#“Fuck this scar on eye. May he become deaf in one ear!”

[how-good-day]

hi uhm

HOLY FUCK YOUR MIKHAIL DESIGN IS AWESOME HOLY FUCKING SHIT I LOVE IT IT GOES SO HARD

THANK YOU AND SORRY FOR THE LATE REPLY!

(made a small redesign he he)

[appleflavoredkitkats]

stagnant;

author’s note: been a while! this isn't as long as my other fics, but i wanted to write this because i just like the concept of fundy in las nevadas, okay? and smoke breaks. i love writing smoke breaks. and of course, i will be writing about fundy because i am biased and he deserves better lmao. this is all written before the las nevadas arc ever occurs, so if there are any discrepancies by the time las nevadas finishes, that ain't my fault.

also! all of this is platonic! i view schlatt as fundy's other father figure. for quackity, i don't necessarily view him as 100% manipulative towards fundy and schlatt, but you're free to interpret him in any way you want. and yes, i know the situation about schlatt, and i don't support the actions of the cc, but i do enjoy his dsmp character nonetheless.

DO NOT SEND THIS FIC TO ANY CONTENT CREATOR!! be nice!!

laslty, special thanks to my good friend dany from the dsmpanalysis discord server for beta-ing my fic!

relationships: platonic fundy & schlatt (father-son relationship)

warnings: trauma, smoking, gambling, drinking, alcoholism, substance abuse, self-harm (accidentally burning oneself), slight mentions of fire, parental neglect (from wilbur), unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied depression or mental illness, mental health struggles, addiction, references to past violence, death idealization, underaged gambling, arguments (in the background), and general angst!

word count: 1878

summary: fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps are then heard behind fundy, but even then, fundy doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk.

or, it's midnight in las nevadas, and fundy has a smoke break with schlatt. he reflects on the state of the server, and he reflects on himself.

( ao3 link )

a click of a lighter, the tapping of dress shoes against chiseled quartz, the rummaging of pockets to fetch another fresh pack of cigs. his paws work automatically: slicing the plastic cover with his claws, fumbling the top open, and finally selecting a cigarette from the batch, twirling it between his fingers to the sound of muffled, jazzy tunes in the background.

with the smoke in between his sharp fangs, he guides the lighter to the end of the stick. there’s a deep inhale, letting the smoke fizzle into his lungs, latching onto every feeling of remorse, regret, guilt, sadness, pain, hurt, trauma, everything— 

and fundy exhales, all of those icky sensations evaporating into misty smoke.

this cycle of mindless smoking continues as fundy stands idly on his hotel room’s balcony. up ten stories high, fundy looms over almost everything in las nevadas. despite it being midnight, las nevadas’ visitors never relent. from above, staring with droopy eyes, fundy sees all four casinos lit up brighter than a neighbourhood during the holidays. no bulbs malfunction, thankfully; all of them flicker and twinkle as if there was something to celebrate about in this place full of deceit and temporary bliss. the bars, while more mellow, have the calmest of tunes blasting from their jukeboxes. when fundy first started working here, he remembers being fond of upbeat tunes like these, but they’ve quickly grown stale, or maybe fundy’s just grown tone deaf overtime. who knows?

everything about this place grows on fundy like a terrible rash. sometimes, he does enjoy the outgoing crowds and customers, but sometimes, the noise overwhelms him— ear-piercing, annoying, inharmonious. so, he ends up in places like his dishevelled room, unkempt from all the alcohol and exhaustion and the fact that he just doesn’t  want to give a fuck anymore. but as much as his room is reminiscent of the rubble he left in his original base, he at least feels at ease with the sounds he hears from above. there is the same jazz music, the same victorious yelling at jackpots, the same rolling from the slot machines, but it’s in diminuendo. 

it’s a symphony fundy will willingly listen to because he feels like he can separate himself from the chaos present downstairs. when he is with the others, when he serves tequila shots and shuffled decks, he feels like he is at the center of his own friends’ descent but from his own bedroom, he can pretend that he is fine, that everything is fine. he can live in the delusion that his friends are shouting from a well-deserved victory when deep in the back of his head, he knows that they’ve gotten inexplicably attached to machinery that he knows is programmed to bring about their demise.

fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps is then heard behind fundy, but even then, he doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

the guy who enters pats his back twice gently as a greeting, settling himself next to fundy. fundy averts his gaze from the saturated lights to look at the goat hybrid. with a newly tailored suit and freshly manicured horns, schlatt has never looked more dapper, but his skin was still heavily scarred and immensely graying. 

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk. fundy lowers the smoke, coughing a little before raising an incredulous eyebrow at schlatt.

“i learned from the worst,” fundy replies as his free hand shuffles through his pockets, holding out the box of smokes for schlatt to get one for himself. fundy doesn’t need to ask schlatt if he has his own lighter; he somehow always does. he’s been used to his mannerisms ever since a darkened flag with glowing, orange lace loomed over a dying country.

schlatt easily raises the smoke to his chapped lips and lights it easily. he falls into the rhythm of the scenery, slouching against the metal railings as he watches the same fluorescent bulbs fundy had been watching. 

moments like these, no matter how incredibly fucked they are, are the closest fundy can get to tasting peace. his father once described peace as a taste of freedom. it is the image of bright-eyed soldiers under swathes of redwood trees, free from the shackles of tyranny and violence their oppressors have imposed on them.

but fundy knows, as always, that his father is a liar, because at this very moment, fundy connects the concept of peace with the disgusting taste of smoke.

it is a habit he’s picked up from a man he’d once considered perfect. back when the server first hit its grayest of days, sometimes fundy’s claws had itched to strike a match, to spark stones. the scorching blaze igniting was the most colorful thing  he’d had in that wasteland of grey. he’d kept doing it more and more and more, until his own fur and skin burned and he realized that he too is graying like the place he called home. when schlatt had first discovered it, fundy remembers a lot of talking—all kind, kind words that have tarnished his perception on what a caring guardian, or a father, may be—and then, out of the blue, fundy asks for a smoke. while a confused eyebrow quirks, schlatt gives him one to try out, saying that there is a first time for everything, especially since their lives have been as mundane as they possibly can be.

and here fundy is now, able to finish an entire pack in the span of a few days as if it is a part of his diet. 

but if all this substance abuse and addiction and self-sabotage and self-deprecation have become so widespread in the server, so normalized, would one even consider it awful? if everyone is traumatized or hurt, does the concept of trauma even exist in the first place?

“you know, i— don’t take this the wrong way, but i thought that you would be much happier to see all your friends reunited,” schlatt speaks, fingers gesturing to tiny specks on the ground that move in sync with the jazz. fundy hums non-committedly as a reply, not really knowing what to say. 

“well, sucks to be you, i guess. mopey ass,” schlatt jokes with the same half-smirk he uses whenever fundy is notably graying like he did in the past. fundy chuckles at it, at least, but his shoulders droop immediately after. the smallest bouts of happiness and joy make him unbelievably tired nowadays.

fundy attempts to lift his smoke again to his lips, but surprisingly, schlatt interrupts, forcing fundy to lower his arm. fundy stares at him acutely with furrowed brows. “fundy, i—” schlatt begins, and his lighthearted expression dwindles into something much more anxious and apprehensive. schlatt clears his throat and continues, “fundy, kid, i know i’m not the type to get all grossly emotional and whatnot—that’s more of tubbo’s thing—but you have to listen to me when i say that you need to leave.” schlatt grips fundy’s forearm now, firm yet slightly shaking. “kid, you’re not healthy here. it’s— you— this—” schlatt gestures towards the buildings, the lights, the entire shithole that they are stuck in, “this is not somewhere you need to be. you need to leave when you can.”

fundy blinks, and then he blinks once more before his free hand shrugs off schlatt’s grip. he returns to his original position of leaning against the railing, and through the reflection of the cold metal, fundy can see the unpleasant surprise on schlatt’s face transform into something more defeated. a pregnant silence precedes a long, exasperated sigh from schlatt. the edges of fundy’s lips slightly curve downwards.

“well, it would be easier if it weren’t for the fact that i literally have nowhere else to go,” fundy replies monotonously, as if this statement is something he’s rehearsed several times before. “i’ve hit rock bottom, schlatt. i have nothing else to lose,” fundy continues, huffing out a melancholic chuckle. he doesn’t think this situation he’s stuck in is anything comedic, but it sure is amusing how his life has continuously spiralled further and further for the past five years. he’s amused by the fact that he is still very much alive and breathing by this point despite the—fundy looks at his half-finished cigarette, the livid circles under his eyes, his furrowing ears as being exposed to multiple explosions has caused a permanent, high-pitched sound to ring in them sporadically—small, little missteps. 

it’s quiet again as schlatt stares at fundy uncomfortably. “you’re really out here wishing for god to strike you dead in front of a dead man— how very respectful of you,” schlatt replies sarcastically. fundy knows schlatt only wants to lighten up the mood. schlatt has been very persistent in helping fundy find the brighter side of things for a while, but lately, they’ve fallen flat. is schlatt’s eloquence gradually deteriorating, or is it fundy who’s only gotten more numb towards schlatt?

fundy doesn’t know, and both possibilities are undesirable, really, so fundy decides to speak. “i’m sorry,” fundy says, and he doesn’t know if it is for himself or for schlatt. maybe it’s for the both of them.

schlatt’s look softens, and he raises his free palm to grip fundy’s shoulder, thumbing it for comfort. a part of fundy wants to sob, to cry, but he chokes all his tears back with an inhale of smoke. “i’m sorry too,” schlatt murmurs, his voice the softest and the most caring it has ever been. when fundy exhales, he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes as schlatt continues, “you deserve better.”

fundy hums and his eyes trail downwards to gaze at las nevadas’ visitors once more. he spots ranboo, possibly exhausted judging by his sloppy movements, forcefully pulling a crazed tubbo from a slot machine. fundy remembers that inside, he has seen purpled, foolish, and puffy shout over a simple card, a two of clubs, arguing on whether they should split the fifteen stacks of diamonds or not. he remembers finding sam outside the bar next to the trash bins downing his own personal bottles of alcohol, gripping tightly on a withered rose as he sobs uncontrollably. at the side, he can now see a distressed bad and ant incessantly begging the blackjack booths to accept their territory offers as they’ve lost all their possessions to far too many rounds of roulette wheels and texas hold’ems. he also spots a jovial yet sly quackity skipping through the streets energetically as a stern techno and phil trail behind him, ready to smite anyone who dares terrorize the place. 

and lastly, he stares away from the crowds and returns to gaze at schlatt—tired eyes, frayed hair, drying skin—with a bittersweet smile. fundy replies, “i think we all do.”

[hellowkatey]

Febuwhump Day 19

Prompt: sleep deprivation

Warnings: graphic descriptions of torture, hallucinations

Read on AO3

Eyes Wide Shut

Panic rises in his throat as he stares at the shadows that creep up the wall. Obi-Wan flinches at flashes of light and dark, secretly hoping that they are some sort of hallucination.

Hallucinations would mean he would have an excuse to feel like the world is unraveling. Maybe the lack of sleep is finally clouding his mind enough for him to see what isn't there, or worse, a glimpse into what is beyond. He feels close enough to death to touch it, so why shouldn't he see it too?

He needs to rest. Shut his eyes and let his jail cell fade into darkness. But the analog clock hasn't moved in what feels like hours, but he knows it's only been seconds. In the rare moments when his captors aren't blaring horrible sounds that blew out his eardrums days ago, he still seems to be able to hear the damned clock. Tick, tick, ticking continuously until it makes him forget how many tick tick's he's counted and the tick tick tick longer hand is pointing at a new number. He doesn't remember that much time passing (tick tick tick tick), but such is life in captivity. Periods that feel long are actually a blink or two, and moments that he thinks he's finally found control again turn out to only be an illusion.

He lies on his side, knees tucked into his chest. Wiping away tears he doesn't remember shedding, he pretends he isn't alone. He has never told anyone, but some nights, he finds no sleep unless he imagines imaginary arms encompassing his body. A certain someone that makes his chest ache when he thinks about them too much tucked against his side and acting as his valiant protector from the horrors of the night. It's been a long time since he last shared a bed. As much as he knows he doesn't need it, he wants it because for once it would be nice to feel an ounce of comfort.

Because laying on the freezing, hard ground for any longer than a few minutes makes his body go numb. And even if he manages to muster enough strength to manifest the ghost of warm arms wrapping around his torso and a chin nestling into the crook of his neck, it fades before he has a chance to pretend he's anywhere else but locked in this prison.

He thinks he sees a flash of bright blue, or maybe green, and for a moment he thinks he's saved. But no, his mind has seemingly decided that his current torturers aren't doing a well enough job, so it dangled hope in front of his face for good measure. It's a trick of the mind. Another convincing piece of evidence that his heart pounding against his chest cavity and the pressure building in his veins aren't the only things manifesting in his sleeplessness.

Hallucinations would mean maybe he's finally cracking. Finally breaking under the pressure as many before have hoped to do to him. Obi-Wan has been through worse feats-- more pain, more bodily harm, but somehow this is a new circle of hell. Worse than a couple of days with no shut-eye. At least then he has battles or missions or other people to distract him from the exhaustion in his bones. But this... this is like a piece of Zigoola resurfacing from its hiding space in the depths of his mind.

(Sometimes if he's quiet enough he can hear the prayerful chant die Jedi, die Jedi die. Interestingly enough, he can't hear it now. Only the tick of the clock.)

Hallucinations would mean the lines between reality and whatever the hell else there is would blur completely.

Strangely, the prospect of such an existence is becoming more and more appealing.

Maybe in this augmented reality, he could finally find peace. For himself. For the galaxy. Never in his life has he wished so earnestly for a moment of quiet and stillness. Everything seems to be going wrong. The tides are turning and as much as the Republic likes to spout off about how they're the ones to come out on top, Obi-Wan has a feeling they're going to be the ones swept under the tidal wave.

(He has no evidence for this except for a lifetime of being told to trust his feelings.)

So how do you tell that to millions of soldiers created for the sole purpose of war? Or to the Jedi he fights alongside? The padawans who had to grow up too fast, and the Masters who have lost everyone in their lineage? Perhaps they're thinking it too-- he isn't so vain to assume he is the only one who cannot stand the sight of the Holonet anymore because none of it lines up with what actually happens on those battlefields. Or that he sees the way the civilians cower from both the Separatists and the Republic. Likewise, how they air their disdain with equal prejudice. They have to see it, right? The foundation crumbling beneath their feet? The chasm they walk a very thin tightrope across?

If he's lucky, all of this has been one big dream. One big escape from reality and he will wake up in the Jedi Temple with the smell of Qui-Gon's favorite tea brewing and a padawan braid hanging from behind his ear. Because Obi-Wan is pretty sure the last time the galaxy had some semblance of normalcy was before he was forced to cut Maul in half.

He stares at the shadows that claw across the ceiling, menacing and vile as they draw in the last drops of light. If the faces he sees staring back at him are only a hallucination, he will be satisfied. Because facing them for real is a feat he isn't ready for, so he closes his eyes as though that will keep the ghosts from following him.

And that's the problem with dreams, he thinks, I yield control to the wills of my mind, and I have no confidence it will be any less horrifying than the reality I currently live.

But the moment ends with what sounds like the scream of a dying krayt dragon being blasted into the room from all directions, and Obi-Wan jumps to his knees in surprise before toppling over once again. He covers his ears as though that will keep out the noise or the vibrations that shake every cell of his existence, curling back into the ball he just had himself in. If he separates from himself enough, goes to another place where the gray walls become mere blurs and the Force acts as static, the screaming of the krayt dragon becomes nothing but background noise. Enough to ignore the pain as the scars in his ears tear open and blood drips down his collar. Enough to hope that the next noise they play might be slightly more pleasant.

Maybe if they play one loud enough, he will go deaf completely, and then Obi-Wan will find some peace.

The cell is fourteen of his foot length across, and fourteen wide. He hasn't yet measured, but he suspects they're fourteen tall as well. Made entirely of reinforced durasteel with no clear door, he suspects they built the prison around him.

For the thousandth time since he awoke here, he screams into the Force: why?

On the third day, he received an answer: why not?

For some reason, this doesn't surprise him.

He sees the face of Qui-Gon, stoic yet kind-eyed. For a moment at least, and then his expression changes to wide eyes and deathly pale complexion.

"Promise me," he says. Obi-Wan doesn't need to hear the rest to know what he's promising. It's been a staple of his nightmares for years.

"Promise me,"  Satine says as he leaves his master lying on the ground. He looks up in horror.

"Promise what?"

"Promise me you will move on."

He swallows hard, reaching out for her slender face and bright eyes. "Move on from what, my darling?" But as he tries to cradle her cheek and feel her soft skin against his hand, she vanishes into thin air. "Move on from what?" he whispers.

And he is alone again.

If he really is seeing lightsabers floating through space and ghosts of people that he held in his arms as they passed and hearing the voices of the dark side lingering somewhere in the nearby shadows, then maybe this is his final spiral. He isn't even sure if anyone has noticed he's even gone yet. The worst part is he has no idea what the purpose of all of this.

Why?

They haven't asked him any questions, haven't tried to take anything from him. Just put him in this cell and decided to keep him awake.

Why not?

Sleep was never a natural state for Obi-Wan, but five days without a moment of unconsciousness is enough to drive anyone mad.

There is no end, there is only the Force. He reminds himself of this as he presses his fingers against the quickened pulse against his neck at the tempo of an upbeat cantina band. He's past the point of caring about the cold water they spray on him or the racket they blast through the speakers or the things that may or may not be real. Let them. I welcome it, now.

But a part of him still screams at him to fight. Oh, how he wants to silence the bugger, but it only makes another part of him speak up to remember his training and what he stands for. I've withstood worse, his mind reminds him. And yes, he has. But his life has been a continuous pursuit of one-upping his last mission injury or torture regiment and stars Obi-Wan is so tired.

What about Anakin?

Obi-Wan lets out a shaky breath.

Promise me, Obi-Wan...

Not even the voice of Qui-Gon comforts him anymore, and he buries his face in his hands.

It isn't even the hallucinations or the torture anymore. What is really wrong is that the galaxy is crumbling and the Force is on fire and he's choking on the smoke. Limbs pinned down by the screaming that's he's okay. I don't need help. Which is such a fucking lie because he can feel the life draining as quickly as time feels like it's passing. He can feel that darkness is coming and coming quickly. There is no way to stop it. No way to slow it. Like waiting for the whistle tone to drone out his next attempt to nap, all he can do is watch it as it arrives.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

But when he looks, the clock hand hasn't moved yet, and a part of him is happy another hour hasn't passed. And a part of him dreads the idea that maybe he'll be stuck in this moment forever.

__________

Anakin stands among a room full of dismembered bodies, his chest heaving with residual adrenaline from the fight. He wields not only his own weapon but his former Master's. All that was left behind when he disappeared. The clone troopers pour in moments later, unsurprised by the carnage. Anakin wastes no time in taking the two weapons and plunging them into the durasteel wall of the suspended prison.

He forms a circle large enough for two people to fit through, and he jumps into the tiny cell. The first thing that hits him is the smell. It's not of death, but of the moments before. They've arrived just in time it seems.

"Obi-Wan?" he says gently as his gaze falls on a crumbled figure tucked in the corner. His former master looks horrendous, dirty and bloody and deathly pale. When Anakin says his name his eyes raise slowly, and he is shocked to see the wild look in them.

"Anakin?" he rasps, his voice sounding raw. From the red rims around his eyes and the puffiness of his cheeks, it's obvious he's been crying. "No... it can't be." he whispers, and rolls into himself, turning toward the wall. Anakin is stunned. What the hell did they do to you, Master?

"No, Obi-Wan, it's really me," he says, kneeling down next to him and placing a hand on his wrist. When he touches his skin, Obi-Wan jumps as though he's seen a ghost. He looks at Anakin with wide eyes and mouth agape.

"Anakin?" he repeats, grabbing his hand and then his wrist and feeling the material of his tunic. "Anakin!" Before he can react, Obi-Wan has thrown himself into his arms. Anakin ignores the stench and hugs him tightly, relief washing through him to be near his former master again.

"I've got you, Master. I've got you."

Obi-Wan's head rests on his shoulder, holding the embrace long enough Anakin's body starts to cramp. When he pulls back, the Jedi Master's head bobs back, lightly snoring.

"Obi-Wan did you... did you fall asleep?"

"Sir," Rex's voice rings out as Anakin gently lays his master on his back until they can get a stretcher in here.

"What is it?"

Rex's helmet is off, and he looks at him with serious eyes. "They've been keeping him awake."

"The whole time?"

"I only skimmed through the footage but..."

Anakin looks back at him, sleeping soundly-- probably for the first time in 120 hours. His knuckles go white as he grips the hilt of his lightsaber.

"Have medical take him in. And by no means wake him up."

Rex nods and walks out of the doorway Anakin cut to call for Kix. Anakin stands from the ground, looking around the tiny cell. The only thing that stands out is a clock hanging on the wall, the old kind that they don't really make anymore. The kind with the hands. The ticking is obnoxiously loud, echoing off the unpadded walls of the cell.

He takes Obi-Wan's saber, ignites it, and swiftly slices the clock in half. It falls, but he catches it with the Force before it hits the ground.

The cell goes quiet, except for the quiet snores of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

[windstormwielding]

Slipstream

「 ...Hatchling. 」

“...haven’t heard your gruff old voice in some time.” Kōtarō’s posture straightened when he heard his blade address him. For an instant, it felt like the old shack that made for his childhood home and present surroundings blinked out, and he found himself pulled back into the sea of clouds that made for his inner world.

It was only for an instant, but the sight stuck with the Lieutenant all the same: the sky above him there wasn’t a clear, sunny blue. Clouds, ones at his feet and ones on high, were a charged black, threatening to burst with lightning and roar thunder at any given moment, and moving overhead and below with speed.

「 11 years will have passed soon. 」

“...yeah.” Now that was a comment from his projected instinct Kōta felt he could have done without, leaning back against the old wall and letting out a huff that came out more tired than he intended. It was one thing that he already trained himself ragged, with newer, deeper scars torn into the earth and cliffside alike outside proving as such, but while he would’ve appreciated hearing the often silent Hai’iro Ranmaru speak, it was another to be casually reminded of the looming anniversary of the Great Soul King Protection War.

Reiō, he always hated that name for it. They were more fighting for their own lives, their survival as a collective, than that of a faceless, nameless lynchpin. While Kōtarō found it easier to process those events in the decade-plus since, remembrance still stung. Fear and helplessness unlike anything he felt. Losing too many relationships in one fell swoop than can ever be counted. The death of the one man he respected and looked up to most, whom he only wanted to make proud one more time before his untimely demise. Oh how distraught he had been, in repressing the resulting despair as much as he could and sinking himself into his work, into bettering himself in case-

「 Why? 」

“W-why what?”

「 Why do you remain grounded? 」

“Ranmaru, we’ve been at it here since morning,” the windstorm wielder pointed out, even going so far as to jab a thumb toward the sunset-hued sky outside for his mentally aboding partner. It was rare that he had an entire day to himself, and of course he spent it dedicating in refining his skills and abilities with nigh bullheaded obsession, but he intended on returning to the Seireitei once he recovered enough of his strength. “We can get back into it later in the week, can’t we?”

「 That is not what I meant. 」

Oh here we go with the cryptic gotchas. Returning his thumb so that he may drag his hand, palm and digits, down his face, Kōta paused before he opted to take the bait: “So if it’s not me taking a break, then what?”

「 Why are you not honest? 」

“Wh- Excuse me?!” Maybe it was the exhaustion talking when his own voice rose, but those words still touched on a nerve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

「 You first chose to carry this burden in the name of a man who has not walked among you, not for the last 11 years. 」

“Okay, don’t you dare bring Captain Ukitake into this.” His tone turned as sharp as steel at the comment, and his reiatsu threatened to flare in turn. It was not long after Aizen’s arrest that Kōta made such a pledge to his late commander, to be of better use to him and the 13th in the future, but it was the absolute last thing he wished to recall.

Still, as bitter as he felt, he knew Hai’iro Ranmaru was correct.

“Shit.” How cruelly that memory aged, from an ignorant and hopeful 4th Seat who saw not the storm on the horizon. Hell, none of them saw it coming. The shinigami in question felt his back ease against the wall he sat against, all while mulling over bygone times.

「 So what reason do you have to still seek such power now? 」

The answer to that is obvious, no?

“Rukia... She’s going to need me to back her up. I have a whole Division to look after now as Captain Kuchiki’s right hand. The newest Captain and Lieutenant pair. All eyes of the Gotei 13 will be on us. I can’t afford to slack off just yet.

“...I’ll need to be at my best.”

And for his answer, all he received was a dismissive scoff from the elder voice in his mind.

「 You lie to yourself. 」

“Lying to myself?” Here Kōtarō thought he was being forthright, yet his blade’s accusation came with a gale creaking the wood of the hut from the outside, as though wind itself was objecting to his questioning.

「 You pursue power because you are afraid. 」 

The claim spurned the Lieutenant into trying to deny it, but however he tried to raise his voice, any attempt at a sentence died almost as soon as it left his throat. What could he say to convince his own id otherwise? Not five minutes ago, his thoughts still lingered on a conflict over a decade past; Hai’iro Ranmaru naturally would have thought it too.

“Well don’t you have me all figured out, jī-chan,” he finally answered, letting a defeated smile sit on his countenance.

「 There is no shame in such an act. 」

“In what, pursuing power out of fear?”

「 In figuring you out. 」

A snort broke from the swordsman at the bluntly delivered remark, and with it, so did the tension between himself and the spirit of his weapon.

“Pfeh. That too, then.” 

With that, the pair allowed silence to reign between themselves. The clouds hanging high over Kusajishi seemed to rumble, ready to dispense with rainwater it had built up for several days of aridity with the coming summer season.

It only took moments for the first droplets to fall, pelting the roof little by little until a full shower began in earnest. A satisfied sigh left the soul reaper as he closed his eyes and focused on his other senses, taking in the soothing sound of rainfall and the building smell of petrichor from the outdoors.

Ranmaru’s presence, meanwhile, still lingered in his mindscape, seeming to enjoy the outside weather along with his wielder.

“...it’s been fun, though.”

「 Fun? 」

“Hm.” Kōta nodded to themselves as he sought to piece his thoughts together, while reflecting on more recent history for a change. “Over the last several years. All those techniques and manoeuvres? I wasn’t capable of half of that before we started training so seriously.”

「 Getting stronger... brings you pleasure? 」

“If you want to put it so starkly, then sure, I guess.” A low chuckle broke from Ryōhei younger before he continued. “It also means I understand you—and us—better in the long run, doesn’t it? I’d call it fun.”

「 Hm... I suppose it does, hatchling. 」

“I don’t know, I just... I want to keep flying. Higher, and higher still, until I can’t see the earth at my feet anymore.” He didn’t realize he started waxing poetic, but he remembered that wish well from when he was a little young soul: a great yearning to stand above any and every trouble on the earth, and equally untethered to the forces of gravity – freedom unlike anything he’s ever known. “That’s... just how it always felt like to me, I guess.”

「 Yet you ground yourself. Fear has locked you within a gilded cage, all while the clouds above call for you to ascend to their heights. 」

“Is that right?”

「 Of course. I am the wind at your back, the air in your lungs, and the sword by your side. I know when fear takes hold of you, even should you attempt to deny it. 」

“...it’s not like I’m afraid of death or anything. Kinda grown numb to that sort of thing after this many years on the job and all,” Kōtarō opined, feeling that a shinigami in his position would not last long in their duties if they weren’t used to putting their life on the line. Ranmaru hummed in affirmation in turn, wishing to hear his wielder speak his mind more. Anxiously, the man rested his hand on the back of his weary neck as he went on. “It’s just... back then, with the Quincy...?”

For a moment, he fell quiet.

“...they fucking steamrolled us. Slain us by the thousands. Hardly took them any effort, at that.”

As for the words he did not say aloud, though his zanpakutō understood as though they were spoken? None of us should have survived the war, least of all me. We got off lucky.

However, it was more than just fear. More than just helplessness. Hopelessness. Despair. Desperation.

「 ...so what do you intend to do, the next time your world threatens to fall around you? 」

There was one more feeling that took root in his soul, though buried within the chaos of the last day.

Memories of his own last stand proved... hazy, given he would only remember waking up in the 4th Division barracks after the dust settled at last. But, Kōta did remember the Seireitei, though ruined, returning in front of his eyes after days spent skulking, fleeing, hiding, and fighting within the city of shadows.

Then lights fell from the heavens, by the dozens, and from their descent rose those... things.

「 The next time providence itself chooses to become your enemy? 」

Squawking, shrieking, swearing vengeance in the name of their perfect, almighty god-king. Threatening to raze the one relief he found in his home materializing before him to ashes, after he thought it truly lost forever. After he finally had a moment to breathe—let alone recollect himself—when he reunited with those who still remained from the 13th. After they already took Captain Ukitake from them.

It was coming back to him, albeit in pieces, that those bird-beasts were so. Fucking. LOUD. Like a sickening cacophony of dissonant trumpets gleefully tearing into whatever peace of mind he still held on to, blaring into his ears lest he turned deaf.

The spark of hope he felt that that some of the normalcy he loved could return at all, only for someone to dare rip it away from him again, ignited something else.

「 The next time someone dares to stand in the way of your peace? 」

WRATH.

He stopped caring about power gaps.

He stopped compromising on what best approach there was to take.

He stopped worrying about whether he and his own would live to see tomorrow.

All he wanted was to see those Quincy bird things dead. Rally whoever among his men could still fight, and order the remaining ones to safety.

So, he brandished Hai’iro Ranmaru.

He saw Kira Izuru, a man who inexplicably stood while half his own torso was missing, going in as the vanguard against those lording, sanctimonious monstrosities.

Thus, Kōta summoned his cavalry.

Charged like a roaring typhoon, with a great fury he had not shown again since.

Fought until he could stand no longer, having slain one beast after the next with only red in his eyes.

The wrath he felt in those memories of the past simmered under his own skin in the present.

「 The Ryōhei Kōtarō I saw that last day, who did not let such fears hold him down... 」

Kōtarō was not alone in the cabin anymore. Not there one moment, there the next he blinked. It was enough to jolt life back into the shinigami, but he showed no fear before the intruder, for there stood the one same hermit he saw countless times within his inner world, now far and away—or a mere five steps away?—from the cloud sea it inhabited.

The same priestly kimono, with the same yuigesa. The same hauchiwa fan at his hip, with black feathers from the same black wings folded at its back.

Although, it was not the familiar face of a wise old bird Kōtarō would see. No, that mask fell away when Hai’iro Ranmaru made himself corporeal.

“...would break free from his cage, by tempering that same rage worthy of my power.”

Even his voice had changed with his younger, more human-like appearance, sounding smoother than Kōtarō had ever recalled hearing, almost melodious in his chiding. Next to one another, one could swear they looked like twins. The swordsman himself would have realized it as well, had he not sat there on the floor of his childhood home, looking shellshocked.

It did not immediately sink in that, at long last, his zanpakutō spirit materialized before him.

“If you can confirm to me you are worthy?”

It did not yet click that, indeed, he proved to possess the aptitude for Bankai after all.

“If you can show me you can rise above that fear?”

It did not come to mind that his years of training have finally, against all the odds, paid off.

“If you can prove that by besting the hells of yesteryear once again?”

No, above all else...

“Then I will gladly bend the knee to you...”

...what really stood out to the soul reaper was...

“...so that, as my master, you may soar to-”

“What the fu—YOU WERE YOUNG THIS WHOLE TIME?!”

“THAT IS WHAT YOU CHOOSE TO FOCUS ON?!”

[jaimesonsloan]

Behind Closed Doors

Weekly Writing Challenge - Week 3  Warning: Lots of smut, and some swearing; Just lots of NSFW things and also, this is a very long post as it part of Sloan’s backstory. 

You’ve been warned. xD

“Just call me Emma.” Her first name is revealed just before she empties the remainder of her glass, the amber liquid burning her throat. The blonde gives only the slightest of hints to the unpleasant sensation as she gestures to the empty chair next to her. Sloan removes his hat, dipping his head in gratitude as he takes his place at the table. Uncorking a fresh bottle of finely aged badlands bourbon with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth he replies, “Emma is a lovely name.” Though the whiskey was originally only intended for himself, the man refills her glass and then pours some into his own dry vessel. Exhaling a satisfied sigh the woman continues, “And before ya ask why I’m here in this tavern all by my poor pitiful lonesome so late in the evenin, I used ta work at this bar, before I hid myself away at home. I started sewin all kinds of fancy dresses and suits to earn my livin. I werked about twelve hours a day every Saturday and Sunday. I served up drinks and cooked and cleaned and thangs.” A proud smile forms on her lips, clear of color as she wears no makeup, “Now, I only have to come to the city once every couple of weeks to auction off a few of my creations and here I am havin done just that this very fine day. I made me some good coin, iffin I do say so myself.” Gesturing to her refilled glass he lifts his own, “Then I say we drink to your success and give thanks that we are both in this very city at the very same time and both enjoying a bottle of very fine drink.” She smiles as she lifts her glass up and then quickly brings it to her lips to seal the toast. “And that I’m enjoying it with a very fine woman,” Sloan adds just before doing the same.

His eyes then travel slowly over her form, thinking of what lay hidden under the taut clothing that hugs her body. She leans against the back of her chair, eyeing Sloan, “By the looks of it, I’d say yer likin what yer lookin at?” His eyes intentionally continue to roam over her womanly curves, “I could lie and say that I do not think fondly of what I see if that would please you to hear.” Amber eyes meet with her sapphire blue gaze as she replies, showing him her bare arms, “Ya see all these scars, like tiny little slices all over em?” He nods in acknowledgment, “Yes, miss, I do.” She vaguely gestures her hand from her neck downward, until it disappears under the table, “I’m perty much covered all over in scars just like my arms. Ya still likin what yer lookin at?” She watches for his reaction to her confession as her fingertips now fiddle with her empty glass. The sharpshooter leans forward in his chair, his eyes staring intensely into her own as he reaches for the bottle sitting in between them. Wrapping his hand around it in a firm grip, he began pouring more drink for her to enjoy. “Your scars are beautiful. I would have a woman with a thousand scars over one with smooth flesh like a blank page of a book that has no words on it; no story to tell,” he reassures her with barely a blink. Slowly she brings her filled glass to her lips and takes a decent amount of whiskey into her mouth. Feeling the whiskey beginning to course through her veins, Emma relaxes in the man’s company, “Iffin ya say so, I s’pose. Not too proud of my scars and don’t much like rememberin the story behind em, iffin ya know what I mean.” She turns her eyes to her glass as she rests it on the table in front of her, “What kinda scars you got?”

Sloan smirks once again, his fingers drumming lazily in front of him as he speaks, “Training scars, battle scars, emotional scars; the usual scars that someone who comes here would generally possess.” He watches her steadily emptying yet another glass of whiskey, “You seem to be keeping a good pace, Emma. I’m guessing that this is a place you like to frequent while you are here on business as you stated.” She chuckles to his last words, “I can’t stand bein in this city sober, so I’ll be fine, don’t ya worry.” She took another decent drink and exhaled a long sigh, “Usual scars.” She chuckles once more,“Guess that’s perty much everybody ‘round here. Everybody’s all scarred up one way or another or lots of ways or maybe even all the ways a person can be scarred. I think I fall in the latter bunch. I think ya do too, iffin ya don’t mind me sayin so.” She shrugs her shoulders and glances about the tavern, “But s’pose havin that in common with somebody ain’t so bad.” She offers a silly sort of smile that was met with one of his own as she turns her eyes back to his. The man laughs after swallowing his last bit of drink he would have for the night, “I like you, Emma.” A smirk replaces the smile on his lips, “And I think you like me too.” He teases as he places the cork back onto the bottle.

Emma stares at Sloan with barely a blink as she brings her glass to her lips. Her eyes peer over the rim of the glass as she takes the large mouthful of whiskey that remained. As she sets the glass onto the table with a light clattering sound of glass against oak, she blinks, but only once and then swallows. The blonde slides her tongue across her lips,“Mayhaps I do, Mayhaps I don’t.” The words themselves did not sound very encouraging, but the tone and the slight curl of a smirk on her lips told a different story. She adjusts herself in her chair and leans back without a single change in her demeanor or expression. Sloan leans forward, his head crossing the halfway point of the table with his gaze shifting from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes, “Oh, do you need more convincing?” He cocks his head to the side, adding with confidence, “Frankly, I think you have an interest in me.” His own tongue gently moves across his bottom lip before a slight hitch of hot air leaves his mouth. The scent of whiskey and mint tease the woman’s nose as his face moves in closer. 

She was beginning to think that perhaps he was right about maybe needing to be sober for something or another. However, the thought was fleeting as his gaze seemingly pierces her soul. “And what if I say yes ta both of those questions?” Emma bluntly asks. Leaning even closer towards her, he pauses with his lips barely centimeters from her own, smelling the whiskey on her own breath, “Then you would not mind if I did this then, hm?” Be it from the whiskey, or the company, it was clear that Sloan can’t seem to resist and neither can she as he leans in to kiss her. The blonde allows his lips to hover as she whispers with her warm breath fall against his face with each word, “I’ve been awful lonely and I ain’t usually one ta admit things like that, but it’s not every day I come across somebody that catches my attention.” She drags her tongue across her lips and lightly gulps. 

With that, Sloan leans in just that tiny space more and takes her lips. His left-hand holds the nape of her neck, while the right delicately cups her cheek and it wasn’t long her own hand rested against his. Her soft whimpers and with how she began to writhe beneath his hands and against his lips fed his desire, coaxing his lips and tongue to work against her own with a fiery intensity. The taste of the whiskey and mint mixing with her sweet saliva force a quickened breath to escape the man in the slight parting of their lips, followed by a few of her own. He could feel her pulse steadily climb beneath the thumb of his left hand and it was then Emma abruptly pulls away. There was a slight hint of fear in the woman’s eyes as they open and she quickly hides it away behind a smile, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. She clears her throat, averting her gaze, “Well then, that was… uh…somethin else now wasn’t it?” She laughed a quick few breathy chuckles rather nervously and cleared her throat once more as if her throat was bone dry. 

Turning her eyes to look at him, he smiles softly while she watches him take up her hand and softly kiss the skin, “No need to hide from me, Emma.” His eyes look to the door, before looking back at her lips. “Fuck it.” he murmurs as he presses his lips against hers again, causing whatever she was about to say to become meer muffled words and then sighs. His fingers thread through her long blonde locks while her hands met with his bearded cheeks. Despite being in a public place, the two were well hidden in the back corner and didn’t care who may or may not be watching for the time being. Moving his kiss from her lips to her neck he pulls her petite body over into his lap and despite his strength, he was gentle as if she was a delicate rose he wished for no one else to hold. Emma gasps in a shuddering breath as his hot breath escaped his nose, falling against her neck. Her fingers slide through his hair and to his back. She whispers through soft, quivering lips, “Sloan…not here.” She whimpers the rest, “Anywhere...but here.” But once those words left her lips, she found herself tilting her head back, giving the man much more room to roam and his lips travel over every extra inch she gave him before he forced himself to stop. 

Taking in a much-needed breath, Sloan traces back up her neck with gentle pecks before stopping at her ear, “I have a room upstairs.” His lips brush against her ear as he finishes his sentence, “and I want you so fucking bad.” His words vibrate against her skin coaxing her to whisper the words he needs to hear to venture forward, “I’ve wanted ya since the moment I laid eyes on ya.” All control was lost as he lifts her up from his lap with his lips burning against hers once more he makes his way to carry her upstairs. Whispers of those that notice fall on deaf ears as they pass by with her hand gripping his shirt, tugging it free of his trousers even before they made it to the top of the stairs. As he grips the knob on the door and kicks it open, Emma was already working his belt free of its buckle. 

His fingers fumble for the lock once he kicks the door closed behind them. The room was quaint, but it held a small hint of luxury as it was the best room the tavern offers. Once the door was locked he let Emma slide to her feet, making sure she got her footing before he releases her. He pulls his jacket and his shirt away from his body, tossing each aside. As she tugs at the buttons of his trousers, his large hands unfasten the buttons on her blouse, “I want to kiss each scar on your body. I want to forget about everything for just a few hours; just think about us.” He confesses while kicking off his boots. Not long after the two were standing before each other in their undergarments revealing quite the map of scars, telling the story of where each had been. He closes the space between them, one step at a time as she agrees, “Let’s forget, then.” 

Despite knowing they may both regret this later somehow, they both silently agree they would be willing to live with those consequences as their lips tangle for a brief moment. “You are beautiful, Emma.” Sloan insists as he slides her panties down, kneeling down in the same motion and kissing her scarred skin. Her body trembles to every sensation as she watches his lips trail down her stomach, coaxing goosebumps to splay out like a skymap of stars over her flesh. With her maidenhood exposed, Sloan places his mouth over it, kissing the nub and lightly flicking his tongue against it, tasting her salty sweetness. Every attempt she makes to speak, a gasped moan takes its place. His hands grip the backs of her thighs as his tongue and lips work against her delicate skin. Her hands drifted to grip his hair and one moves to brace herself on his shoulder as her knees began to buckle. Kissing her bud with determination, but with a form of grace, Sloan grips her back with his hands and coaxes her to the bed. 

Upon reaching the bed, Sloan pulls away from her just long enough to lay down on his back and lifts her to straddle his face. One hand grips her thigh and as his other hand inserts a digit into her hot flesh and Emma gasps out a moan. While working his finger in tandem with his tongue, the blonde can’t help but grind her hips. Never being handled this way was driving her wild and Sloan was all too eager to accept her womanhood grinding against his face. Leaning her head back he caught glimpses of her groping her breasts in ecstasy, encouraging him to slip a second finger within her. Her hand drifts from her breast to reaching behind her and taking hold of his erect manhood, only eliciting her to ride his face even more as she strokes him. He feels his shaft throbbing in her grip and pulls his mouth from her lifting her and positioning her near his waist. With his face still wet from being wedged between her thighs Emma’s lust-filled sapphire eyes stare into his as she slid further back, straddling his waist. 

Already, Sloan’s coarse manly hands traverse over her scarred, womanly body as she positions the tip of his manhood just at her entrance. With his eyes locked onto hers, his body shudders and blended sounds of pleasure fill the room once she lowers herself, taking his entirety deep inside of her. Amber eyes watch as this gorgeous woman slowly leaning her head back in bliss begins rocking her hips. His hands cup her swollen breasts as he thrusts his hips upward in tandem with her own movements. She grinds her hips faster, feeling his shaft stretching her tight walls. She leans back, bracing her hands on both of his thighs and Sloan was given a clear view of his member working into her. His hands grip her waist as he thrusts harder against her motions, watching each passion-filled movement she makes in awe. Sloan had been with many women before, but something in this woman sent him wild and the sight of it all only added to the lust that was building. 

Quickly, he pulls out from her and positions her on her hands and knees. With gentle coaxing, Emma bit her bottom lip as her head met with the pillow and he brought her rotund backside into the air. Without a moment's hesitation, Sloan carefully positions himself in and thrusts back inside of her with full force and Emma cries out blissfully. His hands reach under her body, pulling her back up, holding her against his chest as he takes her from behind. Her head leans back as he kisses and lightly bites her neck causing a soft hiss to erupt within her rhythmic moans. He grips her breasts with his hot breath pouring out raspy lustful words into her ear, “Emma you are so fucking beautiful. I want to see you cum so fucking bad. Cum for me, Emma.” One hand pulls her blonde hair down, exposing her neck once again as he kisses the skin. “Oh fuck!” she screams out, then gasps in a deep breath. She opens her mouth and cries out his name in ecstasy, gasping for air between each moan as he held her sweaty body tense and rigid against his own. The beautiful blissful expression on her face and in the sound of her moans, push him over the edge. Unable to take the pressure any longer, he pulls out from her womanhood, pushing her down, spilling his seed upon her bare behind. 

With both of them covered in sweat, Emma falls onto her stomach and Sloan collapses next to her. His words are shaky and sporadic as he attempts to catch his breath, “Emma...Please, do not go. Stay the night, here with me. I want to get to know the real you.” His words were sincere and it was quite the change from the commanding man that was present before. The blonde still lay on her belly with her body glistening with sweat and her behind painted with his bliss. Panting heavily and trying to catch her breath, she feels the room spinning. With her cheek resting against the bed, he saw her hair was a mess, some covering over her eyes as she looks at him. He couldn’t turn his eyes away even if he wanted to in this moment. Each huffed breath blows some of her hair about, but she couldn’t even be bothered to brush it away. She stares at him a moment through her locks of hair and then she closes her eyes, “Only if ya want me ta stay, Sloan. Don’t feel like ya gotta get ta know me.” She opens her eyes, looking directly at him, “It’s alright, I’m a big girl and I know yer not lookin fer nothin and I ain’t either.” Sloan could only sigh, shaking his head slightly, “You still that afraid of me?” A smile peeked out from behind her hair as he moves a hand to caress her cheek. His smile returns as he confesses to her,  “I want you to stay, even if it is just for the night...Just stay.”

As he brushes her hair away from her eyes she chuckles, “Well, iffin I’m gonna stay and ya wanna know the real me, yer gonna need ta know that I’ll be tryin ta hog the bed and all the blankets. Yer gonna have ta fight me fer em all night and ya know what else?” She lifts her head, brushing even more hair away from her face, “Sometimes I even snore.” She turns on her side, propping her head on her hand with her elbow sinking into the mattress, “How’s that fer gettin ta know the real me?” The man chuckles quietly in turn, his hand still caressing her cheek, “Well it is a fight you will have to lose, beautiful.” He moves in to kiss her lips once, before pulling back and smiling at her, “I meanwhile tend to talk in my sleep sometimes and I have bad news.” Her brows raise in curiosity, “Oh?” He brings the blankets up to cover them and pulls her close, “I’m afraid you will have to suffer through me holding you close to me tonight.” Emma exhales a sigh as she rests her head against his broad chest, “I might drool on ya, but alright.” Quiet laughter of the two could be heard and it wasn’t long they were sleeping soundly. 

The next morning, Sloan awoke alone in the bed they shared without a single slither of evidence that she was ever there. He gathers up his things and looks inside the empty room. As he shuts the door behind him he shuts the door to his heart. His deep voice mumbles out quietly, “Never again.”

@weekly-writing-challenge

[weartirondad]

Let In Light (At Christmas Time) 2/12

FF.net I ao3

Friday, December 14th: blanket forts

Tony is elbow deep in rewiring one of his older suits when F.R.I.D.A.Y. announces Peter’s arrival and for the fraction of a second he just stops.

He’s tired. The I’m-insomnia’s-bitch kind of tired. The tired where he hasn’t had more than three hours of sleep a night for almost four days in a row and the few hours he did get were laced with different version of the same old stories over and over and over again.

Dark caves, people shouting in foreign languages. Fear, pain, cold.  

Bunkers in the middle of nowhere, a tiny screen in a dark room. Screams, blood, death.

Pepper falling. Rhodey falling. A shield shoved into his sternum. Darkness, cold – so much cold.

A sassy teenager, in over his head, fighting fights he shouldn’t be fighting. He’s falling, drowning, suffocating and Tony can’t –

“Hey Mister Stark!”

The billionaire blinks down at his hands that are still stuck in his armor, clenched around one of its powering units, and with a very deliberate exhale he forces his body to relax and his fists to open. It’s hard but he does it and through sheer will power alone manages to crack a smile along the way. It’s not a good one. Peter can see right through it but he’s trying, that’s what counts, right?

“Hey kid,” he greets him, making a conscious effort to keep his voice just a little more cheerful than he actually feels without sounding over the top. “How’s school?”

Of course it’s not working. The kid’s a genius and aside from being very empathetic to his surroundings he also knows Tony. He knows Tony’s moods and he knows what it looks like when he’s pretending to be okay. And Tony hates it. He hates that Peter knows how messed up he is and he hates how he sees him using Tony’s own coping mechanisms and he just can’t have that, he won’t allow it.

What he hates most, though, is that Peter just won’t turn away like everyone else did. Peter refuses to give up on him and while it’s nice to have someone around, sometimes the trust the kid puts in him makes him feel lightheaded and trapped and lost and oh-so-scared. The thought of disappointing him is too much to bear on a good day and today is not a good day. Today is two days away from the worst day and he doesn’t know if he can handle the pressure.

He doesn’t want to flip and have Peter suffer from the consequences. Maybe he should tell him to go home, maybe he should call raincheck and postpone to – sometime after Christmas, when he’s got some strength back because right now? Right now he’s a mess and Peter deserves so much more – a mentally stable mentor, a nice fun evening with his friends, lightness.

Ultimately, Peter deserves light and Tony’s soul has been in the shadows so long he has forgotten what it looks like. Sometimes just looking at it makes him feel like he’s going blind.

When he focuses on his breathing to keep himself from spiraling, he realizes that Peter has already flung his backpack into the corner next to his desk and himself on the spinning chair and is now talking animatedly about his day. Tony makes a mental note to listen to F.R.I.D.A.Y.’s recording later on in case he missed something important but right now, despite the gloomy knot in his chest, he feels the corner of his lips twist upwards at the sight of the teenager gracelessly hanging from the chair.

With the next inhale something warm fills his chest, gentling pulling on the untethered strings until the tangle loosens and suddenly breathing isn’t as hard anymore.

It’s still not easy, there’s still too much baggage for the breaths to come out effortlessly. Too many scars, too many memories, too much loss. But it’s easier. As if Peter’s presence in itself widens his bronchia and helps the air pave a way.

“Got homework?” he finds himself asking, the tiny smile still on his lips when the teenager dutifully bobs his head up and down. “When’s May gonna be home? Are you staying for dinner?”

Just like that the offer stands in the room, without a second thought, and he realizes that he doesn’t regret making it. It’s been lonely in the Tower without Pepper and Peter – Peter is Peter and taking care of him, making sure that he eats, sleeps and drinks enough has become an integral part of his DNA at this point.

“May’s working night,” Peter tells him with a pout, fidgeting until he’s sitting cross- legged on the chair, “But she’s not working all weekend and we’re having brunch tomorrow when she’s up again.”

“So, that means you want to stay the night and catch breakfast here, too?”

“I mean –“ For a second Tony thinks the kid is too polite to invite himself over but then a shit-eating grin spreads on his face as he turns on his swivel chair. “Yep. That was pretty much the plan. Hope I’m not keeping you from important – you know – stuff.”

Just from another lonely night spent staring at the alcohol cabinet. He doesn’t say, though, because he doesn’t drink and he hasn’t for months, still, the reflex never really left.

Instead he scoffs, “Me? Doing something important? In your dreams.” Peter giggles.

It’s still fake and he’s still not fine but when he turns back to the armor again as Peter starts taking out his books to work on his homework, he feels a lot lighter than he has in days.

They work on their own for a while after that and it doesn’t take long for Tony to get immersed in the inner workings of the suit once more. But while his mind is running difficult algorithms, trying to figure out how to best deweaponize it for a presentation without giving up too much of its soul, he’s always acutely aware of Peter’s movements behind him, like a sixth sense that comes to him easier than breathing most days.

“Pete,” he turns around with a frown after giving the boy another ten minutes of fidgeting, “what’s up? Do you need help?”

“Wha –?” The kid looks startled but shakes his head. “No. I was just,” he points to a pile at the foot of the couch in the far corner of the room, “I was wondering what that is.”

Tony can see the books that lay untouched on the desk with his pencil case emptied out and its content scattered all over the place and he sees the hole Peter is currently poking in the sleeve of his hoodie and he understands the restlessness behind it.

It’s a curse. One he has had to deal with all his life and one he wish he could take from the kid but as it is he can only try to get that genius mind of his to focus on something or else the jiggling would get worse and he’d probably end up hurting himself.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, feeling his whole demeanor change now that he is needed. Now that his purpose is making Peter feel better. Superficially cleaning his oil stained hands on a more-black-than-not towel he wanders over to the teen and settles on the couch, inviting him to inspect the pile with a nod of his head.

Peter, god bless him, jumps at the opportunity and almost trips from his chair with his limbs flailing in the air for a second before he manages to catch himself with a splutter, diving headfirst into the soft pile.

Normally, Peter would dissect any abnormality, anything new, with immaculate care but now he’s tearing through all blankets and pillows and comforters like a mad man on a mission. Only when he’s gone through them all he stops. Sitting in the middle of the mess he created he cocks his head to the side, leaning back on his arms with his legs stretched out in front of him.

He’s wearing his thinking frown and Tony watches as his mind works with new information, needing just a little bit longer than usual to figure it out. “They’re blankets,” he summarizes then, with a smile so warm Tony swears it could singlehandedly cause global warming and melt all remaining ice on the planet, even the one stuck in his heart. “You got blankets ‘cause I get cold easily, didn’t you?”

Of course he did. Of fucking course he got his kid blankets so he wouldn’t be cold in winter. It cost him one voice command and the boy is looking up at him as if he has just hung the moon in the sky specifically for him.

The look made him feel fuzzy. A good kind of fuzzy that he never got from alcohol anymore, and probably never really had.

“Of course I did,” he tells him when his emotions come too close to surfacing and he has to swallow past the growing lump in his throat. “Wanna cuddle up until I’m done working?”

Just like that, it looks as if Peter’s strings have been cut and he sags in on himself a little. “Um – yeah, sure,” he mumbles, hands running over the fabric of a dark blue blanket and clenching around it, “I mean, I could maybe work on my homework a little bit ya know. So, uh, so I get something done.” He trails off, shoulders and head hanging low as he attempts to get to his feet again.

Tony frowns. “No, why would you-?“ Oh.

My dad never really gave me a lot of support. I’m trying to break the cycle of shame.

“Or,” he tries a different approach, not missing how Peter is perching up just that tiny little bit at his softer tone of voice, “Or we could both take a break and relax a little. What do you say?”

He can see that it’s on the tip of his tongue to decline but apparently all their talking the past few months about accepting what Tony offers has gotten them somewhere and in the end Peter simply nods, a happy grin spreading on his face once more as if he just flipped a switch.

“Can we build a blanket fort?”

And – what?

“I have never once in my life built a blanket fort.”

And, yeah, maybe he should’ve seen it coming but he hasn’t and it might just cost him his hearing.

“WHAT THE –“

“Do not finish that sentence.”

As always his words fall on deaf ears.

“- HECK, MISTER STARK!” Peter all but shouts from two feet away, staring at him with wide, accusing eyes. “You can’t be serious! No way, you’ve never built a blanket fort!”  

“Yes way,” he gives back, swallowing the biting bile as he tries to be supportive and nice and all that shit good mentors apparently do. How on earth where there people having and raising kids full time out of their own free will? “And I am not going to start now.”

“Oh come on, please!”

Ah, yeah, that answers is questions. It’s definitely the disarming puppy eyes. And possible the shear endless amount of full body hugs.

“Fine,” he relents contritely, “But if we’re gonna do this we’re gonna do this right, understand? The full ten yards and then some.”

“Aye, sir!”

Peter is jumping up and down and he looks so much more at ease than just ten minutes ago and that’s worth all the back pain Tony is going to get from that experience. Damn kids.

It ends up taking them two hours to finish but by the time they do the ceiling of their fort is fitted with two chains of light, giving the arrangement a somewhat mystical touch to it.

They’re both lying on their backs, heads resting on their respective pillows while a fortress of other pillows is stacked around them, effectively shielding them from the outside world (the lab) and keeping them in their very own cocoon except for the small opening they made for food supply and such.

Dum-E has done a great job providing them with snacks and drinks albeit Tony vetoed the kid’s wishes for hot chocolate.

Peter has already forgotten he was sulking, though, and just stares up at the lights in wonder and, as Tony notes in satisfaction, otherwise perfectly still.

“This is what I’ve always imagined stargazing must be like,” he whispers, voice so quiet and in awe that Tony barely catches it.

It hits him again how different their upbringings have been and how he’s going to make sure that he only ever passes on the good things if he can help it.

“I’ll take you stargazing one of these days,” he promises, voice soft as to not startle the peaceful boy.

The teenager turns his head to meet his eyes, unruly curls falling over his left eye that Tony itches to push them back. “Promise?”

“I promise,” he says, reaching out to brush the curl away gently.

He promises him a lot more in his head but he doesn’t know how to form the words to let him know, yet. He hopes Peter understands anyway.

[mambo-rewritten]

A/N: Hey, sorry for lack of an update last week! I’ve been working on this piece on and off for the past two weeks, trying to get it just right. As always, thank you @splat-kostecko for editing for me, and @enchiladahomie for letting me write Eli! Y’all are the best <3

Bit of an angst warning, by the way. This isn’t canon, I just had an idea and wanted to run with it. Enjoy~!

It was late evening, and the Turf War lobbies were closed for the night. The Square was mostly empty, save for a couple of Inklings and Octolings sitting at one of the tables talking quietly. Graham wondered to himself why they were still here, since the shops were all closed.

An Octoling girl kept glancing up to look at the alley over by the cafe, a look of fear and dread plastered on her face. What is she so scared of? The sea urchin who eats there everyday? I can’t understand why, he seems really nice… Graham thought to himself, following her line of sight. Maybe I’ll should check it out for her. He pushed back his chair and walked across the Square, cries of warning falling on (literal) deaf ears.

He stopped walking when he found himself in the dark alley, nothing really scary jumping out at him. He felt a wary hand fall on his shoulder, and he turned to face his companion, a relatively tall Octoling boy with red headphones. He shook his head, blue eyes wide with the same fear the Octoling girl had. Graham furrowed his brow, looking down at the other boy’s lips to try and understand what he was saying.

“Trust me, you really shouldn’t go down there…there are monsters worse than what we lived with in the Valley down there. You really should stay here, in the Square.”

Graham tilted his head, now even more confused than before. Monsters? There weren’t any monsters in the Valley. Maybe DJ Octavio was one, but he was just trying to help his people, albeit in the wrong way. He shook his head and pointed at himself, then at the gate. He was going no matter what.

The other Octoling paled and took a step back, not making a move to stop him again. “I tried to warn you…but…” he visibly faltered, “Be careful of the man in the suit.”

What in the world was this guy talking about? The Octoling girl from before poked her head out from behind him, teal eyes owlishly wide with unease. Graham took note of the oddly colored scars around her eyes and peeking out from behind her face mask, now more confused than he was before. He really wished he knew what she was saying behind the mask but couldn’t quite make it out. He shook his head at her and pointed to his ears, then shrugged. They seemed to understand and motioned urgently for him to follow them.

He scowled and shook his head, pointing adamantly at the gate again. He only faltered when he spotted Eli, his boyfriend, approaching.

‘Listen to them. They’re saying it’s really dangerous,’ he signed to him, a worried expression clouding his features as his eyes flicked between Graham and the two terrified Octolings.

‘But they could be exaggerating! It’s just a subway station!’ He signed back with a pout. ‘I’m going down there, and you can’t stop me.’ To emphasize his point, he hopped through the fence, and looked back at the three of them.

The girl rushed forwards and caught his arm, her eyes somehow wider than before, and filled with tears. Graham looked over at Elijah for a translation, but only got a shrug in reply. He placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder and gave her a reassuring nod. He signed something to her, and Eli translated.

“I’ll be okay.”

This seemed to placate the girl, and she let go of him, looking over at Eli, who nodded and jumped the fence.

‘What did she say to you?’ Graham asked. ‘I was gonna go alone.’

Eli sighed. ‘She asked me to come with you and keep you safe. From what, I don’t know. But she and the guy were really freaked out that we’re going down here.’

‘I’m not a child! I can take care of myself!’ he signed angrily, glaring at Elijah.

Eli grabbed his arm and turned him around, so they were facing each other. ‘Not from this, she said. You won’t be able to hear it coming. She said it would take advantage of you, then use you. Since I can hear, I’ll be able to stop whatever it is that’s down here before it hurts you.’

Graham scowled and looked away. ‘Fine…’ he sulked and crossed his arms. A soft smile rose to his lips when he felt Eli press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

The proceeded downwards, fingers interlaced as they held hands. The sloped hallway eventually flattened out, and opened up into a large railway platform. The platform was darkened and mostly empty, save for a few giant pieces of shattered glass on the floor from what looked to be from an enormous blender. Graham pulled away to kneel down next to it and get a closer look. It was nothing like the technology he had seen or used back in the Valley, and just the sight of it instilled a sense of apprehensiveness in him. He stood up and took a step back, his eyes wide as he inspected the base.

‘Someone tried to blend them up…’ he signed slowly. ‘That’s the girl’s ink…’ he pointed at the floor at various places, where there was, in fact, teal ink splattered on the ground, next to a large rotary blade, which was coated in it.

Eli just stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. ‘We…’ he hesitated, waved his hand, and started over. ‘We should leave. It’s not safe, and this place really gives me the creeps…’

‘No. I’m gonna find out what happened to them. I may not know them personally, but they’re my family. I need to know what caused them to be so freaked out and scared of this place.’ Graham dropped his hands in finality, then moved to examine the glass and blade closer.

Elijah jerked a little, reaching to cover his ears. Graham took note and furrowed his brow, quickly turning around to face the quickly-approaching light.

A long train squealed to a halt right in front of the two boys, and Eli finally relaxed when the train doors opened. Elijah’s eyes widened as he watched Graham straighten up and climb aboard the train. He barely caught him by the hem of his sweater and yanked him back onto the train platform. ‘Are you fucking insane?!’ He pulled down his mask and snarled at Graham, baring sharp teeth. ‘You don’t know where that train is going! You’re gonna get yourself killed!’

Graham curled his own lip in a growl, then pushed Eli off him. ‘Stop treating me like a fucking kid! I can handle myself. Just go home. I’ll be back after I find out what happened.’

‘No! Those Octolings said there’s something down here that will hurt you. I can’t let that happen.’ His face fell, and a clouded expression of worry covered his features. “I love you too much to let that happen…” he said aloud, and although Graham didn’t hear him, he fully understood what he said. ‘Besides. How will you be able to ask questions if you don’t have a translator?’ He pointed out with a shaky smile.

The Octoling sighed, nodded, and climbed aboard, his Inkling boyfriend begrudgingly dragging behind as he fixed his mask.

Graham looked around the train car, taking note of the few passengers: a small blue sea cucumber, a tall isopod carrying a briefcase, and lastly, a tall Inkling man with dark blue tentacles, which faded to green on the tips. He took note of the formal-looking suit he was wearing and narrowed his eyes. Man in a suit… but he doesn’t look very threatening…?

He sat down on an unoccupied seat, near the sea cucumber. Eli sat down next to him, turning his attention downwards in surprise. Graham tilted his head as he watched Eli, and tugged on his sleeve. ‘What are you doing?’

‘He’s the conductor of the train.’

‘It’s a sea slug.’

‘His name is C.Q. Cumber and he’s asking us if we have ridden the Metro before. Which, obviously, we haven’t, but maybe he can provide us some answers?’

‘It’s a start… I guess…’ Graham frowned and chewed on his lip in thought. ‘Ask him about the Octolings. He might know something about them.’ He shrugged and looked down expectantly at the tiny conductor.

‘He says that there are multiple enemies in the testing chambers, some of which are Octolings. That sounds kind of weird… Octolings attacking other Octolings?’ Eli translated to him, a look of worry on his face.

‘What about the two in the square? Have any Octolings ridden the train?’

Elijah nodded. ‘He says there were two, a boy and a girl. Something happened to the girl that caused her to become a part of one of the tests? He says the boy saved her and they broke out of the underground. But she came back?’ Eli held up a hand to silence C.Q., who was still talking. ‘She came back and turned into one of the enemies again. But she was more powerful than the ones in the tests. But then the boy and two squids took her back. None of that makes sense.’

Graham frowned, his brain muddled with a plethora of thoughts. ‘What if the man in the suit was what turned her bad? His ink is like hers, but a little different.’

‘I mean, is that even possible?’

He nodded, his expression turning grim. ‘It is incredibly easy to brainwash someone, especially someone who has been brainwashed in the past.’

Eli furrowed his brow in worry and placed a hand on Graham’s leg. ‘Is that what happens in Octarian Society? Did that happen to you…?’

The Octoling turned his head away and nodded. ‘Music...Glasses… I only managed to break free because I lost my hearing.’

The squid covered his mouth through the fabric of his mask, his eyes wide at this new information. He moved to the other side of his boyfriend so that he could see his hands. ‘Baby, I am so, so sorry that that happened to you… but we have to get out of here immediately if that’s the case. You just said it yourself that the girl was brainwashed and used. It’s really not safe to be here…’

Graham balled his hand into a fist and slammed it down on his knee. ‘I just…want answers. Then we can go home…’ he took a deep breath, trying to fight off the tears. He jumped a little when he felt a cold...something touch his leg. C.Q. Cumber was looking up at him, and he pointed at the man in the suit.

‘He says the commander has answers. But the orange Octoling said to be careful of him…’ Eli signed for him.

The Octoling got to his feet and walked to stand directly in front of the slender Inkling. ‘I was told you have answers to the questions I have.’ He signed quickly, ignoring Eli’s desperate attempts to make him come back.

The “commander” lifted his head from the newspaper he was reading to meet his gaze, causing Graham to take a step back in surprise.

His eyes were unnaturally black, with bright turquoise irises.

The man folded his paper very carefully and set it down next to him. ‘You have questions for me?’ He signed, his movements more fluid and practiced than Eli’s were. Graham blinked, watching him in awe.

‘Yes, and I’m not leaving until I get my answers.’

The Inkling smirked. ‘Stubborn, just like they were. It’s a good trait to have, dear, but that trait will get you in some trouble someday. Why don’t you follow me off the train to the next stop? We can speak, or rather, sign, more privately there. Your friend will have to stay here, unfortunately.’

‘With all due respect, Eli has to come. He’s my translator,’ Graham faltered, his gaze flicking over to aforementioned Inkling, before returning back to the one sitting in front of him.

He shrugged and reached to pick his newspaper back up. ‘Then you won’t obtain the answers you seek.’

Graham threw out a hand, and the man looked back up at him with a knowing smirk. ‘Fine. I’ll come alone. I just need to know what happened to them.’

‘All in due time, dear. What’s your name, by the way?’ He asked with a small smile.

‘Graham.’

‘Commander Tartar. It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he held out a hand, which Graham took and shook with uncertainty.

Eli rushed over and pulled Graham back to their seats, his eyes betraying his panic. ‘What did you just agree to?!’ He demanded.

He didn’t meet his gaze as he signed back. ‘I’m meeting with him on the next stop. Alone. He has answers and I need them.’

‘No, I can’t let you do that, I’m coming with—’

Graham swatted his hand away and let out a warning growl. ‘He said he won’t tell me if you’re there. I have to do this alone.’

Eli sighed and shook his head. ‘I’m staying on the platform at least. Just in case something happens…’

Graham nodded, reaching to fiddle with the Squidfin Hook Cans that hung from his neck, then pulled Eli in for a kiss. The train pulled to a halt, and the Commander got to his feet, motioning for Graham to follow.

‘Eli wants to stay on the platform, if that’s okay, Commander,’ Graham signed to him, biting his lip in worry.

He nodded. ‘That’s fine, this won’t take long.’

The younger octopus looked back at his companion, suddenly feeling incredibly nervous, though he couldn’t put a finger on why. He took a deep breath and walked up the sloped floor, following closely behind the Commander. The bright light caused him to wince and hold up a hand, then slowly lowered it as his eyes adjusted. ‘What is this place?’ He asked.

‘Simply a rendezvous. You said you had questions for me.’ Guess there was no beating around the bush.

Graham nodded. ‘I-I do. I met two Octolings that were terrified of this place. The conductor told me that you knew something about them?’

‘Ah, yes. 10,005 and 10,008. Fine subject, 10,005 was. 10,008, not so much. But Five… Five had an immense amount of potential to be great. So, I took it upon myself to make sure she used that potential to reach amazing heights. If it hadn’t been for that blasted 10,008, I would have succeeded.’ He balled his fists in anger. ‘He and those blasted Inklings ruined everything for me.’

Graham lifted his hands to say something, but dropped them as the Commander continued.

The tall Inkling smirked as his gaze slowly drifted back to Graham, his unnatural eyes twinkling in the low light of the station platform. ‘I see that potential in you as well, Graham. Will you allow me to make you great?’ He extended a sickly green hand out to him, grinning.

His eyes flicked down from his face to his hand, then back up to his face as he shook his head. ‘You’re what they’re scared of… I need to go…’

Tartar’s grin grew, and he grabbed Graham’s wrist before he could dart off. ‘I think you misunderstood, dear. You no longer have a choice.’

Graham’s eyes widened, and he tried to free himself, opening his mouth to scream, only to find Tartar’s free hand covering the lower half of his face.

Thoughts raced at lightning speed through his head as he struggled. I should have listened to them. I should never have come here. He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die! Eli…!!

Tartar grinned and let go of his face and arm, holding a finger to his lips. Graham shifted his gaze to the side of him, doing his best to calculate his escape. He broke out into a run, only to be caught by the collar of his shirt and flung into the wall.

The Commander tutted and shook his head. “And here I thought this would be easy,” he murmured to himself as he approached the dazed Octoling. “Stay still for me, won’t you, dear?” He crooned as he pulled out the needle and syringe. “I honestly wasn’t expecting company today, much less an Octoling. It’s a shame you can’t hear me. But you should know that I won’t allow you to run out of here and tell the world of my failures. No, the world will only know of my accomplishments. You could have been one of them, you know, if only you had complied with my wishes. Such a shame, my dear Graham.”

Tartar uncapped the needle and rolled up Graham’s sleeve, slowly pressing the tip into his arm and emptying the barrel of a sickly, teal fluid. He stood up and discarded it over the side of the platform, pushed his hands in his pockets, and walked back to the train.

“Commander? Where’s Graham?” Elijah asked, instantly getting to his feet.

“He’s fine. Said he wanted to enjoy the scenery for a while. You’re free to join him now, if you’d like,” he purred and waved a hand, climbing aboard the train.

Elijah blinked and took off into the hallway, skidding to a halt when he spotted Graham sitting on the ledge of the platform silently, his back to the entrance of the platform. Everything seemed to slow around Eli, and he heard his pulse racing in his ears. He slowly approached him, gently placing a hand on his shoulder, and turned him around. “Graham…?”

Instantly, he recoiled and gasped, as if he’d touched a hot iron. Graham’s normally lively and excitable eyes were dull, his sclera black, just like Tartar’s were. Elijah took a step back, then fell to his knees. “Wh-… what happened to you…? What did he do to you…?” he whispered hoarsely, his voice cracking as tears threatened to spill over onto his cheeks.

Graham stood up and stumbled, then fell to his knees in front of Eli, causing the squid to scramble backwards to get away from him. “N-no… Graham, no! Say something!”

His head lolled to the side, his eyes blank and lifeless. His hands remained by his sides, then slowly rose to sign something.

‘I’m sorry. I love you, Elijah.’

Eli felt his heart break as he watched Graham succumb to whatever virus Tartar had implanted in him. He felt his hearts shatter when he realized that his love had just died right in front of him, and he hadn’t done anything to help.

He caught Graham’s dead weight as his body fell forwards, and he let out an anguished scream into the devastated nothingness.

[notlikegcds]

@escatcns / HECTOR

——— hector had always thought that he’d take the phrase out in a blaze of glory quite literally, though this isn’t quite what he’d had in mind.

          it had been a car chase, a suspect had taken off before either of them had been able to get ahold of him. hector was driving, he always drove, could handle the car better at high speeds than his partner could —— something he liked to tease her about. they’d done stuff like this what felt like a million times over the years, he was so confident in his ability to catch the perp that he was almost bored as his car swerved through the streets, sirens blaring as armistice cranked up some music.

            the oil spill takes him by surprise, car turning the country road corner just as it hits it. he totally loses control of the car, he’d taken the corner too fast and now his car was spinning in circles, he fights with the wheel, desperately trying to regain control. if his partner says something, hector doesn’t hear it, his focus on trying to have the car back under his command. he almost gets it too, before the car hits a fence.

            it spins once, twice, three times before landing upside down in a field.

            the first thing he’s aware of is that the radio is still playing, quieter than before, but the beat from the music can still be heard. the second is armistice’s voice. armistice. panic settles in as he tries to open his eyes to search for her, but he can only open one a little  and his vision is blurry, clouded by red. “armistice,” he called back, blindly reaching for her, hands grasping her shirt as it was the first thing he could find, “are —— okay?? armistice —— can’t —— can’t see.” free hand reaches up to find his face, only to find it warm with is own blood, pain tells him that there’s a scar down one side of his face and the blood was what was keeping both eyes shut. he unties his tie, using it to clean the side of his face which doesn’t hurt, his vision improves enough for him to somewhat see what is going on. he turns to her, needing to know if she was okay.

            what he sees makes his stomach turn. her arm is through the window, blood coating most of that side of her body and with the fuzziness in his vision, he can’t quite assess how much of her arm is in the car and how much isn’t, but from the blood loss he fears she may have hit an artery. “your arm —— we have to —— can’t ——”  he can’t quite form words, fears he hit his head quite hard and that might be what’s messing with the vision in his injured eye, but he had to hope that it would pass, armistice needed his help.

         he braces one arm on the roof of his car as he unbuckles his seatbelt, not wanting to fall and hit his head once more. he notices her fumbling with her belt and he reaches to help, though it takes him a few more tries to get it off with his blurred vision. relying more on his touch than sight, hector feels up her arm until he feels the injury, indicated by the groan from his friend and uses the belt to make a tourniquet. but he had no idea how that’ll last, he reaches for his phone to try and call for help, but the bright light hurts his eye and he lets out a groan himself. “dial,” he muttered, holding it up for her free hand to press buttons.

         he has no clue what he says to the person on the other end of the phone, but they manage to put together enough of his disjointed words to figure out whats going on. they say something like half an hour and he thinks he manages a bullshit to let them know what he thought of that timing. but there’s not much he can do about that, at least armistice’s bleeding was somewhat under control now and a shaking hand checks her pulse, which is fast but nothing to be concerned about.

         he points to the phone and nods, letting her know that help is on the way. he thinks now would be a good time for a witty joke to try and make her feel better, but words continue to fail him so he lets out a long sigh instead. everything would be fine. she would be fine. her injury was under control and everything else seemed to be somewhat fine, himself he wasn’t too worried about at the moment, at least all of his fucking limbs were in the car.

         he was so sure everything would be fine, except —— is that gas he smells ?? and the bright light he thought was just outside is fire, something had set alight on the car’s way across the field, flames licking towards the car across the grass.

         eyes lock with hers, a new wave of panic setting in as the situation dawns on the two of them. “fuck,” and he’s suddenly glad that the word still seems to be part of his vocabulary because it’s the only one to describe their current situation.

         the radio plays on, music changing to something solemn.

     She wasn’t new to this, Armistice had felt this pain before; had been thrown into a world of madness. Just not on this level, and now she wasn’t seven years old. No, this was now.

   It was a fucking run of the mill chase for fuck’s sake; Armistice had been sitting in the passenger seat, always sure to stay bucked in. Call it an effect of the accident she had years ago that took her mother from her. Even if by now their time chasing another had become clockwork, even as relaxed as she was as fingers move to set the music, she was in a seat belt. Her mother had taken hers off for only a moment; but it made all the difference in the end. And it would seem now it would make all the difference again.

    There had been little time to react, little time to process when everything had happened so quickly. The screech of the tire, the world that had spun so quickly that Armistice had to lift a hand to grip onto the passenger handle, the sickening crunch of metal on metal- somewhere. It was a sound that had always made her stomach curl, and then there was a deafening silence. Echoed only by the faint touch of music that would fall on deaf ears.

    And for a brief time all she had seen was darkness; a deep and dreamless slumber.

    But it was a nightmare she had awoken to. She had felt pain, an ache that had her releasing a low groan with the physical discomfort. Features twitch as eyes flutter open to see shattered glass and a world turned on it’s head. She hurt. Her whole fucking side was feeling the after effects of that roll. Fingers twitched, hanging in the air and before long she tried to adjust herself. Tried to find a ground, release herself, something. She had to make sure Hector was okay. but the worst of the ache came from her arm, a paralyzing throbbing that kept her in place. She tried to move, but the twinges made her stop immediately. It wasn’t until her eye started to focus again with the turn of her head did she see her right arm caught inside the door. Armistice froze. A rapid blink of shock as eyes trail with the turn of her chin to overlook the flow of liquid warmth along her shoulder, down down down to drip along the roof of the car. Bleeding... She had to stop the bleeding.

    She hears him talk, and attention rips back with the lift of her hand so she could try and undo her belt grunting with the painful stings pricking along her skin. It had been so much harder to do with one hand, so much harder at this angle; but with his help she gets it off. Watches as he reaches over to help close and tighten the piece around her arm. There is little searching done, a sound that left her with the stab of torn skin. Just a scratch- she wanted to say, words to put humor to their situation. But she can only manage a flinch, and an eye casting toward her partner as he lifts the phone to her, she released a breath, reaching over with the slight squint of her features as she dials the only three numbers that she could manage to process right now.

     Armistice shook her head, she felt dizzy. Too dizzy. But there was little she could do about it while her arm was caught at this angle. Not unless she wanted to break something; if there wasn’t anything broke. She would have to stay here until the door is cut away. Blinks rapidly with the weariness pulling at her eyes, would almost drift off to sleep; had it not been for the touch at her neck. A shaky breath leaves her when she come back, no- she can’t go out like this. She blinks wearily, giving a reassuring nod before she clears her throat. Could swear she saw her mother sprawled across the seat with her intestines cradled in her lap. Armistice had wondered briefly how long she would be up like this until a lick of orange caught her eye.

      There is a fire. Their eyes met.

     Her hand quickly comes to her seat belt but then the jerk against her arm makes her freeze with an outcry as the pain shot up her arm with tense of nerves along her shoulder and coil so hard within her that she thought she would be sick. “ Fuck! “ She started, Armistice was trapped. There was no fuckin’ way out of this was there? Thoughts race to all the things that she could think of, but none of it would result in the time that would keep them both alive. She had to get Hector out. “ Give me your knife. “ She gave a short gesture, good hand reaching out to him. There is only the beckon of her fingers before she felt the hilt of the blade.

      She took it, and then looks back to him with a long breath and a short nod, and a simple word. “ Go. “ There is another eye thrown to the flame, quickly, and then she shouts with a pained jerk of her weight. An short lunge forward with the ache as fuel. “ Get out of here! “

      Desperation lifts her brow and brings a scowl to her lips. Breathing shaking with the huffs as her eye turned back to her arm, still caught up in the teeth of jagged metal. Fuck. She breathed. She wasn’t gonna die here, not like mom. Blinks rapidly and then looks to her arm, gasping breathes as eyes shift from the flame to her arm. She saw her mother again, smiling to her now. No. She’s not done yet, she knows what she has to do. With a deep breath Armistice aligned the blade along the skin just after her elbow, just beneath the tourniquet. She shook her head. She wasn’t gonna die here. Exhales quickened as the flames suddenly felt so much closer, and then she brought the blade up and then jammed it into her elbow.

     Armistice growled. Lips curling with the scatter of red along her neck. No turning back now. She pushed down and pushed down, and then started to quickly bring the blade up and down. Sawing motions that sliced through flesh, sinew, and jammed into bone before a resounding crack gave way to an echoing scream with the explosion of red across her face. The knife clunks to the over turned roof, and a trembling hand comes down to undo the buckle sealing her to her seat. Right arm lifting to show a bloody tear dripping in crimson. No. Armistice as not dying here.

    Wasn’t long before the seat belt CLICKED and she fell to the ground with another loud outcry and the snap of her body hitting the metal.

[thedouchebrigadesympathizer]

May we receive a part 2 of dabi confessing who he is

If anyone likes this enough, I might make this a part time series. I honestly like this set up. Also, the HC that Dabi’s hair is damaged AF from dying is from @urbanashes, who coincidentally, is also where i got Dabi’s ‘real name’ from.

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

Your soft voice permeated the room, a cigarette that was just a soft tower of ash rested in a hand of Dabi’s that hadn’t moved since he had begun to speak his truth. You sat by your open window, propped up against him on the foot bench underneath the window you had taken to share as his hand hung out the windowsill, the lack of breeze not dulling the buzz of the world that laid outside the barrier of your room.

You tilted your head against his shoulder, peering up at the dark haired man, waiting for his answer.

Dabi twitched his fingers, finally letting the ash fall out the window and down below. He struggled to find something to say, torn between answer with an almost-truth and the real truth. You sat in your muted silence, the dull ache of his past now a fresh wound and making his heart ring with pain.

“You didn’t need to know back then.” He murmured, moving his chin to prop it atop your head. “I didn’t think you would understand, either.”

His voice with thick, and when you rested a calm hand on his chest, you felt a choke rupture form his chest.

“Hey,” you shushed him in a soothing tone. “Hey, It’s alright.”

“I know.” He said through a deep and uneven sigh. “Thanks.”

“For not leaving?”

“For not leaving.”

You mirrored his sigh, moving the hand from his chest to dip into his pocket, bringing out his packet of cigarettes and wordlessly taking one out and holding it to his lips. He shoot you a grateful look, parting his lips for the cigarette and using a finger tip to light a wispy violet flame while he inhales. A few puffs, and you tuck the packet of cigarettes back into his pocket, leaning against the window sill and humming.

“I fucking hate him.” you say suddenly with a venom to your voice, staring up at your ceiling while curls of smoke lift to cross your line of sight.

Dabi’s eyebrows jump, a smirk tainted with his earlier sadness cross his scarred face. “Get in line, Princess.”

“And yet, my hate fire grows by the second for this trash.” You huffed, Dabi slinging an arm around you and chuckling.

“That’s the spirit.” Exhaling smoke from his nose, he turns to gaze down at you. A slender hand reaches out, cigarette captured between his fingers, and brushes now dried and messy hair from your face.

You lower your eyes from the ceiling to meet his, and for a moment, just a moment, you wonder what it would be like to press your lips to his. You couldn’t try now, not with this confession, obviously, but with Dai having peeled back yet another layer of himself to you, you cant help but feel like you’re falling harder and harder for him. Yes, god, you had fallen for him. Ages ago really.

But now isn’t the time to reflect on that kind of emotion, the yearning you feel for him. You had to stop thinking about how natural it was for the two of you to be as close as you wore, and had to bury the thoughts about how comforting the scent of cigarettes and cloves had become to you.

“So Endeavour is your dad…” You rolled your head to the side, looking away from his face and finding something, anything, in your room to focus on. “That means, wow,” you paused. “Your little brother is Shouto?”

“Yeah.” Dabi hummed, a smile to his voice. “I bet my obsession with watching the UA fights make sense now, huh?”

“No kidding.” You nodded, finding that hidden smile to be infectious. “He kinda looks like you, now that i think about it. But you know, you have black hair- wait.”

You straightened, gasping dramatically and smothered a hand between styled locks of black hair. You leaned close, peering at the roots with a clinical eye, the sunlight from your window aiding in your search.

“Ow, hey, be fuckin’ gentle, christ.” Dabi complained to deaf ears as you carefully parted strands of his hair. He took a drag of his cigarette, already catching on to what you were looking for.

There wasn’t much, just a hint of ruby underneath the raven hair, but it was there.

“Oh my fucking god, it makes sense. No wonder your hair is so goddamn damnaged, i just always thought it was because of your quirk- that you like, singed it when you used your fire or whatever. But it’s because you dye this so often, huh?”

“Once a month isn’t a lot.” He smirked, pulling his head away and frowning. “And for your information, it isn’t damaged. Its dry.”

“Dry is usually followed by damaged, Buddy.” You quipped, feeling the heaviness of your earlier conversation dissipate slowly within the normality of your teasing. “How about you let me dye it next time, and i’ll treat it with a hair mask.”

“Whatever.” Was his answer, but you knew he appreciated the helping hand by the way he reached up and carefully touched the long tresses. “I practically live at your house anyhow.”

You pulled yourself up from the bench, stretching with a lopsided smile. “Well you did steal my key and make a copy, it’s only to be expected. Plus you eat my food. And use up all my body wash.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes with a purse of your lips. “You’re like a really shitty roomate.”

“I know right? I don’t even pay rent, I’m the best.” Dabi laughed lowly, rising with you and stubbing his cigarette out on the windowsill, tossing it out the window. “Now what’s for dinner, your shitty roommate is fucking starved.”

[bramlouisgreenfeld]

truth or dare

summary: Andrew doesn’t want to share his soul with anyone. Children from foster homes aren’t large on sharing, and the concept of a soulmate is as outdated as it is unlikely. His soulmate probably wouldn’t want him anyway. (compilation fic for @tfcfansgive)

Nicky, who’d grown up as boy fantasising about his soulmate, seemed almost as delighted to be a side character in the tale of Andrew Minyard’s epic romance. The first time they spent alone together, Nicky interrogated Andrew about all the details he knew of his soulmate.

“Nothing,” Andrew says. The skin condition - because that’s what the myriad of scars and wounds are best described as; an unsightly affliction - has never volunteered any significant information to him. Nor would he want it to.

“Nothing?” Nicky repeats, incredulous. “You’ve never even given them your phone number? Written ‘a/s/l’ on your arm?”

Andrew levels a flat stare on his newfound cousin. “I know they are more trouble than they are worth.”

Nicky protests, but it falls on ears that may as well be deaf. If the pain from the injuries - reduced though they are from what his soulmate must feel - weren’t inconvenient enough, Andrew has received scars through no experience of his own that immediately indicate to others that he is one of the very, very few who have a soulmate, opening him up to this kind of questioning by any person without enough of a self preservation instinct.

Besides, anyone who lives the kind of life that Andrew’s soulmate does clearly comes with with disaster on their heels. Andrew’s experienced enough disaster in his own life. He’s not taking on anyone else’s.

(Or so he thinks.)

The Foxes find out that Andrew has a soulmate after Nicky drunkenly blurts it out, trying to make friends by exchanging interesting facts. Andrew isn’t present for this. He is, however, present for the searching, amazed glances the following day; the marks of a group of people trying to figure out what it is by the angry, distant man that deserved a soulmate when none of them got one.

None of them ask. They have better instincts than Nicky. Or they’ve seen Andrew’s reaction to prying questions a few too many times to risk it for something Andrew clearly tries to hide.

Then, Renee does. “You’ve been blessed,” she says gently, as though this is fact and not a misguided opinion.

“You already know my view of religion,” Andrew says, aiming a particularly vicious slash at her as a warning that she deftly avoids.

“The fact of it is written all over your body,” Renee says, soft smile not showing any strain. “Surely it’s hard to deny.”

“I’m bonded to someone out there,” Andrew says, projecting his best bored tone. “There’s nothing to say that’s a blessing. They’ve caused me nothing but pain and annoying questions so far.”

“So you think it’s a curse?”

“If you must put it that way, yes.” It’s not the most accurate way to describe this nuisance that’s taken over his body, but it’s the best way to convey the sentiment to Renee.

“Have you ever tried to interact with them?” Renee asks, disbelief still in her dark eyes.

“Yes,” Andrew says, tapping his wrist to gesture to the marks Renee knows lie under the arm bands, and striking when her attention has strayed. “Never got a message back.”

“Andrew,” she says, catching his wrist.

“No,” he says, shortly, pulling his arm from her careful grip. The scars there are among the very few he’s ever given to his soulmate, and they’re not the fabled cry for help countless therapists told him they were. Each mark was him trying to claim his body back. They never worked.

Andrew knows there’s nothing a soulmate can do for him that he can’t do for himself. All his soulmate would be is another addition to Andrew’s sorry collection; they’d be a nuisance at best, and Andrew’s end at worst.

“Can’t you imagine it?” Renee asks Andrew’s back, a last attempt at conversion. “Perfect love drives out fear,” she says, in the reverent tone she gets when she quotes the Bible.

“I can,” Andrew says, and he leaves. Because fear doesn’t cover it. He can imagine the feelings - a fire in his veins, a tempest in his chest - and he can conjure up the feeling of being consumed by it all. He can envisage giving himself over to an emotion that’s bigger than he is. And he can imagine it can all being torn away from him.

No, there’s nothing his soulmate can offer him that’s worth taking.

But that doesn’t stop his soulmate from turning up anyway. Andrew stands over his prone figure in a dimly-lit room and he can paint a picture of every scar on his body. Neil Josten, a voice in his head whispers, and the knowledge burns a hole in his chest.

He swallows the familiar fear when Wymack calls his name, plays his part the way he always should. Then he taps an ironic salute to Neil, saying, “Better luck next time.”

He doesn’t know whether he means on the court or in life. Because he knows Neil’s history more than he clearly wants Andrew to, and he hasn’t had luck so far. He isn’t going to get more lucky with the Foxes, that’s for damn sure.

But he signs. Neil brings his trouble to Palmetto, and despite himself, Andrew is drawn in. Because fate and genetics and bad fucking luck had this determined long before either of them had any such thing as a choice.

Neil is a fish floundering out of its depth. He won’t survive the year, and though Andrew wills himself to feel relief, he doesn’t. The wasteland inside him burns, becoming twisted with new regret. Andrew doesn’t know why this is his fabled bond, but it is - a cruel joke, just like the rest of his life.

An oblivious boy, a danger magnet, a ticking time bomb with an expiration date. All of the trouble and none of the peace that’s supposed to come with true love.

He had thought watching blood appear as though from nowhere was inconvenient. It doesn’t even compare to the wounds lying over broken promises, broken bones, a breaking mind. It doesn’t compare to the terror of a bag left behind in the midst of chaos, to a boy basked in sunlight saying the only one I’m interested in is you being ripped from him in the blink of an eye, to a goodbye hidden in a thank you.

Andrew curses every deity he can name, every fate that would dare play this joke on him, then he curses himself again for letting it get this far. For thinking he would be allowed to keep this.

He watches his skin split and blood spill, feels heat on his face, weathers the pain and doesn’t imagine how many increments above this Neil is feeling. He doesn’t leave handprints on Kevin’s neck, but he’s sure he should. He’s not imagining the blood. It’s real, much as he wishes it weren’t.

Then he takes Neil’s face in his hands, and Neil looks at him like he holds the answer to a question he’d never dared ask.

Andrew doesn’t trust this, doesn’t dare think it could last, doesn’t think that the pull in chest feels almost like happiness. But he lets himself tell Neil to stay, and lets him think this could survive the year.

[borrowingfaces]

Icarus Draco/Harry

Mature content First fanfic in a while ........... Draco's mouth was dry and a thin sheen of sweat coated his skin. Warm to touch despite the chill of his dungeon dormitory the Slytherin Prince twisted in his sleep. Gasping breathless with thin fingers curled into his pillow the blonde rocked and rolled as if in the grip of some unseen sufferance. By pure luck he was alone in the shadows of the room when he woke. Jolted from sleep into the full harshness of conscious. He felt more feverish than he had before passing out and drew a shaky breath in a bid to control the shivers trailing through his flesh. It failed and he dragged sweat damp sheets across his body, huddling from the room hidden beyond his bed curtains. He did not need to see to know he was alone; the lack of snoring and wheezing breath told him as much and he was thankful to whatever power allowed him such privacy. Trying to focus on the irregular state of his being rather than the dream that had caused it he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Immediately he leaned forward upon his knees, running his hands across his face before pushing sweat slick locks away from his eyes. His hands stayed there, resting on each side of his head as if attempting to stop it from falling off. It was spinning, throwing a helter skelter hell of thoughts through his mind. All reason had gone and he knew it, desperately dragging in deep breaths to calm the rising panic. It took a few moments before the usual defences rose and rage took the place of worry. The subtle trembling of his figure ceasing once the old familiar friend of anger had settled across him like a warm blanket. He lashed out suddenly slamming a fist into his bed, half snarling through his gritted teeth as he did so. It was unbecoming for such a pure blooded young man to act in such ways yet as soon as the thought hit him another took its place. He was unbecoming for the pure blooded family he came from. He in his useless entirety was the whole problem, not merely a harbinger of unsuitable traits. Sighing he fell back across his bed and stared unseeing into the canvas that hung above. Laid out like a corpse on a morticians slab, pale and unmoving, he held his breath; wondering how long it would actually be before he died. Well, how long it would be before his father's glorious idol ordered his death. There was no way Voldemort would waste time on Draco by killing the boy himself. It would come from any number of known faces at any time once the truth came out. Draco swallowed hard, remembering his dream with a faint reddening of cheeks. If he was this fitful when he was supposed to be happy someone would catch on. His two brutish allies were far from smart enough to notice something but Blaine Zabini had the eyes of a hawk and where there was one restless night of sleep there were others. With no one around to see or hear anything the blonde felt at ease enough to berate himself with gusto. Hitting himself on the side of the head he growled barely there words through gritted teeth. Things like 'how could you?' And 'of all the people you could have' and a lot more 'you're fucking disgusting. You are so fucking disgusting.' It was not as if anyone who may have heard it would have found any sense to it but that was part of the problem wasn't it? It had to be. He was, because of recent stresses in the 'workplace' he was clearly losing his mind. The fact that he had not decided this sooner was laughable, quite literally so as the waif of a student shuddered with near silent rolls of laughter. Meanwhile... High in a hogwarts tower the famous Harry Potter lay trapped in dreams and nightmares he would prefer not to understand. He woke with a start to the banging of a door and stared, ready for an attack, through the gap in his curtains as the familiar figure of Neville longbottom hurried to his bed. Slowly his body began to relax, drawing back its alertness for a sensible weariness instead which pushed Potter back to the comfort of his mattress and blankets, the latter dragged close around him to hide the ever so slight trembling of his limbs. Sleep had not been the cure all he had hoped it would be before he had gone to bed. Instead it had thrown him images of a brief nothing that didn't matter over and over again. He had no idea what it meant and had no desire to repeat the memory of something so insignificant being played over and over and over again in full surround sound. That was what his dreams had been; like sitting in a giant 360• screen cinema, trapped in a circle of minutes played, rewound and played again. It had made him feel small, the incident towering over him, jeering. Harry rubbed his scar, knowing it would never hurt again and pondered the value of knowing your enemy. He had been bound to Voldemort, their minds intertwined and that was how he had defeated the dark lord, with a lot of help from his friends and that tedious tether that had shared things vital to their resistance. He had been linked to that enemy so knowing it had become sort of normal but the incident his mind refused to drop was anything but that. Staring blurry eyed at the canopy above Potter squinted in an attempt to focus the image without putting on his glasses; it worked, sort of but he was already being dragged back into his own thoughts. Lying there still but for the twist of fingers in sheets and the steady rise and fall of his chest Harry dared himself to think willingly of what had happened. It had been a weekend and the day had been foul. Those who had not gone to hogsmeade had stayed in the warmth of common rooms, all but two. Thinking himself alone and still not fully comfortable in a school full of ghosts of people who had fought in the war by his side, he had grabbed his broom and marched to the rebuilt quidditch stands. Desperately seeking solitude and finding solace in the wind that roared by his ears deafening his own thoughts. It was a blessed relief to still be able to cross the grounds and he welcomed it hungrily. Not wanting to remember the school for the war and eager like others to finish his education Harry currently now sought to bring some of the better memories back to life. Seeing no one, not even Hagrid who was rarely put off the weather, Harry took out the snitch Dumbledore had left him and watched smiling as it shot off towards the quidditch pitch. The gryffindor's gaze soon losing one golden thing for another paler creature flitting across the heavens. All thoughts drawing to a halt, all but those questioning the scene before him. Draco flew the way Harry imagined angels would. Dipping and riding the slip stream winds, elegant in a way no quidditch player could manage whilst remaining successful. What Draco was doing was not flying, Harry decided from his hidden position by the stands. What Draco was doing was some sort of confessional, a dance, a masterpiece of wizardry that had the Gryffindor mesmerised. Too taken with his voyeurism of such an exquisitely vulnerable moment to pay attention to his own feet as they carried him toward the pitch; drawn in like a moth to the flame. No care for the risk. As he moved closer, silently watching the ballet of movement above Harry felt his heart stutter and catch within his chest. This invasion would come at a price yet awe overtook panic as he turned in circles, unwilling to take his eyes off of the pale creature drifting effortlessly across the grey sky. It was so strangely appealing to watch that he was reminded of the quidditch World Cup or rather the Bulgarian team mascots. Harry suddenly struck by the belief that Draco could quite easily have veela blood somewhere in his family. It would explain the sudden need within Harry to witness such a strange masterpiece in action. His mind so adrift in wonder that thoughts of reason slipped away leaving Harry reeling. As he stood plain as day upon the pitch, twisting and turning to follow Draco's path. He was soon surprised to find himself watching the slytherin effortlessly dismount his broom straight into a stroll that led him straight toward Potter, his broom tucked over one shoulder. Feeling his fingers twitch for want of his wand Harry held still, fighting the urge to hex as hard as he fought the heat growing in his cheeks. Why was he blushing? "Enjoy the view Potter?" The drawl was carried off by the growing breeze that warned of more to come as the clouds above began to darken. The growing gloom seeming only to add to the few positive qualities Harry could see within his classmate. Draco's sharp features softened, either by the lighting or the war, his skin glowing faintly with the pearlescent shine of sweat. Harry said nothing, unwilling to tell the truth and too caught up in being caught during such strangeness that any lie hovered just beyond his grasp. Silence was better than admission of enjoyment here, silence held honour and pride and most of all the slim amount of dignity Harry believed he had kept alive through all his hardships. It was not something to be thrown away simply because Draco's flying had left Harry speechless and most certainly not worth confessing what he had seen of his own heavy heart in the Slytherin's elegance. Silence protected the truth of his hummingbird pulse as it fluttered violently making his fingers tingle and his mouth dry. Silence protecting Harry from what other things stirred beneath the surface of his mind, lighting a fire within green eyes. "Gone deaf?" The annoyance in the blonde's voice halfhearted, already seeming to be bored of his fellow student as he sneered, turned in the mud and started towards the locker rooms. Stuck for a retort the gryffindor found his gaze drawn once more to the slytherin. Noting the subtle curve of hips and arse, the almost sway that accompanied each step reminding Harry of Ginny; or rather how easily she stole his attention. Watching the shadow of Draco disappear through the locker room door Harry took a deep breath in a bid to calm his now erratic heart. Flustered and unwilling to accept the reason behind why he was so confused whilst the breeze around him rose to a wind, sending shivers to the base of his spine. Unwilling to follow for anxiety of what may happen, what he may say or do, he was eventually chased in by the start of a downpour that had him drenched and dripping by the time he joined his enemy in the shelter of the locker rooms. He knew his mistake immediately as his heart leapt to his throat at the sight that greeted him. Draco was half sat half sprawled upon a bench, knees spread wide with his broom resting against his thigh. Thin fingers curled around the handle, rising and falling in a motion that stole the breath from Potter's mouth. The green eyed boy reading into the gesture exactly what was being implied. Unable to ignore the smugness upon the pale boy's face Harry clenched his fists in a bid for some semblance of control. Shivering violently beneath the weight of his sodden clothes, with green eyes fixed on grey, he waited a moment, assuring himself it was safe before struggling out of his dripping sweater which hit the floor with a dull squelch, much to Draco's amusement. "I had no idea you were into stripping Potter." The words chased Harry's thoughts around his head, hounding his senses and diving into the darker parts of his mind where anger twisted with other passions into something altogether wrong. Wrong for him. Wrong for someone who hated Draco. Wrong for someone who had managed to be a hero and now stood more uncomfortable in his skin than he had ever been. Searching for a response, fumbling over the words in his head his fingers tightened into fists once more. His limbs adorning a subtle tremble of nerves that coiled within his gut, spreading warmth beneath the waistline of his trousers that felt suddenly too tight, too close, too restrictive. "Cat got your tongue?" Draco purred, his head lulling to one side as if in mock concern that was spoilt by the mischievous smile upon his lips, matching the sparkle in pale eyes. Harry may have defeated Voldemort, finally managed to date Ginny and had returned to life from death but right here right now, standing in a pool of rain water of his own making, he felt trapped. Almost helpless but not without comfort as if the others attention somehow eased the panic tearing through his bloodstream like a muggle drug. "I saved your life." He managed to say in an almost whisper that could have easily been covered by the tempest growing outside. It was however another mistake for no sooner had he spoken Draco had risen and began to creep closer, pointing his broom in Harry's direction. "I saved yours too." He chimed, his ease almost predatory as he advanced. His pink tongue darting out to moisten the curve of pale lips, drawing the gryffindor's attention to his mouth whether intentional or not. Harry suspected it was on purpose, suspected or hoped. "Ginny been holding out on you?" Now standing barely a foot from Potter, speaking so gently that the chosen one had to lean in to hear. Harry imagined he could feel the warmth of Draco's breath ghost across his cheek sending yet another shiver through him where it spread out, sparking new life in nerve endings that soon felt charged with potential. Harry managed a silent shake of the head, his jaw set firm with the muscle twitching ever so slightly in his cheek. Yet his eyes gave him away as they followed the path of Draco's peeking tongue, studying the lines of the sly mouth that appeared frozen open in an inaudible gasp. He had no idea where it came from and he wasted no time in attempting to find reason in what was happening but simply gave in to the new hungers stirring in his chest. The beast that once growled and purred over Ginny now as transfixed as its host, lured willing in. Draco, despite appearances was surprised when Harry crashed into him, body pressed against body, lips to lips, demanding attention that came without hesitation. The blonde let his broom fall from his hands and filled them instead with fistfuls of Potter's damp clothes, fingers tracing brief patterns across the flesh hidden between the buttons of Harry's shirt. Seeking the same closeness that had his enemy's hands desperately clawing at his own attire until they found his hair where they coiled and tightened. Harry thought he could feel Draco's pulse through the savageness of the kiss. Tongue flitting against tongue whilst his fingers found platinum locks and pulled, releasing some of his loathing whilst offering proof of his strength even if his will to resist had been broken. Using his hold to command the moment, harry was rewarded by a noise that whispered from Draco's chest, a delicate hungry noise that only fed Harry's needs further. He was tired of being careful, tired of being a hero, tired of doing the right thing and the slytherin felt all too perfect pressed against him hip to hip. Neither student seeming to care for the obviousness of their arousal as Harry tested the moment with a rough grind that was met with similar. The pair soon furiously tugging at one another's clothes, trying to get closer, trying for more friction as heavy breathing and dulcet moans escaped through their animalistic kiss. The noises of their illicit game drowned by the storm now raging outside. It was as far from affection as war, lips bruised and aching, cocks painfully restrained within clothes. It was hateful and demanding, neither giving up the reigns as they fought for control. Both refusing to listen to the voices of reason within their minds which were soon drowned out by the insistent mantra of 'more, more, MORE'. Draco pulled away first, withdrawing from the kiss but not the hands that ran across his clothed flesh and left nail marks upon his hips and arms. "You kiss like your girlfriend." The laughter in his voice enough to draw a kiss-drunk Harry back to earth with a crash. The gryffindor's mind suddenly drowning in reasons not to do this, not to have done this and yet he found himself licking the taste of Draco from his mouth, struggling to keep his hips from seeking further friction. Letting his hands drop from where they caressed hair and cheek, throat and the boyish curve of the hip Harry gave in to one more urge. Finding immediate gratification as he watched his fist strike the unsuspecting boy in the jaw. Doing his best to resist confusing impulses that thrilled at the sight of blood upon Draco's mouth and yearned to lick it clean. Stepping away whilst the other boy straightened himself from a stumble, Harry shook his head, pleading internally for the sanity that seemed to have abandoned him on the pitch. Making him wonder if magic had been at work despite the gnawing feeling in his gut that told him otherwise. "That's more like it." He heard the slytherin whisper behind him, sounding just as breathless and lost to desire as Harry felt. Though at least he was trying to fight it unlike Draco who wore all the signs of an impulsive life upon himself like badges of honour. Of course he knew about the dark mark that stared at him when Draco rolled up his sleeves; but there was more. Even from a distance, even in such poor lighting he could make out the tell-tale needle marks in the other boy's arm, the bird bone fragility of long limbs and the flourish of bruises across what flesh was visible. It all seemed only to lift the hunger higher, fuelling his want of the brat prince of slytherin as much as his desire for revenge. Near mindless with years of snide remarks, duels, injuries and battles raging through his mind at full steam Harry clenched his jaw and struck out at Draco again. Unable to deny the throb of satisfaction in his cock as his knuckles struck flesh again, the stinging in his fist only reassuring him somehow that this was right. It had to be right because Draco was smiling, pushing hair out of an already swelling eye, licking lipstick-like blood from the line of his mouth. It felt strange but good, incredibly wrong but oh so natural to draw the blood of his enemy who stood willing and eager before him like a personalised punch bag. He knew what it felt like to be beaten, sort of, his cousin had beaten him enough but there was more here beneath the surface. An undeniable call to violence that had Harry's fists shaking with the temptation to continue, barely holding back as Draco swayed enticingly before him, lithe fingers stretching the distance between them to run fleeting across the hardness contained within Harry's trousers. It stole a gasp and was almost enough to draw him in again but as if sent from the gods a rumble of thunder shook Harry's thoughts apart. It forced him to step back, to get away, to put space between them despite how badly his fingers itched to run across scars he was sure were hidden beneath the thin fabric of Draco's shirt, scars he had caused. Scars whose mere idea sent a wave of guilty pleasure through the gryffindor's frame and pushed him further back. As drunk on arousal as Potter, if not moreso, Draco could nevertheless see his brief hold over Harry was breaking and prepared himself for what came next. Each punch may have left him reeling but each had filled the beast within his chest with a hedonistic joy that fed the mischievous grin now written across his face once more; pumping almost-there pleasure through his veins. It hurt but it hurt in the good way that Draco had learned to want since first tasting the delights of violent intimacy. It spread a warmth through him that others would get from embracing a loved one and appeared to make him glow, saint-like in his beauty and blood in the shadows of the locker room. He knew it too. Knew how he looked the second Harry turned back to face him and let his eyes drag all the way over Draco's body as if choosing a steak for dinner. He thrived off of it and despite a history of poor planning and poor choices he knew what had to be done and turned his back on his bewildered enemy. Crouching to retrieve his broom before turning to face Harry once more, he dug around in his pockets, ignoring the painfully obvious line of his cock that begged for attention as his fingers searched deeper into his pockets. Making no attempt to bite back the almost moan bought by his innocently rummaging hand. He tilted his head back, allowing bliss to dance briefly across his features before he met potter's gaze to be sure they both knew exactly what had happened. "You hit like your girlfriend too." The words carried on a cold flutter of laughter, suddenly throwing something golden and glinting towards the gryffindor before turning without further warning and disappearing out into the rain. Of course Harry had caught the snitch he had released earlier in hopes of a bit of private practice but by time he had opened his mouth to reply he was alone. the sounds of the storm and his still racing pulse all that kept him company as he sat down to wait out however long it took for his body to forget the enjoyment Draco malfoy had given it. Harry growled at himself under his breath as he recollected the incident, focusing on how it felt to be pushed up against Draco's slighter frame and how the other body had smelt. The blonde had smelt faintly of heady spices, summer rain and broom polish along with a peppermint touch to his breath. Harry had been able to taste it when they'd crashed together, breathing in one another's exhalations, limbs intertwined without rational plot. Harry felt his heart pick up speed and rested his hands over it. Though no one could see him, though his roommates were awake and no one knew what had happened he felt as if he had betrayed them. Fighting was not the plan of the future and lowering himself to letting Draco get so near was an embarrassing fault. It would have been worse if he admitted to himself how it had felt, beneath the surface layers of blind hatred. Harry bit his lip hard and tasted blood. Draco had smelt of that too during their encounter after Harry had struck him. There was a hearty pleasure in that and the gryffindor closed his eyes to the peace it brought. The chosen one happily ignoring the root of that pleasure which had begun to burrow deeper, through the cracks into places that were raw and unknown.