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zelphin124 · 3 months

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DreamTale Short Story

This is the prize for the honorable mention, @cakesmelons from the SeasonTale Creative Challenge! Apologies it took so long to get to.

My writing commissions are still open! (If you can, please commission. I'm digging into emergency funds right now.)

Enjoy!

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"He's not getting any better."

Killer paced outside the big black door, his hands squeezing his skull together. He was panicking, and he didn't know what to do.

Dust came out with a list of things the boss would need, but none of them were obtainable anytime soon.

Horror did his best to slave in the kitchen, but the boss would barely eat anything.

In fact, he had been sick for weeks. Nightmare couldn't get out of his bed without throwing a heap of coughs. The gang had never seen him like this before, and it worried them. It was so bad that all missions and plans were cancelled week after week. Even Killer started to get bored. But all of them were concerned for their boss.

"What are we going to do?" Horror was the most concerned about Nightmare out of the three. He barely ate and slept just like the boss, all to make sure he was okay.

"Nothing we have is working," Dust flipped through his list again. "Everything that we would need is out of stock in the AUs we've been to... we've stolen it all."

"So then we go to more AUs and get more medicine!" Killer hissed, stopping his pacing. "We find more of it, and give it to boss..."

"It's not working!" Horror cried. "He's just gotten worse..."

"We need blue bone fiber," Dust said. "But... no one has it."

"The last time I saw it was when we were fighting the Star Sanses," Killer sighed. "There's no way they would give some to us..."

There was a moment of silence as Nightmare hauled a dozen or so coughs that echoed inside his room. Each cough hurt the trio's souls worse and worse. Although Nightmare could sometimes be cruel and unnerving, he was still their boss... and he took them in and cared for them.

"What if they did give it to us?" Horror proposed.

Dust's face looked like he just got hit by a baseball bat. "The heck you mean, 'what if'? They would never!"

"They might," Horror argued. "This is Nightmare we are talking about... didn't Dream have some sort of attachment to him?"

"Duh, they're brothers," Killer rolled his eyes as his soul flickered. Black tears started to drip down his skull. "But that was like, 500 years ago-"

"But what if he still cared for Nightmare?" Horror continued. "Surely, we could convince him to give us some medicine to help his sick brother."

"And give away the info that he's deathly ill to our enemies? Are you out of your mind?!" Dust hissed, throwing his clipboard on the ground. "Think with your brain for once!"

Killer pulled on Dust's shoulder, holding him back. "Actually..." he put his phalanges to his chin. "We could... manipulate Dream."

"We've tried that before and it didn't work," Horror shook his head. "I say we tell him upfront we need his help."

"You two are insane," Dust pushed Killer away from him. "They. Would. Not. Help. Us."

"Dream tends to be more deceivable when Swap and Ink aren't with him..." Killer smirked. "And he goes to visit that weird stump often."

"Maybe we could catch him there..." Horror added. "And we should be honest with what we need."

"Eh, who needs honesty when we have knives?" Killer smirked, pulling one out of his pocket and twirling it before walking away. "Come on, I'm sure he'll be there tonight!"

Dust's head bellowed with smoke coming out of it before he shouted in frustration, following after Killer. He seemed to be in an argument with himself again, despite him claiming it was his brother.

Horror sighed, hoping beyond hope that this would work. He creaked open the door to his boss' chambers.

Nightmare's eyes were glazed over as he stared at the ceiling. His hands were properly folded across his chest, and he looked unnaturally gray. He didn't have enough energy to sit up when he coughed, which slowly suffocated him. Thankfully, Killer sat him up earlier when he was asleep, but it only helped a little.

Horror mouthed some comforting words to his boss and to himself before he closed the door and bounded after the others. This has to work... his chest ached with anxiety. I don't know what I would do if it doesn't...

* * *

The gentle ray of sunshine looked so dim in the dark clouds. His light wasn't as bright when he stared at the stump in a forgotten land. Oftentimes, he would mutter words unbeknownst to anyone else. Sometimes, onlookers could catch him crying.

Dust had difficulty keeping Killer quiet as they sneaked up to Dream. It took everything in Killer to not giggle from excitement. The grin on his face was one of a girl getting to buy her favorite doll.

Dust hated it.

Horror thought it was amusing.

The more Killer smiled and laughed, the most Dust threatened to push him out in the open, away from the bushes. Horror encouraged Dust not to. They were close to sneaking up on Dream. One wrong move, and their plans might be screwed.

"I'm sorry, mother," The voice of Dream stopped them in their tracks. Expect for Killer's giggling. Apparently, everything was funny to him.

"I am doing my best to protect the balance, but it's hard..." Dream sighed. "People don't have hope anymore, and it weakens me..."

Before Horror could stop Dust, he pushed the laughing Sans out into the open, cursing at him.

Dream spun around, wiping his face as he observed Killer. His eyes widened, and he summoned his bow.

"Woah woah woah," Killer glared at Dust in the bushes before slowly approaching the ray of sunshine. "No need to shoot that, I'm not here to fight."

"Then what are you here to do, Killer?" Dream glared, extending his bow with each step Killer took.

"Hey can we not just talk? Not everything's gotta be about fighting ya know?" Killer bowed playfully, one of his hands gripping a knife behind him. "It's not like I'm going-"

"What do you want, Killer?"

Killer shrugged and sighed like a kid before standing up straight. "I know you still care about your brother."

Dream's grip on his bow loosened. He seemed taken aback. "W-What do you mean?"

"Come on now, I know you still spare him in battles. I see how you fight him; I see how you hold back."

"He's taking too long..." Dust whispered. "We need that blue bone fiber fast... Nightmare skipped his other medicine."

Horror shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he should go up and be honest, unlike Killer's stalling.

"It doesn't matter if I hold back or not," Dream sighed. "I still will stop you!"

"If you wanted to stop us, you would have already," Killer shrugged. "Now, I've come to make an offer. One that... I don't think you can refuse."

"What offer is he talking about?" Dust hissed.

Horror shrugged. He too, had no idea.

Dream glanced over at the bushes where Dust and Horror were hiding. His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he lowered his bow. "What... offer?"

"Tell you what, Dreamy," Killer took another step up the hill. "How about we end this lil war of ours? Let's make a deal, and neither of us have to suffer."

"What's the catch?" Dream asked.

Horror couldn't wait any longer, Killer was taking too long. He sprang up from the bush and ran over to where Killer was. "We need blue bone fiber!"

Dream took a step back in surprise, before narrowing his eyes at the two. "Let me guess, Dust is with you too?"

"Idiots," Dust hissed as he casually trailed behind.

Dream shook his head and backed away. "Nuh uh, I ain't getting ambushed by you three-"

"We are not here to fight, Dream," Horror sighed. "Nightmare is sick... very sick... it's why you haven't seen us."

"We need the blue bone fiber to heal him, stat." Dust added.

Horror watched the conflicting emotions swirl in the sunshine's eyes. So he does still care, huh.

"That... makes sense," Dream whispered.

"I was getting there, guys!" Killer rolled his eyes. "I was striking a deal!"

"Nightmare wouldn't agree to a deal without his permission!" Dust barked.

"To save his life, he might!"

"That's not-"

"Boys," Dream interrupted them. "Look, I understand the dire of your situation. I can give Nightmare the blue bone fiber that I have... on one condition."

"Anything," Horror answered before the others could speak.

"I will go give him the fiber."

"Ain't no way," Dust shook his head. "Boss would not be happy about that."

Killer laughed. "So, you can kill him with your positivity?"

"I wouldn't kill him," Dream sighed. "I just... wish to see him again. If he's not so busy trying to kill me... maybe he will just hear me out..."

"You can give it to him," Horror answered. "Anything to save his life."

Dream stared at Horror for a long time before he smiled softly. "I'm glad he has you guys. You care about him... You risked coming to me to save him, it shows a lot. Thank you for... taking care of him all this time."

"Oh whatever," Dust sighed. "Can you give him the blue bone fiber already?"

"I will go grab it, and I'll meet you at the castle." Dream replied.

"Well hurry up," Dust hissed as he dragged Killer by the arm. "Your brother doesn't have long."

* * *

"He's in there."

Dream nodded softly before following Horror into Nightmare's room. The sunshine winced as he came in direct contact with negativity. It didn't slow his pace, however. He had a mission to save his brother, regardless if the murder trio liked it or not.

Nightmare's hands shook as Dream got closer. "What... are you... doing here..."

Horror found it intriguing that Dream remained silent as he crushed the blue bone fiber in the bowl. He sat on the edge of the bed and slowly fed it to Nightmare, the negative unable to resist.

"What did you... do..."

"Blue bone fiber," Dream answered his brother. "It will heal you within the next two days or so."

Boss seemed bewildered, and his eyes barely opened as he glanced at Dream. "W... why?"

"I..." Dream paused, wiping his teary eyes again. "I don't want to fight anymore. I miss my brother... I just want to have peace with you..."

Nightmare's breath was shaky as he tried to swallow the remaining fiber. "You... missed me?"

"I've always missed you," Dream sighed. "I never liked fighting you. I just did so you would stop killing people..."

"I..."

"But that doesn't matter right now," Dream continued. "I want you to get better, and I want you to recover and be okay. I care about you..."

Horror watched as Nightmare's weak hand barely touched Dream's.

"... I... care about you... too..."

Dream had to hold in his positive feelings of reassurance and resolution as he grasped Nightmare's hand. "I'll be here for you, brother."

Nightmare coughed again. "Go... now..."

Dream nodded and squeezed his brother's hand one more time before stepping towards the door, Horror following close behind. He couldn't help but notice a small smile on his boss' face before shutting the door. He sighed softly as he glanced at Dream. "Thank you, I don't know how to repay you."

The widest smile covered Dream's face as he brushed his arms and cried happy tears for the first time in a while.

"No, thank you."

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ataraxiaspainting · 5 months

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Hier Encore IV.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

[Hier Encore III.]

Synopsis: Yorknew Police Department Headquarters, 1995, April 10th. You are a director of public safety. The Phantom Troupe attacks the headquarters and takes you under the guise of a hostage situation. Even when the ransom is paid, you are never returned and assumed to be dead. After thirteen months of captivity, in 1996, on May 9th, you escape and try to learn how to live again somewhere far away from your captor. The payment of freedom comes with a steep cost, one that stains your hands so much that even if you drown them in bleach, the stain will remain there for the rest of your life.

Warnings: Yandere themes, kidnapping, the reader is described as AFAB and uses she/her pronouns respectively, not SFW implications, misogynistic undertones (not from Chrollo), unhealthy relationships, manipulation o’clock, body transformation (not on the reader), references to religion, violence/gore, minor character death, and stalking.

Word Count: 5.9k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Lacrimosa by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

4:00 A.M. by Taeko Onuki

My Girlfriend Is a Witch by October Country

Michelle by Sir Chloe

Sonne by Rammstein

Enemy by Imagine Dragons

Venus Fly Trap by MARINA

Maneater by Nelly Furtado

cult leader by KiNG MALA

Teacher’s Pet by Melanie Martinez

“She looked like a vixen, and that’s what she was; she had all the instincts of a female fox. She was the proverbial predatory female. She had what she wanted, now, and she was content. There was just the getting completely away with it that counted.” – Gil Brewer, Sin for Me

iv. “I must be cruel, only to be kind.”

“Greetings.”

One emotion comes after another on Sebastian's face: confusion, fear, distrust, and many more.

“Hello.” His voice is tight. “Do you need something?” He asks, putting his hands on the doorframe as a precaution.

“I have just come to ask you a few questions.” Chrollo answers, his voice as calm and collected as always. He isn’t even looking at Sebaste, his focus is placed on the inside of the cottage. He knows that you are here.

“Like what?” Sebaste asks, his body tensing up.

“My dear, come out.” He calls out to you, his voice as soft as it usually is.

“I’m sorry?” Sebaste questions, his shoulders strained upwards. “I’m right here.”

Chrollo pays him no mind, instead still looking over Sebastian's shoulder. He hums, looking at one object in the living room at a time. The black sofa by the television was old with the bottom left corner of it torn, white stuffing no longer being covered there in that spot. The carpet below Sebastian’s feet, the colors fading because of age. The creaky poplar floorboards. The pots of plants where the kitchen’s checkered tiles and the living room’s wooden planks meet, where you are hiding. Your eyes meet and his eyes are as empty as ever, perhaps even emptier, like black holes in the ground that aim to swallow you whole.

“Come out, my love.” He repeats himself, his tone sickeningly sweet to the point of mockery.

“Excuse me?” Sebaste asks, his voice slightly cracking.

“Dearest.” His gaze is still on you. It is intense and you feel a pressure on your neck like you are being strangled by him. You can’t breathe.

“I’m here.” Sebaste moves his hands downwards on the doorframe. “I’m right here.” His eyebrows furrow. “I’m right here. Don’t ignore me.” He’s upset.

“Hmm.” He leans in slightly. “She hasn’t told you anything, has she?”

You can see Sebastian's feet through the leaves of the tall plants take a step or two back at Chrollo’s question. “What?”

He still is not making eye contact with Sebaste. “Honestly, I expected that you would have left her by now, or at the very least be on your knees begging for mercy from me. Little liar.” Once more, a gentle hum escapes his lips as he leans in, drawing himself nearer. “But that is alright.”

Sebastian's feet move backward yet again. “What?” He knows. “Hello? What are you talking about?”

Remaining composed, Chrollo gradually advances towards Sebaste. “My dear, aren’t you going to greet me? I missed you.”

As an innate response to his words, your muscles contract, causing your entire body to become rigid.

“Come on out,” Chrollo continues, his smile getting wider. “We haven’t seen each other for more than a year. It feels like a millennia since I saw you last. My heart still beats for you, though, and always will.”

“Leave,” You finally say, your voice almost as shaky as you are. “Go away.”

Sebaste and Chrollo are now both looking at you, but their gazes are different. Chrollo looks at you like a hunter looks at a slain doe or rabbit they are about to eat, while Sebaste looks at you with confusion and fear, for he knows what you are; a liar. “Come closer. Let me see you.”

You shake your head from side to side until your neck cramps and you feel slightly dizzy. “Leave, go away.” You repeat, your voice still shuddering.

“I would take you more seriously if your voice was not quivering, beloved.” You can perceive the mocking tone in his voice. “I want to see your beautiful face not covered by the foliage of a dying plant.” His smile is getting bigger and bigger by the second, you swear to yourself. “Come on now.”

Once more, you vigorously shake your head, refusing to comply. “Leave.”

Sebaste continues to call out, desperately trying to catch his attention, but he remains unfazed, humming to himself. Fear is evident in his expression and the urgency of his voice. Concern grips you, for both Sebaste and yourself.

“Come closer, please. Come greet me.”

You squirm behind the tall plant. “No, go away, leave.”

“I won’t.” His smile fades as he looks down at Sebastian's arms still holding onto the doorframe like it was their lifeline. It is actually, you realize.

Sebastian's face contorts into a frown, while he straightens his posture even further, assuming a defensive stance. “If all you are going to do is bother my girlfriend and not talk to me, you have to leave.”

“No.” Sebaste is finally acknowledged by him, but this time his voice lacks warmth, sounding firm and icy. “Step aside.”

The urge to run engulfs you. You want to run into the forest. You want to run until your feet bleed and your ankles are twisted and bruised.

“Why would I do that?” Sebaste hisses angrily. “Leave. All you are doing is being a creep to my girlfriend. Leave or I’ll call the police. Now.”

Chrollo simply leans in closer to Sebastian's ear. “Step aside. Please.”

Sebaste scowls. “Leave. Now.”

Run, run, run. Despite your determination to hold your ground, you start to relent under Chrollo's unrelenting gaze, eventually taking a step forward as instructed. “Ah, that’s better. Good.” As Chrollo's stare intensifies, you find yourself averting your gaze towards the ground, towards your bare feet. “Look at you, my poor thing. You have nothing more to say, don’t you?” He coos like a parent watching their baby take their first steps.

“I’m calling the police.”

Sebaste delves into the depths of his hoodie pocket, where his phone resides, leaving a portion of the doorway unguarded by his arm. The urge to plead with Sebaste, to convey the futility of it all, arises within you. However, you find yourself incapable of doing so.

In one swift motion, Chrollo grabs the cell phone away from Sebastian’s hand and throws it on the ground, a loud smashing sound reaching your ears. It’s only more pronounced by a boot stomping and crushing it like it was some sort of bug.

“Come closer, dearest.” He says, and your feet move, your mind compliant. You move closer and closer, until you are a few feet behind Sebaste, who looks both fearful and confused.

“Call the police,” Sebaste tells you, the stress in his voice is more than obvious.

You just stare, emptily. There is no point in running over to the kitchen to grab your phone, because Chrollo is quick and thus would run quicker, quicker than you ever could. You, poor you, would fall in vain in the Spider’s hunt for the fly that made it out of the web alive.

“Call the police. [First], call the police.” You would love to appear as a saint, but bright crimson stains your hands and eats at your very being. The floorboards creak and crack beneath you as you walk closer and you hope that the planks will simply break and let you fall into an infinite void where you will never be sentenced for your crimes.

“My lady of sorrows, as beautiful as ever.”

You should have hidden your tracks better.

“Call the police, [First].” You should have watched out for any targets on your back.

You should have watched out more for the eyes looking at you in the night because you only caught one pair. “Your love is like a warm summer’s day, and it will always be mine, all mine.”

You wanted a normal human life. You wanted a normal human death.

But you are caught in the Spider’s web and encased in silk yet again, so you can’t have either of those things. Now, all that you can have that you want is to cry.

“Call the police.” Sebastian's trembling voice echoes once more, filled with fear. Desperate to find solace, he reaches out for your hand, only to be met with the unexpected rejection of a slap.

You’re so stupid. So, so stupid. Your brain feels numb like it is rotting away inside of you, slowly but surely.

“Call the police. [First]. Go get your phone and call the police.”

“All I want is to hold you in my arms and know that you are mine.” You hold everything Chrollo has ever said to you inside of you where your heart used to be. It weighs you down more than a broken heart ever would.

“[First]. Call the police. What’s wrong?”

The world is now monochrome once more. You feel the place where warmth used to be within you. But now all there is is ashes. There is nothing but ashes. Your lungs hurt from all the filth.

“Stop it.” Disgusting, you are disgusting, Chrollo is disgusting.

You wanted to see the whole world. But you are now back to being trapped in the spider’s web and you cannot do any of those things now. A butterfly with a hole in its wing caught in its web.

“What’s wrong? Call the police. Go. Now.” Disgusting. “[First]?” Disgusting. “[First], why aren’t you doing anything?”

“Stop it.” Your voice cracks like how you wanted the floorboards to. “Just stop it.”

“Go get your phone.” Sebaste continues, deaf to what you are trying to tell him. “Go. Now. Go.”

Your head hurts. Your stomach hurts. You want your pajamas on. You want to sleep. You wish you never ran away because now hell will be unleashed on Sebaste and you as punishment. You wish you would have just made a pit stop in this town and continued being on the move. You wish you were more tactical. You wish you had never been born at all. Disgusting. You’re so disgusting and stupid and tired.

You find yourself uttering every part of it, stammering through the words, pausing to catch your breath, pleading for Sebastian's survival, hoping to just return to whatever luxurious penthouse or hotel room Chrollo is currently staying at, imploring to have a private conversation with Chrollo about this matter in his car, away from Sebaste.

As soon as you finish begging for Sebastian's life and open your eyes, you see the book in Chrollo’s hand. With the realization of what is about to happen, tears finally fall from your eyes onto your bare feet.

The cry that escapes your lips is a unique one, unlike any other. It is choked, desperate, animalistic, raw, and undeniably genuine.

“Don’t! Please! Wait! Chrollo!”

Chrollo looks at you and you immediately shut up.

“What are you doing?” Sebaste asks, stepping away, his entire body shaking. “Answer me. What are you doing?”

Chrollo's gaze turns towards him, bearing a facial expression that ranks among the most dreadful you've ever witnessed.

He doesn’t respond with anything more than a hum and a quick turn of the pages.

You’re too afraid to speak.

You look at the floor and close your eyes again as you continue to cry.

You hate the book. He has never used it on you, but you know what it can do. Perhaps if Chrollo is in a good mood at the moment, Sebaste will merely have a curse placed upon him and he will go out the door with poor, wailing you, his grip on your wrist strong enough to almost break it.

A foolish thought, you remind yourself.

Chrollo wasn’t known for his mercy, after all.

Sebaste is as good as dead.

Perhaps he is even worse than dead.

He could be tortured. Starved, eaten alive, poisoned, or has all of his bones broken bit by bit.

You are scared to open your eyes. But you are also scared to have them remain closed.

As you look at what is in front of you and ignore the noises around you, you deprive yourself of any mercy.

It is what you deserve.

“[First]?”

“Don’t.”

“[First], what is happening?” Sebaste points to Chrollo with a look of pure fear, his eyes looking like they are about to burst from their sockets. “What is he talking about?”

“I said don’t. Just stop.”

Sebaste stops in his place, his body shaking so much it looks like he is about to fall. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” It is a genuine apology. “But speaking will only make the pain worse for both of us.”

Chrollo hums again and nods at you, still flipping through the pages. Engaging in acts of rebellion will only exacerbate the situation.

The book stops turning and Chrollo points to a page. “I found it.”

His words are barely audible, drowned out by the piercing cries of anguish. Flashing lights; magenta, red, teal, and black.

Sable scales are sprouting from Sebastian's alabaster skin, each one covered in blood and pierced flesh.

His scleras are a shade of light coral. His eyelids are getting smaller and smaller by the second.

His irises get darker, almost to the hue of ink, matching the scales that are all over his body covered in little bits of torn skin. His knees collapse on themselves as you stand still, looking with both disgust and fear. His elbows fold as his arms lessen in length, his hands bonding with his clavicles.

He is still screaming.

You want to tell him to stop, that there was no point. It’s already too late for either of you.

But you can’t.

You refuse to look at Chrollo, who is no doubt smiling at the horrifying tragedy unfolding in front of you two.

You just look at Sebaste with pitying, guilty eyes.

He does not look at you.

You deserve it, and he deserves to at least have that choice in the matter.

Whatever Chrollo is doing to him, there is no doubt in your mind that you deserve at least twice as bad of a fate.

But you don’t fear death. Not anymore. You know Chrollo does not plan to kill you, that death is not in the cards he is holding. He would never let go of his favorite toy. So, you fear the unknown. You fear whatever harrowing methods Chrollo is going to use on you. There is no doubt that they will be far more psychological than physical.

You sit and stay, like a good dog does, even though every fiber of your being is telling you to run out the back door and into the forest. So, you wait. You wait until he is done. You won’t speak or move unless you are told to. You give up all control and pretend to want to be dragged by a leash instead. You hide your true feelings behind a mask and not overplay your hand. That is how you become a dog.

Good girl.

Chrollo takes out a few Polaroid photographs from his suit pocket and lays them out on the table. One of them is the gore-stained walls of James’ apartment, his lower half the only part that is still whole. The second is Victor’s collapsed, untouched body on the wooden floorboards. The third is of your stalker’s rotting corpse in your abandoned shed, his head lowered and his partially gouged eyes swinging in the cool breeze. You can’t pretend to be better anymore. You can’t hide what you have done anymore. He knows.

You reach for the photos, grabbing them off the table then crumble them into balls, tearing them apart into shreds and watching them fall onto the ground.

Chrollo doesn’t stop you. He simply stares at the torn pieces that lay at your bare feet. He hums. It’s the most horrific sound you have ever heard. It is a mix of hilarity and hunger. When he smiles, his teeth look like a shark's. They are razorlike and look sharp enough to cut flesh, though they appear the same as yours. Although his appearance may deceive others into perceiving him as angelic, you are aware that he is anything but, just like yourself.

He knows. He knows.

Chrollo takes a step forward toward you but stops abruptly. He hums again. He looks upward towards your face and you make eye contact. Your brain starts screaming signals to run.

He knows of the lies that are the foundation of the makeup used to cover your hideous, real face. He knows of your sticky, sticky red hands, stained with crimson sin. He knows of the devil that lurks within the deepest confines of your heart. He knows that no exorcism or priest would be able to get rid of it. He knows that it will stay inside you until your last breath. He knows of the hidden transgressions within your soul, the deeds you committed to survive. The actions you took to elevate yourself above all others and everything else in this world.

He knows everything. He knows what you have done.

The stars twinkle no more. The moon has lost its luster. The night sky has broken apart. You cannot hide your wrongdoings from the scorching beams of the sun. Your skin burns. Everything hurts.

He knows.

He looks down at you like he is a king. Arrogant. Tenacious. He is not even a star to you. He is less than the small pieces of meteorites floating in the vast Milky Way, fading away more and more by the second. This life was too good to be true. You have failed and as a result, you have lost everything.

You cover your head with your arms and run, tackling Chrollo to the ground. He falls onto the kitchen floor with a hard thump. You punch him, but your knuckle hurts as you do so, Chrollo’s face like an iron wall. You yelp in pain and withdraw your fist, using your other hand to pull out the knife from your sweatpants. You haven’t even made a dent into him, did he even feel anything?

Chrollo's laughter resonates as if he finds your actions incredibly amusing. He proceeds to articulate the harsh reality, a truth that is both unpleasant and acrid. “So, you were the one that committed those murders. As expected.”

No. No. No. No.

As you falter, Chrollo’s hands firmly grab the upper parts of your arms and push you off, the amount of power used being nearly enough to throw you against the glass cupboards of dishware and decorations. Instead, the back of your head collides with the wall next to the wooden back door, the paring knife flying out of your hand and landing a few inches away. A pained cry escapes your lips as your vision blurs for a second. He’s on top of you in an instant, his eyes dark and predatory, and your positions suddenly reversed.

The blade, you have to get it back.

As you try to reach out for it, Chrollo grabs your wrist with an abnormal amount of strength. “I wouldn’t pick that up if I were you. It would only prove a point for me.”

Run. Run. Run. You have to run, like a small child running up the stairs when the lights are off, fearing what could be lurking in the dark.

Life. Death. Free. Cage. Run.

No, this can’t be happening, this is just a bad dream.

“Struggle all you like, we both know how this will end.”

“Shut up. I’m not going anywhere–”

“You are. You will stay wherever I place you because I am not falling for your tricks a second time, my little witch.”

No. This is just a bad dream. You close your eyes and try to wake up, shaking your head and begging for Chrollo to be just a figment of your imagination. You try and try, but you can still feel the crushing feeling of Chrollo’s grip on your bruised wrist and the weight of his body on top of yours. This is real, and this is happening.

Your mind goes blank as you open your eyes, your body being directed by raw, pure fear. Your forehead crashes into Chrollo’s, making him back up a few centimeters and let go of your wrist. Your torso crawls toward the blade like an animal whose legs are caught under a boulder or a bear trap. Your elbows bend and you try to move forward. You are just about to grab the knife when there is a yanking of your hair backward. You holler out as your spine is twisted peculiarly, your upper body facing downwards towards the knife while your lower body is facing upwards towards Chrollo.

“Let go!”

“You certainly are stubborn.”

Your fist smacks him square in the jaw and he lets go. Your hand grips the knife, and you start swinging it around, blinded by emotion. You manage to cut into his right cheek as he spits out some blood from your punch. You try to gouge out one of his eyes, but his dexterity causes his head to duck just in time. Your body shakes with a mix of alarm and hate. You try to aim for the space between his eyes, but he grabs your wrist with one hand and your tricep with the other and starts twisting them in two different directions, making you wail. There is a sudden snap that is louder than your cries. You scream as you drop the knife and caress your broken arm. Chrollo grabs the blade and throws it far across the room.

Chrollo’s body seems to relax a little, so you kick him in the face and try to clamber away from him. His nose bleeds, but it does not look broken. You are as desperate as a doe trying to escape the bullets of a hunter’s shotgun.

Run. Run. Run.

“You’re not being good. You’re not being good at all.”

Run. Run.

With the last bits of strength you have, you withstand the agonizing pain in your arm and kick Chrollo in the stomach with both of your legs, so hard that even you wince. He backs up as he chokes on his saliva. Some of the blood from his nose jumps onto your face and you can taste the flavor of metal. He falls backward and hugs his abdomen. He is off of you at long last. For the quick moment he is in pain, you stand up quickly, clutching your unusable limb. You run as fast as you can towards the paring knife. You bend down and grab it in a rush of panic.

Run, rabbit. Run.

Chrollo pushes you down onto your stomach, your back facing him. He grabs your broken arm and pulls it, his foot on your spine to keep you there. It bends like rubber or bubblegum. You start to flail around like a fish out of water. You gasp for air as you cry out in pain. His other hand grabs the back of your head, raising it slightly before pushing it down hard onto the wooden planks. The life you have built for yourself, everything you have worked towards, the colorful, sweet world you have made, all shatters into splinters before your very eyes.

Picking pumpkins and apples to make decorations and cook into pies, harvesting sunflowers to put into glass vases around your cottage, going into the farmer’s market and smelling freshly roasted corn and baked goods, cookies, fried mushrooms, glazed yams, eggplant parmesan, learning to love someone for the first time.

It was all for nothing. It was all for nothing because Chrollo found you. Chrollo found you and enacted his revenge. You wail a strangled, desperate breath. A raw and real breath.

You stop struggling at long last, like a toy that has run out of power from its battery. All that fighting and you have hardly made him use his true strength.

You are weak. You cannot go anywhere. You are a rabbit with nowhere to run. Murder. Death. Theft. Crime. Manipulation. Love. Chrollo’s blood is still in your mouth and it’s bitter and dry, like you had just eaten sand in a desert or oceanless beach. It chokes you, both physically and mentally.

No.

The fish that used to be Sebaste looks up at the ceiling, lying on its side. An unblinking, wide eye. Dull. Cloudy. Empty. Unforgiving. Confused. Weak. Its corpse lays before you two and starts to stink like the back of a butcher’s shop.

I hate you.

That is what its eye tells you.

Traitor. Fool. Devil. Maneater. Tainted. Killer. Freak.

This is all your fault. Why did I have to die? Why are you still alive? You lied to me. You said you loved me. Liar.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Pathetic.

Your feet are still cold.

If only you could have died too. If only you could have died beside him. You don’t want to die in whatever hotel room or penthouse Chrollo will shove you in, within four suffocating walls and soft sheets that cost more than your monthly rent. You don’t want to die there, you want to die anywhere else. You are not ready to die. Tunnel vision overtakes you, with only one objective in mind.

Just stay alive.

That is your one wish to the stars above.

It hurts.

Everything hurts.

You are being burned alive by your desire to both live and die.

...

You don’t think before you do it.

You don’t try to stop yourself before, without any hesitation, your legs propel you forward, forcefully thrusting the backdoor open with your functioning arm. Anguish, fury, remorse, and sorrow engage in a fierce battle for dominance over your every move. As you dart deeper into the dark and densely packed forest behind your cottage, the only sounds you could hear are your own ragged breaths and pounding heart. It was as if the forest was trying to swallow you up, closing in with every passing step. No moonlight or stars pierced the thick layers of leaves and branches overhead.

The darkness is like a thick fog, blurring your sight and limiting your visibility. You could not see Chrollo behind you, but your instincts told you that he was. There was no hint of a breeze to take some of the edge off, with even the birds and chipmunks being completely silent.

The pain was excruciating. With every jostling step, your broken arm jolted around like a wooden toy, threatening to send you down to the ground any second as it kept getting caught in vines and hitting tree trunks. You could not afford to stop running.

You don’t see anyone following you.

Your feet are starting to bleed and leave a few red drops of blood with every rushed step you take. You don’t care about it because instinct has taken over your mind.

You trip over a large root on the ground and fall sideways right on your broken arm, making you scream from the intense pain shooting up. As you try to get up and caress your broken arm, you stumble downhill into a pile of dead leaves.

Your mouth is full of them, making you hardly able to breathe as you spit them out.

If it were any other time, you would have considered it funny.

But not now.

As you rise from the ground, your hand instinctively shields your mouth, preventing any inadvertent sound that may invite unwanted attention. The pursuit of Chrollo, if not already initiated, has undoubtedly commenced.

He’s after you. You know this. He came back into your newly rebuilt life and destroyed it right in front of your very eyes.

You know he can hear you, but you cannot hear him. You never know of his presence until he is too close, that is how it always has been. That is how it is now. Chrollo has forever possessed superior speed, strength, intelligence, attractiveness, and wealth, making it impossible for anyone to ever match his prowess, even if they desired to do so.

You hate him.

You hate him, and he’s here for you again.

No.

How did he even find you?

Hisoka promised.

He promised you that your location would be undiscovered.

He lied to you, didn’t he?

Maybe lying isn’t the exact word.

Maybe he technically did keep his promise, because the Troupe didn’t show up in a matter of a few hours.

Chrollo showed up in a matter of nearly twenty four.

Your gasps for air and silenced cries are paired with a call of your name.

“Oh, you poor thing. Scared half to death.”

His words are as soft as they are cruel.

“Mater Dolorosa.”

You force yourself onto your feet again to run, sensing the voice behind you up the hill getting louder and louder. But when you move to run, you wince in pain and look down at your swollen red ankle.

It is so dark that you can’t see anything aside from yourself, the world around you being painted monochrome by the black night sky’s palette.

There is nowhere to run, is there?

You have used up all of your luck getting this far, and have to pay the price.

You are out of time. You cannot dream of sweet escape anymore.

“Do you remember my touch? I touched you so sweetly. My darling girl.”

You would turn if you could, but the pain shooting out from your ankle prevents you doing so and almost makes you fall into the leaves again instead. “You took me away.”

Moving in a circular motion, Chrollo gradually positions himself in your line of sight, his imposing figure standing tall before you. “It is a thief’s nature. I could not resist the temptation to steal you.”

Chrollo is a prime illustration of the extreme measures some individuals are willing to take in order to have you in their embrace.

Your beauty has captivated every person you have encountered, evoking reverence from all. It is both a blessing and a curse, a double edged sword, both the thing that worships you and tortures you.

Your sweatpants are covered in dirt stains and pieces of dried grass and leaves, your hoodie in a similarly horrible condition. Your hair had come undone, cascading in delicate wisps that obscured your vision, reminiscent of a spider's delicate web. There is nowhere to hide.

“Oh, how I love you.” Chrollo smiles and the way it reaches his eyes makes you squirm more. “Shall I enumerate the reasons why?”

…

The car ride was silent for a while. You would have preferred it if it stayed that way. But Chrollo could never stay quiet for long, even if you asked nicely, so he turned the dial of the radio and began humming along. In all the months you were with him, the only constant presence in your otherwise bleak, depressing life.

The song he chose felt like yet another kick to the stomach. ABBA’s Lay All Your Love On Me. Of course he would play that.

As much as you hate doing so, you focus on the way your heart beats with each turn and bump along the road. He was calm, still so calm, even after this two year long escape. You are certain that this is the calm before the storm, and it was only a matter of time before everything came crashing down on you. More than what already had fallen.

To claim that you were on edge would be an understatement.

“Do you know what will happen now?”

With your heart pounding and mind consumed, you can't help but startle at his words, despite your readiness.

“...No.”

He lets out a small laugh, reducing the music's volume to a slightly muffled level.

It only makes you feel like you are about to go into cardiac arrest.

“You do, don’t you? You have always been a smart one.”

Your broken arm aches under the slight pressure of the seatbelt pressing against it, your ankle being only slightly cushioned by the insulated carpet beneath.

Chrollo has never hurt you before, aside from restraining you in the early days of your capture. Though, you know if you had blamed your ankle on him and told him, he would tell you it was your fault for running barefoot in the dark.

He hopefully will give you a brace or pillow for it when you both arrive back to wherever your temporary location is.

“My freedoms will be taken away.”

As he nods, a smile plays at the corners of his mouth, revealing a slightly sinister undertone that would easily deceive any unfamiliar observer.

“That is a start. But,” Pausing momentarily, he directs his gaze towards you, only to swiftly return his attention to the path that lies ahead. “What particularly? Give me an example, please.”

He is definitely planning something. Maybe you'll inquire about the source of his inquiry, or perhaps you'll force a trembling grin and pretend his question is nonsensical, aware that he's already aware of the freedoms you've gained during your time in confinement. Yet, he would persist then, and repeat his query. You could respond by acknowledging his authority to strip away any privilege he deems appropriate, a fact that both of you know to be true, but deep down, you understand that he desires a real, logical answer.

Whether this is a genuine question or something that will be used to mock you in a moment or two, you have no idea.

“A freedom like…” Your answer will probably be spawned into existence, making you wary of how to respond to his question, but you know you have to because you have no choice in this hell. “Like being able to move freely around.”

He only taps his fingers on the steering wheel in a melody unlike the one playing from the car’s speakers. “How so?” Welcome once again to the realm of eternal damnation.

You contemplate turning away from him and looking out the window instead. But that would cause you more physical pain from your arm moving against the car seat and more mental pain from you knowing you will not be able to go outside again for at least a while. That is, if you are ever allowed to go outside again. If you can ever escape again. He wants another answer. He is not satisfied. But, then again, when is he ever?

You don’t dare look away from him as he stares at you, not at the road, at you. You practically feel like your stomach is dropping out of your body and onto the insulated carpet, staining parts of it crimson red from the blood and a discolored version of its once licorice color from the stomach acid.

“Go on,” You could imagine the feeling of his fingers and yours intertwining and starting to squeeze your throat.

Thum, thum, thum. Bum, bum, bum. Dun, dun, dun.

“...Restraints.” You wish you could just dissolve like seafoam in the sea. “I’m not sure which ones you want to use. The metal ones or silk ones most likely.” The sensation of suffocation creeps in, as if the air itself has turned putrid and malevolent, weighing heavily on your chest. Your vocal cords are raspy, resembling the aftermath of regurgitating and subjecting them to the corrosive effects of gastric acid. “Maybe gag me or tie my legs together too. Or both, it depends on if you are in a good mood right now or not, right?”

He nods slowly, never taking his eyes off of you. His gaze feels unsettling, for there is no trace of anger in his eyes, yet you can sense his fury.

“That is one, yes. What else do you think will happen when we get back, my dear?”

The road is empty. There are no deer or geese or ducks crossing, only you and Chrollo. Animals have always had better judgment of human character, after all.

You hope that the place you are going to at least has a nice view.

“Tell me.”

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katherine-mcnamara · 8 months

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ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ NICHOLAS GALITZINE GIF PACK ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

By clicking on the source link at the bottom of this post you will be able to access #1,109 gifs that are 270x180 in size from Red, White, & Royal Blue. These gifs were all made by me from scratch, for roleplaying purposes. Feel free to crop/resize/edit for personal use. Please don’t repost into gifsets/gif hunts or claim as your own. Please reblog if using. Hope y’all enjoy! This pack is completely free but if you enjoy my gifs and would like to, feel free to tip me on payhip or ko-fi.

#nicholas galitzine #nicholas galitzine gif pack #nicholas galitzine gif hunt #gif pack #gif hunt #rpt #rpc #rph #my boyyy #It'S FINALLY DONE #ty to ann for keeping me sane through this #userindig #mneverland #usermina #ref

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johannawesterling · 5 days

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Me after finally finishing the first chapter of my Dance rewrite.

#a whole year I have been fighting with this #so many rewrites #so many outlines thrown out #it's finally done #team green #alicent hightower #Aemond targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #Helaena targaryen #Criston cole #alicole #but platonic #Rhaenicent #they haunt the narrative

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taz-skylar · 2 years

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@animangacreators challenge 1 → favourite animanga ⚓️ one piece

I’m going to become King of the Pirates!

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interpolationz · 1 year

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i simply could not choose just one thing

#it's finally done #this took me like 12 hours for some reason #i really like to result tho so it was worth it #anyway #dialtown #oliver swift #dialtownplushcontest #skribbles

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carogdraws · 1 year

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Afton's Return AU part 6

And we're off!

[previous] [next]

[back to start]

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mllekurtz · 9 months

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Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Essek Thelyss/Caleb Widogast

Rosohnans call it the rainy season: a time of humid days, heavy showers, and suffocating heat.

Caleb, who feels less and less like a stranger in the city he recently decided to call home, finds it's also a time for revelations.

(aka the porn-with-vibes fic)

#aka the one shot i've been working on since january #it's finally done #critical role #shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #my fics #fic: the empire of lights

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wereah · 2 years

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It's finally finished!

This based on @lilac-writes fanfic Promises, which is the 11th in the Worthwhile series. It's a really cute Gaara / Lee story, that may be the only time I've read a canonverse story of Gaara in a nightclub. It's pretty great, please read it and then come back and talk to me about it.

Special thanks to @eltrio2 for cheerleading, @dailyrandomwriter and @drawndoggo for listening to me whine handholdingfor the last month.

I usually have way more to say after the completion of a project, but it's been a real hassle trying to get it uploaded today. I might come back another time and pick it apart. But now right now. I'm gonna go draw my new DnD character

Thanks! I hope you like it.

P.S. How would YOU have deal with this situation?

so still leery of posting stuff with links, but here's hoping it shows up in the tag!

#naruto #naruto comic #kakashi #gaalee #leegaa #worthwhile comic #IT'S FINALLY DONE #It's taken me like a freaking month but it's DONE #I'm posting it really late #will reblog at a later date JUST TRY TO STOP ME

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drifting-pieces-blog-blog · 1 year

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Front Stuck

Summary: Steven plans for a check up. Jake and Marc have issues with these plans. Sometimes you have to do what you don't want to do and then have to deal with it later. Sometimes you feel like all you do is fuck up and you just need a reminder of how useful you are.

Pairings: General fic

Warnings: Dealing with fear of medical facilities, a feeling of failure/uselessness, and D.I.D issues.

Word Count: 8,051

The forms had been sent to them a week in advance.

It was a good thing, too, because it was midnight and their appointment was in the morning and they still had not filled them out.

It had taken two days for Steven to find the forms online and then print them. He had then pinned them to the task board and then waited.

Now he sat at his desk staring down at the forms and feeling the anxiety settling in. Not just into him, but spreading slowly across the three of them for wildly different reasons.

Steven stared down at the very first question on the paper and kept his pen hovering just above the line.

It had seemed so easy at first glance. He could have filled this thing out in minutes. How many had he filled out before all of this?

His vision blurred. How many had he filled out? He didn’t know. He had no memory of filling out forms. Things had just come and he had just accepted them by the grace of Marc and his connections.

He started to feel a pang of panic. He read the question again. Three words. He didn’t so much as read them as he recognized the words and they processed somewhere in his brain with a meaning and answer.

“First name. Middle name. Last name.” He licked his lips and stabbed the pen on the paper, prepared to sweep it down into the familiar curve of an ‘S’.

His hand stuttered and he pulled the pen back, leaving behind a spatter of ink. He rubbed his finger over the ink frantically, smudging it into a blur in an effort to extract it back from the paper.

“What are you doing?” Marc muttered, tired and grumpy. He had been grumpy all week since they had made the appointment.

“They want a name.” Steven looked at the ink on his fingers and rubbed them together till the ink dissipated into a faint darkness on his fingers.

“Yeah.” Marc sighed. “So put down a name.”

“What name?” Steven sighed loudly. “Legally, everything is in your name.”

Marc made a sound that reminded Steven of an upset cat. “You have all the paperwork. You exist legally.”

“Legally.” Steven huffed. “So long as they don’t look into it. I don’t exactly have anything backing the name. What if they look me up?”

“Fine!” Marc grumbled. “Put my name down.”

Steven put the pen back on the paper and was about to slant the pen into a firm ‘M’ when he paused. “Are you still on some sort of international criminal list?”

There was a moment of silence and Steven wondered if Marc had heard him. “Marc?”

“Give them your name.” Marc sounded tired.

“But what if-” He started.

“Then give them Jake’s name!” Marc snapped.

There was a very sharp and quick wave of dizziness that washed over Steven, a sign that Jake was not only listening but that he was deeply displeased by this suggestion.

Jake had also been in a mood all week. Not nearly as grumpy as Marc had been, but he had kept his distance, not even taking his usual morning cup of coffee like he had grown accustomed to doing in the past few months.

“Right.” Steven swept the pen back up and quickly wrote his name in full across the top before he could think of any other reasons not to.

Next question. Birthday. Steven stared at the line and drew a blank. “Uh….”

“March ninth of eighty seven.” Marc answered quickly before Steven could start to distress over if they had the same birthday or not. “It’s when the body was born. Let’s just keep it simple.”

Steven nodded. He liked simple. He wrote it down and moved to the next few questions. Easy. Address. He knew that one. Hair and eye color? Easy. Height? There was some disagreement there between the three on that one, but it was mostly because of their different postures. He wrote down a number, ignoring the way Marc made sounds of disapproval at him.

Ethnicity. Steven paused and stared at the little tick boxes. He knew what he would have marked before. Now he had an angry American in his head that lied on all his forms and someone else in his head that cursed people out in spanish.

He marked yes to the ‘Hispanic/Latino’ box. He hesitated then moved on to the next question. If it came up, he’d make sure proper direction was given on the rest of his ethnicity, but there was still some internal contention and disagreements about it that wasn’t worth the fight.

“Okay. Not that bad. I think this is going well.” He turned the page and froze, pen mid twirl in his fingers.

Medical history. Steven had thought the simple act of writing his name was difficult. He was suddenly faced with the fact that he didn’t know their medical history. If someone asked him personally, he’d say he was fit as a fiddle aside from his slight insomnia.

Never hospitalized, never broke a bone in his body, and never suffered from depression or mental breaks.

Now he stared into the blank void that was his memory and felt the gaps creeping in. The time that had passed in the blink of an eye suddenly stretched out into years and the aches and pains of his body pulled up questions he didn’t know the answers to.

He blinked hard and felt himself start to grow fuzzy as he slipped up and away into himself.

“Fuck.” Marc felt Steven dissociate so hard that he came to the front with a killer headache. “Hey, buddy. It’s alright. Don’t worry about it. I got this part. Mostly.”

Marc was able to tick off the family medical history parts easily enough. He had vague memories of his grandparents, but he was fairly certain he knew how they had eventually died.

When it came time for his own medical history he breezed through the questions of current ailments. No transplants, no cancers, no diabetes, no chronic illnesses. No allergies despite what Steven claimed.

He decided he wouldn’t count anything supernatural so any injuries during his Khonshu days were brushed aside, including his death and near death experiences.

He paused when it came to other issues. Broken bones? Yes. More than a few. He paused as he remembered his broken arm, broken rib, broken nose, broken finger… He felt the blows, the bullets, the snap, the fall, the fear.

He shook his head and focused back in on the questions. No clotting disorders, no liver issues despite his best efforts, no kidney disease, no heart problems if he overlooked the many times it had stopped.

Next was the fun part. The part where he got to decide how much was truly needed. Did they really need to know about his mental health? Did the questions apply to him personally or to the whole system or do the body as a whole?

‘Do you drink and if so, how many drinks a day?’ Marc did drink. He drank a lot. But only in binges. He was not a casual drinker. He could go months without a drop of alcohol and then the darkness would swallow him whole and he would down a whole bottle of whiskey.

Did that qualify him as an alcoholic or something else? Steven called it self destruction. Marc ticked off the ‘no’ line. This wasn’t that sort of visit.

‘Do you smoke?’ Steven certainly didn’t. Marc had enjoyed a casual cigar now and then in his mercenary days. In the military he had been known to suck down a cigarette in the hopes that he might seem normal to the other men or that it might bring him some calm. He didn’t smoke anymore.

Jake did. About once a week Jake would casually nurse a cigarette through the night. Something he marked as his own, and perhaps he needed it. Did it affect the body? None of them seemed to have an addiction.

Steven hated it. He deeply disliked the smell and the way the taste lingered. He had been not so subtly leaving nicotine patches out in the hopes to get Jake to stop. When he found the cigarettes he would immediately toss them in the trash. Jake was hardly deterred. He had been hiding things far longer than Marc and always seemed to have spares.

He marked yes. He could claim to be quitting if asked.

‘Do you take recreational drugs?’ That one was at least easy enough to answer. Steven would never touch the stuff, Jake wouldn’t touch it either. Marc could remember one severely bad experience back in the day when he had tried to find another way to escape and it was enough to assure he never tried it again.

Now for the list of mental health issues. Marc hated that list. How truthful did he need to be? If he marked depression did that mean that they would have to talk about it? It wasn’t a problem that he felt needed to be talked about. At least not in this capacity. He certainly didn’t want to take any medications.

So what would happen? “Oh hey, I see you marked depression. Do you want drugs? No? Okay.” And then move on? Would they think him a danger to himself? Would they recommend he see someone? Would they-

“Fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuuuck.” Marc scrunched his eyes closed as he fought off the flashbacks. He didn’t want to deal with this. He could just mark no. No depression. No anxiety. No PTSD. No ‘other’ where he wouldn’t be forced to write down D.I.D on the little blank line. No no no no no.

“What the hell is this, Hermano?” Jake stared at the form. He shoved it aside for a moment and tapped the pen on the desktop. “I’m not going.” He dropped the pen and crossed his arms. “We don’t need to go. There is nothing wrong. Why the hell does any of this matter? We aren’t dying.”

“Jake, please.” Steven’s voice whispered up to him. “We have to go. I’ll go. Neither of you have to do anything. I just… I don’t know how to fill this out. Please?”

Jake glared down at the form. “What does it matter? They don’t need this stuff. They probably don’t even know what D.I.D is! They’ll just call us liars. Think we’re making it up. Just mark no on everything.”

He picked up the pen and quickly drew a line down the ‘no’ column angrily. He looked back up at some of the things Marc had filled in. He scoffed and debated on changing some of the answers.

Allergies? Yes. Of course they had allergies. Hay Fever was a real issue for them. Steven couldn’t see half the spring because his eyes were so swollen. Not to mention medication allergies. If they took a sulfa they might die. Probably something he should remind Marc about and alert Steven to. It just had not come up.

He changed the allergies and wrote in the appropriate information. Steven argued about the food allergies but Jake waved a dismissive hand. He had yet to have any issues with milk despite what Steven claimed. Steven could keep his oatmilk to himself.

Medication list? Allergy meds were written out neatly. So were the pain medications that they all slammed back when the headaches hit. Antacids when the anxiety caused the stomach upset to hit. Steven slammed the tums like they were candy.

He was tempted to write in caffeine considering how much he drank, but he didn’t want to give Steven another reason to get after him. He was going to enjoy his single cigarette on occasion. It made him feel like the body was his for just a little while.

Alcohol? Yes. Marc’s denial was likely to show up on the bloodwork eventually. Might as well get it out there in the open. At least he could mark occasional in that line, since it was nearly impossible to track when Marc would melt down and stumble into the nearest bar to drink it dry.

Jake also didn’t want to let Steven know that he took in an occasional drink when he slipped out to his own favorite activities.

“There.” Jake sat back and tapped the corrected form.

Steven fumbled the twirling pen and looked the form over. “Oh wow. Good to know about the medications.”

He stared at the mental health part and sighed. “Jake…” He muttered and moved to correct it.

“What?” Jake grumbled. “Is it important? No. It will cause more trouble than needed. We aren’t going there to look for help on these issues. Who cares if it’s wrong?”

“What if we do want help? Or what if we go for help later?” Steven marked yes to the depression.

“Are you depressed?” Jake countered.

“No… I suppose I’m not.” He frowned.

“I’m not depressed.” Jake continued. “The body isn’t depressed. The body feels just fine.”

Steven sighed loudly. “What about Marc?”

“What about me?” Marc growled. “I’m not going. They don’t need to know about my depression. I feel fine.”

Steven crossed out his correction and left it as ‘no.’

“We have anxiety.” He marked yes.

“No we don’t.” Marc and Jake argued.

“I could sit here and argue with you two and give you examples all day and night. You don’t get to correct me on this one.” He scowled and marked a dark ‘yes’ check mark.

Steven continued to correct the lies. He wrote in PTSD. Perhaps he was not affected, he wasn’t really sure, but he had done enough research to know that PTSD and D.I.D tended to walk hand in hand. Marc certainly was affected by it enough to ripple out to all three of them at the very least. Jake denied it, but Steven knew better. As the emotional protector, Steven had been forced to front in far more random situations than was normal.

Autism? It was not confirmed. Not as far as he was aware. He suspected that Jake knew something he didn’t know on the matter. Perhaps one day he would find a way to get his early medical records from Chicago. Marc and Jake would be unhappy about it, but Steven was tired of situations like this. Situations where he didn’t know what medications might kill him.

He left it alone. He was exhausted and getting into that argument with Jake and Marc right now was not worth it.

Their appointment was early enough that Steven decided the form was filled in enough. He got up and stretched, his back popping and snapping in ways that made him eye the ‘broken bone’ section of the form again suspiciously.

“I’m not going.” Jake reaffirmed.

“You don’t have to go further than the parking lot.” Steven shrugged. “Just get us there.”

They got ready for bed, the nightly routine coming easy to them as they each took care of their own chosen task.

It wasn’t needed to share tasks like this, but it was something Steven had come up with to help each of them feel more like the body belonged to them.

The dreams that night were filled with long hallways and swinging doors. A sense of dread and sadness drifted around them until Steven woke up, sweat beaded across his forehead.

“Whose dream was that?” He sighed and got dressed. He pulled on his usual clothes, planning for his own comfort considering that the visit was going to be handled by him.

Marc was lurking just to the back, doing his best to convince Steven to stay home. “We really don’t need this. It’s fine. We’ve gone how long without this? I mean, nothing’s wrong. We feel fine.”

“Nope.” Steven pulled on his coat and headed down to the car. “You can hide if you like. We’re going. I’ll tell you how it went when it’s over.” Steven let Jake slip into the driver’s seat.

“Not past the parking lot.” Jake pulled his cap on and started the car. Normally relaxed and carefree when he drove, Jake kept his grip on the wheel tight and he drove five under the speed limit.

He pulled his cap down low over his eyes and kept the radio quiet. His mind wandered, slipping down a tile hall with white walls and swinging doors. A time when security and safety felt too far away.

He parked and got out of the car. There was no safety or comfort in places like this. Places that did not listen to you. They did not have the time to care. They had preconceived notions on your standing and sorted you into a corner that you were expected to stay in.

“Jake?” Steven felt their heart rate flutter to a pounding race. “That’s good, mate. I’ll take it from here.”

Jake clenched his fist and tried to will away the memory. To close the door on the sensation of helplessness.

“Yeah. I just… Give me a second.” He took off his cap and tossed it back into the car in an effort to step out of the body. He could feel Steven’s sweater hanging down around him, heavy and blanketing over them. It felt suffocating and far too heavy against his skin.

“Jake. Switch out with me.” Steven reached and found the normal position of front and center shifting away from him.

Jake felt the papers that they had filled out folded up in his pocket. He could even hear the ticking of his watch, advancing them closer and closer to their check in time.

“I’m stuck.” Jake started to breathe hard as he realized that he was front stuck. He had never been stuck before. That didn’t happen to him. He was the gatekeeper, for crying out loud. He was the one that got the other two unstuck when needed. He could kick them out of the front seat at any time. It was part of his job.

“Hey, it’s okay!” Steven tried to calm him. “I’m sure I’ll take over when it’s time. Just go in and we’ll get through this. Okay?”

Jake stared up at the building. It was brick brown and looming. The many windows solid and glaring at him. He could see the automatic doors, larger than normal and equipped with emergency buttons and other features not normally found on your everyday door.

The building looked nothing like the one from his memory. He had been in hospitals since then. This wasn’t even a hospital. It was a glorified office building turned into a ‘specialty center’. The sign out front spoke of physical therapy, dentists, dermatologists, and gastrology.

“What floor?” Jake hunched his shoulders, missing his usual coat and collar, as he walked inside.

“If it’s too much we can reschedule. Tell them we had car trouble or have a fever or something.” Steven could feel their heart rate still racing and pounding.

“What floor?” Jake snapped and walked up to the directory sign, trying to remember the name he had seen on the forms last night.

“Fourth.” Steven sighed as he continued to try to take back the body. “412. They said it was to the right of the elevator.”

“Am I supposed to be British?” Jake got in the elevator and jabbed his finger into the button harder than needed. “You gave them your name, right?”

“I don’t think they will care what you sound like.” Steven did not want to hear Jake imitate an English accent. Jake could pull off a very good Marc voice, but it was close enough to his own rough grumble. “Just give them my name and the papers.”

Steven felt Marc shift and peek out at the world around them. “Uh, Steven? What’s Jake doing? I thought this was your rodeo?”

Jake jammed his hands in his pockets and tapped his foot, not keeping pace with the melancholy elevator music in the slightest as they went up one floor at a time.

“He’s having a bloody panic attack is what he’s doing.” Steven sighed.

“I’m fine.” Jake shifted as the elevator came to a stop and the doors slowly opened. “Just get this over with.”

They all watched as Jake navigated to the correct door and walked into the office. He glanced around, taking in the old lumpy chairs, the coffee tables with frayed magazines, the water cooler in the corner with paper cups shaped so that you couldn’t set them down without spilling, and a sliding glass window at the front counter.

“Oh my god, is he going to fight the doctor? Marc? We’re supposed to get our blood done today. Is he going to punch the doctor?” Steven started to panic, struggling harder to take back the body.

Steven had been front stuck before. It didn’t bother him. He was out most of the time and only felt terrible that he was taking up someone else’s time. It had never been a problem.

Marc had gotten front stuck more than a few times. He had smiled awkwardly as he went to work and avoided talking at all costs. He had been in charge of the body for so long. It was only annoying to him.

Jake was not used to holding front for longer than needed. Jake didn’t like holding front. Jake did what needed to be done then tossed it back to one of them.

The stress was building as the glass window slid open and a lady in scrubs smiled up at them expectantly.

“No…” Marc tried to reassure Steven. “He’ll be fine. We’ll just uh… Maybe I can try to take the body. Jake, give me the body.”

Jake stared at the woman from across the room. “Shut up. Just fucking shut up.” He hissed under his voice and put on what he hoped was a confident smile.

“I have an appointment.” Jake walked to the counter and pulled out the folded papers, slapping them down on the counter. “Grant. Steven.”

She looked down at the papers then up at Jake before taking the papers, unfolding them. “Right.” She flipped through them then nodded and handed him a clipboard with more papers and a pen. “Consent forms to fill out. They’ll call you back in just a moment.”

Jake stiffly walked to a chair and sat down, glancing down at the papers. He didn’t read them. They were blocks and blocks of text with lines highlighted now and then to show where to initial and sign.

He stiffly wrote SG in all the small lines then scratched a signature on each page. It looked nothing like Steven’s neat handwriting and had the situation been different, Steven would have said something.

“Jake? Please don’t fight the doctor. They’re going to take blood today. Are you okay with needles?” Steven tried to sound patient and like everything was fine.

“I can tell you right now that I would not be sitting there.” Marc mumbled. “If I was out there, I’d be climbing out the window. No one’s getting blood from me unless I bleed on them.”

“Not helping!” Steven snapped. “Try relaxing. Just close your eyes and breathe with me. Okay? In and out. Nice and slow.”

Jake closed his eyes and took a deep slow breath in. He held it a moment then pushed it out forcefully.

They wouldn’t listen. They never listened. Even as an adult. He saw the horrible puke green and brown fatigues as the military doctor looked at the clipboard then up at him with a frown. “You’re being discharged.”

“Steven Grant?” A voice called. “Mr. Grant?”

Jake jolted back to the present and stared up at the woman for a moment before he jumped up and held up the clipboard. “Here.”

She smiled and held out a hand for the clipboard. She was in light lilac colored scrubs. Far from the horrible grays and white of his childhood.

Jake lingered for a moment, suddenly feeling more comfortable out in the waiting room than the prospect of seeing what lay hidden behind the door.

“Right this way please.” She held the door open for him.

“Steven?” Jake called out internally. He was met with silence. His panic started to rise. He had shut them out.

Jake swallowed hard and tried to pretend it was a mission. He was doing this for Steven. He had to pretend to be Steven. He wasn’t Jake Lockley, a man terrified and lost in a memory. He was Steven Grant, a man with no rational fear.

“Right.” Jake stepped through the door and glanced around. There was a scale immediately to his right and he stepped onto it, watching as the nurse balanced the metal bar.

He was next ushered into an exam room and sat down while she pulled up his chart and started to type. “Name and birthday? Just to confirm things.” She smiled at him again.

“Uh… Steven Grant. Steven with a V.” Jake knew how to play the part. It was easy to get lost in Steven. It was like a well polished script. “March ninth, nineteen eighty seven.”

She nodded then looked at his chart. “You aren’t on any medications?”

He knew what she was talking about. She had gotten to the anxiety and depression part of the form.

“None. Just what’s listed there.” He tapped a finger on his knee and tried to hold onto the imagination of being Steven. Steven doing his everyday things. Steven chatting and answering questions.

She pulled out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. “Roll up your sleeve and relax your arm, please.”

He looked down at his arm then at the cuff. He fumbled with the sleeves for a moment, struggling to get the stretched material to stay in place.

He flinched as she put the cuff on then looked away. He didn’t want to be here. She would find something wrong. She’d sense something was off. It was only a matter of time before she looked at him with that look.

He closed his eyes as she pumped up the cuff. He felt a pull and realized that he was starting to dissociate. Normally he would lean into it and hope that Steven or Marc stepped in.

But the wall was up. They were locked out. It was just him and this situation. Even if they managed to switch out now, the wall was there and that meant any communication about the situation was shut down. Whoever slipped in now would not know what was going on.

Jake felt a jolt like he was falling and he jolted back to the present. The cuff was off and the nurse was typing at the computer again. She was saying something….

“Good numbers. The doctor should be in to do their exam in just a minute.” She stood up and went to the door, giving him a smile before walking out.

Jake sank back in the chair and stared at the ceiling. A stained drop tile that looked like it had seen better days stared back at him. There was an exam table to the side with what looked like white butcher paper on it. He wondered if he was supposed to sit on it. He hated the sound it made. How it bunched under him. How he felt like he would tear it if he moved wrong.

Jake felt himself starting to slip. Maybe Steven was hacking away at the barrier. He had never been happier to feel anyone pulling control from him.

There was a fuzzy moment then he came to, sitting on the table with crinkle paper and staring at an older man with glasses and a white coat who had a stethoscope pressed to his back.

“Breathe normally now.” The man commanded.

Jake sucked in a breath and tried to focus, searching for any trail of communication left behind. Someone was switching in and out with him. He really hoped it was Steven and not Marc. Marc was not going to handle this any better than he was. If it was at least Steven, maybe they would get through this without looking like they needed to be locked up.

“You can breathe normally.” The man repeated and Jake realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly, struggling to slow his heartbeat.

The man moved the device around a bit then sat back. “Nervous?”

Jake managed to nod. “I don’t like doctors.”

“A common issue.” The man held up a finger. “Follow the tip of my finger with your eyes please.” He moved his finger, watching Jake’s reaction closely.

Jake locked onto the finger like it was the only thing in the world and followed it despite his disorientation.

“You have nothing to worry about.” The doctor felt Jake’s neck, checking his lymph nodes. “So far everything is looking pretty good. Stick out your tongue.”

The world blurred and Jake felt a slip again. He blinked in time to feel a reflex hammer jolt his left knee into a kick. “Fuck.” He clenched his hands and hoped he wasn’t fucking up anything.

“Good reflexes.” The doctor moved to the computer and typed rapidly. “You wrote in PTSD under concerns. Have you seen anyone about your PTSD?”

“No.” Jake mumbled.

“Were you properly diagnosed?” Now that was a loaded question and Jake looked up at the doctor suspiciously for a moment before he realized the doctor was asking about medical history and not for details.

“Yes. Military doctor.” It wasn’t really a lie, so much as an embellishment. It was also a good way to shut down the line of questions. Military induced PTSD was expected, after all.

“I see. Would you like some recommendations? I can have the front staff print you out a list of therapists and psychiatrists in the area.” He typed away, not looking up.

“No.” Jake crossed his arms. He hoped that was the right answer. If it wasn’t, Steven could figure it out. He would schedule it just like he did this appointment. Despite the protests and arguments, it would happen. Jake just hoped that if it did happen that he wouldn’t be the one forced into it.

“Do you feel like it is affecting your normal daily activities?” A fishing question. Jake glared at the doctor, on high alert now.

“No. We manage it just fine.” He winced at the wrong use of identification. Steven was getting to him with his inclusion tactics. “My wife and I, I mean. I have support.” That was the correct answer. He wasn’t alone. He had support. It was no longer the problem of the medical provider.

The doctor nodded. “Good. Good. It’s important to talk to someone.”

“Yup.” Jake looked away. “Before you ask, I’m working on the smoking too. Down to one a week.” It wasn’t an outright lie. After this little incident he was probably going to cut back to one every other week for a while.

The answer seemed to please the doctor who nodded. “Excellent. I like to hear it.”

Jake felt the familiar pull and slip start to happen. Just take it. Take it Steven. Get us out of here.

Blinking back in, he felt utterly frustrated and disoriented. They were standing now and walking down a hall. He put the brakes on and looked around frantically. They were not walking towards the waiting room. They were going further into the den of the beast.

A memory stirred and Jake fought it off, angry now at the whole situation.

“Just to your right.” The nurse from before urged him to keep going.

Jake looked back at her quickly then looked at the room to his right. It didn’t look like the kind of room that you put the trouble makers in to lock up.

In fact, there was a simple chair with an armrest in it and a lot of lab equipment and tubes all over the counters.

“Oh fuck no.” Jake froze in the doorway. “No no. I’m not doing that. I don’t…. This wasn’t what I agreed to.”

“I know, not everyone likes needles.” The nurse tried to sound comforting. “The phlebotomist is really good. You’ll barely feel a thing.”

STEVEN. Jake didn’t move. His panic started to swirl as he stared at the chair.

He started to feel dizzy. For a split second he wondered if it was Marc. Was he forcing Marc into his worst nightmare? Marc sitting in the chair, strapped down as they poked him with a needle?

Marc clenching his fists as he sank into a flashback of being drugged and tied down? Nightmares waiting to surface for the next three weeks?

Jake reluctantly took a slow breath and shook his head to clear it before he sat down in the chair, moving an arm to lay across the armrest.

The nurse stepped out of the way as another person entered the room. “Hello. Looks like I’ll be getting a few tubes of blood from you. Should be real quick. Are you alright with needles?”

Jake looked up at them, unable to focus on any part of the person. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to point them out in a line up later. Jake shook his head firmly.

“Are you likely to pass out?” The person was collecting some supplies and sat down across from him.

Jake stared blankly, trying to process the question. “I don’t… think so?”

“Alright. We’ll take this as it comes. If you think you’re going to pass out, tell me or try to lean back. I’d rather you not hit the floor if we can avoid it.” The person was now tying a tourniquet around Jake’s arm and checking his veins.

Jake nodded slightly and looked away, clenching his free fist in his lap tightly. He wasn’t going to let Marc have the option of slipping into their chair. He could do this. He wasn’t afraid of needles. At least he didn’t think so. He couldn’t recall if their blood had ever been taken before.

He did recall IV lines. Being hooked up to cold saline drips and drugs that made him sleepy and nauseous. He felt a pinch then the tight band around his arm released. There was pressure and some fidgeting as the person switched out some tubes.

The pinch shifted and was gone, replaced by a gentle pressure of a cotton ball then the tight pull of pressure wrap.

“All done!” The person proclaimed. “We should have the results back by the end of the week.”

Jake nodded and looked down at the dark blue wrap around his arm now. He still felt vulnerable and like his arm was now compromised. He bent his arm and held it protectively as he rolled the sleeve back down.

So this was why Steven wore these sleeves. The comfort of them over his arm was a little soothing now. Warm and sheltering.

“Exit is just down the hall back the way you came. Wave to the front desk on your way out and you’re all good to go!” The person was labeling the tubes, putting them on rockers that gently tilted and mixed the blood in the tubes.

Jake nodded and stood up, backing out into the hall. “Thanks.” He managed to mumble before looking up and seeing an exit sign with an arrow.

He turned a corner and saw the familiar door he had come through from the waiting room. If he had been alone he would be running now as he quickly stepped to the door and pried it open, hurrying through.

He paused to wave at the front desk woman. She smiled and waved back, saying something he didn’t catch.

Jake threw open the front door and rushed out towards the elevator. The ride down was a blank and he was certain someone else had moved them through the building back to the parking lot because he had a missing space where the memory should have been.

Keys fumbled in his hand as he unlocked his car with the push of a button. Sliding into the driver seat, he sat there for a moment and stared at the steering wheel. He didn’t bother trying to ground himself.

It took a moment before Steven made himself known again. “I think that went well.”

“Are you kidding me?” Marc snapped from the dark. “I’m shocked my blood pressure wasn’t through the roof after I switched in.”

Jake stared at the wheel and slowly slid a finger across it. So Marc had slipped in. They would be having nightmares tonight.

As much as he didn’t want to be there, desperate to slip to the back where he didn’t have to deal with the body or the world around them, he needed to get them home. He needed to make sure they were safe in familiar territory.

He started the car and waved a hand as if brushing away any conversation that might take place. They had a strict rule about fronting while driving that was enforced after one nearly disastrous accidental switch out.

“Hey Jake?” Steven gently spoke up from the back. It was easy to pretend that it was a passenger behind him making casual conversation in this role.

“Hmm?” He pulled the car out of the parking lot and out onto the street a little faster than needed. He wanted distance between them and the medical building behind them .

“You don’t have to protect us from things like this. I know it’s a trigger for both of you, but this isn’t life or death. It’s stress. You can let me handle it. Let me do my job, okay? Let me protect you too. Not just Marc.” He was gentle and soft. It was truth and hard to hear. Sometimes truth needed to be whispered softly.

“You think I wanted to do that?” Jake snapped, angry at everything and nothing all at once. He sighed and nodded. “I’m sorry. I fucked it up.”

“You did really well.” Steven assured. “No one freaked out. No one punched anyone in the face and made a run for it. Marc didn’t even dissociate much!” He sounded proud.

“I should have had better control. This was your thing.” Jake angrily flicked on the blinker as he merged lanes. “That is my job. Make sure the right person is where they are supposed to be. How the fuck do I get front stuck in moments like this?”

They were silent for a moment and Jake longed to be home where he could give back the body and slip back to where he was most comfortable. If he could. Could he? He had never been stuck like that before.

His fingers clenched on the steering wheel. What if he got stuck again? What if he put up the wall and couldn’t get it back down? What if-

“Jake?” Steven’s voice filtered through the haze. “Relax. You’re freaking out a bit. I can’t drive. I mean, I think I did rather well when under pressure of a bullet and death, but that’s different from busy street driving.”

Jake shook his head, trying to clear it. He was getting fuzzy. It was what he wanted but not now. Driving was his grounding thing. Even when Marc tried to go somewhere, Jake was always lingering around the front, ready to jump behind the wheel.

The idea that he was losing everything suddenly popped into his head. He was hindering them. They wouldn’t be able to rely on him for anything.

Hands clenched on the wheel and Marc was suddenly there, taking a quick glance around to get his bearings.

Jake sank back, rushing past Steven’s worried gaze and away from Marc’s own emotions. Steven could take care of Marc now. It was Steven’s job. He handled the emotions. He handled the problems. He took care of the body, the spirit, and the general well being.

The nightmares came. They all knew they would. They had warned Steven weeks ago. They were used to nightmares.

When Steven had nightmares, they were filled with sadness and feelings of being lost and alone. He would wake with tears in his eyes and a half hearted chuckle as he wiped them away and called out to Marc. He always called out to Marc in these times. Reassurance that he was there. That he wasn’t alone. That he had a friend to rely on.

Marc had them the worst. Dreams that could make them wake up screaming and crying. Dreams that were pretty solid representations of stress, grief, and violence. When Marc woke from his dreams, he would clench his fists and breathe like a drowning man pulled from an ocean. Steven would be there to sooth him. To reassure him that he was safe.

Jake tried not to dream. HIs dreams were so strange that neither Marc nor Steven understood what they were seeing. Only Jake knew the memories for what they were. He hid his feelings, taking calm and deep breaths in the dark as Steven mumbled about how weird that one was.

He couldn’t let them know. He couldn’t let them see. This was his job. If they did see, he would wipe it away immediately, leaving just a fog of what was almost there.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel like he had failed. Like he had left them down. He was supposed to be better than that. He needed to let them run the life. His purpose was internal. He had no need to be out anymore, did he?

It was a solid two weeks before Jake found himself sitting in front again. He had occasionally peaked above the surface to see what was going on, and on seeing a normal average life spanning out, he had ducked back below.

Now, he sat blinking in the light and staring down at a cup of coffee. There had been no trigger. No threat or stress. The body was in good condition and as far as he could tell, there were no injuries.

Just him and a cup of fresh coffee in a diner at a booth towards the back.

“If you don’t want to front, that’s fine.” Marc’s voice reached up to him. “But you don’t get to go silent on us.”

Jake sighed and sipped the coffee. It was done just how he liked it. “You don’t need me fucking things up.” He muttered and looked up as a waitress set down a plate of eggs and hash. He offered a thankful nod to her as she walked off.

“You aren’t fucking things up.” Marc gave an irritated sigh and nudged the fork with their hand, indicating he wanted Jake to start eating.

“Where’s Steven?” Jake hated when Marc tried to use passive influence on them. He moved his hand away from the fork and grabbed the hot sauce instead, dumping it across the plate.

“He’s tired. I gave him the day off.” Marc watched as things were mixed up and piled onto a slice of toast. “He’s been fronting for two weeks since you decided to take a vacation.”

“Why aren’t you taking a turn?” Jake took a bite and felt a familiar twinge as the body recognized how hungry it was. He struggled not to start shoveling food in and instead took a long sip of the coffee.

“Because I’m having panic attacks.” Marc shrugged.

“From the doctor visit?” Jake looked down at the plate. If he had just done what he was supposed to do then Steven could have handled it all and Marc wouldn’t have been forced to deal with it at all.

“No.” Marc sounded tired. “Cause of a lot of things, but mostly you giving us the cold shoulder.”

“I’m not giving you the cold shoulder. You’ve both done just fine without me up till now and after what happened, you might do just fine without me again.” Jake took another bite.

Marc made a snorting laugh sound. “We did not do fine without you. From what I gather, I’ve never been without you. Just because I didn’t know you were there doesn’t mean that you weren’t there.” It sounded suspiciously like something Steven might have said to Marc at one point.

“Our lives aren’t like that anymore.” Jake muttered. “You don’t need me to jump in and save us.”

Marc was silent for a moment while Jake drank his coffee. The waitress stopped by with a pot and topped his mug off before shuffling off to other tables.

“Saving someone isn't always about battles and fights.”

“You have Steven for the bad days.” Jake added a packet of sugar and stirred the coffee slowly.

“I’m only going to say this once, so listen up.” Marc sighed. “No one understands like you do, Jake. Steven wasn’t there. Even if we tell him, even if you show him the memories… Everything we went through, you were there… You don’t just fight to protect us from outside harm. After everything, you deserve some happiness. You deserve a turn at life… If you want it.”

Jake looked down at the plate. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay. We’re sharing this existence, right? Sometimes things happen and you just gotta let the shit happen and hope Steven’s there later to drag us out of it.” Marc grinned and would have patted him on the shoulder if he could.

“So did we get the results from the doctor back yet?” Jake reached up to brush the hair out of his face. “Are we going to live?”

“Yeah. ‘Fraid so. Cholesterol is a little high, though. Steven hasn’t let me hear the end of that. There’s a lot more carrots in the house than I ever thought possible. Uh… Don’t tell Steven what we had for breakfast.” Marc moved their hand and scooped up the last bite of the eggs quickly. “If he asks, we got oatmeal.”

Jake smirked and pushed the empty plate aside. “Now and then isn’t bad. Gotta enjoy life a little. I’ll talk to him.”

“See? Saving us already.” Marc settled back, happy to let Jake take the front fully.

Jake sipped the coffee and slowly smiled. Maybe it was time to consider opening up communication more.

“Steven’s right, you know.” Jake reached for the creamer and sugar, sweetening up the coffee.

“Annoyingly.” Marc grumbled. “I try not to let him know that. Takes it to his head. What’s he right about this time?”

“He should know about our medical history. It’s his history too. Maybe if he knows it, he can handle it better when we need to do things like routine check ups and things.”

“Jake-” Marc started to protest.

“You can tell someone things without them knowing things.” Jake leaned back and stirred the coffee slowly, watching the cream swirl into the black till it mixed into a lighter brown. “How can he save us if he doesn’t know what he’s saving us from?”

Marc was quiet for a moment. “I’m having panic attacks again.” He cleared his throat, uncomfortable and nervous. He didn’t want to talk but he did all at the same time. There were some things he could never say aloud. Things that made him feel too vulnerable, weak, or damaged. Things he didn’t want Steven to see and things he struggled to keep inside.

Jake nodded and let Marc drift close enough to the front to feel comfortable enough to take the body if he wanted. “Merc times?”

“Yeah.” Marc was tense then slowly relaxed. “Yeah…”

“Wanna talk about it?” Jake tapped the spoon on the side of the mug then let his hands cup the mug, soaking in the heat till the body relaxed.

“It’s complicated… But… Yeah. Let’s talk.” Marc relaxed and talked.

Talking never came easy to him. It never came easy to Jake either. From an outsider’s view, a man sat silently alone in a booth with his cup of coffee and a far off look on his face.

Inside, words flowed in images, memories, emotions, and a hope that settled like a feather delicately in the wind.

#Moon Knight #Moon Knight fic #Marc Spector #Jake Lockley #Steven Grant #This one has been sitting here for ages #It's finally done #It's actually two in one but I needed it to be finished #I think we forget that Marc has his use too

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