#angst train choo choo

[leet911]

Something something Laudna always telling Imogen to move on, but if everything goes their way, in the best case scenario, Laudna the not-quite-alive is the one who is going to have to move on, the one who is going to be left behind 😭😭😭

[gomzdrawfr]

[angst, panic attacks, implied MCD]

disclaimer: methods of overcoming panic attacks are based on my own experience and not from licensed professional medical people

Do it for him

━━━━━━❆━━━━━━━

[anenbyraccoon]

Wouldn't it be funny if it was revealed that Gideon likes kids and childlike stuff because he had part of his childhood taken away from him? And he wants the best for them because he never got to experience it for himself?

Funny, right?

[metalmiez]

CHOO CHOO

HERE COMES THE ANGST TRAIN 🚂

Just….don’t ask. I’m a really normal person.

Thanks again for @riathedreamer ‘s amazing Discord server for feeding me with crack ideas like this 😂 I love you all ❤️

[haleswallows]

Happy Friday!

Fandom: DC x DP Pairing: Dead Tired (Danny/Tim) Rating: Teen High Fantasy AU, Arranged Marriage, and Dragons (oh my!) Chapter 13

TEASER:

“I dare say Phantom could not have found a better match,” Frostbite mused. A pretty flush rose on the prince’s cheeks. Danny focused on it, instead of his own fluttering heart. “If you wish for me to approve,” he directed at Danny, tone indulgently affectionate, “then you need not worry, Snowflake.”

He didn’t need to voice his thanks. It was a relief, not that Danny thought Frostbite wouldn’t approve. But the reassurance was welcome.

“You will stay a few days?” Frostbite asked as he shuffled his wings. They rasped against each other. “It is so rare a human comes to see me, and I do not remember ever meeting a prince from Gotham.”

“Mūti invited us to stay with her for a few days,” Danny said. “And I’ve been told by no less than three people to enjoy a little time from the Keep. Apparently, I’m stressed.”

“So I will get to see you both some more yet. A delightful surprise.” Frostbite rolled his eye back to the prince, who blinked at the sudden change in the ancient’s attention. “Little prince, I must implore you to look after this willful child. He has a great talent for getting himself into all manner of messes and trouble. I fear he has no survival instincts, despite all my worrying.”

“Stop it,” Danny groused. He was glad for the cold, perhaps it would hide his blush. “I was going to ask if you’d like to have the honor of doing our soulbond, but I don’t think I will now.”

“Ah.” Nudging Danny with his snout, Frostbite nearly bowled Danny onto his butt. “Child, I implore you to allow me. You have no talent in holding a spell.”

Gods, Frostbite just kept outing all his flaws. Soon, the prince would know all of Danny’s failings. How embarrassing.

“I just thought,” Danny said as he threw his arms around Frostbite’s nose. “You would like to help. It seemed appropriate, to have the great Ancient Frostbite cast the first soulbond between High Chief and Gotham Prince. That, and I have no talent for holding a spell.”

Frostbite snorted, blowing a clump of flurries all over Danny's front and up his nose. Danny stumbled away, rubbing his face. Like father, like son, he supposed. Sometimes he hoped Aquila would drop the habit, but Danny lost all illusions he would. Afterall, if Frostbite was still doing it in his timeless state, then it was a lost cause.

Danny rejoined the prince, sniffling a little.

“Would you like to evoke the soulbond now?” Frostbite tucked away his sly smile, circling back to the serious topic. “Or shall we wait for tomorrow?”

Now didn’t bother Danny. He shrugged, and gave deference to Prince Timothy to allow the prince to answer for them. “Oh.” The prince turned to him, chewing his lip as he searched Danny’s face. Danny absolutely didn’t let his eyes drop to the prince’s mouth. “I have no qualms with now.”

Looking between them, Frostbite smiled so softly, Danny felt the warmth of his affection. Some day, it would stop surprising him. And some day, he might even feel like he deserved it. For all his flaws and mistakes, Danny didn’t know what he did to deserve the dragon’s unconditional love.

Exist, he supposed. For Frostbite, it was that simple.

“Snowflake?” Frostbite rumbled. Danny pulled on a smile, letting the dour thoughts fall away.

This was easy. Well, maybe not easy, but familiar at least. Danny had gone through the motions five times now, and every bonding felt a bit different. Of course it did, each bond was different.

The prince’s nervousness was obvious. He stood stiffly, and his grip tightened on Danny’s hand.

Danny smiled encouragingly – Frostbite would take care of them, the ancient would never be able to bear it if he did harm to a human. Carefully, he guided the prince a few steps away and took both his hands so they stood face to face. It reminded him forcibly of the marriage rites in the Keep.

Maybe this time, Danny would be able to control himself and not kiss the prince.

The prince’s eyes fluttered a moment as he took a deep breath. “Ready?” Danny murmured, just for him. “Take all the time you need, Your Highness.”

He couldn’t help it – Danny watched the prince, even though he knew Frostbite would have words for him later. Both for getting married without telling him and for being so carelessly besotted. But who could blame him? Eyelashes a thick fan over cheeks tinted pink by the cold, lips plush from all the biting he had done, the prince was a vision. To keep himself in check, Danny rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Prince Timothy’s hands, hoping it served to soothe his nerves.

The prince looked up at Danny through his eyelashes, and nodded. “Ready.”

Frostbite breathed out a great plume of swirling snowflakes. And a new bond opened, pulling on Danny’s soul.

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

The bond took. It slammed into Tim’s mind with a foreign weight, a headache forming right behind it as his brain struggled with the new input. Unknown, unlike anything he had ever experienced.

He was instantly aware of Phantom’s proximity - not just physically, the heat of his body, the sound of his breaths. But now internally. His mind was like a compass needle, and Phantom true North. A tugging in his mind, a pull that Tim tensed himself against to keep from leaning towards. Tim knew in his heart of hearts that blindfolded and turned around, he would be able to find his way to Phantom.

It was terrifying.

And nestled between the stinging pain of the headache, the pull of the bond in his frontal lobe, there was something else. A blur of emotions, a bouquet of flavors and colors in his mind, his hands quivering, his heart pounding. It took Tim a long breathless moment to disentangle it from his own feelings.

Joy-affection-warm that bled into guilt-sad-dread as he worked to pick them apart.

Was... was that Phantom?

Tim kept his eyes closed, chasing the emotions. Scared-affection-guilt felt sour and warm, like curdled milk. He couldn’t discern if the swoop in his stomach was the same as seeing Dick come back from patrol with only small scrapes, or the same as a missed step, expecting solid ground and finding nothing.

Like a hound, Tim pursued it. Relentless in trying to grasp it. His own emotions felt pale in comparison, his heart pounding with Phantom’s fear.

Fear?

And just as soon as he captured it, the bond was gone. Echoing in his mind, like the gates of Wayne Castle slamming closed. Tim blinked his eyes open.

Phantom stood a few paces apart, his face turned away. The armor he wore disguised any tension in body but Tim could see the way his hands clenched. It looked like he didn’t even breathe. The leather of his gloves creaked with the force he fisted them at his sides – the only outward expression Tim could see. Tim… didn’t understand.

[murd3rouscrow]

Tiny spoilers for the three gabels ahead. You have been warned.

Anyways, so we all agree there's no way that this is gonna end well? Like obviously the case will get solved, but it won't end well for our 221 trio. Cause John has said he didn't want to do more cases for a bit. He has asked Mariana to turn off the mic, which she didn't do.

So I'm gonna make a tiny prediction. I think we'll get a smaller fight around the end of part 2, cause either Mariana or Sherlock is in more trouble and they need John's help. And we all know John cares about his friends more than he cares about his own wellbeing, so he has a small row with Mariana/Sherlock (whichever isn't in danger at the moment) and it moves into part 3.

Now here, I mostly assume it'll be Mariana in danger cause I think the podcast will want to go back to Sherlock and John at least for one episode. Although some John and Mariana is also appreciated.

Anyways, so by the end of part three, probably after the case has been solved, John blows up on the other two, about how he's tired and how he specifically asked for no cases and to turn the mic off. And I don't want the fight to be resolved. Let it end with:

Sherlock: John... We are incredibly sorry...

Mariana: yeah John, we really didn't mean for you to get caught up and...

John: don't... Sorry doesn't just fix things... I just- I need some time...

[im-not-buying-it-ether]

Bat-Swap update!

After like… three months…

Family Reunion; Freddy & Bruce

A brother blessed, a brother damned, another fleeing the middle with no comfort with either.

Freddy somehow got the short end of the stick and the long one when it came to family, but it never stopped him from loving them all. No matter how bad things turned out

[rookinthecrownest]

"Yes your honour that's them, they're gonna keep dancing around their feelings for each other until the next Age bc they're both stupid, arrest them"

I have no idea when I'm going to finish Night 5, so here's an excerpt of what I've been working on so far. I desperately need to finish this second playthrough so I can see the end of Emmrich's romance.

[nemisisnemi]

The only constant...is angst (and also the bandage on his eye)

Here are the closeups for the different Leonas from the animation

[torscrawls]

Fractured

Summary:

“I—I don’t—” Danny hesitated. “I don’t remember.” Tucker and Sam exchanged a look and Danny tensed up. Tucker asked carefully, “What don’t you remember?” “Anything! We were in the kitchen, fighting the Lunch Lady, Sam called out to me because the ghost threw a chunk of meat and then… Then we were here.” OR Danny can’t remember anything that happens while he’s Phantom and it’s starting to catch up to him.

Words: 3 377

You can read the whole thing on AO3.

This is inspired by a holiday truce prompt from @ectospacecadet! They just had too many good ideas that my brain latched onto for the gift exchange!

-

“Danny! You’re back!” Sam sounded half-way to hysterical and Danny blinked  open his eyes in confusion.

Tucker immediately grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Oh my god, are you okay?!”

“…What?” Danny blinked and sat up. He looked round the lab and took in the sight of his panicking friends, the smell of smoke, and the swirling portal in front of them. “It turned on?”

“What do you mean it turned on?!” Tucker exclaimed, still gripping his shoulders too hard. “You turned it on!”

Danny frowned. “I did?”

He looked down on his aching hand, surprised at seeing the burn covering his palm. Well, that would explain the pain he felt through his whole body.

He had a vague memory of going into the portal and falling, and then… nothing. He had no idea how he had ended up on the other side of the lab.

“Yeah!” Tucker nodded. “And then you turned into a ghost and—”

Danny snapped his head up. “I turned into what?!”

“A ghost…?” Tucker trailed off.

“No I didn’t?

Sam and Tucker exchanged a look. Sam crouched down in front of him. “Danny? What do you remember?”

Danny frowned. “I walked into the portal. I think I stumbled on something, and then I fell, and then… I woke up here?” He hadn’t intended to make it a question, but he couldn’t help it. What was going on?

“You…” Sam trailed off, hesitating. “You came out of the portal though? As a ghost?”

Tucker nodded. “Yeah, you were all glowy and stuff.”

“What?” Danny frowned, looking down at his decidedly non-glowing hands. “No?”

Tucker let go of his shoulders. “You don’t remember?”

Danny shook his head.

Sam tilted her head as she studied Danny. “So you mean you don’t remember anything that happened while you were a ghost?”

“I’m not a ghost!”

“You were though,” Tucker insisted.

Sam frowned. “But we talked with you! You were… normal.”

Danny didn’t know what to say to that. Tucker shook his head. “I’m sure it’s just the shock.”

“Yeah,” Danny agreed without believing it. “Probably.”

—

It wasn’t just the shock.

During the following days he experienced several unexpected side-effects of his forgotten stunt in the ghost portal . Like falling through the floor. Dropping stuff. Turning invisible. Flying.

Which were apparently things that ghosts could do. Because he had ghost powers now.

Because he had died.

Danny’s crisis had barely started before he had to push it all down to deal with later because of a ghost attack. Apparently he hadn’t been the only ghost coming out of the newly opened portal and this one was pissed that they had changed the lunch menu.

Danny, Sam, and Tucker ducked flying sausages and waves of unidentifiable meats while they tried to come up with a solution that would make sure they left the school alive.

Danny ducked what looked like a steak morphed with a rack of ribs and swore as it absolutely demolished the table behind him.

“Danny!” Sam called out from behind him, “Watch out!”

Danny turned towards the ghost, saw the big chunk of dripping meat hurling right for his head, and instinctively pulled on the coldness in his chest and—

And blinked as he was suddenly outside the school. His arm ached.

Danny looked around with wide eyes and saw Sam and Tucker standing next to him, talking about something he couldn’t completely follow. Both of them were banged up with bruises and scabs and Danny couldn’t remember anything that had happened.

He looked down at his left arm as he took in the wound he didn’t remember getting. Danny cast around for the Lunch Lady, but he couldn’t see her anywhere, so instead he turned to his friends with a slightly strangled, “What happened?”

Tucker frowned at him. “What?”

“Where is the Lunch Lady? Are you okay? How did we end up out here?!” Danny asked with an increasing level of panic in his voice. Why couldn’t he remember anything?

Sam joined in with Tucker’s frowning. “…Danny, are you okay?”

Was he?

“I—I don’t—” Danny hesitated. “I don’t remember.”

Tucker and Sam exchanged a look and Danny tensed up. Tucker asked carefully, “What don’t you remember?”

“Anything! We were in the kitchen, fighting the Lunch Lady, Sam called out to me because the ghost threw a chunk of meat and then… Then we were here.”

Tucker blinked as his frown deepened. “Man. You turned into a ghost again and fought her!”

“I… did?”

Sam jumped in. “Yeah! All glowing and stuff.”

Tucker placed a hand on his arm. “We thought you were fine! You seemed completely fine!”

“You mean I remembered everything?” Danny wrung his hands. The wound he didn’t remember getting ached. “When I was a… ghost?”

Tucker nodded. “Yeah!”

“But then why can't I…”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” Sam said in what Danny was sure she thought was a comforting tone of voice. It didn’t help much. “It might just be a slight hiccup? Or maybe you hit your head?”

He didn't know what kind of hiccup could erase your memory so completely, but he nodded anyway. Instead he carefully asked, “Did I… Do something weird?”

Sam tilted her head. “Weird? What do you mean?”

“When I fought the Lunch Lady. Was I… Was I acting like myself?”

Sam laughed. “Who else would you be acting like?”

“Yeah man,” Tucker agreed and punched Danny lightly in the arm. Right on his new wound. “Just because you look strange doesn’t mean that you are, you know?”

Danny didn’t know.

—

It didn't go away. If anything, it got worse. With more and more ghosts showing up through the portal he found that he more often than not needed to turn into one himself to fight them off.

Besides, every time a ghost showed up he felt this intense need to pull on the new cold residing deep in his chest, and afterwards he could never remember what happened.

It was just. Completely blank.

Apparently Phantom was just like him. Same memories, same mannerisms, same way of being. Except that he was very much dead.

Sam and Tucker had tried to find out more by talking to him and apparently he didn't have the same issues of not remembering things as Danny had. Apparently being dead meant that you remembered everything just fine, whether from when you were alive or dead. Go figure.

He knew he shouldn’t talk about him as a separate person, since apparently they were the same person, but it didn’t feel like it.

It felt like someone was taking his place.

“Maybe it’s like... A translation error? When you change from ghost to human?” Sam mused while they were walking home from school. 

Tucker perked up. “Like a hard drive that’s not compatible with your system!”

Danny cast him an annoyed look. “I’m not a computer.”

Tucker wiped a fake tear from the corner of his eye. “And I mourn that fact every day.”

“This is serious!” Danny crossed his arms. They might be able to joke about this, but it wasn’t—It wasn’t funny. Not to him.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t kidding. Maybe there’s just something inherently different between how the living and dead think. The dead seem to be able to remember their life as humans, but maybe the same isn’t true when you go the other way.”

Danny let his crossed arms drop back down to his sides. “Maybe… But then what can I—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence before they were interrupted by a laughing, glowing, flying, and burning robot ghost blasting through the wall of a building in front of them. “I’ll get you this time, whelp!” And he was pointing right at Danny.

Danny froze. “Who is that?!”

“What do you mean who is that?!” Sam exclaimed as she dove for cover. “It's Skulker! The ghost we fought last week, don't you reme—” Sam cut herself off.

“No, I don't,” Danny bit out.

“No time right now!” Tucker screamed as he joined her behind the bench. “Less talking, more fighting!”

And he turned to look at Danny. Danny, who was still standing frozen in the middle of the street. The ghost apparently named Skulker laughed and extended what looked like huge rockets from his shoulders.

“Danny! You have to go ghost!” Tucker called.

“I—” He hesitated. He didn’t want to. “I don’t—”

“There’s no time!” Sam yelled as she brought out her own ectogun, pitifully small in comparison to Skulker’s weapons, now aimed right at Danny. “Danny, just do it!”

Skulker fired.

Danny closed his eyes and reached for the cold inside of him.

And then he opened them again and it was over.

Tucker was next to him, smiling and jumping. “That was so cool! You just—Just flew and shot him and—!”

Danny looked down at his hands. They were smeared with green. “What did I do?”

Sam slapped him on the back with a wide smile. “You kicked Skulker’s butt!”

“I…did?” His hands started shaking.

“Danny?” Tucker asked carefully, his smile dying down. “You okay?”

Danny lowered his hands and hid them behind his back. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Sam’s smile dropped. “No memory again?”

Danny looked away.

“Here! I took a photo this time- Maybe it will help?” Tucker said hopefully, holding out his phone to show him.

Danny grabbed the phone with shaking hands and looked down at the image of a glowing ghost with white hair and dressed in a black jumpsuit. Danny traced the outline of what was supposed to be him.

He pressed his lips together, looked away and handed the phone back to Tucker.

He didn't want to see this person, this ghost, who had stolen all of his memories, made him a fragment of himself.

It felt like dying. Like the death he had cheated when he had his portal accident was creeping up on him.

—

The ghosts got stronger and the gaps in Danny's memories got longer.

It wasn't unusual for him to forget whole days and it got harder and harder to follow along with what was going on around him. It started to leak into his every-day life as well and Danny had a suspicion it came with him becoming more ghostly even as a human. Like right now; he had been doing his homework and then—

Then he came to with something warm and wet dripping down his face. He was lying down on his back, something hard and cold beneath him. His head throbbed. Danny slowly sat up to find himself in a small crater of cracked concrete. 

He looked around and his breathing hitched.

There was devastation all around. He was… He was outside the mall, or what was left of it. Collapsed walls, split streets, several demolished cars and streetlamps, and almost no humans in sight. There was a dragon in the sky above, all glowing otherworldliness and booming roars that shook the ground beneath Danny’s already rattled body.

Danny’s breathing picked up and his rib cage hurt. He couldn’t hear anything except the dragon’s loud roar echoing through his skull. He needed to get out of there. He scrambled to his hands and knees, green dripping down his nose and splattering on the cracked asphalt. And then his arms gave out.

Danny screamed into the ground in fear and frustration.

A sudden whining sound reached him and then something hot and bright slammed into the ground next to him, leaving a smoking crater. 

Danny scrambled to his feet, stumbled a few steps, and then his knees buckled. His palms stung and he smelled burnt citrus and smoke. Smelled his own blood.

He didn't know who this ghost was. He didn't know what they wanted or what he himself had been doing. He didn't even know where his friends were.

As if hearing his panicked thoughts, Sam and Tucker popped up from behind an overturned car.

Sam cupped her hands over her mouth and screamed, “Danny! You okay?!”

Danny didn’t know how to answer that so he simply blinked and tried to breathe through the pain and panic.

Out of the corner of his eye he distantly noted that the ghost had turned towards his friends and raised its hands and fired another set of glowing energy. That… That wasn’t good.

“Danny!” Tucker screamed and there was real fear in his voice. Danny reacted on instinct, tugging on that cold feeling in his chest, felt the transformation pass over him, and then—

And then the fight was over. He was on the other side of town and his friends were nowhere in sight.

At least this time there weren’t any ghosts in the sky. That he could see. Danny took a step before stopping in place as an involuntary noise of pain tore from his throat.

He wouldn’t be able to make it back home by himself.

“Guys?!” He called out to the empty street. “Where are you? Are you okay?” Danny swallowed a lump in his throat. “…What happened?”

The silence was broken by a cheery tune and Danny frowned at the out-of-place sound. Then his brain registered it as his ringtone and he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. It had a new crack though the center but after a couple of tries he managed to answer the call from Tucker. “…Tuck?”

“Danny?! Where are you? You okay?”

“I—” Danny looked around and decided to answer the easier of the two questions. “I’m next to the library. In front of the park.”

“We’ll be right there!”

Then he hung up and Danny was left in silence. He limped over to the edge of the park and stood next to a cluster of trees, feeling a bit better when he was slightly hidden from view.

He zoned out, swaying where he stood and trying not to think about what had just happened. How he felt.

“Danny?”

Danny looked up, blinking in surprise when he came face to face with Tucker and Sam, both of who looked slightly scratched up but otherwise okay. They were both looking at him with worried expressions.

He opened his mouth to answer them, but all that came out was a sob.

And then there were hands on him, careful and light, but they still hurt. Everything just hurt.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re fine,” Tucker said as he frowned when he took in the state Danny was in.

Sam nodded and added, “You did it.”

Danny sucked in a shaking breath and managed, “But I didn’t. I just—We were in school and then at the mall and now I’m here, and I don’t—” his breath caught painfully in his throat. “I can’t—I can’t remember.”

The hands on his shoulders tightened as Danny slumped, his legs not able to hold him up any longer. He was carefully lowered to the ground. Sam, speaking with forced calm, “Come on, let’s sit down.”

Tucker added a slightly panicked, “And breathe, please.”

And Danny did his best to fulfill his request. They sat in silence for several long minutes as Danny got himself back under some semblance of control, the panic pushed back to its usual simmering where it always resided nowadays.

“Alright,” Danny said as he dragged a hand down his face. “So what happened this time?”

Tucker gave him a dubious look. “You sure you're good?”

Danny nodded even though he really, really wasn't. But he needed them to tell him what he had done, what had happened. “Please. I need to know.”

Sam heaved a deep sigh, leaning back on her hands from where she sat next to Danny in the grass. “Where should we even start?”

“Yeah, dude,” Tucker said as he crossed his legs, “it's starting to get hard to clue you in to what's happening every time you change.”

Sam nodded with a worried frown. “It's starting to feel like talking to two different people.”

Danny tensed in fear as a wave of fresh panic washed over him. “What do you mean? Is Phantom acting differently?”

Tucker gave him a strange look. “You aren't acting differently, it’s just hard since you don't remember anything that's going on.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, “it's starting to become dangerous.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do about it?” And even Danny himself was surprised at the anger in his voice, but he had run out. He was empty. He just wanted a break.

Sam shook her head, “No, that’s not what we—

“I’m so sorry that this is inconvenient to you!”

“Danny, stop,” Tucker pleaded.

“No! I’m— I can’t just— Who even am I anymore?!” Danny covered his face with his hands, not wanting to look at them anymore. “Is he the real Danny?!”

“Stop being dramatic,” Sam said, but there was more worry than annoyance in her voice and it only made Danny more scared. If even Sam was worried about this situation then he might be truly fucked.

Tucker added, “And you have to breathe.”

“Do I?! Aren't I dead?!” Danny growled as he lowered his hands back down.

“We can—” Sam said and then hesitated. “We can solve this.” 

“How?!” Danny demanded.

“I don't know!” Sam threw her hands in the air. “Maybe… Maybe we should ask you when you're a ghost? Since you remember more then?”

Danny felt betrayal well up inside of him, hot and sharp and burning. And then the panic came back. “You like him better, don't you?” 

Sam held her hand up in front of her with wide eyes. “No! Of course we don't! Danny, it's still you. You know that and—” 

“I don’t know that!” Danny bit out. “I can’t remember anything!”

Silence. Sam and Tucker kept their eyes on the ground, their shoulders raised high.

Danny felt shame crawl up his throat; he hadn't meant to take it out on them. He slumped back where he sat, looking up at the sky. He let out a long breath, ignoring the way his ribs twinged. “Maybe my parents are right.”

Sam and Tucker both blinked at him and Sam breathed out an incredulous, “…What?”

“I mean. Phantom. He’s, I don’t know, replacing me? Isn’t that the same as haunting me?”

Tucker shook his head. “No, Danny, it’s still you.”

“No, it’s not. I can’t remember any of it,” Danny argued, but the anger was gone from his voice. He only felt tired.

“So then you're going to, what?” Sam asked incredulously, “Ask them to attack you?!”

“No. No. I just. Maybe they can help to… get rid of him? Make him go away?” Danny blinked up at the clouds in wonder. It was so simple, why hadn't he seen it before?

“Danny, no. That is not the answer,” Tucker said with a shaking voice and Danny looked down at his friends to find them looking at him with horrified expressions.

He tilted his head to the side. “Do you have a better idea? Do any of you have a single other idea on what to do? I can’t—I can’t keep doing this.”

Tucker looked down at his hands and then carefully said, “…What if you just stopped transforming into Phantom?”

“You’re the ones who always insists that I need to transform! Besides, we all know I can’t do that. Who else is going to protect everyone in town?” He paused and then pressed on, “Protect you?”

They were both silent. That was answer enough.

Danny struggled to his feet with a groan. “I want to go home. I’m tired.”

A cold feeling forced itself up his throat and escaped his lips like a dying breath. Danny slumped where he stood, too tired and worn out to hide his dismay.

Of course another ghost had to attack right now. Of course.

Sam and Tucker both raised their hands as if to stop him but Danny took a short step back to avoid it. Sam looked up at him with wet eyes as Tucker said, voice choked, “Danny you don't have to—”

But he did. He always did.

Before his friends could say something else, Danny tugged on the cold feeling in his chest and closed his eyes.

The cold spread and spread and spread.

[rocksandmirrors]

Then it comes to be the soothing light at the end of your tunnel

Was just a freight train coming your way

[leet911]

Regret

They've been in Wildemount six days and Imogen casts sending every night before bed.  It hasn't worked yet, but still she tries.  She steels herself for the static as she weaves the spell and murmurs her message into the void.

"Laudna?  Can you hear me?  Tell me you're alright.  I need you to be alright.  Please.  I'm sorry, Laudna.  I–"  The screeching feedback interrupts, washing out her words and cutting her off.  A spike of pain shoots between her eyes, making her falter.

Imogen lets out a grunt of frustration, flings her pillow against the wall, and when it drops to the ground with a most unsatisfying sound, she invokes her power.  She pulls it from the ground with telekinesis, rips the pillow apart in the air.  As down flutters around the room, Imogen thinks of screaming, but then she remembers that Laudna isn't around to mend her messes, and she instead falls back to the bed with a sob.

There's a soft knock at her door.  "Are you ok?"  It's Fearne.

Imogen tries to steady herself and her voice.  "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Can I come in?"  Fearne is not convinced.

Imogen opens the door and looks around sheepishly.  There are still small bits of dust and feathers drifting around the room.  She realizes then, that she's not wearing her gloves, and her markings are clearly visible.  Self-conscious, she rubs her exposed forearms where the "Whitestone is for lovers" shirt doesn't cover.

Fearne steps in and glances about.  Her voice is soft and gentle.  "Do you want a hug?"

Imogen nods without looking up.

Warmth engulfs her as Fearne reaches out.  "It's ok if you miss her." Fearne smells like the outdoors, like wilderness and animals.  It reminds Imogen of Flora, and Gelvaan, and those mornings spent in the woods with Laudna, back before it felt like the world was ending.  Or maybe it did feel like the world was ending then, but for entirely different reasons, and they hadn’t known it actually was ending.

"It's…" Imogen rubs at her own neck,"it's just that I promised myself we wouldn't be apart again."

"None of this is your fault."

"But I promised her I wouldn't ever leave." Imogen thinks she might cry, and she hates herself for it.  All this power at her fingertips, and she still feels useless.  Calm emotions beckons at her, but that sounds too much like avoiding the question.  That sounds too much like cheating.  Because maybe Imogen believes she needs this pain, that she deserves this punishment.  Imogen was supposed to save the world, even if she never asked for it. Imogen was supposed to save the world so that Laudna would have time to hear all the things Imogen still had to say to her.

"We got sent away, maybe they did too.  We'll find them."

"But what if we're too late?  What if something happened, and Laudna needs us, and we're not there.  You heard what Deanna said.”  Imogen’s voice drops to a whisper.  “What if Laudna needs me?"  And she isn’t sure if the whisper is to keep the thought from Fearne or herself.  Because the next thought stays inside her own head, not daring to be spoken or broadcast.  What if I need Laudna?  See, Imogen remembers the last time Laudna was beyond the reach of her magic and what that meant.

The arms around her tighten.  “Laudna is stronger than she looks.  Orym and Ashton are too.”

Imogen sighs, nods her head.  She knows it’s true.  Laudna is the strongest person she’s ever met.

“Do you want a cookie?”  Fearne asks all of a sudden.  “FCG made them.”  And she rummages through her pouch to pull out a lone cookie.  “It’s not warm anymore, but it’s still pretty good.”

Imogen takes the treat because accepting seems easier than refusing, and eating is easier than talking.  She’s not really hungry but she bites into it anyway.

It’s a gingersnap, of course.   It’s crispy on the outside, and a little soft in the center.  Just like Imogen. Or Laudna. The surface is sweet, dusted with sugar, but there’s depths of spice hidden underneath.  And in the finish, the slightest tang of citrus.  Esteross’ recipe.  Laudna’s favorite.

The rest of the cookie is devoured.  And to Imogen, it tastes just like regret.

[nogitsunbae]

For a long time, after, Max hated fireworks.

They were too loud, too bright. It didn’t matter if Lucas held her or Will made her laugh. It didn’t matter if she put on headphones and turned the volume all the way up on an old mixtape she found while cleaning, the songs much too heavy and angry for her taste. It didn’t matter if she tried to ignore them completely.

For years, Max hated fireworks.

Then, after time, and healing, and acceptance, Jane took her hand one Fourth of July.

The fireworks had just really started, barely had begun to light up the sky. Jane took Max’s face in her hands and told her to close her eyes. And when she did, she saw him.

She saw him through Jane’s eyes, that night, when he had saved her, and Max, and everyone in that godforsaken town. She saw the colors light up his face, saw the reds of his anger and the blues of his sorrow, and finally she saw the purple of his determination.

She saw him give Jane one last look, and saw his eyes drift away for a second, to someone Jane didn’t see. And she knew it was her.

And after Jane let her face go, wiped the tears from her eyes, Max looked up at the sky, illuminated in all the colors that were Billy.

[blindmagdalena]

Eat Your Ego, Honey ( Ch 6 )

homelander x oc 18+  escort services, sex work, voyeurism, stalking, Homelander in general. see ao3 link for detailed tags. chapter index. check out the playlist!

chapter summary: Homelander spends the morning after their first date musing on what a life with Layla will look like. Unfortunately for both of them, he's quick to voice his fantasy, which clashes hard with her grounded sense of reality.

additional chapter tags: somnophilia, cunnilingus, attempted sexual coercion, accidental injury, gaslighting, physical restraint.

With Layla fast asleep in his arms, Homelander is left to his own devices for the rest of the night. He could sleep, he supposes, but he doesn’t need to. He can go days without. Currently, he finds he simply doesn’t have the desire to be unconscious right now. He wants to savor every moment of this.

She’s here. In his home. In his arms. He inhales deeply, floods his senses with their mingled scents. The lingering warm vanilla of her perfume, the woodsy spice of his cologne, and the heady smell of sex. Amidst it all, he also picks up the distinctive rubbery smell of latex: the condom. Before last night, he can’t recall the last time he used one. He only had the box because it had been packaged with the lube.

He never cared to use them. Didn’t think he needed to until…

Homelander drifts in and out of his thoughts, stubbornly pulling back every time he feels a bristle of anger or grief. In one fell swoop he lost his girlfriend, the mother of his child, and his son. Stormfront may have survived Ryan’s rage, but he knows now that she was gone from him from that moment onward. She only cared about her agenda, not him. Left him alone for his fucking birthday.

Fake or not, what kind of girlfriend kills herself right before your birthday?

By far, the worst part of it all was Ryan. In targeting Becca, Stormfront had alienated he and Ryan from each other, pushed him into the hands of William fucking Butcher. Now he had no idea where his own son was, or if the kid even wanted anything to do with him. 

He never should have let Stormfront interfere. Homelander could have made things work. He was making things work, regardless of Becca’s misgivings, because Ryan needed his mother.

He still needs a mother.

Homelander refocuses on Layla’s sleeping face. She’s even sweeter asleep than she is awake, features soft, unguarded. She’s relentlessly patient, something that had initially frustrated him. He hadn’t been able to rattle her disposition at all during their first session, though he had certainly tried. She’s kind, she cooks, she even sings. Sure, she drinks a little excessively, and her “profession” is a can of worms to deal with all on its own, but overall…

He can’t help but smile faintly, stroking her cheek the same way he had that very first night he visited her in her home.

With a couple of minor adjustments, she would make a hell of a mother.

It’s a nicer thought to fixate on than any of the others. It carries him through the next several hours, taking him away from the sorrow of heartsickness and the losses he has unfairly endured again and again and again. Instead, he imagines what a home shared between the three of them would look like. A large kitchen, naturally, one that would blow her little condo’s setup out of the water. An oversized bath for the two of them to lounge in. She would have everything she could possibly need at her fingertips.

Ryan would have his own room. Big, with bright windows and posters on every wall. Baseball, dad’s movies, shelves for his trophies. Trophies that he earned himself, not just cheap little statues to create the illusion of a childhood. He would have everything that Homelander should have had.

Eventually, Layla stirs. He loosens his hold to let her adjust, watching as she rolls onto her back, the blanket sliding down with her movements. His gaze drifts down, and he’s possessed by a wicked little thrill at not only the sight of her bare breasts, but the bruises that mottle her flesh. He marked her thoroughly with his lips and his teeth last night, a myriad of them blossoming from her chest all the way up to her neck.

“Oops,” he whispers, playful and without remorse. That changes, however, when she adjusts her legs and visibly winces in her sleep before settling back down. Watching her for a moment longer, he follows the trail of bruises back down, adjusts his vision to look through the blanket covering her. Her hips are darkly marked as well, veins erupted beneath the skin in the shape of his hands. Her thighs, too. He can only imagine the state of her hips and pelvis, her cervix. He had been rough with her by human standards, but she had wanted it. Fuck, had she ever wanted it.

He should still apologize, and he knows exactly how he wants to do just that. He dips down to press a kiss to one of the marks atop her right breast, and then another between them. He kisses her nipple, savors the feel of her goosebumps beneath his tongue as he drags his tongue over it. Though she shivers under his touch, she doesn’t wake. He grows bolder, sucking her nipple into his mouth, eyes falling shut.

This feels like thievery, like snatching the proverbial forbidden fruit straight from the tree. It thrills him as much as it unnerves him to take from her without permission. Throughout his life, indulgence has been the most heinous cardinal sin. Deprivation has always been his virtue. He was never given enough of anything, lest he become a gluttonous beast with no carrot to chase, and no stick strong enough to beat him.

Denying him didn’t weaken his appetite. Instead, it turned his hunger boundless. He’s never had enough. He doesn't know if he ever will, or if it’s even possible. After a lifetime of unending yearning, he wouldn’t know what satiation would feel like even if he had it.

He keeps himself weightless to prevent the bed from dipping too much with his movements, lightly hovering as he slips down beneath the blanket, kissing his way down her sternum.

Her legs are splayed well enough for him to gently shoulder between them, arms slipping under her thighs, hands grazing lightly over the bruises shaped just like them. She smells divine, like seasalt vanilla ice cream, the smell of sweat and sex and her favorite moisturizer lingering on her skin, which is soft in his hands. She cares for her body the way a craftsman does their tools, keeping them polished and pristine.

It drives him wild to see her undone, blemished, ravished. It’s proof that she has given him something rare, that her rules don’t apply to him anymore. These marks belong solely to him, even if she doesn’t. 

Yet.

Settling his weight between her legs, he uses two fingers to spread the lips of her pussy apart, closing his eyes as he leans in, dragging his tongue from cunt to clit. There aren’t words for how she tastes because there isn’t anything else like it. Good pussy is a meal in a league all its own, and hers is some of the finest he’s ever indulged on. 

He gives a rumbling sigh against her, moving his tongue in leisurely figure-eights. He could—would—do this for hours if she could withstand it. He closes his lips on her clit and sucks gently, rubbing at it with the tip of his tongue. The pattern of her breaths change, her heart jumps, but she isn’t awake yet. She makes an exquisite noise in her sleep that goes straight to his cock, which has begun to harden against his soft bedding. He makes a matching sound low in the back of his throat, nuzzling into her cunt while he grinds his growing hard-on down against the bed.

Layla’s legs move, closing in on either side of him. He can hear her waking up, feel it in her pulse. A noise of confusion first, disoriented, followed shortly by the sweetest of breathy moans.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes, tangling her fingers gently in his hair. Her grip is weak with sleep, nails scraping deliciously along his scalp. It sends shivers trilling up and down his spine like a xylophone. He relishes just how pleased she sounds with him, how she pets his hair while her clit flutters against his tongue.

Last night's frenzied urgency is absent here. The drags of his tongue are languid, the slight roll of her hips loose and without much rhythm. It’s slow, intimate. He loses himself in it enough that her orgasm sneaks up on him, the smell and taste of oxytocin hitting him in a rush.

Homelander moans against her, plunging his tongue into her to feel the quiver of her velvety walls. He hurriedly shoves his hand down between himself and the mattress, lifting his hips just enough to jerk his cock. It’s a treat to come like this, with her hands in his hair and his mouth on her pussy. He sucks at her clit, milks her of her aftershocks while he pumps himself to release, luxuriating in the sharp little gasps she’s giving, how her fingers tighten in his hair.

He comes with a low groan, the sheets below him soaking up the brunt of the mess. She tugs his hair, and he obligingly crawls up her body, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

She looks radiant beneath him, dazed with both sleep and pleasure, her eyes soft, lips set in a gentle curve. It feeds something carnal in him to have done this to her, that she would look at him like this–with love–because of what he has done for her. She has no idea that this is just the beginning. Will she ever be able to fathom the lengths he’ll go for her if she’ll just give him what he needs?

“Good morning,” he purrs, his own voice a low, pleasure-soaked rumble.

“Very good morning,” she says through a giggle, cupping either side of his face. She kisses him lazily, meeting his tongue with her own, licking the flavor of herself from his mouth. He sinks his weight down atop her, slipping his arms underneath her, happy to kiss her until she breaks to breathe. “Insatiable,” she accuses, carding her fingers through his hair.

He beams down at her, gently bumping his nose against hers. He kisses her again simply because he can. Because he’s allowed to. “You would be too if you were me.”

Layla laughs softly. The sound of it warms him to his core. He watches her blink the remaining sleep from her eyes, smearing what’s left of her makeup as she rubs her face, stifling a waking yawn into her hand. He tucks her hair behind her ear, endeared by the way she leans into his endeared by the way she leans into his palm. He's so enraptured by the eager way she touches him, he forgot how good it can be when someone seeks his touch.

People flinch from him far more often.

They kiss again and again and again. It feels like an exploration, each of them mapping out the feel and pattern of the other. She tilts her head one way, and he goes the other, following her in this dance that he would prefer never ended. As always, she’s the first to break for reprieve. He allows it, nuzzling into the crook of her neck instead. He follows the line of her neck all the way up to her ear with his lips and gentle, grazing teeth. He barely resists the urge to bite. Intimacy is the only vice he’s ever struggled to not grip in his teeth and swallow whole. 

“How did you sleep?” She asks, running her fingers through her hair, down his neck, his back. He sighs his pleasure.

“Great,” he lies smoothly. No sense in getting into the nitty-gritty of things. He did have a great night.

“Good,” she says, stretching her arms out across his back until they each give a satisfying little pop. He shifts, lifting himself onto one arm so that he can once again admire not just her, but his handiwork. He brushes his fingers over the bruises that are smattered across her chest.

“You hurt?” He asks quietly. He wants to be proud of them, he wants to love them unconditionally, but first he needs to know they haven’t cost him something in her eyes.

“Mm-mm, mostly just sore,” she says, twisting and curling his short hair between her fingers. “Very bruised, inside and out,” she says, to which he has the decency to look sheepish. “Do you have ibuprofen?”

“Uhh.” He racked his brain, trying to think of where he might have something as utterly mundane and useless to him as painkillers, but he came up empty. “Nnnnope. It’s, ah… Never come up,” he says, to which Layla chuckles.

“No, of course it wouldn’t. it’s alright, I think I have some in my… purse,” she says, pausing as she looks around. Her clothes are scattered from one end of the room to the other, but her purse is– “Shit, I left it on the balcony.”

“I’ll have it brought up,” he says, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the lips before he lifts up, a slight pep in his step as he makes his way over to his phone: a landline. He’s always had trouble keeping track of a cell phone. “Could I have some water, too?” She calls out after him. “Roger!” He affirms cheerily. He whistles softly, making a pit stop by his fridge on the way to his phone. It’s lucky she only asked for water, as it’s the only thing his fridge is stocked with. He snatches one of the bottles neatly lined up inside, and tosses it absently while he calls to have her things retrieved. Once that’s settled, he makes his way back to his bedroom. She’s sitting up now, his dark comforter draped loosely over her lap. She’s fixing her makeup in the mirror to her right, swiping her fingers beneath her eyes. He watches her lick the pads of her ring fingers to wipe away the dark smudges at the corners, endeared. It’s such a simple, domestic little moment. 

She stops when she notices him staring, and smiles at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging slightly. His tone is soft. “Admiring the view.”

“You’re sweet,” she says, running her fingers through her dark hair to tame it. “Corny, but sweet.” “Always gatta humble me, huh?” He says as he advances, offering her the water bottle. She takes it, eagerly twisting off the cap to take a sip. He slides back in next to her, watching the way her throat works as she swallows. Everything she does is captivating in a way he never would have cared to notice before. Things he would normally find annoying she somehow makes delightful.

“If humbling is what you need, I will gladly provide it,” she says, her smile turning sly. 

Of that, he has no doubt. “What I need-” he begins, leaning in close. “-is more kisses.”

“Mmmm. Lucky for you, I’ve got a fresh batch,” she says, kissing him once, twice, thrice in quick little pecks.

“Christ, woman, don’t waste them,” he growls playfully, taking hold of her face and catching her in one slow, firm kiss.

She laughs against his lips. It’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever felt.

They luxuriate with one another a while longer. Homelander makes a call to the kitchens when Layla inquires about food, but he still isn’t ready to let her out of his bed. Everything is too perfect, too good to let go of. He has the decency to wrap a sheet around his waist when he grabs their breakfast–and her belongings–from the door, but he’s quick to abandon it to climb right back in with her, serving her meal on a silver platter.

“We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she says, taking a bite of the toast. He knows that. They will. He intends to invite her to his birthday celebration tonight, after all. It’ll be better if he doesn’t show up alone. The world is nowhere near forgetting about his most recent failed romantic endeavor.

He resists the urge to lick away the bit of jam that catches on her bottom lip, to interrupt her from her meal, to selfishly claim her every second for himself, to kiss her until she forgets all about that stupid piece of toast, and cares only to satiate her hunger on the taste of him. “...Hello?”

Homelander blinks, realizing he had gone radio silent staring at her mouth. He meets her gaze, and smiles. “What?”

Layla quirks a brow. “We’re going to have to get up eventually,” she repeats, taking another bite of her meal. “You sure you’re not hungry?”

“I ate,” he says, his grin sharpening wolfishly.

“Very funny,” she says wryly, though she can’t hide genuine amusement. She looks good like this. Domestic, even. He really could keep her this way, pampered and cared for. He can offer her more than money, more than mind-melting sex. He has real power in this world. He has so much more to offer her than anyone else could ever hope to. He could give her a real life. A family.

“I have a son,” he says, gauging her response carefully.

She shoots him a look of surprise, lowering the mostly-eaten toast to her plate. “You do?”

“Yeah. He’s, uh… We’re living apart right now,” he says, the words falling awkwardly from his tongue. “Things are complicated.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says gently. Normally, he finds those kinds of condolences sound empty. Rehearsed. Layla always sounds genuine to his ears, the furrow of her brow carrying sincere concern. He wants to lean into it, coax more of that earnest care from her. “Is he with his mother?”

“No, no, she’s gone,” he says dismissively. “That’s a whole mess. I haven’t really had the chance to, uh, to talk to him about that.”

There’s a dash of befuddlement seeping into Layla’s sympathetic expression. “Was… Who was his mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“No one,” he says, tone sharper than he meant to let it be. Things would be so different if she’d just let him raise his own son. “I mean, not… Not anyone you’d know, not anyone significant.”

“She is significant, though,” she corrects him, lips curving into a slight frown. He doesn’t like the turn this is taking: this was supposed to be a pleasant revelation. “She’s your son’s mother.”

“Yeah, yes, sure, she was. She’s dead now,” he says, trying to move on from that. “But what I meant was that she wasn’t, you know, in the news or anything,” he says, skating around any potential inferences she might make, lest she assume he’s referring to Stormfront or any other woman he’s publicly associated with.

Her frown deepens. He wants to choke back everything he’s just said and start over. He wants to go back to her sweet, pacifying sympathy. Not this uncomfortable, critical look she’s evaluating him with. It makes his skin crawl.

“Right,” she says. He hates that tone, the one that tells him he’s anything but right. It tells him she has much more to say than that, and that he wouldn’t like any of it. He bounces his fist on his thigh, agitation creeping up. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. “You haven’t talked to your son about it? Was it recent?”

“Pretty recent,” he says, irritated now. “But that’s really not… that’s not the point. I have a son,” he says again, splaying his hands expectantly, as if he can restart the conversation with that. This is her chance to give a more enthused response.

She doesn’t. “Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“Jesus Christ, I just told you that it’s complicated,” he snaps, though he regrets the slip instantly. Her expression smooths out, cooling to detached nonchalance. Panic begins to set in alongside his frustration. “Don’t–don’t look at me like that,” he spits, exhaling roughly. He pushes his hands through his hair, and tries desperately to recalibrate, holding his hands out to her. “You were supposed to be excited.”

“Excited,” she repeats, tone even. He can’t stand how apathetic she’s turned.

“Yes, excited. I want you to meet my son,” he says, trying once more to extend this olive branch to her.

That gets a response. Her cool indifference falters, brows furrowing. “I don’t think that’s appropriate,” she says, some of that gentleness sinking back into her voice, but he doesn’t care for the sound of it this time around. Or maybe it’s less her tone, and more the words. He’s not sure yet.

“What do you mean appropriate?” He asks, features pulling into a tight, unhappy pinch.

“You–” she begins, pausing to let out a breath. She closes her eyes briefly, and then takes his hands into her own, pulling them down into her lap, bringing their faces closer to one another, leveling him with direct eye contact. “You need to talk to your son. That much is clear,” she says, squeezing his hands. He squeezes hers back.

“That has to happen first. As for me, I’m…” She hesitates, licking her lips. “Your son is grieving. I’m the last thing he needs right now. What he needs is you.I don’t know what complicated entails, but your priority cannot be introducing a strange woman to your child right now.”

“You’re not a strange woman,” he says with  a defensive edge to his tone. “You’re my–we’re–”

“We’re not anything right now,” she interrupts softly. “We’re barely a notion. One date doesn’t mean–”

“No, no. Stop it,” he demands, voice dropping low. He tightens his grip on her hands. “Don’t blow me off. You like me. There’s something here.”

“Yes, but–” She tries to twist her hands out of his grasp. “Let go of my hands, please.”

“No.” “You’re hurting me, John–” “Don’t! Do not fucking ’John’ me.”

“Why? Why not?!” She snaps, louder than he had been. It startles him enough that his grip on her hands eases. He blinks several times. He’s never heard her shout. Almost didn’t think she was capable of it. “You gave me that name! So why not?!”

“Because it’s not a fucking name!” He yells back, escalating right along with her. “It’s nothing! It means nothing! It’s-it’s a fucking–a goddamn placeholder. It was just more convenient than a string of numbers, alright? I don’t want to hear it right now.”

Her heart is thundering in his ears. Her bones feel brittle in his firm grasp. He could snap them without a thought. He immediately loosens his hold. Her expression is fractured by anger, fear, and perhaps worst of all, pity. It’s cloying, a far cry from her usual benevolent sympathy. He wants nothing to do with it. 

“I don’t want to fight with you,” she says, tone level, but not indulgent. He badly misses that quality.

“Then don’t,” he says ardently. “Can’t you just stop thinking about everything so much?”

Layla’s eyes fall shut. She takes in a slow, calming breath, holding it a beat before she exhales. It gives him hope that they’ll recover from this. She tentatively pulls her hands away, and this time, he lets her. However, he feels a bubble of anxiety in his gut when she slips out of bed, and begins picking up her clothes. “What are you doing?” He asks apprehensively, standing.

She pulls her dress on, smoothing her hands down the front of it. “You’re right. I do like you,” she says, stuffing her undergarments into her purse. “But I can’t talk to you right now. Not here.”

He scoffs nervously. “You’re leaving?”

“I need some time to process,” she says, confirming his fear. 

His anxiety spikes. Everything was perfect. How did this happen? “Don’t be fucking childish,” he says, advancing on her. “Talk to me.”

“I’m upset,” she says plainly. “I don’t feel comfortable here right now. I want to go home. We can talk once we’ve both calmed down.”

“I am calm,” he shoots back, frustrated. “You’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Okay,” she says, but she doesn’t stop gathering her things. He watches her sit and slip her shoes on. 

“Is that really all you’re gonna to say?”

“Yes.”

That single word shoots a lance of pure fury through him like no other, but this seething anger comes with a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t know what to do. “Don’t leave.” He tries to make it sound like a command instead of the plea that it is.

“I promise it’s better that I do,” she says, standing up. “Before either of us say or do something we can’t take back.”

“No,” he says, firm and simple. No.

She doesn’t look swayed. If anything, she looks tired. Exasperated, like he’s nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t get to say no to me here. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Homelander lunges. He catches her face between his hands, and kisses her with everything he’s got.It’s a desperate move. Maybe she'll taste that in the way he presses his lips to hers, feel how much he wants her. How much he needs her. She takes hold of his wrists, makes a muffled noise of protest, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t let go.

“Stop,” she manages to get out, pressing hard against his chest now. “Jo–Homelander,” she stresses, but he’s certain he can turn this around. If he can just remind her of how good things were a minute ago, how good he can make her feel, how good he can be for her, then she’ll stop this. She’ll stay.

The harder she pushes against him, the tighter he holds her. She twists, but he doesn’t want her to speak anymore. The more they’ve said, the worse things have gotten. He kisses her like he means to suffocate her, fingers digging in behind her jaw, mouth stifling hers. He can hardly feel her lips anymore, she’s drawn them into a thin line, gritting her teeth behind them. He steps closer, feels her bump into the bed behind her. If he can just–

Something shifts, and Layla makes a distinctly pained noise. The sharpness of it snaps Homelander out of it, has him letting her go like he’s been burned by the touch of her. Both of her hands go to her mouth, where she’s been hurt. She touches the inside of her bottom lip, and her fingers come away bloody. He’s split the skin against her bottom teeth. Her eyes are horribly glassy, and when she looks at him, she looks…

Disappointed.

Stricken, he reaches for her. “I’m sor–”

She sidesteps his touch, dipping to snatch her purse up from where she had dropped it. She hurriedly throws her coat on, covering up all the marks he had been so proud of just this morning. 

“Layla! Layla! Would you just–would you just stop? Please!” He follows her to the door. She’s practically running from him. He catches her wrist, easily stopping her in her tracks. He could keep her here if he wanted to. It would be so easy.  “Please don’t leave me. It’s…” He holds her wrist in a loose but unopening grip, gesturing helplessly with his free hand. “It’s my birthday,” he whispers, strained.

It’s not. He doesn’t know when his birthday is. Everything he’s ever known has been a sham. His life is a fucking joke.

Tears roll freely down her cheeks. He can smell the salt in them, smell her blood, see traces of it between her lips.The copper tang of it makes his stomach churn in a way blood never has.

“Happy birthday, Homelander,” she whispers back, pulling out of his grasp, and turning towards the door.

His hand falls limply to his side. The door to his penthouse opens, it closes, and just like that, he’s all alone. His eyes prickle hotly with tears, a tremble running through his core. He stands there a long while, feeling naked and vulnerable well beyond his nudity.

Something has just been taken from him. He had it, and now it’s gone. That contentedness. It had been bundled warmly in his arms this morning, only to be ripped away with such abrupt violence, it left him shivering cold.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pushing his hands into his hair, squeezing it until his scalp starts to ache. “Fuck, fuck, FUCK!” He roars, catching a nearby vase in his hand. He hurls it across the room with such force that it explodes in every direction upon impact, and a particularly large piece cracks into the center of the mirror hanging on his wall, fracturing it into a web-like pattern.

Homelander stares numbly at his ugly, fragmented reflection.

Just us now.

He closes his eyes, sick of his own tear-stricken face.

I hate you. Chapter Seven.

[museqmeg]

Get wrecked vashmeryl nation... fic wip for @vashmerylweek