#But that grief caught me eventually. And it was ugly and raw. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

morganaspendragonss · 2 years

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sometimes grief is an open wound - it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds

this is completely unedited and written in an exhausted, grief-filled haze because the ending of this episode triggered me to hell and back and it won't let me go until i do something.

tk's thoughts were mine. they're written as they were, which means they are raw and ugly and brutal. maybe i shouldn't post this one, but i need to send it somewhere, else it'll fester, and i don't want to let that happen again.

be careful, guys. putting most of this below a cut so you can easily avoid it

tltle from gauze, please by @rosesau

ao3 | 658 words | 3.07, severe depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts, hurt no comfort

He bounces between grief counsellors and therapists in the first few months. At one point, he’s seeing three at once, and it’s not really by choice, things just… They just happened that way.

They show him graphics about the stages of grief, the grief valley, the grief cycle, whatever they want to call it, and none of it clicks. None of it—None of it is enough to explain this pit inside of him, where feelings used to go but now where nothing lives except pain, pain that tears out all his innards to leave him empty from one moment to the next.

It’s torture, but he keeps on going, because sometimes he gets something out of it.

Or he tries to.

His doctor puts him back on his antidepressants and he takes them without complaint, even when sometimes they feel like they’re doing more harm than good. The side effects leave him nauseous for a week, his already unpredictable sleep schedule fucked up beyond repair, but TK dutifully swallows them down every morning, because this means that he’s trying, right? It means that…

It means something.

It has to.

He isn’t really aware of the exact moment that things start getting worse; all he knows is that he’s in the thick of it now. It feels like he’s been this way forever—even though just a few weeks ago he was able to laugh and play softball and dick around with his friends—and like he will be this way forever—and it’s hard to argue that one.

The days aren’t all the same, of course. Some days, he can pretend to be normal for a few hours—he can go for walks and force down food and even hold a conversation or two.

But other days, most days, if he’s being honest, are just… They’re just.

His stomach rebels after taking more than a bite of anything, no matter how small. His limbs are heavy, tying him down to the bed, or the couch, or even to the concrete floor if he’s unlucky enough to be caught standing. His lungs seem opposed to the effort of drawing in breath, and TK idly wonders if one day they might just stop. If, one day, his whole body will just stop, too tired to keep going, and he’ll finally drift away from existence like he dreams of so much these days.

And then there are the days which are like most days, but even heavier.

On those days, he stares at the many windows in the loft and fantasises about falling out of one. He imagines himself lying broken on the asphalt down below, and wonders if death could even feel any more numb than this.

He watches the ceiling, and pictures stringing a rope up and letting himself hang, his body swinging and swinging as gravity pulls him down. One day, he finds himself lost in the vision, and he can almost feel the noose digging into his throat, cutting off his air, and he can hear as Carlos comes in, but it’s too late, too late, too late…

But it’s not real.

He comes out of it, eventually, and discovers that he’s still in the same position he was in hours before. But he remembers the daydream perfectly, and he’s strangely unconcerned by it.

Eventually, these wonderings bring him back to old habits. Not drugs, though they would be easy, but he can’t let his mom down in this. Not after all she did to help him, all he’d never be able to repay her for even if she weren’t dead.

But other things.

A razor’s edge and burning metal and scars and bruises and pain, and for the first time in months, TK feels something.

It’s temporary, it always is.

But it’s something, which is better than the nothing that consumes him every single day.

So he’ll bleed and he’ll bruise and he’ll scar.

Because it’s something.

Because it’s anything.

#911 lone star #911 lone star fic #lone star spoilers #tk strand #tw depression #tw suicidal thoughts #tw self harm #fanfiction #my fanfiction #writing #my writing

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one-boring-person · 4 years

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You Can Be My Wingman.

Pete "Maverick" Mitchell x reader

Warnings: blood imagery, character death

Context: (Y/n) is the only female pilot at Top Gun at the time the film takes place, and she makes a formidable pilot, but one wrong flight puts her in a devastating situation.

A/N: So I realised the only Top Gun stuff I have written is this long ass 27-part story, so i thought I may as well post it. If this does well, I'll post the entire thing, but if not, I'll only post the parts that relate to the film itself. I hope all the Top Gun fans on here enjoy this!😊😊💛

Masterlist

Bright, blindingly bright, light floods my vision as my eyes crack open, my eyelids sore and aching from misuse. Groaning, I squeeze them shut again in response, my senses coming back to me as I begin to register the overwhelming pain surrounding my body, specifically my shoulder and lower back. Worried, I finally open my eyes and try to sit up, forcing myself to exert my muscles and get into a sitting position, wincing and almost crying out as a bolt of agony shoots through my back.

Before I check out the source of the pain, I look at my surroundings, surprised to see myself lying in my full flight gear in the middle of a deserted and dry valley, a collapsed parachute lying around me like a pool of fabric, the chords stuck and tangled in a nearby tree, a few broken branches scattered around my body. Everything clicks when I notice my helmet still clasped around my head, oddly being something I didn't recognise immediately; the surprise, the horror and the raw fear I felt as I got the reply from the backseat:

"We're going down, Quicksilver!"

After that moment, the events are a blur, but I do remember hearing a voice in my earpiece before we ejected, calling out to me, telling me I'll be ok.

We'd been out on a training mission in the mountains, my wingmen being Maverick and Goose as we chased the instructors around the range before it had all gone wrong. I guess I was trying too hard to show off to Maverick, the naval fighter being a new found friend who I worked hard to impress. I let him down, managing to get caught in the jet wash behind his plane as he shot past. My RIO and I had to eject; speaking of which, where is he?

Swallowing, I snap back to reality with the sharp feeling of a wave of pain coming from my shoulder accompanying it. I sigh and lift my hands to pull off my helmet, wincing at the ache and quick pain as I do so, dropping it to the floor and running a hand through my dirty hair before cocking my head to look at my shoulder. A patch of dried blood encrusts the torn fabric, sticking it to my skin uncomfortably, only coming away when I gingerly pull at it to reveal an open, infected wound marring the skin.

"Crap." I hiss as it stings in the dry breeze, quickly twisting around to check my back. A similar wound is visible under the ripped fabric, the ugly mark vivid and dark against the skin around it.

Setting my jaw, I consider my options.

I can either stay here and wait for help to find me, risking death from lack of food and water, or I can go and find help, braving the pain of walking for hours to find civilization.

Instinctually (and probably stupidly), I decide to go with the latter. Pushing through the agonising pain, I stand, grabbing my helmet and stretching out my taut muscles as I take in the surroundings in more detail.

To my right, a small stream runs through the dry, dusty mountains on either side of me, the clear water gurgling slightly as it flows through it's channel. Across from it, I can see a gap in the valley side, a plume of smoke just visible behind it. Maybe it's worth checking out.

Breathing deeply, I orientate my head, unclipping my parachute and taking a step, stopping abruptly when I stagger suddenly, my vision spinning dangerously. Allowing it to adjust, I hesitantly start forwards, gritting my teeth against the sharp sting from my wounds, moving step by step towards the smoke.

The going is slow, but I eventually make it to the gap in the valley, shuffling through it as carefully as possible. What I see on the other side is unsurprising, but shocking.

There, like the skeletal remains of a great bird, is the carcass of the jet I was flying, the metal debris charred and blackened by flames, the pieces scattered around it almost jauntily. A little to the left is another coloured parachute, the bright fabric covering a human-shaped object: my RIO.

Hurrying as much as I can, I stumble over to it, pulling on the parachute until it falls away from him, revealing the mangled body of Matthew "Arrow" Fletcher, my best friend. Blood covers his face and body, his features disfigured and marred under his cracked helmet. Going to him, I roll his limp body onto his side, pushing my fingers against his wrist, sorrow and fear welling up in me as my breathing increases.

Nothing.

No pulse at all.

Falling back on my ankles, I drop my head to my chest, my hair falling over my eyes as I sob, tears falling down my face as the severity of the situation hits me.

Matthew is dead.

My best friend of 19 years, gone forever. I lift my hands and cup my face, crying into their dirty surfaces with abandon, my heart almost breaking in grief.

For what feels like hours, I sit there, tears pouring down my grimy face until I harden my resolve and look up.

Leaning over his body, I reach into his shirt and pull off his dog tags, clutching them in my shaking hand before standing and looking down at him again. Silently, I salute him, giving him one last mark of respect as I turn and leave, walking off towards the entrance of the valley, not knowing where it takes me but going with it anyway.

I'll find my way home, even if it kills me.

Part Two

#top gun: maverick #top gun gifs #top gun #maverick #Tom cruise #Pete Mitchell #goose #call signs

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bombshellsandbluebells · 4 years

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Deadheading (The 100 WIP)

Have an unfinished Murphy & Monty centric fic following the season 5 finale that I can’t figure out how to finish but don’t want it to go to waste. Partially inspired by @boomheda‘s post about Murphy choosing to live because Monty gave his life for him, but honestly it never even really got to that part.

Deadheading

Deadheading (v.) the act of cutting spent flowers off a plant, encouraging the plant to bloom again and extending the bloom period

When Murphy wakes up, Bellamy tells him that Monty and Harper are dead.

“No,” he says, angry and sore and aching from more places than just the holes in his shoulder. “No, I just saw them. They made it on the ship.” It feels like it’s been five minutes. Bellamy says it’s been decades.

“No,” Murphy says.

“Fuck you,” Murphy says, because anger is always the easiest emotion and he’s worn it so long and so often it fits like a second skin.

Bellamy shows them a video.

He shows them a kid that looks so much like Monty Murphy squeezes his eyes shut to avoid looking at him, who has the same quirk to his lips that Harper did when she smiled. His eyes light up when he sees Murphy, excited in a way Murphy doesn’t know how to accept, and he wants to cry so he punches the wall instead. He doesn’t even flinch when he feels his bones break, just pushes past Emori and Echo and Bellamy and Raven when they reach for him in turns and past the kid that fills the space where the other two should be, looking so much like the perfect mix of them, a sad, cheap replacement with a hand-me-down name.

The others want to hold a memorial. It’s only right, they say. It’s what they deserve, they say. What else can we do, they say.

Murphy curls tighter in his anger, tending the flames until they’re hot enough to burn the grief away. He holds it around himself like a shield when he tells them he won’t come, that if Harper and Monty wanted to kill themselves so badly he wasn’t going to waste time feeling sorry for them, and he can see it hurts but he doesn’t care. If Harper and Monty wanted out, then good riddance. The people they left behind didn’t need them, and they didn’t need to stand around speaking kind words and sad stories into the spaces they left behind.

So when the others have their memorial, Murphy hides in a deserted hallway of an alien ship, feeling the buzz of machinery under his skin and the fluorescent light on his face. He’s gained two bullet holes and lost two people and maybe that’s an even trade because it’s like nothing’s fucking changed since he was on the Ring two weeks ago, feeding on anger like it was algae and the only thing still keeping him running.

Maybe Monty should have left him behind after all. Surely burning alive is better than rotting away from within, scooped out and hallowed into nothing but an empty shell.

Maybe if Monty left him behind he’d still be here. Maybe that’s the even trade, then – a life for a life, and the universe or Monty or just dumb, shitty luck choose Murphy, and the truth of the matter is an ugly thing lurking in his thoughts: it was the wrong choice.

He haunts hallways.

He yells at Emori when she tries to follow, chipping away at the peace they’d started to build with every angry word, knowing somewhere deep inside of him that doing so hurts so badly he can hardly stand it, but doing so anyways. Maybe he’s the one scraping his insides raw, hollowing himself, and maybe if he doesn’t stop there will be nothing but anger left. And maybe he can live with that.

The anger numbs everything else.

Emori leaves with tear stains on her face and doesn’t come back. Neither do the others. Murphy feels so alone his very bones ache with it. He hates Monty and Harper for it; he hates them with a ferocity he can barely contain.

He wants to keep hating them forever so he never misses them.

There’s an algae farm on the ship.

It should be less of a surprise than it is because Monty was nothing if not an expert in algae and while they hadn’t needed food in cryosleep, the ones who stayed awake certainly had. Still, when he stumbles upon it one day, it steals his breath away.

He stops walking and stays where he stopped for a very long time. Eventually, he wades between the glowing tanks and finds a place on the far wall to sit down. Strange, ethereal reflections dance across the floor as the algae drifts gently in the water. The lighting is dim, and the whole place has a soft, green, and almost peaceful, glow.

He sits there for hours watching the algae sway.

His feet carry him back the next day, though if asked he wouldn’t be able to say why. He hates algae. He hates the way it tastes. He hates the slimy texture. He hates that there is nothing you can do to make it taste any differently than the last hundred times you’ve eaten it, and he hates that it makes him think about the Ark.

And yet, he returns.

He wouldn’t say that it makes him feel any better; it doesn’t. The hollow, rubbed-raw feeling still sits in his chest where his lungs should be.

Maybe duller is the word for it, everything inside him just a little less sharp, muted by the soft green glow and the gentle lights.

It’s a kinder ghost than Jordan was, at least.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” the kid says when he enters the algae farm and sees Murphy sitting there. He’s a mess of awkwardness, hovering at the entrance, averting his eyes like he’s caught Murphy doing something he shouldn’t.

The kid hasn’t approached him since Murphy threw a shoe at him, nearly taking his head off with the force of it.

He can’t quite muster up the anger this time, even if the kid’s face does make him want to drive his fist into it until it rearranges itself into something different. The effort required to do so just isn’t there, though; somehow the algae farm has dulled that too.

Murphy closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the wall. He could almost sleep here just like this, the soft, green light of the farm flickering behind his eyelids. “I can leave,” he offers, voice hoarse from days of disuse.

“No, that’s ok,” comes the answer. “I’m just going to check the algae really quickly.”

Murphy can still remember Monty’s words from the video, when he’d told them they’d raised Jordan on stories of their family and Murphy was his favorite. He doesn’t think he’s ever been anyone’s favorite before; it’s a title he’s unsure how to wear, and it feels uncomfortable and itchy and tight.

Murphy opens his eyes. In the dim light, he can see Jordan moving confidentially from tank to tank, studying each one with a careful eye. He looks so much like his father that Murphy feels like he’s been struck, and the words are out before he even realizes he’s opened his mouth. “Your dad teach you how to do this?”

Jordan startles. He eyes Murphy like a skittish animal prepared to flee at the first sign of trouble. The shoe must have done a great job of changing his opinion of him.

“Yeah. Mom always helped too, but Dad was the best with plants. Mom said that’s why his name was Green.” A grin teases at his lips.

Murphy snorts. He directs his gaze to the algae because looking at Jordan too long makes his eyes burn. “Him and this fucking algae.” He doesn’t mean to say more, but his mouth carries on without him. “He had this stupid apron that said ‘make algae –“

“Not war,” Jordan finishes for him, then tenses as if expecting another shoe. “Sorry, just, he said that a lot.”

Murphy rolls his eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Yeah, I guess it’s cheesy,” Jordan admits in a fragile voice. “But that was Dad.”

He looks too much like both of them right then, Monty in the shape of his face, Harper in the curl of his smile, and the space behind Murphy’s ribs aches dull and hollow. It’s not a quick pain like the bullets had been; it’s slow and creeping and clawing like hunger is.

Murphy flees.

Maybe Monty was right; maybe he is a coward.

----

It’s been over a year in space, nearly a month longer than the entire time he’d spent on Earth. Already, his skin has forgotten the heat of the sun beating against it, his lungs the cool touch of fresh air. His muscles are growing weaker, his body whittling away with lack of nutrients. With each passing day, the Ring feels less and less like salvation and more like a coffin.

The algae taunts him, both a perfect phantom of his childhood and a pale imitation of Earth. He wants to rip it out at its roots, shred it until there’s nothing left. But he doesn’t. He won’t. He still fears death more than memories.

“I like plants,” Monty says once when it’s only the two of them in the algae farm. “But I really hate algae.”

“What’s the difference?” Murphy asks, more to fill the silence than out of true curiosity.

“There were different plants in Farm Station than just algae. I miss having a variety. And on Earth –“ Monty stops. His voice is awash with wistfulness. When Murphy glances up at him, it’s in his eyes too. “There were so many plants on Earth. It was amazing. So many I’d never seen before. I helped with the gardens in Arkadia, and we planted so many different kinds. I wish we could have brought more with us.”

Murphy shrugs, at a loss for what to say. “It’s not like it would have helped all that much. So we’d only eat algae every few days then instead of every meal, so what. We’d still all miss eating meat.” Earth had spoiled them for space, he thinks, even those of them that grew up here.

“I guess. It would have been nice to have more plants to tend, though. I think it would have just helped give me more to do.”

“It’s not fun.”

“Algae isn’t. Gardens are different though. You start with a patch of rough dirt and then over time you actually have something impressive. I like the work. And it’s,” Monty pauses, eyes caught on the algae. “It’s rewarding. It made me feel important, I guess. I was helping something grow. The garden wouldn’t have existed without me.”

Murphy doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing.

Monty brushes off the memory and straightens. “Nevermind. I think space is just getting to me.”

He never mentions gardening again, never voices that gnawing need that Murphy knows so well. Not even years later when he calls Murphy useless and strikes at something in his very core, shoving his fingers into Murphy’s chest like he did with the dirt of his garden and shoving that word in, over and over again, like it wasn’t there already, a vital part of him that’s rooted so deeply he’ll never be able to fully rip it out.

Murphy doesn’t know why, years later, he still hasn’t forgotten that conversation, but he thinks maybe it’s because it’s the only time he’d looked at Monty and seen something familiar. Maybe rescuing Murphy in the end had been like tending a garden, something to prove his worth to the world.

Or maybe, he considers, Monty just is and always has been a better person than him.

---

And that’s it. I’ve been trying to add more to this fic for ages and just nothing has really worked out, but I really love what I’d written so far. There’s so much more to explore with Murphy and Monty’s relationship and I’m still so disappointed the show hardly ever touched on it.

And I’m still upset it never touched on Murphy’s grief over losing Monty - and Harper of course! But I think they built up an interesting and significant enough relationship with Murphy and Monty onscreen that it was a shame we never saw how he dealt with that loss.

#john murphy #monty green #jordan green #the 100 #spacekru #the 100 fic #space squad #my stories

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splendidlyimperfect · 4 years

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Sting and Rogue barely escape Sabertooth with their lives, and Sting turns to the only place he can think of to help - Fairy Tail. While they try to sort out their feelings and recover from the abuse Jiemma inflicted on them, Sting and Rogue must help the other guilds protect Fiore from their biggest threat yet - dragons.

Chapter Summary: Sting fights Rogue's future self, and is conflicted between forgiveness and vengeance.

Chapters (9/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Laxus Dreyar/Freed Justine Characters: Rogue Cheney, Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel, Gray Fullbuster, Erza Scarlet, Lucy Heartfilia, Wendy Marvell, Porlyusica (Fairy Tail), Makarov Dreyar, Laxus Dreyar, Freed Justine, Future Rogue Cheney, Jiemma (Fairy Tail), Gajeel Redfox Additional Tags: Dai Matou Enbu | Grand Magic Games Arc, Abuse, Physical Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Serious Injuries, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Platonic Cuddling, Sign Language, Magic Fusion, Unison Raids, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Friendship, Tumblr: FTLGBTales Series: Part 3 of what we choose to become

**Thank you for all your lovely comments! I know this is *super* angsty but there's a reason that "Major Character Death" isn't tagged and I promise that, however bleak it all looks right now, it has a happy ending. <3

-----

“You all need to be touching.”

Freed’s voice broke the haze of confusion and grief as Sting watched Natsu step away from Gray’s body. He refused to look at Sting and Rogue, instead moving to stand next to Wendy. When she reached out to him uncertainly, he jerked away, wrapping both arms around himself and staring at the ground.

“The spell will transfer a portion of everyone’s power to one of you,” Freed explained again for Natsu’s benefit, quickly drawing a rune in the air over Laxus’ chest. It glowed brightly for a moment before sinking into his skin. “After it’s over, whoever is chosen needs to get up there and try to…”

His voice trailed off and Sting felt Rogue squeeze his hand tightly.

“You have to destroy the gate.” Natsu’s voice was dull as he stared at the ground, nails digging into the palms of his hands. “It’s the only way to end it.”

Sting’s heart ached and he wanted so badly to reach out again, to push past Natsu’s pain and pull him close and tell him I’m sorry, I wish I could change things, if I could trade places with him I would.

Continue reading on AO3

“How?” Laxus’ voice interrupted Sting’s racing thoughts.

“The dragon,” Natsu said softly. He didn’t move as Freed stepped in front of him and started to draw the same rune in the air. “It’s big enough—if it falls on…”

He exhaled, as if those few words were all he had and anything else would cost him too much.

“Everyone ready?”

Sting pulled his gaze away from Natsu to see that the runes were complete, and each of the dragon slayers were glowing with a faint echo of their magic. Rogue’s fingers tightened around Sting’s and he jumped when he felt something brush against the back of his other hand – Gajeel.

Natsu kept his arms at his sides, gaze still vacant, but he didn’t pull away when Wendy and Laxus both rested their hands on his shoulders.

As soon as the circle was complete, a searing pain shot through Sting, tearing at his magic and bringing him to his knees. It burned – worse than the blistered skin on his forearms from Natsu’s flames, or the raw, red marks on his back from the dragon’s breath. A horrible, aching sound filled the air, and it took Sting a second to realize that it was him screaming.

It was all of them screaming.

The sound wrenched itself from Sting’s throat as he dropped to his knees, chest burning, hands gripping Gajeel and Rogue’s so tightly he could feel the ache in his bones. Each breath seared his lungs, ripped ragged breaths from him, dragged him further and further down into pain until—

It’s just pain. You know what to do.

Sting shook his head, gasping around the sensation that wound like fingers around his neck to choke him. I can’t, he thought, forcing himself to open his eyes. They need me. I have to make things right.

Wind whipped around the fountain, carrying pieces of debris through the air that tore at his skin and stung his eyes. Through the maelstrom of rubble, bits of magic sparked and leapt between them – bright colors and sparks and flames that merged into a center of prismatic light.

Leave. It’s just pain.

Then Natsu’s eyes met Sting’s across the circle, dark and so full of pain and regret, and Sting pushed the words away. I’m staying, he thought. I have to, even if it kills me.

The pain stopped.

Sting groaned, spitting out the blood that had pooled in his mouth from biting his tongue. The frantic screaming and whipping wind died away, and all that they were left with were quiet gasps and the sound of the war raging on in the background.

“Did it work?” Sting managed, letting go of Gajeel and Rogue’s hands and wiping at his face. He shook his head, blinking to clear his vision, and eventually realized that everyone was staring at him. “What?”

“It’s you,” Rogue said softly. Sting frowned, looking down at his hands. He was glowing, but instead of the usual holy white light, it was iridescent – sparking, constantly shifting and changing as he drew magic from the others.

“Whoa.” Sting stumbled back as another wave of magic hit him full force like a blow to the chest, and Rogue reached out to steady him.

“Are you okay?” Rogue’s brows furrowed in concern, but Sting nodded, taking a deep breath and getting his balance. His eyes widened as he watched the magic tear through the air, different colors siphoning from the other dragon slayer’s chests and merging into something deadly and beautiful before they crept under Sting’s skin.

He closed his eyes, tracing the lines of magic, separating them thread from thread until he could pick out whose was which. Rogue’s magic, already as familiar as Sting’s own, was easy to recognize, and it calmed the nervous thrumming of Sting’s heart as he made room for everyone else’s power.

Iron crept up his throat, sharp and bitter, while lightning raced across his skin like touching a live wire. The hair at the back of his neck ruffled in a quiet puff of wind, and something like poison burned, deep in his chest. Fire, fierce and hot, coursed through his veins until Sting was sure he would burn from the inside out, but it was suddenly tempered by—

Sting opened his eyes again, staring down at his hands. In between the other colors ran a thin, blue line that cooled everywhere the fire burned.

Sting looked across the circle at Natsu, who was still staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Before Rogue could hold him back, Sting moved across the circle and grabbed Natsu’s shoulders, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

Natsu stiffened against him and Sting squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was going to have some new burn marks on his chest to match the ones on his arms, but the attack he was expecting never came. Instead, Natsu sagged against him, letting out an exhausted sob as they both sank to their knees.

“I’m sorry,” Sting whispered as Natsu gripped his shirt tightly with trembling hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“I h-hurt you… I’m…” Natsu’s words were thick with tears, choked out around the grief that surrounded them both.

“It’s okay,” Sting said, shaking his head and hugging Natsu tighter. “I can’t imagine… I’m so sorry. I wish I could change it.” Natsu shuddered, pressing his forehead to Sting’s shoulder and trying to breathe. They sat for a minute with their grief, and eventually Rogue joined them, running his hand up and down Natsu’s back as he cried.

“We don’t have much time,” Freed said gently. Sting looked up to see another man approaching the group – he looked vaguely familiar, with deep scars through one side of his face. “Mest can get you up there, and then…”

“Okay,” Sting managed. He turned back to Natsu and shifted until they were gripping each other’s forearms. “I have to…”

“Go,” Natsu said roughly, nodding and finally looking up at him and Rogue. “I know.” He exhaled shakily, glancing over at Lyon and then back to Sting. The look he gave Sting tore him apart. “For Gray?” Natsu whispered.

“For Gray,” Sting promised, squeezing Natsu’s arms gently. “I promise.”

Being teleported was so disorienting that Sting nearly fell off the dragon as soon as Mest dropped them off. Rogue, who had insisted on coming with him, caught his wrist before he could lose his footing completely. They both scrambled to the middle of the dragon’s back as it rumbled and shuddered beneath them. Wind rushed past them fast enough to draw tears from Sting’s eyes and he rubbed at his face before turning to Rogue and pulling him in for a quick kiss.

“Are you gonna be okay?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the howling wind. Rogue nodded, squeezing Sting’s hand tightly. Sting pressed their foreheads together, taking a deep breath to ground himself, then turned toward the dragon’s head.

“C’mon,” he said, tugging on Rogue’s hand. “Stay behind me.”

They made their way over the jagged scales of the dragon’s back – it seemed oblivious to their presence, making no effort to shake them off. As they moved past its wings, the figure near the dragon’s head became clearer, and when it finally turned around, Sting’s heart sank.

It was Rogue, and it wasn’t.

“Who the hell are you?” Future Rogue snarled. Sting stared, chest tightening at the sight – Future Rogue was both darkness and light, split down the center with a strange tattoo running down one side of his face. Sting could feel his own magic there, mixed with an ugly echo of Rogue’s shadows, and the smell of it made him sick.

“It doesn’t matter,” Future Rogue shouted over the wind. “You can’t stop me. Even Natsu couldn’t touch me.” Thin beams of light and shadows curled between his fingers and he thrust his hand forward, palm toward them. When Sting easily deflected the attack, Future Rogue’s expression darkened.

“I’m not Natsu,” Sting said softly, exhaling as some of the magic was absorbed into his own. It sent an exhilarating rush through him, sparking under his fingertips as the other dragon slayer’s magic rose to meet it.

“How could you possibly—” Future Rogue stopped, eyes widening when Sting stepped closer. “Sting?” Something in his expression slipped, and for a second, he wasn’t a villain, just the scared boy Sting had always protected with his life.

“Yeah. It’s me,” Sting said, holding up both hands in surrender.

“I killed you,” Future Rogue said softly. Something dark flashed behind his eyes and he said it again, voice rough and jagged. “We killed you. We have your power now.”

Future Rogue’s hands lit up again – one with shadow, one with holy light – and he charged toward Sting, face twisted into a feral snarl. Both his blows bounced off the magic swirling around Sting, and Future Rogue staggered backward, hissing in anger.

“Stop,” Sting said desperately, looking back to see his own Rogue’s horrified expression as he watched his future self attempt to attack Sting again. Sting shook his head, pushing back against Future Rogue’s assault with a mix of heady magic that was both all his own and entirely something else.

“I can’t stop,” Future Rogue growled. “It’s already happened.”

“Why?” Sting asked, voice breaking. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do!” Future Rogue threw himself forward again, this time breaking through and catching Sting across the forearm with a blast of shadow magic. “I have to be strong.”

The pain of Future Rogue’s attack was nothing compared to the grief that tore Sting apart at those words. “No,” he insisted, pushing forward and shaking his head. “You don’t—this isn’t strength.”

“It’s what he taught us,” Future Rogue hissed. “Only the strong survive, and the weak get beaten into the dirt. We’re not weak.”

“Being kind isn’t weakness,” Sting insisted, dodging another attack. “He was wrong, and he’s gone now. We found somewhere new, somewhere safe.”

Future Rogue’s face was a mix of fury and despair as he charged at Sting again, screaming in frustration when the attack did nothing. “We could never be safe,” he snarled. “There was no escape, just pain, and I had to be strong, and…” He trailed off, and for a second time, Sting thought he caught a glimpse of his Rogue behind the angry set of Future Rogue’s jaw.

“Strong enough to stop her?”

Rogue’s quiet voice came from behind Sting, and when he stepped forward, Future Rogue’s froze. “Shut up,” he whispered, low and dangerous. Sting’s heart broke at his furious, terrified expression – the same look Sting had seen on Rogue’s face whenever he’d come back to the room and been too late to stop Lilith.

“We got out,” Rogue said gently, taking another step forward. “She can’t hurt us anymore. We have people who love us.”

“There was no love for me,” Future Rogue said, but his voice was weak and uncertain. “I had to… I couldn’t…”

“It’s okay to be afraid,” Sting said, taking another step forward. They were close enough to Future Rogue now that Sting could reach out and grab his arm, could pull him close like he had with Natsu and try to fix this.

But Natsu’s words echoed in his head. For Gray. Gray was dead because of Future Rogue, and Natsu was broken, and Sting had promised.

“It’s okay to not be the strongest,” Rogue said softly. He took another step closer to his future self, and the magic around Sting thrummed uncertainly. “This isn’t what you have to become.”

The expression on Future Rogue’s face shifted rapidly, and Sting caught a million different emotions – fear, confusion, anger, embarrassment. All the things Sting had felt when he’d fallen on his knees in front of Natsu and begged him to help save Rogue’s life. Future Rogue wasn’t just Rogue, he was Sting, too – all the broken pieces of them that hadn’t had anything to pull them together.

Fuck. Sting’s chest ached, torn between compassion and retribution. He looked over the side of the dragon and cursed when he realized they were getting dangerously close to the gate. If they were going to do this, it had to happen soon.

“Please,” he said, taking the chance and reaching out to grab Future Rogue’s wrist. “You can be more than this.”

A heavy, tense silence hung between them and for a second, hope flickered in Sting’s chest. Then Future Rogue snarled, shoving Sting back as a blast of energy swirled around him, a dangerous mix of dark and light.

“No, I can’t,” Future Rogue said as the eerie light cut harsh shadows across his face. “I have to destroy it all.”

Sting sighed, looking at Future Rogue sadly, then shook his head. “I can’t let you do that,” he said softly.

Before Future Rogue could respond, Sting pulled all the magic into him, narrowing each sharp burst of power until it fit in the palm of his hand. It coursed through his body, sharp and terrifying and the right kind of strong.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then opened his hands and released the magic.

The force of the blast pushed him backward toward Rogue, who grabbed his shoulder and held him steady against the backlash of wind that whipped around them. A torrent of multicolored light rushed from his fingertips, tearing everything from him as it raced toward Future Rogue and exploded in a flash of brilliant, blinding light.

A piercing roar tore through the air and Sting quickly clapped his hands over his ears, wincing at the way the noise scraped through his mind. The dragon below them began to shift wildly, head thrashing back and forth as its connection with Future Rogue was presumably shattered.

Sting stumbled forward again, gritting his teeth and focusing all the dragon slayer’s magic into his hands again. It burned, now – too much power to fit into his body – and he let out a pained shout as he dropped down and slammed his fist into the dragon’s back.

“Sting!” Rogue’s hand pulled him back up, and Sting’s eyes flew open, looking over the edge of the dragon at the rapidly approaching ground. They were close to the gate, and a flicker of hope filled Sting’s chest. This was going to work. The crowd that was gathered in the square were shouting at each other, gesturing up at the sky and quickly clearing the area.

Sting shuddered as the magic that had been surrounding him was suddenly ripped from his body, tearing away and spiraling up into the air before streaming back down to the ground, presumably to the other dragon slayers. The sensation left Sting breathless and he gasped, clutching Rogue’s shirt tightly as he struggled to stay standing.

Rogue pulled him close, burying his face into Sting’s shoulder as the ground raced toward them. “Are you ready?”

Sting nodded. “I love you,” he whispered, pulling Rogue in for a desperate kiss before his stomach lurched and he was yanked into the familiar chill of the shadows.

#fairy tail #ftlgbtales #ftlgbtfics #stingue #gratsu #sting eucliffe #rogue cheney #gray fullbuster #natsu dragneel #angst #fanfic #update #new chapter #my fic

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yeoldontknow · 6 years

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It Was The Night: 5

Author’s Note: WE FINALLY MET CHANYEOL!! lmao thank you all for coming on this little journey with me. im so sad it’s coming to a close *wails* enjoy!! Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Genre: historical au; drama; suspense; romance Rating: PG Word Count: 2,487

These days, I view our first meeting as little more than a game or an act of pretense, something a child or lonely woman, desperate to be loved, might imagine during their empty and sleepless nights. So distant was he from me that I assumed it all a dream or a trick, spent my evenings imagining perhaps one of the other children had put on a rouse to fill me with hope or, more likely, to embarrass me in the harsh light of day.

Shrouded in darkness, he cleaved desperately to his secret, though I suppose it served the purpose he intended. All his mystery and carefully chosen words fanning the flames of my blood. Brilliant, as always, and tearing straight through to the heart of me, as though he had known me all along. Looking back, I suppose he did.

From that moment, I became plagued by Aeon Smith, by his person and the idea of him. As the days passed, I felt tormented, perpetually ruminating over his existence and the truth of his name. Rather, not a name but a title, similar to that of a soldier. To me, he continued to remain nameless, paradoxically identifiable without an identity, and this only served to bewilder me beyond the comprehension of my imagination.

I am the son.

Infuriating, to know the what of a man before knowing the who. Or rather, no, I find this declaration unfair. In music and in letters, he had done nothing but reveal himself to me - always, he was baring his soul to me, presenting himself as though he were naked, skinned down to the bone to display all his ugliest parts.

Every dissonant chord penned by his quill was an exposure of a flaw, one of his flaws, and I was moved into loving and appreciating them with all of myself. Every major chord was a virtue, and therefore it was easy to adore those pieces, easy to love and understand them, to want them all over me as a slight fall of rain, but it was his dissonance, the anger and wrath of his heart and mind that became the subtle clues I mulled over for weeks on end.

From that night forward, we met weekly, always in the chapel and always under the cover of night. It was not long before the skin of my bare feet became immune to the ice and the cold of the floor, no longer quivering in the chill; not long before I hardly needed a candle to guide my way, eventually only taking it to add a sliver more light to the room in the hopes of seeing his face.

Rarely did he allow himself to lean into it.

My favourite nights were filled with moonlight, nights when the sky was clear of clouds and the moon, unwavering her adoration of his features, made it difficult for him to hide from me. One night delivered me the perfect curvature of his upper lip, pink and swollen, unkissed yet desperate to be so; another, the peak of his ear, glorious and glowing, the redness of the blood beneath his skin flickering in time with light of my candle’s flame.

The night that lingers most in my memory, perfect and immortal, tangible as though it happened not twelve hours previous, was the night he finally got close, close enough for me to see the sleek line of his nose, its mole, its angle, the way in scrunched impishly in disagreement. This moment, this simple gift from the universe, the slant of light along the slope of his nose, said so much more about him than words ever could, I thought.

Most nights, he sat at the organ and I in a pew, eyes scanning the room for signs of him or stray letters, focused yet searching like a child during prayer. Our conversations moved as though they were part of a maze, topics winding through and between music, art, history, sometimes even love. Love, though our words never formed the sentiments of romance, never brought shape to confessions of feelings kept locked tightly away inside our hearts, rather simply breathed life into our affections for philosophy, for music, and even God.

It was our tenth meeting when I arrived in low spirits, feeling tired and feeling somewhat lost, capsizing, perhaps, in a sea of performance exhaustion and unrequited love. With a single wax seal it had become clear to me who he was, the son of our illustrious House owner Monsieur Park, but the colourful details of his existence eluded me. Where one answer was found, more questions seemed to arise, coated with sadness and tragedy. As an heir to a fortune, surely his family would celebrate his existence, and yet, it seemed I was to be the only one who could bear his secret, joining him in fielding its burdensome weight.

As I approached the chapel, I could feel the thickness of the atmosphere, and stifled a cough as I felt my lungs become tight with expectation. There was an air of change and divergence saturating the stones the Opera House, the performance of Aintogona now well established in its run and feeling more like routine rather than a moment of excitement, all of us suddenly eager for new roles, new experiences, new lives to wear upon our flesh. My hands were shaking, taught and strung like the strings of a violin, cracked raw, when I pushed open the chapel doors, letting my fingers graze along the ornate patterns carved into the wood.

Hesitant, trembling, and always aching for him.

That night, he was playing a hymn, slow and filled with mourning, the wail of a broken heart carried within the notes of the bass clef. My angel caressed the nature of grief much the same as he stroked the keys, heavy with a familiar sort of longing that made me close my eyes. For a moment, we remained this way, he playing for me as though he were yearning for my presence and I swaying as though adrift at sea, basking in a reverence that bored its way down into my soul.

‘You’re late.’

There was no error or falter in his fingers as he spoke, his voice moving amongst the notes as though creating a staccato melody. At the sound, I opened my eyes, greedy and wishing to be greeted by the sight of him, but was met only with the elegant line of his shoulder in the moonlight as he moved in time with the music.

Contentious and indignant at his complaint, I dropped my hands to my hips and released a heavy sigh. Looking back, I think I was mostly upset to interrupt the hymn, my voice somehow too ugly to penetrate the din. ‘It could not have been more than a few minutes.’

‘Yes, but I am eager.’ At this, he stopped playing, as though his honesty was a confession meant only for the ears of God. He curled in on himself then, looking more like a lost boy than a man of imposing greatness, and my heart broke for him.

Hope like gold moved about my blood, my tongue licking at the word to fixate on its meaning and implication. But still, I could not see him, not truly, and therefore I could not read his motive.

‘Eager?’ I repeated, somewhat breathless.

‘I am always eager in the anticipation of you,’ he conceded, and it was then that he turned from the organ. The light splayed across the smooth line of his neck and I felt my heart begin to splinter, the sword of longing tearing through the muscle and turning my breath stale.

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, I looked to my feet, studying my arches and the shape of my toes as I spoke. ‘You’re teasing,’ I whispered, wholly unsure he would hear me at all.

At this a low rumble resonated in his chest, the sound almost wolfish and youthful. ‘It is not in my nature to tease.’

Cocking an eyebrow, I smirked. ‘On the contrary,’ I said with a small giggle, ‘I find you to be quite playful.’

‘An insult,’ he laughed, rich and deep, the sound of it echoing around the chapel and into my bones. By this sound alone, I found I was warmed.

‘See?’ I said, biting my lip as I shook my head, slowly and rendered in awe. ‘Even there, your laugh is too gentle. It glides into the mouth, like chocolate from Spain.’

The smallness of my voice turned him curious, even worrisome, had him leaning into the light more than he normally would - just enough for me to see the rich brown of his hair. ‘You seem distant from me.’

Once more, I sighed, brow furrowed. ‘Then come closer,’ I whined, fraught with an unrelenting desire to have and keep him close.

‘No,’ he countered gently, ‘in your eyes you are absent, plagued.’

‘I know who you are.’

The words fell from my lips in a rush, impatient for him to hear them, impatient for him to know I had discerned the truth the moment my fingers stroked the sealing wax of his letter. Perhaps this was the air of change I had sensed throughout the Opera House, the winds of knowledge morphing our relationship from something of an amorphous shape, something youthful and fanciful to something now wholly unrecognizable, contorted beneath the weight of honesty, and forcing us to confront what we both dreaded to know was true.

This, however pure and beautiful this existence was, could no longer continue.

At that moment, we were both challenged to hold and fondle the concept of purpose - his purpose to move behind walls and mine to be the only one who could know him. I scowled, then, caught between an unwilling acceptance to let the joy of him go and the need to bring him into the light. Perhaps, I was selfish then, though, in the case of him, I cannot say I ever stopped.

For several moments, silence lingered between us, the sounds of our breaths the only noise that rustled and turned our minds to distractions. Thoughts laid themselves bare behind my eyes, numerous and needy. Did he think me intrusive? Had I been rude? Had I revealed my nature and proved myself unworthy of his presence?

Above me, I heard him shift, leaning over in keen interest and breaking the tension that had started to build. Unmoving, I kept my gaze trained on his black form, eyes trying to prise him from the clutches of darkness.

‘I’d like to hear you say it,’ he said simply, deep voice echoing through the chapel.

With a shaking inhale of breath, I steadied myself and searched within my blood for the lost fragments of my courage. ‘You’re Monsieur Park’s son.’

Simple, I thought, and yet he seemed to make it so unbearably complicated.

Leaning back, his voice came to me as though he were satisfied with my answer. ‘And so you know why I must hide.’

‘The sex of your birth means you have no reason to hide,’ I sighed, suddenly painfully aware of my circumstance and station.

A star I might become, but still the age of my expected marriage and the transformation of my wages to that of a dowry always loomed painfully over my head. At every turn I was reminded of my sex, of the rules and etiquette that came with it. For a moment, I became bitter, saddened that our meetings were all at once tarnished by this implication.

He, a man, a son, desired more than my sex, a regretful daughter, even if he did not want to bear his family’s name.

‘But what of circumstance?’ he questioned with a cock of his head, visible only in the shift of light around his skin.

‘What of it?’ I scoffed. ‘You are an heir to a fortune, an empire. Your family is the heart of the city.’

He matched my tone, sounding almost as though he meant to scold me, though the cadence of his words remained even. ‘Do you think I run from it?’

‘Do you not want it?’ I countered, tone quizzical.

Movement filtered throughout the floorboards of the chapel, his footsteps seeming to carry through the dome of the roof and surrounding me from all sides.

‘Who wouldn’t want this?’ he said, voice suddenly behind me. I turned, then, desperate to catch a glimpse of him. ‘A life such of this?’

Tired of his games, my laugh turned incredulous. ‘You claim to want it yet you scorn it! Why do you turn it away as though it vexes you?’

Behind me once more, towards the front of the chapel, he was close enough that I could hear and feel his breath against my neck. His presence warmed me, a shiver tracing the bones of my spine as I quaked with his nearness. All of my heart and all of my soul wanted to turn, my heart battling against the constricting cage of my chest, but my synapses remained hesitant, wary, unable to break the fantasy of him. I had learned to crave him as a phantasm, and was forced now to witness the reality of him.

The fact that he was indeed flesh and bone and breathing, seemed too much to bear.

‘What became of Adam and Eve when they disobeyed?’ he whispered, soft and seductive, words laced with the strenuous gravity of symbolism.

‘They were cast out,’ I said simply, biting my lip as my eyes fluttered shut.

‘Thus I am a thing born of sin.’

His hands fell to my shoulders, his fingers warm and strong. At once, I reclined into him, into his touch, a sigh falling from my lips as my skin began to feel tight around my body. Wings, I thought, were trying to be born from my back, wings of love and desire, but my corporal form prevented me from taking flight beneath his strong hold.

My voice trembled as I spoke, stripping away all my pretenses of rational thought and revealing me as a weak thing, a lustful thing. ‘Aren’t we all?’

‘But what if my father cannot cast himself out?’ he pressed, pulling me back against him and spaying his arms over my hips and stomach. I was trapped against him. Trapped against him and the true nature of his existence.

‘You’re illegitimate,’ I gasped, incredulous.

Against my neck, I felt him nod, his lips giving shape to the words that clarified all my questions.

‘Illegitimate and unwanted.’

Had he only known then how badly I wanted him, how badly I needed him. With his heart beating as a drum against the tense muscles of my back, I resolved then to ensure he felt wanted and desired and needed. Not just by me, by my weary and heavy heart, but by the world.

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol fanfic #kpoptrashtag #kwriterskollection #noonanet #chanyeol au #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol fanfiction #chanyeol ff #exo au #exo scenario #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #park chanyeol #kpop fanfic

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eternalandrei · 6 years

Text

Fly The Colours // Mafia AU

@crypticcovenmom

Cities for anyone but a city dweller could speak of claustrophobia, grime, neon lights and cement - these things were a fact of life for someone borne and bred among it. The high school teenager navigated the chaotic grid of pavement, traffic lights and cigarette ashes with the conviction of a native, adding to the collage of gum and mud by throwing his finished cigarette butt over his shoulder. Of course, he wasn’t allowed, technically - but what Marlyn didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Plus, he felt he deserved it by being such a good sport and carrying various items back from the supermarket like he’d been asked. He was kind of excited for a night in with microwave meals and popcorn, despite his initial aversion to spending time with an adult. Marlyn was patient - he had a kind smile, he offered debate and didn’t make like he was stupid. Quite the opposite, actually. After some help with his homework his grades had rocketed up and now he was practically in danger of being called a nerd.

Not like things were perfect, but Armand had never known perfect, so this felt damn near close, and he had never felt quite so much at ease. His shoulders no longer held tension when he walked and he didn’t slouch and bring his hood up over his face. He stood tall. He hummed to himself and held a knowing smile over a private joke. His mind were occupied with normal things, like college courses and apprenticeships. None of that shit was anything that appealed to him, though, despite the other’s protestations. He didn’t know.. maybe he was aiming for something else, like a degree. Maybe. For once, it seemed there were options. Choices.

The boy turned a corner, down the small alley that would lead to their block. He turned the key, stepped inside, made his way down the… corridor. He stopped shut when his eyes fell on the door that stood wide open. That was dangerous. Careless, even, in this neighbourhood. Not like him at all. Darkness greeted him at the doorway. Slowly, he flicked on the lights - they flickered, and stilled, and shed light on the kitchen. The feeling in his gut that he had been ignoring up until this moment, the familiar one that accompanied dread, white knuckles and a cold sweat, intensified. There was still a chance to turn and run - to hide somewhere. His therapist had told him to ignore those feelings, though. They were bad memories. They were anxiety. They weren’t real, so he pushed through. He took those couple of steps into the kitchen that revealed a still pool of blood leaking out of a limp body on the floor.

The bags dropped from his fists. It felt like a dream. A hallucination. He couldn’t believe that the events unfolding before his eyes were anything except a nightmare, but the image didn’t shift when he rubbed his eyes, when he slammed his knuckles against them and against the side of his head. The smell lingered, the image if anything more visceral.

The noises that left his mouth were pathetic. Whimpering as he forced himself to approach and drop to his knees in mourning for what had just been shattered in front of his eyes. Dangled cruelly in front of him by the world just out of reach of his grasp. And no matter how he shook the body, as violently as possible, no matter how he pleaded, his potential father’s glassy eyes remained transfixed, unseeing, on the ceiling.

Oh God, it was on him. It was everywhere. Bloody hands, bloody clothes, bloody face. Who could he call? He had no one. Not even the police. They wouldn’t be on his side now, they never had been in the past. Rage clouded every corner of his mind to combat the unmanageable grief and panic that was tearing him apart. Slipping away. Slipping-

“No, Armand, don’t worry. Your books are more important. It’s about time someone stood up to those bullies, anyway. Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

Slipping-

“Stop fucking crying. Shut up. I said shut up, you little shit. Get back in there and stop whining. If I hear any more sounds from you-”

The safe.

Gun loaded with shaking hands, knife held tight in the other. Red raw knuckles. He knew. Everyone knew, and no one had done anything. He didn’t want to be alive. Maybe, someone would stab him in the stomach, or shoot him in the head. He imagined it with fervor - like he imagined inflicting it on someone else.

There was a face he had seen. He imagined the beard, the bald head, and the sneer. There was a man that collected, that came in the night. Once a month. Marlyn should have let him sort it out. He shouldn’t have been so stupid.

Now a sense of purpose drove him to away from the body, despite how he had been sitting there, sobbing, for what felt like an age. Transition from child to man. Unable to focus on anything, vision fragmented and tinged with red hot fury at everything and one thing, the boy stumbled out into the street.

Hours of search, of scavenging, it passed like minutes, screaming in the face of seedy-looking strangers in the most intense interrogation for directions ever seen. The blood on his hands did the trick, the look in his eyes. There wasn’t a single person that didn’t back up against the wall and cave, stuttering and pointing. The details didn’t matter, none of them stayed with him. The mental break fucked him up more than any drug he had ever tried. It was more effective, more long lasting. His exhaustion was fueled by adrenaline, the need to keep going, to not get caught by the cops on the beat. He worked quickly, silently, hardly there at all.

Eventually, he was standing in front of a seedy-looking club, neon lights in the window and bass thrumming. He scanned the building, trying to get a hold of himself enough to plot a way in. Drawing up his jacket and slipping round the side of the building, he found his way past those hanging around out back with cigarettes in hand and waited, after what felt like forever, for his opportunity. Then, he used all his agility to scale the wall and wiggle through the transparent window of the club toilets.

Of course, this little move got him a few stares and shouts of disbelief and slight aggression from the drunken and fucked up assholes at the urinal carefully arranging lines that managed to notice, but it was hardly any trouble to run past them and out into the deafening music and flashing lights. He knew well enough that if he didn’t act fast his moment would be gone, and he would be caught. But there was a fire under him and an emptiness inside that stopped him from caring about death or pain. Only the task at hand.

And after quiet searching and scanning, he locked onto his target sitting at one of the plush booths. He recognised his lopsided smile and balding head. No one could have looked more ugly to him than this man. He didn’t care. And so, he approached. He stood close enough, with an expression of quiet rage, and eyes fixed on him, that he eventually had to look around. There was no hint of recognition, only disbelief and irritation.

“What the fuck-”

“Marlyn Jacobs.” He said, slowly, and steadily. The other looked around at his companions, who all chuckled and exchanged glances. It was as good as a confession when he turned back to him with a smirk and a glint in his eyes, although he didn’t dignify a response. There was a look over to a man at security, who took the first step towards them.

Before he could open his mouth to reply something likely insulting and disgusting, three shots were fired, straight into the murderer’s face, with deadly clarity and aim. In the moment of silence that followed, the whole world stood still. Then, the ringing in his ears subsided a little, and the screaming started, and the running and jostling. Pain ripped up his arm and he clenched his teeth, welcoming it, as the security guard wrenched it backwards and ripped the gun from his hand, slamming him onto the ground. His head hit, smack, on the sticky floor. More pain, more numbness, more ringing. Yes. This was good. Shoot me. Shoot me. Shoot me. It’s over. I just want it to be over. He’s dead, I can die too. I don’t care. Just let it end.

#crypticcovenmom #long post #;mafia au

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ficdirectory · 7 years

Text

Blink (An AU Fosters family fic) Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

Jesus wakes up suddenly.

He’s on the couch with his yellow blanket covering him. He doesn’t remember having it. Doesn’t remember being out here at all. But slowly, it starts to come back: waking up to check the locks. The memory of Him coming back unexpectedly when Jesus convinced Isaac to escape. And what happened to Isaac when He found out.

Jesus had told Mariana. Mariana had told Mama. Not all of it, but some.

Mama had been out here with him, but she’s not anymore because she knows he wouldn’t be comfortable with them sleeping in the same room, even if she was nowhere near him. Jesus is sure she’s the one who got his blanket. Who covered him with it. It’s her way of showing him she was here. That he’s not alone.

Still, now, Jesus just feels empty and heavy and so sad. This place feels like it’s full of ghosts even though he’s never been up here before this week. Even though Isaac never has. But the snow is connecting them. And wrecking Jesus.

He has to get out of here.

Quietly, Jesus walks to the kitchen and picks up the landline. The display screen says it’s 5:59 AM. It’s super dark out. But he remembers that Pearl’s up even earlier than this. Even though the buttons sound super loud, Jesus risks scrolling through the numbers to find hers.

He paces back to the living room and waits.

“Jesus?” Pearl asks, sounding wide awake.

“Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I need to get out of here. Can I walk Gracie with you?” he asks.

“Sure. Give us five minutes. We’ll come get you.”

“Don’t knock. I’ll watch for your light.”

“Leave your parents a note. Let them know they can call me anytime, to reach you.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll be right there.”

Jesus hangs up the phone and makes his way upstairs to find his jeans and a warmer shirt. Goes to the bathroom and dresses really fast. Then, he’s back downstairs. He grabs a yellow legal pad of Grandpa’s and writes:

Out walking Gracie with Pearl. You can call her anytime to talk to me. - Jesus

Finally, he grabs his jacket, gloves and hat. His backpack, which he stuffs with his headphones and blanket. He grabs a muffin from the counter to add to his stash, because it’s been way too long since he’s been able to add new food to it.

Then, he waits.

Pearl makes quick work of getting ready to go and putting Gracie’s leash on. A call from Jesus at six in the morning isn’t typical. So even though walking her dog in the dark isn’t something Pearl would normally do, she has to trust her gut.

Jesus is letting her know what he needs. He’s trusting her. And she’s been up for hours anyway. It’s not like she’s busy today or anything.

She steps outside, glad it feels slightly warmer than it could. She makes her way to Frank’s cabin and stops in front of the door. Jesus is there, all ready to go.

He looks rough, though. Sad. Haunted. She watches as he silently turns and locks the door behind himself and then reaches for her hand.

Pearl hesitates. She’s not a fan of physical contact, but she knows, too, that Jesus has a hard time with the cold, and suspects that the dark might add another layer to his fears. Knows he must be desperate to want to walk around outside, instead of being in.

She takes a breath. They both have gloves on. That might be enough of a barrier for her. He’s stopped short of actually taking her hand. He’s waiting. Pearl focuses on Gracie’s leash in her other hand, and then reaches out for Jesus’s with her free one.

Wordlessly, they start to walk.

The woods is a place she knows well. Not by choice. But Pearl doesn’t see the point in trying to avoid the sites that spark memories. Strangely, the woods feel safer than, say, the grocery store in town. Probably because she doesn’t have to interact with people out here. Jesus clearly does not want to talk.

Their boots crunch in the snow. Gracie stays at Pearl’s side, never bounding ahead.

She hears a sniff beside her. Senses Jesus reaching up toward his own face. Hears his ragged breath. (Maybe a nightmare spooked him...or maybe it’s not that at all.) Still silent, Pearl squeezes his hand and keeps walking.

“I come out here to find myself. I don’t know why, really. It seems ridiculous, because it’s not like we really leave pieces of ourselves behind places...but part of me thinks...maybe we do? Because...I don’t know...everything clicks for me when I’m out here. I feel alive. Raw. It’s weird, I guess, but that’s just how I am. You wanna lock your fears out. And I feel pissed. Like, come on. Try it.”

Squeeze.

“I mean, you could call that brave. My mother calls it reckless. It’s just kinda the way it is for me.”

Pearl goes quiet. Because the woods in the winter aren’t the same as the woods in spring. She avoids the woods in springtime like the plague.

She hears more from Jesus. He’s obviously not okay, but any teenager who can willingly let his feelings out like this and not by overcompensating in some other way is impressive to Pearl.

“Sometimes, we just have to let it out,” she comments softly. “And that’s fine. Strength...what we usually see of it is domineering, right? It’s loud. It’s in our faces. But all strength isn’t like that. Sometimes, it means letting your guard down when it makes complete sense to leave it up. To never cry another tear. To never show that anything hurts us. But hurting is a part of being human. I like to think it’s the flipside of loving, maybe. ‘Cause if we didn’t love, it wouldn’t matter if we hurt. If we lost. You know?”

Squeeze.

Somehow, Pearl knows just what to say. She doesn’t call him out for being weak, like That Asshole always did. Like how He was always so hard on Isaac because Isaac had real feelings. Now, it feels like, for the first time, Jesus feels what Isaac must’ve felt.

How deep he felt.

How he wasn’t afraid to cry. To share. To just be who he was and ignore all Jesus’s advice to toughen up and forget his family because it was easier.

Isaac never forgot the people he loved most.

And Jesus is never gonna forget Isaac, either. Even though it hurts like hell to remember the way he had to live for all those months that Jesus knew him. It hurts to know he was happy once, too, because Jesus knows exactly how terrible his end was. And even though it’s been four and a half years since the day Isaac just couldn’t stay alive anymore, a part of Jesus still feels massively guilty for the part he played.

For every time he taped his friend’s mouth. Put a hood over his head. Took back the towel he gave so he could have a shred of dignity. Yeah, there had been reasons for all of it. Protecting him, first and foremost, but it still sucked. If he really was brave or strong or anything good, he’d have tried harder. Done more to help Isaac get free instead of doing so much to keep him chained.

Seriously, what kind of person was he?

It’s kinda right that he can’t see a foot in front of him, ‘cause right about now he might as well be back in that damn basement for all the good it’s done him to be free.

He can’t cry anymore ‘cause everything wants to freeze on his face and that feels weird as hell. So instead, he manages:

“Talk...please…”

“Jesus… Are you--”

“Don’t, Don’t ask me, okay? I can’t right now,” he insists, voice breaking.

“Okay. I won’t. Just stay with me. Focus on the light in front of us. Not the dark around us.”

An ugly sob escapes.

“It’ll be light soon,” Pearl promises, squeezing his hand.

Eventually, they have to turn around and start heading back. Her legs are aching, and numb from the cold. Jesus seems like he could just keep going forever, but Pearl has to be practical.

They’re almost back to her cabin when the first hints of light break on the horizon. “Look,” she says. “I told you. The sun’s coming up.”

Jesus doesn’t comment at first. Then, he says, “I never saw the sun rise one time in my whole life until the morning I was coming home when I was thirteen. It was magic. Like fire. Like the whole sky was celebrating ‘cause I was free.”

Pearl’s quiet.

“Now, I can’t see it without feeling destroyed. ‘Cause, like...I got out. So, what?”

She flips her light off, and steps in front of him. “What’s happening right now?” she asks, concerned.

“What’s happening is my friend is dead and I’m free and it doesn’t make sense! It should’ve been me. It was my dumbass idea!”

“Stop it,” Pearl reprimands. “I can see you’re upset, but you can’t keep punishing yourself.”

“It’s my fault!” Jesus exclaims. “It’s my fault he died! It was my idea to try and escape and we got caught because of it! And he got killed because of it! Every day we told each other to stay alive and I know he tried, but damn it, it sucks! We should both be out! He shouldn’t have to stay twelve years old forever because I was--!”

“You were a child, Jesus! You didn’t do this!”

“I dug the grave!” Jesus yells.

It shocks Pearl quiet.

“I dug the damn grave…” Jesus manages, his voice breaking.

Pearl shakes her head, horrified. What kind of sadistic person would kidnap children and force one to dig a grave for his friend?

“That…” she starts, her voice thick.

“Don’t. Don’t say it. Don’t bother,” Jesus tries, desperate to stop her from finishing the thought.

She does anyway, because he needs to hear this: “That was not on you.”

“How can you even say that, Pearl?! You weren’t there! No one was there!”

Gracie’s on alert, helping keep Pearl calm, but it’s an uphill battle. She’s never seen Jesus like this. Doesn’t know how she’s gonna help him. They’re not even inside the cabin again yet.

“I hear you. I do. But we need to go inside right now. So I need you to walk next to me. And hold my hand,” she says, remembering his words. (Calm. In control, but not controlling.)

She’s surprised when he does. Surprised at the way he falls into step beside her. When they get inside, she checks on him. He still looks raw. Angry. Grief-stricken. But all these things are better than dissociated.

Roughly, Jesus shrugs off his backpack. Takes off his gloves. But the rest he leaves on.

Softly, Pearl bends down and gives Gracie a command. She responds swiftly, taking Jesus’s coat sleeve and pulling him to the swing.

Pearl’s beyond relieved when he goes behind the curtain himself.

She gives him a heads up and then turns on the LED lights. The cabin lights were never on. She sits on the couch, with Gracie right there nuzzling her, and cries softly, hoping the swing can help where she cannot.

Jesus can’t believe he just told her that. Nobody knows that he had to dig Isaac’s grave. Not even Dr. H. Now that it’s out, he doesn’t feel better. It’s like proof. Jesus feels as bad and gross and wrong as Him. Jesus basically helped keep Isaac there. Jesus is pretty much like a kidnapper, too. (God, why doesn’t Allie hate him?)

Gracie pokes her head through the curtain. Pearl’s phone is in her mouth. A note attached to her collar:

Call your therapist

Jesus expels a harsh breath that’s almost a laugh. Whispers: “Your mom’s super bossy. You know that, right?”

Gracie drops the phone into his outstretched hand. Offers a woof of solidarity. Jesus holds onto her and buries his face in her fur. Wants her to stay close but doesn’t know if Pearl is cool with that. Jesus sticks his head out. Sees her crying

That’s all it takes for him to let Gracie go.

Somebody needs to be there for Pearl, and it can’t be him right now.

Jesus takes a deep breath and calls Dr. H. hoping she won’t mind an 8-but-really-6 AM phone call the day after a holiday.

“Dr. H?” he asks. “This is Jesus Foster. I, um...I really need to talk to you…”

#fic: blink #fosters fic

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