms. “Clint, come on. We’re supposed to be-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, standing with his hands on my thighs, sitting me on the building’s raised edge and sucking lightly on my pulse. I surrendered with a groan, fingers wrapped in his hair, every thought of our target immediately gone from my mind as my thighs wrapped around his hips.

He paused after a moment, drawing back slightly to rest his forehead on mine. “You're right. We… Have a mission. Sorry.”

He started to step away, one hand reaching for his bow, but paused when I pouted, playing with the zipper at my chest. “But Clint…” I whined, fingers inching down one tooth at a time. “We’re never away from the compound anymore. Why don’t we make the most of it?”

He swallowed, glancing over my shoulder at the city below. “We shouldn’t…”

I sighed, tipping my head back, my zipper moving ever lower. “I could really use some help getting out of this suit.”

My partner bobbed briefly on the balls of his feet, sparing one last look to where we’d last seen our mark, before he was back between my thighs, hands replacing mine frantically. “I can’t believe you’ve convinced me to do this."

I giggled as his hands slid inside my suit, grasping my waist. "You love it."

"Oh, you have no-”

Clint jerked in my arms, forceful and sudden, and I squealed as I almost toppled backward off the building. “Clint, are you trying to kill me?!”

No response.

“Clint?”

I smoothed my hand over his back to get his attention, drawing away when I found something hot and sticky on the back of his jacket. My trembling fingers cut into my eyeline, red and glistening.

No.

No.

My eyes shot up, finding the balding, middle-aged mark stood in the access doorway with sneer on his face and a gun in his hand.

Even with the silencer attached, I should have noticed.

Even with my distractions, I should have noticed.

I should have noticed.

I should have noticed.

I screamed, pure fury and heartbreak, wrenching my gun from my holster and putting a bullet between his eyebrows without flinching before he could react.

I carefully lowered my gasping partner to the ground, hands pressed hard to the wound in his abdomen before one darted to my ear, smearing blood on my cheek as I desperately pressed at my earpiece.

“Cap, Tony, Wanda- Fuck, anyone who’s listening! We need emergency evac! Get us out of here – now! Clint… Clint’s been shot.”

[which-qsmp-egg-would]

"Are they happy?"

"..."

[justarandomlambblog]

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 [END]

The love story of a mortal and an immortal is always doomed to end in tragedy, but even just a little more time would have meant everything...

And that's Narinder's prologue for this au sketched out. Also yes that's a cat he's just got small rounded ears instead of long sharp ears <3

Explanation of the story under the cut (this time with some dialogue!)

During a festival, someone runs up to Narinder saying a stranger has come to the village, and he's wounded. Narinder recognizes the cloak he wears as being that of a Darkwood cultist, so Narinder takes the injured cat to his home to take care of him, and also to confront him without anyone else there. Narinder finds that he's brought a book of the Old Faith with him.

The stranger wakes up and notices Narinder immediately. Narinder confronts him about the book he's brought with him, and the fact that he's a follower of the Old Faith. The cat explains that he actually ran away, seeing no point in killing and fighting and living and dying for a god who is already dead (awkward considering Leshy is very much alive again and loyal to the Lamb by this time, but neither of them know this), but that his old family outed him as a dissenter and he was chased/attacked on his way out. Narinder accepts this explanation but gives a stern warning to the newcomer;

"These are godless lands and we bow to no one. There will be no talk of the Old or New Faiths, no talks of gods, no preaching. And this book stays in this room so long as you're in this village, got it?"

Narinder drops the book into the side table, then tells the newcomer that he's welcome to stay as long as he wants/needs so long as he doesn't bring talk of gods into the village itself. The newcomer accepts this easily enough- he ran away from the Old Faith, after all, he only brought the book by happenstance.

Narinder gives the stranger clothes and shows him around the village, introducing him to people (and translating for both sides, as the newcomer does not speak the godless language and the godless don't speak the language of the Faithful). Time passes, and the newcomer stays even when he's healed, slotting himself into the daily routine of the village. Narinder begins slowly teaching him about their culture, once it becomes clear that he doesn't intend to leave; he shows him how to take care of the feral beasts, teaches him how to make paper lanterns for their lantern festival, teaches him their dances, and eventually even gives him an ear piercing, the same as anyone who comes of age inside or is accepted into the village from outside gets. It's essentially the moment that he becomes an accepted part of the village, an acknowledgement that he is one of them now; no longer an outsider, no longer a cultist but one of the godless.

One day, Narinder's friend (as by this time he cannot really be called a newcomer and ofc I don't have a name for him...) confesses to Narinder, and Narinder realizes all at once that if he wants to pursue this... thing he and his friend have going on, he needs to tell him the truth.

So Narinder does it in the most dramatic sad wet cat way he can; he brings out the book that's sat gathering dust inside the drawer for well over a year now and finds the entry on the Red Crown and the One Who Waits. The "Friend" is confused at first before looking at Narinder and realizing that Narinder is the One Who Waits- a fallen god of the Old Faith, and arguably the most powerful of all of the Old gods.

And... he doesn't care. Narinder is Narinder, not the Bishop of Death after all. He just tosses the book- something once sacred in the cult he was born into- aside and expresses that he doesn't care; it doesn't matter who Narinder used to be, or the crimes he committed in the past, because he loves the person Narinder is now. Narinder accepts his confession with this acceptance.

Time passes. They marry, with Narinder presenting a marriage charm to him, much to his delight. They start a family- first child they name Ari, the second Elloi, and the third Minuit, all a few years apart in age.

And for just a little bit- everything is perfect. Even though Narinder's immortality hangs over him like a shroud, he takes every day a moment at a time, and he's happier than he's been in a long, long time.

Then one night they're woken by the sound of crashing and screams. They're a little freaked out, because it's been so long for both of them but they recognize that sound- they've just both been on the other side of it. Opening the curtains confirms Narinder's fears; there's a raid happening on their village, the same way gods and their cults once crusaded against each other and razed entire settlements in a bid for power. Buildings are burning, people are running and screaming and crying, some people are dead, and robe-clad people very reminiscent of cultists and heretics bear weapons and chase people down, uncaring of whether they're old, young or children.

Narinder scoops up the baby- only a few months old and crying in fear- while his husband rushes to grab their older kits, only to find their beds empty. Panic sets in, and rather than running into the forest (to hide and hopefully avoid the attackers) like they initially planned, they rush into the village to look for their daughters. Narinder comes face to face with a cultist, and has a moment where he remembers Shamura teaching him offensive magic- before they even had the crowns, back when it was just them and the magic they were born with. Chains, which he hasn't seen or felt in nearly a hundred years at this point, shoot up at his command, spearing through and instantly killing his would-be attacker.

His husband, somewhere along the way, loses the dagger he'd always carried while fighting cultists. He spots their daughters on the ground, holding onto each other and crying in fear while a cultist raises a sword. Instinct kicks in and he rushes to them, throwing himself between his kits and their attacker- too afraid that attacking them would still end up with his kits hit by the sword.

Narinder hears his kits scream and turns in time to see his husband collapse, mortally wounded (he did take a sword for someone who was in front of him, that shit went DEEP), and in a moment of horror reaches out with his magic, spearing their attacker with the chain before they can turn their attention to the kits again. He runs over, dropping down by his husband's side, and pulls him into his lap. His husband manages to smile at him, saying some final words before dying in his family's arms.

Grief hits Narinder hard, and his magic lashes out; withering lines of decay snake through the village, the grass crumbling and the earth itself cracking in the wake of his magic. It targets the cultists while avoiding the villagers, and the cultists begin rotting and turning to dust right on the spot, whether they are bodies on the ground or living beings in the middle of swinging an axe. All at once the tables are turned, their attackers reduced to ash and blood on the ground and in the wind, and careful to avoid the lines, slowly the bravest of the villagers follow the decaying earth to its epicenter; Narinder and his once-again-broken family.

None of the villagers fear Narinder, even like this. All they feel is grief; grief for what has happened to their village, grief for their neighbors and loved ones, grief for the families that have been lost, grief for what the future holds for them. They share in his grief, but they realize something in that moment; Narinder can actually do something with his grief.

A few days pass and the dead have been buried. Narinder and his older kits pay respects to his husband's grave, and some villagers approach to give their condolences and also ask; "What now?"

He looks back, listening to their worries. With his third eye open and with him reaching out to them with his own magic, he notices for the first time that some of them have a certain... energy about them. Some have more than others; some's energy is lashing out, while others' are gentle, and some are... reaching back to him. He realizes that this energy is magic- the same thing Shamura saw in him and the others, thousands of years ago, when they decided to train them.

He remembers Shamura telling him something now, when he asked why they taught him and the others to fight and use magic when they clearly wanted to keep them all safe; "Sometimes the best way to protect those you love is teach them to protect themselves."

He takes this lesson to heart now; the village must learn to fight, so that they will never be made victims again.

"We rebuild. We learn to wield swords." He summons a flame into his hand, holding it out for the villagers who have turned to him in this time of hardship to see. "And those of you who are capable of magic- I will teach it to you.

"What has happened here will not happen again."

[sarasade]

Part of me almost hopes that Viren's story arc will end in a disproportionately cruel way, you know.

I'm just so tired of seeing a character doing one good thing before they die or trying to change before they die and instead of the audience taking that as purposeful ambiguity the discussion will center around if the character was "Redeemed".

But imagine if he was punished so harshly that even the Viren haters would feel bad for him. Now that would be interesting! I've seen some dark speculation around season 5 so I'm looking forward to seeing how the show will contextualise his arc.

I don't understand why "Redemption" is such a popular talking point when centering villains (ok I actually do. I'm looking at you, Zuko).

"Sin and Atonement" and "Redemption" are deeply Christian themes. I don't think those should be a universal frame of reference to all stories.

Yes, yes, this is more of a fandom problem, not a show problem. But if people want to see a bad character harshly punished for their crimes maybe they should get that for once. I don't really mind because I think Viren, while unlikeable, is a sympathetic character already. Of course I feel for a character even if they are "irredeemable". That's what stories are for.

I don't mean it's a completely useless way to look at art but it's just- I don't know- I'm bored? Especially YouTube commentators talk about redemption constantly instead of engaging with the themes that actually are there.

Sometimes villains can't even really make up for everything they have done, just like some people in real life. Viren has committed so many crimes- like how do you even fix that? However it'd still be interesting if he tried to change. That's what I'm here for. Like Viren and Claudia are not just an antagonistic counterforce to our heros but they have a lot of going on as unique characters.

Viren has his saviour complex and values domination over cooperation. Claudia is interesting because she's both the victim and the perpetrator. It's interesting how self-sufficient she is while being deeply emotionally codependent on Viren. She has a ton of agency as a physically (magically?) strong person but not a ton of agency as an independent, emotionally strong individual. Viren and Claudia love each other but it's isolating kind of love where they don't really have anyone else but each other (Terry is really trying to get in there. Like sorry Terry you don't know how fucked up these two are lmao).

No wonder it was so easy to Aaravos take Viren's place as an authority figure in Claudia's life after Viren died. Or at least that's what I took away from Lost Child short and TDP season 4 in general.

I still think about the first information we got outside Viren and Claudia's POV about Aaravos's mirror: Runaan's warning about "A Fate Worse Than Death".

This framing device sounds really important. I've been wondering how it'll play out eventually. Is it something about Viren losing his old life he worked so hard to build, or will he lose Claudia in some metaphorical or literal way? Is it something even more personal?

Personally, I'd love to see Viren live and change as a person. There are plenty of high-fantasy male characters like him who go through that kind of transformation: Guts from Berserk, Geralt of Rivia, Jaime from GoT, Ged the Wizard... You know, characters who realise that the things they value are unsustainable or even harmful to themselves and to people around them and even to the world as a whole. Or they realise that superficial things like status and power are unfulfilling and only serve status quo. There are some parallels to toxic masculinity/ hegemonic masculinity, too.

However, I think it'd be interesting if Viren's story will be a deeply tragic one. Anyway I'm here for this.

[punkeropercyjackson]

"You know how kids will sometimes play pretend a very toxic family with their toys? Even the kids who have loving nice great normal families? That’s basically what shipping “problematic” ships is like. These characters are just paper dolls we’re playing with."

*loud buzzer sound* WRONG! anon when i was a kid the very toxic families i played with my dolls usually involved someone or multiple people dying in a super cool explosion and marrying dinosaurs and mechas. never once did the "toxic families" involve literal incest. and even if they did, little kids under the age of 10 are unaware and don't have fully developed concepts of what's morally wrong and right which is why when i was 8 i made fanfiction of me getting married to weird al yankovic. obviously i do not fantasize about that anymore so why are proshippers dumbing themselves down to the intelligence level of children. oh right! > proshippers are just like kids playing toxic families with dolls! they're just dolls and characters you should treat us like silly kids! <33 > stupid child you shouldn't be on the internet if you don't want to see people your age being sexualized by grown adults

that anon is on crack lmao. sorry you had to get that ask, i would put this as a reply so that anon could see but it's restricted

EAT THEIR ASS UP,WORK BESTIE!!!! /gen /pos

[fiction-venting]

(cw: self-blame, mentioned guilt tripping(?), mentioned/implied abuse, mentioned (attempted) suicide, mentioned death, not really sure what else)

i hate how i still feel so guilty all the time.

like, i've been over it a hundred times, but no matter how many times puffy and tubbo and ranboo told me, or how many times people now (in our head and our friends) tell me now, i still feel guilty. selfish.

it's funny. i was a kid, i was the one who got hurt, and i still feel selfish. and i still question if the things they said about me were true.

maybe i was selfish. maybe i was annoying, and stupid, and prickly, and irritating, and maybe i did deserve it. that's what dream always used to say, anyway. what (my, not our collection one who has also used our tag) wilbur said too, when i told him about my exile and what dream had done to me and the tower (and maybe he said that so he didn't have to accept that the things he'd said to me, the things he did--the locked rooms and the hands he'd raised against me and the cigarettes--were bad too). maybe i was a traitor like tech told me i was, even if it wasn't that i disagreed with him but just that i didn't want anyone else to die.

maybe it was my fault people got hurt, even if i was only twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. maybe it was my fault, and not the fault of every adult around me who failed me (and maybe one day i'll be able to think of all the ways in which i was failed without being angry-upset-hurt-afraid-small). maybe it was my fault for trying to make myself big, because being big meant i wouldn't be hurt anymore. couldn't be hurt anymore. maybe it's my fault for believing that i was worth something.

maybe i am the reason for all the violence on the server. plenty of people seemed to think so anyway, seemed to be eager to blame their problems on a literal teenager--not even a teen, back when it all started--instead of realizing that they were the adults in the situation, the ones with the responsibility to do better and be better.

maybe i deserved exile. im certain there are plenty of people that i know who would disagree, but this is the one, secret thought that i cannot escape no matter how hard i try. maybe i deserved exile. maybe it was better that way. maybe everyone was happier when i was gone, and maybe i was better when i was controlled. when i was a shell of myself. maybe things were better in pogtopia, when wilbur would lock me away until i "learned my lesson", because he thought that it was what i deserved. and maybe i did. maybe i deserved techno's hatred. i was being selfish when i went against him, wasn't i? i didn't want to betray him, didn't want to hurt hurt. all i wanted was to save tubbo, to save l'manberg. to save my home. to save all the people in it, because there were so many people. but maybe that was selfish of me. (i feel especially guilty for this last one, considering he wasn't--isn't?--anything like the other two, and yet i cannot get his words out of my head, the way they made me feel, how selfish i feel for being upset over them). i don't know.

i don't know much of anything anymore.

i feel like this comes off as a big fucking pity party, and i guess i'm a bit notorious for those, huh?

i don't want to be pitied though. i just want someone to stand up for me. because prime i am so tired of having to do it myself, when i don't even believe the words i'm saying half the time. when i just think things would be better off if i'd stayed locked away-exiled-dead-gone.

i just want someone to care enough to stick up for me. i just want to believe people when they tell me it's not my fault. i just want to stop being tired.

- c!tommy fictive, #🔥🪽

🌱

[abluestreakedhero]

Sonic how does it feel knowing that you killed your owl mum? She died because you left the enemy to her doorstep!

You'll probably end up doing to the same to your pretzel mommy!

The shoet hedgehog pauses and stares up at you, his pupils go small and ears swivel back to pin against the back of his skull as he emits a small whimper. Hes been trying so hard to heal from that trauma and this person saying this to him— its bringing everything back. He nervously takes a step or two away as he fiddles with his gloves, trying to find something to say but the words— are eating away at him. It was his fault wasnt it? He didnt listen and now shes dead.. he nearly lost tom.. he could loose maddie just as easily..! The thought makes his lip quiver and quills bristle as he covers his mouth to hide his whimpering. Taking some breaths, he tries to speak up.

“I— it— it feels horrible! I know its my fault and i should’ve listened to her and dad better— i- i hate every moment that goes on without her but i know shes gone and it hurts— i didn’t mean too! I promise i didn’t mean to-.. a-and Maddie— i nearly cost tom his life by asking him and Maddie to help us i—.. i can!t.. i don’t want to lead them to their death..! M-maybe i should just— start fighting solo..! Y-yeah that.. that’ll keep them safe.. safe from danger.. safe from me.. i-i can handle fighting alone..! I did it alot as a hoglet so it.. shouldn’t be that hard..”

Sonic stares at the floor as he takes heavy breaths, ears flattened and he looks downright distraught. He knows he’s a walking bad omen of death by now— and he’s planning to fix that by- avoiding his family. That should work, right? Avoid them so they don’t get hurt but be close enough that he can save them if they need him.. the hedgehog turns away and wraps his arms around himself with shaky little breaths.

[skele-bunny]

pay for my therapy after that dew fic /j /silly

could we possibly get something abt him waking up after the coma? Like how it was for him & maybe how he felt toward missing out on not just that time with his pack, but with his Very Young Daughter? I mean a good few milestones got reached when he was comatose, surely? There's gotta be some feelings toward waking up after and realizing just how much he missed.

WELL MAYBE IF YOU GUYS STOPPED DESTROYING MY HEART I WOULDN'T BE PAYING UR THERAPYYYYYY /SILLY

CW Light Medical Talk, Self Blame, and Medium Description of Suicidal Thoughts

Tags: Heavy Angst/Light Comfort, hospital setting, recovery talk

Characters: Dewdrop, Calida (Kit), Misc

Oh gosh when Dew is finally out of his coma? He's miserable. Everything hurts. He can't speak, it hurts to swallow, everything feels too loud, too bright, he can't even sit up.

But you bet your fucking ass his favorite quad is in that room the moment they find out he's awake. Zephyr, Aether, Mountain, and... That's not his daughter.

Sure, it's a small fire kit. But Calida was smaller. Calida wasn't chewing on her tail. Calida wasn't able to squeal "Daba!" Calida wasn't able to hold herself up and tilt her head with curiosity.

That is not his daughter.

They take Dewdrop's obvious discomforted look as post-awakening. But they still bring her around, just like the entire time he's been under.

See, the issue is when Dewdrop transitioned Calida was about to turn 6 months old. Calida was now 9 months. When it's calmly explained to him how long he's been under, the extent of his injuries, and what exactly happened the first noise that comes out of him is a distressed wail. He just cries, although nothing physical comes out as his eyes are trying to work again. He's inconsolable, not even able to hold a pen or sign desperately to just tell Special to fucking kill him. This isn't worth living anymore. He doesn't want to live like this.

When he's sedated because of the pain and wakes up again, it's visiting hours once more. His eyes slowly opening as these high pitch squeals are giving him such a bad headache on top of the one already existing. He's watching... "Calida". She's waddling after Zephyr who's walking with their crutches, trying to be quiet with xer laughter as she stumbles trying to catch their tail.

Once again, he's crying and the group notices.

That's not his daughter. There's just no way.

They can see him eyeing her, Aether carefully picking the kit up and bringing her close in a misunderstanding that Dew wants her. She just smiles and Dew can't do anything but stare back into those ruby red eyes he's confused belongs to him or not. Aether very carefully lowering her down onto his chest like he had been for so long and something in Dew just... Clicks.

Fighting with his own body to raise his right hand albeit shaking, resting on her back and her smell... Her scent is his. It finally processes that this really is Calida. He really was gone for 3 ½ months. His body can't take the mental distress and he promptly passes out again.

Through his recovery he's able to do more and more. Finally able to sit up in bed, NJ tube in his nose, and hold Calida with both his arms. She's just babbling and saying little sentences here and there, but she just looks at Dew while holding a picture book. It's two fishes in a pond, labeled as a mommy fish and a baby fish. She just smiles and points at Dew.

"Mana." Points back at the fish. "Mana."

He just nods, leaning down and snuggling against her hair.

What hurts the most is when Calida took a nap on him. She only truly recognized her mother from his semi-scent, so when she woke up still in a somewhat daze she had a moment—smelling her Mana faintly but not seeing him. Just screaming and reaching for Aether trying to figure out why she was cuddled with this stranger, unable to calm her cries. Dewdrop is now just as miserable.

"That's Mana, little banana! It's Mana, everything's okay."

"S' not mana! S' not mana!"

His heart being crushed doesn't even get close to how he feels. He just asks Aether to leave, point blank. He's left to himself and cries. It seems like that's all he can do now, all he's been doing. Calida is having issues recognizing him, he's missed her crawling, missed her first steps, her first word, everything. Fucking. Everything.

He rips everything out of him in a flash of rage. His tube, his two IVs, his heart monitor, he's throwing his blankets off and using his hands to push the equipment over. It's the first time Dew lights himself on fire, screaming at nurses and Phil that come rushing in as their screens showed him as a flatline. He's fighting with everything he has to get out of bed, to do just SOMETHING. He doesn't know what, but all his mind can think of is killing himself and when he held Calida for the first time.

His recovery isn't pretty... He's unable to cope with the fact he missed Calida's biggest milestones, wallowing in turmoil. He can't help but hate himself for not just rejecting the forced proposition, for not fighting harder. For not accepting the threat to return to the pit with her. He knows he's not being very logical but it's all him mind will allow him to think.

Calida still comes around and it takes her a really long time to get used to her Mana's new scent and appearance, but she does! She honestly, truly does. Aether and Mountain show their phone recordings of the milestones and that also somewhat helps, able to see it in just some form.

When he's released and able to go back to the den, he refuses for anyone to touch Calida. Go near her. Nobody. She's upset about it, wanting her Daba and Paba, but Dew simply won't let her.

He's constantly scenting over her, holding her while in shambles, and just doing anything he can to just... Make up for loss time.

No matter what Dew does, however, will never really fix it. What's done is done, and there's no going back. It takes him a while to process that he can go forward with her, still

[indighostoast]

Yeah...right...

tw: mentions of suicidal ideation, self-harm, imposter syndrome (oh hey look it makes a comeback how nice of you to join), RSD, and just overall brutal self-hatred.

just a vent.

you don’t know when you internalized the fact

that you’ll never be enough. 

maybe it was one day. one day of scolding that went too far. 

maybe it was slowly taken from you, bit by bit. like a chocolate bar cut in pieces. slowly being chewed away.

maybe it you were just born with it. created with the function coded into your head. 

though the last one didn’t make sense. how did people do anything? walking around with their brain saying they didn’t deserve the air they breathed. the space they took up. 

or maybe because you had people around you. who cared. but not enough. 

they clapped politely, without knowing how much it mattered. 

and so as soon as you started to fly, they shot you down. they didn’t want you to fly too close to the sun, after all. we all knew what happens to Icarus. 

but they injured you. they poked so many holes in the wax wings that you plummeted. towards the ocean. 

and you fell. 

so you stopped. you stopped flying for you. 

or maybe you never stopped. maybe you’re only here because they wanted you to. you never chose to be here, after all. you’re just here to make other people happy. 

what else are you worth? besides that? 

but making people happy isn’t working. they got upset at you. they said things that you can’t handle. 

how can you handle everyone else when you can’t handle this from the closest people in your life? how can you be yourself when all you were defined as was to make everyone care about you? 

you’re selfless. you’re so polite. you’re so mature for your age. 

you’re so kind. you’re so hard on yourself.

you’re so lazy. you’re so emotional. you’re such a crybaby. 

you can’t handle growing up if this is how you act with a small critique. you can’t sit here and stay in shock and want to hurl yourself out the window and scratch into arms until you bleed. 

you have work to do. 

but they’ll never understand how much it matters to you. they’ll never understand the spike.

the adrenaline and hop in your step and how the world seemed so much more colorful when someone gave you what you wanted. 

but just like the times when you were young. when you learned to suddenly stop laughing and learned to put a hurt expression on your face. because of all the times you were told your laughter was too loud. that the joke wasn’t even funny but it sounded hysterical to you. like those times. 

you had to be down-to-earth. or else no one would take you seriously. so with every achievement you didn’t need other people’s help to brush or insult them away. you did it yourself. 

you couldn’t take any compliments anymore. any perfect score was taken as luck. people are just complimenting you because they haven’t seen someone better yet. someone replaceable. 

or they were just flat-out lying. that’s a possibility. 

so you long to impress the people more skilled than you. you were taught to look up to them, after all. you long to impress them the same way they impressed you. 

or was it jealousy? were you jealous of them, possibly? you can’t be jealous. you’re supposed to be happy you hypocrite. 

you can’t count how many things that’ll never see the light of day again. how many hobbies you truly enjoyed but were ruined by comparing. or because no one cared enough about it. or how many words you’ve written but spoiled by judgment. 

and years and years of hating yourself.

you were born to hate yourself;  you were born to pretend you had any form of self-love at all. 

the only form of self-love came when you were emotionally exhausted. when you’re so tired you can’t think of anything but of how tired you were. 

you were selfish. though. selfish for thinking you could be the best.  selfish for thinking your ideas had any form of tact at all. 

they were stronger than you, that’s for sure. 

the people who were told they would never make it, and still made it. they’ll never be you. that’s for sure. you’re too sensitive. 

you think you could just get what you want without doing any work? how cute. you think you can make someone happy? when it’s you? when you’re the one trying? 

how…cute. 

you’re still that eight-year-old who hit themselves until their arms were red. you’re still that little kid who cried because “all the other kids have birthday parties! all the other kids have so many friends who don’t leave me!” you’re still that kid who cried after you didn’t win, waiting for reassurance and instead getting hit with the reality train. because you didn’t train enough. because you were seven fucking years old and you were crying in the car while they yelled at you. 

you were nine. you were nine and someone should’ve hugged you afterwards. you were nine and instead people said you weren’t good enough. that you should win first place and that the older kids got almost every single question right and even though you were the best, it was because everyone else was a failure. 

even though you made it further than the people almost twice your age. you still cried in the bathroom because you panicked. you froze up and you don’t deserve any of it. 

reality hit in: you aren’t that gifted kid anymore. you never were.

so none of your achievements were worth it. huh. that’s a shock. 

why don’t you just throw out the few prizes you have? if you had any at all. 

if you can’t make yourself happy: make everyone else happy instead. your mother was always telling you to have a goal set. to have a purpose in life so you wouldn’t try and kill yourself again. 

why can’t you do it? why can’t you just be like everyone else? 

all of the people who said they were impressed, said they liked what you did 

and whatnot. 

all liars. 

big. fat. liars. 

all of them. 

they’ll discover how much of a fraud you are. you're too unskilled to even be breathing air on this earth.

it’s easy to replace someone terrible. there’s people waiting in line already. 

so might as well point out your flaws before anyone bothers to. 

stupid. how stupid. 

[crumbleclub]

They can talk, in death. Evan has questions. He wants to understand; he needs to know the whole story in order to process and heal. He needs to know why Mike was the way that he was to understand that it wasn't Evan's fault; and he wants to know what happened after he died, what it was like.

Michael wants to answer him. He wants to help; he's obligated to help, after everything he's done to Evan. He prepares his story, opens his mouth to speak...

And nothing comes out.

In which Michael threw himself to the wayside when he decided to save them, so much so that he isn't ready to talk about his own trauma after he dies.

[whump-card]

Sunless Lives Part 34: I Need to Apologize

~1730 words

CW: internalized victim blaming, aftermath of whump, medical setting, restraints, negative self-talk, derogatory language

First, Previous, Next, Masterlist

~~~

Dear Matthew,

I’m sorry. Everything is my fault. You were right. I should have done what you wanted. Instead I keep inviting people to hurt me. Tempting people. I’ve realized that I’m just not very smart. I never finished highschool. I’ve been hit in the head too many times. I will always make bad decisions that put myself and the people around me in danger.

I’ve decided to leave. I don’t want you to look for me. I’m not killing myself. I don’t want to die. I never wanted to die. I don’t know what happened but I never tried to kill myself, I know that. So please don’t worry about me. I’m not worth it. You made the right decision, leaving me. You should have done that sooner.

I’m not loyal. I’m not a good person. I think I can only survive when someone else is telling me what to do. But I don’t want to burden you with that anymore. You deserve better and I know you don’t want it.

Please tell Christian I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to give him the wrong idea.

Simon

~~~

Simon drifted back into his body slowly, in a fuzz of dulled pain that settled deep into his bones. A machine beeped rhythmically next to him and someone huffed and sighed.

Matthew?

Simon’s eyes flew open, and were stung by a panel of light in the ceiling. He tried to lift a hand to shield himself from the glare, but found he couldn’t move his arms. He flicked his eyes downwards. His body was covered by a thin blanket, but something underneath compressed his arms and held them crossed over his chest like a corpse about to be buried. Carefully placed pillows immobilized his legs as well. Something ticked his face and nose.

He turned his head, just a little, and his heart leapt when he saw Matthew out of the corner of his eye. Matthew sat in a chair next to Simon’s bed, hunched over a laptop. His right arm was in a sling and cast, and his neck was swaddled in bandages.

Are you okay? Simon opened his mouth to ask, but all that came out was a wheeze of air as his throat painfully flexed, his vocal chords straining but achieving nothing.

The small sound made Matthew look up sharply, and relief and joy flooded his face.

“Simon!” He set aside the laptop and stood, leaning over the bed so that Simon could see him more easily. “Don’t talk, okay? Don’t talk, you…” His smile changed, and became a little pitying. “Your throat is pretty messed up. All of you, actually.”

How did - ?

The memories crashed over him. Bowers. The warehouse.

The pipe.

The beeping of the monitor sped up. Simon would have whimpered if he could have. Matthew’s smile vanished and was replaced with deep concern.

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay, we got to you in time, you’re going to be okay,” he said, his hand hovering over Simon’s chest, “Gina and I came after you, we tracked your friend Nora’s smartwatch right to you. We faced Bowers alone and… it didn’t go well, but then he bit me,” Matthew continued quickly as Simon’s eyes widened, “And because I’d taken the cure, my blood turned him. He’s dead now, and Amber arrived in time to get everyone to the hospital. Gina’s going to be okay too, she has a ruptured spleen and a bad concussion but she’ll be okay. We’re all going to be okay, Simon.” His voice grew wobbly towards the end, and he smiled at Simon with tears in his eyes.

Simon just stared at him, overwhelmed. Gratitude. Guilt. Relief. Shame.

Matthew doesn’t want to be with you anymore.

Matthew doesn’t want to be with you anymore, and he still put his life on the line for you. Nearly died for you.

(You’re not worth it.)

He found tears pricking his own eyes and his shoulders jerked with a suppressed sob.

“Hey hey, don’t move,” Matthew warned gently, “They immobilized your arms because both of your shoulders are all messed up. You shouldn’t try to move anything, actually, they - they had to do a lot of work, on your leg and your hips. They had to put in a whole bunch of pins and rods and things. And they’re bringing in a specialist to look at your throat. He’s supposed to be here later today. They’re not… They’re not sure, how… You’ve got a feeding tube, for now, down your nose. I hope it’s not bothering you.”

Simon forced shuddering breaths in and out. The straps around his arms felt like they were suffocating him. His eyes darted around the room wildly.

“Oh, I was thinking about how to do this…” Matthew left his side, and rolled a tray table over to the bed. He lifted his laptop onto it, and pulled up a morse code chart.

“Only if you're up for it,” Matthew looked at him, at the ready with a hospital-branded notepad on the table and a pen held awkwardly in his left hand.

Simon’s eyes flitted over the chart. 

He could ask about Christian.

He’s dead.

He could ask what Matthew was doing there.

He probably feels obligated.

He could ask why Gina and Amber had helped rescue him.

They probably felt guilty for putting me in Summerwhite.

Eventually he just shut his eyes, and turned his face back towards the ceiling. It was all useless. He had nothing to ask, and nothing to say. No words, especially not words spelled out letter by letter, could explain how he was feeling about Matthew right now. Grateful he was here. Terrified that he was going to tell Simon to his face that they were done. Angry that he hadn’t done that in the first place.

“Oh, that’s okay.” Matthew couldn’t hide his disappointment.

Simon listened as Matthew moved the chair closer to the bed and sat down. The silence stretched, and Simon could feel Matthew building up his nerve. He finally spoke.

“Simon, I need to tell you something.”

Simon’s eyes snapped open.

What now?

“Christian is dead. Bowers killed him.”

It was only confirmation of what Simon already knew. His face crumpled, and he turned away from Matthew as best he could. His shoulders shook painfully.

“I’m sorry, Simon,” Matthew said softly, “I’m so sorry.”

Matthew reached out and rested a hand on Simon’s short, fuzzy hair. The touch made Simon expel a gasp. It felt so good to finally be touched by Matthew again. He was scared for a moment that Matthew would misinterpret his reaction and pull away, but the hand stayed, heavy and comforting.

“I also… Simon, I read your letter.”

Simon screwed his eyes shut.

Oh no.

“I’m sorry you feel like I left you, I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I love you.”

Simon was frozen for a moment, then twisted his head to gaze at Matthew with tearful disbelief.

No, Christian said…

Simon’s eyes found the morse code chart and he frantically started blinking.

“Woah, slow down!” Matthew leaned forward, grinning. His smile faded as he transferred Simon’s message onto the notepad, painfully slow with only the use of his non-dominant hand.

I. S. L. E. S. A. Y. U. L. E. F. T. M. E. 

Matthew muttered the message to himself a couple times before sitting bolt upright, outraged.

“That’s not what happened! I was with you, I helped him bring you to his home, I was going to stay and help, but he kicked me out and got a restraining order. Simon, I was doing everything I could to see you.”

Oh.

Christian lied.

The revelation of this new layer of betrayal sent the heart monitor racing again. Simon’s chest rose and fell rapidly, and he opened his mouth - he needed to speak, to curse, to scream. He could feel his throat tensing and flexing and trying and all he could make was a terribly painful rasp.

“Simon, Simon, it’s okay!” Matthew cast aside the pen and notepad and settled his hand back on Simon’s head. “Breathe slow, it’s okay, I’m here now. I’m here now. And I’m - I’m so sorry, Simon, I’m so sorry -”

Matthew abruptly burst into tears of his own.

“This is all my fault, not yours, Simon, I let them take you away from me and you were right, you should never have gone to Fort Summerwhite!”

Simon stared at him in shock. Matthew babbled on.

“I know they did something terrible to you there, and Isles too, because this?” Matthew stood, pulling the yellow paper out of his pocket and waving it at Simon. “This isn’t you! You’re smart, and you’re capable, and you didn’t ask for any of this. You don’t deserve any of this, and I’m so, so sorry for everything that I said to you, Simon, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re not an idiot, and, and…” 

Simon couldn’t respond, couldn’t argue, as Matthew ranted.

“And you think you're not loyal? Simon, you’ve never betrayed me, not once! I know you think you did, I know something bad happened at Summerwhite, with an orderly, but if they were forcing you then that was abuse, not cheating!” The letter crumpled in Matthew’s grip, “And, and, you’re not a bad person! You sacrificed yourself to save me and the team from Peacock, and you stayed with me after I became a vampire so that I wouldn’t hurt innocent people! Simon, you…” Matthew sank back into the chair, searching Simon’s face. He looked exhausted. Scared.

“What happened that made you think about yourself like this?” he pleaded.

When did I realize I was stupid?

When they told me so.

Reeder. “Dumb fucking slut.” “Stupid whore.” “Stupid fucking bloodbag.” Every other day, for weeks.

Dr Deckard. “Your irrational tendencies stretch back far.” “Let’s work on making better decisions.” Twice a week, for months.

Christian. Not with his words, but his actions. He took over my life. He doesn’t believe I’m capable of anything except lying and hurting myself.

Didn’t. Didn’t believe.

And then…

“I hurt you, you fucking idiot!”

You only needed to say it once.

The tears overflowed and ran across Simon’s turned face and spilled onto the pillow. He needed to apologize for disappointing Matthew. For turning out like this. But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. He was useless.

Useless.

Useless.

~~~

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