#for stretches of time you might feel nothing but grief and sadness

[furiousgoldfish]

Symptoms of grief:

feeling a heavy weight in your body pulling you to the ground

only being able to move slowly, not having any energy to move fast

feeling numb, emotionless, uncaring, stone-cold or deeply sad

feeling like nothing in the world matters and nothing is worth doing

not having any interest in activities that take any energy

finding other people tiring, and interactions exhausting

clinging to anything old, familiar, nostalgic, and comforting

wanting a distraction, but also feeling like nothing can distract you enough

over-indulging in distracting activities like video games, tv shows, internet

not being able to find words to express what you’re going thru, feeling like nobody could possibly understand or empathize

not wanting to see or talk to other people, wanting to be alone, but also longing for comfort and familiarity

doing anything is very tiring and you wish you could only lie down forever

not wanting to eat, or alternatively, always wanting to eat

craving mostly comfort food, things you’ve had in some period in your past, or sweets, fast food, anything that brings you a little comfort

losing control over your diet, not being able to care about what you’re eating

feeling like this feeling will never end, feeling like you should be over it already

having surges of memories, some of them painful, some of them made painful by the fact that they’re in the past, unchangeable, unrepeatable

feeling physical pain in the area of your chest, back, stomach, shoulders, if a particularly painful memory is touched or triggered

wishing you could stop feeling and re-experiencing past moments

feeling like you’re never going to be happy again

feeling like you’re dying

[babacontainsmultitudes]

Great teen talk overall, but honestly I was particularly interested in what Matt had to say about where Lincoln is at right now (and that we might get a better glimpse into this next episode? Which has me both nervous and excited but I'm trying not to think about it *too* much cause I'm already super nervous about how things are gonna pan out for the twins next episode).

It all tracks- Lincoln's increasingly nihilistic view of the world impeding on his ability to feel much of anything but nevertheless caring about how *his friends* are feeling and what they want. Being too deep in a dissociative state to process his own grief (and everything else) but caring that *Normal* is sad and doing what he can to help him.

I think Lincoln is a funny and incredibly fascinating character because if you look at his words, honestly no one can deliver a blow like Lincoln- a trademark of his brutal honesty, and in most stark contrast to Normal's "toxic positivity", neither being inherently better or worse than the other just inverted, and reflective of different values (something something cheerkicks is doomed by the narrative they should kiss etc. etc. not what the post is about). Conversely, if you look at Lincoln's actions (and Lincoln is, at his heart, an action-oriented character), truly nobody is putting their ass on the line for the people around them quite like Linc is. I've stated on several occasions that I believe Lincoln is the most selfless of the teens, and I stand by this, but this is a virtue as much as it as a flaw. It's heroic, to put yourself in a line of fire to save your friend's dad, or impale your leg on a candy cane twice to get an anchor, or hug your friend to show them you care even if it literally winds up killing you- but it also reflects self-preservation instincts that somehow manage to be even weaker than those of the guy who tried to throw himself out of a building thinking that a parachute would save him (god I love Taylor).

Lincoln cares immensely about his friends (despite his growing numbness to the world around him), but dangerously little about himself and what becomes of his own life. As a less dire example, "Apollo Four Teens" acts as a great demonstration of how Lincoln will stretch himself thin for everyone around him until there's nothing left, but forgets in the process to stop and register his own emotions and tend to his own needs. Combine this with Lincoln's perpetual "keep calm and roll with the punches" attitude towards the nonstop bullshit the teens have gone through over the course of the season, including an extensive list of unresolved issues related to Grant (which by now I've outlined fairly thoroughly), and you have a serious recipe for disaster. Characters like Normal and Scary are, relatively speaking, pretty obvious and emotive with respect to their pain, even when they are trying not to be. This is good, since it makes it easier for other characters to recognize that they need help in the first place and try to look out for them (they may not always know how to do so correctly, but the intent is there). Lincoln, in contrast, shuts down and becomes less emotive in response to his own pain (in a manner that is somewhat similar to Darryl, more similar to Glenn, and of course most similar to Grant, but ultimately different from all of them), silently building his walls up higher and higher but being no safer for it. It is partially for this reason that other characters very rarely think to check in on Linc and see how he's doing (Taylor to his credit tried after the titanic episode, but that got interrupted, and Grant does also try but- much like his own dad with him- fails to meet his son halfway in being honest and vulnerable and hence fails to make any progress), leaving him to mostly suffer in silence perhaps without even truly realizing it himself.

I guess the gist of what I'm saying is, Lincoln is in deep water, all of this has been a long time coming, and if nobody does anything about it soon... (Metaphorically-speaking of course-) that boy is going to drown.

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Stardust (S.R.)

Summary: Reader lost someone very important to them. Spencer helps them through a particularly dark moment of grief. Request: could you do a fluff comfort fic for reader who just lost her mom & is going through the grieving process?

A/N: I wrote part of this before I suffered a particularly difficult personal loss. Reading it back over gave me a lot of comfort, and I hope it can do the same for you. This is also one of my entries for my Comfort Fic Challenge! Couple: Spencer Reid/GN!Reader Category: Angst/Comfort Content Warning: Mentions death, biblical references Word Count: 900

MASTERLIST

The world is louder than it used to be. It is never more obvious to you than when you stand at the base of plot of land that is meant to make you feel better somehow. The trees in the distance are swaying with bitter wind, and something about the raucous sound makes your chest hurt.

It sounds like laughter, you think. Laughter, but worse.

As the day stretches on, there is little comfort to be found. The sun that kept you warm begins to fade away, and you realize that it is part of the human condition to only appreciate something after it’s gone.

You stay there, anyway. You sit in the discomfort like waiting will somehow make it better.

Eventually, he finds you.

Spencer Reid’s footsteps are hesitant and gentle, but they are loud. He can tell the sound is unwelcome, so he says nothing. Instead, he takes your hand and sits with you in the deafening silence.

It isn’t until the stars come out that he speaks.

“I might not be particularly religious,” he starts, and you can’t help but scoff.

From the corner of crying eyes, you see him flash a saturnine smile. He pauses, questions whether he should continue.

He does.

“… but there is a line from Ecclesiastes that I've always liked.”

He continues. Speaking quietly yet he is still heard over the sad laughter of the trees.

“‘All are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.’”

You haven’t said a word, but you feel your lungs begging for breath. Your throat closes around the lump his words have created inside of you. You are choking as you bring your joined hands to your face. You press the back of his hand against tear-stained cheeks. He catches each tear without worry about the weight.

“It’s alright to be sad,” he assures you. “In fact, I think it’s the most human thing we can do.”

You are so close to breaking. This time the noise is coming from inside you. You can hear worn muscle thumping against aching bones.

You are human. You are alive. You are loud, too loud to hear the silence they left behind.

Spencer feels you slipping, but he doesn’t let go. You don’t let go either. Instead, you hold his hand even harder than before. Implicitly, you beg him to fill the silence, to distract you from the beat of a broken heart.

“I personally choose to believe that there is something special in the stars,” he answers. “I like to think that energy is never completely lost. It’s just transformed into something… different.”

You want to say thank you, but when you open your mouth, your lip quivers too hard to make words. A stray sob breaks free and you let go of his hand.

Spencer doesn’t leave you, though. As you cover your face with your hands, he wraps his arms around you.

You mouth the words ‘Thank you’ against his chest. You are grateful he doesn’t ask you what you’re thanking him for because you don’t know the answer.

Thank you for being there, for being warm, for providing the sound of a heart that is still alive.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “I’m here.”

After a moment of quiet, not silence, your hearts slow and become steady. In that moment of warmth, you manage to smile.

He feels it. He feels the life returning to you after a moment of grief. That overwhelming feeling ebbs with each breath.

The next time you exhale, he asks, “You know what else I like?”

It’s the first time you’ve spoken since he got there, and all you can manage is to mutter, “What?”

“You.”

You laugh. As your chest starts to fill, the extra breath turns to tears and chuckles. You sniffle as you squeeze fistfuls of his shirt.

Before the laughter can get too far away, he continues.

“I am so grateful that out of the whole cosmos, my dust found your dust.”

You believe him.

“Me too,” you say.

You think the same about the person whose dust has settled. You think back to the earliest memories instead of the last. You try to picture their smile made out of stars.

You open your eyes and turn your head for a better view. In the distance, millions of loved ones look down on you. The past shimmers against the backdrop of what we once thought to be a void.

It is not empty. It is fuller than it’s ever been.

“It’s not goodbye forever,” he says. “Just until the stars call us home again.”

You are not empty. That love that you had given is reflected with the warmth of each small sun. Their twinkling lights look like something lighter than laughter.

Perhaps the world hasn’t gotten louder, you think. Perhaps you were just listening for the wrong sounds.

Thump, thump, thump, sounds Spencer’s heart. You wish it could be louder, you wish it could fill every atom of your being so you can remember that you are not yet alone.

You won’t ever be alone as long as there are stars in the sky.

“Until then, you are here, and I am here,” he reminds you.

He is happy to see you smile, but he still looks away to guide you back to the millions of souls shining back down.

“And we have a whole universe looking down on us.”

You smile at the stars.

The stars smile back.

Thank you for reading.

[starstruckkittensweets]

“Letters to My Love” | Hanji x Reader

Fandom: Attack on Titan  Pairing: Hanji x Reader  Words: 4k 

A/N: This is a self-indulgent, completely unfiltered, messy little fic that deals with my love for Hanji. Ever since I started reading AoT back in 2015, I’ve had a soft spot for Hanji. My little ray of sunshine, one of my first comfort characters, the one character I could actually see myself becoming friends with in real life. Seeing her death finally animated (beautifully) brought a lot of feelings forward. She was brave and gorgeous and kind and absolutely amazing. It actually feels like I’m saying farewell to a close friend of mine. And so this messy fic was born, mostly unedited but with a lot of my personal feelings channeled into the reader’s POV. You can read this as either a platonic or romantic relationship, whatever floats your boat. I hope you enjoy the fic! 

Warnings: lots of angst, major character death, implied reader death, some blood and violence, struggling to cope with grief, post-war/post-snk 139 world, Hanji is referred to as female with she/her pronouns 

THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR AOT S4 PART 3 (AND THE UPCOMING PART 4) AND SNK 139! PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT ALL CAUGHT UP, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK! 

It’s all so stupid. A stupid idea, a stupid reason behind it, a stupid man telling you about it in the first place. Why even bother with this in the first place? It’s not like it’ll help you in the long run.

But Falco’s still staring up at you with those big eyes, the slightest quiver of his lip, arms stretched out towards your own.

“Please?” His voice is unnaturally soft; it might be the lighting, but you can almost see a tear in those huge eyes. “At least try it, won’t you? I promise, you’ll feel better. Just like Dad says.”

You don’t have the heart to tell the kid his father’s full of shit, just like everyone else in this horrible world. Nothing’s left for you to enjoy, nothing you can cling to during the tough times. Those days are gone, the memories of bliss vanishing with every passing day.

But he looks so sad, so fucking hopeful, as though he still believes you can do it. You can lift this crushing weight off your chest with just a pen, some paper, and a few words every day.

“…Fine.” He practically shoves the dusty old notebook into your chest with a smile. “I’ll give it a shot.”

You’ll try, but you already know it’s a waste of time.

I’m not good at this. Writing’s never been my strong suit—not when it comes to other people. But you already know knew that, didn’t you?

Mr. Grice gave me the idea. Says writing everything down is a lot better than saying it out loud sometimes. Falco said the same thing; he still writes to his brother every other week. 

I don’t understand why. It’s not like I’ll ever send them, they’re just gonna sit in my desk collecting dust. But I told Falco I’d try for him. He’s a sweet kid, I can see why you like liked him. Sorry, it’s a habit. 

I don’t know what else to say. I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.

It’s me again. Onyankopon came to visit again. He checks up on me at least once every week. Same day, same time. It’s like he doesn’t trust me. Maybe he’s just looking out for me. That’s what Levi says.

Things are slowly going back to normal. He says it’s been almost five months since you left the battle. It’ll be spring soon. This winter hasn’t been too bad though. I miss the snow a little bit. Maybe one day we can go further north to see some next year. I know Gabi and Falco would enjoy it.

I can’t think of anything else to write down. I’m sure I’ll be back soon though.

Mundane topics. What you ate today. Who you saw at the market. The stories Gabi and Falco would make up whenever they were bored.

It’s all so stupid, but you write it down anyway. Stuff she’d like, stuff she wouldn’t like. Not her name, never her name. You can’t bear to say it out loud, not even spell out the letters without bursting into a fit of sobs. What’s the point, anyway? Not like she’s here to answer her own name anymore.

Still, you keep writing. Every day, at least something goes down in that little brown notebook. You’re the only one who reads it. Mr. Grice refuses to, says it’s for your eyes only. Falco sometimes shares what he’s written to his brother, but only when the two of you are alone. He has a little brown book of his own, same shape and size too. Always keeps it in the first drawer of his nightstand, same place you keep yours.

The days crawl by. Every breath hurts less and less. Slowly but surely, you wonder if you’re actually getting better.

I thought of you today. The kids wanted to stop in a bookstore during our shopping trip so I let them. They can be so eager and hyper when they want to be. (Why can’t they be like that when it comes to their chores?)

They both went for the bookshelf in the far corner. Books about the world; about weapons, inventions, plants, animals, experiments, I couldn’t keep track of how many there were. And the kids just sat there for hours, leafing through book after book. I ended up leaving just to drop off the groceries at home before heading back to pick them up. And when I got there they were still poring over those dusty, wrinkled pages.

You would like the bookstore. It’s on the smaller side but it doesn’t feel crowded. It’s got a few benches for people to sit and read for a bit, and there’s a café right next door too. But when I told Levi about it he got a little snippy; I think he’s jealous, his tea shop will always be superior.

He’s doing okay, I know you’re probably worried about him. His leg still gives him trouble but he’s getting better every day. He gave me a job after the shop opened a few weeks ago. Right now I’m just cleaning off tables and fixing up pastries in the back. Gabi handles inventory with Levi (she’s actually pretty good at it) and Falco takes care of the customers up front. He has the best attitude out of all of us, I think. The job is a bit boring sometimes but it beats killing Titans, using ODM gear, being a soldier

Never mind. I’ll write more later, I have to go for now. I’ll be back.

It’s really warm today. I keep thinking about that summer we spent in Krolva, in 848. You kept hunting for strange plants and flowers in the forest and had me and Moblit chasing after you all day! But you didn’t stop, not even when Levi threatened to knock you out and haul you back to base.

Sometimes I can still see Erwin’s smile, hear Mike and Nanaba’s laughter, feel the light summer breeze against my face.

I can still remember the way you said my name. I miss hearing the sound of your voice.

For the first time in a long while, you wake up with a smile on your face.

Your cheeks are stained with tears, still. You haven’t gone to sleep silently once in the past six months or so. Always stuffing your face into the pillow, muffling your sobs, praying neither Levi nor the kids hear you being so pathetic.

Your head is pounding, throat tight but chest feeling lighter than ever. You have to write it down, you don’t wanna forget, don’t forget—

The notebook is resting on your dresser. Your hands still shake when you reach for it, almost clatters to the floor when you try to pick it up. The pen leaps from your trembling fingers. The first words you write are barely legible, but you don’t stop writing for anything.

I had a dream about you last night. I can’t remember everything but I know you were in it and you were still alive smiling.

Still had both eyes, silly girl.

None of our comrades were there; no Levi, Moblit, or Mike. Just me and you, sitting on the rooftop of the old Survey Corps base, watching the stars twinkle above us. Your arm was so warm against my shoulders. Your messy hair tickling my cheek. You were laughing about something, I can’t remember what. But you looked so happy, so carefree and joyful. You haven’t looked that relaxed in years.

You whispered something in my ear, and my throat exploded with laughter. You held me close, lips brushing my cheek, eyes shining in the glowing moonlight.

You were happy, so I was happy.

But then I woke up, you were gone, and I was cold again.

Summer’s almost halfway over. The tea shop has been busier, Levi seems to enjoy the success. He’s still not very sociable but he’s learning to be more pleasant with the customers. They’ll keep coming back if he’s not rude to them all the time.

The town is expanding. Onyankopon thinks one of the nearby cities will start offering jobs, either railroad work or seamstress positions. A lot of factory jobs will start coming back too, and they’ll pay well. He says I could apply, just to keep my hands busy. Says it’s good to get out of the country once in a while.

Still undecided, I’d be going alone. Levi refuses, he hates the idea of city living, and he has the tea shop to worry about. The kids would stay with them; Gabi doesn’t like the smell of smoke, and Falco wouldn’t go anywhere without her. I can go, I don’t have anything tying me down.

What do you think I should do?

Four weeks left. It’s getting harder and harder to keep writing. I thought it would get easier, like Falco said. But I still feel that horrible pit deep in my chest. A weight that’s making it harder to breathe every day.

I don’t know what to do. I’m a burden. I can’t do anything on my own anymore. It’s always Levi or Onyankopon who’s there to hold my hand. Always Gabi and Falco to bring me back, remind me I have to keep living, to keep my head out of the clouds. But sometimes I wish I could run away. Leave it all behind. Maybe that city idea doesn’t seem so bad.

I wish you were here with me.

August 22nd. Two weeks to go.

Levi’s been quieter nowadays. Onyankopon isn’t as eager when he’s talking about the recovering towns and cities. Even the kids are more solemn than usual.

Still hoping this is all a bad dream. That I’ll wake up and you’ll be at my side, smiling and laughing like you do. Not a single care in the world.

The calendar is torn to shreds, left on the kitchen table for everyone to see. Gabi is utterly silent, a far cry from her usual loudmouthed self. Falco is quick to pull her aside as you storm past them, down the hall and into your room, slamming the door with a thud.

Burying your face in your hands. Chest wracked with sobs. Throat burning as her name rips itself from your mouth.

Hanji.

Stop it.

Your back hits the wall, knees buckling beneath your weight. Nails tear at the roots of your hair, scraping down your cheeks, eyes growing warm even though you keep them shut.

Hanji.

Another scream, you throw yourself against the wall. Your shoulder collides with the bookcase, but the pain doesn’t help. Nothing helps you anymore, not even writing in that shitty little book—

Someone’s calling your name on the other side of the door. Tiny fists pound on the wood; the knob twists and turns in vain. You made sure to lock it after coming in here.

Stop it. Can’t they see you want to be left alone?

Alone. You’re all alone now. You have no one left.

No parents, no children, no comrades…

And no other half.

Hanji.

“Stop it!” But you can still hear her name, swirling around in your head, a chorus of a thousand voices.

Hanji, Hanji, Hanji.

“Leave me alone!”

Something shatters against the wall. Your palm stings with something fierce, a shadow of red seeping from the skin.

The book, the book, where is it? Where did you put it?

There it is—right on your bed where you left it last. You’re scrambling over broken glass to grab at it, bloody fingers clutching the pen stuck between the pages. The tears are hot against your cheeks. Hurt like nothing else, not even the pain in your chest.

And they just keep on coming as you keep on writing.

Why did you leave me? Why did you have to go? Why did you have to kill kill yourself like that?

We could’ve handled it. Without your help. Maybe if you’d let us you’d still be alive with me. If you’d just trusted me—why didn’t you trust me? I trusted you, why didn’t you return the favor?

It’s your fault I’m like this now. I was fine before but then you fucked it all up.

Did you think you were some kind of hero? You’re not. Going out in a blaze of glory? Selfish asshole.

You’re not. You never were. You left me and now I’m alone and I hate

I hate you.

I hate you I hate you I hate you didn’t have to leave me but you did and now I hate you I can’t believe I love loved you how could I ever love someone so selfish fuck you so selfish

I HATE YOU

YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO DIE WHY AREN’T YOU HERE WITH ME ANYMORE WHAT DID I DO TO MAKE YOU LEAVE TO MAKE YOU GO WHY WHY WHY

I STILL HATE YOU

Levi finds you hours later. Sitting on the floor at the foot of your bed, hands trembling against your knees. The book is lying halfway across the room. Must’ve thrown it earlier.

He heaves a sigh, dragging his hand across his scarred face. And despite the ache in his leg he still kneels down to your level, taking a seat beside you against the bed. Wrapping up your hands in one of the spare shirts you tore from the dresser just minutes before.

“Brats were worried,” he finally says, and he sounds so fucking tired. There’s an inkling of guilt blooming in your chest. Such a burden to him, as always. “Said you’d run off and started crying.”

“…So?”

He rolls his eyes, focusing on your bloodied hands. They’re dry now, and he makes a sound of disgust in the back of his throat.

Eventually he pulls you on your feet, leads you to the washroom and runs your hands under the warm water. He wraps up your hands in some clean bandages; over his shoulder you can see two sets of eyes staring at you from down the hall. One brown, one hazel.

“Quit beating yourself up like this. That’s not what she died for, brat. And don’t ask me,” he snaps when I open my mouth, “what she died for. Because you and I both know the answer to that. …So don’t make me say it.”

You’re still blubbering like a child, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, splashing onto the clean bandages around your hands. Levi sighs again before pulling you in close, one arm looped around your shoulders. His chest is warm, heart strong against your palm.

But it’s nothing compared to hers—and the thought makes you cry even harder.

“I get it.” His lips are warm against your forehead, hand cupping around the back of your head. “I miss her, too.”

You’re not sure when he makes you leave the washroom. But once he does he brings you down to the kitchen, giving Gabi and Falco each a pat on their heads. You give them a smile, tears still fresh in your eyes, before gathering the torn pieces of the calendar in your bruised hands.

Maybe you can fix this. It’s the fifth of September, after all. Not a day you want to forget just yet.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it, I swear on my life. I wanna rip those pages out but I’ll lose the other letters and I don’t want to lose them like I lost you.

I don’t hate you. You’re not selfish, you never were. I know you did the best you could as Commander of the Survey Corps, with the incredible weight on your shoulders. Your main priority was always keeping us safe and giving us hope.

I know why you left that day. But I wish you hadn’t left me behind. I could’ve gone with you, helped you out that day. We could still be together dead or alive.

I love you. I wish I could’ve said it when you were still alive with me. I wish I could say it to your face instead of writing it down in a dusty old notebook.

I love you. I miss you. I wish I could see your smile one last time. Hear your voice again. See the beautiful shine in your eyes.

Because I love you, and I always have. Maybe someday I’ll see you again and tell you face-to-face. Maybe by then I won’t be such a coward.

Hope you enjoy your birthday up there.

Every day brings something new. Smells, tastes, sounds, even the wind outside is different every day. People passing each other hour after hour, car horns filling your ears, the sting of smoke deep in your lungs; it’s easy to get lost in the atmosphere.

You take it in stride. Onyankopon is standing there, holding out his hand, ready to guide you deeper into the city. He’s offered to carry your suitcase but you insisted you do it yourself; too many memories are stuffed in between the clothes inside.

You suck in a breath and take his hand. A little awkward, with a suitcase in your other hand, and the old tattered notebook resting in the crook of your elbow. But the damn thing has already wormed its way into your heart, no way are you leaving it behind now.

A tight swallow, a soft smile from Onyankopon, as you let him lead you towards the next chapter of your life.

City life isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. It’s busy and crowded but it keeps me looking forward. No time to dwell on the past here. Maybe that’s why Onyankopon was so adamant about me living here.

There’s a bookstore here, much larger than the one back home where Levi and the kids live. It pays well, the owner’s nice, and she lets me borrow some of her own books from her personal collection from time to time.

She wears glasses too—not as cute as yours, though.

I try to visit Levi and the kids every other weekend. Gabi and Falco come to visit once in a while but Levi always stays behind. Blames it on the bad leg but we both know the truth. Too many bad memories of Mitras has made him wary of crowded cities.

But I like it. I have my own apartment, right next door to Onyankopon’s, with a balcony and a slew of potted plants. Onyankopon says some people like to name their plants just for the fun of it. The two sitting on the windowsill are Sawney and Bean. (You’re welcome, silly girl.)

It’s hard work but I’m getting better. I don’t dread writing in this book anymore. I can think of your smile without bursting into tears. For now I’m content to sit back and enjoy city life, until whatever god watching over us decides my time is up.

I promise to write soon; have to head to work now. I’ll be back.

It’s been a year since you left me. I still want to see you again.

Onyankopon and I are heading into town for a few days to visit Levi. He says he doesn’t need help around the shop but he never complains whenever I show up at his door. Sometimes I wonder if he feels obligated to put up with me. If he thinks you’ll haunt him forever if he turns me away. That sounds like something you would do, silly girl.

I had another dream about you last night. Right after the celebration for Shiganshina, the night before the expedition to reclaim Wall Maria. We were laughing and drinking and sharing old stories—but we weren’t alone. Erwin and Levi were there. So was Moblit, and by some miracle, so were Mike and Nanaba.

I hope we’ll all be together again soon. I hope they’re all watching us, waiting to see what we’ll do with this new world we’ve forged for ourselves.

I know you are. You’re always watching, aren’t you?

I have to go now, or Onyankopon will head out without me. I’ll let you know how Levi and the kids are when I come home.

Miss you more every day. I hope I’ll get to see you again soon. Until then, I’ll just have to keep writing these silly little letters. I think you’d like them anyways.

See you later, Hanji.

It’s bright when you open your eyes. Too bright, a soft breeze kissing your cheeks, nose scrunching up as you shield your face with your hands. Funny, you don’t remember leaving the window open when you fell asleep. Or sleeping outside, for that matter.

You’re lying in the grass, a bed of wildflowers sprawled beneath you. There’s a forest at the edge of the valley, close enough for you to see the shadows of animals spilling across the trees. The sun is warm on your skin, so bright and beautiful, not a single cloud in the sky.

Almost too good to be true.

Is this it? Have you finally reached the end of your line? All those days with Levi, Onyankopon, and the kids, moving from town to city for work, seeing what little of the new world you could for both you and your other half…

Has your time finally run out?

“Hey, over here!”

Your blood freezes in your veins. A shadow crosses yours in the warm sunlight. A heavy cape blows in the wind, a dark green to match the forest beyond the meadow.

A pair of wings splashed against the fabric. Messy brown hair tied up haphazardly. Shiny glasses reflecting in the sun. Warm brown eyes that remind you of home.

“I was wondering when you’d get here. It’s been kinda lonely, I have to say…”

Hanji Zoe is standing right there in front of you, looking as radiant as ever. No scars or bruises to be seen, nor the black patch over her left eye. No burns or charred fabric on her body.

She looks…happy. Safe, content.

Alive.

“…Dumbass,” you finally find your voice, rushing into her outstretched arms. “You had me worried sick! Are you hurt? Can I do anything for you? I swear, I won’t let you go anywhere alone ever again! I’ll be right there by your side for as long as you—”

“Hey, hey, hey, come on now! You’re gonna make me blush with all that sweet talk!”

But you can’t stop yourself. And before you know it you’re sobbing into her chest, arms wrapped tight around her wrist, feeling the soft b-bmp of her heart against your ear.

“Love you, you know that? I love you, so please don’t leave me again…”

You’ll say it over and over, as many times as she wants to hear it. But for right now she’s silent, her arms resting around your waist and shoulders, tugging you in for a bone-crushing hug. Her messy hair is tickling your nose again, her smile could rival the sun in the sky. She shakes her head and lets out a laugh, before pressing a warm kiss to the apple of your cheek.

“I won’t ever leave you again, alright? I’m sorry about that, I never meant to hurt you. I didn’t mean to leave you like that…”

You hold her tighter, knocking her down into the wildflowers below. She lets out a real laugh this time, hair sticking out like a halo above her head, palms against your cheeks. For the first time in months—no, years—your chest feels whole again.

“I know you didn’t. It’s okay, I promise, it’s okay…”

A comforting silence washes over the two of you. It’s so warm right here, in this little meadow of your own, surrounded by a thousand wildflowers. She’s finally safe in your arms, after all these years, and you are never letting her go ever again.

“…I love you, Hanji.”

“I know,” she answers with a smile that makes your heart soar, “and I love you too.”

[howdoesagrapewrites]

Angst(?)

can you make a fanfic where reader’s death is pavitr’s canon event and he and gayatri is very sad for a couple months but then a new spiderperson is introduced to the spider-gang and boom its reader from another universe, he finds out and invites her to his world so that he can show her to gayatri and they break into tears because of how much they missed reader

(I’m not good at explaining so if you can’t understand I’m so sorry😭)

(It can be yandere,it can be normal wherever you’re comfortable in)

𝘽𝙚 𝙪𝙨 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙

Cw: major character death, angst, hurt no comfort, poly!fem!reader x Pavitr Prabhakar x Gayatri Singh, reader has braided hair but it doesn't specify anything else, this has references to tricycle, grief

Notes: haha, someone asked for angst 🙂 I'll give you angst 🙂. I decided to make it non-yandere because honestly, I think these two would NOT survive losing reader. I recommend reading this listening to any of these songs: The one that got away - Brielle Von Hugel, Mystery of love - Sufjan Stevens and Pretend - Alex G and Two slow dancers - Mitski

There was nothing quite as lovely as the air in late spring. Pavitr liked seeing your skin glow in the sun, the way you stretched your limbs like a lazy cat when you were laying in the grass of the town square after school. Your school uniform only slightly messy, your braids would cascade on the green grass as you laid your head and take a sip of your juice box.

"Gaaah, I don't even want to know my score in that chemistry quiz" Your face contorns in faux agony and you roll around the grass adding to the dramatic effect

"Do you need a hug?" He asked with a cheeky smile

You pouted and nodded with a little noise, and Pavitr, who had already set his backpack and other things aside to prepare, jumped into your arms, hugging you tightly and rolling around with you

"You're not coming? You flashed your best puppy eyes at Gayatri, who was pressing a cold soda can next to her cheek to fight the heat, she arched an eyebrow and moved her lips to the side "are you guys sweaty?"

You and Pavitr looked at eachother, in silent agreement, then said a very long but not very convincing "Nooooo", she looked at you with distrust, and tried to crawl away from your spot, but Pavitr grabbed her by her ankle and you followed, you pounced on her and you trapped her between your bodies, ignoring her screams mixed with laughs and pleas for you to get off, even in playful fighting, she welcomed you.

He was freshly Spider-Man when the bus accident happened, or was supposed to happen. He understood the might of the mask for the first time, when he hugged you both after saving the bus from falling, completely forgetting about how he had to keep his secret identity, secret. It didn't matter, you were safe, inspector Singh was safe, Mumbattan was... It definitely had looked better, but at least it was standing. He loved being Spider-Man, he was about to lost the people he cherished the most, but he was able to save them.

He saved you both one, two, three, far too many times, his heart would always return to life after seeing you alive and well, Gayatri was a target more often due to her being more recognizable, being inspector's Singh daughter as well. That's why it was such an unpleasant surprise when the green goblin took you, he had been silent and Pavitr had no idea where he hid you, he had no secret lair to go look in, he wasn't bulldozing a building or anything of sorts that would give him a clue.

He frantically looked for you, feeling his muscles tense up and his insides feeling like they were tied into knots, he tried to focus as if every thought of doom wasn't racing in his head. He tried to calm himself down, this had happen before, but you always come back, the three of you always come back, always together in the end. And this time it was the same, he was able to save you mid fight with the green goblin. He loved his spider powers more than ever, he's not only the most dashing hero in two legs, he's easily the most versatile, who else could save a girl from falling so seamlessly?

"Y/N?" He called your name, recognizing you were in a shock state, he wanted to make sure you were stable enough to take you to a hospital. He'd gladly run away from a fight if it means saving you

The green Goblin's voice mocked him in the background "you don't understand?" of course he didn't, he saved you. He saved you

"Y/N? I saved you, you can't be-" No... No, no, no, no, no. "You can't be dead, I don't want you to be dead!" His tears blurred his vision and left a dark patch in his colorful mask. You loved that mask, his suit, you loved that he was Spider-Man, but most importantly, you loved Pavitr Prabhakar and Gayatri Singh.

"I saved you, honey, can't you see?" His voice was breaking, that wasn't a question, it was an entreaty, a plead. A prayer leaving his lips, his soul. He asked for only one thing, "Don't be dead" whatever came next, he'd handle it, you'd handle it together, but how can he protect you, stay by your side when you weren't there? When in just a couple hours your body would start to get stiff? Leaving more than evident what he was holding in his arms, was not his beloved, but her corpse. This was the night Y/N L/N died.

What happened next, Pavitr doesn't like to talk about, he's ashamed about it. He can't decide on what, though, his first instinct is to feel shame for how violent he was, how he got in a frenzy and forgot his morals completely, and in the other hand, in days where there's no amount of blankets or cuddles that can do something to the cold emptiness in his chest, or when he sees Gayatri unable to exist without thinking about you, he feels shame, regret that he didn't kill the green goblin.

Gayatri feels shame as well, she's ashamed about her reaction, she wished that when Pavitr broke the news to her, she went for a long, comforting hug, those hugs that say "I'm here for you, we'll figure it out" or maybe a hug that just says "I love you" maybe that's the only thing he needed to hear, but what he did not need to hear was "How could you let that happen?" Not "We trusted you", but that's what came out of her mouth. The only reason she stopped was because couldn't even talk with how hard she was crying. Her whole world shattered, she didn't want to compare, but she knew Pavitr didn't understand how much deeper the cut was for her. She knew that girl since childhood, had to see her go on a date with dumb guy on the block, repressing her feelings for years before she was in her arms, Y/N was not only one of the loves of her life, she would always be her best friend. You were girls together, and it hurt in every way that you would imagine.

Gayatri and Pavitr stood next to your mother in the funeral, stiff, quiet, like statues. They held her hands to prevent her from going to reach you when the coffin was descending, when it was clear that this was happening, it was final. No gravestone should ever have only seventeen years of difference between birth and passing. How could you be dead when you hadn't even made it to your 18th birthday yet? They had things planned for your birthday, but now, it was an incomplete milestone, that you'd never reach, like a million others, because no gravestone should ever have only seventeen years between birth and passing.

One, two, no longer three, it's only you and me.

"What if we never told her?" Gayatri asked, curled up in Pavitr's chest, in one of those days where none of them could get out of bed. Gayatri's dad had lost all severity that characterized the parents of teenagers after all that happened, his child was depressed, broken, and he had no clue what to do about it, and he couldn't say didn't love that girl like a second daughter, even before you started dating.

"Told her what?" They didn't have to say the name to know who they were talking about

"We- were dating before, just me and you, maybe if we stayed like that, and never told her, I'd be the one... Gone. And she'd get to live with you" something inside Gayatri told her that for some reason, that was what was to happen. That she should pass away, then an old love of his would get to nurse him back to health, get to keep him. If she had the option to watch the two people she loves the most in this world get married and be happy, she wouldn't doubt it for a second, she'd die with a smile in her face

"Don't say stuff like that" he hugged her tighter "She wouldn't want you to say that" lately, you functioned in their minds like an angel in their shoulder, every bad choice was always stopped by the thought of "Y/N wouldn't want me to" they would never reject even the smallest portion of you, now that it was all that they had left, they'd follow your orders until the end of the world.

Pavitr hung his mask for a long time, he couldn't bear to continue, he only had attended a few missions and meetings in the spider society, in hopes of keeping his watch, he already lost too much to lose his friends too. They stood by him, particularly Gwen, she was the best comforting him and empathizing with his grief, she had lost someone she loved too. She guided him through everything, was never harsh or tip-toed around him, even when he'd lash out and say something hurtful, Gwen fully understood, waited for him to reach out, and reassured him she could never hate him, she was his friend, and most importantly, she knew it was hard to not hurt others accidentally, when all you have inside of you is hurt, at the lowest point, is all you have to give.

That's why Gwen made sure neither Miles or Hobie mentioned the newest member of the society, and of course, not mention she was getting close to them.

"I 'ont think secrecy is the right way to go, Gwendy" Hobie said, he was an honest guy, he didn't like lying by omission, in his opinion, his friend had to process his grief while being aware of reality too

"I'm low-key with Hobie on this, I mean, this is full of Peter Parkers, and- maybe I should stay out of this one, sorry" Miles cut himself off when he saw Gwen's expression at his words, he tried to be the middle ground, but he recognized he didn't have much right to talk, since he didn't experience that

>"Yes, it's full of Peters, you think it's easy? Seeing them and inevitably thinking "hey, this is maybe how my best friend would look if he got the chance to grow up" but no, he'll stay thirteen forever, and it's still hard. It hasn't even been a year, so I don't want Pavitr to go through that so soon" even though Gwen's tone was anything but friendly, they both got the message, she wasn't mad, she was just being protective of Pavitr

However, they could only control their words, nothing else, and Pavitr ended up meeting this Y/N when he came without prior notice and sat down at the cafeteria, in that table where they always sat, where he sat when he was more active in the spider society, and there she was, Y/N, in her very own Spider-Man suit. She looked different, shorter hair, a beauty mark on top of her left eyebrow, and higher cheekbones, he had your face tattooed in his memory, he never wanted to forget it, just like your voice. Her smile was bright, it reminded him of yours, but it wasn't quite as beautiful, maybe because this Y/N was not in love with him. Oh, how your love made you glow.

He sat down, and just pretend everything was fine, he was good at that.

"Hey, nice to meet you, but I have a, uh, thing that I was hoping to get done"

"Oh no, don't worry, I'm fine, it's not your fault you're here" He eased her worries and started to strike conversation with his friends like usual, new member included.

After that day, Pavitr showed up more often, he knew that he was just going to hurt himself, he didn't want to add salt to the wound, but he couldn't help it, he could hear your voice, look into your eyes again, he knew it wasn't you, he didn't even had feelings for her, like gossipy spiders suggested, as bad as it was, he just wanted to see you in her.

Gayatri noticed he was going to the society much more often, yet he had no interest in returning to be Mumbattan's Spider-Man, something wasn't adding up, and Pavitr told her immediately, Gayatri was his life, and he didn't want to keep secrets, even if he's embarrassed.

"Could you, maybe, let me see her?" She asked tilting her head and biting the inside of her lips anxiously, if she could see you one last time, she'd be satisfied, she never got to say goodbye. Re-reading your lasts texts for hours, knowing that those "I miss you" messages will never be delivered, much less responded.

"It's not her, you know that, right, love?" Pavitr asked, knowing first hand how painful it was.

"I know" she nodded with a bitter expression, hugging her boyfriend, hiding like the crook of his neck was a safe haven from all the cruelty in the world

>Pavitr: "we need to talk, could you swing by Mumbattan?"

When Gayatri saw her, she tried to smile through the tears, restricting herself from hugging and kissing you, knowing it was inappropriate, this wasn't you.

"I know you are your own person, and this is weird, but, could you say you're proud of me?" She looked at the variant with pleading eyes.

This was not the first time spiders seemed emotional near you, it seems you were unreliable, and had this tendency of dying on people. You understood, your mother and your best friend died too, Hobie knows how many times you have asked him to just stay still, so you could see what your best friend would've looked if he grew up with you, if he was Spider-Man instead of you. Grief is painful, but most of all, it's confusing. You nodded. "I'm proud of you, both of you, you kept going, I know how hard that is" you were sincere, even though you didn't know Gayatri, and didn't know Pavitr that well, anyone who lost half of his heart and keeps going, is someone you should be proud of.

"There's so many universes, I promise you there's one where you, well, we are all happy. Just live your life together, cherish each other there's variants that have nothing left"

They thanked you for being this kind, you felt uneasy after leaving, you were talking about yourself, you were the variant that had nothing left. You wonder why you were born where you did, and couldn't be theirs, that look they gave you, even though you couldn't reciprocate, that's love. No one in your universe had ever looked at you like that, but they would always mourn their Y/N, that's why you left. For now, you only need to worry about Pavitr never noticing the way you looked at Miles Morales.

[ed-recovery-affirmations]

How to deal with weight gain and body modification?

What are the consequences I will face l in recovery? Swelling? Abnormal weight gain? When does it stabilize? My fear is gaining weight and keep gaining and gaining and gaining.

This is tough for a lot of people in ED recovery, especially because your body may change shape or gain back weight in "disproportionate" ways. Even when this phase has passed, your post-recovery body might not go back to the way it was before you got sick. Your body will do what it needs to do to heal and get better.

So I think it's important to try and let go of the need to control what your body is going to look like. That's hard and scary, but I recently answered another ask where I addressed this. We do live in a society that idealizes staying the same, always and forever, but that's not guaranteed in real life. We grow. We live full lives. We may become wrinkled, change shape, get pregnant and change in permanent ways, acquire new stretch marks, develop new medical needs in old age. This is normal, and grief and stress over bodily change is nothing new...especially when it's something stigmatized like weight gain.

But it may be helpful to practice actively letting go and being compassionate towards your body, paying attention to its needs rather than what you would prefer it to do. I can't promise there will be a specific cap to your weight gain in recovery. In fact, your body may gain more weight than your pre-ed weight, as a lot of ED behaviors put the body into survival mode and so it desperately clings to calories when it can next get them. This may be scary to you. That's understandable and okay. Try having compassion for your body and giving it permission to do what it needs to do to keep you alive and well. You may have to actively do this many, many, many times before it starts to feel more natural to you. That's okay. Just try and give your body that love and compassion because it will help you heal your mindset more than trying to control your body ever will.

Some more things you can try:

It's okay to avoid mirrors for a little while if they're triggering, especially if you've got places you need top be and things you need to do and can't be bogged down with body image struggles.

You can also try using a mirror to deliberately practice body acceptance by noticing the things about your body that are worrying you the most. Address these things specifically with love and pay attention to how your body is trying to help you to survive. I suggest you do this more when you've got a bit of free time and can really process the what you're feeling about your body, as this may be difficult and bring up strong feelings for you.

Practice body love by doing things that make your body feel good, like covering yourself with your favorite texture blanket or making yourself a warm cup of tea when you're sad. Focus on how these are acts of love for yourself and your body that do not require you to focus on how your body looks.

Write down any negative beliefs that pop up about your body and then write down a belief that actively challenges the negative one. For example, if you believe that your body looks worse when you're having swelling, write that down, then counter it with the belief "my body is doing what it needs to do to recover from a major medical event, and it deserves my love and support no matter how it looks."

I hope this helps!

[threadbaresweater]

there's no such thing as co-parenting in my divorce.

tw: vent. divorce, kids with mental illness, grief

my 15 year old has been living solely with me for the last year. when her dad and I divorced, we had joint custody (and on paper we still do). she hasn't seen him for more than a few hours at a time for a long time, but she still wants a relationship with him. he doesn't text or call her, so she's stopped making the effort. it's so incredibly sad.

he got a new job a few months ago and his days off vary. daughter decided she wants to see him again and maybe stay at his house for a couple of days. she asked me to work it out with him. I called and got no answer so I sent this text.

it's 9:04 am, and he's read it. but there's no response. nothing. I realize I might be asking him to rearrange his routine, but it's his daughter. he is remarried and has step children that he has routinely prioritized over the last several years and my daughter is heartbroken. she has a host of health issues (mental and physical) and I'm the one who takes her to appointments, pays the bills with my shitty income, consoles her when she is broken hearted. she's also a very anxious kid who looks for excuses to come home from school all the time, like today, less than an hour after I dropped her off.

the thing that happened with her heart is this: she said she had a dream that her heart was racing. she woke up and her heart was beating like it was in the dream. I suspect it's anxiety over this situation with her father, but with everything else considered, I really don't know. there's so much more going on behind the scenes here and I have learned to take her complaints with a grain of salt because I'm thousands of dollars in debt due to running her to the doctor or urgent care for every single thing.

I myself have been undergoing some testing for heart problems, and I have a feeling she's internalized it and made it her problem. maybe that's a stretch, but if you knew her like I do, it would make sense.

I am so close to a complete and utter breakdown, and even my normal ways of escaping are not helping anymore. I'm barely holding it together and I'm not sure how much longer I can be expected to keep this going.

[peyton-warren]

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut:

I'd love to know more about what Sy is thinking after reader practically ran away from him in 'Blinded by the Fog' chapter 5

Only took 4 months, hon. I just hope it was worth the wait. I decided to write a new chapter just from Sy's perpective of the time leading up to Chapter 5, and whats going on before he shows up for dinner at Cougar's mom's. And somehow that turned into over 5k words....

Thank you for hand holding while i worked through my writer's block.

Without further ado here it is.

Blinded by the Fog Behind the Scenes I

Characters: Captain Syverson and Reader. Mention of Jake Jensen and Cougar Pairings: Jake Jensen x Reader, Syverson x reader

Word count: 5012 Type: angst and fluff Warning: 18+. Minors DNI. Loss of spouse and found family. drinking, swearing. Grief. Therpy/ emotional baggage type language. Vague mention of shitty childhood for reader.

Summary: An in depth look at what is going on in Sy's head in Blinded by The Fog Chapters 4, 5 and 6.

Author's Note: Thank you to @adulting-sucks for her continued support, especially when I want to chuck this whole thing in the trash and never look at it again. Sy's Running Play list: Here

Ask Box: Open

Series Masterlist Masterlist

Sy couldn't believe his heart was almost pounding as you walked into his living room dressed in his clothes.  He had it bad he realized, not for the first time in even the last 10 minutes.  He took you in from head to toe, you were effortlessly sexy in his clothes, and God how much he wanted to grab you and make you his own, crushing you under his weight, pinning you to this couch, carrying you off to his bedroom, making you forget your heartache, your sorrows, your troubles.  Instead he held out an open beer as you settled on the opposite end of the couch, curling your legs under you.  

“Feel better?” he asked even though that was a loaded question.  He knew it was tempting fate that you might fall back down into the spiral of mourning, but he honestly wanted to know if you felt more comfortable than you had, if he, his favorite comfortable clothes and his home made you feel better. It was selfish of him, he knew that, but right now he couldn’t help it.  He wanted nothing in this world more than to make you feel something more than just the sadness that seemed to consume you these past few months.  

“A little bit,” you had admitted to him as you put the bottle to your lips.  “So what are we watching?” He had to pull his eyes away from yours, forcing himself to grab the remote from the coffee table and gesturing at the TV.  “Figured I’d go with a classic.  Big Trouble in Little China.”

The light that sprung up in your face, in your eyes, was addicting, he realized.  “I haven’t seen that in ages,” you had told him, as you sat up, reaching over him for a slice of pizza.  Sy inhaled your soft smell.  He didn’t do it with any intention, it was instinctual when he caught a small whiff of you so close he couldn't stop himself from drawing a deeper breath.  Embarrassed by his own action, he pressed play, dropping the remote, and hoped you did not notice.  

You didn’t seem to as you settled back into the arm of the sofa, your eyes trained on the screen as you munched on your pizza, beer tucked between your thighs as you stretched out your legs, napkin on your thigh.  He really shouldn’t be noting that you seemed to relax more as you ate another slice, and finished off your beer.  He shouldn't have been pleased by your small smile when he first quoted Burton.  And he definitely should not be happy by your adorable little snort as he quoted Burton the second time.  “The check is in the mail.”

After you had your fill of the pizza and the movie progressed, Sy watched as you tucked your feet under your thighs, your hands wrapping around your toes.  “Cold?” he asked, his hand hovering over yours.  When you nodded cautiously, he gently pushed your hands aside and wrapped his fingers around the arch of your foot, pulling it from under you.  “Been told I’m like a furnace,” he admitted, tucking your toes under his thigh, encouraging you to wiggle both feet under his leg.  Grabbing the throw off the back of the sofa, he laid it over your legs, basically tucking them in as you hummed happily. “Thank you,” you whispered softly, giving him that smile he longed to see.  “That is much better.”

Sy simply slipped his hand under the blanket and wrapped his fingers around your ankles, squeezing gently, trying to look as casual as possible, forcing his eyes to watch the screen instead of you scooting down further into the couch, under his favorite blanket, looking like you belonged there.  It really wasn't long after that you fought your eyes from closing, and you finally lost that battle, falling quickly into sleep's embrace.  Soft snores came from the other end of the couch, and Sy couldn't stop from staring at you, watching you snooze like a complete creeper.  With every twitch, he scolded himself he should watch the movie, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from your sleeping form, happy you were comfortable enough, safe enough here with him to sleep. He expected you didn’t sleep well on your own based on the constant tired eyes you sported in the few months he had known you.  

He realized as Jack Burton praddled on in the basement of the warehouse in San Francisco’s Chinatown, that he felt like he had known you his whole life, that the connection the two of you had forged felt like one that would last the rest of his days on this earth.  And that scared him, scared him so much.  

Gently squeezing your ankles again, he forced himself to watch the movie, emptying his beer, leaving the bottle resting against his other leg. As much as he’d like another, he didn’t want to move, didn’t want to wake you, didn't want to take that chance.  Instead he settled for running his thumb over your ankle bone, as he watched the rest of the movie.

After it ended, Sy sat there for a bit longer in the silence of his home. Enjoying it.  He didn’t realize how much he missed having someone else in his space until you appeared. Yes he missed Aika and was counting down until she was released from quarantine since their last deployment.  But it had been even longer since he had another human, a woman, in his space.  Having someone who understood his work, at least at the surface level.  Though after Jake and the Losers’ demise would you be willing to get involved with another military man?   

Sy rubbed his free hand over his face and beard.  Fuck.  He knew he was jumping the gun more than a hair.  You were still fresh in your grief over your husband and friends' deaths.  Why would he be thinking about making this anything more than ‘just friends’ at this point?  That wasn’t fair to you.  You were so vulnerable and trying hard to be the strong woman you expected yourself to be.  He couldn’t hope for anything from you more than just friendship.  And he was happy with that.  He really was.  He’d take you in his life anyway you were willing to give. 

With a deep sigh, he rose from the couch, watching as your legs stretched out, your feet rubbing together and settling in the warm spot he left behind as you continued to slumber.   As cozy as you looked, he couldn’t leave you here.  The bed in the guest room had become a makeshift laundry sorting and pile spot, despite how clean he kept the rest of the house.  That left his bed as the only other option.   He’d deposit you there and then come back and sleep on the couch himself. He’d napped on it plenty over the years. He’d manage just fine for a full night.  Hell, he’d slept in way worst places thanks to the US Army.  

Pulling the throw his great aunt made for him before he left for the military off of you, Sy carefully picked you up, pulling you close, cradling you in his arms.  Instinctually, you curled into him, seeking his warmth, pressing your face to his chest.  Smiling, he headed down the hall, gently kicking the door open.  He felt your fingers tangle in his shirt as he shifted you, your fingers catching a hair or two off of his belly in the t-shirt he was wearing.  As he walked to the side of the bed, you seemed to burrow further into his arms, as if you sensed he was trying to separate the two of you, and you didn’t want that to happen.  Aaran didn’t want that to happen.  He wanted to crawl into this bed with you, his bed, but that wasn’t fair to you, nor to him.  Especially when you muttered a soft “I love you” to your deceased husband.

Instead he laid you on the bed, and pulled your hand from his shirt by distracting you with soft kisses across your forehead. Laying the blanket around you and standing to leave.  From the doorway, he looked back, watching you seem to effortlessly settle into his bed, and into his heart.

“Ni-night, baby.”

Sy woke the next morning on the couch, curled on his side, his head resting on the throw pillow, a blanket pulled over him.  His arms were crossed tight across his chest, the couch giving him so little space for his appendages.  But as he sat up with a crick in his neck, he remembered why he had slept out here as he pulled the blanket into his lap, your soft smell filling his nose.  A small smile crossed his face as he folded the soft fleece and laid it across the back of the sofa.  

Glancing at his watch, he recognized the super early hour and figured as tired as you had been lately he could get a decent run in before you were up this morning.  Stretching his back, he headed towards the laundry room, knowing he had just washed some shorts and old t-shirts yesterday, certain he could use them for his morning exercise without needing to bug you.  

It was after he donned the soft well loved clothes that he realized he had cast his running shoes into a corner of his bathroom the other day when he was too lazy to take them off by the door, in too much of a hurry to get to the shower. 

“Fuck.”  Quietly he opened the door to the bedroom, praying the usually squeaky hinges were quiet,  his sight immediately falling on you, looking for any sign that he had woken you.  Finding none, he quickly shuffled to the bathroom, snagging the pair of shoes off the floor, before turning to escape.  Before he could, you moved, your legs shuffled under the blanket maybe, or you drew a deeper breath, or maybe your pinky flexed, and it drew his attention to the bed.  He forbade himself from moving any closer to you than where he was.  He also forbade himself from thinking how right you looked curled up in the bed, his bed.  He felt his body react at the thought of forgetting all about his morning run for a different form of exercise he possibly could get in if he slipped into the bed with you.  Instead he reminded himself again that you were newly widowed, and the last thing you needed right now was someone fucking with you, literally.  He had no right to try to act on the feelings that were growing with each passing day, passing hour, passing second.  

With a rueful sigh, he let himself out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.  After slipping his shoes on, he set up the ancient coffee maker to begin brewing, knowing at the very least he would appreciate the warm beverage when he returned.  By the look of the sky outside, Sy would be lucky if he came home dry let alone warm.  

GrabbIng an empty envelope from a pile of mail on his counter, he quickly wrote you a note to inform you of his intent to return shortly which he propped up on a clean mug.  Grabbing his ear buds off the counter, he headed out, hoping a hard run would chase the impure thoughts about you out of his head. 

Instead his iPod had other plans.  Sy hit skip as soon as A.D.I.D.A.S appeared on the screen as he hit play, swearing for not the first time that he needed to take that song off of his iPod all together.  A couple blocks away he realized just how inappropriate the lyrics to Black Dog actually were.  He skipped through almost half of his playlist, realizing how dirty many of the lyrics were, even songs he thought were harmless like Brown Sugar. Even that one Katy Perry guilty pleasure song made a maddening appearance in his ears. 

He was glad it started to rain as he hit the halfway point of his long run, realizing the run itself was doing little to kill his inappropriate thoughts about you.  When his shuffled playlist threw back to back songs Pearl Necklace and Relax by Frankie goes to Hollywood in his brain, Sy yanked the earbuds out and stuffed them in his pocket.  He picked up the pace to make it home before he was soaked to the bone, though the thought of taking a shower was glorious at this point, and even that brought thoughts of you to his brain.  He couldn’t win, he decided, and slowed his pace, letting the cold of the rain soak into his skin.  

His blood ran cold to match the weather as he saw you sitting curled up on his porch, still dressed in his shirt and sweats, but now they were wet.  Why were you outside? Why weren’t you inside?  What had happened?  His feet splashed through the puddles in his yard as he raced to you.  You didn’t even flinch as he jogged up the steps, the dread in his chest sinking into his gut.  “What’s wrong?” he asked, kneeling in front of you, a hand on your knee.  With a violent swipe, you pushed his hand away, revealing your face to him, both causing his heart to fracture.  “What happened, baby?” he tried again, settling his own knees beside you.  

“Don’t call me that,” you growled, using the sleeve of his shirt you had slept in to wipe at the snot and tears that accumulated on your face. 

Sitting back, Sy looked at you, trying to assess what had happened, but his brain didn’t come up with much outside of his ogling of you earlier, did you catch him?  Did he do something else that you deemed inappropriate? What the hell happened in the hour or so since he had left for his run?  With a deep breath to center himself, he focused on what he could do for you now.  “Let’s get you inside,” he said, grabbing for your arm which you ripped from his grip.  

“Lemme go.”

Putting his hands up in surrender, he got your message you didn't want to be touched, and he stood and reached for the door, finding it locked.  Silently, he slipped from the porch back out into the rain to go grab the spare key he kept hidden in the shed.  He returned to find you curled back in on yourself.  He opened the door, turning to tell you, but found you getting to your feet.  He quickly stepped back as you pushed through the door, ripping your bag and clothes from the hook as your wet bare feet slapped against the wood floors.  How you did not slip he didn’t have any clue, which only made you more impressive than you already were in his opinion.  

“I need you to take me to my car,” you said, your voice rough and haggard, snapping him out of his thoughts as you retreated to the bathroom, the door slamming making him wince.  

“Well fuck me,” he muttered, suddenly catching up that he had no idea what had happened to make  you go from the sweet girl cuddled into his couch last night to this thunder cloud and it didn’t seem like you were willing to tell him what had happened .  Pulling the wet shirt from his frame, he grabbed a hoodie from a hook, switching their places as he reached for his truck keys and headed out the door.  His running shorts weren’t as soaked as the shirt and he figured he didn’t have time to change them anyway.  Instead he turned the truck on, cranking the heat, hoping it was a hair warmer than the damp air outside by the time you two climbed in.  

He stepped back into his foyer as you reemerged from the guest bathroom, your bag slung over your shoulder.  “Let’s go,” you snapped, grabbing your work shoes as you headed out the door.  

“Alright.”  He followed you out, half noticing you pause on the porch as he locked the door behind you.  He didn’t think too much of it as you stalked towards the truck, not even trying to get in front of you to grab the door, uncharacteristically letting you climb in for yourself.  

Putting the truck into drive after you had snapped your seat belt on, Sy noted you checking your phone that had been sitting on the seat when you climbed in.  Suddenly things started to make a little more sense; you had lost your phone, you were worried about Jolene because you were certain you were going to let the other woman down.  You were always too fucking hard on yourself, and he wished he could make you stop.  You needed to stop.  You were doing all you could for Jolene, and Madre, and he imagined Aubrey too though he hadn’t seen the girl since the accident. He made a mental note to check in on her soon.  But not now.  “Fuck,” you softly swore, as you cradled your head, your voice suddenly so tired and worn. 

“Gonna tell me what's got you so wound up?” Sy tried again,  

“Nope,” you replied, letting the P pop loudly in the cab.  “Just need to go home.”

He may be a man, but he knew when to take a hint.  He wasn’t going to get anywhere with you right now by pushing.  He let it go. For now.  “A’ight.”

He noticed you gathering your things tighter in your fists as you neared the parking lot, and your car.  He would have snorted that you looked like one of his seasoned men about to tuck and roll out of a military vehicle if he wasn't so pissed off and confused at the moment.  He couldn't believe his ears when he heard the door open before he even came to a complete stop.  You were gonna hurt yourself.   

“Sugar, wait-” He threw the truck into park and grabbed for your elbow, trying to slow you down but you were gone before he could get a solid hold on you.  He silently cursed himself for having parked with your car next to your door, he should have thought that one through a little more as he dropped to the ground and rounded the front of the truck to see you peel out of the lot without a glance at him.  

“Goddamnit.”

He sucked in a deep breath before dropping his hands from his hips, and climbed back into the truck.  He stared at the entrance that you had just left from, pondering for a moment if he should follow you and try to make you talk to him or if he should just let you go.  You did seem to deflate some after you checked your phone.  Maybe it was just that you had been worried about Jolene, and nothing more.  

Dropping the truck into drive, he headed for home, giving you space you clearly wanted right now.  There was nothing he could do for you if you didn’t let him in.  As soon as he got there, he grabbed his phone from where he left it during his run, on the charger in the kitchen, and sent you a text asking if you got home ok.  With no more than that, he tossed it aside and strode to his bathroom, making himself to ignore where you had slept last night.  He was going to take this forced separation from you to get his head back on straight, taking the time to remind himself the only reason he had even met you was because of your husband’s recent accident.  So very recent, way too recent for him to be thinking you would want anything with anyone else.  

Angrily he stripped off his hoodie, tossing it and his shorts in the hamper in the corner of the bathroom. Turning the water on to warm up, he stripped the rest of his clothes before stepping under the spray trying to wipe you from his brain as he felt his body stir at that barest of thought of you.  Using all countless tactics he had used while sharing space with other men in the barracks earlier in his career, Sy willed himself to calm down, his hardon subsiding for the time being.  Touching himself at the thought of you was not going to solve anything.  If nothing else, it would make things worse for him, of that he was certain. Flipping the hot off completely at the end of the shower, he stood under the cold spray to the count of 60.  

With a shiver he cut the water and grabbed for his towel, searching his brain for what he was going to do with his Saturday.  He had spent the past few with you, and he was certain he had left things unattended to, though he currently couldn't think of anything outside of checking on you.  Wrapping the towel around his waist, he headed to the kitchen, grabbing the phone to find the super unpersonal thumbs up from you.  “Fuck you too,” he muttered under his breath, tossing the phone aside again.  He swept your coffee cup off the table, emptying it and the coffee pot in the sink.

Monday morning came with little fanfare for Aaran Syverson.  He had spent the weekend finding all manner of things to wipe you off of his brain, knowing he couldn’t do anything about you or this growing feeling until you worked out whatever happened on Saturday morning.  He hit the gym on base, pressing himself to his limits, driving the unwelcome thoughts of what you were going through without him from his brain.  Sunday he was paying for it, though he would never admit it to anyone else, his joints aching, his muscles just this side of painful.  What he also wouldn't admit to anyone else was that his phone was always just an arms reach away, all day Sunday as he mowed his meticulously already mowed lawn on Thursday evening.  Once that was done, he tried to banish you by binging on some tv show a station was playing back to back to back.  But all he accomplished there was demolishing a six pack.  

Checking his phone when he woke on the couch Monday, he let out a pained exhale and bit the bullet, sending a text asking if you were ok and if he could come over after work so you two could talk.  “Whatever this is isn't good for either of us any more,” he reasoned out loud to himself.   

He arrived early that morning to work, beating everyone else by almost 45 minutes.  He spent the time going through the mound of paperwork in his inbox, administrative stuff he hated about being the leader of a team and had pushed aside to deal with another day.  The fact that “another day” arrived should have told anyone around him something was wrong, but his team didn’t seem to notice.  Or did notice and chose not to say anything.   

Ten minutes before it was time to meet his men to start their day, his superior officer walked into his office, informing Sy that he and his team were to be in the debrief room at quarter after the hour, giving him little else to go on.  And maybe that’s why his men didn’t notice anything was going on with him, they too didn’t expect a mission briefing first thing on Monday morning. The rest of the day was spent prepping equipment and themselves to go out first thing Tuesday morning.

Syverson spent Monday night laying on the couch staring at the darkened living room ceiling.  He didn’t allow himself to even think about the reasoning why he hadn’t slept in his own bed the past 3 nights.  His only hope -that clearly had absolutely no bearing on why he was on the couch again- was that your scent will have completely disappeared from his bed linens by the time he returned, whenever that was.  

As soon as he got to base the next morning, he sent you a text informing you of his departure.  “I got your message that you don’t want to talk to me loud and clear.  I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading out on a mission, and I do not know how long I’ll be gone.  If when I return I have not heard from you, I promise I will respect your wishes and refrain from contacting you again.”

With one last disappointing look at his messages, he shut down his phone, throwing it into the glove box of his truck.  Biting the inside of his cheek, he opened the door and dropped his booted feet to the ground, grabbing his go bag out of the back seat before slamming the door.  With a deep grounding breath, and another one following it, Sy tried to shift his focus from you to the mission.  He had to or he would compromise the lives of his men.  The intel they had on this was limited, and if he didn’t get his brain in line, someone was going to get hurt or worse.  The teams, all of them really,  were already reeling from Clay and the others’ accident and even though the US Army denied any involvement of their actions, that was to be expected in the world of the Special Forces.  Though they were all elte trained,  they all knew they could wing up just escape goats for the US government if it was needed. Sy and other officers who had been close to any of the members in Clay’s team knew in their heart of hearts that’s what had happened, that The Losers did nothing wrong.  They had seen other teams take the fall for US military failures.  

If Sy wanted to keep his own men safe and from seeing the others too soon, he needed to drop you from his mind and focus on the task at hand.  

Roughly four days later, though Sy wasn’t even sure how many days they truly were gone with the time zone changes and copious amount of flight time, he was back on the ground in North Carolina.  After the team was debriefed and released, Sy and a couple of the guys were walking to their vehicles, packs slung over their shoulders, chatting about their plans for the weekend.

“Hey Captain,” Anthony called as Sy unlocked his truck, his fingers itching to grab his phone and see if he’s heard anything from you.   

With an unsteady exhale, Sy turns his head to his second.  “Yeah?”   

Anthony stopped at the front fender of the truck, glancing to see if the other men were out of ear shot before he continued.  “Do me a favor, man?” the slighter man asked.  

“What’s that?” Sy questioned, truly unaware of what was about to be asked of him.  

“Can you figure out your pussy problem this weekend?” 

Sy’s eyes narrowed and he saw red, his fist curling around the door frame.  That was the last thing he expected from Anthony.  Yeah, you were never very far from the forefront of Sy’s brain the last few days but outside of one slip up that got no one even hurt let alone killed, Sy thought he had it under wraps.  

“Next time we get called, it may not be a drill, it may wind up being the real deal, ya know?” the younger man said.  “Whoever this new chick is, she’s got your brain messed up, man.  Others may not see it, or may be too scared of you to say shit, but I see you are not firing on all cylinders.  Gotta be cuz of a woman. You don’t get like this often.  Last time was what’s her face, Sh-“

“I don’t need to be reminded of her name, Lieutenant,” Sy snapped.  He remembered the last woman that had his brain in a twist.  The one he was sweet on before they deployed to Baqubah, the one who promised to wait for him.  The one who waited all of 2 weeks before sending the Dear John letter. Shit the way the mail system worked when they were deployed, it was likely she dropped it in the mail box on her way home from saying goodbye to him before his flight.

You were nothing like her.  You were leagues beyond her, better than her.   You had more heart in your little finger than Sy’s ex had in her uncaring whole body.  

The other officer stood staring at Sy, waiting for an answer.   He hated that Anthony knew him so well as to know when his brain was elsewhere. He guessed that’s why they worked so well together.  Also explained why Anthony picked up some slack on the training op.  

“I’ll get it together,” Sy promised, if for no other reason then to make the man back the fuck off and go home.  “I’ll see you on Monday.”  Sy slammed the truck door after tossing his pack into the back seat.  Cranking the key in the ignition, Sy dropped his truck into reverse, throwing his wrap-around sunglasses on his face as he sped off towards home, needing a shower and to check his phone.   

Before he even got out of the truck in his driveway, he booted up his phone.  His heart pounded as he saw a notification of a voice mail message.  Clicking play, Sy was as damn near to tears as he had been in a long time.  It was Cougar’s mom inviting him for dinner tonight.  It wasn’t you offering a single hint of what was going on in your head. 

Sy vowed then and there to let you go. He was far too wrapped up in you and your heartache to be healthy for himself.  He needed to think about himself for once. Your silence told him to back off, and he had no choice to do it, for both of you. 

General Tag List: @littleone65, @mysweetlittledesire @jvanilly

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[jackwolfes]

wesper, honestly right now i want some combo of 12 (in grief), 17 (to distract), and 30 (to comfort)

a kiss in grief, to distract and comfort

Of all the strange places someone could be in this ridiculous mansion, Wylan finds Jesper on the roof of the boathouse.

The sky is as clear as it can get in Ketterdam, which is to say not very, but there isn't any rain. Wylan doesn't think there will be any time soon, either. It's almost summer, anyway, and the icy storms of winter are long behind them.

A lot is behind them now, but it doesn't always feel like it.

Wylan spots Jesper from the living room. He'd been looking for him with concern growing slowly in his chest like a sapling taking root, but as he passed by the glass doors leading to the garden he caught sight of teal sleeves.

"How did you get up there?" Wylan calls from the stone path just below. Jesper turns around, seeming surprised to have had his strange musings interrupted.

"I sprouted wings, merchling. Like the Kheergud. What do you think? I found a ladder."

It makes Wylan roll his eyes, but a ladder is better than trying to scramble up using footholds in the ageing walls. He makes his way around the boathouse till he finds it, then clambers up to sit at Jesper's side.

There is no smile on Jesper's face when Wylan perches beside him. They don't say anything to each other for a long moment, opting instead to stare out at the canal as the world floats by. He spots ducks. It's been a couple of weeks since Inej left Ketterdam. In three days, Wylan's mother will come home. He has been counting down the days, itching for her return.

Wordlessly, Jesper leans backwards until his back rests flat. He stretches his legs out, too, turning his eyes up to the sky. Wylan watches him until he's still once more, then does the same, except he turns his head to look at Jesper. The profile of his face is truly beautiful. The shine of sadness in his eyes is unmissable, although Wylan knows he isn't going to talk about it.

"You know Matthias had a pet?"

Wylan refocuses on Jesper's face when he speaks, grey eyes still watching the heavens.

"A fucking wolf," Jesper continues. "Nina told me. How ridiculous is that?"

"Most Druskelle have wolves," Wylan replies. Jesper makes a half-audible huffing noise that Wylan thinks was meant to be laughter.

If there is one thing that Jesper Fahey excels at it is hiding his pain, but after everything Wylan can see past all his usual tricks — and either way Jesper seems too worn down by now to bother. He presses his palm to his eyes, chest rising as he inhales deeply like it's all he can do to stop a flood breaking through the dams of his ribcage.

With a sigh Wylan rolls onto his front, hovering over Jesper and staying close because he can do nothing else to offer comfort. Jesper wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, tucking his face in the crook of Wylan's throat. Everything hurts and nothing is okay.

Wylan kisses his forehead, then his nose. It's a paltry way of calming Jesper's tears but there's nothing more that Wylan can offer. He feels Jesper scrub his hand over his eyes — still clinging to Wylan with the other one — and leaves another kiss on his nose.

How it devolves into their mouths meeting and a kiss growing, Wylan isn't sure, but he knows that this is what Jesper needs from him. Lying beneath the foggy clouds and the stars they hide, Wylan kisses him, hoping that it can take Jesper just a few steps away from his pain. They'll need to talk about it before he tries and buries it again, covered with the bandages of bad decisions, but for now Wylan will do this. He parts his lips, working Jesper's mouth open so he can sink his tongue past his teeth. They shift and adjust till Wylan is all but straddling one of Jesper's thighs, kissing him into the surface below. As if to soothe himself or just hang on Jesper clings to the fabric bunched around Wylan's hips.

They stay like this for what might be aeons until naturally they start to slow. Wylan feels sadness of his own simmering and surging, grief welled up inside him too. He is just as lost as Jesper now, and doesn't yet trust the safety they've been promised.

"The money is going to hit your account any day now," Jesper whispers. Wylan has a feeling that that has something to do with the sorrow and the tears.

"I'll buy you something pretty with it," Wylan offers. "We can get a pet."

Jesper chuckles. "Like a wolf?"

"Maybe not a wolf," Wylan replies. "I was thinking more like a cat."

Below him, Jesper smiles. It is not exactly a happy smile, but Wylan can tell that it is an honest one. Jesper isn't hiding his hurt from Wylan — and that thought makes something scary start to beat in Wylan's chest — but for right now the sight of truthful emotion on his face is enough.

Wylan kisses him again, and hopes it helps.

[blackjackkent]

"It is absolutely preposterous that any of us are alive!" Hope cries out as Raphael's body collapses against the marble floor. A pause, and then her eyes widen. "Maybe we're not. PINCH YOURSELF AND CHECK WE'RE NOT DREAMING THE LAST OF OUR LIVES AS WE DIE SCREAMING!"

Hector looks at her blearily; leaning against the wall, he slides slowly down into a sitting position, feeling the slow creep of pain through him as the adrenaline fades and the burns all over his body start to make themselves known. "We're fine, Hope..." he mutters hoarsely. "We did it."

"Then we're not just fine - we're spectacular!" she says brightly. "What a wonderful, jubilant, glorious day!" Her head snaps sideways, looking to one corpse amidst the pile of bodies in the chamber. "OH BUT MY POOR SISTER KORRILLA!" she bellows, a sudden wail of grief. "It is not right that she died, and it makes me want to weep an ocean..."

Hector lets out a heavy breath, following her gaze. Korrilla is stretched on her back, staring blankly at the ceiling; her head sits at an odd angle where Yurgir broke her neck. "I don't think there was any way to save her," he says quietly.

Her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "When we were children, she always kept the last piece of pastry for me. And bloodied the nose of the bullies who pulled my hair... She was my sister..." A pause. She squares her shoulders and looks up at Hector with a sudden earnestness. "But as a wise woman once said, there's no point in crying over spilt blood. We must go on. And despite all the years I've lost, I have enough love in my heart to guide you home."

Narrator: For the first time since you heard her voice, Hope seems calm. And the peace flows from her into you, soothing your very soul.

Hector half-closes his eyes, focusing on the welcome moment of serenity. It does nothing to dull the pain of his injuries... but it means, at the very least, that this is over. And he can't help admiring the tormented dwarf's bravery in this moment - to still look forward after everything that has happened to her.

"What will you do?" he asks.

She smiles just a little. "I'll hope," she says simply. "What else? I hope I'll see Korrilla again one day, and that she'll say sorry, and I'll tell her she's forgiven. I hope I'll find all the pieces of my mind that fell out of my head over all those years, and that I'll be able to put myself back together again. I hope the echoes of pain will fade, and memories of sorrow will die, and that you'll visit me here some day."

She steps forward, rests a hand against his cheek. Her palm feels feverishly warm, and yet the touch is gentle and soothing. "And I hope you have a happy ending of your own."

He looks up into her eyes, and though he smiles back, it is a sad expression. Little chance of that, I think, little one, he thinks to himself. But the words are a blessing, kindly meant, and he folds them into his soul where they will live alongside all the other little bits of hope he carries with them, in the hope that they will bolster him when the dark times come...

-----

Minsc is looking around wildly, in search of another enemy to strike; the wild frenzy of the rage is in his eyes and he narrowly avoids slamming his trident into Karlach as he turns.

"Easy, buddy," she mutters, putting out a hand on his arm. She can feel that every sinew of his body is stretched tight, his heart pounding.

It takes a few moments for him to calm, for the mad rage to clear out of his eyes, for him to realize that Raphael is dead. "He has killed her!" he snarls at Karlach, who flinches back under the ferocity of his expression. "He has killed Jaheira! Another witch dead before Minsc's eyes!"

Were the moment less tense, Karlach might point out that Jaheira had insisted she was not Minsc's witch, but it's not the point, not really. Witch or not, Minsc has watched his best friend crumble in the fire, just as Karlach once watched Hector die in a similar sea of flame. And there is some greater weight in Minsc's words too - a history of other deaths that could not be prevented.

"I know-- I know," Karlach says hastily. "But it's all right. We can revive her. I've got a scroll in my pack--" She pulls one of the curled sheets of paper out, offers it towards him.

He snatches it from her wordlessly, crouches at Jaheira's side, beginning to mumble the words of the spell as Boo scurries back and forth in agitation on his shoulders. Karlach stands next to him, shifting uncertainly, not sure whether to stay with him or go to Hector...

The pale gold light of the Revivify spell begins to swirl around Jaheira's body; she twitches, coughs painfully, her eyes flickering open.

"Ah," she says vaguely, looking up at Minsc. "Is it over, then?"

Minsc's eyebrows lift and he smiles widely in relief and joy. Heedless of her injuries, he lifts her in a full body hug; she gives a soft grunt of pain and pushes weakly at his shoulder.

"Careful, you great ox of a man," she mumbles. "I am only so many inches from death's door; take care you do not knock me back over the threshold..."

"Should I do so, Minsc would travel into death to find you," Minsc says gravely. He loosens his embrace but does not quite let go of her. "I failed you," he adds soberly. "I did not protect you, my--" A slight pause. "My friend."

"Did you not?" she asks with a slight smile. "I am here, and our enemy is not. What more could be asked?"

Minsc narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "I think this is wisdom which Minsc does not form so easily in his brain," he says slowly. "But if Jaheira says it is so, then he must believe it."

With the situation in something resembling calm, Karlach draws back away from them, moves to kneel at Hector's side. "All right, soldier?" she asks quietly.

He looks up at her with a weary smile, presses his palm to the chest of her armor as if reassuring himself of her presence. "I never grow tired of this," he says dryly. "The pain in every limb, the feeling of having been run over by rampaging rothe."

"Glorious, isn't it?" she answers in similar tone, and ruffles her fingers gently through his hair. It's sticky with blood, like the rest of him, and her fingers come away covered in it. "But hey... not so bad, the feeling of going to rest afterwards, right? We should get to that part."

"I couldn't agree with you more..."

[flockrest]

     It's here in Uncle Nekk's eyes too. A sadness-sympathy-pity Kido can't seem to escape from no matter where he turns, not even when he's with the other kids, or when he's tucked himself away in his aerie, or when he's here, right now, trying to move on from— from someone who clearly moved on from him a long time ago.

     It shouldn't make him this blisteringly angry. Like there's some sapsucker nipping away at a point in his heart he's just fixed: a split leaking something hot and bubbling and sticky with bitterness.

     The wood clutched between his feathers doesn't even creak, but Kido likes to imagine, for a heartbeat, that it splinters into irreparable pieces.

     "How much," he says, breaths as measured as he's practiced in the dark of an empty aerie, "can I get for this?"

     Just like Auntie Misa when he tried this with her, Uncle Nekk looks away for a moment. "Kido, I don't think—"

     "How much," he grits out, and it's not very polite, it's not very nice, but Kido hasn't felt very polite or very nice for a while.

     Uncle Nekk stops looking away. He's frowning, but in the way all the grown-ups are trying not to when they're with Kido — not-frowning so hard it circles right back to it. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, just sighs and shakes his head, before he's coming around the checkout desk.

     "I don't think," Uncle Nekk starts, kneeling to level their gazes and place a wing on Kido's shoulder, "you want to do this."

     A really, really scary thought flits through Kido's mind, and he's backing out of that gentle touch with a shriek clogged in his throat.

     Of course. Of course. Kido's the only one who feels how deep this hurt really goes, how bad this fear-anger-grief can get, how much he wants to do this — to get rid of this painful reminder in a way that will at least get him something back from the world-upending loss — and it's Uncle Nekk who knows better. Like how it was Auntie Misa who knew better, and Uncle Gesane who knew better, and probably every other adult in this flock who knows better. Of course.

     "How MUCH," he tries again, voice bolstered by the wave of barely contained resentment washing over him, and it's so, so freeing and so, so terrible.

     "Oh, Kido," Uncle Nekk says — like Auntie Misa and Uncle Gesane and every other adult in this flock — soft and quiet and not at all annoyed.

     It's. It's so much, it's too much, it's what made Kido flee from Auntie Misa in the first place, except he can't even do that here 'cause Uncle Nekk's got both his shoulders now. He can feel the oncoming burn of stupid tears when they're the very last things he needs or wants right now — he's not a hatchling anymore, he's not, but he's done so much stupid crying since— since that he might as well be one again, and the more he lets his tears say the things he won't, the more the grown-ups will treat him like he's incapable of even knowing what he wants, and— and—

     "Can you just—!" Kido stutters, shoving his— the Feathered Spear in his grasp out like he can't stand to hold it any closer, "I don't want this! I don't— I can't have it, I don't wanna have it!"

     The tears fall, as they always do, and Uncle Nekk says nothing. The silence stretches, reaching for the rest of Kido's words, and he's helpless when it plucks them all out between gasps and wheezes, "Please, I just— wan-na stop thi-inking about it and— and rem-remembering and— I don't— I don't! Want it! I don't want it!"

     Somewhere in the middle of Kido making a complete embarrassment of himself, Uncle Nekk takes the spear from him. Somewhere in the middle of Kido crumbling for the last time — the last time, please — Uncle Nekk pulls him into his wings in a maybe-sorta-kinda-hug.

     "Okay," he says, hesitantly, like Tulin does when he doesn't know what else to say. It's funny how his voice wobbles — or it would be, if Kido wasn't so distressed. "How...how about this. How about I hold onto this for you for now, huh? Until you decide you want it back."

     He won't want it back, ever, and he opens his beak to say exactly that — but Uncle Nekk beats him to it.

     "Which can be never! That...works, too."

     Good. Good. Some tiny part of him even thinks, it better.

     In the quiet that follows, the maybe-sorta-kinda-hug dips from bearable to awkward. Kido makes to pull away and Uncle Nekk lets him.

     "Thanks," he murmurs, swiping remnants of his tears away, just downcast now that he's gotten what he's come for. He pulls further, intent on shuffling back to his aerie to get himself together again, but— Uncle Nekk? Doesn't let go of his shoulders?

     "Kido," Uncle Nekk says, and it's like Cree when she's figured something out now. Firm and determined, though for what, he can't tell. "Why don't you stay a while? I could use an extra wing right about now — and, you know, I've missed your little visits."

     He carefully does not reply. He doesn't think anybody's missed him with how he's been, lately.

     "I mean it! Come on, help your Uncle Nekk out? Please?"

     Well...when he's being asked so nicely...how can he say no?

[ahollowgrave]

// In which Odette & None go fishing...

You are a world away when you feel the line tug. Your hands respond more out of surprise than any real skill, a sharp tug upward. Out of the corner of your eye, you see None’s big ears twitch and they rise. Embarrassment burns in your cheeks. You want to impress None but fishing has never been one of your talents.

They are next to you soon enough, guiding you through the steps. Pull, reel, pull -- let him go a little, sweets but not too much. Is he heavy? Their voice is a rasp, a fall of gravel. It is low and quiet as though they fear the fish might hear and give up the pursuit. Their fingers close around the pole, carefully avoiding touching you. Gratitude filled you twice over.

With None’s aid, the fish is out of the water before long. They nimbly remove the hook from the fish’s lip - you wince in sympathy, feel a burning in your throat - and then None gestures to you. You lift your arm so they can measure the fish against it, expression thoughtful.

You think None is beautiful. 

(You would never tell them this, they would say thank you but they would hate it.)

Their hair is a dark, deep green that reminds you of moss and their eyes are large and brown like the worn leather of your pack. Their fingers are calloused and their face lined with age and grief. It never tells you much but you know None well enough to read the minute changes.

(You once told them they must have been born old and sad. You had meant it in a mean way. You had been twelve. None had laughed and the sound had filled you with such joy that you saved it, folded it up many times, and stored it in a corner of your heart.)

None pulled the fish back with a shake of their head, the end of their big, droopy ears swaying with the motion.

“Too small.”

They kissed each of the fish’s cheeks, the air just above its scales, and then wordlessly held it out to you.

You obediently leaned forward to mimic the gesture; a kiss for thanks and a kiss for luck. The fish stared blankly back at you, mouth gaping. None turned and squatted to gently release it into the water once more.

“S’good catch,” they murmured as they washed their hands.

“It was too small,” you detest how your voice whines when you say it and you sink a little more into your embarrassment. 

“Lotta things are,” None replied with a shrug. Their voice was dry as ever. Nothing ever phased None and it made you envious, crybaby that you are. “We just try again.” They turned back to you and patted their stomach and, unexpectedly, gifted you with one of their grins; fierce and out of place on their exhausted features.

(You do your best to memorize the expression. Forever stealing traits from those you adore; it is the only love language you know.)

None is saying, “I’ve got a big hunger so, get back to it.” They hand you the fishing line. They have already baited your hook for you and though it wasn’t your hands that pierced the worm with the hook you still feel… queasy. You watch it wiggle for a while, trying to puzzle through the emotions that sit heavy in your stomach. 

None hasn’t let go of the fishing pole. They are watching you.  You don’t mind, you never have. None watches you how they watch everyone; how you imagine a tree might watch a squirrel upon its branch. They are only observing, perhaps some mild concern for safety.

Their eyebrows lift in a silent question.

You want so badly to be something else, at this moment. But you are what you are and your heart beats from the edge of your sleeve.

“Does it hurt…?” your voice is so small.

None’s right ear twitched and they looked down at the worm on the hook.

“Probably.”

“Oh.” Not the answer you wanted and your heart constricted painfully.

None makes a noise. Some might think it annoyance, maybe anger. You know it is helplessness. The silence stretches long.

“If I take it off the hook it will likely die anyway, sweets.” Their voice has changed. You hate and love that you have this power; to change the enduring monotone of None’s voice. It is softer now. Like someone has laid velvet over the gravel in a strange attempt at comfort. “Next town I’ll buy different bait.”

It is a victory of a sort but you do not feel pleased. You can only watch the worm on the hook.

Eventually, None casts the line and places the pole in your hands.

“Fish gotta eat, sweets. So do I.” It is gently said and you think None would kiss your brow if you were different. 

For the first time, you are thankful you do not. 

[thecoffeelorian]

Overwatch, Chapter 2

Inspired by ASMR

SFW

Word Count: 1.6k

2 of 5 Chapters

Created for TBBAW 2023 @tbb-appreciation-week

DAY 5: CROSSHAIR

Hiding face in Neck

Characters: Crosshair and Omega, aka You are Omega because the usual 'x reader' tag will not work here.

Tags: Grieving, Smoking

Tag List: @groguandthebadbatch

AO3: Click Here

"...Tech?!"

Instead, you find yourself straight on the border between speaking clearly about everything that took place, about being within tethering distance of him and yet unable to do anything but watch as he let go of the load weighing your squad down, and turning into the same sobbing, shaking mess that you became the moment you learned the truth.

"What happened? Is he safe? Is he all—"

"—He's gone."

Somehow, though, in spite of your pain threatening to spill out of you like it would to any other girl of thirteen cycles...you just barely keep yourself together. The guards here like to punish the ones who protest too loudly, so it's not much of a stretch to figure out what they would do to anybody who bursts into tears and begs for their Sergeants.

What they could easily do to you without a second thought.

This is why you're able to explain to Crosshair exactly what went down on Eriadu with the same level of military bearing you've seen your own Sergeant demonstrate, and hopefully, with the same sort of calm demeanor that won't suggest to anyone you're an easy target.

Wouldn't Hunter be impressed?

Once you've gone past your narrow escape off of that horrible planet and into the ambush on Ord Mantell, though...well, that's when a few tears start slipping down your cheeks, even if you don't make a sound to accompany them. Your sense of shock might have worn off, all right, but the pain probably never will.

"...You're sure?"

"Yes. I heard what he said before he left us. I watched him fall. He's gone, Cross."

There's only silence now, a lack of words between you and Crosshair while the somewhat natural sounds of water dripping from rock faces and the occasional round of footsteps echo in the distance. In a way, it's only fair, because…because silence is a lot better than the two of you arguing, or yelling, or flat out turning your backs on one another.

A lot better than last time, or so you want to believe.

At least, not until you hear the dry sob coming from Crosshair’s direction.

"Well. There goes yet another brave young soldier, marching off into the dark."

Now, there's a stab of pain in your throat that you know didn’t come from any change in temperature, or virus, or strange thing you didn’t normally eat every day. It’s from the hollow sound of your cellmate’s voice as he processes the devastating news, and yet has nothing to offer in response other than regurgitated Republic slogans. Is that really all he has to say about the loss of his own brother…?

"We should all hope for a death as honorable as his...right?"

No.

No, you don't want to think about that now. It's becoming a bit too late for you to concentrate clearly, for you're feeling your mind start to fog up from your own grief. Grief, and fear, and possibly a bit of lasting pain from your injuries on the side.

"Or you could give me a hug."

Instead, you decide to do what you pretty much may have always done since you first left home.

Try to make a connection.

"A what...?"

"A hug, Crosshair. It's what people do to comfort each other when things go wrong."

There's a sigh in the darkness across from you, an image in your own mind of this sniper rolling his eyes at your request...then, you feel the tip of his finger tapping at your arm.

"...Fine. Come on over, I'm just straight ahead."

You feel his hand clasping loosely at your own, a dry, calloused thing that seems to be little else than cold skin and bones—and yet, you're silently glad that it's him, and not one of these 'doctors' or other sad excuses for medical personnel. Better him than just one more stranger who wants to turn you into their next experiment.

"So...like this?"

In fact, though he pulls you in a little closer with some hesitation, you're certainly feeling some relief once you're allowed to hide your face in his neck, even if for just a minute or two. He doesn't smell like antiseptic, at least...not like that Hemlock. You'd be very pleased if you never had to smell antiseptic again. You do, however, smell a little dried sweat, stale smoke, and something metallic coming from him, although you’re not about to make any foolish reactions about it so soon. Truth be told, you’re happier for this small moment of bonding than you are over the concept of ‘personal hygiene’.

"Yep. Not bad for your first try."

"Heh. That’s one thing I’m good at, I suppose. Still…"

That happiness doesn't last very long, though, because the next thing you know, he's nudged you back toward your bunk and back into your own wavering grief. Shame...you were starting to get used to the idea of not mourning Tech all by yourself.

"...We're gonna need some light."

At this same time, he was never one for giant emotional displays, so...perhaps it’s just as well. He’s got to do something important now, anyway, something like...lighting a very small lamp resting somewhere to your right. Is it only to add some light in here, you wonder, or will it bring in a little heat as well? Oh, how you hope that this will be so. You can only handle your own teeth chattering for so long.

"Or, should I say, I'm going to?"

But if that wasn't curious enough for you, then his next action certainly is. Once that lamp is good and flickering, its light spreading quickly across the floor and walls of your cell, he wastes no time in using the open flame upon what you can only describe as a death-stick.

"Surprise. I use them to trade for bread...mostly. The rest of the time, I save them for a little 'alternative medicine'."

It's not the first time you've seen anyone smoke during your travels, for a great many humans and humanoids did just that on Ord Mantell alone. You also saw a few on Coruscant, Bracca, and a few planets you’ve already forgotten the names of take smoke breaks as well, so it’s not exactly out of the ordinary. It is, however, the first time anyone you know decided to light one up, so...maybe that’s why you find yourself turning away from the foul-smelling smoke, not wanting to inhale so much as a single puff.

"Nasty, isn’t it…? Too bad. These count as credits, so you might want to start collecting a few. Who knows when they might be useful?"

"Hunter wouldn't approve."

A weakened, rough round of cold laughter slowly spills out of Crosshair, but not before a quieter round of coughing follows.

"Oh, I don't think Hunter's opinion counts around here, do you? What, is he coming to give us all a lecture?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"—Doesn't matter."

Whatever calm or patience he might have had in his voice before is gone now, and in his place, you almost believe yourself to be looking at the old Crosshair all over again. He certainly was the person you saw back on Kamino, so this version could easily be making a comeback.

"He's not in charge of this room, he's not in command of this floor, and I know he's nowhere close to being in comm range."

He takes a long inhale of the death stick and all of the poisons it holds; then proceeds to breathe out a small curtain of smoke only centimeters from where you're standing. A few seconds later, you're the one who coughs as soon as the smoke reaches your nose and mouth.

"So...why in the world would anyone here, myself included, bother with his stupid little demands?"

You can't answer right away. The strength of the smoke has made your eyes water on the spot, and with it, you almost wonder if it's going to choke you to death.

"Pfff...use that wet rag in the corner. It'll clear your vision."

Vision. Sure. It's almost one big joke that he's bothering to help you with it tonight. Especially since going back to his old habits seems to be a lot easier for him, never mind a bit more enjoyable.

Nevertheless...it works.

Once you’ve taken the rag out of the bowl of water it arrived in—a thing left lying on the floor in place of a sink, though not a very good replacement for a refresher—you’re able to see a bit better without your eyes smarting. As a few seconds gradually tick by, your throat stops itching as much. A shame that rag couldn't help rid you of any bigger problems, such as the amount of guards patrolling the hallway...or, for that matter, your cellmate's attitude.

"I meant I won’t be here long enough to trade anything."

Still, you're not about to fall for his attempts to rile you up. To rephrase the words of a wise sapper, you’re better than that.

"Or for that matter, to take up smoking. Our squad will be here long before then."

" 'Our squad, our squad'...bold words coming from somebody who’s going to be dragged off to Hemlock any day now."

Then again, he’s not exactly backing down against you, either.

In fact, you’re seriously beginning to wonder if he’s merely doing this to liven things up, or stranger still, if he actually wants you to start a fight with him.

"What exactly makes you think you’ll live that long, anyway…? It’s not like you have an arsenal of weapons all to yourself, now, is it?"

Try as he might, though, you're still not going to rise to the bait.

Not when you already know who your real enemies are, and he's no longer on that list.

"No...but I know quite a few Troopers who do."

[minumi-chan]

A Twin Thing - Ch. 6 - ?? years old

Read on A03

Rated: T

Summary: Leonardo is motionless, looking not at the bomb, but at Donatello, with a resigned finality that guts him to the core.

He bears witness to his family in their final moments frozen in time, until a fiery rage takes root in Donatello’s spirit so fierce he feels he might rip himself apart from the force of it. He refuses to let it end like this.

Status: Complete

::CH1::CH2::CH3::CH4::CH5::CH6::CH7::

A/N: This is a super heavy chap set in the bad future revolving around non-graphic canon major character deaths. Welcome to the pain train. I’ve adjusted the rating as well as the tags/warnings due to this chap. Feel free to skip this chap if heavy angst and character death is not your cup of tea. The story will still make sense if you skip from ch. 5 to ch. 7, which I do believe will be the last. I am a firm believer in bittersweet endings, so while this is a sad chap, it’s meant to be a lead into what we see in the film. Leo says to Casey in the prologue of the movie that hope is a ninja’s greatest weapon. Why was he so firm in that conviction? This is the answer I came up with.

~~ ?? years old... in a future lived and yet unmade ~~

When Raphael is taken from them-- his heart still skips a beat at the memory-- Donatello swears aloud that his family will never go through that kind of pain again. He remembers how Raphael had smiled at him heartbroken and bloodied, giving him a final piece of cryptic advice. 

‘Don’t go makin’ promises you won’t keep, little brother...’

He does not understand these words when they are delivered. 

For years, Donatello studies, builds, strategizes, plans, and protects.

He keeps Leo from falling apart at the seams the first few months after Raph was gone, pulls him back from the reckless abandon of his grief on his darkest days, with most of his limbs intact. He keeps the light of Mikey’s smile from becoming a distant memory for them all, even if these days it takes conscious effort for his baby brother to shine with the same faith he used to have in excess during their youth.

For years, Donatello does not understand his eldest brother’s last words to him. 

But as the warhead crashes like a hot knife through butter, past all of his meticulously laid defenses straight and true into the heart of their base of operations... He had let his guard down, gotten too sloppy, let them be found way too easily, forgotten just how merciless their enemy is.

The words he did not understand...

The collision leaves his ears ringing with a high pitched tinny chime. In the moment of stillness that comes before certain death, time stretches infinitely and he sees every single member of his broken family that is near him.

April has her eyes wide with a calculated panic, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. floating just behind her shoulder, already figuring out the outcome of this, and it’s not in their favor. She’s standing tall, fists clenched in grim determination. She always said she is going out standing.

Michelangelo is only just turning, fearful eyes looking over his shoulder as he catches sight of the bomb penetrating deep into there underground base. One night over stale alcohol in a shared moment of dark tormented humor, they had dubbed these nuclear-like missiles as the ‘never-got-to-say-good-BOOMs’, because they leave nothing behind, not even ashes to even bury.

Leonardo. Leonardo is-- 

‘Don’t go makin’ promises you won’t keep, little brother...’

Leonardo is motionless, looking not at the bomb, but at Donatello, with a resigned finality that guts him to the core. 

Donatello bears witness to his family in their final moments as if frozen in time, until a fiery rage takes root in his spirit so fierce he feels he might rip himself apart from the force of it. He refuses to let it end like this. 

Violet light saturates the room, blinding everyone within it, and then--

Time restarts. 

Sound rushes back into Donatello’s ears all at once. The base's emergency sirens blare at full volume. Red warning lights flashing around the command center in tune with the wailing sounds. But it is the explosion he has miraculously contained that has his full and rapt attention, rumbling ominous within the confines of the mystic violet construct he has created to confine their pending annihilation. 

“Donnie!! What... how are --” April uncharacteristically stumbles over her words, taking a hesitant step forwards. “How long can you hold that, Don?”

The explosion blooms like a deadly flower inside his barrier, already forming spider cracks along the glowing violet light of his mystic construct. He takes a deep breath, and sweat dampens his brow as he strains with effort, a new shield of light materializing around the cracking layer adding another barrier of protection. 

Donatello did not understand Raphael’s words then, but he understands now . 

“As long as it takes ,” he says through grit teeth, looking over his shoulder directly at her through the glow of his visor, not as their adopted sister, not as a lifelong friend, but as the second highest ranking leader of the resistance forces. Donnie narrows his eyes, “Commander, get everyone out, and let me know when it’s done.” 

She smiles at him, but it’s a heartbroken thing as she nods and turns to his little brother, “Angelo, we’ll need cover. No telling what kind of backup they’ve sent to scout the perimeter even if they weren’t expecting an escape from this. No sense running out of the frying pan and straight into the fire.” 

“On it!” Mikey nods without hesitation, and Donnie feels so proud of him. He pushes back a wisp of hair that’s loosened from its bun, then his hands alight with the warm glow of his mystic chains as he dashes down the halls echoing with siren wails. 

April takes a deep breath and looks at S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N., “Protocol Moving Day, Shelldon.” 

“On it, Commander!”

S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. salutes with one of his thrusters before zipping out without waiting for acknowledgement. He beeps, whistles, and blurts out binary code as his lights flash purple and red. Tech integrated into the very walls of their base comes to life, deploying into emergency protocols she and Donatello had planned ahead for long ago, but prayed to never actually need.

She turns to Leo and pauses, “Casey-- I’ll take him with me and the other little ones in the first group. We’ll need you to gather up some volunteers to move the wounded from the med bay out next. Leo? You got that?”

When his brother does not respond for several long moments, Donnie checks over his shoulder again. 

Leo stares at him hard, the chasm on his brow looking so akin to their fallen brother’s. He opens his mouth, looking ready to argue, but Donnie cuts him off.

“I’ve got this covered. Get everyone out, Leon. That’s your job right now. Focus .”

The slider grimaces, jaw clenched tight, but nods before rushing out of the room as well. Sirens fill the silence as red lights continue to flash around them. Donatello notices another crack beginning in his construct as the force of the explosion pushes against its cage and focuses within himself to pull another layer over the barrier. He’s defying the laws of physics. It’s maddening and exhilarating all at once, and he wishes he had just a little more time to revel in it. 

“You don’t fool me, Donatello Hamato,” Behind him, April sounds broken. 

“Technically, it’s Hamato Donatello,” he corrects instinctively. Sweat trickles down his brow, and he wipes at it with a shoulder, keeping his hands splayed on the purple barrier protecting everyone he holds dear. 

Footsteps approach him and he cringes. 

“April, don’t --” His voice cracks even as he glares at the fireball behind his construct expanding in nearly imperceptible increments. 

“Shut up,” she ignores him and wraps him in a fierce hug from behind. “You owe me big time for this one.”

“ I owe you? Scoff ,” he has the gall in him to offer a smirk over his shoulder, but it fades into something more gentle when he sees the tears threatening to spill down her face. Her head still only comes up to his shoulder after all these years. “I wouldn't trust them into anyone else’s care, Big Sis.”

“You want to say goodbye to Case?”

“Galileo above, no ,” Donnie whips his eyes back to the purple construct before him, blinking and looking lost for a moment. “I’ve planned out his curriculum through grade 12, Shelldon has the backups, you can reupload them wherever you guys set up next.... Please don’t let my foolish brothers turn him away from his studies.”

“Auntie A will make sure he knows the value of an education, yes yes yes...” She laughs wetly. With a shaky sigh, she whispers, “I won’t say I love you, because you hate that emotional bullshit.” 

“I won’t say I love you too, because that would make me a hypocrite ,” he whispers back, and he’s proud of how steady his voice remains. 

She wipes her eyes and kisses his trembling shoulder before walking away, not stopping and not looking back so she doesn’t lose the courage to leave him behind. Donatello is left alone with his thoughts and his iron will to protect his family whatever the cost may be.

He can almost hear Raph’s voice in his head.

What I tell ya, Donnie?

He laughs it off, but it’s strained. 

With every passing minute, S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. sends him status updates via his headset on the evacuation progress. Donnie breathes easier, despite the sweat pouring down his face, with every confirmation that another group will make it out. That the Resistance will live to fight another day. 

After twenty minutes, he voice commands the sirens off, nearly everyone is out. No sense in deafening himself for his last moments on earth. The stillness that takes over in the silence makes his skin pebble with gooseflesh and he shivers. By the half hour mark, he is on his knees and breathing hard with the effort to keep the explosion at bay. A voice crackles over the comms with a nervous air, “Uhh-- Don, slight problem...”

Donatello tenses, glancing sharply at the comm link on his wrist pad, “What is it April--” 

Behind him hurried footsteps approach, and a voice rings out that chills him to the bone.

“Okay, Donald, that’s everybody and everything that we could roll out without getting slowed down. What’s the plan now, bro?” 

He nearly cracks his neck whipping around to see Leonardo and Michelangelo both standing right there in ground zero with him. His teeth grind as he growls, “What in Copernicus’ name are you two still doing here?!” 

The temptation to drop his shields just to wring both their necks in a fiery finale was devastatingly strong. 

Michael floats back down to his feet, looking confused and worried between his two elder brothers. Behind him, Leonardo stands silently, face half shadowed in the dim emergency lights and the violet aura of the room. He grips the red wrapped hilt of his lone katana hard with his prosthetic hand. 

“We’re the last ones here, Donnie. Why would we leave without you?” Mikey sounds so young , even if he’s got the most wrinkles out of all of them.

Don falters at his baby brother's question and turns back to his construct shield, glowering at it as he adds several more layers. He’s panting by the time he’s done.

“What’s the plan, Don?” Leo repeats the unanswered question. 

Donatello laughs brokenly around a quiet curse, staring at the flames which have grown from the size of a beach ball when his containment barrier first went up, to a diameter larger than he was tall while they executed their evacuation. He has lost count of how many layers of walls it has slowly disintegrated through, how many more he has reformed around the growing fireball in that time to keep it in check.  

Michelangelo is at his side before he even realizes his brother moved, bandaged hands touching his shoulder, and tracing the glowing purple cracks appearing through his skin. 

“Donnie... This is--” alarm in his voice, intimately knowing the signs of damage that overdrawing on mystic energy will leave. “Donnie, are you--”

“Yes, and you were right,” Donatello takes in a deep pained breath. 

“No way-- No way!!” His eyes are wide as he looks into the barrier and the way time is slowly fighting to move forward within it.

“Hypothesis confirmed... But there’s no time to celebrate though. We gotta get out here.”

“Leave the bad puns to Leo, please ,” his giggle brittle in the tense air between them. “Okay so what now, Don? How do we help?”  

Donatello doesn’t answer for a long moment. His throat clicks several times like he’s trying to find his words again. When he speaks again it’s with a gentleness he reserves only for his littlest brother. 

“Can I confess something, Peanut?” 

Michelangelo huffs another anxious laugh, startled to hear the private nickname Donnie has never before used in front of anyone else, not even their other brothers. He throws a cautious glance at Leo’s face still hidden in shadow, before turning to Donnie with a quavery smile. 

“Sure, Don, what’s that?” 

Donnie looks at him for a long silent moment, brows drawn together in pain, before his mouth curves into a soft smile, “You’ve always been my favorite baby brother.” 

Mikey stares in blinking shock, behind them Leo makes a sound between a scoff and something suspiciously sob-like. 

“I’m-- I’m your only baby brother...” Mikey doesn’t like the tightness closing around his chest as Donnie’s eyes water, smile shifting into something melancholy. 

“Don’t stay mad at Leo, okay? This is my choice. And I’m forcing his hand. I wanted to make sure you knew that, too.”

“What? You’re not making any sense , Donnie!” His distress grows as he turns towards their older brother, “Leo, what’s going-- hnngh --” 

Michelangelo exhales softly as an unyielding mechanical arm from Donnie’s battle shell strikes the back of his neck, knocking him unconscious in an instant. Multiple other arms catch his little brother before he can fall, and lower him gingerly to the floor. Donnie uses one to brush the hair out of Mikey’s face. The silence is broken only by Michael’s unconscious breathing, and the ominous rumble behind the walls of his construct barrier. 

“What are you doing, Don.”

Leo sounds tired. So very tired.

“Feigning ignorance is unbecoming, Nardo.”

“Donnie.”

“Leave with Mikey. Shelldon will transmit the all clear to me when you’re out of the blast radius.”

“Don. No way-- There has to be another way.”

“Leonardo. Do what has to be done.”

“Donnie, I am not leaving you.”

“Leon, this ends one of two ways. Either two of us walk out of here, or none of us do. The latter of which is not an option I will entertain.” 

His brother struggles visibly to come up with an alternative, “If you’re holding this back, then maybe I could-- I could portal it away, someplace else. I could--” 

“ No .”

Leo stops short at the note of terror in Donnie’s voice.

“This already shouldn’t be possible. I’ve broken beyond my limits just doing this . And I’m paying the cost,” Donnie watches the skin just above his forearms flake away into violet light, “But Mikey always said the mystic was about manifesting the impossible. We’ll give him a point for his mystic training, kay? ‘Cause I got it. It will kill me... but I got it in the end.”

“ Don --”

“Let’s say, Michael wakes up, hmm?” Donatello babbles on with a growing edge of hysteria, “And you’ve made a portal-- the amount of energy you will need to transfer this thing will kill you. I’m gone as soon as I let this go, Leon. Blast or no blast. This is my last stand. Then he’ll be alone, Leo. Is that what you want? Do you want Mikey to lose both of his brothers in one shot? Is that it?”

Leonardo looks at him as though his world is ending, because maybe it is a little bit. Donnie takes pity on his elder brother, sighing with the exhaustion of reasoning through so many tumultuous emotions he never learned to comfortably deal with.

“I can’t keep this up, Leo. And there is nothing that will shield us from this once I let it go, or-- or once I lose the strength to keep up the barrier. You got everyone else out safely. Now go. This isn’t over. We need to regroup and get up to fight another day. Mikey and I were working on something important, that only he can finish now. You have to get him out, or we’ll never see the other side of this. Trust me on this. Please. Go .”

“Donnie-- I can’t. I can’t-- ” Leo staggers towards him, as if the strength was draining from his body.

“I know, Leon. I know . That’s why I made the choice for you... Now it's simple, and it’s not your fault, and you don’t have to think about it, okay? Your job is to get Mikey out of here, safe and sound. I’m invoking sacred elder brother duty.”

He chuckles a little shakily, straining himself again to shape another layer of barrier over the one that was beginning to crack.

“Tell Mikey... tell him that’s why I did it, please. He’s gonna be so mad, but he’ll understand eventually. At least, I hope he will...”

Leo crumples to his knees behind him. 

“There’s got to be another way,” Leo’s voice quivers and his chest heaves with every breath, he wraps his good arm around Donatello’s shoulders, the heavy weight of his prosthetic curling around his middle, and sobs into the back of his neck for long moments. “We can figure this out. Please, please --” 

Donnie is laughing again but it’s manic as he is overwhelmed by turmoil that isn’t his own, and it is so much to bear when he is already on the precipice with his own emotions. He feels Leo take notice, reign himself back, shoulder the burden and instead try to bolster Donnie up, as he always has... 

“How would you rate my ability to finally accept that you were right about us all along?”

Leo's breath shudders, “Huh?” 

“That we are, in fact, twins... have been all this whole time,” Donnie leans back into the embrace as his laugh peters out into a quiet acceptance, “Very satisfying, very very satisfying, wish Donnie were less of a dum dum sooner --”

“Unsatisfying. The most unsatisfying I told you so in all of existence,” Leo croaks and holds him closer, “To the scale of negative infinity--”

“Technically ‘infinity’ constitutes both the positive and negative side of the mathematical--”

“Shut up , Donnie, please let me have this...”

He bites his tongue and does just that, letting his head droop forward as he breathes hard through the stress of maintaining the barrier. The only sound is their breaths hitching in rhythm between the crackle of his construct against the rumble of the restrained explosion. His arms tremble as he materializes another layer of violet energy as his previous one begins to crack away, and he finally breaks the silence, words slow and quiet. 

“If there was another way... I promise I would have thought of it by now. Could you release my battle shell? Take it with you. Shelldon and April will know what to do with it. They’ll be able to set up a new mainframe with it. Please Leo-- I really can’t hold this much longer.”

“Wait, wait-- this can’t be it,” Leo is shaking with desperation, both prosthetic and flesh hands clawing into the purple cape draped around him.

Mikey had made it to match his own. Donnie takes a tremulous breath and steals himself. 

“Leon, stop . You can’t do this again. April will need you. CeeJay is going to need you more than ever. You don’t have the luxury to fall apart again, okay? I won’t be there to pull you back together. If you can’t keep it together on your own, who will be there for Mikey ?”

“We-- we need to be there, Don. Both of us. Donnie, please -- I can’t lose you too .” 

“Promise me you won’t lose hope, Leo.” 

“Donnie--” 

“ Promise me!” 

Leo gasps through his tears, muttering weakly, “I--I promise ...”

Donatello sighs shakily, a tremble taking hold of his shoulders. The barrier in front of him cracks severely this time and a slip of heat curls out so intense it makes their skin blister wherever it hits. 

Growling with an uncharacteristic ferocity, Donatello’s eyes alight with glowing violet energy and he slams up another containment wall, several inches thicker than all the ones prior. When his eyes return to normal, he is heaving for breath from the effort, tears staining his face as he stares unseeing into the eye of the storm he’s holding back. Thin veins of mystic energy crackle all the way up his arms, over his neck and around the skin of his eyes. 

“I dreamt...” Donatello has to pause to swallow thickly. 

Leo still weeps with his head bowed against his shell, the skin of his flesh arm around Donatello sizzling from the burn of the near breakthrough, but he had not let go.  

“I dreamt of Raphie last night...” Don whispers into the silence between Leo’s sobs. Leo’s breath stutters still in a moment of shock, “It was a nice dream. We reminisced a lot... I think he knew... He reminded me... I wouldn’t be alone. No matter what.”

Leo says nothing, only curling his fingers tighter into the violet cloth of Don’s cloak. 

“So if--” Donnie’s voice cracks, and he laughs tiredly again though it sounds more like a sob, “If that’s what you’re worried about. Don’t. He’s here. He’s always been right here. And so will I , got that?” 

Leonardo cannot find the air to form words, only squeezes his twin tighter.

“Now I need you to get out of here yesterday , because I’m seriously running out of juice. And that’s as good at emotional pep-talking as I’m ever gonna get.” 

“Raph would be proud... I’m proud, so proud, Donnie--” All Leo can do is laugh through his tears and hug his twin tighter, “I’m sorry... I’m sorry for being such a shit brother-- for every time I let you down, for--”

“Nardo, shut the hell up and go, you massive idiot.” 

The conviction in Donnie’s voice startles him silent. With a hitching gasp, he releases his twin slowly and instead gathers their youngest brother in his arms. When he gets back on his feet, the weight of his grief makes it impossible to stand tall, nearly keeps him pinned in place. Donatello feels it too, pressing him  down where he kneels staring into the waiting fire, but Leo dutifully takes one step towards the exit. Then another. And another. 

“Hey, Leo.”

Leonardo stops, but doesn’t turn to look at Donnie, because if he does, he will never find the strength to walk away again. Tears silently drip down his face with every ragged breath.  

“Apology rejected,” Donatello’s voice hitches, and Leo gulps down another sob, trembling where he stands, “I couldn’t have asked for a better twin.”

Leo cradles their unconscious little brother close to his chest, and sobs through a miserable laugh. 

“I love you, Donnie.” 

Donatello closes his eyes and lets the tears fall as he leans his forehead against his cracking barrier, “I love you too.”

.

Leo walks away, and doesn’t stop. Does not complain when S.H.E.L.L.D.O.N. appears with his mechanical arms extended and picks them up to speed up their escape. Does nothing but hold Michelangelo tighter when he gasps awake too many minutes too late, and tries to fight his way out of Leo’s grip, screaming their brother’s name. Does not pause his march into the refugee camp that Commander O’Neil has set up outside the blast radius to regroup after their hasty escape. Does not look back when even this many miles away, the heat and shockwave from the blast that erupts behind them ripples through their makeshift camp. 

He does not answer Michelangelo when he despairs and wails about abandoning their brother. Does not flinch when in his rage and anguish his baby brother releases a blast of mystic energy so strong it nearly rivals the flash of the explosion they escaped, before crumbling into his and April’s waiting arms like a child again. 

When the place deep inside his chest that had always been filled with warmth from the connection to his twin suddenly empties into a cold disparate void , Leo does not collapse and shake apart under his grief. 

Because he promised his twin he would not lose hope.

And he does not fail to keep that promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: **dodges bricks** I sowieeeeee!!! o(ಥ﹏ಥ)o I hurt myself writing this. I want to list major inspirations for the looks of the future!boys I describe: For Donnie, I imagine him in a cloak because of KatHaynesart absolutely masterful comic about loss and acceptance: Future Bootyyyshaker 9000 AU For Mikey’s hair, the amazing artist IngunnSara has infected me with future man-bun Angelo, and I cannot get over how cute he looks. I’m so sorry you go bald in cannon Angie, it’s such a cruel future!! o(TヘTo)

Finally if you made it this far. Thank you very much. This has now expanded into a series, and I will be doing a few other fics exploring Donnie’s relationship with his other brothers due to the ideas and scenes I came up with that just did not fit the theme of this particular story since it is focused on the Twins. This chap of the Future!timeline especially I think leaves a lot of unanswered questions, which will be filled with the perspective of the other stories. I’ve already started on the Raph and Don story, if you’d like to check it out: Words you didn’t say

I promise the next chap, while also angsty, is much less sad than this one. Our Future!turtle boys fought hard for the possibility of a happy ending and BY GOD I’m giving it to them... or at least to their good!timeline counterparts. ｡･ﾟﾟ*(>д<)*ﾟﾟ･｡

[soft-persephone]

Same Page Pt 2

- Again, thank you again to the lovely gif makers and keeping this fandom alive in some type of way and fueling my insanity over this show.

Imagine my surprise when they show up in season two dressed like this!

I mean, Tina has a few specks of navy blue on her dress and he’s wearing like a baby or cerulean blue but that’s too much of a stretch for me…..

My subconscious was screaming and crying, but at this point I didn’t know why.

But then Tina makes this face after he says something about loving her forever and how they are in it together.

This look is unreassuring as fuck!

Doug is stronger than me because if someone made this face at me after I proclaimed my love to them, I would have cried or ate my own shirt.

He’s either really strong or super dense, after season two I am in favor of dense. He gets so rapped up in his own shit, that he starts taking Tina for granted.

I’m not gonna lie, I was so wrapped up in this idea of them always matching. That in this episode I took her wearing yellow and him this pinkish color as them dressed up in sunset colors.

I wanted them to match so bad, I forced commections that were not there at all. I can see that now.

But I believe this is a sign! It is a subtle sign about where they are in their relationship.

The more different their clothes got, the more scared I became and the more each fight started to hurt. Because it was building up to something. It was building up to how the writers wanted to end it, but my brain was ignoring all the signs and compared to season 1, their wardrobe was the first sign.

Another instance of yellow and him wearing some other color.

My heart of hearts wants to believe it’s them dressed like a sunset. Because that’s very cozy and sunsets make everything romantic and sweet just like this little moment.

And the hair kinda matches too!

This scene gave me so much hope.

And the writers then decided to crush what little hope I had left in episode 7&8.

In this scene she’s wearing this deep red/wine color and he’s wearing a long brown coat with a fur color.

- how different could that be! And then there was a fight on top of that!

My little heart couldn’t handle it.

I had to physically not think about this fight or I’d get emotional. It was too sudden and too much to fast. Tina just found out about the ring and all of that and then getting this right after just makes me so sad!

And then the end of episode 8 made me so physically sick. I wanted to throw up!

I can barely think about it now.

Tina is strong and she’s over it! Even though they had that final conversation and she almost cried. She ended up with he rest of the “Minx Family” as they took their final stand and said their last Fuck You!

Me?

I don’t call myself softie for no reason.

I was such a mess! I’m literally just now over it! It’s the only reason I was able to make this post and not get over ally emotional.

Did that one joke about Doug Letting Constance take him away if she was three years older make me laugh? Did it make me in a joking way think about it?

Yeah….

I really thought, if Tina didn’t exist, him and Constance would be kinda fun. They had a fun dynamic.

But seeing it made me want to rip my own heart out.

My soul left my body and I was feeling that weird emotion where you don’t wanna cry but your just feeling so intensely disturbed.

It’s like a morbid bastardization of grief and fear.

Anyway……..if you made it this far, your just as insane as I am and we are in this together!

We gotta have each others back. Because if season three happens I know Tina and Doug can not get back together.

But if this show does that funny subverting expectation thing it does? I might be okay, but they wouldn’t be able to just get back together like nothing happened.

But for some reason, I don’t think that’s happening.

I think the show wants to break them up for good.

I will need emotional support and for someone to hold my hand the entire time because I think this hypothetical season three plot that only exists in my head right now, will break me.

I could barely handle this break up in season 2, but if it gets worse then this I might sob….

[sasorikigai]

❛  i might as well sleep for 100 years or so.  ❜ ( any of their modern-ish verses lmao )

🐝  *  ―  𝑺𝑷𝑶𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑩𝑶𝑩 𝑺𝑸𝑼𝑨𝑹𝑬𝑷𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑺 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺. || @sonxflight || accepting

💥 || They both may be sad strangers in the world full of sorrow and grief; for no one bears a tenth of what they feel. So bitter once was Hanzo Hasashi's grief, yet when his soul screams, his very own body can hear nothing. It must have been his own mindful prison preventing him. A paradox of his own making. While he still internally cries from the depth of his souls to belong, to breath life in sanity, to break free from the prison emotions bestowing upon his heart, mind, and soul - his very existence, he wonders how much further he can run. How much harder does he have to try to escape? How much can he handle? How can he go back in time and change or erase? There may be a realization that the very prison he is running from exists only in his mind and only he can suffocate and conquer this unending spell.

Love has been the prime thing that helped Hanzo suffocate and conquer such unending spell; for it grows in the precious light of his chest, watered by peace and blessed by hope as beauty that will continue to plant the seeds of truth in his soul that enables him to open his eyes. He believes that everything can be within reach as long as he has faith and breathing room in his soul. No longer, he is burdened with the knowledge that all his happiness will lie in the palms of his hands, wrapped tightly between the fingers of a red, bleeding heart. It still may be capable of tearing the very fabric of his being into shredded pieces if it suddenly just decided to, but Hanzo has learned to sew them all back and still embed gold strings that will never tear asunder, lest it crinkles and become imperfect.

It is bubbling up again, that emotion of unbidden rage he will forever harbor to a certain degree which he falsely thought he smothered for good. It may never near the urgency of volcanic activity as he would visibly struggle with such cataclysmic consequences which he still bears in his flesh, heart, and soul, but Hanzo knows, the renewed renaissance of wonder, trust, and love have transformed him to be more mellow and relaxed. The hearthfire of his being burns, as if challenging the plummeted temperature to ameliorate the bone-seeping coldness of the American Northeastern winter. The stronghold of his chiseled arm approaches and embraces Ryou Sakai in all his wholeness; in attempt to break this endless circle of grief, misery, of pain - as if metaphorical blood was staining both of them as gore and brimstone drip.

Hanzo Hasashi could be defined as many things - mostly vengeance, seeking the blood of the kill, capable of ruining any life in destruction and decay - but he has become whole. Complete and wholesome, perhaps more patient and empathetic than ever. The deep timbre of his voice echoes in their milieu, as if it was only meant to be shared in their absolute privacy. They are secluded from all the others, perched atop the chaise longue of the upscale bar they frequent.

"Maybe sometimes you are just really sad about this world, so you are trying to force yourself to feel nothing for stretches of time - and it's just one of the myriad ways your humanity destroys you every day," a shallow exhale, then his fervent lips kiss Ryou on his forehead. Beneath the drifting masses of orange and yellow lights, their silhouettes clump into one, then undulates to separate in afterimages. "While tragedy becomes beauty as our entirety became wasted into masterpieces that could not pulverized... But when does anthropology become a story we tell to make ourselves feel better? The truth always has been - not everything broken can be repaired and not everything broken should be. Just like us." 💥 ||