#tw: attempted suicide

[holylulusworld]

Dishonored

Title: Dishonored

Summary: You fell. For his lies. For him. From grace.

Pairing: Prince!Steven Grant Rogers x Princess!Reader; Lord Barnes x Princess!Reader (no polyamory)

Warnings: heavy angst (I’m not joking), lies, manipulation, hurting people for revenge, implied loss of innocence, unwanted/unplanned pregnancy, Steve being the worst, sadness, hopelessness, desperation, suicidal tendency/suicidal thoughts, attempted suicide, fluff, we stan Bucky in this story

Rating: Mature

Words: 2,7 k 

Square filled for @anyfandomfluffbingo: Square 9: “I never loved you.”

Square filled for Lulu’s Winter Bingo 2022: Square 4: Winter

Square filled for @steverogersbingo: C3: Free space – Royal AU

Square filled for @buckybarnesbingo: C2: Sharing body heat

Please heed the warnings for this story. It contains triggering content such as attempted suicide.

You fell. For his lies. For him. From grace. 

How do you move on when your honor and grace get ripped away by the man who promised you love and devotion?

He lured you in – sweet-talked you into giving him the one thing you cherished the most. Your honor and innocence. Reserved for your future husband, and the man loving you unconditionally.

Lies. All lies.

It was a moment of weakness making you stumble and fall. Into his bed. Into his arms.

He took you apart, gentle, and slow. A miracle to you when you think about the aftermath.

A few months earlier, your father’s castle

“I can't believe Prince Steven came to woo me,” you mumbled to yourself. The prince arrived earlier this morning and you hoped your dreams would come true. You always felt a deep connection to the prince, and now, he’s here to talk to your father.

“Princess!” Your chambermaid scolded. “You shouldn’t be out here in the cold! Your father called for you. He wants you to meet Prince Steven. He will stay at the castle for a few weeks until he travels to his uncle’s castle.”

Your face fell. He came here to sit out the approaching snowstorm, nothing else.

How could you have been foolish enough to believe he came to ask for your hand?

“I’m…coming,” you tried to not cry. All your hopes and dreams ended up on the ground - shattered and torn. “We cannot let our guest wait.”

“Father,” you stepped confidently toward your father to peck his cheek. He was always soft on you, and let you break a few rules. Especially when it came to etiquette. You’re his little thunderstorm, a wild child with a bright mind and softness that’s hard to find among royals. “I heard we have a guest.”

“He’ll be here in a minute,” the king softly said. He ran his hand over your hair and patted your head. “I need you on your best behavior. I angered the prince, and we don’t want him to tell his father the king about it.”

You wrinkled your forehead. “What? I don’t understand,” you whispered so no one could hear. Your father is one of the kindest people you know. How could he possibly anger the prince?

“Your Highness,” Steven walked inside the throne room, accompanied by his best friend, and confident Lord Barnes. The brunette watched you with interest while the prince’s eyes drifted toward your brother and his fiancé, Lady Margaret Carter. “I see the princess will join us for supper.”

“Your Highness,” you turned your attention toward the prince. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. It’s been too long.” 

Steven eagerly took your offered hand to press a chaste kiss to the back of it. “The pleasure is all mine. Thank you for having me.”

“Lord Barnes,” you smiled at the brunette. Last time you saw him he was reading a book in the garden, chuckling at something he read. “I hope you’ll enjoy your stay. The library is always open for you.”

“Princess,” Lord Barnes smiled wildly. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

“Oh…my…you are too kind, Lord Barnes,” you replied gracefully and batted your eyelashes. “It’s always a pleasure having you around.”

Supper was more than pleasant. Lord Barnes kept the conversation flowing while the prince watched you the whole time. He complimented you and raised his glass on your beauty and grace.

You were surprised. His eyes seemed to be glued to your brother and his fiancé. Out of a sudden Prince Steven turned his attention toward you. He even stopped his friend from talking to you.

Your cheeks heated up, and you felt warm when he placed his hand next to yours, subtly brushing your pinkie with his finger.

It was the first time he was so close, and you allowed yourself to bask in his attention for as long as it lasted. 

The next days felt like a dream come true. Steven asked you to spend time with him and go for a walk in the gardens. For propriety's sake, a chaperon accompanied you and Steven. But you didn’t care at all.

The moments spent with the prince were the best of your life. He made you smile, and laugh and your heart flutter.

All that mattered to you was his smile, his soft blue eyes, and the way he looked at you. It was the same way your father looked at your father and your brother at his chosen bride.

“I wish these days will never end,” you dared to hope Steven would say the same.

He took you by surprise when he replied. “Even if they end,” he looked you deep in the eyes, leaning a little closer to whisper, “I’ll always come back to you."

The prince was about to press a soft kiss on your forehead when your chaperone stepped in.

“Your Highness, please do not forget you are wooing for a princess, not a wench. Remember your manners,” she tutted. “We should head back inside. It’s getting colder, and I can smell the snow.”

Marjorie, your chaperone was right. Winter came faster than expected, accompanied by a snowstorm that wouldn’t let up.

The whole country was suffering from the cold weather and the snow masses.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The snowstorm and unforgiving winter kept Steven and Lord Barnes from leaving your castle.

You didn’t mind. Most of the time you spend with Steven, chatting about his kingdom, childhood, and love.

Yes. Love.

You held hands, and when your chaperone wasn’t looking, he even stole kisses. Steven promised you that love is the most precious thing to protect in this world.

He played you well, you give him that.

Your heart couldn’t take being apart from Steven for a single moment. So, you gave him everything you had to offer, and what he was craving. 

On one of these cold winter nights, you let him sneak into your bedroom, and take you to bed. He kissed you, and when he settled between your thighs you believed he would make you his wife and love you forever.

When it was over, he smirked, and his eyes grew cold. Your heart dropped as he hastily redressed. “Steven, what are you doing?”

“My plan went well, didn’t it?” He looked at you, making you feel ashamed of yourself. You grabbed the blanket to cover your body. The one he ruined with his touch. 

“I don’t understand, Steven. My love. What has gotten into you? You said you love me.” You cried as he looked at you, wrinkling his nose at your disheveled state. 

“I never loved you,” he coldly replied. “Your father forced the woman I love to marry your brother,” he sneered and curled his lips. “I stole his beloved daughter’s innocence. What will he do if he finds out you are carrying my bastard under your heart?”

“Steven, I don’t…” Your voice trembled. “Why? I…”

“I came here to ask your father to stop this insanity and let me marry Margaret. I love her dearly. He refused and wanted to send me away.”

You remember now. Your father told you that he upset Steven.

“But…she came here, begging my father to help her. She wanted to marry my brother. Margaret wasn’t my father’s first choice. Some princesses and ladies were more beautiful and with a better reputation. He agreed because she was in love with my brother and threatened to kill herself if he didn’t allow her to marry my brother.”

“What?” He looked a little shell-shocked at your words but shook his head. “Lies!” Steven yelled, making you flinch. “Shut your mouth, wench. Never talk about Margaret like that again.” 

He left without looking back and slammed the door shut. Leaving you devasted, heartbroken, and ruined.

After that night, he never looked at you. He declared that he was going to stay at the guest wing until it was time to leave.

One month later, …

Hopelessness is the only thing left in your life. You can feel a new life growing in your womb. Every passing day brings you closer to doomsday. 

Soon you won’t be able to hide the secret. Soon everyone will know you got dishonored.

Foolish girl letting a man take what should have never been his.

You run your hand over your belly, choking out another sob. If you want to save what’s left of your honor, you must take matters into your own hands.

Shakily you glance at the balcony parapet again. If you do it now, you can save your honor, and your father’s. 

Stepping toward the parapet you release a shuddery breath.

What if it’s not high enough? What if you survive? What if they ask questions?

“No,” you step away from the parapet. This is the wrong way to go. You must let it look like an accident. Or maybe, if you can find someone selling you a potion, you can end your life painlessly and fast.

The river looked inviting to you. You look at the floating water, fascinated by its power and grace.

Once upon a time, you were gracefully too. 

That was until your grace and innocence got ripped away from you like it meant nothing to him. “If I step into the river, it will be over soon. Maybe they will believe it was an accident. I slipped and fell into the river.”

Slowly, you stepped toward the water, closing your eyes for a moment. This was the only way to save your honor. The water would wash away the sin you committed and take your secret with it.

You took another step, and another until you felt the cold water kiss your feet. “Cold.” You whispered but walked farther into the water, feeling it tug at your gown. “It will be over soon, my little stardust.” You rubbed your belly. “I’m so sorry.”

The water surrounded you, almost reaching your waistline as you heard someone call for you. “Princess! NO!”

It was Lord Barnes. His heart stopped beating for a moment when he saw you in the river. He knew something was wrong with the way his friend acted out of a sudden.

“Nooo!” You heard the water splashing and then, two strong arms wrapped around you like anchors holding you in this world. “What are you doing, princess.”

“I cannot…he dishonored me,” you choked out a heartbreaking sob. “I cannot remain. No man will want me. Not after he took my innocence and…the baby…it will be a bastard.”

Lord Barnes stiffened when the words floated out of your mouth like the water in the river. He couldn’t believe his friend and confidant would do such a thing to you for revenge.

“My love. No,” he dragged you out of the water, and wrapped you in his arms, letting you cry in his chest until there were no tears left in you. Lord Barnes said. “Stay with me, my love. I’ll keep you warm. We need to keep each other warm.”

“But I—” You lifted your head to look at him with tear-clouded eyes. “You should’ve let me die. Father will…”

“He won’t know. Not about what happened with Steven, nor what you did today. What a coincidence I came by when you slipped and fell into the river,” he whispered and kissed your temple. “I came back to ask for your hand, and to wed you in spring.”

Your heart thundered in your chest at his words. “I’m…ruined. You don’t want me, or my bastard child.”

“I will love it like my own, my love,” he kissed your cheek. “You are not ruined, princess. Only a little broken. But we can fix this. I got my heart broken once too. We will heal together.”

“My lord, the babe…it’s not yours…I can’t…you can’t.”

“It’s cold, let’s head back to the castle and get you warm. I’ll call for a healer…”

“Not a word about her condition except for the cold,” Lord Barnes warned the healer. “If you say a word about the other thing,” he patted his sword, “you won’t be able to spend all the gold you’ll get.”

“Not a word,” the healer nodded and walked back inside your room.

“Marry my daughter?” Your father eyed Lord Barnes warily. He came back a few days after Prince Steven and he left the castle. Alone, and with a grim expression. “But…what about the prince?”

“He’s a foolish man, my king,” Lord Barnes growled. “He lost his heart one too many times to a pretty face. I cherish your daughter, her grace, and her kindness. If you allow me to woo her, I’ll be forever grateful. I’m not a prince but love her dearly.”

“She admires you too,” the king replied. “She talked about you, and that you love to read as much as she does. If my daughter agrees, I’ll agree on your bond.”

Lord Barnes didn’t wait until spring to wed you. He insisted on marrying you within another month. 

You watched him with sad eyes as he desperately tried to fix his friend’s mistake.

“Lord Barnes, you can still find a better bride,” you took his hand to press a soft kiss on his knuckles. “I’m thankful that you tried to save my honor, but I cannot make you miserable for the rest of your life.”

“My love,” he whispered. “I fell for you the first time we met. If only I knew about Steven’s plans, I wouldn’t have stepped back and let him woo for you.”

“It’s not your fault, only mine,” you sniffled, and wiped your eyes. “I wasn’t raised to become a wench. I decided to let him do this to me…”

“Y/N, you’re not a w-.” He shook his head. “Never use that word again,” he angrily said. “He was the one stealing the light from you. You’re still an innocent angel.”

“I know that I’m not,” you hid your face in his shoulder, allowing yourself to let the mask you wear so well slip. “You’ll get damaged goods, my Lord.”

“Call me James, or Bucky, my love,” he gently rubbed your back. “I promise, you are far from damaged goods for me. You are going to be my wife and I’ll love you. And the babe will get all my love too. They are going to mine.”

“What a beautiful pair, don’t you think?” Your mother asked. “She looks happy, my love.”

Your father smiled wildly as he watched you and your groom share the first dance. You smiled and laughed as Bucky twirled you around.

“I was worried about our daughter for a while. Prince Steven’s departure left her heartbroken,” the king held out his hand for his wife. “Let us join them and celebrate their union.”

The queen smiled and took your father’s offered hand. She didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

A mother always knows when her child is in need. 

She will never break her promise to herself and tell her husband that she saw you at the river when Lord Barnes saved you, or that she heard what you confessed.

“He is a good man, my love,” the queen whispered. “Our beloved daughter couldn't find a better man.”

While everyone celebrated your wedding and danced, Steven stood in a corner, watching you and his best friend happy together.

He squared his jaw and balled his hands into fists. His heart dropped watching Margaret and your brother join you on the dance floor. 

Everything he did was in vain…

Tags in reblog.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Rejected Soulmate au where after Tim rejects Phantom on the rooftop Danny plans on taking how own life when he's stopped by Ras Al Ghul who talks him down and praises him for his talent and skill before managing to convince him to be an assasin.

Danny doesn't want revenge on the bats but hes lost most of his morals at this point and in his depressive spiral he's become very easy to manipulate and rather apathetic to others plights. He quickly rises in the ranks and is personally trained by Talia and other high ranking members of the league in combat styles both utilizing his multitudes of powers and teaching him to fight without them.

Phantom is eventually sent out on a mission to his home dimension to kill Vlad Masters and bring his corpse back to Ras for research and experimental purposes. This is when Danny learns that Amity Park did not do well in his absence and had become a war zone.

Sam had the nerve to act released that Danny was back and was going to "fix everything" and even got mad when he told her he had nothing to do with this city or its inhabitants. She tried to yell at him and say it was his "responsibility" and he blasted her in the face without a second thought, leaving her in critical condition and Tucker freaking out and trying to help her.

Danny smiled. That felt good. Not as good as wiping that smug look off of Vlads face nor the look of horror when he realized he was dying again. Danny made a show of Phantom killing Plasmious in broad daylight and letting what was left of the city see him transform back into Masters as he died before dragging his corpse through a portal and disappearing with him.

Ras was so pleased with Phantom. After all, he never failed a mission.

[novelcain]

When Worlds Collide

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

FANDOM: Jujutsu Kaisen

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

PAIRING: Gojo x reader

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

PLATFORM: AO3

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

SYNOPSIS:

After attempting to commit suicide, you inexplicably find yourself in the world of Jujutsu Kaisen with none other than Gojo Satoru himself. Will you be able to change the future, or are you destined to be nothing more than a spectator to the pain that lies ahead?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Masterlist

Chapter 1: Fallen Angel

Chapter 2

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[disillusioneddanny]

Bones Exposed deleted scene

I wrote this for my fic Bones Exposed but it just didn’t fit right in the scene I originally wrote it for but still really enjoyed the small scene. I might try to figure out where I can put it later on. If you haven’t read the fic, you can check it out here on my ao3 profile.

TW: talks of attempted suicide.

Danny sighed and ran a hand over his face as he stared down at the soft carpeted floor. Tim was sitting next to him, his eyes never leaving Danny’s form. And why would he look away? Danny had just shown him that he was Phantom, someone that Tim had said over and over was his favorite hero.

“I tried one time, you know,” he said, unable to look at his friend. “Especially after everything was over. After my parents were arrested and Jazz stopped talking to me and I was alone. It wasn’t even hard, that’s what was so scary. I was twenty years old and I got the gun from some random Gothamite. I tried and it was like my core spit it out.”

Danny let out a soft, humorless laugh. “Ironic isn’t it? My ghost half is actively killing me, every day my human side gets weaker and weaker, the chronic pain, the seizures, they get worse. But the one time I tried to actually just end the suffering, my ghost half just wouldn’t let me. How fucked up is that? So here I am, slowly dying and theres not even a way I can do it on my own terms. I’m a prisoner to my own body and there’s nothing I can do.”

[skz317cb97]

Leave Me

Minho x Reader (gender not specified)

Word count: 630

Synopsis: You do the unthinkable after another fight with your husband

A/N: 18+ ONLY! The topic of this story centers around attempted suicide heavily. If that is an upsetting or triggering topic PLEASE skip this one! I would absolutely hate if someone read something that was upsetting to them! This is based off the Anees song titled Leave Me, lots of the lyrics peppered through. If this makes you feel things give it a reblog, like, comment. Feed back is the biggest motivation!

Warnings: 18+ONLY MDNI! This story is about an attempted suicide. It mentions toxic behavior, arguments, and uses strong language. If any of that can be triggering or upsetting please don't proceed with this story. I don't want anyone to be upset by anything I've created so please heed the warnings!

Minho stood next to the hospital bed you were in, tubes, IV’s and cords hooked up, keeping you alive when he knew you didn’t want to be. He stood there guilt stricken, gut wrenched. How could you do this to yourself? Your father had gone off on him, rightfully so, it was Minho’s fault. He’d made a promise on the day you said your vows. He swore to love you, to never let you down. He swore to protect you from pain to shelter you from it, not be the cause of it. He’d promised your mom and your dad. If he wasn’t always so concerned about the future he would have noticed you needed him by your side, he thought to himself. After all of those days, you kept it inside he didn’t know how he’d missed all the tears that you cried. 

A fight. 

Just a fight. 

It was just a fight. 

He was working too much, not present enough. It was like you blink and years had passed you by. You wanted to start a family but you worried he was drifting away, possibly having an affair. A fight. Just a fight. It was just a fight. Minho didn’t like the person he was when he hurt you cause his knee jerk reaction was to leave. He would desert you in the middle of an argument, too angry to listen anymore like he’d done this time.  

You were the only one he’d ever dreamed of, a truth that he hid with lies when he was mad. He said he loved you enough to let you be free, so if you wanted to leave then leave then slammed the door behind him as he left himself.  

When he was calm again, like always, he realized he truly didn’t deserve you. He couldn’t blame you, it was him, his absence, his temper, it started with him. He loved you but would leave you in moments of need until you finally broke like the promise he refused to keep.  

Minho went back to apologize, to make things right but when he walked through the door he found you in the living room, unconscious, with an empty bottle of your meds on the floor close by. He quickly turned you on your side and made sure you weren’t choking on your tongue or vomit then called emergency. As he stood over you now in the hospital now, it killed him. Cause maybe he’s the reason why. Of course he’s the reason why. He got on his knees holding your hand in both of his. 

“I’m begging you don’t leave me. You can do so much better and if you wake up and want a divorce, I won’t blame you but please, please don’t die, please don’t leave me.” He was crying with his head pressed to the back of your hand now. 

“I’m so sorry for the way things went down and I’d be lying through my teeth if I told you I was surprised. I wish that I could run back and right my wrongs, maybe you wouldn’t be gone if I spent my energy trying to actually be a better man. I don’t think you understand what you mean to me. What did I think would happen, our love was deeper than ration. No I don’t deserve you but please don’t leave me.” Your hand squeezed Minho’s and his head shot up in a flash. He saw you looking down at him with tears in your eyes and he could tell you wanted to say something but with the tubes, right now that was impossible. Minho nodded, tears streaking his face and ran his thumb over the apple of your cheek. 

“It’s going to be okay. I love you.” 

Please do not repost or translate any of my works. My blog and stories are NSFW and 18+ ONLY! Minors, ageless, and blank blogs will be blocked!

@acciocriativity @caroline-ds-world @chansynie @ughbehavior @jquellen27 @jisuperboard @fixation-dump @lachinitaaaaa @rinrinndou @bangchans-angel @laylasbunbunny @owo-manii-uwu @armystay89 @b00dyguts @purplenimsicle @caticorn61 @lauraneuuh @channieandhisgoonsquad @minnysproutgriffinteddy @svintsandghosts @the-sweetest-rose @alice630 @3rachasninja @m0ri-apeuda @eastleighsblog @linoification @mlink64 @smally97 @fun-fanfics @chansducky10 @starfire21 @cessixja @siewoon @berryberrytan @binnies-minsung-fanclub @lethallyprotected

[save-the-data]

Playboyy | S01E08

Thai Drama - 2023, 14 episodes

Episodes | Gaga | Viki | YouTube | iQIYI | WeTV | Tencent | Catalogue

[writer-zie]

Once More.

GENRE: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

Pairing: Ji Cheong-Sin x fem!Reader

Summary: You were Cheong-Sin's girlfriend before the accident. As you sink into despair, a knock on the door pulls you from death's arms.

WARNINGS: Attempted Suicide, Mentions of Suicide, Self-Neglect, Grief, Suggestive content at the end.

A/N: The amount of Cheong-Sin content in this fandom is like almost zero, so I decided to be the change I want to see in the world and wrote it. Hope you enjoy!

No use of Y/N or L/N, I replaced it with Yeong-Nae(the initials are Y-N) and Lee-Nam(initials are L-N)

Also Cheong-Sin calls you Nae Sarang and Naekkeo meaning "My love" and "mine/my sweetheart".

WORD COUNT: 1,683

----------

When Cheong-Sin disappeared, you fell apart. You had no idea what could've happened to him. First, his cruel adopted father died, which you could be somewhat glad about. He treated him like he was trash, disposable, nothing more than an asset. So, when he died, you expected him to be sunny, cheerful, or at least less serious, but no. He was happy, but not in the "I'm free from my oppressor" way.

He was happy in the "I've just killed someone" way. Even his eyes didn't seem right. When he'd cup your face in his hands, and look into your eyes, something was off.

You swore you'd seen a flash of red there at some point. When he had pulled away from kissing your neck, you could've sworn his pupils had stretched out, like a snake's.

However, over the next few days, that stopped, and he had gone back to normal. No scary moments. He did seem slightly more...intense than usual though.

But then the murders started. Brutal ones, silent ones, unimportant and important people were dying all around. You urged him to stay home, for fear he'd fall victim to this violent killer. He didn't.

You got more and more worried, as more and more murders happened, and suddenly, he disappeared. Gone. No trace.

His phone went to voicemail, and he had no other friends she could ask of his location.

Things only got worse after that. You thought he had been murdered, but when he was pronounced as the murderer? No. Not your Cheong-Sin. Not him.

You didn't leave your apartment for days. You barely left your bed. Surely there had to be some mistake? A mix-up? You couldn't have been living with a— dating, a murderer this whole time? There had to be a mix-up. But you couldn't just go to the police and ask. They'd take you in as a suspect, and you'd be on the news, publicized, possibly used as leverage against him. You couldn't have that.

As you were just beginning to make yourself believe that it had all been a mix-up, the news said he was dead.

No. No. Nonononono.

No.

A noise complaint fell through your letterbox because of how loud you screamed. He couldn't be dead. He just couldn't. The news even called him "Violent serial killer Ji Cheong-Sin"

He couldn't be dead. Was he killed in revenge for murders you knew he didn't commit?

It was only yesterday that the news was shared. Today was the first time you had left your room in 2 weeks. People saw you, saw the state of your face and hair, the dead look in your eyes.

"What happened, Yeong-Nae? Are you alright? You look ill." they'd say. And they were right, you did look ill. Cheeks sunken, eyes red, face pallid, and you'd lost a few pounds, so your clothes were ill-fitting, hanging loose on your grief-influenced frame.

It would be the last time they saw you out of the apartment, too. Because the only thing you'd gone out for was to buy two things.

Rope, and a ceiling bar.

You held them in an opaque bag, lest anyone try to stop you. Tears spilled from your eyes as you fixed the bar to the ceiling, not caring what your upstairs neighbours thought. They had begun to subside as you tied the rope around the bar. However, before you took the plunge, you had one more thing to do.

You ripped a piece of paper out of a nearby notepad and begun to write.

"Suicide Note.

Hello, all. I'm writing this because on the 27th of August, at 16:50-something, I am committing suicide. All my money goes to charity, my belongings too, except my diaries, pictures, and cards, those should be buried with me. I have no surviving relatives, so don't bother looking for them.

Also, Cheong-Sin didn't do it. He would never, ever do such a thing. You're wrong, I'm sure of it.

Goodbye,

Lee-Nam Yeong-Nae."

There. It was done. You sellotaped the note to the back of your shirt.

You pulled the stool you'd been sitting on out from the table, and positioned it under the noose. You took one more look at your meagre apartment, one more look out of the window as you slipped your head through the loop, but just as you were about to kick the stool out from under you-

Knock knock.

Who could be at the door at such an inconvenient time? Reluctantly, you removed your head, stepped off the stool, and looked through the peephole. The person was just out of view. All she could make out was the edge of a black hoodie, and the corner of a jawline. Didn't look official, and even if they were, you wouldn't be letting them in.

"What do you-" you started, opening the door just a crack. But that was enough to see it.

Your heart dropped, then shot up into your throat, rendering you unable to speak. Your knees felt light, and your lungs suddenly stopped breathing. You felt like you wanted to faint, to throw up, to cry, to scream-

But all you got out was a single word.

"Ch-Cheong-Sin?" you half-whispered.

"Yes, nae sarang?" he replied. You reached out to touch him, making sure he wasn't a ghost, or some suicidal hallucination. Your frail hand crept up his chest, up his neck, trailed across his face, and under the hat he was wearing, searching for the thing that would confirm who he was beyond a doubt.

The scar.

And the scar is what she felt under her fingers, on the edge of his hairline, trailing back in a jagged line.

"Cheong-Sin..." you murmured, launching yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around him as a dark patch began to grow on his shirt, your tears blossoming like a flower. His arms wrapped around you too, squeezing you like he'd never let you go. His eyes didnt catch the state of the room, not even the dirt on the surface, the dust in the corners, rubbish all around, no.

The only thing he could focus on besides you was the noose hanging from the ceiling.

You were going to...kill yourself?

And then he realised. It was him.

The news had probably devastated you. First, he'd disappeared, then the murders started, and then he was pronounced as the murderer. And finally, just yesterday, he had been pronounced dead.

"Look at her. She was going to kill herself already. Why not just kill her and get it over with?" whispered the spirit, as Cheong-Sin's eyes were swallowed by blackness.

"No. Not this one.” he replied, quenching the bloodthirst before it had a chance to flare up.

"...Fine.”

He sighed in relief.

"I missed you." he said out loud, burying his face in her hair. His hands brushed the paper on your back as you two embraced, and he pulled away slightly, removing it.

He briefly scanned it, and almost choked up at the last part.

So certain, even in the face of death. But it pained him to tell you you were wrong. He couldn't do it. He'd let you live a fantasy, as long as you were happy.

"I'm so, so sorry, nae sarang. | didn't tell you anything. You must have been so worried about me, hm?"

"M-ah-Mhm! sniff I-I did! Where...where did you g-hiccup-go?" you choked, chest racking with sobs.

"I, um, had something to take care of. Don't worry." he replied, stroking your hair.

"The n-news...the news-hic-said you were the m-murderer, and...and that you...you died yesterday, a-and—"

"Don't stress, nae sarang, I'm here now. You didn't believe all that nonsense, right?" he responded, pulling your head off his chest, wiping your tears away with a soft knuckle.

"Mm mm. I know you wouldn't do that." you murmured, sobs retreating.

"Good. You know I love you, right?"

You started crying again. No words came out, just frantic nods and a stream of tears.

The door to your apartment was still open, and people could probably hear you crying from outside, so, Cheong-Sin's hands crept under your thighs, lifting them up with minimal effort, and around his waist, pinning you to him. He stepped forward into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.

"Come on, let's just kill her now! She's helpless! We can smell her soul from he—"

"No. I said no. If you hurt this one, I'll—"

"I? You? We're one, Cheong-Sin. Anything you do to me, you do to you."

"Okay then, if we hurt this one, you lose your host."

"But that's not possible! You'd have to kill yourself!"

"Exactly."

"Tch. Fine. Enjoy your little emotion-fest."

"Ch-Cheong-Sin? What are you whispering about?" you asked, arms around his neck.

"Nothing, nae sarang. Let me make it up to you." he replied, stepping forward. You felt your back against the wall as he pressed you into a corner.

"Make it up to me? How—!~" you started, being cut off by his lips on yours. His hand slipped out from under your thigh and to the back of your head, anchoring his fingers in your hair as he pressed your head forward. You fully melted into his embrace, stomach settling as you placed both your pale hands on his face, every second you had missed his touch coming out in the moment of passion.

Deep groans came from his throat as his tongue slipped past your lips, tracing your teeth like he never wanted to forget their pattern. As his hips pressed against yours, you felt a heat growing in your abdomen. You let out soft whimpers as he took your top lip between his teeth and bit down softly. He pulled away slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, hungry with desire. He pulled away slightly, eyes still locked onto yours, hungry with desire.

"Don't stop." you whispered, breathlessly.

"With pleasure, naekkeo."

Within a few seconds, he had swiped you away from the wall, and your back was met with the soft cushion of your mattress.

Oh how you'd missed him.

[peterman-spideyparker]

Guardian Devil (Matt Murdock x Reader)

Author’s Note: Okay, so I’m working on a multi-part series right now and then some sequels to others and a stand alone fic and I can’t seem to focus on whichever one I decide on writing for, so I apologize for the lack of posting lately. This one hits right in the feels for me so, sorry. Also, I feel like this title has been done before by other people, and it’s definitely been said on Lucifer, but, I also can’t really come up with a title.

Summary: You’ve always put on a brave face for others and never have wanted to impose or burden them with your own issues. Everything finally becomes too much when you receive an unexpected visit.

Warnings: Depression, attempted suicide, heights, angst, emotional pain/hurt, some fluff?

Other Characters: None

Word Count: 997

It’s just too much. It’s all too much. You do the work. You’re there for those that need me. You have a good life. But you don’t know why you feel so hollow inside. You’re numb to everything. You can’t feel happiness anymore—just hurt and emptiness. You don’t know what else to do. You couldn’t bother Matt or Foggy or Karen—they’re all already in such high-stress jobs, you couldn’t add that to their load. You don’t want to be a burden to anyone else.

You curl up into your knees as you sit on the rooftop. You just need to do it. It’ll be so much easier for everyone if you’re just gone. You’ll finally be free of this pain.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” you weep as the breeze picks up. “I can’t be here anymore.”

Gathering the courage, you stand up and approach the ledge of the building, taking a peak at just how far down it is. It’s high. God, you hate heights. But you hate this feeling inside of your chest more—the feeling that spread through your lungs and out to your fingers and your toes that consumes every fibre of your being and forces you to put on a mask around those closest to you.

“Please don’t do this,” a voice says behind you. It startles you so much, you almost fall off the building, but a strong hand comes out and catches you, pulling you far away from the ledge. You turn around and see that it’s the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen holding onto you, his chest rapidly rising and falling under the tight black material of his shirt. “Don’t do it,” he begs softly. “I promise, whatever it is, it can get better.”

You want to respond in a tone as hollow as you feel, but you can only cry. “I just feel so hopeless,” you admit. “I can’t feel anything anymore. Work keeps getting worse, people have just been awful, nothing is going right. I can’t tell my friends and my boyfriend because I can’t have them worry about me—they shouldn’t worry about me. I can’t be a burden to them.” You begin to cry against the vigilante’s chest as your knees give out. It’s odd. You would never admit any of this to someone you know, but it falls so freely from your lips to a someone you’ll never see again. You figure someone ought to know. “I just don’t feel worth it anymore. I’m just taking up space. Everything hurts and there’s so much in my head, I just want some quiet. I just want it all to stop.”

To your surprise, he sinks down with you and wraps you in his arms, hugging you tightly as he traces small circles into your back. It’s a familiar feeling, his arms around you, and the way that his head rests against yours, the smell of his skin.

“Matty?” you ask through your tears, trying to get a better look at him. 

The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen pulls back and takes off his mask, and you stare back at the face of your boyfriend as his hair sticks up.

“Hi, angel,” he says, tears glistening in his unfocused eyes as he desperately tries to get them to lock onto your face.

“How . . . what?”

“It’s a long story,” he says softly, his hands feel around for yours as he dips his head in guilt, resting his forehead on yours. “How long . . . Why didn’t you say you were feeling like this? Why did you think . . .” He sniffles. “I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.”

“Matt—.”

“If I could kiss away your pain I would. I’d suck it all out of you and take it all away if it meant you weren’t hurting behind your sweet voice, your loving heart,” he breathes as he nuzzles against you. “I’m so sorry you feel like this.”

“I need help,” you admit. “I just don’t know what to do or where to start or who to go to.”

“You’re starting right here, okay?” He presses a long, damp kiss to your forehead. “You’re starting right here with me, and we will figure it out. I’m right here for you. I’m always gonna be right here for you, for anything, no matter what.”

“I feel so broken,” you faintly admit.

Matt pulls back, taking off his gloves and pushing your windblown hair away from your face, somehow knowing exactly where the tears are on your cheeks to wipe them away.

“Then I will be right here to put you back together piece by piece, no matter how many times you feel like you fall apart.”

“Matty, I . . . I’m so sorry,” you cry.

“There’s no need to be sorry, angel. You don’t need to apologize for anything, do you understand me?”

You try to steady your breathing as you listen to his heart pound in his chest.

“Sweetheart, I want to hear you say it, please,” he begs softly.

“I don’t need to apologize for anything,” you repeat quietly.

“I love you so much, (Y/N),” he whispers. “You have never been, and could never be, a burden to me or anyone around you.” Matt lowers his lips to kiss the crown of your head, rubbing a hand down your back before pushing hair out of your face once more. “Let’s go back downstairs to your apartment, hm? I’ll make you some tea. We don’t have to talk. I can just hold you, if that’s what you want.”

You nod as you sniffle, the pads of Matt’s fingers once more moving to the apples of your cheeks to wipe away some loose tears. He keeps his hold on you as you stand up and move toward the stairwell door and down to your apartment, whispering gentle and loving words to you, assuring you that you are not alone in any of this, even when it feels like it.

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[sugaroto]

TW: attempted suicide

Ways Michalakis (Egklimata) tried to kill himself:

Episode 1:

Poison (sulfuric acid)(I think)

Machete

Hanging himself with Soso's bra

Putting his head in the mincer

Why he didn't die:

He didn't drink it

Alekos visited him

The bra couldn't hold him up so he just fell

His head didn't fit

Episode 2:

Blow himself up

Why it didn't work

He stopped cause he wanted to watch whether the pathetic man on TV (Achilles) found his lost sister (Korina)

[lily-drake]

The Birds Baby Bug

Chapter 1

TW: Mention of attempted suicide

Ao3

Marinette: 10 Tim: 19

The halls were a blur as she ran past them as quickly as she could on her shaky legs.  All of them seemed to blend together, though some of the doors turned into different colors signifying what their purpose was supposed to be.  Her door was red and yellow.  Her door, and so many others’, was a curse she had finally been able to break free from.  She swallowed the bile that climbed up her throat when she thought of the things they did to her behind those doors.  The needles, the scent of bleach, and…no!  She couldn’t think about that now.  She needed to run, run, RUN!  She could feel the magic that flowed through her, it wanted to escape, to be used, but she shoved it down.  The entire reason she was here was because of the magic, the curse that flowed through her very blood.  Blood they constantly took and took and took from her.  

Her body was weak, she didn’t know where she was going or how she had even gotten this far.  She was hungry, her limbs ached , her head pounded in time with her racing heart, but she wouldn’t slow down.  If she dared to stop moving for even a second she might as well have signed her own death certificate.  Her dark unkempt hair flew behind her, falling into her wild blue eyes before whipping back when she turned a corner.  

She needed to escape.  She needed to get out.  She knows that if she’s caught that she won’t be killed, she knows that she will wish that they had killed her by the end of the punishment.  She quickly took another corner, bare feet pounding against the cold stone floor, yet they still barely made a sound.  She could feel the spark of her magic at her fingertips, begging to be released as adrenaline pulsed through her system, feeding the spark.  But she couldn’t.  She didn’t know what would happen if she let even the smallest speck loose.  

It didn’t matter though, because as she took the corner she bowled into someone knocking both of them over due to her velocity.  Her body ached from both the force of the fall and the magic that crawled at her skin like ants, fighting to be released.  She tried to push herself up, tried to move so that she could get her former momentum back, but she couldn’t.  She couldn’t hear the footsteps, but she felt their presence, could hear the breath of the assassins that were coming to retrieve her.  She didn’t want to go back, she would rather die than go back!  She could feel the outline of a sheathed knife pressing into her side, so with nimble fingers she grabbed it and held it to her chest, right above her heart.

She watched all of the dark shadows pause, the person behind her as still as a statue.

“I’ll do it!”  She screamed almost hysterically, her hands shaking despite her best efforts.  “Don’t come closer!  I won’t go with you again!  I won’t be used anymore!”

She kept the tip of the knife pressed to her chest, the small, sharp point nearly breaking her skin.  Her breathing was quick as she stared around the circle of ninjas.  The man in the green cape, she had never learned his name, was nowhere in sight.  She could feel one of the men cloaked like shadows step forward.  He continued to creep closer, and closer, and with all of the nerve she could muster she lifted the small blade and thrust it towards her chest.

Hope, excitement danced in her mind, at last this torment was about to come to an end.  But it was swiped away as the man she had forgotten that she was still sitting atop of rolled over and pinned her to the floor.  Shock filled her before she realized what was happening and tears fell down her cheeks.  The pulsing thrum of her magic burned, it burned so badly she felt like she was set ablaze, she hoped that it would kill her from its intensity alone.  But it didn’t.  The eyes that looked down at her were wide and frantic, filled with fear and a deep sadness.  She hated it.

“Leave, I’ll take care of this.”

She wanted to roll her eyes, but she could feel the shadows creep away on their silent feet, following his command.  The man stared at her a few moments longer before sitting up, legs still straddled around her waist.

“I’m going to get off you now.  I don’t know who you are or what they are after you for, but please don’t run.”

Marinette glared at him, if she had any moisture left in her mouth she would spit at him, but the rest of her moisture left when her tears had fallen.  His warning didn’t matter though, she doubted that she even had the strength to move.  After a few moments she felt the weight begin to lift and despite every nerve, every thought telling her to run , she couldn’t push herself up.

When the boy was fully off of her she nearly breathed a sigh of relief as the agonizing pain slowly began to recede.  The man—no, a boy—stared at her with wide, concerned eyes, though she could see his curiosity as bright as day (she hadn’t seen the sun in so long…).  He tilted his head slightly, which created the perfect angle for her to truly see his face in the torchlight. 

He had hair dark as night, eyes as blue as the sky, and skin as pale as clouds on a summer day.  At least, that’s what she thought as she hadn’t seen the night in probably years…

“Hey, a’e ‘u ok’y?”

Everything was starting to blur together, his voice fading in and out as her body shut down.  Not again, please not again!  She needed to get up, she needed to get out of here once and for all.  Even if they were telling the truth when they said they killed her family, that there was a tracker in her blood, chemicals running through her that would cause her death if she ever tried to escape by herself.  

Her body was heavy as it laid across the stone floor, the man’s desperate gaze never leaving her.  She thought he might be trying to talk to her, but her ears were ringing too loudly for her to hear everything.  Each blink grew heavier and heavier until it all went dark.  The last of her control on her magic slipped and she could feel it flow out of her like a fast running stream.  Then everything went dark.

_______ Tim stared at the small girl in both shock and horror.  Quickly he went to check her pulse point and was relieved when he felt her pulse.  It was slower than was normal, but not deathly so.  Once he had made sure that she was truly okay, he studied the small girl to see if he could find any clues for who she could be.  

She had long dark dark hair covered in tangles and knots like it hadn’t been brushed in years.  Her skin was pale, paler than his (and that was saying something), he couldn’t see her eyes but he was pretty sure from his brief glances that they were some shade of blue.  She was wearing a typical dark blue hospital gown that went just above her ankles.  The gown itself was large and flowy making it hard for him to see her rib cage without having to touch her.  Her skin was littered with small red dots as if she had been stuck with multiple needles.  Each of the dots were at different stages of healing making him wonder how long she had been here.  With the utmost gentleness he picked up her wrist and noticed the large cuff-like bruises that wrapped around her wrists; a light purple with specks of greens and yellows.  They had barely begun to heal.  When he laid a gentle hand against her ribs he nearly pulled back as he could feel her ribs even through the thin fabric.  Tim was going to be sick.

The girl could be older than 8, but depending on how long she’s been here her growth could have stunted placing her at maybe 10 or 11.

He kept his hand against her chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of her chest, but there was something else.  She was hot, burning even.  It was unnatural, wrong.  A tingly sensation crept up through his arm and Tim quickly shot his hand back, holding it close to his chest.  He could feel an invisible energy moving along his body easing his tense and sore body, then there was a pain in the right side of his body.  He held back the panicked and pain filled noises that threatened to escape his throat.  Maybe there was a reason the other leaguers were after her, maybe he should have let one of them stay.

The pain only lasted for a minute at most, and then it was gone.  And he didn’t just mean the sudden pain in his abdomen, but all of the physical aches and pains he had received from his training and missions.  In fact, it felt like something internally was different.  He glanced at the small child, still asleep, before he carefully lifted his shirt to look at his chest.  All of his scars were…gone.  Every single one of the scars he had ever received throughout his life, even the cut from his splenectomy, were completely erased from existence.

He looked back at the unconscious girl, so small yet seemingly filled with a large power.  She was a meta, and it looked like she had some sort of healing power.  Tim wondered why until he remembered the Lazarus Pit and its side effects.  Ra’s owns the pits; but if he could find a person, or rather a power, that could heal him without the pit and its side effects, he would do anything to extract it for himself.  

The best thing for him to do would be to take and hide her in his room, then come up with some sort of extraction plan while Ra’s was still gone.  But if Ra’s were to find out that he stole one of his “prizes” he would stop helping Tim; which would make it 10x harder to destroy The League of Assassins from the inside out.  

Tim glanced down at the small unconscious child, body littered in scars of her own, none healed despite what just happened.  Bruce’s face flashed in the front of his mind, and he knew that Bruce would never forgive him—nor would he forgive himself—if he didn’t help this child right away. 

Tim took a steadying breath, and carefully picked the small girl up.  He expected for there to be something else, something to what he had just experienced.  But there was nothing; in fact the only thing that happened was she subconsciously leaned against him.  His heart melted, a protective surge running through him as he hugged the small girl closer.  He could feel each and everyone of her ribs against his sternum, her face hallowed out with dark circles he hadn’t noticed before under her eyes.  She looked dead, but she was breathing, and that’s all that mattered.  At least that’s what he kept repeating to himself.  He just needed to get to his room, request extra food and water, then he’ll come up with a plan.  He just needed to get her to his room first.

_______ Tim didn’t have a plan.  The girl was still asleep, tucked into his bed barely moving.  Tim was currently hacking through firewall after firewall to discover where Ra’s kept his files on the child.  Ra’s might be old-fashioned with his methods—he definitely had a paper file somewhere—but he also knew that the man knew when he needed to adapt.  After hours of hacking, the child still asleep, he finally broke through the correct wall and was honestly surprised at the amount of information that began to download to his laptop.

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng (Test Subject E131): 

Immediately, the name set off an alarm bell in the back of his mind, though he wasn’t sure why yet.

Meta Gene: Confirmed  Age: 7 Sex: Female Parents: Deceased Power: Life & Creation Trigger: Currently Unknown 

Test #1                    Conducted June 6, 2016 18:35 

This was three years ago.  Another alarm bell, and a shiver down his spine at the implications.

Before the test began one sample of 5 mL of blood was extracted as the control group while E131 was asleep.  The subject had a heart monitor attached at the pulse point at the right bicep.  Average vital patterns ranged from 86-98 BPM.  When they awoke, tests immediately began.  This test was specifically focused on narrowing out and separating the Meta Gene for further observation.  Past observations of the subject have shown that they hold the power to revive dying and even completely dead plant life, even renewing the soil life.   

Subject E131 was locked in a 80cmx80cm room with no restraints and in the same clothes they arrived in.  Subject awoke at 18:53 alarmed, vitals immediately spiked up to an average of 110-120 BPM.  Subject immediately began to call for their parents for two minutes and twenty-five seconds.  During this time E131 began to cry hysterically, no change to the BPM. 

Tim paused his reading, he needed to take a breath.  This was wrong, this was all so wrong.  She’s just a child, she was seven when all of this began.  But he needed to keep going, he needed to know what had happened so that he could properly help her.

When it appeared that her BPM was going down, it was decided that at 18:58 there would be another blood draw while the subject was conscious.  When medical entered the room, subjects BPM spiked once more.  Subject tried to evade medical, including fighting back when restrained, spiking the BPM to 115-135.  Another 5 mL of blood was taken before the subject was left alone. 

Blood work:

Blood Type: A+ Meta Gene: Dominant Resting Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 93 Resting Diastolic Blood Pressure Average: 76 Stressed Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 127 Stressed Systolic Blood Pressure Average: 86 

Analysis: 

It was found that when the subject was asleep the gene was left neutral, floating through the bloodstream and helping the cells in the body reproduce and remain healthy. The blood that was taken when Subject E131 was on high alert showed a higher amount of the gene being produced, as though protecting the host.  .05 mL of blood from each vial were placed in the soil of two different pots, both with the same dead plant and soil.  The plant with resting blood revived in 30 minutes while the plant with the stressed blood revived in 15 minutes.  It begs the question, what else can E131’s blood revive, what are the side effects, what triggers their power, and how fast can we make the revival become? 

Tim felt sick.  Three years, she had gone through this for three. Years.   But he had to know more, he needed to know what exactly he needed to do to get back at Ra’s for these horrors.

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng (Test Subject E131): Meta Gene: Confirmed  Age: 8 Sex: Female Parents: Deceased Power: Life & Creation Trigger: Emotion Based 

Test #96                    Conducted December 25, 2017 14:15 

Subject E131 no longer has the same emotional reaction to the video of her parents death.  Where once they would fly into a fit of rage and sorrow, creating life out of seemingly nothing; they remain numb and limp.  Today we will try something new.  Something more advanced now that we see the subject's basic capabilities.  

Subject was placed in a room full of small animals ranging from chicks, to rabbits, and a small tabby kitten.  The subject was slow to trust the animals, but after nearly thirty minutes of nothing happening, they began to play with the animals.  It was agreed upon that the subject be allowed to spend time with the animals for three hours.  While the subject was in a state of bliss, blood was pulled from E131 from the automatic needle attached to their bicep.  Subject showed no reaction to the extraction. 

Once the three hours ended, all animals were killed right in front of E131.  Subject had the intended reaction as they began to scream and cry, emotions spiking into a high.  Leaguer, who was heavily injured in battle, was sent into the room while E131 was at the peak of their emotional state.  When the Leaguer exited the room five minutes late, they were completely healed¹ .   

Analysis: 

We have taken the blood samples from the two emotional peaks and added them into two different samples of the pit before using the pit and blood concoction on two dead rabbits of the same height and weight.  The rabbit with the distressed blood sample created a single heartbeat in the dead rabbit before it flatlines once more while the one where the subject was happy created no signs of life.  The hypothesis was that the subject's heart rate did not reach the same peaks as the fear sample.  More tests will be conducted around this.

*Footnote¹ Leaguer was put under observation for two months with biweekly check-ups.  There were no harmful side effects, but the Leaguer seemed to have a higher pain tolerance and faster healing process for a short period of time.  

Tim read and read and read through each and every report.  Electrocution, starvation, hypnosis, forced to watch death, etc.

Test #254                    Conducted April 2, 2018 14:15 

Subject was so distressed that a dead animal that was hidden in the corner was revived from the dead.  …Sample showed the highest positive effects in removing pit side effects. 

Test #317                    Conducted July 13, 2019 01:15 

Age: 10 

This was last week.

Subject has been shown to wield more promising results in a dream-like state.  10 mL of Fear Gas obtained from Scarecrow from Gotham, New Jersey USA was used on the subject.  Emotional response was not as high as it was as high as it was in Test #315 despite a higher amount of gas being released.  Subject attempted to stab herself with an imaginary knife.  …Blood from peak emotional outburst was able to revive a dead rabbit with no help from the Lazarus Pit.  Subject E131 will have their blood extracted and placed into the Lazarus Pits in two weeks time.  The next and final test will see if emotional outburst will be able to revive a human from the dead without blood sample or Lazarus help. 

Tears streamed down Tim’s cheeks in a never ending stream.  How-how was anybody this heartless, this cruel?  How was she still alive?!  Tim turned to look at the small child only to see them staring right back at him.  

“Hey.”  Tim whispered, his voice cracking slightly.  He didn’t care though, what mattered was making sure that he saved this small child and made sure that Ra’s would never be able to get his disgusting hands on her ever again.  The child didn’t speak, only watched him with wide, fear filled eyes.  

“Are you thirsty?  I had some food and water brought up for when you woke up.”  The only reaction he got was her pulling the covers closer to her chest.  Slowly Tim stood up, telegraphing each of his movements as he approached the dresser next to the bed where the food and water were located.  “Do you want me to try it first?”

Hesitantly she nodded.  Tim gave her a small encouraging smile before he took a large sip of the water and swallowed it.  He waited a few minutes for her to see that there were no side effects from it before slowly placing it back on the dresser for her to take by herself.  Then he picked up the food, which consisted of rice and beans with a little bit of some sort of meat, and mixed it together before getting a bit of everything on his fork and taking another large bite.  Once again they waited about five minutes before he set the plate back on the dresser and he took a few steps back.  

He watched her eat, she appeared almost ravenous, so much so he had to remind her to slow down a few times worried that she’d choke.  Tim’s heart ached with the fierce want, no need to protect this small vulnerable child.  He was 19, he could legally adopt her, especially since the League had taken both of her parents, meaning she was an orphan.  But he was getting ahead of himself, before he could even plan giving her a new life, a life that she deserved, he needed to find a way to get her out of here without being on the receiving end of Ra’s rage.

“More?”  She whispered.  Her voice was cracked, brittle sounding.  It broke his heart, and he prayed to whatever God existed that the damage could be repaired.  

“I can’t get you any more food right now.  You're too malnourished, and if I give you more than that you could get really sick.  I can get you another cup of water though, but that will have to do so we don’t accidentally cause your electrolytes to crash.”

The small girl nodded as if she understood him, but he didn’t think she fully did, after all she still only had the schooling of a first or second grader.  There weren’t any files that showed they had tried to school her after all.  

“Wh-”, she fell into a coughing fit, and it took everything inside of Tim to stop him from rushing to her side.  “What’s your name?”  She croaked out.  Blue eyes dull and full of pain.

“I’m Tim.”  He whispered, trying to encourage her to do the same so she didn’t hurt her voice anymore.  

“Why are you here?”  She whispered back.  That small gesture eased some of the weight he hadn’t even realized he was carrying.

“I’m trying to find my dad, and they’re offering me help.  How did you know I wasn’t one of the ninjas?”  He asked softly, making his voice only sound curious.

She pointed to her face before replying, “No mask, different robes, and y-you talk to me.”

Marinette fell into another coughing fit after that, her skin looking even paler than when he had first found her.  Tim clenched his fist against his knees as he was seated on the floor.  Was this what Bruce felt when he saw Dick and Jason?  This overwhelming need to protect such a small child when so much bad has already consumed their life?  Did Bruce ever feel this way about him?

“What’s your name?”  He asked, he didn’t need her knowing that he knew about the worst years of her life.

“E-...No, that wasn’t…Ma-Marientte.  Mama always called me Marinette.”

Tim now understood why Jason did what he did.  He wanted to kill these Ba*, but more than that he wanted them to feel the same agony they made her feel first.  Then suddenly a face flashed before his eyes followed by a name, and hours and hours of research that lead to a dead end.  A Paris cold case he had stumbled upon a few years ago when he was checking in on the city where he received a good portion of his training.  

Marinette Gina Dupain-Cheng, presumed dead as her parents and grandmother were brutally murdered by an unknown person for unknown reasons.  Only problem was, they had never found Marinette’s body.  But he had, and she was still alive .  

“I’m going to get you out of here.”  He whispered, shocking the young girl as her eyes seemed to grow as wide as saucers.

“I’m going to get you to safety and you’ll never have to worry about whether or not you’ll be another experiment again.  I’m sorry it took me this long to find you,” Tears began to well in his eyes.  If only he’d been smarter, there had to have been something that pointed to the League that he had overlooked.  Bruce would be so disappointed in him, Ra’s was probably laughing his a* off.  “I’ll take care of you.  I will protect you.  I won’t let them hurt you ever again.”

She just stared at him, face blank and passive.  It was as if she were seeing something that he simply could not.  Then tears spilled from her eyes and Tim couldn’t restrain himself as he moved closer to the small child, but never touching her.  But it didn’t matter because she launched herself at him, holding onto his shirt in a vice-like grip.  Tim quickly wrapped his arms around her, letting her cry.  Tears fell out of his own eyes.

“...You talk to me.” 

When was the last time she had heard anyone but herself, felt a touch from another person that wasn’t cruel or fake, treated as a human being.  He thought back to his own empty house.  The cold haunted rooms that echoed with nothing but the ghost of a 9-year-old boy that wasn’t even living.  Parents that only cared about him when he messed up, only touched in public or as a warning.  

“You’re safe now.  I promise it.”  He whispered, holding the girl as close as he dared in fear of injuring her further.  He would protect her, be the guardian that Bruce was for Jason and Dick.  The shadow that haunts the dreams of those who dare hurt what was his.  Marinette Drake had a nice ring to it, but only if she too agrees.  Jason’s never going to let him live this down.  It would be worth it though, because she would be safe.

Next

Taglist:

@aespades @adrestar @astrynyx @doll246 @queenz-z @toodaloo-kangaroo @crazylittlemunchkin @seraphichana @miraculous-ninjabird @dorkus-minimus @mysticsoulgirl @ritacrow-blog @snow-leopard-777 @fidget-eep @sometandomstuff333 @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @shreeing @achaoticmess1 @liquid-luck-00 @buginetye @stainedglassm @prettylittlebutterflie @laurcad123 @iloontjeboontje @heartsong18 @raeuberprinzessin @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks @jennifer-rose123 @moon5608 @corporeal-terrestrial @skitarii-alpha-c6-555 @saltysugarysembei @phantom120 @kking13 @depressed-bitchy-demon @a-slytherinish-gryffindor @iamablinkmarvelarmy @fleursroses @izanae

[insteviewetrust]

Ok I don't fucking know what this is but in my head it's a "best friend's brother au", where Eddie doesn't know a thing of the upside down and only knows Steve from his past school days. Let's say his dear friend dustin, his brand new sheepie, is going to help him pass science this year (86's his year, baby). Here he meets Steve, who now lives with the Hendersons for some reason (Eddie doesn't know) and they clearly hate each other. Everything is pretty dull till Steve tries to commit. Then everything is so fucking different. Steve survived but lost the use of his legs, and Eddie just wants to be there for Dustin's sake. This came to me literally them minutes ago, and i wrote it in five. Tell me if there's plenty errors, I didn't check.

He sat on his wheelchair, looking out of the window.

"What are you doing here?" He sounded accusatory, but Eddie wouldn't know of what.

"I came to see you, of course"

"What, like I'm some animal in a zoo?"

"You're putting words in my mouth now, you're Dustin's brother, of course I came here to see how you were- even just to tell you I'm here if you need anything"

"Why on earth would you do that, mh? When did we ever talk, outside of throwing insults at eachother's back? You hate me, you probably cheered when you found out, anyway" he shakes his head as if he was convinced of what he was saying. Eddie gulped down the spit pooling in his mouth. With it, the ever present frustration that filled him whenever Harrington was near, went down his throat, bitter.

"That's not fair." At that, Steve emits one confused sound, sounding more like a wounded animal than human. Eddie supposes Steve kind of was a wounded animal, that he had always been.

"I cried for you"

And he had cried, he had cried so hard that he felt like his eyes were gonna fall out of his skull; so hard that he wanted to throw himself off the trailer roof, just to feel alive again. He wondered if maybe Steve felt like that constantly, and that was why he tried to kill himself. Eddie would've too, probably.

[readtilyoudie]

Blue Exorcist Vol 20

[the-stage-manager]

here have this ramshackle of a fanfic 🫴

might have been inspired by Genius Next Door by Regina Spektor, idk

others said it must have been the weather

Summary: Crosshair struggles to adapt to the complexities of civilian life, while grieving the loss of commander Mayday.

Characters: Crosshair, Hunter, Rex

Word Count: 6k+

Warning: This story contains graphic descriptions of depression and an attempted suicide, if you are sensitive to those topics fuck off no story is worth the cost of your mental health, love yourself by steering clear, unclenching your jaw, staying hydrated, and the sensation of suddenly becoming aware of your tongue in your mouth. It's a big muscle you know. The body of it goes away down your throat. Now is also probably the time to mention that Im high. But. Enjoy the story.

ps. I wrote this immediately after The Outpost so everything that happened in the season finale is ignored because fuck that noise

Crosshair shouldn't have been surprised when his brothers turned up to rescue him. He shouldn't have been, but he was. They were brothers after all, right? Wrecker had said it himself in the wreckage of Kamino: "We would have taken you back..."

It hurt anyways, of course, a confusing mixture of anger and guilt. He had warned them to stay away. Rescuing him was foolish, they had put themselves and Omega in harm's way for nothing, completely ignoring the warning he had sent, and he was infuriated by their foolhardiness, incensed by their rejection of his sacrifice. 

They were stiff and guarded—Hunter especially—watching him carefully from the corners of his eyes, as if he was a deactivated roller who might spring to life at any second. Hadn't they grown up together? Had his choice to remain with the Empire really damaged their relationship so severely that he was little more than a stranger to them? It has been a rational decision; a decision millions of other clones had made. They were soldiers, bred to die, purposeless without violence of war. The galaxy wanted nothing to do with them—even when they were war heroes the Republic had seen them as nothing more than droids with skin and bone. With the Empire, there had been a promise of food and shelter and purpose. Tactically, it made the most sense. 

Until it hadn't, and the Empire, as Lt. Nolan had made so perfectly clear, had no use for them. 

But perhaps, what he saw etched in the expressions of his brothers, was nothing more than a projection of what he felt he deserved to see. Perhaps the distance between them was artificial, built up like a wall to shield Crosshair from the burning agony of forgiveness. Perhaps he was afraid that, if they peered at him to closely, they would see everything he had suffered, everything he had lost and, being empathetic to a fault, they would fail to see the responsibility he'd had as the maker of his own suffering. Somebody much wiser than him had told him once, "We make our own decisions. And we have to live with them, too." 

Crosshair had never been a 'plan for the future's sort of person. War rarely ever offered that sort of long-sided perspective on things. He had never truly considered the possibility of having to live with the consequences of his actions. He had never truly considered the possibility of having to live at all, after the war. After all, the notion of a 'glorious death for the sake of the Republic' had been drilled into him as a thing to be celebrated for as long as he could remember. 

So, while Crosshair had been prepared to die on Tantiss, perhaps living was a more suitable punishment.

And Crosshair was more than prepared to wear his decisions, to let them line his pockets like pebbles. 

They brought him to some tropical planet. They had told him the name of the planet, the name of the town, over and over, but he couldn't ever seem to recall it. The information never stuck. It wasn't as if somebody was going to ask him where he lived. It wasn't as if that place was his home. Clones—regs and Clone Force 99 alike—had barracks and ships, places they rested as they waited for deployment. They weren't meant to have homes, to be domesticated. They were soldiers, that was their purpose. 

Was their purpose.

What was their purpose now? Who were they supposed to be? Where did they belong, obedient dogs, bred for battle? They were too vicious for civilian life, they didn't have the skills for it. They didn't know how to live without the structure of an army. Where would they live? How would they make money? What would they eat? Where would they sleep and for how long? Who would be willing to teach them how to function outside of war, how to manage the panic and the sudden fits of rage and the flashbacks and the immense sting of survivor's guilt because if anyone should have survived that avalanche—

What did it matter? Logistically, the clones were abandoned.

Crosshair's recovery had gone smoothly and he had expected, once he felt well enough to feel again, that he would, in fact, feel something—sorrow or regret or relief or even joy. But those feelings never came. Crosshair felt nothing except, perhaps, for the unceasing, insatiable anger that grew without incentive, and a distant ache that came with the realization that his life was, essentially, over.

When he had avenged Commander Mayday's death, under the shadow of the relentless scavenger, he had been prepared to die. He had anticipated his distress call to be his final words. He had been bred to be a soldier, after all. He had been taught, since birth, to prepare to die. 

Living was a much more difficult concept. A fitting punishment.  

Crosshair had only ever been good at one thing. And that one thing had been useful on the rare occasions that the Batch left the planet to assist Echo and Rex and their network of rescued clones, but those sorts of missions were becoming scarcer and scarcer as the rest of the Batch began assimilating into more domestic roles. They made money fishing or repairing machinery or hauling heavy equipment. There was no need to engage in mercenary activities when they had everything they needed at home. Besides, it was what was best for Omega's development to stay away from conflict.

Assimilation came easily for the others. For Crosshair, not so much. He came across as standoffish and rude and his skills as a sniper were worthless to the civilians. He was hostile and short tempered and the civilians, for the most part, gave him a wide berth. As they should.

Crosshair had always been an ass—rude and sarcastic. He said things, cruel things, because he liked to keep an aire of indifference, of superiority, around him. He had never been an angry man, merely cold and condescending. But now? Now, Crosshair felt completely out of control. The civilians and his brothers would do things that made him so angry he felt like his head was going to pop off—loud noises and bright lights were enough to make the sniper furious. He would get angry when the weather outside was too cold, and he couldn't seem to stop himself from making snide remarks about how much Wrecker ate, driven by a bizarre insecurity that there wouldn't be enough food left.

He snapped with people looked at him the wrong way; he snapped when he smelled ozone or heard sparks crackling; he snapped when he felt the texture of rough wool; he snapped when he heard Omega laugh; he snapped whenever a particularly cruel thought whispered, in a voice that was entirely vagal, that his brothers should have shot him on Kamino when they had the chance. 

He felt like he was losing his mind, like the all-too-familiar smell of the ocean had crept beneath his skin and settled into his bloated veins like a fat, indulgent parasite. The long days became plagued with migraines, and the bitter nights became plagued with restless dreams. 

He missed Mayday, wasn't that strange?

He missed having somebody who understood what he had gone through, what he had sacrificed and why. 

"So what made you want to leave?" Echo had asked once. 

Crosshair never answered and Echo never asked again. 

Crosshair never spoke of Mayday, never described the avalanche, or the armor that so many clones had lost their lives to protect. He didn't talk about the thirty-two rotations he had suffered on Kamino, that his body had metabolized all of his muscular tissue by the time that they had found him, that it had taken weeks to eat solid food again, and months before he could return to active duty. He never talked about Cody, or Dr. Hemlock, or Tantiss, or the torture, or Mayday—because wasn't it always fucking Mayday?—because he couldn't  the conversation would end with anything other than an, "I told you so." 

He didn't talk about any of it. Except, just once, to Rex. 

"Have you heard from Commander Cody?" Crosshair had asked, and Rex had responded tersely:

"I have." 

Crosshair had waited in silence for the captain to continue, but Rex said nothing. So Crosshair mentioned that the last time he had spoken to commander Cody was the day before he defected and—

And then he asked, interrupting himself, "Have you ever lost a friend before?" 

Rex had made a face as Crosshair had told the story. The sniper couldn't identify the expression—he assumed it was pity, or contempt. Which was understandable, he supposed. Rex had fought the chip tooth and claw, had made it his life's mission to help clones escape the Empire; Crosshair had fought tooth and claw to stay with the Empire. Expecting any sort of sympathy or brotherhood from Rex was astoundingly stupid, and Crosshair was quick to recognize the mistake and harden once more. 

"Have you told the others?" Rex asked. 

Crosshair pressed his lips into a thin line and responded, coldly, "They wouldn't understand," 

"You might be surprised," Rex had said. 

Crosshair had felt something burn within him, unidentifiable. "I think I know my squad better than you do, captain," he hissed, his voice dripping with venom. 

"They haven't been 'your squad's for a long time," Rex had pointed out, and Crosshair couldn't breathe. 

Still, Rex had been generous enough to offer him advice—sometimes, writing letters to the deceased helped with the process of parsing through one's grief.  

It was stupid, but Crosshair was desperate for relief, so he wrote. It helped, for a little while. It made him feel less alone, less numb. Never once in his letters, did he apologize. He had tried, many times, but the words were always wrong and every attempt ended in unceasing anger, as a little voice in his head whispered, "Remind me not to die on your watch." 

Crosshair was a quick learned, so it wasn't long before he found himself avoiding the subject entirely. Instead, he spoke of useless things in his letters to the dead man. He described the weather, made remarks about the humidity and the tropical storms. He spoke of the locals, the food, his appreciation that somebody was finally able to cook a dish that was spicy enough for him. He talked about the Batch, described them in detail and wrote of their antics—after all, Mayday had pressed, once, about who his squad had been. Surely he'd want to know? 

Crosshair found himself writing about his feelings—as distant and muted as they were. He spoke of the unfair resentment he felt towards Omega, of his unfounded inability to trust his brothers, of his immense shame. He about the gaping chasm of anger that sat in his chest. It was oddly comforting, talking to a dead man he had only known for three rotations. 

Just once, after a particularly frustrating day—the rain and the cold had made him inexplicably furious—he wrote himself a letter, as if he was Mayday—as if Mayday was still alive. He wanted to indulge in the fantasy that his shame was unfounded, that he hadn't failed his friend. 

The letter read only one sentence: 'Great to hear you're doing well out there.'

There, Crosshair froze. 

He deleted the letter almost instantly, as if, with a sharp inhale, reality dawned on him: What was he doing? What was the point? Mayday was dead. He was nothing more than an strewn pile of bones, picked clean by the vultures. What did he even care? They hadn't even been friends. They'd held two stiff conversations in half a rotation before the avalanche, and that was it. If he was alive, he wouldn't care about the weather or Crosshair's love of spicy food. 

They weren't friends. 

They weren't anything. 

Crosshair had nothing. 

There was nothing. Everything was empty.

He never wrote again, after that. The action was pointless. Mayday was dead. Writing letters wouldn't undo the avalanche, they couldn't turn back time. The dead were dead were dead. Crosshair, in a fit of frustration, cast the datapad across the room, hurling it against the wall with all his might. It clattered to the floor, abandoned, and was never touched again. 

It was funny, really; perhaps Mayday liked the letters because as soon as Crosshair stopped writing them, the commander started showing up in his dreams more and more frequently. Or perhaps the letters—the rumination—had appeased the commander in some way, had served as penance of some sort, as the commander's visage in the dreams became more and more cruel, more and more decomposed. 

Unfortunately, it wasn't as if the things Mayday said in his dreams weren't true. 

Everything was empty: even the yawning void where Crosshair's anger use live, festering. But there was nothing anymore, no unceasing rage, no flinching at the wrong smells and sounds and touches, even the nightmares, after some time, eventually faded until he stopped dreaming all together, and he begun to wake up just as exhausted as when he had gone to bed. 

The more time passed, the less real Crosshair felt. The numbness stretched across his skin and sunk deep into his belly. He no longer felt hungry or thirsty or tired. Even physical pain felt far away. He stopped speaking because his voice stopped sounding familiar, and he stopped spending time with his brothers and Omega because he discovered that, if he stared at them for long enough, their faces were no longer recognizable—like how a word repeated too many times becomes a noise without meaning.

Perhaps, he was no longer human. Had he ever been truly human? Or had the entirety of his manufactured life been artificial?

Food lost its appeal, spice no longer enticed him. Eating became a chore, but he never stopped—when hunger tugged at his stomach, his heart would race, gripped with something that might have been panic, if it wasn't so far away. 

Hunger was an interesting thing, Crosshair learned. When the pangs struck, he wasn't on the tropical planet, he was back on Kamino, with it's cold oceans and maelstroms—and the one rogue wave that had slapped the platform and nearly washed him away. The pangs of hunger transported him to a tiny platform in the middle of the sea, curled on his side as the wind howled and the rains fell in relentless sheets. 

Alcohol quieted the racing thoughts. He had never been a heavy drinker (although he certainly had his other vices) because he disliked the way it made him unsteady (and he was also driven away by the taste) but these days, it was the only thing that kept his head afloat. Otherwise, he might just drown in the vast ocean of nothingness that hung beneath him. The pointlessness, like a sea monster, might just consume him if he dared to let go of the bottle. 

On Kamino, there had been whispers of monsters in the water; creatures who could lure their victims out to sea with their voices, before drowning them. It was a stupid scary story that Crosshair had never believed, but perhaps there has been some truth to it: perhaps singing monsters truly did live in the seas. Perhaps it was their songs that had enticed Crosshair, that had called him to the ocean. 

Or, perhaps, he was simply a desperate, cowardly man who was too timid to admit that he didn't actually have the strength to live with his choices. 

Whatever it the reason, the outcome was the same: Crosshair began to stay up late, waiting, locked in his room, for the rest of the world, for his brothers, to sleep. Then, in the cool of the night, he would creep out and make his way to the beach. Despite the horrors of the Kaminoans platform, the ocean didn't frighten him. In fact, they enticed him, welcomed him, and he would wade out into the water, fully dressed, just to see how far he was willing to go. Each night, he got a little braver and swam a little farther. It was a game he played with the ocean—how far out could he swim before the relentless tides swept him away? 

He told himself he didn't want to die, it wasn't about that. He argued with himself that if he really wanted to die, he'd just shoot himself, plain and simple. 

But sometimes, he would fill his pockets with sand and swim out until the ocean floor seemed to drop away and he would let himself sink, just how far he could lose himself. 

It made him feel alive, in a way. 

It ended the same way every night: at some point, he'd lose the urge and return to shore, his chest aching with an emotion he refused to acknowledge. As the sun rose, he'd return home, dawning with a hangover, strip naked, and crawl into bed. 

The days became a blurry mess of salt and sand and alcohol. Any residual anger melted away, numbed by the drink and the sharp, cool tang of the ocean, and the distant awareness that, with the increasing stakes of his game, any day could be his last. It was that thought, truthfully, that brought the numbness, disguised as relief. 

"Crosshair?" 

Crosshair ground his teeth when Hunter's voice cut through the haze. He sounded tentative. "Rex and Echo have been looking for you. We've got intel from Howzer about a dozen clones in prison for deserting. We've got a rescue mission planned but, well, we could use a sniper," He sounded almost hopeful, or like he was pleading. 

"Howzer?" Crosshair asked, licking his cracked lips. He was thirsty. For the first time in weeks, he was aware enough of his body to recognize the heaviness of his tongue, the way it stuck to the roof of his mouth. 

Water wasn't a problem. Luckily, for as hellish as the ocean planet was, the rain was a constant, which meant that fresh water wasn't a big concern. What was concerning, however, was the lack of food. He had nothing. Perhaps he could attempt to fish, but the ocean was cold and the current was strong. He could easily be swept away by the- 

Where was he?

"He was a captain who served on Rhyloth under you and Admiral Rampart,"

"What?" he croaked. 

"He was a captain. He served under you and Rampart on Rhyloth," Hunter said again, more slowly. He looked concerned. His hands was halfway outstretched towards the sniper. 

"And Rex wants me there?" Crosshair  asked, blinking in disbelief. 

Hunter looked expectant or disappointed, Crosshair wasn't sure.

"He and Echo asked for you specifically. He, uh, he says he needs you sober, though," Hunter said with a frown. He sounded uncomfortable. Why did that make Crosshair angry?

"I'll be there," The sniper said simply.

"Crosshair, look. I think we should talk-" Hunter sound urgent, maybe desperate. 

Unfortunately Crosshair wasn't interested in finding out which it was so, instead, he turned his back on the sergeant, signalling the end of the conversation. 

Howzer. He remembered Howzer. He had allowed Clone Force 99 to escape, had defected against the Empire. Crosshair had thought it was such a repulsive thing to do—he had never liked the captain, and cuffing the captain had brought him a sick sense of pleasure. He had been pleased to punish dissidence. 

Would Howzer recognize him? What a stupid question. Crosshair was no reg. His face was- 

Unrecognizable. 

Crosshair was staring into a mirror. How had he gotten there? He didn't remember-

He could see the burn scar carved deep into his scalp. His heart hammered as he dug his fingers into the pits. 

Rex and Echo wanted him on that mission? With Howzer? Why? 

I'll be there. 

He would not.

He was no coward.

He spent the evening strolling the streets, gathering pebbles. When night fell, he swam farther that he ever had before. He fell deeper than ever, his pockets lines with pebbles. When his lungs cried out for oxygen, he surfaced, furious, cowardly. He was angry at Rex, angry at Echo, angry at Hunter, angry at Howzer, angry at Mayday, angry at himself. So he took it out on the ocean, cursing at it, as if he could enrage it enough to incense it to violence, as if it would crush him beneath a furious, rogue wave.  But the tides remained gentle, and the night was calm. 

Crosshair in his anger, dived. 

Usually, when he sank, he simply exhaled and let the water drag his body down. There has never been any intention behind it, no motion of energy. But now? Now there was fury. Still-powerful limbs propelled the sniper into the darkness, too upset to really think about what he was so determined to accomplish. 

The first time his lungs cried out for oxygen, Crosshair, out of spite, pushed himself even deeper. 

The second time his lungs cried out, reality set in and, suddenly, all of the burning grief and desperation and rage, rage had been smothered, leaving only the smouldering ashes of regret, and the charcoal taste of terror. 

What had he done?

He was down so deep that the pressure hurt his ears. He twisted in the total darkness, suddenly away, for the first time, of the possibilities that big, hulking, singing monsters swam in the depths. He felt like prey. As he tried to right himself, he lost his sense of direction. Which was was up? He exhaled sharply, up went the bubbles. Crosshair, scowling, followed them up. He wouldn't die. He wouldn't let himself die. Just like on Bracca and Kamino and Barton-4. He would not die. 

He had no right to die. Commander Cody had said-

He clawed upwards. His eyes stang and his lungs felt like they were going to collapse in on themselves, but still Crosshair persisted. Up and up and up and up- 

The urge to inhale was immense. He refused. It would not happen. Even as black spots began to appear in his blurry vision, as his brain tingled and his limbs ached, the determination persisted. 

His body exhaled and inhaled in spite of himself, hijacked by instinct. Everything burned. He thrashed, attempting to cough and sucking down more water. 

The surface was close. The bubbles lead the way up. At the sight of them, Crosshair's brain produced an image and a voice. 

"Vicious creatures, but you've got to admire them. They find a way to survive."

He was the ice vulture. It was him. He had sacrificed everything to survive, he chose cast his brothers aside like carrion and now he had to live with those choices.

Vaguely, he recalled breeching the surface. He remembered thrashing and and choking. He recalled the itchy feeling creeping up the back of his throat, the way his stomach heaved, and the taste of bile. He recalled gasping, his body convulsing autonomously towards the shore, practically dragging himself against the current, which had grown strong. He recalled he recalled seeing lights beyond the shore and crying out for help, only for his salt-damaged voice to fail.

He continued to gasp and spew water until his toes touched the sandy shore, he heaved himself forwards and collapsed, at last, on the beach. It took all of his energy to roll up onto his knees. He pressed a fist against his stomach and pressed down on it as hard as he could, forcibly expelling the excess water from his lungs. 

It was funny—he remembered gasping for air. He remembered his eyes falling shut. There had been sand beneath him. When he woke, there was grass beneath him. He opened his eyes, blurred with seawater. Despite that, the figure who stood before him, arms crossed and back straight, was unmistakable. 

"Rex," Crosshair sneered, his voice rough. 

"Have a good swim?" Rex asked, his voice was cold. Before the sniper could answer, the former captain cut in sharply, "There better be a damn-fucking good reason why I found you half dead on the beach," he snapped. He almost sounded worried. 

"I don't answer to you," Crosshair growled, forcing himself to his feet. He staggered forward, stumbled and- 

Rex caught him, steadied him. It was a kind gesture. 

"You should have let me fall," Crosshair hissed, petulantly swatting at Rex's hands. He sounded almost... Mournful. It would have felt good to fall. To sink. It would have made him feel alive. 

"Crosshair..." Captain Rex didn't sound so cold anymore. 

Unfortunately, Crosshair was stubborn. Severe and unyielding. He wrenched himself from the reg's arms and staggered forward. "Fuck off," he spat, unable to think of anything more eloquently to say. 

"Don't think I don't understand what you just tried to do! This isn't something you can just walk away from!" Rex argued, reaching out to put a hand on Crosshair's shoulder. "You need help, Crosshair. What happened on Barton-4 wasn't your fault-" 

Crosshair reacted violently, balling up a fist and slamming it right into Rex's face, who reeled backwards. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug and, even in such a physically exhausted state, Crosshair still had a nasty right hook. 

He imagined Rex hitting him, returning the punch, blow for blow. He imagined it might feel good, in a self-vindictive sort of way. Crosshair imagined, just for a moment, that Rex's fist was clad in clone armor and rags, that his hair was dark and long, and his beard was-

It was deserved. 

But Rex never struck Crosshair. The sniper, anticipating the blow, stumbled backwards and landed flat on his ass. His heart was beating so fast, he thought it might just stop. He rolled onto his hands and knees, and vomited saltwater.

"Hey, hey, hey! What the fucking kark is going on!" Hunter shouted, emerging from the darkness. "What the hell are you doing?!" 

"The captain and I were just having a discussion about tomorrow's mission," the sniper said, panting, as if it was an acceptable answer. 

"Rex, what's going on?" Hunter demanded again, and Crosshair grit his teeth. 

"Did you hear what I said?" he spat. His whole body was trembling from the exertion and the cold, as the seawater evaporation from his skin. He shut his eyes tight and breathed harshly against the rising nausea. Hadn't this happened before? The cold and the exhaustion, the position on his knees, even the words were-

"Help him!" Crosshair cried out, gesturing to a body that wasn't there. 

Whatever Hunter or Rex might have said was completely lost on the sniper, who was trapped in a snowy wasteland, watching, barely conscious, as the worthless lieutenant circled around him like a vulture.

'Certainly not. That would be a waste of the Empire's resources.'

Crosshair's expression fell. The shaking worsened. "He'll... He'll die," he croaked. 

And that was the crux of it, really. He'll die. He had never felt so helpless before, pleading for the life of somebody else, at the mercy of somebody else's whims. He had never been so powerless before. 

Clone Force 99 had a 100% mission success rate. Crosshair had never failed his brothers before, he wouldn't fail Mayday now. He wouldn't.  

He'll die. He recalled prying the commander's helmet off, recalled watching his chest sink and his expression relax as the spirit rose up to march alongside Veetch and Hexx. It was horrific. Mayday could have lived. He would have lived if Nolan had just felt like helping. 

Was Crosshair so powerless that his life was at the mercy of—

"It isn't real, Crosshair. Whatever you're seeing isn't real," As Hunter's voice washed over him, Crosshair lifted his eyes. He felt like he was waking up from a dream. 

"Take a deep breath, Crosshair," That was Rex's voice, nasally from the damage the sniper had done to his nose. It was bleeding something fierce. Crosshair felt almost proud. "There you go. One more," 

He was still on his hands and knees, still dripping wet, gripping the grass so tight that his knuckles had gone stiff.

"Good hit," Rex grumbled. "Consider us even," 

Before the Empire, Crosshair would have smirked—he vividly recalled incensing the captain to violence by bitching about his previous ARC trooper. Before the Empire, he used to tease Echo about it: "It's cute how much your captain loves you. Let me guess, you were the Batch Baby?" 

"You should have let me drown," Crosshair blurted out because he wasn't the same person he had been before the Empire; because he couldn't seem to stop the words from tumbling out; because he so badly wanted the help but was so scared to accept it. 

Rex and Hunter were both kneeling beside him, Hunter had a hand resting on the back of his shoulder, while Rex had a firmer hold, as if preparing to catch him. 

"You crawled out of that ocean yourself," Rex pointed out. 

"Then you should have thrown me back in," Crosshair sneered, in a tone that Hunter had come to realize was joking—but the words felt wrong, and a little too intentional. 

"We're all worried about you, Crosshair. What were you doing out there?" Hunter asked, and the younger clone squeezed his eyes shut. 

"Swimming," he said venomously. 

"Cool off, spitfire," Rex chided firmly. "You're not fooling anyone," 

Rex was talking about his tone—Crosshair's thorns were only defensive—but the words hit deeper. A pained groan pulled from Crosshair's chest as he attempted to shift his weight. He realized quickly that if he moved, he'd collapse, and he didn't wait either clone to see him in such a state. He gripped the grass even harder as he drawled, "You know why," 

Crosshair anticipated stunned, humiliating silence, but Hunter offered none. Without missing a beat he asked, "Why?" When Crosshair didn't response, Hunter asked again, more urgently, "Crosshair, why?" 

"You should tell him. Your squad doesn't want to see you at the bottom of the ocean," Rex's voice was kinder than Crosshair deserved. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing. 

"We're a patient bunch, you know. We can do this all night," Hunter said, irritated and insistent, panicked. "Rex is right. Nobody wants to see you dead,"

Slowly, Crosshair cracked his eyes open. "You wouldn't understand," he croaked. He sounded defeated. 

"I think you'd be surprised," Rex insisted. 

"He wouldn't understand. Neither of you will ever understand," he snarled like a feral animal. 

"Well, just try!" Hunter snapped, all of his self-proclaimed patience dissolving in an instant. "If you kill yourself because you can't be bothered to let anybody help you, none of us would forgive you! Can you imagine how upset Wrecker-"

"Hunter," Rex said sharply. 

The sergeant sucked in a slow breath and then said, "Crosshair, I meant what I said. None of us want to see you dead. I don't want to see you dead,"

"That's a lovely sentiment; where was all that sweet-talk on Kamino?" Crosshair growled, still adamantly refusing to look up. 

"You're right. But we're not on Kamino. I made a lot of shitty mistakes. My biggest regret is not trying harder to go after you immediately after Rex took the chips out. And I'm sorry. You needed up and we weren't there,"

Crosshair didn't answer. There was nothing to say and the silence was stifling—like being buried under snow. 

"Cross..." Hunter said suddenly, and there was a certain desperation in his voice, despite using such a gentle tone. "I really did mean what I said. You're my brother, I don't want to lose you. All of this shit—whatever it is you're carrying—you can't go on like this, and we can't lose you. Not again," He slipped his arm under Crosshair's shoulder. "Let us help you carry this," 

Crosshair expression tightened, his breathing hitched, and he instantly felt enraged. He grit his teeth, fingers digging tight into the dirt, and in his fury he began, silently, to cry. 

Beneath the numbness, beneath the rage, was sorrow and grief and guilt and so much regret. 

"I'm sorry..." he croaked, barely able to push the words past his ruined vocal chords and shuddering breaths. 

Hunter scooted closer, pushing his arm more firmly under Crosshair's shoulder, ready to catch him when he fell. "It's okay. We forgive you. It's okay, Cross," 

The resolute sniper never made a sound, and he turned his scrunched face away, too proud to let Hunter see him cry. His whole body shuddered and his arms, at last, gave out. 

Hunter caught him. 

He tugged Crosshair close. He flicked his head—a signal to give them some space—and Crosshair heard Rex's footsteps as he stepped away. He felt foolish for his inability to stop the steady flow of tears, but Hunter just held him tighter. He didn't deserve it, he tried to hold his breath to force the feelings away, but his battered lungs wouldn't obey. All he could do was slowly drag his arms up to cling to the sergeant. 

"I'm... I'm sorry," he rasped. 

"Crosshair, I forgive you. And I'm sorry too. I'm sorry it got to this point. We all knew you were struggling but we- we didn't know how bad it was. Rex and Echo and I figured you were struggling to adjust to civilian life. We figured a mission would be a good change of environment. I had no idea—" Hunter shook his head and tightened his grip once more. "It's not an excuse. I'm sorry. It's not an excuse,"

Crosshair managed, at last, to steady his breathing. If he wasn't so exhausted, he'd pull away and stalk off. It he wasn't so exhausted, he'd run away and hide behind all of his walls and thorns, and Hunter never would have caught him. He wasn't sure whether it was a blessing or a curse, to be caught before he could sink further. After all, living was so very difficult. 

"I'm kriffing pissed at you, you know," Hunter said softly, voice hardly above a whisper. "You can't do this again. If we lost you..." 

Crosshair scowled. "You already lost me once before, and you seemed fine," 

That must've hit a nerve because Hunter inhaled sharply and his grip stiffened. "You don't know shit, Crosshair. Is that really what you think of us? That we cared for you so little that we celebrated in your absence? When you said you had your chip taken out, you have no idea how hurt and betrayed-" Crosshair tugged away, and Hunter loosened his hold, immediately cutting himself off. 

There was that shame again, burning in the pit of the sniper's stomach. His arms fell. 

"You have every right to be angry," Hunter said with a sigh, as if he, too, struggled to let his feelings go. "I'm sorry. I'm saying all of the wrong things. I don't want to lose you and knowing that you-" he shook his head. "I'm having a hard time controlling my emotions. That's not your fault, it's mine. And I'm sorry. I don't blame you for staying with the Empire. I understand why you did what you did. We didn't get to you before Kamino. We weren't fast enough. But we did try," he insisted. "I don't- I don't want you to think that we never tried," 

Hunter's arms loosened again, and Crosshair steadied his breath, prepared to straighten, to stand up, to be let go. But Hunter didn't let go. After a moment of hesitation his arms tightened once more. 

"I'm not going to leave you again, Crosshair. I'm not going to lose you," Hunter said firmly. "Rex is off to wake the doc. We've got to give you a physical eval, make sure all that seawater didn't fuck you up. And you need to talk to her. Crosshair, listen to me, you need to tell her that when you went out into the water, you intended to end your life. If you don't, I will. You don't have to tell her why, but you have to tell her. I won't lose you, and you need help. None of the others have to know, you can tell them when you're ready, but you have to tell the doc," he said. 

"So... I'm on suicide watch?" Crosshair sneered, simultaneously sagging into Hunter and rolling his eyes. 

"You're on suicide watch," Hunter said firmly. 

'Tell me about your squad,' Mayday had asked, breath wet and raspingv painfully. 

'Hunter is a pain in the ass. Shitty leader, pain in the ass, but he's kind. So.' Crosshair had writen in one of his useless, fucking letters.

"I lost a friend," the sniper said so softly his voice was barely audible. 

"I'm sorry," Hunter said, and it sounded almost genuine. But it was just enough to prompt Crosshair to keep talking. 

By the time Rex had returned with the doc, Crosshair was barely awake, succumbing to the exhaustion. He remained firmly in Hunter's arms and, while nothing was truly fixed, not yet, it was a beginning. For the first time since before the Empire, Crosshair felt safe.

[nightace12fanfics]

Into The Underground Part 1

When Blaze started to climb the mountain, he certainly was wondering if this was the right decision. Unlike the world he was leaving behind, Mt Ebbot was peaceful. He liked it. Still, he knew the second he returned home, it’d just be the same. His father would just continue to beg him to find humans for him to feed on him. He knew the stories of the monsters being sealed away, but it seemed a few monsters went unnoticed. The more humanoid ones, of course, given his father was a vampire. The only sign they weren’t human were the pointed ears and fangs. And well, the drinking of blood. But that was less obvious to most people.

That’s why he was here. He knew that most people who came here would never return, presumably killed by the monsters or the fall from the mountain itself. Blaze was tired of helping his father, tired of knowing that innocent people were dying. It wasn’t like he could just say ‘no’ to his father either, then he’d just be attacked and be fed on. As much as Blaze wanted to die, he wasn’t planning on letting his father use him for his own personal gain. Hence Mt Ebbot, a way to die peacefully and hopefully never be seen by his father again.

Still, as he stood, staring into the hole into the mountain, and the long drop, Blaze had to admit. He was scared. Part of him didn’t entirely want to die, but it wasn’t like he had anything else to live for. His father was a vampire, just using him for his own personal gain; his mother hated him, and had even shot him when all he wanted was comfort, and Phantom… He wasn’t sure what to think of Phantom. The experiments with the monster souls had fused them, in a way, and Phantom was always there. At first, that didn’t go well, with Phantom lashing out at any human who got to close, often taking over just to attack them. But now? The two were at relative peace. Coming to an agreement of sharing his body took a while but still. Phantom was encouraging this, saying he wanted to go home, to see his family again.

“Well, this is the end, then…” Blaze sighed, before closing his eyes and jumping.

“I really doubt we’ll die.” Phantom scoffed, his voice clear in Blaze’s head, “All the rest of those humans survived, and they were just kids.”

Blaze just grunted in response, finally opening his eyes, watching as the ground came nearer and nearer. This seemed to be taking longer than he anticipated, but at the same time, that could’ve just been adrenaline.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Blaze hit the ground. It took a mind a second to catch up, but he quickly realised that he was unharmed, lying on a bed of yellow flowers. Sitting up and rubbing the back of his head, he looked around.

“Guess you were right, Phantom. We really are alive…” Blaze muttered, rolling his eyes as he slowly stood up. “At… Least we’re away from father. They won’t find us here.”

Phantom made what sounded like a grunt of agreement but didn’t say anything. Blaze sighed in response, slowly beginning to walk down a dark hallway. He paused, noticing a grand-looking archway standing before him. Considering how empty this area was, it was certainly a surprise that it was in good condition. Perhaps those flowers were important. Maybe a burial sight of some kind, and whoever lived here visited regularly.

Shaking those thoughts aside, Blaze walked through an archway. At first, he thought the room was empty, but as he began to walk, a frog jumped in front of him, making him yelp in surprise. Everything turned black-and-white, and Blaze felt… lighter than normal. It was weird, like he had become separated from his body, almost like Phantom was in control, but Blaze could already tell he wasn’t.

“What… What is this?” Blaze asked, staring at the frog in front of him in sheer confusion.

“It’s a fight.” Phantom answered simply, like Blaze was supposed to know what that meant. After a second, he sighed in annoyance, “Right. Down in the Underground, monsters can initiate fights. It’ll separate your soul from your body. That’s a Froggit there, they’re mostly harmless”

Nodding vaguely, Blaze stared at the Froggit. “You know, you’re kind of cute.” He remarked, not really thinking of what he was saying.

The frog monster paused, tilting its head to the side, almost seeming like it appreciated that remark. Still, before Blaze could relax, he quickly noticed what seemed like flies moving towards him. Instinctively, he jumped away from the flies, which were almost definitely trying to come towards him. Then without warning, the flies stopped.

“That was an attack. Just dodge it and you’ll be fine.” Phantom scoffed, “You can spare the Froggit now. See that menu beneath you? Just press spare.”

“Huh? Okay…” Blaze muttered, doing as Phantom told. Everything went back to normal and the Froggit hopped away, leaving Blaze alone. Running a hand through his hair, Blaze continued on forwards, coming into a fancy-looking room. Unlike the previous rooms, it was a bright and vibrant purple with a white staircase on each side. Strangely, despite the lack of trees, there was a large pile of red leaves between the two staircases.

“Hm. Looks like this is the Ruins. I never came here much.” Phantom remarked. Blaze didn’t say anything about it, just walking up one of the staircases and into a nearby room.

Unlike the previous rooms, the door was closed, seemingly sealed shut. Blaze frowned at that, glancing over at the buttons on the opposite side of the room. It was clearly some kind of puzzle. Grunting in annoyance, Blaze walked over to the nearby sign, hoping it’d provide some information. But before he could even begin to read it, the sound of the door opening made him flinch.

“Fu-“ Blaze cut himself off when he saw who was at the door. While she was clearly a monster, with white fur and horns that made her look like a goat, she didn’t seem hostile. Instead, her eyes widened at the sight of Blaze, clearly not expecting him.

“Oh my!” she gasped, “Are you alright, young one? You must’ve fallen from the surface… I am Toriel, caretaker of the Ruins. I pass through here every day to see if anyone has fallen down. You are… the first in a long time. I’m sorry I didn’t find you sooner…”

“Don’t worry about it…” Blaze muttered, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly, “I’m Blaze.”

Toriel hummed in response, “It’s nice to meet you, Blaze. Come, I shall guide through your new home.”

“My… new home?” Blaze asked, surprised at the notion. Toriel nodded her head but didn’t say anything just yet. Deciding not to question her any further, Blaze just began to follow Toriel, as she led him through the now open door.

The next room was the largest of the rooms Blaze had seen so far, with it being some kind of hallway. He could see three levels, two of which had writing surrounding them.

“Is this another puzzle?” Blaze questioned.

“Ah, yes. The ruins are full of puzzles. Ancient fusions between diversions and doorkeys, they must be solved to move from room to room.” Toriel explained.

“That seems highly impractical.” Blaze remarked.

“I suppose it is…” Toriel muttered, before shaking her head, “However, you must learn to grow used to them if you are to stay here. Try and solve this puzzle. In this room, you will need to trigger several switches. Do not worry, I have labelled the ones you need to flip.”

Blaze nodded at that, glancing at the nearest lever, which was surrounded by yellow arrows. Not bothering to read the writing surrounding it, Blaze flipped the switch, earning him a smile from Toriel. Toriel moved aside so Blaze could see the next two switches. Only one was labelled.

Humming in response, Blaze walked over to the labelled switch and pulled it. He looked over at the spikes blocking the door, frowning when he noticed they hadn’t retracted.

“Are you… sure this is the right switch?” Blaze asked.

“It should have opened by now…” Toriel muttered, sounding like she was talking to herself, “I am sure I labelled the correct lever… Ah, do not worry, young one! Try flipping the other switch.”

Hesitantly, Blaze went over to the unlabelled switch and pulled it. The ground crumbled beneath his feet, sending Blaze plummeting through the ground. With a cry of pain, Blaze hit the ground, feeling himself losing consciousness.

“Oh my! Are you alright? Oh dear, I’m afraid I cannot meet you. I must leave for a moment. You will stay there, will you not? Do not wander, many monsters are unfriendly towards humans. Fret not, young one, I shall protect you. Please… Wait there.” Was the last thing Blaze heard before he finally lost consciousness.

[save-the-data]

The Whisperer | S01E08

Thai Drama - 2023, 10 episodes

Episodes | Viki |YouTube | iQIYI | WeTV | Tencent | Youku | Catalogue

So happy its Thanwa that revealed Vit and Taw's infidelity, sadly he had to die in the process. On that note, damn feel sorry for Thanwa and Bubble, they didn't know that their co-worker was a blonde psychopath and in a deadly relationship with the devil. Koon just needs to escape, be with Tar again and be the best uncle that he is.

[the-oc-lass]

Nimona OC - Charlotte Swiftheart/Corova

We??? Are almost at the end???? Of this thing???? This Canon + Charlotte thing???? How did this happen so fast? I mean, I'd still like to write the AUs, and maybe put the whole fic on Ao3 or something, but wow. Speaking of, let's make a poll.

If you're curious about the AUs, I mentioned them two posts ago, I think, and mentioned another point about one of them in the last post.

Anyway, let's get on with it, shall we? We're almost at the end (and just in time for finals)!

TW: Canon su*cidal ideology and su*cide attempt, and canon "death"

First, Previous, Next

She never should've left. Everything was good before she left the tower. They were safe, and content. Happy. But as Charlotte had been making her way through the city toward the secondary location of the sanctuary, she'd looked up at one of the giant screens to see the Director making a speech. Claiming that it wasn't her in the video, but Nimona, shapeshifted into her. And Charlotte's heart had dropped into her stomach. She'd spun around, running back toward the tower. The only thing she can think to do is release the full video, show the people that the Director is lying. Yes, Nimona is a shapeshifter, but she wasn't the Director. For Gloreth's sake, she was transformed into Ambrosius at the time! The kingdom knows that Nimona is a shapeshifter now, and the video will prove that the Director is lying!

But as she gets closer to the tower, the ground trembles, and she stops and listens. Everything shakes again, and she can hear what sounds like extremely heavy footsteps. It stops for a moment, but she can't move. Something's wrong. She knows it. Something's happened, something's wrong.

The alarm begins to blare.

Monster attack. Monster attack. This is not a test.

Her heart stops. Nimona.

"No," she whispers. She hears a loud, thundering cry, and she breaks into a sprint again. Explosions ring through the air, and she stumbles into a wall before pushing off it and continuing forward. When Nimona roars again, it doesn't sound angry. It sounds pained. Hurt. They're hurting her. She keeps moving, shoving her way through groups of people fleeing in the opposite direction. She hears shots being fired, more explosions, and another shattering roar. What happened to her? Where's Ballister? As she gets closer to everything, smoke starts pouring into the alleyways, and she coughs a bit but keeps moving. It seems like there are explosions and fires everywhere. She eventually makes it out onto the main street, and smoke and embers fill the air. However, through it all, she spots familiar dark armor, and she rushes toward it. "Bal! Ballister!" He turns toward her, and she can see that he's hurt as he takes a step toward her.

"Charlotte," he calls softly. She grabs his shoulders once she reaches him.

"What happened? What happened to Nimona?" she demands. Before he can answer, an anguished scream pierces through the air, and they both turn to look toward it. Nimona. Institute forces fire down on her, and she rears up in pain.

"I did that to her. I hurt her," he says, sounding heartbroken and regretful as he looks toward Nimona. And at first, a protective anger washes through Charlotte. She wants to shake Ballister and demand to know what he did, what he said. But that won't help anyone right now. So instead, she shifts her hand to grasp the back of his neck.

"Then we get you to her so you can fix this," she says, calmer than she feels. He looks up at her, eyes still heartbroken, but then his expression hardens with determination and he nods. "Come on. The horses." She turns and rushes to some nearby horses, taking the reins firmly and guiding them past the flames. She passes one off to Ballister and mounts her own, and they take off in the direction Nimona is headed. The sounds of more destruction are clear in their ears, and Charlotte's heart thunders in her chest as they ride through the crumbling streets. There are people screaming and fleeing in the opposite direction as they gallop past, and Charlotte tries to picture the city to figure out what path they need to take to reach Nimona.

"Where's she going? What is she trying to do?" Ballister wonders aloud. And as she pictures the route that Nimona is taking, Charlotte pulls back on the reins to stop her horse, horrible realization settling in the pit of her stomach. Ballister stops next to her, looking at her with wide, somewhat confused eyes.

"I don't know what's scarier..."

"Die," she whispers in horror. She lifts her gaze. "Gloreth's statue. Follow me." She snaps her reins and takes off again, Ballister close behind her.

"...The fact that everyone in this kingdom wants to run a sword through my heart..."

They take side roads and thin alleys, and she pushes her horse as fast as it will go. They have to get to Nimona. They have to stop her.

"...or that sometimes..."

She blinks tears out of her eyes. She can't lose Nimona. She can't. Everything blurs together until they emerge from an alleyway into the square, and she's able to see Nimona up close. Big, bleary eyes look up at Gloreth's sword, then close as Nimona starts to push herself up.

"I just wanna let 'em."

She urges Ballister toward the statue, and they leap off their horses as they draw close.

"Come on, come on!" she says, crouching slightly and folding her hands to provide a foothold. She hoists him up to help him climb, and she quickly starts going up after him. Every movement is desperate, and she nearly slips off the statue. No, no, no, no. She can't help but look up when Nimona lets out a heart wrenching wail, her exposed heart drawing near the edge of Gloreth's blade. Ballister runs to the end of the sword, lifts his hand and-

The wail stops. Below, people gasp. And Charlotte finishes the climb, carefully climbing onto Gloreth's arm. She looks across it, to the end of the statue's sword. Ballister's mechanical hand presses to Nimona's heart, his head bowed. For a few moments, Nimona stays frozen, eyes open and looking toward the sky. Ballister holds out his other arm, dropping his sword over the edge and letting it fall. Nimona slowly lowers her head, looking down at him, and he looks up at her.

"I'm sorry," he says, with all the sincerity in the world. "I'm sorry. I see you, Nimona. And you're not alone." At those words, the energy around Nimona's heart begins to swirl, and Nimona closes her eyes. The darkness is pulled back into the light, and from it, Nimona forms. She lands at the edge of the sword, stumbling slightly, then she lifts her head to look at Ballister. And even from here, Charlotte can see her injuries, and in how much pain she must be in. She lets out a soft sob and stumbles forward, and Ballister rushes forward to catch her, carefully helping to steady her before pulling her into his arms. And Nimona returns his embrace, leaning into him. Slowly, Charlotte makes her way toward them, eyes never leaving the scene before her. When she gets close, she pauses, taking a shuddering breath. In the end, she can't help herself, and she quietly moves toward them and joins the hug. One of her arms curls around Ballister's back, and she cradles the back of Nimona's head with the other. She almost wishes that time would stop here, so that these two people who mean so much to her could always be safe right here in her arms. But it's nice when they pull back a bit too, Nimona looking up at Ballister, then Charlotte. There's nothing but adoration in those eyes, and the adoration is returned tenfold. Charlotte tucks some of Nimona's hair behind her ear, then gently strokes her thumb over the girl's cheek to clear some of the dirt away.

"Hey, Chari," she says softly, leaning into Charlotte's hand. Charlotte smiles at her, fighting and losing against tears.

"Hi, Nim," she whispers. Their moment is broken when something explodes, and they all turn to look toward the blast. It came from the wall. "What was that?"

"I don't know," Ballister mutters. But they don't have to wait long. As the three of them shift away from each other, the cannon on the wall—which is now facing in toward them—starts to light up green, and a siren wails as it powers up. Below them, people begin to scream and run again. Charlotte's mind flashes back to her people, the KB and the members of the sanctuary. Will they be safe from the blast? Will anyone? "That gun's gonna kill everyone." But there's nothing that they can do. It's too late. Even if they run...

"Hey, boss." Charlotte and Ballister look toward Nimona, who turns toward them with a confident grin on her face. "Be right back. I'm gonna go break some stuff." She punches her fist into her hand and backs away from them.

"Wait, Nimona. What are you-" He doesn't get his whole question out.

"It's time to rewrite this story."

"Nimona! Nimona!" Both of them call, watching her leap off the edge of the sword. She shifts on her way down, becoming the most magnificent creature that Charlotte's ever seen. She soars over the people and up toward the cannon, burning in a fiery light. She closes her wings around the cannon as it fires, and the light is so bright that they have to turn their heads and shield their eyes.

The dust has yet to clear when they climb down from the statue and grab their horses. It practically blinds them as they gallop through the streets toward the wall. There's a red hue to it, even, as if Nimona lingers all around them. They both leap from their horses and call for her, searching. Glimmering pink sparks fall from the sky all around them, and she can't help but stare up at them. They're like fallen stars. They should be beautiful. But as each one falls and vanishes, she feels her heart breaking.

"Come back," Ballister says beside her. They keep searching, watching each spark that lingers for longer than the others. "Please come back." The hope begins to fade along with the sparks, but it continues to burn with one. Ballister sees it too, and she watches him hold out his hand to catch it. But it, too, fades before reaching his hand. There's nothing left. Nimona is gone. With an aching heart, Charlotte falls, curled into herself with her head in her hands. She shakes with broken sobs, and all at once the grief consumes her.

(I'll be writing one more for the end of the movie tomorrow, but until then, you get to be sad)

Lovely tagged people:

@ammonitetheseaserpent @perfectkittystranger @madlad06 @xxlunadrawsstuffxx @floxu