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uwuwriting · 3 years

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My s/o is scarier than yours w/ Dabi, Hawks and Aizawa

Request: Can you do a dabi , hawks and a aizawa reacting to there blind badass s/o going all out on someone who kidnapped Them - @chronosdemon2

Tik tok memes have been stuck in my head all day and I’m very close to saying that “Kill your parents Tracey” to someone unironically….. the thing is they'll DO IT. Love ya. 💖💖💖

masterlist II rules

warnings: cursing and descriptions of violence, some quirk use, violent quirk use, TW blood

Dabi

-I swear he got caught on purpose .

-He was strong enough to roast anyone that came close to him and he could literally beat them to a pulp.

-But noooo he had been whining about wanting to see you saving his ass after he heard Toga talk about how hot you were when you were angry and how your overly aggressive quirk use, made your eyes ?pop?

-The appeal of murdering someone and finding it hot is beyond you so you just let it slide.

-But McCrispy had other plans.

-He had been acting reckless and made stupid mistakes while out on missions, constantly getting hurt and forcing you to half carry him back to HQ.

-You contemplated leaving him in that rusty, disgusting warehouse since you were sure they were gonna ship him back the moment he opened his mouth to speak.

-He was THAT annoying.

-But alas your heart got the better of you and after two days of letting him be held captive you decided to go down there yourself and pick up your oversized child.

-Dabi on the other hand was starting to get pissed.

-He expected you to come get him the moment you heard he was being held captive, I mean you said you loved him right? You must be worried sick.

-The other idiots wouldn’t bother for a week or so before remotely lifting a finger in an effort to get him back so you would be coming alone.

-What the fuck was taking you so long???

-He could burn this whole place down; he could easily do that but they had given him quite the beating already and some of the staples on his skin came loose making the pain radiating through his body ten times worse.

-He hated admitting that he was truly in pain.

-In this moment though, as blood trickled from his chest and arms he couldn’t deny that his body was way too sore to even move an inch.

-Another thing he hated was the fact that he needed you right now.

-Even though he had done this whole thing because he wanted to see you losing your control a little he never expected to be hurt like this, become so desperate for someone to actually save him.

-He stopped hoping for a savior when he was a child so why is this spark of hope suddenly back?

-Resting his head on the cold wall behind him he tried to get some rest, hopefully he would feel better after he got some sleep.

-As you made your way silently through the corridors of the warehouse you noticed a pile of bloody staples in a far corner, seeing red as you immediately knew where these staples came from or better from who.

-You had no intention of giving Dabi the satisfaction of seeing you fight the dudes that caught him.

-He basically forced you to come pick him up like some drunk idiot who forgot he didn’t have a ride home at 3 am in the morning.

-But now that they touched him?

-Sure he was a dick but he was your dick of a boyfriend and no one laid a hand on him.

-Screams echoed through the halls waking Dabi up from his little exhaustion induced nap, mind hazy from the way his head was spinning.

-With wobbly legs he got up as the screams grew closer and by the time he was at the door it was flinged off its hinges, hitting one of the lackeys that tried getting up.

-Even through the immense pain he was in this fucker smirked.

-There you were, features etched with pure fury, blood splats all over your clothes as he could feel the energy of your quirk radiating through the metallic air.

- “You fucking dumbass.”

- “It’s nice to see you too doll.”

-You hauled him to the safehouse, not uttering a single word on the way back letting him wallow in silence.

-You couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him after you saw how banged up he was.

-Cleaning his skin so it wouldn’t get infected, you got some spare staples to piece him back together *literally*.

-He knew he messed up big time by the way you wouldn’t meet his gaze so he swallowed his pride and forced himself to give a single apology.

- “Sorry.”

- Sighing you kissed his nose, giving him a stern look while wrapping his chest up with a bandage.

- “Just don’t pull anything like that again.”

-You ain't never hearing the s word again.

Hawks/Keigo Takami

-He swears he had everything under control.

-Completely disregarding the fact that he was tied to a chair with all of his feathers gone leaving his wings looking like a newborn chicken.

-Yeah completely under control.

-Doesn’t even know how he ended up here.

-One minute he is on patrol with his favorite person in the world and the next he wakes up in a room with no windows, tied to a very uncomfortable chair.

-Doesn’t even remember if he used his wings at all!

-He is trying to wiggle free when the chair tips and he falls face first on the dirty ass cement floor.

-His knees were scrapped and his nose was smushed, a frustrated groan leaving his lips as he maneuvered himself to lay on his side, brows furrowing as he continued to stare at the grey wall opposite of him.

-The ropes that tied his hands were tight leaving no room for his hands to either wiggle free or untie the knots all together.

-He had to come up with a new plan.

-So what did he do? He started singing.

-No no you aren’t reading this wrong.

-From the macarena to WAP, he knew all the lyrics, his voice bouncing off the four walls of his room.

-His throat was getting hoarse and he was running out of songs when he heard the screams.

-At first they weren’t coherent, just a jumble of words and shouts as quirks were activated, the building shaking a little bit by all the attacks.

-The noise got closer, more voices joined the screaming fest and poor guy was frantically now trying to get his hands or wings or anything really free from the ropes to at least defend himself to whatever is coming his way.

- “WHERE THE HELL IS HE?!”

- “LADY WHY ARE YOU SO MAD I-”

- *slap*

-Oh he recognized that voice.

-That sweet melodic voice that was now cursing the hell out of the guard outside his door like a construction worker on a Monday.

-The door rattled as something rammed into it, the hinges barely staying in place as it was attacked again and again and again until it came off, falling just a few inches away from his face.

-You walked in, eyes immediately locking with his as groans and pained moans could be heard coming from behind you.

-Your uniform had a few bloodstains on it and he could see your chest rising and falling rapidly but as his eyes scanned your figure, everything seemed fine; no injuries, no bruises just a few wrinkles on your shirt.

-His little chicken wings flapped as he beamed at you, a happy coo leaving his lips the moment you kneeled down behind him to untie the knots, giving him a kiss on the cheek *even though you were kinda pissed and did it while mumbling something about him being a stupid idiot with the brain of a penguin*.

-You didn’t bother informing anyone that you got him back, just shooting your sidekick a text that you are going home.

-Anger was radiating from your whole body and Keigo could feel it coming in intense waves.

-He didn’t say a word the whole ride home *cause he was gonna get thrown…..close to the truth*

-Once inside your apartment, you helped him with his uniform and tended to the few scratches and bruises that littered his torso and limbs, resting your forehead on his shoulder once you were done, a tired sigh escaping your lips.

- “I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

- “I’m not mad, not at you at least.”

-Wrapping his arms around you he swiftly switched spots, asking for permission silently to help with your bruises.

- “Thank you for coming dove.”

Aizawa Shota

-He could hear you pounding down the streets after them.

-He felt so hopeless right now, body gone limp from some quirk that he didn’t manage to block, being carried like a sack through the streets that he should be protecting while his s/o was spewing profanities and very malicious threats at the people who held him.

-Really it was one of the most embarrassing moments in his whole hero career.

-Worse than that one time he got caught in his own capture tool when he first laid his eyes on you one cold Friday night in the middle of winter.

-As his head bobbed along with his kidnapper’s footsteps he caught small glimpses of your form, anger etched on every single crevice of your face, eyes hard as they stayed glued to the person that held him, your quirk letting out small thrums of energy that gave away your anger.

-You could barely keep it at bay right now.

-You couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to your husband.

-He literally got snatched in front of your eyes.

-You had no time to react as he was hit by that bastard’s quirk and you saw his body fall limp.

-At the mere thought of the attempted kidnapping your quirk let out a stronger thrum sending some trash cans crashing to the ground from their spots on the side of the alleyway.

-Your lungs burned and your thighs were beginning to hurt like hell but you weren’t about to let them get away.

-Gripping the railing of a low balcony, you hauled yourself up, quickly making your way to the roof and continuing your persecution from above.

-One by one you began taking the idiots out, the higher ground giving you a more open look on them and allowing you to use your quirk safely.

-Soon enough the only one left was the one who was holding your husband who also happened to run into a dead end, whimpers leaving his lips as he saw your figure on the building’s roof.

-By the time your feet touched the pavement, the villain was begging you to let him go that he and his crew won’t pull something like this again.

-In one swift motion he was knocked unconscious falling next to your husband who was beginning to gain the ability to move again.

-With a groan you helped him to his feet, searching for any further injuries before cupping his cheek and giving him a kiss, engulfing him in a hug right after.

- “I thought I would lose you.”

-He hugged you close, burying his face in your hair as siren’s started echoing off the walls of the alley.

- “I’m here, I’m alright.”

-He felt your body slightly shake whether that was caused by the shock and the worry you just went through or the overuse of your quirk, he didn’t know.

-What he did know though was that you deserved to be pampered even more than usual tonight.

-Giving you another kiss he gently pushed you off him, grabbing your hand and leading you out of the “crime scene”, taking the familiar road home.

-That night he holds you a little tighter than usual.

TAG TEAM AY:

@the-arcana-fan-fic @angelwritings @axerrri @reinyrei @dnarez @storage11037 @ezoyscorner @letscheereachotheron @wolfkid22 @dark-thoughts-and-red-roses @threeamwriting @ysatrap @yashinosakura @belladonna-coven @angel6786 @meena-in-a-nutshell

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fic-for-fic-sake · 3 years

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Hot

A/N: This is kind of a sequel to Cold, a fic I wrote some time ago. But it can also be read as a oneshot as this one is with Loki and not Steve and Bucky.

Pairing: Loki x reader

Warnings: Fluff

Since the moment you were captured, your experience with the TVA had been...unpleasant...to say the least. First they accost you and take you to their ridiculous “court room”. Then, they accuse you of “endangering the ‘sacred timeline’” (whatever that meant). You had thought that their final nail in your coffin would have been when they made you start working for them to help solve cases. That was, until, you were assigned a partner.

You really didn’t have a problem working with people, but this particular person was certainly well and truly above your paygrade, and you weren’t even getting paid. The moment Mobius notified you that you would be working with Loki Laufeyson, the newest Variant on the scene, you knew it was going to be hell.

You and Loki had discovered the possible hideout of one of his alises. Mobius, being thrilled, had put in the paperwork required for you and Loki to go into the timeline and track the Variant until they made their move. Your emotioned had warred inside of you. You were elated to finally be able to leave the TVA, if even for a little while, but annoyed that Laufeyson would be coming with you. You had strong feelings for Loki, but you couldn’t yet determine if they were positive or negative.

You and Loki now found yourself residing in an old shack in the middle of Louisiana.

“This has to be some kind of mistake, where are our real lodgings?” Loki questioned, shrugging off his jacket due to the oppressive heat.

“There’s no mistake, this is it.” You stated, looking at the coordinates Mobius had given you before you left. Without further ado you pushed the old wooden door open, the rusty hinges protesting noisily, and made your way inside.

The bottom floor contained the bare bones of what was considered “liveable”. It had a somewhat warped table, three old wooden chairs that look on the verge of collapse, an oven that belonged to a different decade, a sad looking metal sink, and a sorry excuse for a bed. You scanned your eyes around the room until you found a set of stairs that you made your way towards. You made your way towards the lofted part of the cabin to find a second, smaller, bed and a short side table.

You made your way back downstairs to find Loki sitting on one of the chairs with case files already out on the table. You walked past him and made your way to the door of the cabin, preparing yourself to go back outside.

“Where are you going? We just got here.” asked Loki. You looked over your shoulder to find his eyes not on you, but rather still on the case files. As if giving you eye contact was worth too much effort.

“I don’t see a refrigerator and this place looks like it’s been abandoned for years, so I’m going to get some food, I’m starving.” You explained.

With a mere flick of his wrist a beautiful display emerged from a shimmer of green. While the table had just moments ago been occupied by only case files, now food was also there. Sumptuous fruit was piled high in several bowls along with carafes of both wine and water. Various breads and cheeses were sitting in beautifully carved wooden baskets and a plethora of desserts sat on a triple tiered platter. Your mouth salivated just looking at it.

“I thought your magic didn’t work.” You said, stupefied, as you walked over to admire the grapes that were closest to you.

“Thankfully that silly rule only applies within the confines of the TVA, as you can see, we are no longer in that infernal place so I am free to use my magic as I please.” He replied with a devilish grin. As if to accentuate his point, he produced a glass goblet out of thin air and filled it with wine from a carafe. He did all this with the natural grace of someone born in the aristocracy. Proving that he was, truly, a prince.

You took the goblet he offered you and sipped the ruby wine within. You hated to admit it but he had good taste in wine. Without another word between the two of you, you delved back into your work, planning out your route for tracking the Variant based on their patterns.

When you finally checked your watch you were dismayed to find out that it was past midnight! If you wanted to get an early start on the Variant tomorrow, you both had to go to bed quickly. Pushing yourself away from the table you made your way towards the stairs and to the bed in the loft that, for the meantime, was yours.

Laying on the uncomfortable bed in your pajamas, the full weight of the heat pressed against your skin like an uncomfortable pressure. You took the sheets off of your body but it was no use. You could already feel beads of sweat making their way across your forehead. Trying to focus on something else, you closed your eyes and attempted to sleep.

With a frustrated sigh you rolled over and checked your watch. When you saw that the time now read 1:30AM you let out a frustrated sigh. You wiped at your forehead and your hand came away drenched in your perspiration.

Your sudden disturbances must’ve annoyed Loki who called out into the darkness, “Go to sleep Y/N, your constant shuffling around is bothersome.”

“I can’t sleep.” You replied in a huff.

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I mean the heat is unbearable and I feel like I’m drowning in my own sweat.” You snapped back at him. You were too tired and too hot to care about being polite.

Talking so much had made you realize how dry your throat was so you went out of the loft to get whatever water was left over from dinner. You found your way to the table in the semi-dark and filled a goblet with water and silently drank. You had your back to Loki in the darkness but you knew him well enough to know that he was watching you, intently.

You finished your goblet, placed it on the table, turned around, and found yourself at a complete lack for words. Loki was standing in front of you, with an expression you couldn’t quite place on his face. The longer he stood there the longer you had to take in his body. He wore only black pants which allowed you to view, with only the moon as your source of light, the broad expanse of Loki’s chest. Creamy white skin that showed off his every muscle.

You found your eyes roving over his long arms to his slender hands. You followed the moonlight as it showed the hollows of his throat and the slight raise of his clavicle bone. His black hair was as unruly as ever as his green eyes pierced your gaze.

Slowly, he walked over to you and took your hand in his. He turned it over and slowly brought your hand up to his lips. Still locking eyes with you, he pressed his lips to the pulse point on your wrist and you gasped as a cold sensation overtook your body.

“What did you do?” You whispered as another cold wave pleasantly went through your body.

“I was born as a frost giant on Jotunheim, I can cool you.” He replied smoothly, as he gently tugged on your wrist, moving you closer to him. He pressed his palm against your cheek and gently stroked with his thumb. You felt as if a cool breeze had washed over you. “See?” He murmured.

He brought his other hand up and placed a finger under your chin, gently guiding your head up to meet his eyes. “Would you like to sleep in my bed?” He inquired, almost innocently. But you hadn’t missed the glint in his eyes, the implication of what that would mean.

You were so dazzled by him that you simply nodded your agreement before he scooped you up in his arms and deposited you on his bed. You felt his hard chest behind you as he curled up against you, sliding one arm around your stomach to pull you closer still. He gently blew cold air into your neck and you were in such a state of bliss that you passed out almost immediately. The Louisiana heat all but forgotten.

#loki x reader #loki x you #marvel fanfic #loki fanfic #loki series #mcu fanfic

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midyxthcrisis · 3 years

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let them go - part two | j.t.

warnings: violence, swearing

also i’m so sorry the ending is a bit rushed! this part was getting rather wrong so i did the best i could

part one

As it turns out, it wouldn’t be long before you saw Boy Wonder again.

The only thing that standing in your way was the asylum that you were trapped in. You didn’t quite know how it happened, though in all honesty the only thing you were focusing on at the moment was the dark room you were trapped in. All you could remember was that you and the others had gotten separated and then there was nothing but black. Then you woke up, a heavy shackle around your left ankle in order to prevent you from moving too much about the tiny room.

You had screamed until it was physically painful to do so. You had screamed everything you could think of. The names of your friends, pleas of mercy, swears about how the bastards were all going to hell. And without quite realizing it the room had filled with ice and frigid air. There even were a few snowflakes falling from seemingly nowhere. You knew that you had abilities. That was why your family moved to Gotham and why Dick had been so kind to you over the years. Why you were here now. You just didn’t realize you were this powerful. If you managed to create a layer of ice on the walls without even thinking about it, imagine what you could do if you actually intended on doing it.

With a deep breath and a shaky hand, you grabbed the chain keeping you from reaching the door of the room. There was a surge of energy that flowed through you as you thought about the chain beneath your skin freezing and breaking. Before you knew it you heard the sound of just that. A breathless laugh left your lips at the sight of it.

“Holy shit, I can do that.” You were saying it to nobody in particular, but now that you were aware of your abilities it seemed to be that years of pent up energy started coming to the surface. You stood up on shaky legs and made your way over to the door. It was a rusted metal door, one that clearly hadn’t been used in years. Your head tilted to the side slightly as you lifted up your hands. You didn’t know it, but your eyes had turned a pure white and were almost glowing in a way.

The rusty hinges were soon covered in ice. It felt as if you had blacked out after the door fell to the ground when the hinges froze and broke. Your chest heaved up and down rapidly. The energy was still flowing through you, and it was clear by your glowing eyes and frosted hands. As you walked down the hallway a trail of ice followed in your footsteps. It was hard to believe that this was the same person who just a few hours prior was curled up on a couch watching cartoons and drinking illegal beer.

As you continued to walk it was clear you weren’t the only one who had broken out. Rachel was quickly making her way down the darkened asylum hallways, a new woman by her side. The young girl had a smile on her lips when she saw you.

“So, new look?” Rachel asked, her own breathing rather labored.

“Yeah, something like that. Where are the others?” You were beginning to calm down by then, but there still was an icy air surrounding you.

“We were about to get them, wanna come along?”

“I need to find Dick. Now.” You were more concerned about Dick than you were about anything else. If you lost Dick you didn’t know what you would do. He was the only person you had left.

“Um, yeah, we were on our way to Gar. He can turn into a lion, after all. Could be beneficial.”

There was a smile that threatened to come to your lips at the small joke Rachel managed. You agreed to continue on with them while they went to find the green-haired boy. You could see how the two had gotten close over the few weeks that they had known each other. It made another warmth flourish in your chest whenever the two would interact with each other. So without any more words, the three of you quickly walked through the maze of halls that the asylum had.

The sight you came upon was one that would stay with you for the rest of your life. Gar was completely nude and in a cage, his wrists bound and above his head. It was clear there had been some sort of torture inflicted upon the boy. It made your blood boil. How anyone could treat the person who had shown you nothing but kindness like an animal made you want to punch someone.

You had never been a violent person. Of course you had gotten into fights and knew how to fight, you had lived in Gotham City for most of your life, after all, but you weren’t one to actively seek put fights. But right now, seeing Gar tied up, it made you want to kill someone. And you almost had. A man in a white lab coat found your little group. You nearly lost control, your eyes turning a bright white and your hair stood on it’s end as you began to charge at the man.

Rachel had stopped you.

She had stopped you and attempted to reason with the man. He didn’t get the chance to do anything to the girl, as Gar had transformed into his tiger form and killed the man. When Gar shifted back the poor boy was covered in blood and shaking. You felt bad, for sure, but you were grateful that he had intervened.

“Nice, kid. Rachel you get him clothes. I’ll go find Dick and Kory.” With that you left the three to tend to themselves. It was clear that you could handle yourself. It had been one hell of a ride so far, and you had an impression it wouldn’t be letting up any time soon.

And you were right.

The five of you barely made it out of the asylum alive, but you had. Though you all knew Robin died with the burning of the building. With minor scrapes and bruises you all hobbled back to the safe house. You felt lonely without Jason there. Gar was still spending time with Rachel, and Dick seemed to be growing closer to Kory. You had debated texting Jason several times but that meant you would show him that you were interested. It wasn’t that you were interested in Jason Todd, he just didn’t need to know that. So you sat in the bathroom and tended to your own wounds. It was rare for you to get hurt doing things but whenever you did Dick would be there to clean them for you.

It was hard saying goodbye to Dick. He was the only person you had in your life for so long, though now you knew that you had your own little family with Kory, Gar, and Rachel. You two promised each other that if anything came up you would immediately call. You knew that Dick meant it more for you, but you would hold him to that. If anything happened to him and Dick didn’t call...

You didn’t know what you would do.

And boy did something happen.

The first few days at the house Rachel’s mother had brought you to were the closest you thought you would ever get to having a normal life. That was, until Gar got sick. He got really sick. The first thing you thought to do was call Dick.

“It’s Gar, I think he’s dying. I-I don’t know what happened. He was fine a few hours ago!” At this point you were standing on the porch of the home. You didn’t want to scare Rachel any more than she already was.

“Okay, Y/N, calm down. Take deep breaths, remember? Donna and I will be there as soon as we can. Wait for us outside,” You began to question the odd request, “Just do it Y/N.”

The tone in his voice was one that you knew well. It was one that meant he was serious about what he was talking about. One that you knew not to question. Your heart was beating loudly in your ears as you leaned against the banister of the porch. You weren’t sure what happened next, it seemed as if the world went black for a couple seconds, but you were blown off of the porch and were laying in the middle of the yard. You could hear the sound of a car coming up the gravel driveway through the ringing in your ears. Dick’s voice came as a comfort to you.

“Shit, Y/N, are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” You managed to sit up, though you were nearly on the ground again when you saw what was in front of you. It seemed to be a sort of barrier surrounding the home. Why you had been ejected from it, you didn’t know.

“Holy shit.” Those were the only words that you could think of in that moment.

Then Dick started running at the barrier, and before you could do anything he was gone. The only natural thing to do was run after him. The three of you were met with resistance, leaving you outside of the barrier with no foreseeable way inside.

- - -

The sound of the car came as a relief. It had felt like days since Dick ran into the barrier, when in reality it had only been a few hours. You knew that Hank and Dawn were coming. You had only met them for the first time a month ago. They had both lived up to the stories Dick would tell you about the Titans.

Who you didn’t expect to be there was Jason Todd.

“Boy Wonder. You missed me that bad?” A teasing smile was on your lips as you looked up at him from your seat on the ground. You managed to ignore the looks coming from the others, though you did take note of Kory’s smile. And of course the smirk that came to Jason’s lips.

“Yeah, something like that.”

Once you had filled the three newcomers in on what exactly was happening, you all began to try and form a plan in order to get into the home. You were the only one there who didn’t have experience in the field. You had only asked Dick to train you a month or two into your stay with him. So, you just stood behind the rest of them and watched as they argued. Though you would never admit it, your eyes were mainly on Jason. The way his eyes seemed to glow in contrast to the mask that covered them. The way his lips would quirk up in a slight smile every time Hank would make a jab at him.

You were so caught up in your staring that you almost missed the barrier surrounding the home disappearing. The planning stopped in its tracks, and with hesitation everyone agreed to go inside. You needed to save Rachel, Gar, and Dick. If you let anything happened to Dick you would never let yourself live it down. As you were about to step past the threshold you felt a hand grip your arm tightly. You whipped around to see Jason staring you down.

“What are the odds we’ll make it out of there alive?” There was an edge to his voice that you knew all too well. It was fear. You gave him a soft smile and took his hand into yours, a reassuring action and nothing more.

“Stranger things have happened.”

You turned, hand in hand with Boy Wonder, and walked towards the house.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #robin x reader #dc titans #red hood x reader #batman #teen titans

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yandere-sins · 4 years

Note

heya, for the supernatural prompts, could I request Ghost Nagito with 23? tysm!

I went a bit alternate universe there, hope you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting :D

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

The old door to the mansion was as loud as you would expect from hinges as rusty as your grandparents. But after taking on such a long trip to reach the abandoned mansion, this was quite comforting, as the path from the bus stop to here had been eerily quiet already. “Wow,” you muttered, looking around the grand entrance. You could imagine what kind of people must have come by back in the days when this mansion was still in use.

Even though everything was covered in dust and plants that had broken through the windows, you still admired the great chandelier above you, and the grand piano standing in one corner of the room. Ruins, yet, memories of the greatness of the Komaeda family, who once reigned all the lands around this mansion, before the Great Despair took over the world.

By now, life was much easier again, world leaders settling their disputes, cities being rebuild. Only ruins like this one remained as a reminder of the time, and you were here to discover them. Traveling was a luxury, but you couldn’t help yourself from wanting to learn more about the history around you, curiosity always having been one of your vices. Thus, you came. A fateful decision.

You were careful as you entered through the first door, into what seemed to be the dining room. Wooden planks squeaked under your weight, but you still felt safe to continue. Excitedly, you took in the still decorated table, the huge, rotting paintings on the walls. Of course, you were not going to touch anything that looked moldy from all the years exposed to air and wetness, but looking wouldn’t hurt. It only spurred you on to see more, and so you went back into the main hall, and up the stairs, holding on to the handrail just in case a step was going to give away underneath you.

As you reached the top of the staircase, you immediately went stiff. Looking from side to side you tried to make out the sudden sound lingering in the air, something you hadn’t heard before. It wasn’t a creak, or even the singing of a bird, no. It sounded more tender, like a composed piece of music. Curiosity got the better of you, as you followed its sound, trying not to be audible yourself. The last thing you wanted was to meet some kind of vagabond and have him attack you.

Cautiously, you peeked through the gap in a door, seeing nothing and no one moving in the room as you decided to enter. The door was tough to open, old carpet stuck beneath it, so you only managed a gap big enough to squeeze through. Immediately, your eyes caught on the source of music, an old music box standing in the middle of the room, on top of what must have been a coffee table back in the days.

You approached it with great curiosity, opening the lid gently, a little afraid it might break if you handled it too roughly. It wasn’t very special, no ballerina pop-up came out, just the old gears turning to create the music, but you were still fascinated by it nonetheless.

Worse was the scare as a sudden loud bang behind you made you drop the box, and you twirled around to stare at the door, holding your breath. Despite you never open the door very wide, it shouldn’t have been able to fall close so harshly, considering it was still stuck from the carpet beneath it. You scrambled to put the fallen box back on the table, wanting nothing more than to leave. But when you tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge under your tries to make it move.

“Do you like it?” you heard, making you flinch so hard, you threw yourself with your back against the wood of the door. “W-Who...?” you asked, unable to make anyone out from turning your head from side to side. “Me,” the voice chuckled, and you squinted your eyes as you made out some fog building up behind the coffee table. It slowly formed itself into a shape, a ghostly hand brushing over the music box. As if prompted by the touch, it started playing again, and the fog kept wandering, settling down into a chair in the corner.

From the hand, an arm appeared, then a body. From its neck, a head rose and down to the knees, you made out a mostly human shape. Just... it stopped after the kneecaps, disappearing into nothingness. A thousand thoughts ran through your mind, as you tried to understand, but really, you had no idea what you were really seeing. It must have been a ghost, but did you even believe in those?

“It was my favorite. I’d always listen to it before going to bed when I was still a young boy.”

His eyes moved from the music box, still playing leisurely in its place, to you, and you felt the air grew colder around you. “How about you? Do you like it?”

Maybe you were going insane. Perhaps you hit your head or something, but nonetheless, you nodded, and he smiled happily. “A-Are you...?” you tried to ask, but there were too many questions to decide which one to go for first. “Hm? Oh, yeah.”

Standing up, you were able to witness the form in its full glory, though he probably wasn’t that much taller than you, especially not with his missing underlegs. When he patted his chest, a cloud of fog, or maybe simply dust, came from him, his hand briefly disappearing before reshaping and coming back into view. “I’m sorry to scare you, it just has been a while that someone came over to talk. I am Nagito,” he introduced himself, and you really believed it had been a while he met someone, considering his... condition.

“I’m [Name],” you replied sheepishly, taking some time to look around the room. Perhaps, jumping out of a window would be an option if you couldn’t find a way out. After all, you still weren’t sure what to make out of the ghost in front of you. “What brought you here?” he asked, his movements nothing less than gliding as he walked around the table.

“Oh, just... exploring. The- The family who lived here was quite influential in the times of the--”

“--Great Despair, ah, yes. What a time to be alive,” he finished your sentence, letting out a fond sigh as he remembered. You used the time to move along the windows, creating some distance between you two, while you also trying to figure out if one of them would open.

“So you... were there when it happened?”

“There? Oh, I was part of it!” he announced, and you halted, furrowing your brows. Lowering your hand from the last window handle, you looked him straight into his slightly milky eyes. “You were? So you are a Komaeda too?”

“Oh, definitely,” he laughed. “It was so much fun! I helped my family to understand the joy of it when Junko started her rise.”

This time, it was him taking a few glides back, settling down on the old bed, with sheets corroded by moths. He patted the space next to him, and you were hesitant to follow his invite, but at the same time, intrigued by the knowledge he must have. “I’ll gladly tell you about it if you want.”

Maybe you were just dreaming this all, but you wanted to know what he had to say, so you approached, sitting down furthest from him.

With a pleased hum, he started his tale. Hadn’t you researched so much about the Great Despair before, you would have been shocked by all the gruesome details he didn’t spare you. Nagito spoke fondly of the time that was nothing more than history to you now, but at the same time, the most awful tragedy in all of mankind's story. He shared new insights, stories that were lost in between the flames and war, things you would have never been able to research on your own. You soaked in the knowledge he had, time passing as you two were caught in conversation.

Only when you started to rub your eyes, did you avert your attention for a second, looking back to the windows, noticing how the sun was going down behind the tree crowns of the forest surrounding you. “[Name]?” he asked, confused by your sudden lack of attention. “Ah, sorry!” you were quick to apologize to him, and he forgave you with a smile. “It’s just...”

With another glance over your shoulders, you hesitantly got up, walking backwards to the door again. “It’s so late, I really should go.”

As you tried to open the door again, you found it as shut as it was before, even when you pushed with both hands it still didn’t budge. As if something was forcing it shut despite your best efforts. Panic rose as you realized your chances to leave slimmed down significantly, bad throughs sprouting in your mind. “Go where?” he asked innocently enough, for the first time standing right beside you, the fog feeling incredibly cold as it touched your hand.

“I was just getting to the good parts of the story...”

“I know!” you were quick to calm him as he seemed distraught by your sudden need to leave. “And I’ll be back, but I can’t miss the last bus!”

Again, you put all your strength into opening the door, jiggling the doorknob roughly in hopes it would loosen up. “What if I don’t want to let you go?” he mumbled next to you, and you peaked up at that, worried. Nagito surely was an enigma, less human than you wanted him to be. And his concerning state of life that you had worried about before now felt more prominent than ever.

“Talking to you... sharing a good laugh, oh, I missed that.”

“And you will have it again, I promise to be back, just trust me!” you were quick to retaliate, remembering there was one last window you hadn’t tried to open yet. Scooting over to it, you tried to ban the bad thoughts of having to jump out of the second floor, but it was better than to starve to death here, where no one would find you.

“Where are you going?” he called after you, following your every step. Needily, he tried to touch you, but every touch went right through your body, leaving only an icy sensation behind that made you more uncomfortable. “Listen... I just want to go home tonight. I loved your stories, but I am still human, I need to go and sleep... eat. You remember that, right?”

Leaning against the window, you were surprised he didn’t just slide through that too, but his gaze was none of understanding, frustrating you. Letting out a deep sigh, you calmed yourself, knowing anger wouldn’t get you anywhere. He was just lonely, a little desperate maybe. You came here of your own free will, it was only natural that he might expect you to help him with his... ghostly problem.

“Please,” you whispered, looking directly at him. “I swear on my life, I’ll be back and help you move on. I will listen to all the stories you have and we’ll find a way, okay?”

“Move on?” he mumbled, lost in thought for a second. “I don’t want to move on.”

By now, your knuckles were turning white as you held on tight to the window handle. If you had to jump out, it better had to be timed well, but you knew it was time to take action and not just stand around and argue with him. “Okay... you leave me no choice.” He raised an eyebrow when you suddenly moved to open the window, ready to throw yourself out and be gone in a matter of seconds.

But the window never opened.

Instead, you heard Nagito laugh. He increasingly got louder and more sickening as he kept on laughing to his heart’s content. “Despairingly, isn’t it?” he asked in between his chuckles, and the glare you shot him only amused him more. “I love this.” His hand brushed briefly over your cheek, immediately turning your skin cold with his touch before he waltzed back to the bed, patting the space next to him as an invitation to join him.

“It’s been centuries since I felt like this, I’m not letting you go that easily.”

You knew he meant it. If you wanted any chances of ever leaving again, you would have to oblige, even though, deep down, you agreed. It really was a situation to despair over.

»»————-———— ♡ ————————-««

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highladyof-erilea · 3 years

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C.O.D.E.N.A.M.E.S. - chapter two

Sorry it’s taken me so long to get this chapter out! With school and soccer season starting back up again my schedule has been really busy. I will try to get these chapter out as consistently as I can, but this fic will most likely be updated sporadically whenever I have time. Without out further ado, here is chapter two of C.O.D.E.N.A.M.E.S.

<<chapter one * masterlist * ao3 *

~~~

“Really Gavriel, everything's gonna be fine,” Rowan consoled Gavriel while he assembled his pistol. “They might be one of the best we’ve hunted yet, but you know they won’t see me coming. It’s going to go just the way we want it to.” The captain really had to have more trust in him. Sure, Rowan could go off book sometimes, but it was always for the best and he always managed to complete the mission no matter what, so Gavriel had nothing to worry about.

“You know I trust you to get it done, but the director is very adamant that this mission gets pulled off efficiently with no casualties on either side,” Gavriel emphasized either, as if he knew that Rowan would sacrifice their mission if it meant saving someone on their side. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “If we don’t complete this mission soon, she’ll order us back to base and put someone else on the job. I think I’m speaking for everyone when I say none of us want to go anywhere near that place anytime soon.” There was a resounding agreement from everybody in the room, including Rowan. “You’ll take Lorcan with you. He’ll have them in his aim in case anything goes wrong.” Lorcan groaned from across the room, slumping on one of the couches as Rowan raised his brow.

“Honestly, Gavriel. I don’t understand why you don’t just send me in alone. I can get them from 100 yards away, knock them out, and bring ‘em in. It would be much simpler for me to go in alone and drag Rowan along with me simply as the muscle. He can’t even fit in tight places. He’s too big.” Lorcan smirked at Rowan as he started collecting his gear. “Trust me Gavriel. I’ll be more efficient by myself than Rowan could ever be.”

“Stop it, both of you. You have your orders and I expect you to follow them. Unless you want to be on dishes for the next week?” Both Rowan and Lorcan received a pointed look from Gavriel. They stayed silent. “That’s what I thought. Now stop moping and get your asses out of here. You don’t take a step in here unless you have them with you.” Gavriel dismissed them, promptly walking out of the room. Right before he shut the door, Rowan swore he could hear Gavriel mutter under his breath Sometimes I feel like I’m raising children. Rowan chuckled at that.

The abandoned hotel that Rowan found himself in looked like a jungle had washed through. There were vines crawling up the walls and spiderwebs in every corner and available space of the building. The side wall on the westside was decimated, the sunset shining through, almost mocking him as though it knew that something was going to go wrong. Rowan spotted a stairwell to his left that would take him up onto the roof, where presumably his target would be. Climbing up the stairs, hearing nothing but the wind even though the door to the roof was open, he realized that something was about to go wrong. His unit had already scouted this building hours before, in response to the tip they had received a couple days ago.

It had seemed to appear out of the blue, Fenrys finding it in the mailbox at their current station, which hadn’t been used since their first day at their house to deliver all the necessary information for their assignments. It had everybody looking over their shoulders, considering that nobody was supposed to know their location or who they really were. But once Fen had seen what the letter was actually about, they decided to throw caution out of the window.

Looking up from his reports, Rowan noticed Fenrys standing outside like he had seen a ghost. Following his line of sight, Rowan looked towards their mailbox with its red flag sticking up. Rowan dismissed it at first glance, but then took a double take when he realized why exactly Fenrys looked like he had seen a ghost. The flag was up. On their mailbox. That should never have been used. It didn’t even have a street number on it.

Trying to look inconspicuous, Rowan called out to Lorcan to pull up the security cameras, and sprinted outside to join Fenrys. Calling out to him, Fenrys threw an arm across Rowan’s chest, stopping him from advancing any further. “Don’t take another step. Until we know what exactly is in there, we shouldn’t even be in the vicinity of it.”

Staring wide-eyed at the mailbox, Rowan responded to Fenrys. “Lorcan’s pulling up the cameras. We should head back inside and wait for Gavriel’s decision before we do anything more.”

As it turned out, the package appeared to be harmless and once Lorcan was able to get a good visual of the package, deeming them to be safe at the moment, Fenrys received the package from the mailbox. It turned out to be a letter with only a single address written on it. The North Stag

Considering that The North Stag was an abandoned hotel and had old connections to the assassin they were hunting, Gavriel decided to follow through on the tip, sending the team to scout out the building so they would know what they were dealing with. Considering everything now, Rowan really wished they had known more information about their target. Because when he got the call over the comms from Lorcan that he had eyes on them, they were both woefully underprepared for what came after that.

Climbing the stairwell that led to the roof, Rowan approached the door as quietly as he could, as to not disturb anything and alert the target to his presence.When he opened the door there was a slight resistance but he was able to get it open without making any alerting noises. He credited it to the rusty hinges and it not being used in years.

Creeping through the doorway, Rowan scanned his surroundings. The entire ground was covered with gravel and overgrown weeds crawling over the edges of the roof and the box above the stairwell. He assumed that the target was on the other side of the box, seeing as he could not see them and the assassin’s intended victim would be inside of the building that Rowan was facing away from. There were several rusted over ventilation vents scattered around the roof. They could be helpful if there was a struggle, but as long as Rowan could get the jump on the guy, he could have them down in mere seconds. Of course, Lorcan was aimed and ready across the street, but Rowan wouldn’t need his help besides being muscle to drag their prisoner back to the base.

Rowan still didn’t understand why Gavriel insisted Lorcan be there. He should know perfectly well how Rowan worked best on his own and backup always messed everything in the end instead of actually helping out. Rowan rounded the corner as quietly as he could, keeping his eyes open and trigger finger poised so he could take the shot as a last resort. Rowan wanted to be the sneak attack and not the other way around. He didn’t want anything backfiring on him. When he had eyes on the target, Rowan zeroed in on their position and proceeded as he usually would.

Rowan answered Lorcan over the comms, ~Approaching the target. In view and ready to engage.~

Lorcan responded in his usual manner with a grunt. That was all the confirmation he needed.

Rowan glanced over his target before closing in, noting that they were dressed in very loose clothes, which didn’t seem the most ideal for a stealth mission. He pushed that into the back of his mind to use for later and snuck up on his target with his pistol poised and ready to shoot. He placed the black, cold barrel on his target's head and said “If I were you, I wouldn’t pull that trigger.”

~~~

Thank you so much for reading! Comments are encouraged and appreciated...I really want to work on my writing and they are one way to help me grow. Let me know if you would like to be added to the Tag List!

#codenames #throne of glass #agents of shield #modern au #sniper au #double agents #rowaelin #rowaelin au #tog fanfiction #rowan whitethorn #aelin galythinius #the cadre #throne of glass fanfiction

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kinglazrus · 4 years

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No Such Thing as a Fresh Start

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @q-gorgeous: dash finds out danny is phantom. what does he do to help danny? does danny know dash knows?

Summary: Of all the people that could have found out. Out of everyone, in all of Amity Park, it has to be Dash Baxter. It has to be the one human Danny is truly afraid of.

Warnings: swearing

Word count: 8123

Danny's halfway into the locker when Dash freezes. He doesn't actually mean to stop. He got another bad grade in English class this morning and Lancer's disappointed face pissed him off so much that he needs to hit something. Stuffing Fenton into a locker is close enough. But as Dash shoves Danny's head down, as Danny flails pathetically and tries to push him off, Danny's shirt hikes up a little bit, exposing his hip.

Stretching from the waistband of Danny's jeans to up under his shirt is a patch of rough, ugly skin. It's wrinkled and bumpy, tinged red and pink. Dash doesn't know much about scars, but he knows enough to see whatever injury this was from, it couldn't have happened more than a year ago.

Dash grabs Danny's shirt and pulls it up, revealing more damaged skin.

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?" Danny grabs Dash's hand and shoves it off with surprising force, enough that it makes Dash stumble back. Danny teeters on the edge of the locker. Arms shooting out, he manages to catch the door and brace himself against the inside wall. It doesn't look comfortable, one arm squished against his side, one leg tucked under him while the other sticks out, head ducked to avoid smacking it against the top of the locker.

Dash barely pays it any mind, though. His eyes are glued to Danny's hip. He was able to get Danny's shirt almost halfway up before he was stopped, but he didn’t even see the edge of the scar. It must be huge.

A hundred questions run through Dash's head. When did Danny get it? How did it happen? Is it serious? It looks serious. That bothers Dash, for some reason. It nags at him.

"Okay, you're actually starting to freak me out," Danny says.

Dash raises his gaze, meeting Danny's eyes. Other people in the hall are staring at them, Dash can feel it, but he can't look away. He can't stop picturing the marred skin stretching across Danny's torso.

Danny leans back, drawing his other leg into the locker with him. "So, I'm just gonna... yeah..." he trails off. Sticking his finger in the locker door grates, he pulls it closed. The hinges squeak all the way, a grating whine that echoes down the hall.

As soon as the door shuts, Dash snaps out of his daze. He shakes his head, blinking, and glares at the students that stopped to watch. "What the hell are you looking at?" he says.

The students scurry away, heads low.

Dash lingers a moment, staring at the locker, then shakes his head again. Turning on his heels, he marches down the hall, heading to the gym rather than the cafeteria. He needs to think for a while.

—

Danny doesn't know who's locker this is, but it reeks. He's sitting on a pair of old shoes and a canvas bag, probably someone's gym clothes. It takes all he has not to gag. Climbing all the way into the locker rather than out of it wasn't his greatest idea. But he couldn't stand Dash's staring, and he figured the only way to get Dash to leave was to finish the job.

Wiggling, he shimmies around until he's turned sideways—thank god Casper High has such big lockers—and peers through the grate in the door. He knows Dash can't seem him, but the sight of him staring makes Danny shiver. He waits, holding his breath until Dash finally leaves. And then he wants a minute more, just in case.

Once he's sure the coast is clear, Danny turns intangible and tumbles out of the locker. He rolls forward, almost smacking his face on the floor, and comes up dizzy. He grabs his head until the world stops swaying.

"I can't deal with this," he says out loud. There's no one else in the hall with him, so he's talking to himself, but that's not the craziest thing he's ever done. Besides, Jazz has assured him multiple times that voicing your thoughts out loud is a common practice for lots of people. It helps them sort through their thoughts better than they could if everything just swirled around their head for hours, thoughts tripping over one another left and right, struggling to take their place at the front of your mind.

Like the mall on Black Friday morning, except the doors never open and the thoughts just keep shoving, and shoving, and shoving, trying to get to the front even though there's nowhere to go.

"Maybe I should talk to Jazz again," Danny says. He stands up and brushes his jeans off, hoping he doesn't smell too much like someone else's dirty laundry. He's just lucky it wasn't one of the rusty lockers. Those ones always make his eyes and nose itch and leave red flakes all over his clothes and hair.

Danny's about to head to the cafeteria for lunch when his chest goes cold. The feeling travels up his throat, chilling his tongue, and a puff of blue air seeps out of his mouth.

"Oh, come on." Danny groans. At least it's during lunch and not class time. If he's lucky, it'll be someone easy. Maybe then he can wrap up the fight quickly and actually have time to eat, rather than sneaking bites of his sandwich during art class.

Looking up and down the hall, he double-checks to make sure he's alone and transforms. Turning intangible, he shoots into the air. It's cloudy outside, the sky dull and grey, and drizzling steadily. If Danny remembers right, it's supposed to thunder later, which makes him sigh in disappointment. He doesn't mind thunderstorms. They can actually be kind of cool. But thunderstorms usually mean it's going to be cloudy all night, which means he won't be able to stargaze while he's out for his midnight flight.

But he shouldn't be worrying about that right now. He has to find whatever ghost set off his ghost sense. Danny swoops over the school, scanning the grounds. No one's outside today, because of the rain, and the football field is soaked. He sees nothing but growing puddles.

Looping around, he heads toward the city instead. He's gotten better at sensing ghosts, especially in a wider area, which sounds like a good thing, at first. Except that his ghost sense has never been good at actually pinpointing where the ghost is. So for Danny, a wider range means more places he has to look before he actually finds the damn thing, and he doesn't have all day.

He spends half an hour flying around, looking for the culprit, and comes up with nothing. Not even a speck of ectoplasm. It could be a friendly ghost just hanging around, but Danny doesn't feel right taking that chance. Not after what happened the last time he brushed off something strange and ghostly.

Technus turned Danny into one giant bruise that day. Let it be known that while bruises are usually a small thing, they are still a sign of internal bleeding, and a massive one that takes up half your back shouldn't be brushed off so easily. Danny found that out the hard way.

Frustrated and hungry, he circles back to Casper High and touches down on the roof, right next to the hatch that leads down into the gym.

For the longest time, Danny didn't even know there was a way onto the roof. He never actually uses it, choosing to fly up, but ever since he's found it, it's been one of his favourite spots at school. The hatch only exists for maintenance purposes and students aren't even allowed to touch the ladder that leads up to it.

Danny gives the grounds around the school another furtive glance. It doesn't feel right to give up on the ghost so soon. He knows they're close by. He can feel it. If he heads inside now, he'll just draw them into the school and endanger some of his classmates.

At least that's the excuse Danny tells himself as he lowers himself to the ground, crossing his legs. Better to wait a bit, rather than tempt fate.

Laying back, Danny folds his arms behind his head and stares up at the clouds. They aren't much to look at, but he's sure they're darker than before. A squat antenna tower cuts through the top of his view. It's a relic from a bygone era, back when Casper High had an AV club that tinkered with radios all day. It's ugly to look at, but the school never took it down.

Danny rolls onto his side so the tower is out of view, closing his eyes and letting the rain soak him. He's always more comfortable when it's cold. He might regret it later, when he changes back and finds his clothes damp, but for right now, it's nice. The warning bell hasn't gone off yet, so he has a few minutes to spare out here before he really has to go back inside.

Just as Danny's getting comfortable, his chest goes cold again, and a shadow falls over him. He opens his eyes to the smooth, gleaming skull of Walker. With a startled shout, Danny scrambles upright, scurrying toward the radio tower, and faces Walker. He raises his fists, lighting them up with ectoplasm.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. "I did all your stupid community service stuff, remember? My sentence is paid."

"Ten thousand years is a long time to shave off for a little bit of community cleanup," Walker drawls.

"Oh? That's what you call it?" Danny asks. Funny way to describe Walker siccing him on every ghostly with an overdue warrant. Danny can't remember the last time he got in so many fights in one week.

"You just can't seem to stay out of trouble, punk. Damaging another ghost's lair? That's a thousand years." Walker pulls an envelope out of his pocket and throws it at Danny. It only flutters a few feet, but Danny snatches it out of the air with his telekinesis and pulls it toward him.

Side-eyeing Walker, he tears the envelope open and pulls out the folded piece of paper inside. It's a formal police report, filed by Skulker three days ago, citing charges against Danny for property damage and endangering his afterlife.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Danny says. He floats forward and waves the report in Walker's face. "You mean all this time you've actually had a formal police system? And I could have filed criminal charges? That's so unfair."

Walker loses some of his composure, staring at Danny in bafflement. "That's what you care about?"

Danny tosses the report in the air. It stays floating by his shoulder, surrounded by a soft green glow. "Is there some kind of lair registry thing? Could I register Amity Park as my lair? You guys always tell me it is, but you keep attacking it! Doesn't that endanger my afterlife? Attack my lair too many times and I might just snap, right?"

Danny paces through the air, fretting. There are so many fights he could have avoided. Skulker is so going to get it the next time Danny sees him. This is such a cheap shot. He won't stand for it. It probably breaks so many unspoken ghost codes. They're all brothers in ghost crime, aren't they?

"Skulker's a fucking snitch," Danny says.

"Bad luck for you, punk. You've got another sentence to fill out." Walker grows bigger, looming over Danny, reaching out for him with a massive gloved hand.

"Wait!" Danny shouts, shooting out of Walker's reach. He really doesn't want to get in a fight right now. "This is all official, right? That means I can give my side, and it actually matters. It was purely self-defence!"

Walker doesn't have any lips to speak of, but his teeth clack together and his aura flares, expressing his interest. "Go on."

"It happened last week. I was heading to the medieval kingdom when Skulker came out of nowhere and attacked me. Gave me this." Danny zips down his jumpsuit and pulls it open, showing Walker his newest scar, the same one Dash saw. Skulker managed to hit Danny with a new flamethrower of his, scorching him from his chest down to his hip.

Thank the Infinite Realms for ghostly healing. Danny was only out of it for a few days rather than the months he could have been. A few sniffles to his mom, plus a concerned pout from Jazz, and he was home "sick" until he healed.

"I shot him back to defend myself. We were pretty close to his lair. A few stray shots must have hit it," Danny explains.

Walker gives Danny's scar a considering look, shrinking back down to his normal size. Taking the police report out of the air, Walker scans its contents again. After a moment, he tucks it back into the envelope, which he returns to his suit pocket.

"Don't think you're off the hook yet, punk. I'll be back," Walker says. Just like that, he's gone.

Danny sags in relief, dropping back to the ground. "I can't believe that actually worked," he says. Tipping his head back, he laughs, grinning up at the cloudy sky.

Something scuffs the ground behind him. Danny groans. "Come on, Walker, I told you it was self-defence. Don't you have to investigate that or something?"

He turns around, ready to give Walker a piece of his mind. Except it's not Walker. Across the roof stands Dash Baxter. And he's looking down at Danny's exposed chest, at the scar he saw on Fenton not even an hour earlier.

"Would you believe me if I said it's a birthmark?" Danny asks. Judging by the stricken expression on Dash's face, that's a no.

—

As soon as Dash enters the gym, he heads up the bleachers, toward the back wall. There's a ladder in the far corner of the gym that leads up onto the roof. Kwan once dared him to sneak up there during their free period. It's been Dash's favourite place at school ever since. Besides the football field, that is, but that's currently flooded. He doesn't want to get soaked up to his ankles in muddy water.

Dash climbs the ladder with ease, stopping once his head brushes the hatch. He bends over, going up one more rung, and jerks upward, slamming his shoulder against the hatch. The day Kwan gave him the dare, Dash discovered there wasn't actually a proper lock keeping the hatch shut. All it has is a simple latch on the other side. To get it open, you need a special tool to stick into the seam between the hatch and the frame, and you have to jimmy it around a little bit to get it open.

Or, you can do what Dash does, and bash into the hatch over and over again until the latch jiggles open on its own. It makes his shoulder sore, but it's easier than sneaking down into the boiler room and finding the stupid stick.

Dash squeezes through the hatch, closing it gently behind him so it doesn't make too much noise, and starts across the roof. His destination is a vent sticking out of the room, held up by metal supports. It curls out of the ground like a worm, bent in an S shape. The end extends out, pointing toward the edge of the roof. It's just high enough for Dash to sit comfortably beneath it and wide enough that it provides some cover from the drizzle.

Dash settles there, stretching his legs out, and leans back against the vent. He might have to check his jacket for grime later, probably give his hair a quick wash in the bathroom, but this is alright for now. It's a great place to think. Nobody ever comes here, so there's no one to interrupt him.

His hand falls to his chest. He presses against his ribs, trailing his fingers down, tracing the path of Danny's scar. He tries to imagine what it feels like. It would be rough, he thinks. And maybe a little dry. It would feel foreign against his fingertips.

It must be from Danny's accident. No one but his friends and family knows the full story, at least as far as Dash is aware. They know Danny was there the first week of school freshman year. He didn't make much of a lasting impression, and almost nobody knew his name except those he'd gone to middle school with. Then, over the weekend, something happened. One kid who was passing on the street said he saw flashing lights and heard Danny scream.

He was gone for two weeks, the peculiarity of his absence and the mystery of his accident spreading his name to the furthest corners of Casper High. The rumours cycled through the school five times over, getting a little more bizarre each time. He spilled some dangerous chemicals, he messed with his parent's weapons, his parents shot him on accident, his friends shot him on purpose.

By the time Danny returned to school, everyone was waiting with bated breath to find out the truth. Danny refused to tell. Neither Sam nor Tucker gave even a hint of what had happened that weekend. Jazz said she didn't even know the full story herself.

Everybody lost interest after that. Danny was back, he was fine, and he wasn't telling the story. Collectively, the school decided to move on. No one thought about who the accident might have affected Danny, physically or mentally. Dash is thinking about it now.

His older sister, a nurse, has told him a few things about what big scars like that do to a person, even years after they've healed. They can be painful and stiff, impeding movement. Sensitive to touch. Easy to hurt. He thinks about how many times he's given Danny a good punch to the stomach over the last few months.

Guilt swirls in his gut, for a moment. It's quickly replaced by anger. Dash scowled, punching his fist against the rooftop. It's so stupid. So what if Fenton got hurt over a year ago? He's obviously fine now. Dash has nothing to feel sorry for. Everything Danny gets is his own fault, anyway. He's the only one who ever fights back.

Danny doesn't seem to get it that Dash would let him go if he just stayed down for once. One good wailing to set him straight, to make sure he knows not to mess with Dash, and then they can dust their hands of each other and be done with it. But Danny's one of those people that keep getting back up no matter how many times he gets beaten down.

Can't he see he's only making things worse for himself? Can't he see that if he just stops and does what Dash wants, he won't get hurt anymore? Everyone sees it.

It pisses Dash off. If Danny's going to keep doing infuriating things like defending himself, then he deserves it. He can't just go around pissing people off and expect them not to do something about it, that's ridiculous. It's not Dash's fault. It's not.

Dash curls his hand into a fist, clenching it tightly. Bringing it up to his face, he rubs his eyes and lets out a tired sigh. He doesn't want to think about stuff like this. All he does is go round and round without making any progress.

Resting an arm on his knee, he lowers his forehead to his elbow and stares at his hand. When he curls his fingers, his skin pulls taut across his knuckles. They're still red from when he socked Danny in the jaw a couple days ago. Sticking his hand out, he holds it under the rain. The minuscule drops barely dampen his skin, but it's cold and refreshing. He rubs his thumb across his knuckles, as if that can wipe away the bruises.

When it doesn't work, he lets his hand drop and resigns himself to sombre silence. It's a good day for silence. Fewer people are out because of the rain, even though it's the middle of the day. The drops, more like a fine mist than actual rain, make no sound.

Something whooshes overhead, drawing Dash's gaze toward the sky. Noise from above typically means an impending ghost attack, but he only sees Phantom. The resident ghost hero is a bright spot against the dull sky. He hovers for a moment, a white sun, then flies in Dash's direction.

Dash opens his mouth, about to call out, but stops at the last second. Phantom looks tense, mouth set in a grim line. Dash doesn't want to interrupt whatever he's doing. He tips his head back, watching Phantom fly over the school, fully expecting the ghost to pass them by.

To Dash's surprise, Phantom touches down on the other side of the roof. Dash scrambles to his feet, searching for the threat he should be running from, but it's just him and Phantom out here. When Phantom lays down, Dash hesitates, dumbfounded.

Creeping forward, staying flush against the vent, Dash grips the supports holding it up. The metal bites into his fingers and sucks the heat from his palms, but he holds it like a lifeline. Phantom's whole deal is beating people until they stay down. Maybe Dash can talk to him about it. Sliding his feet forward, Dash takes a step out from his cover, ready to talk to his hero.

The ground behind Phantom ripples, a tall white figure rising up out of the room. Dash scrambles back out of view, peeking around the vent to see.

He's never seen this ghost before. They're dressed completely in white, barring a black fedora, and have a skull for a head. Dash's first thought is that this is one of Phantom's allies. Those hopes are dashed away when Phantom sees the ghost and leaps away, immediately poising to attack.

It looks like Dash is getting a front-row seat to a ghost fight. Which is all kinds of cool, but also dangerous.

The only way off the roof is the hatch, which sits between Phantom and his opponent. There used to be a ladder crawling up the back wall, but it got damaged during a ghost attack a couple months ago and hasn't been fixed. With no escape route, Dash is forced to hunker down and watch.

It doesn't go how he thought it would. Phantom and the other ghost's—Walker's—voices carry easily across the roof. Dash hears everything they say, although none of it makes sense to him. Who knew dead people had a formal police network and criminal system? Who knew Phantom was a criminal?

Actually, that idea isn't so far-fetched. The more Dash thinks about it, the more sense it makes. Phantom doesn't act like other ghosts. He probably breaks a whole bunch of laws. The ghosts that attack the city are probably bounty hunters! That weird metal ghost is always shouting about capturing and hunting Phantom. Dash is willing to bet his football career on there being a bounty on Phantom's head.

He can't wait to tell Kwan all about this new, fascinating revelation.

Dash watches, rapt, absorbing every word. Paulina's going to be so jealous when she hears Dash got so close to Phantom. Especially with the few harmless embellishments he's going to add. She will be livid to know Dash spent the whole lunch hour hanging out with Phantom on the roof.

"It was purely self-defence!" Phantom shouts.

Dash frowns. There goes his criminal theory. This Walker guy reminds him a little of Tetslaff. Strict, no-nonsense, all about authority. Which means if you do something wrong, you don't get to defend yourself, you take your punishment and do better next time.

Walker also has that stern, "I want to execute you," look. Although that might just be the skull for a head.

Walker doesn't hang around for much longer after that. Phantom shows him an injury as evidence of his innocence, Walker threatens Phantom one last time, and pretty soon Dash and Phantom are alone again.

Seeing his chance, Dash moves out of hiding. As he steps forward, his belt loop catches on an exposed screw on the vent supports. Dash's feet nearly slip out from under him. He throws out his arms, quickly regaining his balance, and looks back to Phantom, hoping he hasn't scared the hero off.

Phantom turns, an exasperated expression on his face, and glares in Dash's direction. The glare slips away almost instantly. Phantom pales, his eyes going wide. Dash doesn't pay attention to any of that. All his focus is on Phantom's chest and the familiar scar that cuts across it.

—

Danny and Dash stare at each other for a long, long moment. Distantly, they can hear the warning bell ring, marking the end of the lunch hour, but neither of them reacts. Danny watches Dash warily, afraid of how he's going to react. Dash looks back with increasing dread, afraid of what he believes is true.

"Fenton?" Dash asks.

Danny stiffens. "Fenton?" He laughs weakly. "You mean that loser kid in your year? Is he here? I don't see him."

Danny makes a show of looking around the roof, pulling his jumpsuit zipper back up as he does. His gaze flicks down to the front of the school, the warning bell finally registering in his ears. Lifting into the air, Danny backs away.

"Sounds like you need to get back to class, citizen," he declares in a deep voice.

"Fenton, wait!" Dash says. He lurches forward a few steps, reaching out, then pulls back. Danny doesn't move. They're at a standstill. Neither of them really wants to be there, but neither of them wants to leave, either. They can't leave.

Danny needs to know Dash won't spread his secret. And if he will, then Danny needs to be prepared. As much as he wants to flee and pretend this never happened, he can't let Dash out of his sight until he knows what's going to happen next. Danny's mind is in overdrive trying to come up with every possible scenario.

Before Danny can stop him, Dash lunges for the rooftop hatch. Defying all logic, he makes it back to the cafeteria first. Dash clambers up on a table, drawing everyone's attention and shouts for all to hear, "Danny Fenton is Danny Phantom!" It doesn't take long for word to get back to the G.I.W. Wasting no time, they rush over to Casper High and detain Danny for being a class five ecto-entity in breach of the American Ecto Act and take him away. They experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Or, Dash recognizes Danny for the freak he is. His fear quickly turns to anger, and he lunges. Dash may be human, but Danny can only do so much to stop him without actively hurting him. Dash beats him to a pulp, calls the G.I.W., and leaves Danny on the steps of Casper High for them to find. They take Danny away for being an inhuman abomination and experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Or, Dash laughs it off. He claps Danny on the shoulder and agrees that Fenton is such a loser. They part ways amicably, an unspoken agreement to never speak of this again. Until Dash spills the secret to Kwan, who tells Star, who tells Paulina, who tells everyone. Eventually, word gets back to the G.I.W. They lock Danny up in evil ghost jail. And experiment on him for the rest of his life.

Logically, not every possible outcome ends with Danny being taken prisoner by the G.I.W., becoming an unwilling participant in their sick experiments. But human brains really suck at being logical when you're two seconds from panicking.

Dash's mind, on the other hand, is completely blank. Rather than running a mile a minute, his thoughts have come to a screeching halt. They laugh at him from afar, dangling just out of reach, and leave him to flounder in silently. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to move. Danny Fenton is Danny Phantom and he isn't prepared to handle that information. Fenton can't be Phantom. Fenton is infuriating. Fenton is a flea, a temporary nuisance in the grand scene of Dash's life. Fenton is a weak nobody who's only good at getting under Dash's skin.

Phantom, on the other hand, is Dash's idol. He's everything Fenton isn't and then some. Dash stares at Phantom right now and feels lost

Their staring contest drags on with no clear winner in sight. Thunder rumbles in the distance. The sky is a little darker now, and it won't be long before the clouds open up and drown Amity in a torrent of rainfall. It won't matter much for the two boys on the roof, though. They've been out here too long, standing silence, and are already soaked. It makes no difference to them as the rain grows from a drizzle, to a light shower, to a downpour in a matter of minutes.

Lightning flashes, followed a few seconds later by a great crash of thunder. Dash flinches, startled by the sound, and breaks eye contact first.

"Fenton," Dash says, advancing.

"Don't."

"Come on, I just–"

"I said leave it."

"Why are you being so–"

"Dash!" Danny bellows. His voice cracks like thunder, a trace of his ghostly wail rattling the rooftop, and is lost in the storm. Eyes flaring, he flies forward. Halfway to Dash, he jerks to a stop. He doesn't know what he will do once Dash is right in front of him. There's a burning feeling building in his chest that tells him it whatever it is, it won't be good.

Crying out in frustration, Danny turns away. He drops to the roof, curling over, and presses his hands against his ears so he can't hear Dash calling out to him. Of all the people that could have found out. Out of everyone, in all of Amity Park, it has to be Dash Baxter. It has to be the one human Danny is truly afraid of.

Dash Baxter is nothing like the G.I.W. They're a faceless mass of interchangeable bodies hiding behind the same suits and sunglasses. The G.I.W., as a whole, are threatening. Dash, to Danny, is downright terrifying on his own.

Danny aches just thinking about him. As a halfa, his body heals fast, but his mind was never granted such luxuries. If you keep hitting someone in the same place over and over, one day the bruise will sink so much deeper than skin. Danny is more bruise than boy, at this point. Pressing his head against his knees, he drags his hands through his hair, trying to stay calm.

Lightning flashes in the corner of his eyes. Rolling thunder booms through the air a second later. In the silence that follows, filled only by the staccato beat of the rain, he hears Dash's approaching footsteps.

"Go away, Dash," Danny croaks. He doesn't even care anymore. Let Dash do whatever he wants, tell the whole world who he is.

Dash stops a couple feet behind Danny. He looks down at his hero, huddled on the roof, and a strange feeling fills him. He refuses to regret anything he's ever done to Fenton, but... he wants to help. Because that's what Phantom does.

"No," Dash says.

Danny raises his head, hands dropping, and sneers over his shoulder. "No?"

Dash lifts his chin and nods, refusing to budge. "No."

Danny rakes his gaze over Dash, looking him up and down, and scoffs.

"I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about," Dash continues.

Danny laughs, cold and derisive. "That's what you think this is about? I can't believe this."

Dash crosses his arms, hiding his confusion behind his scowl. "You're not worried about that?"

"I was," Danny amends. "For about two seconds. Look, Dash, I don't want to... I don't know. I just don't want to."

"That's kind of stupid, Fenton. I could always just beat it out of you."

"You don't even know what it is!" Danny stands up and spins to face Dash. He reaches out, hands curled together, and throttles the open air. "Just leave me alone!"

"No." Dash takes a step forward, pushing Danny's hands down.

"Stop saying that!"

Dash steps forward again, peering down at Danny. They're practically nose to nose. "No," he hisses.

"I swear to god, the Infinite Realms, and the fucking Box Ghost, if you don't back. Off–"

Danny's hair stands on end, static shocks jump through it. Faster than Dash can react, Danny lunges forward, tackling him onto the roof hatch. An eardrum-shattering bang bursts through the air as lightning strikes the old radio tower. The excess electricity, searching for the nearest conductor, shoots toward the metal hatch currently acting as Dash's backrest.

Dash has a second to panic before the world goes cold around him. He drops through the roof into the gym, back slamming against the top row of bleachers, and rolls off the step.

Danny falls through the ceiling a second later, and the electricity comes with him. It stretches between Danny's back and the metal hatch, crackling and sizzling. Danny screams, curling in, aura turning blue. A burst of cold air pushes outward and suddenly everything around Danny is coated in ice. The electricity surges across the ice, springing into a fuse box on the wall behind Danny.

Every light in the gym bursts, sparks raining down, plunging the vast, empty room into darkness. Dash pulls himself up, rising onto trembling legs, and looks around. A few final sparks fall from the ceiling, fizzling out before they reach the floor. He can't see a single shred of light, not even under the doors on the other side of the gym.

The whole school is blacked out.

"Fenton," Dash whispers. He turns, too fast, and trips on the bench behind him. Careening forward, his arms windmill as he tries to catch himself. He hits something cold, smacking his chin against it, and narrowly misses biting his tongue in half.

Dash groans, rubbing his jaw, and carefully pulls himself up. His hands and knees slip on the ice. Now that his eyes are adjusting, he can see it gives off a slight light. Not enough to truly see by, but enough that he can find Danny's silhouette, slumped and human, at the ice's epicentre. He crawls forward and reaches out. A small static jump jumps from Danny's hair to Dash, making him flinch back.

Rubbing his finger, Dash shifts so that he's sitting. Carefully, he reaches out and taps Danny's head with his foot.

"Yo, Fenton," Dash whispers. It feels criminal to break the silence. "You dead? More dead?"

Danny mumbles something. His shoulders shift. His arm wiggles out from under him and grabs Dash's foot, shoving it away. He raises his head and glares at Dash, not that Dash can actually see it in this light.

"'M fine," Danny mutters.

Dash scoots back, giving Danny space, and strains his eyes, trying to see what Danny is doing. But it's too dark, so he gives up and settles against the wall.

Danny, coming to the same realization as Dash, pushes himself up with slow, painstaking movements. He huffs, thumps his back against the wall, and gets comfortable.

"You just got struck by lightning," Dash says.

"I got struck by indirect lightning," Danny corrects. His voice rough and his throat burns when he swallows. There's no blood on his tongue, though, so that's a bonus.

"And you're fine?"

"It shorts out my powers for a little bit, but it doesn't hurt much."

"You're lying."

"You don't know that!"

"Your voice does this wobbly thing when you lie. You're such a bad liar, Fenton."

Danny grumbles under his breath. "Why were you even on the roof in the first place?"

"It doesn't matter," Dash snaps defensively.

"Whatever."

They fall silent again. The school is supposed to have emergency lights for this kind of situation, but they don't appear to be working. Dash hopes the come on soon. He doesn't want to be stuck in here with Fenton. If he were really determined, he could try and feel his way down the bleachers, but he doesn't want to risk a fall.

Danny, caught on a similar vein of thinking, doesn't move either.

The silence is suffocating. It stretches between them, a vast chasm filled to the brim with repressed aggression. Dash can only take it for so long.

"How do you do it?" he blurts the question out after only a minute of silence.

"What?"

"The ghosts. They keep coming back, no matter how much you beat them down. How do you do it?"

Danny considers the question. Despite how stupid Dash is, he's not totally an idiot, and Danny can tell there's some hidden meaning in what he's asking. Danny's answer should be obvious. He does it because he needs to. Somebody has to keep Amity Park safe. Considering this whole mess is technically Danny's fault in the first place, he feels a little responsible for it and takes it into his own hands.

The wording throws Danny off. He doesn't beat his enemies down, he stops them. Dash makes it sound brutal, like a schoolyard fistfight.

"Dash." Danny's voice is strained. "Do you think you're like me? Phantom me, I mean."

He gets no answer.

"I swear, if you just nodded or something, I'm gonna punch you in the face."

"Why do you care?" Dash sounds defensive again.

Danny breathes in through his nose, a calming action, and exhales. "Do you think you're some kind of hero or something for beating people up?"

"You're the one who's always begging for it."

"I don't–" Danny shakes his head. He takes another deep breath. "You're serious? One hundred percent?"

Dash's silence is all the answer Danny needs.

"Oh my– wow. Dash. Just, wow. You're a real piece of work, you know that?"

"Hey, you don't get to say that. You don't know a damn thing about me!"

"I know you get your kicks out of beating the hell out of me. Because that's so damn heroic of you, isn't it? You are not a hero, okay? You're the worst."

"Screw you, Fenton! You don't get to talk shit about me like that. You're the one who's always getting in my way. Maybe if you just shut your mouth next time, I wouldn't have to shut it for you!"

"You know what, Dash? No. Fuck you!" Danny reaches into the darkness, searching, and latches on to the first piece of Dash he finds. He yanks Dash forward. "You know what the worst part about going to this school is? It's you. I'm afraid to come to school because I know you'll be here, waiting for me, ready to knock another took out. And I fight ghosts. Every day. I beat the ghost king. I've bent freaking reality. I've been electrocuted, shot, turned to goo, and you are still the worst thing that's ever happened to me! You're the villain, Dash!"

Dash grabs Danny's wrists. Rising to his feet, he drags them both upright. "You've got a big mouth for someone who's such a wuss."

The emergency lights finally snap on. They both wince, the sudden light blinding them, but Danny recovers faster. He swings his fist and punches Dash square in the face, breaking his nose. Dash's head snaps back with a spurt of blood. He stumbles back, feet sleeping on the ice, and clutches his face.

"What the hell!" he shouts, staring at the blood on his hand.

"Can't take a punch, Dash?" Danny sneers. He only has a second to prepare himself before Dash lunges. Confidence abandoning him, a primal fear rising up instead, Danny turns and sprints.

"I'm gonna kill you, Fenton!"

Danny believes him. On instinct, he leaps into the air, the fastest route of escape, and remembers too late that he can't fly right now. "Shit!" he shouts, flailing as he falls over the bleachers, the ground rapidly approaching. Panic shoots through him. He's going to land wrong and break his leg and then he won't be able to run, and catch will catch him, and he's definitely going to kill Danny this time.

The thought swells up in his head, suffocating any logical notions.

"Fenton!" Dash's voice, squeaky and panicked, rings out through the gym. It snaps Danny out of his spiralling thoughts long enough to remember he's a superhero, damn it, he knows how to talk a fall.

Just before he hits the bleachers, Danny kicks out, pushing himself off one of the benches. It jolts his leg and sends painful shivers radiating up the limb, but does the job well. He starts falling forward instead, rather than right down, barely missing the rest of the stairs. Leaning into the fall, he hits the ground shoulder first and rolls, letting the momentum bleed out. It's not his best recovery, and his shoulder and leg throb painfully, but nothing's broken.

Danny lays splayed out in the middle of the gym floor, panting. Distantly, he hears Dash's thundering steps as he books it down the stairs. He should get up and run while he can. But Danny's shaking all over and he thinks, if he were to stand up right now, he would just fall over. His body still aches from the brief electrocution.

"Fenton!" Dash says, his head popping into view above Danny. He looks conflicted, face red and angry, but honest worry in his eyes, like he can't decide if he should be glad Danny didn't become a pile of broken limbs on the bleacher, or if he should go ahead and break Danny himself.

And he can't decide. Dash is livid. Danny broke his damn nose! Dash wants to throttle him for that. But when he saw Danny falling over the stairs, one thought screamed in his head: he didn't want to watch Fenton die. For a moment, it overrode his anger with genuine concern. Now that he knows Danny is okay, though, that anger is quickly taking over again.

Danny, seeing Dash's shaking fists, thinks he knows an inkling of what's going through Dash's head right now. He pushes himself back, just in case Dash decides to stop on him. He's still too shaky to stand up right now.

Dash clenches his fists, then releases them, eyes closing. "What the hell is your problem, Fenton?" His voice is hollow.

Danny doesn't even dare to breathe.

Dash grits his teeth. "Fine, whatever, I don't care. I'm going to the nurse." He turns and heads for the doors.

Danny holds his breath until Dash leaves.

—

Tetslaff finds Danny in the gym. "Fenton?" she says, frowning in confusion. "What are you doing here? The students were all sent home."

Danny blinks at her slowly. "What?"

"You gonna learn in the dark?" Tetslaff holds the door open wider and jerks her thumb toward the hall. "Get out of here. No wonder Lancer was getting his panties in a twist, had no idea where you were."

"Oh. Sorry." Danny pushes himself up, wobbling a little, and shuffles toward Tetslaff. "No one was looking for me?"

"Your friends said you went home. Stomach bug." Tetslaff's eyes narrow. "Your sister vouched for you."

Danny freezes, hugging himself tightly. "Really? That's weird." He gives Tetslaff a shaky smile.

"You look like hell, Fenton. Go home. I won't give you detention, this time."

"Thanks," Danny mumbles. Once he's out of the gym, the urge to get out of there as fast as possible seizes him. He sprints down the hall, ignoring Tetslaff's half-hearted shout of, "No running!" and doesn't stop until he reaches the front doors, throwing them open.

Lightning flashes over the city, blinding him. He winces, ducking his head, raising an arm against the rain. He almost forgot about the thunderstorm. Glancing left, he scans the student parking lot. All he sees is an obnoxious yellow Humvee, no sign of Jazz's little Prius. She must have gone home with everyone else, thinking Danny was already long gone taking care of a ghost. He wishes he had been.

With no other option, Danny starts the walk home. The rain drenches him immediately, plastering his hair against his forehead. His shirt clings to his chest and jeans feel heavy and uncomfortable. Halfway down the block, he realizes he left his backpack at school. There's a history paper he needs to work on. Danny shakes his head and keeps walking. He can sneak back in later tonight when his powers are working again. His sleep schedule this week is already pretty much non-existent. What does one more all-night matter?

At the corner of the block, as Danny's waiting for the crosswalk light to come on, a vehicle pulls up on his left and honks. It's the Humvee from the school parking lot. Confused, Danny stares, unmoving. The window rolls down.

Dash glares at him from the driver's seat. "Are you getting in or not?" he asks.

"I– what?"

"I swear you're deaf sometimes. Are. You. Getting. In. Or would you rather walk home in this?" Dash drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "Hurry up, the rain's getting in!"

Danny scrambles forward, throwing the door open and slipping inside. The seat's a little wet, but it's infinitely better than being outside. Almost, Danny thinks, side-eyeing Dash. Neither of them says anything as he pulls up to the lights, which are red now.

Danny pushes his hair out of his face, slicking it back. The style's not half-bad. At least, he likes how it looks in Dash's side mirror. The light ahead of them turns green.

"Seatbelt," Dash says.

"Oh, yeah." Danny hurries to pull it on, clicking it in place. It rests a bit too high against his neck, rubbing uncomfortably below his jaw. "Dash–" he starts.

"Look–" Dash says at the same time. They both cut themselves off, sharing a glance. Danny motions for Dash to continues. "Look. I don't like you, Fenton. I guess I got issues and stuff, whatever, that's none of your business. But you're also a hero, and it'd be pretty stupid of me to beat up a hero."

"It's stupid of you to beat up anyone."

"Can you just, ugh." Dash groans. "I'm trying to apologize to you, moron."

"Well, you suck at it."

Dash seethes, banging his head against the steering wheel.

"Hey, watch the road!" Danny yelps, reaching out to grab the wheel.

Dash slaps his hand away. "Shut up, I know how to drive. Just, I'm sorry, okay?"

Danny frowns. A half-hearted apology doesn't make anything okay. But, at the moment, it's more than anything he's ever expected from Dash, so he'll take it. For now. "Fine."

"Good."

They don't say anything for the rest of the ride, suffering each other's presence until Dash pulls up in front of Fenton Works. Danny has the door open before the car reaches a complete stop, practically throwing himself to the sidewalk. He runs up the front path and slips inside without looking back.

"Danny!" Jazz calls from the living room. She stands up, approaching. "You're soaking wet. Where were you? What happened?"

Danny throws himself into Jazz's arms and cries.

—

Dash sits on the Fenton's curb for a minute before driving off. His house is in the completely opposite direction and now he has to head back toward the school. After going to the nurse, who had thankfully still been in the building, and getting his nose fixed up, Dash's only desire was to head home and immerse himself in video games.

Picking Danny up was a total fluke. He just looked so pathetic, trudging through the rain, and Dash couldn't leave him like that. The apology had been unexpected. Dash didn't realize he meant it until the words left his lips. He's still pissed at Danny for breaking his nose, but he didn't hit back, so that was a step up.

Dash sinks into his seat, staring at how the city lights glitter in the rain. Fenton still sucks. In fact, he sucks even worse now for actually making Dash feel bad about all the bullying. He's got a lot of thinking to do. Nothing he says or does will always what he's already said and done, but apologizing was a good way to start.

#phic phight #phic phight 2020 #danny phantom #dash baxter #danny fenton #danny phantom fanfiction #phanfic #phic #tumblroneshots #Danny needs a hug #he gets one don't worry #Dash needs a punch to the face #he gets that too #I hope you like it gorgi #I said I was gonna pay you back but I don't think this was angsty enough #it's more hurt/comfort #AT LEAST DANNY LIVED IN MINE

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pdrrook · 4 years

Note

Could we get a little snippet on Reed and MC's first meeting at the academy? Love this game to pieces!

It took some time, but here it is:

The air in the small, dim library is heavy with the musty stench of molding wood and a much lighter, yet just as jarring tang of ink and aged paper. The lingering aroma of faded emotions that cling to every surface of the room tickles your nose - the bitter tone of anger, the sharp flavor of sadness; burning in the back of your throat, acrid and choking.

That slight annoyance is a rather small price to pay for a moment of solitude you sought tirelessly for a better part of the afternoon. And though your victory is less than rewarding, you’ll have to make do with what you have.

Scrunching your nose to block off the persistent odor, you take a perfunctory look around your new-found hideout. It’s not much; that you can tell after the first glance. More of a storage than an actual library, but there’s enough space left between the tall shelves for a square table and a couple of folding chairs to be squished together in the corner.

There’s a window as well, positioned on the far end of the wall, and though small, it lets in just enough of light for you to stomp over the stacks of books without losing your balance completely.

When the sun, at least, peeks through the glass, the specks of dust glimmer like gold in the orange haze of the impending dusk.

With the space illuminated by a bright beam, the filth isn’t the only thing you see.

You haven’t noticed the boy before, well hidden as he is, but now that his hand moves to flip the page of the book he’s holding, he draws the entirety of your attention to himself. If only because his presence has caught you off guard.

You stagger back and a pair of warm, brown eyes flicker at you from behind a dark mop of hair. On someone else it’d look untidy, but the curly locks of soft hair frames his face in a way you’re tempted to call endearing.

But endearing or not, the reason you’ve found yourself here, in a secluded library, is the exact opposite of socializing. And so, with a fleeting grimace you’re unable to squander, you twist around, ready to leave this place and continue with your search.

A voice stops you however, before you can move but an inch.

“The seat’s free if you want it.”

Perhaps it’s the timbre; cold and detached, that causes you to turn right back. Or maybe it’s the weight of his eyes on the back of your head. Either way, as soon as you pivot, his focus returns to his book.

Out of sudden pricking curiosity, you take a gander at the cover. The thin brownish leather of unknown origin is worn and faded; the silvery lines that adorn the title are smeared out from age.

“Cat got your tongue?”

The jibe has your eyes snapping up to the boy’s mischievous ones. The smile that twists his face is in equal parts self-satisfied and flimsy. It fits him, even though it appears a little rough around the edges. As if he’s still learning to use it properly.

You know him. And that realization prevents you from gracing him with a response. You saw the boy enough times by now to recognize his features and that obnoxious aura around him that doesn’t quite match his scent.

A-something. One of the popular guys. It goes without saying that you didn’t expect to see him without his clique, all alone in a dusty library of all places.

His grin grows proportionally with the time you spend staring at him without a word. Then, one of his dark brows shots up in a tell that makes it clear he’s going to break the silence himself.

“What’s your name?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

The reply is out of your throat before you can stop yourself. But the moment you open your mouth, you know you just made a mistake.

The boy stares at you, gauging your reaction, studying you with such rapt attention it makes you feel not unlike the book he’s holding in his grip, now closed shut.

His scent screams of interest. And interest is the last thing you need, especially from someone as well-known around the Academy as he is.

But the damage, it seems, is already done.

“Mine’s Alcide,” he says, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. “Name, that is.”

“I didn’t ask.” If you sound irked, that’s because you are. Thought mostly at yourself for letting the situation escalate.

Alcide snorts, flashing you another one of his wide smirks. “Not very nice, are you? I don’t mind. You see, I--”

Oh, good, he’s a chatty one. Because that’s what you needed.

On the one hand, you could shut him up with a single word if you had half the mind to do so. It wouldn’t be hard to make him forget he’s ever met you. Here, with just the two of you, you’s be able to use your gift with no repercussions.

On the other hand, you can hardly afford to be caught red-handed. A failure could undo all your carefully crafted plans of surviving the Academy relatively unscathed.

So, with that issue in mind, you do what you should have done five minutes ago. You march to the door and yank it open.

Alcide is still in the middle of his monologue, talking at you, insisting on getting your name, as though it matters to him at all, as though he’s not the type to forget all about it come morning.

He pauses, or the loud wail of the rusty hinges interrupts his flow, but you’re already far outside of his field of vision, moving out of the door without as much as a ‘goodbye’.

His response is, once again, far from what you anticipated.

“Talk to you later!” He yells after you, perfectly polite, raising his voice so you can hear him over the squawk of the closing door. His tone is thick with amusement.

“Not freaking likely.”

The bark of delighted laughter follows you down the hallway, and though it seems impossible, you swear you hear your name, whispered into the silence.

But you’re completely alone when you look around. There’s not a soul around.

Just you.

#pfm #reed

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merakiaes · 4 years

Text

Crazy For You - Jack Thompson

Pairing: Jack Thompson x reader

Requested: By @trenchcoatedwings

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: Not proofread so I’m sorry for any possible mistakes in spelling or grammar. This is definitely not my best piece but I hope you like it anyway, let me know what you think xx

Wordcount: 2636

Summary: They say death brings people closer together, and you find out the hard way that a near-death experience does too.

Your heart was racing in your chest, thumping violently against your rib cage and rapidly pumping blood into your body to make up for the oxygen you were getting rid of post-haste.

Arms pumping and legs moving faster than ever before, you ran, turning left and right through the stale corridors of the underground military base, the underground enemy base, that you were currently trying to get out of with your brother and fellow agents.

“Before we die, I want you to know I’m sorry, Daniel.” You managed to get out through heavy breaths, turning another corner. “I never meant to kill your turtle when we were eight. It was an accident.”

“We are not going to die!” Your brother quickly fought back.

But he soon realized what you had just said and whipped his head around to face you, a deeply offended expression crossing over his features. “Wait, you killed Mr. Dirt?”

You guiltily smiled, but before you could say anything, Jack beat you to it, raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “You had a turtle?” He asked. “And out of every name you could’ve chosen, you chose to name him Mr. Dirt?”

Daniel panted, his chest rising and falling heavily. “He ate the dirt we put in his cage so it seemed fitting at the time but in hindsight I should’ve named him something else.” He admitted and despite the severity of the situation, you managed to press out a breathy chuckle.

“Can we please stop talking about turtles with uncreative names and get the hell out of here before someone gets hurt?!” Peggy interrupted your inconvenient conversation angrily, her brown eyes vivid as she looked between the three of you.

You instantly dropped the playful act and nodded your head, Jack and Daniel doing the same.

“Agreed.” Your brother breathed out.

You turned a few more corners, not really knowing where the hell you were going. The red lights and the blaring alarms were bright and loud, the blinking and the shrill echoing in your ears disorienting you.

But you kept going, until you turned a final right and were forced to come to an abrupt stop in order to not run straight into a wall.

You instantly started looking around for a way out, frustration building up in your chest when you found none. “Fuck, it’s a dead end.” You cursed, bringing your hands up to your head while hurriedly looking around.

While Peggy came to a stop beside you, Jack and Daniel jogged up to the wall, the latter instantly setting his eye on the tarp covering the concrete wall.

“No, no it’s not.” He said, quickly ripping the green tarp down to reveal a heavy-looking metal door.

A breath of relief left your lips and your brother turned to Jack, taking a stance by the door and nodding his head. “Give me a hand.” He said, but Jack was already on his way, tucking his gun into the hem of his pants and rushing up to help him.

They wasted no time in starting to shove against the door in synchronization, the loud bangs of their bodies hitting the metal echoing off the walls.

Peggy and yourself stayed by the corner, guns at the ready and looking down the corridor you had just come through, getting more anxious for every second passing when the sounds of loud voices yelling in German reached your ears, followed shortly by thundering footsteps.

“They’re closing in on us!” Peggy yelled back to Jack and Daniel, expressing your thoughts, and you quickly had to hide behind the wall for cover when the German agents appeared from behind the corner down the hallway and opened fire against you.

Luckily, as you began running back to where Daniel and Jack were, the door fell off its rusty hinges right then, revealing a new, dark corridor, only dimply lit up by a bright light at the end of it.

With your suspicious nature you didn’t want to go in without having a look around first, but you had no other choice.

Even if you had chosen to stay and fight, you didn’t have enough ammunition to take down twenty angry Germans, but they sure did have enough to take down the four of you.

You snapped back to reality at the sound of more gunshots, feeling your shirt sleeve being tugged a second later.

You raised your head to meet your brother’s brown eyes, finding that Peggy and Jack had now gone ahead.

“Come on!” He yelled at you over the loud noises, giving your sleeve another tug, and you nodded, the two of you breaking into a sprint.

You caught up with Jack and Peggy without any trouble, but sadly, the Germans were closing in on you quicker and quicker, bullets soon ricocheting of the walls around you with bright, red embers.

As the four of you raised your hands to your heads to cover yourself from the flying bullets, Jack and Daniel hid behind some crates and started firing back while you and Peggy kept running.

They moved after you again as the Germans were slowed down, but before you could get any further, you felt a sharp jolt of pain shoot through your back and then your side.

A yell of pain left your lips before you had even been able to process what had happened, and Jack and Daniel both turned back to look at you with wide eyes.

“(Y/N)!” Peggy, who was still beside you, gasped out, rushing to catch you when you stumbled into the wall, a hand pressed against the wound right by your stomach where the bullet had gone straight through.

“Oh, shit.” Jack cursed as he reached you, watching you as you held your shaky hand out, your palm and fingers now drenched in your own blood.

Daniel took Peggy’s spot by your side, breathing out your name and gingerly touching your wound, but quickly pulled his hand back when you hissed in pain.

Jack quickly untucked his shirt from his pants and ripped off some of the fabric, reaching it out to Daniel who wasted no time in pressing it against your wound.

They were all panicking, trying to decide what to do with the enemies catching up to you, and you barely being able to hold on to your consciousness where you stood leaned between the wall and your brother.

Jack pulled his hands over his head, messing up the blonde, neatly pulled back hair in the process. And then he let out a deep breath, making a decision for all of them.

He put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, offering him a nod when he looked up at him. “I got her.” He said, not bothering to wait for his reply before he started moving him out of the way to take you into his arms.

“No, give her to me. (Y/N).” Daniel wasted no time in protesting, trying to get back to you, but Peggy stopped him, forcing him to look at her with a hand to his cheek.

“You can barely run by yourself, if you don’t let him take her then we’re all dead.” She pointed out and he tensed his jaw, breathing heavily through his nose.

Jack carefully took your arm and wrapped it over his shoulder, holding on to your hand and your waist with his other arm. “I’ve got her. I won’t let anything happen to her.” He assured your brother. “You have my word.”

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded. “Okay, okay, go. Take the lead.” He rushed out through heavy breaths and Jack wasted no time in heading forward.

“Cover us.” He said, and Peggy and Daniel did just that, taking on all of the fire.

You struggled to keep your eyes open, feeling your heartbeat get weaker for every second passing. But you held onto Jack as good as you could, your legs limply stumbling along and your head lulling against his shoulder.

“Jack…” You managed to get out through coughs, not even having the energy to flinch when Jack’s hand pressed down harder on your gunshot wound.

“I’ve got you, doll.” He breathed back, looking down at you for a brief moment before turning his head back forward. “Just hold on to me, we’re almost there. Keep your eyes open, stay awake for me.”

You numbly managed to nod your head, but only a second later, you could feel yourself slipping away.

You tried to hold on, but for every second passing, it got harder and harder, each one of your senses slowly disappearing.

“Stay awake…” You could hear him saying through the thick water-like pressure that was building up in your ears, the last thing you saw being his green eyes and face lighting up, before the light took your vision away and you went limp in his arms.

Hadn’t it been for Jack carrying you out of there and back to safety, you wouldn’t have made it. Had you received medical attention just five minutes later, you would’ve bled out and lost the fight.

You owed him for a lifetime, and so did Daniel, the way he saw it. The limping man had thrown his arms around his superior the second he came back after dropping you off with the doctors, thanking him for saving his sister’s life.

The bullet had gone straight through you so no surgery was needed, and stitching you up had gone without any complications.

During the time you were out, Jack hadn’t left your side once, fueling himself on caffeine and refusing to leave even when Daniel and Peggy told him to.

Three days later, you woke up, and now you had been awake for a day, during which Jack had also been glued to your side.

When Daniel had told you that he had stayed with you the entire time, you had found it sweet, but now that you were awake, it was beginning to get on your nerves.

“Do you need anything? Water? Another pillow? Are you hungry?” Jack asked for what seemed to be the hundredth time as he sank back down into the chair by the side of your bed, now holding a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

While he raised the cup to his lips and took a gulp, you rolled your eyes, snuggling further back into your pillow and hissing lightly when you felt the skin around your wound being pulled as a consequence of your movements.

“No, I’m fine, Jack.” You told him anyway, forcing yourself to push the pain away to give him a sarcastic smile. “As I’ve told you twenty times over the spawn of the last five minutes.”

He let out a tired breath, leaning back into his chair and spreading his legs, leaning his elbow on the armrest and his chin in his hand. “I know, I’m sorry. I just…” He sighed again, before offering you a small smile. “You gave us quite a scare.”

“Yeah....” You drawled, turning your head away from him and closing your eyes, a sudden wave of tiredness taking over you. “But I’m alright now so you don’t have to stay.”

“I want to.” He answered without missing a beat, causing you to turn your head back to face him and your eyes to squint in suspicion.

“Why?” You asked, and he shrugged.

“Because I care about you. You know that.”

“Do I?” You tilted your head to the side and raised an eyebrow.

He only gave you a stern look, and the corners of your lips pulled upwards at that. “Care about me as in you… care about me?” You asked softly and he smiled, nodding his head.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t really need any verbal confirmation to know, but when you got it, you could feel your entire body growing warm, your heart swelling in your chest.

“And here I was thinking that all of the flirting was just a pathetic attempt to get in my pants.” You joked, making him chuckle.

“Well, yeah, that too.” He confessed. “And I wouldn’t say it was pathetic…”

“It was.” You quickly pitched in, laughing.

He laughed along with you, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the process and his green orbs sparkling with amusement.

Once your laughing had died down into a light snicker, you turned serious again, slowly reaching your hand out for his knee.

His eyebrows shot up in surprise at the small touch but the teasing demeanor was evident on his face when he met your eyes again.

“I care about you, too.” You confessed with a smile, and watched as his entire face pulled into smug smirk.

“I knew you did.” He replied and you scoffed, removing your hand from his leg and turning your gaze to the ceiling.

“You just had to go and ruin the moment, didn’t you?” You asked chuckling, shaking your head lightly. “Idiot.”

You kept your gaze on the ceiling but in the corner of your eye you could see him put the coffee cup away and scoot his chair closer to the bed.

Before you knew it, his face was only a small distance away from yours where your head still rested on the fluffy pillow, his exposed elbows leaning on the side of the mattress.

“You know…” He drawled, eyes twinkling. “That’s not what a ‘thank you for saving my life’ sounds like.”

You scoffed again, something you seemed to be doing a lot when around him. “Bite me.”

“I’d love to.” He, once again, didn’t miss a beat, his eyebrows shooting up teasingly.

You could feel your neck and ears growing hot, but you still didn’t break the stare. “It wasn’t an invitation.” You mumbled, trying your hardest to hold back the smile threatening to break out on your face.

Jack only smirked, reaching his hand up to your head and touching a strand of your hair. “Sure sounded like one to me.” He mumbled back, holding your gaze.

The smile was impossible to hold back at this point, and, almost as if moving on autopilot, your hand came up to caress his stubbly jaw.

“Come here…” You whispered and he did just that, allowing you to pull his face closer to yours and responding immediately when you pressed your lips to his.

Your lips parted slightly into the kiss, allowing your lips to mold together even more, and soon you could feel Jack’s hand at the back of your head, the warmth of his palm radiating onto your scalp.

Your hand stayed on his cheek, the kiss lasting for another moment before you pulled apart.

When you did, your foreheads pressed together and your eyes remained closed, the two of you just taking a moment.

You could hear him swallow and felt his fingers gently stroke your hair, the feeling bringing a smile to your swollen lips.

Opening your eyes, you found that he was doing the same thing at the exact same time, your eyes meeting and gazing deeply into each other’s.

“Was that a good enough thank you?” You whispered, but rather than getting a smile back, you watched as his eyebrows knotted together, his head shaking and your foreheads rubbing together in the process.

“No…” He whispered back, his unreadable expression, for a moment, making your heard flutter with worry; worry that you’d done something wrong.

But then he raised his other hand and lightly moved his thumb over your cheek, the corners of his lips twitching with a smile. “I think I’m gonna need some more convincing.”

Your smile widened again at that but before you got the chance to say anything else, his lips were back on yours, your eyes fluttering back shut.

If you had known before that a near-death experience was what it was going to take for him to stop fucking around like his usual playboy self, come clean about his feelings and to bring you together, then you would’ve thrown yourself into the line of fire a long time ago.

You were just crazy like that, but it was okay, because he was crazy too…

Crazy for you.

Tagged: @corishirogane3 @trenchcoatedwings @microwaved-timmies

(If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, send me a message, ask or leave a comment)

#jack thompson x reader #jack thompson #jack thompson imagine #marvel #marvel one shot #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #chad michael murray #agent carter #peggy carter #daniel sousa #captain america #steve rogers

168 notes · View notes

lallemcnt · 4 years

Text

i've got nothing to lose (with you) 🌊 (4.7k)

let's see: eliott and le gang on a mini get-away outside of france, inspired (superficially) by the scottish highlands; this is very much a piece centred on eliott's thoughts and feelings, everything else is secondary.

or, a pining, friends to lovers au

A house on the river with a white chipped window overlooking green valleys of soft-petaled ivory rose caninas fighting for land with the stone brambles and butter-yellow honeysuckle. Within minutes of their arrival, Eliott moved a rusty looking bottle-green desk directly in front of this window, as though compelled from an outside force. The valley demands his undivided attention at a time where the sky is in a perpetual state of change, transitioning from colour to colour as though indiscriminately picking shades on a colour wheel; specks of fuchsia accidentally blending and bleeding into a rust-orange and a startling red, colours which never turn out quite so captivating on a phone camera. Dusk recalls the beauty of the day, unwinding time and caressing the flowers that dare to grow at higher altitudes. Eliott sits there on what once was a rather plush seat, but now torn down the middle so he can feel the wooden foundations beneath him. Admiring the landscape as he cracks open the spine of a new notebook he uncaps a black pen. It hovers there with possibility for a few minutes until Eliott sighs and recaps it resting his face in his hand staring out the white chipped window.

Footsteps echo above him, muffled voices and slamming doors. He tries to find some inspiration within these movements and sounds but all ideas elude him. It’s been like this for the past two months so when Basile mentioned his parents had a little place a channel away he thought it fateful, fortuitous; a change in scenery from the humid city, away from the lungfuls of pollution to the countryside, a different country; a different language and culture — the endless opportunities for observation. He thought nature would spark something, get the ideas storming, the pen flowing, but he’s an empty machine. No feelings he can scratch out on paper or phone despite being told by everyone he’s ever loved that he feels so much. That he is an endless vacuum of emotions. He even bought a stupid notebook when he’s used to writing down ideas on the notes app on his phone. Maybe an alternative medium would strike an unknown area of his brain filled to bursting with worlds unlike his own. But, he’s being hard on himself, they have only been here a day. He has time.

A knock at the door has him looking over his shoulder before glancing once more out the window.

“Hey.” is all he says.

The door creaks at the hinges as footsteps pad towards him. The tips of fingers against his back almost makes him sigh out loud. It’s not a purposeful touch, it’s the simple act of fingers curling round the frame of his chair accidentally grazing his t-shirt, eliciting painful butterflies in his stomach. Eliott has imagined that touch filled with intention and it’s all he can do not to slip his hand over Lucas’, brush his thumb over the skin and tilt his head back to gaze into those eyes. Eliott wraps his arms around his stomach instead, biting down on his bottom lip.

“Nice view.” Lucas comments.

Now this is someone Eliott could have written many a poetry collection about. Forty poems in verse regaling their childhood mischief. Lucas the leader in all their make-believe games from the moment they ate their last spoonful of cereal until the moon was in full bloom, their parents having to threaten their separation for the rest of the holidays if they didn’t climb down from Lucas’ treehouse. He could lament over Lucas’ hair darkening from a dirty blond to a chestnut brown during which first kisses were had, Eliott broke his elbow falling off a skateboard and Lucas was there, leading him aside and letting him cry — insisting that he didn’t think any less of Eliott whose cheeks were flushed and stained with tears, hands clenched into fists from embarrassment. He had cried numerous times in front of Lucas, but this time had an undercurrent to it, a vulnerability marked by the changing of tides and secrets of the night; seeing Lucas began to evoke new sensations he hadn’t felt since his first kiss — a nervousness that had his hands shaking and his stomach turning. Eliott Demaury could craft twenty-one sonnets about this boy’s hands and the journey of emotions he has encountered over the years since his realisation. Though something about it doesn’t feel right, using pen and paper to express these feelings. The sentiments morph, become corrupted and lose their potency. They become the words at the end of a sentence squished in, overlapping each other, and cut off at the end, no room for them. No place for them in his heart. He believes those words are for Lucas. Someday. And only spoken among them are they meant to touch the world.

Lucas’ fingers poke Eliott’s back as he speaks. “I think everyone’s about to eat; Yann’s cooked some spaghetti.”

Dropping his head back to rest on the chair he finally meets that gaze; dark blue eyes inquiring, strands of brown hair brushing a strong nose, and Eliott responds: “Mmm, sounds good.”

Lucas shakes his head in a well, are you coming? gesture and Eliott only nods.

They continue to look at each other, searching for what Eliott knows not, only that they could both do this for years. Oh, it’s not romantic, though the scene has all the players and the setting to forge a wondrous story of fate and destiny, no such eventuality could Eliott lay claim to when it comes to Lucas. Their staring contests are the makings of legends, they could stare for France at the Olympics. That was Lucas' idea when they were twelve, to enter the Guinness Book of World Records. If only Eliott could telepathically communicate his love through his stare, he would be saved from the mortifying ordeal of laying his soul bear for Lucas to potentially stamp on, to do with what he will. The odds were not in his favour.

The next moment Lucas is grabbing him by the wrists tugging him to his feet. “What were you doing?”

A loud sigh. “Trying to write.”

“Ah.” A voice filled with understanding and sympathy.

“Yes.”

“I have no words of encouragement. Knowing you you’ve watched a hundred videos on how to get inspiration so, for now, let’s just have some fun this weekend,” He mines the breaststroke. “If you manage to write something, if only a three word sentence then great. If you don’t well then I’ll have to reset your brain or something.”

“I guess.” He’s feeling a bit dispirited is all.

“It’s the only plan I’ve got so you can either take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take anything you give me.” It’s out before he can stop it and he has no time to freak the hell out or try and amend this faux pas because that’s when they are summoned.

“FOOD IS READY!” bellows a voice from deeper inside the house. Basile.

“Just in time.” Lucas smiles, dragging Eliott along behind him, like he doesn’t trust him to not sit at that desk, staring out the window for the foreseeable evening to come. Eliott is a dreamer after all, it can’t be helped.

All the knowing brings a small smile to Eliott’s lips, Lucas catches it and a laugh bubbles out of his throat his grip tightening on Eliott’s wrist. He wonders if that’s what love is. Knowing. For some people the learning process is what keeps them in love, and for the others who have already mapped out the insides of each other, know them as intimately as they do their own body. What about them? Is it in the relearning? Rediscovering the constellations of their mind, the breadth of their movement and the deepest, most darkest secrets at their core where the imaginary apple tree blooms from all the seeds they dared to swallow as kids.

“Idiot,” Lucas whispers.

“Yeah, you are.” Eliott quips right back.

Lucas shrugs his shoulders, grinning. “Eat your spaghetti, dumbass.”

Eliott acquiesces and brushes his fingers over Lucas’ skin, where they do nothing but slightly graze, just once.

The evening brings them around a crowded table covered in an ugly mauve table cloth, five empty glasses holding it in place, and Eliott feels like it’s all a bit biblical. A cornucopia of sorts with the big spaghetti dish in the centre, napkins laid under cutlery, and — yes, lit candle sticks holding court at either end, illuminating the richness of the tomato sauce and the plates precariously positioned near the edges of the table.

“ELIOTT!” Basile yells the instant Lucas and Eliott enter the kitchen slash dining space.

“He made fucking placement cards.” Arthur chortles, shoving one in Lucas’ face, who grabs at it laughing.

Basile looks indignant, his ears flushing pink. He begins shepherding Yann to begin serving their food, refusing to look at the other boys, and Eliott’s heart pangs in his chest even when he knows that Arthur is only taking the piss, he means nothing by it. He can’t but help feel empathy in any given situation, because he was cursed to feel every fucking emotion in the world. He wishes there was an off switch as quick and easy as turning of the light but for your emotions.

And right on cue, “Baz, I’m joking!” Arthur grabs the place card back from Lucas and when Basile doesn’t respond, he looks around at Yann and Lucas for support, like did I misstep that badly?

“I was joking, Baz. Basile. Baz! I’ll do your stupid laundry for the rest of this trip if you open your mouth.”

Baz glares at Arthur while opening his mouth into an o shape.

“What the fuck.” he falls to his knees at Baz’s feet and throws his hands over his heart in mock anguish.

“That’s only two days.”

Relief spreads over Arthur’s face. “You prick. And for the next five days when we’re back home.”

Baz smiles. “Okay.” Just before Arthur wraps his arm around Baz's neck, roughing up his head and causing Basile to shout his head off like an idiot.

Yann and Lucas exchange an amused look as they take their assigned seats at the table. Eliott slides into his seat, taking the proffered orange juice from Baz and sighing quietly as the cool liquid hits the back of his throat.

Beers are passed around, spaghetti is ladled into ceramic bowls and bellies are satiated. It only takes five minutes before the toasts begin — it’s a slight downgrade from Shakespeare, but Eliott isn’t the biggest fan of his works anyway. These monologues do not bore him to tears, they manage the feat of the opposite; a well of innocence and love and disaster (in the best way) — and Eliott can feel his stomach cramping from the laughter to come. Baz’s excitement is an energy source of its own, powering up each boy in turn and only encouraged more by the alcohol in their veins. He thanks them for coming, his curls bouncing as he hugs each of them and kisses their temples in turn, giving a special wink to Eliott. This prompts Lucas to raise his eyebrows and air kiss Eliott in jest; Yann clutches his heart and narrows his eyes at Lucas in betrayal. But the real jester is Eliott’s heart, making a mockery of him.

There is something about the sun glistening on the water, the sparkles of light suggesting an underworld, and the heat and the tender breeze which fosters an exuberant vitality among these boys. Jumping into the rushing water like the rocks within aren’t sharp as nails, as fierce and demanding as deities demanding human blood. Embracing the camaraderie that comes from being complete idiots and living to tell the tale. Defying the ancient gods. Eliott has noticed his regard for his own life has drastically lowered since his acquaintance with Lucas’ school friends; they are wild and high-spirited that when their energies are fused together you have never seen a more brazen display of the human idiocy. Eliott came to the conclusion upon their second meeting that they share a single brain cell between them, no more no less. Their presence demands he shed his insecurities and feelings of inadequacy, that he be instead audacious so sometimes he finds himself retreating and requiring a few moments by himself just so he can keep up, reset and recharge.

Watching the other four attempt to kayak down the river, watching Lucas rub a hand across his throat where a collection of moles stand out against his tan skin has Eliott feeling some type of way. A nostalgia clings to him, the echoes of childhood innocence — running around with paint-stained hands intertwined, breaking the last cookie in half because they couldn't bear the thought of not experiencing every delicious moment of life together with the one person who they could just be with. The one who made them want to be bold. A time before feelings were made complicated and repressive by adult sensibilities and expectations. It’s a nostalgia breeding a melancholy Eliott feels too young to be unraveled by, because he is so very lucky to even be known quite this intimately by a person; it gives rise to a loneliness he feels no right to. He has to look away from Lucas before he gasps out loud because it will be obvious then. And he doesn’t know what he’d do if he was found out, because that’s the scary thing. He already made a mistake yesterday. He cannot give up now. He’s been good so far. Acted the performance of his life. He’s an artist. A master of repression.

But now he is in danger, at the precipice of possibility, because the way Lucas has been looking at him when he thinks Eliott isn’t looking; the tilt of his head, the softening of his brow and that gentle smile without any mischief behind it is simultaneously tearing at Eliott’s heart but also the last image he would want to see before closing his eyes forever. He doesn’t know when exactly it happened but he lost control somewhere along the way; in between the little moments when he lets himself dream, giving the reins of control over to his hapless thoughts filled with impossibilities and infatuation. Beneath the sheets of his bed where he can exist as he is. A multitude of muscles and tissue, blood and bones sinking into the safety of the mattress as his mind is whisked away by a boy sprinkling him in fairy dust and offering him the chance to fly.

It’s catching up to him now, he can feel it rising. A tidal wave promising to consume him, reveal him. His skin is sticky from the sun, it feels too tight. His throat is aching, a sob threatens to betray him. He wants to scratch at his throat to relieve the pressure; he needs to scream until he can no longer produce sound. Until he is an empty vessel incapable of such visceral emotion. He wants to tear out his hair. This loneliness so rapidly evolving into a creature of frustration, of anger. How haven’t they noticed? How can’t they see this volatile species among them? Can’t they feel the very toxicity in the air?

Eliott hits the surface of the lake hard. The initial pain of impact, welcome — a moment of distraction as he is plunged deep into the open arms of the biting cold and opens his jaw to let loose this beast of rage. Furious with himself for being so completely selfish, for having allowed this self-pity to threaten a friendship he would sell his soul to save, to keep forever close to his chest. To that organ known to most animals and at the centre of some of the most tragic and romantic sonnets found in between must-smelling pages and on the rough skin of ageing humans. Though not all the words are without detrimental consequences, Eliott feels like a letter on the verge of changing the entire meaning of a sentence. The power in his hands to rewrite the narrative so he can finally have what he has been waiting for for years. But nothing is without consequences.

Sometimes Eliott thinks about how life is made up of doing things you don’t want to do with small moments of reprieve in and amongst the mess, the stress, finding the will to carry on. The reality is that he doesn’t want to tell Lucas. He really doesn’t. He has contented himself with admiring from afar. Until it gets to be too much. He would rather know him in this way, as a friend, till his last breath than compromise a relationship that has given him more than he deserves, more than he has ever been able to give back. A bond that sets his blood racing, his heart soaring and his body an ardent vivacity of courage and pure, uncorrupted joy. Like a river discovered on a blisteringly hot day, where your fingers have swollen up in the clutch of the silver rings you wear and you want to strip off every piece of clothing clinging to your sweaty skin and it’s that instant relief, that feeling that you could live in the water forever. Your hair soaked and plastered to your neck and the sun that was only seconds ago unforgivably hot is now a blissful pleasure against wet skin. Lucas is solace in a world that too often demands him to not be himself. To just be okay at its call.

Here’s a not quite secret: Lucas knows.

Floating to the surface, his back to the sun, Eliott folds his limbs inwards as the pressure for oxygen begins to sing in his veins. Calling him back to the present to face the world he has made. The first breath is purely human instinctual relief at the intake of a luscious breath of air. The second slows his heart down a fraction. The third is coincides with a minor skip of a heart beat as Elliott shoves wet hair from his watery eyes and sees lean muscled shoulders. Get the fuck together, Eliott. He pushes himself out of the water and it’s as though he wasn’t listening before, as though his thoughts blocked the functionality of his ears, because as soon as he leaves the water laughter pierces the air, cut short when Eliott flops down beside Yann.

Yann immediately reveals that Lucas has an idea, and Eliott’s groan is an automatic response, he throws an arm over his eyes, closing them against the sun.

“So Lucas was thinking—”

“—I was thinking we should race down that hill—”

“—You mean mountain.”

Lucas scoffs. “It’s hardly a mountain.”

“No thanks, I’m cool. You guys can though. I’ll chill here.”

Eliott’s bent knee collapses to the floor as Lucas kicks at his leg. “What?” he asks, annoyed.

“I’ll do it if you do it.”

“Ha, yeah right.”

“I promise. Eliott, I swear I’ll do it.”

“And where has trusting your word ever got me, Lallemant?”

Lucas rolls his eyes. “Pinky promise?”

Eliott laughs.

“Spit shake.”

That’s basically kissing is Eliott’s first thought. “No thanks.”

“You’re acting like you don’t trust me.”

“I literally do not trust you.”

At Lucas’ hurt expression Eliott feels more defensive than guilty like he normally would. He’s tired of this day. He wants to sleep for twelve hours straight.

“It’s a fucking mountain. I don’t want to die.” he gestures emphatically to the mountain. Arguably, the distance is not far but Eliott’s not the biggest fan of running at such a steep, vertical angle. Knowing him, he would twist his ankle and break an arm versus the rather athletic Lucas and Yann, co-captains of a baseball team. “I have a headache.” he adds, not looking at either boys’ face.

Closing his eyes once more and longing for the privacy of the river; the secrets beneath the rolling surface of the azure water, conversation becomes muffled as Eliott finds his stasis. Lolled by the constant rush of water, Eliott is ignorant to his environment, though not frightened when his vision turns from a burning blood-red to a muted orange. He blinks an eye open and Lucas is there, a slight furrow in his brow, his lips a firm line.

He whispers, “You okay? We’re gonna be over there.”

Eliott nods.

“Okay.” Lucas brushes one hand through the hair framing Eliott’s hair, his long, callused fingers moving carefully. He finishes with a pinch of Eliott’s chin and sprints away, Eliott assumes, after Yann.

What if he let it all go? What if he let himself look at Lucas and touch his hand? Could he do it without having to justify it to himself and the world?

Lucas’ bedroom sits two doors down from Eliott’s at the end of the hall. It has a white door with blue accents like every other door in this house and it’s slightly open. It’s a sign Eliott decides because he needs one to do this. He needs every last ounce of courage available to him because everything is about to change. Whether it is small or life-shaking, and he doesn’t have to do this. But he does.

One step. He watches his foot take the next and next and three more until he is two steps away from being seen. That is if Lucas is on his bed, but if he’s only the other side of the room, then Eliott has more time to second guess this endeavour. He doesn’t know which to wish for. He is one step away and no Lucas. A breath out, his stomach clenches. Okay.

Walking into the room with all the confidence he doesn’t possess, Eliott bounces onto Lucas’ bed and leans up against the wall, and there the other boy is reading a book for school in a wooden rocking chair by a dusty looking mirror, half concealed by a brown throw. Meanwhile Eliott is being sucked in by the loveliest mattress his butt has ever had the pleasure to rest on. The duvet smells like Lucas.

“Fuck, this bed is so much bigger than mine.” he announces, shuffling down onto his back.

Lucas wiggles his eyebrows. “Lots of star fishing has happened there.”

“I bet.”

He has made it this far. Maybe with Lucas engrossed in his book it will be easier. The first part anyway, because he has no doubt Lucas will either try to avoid eye contact all together or shut the conversation down within seconds because he doesn’t like Eliott in that way.

“I like you.” Eliott clarifies. His throat tightening. He can’t believe he said it, he’s not known for being the most loquacious about his feelings. Despite being sensitive and greatly empathic, this does not extend to how he treats himself. Vocalising his turmoil is new and uncomfortable; he doesn’t feel like he can breath better, there’s not relief in it. He counts to ten and tilts his head up to examine Lucas who is staring intently at his book, his face a mirror of shock and fear. But Eliott’s not exactly sure if it is shock at his love or the act of the revelation itself.

Lucas clears his throat. “I don’t want things to change,” closing his book around his finger to hold his page, he licks his lips as his shoulders curl in slightly. Eliott is a hurricane, wrecking devastation and warning signs are blaring in his head to get out, get out, get out! “I do know that I like you.” And then all is quiet in his mind as he lowers his head back to the mattress. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands; folding them behind his head then across his stomach, the puzzle pieces not fitting. His stomach is clenched in preparation for a fall, for someone to jump out with a camera and say he’s been punked, for Lucas to bust out laughing and divulge his prank to the boys. He was expecting rejection so this is new and he can’t quite believe it. This isn’t going according to plan. Lucas isn’t supposed to say I like you. What the hell is happening.

Sitting up, Eliott can feel his face tightening and he’s confused as he gets to his feet, drifting towards Lucas’ bedroom door like a lone breeze. The light catches Lucas’ hair, lightening the tips to a golden brown and Eliott’s heart is in his throat, his jaw clenching he needs out of this space. He’s almost out the door but Lucas has somehow slipped in front of him, framed in the doorway and he fills the frustration building up.

“Hey.” Lucas’ voice is soft as he searches Eliott’s face, taking in his fists at his sides and the pronounced jaw line. He reaches up and rubs gentle circles just beneath Eliott’s ear; taking one of his fists in his own hands, he runs a callused finger over knuckles and under to where fingers are curled inwards. Lucas is not met with resistance because Eliott’s fingers unfurl and Lucas is slotting his own in between and Eliott is losing his breath, it’s been stolen, he can’t get it back and his eyes are near to welling up.

They drift towards the bed, Eliott floating, not registering any physical movements beyond their intertwined fingers, the soft pressure of Lucas grip on his own hand is a masterpiece. He is sitting down, in the middle of the bed and Lucas is sitting on his knees on top of the blankets, their hands hang in the space between them.

“How about this,” Lucas says, decisively, his gaze drifting from their hands. He shifts forward moving closer to Eliott, “We try. We don’t force anything. If it doesn’t feel right we stop, because I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Eliott. Fuck, that’s what terrifies me most. But I think we would both regret it if we didn’t try and I really fucking want to. Eliott?”

Right, he needs to speak. Say something. He shifts closer to Lucas, not quite believing what he’s hearing. Unlacing their hands he brushes his free hand through Lucas’ hair before pulling him in for a hug. Breathing in his scent which is tangy from the citrusy soap they’ve all been using, but the underlying cedar-wood, jasmine and toothpaste is there and it feels like safety. “You like me, too?” his voice is low.

Lucas’ laughter vibrates against his chest bringing a smile to Eliott’s lips, he pulls back and pecks Lucas’ forehead before returning his face to his neck and Lucas tightens his hold. And he swears he hears him say so much. Eliott knows he is in love, but this is enough for now. He would broach that later on. This he would trade for anything. The feel of Lucas in his arms, their chests pressed against each other, the feeling of Lucas’ plush lips against his neck and the warm feeling in his stomach. He is in elated shock and nothing can touch them, they have fallen into their pocket of space and time, they are safe.

“How are you this warm?” Eliott wonders aloud, pulling back from the hug, his eyes darting to Lucas’ lips. “Can I kiss you, Lallemant?”

Lucas reclaims the space between them, securing his ankles behind Eliott’s back, he quirks an eyebrow and presses his lips together. Eliott is bewitched by those lips. What secrets and answers do they hold? Are they as soft as they appear?

“Okay.”

And Lucas is leaning forward, his eyes flickering from Eliott’s eyes to his lips and back again, he brushes his nose up the side of Eliott’s and back down again. His eyes lock on Eliott’s blue fading into a lighter blue-grey. Eliott can’t help but brush the tips of their noses, then he slants his mouth upwards, tipping his chin and this is new, because whenever he imagined them kissing, him kissing Lucas, he was always leaning downwards because of their heights, but here Lucas is sitting in his lap with this lips hovering just millimetres above his own and it’s everything he has ever wanted. The second brush of their lips is lost completely to the thunderous sensations of the first and it’s vertigo from here on out.

#elu #elu fic #skam france #eliott demaury #lucas lallemant #my writing

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Note

“I can’t imagine this place being used for anything good, not with all that blood all over the walls.”

“To err is human, to dream divine."

W anyone ya want to really^^

You’re standing in the pouring rain. It’s raining so hard you can barely keep your eyes open. The heavy, relentless drops are beating on you, dozens of times per second, and despite your attempt at preparation - a bright yellow poncho that you snagged at the last dingy rest stop on the way to this godforsaken piece of no-mans-land - you’re soaked through anywhere that peeked out. Your hands, are wet and icy cold. So is your face and you’re starting to get soaked through your collar.

The dark sky turned white with a few flashes of lightning. Shadows of the surrounding dense forests reached into the heavens behind the two story antebellum mansion. It loomed over the flat land with a menacing presence. Its formal gleaming whitewashed façade was darkened by climbing ivy. Its painted columns were running with cracks. The wood was split underneath like shattered old bones.

You shiver with more than just cold.

Your professors looked at you in confused sympathy when you entered Cassell College. You barely passed the 3E exam as a base C-Rank. Professor Schneider passed your name on the list of potential commissioners and you were happy to spend your days examining your love of ancient Aztec art in the hopes of specializing in MesoAmerican Archeaology.

Of course, you passed all the classics on dragon genetics and weapons engineering but with the most useless Soul Skill on all of Campus, you figured you’d hardly matter when it came to dragon slaying.

Norma told you in a forced optimistic voice that only two other hybrids had been documented with the Soul-Skill Devour. It meant that the user could make themselves immune to all toxins and could digest anything they swallowed. It may sound neat on the surface, however, it didn’t change the fact that a person might not want to eat odd things or that it would taste and feel terrible going down.

Because it is such a weak Soul Skill and it was documented, your Soul Skill ended up on public record. You spent the rest of your college days being known as the student who could ‘eat shit and NOT die’ and fielding dares to swallow everything from the most toxic substances to the most disgusting, and fielding invitations to the Gear Department for what was presumably lunch as well as testing.

So when you got the summons to report to the Executive Department, you thought it was a joke and didn’t bother replying until you got a second email explaining that if you didn’t show up you would be expelled.

“All Cassell College Alumni must have an internship and participate in missions for graduation.” Norma patiently explained to you as you received the mission. “Even though your major is in archeology, you are expected to complete a mission for the college.”

Sure. Whatever. You got onto the big black helicopter and left the college, expecting a normal mission where you hopefully ‘stood watch’ or something easy, just to check a box on your resume at graduation. What you didn’t expect was to be met by Caesar Gattuso, the President of the Student Union, once you got off the aircraft.

Even as he reclined in the front seat of a camouflage colored military jeep, he looked every bit the veteran. He was staring at the tablet with his intense blue gaze. A hint of stubble lit his chin in a faint blond halo. The door of the Jeep was open and you could see that he was dressed in Camo pants under the white tank-tee that was already getting sticky with sweat in the humid air of the southern United States.

He didn’t bother looking up at you or explaining anything. He closed the application with a deft swipe of his long fingers and looked at you. No doubt he stamped you with the same label of “Useless baggage” as everyone else did. Silently, those eyes scanned down and then back up again. And then his eyebrows rose -- you imagined a little ‘ding’ sound as his calculations spit out a result.

Much to your surprise, he grinned.

Caesar was used to much higher level people groveling at his feet for his favor, trying their best to get a word in, trying their best to get a little bit of approval from him. Here he was completely alone, save a single person -- you -- who simply had no hope of rising to anything but the podium to reach out, take your diploma and disappear into obscurity.

So sure. Laugh it up, golden boy. You return his smile with none of the brightness and shrug.

You have one duffle bag of supplies but it was basic. A pistol of Frigg and live ammunition, a change of clothes, a first aid kit, a two way radio and flares. You tossed it in the back of the Jeep and got into the passenger seat.

“We have a report of what may be a backwoods cult that has forbidden dragon artifacts. The Cultists I’ll have no issue with. So don’t worry about it.”

“I wasn’t planning to. You’re the expert, not me. I just need this to graduate.”

He shifted the jeep into gear. The tires crunched against gravel before pulling out on to smooth surface. “You remind me of someone else. Don’t you aspire to more?”

“It’s not really possible.”

Caesar huffed, his eyes narrowing. “That’s only because of how you view things.”

You refrain from rolling your eyes. That was so easy for him to say. He was A-ranked, rich, famous. You were none of those things. Under your yearbook photo they should put the caption ‘just happy to be here’.

The road disappeared under a glowing emerald canopy of white oak, sumac and locust trees. The greenery crowded onto the road, and the car was kept corraled by a single rusty guardrail as the surrounding plants scraped at it. But Caesar pumped the accelerator and hugged the curves, weaving this way and that as the tension rose up your entire body. You found yourself gripping the seat and praying that no one would come swinging round the blind curves in the opposite direction and hit you head on.

Still, you didn’t feel you could ask him to slow down.

As the sunse, and you climbed the tall mountain toward your destination, the temperature noticeably cooled and you felt a chill. At the rest stop, you bought the poncho and felt the first drop of rain on your way back in to the jeep.

“So it’s true you don’t get nauseous?” Caesar asked you. He didn’t look at you, but he was looking at a map. A red dot marked a spot, likely where they were supposed to go.

“It’s not that I don’t get nauseous, it’s that I can’t get poisoned and I can digest anything so long as I can get it down.”

“Hmmm...” Caesar rubbed his chin.

“Are you trying to think of something useful for me to do?”

Before you could think of anything else to say, you stared down the barrel of the Desert Eagle. You leap to get away, adrenaline rushing and tell you to escape, but before you could reach for the door handle, the barrel flashed and the car filled with gun residue. You grunt as the Frigg bullet shattered and sent its medication rushing through your blood stream. Your eyes burn golden and you double over, fighting the sudden dizziness and fatigue. “You... you asshole...” “That’s what I thought. You’re not affected by Frigg bullets.”

Frigg bullets contained an extremely powerful sedative and you could barely see. Not affected is a misnomer! You’re still affected you just get over it! You didn’t remember Caesar pulling out of the gas station until you were well on your way to the top of the mountains and it had started to rain.

“You still with me?”

“Yeah...” You rasp, cursing him a million times in your heart. You reached for a bottle of water that you had stashed.

“Not being effected by Frigga Bullets is a big deal. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.”

You stared at him in disbelief. He was smug, happy with his little experiment, even though you can throw that up on the pile of countless other experiments your fellow students had performed on you. “God,... I just wanna graduate.” You whisper.

Now, standing at the entrance of a massive mansion you realize you have no idea how to fight. Just because you could withstand frigg bullets didn’t mean you could withstand regular ones.

Caesar’s eyes burned golden and ghostly figures, like grim reapers, flew from his body. He stood, unbothered by the rain, listening. You hold your breath, not wanting to interfere.

“Looks like the place is empty. Let’s go.”

The steps were rotting and soft, bowing dangerously under your feet. On the porch, a rusty metal swing creaked in a gusty wind. Caesar lifted one leg and kicked the door right in. It swung back on the hinges and Caesar entered, eyes behind his gun despite the lack of life signs.

The first thing you smell is rust or copper. You can taste it on your tongue, like licking a battery. As you step inside onto the linoleum floor, your shoes lightly adhere to it. Each step made a sound like someone peeling wallpaper. A double staircase arched gracefully in front of you and framed a painting of a man in a suit, a woman in a traditional southern dress and a small dog, like a Doberman, sitting between them.

Looking left, the walls were streaked black and looking down, you realize the black continued on the floor where you were stepping. The lightning flashed and revealed the dark brown all over the floor.

“I can’t imagine this place being used for anything good, not with all that blood all over the walls.” Caesar said.

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hypnoticwinter · 3 years

Text

Down the Rabbit Hole part 27

FIVE YEARS LATER

I click my tongue at myself, exasperated, and then lean back in my chair, let it roll back a little. I look over the glowing page on the screen and bite my lip. Something’s missing but I can’t put my finger on it. I mean, it’s just a story about the water purification plant downtown but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want it to be good. If it’s going on my paper it has to be good.

I get up, walk over to the window, crack open the blinds. Pale sunlight pours in; it’s somewhere around three, I think. I’m feeling lazy and sleepy and enervated. I don’t feel like doing much of anything except laying down in that nice patch of sun over there on the couch and falling sleep, just like a cat.

There’s the water purification plant, just there, the gray bulgy building out at the edge of town. We’re just high up enough that I can barely see it from here. It looks different somehow but I chalk it up to having not looked at it in a while. Not like I make a habit of staring at the uninspiring industrial shape of the municipal buildings around town.

I’m smiling to myself now; I’ve heard the door open stealthily behind me and a pad of agile feet make their way onto the carpet. She tries so hard to sneak up on me but every time I can hear it; the door has a weight to it and even though the hinges make no noise I can still detect –

A pair of burly, undeniably masculine arms wrap around my shoulders in a loving embrace and I shriek and whip around and there is Thor, his scruffy, bearded face wide open, shock reflected back at me in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tells me, his voice like a rumble of thunder. “I didn’t mean to startle you, I thought you heard me come in.”

I’m staring at him, I realize, poring over his face like I’ve never seen it before. He frowns after a moment, still holding me, one of his hands spread wide across my back, the other confidently at my hip, two of his fingers snuck down and cradling my ass. It’s so familiar and so exactly like he always used to do that it gives me a horrible/delicious little shudder of synchronicity. He’s still staring down at me and his expression is beginning to turn to concern, and I realize I haven’t answered him. I shake my head, scratch at my nose to break eye contact. “I thought you were someone else,” I murmur, and he laughs, holds me to him. He smells the same, like man, like auto-body shop and stale primer and sweat. I haven’t smelled it in so long that it makes me want to cry.

“Who else would it be?” he asks me. I feel more than hear the words, feel his deep basso voice rumble in his chest.

“Elen – “ I start, and then cut myself off. The name feels strange in my mouth, rusty, like how sometimes if you haven’t used a word in long enough it will become strange and malformed in your brain. E-lena, I think, but that isn’t right, that isn’t how it’s pronounced.

“Who?” he frowns, and I laugh. I feel very light all of a sudden.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “How long have you been here? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

Thor’s let me go and walked off to the refrigerator on the other side of the apartment. I turned back to the window but I can’t stop myself from watching him lope along, like an overgrown lynx, as he goes. “What do you mean?” he asks, head buried halfway in the fridge. He pulls out a can of beer, gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head. He straightens and opens it for himself. “I got off of work about half an hour ago,” he says, “and I came right back home after.”

“But, I mean –“ I start, and then I frown at myself.

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just…did you ever have a dream,” I ask, “where you weren’t sure if you were actually awake once you’d woken up from it?”

Thor grins at me and despite myself I grin back. He’s still that same old ball of nervous energy that had enthralled me to begin with. “You know I never dream,” he tells me, and I roll my eyes at him.

“You do dream,” I tell him, fully aware in the back of my mind that we’ve had this conversation at least three times before. “Everybody dreams, you just don’t remember it because you’re a big dumb oaf.”

Thor laughs at me. Somehow we’ve made it onto the couch; I don’t quite recall walking over there and sitting down next to him but I’ve reclined and put my head into his lap and now I’m staring up at him with something approaching adoration in my eyes. He catches me looking and smiles down at me, traces his fingers along my cheekbone. “It’s been so fucking long,” I tell him, and he gives me another uncomprehending smile.

“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” he tells me. “I left for work at like five, you woke up, I kissed you goodbye. Were you too sleepy to remember it?”

I think about it for a while but it just doesn’t pop into my head. I feel groggy again and the sun is just there, just right. I close my eyes and then frown after a moment. “I think I had a bad dream or something,” I mutter.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s like…something isn’t right. And I can’t put my finger on what it is or anything it’s just…uneasy all over. Like goosebumps.”

I crack my eyes open, look at him. He obviously doesn’t get it but I don’t mind, he’s trying. I reach up and tangle my fingers in the long braid of his beard and he leans downwards and kisses me. For a moment, just a single disconcerting moment, I feel nothing but utter panic as his lips cover mine, and then it passes.

As we break apart I find myself grinning. Everything is fine; I’m just in a strange mood, woke up on the wrong side of the bed, whatever expression you want to use. Thor is beaming at me – he doesn’t like it when I think of him in those terms but that’s how it is, I can’t help describing him that way. Makes him feel unmanly or something. I roll my eyes behind his back but there’s something so – so sweet about having someone look at you like that, look at you like you’re everything to them.

I open my mouth to say something but before I’m able to get the words out a snaky, sardonic, familiar voice juts in.

“Cute,” someone observes, and I jump, glare over at the door, and there is Elena, just as the last time I saw her, wearing that orange spacesuit that we both wore down in…

Down in the Pit.

I can feel my hands trembling a little. Elena flips an errant blonde curl out of her eyes and grins wolfishly at me. The bullet hole down low on her side is still dripping blood, just a little. I watch as it falls on the carpet, burrows deep. That’ll never come out.

“You forget about me?” she asks.

“What’s wrong?” Thor is asking, and I glance over at him, incredulous. He hasn’t looked over at Elena, not even once, it’s like he can’t hear her.

“You don’t see her,” I say. There’s a horrible creeping feeling at the pit of my stomach. The dream I had – oh god, was it just the other day or was it years ago? The dream where I was back here, back in Thor’s apartment with all that flesh outside, and when Thor had kissed me, he had –

I scramble to my feet as quickly as I can, but I stumble, ending up halfway off the couch, still partly tangled with Thor. He’s trying to help me but I’m batting at him, trying to get him off me. He catches my wrists eventually. Elena’s still just standing over by the door, watching impassively, why doesn’t she help me - !

“Let go of me,” I tell him, trying to wrench my hands free from his grasp. He’s too strong, there’s no way in hell I’d be able to overpower him. He looks terribly concerned but I can’t trust him, not after that dream, not after anything –

“Roan,” he’s telling me, struggling to keep his voice even, “Roan, be careful, the doctor said you aren’t supposed to exert yourself –“

Something in his voice brings me up short and I look at him. “The doctor?” I ask, blankly. This is supposed to mean something to me but it just isn’t clicking in my brain.

“You know,” he says. His voice is almost pleading. “Because of the baby.”

It doesn’t register with me for a moment, and then drawn as though by gravity my vision swings downward and the crest of my belly, straining beneath the light teal blouse I have on, prods into view and I realize that I am hugely, almost grotesquely pregnant.

The blood is rushing in my ears and I can feel the hair on my arms and legs standing up. I raise my head and tear my eyes away from my belly and look not to Thor but to Elena. Her slate-grey eyes rake at me, neither accusing or condoning, and then my stomach lurches and I fall to my hands and knees and squeeze my eyes shut so I don’t have to watch as I heave my guts out onto the floor. Thor is saying something and I can feel his hands on my back but it is all lost to me in the roaring in my ears. I thought I would just vomit up bile and be done with it but whatever is in my stomach keeps coming and coming, and I can feel it wriggling inside of my throat. I can hear my voice, driven by some deeply terrified animal part of me, making a horrible muffled shrieking noise, trying to scream, but I can’t stop vomiting. Something slick and ridged and rubbery rolls against my hand and then rolls away again. Then another, then five of them, brushing against me from the spreading mess before me. One of them bites into the webbed space between my thumb and index finger and I yelp and pop my eyes open, drawing back my hand as though it were burned, and I see –

I see the dirty tile floor of the abandoned ranger station, and outside the great sopping mess of the fungal jungle surrounding it. I hear the chirps of the lizards and the thousand slow drips of moisture and gurgles and groans of the Pit around me. I pat at myself but my stomach is as flat as it ever has been, and the paltry pile of vomit on the floor there contains nothing more animate than the remains of the last MRE I had taken off of Klaus’s body before I had slung it into the forest along with Peter’s and Erica’s.

I reach up and wipe the cold sweat from my brow and then lean back against the wall of the station, blow out a breath. The dream had felt so real that for a moment it had been so easy to believe that I was out of here, that this was all just a bad memory and I could forget about it. Or was it a dream? Was I dreaming or hallucinating or having my first episode of the – of the psychic illness that Peter and Makado kept going on about? What was I doing before? I was – I think I was sleeping. So it must have been a dream. That means I’m okay, doesn’t it?

“You miss me?” Elena asks, and I whip around, stare at her long lanky form lounging upright against the doorframe. She grins at me and I feel so relieved I almost want to cry. I stagger to my feet and hobble towards her, the smile slowly breaking through my foul mood, and then I’m reaching out for her, putting my arms around her –

I clutch air to me. I open my eyes and look down at the doorframe dumbfounded but somehow Elena has simply slipped out of my arms without me even being able to sense her motion. She didn’t brush me at all.

“You must have missed me,” she muses from somewhere behind me. I turn slowly and squint at her. She’s leaned over the pile of vomit on the floor, inspecting it. She points to it, glancing up at me. “No leeches,” she says.

“No leeches,” I agree. I blink hard; Elena’s still there when my eyes open again. There’s still a wide blown-out hole in the back of her suit where the bullet passed through her, fragments of the rubbery fabric hanging lank and loose, red wet torn flesh beneath. Elena laughs at me, softly and richly, the same laugh she laid over me like a blanket when we were huddled together in our tent.

“You’re not –“

“- real?” she finishes. She shrugs. “You tell me.”

“I’m hallucinating,” I say slowly, waving my hand to the window. “All these fucking mushrooms everywhere –“

“The spores?”

“Yes. It must be.”

“Or you’re seeing things,” Elena says, tapping the side of her nose. “Not related to the spores.”

“If you’re my subconscious tell me something Elena wouldn’t know.”

“Would your subconscious cooperate with you?”

I think about it for a moment. “I think so.”

“You’ve got a mole on the left side of your –“

I laugh. “Elena might have noticed that.”

“Alright, that’s fair.”

“So are you going to –“

“Nah.”

I throw an MRE wrapper at her. It flutters to the floor short and she gives me a pitying look. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to believe she really did come back for you?”

“No,” I tell her. “Cause if she did –“

“Yes, of course,” Elena rolls her eyes. “If she did, if I did, rather, she’d be just putting herself in even more danger to try and help you and lord knows you aren’t able to accept any kind of help from anybody ever.”

I grunt. “Alright, you’re definitely a hallucination.”

She offers me an equally noncommittal grunt of amusement. “Well, what’s it going to be?”

I shrug, throw a can at her this time. She ducks out of the way. “Stop throwing things at me,” she says.

“I’m trying to see if you’re real.”

“You really think Elena would act like this if she was real?”

“I’m leaving,” I tell her.

“To go where? Get eaten by a bird?”

“No,” I say patiently, looking over the contents of the bag I’d packed last night. I’d had to dump out a lot of Erica’s crap from it but some of the stuff she’d had would potentially be useful. Water purification tablets, a small hunting knife, a length of rope...things I might need. She’d also had a couple of changes of clothes and a letter in a sealed envelope, addressed to her, with no return address or postage. I thought about opening it and seeing what was inside for a long, long while, but I had eventually tossed it into the fire.

I didn’t know what else to do chuck them out into the forest. I couldn’t bury them, obviously, and burning them wouldn’t have worked, a little campfire isn’t going to be hot enough. My stomach had done flips when I had been manhandling them out of the ranger station but I had clenched my teeth and bore it, my jaw still aching from where Klaus had struck me.

I wish Peter was still here. I wish the last time I’d seen him hadn’t been like that. And Makado – what the hell am I going to tell her when I get out of here?

“That’s good,” Elena remarks. “Good positive thinking.”

I realize I’ve just been staring at the bag before me, folding and unfolding the knife in my hands. “Huh?”

“’When’ I get out of here, not ‘if.’ Good positive thinking,” she elaborates.

“Where do you think Elena is right now?” I ask, getting heavily to my feet. My knee aches and I can’t figure out why; I haven’t done anything to it, fallen on it or anything, so I think I must have slept on it wrong.

“If she’s got any sense, far away from here.”

“Doubt it,” I mutter, and then I’m pushing through the creaky steel door and out into the cavern.

It’s quiet tonight, so far at least. The whooping and hooting usually starts up around…well, I don’t know what time exactly. Later. I can hear it through the windows normally but I am kind of dreading having to travel through the jungle while everything is starting to wake up and look for breakfast. Maybe it’s stupid, maybe it’s a bad idea, maybe I’ll get eaten by something, but the logic I had turned to was that if one of the birds got me in its sights there would be absolutely nothing I could do to get away from it, so it’d be better to creep out and try to escape while everything else was moving around as well, just so there’d be more targets.

“You’re sure that’s a good idea?” Elena asks me, and I almost snap something back at her before I stop myself. If I’m already hallucinating it’s probably best to just ignore it, not indulge my own fantasies.

“Yeah,” she says, voice rough and throaty and mildly amused, so close behind me I can almost feel her made-up breath against my ear, “because I’m so easy to ignore –“

“Will you just –“ I bark, spinning, but she’s gone.

* * *

My plan works, at least partly. I make it out of the clearing and into the dense fungal underbrush without a hitch. Elena doesn’t return to me, even though at this point I find I do kind of want her to. I’ve gotten lonely, gotten scared. I jump at shadows as I go along and it isn’t fun any more. Some company, even worrisome made-up company, would be welcome.

It gets to the point where I call for her out loud, under my breath, but she still doesn’t appear. Playing keep-away, I guess. Then I feel silly and resolve myself not to worry about it. One foot in front of the other and all that, just get through it. Get to the next screen.

I head in the general direction I think Erica and I came in on. I’ve fallen asleep twice since the events of that day so I think it must have been a couple days ago, but it’s hard to tell. It could have been as short as one day, I think, if not less. Time stretches down here without any good way to measure it.

Lots of lizards, big lumbering bumbling things. I’ve begun to regard them fondly somehow, even though part of me is still terrified of their bulk, at the ease with which they could maim or kill me if they took it into their minds to. On my journey one bulled past me again through the undergrowth and I froze, watching its mottled grey hide slither onwards, and then, greatly daring, I reached out and put my hand on it. It jumped a little, its muscles contracting at my touch, but it didn’t change its course or make any sudden movements, it just kept pushing forwards, its great shovel-snouted head pushing through the brittle mushroom stalks like a piece of construction equipment.

I found myself grinning, grinning at being able to touch this giant thing and have it accept me as just part of the environment, as just a thing that lives down here with it. Their skin is surprisingly soft and warm – they must be warm-blooded, I guess, which perhaps makes them not reptiles; I have no idea how convoluted their evolutionary tree must be. It also drools with a thick, sticky, translucent goo, a little like a tree’s sap, that coated my fingers and took a lot of wiping to get off. I move on for a little ways after cleaning my fingers, maybe about fifteen minutes’ worth of slow, painstaking progress, before I realize that my hand is beginning to go numb.

I stare at it, not comprehending, before the terror finally catches up with me – the slime, it must have been a contact poison or something. My heart is pounding in my chest and I’m biting my lip hard enough to draw blood, standing there in the jungle staring at my hand, watching it grow red and swollen and nerveless. I can just barely force my fingers to clench if I really try but it’s like I were wearing a glove filled to bursting with oatmeal, only the oatmeal is my own flesh. I want to vomit, the feeling is sickening, but I’ve got nothing left in me to throw up.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Elena murmurs from next to me, and I don’t even have it in me to jump. Somehow I’d know my poor battered psyche would drag her out when I got stressed enough. I force myself to take a deep breath and let it out again.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “This’ll go away, it’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure of that?” she asks. I shrug.

“It isn’t spreading,” I note, prodding at my forearm nervously. “It’s just the hand so it must just be a contact thing, it must just –“

“Maybe it’s a neurotoxin,” she muses, leaning over me, hands behind her back, peering down at the great fat white spidery thing pinned on to my left arm in place of a hand. I bat at her with it sluggishly but she leans back out of the way. Some part of me still wants to believe she’s really here, even if I know she isn’t.

“My subconscious is feeling very fucking chatty these days,” I groan. I can feel a prickling of pins and needles scraping along the flesh of my left hand, and the sensation does relieve me a little – it’s the first thing I’ve felt in it other than dull vibration and impact. Maybe the stuff is starting to wear off? Or maybe –

“Ouch,” I groan.

Or maybe those pins and needles will turn sharper and stabbier. Perhaps that’s what’ll happen.

“Suck it up,” Elena suggests. I glare daggers.

“How about you suck my cu– “ I start, but then there is a rustling in the fungus behind me, and though I try to turn I’m not quick enough before something leaps shrieking at me and knocks me to my knees. I jostle my hand against the wet, mucky ground and feel a long bone-deep jolt of pain run through it, but I don’t have time for that now, for more shrieks are sounding, tinny and ululating, and there are more things carving trails through the fungus stalks towards me even as the thing on my back jabbers and gibbers and sinks its tiny, needle-like teeth into my unprotected back.

I’m rolling around on the ground trying to get it off of me but whatever it is it crawls over my body nimbly, avoiding my one functional hand. There are three, four, five, six golden-furred blurs darting in from all sides and joining the first one and I start to realize that I may actually be in some serious trouble here. The bites of the thing clinging to me aren’t particularly deep or even that painful but with more of them here…

One of them shrieks directly in my face and then shoves its fingers up my nose, and then another hand enters my mouth and seizes my tongue when I open my mouth reflexively to scream. Another fixes its tiny, clever little monkey hands around my throat and squeezes and though I reach up and tug as hard as I can I can’t break its grip on me.

Something breaks inside of me. I can hear a low rumbling growl filling my throat and then I snap my jaws together with as much force as I can muster and bite clean through the wrist of the thing trying to yank my tongue out by the roots. It screams and screams, falling back on its haunches clutching its wrist, and all of the rest go very still. The one throttling me lets go and darts away with a wide arcing leap, leaving the one on my back, which I reach backwards for and seize, flinging it to the ground ahead of me with the speed of a fastball. It convulses once and then falls limp. I spit the small, capuchin-sized hand from my mouth, trying to ignore the horrible bitter taste of the thing’s blood, and reach out and snatch another by the tail while it tries to flee. It yowls and scrambles backwards up my arm, gnashing at me, but I batter it into one of the mushrooms and then when that proves too spongy to do much damage, into the ground, once, twice, three times. I’m gulping down huge swallows of fresh air, and my vision finally clears, giving me a good look at the things – they really are just small monkeys of some kind, with long, bulky forearms and streamlined, doglike faces. Their eyes, though…

Blue, green, rich brown and striking grey. My breath catches in my throat as I stare down at the squirming monkey at my feet. I swallow hard.

I’ve broken its spine, I think. Its rear legs, small and stubby and pathetic-looking, lie limp in the blood and dirt of the cavern’s floor. It glares at me, its eyes wide and terrified. It doesn’t have the breath to scream.

I take my eyes off it for a moment, scan my surroundings, but the others have gone, left this one behind. I can see the hand I spat out lying a few feet away but other than that and the monkey before me there’s no evidence that they had ever even attacked me in the first place. As soon as they left the clearing they went silent. I caught a glimpse of one of them through the stalks, head down, pulling itself forward with frenetic darting motions.

The monkey before me makes a piteous whining noise. I can’t hold its gaze. The right thing to do would be to – would be to kill it, wouldn’t it? I know in an environment a crippled animal like that is as good as dead. And it’s probably in a lot of pain.

I swallow again and a stab of pain burns down my throat as I do. Aftermath from the strangling I’ve gotten. My hand has only gotten worse – the pins and needles have sunk deeper into my flesh and whenever I move the hand or jostle it they stab at me. It hasn’t spread upwards any but it has only gotten worse, not faded, which worries me.

The monkey’s chest is rising and falling. If it were human I’d say it were hyperventilating. I take a step forwards and place the ball of my foot on its neck. It tries to push me off but it can’t, of course, it’s far too small and far too exhausted.

I stand there for a long while, trying to will myself to press down, but I can’t. Eventually I turn around and push my way out of the clearing. It makes no noise as I leave. I make it about twenty meters before I collapse against a mushroom. I try make tears flow but they won’t.

I blink and when I open my eyes again Elena is there, sitting against a mushroom opposite me. Her eyes catch mine and won’t let go. “It would have been kinder to kill it,” she tells me.

“Fuck off,” I tell her. When I blink again she’s gone.

I glare at the mushrooms surrounding me. Hopefully when I’m out and in clearer air it’ll go away. The air down here is thick and humid and horrible. My head’s all foggy and I’ve had a dull throbbing migraine for what feels like forever.

I take a deep breath (for all the good it’ll do me) and let it out. Time to get out of here. I push through another thirty minutes or so of jungle before I reach the high craggy alveolar wall of the cavern, fleshy and rough and raw-looking. There, up at the top, should be the vent Erica and I came through. Go through that and I think I’ll be able to pick my way through, get back to someplace recognizable, get out of here.

That’s the plan anyway. What’s that thing they say about mice and men?

It’s hard with only one hand but the wall is soft and pulpy enough that I can just dig my hands and feet in and climb up. The higher I get the more I get an itching sense of paranoia that a bird is stooping at me soundlessly and that any moment those foot-long talons will be piercing me like knives, but though I cringe and glance behind me at every tiny noise, whether it’s a far-off roar or a creaking moan from the Pit or some other less describable sound, no birds are forthcoming.

The quakes start when I’m halfway up, hanging off the cliff face taking a breather. I have to keep beating my numb hand against my side to keep some sensation in it; the pins and needles have gone at this point and have been replaced by an even worse icy, blunt feeling, like I’ve got a piece of lead on the end of my arm. The quake nearly shakes me loose and I let out a little shriek of surprise and terror when it rumbles through the cavern. The Pit roars, like something groaning a long way up, only audible down here as a rumbling moan I can feel more than I can hear. I cling to the cliff face as best as I can and ride it out, and eventually the rhythmic spasms subside – or am I just at the bottom of a wave, not able to feel the next one coming? The jungle below me is holding its breath, it’s gone entirely silent. Even the birds have returned to their roosts in the massive cross-cut length of bone spanning the cavity.

“Roan?” someone calls from above. I glance up, fully expecting to see Elena standing there at the top of the cliff, so close now, back to bother me, but instead it’s Makado. I laugh.

“Oh fuck off,” I tell her. I’m nearly there, just another, oh, I don’t know – fifteen feet or so? Vertically that’s a lot but I can make it. I pull my hand out with a wet sucking pop and then plunge it back in higher up, do the same with my feet. My arm’s stained red with gore all the way up to the elbow.

“Oh my god, Roan,” Makado’s specter is saying above me, getting on her knees just on the edge of the cliff. My imagination’s cobbled together a copy of the orange ranger suits for her to wear, although hers is newer and cleaner-looking than either mine or Elena’s ever was. She’s got a big pack on, and one of the slug rifles slung on a strap over her shoulders. I frown up at her.

“Don’t distract me, I’m almost there. I don’t want to fall.”

“Roan! I was so afraid I wasn’t going to find you!” she calls down to me. “Can you make it a little further? I’ve got a rope –“

I wave my numb hand at her. I can see her eye track it beneath the bubble helmet. There’s something wrong with her face, it’s like she’s wearing half a mask or something beneath the helmet. I don’t know –

Ten feet now. Nearly there.

“Makado,” I say, pressing my forehead against the fleshy cliff wall, “I really need you to just go away right now, I’m really close and I don’t need you to make me fall or anything.”

There’s a moment of silence. When I look back up she’s still there. “Roan,” she says, sounding almost hurt, “I came down to get you, are you –“

The quake cracks the Pit’s spine like a whip before she can get the words out. I scream again and Makado curses, pulling out a line from some hidden spool somewhere on her suit. She plunges it deep into the flesh of the cliff and fiddles with something at her belt, then leans forward and reaches for me.

“Roan!” she cries. “I’ve got you! Come on, just a little bit further –“

I look up, clinging for my life to the face of the cliff. Though the meat shivers and convulses all around me I barely even feel it. I’ve realized something.

When Makado leapt forward to reach for me, still a little short of my clenched hand buried in the cliff face, she pushed a spray of murky pit fluid forward off of the cliff and down onto me. I had to duck my head to keep it from getting in my eyes, but it still pattered in my hair, dotted my forehead, my arm, my hand.

I could feel it.

I could feel it. Makado’s real. Makado’s real, she’s really here, she’s come to save me –

But even as I snap my head upwards and meet her gaze, see her eye wide and terrified beneath the hardened plexiglass of the helmet, the Pit bucks beneath me once more and flings me from the side of the cliff and into empty space.

And then I fall.

Continue with Part 28

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#mystery flesh pit #writeblr #original writing #alt lit #spilled ink #Michael Crichton #horror #mystery #thriller

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yeleltaan · 3 years

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@yellowfingcr | continued from here

The door creaks open.

The gap is of a mere inch, at first- just sufficient to show the gilded rim of a circular lens reflecting moonlight, the wideness of the eye behind it. It closes, for a second, and after the quiet rattle of chain unclasped, it parts again with a whine of hinges to fully reveal the both of them, standing in front of each other.

It’s difficult to pinpoint what, precisely, is playing about Heysel’s face as she looks at him, her gaze tracing quick zig-zag lines across the entirety of his figure. It’s a crossroad of so many feelings, all layered one over the other: bewildered, pleased, worried, relieved. She blinks, and goes so very still.

Then she smiles, and it is radiant.

“Cayin! It really is you! I mean, I had little doubts it was you, but, I had to check first, with my eyes, for- just to be sure,” she says, delighted beyond measure, and her hand leaves the doorknob at last; her fingers twitch midair as if caught between two different intentions on what to do with them, before settling at her side. The laugh she gives is short, almost an apologetic snort. “I received your message. Of course- I suppose you received my answer, too, so it’s quite obvious that I did- ah. Forgive the jumble of words. I’m just glad you’ve chosen to visit. Had the chance to, rather. Work has been keeping you busy from what you told me.” Her voice softens. “You were missed. And you look well. Better than how I left you.”

The all too clear memory of him, first bleeding and wounded, his weight against hers, then unspooled into the creature of shadow scales and stars that held her into the endless void studded with cosmic lights, emerges from the depths of her mind, and recedes when compared the reality before themselves. Here he is, whole and shaped like the fine-featured elegant man she’d met first between rows of dusty books. The Cayin she knows.

Welcome back, Cayin who slept, she thinks and doesn’t say.

It takes her a moment to understand that she’s been staring silently for a few seconds too long, mouth ajar. He’s still waiting outside in the cold, and though he is a being of little heat, it just isn’t polite, and isn’t something you do to someone you haven’t seen in some time. Not that long, truthfully, but it felt longer.

“Pardon my manners- please, come in. Hang your coat and hat. Make yourself at home; you know you’re always welcome here, after all.”

It’s the first he sees of her through his earthly form, that little tease of her expressiveness past her pince-nez, earning a quiet chuckle out of the returned gentleman. Once the door is fully opened his eyes follow a quicker path than hers, eyeing down and back up to properly welcome the sight of her once more, leaving him with just a moment to watch her gaze move as she finishes her hurried assessment and offer an earnest look of reassurance- that indeed it’s him.

He seldom misses a detail, the unfinished task her fingers set out to do is no different. Whatever it was, had she gone through with it he would have likely reciprocated. Perhaps it has been just enough time since his injured departure for her to feel rusty with the slow but steady advances of their trust, or maybe it’s some other kind of formality that holds her back. Could she be reunited with her colleagues? He should have considered that possibility, more so now that the whole town has been stirring in anticipation, feeling the approach of a profound shift in the city. Perhaps his own patience has been wearing thin while the equinox draws dangerously close, but Cayin’s slumber wasn’t spent in a vacant state of mind, or dedicated fully to the machinations of his master. Though restricted in his capacity to express that which he felt, he wasn’t prevented from reflecting upon it. He’s had plenty time to think on his own, more time than he would have liked kept from one of his few self-made interests, and he’s done waiting.

The mention of her letter is responded to with a nod, and rather than reply to what comes next he lets her continue. When Heysel offers him to come he wordlessly peers back for a moment, and once he’s certain they’re free from prying stares he walks inside, taking the liberty of closing the door behind him.

“Are you with anyone else?” He asks, and as per her invitation he hangs his hat on the rack, followed by his overcoat. The back of his waistcoat or the sleeves of his shirt bear no trace of the blood of that day, in fact they look practically spotless, no mud stains on his boots and pants that can reveal his time spent in the woods either. Meanwhile he looks at the communal room despite his question, and the rushed inquiry is satisfied when he sees they really are alone.

There’s a brief pause right after he turns to her, every little plan and distraction that has otherwise been at the forefront of his thoughts stepping aside for what currently occupies the centre of his mind, the woman in front of him. Another quick look up and down, nothing fragile in her hands, no reason to hesitate, and so the eldritch gives way to the man. Cayin pushes himself forward, and without a moment of doubt he wraps his arms around the scholar and pulls her into a tight embrace. “I’ve missed you too...” He speaks, softly, as his head tilts to rest over hers gently. The last time they had a proper conversation he wasn’t able to convey as much as he would have liked, but now he’s got everything he needs to make himself clear. “Thank you.”

#yellowfingcr #aww yisss it's softness time #Bloodborne RP

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beckzorz · 5 years

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caduto dalle nuvole (one-shot)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader Words: 5012 Summary: A detour on a mission leads to destruction, and a discovery. Warnings: Canon-typical violence and gore. A/N: Happy Secret Seba, Paige @sebastiansloserclub!!!! It was a pleasure to write for you! Thank you to @jobean12-blog for beta reading <3 The title, “caduto dalle nuvole,” is an Italian idiom that means literally “fallen from the clouds” and figuratively “taken aback.” Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy xoxo

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Any questions?”

You close the mission briefing and tuck the file under your arm as you stand, just barely controlling the tic in your jaw. “None, Captain.”

“Good.” His relief is palpable. “The jet leaves in ninety minutes. Good luck, agent.”

—

“I’ll be back,” Antonio says, and then he slams the barn door shut.

You gape. A key scrapes against a lock. Your heart stops for a horrible moment, and then you bolt forward.

“Hey!”

You slam into the door, body and door shaking from the impact. A chain rattles on the other side, and a car engine starts to purr.

“Hey!” you scream.

The car drives off, grinding against the gravel drive. You bang your fists against the door, rage clouding your vision, filling your veins.

Behind you, your partner lets out a breath and a thump. You turn, blinking away the red in your vision, and stare.

Bucky Barnes is sitting on a pile of hay, hands clasped between his spread thighs and his expression sardonic.

“Well,” he says. “That went well.”

You whirl back to the door, teeth clenched. You can’t manage a reply, not when it was his idea to hitchhike instead of taking the bus. Your own mother had hitchhiked across Europe in the seventies, but it’s not the seventies anymore. It’s decades later, and now… now you’ve been kidnapped. Kidnapped!

“We’re literally locked in a barn,” you snap. “And you just want to sit there?!”

Bucky sighs. “Look, this guy clearly has something up his sleeve. I did some research in the back seat while you were being sociable. SHIELD’s made a note of this guy before. Our mission isn’t so urgent that we can’t delay a day to figure out what his deal is.”

You lean your shoulder against the door and gape at him. “What, you think Steve will just say, ‘Sure, Buck, that’s totally fine! It’s not like I specifically tasked you to find these dangerous terrorists or anything?’”

“Uh, that’s what he said, yeah.” Bucky shifts on the haypile and holds up his phone. “I texted him to check.”

“Typical,” you mutter. You turn back to the door, the start of a headache pricking at your temples. You crouch down and peer through the crack of the barn door, looking for the chain.

“What are you doing?” Bucky asks. His voice seems small in the open barn.

You don’t answer. What’s the point? Surely it’s obvious. Why else would you be studying the way out except to break out? To enjoy the view?

Besides, it’s not like he ever tells you anything. If you hadn’t asked, would he have even mentioned he’d spoken with Steve?

He’s never told you anything he hasn’t needed to.

You stare at the chain through the gap in the door. It’s afternoon outside—if you rattle the door, you can see the sun glinting off the shifting links. Something to look at while you consider why your frustration is tinged with dejection.

When you’d first joined—when you were recruited, you’d had so much hope in Bucky Barnes. The Winter Soldier, stolen and used and come back to himself? It was your own story, if decades out of sync. Sam Wilson, bless him, even encouraged you to strike up a friendship with him. Sam, the only one who knew your whole story. Steve probably does by now too, but still. Sam was the first to know. He was the one who got out you. Got you free.

Of course, all the attempts you made to befriend Bucky fell flat. He was—and still is—polite, but unfathomably distant. Anyway, why would he bother opening up to you? He has Sam, Steve… Even Natasha, the only other person you might have felt comfortable talking to. He doesn’t like talking about his past, Steve once said. Try Natasha. But if you talked to her, she’d tell him everything.

And you don’t want to be talked about.

Not like that. Not by them.

You force yourself to your feet and step back. The hinges on the door are bolted in place—no easy removal there. Maybe a tool kit…?

The barn is dim, hazy. The sunlight streaming in from the small windows slants down in clouded beams, turning the hay-littered dirt floor into a mosaic of light and dark. And Bucky is all in shadow on his yellow throne. He’s barely moved since you last looked his way. Just sitting, and watching you.

“Did you see a toolbox anywhere?” you ask.

Bucky turns his head left, then right. “Nope.” He props his elbow on his knee and rests his chin in the palm of his hand. “Whatcha thinking?”

You prowl the perimeter, looking in every built-in shelf and drawer. “Unbolt the door hinges. Neither of us’d fit through the windows, and—wait a second.” You whirl to face him, quivering with relief. “Forget that. You can just force the door open!”

“Are you kidding?” Bucky asks. He holds up his left hand—it looks like a regular hand for the mission, but under the smokescreen is that same vibranium, that same strength. “Do you really wanna advertise that the Winter Soldier is in Italy? Right now? While we’re on an undercover mission?”

“Um, regular people break through doors all the time, Barnes.” You dash over and try to pull him to his feet.

He doesn’t budge.

“Seriously?!” You drop his heavy arm, muscles tight and hands quivering. “Are you just going to sit there? And do nothing?”

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I am. And as mission lead, that’s the call I’ve made. So sit down and chill, firecracker.”

Your fists curl into balls and you stalk away.

Firecracker.

A nickname, one you’ve despised since the first time Natasha sang it out over the comms on a mission last month. Firecracker, of all things! Like you’re no more than a party trick. An object. Not even an animal. Not even something powerful. Firecrackers are all about a lot of noise, not power. And you…

You slow as you reach the door. The wood is rough as you slide your palms across it and press your forehead across the gap. Outside, it’s still bright. Still afternoon. Inside, it feels like a nightmare.

You haven’t been locked in anywhere on a mission since… since…

For a long time.

You don’t like it. You close your eyes, breathe in—the air in the barn is stale, but if you squish your nose enough, you can get a hint of freshness from outside. The door scrapes your cheeks as you settle yourself.

It’s okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll be—

A hand on your shoulder: you spin, catch their wrist, and stop short when you realize it’s only Bucky.

“You okay?” he asks. Is that pity in his voice?

“Of course I’m fine!”

His skin is hot to the touch; he and Steve have always run warm, but it’s a strange feeling to be touching him like this. It’s not part of training, not part of a fight…

You drop his hand and sidle out from between him and the door. Your hands are still trembling. You straighten them out until your bones ache, fingers flexed and muscles straining. Even your jaw is trembling.

“You’re not,” Bucky says flatly. “What do you need?”

A hollow laugh escapes you. You lean against a pillow and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. “To not be in here! What the hell do you think? That I’m thrilled to be locked in somewhere I’m more liable to disintegrate than not?”

“What do you…”

Bucky trails off. You don’t bother looking up at him. God knows what he thinks of you.

But it’s one thing to be in hiding. It’s another thing to be locked up. God, how can he bear it? After everything, how can he—how can you—how could you ever—

“Hey.”

Your head jerks up, your eyes wide. Bucky is kneeling a few feet away, his hands clasped between his knees. They both look like human hands; a smokescreen disguises his left. It’s a good disguise, but it looks wrong on him all the same. He—it’s not him, it’s not…

“Look at me, firecracker,” Bucky murmurs. Your eyes snap to his; your eyebrows draw low.

“Don’t call me that,” you hiss. “I’m not some toy.”

He blinks. “It’s a nickname. A term of endearment, not ridicule. Hell, Sam calls me Tin Man. Does that make me brainless?”

“Sam’s your friend!”

Bucky’s mouth drops open and his blue eyes round as saucers. “Wha—”

He stops mid-word. He cocks his head to the side. You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand, silencing whatever you’d been about to say.

His sudden silence, the way he’s listening—is someone coming?

You give Bucky a look, and he nods. You both let out a breath and stand silently. Whatever you’d been talking about, it has to wait. Right now, you’re done arguing.

Right now, you’re a team.

Tires screech outside; you look to Bucky for confirmation. He holds up three fingers.

Three vehicles.

How many people in them?

And why, why are they here? Did they recognize Bucky? He’s not immediately recognizable out of uniform, at least to the untrained eye—but are these trained eyes? Was Bucky’s face the only reason you got picked up on the side of the road? This kind of mishap has happened before…

Car doors open, footsteps crunch in gravel, and you flex your fingers and reach for that spot of warmth hidden in your chest. It reaches out, settles around your bones, through your veins until your fingernails glow. Bucky glances down, his lips quirk up, and then his eyes settle on yours. His pupils are wide with adrenaline, and he’s looking at you so intently your breath catches in your throat. Your fingertips are white-hot now, casting an eerie light from below.

He looks all the more terrible and wonderful for it.

“Ready?” he murmurs.

Your focus rams back into place. It’s just your mission lead, just Bucky. And there’s bigger fish to fry right now than the dark sky in his eyes.

“Ready.”

Bucky tilts his head towards the fused hinges on one side of the door. You press your hands against the top one, and the rusty metal begins to glow. Red drops of molten iron slide down catch on the wood, which begins to smoke. Licks of fire sprout from the jamb, and you hop back, shaking out the sparks from your fingertips.

Bucky maneuvers ahead of you and kicks the door open, wood splintering at the bottom, his left arm up. Twin shouts of surprise, two quick gunshots, and the door shudders from the impact.

“Get the other one!” Bucky snaps, pulling the bust-open door back into place as shouting begins in earnest.

You dash to the other door. Bullets pepper the door, but the wood is thick enough to contain them—for now. Something niggles at the back of your mind, but you push it away. Of course something’s wrong. But now’s the time to act, not think.

The second hinge disintegrates faster; the longer you go, the hotter you get. This is the longest you’ve ever lasted like this on a mission—usually you have guns, tools, equipment… Today you have only yourself.

Sparks fly, settling on your pants, little spots starting to burn away. The glow in your fingertips spreads down to your second knuckle, third knuckle…

Bucky pushes the two doors forward together, driving them forward like a shield wall against the god-knows-how-many people approaching. You stick close, scooping up a handful of gravel and shaping it in your palms. Gunshots ring out, striking the padlocked chain, the doors, the dirt at your feet.

“Get that damn thing on!” someone shouts.

A colossal hum groans into life, flooding your ears as you lose all sense of feeling. Bucky cries out, digs in his heels as he left arm shoots forward, but you’re a million miles away as the doors fall away from you and clatter to the ground. Dust clouds in the air as you realize that the molten rocks in your hands have dripped through your fingers, burning your shoes away. You step back, hands shaking, suddenly cold as the warmth in your chest fizzles out.

Then you run.

Gravel bites into your bare feet and makes way for tough grass. But there’s rocks here too, hidden ones, and within seconds you stumble, a sharp rock tearing a gash in the pad of your foot. Still you run, eyes burning more than your hands had been, ice settling fresh in your veins as footsteps pound behind you, harsh breathing that isn’t yours whistling in your ears.

A grunt, and someone’s hand brushes your arm. You gasp, air slicing against your screaming lungs, and pump your legs harder, harder—

“Augh!”

A hand catches your elbow, yanking your shoulder, yanking your whole body to the side as you keep going, heartbeat frantic, brain screaming, eyes barely seeing except to realize that this is the first you’ve seen again, and it’s just like you remembered, oh god, oh god; you pull your arm against the tight grip, but there’s no breaking free, the grip is too strong. You manage to get a few steps farther, dragging your assailant with you, but he digs in his heels.

Like Bucky dug in his heels.

Your eyes swivel in your head back to the barn, back to where Bucky is still fighting against some machine aimed at him, making waves in the air as it pulls at his left arm. Even from a distance, you can see he’s confused despite his bared teeth and furor. He glances your way, and the fresh strangeness in his expression takes you off-guard.

The other one who’d been chasing you grabs you, catching your other hand.

“Gotcha,” he grunts, breathless and gleeful.

You can’t take your eyes from Bucky. He’s looking at you more now. The tears pricking at your eyes make it impossible to read what he’s thinking, but you know.

The first one knees you in the gut; you fall to your knees, eyes watering afresh and nausea tickling the back of your mouth.

You know what Bucky is thinking. You’re just a firecracker. You’re useless. You’re a party trick—

You surge back to your feet, hand curling into a fist as you drive your knuckles into the first one’s neck. They choke, eyes blown wide and hand instinctively dropping from your elbow to clutch their throat. You swing your other arm, ready to drive it into their gut, but the second one catches your wrist, twisting your arm up behind you. You scream in pain—your pulled shoulder is useless now—and make to get out of their hold, but you’re caught, and someone else has come along now, and they kick you facedown into the grass. Still you persist, wriggling and kicking and trying to force yourself to your feet, to your knees, onto your back—to anything other than in the grass, blades prickling against your cheeks and mouth and nose.

God knows how, but you manage to twist over and drive your foot into someone’s crotch. They squeal and hobble back, and you grit your teeth through the pain and push yourself up before someone drives a foot into your stomach again, slamming you back onto the ground.

“Stay down!”

It’s the second man, the one who’d pulled your shoulder. He steps heavy on your chest until your bones creak, and you scream from the pressure, the pain.

“Stop, you idiot!”

You freeze. Your scream dies in your throat. The man lifts his foot away, and even through your tears you can see his scowl.

That voice—

No. No.

No.

You curl your fingers into the grass. It’s alive in your hands. Something alive, that thinks no ill of you, that wants nothing from you, something green and alive and you are not going to let them take you again.

With a cry, you push yourself up and launch yourself at the man who’d held you down. Your punch to his jaw sends him reeling. There’s nothing left of the warmth from in the barn in your chest, but you reach for it anyway, desperate, as you dash towards the man whose voice you never want to hear again.

He’s holding a gun, pointed loosely at you, his suit clean as ever and his hair as short. His eyebrows are raised, as if he’s surprised, but you don’t care, you don’t care, all you want is to break is neck and never let him speak another word as long as he—

Crack.

White-hot pain lances through your hip as he shoots, but you keep going until you’re on top of him and he’s in the dirt and your hands are around his neck and you’re squeezing and then your hands are on empty air as that idiot pulls you off.

You stumble a few feet away. There’s no warmth for you to pull at, but sparks shoot intermittently from your fingers as you snarl, blood pulsing at your hip. The idiot has a cattle prod in his hands, and he’s thrusting it at you, the buzz sending shocks through you long before it touches you.

The boss, on his knees, lurches forward towards the two of you, his eyes comically wide.

“Don’t—”

The cattle prod hits you.

White.

All you can see is white.

White fire burns in your veins, under your skin, burning searing screaming—

—

White fire flares out from where you’re caught between a bunch of the goons. Something explodes. For a moment, the whole area is flooded with white, turning the world into static. Bucky’s heart stutters—he can’t see you, where are you, what have they done to you?

A wave of heat hits him with such intensity that he shouts, his arms automatically flinging up as protection. The world goes white; something clatters nearby.

Arms? Arms?

Yes, both arms. What happened to the electromagnet? Was it the heat?

Whatever it was, he’s free. He lurches towards where the electromagnet had been, teeth gritted against the pain of the heat in the air. He can hear frightened breathing, swearing—fuck fuck fuck fuck fu—and he pounces, landing awkwardly on someone’s shoulder, but not so awkwardly that he doesn’t knock them unconscious before they can land a single blow. He stumbles off of them, ears cocked for any other noises, any other sounds, but all he hears are footsteps running haphazardly away.

They’ll get found, eventually. Right now, he can’t leave. Not without knowing what’s happened to you.

Bucky’s vision clears slowly. It’s still uncomfortably hot—sweat beads on his forehead, on his neck—but there’s a slow breeze. There’s a column of smoke to his right, where you’d run off to, and he slowly moves in that direction as he blinks away the whiteness from his eyes.

Every step forward, the heat intensifies. There’s no more grass, just dirt, with black smoke spiraling up from the bare ground. Sweat drips down the hollow of his back, catches in his eyebrows—he shakes his head, teeth bared, and forces himself forward.

What the hell happened?

Had they come for him, or you? Why would they have come for you? Whatever he thinks of you personally, your powers have never seemed that extraordinary to him. Your work at the barn, turning wrought-iron hinges into molten metal in seconds—that’s the most impressive thing he’s seen out of you to date.

Whatever had happened, the white fire and the horrible heat and the whole world gone white—that can’t have been you. But you can’t be burned, can you? Whatever it was, it can’t have hurt you.

Could it have?

He breaks into a run, squinting. A shadow on the ground catches his eye.

Bucky freezes in his tracks.

A corpse, burnt nearly to the bone. Red-hot metal pools under its pelvis—a belt buckle? A gun? No, that’s the gun there, with the extra charring on the ground. Is that what had exploded earlier? Must be.

Bucky’s mind fast-tracks past the corpse. If this is what had happened to someone else…

He steps over a charred, skeletal foot, his heart in his throat as he squints against the hot smoky air.

If that’s what happened to someone else, how could you have survived?

Bucky’s eyes water more than ever as he walks faster. “No no no,” he mutters. “That’s not…”

Another charred corpse, this one truly burnt to the bone, tendons just barely holding it together. Tears track down Bucky’s cheeks as his eyes run from the long foot up the leg, over the hipbones—

A bare foot is caught in the ribcage. A skull cradled against a bare hip, scraps of charring fabric caught in the sockets. One hand, full and alive and covered in soot, flung across your belly.

Bucky falls to his knees and crawls forward until a tear falls onto your sooty skin. Your face is turned away from him. His hands quiver as he reaches for you—for the first time, he realizes the smokescreen has died—and touches your shoulder, the back of your hand. You’re still, too still, and your skin is cold to the touch. He can hear your heartbeat, but it’s faint as a whisper and slower than molasses. There’s no sound of breathing.

“Breathe, dammit,” he mouths.

He nudges you, presses down on the hand over your belly, trying to force some movement in your lungs.

Nothing.

He takes your face in his hands; they’re shaking more than ever. He turns your head towards him, crying outright now.

“Please,” he breathes. He shifts his knees until he can bend his face inches from yours. If he has to get you to breathe by giving you breath himself, by god he’ll do it, he’ll do it a hundred times, a million, because you can’t be dead here on the ground, you can’t be, he won’t let you.

Bucky sucks in a breath, the smoky air stinging his lungs, but before he can pinch your nose shut, you shift, groan, and turn your head just enough so he can see your lips parting and a tear tracking down your cheek.

Relief washes over him like a tidal wave. For a moment, all he can do is close his eyes and press his forehead to yours. Your skin is still cold, but you’re not dead. You’re not dead. You’re alive. You’re alive, and you’re going to be okay. He’ll make damn sure of it.

One last shaky breath, and Bucky sits up on his heels. He shucks off his coat, tucks it around you, and hoists you into his arms. The skull rolls to the ground. He has to work the ribcage away from your foot with his own hand, but then he’s taking you away, back to the burning barn, away from… He glances back. It looks like a bomb has gone off. It looks…

It looks…

It looks like something he’s seen before.

Bucky’s steps slow as he stares down at the top of your head.

He’s seen this before.

The white blast. The scorched earth. The charred corpses.

He’s seen it in South Africa, in China, in Ukraine, in Venezuela. Terrorism attacks, with tenuous links aside from the identical carnage.

Monthly attacks that ended… the same month you joined the team.

It’s only habit that keeps him walking now. Force of habit, and how cold your skin is, and something past thought that has his throat clogged with horror. But he can’t drop you, no matter what conclusions his brain is coming to now.

The air is clearer here. The barn is on fire now, whether from your handiwork earlier or… or just now, he couldn’t say. But the breeze is blowing the smoke away. One of the three cars is missing—some of them must have fled, but someone will find them. Someone.

There’s an SUV with open doors. Bucky settles you in the passenger seat, careful to tuck his jacket around you properly as your head lolls. When you come to, there will be enough to explain.

There has to be an explanation.

There has to be.

Bucky pulls out his phone. Sam’s on speed-dial.

Sam’s voice, when he answers, is answer enough.

—

It’s cold.

The air is warm, but you’re cold, so cold. Like your heart is ice. You squeeze your closed eyes shut further and reach for that spot of warmth in your chest.

It’s not there.

You whimper, try again.

Nothing.

You’ve wrung yourself dry.

How—

Your faces twitches as you try to remember. All you remember is white, the static of whiteness.

Whiteness…

Your eyes pop open as you suck in a harsh, smoky breath, every muscle taut and shaking as you stare at the burning barn through—through a windshield? You’re in a car? Your heart pounds out of your chest. Did they put you in a car to take you away?

The door to your right is open; you lurch out of your seat and land on your bare knees in the gravel, one hand clutching the open door for support. You stagger to your feet. There’s no warmth in your chest and no strength in your bones, but you force yourself away, away, away—

A hand touches you, and you scream, flailing blindly until your wrist is caught.

“Hey hey hey, careful,” a soft voice says. Another hand settles on your waist, the hand on your wrist shifts until it’s holding yours, and it’s then that your eyes refocus on—

Bucky.

His eyes are wide, fixed on your face. You blink. His face is sooty, but there are clear tracks running down his cheeks. Was he—was he crying?

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is still soft, still gentle. His eyes are still fixed on your face.

Whiteness…

“I—I don’t know,” you stammer. You put your free hand on Bucky’s arm, head swimming. The gravel bites into your feet, and you wince.

Your shoes must have burned away. Your shoes, and—

A strangled breath escapes your throat as you realize. Your shoes burned away, your shoes and your clothes. You’re wearing Bucky’s jacket, but it falls only just past your hips.

God, what did he see? You stare at him again, only more confused than before. What happened?

Whiteness.

You clap a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.

You remember it all now, as starkly as if it was happening all over again. The run, the struggle, the gunshot, the cattle prod.

The whiteness.

“Did I—did—what—”

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers. He gently wraps an arm around you and tucks you against his chest. “You’re okay. Sam is coming.”

Your hands wind into Bucky’s shirt, tugging it tight. You stare down at your bare feet as tears roll down your cheeks. Your left foot stings; are you bleeding? You shift your foot; yes, there’s blood on the gravel where you’d been standing. Your hip is less painful than you’d’ve expected, and you flex a muscle there experimentally. Something pulls at your skin—had Bucky patched you up? He must have.

Bucky.

What does he know?

“What…” You swallow. “What happened?”

“They set you off,” Bucky says.

You let out a slow breath. So he knows. You disentangle yourself from his hold and limp to the car; Bucky helps you along, and back up into the passenger seat. “Oh.” You turn away and look at the bottom of your foot, wincing. Yes, still bleeding.

“‘Oh?’” Bucky repeats incredulously.

You turn back to him, eyebrows raised. Bucky’s hands are wide open at his sides, as though he’s struggling to keep them from curling into fists.

“Why did no one tell me about this?” His voice is low, tinged with frustration. “Why didn’t I know?”

“Only Sam knows. Knew,” you correct. “He’s the one—”

“Who got you out,” Bucky finishes. He leans against the car, boxing you in. “But why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I have told you?” you ask, voice flat.

Bucky stares, mouth open, argument flashing in his eyes. You lean your head back and close your eyes. You’re still groggy and cold and tired, and there’s no way out with Bucky standing so close. All you can do is answer him.

“Forget why, when?” you continue weakly. “We’ve never been particularly friendly.”

“I can’t help being shy, can I?” Bucky snaps.

“Yes you can.” Your chin drops a little; your eyes are still closed. “I did my best, to try and make friends with you. I thought… it’d be good for me. Have someone who knows what I went through.”

“I didn’t know,” he says. He’s not snapping now. He’s quiet, almost plaintive. “I wish I had. I wish Sam had told me. I wish…” He trails off, sighs.

You peek open an eye. Bucky leans on his arm against the open car door jamb, eyes closed, face downcast. He looks… he looks like he’s more weighted down than you are.

A little warmth flares in your chest. You can’t tell if it’s real or just a hope.

You reach out and put a hand on his face. His skin is warm to the touch, as it always is. Bucky’s eyes pop open and he looks at you, his lips parted and his eyes wide and blue.

“It’s okay,” you tell him. “And I’m sorry. It wasn’t fair not to tell you. Not… not when we were supposed to have each other’s backs.”

“I’ve got your back no matter what,” Bucky declares, and the warmth in your chest coils and warms you straight down to your fingertips.

There aren’t words for what you’re feeling. All you can do is crane your neck and press a kiss to his sooty cheek and wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek again.

Bucky shudders in your hold, and it’s all you can do not to cry as he wraps an arm gently around you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “And I’m not letting go.”

#hbc secret seba #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes x y/n #winter soldier imagine #becca writes

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blookmallow · 4 years

Text

hello friends do you like GHOSTS

i found a short story i started ages and ages ago and completely forgot about/never actually finished and decided to finally finish it up. it’s about a strange little boy named george, and a very lonely little girl named clara

The Girl From The Bad Place

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George was very small. He had small hands and small ears, a small face and a small voice, but he had large eyes that could see everything. Sometimes, he saw things no one else did. Sometimes he saw things he wasn’t supposed to see.

Sometimes he saw shadows standing in the corner, but mommy said nothing was there, and stop trying to scare her like that, Georgie, it’s not nice.

The cat stared at the corner all day.

Once, when George was even smaller, so small you might mistake him for a little lump of cloth instead of a child, the neighbor boy – who was small himself, but not so small as George – told him about the Bad Place.

“Don’t go to the old shack in the woods,” Tony said. “It’s a bad place. Something just terrible happened there. Something just dreadful. Something so bad the grown ups would never tell you what it is. But I know what it is. Do you want to know what it is?”

George didn’t know if he wanted to know what it was, but Tony told him anyway.

It was something called Murder.

George didn’t know what Murder was, but it sounded very bad indeed.

“If you want to know, why don’t you ask her yourself?”

“Who?”

“The little girl. The one who died there. They say sometimes you can still hear her in there.”

George didn’t know what Died was, either. When Auntie Marilyn Died, George’s mommy didn’t come out of her room for weeks and always had her eyes all red. Daddy said not to ask her about it. George realized he hadn’t seen Auntie Marilyn since she Died. He wondered if she needed a doctor.

He remembered they had gone to the park full of odd stones that were all stuck in the ground in little rows when Aunt Marilyn Died. Daddy said it was called the Graveyard.

Everybody was very sad to be there, but George liked it very much. It didn’t seem like such a sad place to him.

His favorite thing was the funny people with flour all over their faces that peeked at him from behind some of the stones and waved and made silly faces to make him laugh.

They were very nice people, but for some reason, when mommy saw him laughing, she got very angry and told him there was nobody there.

“That isn’t funny, Georgie!” Mommy yelled, “Don’t ever talk like that!”

George asked once if they could please go back to visit the Graveyard people again, since they were so much fun and he missed them dearly, but mommy got so upset he never mentioned it again.

George was afraid of the Very Bad Place for a long time. Sometimes he had awful dreams about it, even though he had never been there. He imagined a door with snarling teeth that would crash down and devour you when you tried to go through it, or a rug that would tangle you up and drag you away. Tony moved away before George could ask if he had ever been there to see it.

One day when George was a little less small, he wandered away in the woods much further than ever before. He liked to play in the woods, and knew his way very well; but this time, when he’d gone as far as he knew, he didn’t stop.

The air grew cold, and George could see a building hidden by the trees a bit further up ahead. Somehow, before he could even see it clearly, George knew that it was the Bad Place.

Maybe, he thought, Tony was lying to scare him. Maybe it wasn’t a Bad Place, really.

But maybe it was.

He stared at the Bad Place for a long time, and his feet seemed to decide to move closer before the rest of him could argue. The shack came closer, and the air grew colder. Everything in the forest became quiet, as if God had flipped a little switch at his desk up in Heaven to turn all the birds and the wind and the squirrels off for the day so that He could have some peace and quiet, George thought. But this quiet didn’t feel so very peaceful at all. This quiet felt all wrong.

The trees and the plants were creeping all over the place, breaking through little cracks in the walls and spilling into the broken windows like they were all trying to drag the shack away into the woods so that no one would ever find it again.

The door was broken, too, and was hanging off its hinges and thinking all the time about giving up and falling to the floor but hadn’t gotten around to doing it yet.

But when George reached out to touch it, the door decided now was as good a time as any and fell to the ground with a loud crash that sent dust flying everywhere, and George falling over backward on the ground.

There was nothing in the shack except a lot of dust and spiders, and shelves that held old rusty tools and jars of nails. Someone had spilled something red on the floor, but it had dried long ago. George wanted to go home.

He almost did, but now his feet didn’t want to. Go, said George’s mind. Go! We need to go home! But his feet wouldn’t listen. George didn’t know what he was afraid of, but he knew that he was more afraid of it than anything he had ever been frightened of before.

“Who’s there?” Asked no one.

“George.” Said George, immediately wondering whether he ought not to have said anything at all.

“Have you come to play with me?” Asked no one.

George didn’t know what to say to that.

“Who are you?” George asked, looking around.

“My name’s Clara.” Said no one, who sounded very much like a little girl.

“Where are you?” Asked George.

“Why, I’m right here with you!” Said no one, who George supposed was called Clara.

He looked all around him, wondering if it were possible that Clara was a little spider on the shelf, though he had never heard of a spider saying hello before, or if Clara was perhaps hiding somewhere, though there wasn’t anyplace to hide even for somebody as small as George.

“Promise not to be scared.” Said Clara.

“I can’t help that.” Said George. But now that he thought of it, he didn’t feel so afraid after all. The shack didn’t seem like such a Bad Place with someone else in it, even someone he couldn’t see.

“Okay, promise you won’t run away.” Said Clara.

“I won’t run away.” Said George, thinking to himself he might run anyway.

“And I promise I’m not going to hurt you.” Said Clara.

“Okay,” Said George.

“Okay… I’m coming out, now.”

George looked all around again, wondering where in the world Clara could be hiding. She couldn’t possibly fit in a broken old plant pot, or behind a rusty shovel.

Slowly, something very strange began to happen. The shack suddenly felt terribly cold, though George had on his favorite sweater, which had never failed him before. Then he saw something in the air before him, like dust caught in a sunbeam; and he thought for a moment that it was. It began to grow thicker, until it looked like a silky, transparent sort of cloth floating in the air. It grew slowly brighter and larger, until George realized it wasn’t a cloth at all – it was a little girl in an old grey dress, floating a few inches off the ground where her feet should’ve been, her long grey hair flowing around her as if she were underwater.

She was very pretty, though she seemed only half-there; George could still see the old shelves and the broken windows behind her as if she were made of dusty glass. Her eyes were clear and empty, but she smiled like the sun. Her face was all white; just like the Graveyard People that George had seen so long ago.

She smiled, but her hollow eyes looked sad, and she folded her hands neatly behind her back, waiting to see whether George would be afraid and run away after all.

He didn’t.

“Are you from the Graveyard?” George asked before he had any time to think.

“No. I’m from Clearvale.” Clara said, shaking her little head.

“I’m from Clearvale. I’ve never seen you before.”

“Well, you’ve never come out to visit before.”

“You live all the way out here?”

“I don’t live at all!” Clara laughed, but George didn’t understand the joke.

She was a strange little girl, but George liked her very much, and they were friends always from that moment on.

For a while, George would go out to pay her a visit every weekend (for he was no longer afraid of the little shack in the woods, now), and sometimes he would bring sandwiches or cookies along with him, but Clara never seemed to be hungry.

Then, one evening when George was visiting, he had forgotten the time and stayed out far too late; the sun had already gone to bed and left the whole forest dark without him.

“Mommy will be worried,” He said, hurrying to the door. “I’ve got to go home.”

Clara looked very sad, shimmering a little in the dim moonlight.

“Won’t you be in danger, out there by yourself in the dark?”

“I know the way home,” George said confidently (but he wasn’t, really).

“What if there’s wolves? Or monsters?”

George had never seen a wolf or a monster, and he didn’t care to meet either.

“Maybe I’d best go with you.” Clara said after a while. “May I come too?”

George thought about that.

“But if you come with me,” He said, “Then who will go with you back home to keep you safe from the wolves and the monsters?”

“Perhaps I could stay with you,” said Clara, quite shyly. “I don’t think this place is home anymore. I don’t want to be here.”

George felt terribly sorry for Clara, living out here all alone without a mommy or a daddy or anybody at all except spiders, which were never very good company.

But he remembered how angry his own mother had been when he’d told her about the Graveyard people before. How she couldn’t see them, and how she told George never to talk about them again.

“I don’t think my mommy would be very happy,” George sighed. “She’s a good mommy, mostly, but sometimes-… sometimes she isn’t very nice. Sometimes she doesn’t understand things.”

Clara looked very sad, but then got a mischievous little spark in her empty eyes.

“That’s alright. I could be a Secret. I can go invisible anytime I like. She’ll never know it. Then you and I could play together always.”

George liked that very much. What he loved most of all, more than anything in the world, was Secrets. It was always very exciting to have a Secret, and he hardly had anybody to play with at home now that Tony had gone. Mommy and Daddy were always far too busy to play, but that was alright with George, as they were never any good at it anyway.

So Clara followed George home all the way through the dark woods. He felt something strange happening, like there was mist gathering around him, and something like spiderwebs sticking on to him, though there was nothing there whenever he tried to brush them off. The next time Clara spoke to him, it sounded like she was speaking to him inside his head next to where his thoughts were, and he could hear her very much better in there.

Thank you, George. Oh, thank you, thank you!

Now we can be the best of friends. Forever and ever and always.

#i ACTUALLY have had this concept for like 8 years now im not sure when i started writing it though #ghosts #ghost #haunted #spooky #the girl from the bad place #george and clara

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spookyceph · 4 years

Text

I posted all my ShigaDabi Week entries on Ao3, so now it's time to catch up here.

Day 4 | Trust

Summary: Tomura and the League arrive at Deika City to face Re-Destro. But first, Dabi has some explaining to do.

Rating: Teen and up

Warnings: Swearing, mild blood

Burn a Bridge, Build a Raft

“This is the place, huh? Not too big, not too small.”

Tomura knew he should look down the hill and see whether Spinner’s assessment of Deika City measured up. After all, it had been his decision to come here, both to rescue Giran and end the stalemate with Gigantomachia. If the others wound up dead, crushed by Sensei’s still-loyal servant or picked off by these Meta Liberation Losers, it would be because they’d followed him.

Well. Except for one.

“Man…why did I get dragged into this?” Wincing, Dabi clasped a hand to the back of his neck.

Though Tomura hadn’t seen him since he’d fucked off to test high-end nomus almost two months—two shittygruelingmiserablegoddamnedlonely months—ago he noticed something was amiss immediately. Details no one else would pick up on because, frankly, no one else had been waiting six weeks to receive word—just one little I’m alive, or sorry, or didn’t mean to abandon you lol—from the stapled sack of shit. Details like how flushed his unscarred skin looked. The amount of dust clinging to his coat. How his balance wavered, one boot almost tangling with the other, as he barely sidestepped Twice’s measuring tape while being hollered at for his callous attitude toward Giran’s plight. The fact he’d upset Jin to begin with proved the whole situation had gone sideways.

No one else noticed. But no one else knew Dabi like he did.

“Stop.” Tomura’s voice cracked through the air like a rifle shot. Everybody froze, gazes leaping to him. Everybody but one.

“Compress,” he continued, losing some of his volume but none of his command.

The magician snapped to attention, hastily securing his mask back over his face. “Er, yes?”

Not taking his eyes from Dabi, Tomura held out one hand. “Water.”

“Ah! Oh. Of course.” Compress didn’t even attempt to hide the relief in his voice at being off the hook. Taking a marble from one of his coat’s many pockets, he converted it back into their canteen and passed it over.

With his empty hand, he pointed to Dabi, then over at the line of trees marking the forest border. “You. Go sit.”

“Oooo,” crowed Toga. “Someone’s in trouble…”

Dabi blinked, switching a bewildered stare between her and Tomura’s finger. Some sense of meaning must’ve sunk in because, eventually, a dent appeared in the middle of his eyebrows and he plodded his way toward the spot indicated.

No one dared utter a word when Tomura stalked after him.

Dabi halted at the first tree he came to, gawking up at it like he’d never seen such a thing before. He didn’t even register Tomura holding a hand up near his cheek. Scalding heat rolled off scarred and unmarked skin alike, as suspected.

“Goddamn it, you’re burning up. Take your coat off.”

Again, like a deer in headlights. The already brilliant blue of Dabi’s eyes shone brighter still—practically incandescent. Feverish. Unfocused. Resisting the urge to just Decay the damn thing right off him, Tomura pushed the heavy garment from his wayward partner’s shoulders and helped him shrug free of it. His fingers showed blister-red after handling the leather; no doubt touching any of the metal reinforcing the sleeves would’ve earned a first- or even second-degree burn. He dropped the coat to the leaf-littered ground.

“Sit.”

This command proved easier to grasp. With no hint of his usual poise, Dabi plopped down, crumpling against the tree’s trunk. Tomura knelt beside him and held out the canteen.

“Drink.”

Slowly, as if afraid the container might bite, Dabi lifted it to his lips and sipped. Instinct took over at that point. Eyes going wide, then squeezing shut, he tilted his head back and guzzled the rest. Panting, he took a moment to catch his breath. When he reopened his eyes, clarity and personality had returned, if with weariness tagging along behind.

“Hey, mophead.”

Two words, spoken in that familiar, quiet, and currently cracked voice, nearly accomplished what a month and a half of constant fighting and sleep deprivation hadn’t. Tomura didn’t break, though. He didn’t move a muscle, didn’t make a sound. He didn’t reduce the tree to splinters by smashing Dabi’s skull through it. He didn’t Decay the sheepish smile off his (stupid handsome fuckinghatehimsomuch) face. Neither did he give in to the impulse to collapse into the scarred arms that would’ve caught him and never let go. He couldn’t afford to. Every iota of rage and pain and razor-edged glee needed to be reserved for whatever Re-Destro had waiting for them at the bottom of the hill. To expend any of it now could cost him or the rest of the League their lives. So, Tomura corralled his stampeding emotions with a temporary fence of practicality.

“Can you fight?” His tone came out blander than stale bread.

Dabi’s smile dwindled. He scanned Tomura’s face for any sign that his presence meant more than an extra pair of boots on the ground. Catching none, he took a long inhale and settled into tight-lipped resignation.

“Yeah. Got a little piss and vinegar left in me. What’re we up against?”

“An army of deluded morons. The usual. We’ll need to keep them distracted for about an hour and a half.”

“What happens after the clock runs down?”

“Gigantomachia shows up and proves their philosophy is a pile of shit like everyone else’s.”

That dropped Dabi’s jaw. “You’re still fighting that thing?”

“What’d you think we were doing out in the middle of nowhere? Meditating and earning merit?” Tomura snapped before cursing himself. The sneaky bastard had always had a knack for poking his emotional pressure points—for getting him to do exactly what he swore he wouldn’t. Collecting himself, he wiped his expression clean again.

“Are you going to be any use here or do you need to sit this out?”

Blue eyes searched for cracks in Tomura’s resolve. As perverse luck would have it, he noticed the tracks of rusty red smeared down Dabi’s cheeks at that moment. They’d seeped like tears from the drooping scars that made up his lower lids. More crusted the staples in his chin and near the hinges of his jaw. Tomura’s stomach writhed like a dying animal. What the fuck had Ujiko been making him do? Had he been testing the nomu by fighting the damn things?

As if reading his thoughts, Dabi touched the bloody streaks. “Whatever you need me to do, consider it done.” A pause. No—a hesitation. “I just have a couple of things to say first. If you, uh, want to hear them.”

This asshole…Tomura had to curl his hands into fists to keep from clawing at his neck. Telling him to shove it sideways with no lube would be satisfying in the present, but Tomura knew, just like Dabi did—just like he’d counted on—the mystery would turn into a distraction he couldn’t allow. Worse, if one of them survived this battle and the other didn’t…He yanked his focus back before his imagination could drag it down into that abyss. The exasperation in his sigh didn’t need to be exaggerated.

“Fine. Out with it.” He wouldn’t go away with any regrets—let Dabi carry them all if he wanted.

“Okay. First item is my family name. It’s Todoroki.”

Every calculated reaction he had lined up imploded, leaving Tomura’s mind a void.

A grim little smile spread across Dabi’s face. “You didn’t know. I’m surprised.”

Tomura shook his head to get the gears turning again. “I…suspected. After you told me your given name. Especially watching how you acted after All Might retired.” Endeavor’s rise to the number one spot on the hero rankings and Dabi’s new habit of leaving the charred corpses of low-level villains littered around the city had started too close to each other to be coincidence. A powerful fire quirk…blue eyes in the family…an older son who vanished from the news feeds abruptly…no, it hadn’t been difficult to fit the pieces together at all once he’d realized they were there in the first place.

“Why tell me this?” Tomura asked, tone teetering between genuinely curious and accusatory. “Why now?”

That smile still pulling on the seams in his skin, Dabi stared down at his hands resting in his lap. “Just wanted you to know why I really stayed behind with Ujiko, I guess. When I saw I’d be useless against that giant, I figured it’d be an opportunity to handle my personal shit. I could look for a way to take out Endeavor without being a burden on you and the others. Go figure, I failed big time.

“Oh, sure, me and dear old Dad went toe to toe when I took the first high-end nomu out for a test run, like I said I would. But then that wannabe recruit I was looking into kind of fucked me over. And then Miruko showed up. And I was out there all alone, with no one to back me up, just how I’d wanted it.” A strangled laugh hiccoughed out of him. “So, Ujiko had to bail me out in the end. I completely overheated during the fight. My brain was so fried I even forgot the damn high-end on the field. If you hadn’t had the doc send me out here, he probably would’ve chopped me up and fed me to the rest of his pet projects. Anyway…I told you all that to tell you this.”

Dabi drew a long, shuddering breath and looked up square at Tomura. “I was wrong. I should’ve trusted you. The others too. I should’ve trusted that you would’ve helped me if I’d asked. That you’d want to. I’m sorry. I’m a reckless dick. And I didn’t leave because of you.” Closing his eyes, he let his head thump back against the tree and swallowed hard. “Just didn’t want to cash in my chips with you maybe thinking that was the case.”

Verbally eviscerating him for the sheer volume of his idiocy—take down Endeavor alone, didn’t want to be a burden, overheated to the point of collapse—should have been Tomura’s first instinct. However, it found itself blocked off before it even arose by one confession that kept echoing in his head.

I didn’t leave because of you.

The volatile energy buzzing in Tomura’s bones settled and faded out. Rather than leaving him depleted, it gave way for a new source of strength to rush in and replace it. One that set something in him right, like a dislocated joint popped back into place. The spot was still sore, still tender, but once aligned it made him whole and clear and sure the fight waiting for him was already his.

Reaching out with ring and pinky safely tucked against his palm, Tomura gripped Dabi by the chin. Those remarkable eyes fluttered open, startled but fixed solidly on him.

“It’d be easy for you then, wouldn’t it?” Tomura’s voice came out low and vicious, his dirty, broken nails digging into leathery scar tissue. “To just die here and not have to back up any of the shit you said? But you’re not going to get that luxury. I won’t allow it. You’re going to live just so I can have the pleasure of watching you beg and plead and grovel to earn my trust again. Understand?”

The tiny shiver that ran through Dabi, and the flicker of tongue over his bottom lip spawned a new reason to live that tied with Grind Re-Destro into the dirt for first. Patchwork hands landed on his forearm, petting and tickling. The smug bastard even dared to smile. “Perfectly, boss.”

“Good.” And then, because he was dangerously close to kissing him, or stripping him naked with his teeth, or something else otherwise unbecoming of the next King of Villainy, Tomura stood and added, “You look like hammered crap, by the way.” The hand that had clutched Dabi’s chin switched to offering him help up.

The smile sprawled into a crooked grin as the gesture was accepted. Dabi picked a bit of dead leaf from the hopeless mess of Tomura’s hair before tucking the locks behind his ear. “And you’re beautiful, as always.”

He snorted and tried to sneer. Really, he did. “Lying sack of shit.”

Any further attempts at flirting were cut short by an exclamation from Toga.

“Someone’s coming!”

After a final squeeze, Tomura let go of Dabi’s hand. For the first time in too long, they went to meet whatever came their way gladly, head-on, and, more important, together.

#shigadabi #shigadabi fic #dabi x shigaraki #shigaraki tomura #dabi #canon compliant #league of villains fanfiction #league of villains fanfic #also on ao3 #ao3 fic #shigadabiweek

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