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chaozsilhouette · 3 years

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Moonlit Musings

The night is such a perfect time to face one’s darkest truths. Shrouded in the moon’s light what can one do but admit to their flaws. It can be a time of rejuvenation and rebirth, only if you let it.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

It was a quiet night.

The full moon hung high in the heavens accompanied by millions of stars. Not a cloud to be seen, an ideal night for passions to run wild. Normally people would be taking out their telescopes or arranging romantic picnics.

Sadly, nights like these only filled Sun Wukong with dread. It was a night like this when he was finally able to return after the Journey. That was the night he learned he had lost a precious treasure.

When he returned, he expected to be greeted by his subjects until Macaque showed himself. He expected to be strangled as the pale furred monkie admonished him for his recklessness. He expected to watch as fury transformed into tearful joy as they embraced one another for the first time in over five hundred years.

But that wasn’t what happened.

The moment he set foot back onto Flower Fruit Mountain, he sensed something was very wrong. Like his previous return trips, his subjects greeted him with loud celebrations. The new mothers showed off their infants. The young ones wasted no time climbing all over him, taking in the scent of their king.

The immortal elders, however, looked concerned.

That was when he realized Macaque’s scent on the mountain was far too faint. Even the magical signature of his clones no longer felt fresh.

Macaque was nowhere to be found. The monkeys reported Macaque had returned a few years after he stopped by the mountain earlier in the Journey but not as his usual self. He didn’t respond to any of their questions. He didn’t even take time to check in on the infants. He didn’t say a word.

He just entered the mansion, but no one saw him leave.

Entering the mansion, Wukong dashed to their room desperate for answers. Opening the doors, he saw the room was horribly empty, sure all of his belonging were exactly as he remembered them, but all of Macaque’s stuff was gone. Macaque’s closet was empty and all his books had vanished. Despite his desperate hopes, there wasn’t any signs of a struggle or hidden messages to be found.

Macaque left of his own free will, but why?

He couldn’t bring himself to sleep in the bed they shared so many nights together. Every time he dared, he awoke expect to be greeted with the comforting warmth of familiar presence, instead he opened his eyes to a cold emptiness.

The lack of answers broke his heart, but he didn’t have time to start tearing the landscape apart trying to find him. Now that he was back for good, he had so many responsibilities to catch up on. He was determined to be a good king for his subjects and that meant ughthinking things through. Plus, he wanted to spend as much time with his master and brothers as possible.

Then there was the concerning fact all his previous allies had severed their alliance with him.

Apparently after all the fuss with the Demon Bull King, word had spread that Wukong broke their alliance by disrespecting protocol and attacking the royal family. Plus, his new position as a defender of humanity annoyed more than a few respectable demons. Combined with the sheer number of powerful demons he killed on the Journey cemented the idea that having an alliance with him would only end poorly.

He was banned from court meetings and the other kings in the surrounding areas wanted nothing to do with him. The chaotic nature of his past had finally caught up to him and in the worst possible way.

He was still recognized as the Monkey King of the Sun Court but was effectively blacklisted. No one wanted to mess with him, but they also didn’t want to interact with him. Not good for his mental health to say the least.

Simians are naturally social creatures. Wukong was used to constantly being around other people and learning new things. His time imprisoned was not kind. His first year of freedom had him constantly climbing over his brothers and master just to reassure himself that this was real.

And now that he couldn’t reconnect with old faces unless it was through a battle to the death…It forced him to delve into old memories. Memories that while sweet only made the emptiness more pronounced.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

Sun Wukong smiled as he watched Macaque’s reaction.

The six-eared monkie was furiously pinching the bridge between his eyebrows after he shattered a boulder with a careless headbutt as though it would make his life mercifully easier. “You’ll have to explain it to me again. What did you mean by ‘no longer under Yama’s jurisdiction’?”

“Exactly what I said. I was napping. Having some time to myself, when out of nowhere some idiots tried to take my soul to the afterlife.” Wukong explained as though having entities of death rip out your soul to drag it to the underworld was no big deal.

“Bet you weren’t happy.” Macaque couldn’t help but smirk at the flippant tone. He just made it so difficult to stay mad.

“Not in the slightest. I barged my way to the top brass, bunch of cowards called the Ten Kings (totally undeserved titles by the way) and demanded what the fuck was going on.” He was still ticked off even if the payoff was sweet. Seriously! Did immortality mean nothing to these cowards? They couldn’t even play it off as him dying in battle. He was in the peak of his youth! “Can you believe they tried to play it off as a misunderstanding? Should have smacked the loudmouth when I was there.”

“So, through a series of ridiculous events, you erased your name from the records of the dead.” Macaque could easily piece together the rest from there. No matter how ridiculous the odds. He learned never to bet against his friend when a problem could be handled with brute strength or intimidation. If it didn’t look like such an answer was possible, clearly, they hadn’t experienced the force of a determined Wukong. Something about facing a ticked off monkie of practically infinite strength and invulnerability left harden conquerors pissing themselves.

It was hilarious.

“Not just mine. In my infinite wisdom, I erased the names of several of the monkey inhabitants of esteemed Flower Fruit Mountain, including yours.” Wukong playfully booped Macaque’s nose.

Turning away to hide a light blush, Macaque scoffed to cover his embarrassing response. “Typical. I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you doing something insane.”

“I know. I’m just that awesome.”

“So what? Are we now double immortal?” That was the question wasn’t it. Due to their master’s instructions, they were immortal and ageless, so what exactly would this give them? He didn’t feel any different. He couldn’t sense any new powers or changes in his instincts.

His counterpart, however, had other things on his mind. “Who cares. All I know is that those idiots have no control over our souls anymore.” And with that the King took his rightful place across Macaque’s lap as the other returned to his scrolls.

Wukong instead took the time to examine his friend, who finally gained enough confidence to fully drop his glamour and embrace his true appearance.

He still couldn’t believe Macaque actually had six ears. The weird part was how natural they looked, almost as if seeing him with only two was bizarre. The coolest part was how each pair softly glowed a different color. Blue. Purple. Red. Sometimes Wukong would just stare at them, imagining that he could see glittering stars emanating from that glow.

Suddenly those magnificent ears twitched. Macaque didn’t bother looking up from the bamboo scroll. “A trespasser...multiple, boar and vulture demon. Another hunting party”.

“Again. Ugh. Don’t these idiots ever give up!” Don’t get him wrong, Wukong loved a good fight. What better way to prove how superior you are to others than to steal what’s most precious to them? But even he was starting to grow bored with the sheer number of hunters that thought kidnapping his subjects was a quick cash grab.

After the fifth army he returned in pieces to the surrounding upstart lords, you’d think they’d take a hint.

Thankfully he wasn’t the only powerhouse on the mountain. “I haven’t tasted blood in a while. Why don’t I defend the kingdom while your highness enjoys a show?” Macaque set aside his reading material, eyes glittering with bloodlust.

Wukong returned the smirk with one of his own. “I’m always up for a good thrashing. One request: make it glorious.”

“Don’t I always.” Macaque joked as he retrieved his spear from his own shadow.

Wukong summoned his cloud and claimed a good vantage point. Once again, he marveled at his friend’s hearing. Judging by the distance it would have been at least three hours before he would have detected their presence.

Kicking back, he transformed some hair into a fruit platter and waited for the screams.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

To this day, Wukong knew Macaque was alive. Thanks to his efforts combined with the intense training, the monkie was double immortal. Besides, that monkkie was way too stubborn to die. He would survive purely on spite if he had to.

Macaque left, but why?

While he may have effectively isolated himself, that didn’t mean he didn’t hear about the other courts. A few centuries ago, he heard rumors about the formation of a new court by someone under the title of the Macaque King. Supposedly they were a powerful monkie who knew way more than he had the right to. For a brief moment, Wukong dared to hope it was his old friend, but it didn’t last. The few recounts he caught described him with black fur. Besides, he knew how much Macaque hated the title of King. Even when Wukong offered him the position as co-ruler of his kingdom, the pale monkie adamantly refused.

Still, he was curious.

For a few weeks he could have sworn he detected a familiar scent hiding underneath Mk’s. And he wasn’t the only one who noticed. A few of the immortal monkeys questioned him on the mango infused scent and what his plans were. It was almost too much to take in.

To think he returned to teach his student instead of showing his face. It hurt just to think about it. He chose to ignore the beckoning scent until it became impossible to ignore MK’s leap in progress. Then it just vanished like it hadn’t been testing his patience. Like it hadn’t brought him to the brink of shaking the kid upside down until he confessed where his old friend was hiding. The kid probably grew wise, or someone told him to change his bathing habits, and by the next training session it was all but gone.

Dragging his hand down his face, Wukong tried to reevaluate his thoughts.

Getting mad at the kid wasn’t going to solve anything. He knew he hadn’t been the most attentive master. Hell, the whole hammer exercise at its core was a desperate attempt to remove a painful reminder of better times. His master would be disappointed in how he was running away from his problems, but would encourage him to take the steps to be better. Zhu Bajie would be a sarcastic little shit, trying to get him riled up so the monkie would prove him wrong. Sha Wujing would sit him down and wouldn’t let him leave until they talked everything through.

He had to make things right with the kid. He deserved a better master. And this New Years he was gonna get one.

He spoke, praying the winds would carry his voice to his Warrior.

“Macaque. I know it’s been a while, but…I-I want to talk. I know you’re out there, somewhere I can’t reach. I miss sparring with you. I miss lazy days napping in the shade by your side. I miss defending the mountain as we held contests to see who could take out the most trespassers before their common sense kicked in. I miss you. Please come home.”

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

The moon was high in the sky. Stars danced in the heavens as the faintest hints of vibrations pulsed through the concrete from the late-night dance clubs. MK lay awake, his mind struggling to make sense of it all.

Ever since Macaque disappeared in order to remain undetected, he kept thinking about his relationship with the Monkey King. Sure, he was being trained and he was definitely making progress. The monkie was still on his case for supposedly cheating on him with another mentor. Nothing MK said or did could make the monkie think otherwise. Thankfully, he was no longer shooting him suspicious glares, but the underlying tension remained.

The sad truth is they just weren’t that close.

He would have expected to learn more about the Monkey King on a personal and emotional level, but he just couldn’t get past that wall. Their training sessions felt more like just the Monkey King arranged just to get it over with. There was no passion at all.

Okay, perhaps that last bit was an exaggeration.

When you peered past the arrogance and pride, you found one socially awkward monkie. It was similar to Red Son the more he thought about it, both seemed to find it difficult to talk to or relate to others in a friendly setting. Sure, Monkey King projected a friendly demeanor and called him “bud”, but if he didn’t know any better he could have sworn the monkie was afraid to take that final step.

The last few sessions had taken a bit of a turn in a positive direction as Sandy would say. Maybe Monkey King decided it was time to make a change? Maybe this was all a trick so MK would lower his guard and reveal Macaque’s identity? Maybe he was just tired and should have conked out an hour ago?

Maybe.

Reality was so different from the legends. When Tang first introduced him to the Monkey stories, he was hooked. He loved listening to the tales of the infamous trickster that flipped off every major religious figure with unbridled confidence. Meeting the Great Sage in the flesh was like a dream come true until he was exposed to the King’s less pleasant tendencies.

Mk couldn’t help but wonder just how much confidence the Monkey King had in his training skills. Did he ever train someone before? Could MK talk to someone about this without appearing even more ungrateful than he already looked? Why didn’t he stop Red Son from unsealing his father when he was there? Why didn’t he simply seal the entire family when they were reunited? Why did the five times immortal sage decide that now he needed to train a disciple? Was Monkey King not telling him something important?

He had so many questions and not even the foggiest idea of where to start looking. Or perhaps he did?

The truth was he missed Macaque. The dark-furred monkie may have only taught him for a month, but the progress he made and the level of care he was exposed to made him feel as though he had finally unlocked the ability to fly.

He missed the regular grooming. He missed learning about the demon community. He missed learning new ways to mess with Red Son through appropriate court manners.

Watching the fire user freeze up at the term “honorable prince of the Iron Bull Court” just made him laugh, when his hair combusted it really matched his face. Now that he thought about it, were those horns starting to peek out of his forehead? And maybe the slightest hint of a tufted tail swiping the bottom of his coat? Seeing the demon frantically compose himself was a treat he didn’t know he needed. He still had the video saved as one of his favorites, didn’t hurt that Mei caught it at the perfect angle.

Oh yeah, he missed that.

With any luck, New Years would be the start of something better.

§~~~~§~~~~§~~~~§

On an island that remained surrounded by unquenchable storms, a single black-furred monkie sat cross-legged in a secluded part attached to the palace. All around him fruit trees and bushes bore a hefty bounty releasing an intoxicating scent of life.

Ears twitched.

Macaque opened his eyes, aroused from his meditation. It was odd. He had the faintest sensation that someone had been talking about him. Now that wasn’t exactly unusual, he made plenty of allies and enemies across the centuries. What was odd was that the voice sounded like someone he once cherished.

But that couldn’t be right.

The deceptive silence of his personal orchard gave him no answers. Not that he really expected it to.

For some reason he refused to identify, Macaque turned to the single peach tree in the grove. A tribute from his past and a reminder of his mistakes. But it was also a valuable resource once he learned the truth about the peach’s properties. He used its powers to protect many happy relationships, if only it could have helped him so long ago.

No matter.

He still had many projects to work on, including one successor just rife with insecurities. He honestly felt bad ducking out as he did. If things were different, he would have offered him a new life. His Stars were always happy to welcome a new member into their budding community.

As a bonus, his presence would have interrupted their constant attempts to set him up with new dates. He adored their efforts but being paired with partners who only wanted power or he would view only as friends was not something he enjoyed. Although watching them mentally destroy those they didn’t find suitable for him was quite entertaining.

Either way, New Years was coming up fast and he still needed to approve a few changes. His Stars were determined to make sure this event topped last years in every way possible, but they had to make sure they didn’t set the orchard on fire again. Or worse, they could launch the fireworks into the storm barrier. He wasn’t sure why or how, but the tornadoes and clouds turned different colors as explosions rang throughout the night.

It was beautiful but lost its charm after the third day.

#lego monkie kid au #Vanishing Shadow Au #sun wukong #mk #monkie kid #six eared macaque #liu er mihou #rainbow eared macaque #crazy family #Macaque!Dad

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codedredalert · 3 years

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O’ Death [One Piece, Law] -- oneshot

Law-centric character study || 1157 words

The first time Law dies, he is ten and the world ends in fire.

(Written for the OP Tarot Project Death card.)

Death Upright: Necessary endings, illness, change, letting go, transition, rebirth. Reversed: Living unaware, resistance to change, delayed endings.

Warnings: canon-typical violence, character death, chronic terminal illness and pain

(On Ao3)

===/\===

I. Faith

The first time Law dies, he is ten and the world ends in fire.

Somewhere between the rain of explosives and artillery, the marines in uniform dragging bodies into the street, and numbing horror, some part of Law is mortally wounded. It's a small part, and it goes into shock as Law buries himself under the crushing weight of bodies being carted out of the city to be burned.

His parents' son and sister's brother dies. He is carted away with a nameless heap of his country's people. The part of Law that is light, love, and innocence goes with them to the grave.

That he still breathes is of no account.

===/\===

II. Flesh

The second is a slow death, from when Law is nine-and-a-half to twelve-and-nine-months.

Amber Lead hurts.

It's noticeable in the lungs first, in the hacking cough, and the sensation of never getting enough air no matter how many rasping breaths he might struggle to take. It goes for the intestines next, sitting heavy and painful in his gut, making even the thought of food unrealistic. By the time it takes to his skin, hard patches which crack and ooze blood and plasma…

Everything hurts, all the time.

Law's days are numbered. He counts them, three years from his parents' last hushed argument about his dying sister and himself.

Some days are better. Some days are worse. Some days, dying is scary, but living just hurts so much.

Hate keeps him going.

Hate straps scavenged explosives to his small chest with patchy-white hands.

"Let me join you," Hate says to Donquixote Doflamingo with Law's failing lungs. "I want to see the world burn."

===/\===

III. Heart

Law's third death is a surprise, but that is the risk of walking around with your heart in someone else's body.

Humans are social creatures. So, despite everything, it's rejection that hurts the most.

He'd overcome the impossible, escaped the fall of Flevance, fought through overwhelming grief and weakness, scraped together enough willpower and supplies to get to Spider Miles—and the Donquixote inner circle scattered away from him, screaming.

Disgust. Avoidance. The desire to eliminate him like vermin.

Again and again it happens, at every hospital Corazón stupidly, ignorantly, drags him to. Law is subjected to fear and rejection time and time again.

It chips away at the pale shadow that had roused itself in the ashes of his burning city. He barely has the energy to be bitter, he wants to be bitter, to rage and rail and protest "I lived! I lived, and this is what I got."

But he's tired and everything hurts and he's twelve and he's dying and he's dead—he just hasn't stopped bleeding yet.

"You poor boy," whispers Corazón, thinking Law sound asleep. Law isn't, not truly—he hasn't slept properly in years. The strangled breaths, the twisted gut and the cracked skin don't allow it. "You poor boy."

And Corazón wept.

With his back to the man, Law feels tears fall upon his head. The heat and salt of them were alive, deeply human, and a remedy for great wrongs. Corazón swept the hate out, replaced it with the soft mortal thought of "I'm small and I'm scared and I don't deserve to die."

The tears he'd thought long-dried well up in his eyes and Law wept too.

From that point on, Corazón is Cora-san, and Law is a boy who deserves to live.

(I love you.)

(You are free.)

Cora-san dies in his place to make it true.

===/\===

IV. Fear

Law's fourth death is by his own hand.

He learns his lesson—everyone around him dies. He hadn't learned well enough from Flevance, but the lesson had been repeated in Cora-san and well. . . he didn't fancy a third time.

He sends his people far away with every provision he can make for his failure. They're holding him back, he tells himself. So he looks his oldest, dearest, closest friends in the eyes and tells them to go ahead to Zou. That he'd meet them there soon. He doesn't tell them what he's going to do—Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin corner him to ask, but he's foul-tempered from stress and fear, and stubborn enough that they let the matter drop. He refuses to risk them, so he bundles up everything worth living for and banishes it, watches the Tang sink slowly below sunset-dyed waters for maybe the last time. He stands on the shore replaying the sight to burn it into memory long after they're gone.

"It's for the best," he argues at the yawning blank landscape of the winter half of Punk Hazard. He knows exactly what—who—he is up against, and preparing for death is only prudent. His exhaustion and selfish desire to hide with them in the Tang forever just isn't realistic. It doesn't matter how he feels. This way he can't be tempted to cowardice, to run into the waiting arms of those who love him and just . . . live.

He has a debt, a duty, and he's already made Cora-san wait for so long.

It doesn't matter how he feels.

When the marines come knocking, when Monet reveals that she has been one of Doflamingo's all along, when his careful contingencies start collapsing around him, and allying with Straw Hat constantly feels like the dream where he misses the step on a staircase and falls—

Law goes through the whole thing half-numb, smirking or scowling to hide his racing heart and whirling panic.

Dressrosa is the end of everything, one way or another. Law is terrified but he can't show it, not with the Straw Hats watching him for direction and the slightest indication that he'd betray them.

Despite Law's best efforts, Doflamingo cuts through Law's plans, unloads a round of lead bullets into Law's chest in a mocking parody of Cora-san's murder. Somehow, deep in his heart, Law expected this. Law has run all the possibilities and permutations, failure is very real. It's Doflamingo, after all. And Law is only Law.

But Straw Hat—impossible, aggravating, miracle-working Straw Hat—charges straight ahead. He causes pirates and kings to argue for the privilege of killing Doflamingo. It's bizarre, to have an entire crowd believe Doflamingo so easily killed—like he isn't a beast of mythos, the closest thing to invincible, the idol god of Law's desperate youth.

In the midst of the rabble, Law finally manages a fragile belief in what he's been trying to convince himself of for thirteen years:

He is not infallible.

All men must die.

All men must die, and Doflamingo is only mortal.

In that moment, Law decides, against all logic and reason, to bet everything on Straw Hat.

Impossibly, they win.

High above the rising dust of Dressrosa's ruins, Straw Hat defeats Doflamingo. Law picks Straw Hat from the sky and Doflamingo's dominion dissolves along with his birdcage.

It's over, everybody lives—

—and Law is free.

===/END\===

(On Ao3) ( patreon ) ( kofi ) ( paypal )

#trafalgar law #donquixote doflamingo #monkey d luffy #corazón #corasan #donquixote rosinante #donquixote rocinante #one piece #one piece fanfiction #one piece fanfic #opfanfic #op fanfiction #op fanfic #op #my writing #mine #tarot

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surgeofsuren · 3 years

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[JADE KINGDOMS👑] The prologue

100.000 years ago, the Primordial Dragon Vritra bore witness to the rebirth of the universe at the Needlepoint Origin. Alongside Garuda the Inorganic and the millions of pieces of the Distance Prime force, these three old forces were ordered by the Intrepid Soul to fill the empty universe with new life. The planet of the World's Bones, which was the Distance Prime's favorite world, was chosen as life's new home. Garuda shaped the physical forms, infusing them with their gift the Living Flesh, ordering the bodies to thrive constantly. The Primordial Dragon Vritra took parts of Thought, Memory and Emotion from his 99 fortresses and shaped them together as the Sentient Mind, forming the minds that would live inside the Living Flesh. The Distance Prime's gift was a subtle one, and offered its Bones so that life may always enjoy living upon it's back. To ensure life would not need to be afraid of it wanting to take back its gift, a piece of the Distance was sealed inside the World's Bones. As the ages past, life thrives and evolved. But with sentience came will and with will came choice. And it was the choice that often began the many flames of discord until the world eventually exploded in conflict. This infuriated Vritra, and the galactic serpent coiled around the World's bones and stole all the water from the planet beginning the disaster that was Vritra's Drought. The Drought was designed to take out all life, while slowly beginning the decay of the Sentient Mind as well, as the Dragon began taking back the gift so misused by the mortals. Garuda attempted to reason with Vritra, but the serpent broke the body of Garuda in many pieces, forcing the Inorganic to reel back and merely watch on quietly as his Living Flesh brittled and broke. For 40 weeks the Drought roamed free, ending the many species of the world until many had died out. But in the far West of the World two unlikely forces stood up to take back the planet. The first, was a young High Blood Priestess named Isolde, who took it upon herself to unseal the Distance from its shackles and seal the creature inside herself. Isolde of Beriach fused with the Distance Prime, becoming its first and only incarnation and turned her fury to the harried races of the world that invoked Vritra's wrath. As the skies darkened and Isolde began her genocide across the world by ripping the bones from the flesh of the lesser races, a second force rose in the far East. A kinder, tragic force that was Indra, a young human who could no longer stand idly by as his elders would do nothing to stop the chaos. Indra was but a mere child forced to be a man, and he took advantage of the chaos to slip into the temple of Garuda, and took a last gift of the Genesis Trinity for himself; A Stone Apple. Blessed with the organic base of Garuda, the boon of the Distance Prime and the neutral judgement from Vritra, Indra devoured the Stone Apple and ascended to temporary godhood. Indra ascended to the heavens, and Vritra had seen the young boy glitter with the gleam of the true Genesis Trinity, and met him face-to-face with his Vajra spears. Indra tore through Vritra's 99 fortresses and disarmed him from his Vajra spears, and with the same weapons Indra pierced Vritra's heart and broke the waters of the world free. Vritra's acidic blood, opalescent and gleaming, rained down on the already battered World's Bones damaging the planet further. Indra crashed back on earth, and turned to stone soon after, his duty done and payment for eating the Stone Apple coming to its close. But Vritra would not be undone. Its carcass dispersed in a myriad of light and from that light, using the remains of humanity as template, came the Vritra race who would become the new keepers of the Sentient Mind. Wanting to redeem their progenitor, the Vritra took the remains of the lesser races and offered them a home. That home was forged on the last continent on the World's Bones still lush with life; the Jade Kingdom. But the Primal Races were divided and torn still. Isolde of Beriach, now the new Distance and World's Bones incarnation, refused to heal the planet and kept the Lifeblood to herself. The Garuda race, born from Garuda's feathers and Living Flesh, rose to the skies and build their cities in the sky to stay clear from the Decaying Bones order Isolde had put in place over the dying planet. Garuda the Inorganic made a fatal error by cutting ties to the Living Flesh; without him to support it, it became a terrible curse. The bodies of the Garuda species would eternally morph into monstrosities, unable to die. The Vritra, the newest of the races, would learn too late their time as the Dragon still meant the Sentient Mind was being taken from them. Vritra's rampage had broken the Genesis Trinity, and its descendants would soon learn what his true plan was as the world heaved and cracked further.

#surenlicious #jade kingdoms #drawingwhileblack #artists on tumblr #original art #original characters #writing #My writing #my art

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thetomorrowshow · 4 years

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Slower Than Words Ch. 18

First - Previous - Next

More Patton today! I wasn’t a big fan of writing Pat before this fic lol, now I love seeing him. Hope you enjoy!

cw: hospitals, angst

“Say it again.”

Logan sighed. “Patton broke the Prophet's nose.”

“He had it coming!” Remus crowed. Logan tried to not smile, but judging by Remus's continued snorts of laughter, he failed.

It was two days after the successful mission that resulted in the takedown of the Haven. Patton was asleep, still in the hospital. The doctors were mostly concerned about what seemed to be melted portions of his ear canals, once they were certain that he was going to recover from his starvation.

Patton was dreadfully thin, little more than skin and bones, and yet he still smiled whenever he was awake, conversed excitedly with him, exchanged a few stilted signs with Remus, who was only just learning ASL. Right now though, in his sleep, he seemed less than content. He shifted regularly, the blanket curled in his fists, his brows drawn in a frown. The jacket he refused to let leave his sight was draped over the foot of the bed, smelling much nicer than it had earlier—Remus had taken it upon himself to smuggle it out of the hospital and wash it, only having just returned.

This was only Remus's second visit with Patton. Patton recognized him from the cult, and was thus not incredibly open to him, but he was polite, which was more than Logan could hope for. Patton being here, being alive, was more than Logan could hope for.

The mission had been stressful. Logan had been prepared to leave with two day's notice, yet it seemed that everything that could go wrong did. Logan wasn't superstitious, but he found himself thinking back to the night before leaving, when he'd told Remus that the plan was simple, and that they would have to try to mess it up. He should have knocked on wood.

First, nobody had bothered to tell him that they were fairly certain the cult had been relocating for the past couple of weeks. In small groups, people were exiting the settlement and only one person was coming back. Nobody had set foot inside the laboratory for days, instead, all residents were meeting in the communal dining area in the morning, and randomly moving to the church. For all anyone knew, Patton was no longer even in the Haven—and Logan knew, perhaps better than anyone, just how possible it was that the cult had 'disposed of the latest experiment'.

There was an entire squad sent by the FBI, as well as far too police and forensics workers, a handful of lawyers, two detectives, and several rubberneckers. For a stealth takedown, that was not exactly the team that Logan would have brought. They were too noisy, and visible from a mile away.

When they were halfway to the settlement, two tires blew. Logan had had to bite his tongue in order to not scream in frustration, but there was nothing to be done. Forty minutes later, they were back on the road.

Until a civilian's engine stopped.

Two hours later, they reached the Haven. It looked much like Logan remembered, except with the beginnings of a paving project for walks up to houses. There wasn't time to look around, though—Patton was possibly somewhere around, and he had to be found as soon as possible.

That ambition was quickly shut down, however, when they were confronted by the Prophets, backed by what seemed to be half the men in the Haven. What followed was a long discussion of rights, which only served to make Logan more and more anxious. He happened to know quite a bit about laws and rights, having been studying them over the past year—he was back in school part-time as a law major. He shared his insights and opinions with the only person he knew here: the detective who had been handling the case since the beginning. The man brought Logan's words into the argument, which, against his hopes, did not speed up the process.

Eventually, the Prophets became hostile, and some of the Haven men began to threaten with physical violence, which gave the police officers more than enough reason to arrest them. Logan was honestly surprised they hadn't acted immediately. He'd received the impression that the police force acted with very little (if any at all) evidence and responded violently to retaliation.

It didn't take too long to find Patton. Remus had told him in advance (rather sorrowfully, knowing he wouldn't be able to accompany the group) what cell his son was in, and Logan knew the halls of the laboratory very well. He'd been rather detached from his actions all day, even more so when they entered the Haven, and he finally realized that he was disconnected so as to not become violently ill. This was where he'd lived, imprisoned, for years. The people here had caused the death of his wife, had tortured his son. Logan was barely holding himself back from destroying everything he passed.

Once found, Logan didn't let go of Patton for an hour at least. The boy was shaking, his skin was cold to the touch, the bones that formed his face were clearly visible under taut skin. Still, he was alive, and Logan couldn't be happier.

The scientists hadn't stopped feeding Patton out of any seriously malicious intent. The cultists had abandoned all work in the lab in their preparations for escape, neglecting every experiment—including Patton, the only human experiment there.

Patton could walk, by some miracle, and was finally able to leave the building, Logan just behind him to catch him if he faltered. His son looked so happy, letting the sun hit his face. A lump formed in Logan’s throat, and he looked away from his bright eyes after ruffling his hair lightly, marveling at how long it was.

Seeing Patton punch the Prophet brought a smile so wide to Logan's face that he'd had to pull his bandanna back up, chuckling lightly in a way he thought he could pass off as a cough. All mirth vanished, though, when Patton's eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed.

There was a flurry of activity, but Logan was the first to reach Patton. He gripped his son tightly, pretending that a tear did not slip out of the corner of his eye. He was going to be okay, he had to be okay, they had just been reunited!

Patton didn't respond to Logan's shaking of him. An animalistic sound tore from Logan's throat as he let the tears fall. The world closed in, smaller and smaller, until all that existed was him and his unconscious son who was certainly dying. Logan's hands were fists curled into the back of Patton's faded blue shirt, and he hugged his son to his chest, shaking off anyone who got too near.

Someone managed to tear them apart, and Logan fought. He kicked and yelled, tearing at their skin with his fingernails, trying to keep Patton is his sight as he watched several people lift him onto a stretcher and place him in the back of a van, before driving away.

Logan slumped against the officer holding him, hearing the man say something about stress and trauma to someone else. He managed to get control of his tears after a few minutes, sniffing and wiping his eyes on the inside of his sleeve. The detective was watching him pityingly, and Logan rolled his aching eyes. He didn't need this, these feelings. He had to focus.

The detective approached him cautiously, asking if he needed to leave to be with Patton sooner. Logan waved him off. They needed him here, he was the only one with insider expertise.

As he provided his opinions and knowledge, though, his thoughts were with a black van, speeding across a dusty desert to the nearest hospital.

Patton was still on oxygen, but it was no longer a tube down his throat. Just a small tube poking into his nostrils, and it looked like he would be off it very soon. He was going to need to meet with a psychiatrist, a physical therapist, and a nutritionist for at least the next six months, likely extending to a year. Patton was severely underweight and was having trouble keeping down food at the moment, but the doctors were all hopeful for a full recovery. In fact, they thought he would be able to go home within the week.

Logan had been busy prepping a space for him in the spare bedroom of his apartment. Remus had graciously offered to move to a sleeping bag on the living room floor—not that Logan was going to let him stay in the bed once Patton was home.

Remus eventually left the hospital room, muttering something about work. Logan continued to stare at his boy, constantly reassuring himself that Patton was indeed still there, and was not going to disappear.

They'd have to look into school, and Patton would be so confused. Of course, he did not need a higher education, but Logan had always had aspirations of any child of his becoming wildly successful. His love did not depend on this, though. As long as Patton was happy, he would be.

Still, if Patton desired to attend university. . . . Logan had homeschooled him as well as he could, and Patton could almost certainly attain a high school diploma. After that, what were Patton's interests? Helping people? He could become a teacher—it would be hard, but perhaps at a school for the deaf? Patton had always enjoyed his job working in the Haven kitchens, so perhaps a chef or a baker? Logan's mind spun as he thought of all the things Patton could do, a pleasure he'd always denied himself of in the past. Patton's world was open now, he could move up, he could do whatever he wanted. He was no longer restrained by the cult's strict set of rules and limited options.

Logan felt like a new father all over again—Patton's liberation seemed to have led to his rebirth. All the joys that had been missing from watching a baby grow up were now available, and Logan wiped away a tear as he imagined all the things his baby boy would grow up to be.

Patton woke with a start, pulling Logan out of his thoughts. Patton looked around frantically, only calming when his eyes fell on the purple-patched jacket laying at his feet. Before he could even ask for it, Logan had leaned over and handed it to him.

Patton pressed the jacket to his face, then froze. Logan waited patiently for him to bring it down, his veins filling with ice. Was there something wrong with it? Was Patton recalling something traumatic? What was wrong?

Patton sniffled, then let the jacket fall to his lap. His lip trembled as he clumsily signed, impeded by the IV in his hand, “Did you wash it?”

“Remus did.” Logan was still not sure what was wrong, but knew he did not want to have Patton upset with him already. “Is something wrong?”

Patton shook his head, but his face crumpled. It had to have something to do with the quality of the jacket before it was washed.

“Patton,” Logan tried to reason, “It smelled like that place.”

Patton shook his head more fiercely, tears spilling from his eyes. “It smelled like him!” he insisted. His hands shook as he signed. “It was the only thing left! You took it away!”

The heart monitor beeped as Patton cried harder. Logan was frozen, not sure what to do. Should he hug him? Turn away and let him cry? He still felt that he was right to wash it—it had smelled horrible—but he felt inexplicably guilty. He didn't want to see his baby boy cry, especially over something he'd done.

A nurse bustled in, and Logan stepped back hurriedly. The nurse checked Patton's vitals, tried to get him to calm down; Patton sobbed into the jacket, which he had brought back to his face, as if to try and find vestiges of the old scent. Logan felt utterly helpless as another of the hospital staff entered. He tried to look anywhere but at Patton's watery, accusing eyes, his own eyes falling instead down. As they were kept trained on the floor, he saw in his peripheral vision Patton tracing something, over and over, into his own arm.

Somewhere, deep down, Logan's healing heart broke a tiny bit more.

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added/removed): @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404 @broken-pens @thewhimsicallibrarytech @doomllily @hereissananxiousmess @judyismydog @arodynamic-enby @at-that-one-nerd @therapysides

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like-that-one-weird-dog-thing · 4 years

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And I’ll Shut Your Dirty Mouth

[1] . . . [2] . . . [3] . . . [4] . . . [5] . . .

Ngl, I’m reeling by how many notes my other post got. And it’s only been like, a day. That’s insane. I don’t get those kinda notes. I expected there to more notes then my other posts since Dream SMP is a more popular/active fandom right now but I wasn’t expecting this. ty to all y’all, if any of you ever want to discuss it more with me, you can @ me in a post, you can dm me, or you can send me an ask

This one will be more focused on the siblings as a whole, since I realized when I woke up that Tommy wasn’t just ‘basically Wilbur’s brother’ he was Willbur’s brother and that just. Has so many things attached to it. Also a post about how canonical deaths work was brought to my attention(here) by @insert-chaotic-enby-name so hell yeah to them, ty my dude

Hopefully this will be less of a disjointed mess the other one was, but I personally don’t have that much confidence in that. It’ll probably just fall into the same almost-fanfiction type formatting

So, three siblings. Wilbur, Techno, Tommy. Two traitors and one left to rebuild in the other’s footsteps of carnage. I don’t know how I forgot about it being canon last night, but now my thoughts are in full swing.

[“I wonder, did Tommy ever see Techno and think of Willbur?

Did Willbur ever see Techno and think of Tommy?

Two siblings, seeing something that could have been(Tommy, lets be the bad guys) and something that will never be(Willbur, do you hear yourself?)“]

Do they ever see each other in their third sibling? It makes sense, now, why Techno’s betrayal would be painful for Tommy, why it would hurt him so goddamn much.

Techno’s his older brother. He’s meant to protect him, to keep him safe. He was meant to fall into Willbur’s place when Willbur abandoned Tommy.

He didn’t, though. Instead he chooses Willbur, chooses destruction over rebirth- the death of a nation instead of the revival.

(Tommy, if you want to be a hero...

Then die like one)

I wonder, has Techno always been like this? He seems to like history(Theseus slays the minotaur, he saves his land, he’s cast out), does he relate to it? He seems so inhuman, have others always shied away from him? Did he only have his family? He hates government so damn much, does he have experience with watching it fall, outside of Schlatt’s administration?

Was he ever cast out himself? Exiled from a land he may have called home?

Is his story of Theseus not only told to illustrate to Tommy why heroes never get happy endings, but also to remind Tommy of something else?

I wonder, was Tommy so in denial about Techno’s inevitable betrayal because of hope, or because he’s never truly seen what Techno’s like? I wonder, in the past did they part ways, Willbur with Tommy and Techno alone, only to reunite, Tommy unaware of how unstable Techno can be?

He’s so focused on Willbur, after all. Willbur’s been with him since the start, he’s been there with him through everything. Was he so blinded by Willbur’s spreading madness that he was unable to see the festering madness Techno also held?

Willbur and Techno sparred as children. Did Tommy? Or was he the sheltered youngest, only allowed to see slivers of the real world when they deemed him ready?

But in the pit, he sees his defeat at Techno’s hands as inevitable but he still goes through with it. He isn’t surprised when he’s defeated, but he’s still angry at Techno- angry enough to fight him. Has he watched Willbur and Techno spar as children? Did he spar with Techno himself? Did he just not care(he killed Tubbo, he can’t let that go, he killed Tubbo), because he couldn’t let Techno’s crimes at the festival stand?

Was that his first taste of Techno’s cruelty, his crumbling sanity?

Was he reeling when Techno did it, did he view Techno as the one who get out of every situation(Your Technoblade! You could’ve fought your way out!), was he so angry not because Techno had just killed Tubbo, but because he’d killed one of their own(we found Tubbo on the side of the road), was he angry because if Techno could kill Tubbo, couldn’t he also kill him?

And he does, later on. Stands before Tommy and snarls and snaps at him and kills him.

Three deaths, you get three deaths before your gone. Tommy has lost two, one at the hands of Dream and one at the hands of Techno- at the hands of his brother.

One at the hands of enemy. One at the hands of blood.

I wonder, was he relieved when he discovered Willbur to be dead? Relieved, because then Willbur couldn’t kill him, too. Relieved because if Techno could kill Tubbo, could kill him, then couldn’t Willbur do the same?

(you sure want to risk it? That’s an awful lot of tnt potentially attached to that button)

I wonder, did Tommy ever think that the blast would kill him, if Willbur ever hit that damned button?

Did he ever think he was about to die again, when the lands underneath him went up in flames?

I wonder, did Tommy ever think it would be his brothers that would be the end of him? Or did the thought never even cross his mind, something unthinkable- because, after all, they’re his family. His brothers.

Unthinkable, even as Willbur spiraled further and further. Did Tommy ever truly give up hope for him? Did he still have Hope that Willbur would join them, till the very end?

Hope that this dream of theirs wouldn’t have to end, that the great symphony that was L’manburg would continue on, Willbur and Tommy at the head.

L’manburg was Tommy’s safe space, it was where his friends and family was, it was where they belonged. Willbur may have created the idea of L’manburg, but Tommy was the one to secure it’s freedom and was the one to begin to breathe life into it.

Tommy saw L’manburg as something that would keep them all together, something they needed.

But L’manburg was what started all the hurt- it was the cause of Tommy’s first death and it was the cause of the loss of two of his most prized possessions. It was the cause of a war and it was the cause of everyone turning against them.

Willbur saw L’manburg as something that lead to pain(so many injuries, we’ve lost so much), something that would continue to hurt unless it was gone.

And L’manburg also shouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist, not without violence. It was built on the blood of those dying and hurting for it and it was built on the blood of those trying to stop them from creating it. The foundation of L’manburg is one of bones, and that is unavoidable.

Techno saw L’manburg as something that would rule, that would be built on top of tyranny and continue with that tyranny(you just got L’manburg back with a hostile take over! Your just replacing one tyrant with another!), something that couldn’t exist for there to be true peace.

So, when it’s the end, when Schlatt is dead, when Techno sits and watches, when Tommy stands behind Tubbo to support his presidency, and Willbur is at the button?

It’s three siblings, and the eldest two have seen too much, done too much. Their ideals line up and Willbur slams his fist to the button. His father stands before him. Techno kills Tommy, kills others, then die a hero.

Techno wasn’t the traitor, not really. He’s a wildcard that was thrown in with the hopes that his ideals align with one side or the other. Instead, while Willbur may be the traitor, he’s also led to believe he’s not. (there was no traitor, Tommy. I lied) So, when he hears the sound of Techno killing everyone, the all too familiar sounds of fireworks being launched, hitting their target?

Maybe he feels relieved in a way. He’s not the traitor, it’s Technoblade. His brother is on his side. Someone agrees with him.

He’s not alone.

His father stands before him, afraid(he doesn’t trust him either, does he?), and his brother stands at his side.

He might not have Tommy or Phil, no, but he has Techno.

And so, Tommy is betrayed twofold.

The tnt blows. (There’s screams and cries of those caught up in the blast and Willbur laughs)

Phil kills his son. (with the sounds of his eldest son’s weapons firing above, with Willbur’s vicious whispers echoing in the air, I wonder. Did he imagine he would have to kill another of his sons that day?)

Techno unleashes his whithers. (he watches them go towards Tommy, making no move to intercept. Tommy, already injured by the blast, by Techno’s onslaught, tricked into wearing bad armor, dies immediately)

And I wonder, here. Phil said it himself in his most recent Dream SMP stream- he appeared to be the traitor.

As the world blew up beneath their feet, Phil kills Willbur and walks away.

(your my son! Even if you’ve- if you’ve...

Kill me, Phil)

Did Tommy ever think everyone had betrayed him?

You know what I can’t stop thinking about? How Willbur only really remembers the happy times, and Phil is included in that. Phil killing him is included.He truly sees his own father killing him as a good thing.

He might not remember it, but that smile after he’d gotten Phil to stab him? That satisfaction? I wonder, does he remember it? Did he think I am a bad person and this is the best ending, for everyone. Because he blew up L’manburg, he did it, and so he’s done, finally. He’s allowed to forget the bad, only remembering the good. He remembers raising Fundy, remembers the taste of bread, he remembers sparring with Techno as a kid.

All happy memories(Philza killing me).

An attempt to continue the list(-I don’t remember), is watching all the others reference things he doesn’t remember make him want to get his memories back? Does it hurt for him to only remember so little? (Bullying Tommy(he’s a child)) does he even remember that Tommy is his brother? Is he left wondering, constantly, why everyone hates Techno so much, his brother? If he does remember that Tommy is his brother, is he left confused as to his fury when it comes to their eldest sibling? Does he want to find out what Techno did, or leave it forgotten just like Schlatt? Has anyone tried to tell him?

Does it hurt, for him to know that they’re all so much more happy now that he’s dead? Does it hurt for him to know that they prefer him dead, and don’t want to bring him back even if they find out that there’s a way?

Is there any part of him that aches at the knowledge that Phil doesn’t regret killing him in the slightest(or does Phil regret it?), or is he happy that way, knowing that there’s no guilt- does it make it more justified, for him to have it as one of his happy memories, because, surely, if even his father is happier when he’s dead, that must meant that it was meant to be.

Right?

Was Willbur’s body ever recovered? It should have existed, if Schlatt’s did. They’ve got Schlatt’s bones, after all. Did they retrieve it? or was it left to rot in the button room? Did Phil ever go back to bury his son? Is that where Ghostbur woke up? did he come back, standing over his body, or did he come back later, when his body was already gone? Was it disorienting? If they did bury his body, was he there? Was he tangible from the moment he became a ghost or did that take time? Did he ever search out Tommy, Techno, or Phil when he first woke up?

Did he have any memory at all, at first? He’s said that he didn’t remember who Tubbo was till he was called Mr. President. Was it like that for the others, too? Tubbo was someone he grew up with, if he didn’t remember him at first did it take even longer for the others? Did they have to sit there, watching as he tried to help them and didn’t remember any of them?

Did any of them attach him, when he first showed up? Did any of them yell at him, scream about his fuck ups, as he just sat there, not even knowing who they were? Did he ever seek any of them without real reason, just knowing that he had to be there, or does he only go out when he feels he has to help, or that he can contribute something?

Do his memory and go- constantly fluctuating as he tries to better the world around him(I don’t want to be a ghost, all that’s left is suffering), do pieces come and go as he wanders, lost? He’s said he’d rather be dead than a ghost- rather have nothingness over the suffering that was being there, does he ever get flashes of times far worse?

Can ghosts feel any sort of pain? Does he ever get phantom pains, aches from he was alive and injured, does he ever feel like he’s being, again? He’s died three times, each death stacking one atop the other, even if he can’t remember them is there any sort of phantom-muscle memory burning at him? Does he really only remember just the good, or is he lying?

So, this was a thought that I had before I realized it’d become canon that each character only got three respawns before they actually died, but I still think it holds up decently now.

So, with how flimsy the idea of death must seem to them(would it even matter? some of them probably think, the ones that haven’t died yet. would it even matter if they died, since they’d just come back?) do any of them really give much care into how their life goes? Or do they put more value into material things, such as Tommy’s disks, since those are constant that can’t be destroyed then brought back?

Is the ‘three deaths only’ thing even widely known? Has anyone even bothered to figure out why Willbur and Schlatt died, instead of respawning? Or is it just something you know, a concept that you have known since your very first breath into the world?

Maybe they all latched so hard onto L’manburg not just because it had become their escape from the harsh world, but because it was the perfect blend of there and real, and also filled with hope and happiness and memories. Things that don’t come back must seem all that more precious to them, when they have extra lives to their names.

In a world where violence is the only way to get what you want, do they ever look at the things more fragile than them and decide that that one, that one will be the thing I keep safe?

Is the loss of L’manburg not tragic because it was the loss of a dream and a hope, but tragic because it was the loss of the things they held dear to them? Buildings can be rebuilt, sure, but they won’t have the same scuff marks as the old one, won’t have the same items and design as the old one. They’re starting from scratch- building the nation in a crater, the leftover destruction of stacks upon stacks of tnt and two whithers.

You can hide your most precious items in an ender chest, sure, but an ender chest is small and some of the items they held dear must gone down with L’manburg when it toppled. A house of cards stacked too high with too much riding on it.

#dream smp #dream smp war #willbur soot #tommyinit #technoblade #tubbo #mcty #dream smp spoilers #ngl this ones even more of a mess than the other one #a bit shorter too so thank god #weird dog rambles #weird dog rants #philza #these boys need hugs tho y'all #I haven't even gotten into my rant about how Techno was also betrayed #mostly because I think I'll just reblog a post I feel articulates it better than I could later #But yeah no these are some Thoughts #it's once again almost 3am as I'm posting thing and aldhglkjashfkjadshkfhsak #still lowkey reeling from how many notes the other post has gotten #also damn hopefully any other rants I make choose to follow this one #in that they're shorter #tho ig this one was really just one slightly long one with a few shorter more theorizing/questioning parts #def hope at least some of those questions get answered as the story continues #Ghostbur in particular leaves me with a shitton of 'em

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erisbaek · 4 years

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Stucky Fic Rec [Part Two]

Here is part two of the fic rec, as promised by today! I don’t know how many parts this will be since I am constantly reading new fics, and adding them. Every fic added to this rec I have read, and would recommend, therefore they are my personal preference (meaning typically longer than 10k, and very few - if any - shrinkyclinks and ABO) Same as last time, I will provide the Google Doc link where I update the rec regularly, but if you’d prefer it formatted here, it is under the cut!

Google Doc Link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/10wqr5s-CzkFzLidQgt-y4-cjudHWwVeVPWCedMjK7t0/edit

If you want to recommend fics, you can do that as well! I only add fics that I’ve read.

Watch Them Rolling Back

Word Count: 16.9k Rating: Teen and Up Notable Tags: Post Infinity War, Canon Divergence Warnings: Temporary Character Death Synopsis: Bucky was just here, he was right here. This can’t be all that’s left. Well, it’s not all that’s left, not quite. There, in the pile of ash that used to be Bucky Barnes, already drifting to scatter across the soil of Wakanda, to dissipate in the air, to be nothing but dust on Steve’s hands and in his gasping mouth and in his lungs—left there, in that ash and dirt, are his gun, and his left arm, gleaming dully in the sunshine.

Hey Bartender, Pour ‘Em Hot Tonight

Word Count: 22.9k Rating: Mature Notable Tags: Bartender!Bucky, Patron!Steve Warnings: Smut Synopsis: Steve looks down and catches sight of a bright pink drink in a hurricane glass. Moisture is beaded on the outside, and the cool feel of it is nice on Steve’s sweaty hand as he picks up the monstrosity Sam has ordered for him.

“What the hell is this?” Steve asks, a disbelieving smile on his face. “You couldn’t just order me a beer?” “You said to surprise you,” Sam smirks. “And you made me wait.” “But what is it?” Steve repeats, and is answered by a deep, unfamiliar voice. “It’s a Singapore Sling,” the man behind the bar is smiling. “Not what you were expecting?” In which Bucky is a bartender and Steve is immediately smitten. He's not the only one.

Roommate Wanted

Word Count: 61.7k Rating: Teen and Up Notable Tags: Roomate!AU, Secret Identity Warnings: None Synopsis: As Captain America, he’s one of New York’s finest heroes. But as regular old Steve Rogers? Nothing more than a struggling graphic designer who can't quite pay rent anymore. The solution? Get a roommate. Enter Bucky Barnes, aka the Winter Soldier, ex-brainwashed assassin turned hero trying to make up for his violent past. He needs a place to stay - preferably with a roommate who wouldn't mind his weird hours. Seems like the perfect match. Only problem? Neither knows the other is a hero.

These Streets

Word Count: 5.4k Rating: Mature Notable Tags: Cop!Steve Warnings: Smut Synopsis: The life and times of Police Officer Steve Rogers and his dealings with the not so classy residents of his local precinct, including Bucky Barnes, the rough muscle with the dreamy blue eyes.

(A Silent Prayer) Like Dreamers Do

Word Count: 12.5k Rating: Mature Notable Tags: Soulmate!AU, Shrunkyclunks Warnings: None Synopsis: Everyone has a soulmate. Everyone. Since the counsel has been keeping records, there has been one exception to that rule, and considering the man, no one was very surprised. After all, Captain America, ne Steve Rogers, was the exception to all the rules. So when he plunged into the Atlantic in a plane loaded with enough explosives to take out the entire Eastern Seaboard, the nation mourned him, but the counsel breathed a sigh of relief. Their perfect record - a soulmate for everyone - was intact. When Bucky is five or six or seven, he has his first bonding dream.

The Tipping Point

Word Count: 16.8k Rating: Teen and Up Notable Tags: Not CACW Compliant, Touch Starved Warnings: None Synopsis: Bucky shows up at Steve's door a week after he pulled him out of the Potomac. He brings his cat with him. Eventually, they stay.

Victims and Victories

Word Count: 14.7k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Army!Steve,, Mechanic!Bucky Warnings: Past Abusive Relationship, Mentions of R*pe/Non-Con, Assault Synopsis: Steve Rogers is an Army Special Forces Captain. Bucky Barnes, former marine sniper, restores and sells old cars in his spare time. They meet one day when Steve is on a run and Bucky is running from his abusive ex. Steve turns out to be exactly what Bucky needs.

Strange Visitor (From Another Time)

Word Count: 51.1k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Shrunkyclunks, Hidden Identity, Reporter!Bucky, Slow Burn, Enemies to Friends to Lovers Warnings: Slight Smut Synopsis: James Barnes, rising star reporter of the New York Bulletin, has a plan. One, find out all there is to know about New York's newest vigilante Nomad, starting with his true identity. Two, write a masterful piece about it. Three, win a Pulitzer and become the envy of all his peers. Four, enjoy. Or, you know, something like that. One thing's for certain, though: he sure as hell isn't going to let that fucking asshole newbie Grant O'Connor steal his spotlight.

I Will Remember You

Word Count: 15.4k Rating: Teen and Up Notable Tags: Temporary Amnesia Warnings: None Synopsis: Bucky is James now, and it takes Steve losing his memory to bring them back together He stares at the man, curious and wondering. “Who are you?” “James Barnes.” The man’s voice, and the way he shapes his consonants—soft and smooth and just a touch foreign—is almost, but not quite, familiar. “Are we friends too?” he asks. “Yeah.” Huh. The way his body’s responding to James doesn’t seem very friend-like.

Travelling Light

Word Count: 56.8k Notable Tags: Angel!Bucky, Dark Fantasy, Bonding Warnings: Canonical Character Death, Smut Synopsis: When Steve wakes up, it is a surprise. The last thing he remembers is the bottom of the lake, sharp teeth and yellow eyes, and the cold pressure of not being able to breathe. But he isn’t dead. He didn’t drown. He is not in the water anymore. Instead, he is warm, very much alive, and wrapped in a cocoon of feathers. He’s also naked. And with a man lying right next to him.

La Belle et la Bête

Word Count: 66.7k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Beauty and the Beast!AU, Forced Marriage, Veteran!Bucky Warnings: Body Horror, Smut Synopsis: Steven Rogers was born in 18th century Ireland to a mother who knew herbs and the old ways. After she passes, Steve asks for aid and gets more than he bargained for. He’s cursed into the form of a beast by day and given 300 years to prove to the fae enchantress that such a thing as true love exists. If he can’t prove it, he’ll be whisked back to her realm and be forced to marry her. He can try to find love with whomever he wants, but they have to fall in love with him without seeing his human face for a year and a day. He spends hundreds of years searching, but so far, no one seems worth the risk. Bucky Barnes is a grumpy war vet whose sister is dying. Desperate, he goes in search of a flower that can save her, but the cost is higher than he anticipated: His sister’s life in exchange for his. When he returns to keep his side of the bargain, nothing in the mansion is what it seems.

Captain America and the Great Pygmalion Debacle

Word Count: 31.7k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Friends to Lovers, Slow Build Warnings: Smut Synopsis: Bucky absolutely refuses to cut his hair and for the life of him Steve can't understand why. The reason? There's nothing in this world Bucky loves more than having Steve brush it...

Breath I’ll Take, and Breath I’ll Give

Word Count: 17.1k Rating: Mature Notable Tags: Post CATWS Warnings: PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts Synopsis: It's starting to get harder for Steve to find reasons to get out of bed in the morning.

Lucky Seven

Word Count: 94.3k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Shrunkyclunks, Mechanic!Bucky, Russian!Bucky, Slow Burn Warnings: Smut Synopsis: Captain America trashes his motorcycle a lot. Tony says he'll fix it, then never gets around to it and just buys him a new one. Steve, the Depression-era kid, can't stand the waste and goes looking for somewhere near him in Brooklyn where he can get his bike fixed. That's how he finds Red Star Bike Repair, and the hot Russian-immigrant bike racer who runs it: all long hair and muscles and tattoos. And for the first time since he woke from the ice, Steve feels a connection to someone; a comfort in the other man's silences and his space, an attraction in his sheer skill at racing. But James Barnes isn't exactly who he seems…

The Arsonist’s Choir

Word Count: 11.9k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Post CACW, (Kind of) Fake Marriage Warnings: Smut Synopsis: "It's Bucky," Steve added, helplessly. The buyer was now sitting at Mikhailov's table, but the mission seemed unimportant. "He's been arrested. In Texas. And, uh, apparently, we're married." "Congratulations," Natasha replied, with a small grin. "Are you registered anywhere?"

What a Dizzy Dance

Word Count: 30.7k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Shrunkyclunks, Model!Bucky, Neighbours!AU Warnings: Smut Synopsis: An AU where Bucky is a model but Steve is still Steve. They live next to each other and Bucky keeps accidentally stealing Steve's cat.

Separating Me From You

Word Count: 14.8k Rating: Mature Notable Tags: Post CATWS Warnings: None Synopsis: After Bucky's recovery, in the face of SHIELD's rebirth, and as all the Avengers have found themselves at a comfortable place with themselves and each other, it should have occurred to Steve that something would go wrong. However, he could have never guessed that trouble would come in the form of the US Army deciding that, because Steve had signed himself over for Project Rebirth, he was technically still the property of the US Government. Property that they wanted to claim.

The Sweetest Spark

Word Count: 73.1k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Modern!AU, Age Difference, No Powers Warnings: Smut Synopsis: Steve Rogers runs a successful business. He has great friends and a great life. It seems like he has it all. So why is he sitting in a diner on a Friday night alone? Maybe he's just a little lonely. Maybe Bucky Barnes can help with that. ----- It wasn’t just how he looked. Of course, the fact that he was ridiculously stunning was what Steve had noticed first when he’d spotted him across the diner and had left him staring with his mouth open before he’d realised what he was doing, but how could he not?...

A Memory Like a Haunting

Word Count: 28.6k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Time Travel Warnings: Smut Synopsis: “Why is Bucky’s line disconnected?” Steve asks. “Steve, who are you talking about?” Clint asks. Steve glares at him. “Bucky. You know. The Winter Soldier. My boyfriend. Long hair, metal arm. Come on, guys, this isn’t funny.” “No one is laughing,” Natasha replies. “There is no one called the ‘Winter Soldier,’ and if you have a boyfriend, you certainly haven’t introduced him to us.” “JARVIS, can you tell me if Bucky is in the building?” he asks instead of responding to Nat. There is a long pause and then JARVIS’ clear voice comes down from the ceiling. “I have no records of anyone who goes by the name ‘Bucky’ entering the building.” Or: Steve wakes from a nightmare only to find that Bucky no longer exists.

Honeymoon Cabin

Word Count: 16.8k Rating: Explicit Notable Tags: Shrunkyclunks, Post Avengers, Veteran!Bucky Warnings: Smut Synopsis: After a misunderstanding about the rental availability of the famed Honeymoon Cabin, two lonely men end up falling in love during a winter snowstorm that strands them in the same place.

#stucky #stucky fic rec #stucky fic #stevebucky #stevebucky fic #starbucks #wintershield #steve rogers #james barnes #bucky barnes #the winter soldier #captain america #marvel

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ivebeenreadingandwriting · 4 years

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Ahtohallan - prologue

Svalbard was dying.

It was certainly not something that could be dealt with so easily, especially when your home is disintegrating before your eyes and you can do nothing but watch it disappear ... sink into the deep and cold blue of the cold sea from which the island had always protected them to disappear into the depths of the abyss and be forgotten by anyone and seen as just a legend by anyone who sailed in those waters by now constantly stormy. Anxiety, a human feeling that sounded unfamiliar in his large white chest, consumed him from within with every step, every little breath, every time his dark eyes turned away to see a sign of rebirth, a sign that it wasn't the strong wind that had blown away the snow and the anomalous heat that had melted the rest and now ruffled his fur.

The king of the Panserbjørn, their proud king, had ventured further, leaving his trusty right arm in charge for a while ... he knew where he was going, but had turned several times to make sure he wasn't being followed. The place he was going was for the few, and only for the strong of heart. On several occasions Iorek Byrnison had shown that he was brave, sometimes more than he should and in his youth in a very reckless way that had calmed down only by entering adulthood. Perhaps becoming King had helped to calm this side of his character, the realization he had when he killed Iofur Raknison and took back his throne, and from reckless and grumpy he had become strong, stable, placated in certain situations but an impeccable warrior in others. Svalbard was never the same since the forest south of Svalbard was shrouded in something like a ... thick fog.

Visitors from the south said it was so thick that it could not be crossed in any way. Iorek did not believe in magic, being a skeptic by nature he strongly doubted that it was anything magical. He knew what magic was, he knew where he was going and its magical properties. That was the only kind of magic he believed in.

Was it hypocrisy? Maybe.

Iorek knew that by going to what the local tribes called Ahtohallan, the glacier of memories, he was truly being a hypocrite after a lifetime of denying magic. But his people, his house suffered like never before ... what other choice did he have? Nothing had worked. Addressing the spirits was his last chance to try to stop what was happening to his land. Ahtohallan was his last chance, and if he didn't go there, the end would come for Svalbard.

Thepath had been long, winding, different from when his father had brought him there when he was little. Walking on the ground, no matter how tireless he was, became difficult due to the absence of snow. But Iorek did not give up and advanced. He advanced, and advanced to exhaustion until the entrance of Ahtohallan overlooked the landscape of Svalbard with all the majesty of the light of the cold ice. Finally feeling the ice beneath him was reassuring but in a way it increased the despair in memory of the times when Svalbard was teeming with ice.

Useless.

Iorek felt useless. "Spirits, great Spirits." He murmured, bowing his head until his big wet nose touched the ground "Please, I beg you ... my land is dying and I ... I don't know what to do anymore." If he could, if he had the ability, Iorek would have cried ... but he didn't, the panserbjørn didn't cry. There was no Panserbjørn who had ever cried, they manifested their emotions differently ... but if Iorek could have shed bitter tears for the love of his land, his homeland abandoned for so long under a despicable deception. "I need a sign." And with these words the fatigue got the better. An anomalous tiredness, but which led him to collapse in front of Ahtohallan's door. Above the ice he could see his image ... yes a King, but at that moment he only saw a bear. An ordinary bear, not the son of one of Svalbard's greatest kings ... it didn't even look like blood of his own blood. A wandering bear. A lost bear, a bear that begs entities without even a foundation.

"I need you."

And with this last whisper he bent down completely, devastated by what his land was becoming. As if he were about to die with it, abandoning himself between the walls of that sacred place. Iorek did not know if time was passing, he had no certainty at that moment. The only one was the fact that that ice had been untouched by the devastation of Svalbard, by everything the island was facing.

a voice.

Iorek raised his head, looking around like a lost cub, separated from its mother too soon. He knew he heard a voice,clear and crystalline. He hadn't imagined it ...

He was sure.

"Who is there?" the voice again, this time even more clearly. That vocal bounced off Ahtohallan's walls ... with a power that made the hair stand on his back.

What it was? It was calling him to it, whatever it was.

He got up and walked, entering the heart of the glacier of memories observing its walls as ancient as time "who are you? What do you want?" Asking 'what do you want?' to a spirit who wants to help you, nice move ...

But a little curiosity was audited ... or not?

All Iorek knew was that the temperature was getting lower and lower, and it kept dropping until an icy wind mixed with his voice. Anger assailed him like thunder in a lightning storm ... that the spirits had misled him? Could be? He wondered as he was flapped by a wind that was beyond anything he had ever experienced "Get it over with!" he roared, trying to wriggle at that current. Hold on, shake it off. It didn't take much for him to release all the repressed anger and frustration caused by immeasurable stress. The king of Svalbard shook as if trying to wipe the water from his fur, with such violence that he felt like he was going to tear his ears out in the attempt, and this time he roared hoarsely, wearily, angry and directed at the maddening wind.

As if two currents of air had collided, a roar filled Ahtohallan from the center to the foundations as soon as the roar came out of the mouth of the King of Svalbard, as if the wind were intimidated by those long fangs and that rough and primitive power , but very angry. The wind stopped, and everything taque. Iorek kept his eyes fixed on his paws in an insistent way as if he didn't want to see anymore.

Was coming there a mistake? Maybe I had to change island?

"Iorek Byrnison."

Who? Who had called his name?

"Look at me."

Iorek raised his head and a scarred face fixed inside his eyes

"rejoice, O King of Svalbard." He said

"The fifth Spirit is returning."

The ... fifth Spirit. The same fifth spirit that was gone. The first bear on Svalbard spoke in a thunderous voice as old as ice just before disappearing into the glacier's this, acient air. His body dissolved into a clear cloud, luminous snow particles that, exactly as they arrived, went off into the depths of Ahtohallan.

Too far for him. Iorek repeated it before his legs could even move to try to chase him ...

If he continued, he would face certain death from a lost cause.

No one had ever entered the deepest depths of that place and had come out to tell it ...

The lullaby that went hand in hand with the legend spoke clearly "not too far, or you'll be drowned." and as much as he hated the frivolity of lullabies, that one was particularly suggestive : A river that contains every memory, every moment ... that rewards those willing to leave behind what they love to reach it. At that point it's up to you not to go too far, because then the river will have no mercy on you. He remembered the times when his mother told him this legend in the den. Back when Iorek was little, Ahtohallan was accessible to a certain extent ...

And Iorek Byrnison chose to believe, for once.

#his dark materials #iorek byrnison #elsa #queen elsa #king iorek #crossover #fanfiction

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darlingsdevil · 5 years

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The Ballads of Rebirth (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Chapter 2: “Daffodils”

A/N: Have I mentioned this entire fic came to me while listening to Big Fish the musical?

Masterlist

•••

It had been three months since you had last seen Arthur, and you had come to terms with your husband’s death. You ended up in Richfield, a large city just on the other side of the Grizzlies. Quite literally, there was a mountain between you and your old life.

You saw Arthur in the bookstore when you pulled a book from a shelf, he was there for a split second staring right back at you through the shelves with a shy smile and twinkling blue eyes that dazzled like Flat Iron Lake. It took your breath away and pure joy and panic swelled in your heart every time. He was there at the end of the street, packing up Boadicea, just around the corner of the saloon, but when you blinked and came to your senses, he was gone. You knew it was insane, and you knew damn well he wasn’t coming back from the grave, but still you relished those moments, only if he was there for less than a second. It was like the winds from the Grizzlies had come down and swept him away, and with those winds, your hope. But those winds brought in the spring air, the ones that began to regrow your garden that had froze over.

Time was a wise healer. Arthur’s death was devastating and painful and everyday you felt the aftermath of your past mistakes. You had only recently been married to Arthur, only two months prior to his death so barely anyone knew that you had taken up the last name Morgan. Still, you kept your answers short when people asked you of your life before Richfield “The City of Opportunity”. You feared someone would recognize you, so you stayed from the more crowded areas of the city.

Life had been rough since the gang’s demise but things were beginning to look up, you rode with John for a month until you decided Richfield was where you wanted to be. John had enough on his plate, trying to keep him and his family alive in a cruel world, and he wanted to put as much distance as he could between him and wherever the hell Dutch and Micah were. Abigail begged you to stay a little longer with them, but you declined the offer. Richfield was a good of a place as any other.

Luckily, you were able to find a job at a general store within a few days of getting dropped off in Richfield and you had enough money to rent a small apartment above the general store within two weeks of your arrival there. Richfield was a new industrial city, lots of steel mills, but the people weren’t your average city folk. It was up and coming, so many of the citizens had lived there when it was just a small farming town. The only farms left were the ones on the outskirts of the city, but most of them had been turned commercial.

Richfield was a new start, you only hoped you could leave that old life behind even if you did still hold onto some hope that Arthur was still alive. That small sliver of wishful thinking was waning everyday, the odds of him making it off that mountain were greatly against him and you had come to terms with it then, but after no word from any of your former friends you began to become worried of your friends fates.

•••

Arthur’s cough got better with each passing day. It had been three months since Charles pulled a dying Arthur into Wapiti. At the beginning of his treatment, it was horrible, Charles was sure he would wake up one day and Arthur would be dead, but months passed and he hadn’t died yet.

His coughing was less frequent and with less ferocity, Charles had brought Arthur into the Valentine doctor a week ago, and there had been less fluid in his lungs which was a wonderful sign. Arthur’s body was fighting a hard battle, the recovery was slow and painstaking. The first month was dreadful and he was bedridden, fevers accompanied him frequently creating horrible dreams and delirious moments. He had passed out from coughing the second month once when Charles was out hunting and the healer woman, Mahala had nursed him back to health.

During the second month, Charles decided to begin building a home four miles south of Wapiti. The people of a Wapiti had given them so much already, it would be rude to take more from a group of people who had already lost so much.

It was a small cabin near a lake, but it was strong and sturdy. Wildlife was abundant there. Arthur wasn’t quite strong enough for the move yet, but soon he would be. Arthur claimed he was ready to go, but Charles knew better. Arthur was becoming ansty and the people of Wapiti were weary of his long stay and the people Charles and Arthur used to be associated with.

Charles spoke little of the gang and Arthur hadn’t asked about you, but he sure did think about you. Arthur decided it was the best at the moment if he didn’t seek you out, he would just pull himself deeper into his sickness. It tore at him that he thought this way, that he was so selfish, but it was simply for the best. It was wiser to allow the dust to settle then to kick up even more. Arthur worried for you constantly and he secretly hoped you were searching for him too even if he knew that you presumed him dead. You had both said your goodbyes, and Arthur was fine with being dead to you at the moment.

•••

“Why do you wear that ring? You’ve never mentioned being married.” Lee asked you one day while you swept the floors of the general store. He had no filter, but he never intentionally said something that would hurt you.

“It was my husband’s ring.” You said bluntly, continuing with your sweeping. You stopped to fix a jar of peaches that had fallen over and you remembered Arthur’s secret sweet tooth he had, that only you and Jack had known about.

Lee was taken aback by your short answer, his hands stopped counting the money in the drawer.

“Oh.. I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” His ears burned with shame, cursing his curious tongue.

“It’s alright.” You said shaking your head.

It was late at night, the general store had been closed for an hour. A caravan had stopped during the day, and the patrons were rowdy, they messed up the towers of canned foods and didn’t bother to pick them back up so it took even longer to close the store. The caravan was a mirror of the gang, near 25 men and women, a few children. It was bittersweet to see them, even if they had messed up your store, you knew your group was far from civilized. You longed for the days around the campfire, everyone laughing and smiling, but it had been so long since then, and much had changed.

Lee was a close friend of yours, he was the son of the old man who owned the shop, and the only other worker there. He was playful and teased you a lot, but he was kind and thoughtful. You could tell he was sweet on you, and perhaps you were a little bit as well. It was too soon, Arthur barely dead and you were already blushing around another man. It was shameful.

You finally finished your sweeping, Lee leaned against the counter, eyeing a butterscotch sweet next to the counter. You sighed.

“Just take it.”

Lee grinned like a child, plucking the butterscotch off the small dish.

He turned around towards the front door, locking it with ease. You turned towards the stairs that led up to your apartment. Lee and his father's apartment was directly below yours.

Lee quickly opened the door for you, the stairwell was dim. You hated walking up it, it was steep and rickety. The building itself was one of the oldest in the city, it held heavy memories. Lee’s mother had passed away in the house while giving birth to her second child, Lee’s little sister, Anastasia. Anastasia ran away when she was 17, to marry an outlaw. Apparently, that got her killed. Lee received word of her death a few years ago, he hadn’t seen her since the day she left, he didn’t even know where she was buried. The life of an outlaw never ended well.

Lee never spoke of her much, all you knew was that she was passionate and opinionated, a true wild card and you could tell the outlaw life would’ve done her well. Lee had a strong hate for outlaws and criminals because of it, he still didn’t know about your past and you intended to keep it that way.

Lee’s father was a kind man, he was quiet but you could tell he loved Lee very much. He wasn’t around much, he spent most of his time in his room but occasionally he would help run the shop.

You reached the platform outside of Lee’s apartment. He stopped right behind you, dangerously close. Your heart pounded in your ears. It didn’t help that the platform was incredibly small either. You turned to face him.

“Give me your hand.” He said, almost a whisper. You reached out your hand and he placed a small round object on it, under further inspection you realized it was a butterscotch candy.

You smiled, looking back up at him. He had a shy grin plastered on his face. You were thankful of the darkness of the stairwell, otherwise he would have seen your ferocious blushing.

“Goodnight, Lee.” You kissed him on the cheek, grasping your candy firmly in your palm, and you calmly made your way up to your apartment, leaving Lee flustered on the doorstep.

•••

On a particularly warm day, despite it being fall, Arthur arose from his bed to take a walk around the perimeter. Mahala eyed him cautiously but he simply smiled, something he was becoming better at. Mahala had become close with Arthur, she was like another Miss Grimshaw, a tough love mother to him. Charles was out for the day, and Rains Fall was nowhere to be found. It was quiet in the village.

The sun was bright and the crispness of the air felt wonderful to Arthur. His legs were still tense from lying down for so long, they felt heavy and strange.

Arthur missed the days of hunting, just getting on Boadicea and riding into the sunset. He missed not being watched every second, Mahala and Charles fretting over him every second. He missed the days where he could spread his wings and fly. He was caged at the moment, and an injured bird cannot fly. An injured bird still has the instinct to soar, even if the owners are particularly kind.

But Arthur knew this calm, peacefulness was just what he needed. After a life of running, he needed a place to become grounded for once.

He found himself walking further and further, farther than he’d ever walked before. He found himself at a slow stream, the water trickling over the rocks. The birds sang through the trees and Arthur found himself sitting down next to the water.

He studied the terrain, wishing he would have kept his journal with him. This was a perfect place for a landscape sketch. The next time Charles went into Valentine, he would have to ask for a new journal.

On the other side of the stream, there was a bright yellow flower. It was strange to see, it stuck out against the dark greens and grays of the forest.

“It’s a daffodil.” A voice spoke from behind him, making him jump. Mahala stood next to Arthur, her hands on her hips.

“What would have happened if something attacked you out here? Could you have fought them off?” She asked the former outlaw, glaring at him like she had caught her child with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Well I didn’t get attacked, did I? Besides, I was just lookin’ at that flower. What'd you say it was? A daffodil?” He asked, pointing towards the sun colored flower.

Mahala glared at him before returning her attention to the flower, her gaze softened.

“Yes. The rebirth flower.”

#The Ballads of Rebirth #TBOR #Arthur Morgan x Reader #Arthur Morgan x Female Reade #rdr2 angst #rdr2 #arthur morgan #charles smith #rdr2 x reader #angst #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 fanfiction

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avengerscompound · 5 years

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Phoenix

Phoenix: A Captain America Fanfic

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x OFC (mentions of Thor x OFC)

Word Count: 3683

Warnings: Smut (Bi, MMF threesome, oral sex, double vaginal penetration), angst, hurt/comfort

Synopsis: A tale of the burden of Immortality.

Phoenix

Does it count as immortality if you keep dying? My memories of my lives are hazy. I have existed for so long now that I can no longer remember when I first began. As long as there have been men? Most likely. Longer than that? It is possible.

The ancient Greeks called me Phoenix. In ancient Egypt; Bennu. In China; fènghuáng. They only knew one of my forms. I can also take on the form of a large dog with fiery red fur. Most commonly I am a human woman.

What the folklore did get right was my constant rebirth and my affinity with fire. Each time I die my body bursts into flame and out of the ashes a new me rises. My new form can remember my past lives, but it’s as if they had been spoken to me like a story. That person may have been me, but they are also not me. In all my millennia of existence, I have been out of place. A lone and infinite being among short-lived and fragile mortals.

I can remember when the Norse gods came. I’d heard word from Greece and flew to the cold islands they inhabited. I recognized something of myself in them. The long life. The power. They weren’t immortal though. Not really. They just persisted for Millennia. I stayed with them. Trying to figure out if they knew my kind. I was tired of being the only one. For now, they were close enough.

I consorted with one of them. The large one with the hammer maybe? His thin brother who was sneaky and believed himself smarter than all of them? I can’t remember. Nor can I remember the name I chose for the son that was conceived. Or what he looked like. I died in childbirth and they took him home with them, leaving me to restart my life.

The next few centuries passed with only minor incidents. The humans just continued on their evolution as I watched. I died once at around 10BC having naturally reached the end of my cycle. I died again in the late 8th century after I fell asleep in bird form and a large cat took me.

Over my lives, I would fight with the mortals if a war felt like it needed my interference. During World War I, I chose a side and fought in dog form taking out my chosen enemy. People told tales about it. They thought it was some sort of curse. The hellhound that has coming to drag you down to the pits of Hades.

In World War II I was drawn to the man they called Captain America. I thought maybe this man might have achieved some form of immortality. That he might need a companion because forever was a long time to have to watch everyone you love die over and over.

I couldn’t get near him while he fought. I made an attempt to join the Strategic Scientific Reserve to get closer to him and whatever it was that created him. He died before I was successful and I moved on, disappointed that I was wrong about my assessment of the man. I did keep trying to find out what they did to create him in the first place.

In the 1960s I must have done something to draw the attention of some dark forces because a man came for me. He broke into my house and I was awoken to his metal fingers closing around my throat.

My first thought was not about how I was about to die. Dying and rebirth are inevitable. My first thought was for him. His body was held like an assassin but his eyes spoke otherwise. They were full of pain. I then saw that thing inside him that I saw with the soldier. That little fire that I thought was maybe immortality.

“Who are you?” I gasped, through my restricted airway.

He didn’t respond and as the world went black I whispered. “I forgive you.”

When my body reformed as an infant I changed form into that of the hound. A newborn puppy is less noticeable and slightly more independent than an infant human. The assassin was sitting at the end of the fire ruined bed, bolt upright. I approached the man and nuzzled at his arm. He looked down at me blankly and picked me up. I licked his fingers and he started to cry. Tears ran down his face in silence and he held me against his chest.

Another man entered my room. This one dressed in black combat wear and holding a rifle. “Soldier, what are you doing still here?” He barked. He spoke in Russian and I now knew where to turn in my searches.

The Assassin looked at him blankly. “She said she forgave me.”

“So you set her on fire? You sick bastard.” The handler sneered. “Get up, we have to go back to headquarters.”

The assassin stood still holding me.

“Where did you get the dog from?” The handler asked.

“It’s her.”

I looked up at the soldier and whimpered. He recognized me. No one had done that since Ancient Greece.

The handler just rolled his eyes. He pulled me from the assassin’s hands and tossed me aside. I hit the ground with a yelp. The assassin snapped. He slammed his handler up against the wall and started choking him. His handler struggled, gasping for breath. A shot was fired and the assassin dropped to the ground.

“Fucking dog.” He grumbled, pulling the assassin to his feet and throwing him over his shoulder. “I’m going to get shot for this.”

The next decade I just spent growing. I wandered the streets until I found a person who was willing to take me home. I was adopted by a young family and I stayed with them until I was three, before switching to bird form. I remained isolated and watching as the world changed.

In the 80s I returned to human form and rejoined the population. I returned to my search. This time making my target the Assassin that murdered me. There were rumors and false leads. I did have one thing they didn’t though. Time.

Thirty years passed and Captain America returned. Not dead after all. Frozen. I tracked him down to a facility in New York City and when I went to find him the city was attacked from outer space. I have a moment to appreciate that two of the Norse gods have returned and I was killed again. A piece of a falling building taking me out.

I repeated the process from before. Dog who is taken care of by a kind stranger. Bird alone watching. As I watched the Earth was invaded. There was a struggle and I decide to join the fight. A seven-year-old girl cannot fight but a seven-year-old dog can.

I fought ferociously and the others who fought just accepted me as being there. Occasionally I would hear ‘Where’d that dog come from?’ But the fact no one knew didn’t seem to bother them. As long as I was on their side. I once again earned the name Hellhound.

Towards the end of the war, I met my end once again. I had a moment where I wondered why my cycles kept getting cut short this century before I burst into flame and reformed.

Before I even had a chance to crawl out of the pile of ash a metal hand scooped me up and I was shoved unceremoniously into a cargo pocket on the assassins pants. Bucky was his name. I knew that after fighting by his side in the war.

Victory was finally taken and the survivors limped home. Bucky pulled me from his pocket while he was on the jet. He held me up to his face and scratched my ears.

Captain America - Steve looked over to him. “Where’d the puppy come from?”

“I think it’s the dog that was around,” Bucky answered.

“Buck?” Steve asked clearly puzzled. Despite all he had seen in his life. All he had experienced the thought of a dog being grown and then not was still too perplexing to him.

“The dog got hit. It burst into flame and then it was this.” Bucky explained. He held me to his chest and I nuzzled into it.

“So like some kind of phoenix but a dog?” Steve asked.

Bucky smiled at his friend. “We fought next to a talking raccoon and a tree, is that so far fetched?”

Steve shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

Bucky scratched the back of my neck and kissed the top of my head. “That’s a good name though. Phoenix.”

“Are we keeping it?” Steve asked.

Bucky smiled. “Yeah. I think so.”

So a dog is how I stayed. I don’t really know why. It just felt like something he needed and it was something that didn’t hurt me to provide. I stayed Bucky’s dog for almost six hundred years.

I stayed by his side constantly. If he fought, I fought. When he rested I rested too. I would lie on the couch with my head in his lap while he absentmindedly petted me. I slept on his bed.

I witnessed as he dated women and when he brought them back to his room I went and sat with Steve and witnessed his heartbreak.

After a hundred years I started to see their relationship change. There had always been something between them. Something they were both too scared to acknowledge. A whole century it took before they stopped trying to pretend.

It started with touches. They brushed past each other a lot. When I was on the couch with Bucky their hands would meet in my fur. Then one day they were training. Sparring in the gym and Steve pinned Bucky. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen. But this time Steve didn’t let him up.

Bucky reached his hand up and stroked it over Steve’s jaw. “Stevie…” He breathed.

Then they kissed.

I didn’t want to intrude on their moment, despite the fact they only saw me as a dog. I slunk out the door and waited for them.

It was another year before they did anything more than kiss. I nearly had to witness that too, but thankfully Bucky let me out of the room.

They were really happy for around four hundred years. The team changed around them. Their friends died and they made new ones.

Until something snapped in them. I had feared it would happen. I think the Norse gods thought it might too. They had been witnessing the fragility of humankind for a long time. They offered to take Bucky and Steve to Asgard. They refused and instead took me and retreated from society. Much like Superman and his fortress of solitude. It became just them.

I gave them time. It just became worse. They started to not even want to see the people who came to help them. Worried they’d become attached.

I woke one morning and decided this could not go on. They were losing who they were. I jumped up on the bed as they slept and nuzzled them awake.

“Phoenix. Stop.” Bucky grumbled, trying to push me away. “Use the dog door.”

I started barking. They both stared at me blearily scratching their heads. I changed before their eyes. Something I had never done before to another person. Bucky’s jaw dropped and Steve scrambled back on the bed.

“Ph - Phoenix?” Bucky stuttered.

I cleared my throat. I had never gone this long without using my human form, it felt foreign to me. “Yes.”

“How long have you been able to do that?” He asked.

“The whole time. Although, at the start; if I had changed I would have been an infant.” I explained.

“Why didn’t you change before?” Steve asked.

I shook my head. “I am not entirely sure of that myself. I have lived a long, long time. Longer than you could ever even hope to imagine. One day you’ll know. You still won’t have lived as long as I have, but on the scale of things, the hundreds of millennia I have endured will be insignificant. At the time I saw a man who needed a dog and that was something I could be.”

Bucky pointed at me. “You’ve seen me naked!”

“And I am naked right now.”

Bucky stalked towards me. “You are naked.” He growled and traced his fingers down over my breast.

“Bucky. I was your dog a little while ago. Do you not think that is strange? Your husband is sitting right there.” I said.

Bucky sat back and frowned.

“You need to be around people again. You can’t isolate yourselves like this.” I said.

“Phoenix…” Steve sighed.

“That’s not my name,” I replied.

“Then what is?”

I sat and thought. “I don’t remember. Is that what you want for you? To forget your name? To not know how to relate to people? To think them lesser than you are?”

“We keep losing them. Over and over and over. They’ve started to call us gods. It’s already gotten to the point we can’t relate to them.” Steve said.

“I’ve been beside you this whole time, Steve. I know first hand what it’s like to be worshipped as an idol. It is hard to relate to mortals. To continue caring for them when they continue to make the same mistakes over and over again.” I moved closer to them putting my hands on their legs. “You isolate yourself and you lose who you were. What was important to you. You stop being the people they love. Who I love. You lose the part of you that is even able to love. How will that leave you both? Stuck together for eternity and not even being able to remember that childhood you shared and each used to cling so tightly too.”

I looked at Steve and touched his face. He leaned his head into my palm. “What was your mother’s name?”

He furrowed his brow, trying to remember. “I don’t know.”

“That’s how it starts.”

Bucky had started touching me again. It made sense. He hadn’t seen another person for around fifty years besides Steve. And it had been 200 since he’d actually made physical contact with another. I was used to his hands being on me, so I ignored it.

“What do you propose we do? Go back? Let them worship us? Watch as the ones we form attachments to die?” Steve asked, sardonically.

“Listen to yourself, Steve. The ones you form attachments to? Do you even remember what love is?” I scoffed.

“I love Bucky. What about you? What do you know about love?” Steve snapped.

“Not a lot. I had a child once. I don’t remember them. Or who their father was. You follow the path you’re on and you can end up just like me. Is that what you want?” I sighed. Bucky had been moving around me as Steve and I talked, his hands trailing over my skin.

Steve sighed. “Buck. What are you doing?”

Bucky looked up at Steve like he’d snapped out of a trance. “I haven’t seen another person for so long. I forgot what women looked like.” He shook his head. “I think she’s right. I love you, but it can’t just only be us. We go days without speaking to each other. We’re losing who we are.”

“You’re full of criticism but so far you haven’t given us any suggestions.” Steve groaned and lay back against the wall. “If we return nothing will change. It was destroying us to be around them.”

“So go to the Asgardians. Thor has persisted for almost as long as I have.” I suggested.

Bucky’s hands were on me again and I reached behind me and ran my hand through his hair. He looked up at Steve. “I think she’s right. They said they’d take us. We should go.”

Steve looked at Bucky and his eyes were filled with such sadness that it broke my heart. “Am I not enough for you, Buck?”

Bucky groaned. “Steve, you know it’s not like that. I have been with you for centuries. Do you think I would’ve stayed if I didn’t love you? But we both need more than just us.”

“You keep touching her, Buck. What if we go to Asgard and you decide you’re bored with me?” Steve implored.

Bucky reached out to Steve and when Steve took his hand, Bucky pulled him forward and kissed him. They kissed over my shoulder. It was as deep and passionate as they always were. Not one ounce of love had been lost between them for the past six hundred years. “I love you, Steve. As much as I ever have. Maybe more. But I’m not an island. I need people. I keep touching her because she’s something I’d forgotten I needed. I used to touch her all the time when she was Phoenix too. I need that contact with something else. People more than anything. Don’t pretend you don’t feel that too. I know you, Steve.” He took a deep breath in and released it in a huff. “Besides, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve brought someone else in.”

I looked at Steve, trying to see the thing that Bucky saw. It was sitting just under the surface, being held back by his sense of honor and what was right. Similar to the thing that held him back from admitting his feelings to Bucky in the first place.

I took his hand in mine and stroked my thumb over his palm. “You can touch me. I don’t mind. You used to touch me.”

“I thought you were a dog then,” Steve said, but his hand came forward anyway.

“I’m not anything your eyes tell you I am. But I do have warmth. And I am willing.” I replied. “You have no reason to fear me. I’ve always been here.”

Steve’s hand came forward and slid up my leg and over my belly. Bucky’s lips touched onto my shoulder and he ghosted them over my skin.

“When Bucky was seeing women, you used to come sit with me,” Steve said. It was half question, half statement.

“I didn’t want to watch. I never watched the two of you either. But I knew you were hurting. I thought you would prefer not to be alone.” I answered.

Steve inhaled deeply watching as his own hand as it moved up towards my breast. He exhaled and looked at me. He seemed to stare right into me for a moment. “What are you?”

I shook my head. “I wish I knew. I want not to be alone. I have wanted that more than anything.”

Steve’s mouth crashed into mine, pushing me back into Bucky. Bucky began kissing my throat in earnest. He reached over and put his hand on Steve’s throat.

I let them both explore my body as they desired. Enjoying their hands and mouths on me. How they never stopped touching each other either. How they’d pause to kiss before returning their attention to me. That this was about their beginning of reconnection with others, but without leaving each other behind.

They each seemed to enjoy touching my breasts. After a half-century, I guess they were like a new toy. They kissed and sucked on them. They squeezed them and pinched my nipples. They nuzzled into them and rested their heads on them like pillows. Each time their touches caused me to moan they'd repeated them, sometimes increasing the pressure.

I touched them too. Lazily trailing my fingertips over their skin. Enjoying the feeling of human senses again. When my hands reached their cocks, something flipped in each of them. There was a frantic need to taste me. I was pushed onto my back and they both sat crouched between my legs taking turns worshipping at my cunt as they did in Ancient Egypt. They each brought me to climax again and again. Until I was pleading with them for respite.

They sat up, mouths glistening and looked at me eagerly.

“I can take you both if you want.” I purred.

Their eyes darkened and Bucky beckoned to me. I climbed up into his lap and pushed him down, lowering myself onto his cock. We both sighed and gazed at each other when Steve came up behind me and pushed me forward against Bucky. I rolled my hips and on the downwards pass Steve’s cock pressed against my entrance.

He held my hips still and slowly pushed into me, stretching out my cunt. It burned but burning is what I do and I welcomed it. We moved together and kissed. Out mouths moving from one to the next. They kept whispering to each other. Little words of love to each other.

The room became filled with the sound of our pleasure. Moaning and grunting. Panting and cursing. We each came within short succession of each other. Each man filling me with his seed.

After we lay together talking still constantly touching. A decision was made. They would go to Asgard.

Thor greeted them with open arms. “Friends, welcome!” He roared, embracing them both as we stepped from the Bifrost. “Your new home and family awaits you!”

He looked to me and his eyes went wide. “Isis? Is that you?”

I looked down at my hands and the warm brown of my skin. Something about that felt right. “I don’t know. Is that who I am?”

He threw his arm around my shoulder. “You have isolated yourself too long, My Lady. Do you not remember me?”

I nodded and furrowed my brow. “I remember … there was a son… Loki’s?”

Thor roared with laughter. “No, lover. He is mine. Mothi. Would you like to meet him?”

I looked up at the large god and then at the other two immortals. I nodded and for the first time in my many lives, I felt like I belonged.

#steve rogers #bucky barnes #steve rogers x oc #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x steve rogers #stucky #bucky barnes x steve rogers x oc #stucky x oc #captain america #captain america fanfic #the winter soldier #the winter soldier fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #angst #phoenix

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thanks--for--listening · 4 years

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permanence

accidentally got obsessed with six and this is what happened lol and tbh do i really even like this anymore? no but u know what i wrote it so i might as well put it on here, the internet, forever lol. also on ao3.

It looked different on all of them. The nightmares. Thin walls and enough trauma to last multiple lifetimes meant that Cath had seen it all, from the dreamless to the sleepless nights and every shade in between. She was no Aragon, with her sturdy arms and unfailing strength, no Jane, offering the physical comfort that only a mother’s arms could provide, no Anne, cracking jokes until tears turned into laughter and smiles crept up like the sun on the horizon. She didn’t have Anna’s everlasting patience or Katherine’s gentle kindness, but she knew her role nonetheless: she was the observer. She watched, took notes, prepared for the worst and saw it come, and then waited for it to happen again. Because it always, always happened again.

—

Aragon’s, like most of the others, started with a whimper.

The noise was uncanny coming from her. The persona she’d crafted for the stage wasn’t far off from her own nature. Her strength made her seem untouchable; it was easy to forget the history behind her words, the human beneath her crown.

She didn’t scream, not really. When it got bad, it was all in her body, in the way she fought her covers and lost her breath. They’d had to move everything off the top of her nightstand after the first time, when she’d shattered a lamp without waking up. If it lasted long enough, she spoke, the words only sometimes coherent, and they weren’t always the same but Cath has been keeping track of the most frequent phrases: no, come back, don’t leave me, can’t breathe, help.

They only made sense after Aragon told them what she saw. Once she woke up, once someone broke through her mind’s blockades, once she stopped panting and wiped away the sweat and stray tears dripping down her face, she almost always talked to them. She spared few details in her storytelling. She spoke as if giving voice to the images in her head made them less real, as if it was only when they were said aloud that she could recognize their lack of power.

Aragon never saw things as they were, not really; she dreamed in metaphors. She saw herself trapped in a box, drowning in the ocean, stranded in space. The scenarios were different, but in all of them, she watched as someone in the distance — a man she couldn’t see clearly enough to recognize — passed her by, left her to die alone. He was either too far away to hear her or didn’t care enough to turn back, and Aragon always said she didn’t know which it was, but Cath knew. She kept the secret to herself, let her believe in ignorance and innocence and kept her theories about the faceless man hidden in the pages of her notebook.

With Aragon, every night was almost always the same. Jane went first, let her rest her head on her shoulder and helped her catch her breath. Then it was Anna, her voice cool but her eyes soft, giving the invitation to talk about it without ever letting pity into her words. They’d learned quickly that Aragon refused to be pitied, that the worst thing they could do was let sympathy creep into their eyes. The rest of them listened, and when enough time had passed, when the dream had both been materialized and vaporized, it was Anne, with her wit and her wicked smile, who said whatever she could to get a laugh or a groan out of the rest of them. Cath initially thought it was a little ironic that she was the one who signaled the change, but her ability to endearingly and harmlessly annoy, especially when it came to Aragon, made her invaluable. Their history didn’t matter — it had to be her.

When they made their way back to their own rooms, the conversation never lasting long enough for anyone to stay up and get a start to their day, Cath lingered, watched the way Aragon took a deep breath and restabilized herself in the real world. Sometimes it took a few, but Cath knew to wait for the right exhale, the one that made her look like herself again. Only then did she close the door behind her.

—

Anne’s shouldn’t have caught her by surprise, yet Cath honestly didn’t expect to see her clawing at her neck the first time they barreled into her room.

Maybe it was because she was usually so casual about her own beheading. She had her moments, and there was definitely a line that the rest of them couldn’t cross, but she talked about it as if it was nothing more than an annoyance. She constantly joked about it, both on and off stage. She talked about her death more than any of the others and with such indifference that it had taken Cath longer than it should have to understand that the humor was masking the fear, not replacing it.

At her worst, Anne screamed as she woke up; the girls didn’t usually let it get that far, not anymore. More often than not, Aragon was the one who heard the cries that preceded it, who banged on the rest of the doors and beat the others to her bedside. The doors had become their unspoken ritual, born from the desperation of the first times, when the memories were fresh, their connection still forming, and the nightmares a mystery. No one had known what to expect, what to do, and it had been easier to deal with each one of them together. The tradition had never broken, not for the worst nights.

And for Anne, tradition started with Aragon. Always and without fail. Cath knew it was no coincidence. She’d taken note about a month and a half into their rebirth, when she’d realized that Aragon had rearranged her furniture so their beds shared a wall, so she’d hear the warning signs and step in before it was too late. She also knew why she’d done it, why it was so important to wake her up before the dream could.

Anne saw the past as if she’d never left it. She’d told the story after one of the first times, and didn’t need to confirm anymore that every time after was exactly the same. She was brought to a tower, led through unfamiliar halls and sent down what felt like hundreds of stairs, went lower and lower until even the sun itself couldn’t find her. They threw her behind bars, and she didn’t know how long she waited for them to come back. Hunger and fear gnawed at her stomach, went to war to see who was stronger, and neither were ever tamed.

She remembered feeling blinded by the light when they finally dragged her back outside, so much so that she didn’t see the set up until she was pushed onto her knees, forced to beg in front of the crowd that was eagerly awaiting her execution. Her voice shook when she told the girls about the boos, the jeers, the glee on their faces when Henry gave the final order. Cath had written down that it was this moment, more than any other, that made Anne hesitate the most in her retelling: the realization that so many strangers truly wanted her dead, and that she could never do anything to change their minds. Cath wondered if maybe that’s what she was really afraid of: not dying, but being utterly and completely powerless.

If none of them got to her in time, she saw it all the way through the end. She was led to the block, had her head forcibly guided to its mark, and as she’d told the story she’d started crying again, although technically, Cath noted, she’d never truly stopped. She described looking out into the crowd, knowing their spiteful faces would be the last thing she’d see. She said she remembered trying to look up, to find the sun, to let it steal her sight one more time, but before she could she heard the blade cut through the air above her, and then...

Her shouts always fell in time with her own decapitation, her eyes shooting open as fire shot through every nerve in her body. She’d told them that she hadn’t felt the cut, not really, but her mind filled in the blanks, and she could barely find the words to describe the sensation. Only Katherine nodded in understanding when she tried.

If Aragon woke her up, if they got to her early enough, she could shake the memories off almost entirely on her own. If they didn’t, if she saw too much of her own life, her own death, she needed to be held, needed the weight of someone’s embrace to anchor her back to the present. Anne wasn’t picky — she’d fall into whoever’s arms opened up first — but Cath knew it was Aragon’s who gave her the most comfort; anyone else taking over that job was a rare exception. It was easy for Cath to forget that Aragon had also been a mother, although when she held her, when Anne squeezed her back and buried her face in her shoulder, it was painfully obvious that those arms were strong enough to carry a whole life.

The rest of them usually piled onto the bed next to her. Anne often disregarded the concept of personal space, and Cath would be the first to admit that the constant energy and attention could get tiresome on a normal day, but on these nights everyone indulged her. It wasn’t about them or what they wanted: it was about Anne. And if she needed to feel her friends around her, then that’s exactly what she’d get.

Like Aragon, it usually didn’t take too long before Anne could breathe again, before the tears dried up and her body stopped shaking. On the really bad nights, Katherine didn’t leave with the rest of them. Cath didn’t know what they did, if they talked about anything or just sat with the knowledge that for both of them, death sounded exactly the same. Either way, they both slept well into the afternoon, and whenever they could, the other girls let them.

—

Jane was the last person she started taking notes for. With the others, the nightmares came quickly. At the start, each dream seemed to be the worst kind, and they were nearly impossible to hide. But after their first month or so together, when Cath had notes and tallies for everyone in the house, her pages reserved for Jane were completely blank. Naively, or perhaps selfishly, she’d led herself to believe that the logical conclusion was that Jane simply didn’t have nightmares. That her death had been tragic but perhaps her life hadn’t, hadn’t been great but had been good enough to avoid the fate of the rest of them.

She found out the hard way that she’d been sorely mistaken.

It wasn’t that Jane didn’t have nightmares — it was that when she did, she stayed completely silent. They’d only discovered it by accident, and for all her claims of being the observer in the group, it wasn’t even Cath who noticed. It was Katherine, on a sunny afternoon, looking up at where Jane had dozed off on the couch and pointing out the tears streaming down her cheeks.

The others had circled around her almost instantly. They all stared at her, each person at a loss for words, and Cath didn’t know if it spoke to their character or to Jane’s that not a single person knew what to do, how to help the helper.

It was Cath who finally reached over, gently shook her until her eyes snapped open and she gasped, and even something as simple and reactionary as that was done in near silence. Cath didn’t want to think about what had made her learn that skill.

That first time she’d refused to talk about it. None of them pushed too hard, but they’d all made assumptions about what had led to the tears. Instead, they sat around the couch, started conversations about nothing just to fill the silence. Katherine had sat down next to her, and Cath watched as Jane began to gently braid her hair, wondered who got more comfort out of the simple movement. The other three carried the brunt of the conversation. Cath almost felt guilty about her lack of contribution, but the others had quickly perfected the art of the meaningless debate, and it was easier to just let them go at it than to try and add anything. Plus, watching gave her the head space to make mental notes that she’d later write down: for Jane, it seemed as if she needed to be distracted, to let her mind wander but not too far, to feel surrounded by others but not the center of attention.

When night finally came, when the others had gone to their own rooms, Cath hung back. She asked her, softly, how often it happened. Her nonanswer spoke loud enough. She told her that when it happened again (not if, when, always when), she should wake someone, give some sort of sign so they could be there for her, in whatever way she needed them, and she’d expected pushback but Jane had simply nodded.

They decided on a song, a lullaby, one that would only be played on the nights when it was bad, when she needed someone to remind her that she wasn’t alone anymore. Part of Cath wondered if she’d chosen the song with the hopes that it would go unnoticed, that it would keep the rest of them asleep instead of bringing them to her room. But if they’d learned anything from their shared experience, it was how to sleep lightly. So when the song played, they came. And it was weeks later, on one of the lullaby nights, that she told them what she saw.

She always started in the same place. Opening her eyes to find herself in a maze, huge green hedged walls towering around her. She couldn’t climb over them, couldn’t walk through them, could only go where the path cleared for her.

She heard the baby first. Some things changed— the maze didn’t always look or move the same— but not this. Coming from somewhere in front of her was the cries of a newborn, the sound she’d heard just briefly once before. She started moving forward, going through the twists and turns as fast as she could, but the sound never got any louder, the child never any closer. Still, she didn’t stop, not until she heard him behind her.

When Henry called out to her, he didn’t sound angry. Not at first. She’d seen his temper in action, had known his fuse was short, but it had never been directed toward her, not the way it had with the others. And when he said her name, when he told her he loved her, she believed him. For a moment the crying disappeared, and all she heard was him, beckoning her back home. She refused to look at anyone when she described that part; Cath didn’t need to take notes to figure out why.

When she turned around, when she started to step toward him, he got quieter. He called out to her less and less, and the sweetness of his voice soured with every inch she erased between them. She didn’t understand why until she heard the crying again. The farther away she walked from the baby, the louder it got, the more distressed it sounded, but when she turned around, when she walked toward it, Henry‘s voice grew. The farther away from him she got, the more he demanded she come back home, and the crying only got louder, and she told them that even in the dream she knew it was a trap, but she didn’t know how to get out.

It was usually then, while she stood in the middle, trapped in a crossroad with two wrong directions, that the walls began to change. The green hedges solidified, turned to stone around her. The walls grew higher, wider, and her path got thinner, her turns disappearing. She told them how she ran, not toward Henry or the child but simply in whatever direction she could, but it was useless. She couldn’t save them, and she couldn’t save herself. And it was only then, when she gave in to her fate, when she stopped running, that she woke up.

If she were a braver person, Cath knew she would have apologized to Jane as soon as she heard her story, because she had secretly envied her time with Henry. She’d thought about how lucky the other woman had been, to die before he could tire of her. She’d thought that her death, so natural in its cause, meant that she hadn’t suffered. That if she hadn’t seen the worst in him, she must not have seen any bad at all. She knew she should be the one to say it, too, with her own survival often feeling like proof that she hadn’t suffered anything near the fate of the others. She knew she should say that she understood now, that he may have thought he loved her but true love didn’t rely on contingencies, and spending everyday waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop wasn’t peace, but she didn’t. She put all her words, all her thoughts and feelings, onto the page, where she could control it. Where it would be safe. And she made sure to always keep her door open a crack at night, in case she needed to hear the familiar melody.

—

Like Jane, Anna wasn’t woken up by the others. Cath didn’t know what she looked like when she dreamt, how she reacted immediately after. She had a suspicion that her silence and Jane’s didn’t come from the same place. Jane’s seemed to be borne out of necessity and survival, and Anna’s...Anna’s was different. Cath didn’t understand it exactly, had notes and theories but no real answers as to why she woke up quietly. All she knew was that it wasn’t screams or cries that let them know she’d suffered at the hands of her own subconscious — it was the sound of the tv, volume just loud enough to echo across the house.

It had been Cath who put it together the first time. They’d woken up to the sound of old commercials for products no one truly needed, had stared at each other in confusion as they made their way down the stairs to find Anna on the couch, eyes glued to the tv and glassy with dissociation. Cath could see the question in everyone’s mind, the one they’d never give a voice to: what could she, with her palace and throne, have possibly seen that would wake her up like this, keep her up all night?

The rest of them just sat down next to her and watched for a few minutes, no one quite knowing what to do, and it was Cath who realized what was missing, Cath who had to take on Anna’s role. She asked her if she wanted to talk about it, and she had to repeat herself four times before she got any sort of response. Even then, it was just a quick shake of the head.

Every time it happened, they found her in the same spot, in the same state. They each had their place: Katherine and Cath on the couch with her, the others on the ground in front of them. They watched whatever was on, and Cath didn’t know if it was intentional that the channel Anna turned to was usually the infomercial one, the one that only came on when no one was supposed to be watching and offered nothing in the form of entertainment. It didn’t matter. Nobody changed it and nobody spoke, not until the sun came up.

The first time, everyone stayed up all night. They’d all been on edge, not knowing what to expect, but Anna hadn’t moved. When Jane finally went to make breakfast, it was like a switch went off, and suddenly the Anna they knew and loved was back, acting as if nothing had happened.

Sometimes Anna fell back asleep, but not always. Same with the others. They all had nights where they dozed off, head bent in a way that was sure to leave them stiff in the morning. The only constant was Katherine, who almost always fell asleep with her head against Anna’s side. It was another reason Anna’s stood out from the rest: no one ever went back to their room once she turned on the TV, but they also didn’t stay awake all night, either.

Cath didn’t hear about the dreams for a while, not until it was only her and Anna who were still awake. Anna didn’t move, wouldn’t look at her, wouldn’t take her eyes off the screen. Cath hadn’t asked, even though she’d wanted to: Anna just started talking, her voice barely over a whisper.

She told her that when she closed her eyes, she woke up back in the palace. Her palace. It was exactly as she remembered. The only thing that had changed was her. She looked the same, was in the same place, but she remembered everything about now, about their resurrection. She knew the past, present, future, the truths behind names she’d only heard in passing. She knew the horrors that Henry had put others through, and she knew that behind these walls, she was safe.

Except she didn’t feel safe. Not anymore. She’d spent years alone and had loved it, had lived a life so many would kill for, but all she noticed now was how quiet it was. She looked around at her own belongings and all she saw were relics of a time no one wanted to go back to, least of all her. She looked at her home and felt nothing.

Anna hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV as she’d spoken, but Cath saw how she started slowly rubbing Katherine’s arm. Anna told her that in her dreams, she knew what was happening, who was next, but every time she tried to leave the doors wouldn’t open. Cath knew, then, that no matter what kind of freedom Anna might have had back then, it still wasn’t agency. It wasn’t enough. She wondered if the doors in her dream were a blessing, if they prevented her from trying to stop something she couldn’t, from witnessing something she couldn’t unsee.

When she watched the others, when they told the group about their nights, Cath usually didn’t ask too many questions. She knew her nature, knew she had a habit of always wanting to learn more, and she’d discovered quickly that most people preferred to know less. But she hadn’t talked to anyone like this, where it was just them, separate from the rest, and for some reason that made it harder to stop herself. She had to know: why the TV? What purpose did it serve? How did it help?

For minutes, Anna didn’t answer. Cath usually considered herself to be a patient woman, but this silence was agony. Part of her longed to take them back but she knew it was too late, knew that even like this Anna wouldn’t take the cop out, was too stubborn and proud to let it go. It was a trait that Cath usually admired about her; now, she wondered if it would have been easier on both of them if she’d just dismiss her and her questions, tell her to keep her mouth shut.

But she didn’t ignore it, didn’t tell Cath to fuck off. She answered. She told her that when she’d first woken up, she wasn’t convinced that she was back, even as she stared at her phone and her room and their house. Her mind could have made up lamps or cell phones or even her living with the other wives, but not the TV. Not the weird shit she found people tried to sell in the middle of the night, things like covers for your deck or pans that won’t break if you slam them across the countertop. It was so absurd, so ridiculously modern. Her subconscious wasn’t that creative. And there was something almost calming, she told her, about the way they spoke. It was like their useless chatter could fill every empty space in her mind and leave no room for images she didn’t want to see anymore.

When she finished talking, neither of them moved, not until Katherine shifted next to her. Both of them held their breaths until she stopped. Cath stared at her, and there were so many words resting on the tip of her tongue that she didn’t know how they didn’t all come spilling out at once. She wanted to tell her that it wasn’t her fault. That she couldn’t have stopped it. That even if she’d never pissed him off, even if she’d lasted longer, he would have tired of her no matter what she did. And at that point in time, Cath didn’t think there was a person alive who could have saved Katherine from the men who would play with her life like it was something they owned and then throw it away as if it was never worth anything at all.

But she didn’t. She didn’t say anything. They both just sat there, turning their eyes back toward the screen, trying desperately to think about nothing at all.

—

As time passed, as they began to differentiate between the bad and the worst, Cath watched, listened, and learned. She discovered that Jane didn’t need all of them in her room every time. For Anne, if they got to her before the blade did, sometimes Aragon and Katherine were enough. Aragon often sought out who she needed if she woke up silently, and it wasn’t uncommon to find her walking out of someone else’s room in the morning instead of her own.

But Katherine wasn’t like the rest of them.

She still didn’t know why Anna had come to her the first time. She’d woken up to banging on her door, the sound loud and heavy and desperate. By the time she opened her eyes, she was standing over her, and Cath had to swallow back the string of swear words she almost let out when she saw the sheer panic on her face. It’s Katherine, she’d told her, I can’t wake her up. They ran — Anna, back to Katherine’s room, and Cath to wake the others. Later, when she started her notes, she’d questioned what it said about their newly forming group that everyone had woken up instantly, even when the only explanation she’d given them was Katherine’s name. She couldn’t quite decide if it was a testament of their care for one another or of their collective trauma. She found that she didn’t really want to know.

The panic was palpable, not just in Katherine but in the rest of them as well. Cath didn’t know what about this, what about her, made them all so on edge, made her feel like she wanted to close her eyes and run away, become the coward she knew herself to be. Maybe it was the way Katherine thrashed against her covers, each movement a textbook image of desperation. Maybe it was the tears that were streaming down her cheeks, not gentle like Jane’s but fast and uncontrollable like Anne’s. Or maybe it was the way they could all see the terror on her face, obvious even with her eyes squeezed shut.

Cath had felt as if she was frozen in a moment she didn’t want to see, forced to bare witness to everyone’s pain, and she knew that came with the job, knew that she signed up for it the minute she’d started keeping notes on the others, but now...she didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to know what she knew anymore.

But the world had never cared about what she wanted, had it?

Anne snapped first. Why haven’t you woken her up? She’d yelled, nearly running up to the bed. Anna tried to stop her but Anne was stronger than she looked, shoved her away and tried to put a hand on Katherine’s shoulder and—

Cath had pages and pages of notes dedicated to that scream. She could hear it, clear as day, long after that first night. It sucked the air right out of the room, froze each of them in their place except Anne, who drew her hand to her chest, held it there as if she didn’t trust it not to stray back to her. They stood there and watched, almost as if they didn’t believe it. As if they didn’t want to believe it. That this was their Katherine, who always had a smile on her face, who bought shit no one needed just because it came in a pack of six. Their Katherine, who shrieked as if Anne’s touch had set her on fire, who kept her eyes shut even as the cries turned into no, don’t, stop, please. Sadness, anger, reservation, fear, everything Cath saw on the rest of their faces she saw on Katherine’s, and she didn’t know how one person could hold that many emotions inside of them, could feel them all at once.

Jane broke their silence, tried calling out to her, her voice soft and soothing, her words an attempt to coax her out of whatever reality her mind had her trapped in. Nothing happened. Anna joined in, and Cath could hear the desperation creeping into her voice, her usual steady nature quickly disappearing. She wanted to help but she didn’t know how, so she watched, watched as nothing changed, nothing got better, not until Aragon yelled her name as if it were a command and Katherine bolted upright.

Her eyes were open but Cath knew instantly that she didn’t see them. Anne reached for her again, slowly this time, but the minute she got close enough to touch, Katherine practically jumped back. There weren’t many things that Cath hated more than that image: Katherine, trembling in the corner, knees brought up to her chest, sobbing, the sound not nearly muffled enough to hide it.

The first few times, she cried so hard she puked. Cath was almost grateful for the moments when she’d lunge for the trash can, because it was only then that she’d let any of them touch her. Jane usually walked out when it started, and she always came back with a glass of water but they all knew it wasn’t the reason she left. It was Aragon and Anna who sat with her, who rubbed circles on her back and held her hair out of the way. The first time, once it was over, once the crying had slowed and her breathing had steadied, she’d fallen asleep slumped against Anna’s body. It was another potential positive to the overwhelmingly negative situation: the puking usually meant she’d sleep again that night, exhaustion outweighing whatever it was she’d seen.

When one of the others fell back asleep after a night like that, it usually cued the rest of them to sleep too, to go back to their rooms and attempt to salvage a few more hours themselves; with Katherine, nobody seemed ready to leave. For a while, none of them moved, none of them spoke. They just sat there. Waiting. The fear was palatable, but Cath wasn’t sure what they were more afraid of: waking Katherine up on accident, or having to do it again on purpose.

It was Anne, with tears in her eyes, who stormed out of the room first. From her spot by the door, Cath watched as Aragon followed her out, and as time passed they would eventually come to understand one another but that first night, so early into their group, there was still a tension there, one that would only fade with time and conversation. Cath held her breath when Anne lunged at Aragon, but she just let the hits come. One after the other, Anne’s fists banged against her chest, each one less forceful than the one that came before it. When Aragon finally stopped it, caught Anne’s wrists in midair, Cath watched as Anne seemed to crumble against her, and she couldn’t hear them but she could see Anne’s shoulders shaking with cries of her own.

It was hard to say the nights got better. The puking stopped, but the crying didn’t, and as long as there were tears in her eyes Katherine refused to let the others touch her. Those nights somehow seemed longer than the first ones. When they woke her, when she backed herself into the corner of her room, the rest of them were left with almost nothing to do, almost no way to help. They’d sit on the floor and wait for her to come back to them, wait for the sobs to subside and whatever images she saw to fade long enough for reality to set in. It was only then that she moved toward them, slid onto the ground and let Anne and Anna put their arms around her.

She remembered it was her idea. That while they waited, when they tried to ground her in the present without ever laying a hand on her, they should use their voices, the same way Aragon used hers to wake her up. So they sang. Sometimes together, sometimes separate. Old songs, new songs, original songs, it didn’t matter so long as they filled the silence and did so softly. Cath wasn’t sure if it worked, if it helped or not, but Katherine never told them to stop. So they sang.

Cath had more notes on Katherine than any of the other girls, partially because she was the only one who refused to tell them what she saw. Cath wasn’t upset — it was her dreams, her decision on whether she wanted to talk about them — but she couldn’t help herself from theorizing in the privacy of her own notes. It hurt more than she thought it would. Thinking about her dreams, trying to imagine what she saw at night, coming up with horrible, gut-wrenching, terrifying scenarios on each page. Every time she wrote about her she felt sick to her stomach, but it was better to come up with ideas, to convince herself that one of her theories had to be right, because if she was wrong, if what Katherine saw was worse than anything Cath’s imagination could conjure up...she couldn’t be wrong. And as much as it hurt her to think about what exactly led to that type of reaction, to imagine for herself what she’d gone through, what she may have relived on the worst nights, she wouldn’t let herself leave it alone. If she understood, if she could figure it out, solve the puzzle, maybe she could find another way to help. To make it better. And any level of pain was worth it for that.

—

The very first person Cath started taking notes on was herself. She had to. Words lived on a page in a way that they didn’t anywhere else, and on the nights when she woke up in a sweat, when she felt tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, she needed the permanence that came with penmanship. She needed something to rely on.

The first time, she’d been so caught up in her notes that she hadn’t noticed the girls walk in. She didn’t know how long they’d watched her, how long they waited for her to finish only for the words to continue. All she knew was that it was Katherine’s hand gently covering her own that stopped her pen mid-sentence, brought her gaze up and made her aware of both the noise she must have been making and the audience she suddenly had.

She didn’t let them see her notes. Not the first time and certainly not any time after, when they each had their own pages filled with everything Cath would never tell them. She slid her notebook under her pillow, then under her mattress, let them believe she only wrote about herself and kept it hidden in plain sight. Those words were off-limits.

The third time they asked, she told them the bare minimum. None of her theories, none of her rants and ramblings, but simply what she saw on the nights she woke up in a panic.

She always started with his face. She hated looking at it, hated it then and hated it even more now, with her knowledge of what horrors came before her. She hated the way she censored herself when she was with him, the thoughts she buried and the feelings she suppressed in order to gain her title of Survivor. She hated the role she was expected to play as his Queen, the one that would never be her, not truly, not genuinely. She hated everything about him, except the words coming out of his mouth.

In her dreams, he set her free.

He told her he had tired of her, that he no longer found her interesting, and they were words that would have stung had they come from anyone else, but not from him. Not when they didn’t come as a death sentence but rather as a door opening for her, literally and figuratively. From his lips, those words were poetry, beautiful and elegant, a work of art in its own right.

The minute she found herself outside, she went back home. Back to him. To Thomas. The trip was quicker than it should have been, something she noticed every time but never cared to focus on, not when he was finally within reach. She hadn’t dared waste time with a letter, not when she could knock on the door just as quickly as any messenger. Riding down familiar paths, the sun shining bright above her, she began to imagine their reunion, to give breath to the life inside her head that she’d tried to bury during her time in the castle.

She didn’t expect to find him with another woman. When she opened the door, when a stranger stared back at her, she felt her confidence sway just slightly, but she built herself back up, reminded herself of where she’d been just moments before. She knew more than anyone the power that marriage held, and if he’d used that same power while she was gone, she knew that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, blame him. Not when he could break it now, not when they could have that with each other, the way they’d planned. She knew their love. It was stronger than this.

The first real sign she got, the first feeling that something was off, came as she saw his face when he stepped into view. Cath had always prided herself on her ability to read other people, to get a sense of their emotions before they even spoke a word. It was how she’d survived Henry, how she’d known what to say and when to make sure he never found her reprehensible. But now, staring at his face, she saw emotions that didn’t make any sense. Confusion, annoyance, disgust, all swirled into one, blinking like warning signs on an empty road, flashing like lightning on a clear day. He said her name but it sounded all wrong, nothing like she remembered.

Still, she ignored them. The signs. She explained her release, confessed to him that the life in her head, the life they’d planned together, the future she’d once thought impossible, was all that had kept her going for years. She told him they could be together now, that it could finally become reality, and she reached for his hands but he pulled away. He looked down at her, and she hadn’t noticed it before but he towered over her, and staring up at him she couldn’t remember ever feeling this small.

When he opened his mouth, none of the words that came out made any sense. He told her that he’d never meant what he said, that they’d never planned a life together. He told her she was crazy if she believed their fling was anything more than a temporary distraction, that she was someone he would ever consider marrying. She tried to correct him, to bring up the conversations they had and their moments together but he told her she misremembered, that her mind must have cracked under the pressure of the royal life because nothing she said even remotely resembled reality.

She wanted to fight. She wanted to yell and scream, to tell him that she knew her mind, that there was none stronger than hers, none more reliable, but before she could say a word he asked if she’d created any other fantasies. If she had any other memories that could never have happened. If when she closed her eyes, she saw more lives for herself, saw herself with anyone else but him, and suddenly she couldn’t speak, because when she closed her eyes she saw herself on stage. She saw herself surrounded by women who had come before her, with a new face and new hair and pants, and she knew it could never be true, but she remembered it. She remembered it so clearly, could hear the melodies in her head and see the faces of women she’d never met, could identify them even when they had bodies that didn’t match the portraits she’d seen, when they should have been strangers. And she remembered the feeling of standing underneath the lights, of singing and having people listen, of finally feeling heard, and it was magnificent and exhilarating but it couldn’t possibly be real.

She kept her mouth shut but he knew, somehow, what her silence meant, gave her a smile that couldn’t be trusted and told her perhaps it would be best to go back to the king, to beg for his forgiveness, and the last thought she remembered having before her eyes shot open was that she’d rather die.

She hadn’t known what to expect from them. Part of her held her breath as she finished talking, waited for them to tell her that she was overreacting, that she didn’t suffer like the rest of them, that she didn’t suffer at all. But they never did. She felt Jane’s arms around her, felt Anne reach for her hand, listened to Anna say the only crazy thing about her was the fact that she ate kale on purpose, and within minutes they were all debating whether the health benefits were worth the lack of taste, and it was so absurdly normal, so uniquely them, that it relaxed her, grounded her, and without meaning to she closed her eyes and let the sound of them put her back to sleep.

She only told them about it once, but the pattern stayed the same every time, the conversation and the company never faltering or failing to ease her mind. It was after she woke up again, when everybody had gone back to their own rooms, that she wrote. Each entry was almost exactly the same, but she never felt as if she truly got rid of the lingering feeling until she wrote it down, until she could look back at it and know that even if her mind betrayed her one day, if her memory disappeared, she could always rely on the notes to remember the truth. Once she wrote it down, it couldn’t be changed, not without leaving traces, evidence of altered work. Her writing could never lie to her. It was the one thing in life she could trust wholeheartedly.

—

The dreams scared her, shook her to her bones in a way she often struggled to describe, but they were nothing compared to the feeling she got when she woke up one morning, reached for her notebook and found empty space. She’d barely opened her eyes but suddenly she was wide awake, was searching deeper and deeper under her mattress, was about to stand up and tear her room apart if she had to when she saw her. Sitting on the edge of her bed was Anne, staring not at Cath but at the notebook in her lap.

“Give that back”. Cath didn’t expect the intensity of her own voice. She hadn’t talked like that, hadn’t given orders like that, since she was the Queen. She could see Anne falter slightly, but she still didn’t look up, and it was only then that Cath noticed the book was still closed.

“It’s not just you,” Anne said softly. “You’ve written about all of us in here, haven’t you?”

Cath hesitated, long enough for Anne to finally look up at her, and she didn’t know what she thought she’d find in her eyes but she certainly wasn’t expecting sorrow. Or fear. She thought she’d find anger, but not like this, not so subdued.

For half a second she thought about lying; instead, she nodded. Anne looked back down, as if she could see right through the cover, as if she could stare straight into all the pages herself without ever lifting a finger. “I haven’t read it,” she said, “so you don’t have to worry about that. But I think you should show it to someone. Someone smart. Let them help you, and maybe help the rest of us.” She looked back up at her. “That is what you’re doing, right? Trying to figure us all out so you can make it better. Studying the dreams to make them stop.”

Out of all of her questions, she only cared about one: “How did you know?”

“I pay attention when I want to. It’s easy when no one expects you to do it. Easy to watch people when they’re usually the ones doing the watching.”

“What do you see when you watch me?”

Anne shrugged. “I see the way wheels are always spinning in your mind when one of us starts talking. I see how you’re always the last one to leave, how you always linger just a second longer than the rest of us. I see how quiet you get, even when I know you always have a thousand questions about everything. You never ask them. You never push.”

“It’s not my job,” she said without meaning to.

Anne frowned at her. “Not your job?”

Cath sighed, searched for the words she’d never planned to say. “We each have our thing on the bad nights. Our role. Yours is to cheer people up. Anna’s is to start the conversation. And mine is to watch. To watch and to learn.”

Anne just sat there for a moment, staring at her. Usually, when she looked at Anne, she thought she looked young. Maybe it was her smile, or the mischief that was almost always in her eyes, but right now, without either, she looked older than her years. As if she carried more wisdom behind her eyes than she should, than most would ever expect.

Finally, she spoke. “I think you’re wrong.”

“About what?”

“You. Your job.” Cath must have looked as confused as she felt, because Anne elaborated. “You’re not the person who watches us. Well, you are, but watching isn’t your role.”

“Then what is?”

“You’re what holds us all together. You’re the glue, Cath.”

Cath shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. The writing, the watching, it’s how you do it. How you know what everyone needs.”

“No, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

Cath didn’t know what kind of dam inside her snapped, but suddenly she couldn’t stop the words from flowing. “Because I know what everyone needs, and what they don’t need is me. My job is useless if I’m not smart enough to fix it. I haven’t found a single solution in these pages, but I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to help. I don’t—“ she searched for the words. “I don’t know how to be there for you guys. How to show that I care. Not unless I can solve it. Which I can’t.”

Anne held the notebook up. “And what do you think this is? Proof of how much you don’t care?”

Cath shook her head. “Those notes are stupid.”

“Says who?”

“Says the person who wrote them.”

“That hardly makes you qualified to judge.”

Cath laughed, but it didn’t come out right. “You don’t even know what’s inside.”

“But I know you. If you wrote them, they aren’t stupid.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’ve spent months writing them, but Katherine still wakes up screaming. Jane still wakes up crying. And you…” she shook her head. “There aren’t any answers in there. No one wants those.”

“I do. I want them.”

“Why?”

Anne’s eyes shifted back down to the notebook; when she looked back up, she held it out to her. “Because I want to get better. And I want my friends to get better. And to do that, I think we need to understand. I think we need to learn. And who better to teach us than the one who watches and learns? Who better to bring us together than the glue?”

Cath stared at the journal. She hadn’t meant to say it all, to give a voice to the thoughts she’d tried to bury. She’d planned on hiding her uselessness until she could fight it, until she could find something usable, something that worked. But maybe that wasn’t her job. Maybe she needed someone else to find what she couldn’t, to connect the dots she laid out, to see a map in her pages and read it in a way she never could. Or maybe, if they read what she wrote, they’d discover the same thing she did: that it was helpless. That she was helpless. That it didn’t matter. Two theories, two potential ends, and no way of predicting which would come into fruition.

She spoke more to the journal than to Anne. “I don’t think you’ll find what you’re looking for in there.”

“Maybe not. But it can’t get any worse than it already is.”

Cath nodded, reached for the book only to push it back into Anne’s hands. “I want you to read it first.”

Anne looked up at her. “Why?”

“Because you told me to find someone smart to help me.”

Anne smiled, before staring back at the notebook. She went to open it but hesitated, and it was Cath who reached for her hand, Cath who opened to the first page and let their work begin.

#ahah ok here it is all done #i mean i dont have any other six ideas but like would not be opposed to writing more for them #aka if u have prompts pls send them to me i need them #six musical #six #ao3 #TFLAO3 #fanfic #six broadway #six west end

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