#veteran suicide rates

[news4dzhozhar]

Another short clip of another former IDF soldier angry with politicians who continue to send conscripts to war & provide no psychological support once their service has ended and they are "damaged goods" with PTSD.

[tittyinfinity]

One thing we can do to help slow down the spread of imperialism is to combat army recruiters in high schools – they hand out information about all the "benefits" of joining the military and persuade teenagers into thinking it will give them financial stability.

Make flyers debunking what they say. Tell them about how it will affect their mental health and the suicide rate of veterans. Tell them about how people who were/are in the military are still financially struggling. Show them the stories of ex-military members who say a lot of military jobs require you to protect oil rigs. Show them the effects of the US military being in other countries. Show them how large of a percentage of people killed were children.

Hang them up/pass them out wherever you can. You might not be able to stand directly outside of a school to hand them out (idk how army recruiters get the permission to do that) but you can place them in areas around the schools, gas stations, Walmart, wherever.

As soon as I have the spoons, I plan on creating some flyer templates that anyone can save and print off. I'm disabled and can't get out of the house consistently, so this is where I'll need y'alls help.

Make your own, too, if you can.

The American military is really what's standing in our way of a revolution.

So that's one of the places we need to hit hardest first.

[survivingcapitalism]

What Boeing did to all the guys who remember how to build a plane

by Maureen Tkacik

March 28, 2024

https://prospect.org/infrastructure/transportation/2024-03-28-suicide-mission-boeing/

John Barnett had one of those bosses who seemed to spend most of his waking hours scheming to inflict humiliation upon him. He mocked him in weekly meetings whenever he dared contribute a thought, assigned a fellow manager to spy on him and spread rumors that he did not play nicely with others, and disciplined him for things like “using email to communicate” and pushing for flaws he found on planes to be fixed.

“John is very knowledgeable almost to a fault, as it gets in the way at times when issues arise,” the boss wrote in one of his withering performance reviews, downgrading Barnett’s rating from a 40 all the way to a 15 in an assessment that cast the 26-year quality manager, who was known as “Swampy” for his easy Louisiana drawl, as an anal-retentive prick whose pedantry was antagonizing his colleagues. The truth, by contrast, was self-evident to anyone who spent five minutes in his presence: John Barnett, who raced cars in his spare time and seemed “high on life” according to one former colleague, was a “great, fun boss that loved Boeing and was willing to share his knowledge with everyone,” as one of his former quality technicians would later recall.

More from Maureen Tkacik

But Swampy was mired in an institution that was in a perpetual state of unlearning all the lessons it had absorbed over a 90-year ascent to the pinnacle of global manufacturing. Like most neoliberal institutions, Boeing had come under the spell of a seductive new theory of “knowledge” that essentially reduced the whole concept to a combination of intellectual property, trade secrets, and data, discarding “thought” and “understanding” and “complex reasoning” possessed by a skilled and experienced workforce as essentially not worth the increased health care costs. CEO Jim McNerney, who joined Boeing in 2005, had last helmed 3M, where management as he saw it had “overvalued experience and undervalued leadership” before he purged the veterans into early retirement.

“Prince Jim”—as some long-timers used to call him—repeatedly invoked a slur for longtime engineers and skilled machinists in the obligatory vanity “leadership” book he co-wrote. Those who cared too much about the integrity of the planes and not enough about the stock price were “phenomenally talented assholes,” and he encouraged his deputies to ostracize them into leaving the company. He initially refused to let nearly any of these talented assholes work on the 787 Dreamliner, instead outsourcing the vast majority of the development and engineering design of the brand-new, revolutionary wide-body jet to suppliers, many of which lacked engineering departments. The plan would save money while busting unions, a win-win, he promised investors. Instead, McNerney’s plan burned some $50 billion in excess of its budget and went three and a half years behind schedule.

Swampy belonged to one of the cleanup crews that Boeing detailed to McNerney’s disaster area. The supplier to which Boeing had outsourced part of the 787 fuselage had in turn outsourced the design to an Israeli firm that had botched the job, leaving the supplier strapped for cash in the midst of a global credit crunch. Boeing would have to bail out—and buy out—the private equity firm that controlled the supplier. In 2009, Boeing began recruiting managers from Washington state to move east to the supplier’s non-union plant in Charleston, South Carolina, to train the workforce to properly put together a plane.

[waywardrose]

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 28

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

9k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs​​​

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, fighting and making up

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This is it, my dudes! The final chapter. No epilogue, because I don't think this story needs it. Thank you for all your comments, likes, and reblogs! Your support has kept me going. I'll post a masterlist directly.

28

Today’s volunteers had been abuzz with the news of Chief Jim Hopper’s miraculous return from the dead. The story was he’d uncovered a terrorist plot and worked with the government to thwart the radicals. Starcourt Mall had been the unfortunate backdrop of the confrontation.

It was also unfortunate a surviving radical had recognized Hopper. Since Hopper had been in danger, he’d been put in a protection program until the threat had been eliminated.

Rumor had it he’d been involved in defeating the rest of these radicals, who had something to do with Hawkins National Laboratory.

You didn’t bother to point out the specific government agency had been conveniently omitted. Same with the terrorist organization. Over sandwiches in the courtyard, Steve said Hawkins Lab had been closed for over a year when Starcourt’s fire occurred.

Nevertheless, while there had been casualties at Starcourt, they’d been few. Everyone considered Hopper a local hero.

A few volunteers discussed Eddie, too. They felt sorry for him and insisted they’d never believed those ugly rumors. Eddie was an orphan who’d been taken in by his uncle Wayne. Wasn’t that sad? Why, they’d known Wayne Munson for years! Wayne was an upright person. A veteran, too. There was no way he would’ve tolerated Devil-worship under his roof.

Those horrible classmates — bullies, really — must’ve targeted Eddie because he was different. Being different wasn’t a crime! Besides, Eddie had never hurt anyone. He performed at The Hideout with his little band all the time. One volunteer knew The Hideout’s owner, Cliff, who said Eddie was a good, if weird, kid.

You’d nodded and hummed in agreement while sorting donated home goods. There was no point in calling them hypocrites. Perhaps some of them weren’t. You wished you’d gone to that town hall meeting with your parents. Then you’d be able to pick out the liars.

On the way home in Steve’s car, Robin turned in the front seat to face you.

“You know, people want to be on the winning side. They like to think of themselves as smart enough to know who’s telling the truth.”

“But they were blinded by fear,” you said in agreement. “And looking for someone to blame.”

Steve said, “Like the pilgrims burning all the witches in Salem.”

You and Robin shared a look. He was close enough.

“Yup,” she said.

He appeared proud to have contributed to the conversation.

Robin rested her chin on her forearm.

“Eddie’s lucky you found him before anyone else.”

“Outside of the military, yeah, I guess.” You offered a bitter grin. “Who knows what they would’ve done to him if he’d survived Vecna.”

Though you don’t think he would have. Most likely, he would’ve dropped dead with the rest of the hivemind. If you hadn’t died from taking part of Vecna’s curse earlier, you might’ve shared that fate.

Steve said, “God, I’m so glad that fuckface’s dead.”

“Me too.”

“Me three,” Robin said with a grin.

Once at Steve’s, you three talked about dinner. Steve had pulled everything this morning to make a pan of baked ziti with roasted broccoli on the side. Robin made a disgusted face at the mention of a vegetable. You laughed at her scrunched nose and tongue poking out. Robin exclaimed eating broccoli was like eating green farts while Steve opened the front door.

Classical music played from the sunroom’s stereo system.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve said, projecting his voice as he tossed his keys into the bowl on the foyer table.

The music cut off, leaving a silence that felt as if you needed to pop your ears.

Robin kicked off her shoes and hung her jacket on an empty hanger in the closet. She reached for yours as Eddie jogged across the living room.

“Hey, good day?” He didn’t wait for a reply as he said to Steve, “I know this is a pain in the ass, but would you take me to my van? I want to do it before it gets dark. It’s on Coal Mill.”

“Dude, I gotta start dinner.”

Robin held up her hands when Eddie looked at her.

“No license. And the last time I tried to cook in that kitchen, I almost set everything on fire.”

Steve smirked.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Yeah? Tell that to your smoke detector that wouldn’t shut up for fifteen minutes.”

You snorted to hide the pang at being Eddie’s last choice and shrugged your jacket back onto your shoulders.

“I guess that leaves me.”

With a pat to your pockets, confirming you had your wallet and keys, you left the house. Eddie bumbled out the front door a minute later, swinging on a navy sport coat that was a size too big. It clashed with his green track pants and untied blue sneakers.

You kept your comments to yourself as you unlocked your car and got behind the wheel. Eddie sat in the passenger seat as you started the engine. The stereo came to life. The Sisters of Mercy simmered through the speakers. You hit the power button, cutting them off.

Sounding amused, Eddie said, “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“I was in the mood for them the other day.”

“You can turn it back on, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine.” You shifted the car into Drive. “How do I get to Coal Mill?”

“Uh, take a left. We’ll go the back way.”

You nodded and pulled onto the street. He tied his sneakers. At the first intersection, he directed you to go left. The evening sun’s golden light flickered between the trees. This far from the nexus, the woods appeared unaffected by the poisonous ash. You mentioned it. Eddie asked how downtown was faring.

You lifted a shoulder.

“It’s like a war zone and a natural disaster had a horrible, mangled baby.”

He laughed. “Vivid.”

“There’re construction crews all over, and the school gets dusty overnight. We have to cover everything with sheets before we leave. People sleep with masks on.”

“What a nightmare.”

You nodded as you passed the turnoff to Sattler’s Quarry.

After that, the road narrowed and twisted. Eddie navigated you through more intersections and over train tracks. You passed farmhouses with fields of growing corn and pastures for cattle. He had you take a road into the woods where squat houses sat close together.

The road dead-ended with Coal Mill Road T-ing into it. Behind the houses, sunlight reflected off rippling water. He advised you to park in the gravel at the side of the road; his van wasn’t far. You found a wide, flat section and stopped the car. The peaceful neighborhood didn’t seem the place to stash a van.

You then recognized the house reflected in the rearview mirror as the one from the broadcast identifying Eddie as a suspect. That had been a shitty day. Even for you.

Eddie opened the passenger door. You blinked out of the memory, unlatched your seatbelt, and got out of the car. He was quiet as you came to his side. His grim face had you reaching for his hand.

He stiffened at the touch.

You recoiled and looked away. Rather than the quiet hurt you expected, though you were hurt, this white-hot feeling spread through you. Your jaw locked and vision narrowed. Each inhale became deliberate. You wanted to claw at his pretty face.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?”

That pretty face became dismissive, and he stepped onto the road towards the woods.

Over his shoulder, he asked, “What do you mean, what’s my problem?”

“You’re…” You struggled to find a word as you followed, but the only one came. “Skittish. I don’t know.”

“I’m not skittish.”

A few yards down from your car, he separated two shrubs to reveal parallel tire ruts in the grass.

“You are!” You waved a hand at his back. “You are. You won’t sit next to me. You won’t touch me. Not that I expect you to be all over me, but you don’t reach for me.”

He stepped between the shrubs and held one back for you.

“I—”

“I take your hand, you flinch.” You tramped into the underbrush and onto a rut. “I sit next to you, you make sure there’s plenty of space between us. I make a move, and it’s always wrong.”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, letting the shrub go.

“Really?”

He went to the other rut. You stopped to glare at him.

Did he not see the irony of maintaining four feet of distance?

“Really?”

“I…” He frowned, though he continued walking. “I don’t want to crowd you.”

“Eddie, you’ve had your dick in me.” You resumed walking. “And I’ve never pushed you away.”

In fact, you had only pushed him away when he’d been under Vecna’s control. When it was just the two of you, the thought never crossed your mind.

He sighed.

“I’ve needed space.”

“Then tell me that. I don’t want you to feel pressured.” That heat inside you vanished. “You’re not obligated to… to do anything.”

“No, it’s not that.” He stopped and glanced at you. “I haven’t felt like myself since…”

“Yeah.”

“No, not like— It’s like…” He sighed again, his face twisting up. “There’s this emptiness.”

What could you say to that? You wouldn’t diminish his experience by saying plenty of people felt that. His was different. It wasn’t anything one could ignore or fill. You remembered dissolving into silence, and how it had swallowed everything.

You said softly, “Like a hunger.”

He met your gaze. In the sepia light and dusty shade, his brown eyes appeared darker and more vulnerable than you’d ever seen them.

“I don’t want it to touch you.”

You shook your head.

“It’s not a stranger.”

He looked away, into the trees, chin quivering. The tip of his nose turned pink. You wanted to kiss it, kiss him, make it better somehow. You took a hesitant half-step to take his hand, at least, but he walked farther into the woods.

With a deep breath, you followed a couple paces behind. The ruts curved around a dead pine and disappeared behind a thicket. Eddie knelt at the far side of the pine to dig into the rust-colored needles. An old camouflage net covered his boxy van from roof to tires.

You pushed up your sleeves while circling the van.

As you came around, he said, “Look, I know you’re too smart to believe the shit Vecna said.” He pulled something from the needles. “But I want… I want you to hear it from me—”

“Eddie.” You shook your head again. “That’s—”

“No, let me get this out. Every shitty thing he said — I said — was a lie.” The metallic jingle of keys punctuated his statement. “I don’t believe any of it. I never thought it.”

While you didn’t doubt Eddie, there was a part of you that wondered if Vecna was right. You were privileged. Your parents could afford to send you to any college. They’d even set up a savings account for you. You didn’t have to worry about a part-time job. You had a car. You’d been protected from the banal cruelty in the world. You’d taken so much for granted over the years. On top of that, you were a witch.

He straightened and looked at you.

“I don’t know how to prove it. All I got is my word.”

“No, no, I believe you,” you said, holding up your hands.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

“What?”

“You saved me, sweetheart.” A corner of his mouth quirked. “Kinda feels like a blood debt.”

You grinned.

“Is that a real thing?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I don’t know, but, Eddie…” You drew closer to him. “You owe me nothing. You’ll never owe me.”

The keys rattled in his hand. His gaze darted away.

You continued, “I know what I did spooked you, but I did it because I love you. And it’s okay if you don’t…”

You couldn’t finish the sentence. It was hard to breathe or think or control the swelling sob in your chest. A tear rolled down your cheek, and you swiped it away.

Eddie’s head tilted in sympathy, lips thinning. He stepped near and offered his empty hand. It was the first time he’d done that in days.

Your vision prismed with fresh tears as you grasped his hand. The callused pads of his fingers scuffed against your skin. Your sob transformed into a long exhale.

“Vecna took you from me,” you said, and sniffed back the wet clog in your nose and wiped at your eyes. “I did it because you’re mine. Because he hurt us — hurt me.” You barked a laugh. “Now that I say it out loud, I hear how fucking selfish I am.”

You met his red-rimmed eyes. He shook his head like he couldn’t accept you were selfish. Regardless of his belief, you were, but you’d try not to be with him.

You whispered, “Even if we don’t stay together, you’ll never owe me. You’ll always be special to me.”

He tugged you near and put your palm on his sternum with his hand covering yours. His chest rose and fell because he’d pushed Vecna out, because you’d brought him back. That was something you’d never regret.

His voice was a hoarse whisper as he said, “I love you too, and you didn’t spook me. Don’t… don’t hide from me.”

As gently as you could, you said, “I’m not the one who’s been hiding.”

He stared at your stacked hands.

“Jesus Christ, I’ve been fucking up so goddamn bad.” He shook his head, his hair obscuring part of his face. “I hadn’t protected you. God, I actually hurt you. I can’t give you what you deserve. I can’t even fucking graduate.”

If his last statement was an obstacle, you would’ve tripped over it.

He couldn’t graduate? That made no sense. Nothing was official yet, of course, but Dr. Owens hadn’t balked at the party’s insistence of all the seniors graduating. Had no one told him? Hadn’t it been mentioned in conversation?

“Wait,” you said, trying to remember if anyone had brought it up.

He watched you from under his bangs, eyes so fawn-like, a little furrow between his brows.

You said, “I thought Steve told you about the party’s demands.”

He angled his head.

“No…?”

“One was all the seniors graduating, regardless of standing.” You took hold of his coat’s lapel. “What did you have in O’Donnell’s?”

“A low D.”

“D’s passing.” You grinned. “You’re graduating, anyway, but you passed her class. That’s all you needed, right?”

His eyes went wide and lips parted as he nodded. You glanced at his full bottom lip while scraping your own between your teeth. You hadn’t kissed him in ages.

You stepped closer and slid your hand from his lapel.

“Congratulations,” you said before rising and pressing your lips to his.

He gasped. His lips dragged against yours. Then he jolted, pulling away.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Why would you hurt me?”

His gaze slithered from your lips to your neck to the neckline of your shirt in an invisible touch.

“What if I lose control?”

You studied his worried face in the dimming light.

“Is it the emptiness?” you asked.

He nodded, casting his gaze to the side.

You remembered how predatory Eddie had looked with the MP’s blood on his chin. That hadn’t been Eddie. Not entirely. That had been the hivemind of bloodthirsty carnivores.

“Is it…” You didn’t know how to be tactful with this. “Do you want my blood?”

His tongue worked in his mouth, licking his canine, before he said, “I don’t know.”

You cradled his jaw over the scar and eased his head forward. His focus remained to the side.

“Please, look at me.”

His irises swung to meet yours. A flicker of sunlight illuminated them cinnamon sweet. His dark lashes fluttered as he blinked.

“I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you said. “But if you want to try—”

His posture went rigid as he shook his head. His hand pressed yours tighter to his chest.

“No.”

You pressed on.

“If you want to try my blood, I’ll let you.” You grazed the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “I’m not scared.”

He closed his eyes, mouth pinching and brows furrowing.

“Honey, don’t be scared.” You stroked his cheek to his clenched jaw. “It’s just me and you here.”

“Yeah, it’s just me and you.”

You sighed.

“What, you think you can kill me? You think I’d let you? You think I don’t know my limits?”

He opened his eyes, which blazed with anger and frustration and panic.

“What if I don’t know mine anymore, huh?”

Gritting your teeth, you said, “Then we’ll discover them together.”

With your hand on his chest, you pushed him towards the van. He bumbled backwards, dropping the keys. His back collided with a dull clunk. You slid your hand from his chest to the van, boxing him in, and pressed your front along his.

“Fucking trust me.”

“I do.”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

He nodded, throat bobbing with a swallow.

“Are you sure?”

Again, he nodded.

You closed the distance with a hand on his nape. He angled his head, lips moving counter to yours. The kiss stole your breath and thought. You ravaged, biting his bottom lip. His hands cupped your ass and drew you against him. He plundered, groaning as your tongues slid over each other.

Teeth scraped your lip, yet it didn’t frighten you. Let them break skin. You didn’t care.

Trembling hands snuck under your shirt. He pulled at your waist, making your back arch. You mewled into the kiss and plunged your fingers into his messy hair. His tentative palms skimmed up your back.

You shivered as your nipples pebbled.

You broke the kiss to whisper, “Touch me. It’s okay. I trust you.”

His eyes gleamed as he drew his swollen bottom lip between his teeth. He spread his feet and maneuvered you between his knees. The firm mound of his erection pressed into your belly. He trailed his hands down to your ass. His fingers met at the central seam of your jeans.

“You’re so hot here.”

“Because of you.”

He caught your lips in another kiss. You gripped his hair as the woods went fuzzy. His hands, more confident, skated up your ass, under your shirt, and up your sides. Cool air swept over your skin. You inhaled as he found the band of your unsexy bra. The earlier work at the school hardly warranted anything fancy.

Eddie didn’t seem to mind. A hungry noise came from his chest as he fondled the underside of your breasts through the bra. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the sensation flowed through you like water. Your nipples tightened further. Your cunt clenched.

“God, you’re so soft.”

You caressed the warm skin at his nape, saying, “I’ve missed you.”

Without waiting for a response, you kissed him. His fingers dragged across your breasts until he pinched your nipples between his thumbs and sides of his palms.

You gasped at the wicked frisson, angled your face up to catch your breath, and writhed. You pressed your hips to his, the thick seam of your jeans rasped between your legs. He rocked his erection against you. New heat zinged down to your toes.

Voice husky, he said, “Fuck, I missed you, too.”

He kissed the side of your neck. Each kiss became more open-mouthed. His tongue moved as if he tasted more than your skin. He pulled his sharp teeth across the big tendon in your neck, like he was teasing you both. The threat of a bite had your heart beating double-time and eyes rolling back.

He pinched your nipples harder, making your lower body squirm from the ache. You kept your chest and neck still as you waited to feel what he’d do. He groaned and mouthed his way to the artery under your jaw. He sucked hard at the skin there, mouth scalding. You gasped at the delicious pain.

“Jesus,” he said between pants against the sore spot.

As his saliva cooled on your skin, you swooped down to kiss him once more. His tongue slid over yours as his hands left your breasts. You held his head in place by the hair, losing yourself to the decadent back and forth.

He folded his arms around you when you held his smooth cheek. There was no panic here. There were no monsters. It was only you and him, sharing breath and touch.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Good.”

You stroked his cheekbone.

“That’s all that matters.”

“I didn’t… freak you out there?”

“By giving me a hickey?” You smiled with a chuckle. “No.” You brushed your lips against his. “I like wearing your mark.”

His cheeks pinked further. He made a happy sound and buried his face in your neck once more.

“Gonna give me another one, baby?”

Muffled against your skin, he said, “I might.”

Tightening your hold in his hair, you pulled his head back. He looked at you with hazy eyes. His red lips parted, breaths shallow.

“Gorgeous,” you said.

His gaze drifted to the side. He wanted to shy away, but you wouldn’t have it.

“You act like I haven’t seen you, but I have.” You traced the scar on his jaw. “And nothing’s changed for me.”

He met your eyes, his own bright with conviction.

“Me neither, I swear, milady.”

You smiled at the endearment you hadn’t heard in too long.

“Then no more hot-and-cold, good sir.”

He nodded as much as he could.

“I’m with you.”

“No half-assed crap, either. I mean it, Eddie,” you said, relinquishing your grip on his hair and lacing your fingers behind his neck.

His spine straightened as if coming to attention.

“Whole-ass-ing it from here on out.”

“Good, I like your ass.”

“I like yours, too.”

His eyes lit with mischief, reminding you of the Eddie you’d first met. The one who quoted the Scorpions during roll call, who always answered the phone, who howled during concerts.

A hand gripped the underside of your ass-cheek and gave it a squeeze. It put to mind him holding you against the cold wall behind The Hideout and fucking you with hungry desperation. You wanted that with him.

“Wanna go home and prove it?” you asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

He gave you a toothy grin.

“Absolutely.”

He didn’t release you, nor you him, despite the blue of the sky having faded to ginger and blushing violet. Rose-gold sunlight graced the tree tops. Once gentle shadows were now hard-edged and inky.

You liked the heat radiating from under his thin t-shirt and all the evidence he was alive. He’d survived. You had as well. He must’ve had a similar idea, because he surveyed you with loving eyes.

You swayed.

“Let’s go, Muffin Man.”

He groaned and let his head flop back.

“I swear to God, that’s adorable when we were high, but you cannot say that in front of our friends.”

“Not even—”

His head shot up.

“No.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” you said with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, well, please continue, sweet lady.”

“I was going to say, not even—” You imitated his dramatics as you said, “The Muffin of Demonic Charm!?”

He laughed. “I only like the ‘muff’ part of that.”

You backed away with a giggle, sticking out your tongue. His hands went to the sides of his head, pointer fingers out, and stuck his tongue out at you.

You said, “You won’t get any part of that out here.”

He fluttered the tip of his tongue.

“Tempting, but no.”

He spread the sport coat and posed like a centerfold to entice, hip canting to the side and his chest arched.

“Oh, if only I had a camera, baby.” You found the forgotten keys amongst the pine needles and dead leaves. “You’d make Goodwill a lot of money in their annual calendar,” you said and tossed the keys at him.

He straightened to catch them, juggling them to his chest.

“I’ll have you know—” He swept his empty hand down his body. “—all of this is House of Harrington.”

“How chic.”

“Very exclusive.” He pointed to the corner of the van for you to help gather the netting. “Not just anyone can say they’ve worn Steve Harrington’s tighty whities.”

You laughed and lifted the corner of the netting.

Together, you uncovered the van. Eddie gathered the netting and kicked it under the thicket before going to the passenger door to open it for you.

“I’ll drop you off at your car.”

You thanked him and climbed into the stuffy van. The scent of old smoke, warmed plastic, and upholstery seasoned with boy invaded your nose. You rolled the window down halfway after he closed the door.

With a glance at the vacant back, you thought of Corroded Coffin’s equipment there. You’d seen little of Jeff, Gareth, or Dougie at school. You hadn’t asked Eddie if they still played at The Hideout. You hadn’t asked him about a lot of things. There was so much you’d missed since New Year’s.

Eddie opened the driver-side door and hopped in. He made a face, then rolled down his window.

He turned all the air-system controls off, saying, “Cross your fingers she’ll cooperate.”

He shoved the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine sputtered and whined and chugged until something aligned, and it roared to life. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, throwing you a laugh.

You smiled back and fastened your seatbelt.

He shifted into Reverse and maneuvered away from the thicket. The tires spun in the layer of pine needles and budding grass before finding traction. The van lurched forward. You hung onto the seatbelt and prayed the van wouldn’t get stuck. It was too old for off-roading. He steered onto the ruts, tires kicking up dirt as they bit into the earth.

Your prayers were unnecessary or maybe something out there listened to you, because a minute later the van was on the pavement and next to your car.

“Your noble steed, milady.”

With a smirk, you said, “I thought that was you, stud.”

He leaned in, eyes sparking.

“I’m at your beck and call.”

You bent close enough to feel his breath on your lips.

“Get me home, sir, and I’ll show my appreciation for your fealty.”

His eyes darted to your lips.

“I can do that.”

Tilting your head as if to kiss him, you said, “I know you can,” and moved away to unfasten your seatbelt.

His head drooped.

He looked at you when you opened the door, expression amused.

You said, “Don’t go too fast, honey, wouldn’t want to get pulled over.”

“Depends on who’s doing the pulling over, sweetheart.”

You smiled, shaking your head at the cheesy line, and left the van. His attention stayed on you as you crossed to your car, like fingers trailing down your spine.

Once in the car, you made a U-turn and followed him to Steve’s. Eddie was something of a lead-foot, but you could keep up easily. He parked in front of the garage at Steve’s. You stopped next to him and locked up.

He met you at your trunk and offered his elbow.

“Not too fast for you?”

You snaked your arm around his bicep.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

He hummed in agreement as he walked with you to the front door.

“Um, I know this is out of left field,” you said, “but I thought about the rest of the band. I hadn’t seen them at school, except in the hallways sometimes. Like, I don’t share any classes with Jeff or Dougie.”

“Last time I saw them was during the last Hellfire meeting.”

“Maybe you should call them? Now that your name’s cleared, it’s safe for all of you.”

“I don’t know…”

“They’re probably worried about you.” You squeezed his arm. “And unlike me, they can’t use magic to track down your ass.”

He bobbed his head once.

“I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Good.”

You stopped him before he could make his way to the front door. He turned to you, gaze searching.

The blue hour painted him in shades of purple. Warm light from the porch sconces and nearby kitchen window caught in the waves of his hair. He was a fallen angel, halo stripped yet seraphic nature undeniable.

That felt like a line from someone more imaginative. You were no poet, though you wished you were.

Softly, he asked, “What is it?”

You shook off the thought and grinned.

“Nothing, I just… I just like you like this.”

He glanced at himself before giving you a wry look.

“In borrowed clothes with dirty hands?”

“No, butthead.” You jostled him by the arm. “I like you here — with me.”

That wry look disappeared. His eyes rounded, earnest and affectionate. He drew you in with a gentle hand on your nape and kissed you. His lips were tender on yours in silent relief, as though you’d surprised him. While he’d withdrawn after Vecna’s defeat, and you’d been uncertain about a future with him, you still loved him. That had never changed.

You threw yourself into the kiss, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Blood rushed through your veins. Your cheeks burned as the kiss deepened. His other hand clutched your hip to guide you against him.

It was easy to lose yourself with him. It was easy to love him, and he made it easy to let yourself be loved.

He cradled the back of your head like you were priceless. He held you like he couldn’t get close enough. The mark on your neck was a brand of sweet possession.

At an inevitable pause, you said, “Let’s go inside.”

“I can’t sit through dinner.” With a small shake of his head, he said, “I can’t wait.”

“Then we won’t. We’ll go straight to your room.”

“What about…?” He gave you a meaningful look. “Condoms?”

“I got it covered.”

“Sounds like I’ll be saying that later.”

You laughed, playfully shoving at his shoulder. He looked pleased with himself and trotted to the front door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced back to make sure you were behind him.

You whispered, “Wait,” and drew energy up your body. It had been so long since you’d obfuscated your presence to sneak around, you’d nearly forgotten it as an option. You laced your fingers with Eddie’s, including him in the silent bubble you created.

“Keep close and avoid making too much noise.”

He nodded before easing the door open.

A top-40s station played on the radio in the sunroom. Robin and Steve’s voices floated from the kitchen. They remained out of sight even after you gently shut the door.

You directed Eddie to the stairs and remained a tread behind him as you both climbed. Once on the second floor, you ushered him to his room. He left the door ajar and lights off. You padded to your room, pocketed the couple of condom packets you’d stolen days ago from Steve’s nightstand, and slunk to Eddie’s room.

He sat at the head of the bed, blanket hiding his lower half with his t-shirt covering the upper. You closed the door and locked it. By the meager light coming through the window, you found the nearest lamp and clicked it on.

“You okay?” you asked.

“Yeah, sure, fine, why?”

The sport coat and track pants draped across the armchair. The sneakers and socks lay jumbled by the bathroom door.

“Just asking.”

You crossed the room and set the condom packets on the nightstand at Eddie’s side. He remained motionless, hands hidden in the rumpled sheets. You perched at the edge of the bed while he stared at the condoms.

Something was off. He should be flirting or reaching for you. What had happened between kissing you, saying he couldn’t wait to be with you, and now? Most guys would be naked and panting like a dog for sex.

With a minute shrug, you said, “If you don’t want to…”

“No! No, I do. Trust me, I do.”

“But…?”

He exhaled.

“I don’t… You should know, I don’t look the same.”

“I’ve seen you in only a towel. I’m aware of what you look like.”

“That’s not up close and personal.”

“You think I’m going to run screaming from some scars?”

He said, “Look, baby, I’m a horror show under this,” and plucked at the t-shirt.

You let out an exasperated sound. “Are you trying to push me away? Again?”

“No—”

“Do you not want me?”

“Oh my god, I want you.” He scooted to you and cupped your face. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Months!”

“Well, me too!” You held one of his wrists. “Anything you got under there is gonna work for me, okay?”

He scanned your face, gaze roaming from your eyes to your lips and back.

The protective blessing you’d placed in his handkerchief had failed you — and him. Your magic had been nothing compared to Vecna’s power. Eddie had pushed out the hivemind on his own. He was so much stronger than he gave himself credit for.

Through a constricted throat, you said, “Your blood soaked through your clothes.” Your eyes pricked with tears. “You di-died in front of me.”

Eddie leaned in, crushing your lips together. You forgot about tears and the feel of his blood thick between your fingers. He tilted your head. His lips, puffy and slick, glided across yours.

“I’m here,” he said, and kissed you again. “I’m right here.”

You kissed him in reply, letting your greed and relief guide you.

You shimmied your jacket off your shoulders. His hands went to your arms to help tug it off. You grinned into the kiss when the fabric caught on your forearms. He huffed, amused, before yanking at the sleeves. You shook your arms free and flung the jacket.

Planting a knee on the bed, you crowded him back onto the pillows. He put his hands at your waist and pulled you onto him. You straddled his hips, the linens bunching between you.

He hauled you up his body to tuck his face against your throat. He mouthed and bit at your neck, all hesitation thrown to the side. You encouraged him with a whimper and fingers gripping his hair. His soft lips left a fiery line as his hands grabbed your ass.

You arched your back. Your ribs pumped with every rapid breath.

“Wanna eat you alive,” he said. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Want you, too.”

Teeth scraped under your jaw, catching on the sore hickey there. You gasped, yet refused to shy away. Let him bite and draw blood. Let it hurt. You could heal yourself.

With a groan, he dug his teeth midway down your neck. The sting made your spine melt. His palms slid up your back, taking your shirt with them. Then he sucked, and you felt it between your legs.

You ground against him — as much as you could through the layers of fabric. You needed to feel his heat, taste his skin and scars. Because he was alive, and you were in his bed.

When he released your skin, sensation beyond pain, beyond heat, bloomed through your neck. It rang in your ears, fisted a groan from your lungs, stole your strength. He folded his rangy arms around you and grazed his lips over the spit-wet spot.

You closed your eyes with a hum.

He kissed you from jaw to cheek. He even kissed your chin. You curled to catch his lips in a languid kiss. It went aggressive in a handful of seconds. You couldn’t tell who set it in motion, but you’d follow it through with sucking on the tip of his tongue and biting his lip. He shivered and squirmed and held onto your waist.

You broke the kiss to leave him reeling.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?”

He nodded, eyes half-closed.

“Then let me take care of what’s mine.”

Again, he nodded.

You directed Eddie’s hands to the pillow, letting your fingertips linger on the silky insides of his forearms. His t-shirt sleeves slipped up to expose scarring on his upper arms. You pressed your lips to the delicate scar tissue.

He inhaled sharply.

You whispered, “It’s okay.”

He closed his eyes with a brief nod.

You kissed the scar on his jaw and the faint one at the side of his neck. He angled his chin to expose himself. In reward, you kissed his lips. His muscles unspooled. You brushed your thumbs over his cheekbones.

“I got you.”

“I know.”

You wiggled down his torso and sat up. Oh-so slowly, you skimmed your hands under his t-shirt to his sides. The jagged edge of a bigger patch on his torso peeked from under the t-shirt’s hem. The uneven texture of the scars didn’t feel ugly or rough. They were interesting, and you wanted to see them.

He clapped his hands over yours.

You met his uneasy gaze and waited, keeping your expression open. While you could offer platitudes or compliments, they’d ring hollow. He knew how you felt and how you viewed him. It was only a matter of time for him to gain confidence — or at least trust you.

His hold relaxed, then gradually drifted away.

You followed the taper of his torso until you held his undulating ribs. With the t-shirt bunched at his pecs, you could assess the havoc the bats had wrought. Beyond the patch on his lower torso was a line of bites and healed sutures on his left. A wedge of pink scar tissue defaced the right side of his ribs. Between the larger patches were claw and teeth marks.

You traced them with a light touch before looking at his face. His teeth dug into his lip as his gaze jumped from between your bodies to the side to your face and back again.

“So, this is the horror show you promised?” you asked with a playful look.

He frowned, mouth opening.

Before he spoke, you asked, “Can you feel my touch?”

He wet his lips and nodded.

“Yeah?”

“Then that’s all that matters.”

“You don’t—”

“No, I don’t whatever. I’m not grossed out.”

To prove your point, you bent to kiss the bite mark on his sternum. The satiny, pitted skin wasn’t disgusting. It was just skin — that smelled like him. You nudged the t-shirt higher to get at his left nipple. You teased it with your tongue, and he stilled. You pinched it between your teeth, and he arched against your lips. You soothed the tiny hurt with a kiss, and he gasped.

You inched the t-shirt higher until you propelled his arms up. He took over and snatched the t-shirt over his head. He dropped it beside the bed as you caressed his chest.

Only fragments of his demon-head and black-widow tattoos were visible around a darker scar. You followed the scar’s border with your fingers and pouted at the loss of the tattoos. Not because they were the most beautiful you’d ever seen, but because they’d been Eddie’s.

“You can have these redone.”

“Nah, I’d rather get a cover-up.”

You smiled before bending to pepper kisses on the scar.

“That’s going to be a big cover-up, honey.” You kissed your way from the scar to the dip of his throat. “Maybe I can hold your hand through it.”

He tilted his head back with a soft groan. You angled his chin to the side and sucked at the hot skin of his neck, giving him a faint hickey. You kissed your way up to his ear and sucked on the lobe.

With a near growl, he said, “God, I can’t—” and pulled you into a burning kiss.

You opened for him as he teased your tongue with his own. He kissed your hot cheeks and your forehead. His hands surged down your sides, then under your shirt. You straightened onto your knees and stripped off your shirt and bra. Your nipples puckered in the cooler air.

His hips jerked as his hands gripped your hips. He stared at your chest and licked his lips.

Instead of asking if he wanted to touch, because that seemed obvious, you bent and guided his hands to your breasts. You encouraged him to support them, squeeze them, while you watched his flushed face.

He circled your nipples with his thumbs, his touch graceful yet electrifying. A feeling like goosebumps trickled through your gut and had your thighs tensing. You curved into his caress in encouragement. Your underwear’s saturated cotton grazed your pussy, and you wished it was his cock.

Eddie held your ribs and rose to bury his face between your breasts. He mouthed at the valley between them and kissed the beginning swells. You held the back of his head. He sucked at one nipple, then the other. That goosebump feeling intensified until you were a quivering mess.

He undid your jeans, and your eyes popped open. He looked at you through his pretty lashes. There was a voracity in his dark gaze that said only you could slake his need — and you wanted to be the only one to do it, too.

“This okay?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Y-yeah.”

With no hesitation, his hand slithered between your stomach and underwear. It burned a line down the curve of your belly through your pubic hair. His middle and ring fingers glided between your wet folds. You gripped his shoulders, hard muscle moved under his skin.

The first long stroke to your clit had your nails digging into his skin and sucking air between your teeth. You couldn’t stop the tiny sound you made. He nibbled at your collarbone, teeth scraped your skin. You leaned your weight against him as your watery legs trembled. His free arm held you upright by the waist.

Rather than circle your clit, he kept stroking. The first wash of pleasure fueled you to move your hips counter to his fingers. His calluses pulled at the hood of your clit, then drove it down. He pressed harder, sparking a sensation deeper than your clit.

Your focus narrowed to your rising orgasm and the thought of his cock pumping deep inside your juicy cunt. You wanted to feel his strong hands restraining you, his sweat-slick skin on yours, and his lush mouth between your legs.

An animalistic keen left your throat at the jumble of images. Your heart hammered in your ears. You rode that knife-edge of climax. It was right there.

“C’mon, baby, fuck those fingers.”

You moaned, doing as he ordered, until ecstasy forced its way through you — so hard, so deep. The internal throb of it stole your strength as it went on and on. You crumbled, putting more of your weight on him. He held you without protest.

“Can feel it,” he said, petting your oversensitive clit.

You writhed in his arms and begged for something you couldn’t put words to. He kissed your throat as he lay still pressure on your clit. Your cunt pulsed strong enough that your hips moved of their own volition.

After a moment, he pulled his hand from your underwear and brought his fingers to his mouth. You sat on his thighs to watch him suck at his wet fingers. He hummed in satisfaction. Your cunt pulsed one last time, as though it hadn’t had enough.

Maybe it hadn’t.

He met your gaze and offered his flushed lips for a kiss. You cradled the back of his head and kissed him with unexpected fervor. You tasted the tang of your own come on his tongue. He held your face, sticky fingers on your cheek, and pushed into the kiss. You sucked your flavor off his bottom lip, pulling a moan from his chest.

“Take the rest off,” he said, falling onto his back.

“You too.”

He smirked.

“Not much more to go.”

You let your eyes track from his chest to the wrinkled lump of blanket covering his groin. Despite knowing, intimately, what was underneath, getting him naked continued to be a thrill.

“Good.”

He blushed, and his smirk softened.

You climbed off him to sit at the edge of the bed. You untied your Docs and wrenched them off. Your socks followed. Eddie kicked the blanket away. While he wiggled out of his briefs, you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and jeans, rising enough from the bed to slide them down your hips and off your legs.

You pivoted on a hip to find him reaching for a condom. His eyes went wide with a question. Or like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t. You bent a leg on the bed and plucked a condom from the pile before he could.

“You know,” you said, holding the condom like a cigarette between your fingers. “I think I need to get on the pill.” You got on all fours. “Or get an IUD, or something.”

Sounding on tenterhooks, he asked, “Why’s that?”

You crawled between his legs. He spread his thighs to make room for you.

“So I can have you raw.”

He let out a breath, cheeks reddening further, and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. A thick bead of precome pearled at its slit.

“Would you like that, honey?”

“Shit, you know I would.”

You gave him a playful wink before hunching to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned through a smile, squeezing his cock. You savored the salty taste of him.

You tapped at the back of his hand.

“Let go.”

“I swear, I’m gonna blow in, like, ten seconds flat.”

You sat on your calves with a self-satisfied shrug. He needed to feel as good as he’d made you feel. If that happened quickly, that was fine with you because—

“We got all night,” you said, and tore open the condom packet.

He still hadn’t released his hold.

“Eddie, honey, let go.”

“Just—” He swallowed. “Get it halfway down first.”

You pulled out the lubed condom and discarded the wrapper. He bit his lip, looking as though you were about to perform surgery on him. Keeping your touch light and at the minimum, you pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it over his shaft until it met his fingers.

He shuddered with eyes closed and a crease between his brows.

You said, “Let go.”

He exhaled and thumped his fists to the bed. You wasted no time in rolling the condom the rest of the way down. He panted and keened. His cock twitched in your hand, but you wiped your palms on the sheets before he could embarrass himself.

With a gentle shush, you caressed his hips and ran your thumbs in the shallow groove of muscle on either side. You kept at it until his breathing slowed and tense thighs relaxed.

You maneuvered your knees on either side of him and balanced yourself with a hand on his chest.

“Ready?”

When he nodded, you reached between your bodies to brace his erection. You were so ready, so wet, for this. Even the feeling of the condom didn’t turn you off. You found your hole and eased onto his thick cock, inch by slick inch.

Once you settled, you had to give yourself a moment. You sat with hands on your thighs while you adjusted to the fullness. He felt perfect and delicious. You looked at Eddie to see him watching you, bottom lip between his teeth and fingers digging into the mattress. Emotion filled his bright eyes.

You wanted to soothe him, but if you moved, it would set off a chain reaction he’d been trying to suppress.

“Don’t think.”

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Trying not to.”

If you didn’t take the initiative, he would torture himself for the rest of the evening. You rotated your pelvis. The simple movement made you gasp. It had been so long, and you were so eager for this with him. Under you, he choked on a desperate sound.

“I can’t wait to feel you without any barriers,” you said, rotating your pelvis again. “Feel you come deep inside me.”

He grabbed your hips to propel your movements.

“I’ll fill you up,” he said.

You planted your hands on his chest with a groan and rode him like he wanted you to. You rose only to sink down a second later, never letting him slip out. His hands glided up your sides. With a hum, you encouraged him to touch you — touch you anywhere, everywhere. You couldn’t get enough of his cock, of his nimble hands, of his body tight against yours.

Your need ramped to a boiling fever, some thrilling sickness. You bent to kiss him, sucking on his lip and tongue, as you rolled your hips in a frantic rhythm. Your skin slapped against his, but it wasn’t enough. You hid your face in his shoulder and whimpered when you found no relief.

His arms looped across your back, as if you’d try to escape. Like you could get away from this desire.

You stilled in time for him to roll to the side and on top of you. He pushed his cock deep. You mewled, your thighs stretched around his hips.

His gaze roved over your features.

“I’m gonna fill your sweet pussy.”

You nodded.

He said, “I’ll make you come.”

You closed your eyes as you imagined it. Hands all over you, gripping you, going between your legs, holding you steady as he worked your body. Your cunt clenched at the image.

“Because you’re mine, too.”

You nodded once more.

He adjusted his stance, knees dipping into the mattress. He grasped one of your shoulders as you held onto his arms with shaking hands.

“Look at me and tell me you love me.”

You stared into his eyes. It was all written out there for you to see: no denial, no hiding, and no more doubt.

“I love you.”

He caught your lips and kissed you so thoroughly you forgot anything beyond him. His hold tightened. His hips minutely rocked. His heavy cock kindled that heat hidden inside.

You moaned against his lips and pulled at him. He needed to move. You’d been wanting him for what felt like years. You’d both gone through hell, seen oblivion, and returned to each other’s side. You needed him to move — now.

He buried his face in your neck, lips against the marks he’d left. The rocking of his hips descended into grinding, then full-out thrusting. He fucked you hard. His cock dragged at the underside of your aching clit. The bed springs whined every time he bottomed out.

You couldn’t catch your breath as his thrusts became desperate. He yanked at your hair to bare your throat. His long hair — that smelled of your shampoo — veiled your humid face.

He kissed his marks and murmured something you couldn’t make out. You agreed anyway. He groaned in reply, driving you down while he thrust up. The sheets stuck to the sweat on your back. His hips snapped forward over and over, his cock ramming deep. You tried your best to move with him, but he was too fast.

Then you couldn’t move at all. Your belly quivered and your thighs tensed. His cock was too much. You strained against him, with him, until that fever broke. You shook in his arms. Your jaw clenched. Orgasm burned through you like a geyser. It sizzled up your spine. You couldn’t catch your breath. Hot tears trickled over your temples in rapturous agony.

Eddie fucked you through it, holding you tight. Your cunt throbbed and clamped around his pistoning length. He cursed in needy growls until he seized, breathless. His voice cracked. His thrusts slowed, yet remained fierce, as his cock pulsed with each thrust.

He stuttered a jumble of cut-off thoughts, all of them flattering and loving. You grinned and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, hugging his sides with your thighs. He mouthed at your neck lazily.

After a tranquil moment, he kissed you, gentle yet demanding. You felt him — every bit of him. His lips tasted of salt. His hands sheltered and cradled. His gaze warmed you. You could only respond in kind. He melted as you smoothed his hair away from his flushed, glowing face.

He kissed you one more time before steadying the condom and slipping out of you.

You relaxed, allowing your tired limbs to sink to the bed. He rolled to the side and dropped the condom on the heap of his dirty clothes. You wrinkled your nose, but didn’t comment. He flopped beside you and pillowed his head on a bent arm. The heating system kicked on. Your sweat cooled as you contemplated getting out of bed. Instead, you tucked your feet between the folds of the blanket.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie said.

You hummed in acknowledgement and glanced at him.

“I was thinking, and you might not be into this, but you want to go to LA? With me?”

You stared at the ceiling.

Los Angeles: broken glass glittering in gutters, live music every night, fluttering neon, cars with their tops down, a bland apartment with a mattress on the floor, your feet warmed by sunshine as you read the newspaper’s entertainment section, Eddie writing songs at the kitchen table.

A smile spread across your face.

“Hell yeah.”

[briarpatch-kids]

Denied again by social security. I don't get how they expected me to work with a 70% mental health rating by the military and fucking mitochondrial myopathy.

Like this is the requirement for 70% mental health rating:

70% rating: The veteran is unable to function in most social and work areas with symptoms such as:

obsessive behaviors

illogical speech

persistent severe depression and panic

suicidal thinking

inability to control impulses (including becoming violent without provocation)

neglecting self-care such as basic hygiene

inability to handle stress, and

being unable to maintain relationships.

[allfleetingdreams]

'familiarity' - a Silent Hill fanfic

SUMMARY:

Travis Grady encounters a familiar face in the same, familiar place. It's been a long while, but their demons haven't quite let go of them yet. Maybe they never will.

ADDITIONAL TAGS / WARNINGS:

Rating: Mature Character: Travis Grady, Alex Shepherd Relationship: Travis Grady/Alex Shepherd Word Count: 5,878 (completed) Tags / Warnings: PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Referenced Child Abuse, Referenced suicide, Older Man/Younger Man, Strong Language, altered canon timeline, Good ending Travis, War veteran Alex, Canon Divergence

PREVIEW:

Faraway houses wink at him in the distance, roofs glimmering under the gentle morning glow, getting ready to face yet another day with its tenants who will be waking up a few hours later than him. For the first time after an hour he bothers to look at where the sun attempts to greet him; and not for the first and last time, he wonders what it is like to be at home—permanently at home, and not driving a giant monstrosity delivering cargo from one state line to another every damn week. Gently, like the unhurried rise of the sleepy sun, his thoughts start drifting to the what-ifs, but he never lingers too long to the point that these what-ifs start making sense. He turns away, back to the task at hand, listening to the loud roar-purring of the engine and the staticky quality of radio music. Not another lonely fucking country song. …But when did all country songs ever get happy? Seven miles. There’s only seven miles left before Brahms. He’d already passed through other quiet little towns, and whenever the outline of houses do not find him on the road, the shiny faraway waters of the massive Toluca Lake do. It waits for him like it always had, wondering when he’ll be dropping by again; and like the sun, he tries not to take notice of it too much. It’s too pretty; too inviting; too distracting; and last time he got distracted it had gotten him into a bit of trouble. All he has to do is drive, go through Brahms, then after Brahms, there’s another quaint little town to pass through. And this quaint, nice, quiet little town… Well. Shouldn’t be new to him anymore. It’s only a passageway: a bridge to get him to his point B. After that, it’ll be over, and he’ll be circling all the way back to where he’d come from, which should take him another week. He’d be waiting for new-not-so-new instructions by then, sending him back on the road once more after a couple days’ rest in his not-really-permanent home. It’ll be like nothing happened. Said quaint little town had been lenient on him for the last seventeen years, and even though he could sense its anger because he got out safe and sound, it never dared pull him back. He’s always around, anyway, observing. Like he never got away. Did he ever get away?

READ THE FULL PIECE HERE:

[girlactionfigure]

*ISRAEL REALTIME* - "Connecting the World to Israel in Realtime"

▪️GAZA - IDF ATTACKING RAFAH.. the most southern city of Gaza, and the one that connects Gaza to Egypt - both via entry port and likely smuggling tunnels, and the last Hamas stronghold.  Multiple reports of IDF airstrikes into Rafah this morning.

▪️HOSTAGE PROTEST IN FRONT OF IDF HQ.. Hostage families and activists for their release blocked Begin Road in front of the Kirya base in Tel Aviv (across from Arielli) last night in protest against the “poison campaign” that they say is being waged against the families and demanding a deal that would lead to the release of their relatives.

▪️DEFENSE MINISTER ON LEBANON.. "We are pushing the enemy. The military operation gives Hezbollah an understanding that it is better for it to choose the political path, and at the same time proves our military capabilities." 

▪️SYRIA - OVERNIGHT ATTACKS ON HOMS.. airstrikes, though local channels report civilian deaths from failed air defense missiles rather than the attack.  Sources associated with the regime list 4 sites that were attacked:  Elkzir area (Kosair) southwest of Homs- civilian casualties from air defenses, Havat Aloer and the eastern area of Tadmor Square, Hamra Street in the city of Homs, a building collapsed, and in the area of the municipal stadium - civilian casualties from air defenses, the Alauras area in Homs.  While likely Israel, the IDF does NOT confirm attacks in Syria.

▪️US HOUSE REJECTS ISRAEL AID DUE TO INTERNAL POLITICS..  The U.S. House of Representatives rejected a Republican-led bill on Tuesday that would provide $17.6 billion to Israel, as Democrats said they wanted a vote instead on a broader measure that would also provide assistance to Ukraine, international humanitarian funding and new money for border security.  The vote was 250 to 180, falling short because it was introduced under an expedited procedure requiring a two-thirds majority for passage.  The against was mostly Democrats.

▪️US PRESSURE… A senior American administration official told NBC: The Biden administration is exploring various options, including recognition of a Palestinian state, which would give legal and symbolic status to the Palestinians and add international pressure on Israel to take part in meaningful negotiations that would lead to sustainable peace. (( First, as always where is the pressure on Hamas or the Palestinian Authority for “meaningful negotiations”?  Second, this is a classic “we’re not doing that, but some anonymous official is saying we might - to create pressure” tactic. Third, we will not suicide because defending ourselves doesn’t meet your expectations. ))

▪️IRAN FUNDING HAMAS.. IDF captures documentation showing direct funding from Iran, in years 2014, 2015, 2019, and 2020, Hamas leader Sinwar received $15 million, $48 million, $42 million, and $12 million, respectively. 

▪️HOUTHI SHIPPING ATTACKS.. US Central Command: “Yesterday the Houthis launched 6 missiles at two merchant ships - one Greek and one British. 3 missiles were launched at the Greek ship, one exploded near the ship and caused minor damage. One was intercepted by the destroyer USS Laboon and one fell in the water. 3 missiles that were launched at the British ship - they all missed.

▪️US/UK ATTACKS ON YEMEN.. Arab sources reported a British-American attack overnight in the Hudaydah area of Yemen.

▪️IDF announces grants and tax reductions for disabled IDF veterans, according to the percentage of disability (in Israel you get a disability rating of 19-100%, and disability support is based on the percentage.)

[elephant-in-the-pride-parade]

That Troll Accusing P/T fics and Trek Fic Writers Blogs (Including me) of Racism could be a Right-Wing Bot.

Edit (4/16): I would like to emphasize that i really hope this theory is not true. It stemmed from having had multiple friends and acquaintances in the voyager fandom (white and not) be suicide baited and otherwise harassed with vague accusations of racism over the past year, (for P/T primarily, but other ships and characters on occasion too) yah we did cycle through a lot of explanations. Ultimately our anon(s) being someone with either a malicious motive or an extremely ill thought out and unproductive approach, were the explanations that wound up making the most sense. the content of the anon asks and comments i am refering too has been both vague and painful, and further, never came from a real ao3 or tumblr account. these also came with no evidence based points for the fic writers to work on.

I do not believe this theory below to be anywhere near the most plausible. but it is the only conclusion we could make sense of for a slew of similar anon messages that, at the end of the day, did a lot of hurt without making any concrete points that writers could take action on. By making this analysis, my hope is not to convince you all that a right wing troll is out to get voyager fic writers. Instead, i hope it comforts writers who have gotten similar attacks and helps them to dismiss messages that come with harassment and suicide baiting, rather than evidence based points. And i hope if there are real people behind those anons that seeing this analysis helps them to reconsider the effect their approach is having.

Original Post from 3/2

At first I thought I was paranoid post-2016 and 2020, but now I've been hit a couple times and seen comments on more of the affected fics. And I'm seeing concerning themes.

I make a couple of assumptions here: 1. My anon (whom I will refer to throughout as "The Anon") is the same each time. 2. The Anon is the same actor or belongs to the same group as The Anon troll commenting on P/T and some J/C fics.

The Anon as a Bot Evidence:

1. The Anon accusations are sweeping, but generic. They do not use in-fic textual evidence to justify their comments. You write P/T: You're a Tom apologist. You think Belanna is his exotic wife. You justify your blatant anti-latina racism by casting her anger as an inherent a Klingon trait. You write J/C: You think Chakotay is a noble savage and fetishize him. You write Harry Kim: You're infantilizing him.

These tropes and stereotypes are legitimate concerns that fic writers should care about and should be mindful of. These accusations on the other hand are not legitimate. They are left as guest comments or anonymous asks on fics heedless of the fic content or writer's background or track record. The AO3 comments do not reference fic content. They are repeated across all impacted writers. They target new and veteran writers alike. They target fics regardless of rating.

2. Comments that appear to reference fic specifics go no farther fic tags.

This was harder to catch. But a P/T fic tipped me off last month. It was tagged "Tom & Belanna & Miral". The Anon's first comment on that fic dove in accusing the fic of incest. This showed both that the anon had not read the fic content - they also didn't understand the difference between a / tag and an & tag. (Which also means the programmer of the tag-reading bot or human actor creating tag-based comments is not literate in how fandom ship tags are structured - they may not be a fan at all!)

3. The Anon never replies. Not on AO3 or on Tumblr. (All AO3 comments from "The Anon" seem to stick to the automatically assigned Anon name or use a generic, short first name like "Sam").

Exceptions to this - the rare ocasions where someone sympathetic to the anon replies break from the distinctive patterns of The Anon. Replies come from either burner accounts or guests with more unique names. And these replies are both A - fewer and far between - suggesting they are a different actor - and B - by and large quite serious and thoughtful. I take them to be real people, legitimate fans concerned about racism, caught up in the crossfire.

4. The Anon uses language intended to engender right-wing sympathies and white-moderate anger.

The Anon sent this in their message to me the other day. I will bold the relevant passages.

"You’re the perfect example of the kind of white person who ruins fandom for everyone else, a nasty racist bitch who cares more about their shitty fanfiction than the feelings of actual people of color. Keep using your precious freedom of speech to fetishize brown men I guess

"The kind of white person": This anon has no proof of my race and proof doesn't matter to them. (They have targeted writers of color and white writers alike) They are indiscriminant because they are hoping some of their targets are white women. They are also attempting to out-group white women from the rest of fandom - trying to engender in me feelings of being alienated from my community.

"Nasty racist bitch" "Nasty woman" incidentally is what Trump famously called Hilary Clinton during a 2016 debate. Calling me a racist is there to put me on the defensive (and to alienate me from my coalition) Im meant to feel shocked and disheartened by this accusation. And in a way, keeping this generic serves a purpose. A lack of specificity makes it harder for me to defend myself. "Bitch" is there to trigger my fear/anger response. It is also assuming my gender - again. The anon doesnt care if they accidentally sent this hate to a man or nonbinary person or a person of color. they are betting that at least a plurality of targets will be their key white woman demographic.

"people of color" - while it is correct terminology - is also terminology of the US left/democratic wing. By using this term the Anon is in-grouping themselves with the left - trying again to make me feel like an outsider.

Finally, the kicker is the Freedom of Speech part of this ask.

The Anon is using the concept of free speech here in the same way that the MAGA crowd does, to mean that I ought to be able to say whatever I want regardless of how it hurts others, rather than the legal term's actual definition - the right to critique one's government without being jailed or killed.

By accusing me of caring about Freedom of Speech this way they're not trying to make me feel guilt - theyre trying to hurt me, make me angry, and guide me to sympathize with Republicans. They are using the term this way to push me to think of my fanfic in terms of free speech and thus to agree with Republican freedom of speech talking points. Or if I reject the accusation - to feel torn between Left and Right.

The Anon is trying to sow discord. Theyre employing the same tactics that broke the Womens March movement in 2021, and that pervaded so many Facebook groups and twitter in the last two US election cycles. They are using tactics honed to cleave apart progressives and moderates.

My only question after all those realizations was: why the fuck are they doing this to such a niche group as star trek fanfiction writers.

And then it hit me.

The Anon's Motive: Trek Fic Writers are a Target Election Demographic.

By and large, US fan writers of ships from 90s star trek are women, often millenial and gen x women, many likely to be suburban. And yes - more likely to be white. In short we are part of the same demographic Trump lost in 2020 and needs to either win back this year, or try keep from going to the polls.

You can tell me I sound ridiculous - I think this whole stinking situation is ridiculous. I'm not unaware of how fringe a theory this is. I've been taught to always assume incompetence before malice. And for a while I considered that maybe The Anon was genuine. Maybe they had good intentions and poor execution. I'm sure I could write characters of color better (I am not afraid to admit that I'm still learning. Being wrong isnt something to be afraid of). I wanted this to be the case actually, but I have too much evidence and motive in favor of malicious bot tactics to ignore.

I have tried so hard to think of a reason I'm wrong. Except that all the pieces make sense. No fic / writer specific grievances have been aired by The Anon. They hit the same points every time, again, without textual evidence. They never reply. They chose words that wound and inflame but that never say anything specific about the fic or writer.

And wouldn't it be damn convenient for the Trump camp if a bunch of progressive and moderate US star trek fans decided not to vote because they were disheartened by being accused of racism and felt alienated from the democratic coalition.

This is a niche community. But we likely arent the only targets. And as a friend reminded me tonight, it doesnt take much to move the needle.

[omegaversetheory]

If we asume that the history events of your verse are the same we had IRL, then, by logic, plenty of Alphas (and probably male betas too) had to go to fight in WW1 and WW2, which not only would have caused pretty big demographic issues due most alphas dying in war, but the ones who survived for sure would have suffered mental health issues like PTSD, severe anxiety or paranoia

So, I wondered if you have any headcannons about how the omega/beta members of the packs/families dealt with those alpha/beta members who were war veterans and showed obvious signs of unstability like panic/ptsd/anxiety attacks. Mostly because in that time there was very little to know about mental health issues so most likely the packs struggled to help said members whitout just dumping them into mental aslyums.

Long story short - it's not. I'm in the process of writing it's own history, but no need to get into that now. Here's some headcanons about how packs/people might deal with someone close to them having ptsd or other conditions that might cause emotional/mental instability.

Positive Cases -

There is no stigma around the mental shift warriors and other people living/working in battle areas may pick up. In fact it's expected, and people are prepared. Part of this comes from the fact that after battle, it's not uncommon for a person's scent to shift. Another part of this comes from bond partners being able to sense a shift in a partner who has come back from war.

Pack warriors often take a cycle of non-protective work after they return from battle. Frequently this entails working as a farming, working with animals, caring for children, or helping the sick. Whatever the new role is, it's normally one that is time-intensive, consistent, low-risk, high teamwork, and have visible pack contribution/impact.

Many bond partners of warriors are prepared by elder pack members for their warrior's return before it happens. They know the warning signs, and are given resources to turn to for help - these are collectivist societies remember, the responsibility for helping rehabilitate someone with pstd would be considered a group effort.

Not-so-positive Cases

In packs where stigma is high and people don't care much about supporting post-battle transition, warriors often desert their pacts.

Dying in battle is seen as one of the highest honors - survivors are often looked down on for not "giving everything", especially if the outcome of the battle wasn't in the packs favor. This leads to widespread resentment, isolation, and at times, kicking the person out of the pack entirely.

Suicides rates are high, and unfortunately encouraged.

Some packs decide not to deal with the situation entirely and to institutionalize any low ranking pack members (pack leaders would always be exempt) and then forget about them entirely. This is usually only used in extremely large packs who can withstand sending away a couple dozen members. As one might imagine, the conditions and ulterior purposes/motives behind these institutions are horrifying and grim.

[https-chaos]

it baffles me that some people will learn that trans people have an extremely high suicide rate that practically disappears when treated with puberty blockers, the appropriate hormones, and surgery if they want it. and instead of having the (normal) reaction of "well shit, we should definitely give them all the hormones & medical care they're asking for then, because i enjoy living in a world where teenagers don't kill themselves", they decide the best course of action is to force them deep into the closet for life and deny them those treatments. like... why?

imagine if this were the case for any other group of people with a high suicide rate. imagine if there was a shot and a surgery that kept, idk, 95% of military veterans from killing themselves. it would be hailed as a miracle and they'd get a nobel prize or something.

obviously the surge of anti-trans laws right now has nothing to do with actual concern for 'the children' or whatever. that's just a cover for their actual plan which is to exterminate as many queer people as possible. it's just amazing that anyone could possibly look at the numbers and come to the conclusion that medical care for trans people is a bad thing.

[fortheloveofwonderland]

War of the Heart - Chapter Six | Luke Alvez x Fem! Reader

Previous Chapter

Chapter Summary - after an awkward morning spent with Luke, you are forced to make a decision about your future.

Category - heavy angst | smut | eventual happy ending.

Content Warnings - drunk reader, arguments, some violence, mentions of depression and antidepressants, swearing, tears, mutual masturbation.

WC - 4.6k

Chapter Six

2010 - Diyala, Northeast Baghdad 

The army had a strict policy on drinking, known as the 0-1-2-3 rule. Zero alcohol if driving. No more than one drink per hour. No more than two drinks a day over seven days. No more than three drinks at a given time. Excessive drinking could result in immediate discharge, thus ending one’s military career. 

However it wasn’t a secret that alcoholism in soldiers was exceptionally high. Being in the middle of combat, the stress, loneliness and boredom often racked up and many soldiers turned to the bottle. 

Luke Alvez wouldn’t say you had an alcohol problem, quite the opposite in fact. In the five months he’d known you he’d rarely see you drink at all. Which was why it was even more of a surprise to find you this way. 

It was clear to him instantly that you were intoxicated. He’d spotted you loitering a few hundred metres from the housing units, stumbling around in the sand. It was dark, but he'd recognise your form anywhere, he’d seen it naked enough times. If the captain was to find you like this you’d be out on your ass. So he knew he had to tackle this and quietly. 

You were tossing stones at the sand when he reached you, swerving around like you could barely hold yourself up right. He approached with caution, hoping to god you at least didn’t have your service weapon on you. 

“Private?” He called out when he got close. “Are you armed?” 

You spun around, almost tripping over your own feet as you did so. You wore nothing but your cargo pants and your oversized Ranger’s t-shirt. Despite the desert heat during the day, as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon the temperatures plummeted. Even in his jacket he felt the chill. 

“No.” You shook your head. “But I am loaded.” 

“Yeah, I can tell.” He came closer to you. “You must be freezing.” 

“Nah.” You shrugged, but the goosebumps on your flesh gave you away. 

Luke sighed and slipped off his jacket, carefully draping it around your shoulders. 

“Let me help you back to your room.” He tried to place his hand on your back but you moved out of his reach. 

“Don’t need help, Sarg.” You shook your head. 

“Y/N, come on, if anyone sees you like this you’ll be gone.” 

“That’s my problem, not yours.” You kicked the dirt, sending particles of sand flying around you both. 

“Let me help you.” He repeated softly. 

“I don’t need your help.” You spat. “You think you're some kind of martyr? Oh and what does that make me, a pathetic little damsel in distress?” 

“I didn’t say that.” He tried to remain calm, knowing better than to rise to it. 

“Sergeant Alvez here to save the day.” You scoffed. 

He may never have seen you drunk before, but he’d seen you angry. It took a lot to push you over the edge, not like him, but when you did get like this it usually ended badly for Luke. 

One time you’d given him a black eye when you threw his Polaroid camera at him. Another time you broke his stereo in a rage. He imagined you weren’t like this in the real world, army life caused these kinds of personality imbalances. Sometimes being on active duty sent people over the edge. 

“Please let me help you back to camp. You shouldn’t be out here.” 

“Leave me alone.” You turned away from him. “I don’t need saving, Sarg.”

“It happens to the best of us.” He spoke again, not one to be easily perturbed. “You can’t let it win, or there’s no coming back.” 

As well as being susceptible to alcoholism, depression was much higher in military personnel, it was quite often what led to the drinking in the first place. The suicide rate among military veterans was fifty percent higher than the civilian population for a reason. 

“What would you know?” You spat, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Luke heaved a sigh and dared to step closer to you. He didn’t relish having to have this conversation, but if helped you it would be worth it. 

“Because I’ve been there.” He sidled up next to you. “I’ve served for more years than I can count and I’ve lost track of the amount of times I’ve spiralled into that darkness Y/N. I’ve been on antidepressants for like, four years. Active duty is a bitch, it doesn’t make you weak for admitting you need help.” 

“Thanks for the pep talk, Sarg.” You shrugged your shoulders until his jacket fell to the ground behind you. “Now respectfully, please fuck off.” 

“Not gonna happen.” He picked up the jacket and put it back on before taking hold of your arms and turning you to face him. 

The moon above cast its light on your face and the tears that were slowly rolling down your cheeks. Your bottom lip was cracked and split probably from profuse chewing. He’d never seen anyone look so scared and vulnerable before. 

“Sarg,” you clenched your jaw, trying to fight against the tears. “If you don’t let go of me, I will not be held accountable for my actions.” 

He didn’t let go of you. If anything, Luke tightened his grip on you. You clenched your jaw again, the alcohol pulsing through your veins and causing you to act without considering the repercussions. You lifted your right leg, only able to do so without falling due to Luke’s hold on you. And then you kneed him square in the crotch. 

He instantly stumbled backwards, hands falling from your arms to where you’d just kneed him. He doubled over, spluttering a little and gasping for the air the blow had knocked from his lungs. 

“Fucking hell, Y/N!” He spat. “What the fuck was that for?” 

“I told you to leave me alone.” 

“I could write you up for that. Technically that’s assaulting a superior officer.” He groaned, still doubled over. 

“Try it and I’ll show them these.” You pointed to your arms, rolling up the oversized sleeves of your t-shirt. 

Luke tried to straighten up, still holding his throbbing crotch. Both of your biceps were purple with bruises, distinctly finger shaped bruises. It had been four days since you’d been together last but the bruises from him pinning you to your cot were still visible.

“I didn’t hear you complaining at the time.” He scoffed. “As a matter of fact, I seem to remember you enjoying it.” 

“Captain doesn’t need to know that though, does he?” Despite your tears, you smirked at him as you brushed past him. But once again, Luke was quick to grab you and spin you back to face him. 

“You wouldn’t dare.” He growled at you, his jaw set. 

“Get your hands off of me, Sergeant.” 

“I’m not letting you ruin my career.” He shook his head, keeping a tight grip on your arm. “And I’m not letting you ruin your own.” 

“Get your hands off of me.” You repeated. 

“Not until you calm down.” 

You didn’t calm down, in fact you did the opposite. You started fighting against him, trying to shake him off but of course he was stronger than you. He held onto you tightly, no doubt causing more bruises over the ones that already existed. More tears started falling from your eyes as you tried to fight him. 

“Get off of me! Get off! Leave me alone! I hate you! I hate you!” You started sobbing, your legs trembling to the point Luke was the only thing holding you upright. 

“You don’t hate me.” he sighed. “You love me.”

“No, I hate you. Get off of me, please get off of me!” You fell against his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his jacket. 

Luke let go of your arms and wrapped his around you, keeping you on your feet with his firm hold. You cried loudly, nuzzling against him while weakly smacking your fists against his chest. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You wailed, still frailly trying to fight him. 

“You’re depressed, cariño. You need to speak to someone.” He whispered, trying to hold you close but you shoved him away in a surge of strength. 

“Fuck you, I am not.” You shoved him again so he wasn’t touching you anymore and suddenly raised your fist in the air and punched him hard on the nose.

Luke yelped, surprised by the force in which you’d hit him. His hands came to cradle his nose and he felt the blood dripping into his hand. 

“Fuck, Y/N!” he whined. “That hurt like a puta! You could have broken my nose.” 

“Maybe that will teach you that when someone says they want to be left alone, they mean it.” You spat, no hint of remorse in your voice. 

“Everybody feels this way from time to time, it's normal under the circumstances.” He tried to reason with you, still attempting to catch the blood from his nose. 

“It's not the war.” You rolled your eyes.

“What is it then? Maybe I can help you.” 

“You just don’t get it do you?” You shook your head. “You can’t help me, because you are the problem.” 

Luke frowned at you, assuming it was just the alcohol talking. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, wiping the blood from the other on his cargos.

“Don’t say that, you don’t mean that.” 

“What if I do?” You looked and sounded suddenly sober. “You want to know why I drank so much tonight?” 

“Why?” He sighed, trying to humour you.

“Because you were late.” You spat harsher than he’d ever heard you. “You were meant to be back at camp hours ago and then I heard reports over the comms about an explosion just a few miles from where you were. I thought you were dead, Sarg. So I drank. I drank even though it could have been the end of my career to do so, because I thought you were dead in a fucking ditch somewhere. I could have jeopardised everything I’ve worked for tonight because of you.”

Luke’s heart throbbed in his chest, replacing the pain in his nose. He stepped towards you, tears feeling like they were stinging his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” He croaked. “But I’m ok.”

“You still don’t get it.” You backed away. “I was a strong, fearless soldier before I met you. You’ve turned me into something I don’t recognise. You have made me soft, loving you has made me weak. I won’t do it anymore, Sarg. The army is the only thing I have, the only thing I can depend on. I won’t let you stand in the way of that. I can’t…we can’t do this anymore.” 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” The bleeding had stopped even though his nose still throbbed and he let his arms fall to his side. “Last time I checked there were two of us in this relationship. You don’t get to just say it’s over without consulting me.”

“Relationship?” You laughed in exasperation. “What relationship? It was supposed to just be sex, Sarg!”

“It’s more than that, it always has been. And you know it.” He shook his head. 

“What do you really think is going to happen here? Are you so fucking naive that you think we have a future together? You think we’ll leave the army and settle down and have a family or some shit?” 

“Why not?” The hurt spread across his face.

“Because that’s so unrealistic! This isn’t real life, Sarg. The second this is all over you and I are nothing to each other.” 

“No, no, don’t say that.” 

“It's the truth.” 

“No it’s not. It can’t be.” He shook his head frantically. 

“Well I’m afraid it is. I’m sorry if you thought it was more than that, but it’s not.” You folded your arms over your chest. 

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out, holding it in his open palm. The light from the moon reflected off of the shiny silver item of jewellery in his hand and caused your breath to catch in your throat when you realised what it was. You stumbled backwards a little but it had nothing to do with the alcohol this time.

“Luke?” You swallowed, looking from the ring in his outstretched hand back to his eyes.

“If it were true, if we really didn’t have a fucking future,” He spat, his tears breaking free suddenly. “Then why the hell did I buy this?” 

***

Present - Quantico, Virginia

The bodies on the jet had doubled since your journey over to Mexico, not only were IRT members Matt and Clara now accompanying you, but so was Spencer. 

It was bittersweet. He was only in attendance because he was being extradited back to the US after the discovery that Nadie Ramos had dual citizenship, but you all had a hell of a fight left if you wanted to prove he didn’t kill her. Spencer wouldn’t talk to you, let alone look at you. And to make things even more uncomfortable, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at Luke. 

You’d both fallen asleep fairly fast last night, obviously something about being back in each other's arms had comforted you. It wasn’t until this morning that things had turned much more awkward. 

You were still laying in arms, your back pressed against him and he had one arm lazily draped over your waist. It reminded you of that morning in Brooklyn after Reynolds funeral. He was hard as expected, and didn’t try to hide it, in fact he even shuffled closer to you just in case you didn’t know. 

And then he’d started kissing your neck. 

“Alvez,” you whined at the feeling of his lips on your sensitive skin. “Alvez, stop it.”

“Do you really want me to stop?” He grinded against you from behind. 

“No.” You confessed, him stopping was the last thing you really wanted. 

He continued to kiss your neck, sucking marks into your flesh that you hoped you’d be able to hide later. It was when his hand wandered from your stomach down towards your underwear that you started to pull away. 

“Alvez,” you scalded him. “No, no we can’t do this.” 

“Fuck, I know we can’t.” He groaned deeply, tearing himself away from you and rolling onto his back. 

You rolled over so you could look at him, knowing your cheeks were stained pink with your arousal. He lolled his head to the side and met your gaze. 

“It’s like having a giant jar of candy in front of me and being on a diet.” He tried to joke. 

“You have a girlfriend.” You shrugged. 

“She’s not my girlfriend. It’s not…we’re just dating.” 

“Still,” you rolled your bottom lip between your teeth. “You’re not single.” 

“You have no idea how much I wish I was right now.” 

A movement caught your eye and you looked down to notice something moving beneath the sheets. You quickly looked back up at Luke, wide eyed. 

“What are you doing?” A deep heat spread between your legs. 

“Not what you think.” He shrugged. “Not exactly anyway. I’m just trying to relieve a little tension.” 

As if to prove his point he moved the bedsheet aside, exposing his golden, toned chest and tight black boxers for which his hand was not inside like you’d expected. He was pressing the palm of his hand against the base of his hard length through his underwear, like he’d said, to relieve some tension. 

“Jesus, Alvez.” You sucked in a breath, it was almost as hot as seeing him touch himself. “Fucking Christ.” 

“I’m sorry.” He replied, not sounding sorry at all. “I can’t help it.” 

He noticed the way you squeezed your thighs together, clearly trying a little tension relief yourself. His toes curled and his stomach clenched. It was literally killing him not to touch you. 

“You should go.” You tried to look away from him but couldn’t. 

“Like this?” I can’t go anywhere right now.” He sounded exasperated. 

“Well what is it going to take for you to leave?” 

He pulled a face, he’d thought that was quite obvious. 

“I can’t see this going anywhere unless I come.” He admitted, moaning a little at the thought and pressing harder against his shaft. 

“Just think of something horrible. Dead bodies or something, that’ll make it go away.” You forced your eyes onto the ceiling now, thinking you may explode if you kept looking at him. 

“I’m laying next to my stupidly attractive, half naked ex-girlfriend who I know for is fact is fucking incredible in bed. Dead bodies aren’t gonna cut it.” 

You looked back at him, the tension between you was so thick it was stifling. A battle waged in your mind, trying to think of the outcome with the least amount of casualties. The most obvious option was to jump his bones, fuck him and deal with the consequences later. But that was such a terrible, terrible idea. 

Before you could sort through the rapid fire thoughts entering your brain, Luke moved closer to you and turned you back onto your side where you’d been when you woke up. His lips quickly fixed back onto your neck and you were powerless to stop him. 

You felt his hand move down between your bodies and you knew what was happening. The jerking motions that followed confirmed that. 

“Alvez,” you whimpered pathetically. 

“Call me Sarg, please, please god.” He panted into your neck as he stroked himself rapidly, needing to find his release. 

You moaned despite the fact he wasn’t touching you and somehow your own hand started to wander and found its way into your panties. Luke must have been able to see well enough to know as you heard him hiss when your fingers disappeared between your legs. 

“Sarg, fuck, this is such a bad idea.” You whined, using your own hand to get you off while he did the same behind you. 

“I’m not touching you. You aren’t touching me. It’s probably not as bad as it seems.” He panted heavily, moaning slightly. “God I wish it was your hand.” 

You moaned loudly into the pillow, Luke’s body heat causing you to sweat. He propped himself up on his free arm so he could get a better view of you. You were still wearing your underwear so he couldn’t see exactly what you were doing but the way your hand moved inside of the fabric was enough. 

He picked up his pace, the bed rocking beneath the two of you with your combined movements. Luke was already close and he could tell you were too by the way your thighs squeezed around your hand. 

“You gonna come, cariño? Let me hear you come.” He brought his lips back to neck, then to your ear where he nibbled on the lobe. 

“I’m close, Sarg, real close.” You mumbled. 

“Me too.” He agreed. 

It was you who came first, clamping your thighs around your hand as you did but screaming the word Sarg. Luke was close behind, hearing you moan his nickname was what pushed him over the edge. He came between your bodies, on the back of your t-shirt and on his own stomach. 

The room was filled with a crescendo of heavy breathing while you both came down from your highs. You removed your hand from your panties but refused to turn and look at him, the guilt of what you’d done setting in. 

After a few minutes Luke rolled over, wiping himself on the bed sheets as he did so. 

“Now I should probably go.” He swung his legs out of the bed. 

“Yeah.” You agreed but continued to face the wall.

It would have almost been less awkward if the two of you had actually had sex. Somehow what you’d done seemed even worse in a weird way. It had felt sordid, wrong on so many levels. Luke was dating someone and Spencer was in prison and the two of you had been masturbating together. What the fuck was wrong with you? 

The flight home felt so much longer than the way there, the jet filled to the rafters with tension from both Spencer and Luke. And suddenly it hit you with startling clarity what you needed to do. 

While the team was busy fussing over Spencer before he was taken to the county jail, you followed Emily to her office, closing the door behind you. You were sure she knew by the look on your face what you were going to say before you said it. 

“I know this is the worst possible time for this.” You inhaled deeply, desperate to stave off the tears. “I want to help find Scratch and prove Spencer’s innocence but I can’t do that whilst being a part of this team anymore.” 

Emily let out a long breath, her mouth hanging open a little as she looked at you across her desk. 

“You want to quit?” Her eyebrows knitted together. 

“I need to quit.” You sniffed. “I got pretty bad depression when I was serving in Iraq. Weirdly enough though once I was transferred to Afghanistan I was fine. And I never really experienced PTSD, not the way I’ve heard other soldiers suffering from it anyway. Recently I’ve found it manifesting again, and I’ve realised that there is a common denominator in both my service in Iraq and now.” 

Emily's frown deepened and you could see the cogs turning in her head as she pieced together what you weren’t saying. You noticed the moment she figured it out, the way a lightbulb seemed to go off in her mind. 

“Alvez?” 

“Yeah.” A tear escaped your eye. “I am madly in love with him but our relationship was poison to my mental health. He’s like a drug I can’t quit. I know it’s bad for me but I just can’t stop, you know? And being around him again is bringing up all those old feelings, the good and the bad. So for my own sanity, I have to leave.”

“I don’t want to lose you from the team. But I understand, your well being comes first.” She looked sadly at you. The last thing she needed was to lose another member of the team but she could see in your eyes how much Luke’s presence had broken you. 

You withdrew your firearm from you holster and placed it alongside your FBI credentials on her desk. 

“Thank you, Emily. If there’s any way I can still consult on Scratch, I’d really like to be able to help clear Spencer’s name and put Peter Lewis behind bars where he belongs.” You took a few steps back towards the door. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

You nodded and Emily simply watched you go. You slowly made your way across the bullpen which was thankfully still empty as everyone was still by the elevators with Spencer. 

You bypassed one desk in particular, slipping the post-it note you’d written on the plane out of your pocket and sliding under his keyboard. Then you tore yourself away and forced yourself to not to look as downtrodden as you felt as you headed towards the elevators. 

You tried to keep your head down and get out without having to look at any of them, but of course it was never going to be that easy. 

“Leaving without saying goodbye?” Spencer’s voice croaked and when you looked up at him, he had a hint of a smile on his lips. 

You smiled back sadly, stepping closer to him and practically throwing yourself at him. He couldn’t hug you back due to the handcuffs that were covered by Luke’s FBI jacket. You wrapped your arms around his neck and snuggled as close to him as possible.

“I won’t rest until we bring you home, ok?” You whispered in his ear. 

“I know.” He simply replied.

You placed a chaste kiss on his cheek before tearing yourself away. You averted your eyes again as you headed to the elevator. The doors opened and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor. As the doors started to close you couldn’t help but glance up, right into the eyes of Luke.

His eyebrows were knitted together, something wasn’t right and he could tell. But seconds later the doors were closing and you vanished behind them.

Your tears started falling immediately after the elevator doors closed. You gave a brief thought to Luke finding the note and hoping he’d understand. You hoped he would see how much this was destroying you and take the hint and just let you go. 

Not for the first time Luke Alvez had been your downfall. It was like it was thirteen years ago all over again, making that decision to walk away before you self-destructed. Once again, you’d let Luke push you to extremes you’d never thought you could be pushed to. Why should this have been any different from leaving Iraq? 

Back on the sixth floor, Luke excused himself and rushed into the bullpen, intent on finding Emily and asking her what was going on. But as he passed by his desk a little sliver of pink caught his eye, poking out from under his keyboard. He detoured over to it and quickly slid the post-it note out. He recognised your handwriting immediately, and his heart constricted in his chest as he read over the simple words inscribed on the note. 

Loving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. There have been too many casualties in this war raging in my heart. If you love me, you have to set me free. 

Goodbye Sarg. 

***

2010 - Diyala, Northeast Baghdad 

You sat fiddling with your thumbs in your lap, the captain's gaze heavy upon you. It hadn’t been an easy decision, but it was one you had to stick by for your own well being. This place was killing you slowly, day by day taking tiny pieces of your soul and eventually there would be nothing left of you. 

Your head wasn’t in it anymore, you weren’t the soldier you once were and you knew as long as you stayed here, as long as he was here, you’d never would be. 

The captain leant forward on his desk, scrutinising you in such an intimidating way you felt like a small child about to be reprimanded by their father. The stare off seemed to last hours before he finally spoke. 

“Let me make sure I’m getting this,” he sat back, a stern frown on his ageing face. “You’re asking to be reassigned?” 

“Yes sir.” You swallowed thickly. “I know there are jobs out in Afghanistan and I know they’re in need of good soldiers out there more than here at present. In truth, I don’t feel I am able to flourish here anymore. I feel I will be of more use somewhere else.” 

It was a long shot at best and you knew it. It wasn’t entirely rare for soldiers to be transferred or reassigned but it wasn’t usually requested by the soldier. In the military, you went where you were told, where you were needed. You hoped the need in Afghanistan was your way in. 

He continued to scrutinise you, clearly not used to such an ask. It was a long shot. You kept telling yourself that, but you kept a small window of hope that the outcome would be positive.

You couldn’t stay here any more, it wasn’t the same as it once had been. Iraq was no longer where you belonged. To save yourself, you needed to leave. Because falling in love with Sergeant Luke Alvez, you had no doubt, would be your undoing. 

Next Chapter

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@carolinesbookworld @wooya1224 @littlebeanwrites @randomrambling @telepathay @lukealvezswifey

[singswan-springswan]

Chenford AU where Lucy is Tim's guardian angel

Didn't expect this to turn into a full-blown fic. it was supposed to be an imagine oop. please enjoy I spent too much time on this

words: 5590

rating: teen and up

warnings: bullet-related injuries, allusions to suicide, substance abuse, and abusive parents, also a building blows up

summary: Lucy is assigned to guard Tim. Unlike most mortals, he's aware of her presence, and they become friends as a result. Detailing their relationship through the years

@accidental-spice

~

Lucy is assigned to him the moment his soul blips into existence. She's a veteran guardian at this point, has helped plenty of humans through life from start to finish. The first few fleeting months are simply protecting his mom while she helps him grow, just until he's old enough to breathe on his own. Normally, this stage would be very peaceful and warm, but Tim's mom has a few life troubles of her own to sort through, and Lucy works closely with the woman's guardian to make sure Tim isn't harmed before he's born.

He's a screamer. He's a very serious baby, very judgy, very spirited. Lucy can tell she's in for quite the ride with this one.

It's completely routine at first. Children are a handful, and Tim is by no means an exception. He's not remarkably special, of course. There's tenuous strain in his family, but it's nothing Lucy hasn't seen before, and certainly nothing she can't handle. He gets himself into harmless trouble often. He's bright. He's curious. He's a kid. Lucy dotes on him because his parents don't, and she doesn't care that he won't feel any of it.

But suddenly Tim is special. He's three when it happens. He's inspired to spill some secret, and marches to his mother who's working in the kitchen, proudly announcing that he's got someone for her to meet. Lucy drifts beside him as he says it. She's formless. Invisible. Intangible. Nonetheless, Tim grabs her by the hand and calls her his "friend". It's never happened before. His mother smiles kindly. She looks right through Lucy and says it's a pleasure. Tim beams.

It's not a one-off occurrence. Tim knows she's there. It's a strange thing, and when she asks other guardians, most just grin. They say it will either make her job easier, or difficult ten-fold. (it turns out to be the latter of them, naturally). Tim knows she's there.

He hugs her back when he's scared, even if he can't touch her. She's the one he asks for when he's woken from a nightmare. He can feel her presence. If it didn't make him a reckless little freak, Lucy might almost find it fun.

But it's nothing serious, as far as she can tell, and it doesn't hamper her ability to perform. She stays with her mortal through everything; she's there for all of it. His first screams, his first hours of restless sleep, for every dangerous toy left in the cradle at night, and every wobbly arm that didn't hold his head just right. She was there for his first steps, holding his hands when his mother let go. She was there for his first words, his first laugh, his first meal of solid food. She was there for his first day of school, and his first adorable little crush, and his first letters handwritten with the help of a pencil gripper and the teacher's gentle hand. She was there for every skinned knee, every monkey bar blister, every fight, every trembling lip, every spilt juice box. She was there every time his father came home. She protected Tim through all of it.

She saw him through poor test grades, annoying younger siblings, summertime adventures, and bad family reunions. She saw him through the nightmare of secondary school, along with all its awkwardness and hormonal imbalances and voice cracks and social anxiety. She became his friend. He'd talk to her sometimes, ask for advice, or wonder if she was proud. Lucy couldn't talk back, but she could convey her sentiments, and that was enough for him.

There were plenty of things to protect Tim from. His dad was a big one, but they found out good ways to deal with it. and Lucy was an angel. she could redirect the angry man often enough without breaking a sweat, avoiding confrontation in the first place. Tim was too young to have to face that yet. Then there were cruel friends (and enemies) at school, teachers with an axe to grind and little help to offer. Lucy couldn't read aloud to him, but she found him someone who would, and his grades improved. She was there for the football tryouts of course. Those were a busy few days.

Tim happened to love a sport that got aggressive at his age. There was lots of pushing, and tripping, and a few nasty tail-spin take-downs that kept Lucy on high alert out there. Luckily, he had a good arm. Quarterbacks weren't roughed up too bad all the time. He told her he wanted to be a lineman, and she was grateful to the coach for deciding against it. She laughed at him the night after cuts. He was pouting.

At least he had a good outlet. He was under plenty of stress as a teenager. There were tough classes, and tough parents, and tough choices to make about the future. Lucy guided him as best she could, but he still grew hard a bit on the inside. it came without saying in this broken world, and an abusive father only sped the process along. Tim built up his walls against reality, because he was soft deep down and Lucy couldn't shelter him; that wasn't her job.

He really tested her sometimes. It was his signature thing. the Tim-tests. She found it endearing, mostly, but sometimes he went way overboard and got himself in a mess. Lucy would warn him, or stop him once, but he couldn't rely on her to be his conscious. He had to understand the consequences that came with stupid decisions. There was so much trust for her in him. But eventually he did start being responsible. It didn't take too long.

Until then Lucy stepped into bad situations with increasing exasperation. There was a beach party and a cliff jump just a little too high for human bones on impact. There was a football banquet where he drank and almost drowned in the pool. Then there was Gwen Kelsey and the back of her blue pick-up truck (and the bad news between her legs). If Lucy never had to perform a literal miracle to save Tim from genital warts again, it would be too soon.

To be clear, Lucy would never begrudge Tim's nature to seek danger out, but she could disapprove of his intentions. Intentionally putting himself in risky situations just because he trusted her to save his arse was not appreciated. Joining the military, on the other hand, was acceptable. Lucy didn't like war. The war of man had no glory.

But Tim had few prospects, and he would more easily survive on the front line than staying home. There were simply more bullets to deflect.

His time in the army was a sobering thing. it made him more jaded. Not optimal, but Lucy was an angel, and didn't shy away from human heartache. There were plenty of nightmares. Lucy did her best to soothe them away, along with the guilt and fear that came as a survivor. Tim allowed himself to be vulnerable with her. He didn't cry much anymore, but he let the emotion show when she was there. He asked her how to carry on. Lucy would wrap him in a hug, and he'd relax. He'd be comforted.

The tours came to an end when some manic demon guided a bullet through the minute gap in his body armor. From the angle of the shooter, it should never have landed like that, but it didn't really matter. Tim took the fall. Lucy fought the monster off. She redirected the bullet again, saving his lungs and heart. The doctor told him it was a miracle. He let out a broken laugh.

After military service, Tim needed to keep up the action, and decided to join the police. He took to it swimmingly, passionately, naturally, and it pleased Lucy to see. Tim was a kind man: a real softie, deep down. He wasn't on the force because he was good at barking orders and getting physical; he'd joined because he genuinely cared, and it was only easy because of his skills. For the first time in years, he'd found his place, and he could settle.

He made friends, he worked hard, he was determined to be of service. Isabel was the icing on the cake. They were a total delight to one another, and Lucy was often entertained by their synergy. The two were so alike. They made a good match.

Tim talked about her often when he was alone with Lucy. He wasn't one to gush, but Lucy had known him all his life, and she knew that Isabel was something special to him. Isabel was a bright future. Isabel was family that wouldn't hurt him, for a change. Isabel gave Tim so much hope and vibrance, brought so much light to his life. He wanted it to go on forever, he said. He said he was going to marry her.

And for years after the fact, the happiness lasted. Tim had found a good normal for himself. He and Isabel swore to be lifelong partners before a crowd of people they loved, and the celebration was delightful, excepting the few dark moments where demons plucked at Tom's shirt and he made Isabel cry. Lucy intervened quietly, despite it being outside her job description. Ruined weddings were despicable to her.

Life carried on with honeymoon ease. Tim was still his tough, commanding self, but his heart had a levity that made him glow. There were still tragedies every day on the job, but they weren't personal, and he performed well. He was helping people. He was happy.

But being a guardian couldn't mean basking in the good times. Lucy had to remain vigilant, regardless of how good a place everyone seemed to be in. The fairytale started to crumble after a few years, and Lucy knew right away because she was an angel and could see things that humans couldn't.

Isabel was on an op for weeks. The long stints took their toll on Tim, but he was strong, and he had Lucy to help him through the anxious nights. It was supposed to work out. They were supposed to work it out. But when Isabel finally came home, there were traces of rot in her veins. She needed help. She needed it now.

But Tim had fallen in love with his newfound happily ever after, and any threat to that was too awful to entertain. He ignored the hints Isabel dropped him. He tried to pretend like everything was fine. He even ignored Lucy's warnings, despite her insistence. As a result, Isabel slipped away.

The fallout was messy. It wrecked Tim. He tried too late to salvage the pieces of his ruined wife, after doing wrong by her, covering for her, lying to himself. In the end, most of the happiness he found after coming home from war was smashed to bits, leaving him worse off than ever and half as confident, twice as ruthless, retreating behind stone walls. Lucy did her best to save him from disaster, but she could only provide so much comfort without a physical voice and arms to hold him.

It was worse, having experienced a good life and losing it wholly, than never knowing it at all. When Isabel left, that was the last straw. Tim gave up. He locked his soft, kind heart away behind his many walls and focused on staying alive, going through the motions. Saving face. He pushed his friends away, daring to be vulnerable exclusively with Lucy, but even those vital moments dwindled as his light dimmed.

It was a dire situation, to be honest. A mortal that lost hope was a wretched, dangerous creature, and the longer this went on, the greater the surety stood that Tim would never be himself again. He'd never feel compassion, never be kind. He'd waste himself on sorrow and fear if Lucy didn't do something.

Luckily, he was a training officer.

Lucy devised a plan to show him the seriousness of his status. It was a severe strategy, only used by guardians in times of critical need. Clearly Tim was in need, and Lucy was obligated to help him. So she went to the academy and took on human form. She picked a name that mortals could pronounce. It wasn't her first act walking the earth. it still felt intense. She was accustomed to watching from the sidelines, but she was created with a gift of empathy, and fitting in was no trouble.

Six months and a few divine interventions later, she landed in the front row of the bullpen at mid-wilshire police station. When the Sergeant called Tim's name, he pointed at her.

At first, it was a shock to see him. He'd gotten worse. So much worse. He'd lost weight, lost sleep, lost any lingering trace of light in his eyes. There was a heavy weight in his gaze and the way he moved. One that hadn't been there six months ago. What changed? At the very least, he'd been stable. There'd been no reason for him to slip further down the dark hole Lucy pledged to haul him out of. Now, he was dangerously close to losing himself.

She didn't expect him to recognize her in that state. He didn't.

Any warmth he'd once possessed was frozen over by the time they started their first shift together. It felt wrong, and now that Lucy could feel physical things her stomach was a sinking knot. Tim was unsteady. Tim was not himself, walled off and detached. He cared a lot about people and it was grating at him to be like this, deep down, but Lucy had to work with what he gave her. She wasn’t going to pull any punches.

He was merciless the first few days. Unapologetic, vicious, blunt and rude. He snapped back at everything she said, bossed her around, belittled her. If Lucy really was who she said, she’d probably be hurt and greatly taken aback, but she knew Tim. He was in so much pain, and it was clear to her. The other rookies didn’t seem to think so, and their concern was touching. But Lucy saw the way the other officers looked at her, like she was either a dead woman walking or a poor soul in for the most horrible year of her life. Angela and Talia were so worried. They told her to look out for herself, leaving the “because he won’t” unsaid. Lucy appreciated them. Even if they misplaced the roles.

When Tim got shot, Lucy was not afraid. He’d been through worse, and this time she was there to hold his blood in. Her execution would make him proud if she were any rookie of the past. She directed Lopez to the two downed suspects, whipped her gloves on, and held Tim for the first time. He still tried to give her orders. Something angry and defensive. He looked terrible but he’d be okay. She made sure the bullet missed his important parts. Just like old times. A different doctor said the same thing: it was a miracle. Lucy wasn’t in the room when the news hit, but she could feel Tim crying all the same.

The weeks it took him to heal were precarious. It was dangerous to leave him alone, but part of the gamble to assume human likeness was that she had consistent responsibilities, and they  were distinct from Tim’s life. She still made sure to check on him regularly, and she was there when he was discharged. He despised her by the end of it. He felt patronized, and pitied, despite Lucy’s insistence. Always a stubborn man. Her words meant a lot less in the mouth of a mortal, even if they were clearer now than anything she’d said to him before.

Whatever else came from her efforts before he was cleared, he gained a modicum of respect for her. She could be just as persistent as him if she wanted, and he’d known that seven months ago. They were starting from scratch now. It was going to be rough.

Eventually, the Tim-tests came back. It felt like a breath of fresh air. While Tim was no less cut-throat and no more entertained than before, Lucy counted the violent slamming on brakes and demand for a location as a victory. He was getting a very important part of himself back, clawing, taking it by force. It hurt a lot, but the progress mattered so much. Lucy was happy to play along. Sure, she could read his mind, anticipate the nature of each test and answer him correctly every time, but the man needed to feel himself being productive. Even if that meant ruthlessly pummeling her for the sake of a lesson learned. She could take the heat.

Things after that became less bad, for lack of a better term. Tim leveled out well enough, to the point that Lucy trusted him to be alone with himself. There was little in life for him to enjoy at the moment, but she sensed that he at least found respite in the day spent with her, fighting crime, stopping tragedy, being human. He hated to talk to her, loathed her enjoyment in the act. He wanted to be alone. He closed himself off time and time again, even if a clever enough detective might connect the dots from all the friendly seconds she extorted from him, there was little substance she could glean unless she pushed him hard—which always involved a tough fallout.

There was one bad day she pushed it. The day was still young, and their calls had been mild. Tim hadn’t slept well. He looked like a wreck, even if he didn’t let it affect his performance. Lucy started talking. He liked her voice, she could tell, despite his claims of finding it annoying. She talked about psychology, which he hated, and she pushed him, and he hated that too. She pushed, and she pushed, and she asked him so many questions. Eventually he snapped, tired and defeated and white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel, right foot near through the floor of the shop. The vehicle lurched roughly, and Tim worked his jaw. He looked so angry, and so sad, and so tired. His eyes were very tired. “Look,” he forced out around the thickness in his throat. “I just lost someone very close to me. I’m not in the mood to answer prying questions.”

Lucy could have swooped in with even more psychology. She could have cited a hundred various grieving tactics, ranging from self-destructive to completely healing, based both on psychological case studies and personal testament. She might have, under other circumstances. But this was Tim. She knew everything about his life, and taking on human form hadn’t changed that. She knew everyone he cared about, everyone close to him, and no one matched his claim. Isabel had been gone for over a year. His grief for her was nothing fresh. Not like this. And Lucy could tell that he was truthful in his statement because she was an angel and knew her way around his sentiments, his surface level thoughts. This was real, and she couldn’t think of anyone he might love enough to mourn with this much devastation.

After a long, sober moment not knowing what to say, Lucy folded her hands neatly and projected calm into the cabin. It wasn’t the same coming from a human body, but she was still an angel and it worked well enough. Just enough to form a truce with Tim. “What was this person like?”

Tim wrestled with an answer, paging a few harsh comments through consideration before giving up. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “She didn’t talk as much as you.” He said, and his voice was soft when he did.

It took Tim a while to stop resenting her, to stop taking out his frustrations on her. It took him a while, and a few verbal reprimands from his friends at the precinct before his torture of her ended. Apparently he was harsh, but never this harsh with rookies. Even the sergeant asked Lucy if she wanted a new TO. She wouldn’t hear of it. Tim was her charge, and she wanted to help him as long as she could. He was hurting a lot, but he was salvageable. He was still good. Despite the pain he was going through, he chose to not give in at the start of every day, chose to consistently do the right thing, to serve people in need. His execution was flawed but very redeemable. And it was working out slowly but surely.

Tim warmed up to Lucy in his own way. The process was painfully gradual, even for a being who’d lived innumerable years within the constraints of time. Lucy was a creature of patience, but Tim was dragging it out. It took him weeks to stop actively hating her. She bought him hot wings to commemorate the occasion, ditched them on his doorstep the night his team was playing—which he didn’t watch with the same enthusiasm anymore, but still appreciated.

From there, they graduated to relying on one another during calls. Lucy had his respect, she knew, and she’d solidly proven herself a capable officer, but it was different for Tim to trust her with his life. It was nostalgic for both of them, except Tim was being bittersweet about it. 

He started caring again, just a little bit at first, because jumping back in would exhaust him outright. It started with just covering her, making sure she didn’t die. Then he acknowledged her discretion. He listened when she spoke, didn’t just tune her out. He was more resigned than he’d ever been all his life, but he was coming to realize that life continued whether he was there for it or not, and peace was weaseling its way into his mind.

It was months on the job before Lucy saw him smile again. He’d pranked her with a surprise Tim-test, tucked away in a trash can in the middle of a park. The whole situation had thrown her off guard because he’d actually been enjoying himself. Baby powder exploded in her face. Tim was there to enshrine the moment in his memory. Through the blur, he lectured her about bombs and radio waves, and both corners of his mouth were slanted up. He shone softly with satisfaction. Victory.

Their relationship developed slowly but surely. They respected each other, they trusted each other, and they eventually grew to like each other. The haunted looks of the other TOs and all of Tim’s friends turned relieved, grateful. Angela pulled Lucy aside one day and thanked her sincerely. “We were worried about him. He never told us what happened. Look, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it.” Tim never told Lucy either. She was just happy to see him back on his feet. He still carried an enormous grief with him: one he’d likely never shed as long as he lived, but he was so strong. He would be okay.

Lucy was there when Isabel got caught. Isabel had ruined herself, and it ruined Tim too. It hurt a lot to go through again, for both of them. At least Lucy could hold him now, place a steady hand on his shoulder and say a few fortifying words. It helped a lot more this time around. Isabel was caught, deep in trouble, desperate to cut a deal that almost cost what remained of her life. Tim leaned on Lucy then, unknowingly. Isabel went away for her health, divorced Tim and made it final. It was rough. At least it was closure. Tim grieved the loss of his best life as well as he knew how, and it was far from easy for anyone involved. Lucy didn’t shy away. She could hold him now and she did, as far as he’d let her.

They became tentative friends, on Tim’s part, because Lucy wanted to regain what they’d had all his life, and he remained wary—understandably so. He was going through a lot. She knew that. She wasn’t pushing. But now they could share light conversation without any sour emotion to discolor the atmosphere. They could crack jokes, share gifts, perform favors. Tim was fighting through the pain to get himself back. His fire was a thing of beauty. He made Lucy laugh sometimes, and always stopped to stare a little. She caught him once with a sad, longing half smile. “What is it?” She asked, still grinning. He looked away quickly. Swiped at his eyes. “Nothing. You just remind me of someone I knew.”

By the time Caleb came into the picture, they were solid partners, on good terms. They went out with friends, shared trade secrets, and Tim was getting used to being comfortable with her. Being kind to her. Empathetic. Compassionate. Old traits he’d had a long time ago. He apologized for the awful first few months of her training. She just shook her head and grinned. She knew. She told him she knew, she understood, she’d forgiven him completely. Then Rosalind Dyer kicked up a fuss, and Caleb lost luck on a victim, which meant he was desperate. It went outside of Lucy’s job description to use herself like this but she could help lots of people by getting Caleb convicted. Before she called him, invited him out for a fateful few drinks, she pulled Tim aside. He was doing well. She didn’t want this event to throw him through the ringer again.

“I know you have my back.” She told him. “I trust you. Whatever happens with this case will not be your fault.” He’d been confused, and worried to hear that, and he was near hysterical when he pulled her from the barrel with bloody hands, split skin from clawing at the dirt in raw desperation. She was an angel, not a human. Asphyxiation couldn’t hurt her when she didn’t need to breathe. The drugs hadn’t really done a thing in her drinks except make them taste like crap, so she faked the snooze and made Caleb haul her (fake) snoring dead weight from the bar to his car trunk. The whole fiasco would be amusing if Tim hadn’t gone so crazy because of it. He squeezed her with a hug, holding so tight and shaking while Lucy narced on his three broken nails. His laugh was wet and broken. Caleb lived. He stood trial. He was sentenced to die.

Tim and Lucy were so tight after that. Everyone was suspicious of her incredible rebound, but she’d dealt with much worse in past assignments as a guardian—not that she could tell anyone that much. Tim forgot himself in his desire to help her. It was an incredible leap of progress, so close to where he started. He was so kind, and so thoughtful, and he went out of his way to make her smile because he hated that she thought to do it for him first. He didn’t need restitution after she went through what she did. He was selfless. Lucy, in turn, rebuked any of his lingering guilt and shame.

There were times when he forgot the nature of their professional relationship. He treated them like partners, as though they operated on the same level of authority. And even though his nagging and stubbornness and Tim-tests never once saw slack, Lucy was totally pleased to carry on like this. Taking on the world together. Performing miracles. Doing wonders of good. It was a beautiful arrangement that took them past the dynamic between a rookie and her TO. Lucy knew he saw her differently, cared about her differently, worried about her differently. He was protective in a different way, and not because of guilt or shame. Or because he felt responsible for her. She could attest the same things too. Tim had been special since he was three years old. She’d do anything to protect him.

There was one call that tested her mettle. It changed them. The fire started small in the big apartment building. They were the first to respond, and the building was mostly empty in the half minute it took them to arrive. But there were people still inside. And they were charged with running in easily. They herded out the motile ones, carrying those injured by the building giving way. It was the last time they went in that the building sat down, slouching in and trapping them where they were. Just one person left. They were cornered in the hall with the kid tucked in Tim’s arms. There was no way out of the fire. All exits were blocked by rubble and branding hot rebars, and the fire grew still, reaching the gas line now. Tim was afraid of dying. The kid was afraid of dying, in spite of adamant reassurances. Tim crouched in the corner, rocked the crying child and gave Lucy a horrible look. He didn’t think he’d make it out alive, and maybe he wouldn’t. The thought was discouraging. He’d just gotten his crap back together. Lucy knelt beside him, determined, wrapped them both in her wings as the fire swelled. The explosion shook the building’s foundation soundly. They were near the ground, a lower level, so the windows burst out in the deafening roar of flame. It was a death sentence. A barbecue. But Lucy was a guardian, and her mandate was to protect. So she did. She was an angel; manipulating fire was something of second-nature. The heat ran white hot around them but Lucy didn’t see, just squeezed both eyes shut like Tim and pressed her forehead close like Tim. It took a long time for the flames to die down. No one rushed in to save them—which Lucy could understand. They should be dead. Everyone would be assuming them dead by now.

But Tim and the kid were fine, which was nothing short of a miracle. She let them breathe the stale air.

Tim’s confusion left him mute. Though that could have been the shock as well. He stared at her. Hard. Then the kid sat up and blinked at the fire, blinked at the collapsed building around them, blinked at Lucy and said “you’re an angel.” like it was obvious. It probably was.

They emerged from the ruined, blackened skeleton to behold awestruck faces. Superficial burns only. It was a miracle they said, and Tim buckled, and Lucy caught him by the arm while he fainted at those words. They were whisked away by medical responders immediately. So much chaos. There wasn’t time to spare between tests and discharge to see Tim. The next time they saw each other was back on duty, in front of everyone who wanted to see. Tim didn’t seem to care about the audience. He grabbed her hands and his knees gave way again.

“It’s you.” He breathed, strangled and agonized. “All this time, it was you. It’s you.” Lucy hauled him to his feet, told him not to kneel for her, though by now there were undisguised tears dripping steadily from his chin. He was trying to process, trying to find the words. “I wanted to be here.” She said, squeezing his hands. She tugged him down for a hug, finally wrapped her arms around his body in the way she’d needed to for years. “To give you this.” He folded himself into her embrace, trembling violently, squeezing her so hard and so tight she couldn’t inflate her lungs at all, like he was afraid she’d vanish from the physical world at any given moment.

“You left.” He whispered, at a level their onlookers wouldn’t pick up. “Without warning. I lost you.” The accusation was biteless, but it gave Lucy chills anyway. She’d come to Earth without warning, without saying a word to him about her plan. Six months was but a breath for ageless angels, but for Tim who’d never lived a day without feeling her presence, to wake up one day completely alone for the first time ever, it must have been horrifying. Had he felt abandoned? Lost? So soon after Isabel left, how many frightening lonely nights had he spent waiting and waiting for her to reappear? Had he called for her? Had she broken his heart? It was such a fragile thing, and he’d built so many walls to protect it but Lucy had the keys to them all.

“You weren’t there.” He cried. “You weren’t there to fill the gaps or hear me cry or say I’d crossed a line—you were just gone.” His flowing tears turned to broken sobs, right there in the middle of the precinct, but Lucy didn’t care. She just held him and held him and held him back just as tight and maybe shed a few human tears of her own.

“I missed you like I’ve never missed anything.” Tim said.

Lucy tightened her grip. What else was there to do? It was exactly what she’d come to do, and her absence was a thing of the past now. She could explain everything when there was time to speak, with real words, like she’d never spoken to Tim before. Now they were a team. They could fix this heartbreak together. “I’ll never leave you again.”

“Don’t.” His chest was full of rubble. “Please don’t.”

[afniel]

Hi there's really vague (but kinda heavy?) Third Novel stuff under the cut, so don't spoil yourself if you don't want to know anything. Because there's a liiiiittle something something in there plus some art.

Man I'm like. Writing on chapter 2(?) of I Can't Believe It's Not A Trilogy (ICBINAT...world's worst working title) and this story is gonna need such a ridiculously huge content warning for suicidal ideation, way more than the first two, and the second has more than the first, so you know this one has got it bad.

And yet this is just kinda Where X Is At Right Now at the start of it, for Reasons (that I can't say further shit about until Outcome Unpredictable is all online, lol). I have a chapter and a half of, I dunno where or when it fits, just kinda disconnected noodling, and they were hard to write in the kind of way that's warning me that I don't really know what I'm doing with a character, just kinda slapping events together without much emotional weight to any of them or any real direction.

Then I kinda had a few revelations in a row, realized I was trying to lean way too hard on X to Just Be Better Already Dammit, and he was just coming out flat because he's not better already, dammit. Reploid Grandpa is 100% a fucked-up old veteran who's barely out of the hell he came from so yeah, he makes huge strides in his mental health, but he started at the bottom of a really deep hole. That's not a quick climb! It takes real life people decades to escape that hole, and they usually didn't go through it for 80+ years without a break. He's just gonna be down there, even if he's a lot higher than he started. (IRL veteran suicide rates are absolutely dismal too, and yeah, X's mental state very much reflects this at the point that I'm writing.)

Once again all I can actually do is write down the words as they happen and trying too hard to steer it myself only makes it stop working. Am I ever going to stop writing about this old man's mental health struggles? Uhh. Well, I've tried to stop twice, if that tells you anything. I swear he does get a happy ending and keep recovering. Well, maybe not that much physically, because Protagonist Who Stays Disabled And Isn't Magically Fixed is still a primary goal, here, and the story agrees with me on that, but even given that he could stand to be more comfortable even if he's not magically fixed. I dunno why this is where it's going but I think it's just my extreme commitment to What If This Stupid Video Game Plot Was Realistic Though. It's definitely realistic now! Maybe sometimes a little too much, but honestly, that's what makes it work, I think. It would never stick the landing if I stopped short of 100% painful sincerity, even if it's hard to look at sometimes. Feeling a bit like you're being invited to see and feel vulnerabilities that maybe aren't entirely your business when you're reading fiction is the secret sauce, if you ask me.

(At this rate I'm gonna have to update the author's notes at the end of Outcome Unpredictable because I'm making myself a goddamn liar. I straight up say I have no intent of writing a third one, but here I am, evidently doing that before the author's notes even hit the internet.)

I'm not gonna explain shit past that at the moment, so just feel free to conjecture amongst yourselves at the one thing I've kinda drawn in the ICBINAT era. This is about a year and a half from OU and 2 years from FtC, for the record. It is a truth universally acknowledged that if you leave an AU running unattended for long enough, even the canon characters will eventually turn into OCs.

(Also that if my coloring style gets any more rim light I'm going to be in Sonic Adventure style coloring territory...which would fuck severely, actually.)

[across-violet-skies]

Febuwhump day 20: truth serum

Whumpee: Legend

Whump Rating: 6/10

TWs: nausea, delirium, one line that could be interpreted as suicidal intent (but it's not meant to be)

Legend groaned, coughing roughly. He felt sweaty and gross, a chill in the air causing him to shiver. It was morning, or at least Legend thought so. The sun was up, at the very least.

“Oh, you’re awake!” Hyrule stood over him, smiling. “Wild asked me to wake you for breakfast, so… breakfast’s ready?”

Legend grumbled, rolling onto his side away from the traveler. “Not hungry,” he mumbled, pulling the blanket up higher. Hylia, it was cold out!

“Legeeee,” Hyrule whined, kneeling to shake the Veteran gently. “C’mon! Wild made wildberry crepes, and they’re gonna get cold if you don’t come now!”

“Just leave me alone,” Legend huffed, pulling the blanket over his head. “I’m not hungry.”

From behind him, Hyrule sighed. Legend assumed he had won until his blanket was torn away, exposing him to the chilled morning air. “Get up!”

“Hyrule!” The Vet hissed, reaching for his blanket but refusing to get up. “Give it back! It’s cold!”

That had Hyrule confused, lowering the blanket with a frown. “It’s really nice out today. How is it cold?” The traveler narrowed his eyes, examining Legend briefly. “Hm. You’re a little flushed… are you feeling alright?”

Legend scowled, snatching the blanket back from his successor. “I’m fine,” he insisted, snuggling back into his bedroll. “I just want to be left alone.”

Hyrule placed a hand on Legend’s forehead, clicking his tongue. “You’re warm, he noted, shaking his head.

As the traveler went to stand, Legend grabbed his hand and held him there. “I’m not sick,” he denied, staring at Hyrule with determined, yet tired, eyes.

“I never said you were,” Hyrule replied, shrugging. Legend released his hand, allowing the traveler to get up. “But you probably are, since you’re definitely running a fever,” he added, stepping far enough away so the Veteran couldn’t snatch an ankle. “I’ll go tell the others.”

“Hyrule, you little-” Legend broke off into a harsh coughing fit, his entire body convulsing with each rough cough. The force of it all had him dry-heaving, turned hastily so he was hunched over the grass rather than his bedroll. Nothing came out, however, so Legend rolled back into bed with a groan, sighing.

Okay, maybe he was a little sick. But it wasn’t that bad! It certainly didn’t warrant being fussed over, that was for sure.

Hyrule returned with a few items, balanced precariously on his arms as he carefully made his way back to Legend. He set them down in the dirt– two breakfast plates, a waterskin, a small cloth, and a larger bucket of water that was filled about halfway.

The traveler grinned, sitting down beside Legend. “I’ll be your caretaker today!” He exclaimed proudly, eyes crinkling. “I can’t heal fevers, but I know how to take care of them.” He dunked the cloth in the water bucket, wringing it out.

Legend pushed the cloth away as Hyrule tried to lay it on his forehead. “I don’t need to be taken care of,” he huffed, scowling. “I can manage just fine on my own, thank you.”

Hyrule frowned, shoulders slumping as he retracted the hand holding the wet cloth. “I just want to help you,” he murmured, sighing. “And Time said someone has to watch your fever. If you’d rather have Wars, then I can-”

Legend groaned dramatically, shaking his head. “Fuck no.” He sighed, clearly pissed off but too tired to put up much of a fight. “Fine. I guess you can watch the fever, or whatever.”

“Thank you.” Hyrule smiled, reaching to place the cloth on the Vet’s forehead. This time, there was no resistance, only a small huff as the cool cloth hit him. He would never admit it out loud, but it did feel nice against his heated skin. “Do you want your breakfast, or should I save it for later?”

Legend waved a hand, closing his eyes with a soft sigh. He turned over, tugging his blanket up higher.

Hyrule chuckled. “I’ll ask Wild to put it away, then. Sleep well.” The traveler got up, his quiet footsteps echoing in Legend’s mind as he drifted off to sleep.

Hyrule hummed to himself, checking in on Legend. He had been asleep for an hour or two now, and it would probably be good for him to eat something (or at least drink some water).

Crouching down, Hyrule poked the Veteran, shaking his shoulder. Instantly, worry shot down Hyrule’s spine– Legend was very warm, despite the cloth on his forehead that had been replaced multiple times.

“Lege?” He questioned, shaking the Vet more roughly. “Legend? Link?”

“Hm?” Legend turned over, blinking slowly up at the traveler. “Marin…?”

Hyrule frowned, confused. Who was Marin? “No, it’s me, Hyrule. Remember?” He was starting to get anxious now.

The Veteran sighed, closing his eyes. “I’ve missed you. Do you still sing? I’ve always… loved your voice,” he mumbled dazedly.

“Uh…” The traveler tilted his head, confused. “Thank you?” Hyrule was pretty sure he’d never sang in front of any of his brothers.

“I wish I never woke the Windfish,” Legend continued, eyes still closed. Hyrule frowned, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “I’ve met more people like me, but… I still miss you every day.”

“Legend…?” Hyrule called nervously.

The Veteran hummed, sighing. “I wonder what it would be like if I hadn’t done it. Would we be happy together, like Time and Malon? Or could we never be more than just a dream?” He paused, sighing sadly. “I would give anything to go back… even if it kills me. Marin…”

“Guys?!” Hyrule shouted, shocked and confused and a little hurt by Legend’s words. He was clearly quite out of it, but that didn’t mean his words held no weight.

“What’s going on?” Time questioned, frowning.

Warriors knelt by Legend’s head, removing the cloth to check the Vet’s temperature. “We need to get him to a town,” he explained, shaking his head. “He’s got a high fever.”

“Marin… I’m sorry.” Legend went limp, burning with fever. Hyrule gasped, shaking his arm worriedly.

Time placed a hand on the traveler’s shoulder, pulling him back. “Pup, can you carry him?”

Twilight nodded, and Warriors helped to get Legend on the rancher’s back. “Castle Town isn’t far from here. We could make it there in three hours; two if we hurry.”

“You heard him. Everyone gather your things, we’re heading out,” Time decided. Quickly, items were gathered and bedrolls were put away. Wild stomped out the fire while Hyrule and Sky helped to get Legend and Twilight’s things as well. It wasn’t long before all nine of them were back on the road, following Twilight’s lead as he charged on toward Castle Town.

“There’s a doctor in town,” the rancher panted, out of breath from the effort of carrying Legend while keeping pace. “He’s… not the greatest. If he can’t help, then I have some friends who might be able to.”

Time nodded. “We’ll split up. Two will take the Veteran to the doctor. A few can go with Rancher to meet his allies. The rest will go to the inn and get us checked in for the night. Agreed?”

With several murmurs of agreement, they continued on, keeping a quick pace as they transported Legend to Twilight’s Castle Town.

“The doctor is up that way and the inn is in the main square. We’ll be down this way, back in a small alley. We’ll meet up back at the inn before sunset,” Twilight directed, sending his brothers off in all sorts of directions. He took Time and Warriors to the bar while Hyrule and Sky took Legend to the doctor. The rest headed to the inn to get checked in.

Hyrule fidgeted as he followed Sky, clearly nervous. Legend was unconscious. Every time he woke up during the journey had been terrible, spouting absolute nonsense and calling out for someone named Marin. It was distressing, to say the least, to see their grouchy Veteran in such a vulnerable state, and Hyrule knew he wasn’t the only one hoping for some sort of miracle cure.

They stepped into the doctor’s office, sitting down in a chair. Beside them was a young woman with a large gash across her upper arm.

“I can heal that, if you’d like,” Hyrule murmured, pressing his lips into a weak smile.

She squinted at him, glancing up at Sky and Legend as well. She sighed deeply. “Don’t you dare mess this up,” she hissed, offering him her wounded arm.

“I won’t, ma’am.” Hyrule closed his eyes, hands glowing a soft teal as he cast his Life spell, pressing the magic into her arm. The wound closed, leaving the skin unmarked.

She nodded, humming with satisfaction. “Hm. Not bad, kid.” She stood up, flicking a red rupee into Hyrule’s lap. “See ya around.”

As the woman left, Hyrule pocketed the rupee. The doctor burst into the room, shooing an older man out before beckoning them to follow.

“So, what’s wrong with you?” He grumbled, leading them into a small back room.

Sky set Legend down on a bed. “Our friend is sick. He’s got a high fever.”

The doctor sighed, nodding. “Yeah, yeah.” He searched through a drawer, pulling out a small bottle of thick purple liquid. “This should help.” He tossed it to Sky, who uncorked it and fed it to Legend. “That’ll be fifty rupees.”

Hyrule glanced at Sky, offering up the red rupee he had just picked up. The Skyloftian supplied another red rupee as well as a yellow, watching the doctor’s reaction carefully. He accepted the rupees with a grin, pocketing them before ushering the group out.

“Great, come again!” Sky carried Legend out as Hyrule followed, getting the door slammed in their faces.

Legend stirred in Sky’s arms, groaning. “What…?”

“Legend!” Hyrule exclaimed, gasping. “Are you okay?”

The Veteran scowled, huffing. “I’m fine.” He glanced around, frowning. “Where are we?”

“Twi’s Castle Town,” Sky answered, walking alongside Hyrule as they headed to the inn. “We had to take you to a doctor.”

“What?!”

“Your fever was really high,” Hyrule chirped, nodding. “You kept talking about someone… um, Marin?”

Legend inhaled sharply, struggling in Sky’s grasp. “Put me down,” he hissed, jerking back from the others. “What did I say? Did I- no. Tell me!” The Veteran grasped the collar of Hyrule’s tunic, eyes large and angry.

“You were just talking! You said you missed them and their singing, and something about some sort of sky-fish?”

Legend dropped his hold on Hyrule, staggering back a step. “The Windfish…” he whispered, shaking his head. “Who heard?”

The traveler fidgeted, leaning into Sky nervously. “Um, I did. The others heard a little bit when we were walking, but it was mostly just nonsense at that point.”

The Vet seemed to relax at that, still breathing heavily. He held a hand to his head, slumping with a huff of breath.

“Ooookay,” Sky chuckled nervously, scooping Legend up from under his arms. “You need to rest. Whatever the doctor gave you helped, but you still need to recover. We’re taking you to the inn.”

Legend grumbled incoherently as Sky lifted him up, carrying the Veteran down the Castle Town streets and into the inn. They already had rooms set up, with Legend, Hyrule, and Sky sharing. Despite the Vet’s obvious embarrassment, he didn’t argue about the room assignment.

“I’m sorry,” Hyrule murmured, settling into bed between Sky and Legend. “I didn’t mean to hear all of that. It seemed pretty personal.”

Legend sighed, frowning as he stared at his lap. “It’s not your fault,” he finally replied.

“Still, I’m sorry you had to go through that,” the traveler continued softly. “It sucks.”

The Veteran snorted despite himself. “Yeah,” he agreed, cracking a tiny smile. “It does. But I don’t think I regret it because I got to meet all of you. That’s better than existing in a dream world.”

“...Really?” Hyrule wondered, tilting his head. “You think so?”

Legend smiled, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I do.”

–> support me on ao3!

[allfleetingdreams]

SUMMARY:

Travis Grady encounters a familiar face in the same, familiar place. It's been a long while, but their demons haven't quite let go of them yet. Maybe they never will.

ADDITIONAL TAGS / WARNINGS:

Rating: Mature Character: Travis Grady, Alex Shepherd Relationship: Travis Grady/Alex Shepherd Word Count: 5,878 (completed) Tags / Warnings: PTSD, Mental Health Issues, Referenced Child Abuse, Referenced suicide, Older Man/Younger Man, Strong Language, altered canon timeline, Good ending Travis, War veteran Alex, Canon Divergence

PREVIEW:

Faraway houses wink at him in the distance, roofs glimmering under the gentle morning glow, getting ready to face yet another day with its tenants who will be waking up a few hours later than him. For the first time after an hour he bothers to look at where the sun attempts to greet him; and not for the first and last time, he wonders what it is like to be at home—permanently at home, and not driving a giant monstrosity delivering cargo from one state line to another every damn week. Gently, like the unhurried rise of the sleepy sun, his thoughts start drifting to the what-ifs, but he never lingers too long to the point that these what-ifs start making sense. He turns away, back to the task at hand, listening to the loud roar-purring of the engine and the staticky quality of radio music. Not another lonely fucking country song. …But when did all country songs ever get happy? Seven miles. There’s only seven miles left before Brahms. He’d already passed through other quiet little towns, and whenever the outline of houses do not find him on the road, the shiny faraway waters of the massive Toluca Lake do. It waits for him like it always had, wondering when he’ll be dropping by again; and like the sun, he tries not to take notice of it too much. It’s too pretty; too inviting; too distracting; and last time he got distracted it had gotten him into a bit of trouble. All he has to do is drive, go through Brahms, then after Brahms, there’s another quaint little town to pass through. And this quaint, nice, quiet little town… Well. Shouldn’t be new to him anymore. It’s only a passageway: a bridge to get him to his point B. After that, it’ll be over, and he’ll be circling all the way back to where he’d come from, which should take him another week. He’d be waiting for new-not-so-new instructions by then, sending him back on the road once more after a couple days’ rest in his not-really-permanent home. It’ll be like nothing happened. Said quaint little town had been lenient on him for the last seventeen years, and even though he could sense its anger because he got out safe and sound, it never dared pull him back. He’s always around, anyway, observing. Like he never got away. Did he ever get away?

READ THE FULL PIECE HERE:

[unknownworlds4]

Aokigahara Forest, Japan. Aokigahara is forest located in Yamanashi Prefecture on the island of Honshu, Japan. It is on the Northwestern flank of Mount Fuji. It’s also known as the “Sea of Trees”. Although it’s a popular destination for tourists, the forest is historically associated as a popular destination for suicides, earning it the nickname “Suicide Forest”. Every year, dozens of people venture into the forest with the intention of taking their own lives. Some claim it’s between 30 to 100 each year. It’s gotten to the point where the government had stopped publishing the statistics in order to prevent further deaths. Signs have been posted along the trails encouraging those considering ending their own lives to think of their families and call a suicide prevention association. Every year, teams are assembled to comb the forest for bodies.

Japan has a long tradition of suicide as an honorable practice. For example, Samurai practiced seppuku - a ritualistic suicide method by plunging a blade into their abdomen and disemboweling themselves, followed by decapitation as an act of mercy. Samurai performed this to prevent themselves being taken prisoner or restore lost honor. According to folklore, the forest was also used in the practice of Ubasute. This was practice of taking an elderly relative into the wilderness during times of hardship or famine and abandon them to the elements, where they would die of exposure or starvation. There is, however, no evidence that this ritual was actually practiced. Suicide rates in Japan spiked during the financial crisis in 2008, and have risen again in recent years. The most common method used in the forest is hanging. According to legend, Aokigahara is also haunted. It’s said that the forest is inhabited by yūrei - vengeful and evil spirits of the dead who lure travelers off of the path and lead them to get lost and disoriented, or encourage them to take their own lives. They are said to be the ghosts of suicide or ubasute victims. According to myth, Yūrei are created if a person dies a sudden or violent death, dies with strong negative feelings like rage or depression, or is not buried properly.

Adding to tense atmosphere, is the condition of the forest itself. It’s very easy to get lost in the forest. The trees are incredibly dense in some places, and the ground consists of porous lava rock that absorbs sound, making it both very quiet and difficult for sound to travel. It gives this place a very isolated feeling. The soil has a high iron content that interferes with GPS and cell phone signals. There are some who claim that compasses have malfunctioned and only spun in circles. This, however, is regarded as false. The dense foliage can block light from reaching the forest floor, hiding rocks and roots from view.

If you, or anyone you know, is considering suicide, please know that you are not alone out there. There are people who can help you. If you’re considering taking your own life please contact a suicide prevention helpline. Numbers for various crisis hotlines can be found below. Help is out there.

United States: 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, 988; Trans Lifeline, 1-877-565-8860; The Trevor Project, 1-866-488-7386; Veterans Crisis Line, 988 press 1

United Kingdom & Ireland: Samaritans, 116 123

Canada: Talk Suicide, 1-833-456-4566; Trans Lifeline, 1-877-330-6366

Australia: Lifeline, 13 11 14

New Zealand: Samaritans, 0800 72 66 66

Japan: TELL Japan, 03-5774-0992; Childline Japan, 0102-99-7777