#after been denied everything he’s spent the last four years humiliating and hurting himself for

[dayurno]

hiii dayurno could you tell me more about raven!jeremy? it's such a new idea sounds very interesting!!!

hiii of course! buckle up. long story and also a collab with ao3 kevjean :3

well first of all let me say that in this au jeremy is not part of the perfect court or in fact even close to it at all. he’s a sub striker with a high jersey number who did not see much playtime during his career as a raven and was on the lower end of the raven spectrum skill-wise. this is important to tell you because the fic doesn’t start with jeremy in the ravens, it starts with him dealing with the aftermath of the nest getting dissolved and losing every bit of his hopes and dreams after sacrificing everything in his life to make it in eau—it starts with kevin salvaging the last dregs of jeremy’s college career by recruiting him for the foxes for his last year, even though jeremy, as an ex raven, hates him (and jean) for what they’ve done both to riko and to their team

ok good. so set the scene. jeremy is miserable. the ravens already didn’t like kevin and jean to begin with, isolated as they were from the perfect court. now jeremy lost not only his team but the lifestyle surrounding it, the ideology of the ravens, his partner, and his career prospects. he doesn’t have the eau raven title anymore and he can’t use it to get himself in the line of sight of most pro team recruiters. he gave up a family (that didn’t love him much, but still) and a trustfund for this. kevin day leaves the nest, jean moreau follows soon after, and their king kills himself. Do you understand how much jeremy hates them? kevin and jean were perfect court, were untouchable, didn’t even know or care to learn his name as a sub striker with not much under his belt—and then they left and destroyed everything jeremy had worked so hard for without even thinking about him. without remembering him at all, in fact.

he hates them!!!!!!!! desperately. With a passion. getting recruited for the foxes and by kevin day on top of it all is humiliating, but it’s the last chance he has. jeremy arrives in palmetto an angry hateful mess made ten times worse by kevin’s constant criticism of him, unaccustomed with normal life and without a partner for the first time in four years. he’s volatile and destructive and he has nothing to live for. exy is the only thing he wants and it doesn’t want him back. :) kevin steps in and takes jeremy’s game from him much like he did with neil, both out of desperation because the foxes are a mess now with the addition of their freshmen, and because, while jeremy isn’t really anything to write home about in terms of skill, he’s far more ambitious and disciplined than the average fox. jeremy hates kevin but can’t afford to reject his help. thus begins the most convoluted raven partnership to ever exist

jeremy hates kevin and has a non-negligible wish to harm him whichever way he can, but he’s also a raven that escaped the nest all on his own. he latches onto kevin immediately, the two of them becoming partners in the raven sense of the world while clashing Often and Intensely with each other both on and off court. their relationship gets more and more volatile the more jeremy goes out of his way to get under kevin’s skin, resentful and so angry at what the perfect court’s done to him, while kevin sinks his feet in and pushes jeremy way past his limits in his training. basically they are a match made in hell :) lots of hatefucking and jealousy and violence and the one murder attempt ensue as the foxes try to navigate this destructive, hopeless version of jeremy that wants to die and take down as much as he can in the process, up to and including kevin day. they’re together every second of the day and jeremy hates him for everything kevin took from the ravens, but he also depends on kevin’s training and presence to feel like a person again. it’s a really big mess basically that is eventually made worse (and better) by kevin and jeremy starting to sleep together to get the adrenaline out raven-style. and that’s all without jean coming along, which he will eventually

[antihero-writings]

His Butler Cemetery, Chapter 3: The Problem of the Nights

Fandom: Black Butler | Kuroshitsuji (manga)

Fic Summary: Four visits to the cemetery, each growing in emotional intensity, and spanning backwards in time. (Spoilers for the manga!!)

(I'll put the links to chapters 1 & 2 in a reblog!!)

Chapter Summary: “Young Master, Edward. If something you held most dear suddenly shattered one day...What would you do?"

"Dear, God. What a terrible ordeal you've tasked my sister with...."

Character Focus: Edward and Lizzie Midford

Notes: Eyyy remember this fic? The one I planned to finish in October 2018? Hehe...Yeah...

I never forgot about this fic... life just kinda got in the way and I moved on to other things. I have so many fics on my computer that I just can't seem to figure out how to finish, and this chapter was one of them. Lately I've been trying to go through some of them and either just slap an ending on them, or split them into multiple chapters so it's more manageable, haha. So I just picked a way to end it, even if I'm not entirely satisfied XD

I actually really really like Edward as a character, and was kind of inspired by the quote above to write this. I was excited to write for him for this fic, and really really liked this chapter, so I couldn't go without posting it at some point!!I hope people still like it, even though it's been so long...I'd deeply appreciate it if you could leave a comment to let me know!!

By the way, I am NOT caught up on the manga, so please don't spoil anything from the recent chapters for me!!

Chapter 3, the Problem of the Nights:

Edward never could win against her.

Father would laugh and say that the Midford women had always been strong, and it was no cause for shame.

Still, there’s something particularly humiliating about getting your ass kicked by a cute little girl….Especially when she’s your younger sister.

The world would coo over her: her pretty shoes, her curly blonde hair, her frilly dresses, and sigh in awe that someone so cute could be so skilled with the sword.

And, if he was perfectly honest, she was incredible. He would never deny that, never say the praise was undeserved. Often he was her biggest fan, her loudest cheerleader, and if anyone dare lay a finger on her, or say a single syllable of slander, they’d certainly have a sword to answer to.

And, he supposed, her proficiency was good for him too, in a way, because it pushed him to work harder.

But no matter how many days he spent waking up early to wave his sword at empty air, no matter how much mastery he had compared to his classmates, he could never catch up to her. Sometimes it felt like the race was rigged, and he wasn’t moving at all.

He applauded her, admired her.

But sometimes he would throw his sword into the wall and demand that it listen to him. That he, a thirteen-year-old boy could and should be better at swordplay, than a ten-year-old girl who decorated her world in pink plushies and bonnets.

When the other nobles chatted with Lizzie, and about Lizzie, and then turned to him to ask what he’d been doing, sure he had a story to top hers…

Sometimes he would hold his head high and boast of his accomplishments, and Lizzie would have only the loftiest of compliments to add.

But other times that question would ring through his head, and his tongue would fall limp in his mouth.

Because no matter how much he’d done, if he was the top of his class, he could never triumph Lizzie.

What have I done lately? Not much compared to Lizzie.

Mother was not the kind of person who would answer for you; unlike most mothers she wouldn’t boast of her children smallest accomplishments. In fact, in even their greatest endeavors she could find “room for improvement.” He wasn’t complaining: this too was a good thing; he would never be where he was now without that.

But sometimes he just wished she would just wrap her arms around him and say that she was proud of him.

There was Father at least, who was the softie of the family. Who would clap him on the back and tell Francis not to be so hard on him, that he’d done more than well. His eyes would shine as he promised he was a champion in his own right, as well as his eyes. And that helped. Still…

Still, he didn’t feel like much.

It wasn’t that he was bad at things, or dumb. He was quite smart, good at school, but he didn’t…excel.

The thing about Lizzie is that there were only a few things she practiced, but she excelled at them.

Jack of all trades, master of none, so they say.

And no one notices you unless you’re very good at something, or very bad at it.

So he faded into the background. Lizzie’s cheerleader. His parents’ son. And he told himself he was alright with that.

Beneath all those intermingling feelings of pride and jealousy was a question:

How could such a small girl hold so much fight inside her? How could those gentle eyes hold so much fire?

It didn’t make sense. She was supposed to be sweet, and gentle, and soft. So what was it that drove her to get the gold when he could only ever snag second place?

He got his answer when he met Ciel.

The twin boys, one of whom she was destined to marry—some day, after they had learned how to be gentlemen in a world of men who weren’t gentle.

Well he couldn’t approve of that without meeting him first.

The twins were…so small. Smaller even than Lizzie. Big blue eyes like stormy days.

One marched up to him and demanded who he was, and what he was doing there, and that his name was Ciel, and he was to be the Earl some day. The other, hid behind his father’s pant leg, and muttered his greeting from afar. And when Mother scolded Mr. Phantomhive to keep them in line, and comb their hair properly, even the bolder one shirked into the shadows.

He finally understood what Lizzie had that he didn’t:

Something to protect.

When he took up the sword, it was for the sake of the sword itself, and a name.

When she took it up, she did so for something more than the trade, the passed-down-name, the skill. The sword was a means, not an end. There was something—someone—she loved, or was learning to at least, and if that person were ever threatened, she didn’t want to stand on the sidelines and cry. She wanted to stand between him and danger and do everything in her power to keep the hurt at bay.

She didn’t care about being well-versed in the sword: she just cared about protecting him. The sword was simply how she’d do that. And, well, the irony of being something is that you’ll only be good at it when you’re looking beyond it.

And it was that, that passion, that idea that there was something beyond, that this was all in preparation for a war against anything that stood to harm him, that was why she excelled. Because he didn’t have anything calling him to it, besides the fact that the Midford’s had always been good at it. As long as he didn’t have a reason for it within himself, he would never excel.

So, from then on, he never complained, silently or aloud. From then on he was nothing more than her firmest supporter, and when people asked what he had done lately, expecting his story to top hers, he could be okay that he would never be better than her at some things.

And then, one snowy December, when they were putting their finishing touches on their Christmas tree, and competing to make the best cookies, someone arrived at their door to tell them they found Mr. and Mrs. Phantomhive in a pool of their own blood…and the twins…they didn’t find.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t immediately burst into a thousand shards of glass like he would have expected.

He would have liked it better that way. Because he could deal with that. Because he could do something, he could run up to her, hug her, kiss her, comfort her. Be the big brother.

No, the Midford women had always been strong, and she was no exception. She didn’t fall to pieces. She went into her room, put on a black dress and bonnet—(as was proper). And she went to the funeral, as all good little noblegirls should.

And all throughout the service, as they lay Rachel and Vincent to rest, beside two little graves they all knew were empty, as the vicar read from a Bible a passage about sheep, and finding your way home, he kept glancing at her, kept waiting to see the tears to stream down her face, for her to fall to her knees.

Her eyes were big, and blank, and full of almost-to-the-surface tears, yet she was sugar and spice and everything nice; the picture of an English noblewoman.

She went about her day, whole, composed, proper. And no one could have guessed that grief wasn’t another thing she excelled at.

But he’d never quite forget that night. The sound he heard, even through the passing years.

That night, after the funeral, after mother sent her off to bed with a few proud words, and father kissed her one to many times, after Edward grabbed her hand and asked “Are you sure you’re okay?” After she said “Yes, I’ll be fine.”—

He woke up to the sound of screaming.

He shot up in bed, wondering if he’d dreamed it, heart yammering, breath burning. He didn’t bother to light a candle, just stumbled out of bed, and ran down the halls, calling her name.

When he reached her room, she was sitting on the floor beside her bed in her little white nightdress, and tear tracks staining her face; in pieces. A perfect gold stain on the world.

She reached her hands weakly out to him as he knelt down before her, and wrapped her arms so tight around him that he thought she might break him too…and she cried into his nightshirt until she stained it. But he didn’t care.

Many little girls run to their parents in this situation. But he knew, if she had gone to their parents, mother would have told her there was no use crying, they weren’t coming back, and father would have doted on her, and she wanted neither…or rather, something in between. So she came to him.

This wasn’t the last time.

During the day she would go about her life as normal.

But every night she woke up. It was always somewhere between 14:00 and 16:00 he heard her screaming, calling the name of the sky. Either that, or he would hear a faint knock on his door, and see the face of a broken little girl in need of her big brother.

It became muscle memory for Edward to comfort her. To throw off his covers and run to his sister’s room, or he would pat the blankets beside him to say come here, and either way he’d wrap his arms around her tight, as if trying to wring the tears out of her, and she would sob until they burned rivers in his skin. He would brush his hands through her golden hair, whispering things in her ear like shh, and it’ll be okay, and singing old lullabies, all the while knowing knowing the quiet would come. And he would pray. Pray that things would be okay. Pray that the one who created the universe would grant some solace to this sweet little sheep.

He would pray, and the next day, with tears barely barred from his own cheeks, he would kick the wall, and demand why and how a merciful God could do this to someone like her. Why he would take good people from the world.

—(He would pray, and he thought one day he heard Him say They aren’t yours to keep.)—

Sometimes she asked if they could go to the cemetery in the morning. They would dress in their finest blacks, looking like ink blots on the world, onyx with gold filigree in the cracks. She would carry bouquets of flowers, the petals sifting off in the wind, and add them to those there, left by the miscellaneous others who cared for them…And she wouldn’t cry then, no. She wouldn’t cry until it was past the witching hour.

She didn’t give up. Didn’t stop living. For all intents and purposes she was the same as she’d always been…but something was missing when they crossed blades.

She woke up less and less as time went by. Eventually her visits to his room were stray nights in the grand scheme of things, and she didn’t cry so hard. Sometimes she’d just sit with him, or ask to play chess, or chat with him till the morning came.

And then one day, after the grief didn’t burn so badly in her chest—

Her fiancé came back without an eye, and with a pitch black butler.

He didn’t talk about what he’d gone through, or how he’d come back. He didn’t speak of that day his parents died. He didn’t mention how his brother died—he didn’t mention much of his brother at all.

He wasn’t that brazen, bold, grinning child they knew before. He was dark, and serious…and he never smiled.

And Edward was glad to have him back…yet from the start he couldn’t help but feel…uneasy. Like something was wrong. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. There were too many questions, too many gaps in information, and the darkness that seemed to flock to this boy now didn’t help.

And Edward, though Lizzie’s fire was only stronger since he came back, her skill even more unmatchable, was at last able to get a few good hits in sometimes.

He couldn’t believe he never saw it before, his reason beyond the sword, the task of carrying on a name... it was there from the beginning.

He knew who it was he had to protect.

[duhragonball]

[FIC] Luffa: The Legendary Super Saiyan (127/?)

Disclaimer: This story features characters and concepts based on Dragon Ball, which is a trademark of Bird Studio/Shueisha and Toei Animation.   This is an unauthorized work, and no profit is being made on this work by me. This story is copyright of me. Download if you like, but please don’t archive it without my permission. Don’t be shy.

Continuity Note: About 1000 years before the events of Dragon Ball Z.

[4 August 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

"Perfect. Absolutely perfect."

Treekul had spent the last several days laboring over a hot alembic, preparing a reagent at Rehval's instruction. Her lavender skin was dirty with soot and sweat. Her lips were dry and her eyes bleary from lack of sleep and water. Lowering herself to her knees, she laid the bottle containing her finished project at Rehval's feet, and waited for him to examine it for his appraisal.

"The war goes well, Treekul," he said, ignoring her reagent completely. "Luffa hasn't left Federation space for over four months now. I've bottled her in. It's perfect."

Treekul didn't particularly care about the war. She knew Rehval was waging one, and that he was using his cult followers as soldiers, but she wanted nothing to do with either. She had been brought to this place against her will, and Rehval refused to let her leave. It might have been simpler for him to kill her, but Rehval seemed to fancy the idea of grooming Treekul as an apprentice in the alchemical arts. This didn't interest her much either. Treekul was an alchemical historian, not a practitioner. She had only played along so far in the hopes that Rehval would let his guard down and give her an opportunity to escape.

And so, she didn't particularly care what he thought about the small bottle of golden liquid she had laid at his feet. All that mattered was that she had done as he asked, and that he would trust her a little more than ha had trusted her yesterday. So if he wanted to congratulate himself on his military adventures, Treekul would play along.

"Is that what this is about, boss?" she asked. "Bottling up the Super Saiyan? Because I don't see what good it does you. From what you've told me, everyone you've sent into Fed space has gotten killed. You can't keep this up forever."

"I don't need to contain Luffa forever," he said. "The point is that I've proven that it can be done at all. A day, a week, a month. The duration isn't as important as the precedent it sets. In my own way, I've shown the universe that I can overpower Luffa."

"Sorry, but I don't get it," Treekul said. "The way you talk about the war, it sounds like more of a stalemate than anything else."

"You lack vision, my disciple," Rehval said.

"Maybe, but I think my vision would be a lot clearer if I got some food and sleep," Treekul said. Wearily, she pointed up at the bottle. "It wasn't exactly easy making that stuff. I don't even know what it's for."

"Ah, how inconsiderate of me," Rehval said. He clapped his hands, and a pair of Saiyan men entered the room and stood at attention. Rehval pointed at Treekul like she was an dead animal he wanted removed from his presence.

"Priestess Treekul has undergone a great trial," he told them. "You will attend to her needs, and escort her back here in six hours."

"Twelve would be better," Treekul yawned, rubbing her eyes for effect.

"Six will have to do," he replied with an unctuous smile. "We still have much work to do, you and I."

Treekul sighed and went with the acolytes.

*******

Treekul wanted a shower, but the Jindan Cult seemed to prefer sponge baths. As a priestess, she had enough rank to at least keep the male acolytes out of the room during this, although they insisted on women taking over their duties in their absence. Treekul at least managed to talk them down to merely standing by while she handled the sponge herself.

"Just seems like everything around here is designed to humiliate a person," Treekul mumbled as she squeezed the sponge into a pot before drawing up clean water from another.

"Sure!" said one of the Saiyan women. "It's like the Thrice-Blessed always says. You gotta reduce an ore down to get at the true essence."

"Oh, I get it now," the other woman said. "For a minute there, I thought you were displeased with us, Priestess, and that was why you wouldn't let us help you. But making us stand around and watch is even more degrading than having us wash you off!"

"I'm not making you watch," Treekul grumbled. "As far as I'm concerned you two can go wander off and do something else, or at least turn around."

"Sorry, your grace," one of them said. "We have standing orders to see that no one harms you."

"Yeah, there's still some Saiyans here who haven't exactly... gotten with the program, you know?" the other one explained. "And if one of them lashed out in frustration, an alien like you might be hurt."

"Wonderful," Treekul said. "So where's Maro and Kocho? They're my usual babysitters, not those two men you replaced."

"I don't know, your grace," the first one said. "We normally serve the male priests, so we don't spend a lot of time with the acolytes who serve the women."

Treekul kept her head down so they wouldn't notice her frustration. She had talked Maro into escorting her to the shipyard. He thought she was only interested in meeting the technicians who maintained it, when her true motive was to gather information to plan an escape. But their schedules never seemed to line up, and then she stopped seeing him altogether. This was probably a simple duty rotation, but she didn't know enough about the cultist's work assignments to be certain, and she was afraid that it might be conspicuous if she asked too many questions about it. She could probably find another cultist willing to show her the shipyard, but that might also attract attention.

So she took a different tack, and chatted with the women about the compound's water supply. All she had seen of the cult was a series of natural and manmade caverns, connected by tunnels that were carved out of solid rock. Treekul had never seen the surface of the planet, but from they told her, it was an uninhabited wilderness. Work details were occasionally sent topside to gather fresh water from polar glaciers. So even if Treekul made it out of the compound, there wouldn't be a city of helpful natives to look for.

"Maro told me the skies were beautiful at night," Treekul lied. "Where I come from, there's too much light pollution to see the stars."

"I've never been outside," one of the acolytes said. "But I know there's no stars out there. Someone told me there's cloud cover over the whole atmosphere."

Foiled again. Treekul looked down and pretended to be very interested in scrubbing her left knee. She had no idea where Nagaoka even was in relation to the rest of the galaxy. The stars in the sky might have given her some clues, but now even those were denied to her. It was beginning to look like everything depended on getting herself a ship, and that all hinged on finding Maro.

*******

[4 August, 233 Before Age. Zenj I.]

Maro was his name. Zatte knew this because he wouldn't shut up about it, and she could hear his chatter over the communicator in her ear. All of the Jindan cultists were eager to prove themselves in battle, but that eagerness made them careless. Two miles away from the battlefield, Zatte watched Maro through the telescopic sight of her plasma rifle, and when she was sure that he was standing still, she opened fire.

Her ability to manipulate energy had a number of applications, but for combat, she preferred to bend light around herself as a nearly perfect camouflage. For this shot, she dropped that invisibility field, allowing her to focus her power on guiding her ammunition to the target. It was a difficult technique, one she was still struggling to master, but it allowed her to strike from greater distances. And it worked. She saw Maro fall through the scope, heard his blustery talk cut off in mid-sentence, and sensed his ki energy vanish in an instant.

Luffa was hurting. These groups of Jindan raiders were no match for her, but each one managed to get a few licks in, and she had been fighting them on planet after planet for weeks. Dr. Topsas had developed mycotherapy techniques to heal her quickly, but it still took a few days for that to work, and once it was done, Luffa would have to return to the grind. There seemed to be no end to the Jindan attacks on Federation territory, and no way to take the fight to them.

Luffa probably should have undergone mycotherapy after the last battle, but she wanted to take care of the cultists in the Zenj System first. And on paper, it was probably worth it. She was more than holding her own against the cultists, but Zatte could tell that Luffa's moves were sluggish and pained compared to her usual self. Normally, Zatte never even got a chance to fire her rifle in these battles. Luffa made a game of trying to defeat the enemy before Zatte could get off a shot. This time, Zatte had made five kills, and lining up for a sixth.

It was gratifying to assist Luffa this much, but it was troubling to know that she needed this much help. To a casual observer, the Legendary Super Saiyan would have seemed as invincible as ever. She was a gleaming yellow blur, dodging and deflecting the cultists's attacks, and countering their numbers with overwelming force. But Zatte could hear Luffa's grunts and stifled groans through the communications earpiece. She could sense that Luffa's power wasn't quite as high as usual. And she had seen her various injuries back on their ship.

It reminded Zatte of Luffa's defeat against the Tikosi. As horrific as that day was, Zatte kept reminding herself that it directly resulted in Luffa's ascension, and all of the good that came with it. Luffa was destined to prevail. Providence would see to that. All Zatte had to do was hold on tight and help Luffa along until her purpose was fulfilled.

She noticed one of the Saiyan cultists had broken off from the group. They knew there was a shooter, and this one was trying to track Zatte down. "Good luck," were the words she mouthed to herself. A ballistics team with advanced equipment might have been able to follow the path of her plasma bursts back to the source, but all this man had were his senses. Zatte doubted that even a Saiyan could pick up her scent from two miles downwind, and she had cloaked herself completely from ki senses and visible light. Even if he fired an energy blast in her general direction, it would have to be such a wide dispersal that she was certain she could deflect the worst of it. He'd just leave himself wide open for Luffa.

Take your best shot, she thought as she lined him up in her scope. He seemed to be taking his time, moving erratically through the air to avoid her fire while he prepared himself. And as Zatte waited for him, she noticed something.

It was a Zenjin ki signature, one so faint that she hadn't even noticed it until now. This part of the city was supposed to have been evacuated, but someone had stayed behind. Moving carefully, Zatte looked up from the broken wall she had been using for cover. Less than a hundred yards away, she spotted a child. A little boy, she thought. She had trouble telling when it came to Zenjins. Something about their antennae, and the patterns on the wings that hung from their backs like capes.

He was dressed in an imitation of Zenjin military garb, and seemed to be watching the battle through a pair of telescopic goggles. He reminded her of herself as a child, always playing soldier.

This was bad. If the Saiyan had sensed his life energy, the he might concentrate his attack in this direction. Zatte might still survive, but the boy would definitely not. Even if she managed to line up a shot and take out the Saiyan first, one of the others might pick up where he left off. And Luffa's hands were full at the moment.

There was only one choice. The Dorlun survival ethic placed self-preservation above all else. Luffa was xan-nil'Dor, chosen by Providence, so that made dying for Luffa a rare exception. To forsake that sacred duty for a child she didn't even know wasn't just a bad idea. It was heretical, a betrayal of everything the Dorluns believed.

Zatte leaped out from her cover and ran as fast as she could to reach the boy. Thanks to Luffa's training, she was able to cross the distance in only a few seconds, but using her top speed also meant that she had to drop her invisibility field. The Saiyan spotted her immediately.

"Who--?" the boy started to ask as Zatte snatched him up in her arms. She kept moving, slowing down only enough to restore her cloaking effect around them both.

"I'm Luffa's shadow," Zatte said between breaths. The situation was bad enough without telling him her name. She was zealous enough to bend and twist the survival ethic, but not that far. There were other Dorluns out there, she hoped, and there was no reason to tell this boy of their existence. Not that he was likely to threaten her people, but there was still the principle of the thing.

"I can't see!" the boy gasped.

"I made us invisible," Zatte said. Each Dorlun had a unique ability, and hers allowed her to bend light rays around herself. Now that she was close enough to him, she could bend the light around the child too, but she couldn't share her ability to see through the cloaking effect. To him, it looked like the whole world had gone dark. She wanted to explain this to him, to assure him that he was safer now that she could use her powers to protect him, but before she could speak, she was knocked off her feet by an explosion.

The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, still clutching the child in her arms, and looking up at the Saiyan who had been searching for her.

"Well what do we have here?" he asked with a triumphant sneer. "I always knew the Super Saiyan was an alien trick, and here I find an alien supporting Luffa on the battlefield. Let me guess: she's really an android, and your job is to shoot anyone who gets close enough to see through her holographic effects."

"It's going to be all right," Zatte said to the boy. "You're safe as long as you stay close to me." From the way he trembled, she didn't think he believed her, but she wanted to say it anyway.

"Yeah," the Saiyan said. "That explains how she seemed to move so quickly. It's that invisibility effect you use. You make your puppet disappear and reappear, or even project illusions of her to throw us off-balance." He took a step back from her and pointed his short spear at her. "You're quite the little witch, aren't you, One-Eye? Better keep my distance, eh? I bet if I came any closer you'd use some other secret weapon on me."

He was right. In a pinch, Zatte could use her ability to burst blood vessels, but that trick only worked in close quarters. She had dropped her rifle when she ran to get the boy, and her speed and invisibility were useless with him standing right in front of her.

"You can't kill me," Zatte said, her left eye opening wide with conviction. "You'd be better off running away, or begging for mercy."

"Is that right?" he chuckled. The tip of his spear began to glow pale blue as he prepared his attack. "And why is th--?"

He suddenly noticed an intense increase in ki on the battlefield. Zatte felt it too, felt his comrades all scatter as golden balls of fire came streaking out towards them. Zatte had used her abilities to cloud the Saiyan's senses, so that he didn't know what was going on until just now, when it was too late. He tried to dodge the blast that now approached him, but it struck anyway, and when the light faded and the smoke cleared, he looked like he could barely stand. His clothes and hair were singed beyond recognition, and his skin was covered in burns and scorchmarks.

"I'm with her to the end," Zatte said, although she doubted that he could still hear her. "She and I will die together, so you'll never kill me unless I'm by her side."

He still had enough in him to step forward, no longer caring about any secret weapon Zatte might have. As he raised his spear, he suddenly stopped, and looked down at his abdomen to find a fist that had impaled him from behind.

"That was a mistake," Luffa said so quietly that Zatte only heard it through her earpiece. The man tried to turn his spear on Luffa's bloody wrist, acting more on instinct than any sensible plan, but then a golden glow appeared on her arm, which spread out to envelop his entire body. He made a weak, anguished cry of pain, and then he disintegrated like burning guncotton, and leaving only Luffa where he once stood.

"Are you all right?" Luffa asked, sounding more fatigued than she probably meant to. There was blood on her black racerback and yellow pants, and Zatte knew at least some of it was Luffa's own.

Zatte released the child and rose to her feet. "I'm fine," she said. "What about--?"

"Let's... let's get back to the ship," she said, then turning to the boy: "You can find your own way home, right, soldier?"

He was so awestruck that he almost forgot to answer, and Luffa barely waited for him to nod. "Good. Let's go," she said.

*******

[4 August 233 Before Age. Nagaoka.]

Treekul expected her next lesson to be an evaluation of her last assignment. Instead, she entered Rehval's laboratory and found him dressed like he was going to an expensive restaurant instead of presiding over a cult.

"I'd like you to wear this instead," Rehval said. He held up a black dress and presented it to Treekul before she could even step towards him.

"I thought the robes were specially treated to protect us from chemical burns," Treekul asked as she reluctantly accepted Rehval's gift. It was one of the few things she appreciated about her 'apprenticeship'. Her priestess garment was little more than strips of red cloth haphazardly arranged into a dress, but he had to cover her in more modest protective equipment for the lab work.

"Oh, we won't be slaving over the retorts this time," he said with a laugh. "I thought I'd treat you to something special. A little reward for your hard work."

She waited for him to tell her where to change, and when he didn't she simply headed for the bathroom and put on the dress there. She recognized the style as Camelian fashion. The neckline was square and the hem was in a sawtooth pattern. What truly grabbed Treekul's attention was what was attached to the dress. The price tag was still hanging from the inside of the back, and it identified a particular clothing store as its point of origin. She removed it, but folded the tag in with her usual clothes so she could look at it later. With any luck, it would help her figure out where to go whenever she found a way off the planet.

Rehval put his arm around her waist and led her to a room she had never seen before. Gold bullion lay in piles on the floor. A statue of a woman holding a torch-- also gold-- stood on a pedestal along one of the walls. A scarlet cloth hung over the figure's shoulders. Several paintings adorned the walls, including portraits she recognized from her alchemical history textbooks. In the center of the room was a small-but-expensive-looking table, with dinner served for two. A bottle of wine in a gilded bucket of ice served as a centerpiece for the occasion.

"There's not much to see outside of the caverns," he explained. "So when I want to share my aesthetics with someone, I bring them here." He picked up a gold coin and examined it idly while Treekul took it all in. "It doesn't compare to the villa I once had on Pflaume II, but I decorated the place myself, so I suppose it's a bit more personal that way."

"Where did you get all this money?" Treekul asked. "Wait, dumb question. You're an alchemist. You transmuted an equal weight of lead, didn't you?"

"Cadmium, actually," Rehval said. "It's a similar technique, but I find the procedure more sentimental."

"Where would you even spend it?" Treekul asked. "Unless you give this stuff to your followers when they do missions off-world?"

He laughed. "You're such a utilitarian, Treekul. No wonder you like to keep your hair so short. It's nothing but dead cells to you, waste material to be disposed of. It probably never occurs to you that you might look ravishing with the right style. Although I have to admit, I do enjoy the contours of your head... Anyway, the coins, the gold, they're all for show. Once I learned to counterfeit my own cash, I realized how pointless finances really are. But it still looks pretty, and it impresses other people. A big wooden chest stuffed with gold coins has a romantic touch, don't you think? A bauble I can show off to demonstrate my power."

Treekul's gaze lingered on the chest for a while, and Rehval moved on to a large bookshelf along the wall.

"Have a look at this," Rehval said. He handed Treekul a book bound in old leather, and the smell of the pages was enough for her to estimate the age of it. As she flipped through the tome, Rehval stepped behind her and craned his head over her shoulder. Then he placed his hands on either side of her waist.

"What is this?" Treekul asked.

"You're the archaeologist," Rehval said. "You tell me. I thought you would be interested to ply your trade a bit."

She shrugged and examined several pages. "Encryption 40... No, this is 41," Treekul said a few minutes later. "This was definitely encoded by an alchemist. I'd say... five hundred years ago."

"A layman from that era would read that text and think it was nothing more than a cookbook," Rehval said. Treekul didn't like how close his lips were to her ear, but there wasn't anything she could do about it.

"It is a cookbook," Treekul said. She studied another page more closely, then checked the table of contents to see if the rest of the book covered any other topics. It did not. "The encryption is authentic. Only a student of the Topaz school could have coded this, but when you decode the recipes you just get... different recipes. But it's all food."

"Yes, I know," Rehval said. He gestured to the table somewhat haughtily. "I used it to prepare our dinner."

"Where did you get this?" Treekul asked.

"One of my flock retrieved it for me," Rehval said. "I sent him to the Percel Nebula as a trial of courage. I keep it here with my other collections."

"What's so important about a cookbook, boss?" Treekul asked. "Unless there's another layer of encryption to this, it barely qualifies as an antique."

"You miss the point," he said. "The book itself is nearly worthless. What matters is that I sent a man to find it for me, and he braved many dangers to come back with it. I suspected he wasn't entirely devoted to my cause, but once he handed this to me, I knew that no traitor would go to such lengths for me. From that moment on, I knew that he belonged to me, body and soul."

Treekul bit her lower lip at the sound of this. Then Rehval released her, and headed for the table.

"By the way, I examined your potion," he said. "The formulation was nearly flawless. You have a real talent for alchemy, Treekul. Next time I'll have to assign you a formula that's actually useful. But for now, it'll make a fine addition to my collection."

It was then that she noticed the vial on the shelf where the book had come from. It looked exactly the same as the one she had given to him six hours ago, though it was impossible for her to be absolutely sure.

"Oh, I thought you might want to know that I've assigned a different acolyte to see to your personal needs," Rehval said. "I had to send Mero to the front lines, and he was just killed on Zenj I this morning, so I'm afraid he won't be coming back."

She lowered her head and tightened her grip on the book. With her back turned, she was grateful that Rehval couldn't see the look on her face. He was using her, just as surely as he was using everyone else in this mad cult of his. She could play along and try to win his trust, but she would only be sinking herself deeper and deeper into his game. Did he know that she was trying to use Mero for her escape plan, or would he have sent Mero to die in any event?

No, the real question she needed to ask herself was whether any of it mattered at all. Rehval didn't seem to care what she did or how well she did it. He just wanted her here, like some housepet, or the coins he wouldn't spend, or the book he didn't need, or the potions that served no purpose. She had flattered herself by thinking she could resist him, but in reality there was nothing for her to resist. She was like a rodent in a maze. Even if she died trying to oppose him, he would just shrug his shoulders and find someone else to toy with.

That was why he left that tag on her dress. He wanted her to find it, to make her think that he had made a mistake, that there was some slight opening in her prison. It was just a game to him.

"Well then, come sit down and let's eat," he said. "I'd like to tell you more about my collection..."

With a sharp breath, Treekul turned to join him. For now, there was nothing else she could do.

NEXT: GUWAR

[pitubea1910]

You can’t fix everything

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader

Words: 4k

Warning: angst

Tags: @fuckthatfeeling

Request: requested by anon:

“Hi again, it’s the same anon of the Tony Stark x reader. I totally get why you turn it down, actually I was expecting it (but it worth the try😉) So, could you write instead a one shot with the same pairing, nothing precise in mind but angsty pleaaaaase ?😁😍”

Note: feedback is appreciated, specially if you’re tagged ;)

MASTERLIST

It had been a long rainy day in the British capital. The fifth day in a row that you got home completely soaked because it looked like you couldn’t remember to take your umbrella with you. The moment you walked into your apartment, next to Regent’s Park, you sent a quick text to Tony letting him know you just got home and proceed to take a hot shower. You knew you were on the brink of catching a cold, so you tried your best to keep yourself warm when you were indoors. Not an easy task when your long black hair was always damp.

You had gone to London almost two weeks ago for work. Your boss had sent you there hoping to close an important deal that would ensure a huge benefit for the company. At first, you had no idea why he would send you, when there were much better negotiators than you at the firm. Nevertheless, when you walked into Hoffman’s office for your meeting you knew the reason and it disgusted you.

Wilson Hoffman was the kind of business man who thought his money could save him from everything. Including a harassment lawsuit. The way he looked at your legs and your cleavage ever since you set a foot in his office was enough to know why you were there. Your boss wanted Mr. Hoffman to know what kind of people worked for him. And, by people, you meant women. Disgusting.

That evening, when you were back to the apartment you had rented, you called your boss. You didn’t even care about getting fired. You couldn’t believe he was literally using you as bait to close the deal. It was degrading, humiliating and you hated it and him for making you do it. Just like you assumed before calling him, it didn’t matter how offensive you thought it was. ‘I’m your boss, you’re my employee and you have a task to fulfil. I expect results by next week’, was all he said before he hung up.

Next call you made was to your boyfriend Tony, who had to stay in New York also for work. Of course, his work was different than yours: he had to complete reports, do a lot of paperwork and train with the team. You wished you could be an Avenger as well, but you were far from being a hero or having any special skill. When you told him what had happened, he immediately threatened with ending your boss’ career. Of course, you talked him out of it and managed to calm him down. Still, the next two weeks were a huge bump in your relationship and the text you found from him when you walked out of the shower was proof of it.

I don’t wanna talk to you. –T

You read the text twice with a frown, getting worried immediately. What could have happened? Was he okay? Probably it was just a bad day. Although it was strange. He always talked to you. It didn’t matter how awful a day was, he would always talk to you either to talk about it or to distract himself. He would never keep you out of it, which just made you worry even more.

After having an internal debate with yourself, you ended up dialling his number. Sometimes he needed a little push to start talking. Maybe it was one of those cases.

“What?” His cold voice said on the other side. You frowned and looked at the phone, wondering if you had called the wrong number. No. It was him.

“Tony? What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I don’t know. You tell me”, he said. Once again, you looked at the phone. Were you really talking to Tony?

“I tell you?” You half laughed. “What is it? Bad day?”

“Seriously?” He said. You were getting more and more confused. “How’s Hoffman?”

“Being an asshole, just like yesterday and the day before” you shrugged. “Where is this coming from?”

“Have you been with him until now?”

Finally, you were beginning to understand. You knew Tony had been jealous ever since you told him the real reason your boss had sent you there, but you thought you had made it crystal clear that you hated the situation as much as he did. Obviously, you were wrong.

“Yeah, that’s kind of my job here” you shrugged. “What is this about, Tony?” You sighed rubbing your forehead, knowing you were going to have to be the adult here.

“What is this about?” This time, he was the one almost laughing. “I don’t know. You’re on the other side of the fucking world, where your jackass boss has sent you to seduce another guy. One that, according to the research I’ve made, has had multiple harassment lawsuits. You have to spend the whole fucking day with that asshole and all I get from you is a good morning text in the fucking day?” He snapped.

“Babe, you know how busy I am” you frowned closing your eyes. “I know you don’t like this situation. Neither do I, but what can I do? This is my job”

“Quit” he simply said, making you roll your eyes.

“I can’t do that” you replied.

“You can’t quit your job but you can fuck an asshole just to close a stupid business deal?” He snapped. You opened your eyes, trying to comprehend what he had just said, what he had accused you of doing.

“Excuse me?” You said, hoping he would apologize.

“You heard me”, he said instead. “I hope it’s worth it, at least” he said cynically.

“I can’t believe you” you mumbled shaking your head. “You really think I’d do that? Even if I didn’t have you?”

“I don’t know (Y/N)”, he said. “All I know is that I have no fucking clue on what you’ve been doing all day”

“Working!”  You exclaimed, getting angrier by the second.

“Right” he laughed sarcastic.

“Okay, Tony, feel free to think whatever you want” you said. You weren’t willing to be insulted like that. Not by Tony Stark or anyone. “Whenever you come to your senses, you can call me. We’ll see if I’m willing to talk. Goodnight”

Before he could say anything, you hung up the phone and turned it off. You were furious, you felt insulted. How could he think something like that? You had been in a relationship for almost three years and he never had any reason not to trust you, you never gave him one, and now he came up with this? When he had been the one appearing on front covers of magazines every week with a different rumour he had to deny? No fucking way.

***

It had been a week since that last call and you hadn’t heard from Tony. At least not from himself, but just four days after that fight, you found photos online of the infamous Tony Stark partying and leaving one of the most exclusive clubs in New York not only wasted, but with a model on each arm. You tried to swallow the lump that was formed in your throat, but all you managed to do was cry yourself to sleep that night.

You couldn’t believe he had decided to throw a three-years-relationship out of the window out of unfounded jealousy. But he did. You even were naïve enough to believe he would try and reach out to you to tell you how sorry he was about everything, about the fight, the photos. He would probably say he wasn’t himself, he was hurt, and you would have ended up forgiving him. But those were just fantasies.

By the end of the fourth week after your departure from New York, you were back on a plane and you hadn’t heard from Tony. Bruce had texted you a couple of times, asking how you were and begging you not to trust those photos. But you just couldn’t ignore what you had seen. Plus, Bruce was one of Tony’s best friends, of course he would stand up for him.

It was almost midnight when you opened the door of your apartment in Broadway. You turned on the lights and left your case by the door before taking off your coat and scarf. You had changed the rainy London for the snowy New York. You preferred the latest. You kicked off your heels and unbuttoned the first two buttons of your blouse before heading to the kitchen, where you opened the fridge and took a bottle of white wine. Just like you liked to do, you filled a glass and sat on the counter facing the huge window that covered most of the kitchen and living room, facing Central Park. This sight always gave you the sense of peace you needed at the moment.

You didn’t know how many time you spent sitting on the counter, but when you jumped back down of it, the glass now empty, you felt your butt and the back of your thighs completely cold because of the marble of the counter. You walked to the phone where you had already seen the familiar red light letting you know you had messages in your machine. Three to be more precise. With a sigh, you pressed the button to hear them while you unzipped your skirt.

The first one was from your mum, from last night, reminding you your brother’s birthday next week. He had planned a family gathering in Chicago with his wife and the kids and had also invited Tony. You’d see about him. The second one was from your best friend Christine, from that morning, saying how hangover she was but she thought she had met the man of his dreams. Probably the third that month. You chuckled to yourself as you heard her rambling about how beautiful his green eyes were. The message ended with her telling you to call her asap. The third one was from that afternoon. It was the shortest one and you were shocked to hear Tony’s voice coming out of the machine.

“Call me when you get home, please”, was all he said.

You stared at the machine, waiting to hear something else, but all you heard was the beep signalling that there were no more messages.

What was that? Two weeks not knowing from each other and he know wanted that you called him after he had been an asshole? He should know better. You weren’t going to call him, nor text him. If he wanted something, he would have to call you or show up at your door. Otherwise, you weren’t going to make any efforts. Not anymore.

***

The last month had been a nightmare. At first, after he did some digging in Hoffman and found out that kind of man he was, he kept on having those flashes of you with him. It was driving him crazy. He would wait staring at the phone every day, waiting for a text or a call that let him know you were okay. The later those texts and calls were, the more jealous he got. What if that man was taking advantage of you and there was nothing you could do? Maybe you were even enjoying it.

Finally, he snapped. You two used to fight several times every week, but usually over stupid things that would be solved by the end of the day. You had never been without talking to each other for more than two hours, let alone two whole weeks. But it happened and he realised how much he needed you, how much he missed you, but the Stark ego was way too strong to let himself call you and apologize. Even when he knew he had been wrong all along. Instead of trying to behave and making it up for you, he did what he was best at: fucking it all up. Waking up to find those photos of him everywhere felt like a bullet through his stomach. There was no way you wouldn’t see those photos and, once you did, it would be over.

He had to call you. He knew it would be for the best, it was the only way to fix everything. But what was he supposed to say? He had messed it up. Big time. He even went by your apartment to check if you were back but the doorman said he hadn’t seen you. Even the team was mad at him for how he had behaved and they were right to be. He was a mess.

Finally, he decided to swallow his pride. Sort of. He wouldn’t dare to call to your personal phone, but calling to your apartment and talking to your machine would be different. The problem was that he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to talk to you over the phone, he wanted to see you. He wanted you to look at him and see that he was truly sorry. That it wasn’t all an act. So he just left a message telling you to call him when you got back. And then it was time to wait.

And so he did…

Two days after he still hadn’t heard from you. Were you still in London? When you left, you said it would be for a month. And the month was over already. You should be back. But why hadn’t you called him back?

“You’re an asshole, Tony”, Natasha told him one evening after training. “Why don’t you just grow some balls and call her? For real this time?”

“She won’t pick up” he replied simply.

“And what makes you think she will call you back if she has heard your message?” She asked.

Tony gulped and looked at the redheaded, who looked at him with a stubborn look on her face. Maybe she was right. Maybe you were too mad at him to even call him back. Maybe you were back, you had listened to his message and had deleted it without seconds thoughts. Maybe you were getting over him. The thought was like a punch in the stomach and a kick on his chest.

“What do you suggest, then? That I beg?” Tony tried to laugh. He never begged.

“If you have to” Natasha shrugged. “If you really love her, Stark, it is time that you swallow that damn pride and ego and go talk to her. Maybe she will shut the door on your face but at least you’d know she’s done with you”

“Do you always have to be so crude?” He frowned.

“Do you always have to be such a jerk?” She replied with a small smile.

***

Going back to the office had been a hell. Everybody knew you were Tony’s girlfriend –or ex-girlfriend, you weren’t really sure at the moment- and, of course, everyone had seen those photos that were published. Whispers were all around from the moment you stepped out of the elevator the first morning after your return. On the bright side, you had managed to close the deal you were sent to close, so your boss was all over the moon with your work. That didn’t stop you from tell him not to ever send you on such mission ever again. If he wanted to seduce someone, he could go himself.

“Good evening, Alfred”, you said as you walked into your building and smiled at the doorman. A mid age man with white hair and a kind smile. You wondered why he wasn’t retired, since he obviously had the age to do so, but he also seemed to love his job.

“Good evening, Mrs Jagger, how was your day?” He said with the same smile he had been sharing with her for the past six years.

“It was good, thank you”, you smiled back. “Did I receive anything?” You asked.

He turned around to check the mailboxes he had behind him and looked for your name. Of course, he didn’t have to look longer since he knew exactly where yours were. He took out a couple of letters –probably some bills- and a small package.

“Here it is”, he informed handing it to you. “Can you sign this, please?”

“Of course”, you signed the form that said that it was you who had took your mail and then put everything in your bag. “Thank you so much, Alfred. Have a good night”

“By the way, Mrs Jagger, you have a visitor”, he quickly informed. You frowned confused. “It was Mr Stark so I just let him go up”

You clenched your jaw and nodded before thanking him and making your way towards the elevator. You couldn’t blame Alfred for letting Tony go in. It had been a long time since you gave him a key to your apartment and Alfred knew who it was. Also it wasn’t the first time he would come home before you arrived from work, so it wasn’t strange for Alfred that the billionaire came out of nowhere.

As the elevator made its way towards the 20th floor, you started to think about what he had to say. You honestly expected him to apologize, but you also knew him and his pride. It wasn’t too likely to happen, which just made you wonder even more what he would say.

As you made your way to your apartment, fiddling with the keys, you felt yourself getting nervous. This had been the first time that you had spent so many time without talking to each other. Usually your fights would last a couple of hours. This one had been different and you both knew it.

“Hi”, he immediately said when you opened the door. He had been waiting by the window, probably looking down at the park, and had turned around the moment he heard the keys.

“Hey”, you replied.

You two looked at each other while you walked in, hanging your purse next to the door and leaving the keys inside its bowl. Just like you did every day, you kicked off your heels and walked into the living room not breaking eye contact.

“What are you doing here?” You finally asked, not willing to spend more time than necessary with him.

“We need to talk”, he said. You nodded and walked towards the kitchen, walked around the aisle and opened the fridge to get some water.

“You can start” you shrugged after taking a sip from the bottle.

“You got nothing to say?” He frowned, not moving from where he was.

“You are the one who accused me of fucking someone else out of nowhere, Tony”, you replied as calmly as possible. “If you don’t trust me after all the years we’ve been together then I have nothing to say. You know the kind of person I am and you know I would never do what you accused me of”, you shrugged. “And there are no photos of me drunkenly stumbling out of a club with a woman on each arm” you pointed out as well to make clear that you had seen those.

“I was wrong” he said, like that would forgive everything.

“I know you were”, you sadly laughed. “When did you exactly realise that? Last night? This morning?”

“A long time ago”, he mumbled now looking at his feet. You nodded to yourself.

“So let me get this straight” you said putting the bottle on the counter. “We had a huge fight because you thought I was fucking someone else after I didn’t text you or call you, right?” You asked. He nodded, even though he didn’t need to. “And then, soon after, you realised you were wrong. Instead of calling me and trying to fix this, you decided to…not calling nor texting while I was on the other side of the world trying to close a stupid business deal with that man?”

“I know I should’ve-“ he tried to defend himself, but you weren’t done talking. He was going to listen to you.

“Yes, Tony, you should’ve called and apologize for those things you said to me out of nowhere” you nodded. “How many times have I forgave you after rumours came out? How many times have I chosen not to listen to the gossip, the news and everything? It was a weekly thing, Tony, but I trusted you and I knew you wouldn’t do that to me, even though I had reasons to think the opposite”, he gulped. “But then you accused me of having sex with Hoffman just because I didn’t text you? You’re fucked, Tony”, you laughed. “How can I trust you when, instead of trying to fix everything, you go out and party your brains out and do whatever I don’t know what, with whoever I don’t want to know?”

“I did nothing”, he quickly said.

“And I’m supposed to trust you why? Because you say so?” You asked. You knew he wanted to say yes, or nod, but it would be too hypocritical. He just looked away. “Not this time, Tony” you shook your head. “You’ll have to do way better to try and fix this.”

“Wait”, he said and looked back at you. “Are we breaking up?”

“Do you really think we were still together after not talking to each other for two weeks and after those photos came out and after you accused me of cheating without reason?” You asked.

You would be lying if you said you had everything thought. You didn’t. Everything just came out looking at him, but you felt much better after saying them. Maybe you weren’t sure about breaking the relationship, but you knew you needed more time for yourself and reconsider everything. Trust was everything for you and you didn’t know if you could trust each other.

Tony felt like a hole had been opened beneath his feet as you said those last words. He really thought this was just a fight. A big one, but he thought you two would work it out like you always did. And now he felt lost. Tony Stark was completely speechless for the first time in a very long time.

“(Y/N) we can… we can work this out” he said walking over to the counter to be closer to you. But you lifted a hand, making him stop. “Okay, you need space. I can give it to you, but please…” he begged. “Don’t end this” he said. “This is the only thing stable in my life. I don’t know how… how to function without you” he shook his head.

“Stop” you said looking down at the dark marble and took a deep breath. “Tony, you don’t get to fix everything you break” you mumbled. “Sometimes… you have to let it go, let it cool down and…” you shrugged. “Who knows”

“So you need a break?” He asked.

“Tony, we’re done” you said looking up. “I don’t know how I’ll feel in a month, but right now I can’t be with you. Not when you don’t trust me and I don’t know if I trust you enough” you said with honesty.

“Nothing happened with those women!” He exclaimed.

“What about the next time we have a fight and you decide to go out?” You asked. Once again, he had no answer. “Exactly”, you nodded. “Just… give it time. We’ll see what happens in the future” you shrugged.

“Please…” he mumbled.

“Go, Tony” you said closing your eyes, since it was getting harder and harder to kick him out of your apartment and your life. “Please”, you added when he didn’t move.

Tony looked at you, realising that maybe he really couldn’t fix this problem. Maybe he really ruined it, the best thing that ever happened to him. He should’ve called you, he should’ve texted you, he should’ve swallowed his pride and put his ego aside. Instead, all he did was pushing you away until you were out of reach.

He nodded and, slowly, started making his way to the door. Maybe you would change your mind. But when he opened the door to let himself out, he hadn’t heard your voice. Silence was all around him and he didn’t know if he would ever hear anything ever again.