#carrying the weight of having their fears and grief used against them

[bansheenolan]

— FRANK BIDART.

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Thankful

A/N: Everyone wanted more soft Astarion, so how's traumatized instead? Tags: Astarion Ancunin, Astarion, BG3 Astarion, BG3 Imagines, Astarion x OC, Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Reader WARNINGS: Canon-typical blood, mentions of grieving/loss. ACT III/ 'THE PALE ELF' QUEST SPOILERS Summary: You comfort Astarion and talk about emotions after the events at Szarr Palace.

Word count: 2.1k+ (GIF credit to @silverformymonsters)

Leaving Szarr Palace is both a weight off your shoulders and the biggest burden you’ve carried since this adventure started. Cazador is dead, and Astarion is free as last. No master, and no more being used as a means to an end.

 But it’s never that simple, is it?

Shadowheart and Lae’zel, mercifully, take Astarion’s second wave of heart-wrenching wails, after all the spawn were set free, as their cue to leave. You give him space as he cries and wait until it’s only a soft whimper to approach. He’s on his knees at that point, Cazador’s bloody body inches from his. The daggers still sticks out of the vampire lord’s chest, begging to be used once again. 

You come to a stop behind Astarion’s left shoulder and let your fingers barely brush his skin. For once he feels warm, filled with anger, denial, fear and vulnerability. When he doesn’t brush you off, you press more firmly, moving to the front of his body. Astarion’s hands creep up to your hips and use them as leverage to stagger to his feet. It isn’t until he’s upright that he makes eye contact and breaks your heart into two. 

Blood runs in macabre trails down his skin and clothes, puddling on the floors around him and his fallen master. His eyes, normally alight with mischief and mirth, are downcast, swollen and dripping with tears. The pain is apparent, tied together with confusion and grief for the end of an era, even if it was depraved and lonesome. 

“... I should be happy.” He whispers, pinching his eyes shut. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Oh, Astarion.” You murmur, reaching to envelop him in your arms. 

Your vampire crumbles, arms wrapping tight around you to the point you’re fairly certain you’re not getting enough oxygen. Astarion clings to your clothes, to any concrete fragment of reality that can ground him from what he’s been through. His face buries itself into the crook of your neck, hiding the tears from your prying eyes. One hand comes up to cup the back of his head and strokes his blood-stained curls. 

“I-I… I feel numb. Empty.”

Keeping him close is the only thought in your mind. It’s not the time to delve into the implications of grieving an abuser. You decide it’s best to get back to your lodgings above the Elfsong Tavern to let him have privacy instead of being surrounded by the exact place causing him so much pain. 

And a long journey it is. Past the Gur leader Ulma waiting at the dais, and through the bustling streets of Baldur’ Gate.

Astarion barely makes it into the washroom before he collapses, and you just do your best to keep him on his feet. 

“Here, here. Sit down and I’ll draw you a bath, yeah?”

Astarion drops on the floor where you’re lowering him. You think he nods, but don’t stay long enough to confirm it. The other members of your rag tag team are dotted about the lounge area when you walk in and beeline straight towards Astarion’s chest of clothing. 

Karlach is the only one brave enough to approach you, tapping long talons nervously against her leg. 

“Well? How’s he doin’?” 

“As well as can be expected…” You sigh and sit on his bed, fresh clothes in one hand. “It’s a complicated situation. He hated Cazador, but the man was also some of the only constant interaction Astarion had in damn near two centuries.”

“Sometimes I fell empty, not having orders and all. Not having something constant that tells you where to go and what to do.” Karlach rubs her arms and shrugs. “Then I remember freedom and how much that means. I’m done being bound to some wretched leader. But there’s still a spot that feels empty. It’s healing, but it takes time. Hells, mine’s gotten better just having all of you around.”

Her words kick your brain into gear. “Yeah, that makes sense. Thanks, Karlach.”

Much to your surprise, Astarion’s already in a warm bath upon your return. You close the door behind you and slide the lock over, ensuring privacy for you both. The vampire’s eyelids only lift slightly when you drop his clothes onto the fireplace hearth and drag a wooden chair close. 

“That was fast.” You observe and nod towards the water. 

“Mhm. I caught Gale on his way up from supper. He waved his fingers around and made it work.”

You’re thankful for Gale’s presence and quiet affinity for the vampire, as it would’ve taken you twice as long manually. 

“You don’t have to sit here, you know. I’ll be alright.” Astarion says quietly. 

“Is that you nicely asking me to leave?”

His answer comes quickly. “No. I just don’t want to be a burden.”

The words are like a shot through the heart. “You could never burden me. No matter what.”

Astarion opens his eyes then. “Not even with a century of fucked up emotions? Trauma, as I’m sure you’re thinking?”

Ah, he needs the direct approach. You begin undressing, tossing your belongings in a messy pile on the floor. 

“Fuck off and move over.”

Astarion stares at you and blinks comically before sliding over. 

Once naked, you climb into the still-steaming water. There’s not an over-abundance of room in the tub, but enough that you can both put your backs against opposite sides and face each other. His long legs stretch to either side of your bum while yours remain crossed beneath. With both of you inside, the water easily rises above your chest, licking gently at sensitive collarbones instead.

“Talk.”

He sulks, but you can see the redness in his eyes and the swelling beneath. “And what should I talk about? How I’m not feeling as free as I should despite killing my slave-driver? I don’t need a psychic to tell me something is wrong with me.”

Astarion’s anger is familiar and raw, defending the vulnerable emotions swirling like a whirlpool in his gut. You don’t flich at its bite, nor retreat from its bark. It only rolls off your shoulders, dripping like rain right back into the bathwater. 

“Yes, exactly that. You’re allowed to be upset. To be sad. Cazador and his necromancied skeleton guard were the only constants in your life for a long time. And now they’re gone. You’re allowed to grieve that loss. Even if it feels wrong.”

He draws in a breath, water rippling around his bare chest. “It feels atrocious. After everything he’s done - I’ve done- killing him should be a relief. Joyous, even. And instead I feel like this.”

You reach a hand onto the table to grab soap. Its smell is a pleasant break from blood and gore, and you start towards Astarion with it in hand. 

“You’re still in shock. Everything we saw and did in that dungeon, all those people you knew. It’s natural to be sad and feel guilty.” You lather up your hands and bring them up to his neck, starting a slow and cautious massage. “Releasing them into the Underdark was the best chance they had to survive… and the best way to redeem the sins forced upon you.”

He leans into your hands as they rub the soap into his chest and shoulders. “I suppose it was.”

“Turn.” You tell him softly. He complies, drawing his legs to sit cross legged and face away from you. 

Knowing it might be easier to hear your sentimental words while facing away, you lean into his ear. “No matter what, I’m proud of you. You’re a hundred times the man Cazador ever was.”

Astarion heaves a breath at your words, scarred back rising into your hands as you continue to spread the lather across his skin. You pretend the horrific rune isn’t there, doing your best to prevent another angry outburst His shoulders hitch when you start scrubbing at his hair and gently cupping water to wet his curls. 

“I think I’m glad it’s over. I just….” He’s at a loss for words and flounders. One hand waves aimlessly in the air. 

“Need time?” You supply, gliding your hands across his trapezius. 

One of his strikes upwards like lightning, grabbing onto yours and squeezing. “Yeah. Time.”

You use a small cup from the tray to rinse his snowy curls without getting soap in his eyes. He hums at the warm water rolling down his scalp, and spins to face you as soon as you’re finished. 

“Tav?”

You’re leaning to grab the soap when you pause to look at him. “Astarion?”

“Will you come to bed with me tonight?” Astarion stops and corrects himself. “Just to keep me company.”

“Of course I will.” 

Much to your surprise, Astarion pushes himself through the water until you’re chest-to-chest. The liquid swirls and sloshes, splashing onto the floor and no doubt dripping onto a table at the tavern below. He draws your close, arms winding around your waist and pulling you into his lap. 

You smile and wrap your legs around his middle, ignoring the discomfort due to limited space. Astarion’s head finds its place on your shoulder, nose brushing against the delicate side of your neck. His cool skin is a reprieve against the steamy bathroom. You nuzzle his damp curls and rub his back softly. 

“I’m glad you didn’t stick to your original plan when we slept together that first night.” You hum, “You’ve become quite important to me on this journey.” 

“How could I have? You’re too perfect.” Astarion’s breath sends goosebumps shooting in all directions from the joint of your shoulder. The feeling is similar to that of his bite, but less intense. 

It hits you that he’s probably famished, not having fed on you the night before and being partially drained by Cazador’s profane ritual. Not to mention the amount of strain that’s been put on him both emotionally and physically in the last few hours.

You brush your hair away from your neck. “You need to feed,”

Astarion lifts his head. “That wasn’t what I was-”

“I know. But you’ve been through a lot.” You insist, rolling your head to the side. “Humor me.”

“I suppose I could be tempted.” Astarion’s eyes darken, and he shift back in towards your neck

His cool breath washes over your skin, and combined with the water it’s so chilly that it’s almost numb while he prepares to sink his teeth in. You feel his nose brush your skin, seeking out the delicate vein carrying the liquid he needs so desperately. He marks his target with a gentle kiss, and one hand holds your hip as he bites down. 

Ice shoots through your veins, spreading slowly from collarbones to belly button, and eventually your toes as he drinks. The freezing quickly turns to ecstasy, shooting arousal into every corner of your body though you know it's not the time. Your hand knots in Astarion’s hair, unconsciously encouraging him to keep going. Somewhere in your brain, you realize this is how people fall so easily to vampires. With a blissful numb that rivals the best Opium and a feather-light sensation overtaking all your limbs, what wouldn’t someone fall for?

But luckily, your vampire would never let you fall.

Astarion’s fangs pull away from your skin but his mouth remains on your neck, lapping at the weeping blood until it stops. You’re woozy for sure, and allow yourself a few moments to be dead weight in his embrace. 

“I apologize, darling. I got carried away.”

You shake your head and press a kiss to his chin. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Are you going to be able to navigate back to bed?” He asks, tipping his chin towards the shared space. “While you understand me, I’m not sure the others will be so friendly about my choice of dinner.”

“I’m willing to pay the barkeep for the private room across the hall for tonight.” 

And you do, without thought. Anything that provides Astarion with comfort is worth the price for you. So you both trek across the hallway, leaving the bathroom mess for morning. Exhaustion has completely taken over after Astarion’s bite, and you take a moment to wrestle with the sheets until you’re able to climb under them.

“Comfortable, darling?” Astarion asks as he lays down. 

“Delightful.” You reply, “Now get some rest.”

Astarion does as you say, but keeps you within arms reach at all times. He might be having trouble with his feelings towards Cazador and the missed opportunity for power, but he’s thankful. 

Thankful for his choice, and thankful for you.

As always, if you enjoy please like/reblog and check out my links for more :)

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[eff4freddie]

Of Comfort

Joel Miller x AFAB Reader Words 1.7k Rated: Explicit, Minors DNI

Joel's formidable powers of observation have kept him alive, got him and Ellie to Jackson, makes him deadly on patrols. It also means he can easily tell when there's something up with you.

Warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), hurt/comfort, you're sad sometimes and Joel notices, plot? we don't know her, the cover art is obnoxiously large but I have nfi how to fix it A/N: guys, I've suffered a loss this week and I'm sad. This is an indulgent comfort fic. I hope you enjoy and if you do please drop me a comment, I could use the boost. Love youse x

There wasn’t even anything really the matter. You just felt low, felt the absence of the people you cared about. Long dead or infected. Most of the time, you had somewhat of a say in when it happened. There were some moments you allowed yourself to think of them, carved out a time in your day to remember just so that you could put them back on the shelf and get on with things.

There were also times when you didn’t have the choice. When the time would come to pay the piper, whether you could spare the change or not. These were the moments you dreaded, feared waiting for you around dark corners, in quiet moments, in little dust motes dancing in the dawning light. These moments that let the melancholy in. In those moments you felt something heavy planted on your chest, and at the same time an emptiness, felt the loss in the sheer weight of it as it crushed you.

You never said anything about it. Everyone in Jackson had suffered such incalculable losses that it felt almost moot. Embedded in the walls, planted in the soil of the place were the spindly threads of grief. No fish ever complains about the cold of the water.

For the most part you were a good enough mimic that you could go about your day in Jackson, work the soil in the greenhouses, spread hay still warm from the sun for the sheep, sit and let the conversations wash over you in the mess hall. You would get away with it, except for Joel.

Joel, whose ability to notice things had kept him and Ellie alive, had brought them to Jackson not once but twice, had kept him steely and watchful on every patrol you’d ever been on with him, cowering under the power of his gaze when he shone it on you.

He didn’t ask anything of you when he appeared on your front porch, sometimes carrying half a bottle of whiskey, sometimes just his coat. He wouldn’t attempt to pry, crack open your ribcage, just sensing with his innate ability that your head would slip under the surface if he did, that the wave would crush you, steal the air from your lungs. He would simply step forward, pulling you firm but soft into the circle of his arms, rest his chin on the crown of your head and blot your tears with the cotton of his shirt.

‘Joel,’ sometimes you’d whimper, and he’d shush you, maybe rock you a little in his arms, let you burrow into his neck and rest there, gather yourself. You would feel the warmth of his skin on your lips as you whispered his name, implored him to help you forget again. And he would lift you, so smooth and effortless, up into his arms, your thighs circling him, ankles locked behind him, as he carried you up to your room.

The chill in the air would raise goosebumps on your skin as he stripped your clothes from you, warming you with his hands and his tongue, peppering kisses over your shoulders and your collarbones, tracing the skin with his lips. Trembling, you would feel the muscles roll themselves out for him, surrender to his heat and the press of his body against yours. You would let him sit you down on the edge of the bed, lifting your chin as he stood between your knees, bending down to drop kisses on your cheek, on your eye sockets, down to your lips.

He would be too quiet, almost silent but for the sharp intake of his breath as he reached down to cup your tits, roll your nipples between his thumbs and listen to the way you keened. The heat would shoot down to your core, your pooling slick gathering on the bedspread, as the shock of the pleasure would grip you, and you’d ask him then, heart racing, to say something, to tell you, to warm you with his words.

‘My sweet girl,’ he’d say, and you would close your eyes, the rumble of it in his chest just an inch from your face. ‘My beautiful girl,’ he’d speak again, pulling your hair over your shoulders, gathering it in his fist and angling your face to him again. You would stare up at him, eyes wide and wet as he gazed down at you, thick lips and warm brown pupils blown. ‘So brave,’ he’d say, and you would hiccup a little sob, the relief and the joy of it bubbling high in your oesophagus. You would never feel more naked than in this moment with him, always with his hands in your hair and his eyes roaming your face, appraising you, praising you. He would wipe away the tears on your cheeks, his fingertips rough against your soft skin. ‘Let me show you how strong you are,’ he'd say, and he’d be pushing you down then, gently by the shoulder, releasing your hair to slide his hands down your spine and under your bottom, pulling you fast to the edge of the bed as your shoulders hit the mattress, knees widening to make room for his shoulders as he crouched between them.

‘Perfect little cunt,’ he’d say, but almost to himself more than to you, and you would feel the thrill of it just the same, the pounding of your heart matching the ache in your pussy as you waited, spread, for him to devour you. You wanted to cry, to groan, to grab his hair and pull him to you, but you let him have his moment with your cunt, let him savour it, borrowed some of his power to believe yourself worthy of his need.

Seconds, minutes, centuries would tick by, and you would wait, breath caught in your throat, chest thundering, until you felt him dip down to you, felt his breath on your lips, hot and humid and sweet. For all the time he had taken to devour you with his eyes, he would not be so languid with his tongue, licking a stripe up your cunt to open you before dipping down, nose nudging at your clit, as he circled his tongue inside.

You would hold your breath, sometimes bite on your fist, so as not to muffle the groan he would let out at the first taste, his breath coming sharp and fast through his nose as his eyes slammed shut, brow furrowed. If you were to get up on your elbows and try to pull him away by the hair he would growl, like a rabid dog fighting for its last meal, and so you would submit to it, the pleasure and his need, let him drink.

But soon you would be writhing, the bedspread in your fists as you rocked your head side to side, gasping for breath and whining, sounds only he is capable of causing in you, whimpers only for him, as he laves at your cunt.

‘Joel…’ you’d whimper again, needing more and simultaneously feeling too much, your nerve endings on fire as your head swam, the room swirling in front of you as you felt your throat dry. You wondered if he would ever kill you this way, warp your bones with the pleasure of it, splinter you right down the centre.

And then, fingers. Finally, fucking fingers. Gasping and blindly groping for him as he slid two fingers into your cunt and swirled them towards your belly button, that little magic spongey spot you can never get to on your own, the one that makes you vault upright, your muscles straining as you extend your neck, throw your head to the ceiling, clench your core and bear down on him.

‘There she is,’ he’d praise from between your thighs, eyes locked on your face as your muscles contorted, bearing the weight of you, of him, rolling the boulder from your chest and letting it flop to the floor beside you, legs extended, arms gripping and hands grasping, every muscle taught and alive on fire, tight as a bow string. ‘My strong girl,’ he’d say again, as you bucked under him, such that he had to hold you down by the hips to continue to break you apart.

‘Oh, God!’ you’d cry, thoughts abandoning ship one by one as you drowned in it, in Joel’s hands and his lips, as he continued to rain pleasure down on your cunt. ‘I can’t…!’ you’d cry, and he would groan, disapproving, into you.

‘You can.’

You’d shake your head, certain this time he was going to end you, was going to topple you into oblivion, suddenly feeling you wanted to howl, to cry, to keen, and to come.

‘Do it,’ he would instruct. ‘I’ve got you. Let it go, baby.’

Baby.

And so, you would. Each time surprised at your body’s capacity to withstand it, the keening pleasure bowing your bones in their sockets. You would come. Sometimes accompanied by a call to the underworld from deep in your chest. Sometimes with a whimper of submission, a groaned, feeble protest at all that been taken from you. Sometimes with a gasping silence, an acceptance high and coarse in your throat, of your survival and of your guilt.

Sometimes with your hands in his hair, his name in your mouth, new tears tracking down your cheeks mixing with garbled declarations of love, and of gratitude.

--

After, he would hold you as the sobs racked your frame, your head tucked into his neck and his warm arms wrapped firm around you as he lay you down across his chest, bent you to straddle him. He would listen as your whimpers turned into soft breaths, occasional gasps as your mind stilled, blinking slow as you felt yourself washed clean from the inside. He would wait for you to lift your head, to gaze up at him, for him to lower his mouth to your lips and catch them in his.

He would never stay, and you knew better than to ask it of him. Pulling the blanket over you both he would hold you until your breath evened out, until your little snores tickled his chest, before he would release you, slip out of your room and down the stairs, turn the lights off and lock the door behind him as he went.

[snarky-wallflower]

Guided To His Place

Word Count: 1584 AO3 Inspired by my friend @its-short-for-jackalope's art, which can be found here! Also by my friend @midnightnautilus, whose ficlet can be found here. I found Samuel's arc truly beautiful, and as much as I'm devastated he's gone? I wanted to write my own send off to him, as someone who deeply related to him. I hope you all enjoy it.

Samuel Stratford lies in the grass, the softness of it comforting his back. It's twilight, sweet and true all around him. A peace settles in him, as he looks up at the stars. Shining, brilliant and bright, reminders of home. The stars are familiar, even in this strange place. Shining starlight, up in the sky once more. This place, the end. The place he appeared, once he awakened from his final choice.

He's wandered throughout it as much as he can - recognizing the Paper Stand, the Township, even the Ellen Austin and Lincoln Island. Places he loved, places he made an impact. A place where his story unfolded, now a place for him to walk and discover.

Their echoes.  Now, he rests. It's a strange sensation, being alone. He doesn't know if he'll ever grow used to it. He spots familiarity up in that glimmering cacophony of stars, and feels his shoulders relax. He glows the same as those stars now, golden and warm against the cool night. 

Above him is the Sagitta. Rose, Samuel, Margaret and John. The closest he has come to seeing his friends, his sister. Those stars Rose had named after the four of them, up in the sky. Separated, unable to reunite. Above him, the Satellite, shining out protectively into the dark. A guiding light home. That beauty he laid so many bricks to help create, helping to bring people home.

It's not the true stars or Satellite, of course. But it's still a reminder that his friends are out there, finding their way. He thinks that's still something real, in a way.

A cloak of grief and love covers his heart, as a lump forms in his throat. It's a strange mixture, those feelings, yet they still hold true. He's cried so much since he made his choice. Even now, they start to softly drip down his cheeks, as he thinks of teasing Rose at the Paper Stand, quietly talking with John about the weight of a legacy, of rejoicing with Margaret as she turned that wood to gold, so incredibly proud of her. Masterpieces of memories, fortunate to have ever have made them. They fill him with pride and fondness, rippling through his veins like that starlight across the sky, the love he holds tight to his chest.

John, the man who started as an icon, who became someone Samuel could speak to about his fears of not being enough. Who understood Samuel when he said he still had so far to go. Who Samuel watched choose creativity, becoming more wild and free.

Margaret, his friend, that one who enchanted him with what lived inside her. Her quiet resolve, her determination to find her answers, her own kind of masterpiece. One who he found trust with again, who forgave him for what he had done. Who he spoke and spoke with, trying to build back that original connection once more. Helping her find her way. 

Rose, the one he would have been lost without. The one person Samuel thinks he knows better than he knows himself. The bravest, the best person he knows. Her sheer resolve to make her own legacy, to accomplish whatever she set her mind to. The first person he ever dreamed with, who was the one who reached out with him to find a world that was more than this. 

Memories are what he has in this after, and he thinks of them often. Living in the echoes he made with those he loved so dearly.

There's a peace in his choice, though. Samuel knows it was the only choice he ever could have made. His friends will go on without him. His life was worth them getting to live, to continue their journeys. He acted like the man in his dreams, accomplished great things in the end. There is no greater thing he could have done than make sure that the family he built in brick carried on. 

But, still... "I miss you." His voice is quiet. He misses them so badly that it aches. He could write and write and write, and it would still never come close to capturing the loss that he carries with him now.

But they must go on without him. This is what sacrifice means. It's a sacrifice he cannot ever bring himself to regret. Not when it means that those he loves--John, Margaret, Rose--live on. He did this for them. He would do this for them over and over. He wasn't afraid at the end, no longer needed direction. He knew what needed to happen. In no universe would he have held back from what needed to be done. He saved them, making his final impact.  "I love you." It's easy, to say those words. Reliving those memories, that started all with his notebook. Those connections--those people he holds so dear. His hand reaches out to the stars. Connecting the four of them with his finger, holding their memories and stories in his mind. He's always been a storyteller, after all--that certainly will not stop now. He tells their stories, if only to himself. A fond smile crosses his face, as he feels warm air swoop across his face. He can almost picture them beside him--but only just. 

The world is silent.

It's only Samuel and the stars, at the end of infinity.

A quiet sigh leaves Samuel's mouth, feeling that kaleidoscope of stars all around.

This is a moment, all his own.

Then, a buzz, just above him. He draws his head up, to see an intricately carved box, humming with its own sort of blue-green glow. It's mahogany, the buttons and knobs near the top standing proud and strong. It's near his height, mere inches shorter. He lets out a laugh, recognizing the radio--for that is what she's called--that first and only other being here. He moves to get a better look at her, the other storyteller here. He'd like to call her a peer.  MAIA.  Elation and fear runs through him, as he realises what's happening. "Oh." She does not often call. There's only one reason she's come to his side. "It's time, isn't it?" MAIA lets out a short buzz. An affirmation.  Samuel breathes in. Breathes out. He gets to his feet, feeling the grass shift around him. He rolls back his shoulders, steadying himself.

Once on his feet, he places a hand on MAIA's top.  "Take me there?"  

She lets out another buzz, and-- In a flash, Samuel's no longer in the grass. Instead, he stands in a small room. Marigold-yellow wallpaper covers every wall. A green, plush chair is in one side of the room, with MAIA now rests next to that chair. On her top, now, a vase of roses. Soft blue carpet covers the floor, as a small table holds issues of what he knows to be the Sun. He picks one up and idly flips through it, laughing at the words he wrote with Rose in what feels like so long ago. His journal, a recreation of it, sits besides one of those issues. Trinkets, some he thinks Rose would have loved, strewn across the room.

MAIA starts to hum, a signal. She's picking up on the next story to share.  He's almost nervous.

But why should he be?

They know where to find me. 

Samuel feels a swell of pride, of trust in his friends.  There's agony in no longer being there for them, of course. He thinks he will always feel that pain. There is a part of him that is terrified to listen, to hear exactly what his choice did to his family. That is terrified to hear Rose's grief, the final Stratford still on Earth. His sister, without him. 

But they will persevere.

They always have, and he knows they are strong enough to keep on moving. Margaret, with her quiet inner strength and belief. John with his understanding of the weight of a legacy. Rose, who has survived so much already, his sister who he knows better than anyone else. His harbour in a storm, who will now live on without him. She has people other than him to lean on now, and he prays that will be enough.  They will be enough for each other. They have each other, even without him. They've built their family - and Samuel knows that it will hold fast against the shadows ahead. 

He had always been the storyteller before. The one who wanted so badly to convert passion to action. But now? 

"Tell me how it ends?" 

MAIA buzzes, a unspoken of course. So, Samuel settles in, sitting in the comfortable chair beside her. He can feel warmth exuding from him, something ghostly and true. He leans in, placing his hand on his cheek.  "Rose, Margaret, John..." he muses, "l know you can do this. You're capable of everything. You were worth the world. Protect each other, for me?" He knows they cannot hear him. But he says it anyways, keeping them in his heart. Speaking out to the stars.

A voice starts to play through MAIA's speaker, the blue-golden glow shining across the room, a mixture of Samuel and MAIA's combined light. A sweet tune sounds off before it, a opening of a curtain. Their stories go on, even without him. Samuel smiles.  He's ready. "Somewhere between the comforts of the familiar and the precipice of the unknown, an orchestra performs a score written in stardust..."

[that-nerd-who-writes-fanfiction]

WIP Wednesday:

Merlin doesn't stay in Camelot, after he finds out about his destiny he brings life back to The Perilous Lands and makes it his kingdom to keep magic users safe. - Arthur becomes king and seeks a peace treaty with King Emrys.

Just a snippet from something else I’ve been working on :)

—

Arthur watched Merlin’s back, the glow of a sunset outlining him and making him look almost ethereal. The ornate silver circlet in his hand, hung carelessly at his side, shining golden in the light against the blue cloak hanging from one shoulder. His soft curls dented where they’d been pressed flat wearing his circlet most of the day in court with the high priestesses, and the slight view of his cheekbones when he turned his head.

His breaths were shallow as he stood on the cliff edge. It all made him seem so painfully human, not so untouchable as he had when Arthur and his knights first arrived in his kingdom and yet still impossibly far from Arthur’s grasp.

His time away from Camelot had made him a sap. These feelings he didn’t know what to do with left him aching to reach out and simultaneously terrified to do so.

He tried to imagine it, life as a peasant as Emrys had described it. The dawn to dusk work each and every day, having responsibility for the animals and fearing what his next meal would be if the harvest failed or came up short. It was eerily similar to kingship in some ways, or perhaps that was too ignorant. Others, Arthur couldn’t even begin to comprehend. The torment of the village when he didn’t fit in, the constant fear of what could happen if he let his guard down.

That scar on his forearm took on an entirely new meaning now he knew where Merlin had gotten it.

There was a beat, silent and still whilst the sun fell down the sky as though it was chasing Icarus. Arthur stepped forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had gone to great lengths these past weeks to keep Arthur at a distance.

“It must’ve been hard,” he said, keeping his eyes forward. The warmth radiating from Merlin’s body was magnetic, and he wanted nothing more than to reach out, but this… it was something they couldn’t carelessly rush into.

“It was.” Merlin replied almost bitterly, sadness undermining the anger in his grief. He sighed, running a hand through his curls, searching for words he’d most likely thought a thousand times but never truly articulated. Perhaps that was arrogant to think, but not even Sir Lancelot could get this close to the king. Arthur gave him the same chance to collect his thoughts that Merlin had given him. “The same way most kids talk about monsters under the bed, you fear knights and pyres, and-” He cut himself off and heaved a breath that seemed to take everything he had before swallowing, Arthur watching the tense muscles in his neck work.

He continued more tentatively, sounding so raw and utterly exhausted, “And when most kids believe the knights you’re so afraid of hunt monsters, you start wondering if maybe that's why they hunt people like you.” The smooth velveteen voice Arthur had grown used to over the past few days was replaced with something more tear-soaked and cold. Merlin kept his eyes focused on the horizon, as though keeping an adequate distance between them.

He couldn’t respond, couldn’t find the words that would truly describe everything he wanted to say. He stayed silent, instead offering silent company if Merlin wanted it.

He didn’t cry. It wasn't for any sign of strength, Arthur thought Merlin displayed his strengths and tenacity in living rather well, simply by how he carried himself. His whole existence was a testament to his relentless bravery and capabilities. He must’ve spent too many nights crying his grief, and it wasn't too difficult to see that weight on his chest that had eased with time clearly hadn’t gone away entirely.

Arthur wondered if the other wounds Merlin carried festered like this one. If he’d offered his condolences and private yet sincere advice that grief wasn’t something that would go away so quickly, thinking about the child in a village fearing for his life or something else.

“I just didn’t want to feel like a monster anymore.” Merlin said finally, breaking through the silence. His voice was set in stone and he seemed, once again, the immovable, untouchable, magical king that he was.

In one sentence, he was a little less of Merlin and all the more of the omnipotent god of magic, king of his people, Emrys.

Arthur wished he was brave enough to reach out to him again, but he didn’t dare.

As the sun dipped below the horizon and Merlin declared that they should return, mounting his horse and waving Arthur to do the same, he followed silently and took the coward's way out that Merlin was providing him. They wouldn’t speak of that evening again, and that was going to have to be agreeable with him because there was nothing he could do any differently.

———

Recently I’ve had a really hard time liking anything I’ve written enough to post it, that includes chapters of Leon’s knowing and unknowing treason which I really want to bring to an end at some point, but I’m trying to build my confidence enough to post the last few chapters of that currently sat in my drafts so I can move onto my next project. I know it’s been months, I'm sorry. I’ve got most of it finished but I hate everything about it at the moment and the urge to scrap the whole thing and turn it into two or three separate fics is way too strong so I thought it would be better to put it down for a bit then come back.

I’m honestly just trying to prove to myself that I can write something bad and still won’t be completely ridiculed off the internet for it. I really don't like this and it's never gonna see the light of day outside of a doom folder (or fic graveyard if I get enough dopamine to finish it) but I'm trying to be brave so please let me know what you think :)

And if I can convince myself it's not completely crap, I’ll have Leon’s knowing and unknowing treason edited and posted soon.

[rwbyrg]

RWBY Ship Parallels #1: Fear & Bravery

There are too many ship parallels to put them all in one meta, so I'll make individual posts as I remember them. The first one I want to tackle is how all the canon or hinted-at-being-canon ships all have pivotal moments where the themes of being afraid and/or having courage come up.

Some elaborations under the cut!

For starters, just for context to refer back to throughout the post, the definition of courage/bravery is as follows:

noun 1. the ability to do something that frightens one. 2. strength in the face of pain or grief.

I was initially going to list these chronologically, but we're going to do it on a ship by ship basis instead. First up:

Renora

The first incident for them happens all the way back in V4 during their backstory flashback. Ren underwent a small arc learning from his father that sometimes the worst action to take is not taking any action at all, even if it's scary. He then tries to support Nora by teaching her this same lesson: that they both need to be brave. She expresses vulnerability about how scared she is, Ren confesses to feeling the same, and together they decide to look after each other from that point on. Which makes everything just a bit less frightening.

We also revisit these same themes in their V8 confession. First we see Nora criticizing Ren for running away just because things got difficult:

And after Ren owns up to this cowardice, the things he did out of fear of failure, the conversation shifts. Nora admonishes herself, and Ren lists things off about her that he admires, the last of which - while not using the word itself - calls to how brave of a person she is and cites it as one of the main reasons why he loves her. Because as the definition above states, being strong and helping people without worrying about how much it might hurt you in turn is what it means to have courage.

WhiteKnight

Their heart-to-heart in V9E9 says it all. Weiss has been carrying the weight of failing to save Atlas since it fell, and after Ruby's actions in the episodes prior, she became aware (a bit too late) of how those same failures were weighing on their leader. So when Jaune acknowledges the harm he caused from trying so desperately not to repeat their past mistakes, Weiss is the perfect person to step up for reassurance.

She knows that their failures do not equate to their worth or all the good they're capable of doing. And reminding Jaune of this, calling him a brave and good person in spite of his failures, is what he needed to hear to be able to reach an acceptance he hadn't been able to achieve in all those years trapped alone in the Ever After.

(Also the framing parallel of BB and WK both holding each other is a very nice touch.)

Bumbleby

With BB it's not just one or two moments. Blake and Yang's characters both centre around the themes of cowardice and bravery since their beginnings and we see it come up throughout the show a lot. Back in V2, Yang sees the bravery in Blake when she herself can only focus on the opposite:

Blake: When you figured out I was a faunus I didn't know what to do, so I ran. when I realized my oldest partner had become a monster, I ran! Even my semblance... I was born with ability to leave behind a shadow of myself. An empty copy that takes the hit while I run away.

In V4 and 5 we see Yang struggling to get back on her feet after losing her arm and the trauma she endured at Beacon. Blake tells Sun that she sees Yang as the "embodiment of strength" and we, the audience, get to see the proof of this every time she keeps fighting despite shaking, and especially when she faces off with Raven in the finale.

These parallel arcs culminate with both of them facing off against Adam together, but most especially gets called back to in their mutual confession scene in V9:

Yang acknowledges what she saw in Blake all those years ago, that she doesn't give up on what matters to her, even when people hurt her, she still fights for what's important. While Blake acknowledges Yang's reliability, her strength, and her courage. And both of them, like Renora, cite these reasons as things they admire, and reasons why they love each other.

Now last, but certainly not least:

Rosegarden

One of the very first things Oscar says to Ozpin when he leaves the farm is that he's scared. This comes back time and time again, especially in the Atlas arc where Oscar spends so much of his time counselling Ironwood against letting his fear control him (a conflict Ruby is also a part of). Our little prince even has a theme song titled Fear to really drive it home.

Whereas Ruby has always been the poster child of "keep moving forward", no matter how much the trauma, stress, pressure, and grief weighs you down. You just have to be strong and keep pressing on, fighting the monster that took her mother away. No matter what.

So, much like BB, there are themes around bravery, fear, and perseverance that apply to both Ruby and Oscar's personal arcs. Both of them especially have focus on being brave despite fears of loss. With Oscar, it is fear of losing himself to the merge; whereas Ruby has a fear of losing those she loves.

All the way back in the infamous Dojo Scene is where we first see these themes addressed in their dynamic. It starts with Oscar expressing vulnerability to Ruby about how afraid he really is.

Ruby initially tries her usual strategy; surface level reassurances about just pushing through it... but it doesn't work on him. So after some upset from Oscar, she ends up being vulnerable with him too. Something she hadn't done with anyone else in show by that point.

Ruby admits that she's afraid too, not just for herself, but for the threat Salem poses to the world as they know it and the people within it. Ruby tells him about those she's lost and says that if it had been her instead, those friends would have kept fighting too. That vulnerability, which requires courage in and of itself, is what motivates and inspires Oscar to keep moving forward where Ruby's earlier attempt could not. The scene closes off with one more nod to these themes where Ruby pauses at the door and turns back with one final thought:

In both the above scene and the V4 finale, Ruby cites "fighting for those they've lost and those they haven't lost yet" as her main motive to keep fighting. Up until V8/9 she used this as her greatest source of strength, but that strength is a double edged sword which eventually became her greatest weakness when Neo used it against her. First trapping her in a room with all the people she "failed":

And then landing a finishing blow with making her kill lose one of the people she loves most: Oscar.

Ruby can be brave if it means she can protect the people she loves. But just as Penny's death dealt a very big hit to Ruby's hope, what little she had left was crushed at the thought of losing Oscar (and Little) too.

Aside from that, there has also always been an underlying mystery around what having silver eyes means for Ruby. In V4, she is hunted by Tyrian and in V8 she finds out what her fate would have been had he succeeded. A fate which very justifiably terrifies her and seems to be a theme that will carry on into the Vacuo arc. It is also something that was brought up in the second RWBY x JL movie, I talked about this a little bit in this meta, but I'll share it here as well. In the movie, Ruby opens up a bit about this fear saying the following:

“Did you know I lost my mom when I was a kid? I don’t know exactly what happened to her, I don’t really remember her, I just have stories. And I keep trying to live up to those stories, but… I realize they don’t matter anymore. Heroes fall. And I just want to get as much done as I possibly can before I do.”

This scene directly parallels one of Oscar's back in V6:

“I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be… me. But I did some thinking, and I do know that I want to do everything I can to help with whatever time I have left.”

Both of these scenes show their respective courage around fears related to their issues with identity. Oscar saying he will do whatever he can before he loses himself, and Ruby doing whatever she can before she loses her life as all heroes eventually will.

So to summarize: Renora, Whiteknight, Bumbleby, and Rosegarden all have a scene where one or both partners cite the other's bravery as something they admire or love about the other person. All of these ships also include at least one scene - but often more that just weren't listed here - where they open up and are vulnerable with each other about their fears and motivations. And lastly, with BB and RG especially, bravery and fear are central themes to both their relationship dynamics as well as their individual character arcs within those pairings, all of which narratively parallel each other extensively.

CRWBY is very consistent with how it writes its ships and this is only the tip of the iceberg of all the parallels we've seen between these partners so far. But that's all for now; thanks for reading!

[mycurrentobsessionis]

I get why people are so mad at Milo, I really do...

(spoilers for The Night Market)

But, first of all, accidently summoning fucking Cthullu because you literally Do Not Know how to do your job is, uh, relateable somehow. Then proceeding to stab Cthullu because you panicked is objectively funny. Like. I got over the initial shock of that ending (because wtf, Milo?!?!?), and the confusion (like what did I do to get the bad ending???), and then it was ALL laughs. Like, daaaaamn, Malcolm is gonna be pissed, dude!

Legit, Milo isn't even malicious here, y'know? He's, like, a horse loose in a hospital -- he's just as confused as you are! He's never been in a hospital before!

Also, on a serious note, it's like, fair enough, okay. Because Hazel won't leave the Market, because she won't leave without Malcolm (living, dead, or undecided). Malcolm either can't or won't leave. Every probably can't leave. Milo probs doesn't care if he dies, but that's his family. And, I mean, the MC was dying irregardless. In his brain, this was the thing that would save them, too. All he had to do was give up their trust and love (platonic or otherwise), and they walked away. Limping and heartbroken, sure, but alive. Not saying it's fair, but you know. People do massively fucked up shit for love and for fear, and Milo has both. What he does is selfless from a certain point of view -- he gave up the affection and goodwill (that he probably thinks he doesn't deserve anyway), and everyone lives. He loved them all enough to lose them. And yeah, it was in fucked up way that is not the way to do shit, but.

As a future trauma-informed clinician, Milo's brain is legitimately built different. That man is on fight-or-flight 24/7, and I'm not convinced he isn't in a manic episode for at least part of the book. We know he's not sleeping and is drinking pretty heavily toward the end. That does not bode well.

Honestly, it was a shocker ending only because I didn't expect the author to go there, but it makes sense. This is a severely mentally ill man who spent ten years literally carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, on top of his own unprocessed grief and trauma, and trying to make sure his equally mentally ill friend is alright, and sort of single-parenting a dead child. Then you have the fact that he was meeting pretty regularly with Baron fucking Palpatine, who was probably manipulating him. And yeah, you can say that he's a grown man but... When you live your life focused on survival, you literally do not develop the kind of executive functioning skills you need to withstand that shit. You can develop them later in life, but it is significantly more difficult.

In a lot of cases, I do not argue for mental illness being a defense for the kind of fuckery that he got up to, but shit, man. Milo has such a deep-seated sense of self-loathing, and the amount of vitriol thrown against him so intense and utterly unsympathetic. The whole cast uses the MC for their own ends. They all put the MC at direct risk. At least Milo believes he's saving them.

Anyhoo... romanced him because Zinnia won't let me play as his therapist LOL.

[dilf-din]

If I Scream (Will You Hear Me?)

The Last of Us — Joel and Ellie

Also on AO3

WC: 2750

Warnings: episode 8 alternate ending, violence, torture, heavy themes of grief and death

Author’s note: this is my take on a buried alive prompt. I love writing for these characters, and the new pics we got today only reminded me of how much they mean to me. Enjoy (with caution)! 🫶🏼

And shoutout to my wonderful friend who graciously donated this title. I am nothing without you @ellies-little-gun

Ellie had done a lot of things wrong in her life. Spit in the face of a lot of authority figures, flipped the bird at one too many instructors, thrown punches with a few of her peers. It only made sense that it would all catch up with her at some point.

She had always believed in karma, some sort of cosmic reckoning, but being caged by a man who was threatening to eat her was not in the realm of possibilities for her when she agreed to cross the country with Joel.

She tried to make sense of her surroundings through her fuzzy head. The late afternoon light pouring in through the high windows was making her eyes hurt and her temples pound. If the sun was close to setting, maybe she was facing West? No, North? Not that it mattered even if she could figure it out anyway. She was unconscious the whole way there.

Ellie tried to remember what Joel had taught her about finding her way, but it only made her head throb worse, aching into the arch of her nose that was definitely broken.

She tried to ignore the rotting meat smell coming from the drain in the floor across the room from her. She was nauseous enough as it was.

With no projectiles, no way to pick the lock, and the exit so far away, she was, for lack of a better word, fucked. All she could do at this point was raise hell for them in her last moments. Kick and scratch and bite and scream, anything the piss them off one more time.

She was satisfied with that being her fate. They had made it so far, especially since Kansas City. She and Joel had beaten a lot of odds. Ellie only hoped he would go in his sleep, quickly and without a rush of pain or fear.

The creak of the door hinges shattered her fragile train of thought as panic once again overtook her body. Desperately, she pressed herself against the back wall of the cage to avoid the reach of the two men as they slithered across the cold floor to her.

“No! No! No! Get off me!” she shrieked, shifting her weight wildly and to no avail as the two large men carried her effortlessly to the long table and slammed her down on it.

Ellie struggled against their firm hold, doing anything she could to land a kick or an elbow to one of her assailants.

“Wait, wait!”

“Shut up!” the tall brunette spat at her, his cheeks flushed from the struggle.

“Wait, wait, wait wait! Don’t do it! Please don’t do it!”

At this point the red haired man had pulled a cleaver off the wall and swung at her, lodging it in the table next to her head.

“You had your chance,” David warned gravely. A sick look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I’m infected! I’m infected,” she blurted out, and the struggling stopped.

“And now so are you,” she gestured to the fresh bite mark on the man’s hand with blood spilling from the punctures.

“Roll up my sleeve. Look at it. Look at it!” she pleaded wildly.

They proceeded to loosen their hold on her and yank the sleeve of her sweater up revealing the gnarled scar.

The two men exchanged glances, having a silent conversation.

“What did you say? Everything happens for a reason, right?” she goaded.

“David,” the dark haired man said with a warning tone.

“No. No, she would’ve turned by now. This isn’t real,” he reasoned through the muddled evidence in front of him.

“It looks pretty fuckin’ real to me!”

Ellie saw her chance. In one motion, she grabbed the cleaver and pulled it free, swinging it at the dark haired man. He stumbled backward, catching himself against the wall for balance, where the cleaver connected with his wrist and cut his hand clean off.

David had already rounded the head of the table and wrapped a wiry arm around her neck, covering her nose and mouth with a tattered, grey cloth.

Ellie tried not to breathe in, but as her eyes began to flutter within seconds as a sickly sweet smell overcame her.

Before her vision went completely black, she heard David murmur against her earlobe, “We have ways of dealing with cunts like you.”

__

Silver Lake. Ellie.

Those were the only two thoughts Joel was able to conjure as he limped through the snow and cold. He moved forward fueled only by rage and desperation, trying to focus on anything but the pain shooting through his aching body. Blood was still weeping out of his crudely stitched up wound from the exertion of the afternoon. Sweat dotted his forehead, though the temperatures were well below freezing. Each step and stretch of his tired frame made his abdomen scream in fiery pain, but he would be damned if he let another kid die on his watch.

He didn’t give a shit if he lived through today as long as he knew Ellie was safe and on her way back to Tommy.

He pushed on.

__

Quiet. Darkness.

Two things Ellie expected to greet her in the afterlife. She always hoped it would be peaceful, that it would feel like waking up in the middle of the night and knowing someone you loved was just around the corner, a second away from racing to you if you called out their name.

Riley’s name was fully formed in the back of her throat, ready to pierce the nothingness around her like the Big Bang, but she just as quickly swallowed it back down to her core, feeling selfish for even thinking of it as a possibility.

The rest of her senses started to dial back in, and she realized she smelled earth. Her arms tentatively stretched out beside her, and wood brushed her fingertips, causing her to retract her hands quickly. She pressed her palms upward and was met with more solid wood. Panic and realization collided in her mind, and she swallowed thickly.

Those motherfuckers buried me alive.

Another scream bubbled beneath her surface, years of compounded rage barely kept under wraps.

She didn’t know much about how quickly her air would run out down here. If she didn’t die from lack of oxygen, the cold would get her next, and if not the cold, starvation. No matter which way she looked at it, her end would be a miserable one. Maybe she should’ve just let them decapitate her instead of running her mouth. Just like everyone had always told her, her inability to shut the fuck up would leave her in a bodybag one day.

There was nothing she could do but contemplate her life choices and hate her own guts for getting herself into this situation.

She hoped Joel was at peace.

Maybe she could see him again soon and apologize for everything. They would certainly end up in the same place when everything was said and done.

The wood beneath her was cold. She was already shivering, the sound of her teeth chattering cut through the silence cocooning her.

Even though there was no one there to see her, she still felt ashamed when she started to cry. She cried for every casualty that had amassed from her curse of immunity. She cried for Riley, for Tess, for Sam and Henry. She cried for Joel and for Sarah. She cried for Tommy who would surely miss his brother. And lastly, she cried for herself. She cried for the fact that no one would miss her, that her absence wouldn’t touch a single soul left on this earth. Every bit of bullshit she had been through was for nothing. Her life had been a constant cycle of pain, of loss and blood and emptiness.

The hot tears tracking down her cheeks were a welcome reprieve from the bone piercing chill that would surely carry her into death.

Ellie cried herself into exhaustion, and hoped that when she woke up this time, she really would be dead.

__

Joel circled wide through the woods to hopefully come up on the periphery of the town. He still didn’t have a very good idea what he was working with, how many people would be there, how many would be armed. A steely determination set in his gut as he tried to limp as quietly as he could through the cover of the trees. Snow crunched rhythmically with each calculated step.

Several minutes passed without any person exiting the set of doors he had focused on, and he took his shot to half sprint across the open air.

The door gave without much external pressure, one of the only good things about the passage of time and lack of upkeep: corrosion.

Joel quickly shut the door and found himself in near total darkness. He fumbled around in search of his flashlight, and used the weak beam to illuminate the unfamiliar space. A shelf in the entrance caught his eye, and he crouched to rummage through the piles of parcels wrapped in smooth brown paper. The bottom shelf had something that pulled his eyes downward, something round and purple with dulled markings. A lump rose in his throat as he turned over the small monster keychain hanging from Ellie’s green pack.

Maybe he was already too late.

He pulled her pack from the shelf and swung it over his shoulder. She would be glad to have it when they got out of this shithole.

Joel rounded the corner shining his light lazily to see if he could find any sort of clue as to who these people were. What he wasn’t expecting to see were decapitated bodies, flayed and strung up like they were waiting for their turn in the smoker.

He almost dry heaved at the thought, his empty stomach turned in on itself. Quickly retreating, he made his way back to the door he came in. The thin window let in a minimal amount of grey light. He peered out before pulling the creaky door open, but stopped suddenly, his hand tightly gripping the handle.

Two men were emerging from the woods carrying a shovel and speaking in hushed tones. The taller of the two was covered in a significant amount of blood and was sporting a sour grimace.

Joel swallowed tightly as his eyes tracked them around the corner of the building. Something in his gut told him he didn’t have time to waste. His jaw set hard as he yanked the door open and stepped back into the cold.

A thin trail of blood atop the snow easily led him to the men as he stalked around the back of the complex staring through the scope of his rifle.

They were shucking off outer layers and hanging up the shovel in a small tool shed, both backs turned towards him.

“Where is she?” he barked, pressing the nose of his rifle against the back of taller man’s neck.

“You know we have people looking for you,” the shorter man said in a calm voice.

“Answer me,” Joel spat.

“May I turn around?” the shorter man continued.

Joel lowered his rifle and fired a shot into the tall man’s ankle.

He howled in pain as his knees buckled. When he reached for his mangled foot reflexively, Joel noticed that his right hand had been recently cut off. It had been wrapped with a poorly constructed tourniquet. A small moment of pride flashed through his mind as he knew that had to be Ellie.

“Jesus Christ, David, just tell him,” the man sobbed. There was almost no color remaining in his face. No flush from the cold or the walk. He wouldn’t last long, Joel reasoned.

David turned to face him. Ice blue eyes, red hair, and a diplomatic look on his face.

“You’re very hard to kill, stranger.”

Joel’s jaw was hard set, rifle pointed bluntly against the man’s chest.

“Your buddies were easy to kill,” Joel said flatly.

David tried to maintain a poker face, but Joel could see the first crack in his facade.

With a shake of his head, “You’re not in charge here, not any more. Now, I’m gonna ask one more time. Where is she?”

David stared at him blankly, seeming to take pleasure in playing the long game.

“She’s in the cemetery. In the woods. Take the path down for about half a mile,” his partner groaned out.

Joel’s eyes flickered to the other man momentarily and decided he had no reason to lie in this moment.

The second his eyes left the man on the left, David started rummaging in his coat for his pistol.

Joel angled the barrel down slightly, and blasted him in the hand, drawing a howl from the red haired man.

“Son of a bitch!” he wailed, but his screaming slowly devolved into laughter.

Joel crouched down to look him in the eye, grabbing his chin firmly and angling it to look him dead on.

“Something funny I’m missin’?”

“I just hope you can dig fast,” he gave a twisted smile, tears welling in his beady eyes.

Fuck.

Joel didn’t have ammo to waste, but he didn’t consider this a waste.

He stood back up and shot him dead in the forehead. His wiry frame crumpled instantly, and Joel turned to grab the shovel.

“Wait! Wait,” the other man cried through the pain.

Joel turned once more.

“Please just kill me,” he pleaded, “Please.”

For some reason, Joel found mercy in his heart, and fired one more round into the man’s head.

The path through the woods wasn’t clearly marked, save for the sporadic trail of blood that had no doubt fallen from the other man’s hand, or, lack thereof.

Joel pushed himself as fast as his body would allow, knowing he didn’t have forever to get to her, and that anyone could’ve started trailing him, drawn to the scene by the gunfire.

His head was spinning by the time he reached the small round clearing where he saw what he assumed were crudely marked headstones. A quick scan of the ground, and his eyes landed on the only fresh patch of dirt. Within seconds, his coat and their packs were in a pile next to a headstone marked S.M. He tried to bury the thought of her in his mind as he pushed the shovel into the earth with his heel, surprised to find it very loosely packed.

Another wave of horror overcame him. They were planning on coming back for her.

He had no way of knowing how long he had been at this, save the sun’s position in the sky, getting closer to sinking as he pleaded to be done. His wound was blinding him with pain as he dug, slinging dirt over his shoulder and to the edge of the hole.

One more push, and he jumped back as his shovel struck a loose bone.

He paused and scraped his boot across the ground, feeling wood. He crouched down and frantically ran his fingers through the cold dirt looking for the edge of the coffin. He found two latches on the righthand side, and quickly loosened the locks before standing to the side to pull it open.

Joel held his breath. He had buried a little girl once before. He never expected to dig one up.

As the thin door swung open, Ellie lunged forward, swinging a crude piece of wood she had ripped from the side board.

She shrieked weakly and wildly.

Joel caught her arm tenderly, deflecting the makeshift weapon she had clutched in her bloody hand.

“No! Get off me! Get off!” she sobbed as she tried so struggle out of his grip.

“It’s me,” Joel cooed softly.

“Get-“

“It’s me,” he cupped her face, and she stilled at the touch.

Her big brown eyes bore into his as she experienced the relief of safety for the first time in days.

She continued to gasp in big lungfuls of clean air as she sobbed. He has never seen her look so afraid.

“Hey, look. It’s me. It’s me. It’s okay.”

“He, they,” she stuttered, unable to find the words, and burying herself in his embrace.

Joel’s hand came up firmly behind her neck, pulling her into his warmth as she trembled.

Truthfully, he had never been more thankful to see another person alive.

“It’s okay. It’s okay, baby girl. I got you.”

His own eyes closed as he felt his own fear and panic finally melt away.

“I got you.”

[chaikachi]

Listen as a RG shipper who has been burned by other shows with ships I don’t wanna put my tin hat on. But NEO??? Has been using Oscar A LOT to mess with Ruby. And assuming she turned into Ruby to trick Oscar to get the lamp back in V7 👀👀👀 also I just rewatched V5 and when they all have a sit down he just stares at her and Ruby giggles and I’m like “HE THINKS SHES PRETTY AWWWW” like I’m not calling it shipbait bc I have no idea if they will become Bee levels of canon and I’ll be fine if they don’t. But MAN do they care about each other A Lot in canon to the point where the Optical Illusion character uses them to hurt each other. Like Yang? Her big sister totally get it. Penny? Neo knew when she died with her first body that’s her best friend after or alongside Weiss but Weiss isn’t dead. But OSCAR!?? The guy she only met THREE volumes ago HES the one who shows up? Not her UNCLE or JAUNE but FARMBOY????

Neo ships it (evily) is all I’m saying

I don't wanna get peoples hopes up in case crwby somehow swerves off course or we just don't get to see the end of the show, but I genuinely don't think it's shipbait at this point.

First want to bring up the v5 thing. Yes he stares at and giggles at her, firmly believe that boy had a case of love crush at first sight... but Ruby ends up mirroring very similar tone, dialogue, and body language later on in the fumble scene.

Oscar: Ah, sorry! Ruby: Heh, sorry-

Putting behind a read more cause i'm riled up with new rwby/whole loaf of rg bread zoomies and don't feel very coherent rn aha.

There is a post somewhere on this site that i can't find anymore which goes through all the BB/RG parallels (a shorter copy of it exists here on twitter) and that list since v9 just keeps getting longer.

Like... Sorry, Blake's biggest fear in v3 was that her past would come back and hurt those she loves. She is proven right to fear that when Adam shows up and attacks Yang and then because she can't handle that guilt, Blake runs away??

Vs.

Ruby, being terrified that if she carries on the path she's headed down, more of her friends will die. And Neo uses Oscar (and Little, who strongly parallels him) to prove Ruby's fears right which also leads her to 'running away'? Because the thought of hurting him, of losing him is just something Ruby can't bare????

Bro.

The ship parallels themselves are so specific and are absolutely worth mentioning, but RG itself stands so strongly even on it's own. The narrative orbits and constant, consistent emphasis on how much Ruby and Oscar care about each other is deafening at this point.

Just about everyone in the main cast has gone through huge portions of their character arcs in the previous eight volumes. Except for our protagonist... until now.

The scene we get in v9e8 where Neo uses Oscar as the last nail in Ruby's coffin ties him directly to her fatal flaw. They could have used anyone else. It could have been Yang. It could have been Qrow. It could have been her team partner Weiss. It could have been Blake, someone that's admitted to looking up to her. It could have been Penny a third time.

But. It. Wasn't.

It was Oscar.

Oscar, who was the first illusion Ruby saw when falling. Oscar, who is the only person she's close to that she didn't get to properly reunite with in v8. Oscar, who's absence in the Ever After has been SO STRONG to anyone that's paid attention to their dynamic up until now.

Ruby's fatal flaw is her grief, and by extension, loneliness and guilt. Ruby has shouldered all of this weight for so long alone and every volume up until now shows us that there is one person that made her feel like she was actually on equal footing for once. Maybe not completely alone. That she had someone looking out for her as much as she looked out for them. Oscar. And when Neo, the illusionist, uses Oscar's death against Ruby? That is her first of two breaking points.

I'm sorry - and i gotta emphasize this isn't directed at you so much as a general declaration - but at this point any anti, meaner, or non-believer that tries to tell me there is not very clear evidence in show pointing to RG needs to stop telling me to take off shipping glasses and has to just put like... normal reading glasses on lskd;jlfks

It is just... undeniable to me at this point. Despite still hearing people refer to them as siblings when it's like... if they wanted to emphasize the sibling bond, YANG WAS RIGHT FREAKING THERE!!

If Ruby is getting a love interest in show (cough cough she already has one) there is literally NO ONE else that fits the bill. They wouldn't introduce someone new this late in the game, and of the rest of the remaining cast, she has not been shown as close to any of them in the ways that tie to her character arc as strongly as this one does.

Ruby is the protagonist, Oscar is the deuteragonist. The core of this story orbits around both of them as the the chosen warrior destined to defeat Salem and barer of Oz's curse, respectively. Their individual character arcs also tie to and parallel each other's consistently: Oscar, who is trying so hard to hold onto his identity despite the merge vs Ruby who has spent this entire volume trying to push hers away.

Yes, all other Ruby ships are valid, don't get me wrong. But from a canon, narrative perspective, Rosegarden is the only one that is being pushed this aggressively.

And I can't be convinced otherwise at this point 🤡

[flameeagleheart75]

So I first listened to Jesus Christ Superstar as part of my ALW listen through a few years ago and enjoyed it fine but over the last little while I've been listening to it religiously (no pun intended) and oh my god I think it's jumped up my list to being one of my favourite musicals ever.

If you're from a Christian background (Roman Catholic for me, hi) then no doubt you can recite the stages of the cross in your sleep but somehow the interpretation of Jesus's final days as a bombastic, heartbreaking and utterly camp musical is the only one that's truly resonated with me.

Here's my ramblings in no particular order.

(I like a lot of the versions so I'll be using whatever GIFs I can find)

Jesus

Give this man a hug, please.

There's often a lot of tie-pulling over whether humanising Jesus is blasphemous or not but that's a theological debate for another time.

On a personal level?

I adore how JCS portrays how fatigued Jesus is. He knows his ultimate fate and that he can't change it but that doesn't mean that every step towards it is agony. You feel his relief when Mary Magdalene encourages him to just relax and just wants him to take care of himself for once; likewise you feel how overwhelmed he is when he's swarmed in the temple by or his frustration at his disciples not being able to grasp the weight of his words. And after he's screamed at Judas to leave him at the Last Supper and is alone at Gethsemane begging God to just tell him why he has to die after all he's already done, you realise that at the end of the day it's just as Judas says "He's a man, he's just a man, like anyone I know."

Mary Magdalene

While the musical goes with the common pop culture depiction of portraying Mary as a sex worker instead of just another one of the apostles, the effect it has is wonderful. Mary's confused about her feelings but regardless, she comforts Jesus and tries to make him feel at ease. While Judas is in knots about whether Jesus associating with a prostitute contradicts his teachings and that expensive ointment is being wasted, all Mary wants is for the person she cares for to get a good night's sleep.

And I see you "I don't know how to love him" reprise.

Mary is a needed parallel to Judas and serves as one of two people who love (romantically or platonically) Jesus as the man he is.

Speaking of whom-

Judas

Oh my dear, dear Iscariot.

Judas's story raises one of JCS's most poignant questions of "If Jesus had to die, then were Judas's actions truly evil or was he just fulfilling a role in the divine plan?"

From the moment "Heaven on their minds" sounds to the Gospel melodies of "Superstar" you are along for the ride. His disillusionment with Jesus comes from a deep love mixed with the fear for both their people and that the 12 chosen are forgetting their original beliefs. Yet, along the way we see him fighting against his role. In 'Damned For All Time/Blood Money', he struggles both physically and mentally with his conscience. During 'The Last Supper', he threatens to just stay and not carry out the betrayal and it's only when Jesus screams at him to leave that he finally goes.

And don't get me started on the arrest in the garden of Gethsemane. Ouch, my heart.

Both of them are ultimately doomed but while Jesus is aware of it and accepts his fate (albeit in a defeated way), Judas only comes to realise his place as a pawn when it comes to the time of his death.

And he is broken. He's disgusted.

What on earth was it all for? Why did God have to choose him of all people?

This is a story of love and grief and the inevitability of life and death but you're along for every step, knowing that you, like the characters are unable to change anything. But regardless, you're invested every step of the way and you hope that maybe things, just once, could be different. But it can't, you know it can't.

Finally the music is absolutely wonderful and I for one would like a return to allowing anachronisms if it's just for fun. (Tim Rice's lyrics, mwah). They can ride on bikes and tanks if they want to.

(Also the 12 getting drunk at the dinner while Judas and Jesus are singing their hearts out at each other makes me laugh.)

Thanks for listening to a bored Bi talk about one of her favourite things. Have a good night.

[fire-branded]

There's something FFXIV Dawntrail did well in my opinion that I wish FFXVI had also highlighted.

These are, as always, just my personal opinions -- so I won't be mad if you disagree! Regardless, Dawntrail spoilers below the cut!

Dawntrail is very open about showing the impact and pressure that cultural and societal expectations can have on younger generations. Zoraal Ja and Bakool Ja Ja are probably the best examples of it.

Zoraal Ja, the first of three children of what is Tural's equivalent of a king, the only blood child of Gulool Ja Ja, and a child that no one thought could exist -- given that two-headed Mamool Ja normally can't reproduce. He is referred to as "The Resilient Son", and is constantly struggling to live up to this notion of him being a "miracle". He believes he must not only surpass his siblings in terms of strength and capability, but must surpass his father as well in order to prove that he is this miracle child that everyone believes him to be. After the Trial where you fight him, and he's talking to his son, he mentions things like having nothing to leave behind for the boy. Gulool Ja Ja may have loved his children, may have told and shown them that he loved them -- but in the case of Zoraal Ja, it was completely overshadowed by the legacy he needed to surpass(in his eyes) in order to be worthy of life, and by the immense pressure he was under to live up to the expectations of everyone who claims him to be a miracle child, possibly even on par with blessed siblings in terms of regard.

What he does is unconsciable and misguided, yes. I will never defend that, although it still is interesting to me that all three children took inspiration from different parts of Gulool Ja Ja's history and reign, with Zoraal Ja focusing on the fact that yes, his father had to fight against the Yok Huy in order to drive them back and get them to release their slaves. In most cases, no, peace is not obtained without some conflict. Zoraal Ja sees that people are taking for granted the peace that his father fought to give them, and he wants to remind them through war just how good they have it. Gulool Ja Ja was able to unite nearly an entire continent; if Zoraal Ja can unite the entire world, even if it's by using fear and force to bring them to heel, then surely he'll be good enough to make true him being a miracle child, right?

Then there's Bakool Ja Ja. He acts like an asshole who doesn't care, but in actuality, he cares -- a lot. He has the weight of not just his entire village and their expectations to shoulder, but he also has the grief and guilt of knowing about the countless two-headed infants who had died before his birth, just so that their people could carry out this building legacy of blessed siblings on the throne, thus affording them status and power to rise up from the darkness(literally) where they have been forced to call home. He agonizes, he cries, he despairs, and he hides it all, because he has no choice. The future of his village hinges upon his success, with his birth having been generations in the making. He can't fail. Not just for him or his people, no -- but also for those who died shortly after birth, to make their sacrifices and the parents who had to bury them's sacrifices worth it.

The expectations he has to live up to, too, are so incredibly high, with him having to live for everyone else as well as for ghosts of the past.

I bring this up because it's something I wish XVI had touched on more, too. Like many things in that game, there are hints and nods to it, yes. But like many things, it isn't really delved too deeply into, at least not beyond Clive's perspective. The expectations that Joshua and Dion likely had to struggle to live up to at young ages, how detrimental it likely was to their emotional well-being and sense of self-worth... And this isn't even mentioning the pot of worms that is royal status, or the rest of the Dominants and their respective stories and situations, especially when factoring in that they, like Cid, may well have accepted the inevitability of their deaths because of their Eikon's powers.

[comfy-whumpee]

Echoes

Whumptober Day 10 - "You said you'd never leave me." CN: referenced domestic violence, minor whump.

Jax taglist: @bloodybrambles, @wildfaewhump, @lektric-whump, @that-one-thespian, @raigash, @burtlederp, @rosesareviolentlyread, @eatyourdamnpears

Savvie, Izzy and Jamie belong to @ashintheairlikesnow.

-

She says, “You said you’d never leave me.”

She is staring at him from across the metal table. The inmate jumpsuit is a good look on her, he can’t deny, and he likes seeing her hands cuffed to the table too, unable to grab or touch him anywhere at all. Her nails are short and round and unpainted, which he has never seen before.

She says, “You’re mine, Jax.” She has tied her hair back from her face and it makes her look more her age. He looks older than her, has for years, because of how they have lived. But now, she looks as haggard as he feels, without the makeup he is used to seeing on her.

He doesn’t have an answer for her demand. He remembers promising many times that he wouldn’t leave her. He’d never betray her. He couldn’t. That always satisfied her well enough.

Of course, the moment he could, that all became moot. But he’d said all the right promises without worrying about that. Looking to the future was never his strong suit, anyway.

“I thought you loved us,” Savvie continues. She doesn’t need him to reply. “I thought you cared about us, as a family, Jax. But you just wanted to hurt us.”

Jax thinks about her nearly dropping Jamie when he spit up on her shirt. He thinks about Izzy coming into the kitchen white as a sheet from one of her ‘talks’. He thinks about how sound carries in her old house, and how both kids have heard his screams.

“My poor babies.” Savvie is a one-woman show of grief. Her eyes glitter with crystalline tears, but they don't leave him, watching for his reaction. “You can’t take them from me. They’re mine, Jax. I’ll fight for them. I just need to see them again, to make sure they understand what’s happening, to make sure they know why you decided to break up our family.”

“You did that, Savvie,” he interjects. “You did that every time you took me away from them.”

“You never wanted them,” she replies dismissively, trying and failing to gesture with a rattle of chain. “You just wanted to lecture me about them. It’s thanks to me they even exist.”

That is all true. But none of it matters. It stopped mattering as soon as there became real children involved. He couldn’t just abandon a baby to her.

“You’ve ruined our family,” she adds. She’s been refuelled by his words. He needs to stay quiet. “It will never, ever be the same, after what you’ve done. I hope you’re happy, Jax. I’ll never be happy again.”

His mouth is already open to speak, to retort, when she adds the rest. But it only becomes more true. “Here’s hoping.”

-

“Daddy,” she sniffles, arms tight around his waist. Her face is pressed into his stomach and he strokes her hair gently. “I’m sorry, daddy,” she hiccups. “Please d-don’t go without me an’ Jamie, please.”

“I’m not going anywhere without you two,” he promises. He gently loosens her arms, but keeps hold of her hands as he drops stiffly to one knee. He meets her wide, tear-filled eyes. “Hey. I said I’d never leave you two, didn’t I?”

She stares at him, full of fear. He should have seen it coming, of course. He can’t talk about a holiday without reminding her of Savvie’s version of a weekend getaway: kids abandoned with zero warning, sudden trips to the airport while they were still asleep, Jax dragged along on half-baked promises that Isaac would send someone.

“I want to go on holiday with you both,” he promises her. Her little hands are gripping his back, her fingers soft and warm against his callouses. “That’s what holidays are like now. I will never run away on holiday without you, especially not if you are sleeping.”

“Never ever?” she asks, her gaze so afraid and so desperately trusting.

The weight of his words feels so heavy, knowing she will hold onto them tightly, repeating them over and over to herself. How to pick words that will comfort her through all their uses?

He starts with the fundamentals. “Family is me, you and Jamie.” No Mommy. No Savvie. Not even grandpa makes the cut, at the end of the day. With this established, he adds, “Family holiday has to be me, you and Jamie too.”

She leans forwards, asking for a hug in that careful way she has with touch. Touch with him, anyway. She isn’t this cautious with the others.

He hugs her close. “Never, ever,” he repeats. Sometimes he likes to imagine how long he could go without un-hugging his baby girl. He could sleep with her in his arms again. He can eat with her on his lap. Walk the dogs with her in his arms. He could keep hold of her forever.

Of course, it’s just an instinct. He lets her go. “And,” he adds, to lift her spirits, “you get a say in where we go on holiday, now. We choose together.”

She doesn’t care as long as she’s with him, he knows. It’s the same for him. But maybe, with some time, he can get her excited for the holiday, and give her back some of the joy she never had.

Here’s hoping.

[writingcold]

Hi.  Welcome to Chapter 23.  All I can say is just take a breath.  This one is fast and hard.

If you are just joining us, you can find the Master List to the series here

@lvnterninthenight, @gardensgatedaisy and @whitesuitjake.  I cannot thank you enough.  Sending forehead kisses to each of you.

This is a work of fiction, and is totally mine.  Please do not take it for your own personal use.  I’ve put in hours of research, hours upon hours of writing, re-writing, screaming, yelling and vomiting over this epic of a story.  But it is mine.

Content warning:  The Funeral.  Angst.  Violence.  

Word count: approx. 5400

 Chapter Twenty Three:  Saying Goodbye, The Beginning of Their End, Flicker of Hope, a Bucket of Fear.  Cora

     July ninth brought heat and the first sunny day in over a week.  Rosemary was fussing over Georgie’s tie while the other boys waited on the porch.  Cora stepped around the boy as she searched for her clutch purse.  Jacob’s voice carried through the screened door as he talked with Matthew and Jon.  Their voices were warm as she made her way towards them.  Her mother was practically pushing the littlest one out behind her for fear of being late.  

      Matthew walked with their mother on his arm, while she walked with Jacob.  The cemetery was only a few blocks from the house.  They arrived just as Joshua parked the Kissel with Samuel, Daniel and Molly.  The two men were slow to join them, Sam heavy on a crutch while Daniel needed Molly to support him along with a cane.  It was good to see their friend out of the hospital and in the sunshine once more.  His black hair made his face look tremendously pale.  His eyes were already tired as he tried not to lean too heavily on his wife.  

      Pastor Butterman was waiting for them.  The man’s pudgy face was a blotched mess of sweat and false sympathy.  Cora felt herself moving closer into Jacob’s side as the pastor held onto her mother’s hand, giving overly sentimental words for a woman he refused to know anything about.  He offered peace to all of them for the loss of their friend, but there was no weight.  Jacob passed his mouth against her ear as if sensing her ill ease.

     “Easy, Finch,”  he whispered.  “Let the man say his prayer and he’ll be on his way.”

     Sam seemed to bend away from the preacher just as Cora was.  She felt her heart squeeze as he struggled in the face of such hypocrisy.  Butterman would never have such a creature as Susannah in his congregation, but because the men present lined his pockets as well as the community coffers, he would tarnish himself momentarily to provide a service unworthy of their friend.  

     She swallowed through the thickness forming in her throat as the preacher spoke of Susannah’s kindness and grace and sweetness.  All examples that she was sure he had gleaned from a few moments of talking with Rosemary.  Jacob nodded, as all of them did, as if actually listening to the plastic laments of a life lost at such a ripe age provided any true comfort.  Her eyes strayed away from the group, latching on to Marcus and Henry who flanked each other on opposite sides of the cemetery.  There were a few other familiar faces that lingered around the fringes.  

     Butterman’s words fell quiet, finally giving what the moment needed - finality.  Josh patted his arm and gave him thanks while the others seemed to melt into each other.  Rosemary held Georgie a bit closer as the child realized the gravity of grief that lashed around them like waves.  They became like a herd of nervous horses in the seconds of silence.  Jittery and unable to cope.   

      Rosemary’s sharp intake of breath startled all of them.  She smiled sadly as she drew her thin frame straight.  “Susannah had a beautiful, tender heart.  For that I am thankful that I was able to bear witness to such innocence.  I will miss her.”

      Sam’s dark eyes turned liquid as he looked at the woman.  Cora felt as Jacob pulled her closer.  There were times when her mother surprised her.  The simplest turn of words opened a curtain into Rosemary’s soul giving her just a peek at the woman she knew as mother.  Cora felt a pang rupture in her belly.  She had accused her mother of not being able to see the goodness of her friends because of fear.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of change.  Fear that she could not keep her daughter safe from a very dark world, indeed.

      The forlorn afternoon rolled into a near silent evening.  The family had a hot dinner on the table that largely went untouched.  Even Georgie seemed to suffer from a lack of appetite.  Mrs. Woods was kind enough to stay on to help clean up, finding places for the food to stay until more willing stomachs arrived.  Jacob walked the Janas’ home, keeping Cora close to him in the back.  She saw a hesitancy that she knew meant more was to come.  It seemed like an injustice on a day where they already were broke from grief.  

     “Bell was spotted in town again,”  Jacob said once everyone was inside the home.  “He’s teasing, but it’ll stick some time soon, Finch.”

     She had no emotion left from the day.  And yet, in the very pit of her stomach a flicker of fear swelled.  It was still tiny and unformed, but present.  He lit a smoke as she sat down in the chair on the porch.

     “It’ll seem like it’s all going to hell soon enough,”  he sighed.  “I want you to keep the boys home over the next few weeks.”

     “Are you going out on another run?”  she asked, aware that her voice sounded thin, tired, but unable to do anything about it.

     “No.  Not for three weeks or so,”  he answered.  “I can’t go back out with Henry.  He’s not a navigator.  Brawler, sure.  I need Daniel out there to be effective.”

     “What is going to happen if Bell does come to confront you?”

     Cora watched as he turned his gaze away from her.  The corner of his mouth bitten down as if trying to hold back words that wished to be heard.  Instead, he offered little more than a shrug.  A heat moved across her skin that made her frown.

     “Jacob?”

     “I can’t say what to expect because I don’t know if he’s going to come at me to distract me from the family, or if he plans on taking me and the rest of us outright.”  He sucked in a breath across his teeth.  “Henry will be with your family at all times - no matter what.”

     “You’ll keep Marcus close.”

     She said it not as a question, but a demand.  His eyes strayed across hers before he nodded.  “No matter what I say at this moment, I know it’s going to be underestimated at the scale of what they will do to us.  We can only hope that we have enough to survive this, Finch.  Survive is all we can do.”

Chapter Twenty Three Pt. 2: Jacob

     He was only a few steps ahead of Josh out of the office in the shops when his eyes caught sight of the Tin Lizzie out the huge windows in the front.  Bell was leaning over the hood, smoke in hand, eyes hard on the building.  He stopped in his tread with his heart in his throat.  A hiss from behind him was his only signal that Josh had also seen the villain that was lurking outside their door.  

     “Jake, out the back,”  Josh whispered, tugging on his coat.

     They fell backward with Josh closing the door slowly, softly so as not to attract attention.  Josh went right to the safe while Jake moved the desk back to allow the narrow door to be exposed.  Ducking into the back hall, he knew he was going to have to run it down to the Lantern to find Marcus and Henry.  Josh was already yanking out guns and ammo.  He’d have the time.

     Coasting down the hall to the stairs, he nearly tumbled before catching himself on the narrow steps.  Barging through the door, Jake found Marcus already on his feet, body taut for the fight.

     “This place stays fucking closed tonight,”  Jake barked at the bartenders and wait staff.  “Move all products to the warehouse and get the fuck out of here.”

     “What the hell…”

     Jacob turned to see Sam leaning heavily on his crutch.  “Sam - is the Moon ready?”

     His brother’s eyes glazed over.  “What’s going on, Jake?”

     “Bell’s here.  It’s time, Sammy,”  he answered as he watched the others begin to scramble.  “Is she ready?”

      His brother nodded, unable to hide the apprehension in his expression.  “What do you need me to do?”

      “Shut it all down - everything but the bank.  The manager will take care of that.  Get your ass over to Daniel’s and stay the fuck out of sight.”  He started directing where everyone needed to be:  Henry to get Cora and stay on at the Janas’.  Marcus was with him and Josh.  He did not leave until everyone had a posting.  

      “She’s ready for you, Jacob,”  Sam said quietly.  “Get back here safe.”

      Jake nodded as he turned from his brother before the emotions took over.  Up the stairs and down the hall, he found Marcus and Josh were at the ready.  His twin held up a pistol and holster to take.  Shedding his jacket, Josh helped him to strap it across his back and over his shoulder.  Marcus was loading matching shotguns.  

      “I’ve got everything started,”  Jake remarked as they skittered down the narrow hall, past the empty Tiger.  “Sam’s locking up tight and will be with Daniel and Molly.  Henry is getting to Cora.  All product will be moved within the hour.”

      Josh was nodding as they ran across the alley into the carriage house.  The Moon purred into life under Jake’s touch.  He crept it down the alley to the main boulevard, up alongside the Tin Lizzie.  Bell turned to lean against his car, foot up on the tire like he was greeting a friend.  His greasy smile made Jake’s stomach turn.  

     “Bringing out the big boys to play, I see,”  Bell barked as he looked over at his companions.  “That mug in the back is none other than Bloody Marcy, boys.  I’m impressed you would have him out for little old me, Joshua.”

      “I see you think so little of us, Bell, bringing gutter rats to cover your ass.  Doesn’t seem fitting,”  Josh bit back.

      Jake pumped his gas, revving the engine and rolling the Moon forward expectantly.  “Let’s get this shit done,”  he grumbled as he lit a smoke.

      “Hope you told that girl of yours goodbye, Jake.  She’ll be mine tonight,”  Bell jabbed as he moved towards the door of his car.  “I’ll have your name fucked out of her by morning.”

      Jake led the way out of town.  Bell hung on his bumper until they reached the state road.  The Lizzie whipped around the Moon’s side.  Jake slowed to allow him to move ahead.  Josh looked at him with a questioning gaze.

      “What are you doing?”  he asked as Bell stomped on his brakes to see if Jake would react.

      “Time for a bit of hide and go seek,”  he said, checking his side mirror.

      He pulled the Moon onto a buggy trail that was unmarked.  Jake felt his lungs fill with breath and calmness flooded his brain.  He was mapping out his gameplan.  He knew the area of a spider web network of trails that would pass along the Kilbourne farm, rising up along the backside of Iron Mountain.  Josh had turned so his back was against the dash to keep an eye out for Bell.  He caught Marcus’ hard gaze in the rearview mirror.

       “Let me put a bullet in that bastard’s brain,”  the elder remarked, eyes a stunning black forge of rage.  “No one talks of Miss Cora like that.”

       “Good to know we are of accord, Marcus,”  Jake said, downshifting as he started going uphill.

       “He’s back there, coming up fast,”  Josh stated, drawing out his pistol.

       Marcus used the butt of a shotgun to knock out the back window.  “Hedge it a bit.  I’ll see about getting one of them pistol dicks.”

       Jake ground down, allowing the Lizzie to catch up a bit.  Marcus cocked the shotgun.  His eyes were completely black with concentration as he brought up the barrel.  Jake watched closely.  He would need to time it just right.  Marcus pulled the trigger and he shoved the Moon forward as the windshield of the Lizzie shattered.  Josh shook his head to clear his senses, fingers across his ears.  

       “Got one,”  Marcus growled as he brought the gun back to rest on his lap.  “Sorry it wasn’t the fucker I wanted.”

       The Lizzie rocked behind them, only to catch up.  Jake’s eyes narrowed to slits.  It was obvious that Bell had made a few huge adjustments to his rig to keep in step with the Moon.  He was picturing the trails before him.  He picked his path as sight of the Kilbourne farm was screaming up before him.  A hard turn to the east had Josh nearly falling into him and Marcus pressed against the driver’s seat.  

      “Fuck Jake, give a bit of a heads up, yeah?”  Josh complained as they screamed down a straight expanse before taking another hard turn.

      “There was no way he could make that turn,”  Jake said more to himself than to anyone else.  “One more and we’ll fall in behind…”

      He jammed the brakes as he took the last turn.  Instead of coming out behind the Lizzie, they discovered Bell was prone as he was turning his rig around.  Jake floored the Moon.  Josh unleashed a string of obscenities.  

      “Hold tight,”  Jake yelled out.

      He rammed the passenger side bumper into the Lizzie’s exposed flank, spinning it around before coming clear and taking off once more.  Josh howled as he whipped his body around to see what was happening.

      “Shit - you knocked him clean off the road!”  Josh hollered with a huge smile.

      “Bitch is light.  That’s not a good thing,”  Jake remarked as he took off like a shot.  “Means he stripped her something fierce for speed, Josh.  He’ll catch us again.”

       “They dumped the body.  Here they come,”  Marcus said as he cocked the shotgun once more.  “Jacob.”

       “Got it,”  he returned, easing off the gas just enough.  “Damage?”

       “Not as much as you’d think,”  Josh said with a wonder in his tone.

       “Boys,”  Marcus warned before unloading the shot.

       Unfortunately, the Moon hit a rut, casting the shot off its mark, striking the frame of the Lizzie with a high pitched zing.  Marcus cursed under his breath as he swapped weapons and eased into another shot.  Return gunfire made them all duck.  The front passenger of the Lizzie emptied six rapid shots into the Moon, striking across the back, but none penetrated the thick skin that Sam had engineered.  

       “Damn it,”  Jake spat at the sight ahead.

       A horse and buggy were on the trail, leaving little room to maneuver.  He downshifted, losing speed as he rode the opposite ditch in order to miss the innocent rider.  The back end of the Moon caught a slick and began to slide out from under him.  A spray of water and rock caught the wheels as he fought to control her.  He vaguely could hear Josh’s panic, but Marcus got off a shot, somehow striking another blow.  A spray of blood tinged the air as they sprinted by the wagon, leaving behind spooked horses and a driver that would have a story to tell at the supper table that night.

        “Get her goin’, Jake!”  Josh pelted, leaning out the edge of his window, pistol at the ready.

       He squeezed off a few shots, each one catching the frame of the Lizzie, smashing a head light and mirror.  Marcus was laying in wait.  His face was stony as he loaded the empty shotgun to be ready for the next opportunity.

       “I winged one of those fucks,”  he said, his voice quiet.

       A shot hit the Moon and Jake knew immediately it was bad.  Bell had encroached once more, taking advantage of the mistake in the ditch.  Josh was suggesting routes, but was no help.  He pictured the map once more, finding that they were literally about to meet the state road once more.

       “Fuck it, you two,”  he breathed as he cranked on the wheel, nervous about coming out and hitting someone.

        He slammed the clutch and brake, ready for Bell to slam into the back of the Moon.  Instead, the Lizzie whipped out beside them.  Marcus, ever the cool hand, raised the shotgun and fired once more.  A direct shot at the man in the backseat who had a pistol trained on Jake.  Blood sprayed the inside of the cab as Bell raced ahead, nearly taking out another car as they twisted together like dance partners.  Jake was able to fall completely behind the Lizzie as the other cars on the road absorbed them with scared drivers and passengers.  

       “Granite Bluff is just ahead,”  Josh stated as if his brother needed to be informed.

       Jake turned to the left, skating off on another trail.  Josh pounded the dash.

       “What the fuck are you doing?  We had him out front?”  his brother scoffed.

       “We’re stopping for fuel,”  Jake said quietly, making his way through the back side of town and into the service station, keeping to the back, away from the road.  “He was buried and has no way to get this direction until after town.”

       “Make it quick, Jacob,”  Marcus said, silently reloading the shotguns and checking the pistols.  

       The serviceman walked up to the car with a huge smile.  Jake waved a twenty dollar bill at him.  “You get to keep the change if you fill her up fast.”

       The man’s eyes grew wide but took the bill and went right to it.  He topped the tank off and wiped down the dusty windshield, all the while looking at the scuffs and light damage of the otherwise unique looking car.  

       Josh squirmed in his seat while Marcus was a cool comfort in the back.  The serviceman nodded at him and Jake flared the engine back to life.  The rumble caused heads to turn and take notice of the beast that was amongst them.  He eased it through town, all the while looking for Bell.

       “Good advantage, Jake,”  Marcus said, much to Josh’s surprise.

       “That could have been a catch point for us,”  Josh said, eyes wide.  “We were totally vulnerable.” 

       “Yeah, but now we have more fuel than he does,”  Jake said with a nod, catching sight of the Lizzie as it worked its way back towards him.  “Bell’s going to have to be careful not to run dry.”

        “It was worth it.  Now get the fuck going,”  Marcus whispered, cocking the shotgun.

        Jake’s trail was picked up by Bell and the Lizzie was practically kissing the Moon’s bumper once more as they raced back onto the buggy trail that would loop them to the northside of Iron Mountain.  Marcus brought the gun up and gave them warning.  Once more, he missed, but the shot struck the front of the car.  Jake wondered if the engine had taken damage.  

        He rallied ahead, utilizing the Moon’s weight and his knowledge to take advantage of the hilly terrain.  Josh was trying to hold his pistol steady to squeeze off a shot but gave up after he was nearly thrown out the window as they took a curve.  He gripped the wheel while a plan began to percolate in his brain.  They were going to need a bit of luck, but he sure as hell was not going to allow Bell to survive the day.

Chapter Twenty Three Pt. 3: Cora

     Cora was reaching for a cup of tea offered by Mrs. Woods when Henry rushed in through the door.  His eyes were enough to convey there was trouble.  Within moments, the two women were in the offices, safes open and any ledgers dealing with the Lantern and Diamante were withdrawn and carried into the backyard.  

      They ditched the ledgers into the iron burn box and Henry doused everything in kerosene.  Mrs. Woods struck the match, dropping it without fanfare.  Henry’s antsy eyes twitched and flicked around looking for any sign of danger while the women tended to the fire, stirring it, ensuring there would be nothing left for anyone to discover.

      “Go, Cora,”  Mrs. Woods said as she started tossing the books into the metal lined firebox.  “I’ll take care of this.  Get to your family.”

       “What about you?”  Cora asked as Henry was reaching for her arm.

       “No family.  Just an open train ticket with my name on it.  I’ll be fine,”  the woman said with a nod.

      “Take care, Anna,”  Cora said, holding out her hand.

      “Take care of them boys for me,”  Mrs. Woods returned with a firm touch.

      Henry remained quiet through the exchange, but tugged her along.  His body was stiff with wariness.  He kept one hand on the pistol handle inside his coat the whole time.  Cora felt the man’s tension pulsing off his frame.  

      “Are the boys in school today?”  he asked, his thick voice just above a whisper.

      “No.  Jacob asked that they stay home,”  she answered.

      “Where’s Rosemary?”  

      “The Laundry.”

      He grimaced.  “Let’s get you inside and I’ll go for her.”

      He directed her to get the windows closed and covered and barricade the backdoor while he was gone.  Cora made her way inside, finding the boys draped around the living room.  Matthew was working with Georgie on arithmetic tables while Jon was reading Treasure Island for the fifth time.  

       “What’re you doin’ home?”  Georgie asked.

       “Matthew, bolt the backdoor,”  she said as she started to close and latch the big windows on the front windows.  “Jon, upstairs - latch all the windows and draw the drapes.”

       The two boys did not ask questions, going straight to work.  Cora whipped the front drapes closed.  She glanced at Georgie’s frightened face as she moved to the western windows to secure.  She listened closely as Jon worked upstairs and Matthew went into her bedroom to care for the window there.  

      “I don’t understand,”  Georgie hiccupped as she started to extinguish the lights.

      Matthew took him by the hand and sat him at the table.  Jon was slow to walk down the stairs, his thin face wary as she peeked out the drapes in search of Henry and her mother.  Her heart worked hard through the anxiety and fear that clogged her chest.  She listened as the eldest of the boys tapped a deck of cards on the table to garner their collective attention away from the tension of the moment.  Jon slid his hand into hers.  Cora looked into the boy’s serious eyes sure that her own mirrored what she saw there - strength despite the fear.  

      They stood together in the afternoon sun as it started to cast heavy shadows across the porch.  Cora counted her breaths to keep time, all the while, her thoughts bent to Jacob, the unknown, and the real possibility that she would not be able to say goodbye.  

     Henry was walking arm in arm with Rosemary, completely relaxed up the front walk as if two old friends were having a conversation.  Once inside, however, Henry waved at Matthew to help him.  They slid the dining room table against the back door followed by the sideboard against the front door.  Georgie lay against his mother’s side, completely surrendered to fear.  Jon followed Henry’s order and stood at the western window, watching out the tiny slit between the drapery and the wall.  

      “Until any of the Kiszka’s come for you, I will stay,”  Henry said as he sat down close to the blocked front door.  “No lights other than a candle.  Keep the sound low.  We must appear like this place is empty.  You understand?”

       Rosemary nodded.  “Cora, round up the blankets from upstairs.  Jon, you get the pillows.”

      “Yes, Mama,”  Cora said, thankful for something to do.  

      “Matthew, get your father’s bible, please,”  she said as she pulled Georgie even closer.  “We could use some comfort about now.”

      Henry was a stalwart spirit in the corner as the family huddled together.  Cora and her mother made sandwiches before the last of the daylight poked around the edges of the drapes in the kitchen.  Cora handed on to Henry before settling back in.  Jon offered to read to them while they ate, picking out passages that their father had treasured most.  In the dark, Georgie passed out into a restless slumber.  Cora took the opportunity to move closer to Henry.

      “Please tell me, was it Bell?”  she asked, her eyes trained on her family.

      “Yeah.”

      Her stomach pinched over the one word answer.  “Who’s with him, Henry?  He’s not alone, is he?”

      “No, not alone.  Mr. Kiszka and Marcus went with him,”  Henry answered, his black eyes turning on her.  Despite the dimness, Cora could see the kindness in his face.  “Marcus won’t let anything happen to them.”

      “Where are Samuel, Daniel and Molly?”  she asked, feeling the tension twist harder as the situation was spreading out before her in a way that did not feel right.  There was a disconnect that was present.  

      “Jake told Sam to get over to Danny’s.  He took men over there, same as here,”  he answered as he looked back out to the street.

      “It doesn’t seem right to be separate,”  she whispered.  “We’d never know if they needed help.”

      “It would be worse if you were all together.  You would be one big target, Miss Cora.  An advantage to take for sure,”  he answered.  “Cresci’s gang would storm you if they caught wind that you were all together.  This way, more targets means more time to find everyone.  Less chance of any of you getting hurt.”

      Cora shivered.  The utter brutality that could be sunk into her skin as she looked back at the sleeping Georgie.  She tried to stomach the hopeless feeling, but instead rushed to the bathroom to vomit it out.  Her head ached as she tried to straighten herself.  The slow, sure cadence of Matthew’s voice reading was like a distant drum.  Running water across a washcloth she pressed it to her overheated skin.  She whispered a prayer for Jacob to be sheltered from the storm that chased him.  To keep Marcus’ hand quiet from what would be the expectation.  Finally, to garner strength to Joshua so that he may keep the other two calm and sure in the eye of danger.

Chapter Twenty Three Pt. 4: Molly

      The last bit of bandaging was always the hardest.  The shattered ribs were slow to heal, keeping Danny at bay, much to the secret relief of his wife.  Molly grimaced as she tried not to press too hard.  He sucked in a hard breath as she tied off the wound.

     “Sorry,”  she whispered as she finished the knot.

     He patted her hands as she bent to kiss him.  To have him home, safe, and on the mend was everything.  She was able to return to finishing up garments that had been long overdue with Rosemary’s steady, unpaid help.  The quiet woman surprised her.  She bucked Molly’s belief that the woman held an ignorant grudge against her for doing what it took to survive.  Rosemary had shown her, however, that it was a view that was not necessarily correct.  

      Sam barged through the door, William and Joe on his heels.  The smaller of the two burly men climbed the stairs with the other started to barricade the front door.  Danny’s dark eyes turned mournful as she was helping him with his shirt.  No words were really necessary as the house slowly was boarded up and lights extinguished.  Molly sat down next to her husband.  Her stomach squirreled around her torso as her heart pounded in her throat.  

      “They’re back,”  Sam stated, sitting down across the table from them.  “Jake and Josh are on the road with Marcus.”

      “Any of the Cresci’s chopper squad been seen?”  Daniel asked, his long fingers tapping the table before him.

      “Nothing.”  Sam answered, his dark eyes flicking to Molly.  “Yet.”

      The three sat silently as the men latched and covered and barricaded the home.  Molly grumbled about putting coffee on.  Danny tried to reach out, but she skirted the touch.  The dread in her belly threatened her strength and she was going to need every ounce to survive the night.  The moment she turned off the tap, she heard Sam talking about marshals and perhaps Porter being in on whatever Cresci had planned for them.  

      Striking a match to light the stove, she felt the first jagged breath touch her system.  Her Daniel was laying out a path of what could come - the Lantern being raided, followed by the Kiszka home.  The shops, dancehall and finally the bank would be claimed.  Everything that they had worked hard for across three years was coming to an end with an uncertain future that had the possibility of not even existing caught Molly in the gullet.  She clamped a hand over her mouth from making a sound.  Thirty seconds.  She could allow herself thirty seconds to feel the fear.  Thirty seconds to acknowledge the danger that lurked and plotted against her family.

      Eyes closed, she allowed herself to be the person no one else saw - afraid, silent, small.  The men’s voices turned mute as she delved into her being in search of her spark that would carry her through the pending hours.  Reaching into the small sideboard drawer, she pulled out a deck of cards.  Leaning against the counter, she lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke deep within.  Her eyes focused in, waiting for the kettle to boil.

      “I miss her,”  she heard Sam say, voice rough.

      Her gut sank.  The blame she wanted to lay at the man’s feet for getting her friend killed was laden with spite and iron and the weight of all of her grief.  

      “I should have married her,”  Sam continued.  “I should have taken better care…”

      “We all loved her, Sam.  We did the best we could,”  Danny said quietly, his voice filled with calm.  “Susannah deserved better.  A kind of better none of us could have known she needed.”

       Molly felt a rip in her fabric start beneath her toes, racing up through her legs and across her torso landing in her heart with a knuckle punch that forced her to suck in a breath.  She had known.  She had known and had tried to get help and had tried to smack sense into all of them and it was bull shit.  All of it.  Bull shit.  For Sam to be sitting there, heart weary and looking for absolution was bull shit and she knew it.  

      The boiling water in the pot matched her thoughts.  Grimacing, she scooped coffee grounds into the steeping basket and dropped it into the kettle to brew.  A light touch crossed her shoulder, landing against the middle of her back.  A second touch slid across her hand.  Feathery and delicate, it reminded her of the way Susannah’s voice twinkled in the air.  For an instant, she could feel her friend - her sister - wrap her up in an embrace that would tell her that it would be well.  Molly exhaled as the coffee pot began to perk.  Sam’s list of ‘should haves’ were his to keep.  She knew she had a list of her own when it came to the care of Susannah.  It would be a shared sense of regret between them.  Susannah would have to be a shared loved, as well.

      Turning, Molly set a tray up of cups and sugar and cream.  She tucked the cards on the corner before pouring the rich coffee in the pretty carafe that Rosemary had shared with her.  

      “Well, boys,”  she mustered, maneuvering the tray to the modest table where they sat.  “If it’s going to be a long evening, I might as well try to take your money.”

      She tossed the deck to her husband before plopping down and setting up cups of wake up before everyone.  Danny grinned as any emotion was rubbed free from Samuel’s features.  For a moment, Molly could have sworn she could hear Susannah’s giggle in her ear.  It would be all well.  She had her Daniel.  She had her friends.  It would be all well.

Two more chapters left, along with the epilogue.  So, I have them at the ready. Chapter 24 will be posted tomorrow morning at the usual 5:30 am CST. Chapter 25 will be posted Sunday, at 5:30 am CST. The epilogue will be then posted Sunday as well, at noon CST.  

I do have a tag list, you can find it here

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[inkformyblood]

carry you to victory (Ghost/Soap)

[vaguely canon, mutual pining, inspired by the fact that I don’t think Ghost has been carried in far too long and the wife carrying races. No TW]

It starts with a flyer and a compromise.

The cafe Soap ducks into, only partially dragging Ghost in behind him, is cramped, masquerading as cozy with a scattering of assorted tables and chairs. It’s nice, Ghost thinks, tracking sight lines and escapes as easily as breathing, twisting his wrist in Soap’s hold so he can feel the other man’s fingers brush against his own before he is released. 

“Back table, LT?” Soap mumbles out of the corner of his mouth, part question and part confirmation made low and rumbling by his accent which had only thickened as the day flew by. There’s a set to Soap’s head when he’s talking to him, only noticeable now that they’re not separated by a mic and earpiece and several handfuls of angry fuckers trying to kill them, like he’s trying to clear a space in between his bones, carve through muscle and tendon, just for Ghost. 

“Affirmative.” 

The table itself is small, made smaller by the protrusion of a notice board balanced amongst the framed artwork and deliberately bare brick, and their boots knock together as they sit, but the chairs don’t creak in protest beneath them and that is a miracle in and of itself. Ghost swipes at the small menu — more pictures than words and isn’t that fun for a place Soap picked, fresh ammunition for Ghost to pick up and sort and deploy whenever he’d like — and scans over it, barely taking in the words. 

He watches Soap instead.

Soap hasn’t stopped talking. He’d retreated from the lull of scuffling around curses at whichever higher up decided to put a deadline and restrictions on their off-base leave, purely because Ghost had gotten a little stabbed while covering Soap, like he’s kicking a pebble along a pavement and had settled on trying to guess Ghost’s order. He must’ve been to one of these cafes before. Figures.

“Maybe a bacon battie,” Soap says, his eyes narrowing as he studies Ghost. His mouth twists into a grin, lopsided and entirely unselfconscious. “Nah, got to have some protein in there, not just the good stuff. Egg, cheese? You strike me as a sunny-side up man.”

The door swings open and Ghost turns to look, assessing, cataloguing. Soap does not and something twists in the graveyard of his chest at the thought that Soap trusts him that much here and now, not just because he has to. The woman that steps inside is a civilian, fumbling with her bag and drifting to the counter in a haze of green plaid and jangling bangles. She doesn’t peer into the depths of the cafe at them and there’s something close to grief because of that, that they won’t be remembered as being here, being together in one of the few moments they can be.

It makes sense that Soap would have a leaflet in his hands when Ghost turns back.

It’s pink with dark bold text, ripped at one corner where he had pulled it free and Soap folds one edge over again and again, half lost in thought as he stares at Ghost. Then, he looks down.

Excitement isn’t an emotion Ghost is used to seeing. Anger, fear, disgust; he’s far more familiar with their cadences and habits, the pinch of the mouth, the averted gaze, the lines carved into skin and made permanent by the weight of them. But this? Soap’s soft wide eyes, a spark brewing amongst the churning cogs beneath the paler skin of his freshly shaved head, his grin tugging at his cheeks until Ghost’s own ache in sympathy. This is new enough to still be treasured and likely always would be. He thinks he likes it.

“Look at this, Ghost.” Soap drums his fingers against the leaflet, twisting it around so Ghost doesn’t have to strain to read it. Another sweet but pointless gesture, appreciated still. Soap smooths over the defined folds he had been midway through creasing into the paper, a cross indenting a neat square, the beginnings of some sort of construction shining through. He taps over some of the words, skimming between ‘race’ and ‘partner’ and ‘prize’ and ‘charity’.

“No.”

Soap doesn’t bat an eye, leans closer in fact. It’s strange. Ghost is used to the occasional cramped quarters but someone choosing to move closer to him, choosing to meet his gaze fully even when Ghost is out of his preferred tactical gear and folded into a dark surgical mask and beanie. He feels peeled open without the smear of paint across his eyes but meets Soap’s gaze even so, trying to keep himself anchored.

It doesn’t work.

“Come on, sir.” Another blink, Soap’s grin growing wider, moving closer. “It’ll be fun. A distraction while we wait for our marching orders. Please?”

Ghost compromises. It’s what life is about after all. He can’t make it to that vantage point so he’ll take another. He won’t be able to make that shot from where he’s standing but two steps forward into the open and he will. He doesn’t want to take the last caramel pouch of something pretending to be food for dessert but the chocolate is Soap’s favourite. So, he compromises. 

“We can have a look,” Ghost says, voice flat, stare cold, and neither of it has any impact on Soap.

“Atta lad, knew I’d be able to talk you round. Alright delaying scran ‘til after?”

“MacTavish.”

“You know scran. I know you know scran.” Soap’s boot knocks against his, the closest they can come to the habitual knock against Ghost’s shoulder. He tips his head to one side as his crooked grin settles into something softer, something known.

Ghost sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and starts at the feeling of skin against skin. How long had it been since he’d done something just because he wanted to? How long had it been since he’d just been Simon? He couldn’t fully remember. 

“Do you know the way?”

Soap brightens. Ghost can’t help but compare him to one of the tactical dogs, all perked ears and wagging tails despite the mouth full of teeth on display then.

“Come on then, LT. Let’s go.”

Soap stands, turning and holding out his hand expectantly and only faltering when he realises what he’s done. He begins to retreat, retract, folding his shoulders carefully into protective parade rest when Ghost holds out his hand. 

“Might as well make yourself useful, Johnny.”

Skin on skin, again, once more. Soap is warm beneath Ghost’s fingers and he hadn’t even realised he was cold until that moment. It’s strange to use his hands for a purpose they aren’t suited for, he’d carved them into weapons long ago, it had seemed safer, somehow, but he wants them to be suited for holding and being held, just for a moment. 

“I’m always useful, Ghost,” Soap replies, his cheeks tinged pink, as he lets go with another wink that drops into Ghost’s chest like a mortar bomb. He’s fucked well and truly and somehow, he can’t find the willpower to mind too much. 

They walk in silence, hands separate but brushing every so often as they step around the swelling crowds. It’s not overly warm which makes a nice change from the sweltering heat of the tiny truck compartment they had been packed into for the past few days and Soap’s jacket hangs open from his shoulders, his shirt slouching over his jeans. Neither of them is dressed to run a race but Ghost thinks back over the tapped words ‘charity’ and ‘fun’. Just for fun. Just for fun. No stakes, no consequences. Just for fun. And, well, he’s more than accustomed to depending on the charity of others.

“Hey.” Soap taps his shoulder with his own, knocking their elbows together. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Ghost answers, sharper than he meant to, biting his tongue to stop an apology from tripping out after it. It’s more difficult than he had expected to be here, his face uncovered, and his thoughts turn to escapes, to bolt holes he knows are nearby, to even just climbing a tree for just a little bit of distance so he can think—

“Ah. Ghost?“

“Soap?” He responds instinctively, turning back towards the other man.

“Might’ve misread the flyer a tad.” Soap tucks his hands into his pocket as he jerks his chin towards the small crowd, only to take his hands back back out, twisting his fingers in front before settling to holding them behind. 

There are pairs of people standing together at a couple of flags stuck into the ground to denote a start line. The course itself is relatively flat, grassy, and has a slight hill in the centre with an easy slope downwards. As Ghost watches, a man bends down and scoops up the woman he’s paired with, pressing a kiss to her cheek before taking a few cautious steps forwards, testing his speed before placing her back down.

“Soap.”

“Ghost?”

“I’m not throwing out my stitches to carry you across a bastard field.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to, sir.” Soap sounds… strange. He’s got his chin tipped in the same way Ghost noticed before, head inclined towards a throat mic he isn’t wearing, but there’s an odd expression on his face, a set to his jaw that speaks to commitment to a really fucking stupid idea. “Thinking bridal style should stop that from happening, yeah?”

Ghost could stop him. 

He could.

But he doesn’t.

Soap steps close, close enough to slide a blade between Ghost’s ribs and he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it, close enough to kiss him and he wouldn’t want to do a damn thing about that either, and wraps an arm around Ghost’s back. Ghost has the height and the bulk on him, a scattering of inches here, a handful of muscle there, but that doesn’t seem to matter now. It’s been so long since someone picked him up just because they wanted to, just because they could.

Simon swings his arm around Soap’s shoulders, tips his head back to catch a glimpse of misty blue sky beyond the threatening clouds, and Soap picks him up.

It isn’t a perfect fit by any means. Soap staggers a step backwards then forwards, spitting out a barely chewed curse before he settles, one arm across the plane of Ghost’s back, the other beneath his legs and it’s…

(Ghost knows that Soap would fall before he drops him. He knows what that sort of care feels like. He knows that he would do the same.)

“Steady, you mad bastard,” Ghost hisses and his grip on Soap’s shoulders is too tight. It’ll bruise in the shape of his fingerprints and he wants to let go but Soap laughs, leaning into his touch with a sly shrug of his shoulders, a little breathless, a little drunk on the thrill of it.

“I’ve got you, Simon. Don’t you fret.” Soap takes a step, then another. “There we go.”

Ghost snorts, shaking his head. He can smell the shampoo Soap’s used, the artificial apple scent saccharine sweet, and it mingles with the sharp mint of the gum Soap spat into a bin earlier. “Nice seeing you doing some work for a change.”

“Ouch, sir. Hitting me where it hurts.” Soap closes his eyes, his brow furrowing in an exaggerated wince before he cracks an eye open to survey Ghost. “You okay? With this?”

“Yeah.” Ghost doesn’t trust himself to say anything further. His chest is too full, too fragile, wavering with every reverberating beat of Soap’s heart like he’s set his own by it. He pulls in a breath through bared teeth, worrying at his lip until it cracks and bleeds and the taste of copper washes everything else away. 

He wants to remember this as it is. While it lasts.

“Pressing my chances if I ask for a kiss for luck?” Soap asks. He likely intended for it to come out stronger, to have wound his reflexive bronze-hued humour through it like he’s securing his pack, but instead it stumbles and cracks, and comes out soft and wistful. A wish instead of a question. His eyes widen and Ghost can see the frantic backpedaling queueing up behind his eyes, the desperate scramble back over a line drawn in chalk, half-smeared away and hidden in the dark but he knows it’s around somewhere. 

Ghost catches his jaw in one hand and Soap stills. His thumb digs into the hard edge beneath Soap’s chin, fingers rasping slightly over the scratch of his beard. “Behave now,” Simon says before he presses a kiss against Johnny’s cheek. 

It’s over too quick. 

Ghost draws back, imprints everything onto his bones, the slight give of skin and the rasp of his beard against the fabric of his mask; the soft vocalisation that slipped out of Soap, quiet enough that he could have imagined it; the dark expanse of his eyes, pupils blown wide enough to blot out everything else as he glances to the side, not fighting against Ghost’s hold

“Atta lad,” Ghost says. “Off you run now, Sergeant. And be fucking careful.”

“Yessir.”

⁂

In the bottom of Ghost’s locker, there’s a lockbox. It’s dented, one side nearly entirely caved in, and it looks entirely forgettable. It’s almost entirely empty containing only a single piece of pink paper advertising a paired charity run event carefully folded into a slightly lopsided butterfly. 

[lasarcasticpanda]

so on an adjacent side to the "villain" motivation for this movie, there's the motivation for the many Spiders and why they expect Miles to allow his "canon-event" to play out. because my friend mentioned how peter wouldn't just allow or expect that.

but i think peter would. peter b parker is the one we've gotten the most exposure to in this setting, so:

like, this dude has been a hero for so long, alone. experienced love, hero-worship (from both others and himself, worshipping his job), burn out, burying his aunt, divorcing his love, and the loss of that drive for this hero thing, all alone.

and he did the peter parker thing and he kept going and he kept to himself and he kept on keeping on. even as his world shattered and he seemingly lost all control on it. like, IMAGINE. you constantly put the good of others before anything for yourself, you are constantly trying to do right by the one person you couldn't save who helped you on this path, you still cant save everyone but you try, and you're still alone.

and then Miles happens and the whole elite squad happens and he learns about canon events.

and he learns that uncle ben was always going to die, he was apparently necessary to die for spiderman to happen.

his greatest failure was always inevitable. can you imagine the weight of that guilt lifting, even only slightly, from someone who experienced all of this? there was nothing to do to save ben, because his death gave birth to spiderman, and in turn saved countless more.

it's the first loss of control that allows him to breathe. and all peter parkers most likely feel this lift, feels this touch their deepest grief, because of course they all carry this like a second skin.

it's incorrect of course - not completely, not in the metaphorical sense that "terrible things happen but you learn and grow" kinda way, but in the concept that spiderman wouldn't exist without uncle ben way. (Terrible things happening and having to move on despite those things is not a spiderman thing, it's not even a hero thing, it's a life thing).

spiderman exists because the people who get the power choose to do so. peter parker, when bitten, will always choose that path, regardless of how he figures that out- uncle ben dying is not needed for that, its just one way.

in the one universe where gwen gets bitten instead, when she lives and gets the powers, she chooses to do so, even before her peter dies.

in the anomaly situation, one outside of the canon events and expectations, miles gets bitten and chooses to be spiderman. he chose that before his uncle's death, he actively chose this against his fear.

that is what makes spiderman. the choice.

the question Miles lobs at peter, "you're saying you wouldn't save uncle ben if you knew", is exactly it, it knocks that quiet complacency on its ass.

of course peter would've tried to save uncle ben if he knew, he tried to save him when he didn't. all Peter's did, across all universes. its what defines spiderman, not because uncle ben died, but because peter still tried.

loss shapes us, it does - it changes us, it can strip us bare and force us to move. but it doesn't create a new us, we have to do that part.

assigning the existence of spiderman solely to uncle bens death is a disservice to the person who actually wears the mask. which, again, very peter parker, sanding down the good you do and the good you are to punish yourself silently.

there is no reward for silent suffering.

Miles' refusal to do so, his refusal to accept this status quo simply because someone told him it's what must happen, is the most spiderman thing done the entire film. because spiderman might not be able to save everyone, but he will never stop trying.

but man, the appeal of accepting that "these awful things are supposed to happen, so i could never have saved them" idea after so long going at it alone would be hard to resist, especially when good things start creeping up again (because peter CHOSE to chase them, because he chose to try is a quiet thing, acknowledged only between miles and peter "i wanted her to be like you, i met you and chose to try for happiness again").

and so much of this is quiet context! this is just my perspective, one way to take that in and call bullshit on the whole thing but find immense sympathy in wanting to fall in line, but it makes such brilliant use of the casual and die-hards knowledge of peter parker as a character.

spiderman is such a sympathetic hero and character and this movie does a brilliant job of painting everyone with a level of sympathy, of understanding, even when we don't agree, even when they're wrong.

[fantasyinallforms]

kindly, can I please have a #12 for a little Merlin/Arthur smoochy moment *puppy eyes*

OK, well, this was a real exercise of my abilities. I adore Merlin. I watched it as it came out and watched the ending in real-time. It's one of those shows I always go back to and watch episodes of just to have on. That said while I ship Merlin and Arthur I have never written Merthur before.

You chose a kiss in grief, so I present to you my first ever toe dip into writing this ship. I do really hope you like it. ~~~~~

Merlin knocked on the king's chambers and listened carefully for a reply. He heard nothing, just as he had heard nothing at lunch nor this morning for breakfast. Arthur was not doing well. It has been one blow after another. First, his father, then Morgana, then Agravaine. It has taken its toll. How could it not? He balanced the bowl of soup and plate of chicken on one arm and opened the door.

“Sire? I have dinner.”

“I’m not hungry. You can take it back to the kitchens.” Arthur was sitting at his desk, a stack of untouched papers in front of him and large dark bags under his eyes. 

“You haven't eaten anything since dinner yesterday. If this is your version of weight loss, it really doesn't suit you.”     

“I don't have time for this, Merlin, really. Go.” Arthur had not bothered to look up at him once since he walked in. 

“Please, Arthur, I’m sure if you just have a bite you-”

“Merlin, I said, go!” Arthur stuck his hand out to point at the door without realizing how close he actually was. The bowl of soup tipped out of his hand, and when he instinctively tried to catch it, he scalded himself on the thick broth. He had anticipated Arthur taking a while to eat, so he asked the kitchen to make it extra hot so it could sit longer. Now that seemed like a very poor decision. He took in a sharp breath through his teeth and cradled his hands close to his chest. He looked up at Arthur. He was half out of his chair; one hand braced against the table, the other outstretched to him. His face did not seem to fit the situation at all. It was wide with grief, sorrow, and even fear. “Are you alright? I-I’m sorry -” 

“I’m fine sire. Let me just get this cleaned up.” He knelt to take care of the bowl and tried to ignore the growing pain, but Arthur's hand stopped him. 

“Stop. You’re not alright. That soup was near boiling.” He grabbed the napkin Merlin had brought with the food and wiped down his wrist and hands. Small blisters were already forming. “Go have Gaius tend to this.” He opened his mouth to protest. “And stop arguing. It’s no longer a request.” He stood on the other side of the door, confused and a little dejected. He did as his king commanded and returned to his home. Gaius greeted him, but when he saw his face, he nodded and motioned for him to sit down. Merlin explained what happened and let him cover his hands in aloe and wrap them. 

“You can't force this, Merlin. Grief and betrayal are heavy burdens on someone already carrying so much.” Gaius had him test his fingers before putting away his things. 

“I know! If anyone knows, I know! I want to help him! I-I want to be there for him! There was something between us before all of this, and now it seems like it’s all just vanished.” He ran his bandaged hands through his hair. There had been something before. He would never forget the taste of the king's lips on his. How his hands moved to the back of his head, holding him in place. How he made him promise not to get, himself killed when the castle had been attacked. He sat in bed that night wide awake. There was just something not right about Arthur's behavior lately that shook him. There was something he was blind to simmering right under the surface. 

He drifted off to sleep, and hours before the sun was up, there was banging on Gaius’s door. The door wasn't even open all the way before Gawain barged in. 

“Where’s Merlin? Merlin!” He had spotted him stepping out of his room. “Arthur. He’s refusing to see anyone, and he’s talking nonsense. You need to go see him. Calm him if you can.” 

“Nonsense? Nonsense how? Where is he?” He didn't even bother to grab his jacket before he fled out the door, leaving Gawain behind him. He found him in the council room, pacing the floor with a wild look on his face.

“Arthur?” he looked up sharply when he realized someone was in the room. “ Leave. I have no need for you.” 

“I’d beg to differ as you’re standing here in your night clothes, pacing like a madman.” He was determined not to let the comment of having no need for him sting him too harshly. It did, anyway. 

“You don't understand Merlin. I can't sleep, I can't eat, not until I figure out who’s next!” 

“You’re not making any sense! What’s next?”  

“NEXT TO BETRAY ME!” The bravado seemed to vanish from Arthur all at once as he braced himself against the table and hung his head. “I’ve lost my father, my sister, my uncle. Will it be one of my knights next, or worse, will they take everything dear I have left. Will they steal you away from me too?” Merlin’s eyes went wide at the confession. Arthur refused to meet his eyes. 

“You must know by now I would never betray you!” The words were true and false at the same time. He would never turn against Arthur, but the sheer knowledge of who and what he was would sting all the same.  

“Why not! I’ve dragged you through more perils than anyone! I’ve gotten you kidnapped, stabbed, poisoned. Your very position as my servant demands you put your life on the line for me, and I let you! Despite how much I-” He cut himself off and threw his fists into the table. “And last night, you were just trying to help, and I let my temper get the better of me. Now you’re hurt yet again, and it’s my doing.” Arthur crossed the room and gingerly lifted his arm to see the bandages. Those soft blue eyes held a storm of guilt and fear when their eyes met. Feelings that, as a man who had been crown-prince all his life, had learned to suppress. Arthur gently let his hand fall and caressed the side of his face. “Please tell me you won't betray me. Lie to me if you must, but I need to hear it.” 

“I’m loyal to you, Arthur, and everything I will ever do will be for you.” He couldn't bring himself to speak the lie even if a lie it truly wasn't. His answer seemed to be what Arthur was looking for. The hand moved from his arm to the back of his head as his other held him steady. Arthur’s lips were warm and kind before they turned desperate. It was like he needed to feel the life in Merlin to convince himself this was real. He let him take whatever he needed from him, happy to be in his arms. 

When Arthur released him, he was less manic but looked more exhausted. He nearly collapsed in a chair but didn't seem content to let Merlin out of arms reach just yet. He ran his hand down the length of his arm and brought the bandaged hand to his lips. 

“You must be stupid, Merlin, to keep running back to someone who keeps doing this to you. Someone who can't even kiss you in public.” There was humor in the self-deprecating joke, and he decided to take it for what it was. A step in the right direction.  

“Maybe one day you’ll change that.” 

And maybe one day you’ll forgive me for my betrayal.   

_________

Fun kissing prompt game to be found here!