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aloneinthehellfire · 2 years ago

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Chapter 23: The Aftermath

Season One | Season Two | Season Three | Season Four

Word Count: 4847 words of these kids definitely have ptsd now

Warnings: swearing, mentions of death, blood, hospitals (i myself am not fond of being in one), minor violence?, some nice sweet stuff in this one since all the others have been an angst fest

[A/N: this is kind of like a filler episode we all know and love on our fav shows (or not lmao) but i really wanted to give a shot at what was happening before 'two days later'. you don't really have to read this chapter if you don't want to, but there are some important parts?]

The Aftermath

Dawn was breaking by the time you left the Upside Down, slowly casting an orange light on your silhouettes. For a moment, everyone glanced over at the rising sun.

It wasn’t until you were heading to the RV that you realised this particular sunrise wasn’t meant to be seen by your eyes, or any after that. It was a bittersweet reminder that you almost never saw a sunrise ever again. You didn’t even remember the last.

Steve drove away from the trailer park, Nancy taking care of Eddie’s wounds in the back, while Dustin and Robin shared stories of the night. Despite their efforts, there was an unease that even the attempt of comedic conversation couldn’t break.

You sat in the front, staring out of the window and wincing at the reflection of the girl with a blood-stained face staring back.

There was too much running through your mind to truly allow you to focus, only ever seeing the same images burned into your brain. The visions of the people you lost, the grave inscribed with your name. The look in Vecna’s eye when he took your life. Your blood.

“Hey.”

Steve’s foot gently nudges yours, voice lowered in attempt to keep the conversation private. Not that it was needed; Robin and Dustin’s exchange of tales were loud and excitable, the pair happy to just discuss random movies and keep Eddie awake.

“You okay?” He asks before his face drops, shaking his head and looking back to the road. “Sorry, stupid question.”

“We lost.” You say after a time, quietly. He glances over to you.

He took a moment to decide his next words, flexing his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel tightly. “Not yet. We’ll get another chance, and we’ll win. I know it.”

“Yeah.” You try to agree, but your heart wasn’t in it.

“Look,” Steve sighs, quickly checking the mirror to ensure the others were distracted, “All I know is that we’re okay. That you’re okay.”

His voice was slightly cracked at the last three words and your whip your head to find his eyes, frowning.

“Steve-”

“No, I-” He breathes away the reddening of his eyes, focused on the road ahead in the soft yellow glow of the headlights, illuminating the paths hidden in darkness from the early morning shades of trees. “I genuinely thought I was gonna have to figure out the rest of my life without you and I never wanna do that again. I wish I could say it was the first time.”

“When have you…” You shake your head, confused.

Steve’s eyes flicker to yours, gulping. “Last year. When… the Russian base. We got separated. All I could hear were your screams. Even if I was getting beaten to a bloody pulp, those screams were the worst torture, believe me. Then- then that woman showed us a knife- your blood, and…”

A tear rolls down his cheek as he continues. “Jesus, I seriously thought that this year would be different. You left, and believe me that sucked, but you were safe. That’s what mattered.But I- I couldn’t get any of it out of my head. Then the worst finally happened just a few hours ago and I don’t even know how I’m gonna process that one.”

“You aren’t the only one.” You admit quietly and he nods.

“Yeah, of course. Right, I can’t even imagine-” His breath is shaky and you lower your head.

There was always a part of you that declared you needed to be strong, to never show weakness. It was that part that always ended up failing you, spinning you out of control until you did something you regret. But those usually extended from small lies or lack of communication. This time, it was quite literally death.

And you didn’t have the strength in you to pretend like you were okay.

“Don’t ever die again.” Steve frowns, breaking the silence, eyes filled with that painful memory. His lips were tight, glistening eyes watching as the light began to beam between the branches you pass. “Please.”

You lean over and wipe the tear from his cheek. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Good.” He chuckles, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Because I’m not letting you go that easy.”

That was the first time you felt like you smiled for a normal reason. The only times happiness had struck you over the course of the past few days were when you celebrated that your friends were alive. This… this felt better. Because it wasn’t a relieved smile for once. It was the joy you felt after the boy you loved told you that this was forever.

The moment was broken with a thick air of smoke clouding the road, Steve pulling the RV to a stop and frowning.

“What’s going on?” Nancy joins you at the front, peering through the windscreen.

As Steve wordlessly shakes his head, you can make out a shadow in the distance, a scarlet outline. Your eyes widen.

You were out of your seat and jumping from the door in no time, feet planting on the solid ground before taking a few steps. Your breath slipped from your lips, a clearer view of what you feared.

The Creel House was surrounded by the dark smoke but illuminated by a red light, almost like fire.

And it was no longer standing.

A huge slit broke the house in half, the beating heart of a gate staring back at you. Your gaze travels up the building, face dropping completely. The attic was incinerated.

“Do you think they got out?” Dustin asks with the smallest whisper.

Your friends had collected behind you, poking their head out of the vehicle and staring at the destruction with wide eyes.

Robin nods vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, they- they had plenty of time.”

Your eyes flicker around, part of you hoping to find Lucas safe and sound among the rubble. Nothing.

Erica would have gone for help, you tell yourself, he’s fine, she’s fine… Max is fine.

“Maybe they’re-” Dustin hobbles down from the step in the direction of the building, until his ankle folds beneath him and he’s almost face first on the ground.

Steve catches him just in time, “Woah, no, okay. We’re getting you to the hospital. You seriously need that ankle checked out.”

“But-”

“No, he’s right.” Nancy affirms, nodding. “You’re obviously in pain, Eddie needs those bites properly treated. And Y/n-”

Nancy turns to you and for the first time tonight, took in your appearance, breath hitching. Almost your entire torso was covered in dry blood, splattered across your neck and face. Three gashes were torn into the fabric of your shirt, outlining the red scars that replaced your once fatal wounds. Bruises coated the public skin, some more brutal than others. You were, to put it simply, a mess.

“I’m fine.” You shrug, clearing your throat. “But, yeah. We, uh… we should get to the hospital.”

You ignored her worried look, turning away from the wreck and stepping back into the RV, reclaiming your seat. Steve slips back behind the wheel, taking a deep breath and relying on the headlights to guide you all safely through Hawkins.

The earlier chatter of distraction had dissipated into unsettling silence. Perhaps they were originally riding the high of their survival, but now the truth of the surface had unveiled itself and plunged them into dread.

And it only got worse.

Driving through streets of chaos, your heart drops; crumbled buildings, fires burning away memories, people cradling limbs as they’re pulled from beneath.

Crying parents held their children, police men desperately trying to assess the source of the destruction. It was soul-breaking to see the panic, residents fleeing their homes without a choice. Hawkins was once so cosy.

The aftermath of Vecna’s victory hadn’t just hurt you. It affected the entire town.

The road to the hospital was busy with cars, forcing Steve to stop in the Family Video parking lot. Luckily for you, the final destination was only around the corner.

Steve supported Eddie’s weight, the latter insisting he was fine when, especially in daylight, he clearly wasn’t. Dustin simply loops his arm around Nancy, allowing her to help him along with no complaints. From the grimace of his face, the adrenaline must have worn off and he was now feeling the pain of the drop.

Robin offered to help, only met with a few murmurs of ‘no, it’s okay’ before she gave up and shuffled up next to you, her curious eyes assessing the buildings around her.

After seeing the Creel House destroyed, your hope had gone. You knew Max was dead, that part was made very clear by the grand opening of Hawkins’ biggest gate yet. But you also knew Lucas had to have seen that, and he wouldn’t have left her side, even if the ground was swallowing them both up. It hurt.

Lucas had a natural charisma about him when you first met. It was late, your first night in Hawkins, and the house beside you was lively, bundles of excited chatter and exclamations spewing from the tiny window of the basement and echoing straight to your window. It wasn’t until you took a step out of the house for some fresh air that you met the kids; Will’s shy smile, Mike’s under-eager wave, and Dustin’s wide grin. Lucas was the first one to talk to you, a warm welcome to the town.

Ever since then, you’ve seen him grow from that 12 year old boy into someone you wished you could be. You’ve dealt with his unrealistically optimistic flirts, his arguments with the other boys, his small and quiet conversations about wanting to play basketball like the older kids did but scared he would upset the Party. And he dealt with your sarcasm, your denial of emotions, even your constant refusals to assist them even though you would do anything for them. When you think of any memory tied to the town, almost every one had him connected into it, his sincerity and love for his friends inspiring you to make the same sacrifices onto selflessness. You couldn’t have hoped for a better person to care for your sister.

The thought of losing them both…

Warmth slipped into your hand and you look up to see Robin’s smile, her hand squeezing yours gently as you led the others towards the hospital. Neither of you spoke, only basking in the safety you felt with eachother, calming nerves.

As the greying white of the building appears into view, flashing lights blare the road behind you, screeching sirens of persistence loud enough to pierce the chaos around you.

The ambulance stops just outside of the entrance, a gurney being pulled from the back and slid onto the paving. You barely take notice, head hung low as you glance back to check on Dustin and Eddie.

“Is she gonna be okay?! Anyone?!”

Your head whips up to see someone else emerge from the transport, reddened eyes and quick breaths as they yell in exasperation.

Erica steps around him, noticing you stood with a look of shock on your face. She immediately turns to get his attention, pulling on his shirt and nodding in your direction.

Lucas’ face drops when he sees you, eyes widening. He glances to the gurney.

It doesn’t take long for the puzzle to build itself.

“Max.” You breathe out, loud enough for your friends to halt all movement and find the source of your whisper.

Without even waiting for confirmation, you drop Robin’s hand and sprint over to where they were carting your sister into the hospital, a sob leaving your lips when you see her face, blood staining her cheeks in tear paths.

“You need to step back.” A nurse informed you a little bitterly and you shake your head, keeping up with the fast pace.

“She’s my sister!” You insist and the woman sighs, nodding to another worker.

“And we will let you know everything once we finish her surgery.”

“No, I- Surgery?” You repeat, hand brushing against Max’s face before she’s pulled away from you and through restricted doors, leaving you stood alone in the foyer, murmurs of busy people vibrating around you.

“Y/n?”

You turn around to see Lucas stood a few steps from you, body almost curling in on itself like he was guilty, ashamed. With the drop of your heart, you realise he must think you’d hate him for breaking his promise. Your feet moved quickly.

Closing the distance, you wrap your arms around him and pull him close. His arms immediately clung onto you, soft sobs vibrating into your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I tried- he-”

“It’s okay.” You soothe, squeezing your eyes shut. “You’re here. That’s what matters. You did everything you could.”

Lucas’ mumbles of apology quickly faded into silent tears, his tight grasp finding comfort in your arms and letting you hold him up. Behind him, Erica patiently waits, her sad eyes finding yours and flickering to her older brother, a look of helplessness.

The doors open to reveal the others, Steve calling for doctors passing by and struggling to make excuses for Eddie’s condition.

“Look, I don’t know what to tell you, we…” Steve stumbles over words, looking to Robin.

“Uh, yeah, we… found him. Like this, I mean. We found him like this.” She finishes, turning red. She was never one for lying.

The doctor raised an eyebrow and Eddie sighed.

“Bats.” He states and they look surprised.

“Bats?” The doctor repeats and Eddie nods.

“Yeah, bats.”

Nancy clocks the medic’s startled face and clears her throat. “He might just be in shock, you know. The, um, earthquake must’ve spooked a lot of animals.”

“Right.” The doctor sounds hesitant but motions over a nurse, whispering something in her ear before she helps them take Eddie from Steve’s hold.

As they pass, Eddie sends you a smile, your brain instantly recognising that look where he hides something behind his eyes. You frown, carefully pulling away from Lucas but keeping an arm around him.

You watch as the doctor nods to a guard by the entrance, the man moving swiftly across the foyer and towards where the medics were helping Eddie.

And, with the sickening realisation, you knew there wasn’t even a small chance he’d have a normal life after this.

Because you never managed to clear his name.

Steve was by your side as you glared up at Officer Callahan, arms crossed as you stared with such malice he was starting to look uncomfortable.

As you intended. After all, his spiel about Eddie’s ‘murder rampage’ boiled your veins with each shake of his head.

“I’m just stating the law-”

“Fuck the law!” You spit and he widens his eyes, adjusting his hat.

Steve raises his brows but says nothing, trying to hide a smirk as the officer slowly shrinks in size.

“And it’s not even true. Which we’ve been trying to tell you for the past 20 minutes and honestly, I’m really starting to think our law enforcement is really fucking stupid.”

“Hey, now-” Callahan complains but you raise your hand and he shuts his mouth.

“Please, tell me how it’s humanly possible for anyone, much less Eddie, to be able to do that to someone.” You challenge and whatever retort he had was thrown away, shoulders slumping as he sighs.

“It’s not up to him.”

You and Steve turn to see Powell enter the hallway, nodding to his colleague.

“Since he was seen in contact with 2 out of the 3 victims, we have to take into account that he doesn’t have any kind of alibi.” Powell explains and you purse your lips.

“Explain my sister, then.” You say and he looks surprised, glancing to Callahan for clarification but in return getting a shrug.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Max is currently in surgery after being found with all her bones snapped and her eyes bleeding.” You try and keep control over your voice, wanting them to take you seriously. “Exactly like the other kids. And Eddie couldn’t possibly have done that.”

“How do you know that he didn’t?” Powell raises an eyebrow and you’re ready to answer until Steve’s reminding touch stops you.

“Uh…” You struggle to speak.

To tell the police that you had been hiding a fugitive wouldn’t look great for anyone, but especially not you. You knew about the records they kept on you at the station, the looks you’d get anytime you would pass an officer. They’d be quick to assume that Eddie had an accomplice.

“He was with me.” Steve breaks his silence and your eyes widen, whipping your head to him. He avoids your eyes, looking to Powell and scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, long story short I kinda ran into him at Skull Rock, got to talking. I mean, I was all on board thinking Eddie could’ve done it until I actually met the guy and yeah, I gotta tell ya… not a murderer.”

Callahan’s eyes narrowed while Powell assessed Steve’s face for any hint of a lie. You held your breath.

Powell eventually nods, glancing off into the distance before running a hand down his face. “Alright.”

“Alright?” You prompt, brows furrowed.

“We’ll reopen the case.” He states and Callahan turns to him with wide eyes.

“We will?”

“Yes.” Powell nods, adjusting his hat and finding your eyes. “I can’t guarantee anything will change, but he’ll no longer be in our custody. At least not until we’ve dealt with this earthquake.”

You let out your breath and exchanged a triumphant smile with Steve.

Callahan clears his throat pointing a stare. “It does mean we’re gonna have to take statements, from you and your boyfriend here. We expect you to show up this time.”

His narrowed eyes stay on you until he’s rounded the corner, contrasting the slight nod giving by his chief and then they’re out of sight, leaving you and Steve stood outside of Eddie’s room with dumbfounded smiles.

“Did that just really work?” You ask, unfolding your arms and frowning in joyful confusion.

“I’ll be honest,” Steve runs a hand through his hair, “When you said ‘I’m gonna scare them into freeing Eddie’, I kinda expected to be visiting you behind bars.”

You smirk. “Aww, you’d visit me?”

There was a smile on his face, but not from the humour. He was glancing to where Powell and Callahan had disappeared then returning to your face, struggling to keep his lips from widening into a grin.

“What?” You question, cocking your head.

“Nothing, I just…” He wets his lips as he shoves his hands into his pocket, grin on display. “You didn’t correct him.”

You furrow your brows, searching through your memory. “About what?”

“Nothing.” Steve shakes his head, grinning still. “Don’t worry about it.”

Laughing, you open your mouth to respond when something catches your eye. Silhouettes of two figures stood down the hall, sporting matching jackets that you’d recognise anywhere.

Steve frowns, looking over his shoulder to what stole your attention and he holds his breath. He turns back to see your furious gaze, the way your hands balled into little fists.

Lucas had explained everything, from the very beginning of Max baiting Vecna to the ending of Jason showing up out of the blue, smashing her Walkman in the process. Erica was quick to chime in about his friend, the attack. Needless to say, one of them had picked a wrong day to show up in your line of vision.

“Okay, let’s-” Steve begins, but you’re already storming towards them. “Nevermind, okay.”

“Hey!” You shout across the hallway, the boys’ heads locating the call. The one with darker hair looked surprised, fearful even, making you think he knew exactly who you were. The other sported a hat, and, adding fuel to your fire, seemed completely unbothered.

“Can we help you?” He grumbles. Andy, you read on his jacket as you stop in front of them.

You take a look between the two before settling on Andy. “You the one that tackled a little kid and threatened to break her arms?”

The boy beside him- Chase- shifts uncomfortably, looking to his friend with a startled expression. Andy barely flinched.

“No.” He spat, shoving his hands in his jacket and nodding to his friend, a cruel smile on his face as he begins to turn away.

“You realise harming a minor results in both jail time and high monetary fines?” You retort, his footsteps slowing.

He looks to you with a scoff. “You a fucking cop or something?”

“No.” You shrug, tilting your head. “Just a friend of the victim.”

“I don’t know what that little shit said but I didn’t do anything.” Andy insists, voice deep. It wasn’t a plead of innocence. It was a warning.

“Look, we’re just here looking for Jason.” Chase interjects, looking extremely nervous.

“Uh…” You frown, feeling a little guilty in knowing the truth. But you didn’t want to be the one to bear the news. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Waste of time.” Andy mumbles, scanning your body before rolling his eyes and sending Chase a sarcastic look. You purse your lips.

“Maybe if you had checked on him before running away like a wimp, you wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

“Andy?” Chase frowns and Andy’s amused face abruptly drops to a scowl. Chase seemed to have no idea of the previous events of the night, part of you wondering if he wanted out of the ‘hunting’ after his teammate died. Or maybe he was just morally better than the rest of them.

“I’m warning you.” Andy grits his teeth, body fully facing you now. He was clearly a violent one.

Maybe you should take the warning. After all, Andy was physically built as an athlete, much taller and stronger than you were. Your most recent exercise was climbing up a rope and hell, that was a struggle.

But Vecna had really heightened your preferences on what you would find intimidating.

“About what?” You challenge, raising your eyebrows. “You gonna break my arms then run away? Because as I recall, my friend still has her limbs perfectly intact and she’s 11, so… if you can’t even win a fight against a literal child, what makes you think you’ll win-”

Andy’s arm flies out, hand flat as he aims to swipe it across your head. The effect would have hurt for sure, if someone hadn’t caught it just before impact.

You barely flinched as it was, already set to have dodged the attack. But there was something even better having Steve Harrington stood next to you, hand gripping Andy’s wrist tightly as he glares at him.

“I’m warning you.” Steve threatens, voice low. “You fucking touch her and I guarantee someone’s losing their arm today.”

He violently thrusts Andy’s arm back to him, earning a wide-eyed stumble. Andy moves forward, but Chase blocks him.

“Come on, man, let’s just go.” He places a hand on his shoulder and manoeuvres him backwards.

There’s one more angry look from Andy before Chase manages to wrangle him back down the hall and out of your sight. You figure this won’t be the last of seeing him.

“I swear you make more enemies than you do friends.” Steve lets out a breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

“As long as I always have my knight in shining armour to save me.” You bat your eyelids sarcastically and he chuckles, clicking his jaw.

“I’m just glad I actually did something this time instead of running in when it was all over.” Steve smirks knowingly and you look to the ground.

“Can’t believe he did that to Erica. That any of them were just ready to kill a guy because of what? A- a game that they thought was satanic. Part of me felt bad for Jason, but the rest of them barely had an excuse.”

“And Jason did?” Steve quirks a brow.

You sigh, “He was broken. Chrissy was his girlfriend and, I mean, he clearly loved her. Love makes you do crazy things and no, I do not think anything he did was right, but he was hurting. So badly. God, if I was told that someone I loved was murdered, I’d…”

“Hurl Molotov cocktails at the guy who did it?” Steve suggests, attempting a joke but ultimately placing his arms around your shoulders and pulling you closer, planting a kiss on the side of your head.

“She’s gonna be okay, you know.” He mumbles into your hair after a while and your shoulders slump. Of course he already knew what you were thinking.

“We should probably be in the waiting room. For when the doctors have news.” You say quietly and he nods. “Maybe get some coffee so I can be awake. They’ll be a while.”

His arm slips from your shoulders but instead finds your hand, intertwining fingers as you walk towards the busy noise of people impatiently waiting for good news.

“Should also probably get our bruises looked at.”

“I’d rather suffer in silence until I get a good night’s sleep.”

“You literally just said you wanted coffee.”

“Huh, then I guess it’ll have to wait a little longer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me really.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You guys heard from California yet?” Lucas asks, his voice thick with tears as one hand holds an icepack to his face. He was trying his best to stay calm, but his leg anxiously bounced as he leant back in his chair. Erica's head was rested gently against his shoulder, the girl drifting off to sleep.

“No.” Nancy sighs, scrunching her face. You knew she and Jonathan hadn’t been talking as much lately. You prayed that everyone was okay, and that Nancy and Jonathan would be fine. They were meant for eachother.

“Oh my god.” Robin suddenly blurts, standing up abruptly. She glances around at everyone’s concerned faces. “I gotta call my parents.”

Once her eyes locate it, she bounds over to the phone hanging from the wall, scrambling to dial a number in. Nancy raises her head.

“What is it?” You notice Nancy’s fallen expression, the tightening of her lips. It looked like she was about to cry.

“My parents. Holly.” She says in breaths and you move from your chair to crouch in front of her.

“I’m sure they’re fine.” You comfort, placing your hand over hers and dipping your head down to find her eyes. “Okay, your- your dad is always watching those disaster documentaries, right? He would have gotten your mom and Holly to safety in no time.”

You didn’t have that much faith in Ted Wheeler. It wasn’t that he was a bad father, or anything like that. You were just closer to Karen, her taking you in like you were her own, and their marriage was far from perfect. Ted seemed grumpy most of the time, but regardless he definitely had love for his family. That was something you could have faith in.

“Yeah.” Nancy gulps her anxiety. “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll call them when the phone’s free.”

You stand in time to see Steve rejoin you after a brief coffee run, noticing Nancy’s unease straight away.

“Nance?” He questions, placing her coffee beside her and another on the small table for Robin, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” She sends him a quick smile, reaching for the cup and holding it up. “Thank you.”

Steve walks back to the seats opposite her, carefully placing himself in the seat beside yours, holding two cups. Gratefully, you take the hot beverage from his hands and hold it to your lips, breathing in the familiar scent. If you were going to be here a while, you needed caffeine.

Just as you shift back into your seat, echoing footsteps approached behind you.

“Mayfield?”

You whip your head up, exchanging wide glances with Lucas, and jumping from your seat to raise your hand.

“Hi, yeah. I’m her sister.” You stumble across the words, not expecting to hear back from the doctors so soon. The surgery would surely take hours to be successful without…

...without anything going wrong.

Your face drops as the doctor hugs the clipboard, offering a tight smile.

“I’ll need to speak to you privately.” Their eyes shift to the curious faces of your friends behind you. “Family only.”

You glance back at Lucas, the ice pack now deserted on his seat. There wasn’t much to do, so you made a silent vow to tell him everything.

As you follow the doctor down the surgery hallway, the bleached white walls seemed to be closing in on you, tightening your chest. Not a word was uttered as you pushed through the doors, entering a room with artificial lights that blinded you on first look.

The doctor stills, turning back to you and sighing. They didn’t need to say anything.

Your eyes had already drifted to the window beside you, your furrowed expression faltering.

Chapter 24: Hell Comes To Hawkins ->

[A/N: guys, there's only one episode left of Raining Hellfire 4 SOMEBODY SEDATE ME]

taglist: @gnnnne / @beepisbeep / @paintballkid711 / @eddiesbirdie / @livasaurasrex / @darktimelegends / @jackierose902109 / @mvrylee / @chervbs / @eternallyvenus / @nervouscatsuit / @f1nn-wolfhard / @hereiamhereigo / @ladybug0095 / @fangirling-4-ever / @astrolockley / @mothmanatemycat / @sheisjoeschateau / @champagnejoker / @umidktbh / @fallinginlovewithqueue / @ilovetaylorswift132006 / @live-the-fangirl-life / @sadbitchfangirl / @cherrymedicine13 / @engenelxver / @sagaonpandora /

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mrshipsmcgee · 2 years ago

Note

I crave some of the classic “random villain kidnaps Peters girl and tortures her in order to get info on him” add in some “Peter shows up at the last minute and goes feral” to make me happy

Yes ma’am. Anything for you my darling 😏

WARNINGS: blood, booboos, owies, hurt

Peter steps into the open window of his shared apartment with his best friends, Miles and Mary Jane. Peter thumbs the switch of the floor lamp beside him before discarding his mask, pausing as his brows lace together - scanning his surroundings realizing his normally warm and inviting home was dark and empty.

No Miles.

No MJ.

They should be up still.. the house should smell like fresh popcorn and the fireplace should be filled with orange flames as Miles and Mary Jane played through their newest video game together.

They always stayed up together for whoever was on patrol.. but tonight something was wrong.

Hair stands up straight on the back of Peter’s neck as he steps deeper into the home, the old wood floors creaking under the weight of each step he took.

He hears a small whimper - MJ’s whimper.

His stomach drops as he crosses the into Miles’ room.

“Shit,” Peter whispers, hot tears forming in his eyes as they fall upon Miles. Peter is frozen, chest rising as he approaches where Miles sat on the ground propped against his bed, crimson blood flowing from his abdomen as he stares up at Peter.

Peter drops to his knees, immediately inspecting the stab wounds on Miles’ stomach. Peter cries, cupping Miles’ face - his normally warm eyes now panicked as he stares at his wounded friend.

“I- I’m okay, Pete,” Miles tries to point to the door. “He has her. Go.”

Peter’s palm drops from Miles as he stands, gritting his teeth, “Where are they?”

Miles shakes his head, “I don’t know Pete. She… she stopped crying a few minutes ago,” he begins to cry. “He came through the window. We- we thought it was you, Pete. I swear. I promise I tried. My powers failed me.. I’m so sorry, Peter. I should have known-.”

“-No, Miles,” Peter interjects, dropping to his knees again and taking his friend’s face in his hands before planting a loving kiss to his forehead. His eyes meet Miles’, “There’s no need to apologize. You’re still learning.. it’s okay.”

Tears run down Miles’ cheeks as he nods at Peter, “I love you, man.”

“I love you, too,” Peter whispers.

“Please, go find her.. He’s going to kill her,” Miles sobs. “She can’t die. I can’t handle another death.”

Peter stands, already stalking towards the door as he cracks his knuckles, “You won’t have to.”

Rage courses through Peter as he nears the cracked door of his bedroom, kicking it open and stepping through the threshold.

“I was wondering if you’d get home before or after I’ve killed them,” a familiar voice comes from the corner of the room. “I’ve been waiting for this day for so long now. I had hoped you’d be here to watch them die. I’m so happy things are working out as planned. You know, Peter - it’s been an awful long time since you’ve watched a loved one die. Hasn’t it?”

“Show yourself, Harry,” Peter growls. “I’m the one you want anyway, right?”

“Peter Parker… such a bright mind, but still can’t figure out the purpose of this all,” Harry let’s out a gravely laugh. “I’m simply doing what I have done before. I’m killing your hope. I don’t want you dead, I want you miserable. I want you to wish for death.”

“Where is she?” Peter asks, fists clenched as his chest rises and falls, “Where is Mary Jane?”

“Oh, the pretty one?” Harry’s voice is playful. “Pete, do you remember what I like to do with pretty women?”

Peter gulps, eyes flickering between rage and sorrow.

“I like to do whatever the fuck I want with pretty women, Peter,” Harry finally steps out of the shadows. “And god damn did I do whatever the fuck I wanted with her.”

Peter charges Harry, hands wrapping around his scaly neck as he begins to choke him, “I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Do you know who she cried for the entire time?” Harry laughs as he chokes. “You. And - and you - you weren’t there. You - you never are.”

Peter throws Harry against the wall before slamming him onto the ground, holding him by the collar as he screams, “Where is she?!” Peter’s fist meets Harry cheek, then his jaw, then his left eye, then his throat. Harry gasps for air as Peter pulls away, his face beet-red as he screams “Tell me!”

“Go to the bedroom,” Harry smiles. “I’ll just say that she couldn’t move whenever I was done with her.”

Peter immediately runs to Mary Jane’s bedroom.

“Fuck,” he whispers as he sees MJ laying naked on her toddler bed, “Mary Jane.” He rushes to her side, a scream escaping from his throat as he sees the markings all over her beautiful body. Her body already bruising from Harry’s abuse.

His fingers ghost over her bloodied gut, carved perfectly was

H A R R Y

Peter lets out an anguished cry as his hands hover over Mary Jane, to afraid to take her into his arms.

She wakes, eyes lazily opening as she looks to Peter, “Peter.”

“You’re here,” a small smile spreads across her face, her busted lip ripping more due to her drying lips. She hisses.

Peter cries, “MJ.. MJ, I- I- I’m so sorry. Mary Jane… I wasn’t here to protect you. Or- or Miles…”

“But you’re here now,” she blinks before passing back about due to pain.

He sobs, taking MJ by the hand and planting a tender kiss to the top of her limp hand. “I’m going to take care of this, and then I’m going to take care of you and Miles.”

Peter’s face drops, wiping the tears from his warm cheeks as he steps into his bedroom and grabs Harry by the collar.

Peter’s face is expressionless as he starts to pummel his ex-friend - beating him to the point of being unrecognizable. His fists finally stop as he hears Harry’s skull crunch under his final blow.

The hero stands, staring at his work - the bloodied piece of shit lying dead on his bedroom floor. “No one fucks with my family.”

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panthera-tigris-venenata · 1 year ago

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No one needs to know

It’s winter on the Isle and these people don’t have a single functional coping mechanism in place.

AKA, Harriet asks Anthony to paint her nails, specifically so no one would see how cold she is.

@tiredflowercrown tagging you here ’cos I think you sent that prompt along with some others?

It’s so late it’s almost early – no self-respecting Villain would be up in this hour of the morning.

Unfortunately, the Isle hasn’t seen such a thing for almost two decades, not that some of its inhabitants still recognise the linear nature of time and all. Maybe that’s for the better, sometimes, too, but not right now.

The sun is almost rising and Anthony Tremaine only just managed to kick Cruella de Vil from the saloon.

He shuts the door behind her and sighs. The wind chimes above the door are still ringing, disturbed wild by the sharp winter wind, when he heavily sits down behind the cashier. He should count today’s profit, grandmother will want to know.

Instead, he just puts his elbows on the table and sinks his head into his hands. He hisses when at the sensation, his skin irritated and cracked by the cold as it is.

Freaking Cruella de Vil – were it anyone else, he’d have pawed them onto some of his sisters or cousins.

Oh, who is he kidding, he probably wouldn’t.

But Cruella?

No, not even Dulcia is allowed to work with her, Cruella’s own wishes notwithstanding.

So that leaves Anthony here, just waiting till grandmother gets up and tired to the bone.

Fucking Cruella de Vil.

He supposes he could get up and make himself some coffee; he supposes that he could take a nap on the sofa too. Both feels like too much work.

He supposes he could just stay here and feel sorry for himself – that should work, no?

But unfortunately, the universe has other plans.

The doors open again, cold wind breezing through them easily, and Anthony shivers, barely looking up. In walks one Harriet Hook.

She slams the door behind herself and Anthony winces at the sound – he hopes that didn’t wake up anyone, especially not his dear old grandmother. He sits up and leans back at the chair as Harriet drags the armchair over to him.

No one is yelling bloody murder yet, thank the saints.

„Hello, Harriet,“ he greets her.

„Salve,“ she mutters as she sinks into her seat. A heartbeat of silence and then: „I need you to paint my nails.“

„And here I was, just hoping for a friendly visit.“

„Ain’t no such thing in between us,“ she says and she is lying.

„Of course, dear, wouldn’t dream of such a thing.“

Instead of an answer, she rolls her eyes and slams her hands on the table. She has purple fingertips and knuckles and when Anthony gently takes one of her hands, he feels like death herself touched him.

„Holy fuck, Harriet–“ he can’t help pointing that out.

But she just laughs. „I’m not cold,“ she tells him, „I’m not. So just paint my nails so Sammy will get off my back, savvy?“

Anthony sighs again, clasping her hand in between both of his in a futile attempt to force some warmth into it.

„Harriet,“ he tells her gravely, „You don’t feel cold because your bloodstream is like ninety percent just alcohol.“

She leans back in her chair but leaves her hand where it is, reaching for something with the other. Something – the flask. Obviously. She offers him a drink too and he accepts, only letting go of her hand briefly.

Annoyingly, the drink doesn’t provide him with a magical burst of energy.

„You shouldn’t drink,“ he says as he hands her the flask back.

She just looks at him, eyes as dead as his are, probably. She doesn’t bother arguing. „Just paint my nails, ’Tony,“ she requests, leaning back in her chair and letting her head tip back too. Her eyes fall closed for a moment, and stay half-lidded.

„As you wish, Ettie,“ he says emphasising her nickname, „Any requests for the colour?“

„I’m gonna kill you slowly.“ She doesn’t even bother to look at him. And: „Blood red.“

A laugh escapes his throat: Blood red. He could have guessed that. She winks at him now, showing her teeth in what might be a smile or a smirk.

He lets go of her hand and sends her for the nail polish: She knows where it is, and she can choose the correct shade like that. She kicks at the table as she gets up and she makes faces, but she goes.

Moments later, she is back, and collapsing down, she sets the nail polish on the table for him to take. The glass is cold where she held it.

He gets to work and for a while, they don’t speak.

Silence, so unusual occurrence for the Tremaine saloon and household.

He wipes down excess polish from around her nail and asks: „What about your knuckles, Harriet? They’re still purple.“

(They shouldn’t be, by now, he thinks.)

She shrugs: „They’ll think that I just got into a fight again, that those are just bruises. No one needs to know.“

„No one needs to know that you’re basically trying to kill yourself slowly?“ he challenges like the hypocrite he is.

„Don’t be ridiculous, Anthony, I’m doing no such thing.“ Her voice is cold and scathing, like salt water in the wound. He wishes for a better grip on her hand instead of the delicate manicure pose, he wishes to grab her and shake her and hurt her until she realises she wants to live.

Instead, he asks: „What about Sammy? They won’t believe you.“

„They will believe me. They don’t need to know–“

He lets her have that lie and they slip into silence again.

Soon, it is finished, and her fingertips do look like they’re dripping blood.

She raises her left hand to admire the colour in – arguably – better light and leaves the other still in his hold. Her pupils are wide in the half-darkness.

She doesn’t thank him, or, god forbid, pay – she doesn’t even really smile, and he expected that much, really. But– She flips their hands around, and suddenly she’s holding his hand up as if she were a gentleman and he were a lady, and then she’s pressing her lips to his own damaged knuckles.

The kiss is so cold it burns, or maybe that’s the alcohol on her lips too.

His brain short-circuits for a moment, and Anthony is going to blame his sleep deprivation for that, thank you for asking.

She gets up and lets herself in the kitchen; she is gone before he can stop her. He shakes his head and eyes the cash register warily. He really should start counting now. Or maybe, he contemplates, he can paw off the responsibility to Angie or Dizzy, pass it off as morning math lesson. That would work, wouldn’t it? If they both get the same result, it is probably right.

Or Dulcia could do it for once– …Yeah, no. Anthony dismisses that with a shake of his head.

His joyful musings are only interrupted by Harriet placing a mug in front of him: Coffee, strong and black.

He looks up at her in surprise. She smiles this time, even though it doesn’t reach her eyes. „For you,“ she says as she takes the mug back and sips from it, „Coffee.“ (Unpoisoned.)

He takes it from her, noting that the warm liquid has finally managed to unfreeze her fingers at least a bit. She is already moving to leave.

„Your lips are still pale,“ he says instead of a „Thank you.“

She looks over her shoulder: „I’ll just take some of Ginny’s lipstick.“ Her lips stretch into a joyless smile. „Or maybe you could warm my lips up some other way.“ But with that sentence, she lets the door shut behind her, and Anthony is left staring at them and the ringing wind chimes.

Sounds of people waking up can be heard from upstairs.

#disney descendants #harriet hook #anthony tremaine #Harriet hook/Anthony tremaine #idk if any triger warnings?#just. Depression be like #winter on the isle #tw alcohol #I’m projecting and you cannot stop me #also it is now YOUR problem

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janeykath318 · 2 years ago

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You Did Not Just Say That: A Shieldshock Meet Cute

Steve was having dinner with Bucky and Sam to celebrate the end of a long mission and enjoy having real food again. The burgers were beyond delicious and Steve felt incredibly relaxed in the cozy environment, where the waitresses had his order memorized and called everyone “honey”.

Bucky and San were alternately playfully bickering and analyzing the people at the tables near them. Steve was half listening and sometimes interjecting a comment.

“That looks like an awkward first date,” Sam observed, nodding at a table nearby where a man and woman were stiffly eating.

“Very awkward,” Bucky agreed sympathetically. l

The man spent most of his time looking at his phone and the stunning brunette he was with was clearly trying to keep conversation going. In Steve’s opinion, the dude was an idiot.

When his slice of apple pie arrived, warm and gooey with ice cream on top, he forgot about them for a few minutes while he relished the deliciousness of his favorite dessert.

Sam and Bucky had teased him about being a stereotype, but he didn’t care. It was worth it.

“Oh, you did not just say that!”

He glanced up to see the brunette was now glaring daggers at her dinner companion.

“Listen here, Mike. I’ve seen and heard all I need to know. You’re a sexist jerk. Peggy would rise from her grave to punch you if she heard you talking that bullshit. She saved the country from Nazis multiple times and stood up to creeps like you who want to keep women in “their place”. Go back to your cave, Neanderthal. Peggy freaking Carter deserves respect and if all you can see are her boobs, clearly you’re not going to see beyond mine. Be glad I don’t have my taser with me because that comment deserved it. Don’t call me again.”

The angry looking brunette stalked away without a backwards glance ignoring Mike’s call of “Darcy, wait…”

Steve had listened to her rant with stunned admiration, noting the fire in her eyes and the pointed emphasis on the word Neanderthal.

“What did he say?” he asked Bucky.

“I’m not gonna tell you, because I don’t want you getting kicked out of here for assault,” he said, shooting Mike a look of disgust. “It was beyond gross, though. I can’t say I’m not tempted to menace him a little.” He cracked his knuckles and grinned fiendishly.

“He’s not worth it,” Steve declared. “I’ll be right back.”

He slipped out of the booth and headed in the direction Darcy had taken. She was sitting just outside the door on a bench muttering under her breath.

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” He asked, hoping she wouldn’t think he was being creepy.

Darcy turned around and looked up at him, blue eyes going wide as she recognized him.

“Oh, Wow. Oh.” she managed. “Did you hear that?”

“I caught the gist of it. I didn’t mean to overhear, but I couldn’t help but appreciate what you said to him.”

Darcy’s cheeks turned pink.

“I was just telling the truth. Peggy was one of my heroes.”

“Mine too,” Steve said. “She would definitely approve of you. She didn’t stand for bullies and sexists. Mind if I sit down?”

“It would be unpatriotic of me to refuse,” Darcy said, eyes twinkling at him behind her glasses. They were a very, very pretty shade of blue, he noticed. “Steve Rogers, I presume?”

“In the flesh,” he confirmed as he sat down.

“I’m Darcy Lewis—well, Dr. Darcy Lewis to be precise. Newly minted Astrophysicist and former scientist wrangler.”

“Ah. Thor’s lightning sister,” Steve remarked, recognition sparking. “He’s very proud of you and actually bragged about being tazed by you.”

Darcy chuckled. “He would. So what brings Captain America to Nancy’s diner?”

“The food is the best,” Steve replied decisively. “It’s our post mission wind down dinner tradition. Plus, Nancy loves to fuss over us like we’re her kids.”

“She sure does,” Darcy agreed fondly. “Her boys are all grown and she loves being a mother hen to her regulars.”

Steve took a quick glance back through the window to see Bucky and Sam looming over a scared looking Mike, who nodded and pulled out his wallet. Soon after, he left the diner at a trot, not looking back.

“Thank goodness he’s gone,” Darcy said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Nancy must have put the fear of God into him.”

Steve smiled.

“It wasn’t just Nancy.” He told her.

Bucky and Sam emerged, smiling cheerily. Darcy’s jaw dropped.

“I bet he wet his pants,” she remarked finally, then giggled.

Steve introduced her, but Bucky and Sam, being the good bros they were, made their exits after a few minutes, winking at Steve.

“What’s it like being friends with them?” She queried playfully.

“Never a dull moment,” Steve answered with fond exasperation as Sam and Bucky fought over who was driving.

He turned his gaze back to Darcy.

“Right now, I’m more interested in finding out what it would be like being friends with you.”

Darcy’s mouth opened and closed again and a playful smile bloomed over her face.

“Are you sure you want more trouble in your life, Rogers?” She asked. “Because I tend to attract it.”

“I’m very partial to your kind of trouble,” he told her with a wink and a grin that made Darcy forget all about her disastrous date.

#shieldshock #meet cute may #darcy lewis #steve rogers

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septembersmonologue · 1 year ago

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Case of the Novembers

transcript under cut

It’s the worst month of the year again and it’s the month I turn to salt.

The month you left me.

Or the month the cracks started showing.

On all of us. We got old in November.

We went crazy in November. We cried together in November.

Some of us left for December’s snowy mountains, and some of us are still standing in the winter light, tears frozen to our cheeks.

And no one really moved on. I stalk my dead friends like they’re going to rise from the grave,

Like you’re a celebrity someone will someday release a tell-all about—

And sometimes they do, through the grapevine, I find out there were parts of you I didn’t know. Until the end. We were the best for each other, really, until you got stuck in November at seventeen and even though my soul was right there with you

I’m still with you, Orpheus, do you see me, can you hear me

Above the crazed maidens singing?

My body kept aging without my permission.

Orpheus is torn apart and I had to go, please believe me,

I know you turned around because I was the rock, the cave walls, the ground which you beat your foot against. Because the way was narrow, and staring only at the pinprick of light was beyond your poor tired eyes.

You turned your head, and then the rest of your body followed,

And I had to go.

The shades and I sit in November,

Lonely month, month of bitter water and holes in the wall.

Month so cold the anger cannot flame up

And give you the fist to punch it.

So you’d split your knuckles open around dry bone, all the blood curdled up and frozen, white month without wintery comforts.

Gray November’s saving grace is hibernation is

Forgetting this stupid fucking painful month ever happened.

I still keep waking up with the morning dew,

Wet dirt under my splintering fingernails, paper under my tongue.

God, not even a gold coin? I guess dead high schoolers don’t have a lot to give.

I try not to look down as I get off the ground, at the open grave and the

Peeling, maggoty body I dug up. I shut my eyes

Against the sight of your once-beloved face malformed by taxidermy and whatever injustices I did it in my sleep,

Even as my foot slips in the loose dirt and I land with you in the hole we made.

#not funny. didn’t laugh.#my writing #my poetry #poetry #is this shaunajackie poetry? sort of! real ones know!#spilled ink

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shiroba · 2 years ago

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do you ever just... *cracks knuckles* rise from the grave after 6 years? god i even had to relearn where you go to actually make a post. so uh, hi!

i'm thinking of changing my url, so if you want this one, let me know and i'll tell you when i switch. i'm still very much a dmmd fan and all, but like, it's time.

lately i'm all about the ffvii remake and tbh i suggest you all check it out, i imagine the vitri crowd & sly blue fans might like the specific hell i'm diving into right now

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pastelgrungewrecker · 2 years ago

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Drache || Sg || Au of an Au of an Au

Don't try to reach me, 'cause I'll tear up your mind I've seen the future and I've left it behind

[“It’s destabilizing.”, sighed Stormy, knuckles rubbing at his temple to mitigate the headache from a sixteen hour binge in New Kimia’s labs as his double rested his head on the dining room table, “I. I can’t fucking figure out why, why NOW- But something’s wrong. Paradox doubles are bleeding through in heavier and heavier numbers, all of them saying they were guided by some kind. Some kind of weird leader.”

“Weird leader? Like a resistance?”, asked Perceptor as Percy stirred his coffee and tilted his head.

“Something in. I think it’s some lingua franca from a fringe colony maybe. Klinky Saga or something?”

“Strange.”, said Percy, the more flamboyant of the doubled Perceptors, before he sipped his coffee, “It almost sounds like old central Iaconian; from before Neo became the preferred speech?”

“Yes, perhaps.”, mused Perceptor, “Try to say it again?”

“Klayne Shagh?”

“Kleyne Shlang.”, said Ratchet from the kitchen as his double looked up, “Means little or young dragon, I think. Some of the old’ns in Vaporex spoke a language modified slightly from auld Iaconian; it’s actually still mostly spoken around where Ma lives.”

“Strange. I wonder why that moniker.”]

Sightless eyes watched the ship engage, a hand covered in a dirty glove didn’t bother to rise to shield a visor as the engines fired up and the shuttle vanished into the nightdark in silence and flickers of miniature sunbeams like a comet.

He turned, looking behind him and away from the Rift in the sky like a bleeding wound as he saw the Hell Horizon of the approaching battalions of the False God’s ships. He cracked his knuckles, tapping the side of the digivisor and whispering his commands.

“Server- destruct. Permissions code 8 dash 6 6 0 dash 3 5 7 7.”

::Permissions accepted, server wipe in t-minus 5...::

He smiled, mirthless and cold, and bolted for the two-man shuttle he’d had waiting on standby. The door hissed closed after him, his digivisor sending the activation codes to the shuttles main console and firing up the idle engines to max in seconds- jarring his passenger awake with a groan.

“Bout time. Thought I’d have to-nngh. Leave without ya.”

“As if you have the ability to stay awake, much less steer Captain.”, was the deadpan answer, “Stop forcing yourself to stay aware, let the sedatives work their magic- you’re gravely injured you know.”

“Yeah, well. Optimus ain’t exactly one to fuck around when it comes to finding out he’s wrong.”

“Hush, Rodimus.”, was the sighed command.

“That’s no way to talk to your old Cap’n, Aid.”

“Not a Captain anymore- The Last Light is rubble and this is my shuttle.”, Was First Aid’s soft answer as he took his seat and heard the distant rumble of carpet-bombing beginning to commence. He paused a moment, closing his eyes in a brief second of grieving for his fourth home lost to the ego of a mad God and then steadied himself. The soft trills and twitters of the console accepting his commands as his hands moved without him looking and he cocked an ear towards the badly beaten man in the passenger side.

“...I’m sorry we lost Magnus.”, was the curt statement.

“...Least we got the twins.”, was Rodimus’s reply, nodding his head to the darkened side of the shuttles interior where two teenage boys slept the sleep of the medicated- each sporting matching black eyes and nose patches, “That’s the important thing. That.. NeoCreator program... Why did Prowl even think it would wo-”

And with that, the shuttle took off at beyond breakneck speed; Rodimus wincing loudly and the twin boys snorting awake with shocked yelps in tandem. They steadied quickly, the Rift rising high in their vision through the heavy window of the shuttle before First Aid snapped the shuttle’s covers closed and dropped them into darkness.

“So. Why the nickname. Little Dragon? Sounds like a cartoon character for younglings learning their colors.”

“It’s something of a signal. To the right people on the other side.”, said First Aid with a grim smile, “...Assuming, of course- they made it. I hope they did- or I’m doomed and you’re dead and so are the boys.”

“Draw made it through.”, grumbled one of the boys with a yawn, “I know he did. His trackers are all still active.”

“Prowl’s trackers, you mean?”

“Nah, his own. He gave me the signal frequency just in case he uh. Vanished on Kimia for No Good Reason.”

“Aw, how sweet. You’re boyfriend taught you how to stalk him-”

“Shut up Forge, you fucking donkey-”

“Boys, no fuckin’ swearing!”

“Hold tight, engaging Rift in Five...”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Another comet in a distant night sky as rolling death drifted over the last vestiges of a paradox planet, smoke billowing from the ruins left behind.

On the other side of the Rift; the sky darkened like an electric storm- the terrifying expulsions of electricity that plagued the planet in the time before history could be remembered.

Twin Ratchets ran themselves ragged as power flickered, as generators were kicked and revved awake and lines were checked with an obsessive frequency. The sky was pitch black and the Rift pulsed in the sky like a visible tear in an artery, like a threat without words.

Blue eyes watched, too dark coffee was drunk too fast because sometimes chemicals could be a lifeline.

“What is on your mind, double?”, asked a modified medic with an amused snort.

A sigh, a hand through still vibrantly red hair.

“I’m just thinkin’ about what Stormy said, that he’d found out about the paradox doubles coming through the Rift. They keep saying they’re being.. Directed? Sent? By someone.”

“Oho, another ragtag attempt at resisting my people’s Optimus. Goody-goody.”, was the exhausted mutter, “Do tell, what grand title did this one use.”

“It almost sounds. Childish. Cartoonish. Like a nickname, y’know?”

“Mhm. Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It’s old Teorrex, for Little Dragon. Sounds like a cartoon charac- GGGHK!”

And suddenly, Ratchet is faced with a mad-eyed double, modified hand cinched around a strong neck and pulling them close enough for him to see fear and the flickers of enhancements in glimmering eyes.

“ARE YOU SURE. ARE YOU CERTAIN-”

“Y-hgk-YES NOW LEMME GO BEFORE I CHOKE ASSHOLE-”

He was released with apologies, whispered and almost frantic and suddenly Ratchet is watching his wilder twin skitter about like a spooked deer, snatching up things like keycard rings and digging about in desk drawers for-

“IS THAT A FUCKING PISTOL.”

“Yes, yes it fucking is!”, hissed the more vicious of the pair, “I have to go, I need to get to the Rift immediately-”

“Wh- What, hey wait WHY after hearin’ that silly name are you running off like a Petrex hen with it’s head lopped off-”

“Drache.”

A pause.

A sigh from the modified medic that seemed to deflate him and his ego at once, “Drache was a nickname Prowl had for me. Dragon, in auld Iaconian. It was... Not quite an inside joke, more likely it was derogatory because of his jealousy and, well. The fact he was absolutely out of his mind with zealotry. But Little Dragon as a name isn’t a name or a title. It’s a signal.”

“A signal?”

“Yes. The little me. The smaller me- That nickname could be First Aid on the run again; since I am gone, and he was CMO of the Last Light then... then when Optimus reclaimed it he...”

“...He woulda forced your Aid to become his medic, thinking your Aid could keep him alive like you used to.”

“Exactly. That name can’t be an accident- Not with how clever my boy is. Now; I have to go- I have to go and make sure; The Rift is acting up obviously, and it does this before a horde pushes through.”

Then the sky crackled alive with fingers of electricity and the Rift seemed to glow brighter and almost wider as the noses of shuttles pushed through, looking like a shark’s teeth growing in due to the the distance from the planet’s surface.

“Get goin’ then! I can hold down this place, I’ve held down worse now GIT!”

A mod from the modded double and he snatched his day coat, hurriedly pulling it on to flare behind him as he ran- polished leather shoes silent on the sanitized tiles as he barged through doors and out into the street.

Hurriedly, his vehicle rumbled to life, the dashcomm activating when he babbled his verbal code and his modded hands nearly dented the steering as he gripped onto it.

“Mmn, hello dear- Just woke up from a nap; wait, you should still be on shift love, love what is it-”

“Aid’s coming.”, he choked out as his speed climbed higher. His eyes burned almost like they needed to grieve as hope climbed too high behind a reinforced chest, “It’s Aid, love. I know it is. Double told me the name the Riftrunners have been giving.”

“What name, oh, the whole little dra...gon...”, Percy’s voice trailed off, and then silence before a breathless half sob leaked through, “Oh God. Oh God that’s right, Prowl always called you that stupid fucking name and Aid was. You made him CMO before...”

“I did. I shouldn’t have god DAMMIT I’ve never been stupider- Hell in a handbasket this is the biggest horde through the Rift yet-”

The commline dropped as his vehicle’s motors died with a shriek; as massive shuttles drifted through with scalds and scorchmarks all along the sides and stamped with city names he could feel were long gone.

He stumbled out, jacket flapping in the heated downdrafts that kept bursting through in random intervals and then he saw it- as the last shuttle pushed through and the Rift began to shrink back down to it’s usual size once more.

He saw it, careening crookedly through the sky at an uncontrolled angle with red lights bright along each side... and the Mad Mod Medic began to run. He shouldered past Enforcers and field medics, modified eyes on the sky and blown wide as enhancements zoomed in best they could; soot dusted his clothes as he got ever closer to the hellscape of a landing zone the massive shuttles had chosen as their own systems gave out and he watched in sudden and new terror as the much smaller spacecraft spiralled down and slammed into the ground at what he prayed was not terminal velocity.

And he ran. He felt the singe of seams in clothes overheating as he got closer and closer to the still bubbling hull and gagged as he breathed too deep the fumes of burning protectant coatings and crackling systems.

He pounded his fist on the shuttle’s visible and half melted door, bellowing a name loud enough for his forgotten God to hear.

“MULLEIN, MULLEIN ARE YOU IN THERE, CAN YOU HEAR ME!!”

The trill of the lock releasing, and a crackle in his earpiece comm.

“Papa, hel-”, and static.

He ran his hands over the shuttle door, looking for any point to get a grip on even as he heard Enforcers behind him.

“Sir, hands up, this is a restricted zone-”

“MY SON IS IN HERE NOW STEP DOWN OR YOU NEVER SEE YOUR FAMILIES AGAIN!”

Steam trickled from between megalodon’s teeth, eyes wide and glowing in unholy glimmers of green and blue and sickly hazmat yellow. He turned back, snarling again and flexing modified hands to expose knifelike claw implants that had long ago replaced fingernails. Still simmering metal screamed like it was in pain as he dug hands into where seams once were before the Rift burned it all together, and he began to pull. He pulled until he felt shoulders creak, until the nanomodded heart in his chest seemed to scream in time with the steel and he had to pause- coughing toxicity and pressure steam before his moved his head to crack his neck and start again.

Inside the shuttle, Aid coughed weakly; Halfway through the push through the Rift internal oxygenation systems had failed. He had masked the twin boys and Rodimus but all three had fallen unconscious as sedatives and lack of air slowly began to overtake them.

And Aid had simply tried to breath quick and soft and small; just like all those years ago when his Nana bundled him close and told him to breathe by her heart; when the air was hot like it was now, when the smoke tasted acrid where it leaked in from the crash and it smelled like Vaporex burning.

And then, there was light. Flashlight.

Flashlights illuminating a broad-shouldered silhouette with shimmering eyes and a crisp-shouldered businessman’s coat.

“H-Hello. Father.”, rasped First Aid as his digivisor finally shorted out, “Rodim-s. Stitches. Not holding-”

Aid passed out then, feeling his body relax and weaken as the bellows of unfamiliar voices called for breather masks and oxygen tanks. As he felt familiar modified and calloused hands reach in after the weight of Rodimus and the boys was moved from the broad chest he inherited from Optimus’s right hand medic.

The paradox Ratchet stood tall, Enforcers backing away at the few mods that had activated in his panic and fury and he lifted his Aid from the destroyed shuttle and held him close.

“Call the New Iacon Research Hospital.”, he rasped, “Call the red Ratchet.”

{The between place glimmered like the Rift. Aid looked around, touching his face and knowing he was dreaming because his vision was so very bright. His steps clacked like he walked the halls of an afterlife his Nana once pondered the existence of.

“Mullein. Lee, my baby.”

He turned, recognizing that voice.

“Nana! Nana where are you!”

“Foller my voice, young’n. Your papa’s worried sick now.”

“NANA! NANA WAIT WAIT FOR ME!”

“Oh baby- it ain’t time for you t’follow me so far yet.”, were the words that echoed around him as his temples began to throb, “Jus’ follow m’voice. I’m so proud a’you li’l one. Now g’wan. Your Papa is so worr-”}

-”ied about you. And so am I, my sweet boy.”

“Nana!”

Aid sat bolt upright, seeing only vague shadowy grey shapes once more before something clicked near his ear and his digivisor flickered back into activation to once more give him his crystalline color vision.

Percy sniffed grandly, eye swollen and red, “Oh my baby- you c-c-cAME HOME!”

He grunted as Percy threw himself against Aid’s chest, and his arms went around his Baba on instinct and he looked slowly around with a hard wince.

“Head is POUNDING-”

“You were on the way out young’n.”

He whipped his head to the side, instinctively reaching for a sidearm he realized he no longer had, “...Father?”

“Nah, well. Kinda? I’m... his double. His paradox twin. The Rift it... Leads to our universe. Our version of it, anyway.”

Aid raised his eyebrows, “...This has to be a joke.”

“It’s not.”, was the sigh on his other side, and he turned- and couldn’t help the shrieked swear as he clung tight to his Baba and made the vampiric sniper wheeze.

The double Aid’s stared at each other, the sighted one moving his visor up to show the entirety of his annoyed expression, “Get it out now, dude- I really don’t want a repeat of the Brainstorm’s okay? If you’re gonna try and kill me, do it now-”

“The Warmaster. Is here.”, were the growled words that made several eyes widen slightly, “And WHERE is that rude, narcissistic, borderline nymphomaniacal ratfink.”

“Uhm. Well, he is with his Quickdraw. They’ve been sitting with the Rodimus you brought in and the twin boys. His Quickdraw was rather antsy about them all.”

“Yeah, he and young Dominus the Second have been an item since they started their study years not long before the Rift.”

“...Right. Uh, anyway yeah! That’s where he is; with our daughter also, she was fussy and I didn’t think you needed a crying toddler in the room coming back from nearly suffocating.”

“YOU PROCREATED WITH THAT PILE OF MISMATCHED ALLELES, ARE YOU BRAINDEAD OR SIMPLY MENTAL?!”

“HEY, THAT’S MY HUSBAND YOU’RE ACCUSING OF BEING A MENTAL ILLNESS, NOW-”

“YOUR HUSBAND ONCE SENT ME A VOICE CLIP OF HIM BRAGGING ABOUT RAILING MY BABA BECAUSE I REMINDED HIM HE WAS SCARED OF FATHER!”

“HE WHAT?!”

And with those words, a modified hand gently landed on top of dark waves cut through with auburn highlights.

“Storm’s sins against you aside, son.”, rumbled a familiar voice, “Welcome back from the brink.”

He turned his head back to see his Father, face tired and reddened near the edges of modified eyes. Aid twitched his nose, his version of a squint.

“Father. You have been crying. You know that can corrode the facial circuitry-”

And then words were muffled as both Percy and the newer Aid were enveloped in a breath-killing hug; tight enough to make natural spines creak.

Aid coughed weakly, patting at his father to be released and hiding his grin at the show of emotion.

Percy held his son’s face, frantically peering about and checking for any more damage before Aid sighed and laid his hands on Percy’s.

“Baba, I’m alright now.”

“I know, I know but. What would have possessed you to do something so bloody RASH?! What if he had killed you?!”

“He was going to.”, said Aid softly, jumping slightly as his double crossed his arms to lean against the wall, “Something’s gone... terribly wrong. There’s been disappearances in the higher echelons- nobility vanishing without a trace, prisoners being found in pieces in their cells with very particular parts missing.”

The paradox Ratchet’s jaw set in a grim line, “...He’s decaying.”

“Yeah, he is.”, sighed Aid, “He thought for some reason I knew how to replicate Father’s remedies and when he realized I couldn’t, well. He sent Rodimus after me... with another agent.”

“Who?”

“...The Executioner. Magnus.”

The room went cold, and the sighted Aid glanced from face to face before looking at his own papa and staying silent by the look in his eyes.

“The planet on that side of the Rift is. Dying. Maybe already dead. The Matrix’s corruption is overtaking the False God faster than he can be put back together and he’s finally gone totally mad. I had to evacuate who I could. I had to, Baba.”

Aid hung his head, “...I couldn’t let Vaporex happen all over again, not while I could do something.”

A sigh, “That’s why you used that name. You knew I and your Baba had gone through. You knew, if I were alive, I’d pick up on it.”

“I’d expect Der Drache to know his hatchling was trying to get safe.”

A chuckle, “You’ve done well, First Aid.”

A softly hopeful twitch to a mouth that this universe’s Aid remembered having all too many times.

“I’ve never been more proud of you.”

“....Not even when I blackmailed Prowl into bankrolling my first single-shuttle?”

“This is even better than that- but only just.”

There was a knock at the door, the sound of a nurse’s voice calling gently, “Pardon me, a visitor for- uhm. kleyne.. something, oh dear.”

“Send them in.”, rumbled both Ratchet’s in unison before giving a half hearted squint to each other.

The door slammed open then, and the nurse yelped as the figure in the doorway grunted and the medical boot on their leg thudded into the room. He leaned against the doorframe, giving an exhaustedly fond look to the Aid on the bed.

“Kiddo, when you tol’ me you’d be tailin’ in a shuttle you coulda TOLD ME that the shuttle you was tailin’ in had injured aboard.”

“Sorry, Uncle Hide. You were worried enough shepherding the refugees and I needed you crisp and alert just in case it all went tits up tango, so to speak.”

“HIDE?!”

Ironhide, or the paradox double of him, looked up and grinned before digging in a pocket and pulling out the remnants of a cigar and tucking it between his teeth, “You and Percy pumped out a helluva rebel there Ratch. He made his Nana proud. Twice an’ double, he saved.”

The unmodified medic watched in amusement as his modded double bolted at the speed of too fast, barreling into the paradox Ironhide and crushing him into a near-pneumatic hug.

“L-Lemme fuckin’ go you gotdamn hellhound, they JUST stabilized m’spinal rods again!”

#pastelwrites #ot6 and then some au

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spinecurlingmice · 2 months ago

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somebody let me talk about hajime emotional relapse after the simulation Pleaseeeeeeee.

we see komaeda relapses often, mikan's a plenty pluck too, and you rarely see the others (from what ive found (i will stop that just give me a day where im able to crack my knuckles, it'll be a nice char study.)) but. hajime. ole' dependable.. hey where's his moment of weakness

he's therapy errand boy in most posts i find him post nwp but i never see the absolutely Destructive effects that. Ynow. remembering he was a labrat and how he just hung as junko's right hand for a bit until she died and then actually survived in memory because she made an ai of herself. and he like. Helped that happen too.

i need to see him just. So empty and hollow. need kazuichi to be like "hey man whats with the scary face haha" and hajime just Looks at him like he's already felt everything in the world fall through his fingers - the sand of a future can't even be soft when it slides too perfectly off his palms, it scraps like leftover beer bottles and shells, litter and gravely. the water of the beach is not pretty, because hajime, somewhere along the lines, learned to swim but never forgot the fear of what it felt like to drown. isn't it so futile, and doesn't it make him just wanna fall back into the pattern of focusing on how unsatisfied he is? that itching burn that has left a hole where his fingers cant touch the insatiability to keep it quiet, but he can pull back his bangs and and prod at the scars that're noticeable, and wonder how many more are hidden in his scalp. and isnt everyone in a pattern, the sun will rise and set and the moon will come and go, and the pattern that had hajime feel comfortable because there was always time, something he could rely on, is just so irritatingly boring now. it will happen because it does, and the answers come easily - hajime never thought it'd be so miserable to just simply Know how without even needing to think.

when he was a little kid he wasn't even able to stop using floaties, doggy paddling and gasping as he got another noseful of the burning sensation of saltwater. now he could throw any technique out there and still somehow nail the shot, he could run in the olympics if they still existed. it almost feels like he's desperately reaching out past the water but it just sways back and fourth, and the current will grow and hajime will know how to get out of it like he has for a while now.

isn't it so boring to be alive, or, is being the way he's become really living? and is he even still himself after what's happened?

Whatever.............................. i don't need the content... (begging begging begging begging begging beggi

#somebody please give me unstable hajime i know that man has Hell forever #please let me see it #pleaseeeee #hajime #uhm i guess i could make a ramble tag because i will probably make more of these because i think so much about this fucking game.#about this fucking Guy. hajime... shakes my fist in the air #into the microphone #there #danganronpa #micetalk

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idontwikeit · 4 years ago

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Lazarus Rising

My first waking thought is: what’s dead should stay dead. Stirring in my grave, pain cracks open my limbs As they heave off the heavy cloak of deathly lead

And darkness woven expertly around me by deep depression, A humble funeral shroud for my turbulent mind and body, Rendered lifeless in this life, and for good reason.

The waking is endless. Each of my extremities Trembles, tearing apart dry muscle from brittle bone, Nerves popping as blood quickens, and gritting teeth

I punch past my coffin’s cheap wood. I atone For my sins with ruptured knuckles, for my lies I breathe in the grave dirt that was my home.

When I breach the surface I hear the poet’s lines; They grip me tight. It fills me with dread To be alive, looking into a kind man’s eyes. What’s dead should stay dead.

— And This, Your Living Kiss by opal_bullets (@asecretvice on tumblr)

Only a very few people in the world know that the celebrated and reclusive poet Jack Allen is just Kansas mechanic Dean Winchester, a high school dropout with a few bucks to his name. Not that it matters anymore; life has left him so wrung out he never wants to pick up another pen. Until, that is, a string of coincidences leads Dean to auditing a poetry course with one Dr. Castiel Novak. The professor is wildly intelligent, devastatingly handsome...and just so happens to be academia's foremost expert on the poetry of Jack Allen.

#spnedit #supernatural #destieledit #deancas #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #and this your living kiss #if you really finish the sequel to it i will die happpy #this gifset does not do the poem nor the fic justice #but i just love your fic so much #thank you for the permission #also special thanks to cristina for suggesting this insane combination #spn 4.01 #spn 13.01 #spn 13.05 #vgifs #vcreations #long post

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sparxwrites · 3 years ago

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wearing thin

(i came up with this idea, and said to myself i’d just outline it, and then wrote most of this this like a woman possessed to the mitis remix of “cold skin”. the rest of it got written primarily to make the first bit of writing hurt more.)

cw for temporary character death/respawning, mentions of blood and sex and animal death, major angst

[ao3]

Grian kills Bdubs, and then comes after Scar with the fury of a man scorned. As he should. As is his right.

Scar does not begrudge him this. Scar kneels, waist deep in murky water, and bares his throat, and says, Kill me. And then he says, hot and desperate, We’ve won, Grian, we’ve won. Can’t we both win?

Grian, his head full of whispers, bares his teeth beneath the rising full moon, and says, No. He says, The ghosts demand a fight.

And Scar, on his knees, smiling, says, Who cares what they have to say? It’s just us here now.

And Grian – a fool, always a fool – listens to him.

–

They go back to Monopoly Mountain, together. They fix the house. Their fortress returns to them, slow and painstaking, brick by sandstone brick. They build back better this time. Stronger. More comfortable. Meant to last.

It’s got to be a proper home for us, after all, Scar says, and Grian smiles at him, wide and wild, his teeth gleaming under the noonday sun.

So they build the house. They build a home. They build Pizza a better grave.

They build a farm, a proper one, tended to by Grian on his hands and knees in the dry soil. He gets dirt under his nails, and in the cracks of his knuckles, and sunburn across the bridge of his nose. The wheat sprouts slow, reluctant, and then blooms all at once, unfolding pale green to golden under the encouragement of the cloudless sky and hiss careful hands.

Scar goes fishing, and comes back with fat cod and pink salmon, and strange little water-beasts he found under the rocks. They keep the fish, for cooking and pickling and smoking. Grian crushes the little water-beasts beneath a rock, one by one, methodical, and watches them squirm as they die.

Together, they eke out a life for themselves, under the hot desert sun – snapping and snarling at each others’ throats by day, as their red lives demand, and sleeping curled close to one another at night on their single mattress. It’s to conserve heat. Night gets cold in the desert, bitter and vicious as a blade, and neither of them have made panes for the windows yet, despite the abundance of sand. The fire in the kitchen does not reach up to their bedroom, at the top of the fortress’s tower.

And, besides– there’s only one bed.

They could make another, but neither of them have.

They don’t talk about that. They don’t talk about the way Scar smiles as Grian guts the fish he brings back, turned red up to his wrists with gore. They don’t talk about the way Grian’s nose presses, cold, against Scar’s collarbone at night.

–

Scar talks to the ghosts, sometimes, by day. They linger still, voices on the wind; waiting for a fight, maybe, that they will never get. Sometimes they talk back. Not often, though. And as the days and weeks pass, fewer and fewer speak at all.

In the end, only Martyn remains, sullen in death and quiet with it, mourning the loss of his king.

Why don’t the others talk any more? asks Scar, one sun-drenched morning, as he fits panes of glass in the fortress’ windows. It is delicate work, methodical, but not laborious. He is slick with sweat, nonetheless, the desert temperatures climbing higher and higher with the rising of the sun.

They’re not here any more, says Martyn, a whisper on the breeze. They moved on.

And Scar asks, Moved on where?

And Martyn says, Home. And then he says, quieter, as though sharing a secret, back to H̴̭̬̿e̵̯̚ȑ̸͚͍̾m̶͕̪̿i̵̻̿́t̴̯̐̒c̶̜̬̋r̷̗͊a̶̧̋̄f̸̡͉̊t mostly. That’s where you should be.

One of those words makes no sense, to Scar. One of those words makes his head hurt, puts pressure on his eardrums, like a needle threatening to pierce.

But this is my home, Scar says, instead of thinking about that. He looks out at where Grian is stood amidst the waist-high wheat, harvesting it, pink-red with sunburn on the back of his neck and the tips of his ears, tanning nut-brown everywhere else. His hair’s gone close to dirty gold, after after days upon days of long hours in the hot sun. Freckles have risen across his nose, his cheeks, a scattered constellation of slowly-bronzing stars.

Scar counts them at night, sometimes, when he cannot sleep. They still share one bed.

He is my home, he says, and means it.

Martyn sighs, and says nothing, and Scar thinks of Dogwarts – gone up in flames and gunpowder, three weeks back, Grian whooping and giddy with the joy of destruction – and the red cloak that burnt along with it. Of the diamond axe that did not. He does not press, but he thinks, perhaps, that Martyn understands.

Except his curiosity gets the better of him, and he asks, Why are you still here, then?

And Martyn sighs, again, and says, I stayed to Watch. They made me.

And then he says nothing more, no matter how Scar pesters him.

–

Grian talks to the moon sometimes, by night.

He slips out of bed when he thinks Scar is asleep, and pads out of the room, down the stairs, out of their house. He walks across the sand, barefoot, his hair golden-wild and his eyes dark, bruised, sleepless. He stands right on the sheer-drop edge their mountain’s cliff, toes curled over the crumbling overhang of it, and he stares up at the moon full in the sky. And he speaks to it.

Scar watches him, sometimes, from the window – always pretends to be asleep when Grian returns. Does not flinch, when Grian’s night-cold nose presses into the hollow of his throat. Does not shiver, when Grian’s sand-chilled feet tangle with his own.

The moon, so far as Scar can tell, does not talk back.

–

Where do you go at night? asks Scar, one day, while they’re in the kitchen chopping vegetables for stew. There’s a new llama, Calzone, sticking its head through an open window to steal carrot-tops from the counter. There’s a cat sprawled lazily out on the kitchen table, catching the last patch of sun as it sets. It feels like home, the kitchen, with the two of them in it.

Grian doesn’t meet his eyes as he says, Nowhere. Sometimes you just gotta go pee! Or get a glass of water. Or– other stuff. Nothing important.

Scar doesn’t call him on the lie. The carrots beneath his kitchen knife take approximately the same amount of pressure to cut as bone does. His old sword hangs on the wall above the fireplace, just below Grian’s. Sometimes he imagines taking it down, and taking it to the back of Grian’s neck, or the front of his ribcage. Not for any particular reason. Just because.

His red heart beats hungry inside his chest, alongside his other one. His softer one. His weaker one.

Who do you talk to during the day, hmm? says Grian, and he says it as a tease but it sounds like an accusation. Grian carries his red heart in this throat, close behind his teeth. When you leave me to do all the farm work. Lazybones.

Scar cuts the carrots, methodical, practised, snick-snick-snick. Oh, no one, he says, no one at all. Just the wind.

–

Scar wakes one night to Grian sat across his hips, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. They are dark, and sleepless, but not bruised the way they are when he talks to the moon – instead, they are wide, bright. Watching.

Can I–? asks Grian, and he sounds like a man lost in a desert begging for water. He licks his lips.

Scar does not need to ask him what he is asking for.

So he says, Yes, yes, Grian, of course, yes–, because there is nothing else to say. His voice is loud in the quiet of the night, sleep-rough, stunned and wanting.

And then he says nothing more, because he has no mouth with which to say it. Grian’s lips are sun-chapped, demanding, hiding teeth capable of drawing blood. His hair is soft when Scar threads a hand through it, and the noise he makes when Scar pulls him closer is sweeter than any birdsong. He tastes, inexplicably, of strawberries.

As always, Grian takes what he wants, with a gleeful abandon. He takes what he wants, and does not bother to ask permission again. He has it, now – and in truth has always had it – and that knowledge makes him dangerous in the best possible way.

Scar says no more words, that night. But he noises he makes–

The both of them say no words the next morning, either. The sun rises, and them with it, and they sit at their kitchen table and eat last night’s bread and stew cold for breakfast. They are silent, as the light filters through the windows, as Jellie rouses too and begins to beg for scraps – but when Scar presses his foot to Grian’s, beneath the table, Grian smiles. It looks, a little, like a sunrise.

The sensation of home tightens, like a noose, around the softness of Scar’s weaker heart.

–

They live. Together, two red lives in a world coloured yellow and green, they live.

Grian tends to the dirt, to the little growing things he plants there. He grows, too, strong and lean with the manual labour, wiry with muscle from hard work and plain food. His hair grows, down past his ears, until he is forced to tie it up to keep it out of his eyes. He tries to take shears to it; Scar stops him.

Scar tends to their fortress, to the house they have made together, and makes it a home. He changes, too, he supposes. The grey of his skin bleaches pale, to the colour of the ash left in their kitchen-hearth each morning. The builder’s callouses fade from his fingers, and he loses some of the hard definition of his muscles, the sharp angles, the edges and corners. He softens. His soft heart grows softer, day by day. The red one beside it quiets, until the bloodlust is but a distant whisper in his ear.

Grian brings them food, each evening, with hands dirty from their farm and a smile white and bright as the moon. And each evening, Scar waits for him with gifts – fresh bread and fish, gunpowder, small creatures for him to kill.

Unlike him, Grian’s red has not abated.

The land outside their desert turns into a web of holes punched into the earth, some down to bedrock, some still burning. No structures survive. The other houses, castles, fortresses were gone within the first few weeks, blown up and burnt to the ground; the village went soon after. Nothing else remains but trees and grass and craters – and sand.

This is their world now. Grian takes dominion over it, shapes it to his will, sets his marks across it as he pleases and whoops with joy at each explosion. Scar, content to simply watch, inhabits it. This is their world, now, and theirs alone. This is their home.

–

One night, the moon speaks back.

Grian stands on the edge of the cliff, and Scar stands by the window of their bedroom and watches him. And when Grian calls out to the moon and says, Is this it? Is this all there is, now?, the moon speaks back.

The moon says, Y̷̫͎̓ǒ̶̰́u̷̠̓ ̷͈̈́h̸̯̭͂̚ą̷͙̀v̶͕̬́͆ȅ̸͓̝̿ ̸̫̇͌n̴̂ͅo̴͔͒̕ẗ̶̞ ̶͈̆̚ẅ̵̞͇o̶̢͗n̵̮̒̿ ̷͙̈t̶̻͉̅ĥ̴̤̞̆e̷̹͎̾͘ ̷͓̉ģ̷̰̀͐a̷̙̾m̴̲̓e̸̯̐ ̵͖̐̉ý̶̙ẹ̸̊t̸̼͐̒. The moon is no longer the moon. The moon has wings. The moon is made of eyes, and they all blink at different times, unharmonised. The moon speaks in a voice that makes the fine bones of Scar’s ears hurt, even from a distance.

The moon is no longer the moon, it is a person, and it is the moon, and it is eyes-wings-shapes-pain, and it hurts to look at. Scar cannot look away.

Grian stares at the moon, and says, What happens to the winner?

And the moon speaks back and says, T̵̳͊̄h̴̦̙̒å̵̯ţ̵͐͆ ̶͕̊́i̸͙͔̅͊ş̵̮͆͂ ̸̺͐a̵͚̖̅̚ ̶͓̾͘s̷̝̃u̵̪͒͠r̷̬̳̄́p̵̮͎̅r̴̲͔̓͝i̵̼̋̚s̷̼̣͝ë̵̪͋.

Grian stares at the moon, and does not flinch from its voice. Then what happens to the loser? he says.

And the moon says, T̶̠͒͝h̶̟̃̈́ė̸̼̻ỷ̴̠ ̵̯͆g̵̞͑o̸̟̕ ̵̖̐̿h̵͍̉̌ỏ̸͇͔͋ḿ̸̳͖è̵͚͖͋, and Scar thinks his ears are bleeding.

Grian says, So I’ve got to do it, then, and the moon is silent. He says, Because you can’t have him. He says, He’s mine.

The moon is silent. The eyes are gone, and the wings are gone, and once again the moon is just that – a full moon, hung heavy and quiet in the sky.

Grian stands there for another ten silent minutes, twenty. And then he turns, and leaves the cliff.

When he returns, Scar is back in their bed, and his eyes are closed. Grian’s feet, when they tangle with his, are colder even than the bite of the night air. Grian’s face, when he shoves it into the junction of Scar’s throat and shoulder, is wet with tears.

–

What did the moon say to you? asks Scar, as they eat fresh-baked bread and cold pickled fish for lunch, sat at the table in their sun-drenched kitchen. Their cat is sat on Scar’s lap, purring, purring. He has named her Jellie. He doesn’t know why.

Grian looks at Scar, and then down at his fish. Do you want to go home, Scar? he says, and Scar laughs.

What do you mean? he says, and smiles. This is my home! Right here. And yours, too.

And Grian smiles, too, but he says, No, but like… home-home.

And Scar frowns at him, and says, What do you mean? This is all there’s ever been.

And Grian looks at him again, no longer smiling, and then out the window at the moonless midday sky, and then back to him, and there is a look on his face that Scar cannot put words to. Horror, perhaps. But that misses the wideness of it, the weight of it, the way it opened up on Grian’s face like a yawning chasm between blinks.

Oh, says Grian, and then, The moon said nothing. Nothing important. What did your voices on the wind say to you?

Scar doesn’t ask how he knows, about the voices, about the wind. He says, They’re mostly gone, now. It’s just Martyn. He says they made him stay to watch.

And Grian says, Yeah. I bet they did. They like doing that. And then he says nothing more.

They eat their warm bread and cold fish in silence, and when Scar stands to accompany Grian for the day’s farming, Jellie mewls her displeasure at being displaced from his lap. There are dirty dishes in the sink, and half a loaf of bread left on the table, and an unclosed jar of pickled fish and vegetables on the counter. Outside, the bright sun catches on Grian’s golden hair, makes an afternoon halo of it as he pulls weeds out from between the budding wheat on his knees.

Scar watches, breathless, and cannot imagine ever wanting to be anywhere else.

–

Scar wakes one night to Grian sat across his hips, and a sword at his throat. There are tears in Grian’s eyes. There are too many of Grian’s eyes. His irises are red. He looks like the moon.

He looks like his red life is no longer in his throat.

I have to, he says, and he presses down, and the sword cuts through Scar’s throat like his knife had cut through the potatoes they’d prepared together for dinner. The mattress beneath him turns as red as Grian’s eyes.

Scar says nothing. He does not have to.

I have to, says Grian, and presses down harder. It’s the only way you can go home. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll see you again. I think. I hope. I’m sorry. I–

And Scar bleeds out into darkness.

–

Scar wakes up in his bed, at home. Sunlight streams in through the windows, and there is a cat called Jellie curled up beside him on the sheets, and there are trees outside instead of miles and miles of sand.

He cannot remember why there might be miles and miles of sand; he’s not even sure where the nearest desert is. He cannot think why his body might have been settled, sleeping, into a shape that made space for someone else to curl up close to his chest. He cannot think why the bed feels empty. He cannot think why he feels cold.

He decides to make bread for breakfast, and only realises his error when he has to wait for it to leaven on the warm windowsill. For something to do, he chops carrots, and then potatoes, for dinnertime stew. He cannot think why the action feels so easy, so automatic. He cannot think why it feels like there is something missing.

He cannot think why the name Grian is on his lips, when it is as unfamiliar to him as the desert landscape he sees behind his eyelids when he blinks.

He cannot think why the first thing he thought, upon waking, was I love you too.

#scarian #hermitshipping #trafficshipping #3lshipping #hermitfic #hermits crafting #fic #yall................... yall. this one hurts like a bitch #and i am So Sorry #fr there's a reason i put angst in the warnings #like...............................................#anyways please send me asks or leave me tags or yell at me abt this one #i've had it finished for a month and i've been foaming at the mouth to share it w you #here i am again series

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mandoalorian · 4 years ago

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I Believe In Love [Maxwell Lord x F!Reader] — One: Direction

Summary: When you find your calling to leave Themyscira, you venture out to the World of Man with intentions of helping and healing a very specific person's relationship with his son. You've heard his voice before, but only in dreams. You've felt his pain and anguish and you've never been able to relate to anything more. But things don't come easy for you, and they certainly don't come easy for him either. [This series contains spoilers for WW84 and is my interpretation of what happens after the movie ends].

Taglists (let me know if you wish to be added!)—

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth

I Believe In Love: @mrschiltoncat @thebloodrobin @greatvaluedazzler @bxxbxy @marydjarin @the-feckless-wonder @typicalnerd98 @biharryjames @thwiso

Rating: 15+

Word count: 4,700>

Masterlist

Previous - One - Next

"I wish to travel to the world of man," you announced with a deep breath and a confident smile. Hippolyta looked at you and laughed. Her Amazonian guards copied the actions of their queen and burst into a fit of giggles that made you feel like a silly small child.

"And where has this outburst come from?" Hippolyta asked with a quirked eyebrow as she folded her arms across her chest. The laughing slowly quietened down as she waited for a response.

"I've been having these dreams," you began to explain hesitantly. Hippolyta leaned forward in her throne and looked at you quizzically, making a small gesture with her hand that urged you to continue. "I've been seeing death and destruction, I've been watching the world of man crumble…"

"You want to travel to a collapsing society? Don't be foolish, that doesn't sound safe. Why leave the beautiful walls of Themyscira to travel to the world of man?" You had heard stories about the world of man and how it was filled with greed and corruption. Themyscira was peaceful. It wasn't that you wanted to leave, it was that you knew deep in your heart that your time had come.

Hippolyta was right. You looked around the palace that you had stepped foot in, the marble floor under your toes and the gold intricate details that patterned across the walls. "You let Diana." you mumbled under your breath, turning away from the queen and beginning to walk towards the double doors that you had entered through, ready to leave the palace.

"What was that?" Hippolyta asked, rising to her feet. You opened your mouth to answer but an excruciating pain shot through your head— and that's when you heard him. You heard his voice again. His pain. It wasn't just in your dreams anymore… you could feel him like he was there, with you, like he was part of you. You screamed and fell to your knees as tears spilled from your eyes, your fingers clenching into a fist so hard your knuckles turned white. The pain was so intense and you heard his words over and over again. Hippolyta ran over to you, sinking down to your level and cradling your weeping body in her arms. She called your name. "What is it?"

"He's calling for me," you choked back a sob. "The world of man is in grave danger."

"From who?" Hippolyta questioned, wiping your tears away as you tried to regulate your own erratic breathing.

"I don't know, but I must help." you gasped. "I must help him. Please allow me to go." you grabbed Hippolyta's arms and looked at her with pleading eyes. "You allowed Diana."

"Diana was a fighter, our best one," Hippolyta said slowly, shaking her head at the memory of her daughter. "You are not a fighter." She said the four words matter of factory but her denial made your anger rifle through your body.

"Maybe I can win this without fighting," you sobbed. "Yes, I have no training. I do not use a sword or a shield, but my mother taught me that battles can be won if we just use our heart. If we love." you felt like you were begging as you recalled Hestia's words to you. Your Themysciran tribe were of a peaceful nature, and although small, your leader, Aphrodite, preached about the power of love.

"Olympus and Eurydice loved and what happened to them?" Hippolyta scolded, her question rhetorical. You recalled the story in the back of your mind and winced, knowing their fate. "We are Amazonians. If the world of men needs saving, then Diana will save them. Go home my child, I forbid you from leaving Themyscira."

Your heart broke. You couldn't believe that Hippolyta was confining you to the walls of Themyscira. She didn't understand. She couldn't understand. It was only once in a turn of centuries did an Amazonian connect with someone from the outside world— and now, you had. You had made that connection, but Hippolyta forbade you from acting upon it. You composed yourself as you stormed out of the palace and hurried down the stone steps. Tightening the buckles on your gladiator sandals, you wiped your furious tears away and took a deep breath as the anger consumed you.

It wasn't fair. You had spent your childhood studying the world of man, learning about them and their ways. Nobody had cared more about helping others than you. Your desire to care for those around you came from your very own purpose. When Zeus sculpted you in his own image, he made you goddess of home and hearth. He gave you your abilities for a reason. Amazonian's outside your tribe shamed you for your kind and compassionate heart— telling you it was a weakness more than a strength. They belittled you and made you feel unworthy. As you remembered your childhood trauma, you pulled out your hair from your tiara. You lived on Themyscira your whole life but it never truly felt like home. You always craved for something more.

You ran home. You ran as fast as your feet could carry you, letting your tears fall and your screams of anguish echo through the Themsycrian forests. It wasn't fair. What did Hippolyta expect you to do? Deal with this for the rest of your life. How could you not help the man who's pain was destroying his very soul? The Gods had connected you and him for a reason. You had to go. You had to.

As soon as you arrived home you broke down. Your mother heard your cries and found you in the garden, picking at the native Themysciran flowers as your salty tears dropped on the lilac coloured petals. "Hippolyta denied your request?" Hestia asked, sitting on the wall next to you. You nodded sadly. "Sweet child, tell me more about these dreams. About this...man."

You didn't see the point now that you knew you wouldn't be able to leave Themyscira. But Hestia was your mother and you loved her dearly, and so you took a shaky exhale and done your very best to explain. "It feels like I've known him forever, like he's always been a part of me," you admitted. "But— I don't even know his name." you shrugged helplessly and cracked a small smile, listening to how pathetic you must've sounded. Maybe Hippolyta had a point. "I don't even know how he looks. Even if I did venture to the world of man, how could I possibly find him?"

Hestia sighed, unclipping her lasso from her tunic and wrapping it carefully around your wrist. You looked up at your mother, your eyes comically wide as the lasso glowed yellow. "Close your eyes, my child," Hestia whispered. "See him. See the truth."

You closed your eyes and let your soul space away as the lasso transported your mind to elsewhere. To him— the man of your dreams.

"Alistair?" Maxwell cleared his throat, his son's head snapping in the direction of his father. "That was your mother. She wants you home." Maxwell pointed aimlessly back at the telephone.

"But daddy, you promised the whole weekend together!" Alistair's eyes began to well up with tears. Maxwell ran to his son's side, his heart aching at the sight of disappointment and he pulled Alistair into his chest.

"I know, and I will keep my word," he hushed Alistair, smoothing out his hair. "Don't worry." Alistair nuzzled his face into Maxwell's dress shirt, sniffing in fear of losing his father again. There was a few beats of silence as Maxwell's brain ticked like clockwork, trying to work out what his ex wife's intentions were. "Does your mother… does she ever talk about me?" Maxwell asked hesitantly, unsure if he was about to regret the question.

"I hear her, sometimes. I hear her talk about you to Ted," Alistair admitted, referencing his mother's new boyfriend. Maxwell hummed, still stroking his son's hair. He wondered whether or not he should ask Alistair what exactly she said, but decided against it, not wanting to hurt his son anymore than he already had. He knew that Juliana had nothing good to say about Maxwell.

"Ted? I thought he liked to be called Theodore," Maxwell chuckled, rolling his eyes and Alistair giggled back. Max and Alistair would often joke about how pretentious Ted could be.

"Well now he wants me to call him dad," Alistair sighed, too young to understand the implications of that revelation. Maxwell's heart broke. Of course Juliana wanted her son to call her new boyfriend 'dad'. She got Alistair on the weekdays and Maxwell got him on the weekends, it was more than likely he saw Ted more than he saw Max, and Max knew for certain that Juliana's hatred was fueled further with his every breath. The prolonged silence urged Alistair to speak up. "But I told mom I won't."

"You did?" Maxwell smiled sadly. "Why?"

"Because you're my dad!" Alistair grinned. "And you'll always be my dad, no matter what."

Maxwell couldn't bring himself to reply. His stomach twisted into knots as he thought about Julianna's words over the phone. "You do not deserve him. I don't want you anywhere near my son ever again."

He knew the level of determination his ex wife possessed and if this meant she wanted sole custody of Alistair then Maxwell knew there would be very little that would stop her. He had messed up bad this time. Alistair felt tiny in Max's arms, but Max knew his son's heart was huge and filled with unconditional love. But the worry and guilt consumed him. How could Max possibly fight and win this case— after everything that had happened? He didn't even have the money for good lawyers. Maxwell whispered an incoherent 'I love you' into the crook of Alistair's neck, his shutting as a tear slipped down his cheek.

Your own eyes snapped open, your chest heaving and panting as the lasso of truth unravelled itself from your wrist. "What did you see?" Hestia asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Did you see the man of your dreams?"

You tried to process everything. "I didn't see him," you whispered feeling defeated. "But I heard his voice. And I learned his name. He's a father and he's afraid of losing his son," you explained, taking in everything you had learned. "And his son is afraid of losing his father."

"When you awoke last night, what did you hear?" Hestia asked.

"He was crying. He said he renounced his wish. I've been struggling to understand what exactly that means but…" you closed your eyes, remembering the dream like it was a perfect painting illustrating the patterns of your memory.

Hestia smiled wearily. "I always prayed to the Gods that you would not be chosen. My dear child, I love you so much, but it's clear that this man needs your help. You're the goddess of home and hearth, and Zeus blessed you with the ability to bring families together and that is your purpose. To live a life without serving your purpose— who would you be?"

"It doesn't matter," you sighed sadly, rubbing your eyes. "Hippolyta won't allow me to leave." you reminded your mother.

"I can help you leave Themyscira," Hestia cupped the side of your face with your hand, her thumb brushing over the height of your cheekbone. "But if you are to help this man there is something you must know."

"What is it?" you asked your mother, your eyes beckoning for answers.

"There were once two brothers; Romulus and Dolos. Their entities combined were a force of pure evil, but the brothers left Olympus to go to the world of man. When they left, Zeus gave them two magical citrine stones, and the brothers practiced their powers on the stones. Dolos went to a place called Greece, where Romulus travelled to Italy and built the city of Rome. Not much is known about the stones, but now, only one remains. We don't know which one or where it is, but it's dangerous."

"Why are you telling me this?" you furrowed your eyebrows together in bewilderment.

"The stones are indestructible, unless the power of the stone is harnessed by a person themselves. Then, the entity of the stone vanishes but the power lives in the person. The power of wish granting. If he has renounced his wish, that means…"

"...he's had a wish granted," you clicked on to what your mother was saying. "How do I find out which stone has been destroyed?"

"You need to find the man of your dreams and ask him who granted his wish," Hestia explained. "You must destroy the final dreamstone."

"But why?" You quizzed, your shoulders falling limp as you took in this abundance of information.

"Because Romulus and Dolos are the God of Lies." Hestia whispered, her hands falling from your shoulders as she clipped the lasso back to her tunic.

Your heart sank into your chest as the revelation hit you. "The God of Lies?" you repeated.

"If you go to the world of man then your purpose must be more than just helping this man and his son," Hestia told you. "You must find the final dreamstone and destroy it."

"How can I destroy the God of Lies?" you shook your head furiously. "No, nuh-uh, not happening. I can't even fight. I don't have any weapons— never trained. I can't do it. I can't." you scowled, standing up and brushing down your Amazonian dress, turning away from your mother. You felt her hand grab your shoulder.

"Remember what I taught you, my child. Battles can be won through the power of love," Hestia smiled. "If I didn't think you were worthy, then I wouldn't be allowing my only daughter to travel to the world of man. But I am because I believe in you. And I believe in love."

***

Maxwell couldn't focus on the video game anymore, shuffling around uncomfortably at the mere thought that Juliana and Ted could be on their way to collect Alistair for themselves. "Hey, how about we get some fresh air?" Maxwell asked, nudging Alistair playfully. "I think there are still some 4th of July celebrations happening in the park."

Alistair grinned ecstatically. "Really daddy? We haven't been to the park since… since… you were still with mommy!"

Maxwell scrunched up his nose and brushed off his sons comment. "Go grab your coat, okay?" he urged and Alistair bolted out the living room and into his bedroom.

Maxwell caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. No amount of biotin was going to rid the dark circles from under his eyes. At least he had his health restored, but he hadn't thought of the implications of utilizing the government's multinational broadcasting service.

Every single citizen of the world had seen Maxwell. Knew him by name, by face. Maxwell had no idea how people were going to react upon seeing him again. He contemplated a disguise, but figured the best he could do was roll up his shirt sleeves to his elbows and brush out any hair product from his dark blonde locks. At least he wasn't wearing his signature tailored suit and ties. On the surface, he could just be mistaken for an ordinary guy. Maxwell Lord had never wanted to blend into society this much in his life.

The memory of how power corrupt he had become before Diana had saved him struck his heart like a dagger of guilt. But he couldn't regret. He had to think forward and think to the future if he wanted to change his errors.

Maxwell jumped when Alistair took hold of his father's hand and pulled him to the door. "Hey, let me help you zip your coat up." Maxwell smiled, kneeling down and making sure Alistair would be warm enough.

By the time they arrived at the park, it was as if nothing had happened. It was like the world had returned back to the way it was before all the death and destruction. Children squealed merrily as they played on the swing sets, families sat on the grassy fields eating picnics and vendors were serving hot dogs, burgers and cotton candy.

"Why don't you go play with the kids over there?" Maxwell pointed towards a group of children standing by the slide. "Daddy just needs a moment to himself, but then I'll come play. I promise." Max kissed Alistair on the forehead and Alistair nodded understandingly before racing off into the playpark.

Maxwell scratched the back of his head and took in the cool Summer air as evening began to dawn. He looked around at the happy families and figured it was something he could get used to. He imagined living a peaceful life outside of the spotlight. No fame, no money, just him and Alistair. But things didn't come easy for Maxwell Lord.

You woke up in a muddy puddle under a tree, groaning as the brown dirt stuck to your arms and legs. You looked down at your dress and tunic, thankful that the leather material could be washed easily. You smelt something unfamiliar yet distinct, your nostrils twitching as the scent of burgers and hotdogs from the vending vans engulfed you.

The screams of children alerted you and you looked over at the playpark, watching intently as the kids laughed and danced around. There wasn't many children back on Themyscira, but being the goddess of home and hearth; it filled your heart with joy and happiness.

You slowly walked over to the playpark, looking around at your awe inspiring surroundings. So this was the world of man? You beamed upon seeing the swans in the duck pond and the beautiful flowers that grew around the stone path you walked upon.

It was mesmerising, but your delight was cut short when you heard a thud followed by a child's cry. You looked over to see that, not too far away, a group of children had pushed a young boy to the ground. The boy fumbled to get to his feet but the children circled around him, pointing and calling him names. You walked over to the crowd of children and placed your hands on your hips. "Excuse me?" you called out and watched as the kids stiffened up and their circle disbanded. They ran away, shooting you a strange look before you could even say anything else. You extended your arm and helped the little boy to his feet. "Are you okay?" you asked, kneeling down to mirror his short height. The boy nodded sadly, his dark eyes glazed with tears. "What's your name?"

"Alistair." the boy mumbled, his cheeks heating up with embarrassment.

"That's a beautiful name," you gleamed before introducing yourself. Alistair smiled at the compliment.

"I like your costume," he pointed excitedly. "Are you a princess?" he pointed at your tiara which held back your hair.

"Something like that," you shrugged with a small laugh. "Are you here alone?"

"No, I came with my daddy." Alistair informed you, looking around as he tried to locate his father. Your gaze followed his and you watched the young child begin to panic as he couldn't find him anywhere.

"You can't see him?" you asked with an empathetic frown. Alistair burst into tears, holding his head in his hands. "Hey don't cry!" You pulled the child into you and hugged him tightly. "He won't be far. Come on, let me help you look for him."

"He-, he always leaves," Alistair sobbed and your eyes widened slightly. "But this time- this time he promised. No more leaving."

"You must believe in your father, okay?" you whispered, pulling Alistair's hands away from his face and wiping his tears. "Tell me, what does he look like?"

Alistair sniffed and grabbed onto your hand for support. "Strong," Alistair smiled. "Really really cool. Best dad in the world." you chuckled at Alistar's words, and how he had described his father's personality rather than his physical appearance.

"Do you remember what he was wearing?" you quizzed as you and Alistair exited the playpark and back down the stone path.

"Umm, a white shirt and grey pants," Alistair recalled. "He's on the television sometimes."

You furrowed your eyebrows together. "Television?" you asked curiously and Alistair nodded before gasping.

"Look! There he is!" Alistair screamed, pointing across the road into a store window, at a man with golden coloured hair and chocolate brown eyes. You swallowed the lump in your throat as you took in his appearance. The man shook his fists and nodded his head, grinning enthusiastically.

"That man on the screen over there?" you tilted your head as Allistair squeezed your hand and dragged you out of the park, across the road, and over to the shop.

"Yep, that's daddy!"

"Welcome to the future, life is good, but it can be better. And why shouldn't it be? Everything you've ever dreamed of is right at our fingertips. But are you reaping the awards? Do you have it all? Welcome to Black Gold Cooperative, the first oil company run for the people, by the people. Think about finally having everything you've always wished for. For a low monthly fee, you can own a piece of the most lucrative industry in the world. And everytime we strike gold, you strike gold! No matter who you are, no matter what you do, you deserve to have it all. Do you have everything you've always wanted? Aren't you tired of wishing you had more? Join me today. You don't need a pile of money or some business degree to get started. You don't even have to work hard for it. At Black Gold Cooperative all you need is to want it."

You were so hypnotized by the man's business scheme, you didn't even notice Alistair disappear. Your eyes widened as you looked around, desperately trying to find him. You called his name a few times, hoping he wasn't far.

Maxwell tugged on Alistair's arm and dragged him around a corner. "What are you doing?" Max hissed and Alistair looked away from his father nervously. "You don't talk to strangers, do you understand me?"

"I couldn't find you in the park, she was helping me look for you." Alistair explained, his voice timid.

"So why were you out of the park, huh? Standing outside a television store watching one of my-" Maxwell sighed. "-one of my infomercials?"

"I wanted to show her what you looked like," Alistair frowned. "I'm sorry daddy."

Maxwell leaned down and kissed his son's forehead. "It's okay, just please don't do that again, alright? This world is full of bad, dangerous people. You need to be careful." Maxwell said and Alistair nodded his head. Max slid his hand into Alistair's and walked him back into the park. "So, who was that woman anyway?" Maxwell asked, quirking his eyebrow.

Maxwell had barely managed to get a glimpse of you, but if your short warrior tunic was anything to go off, he figured you were someone hired to be in costume for one of the 4th of July celebrations. He didn't see your face, only the back of your head, but in the split second he saw you, he admired the way your hair gleamed under the amber setting sunlight and the shape of your body, how your dress sculpted it perfectly. He shook away the thoughts, reaching into his pocket and taking out his wallet as he approached an ice cream vendor.

"She was nice," Alistair smiled as he looked at the ice cream menu painting on the side of the van. "She told me she was a princess and she helped me." Alistair recalled the way his bullies ran away when you had come over.

"Helped you how?" Maxwell quizzed, pulling out a few dollar bills.

Alistair stiffened up, not wanting to tell his father about the bullies. He was afraid Max would be ashamed of him for not sticking up for himself. "Can I get a raspberry sundae?" Alistair asked his dad, brushing off his initial question. Maxwell nodded his head and slid the cash over to the vendor who began to prepare the ice cream.

"Hey, I'm looking for my friend Alistair?" you were asking plenty of people wandering the streets of DC the same question. "Do you know where Alistair is?"

Some people would reply with, "Alistair who?", but most people would look you up and down with disdain and hurry away. You wondered why nobody else was dressed like you, and why nobody knew who Alistair was. Back on Themyscira, everyone had their own individual, unique name and everyone knew who everyone was. You frowned. It clearly wasn't like that in the world of man. You needed a different tactic. You thought back to Alistair's description of his father and tried to remember the words he spoke on the television. "Welcome to Black Gold Cooperative."

"Do you know where Black Gold Cooperative is?" you asked an aging lady who was walking along the sidewalk.

She, like everyone else, looked you up and down in bewilderment. "The headquarters?" she asked. "East Avenue, about a ten minute walk away."

"Which direction?" you prodded further.

The woman blinked. "East." she repeated.

"Thank you." you smiled, curtseying politely before setting off to find this mysterious place that the man on the television spoke so highly of. If he was really Alistair's father, then maybe you could find Alistair there and ensure his safety. That's what really mattered.

You found it difficult to walk in your gladiator sandals, and the quality of the air made leather tunic chafe against your thighs. Nevertheless, you preserved, ignoring all the sky comments that were being made by passers by regarding your appearance.

Finally, you found yourself standing outside Black Gold Cooperative headquarters; the large building looming over you as a cold shadow hung above your head. Attempting to go through the revolving doors proved to be a challenge in itself, as there was no such creation back on Themyscira. After a few attempts of trying to push through you finally found yourself in the deserted lobby. "Welcome to the future," your head snapped up to the television on the wall, where the same infomercial you had seen in the store window was playing in the reception area. "Life is good, but it can be better."

You slid behind the main desk and placed your hand on the television screen, allowing your fingers to trace the man's face. It was that same charming smile and honeyed brown eyes you remembered. His hair was golden and styled perfectly, curling at the nape of his neck, like a fairytale prince you had read about in the storybooks of your youth. He was fitted in colourful patterned suits which accentuated his broad shoulders and every word glided off his tongue so sweetly. That's when it hit you— his voice. That was the feature that had attracted you to him. It was what brought you to him. It was the voice you had dreamt of, the voice you had heard over and over again. The voice that had brought you to the world of men. It was fate that had brought you to Alistair, something that could've only been written by the Gods. That man was the first man you had ever seen, and my oh my, he was something else.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #maxwell lord #max lord #maxwell lord x reader #max lord x reader #ww84 #wonder woman 1984

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subtley-peculiar · 2 years ago

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I posted 494 times in 2022

That's 255 more posts than 2021!

24 posts created (5%)

470 posts reblogged (95%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@rustybutterknife

@hadleyfrasergender

@kosaciec

@itsfuckingcanon

@spamton-g-spamton

I tagged 11 of my posts in 2022

#poetry - 4 posts

#poem - 2 posts

#poems on tumblr - 2 posts

#original poem - 2 posts

#poets on tumblr - 2 posts

#spamton g spamton - 1 post

#aroace - 1 post

#cats - 1 post

#ok so i'm gay and aroace - 1 post

#im a trans man but more specifically boyflux - 1 post

Longest Tag: 66 characters

#everyone into phantom of the opera at this day and age is autistic

My Top Posts in 2022:

How the stars linger in his hands

from deserts

spread by oceans unimaginable

deep and pooling through

minerals more human than he

stars carressing every

gash and abrasion

He dances

bathing in light, so stagnantly far

it holds him tightly

so fragile

Molded by asteroids

stardust in every movement

he crumbles

pouring himself into the vastness

only to resurface in my arms

2 notes - Posted February 7, 2022

🪦ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬𝔡𝔲𝔠𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫🧟‍♂️

Greetings and Salutations welcome to probably the most personal I'll ever get on the internet.

Uhh I'm Locke

{he/they} pronouns all that jazz

For the most part this is just me reposting whatever the fuck I'm hyperfixated on.

Some recent things being

-transformers

-xmen

-the sandman

-longboarding

-scream

-the band ghost

-probably some others we don't need to talk about

If you know me Irl no you don't unless you Alistiar or Michael

(hello Alistair <33 hello Michael <33)

Ig here's some other shit about me

I'm an autigender transman

I'm angled AroAce and quite the dandy

Also not repulsed as I am very much a hopeless romantic AS WELL as a manwhore

(I'm indifferent but I'm a slut for intimacy [especially the emotional sort] and affection)

I'm not exclusive to one person fun fact [monoflexible baby!]

I know too much about bugs and phantom of the opera

Its quite obvious in my taste in men that I'm quite mentally ill and neurodivergent

My Poetry Stash https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bleeding-poet

3 notes - Posted July 8, 2022

Is AO3 still down?

3 notes - Posted November 15, 2022

y o hottie

Guys he likes my loserboy swag, cryptically off-putting nature AND my autistic opinions <3

3 notes - Posted November 30, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Boys-

so many of us

born from broken bones

peeling back scabs only to rise

beyond graves, name long since chiseled out

blood seeping off not so angel wings

reborn in "mutilation"

boys-

forged in dirt

eyebags darker every night

and dying at the hands of "real men"

held against pavement

guts wrenching

tightly

tearing themselves apart

Boys

with alligator tears, soggy and caked in ashes

draped in words flattering, unfitting

coughing up excuses

forgetting how to breathe

scared to become their father

Boy's

encased in cracked skin knuckles

forgetting if they even are boys

bleeding it anyways

16 notes - Posted February 7, 2022

Gets your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

i forget that I posted poetry on here before I made a separate blog for that

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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erricdraven · 3 years ago

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to build a nest, we plucked feathers from our chests

A dual purpose 6x14 older and far away coda and pre-6x15 as you were context just because 💕

“And you’ll always love me, won’t you?” “Yes.” “And the rain won’t make any difference?” “No.”

--Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

“God…” Buffy grunted, pulling herself to her feet with leverage provided by a now slightly fractured headstone belonging to Ada Marie Wilson. “Sorry,” she added, giving it an awkward caress. Once she had straightened up, she brushed away the remaining vampire dust from her clothes and hair. Some had even gone down her bra, and it felt particularly icky to acknowledge. She’d have to toss it in the laundry hamper as soon as she got home.

It had hardly been a challenging patrol, but chasing down three fledglings properly turned by a strong sire and fresh from their graves, reeking of the grave dirt and dried blood their raw skin was caked in, had pushed her body to the point where she knew it would be gratifyingly sore tomorrow. However, the last hit she’d taken had knocked her back into the sharp edge of a marble headstone and left her with bright, sharp pain lancing through the right side of her ribs.

Bending over to retrieve her leather jacket from the damp grass, Buffy contemplated stopping by the corner convenience store for Rainbow Mini Nilla Wafers on the way. She hadn’t had them since she was a kid, and she was just stubborn enough that she was willing to trek the extra mile for a sudden craving. After all, if anything should warrant some comfort food, it should be a potentially cracked rib. The ache in her side as she started off through the uneven terrain of the cemetery dissuaded her in the end though, and she instead set her sights on the more domestic idea of some warm buttered toast before bed. Maybe even with some cinnamon sugar on top.

Suddenly, a familiar prickling sensation beneath her skin made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. A slightly pained sigh broke through the quiet as she addressed the darkness around her. “Spike? There’s no point in lurking, I already know you’re there. I’m not in the mood for this.”

Spike landed silently on the soft earth nearby, coiled slightly in a crouch. “Hello cutie.”

“Were you watching me?” Buffy put her hands on her hips, trying to keep from pressing her shoulders back too far. Even breathing made her ribs ache.

With a derisive snort, Spike tossed his head back defiantly. “Hardly. I live here, eh? You’re the one encroachin’. ‘Sides, I was outta the way.” He gestured haphazardly at elevated roof of the nearby mausoleum.

“Yeah, lurking. Like I said.”

“Not lurkin’. Why does everyone always bloody assume that?” He sounded exasperated. From the back pocket of his jeans, he pulled a small, tattered paperback and held it out to her. “Was readin’. There’s the pudding.” His fingers were relaxed, allowing her to take it from him.

By the light of the moon, she could just make out the faded lettering of the author’s name. “Ernest Hemingway?”

Spike dipped his chin in confirmation, watching her closely. He kept looking at her like that, ever since— Buffy’s stomach roiled in discomfort. At least in the dark, his yellowing bruises and clotted wounds weren’t so stark against his pale skin. He wasn’t afraid of her, but he was anticipating the spark of her anger, her violence. He would take every hit, every bruise, every scrape, without complaint, and that made her feel sick. “You ever read any of his?”

“My first semester at UC Sunnydale, we read The Sun Also Rises. I read most of it, but then…” She shrugged in an attempt at dismissiveness.

“D’you like it?” Buffy didn’t miss the way that his hand caressed the cover as he took it back from her, slipping it away beneath his duster.

“I think so.”

“What’s to think?”

“I just… We went through it kind of fast, and I want to feel whatever it makes me feel straight to the heart. To have time to feel it.” For the life of her, she had no idea why she was standing in the middle of Restfield covered in dirt, grass stains, blood, and vamp dust discussing Hemingway at two in the morning. It was crazy. She must have absolutely lost of her mind somewhere between home and here. Although really, she’d lost it long before now. Maybe it never even came back with her when she clawed her way back.

“Good.” Spike nodded thoughtfully, his hands moving almost nervously at his side. They hadn’t ever figured out how to be gentle with each other without punishing themselves for it later, but looking at his long, strong fingers and the rounded angles of his knuckles, she wished her life were simple enough that she could feel them slotted between her own.

It was rare, but sometimes, in the midst of the dark heat of whatever their tumultuous and fragile mistake had snowballed into, she would hold him down by his hands and his fingers would grip so tightly to her that she bore his bruises along the backs of her own the next day. Sometimes he would turn his head away from her, uttering breathless, babbled praises of the most deliciously dirty promises and devotions, and he would sink his blunt human teeth into the meat of her thumb to forcibly quiet himself. When she finally crawled back into her own bed, hiding her shame in blackened loneliness, she would relish the feel of the indentations in her skin.

“Reckon that’s how it’s meant to be done.” Spike continued, a few beats late. “It’s a right cockup to tell people what they’re meant to feel about it. Analyzing shit to death kills the bloody art of the thing.” Raising his gaze to meet hers, he gave her an almost hesitant smile. “You ever read A Farewell to Arms?”

Buffy shook her head.

“Think you might like it.”

“What are the chances I get a spare half-hour to get lost in a bookstore?” she pointed out.

Spike shrugged. Softly, his words almost lost on the gentle breeze that blew through the trees, he murmured, “Hemingway has nothing but lovely things to say ‘bout you, Slayer.”

continue on ao3

#btvs #buffy the vampire slayer #buffy summers #spike #spuffy #i have no idea what this is tbh i just missed writing them outside the confines of my wips so please enjoy.....this lol #mywriting #otp: he is in my heart

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adxmparriish · 4 years ago

Text

and now I see daylight - read on ao3

writer: lizziebxnnet / godgavemelou word count: 2.1k rating: general

Matthias only sees Nina.

OR four times Matthias thinks about how much he loves Nina, and the one time he tells her.

They’re sitting around a table in Wylan’s house.

It’s fairly quiet. The room is lit low, a yellow tint that comes from the candles on the table. Everyone is there tonight for once. Even Kaz sits among them, taking time away from the Crow Club. Wylan is telling a wayward story about a bomb he’s testing, arms flailing as he describes the explosion. Nina is leaned back in her chair, a sweet bun in her hands as she listens. Her hair is down, curls falling around her shoulders. She’s wearing a deep red dress that brings out the pink in her cheeks that appears when she’s happy.

Wylan gets to the climax of his story, his hands smacking the table, his voice taking up all the space in the room. Everyone has managed a laugh, aside from Kaz who’s lips have quirked into the smallest of grins. It doesn’t matter though. Matthias only sees Nina.

Her head is thrown back, exposing the milky skin of her throat as she laughs. To Matthias, it’s like the sound of bells ringing, a bird singing. It’s the sound of magic, the music he refused to listen to before; before he’d met her. Her giggles grasp his heart in an iron-clad grip, squeezing so hard it’s difficult to breathe. He knows he’s staring but he can’t look away from her, can’t imagine ever seeing something so beautiful. When she’s finally calmed down, her bright green eyes meet his. They glisten and shine, twinkling in the firelight as she smiles at him. Matthias knows he should smile back but he can’t. He’s too entranced by her to do anything but look back at her. Looking into her face is like looking directly into the sun, the brightness of daylight.

Her hand meets his leg under the table, squeezing his thigh gently. Her affection used to scare him, rattle him, shake him. Now he welcomes her.

Matthias can hear conversion around him but it doesn’t matter. Nina is looking at him like he hung the moon, and the thing is, he’d do it for her.

“Want to share the last of my sticky bun?” she asks, raising her brow, a smile still playing at her mouth.

Instead of an answer, he leans in and snatches it from her fingers with his teeth, nipping at her as he does. Nina laughs again, giggles overtaking her. He knew she would, knew that him acting out of turn would please her, and frankly, it’s the only reason he did it. He’d do anything to see her this way; eyes dancing, nose crinkled, cheeks red. She’s ethereal, breathtaking, a vision, and he loves her.

They’re huddled around a table at the Crow Club.

Matthias is watching from the side as Nina plays a card game with Jesper. There are a few other patrons as well. Neither of his friends is doing well, a fair bit of kruge lost between them. As they continue to play, Nina grows more frustrated.

Her face grows redder as the cards are dealt, another hand is lost, another bit of kruge out of her hands. She gets lazy in her efforts, anger making her sloppy with her decisions. She loses another hand and grinds her teeth. Matthias thinks of stepping in, telling her they should go to their room, try again tomorrow.

Before he can get that far, Nina is standing up from the table, throwing down her cards in fury. A rough man at the table reaches up and grabs her by the waist, attempting to pull her back down.

“Now now gorgeous, let’s just calm down,” he grins cruelly.

Matthias is moving, his fits already curled and poised to hit, to beat this man senseless, break his hands so he can never touch Nina again. He’s too late. Nina’s hands are raised, her fingers curling, and then the man falls. His head crashes against the table, his cards falling to the floor. Her eyes are aflame, a burning behind them that halts Matthias in his tracks. Her chest heaves, breaths coming in ragged. Even as she lifts her eyes, meeting his gaze and simmering down, she is a fire burning brightly in the dimly lit room. A sort of silence has drifted over them as he watches her, wondering if he should approach.

Jesper stands from the table, abandoning the game.

“We’re done for tonight, Nina.” He sounds like he’s terrified, while also fighting off a laugh.

Matthias moves closer but doesn’t touch, just waits for her to come down. Nina isn’t difficult to rouse, her anger never coming over a simmer even at the worst of times. But when it boils over, fiery red flames catching and burning, she’s a sight to behold. She’s an explosion, an earthquake, violent and powerful, and he loves her.

They’re standing in a small field outside of Ketterdam.

Nina is kneeling down in the grass, her hands shaking as she sets down their dog, cradling his head as she does.

They hadn’t had Gestinge long. Matthias and Nina found him as a small puppy, roaming the streets alone, barely alive. Nina loved him immediately, begging Matthias to let her have him, for them to raise him. They weren’t technically allowed a dog where they were staying, but when Nina looked up at him, the green of her eyes wet with tears as she held the puppy close, he couldn’t say no. He was perfect for them.

They named him after the Fjerdan word for paradise because that’s what he was. He brought them peace on easy days, happiness on the hard ones, and laughter in all the times in between. Matthias was stuck trying to train him, while Nina fed him treats and cuddled with him in her favorite chair. He would watch them together, walking down the streets of the city, and feel a warmth in his chest that was unmatched by anything else. In a way, they were his family, and it was perfect. It was all he’d ever wanted.

Today was a crack in their paradise.

Matthias found him in an alley behind the Crow Club, bleeding from a wound that they’re sure came from another animal. He carried him home carefully, tears threatening to spill over. He worried for Gestinge, wanted him to be okay more than anything. But he worried for Nina, too. He worried she’d take it too hard, worried that she might find a way to blame herself. She’d been the one to let the dog out to wander, as they typically did during the day. Now Gestinge was hurt, and Matthias knew he wouldn’t make it.

Now, he digs a hole in the soft grass as Nina kneels beside him, too upset to help. Her eyes leak tears as she watches him. When he’s finished, they lower their puppy into the makeshift grave. The sun shines down on them as they stand over the hole in the ground, Matthias gripping Nina’s hand in his own. He gives it a squeeze and looks at her, unsure what he should say.

Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. Her hair is a mess, tangled where she can’t stop running her hands through it. Her lip quivers, and when she finally looks back at him, the hurt in her face breaks Matthias’ heart. She’s tragedy and unease, sadness in a way he’s never seen before, and he vows to keep that look off of her forever. The trembling of her hands, the slouching of her shoulders, causes a deep hurt in Matthias that he hates.

As she says a final goodbye, he lifts their intertwined hands, kisses her knuckles, and tries his best to give her a reassuring smile. Like the sun breaking through the clouds after days of rain, she slowly smiles back and she’s radiant. Even through the hurt, through the pain of losing something she loves, she is gorgeous, as bright as the sunshine beaming down on them, and he loves her.

They’re standing intertwined in the darkness of Kaz’s office.

Nina’s arms are looped around Matthias’ neck. She’s on her tiptoes as she leans into him, their bodies so close there’s no air between them. Her back is arched, her head thrown back, as Matthias kisses her neck. She practically purrs when he lowers his hands, gripping her thighs so he can lift and hold her against the door.

Their only soundtrack is the little noises Nina makes in the back of her throat, Matthias’s groans as he kisses her, the creak of the door, the crowd in the Club growing restless around their games. He can feel her pulse pounding under her skin as they kiss in the dark.

Then, the knob shakes and the door tries to move.

“I know you’re in there,” Kaz mutters through the door, shaking the handle again. “Don’t make me get Inej to force you both out.”

Nina giggles from under Matthias, red blossoming on her cheeks at them getting caught.

“Five minutes,” she replies.

Nina looks up, deep green meeting bright blue. Her lip is trapped between her teeth as she smiles. She’s flushed from her hair to her neck. Everything about her is messy and lewd. Her pupils are blown wide beneath the darkness of her lashes as she looks up at him. Her lips are shiny and red from their kisses, from Matthias’ teeth, and her own nipping at them. Matthias’s heart flutters in his chest at the sight of her like this. She is desire reincarnate, a rose blooming in the warmth of summer, a burst of light in a dark world.

He leans down and captures her mouth with his own, pouring every feeling he holds close into the kiss. He can feel her lips curving into a smile against his own. He holds her impossibly closer, gripping her so tight in his hands he’s sure he’ll leave bruises. She breathes his name into his mouth, so much passion in the word that he’s sure he’ll break apart. Nina is perfect and beautiful, and everything alluring in the world, and he loves her.

They’re laying in their bed.

Their limbs are tangled under a heavy blanket. Nina is sleeping soundly, her curls fanning across the pillow. Her chest rises and falls slowly, a tiny snore escaping her every once in a while. The golden light of sunrise is coming through their window. It touches her face gently, the warmth making her glow. Matthias’s chest aches as he lays there watching her.

He runs his fingers through her messy hair as the sun continues to rise. Part of him wants to go back to sleep, to get the rest he really needs, but he can’t look away. He only sees her, her beauty radiating through their room like the light streaming through their curtains.

When he can no longer just look at her, he leans down and kisses her forehead.

At this, she stirs. Her forehead creases, her eyelids flutter, and the green of her eyes are hazy as she wakes up. She looks at him through the fog of early morning and he’s breathless. He lifts his hand and cradles her cheek, his thumb caressing the skin of her cheek. Nina’s eyes begin to adjust but she simply looks back at him, her eyelids threatening to close again. Not from sleep, but from pleasure, from desire.

She is beautiful. She is his everything. She is the sun that rises and sets. She’s the stars in the night sky, lightning and thunder exploding in the sky during a storm, the grass that grows in the cracks of the sidewalks. She’s the stillness of the morning, the excitement of the night, the ease of midday. Nina is the breath in his lungs, the warmth in his heart, and everything else in between. Matthias loves her. So he tells her.

He whispers it against her mouth as he kisses her. He breathes it against the skin of her throat. He sighs the words as he holds her close, his arms pulling her against him. He gasps it when Nina is finally fully awake and pushes him against the bed, kissing him with all the fierceness inside her. He recants it over and over, like an enchantment, like a prayer, like a curse. Matthias loves her.

And like a miracle, Nina loves him in return.

She says it in the way she grabs his hand when she’s happy. She says it in the way she shares her food with him, even when she doesn’t want to. She shows him when she laughs at him, or with him, depending on the circumstance. She tells him when she crawls in their bed at night, when she leans into his embrace, and when she lays her head on his shoulder.

But now, she says it with her words.

“I love you,” she whispers.

The sun has fully risen, the sunlight of a new day beaming on her, and she glows like a lighthouse, guiding Matthias home.

“I love you, my little red bird.”

#my fic #helnik #nina zenik #matthias helvar #nina x matthias #matthias x nina #six of crows #shadow and bone #six of crows fanfic #helnik fanfic #helnik fics #helnik fanfics

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yaku-soba · 4 years ago

Text

all roads lead home

༶•┈┈ general m.list

༶•┈┈ tsukishima kei x gn!reader | angst with a hopeful ending :”)

tags/warnings: language, childhood friends, they’re exes but it gets better i promise, almost all the karasuno boys stay on in miyagi

word count: 3.7k

a/n: the edited version of an old fic i wrote for a followers event on my old blog :”) the prompt was i’ll name this city after you :D i hope yall enjoy this!!

synopsis: You want (an apology, an explanation) to forget, and to get on the next train back to Tokyo, never mind that this is your first time visiting Miyagi in two years. Tsukishima wants to quit his shitty job as an overworked barista (at your favourite cafe, as if the night shifts weren’t tormenting enough). Tadashi just wants the three of you to have lunch together again.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

The sun is setting when you step off the train and onto a platform that you haven’t laid your eyes on in nearly two years.

(It’s been a lifetime.)

The vending machine that you used to rap your knuckles against in the hopes of knocking free an extra drink is still in the corner, as dirty and forlorn as you remember. It’s oddly reassuring - in a liminal, jarring sort of way - like you’ve stepped off the train and into the past, like you’re eighteen again.

“Y/n!” Tadashi looks much the same as he had when you’d graduated high school - smile maybe a little brighter, hands a little larger. Heart still as huge as it had been when you’d left.

He holds his arms out and you jump, throwing yours around his neck. Tadashi wheezes at the sudden weight, and you laugh as his hands wrap around your waist to crush you to him by the small of your back, barely managing to keep the both of you upright.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/n.” He smiles earnestly, and you let go of his shoulders to pull at his cheeks, cooing. “Hey, stop that,” he whines, and when you refuse, he eyes you warningly, “I’ll drop you!”

You stick your tongue out at him childishly, but relent. He sets you back on the ground gently, and you turn back to pick up the bag you’d dropped.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s go home.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

The peace doesn’t last.

You really should have known, with the way Tadashi has been sneaking glances at you on the way out of the station. You’ve known him long enough to know what that expression means - he looks at you like he has something to say, but isn’t sure if he should, and that’s perfectly fine with you.

You’re starting to think you just might make it all the way home when a corner of the night sky chips and falls away, cracking right down the middle as your best friend says softly, “You should go home.”

You freeze. You know, instantly, what - who - he’s talking about.

The betrayal stings the back of your throat like bile.

You look away, fixing your eyes angrily - you can’t help it, Tadashi knows that you hate talking about this, about him, but he’d asked anyway - on the dried leaf skittering across the abandoned playground, at the mercy of the wind.

“I am home,” you point out uncooperatively, feeling childish, “that’s why I’m back in this shithole.”

“That’s not what I meant,” your best friend says into the night air, still in that annoyingly gentle way of his that makes you want to scream into the empty streets of this empty town. You wait, an open heart raw in the world, but he says nothing more.

(Two years later, and Tadashi still reads you as easily as he had when the two of you were six and tracing the lines on your palms. Dancing on the edge of a cliff but stopping just short of falling over.)

“Y/n?” Shit, of course you’d wander into him on your first night back, the universe has a personal vendetta against you, how could you have forgotten.

Next to you, Tadashi has gone very, very silent. And still. A little like a mouse stuck between a cat and a snake; relieved to have been momentarily saved from the clutches of one, newly worried about both, and too afraid of drawing attention to run away.

You’d laugh, if it weren’t for the rage rising in the back of your throat like bile, jagged like a broken promise.

“Y/n,” the bastard behind you repeats, and the sound of your name leaving his tongue is nothing short of heartbreak, “I didn’t know you were back.”

Slowly, you turn. Tsukishima looks just as you remember - stupid glasses on a stupid face, his hair longer but no less beautiful. As aggravating as he is breathtaking.

(Something in your chest - no, not your heart - aches. You reach down and crush it between your fingers the way you used to crumple the torn pages of your notebook into little balls, to throw them at Tadashi, or-)

“Tsukishima,” your voice is even, good, “I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

He flinches, a minute action you would have missed if you didn’t already know him better than the old callouses on your palm. Good, you think again more vindictively - except his eyes are widening just slightly in shock, two gold pools like shadowed streetlamps, and suddenly you’re eighteen again.

You’re eighteen, and in love, and you’re blind enough to say, I would do anything for you, I would scrape my knees on metaphorical sidewalks everyday for the rest of my life if I had to, just to make you smile.

You’re eighteen, and you’re foolish enough to think, I would give you the world if you asked, surely you’d let me have your heart; your tiny hometown, your little safehouse.

You're eighteen, and you’re in love - and then you realize he’s not, not the way you are, and you fall on your empty sidewalks because it hurts and it tears you apart, but most of all you hate that you still care.

You hated being eighteen.

“If that’s all you wanted to say,” you continue coldly, “I’m leaving.”

You turn on your heel, avoiding Tadashi’s eyes. You won’t make him choose - you can’t do that to him.

Tsukishima says nothing as you stalk away down the empty streets and towards the house you grew up in.

(Somehow, you’re disappointed.

You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a long day.)

“Y/n, wait!” Tadashi calls, and you lengthen your strides angrily even as you hear him puffing up the slight incline behind you. “Y/n!”

“What,” you hiss, stopping short. You don’t turn - you don’t want to check if Tsukishima’s still there.

(You’ve seen enough of his back to last you a lifetime.)

“Are you okay?” Your best friend asks, and you look at him in disbelief.

“I thought you were on his side,” you say dumbly, before realizing that that’s a road that leads to ugly places.

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” Tadashi says diplomatically before you can try to apologize, “I just want us - the three of us - to have lunch together again.”

You scoff, and start walking, adjusting your bag. “Sure, I’ll text Hinata, I’m sure he won’t mind as long as we agree to volleyball practice with him first.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Tadashi says for the second time tonight, this time with a hint of frustration, “and you know it.”

“I do,” you acknowledge, “the same way you know that I want nothing to do with the four-eyed bastard.”

“You liked his glasses,” he tells you indignantly, catching up with you easily, “you used to steal them-”

“Liked, used to,” you snarl as the taut string of your patience finally snaps, “as in past tense. Leave if you’re just going to torment me. We both know I’ll get enough of it once I’m back home.”

Tadashi falls silent at that. A small part of you feels guilty, till you remember that it’s not your fault that he’d chosen to drag up old, unpleasant memories from beyond the grave, where you’d buried them.

“Do you want me to stay for dinner?” He asks finally. An olive branch.

You throw him a tense smile. “If you’d like.”

“Okay,” he breathes, and it’s like you’re looking at six year-old Tadashi again - young, painfully innocent, apologetic. “Okay, I’d like to. It’s been two years, after all.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

(You still think of him.

You could be baking in your kitchen in your apartment in Tokyo and all you can see is the curling steam of buns he bought at Sakanoshita store after practice. You could be walking past an electronics store and you’d find yourself looking at the TV screens, half-wondering if they replay the matches from a no-name high school in a far-away part of Japan.

They never do.

It doesn’t stop you from seeing in your mind’s eye the surge of a block, the curve of taped fingers.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Because the universe hates you, you run into Tsukishima again, just a day into your brief return to Miyagi.

Walking through the glass doors of what had once been your favourite cafe and not paying attention to anything beyond one feet of you as you text Hinata that you’re there early, you don’t immediately notice that the barista has frozen in place.

You look up.

Tsukishima is staring at you, a carton of milk in one hand, the other resting on the blender. Even against the battered machine, his fingers are painfully elegant.

(Bandaged fingers against red and green and white. Pale fingers entwined with your own. A flash of memory, too painful to be anything but a curse.)

“Y/n?” He says, and it’s too much, it sounds so much like the way he’d said your name when you were seventeen, when you were eighteen, that your heart stutters and does a few flips on its way up your throat. A bad habit you never quite managed to get rid of.

You turn around, and walk back the way you’d came.

The bell tinkles mockingly as the door swings shut behind you.

“Y/n?” You flinch, but it’s just Hinata. “I knew it! It really is you, Y/n!” Hinata, bless him, beams. Then, as his eyes fall to your white-knuckled grip on your phone, he asks, “Is something wrong?”

Nothing, you want to say, let’s go for brunch, shall we? Instead, what comes out is, “You didn’t tell me he worked here.” It ends up sounding a tad accusatory. You only regret it a little.

“Oh, Tsukishima?” He asks casually, and you barely resist the urge to flinch at the name, “Sorry, I forgot.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, and - it looks genuine. Hinata’s a terrible liar; you’d know if he was pulling a fast one on you.

You sigh. It’s not even eleven in the morning, and you want to go home. “It’s fine,” you reassure him, even though it’s very much not, “let’s just find somewhere else to eat.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“Do you have to leave?” He’s leaning against the door to your room, but there’s no relaxation in his posture. With his arms crossed and his brows furrowed, his face shut like a window screen, all Tsukishima looks is aggressive.

Something about the way he says have to, like it’s something unreasonable and selfish that you can’t let go of, grates on your nerves.

(Sometimes, when Tsukishima gets like this, he makes you feel small. More childish than child-like.)

“It’s a good opportunity for me,” you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said those six words, in that order, “and it’s a scholarship, too.” You can’t quite keep the irritation out of your voice.

This is good for you, why can’t he just see that?

“Oh, so you’re one of those,” your boyfriend says, and there’s something ugly in his sneer that has you recoiling, “just going to-to up and leave, aren’t you? Build a new life for yourself in the fancy city now that you’re too good for this nowhere town in a no-name prefecture?”

You frown, properly frustrated now. “I’m not severing ties,” you say, “I know being in different prefectures will be tough, but it’s something that we can work around.”

You hate that it almost sounds like you’re pleading. You shouldn’t have to.

“We’re still in the same country - it’ll be easier to visit and call each other, with no time-zone differences in the way.”

Tsukishima laughs. It’s as sharp as the broken glass of a shattered photo frame. “Yeah, like I don’t know how these stories go.”

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

Tsukishima sighs as eight p.m finally hits and he can turn the open sign on the door to closed.

He goes through the routine that comes with working the last shift mindlessly - wiping down the tables and counters, pushing the chairs back into their neat places.

(He wonders how long you’ll be in Miyagi.)

The trash bag crinkles as he ties it up, dragging it behind him to the back door.

He’s only just hefted it into the dumpster specifically for un-recyclables when someone punches him in the face. Hard.

His glasses go flying, his annoyance skyrockets, and he barks, “What the hell?”

“I should be saying that!” His assaulter yells right back at him, “What the heck, Tsukishima?”

At the familiar voice, he stops, a retort on his tongue.

Tsukishima squints, and the person who’d punched him shifts, hair glowing orange in the flickering light of a half-dead streetlamp.

Ah, it’s the annoying, tiny boy.

“What do you want,” Tsukishima says as flatly as he can muster, even as his stomach sinks and he knows, he knows what Hinata is here to talk about. “Hinata.”

Hinata only grows more upset. Then he squares his shoulders and says, cold and unforgiving, “You didn’t tell Y/n.”

Tsukishima’s blood freezes in his veins. Suddenly, it’s the last set and the last point against Shiratorizawa, and the air is so thick and the eyes so cutting that he can’t move.

“You didn’t apologize.” Hinata steps forward till they’re chest-to-chest, and Tsukishima doesn’t need his glasses to know that Hinata’s eyes are accusatory and angry. “Y/n came back and you still didn’t apologize.”

I know, he thinks, I know I fucked up. Tsukishima isn’t dumb; even if Hinata hadn’t said it, he knows he should have gone after you last night.

(He should have gone after you two years ago.)

He thinks Hinata already knows what he’s feeling. It’s not a pleasant thought.

Tsukishima deals with this the only way he knows how, even as a voice that sounds like yours, small and heartbroken, says, don’t do it, not again.

“It’s not your business,” he snaps, tone disdainful enough to cover his regret, and it reminds him of your words; it sinks into his flesh like a knife cutting into pliant bread, it tugs him apart like a million tiny hooks, “don’t stick your nose into things you don’t understand.”

“I understand enough,” Hinata hisses right back, “to know that you hurt Y/n and that you never bothered to apologize.”

He pauses before going in for the kill. “And I know that you know that Y/n knows that it was complete bullshit. All you’ve managed to do is hurt the both of you.” Cocking his head slightly, he adds, the edge to his voice mostly gone, “And Tadashi-kun. All of us, really.”

Tsukishima opens his mouth to argue, but - he doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what he can say, because nothing Hinata has said is wrong.

It’s not surprising - Tsukishima has known all of this for a very long time. He’d been deliberately ignoring it in the hopes that it would gather dust and fade into some distant corner of his mind.

I’m just as much of a coward as I was two years ago, he thinks, and he still remembers the way your tears had caught the sun that terrible day in your bedroom, he remembers turning away so he didn’t have to look at the promise he’d broken.

Hinata sighs, and trudges in the direction Tsukishima’s glasses had flown in, bending to rummage about on the ground.

Tsukishima takes this brief moment of quiet to get his feelings under control before his body decides to do something uncooperative and ridiculous. Like leaking tears.

“Don’t break things you don’t intend to fix,” Hinata says into the silence as he hands Tsukishima his glasses. The barbed words he’d been trying to find die on his tongue. He slips his glasses on just to have something to do with his hands, and immediately wishes he’d just stayed half-blind instead.

Hinata’s eyes aren’t angry, or even disgusted. They’re disappointed, and that makes everything so much worse.

Tsukishima loses control of his body. He opens his mouth, closes it.

What could he even say? It’s not Hinata that he owes an apology to.

“Thanks,” he says instead. Hinata nods and smiles.

(“Y/n misses you,” Hinata says later, as they’re walking down the street. He offers no elaboration, but it’s enough.)

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“I’m sorry,” Tadashi says as the last whistle for your train blows and Tsukishima still isn’t here, “you know how Tsukki is on the weekends, he might have slept in-”

“Till four in the afternoon?” You raise a brow. Tadashi’s mouth snaps shut, his face stuttering, and you sigh. He shouldn’t be apologizing.

“It’s fine,” you say, as you step onto the train. You take your heart into your hands and rip it apart like a party favour.

Tadashi, and the rest of the Karasuno team, waves at you long after the doors have shut and the train departed.

You watch them through the window till they fade into shadows into specks into sky, and you know that you won’t be coming back for a long time.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

You’re only in Miyagi for the weekend.

It’s been nice, seeing everyone again. You’d even had dinner with the rest of the team.

(Tsukishima hadn’t been there.)

But the weekend has come to a close, and now it’s just you and Tadashi on the platform again. You experience a dizzying sense of deja vu.

“Will you visit again?” Your best friend asks, and you tear your gaze from the tracks to meet his eyes.

(You know what Tadashi is really asking.)

“Maybe,” you answer after a pause, “you’re my friend, after all. And I won’t put it past Hinata to get lost in Tokyo.”

Tadashi smiles in understanding.

You feel terrible. All you’ve been giving him is compromises.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally, glancing to the old vending machine on the opposite platform out of habit, “but I just-”

“He misses you,” Tadashi cuts in, “and I think he wants to apologize.”

His words take you aback. Then, “He wants to apologize,” you repeat, and it’s like you’re eighteen again, “but Tsukishima’s too proud for it, isn’t he?”

“Tsukki’s changed,” Tadashi mumbles, “maybe next time-”

“Y/n!” The both of you turn at the voice.

The breath rushes out of your lungs. A boy with hair like sunlight and eyes like gold coins catches his, bent over with his hands on his knees, a glowing figure in the middle of a dreary platform.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

For you, Tsukishima has always been synonymous with Miyagi.

Miyagi with the pork buns, with the school full of crows. The prefecture with the hills and the mountains, the small stores and marts run by ex-volleyball players.

Miyagi, your hometown, where the sky above and the grass below and the people beside you had witnessed you asking a boy for the second button of his gakuran at graduation. Your little safehouse of dreams dreamt of flight.

Tsukishima was the boy with the gakuran whose second button you had wanted. He’d been the boy with the glasses you’d hated on anyone else but him, the boy who had dreamt of the endless blue with his feet still on the ground.

He’s the boy you see in every empty, half-lit street at midnight, and behind every fading sign. The lamps in every lit house become his eyes, golden like the light of a possibly-dead star, and every window reflects the shine of his glasses. Like a haunting - a boy becomes a town becomes a memory.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

“What do you want?” You ask when it becomes clear that Tsukishima isn’t going to break the silence. “My train’s coming soon.”

(Tsukishima has always been Miyagi to you.

You don’t really want the train to come. Not when you’re finally about to get a goodbye two years overdue.)

“I’m sorry,” the boy with the glasses that you had liked, the boy with the gakuran whose second button you had held in your palm like he’d held your heart, says finally. “I was afraid.”

He doesn’t say what of. You already know, and for now, it’s enough that he’s here at all.

“You were too proud,” you tell him softly, “I was willing to be afraid together.”

This isn’t anything new either. Tsukishima isn’t dumb. He must have known.

“Did you regret it?” You ask as the train pulls into the station.

The boy who is Miyagi to you smiles. “I’m glad you got the scholarship.” His eyes are bright. His hair is a little longer, now.

You step forward as the last whistle blows in warning, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

You turn, getting onto the train with a backwards wave.

The doors close.

The boy who is pork buns and dimly lit streets holds up a hand even as he fades into the distance, joined by a shorter silhouette.

They get smaller and smaller until they’re shadows, then specks, then nothing but sky.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

For you, Miyagi has always been a boy.

Maybe it shouldn’t have been - there’s Tadashi, after all, and your senpais.

You tear your safehouse down brick by brick. You hand one to everyone you’ve ever talked to in Miyagi, to everyone you’ve ever loved.

Tsukishima is joined by Tadashi, and the homeroom teacher who’d confiscated most of the balled-up notes passed between the three of you in class. You add Hinata, Tanaka, Nishinoya, Sugawara; you build a volleyball court and see crows in the sky.

Miyagi is Tsukishima is Karasuno is volleyballs is the sting of skinned knees on dimly-lit streets.

(Tsukishima’s contact is still saved in your phone. You had never been able to bring yourself to delete it.

You think about your next holiday break. You think about the extra shifts at your part-time job you’ll have to take in order to afford the train tickets.)

You miss Miyagi. You’re relieved that you’re allowed to admit to yourself that you miss Miyagi, now.

»»------------- ------------- ------------- ¤ ------------- ------------- -------------««

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