#that is still bad but less all-consuming rage-filled despair

[fictionadventurer]

I don't think anything has shown media bias more strongly than the time a few years back when Women's March people got upset at the pro-lifers, because, "How dare you host your pro-life rally on the same day as our Women's March?" only to be told, "We've been doing this on this date since the '70s, with turnouts several times larger than your Women's March ever had, yet you've never heard of ours while yours dominates every cable news station for days."

[shorkbrian]

tonight... I’m very sad about Shouto.

(I saw some poetry that's it) (No NSFW. Abusive relationship mention)

About how he knew love, and knew softness, and then was violently torn away from that bit of his life.

His mother was kind, and beautiful, but then turned ugly with rage, pouring out her hatred both literally and figuratively.

The wreckage, the damage after the deed had been done, how horrified she must have been. But you can’t hold trust after it’s broken. There’s always that voice in the back of your mind that whispers “What if they hurt you again?”

From then, his relationship with his mother, the source of gentle and kind, grew strained. Shouto still loved her, yes, but he doesn’t know how to live with her.

His father, a wretched man, with tunnel vision and a thirst for success, whether it be his own, or his son’s. A father who didn’t know the meaning of rest, who didn’t know when to stop, who didn’t know how to pull his punches in training, how didn’t even try to learn.

Shouto had to be strong.

Shouto had to be silent.

There’s no need for talking when you’re alone in your room, exhausted, burned, aching. No need for conversation at dinner, while your father steams over the disappointment of your abilities, your siblings cowering under his presence. 

Why even try to engage during training, when idle chatter would earn a hand across the face and a violent reprimand. Heros are silent, heroes were strong.

His parents taught him grief. It’s a deep sorrow, a forlorn ache in your bones that settles and sticks. You can’t wash it away, not with kind words, nor gentle touches. The time for those has wilted and died.

Shouto knows silence better, finds it easier to sit back and observe, to remove, too detach. Pain hurts less if you imagine it being inflicted on someone else, as if your body wasn’t your own.

UA happened, and he became a young man, learned what friends were, why these people were nice to him, concerned about his wellbeing. Some of them expressed genuine feelings of happiness when they were around him, or at least, seemed to tolerate his presence.

The grief was buried a bit, but still visible.

Shouto was still young, and his emotions were confusing, hard too bear. Easier to let them simmer where they always had, kept under lock and key where he never had to look at them. Let them rot and mold and seep with negative fumes from his bitter thoughts.

He was able to achieve his father’s goal, become a top hero, the perfect man. Fire and ice, a deadly combination of skill and talent, fierce and foreboding.

Fame, money, it was easy to come by, but never held any real value. There was nothing Shouto could find to fill his void, his unconscious searching to finding a home. Home isn’t a place, it’s a feeling, and it’s one that the young man hadn’t felt since he was a child. Even then, home was always filled with pain, fire, yelling and hatred and burning fear.

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. Is this all there is to life?

Shouto has everything he could ever need, anything he could ever want. Yet it all feels empty, hollow, like his heart, his soul. Nothing there, just an ache and a pain that won’t go away no matter what remedies are tried.

A soft soul, you are, willing to work with the man as he recovers from injuries he sustains fighting. His own personal physical therapist, throughly vetted and then hired by his agency.

You help the pro-hero’s body heal, retrain muscles, strengthen resolve and facilitate a healthier headspace. Shouto’s never been a particularly talkative person, and neither are you, so it works. 

Talking with you isn’t a chore, a pain. The only pain he feels when he’s with you is from his body, muscles protesting as they’re worked to the limit. You’re a person that’s safe, that Shouto can let his guard down around. You’re there to help.

Shouto reads one day about how love feels. How it’s warm, and comforting. You don’t know what to say to the other person at first, clammy palms, nervous thoughts. 

Your heart might beat faster, your mouth might get dry. It feels like a rush and your cheeks warm when you think about your love, a deep bond of intimacy. Love is patient, love is kind.

Shouto thinks he’s in love with you.

Maybe love is also all-consuming too, because Shouto feels overwhelmed when he’s with you. He doesn’t know what to do, how to act. You feel like the sun on his cheek in the morning, as it streams through the curtains, illuminating the room, beating back the dark.

The sun blinds him at first, and it’s all he can think about, no bad thoughts or dark memories plaguing his mind.

It’s easy to get caught up in that feeling.

Being with you, with your gentle demeanor and easy personality, is like coming home. You’re what he wants, and Shouto is enamored.

A confession is made, and accepted, and there is a reason for living in this world.

But home to Shouto isn’t bright, and comforting, and soothing.

It’s always been tinged with bloody issues, like the striking of a cheek, a raised voice, overbearing rules, regulations that were enforced down to the letter.

There’s no breaking the cycle, the cycle of pain and despair. A loving relationship turns sour as Shouto can’t reel himself back from his upbringing, from his programming.

He must always be in control, ready for all scenarios, poised and ready for an attack. Shouto needs to know what’s going on, at all times, and he dictates what will be going on, so he can better adapt for the situation. 

Words are said, subtle jabs and digs that feel heavy on his tongue, leave a bad taste in his mouth. But he’s insecure, afraid. What if you try to leave him? If you don’t think you’re good enough for that, maybe he can convince you to stay.

But Shouto would never truly hurt you.

The man wants to grow old with you, be as unflinching together as the sun and the moon, always in rhythm, always together. He shouts at you one day, after he finds you crying. You’d found the engagement ring he had been planning to propose with.

It’s a privilege to grow old with someone, to love them until the very end.

Don’t be so ungrateful.

He may shout now and then, or grab your wrist too tightly, squeeze your hand with more force than intended; use an implied threat of his quirk to keep you in line... But it’s all out of love.

If love is the driving force of our world, then it’s justified.

No, Shouto could never hurt you. That’s what he always says. He’s too soft when it comes to you, when it comes to the look in your eyes that always appears when you’ve done something wrong. You could break his heart, rip it out with icy fingers, and Shouto would still feel it beating for you, ecstatic at being held in your hand.

[fairydust-stuff]

Tape  Banana Ash & Yut Lung fan fiction

Warning this is a hurt comfort fic with implied Non con and Major character death though no more then the actual show. It also has one of the most fluffy dark endings, i've written.

“ Ah Mr Lee what a pleasant surprise,might i ask the reason for this call”

Ash, Eiji, Ibe and Max are huddled around taking advantage of the fact Ash bugged Golzine’s private phone while he was in the manor so now they could hear all of his calls. They heard a couple about Banana Fish but this one was interesting to say the least.

“ You know exactly why I'm calling…..” Yut Lung sounds on the verge of a breakdown. Ash would be lying if he wasn’t enjoying hearing him squirm.

“ I see you received my video then” Golzine says casually.

“ There’s no need for this…. sneakiness between allies” Yut Lung argues.

“ This of it as a lesson an elder educating a youngster on proper respect,” Golzine replies.

“ I apologize if my pursuing Ash without your leave offended you in any way” Yut Lung was all charm.

“ All is forgiven as long as you’ve learned to be a little less arrogant” Golzine promises.

“ I’ll try it appears i have much to learn,” Yut Lung says with forced humbleness.

“ I want complete use of your men, you don’t get involved unless I call for you. Also i want more frequent meetings between us” Golzine demands.

“ Of course and i presume this mishap will go away?” Yut Lung presses

“ Yut Lung you shouldn’t presume anything” there’s a cruel glee in Golzine’s tone.

The group disengages at the dial tone.

“ So Golzine has some kind of black mail material on him now, that’s karma” Max laughs.

Eiji is wearing that cute devilish grin of his.

“ Maybe he got caught embezzling funds from the foundation. Either way it may reveal some weakness we can exploit” Ash says

“Can you hack him?” Ibe asks

Ash smiles darkly “ Oh i can do better” he dials a number on his phone

“ Hello Sing, you wouldn’t happen to know Yut Lung’s password for his private account?”

“ Try Cao Zhi, he’s one of Yut Lung’s favorite poets,” Sing suggested. Ash did, nothing “ Anything else?” he asked

“ Song of Everlasting Sorrow?” Sing said with a shrug

“ Still nothing” Ash responds.

“ Despair and Courage” said Sing after a moment.

“ Bingo, thanks Sing!” Ash said

“ After what he did to my guys, i want to see that shit fall” Sing said.

Ash hangs up taking note of some stuff to check out later he finds the video and clicks on it.

Golzine and what appears to be Yut Lung ranting around his own dining room clearly drunk.

“ That’s the blackmail” Ash feels very disappointed

“ Given how arrogant that guy is it does make sense” Eiji says.

“ Maybe we can get a few laughs out of it” says Max, trying to look on the bright side.

“ Or at least something to annoy him next time he kidnaps me” Eiji brings up.

“ Woah a drunk little cat” one of Dino’s men cackles

“ Not a cat, i’m a snake” Yut Lung hisses at Dino, the group laughs.

“ Do you always consume this much wine?” Golzine asks pleasantly

“ i feel sad a lot” Yut Lung replies “ wine make it better,” he adds with a bitter laugh.

“ Why are you sad?” Golzine asks in a concerned tone

“ I don’t like Eiji, stupid, Eiji” he pouts.

“ Oh” Golzine says.

“ You stare a lot, your old enough to be my grandpa. Dad old enough to be mom’s grandpa” Yut Lung laughs again bitterly.

“ Your mother was young then” Golzine says

“ Where’s Sing?” He asked quietly

“ He abandoned you for Ash” Golzine says with false sympathy.

“ I liked Sing” Yut Lung says “ Why Sing leave me for Ash” he whispers.

“ Ash is better then you”Golzine says patiently then goes on a rant about Ash as his wonderful creation that makes Ash want to break the screen.

“ hate him for it” Yut Lung admits “ i kinda like him” he adds.

“ You like Ash?” Golzine asks

“ He doesn’t like me” Yut Lung says somberly he stumbles and Golzine catches him.

“ Easy there lets sit down” he leads a wobbly Yut Lung to the large sofa.

Where Blanca?” Yut Lung asks him

“ You dismissed him you were angry, he only wanted to help Ash” Golzine says.

“ I want Blanca” Yut Lung tries to leave the parlor and one of Golzine’s goons locks the doors. “ Let me ou….” One of Dino’s men covers his mouth and drags him back to the couch

“ Now, we were having fun. Here you like wine right” Dino pours him another glass. Ash suddenly feels a pit in his stomach suddenly remembering that Yut Lung is younger than him by at least two years. Why the hell did that never occur to him till now.

“ I don’t like you” Yut Lung insists but he takes another glass, his hands shake slightly.

“ So your a pretty liar then” Golzine says, taking one of his hands and rubbing it against his face. Yut Lung yanks it out of his grip.

Golzine looks at him amused “ I prefer you like this, you're usually so cold and aloft ” he says.

“ I wanna go” Yut Lung tries to get up but Golzine pushes him down.

“ Shhhhh” he undoes Yut Lungs hair, the camera zooms in it hits Ash one of Dino’s creeps is filming, this was planned.

“ No brothers dead no more” Yut Lungs tries to shove him off.

“ Your not strong like Ash just a trembling, broken mess” Golzine smiles viciously “ I saw through your little mask from the beginning” he pauses “ I was going to let you keep it, as long as you played nice but you had to be a brat”

“ Here hold the camera” says a cold voice Ash feels a chill run down his spine at the sound of the man from the gay bar. He’s wearing a mask but Ash knows that voice anywhere.

“ Get away from me! H…..” Yut Lung goes ballistic at the sight of him, Dino gags him.

“ Mr Golzine that makes it less fun” The man complains.

“His men are outside as long as he doesn’t call they won’t come.” Golzine says. “ Its the Lee way to only obey direct orders”

“ I’m afraid Mr Lee I'm the reason you're in this predicament, see Mr Golzine wanted to get back at you and as someone who’s observed his allies. I noticed your quite the alcoholic, I prompted him to take advantage of your vice” he purrs, touching the boys cheek. Yut Lung tries to bite him.

“ Incredible so much viciousness in something so delicate and soft to the touch” the man says.

“ He’s nothing compared to Ash Lynx” Golzine scoffs.

“ Still, I will enjoy him, why limit myself to one type of prey?” the man smiles savagely “ And after i’m done with him you’ll be aching for his tight little body”

“ True” Golzine laughs “ I love nothing more than a beautiful boy in distress”

Max slams his hand on the pause button looking furious. This knocks Ash out of horrified stupor enough to close the laptop completely.

No one says a dam word awkward silence fills the room. Ash should have suspected he knew Dino but Yut Lung had always seemed so icy and vicious, un touchable.

“ He’s like you” Cain and Sing had said. Maybe Ash had projected too much of his own unstoppable raging beast onto the other boy. Yut Lung had worn the mask well better then even Ash ever had. Everyone looked at each other waiting for someone to say something.

“ Its all my fault” Eiji gasps “ At the manor the night Shorter died, Dino had me and Yut Lung in his bed he was going to…….but then the phone rang” he tears up “ I was so confused he seemed so calm about it…..i didn’t understand”

“ Eiji its not your fault” Ibe insisted.

“ I didn’t want to understand!” Eiji says quietly.

“ Its mine, I knew he was like me,” Ash confessed. “ That’s why its so easy for me to hate him” the blond confesses.

“ No! It's no one's fault but the bastards who touched you! My god at least fifteen in Golzine’s bed. I don’t even want to think about how young he started doing that” Max exclaimed. Ash calls up Sing again “ Hey did you find anything” the boy asks

“ I want it gone, take your guys break into Golzine’s manor delete, smash every trace of that video” Ash orders.

“ Did that snake capture Eiji again?” Sing sighs.

“ No its just a really bad video Sing, one i would never use against an enemy” Ash insists.

“ That bad huh?” Sing replies. “ Ash did someone hurt Yut Lung?” he asked tightly

“ You sound almost concerned,” Ash says.

“ I know he hurt my guys but i just don’t like the thought of anyone harming him” Sing confessed. Ash flashed back to a drunken Yut Lung asking for Sing.

“ i think several people hurt him” Ash says after a moment

“ I think so too” Sing said sadly. “ I’ll get my guys on it” he added...

Ash cannot distract himself from waiting for the phone call confirming the mission was a success. He practically jumps to answer the phone when it rings “ Confirmed?” He asks quickly.

“ We ran into some trouble. Golzine increased his security since we last broke in, then Blanca showed up. He really saved our asses. Yut Lung sent him to do exactly what we were doing” Sing explained “ That guy is so cool!” the fourteen year old starts rambling about Blanca.

Of course Yut Lung wouldn’t just take his assault lying down like a good boy. He'd act sweet and submissive then use his resources to gain the upper hand. We really are quite similar.

“ Did you get everything?” Ash asks a bit impatiently

“ Yeah do you want the camera?” Sing asks seriously

“ Yes” Ash says after a moment. “ Sing do you know Yut Lung’s number?” he asked

Sing tells him and Ash dials.

“ Blanca is that you?” Yut Lung asks tentatively

“ Its Ash, I have your camera” Ash here’s a sharp exhale on the other end of the line.

“ At least your demands won’t be as heinous as Golzine’s” Yut Lung sounds more calm now. “ Banana fish? Me to leave Eiji alone? Use of my men? Helping you disappear?” he lists

“ A meeting” Ash says

“ Alright makes more sense to do it in person” Yut Lung responds casually. They set a time and a place…

“ Welcome Ash Lynx normally i’d greet you in the parlor but….” Yut Lung trails off.

“ You can't step foot in that room without flashbacks” Ash realizes as he stands in the dining room.

“ Please sit can i get you a drink or would you like to proceed?” Yut Lung asks

Ash hands him the camera Yut Lung gapes at him in silence. “ You’d give up your leverage for nothing” he says quietly.

“ When i was ten i had several of these videos. I’d have given anything for one person not to have put them up” Ash responds.

Yut Lung takes the camera and says “ Well at least this inconvenience is over with?” his tone is light.

“ What happened last night was not an inconvenience, it was rape and its happened to you and i multiple times” Ash states bluntly.

“ Stop ok, it was just something that happens in our world!” Yut Lung insists

“ That doesn’t make it right” Ash argues.

“ It was my fault, I shouldn't have gotten drunk around Papa Dino” Yut Lung says brokenly.

“ I ran away from home and accepted a ride from a stranger. We all make mistakes, sometimes those mistakes are costly. That doesn’t mean the bastards that hurt us aren’t the ones responsible” Ash argues.

“ I think this is the most we’ve said to each other” Yut Lung says thoughtfully.

Ash looks at him “ Want to smash the camera?” he asked

“ Together, for your ten year old self” Yut Lung responds.

“ Together, one, two three!” The two of them hurl the camera as hard as they can at the walls and proceed to stomp on it until the lens cracks and the frame breaks.

Then Ash’s phone rings “ Hello?” he asks

“ You little Lynx retrieving my camera like that” Golzine chuckles.

“ I’m not giving it to you bastard” Ash says calmly putting him on speaker.

“ No no hold on to your leverage just like I taught you. Do you want a piece of the action? I know how you like Asian boys” Dino continues.

“ Hello this is a piece of the action” Yut Lung says in his soft voice then he holds the phone up to the glass which he crushes under his foot.

“ You smashed up my camera you little whore!” Golzine growled

“ Considering your so hungry that you have to tie down young boys to get action. I’d say your the one who cannot go without” Ash taunts.

“ i hope you got something good out of it” Golzine grumbles.

“ I got nothing from it” Ash informs him.

“ But that’s not….”

“ Not what you’d do. You may have raised and fucked him up and i’ll admit some of your terrible teachings rubbed off on him, but Ash is not you. He’ll never be the kind of person who takes advantage of boys like me” Yut Lung said cooly.

Ash looked at him in surprise.

“ Looks like the kitten grew some claws” Golzine laughed “ You weren’t so gutsy last night, though you did make a lot of noise” he taunts.

“ So you molested me, so what? You and half of New York. I had claws long before then. If I didn't have claws I wouldn't have found a way to get through every abuse, you pathetic old perverts threw at me. I simply learned to sharpen the claws, i was born with” Yut Lung said boldly. Ash watched his face change into something darker

“ You have no claws, you're a sad old man chasing a teenage boy. He latched onto because, he was unable to deal with his own morality. You're not Ash’s greatest enemy, creator or father. You're just a pathetic little groupie obsessed with an idol. Since the Ash in your head doesn’t exist, the fact he chose to save me proves it”

“ I’ll kill you!” Golzine roars

“ Your not worthy of killing me” Yut Lung’s voice dripped with disdain, then he casually hung up on Golzine.

“ Did you just?” Ash was stunned

“ You’ve been feeding Dino’s ego this whole time with your campaign against him. I grew up with egoistic people , i’ve learned how their minds work” Yut Lung replied.

“ He still has to die” Ash pointed out.

“ I have an idea” Yut Lung said “ I need you to contact Blanca” he adds…

“ Rather rough Blanca” Yut Lung chides at the sight of a beaten Golzine hanging limply on the wall.

“ I failed to protect you just like i failed Ash” Blanca said remorsefully.

“ You helped me get the tape, you were there when it counted” Yut Lung put a hand on his arm.

“ Jeez Yue could you be more obvious!” Sing rolled his eyes

“ You're one to talk practically drooling in Ash’s wake” Yut Lung responded.

“ Sure you're not projecting?” Sing asks The two of them bicker until they're interrupted by Golzine’s groan.

“ Heeello!” Ash waves in a sarcastic cutesy way.

“ Ah so the creation destroys its creator and takes his place to build a great legacy” Golzine gloats.

“ Hi you piece of shit i’m Sing soo Ling” Sing says smacking his fists together

“ Doesn’t ring a bell” he said.

“ Shorter Wong was my cousin,” Sing said.

“ You mean that stupid street punk with the mowhawk” Golzine tastes his own blood. Sing gears up for another punch.

Yut Lung pulls Ash toward the door “ Come on Ash lets go get some ice cream” the blond looks at him as if he’s crazy but see’s the younger give him a trust me look. Then starts to follow him out.

“ What are you doing Ash? Your going to end me right?” Ash almost turns his head in Golzine's direction.

“ Keep walking” Yut Lung mutters Ash obeys him.

“ Ash isn’t going to be killing you, i am” Sing says, punching him again.

“ What i’m the great King Pin of New york, that’s all i get ended by some punk?” Golzine asks “ Ash, Ash?”

Ash continues to follow Yut Lung toward the door “ i overpowered you, i beat you down, i made you!” Golzine yells “ where are you going, you drunken slut?” he demands.

Yut Lung continues to lead Ash out “ You're not even going to watch, i’m your greatest enemy and you don’t even want to watch my demise?” Golzine asks

Yut Lung pauses“ Ash, i just remembered i have a hair appointment, we can do ice cream afterwards right?” he asked

“ Of course Yut Lung” Ash says then opens the door. “ Hair appointments, ice cream Ash Ash Ash Ash!” the blond slams the door shut.

“ I cann’t believe that worked” Ash says as a gunshot echoes from the other side of the door.

“ I told you, people with big ego’s hate being ignored” Yut Lung collapses against the door with relief, his face tight with tension, his body shaking.

“ You were really bothered by seeing him huh” Ash says.

“ I can still feel him all over” Yut Lung says “ I can even taste him” there’s a look of broken revulsion on his face. “ I couldn’t let him win through,” the younger boy insists.

“ You did good” Ash informs him.

“ He won’t be the last, there're so many bastards in our world and i’m trapped here with them. I tried to become like you, fierce, ruthless to never look back or hesitate. No matter what i still end up helpless at the mercy of some bigger beast” Yut Lung confesses.

“ Is that why you want me to kill you?” Ash asked him

“ You have a chance at freedom, that's why I hate you!” Yut Lung confesses tears drip down his cheek. “ You have the power to live freely, no matter what. My blood is always going to tie me to this Family. The only way i’m leaving this life is in a box”

Ash turns to him “ You can be the youngest mafia boss to retire in history. In exchange you stop tormenting Eiji and everyone” the blond stresses.

“ But how would i live? As much as i hate it, i’m codependent on my family’s wealth” Yut Lung admits.

" Leave that to me" Ash promises...

" i cann't believe i'm taking Yut Lung Lee to Japan?" Eiji sighs

" He'll blend in better then i would" Ash points out. " Lots of Chinese people live in Japan its not that unsual"

" He hates me and i'm not exactly fond of him either" Eiji points out.

" Too bad because i was thinking of adopting him" Ash says

Eiji stares at him in horror " don't even joke about that" he shutters.

" You get to boss him around big brother Eiji" Ash says.

" Since when did i agree to that?" Yut Lung scowls clutching his luggage a very small portion of the things he owned. He'd have to get used to the simple life, Eiji told him cheerfully.

" You go to Japan your under Eiji's care, so you have to obey him and Ibe" Ash says.

" What if they do something stupid like make friends with the Yakuza?" Yut Lung asks

" If that happens you are in change until i get there" Ash agrees after a long pause.

" Thank you Ash, for everything" Yut Lung tells him sincerely before stepping onto the train that will take them to the air port.

" I have to sort out some things here, then i'll join you two" Ash promises. He stands there and waves good bye to both of them.

" Don't be too long, i may start experimenting with putting certain herbs in Eiji Chan's tea" Yut Lung yells out the window!

" i heard that you little shit!" Eiji yells back

Ash laughs then turns and walks back to his concrete playground his phone rings " Hey honey just finishing up skinning a Foxx" the man says cheerfully.

 " Good " Ash hisses.

 " Need anything else while i'm in town?" Blanca asked him

 " i need your help with persuading a certain Chinese crime organization to let the head of the Lee family retire early, without a bullet to the head, got any ideas?" Ash asks him

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tear Into Your Soul - Early Years - ao3 link

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Hashirama/Tobirama

Hashirama is a miracle.

Tobirama knows that to be true, because everyone says so. The first member of their clan in living memory to inherit that terrifying ancestral power, the Mokuton, the promise inherent within Senju blood fulfilled at long last - and just in time. Hashirama is a blessing sent from their ancestors, here to save them from the scourge of their enemies: the dreadful Uchiha, of course, among many other rival clans, but also, just as importantly, the ever-present threat of famine as the farms around them burn from the ever-present war and the darkened sky dooms their prayers that rice and wheat be abundant.

(The wind smells of ash, and people blame the fire-souled Uchiha for their losses. Children lost is one thing, but land is a Senju's soul, as sacred and untouchable as an Uchiha's eyes, and people go mad when nothing comes from the earth. Tobirama, as alone among his clan in his preference for water as he is in all other things, thinks of distant volcanos that erupt far more often beneath the sea than above the land, and looks to the cloudy sky with the thought that the land is not the only thing that plants need to grow.)

But those sorrows can no longer touch the Senju.

All of these evils are defeated, victory anticipated, and all because they have Hashirama now. Hashirama, who can fix it all for them, or at least let them look forward to a future filled with lush crops drenched in the blood of their enemies.

That's why they so revere him. Hashirama brings them hope where before they had none.

So it's okay, really, if he's sometimes a little – odd.

Who cares if sometimes he skips training in favor of wandering the forest, speaking to the trees as if he thinks they're speaking back?

Who cares if he laughs like a child, the wonderful seductive warmth of his smile never fading even when looking at a battlefield filled with death and despair?

Who cares if each spring drives him mad with unspoken rage, rendering him black-eyed and vicious, snarling and inarticulate and dangerous?

It doesn't matter.

Hashirama is their sign of victory ascendant, the one who will save them, and they love him without reservation.

Tobirama is no different from the rest of them in loving Hashirama.

Even if sometimes, he wonders -

But no.

He's read all the ancient scrolls his clan keeps safe, the ones describing their clan's extremely rare kekkai genkai, and they all hint that the Mokuton is a dangerous blessing to have: that those who wield it eventually become consumed by it, that they will find a way - any way - to achieve their victory. Tobirama doesn't entirely understand why the scrolls all act as though it's a bad thing that great victory is always within the reach of the Mokuton, why they warn so many times that only the master of the Mokuton alone decides what constitutes such victory - why they repeatedly point out that the master of the forest will be a little too closely connected to their domain to be entirely understood even by their closest kin.

The morality of plants is not that of human beings.

So Hashirama being a bit odd makes sense, really, if you look at it that way. If he cites the Mokuton’s influence as the reason for his strange behaviors, it's only reasonable to believe him.

Besides, if Tobirama were to admit the truth, if only to himself, he would have to admit that he doesn't mind Hashirama's behavior as much as he probably should, for the sake of his clan.

Hashirama might be odd, yes, but in his oddness he loves Tobirama, and in that respect he's practically unique.

If Hashirama is his clan's miracle, Tobirama knows that he himself is its curse. What else could explain his clan's disdain? They turn away from him, ignoring him even though he is their leader's son. They play tricks on him, taking advantage of his serious nature and difficulty understanding nuance to mock him. They whisper about his eyes even when he's not looking at them - he never liked looking people in the eye, so it was easy enough to obey his father's order not to, but that just started more whispers about how easily it came to him, whispers offered up as just more evidence of how unnatural he is. They laugh at him when he moves his arms in the strange way that made him feel better, and with his father's permission made a game of dislocating his arms whenever they saw him do it - though at least Hashirama put a violent stop to that as soon as he figured out what they were doing.

Hashirama loves Tobirama when no one else does; surely, that must be something drawn from the Mokuton, too, and so Tobirama is very careful not to question any of his brother's strangeness.

(One of Tobirama’s great sorrows is that he can’t ever bring himself to wish that Hashirama did not love him: it is all he has, all he clings to, and for all that it hurts him in his soul when their father punishes him as a means to hurt the otherwise untouchable Hashirama, causing Hashirama to grind his teeth and bite his tongue to bleeding with rage, he can’t help but be secretly relieved by it, too, though he knows that if he was truly righteous he would have wished that Hashirama remained untouched by his brother's troubles. This is how Tobirama knows he must be a curse: his own father treats his very existence as little more than a goad used to control Hashirama, and Tobirama guiltily lets him do it because Hashirama’s love is the only thing he has that he can’t bear to lose. He’s a bad brother, Tobirama is, and he knows it, and if he spends the rest of his life trying to make up for the pain he has caused his brother just by suffering in front of him then it will still not be enough to assuage his guilt.)

Besides, it's not like Hashirama’s strangeness is all that bad, really.

It's not really that bad to be ordered to share his brother's bed following that disaster on the river with the Uchiha and Hashirama's secret friend (you should have caught them earlier, his father bellows at Tobirama, and the rest of his clan agree; what use is it being a sensor if you let such things happen? he demands, and Tobirama doesn't know how to tell him that he knew all along but disregarded it because it made his brother happy so in the end he just doesn't say anything at all). The lack of privacy is a little irritating, yes, especially just as he was getting used to having his own space, but knowing that Hashirama loves him so much, fears losing him so much, that he wants him within arms' reach in the dark hours of the night has its own sort of joy.

It's not really that bad when Hashirama decides to take over the role of disciplining Tobirama, either. Oh, he doesn't like being bound and forced to sit helpless at his brother's side, but it's better than the discipline he sees lurking in his father's glare, the way he still sometimes hurts Tobirama as a way to punish Hashirama, and anyway Hashirama's punishments are so much less severe as to be practically laughable. Besides, Hashirama only does it because he loves him so much and worries about him, he says so, and it makes Tobirama so warm to know he is loved that he can almost forget the embarrassment of having his hands and legs tied together with rope, kneeling by his brother's side and being fed like a dog begging for scraps by the side of the dinner table.

It's not even really that bad in the spring, the terrible spring, where all of nature roars to life with a vengeance and Hashirama with it. The thick smell of pollen that fills the air of their compound is inescapable; where it makes some people sneeze and others look to their wives and husbands with anticipatory smiles, it drives Hashirama mad with the urge to possess and destroy and claim things for his own.

Really, Tobirama is proud that Hashirama picks him to accompany him to his solitude each spring, even if he sometimes wishes he could have some warning before it happens rather than Hashirama simply appearing beside him and grabbing him, eyes wild and face twisted into a grimace, and carts him off over his shoulder as he heads into the forest in his yearly isolation meant to save his clan from himself.

Yes, maybe it's a little bit boring, sitting trapped inside that little well-warded shack, alone for days on end, unable to leave and with no food or water but what Hashirama lets him have from his hand, locked away with no access to anyone but his brother who spends most days out in the forest that grows in frightening new ways. But Tobirama can adapt to that, too; he's been teaching himself sealing and how new jutsus are made. It's a good skill to be able to entertain oneself, after all, a valuable thing to learn before he starts heading out regularly on solo missions – and if maybe he clings a bit more to Hashirama those nights than on others, pressing his body into his brother’s just to feel someone’s touch against his skin and greedily drinking up his brother’s words because it’s better than the dreadful silence...well, it’s just that there’s a difference between solitude and loneliness and sometimes those long days spent alone feel like the latter.

Besides, it's not like anyone in their clan would pick him to spend their springtime festival with, anyway, so it's not like he's really missing anything.

Nobody would want him.

(It’s not that Tobirama doesn’t know that Hashirama chases away anyone who lingers too long, his brother's mind still full of the nightmares of Tobirama's unhappy childhood filled with pranks, but it’s fine, it’s really fine. Nobody wants him anyway, not really, and besides Tobirama doesn’t even really want a lover, not someone who just wants to use him and hurt him and count him as a victory to be won, the way Hashirama murmurs warnings about sometimes in the dark. He’s alone and he’s a curse and his brother’s love is the only thing he has and the one thing he cannot bear to lose, not for anything, and that means he appreciates his brother's protective love, he does, he really does, even if he does sometimes find himself longing for the touch of a friendly hand on his skin, however brief. But even there he can't really complain, because when he shyly told Hashirama about those strange longings – dreams of arms around him and kisses pressed against his lips – his brother only laughed and began to hug him more often, long lingering hugs that were only strange at first and quickly became like a soothing balm after a burn. Which just goes to show that Hashirama is right, of course; anything Tobirama wants, his loving brother can provide, and Tobirama shouldn't question that fact.)

So, really, it’s – fine.

If it got a little less fine and more embarrassing when Hashirama seemed to rather belatedly discover the joys his hands could bring him, well, whatever, Tobirama’s gotten very good at politely ignoring it, even if as time goes by he can’t help but sneak a few sidelong peeks out of curiosity. Hashirama likes to loll onto back when he touches himself, spread himself out without the blanket covering him, body relaxed and open and his cock hard in his hand as he strokes himself, and Tobirama just tries to keep very still and very quiet so Hashirama won’t be embarrassed to remember that he’s there.

(Hashirama’s not a virgin, not the way Tobirama is. On the elders’ advice, their father took Hashirama to a whorehouse for his first time, a seal painted on his back to prevent pregnancy, and took Tobirama along as well to guard his door from any shinobi that might try to take advantage of a vulnerable moment. It’d been spring, and Butsuma had presumably thought that Hashirama might get the rage out of his system through sex, but all that ended up happening was that the whores eventually gave up out of sheer exhaustion – yes, all of them – and Hashirama’d come back out, barely even winded, to grab a horribly blushing Tobirama and head to the outpost as usual. The elders hadn’t bothered to try it again next year.)

That much, at least, is normal, or at least so he thinks. His sensei hadn’t exactly been very clear about it all – it’s the father’s job to explain sex, really, but Tobirama’s father is far too busy for such things and so his sensei had stuttered his way through a short explanation of the mechanics of sexual interaction once he’d realized Tobirama was old enough to understand it. Regardless of the lack of clarity, he’d definitely explained that masturbation is normal and healthy, as long as it’s done in private.

And, well, Hashirama’s insistence that Tobirama share his bed means that they share a private space, so where else would Hashirama do it? It makes perfect sense.

Hashirama’s always been less shy than Tobirama in that respect. In every respect, really.

“Tell me about the twins,” Hashirama asks one day, lounging in their room, his head on Tobirama’s lap the way he likes to when they’re alone. Tobirama’s practicing his iryo jutsu, his fingers glowing green by Hashirama’s temples, but no matter how much he tries he can’t seem to fix or even find the damage his diagnostic jutsu always insists is there.

“The twins?”

“Mm. Masako and Mariko. Have they settled on anyone yet? You know what I mean.”

“Oh. Uh, Masako’s chakra spikes whenever Nara Youta comes to visit, and he always visits the twins’ shop every time he does, so I think it might be mutual. That’s good, right? It’d be a good alliance.”

“Hmm. Only if we actually establish an alliance, though – the Nara are fairly firm in their neutrality at the moment. What would be the point if Masako just goes off to the Nara compound? Mariko would be heartbroken, assuming she doesn’t also marry a Nara.”

“No, she likes Itsuki.”

“Hm. No, that won’t do.”

“What’s wrong with Itsuki? He’s a Senju.”

“Yes, exactly; there’s no benefit in it. He’s stable, dependable, loyal...excellent alliance material. Wasted on Mariko.”

“But she likes him.”

“So? Easy enough to fix, once we figure out whether an argument or isolation would work better to kill the affection. Very easy to kill such things, as long as you catch them early enough. Hmm. Can you think of any other Nara that might work for her? We could keep one twin with us, send one to the Nara – that way we keep a Nara here, for security, and bind the one there to us as well. The twins will remain devoted to each other no matter what the distance.”

“I suppose so,” Tobirama says doubtfully. He doesn’t know anything about romance, though he supposes he does know something about being devoted to family. “You won’t ever send me away, will you?”

“Of course not. You’re the heir; obviously you can’t leave home.”

Hashirama talked like that sometimes, as if their father was dead and gone and he was already clan head. It makes Tobirama worry, sometimes, but Hashirama made it very clear after that day on the riverbank that Tobirama had to choose between his father and his brother and stick to whatever choice he made, no going back, and of course Tobirama had picked Hashirama and that, he supposes, is that.

He’s pretty sure Hashirama’s only waiting until he comes of age to make certain the elders won’t be able to try to install some sort of interim head on a technicality.

(If that makes a frisson of fear run up Tobirama's back and turns his stomach, then it’s just because he’s being foolish: he picked Hashirama, has to stick with it, and if it makes him queasy to be silently complicit in his father’s premediated death, well, that’s just the price you pay for the choices you make.)

“What about after that, though?” Tobirama presses. He doesn’t let Hashirama get away with everything – okay, he lets him get away with just about everything, but not clan business, administration and that sort of thing; Hashirama hates paperwork, so he leaves it in Tobirama’s hands – and this is important to him. “I don’t mind you marrying me off, if you have to, but I don’t want to go, even once you have – once you have another heir.”

To be perfectly honest, Tobirama’s a little terrified of that day, when it comes. Hashirama’s marriage to an Uzumaki is already a signed deal, though he’s yet to meet his bride – she, of course, will come to live with them, as is only right for the Senju's future clan head – and Tobirama is secretly convinced that either she or the nameless children she will bear for his brother will be the thing that finally steals his brother’s attention and love away from him, leaving him all alone in the world.

“‘Don’t mind’? ‘If I have to’?” Hashirama asks, tilting his head back to look up at him. “Don’t you want to get married, Tobirama?”

Tobirama shakes his head. “I don’t want to leave you, not ever,” he says honestly, and wonders a little at the flash of triumph in Hashirama’s eyes, as though that’s the response his brother had wanted to hear from him, even though Tobirama knows perfectly well that as the spare he’s meant to be used to form alliances.

Just another piece for his brother to play for the advantage of their clan.

“There are all sorts of advantages to being married, though,” Hashirama says, almost managing to be casual with it. “Someone nice to cuddle up with...don’t you want those?”

“They’re not important,” Tobirama says firmly. He can’t even really imagine being curled up in bed with some nameless figure, a woman he does not yet know and might not even have yet met: he’s been sleeping in Hashirama’s bed for so long that any time he thinks of the future he can’t really imagine anything different. “Anything I really need, I can get from you, anija.”

That’s what Hashirama’s always telling him, after all.

Hashirama smiles, relaxing, and there’s something of the terrible spring lurking in the depths of that smile. “That’s right, Tobirama. Absolutely right. So don’t you worry, little brother; I won’t send you away, I promise. You’ll stay with me and I’ll take good care of you, just the way I always have.”

Tobirama smiles and nods, and thinks it’s settled.

And it is, he supposes, except that later that day, in the late lazy afternoon that they have all free to themselves for once, he wakes up from a pleasant doze to find Hashirama touching himself again and looking unusually thoughtful about it.

Tobirama closes his eyes again, intending to go back to sleep, except then Hashirama’s shaking his shoulder.

“What is it, anija?” he asks, keeping his eyes shut. He’s comfortable; whatever stupid idea his brother has – probably involving running errands for him, maybe for some more for the oil he likes to use on himself – can wait until he’s woken up all the way. Or, maybe, Hashirama could even go get the damn thing for himself for once.

“I’m worried, Tobirama.”

That gets Tobirama’s attention. “Worried?” he asks, opening his eyes and twisting to look at Hashirama. “About what?”

Hashirama looks at him with big soulful eyes. “I don’t want you to leave me, either,” he says. “But I’m worried that one day you will.”

“Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it?” Tobirama asks, puzzled. “You’re the clan head; you decide all the marriages.”

“Not all of them,” Hashirama says. “Not the love matches.”

Tobirama snorts. For one thing, he had just been helping Hashirama earlier that day to make sure the supposed ‘love matches’ tended in the right direction for the clan’s interests; for another, he highly doubted anyone would ever fall in love with him, rendering the problem moot. Tobirama doesn’t love where he’s not loved, not unconditionally; how else could he agree to let his father die? “I don’t think that’s going to be an issue, anija.”

“No, no,” Hashirama says. “But still...do you touch yourself, Tobirama?”

Tobirama flushes bright red.

“You don’t, do you,” Hashirama concludes, sighing and shaking his head. “Tobirama, that’s not good; you should. It’s normal for boys your age.”

“I have,” Tobirama protests weakly. “I – once in a while – when I’m on mission, I guess…”

“Wet dreams don’t count.”

Tobirama winces. Most of his experiences do probably fall into that category: restless feverish sleep, dreams of sensations of all sorts, followed by waking up rubbing off into the bedroll or a pillow or (a few hideously embarrassing and never-mentioned times) his brother’s leg. And that’s just when he doesn’t wake up having already come while asleep.

He knows he should do it more often, yes, but Hashirama’s always there, sharing a bed and a bath, and Tobirama just gets so flustered and embarrassed – and besides, he hates the idea of somehow doing it wrong, especially where Hashirama might see.

(He does sometimes mimic what Hashirama does, but with Hashirama around every corner and all the work he has to do, it’s easier to just – not. And then, of course, the dreams come…)

“You just don’t know how to do it properly,” Hashirama decides, because he knows Tobirama better than anyone else. “I’ll show you.”

Tobirama somehow hadn’t been expecting that. “Anija, don’t be ridiculous. We’re brothers.”

“So what? Doesn’t that just mean that it’s my job to show you things you need to know?”

Tobirama hesitates. Usually, yes, that’s the case, but…

“Isn’t sex – different?” he asks. He swears he’s read or seen something somewhere that said that siblings don’t want to know about each other’s sex lives – though he supposes those must be ones that don’t share a bed.

Hashirama shrugs. “Maybe for some people,” he says airily. “I certainly don’t mind – plants, you know, are all related anyway.”

Huh. That’s a good point. Still, surely...

“Besides, Tobirama, this is important! I won’t have you running off into some stupid ill-thought-out marriage just because you don’t know how to take care of your own sexual urges.”

Tobirama worries at his lower lip, distracted from his former thoughts by his horror at the concept. “Anija! I wouldn’t.”

“You might,” Hashirama says. “You’re a teenager, Tobirama, and I know you’ve been having those dreams nearly every night –”

That’s an exaggeration, surely? Tobirama usually only manages to furtively sneak away for some time to himself once every few weeks, but on the other hand he’s not always aware of the dreams...

“ – and eventually the frustration might get to you, and then where would I be? All alone, and you with someone else that doesn’t deserve you.”

Someone else who would abandon him at the first instance, no doubt, and Hashirama would never forgive him for such a betrayal, and then Tobirama would have nothing.

“Besides, you said yourself that I can provide you with everything you need,” Hashirama says, practical as always. “This is just more of that: a lesson on being independent.”

That’s how Hashirama had phrased teaching Tobirama to cook and clean, too, but Tobirama’s pretty sure that was only because Hashirama didn’t want to be bothered doing those chores himself.

Still, knowing how to cook and clean is pretty useful. And Tobirama really doesn’t want to be married off, not to a stranger, and there’s always the chance that if he says no Hashirama will decide to arrange a marriage for him just because he’d decided that Tobirama needed to be taken care of sexually. That would be just awful, but it’d be just like Hashirama – always trying to take care of him.

If Tobirama could prove to Hashirama that he didn’t need anyone taking care of him, that he could take care of it for himself...yes, that would be a good argument against any future marriage plans, wouldn’t it? If Hashirama worried about him not being happy, he’d be able to turn the tables on him, say that he’s doing just as he was taught and that he’s content that way.

And that way, he could stay by Hashirama’s side and continue to take care of him and be loved by him, forever.

“Okay,” he says. “But I really do think I know how to do – that. I mean, I’ve seen...pictures.”

Mostly he’s seen Hashirama, half-caught glimpses, but there definitely was one picture book that was being passed around the other boys his age that one time, where he saw a few pages before someone stole it away.

“Do you really? Show me.”

Tobirama turns red. Somehow he hadn’t thought about that part of – lessons. Hashirama would see.

(Hashirama might tease.)

“I promise to be nice,” Hashirama says.

“You’re never nice,” Tobirama grumbles. He’s pouting and he knows it, but he’s not sure how else to react.

“I could be nice,” Hashirama says virtuously. “I mean, if I really wanted to?”

“To me?”

Hashirama cracks a grin. “You’re my brother! It’s my right and solemn duty to tease you till you blush.”

“It is not.”

It probably is.

“You’re stalling,” Hashirama observes. “Does that mean you’re scared?”

Tobirama can feel his ears turning red, because, well, he is stalling, and good shinobi don’t put off things just because they’re scared (or embarrassed, which is more accurate). So he ducks his head down and pushes down his pants.

“Awww, you’re so cute,” Hashirama coos.

Now Tobirama’s whole face turns bright red. They bathe together on a regular basis; Hashirama is just being obnoxious. “Anija, do you want me to do this or not?”

“You’ll learn to like the teasing,” his brother says dismissively, with the air of someone who knows things for certain. “Now, show me what you do. Or would you like me to show you?”

If it’s a choice between being laughed at for doing it wrong or being thought overly cautious by asking for the demonstration, it’s an easy decision. “You show me.”

Hashirama’s eyes sparkle and he beams, and Tobirama is pleased by the signs that he’s made the right decision. “Okay. Come over here, then, and sit in my lap, facing away; I’ll do for you what I do for me.”

Tobirama obeys, settling between Hashirama’s legs.

Then he just barely manages to stifle a gasp, because the feeling of Hashirama’s hand on his cock is nothing like his own.

Clearly he has, in fact, been doing this wrong.

And then Hashirama has to ruin it by talking. “Let me walk you through this,” he says brightly, using his teacher voice, and oh, Tobirama’s never going to be able to let his brother teach him anything ever again without thinking about this moment in the sun, warm and hot and filled with unexpected pleasure. “Now, generally I like to start with a nice long stroke –”

He demonstrates a few times.

Tobirama spills in under ten seconds.

“Tobirama, really,” Hashirama scolds, though he mostly sounds amused. He was probably expecting this. “How am I supposed to teach you if you can’t control yourself a little better?”

“Sorry, anija,” Tobirama says, mortified. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, it’s all right, I suppose. We’ll just have to keep going.”

“Keep going?” Tobirama asks, frowning. “But...”

“It’s okay,” Hashirama says, and there’s a smirk in his voice. “You’re young. I’m sure you can keep up.”

Tobirama cannot, in fact, keep up. The initial lesson takes thirty minutes, just going slowly through different types of strokes and speeds and interesting things you can do with your thumb or your fingers, and Tobirama has already come more times than he’s thought possible.

It’s amazing.

It’s also starting to get painful.

“Anija,” he whimpers. “Anija, please, I can’t, no more, please –”

“You’re getting hard again,” Hashirama observes gleefully. “I don’t think your body agrees with you.”

“Anija, it hurts.”

“Yes, but it feels good, too, doesn’t it?”

“Anija!”

“Oh, all right. One more time and we can move on to part two.”

Tobirama is about to start shouting – part two? Part two?! How many parts are there?! – but then Hashirama does that thing with his hand that they’ve discovered will get Tobirama to come even if he’s trying not to (Hashirama tried it a few times just to check) and he’s biting his hand to try to keep from screaming as his vision goes temporarily white and his body shudders into yet another orgasm.

“A break,” he begs once he comes down. “Just a break, anija, please!”

“Never thought you’d be begging to get out of training,” Hashirama laughs. “But that’s all right; you can have a break. Time for a test.”

Tobirama blinks owlishly at him.

“I want to see if you’ve learned what I’ve taught you,” Hashirama clarifies.

“But you said I could have a break!”

Hashirama snorts. “Oh, yes, well, fine. You can show me on me, then.”

It’s not as if Tobirama wasn’t aware that Hashirama was hard behind him, and had been since the minute he’d sat there – probably before, since Hashirama’s own masturbation session had been interrupted for this lesson – but it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d be asked to touch him.

“If you’d prefer not to, we could always test it on you –”

“No, no, you’ll do just fine!” Tobirama says quickly, his voice nearly squeaking in a manner very unlike himself. He doesn’t want to touch himself for as long as Hashirama will let him – not everyone has super-quick healing the way Hashirama does, which sometimes he thinks his brother forgets. He’s so sore. “I’ll practice on you!”

Hashirama leans back as Tobirama scrambles to turn himself around. “If you do well, I’ll heal you up after,” he offers.

Tobirama nods – it’s good to have a reward to work towards, a fundamental precept of education – and sets about replicating what he’s learned.

Irritatingly enough, it turns out that Hashirama likes an entirely different set of moves than the ones Tobirama had liked best, and while Hashirama assures him that just demonstrating that he knows how to do something is sufficient, Tobirama’s competitive streak is now up and running. Maybe he won’t be able to get Hashirama to come quite as many times as he did, but he can’t really call himself accomplished if he can’t get Hashirama to come at least a few times.

He explains as much to Hashirama, who nods solemnly. “I understand your motives, and I promise you’ll be able to do it again another time, but right now you only get a few rounds before we’re moving on to part two, you understand?”

Tobirama sighs. There’s no stopping Hashirama when he’s got something fixed in his head – see: peace with the Uchiha – so he might as well just give in now.

Besides, this is kind of fun. He tries to keep the fact that it makes him hard hidden, leaning further forward and ducking his head down, but he’s pretty sure Hashirama can still tell.

“Okay, anija. I’ll do whatever you say,” he says, and then yelps when Hashirama unexpectedly jerks in his hands, and, oh, no wonder Hashirama had him sit facing away from him – given the way Tobirama had been kneeling and leaning over Hashirama, it’s gotten all over Tobirama’s hands and shirt. A little even got on his chin, which is pretty impressive.

“Take off your shirt,” Hashirama suggests. He’s panting a little. “That way you won’t get it any more dirty.”

Tobirama obeys, and goes back to work. He thinks about asking for a different position, but he can’t imagine his big brother sitting in his lap – and anyway, it wouldn’t work, given that Hashirama is taller. He wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing.

Anyway, Hashirama promises to warn him next time, which he does, even though he does end up splattering all over Tobirama’s chest anyway.

“That’s good,” he says, looking very pleased. “Well done, Tobirama.”

Tobirama flushes again, this time with pleasure. He loves making his brother happy.

(Hearing it makes his cock twitch, a little, but that’s only reasonable, given what they’re doing.)

“Now, part two.”

It would disappoint Hashirama if Tobirama tried to refuse, so he doesn’t, crawling back into Hashirama’s arms and sighing with relief when the glowing green light makes the soreness disappear as if it’s never been.

It appears that part two is a more elaborate version of part one, involving other body parts.

Hashirama spends what must be a near quarter-hour just on his chest and nipples alone, showing him how they can be stroked gently or pinched harshly, until Tobirama is thrashing and begging for a touch to his cock, too, because it’s feeling very left out right now.

“You do it,” Hashirama says mercilessly, and Tobirama does, though he does think grumpily to himself that it’s not quite as good as when Hashirama does it.

It also turns out that he likes having nails lightly raked down his inner thighs, though it doesn’t do as much for him when he does it himself, and Hashirama amuses himself for a good long while sucking bruises into Tobirama’s neck and collarbone even though Tobirama protests that he wouldn’t be able to do it to himself.

“That’s what clones are for,” Hashirama says, and Tobirama does not want to think about that. He’s already overwhelmed: the thought of even more – no way.

Hashirama’s also just as demanding in round two as he was in round one, and Tobirama’s left begging for mercy even as he obediently keeps tugging at his cock because he’s come too much already: even naked, he’s positively filthy, his own come dripping on his belly and chest and thighs.

“Just a little more,” Hashirama says coaxingly, and Tobirama entirely loses track of time after that – he remembers that Hashirama spent a lot of time putting fingers inside of him and letting him pleasure himself on them, moving up and down in a way that worked really well and felt great, and then made him do the same thing for himself (not as good as Hashirama, which is starting to become a trend), and that there were other things he couldn’t even remember because it was just so, so much.

Every time he thinks he’s flagging, that he can’t go any further, Hashirama heals him again and put him back to work.

(Why had he thought learning things from his brother was a good idea? Natural prodigies never understand how much more difficult things can be for everyone else!)

At least Hashirama will sometimes agree to let Tobirama pleasure him instead, if Tobirama begs very nicely for the privilege. It’s entirely worth it to beg if it gets him some relief.

By the time they get to part four (five? six? he’s lost count), which involves the application of toys, Tobirama has already decided that he regrets all of his life choices and this one especially.

It’s been hours.

He’s going to die.

He can’t even talk anymore, trying to convey his pleas for mercy in his eyes.

“You’ve been doing so good,” Hashirama says, putting his hand on the back of Tobirama’s neck the way he does sometimes when he’s feeling particularly proud. “You’re such a good boy, Tobirama, doing what I’m asking of you even when it hurts; I love you so much.”

Tobirama can’t help but preen a little at that. His brother loves him.

So what if the way he choose to express that love is different from other brothers?

“I bet you’re getting a little tired now, aren’t you?”

Tobirama nods furiously.

“Well, all right. But I don’t want to leave you with any gaps in your education –”

Tobirama’s a completionist at heart, so he doesn’t like the idea either; the gaps will gnaw on his mind and disturb his sleep in the future as he gets curious as to what was left out.

But right now, he’ll take it.

“– so how about we do this: you agree to use some of these toys every time you practice touching yourself for the next few months or so, until you’ve trained yourself to like having something inside of you when you come, and in return we can stop the lesson now. How about that?”

Hashirama is the best brother, taking pity on him like that, and Tobirama expresses his relief by throwing his arms around him for a (rather uncharacteristic) hug.

Hashirama laughs and hugs him back. “It’s gotten late,” he observes, nodding out the window. “Come, let’s wash up and go to sleep.”

Tobirama can’t really walk right now, so Hashirama ends up lifting him up, arm under his neck and another under his legs like he’s an infant, to take him into the bath, and then gently washing him clean before quickly bathing himself.

The water, Tobirama’s element, is wonderfully soothing, and Hashirama’s iryo jutsu is, too. By the time they make it back to bed, Hashirama curling himself up around Tobirama like a many-armed monkey clutching onto a beloved tree the way he always does, Tobirama’s already more than halfway asleep, and he drifts off quite happily, already planning on sleeping in as late as he can allow himself the next morning.

But water is his element.

It’s almost entirely dark when he wakes up, the light of the moon barely enough to let him make out dull, rough shapes in the dark, and he can taste something wrong with the water.

Salt.

Tobirama visited the ocean once, as a child. It’s far too long a journey to make without good reason, particularly with the Uchiha lands sitting firmly in between them and the closer of the coasts, but Hashirama had insisted on it for Tobirama’s fifth birthday – it’d been right after he’d crawled back home after a courier mission gone horribly wrong, the Uchiha child-killing bands out to avenge the death of their clan head’s eldest son, and they’d carved a mark of shame into his shoulder that to this day served as a constant, terrible reminder of the dishonorable means he’d used to escape, targeting their eyes like a bandit, and no matter that it was an accident.

(He remembers that time all too well.

He’d been so desperate: they’d been having fun with him, kicking him back and forth, stepping on his hands, forcing his face into the dirt. It’d been funny to them, that the Senju had whelped such a runt as he, all pale-faced and red-eyed – like a rat, they’d laughed, like a corpse, diseased and hideous, and they’d made jokes about who his true parentage must have been for him to turn out like that.

He’d remembered the only suiton lesson he’d ever had: water-summoning, the most basic of the basic, and he knew it wouldn’t do any good against a whole band of adult Uchiha child-killers, but he couldn’t let himself die. Not at age four, not on a stupid courier mission that was supposed to be a nice and easy run to get him used to going out all on his own.

There wasn’t any water around to summon, though, but he’d remembered what his teacher, a passing Uzumaki come for a brief visit, had told him – there’s an ocean in every one of us, he’d said, no matter where we go, no matter what, we carry the salt of the ocean in our blood – and there was plenty of blood, all over Tobirama’s chest and from his nose, and he’d gotten it smeared on the Uchiha’s clothing so he’d thought that maybe it would be enough.

But when he called the water to come to him, not focusing just calling for any water, any water at all, it hadn’t come from the blood on their clothing: it had burst out of their eyes in a shower of viscera so vile that the memory still sometimes wakes him up in the middle of the night and sends him to scrub off his skin as if the stain of it had never left him. They’d been moaning, blinded, in pain, and he’d crawled away, one of his legs twisted the wrong way round from one of their kicks and his ribs feeling like they’d splintered in his chest. They tried to give chase, of course, even unseeing as they now were, but they couldn’t track him without their eyes and he’d gotten away. That’d been what he’d wanted, yes, but the shame of it still burned.

It’d been the middle of winter, he remembers, and Hashirama had been the one to find him: he’d made it most of the way home before the pain and the terror and the exhaustion had overcome him, so he’d ended up crawling into a hollow at the base of a birch tree in a vain attempt to hide his too-pale hair against the ghostly white bark.

His lips had been nearly blue when he’d been found, the trees sleepily calling out Hashirama’s name until he responded despite all the warnings he’d been given not to listen to them too much; Tobirama’s armor had been stolen and his clothing ripped all to shreds, first by the Uchiha’s knives as they laughingly cut stripes into his flesh to watch him thrash as he tried to escape and then by their reaching grasping fingers as they lashed out blindly in agony with what was left of their prized dojutsu streaming down their cheeks in a stream of gore, so he’d had no defense as the cold earth leeched away his warmth.

Hashirama had scooped him into his arms and run home, his face gone nearly as pale as Tobirama’s skin; he’d been struck mute by his horror at the incident, reduced to furiously shaking his head as he refused to leave Tobirama’s side while the medics stitched up his wounds and settled him into a bath of lukewarm water that felt like it was burning, with Hashirama sitting behind him to keep him from slipping into the water to drown.

When Bustuma recounts the incident, as he sometimes did to guests who needed to be convinced to join the Senju side against the vicious Uchiha threat, he says that Hashirama didn’t say a single word the entire day, but Tobirama remembers otherwise, in that half-hazy dreamlike way of both exhaustion and childhood.

He remembers Hashirama, sitting with him in the bath, his white-knuckled fingers wrapped around Tobirama’s arms so tightly that they left bruises. He remembers Hashirama looking out the window at the forest that surrounded the Senju compound.

He remembers Hashirama saying, in a strange low whisper, “The trees were right.”

He still doesn’t know what Hashirama had meant by that.)

And after that, Hashirama had demanded they visit the ocean, so that Tobirama could learn his suiton from the mother of all rivers and become stronger, and Tobirama remembers very well his confusion when they’d first arrived and he’d first tasted the salt in the water in the air.

He tastes the same thing now, but there’s no ocean to blame.

He opens his eyes, but he can’t clearly make out Hashirama’s face, not even as close as it is.

“Anija?” he says hesitantly, his voice still rough from the exertions of the day before. “Are you – are you crying?”

He’d hoped that Hashirama was asleep, maybe having some sort of bad dream, but Hashirama’s hand comes up to settle in Tobirama’s hair, and he begins to run his hand through it.

“My brother,” he whispers, and his voice is choked up as if he has swallowed too many of his tears. “My little brother.”

“What’s wrong, anija?” Tobirama asks, alarmed. “What’s the matter?”

“I love you so much, Tobirama,” Hashirama says. “I love you so much. I can’t imagine life without you by my side. The thought of you growing away from me as you get older – I hate it.”

“I won’t go away,” Tobirama assures him. “I won’t, not ever.”

Hashirama laughs a little, but it’s not as happy as it normally is. “I know,” he says. “I know, because I’ll make sure of it.”

“Well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” Hashirama says again. He’s not really listening to Tobirama. “I’ll do terrible things, Tobirama; to you and to the world, whatever I have to. I want you to be happy, I do, I swear I do, but I want you with me more. And for that I’ll break every rule, violate every principle...”

“Anija, you’re being ridiculous,” Tobirama says, a little sharply. He doesn’t like this strange and twisted tone in his brother’s normally happy voice. “Being with you is what makes me happy. Stop fretting over nothing.”

Hashirama laughs again, a strange creaky thing, and pulls him in even closer, until Tobirama’s head is resting on Hashirama’s chest. “Do you know, Tobirama, that you can shape trees?”

Tobirama blinks, surprised by the sudden change in subject. “Shape trees? You mean wood-cutting?”

“No, no. Living trees. See, if you get to them while they’re still young and tender, and you bind their branches in the way that you most like, their growth will be twisted into just that shape.”

“Oh. You mean like what cousin Taichiro did to make sure that tree by his house would grow over the wall instead of over his house?”

“Just like that. The trees don’t even realize they weren’t originally designed to grow that way; they settle into the new shape as if it was natural to them.”

Tobirama wonders if this is a Mokuton thing, like Hashirama’s bizarre hatred for lawns. Why in the world would he care if trees didn’t grow naturally the way they would out in the forest? And even if he did, surely it wasn’t something so distressing as to keep him up at night?

“Does it matter?” he finally asks, utterly baffled by this entire conversation. “If they don’t notice their new shape, and it works better for everyone if they grow that way, then surely it’s for the best all around?”

After all, cousin Taichiro was entirely reasonable in not wanting a branch to fall onto his roof the next time there was a particularly violent thunderstorm, whereas his garden wall could handle such a thing just fine.

“Mmm. An excellent point, I suppose. A tree doesn’t grow just for itself, after all, but is itself just a part of the growing forest – even if the other individual trees in the forest don’t always appreciate the way the forest is growing the new trees. But after all, any gardener will tell you that you need to clear out the weeds to let the trees grow unimpeded...”

Right. Hashirama is clearly talking in his sleep. Forests aren’t gardeners: they’re just collections of trees. Not to mention the only person who thinks trees have any sort of thoughts is Hashirama, ever since he started ignoring all the elders’ advice and started listening to them ever more deeply...and how did he suddenly jump from trees to weeds, anyhow?

“Anija, you’re speaking nonsense,” Tobirama tells him, taking a firm tone designed to quiet dissent. “Just go to sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning. You must have stepped on a shadow to have such bad dreams for no reason.”

Hashirama chuckles, but it’s a good sound this time: he sounds amused and happy once again.

“All right, Tobirama. I’ll do as you say.” He leans forward and presses his lips against Tobirama’s forehead. “I hope you liked your lesson today.”

Tobirama considers for a moment. It’d been pleasurable and painful and wonderful and terrible; he’s not sure ‘liked’ is really the appropriate word to describe it. But he’s also learned so much about himself and his body, things he’ll be able to use in the future – he has no doubt that Hashirama’s going to start nagging him to practice these new skills more often, just the way he’s always nagging about practicing non-training activities so that Tobirama doesn’t forget how to have fun – and that’s not bad, too, since out of all the ways to make Hashirama pleased with him, this one seems particularly easy, even pleasurable.

No, all around, while Tobirama might not say that he liked it, he can’t say that he didn’t benefit from it. Although...

“Anija,” he finally says. “One request.”

“Hmm?”

“If you ever start thinking that I need to learn about sex...”

“Yes?”

“Get somebody else to teach me.”

Hashirama burst out laughing: real, proper happy laughter, giggles escalating to deep belly laughs. “Okay,” he says, using the front of Tobirama’s yukata to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes. “Okay, Tobirama, I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll find the perfect person for you, just you wait...did I overdo it today?”

“Yes. I’m going to have nightmares, anija.” But Tobirama is smiling. “Now go to sleep, and we’ll both forget this conversation ever happened by morning.”

“Yes, Tobirama. Whatever you say. Good night.”

Tobirama has no intention of actually putting this bizarre conversation out of his mind, of course, planning to analyze it in the morning when he is less tired. But as it happens, the very next day Hashirama ends up killing an elder for what appears to be no reason at all, right in the middle of the man’s punishment of Tobirama for some unspecified act of vile seductive licentiousness which Tobirama didn’t really understand and still doesn’t because he’s never successfully seduced anyone ever, not even for a mission, but of course submitted obediently to anyway, and everything gets very busy for a while as Tobirama has to run all levels of interference while Hashirama buries the body to hide what he’d done, so ultimately he really does forget all about it.

Hashirama ends up growing a surprisingly hearty and unusually beautiful rose garden on top of the hidden grave, and wins three awards in that year’s regional competition for most beautiful flowers.

Tobirama would try to make some sort of meaning out of that, but he’s never been good at metaphors.

[the-constant-project]

Interview with a Magical Girl

What was my childhood like?

I don’t remember much of my childhood. Not due to it being bad or something overtly traumatic, it was just average (Upon discussing stuff with my therapist, I have since learnt this is not true in the slightest.). I was neither particularly skilled academically or physically, though I soon learnt later in life that this was due to how my brain worked. A smart little awkward cookie who just couldn’t handle the pre-packaged Baked Goods that was expected of all younglings. I was bright, devoured what I read and caught my interest, but it didn’t suit what the Adults expected, and thus I was branded an outcast. The interest in cephalopods definitely didn’t help with my peers either, atleast not until my 20s. Eventually the growth hormones kicked in (Fuck being a teenager. Those who miss those days are either incredibly delusional, or they lucked out during their teenage years. Lucky sods.), and changes wracked my form. Some grew interested in the other sex, others were interested in the same but kept quiet about it. Whereas I......just wasn’t interested. There were times when desire would flood my body, but I was lucky that I had read about what hormones could do to me, so I understood what I was feeling would only be temporary. The few who truly did spark something, recoiled from me upon learning so, due to either them having only been faking friendship with my for whatever reason teenagers do so, or preferred us being friends. I was fine with the latter, it was nice knowing how I could interact with them. It was the former that started the process of breaking me, of learning the difference between being a person, and being an object. And it was the loss of all of them at the end of my final high school year that started the cracks in my psyche. I had spent my formative years making myself into someone they all liked, actively avoiding the things that, upon reflection, would define my adult life. The realization I had wasted my formative years on people who had been happy to drop me once they didn’t have to deal with me.............hurt. I had denied myself, and torn myself into the wrong shapes, and it had not been enough for them. I don’t remember the couple of years between High School ending, and starting my stagnant job. I just remember the hate, the rage, the pain and the anguish. Its still there, buried deep. I have long since accepted those parts of me. Those parts of me help when something tries to break me again.

 You may have noticed I haven’t mentioned my family. My mother is a good woman, who has had the world repeatedly try and beat her down and break her. It succeeded, but she refused what it gave her and fought her way back to something resembling normalcy. Atleast, as close as she can manage. My siblings.....I resent them for how they were growing up, but I’ve since come to terms with them and we enjoy a nice peace between us. Not living in the same house helps a lot. We won’t speak of the man who put me in a hospital. He’s lucky my mother and I still, for some unknown and most likely fucking stupid reason, allow him to stay in our lives.

  My stagnant job was just that.....stagnant. I was one of their better employees. But I was neither Good Enough(tm), nor did I perform the needlessly complicated social rituals needed to bypass the Good Enough(tm) necessity required for getting promoted.

 I was secluded, but it helped me start healing. But it stagnated at some point, and I became stuck in a rut, unable to leave.

It wasn’t until my Ikō-ki came that my life truly started.

************ Whats an Ikō-ki, you ask? I’m not sure myself, to be honest. I was alone in my tiny apartment, my own little stagnant marble of reality, when it just appeared with a flickering of the light, a strange dark metallic rod, eldritch tendrils of energy keeping it afloat. The ‘head’ of rod is vaguely bulbous, with 8 undulating bands forming the patterns along its length. Heh, it just occurs to me, but it kind of looks like someone had attached a small octopus to a rod (This is how I knew it was mine.) It called itself an Ikō-ki. The strange mind voice it uses to talk to me is a strange blend of my masculine voice and a Japanese accent I’ve never had, and if it weren’t for the fact I hated how the words sound when they come out of my mouth, I would call it a soothing voice.

They seem to help transition small pools of stagnation, based on the stories it has shown me. My Ikō-ki (I can’t help but claim it as Mine) has shown me multiple stories: a princess become a prince and bring ruin to their prosperous yet corrupt state; a young boy became the Belle of the town and helped reunite the warring clans within falling in love with each of their heirs and tying their futures to one another; an adult who claimed bloody retribution on those who had claimed their body against their will. But those are the Phantasmal stories, the ones meant to bring hope to those who have fallen to despair, to give them the motivation to rise above the masses or to sink deep into their minds and bring forth a new dawn for those who follow their darker paths.

 But that was not meant to be my Story, atleast, that is my hope. I want my story to be a stopover, like the smaller stories of local heroes and vigilantes, of those who guard the dreams and become the nightmare that nightmares fear within the dreamscape, those who sleep the wakeless dream and help heal the minds of their peers, of those whose only job is to look after their Ikō-ki until it comes time for it to move on. I’m getting off track. My mind can’t help but wander when I think about my Ikō-ki.

My Ikō-ki is a strange magical artefact that most likely either originates from Japan, or spent enough time there that it has permanently affected its.....mind? I’m still not sure how its ‘mind’ works. My Ikō-ki definitely has its own mind, since while we share tastes and opinions; it has since developed its own opinions and tastes, which I find fascinating. The small few others we’ve encountered have ranged from nothing more than inanimate magical objects, to semi-autonomous drone-like constructs, to full-fledged sentient beings. They seem to specifically be attracted to women, since I have yet to see any we’ve encountered with a masculine form. But considering they make us physically transform when we use them, I can’t trust what I see, I can only take the words of the strangers who are in similar situations to me. ........did I not mention I can transform? From the sounds of it, My Ikō-ki was surprised at how accepting I was of the concept. I had grown up watching cartoons of girls being able to transform into magical warriors, so this was just my childhood dream coming true.

 My new form.......is too much for my liking. Don’t get me wrong, I love the design of my outfit. The cephalopodan dress is the stuff of eldritch nightmares, all dark blues, greens and browns, endless flowing in non-existent currents, the great red Mantle headpiece towering above me, 4 larges tendrils wrapped together like hair, ready to flare up and be used if needed.. The ammonoid shield stands tall and impassable, its eternal spiral unyielding to any. The strange spraying creature on my right wrist, at time filled with a viscous ink that flows through air as if underwater, yet capable of delivering a highly venomous bite to anyone who isn’t me if they venture to close (This strange symbiote seems to share a link with me, since I’ve recently learnt that, if threatened outside of my magical girl form, my bite can be just as venomous). But as with the strange curves of all cephalopods, my own body becomes much fuller, curves appearing where I typically lacked them. While gorgeous, it’s not my thing. I prefer being on the ‘less filled out’ side of the body spectrum. Though if the only downside to my form is that its curvier than I like, and I get a awesome cephalopod aesthetic as the positive, I’ll take that deal. I’ve seen some of the lingerie others have been saddled with. What do I do with this form?

.......just watch it move and react. Its more cephalopodan than human, and its fascinating watching the eldritch form just.....move. There are times I go exploring the city, and stopping some of the worse crimes if I stumble upon them. But exploring the dreamscape is what I mainly do. Redirecting the mental eddies and currents around me, helping keep their lives just that little bit less miserable. .......I once tried to probe into That Man’s thoughts, to see why he put me into the hospital. I couldn’t handle what I found, and now I fear to dive into anyone else’s mind. If I’m a Magical Girl, who do I fight? Thats a hard question. In theory, The Decline. The literal concept of humanity falling into entropy. But as My Ikō-ki has shown me, The Decline just haven’t been active lately. My Ikō-ki is of the belief that we’ll see a resurgence in the next few years, given the state of the world’s political climate. But at the moment, I’ve mainly been ‘fighting’ other Magical Girls I’ve encountered. Not to the death or anything. Only some of the newer girls try that, due to a rise in darker media. But those of us with experience quickly weeded out those thoughts. At most, We spar and train. As I said, supposedly The Decline is coming, and someone needs to be ready. I’m hoping my shift will be over by then, but it can’t hurt to keep the others who have an active interest in protecting the world on their toes. Also helps keep me fit and in top form, when some of the more ‘morally straight laced’ Girls come and ‘hunt me’.

 Why do I get hunted?

Because I have the Power, yet I don’t do anything obvious with it. Plus, as you can tell from looking at me, they ‘normal’ girls consider me an aberration. I once asked My Ikō-ki if Magical Girls were inherently good. He told me that each magical Girl is different, and we all walk different paths. Most walk the lighter paths, and some are consumed by that light. I walk one of the newer paths. Because it is new-ish, and isn’t inclined towards ‘The Light’, they get it into their heads that theres something wrong with me, and I should be purged to allow my Ikō-ki to pass on. Its not their fault. Society has taught them to fear the alien and the unknown, and one of our baser instincts is to fear what hide in the Dark. But thats why I walk the Darker path. I shall shield those outside of the Dark from their own fears. Luckily, I haven’t had to kill any of them. I almost did once, when I learnt my symbiotic sprayer could bite. The problem with young creatures with venomous bites, is that they don’t know how to regulate their venom. That girl was lucky the Medical Girl was nearby. Five more minutes and her lungs would’ve been paralyzed. *************

[saventhhaven]

Together

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Tags: Season 12 Spoilers!, angst, fluff, angry!Dean, depressed!Dean

Word Count: 2,410

(Gif not mine)

The Winchesters were not doing well. You couldn't blame them. With Cas dead and their mom God only knows where they had every right to be upset. Dean was far worse than Sam. Sam had a way of looking on the bright side of things, no matter the situation. He still had hope that you could bring Cas back. That you could find their mom. Sam would shoot you weak smiles every now and then to try and convince you everything would be okay. Dean was quiet. More quiet than you had ever seen him before. All of your attempts to cheer him up fell flat. He was drinking more and sleeping less, which was never a good sign. But what scared you the most was how empty he looked. Although Sam still practically towered over him, Dean was a tall man. With his long legs, broad, muscular torso, and large frame, you knew there wasn't much that could truly knock him down. But despite all of this, never before had you seen him look so small. There were dark circles under his eyes that didn't seem to go away. Had you not been able to see all the grief he was trying to conceal, you would have described his lack of emotion as soulless. This was how the famous hunter dealt with his pain. He bottled it up and allowed it to consume him until it practically killed him from the inside out. You were trying to be there for him, but he wasn't letting you. Sam told you not to take it personally - that him pushing everyone away was normal when he got like this. You knew he was right, but it was hard to not let it get to you. You had shared things with Dean about yourself that you had never told anyone else. He always listened and never judged you for your feelings. But if he wouldn't let you be there for him, what was the point of him being there for you? Relationships were supposed to be a two-way communication, but lately, it felt like everything was one-sided. You might as well be talking to a brick wall.

You sighed heavily, taking a swig of the amber liquid in the whiskey glass on the table. You had been sitting like this for hours, just staring at the wall. You weren't sure what else there was for you to do. Every attempt at a win lately had turned into a dead end. Sam lowered his book to look at you from across the table. He didn't look nearly as exhausted as his brother did, but you could still tell just how tired he was. The recent circumstances had worn you all out.

"You okay, Y/N?" You rolled your shoulders. God, no, you weren't okay. It felt like your entire life was collapsing around you, and there was nothing you could do to stop it. Venting to Sam wouldn't fix a thing, although you knew he wouldn't complain. If anything, you would bet Sam could relate exactly to how you were feeling.

"I'm hanging in there," you finally answered. Sam nodded, causing his hair to move slightly.

"That's all we can really do until we figure something else out." You snorted into your whiskey glass.

"Yeah, no shit." The clock ticked quietly in the background of the room. It was in no way loud, but the constant reminder that time was passing and everything was going to shit was almost enough to make you stand from the table and rip the damn thing from the wall. Everything felt completely and utterly hopeless. You glanced over at your gun on the long, wooden table. You could always try to pick up a hunt to blow off some steam, but you weren't sure how much that would do for you (or the brothers) in the long run. You sighed again and opened your laptop. It wouldn't do anything, you decided. But at least it may provide a good distraction. Sam had already resumed his book, nose practically buried within the hardbound pages. The sound of glass shattering, however, had you both startling in your seats. You weren't sure how long it took for Sam's reflexes to kick in, or yours, for that matter. It couldn't have been more than half a second after the initial clamor that both of you were out of your chairs, rushing towards the noise. The continuous stream of bangs, thuds, and cracks had your heart racing in your chest.

"Dean?" Sam yelled. You could already tell the source of the noises were coming from behind the door with the golden eleven.  As you approached his room, you heard glass shatter loudly against the floor.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted. You flung open the door and burst in, Sam only a matter of mere steps behind you. Your eyes immediately widened at the scene in front of you. His room was completely in shambles, and by how it looked, he was nowhere near finished working out his rage. Seemingly oblivious to the fact that you and Sam were even in the room, Dean roared in anger again, flipping his wooden dresser.

"Dean," you tried. He shoved the contents from the surface of his desk to the floor in one sweeping motion. "Dean," you repeated, louder this time. He snatched the lamp from his end table, and you quickly went over to him, shrugging off Sam's hand of warning on your shoulder. "Dean!" You latched onto the arm holding the lamp in the air, and he jerked in surprise.

"Get away from me, Y/N," he growled lowly. You shook your head firmly.

"No." Sam took a step in your direction, and you held out an arm, silently telling him you had this one. Dean's expression darkened, and you could see the conflict on his face.

"Y/N-"

"I'm not going anywhere." You were all talk in moments like these. Dean knew that. He knew that if he told you to get out again, you would go. But for both of your sakes, you had to uphold the strong facade. After what seemed like an eternity later, his shoulders slumped, and he allowed you to take the lamp from his hands. As you placed it back down on his bedside table, the shattered mirror behind him caught your attention. Some of the shards had stayed intact, jagged lines all reaching for the point of impact. Understanding hit you, and you gingerly reached for Dean's bloodied hand. Pieces of glass stuck out from his swollen knuckles, blood streaming from the wounds. "Can you grab me some stuff for stitches?" you asked Sam quietly. "We'll be in my room." Sam nodded in reply, leaving you alone in the quiet room with his brother. The two of you stood in the tense silence for a moment before you opened your mouth to speak.

"You don't have to reprimand me, Y/N," Dean grumbled, halting your flow of words. "I know I shouldn't have trashed everything. You don't have to say it." You frowned, pressing your lips together. Did Dean really think that much of you? He really thought you would run in on him essentially having an emotional breakdown and then yell at him because of it? You knew he was in a bad place right now, but that still hurt.

"I was going to ask if you were okay," you said quietly. Dean laughed humorlessly, bobbing his head.

"Am I okay?" he repeated. The tension in the air was thick. Difficult to breathe through, almost. You held your breath as you waited for him to continue. Dean let out another shout of anger, kicking his bedframe hard. "Oh, yeah, I'm friggin' peachy!" he yelled sarcastically. "In fact, I'm fan-fucking-tastic!" You flinched. You couldn't help it. When Dean got angry like this, it scared you. He took note of your startled body language, and the hard expression on his face faded slightly. You nodded your head towards the hallway.

"Come on," you urged softly. "We can clean this up later." Dean only paused for a moment before stepping over the accumulating pile of broken furniture pieces. As he quietly began down the hall to your room, you switched off his lights and closed the door. 

There were so many things you wanted to say, but ironically, no words would come. What do you say to someone who feels like everything that's gone wrong is their fault? You could try to tell him that none of this could have been prevented, but there was no way in hell he would believe you. You knew Dean Winchester. Any time someone he knew or loved got hurt, ion his mind, there was always something he could have done. Dean was constantly plagued by thoughts that had him second-guessing everything he did. His head would come up with impossible plans of what could have been done differently., Even when hiding behind a smile, you could still see all the guilt he carried with him from the misconception of always believing he could have done more. The problem was, he didn't see what you saw. Dean never saw how many lives he saved. He only saw the ones he lost.

By the time the two of you arrived back in your room, there was already everything you would need to patch up Dean's hand placed neatly on your desk. You made a mental note to thank Sam later. Dean took a seat upon your mattress somberly, the fabric sinking beneath him. As you watched him with careful eyes, you could tell he was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact. You sighed, reaching for the tweezers Sam had brought in. When you wordlessly pulled up a chair beside him and began pulling glass shards from his hand, he looked at you in surprise.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" You freed one of the larger shards from underneath his skin and dropped it into the trashcan.

"What do you want me to say, Dean?" you asked tiredly. "I already know if I go for any of the 'we'll get through this,' you'll just blow me off. I could try to get you out of your head, but you won't listen to me." He met your gaze, and for the first time in weeks, his eyes held emotion. "I've been trying, Dean. But it feels like you don't want me to try anymore." He tore his eyes away from you, but before he did, you could see the guilt that filled them. You sighed in despair, returning your attention to his wounded hand.

"I never want you to stop trying," he whispered. You couldn't believe your ears.

"Then talk to me," you begged. "Please. Tell me what's going on in that head of yours so I can help you." Dean shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he insisted. With a long pause, he swallowed heavily. "I don’t matter." 

You almost dropped the tweezers in shock.

"You don't matter?" you echoed. "Dean, you're one of the people that matters the most! You've saved more people than I can even begin to count. You've saved the whole goddamn world! More than once!"

"But I couldn't save Cas!" he snapped. "Or mom!" You shook your head.

"You can't put that on yourself. You didn't see Lucifer coming. None of us did!" Dean pulled away, moving to the opposite side of the mattress, and looking at the ground despondently. You hated seeing him like this. It hurt your heart. He was the man that you loved more than anything in the world, and he was in pain, and there was nothing you could do to make it go away. You took the needle and thread and went to crouch in front of him. "I know you're hurting," you started, pushing the sharp point under the skin. "Cas was my family, too. And believe me, if there were some way I could go back and put myself in his shoes, I would. I would trade his life for mine if it meant we could have him back." Dean shook his head.

"Don't talk like that. Having Cas here, but you gone wouldn't make anything better. We can't live our lives on 'what ifs,'" you continued. You blinked away tears. You had to be strong for him.

"It doesn't matter," Dean said again.

"Like hell, it doesn't. What happened to the Dean that told me I had to keep fighting no matter what? That no matter how bad things get, we can never give up?" He looked into your eyes coldly.

"Well, I guess that guy's long gone now."

"No," you disagreed. "No, he's not. You see, I can still see him in there. He's just lost right now." You finished the last stitch, pulling the thread taut. "After all these years, you never let me give up, Dean. Now it's time for me to return the favor."

"Don't waste your time, Y/N," Dean said seriously. "It's too late for me." You squeezed his good hand.

"You're wrong. You're so wrong. It's never too late." He stood, turning his back to you.

"And that's where you’re wrong. I'm broken beyond repair." Dean reached for the doorknob.

"Dean Winchester, you get your ass back here right now!" you ordered. He ignored you, pulling the door open. You ran up behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso. "I know you think it's all over. I know how bad this hurts." You couldn't hold back your tears anymore. "But I need you to keep fighting. This world needs you. Sam needs you. I need you." Dean turned in your arms and looked down at you. "And I know you're trying to pull away from Sam and me because you think that'll make it easier. But I need you to understand that even if you don't need me, I will always be here for you." His lower lip trembled slightly, and then Dean Winchester broke.

"I do need you, Y/N." Tears rolled down his cheeks, but he didn't bother to wipe them away. "You and Sammy," he sniffed. "You're all I've got left now." You pulled him closer to you as he buried his face in your neck, and pressed a kiss to the side of his head.

"We're gonna get through this Dean," you promised, carding a hand through his brown locks. "Together."

Thank you so much for reading! If you liked it, please leave me feedback! I love hearing from all of you!

If you want to read more like this, be sure you take a look at my masterlist!

Also, I have a taglist! If you’d like to be notified when I post new good stuff, go here to add yourself to the taglist!

Taglist: (If there is a strikethrough on your account name, that means I couldn’t tag you! Please reach out to me, and we’ll get it fixed!)

@cole-winchester @alexwinchester23 @1-am-made-of-stardust

[lilacmoon83]

Dreaming Out Loud

Also on Fanfiction.net and A03

Chapter 89: It Pours

Snow blinked and her surroundings blurred. The gunshot echoed in her ears and then all sound around her faded away. Any noise sounded like she was suddenly underwater and in a way, she felt that she was. At the sound of that gunshot, she felt like she was drowning with no water. She felt like she couldn't breathe and that her entire world was crumbling beneath her. Because it was. She could no longer see anything right in front of her, for her vision was filled with him. Every memory and every moment they ever shared; the good and the bad. But mostly good, because with them, even the bad was good. Tears continued to slip down her rosy cheeks from her swollen, reddened emerald eyes. David. Her true love. Her husband. Her Prince Charming. Her everything. Her hero. She had always been a formidable fighter in her own right and had at times been her own hero. But she had always been comfortable admitting that she had also needed a hero at times and that title had always belonged to her David. But that gunshot shattered everything and she felt like she was falling into an abyss of endless despair. Had she finally lost him? After so many close calls, was this the final one? Would the hope inside her that she was always able to cling to, because of him, about to die? Without him...she knew her heart was going to die long before she rest of her caught up with it. Her thoughts were filled with him and she ached at the thought of not being with him. Would the next time she saw him be in the afterlife? Would she have to find him there or would he be waiting for her?

She longed to see him before her now, for they didn't deserve this. They had gone through too much for it to end this way. She wanted to see that smile that never failed to make her heart skip a beat. She wanted to hear his voice and see his handsome face. She wanted his arms around her...Gods she could still feel that. His touch always ignited her every nerve on fire, for the passion and love between them was always so tangible, so ever present, so consuming that the thought of going on without him made her feel like she was truly drowning. But it didn't end. She didn't drown. She just was lost, floating in that despair like it was never ending without him. And without him, it would be.

"Poor Princess Snow…" Jessica mocked, as she enjoyed the other woman's tears.

"I think that bullet was probably the one that Kevin put in your husband's pretty head. Or perhaps that was your friend Belle. I do know that Kevin was looking forward to savoring the kill when it came to your Prince," she added, bringing a bit of clarity to Snow's head. She was now seeing again and hearing. And most importantly, there had only been one gunshot. Had Jessica not bothered to notice? It didn't matter though, especially if there was still a chance to save her husband and their friends. Hope blossomed in her again and she felt her heart flutter. He was still alive...she could feel it. But it might not be that way much longer, unless she did something about it.

Snow glared at the woman before her and never had she wanted to rip someone apart more than she did this woman. When Snow could not, Jessica Swan was supposed to have taken care of her baby girl. Instead, she had shown nothing but fear and contempt for Emma. She had continually said she wanted a better child; a less difficult child when in reality she was too obtuse to realize the absolute gift that Emma was. Their daughter was beautiful, unique, and special. Yet these people who had been entrusted with her care had abused her. Then they had the audacity to blame Emma and even them for losing their chance at adopting another child. But the authorities had been absolutely right in their case. They didn't deserve to have any child, let alone Emma, and sure as hell not their unborn baby. No...she would be as damned as Circe's idiot followers presumed she was if she was going to let Jessica Swan lay one finger on her baby. And at the same time, she certainly wasn't going to let her abusive, disgusting pig of a husband hurt her own husband, who was the exact opposite of Kevin in every way.

Snow twisted her tied hands, finding no give in the ropes, but Jessica had made another mistake by not tying the ropes to the chair. Snow lowered her head away from Jessica's gaze and sniffed, feigning that she had again broken down in tears. She hoped Jessica would take the opportunity to further mock her and rub salt in her wounds. And she did.

"Aww...don't worry. Like I said, once you push this brat out...I'll let you join him. I'm sure he'll be waiting in the Underworld for you and for you...it will be like going home, right?" she goaded to her raven haired head. Snow responded by crying out through the gag, this time not in anguish, but rage, as she knocked her head into the other woman's, sending her tumbling backward. Jessica held her now bleeding nose and looked at the Princess in shock, as she got to her feet, despite her hands still being tied.

"Oh, that was a big mistake, Princess," she warned, as advanced again. But Snow kicked her directly in the abdomen, sending her head over heels, before running out of the cabin and into the wooded area around the cabin.

Jessica got up and looked at the open door, her eyes filled with rage of her own, as she grabbed the fireplace poker.

"That's it...maybe it's better that your unborn brat just dies with you. It probably would be as much trouble as you are," she growled, as she followed her out and found that she was no where to be seen.

"If you're so eager to join your husband in the Underworld, then I'm happy to make that happen," she called, as she ventured into the woods that surrounded the cabin.

~*~

Persephone put the car in park when they came upon a cabin and the two of them burst inside, finding only a broken chair and signs of a struggle.

"Where could they be?" Eli wondered.

"I'm not sure...but we need to split up and find them. Take David's sword," she said, as she picked it up and handed it to him.

"Be careful," he urged.

"You too," she responded, as they both picked a direction and began their search.

~*~

Kevin marched the three of them toward the nearby cliff side that overlooked the ocean.

"Don't worry...I'll make it quick. Except for our illustrious Prince here. I'm going to make sure his is slow and agonizing so I can share all the gory details with Snow White," he said sadistically.

"Don't worry though, I promise her an equally gruesome death once she gives birth to that brat so she can join you in the Underworld," he added.

"You're a bigger idiot than I thought then," David goaded.

"I'm the one holding the gun, so I'd say that makes you the idiot for insulting me," he snapped.

"No...you just threatened to hurt the woman I love and even if I'm dead, that doesn't mean her mother won't make sure you pay for it. She's the Queen of the Underworld. She'll make sure your afterlife is sheer hell," he replied. Kevin growled and grabbed him by the shoulder, before he pulled out what looked like a small nightstick. Until he turned it on and it became alive with purple energy.

"This is a plasma stick...another one of Circe's ingenious inventions," he said, as he jammed it into David's gut, causing the Prince to cry out in agony.

"And it's excruciating...I've seen people beg Circe for death when they get tortured with one of these," he added, as she shoved David against a tree.

"And I'm not going to grant you the sweet release of death until you're begging me for it," he added, as he pulled his gun and turned to Belle and Rumple.

"Oh Gods…" Belle cried, as she and Rumple huddled together as best they could with their tied hands. David rubbed the duct tape against against the rough bark on the tree, desperately trying to weaken it just enough to pull himself free.

"Please...don't do this," Belle pleaded.

"Sorry...with you two, it's nothing personal. But I'm not a monster...so say your goodbyes," he replied.

"You're about to shoot us in cold blood. Trust me...you are a monster and I know monsters," Rumple spat in disgust. He smirked.

"You're right...I guess I am," he replied, as he pointed the gun. David looked at him, pleading with him to stall and Rumple swallowed the lump in his throat.

"You're about to kill the Dark One...dearie. I caution you on this action," he said. Kevin scoffed.

"Really? What? Are you going to come back and haunt me?" he joked.

"Oh no...I'll be waiting in the Underworld for you where there's magic and then I'll make sure you know unspeakable horrors, that is if there is anything left of you after Persephone is done," he goaded back. Kevin snorted derisively.

"I think I'll take my chances," he replied, as he pointed the gun. Belle cried out and buried her face in his shoulder. David ripped through the duct tape and tackled him, bringing his arm up, as he fired, thankfully shooting harmlessly into the sky. The Prince tackled him to the ground and they struggled for control of the gun. Kevin kicked David off him and the gun went flying several feet away when the Prince managed to knock it from his hand. The blonde started crawling toward it, but Kevin tackled him and punches were traded, before Kevin managed to get his hands around David's neck.

"Just for all that...I'm going to make sure I make your precious Snow White suffers before I kill her and I'm going to tell her what it was like watching the life leave your eyes," he growled, as David clawed around the ground for something to hit him with. He managed to put his hand on what felt like a good sized piece of a fallen branch. He growled and hit the man in the head with it. Kevin cried out and held his now bleeding head, as David threw him off. He stumbled away, as the Prince got to his feet and when Kevin looked up again, David beamed him across the face with the branch, breaking and splintering it into pieces. Kevin dropped to the ground, groaning in pain, as they heard footsteps. David scrambled for the gun and pointed it, but sighed in relief when Eli appeared.

"Thanks Gods...are you all all right?" he asked. David nodded, as he still attempted to catch his breath. The sky looked angry and lightning flashed, as it began to sprinkle.

"I need to get back to Snow," David said, as they started back to the cabin.

"She wasn't there when we got there and there looked to be a struggle. Persephone is searching the woods," Eli informed.

"Then that's where I'm going," David said, as he headed off.

"Here…" Eli called, as he handed him his sword.

"Find her...find my daughter," he implored. David nodded, as he took the sword and hurried off.

"The cube must still be back in the cabin. We should go find it," Belle said, as the three of them started back. Kevin groaned in pain, as he pulled himself to his feet and focused on David's retreating form, as he ran into the woods. He grabbed his plasma stick and started after him.

~*~

Snow leaned up against a tree and breathed deeply to catch her breath. She rubbed the duct tape against the bark...until she saw a bluebird. It stared at her and she stared back, as she asked him for help. He flapped his wings and flew to her. She felt him pecking at the tape and once it was torn enough by his sharp beak, she pulled her hands free and removed the gag between her teeth.

"Thank you," she said kindly, as she gently pet his head affectionately, before he flew off. She heard footsteps after that and hid behind the tree, slowly peering out and seeing Jessica there looking for her. She took a deep breath and looked around for anything that could be used as a weapon. She noticed the dark clouds in the sky that had suddenly rolled in, which seemed odd, since it had been a clear sky minutes ago.

Snow knelt down and picked up the thickest stick she could find. She heard the cocking of a gun and stilled her breath.

"You might as well come out, Princess...I know you're there," Jessica commanded, as lightning flashed in the darkening sky. Rain began to fall in a sprinkle at first and then the drops grew bigger until they were pelting the earth. Slowly, Snow emerged from behind the tree and surrendered, as she dropped the stick and cried out, as Jessica grabbed her by the hair.

"Start walking and if you make a move I don't like, then I promise you that you really will think you're in hell," she growled. Snow sniffed.

"There is nothing else you can do to me. You've killed my husband and you're going to kill me after you take my baby. What more do you really think you can do to me?" Snow questioned despondent. Jessica pulled on her hair harder and she whimpered in pain.

"Oh, I will get creative, I assure you," she growled, as they heard a twig snap. Jessica turned away to point the gun at whoever may have been encroaching upon them so Snow took her chance. She kneed Jessica in the stomach, picked up the discarded stick and hit her over the head with it. It broke and Snow dropped the pieces, before she tore off running further into the woods. Jessica held her sore abdomen and the now wound on her head with her hands. She pulled a hand away from the back of her head and saw blood there. She growled and got to her feet, before tearing off after the wayward Princess.

"Oh, I'm going to torture you! And I'll enjoy every moment of your agony, you little bitch!" she screamed.

By now, Snow was soaked by the rain, but that didn't deter her from running as fast as she could. She was freezing by now, but refused to stop in order to escape and find Charming. She almost slipped in the mud, but felt someone catch her. To her horror though, she looked up to find it to be Kevin Swan, who now held her arm like a vice. She tried to tear away from him and then choked, as he put his hand around her neck.

"How long do you think it will take for that spawn inside you to die when I cut off your airway?" he questioned and she saw a madness in his eyes.

"You really think I'm above hitting a woman? Maybe it's time you get a taste of what I gave your brat!" he growled and she yelped, as he slapped her face. Snow glared at him punched him in the eye and kneed him in the groin, before tearing away from him. He managed to get his foot out and tripped her though, causing her to fall to the muddy ground.

"That's it...let's see how long your spawn can live through a thousand volts of plasmic energy running through your body," he growled, as he activated the plasma device. Snow crawled away from him, but he advanced and reached down to grab her ankle, pulling her back toward him.

"Time to fry a Princess," he growled and she gasped, as she prepared herself for the pain to come. Until she heard a voice.

"HEY!" David called to get his attention.

"Get the hell away from my wife!" he growled. Kevin smirked deviously.

"Too late Charming. One jolt from this plasma stick to her belly and no more baby snowflake," he goaded, as he grabbed her and hauled her to her feet. He held her there so she was facing David and she struggled against his hold, as he ignited the plasma stick. But she bit his hand and tore away from him again. He angrily raised the plasma stick, intending to hit her bluntly with the object, but David let out a cry as he threw his sword and the sound of steel piercing flesh could be heard, as it went straight through Kevin's chest. He seemed surprised, but probably shouldn't have been, for David had used the same move to slay other monsters before and he was perhaps the most evil monster they had ever encountered. It was a fitting demise if there ever was one, for he sealed his fate the moment he planned to put his hands on Snow and kill their child. He died before his body slumped to the ground and David swept Snow into his arms.

"Charming…" she cried, as he hugged her and spun her around, even as the rain continued to soak them.

"You found me…" she uttered, as he gently caressed her face.

"Did you ever doubt I would?" he rasped in a husky tone, just before their lips crashed together.

"Oh my love...I thought you were dead. I heard that gunshot…" she cried, as he held her flush against him and kissed her desperately again, before burying his face in her neck, relieved that she was okay.

"Let's get you back to the cabin and somewhere dry," he said, as he pulled his sword from Kevin's body. He didn't feel bad or any sympathy for this man. He didn't enjoy killing, but this was the man that had not only abused his daughter as a child, but had thought nothing of hitting his wife and attempting to kill their unborn child. There was no redemption for a man like him and he hadn't hesitated to end him in order to save the woman he loved and their baby.

"What the hell…" Jessica uttered, as she came upon the scene. David immediately pushed her behind him.

"You killed him…" she said angrily.

"He was threatening to kill our baby, so you can save whatever self righteous garbage you're about to spew," David countered. She snorted.

"Funny...I thought you were supposed to be the hero, Prince Charming," she mocked.

"He is the hero...my hero. Your husband was the monster," Snow spat, defending the man she loved.

"Well...too bad you're both about to join him in hell," she retorted, as she cocked the gun.

"Run Snow…" he told her.

"I am not leaving you," she protested stubbornly. He was about to argue with her when a bolt of lightning struck the ground before all of them. David pulled her back and looked at the sky. He had a feeling that was not natural and a sense that they had nothing to fear from the lightning.

"What the hell is this?" Jessica growled.

"It's me…" Persephone answered, as she appeared before them. There was no magic, but somehow they knew this weather was her, for her eyes were practically lit with said lightning.

"Mother…" Snow said in relief.

"Everything is going to be okay, snowdrop. David...take her back to the cabin. Neither of you need to see what's about to happen," she warned.

"No...I'm not leaving you either, mom. She has a gun," Snow warned.

"Yes...and if she wants to live, she will put it down now. I can't control this storm! Not while I fear for yours and David's lives!" Persephone warned.

"Or maybe I could just shoot you!" Jessica hissed, as she pointed it at the Goddess.

"You don't want to do that," Persephone warned.

"Oh, I assure you that I do," Jessica said, as she prepared to fire the weapon, but never got the chance, as a bolt of lightning struck her. David turned and blocked Snow's line of vision, as the sight was gruesome and almost too much for him.

"I warned her…" Persephone cried, as her shoulders racked and she gazed up at the sky.

"I don't know what's happening…" she uttered.

"Mom...we're safe. Everything's okay now," Snow said, as David held her and then put his hand out. Persephone took it and he prodded her toward Snow, as the Goddess hugged her daughter fiercely. Like a light switch, the lightning dissipated and the clouds started to clear. The rain ceased and the sky lightened above them.

"What have I done?" Persephone whispered, as she looked at the charred body of the woman.

"You saved us," David said, assuring that it was as simple as that.

"He's right Mom...they were both evil. They were going to kill us and the baby," Snow added.

"I know...it's just that while I've always had influence with the weather, lightning has never been a part of that and it's never been this intense," she replied, as she tried to take a deep breath. She found herself wishing Hades was there. Somehow, she knew he'd have some insight or at least know what to say.

"We should get back to the cabin, get the cube and get back to Storybrooke," he suggested. Snow nodded and took her mother's hand.

"He's right...and it's okay, mother. They were horrible people," Snow reminded.

"I know...they abused my granddaughter. They were going to kill my entire family. I am not sorry they are gone or for what I did. I'm just confused at how I did it," she said, as they arrived back at the cabin.

"Zeus is dead...the lightning has no Master any longer," Rumple chimed in, as Eli had managed to drag the cube from one of the bedrooms and into the main room of the cabin.

"Snow...thank the Gods you're both okay," Eli said, as he hugged her.

"You came with Mom?" she asked in surprise.

"Of course I did. You're my daughter and there isn't anything I wouldn't do for you," he assured. She smiled.

"What do you mean, Rumple?" Belle asked, turning their attention back to the matter at hand.

"I'm not as well versed on these matters as Demeter and the other Gods would be. But if I had to guess...the lightning just chose a new champion," he replied, looking at Persephone.

"That...that's impossible. My place is here in Storybrooke with my family. I don't plan on returning to Olympus," she refuted.

"Nevertheless...and I think your mother will agree. You're the new supreme Goddess and if it chose you over Cronus, then it could change everything," he said.

"But she was already chosen by the other Gods," Snow reminded.

"Which is vastly different than being chosen by the former supreme God's infinite power," Rumple countered. Persephone sighed.

"I didn't ask for this and I don't want it, so Cronus has nothing to fear," she refuted, as she longed for Hades insight at the moment. She knew how big this was and how bad it could be.

"If any of this is true...then maybe taking the magic back to Storybrooke isn't the best move right now," Eli said.

"As much as I hate being without magic...he's right. At least until after the ball and we discover what other motives Cronus may have behind it," Rumple agreed.

"Okay...but I doubt leaving it here is a good idea. So we should still move it," David said.

"What about hiding it below the library?" Snow suggested.

"It's probably the best place to do so. We can put a chain on the elevator shaft so only we can go down there," David agreed. Snow took her mother's hand.

"It's going to be okay, Mom...we'll figure this out," she assured.

"There's more sweetie...I think Hades is missing," she confessed. Snow's brow furrowed.

"Missing?" she asked. She nodded.

"He was supposed to meet me at Granny's earlier and never showed. Your father and I were searching for him before you called, but there's no sign of him. This isn't like him," she replied fearfully.

"Then we'll help you look," Snow assured. David nodded, as he helped Eli load the cube into the trailer the Swans left behind. He and Snow proceeded to drive that truck back to Storybrooke, with the others following in their cars.

~*~

Hermes walked into the farmhouse and waited to be acknowledged, as Zelena turned to him.

"Well?" she asked.

"I followed Snow and her Prince all afternoon," he reported.

"And?" she asked.

"After enduring their sickeningly romantic walk through the woods...they got a call and left Storybrooke," he replied. She smirked.

"So they found the magic," she said.

"That's what it sounded like," he replied.

"Then they'll soon be returning. I want to know the minute they do and where they go," she ordered.

"I'm taking a big risk here. If Persephone catches me…" he warned. Zelena rolled her eyes.

"Listen you spineless worm...if you want the respect and station that you have been insisting you deserve, then you'll tell me where that magic is!" she hissed.

"How do I know I will get what I want out of this?" he growled and she gently stroked his face.

"When I turn back time, with or without your help, I can either place you on your own Throne or I can make you one of my flying monkeys. The choice is yours," she offered.

"Fine...I'll let you know the moment they return," he responded, as he made his way out. Zelena smirked and her heels clicked on the stairs, as she moved down into the cellar, and Hades glared at her.

"I see you're finally awake," she mentioned, as he rattled the bars.

"If you think Persephone isn't going to find me, then you don't know her," he warned. Zelena smirked.

"She won't need to find you. Once I absorb the magic from that containment cube with my pendant, I'll control all the magic in this town. Then you'll be my date when we crash the ball tomorrow night...and use the spawn inside Snow White to enact my spell," she revealed.

"The baby isn't born yet...she's still months away from delivering," he reminded. Zelena smirked.

"I know...but I also know that Emma Swan will do anything to protect her parents and gladly sacrifice herself in the baby's place when I tell her she can save them," she replied and then cackled at the horrified look on his face.

"Zelena...this won't turn out the way you think it will. Even if you cast this spell, once it's done, you'll have no control over what happens once you reset time. You don't even know if you'll retain your memories," he countered.

"But I will be raised by Leopold and Cora. And I will be Queen…" she retorted, as she walked toward the stairs.

"But take heart...you'll have the chance to do things differently and be with the woman you love," she replied ominously. But he was still terrified of a world where Zelena was Queen, for it meant that the people he had come to care about and the woman he loved would never be truly safe in that world...

[mybipolarlife33]

The Killer Within...

10/27/16

Hello,

 I can honestly say that I don’t think I have ever posted anything on Facebook.  I am not exactly sure why I chose today, but here goes.  I don’t think anyone will actually read this so I guess I don’t really have anything to lose.

 The world can be a cruel place.  God, if you believe in God, can play devastating tricks on people.  There are many debilitating diseases out there that affect millions of people everyday.  People suffer endlessly, people die painfully, and all the while their loved ones suffer as they watch the inevitable happen.  They watch as cruel fate destroys life.  They watch as love and happiness crumble into darkness and death.

 The ultimate cruelty however lies in the silent suffering.  The disease you can’t see.  The disease that creeps in without warning and slowly, methodically and inevitably kills you from the inside, deep within the depths of your brain.  Without explanation, without prejudice and without mercy it consumes you, paralyzing you, forever changing you.  Your mind becomes a dictator and you are powerless to stop it.

 My name is Chad and I am Bipolar.  I have been for most of my life.  I knew at a very young age that there was something very wrong with me.  I had wild mood swings that left me sobbing uncontrollably one minute, then to uncontrollable rage the next.  Alcohol and a litany of drugs were a constant in my life from the time I was fourteen.  “Self medication” was all that I knew.  I couldn’t control my mind or my thoughts by myself, but when you are a teenager, what else can you do?  I wanted to die, but I couldn’t bring myself to suicide at that young age so I did incredibly stupid things to hopefully do it for me.  That is for another story.  It didn’t work.

 I am 43 years old now.  I have been to dozens of doctors, therapists and psychiatrists.  I have been on just about every medication there is.  I have experienced every up, every down, and every gut wrenching side affect imaginable.  I have been hospitalized, poked, prodded, tested and humiliated.  I even got so desperate last year I agreed to ECT.  If you don’t know what that is, it’s Electroshock Therapy, and yes, it is as bad as it sounds.  And yet, after all that, here I still am, hopelessly broken, sad, exhausted, alone in my struggle, still wanting to die everyday, just like when I was a teenager, just to get some peace.  It’s never ending.  It’s relentless.

 So what is this all about you ask?  This is not a cry for help.  I am way beyond that.  This is to let you know that each and every one of you, whether you know it or not, has a friend, has a family member, has someone out there that is struggling and they desperately need someone to reach out to them.  It doesn’t take much, only a few seconds, just to say, “Are you ok?”  Three simple words can make all the difference.

 Lately, it seems to be a fashionable thing for celebrities to come forward and talk about their private struggles with mental illness.  I think that is great.  Breaking down the stigma and shame of mental illness should be on the forefront of the American conversation.

 I am not a celebrity.  I am a regular person who has a voice and I have something very important to say.  A desperate plea for everyone reading this to share this with anyone who will listen.  If you are struggling, you are not alone.  Reach out to someone, anyone, just do it.  If you know someone who is struggling or you think might be, reach out to him or her today, you just might save a life.

 Suicide is devastating, there is no question.  For those left behind there are only unanswered questions and hurt feelings.  So often we hear “I had no idea.”  Take it from someone who has made the conscious decision to take their own life, only to be brought back and given a second chance.  In that desperate moment, when all is lost, we are not ending it all to spite the people who will be left behind, we make that decision because we no longer want to hurt the people who are watching us suffer the most.  We want to give them a reprieve from the pain and anguish that lingers day after day in the depths of despair and depression.  It’s the only way.  It is an awful choice.  Just imagine thinking that death is a better option than life.  True suffering it seems, only has one answer.

 I would like to thank anyone who is still reading this.  If you take only one thing from this, remember just because someone has a mental illness they are not any less of a human being.  You don’t have to be ashamed or embarrassed.  You don’t have to suffer alone, you don’t need to be afraid, and you don’t have to be silent anymore. 

 Life is filled with endless possibilities.  We all have our own path.  Take the time to make a difference in someone’s life if you have the chance.  There is truly nothing that is more rewarding.

 Since this is social media, go ahead and share this, get the word out there, this story is not over by any means, it has only just begun.

 My name is Chad.  I am Bipolar.  I am no longer ashamed.  For many years I have not been afraid to die.  I can now honestly say that I am no longer afraid to live.

 Thank you..

[readbookywooks]

High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth or Ormus and of Ind, Or where the gorgeous East with richest hand Showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold, Satan exalted sat, by merit raised To that bad eminence; and, from despair Thus high uplifted beyond hope, aspires Beyond thus high, insatiate to pursue Vain war with Heaven; and, by success untaught, His proud imaginations thus displayed:--  "Powers and Dominions, Deities of Heaven!-- For, since no deep within her gulf can hold Immortal vigour, though oppressed and fallen, I give not Heaven for lost: from this descent Celestial Virtues rising will appear More glorious and more dread than from no fall, And trust themselves to fear no second fate!-- Me though just right, and the fixed laws of Heaven, Did first create your leader--next, free choice With what besides in council or in fight Hath been achieved of merit--yet this loss, Thus far at least recovered, hath much more Established in a safe, unenvied throne, Yielded with full consent. The happier state In Heaven, which follows dignity, might draw Envy from each inferior; but who here Will envy whom the highest place exposes Foremost to stand against the Thunderer's aim Your bulwark, and condemns to greatest share Of endless pain? Where there is, then, no good For which to strive, no strife can grow up there From faction: for none sure will claim in Hell Precedence; none whose portion is so small Of present pain that with ambitious mind Will covet more! With this advantage, then, To union, and firm faith, and firm accord, More than can be in Heaven, we now return To claim our just inheritance of old, Surer to prosper than prosperity Could have assured us; and by what best way, Whether of open war or covert guile, We now debate. Who can advise may speak."  He ceased; and next him Moloch, sceptred king, Stood up--the strongest and the fiercest Spirit That fought in Heaven, now fiercer by despair. His trust was with th' Eternal to be deemed Equal in strength, and rather than be less Cared not to be at all; with that care lost Went all his fear: of God, or Hell, or worse, He recked not, and these words thereafter spake:--  "My sentence is for open war. Of wiles, More unexpert, I boast not: them let those Contrive who need, or when they need; not now. For, while they sit contriving, shall the rest-- Millions that stand in arms, and longing wait The signal to ascend--sit lingering here, Heaven's fugitives, and for their dwelling-place Accept this dark opprobrious den of shame, The prison of his ryranny who reigns By our delay? No! let us rather choose, Armed with Hell-flames and fury, all at once O'er Heaven's high towers to force resistless way, Turning our tortures into horrid arms Against the Torturer; when, to meet the noise Of his almighty engine, he shall hear Infernal thunder, and, for lightning, see Black fire and horror shot with equal rage Among his Angels, and his throne itself Mixed with Tartarean sulphur and strange fire, His own invented torments. But perhaps The way seems difficult, and steep to scale With upright wing against a higher foe! Let such bethink them, if the sleepy drench Of that forgetful lake benumb not still, That in our porper motion we ascend Up to our native seat; descent and fall To us is adverse. Who but felt of late, When the fierce foe hung on our broken rear Insulting, and pursued us through the Deep, With what compulsion and laborious flight We sunk thus low? Th' ascent is easy, then; Th' event is feared! Should we again provoke Our stronger, some worse way his wrath may find To our destruction, if there be in Hell Fear to be worse destroyed! What can be worse Than to dwell here, driven out from bliss, condemned In this abhorred deep to utter woe! Where pain of unextinguishable fire Must exercise us without hope of end The vassals of his anger, when the scourge Inexorably, and the torturing hour, Calls us to penance? More destroyed than thus, We should be quite abolished, and expire. What fear we then? what doubt we to incense His utmost ire? which, to the height enraged, Will either quite consume us, and reduce To nothing this essential--happier far Than miserable to have eternal being!-- Or, if our substance be indeed divine, And cannot cease to be, we are at worst On this side nothing; and by proof we feel Our power sufficient to disturb his Heaven, And with perpetual inroads to alarm, Though inaccessible, his fatal throne: Which, if not victory, is yet revenge."  He ended frowning, and his look denounced Desperate revenge, and battle dangerous To less than gods. On th' other side up rose Belial, in act more graceful and humane. A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemed For dignity composed, and high exploit. But all was false and hollow; though his tongue Dropped manna, and could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest counsels: for his thoughts were low-- To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds Timorous and slothful. Yet he pleased the ear, And with persuasive accent thus began:--  "I should be much for open war, O Peers, As not behind in hate, if what was urged Main reason to persuade immediate war Did not dissuade me most, and seem to cast Ominous conjecture on the whole success; When he who most excels in fact of arms, In what he counsels and in what excels Mistrustful, grounds his courage on despair And utter dissolution, as the scope Of all his aim, after some dire revenge. First, what revenge? The towers of Heaven are filled With armed watch, that render all access Impregnable: oft on the bodering Deep Encamp their legions, or with obscure wing Scout far and wide into the realm of Night, Scorning surprise. Or, could we break our way By force, and at our heels all Hell should rise With blackest insurrection to confound Heaven's purest light, yet our great Enemy, All incorruptible, would on his throne Sit unpolluted, and th' ethereal mould, Incapable of stain, would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repulsed, our final hope Is flat despair: we must exasperate Th' Almighty Victor to spend all his rage; And that must end us; that must be our cure-- To be no more. Sad cure! for who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated Night, Devoid of sense and motion? And who knows, Let this be good, whether our angry Foe Can give it, or will ever? How he can Is doubtful; that he never will is sure. Will he, so wise, let loose at once his ire, Belike through impotence or unaware, To give his enemies their wish, and end Them in his anger whom his anger saves To punish endless? 'Wherefore cease we, then?' Say they who counsel war; 'we are decreed, Reserved, and destined to eternal woe; Whatever doing, what can we suffer more, What can we suffer worse?' Is this, then, worst-- Thus sitting, thus consulting, thus in arms? What when we fled amain, pursued and struck With Heaven's afflicting thunder, and besought The Deep to shelter us? This Hell then seemed A refuge from those wounds. Or when we lay Chained on the burning lake? That sure was worse. What if the breath that kindled those grim fires, Awaked, should blow them into sevenfold rage, And plunge us in the flames; or from above Should intermitted vengeance arm again His red right hand to plague us? What if all Her stores were opened, and this firmament Of Hell should spout her cataracts of fire, Impendent horrors, threatening hideous fall One day upon our heads; while we perhaps, Designing or exhorting glorious war, Caught in a fiery tempest, shall be hurled, Each on his rock transfixed, the sport and prey Or racking whirlwinds, or for ever sunk Under yon boiling ocean, wrapt in chains, There to converse with everlasting groans, Unrespited, unpitied, unreprieved, Ages of hopeless end? This would be worse. War, therefore, open or concealed, alike My voice dissuades; for what can force or guile With him, or who deceive his mind, whose eye Views all things at one view? He from Heaven's height All these our motions vain sees and derides, Not more almighty to resist our might Than wise to frustrate all our plots and wiles. Shall we, then, live thus vile--the race of Heaven Thus trampled, thus expelled, to suffer here Chains and these torments? Better these than worse, By my advice; since fate inevitable Subdues us, and omnipotent decree, The Victor's will. To suffer, as to do, Our strength is equal; nor the law unjust That so ordains. This was at first resolved, If we were wise, against so great a foe Contending, and so doubtful what might fall. I laugh when those who at the spear are bold And venturous, if that fail them, shrink, and fear What yet they know must follow--to endure Exile, or igominy, or bonds, or pain, The sentence of their Conqueror. This is now Our doom; which if we can sustain and bear, Our Supreme Foe in time may much remit His anger, and perhaps, thus far removed, Not mind us not offending, satisfied With what is punished; whence these raging fires Will slacken, if his breath stir not their flames. Our purer essence then will overcome Their noxious vapour; or, inured, not feel; Or, changed at length, and to the place conformed In temper and in nature, will receive Familiar the fierce heat; and, void of pain, This horror will grow mild, this darkness light; Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe."  Thus Belial, with words clothed in reason's garb, Counselled ignoble ease and peaceful sloth, Not peace; and after him thus Mammon spake:--  "Either to disenthrone the King of Heaven We war, if war be best, or to regain Our own right lost. Him to unthrone we then May hope, when everlasting Fate shall yield To fickle Chance, and Chaos judge the strife. The former, vain to hope, argues as vain The latter; for what place can be for us Within Heaven's bound, unless Heaven's Lord supreme We overpower? Suppose he should relent And publish grace to all, on promise made Of new subjection; with what eyes could we Stand in his presence humble, and receive Strict laws imposed, to celebrate his throne With warbled hyms, and to his Godhead sing Forced hallelujahs, while he lordly sits Our envied sovereign, and his altar breathes Ambrosial odours and ambrosial flowers, Our servile offerings? This must be our task In Heaven, this our delight. How wearisome Eternity so spent in worship paid To whom we hate! Let us not then pursue, By force impossible, by leave obtained Unacceptable, though in Heaven, our state Of splendid vassalage; but rather seek Our own good from ourselves, and from our own Live to ourselves, though in this vast recess, Free and to none accountable, preferring Hard liberty before the easy yoke Of servile pomp. Our greatness will appear Then most conspicuous when great things of small, Useful of hurtful, prosperous of adverse, We can create, and in what place soe'er Thrive under evil, and work ease out of pain Through labour and endurance. This deep world Of darkness do we dread? How oft amidst Thick clouds and dark doth Heaven's all-ruling Sire Choose to reside, his glory unobscured, And with the majesty of darkness round Covers his throne, from whence deep thunders roar. Mustering their rage, and Heaven resembles Hell! As he our darkness, cannot we his light Imitate when we please? This desert soil Wants not her hidden lustre, gems and gold; Nor want we skill or art from whence to raise Magnificence; and what can Heaven show more? Our torments also may, in length of time, Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper; which must needs remove The sensible of pain. All things invite To peaceful counsels, and the settled state Of order, how in safety best we may Compose our present evils, with regard Of what we are and where, dismissing quite All thoughts of war. Ye have what I advise."  He scarce had finished, when such murmur filled Th' assembly as when hollow rocks retain The sound of blustering winds, which all night long Had roused the sea, now with hoarse cadence lull Seafaring men o'erwatched, whose bark by chance Or pinnace, anchors in a craggy bay After the tempest. Such applause was heard As Mammon ended, and his sentence pleased, Advising peace: for such another field They dreaded worse than Hell; so much the fear Of thunder and the sword of Michael Wrought still within them; and no less desire To found this nether empire, which might rise, By policy and long process of time, In emulation opposite to Heaven. Which when Beelzebub perceived--than whom, Satan except, none higher sat--with grave Aspect he rose, and in his rising seemed A pillar of state. Deep on his front engraven Deliberation sat, and public care; And princely counsel in his face yet shone, Majestic, though in ruin. Sage he stood With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or summer's noontide air, while thus he spake:--  "Thrones and Imperial Powers, Offspring of Heaven, Ethereal Virtues! or these titles now Must we renounce, and, changing style, be called Princes of Hell? for so the popular vote Inclines--here to continue, and build up here A growing empire; doubtless! while we dream, And know not that the King of Heaven hath doomed This place our dungeon, not our safe retreat Beyond his potent arm, to live exempt From Heaven's high jurisdiction, in new league Banded against his throne, but to remain In strictest bondage, though thus far removed, Under th' inevitable curb, reserved His captive multitude. For he, to be sure, In height or depth, still first and last will reign Sole king, and of his kingdom lose no part By our revolt, but over Hell extend His empire, and with iron sceptre rule Us here, as with his golden those in Heaven. What sit we then projecting peace and war? War hath determined us and foiled with loss Irreparable; terms of peace yet none Vouchsafed or sought; for what peace will be given To us enslaved, but custody severe, And stripes and arbitrary punishment Inflicted? and what peace can we return, But, to our power, hostility and hate, Untamed reluctance, and revenge, though slow, Yet ever plotting how the Conqueror least May reap his conquest, and may least rejoice In doing what we most in suffering feel? Nor will occasion want, nor shall we need With dangerous expedition to invade Heaven, whose high walls fear no assault or siege, Or ambush from the Deep. What if we find Some easier enterprise? There is a place (If ancient and prophetic fame in Heaven Err not)--another World, the happy seat Of some new race, called Man, about this time To be created like to us, though less In power and excellence, but favoured more Of him who rules above; so was his will Pronounced among the Gods, and by an oath That shook Heaven's whole circumference confirmed. Thither let us bend all our thoughts, to learn What creatures there inhabit, of what mould Or substance, how endued, and what their power And where their weakness: how attempted best, By force of subtlety. Though Heaven be shut, And Heaven's high Arbitrator sit secure In his own strength, this place may lie exposed, The utmost border of his kingdom, left To their defence who hold it: here, perhaps, Some advantageous act may be achieved By sudden onset--either with Hell-fire To waste his whole creation, or possess All as our own, and drive, as we were driven, The puny habitants; or, if not drive, Seduce them to our party, that their God May prove their foe, and with repenting hand Abolish his own works. This would surpass Common revenge, and interrupt his joy In our confusion, and our joy upraise In his disturbance; when his darling sons, Hurled headlong to partake with us, shall curse Their frail original, and faded bliss-- Faded so soon! Advise if this be worth Attempting, or to sit in darkness here Hatching vain empires." Thus beelzebub Pleaded his devilish counsel--first devised By Satan, and in part proposed: for whence, But from the author of all ill, could spring So deep a malice, to confound the race Of mankind in one root, and Earth with Hell To mingle and involve, done all to spite The great Creator? But their spite still serves His glory to augment. The bold design Pleased highly those infernal States, and joy Sparkled in all their eyes: with full assent They vote: whereat his speech he thus renews:-- "Well have ye judged, well ended long debate, Synod of Gods, and, like to what ye are, Great things resolved, which from the lowest deep Will once more lift us up, in spite of fate, Nearer our ancient seat--perhaps in view Of those bright confines, whence, with neighbouring arms, And opportune excursion, we may chance Re-enter Heaven; or else in some mild zone Dwell, not unvisited of Heaven's fair light, Secure, and at the brightening orient beam Purge off this gloom: the soft delicious air, To heal the scar of these corrosive fires, Shall breathe her balm. But, first, whom shall we send In search of this new World? whom shall we find Sufficient? who shall tempt with wandering feet The dark, unbottomed, infinite Abyss, And through the palpable obscure find out His uncouth way, or spread his airy flight, Upborne with indefatigable wings Over the vast abrupt, ere he arrive The happy Isle? What strength, what art, can then Suffice, or what evasion bear him safe, Through the strict senteries and stations thick Of Angels watching round? Here he had need All circumspection: and we now no less Choice in our suffrage; for on whom we send The weight of all, and our last hope, relies."  This said, he sat; and expectation held His look suspense, awaiting who appeared To second, or oppose, or undertake The perilous attempt. But all sat mute, Pondering the danger with deep thoughts; and each In other's countenance read his own dismay, Astonished. None among the choice and prime Of those Heaven-warring champions could be found So hardy as to proffer or accept, Alone, the dreadful voyage; till, at last, Satan, whom now transcendent glory raised Above his fellows, with monarchal pride Conscious of highest worth, unmoved thus spake:--  "O Progeny of Heaven! Empyreal Thrones! With reason hath deep silence and demur Seized us, though undismayed. Long is the way And hard, that out of Hell leads up to light. Our prison strong, this huge convex of fire, Outrageous to devour, immures us round Ninefold; and gates of burning adamant, Barred over us, prohibit all egress. These passed, if any pass, the void profound Of unessential Night receives him next, Wide-gaping, and with utter loss of being Threatens him, plunged in that abortive gulf. If thence he scape, into whatever world, Or unknown region, what remains him less Than unknown dangers, and as hard escape? But I should ill become this throne, O Peers, And this imperial sovereignty, adorned With splendour, armed with power, if aught proposed And judged of public moment in the shape Of difficulty or danger, could deter Me from attempting. Wherefore do I assume These royalties, and not refuse to reign, Refusing to accept as great a share Of hazard as of honour, due alike To him who reigns, and so much to him due Of hazard more as he above the rest High honoured sits? Go, therefore, mighty Powers, Terror of Heaven, though fallen; intend at home, While here shall be our home, what best may ease The present misery, and render Hell More tolerable; if there be cure or charm To respite, or deceive, or slack the pain Of this ill mansion: intermit no watch Against a wakeful foe, while I abroad Through all the coasts of dark destruction seek Deliverance for us all. This enterprise None shall partake with me." Thus saying, rose The Monarch, and prevented all reply; Prudent lest, from his resolution raised, Others among the chief might offer now, Certain to be refused, what erst they feared, And, so refused, might in opinion stand His rivals, winning cheap the high repute Which he through hazard huge must earn. But they Dreaded not more th' adventure than his voice Forbidding; and at once with him they rose. Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote. Towards him they bend With awful reverence prone, and as a God Extol him equal to the Highest in Heaven. Nor failed they to express how much they praised That for the general safety he despised His own: for neither do the Spirits damned Lose all their virtue; lest bad men should boast Their specious deeds on earth, which glory excites, Or close ambition varnished o'er with zeal.  Thus they their doubtful consultations dark Ended, rejoicing in their matchless Chief: As, when from mountain-tops the dusky clouds Ascending, while the north wind sleeps, o'erspread Heaven's cheerful face, the louring element Scowls o'er the darkened landscape snow or shower, If chance the radiant sun, with farewell sweet, Extend his evening beam, the fields revive, The birds their notes renew, and bleating herds Attest their joy, that hill and valley rings. O shame to men! Devil with devil damned Firm concord holds; men only disagree Of creatures rational, though under hope Of heavenly grace, and, God proclaiming peace, Yet live in hatred, enmity, and strife Among themselves, and levy cruel wars Wasting the earth, each other to destroy: As if (which might induce us to accord) Man had not hellish foes enow besides, That day and night for his destruction wait!  The Stygian council thus dissolved; and forth In order came the grand infernal Peers: Midst came their mighty Paramount, and seemed Alone th' antagonist of Heaven, nor less Than Hell's dread Emperor, with pomp supreme, And god-like imitated state: him round A globe of fiery Seraphim enclosed With bright emblazonry, and horrent arms. Then of their session ended they bid cry With trumpet's regal sound the great result: Toward the four winds four speedy Cherubim Put to their mouths the sounding alchemy, By herald's voice explained; the hollow Abyss Heard far adn wide, and all the host of Hell With deafening shout returned them loud acclaim. Thence more at ease their minds, and somewhat raised By false presumptuous hope, the ranged Powers Disband; and, wandering, each his several way Pursues, as inclination or sad choice Leads him perplexed, where he may likeliest find Truce to his restless thoughts, and entertain The irksome hours, till his great Chief return. Part on the plain, or in the air sublime, Upon the wing or in swift race contend, As at th' Olympian games or Pythian fields; Part curb their fiery steeds, or shun the goal With rapid wheels, or fronted brigades form: As when, to warn proud cities, war appears Waged in the troubled sky, and armies rush To battle in the clouds; before each van Prick forth the airy knights, and couch their spears, Till thickest legions close; with feats of arms From either end of heaven the welkin burns. Others, with vast Typhoean rage, more fell, Rend up both rocks and hills, and ride the air In whirlwind; Hell scarce holds the wild uproar:-- As when Alcides, from Oechalia crowned With conquest, felt th' envenomed robe, and tore Through pain up by the roots Thessalian pines, And Lichas from the top of Oeta threw Into th' Euboic sea. Others, more mild, Retreated in a silent valley, sing With notes angelical to many a harp Their own heroic deeds, and hapless fall By doom of battle, and complain that Fate Free Virtue should enthrall to Force or Chance. Their song was partial; but the harmony (What could it less when Spirits immortal sing?) Suspended Hell, and took with ravishment The thronging audience. In discourse more sweet (For Eloquence the Soul, Song charms the Sense) Others apart sat on a hill retired, In thoughts more elevate, and reasoned high Of Providence, Foreknowledge, Will, and Fate-- Fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute, And found no end, in wandering mazes lost. Of good and evil much they argued then, Of happiness and final misery, Passion and apathy, and glory and shame: Vain wisdom all, and false philosophy!-- Yet, with a pleasing sorcery, could charm Pain for a while or anguish, and excite Fallacious hope, or arm th' obdured breast With stubborn patience as with triple steel. Another part, in squadrons and gross bands, On bold adventure to discover wide That dismal world, if any clime perhaps Might yield them easier habitation, bend Four ways their flying march, along the banks Of four infernal rivers, that disgorge Into the burning lake their baleful streams-- Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate; Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep; Cocytus, named of lamentation loud Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegeton, Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage. Far off from these, a slow and silent stream, Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks Forthwith his former state and being forgets-- Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain. Beyond this flood a frozen continent Lies dark and wild, beat with perpetual storms Of whirlwind and dire hail, which on firm land Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems Of ancient pile; all else deep snow and ice, A gulf profound as that Serbonian bog Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, Where armies whole have sunk: the parching air Burns frore, and cold performs th' effect of fire. Thither, by harpy-footed Furies haled, At certain revolutions all the damned Are brought; and feel by turns the bitter change Of fierce extremes, extremes by change more fierce, From beds of raging fire to starve in ice Their soft ethereal warmth, and there to pine Immovable, infixed, and frozen round Periods of time,--thence hurried back to fire. They ferry over this Lethean sound Both to and fro, their sorrow to augment, And wish and struggle, as they pass, to reach The tempting stream, with one small drop to lose In sweet forgetfulness all pain and woe, All in one moment, and so near the brink; But Fate withstands, and, to oppose th' attempt, Medusa with Gorgonian terror guards The ford, and of itself the water flies All taste of living wight, as once it fled The lip of Tantalus. Thus roving on In confused march forlorn, th' adventurous bands, With shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast, Viewed first their lamentable lot, and found No rest. Through many a dark and dreary vale They passed, and many a region dolorous, O'er many a frozen, many a fiery alp, Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death-- A universe of death, which God by curse Created evil, for evil only good; Where all life dies, death lives, and Nature breeds, Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, Obominable, inutterable, and worse Than fables yet have feigned or fear conceived, Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimeras dire.  Meanwhile the Adversary of God and Man, Satan, with thoughts inflamed of highest design, Puts on swift wings, and toward the gates of Hell Explores his solitary flight: sometimes He scours the right hand coast, sometimes the left; Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars Up to the fiery concave towering high. As when far off at sea a fleet descried Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring Their spicy drugs; they on the trading flood, Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape, Ply stemming nightly toward the pole: so seemed Far off the flying Fiend. At last appear Hell-bounds, high reaching to the horrid roof, And thrice threefold the gates; three folds were brass, Three iron, three of adamantine rock, Impenetrable, impaled with circling fire, Yet unconsumed. Before the gates there sat On either side a formidable Shape. The one seemed woman to the waist, and fair, But ended foul in many a scaly fold, Voluminous and vast--a serpent armed With mortal sting. About her middle round A cry of Hell-hounds never-ceasing barked With wide Cerberean mouths full loud, and rung A hideous peal; yet, when they list, would creep, If aught disturbed their noise, into her womb, And kennel there; yet there still barked and howled Within unseen. Far less abhorred than these Vexed Scylla, bathing in the sea that parts Calabria from the hoarse Trinacrian shore; Nor uglier follow the night-hag, when, called In secret, riding through the air she comes, Lured with the smell of infant blood, to dance With Lapland witches, while the labouring moon Eclipses at their charms. The other Shape-- If shape it might be called that shape had none Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb; Or substance might be called that shadow seemed, For each seemed either--black it stood as Night, Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, And shook a dreadful dart: what seemed his head The likeness of a kingly crown had on. Satan was now at hand, and from his seat The monster moving onward came as fast With horrid strides; Hell trembled as he strode. Th' undaunted Fiend what this might be admired-- Admired, not feared (God and his Son except, Created thing naught valued he nor shunned), And with disdainful look thus first began:--  "Whence and what art thou, execrable Shape, That dar'st, though grim and terrible, advance Thy miscreated front athwart my way To yonder gates? Through them I mean to pass, That be assured, without leave asked of thee. Retire; or taste thy folly, and learn by proof, Hell-born, not to contend with Spirits of Heaven."  To whom the Goblin, full of wrath, replied:-- "Art thou that traitor Angel? art thou he, Who first broke peace in Heaven and faith, till then Unbroken, and in proud rebellious arms Drew after him the third part of Heaven's sons, Conjured against the Highest--for which both thou And they, outcast from God, are here condemned To waste eternal days in woe and pain? And reckon'st thou thyself with Spirits of Heaven Hell-doomed, and breath'st defiance here and scorn, Where I reign king, and, to enrage thee more, Thy king and lord? Back to thy punishment, False fugitive; and to thy speed add wings, Lest with a whip of scorpions I pursue Thy lingering, or with one stroke of this dart Strange horror seize thee, and pangs unfelt before."  So spake the grisly Terror, and in shape, So speaking and so threatening, grew tenfold, More dreadful and deform. On th' other side, Incensed with indignation, Satan stood Unterrified, and like a comet burned, That fires the length of Ophiuchus huge In th' arctic sky, and from his horrid hair Shakes pestilence and war. Each at the head Levelled his deadly aim; their fatal hands No second stroke intend; and such a frown Each cast at th' other as when two black clouds, With heaven's artillery fraught, came rattling on Over the Caspian,--then stand front to front Hovering a space, till winds the signal blow To join their dark encounter in mid-air. So frowned the mighty combatants that Hell Grew darker at their frown; so matched they stood; For never but once more was wither like To meet so great a foe. And now great deeds Had been achieved, whereof all Hell had rung, Had not the snaky Sorceress, that sat Fast by Hell-gate and kept the fatal key, Risen, and with hideous outcry rushed between.  "O father, what intends thy hand," she cried, "Against thy only son? What fury, O son, Possesses thee to bend that mortal dart Against thy father's head? And know'st for whom? For him who sits above, and laughs the while At thee, ordained his drudge to execute Whate'er his wrath, which he calls justice, bids-- His wrath, which one day will destroy ye both!"  She spake, and at her words the hellish Pest Forbore: then these to her Satan returned:--  "So strange thy outcry, and thy words so strange Thou interposest, that my sudden hand, Prevented, spares to tell thee yet by deeds What it intends, till first I know of thee What thing thou art, thus double-formed, and why, In this infernal vale first met, thou call'st Me father, and that phantasm call'st my son. I know thee not, nor ever saw till now Sight more detestable than him and thee."  T' whom thus the Portress of Hell-gate replied:-- "Hast thou forgot me, then; and do I seem Now in thine eye so foul?--once deemed so fair In Heaven, when at th' assembly, and in sight Of all the Seraphim with thee combined In bold conspiracy against Heaven's King, All on a sudden miserable pain Surprised thee, dim thine eyes and dizzy swum In darkness, while thy head flames thick and fast Threw forth, till on the left side opening wide, Likest to thee in shape and countenance bright, Then shining heavenly fair, a goddess armed, Out of thy head I sprung. Amazement seized All th' host of Heaven; back they recoiled afraid At first, and called me Sin, and for a sign Portentous held me; but, familiar grown, I pleased, and with attractive graces won The most averse--thee chiefly, who, full oft Thyself in me thy perfect image viewing, Becam'st enamoured; and such joy thou took'st With me in secret that my womb conceived A growing burden. Meanwhile war arose, And fields were fought in Heaven: wherein remained (For what could else?) to our Almighty Foe Clear victory; to our part loss and rout Through all the Empyrean. Down they fell, Driven headlong from the pitch of Heaven, down Into this Deep; and in the general fall I also: at which time this powerful key Into my hands was given, with charge to keep These gates for ever shut, which none can pass Without my opening. Pensive here I sat Alone; but long I sat not, till my womb, Pregnant by thee, and now excessive grown, Prodigious motion felt and rueful throes. At last this odious offspring whom thou seest, Thine own begotten, breaking violent way, Tore through my entrails, that, with fear and pain Distorted, all my nether shape thus grew Transformed: but he my inbred enemy Forth issued, brandishing his fatal dart, Made to destroy. I fled, and cried out Death! Hell trembled at the hideous name, and sighed From all her caves, and back resounded Death! I fled; but he pursued (though more, it seems, Inflamed with lust than rage), and, swifter far, Me overtook, his mother, all dismayed, And, in embraces forcible and foul Engendering with me, of that rape begot These yelling monsters, that with ceaseless cry Surround me, as thou saw'st--hourly conceived And hourly born, with sorrow infinite To me; for, when they list, into the womb That bred them they return, and howl, and gnaw My bowels, their repast; then, bursting forth Afresh, with conscious terrors vex me round, That rest or intermission none I find. Before mine eyes in opposition sits Grim Death, my son and foe, who set them on, And me, his parent, would full soon devour For want of other prey, but that he knows His end with mine involved, and knows that I Should prove a bitter morsel, and his bane, Whenever that shall be: so Fate pronounced. But thou, O father, I forewarn thee, shun His deadly arrow; neither vainly hope To be invulnerable in those bright arms, Through tempered heavenly; for that mortal dint, Save he who reigns above, none can resist."  She finished; and the subtle Fiend his lore Soon learned, now milder, and thus answered smooth:--  "Dear daughter--since thou claim'st me for thy sire, And my fair son here show'st me, the dear pledge Of dalliance had with thee in Heaven, and joys Then sweet, now sad to mention, through dire change Befallen us unforeseen, unthought-of--know, I come no enemy, but to set free From out this dark and dismal house of pain Both him and thee, and all the heavenly host Of Spirits that, in our just pretences armed, Fell with us from on high. From them I go This uncouth errand sole, and one for all Myself expose, with lonely steps to tread Th' unfounded Deep, and through the void immense To search, with wandering quest, a place foretold Should be--and, by concurring signs, ere now Created vast and round--a place of bliss In the purlieus of Heaven; and therein placed A race of upstart creatures, to supply Perhaps our vacant room, though more removed, Lest Heaven, surcharged with potent multitude, Might hap to move new broils. Be this, or aught Than this more secret, now designed, I haste To know; and, this once known, shall soon return, And bring ye to the place where thou and Death Shall dwell at ease, and up and down unseen Wing silently the buxom air, embalmed With odours. There ye shall be fed and filled Immeasurably; all things shall be your prey."  He ceased; for both seemed highly pleased, and Death Grinned horrible a ghastly smile, to hear His famine should be filled, and blessed his maw Destined to that good hour. No less rejoiced His mother bad, and thus bespake her sire:--  "The key of this infernal Pit, by due And by command of Heaven's all-powerful King, I keep, by him forbidden to unlock These adamantine gates; against all force Death ready stands to interpose his dart, Fearless to be o'ermatched by living might. But what owe I to his commands above, Who hates me, and hath hither thrust me down Into this gloom of Tartarus profound, To sit in hateful office here confined, Inhabitant of Heaven and heavenly born-- Here in perpetual agony and pain, With terrors and with clamours compassed round Of mine own brood, that on my bowels feed? Thou art my father, thou my author, thou My being gav'st me; whom should I obey But thee? whom follow? Thou wilt bring me soon To that new world of light and bliss, among The gods who live at ease, where I shall reign At thy right hand voluptuous, as beseems Thy daughter and thy darling, without end."  Thus saying, from her side the fatal key, Sad instrument of all our woe, she took; And, towards the gate rolling her bestial train, Forthwith the huge portcullis high up-drew, Which, but herself, not all the Stygian Powers Could once have moved; then in the key-hole turns Th' intricate wards, and every bolt and bar Of massy iron or solid rock with ease Unfastens. On a sudden open fly, With impetuous recoil and jarring sound, Th' infernal doors, and on their hinges grate Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook Of Erebus. She opened; but to shut Excelled her power: the gates wide open stood, That with extended wings a bannered host, Under spread ensigns marching, mibht pass through With horse and chariots ranked in loose array; So wide they stood, and like a furnace-mouth Cast forth redounding smoke and ruddy flame. Before their eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the hoary Deep--a dark Illimitable ocean, without bound, Without dimension; where length, breadth, and height, And time, and place, are lost; where eldest Night And Chaos, ancestors of Nature, hold Eternal anarchy, amidst the noise Of endless wars, and by confusion stand. For Hot, Cold, Moist, and Dry, four champions fierce, Strive here for mastery, and to battle bring Their embryon atoms: they around the flag Of each his faction, in their several clans, Light-armed or heavy, sharp, smooth, swift, or slow, Swarm populous, unnumbered as the sands Of Barca or Cyrene's torrid soil, Levied to side with warring winds, and poise Their lighter wings. To whom these most adhere He rules a moment: Chaos umpire sits, And by decision more embroils the fray By which he reigns: next him, high arbiter, Chance governs all. Into this wild Abyss, The womb of Nature, and perhaps her grave, Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire, But all these in their pregnant causes mixed Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight, Unless th' Almighty Maker them ordain His dark materials to create more worlds-- Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while, Pondering his voyage; for no narrow frith He had to cross. Nor was his ear less pealed With noises loud and ruinous (to compare Great things with small) than when Bellona storms With all her battering engines, bent to rase Some capital city; or less than if this frame Of Heaven were falling, and these elements In mutiny had from her axle torn The steadfast Earth. At last his sail-broad vans He spread for flight, and, in the surging smoke Uplifted, spurns the ground; thence many a league, As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides Audacious; but, that seat soon failing, meets A vast vacuity. All unawares, Fluttering his pennons vain, plumb-down he drops Ten thousand fathom deep, and to this hour Down had been falling, had not, by ill chance, The strong rebuff of some tumultuous cloud, Instinct with fire and nitre, hurried him As many miles aloft. That fury stayed-- Quenched in a boggy Syrtis, neither sea, Nor good dry land--nigh foundered, on he fares, Treading the crude consistence, half on foot, Half flying; behoves him now both oar and sail. As when a gryphon through the wilderness With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale, Pursues the Arimaspian, who by stealth Had from his wakeful custody purloined The guarded gold; so eagerly the Fiend O'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way, And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies. At length a universal hubbub wild Of stunning sounds, and voices all confused, Borne through the hollow dark, assaults his ear With loudest vehemence. Thither he plies Undaunted, to meet there whatever Power Or Spirit of the nethermost Abyss Might in that noise reside, of whom to ask Which way the nearest coast of darkness lies Bordering on light; when straight behold the throne Of Chaos, and his dark pavilion spread Wide on the wasteful Deep! With him enthroned Sat sable-vested Night, eldest of things, The consort of his reign; and by them stood Orcus and Ades, and the dreaded name Of Demogorgon; Rumour next, and Chance, And Tumult, and Confusion, all embroiled, And Discord with a thousand various mouths.  T' whom Satan, turning boldly, thus:--"Ye Powers And Spirtis of this nethermost Abyss, Chaos and ancient Night, I come no spy With purpose to explore or to disturb The secrets of your realm; but, by constraint Wandering this darksome desert, as my way Lies through your spacious empire up to light, Alone and without guide, half lost, I seek, What readiest path leads where your gloomy bounds Confine with Heaven; or, if some other place, From your dominion won, th' Ethereal King Possesses lately, thither to arrive I travel this profound. Direct my course: Directed, no mean recompense it brings To your behoof, if I that region lost, All usurpation thence expelled, reduce To her original darkness and your sway (Which is my present journey), and once more Erect the standard there of ancient Night. Yours be th' advantage all, mine the revenge!"  Thus Satan; and him thus the Anarch old, With faltering speech and visage incomposed, Answered:  "I know thee, stranger, who thou art--  *** That mighty leading Angel, who of late Made head against Heaven's King, though overthrown. I saw and heard; for such a numerous host Fled not in silence through the frighted Deep, With ruin upon ruin, rout on rout, Confusion worse confounded; and Heaven-gates Poured out by millions her victorious bands, Pursuing. I upon my frontiers here Keep residence; if all I can will serve That little which is left so to defend, Encroached on still through our intestine broils Weakening the sceptre of old Night: first, Hell, Your dungeon, stretching far and wide beneath; Now lately Heaven and Earth, another world Hung o'er my realm, linked in a golden chain To that side Heaven from whence your legions fell! If that way be your walk, you have not far; So much the nearer danger. Go, and speed; Havoc, and spoil, and ruin, are my gain."  He ceased; and Satan stayed not to reply, But, glad that now his sea should find a shore, With fresh alacrity and force renewed Springs upward, like a pyramid of fire, Into the wild expanse, and through the shock Of fighting elements, on all sides round Environed, wins his way; harder beset And more endangered than when Argo passed Through Bosporus betwixt the justling rocks, Or when Ulysses on the larboard shunned Charybdis, and by th' other whirlpool steered. So he with difficulty and labour hard Moved on, with difficulty and labour he; But, he once passed, soon after, when Man fell, Strange alteration! Sin and Death amain, Following his track (such was the will of Heaven) Paved after him a broad and beaten way Over the dark Abyss, whose boiling gulf Tamely endured a bridge of wondrous length, From Hell continued, reaching th' utmost orb Of this frail World; by which the Spirits perverse With easy intercourse pass to and fro To tempt or punish mortals, except whom God and good Angels guard by special grace.  But now at last the sacred influence Of light appears, and from the walls of Heaven Shoots far into the bosom of dim Night A glimmering dawn. Here Nature first begins Her farthest verge, and Chaos to retire, As from her outmost works, a broken foe, With tumult less and with less hostile din; That Satan with less toil, and now with ease, Wafts on the calmer wave by dubious light, And, like a weather-beaten vessel, holds Gladly the port, though shrouds and tackle torn; Or in the emptier waste, resembling air, Weighs his spread wings, at leisure to behold Far off th' empyreal Heaven, extended wide In circuit, undetermined square or round, With opal towers and battlements adorned Of living sapphire, once his native seat; And, fast by, hanging in a golden chain, This pendent World, in bigness as a star Of smallest magnitude close by the moon. Thither, full fraught with mischievous revenge, Accursed, and in a cursed hour, he hies.