#ambiguous character death

[ffxvreversebang2022]

Today’s team: @thingscalledpotato & @every-lemon

All the Stars are Laughing was written for the FFXV Reverse Bang 2022 and can be found on AO3 here.

Rating: General

Major Character Death

Description: Captain Noctis is fixing the place he crash landed in the desert when young Prince Ardyn appears. Scourge weeds grow thick on the Little Prince's star, and he's ventured far to find a way to save his lovely Sylleblossom. The journey home won't be simple for either of them.

[aethes-bookshelf]

empty eyes, emptier words || astarion/tav/halsin

I've been stuck in BG3 hell since the game first came out. I'm still in there. I don't think I'll be coming out anytime soon, so have this piece of angst. If everything goes well, maybe I'll deliver on some devil fucking (ft. Haarlep & Raphael). But that's a big IF.

For now, take this. I wrote it in class. I was supposed to be paying attention, but I made this instead. Bon appétit.

Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort, tav straight up fucking dies

Pairing: astarion/tav/halsin

Wordcount: 1.4k

Summary: Orin knew exactly who to take to hit those troublesome True Souls the hardest. Their leader was the obvious choice - a chicken can only run so far if you take its head. Tav would make a beautiful sacrifice for Bhaal.

And if anyone came to try and get them back? All the better. Blood will flow either way. And what a sight it'll be.

[I made some changes to Orin's dagger. Now, whoever gets killed with it can't be resurrected. Or can they?]

ao3 link || part 2

Orin turned around at the first sound of footsteps. She brandished her dagger, her Netherstone embedded in the cold metal of the weapon. She was standing on the sacrificial altar at the center of the temple. Beneath her laid Tav, arms and legs bound. They were unconscious, fresh and old wounds littering their body. The little clothing they wore stuck to their skin, wet with blood. The smell of it hit Astarion like a club to the head. He hated how his mouth instantly watered, hunger rearing its ugly head.

‘I don’t smell Gortash’s rot on you,’ Orin said, crouching by Tav’s body. She dragged her blade across their skin. Fresh blood bubbled to the surface. Tav didn’t even flinch. They were barely breathing.

‘Did it think it could trick me? Did it think it could save?’ Orin taunted, her dagger stopping right over Tav’s heart. Astarion could hear its faint beating.

The heat of Karlach’s anger burned the air around her. ‘I hope you’re not about to do what I think you are. For your sake.’ Her massive ax sliced through the pungent air, tail swishing behind her.

Halsin didn’t speak, but his eyes glowed bright gold. His hands were clenched at his sides, anger barely restrained.

Astarion unsheathed his own daggers, their weight a fleeting comfort. ‘You lay one more finger on them, I’ll rip your throat out,’ he said. A growl ripped itself out of his throat.

‘Your teeth aren’t sharp enough to pierce my throat,’ said Orin. The tip of her dagger sank into Tav’s chest. ‘Not enough to slice my flesh, taste my blood.’ She drew back her hand, dagger rising into the air. A speck of blood followed its tip.

Astarion clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt. His upper lip drew back; he bared his fangs on instinct.

‘Even if you kill them, all you’ll achieve is pissing us off,’ said Karlach. Her words were confident, but her voice betrayed her; she was afraid. ‘We’ll just bring them back so they can spit on your fucking corpse after I split you in half, you crazy bitch.’

None of them liked the way Orin laughed at those words. ‘“Bring them back”? Not here. Not with Bhall’s blessing.’ She grinned, showing all of her teeth. ‘They’ll be the first sacrifice of the night. Then I’ll spill your blood and guts on their flayed skin.’ A shiver ran through Orin as she brought her dagger down.

The blade sank into Tav’s chest with a sickening squelch. They gasped, body going rigid for just a second. Then they went limp.

Astarion’s scream rang through the still air as Karlach charged the altar.

* * *

Astarion knelt down by the bodies laying on the stairs and started rifling through their pockets.

‘What the hell are you doing, Fangs?’ asked Karlach. Tears were evaporating off of her face, her infernal engine still hot with her battle rage. The ashes of a used scroll of revivify were cooling at her feet. The spell's energy had already ran out and Tav was still limp, their body slowly going rigid.

‘I’m looting, can’t you tell?’ Astarion’s voice was snappy, but even. ‘Tav’s usually the one to take everything that’s not nailed down but they obviously can’t do it this time, can they?’

He leaned down over a pile of smoking bones and burned blood that used to be a man once. ‘They always find something for us in these piles of trash, I thought it’d be… nice to do the same for them for once.’ He managed to fish out a rusted dagger from underneath the pile.

‘Astarion,’ said Karlach, voice breaking.

‘Besides, their favorite tea ran out a few days ago, so we’re gonna need stuff to sell.’ He leaned over the pile of Orin’s gore next. ‘Tav spent most of our money on some new armor for you and Gale, and that tea’s expensive, you know?’ He took Orin’s dagger. His hands were shaking.

‘Astarion,’ Karlach tried again. The low hiss of evaporating tears got louder.

‘They deserve to drink something good when they come back, no?’ Astarion stood up straight. His grip on Orin’s dagger was so tight his chuckles went paper-white.

‘Astarion,’ Karlach’s voice was low and thick with tears, ‘I don’t think they’re coming ba—’

‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence.’ Astarion was quick to turn around and point the dagger at Karlach’s chest. ‘Don’t you dare finish that sentence.’ For the first time since they arrived at the temple, his voice broke. ‘Of course they’re coming back. Why do we keep that creepy skeleton around if not to bring us back in times like these?’

His eyes watered. ‘They’re coming back. They have to. They must. Even if that means I’ll have to drag them out of the Hells myself.’

Astarion’s eyes wandered to Tav’s broken corpse. They were still laying on the altar, the stone of it slick with their drying blood. He couldn’t see their face; Halsin’s shoulders were obstructing the view. Astarion could swear the druid was shaking too.

‘Halsin, they’re coming back, right? They’re coming back!’ If Astarion’s heart still beat, it’d be fluttering with rising panic.

Halsin’s voice was low and quiet. He kept stroking Tav’s matted hair as he spoke. ‘I’m not sure they will, my friend.’

Those words punched all air out of Astarion’s lungs. Fury replaced it.

‘Shut up!’ he screamed; his voice echoed in the empty temple. ‘We were supposed to have decades together. Decades! They can’t leave yet. They promised!’ His knees buckled. With every word he spoke, he sank lower and lower, until his knees hit the cold stone beneath him. ‘They promised we’d… We were supposed to find a way for me to be in the sun again,’ his voice faded into silence.

Astarion couldn’t speak anymore. His chest clenched and his eyes burned. He wanted to scream. He wanted to rage and kill, and tear. He wanted to bring Orin back just so he could send her to her blasted god all over again. He wanted to hear Tav laugh at one of his stupid jokes.

His throat was clenched so tight not even sobs could escape it. He was vaguely aware Halsin’s shoulders were openly shaking with his grief, but he couldn’t bring himself to comfort the druid. That would mean looking at Tav’s empty eyes. That would make this entire nightmare real. So very, terribly real.

Astarion’s grip on Orin’s dagger loosened; the weapon fell with a loud cling, its Netherstone slipping out of it. The stone shone dimly in the light of the torches.

All of it for these stones. All this death, pain and misery for these three pieces of one whole. Tav died for it.

Meaningless, meaningless, meaningless. All of it. All of it!

Astarion’s mind was reeling; jumping from pain to denial to anger to desperation. He didn’t know what to do. Tav would know, he thought, and a fresh wave of tears fell.

Karlach laid a hand on his shoulder. She’d cooled down enough for her touch to be only slightly painful on his corpse-cold skin. ‘We have to go, Fangs. Halsin.’ Her grip on Astarion tightened when he shook his head. ‘We have to go,’ she repeated, harsher this time. Barely restrained emotion shook her voice. ‘If they even can come back, we need to get them back to camp as soon as possible.’

Halsin took a deep breath and wiped his face with the back of his hand. ‘Karlach’s right,’ he said and stood up. Tav was limp as he cradled them close to his chest. To his heart. ‘If we stay here too long, we’ll certainly lose them for good.’ The druid squared his shoulders and turned to face the other two.

Astarion went rigid at the sight of Tav’s hand, limply hanging off the side of their body. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at their face.

‘Astarion,’ Halsin’s voice was soft, ‘I understand your pain. They are in my heart as they are in yours. But we mustn't waste time lest we lose them forever. If there is a chance to save them, we must act now.’

Astarion swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. The chill of death had never been more present in his bones. He nodded, silent, and picked up Orin’s dagger and Netherstone.

‘Let’s go,’ said Karlach, new-found determination on her face. ‘We still have to buy their favorite tea after this, right? How’d you put it, Fangs? “They deserve to drink something good after this”?’

Astarion nodded. He didn’t trust his voice not to break if he spoke. There was an empty, far-away look in his eyes.

As they left the temple of Bhaal, the sweet stench of blood followed them out.

[radio-writes]

It's about time for your blood to spill + you should sleep + we were soulmates

(Congrats on the 300 followers btw!)

Now, The Echoes Interlace

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Blood, physical injuries to reader, ambiguous major character death(s), angst

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

"You always have looked so pretty in red, Al." You hummed as your combed your fingers through his soft hair. You pressed your fingers against his scalp, lightly massaging against his antlers.

The light static that varied in volume crackled. "Fuck you." Alastor managed to say as his head laid on your lap.

His smile was strained—present, of course, as it always was, but strained. The trail of blood from his mouth dripped from his chin, joining the warm pool under both your bodies.

"Rude." You scolded him. Your breath coming out in a hiss as Alastor dug his claws into an open wound on your leg. 

"Must you continue to hurt me? You're already dying." You glared down at him as you would at a misbehaving pet.

You leaned forward, easily removing his hand from your body without much of a struggle. He only had so much strength left after all. 

"Fuck you." Alastor repeated, static morphing his voice this time around.

"Yes, well, I get that you're mad, Al." You continued your casual tone. "But it was about time for your blood to spill, don't you think?"

You grunted as you leaned your back against the cold wall again, sighing as the tension on the wound across your stomach was lessened.

"F—"

"Fuck me, yes yes." You cut him off. "Save your strength or you'll die out faster."

Alastor didn't mean to listen to you, but he just felt far too tired to argue otherwise.

Your hand returned to his head, damp with sweat and blood, and yet somehow still so adorably fluffy. Leave it to this guy to still look so presentable even when dying a second time around.

Your fingers scratched at one of his tufts of hair, causing it to give a slight, involuntary twitch.

"So they are ears." Your voice was soft. "I always assumed but was never really sure, you know?"

Alastor didn't respond. His red eyes continued to glare at you.

He adjusted his hands to lay over his chest. A weak attempt to slow his loss of blood. He didn't even have enough energy to press on it anymore.

"Hey, Al." You wheezed, breath slightly knocked from you. You had adjusted the way you sat so the demon could lay more comfortably on your lap. "Do you remember how we first met?"

"You told me that cheesy pick up line. How'd it go again?" Your hand paused as you tried to remember. 

A rather dashing demon slid up to you at the bar; charming, sharp smile, on full display. You've seen all sorts of sinners by now, but none so happy while rotting in hell.

You expected him to sell you drugs, or quite bluntly tell you to sleep with him. What you got instead was a very corny: 

"You must be buried treasure, because I am absolutely digging you." You let out a tired laugh, hand continuing to pet Alastor once more.

The sound of static crackling again was the only response you got. You think it meant fuck you. 

"Well you must be treasure as well, Al. Because it seems I'll be burying you tonight." You met Alastor's harsh glare with a soft smile.

"What? That absolutely was funny, you can't deny it." You defended yourself.

Alastor didn't think him dying was funny at all, actually, but he didn't exactly have any energy left to say that.

His smile was a tight, close lipped one, but you see his lips try to curl just a tiny bit in what you assumed would have been a snarl. 

"You always thought I was hilarious." Your own hand moving over the gash on your neck as if it was a mild inconvenience. You titled your head as you looked down at the demon on your lap. "What changed?"

Alastor merely glared at you.

Your eyes traveled down his body, staying on the deep wound oozing across his chest.

"That's not fair, Al." You laughed tiredly, eyes staying on his bloodied torso. "I always thought you were incredibly handsome—sinfully so really. But your attempts at killing me never changed that."

"Fuck you." The static over his voice was gone now. His tone was as spiteful, angry, and condescending as always, but much, much weaker.

Your eyes drifted back to his face. His smile was still present, but his lovely red eyes seemed more unfocused than they were a second ago.

Your hand in his hair stopped their movements. For a moment, the world was still as you wondered if your company had already left.

But it was merely for a heart beat, as a ragged breath from his lips snapped time back into motion.

You pealed your fingers from his hair, bringing them down to softly rub your knuckles down his cheek. He doesn't so much as flinch, but, you knew he would have had he been able to.

"Hey, old pal." You cooed softly. "You should sleep, you look so very tired."

His fingers on his chest twitched once, but you didn't get much of a reply anymore after that.

You sighed heavily. Your hands rested on his face as you leaned your head against the wall behind you, face craned upwards to the red sky that covered all of Hell.

Your own eyes closed, realizing just how tired and weary you yourself were.

Still, you were never one to be silent around a friend—or foe. It had always been unclear to you when it came to Alastor.

"We were soulmates, wouldn't you say so, Al?" You continued softly. "But in a funnier way, I think, where we were always meant to destroy the other."

Alastor's skin felt as it always did beneath your fingers. The stench of blood heavy as it always was around him. You felt his familiar eerie presence by you, as you always did.

And yet, you were unsure if he actually was still there. You were quite conflicted about how you were supposed to feel about that, truth be told.

"Fuck you, old friend." You sighed, eyes remaining closed, smile tiredly stretching across your own lips.

[steviewashere]

Stay Away

Rating: Teen and Up CW: Implied Major Character Death, Ambiguous Ending, Canon Injuries/Gore Tags: Pre-Season 4, Season 4, Angst, Time Travel AU, Injured Steve Harrington, Traumatized Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug, Steve Harrington Saves Eddie Munson, Stubborn Eddie Munson, Confused Eddie Munson, Eddie Munson Lives, Plot Twist That I Can't Tag Because It Would Spoil The Plot, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Eddie Munson is a Sweetheart For @steddieangstyaugust Day 6 Prompt: "Who did this?"

⌛️—————⌛️ The last thing Eddie’s expecting on his Saturday night is to open the trailer’s front door to see Steve Harrington with a filthy face and even worse body. He’s standing like a weeping willow, hunched into himself, holding his own elbows. His usually styled hair is a stringy, wet mop atop his head—what must’ve resulted from the heavy rainstorm that just ended a few minutes ago. Considering his usual appearances, his outfit is out of the ordinary: grey pleated pants that look similar to sweats, bare feet that are equally as filthy as his face—possibly even more, that typical brown watch of his now with a cracked face, bandages around his middle that look more like t-shirt scraps, and a denim vest with pins and patches that are identical to the ones Eddie wears on his own—in fact, it honestly looks like his, which is impossible considering it’s on his dresser. There’s dirt caked around his hairline, lips, and cheeks. Red rash that spreads on the backs of his arms, just barely visible on the sides for Eddie to spot. And then there’s blood seeping through the scraps.

He’s unsettled, to say the least.

“Wha—Harrington? What in the actual fucking hell is happening right now? Who…Who did this?” He asks, gesturing vaguely at Steve’s outline. There’s something to say, too about his face. That it’s seemingly older. Aged in all these terrible ways—not smile lines and cute crows feet. No, Steve Harrington has dark shadows under his eyes and etches between his eyebrows from furrowing them, a tight bite in his jaw, and impossible to place little white scars. Nothing of what Eddie knows of pristine, well-off, douchebag Steve Harrington from the Family Video counter.

They don’t run in circles close to each other at all. But Eddie’s heard rumors. Heard about Steve’s asshole, overbearing parents—the lengths they take for that perfect “All-American” image of the modern family. About Steve and his prissy habits: positioning strands of hair with spray and gel in the men’s restrooms around town, reapplying sprits of cologne whenever he so damn well feels like it, and plucking every little fiber off his clothes.

The Steve Harrington in front of him looks like he was dished and served by fucking Mohammad Ali. He stands with a frightful panic in his limbs that typically belongs to somebody like Wayne, a veteran soldier. And…god, he absolutely reeks. Like sewer and metal and rot.

Rot.

Eddie takes a step closer, the screen door smacking his backside, but stops abruptly when Steve flinches and his eyes gain a level of clarity that Eddie only sees in psychedelics users. He stops. Gauging. Waiting.

“Eddie,” Steve breathes. “Eddie,” he says like he’s relieved.

He leans his weight away from Steve, putting it all on his back foot. Eyes wide and surely full of apprehension. Why would somebody like Steve Harrington be relieved to see him? “That’s me,” Eddie mutters skeptically, “what do you want? Who did this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve brushes off. He takes a confident step forward, bypassing any movement Eddie makes to block him from entering the trailer. He’s standing in the center of the living room by the time Eddie actually turns around in the doorway and comes back inside. Eyes roaming around the entire room. Catching on the Garfield mug and the empty carpet below his disgusting feet and the huge water leak stain on the ceiling. Then, he looks back at Eddie. Wide eyes. Tears glazing them. A slight trembling working through all his limbs—not like he’s cold, more like a crash of adrenaline.

At a closer look, at a better look in the glow of light from the living space, Steve’s exhausted.

“You sell ketamine,” Steve states, “and you…you keep it here. In the trailer.”

“How do you”—

“This Friday, March 21st, you’re going to conduct a drug deal with the blonde girl on the cheer squad, Chrissy Cunningham. She…she meets you at your picnic table in the woods. And she’s jumpy, a very unusual thing for her. She’s startled by your presence and you’re going to be skeptical about her state of mind. You’re apprehensive about selling to her, but she insists that she’s okay. You”—

Eddie takes a striding step towards Steve, meeting him toe to socked feet on the carpet. His face hot and his eyebrows heavy above his eyes. He holds out a hand to stop Steve. “Are you fucking spying on me? What kind of prank is this? This isn’t fucking funny, man. Even coming from a clown like you.”

“I…I’m not messing around, man,” Steve quietly says. His voice takes on a timid quality. He holds onto his elbows tighter, fingernails clearly digging into his already fragile skin. The blood on his bandages is getting darker and messier, but he pays no mind to it. Eddie doesn’t really want to touch that topic either, even if he may have to help with whatever…butt ugly thing has happened.

A moment later, Steve takes a deep breath and continues, “She wanted weed from you. You weren’t sure why she’d associate with you, but you guys would fall into a quick and polite conversation. You invite her to a gig at the Hideout to watch you and the rest of Corroded Coffin play. But she…” Steve trails at that. Swallows hard, eyes going far away. His skin gaining a movie-made green tint.

“Woah,” Eddie murmurs, placing his hands carefully on Steve’s shoulders, dodging any exposed injuries he can see. He turns Steve around and begins to direct him towards the sofa—trying, with all his might, to ignore the Dio patch on the back of his vest. And to also ride-by the bright red marring on Steve’s arms, the blood prickling through the denim. He instead gingerly sits Steve down on one of the cushions, leaning him back to rest his head atop the back of the sofa. “Take it easy, Harrington. Don’t need you spilling your guts and passing out in my home.”

Steve closes his eyes and breathes out through his nose. Gives a quick, short nod. But he doesn’t completely relax into his position. Still holding his arms and rigid through the rest of his body.

Eddie swallows, and in a gentler tone, asks again, “Who did this? What are you doing here?”

“You won’t believe me,” Steve murmurs, “and I don’t want to tell you.”

“Well, I sorta want to know…considering you seem to know everything about my drug deal appointments. Did somebody set you up to this? Are there goonies waiting outside to fucking jump my bones?”

He shakes his head, damp hair sticking to the fabric of the couch. Sadly, he utters, “I’m trying to keep you safe. And I don’t have a lot of time. I just need you to hear me out, okay?”

Taking in that stillness to Steve’s whole body and the graveness in his tone, Eddie finally agrees. “Okay,” he says, “but for the record, if this is your way of making friends or whatever, you’re doing a piss poor job at it.”

Some of the tension in Steve’s shoulders melts away, a snort in response to what Eddie said. But then he forces himself to be serious again. Continuing in a terribly soft, weak voice, “She ends up wanting something stronger than what you have. Because she feels like she’s losing her mind. So you postpone the deal. You go to school. You finish the day. You have your Hellfire campaign—the curse of Vecna or whatever—with Dustin, Mike, Lucas’s little sister, Erica, Gareth, Jeff, and Freak. When you’re done, you drive Chrissy back here. You make her wait in the living room. You try and find where you put the ketamine.

“You find it in your bedroom. And when you come back from your room…” Steve visibly shudders at this point in his explanation. His chest seizes with his breath and he seems to swallow a golfball. Then, “She’s going to die in here. And you’re going to get scared and you’re going to run. Because you…you didn’t know what to do. So you get in your van and then you abandon it and then you stay in this boathouse…

“Long story short, you’re going to be wanted for murder. You’ll be on the run for several days. Before you eventually…You die.”

And the way Steve says that, of all things, finally sinks a stone in Eddie’s stomach. Something in that last sentence says it all.

Steve Harrington is not here for shits and giggles. He knows of something darker, stronger, and more evil than this world can comprehend. And this, in itself, is the warning of a life time. Because he knows. First hand.

“You know that…how do you know that?”

“There’s these creatures that fucking chew you up, like they did to me”—he states, while gesturing at himself—“but they get you worse. You run at them. You try and kill them. There’s too many. You die.

“I almost died, too,” he tacks on a second later. “But you’re going to die in Dustin’s arms. And he’s going to be so fucking distraught with you. And you don’t graduate high school, even though you kept claiming it was your year. And you don’t survive. You…Fuck. You’ve never survived.

“This is my last shot at stopping you. I’ve tried going to different iterations of you. Tried to get you to fucking slow your roll and look at the world in a bigger picture, but you always betray me—I mean, you always betray us. You always die. And I can’t let that happen.

“So here I am, before the storm.”

With that, Steve finally goes completely silent. Wheezing breaths through his nose, yes. But he melts into the couch. Eyes open and far away as they continue to eye that wretched water stain on the ceiling. There are tears ready to pour down his face. And sobs that threaten to crack from his still seizing chest. His cheeks are ruddy and still dirty, though a bit sunken and pasty. Like maybe it’s been a little while since he’s had a proper meal, proper sleep, a proper break.

And though this whole story sounds sort of like an excellent D&D campaign, Eddie knows it to be non-fiction, not fable. Because Steve Harrington has never been one to excel in the art of storytelling, as apparent by the fact that he nearly failed his senior English class alongside Eddie the one year they had together. Also because he can’t make a reference even if it was the thing to end all bad.

But knowing about Hellfire? Knowing the exact names of Eddie’s close friends, outside of Mike and Dustin and Lucas—who, admittedly, all talk about Steve like he’s some norse god. Him knowing the exact date and customer Eddie had planned to meet with, despite that being extremely disclosed information…Well, it’s hard to discount whatever Steve has said.

One thing sticks out to him, though.

The fact that Steve has tried and tried and tried to save Eddie. Even through his stubbornness. Even through his refusal to follow orders. Even though, considering who he is as a person, Eddie’s never thought of himself worth saving. But to Steve? The efforts he’s seemingly had to go to, make Eddie seem like some treacherous, tragic lover straight from a Shakespeare play.

Steve Harrington can’t quote Shakespeare to save his fucking life, Eddie knows this firsthand—English class, again, was very unkind to the both of them.

Fuck, Eddie finally thinks, he’s serious.

“Okay,” Eddie says slowly, absorbing, “you’re here to save me, supposedly. What should I do to help you?” He leans forward a little, looking at the front of Steve’s face, hoping that maybe he can get a little eye contact. Though, it’s sort of pointless, Steve won’t take his eyes off of that stupid stain. He isn’t judging it though, almost considering it as the monster that Wayne joked it was. “Because, I’ll be honest,” he quickly adds, “seeing you like this on my couch was not on the top of my fantasies list. This is uh…very alarming, if I may say. And I’d like it if you were not bleeding out and turning into some weird green goblin creature on my couch.”

“Gee, thanks,” Steve croaks dryly. It doesn’t really land as a sarcastic joke, though. More like a pathetic little thing. An almost hopeless endeavor.

Steve finally sits up a bit. Head lolled back down. Eyes still distant and foggy and glistening. But they’re looking at Eddie now, so he’ll take that as something. He opens his mouth, the inside blood red and noticeably dry. Murmurs, “Don’t sell drugs to Chrissy Cunningham this week. Don’t ever sell her anything. Pull her aside on Friday morning and tell her that the deal is off. Make up some excuse, doesn’t matter what, I don’t care what you say. But you have to keep her away. When you’re done with the Hellfire campaign, you come straight home. No ifs, ands, or buts. You come home. And you wait for Wayne. And you enjoy your weekend, okay?” 

When he’s done, eyes imploring and wide, he reaches out for Eddie’s hands. Takes them in his own without asking. His skin is dry, sticky with something, and warm. There’s dirt caked under his fingernails. Blood on his knuckles, in the webs connecting his fingers. There’s blood and dirt all over him. And, yeah really up close, he’s about ready to drop off the face of the planet, fall into some dreamland and never wake up. Maybe, even, cry until his eyelids are red raw and sore.

He knows he can’t be the reason for Steve’s destruction, not like this, anyway.

Eddie breathes, “Yeah, okay.”

“Promise, Eds,” Steve states, straining and choked, “promise that you’ll be safe. I can’t—You can’t die on me again, please.”

Why couldn’t he just listen the first time Steve asked? He could upchuck at any minute from the desperation in Steve’s voice. He can’t deny him this.

He squeezes Steve’s hands tightly, so hard he fears he may break the bones. Fiercely, “I promise, Steve. I’ll stay safe. No drug dealing for me. You won’t need to worry.”

Another sharp, short nod. And then Steve is completely removing himself from the couch. Standing tall and looming, wincing in pain from whatever marks lay beyond those scraps of shirt on his torso. He doesn’t say anything else. Tracks Eddie’s eyes for a second longer. Then, in speeds too quick to really catch, he’s walking out the door.

The last thing Eddie sees of Steve Harrington that night is the denim vest slowly fade from his back, the rashes on his arms giving way to a more disgusting, bloody, deeper mess. The bandages disappearing, no longer existing, as if they weren’t there in the first place. Blood on his back. And his skin pale, translucent nearly.

It’s almost like…

Like the Steve Harrington that left him is dead.

⌛️—————⌛️

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

Slow Burn

CW: Vampire whump, mild gore (depends how vivid your imagination), burning alive, cruel whumper, impaled, broken bones, ambiguous ending

Hazy light diffused by sheer curtains catches on the dust-filled air of the warm, stuffy room. Once the bedroom of a stately home, now the gate is rusted and the wallpaper crumbles.

Decades have passed since the home's owner disappeared without a trace - or so people thought. In reality he had been there all along, hiding in the shadows whenever someone came to investigate. Unseen, unheard, and eventually...forgotten.

It was by chance that a vampire hunter happened upon the place, seeking shelter from the downpour outside. Then it was only a matter of time before he found the creature. Weakened after days of rain prevented him from hunting, the vampire doesn't stand a chance. With resignation and, perhaps, relief, he leans back against the wall and bares his chest willingly for the stake.

With three swift strikes of a mallet the wooden spike plunges deeper into his chest - tearing through flesh and muscle, shattering his sternum on its way in and two vertebrae on its way out.

Missing his heart.

No merciful darkness follows. The hunter is long gone but his victim remains, parched and half-conscious but alive, rasping and groaning while his skin sizzles.

It is just after noon, and the window faces west. Hours remain before sunset. Hours to spend burning and blistering, withering away in agony. Even if he had the strength to move the stake keeps him pinned to the wall. Unable to stand anymore, his weight sags around it, his limbs and head limp and heavy.

Downstairs a door slams. Floorboards creak.

The vampire, lost in his own suffering, can't begin to think of who it could be, but some part of him knows this:

He is no longer dying alone.

----

Part 2 ->

[solaneceae]

my battery is low, and it's getting dark.

a codebreakers fanfic about étoiles losing his sight. read on Ao3

It starts off with light blurriness — the kind you get when you forget to remove your contacts before bed, dryness and irritation welcoming you back to the waking world. Étoiles doesn’t wear contacts, although he does don a pair of sturdy, cheap rectangular glasses on occasion, whenever reports have to be read or written in thin leather-bound books for the Résistance’s upper echelon. 

(Upper echelon he’s never caught a whiff off, by the way. Étoiles understands the need for secrecy, for compartmentalization — but damn, it does get lonely here in headquarters, with nothing but his own voice and long-dried ink speaking of codes going rogue and islander alignments to entertain himself with.)

He blinks, once, twice, rubbing at his eyeballs through the skin of his lids. No amelioration. He shrugs it off, readjusts the straps of his slime armor. It’s a shit one, not even the good enchants on it. But he’s been restless lately, antsy. Not quite worried, but something else, something in the negative shape of a beloved, beret-wearing egg. Ants under his greenish skin, a fire only the cold bite of enemy blades and a close brush with Lady Death can fix.

He likes Kristin. She’s funny, with her large brimmed hat and gentle smile and gentler words still. Philza’s a lucky man.

“You are sad,” she would say, in the space-between-spaces he would drift to when downed, just before the ‘doom-doom’ of revival. The crimson bud of her smile would twist into a scowl, as she watched him give her a two-fingered salute. “Is that why I see you so often, starling?”

“I’m not sad,” he would answer without fail — the ache inside his chest wasn’t sadness. Étoiles didn’t do sad. He killed, he destroyed, his body grown in a weapon meant to hurt and maim and be hurt in return. Meant to be wielded by someone worthy. (He thinks of pitch-black feathers and a wheezy laugh, the tingle of wither-decay dancing on his skin, the smell of bone. Claws digging into his bony hips, a litany of trills speaking of ownership-claim, great shadows trapping him in so effectively. His knee guards stained by fresh soil where potatoes are endlessly grown in honor of a great warrior he once crossed blades with. Worship, devotion.)

“I’m not sad,” he mumbles, jumping down the well and into the darkness of the dungeon below. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a shit one, and he could scratch that itch in the back of his mind that demanded blood be spilled, be it his or otherwise. “Maybe I die for real today, let’s goooo.”

He never does. He’s too good at dungeoning, too good at placing blocks and throwing splash potions at his feet, golden apples now a rare last resort because he knows what happens when he eats too many. Aaaah, what a pity, he thinks, as he loses himself in the clash of metal on metal and the grunt of mobs falling at his feet. What a pity, I feel nothing. Bad day for me, bad day.

***

The blurriness stays. Days go by, sluggish and quiet, too quiet on this shit island, and no amount of sleep or healing potions make it any better. His arm stings with static-burn where the black and green binary tar has spread, higher, creeping up his neck. But it does nothing to hinder his movements, doesn’t dull the sharpness of his mind. So he ignores it. “Maybe you should get that checked out or something,” Foolish pokes at it once, as they sit and talk atop the Titan’s head using the blue and green plush chairs the TazerCraft have sneaked in. Pac e Mike, wow wow, sings a little voice in Étoiles’ mind whenever he sees splashes of blue and green, because those two live rent-free in everyone’s builds and brains.

“It’s okay,” he smiles at the shark-totem, easy and casual and Étoiles. “It doesn’t hurt.” It doesn’t. “It’s not changing me.” He is changing, that softness that Pomme had made bloom inside him eroding away with every day she’s gone. It’s harder to stay still, harder to stop and talk to the others, because half of them are depressed and the other half are going insane. But none of that is the code’s doing. “Look, I’ll prove it! 1v1 stick?” he jumps to his feet, throwing a wooden stick at his friend with a fiendish grin. “1v1, right now, let’s go.”

Foolish chuckles, even though his smile doesn’t reach his emerald-carved eyes. (His features are hazy, fuzziness getting worse every time Étoiles wakes. Doesn’t matter.) 

They fight, Étoiles takes it home with six hearts to spare. And he still feels empty.

***

Lilacs. Sunflowers. Cornflowers. Poppies.

Flower biomes were Pomme’s favorites. They’re hard to find, but Étoiles is one patient, stubborn cucumber. “T’aurais adoré ça, légende,” he hums, picking another poppy by the stem and stuffing it into his inventory, the frozen subspace keeping it suspended in time and fresh. He can almost hear the pitter-patter of her little cheeto legs in the grass, the rustle of the blades against her shell. The bomp of a red sign being placed, asking for more red, more blue, more of every color to make her siblings flower crowns and dye her trusty scythe like a rainbow.

He can barely make out their shape anymore, only differentiating roses from poppies by tracing their petals with gold-scarred fingers. He sees a blue blur somewhere at his right, oh, cornflower probably. Her secret code.

He lets out a deep, guttural groan and lets his body fall backwards, hitting the plush grass with a thump. A few butterflies flutter out of the way, one of them settling back on the bridge of the warrior’s nose. He glares at it, faded golden stars comically crossed. He only sees the yellow of its wings, stark against sky blue. “Hey, hey. Tu vas rien trouver ici, tu sais. J’ai pas fleuri depuis des plombes.”

The critter’s wings flap once, unbothered. Étoiles blows on it to make it go away, fails. (He’s a failure, at everything. Fails to keep his kid safe, fails to win a 1v1 against an insect.) Soon enough, there is enough butterflies on him to pin him to the ground under the would-be guilt of disturbing them. Étoiles whines, childish and unserious. “Vas-y, j’peux plus bouger. Pas juste. Même la nature me déteste, c’est bon.”

He’s missed this. The warmth of a sunbeam, the scent of fertile soil, the brush of grass blades, the call of the earth below pulling at him. Part of him wants to sink into it, curl up in Her embrace like a child would in their mother’s womb, forget about the world and the Federation and the Codes and all this shit. Maybe he could fall asleep right here. Let his body soak up the sun, let himself bloom again. Let that softness grow out of his skin for all to see, like he used to. Or, he thinks he used to. The memories of Before are static-fuzz between his ears, unreachable unless he looks at them at the corner of his eye, so to speak.

(The freezing cold, then heat as air exploded around him, an impact. Physicality, sudden and unexpected, the song of the stars loud in his ears as he opened his eyes for the first time in front of a bewildered human in a frayed straw hat. He was happy, wasn’t it? He thinks he used to be happy. What happened?)

But Étoiles is a warrior, a weapon, and weapons dull and rust and grow weak if left to rest. So he takes a deep breath, pushes himself up. “Désolé,” he hums to the butterflies as they scatter away. They are but bright, colorful blobs in his dulling eyes. “Désolé,” he says as he warps back home to forge yet another axe. 

His inventory is full of flowers that he’ll forget about, wrapping him in a constant mix of herbal scents that has Cellbit recoiling next time they cross paths. Étoiles doesn’t notice it, the Brazilian’s bothered expression lost on his rapidly-decaying vision.

***

By the time the Code challenges him to what Étoiles knows will be their last duel for the foreseeable future, his sight is all but gone, everyone and their dog has taken notice, and he has brushed off their concern. “I don’t need to see to click good,” he boasts, slamming down deepslate to launch himself fast and run circles around a disgruntled Pac. “See, see! I’m strafing, I’m doing it, playing the game.” Pac makes a strange sound, one he struggles to guess the emotion behind without body language. “It’s okay, Pac. It’s easy. There’s no problem, at all.”

Phil isn’t here yet, can’t see any names on his comlink but Tubbo told him he wasn’t. Shame, shame he won’t be there to see him die, Étoiles thinks as the rain soaks through his shirt, the boom of lightning bothering him more than he lets show. His ears are ringing as he jumps, ducks, tugs at the string of his bow and sends an arrow flying where he knows the Code is, he can feel it, the only spot that doesn’t smell like anything but void. But there’s no feedback, no satisfying sound of health being chipped at, nothing.

This Code is too strong, his sword winging an off-tune melody as it goes through the binary without ripping or tearing. No damage. Ah, he thinks, so they have finally stopped playing. I see now.

The back of his chestplate shatters into a blast of broken enchant magic and diamond shards, some of them lodging themselves into his flesh. Something cold sinks between his ribs, brushing against his spine in a white-hot flash of pain that irradiates through his whole body, and oh, yeah, it’s over. It’s joever, as Tubbo would say. “GGs,” he gasps through a mouthful of dark green blood. He coughs it up, lets it splash down his neck and paint his shirt. Tubbo’s screaming somewhere, too far away for Étoiles to discern the words. “You- eugh, you slash-kill’ed me, good job you cheater. Easy win.”

The entity growls, a hum-buzz that makes his brain (or whatever he has for brains, maybe lettuce?) rattle inside his skull. The blade slides out, cutting away at him further on its way out, and his body falls into a puddle of rainwater and mud with a wet thud. It hurts, blackered arm buzzing, pain creeping up his neck and the right side of his face, extinguishing the last of his remaining sight. 

He faintly realises that almost nobody knows about his respaw mechanic. Ah, et merde. He hopes they’ll have the presence of mind to ask Antoine, when they realise he wouldn’t just re-pop into existence seconds after his death… or when they noticed his body starting to wilt and decay, if they stuck around for long enough.

(Tallulah knows, he remembers. He told her. But had she told Philza, before she disappeared along with all the other eggs?)

Through his fading senses, his comm buzzes with what he knows is his first death message in a really long time. He can make out the sound of rapid footsteps, clickety hooves and heavy, leather work boots. Tubbo and Pierre. He closes his eyes, not that he needs to anymore for darkness to cradle him. He lets go.

He doesn’t see Kristin this time, only hears a faint sigh and a gentle breath sending him off into the void. He hopes they find his seed soon. He doesn’t wanna stay missing for too long, after all.

***

His personal death-void is not so bad of a place. Boring, obviously, but there’s a familiarity to it, to the way the darkness shrouds him like a heavy blanket, pushing against him from all sides. Not oppressive but comforting. Cradling, instead of crushing.

It reminds him of the dirt patch he was born in — he had been asleep and new, just ripe for the picking, dirt-stained hands pulling at his stem with the roughness of a long-repeated gesture. He had screamed, he thinks, not in pain, but to show the world he was here and alive, hello, hello sun, hello dirt, hello person! Had given poor old Théo a heart attack too.

Ah. He could remember, now. Théo, his leathered face and kind eyes with crow feet, wary at first before this walking, talking little legume with the night sky in his eyes, flower-covered vine-tail like some sort of umbilical cord trailing behind him as he follows the old farmer around, asking him endless questions in barely-legible French. But… yes, he’d been kind to him, Étoiles thinks. The first face his face saw. Makes sense it would be one of the first things that came back to him. Maybe remembering was easier in the void? Maybe he should die more often.

…Nah. Dying wasn’t his style. And having to regrow a whole new body over a week was annoying. He had things to do in the island! Like talking with people (eurgh), and giving them things (yes) and fighting with Philza (yes! yes! yes!) and have fun!

So he waits, oblivion pulling at him like gravity. The void is a quiet place, sometimes, but more often it’s not, with the song of supernovas and wailing stars far away keeping him aware, listening. He hums along to it with no mouth or vocal chords (not yet, still growing, still so small, unripe), and sometimes he swears he can hear another voice singing with him. Off-key, awful really, almost crow-like, but it sounds like someone he cares about, so he’s happy to listen to its drone.

Other times, he sleeps. And he dreams of tiny hands and quiet chirps and clicks, of the yesyes uncle Phil taught her, of the chrr-chrr-peep that means him, when she calls Étoiles’ name in her own little language. And he curls around the memory, softness, and lets it carry him up into the stars glittering behind still-forming eyelids.

***

“Étoiles.”

He hums — warmth, the slow beating heart of the earth. The choir of stars constantly burning far, far away. He could listen to it forever, because he had been listening to it since the birth of the first star, he knew.

“Mate. You with me? C’mon, s’been a week already. Come up here, you can do it.”

The voice scratches pleasantly at the back of his brain. But the earth is so warm, so comfy, a cocoon of peace and respite he’s not sure he wants to leave. He sighs with no lungs to breathe, no need for them, when all he could ever need is right there — perfect temp, perfect moisture, glucose, carbon dioxide, rich nutrients all around. Who needs gapples, really. Or thoughts. Or responsibilities. This is the best.

“...Mh. Alright then.”

The voice grates on his ears, ears that try to flick but are stopped by the soil packed around them. He groans in drowsy irritation, curls in on himself in an attempt to shield himself from it and from the world. It seems to work, the noises fading into nothing, and Étoiles feels his thoughts scatter as a faint scratching sound seeps through the earth and into his mind like white noise. Sleep pulls at him again, and he lets it.

He’s startled back into wakefulness by something pulling harshly, somewhere that feels a bit away but is still part of him. His eyes fly open in pained surprise because ow, ow, that’s my— “Come here, you lazy fuck!” That voice — high-pitched, that heavy accent he’s come to love, amusement and exasperation combined, Phil, his Phil, his GOAT, his brother in arms, his Death-touched angel.

Étoiles blinks, unseeing. Étoiles remembers. And with awareness comes something else, something that shimmers and calls his name in gentle whisper-echoes, as he feels himself being pulled up, and up, dirt parting to let him ascend back to the surface. Aah. Goodbye mama. Hello problems. “Get harvested, idiot!” Philza Minecraft grunts with effort somewhere above him, and the tug gets stronger, prompting a pained ow out of him as the ground crackles and breaks above him, and he feels air-sun-outside on his back as he’s forcefully pulled from the ground like the fresh crop he is. He flails a little bit, kicking off dirt and soil (it’s everywhere, in his hair and between his toes and a little in his mouth and nose, bleh!), then rolls onto his back with a groan, frowning up at the sky he knows is there, blue and clear, because it doesn’t smell like rain and the surface soil is dry and warm.

He’s back. And he sees nothing at all. Welp, better close his eyes again then. He feels a shadow fall on him, feels a sandaled foot nudge his side. “Helloooooo. Hello Phil,” he greets the other leaning hard on the deadpan because he knows it makes his friend laugh when he does that. It lands. “What, that’s it?” the elytrian caws, kneeling beside him and poking at his face, talons dulled to a gentle roundness. Étoiles wishes he didn’t trim them, but Phil is too nice, too careful, too eager to smooth himself down for others, for the eggs. Docile.

Étoiles despises it, but he keeps quiet because he knows Phil doesn’t like to talk about those things. “You get yourself killed by a fucking Code of all things,” Phil keeps going, “make everyone freak the fuck out because you won’t respawn like a normal fucking person, and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”

“Antoine knows. And I’m here now, so it’s okay.”

“Antoine barely logs on, you absolute dumbass. You’re lucky Lullah told me about the seed thing, because you would’ve been fucked six ways to Sunday.”

He opens his eyes, if only to shoot Phil a halfhearted glare. And then immediately forgets about it, blinks owlishly. Sits up to get closer to the other man. “Phil. Why are you stars?”

“What.”

He sees stars. (And not in the sex way, because he doesn't do that.) It’s not night, but there are stars in his vision, where pitch blackness used to be, and the constellation is Phil-shaped.

Philza is a cosmic cluster, a nebula shining bright in the darkness that has become his world. He can see nothing beyond him, not the plants surrounding him, not the long vine attached to his lower back Phil used to pull him out. He can tell it’s there, though, lightly thumping at the ground in agitation. “You, are stars. That’s how I see you now.”

“Wait. Can you, like, see again?” Phil asks, uncharacteristically soft. “I know it was getting… bad. And your eyes are like, all greyed out. Did the code stuff on your arm do that?” Étoiles sees a cluster of stars approaching his face — hand — and feels fingers brushing just under his right eye. He’s a bit startled by the contact, the area usually covered by his trust bandana (he needs it back, needs his stuff back, hopefully someone held onto it for him). Phil draws away, an apology ready from the way his constellation-body shifts, but Étoiles doesn’t let him. “I can’t,” he answers, tilting his head, ear flicking in focus — the stars that make up Phil sharpen, and he can almost make out the shape of the wings bound behind his back. “But I can See. I think.” He also wouldn’t mind Phil’s hand on his face again. It feels nice. Scratches at something long-buried, and denied.

Philza makes a confused sound. “Okay, I heard that capital S there. What’s that mean? Are you pulling a Daredevil?”

Étoiles grins, sharp-toothed and playful. “Oh, oh! He thinks I’m a superhero? He thinks I’m cool, Felipe Minecraft? Big win for me.” Phil rolls his eyes, which Étoiles can tell because the crow always makes that low warble when he does. “But no, it’s not like that. I still need my eyes to see like this, and I don’t hear or smell better than before.” Although his status as a hybrid means his baseline is still higher than the average person’s, but that’s irrelevant. “FF.”

“So no cool blindfold for you, ey?”

“No cool blindfold. I will just do a Pomme and drown myself later, to make up for how uncool I am.” (He cannot drown. No lungs. But he can pretend.)

He squints. There’s a little cluster, right there at the side of Phil’s head. He can connect the dots, identify the shape of the elytrian’s bucket hat, but there’s something else there too. “What’s that on your head, Phil? I can’t make it out well.”

“Oh— here,” the other takes his hand and guides it towards his hair, and Étoiles feels a familiar texture under his pads. He makes a noise of surprise. “That’s. Mine.”

“Do you want it back?” Phil hums, brushing at the large cucumber flower tucked in the band of his hat. “It bloomed this morning, on top of the plant you were growing under. Took it as a sign you were, uh, done cooking.” Étoiles snorts. Good guess. “But uh, I guess the plant was also you, cuz it’s at the end of your tail now. Dragging.” Ah. Yeah. He really ought to cut it. “Is it weird? That I’m wearing a piece of you? I don’t know what… fuckin’... cucumber etiquette is.”

“It’s not weird,” Étoiles says, because he doesn’t think it is. “You can keep it.” He kind of likes it. That Phil’s wearing a piece of him. It makes him, happy? “You know, that I am your weapon. Yes? So it makes sense, that you show it.”

“You’re my friend. Don’t call yourself a weapon, man.”

“Same thing for me.”

Phil’s response is wordless, a simple, noncommittal mmh. But Étoiles can hear the hidden fondness in it. He pushes a little further, crudely imitates that  one bird sound Philza makes when he’s happy. Whoops internally when Phil puffs out his feathers and trills out a yesyes in return. Héhé. “Yes yes, Philza? Fight me, right now?” he slips into his usual stance, just a bit offset by the lack of armor weighing him down. “1v1, no weapons, no armor? Fistfight, let’s go.”

Phil cackles, crow-like. “I am not fighting you right now, you little shit. You menace. What’s wrong with you?”

“Aww, Phil hates me,” the warrior whines. “He hates me. He won’t 1v1 me, he must hate me. Sad.”

“Oh my god, stop being a baby.”

“I was literally born five minutes ago. I am baby, and Felipe Minecraft hates me,” he sasses back, and Phil throws his arms towards the sky in exasperation. “Oh come on. I spent a week protecting your green ass! Making sure you got enough sun and water and shit, it was like doing egg tasks all over again. Antoine even talked me into fucking singing, pretty sure he was pranking me with that one by the way, and still you think I hate you?”

“Nice caulk, Phil.”

He can’t see it, but Étoiles knows Phil’s eyelid is twitching. “Mate. I got a faceful of ass pulling you out of here, you’re on thin fucking ice.”

The cucumber snorts. “Héhé, got mooned by the stars.” That was kinda funny. “You were pulling me by the tail, I do not know what you expected. You’re lucky I’m a plant, or there would have been full cock and balls there.”

“Bruh. I thought it would be connected to your… plant belly button, or whatever, like an umbilical cord.”

“It’s an ass button, GGs.”

“Jesus Christ, please don’t call it that. I didn’t even know you had a tail. You didn’t before.”

“That’s because I always cut it,” the warrior huffs, said tail lashing behind him from the restless energy that always accompanies a new body. Its leaves drag around the loose dirt in little swish-y sounds. “Give me a sword, Phil, it’s already annoying me.”

The crow peers down at the vine, then back at him. “I dunno, man. You look kinda fun with it.” Étoiles squints. He can’t quite make out Phil’s expression like this, all stars and nothing between them, but he can hear the hidden laughter in his voice. “...I will cut it with my teeth then.”

“Won’t that hurt more than with a blade?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Only the base. Like when you pulled on it.”

“Why not keep it? It’s a part of you.”

Because it speaks for me, he considers replying. Because it says and shows things that I don’t want people to see. Even now, it wags, because Phil is here and now brushing stray dirt out of his hair and it’s very nice. (Is he touch-starved? He might be. Pomme is gone, and he doesn’t trust people to touch him, other than with blunt force and sharp diamond blades.) But Étoiles hasn’t kept his tail since he was a child, still wide-eyed and showing his innermost self to the whole world without any shield. He feels weird. Exposed. And it’s okay with Phil, because Phil is Phil, but it’s not okay because they’re out in the open and anyone could come and see. He doesn’t like that. “Because people can grab it, and it gets stuck in things, and it’s annoying. I cut it, now.” He tugs at the appendage, bringing it up to his mouth. “Nope,” Phil snatches it away, and Étoiles hisses at him. “Calm down, dude. At least let’s do it cleanly.”

“Eeeeuugh. Okay.”

”Then we’re getting your stuff back from Antoine’s, good god. You’re still butt-naked and I won’t have you strut around like that.”

“He has my things? Comms, armor, my backpacks?”

“All of it, yeah,” the older man huffs, and Étoiles can hear the telltale sound of an item being summoned of an inventory. Enchanted axe, he parses, recognizing the ozone-y smell of the sharpness enchant and the sound of the air being sliced downward. He doesn’t feel anything when the vine is severed, frowns when he realises Phil left a good… fifty centimeters of it, still attached to his body. “Phil. You misclick? You aim like shit today?”

“You said it hurts near the base,” the elytrian huffs, finality lacing his every word. “Keep it or cut the rest later, your pick, but I’m not hurting you.”

Étoiles’ ear flicks in confusion, and so does his tail. It moves faster, easier now without the rest of the plant weighing it down. “...We fight each other all the time, that hurts more. I don’t care.”

Phil stays silent for a few seconds. Nebula-Phil shifts before him. “It’s. Different.”

Étoiles hums. Philza has the Tone™ again, the one that means he’s thinking of things that hurt. He thinks of clipped feathers, of matted down that he wishes he could run his fingers through and fix, fix, let me fix it, let me do this for you. But he says nothing. Maybe another time, when they’re both ready for that conversation. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I keep it this time. Maybe.”

He can hear Phil’s smile in the next word he speaks. “Attaboy.” And he tries to ignore the way his tail wags with renewed enthusiasm at that.

[localunseeliefae]

i have an idea for a heart-wrenching iwaoi historic au in which they are growing up together in some village forgotten by the world until the war begins and oikawa doesn't have to go but his passion and pride pushes him to join the army, when iwaizumi stays home and provides for his family because he can't simply leave them to fend for their own (also oikawa makes him promise to take care of his mother and sister othewise iwaizumi probably would go with him)

tooru climbes high in ranks because he is passionate and determined and suprisingly good at reading the enemies strategy and iwaizumi hears about it in bits and pieces through very few, very short letters he receives in the span of those months he is gone;

when the letters stop coming iwaizumi doesnt really worry at first, because from the ones he received previously he concluded that the work of oikawas unit is coming to an end and maybe, just maybe tooru is already coming home and wanted to suprise them with his sudden appearance (after all he always had a flair for the dramatics) but the waiting period begins to stretch excruciatingly long and even though hajime doesn't want burden his and oikawas family with worry he can't help but feel this gut wrenching fear whenever he thinks about tooru

when his pendant comes back to them, carried by a man in the same uniform they probably dressed tooru in, hajime isn't really suprised; he felt it coming for a long time, even though he never admitted it to himself

maybe that's why he doesn't break down in tears like tooru's mother did when she saw the man, maybe the numbness he felt was caused by the fact that he expected to see the man more, than he expected to hear toorus irritating voice making fun of him ever again

maybe that's why he doesn't cry over tooru, not when their families mourn him, not when he digs him a grave in which he will never lie in, not when he rereads the letters tooru send him and he read, not knowing that those would be the last words he ever heard from him

or maybe he did not really mourn him because he could not for his life believe that he would never feel his best friends warm body pressing into his, when he insisted that he was too tired too walk on his own and "iwa-chan how dare you push a man in need away", that he would never see those brown eyes light up when they would speak about something tooru was currently fixated on

maybe that's why despite their families begging for him to not go, he still decided to join the man, the bearer of tragic news, who after a few days rest was to go back to the army stationed nearby

maybe he was convinced, that by joining him, he will quickly find tooru and drag him back to their families, before any harm comes to him or to them

and maybe that's why hajime welcomed his own death with relief rather than fear, because he knew tooru would wait for him for a thousand years if he had to, just like hajime would do for him

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

wanna ask how you feel about the eridan bpd headcanon/theory(?? not sure what to call it!) you're so good at your character analysis and i'd love to see your outlook on it

Since I don't have a degree or any formal training in psychology, I feel deeply uncomfortable diagnosing characters. I've made an autism joke before but only because I'm on the spectrum. He's definitely traumatized and anxious, but I mean those as descriptors of his behavior rather than capital-D Diagnoses. I try to focus on those when I can - the cause and effect of cognition, self-image, and behavior - and those factors may very well match up with DSM criteria, but I try not to touch an actual diagnosis with a ten foot pole unless the author has explicitly stated that X character has Y condition.

[wibzenadarksiderwithasoftheart]

Stay with me

So, well, my murderous muse has been at it again.

Ambiguous and heartbreaking ficlet below the cut, proceed with caution.

The words were an almost inaudible whisper, and he doubted anyone else would have heard them.

***

"Stay with me?"

"I promise you, dear one."

He placed his hand on his former apprentice's shoulder, feeling his tension ease a little.

"Good."

They walked in silence, their footsteps loud against the hard floor that led to a hall deep beneath the temple that had not been used for hundreds of years. It was a cruel fate that it was now that it was needed again.

But peace had a price, as it turned out.

As they approached the chamber Anakin stopped abruptly.

The others accompanying them halted as well, but Obi-Wan waved them on, and after a brief glance and nod, they allowed master and apprentice a moment.

"I wish..." Anakin's voice trailed off.

"I know, I wish too, but wishes are empty and some actions cannot be undone."

A small crooked smile tugged at the corners of Anakin's mouth for a moment.

"Even now you lecture me."

"Even now."

Obi-Wan sighed and wrapped his hand around Anakin's neck drawing his face down towards his, pressing their foreheads together.

"Thank you."

Anakin's voice cracked at that one word, but he swallowed and continued.

"I am grateful. You saved me."

Obi-Wan sighed, pushing his own emotions out into the Force that felt restless and unsettled, still in turmoil over what had happened and what was coming.

"I promise you it will be quick."

They continued onward, and Obi-Wan was surprised by the calmness that Anakin exuded, an acceptance of what was to come that he had not expected. His apprentice had always been fighting, had never surrendered before, only to him, and maybe that was why it had ended as it had.

"I'm glad you're here with me." Anakin said quietly.

Feeling regret and despair well up inside him, Obi-Wan reached out to stop Anakin again, needing to get the words out.

"Forgive me for failing you."

"You never failed me. I failed myself."

The chamber was far from full, as many of those who should have been here would never be returning, and those now standing on the many steps were burdened by what had transpired and what was about to happen.

Anakin's words were calm and confident, he had come to terms with what had happened, and now Obi-Wan had to do the same.

***

On the podium in the center of the hall were two figures, one kneeling and the other standing.

The kneeling figure raised his gaze, golden eyes searching blue, begging for closure, for forgiveness, but still his executioner hesitated.

How should one half of a whole be able to cut the other away?

And yet it was what was expected, what had to happen.

They held each other's gaze, and suddenly a bright blue blade flashed through the air.

A gasp ran through the room and on the platform two figures now knelt, holding each other in a tight embrace, their foreheads resting against each other.

And then, before anyone could intervene, the sound of a deadly blade igniting sounded again.

[writersmorgue]

Febuwhump Day 21 - Unresponsive

TWs in tags || read on Ao3 || wc: 1332

◈━◈━◈━◈━◈

Time-activated quirks are rare. Izuku knows, he’s studied many. He was fascinated by the logistics the first time he read about one in the news. The quirk usually being transferred by some physical touch or substance from the user- slowly dissolving into the victim like a pill. 

Pro hero Buzzkill has a quirk that gives its victim a bee sting-like welt every four and a half minutes. The vigilante Combo Breaker has a quirk that breaks one of its victim's fingers every two minutes. 

And apparently, the villain he’d been fighting on patrol also shared this unique quirk factor. 

The debrief had said the guy was quirkless, but one look at the shoes on his feet told Izuku otherwise. 

Now, four hours and twenty-five minutes later, he’s lying on the floor of his kitchen unable to move. 

His nose is pressed at an uncomfortable angle, mere inches from where his coffee mug was smashed to pieces when he dropped it. 

He’d felt this odd pain in the base of his spine when he got off of patrol, and after his post-shift nap, it had only been higher up on his back and twice as intense. 

Apparently, when it got to his head, he was due to lose all motor functions. Great!

The good news is that Katsuki should be home any minute, and he can pull Izuku out of this cold, black coffee puddle. Maybe he’ll even put him back in bed if he’s feeling generous. 

He’s not sure how long he waits. His eyelids have drooped close, though he couldn’t open them if he wanted. He spends a while trying to determine if he’s breathing or not, but his whole body is so uncomfortably numb that he gives up. 

Soon enough, the door opens and Katsuki’s gym shoes are kicked off into their cubby. 

“‘M home.” He grumbles, probably not expecting an answer because Izuku is usually still napping when Katsuki gets back from his morning gym run. 

Izuku isn’t sure what Katsuki notices first, maybe his socked feet lying on the ground, or the bits of red, blue, and yellow ceramic that probably skidded across the room. 

“Deku? Did you fuckin’ fall?” His husband scoffs, rounding the corner to see Izuku sprawled on the floor, “Oi, get up dumbass.” 

Izuku mentally winces, not prepared for the absolute earful Katsuki is going to give him later. 

Katsuki walks closer, nudging the broken pieces of mug away, “Izuku?” 

Ah, he’s anxious. 

Izuku might’ve predicted this issue if he had thought a little harder. He’s not in any real danger, so there’s no need to worry-

“Izuku?!”

But he doesn’t know that. 

“No come on,” Katsuki mumbles out loud, trying to reason logically like Izuku knows he does when he’s scared, “he hit his head and passed out- no, there’s no blood. He was tired? Maybe he wanted to sleep on the floor…”

Katsuki comes up behind him and drops to his knees, rolling Izuku over. 

Light flashes in front of his eyes, but he’s powerless to blink at the sudden flash. Katsuki curses when his head flops back and smacks the tile. Stars fly across the black of his eyelids. 

“Izuku, wake up.” Katsuki presses his fingers under Izuku’s jaw and curses. 

There’s no way this quirk stopped his heartbeat- right?!

Katsuki pries one of his eyelids open. The cool air burns but he doesn’t flinch. 

His pupil must not react either, because before he knows it Katsuki is tugging him into his arms with a frantic whimper and launching himself across their living room. 

Katsuki places a leg in between Izuku’s own and wraps one of his arms under Izuku’s shoulders so he can use the other to propel them into the sky. 

The wind whistles by Izuku’s ears as Katsuki wastes no time getting them to what he can only assume is the hospital a few blocks away. 

The strain his arm must feel right now can only be extremely painful but Katsuki makes no sign of it. 

Izuku can feel them descending, just as Katsuki’s grip on him begins to slip. Katsuki stumbles a bit on the ground, lurching forward but being sure to keep Izuku’s body in his solid grip. 

“HEY!” He shouts as soon as they step through the sliding doors of the emergency bay, “I NEED A DOCTOR NOW!”

“Sir please don’t-”

“Pro hero Dynamight!” Another nurse interrupts the first, rushing towards them, “What are his vitals?”

Izuku feels himself get flipped onto a gurney, lying face up on the cold, thin fabric. He can feel everything down to his hair follicles itching to form goosebumps. 

He hears the nurse gasp as soon as his hair falls out of his face. 

I might be wearing pajamas, but I’m still the number one hero, he figures. I’d recognize All Might in his pajamas.

“Is that-”

“Someone who needs a fucking doctor?!” Katsuki growls, “YES.” 

The nurse barks a few orders at her coworkers and, from what Izuku can tell, sprints with him down the hallway. 

“Vitals?”

“No.”

The cart shudders when she briefly trips, “N-No? What do you mean-”

“I mean he wasn’t fucking responsive. I came home and he was on the fucking floor. No pulse, no breathing, no pupil dilation.” Katsuki’s voice moves to his other side, and there’s more movement before Izuku is lifted over to a different bed. 

The nurse hooks a machine up to him to start pumping his chest while she darts around him, checking various other vitals. 

“Shit.” She whispers to herself, pressing her warm hands into his wrist harder. 

Someone slams open the door, running to Izuku’s side. His hearing blurs while they yell orders at each other, pricking Izuku with various needles. 

“C’mon.” A new, higher-pitched male voice grunts in his ear as what he can assume is a shot of adrenaline is pumped into his fresh IV. 

“You said you found him like this?” Another female voice asks, farther in the corner of the room where he figures Katsuki is watching. 

“He passed out, there’s no obvious trauma. I have no fucking idea why.” Katsuki grunts, voice warbling. “He was on patrol a few hours ago but there was nothing in the report that would warrant this.”

“It’s not looking…” She pauses, “It’s not ideal, but we can’t rule out the possibility of it being a quirk.”

“Nothing is rousing him. We can keep the compressions going, but his body isn’t showing postmortem symptoms. I think, truly, if he comes back it will be regardless of what we do.”

Katsuki sighs, “I’m going to call his mom. Take the machine off him, she shouldn’t see him like this.”

Izuku’s head jostles as they remove the machine, his chest already feeling the ache and forming bruises. 

The nurse clamps a heart rate monitor onto his finger and leaves his side, rolling whatever monstrosity of a contraption they had waiting for him on a cart out of the room. 

It’s completely silent for a few minutes, not even the usual steady beep of his heart that he associates with the hospital to keep him company. 

The door swings open and footsteps move towards his side. 

He knows it’s Katsuki as soon as their hands touch. 

His husband’s warm hands cup his own, rubbing circles into his skin. 

“If you die on a random ass fucking Thursday morning when you’re not even working I’ll make sure they send you to whatever hell exists for idiots like you.” 

Izuku laughs inwardly, enjoying Katsuki’s touch. 

“Shitty prank. You broke your favorite mug.”

Ah damn, he forgot about that. 

Katsuki’s hair tickles his forearm as the man presumably leans down, pressing his lips to Izuku’s inner wrist, “If you leave me I’ll never forgive you.” He stretches a hand over Izuku’s stomach, resting it on his soft sleep shirt. “I love you, I don’t tell you nearly enough.”

“Come back to me, Izuku.”

And Izuku wishes more than anything that he knew how.

[themaidenofwords]

"Put your hands in the air."

Character A glared at Villain and edged themselves slightly in front of Character B in a protective stance. "Just try it. We don't go down easy."

Villain grinned sharply and casually lowered their gun. "You're right. It's much easier to let someone else do this for me."

Character A cast a frantic look about, searching for the hitherto unseen fourth person that was about to attack. There was no one there for A to see. It was only A, B, and Villain.

"What are you talking about--" A's voice was cut off in a strangled gasp as the cold prongs of a taser suddenly jabbed into their side and they were overwhelmed with a paralyzing wave of electricity. A's legs gave out beneath them and they twisted as they fell just enough to see B standing above them with the taser in their hand.

"B," A choked out, twitching helplessly on the ground.

Character B couldn't meet A's betrayed gaze. "I'm sorry, A. I had no choice."

"What a pretty lie that is," Villain laughed, stepping over A's jerking legs to wrap a possessive arm around B's shoulders. "B made their choice a long time ago, it's just that now they have to face the consequences."

"B, please." A gasped out, tears pooling in their eyes. "Please."

Villain, still grinning, offered up their gun and B took it in a shaking hand.

"I'm sorry." B repeated as they took aim. "It had to be like this."

"B, wait. Please!"

"Goodbye, A. I'll miss you."

The sound of a gunshot filled the air.

[who-needs-words]

[takes a deep breath]

I hope chester isn’t our Jon. I hope the person who emailed Sam isn’t our jon

[runs away before the fandom murders me]

[rainintheevening]

31. “Don’t worry about me.” for Steve and Bucky! <3

Been awhile since I did one of these. Feel really rusty. Here, beloved, have a late birthday present.

WWII. Here be angst. Open ending.

31. "Don't worry about me."

Snow battered against the other side of the glass, cold puffs of air coming sharply in at the corners of the sash. Beneath Bucky's fingers the windowsill started to creak, and he hastily let go.

He held himself quite still, hardly daring to breathe, staring blankly out at the storm. A jagged lump sat in the back of his throat, aching, raw.

He wanted to cry, to shout, he wanted to punch something, he wanted to take everyone of those HYDRA agents and beat their brains in. Right now, he could do it and he wouldn't even blink.

From behind him came a soft rustle, a murmur, "Buck?"

The wave of hot rage stilled, retreated, leaving only cold fear to pool in his chest. He turned quickly, strode two steps to the bedside. Sank to his knees.

"I'm right here, Steve. Right here."

He reached to press his cold fingers against Steve’s warm cheek. Too warm? He wasn't sure. He didn't know anymore.

He used to be able to tell Steve’s temperature within five degrees by touch alone. Now, it was all different, Steve was different, and that was supposed to be good! That difference was supposed to save him! And now... now nothing could.

Steve’s one working eye cracked open, a dark slit.

"Bucky?"

Bucky leaned forward, into the line of view of that single eye, and it widened enough for him to glimpse that warm blue. "Hey, pal. You hangin' in there?"

"Buck."

One corner of Steve’s mouth twitched, and then his eye closed, and he seemed to fall a little, fingers slipping on an icy ledge above a dark canyon with no bottom.

Something in Bucky's stomach lurched after him, but there was nothing for Bucky to grab.

Steve’s hands lay quite still at his sides. His chest rose and fell, erratic and slow.

Bucky had wiped away all the blood he could, taking the enormous risk of lighting a fire to melt water and heat the tiny, one-room cabin. He'd used up every bandage he could, and torn up his own shirt and undershirt for more. He'd dribbled a little cool water into Steve’s mouth, but his friend had turned his head away.

Now he brushed his thumb lightly over Steve's dry lips, bit his own together hard. How long did they have? An hour? Probably more, seeing how Steve had survived this long.

He stayed kneeling by Steve’s side, touching his brother's face, the bandages that covered where a large portion of his skull should have been. Rested his hand on the muscled chest that had replaced the thin one. Let his hand fall to grip Steve’s, and linked their fingers.

Should he leave, hike out into the snowstorm on the off chance some of the others might still be near? They'd been scattered by the ambush, and he wasn't even sure who had made it out of that death trap alive. Perhaps none of them had.

He glanced down to where he had applied the tourniquets, one above the ankle, the other high up on Steve's thigh.

Should he have done that—tried to stem the bleeding? Maybe it would have been more merciful not to, to make it go quick, to end this. Wouldn't it? Even now, he still had his revolver. He knew exactly where to put bullets, how to make it fast.

Bucky gulped back a wave of nausea. No, hell no! He couldn't, he couldn't, no matter how 'merciful' it might be. He'd spent well over a decade preserving Steve’s life, how could he stop now?

What would Steve want? Was he suffering? He didn’t seem to be in pain. Did he know how horrific his injuries were? Did he know he was dying?

"Buck."

He lifted his head sharply, blinked back hot tears. Steve’s eye was still closed.

"Yeah, I'm here, Steve." He pressed a wet kiss to the back of Steve’s hand.

There was no answer.

The only thing Steve had said since he first surfaced to consciousness was Bucky's name, like a reflex, as enduring and un-erasable as breathing or pulse.

Cold, exhausted, broken in his spirit in a way he had never been before, Bucky slumped against the bed, cutching Steve’s hand against his chest, and gave himself up to tears.

How would he live without Steve? How could the world even continue to turn without that warm, shining light of Steve’s presence in it? All those times before, when Steve had wandered off the edge, had nearly been pulled under, and Bucky had begged him to come back, had fought off Death itself with a stick. He'd come to think Steve was always going to make it, always going to recover.

"Please, God, please!" he choked out between sobs.

He'd prayed for Steve before, and Steve had always made it through the night. He'd prayed sometimes, in the early days of his torture after Azzano, begging Someone to come and save him. And someone had.

"He needs to live. He's so good, he's my friend, he deserves to live."

But what was the point now? Steve had literally had his brains blown out, he'd lost big chunks of his legs, he had shrapnel in his stomach. There was no medicine, no doctor that could put Steve back together now.

"I don't want to kill him, I can't!" Bucky choked out. "I'm sorry, Steve, I'm sorry, I can't. I couldn't live with that."

He caught his breath, swallowed back a sob, and lifted his wet face. A glance at the chair by the fireplace, where his revolver lay.

He had more than one bullet.

"Bucky."

He whipped his head around to glance at Steve, hot shame pouring over him.

How could he think that? Steve would be so disappointed, he'd be horrified.

Steve’s hand twitched a little in Bucky's, and Bucky cleared his throat before he spoke.

"Yeah, I'm here, pal. With you. To the end–" He couldn't finish.

Time ceased to carry it's old meanings, there was only the space between breaths, the whisper of his name that got quieter with each reiteration.

At some point he got up to pile more wood on the fire, and stand, staring at the revolver for too long.

"Buck?"

He could barely hear it, but he turned away, moved back to the bed. This time he moved around it, and gingerly sat on the dusty mattress, stripped off his coat, shivered slightly as the air hit his bare skin.

Carefully he stretched out beside Steve, turned toward his friend, pressing close, trying to be tender, to be gentle, as he spread his coat over both of them. He pressed his face into Steve’s shoulder, so big now.

"Listen, Steve, listen to me. Please. I'm here, and I'll stay until you don't need me anymore, that's a promise."

The tears had passed, and he could say this steadily now, dry-eyed.

"You can go. Okay? Go whenever you're ready. I know Aunt Sarah would love to see you again, and your dad. I know they're both so proud of you. Not half as proud as I am, but still really proud."

"Buck."

It was barely a breath.

All that enhanced body that had saved Steve’s life so many times in this crazy war, and now it meant he died slow, fighting a losing battle to fix itself, to mend parts that were no longer there.

"Don't worry about me," Bucky whispered, mouth close to Steve's ear. "I'll be fine. You can go, okay? Don't worry about me."

A long silence.

He smelled sweat and blood and smoke. A cold draught curled under the coat, but Steve was still warm against his chest and side. The fire crackled quietly, somewhere the roof was leaking in a steady drip-drip-drip-drip.

"Buuuuck."

Long, drawn out on a sigh, but oddly warm, an aching suggestion of a smile edging it with love.

Bucky didn't lift his head, he just closed his eyes, and held Steve as close as he could.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. I'm with you to the end of the line."

Snow pattered quietly against the glass, piling up on the outer sill.

[ghostbeam]

I hate endeavor so fucking much it’s crazy

[alphaketoglutaricacid]

wonder if marcille thought she was holding the group back before they broke up bc she had the lowest stamina of them. But probs going until they were tired was bad for them and let to their dragon dying thing and without her it wouldve taken longer to get to the 6th floor.

[mrspasser]

Finding solace in you

On A03

Listen. Steve is not an idiot. No matter how many times someone calls him stupid, he’s not an idiot. It’s not his fault his friends are all certified brainiacs and that the ones that aren’t on the honor roll have either supernatural (El) or supersarcasm powers (Max). Steve is just Steve. Not good enough to get into college, not good enough to hold his parent’s attention for more than a fleeting moment, not even good enough to make his first real love love him back. But Steve is Steve. He has some good qualities. He can swing a nail bat, for instance. And the person or monster who broke into his home at 2 A.M. and is making a ruckus in the kitchen is gonna see how well Steve can swing that bat. 

Steve is not an idiot. He quickly puts on jeans, a sweater and his tennis shoes, so he doesn’t have to face whoever it is in his boxers. He doesn’t make a noise when he tiptoes down the stairs. He doesn’t turn on the lights. He doesn’t call out a tentative “Who goes there?” and he most certainly doesn’t wait to raise his bat to a swinging position. 

Steve is an idiot.

Because Steve is seeing Eddie in his kitchen. Eddie Munson, who died in Dustin’s arms in the Upside Down and whose body they couldn’t bring with them when they returned to the real world. Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson, who fought off a swarm of Demobats with nothing but a spear and a shield. Eddie the Banished, who was hunted down by an angry mob because they thought he was a satanic, murderous cult leader. Eddie the Hero, who gave his life to save his friends. Eddie with the expressive face, who gave Steve his vest ‘for his modesty’ and hunts Steve’s dreams every night. Eddie with the doe eyes, who fills Steve with regret about things that never happened but possibly could have, if only if they had more time. More time together.

“Hey man, sorry to wake you,” Eddie says, like he has just seen Steve yesterday instead of four months ago. Like he had not died in Dustin’s arms, his lifeless body too heavy and limp to move with them through the portal. Like Steve hasn’t been living with an overwhelming sense of guilt that clamps down uncomfortably on his chest every time he has a moment to think. Guilt that has him making himself run haggard, keeping himself busy, tiring himself out to the point he can no longer think. 

“Sorry about the glass,” Eddie winces. He holds up the bottom half apologetically, the shards that formed the top half scattered on the floor by his feet. He’s bare footed, only wearing ripped jeans and a torn up shirt. The fingers around the glass are long and pointy, the tips dark. They look like claws. “I was thirsty, wanted to have some water.” He looks at Steve sheepishly, his eyes gleaming in the low light of the moon that comes in through the kitchen window. “I can replace it.”

“Don’t bother. We have a cupboard full of the same damn glasses.”

Steve is an idiot. He shouldn’t be talking to whatever it is that is standing in his kitchen, he should swing his bat and kill the damn thing that wears Eddie’s face.

“Okay.” Eddie moves to put the remnants of the glass back on the counter. It lands on its side, rolling into the sink with a clang. Eddie doesn’t react to it, he looks around the dark kitchen and asks where Steve keeps a broom and a dustpan. 

“Bottom cabinet in the corner,” Steve points.

Eddie nods eagerly and turns on the spot to go where Steve points him. One of the leathery wings on his back rakes over the kitchen island and mows down the decorative ceramic dish that Steve’s mom uses as a fruit basket. It’s been a while since she’s been home, so it’s only the dish that hits the floor, not any fruit. The ceramic shatters when it hits the tiles, small shards flying as far as Steve’s feet.

“Oh shit. I’m really not doing this on purpose, I swear.” It’s a strange thing to see Eddie so meekly, his clawed hands balled in front of his chest, his wings almost drooping.

Steve is an idiot. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I didn’t like that thing anyway.” It’s true, he always thought the dish with the frumpy vines painted across the surface was ugly. “Stay where you are, I’ll get it.” 

Steve places his bat on the counter and flicks the light switch for the lights above the kitchen island so he can see better. Eddie doesn’t react to the yellow light that floods the kitchen. Steve moves towards the bottom cabinet that holds the broom and dustpan while Eddie makes himself as small as possible in the space between the sink and the kitchen island. He sweeps up the glass and ceramic, noticing that Eddie’s toes are as black as his fingertips when he crouches down by his feet to get the last bits of glass. The nails are longer and pointy. Claw-like. 

Steve sets the dustpan on the counter and gingerly fishes the broken glass out of the sink. Eddie follows him around the kitchen with his eyes, only speaking up when Steve has everything tidied up and puts the dustpan and broom away again. “I’m thirsty.” 

“Water?” At Eddie’s nod Steve grabs a glass from the cabinet - the exact same as the one Eddie broke - and moves over to the tap. It brings him close to Eddie again, who is still trying to take up the least amount of space as possible. He’s fidgeting with his rings, Steve notices, the blackness of his fingertips extending down to the large metal rings. Eddie’s wearing his Hellfire shirt, but it’s filthy and it has a large tear down the collar. Eddie’s collarbones and part of his chest are visible, covered in dirt and tattoos. He’s not wearing the guitar pick necklace, because Dustin took that with him when they left Eddie’s body in the Upside Down. Steve wonders if Eddie misses it. “Here you go,” he says, handing the other man a glass of water.

“Thanks.” Eddie shuffles a little closer and takes the glass gingerly, clearly trying to not break it again. He downs the entire glass in one go and makes a face. He thrusts the glass back at Steve. “More please.”

“Sure.” Steve fills the glass with water again, glancing over his shoulder at Eddie who keeps crowding closer, inch by slow inch. “Are you okay?”

“Sure,” Eddie responds, “just thirsty.”

“You have wings.” It feels like a stupid thing to say, so perhaps everyone was right and Steve really is stupid.

Eddie looks at him quizzically as he puts the refilled glass to his lips. “Wings?”

“Nevermind.” Steve is not surprised when he has to fill up the glass again. Eddie is standing really close now, he looks over Steve’s right shoulder to see how he moves the glass underneath the tap and fills it up. He toys with a lock of curls, twisting it around his black finger again and again. When he bites his lip his teeth are sharp and pointy like his nails. The skin breaks and a drop of dark blood pearls on his lip. Eddie doesn’t show any sign that he even feels it and licks the blood away with a quick flick of his tongue, his eyes never leaving Steve’s face.

It’s disconcerting how much the thing still looks like Eddie, still sounds like Eddie. It’s Eddie’s doe eyes that stare at Steve, it’s Eddie’s lips that curl into a grateful smile when he hands him another glass of water. It’s Eddie’s voice that thanks him, that tells him that he’s “still so thirsty.” And: “Can I have another one, sweetheart?”

By the fourth glass Eddie has moved from twisting his own hair around his finger to scratching his nails through the hair at Steve’s nape. He can tell it’s meant to be done gently, but the nails are sharp and they burn where they make red marks on his skin. He leans against his hands braced on the edge of the sink, his head hanging down between his shoulders. Eddie is a firm line against his back. He’s not exactly warm, but he’s not cold either.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?” The scratching at his nape stops for a second and then it picks up again.

“For leaving you behind.” His voice catches in his throat. “For not being able to save you.”

The hand leaves his neck and two arms wind around his waist, mimicking a hug. It’s all done carefully, almost lovingly, yet the pointy nails still catch in his sweater and he can feel them lightly prick his skin when Eddie pulls himself closer against Steve’s back. His breath is hot on his neck when he speaks. “I’m here now, Stevie, aren’t I?”

Steve sighs, leaning into the treacherous embrace. “Yeah.” 

Steve is an idiot.

Eddie hugs him even closer, making Steve stand more upright and pressing him against the sink. Steve has one hand on the sink to brace himself, the other is holding on to Eddie’s arm where it is pressed against his chest. The hand with the black finger is splayed across his heart, rubbing the fabric of his sweater against his skin. Eddie noses behind his ear, nuzzling against him in lazy movements. “You smell so good, sweetheart,” he whisper-sighs. 

Steve is an idiot.

He closes his eyes, listens to Eddie telling him how nice he feels, how sweet he is, how he wants to climb inside him and live there. His nail bat lies forgotten on the kitchen counter. There’s a fleeting sense of regret when he thinks of Robin, of Dustin and the other kids, but it’s forgotten when Eddie’s hand caresses his throat, his lips traveling the line of Steve’s jaw.

“I’m so thirsty, sweetheart,” Eddie croons in a quiet voice, only for Steve to hear.

Steve doesn’t open his eyes. He feels drunk and lucid at the same time. “I know,” he whispers back.

The hand on his throat moves up, sharp nails scratching his cheek but only barely, coaxing him to look at Eddie. Dark, half lidded eyes catch his and cool lips press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I want you to be mine, Stevie, mine alone.”

Steve shudders, his breath catching in his throat. He doesn’t try to move away from Eddie’s hold, feels himself sinking into it instead.

“Do you want to be mine, sweetheart?”

“Y- you promise?” It’s more a breath than a whisper, but Eddie hears it anyway. More importantly, he understands. He breathes in deeply, humming softly, happily. 

“I will be so good to you, Stevie,” Eddie promises. “You will be mine and I will be yours.”

Steve knows that what Eddie is promising him is not good. That there’ll be pain and grief and despair. But that’s familiar. Steve knows pain and grief and despair. And he knows loneliness. So when Eddie asks him again: “Do you want to be mine?”

“Y-yes.”

Eddie’s teeth are sharp and it’s more tearing than biting. His blood is warm when it runs down his throat. Steve feels his body growing colder, his vision swimming. But Eddie holds him close, keeps pressing bloody kisses to his skin, keeps telling Steve the same thing over and over again: “You are mine and I am yours.” 

Right before everything goes black, Steve knows that it’s the truth.

“You are mine and I am yours.”