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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 3 years ago

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Scars That Heal || Eddie Kaspbrak x Reader Series

• Ch. 11: Under Pressure •

TRIGGER WARNINGS: blatant homophobia from Nicklesmart The Beatboxing Jester™️ in disguise as someone you know, internalized homophobia throughout the whole chapter. As usual, will put a skip marker for the heavier scene before and after if you need/want to skip. It is not light, ngl 😔 [trigger words: f*iry + the f slur, each used on exactly one occasion, and (as an insult) queer. I'm so sorry, this was not easy for me either and please do not read this if any of this in any way bothers you, i won't be mad if you skip the chapter 💕]

A/N: Next chapter will be all fluff I promise 🥲, I'm so sorry, but I needed something that could solidify Richie and Y/n's friendship for good, and her helping him through his worst fear is the best way to do that and will be explored in other ways throughout the rest of the series, specifically in the sequel. all that aside, I missed you guys and this series so much!!

LGBTQ+ RESOURCES AND SELF HELP LINKS AT THE BOTTOM OF THE CHAPTER

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

- 𝗔𝗨𝗚𝗨𝗦𝗧 -

Richie keeps his eyes trained on the dried mud on his navy blue slip-ons as he makes his way across town, his mind buzzing twice as fast as it normally did. He felt as if his entire body had been put through a blender; his skull still vibrating in his head turning his brain into jelly. His stomach empty and lurching as it twisted into knots far more impossible than what you'd see from a circus performer and his heartbeat could rival a hummingbird's. Not to mention he was walking with two extra legs he'd grow from time to time, another freaky affect the physical and mental toll these past few weeks had put on him and his eyesight. The caffeine he had been living on hadn't helped him one bit either he reckoned.

Insomnia had become his best friend in the past few weeks, hence this last-minute trip to the old gravel pit just behind Derry Town dump. At least, this was the lie he told himself to pluck up enough courage to call Y/n up. Richie hoped she could talk him through it, give him some advice. He was never this nervous to talk to her and deep down in a corner he wished to bury forever - that small part of himself that begged to be free - knew exactly why. This small, repressed Richie Tozier that lived locked away in the center of his heart was calling the shots that day. Hell, he probably had been his whole life but he wasn't ready to admit that to himself yet, let alone his true attentions of seeking her help.

All he knew is he was nervous as all hell, his palms were sweating, he couldn't stop fiddling with his glasses and he was sure one wrong move and he'd shit his pants. For fucks sake, he needed to shake this! He had already freaked Y/n out, that he knew. He could still hear her voice over the receiver. It was soaked in static and every 's', or 'c' sound she made felt like a pencil was being shoved into his eardrums cause of her shitty outdated telephone.

"You," she had asked with a pause. "want to meet at... the dump?"

"Yeah," he scoffed, scratching the same spot behind his ear for what had to be the billionth time out of nervous habit. "you got wax in your ears, L/n?"

"Nope. Just, a little confused is all. You seem kinda... I don't know, squirrely," she said wearily, and through a sharp crackling hiss from the receiver he can make out a nervous chuckle on her end. "You sure nothin' jumped up your ass or anything?"

He bit his lip. Hard. As if punishing himself for drawing her suspicions this early. What if she somehow caught on to what he was gonna talk to her about? Her walk to the gravel pit would surely give her enough time to get to that conclusion, and Richie wasn't daft. He knew he wasn't exactly subtle about... "insomnia". What with how many times he teased insomnia, called it that special nickname he knew it hated but secretly loved. That forbidden flutter in his chest when insomnia would laugh at his jokes, and the small but precious moments they shared from time to time when the others were late that would stay in his heart and mind for weeks to come. But it didn't matter now, as everyone knew; insomnia kept Y/n's company now.

Thankfully his mouth was faster than his brain, and it fired a rapid response before a lull could form.

"You bet your fur," he fires, his lanky arm had rested awkwardly against the wall beside the wall mount. "I am right as rain, toots."

He of course hadn't seen it, but she had frowned at her phone. Her concern was growing with every word spoken from him.

"Yeah," she snorts, throwing back a sarcastic remark. "Cause you sound it."

She had eased a bit, growing soft and falling back into their usual banter. Their special dynamic always seemed to coax down his guard a bit.

"You're talking like a 1950's gangster in a speakeasy," She straightened a little and had begun pacing as much as the phone cord would allow her. "Ya know... More than usual."

Y/n smiled when she could practically hear the smirk taking over his face, and she certainly had no trouble picturing his hunched shoulders and intimidating snarl he was most likely dawning.

"It's a little somethin' called moxie, kid," he spoke with curled his words, imitating all the gangsters he had seen in those cheesy old films. "somethin' you just don't have,"

Y/n had rolled her eyes again, at least Richie could see her doing so when he heard her respond. "Right, right. My bad Baby Face."

"Hey!" He barked, snapping his fingers and pointing at the floor as if she could see him. His voice lowered in a thick Chicago accent. "That's mista Baby Face to ya."

"Mista Baby Face Nelson!" She strained, her annoyed shout tainted with a laugh. "Are we meeting at five or not?"

Richie released a quick and silent breath, expelling as many nerves as possible.

"You bet your fur."

The exchange kept playing over and over in his mind and Richie wondered if the same rang true for Y/n. He hoped not, cause that would mean she was thinking about it too much. Hell, he was thinking about it too much now. A heavy sigh rolls off of his chest as every anxiety collectively manifests into its own dark thought.

Fuck, he really had it bad.

How pathetic he was.

Eddie would surely be horrified to know what Richie really thought of him, that was for sure.

And as if he hadn't felt crazy enough, the thoughts actually began to feel like voices calling him from the darkest shadows of his mind.

'And the other Losers? You'll be lucky if they even look at you again.'

Richie was surprised to find himself fighting back, pushing back as much as he could. Despite all the jokes and jabs, he couldn't be completely alone. A small part whispered in his heart that he wasn't, and he thought briefly of the turtle strangely enough but it was gone just as soon as it had come. All he knew was that whatever was telling him this thing was stubborn. But so was Richie Tozier.

He treated it as an intrusive thought. Made a decision then and there that it was, never occurring to him what it could be if wasn't.

No way. Not those assholes, he tells the voice. These are the Losers for fucks sake!

The more he thought about it the more he was sure of it. God forbid Eddie did find out, which Richie had no intention of, and what would happen was in fact unclear. But no matter how he looked at it, he just couldn't picture the little spaghetti man ever cutting him out of his life completely. Not by choice at least.

Now Ben, that lovable sappy haystack of his that was too passionate for his own good. Richie may not be the silent type but he does pick up on things, and Hanscom's affections for Beverly Marsh were far from subtle. Always opening doors for her and turning redder than a tomato when she smiled at him. Not to mention Richie was about ninety percent sure there was a poem of some sort involved. And that was just Beverly, Ben was always thinking of the Losers. Now Richie knew for sure that boy had no hateful bone in his body to the point it was fucking annoying.

Mike, Richie felt, might be a little similar. The kid had a lot of heart, always going on about the animals on his farm. Would even go as far to say he considered them his friends, what with how much Richie knew about Mooriuel the calf and he hadn't even met her for cripes sake! Richie imagined he'd be a bit more shocked but would try some sappy speech when he came around. Would make a whole big thing of it, pat him on the back, and even invite a conversation. He scoffed at the thought, the image of Mike slapping him on the back and his signature grin... Yeah, he appreciated the hypothetical gesture but it wasn't Richie's style.

He could easily see Big Bill sputtering up a storm, but managing a smile. He'd probably even manage to forget their differences long enough to say something stupid but supportive. And Beverly and Stan were the ones he worried about the least. Stan would probably be too indifferent to care, throw him some snarky ass comment like, "took ya long enough, dipshit," and Beverly? Well, Beverly had always been cool, very laid back. She never took shit, and she never dished it out if she didn't think it was deserved which Richie admired greatly. This was one of many reasons he was so shocked she had taken Bill's side in the fight.

The thought brings him back down again, and as soon as the memory touches him so do the nerves in his jaw tensing up again where he had been hit. He could feel the punch all over again. And he suddenly remembers why he is here.

He is here, he realized.

Just around the bend, coming into view was the gravel pit. Old and crumbling it was, and overrun with weeds and bushes. One could easily scale in and out of it, and at the very bottom Rich had discovered one day was a beaten and tattered leather seat from a car that found its way from the junkyard just a ways over. This was where he told Y/n to meet him.

Y/n...

Jesus fuck, what would Y/n say? How would he tell her? Would she still wanna be friends with him? Would she laugh and crack a joke, not taking it seriously? Would she hate him for it? More importantly, why in the ever-loving fuck was he here and willing to tell her?

His gangly legs tumble into a sprint as he picks up momentum descending the uneven terrain. The rubber soles of his shoes kicking up the layers of dirt and shaved gravel that lay beneath the rocks and he had to put effort into not crashing as he comes to a stop. He manages to avoid a nasty fall, completely ignorant to the fact that his right foot had been only inches away from a root peeking out from the rocks surely would have broken his neck had he made even one wrong move. He puffs out his chest, dusting himself off, and once again tries to dispel the nausea broiling in his stomach like hot tar.

He closes his eyes tiredly as he drags his feet to the leather bench, letting his backside fall through the air and into the somewhat plush cushion with a deep groan. "Fuck."

His fingers rub his tired eyes, his fingertips finding bits of crust he hadn't gotten earlier and his knuckles brush his glasses further up onto his forehead. Not quite knowing what to do with the overwhelming thoughts and emotions clouding him, his fingers dig further into his eye sockets until all he can see are inky splotches behind his eyes.

Richie doesn't know why he would ever think those things of Y/n. He hadn't ever told her this, not directly at least, but she was just about the only person in the world he trusted most. He knew in his heart of hearts this was why he found himself dialing her number before he could even register what he was doing. Even after their separation and the bitter feelings they took with it, the Losers were and always would be his best friends in the world.

So why did everything about this feel so wrong?

From the moment the phone call ended, he felt like he was waltzing into a trap like some putz...

"Well, look who it is..." snarled a voice from up above the surface.

Richie's blood ran cold and it felt as if the remainder of the air in his lungs had been squeezed out like air in a deflating balloon. He whipped around at the voice, his head twisting up at the silhouetted figure so fast he was shocked he hadn't broken his own neck. The figure held their hands on their hips, thousands of the sun's rays spilling around them as they blocked out a part of the sun, an advantage they reaped from where they stood before Richie at just the right angle. His breath caught in his throat as he had recognized the voice immediately, but the figure didn't quite match the voice.

The last thing person he needed to see right now was Henry fucking Bowers, that was for sure.

The universe agreed so it would seem. The figure shifted, just out of the light revealing the teasing smirk of his best friend Y/n. Her hands snapped together, her palms forming a handgun, the barrel aiming right at Richie's forehead.

"The jig is up," she snarled. "We knows it was you. You was the ones to steal from Big Bill's dame, and I wouldn't be surprised if yous was in cahoots, neithers."

Despite the fear that had clutched his heart only seconds ago, a small chortle left Richie at how awful her accent was. Hadn't she learned anything from him? A smug smile overtook Y/n's face as he broke. She holstered her handguns and gracefully descended the pile of gravel. His smile expired not long after, and despite the thin veil of clouds creeping over the sun the light in the sky was much too hard to even glance at his friend without blinking back several painful searing tears from the harsh light. But he could still make her out.

She was dressed in her usual ratty and eclectic garb; a mix of something far too big for her frame and something that seemed far too tight to be comfortable. Richie was certain she had never once owned even a thread of clothing that had always been hers. Her s/c brow had its usual, light glossy sheen of grease that Richie had learned very early on to not ask about. But there was something about her now, something he couldn't quite place.

Though one question kept popping up in his mind. One that left an itch in his brain he couldn't quite scratch in his dazed state. And that was how could he have possibly thought she sounded like Henry Bowers?

He finds himself looking down at the gravel now, wiping away as much of the sun's damage pooling in his eyes as he can. Unbeknownst to him, she watches him studiously, the ghost of her smile still on her lips as if she was enjoying his discomfort. His long and gangly limbs are folded awkwardly, still, onto the leather seat that sits on the ground. Finally, she takes a seat beside him with a huff as he had.

As he rubs his tired eyes for a second time she takes a long look around, breaking the silence when her trip around the gravel pit lands on him.

"Well, you've looked better." She quips, offering a smile.

Richie snorts, pushing his slipping glasses up the bridge of his nose with a friendly smirk. "This comin' from Raggedy Ann?"

They both breathe a small laugh and for a moment - just one beautiful, fleeting moment - Richie forgets he was ever scared. This is what he needed.

"So," she says, pulling his gaze towards her, sending him a cocky smile as a knowing look sparkles behind her eyes. "I'm guessing there's a reason I'm here, and not helping you with your summer training?"

Richie, for reasons unknown to him, feels his muscles tense up again involuntarily. Like a puppeteer suddenly yanking the strings, ripping his shoulders up to his ears and his muscles bracing. He felt rigid and he was, but he was doing all he could not to show it. All his unease came back in steady waves marching up the sand, but what could he do now? He could already feel her eyes burning holes into the side of his head as he kicked around a sizeable rock with the toe of his shoe, studying him. Waiting.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in a shrug, lower lip in an indifferent pout as he looked around at the sky hanging above the gravel pit.

"Just needed a change from all those ugly mugs, I guess," he manages a laugh, and he rises to his feet to lazily chase the rock that had rolled out of his reach.

He can feel her eyes on him still, and he doesn't know what to make of it until finally she breaks her silence with a chuckle and rises to join him. She catches the rock with the heel of her dirtied sneakers. They're worn down to the very last thread and several shades off from the original color. She kicks the rock back to him, and they engage in a lazy game of rock soccer.

"I can understand that," she says calmly, eyes trained on the rock as it tumbles across the gravel with several chunky clanks. "Reckon it'll be good for you, too,"

He frowns confused without looking up at her, winding one lanky leg back before one big kick. "Whad'ya mean?"

"Well, you don't wanna spend your whole summer inside of an arcade, do you?"

Richie's face freezes in a frown, the rest of his body going rigid. His eyes cement on the rock underneath his shoe, willing away the veil of tears that threatened to fall. Had he not been so caught up on why he was here, Richie might have had a clear enough head to realize Y/n wasn't there for that conversation, nor had she heard about it from anyone there. Instead, all Rich can think about is the small hypochondriac boy that had stolen his heart.

He can hear the conversation he had with his best friend, all those weeks ago when school let out. And if felt like a lifetime since he had seen that squishable, pouty little disgusted frown Eddie always put on that made Richie's inside melt. As if reading his mind, Y/n spoke.

"This is about Eddie, isn't it?"

Her tone is gentle but veiled. Something was concealed about the way she held herself, ever since she had arrived, something that Richie couldn't quite place. And there it was. He was right about her suspecting him, he must be. Richie battles the lump forming in his throat, and he can feel his ears turning pink under her unwavering and unblinking stare.

Richie does all he can to fight a snarky response, not knowing how else to navigate and survive the intensity of his feelings. All he manages to do is nod.

[■■■■■■■■■■■■]

"Rich, it's okay," she says, taking a step forward, his gaze is pulled to her eyes. And here it is, he thinks. The moment he had been dreading, the moment he hadn't even allowed himself to think about. "...I miss him, too."

His face caught in another frown. That's definitely not what he expected her to say. Quickly as he could, he wiped away a spot of snot at his nose. He had managed to keep the tears at bay but now they had found another way out. He felt like a fucking fool, and he wanted nothing more than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. Of course she didn't know what he was talking about. Why would she - how would she? His spirits were crushed, and he suddenly didn't feel like getting into it now. She seemed off today, not that Richie cared. All he wanted was for this whole day to be over with, not even knowing the worst had yet to come.

She studies his reaction, almost as if she had been waiting for this and she blinks for what Richie is now starting to realize must be the first time since she got here. Y/n's face screws into a frown, and yet there still lingered an uneasy smile that taunted him. Her eyes squint suspiciously at Richie, her head tilting in an expression he never knew he had always feared would come.

She laughs finally, a shrill and grating laugh he hadn't quite heard before and she nudges him playfully. "Oh, come on! It's not like you've got some faggy crush on him or something?"

When he doesn't answer, she scoffs, turning away and shaking her head in disbelief for a moment.

Richie felt he just might vomit. Or cry. Or both. He had never felt so distraught, so dejected. So broken.

How could she be saying these things?

He tries with all his might to conjure a response, any fucking thing at all so he wasn't some blubbering broken chump breaking down in front of her. But for the first time in his life, Richie "loudmouth" Tozier was speechless.

That fuck-awful grating laugh returns, a sour look screws up her face as she looks him up and down in disgust.

"Wait, seriously?" She gapes with a scoff, making him feel about two inches tall. "You actually think he'd want to be with some fairy freak like you?"

"F-f-uck off," he sputters, though he does not feel better.

The trembling in his voice, the vulnerability, hearing it in himself strips any remaining scrap of confidence he had left. He's crying now and there's no hiding it. And she heard it in his voice, he knew that now as he looks at her. Her lips curl into a malicious smile and she takes another step closer, Richie fumbles a step back.

"He isn't some," her nose crinkles as she continues to advance on him, the fire in her eyes building as he stumbles back to escape her sudden venom. "rotten queer like you."

Y/n spits the words out like they were poison on her tongue, and this was true in every way. Her fiery stare never left Richie, it burned holes right through him as she advanced on him like a wolf on a wounded doe. They were nearing the edge of the gravel pit, and Richie had nearly run out of room when her finger stabbed his chest like a sword's final strike to the heart, pushing him to the ground as she spoke those poisonous words.

Richie felt his backside meet several jagged rocks that brought even more tears to his eyes, though none of them hurt as much as her words. She towered over him now, the sun beating down on her back and pouring over her shoulders, trapping Richie in her shadow. She shakes her head, and he can still make out the pathetic look on her face as she glowers at him.

"It's girls he likes. It's me he likes." she points to herself, shaking her head. "He was mine the second he saw me, but you?"

She scoffs again, and her shadow releases him as she kneels to balance on her feet, legs folded before him with a snide look.

"You've always been the insufferable loudmouth he couldn't get rid of." A sharp laugh escapes her, the clutch on his heart tightening to dangerous amounts he fears it will give out. "Well, I guess he doesn't have to worry about that now, huh?"

His heart feels as if it has been ripped to shreds, the claws of the wolf had struck and now he was drowning in his own sorrows as pain as the heartbreak filled his lungs. Richie could no longer see behind the thick wall of glassy tears that blanketed his eyes, and the sounds of his own sobs amplified his embarrassment and despair. He was hopelessly broken, and he could feel himself crumble, each piece disappearing amongst the gravel underneath him until he couldn't be found. He blinked only once, but it was enough to send every tear racing down his cheek at once.

Another malicious smile contorts her face, her e/c eyes burning darker until they looked almost a completely different shade. Her lips seemed to stretch on and on and on in a way only one thing could. And it was then that it occurred to him.

Not one thing she had said to him is something he could have ever prepared himself for, each word constricting his heart and lungs and swelling his throat with the ever-growing lump.

Nor was any of it something she would ever dream of saying, he knew this now.

[■■■■■■■■■■■■]

This wasn't Y/n, this was never Y/n. She had never showed, and if he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own fucking head he would have caught on from the second "Y/n" arrived. Especially that entrance, Y/n surely would have fallen on her ass on her way down into the gravel pit never mind the fact her accent wouldn't be nearly as shit.

But none of this mattered now. This thing that looked like his friend had him cornered, and It knew it.

A wicked grin overtook the mask of Y/n's face that chilled Richie to his bones, and yet it also reassured him. Y/n was tough and could be scary from time to time, but he knew she could never be capable of the pure evil that now danced in It's eyes. Richie's body was already in motion, his arms and legs scrambling for any sort of grip that could take him up the side of the pit and to safety. But the gravel beneath him was always shifting, rolling out from underneath him when it wasn't raking his palms to pieces and all he was accomplishing was a small plume of dust that clung to his backside.

Richie didn't know where it came from, but his actions were faster than his feelings as his fist collided with It's nose. And no sooner did the heel of his shoe collide in a painful crack that sent It's head back, did his eyes widen in horrific shock. The painful crack that would surely haunt him for many nights to come, had not been from the collision of his heel on It's nose but It's head - or Y/n's as this was still It's disguise - had snapped completely back and dangled completely off It's/her shoulders.

The only thing connecting her head to her shoulders was the suit of s/c skin. Protruding from the center of her neck just under the skin was the end of her spine where it had disconnected, giving away a disturbing lack of muscles and veins in her neck as if it had been hollowed out like a pumpkin. Her head rolled back and forth limply, and Richie could feel bile climbing up his throat, ready to burst out his digested mac and cheese.

His mind was screaming at his legs to run while all was still but a small part of him knew this was all a gambit, that it didn't matter if she was frozen stiff or not. Richie knew as soon as he booked it, It would spring to life with something even more twisted. That now, without his friends, he was as good as dead.

And It was more than happy to prove Richie right.

The clone of his friend sprang to life, It's head still rolling around on It's shoulders. Connected only by the skin of It's neck, and moving around like some fucked up slinky toy. Richie was already halfway up the gravel pit, bits of rock and dirt finding their way into his shoes as he kicked up the earth though that was the farthest thing from his mind.

By the time Richie reached the top of the pit, he could no longer hear the thunderous boom of his heart attempting to break loose from his chest, which was saying an awful lot. His screams echoed out into the air only to be swallowed by the screams of other children and Richie didn't know how he knew this but he knew those were the screams of Betty Ripsom, Ed Corcoran... Georgie Denbrough. The bloodied screams of It's victims were drowning Richie as he ran for the junkyard, and he wondered if he might live to hear them stop.

The screams were so fucking loud in his ears he could see them. Each of them a blinding, deafening, gut-wrenching, and blood-curdling scream that danced through the air like ribbons as they begged for their lives. Richie cried out and he couldn't even hear his own voice, but he didn't let this stop his legs from pumping as hard as they possibly could. He was nearly to the junkyard, surely he could use something to fend It off but he knew he was just buying time.

He could taste the blood on his tongue from where his teeth bit into his cheek. In all his short life, Richie Tozier would not have guessed child-eating clown to be the way he'd kick the can. When ever the thought of death began troubling him, he always liked to picture something like a western. Him and his rightful enemy squaring off against good and evil, he'd shoot first and save the day but still sustain an injury and bleed out. But it'd be a hero's death. And that was something.

But this... this was something born out of darker than evil and Richie was about to be pulled into the gravity well of this black hole and swallowed up. And he knew in his soul, the very pits of his stomach it would reach out with its shadowy arms and pull him into darkness.

And it did.

Richie had been rapidly approaching the edge of the junkyard without realizing and within an instant found himself on the ground, caved in on himself as he tumbled in the dirt and rocks accepting he was to join them soon enough. He closed his eyes and waited for death as a hand curled around his shoulder and pulled him around. Another jolt of shock shot through his entire body at the sudden contact, locking his jaw and paralyzing his entire body in fear as he was met with the new threat. He didn't dare open his eyes, and certainly not when he heard his best friend's voice again.

"Richie! Richie?"

It was her again, he realized. Y/n's real voice, the one that he heard on the telephone that was dripped in static. The one now dripped in fear.

"Richie?!"

When the boy opened his eyes, they were filled with terror and his sobs continued. A lense Y/n never thought she'd see Richie look at her through. Her heart broke in an instant when she realized he was afraid... of her. Instantly, she released him and let her backside fall back into the gravel. She watched through a thick wall of tears as he trembled, crying to himself, and never in all her life had she seen Richie Tozier so broken.

It tore her apart.

She didn't have to be a genius to realize what had happened here. Before she had even reached the junkyard on her bike she had heard his screams strangled through the wall of trees gating the area. When she had reached the gravel yard, she was happy to see him still in one piece but he was running for his life from an invisible force. The damn coward had gotten what It wanted and scared him shitless, but why would he disappear just because she showed? She had wondered.

Now she was beginning to understand. It didn't need to be here to scare her. Just the sight of Richie in such a state was enough to tear her down and it took just about everything in her not to scream into the sky from a mix of fury and fear.

Besides the tears that race down her cheeks and wet her legs, all Y/n could feel was a painfully numbing fear. Fear that Richie would never be the same. Fear that Richie would never speak to her again. Fear that Richie would never trust her again. Fear for whatever the fucking hell that thing did to Richie. Fear that It would do it again.

All she felt now was fear for Richie.

Y/n doesn't bother to fight the sob that breaks loose, her bottom lip quivers violently and her arms fall to the gravely pavement beneath her. As if her head had filled with lead, it grew heavy enough to fall into her chest where her chin landed, shaking several more tears loose.

"I'm s-so sorry, Richie,"

Y/n yearns to say more, but her body is physically weak from sadness and shame. Yet still, she repeats it in her mind hoping with everything in her it slips out of her mouth, or maybe if she thought them loud enough he'd hear them in his mind.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry for whatever happened. I'm so goddamn sorry...

"I'm sorry," she whimpers. "I promise..."

I promise I'm not gonna hurt you. I promise I'm not gonna hate you. I promise I'm gonna be there for you, from now on. I promise.

Her sniffles blend with his own, and Richie is unsure why this is the moment he knows for sure this is the real Y/n before him; maybe he was just too exhausted to think it through, perhaps it was the godawful sound she was making trying to keep herself from snotting as bad as he was but he knew It had gone. And the Y/n sitting beside him — crying with him, was the one he dialed up today. This was the Y/n he had been prepared to bare his soul to. His true self.

So with one shaky hand — the other still tucked in close to his chest — Richie's left hand slid out from under him and across the gravel to Y/n's open palm. Her fingers were digging into the gravel, sharp edges of the rock digging into her skin as if to assure herself she was really real. Suddenly, she felt Richie's shaky palm slide underneath hers, carefully taking it.

Y/n picked her glassy stare up from the ground to look at their intertwined hands, and she melted a little. Several of those fears — not all of them, but some — were ebbed away and she looked to Richie. He was still curled up in the dirt, his eyes closed and silent tears streaking his dirt-covered face. Each tear paved a path of clean skin, washing the dirt away in wild streaks where ever each tear had fallen. Several large and swollen beads of tears collected at his chin where they dangled, threatening to fall.

She gave his hand a squeeze, letting him know she was there for him as she had promised him. And she was ready to sit with him for as long as he needed.

For hours that feel only like minutes, they sit together in tear-filled silence, clinging to one another's presence and the knowledge that they are now all they have left.

And there was no way they were letting go.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Here are some LGBTQ+ resources for mental health and self help if you feel you need them:

How do I find LGBTQ friendly therapy?

An article on safe ways to find the best sources of help that are right for you

The Trevor Project

Self Care Tips for Trans and Non Binary Folks

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syntheticpoetry · 4 years ago

Text

Kintsugi

Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a mature heart to heart involving Blaine's insecurities.

Tested reaction fic where I just really gratuitously expanded on the dialogue and included the missing smut scene that very obviously must have occurred off camera.

AO3 Link || FFN Link

Author’s Note: So during our Tumblr Gleewatch group viewing I was left wanting so much more out of this scene and it kinda just spiralled from there. There's some smut, but a lot of dialogue driven conversation following the canon dialogue where I felt like the conversation should have continued rather than end with their little heartfelt hug. The way Blaine just shattered and started crying and Kurt just held him with a straight face.... yeah. There was definitely more that happened there. So here you go. See more notes on the end explaining the title. Huge thanks to @blog-carmex for beta reading for me and offering her invaluable input :D

__________________________________________________________

It has been three hours since class ended. Three long hours since Blaine watched Kurt stride right past him without so much as another word after they changed out of their fencing gear. After their sparring match they had retreated to opposite ends of the classroom, huffing in silence and shooting daggers at one another. The mutual refusal to speak to each other had persisted all the way into the locker room where Kurt then proceeded to peel off his shirt in front of everyone. Blaine had slipped into a bathroom stall to change, a mix of embarrassment and guilt beginning to wash over the anger as he shimmied out of the white pants plastered against his sweaty skin. By the time he had emerged again Kurt had shouldered past him, tight lipped with eyes fixed in the distance, leaving Blaine to stand alone, his mouth hanging open and staring dumbly after him.

“I just find it funny that we haven’t been intimate in like a week and maybe this is why.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I got up early and forgot to text you.”

“You know what, Blaine? Sometimes I think we talk too much.”

After class Blaine had retreated to Kurt’s apartment in the hopes of another attempt at conversation, but has been melding himself into the couch for the last two hours with nothing but the silence and Kurt’s words to bounce around his skull as he waits for him to return. It feels like such a stupid fight. All of their previous discussions about just going to one another to air out their grievances, to talk about when things are bothering them feel like a distant memory. Blaine tried to talk to him. He tried to take the steps that they had outlined. But Kurt just shut him down. Kurt didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to let Blaine try to explain himself. Instead they were left to physically act out their aggressions in combat class of all places. Okay, so maybe Blaine wasn’t being completely open about the extent of his insecurities, but Kurt’s instant decision for distance and his ability to become an ice prince once Blaine had actually tried to initiate a conversation reminded him why it has always been so difficult to speak his mind.

Blaine is terrified. Terrified of rejection, terrified of Kurt finally peeling away his loosely fastened mask of confidence and seeing him for what he truly is— a coward. He had never felt brave until the day Kurt stared at him from across that table in Dalton like he was this wise old sage so full of advice and wisdom. It had been so easy to slip into the disguise, to feign the persona of a boy who had suffered and prevailed. Who was he kidding? Prevailed. What a joke. Blaine knows that whatever semblance of true bravery he ever possessed in the first place to compel him to bring a boy to a school dance in Ohio had been beaten away all those years ago in that parking lot. He told Kurt that he ran from his bullies and regretted it, but the truth is he knows he is still running. That he has never stopped.

Not like Kurt. Kurt, who had suffered in silence for months at the mercy of his own bullies and still emerged with his head held up high. Kurt, who had experienced his own hate driven assault, and had learned to become stronger and stand his ground so much quicker than Blaine could even begin to wrap his head around. Kurt, who is so much braver and resilient than Blaine can ever imagine himself being. Kurt, who does not actually need Blaine to guard him and guide him the way that he once used to.

And it terrifies Blaine to feel this insignificant again. To become a shadow of doubt beneath a rising sun.

The door to the apartment slides open and Kurt strolls in, phone pressed to his ear, instantly catching sight of Blaine on the couch. Blaine hunches over, arms resting against his knees, and braces himself for the explosion. All afternoon he has been waiting for Kurt to return, but now that he is actually here his instincts are screaming to just get up and run. Keep running. Don’t stop.

“Yeah, he’s here. Okay. Okay, bye,” Kurt slings his bag onto a chair at the kitchen table and turns to Blaine. “That was Rachel, she was just confirming us for her opening night.”

“What’d you tell her?” Blaine asks.

“I said, ‘Yeah, if we don’t kill each other in combat class, count us in,’” Kurt replies, eyes trained carefully on Blaine. Blaine does not want to return the focus though, choosing instead to tip a can of ginger ale into his mouth to douse the desert in his throat. Little distractions for idle hands and a restless mind.

“What happened in there?”

Here it comes— the avalanche. There’s a sudden tightness in his chest as he avoids meeting Kurt’s eyes. “You were really coming at me like— like… as if you had something to prove. What, I’m not sure.”

“That I’m as strong as you are,” Blaine says. The words sound surprisingly more bitter and resentful than he had initially intended them to. He remembers his place— don’t lose control — and tries to reign in some of the tension, just bottle it back up again.

“Okay,” Kurt says and strides towards him. Blaine takes note of the distance he keeps between them, the minuscule gap that feels like the Grand Canyon. Is it intentional? “But it’s not a contest.”

“Isn’t it though?” Blaine responds with the same bitterness again. “On some level? Cause for the first time in my life, I really feel like I’m losing.”

He can feel the loss of the control, the steady spiral into the depths of despair and uncertainty that he has trapped himself in for months. The knot in his stomach twists itself tighter, yet he cannot help himself. Once the train derails, there really is not much else to do but let the collision run its course. “I’ve felt that way ever since I got to New York. I feel like,” Blaine sets the can down and waves his hand between them, “We’re in this race together and you are just so much farther than I am. Like, it just feels like the whole balance has shifted.”

“What balance?” Kurt’s eyes narrow. He takes a seat in an armchair, keeps his distance.

Now he really has gotten himself in too deep.

“I guess it started when we first met,” Blaine shrinks back against the couch, avoiding Kurt’s piercing gaze. “And you came to Dalton because you were trying to get away from Karofsky, and I wanted to help you through that.”

“And you did,” Kurt says quietly.

“And I loved the way that felt. I loved it,” Blaine swallows and leans his head back against the couch, speaking to the ceiling. “I loved being able to protect you, but now I look at your life and…”

And now it hurts. Now it feels like I don’t fit into any part of it. Now it feels like I have never been, nor will I ever be enough for you because you don’t need me anymore. Nobody needs me the way that I need you. Why is this so hard?

“It’s completely different,” Blaine finishes and finally settles his eyes onto Kurt. “You’re a star at school, you have all these cool new friends, you started this band and I just,” Say it. Stop hiding. Say it. Tell him. “I feel like you don’t need me anymore, to protect or anything.”

There is a glint in Kurt’s eyes that sends Blaine’s heart careening down into his stomach. This has been a mistake. Saying anything at all, letting his guard down— it has all been a mistake. He springs up suddenly, anxious to disappear. “I mean, you asked me to move out, for God’s sake,” He murmurs bitterly as he walks past Kurt.

“We made that decision together,” Kurt replies, tone heavy and unimpressed, as he spins around in the chair to face him. “So is that what all this stuff is about that’s going on? I mean, you trying to get me to eat more?”

You are missing everything. You are missing the entire point. Do you even see me when we’re together? Can’t you tell?

“I don’t like the way I feel about myself anymore, Kurt! Okay?” Blaine’s raised voice takes them both by surprise. Through the open window, the sound of sirens permeates the post-confession silence. Blaine closes his eyes, already feeling the tears clinging to his lashes. He knows opening his mouth again is going to be yet another mistake, but so far he has been a glutton for punishment and self pity tonight, so what more is there to lose?

“And you have this amazing new body— do you know why we haven’t been intimate? It’s because I feel insecure around you. I feel insecure around my own fiancé, and Fratboiphysicals.com isn’t gonna judge me!”

Somehow this feels worse than keeping everything bottled up. The terror of Kurt’s reaction leaves him feeling dizzy and sick as he finally opens his eyes to absorb the blow. Somehow Kurt’s eyes exude a softness beneath the two smoldering flames. A sort of fierce protectiveness that only leaves Blaine feeling more pathetic than he did in the first place.

“Neither will I. Ever ,” Kurt responds and stands up to approach him. “But I am not going to apologize for not being some delicate flower that needs his boyfriend to protect him.”

“Kurt, I—”

“And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is a contest. Maybe that’s the way it has to be with two guys. But I would much rather be running this race with you than against you.”

Blaine knows what it is to be lectured. Understands all too well that familiar feeling of being put in his place, his actions chalked up to overdramatics and oversensitivity. Looking up at Kurt towering over him, he feels even smaller now. Whatever certainty he possessed, whatever feigned strength he must have siphoned off of Kurt when he entered the apartment to stagger his way through his confession has evaporated completely, leaving behind a hollow shell. His words come out apologetic and frightened, tiny and remorseful.

“Me too, I just—”

“As equals ,” Kurt says sternly.

Equals. Something about the word flips a hidden switch. Equals. He has never felt a kinship with that word before, never understood what it felt like to stand beside someone and hold each other up, sharing the weight. He has always struggled to be the pillar for someone else, to mask the cracks in his own foundation. Something about the way Kurt says it makes him feel ashamed.

“I know, I know,” He presses both palms over his eyes, keeps pressing until spots of crimson and white appear scattered across the darkness behind his eyelids like bursts of fireworks. “I-I know. I know that , I’m so sorry. I’m just…”

I am not worth this. I am not worth your time.

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna...”

His throat constricts because he can already envision it. He drops his hands, shaking his head, and focuses on the door just past Kurt, pictures him walking right through it like it is the easiest decision he has ever had to make. Kurt holds all of the power in this relationship, and Blaine knows that. Knows that whatever semblance of equality Kurt is preaching about right now is only a mirage. Blaine ruined their perfect balance the night he let his demons take control of his emotions and lead him to that weak moment of infidelity. One more wrong move and they are bound to break again. But Kurt does not walk away, he stands before him and continues to wait patiently.

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna keep changing, and you’re gonna keep getting stronger, then one day you’re gonna wake up and realize, ‘I don’t love him anymore.’” Blaine shrugs his shoulders, tears glistening, and smiles in resignation to the paranoid confession as fact. Even children discard their favourite toys once they are broken beyond repair. So why would this be any different?

“Never,” Kurt replies, his gaze unwavering on Blaine. The quiet intensity of his determination makes Blaine’s stomach lurch again, anxiety twisting tighter and tighter. “I’m always gonna love you. And I don’t want you to be insecure or ashamed around me.”

It’s only when Blaine exhales that he realizes he had been holding his breath, clinging to the tension in every centimeter of his muscles.

“Next time you’re going through something like this you— you have to be honest with me.”

Blaine can feel himself nodding without any actual control, like it is a trained reflex in place to diffuse the rest of the uneasiness and settle the confrontation. Anything to make this stop. His lips go numb, eyes still fixed on the door as the next word comes out on autopilot, drained and defeated, “Okay.”

Kurt’s arms around him spark the calamity laying dormant though, pull him away from the resignation and suddenly he is grasping at every inch of Kurt that he possibly can, sinking into the embrace as though clinging tightly enough will fill the gaping hole in his chest. The ebbing shame becomes a tidal wave, crashes over and over again and threatens to drag him beneath the riptide as Kurt’s thumb brushes over his shoulder blade. He feels so undeserving of such kindness and patience.

“Blaine, I think maybe we should have a conversation about where all of this comes from,” Kurt presses his lips to the thick layer of gelled hair atop Blaine’s head. “Don’t you think?”

“What more is there to say? Can’t we just cuddle on the couch for the rest of the night?” Blaine mumbles against his neck.

“Don’t deflect, I think this is the most honest you’ve ever been with me about yourself and I want you to keep talking to me,” Kurt pulls away, hands on Blaine’s arms to push him back enough to look at him. “I want you to feel like you can talk to me because you know I’m not gonna judge you. I love every piece of you, no come on, don’t look away,” Kurt’s hand is immediately beneath Blaine’s chin, tilting his head back to center. There has always been a sadness buried beneath the constant glimmer in Blaine’s eyes, usually well hidden and mostly undetectable. In these rare moments of vulnerability, that sadness is always directly on display. “I love everything about you, even the pieces you try to hide away from me, especially those.”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers urgently, his face contorting as he struggles against the grief, and tries to keep the controlled tears from transforming into full on ugly crying. But Kurt does not let him go. Kurt does not let him look or run away.

“How many times have you seen me cry? There’s no shame in letting go sometimes, Blaine.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Blaine breathes out. He tries to take a step back, but Kurt does not drop his arms. They remain firmly wrapped around him, rooting him to the spot. “I don’t want—”

“I’ve got you, and I am not letting you go,” Kurt says. “You remember what you told me the first time we met?”

“I said a lot of things,” Blaine closes his eyes and feels the warm streaking of tears down his cheeks. He has cried in front of Kurt before, but he’s never cried in front of him. The breakdowns have been reserved for solitude, behind locked doors, hidden away from the world.

“You told me that you ran away when things got tough, and that you regretted it ever since. Don’t run from me too, Blaine— stay.”

The perfect catalyst.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine chokes out. “I’m sor—sorry, I’m sorry,” He continues murmuring, the words becoming an incoherent jumble of consonants decorating the layer of heaving sobs and gasps for air in between. With eyes shut tight, he nestles his face back into Kurt’s neck, body trembling against his steady arms, and continues mumbling the only two words his brain seems capable of conjuring.

“Blaine, honey,” Kurt strokes his back and presses kisses to the top of his head. “Blaine, why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine shakes his head, forehead against Kurt’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

Now that it’s begun, it feels like it will never end. Control feels like a foreign language as he continues to shake and cling to any part of Kurt he can get his hands on.

“Come on, come here,” Kurt commands soothingly, leading them over to the couch. He drops down, pulling Blaine onto his lap. Blaine snakes his arms around Kurt’s neck, burying his face into his own arm. “I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

The reassuring words seem to be having the complete opposite effect on Blaine and only draw out more tears. Crying feels like an effort rather than a cathartic release. The mask has finally been ripped away, leaving him feeling exposed, dissected. He feels weak. Ashamed and self-conscious. How could he lose control like this? What’s worse, how can he be so incapable of reigning it back in?

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Kurt won’t stop pressing kisses to any area of skin he can reach. His lips are warm and wet against Blaine’s temple. Something tangible he can tether himself to. “Please?”

How do you condense years of pent up doubts and microaggressions of self-sabotage into a logical explanation? Where do you even begin?

“You know,” Kurt runs his fingers over the protective layer of gel, wriggling them in between to break up some of the strands. Blaine bites down on the inside corners of his bottom lip and allows Kurt to continue burrowing his fingers past the barrier. He had caked on so much of it after class it is a wonder Kurt is even able to break up any of it at all. Yet his dexterous fingers reach beneath and he massages Blaine’s scalp. It’s another calming, tangible gesture Blaine can tether himself to. “I have that keyboard in my bedroom. I can get that if you would rather sing something first right now. Usually helps you open up.”

The more Kurt’s fingers tangle and twist his hair, the calmer he feels. Once the tears have ceased enough he trusts himself to speak. “Okay,” Blaine has to mouth the word first before clearing his throat and rasping it out. He shuffles off of Kurt’s lap and spends the literal seconds of his absence wrenching his fingers together, both legs bouncing hurriedly against the wood floor. Kurt returns, keyboard secured underneath his arm, and sets it up on the coffee table in front of the couch before taking a seat beside Blaine. Before turning it on Blaine runs his fingers over the plastic keys. Will it ever get any easier to channel his emotions without a crutch? Kurt simply sits and watches, palm draped over the small of his back. Blaine exhales, the breath shuddering with the weight of all he tries to expel to lend his voice the strength to begin. He slides the switch up to turn it on and positions his fingers on the keys, gently tapping out a somber melody.

“ When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive, I am in love with this place. I love it most how you whisper my name And so I catch it in a bottle for my lonelier days.”

He never has to think when it comes to music. His fingers always seem to know just what notes to play. And the words always come easier when they are borrowed from someone else. He shifts closer to the keyboard, hands steady and certain as he continues with the melody. Kurt understands him so well, knows just the right things to say and do to coax him through the storms.

“The moment slows inside the palm of your hand, Oh I could stay like this forever or as long as we can. And in the morning I pour a warm cup of tea And hope you'll stay a little longer, stay a lifetime with me.”

He straightens his back, puts more vigor into the tempo as he pushes past the fear and lets his voice crescendo into the next verse. The one that means the most. The one he wishes he could say without having to hide behind the safety blanket of song. Maybe someday he can learn. But for now it is easier to parrot the words that bare a glimpse into his heart.

“Cause when you go, like summer gives to the rain, I am uncertain, but I'm certain I am losing my way. When you let go, I don't see straight anymore— I am unwinding, I am broken, I am losing my core.”

His voice breaks on the last line, raspy and watery with the weight of tears once again. He closes his eyes, languidly drags his fingers over the keys, lulling back the gentle melody as Kurt slides his hand up to his mid-back. He continues with the interlude, repeats it, drawing out the time to build up the courage to continue again. Kurt shifts closer beside him, wraps an arm around him and rests his chin on his shoulder. Tangible. Comforting. Reassuring.

“There is a door that opens at the sight of your face, I feel it all, I feel the warmth of every long summer day. And like an angel, you circle back with a kiss, You are the one I'm dreaming of, you are the one, you are the one. You lift me up with every step that I take, You are the reason, you're the answer when I'm drifting away. And through it all, when I start making a mess, You are forgiving, everlasting. You're my everything.”

The warmth of Kurt’s breath raises the hairs on the back of his neck. When Kurt’s lips press into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder the notes start to get sloppy, crescendoing and decrescendoing when a wave of goosebumps runs its course throughout his entire body. He abandons the keys, voice so low that some of the sound cuts out as he half-whispers a fragmented collection of the remaining lyrics.

“You are the one who holds my heart. When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive— there is a reason to stay.”

They sit in the stillness for a while, Kurt’s arms fastened loosely around Blaine’s waist, with only the distant muffled sounds of the city coming to life in the early hours of a Friday night to keep them company. Unlike the bustling renegades of New York City, there is no sense of urgency or obligation between them tonight. Blaine sinks back against Kurt’s chest, sluggish and exhausted, but he knows the night is nowhere near its finale. The song was merely an introduction, a segue into the next section of the grand orchestral piece.

“I remember telling you once that I’m not good at romance,” Blaine breaks the silence. “That I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to this.”

“Probably the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Kurt responds affably. Blaine can hear the tentativeness as he tries to keep the conversation light and playful and knows he is trying to work out just where he is headed with this train of thought.

“Is it though?”

“Blaine, you are probably the most romantic person I know. I used to think I was the hopeless romantic in this relationship, but you definitely have me beat.”

“I hate that phrase,” Blaine says indignantly, trying to shrink back against him more, but there is nowhere else to go. Kurt deciphers his body language and embraces him tighter. “Hopeless romantic— why does it have to be a hopeless romantic?”

“It’s just a phrase. Of course you aren’t hopeless,” Kurt begins pressing kisses to wherever he can reach again. Blaine closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch cushion. Maybe Kurt was right. Maybe a week without intimacy really was far too long. The soft desperate whine that falls from his lips as Kurt continues to litter his neck with delicate kisses definitely suggests as much.

“Kurt, can we—”

“Soon,” Kurt says. “We aren’t done talking yet.” He sucks the skin at the base of Blaine’s neck between his teeth and gnaws gently and Blaine can feel the slight upturn of his lips against his skin as he lets a sharp, breathless exhale slip out.

“Well, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to concentrate if you keep—” Kurt moves his head away, only centimeters but he may as well have relocated himself across the room. Blaine scoots closer, practically sitting on his lap again now and whines, “No, no, no! Come back!”

“How about we play a game?” Kurt replaces his lips on Blaine’s neck and runs his tongue over the reddened bite mark.

“What kind of game?” Blaine rasps out, shivering as a new wave of goosebumps breaks out.

“A game of trust and honesty,” Kurt raises his head to whisper against Blaine’s ear. Blaine turns ever so slightly to face him, their noses touching, vision blurred and unfocused at such a close distance.

“Sounds like truth or truth instead of truth or dare. What are the rules?” He asks apprehensively.

“I’ll ask a question, you give me an honest answer. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but if you do you can tell me what to do next,” Kurt replies. At Blaine’s continued exhibition of hesitation he adds, “We can even take turns, if it makes you more comfortable. You can ask me anything you want.”

Blaine tilts forward, resting his forehead against Kurt’s and hesitates before he nods a fraction of an inch. “Okay. Who goes first?”

“I’ll ask first,” He leans back and Blaine falters in the absence of his support before adjusting, back straight against the couch cushion. Kurt twists sideways, shoulder against the couch back and places one hand over Blaine’s. “Why did you pick that song?”

Blaine furrows his brows, tilts his head slightly, caught off guard. The song choice seemed self-explanatory. “Because it makes me think of you.”

Kurt doesn’t ask, he says, “Elaborate.”

Blaine squirms, doesn’t understand. Didn’t he listen to the lyrics? What more is there to say? Kurt merely smiles back at him, interlocks their fingers, and waits.

“Well, I guess because that’s how I feel with you. You make me feel safe. You remind me what it is to truly be alive and without you I feel,” He stops, throat suddenly tight.

Lost. I feel so lost without you sometimes.

“Feel what, honey?” Kurt prompts softly.

“Lost.” The word sounds small and fragile when he says it and yet it feels so heavy now that it is out in the open. But Kurt shows no indication of surprise at the confession. On the contrary, he seems pleased, as though this is exactly what he was hoping to hear.

“Why?” He rubs his thumb into the back of Blaine’s hand.

“Because,” Blaine starts and stops again. Talking used to feel so effortless between them before he had created this rift. Ever since their breakup every word has come carefully selected with the fear that it will be the absolute wrong thing to say. Just because Kurt has agreed to marry him, that does not mean he cannot still change his mind. And what if he does? Blaine cannot even bear to think about that. “Because you make me feel like I am really worth something when I can’t remember why. You gave me— us, you gave us another chance and I am so afraid of fucking it up all over again because you are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t… lose you again. I can’t go back to being alone and just pretending to be brave because everyone expects it of me.”

He feels winded by the end of it. One question in and already the endeavour feels draining. Kurt’s expression is unreadable when Blaine summons the courage to look him in the eyes. Is that… fear? He lifts one leg, drapes it over Blaine’s lap and leans forward to kiss him. Blaine kisses back hungrily, desperately.

“Tell me what you want and then it’s your turn to ask,” Kurt whispers against his lips. Blaine swallows, already half-hard from the simple act of kissing. With the weight of an entire day of silent brooding being lifted, his body cannot help but remind him just how desperately he needs to be touched. Needs to be needed. How many questions will they have to get through first though?

“Bite my neck again, harder this time though,” He requests. And Kurt obliges. He allows himself to be swept in it for the moment, palm riding over Kurt’s thigh as he feels the gentle brush of teeth and tongue over his skin before he sucks and bites and fuck that feels good. Too soon though, he stops and Blaine wants to whine and protest but remembers what he is waiting for. Right. A question. Something he is afraid to ask, but wants to anyways. That look in his eyes… Okay. Truth time. He can do this.

“Does that scare you? What I just said.”

“A little bit,” Kurt does not even hesitate, which does nothing to quell Blaine’s nerves. It feels like a slap in the face, affirming all of his fears to be true after all. A strange swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach leaves him looking crestfallen, but Kurt slides a hand up to caress his cheek and continues. “I think you use me to define yourself and measure your worth a lot of the time, and that’s the part that scares me sometimes. I don’t want you to need me to tell you that you are enough, I want you to feel it because you know it. And I have a funny feeling that this is something you’ve been doing long before we ever met.”

Kurt holds his face there, eyes soft and intense. Blaine’s lip quivers, eyes darting wildly as he searches Kurt’s face. Searches for what? He is not wrong. Deep down, he knows he is absolutely right. For as long as he can remember he has tethered himself to the attention of others, weighing his worth in compliments and just being noticed at all. Kurt had just been the first one to take it a step further, to love him in all the ways a human being could be loved, to make him feel seen and needed and wanted . He does not know how to verbalise this though, so instead he asks, “What do you want me to do?”

“Take off your sweater and your shirt.”

“Shouldn’t we move to—”

“Rachel has rehearsal all night, she won’t be back for a while.”

Blaine’s eyes automatically dart to the door but he nods stiffly and works the sweater over his head. He moves his hands to the base of his shirt, pauses and swallows. Yes, Kurt does not want him to feel insecure around him. But one conversation is not going to fix that. With the way they’re sitting on the couch, with the lights completely on— Blaine is completely aware of how he will look once that shirt comes off. Kurt presses a kiss to his cheek and slides his hands over Blaine’s, murmuring, “This too, my beautiful boy.” Pink in the face, Blaine licks his lips and allows Kurt to help him lift the shirt over his head. He tries to sit up straighter, keeping his eyes on Kurt to distract from the way his stomach protrudes and hangs over the edge of his pants.

“Your turn,” Blaine says, throat taut, so the words come strained and thick.

Kurt languidly drags his fingertips over his bare chest, just drinking him in for a moment. He rests his palm over Blaine’s heart before he asks, soft and loving and gentle as he possibly can, “Why do you think I would just get up and leave you? Where does that come from?”

It’s immediately evident why Kurt has positioned his hand over his chest when Blaine instinctively tries to sit forward, ready to stand and pace and will himself to vanish because, remind him again— why do they have to be doing this right now? Why can they not just be naked and sweaty and rutting against each other, drowning out the need for words and difficult conversations between desperate kisses and breathless moans in the dark?

You were right, we talk too much.

Kurt’s hand moves deftly over his chest, warm and reassuring, and his voice comes as eloquently and unwavering as it has all night, “Remember, you can skip, but I hope that you don’t.”

How is he supposed to just shut him down after that now? It is a request, not an obligation, but Blaine wants to please him, wants to make him proud. Because what does their relationship even mean if he is too afraid to speak to his own husband-to-be about the horrible things he has only whispered within his own head for years and years and years?

We’re getting married. He wants to marry you. The hard part is over. He said yes. Just let him in.

“Because,” He inhales sharply, exhales it into a long trembling breath and holds his hand over Kurt’s, pressing harder against his chest. Kurt nudges himself closer, wraps his other arm around his shoulders and draws him in. “Because everyone else does, so it feels like it’s only a matter of time before you do too.”

“This has to do with your family, doesn’t it?”

And of course Kurt knows already. Of course he has just been waiting for Blaine, stupid Blaine, to come forward and finally say it. How can he possibly have been this clueless? Despite the recent miscommunications and misunderstandings, the missteps in their natural abilities to decipher each other’s body language with nothing more than a glance of understanding, how could he ever think that Kurt would not know how to trace the root of all of it with such precision that he may as well just write the instruction manual on how to operate Blaine Devon Anderson?

“How stereotypical, right?” Blaine asks, partly because he does not know how else to respond, but mostly because he is soberly aware of the fact that he is sitting here, shirtless and defenseless, ready to cry for what feels like the thousandth time in the past week and just wants to maintain the shattered art of deflection. Sardonic and dizzy and bitter and angry with himself for bottling it up for so long when it was always in plain sight to begin with, he can’t help but think— So much time wasted. And for what?

“Stop that,” Kurt says quietly, tone so serious it feels like a kick straight to the ribs. Kurt was usually the one to crack a joke, humour cynical and so biting that he could take the edge off of anything. But then again, that was usually reserved for his own tragedies. Today has not been about laughing away the pain and self-deprecation, he has tried to make it something more. “Don’t make it less than it is. It’s something that matters to you, don’t make it a joke.”

“Sorry,” Blaine says, a pre-programmed response that makes Kurt’s brows furrow in what can only be perceived as disapproval. He simply shakes his head though, runs both hands over Blaine’s bare chest and varies his gaze, eyes darting back and forth between Blaine’s lips and eyes.

“You barely talk about them. I don’t know if you even still talk to them.”

Blaine moves to fold his arms over his chest, another defensive play that Kurt refuses to yield to. He moves his leg off of Blaine, drops it to the floor and then he’s tugging and coaxing and murmuring affections until Blaine is situated on his lap, their torsos pressed firm. The material from his sweater is scratchy and rough against Blaine’s bare skin and he thinks, desperately, Please just take that off and fuck me until I forget.

“Do you?” Kurt asks delicately.

Blaine swallows and the words come out thick as molasses, “Coop, sometimes, if I call him. My parents,” He licks his lips, shimmies down against Kurt’s lap so he can hide his face into the crook of his neck. With arms firmly around his waist, he presses fingertips into his back, that damn scratchy sweater, he just wants to rip it off of him and beg and beg and beg— make me forget, just make me forget. “My mom texted me when I first moved to New York to ask if I made it, I haven’t heard from her since.”

“And your dad?” Kurt probes cautiously.

A pause. Blaine spends the next few seconds just breathing against his neck and presses his fingertips down harder. “Fuck my dad,” He finally says, quiet and fragile. It is a wonder the words don’t crack and slice his throat right open on the way up.

He feels Kurt’s arms, so strong and protective, close tighter around him and maybe it is the silence that follows— because when does Kurt Hummel ever become speechless?— or the way Kurt keeps pulling and squeezing, trying to weld them together as one or the sudden influx of scattered kisses he presses to his forehead, but something in him shatters . His entire body shudders with the riptide of the sob that courses through him, but Kurt just holds him steady, rocks and whispers his little mantra, “I’ve got you, I love you, I’ve got you.”

“Hate him, I hate him— He’s just— And I’ve never been able to— He hates me, he's always—”

Blaine hiccups and babbles and gasps and cries, unable to pluck one coherent thought from the rush of water now that the dam has finally broken wide open. Kurt presses his lips to his forehead, whispers affections and instructions against his skin, and strokes his hair, his arms, his back— every possible inch of him that exists, Kurt is sliding his hands over, fingertips grazing and pulsing. Drained and dazed from the weight of everything the insane idea enters Blaine’s head— if you’re looking for the ‘off switch’ I have no idea where it is either.

One shuddering breath collides into the next with no space in between until Kurt is lifting his head, cupping his face between both hands. He tries to twist away, but Kurt’s thumbs stroke his cheeks, hold him steady and Blaine is just so tired he has no strength to fight him.

Please don’t look at me, I can’t stand it.

“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating. You’re gonna pass out if you keep going like this. Just let me help,” Kurt’s thumbs brush over his cheek bones, already red-raw and stinging. Blaine burrows his fingers deep into his back again and barely notices the feel of the sweater he has been scornfully regarding as he nods a few times between Kurt’s hands.

“O-o-o-k-kay,” He sputters, gasps and cries some more, wishing, again, to just simply disappear.

“Purse your lips together, I’m gonna count while you breathe,” Kurt kisses his forehead. He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the feel of soft, wet lips against his skin and nods again. He makes it to three on the trembling exhale before breathing in, sharp and quick. Thumbs against skin, lips against forehead, they reset. Kurt continues kissing his way across his face between murmured instructions, lips planting invisible X-marks-the-spots all over the raw geography of familiar terrain like it still needs to be thoroughly explored and mapped out. Blaine has been so focused on following his voice, desperate to latch onto each whispered command, he does not realise his breathing has slowed until their lips are finally touching. He lets Kurt take control, allows himself to be cared for and coddled and carefully handled like he is actually a broken sheet of glass filled with cracks, bound to shatter at the slightest hint of pressure.

Lips still pressed together, he whispers into Kurt’s mouth, “I feel like such a mess.”

“My beautiful boy,” Kurt breathes back and it is a conscious effort on his part not to just start crying again because fuck , he feels anything but beautiful right now. “We can stop for now, if you want. I know that was a lot.”

“No, I want to tell you. I–I know that I just… shut down sometimes, but I want you to know. It’s just,” Blaine leans backwards enough to look him in the eyes. “It’s hard for me to talk about these things.”

“I know,” Kurt’s thumb brushes his cheek again and Blaine leans into the touch. “Take your time.”

“I feel like I don’t even know him, you know?”

Kurt just watches him, one hand still caressing his face and the other rubbing gentle circles into his back. Kurt doesn’t know. Kurt will never know. Blaine releases a shaky exhale before continuing.

“He was never home, always working. And when he was home it’s like we were living on two different planes of existence, I felt invisible around him. He hasn’t been able to see me for a very long time. And my mom has just been so checked out— honestly, she’s been a mess for as long as I can remember. It was just— It wasn’t a happy home, Kurt. Cooper got out the second that he could, and I can’t really blame him for it. Even though we didn’t always get along and he was constantly trying to show me up, it was really lonely without him. I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, there was no Glee club— no safe space for anyone who was gay. It was just me and one other kid who were publicly out.”

“The one you went to the dance with?” Kurt asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Blaine nuzzles his neck and breathes in deep. “Afterwards he told his parents going to the dance together was my idea, and it was, and that was it. They didn’t want us being friends anymore, they blamed me for what happened and he just… walked away. Well, I think they moved, but he just stopped talking to me.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been— I’m sorry,” Kurt kisses the top of his head.

“My parents shipped me off to Dalton after that. I didn’t even want to go at first, if you can believe that.”

“Really?”

“Really. A boarding school with a dress code and a bunch of snobby rich kids? I was dreading it. But it became home. They didn’t care that I was gay, they accepted me right away. Then joining the Warblers? There were so many times I was convinced I was just in a coma and dreaming the entire thing up. We were treated like rockstars, it was the first time I felt good about myself in a long time.”

“Now I feel bad for making all those snarky remarks about everyone just being back-up singers to you,” Kurt says, earning a quiet laugh from Blaine.

“Well, you weren’t wrong. You were right to call it out. The whole reason I fell in love with being a Warbler was because everyone had an equal say, I just got so swept up in finally being noticed that I lost sight of the fact that there were probably some other guys that wanted to be noticed too. You kept my ego from overinflating.”

“You seemed like the most confident person in the world to me when we first met,” Kurt says. “I never would have guessed you struggled with any self-esteem issues.”

Blaine shrugs nonchalantly and presses a kiss to his neck. “You didn’t know because I didn’t want anyone to know. We didn’t… talk about feelings at my house. You started bringing that out in me, making me believe I didn’t always have to hide and pretend. But I lose sight of that sometimes, I guess. It’s easier to just shut down and bottle it up, but you’re right… I have to be able to come to you, we have to be able to come to each other. I’m— I’ll be better, I promise I will.”

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me. I’ve been able to guess at some of it for a while now, but hearing you finally say it— I’m proud of you. I always want you to feel safe with me, so I hope that you do talk to me more about things like this that are bothering you.”

Blaine nods against his shoulder, eyes stinging and blurring. He does not know why he expected anything other than absolute understanding and compassion from him, why it was so difficult to force the words out in the first place.

“Do you want to keep talking?”

Make me forget. Love me and don’t let me go and just make me forget everything else.

“I think I need a break from talking. I just need you, I—”

And then Kurt is kissing him and Blaine is kissing back like it is the first time all over again. He catches Kurt’s lips with his teeth, sloppy and hungry and desperate to be as close to him as possible because the great gaping canyon in his chest demands to be filled. Please! Please! Please! His heart thumps away the greedy melody and when Kurt pulls away, widening that endless cavern, he actually whines . But Kurt is tugging at the sleeves of his sweater— normally a crime , you always pull from the collar, he constantly tells Blaine— and Blaine’s hands hurry forward to help him strip it away.

Blaine has watched him while he works out, has witnessed firsthand the care and consistency and the effort behind those hardened muscles in his arms and chest and oh god those abs . He is like a living statue and Blaine is the only one privy to the private viewing of his full display of perfection. How could he let his stupid insecurities keep him from this?

“You’re staring.”

Without even looking Blaine can tell he’s smirking. “Can you blame me?”

He looks up to see another playful smirk, and that Kurt is staring right back at him, lower lip ever so slightly tucked in beneath his teeth. Fuck .

“So,” Kurt says, voice low and husky. “You still have to tell me what you want me to do next.”

Make me forget. Make me forget.

“Take control,” Blaine says softly. When Kurt’s hand travels up his thigh to fiddle with the button of his pants, he rasps out, “I’m all yours, take control.”

The caress of lips against his jaw, the ice cool touch of smooth fingers dipping below his waist band, teasing and exploring— Blaine closes his eyes and surrenders himself to sensation. Who needs pretty words when he has the tender touch of a lover’s fingertips to ignite bursts of starlight beneath his skin? Kurt’s hands find his and the gentle pull against them forces his eyes open where he finds Kurt ushering him off of his lap. He shifts off and allows himself to be lifted as Kurt stands, eyes alight with curiosity and wonder until Kurt’s mouth is on his again and he is lost, lost, lost once more.

Kissing Kurt is everything. Early November and his lips are slightly chapped, leaving only the faintest hint of his current favourite chapstick. It reminds Blaine of their nights nestled up by the fireplace in Dalton, coffees from the school cafeteria in hand and stealing vanilla and mocha flavoured kisses in between every break in conversation. He forgets that they are standing in the middle of Kurt’s living room, forgets that they are drifting through borrowed space as Rachel or even Santana, devious in her ways of sneaking around, could waltz in at any minute despite Kurt’s insistence that they won’t. As Kurt hooks his thumbs into belt loops and draws him closer, both of their bodies desperate for the heat and friction, he forgets about his insecurities and doubts. There is only the handsome man before him and nothing else in the world matters.

Lips locked, Kurt navigates them towards his bedroom. Neither of them wants to disentangle from each other long enough to lead, Blaine just has to trust him not to let him trip. His knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle, but Kurt grips his hips, digs his fingernails in and grinds their bodies together until they’re both moaning into the kiss. His pants feel unmanageably tight at this point now.

“Kurt—”

“Working on it,” Kurt kisses his way down to his neck, teeth gnawing sweetly until first the button, then the zipper and Blaine’s suddenly being pushed backwards onto the bed. He hastily props himself up on his elbows, panting softly, eyes lust blown and following Kurt’s every move. He’s kneeling down in front of the bed, yanking Blaine’s pants off from around his ankles now and every second feels like it is being stretched too long. Finally free though, his cock bounces against his stomach, throbbing and aching by the time Kurt settles between his legs. Blaine’s eyes dart to the bedside table, hand just starting to reach out when Kurt bends over and curls his fingers around his cock, flicking his tongue over the head before sucking hard. He pulls his mouth off with a faint pop! and brushes his thumb over the underside of the head.

“F-Fuck,” Blaine trembles, arm outstretched, its purpose completely forgotten. “You’re right, a week was too long.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Kurt says and takes him completely into his mouth, palm cupping his balls.

“Jesus— Fuck!” Blaine instantly bucks his hips and fills the spaces between his fingers with Kurt’s hair, breathless as he quickly adds, “Sorry, are you—”

Kurt hums his response and hollows his cheeks, breathes in through his nose and takes him further down. They have just barely gotten started and already Blaine feels himself coming undone. He struggles to keep his hips steady, but Kurt is moving torturously slow through all of this until he just stops moving his head altogether, mouth very much still full of Blaine’s cock and he could honestly scream because how dare he just stop like that—

Oh.

Blaine knows what he wants.

“Please,” The word comes hungry, breathless and on the verge of a whine. “Please, I need you, please—”

And Kurt’s head moves backwards, sucking as he goes until he reaches the tip of Blaine’s cock, where he flicks his tongue over it playfully. Blaine balls up the sheets of the mattress in his other fist and tugs on that instead of Kurt’s hair, the quiet desperate moans falling out of him like whispered secrets in the night. Kurt pulls his mouth off of him again, turns his head and kisses the inside of his thigh, before biting down and sucking. Blaine hisses in a breath, knuckles turning white, and lets Kurt mark him.

Yours, I’m yours, and no one else’s.

There is a moment when Kurt pulls away to rummage through the nightstand when Blaine cannot help but to stare again. How far they have come from the shy teenager who could not even look him directly in the eyes when discussing pornography. He remembers so vividly the day Kurt lamented he would never see himself as sexy , the word whispered with such discomfort like it was dirty and inconceivable. It was the day they were practicing in the mirror, Kurt had been trying so hard to get the look right but ultimately kept shying away, embarrassed and self-conscious with the effort, saying Blaine just made it look so easy. Neither of them had a clue what they were doing, but disguises had always come easy for Blaine. Now, Kurt looks up at him, dark-eyed, mouth slightly parted before that devilish smirk takes over again, and Blaine is weak and breathless beneath his gaze. How the times do certainly change.

Kurt’s fingers are already coated in lube when he starts kissing Blaine’s thigh again and circles one finger around the tight ring of muscles. Blaine wants to rush ahead, squirms his hips down and Kurt tuts disapprovingly, leaving him to lie still once again and wait patiently at his mercy. He really can be such a goddamn tease sometimes. But he does not make him wait long before sliding one finger in, stroking and twisting, until Blaine pants, “More, please, more.”

He takes his time, adds another finger and scissors and stretches him as Blaine squirms and begs beneath his touch. Only two fingers in and Blaine is beginning to completely unravel, hips involuntarily jerking up as Kurt strokes and twists and kisses and bites, leaving tiny reddened marks all along his thighs. It never takes Kurt long to find that sweet spot, and sure enough Blaine is arching his back and panting as his fingers continue to brush over and massage his prostate. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers and when he pats the side of Blaine's leg and tells him to sit up he cannot help but whine loudly in protest.

“So impatient,” Kurt says, eyes twinkling with amusement as he settles himself against the headboard and tugs until Blaine is positioned above his lap. Kurt’s in control, but he knows this is Blaine’s favourite position.

“Condom?” Blaine’s thighs are already shaking as he holds himself up.

“I trust you,” Kurt replies, bringing his hands up to cup his face, voice so low and sultry it is a wonder Blaine doesn’t just stagger into his orgasm right on the spot. “And I want you to feel it.”

What did I do to deserve you?

Blaine groans into the kiss as Kurt strokes himself, coating his cock with lube before he holds it firm for him to lower himself down onto. The sweet heat and friction already feels like it is almost too much to bear. There is no way he is going to last like this, and they both know it. He positions his hands on Kurt’s chest, sinks all the way down and pants loudly against his mouth, pausing to let himself adjust before rising up again. Kurt relocates his hands to his hips, fingernails digging in and helping him rise and fall, their rhythm slow and synchronized. It doesn’t take long before it becomes more sporadic and urgent, Kurt’s hips bucking up as Blaine’s thighs tremble and burn to match his rhythm until he’s hitting just that right spot again. He yelps his moan, fingernails burrowing into Kurt’s skin.

“There, there, there— right there!” Blaine exhales quickly, winded and sweaty as he clenches and shakes. With the way Kurt’s gripping his hips he knows there are going to bruises where the thumbs sink in. The thought of it alone sends a rush of heat up his spine that erupts as another breathless gasp.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Kurt groans out. “ So fucking gorgeous.”

Blaine’s laugh comes out half-strangled as he gyrates his hips faster, thighs trembling violently as he slams one palm against the headboard to keep himself balanced. “So are you, fuck, so are you. So—” Kurt slides his hands down, cups his ass and quickens his thrusts, throwing the rest of Blaine’s thoughts to the wind as he all but crashes his head forward against the headboard and cries out. He becomes acutely aware of Kurt’s mouth against his chest, of his tongue circling his nipple, but barely registers Kurt’s breathy laugh, “Sorry, you okay?”

“Don’t stop,” Blaine breathes back. “Don’t stop, don’t— fuck, you feel so good.”

Kurt sucks on his nipple as Blaine’s breath hitches, heavy and desperate. Kurt slips one hand down and closes it around his cock, earning another loud strangled sound somewhere between an exhale and an actual word.

“You’re perfect, you’re so perfect— Kurt, fuck I’m gonna—”

Kurt works his hand faster, hips bucking wildly as Blaine cries out again, stars exploding behind his eyes as he comes. Kurt cups his ass again, squeezing and panting heavily against his neck as he keeps thrusting, chasing his own orgasm only seconds later. Blaine’s legs give out, leaving Kurt’s firm grip on his ass, his hips still jerking upwards sporadically, as his only support. Blaine keeps his eyes closed, fingers curled tightly around Kurt’s shoulders and forehead resting against the headboard, as Kurt finally slows to a stop. He does not want to move, does not want Kurt to pull away and leave him feeling empty again. As though reading his mind, Kurt holds him there, pressing lazy kisses to sweat soaked skin as Blaine’s body continues to tremble.

“God, I missed you,” Kurt whispers, raising his head enough to kiss his neck.

“I love you,” Blaine rasps out. “So much. More than anything.”

Kurt feigns a dramatic gasp, lips brushing against his neck and tickling him. “Surely not more than hair gel.”

The smile on Blaine’s face almost hurts before they both break out into laughter.

“Need some help?” Kurt squeezes his ass playfully, earning a soft, sleepy moan.

“My legs don’t work anymore,” Blaine laughs breathlessly, limbs heavy and useless. Their earlier conversation feels like a lifetime ago.

“I’ve got you,” Kurt says soothingly, lips back against his neck.

In the post-orgasm haze Blaine is barely aware of their movements as he comes to settle down beside him, limbs tangled and still desperate for touch. Kurt wipes cum off of his stomach with a tissue— Blaine cannot help but think about the midnight trip to the laundromat they will most likely be taking to salvage the sheets— before he draws him in close, those strong arms like a promise and a safety blanket. It is moments like these he loves the most, where the world stops spinning and they are frozen in a perfect carefree moment of mutual adoration and comfort within each other’s arms.

“I’m sorry about your dad, about all of that,” Kurt suddenly says softly, jarring him from the temporary peace.

“Not your fault,” Blaine mumbles, snuggling in closer to him as though melding their bodies together physically will drive away the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starting to creep in all over again.

“Do you actually hate him?”

“No, of course I don’t. I just wish,” Blaine sighs and presses a kiss to his chest, arm curling tighter around Kurt’s waist to keep himself tethered down. “I just want him to be proud of me and it really hurts that he’s not, that I basically don’t exist to him.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?” Blaine asks distractedly.

“Have you ever thought about talking to someone?”

“What do you mean?” Blaine shifts his head, too lazy to actually lift it off of his chest, and settles his eyes on Kurt’s jaw.

“Like a therapist,” Kurt says carefully. Involuntarily, Blaine stiffens between his arms. “Have you ever thought about that?”

Blaine sluggishly drags his hand over Kurt’s chest, fingers tracing invisible patterns. Kurt tilts his head down, nose pressed to his loosely gelled hair and breathes in deep before pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I might have,” Blaine whispers, heart thudding violently now. Kurt has been nothing but understanding and patient, yet the anxiety still clutches tightly and forces him to want to retreat and hide.

“Maybe you should,” Kurt says gently.

“Maybe,” Blaine parrots quietly.

“I’m not suggesting something is wrong with you,” Kurt adds, pressing another kiss to the top of his head. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

How could you tell?

“It just might be good to talk to someone unbiased, don’t you think?”

Blaine continues trailing his fingers over Kurt’s chest, silent and pensive. He had certainly contemplated the idea plenty of times in the past, never sure of where to even begin. After the attack at the dance, when Kurt moved away, when they broke up— every time he had come remotely close to researching, shame and panic had chased the idea away.

“Say something?” Kurt asks softly and runs his fingers through his hair, far more pliable now that the gel has been somewhat dissolved by sweat.

Blaine’s hand stills against his chest and he props himself up on his elbow to get a better look at him. There is no judgement on his face. Those eyes like endless oceans of concern and compassion. Everything about his expression screams I see you, I love you and I see you.

“You’ll uh,” Blaine starts and struggles to hold his gaze, his first instinct telling him to stare at anything other than his eyes. “Will you help me look for one?”

“Of course I will. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

The smile on his face makes Blaine’s heart beat just a little faster, but there is no feeling of shame behind it. “Yes. We’re a team.”

He settles down in Kurt’s arms again, but silence between them never lasts long. It is only a matter of moments before Kurt’s speaking again. “Have you ever heard of Kintsugi?”

Blaine furrows his brows and tilts his head up towards him again. He is always full of these random little tidbits of information. “No? What’s that?”

“It’s a phrase used in Japan. It’s the art of mending broken pottery.”

“Okay?” Blaine trails the word out, the tickle in the back of his throat not quite a laugh just yet. He usually has a point when he brings things like this up, but sometimes he does not. Right now it is not obvious which side of that line he is on.

“Instead of using clear glue, they use powdered gold or silver, usually gold. So when they put the pieces back together, they’re not trying to hide the fact that it was broken. The process of being broken and repaired is part of its history, and they choose to highlight and display that fact by turning it into something new with these golden scars to show for it. I think that’s beautiful, don’t you?”

“So, are you calling me broken pottery?” Blaine asks, the laugh finally breaking free.

“No,” Kurt replies, placing two fingers on his chin to tilt his head up. “You’re a perfect work of art with a history to show for it.”

And as he leans forward, eager to press their lips together and soak up as much of him as humanly possible, Blaine thinks, And you are the artist.

________________________________________________________________

The song Blaine sings is When You Come Home by Mree, which instantly made me think of our boys when I first heard it.

I don't remember where I first learned about Kintsugi, but I became absolutely obsessed with it. To be able to take something broken, mend it and showcase all of its imperfections as something beautiful and apart of its history... just something about that really hit close to home for me. Here is one example. Take some time to google image search some pieces, they are absolutely breathtaking. And I think it is a perfect metaphor for how we can come to deal with our own traumas.

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

#klaine #klaine fic #glee tested #glee 5x16 #kintsugi #syntheticpoetry writes #smut #blaine anderson #kurt hummel #glee #glee fic #tested reaction

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ajcrawly · 5 years ago

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Should you fight this character (Archive Squad Edition)

Jonathan Sims: Well, everyone else has. And I can see why you’d want to! He’s a small, prickly man with a small, prickly face and he will absolutely insult you ten times before breakfast before asking for favours or deep dark secrets from you, so I understand the compulsion to ‘do a bit of a Mike Crew’. On the other hand, these days he’s a little less prickly and a little more Apocalyptically Terrifying and so unless you actually want the world to know about your hideously embarrassing vore kink or your AO3 search history or That Thing You Did When You Were Seventeen it’s probably not worth the satisfaction of a quick punch in the kisser. Ask yourself: will it make you feel special? Will it fill the void in your heart to punch a man so thoroughly beaten-down by the world? Will it be worth the Liam Neeson style revenge of one Martin Blackwood? 5/10, initially satisfying, fundamentally not worth it.

Martin Blackwood: Take a seat. Look at your life. Look at your choices. Look at this jumpered man who is shaped like a friend. Could you fight him? Sure, you could try, but he’ll probably just hug your arms to your sides and talk to you about your problems a bit and you’ll end up feeling better, but empty inside. Maybe he’ll just cry. Maybe he’ll - worse still - just take the punch and say he deserves it. You can’t fight a man who is so absolutely centred on fighting himself. Do you think Martin cares about your violence? Against him? Fighting Martin isn’t worth it because Martin would fight himself if he had the opportunity because he thinks he deserves it (and also because it unquestionably makes you a very, very bad person, you monster) 1/10 because why would you?

Timothy Stoker: Tim Stoker knows no fear. In the three seconds after you throwing your first punch he will have ascertained your relative strength, whether there’s a chance of this just being foreplay, and your absolute greatest weakness. He’ll spike you through the solar plexus and heelie away without a care. He probably won’t even stop smiling. “Oh, hey, how’s it going - wow, bitey aren’t you, let’s just knock you out there, great chat byeeee!” Now I’m not saying it’s not feasible that you could get the drop on him, and he’s a bit of a bastard sometimes anyway so you might even want to, but Tim stands a better chance of trying to pick somebody up on the dancefloor, slipping on a patch of jaegerbomb and knocking himself out than he does of being knocked out by you. Still. Shoot your shot, I guess - that’s the advice he’d give you. 7/10 depending on sympathetic you are about his backstory.

Sasha James: Now, look, it’s not that Sasha James is exceptionally strong or exceptionally fast and if you really, really wanted to fight her, you’d probably win. You would! You’d win. Well done you. Off home for a victory march you go. Now watch as your credit-card information disappears and your bank accounts drain overnight. Your broadband bill has tripled but you somehow don’t have any of the packages you want. Your wi-fi has stopped working and your printer keeps printing things that you’re pretty sure you never asked it to print (it’s mainly memes, and that’s Tim’s influence). Sasha will wreck your entire life in an afternoon. And also - why would you want to fight her in the first place? Sasha James has never done anything wrong in her entire life, ever. 3/10, yes you could fight her, but at what cost?

Melanie King: Do Not. Even if you get a few good licks in she will bite off your ears and use your skull as a colander. 0/10

Basira Hussain: You could. But consider for a moment Basira’s absolute ruthless pragmatism. If you pose a danger - to her, to those she holds dear - she will have precisely zero hesitation about burying you twenty foot deep after killing you in a distractingly thorough and practical fashion (can’t come back as an undead monster if she’s buried your lungs in Swindon and your feet in Bournemouth, probably). It probably won’t even ruin her day. You can fight her, die, and it won’t even ruin her day. It might even improve it. It’s nice to get something productive done in the morning while you still feel fresh. 2/10 if Basira doesn’t kill you Daisy sure will.

Daisy Tonner: There’s a lot of arguments for fighting Daisy (remember that time she stabbed Jon in the throat and made him bury a man lol wild) but the only time you stand a chance of fighting her is when she’s fresh out of the Buried and God, talk about kicking somebody when they’re down. That’s on fighting-Martin level of monstrous, tbh, and you’re bad for thinking about it. The only exception to this rule is if you’re Into being Torn Apart in a Sexy Way and honestly, you might get more than you fucking bargain for. 3/10 sure can understand your motivations, chief, but have you considered maybe not

Peter Lukas: Ooooh, I’m a big Avatar of the Lonely, I have a ship and a hat and a whistle and I can feed people to my eldritch god oooooh. Peter big (this we know). But Peter doesn’t like confrontation. Peter will not know how to respond to a flurry of fists and fury that isn’t Elias and there’s a pretty good chance that he’ll just run away. Still, if you can corner him, you should absolutely fight him, because Peter needs to be taken down a peg. Sure, you’ll feel like a bit of a bastard because he’ll keep trying to smile that cheerful smile and complimenting your technique as you break his jaw, but you’ve got to look past that and remember what a monster he is. 10/10 fight him and push down your own inevitable guilt.

Elias Bouchard: Does this even need a score? If there is anybody in the entire Archives you should be fighting, it is this mean. Sure, it’ll cost you some resurfacing of your deep-seated trauma but that’s a small price to pay for the satisfaction of clocking him in the skull with a stapler and hanging him by his silk underwear on a flagpole somewhere. It’s What He Deserves. 99999999/10 this bastard rat man absolutely deserves to be fought. He’ll make out like he’s pleased by this, or that he’s enjoying it, or that it’s all part of his Grand Plan. It isn’t. It is your moral duty to fight Elias and frankly if you’re not already on your way to the Institute I’m shaking my head.

#tma #the magnus archives #sometimes u just gotta wake up a Make a Meme #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #elias bouchard #thoughts direct from my head

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 5 years ago

Text

Humans are Space Orcs, “Two Drops of Rain.”

Alright you pseudo-sadistic people out there.

Lets be honest, we all sort of like watching authors emotionally torture their own characters, and lets also be honest that authors can sometimes be super mean to their creations.

Well I have decided that, in my universe, actions have real psychological, emotional and physical consequences. So, I am going to have to be the bad guy and be a little mean for this one.

Expect character development, and light suffering.

A droplet of rain clung to the glass of the window reflecting an inverted view of the sullen grey sky. It hung suspended there for a few seconds, capturing a moment in its surface, before rupturing and rolling downward disrupting other droplets and causing them to bleed downwards. The rain was heavy enough that the grassy compound outside was covered by a layer of grey. Water droplets lept from the concrete creating a silver haze about the ground, and anything past the distant shadow of buildings on the other side of the square was nothing more than a silhouette perhaps a lamp post, or a lone car hunched in the rain.

He raised his hand to the glass, the warmth of his fingers casting a delicate glaze of fog over the transparent surface before his fingers even made contact.

“Adam.”

He tilted his head back watching as a pair of droplets began to roll down the outside of the glass. He watched them intently wondering which one of them would win. At first it seemed like the droplet on the left would, but ultimately it’s speed caused it to lose too much weight, and it got stuck halfway to the ground.

“Adam.”

He turned away from the window distracted from his daydreams and brought back to current reality; A white cinder block room, with industrial grey carpet and modern grey furniture accented in blue. Large tropical prints hung on one side of the room fake and grey in the cold light of early spring. A large desk sat opposite cheep steel and wood crouched under an equally cheap set of metal shelving units supporting long lines of fake, leather-bound volumes letters printed in minute gold or silver script up their spines.

The entire right wall was made up of floor to ceiling glass windows allowing in the thin dreary light cast through the clouds above. On the desk a small glass orb contained a self sustaining biome including a colorful pink sea plant and a single shrimp-like creature. Next to that was a family photograph lovingly dusted of grime, but somehow equally lifeless as the tropical prints on the wall.

A large green plant sat next to him.

It was real, he had already checked.

“Adam?

“Hmm.”

“I was asking if you had been feeling better since our last session?” The woman who sat in front of him was older, with short steel-grey hair, and a delicate pink white scar running over one of her eyes across valleys of sagging skin. Despite that, she was quite fit for her age, and sat with a hard straight-back demeanor that belied her surprisingly gentle manner.

“I….” He paused looking out the window again trying to track single raindrops as they pelted towards the ground and failing. He sighed, “Not really, no.”

“Do you think you can try and tell me what’s bothering you?” He could hear the rain pounding against the bushes outside the window. It was a distant sound like static or the roaring of a crowd.

“I wish I could.” The chair below him creaked slightly. It wasn’t exactly comfortable;industrial and hard, but he didn’t mind that so much. He wasn’t here to be comfortable; he had come here to get help.

“You mentioned before that you were having trouble sleeping, trouble concentrating, and that was affecting your work. Is it still?”

He shifted in his seat, and below him, Waffles, his dog, rolled onto her other side service vest creaking slightly as she sighed, “No ... the sleeping isn’t much better, and I think I’ve made it pretty clear that my concentration is still shot.” He tried pointedly to look away from the window.

The rain picked up a little, “And what exactly is it that you think about during those times.” She wondered

He thought for a minute, “Nothing mostly. Sort of just on autopilot you know…. It’s easier there, like I don’t have to think so much.”

Her shiny black shoe bounced softly in the air, “So thinking has been difficult, or do you find yourself thinking about something specific that you’re trying to avoid.”

He rubbed a hand against his temple, “I… a little bit of both I guess. Um… Its like every time I try to think about something, something I really need to think about. My thoughts just keep coming back to…. To what happened.”

She tilted her head slightly focused, intently, but no so intently as to be uncomfortable, on him, “You have yet to talk about what happened.”

He remained silent.

“You don’t have to say anything today if you aren’t ready, but I think it's important, and I think you think it’s important, otherwise we wouldn’t be seeing these obsessive sort of thoughts.” her hands swirled to emphasise the repetitive nature. A silver ring glinted on her finger.

“I guess I’ve just been…. Trying to figure things out…... “

“Don’t feel obligated to push yourself. We can wait as long as you need.” A clock ticked on the wall above her desk filling the silence.. It seemed as if it would go on forever.

“I watched a man get beaten to death, and did nothing to stop it…..” His voice was sudden filling the silence of the room with a sudden heavy weight. His heartbeat picked up as if saying the words made the reality more tangible, but now it was out in the air, he found the words sliding from his mouth easy where they had once been halting, “I watched a man die…. I knew he was going to die….. I knew hours in advice hell eighteen maybe nineteen hours. At any time I could have gotten up and walked over to the guards and told them what was going to happen, but I didn’t. I could have gone to his cell and warned him, I could have told him to run when he entered the room. Hell, I could have jumped in front of him, but I didn’t do any of it.” HIs voice had risen in cadence and octaves filling the space with it’s agitation. At his feet, Waffles sat up sensing his unease turning her head to look at him, “But you know what…. You know what I did, I sat there and did NOTHING, in fact I did worse than nothing. He’s no friend of mine, that’s what I said. I looked him in the eye and that’s what I said knowing what was going to happen to him. Like an absolute BITC-.”

“Why.” her voice was stern, and the expression on her face made it very clear he was escalating out of line. He relaxed back into his seat breathing hard. His heart hammered inside his head drowning out the sound of the rain.

“Why what?”

“Why do you think you didn’t do those things.” Waffles whimpered a bit sticking her head in his lap. He hadn’t even noticed that he was ringing his hands, a habit that he had acquired after losing his leg. It generally didn’t go past that, but once upon a time it had been a precursor to hair pulling, something that Waffles had been trained to stop.

“Because I’m A B-”

“Adam.” She said sternly, “A decision is a matter of cognition, not of a personality trait. So let’s be a little more constructive. Tell me what you were thinking.”

He sighed deeply in frustration, glancing out the window again. He couldn’t even see the light post or the car from earlier. The bushes outside the window jumped and rattled rather violently under the downpour, “At first I…. I felt sick…. I wished I was anywhere but there, I wondered if it was actually real….. I wondered why this was happening to me, and how I could make this sort of decision….. And then. After all that I was, I was ...”

She waited, but when no answer was forthcoming she prodded gently, “You were….”

“Angry…. No, no angry isn’t strong enough. I was livid, furious… i….” He felt his throat constrict, “I wanted to…. I wanted.” His voice cracked and he looked away. Tears had sprung to his eyes, and he furiously tried to blink them back angry at himself. Waffles whimpered and scooted forward against his legs resting her big soft head in his lap large brown eyes looking up at him with a deep unwavering concern not understanding his pain but begging to take it away, “ I wanted to Kill him.” He finally finished voice barely above a whisper, “I have never wanted anything so bad in my life, I wanted to go down there myself and strangle the life out of him. I thought about…. About bashing his head against the concrete. I wondered what it would be like to feel his skull caving in under my hands….” He went quiet, “Disgusting.”

“Adam,” her voice was soft but firm, “ in all my years of working, I have heard people want to do a lot more for a lot less, but why don’t you tell me why you felt that way.”

Waffles shoved her snout against his hand. He had been rubbing his chest, another habit he had as a result of PTSD, a condition long dormant now resurfacing, “Number one because he was a pedophile, number two because he was a liar, number three because I know for a fact he planned on going back to his old life after getting out. He had no remorse….. He deserved to die.”

“If that’s the case than he got what he deserved didn’t he?” She wondered tilting her head to the side.

He shook his head vigorously then nodded then sighed in frustration, “yes… I…. i mean no….. No one deserves to die like…. Like that, but ...I mean maybe he did, but that wasn’t their choice to make.” He finally blurted

“So, he deserved to die, but he deserved to die as a result of justice, and not as a result of a prison riot.” The rain had died down just a bit. Distantly a momentary beam of sunlight peeked through the clouds before vanishing once again.

Adam sighed, “YES! That's it…. The justice system is supposed to take care of this, but it didn't ...”

“Then why do you feel responsible if it was the justice systems’ job?”

He stroked Waffle’s ears foot tapping in agitation, “I…. well because I AM the justice system. Not like to be a dick or brag, but out in space, I am the arm of the UNSC, Fleet commander. It is my job to deal with human issues offworld, so when the justice system fails it's MY duty to fix it. My job, my objective ...”

“So it was your job to save this man’s life so he could be properly punished?”

“Well, yes.” he rocked in his seat again, agitated, “But I didn’t. I sat there and I did nothing, and you know what. I LIKED it, a part of me enjoyed watching that bastard die. He deserved it…..” A sudden stab of guilt shot through him, and he groaned rocking softly as he lifted his head to the ceiling eyes catching onto porous surface of the panels above. His eyes burned. His voice began to crack again, “But, but then, then when I remember feeling bad for him, and it just makes me feel WORSE because he hurt kids, he was a monster, and I have pity for him! SO does that mean I’m siding with a pedophile? So…. so it was either give in and kill him with the rest of them like he deserved treat him like the monster he is…. Or or I could stand to the side and absolve myself of the murder, but do nothing and still have his blood on my hands, but also have the knowledge that I showed that disgusting fuck mercy when he didn’t deserve it. Either way I…..” His voice caught. He could feel his stomach contracting into a sob, but he forced it down head in his hands.

The room went silent, and waffles jammed her head in between his hands forcing him to quit as his hands sought out fistfuls of hair. His chest and diaphragm contracted and released but he clenched his teeth and shut his eyes. He wouldn’t cry here…. He had been weak enough.

It took a long time before he was finally able to control himself and sit back up. He had gone very hot, and could feel waves of heat wash over him from the effort .

When he looked up he found a glass of water being proffered to him, and he took unable to look at her.

“Adam, it is horrible that you had to make that decision. You have to understand that no matter what you did in that situation would have resulted in the same outcome.” He may have gotten control of his breathing, but he had worn far to thin, far to thin in the intervening weeks. He pointedly looked away feeling hot tears pooling at the corners of his eyes.

His face remained blank.

“You join in, you’ve committed murder, you stand out, and you’ve let a man die, you run to the guards and you protect a pedophile. There was no decision you could have made that would have resulted in a desirable outcome… Tell me, Adam, Do you really think that anything you could have done would have saved that man’s life?”

He wasn’t able to stop it as a hot tear spilled down the side of his face. He kept his head turned only halfway towards her so as to hide the moisture. He rested his head against his hand so as to discreetly wipe it away, “No …” he finally admitted.

“Go through that with me.”

More tears. He fought desperately to keep the one eye dry as moisture pooled against his hand.

“Because I couldn’t have fought them all off even if I had tried, and the guards would have just let it happen anyway, but I could hav-”

“Could have what? Adam, you did what you could. You stood back to the hazard of your own health so as not to be part of something you didn’t believe in. You couldn’t stop it, and you couldn’t walk away, and that in itself is more than what a lot of people could, or would have done. A lot of people would have joined in to save their own skin.” It had grown darker outside, and he could see his reflection in the glass of the window. His black eye had long since faded but, Krill still urged him to rest as a result of bruising to his right kidney. At least he had only peed blood the one time.

“But I ... that's not, not the problem.” He shifted in his seat, and the dog scooted closer again, “I wanted to do those things, I wanted to join in, I couldn’t stop them.” His voice was growing in pitch again, and as it did the tears only flowed faster. They began to trickle down his forearm, and soon his other eye was overcome. He tried to wipe them away, but they wouldn’t stop. He was fighting a losing battle, and that only made him angier, and that only made the tears worse “Every d-damn t-time I fuck up…. I…. I-I'm weak and useless an-n-nd-” he snarled in frustration embarrassed and unable to look her in the eye, “I s-screw up so m-much, childish, o-over e-em-motional like a stupid, w-winey t-trusting-”

“Adam.”

“B-bit-”

“Adam!” Her voice cut through his rant leaving his silent. He turned away from her no longer able to control himself embarrassed. He just wanted to leave to never have to show his face to anyone ever again.

“First of all we are going to stop that sort of talk right now. It’s pointless, meaningless and it will get us nowhere. Now, do me a favor and take a few deep breaths and calm yourself. Finish the glass of water.”

He did as told still not looking at her. Waffles licked at the tears on his hands so eager to help him wash away the evidence. He finished off the water which helped a little to calm his diaphragm. He took a long slow, shaky breath.

“Would you like to continue this session another time?” She asked, “I can see this is hard?”

He shook his head stubbornly though he still couldn't look at her.

She sat back in her seat accepting his go ahead “Second of all, whose standards are you holding yourself to.. Who expects such impossible perfection, honestly if you expected any more from yourself, you may as well wish to walk on water too.” He allowed a rueful smile to break through on that last part though it was half hearted.

“Where are you getting these grand ideas of what you have to be?”

He leaned his elbows on his knees and stared down at the floor rubbing the back of his palm over his face. The eyepatch felt sort of cold and slimy now…. He was a mess.

“I…. Guess I don’t know.” He said softly.

“Your parents, family, crew members? How have they been acting towards you?”

He shrugged, “All surprisingly supportive…. Too supportive.” Waffles poked her head up under his arms resting her head against the side of his face scooting forward knowing he was upset desperate to make it go away. Her tail beat against the floor once and then twice.

“Too supportive. How can they be too supportive.”

He paused mouth opening and closing in confusion before sighing in frustration dropping his head; the one eye began to leak again, stupid missing eye which still had tear ducts, “I guess it just feels like…. They all expected me to…. Fall apart, and I did. Its like they understand that poor little Adam Vir wasn’t going to be able to handle what happened, so lets walk on eggshells so as not to upset him.” his voice was growing thick again. Ever time he broke, the edge got closer, and there was no way to hold it back.

“And what’s so wrong with letting yourself fall apart? Sometimes it happens, sometimes it needs to happen.”

He was back to where he was before, accept the tears fell silently now his voice remaining surprisingly calm, “Because it’s weak.”

“That’s a pretty antiquated understanding of emotion. Sounds like something a man from the 2000s would say.”

He said nothing, “Who do you model yourself after, Adam?

He sighed, “My father, I guess, Captain Kelly, my mother, my older brothers…. I guess maybe a little bit from…..movies.”

Her voice was soft, “Sounds like a lot to live up to doesn't it, and let's be honest. Not all of it is entirely true to life.” On the far wall the clock ticked, “You ask me that sounds pretty exhausting.” A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the open lawn. Wind picked up causing the leaves on the bushes to dance.

“Do you think maybe you feel the way you do because it seems you can't live up to the expectations you set for yourself?”

He remained quiet.

“Weak liable to break or give way under pressure; easily damaged.” She read aloud, “Now I find it interesting how a man who claims to be weak walks into my office on the coattails of a trauma and, instead of talking about the trauma he talks about his moral dilemma. He doesn't complain, he doesn't blame. He takes the weight of responsibility for an entire universe on his shoulders.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for platitudes, doc.” he muttered staring down at his hands.

“Not platitudes, Adam. Observations.” She switched her crossed ankles, “So we know you aren't weak, and you can probably tell me why you aren't useless.” A car’s headlights cut through the rain illuminating a burst of light over the edge of the leaves. When she didn’t speak he sighed.

“I’m not useless because I command an entire fleet of ships, I was a decorated fighter pilot, I do all these things etc.etc.” His voice was flat and monotone. Another slow tear dropped to the floor creating a dark circle on the grey carpet. He knew what was coming next, so he continued, “I’m not stupid or winy or a bitch, but…. I DO make lots of mistakes, I am childish, to trusting and over emotional.”

“What mistakes?”

He wiped at his eyes again. Waffles whimpered quietly her head on his knee, “Well, I’ve been cheated by a Tesraki, almost got my crew killed, Trusted an enemy and almost got my crew killed, trusted a strange alien species and almost got my crew killed, lost my eye and almost died, got captured more times than I can count, almost died more times than I can count.”

The rain was coming down in sheets again. The drops which had once dotted the window now ran down in curtains, “Adam, Trust isn’t a weakness, and mistakes don’t correlate to failure. You are dealing with an entirely new species, new problems. If you didn’t make those mistakes then someone else would have to, and who knows, for them it may actually be fatal. Almost dead and very dead are separated by miles.”

More headlights.

“It ok to hold yourself to high standards Adam, it's generally a good thing, but don’t set it so high that no one can reach.” Light was fading outside and she stood from her chair prompting him to do the same. Waffles yawned and stretched. A streak of lightning rolled across the sky like the branches of some sort of celestial tree.

He wiped at his eye again finally turning his head up to look at her.

She was smiling at him, a genuine smile, not fake or pitious, “I think we really got somewhere today leave it on a positive note?”

He nodded, and she walked him to the door, “Homework, go easy on yourself this week, ok.” The door opened, he thanked her and then walked into the hall bright with the overhead lights and the same steel grey carpet as inside the office. He steered Waffles down the hall and into the men’s restroom, vacant accept for himself under the sickly fluorescent lights.

It was late.

His gate felt unsteady and his hands braced himself upright against cold porcelain.

He learned forward over the sink to splash cold water on his face pulling off the eyepatch and washing it off before pulling it back over his vacant socket. He lifted his head and stared at himself in the mirror, messy blond hair, red puffy eyes and cheeks. But As he looked, a different face stared back at him, greying skin, yellowed sclera, and cerulean blue irises.

He had yet to tell her about that issue.

He turned away from the mirror and stepped from the bathroom into the hall.

Their car was waiting outside, but despite that, the two of them were still soaked by the time they jumped inside

Rain drummed against the car windows. He rested his cheek against the glass eye closed against the cold on his skin. It felt good…. He was quiet, and inside he felt strangely fragile like a cracking porcelain sculpture. Lightning flashed across the sky, and Waffles sighed her upper body resting in his lap lower half sitting under the dashboard. The windshield wipers drummed out a steady beat against the glass. He didn’t speak with the Driver, but paid him electronically and stepped from the car upon reaching their destination.

Wet tires against wet concrete, and he was left to push through the rain, jacket pulled up against the cold.

The interior of the ship was dark. Most of the crew had gone on leave. He walked through the dark halls alone, and imagined he could hear the drumming of the rain against the hull, but knew that wasn’t likely. He was just passing by the mess hall pausing when he heard laughter and saw a warm yellow light cut across the floor. The warm voices seemed to pull him in as the marines talked laughing and joking, but he couldn;t do it, couldn't make himself go in.

Once upon a time he wouldn’t have imagined missing an opportunity to socialize, but instead he turned to the dark hallways heart heavy. He had no idea where his feet were carrying him.

Sunny sat up at the knock on her door called from her worried musings by the hesitant knock. She wondered what the marines wanted now. With the Commander out for the day and most of the bridge crew gone, it remained up to her to keep the Marines in tact, which was a surprisingly difficult job to maintain.

“Come in!” She called

The door hissed open, and she was momentarily blinded by light throwing her hand up to find a silhouette standing in the doorway. It stepped in and the door snicked shut behind him.

Adam stood in the doorway, his body and hair damp with rain, his face with saline. His hands hung cold and white at his sides. Little tracts of water pooled around his boots and glistened on his jacket. His ears were flushed pink with the cold.

She stood slowly and quietly as if worried a sudden movement might scare him away. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words to her in what seemed like years, but was more like a week or two. His usually bright green eye was awash with a cold greyness, as if the cloudy sky above and seeped into his soul, but a closer inspection gave her the distinct impression of…..

Pleading?

“Sunny….” His voice was a soft rasp, thick and heavy like he was speaking past a great weight.

She missed him.

“Adam…. Is everything ok?”

His mouth twitched, his cheek quivered, his jaw worked for a long moment like he was fighting with himself internally. It looked painful, and was hard to watch. When his voice came, it came with a slight quiver, “No…. I…. its been…. A really shit day.”

She wanted to move forward, to help him, but she knew like a man drowning, he would need to reach for the help before she could pull him in. Didn’t mean she wanted to watch him drown, choking and gasping for air.

His expression was distant and glassy speaking past her more than to her, “She says I hold myself to standards that are too high.” Sunny remained quiet waiting, drawing him out, “But WHY are the standards too high? Why am I expected to fail….. WHY Does everyone have to be so understanding. Why can’t it be just what it looks like, yes Adam you fucked up and what you did was wrong and you failed. What is wrong with that?” The human looked up at her eye glistening with the vestiges of agony, “Why can’t the bar be set high….. sometimes , sometimes people just fail, and that's the truth of it. Why can’t we admit that. Why can’t anyone look me in the eye AND TELL ME THAT.” His voice was hoarse .

“Why do I have to be so accepting….. It just…. It feels like giving up. Like giving up on the man I’ve always wanted to be.”

“You wouldn’t give up, Adam….. Even if you were capable of it.” She said softly

Hed breathed in heavily air catching in his throat, “Why can’t I do this better….” he threw his hands up in the air.

“Because…. You’re only human.”

“Being human ISN’T AN EXCUSE ANYMORE!” His voice rattled off the hull reverberating through the metal. His voice snapped completely and he sagged back against the wall hand to his throat. She couldn’t stand it anymore, she couldn't watch him drown.

So she jumped in pushed past the current to catch him. He sagged against her as she fought back the current threatening to pull him under.

“How do you do it, Sunny.” he whispered

“Do what?” She wondered.

“I can’t even fight off failure when everyone is at my back…..you….. You did it and the entire world was at your heels……”

The ship was quiet, simply the soft whirr of the backup generators to pierce the quiet, “When I was young, my brother taught me one valuable lesson. He told me, Sunny stop trying to be something you’re not and may never be, but take what you have and be the best version of the person you are now…. I didn’t listen to him for the longest time…. And I suffered for it.”

She took the Human’s face in two of her hands and made him look up at her, “Maybe you can set the bar high, Adam, but you have to make sure the bar is in the same room. Because if you weren't so trusting, and if you didn’t make mistakes….. Than you would have kicked me off the ship as soon as I walked on”

Lights reflected from his eyes and she dragged, pulled him towards shore with all her might. Her voice was soft, “So I say be damned to being perfect….. Let's be honest, it's not exactly a human trait anyway.”

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ceterisparibus116 · 6 years ago

Note

Also on murdocklovespage’s post about you wanting prompts, they mentioned “What if Matt, Claire, and Stick were in a room together?” as a prompt and I want to see it

This is soooo late (I apologize) but I hope you like it!

Matt was trying—trying so hard and in so many ways. And thistime, it actually seemed like it was working.

Nelson and Murdock weren’t back together, no. Elektra wasstill gone, yes. And Karen? She said she needed time. And space. But Foggyseemed to have forgiving him, or to be on his way there. Part of it probablyhad to do with no longer having the pressure of maintaining a business togetheron top of the pressure of maintaining their friendship. Most of it probably hadto do with Matt’s sincere and detailed apology, not given in the heat of anargument or as a desperate bid to fix things between them but just because Mattwas really, truly sorry. So at least Matt had Foggy again, even if not in quitethe same way as he was used to.

And he had his own small law practice where he didn’t have anyoneelse lecturing him on the merits of accepting homemade bread in lieu ofpayment. Or on the ethics of some extralegal problem solving. Mostly, heoffered a lot of unbundled services, which basically involved stepping in atdifferent points of the legal process. He helped one client file paperwork,showed up at court for another client who was worried about talking in front ofa judge. Unbundled services were a cheaper route for the clients who had some moneybut not enough to actually retain him. Meanwhile, he enjoyed getting to help whereverhe was needed most.

And Stick had completely disappeared.

So it was good, really. Things were good. Slowly but surely,he was rebuilding. And honestly? It was nice. He’d so thoroughly trashed hislife both professionally and relationally that appreciating all the littleblessings of a relatively normal life was as easy as breathing.

Easier than, actually, since his two cracked ribs currentlymade breathing…difficult.

But that was fine. Much less immediately worrying than theblood spilling from his arm over the tear in his suit. Matt couldn’t faultMelvin for it. The suit did a good job against knives, usually, but Matt’s ownbody weight was responsible for driving the broken glass into his arm after hejumped out of the window. Generally, Matt was pretty good at jumping out ofwindows. But he’d sort of gotten hit on the head immediately before his self-imposeddefenestration, which messed with his balance as he fell.

He was fine.

He was also, however, incapable of stitching his arm up onhis own, so he tugged his burner phone out of his pocket. He’d been trying notto call Claire, trying to give her space. But this was…this was a lot of blood,showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.

“Matt?” Her voice was sharp on the other end of the phone. “What’swrong?”

“Nothing, I just wondered if you were free.”

“Depends on how close you are to dying.”

He hated that she still saw herself first and foremost ashis healer. Nothing more. Then again, he pretty much shut her down every time sheattempted to offer anything more intimate than pure medical advice, so maybethat was on him. “Does bleeding out count as dying?”

She groaned into the phone. “Matt, get over here.”

“Thank you, Claire.” He began the trek back to her place,wincing at the throb in his skull. Concussion? Possibly? Probably?

Maneuvering himself onto her fire escape felt surreal,brought him back to a simple black suit and simpler times. He couldn’t bring himselfto long for the past, though. Back then, she hadn’t even known his name. Hehated that it’d taken her getting beaten by Russians for him to risk revealing himselfto her, which didn’t seem so different from how he hadn’t been able to tellKaren about Daredevil until after he’d ruined their relationship. It was a patternof his. One he wasn’t planning on repeating.

Through her window, he smelled spices from whatever she wascooking. For a moment, he just listened to her light footsteps as she moved aroundthe kitchen, audible under the pleasantly unobtrusive voice of a podcast. Buthe didn’t have much time to waste. He tapped on the window.

The podcast shut off and her footsteps approached. She slidthe window open and hissed in a breath. “You weren’t kidding about bleedingout.”

“S’not that bad.” He rolled his shoulder experimentally asif he could draw her attention to one of the few parts of his body that wasn’t injured. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, idiot.” She stepped aside, gave him room to slitherthrough the window. As soon as his feet landed, she put one hand on his goodarm and the other on his hip, steering him towards her couch so he could sit. “How’dthis happen?”

He wondered, not for the first time, if she was asking becausehis answer might inform his treatment or because she just wanted to know. Hetook off his helmet and she ran a hand through his hair like she couldn’t help smoothingit back into order. “Fell out a window.”

“Have you considered not doing that, maybe?”

“It was an emergency.”

Snorting, she gingerly felt along his arm. “So you alsolanded on the window, I assume.” She reached for her medical bag, which wassetting on the couch beside him even though it smelled of the closet. She’d hadto get it out for him. Or, depending on how you looked at it, she’d gotten itout just for him. “If you fell out a window, does that mean the bad guys arestill out there?”

His stomach tightened with the sense that he’d somehow lether down. “Yeah. They weren’t my priority.”

“Since when are bad guys not your priority? Brace yourself, I’mpulling this out in three, two—”

She slid the glass out of his arm and he closed his eyesagainst a wave of dizziness as fresh blood soaked his sleeve. Then he squeezedhis eyes shut tighter at the burn of the antiseptic, his whole body clenchingdespite his best efforts to stay still. His ribs made their protest known.

“What were they doing, anyway?” She poked the needle throughhis skin. “The bad guys, I mean.”

He breathed slowly through his nose. “Human traffickers.”

The needle paused for an instant. “Oh. And you didn’t tearthem limb from limb because…?”

Would she have wanted that kind of violence? “Had to get thekids out first.“

“Kids?”

Not all of them. Two or three were in their early twenties. ButMatt was willing to bet they’d been caught in forced prostitution since highschool. Maybe even middle school. One of the girls he’d found was only eleven.

He didn’t share that particular detail with Claire. Wasn’tsure he’d share it with anyone. “Yeah.” He gritted his teeth as string draggedunder his skin. “Had to stay until I knew they were out.” But there’d been toomany men in that warehouse for him to fight off on his own when they were comingat him all at once like that. Hence jumping out a window. He was just too tiredto explain that reasoning to Claire.

But she was no longer pushing him to justify himself. “Itmight be ironic to say this while I’m sopping up your blood, but I’m glad youwere there. For the kids.”

“I’ll go back later. Find the men responsible. See if I canget enough evidence for…” He shook his head, trailing off, distracted by the awarenessof just how difficult building a case against them would be. The victims werelong gone, and proving a sex crime beyond a reasonable doubt without a victim onthe stand was almost impossible.

He rubbed at his eyes. Not that he wanted any of the peoplehe’d rescued to have to go through the trauma of taking the stand. But thethought of their traffickers getting off on, what, kidnapping charges? It was enoughto make him wish, just for an instant, that he could operate a bit more likeFrank Castle.

No. He’dconsidered that route before, with Fisk. It wasn’t right.

“Matt?” Claire prompted.

“Huh?”

“You spaced out. I asked if there’s anything else I shouldknow about, since I’ve got you here.” She was running her hand up his arm,checking for breaks or something.

“No, that’s…that’s the worst of it.” He flexed the newlystitched-up arm. “Thank you.” Then he started to push himself to his feet.

She stood up at the same time. “You’re leaving?”

His smile probably looked a little too sad. “I didn’t meanto interrupt your night.”

“Well, you did,” she said simply, “so you may as well do itall the way. You want dinner?”

His mouth watered. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Hmm. I think you should eat.” She leaned closer and put herhand on his stomach.

He flinched automatically, his good arm twitching up toshield his ribs.

“I knew it,” shesaid.

“Knew what?” he asked helplessly.

“You were moving way too stiffly for only a stab wound. Sitdown.”

“You’re that familiar with how I move?” He returned slowly tohis seat, not quite able to feel reluctant about it.

“Too stiff and too sluggish at the same time. I have apretty good guess what else is wrong with you, but I’ll leave you to be honestwith me on your own.” She retrieved the binding from her bag. “How bad arethey?”

“Uh…”

“Breath out for me.”

Matt exhaled obediently and couldn’t help enjoying thefeeling of her hands on him, encircling his body with the wrapping above andbelow the injury. “The, uh—”

She shushed him, then tied off the wrapping. “Okay. Nowspeak.”

“The other thing might be a concussion. I think? Somethinghit me when I was leaving.”

“And by ‘leave’ you mean ‘throw yourself bodily out of a window,’right?”

He grinned. “If you wanna get technical about it.”

There was a clickas she turned on a light. “Lemme see your eyes.” Slipping her hand under hischin, she tilted his head the way she wanted it. “Yep, you look pretty messedup. How do you feel? Nauseated?”

He shook his head.

“Good. So you have no excuse not to let me feed you.”

“Claire, I—”

“Shh.” Her hand was still on his jaw. “Let me take care ofyou.”

Why was she being so kind to him? It wasn’t like he’dtreated her well recently. Ignoring all the help she offered, turning herhospital into a war zone, getting her friend killed. “Claire, I—”

“If you’re about to say you’re fine, I don’t wanna hear it.” She packed away her bag and headedinto the kitchen.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he followed at a safedistance. “I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“That’s a first,” she said, but there was no bite to hertone as she stirred the soup on her stove.

“I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. It wasn’t fair after allyou’ve done for me.” He scratched at the back of his neck. “If it helps, I hatedevery second of it.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

He wet his lips. “You were right, by the way. About me…becomingtoo much like the people I fight. I lost perspective.” He remembered bloodyfists and the snap of his wirecutting through Nobu’s neck.

“You don’t need to apologize to me for that.”

“But I want to.” He breathed in carefully, mindful of thetight binding around his ribs. “I should’ve listened. You deserved myattention. My trust. You deserved a…a conversation,at least.”

She didn’t say anything as she placed a bowl of soup infront of him.

“I shouldn’t have shut you out,” he finished quietly.

She still didn’t say anything for several long moments. Thenshe nodded once. “Thank you. Look, Matt, you’re your own person. It wasn’t myjob to…” She tipped her head back like she might find the words she was lookingfor on the ceiling. “Fix you, or something. So I’m sorry too.”

“Don’t be. Everything you said, I needed to hear it.”

“I’m just saying, maybe I should’ve been more patient. It wasjust hard for me, because…” She sighed. “I care about you, maybe too much.”

His stomach flipped at the present tense. “You weren’t theonly one fed up with me.”

“Right. And how is Foggy?” she asked carefully.

Of course. She knew Foggy. Weird that Claire, so firmlyassociated with his vigilante life, had mixed with Foggy, so firmly associatedwith the law, and he hadn’t even been there. “He’s good. Really good. Workingat a fancy law firm.”

“You don’t sound upset about that.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly. “It’s not the kind of lifestyleI’d want, but Foggy’s happy. And he still has a soul.”

Collecting her own bowl, she sat beside him. “How do youknow?”

He frowned, a bit confused why she was so interested in updatesabout Foggy. “We meet up. Talk about cases.”

“Did you ever apologize for not visiting him in the hospital?”she asked bluntly.

He felt himself flush. “Yeah.”

She waited a moment. “Good.”

What was that, some kind of test? If it was…he was prettysure he passed.

“What about you?” he asked tentatively. “How are…things?”

“Things,” she repeated, obviously unimpressed.

“I mean—” He broke off.

“Matt?”

“Shh,” he whispered.

“What?” she demanded, ever contrary.

“Someone’s coming.” He’d know that heartbeat anywhere. Hegot up from the stool, stood stiffly in the center of the room. “No, no, notnow.”

“Am I supposed to know why you’re freaking out?”

His hands curled into fists. “I’m so sorry, Claire. I’m so,so sorry. I didn’t…I didn’t realize he was following me.” Hadn’t even realizedStick was back in Hell’s Kitchen.

“How bad is it?” Claire sounded scared, but also like shewas trying not to be.”

He didn’t want to frighten her, but… “I don’t know,” he admitted.“It’s, uh, someone from when I was a kid. It’s the guy who trained me.”

She let out a whistle. “So, like, a superhero?”

“Ha,” Matt laughed grimly. “Stick’s not a superhero.” Hemoved to her front door. “He’s on the stairs.”

“But he’s a good guy, right?” She followed him, nervous butstill trying not to show it. “Right? Matt?”

“Not really,” he said heavily, resting his forehead againsther door. He couldn’t fight Stick like this, which…which…he shouldn’t have to,but Stick also shouldn’t be here atall.

His cane tapped along the stairs just outside her apartment.

Matt swore under his breath. “I’m gonna go take care ofthis.”

“Wait!” Claire grabbed his arm. It was his good arm, but hestill sucked in a breath as his ribs objected. “What’re you gonna do, pickanother fight?”

“If I have to.” He unlocked the door.

She slammed her shoulder against the door, shutting itfirmly. “Your mask’s on the floor.”

Right. Someone could see him. And now Stick was rightoutside. Planting his feet, Mat leaned against the door. “Stay back,” hewhispered.

Stick’s voice floated through. “Lemme in, Matty.”

It was enough to bring Matt back to a cemetery, standingover the grave of the woman he loved with the man who’d manipulated her intobecoming a weapon. Like he’d manipulated Matt.

“Matty,” Stick called.

“No está aquí,” Claire called back.

Matt sighed and wrenched the door open. “He can smell me.”

Stick wasted no time before strolling through, dropping hiscane by the counter. His left wrist was swollen. Sprained, maybe? “Anyone couldsmell you, Matty. Left a trail of blood thicker than a river. Might as wellhand out invites with her address on ’em.” He turned to flash Claire adangerous smile. “Nice to finally hear your heartbeat.”

That precious heartbeat sped up. “Excuse me?”

“Just that I’ve smelled you often enough, hanging out atMatty’s place.” He made a show of sniffing the air. “You’re a nurse. Or something. That explains somethings. Like why he’s still alive.” He slowly tilted his head. “And why you’realive too, I guess.”

“Is that a threat?” Claire asked in a low voice.

“No,” Matt said quickly. “He just has this stupid beliefthat anyone in my life will end up dead because of me.” Well, Matt wasn’tconvinced that it was actually such a stupid belief. But he told himself it wasstupid whenever it started echoing in Stick’s voice. He kept himself between them.“So you found me, Stick. Congratulations. What do you want?”

“It’s not about what I want, Matty. It’s about what youneed.”

“No. I don’t need anything—I’m done.” He risked a stepcloser. “We fought off the Hand, we buried the Black Sky. We’re done.”

“The Black Sky,” Stick said softly, bringing up his hand torest on Matt’s shoulder, his ancient fingers tapping against the thick materialof Matt’s suit. “How’re you doing with all that?”

“Fine,” Matt gritted out.

Stick jerked his chin at Claire. “Did he tell you his girlfriend’sdead?”

Claire’s lips parted.

It was like the broken piece of window was stabbing Matt’sheart instead of his arm. “She wasn’t—she wasn’t my girlfriend, Stick.”

“Oh, right, that was the other one. The reporter. Smellslike she cut you lose. Smart girl.”

“Don’t talk about her,” Matt snapped. “I gave you a chanceto tell me what you’re doing here, now—”

“Now what?” Stick drawled. “You’ll throw me out? You can barelystand up.” He took a casual step forward, like he was aiming to wander over tothe couch.

Matt shifted in front of him. “Leave.”

“If I do, it’s the same as leaving you and your new girlieto a horrible death.”

Claire stiffened, but she remained outwardly calm. As forStick, his heart beat steadily, but just because Stick believed something didn’tmean he wasn’t also insane. “Then Iwill deal with it,” Matt growled.

“No, you won’t,” Stick said derisively. “I heard you in thatwarehouse. You could barely get the kids out, and you left those men to keepdoing the same thing the second you look the other way. You’re not dealing withshit.”

“He saved those lives,” Claire cut in suddenly.

“Claire,” Matt warned.

“He saved those kids’ lives,” she insisted, edging up behindhim. “What’s your name? Stick? If you were there, why didn’t you jump in tohelp?”

Stick craned his neck like he could see past Matt standingbetween them. “Those kids, those men, it was all just a distraction. That’swhat keeps happening—he gets all caught up in all the wrong things, and as soonas the enemy strikes, he’s useless.” He paused. “I take it back. You can beuseful. You’d just be better off if you weren’t tied down by all that pity youcarry for every whimpering thing that’ll just die anyway once the war comes.”

Half of Matt’s brain was stuck on one single sentence—you can be useful. The other half wasfurious that Stick was still here. “WhateverI do, whatever I feel, it’s my business.”

“Until your bleeding heart gets you killed and I loseanother soldier.”

Suddenly, Matt was yelling. “Like you lost Elektra?”

Stick raised his voice to match. “We both lost her, and itwouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t dragged her off to save—”

“You knew she was the Black Sky—you would’ve killed her! Youtold me you would’ve—” He cut himselfoff, took a deep breath. “Are you back in this city because of some specificthreat or not?”

“I’m back because it’s time for you to get your head out ofyour—”

“Okay, great, we’re done.” Matt walked forward, straightinto Stick.

Stick didn’t budge. “The Hand’s coming. Whatever they’ve gotplanned, it’s big.”

“If they’re not here yet, I don’t care.” He shoved Stick.Stick shoved back, and Matt sucked in a breath as pain arced across his ribs.

“Matt.” Claire’s voice unsettled.

Stick drew his sword.

“Matt,” Clairegasped.

“Listen to your girlfriend, Matty. We need to have a chat.”

“Not my girlfriend, Stick.” Another shove.

Stick raised the sword, but didn’t strike with it. “If theHand comes back, you’ll just get her killed by playing around with her.”

See, that was the thing. That kind of logic made sense backhe was keeping everyone else tucked away in safe little boxes, boxes reservedfor best friends and secretaries and the kind nurse he had a crush on. Didn’twork so well for law partners who yelled at gang members and reporters who befriendedthe Punisher and the nurse who agreed to use her hospital for the Hand’svictims.

Actually, he should’ve known that logic didn’t work withClaire as soon as she pulled a masked vigilante out of her dumpster.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Matt said quietly. “I’ll doeverything I can to keep her safe. But if—if—somethinghappens to her, it’ll be because she decided that helping people is worth therisk. I definitely won’t keep her safer by staying away.”

Stick shrugged. “And then you’ll kill yourself when you loseher, and then I’ll lose you.”

Matt tilted his head. “And that bothers you,” he murmured. “Itbothers you because you broke your own rules. With me.”

“You’re useful,” Stick argued.

“You’re broken.” Another shove. Stick was at the threshold. “Iappreciate all you’ve done for me, I really do, but I don’t need you anymore.”

“Maybe not, but you will.”

Matt wanted to say, Youknow where to find me. But he also didn’t want to give Stick the slightesthint of permission. Not that Stick ever cared about permission. It felt like asmall victory to keep silent and just give him a final shove out the door.

“Take care of yourself, Matty.” Then Stick spoke a littlelouder, voice aimed at Claire. “I’ll see you around!”

“You won’t.” Matt shut the door. Locked it. Listened asStick hovered just outside.

Claire approached from behind him. “Is he still there?”

Matt didn’t move from his position. “Yeah.”

“And he can still hear me?” When he rolled his eyes inaffirmative, she put her mouth by the door. “Go put some ice on your wrist! Itlooks sprained!”

Matt shot her a look of exasperation. “What’re you—”

She pressed her hand to his mouth and cocked her head. Thenshe made a smug sound as Stick’s footsteps retreated.

Matt waited until he was mostly sure Stick was out of rangebefore finally stepping away from the door. “What was that about?”

“Bossing you around with concern over minor injuries hasalways been a surefire way to scare you off.”

“So you admit that a sprain is minor.”

“I admit that youthink a sprain is minor. Figured he’d have the same mentality.”

Matt stifled a grimace. “Yeah. We’re, uh…we’re a lot alike.”

“Not really.” Turning around to face him, she folded herarms. “Is he always like that?”

“Vaguely ominous? Pretty much.”

“I mean, is he always going on about how helping people isn’tworth it? Or how you’ll get people killed by playing around with them?”

He cringed at the phrase. “Yeah. He started in on that stuffback when I was a kid, when he was—”

“When you were a kid?”The shock in her voice was practically palpable.

Right. She was the first person since Elektra to know bothsides of his life, making it easy, sometimes, to forget how little she stillknew about him. “Uh. Yeah. He trained me to control my senses.” He paused. “Andto fight.”

“And he was telling you not to feel pity all the way backthen?” Her voice was tight with anger.

He wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t just make herangrier. “He wanted me to be a soldier.”

“Mierda,” shemuttered under her breath. “Explains a lot.”

What, exactly, did that explain? “It wasn’t that bad, Claire.In most ways, he saved my life. I could barely control my senses when my dadwas still alive. When I was in the orphanage, everything was too—”

“What orphanage?” Her voice was deadly calm.

Matt suddenly wished he was doing something. Eating, walking…evengetting stitched up would be preferable to just standing there, trying to fieldher questions. “St. Agnes.”

“I didn’t know,” she said softly.

“I didn’t tell you,” he countered, turning to shuffle backto his stool at her counter. Not that he was hungry anymore.

She followed, but didn’t sit. Instead, she stood close tohim, leaning against the counter across his legs. “Why didn’t he use his sword justnow?”

“Because he knows it would’ve killed me,” Matt said heavily.

“What?”

“It…it would’ve been a threat to you. So I wouldn’t havestopped fighting him.” Matt fidgeted with the material of his pants. “He didn’twant to lose me. Not before the war.”

“The war like…those ninjas who attacked the hospital?”

“Something like that.” He briefly closed his eyes. “If…ifthey come back, I’ll deal with it. I won’t drag you into it.”

She shook her head. “Like you told him, I’m here to helppeople.”

She was so…adjectives failed him. Matt swallowed. He’d toldStick she wasn’t his girlfriend. And she wasn’t.

But, oh, he wanted that. He still missed Elektra, and hestill missed Karen, but Claire…Claire was different. She wasn’t as destructiveas either of them and her moral compass was steadier than anything he’d everknown.

He still didn’t feel like he deserved her. Still didn’t wantto hurt her. But like everything else, that was her choice to make, not his. Andhe no longer believed the things Stick preached. So if he could bring her anyhappiness, any security, any…anything good, he’d do it. He cleared his throat. “Claire?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Can I…can I take you to dinner?”

She held completely still.

He was such an idiot. “I wasn’t—I mean—you can say no, Ijust thought—”

“I hope you’re not insulting my soup. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“It was delicious,” he said weakly.

“What is this, then? Payment for me taking care of you?”

All right, he could spell it out, if that was what shewanted. “A date, Claire. I’m…I’m asking you on a date.”

“Huh.” Her arms wrapped tighter around herself, but he heardher heartrate picking up. “You’re concussed. You sure even you know what you’resaying?”

“I’m sure,” he said immediately. “Very sure.”

“You’re not just sticking it to that old man?”

She wasn’t saying yes. But she wasn’t saying no. He movedcarefully closer, reached out, found her hand. “Claire,” he said softly. “I’vewanted this for a long time. And you were right, before, to say no. I wasn’t…I’mnot proud of who I was.” He hesitated. “In many ways, I’m not proud of who I am.But—”

“I am,” she interrupted. “I’m proud of you.”

That right there was more disorienting than the hit to thehead. “What?”

“I’m proud of you,” she said simply. “And I can’t…I can’tpromise you more than a date, not yet, but—”

His heart leapt and he felt dizzy for very new reasons.

“I like Middle Eastern food.”

He was already nodding. “I can do that.”

“I have Thursdays off.” Suddenly, she was speaking veryfast. “Usually. Unless they need me, but I usually get a heads up. I’ll callyou if I can’t make it.”

“This Thursday?”

“Can we?”

He grinned. “Yeah. This Thursday. I know a great place.”

“I’ll trust your judgement.”

She trusted him. “Claire.”He said it just to savor the fact that he could. Drawing closer, he brushed thetips of his fingers against her wrists, then skimmed his hands up her arms torest on her shoulders. “Thank you. For everything.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “It was my pleasure.”

No lie, no lie in her heartbeat. One of his hands he slid overto the back of her neck; with the other, he lightly touched her lower lip.

She rose up on her toes to meet him with a kiss.

#Matt Murdock #claire temple #clairedevil #matt x claire #Daredevil #fic prompt

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hazyheel · 5 years ago

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WWE Monday Night Raw 8/12/19 Review

Seth Rollins Promo: He came out in normal clothes, which immediately worried me. He talked about how he wasn’t sure if he would win at summerslam, and he put Lesnar over a bit. He talked about how the crowd fueled him through the match. He only won with the love from the crowd, which sounds corny but it was a pretty good line in my opinion. AJ Styles then came out to interrupt, with the OC in tow. They congratulated Rollins on winning his match, and threw his hat in the ring for title contention. He challenged Rollins to a match tonight, to prove that he is a better champion. Rollins told him that all his respect for Styles is gone. He then accepted the challenge. Styles then extended a hand for a shake. Rollins refused, and Styles called him scared as he let the ring. Tensions were high.

Grade: C+. Started out pretty good, but I felt that Styles didn’t really make sense to throw his hat in the ring. He has his own thing in the midcard. If you want him to go in the main event, then give him a real reason. He should be allowed to compete in the midcard. If you want him to move up, then he can win a multi man match for #1 contendership while still being the champion, and then lose the belt. There are better ways to emphasize your top stars that to screw over the midcard.

Street Profits Backstage: They put the show over, but Dawkins was tired and dehydrated. Sami Zayn then came up to give advice. He told them that the crowd will suck the soul right out of them. He said that everyone flames out, and the fans don’t care anymore. He started to talk about Samoa Joe as an example, but Joe was behind him. Joe then challenged him to a match, and I think Joe turned face. He shoved Zayn into the crates and walked away.

Before we came back, they talked about how the King of the Ring is back for 2019. That’s actually pretty exciting, but I don’t know what the stakes are. I will make a separate post for predictions and my thoughts on the tournament at large, so watch out for that.

Sami Zayn vs. Samoa Joe: I am pretty confused about Joe’s character at the moment, but maybe this match will help me with that. Zayn attacked before the bell, and Joe totally destroyed him after that. He put him on the mat with some power moves and strikes before choking him out for the win.

Then he got on the mic. He talked about how he was still pissed about how people accused him of attacking Roman. He said that he won’t forgive anyone in the crowd for all the hate.

Grade: B-. Inoffensive squash, and they clarified that he is still a heel. Double wammy.

Dolph Ziggler vs. the Miz: Miz was wearing a new shirt, saying Toronto is Awesome, which is a nice babyface touch. Ziggler came out in normal clothes. I think he had a Kabuki Warriors shirt on, but I don’t really know. Ziggler then got on the mic and called Miz a coward. He complained about how wasn’t cleared to compete. He said that Miz screwed Miz. After saying that it was too bad that he wouldn’t have the match, he beat the crap out of him. He beat him down as they cut to commercial.

When we came back, they were in the middle of the match. Ziggler was competing in jeans, so there was that. Right when we came back, Miz started to take the advantage. As Miz was delivering Yes Kicks to Ziggler, Graves compared him to a man who can walk away from a horrific car accident, which was so weird. Ziggler then nailed a Zig Zag, but Miz somehow kicked out. It seems like they are moving that down to a signature rather than a finisher. Ziggler then went for a superkick, but Miz caught his leg and put Ziggler in the figure four and won the match.

Afterwards, Ziggler got on the mic and said that he was a coward. He told Miz to finish him off, and as he was talking, Miz nailed a Skull Crushing Finale.

Grade: C+. A watered down and less awesome version of what happened at Summerslam with Goldberg. Ziggler’s new “I have more pride than is good for me” gimmick is going to get old, unless it was legends kicking his ass on pay per view. But the match was okay, although I know they can do much better.

Becky Lynch Interview: Becky immediately grabbed the mic and talked about how she wanted her next challenger. She said that she just beat Nattie, but she isn’t going to rest. She wants to kick the next person’s ass.

Elias Concert: He talked about how he knows someone will interrupt him, and he wants them to come out right now. That way it is right out of the way. He counted down a couple times, but no one came out. “I’m begging you, please don’t change the channel,”- Corey Graves. Nice call. Then Ricochet came out with a mic right as he was about to start. They both called each other lame, and Elias challenged Ricochet to a match.

We went right from that into Ricochet vs. Elias, where they started out with a quick pace. They delivered a lot of high impact moves right away, but then they went back into rest holds. At one point, the two botched some sort of move, and the crowd seemed to turn against it quick. Ricochet then threw Elias out of the ring, but when he went for a suicide dive, Elias dodged and Ricochet landed right on his back. The two then battled in the ring, and Ricochet won with a sunset flip into a pinning predicament. Elias had his shoulder up, but the ref called for the bell anyway.

Grade: D+. Jeez this was rough. Two botches and a horrific bump. This was a very unpolished match that did not showcase the strengths of either guy. They are much better than this.

Andrade vs. Rey Mysterio, 2 out of 3 falls: the match started right away, with a stiff shot from Andrade. He went for a powerbomb, but Mysterio countered to set up the 619, but Zelina Vega tripped him up on the outside. Andrade then rolled him up, and Vega held his feet on the ropes to win the first fall.

They started the second fall, and Mysterio quickly gave Andrade a rana to the outside, which looked pretty rough. Mysterio then continued the offense, hitting a slingshot powerbomb which looked like he planted Andrade on his head. Once again when Mysterio went for a 619, Vega distracted him and he didn’t get it. But after a third set up, he nailed the 619. Still, Andrade got his knees up and hit the hammerlock DDT for the win.

Grade: C+. Another fine match. I liked that Andrade got a 2-0 victory, way to put over new talent. I don’t know what they will do with that, but it was a huge victory. Good on them, but not their best match.

Steve Austin interview: Austin talked about how Rollins had a whole bunch of heart to get his win at Summerslam. He put Rollins over. Then he put over his own show. Shameless plug here.

Rey Mysterio Interview: He talked about how frustrated he was losing two falls in a row. He seemed like he was about to cry, and muttered about his family. Interesting, not sure where this is going at all.

Street Profits Backstage Again: Montez Ford told Mysterio to keep his head up, and gave him some encouragement. Ford then woke Dawkins up, and hyped up the Women’s Tag Team Championship match, and Cedric Alexander vs. Drew McIntyre. But Dawkins was too thirsty to help him, so Ford walked away. Funny, but they need to do something soon.

Drew McIntyre interview: he talked about how he was going to end Alexander, and their rivalry in the match. He called Alexander’s run a fairytale. He said that he was going to cave his skull in and end the rivalry once and for all.

Cedric Alexander vs. Drew McIntyre: the two started right away with some nice striking, and Alexander flying right away. He nailed McIntyre with a tope con hilo, but McIntyre fought back into it. While Alexander was up on the top rope, McIntyre grabbed him in a crucifix, and then gave him a high angle buckle bomb that looked hard to take. McIntyre took control from there, absolutely tossing Cedric all around the ring. At one point, the two were on the top rope, and McIntyre nailed Alexander with a sidewalk slam off the top for a near fall. The two started to fight on the outside, where Alexander pushed Mcintyre into the post, and then hit the lumbar check on the outside. The two were nearly counted out, but Alexander slid back in and attempted a suicide dive. But McIntyre caught him out of the dive and gave him a rough belly to belly onto the ring steps. The two then fought back into the ring, again on the top rope, but this time Alexander delivered a top rope spanish fly for a near fall. That brought the crowd alive, Mcintyre went for the inverted Alabama Slam, but Cedric countered into a rollup. McIntyre kicked out, and the two ran the ropes, only for McIntyre to decimate Alexander with a Claymore for the win.

Grade: B+. Really good stuff between these two. They showcased a great clash of styles match, as well as showing McIntyre’s agility as they did so. Cedric sold just as well as he always does, and was a really good underdog here. He was smart enough to get the advantage several times, and he knew what he had to do to win. Any of those rollups could have been it, and Cedric knew that. McIntyre was a great bully here, and actually seemed to respect Alexander a bit. Really good stuff between these guys, I knew that they could put something like this together. Match of the night.

The OC Backstage: the group were talking about how Rollins beat the odds when he beat Brock Lesnar at Summerslam. Gallows and Anderson then said that not even Styles could do that, to which Styles responded that he only had one chance to beat him. Then he just talked about how he would win the champion vs. champion match later on.

No Way Jose vs. Robert Roode: a bit of an odd match. I’m not really sure why they are having it. The two started with a lock up, before Roode pushed Jose back into the corner and wailed on him with strikes and kicks. Jose was being beaten for most of the match, before Roode won with a Glorious DDT.

Grade: B-. Inoffensive squash. Cool to see some underutilized stars get TV time.

Paul Heyman Interview: Heyman talked about how Lesnar is not allowed any rematches against Rollins. He was so pissed off that he couldn’t even get the words out. Then he walked back into Lesnar’s locker room. Interesting.

The Lucha House Party vs. The Revival: This was an incredibly fast paced match right from the start. The Revival gained the advantage after forcing Lince Durado to the mat, but as they were fighting, R-Truth and the 24/7 guys ran down to the ring. The bell rang, and the Lucha House Party started to dive onto everyone around ringside. The Revival hit Truth with a Hart Attack, and pinned him together to become co-champions. However, Kalisto then ran in and hit a Salida del Sol on Dawson, only for Wilder to break it up. Carmella then pulled a half conscious Truth onto Dawson to win the belt back, and the two ran away. Backstage, Carmella and Truth were celebrating when Elias walked up and smashed Truth in the back with his guitar, and stole the championship in the process.

Grade: C+. I was actually into having co-champions for a while, but it is clear that Truth is their guy for this belt. Anyway, this was fine. Nothing too exciting.

Natalya promo: Nattie came out with her arm in a sling, which was a nice touch. Still selling a beating from a night ago is pretty smart. The crowd was chanting “you tapped out.” She said that although she lost, she won’t take back anything that she said. She wants to fight Becky Lynch again, but she will earn it before she does. Then she talked about her dad, Jim Neidhart, but as she started to talk, Sasha fucking Banks returned to interrupt. She seemed pretty genuinely happy to be back, and she gave Nattie a hug, but then sucker punched her and tore off a purple wig that she had on. She started to beat the crap out of Natalya, even tearing off her sling. The crowd was absolutely loving it, and everyone remembered how great of a heel Banks is. She even grabbed a chair, but as she was about to use it, Becky Lynch ran out for the save. The two brawled in the middle of the ring, with Banks coming out on top. She wailed on Lynch with the chair, and it looked incredibly painful. Eventually, some refs came by and broke everything up, but the damage was done. Looks like we have a challenger for the Raw Women’s Championship, and someone who can actually win it at that.

Grade: B+. What a return! I have wanted heel Sasha for years, although I always wanted her to turn on Bayley. This is perfect though. A brutal assault to bring back one of the best heels in the women’s division. Welcome back Banks, thank you for saving the women’s division and keeping things interesting.

Viking Raiders Squash: before the match, the Viking Raiders cut a promo about how they will destroy anyone in their way, and the tag division will kneel before them. Naturally, the Raiders messed up the poor jobbers. At one point, Erik gave one jobber a huge uranagi onto the back of the other. The two were about to win at one point, but Erik pulled his shoulders off the mat, and they gave him the Viking Experience for the win.

Grade: B-. Always entertaining squash.

Nikki Cross and Alexa Bliss Interview: The two talked about their upcoming title defense against The Kabuki Warriors. They were actually being really nice to each other, so I guess Bliss has turned face. I don’t know where this is going, but they better hate each other eventually.

Alexa Bliss and Nikki Cross vs. the Kabuki Warriors for the WWE Women’s Tag Team Championships: So, then during this match, Corey Graves was talking about how much he loves Bliss and Cross now, so I have no idea if they are face or heel. The Kabuki warriors had the advantage early on, running roughshod over the champions and completely annihilating them. The heels didn’t really get the advantage back until Bliss got a blind tag on Cross. At one point, Nikki was about to be hit by the Insane Elbow, but Cross rolled to the outside. Sane nailed her with a crossbody to the outside. Sane then rolled her back in for the Insane elbow, but Bliss broke it up. Asuka then tried to take out Bliss, but Bliss ducked a kick that landed on the ringpost, taking Asuka out. In the finish, Cross nailed Sane with a swinging neckbreaker and then Bliss finished it off with Twisted Bliss.

Grade: B-. This was a fine match, nothing too special. I hope that the Kabuki Warriors actually get some TV time, because they are a great team that deserve some more time. Bliss and Cross look strong, so that is good. These titles will need a lot of help to be built back up to the level they were once at, but they can do it with some time and patience.

AJ Styles vs. Seth Rollins: Rollins still had heavily taped ribs, but Rollins actually assaulted Styles’ ribs to start the match off. Early on in the match, Rollins opted to take out the rest of the OC on the outside, but that distraction only allowed Styles to attack the ribs more. At one point, Styles even went for the Styles clash on the apron, but Rollins slipped out and swept Style’s leg out from under him. When the two got back in the ring, they started to transition into heavy hitting strikes. At one point, Rollins tried for a reverse superplex, but AJ pushed him off. He then tried for a phenomenal forearm, but Rollins ducked it and nailed a superkick. He then went for the frog splash, but Anderson distracted the ref while Gallows pushed Rollins off the top rope. The two were then banned from ringside, but they just ran in and caused a disqualification instead. Ricochet then ran out to Rollins’ aid, but it didn’t help him much. The OC was about to give Rollins a Styles Clash from the middle rope when Braun Strowman ran out and decimated all of the heels, giving Styles a spinning powerslam, followed by a running powerslam. After the OC retreated, Strowman grabbed Rollins’ Universal Championship and handed it to him, but not before eyeing it a bit. The faces then stood tall together to close out the show.

Grade: B. A pretty good match with a fun brawl to close everything out, plus Braun Strowman looked pretty strong in the process. This was a good look at what the top of the card on Raw should be. Get the US championship out of the mix, and these four guys could easily carry the show a bit. Give some lower down guys the US Championship, like maybe Cedric Alexander. Throw Bray Wyatt and Drew McIntyre in towards the top, and you have yourself a strong main event scene. This final stretch gives me some hope that maybe we will have some improvements on WWE going forward. Things seem to be looking up.

Overall Grade: B-

Pros: Alexander vs. McIntyre; banks return; main event

Cons: ricochet vs. elias

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feelingdylano · 7 years ago

Text

Until the End (Stiles Romance Sequel) ~Chapter 6~

I sat back in the hospital lobby, tears welled up in my eyes as I pressed my hands tightly together in nervousness. The memories of last night’s events playing out in my head.

“Mom?” I called out as I turned in time to see her laying on her side, motionless. Quickly picking myself off the floor, I rushed my way over to her, before turning her on her back. Argent reached out for me, pulling me away as my throat constricted. “Mom…” I whispered, my heart beat echoing in my ear drums.

“Malia, call for help,” the man instructed.

“Scott,” a weak voice called out. My eyes flickered over to the others, as I took everything in.

Everyone had been hurt. Some more than others.

“Adelyn?” My father’s voice called out, snapping me back into reality as I looked up to him, tears falling from my eyes. He threw himself into me the moment I stood up, taking me in his arms as he sighed in relief.

“Thank God,” he muttered.

“Mom…” I began, as I pulled away, choking back my sobs. “She’s…”

“She’s up in ICU, David,” Mr. Stilinski sighed heavily as he made his presence known.

“How is she?” he asked, turning to the sheriff with furrowed brows.

Mr. Stilinski seemed to hesitate before drawing in a deep breath.

“The doctors don’t know when she’ll wake up.”

My eyes narrowed as I hugged myself, taking in my step-father’s expression.

“But she’s gonna wake up, right?”

“That’s—”

“Mr. Rodriguez?” A nurse called out. My head snapped up and I quickly rushed over to her, in hopes for good news.

“She’s awake,” she began with a smile. “She’s going to be okay.”

I took in a deep breath, sighing out in relief as more tears welled up in my eyes. She was going to be okay. My father was the first to step into her room while I waited outside.

“Everyone’s okay,” the sheriff assured the minute Scott made his way in.

“Where’s my dad?” he asked in slight panic.

“Transferred to San Francisco Memorial,” Mr. Stilinski responded.

“And what about Mason?” the alpha continued.

“Already out of surgery,” the sheriff nodded.

“Lydia—”

“She’s all right, too,” Mr. Stilinski cut him off. “Bullet missed everything that matters, thank God.”

“Not everything,” I said, crossing my arms as I looked up to him. “My mom nearly got a bullet through her head.”

“And we got lucky—”

“They almost died,” Scott argued.

“But they’re gonna live,” the sheriff continued. “We’re gonna have two deputies posted here around the clock. Nobody sets foot on these floors without my authorization.”

I scoffed and shook my head as I began making my way toward my mother’s room. Scott attempted to follow.

“Guys, I’ve got a pretty good idea how you guys are feeling right now,” Mr. Stilinski began. “But the whole Sheriff’s department is gonna be on this. I am gonna find out who did this.”

“We all know who did this,” I said bitterly, coming to a stop as I had reached for the door knob, keeping my back to them. With those final words, I opened the door and made my way in to check on my mom.

Letting out a shaky sigh, I made my way closer to my mom, sitting myself at her side. The machines roared as they continued to pump in and out. The heart monitor was silent for moment before beeping faintly. Taking a hold of her clammy hand, I pressed my lips together before sniffling and wiping my tears away.

She had managed to talk for a while, but she was still so weak. The doctors had advised us that she needed her rest, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave just yet. There was a knock at the door before I looked up in time to see it creak open and reveal Scott. He grimaced for a second, almost apologizing with his look before entering all the way.

“How is she?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Still out of it,” I muttered, looking back down to her. “The bullet may not have penetrated her skull, but the impact still left some residual damage.” I forced a chuckle in place of a sob, gripping at her hand a little tighter. “She couldn’t even remember me.”

“She’ll get her memory back though,” Scott assured. “Stilinski was right, the important thing is that she’s alive.” There was a moment of silence as he took in my current state, knowing well the only thing that could make me feel better. “Have you talked to Stiles? Does he know?”

I kept my silence and my eyes narrow, shaking my head in response.

“This is exactly why he can’t know,” I finally muttered. “Scott, this could have been him. Don’t you guys understand that?” My teary eyes flickered up to the alpha as his expression fell. He grimaced before pursing his lips and nodding understandingly.

“So, what do we do?” Malia asked, making her way in as well.

“No more peace summits,” I shook my head and looking back down to my mom, dropping my hold on her as my brows furrowed.

“You’re right,” Scott agreed. “No more running. No more half measures.”

“What’s the plan?” Malia asked.

“We fight back,” Scott stated, catching my attention as I turned back to him.

“I’m good with that plan,” the werecoyote almost smirked.

“Gerard, Monroe, the hunters, we take them all on,” Scott listed.

“Then we’re gonna need more firepower,” Malia said, turning to him.

“Not just firepower,” I shook my head.

“We’re gonna need an army,” Scott finished off.

The three of us stood in the midst of the shooting aftermath, waiting as Deucalion stepped in, taking in the broken glass and furniture. Debris crunched underneath the alpha’s feet, his expression falling before looking up to us.

“You know my fighting days are over,” he sighed, walking past Scott and coming to a stop at his living room.

“That’s hard to believe,” Scott began, turning to him and raising his brows. “You once said you’d kill any living thing that got in your way.”

“I said a lot of things,” Deucalion said, keeping his back to us. “But eventually the bodies pile up so high, that even a blind man can’t ignore them.”

“So, what? You moved into a cave and took a vow of uselessness?” Malia asked, her brows knitting together.

“I changed,” Deucalion nodded, turning over his shoulder to us. “We should all try it.” He began pivoting his body in order to face us. “And I live in a condo.”

“I liked the old Deucalion better,” Malia shrugged in disappointment.

“Well, maybe you’ve changed, but Gerard hasn’t,” Scott began, shaking his head. Deucalion turned away from us, not being able to look us in the eye.

“And he’s not gonna stop with Beacon Hills,” I added. “He doesn’t plan to.”

“He’s got a map with places circled,” Scott continued. “Talus, Brasilia—”

“Logashkino, Zhengzhou,” Deucalion continued, his expression hardening as he turned back to us, finally understanding. “Nemetons of the world?”

“You know him,” I said, stepping toward the werewolf. “Better than we do.”

“You can outthink him,” Scott added. “You can read him.”

“You’ve beaten him before,” Deucalion said, turning to Scott.

“He’s got a lot of help now,” Scott grimaced. “Actually, he’s got pretty much everyone.”

“You think Gerard’s turned you into a pariah?” he asked. “Your power does that. You’ll always be an outsider because of your abilities. Gerard wasn’t the first person to capitalize on the general public’s fear of the other. And he won’t be the last.”

“So then help us stop him,” I pleaded this time.

“I think you’ve realized that stopping Gerard now, means killing him,” Deucalion sighed. “I’m sorry, but that chapter in my life is over.”

I sighed heavily as the man turned his back to us and started to walk away. However, Malia didn’t accept defeat as she stepped forward.

“So, that’s it?” she called out. “You’re just a pacifist now? What’s gonna stop me from slashing your throat?”

This seemed to have caught his attention as he turned back to the werecoyote.

“Plenty,” he answered simply. Malia bared her teeth as she growled toward the man, instantly launching herself forward and attempting to attack him. However, he swiftly managed to maneuver his body past her and somehow ended up pressing his back against her own.

“How’d you do that?” she asked, seeming thrown off by his actions.

“Ba gua,” I responded, instantly recognizing the moves.

“That’s right, Adelyn,” Deucalion nodded. “It’s a martial art that takes the path of least resistance.”

“You think you’re going to beat me without fighting?” Malia asked as they both began circling around one another, keeping their backs to each other.

“I think you’re going to beat yourself,” Deucalion said. I pressed my lips in attempt to hide my amusement while Scott mouthed off something to the girl. She simply nodded and allowed her claws to jut out. I crossed my arms and watched as she tried to hit him from the side, but Deucalion merely dodged. Malia launched herself forward, attempting to grab him, but the werewolf stepped back, gently placing a hand on her back and allowing her to fall. She groaned in annoyance as she turned herself and sat up. Deucalion reached out for her hand, but she merely scoffed and pushed it away from her.

“Okay,” she huffed, standing up and facing the man. “So, you can protect yourself. But what about everyone else who doesn’t Ba gua?” Malia raised her hands up in emphasis. “They’re just gonna get their eyes stabbed out?”

“Look what that war turned me into,” Deucalion sighed heavily. “I’m not afraid to lose my eyes again.” He turned back to face me and Scott. “I’m afraid to lose my soul.”

“You won’t help us?” Malia asked as he began walking away from us yet again.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you,” he said, turning to the girl. “I can offer you guidance. And my first piece of advice? You might need to lower your standards for allies.”

“I thought I was,” Scott said.

“Lower than me,” Deucalion smiled through his grimace before making his way out the door.

I took in a deep breath as I uncrossed my arms and turned to the alpha.

“I think we’ve already gone low enough, personally,” I said. “Especially considering we have Theo helping us.”

“Yet somehow, I thought of someone lower,” Malia muttered, her expression hardening slightly.

The three of us walked through the dark corridors of Eichen House, my brows furrowing as I finally caught sight of the man we had agreed to meet standing at the end of the hallway.

“Why did he want to meet here?” Scott asked.

“Why did he agree to meet at all?” Malia asked.

“Why did we agree to any of this?” I asked, making a face.

“Curiosity,” Peter answered, leaning against the door frame once we turned the corner. “Mostly.”

“Okay,” Scott sighed. “I need your help.”

“With what?” Peter asked, his brows merging. “Another suicide mission? Not interested.” His eyes flickered over to his daughter. “Or do you need my help?”

“I’m here for moral support,” Malia shrugged.

“For him or for me?” Peter asked, cocking a brow.

“You’d need to have morals,” Malia pointed out. The man’s head tilted in slight disappointment before I stepped forward and began.

“Somehow, someway, you managed to help us fight the Ghost Riders,” I said, looking up to him.

“Self-preservation,” Peter nodded.

“But we couldn’t have won without you,” Scott added. “You’re stronger than all of us. You were the real reason the Wild Hunt—”

“Stop,” Peter cut him off. “A solid effort. You don’t need to appeal to my ego. It’s quite healthy. You’re gonna need to work a lot harder than that if you want my help.”

“What do you want?” Scott asked, his brows furrowing.

“Everything pretty much is the way I want it,” Peter shrugged, crossing his arms and stepping toward us. “My penthouse apartment is filled with mid-century furniture. My passport has more stamps than the post office. And did you see the car parked out front? That’s a Shelby 1000 Cobra. There are only one-hundred in the entire world.” He paused, almost for dramatic effect as he pointed up. “I have two.” Another pause as he cocked his head. “Two.”

“But Gerard has an army,” I pointed out.

“And every single one of them wants you dead,” Scott added.

“And you think that means I’m going to enlist in your little endeavor? Because you’re going to defeat Gerard?” Peter questioned, raising an inquiring brow. “You’re not going to beat him, Scott.” He shook his head. “And let me show you why.”

With that, we all turned in time to watch him flip a switch and bring our attention to the cell at our side as the lights finally turned on. Our expressions hardened as we watched the young man finally jump up from his bed.

“When I found him,” Peter began, pointing out the weapon that laid right next to the young man, “that was pointed at my face. That is a G36, which fires 750 rounds per minute. And it’s empty.” He paused as he pulled out the magazine and stuffed it into the opening. “For the moment.”

“Peter, wait!”

“What the hell are you doing?!” Both Malia and I asked in unison.

“That homicidal guinea pig is gonna kill all of us unless you do what’s necessary, and I don’t feel like dying,” Peter shrugged, turning to us as the young man snatched up his weapon and loaded it up. He turned to face us and quickly aimed before shooting at the glass.

Peter placed his fingers over his ears while the rest of us jumped back the moment the gun fire hit.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!” I demanded, turning angrily toward Peter.

“There’s something wrong with him!” Scott shouted.

“Yes, he’s shooting at us,” Peter nodded. “And to answer your question, Adelyn. If you can’t even kill him, how do you expect to win this war?”

The cartridge clanked, causing the hunter to stop and turn his gun on its side, seeming thrown off. Peter turned back to the young man.

“Don’t worry, it’s just jammed,” he comforted. “It tends to happen with automatic weapons that haven’t been serviced regularly. Just slide the bolt back.” Before putting his fingers back into his ears.

“Thanks,” the hunter nodded before doing as told and aiming the weapon toward us again.

“We’re not going to hurt you!” Scott tried to assure. However, the hunter continued.

“He can’t be reasoned with, Scott,” Peter said as he turned to us. “He’s not only shooting at us because he’s afraid, he’s trying to kill s because he hates us.”

The gunfire ceased and my eyes widened as the hunter came charging at us.

“Look out!” I cried out as I pushed Scott and Malia out of the way the moment the young man burst through the window and crossed onto the other side. He rolled over his back and quickly jumped to his feet before attempting to aim his weapon again. However, Scott managed to grip at his weapon and keep it horizontally between them.

“Why are you doing this?!” The alpha almost demanded.

“Because she wants you dead,” the hunter responded.

“See?” Peter pointed out, “Blind obedience.”

Scott struggled for a moment before pulling back and ultimately slamming the young man against the wall, instantly knocking him out. We all turned back to Peter, our expressions all the same as we stared at him in anger.

“He never gave up,” he finally said. “I would fight with him. I like him. That’s how you win a war.”

“You were never going to help us, were you?” Malia asked, her brows merging further.

“And you can’t kill everyone either,” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms.

“Look, you can fight with us or fight alone, but one way or another, you’ll end up fighting,” Scott huffed before turning his back to the werewolf and making his way out.

“I’m guessing it’s going to be alone,” Malia grumbled as we both followed after the alpha.

“You made it this far without getting your hands dirty, Scott,” Peter called out. “No one makes it through a war with clean hands. If you don’t start killing, you better find someone who will!”

Later that night, both Scott and I stood around his kitchen while we waited for Malia to get back from her one on one talk with Peter. However, the longer we stood there, the more my patience was starting to wear out.

“What are we going to do now?” I asked, crossing my arms as Scott leaned his body up against the island. He grimaced before shaking his head. Right as he opened his mouth to respond, however, Malia came rushing in through the door.

“There’s something else we can try, but you’re not gonna like it,” she began, drawing herself closer to Scott as he stood straighter.

“What is it?” I asked, stepping toward them.

“There’s another pack of werewolves I know about,” she continued, finally turning to me. “They gave up everything that makes them human. Rules, morals. Electricity.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Scott nodded, finally understanding. “I’ve heard of this pack. They call themselves The Primal. Their pack symbol is a circle with a crescent on top.”

“Are they strong?” I asked, keeping my arms crossed and making a face. Malia nodded.

“They’re not only strong,” Scott shook his head, his brows merging. “They’ll kill anything that crosses their path.”

“Are they any worse than Deucalion and Peter?” Malia asked.

“I—I mean, at least I know Deucalion and Peter,” he stammered, seeming unsure. “This pack, I—I don’t know anything about them.”

“Does it matter if they can help us beat Gerard?” Malia asked.

“It matters if they’re murders,” Scott grimaced.

“Well there goes that,” I sighed, letting my arms drop in defeat.

“So, we should forget about it,” Malia said.

“Probably,” Scott grimaced.

“There’s got to be someone else who can help us,” I spoke up.

“We’re not that desperate,” Scott shook his head.

“And going to them would be really desperate, right?” Malia asked. Scott lowered his gaze as I turned to him.

I held onto the flashlight while I followed after Malia and Scott through the woods. My brows furrowed as we came across a rundown shed. There was an eerie growl before Malia nearly lost her footing. Her chest heaved up and down and the moment I took a step into her place, I knew exactly what it was.

“What’s wrong with this place?” she questioned.

“I feel it too,” Scott panted, his own hands trembling.

“It—it’s here,” I stammered, feeling my whole body start to shake. Scott quickly reached out for Malia as she leaned herself up against a nearby wall. They both looked to one another before finding comfort and held onto each other’s hands.

My whole body stopped shaking as the act itself reminded me of all the times I had held onto Stiles’ hand for comfort. And in that moment, it was as if the memories came flooding into the surfaces of my mind, reminding me of just how many times I had held onto Stiles throughout the years. A sudden warmth and comfort blanketed over me, allowing me to no longer fear anything. Looking down to my own hand, I watched as it slowly stopped trembling. Even when he wasn’t around, Stiles still managed to help. Biting my lower lip, I looked back up in time to notice Scott and Malia’s stares.

“You okay?” The boy asked. I smiled slightly and nodded in response.

“We came for the pack,” he finally continued, looking between us in encouragement. “It’ll be okay.”

Taking in a deep breath, we all took a step toward the shed, pulling back the curtain and revealing the empty furniture. Malia dropped her hold on Scott as I stepped between them, attempting to get a closer look around with the flashlight. My brows furrowed as I caught onto an unpleasant smell. Slowly and carefully stepping through the room, the light landed on an opening. Curiosity got the best of me as I was the first to step forward.

However, the moment I stepped in, my nose wrinkled in disgust as the stench became almost unbearable. An audible gasp escaped my lips the moment my flashlight landed on the pile of dead bodies. Each of their faces displayed the same horrifying thing. Blood poured from their eyes and mouth. Just like my vision, it seemed as if their eyes had been gouged out of their sockets and their tongues ripped out of their mouths. Scott reached for the flashlight as he pointed it at their pack symbol tattooed over their bodies. There was a sudden crash and we all jumped back.

“What was that?” Malia panicked.

I quickly turned back as Scott pointed the light behind us, revealing a barely clothed Lydia standing midst of the dark room.

“Lydia?” I asked, my brows merging. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at the hospital.”

“How did you get here?” Malia asked.

“He led me. He wanted me to find it,” she quivered.

“Who led you?” Scott asked.

“Halwyn,” she responded.

My brows furrowed as I turned to an equally confused Scott and Malia.

The tree leaves crunched underneath our feet as we continued to follow after the banshee as she led us out into the forest. We had all kept our silence, but I knew that each of us were thinking the same thing.

“Why would a dead Hellhound bring you here?” Malia finally voiced our thoughts. “Also, isn’t he dead?”

“I guess the connection between a Banshee and a Hellhound—”

“Dead Hellhound?” Malia cut her off.

“Is stronger than I thought,” Lydia continued in slight annoyance. “As for the why, I’m hoping if I find the body, I’ll figure that part out.”

“You know, there’s a pile of dead bodies back there,” Scott pointed out.

“It’s a different body,” Lydia shook her head as she continued her search.

“Different how?” I asked, quirking a brow.

“I’m not sure,” she huffed.

“There’s not another body out here,” Malia shook her head. “I’d smell it.”

“I’m a harbinger of death,” Lydia rolled her eyes as she came to a stop. “Trust me.”

We continued to walk on for a few more miles before Lydia came to a stop. My eyes grew wide as our flashlight landed on a lump. The banshee quickly knelt over and examined the body.

“How is this possible?” Malia huffed. “We saw Parrish kill it.”

“This one’s different,” Lydia pointed out.

“Yeah, I think Lydia’s right,” Scott agreed, hovering over the body as well. “I think this is part of the pack.”

“How do you know?” Malia asked.

“Maybe because that’s their pack symbol,” I said, pointing to its arm with the light.

“It’s skin is gone,” Lydia muttered.

“Wolves have to burn tattoos into their skin,” Scott explained. “My tattoo is probably scarred into my muscles too.”

“Okay, but why are there two of these bodies?” Malia asked, still not understanding.

“Because the Anuk-Ite has two faces,” I spoke up, turning to her. “In this case, it’s two different people and two different bodies.”

“That’s why Halwyn sent you here, Lydia,” Scott breathed out, looking up to my best friend.

“He wanted me to find the Anuk-Ite’s other face,” Lydia grimaced.

Scott and Malia instantly shut the freezer before turning back to us with a grimace. Liam and Theo stood in the back of the classroom, almost as if waiting for our reactions.

“It’s a bad day for finding bodies,” Malia commented.

“There’s gonna be a lot more if we don’t find Aaron’s other half,” Liam said.

“Which we know nothing about,” Theo pointed out.

“We do know one thing,” I shook my head. “We know it’s a werewolf.”

“We need to find this werewolf right now,” Liam said, turning to us.

“Preferably before they merge,” Theo added.

“What happens if they merge?” Malia asked.

“It’ll become unstoppable,” I grimaced.

“Any chance you got to put together that army, Scott?” Liam asked with slight hope.

“You’re looking at it,” Malia muttered, scratching her head sheepishly.

“Let’s hope this thing doesn’t feed off desperation, because this room reeks of it,” a new voice spoke up from behind.

My brows furrowed as I whipped around in time to see Peter approach the doorway, covered in ash marks and debris. It looked as if he had just barely managed to dodge a fire.

“What happened?” Scott was the first to ask. Peter held up his hand in time to reveal a broken steering wheel.

“Hunters,” he grimaced, looking down as he dropped his hand. “Destroyed my perfect automobile.” Peter looked up to us again. “So, if this thing had anything to do with it, I’d like to see its demise. Appropriately, painful.”

“I thought you had two cars?” Malia questioned, her brows furrowed. Peter turned to her as he pursed his lips and raised his other hand, revealing the other burnt up part before tossing it.

“There’s going to be hell to pay,” he almost growled.

“In that case,” I drew in a deep breath, feeling myself smirk toward the others. “Let’s get started.”

Chapter 5 / Chapter 7

(A/N: Alrighty guys I managed to get this one up before Sunday! I tried working on it through the week and I finally did it. As I’ve mentioned before I’m so sorry these next few chapters are gonna suck, but I promise the last two are going to be better! Anyways, I’m sorry for any overlooked mistakes, I hope you guys enjoyed, and as always, happy reading!)

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