#worddisaster

[chemdisaster]

"Hand, rise."

Martyn stays as he is, knelt at Ren's feet, forehead so low as to almost be touching the ground and leaning on the sword that he balances precariously on its edge in front of him. 

"Hand."

Ren's voice is so close, so tantalisingly near, and every inch of him craves to stand, to bask in Ren's stare and take his rightful place by his side. 

Martyn does not dare to lift his head. 

"Martyn," his king's voice cuts through the overwhelmingly tense stillness. "Look up."

Ah, a command. That he can obey, and Martyn does, slowly raising his head as his eyes stay firmly planted to the ground. 

"Oh, Hand," and a finger lovingly strokes his cheek, "what has happened to you?"

While I've been gone, goes unsaid. Finally, Martyn raises his eyes as well, meets his king's gaze, his king, his king—

And he breaks. 

Feels his face contort and shoulders start to shake as big, ugly sobs rip through his chest, soundless at first and then unbecomingly loud as he tries and fails to catch his breath. His king's image swims before him; he tries to blink past it, fails and remains gasping, shuddering, curling in on himself with the force of his love, his joy, his boundless, agonising sorrow. 

It's a shameful, pathetic display. By all rights, he should be instantly cast away; if Ren kicked at him like an unwanted puppy and bid he get out of his sight, Martyn would fall over himself and break his legs in his haste to rid the king of his despicable presence.

But Ren reaches out, instead, takes his face in his hands, wiping at the tears that stain his thumbs. He graces his skin with all the gentleness of someone who is clueless as to the things Martyn's done in his absence, what he's become—

It's presumptuous and improper, and he does not deserve to kiss the ground at his king's feet, he knows—but he stumbles and grips Ren's wrist with both his hands, holding on, begging with the drowning he does in Ren's eyes to never let go, please don't let me go. 

Ren kneels, as well, then. The hand that makes contact with his neck guides his head to rest on his shoulder; the other rubs his back. It's tender and more than anything he's ever known, more than his entire world, and Martyn is undone.

Oh, my liege, if you'd seen the things I've seen. 

Ren holds him, and in the weight of his king's hand tangled in his hair Martyn can hear only Ren's whispered words of comfort and his own choked-off sobbing. There are no voices and there is no never-ending laughter; there is only them, as they should be, as they are.

For the first time since a tear ran down his cheek when he saw the arrow go through his king's chest, everything is quiet.

#i was thinking of a reunion while falling asleep and a higher power dragged me out of bed to write this #i have to wake up in 5 hours tomorrow is gonna be so shitty #anyway #worddisaster #rendog #renthedog #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #renchanting #renchanting duo #3rd life #3lsmp #last life #llsmp #double life #dlsmp #limited life #limlsmp #llsmp2 #secret life #slsmp #life series #trafficblr #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

so i decided to turn this post into a small drabble

"Hey, want me to kill Scar?"

Yes.

Grian stills and, despite himself, feels the beginnings of a pang in his chest. Unbidden, his mind goes to the lone base in the middle of the server, the torn apart house, and he thinks of everything Scar has been through. 

Everything he's done to him in this game and the ones before. 

He imagines zombies and swords and stacks of TNT, imagines blood-spattered sunflowers, almost similar to poppies in their red. He thinks of the piercing heat of a desert sun. He thinks of something long gone, and the light behind Scar's eyes that never truly left. 

For just a moment, he indulges himself in the idea of refusing, saying, no, don't touch him, leave him alone—and then remembers that if Scar doesn't deserve to die, then he, Grian, doesn't deserve this. 

And if Jimmy's words are a pang, then this realisation is like a sucker punch to the gut. 

He lost that right. 

He lost the right to shield Scar when all his hands did was deal the killing blow, every single time. 

Grian says yes to Bdubs' waiting eager eyes. Later, when everyone around him gasps and starts to whisper amongst each other, he does not take out his comm and instead casts another glance towards the deepslate wall across the field. 

If he squints, he can almost make out the man at the entrance, gesturing animatedly at the air around him, and he smiles.

Poppies and lilacs always did suit Scar more, in his opinion.

#grian #grianmc #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo #secret life #secret life series #secret life smp #slsmp #trafficblr #worddisaster #look at me forgetting my writer tag again #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

3l fanfic about scar being all wired and bloodlusty after going red and grian giving him a bath to make him feel better

heading somewhere far away

"I'm going to kill you," Scar utters and he looks up into Grian's eyes, searching for some kind of reaction, some sign that Grian is as afraid of him and this thing between them as he is, that he understands—

Grian waits to be let go and continues rubbing soap suds into his hair. 

"I'd like to see you try."

credit for the idea goes to @stiffyck (hi <3)

#worddisaster #gtws angst #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #grian #desert duo #3rd life #third life #3lsmp #third life smp #3rd life smp #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

boat boys reunion after secret life! after they both have their reunions with their allies first, of course

update: now with art

Etho sticks around for a long time, after.

Wanders around the server, avoids every site of active battle, and eventually comes to a free spot near Joel's fairground, where the grass is marked with patches of gunpowder, but the leaves ripple and his vision remains clear of dirty dark grey smoke.

He stays there a while—until his comm pings with the news that it's over and something hooked deep in his shoulders begins to let up on its unyielding pull.

He stays after that, too. Until an all-too-familiar voice comes up on his half-baked musings, complete with the usual tint of derision—with less heart behind it now, though.

"What are you doing here, Etho?"

Etho turns around, makes a point to smile despite his mask.

"Hi, Joel."

Joel sighs, walks up to stand beside him.

"You like the fairground?"

"Liked it better when it was still whole."

Joel sighs again. Taking advantage of his gaze being lost somewhere between the ferris wheel's cabins or the railings of the slide, Etho looks him over—notes both the bags under his eyes and the green streak in his hair, bright in a way he's never seen it be this far in.

"You okay?"

Joel blinks, as though surprised by the question being asked—or the person asking the question.

"Yeah, I think I am," he says after a moment of consideration, and then scowls, "Bloomin' Scott killed me again, though."

Etho has nothing to say to that. Another minute of silence passes, as the temperature around them starts to mellow out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Joel glancing his way, looking almost unsure. "Are you...?" he asks and, as expected, doesn't finish the phrase.

Etho looks over at him again. Staring directly into his eyes, he nods.

"Okay," Joel says. "Okay."

Almost as though by force, his brows pitch downwards.

"Good for you," he spits then, with more venom in his voice than anyone would imagine for such a simple remark.

Suddenly, Etho understands what he's getting at—what he's been getting at the entire season.

"You still care."

"Wh—no, I don't," Joel immediately bites back—a wolf, ready to bare his hackles, even now.

"You do," Etho repeats, but it's not the accusation it could have been.

"I have the Mounders now," Joel says in response, and it's not the uncompromising rejection it once was.

Etho nods. "Yeah." He knows that's not the end of it, knows that Joel has something more to say, will always have more to say—in contrast to where his own words feel like they could never be enough.

For a moment, silence reigns and neither of them speaks. Etho shifts his weight from foot to foot, digs his hands into his pockets and flexes his thumbs. Somewhere in the unnatural stillness, the first bird chirps in the remnants of warm-blooded destruction.

"The ship burns, everything burns," Joel recites softly.

Etho nods again.

Joel looks up at him, something vulnerable in his expression never seen before.

"I'm not—I can't—" he begins, and then breaks off, pressing his palms into his forehead with a frustrated sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, and Etho waits for him—but strangely, he finds himself fine with that being the state of things for the rest of both their foreseeable futures.

"I don't—I won't burn again," Joel eventually forces out. "I'm not going to—do that. You know. It's—I'm tired of everything burning, okay? I'm just—I'm tired," he repeats, and looks over at the remains of the helter-skelter behind him. "I want to keep this. I want something I can call my own."

"You don't want to run around the server lighting things on fire with me?" Etho asks in a somewhat-joking tone, but he gets it. He does.

And he thinks Joel gets that, too.

Still, when his old soulmate grabs his hands into his own, hot and dry skin just like he remembers, when he looks up at him, a question in his eyes, a desperate plea for something that stays, something real—

Etho thinks of Cleo and Grian.

"Yeah, I don't want to burn, either, I think."

Joel relaxes, steps away, but does not release his hands. Etho takes that as his invitation to come closer, drop his head down until it leans against Joel's, and their shared warmth envelops them, not like flames licking at their ankles, but like a comforting embrace, like home.

He thinks of the Relation—charred sails and splintered wood scattered around the air like the tiny scars on his fingers.

Nothing is ever truly gone, even when it turns to ash.

#listened to 'my heart is buried in venice' on repeat while writing this btw #worddisaster #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #etho #ethoslab #boat boys #smalletho #secret life #slsmp #trafficblr #life series #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

fic in which scar is hotguy and suicidal and he gets better (kind of)

headfirst for halos

On a perfectly normal afternoon, his partner asks, "Hotguy, are you all right?" Scar doesn't know what to say to that. He replies, "I don't know." Cuteguy asks again. And again. He is good at asking questions, Scar thinks, and so in turn he gets good at answering them. Good enough for Cuteguy to keep asking. His response is always the same. I don't know.

#worddisaster #gtws #goodtimeswithscar #grian #grianmc #gtwscar #hotguy #cuteguy #desert duo #hermitfic #hermitcraft

[chemdisaster]

Martyn knows from the start that it won't last. 

When he looks at Jimmy, dancing flares in his eyes, and wants so desperately to grab his hand that he digs his nails into his own palm instead. He knows, in all the jokes they make, that everything is numbered, each laugh counted and added up in the cracks of bones that never reach their chests. 

He knows at night, too, when he forgoes sleep next to Jimmy on their single bed and listens to the sounds of the doomed world outside. Even in the silence, he can hear it when he cannot hear anything at all. 

Time, time is precious, too much and not enough, this will end.

It does, of course it does, and nothing surprises him less. After all the deaths that his preceded by a hair's breadth, he thought, hoped that maybe—but no, these worlds always take their own, Jimmy is proof of that, Lizzie in a twisted way now, too, he supposes. They all are, really, and nothing has ever made sense more and less all at once. 

He still has to catch his breath in BigB's Backrooms, and then again when he's on the surface and the wither has just been killed and everyone is laughing, they're laughing, and before he knows it it's been a week, two, and he's still catching his breath, looking over at the lonely dog on a lonely mountain and wishing for something—anything. 

He needs, he needs—and so he goes around the server, doing things purposefully with no real aim, as though if he makes his presence large enough, it will cover up the two gaping holes at his sides. He takes and he takes and he takes and does not stop until—

He does not stop. 

He slows down eventually, when the sky is dark and he's barked his lungs out, it seems like, and the very air itself can tell that they're not long, now, none of them are. Baxter is empty, as his hands, his head, his heart, but for a faint barking outside that disappears as soon as he strains his ears to hear it. 

He sits down. Looks at the chests and lets out a long sigh that tapers off into something aching, broken. 

"I'm so tired, guys."

#please let this be the beginning of the end of my writer's block #anyway 'i'm your man' by mitski as a big dogs song #i am not okay #inthelittlewood #martyn inthelittlewood #secret life #secret life series #secret life smp #slsmp #trafficblr #traffic smp #the big dogs #big dogs #mirror birds #property police #uhh what else are they called #mumbo is part of this kind of but not really #OH SHIT FORGOT MY WRITER TAG FUCK #worddisaster #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

wrote this on a plane while drinking to the new year and my birthday, so literally partly in 2023 and partly in 2024. belongs to my brand new modern au where the bad boys are childhood friends.

warning: because i'm me, it ends the way it does in limited life. as a result, much pain and suffering and jimmy is dead in this one

Joel gets in trouble with the law again, and again, and again. Minor offences at first, drinking in public and one instance of attempting to shoplift a cheap pack of gum that makes Grian about implode upon himself with incredulity—Joel has money, what in the world!—before he recognises it as Jimmy's favourite flavour.

They deal with that, too. He dutifully bails his friend out every time and does his best not to ask too many questions. The situation is far from ideal, but on some level he understands—everyone deals with grief in their own way. With luck, this should pass.

Then, Joel pulls a knife on Scott and has to pay a ridiculous amount of money to keep him from pressing charges.

That's when Grian loses it.

"What the fuck, Joel," he rants in the car on their way back from the police station. "What the actual fuck were you thinking."

From his far-too-relaxed position in the passenger seat, Joel snorts.

"He deserved it."

Grian sputters.

"He deserv—what, no, Joel, this is serious. You can't just go around pulling knives on people, that's not—what the hell is wrong with you?!" he bursts out, and surprises himself with the vehemence behind his exclamation.

And then Joel does something incredibly, infuriatingly Joel.

He rolls his eyes and asks, "Why do you care?"

In that moment, Grian wants nothing more than to punch him.

Steeling himself, he schools his expression into one of indifference. Two can play this game.

"I don't."

"Sure you don't."

"No, I'm being serious, Joel. By all means, continue self-destructing—but I'm not sticking around to watch. So far you've crossed every line humanly possible, and I just—"

His resolve breaks. For a moment, he takes his eyes off the road to stare earnestly at Joel, who looks away the moment he meets his gaze.

"The way you're heading, I'm about to become a singular Bad Boy," Grian confesses to the back of Joel's head. "And I don't want to see that happen. I've lost Jimmy, I don't want to lose you, too."

A pause.

Eventually, Joel forces out through gritted teeth, "Stop the car."

"What?"

"Stop the car. Stop the fucking car right now."

Grian slams on the brakes, and the car's barely had time to skid to a halt before Joel is wrenching the door open and setting off, walking briskly along the edge of the road.

Scrambling to get out of his own seat, Grian follows.

"Wait, no," he calls out. "Joel, what are you doing?"

"Leaving," Joel spits, barely turning around, his words carrying across the wind. "You're sick of having to deal with me? Congratulations, today's your lucky day. You'll never have to see my face ever again."

"No, Joel, that's not what I meant—"

"Oh yeah?" Joel swivels around. "Well, then I pray you, tell me what you really meant. Go on, Grian. Tell me why I shouldn't have killed Scott right there on the spot."

Advancing, he pushes at Grian's chest.

"Tell me, Grian," he repeats, and his voice gains a note of something resembling hysteria. "Tell me what's oh-so-wrong with me. Tell me why I'm the one who's wrong and everything isn't fucked, tell me, Grian—"

Grian gently catches Joel's wrists before his knuckles can come into contact with his face. Carefully, he says, "Scott didn't kill Jimmy. Jimmy's death was—"

"An accident, I know," Joel snaps. "It's always the accidents with him, isn't it? Missing steps, tripping over his own feet, falling off fucking bridges—"

Unable to do much more, Grian nods. Because Joel is right. It is always the accidents—it was, and they always joked about Jimmy being cursed, but now that he's gone, Grian can't help but wonder if the curse was really on them all along.

Feeling the tension slowly seep away from Joel's wrists, Grian loosens his grip and brings their hands down, interlocking their fingers. Joel lets him, and a temporary calm settles over the shore, but Grian knows him too well to believe that this means that the storm is over.

Sure enough, a moment later, Joel laughs, quietly and without any humour.

"You're full of shit, Grian."

Grian blinks, taken aback, and says nothing.

Joel continues, "You're actually, genuinely full of shit. Jimmy's gone, and you're expecting me to, what, not be at all messed up?"

Grian still doesn't answer. He doesn't know what to say, what he could possibly say to prove to his friend that he does care, he does, cares so much that it feels like he's going to rip apart from the inside if he lets himself dwell on it for any longer than he already is—every minute of every waking day.

Joel gives him a long, searching look, and whatever he finds makes his tone turn downright venomous when he carries on, "Oh, but it's easy for you, isn't it? You haven't cried or—or anything, you don't fucking—you don't give a shit, do you?"

He rips his hands away, stumbles backwards.

"Ever the reasonable one, always telling me to calm down, right? WELL I CAN'T CALM DOWN, MY FRIEND IS FUCKING DEAD!"

Grian levels a look at Joel, meets his enraged, devastated expression head-on.

"Joel, I'm just saying, this isn't the way to grieve. This is—you're destroying yourself, Timmy wouldn't have wanted you to—"

"Shut the fuck up!"

Silence.

The rapidly descending dark obscures Joel's face, but his sobs ring out loudly in the night.

"Oh, Joel."

With only a moment's hesitation, Grian steps forward and brings his arms around his friend, who instantly goes pliant in his hold. "I hate you, Grian," he cries into his neck, and his shoulders jump. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"

Grian sighs, "I know."

I hate myself, too, he doesn't say. Joel weeps with sobs that sound more like wails, and Grian does his best to swallow down the ugly and inhuman thing that rears its head at the base of his throat. He knows that, come tomorrow, none of this will matter, and the only thing that will still hold meaning will be the large gaping hole at their side.

With everything he's been telling Joel, maybe he really is nothing but a huge goddamn hypocrite, after all. Whoever said that it gets better is a fucking liar.

#starting the new year with p a i n #this isn't even the whole of it. so much pain in this one #also in case it wasn't clear scott has zero connection to jimmy's death. like he wasn't even there #joel just pulled a knife on him cause he fucking hates scott #the bad boys #grian #grianmc #smallishbeans angst #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #limited life #limlsmp #llsmp2 #trafficblr #life series #worddisaster #bad boys best buds au #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

@whumpthemusical prompt 6 - newsies - chronic pain

in which i project my joint pain onto scar + hotguy cuteguy fluff

body of years

After yet another successful mission, Scar watches Cuteguy field questions with remarkable dexterity and focuses only enough to know when to laugh and nod along, and does his best not to think of the daggers that shoot down his legs and feet. As always, it's easier to ignore pain that you've been dealing with your whole life when said life is in imminent danger.

#whump: the musical #worddisaster #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #grian #grianmc #hotguy #cuteguy #desert duo #scarian #hermitfic

[chemdisaster]

cat dad au fic! in which kitten comforts scar. few things you need to know for context - "the isaacs" is a silly name scar gave to the heroes who would bully him, kitten uses a bunch of neos, of which i'm using xit/xitself in this fic, and for a few years when scar first found kitten he was under a lot of stress with work and they both had a bad time. that is all

"I like this one." 

Scar hums as Kitten hands him another picture. In this one, the two of them are dressed up as Hotguy, both laughing as a tiny Kitten points a fake arrow at his chest. Touching his finger to the cascading reds and oranges, he inhales the smell of memories and watches the echoes flash by. 

"I have captured you, Hotguy! Give up if you know what's good for you!" 

"No! Never! You won't catch the tail end of my whiskers, Catguy!"

"Not if I use my special bow! You're dead, Hotguy! I will capture you and I'll—"

As joy rings out in the silent air of reminiscence, a smile warmed with time spreads on his face.

"Yeah. I like this one, too."

Carefully setting the photograph aside, Scar moves on to the next one. With Ari out this afternoon, he and Kitten spontaneously decided to clear out some old boxes—and the nostalgia is hitting like nothing else. 

Surrounded by various papers and bundles and scraps, they sit side by side on the floor of his room and exchange quiet comments as they pass around mementos of years past. The atmosphere is peaceful, hushed, and looking from the tiny kitten on the photographs to the grown up cat next to him, Scar can't help but marvel at how long it's been. 

He never thought he'd get here. 

Stifling a laugh into his palm over the picture of small Kitten with a rubber fish and a beard of foam, Scar adds it to the growing collection. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he looks over at Kitten—

And his heart skips a beat. 

Centred in Kitten's padded hands is an assortment of crumpled papers, familiar as anything Scar wouldn't like to recall. Delicately smoothed out and held together with years old tape, the grid pattern has faded away, but he doesn't need to see the scribbles to immediately recognise them and everything that came with.

 

Art of Kitten that xit was never meant to see jumping at him from the frayed scraps, Scar asks, "Are those...?"

"Hm?" Kitten makes a noise that's more cat than anything. "Oh, these? Yeah, you—you drew them for me, didn't you? I remember I kept finding them in your bag."

"Yeah, I remember you kept going through my things like a nosy feline," Scar jokingly gripes. His grin thins at the edges, "I—I do remember these, yeah."

Drawing on patrols, sketch after sketch to block out the mocking, the insults—getting the drawings ripped from him and torn into tiny pieces right in front of his eyes. Sinking to his knees and cradling the pieces in his hands, tears littering the floor.

He kept them as a reminder of his failures. He never thought they would ever become anything more.

"Why were they torn?" Kitten asks after a while of Scar silently staring at his lap. "Did you not like them?"

Scar doesn't reply. Kitten knows about the mistreatment his old team would put him through, but somehow it still feels shameful, even after all these years, to acknowledge that it happened. That he let it happen, and let it go on for as long as it did because he was too weak to stand up for himself. 

Too bad to realise how that weakness was impacting the people around him.

"Scar."

"I did like them," he says suddenly, vehemence splitting from his tongue. "I liked them so much. It's just, I would always draw on missions and I'd get distracted and, well," Scar shrugs, smiling like it's all right past the bitter lump in his throat, "the Isaacs didn't like that."

"Oh."

He doesn't know why it means so much to him. They're only drawings. Stupid doodles of Kitten to chase away the self-loathing that never really left. They're not even good. And yet here he is, decades past and still getting emotional over things that don't matter. It doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

"I thought you were the one who tore them," Kitten blurts out. "I thought you didn't like them, and that's why you tore them. I," he breaks off, his tail curls around his legs. 

"Back when I was a kid, I thought it was because you didn't like me."

Guilt grips Scar's chest. All those years ago, when Kitten would curl up in front of a closed door—the drawings were an attempt at something good. To show him how much he appreciated him when words wouldn't come. And he ruined that, and now he's ruined what was meant to be a simple cozy afternoon.

He ruins everything, he's always known. Somehow it still hurts.

 

.

.

.

.

.

Kitten is worried about Scar.

Has been for a while now, and the torn drawings are only the start of it.

The few years during which little bits of tape would stick to his claws were hard on them both, and even years later xit can't stop the cold dark grey of abandonment from creeping up when xit thinks of that awful time. Staying up late waiting for Scar to come home, only to fall asleep and wake the next day to an empty flat—it was soul-sucking.

But he healed. He's not there anymore. Lately, he's not so sure about Scar.

A good few minutes pass before xit decides to speak up.

"It was really hard for you back then, wasn't it?"

Focus sinking into nowhere, Scar jerks as he breaks out of his daze. 

"Huh, what?" 

"Those first few years. When it was just you and me. Taking care of a child while working the way you did at the time can't have been easy," Kitten probes. He doesn't expect anything but the deflection he's come to know, and he wishes Scar would be honest with him. 

He wishes Scar would be honest with himself. 

"Well, I mean—there were some rough patches, yeah," his friend stammers out. "But—"

"You would cry yourself to sleep."

Scar's head shoots up, the dark bags under his eyes never seemed more prominent.

"I heard. Every time."

He looks down, "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologise," Kitten says quickly. "Just...we keep talking about what it was like for me, yeah? But we never talk about what it was like for you."    

Abruptly, Scar gets up and walks over to the bed, sitting down, rocking back and forth as he pulls his sleeves over his fingers. 

"It's—it doesn't matter. I'm okay now."

Kitten follows, clambering up next to him and peering past the curtain of brown hair at the face hidden beneath. 

"I'm not sure you are."

Scar's expression crumples for a split second.

"Don't worry about me, Kitten," he says. "I'll—it's not your job to look after me."

Kitten scoots closer, xits tail lays itself over his back. Scar doesn't speak and xit doesn't either; words are difficult and xit's content to sit here staring at the old wallpaper, making out dirty kitchens and wine-stained floors in the peeling vinyl. Stillness can hold all the sentences within its grasp, he's learned—he'll never ask for more than what the quiet can give him.

Outside, damning clouds begin to gather as a shuddering inhale stumbles its way out of Scar's lungs.

"Sometimes it felt like it was all for nothing."

The confession breaks the silence, but does not break the gentle swishing motions of Kitten's tail against his spine. 

"It was just—so difficult," he continues, letters spilling out of his mouth like an avalanche of wretched revelations. "Nothing was working. I spread myself thin every day and I still just constantly felt like I was doing it for nothing. And I'm—I'm sorry."

Scar's hands thrust upwards, he trips over another inhale. 

"I tried so hard to do what was best for you and I just ended up hurting you—every time. And I just," he bends his head, swipes at his eyes, "maybe I'm not meant to be good. Maybe it would be better if I just...wasn't."

His features twist, eyebrows inching higher on his forehead; he looks devastated, wrought with grief for what could have been, what he should have been and everything he never was. Decades of regret play in the creases of his skin as he tugs on his hair, blinking rapidly in the way he always does—the way that always fails. 

Kitten was never one for words, but in this moment he thinks that maybe what he struggles to give is what Scar needs. He needs to exist, and touch not meant to hurt can only do so much.

Stillness can hold all the sentences within its grasp, but phantom promises won't stitch up an age-old wound.

"Scar, you did—so much for me," xit says, and Scar's back jumps in a tremor. "For so many people. I wouldn't be here if you weren't."

Eyes squeezed shut, the other emits a low noise, "I hurt you." 

"You talked to me and gave me drawings and found me a therapist. You did more to help than anyone else ever could."

Scar shakes his head, shakes it like Kitten's words are incomprehensible, impossible to believe, and maybe they are. Leaning forward, trembling hands lifting to press to his chin, he curls in on himself, shoulders hunching like a plea—a plea for Kitten to stop saying things that he can't, won't let himself believe are real.

Kitten does not relent. 

"Look, I know you have this fear in you that you'll hurt anyone you rely on but that's not true. You deserve support, that's what we're here for."

"No, I—these are my own struggles, and I—I can deal with it—" 

Scar's voice bounces up like marbles off the wooden floor; the tears he's desperately wiping off his cheeks render his assurances anything but genuine. Clouds descending in the streams of his despair, he's never looked more damaged.

"You took care of me for so long," Kitten says softly, reaching out for a man who won't let himself accept that love never had to be earned. "Let yourself be taken care of, too."

As his friend continues to shake his head in denial, he thinks of a rainy evening, a door left ajar, a room filled with muffled sobs—and he thinks of two friends, both hurt by the world, both having found healing within each other. 

"I like your ears. Remember?"

Scar slumps, defeated. Loud, uncontrollable weeping tears through him like a wildfire and Kitten pulls him close, rubbing a clawed hand over his back, muttering, "Relax. You don't have to be strong all the time."

Raking his claws over quivering vertebrae, listening to choked cries get suppressed against his rumbling chest, he leans back against the blankets and pulls Scar with him, carding thin fingers through long brown strands as his friend settles, trembling, atop his body. Scar's hands are freezing cold, the wire under his feet looms ever farther down below— 

And Kitten knows in this moment that all that he needs is for someone to make sense of him. And xit knows that, finally, xit understands.

And when Scar drapes himself over xit in an instinctual, unguarded yearning to be near, xit drops xits head into the crook of his neck and doesn't look up and begs that this moment would never end. Kitten's heart may not shine, but he would give all the gold in his possession to mend the cracks of Scar's tainted soul.

And as he drifts to a doze with his friend in his arms, he thinks back to the torn drawings—taped together, hidden away as something to be treasured. And xit thinks, maybe broken doesn't have to be forever. 

Under Kitten's hold, for the first time in years, Scar starts to believe that maybe everything he did wasn't for nothing.

#cat dad au #gtws angst #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #worddisaster #not as happy with this as i could have been but whatever #fuck perfectionism <3 #hermitfic

[chemdisaster]

short fic about last life scar and tcd scar meeting because i'm kind of insane about the idea

"So what's your deal?"

The grimy and unkempt young man in front of him straightens up from where he was going through his chests—which Scar is very cheesed off about, by the way—and stares at him, but gives no other indication that he heard the question. 

Scar shrugs and sits down on a barrel already previously subjected to the Great Rummage, slightly kicking his feet. 

"I mean. You show up here and immediately try to kill me, then you figure out that I'm not a zombie—duh—and now you're trying to steal my diamonds, which I've already told you you can't have. So yeah. Little confused over here."

Silence. 

"You know, I'm starting to think you might be a zombie, with how much you suck at making any sound other than grrr and uggg."

More silence. Then—

"I'm not looking for diamonds. I need a gun."

The word diamonds is spat with such derision that it makes Scar teeter between affront and awe—does he not know what diamonds are? That must be the only possible explanation, for Scar cannot imagine someone understanding the full power of the shiny rocks and choosing not to seek them out—especially in a place like this.  

"I don't—I don't have a gun," he stammers, wondering not for the first time what this strange man is on about. That he can understand at least—he maybe wouldn't mind a gun himself, if he's being honest—but everything else about the whole situation eludes him. 

"Well, what do you have then? Ammo, food, maybe a med pack?" 

"Uh, I have chicken," Scar says and flinches as the other crosses the room in three big steps to stand in front of him, holding an arm out expectantly. Sighing, he reluctantly forks over half his chicken—actually half, because this guy looks like he needs it and also he's not sure if he would get slaughtered for trying to swindle someone with this amount of obvious murderous urges—and watches as at least a quarter of what he gave away is immediately gulped down. 

"Wow."

Weird-and-apparently-starved guy wipes his mouth on his sleeve, "Fuck you."

Oh-kay. So he can swear. 

In the ensuing lull of silence, Scar takes a moment to discretely look the intruder over again, as well as make note of his voice. Somehow gritty, yet rather high, it sounds weirdly similar to his own—in fact, the owner of it looks weirdly similar to him—that is, if you ignore the short, tangled hair and general lack of personal hygiene.

What he mistook earlier for an inability to sit still turns out to be paranoia, as, the moment he's done eating his food, his beyond-bizarre doppelgänger proceeds to circle his hut at least three times, checking every entrance and exit and eventually blocking them all off with a single chest-level block. 

Apparently even that odd practice leaves him unsatisfied, however, as he then swivels around and demands, "Is this place safe?"

"Uh, depends. Mobs don't come here often and my friends aren't dangerous—most of the time," Scar amends. Then hastens to add, "Usually." Pause. "Sometimes. I'm really not sure. It—fluctuates."

He knows what he sounds like, but the man's seen worse—clearly—so he doesn't call his words into question.

Suddenly Scar is struck with a thought—does—does this guy have friends? 

He doesn't ask him this, however, and instead decides on a more neutral approach, "What's your name?"

The guy gives him a long suspicious look.

"Scar."

Scar blinks. 

"No, my name is Scar."

"Well, pick another one, then," this new—this Scar says, but it's the least threatening thing he's said so far, judging by the slightly lighter tone of his voice. Scar—the real Scar, and doesn't that sound crazy?—does wonder whether his doppelgänger-twin-alternate self?-whatever is coming to the same conclusions as him—but if he is, either he's not bothered, or he's very good at hiding it. 

His own lack of surprise surrounding the revelation that this is him from some kind of parallel universe makes him wonder less. Maybe because he's a wizard, and therefore supposed to be used to all kinds of strange phenomenons. 

Maybe he's just tired. 

Other him swings his arms around for a bit and then slides down to sit on the floor with his back rested against the wall, all his previous energy gone so fast that it would make one wonder whether it had ever been real in the first place. 

"It's cold up here," he says, with the air of someone long used to the chilly weather—or his own helplessness against it. 

After a moment's hesitation, Scar joins him on the floor, making sure that their arms are a sufficient distance apart. 

"You have an issue with the cold?"

"No. Just would've thought that maybe in another life I'd have settled somewhere else. Somewhere warmer."

A pang of pain shoots through Scar's chest. He looks away. He was about to ask this him where he was from, but now he's not so sure he wants to—he'd rather not have those same questions be directed back at him. 

He wonders what Grian would say. If he could see this other version of him that's clearly suffered more than the both of them combined. What kind of joke he would make. If he would have anything to say at all, or if he would go straight for his sword. 

If he would hesitate before deciding which one of them to use it on.

 

"Your friends try to kill you?"

Evidently, the other him has no compunction when it comes to bringing up things Scar would rather not think about—

"Yeah, well, they're not—they're not really my friends," he admits, suddenly feeling very small. "I just said that to look cool. And also because they were, or at least I think they were, but lately we haven't been talking and they only ever come 'round here for resources, so—"

He shuts up. 

Other him hums, but thankfully has no interest in digging further. The wind makes a searing noise as it rushes in and out of his hut, past the one-block barricades, and Scar wonders once again what the point of making such a stupid defence even was. He doesn't ask, however, even though he probably should, to get back at this prick for reminding him of things he spends the whole day thinking about, anyway—

A long while passes before he opens his mouth again. 

"I miss them." 

"At least you have someone to miss."

The muttered remark should sound accusatory, but it's not. It's bitter, the kind of bitter that comes with understanding exactly what kind of feeling you are talking about. The kind of bitter that says I've been where you are and I've been worse and I'm glad you don't know what that worse is like. It's one short sentence, and yet it speaks volumes as to what must have happened in that weird place that had zombies and guns but not diamonds and was as cold as a lonely hut atop an equally lonely mountain. 

Scar is well aware that this weird other version of him could kill him in the blink of an eye. But he sighs and leans into him, accepts the warmth of physical contact and the emotional warmth that neither of them will ever admit to needing. 

#gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #gtws angst #worddisaster #tcd scar #gtws tcd #the crafting dead scar #last life scar my beloved #last life scar #last life gtws #ll scar #last life #last life smp #llsmp #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

Scar's chest hurts. 

He thinks he might be dying. 

It's been this way since he spawned into this world—a dull, constant twisting beneath his sternum, right where his heart should be. This pain is expected, unfamiliar only in its intensity, and maybe that's what hurts the most—more than the throbbing beneath his ribs.

When you're named after heartbreak, there's only so much you can ask for from life. 

He knew it was too good to stay. Once the sand is blown away by the treacherous winds, all he's left with is his own desert-dusted bones, a sun-kissed soul that Grian's lips never touched except in burning fury and skin that never did more than hold words within its grasp. 

Grian is too good to stay, but maybe Scar is just too bad to stay for. His ghosts won't lie. 

And as he stands atop his prison cell of a mountain, the bars of the cage choking him like the crystals in his pockets, he knows that all these weary limbs have ever known is truth. The gospel of swords, the honesty of a stack of TNT and the bitter, bitter truth of being alone.

Sometimes Scar will sit up at night, take off the flimsy veneer of his wizard's robes and touch his bare chest—pretend that he's tracing every wound on his heart, that his fingers are making them heal. 

Looking out of the window to glimpse the half-moon of stone towers in the distance, he knows they're being reopened.

He supposes there is a kind of mercy in his bloody fate. In being able to pull arrows out of his flesh by the shaft and laugh it off and not let on that his heart took the brunt of the hit. In smiling as he feels letters carve themselves into the life-giving muscle that only ever spelled the end—his end.

It's a hollow performance, standing in front of an empty audience. Scar thinks he'd prefer it that way. 

He might be dying.

Maybe he wouldn't mind that eventuality all that much. 

#gtws angst #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #desert duo #last life #last life scar #ll scar #last life scar my beloved #llsmp #last life smp #worddisaster #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

@whumpthemusical prompt 18 - hamilton - duelling

in which john loses the laurens-lee duel

the last thing i see

This wasn't supposed to happen. John was supposed to shoot first. John was supposed to win.

Alexander leans forward, balancing his entire weight on the hands pressing down on John's abdomen. Blood seeps in between his fingers, sticky, warm and moist; he shifts, pressing harder, trying his best to ignore John's whimpers, trying to ignore the fact that he can't remember the last time John let on that he was in pain.

"Laurens—" his voice breaks. "Jack, please."

#whump: the musical #worddisaster #alexander hamilton #john laurens #lams #hamilton #amrev #hamilton musical

[chemdisaster]

wrote this a while ago and thought i'd post it here as well

a small hurt/comfort drabble based on @stiffycock's 4-eared scar and the idea that in his species having 4 ears is seen as a curse

"You're not a curse, Scar." 

Curled up against the wall, Scar emits a loud sob. His voice is weak after an hour of crying, but he manages to force out, "Please—please leave me alone." 

Grian scoots forward, firmly planting himself on the floor next to his friend.

"No."

Scar sobs harder, hands gripping his ears tightly as though trying to rip them off. Face twisted in agony and tears dripping off the tip of his nose, the elf makes a pitiful image of grief. He looks tortured.

"Go away, Grian," he weeps. "Please, just go, go before I can hurt you. I don't want to pull you down with me, so please, go."

"No. I'm not leaving until you accept that you've done nothing wrong."

"Grian," Scar says, a long, drawn out moan. 

"No, Scar, listen." Grian grabs Scar's tear-stained cheeks, forcing him to look at him, and repeats slowly, "You. Are. Not. A. Monster. You are not a freak."

Scar's eyes are squeezed shut and he is shaking his head. 

Grian carries on, "And these ears?" He gently strokes all four ears, feeling them quiver under his thumbs. "They're beautiful." 

Scar wails. Grian wraps his arms around his friend's trembling back and holds him tight as he breaks apart in his embrace and knows that he'll go to the end of the world and beyond to put him back together again.

"You are not a curse, Scar," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to one ear. "You're a blessing."

#hi stiff hope the mention is okay askdfjksdfjk #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #gtws angst #grian #desert duo #worddisaster #hermitfic

[chemdisaster]

"Who cares, really, you know, at the end? We all just die and nothing. I mean, it's just nothing after this—"

After everything, it's him alone in an empty world, the silence clawing at his ears. 

For a man accustomed to silence like the heartbeat forever present in the back of his head, it takes him a startlingly long amount of time to realise—accept—admit what has happened, when it does. 

In a gentle caress, Grian's voice eventually tells him what he already knew. 

His shawl remains a comforting weight atop his shoulders. He looks down at his hands; they're stained with blood, but not Pearl's and not his own. He turns them over, takes in his knuckles—bare, unbruised. Clean. 

"How'd that happen?" he asks. "How'd the guy with no friends win?" 

He doesn't know whom he's asking—Pearl? Grian? The universe? No one answers, and so he asks again, and this time he doesn't finish the question before dissolving into helpless laughter, chest jumping in uneven bursts. 

The zombie from earlier reaches him; he lets himself be pushed along, waits until he's down to half a heart before he kills it, his movements numb, sluggish, but for the echoing tremors of residual giggles skittering down his spine. It hurts, and that is something, he supposes, as he drags himself up high and towards the broken, bereft centre of the world. 

Stood at the Secret Keeper, with life, triumph, success thrumming in his veins—all of a sudden, the pressing against his skull disappears, the whispers peter off and dissipate, words fluttering and stumbling down to surround him at his feet. 

Loneliness may be the loudest sound of all. 

Scar turns around. Looks out over the server, the grass that grows amidst holes made by explosions, the wind blowing fresh now, the subtle hint of smoke in its way forever gone. The sky is bright. Everything is quiet. Serene.

He does not know it, when it's over. 

At the end, it's nothing.

#worddisaster #couldn't not write something i'm so fucked up #gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #secret life #secret life smp #secret life spoilers #slsmp #traffic spoilers #trafficblr #life series #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

small bit of post liml desert duo angst i wrote. scar is tired of grian's apologies. sometimes sorry isn't enough

"Scar, I'm sorry."

Scar snorts, "I don't believe you, Grian. You always say that. Every time. You always hurt me and then say you're sorry, as if that'll fix anything."

Grian doesn't say anything, staring at him with a guilty expression that makes him want to scream. Of course. Of course he's sorry now. This happens every time. He leaves Scar as a wreck, destroyed, and then he turns around and apologises, as if it means nothing, as if Scar means nothing—

"It's too late."

"Scar, I—"

"Save it."

Shaking his head, he starts to walk away. Grian can choke on his apologies for all he cares.

"No, Scar—wait."

Something about the urgency in Grian's tone makes him halt.

Slowly, he turns around—and Grian falls to his knees and bares his neck.

"You can kill me. For everything I did to you, you may kill me however many times you want. As many as it takes to make you feel better."

Suddenly, Scar is looking down at cruel imitation of a long forgotten past. 

Slowly, he approaches Grian, sword materialising in his hand as he goes, and feels a desperate kind of rage bubbling up in his throat. For the first time in forever, Grian is looking at him, he's looking at him, they're in a pond and Grian is looking at him, and the metal is cold against his skin and he's begging Grian to kill him, needs to be killed, can't bear to hurt him, would rather die than hurt him—

Scar puts the sword away.

"I don't need you to die for me, Grian."

A singular tear rolls down his cheek.

"I just need you to leave me the fuck alone."

#gtws #gtwscar #goodtimeswithscar #grian #desert duo #limited life #limited life spoilers #kinda #i mean did you think grian wouldn't end up hurting scar somehow #limited life smp #traffic smp #third life #third life smp #because there's references yay #3rd life #3rd life smp #3lsmp #gtws angst #worddisaster #trafficfic

[chemdisaster]

@whumpthemusical prompt 30 - jekyll & hyde - "if i die, you'll die."

in which boat boys turn red in double life and joel is worried about it

never thought i'd come to this

"If I die, you'll die." A pause. "I mean, that's...kind of happened already." Shaking his head, Joel grabs him by the front of his jacket and stares into his eyes, silently begging him to understand, "Etho. If I die, you'll die."

#whump: the musical #worddisaster #joel smallishbeans #smallishbeans #trafficblr #life series #smallishbeans angst #double life #dlsmp #etho #ethoslab #boat boys #smalletho #trafficfic