#certainly there's not going to be any repercussions for bringing the dead back to life

[statecfdreaming]

i feel your hands are cold

[amtrak12]

Possible Ending for Pushing Daisies

Thesis Notes:

Apologies, but this will not include screencaps to demonstrate my theories. I have other things I want to devote my energy to today, but still needed to get these thoughts out.

I will be using the word "artifact" in the Warehouse 13 sense of the word, aka: an object of human construction that has been imbued with unexplainable, and thus treated as magical, abilities. These abilities typically include an inconvenient or even dangerous downside.

Literally no idea what Bryan Fuller, et all ever said about their intentions for the show if it hadn't been canceled or if they ever said anything post-cancellation. I am working entirely off the canon text here.

Introduction:

Obviously, Pushing Daisies ended before it could reveal what its long term goals for the story were. Did they want to solve Ned and Chuck's issues with touch? Did they want to explain where Ned's powers came from? Were they ever going to explicitly admit to what they implied about the people (and animals) Ned kept alive being immortal???

Absolutely no idea and we can never know for sure. However, they did leave clues and untied plot strings, primarily with the history of Dwight Dixon, Charles Charles, and Ned's father (who was never given a name) and the pocket watches Dwight desperately wanted to find.

Now given the slow roll of these plot points and the deliberate mystery surrounding them, I suspect whatever that trio got up to was the long term plot. And for it to be the long term plot of Pushing Daisies, then presumably it would address the premise of the show, aka Ned's powers to wake the dead.

Foundation Theory:

Dwight, Charles, and Ned's father came across some valuable artifact during their time in the UN Peace Corp, stole it, and divided it up into three equal pieces that they hid in the pocket watches. (Alternatively, they hid the artifact somewhere and divided the map to the hidden location up into three equal pieces.) This artifact is responsible for Ned's powers.

Evidence:

The picture of the three men in the Blue Berets shows them on camels in the desert. This doesn't have to mean Egypt, however Egyptian curses are a very common motif, and Pushing Daisies loved taking story cliches and putting an exaggerated fantasy spin on them. The camels and desert was absolutely chosen on purpose which means it's relevant which means it shows where the men were when they at least bought the pocket watches.

So we have pocket watches and some version of an Egyptian curse. We also have Ned's father leaving after Ned's mother and Charles Charles died, which is important, not only for Ned's backstory, but as insight into his father's motivations.

Detailed Theory:

I posit that the three men knew of the dangerous repercussions when they took this artifact. Maybe it came with a written warning, maybe there was a legend about it, etc. Did the men understand the details of this danger? No. Did they even believe the warning? Well, certainly not enough to stop them from stealing it.

I don't believe they stole this artifact for power. I don't think they believed it was magical in any way. There was not one minuscule hint at any of these men having or tying to obtain magical powers, and Dwight was genuinely shocked at Ned bringing Charles back to life. I think the men were after money. Dwight would certainly be after money most after spending twenty years in jail, so his actions support this theory. Sell one piece of the artifact? Make a nice chunk of change. Sell the entire artifact at once? Make a fortune.

Ned's Powers:

Two ways this can go. Option A: Stealing the artifact, triggered the "curse" to go into effect. Like how the replacement victim when Ned keeps a dead person alive longer than a minute is a random proximity thing, the curse was a random proximity thing and landed on Ned. Option B: Breaking the artifact into three pieces, separated its powers from the object and -- again through random proximity -- the powers landed on Ned. I personally like option B, but I'm a WH13 girlie and your mileage may vary.

Ned's Father:

I think Ned's father knew about his powers. Maybe not before Ned's mother and Chuck's father died (most likely not before), but certainly after. When it happened, he remembered the warning about the artifact, put that information together, felt guilty, and then shipped Ned off to boarding school to try and forget it ever happened (hence the second family).

But it did happen and his father could never really put that guilt behind him. So, he abandoned his second family to dig into the artifact and figure out the curse, while also keeping a distant eye on Ned.

End Game of the Show:

Taking all of this to be true, then the end game would be for Ned and Chuck to learn about what their fathers stole and learn what Ned's dad has dug up about the artifact and curse. Then comes the decision: Do they collect the pieces and restore the artifact to its rightful place? It seems like an easy decision, but it does bring up the following hiccups. Would returning the artifact take away Ned's powers? Does he want his powers to be gone when he's just started to accept them as a super power? It's one thing to choose not to use them and another to not have them at all. Would he be able to touch Chuck if he didn't have his powers anymore or is that something already set into motion and his second touch would still kill her no matter what? Or, worse yet, would Chuck die the instant they returned the artifact?

Adding to the conflict is Ned's father who has done all this research and still sees Ned's powers as a clear-cut upside. A gift, ultimately, and not a curse at all. He doesn't want to return the artifact and isn't willing to handle over his piece of it in the pocket watch. "Look at all the people you've helped! The victims you got justice for, the families you helped find closure. You were able to bring Chuck back to life! You're going to risk throwing that away?" The words just fuel Ned's doubts and guilt. Because there has been good from it. He has helped people, and what if Chuck did die again?

But it was built on something wrong. So he and Chuck ultimately decide (together, of course, as always) that they don't want to live with that and choose to return the artifact. Again, you have two options here: they could convince Ned's father it's the right thing to do and he hands over his piece of the artifact OR he continues to disagree with them and they have to steal his piece from him and go behind his back to return it. It depends on whether you want to give Ned's father a redemption arc or not. Personally, I do not. :P Leave redemption to shows like Lucifer and The Good Place. I am here for technicolor spite.

Happy Ending:

Returning the artifact takes away Ned's powers, but it does not undo anything he did with those powers. The people who died (the funeral director, Dwight) are still dead. The people who are alive again (Chuck, Digby, Charles), are still alive.

But no longer immortal. The immortality was an extension of Ned's powers. No powers, no immortality. Both Digby and Chuck will now age again.

And both can be touched by Ned without dying. :) Relief! Happy ending! But earned, I feel. Even when I was watching it brand new, I definitely wanted them to be able to touch again because it ached so much, but I also didn't want it to be for random reasons, like the consequences wore off after 'x' amount of time. The journey I listed above is indeed a journey, and thus doesn't feel random to me.

Closing Thoughts:

I like how this integrates the loose threads in the show. I like what it says about the damage and trauma parents can pass on to their children and how it doesn't have to be intentional to leave lasting scars. Depending on how you frame the artifact theft, you can even do commentary on colonization, land back, and reparations.

And no, I don't think Chuck's father will suddenly start decaying the moment they return the artifact. This show uses the cartoon logic of a wagon of hay being enough to avoid injury after falling multiple stories out of a bell tower. So, even though Charles was dead and buried for twenty years and presumably has no internal organs because they would've done an autopsy at the time of his mysterious death, he will continue to live and age like normal, just with a permanent corpse face. :P

[biisexualemma]

kick ass. kol mikaelson

word count: 1.8k

warnings: mentions of blood and some violence

requested: n/a

plot: you get hurt and deal with the repercussions

masterlist

"i'm fully capable of kicking your ass," you spat. you were having none of it. you'd been threatened plenty of times in your lifetime, you were equipped to handle this kind of situation. ever since you started dating an original vampire, he had you taking every precaution. you always had vervain in your system. you took self defence classes. you always carried a small stake in your purse, just for times like this. "and if i'm not, my boyfriend certainly won't hesitate to."

"i don't see your boyfriend anywhere?"

"do you know who my boyfriend is?"

"should i?" he took a few steps towards you, but you mimicked and took a few steps back. you weren't far from the compound, so there was no doubt in your mind that if you screamed loud enough, kol could hear you.

you wore a sly smile. "you probably should."

you clutched the stake in your hand, holding it behind your back, ready to move on him if he tried anything. "too bad—" you saw it coming before he did, and quickly sliced his hand open with the tip of stake before he could touch you. while he was caught off guard you nailed him right in the crotch with a powerful kick.

he stumbled backwards, and before he could recover you ran as quickly as you could in the direction of the compound. you weren't stupid. you could only defend yourself so much against a vampire, no matter how young they were. you were sure he could kill you with no trouble at all, you just couldn't give him the chance.

you didn't have a second to pull out your phone to warn anyone of your situation, so you continued to run until you felt a hand clamp around your ankle and yank you to the ground. your face slammed into the pavement, your nose dripping now with blood. you leak out a shriek at the impact, and you quickly noticed the stake in your hand had jammed into you leg as you fell. you pushed aside the pain and scrambled away from the vamp hunting you.

if you died, kol would never let you hear the end of it. he was always having a go at you for being reckless with you life. but in his eyes, being reckless with your life, included simple things like walking home alone, or closing up the bar you worked by yourself, or even leaving the compound without telling him your whereabouts. these were all simple things, things you couldn't avoid. he didn't get it though. so you just didn't tell him. you'd lie and say your walked home with a friend. or lie and say your manager was locking up with you that night. what he didn't know, wouldn't hurt him.

you only wished now, in this moment, that you had listened to him.

you were steps away from the compound, clawing your way to the gates, your right leg struggling from where the stake had penetrated your thigh. you could feel the vampire looming over you. you flipped over, trying to push yourself up with your arms but your legs were weak.

you wore a tired, wicked smile on your face. blood was oozing from your nose, dripping onto your lips. the vamp couldn't understand your reaction, when he was about to suck the life out of you.

"you really don't wanna do this— you're kinda already dead for this," you motioned to your bloodied face. the vampire shook his head, wearing a smirk that you were sure would be wiped off his face any moment now.

"you're pretty cocky for someone that's about to die," he quipped.

"if anyone's about to die— i can promise that it's going to be you," you let out a heavy sigh of relief when you heard klaus' voice from behind you. "you not only interrupted my reading but you've also only gone and bashed up the face of my brother's girl."

you saw the young vampires face turn pale. he knew who he was dealing with. everyone knew klaus, everyone knew the mikaelsons. he suddenly looked very regretful.

"you're— you're boyfriend is—"

"kol mikaelson," he appeared from behind klaus, elijah and freya following behind him. klaus grabbed the young vamp before he got any ideas about running away. you knew they were going to really make him pay for this. you'd feel sorry for him if he hadn't just tried to kill you, twice.

kol crouched beside you, his eyebrows knitted tightly together as he gently touched your face. you winced, pulling away from him. his jaw clenched. his eyes remained on you, as he spoke to his siblings. "freya, take y/n inside and clean her up," kol helped you onto your feet, handing you over to freya with great care as you limped on inside.

you were sure that vampire never lived to see another day. you were sure when he was left alone with klaus, kol and elijah that he was made to suffer deeply. you tried not to think about it. you should be used to the blood and gore by now, but nothing ever prepared you for it. you put it out of your mind, hissing when freya touched your nose cautiously. you frowned, leaning away from her touch.

"ow," you mumbled quietly. freya muttered a quiet sorry in return, but continued to wipe away the blood that had poured all over the rest of your face.

"i don't think it's broken," she wore a sympathetic smile, you were sure she was trying not to think about what her brothers were doing too. "but it's bruised pretty bad."

you nodded, letting her touch your chin and tilt your head backwards. "shove these up there and it should stop the bleeding," you did as she said and put the cotton wool up your nostrils, and sure enough the bleeding stopped. "what happened to your leg?"

you scoffed out a laugh, your head still tilted back as you held the cotton up your nose. you couldn't really see freya from this angle at all. "uh— that was my fault actually— never run with scissors— or stakes in this instance."

freya cracked a small smile of amusement. you were the clumsiest person she'd met, only you would bring a stake to defend yourself and end up hurting yourself with it. "you're so stupid," she muttered half-jokingly. you could tell she was waiting for the moment her brothers would come back and start some kind of argument over this. she always tried to keep the peace, which is why she wasn't grilling you about walking home alone. and although you knew kol was worried about you, you were also prepared to get an earful from him about being more careful. so right now, you were thankful to be in freya's company over any other mikaelson.

"uh huh," you nodded. it was true, you did often get yourself into these stupid situations. it wasn't your fault, you were like a beacon for bad situations. you titled your head back to its normal level, catching freya's stare. "do you think he'll be mad?"

she gave you a soft stare before refocusing on your leg, cleaning out the wound. "don't worry about it," she shook her head. "you know he's really only angry with himself. he just needs to get it all out."

you nodded, your eyes moving to the door frame where kol was standing silently watching his sister tend to your wound. he didn't look angry, you thought. "i can take over, sister," he spoke up, catching freya's attention. she nodded, putting down her supplies and walking to kol.

"don't be mean to her," she threatened quietly, so only he could hear. kol clenched his jaw as his sister left and you sat watching him standing far away from you.

"hey," you mumbled. he moved so he was sitting where freya sat before in front of you. he didn't look at you, he just picked up the supplies freya had been using to clean out your wound, and begun inspecting your leg. "are you mad at me?"

he shook his head.

you noticed a bit of blood on his neck that he must've missed upon cleaning himself up. he would never let you see him like that. he always cleaned himself up before he came to you. he knew how much you hated blood. you accepted his lifestyle. you just didn't need to see it, he knew that.

"i should've called," you let out a soft sigh. you felt bad for lying now. lying to him didn't benefit anyone. you knew he was protective, but you also knew it was for good reason. for this exact reason. you felt guilty.

"yeah," he mumbled. you winced as he pulled a splinter out of your wound, you hand instinctively went to his shoulder and squeezed tight. he stopped, glancing up at you where he finally saw the bruising surrounding your nose. he threw down the supplies in his hands and let out a deep sigh.

"i'm sorry," you frowned, you moved your hand from his shoulder to the side of his face. "i'll be more careful next time."

"no next time," he shook his head. he placed his hand over yours and moved it from his face so he could hold your hand. "sweetheart, i just want you to be safe."

you nodded. "i know," you loved kol, so much it hurt sometimes. and it pained you to see him looking so upset, so unlike himself. "if it makes you feel any better, i got a good kick in to his balls before all this happened."

kol cracked a small smile, ducking his head. "that does make me feel a bit better, actually."

you looked at him sympathetically. you wanted to ease his worry but there wasn't much you could do. he would always be worried and protective no matter how careful you were.

"d'you still love me even though i'm a bad girlfriend, who gets herself into bad situations more often than you'd care for me to?"

"'course i still love you, darling," he squeezed your hand he was holding and lifted it to press a kiss to the back of your hand. "just call me next time you need a ride home."

you nodded, still wearing a gentle smile. you were glad he wasn't angry, you didn't have the energy to hash this out with him. he knew you understood why he is the way he is.

"i love you," you squeezed his hand in return. "thanks for protecting me."

"anytime," he wore a lopsided smile now. he leaned closer a pressed a soft kiss onto your lips.

"still think i'm pretty with this honker?" you teased, trying to make light of the situation now that everything had been resolved. kol snorted, pulling away from your lips.

"i do," you wore a wide smile. he moved both his hands to either side of your face and held you still, looking over you. "you're beautiful."

[racointeur1]

MUSIC    FOR    THE    SOUL     PROMPTS.

IN      YOUR     DEFENSE,        you’ve      been     on     a       very      fucking      slippery     slope      for     the    better    portion     of     your    life.       always     full     of       WHY     THE    HELL       NOTs      and      WHAT’S     THE     WORST     THAT    COULD     HAPPENs.        it     hadn’t     been      too       reckless      before     that     fucking     clown      came     in     and     quite    literally     ate     whatever     childhood    you   would    have     had.       your    bad    ideas    were     nothing      more     than      stupid    childish     ideas     that    didn’t    really    matter    in      the      long     run.        

there    weren’t     any     real       repercussions    to     writing     obscenities     on       the      white    board     before     the     teacher    came     into     the     classroom       or        suggesting     to     egg      henry       bowers’       car      when     no    one’s     around.        

THE     REAL      ISSUES     HADN’T     STARTED      UNTIL      YOU     WERE      FIFTEEN.          

one     hit     of    a     joint    had     opened     you     up     to     a      whole     new     fucking      meaning     of    life.        you      realized     just     how     easy      it     was      to      rid      your     mind     of      sewers      and     clowns     and    dead     kids     that     fucking     make    it    hard     to      sleep    at     night,      and     that     was      really    the    only    thing     you      needed.        it      mellowed     you      out,       made     your     mouth    dry    as     all     hell,      your    eyes    burn     beneath     big    lenses,       but      what      little     filter     you    had     ceased      to     exist     and     you’d     argue     that     your    best    ideas    have   happened    while     high!       IT     CERTAINLY    HAD    A    HAND      IN      HELPING     YOU      MAKE     THE      MOVE     ON     EDDIE      THAT      FINALLY     MADE     WAY      FOR      WHAT     YOU’D     BEEN     WANTING     YOUR     WHOLE    FUCKING    LIFE.      (      a     hand,     and     a       mouth,       and      a       little     more     too,      you’d    say.     )

the      alcohol      came      next.         that       one      may     be      your     favorite      ‘cause      it’s      always     been      very      effective      at      making      you     forget      shit      entirely,       and     isn’t     that    the    best    fucking    part?         it      is        until      you’re     seventeen     and     pouring     your     heart     out     to     stanley      through      vomit     and     choked    back     sobs.       until      you’re     twenty      and      you’re     in      the     emergency     room      because      you      were     day    -     drinking      to     forget     the     hateful     shit     you     had    spewed    at     eddie.          until     you    see     that      fucking    look     on      eddie’s     face      every     morning      after.        but    hey,       at      least      you      won’t     remember    how    many    times      you’ve    fucked    up     when    you    do     it     all      over    again,     huh,      rich? 

YOU     KNOW,        YOU      REALLY     FUCKING      KNOW,       THAT     THE    CHOICE    YOU’VE    MADE     TONIGHT    IS     PROBABLY     THE    WORST    FUCKING     ONE     YOU’VE    EVER    MADE.      

it’s     not     exactly     the     first     time     you’ve    been     exposed    to     any    of      this.      it’s     another     LA     after    party     that     everyone    who    had    performed     at     the    club     had    been     invited    to.        you     had     fully     intended     to      just    do    your    usual     routine     of     getting     high    after     a    performance    to    take    the    edge    off,      drink     a      little,      shoot    the     shit    with    your    buddies,     and    go    home     with       eddie    to    call     it    a    fucking    night.      @finalhorrors    has     been     clinging    to    you     for    a    better     portion     of      an      hour     which     is    usually     your     cue     to     wrap     up     the    show    and     get    the    hell     out    of    here,      but     taking     hints     doesn’t    seem    to     be      on      your     agenda     tonight.    

it’s      not      the     first,      or     second,      or      third     time     you’ve     been     offered      the     rolled    up     twenty      for     the    little     white    line     that’s     spread     out    on    the     table    in     front    of     you.    .     .      and     it’s    not    exactly    the    first    or    second    or     third     time     you’ve     contemplated     trying     it.      WHAT’S     THE     WORST     THAT    COULD     HAPPEN?         everyone     else     around     you      seems    to    be     just     fucking     fine,       fucking    great    even,      and     the     curiosity    is      twisting      your     stomach.         weed’s    great,      the     booze     is     fucking     fantastic,      but      you     can’t      stop      the    way     your    mind    wanders    to     how     this     would     feel.       

you     have     eddie    in     one     ear      saying       RICHIE,      YOU     CAN’T     BE    FUCKING     SERIOUS     and      gripping     your     arm    so     tight    it     might    actually     bruise      and      another     in     your    other    ear     saying    to     just     give    it    a    shot,     and     the     temptation     is    so     fucking    overwhelming    it    makes    you     feel     nauseous.       

“it’ll    be     fiiiine,     alright,     eddie    spaghetti?        just     one     try     never    hurt     anybody.”        look     is     casted     over     to     eddie     and     you     can    see    the    fury     already     rising    in     dark    eyes     and    it’s    almost     enough    to     make     you     stop.       ALMOST,        if     you    weren’t    so     keenly    aware     that     you’ve    already     fucked    up     by      letting     him     know     you    were     going    to    do   it.      a      thought     that     brings     about     another     dangerous    one:       MIGHT    AS     WELL     DO     IT    ‘CAUSE     HE’S     FUCKING    MAD     AT    ME     ANYWAY!       that     thought    leads    to     you      tumbling     all     the    way     fucking     down     your     dangerously     slippery     slope     and     falling     flat     on      your     goddamn     ass      as     the     lines     burn     through     your     nostril     and     hit     your     brain     so      hard     you     see    fucking    stars.       

“holy      shit.”        you     laugh     out,      shaking     your     head     from     the     intensity    of     it,       and      your    hand     tries    to     follow      eddie      to     grab     him     when    he    pushes     himself    off    of    the    couch     to     storm      out    of    the    place.      there’s     an     overwhelming    sense    of     elation     trying     to     settle     into     your    very    core     making    it    fucking    hard    to    feel       bad       about     your    decision,      but     instinctively     you     know     you      need     to     chase      after      eddie.         so      you     do,      you      pinch      your     nose     that     has    a     lingering    burn     and     you    wade    through     the    high     trying    to     hit    you     all     at     once     to      shove   past   partygoers     and     out    of    the    venue     to    follow    eddie    who’s    already    made    a    decent     distance     down      the     sidewalk.

“eddie,       eddie,       fucking     wait!       it’s     not     that     big    of    a      deal,      can     you     fucking     stop?”       your     voice    carries     down     the     street      as     you     call     after    him,       and     the     beat     of     your     heart     is     beginning    to    pick    up     to     the      point    of    hearing   it     in     your    fucking    ears    and    fuck,      you      shouldn’t     feel     this     fucking    good     when     he      whips     around     and     looks    at     you     like    he    could     fucking    burn     you     to     the     ground.      he’s     yelling    and    his    arms    are    flailing    and     you    wish     you     could    retain     anything     he’s    saying    to    you,     but     only    one    thing    sticks    out.

you     only    listen    to     your    fucking    friends!

you      shouldn’t      laugh.       you     really,      really,     realllly     fucking    shouldn’t,      but     FUCK.      fuck,      if     that    isn’t    the     funniest    fucking    thing     you’ve    heard     all     night.        WHEN    HAVE    YOU     EVER      LISTENED    TO     YOUR     FRIENDS?        your    life    has    been    a    repeated     cycle    of     your     friends    telling    you    to     do     the     exact    fucking    opposite    of     what     you    actually     do!      EDDIE    KNOWS    THAT    BETTER    THAN    FUCKING    ANYONE.       if    you    were    sober,    you’d   know     what    he    meant.       instead,      the    laughter    is     bursting    out    of     you    and     you     have     to     lift    a    hand     to     cover    your     mouth     as      a      small     fit    of    chuckles    leave     you.      your     shoulders     shake     with    each     one.        

“i’m     sorry,    i’m     real     sorry,      eds.       that’s    just.    .     .      fucking     bullshit.       you’re     givin’     me     way     too     much     credit.       i     don’t    even     listen    to    them    half    of     the     time.”

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Lasting Rivalries.

Word Count: 4.1k

Written for an anonymous commissioner. 

Synopsis: Izuku loves you, but he doesn’t like Katsuki very much. It’s just a shame he can��t separate one feeling from the other. 

TW: Kidnapping, Captivity, Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mentions of Death, Delusional Mindsets, and Emotional Manipulation. 

[Part One] / [Part Three]

If you thought about it, you could still feel his hands on your skin.

It’d been hours since you were strapped to that bed, hours since he tormented Katsuki and made you suffer and mistook his delusional, crazed jealousy as love, or something close to it, at least. It’s been hours, and yet, if you closed your eyes, you could still feel his heatless touch, the way his skin seemed to leech the warmth from yours and how no amount of time and shivering could bring back what you’d lost. You’d done what you could to rid yourself of the feeling. After he… finished, you’d been too weak to try to run, and he’d been too love-struck to care if you did. As much as you’d wanted to, you hadn’t resisted as he undid your restraints, as he wrapped you in his suit jacket and dragged you - stumbling and reluctant - through the halls of his bunker.

When he brought you to a bedroom, dark and dim but only half as dirty as the room you’d come from, you hadn’t tried to push your way past him as he locked the door and explained that some of his men were untrustworthy, that ‘Kacchan’ might get loose and try to hunt you down, that the locks were for your own good. You’d flinched as he slid the slick, black keycard into the tiny slit, the one that’d keep you trapped here, the one you should be scrambling to find a way to pick, to break, or smash into such an unrepairable state, you and Izuku would both starve in here together. But, you hadn’t, and you’d lost the opportunity to.

There was a cramped, militaristic bathroom attached to the suite, and you’d stood under the rusted shower-head until the boiling water blistered your skin, then went cold, then went freezing, and you had to get out or face the repercussions of hypothermia. It’d been uncomfortable, it’d been painful, but it’d been a cleansing pain, the kind that cleared your head and made it a little easier to process the world around you, to differentiate what was happening now to what was already over, what you couldn’t change. What had left you sore and bruised and aching, but what you’d survived, and what you would get past, eventually. You’d get back to Katsuki, and then--

Oh, god. 

Katsuki.

You’d been moved to another bedroom, but if Izuku had any intention of doing anything his less-favored captive, you hadn’t been able to tell. No, he’d been left bound and muzzled to rot in his own affliction, and if Izuku’s aggressive apathy was sincere, you doubted he’d be treated with much kindness, going forward. It felt wrong thinking about your boyfriend like that, a victim who needed to be saved, someone who needed to be helped rather than the guiding hand you’d always known him as. He was a hero, and you weren’t. He was strong, and in so, so many ways, you couldn’t be. But, he couldn’t do anything heroic while he was restrained from wrist to ankle, so it was beginning to seem like you might have to be--

“Darling, are you alright?”

You stiffed as soon as you heard his voice, going rigid and scrambling for a weapon, a shield, something to defend yourself, but Izuku was already opening the bathroom door, stepping in before you had a chance to make a move. You could only be glad you’d already pulled on the clothes he was generous enough to provide, even if one of his white button-down shirts did little to separate you from his prying gaze. But, you doubted he’d be able to give you anything sturdy enough to block that out.

His expression softened when he saw you, his eyes lighting up with the faint, flickering glow he hadn’t bothered to hide when you first woke up, in his captivity. You tried to scowl, attempting to glare at the barren floor as imposingly as you could manage, but it couldn’t have been very effective. Izuku didn’t hesitate to approach you, to come too close, to think too little, only stopping when he was directly in front of you, one hand cupping your cheek and the other coming to rest on your arm, drawing circles in your bicep as if you were a scared animal that needed to be soothed. You supposed you were. Despite your budding plans, you couldn’t help but shiver so violently whenever he was near enough to meet your eyes, let alone put his hands on you.

He didn’t try to deny it. “Poor baby… You’re still scared, aren’t you?” A small, patronizing smile painted itself across his face, just barely pulling at the corners of his lips. You didn’t nod, didn’t try to answer, but he didn’t seem to need you to, either. With a quiet hum, he continued, speaking more to his paranoia than to yours. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re with me, now, and Kacchan’s going to be taken care of.” There was a pause, a playful wink. As if you should be proud you’d been important enough to earn a few hours of his time. “I’m won’t let anything bad happen to you. Certainly not by his hand, not again.”

You flinched at the mention of Katsuki, and this time, you were thankful that Izuku wasn’t paying attention to you. Not enough to care about such a small show of displeasure, at least. “You’ll take care of him?” You asked, hesitantly, still unsure how far you wanted to push his boundaries. “What do you mean? How long are you going to keep us here?”

“How long am I going to keep you here,” He corrected, softly, just beginning to tilt your head back. He let out a soft chuckle, as if the statement was a joke he’d been telling himself far too long for it to be truly, genuinely funny. “Just you. He’ll be lucky to make it through the night.”

You should’ve expected that. You knew it was going to happen. You knew Izuku had to be planning something for Katsuki, something violent and something inpermanent.

You should’ve expected that, but it still felt so awful to hear.

Now more than ever, you should’ve tried to stay calm. You should’ve been composed, and you should’ve accepted the development with a purse of your lips and strategic silence, the kind that’d mean anything Izuku wanted it to mean. But, he’d just threaten someone’s life, he’d just threatened your boyfriend’s life, and he should’ve counted him lucky you only got mad. It took every ounce of your self-restraint not to lunge at him, consequences be damned. “You can’t do that. You went through the effort of getting both of us, you can’t just--”

“I can do anything I want to.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it the kind of arrogant declaration made by someone with too much power for it not to go to his head. It was a truth, a fact. Or, Izuku thought it was, at least. “He’s been a thorn in my side for decades, and I’ve been much too sentimental when it comes to removing him. He’s a disgrace to the world of Heroes. He’s a disgrace to the world. I can’t justify giving him another chance to root himself under my skin.” A sigh, a languid shake of his head. He let go of your cheek, but having him take up your wrists and press your hands against his chest was only a minor improvement. “If he gets free, he won’t stop until I’m dead and you’re locked away somewhere so deep and somewhere so dark, you’ll be lucky to ever see sunlight again. I love you too much to risk losing you, but I promise, I’ll never be half as mean as Kacchan. If someone ever tried to take you away from me, I wouldn’t stop until their head was mounted in my office.”

“If you lay a finger on him,” You spat, fighting the urge not to pull away from him. “I’ll never think of you as anything but a monster--”

You didn’t get a chance to finish. This time, he didn’t let your little show of rebellion slide. Still, you heard the blow before you felt it - a sharp, sterile crack of skin against skin, and then the burning, the flare of heat, a spark that ignited everything from your jaw to the bridge of your nose. It took you a moment to process what he’d done. A moment too long, for such a simplistic offense.

He’d slapped you.

He’d slapped you.

It was so straight-forward, so impulsive, you weren’t sure whether to be angry or afraid or something between, something darker than either emotion could fully cover. He hadn’t hurt you yet, not in a way that’d be so difficult to hide behind a half-hearted justification and an excuse about love or protection or something lovely and rotten. You weren’t sure whether that made it better or worse. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Izuku didn’t seem sure either, if you were being honest. As soon as you moved to nurse your bruising cheek, he was on top of you, one of his arms draped around your shoulder, pulling you into his chest, leaving his free hand to card through your hair and flit around the edges of your minor injury, a worried scowl pulling at the edges of his lips. But, Izuku didn’t move to apologize, only attempting to open his mouth before whatever he was going to stay was muted by a grimace - obviously horrified, but far from regretful. When he finally broke the silence, his stance didn’t seem to change. Disappointed, but not shocked. Distressed, but resolute, at the same time.

“I.. I shouldn’t have done that,” He admitted, his posture straightening defensively. He pulled away, slightly, scanning over your face. As if he hadn’t already done so much more to harm you. “You just… you have to understand that this is for your own good, (Y/n). You’re going to be happy with me, I want you to be happy, but you’re going to have to let go of that stain, first. This is what he does to people.” There was a pause, a shake of his head, and slowly, he fell away from you, taking a step back when you failed to react. “He drives them apart. He makes people hate each other. You can’t trust anything he says. Bringing him back to my hideout was a mistake, I should’ve killed him in his sleep - clearly, he’s already worked himself into your brain.” Izuku bowed his head. It was the closest he’d come to showing his remorse, and you had a feeling it was the closest he would come. “I should’ve taken care of this sooner. I shouldn’t have drawn it out. I’m going to take care of it, I will take care of it. I’m not going to let him do anymore damage, not when you’re at stake.”

He turned, starting towards the bathroom door without another word. You didn’t think, you didn’t give yourself time to. You weren’t sure you’d be able to stop yourself from faltering, if you did.

Frantically, you stumbled forward, grabbing Izuku’s forearm and taking him by the sleeve, dragging him back towards you. Acidic bile rose in your throat at the thought of giving him what he wanted, but that didn’t stop you from clenching your eyes shut and forcing out the words, regardless of how much they burnt at your tongue. “Midoriya,” You mumbled, fighting not to stutter over such a simple sentiment. “I don’t think I can… I might not be able to… Could you---Could you stay?” Your grip tightened around his wrist, your nails digging into cloth and the thin, pale skin underneath. If Izuku cared, though he didn’t pull away, and you took that as a cue to keep going. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fall asleep, alone.”

The declaration was too hasty, too sudden, too flat and too desperate, but Izuku’s eyes still lit up, whatever skepticism he might’ve felt fading into a broad, careless smile. As enamoured as it was entrapping.

“Of course, sweetheart. All you had to do was ask.”

~

Izuku slept. You didn’t.

You doubted you’d be able to. Even when you tried to relax, when you tried to close your eyes and put on a convincing act, you could never get further than curling into yourself and willing Izuku not to notice the way you trembled despite the humid air, how easy it was to make you shy away despite his touch being relatively innocent, considering what he’d proved himself to be capable of. He’d rambled on about he’d always be there for you, rambling off threats and the mutilations he’d be willing to commit in your name like bedtime stories, but for all his vows of protection and security, he’d been quick to fall silent as soon as he realized you weren’t contradicting him, anymore, his body limp and still half-slouched against your side. His weight was oppressive, and you doubted any amount of rest would aid the dark-bags dyed into the skin under his eyes, but it was fine, it was perfect. If anything, you should be glad he was so exhausted.

It would be easier to pick his pockets, when he was asleep.

It wasn’t a difficult task, something you’d done a dozen different times with drunk friends you thought you could trust with your keys, but you still froze in place every time he made a sound, even as your fingers slipped into his left pocket, the one you’d been staring down since he first showed you this shiny new cage. You went still as he let out a groan, stiffening as he burrowed himself deeper into your shoulder, but you knew you’d get what you want as soon as your fingers brushed against that warm, metallic shape. The key to the rest of his bunker, the key to getting out of here.

The keycard.

Your keycard, now.

Repositioning Izuku to lay against the headboard as gently as you could, you slipped off the cot, your bare feet hitting the pavement floor silently as you found the exit and pushed your prize into its designated slot, your hands steady for the first time that night. There was a small, high-pitched ping, but Izuku didn’t stir, didn’t wake up. You could only hope you’d be out of his reach, by the time he did.

The halls of his bunker were surprisingly empty, considering how expansive Izuku’s organization was supposed to be, but that didn’t stop you from pausing at every turn, holding your breath whenever you heard the sound of another voice, doing your best to imitate the way trained Heroes were supposed to move, when they didn’t get caught. You couldn’t be sure where Katsuki was being kept, hell, you barely knew which direction you should be going in, but there wasn’t much you could do, not beyond picking a hall and hoping it didn’t lead you into the stronghold of Izuku’s labyrinth. You had to be quiet, but fast. You had to be stealthy, but effective. You had to be so, so many things, but…

Apparently you couldn’t be any of those things.

As you moved to round another corner, your back pressed against the wall and heart struggling not to beat any louder than it had to, something latched onto your shoulder, jerking you backward as a hand shot out, sealing itself over your mouth as you haulted, caught between the reflex to scream and the awareness that you shouldn’t attract more attention than you absolutely had to. As a compromise, you didn’t make noise, but you struggled, thrashing and kicking and throwing your elbow into your assailant’s chest, but all your efforts earned were a tightened grip and a soft grunt, throaty but muffled, not meant to be heard.

“Really, babe?” He asked, his voice just as quiet as his sounds of discomfort. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

It took you a second too long to recognize that voice, much lower and much drier than the endearing arrogance you’d grown fond of. The voice you only heard while you were sitting in uncomfortable, plastic chairs beside hospital beds, on the scenes of attacks where the dust had already settled and the medics has long-since finished doing what they could. It meant exhaustion, it meant injury, it meant dehydration and desolation and suffering, but god, were you glad to hear it.

You didn’t even try to hold yourself up, not after you realized how many times you’d fallen into the pair of arms wrapped around you. No, you just went slack, letting a grimy, blood, glorious Katsuki support you as you went slack. It might’ve been the relief. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours since the last time you’d seen him, but you'd been so, so worried, and just knowing he was still alive seemed to make all the difference in the world. It might’ve been the stress, the adrenaline, you didn’t think you really cared, not as long as you could twist around and wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his chest as he pulled you closer, entangling his fingers in your hair and pushing a soft, lingering kiss into the top of your head, his touch so much less preformative than Izuku’s, so much more loving. You wanted to melt into it. You wanted to attach yourself to him and never, ever leave his side again. You wanted him to hold you, and you didn’t want anyone to rip him away again.

But, he was already moving back, taking you by the waist and scanning over you, looking for signs of further abuse. “What happened? Did he hurt you--”

“What happened to you?” It was all you could do not to yell, not to scream. You’d been assaulted, but he’d been cornered, he’d almost been killed. “Midoriya was going to… He made it sound like you were already half-way dead. I thought he was going to get to you before I did.”

“With the weak-ass lackeys he sent to do it? Those motherfuckers couldn’t put a scratch on me, not once the kiddie-gloves came off,” He scoffed, smirking confidently, if only to calm you down. You doubted there hadn’t been a fight, there was always a fight with Katsuki, but if he could brag about it, he could pretend things were fine for a few more minutes, long enough to run and make you think everything would be alright, too. “If Deku could kill me, he would’ve done it by now. You’ve got nothing to worry about, not when it comes to me.”

For the first time since you’d escaped from Izuku’s hold, you let yourself exhale, rigid tension melting off in waves. “Promise?

His grip loosened, but any hope you might’ve lost was quickly restored as his hands fell, taking up yours and squeezing lightly. “I promise.”

There might’ve been another hug, another kiss. There might’ve been one, or their might’ve been many, if you had another minute, another second, another moment. But, all too suddenly, all too realistically, Izuku or some force under his control was determined to separate you, this time in the form of flashing blue lights and sirens so loud, you could hardly hear Katsuki curse as he took up your wrist and started running.

You hadn’t known where to go, but Katsuki seemed to. Whether it was through luck, overheard information, or blind inhibition, he found his way to the exit, or, rather, what you had to assume was supposed to be the exit. You must’ve been underground, because the only way out seemed to be a thin, utilitisic staircase, wide enough for one person and so steep, a ladder might’ve been a more practical choice. The climb wasn’t what concerned you, though, you’d scale a mountain if it meant getting a little further from Izuku, but it didn’t seem like that was a choice you’d get to make.

You should’ve expected it. You should’ve seen it coming as soon as the bunker went into lock down, as soon as you’d been naive enough to leave Izuku alone without slitting his throat, first. It made sense. You hated it, but it made sense.

You wouldn’t make it through, because faster than you could run, a thick metal sheet was sprouting from either side of the doorway, nearly blocking your only way out.

You wouldn’t make it.

But, Katsuki could.

He moved the same time you did, scrambling to get a grip on your forearm as you pulled yourself free of his hold, barely bothering to work your way behind him before you shoved Katsuki through the narrow exit, forcing him through the small gap before he could process what you were doing. He might’ve yelled, might’ve tried to clamber his way back to you, but any sound was cut off by the make-shift door sliding into place. Even if any of his curses or rants or screams made it through the barrier, you wouldn’t have been able to hear them. Before you could think to run, before you could think to do anything, something sleek and smooth and strong wrapped around your neck, slamming your back into the nearest wall. A leather glove, as familiar as it was fatal.

You didn’t have to look to know it was Izuku.

You didn't have to, but it wasn’t like he was ever going to give you a choice.

“Congratulations,” He growled, the back of his hand pushing into the bottom of your chin, forcing your head back and keeping your eyes level with his, frozen terror forced to stand on the same ground as swirling, spiraling rage, a lightless flame that burnt at the edges of your vision and made your entire body feel cold. “You saved your boyfriend for a whole three seconds. What makes you think I can’t just send someone after him while I break every single one of your kleptomanic little fingers.”

You swallowed, but you didn’t hesitate. You knew what you were going to say. “You won’t.”

He grit his teeth. “And why’s that, angel?”

“Because if you do,” You started, letting your focus drop to the scuffed cement at your feet. “I’ll never stop hating you.”

There was a disgruntled frown, a move to pull away, but you were the one to cling to him, this time, to throw yourself into his chest and pray he didn’t notice how badly your shoulders were shaking, how much you didn’t want to go on. But, you had to. He’d kill Katsuki, if you didn’t. He might’ve killed you, if you didn’t. “Please, please, just let him go! Do this for me, and I swear, I’ll stay with you.” Izuku stopped, but he didn’t pry you off of him. You took that as a silent cue to continue, to grovel for all your life was worth. “I won’t try to run. I won’t try to fight. I won’t even talk back. You can have me, but you need to let Katsuki go.”

Despite your desperation, Izuku didn’t seem convinced. His fist balled around the collar of your shirt as he tossed a glance over his shoulder, signaling to one of his associates out of the group forming behind him -  a brunette on the shorter side, one who looked like she’d just rolled out of bed to run to Izuku’s aid. “Uraraka, get me their file. There could be a quirk--”

“There isn’t.” It was an instinctive correction, albeit one that burnt at the tip of your tongue as you choked it out. “I mean, you shouldn’t bother. I’m… I’m quirkless.”

There was a pause, a recalculation, and for the second time that day, you saw Izuku’s mind work to twist around a piece of new information, his expression softening as he rearranged formless parts into a more suitable, more agreeable whole. One he could accept, one that let him be angry with Katsuki rather than you. It was revolting. It was sickening. It was pathetic, but you didn’t try to push him away as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest and burying his face in your hair, insecurities boiling the surface in tandem with the jagged, ugly shapes his delusions were so eager to take on. “Poor baby,” He sighed, the words almost lost to the airiness of his voice. “No wonder you needed to get Kacchan as far as possible, I wouldn’t be able to rest if I was in your position, either. You should’ve said something sooner, I would’ve been able to help.”

He continued to fuss, continued to lament your shared limitations as he pulled you through the forming crowd, but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen, you couldn’t bring yourself to think about anything but how his skin burnt where it touched yours. You wanted to pull away. You didn’t want to let him touch you, you didn’t want to let him pretend he cared about you, but you didn’t. You wouldn’t.

All you could do was bite your tongue and hope Izuku loved you more than he hated Katsuki.

[ohayohimawari]

And Everyone Else Knew It

A drabble for Day 5 of @kakaobiweek Blue | Safe | Mutual Pining

Brief mature humor, romance, and fluff. I hope that you enjoy reading it!

And Everyone Else Knew It

Kakashi combed his cowlicks with his fingers and tried to steady his heart as he hurried to meet with Obito.

It was part of the latter’s conditional release to have regular meetings with a member of Konoha’s security force. As Hokage, Kakashi was not only the top of the law and order food chain in the village, he was also the only one with authority to pardon anyone for war crimes. As such, the Council of Elders decided that he would be the one assigned to supervise Obito’s rehabilitation and integration back into society. But there was a problem with this arrangement.

Obito was hot, and Kakashi had it bad for him.

His attraction to his old teammate and hero set in almost the exact moment they were reunited on the battlefield during the Fourth Great Shinobi War. The shock over the fact that Obito was most certainly not dead lasted for a fraction of a second, replaced by the shock over the handsome man he’d become. Kakashi barely had an opportunity to make sense of his conflicted feelings before they fought in their Kamui dimension, where he wished they were exchanging blows of an entirely different variety.

But that would be impossible, even after the impossible became possible.

Just because Obito was alive didn’t mean he could return Kakashi’s feelings. Any daydream in which the Rokudaime might indulge quickly ended with the cold, hard fact that a man who would start an international war over a female was probably, most likely, definitely not into dudes.

Even though he wore a watch these days, Kakashi checked the sun’s position in the sky to determine the time. He quickened his pace when he realized he was running late. Running late was Obito’s schtick, and now that he was back, it seemed silly to Kakashi to mimic the habit. At least, that’s what he told himself to explain why he would always hurry to their meetings, not because he was excited to see him or anything.

The funny thing was, was that Obito wasn’t arriving late to their meetings, either.

Kakashi attributed Obito’s punctuality to his desire to make a good impression on his parole officer instead of desiring his parole officer. But what a delicious fantasy that was; it was one that Kakashi turned to often in private and one that he shook clear from his mind as he opened the door to the restaurant where they agreed to meet. They had important things to discuss this time.

Obito said he'd undergone many changes recently, so Kakashi suggested they'd meet in a more casual atmosphere than his office. That way, it could be more like two friends having a conversation instead of abiding by the guidelines of Obito’s punishment.

However, when Kakashi spied Obito waving to him from where he was already seated in a booth, the Rokudaime wondered if he’d set himself up for additional hurt by arranging what could feel more like a date to him than a meeting.

Kakashi nodded a curt greeting at the three remaining members of Team Ten, who enjoyed their weekly dinner together in the booth next to Obito before joining his unrequited crush.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m starving, so I already ordered for us,” Obito said as soon as Kakashi sat down.

“That’s fine,” Kakashi was too nervous to have an appetite, anyway. “So, you mentioned that a lot has happened since the last time we met,” he folded his hands in front of him on the table, “you should be moved into your new apartment by now.”

“I am,” Obito nodded.

“How do you like it?”

“I mean, it’s an apartment,” Obito looked down at his lap. “It’s small, but it’s bigger than my prison cell and comfier than a cave.”

Kakashi hummed thoughtfully in response, quietly considering how Obito lived for so long in hiding and doing his best to ignore how his heart ached for the man.

“My neighbor is a kind woman,” Obito continued, briefly meeting Kakashi’s gaze. “She’s elderly; her eyesight isn’t great, and I don’t think she knows who I am,” he smirked sheepishly. “I help her carry her groceries up the stairs, and she brings a plate of whatever she bakes that day, which is really nice.”

This sent Kakashi’s aching heart into somersaults, and he figured he better say something while he still could talk. “Are you forming connections and friendships with others?”

“Yeah, y’know, Gai comes around with his student, Lee, and they invite me to train with them. They, uh,” Obito chuckled, “gave me a matching leotard, and I like sparring with them, but I don’t think green is my color,” he laughed. “It’s nice to feel included, though.”

“Gai is pretty great that way,” Kakashi agreed, thankful for his old friend and rival.

“Kurenai smiles and waves at me when I see her at the cemetery these days, so I hope that we’ll become closer over time.”

Kakashi nodded, shifting uncomfortably in his seat and ignoring how his stomach tightened.

“I dunno, there’s only one person that I talk to a lot since I’ve come back, and that’s, well,” Obito mirrored Kakashi’s discomfort across the table, “I mean, everything about my life is complicated, but that’s really complicated.”

“How so?”

“Well, they’re pretty great,” Obito’s sheepish smile returned. 

Kakashi noted that when it seemed that everything else about his old teammate had changed, that expression remained the same. Then he realized that he was lost in thought, not listening as Obito continued to talk.

“...And they make me feel safe. Which, after everything I’ve been through, that’s pretty important.”

Kakashi kicked himself for not paying attention to Obito because whatever he said made him blush.

“Anyway, that’s hopeless,” Obito muttered.

“Why?” Kakashi asked.

“Well, I was kind of a jerk to them when I was a kid, and… and then I went and messed everything up.”

Kakashi leaned over the table closer to Obito to emphasize his earnestness. “People are learning that you were taken advantage of, Obito. Yes, you did terrible things, but you were manipulated when you were vulnerable. Then, you fought alongside the Allied Shinobi Forces when we needed it, and most importantly, you aren’t running from the repercussions of your actions. That’s why I could pardon you, and it’s why people are able and willing to forgive you.”

“Do you forgive me?”

“Here’s your broiled saury,” a waitress interrupted, and Kakashi sat back in his seat so she could set his dinner down on the table in front of him.

Obito thanked her and assured her that they had everything they needed before leaving them alone at their table.

“This is my favorite,” Kakashi muttered.

“Yeah, I know,” Obito replied off-handed, reaching for his utensils.

As casual as it seemed to Obito, the gesture touched Kakashi. He swallowed down the dangerous beginnings of hope before it could take hold of his exhausted heart and sought to encourage Obito in all of his pursuits. “If I’ve learned anything from being Naruto’s teacher, it’s that nothing is ever truly hopeless.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Obito spoke through a mouthful of food, and it amazed Kakashi that he could find even that attractive.

“They’re popular, like, really popular, internationally popular,” Obito’s eyes bulged as he stressed the point. “They could seriously have just about anyone they wanted, and I can’t exactly compete with that,” he finished, clearly crestfallen. “Anyway, let’s talk about something else.”

Kakashi was not a romantic man, and he knew it, and he also knew that he didn’t have a chance in hell with the man that sat across from him, no matter how much he yearned to reach out and reassure Obito that he was worth loving, and—

Kakashi chewed his dinner and choked on the word ‘love’ when it crossed his mind. He was in way deeper than he thought and decided that a change of subject was probably best. “You mentioned that you found a job,” he offered.

“Oh, yeah!” Obito perked up at the opportunity to share his good news. “I may not be a ninja anymore, but I’m still in pretty good shape.”

Really good shape, Kakashi thought.

“So, I was offered a modeling contract.”

Kakashi dropped his fork in his surprise, and it clattered on the table.

Obito laughed at him. “I know, it’s unexpected, but,” he chuckled again and awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Looks like I’m going to be the next bad boy in Blue Boy.”

“Blue Boy?” Kakashi repeated, astonished. “The gay men’s lifestyle magazine?”

“You know it?” Obito asked, wide-eyed.

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you were into— I-I, I mean, I’ve bought a few editions,” Kakashi felt his mouth go dry, “for the articles.” And if Obito would be featured in its photo spreads, he’d be buying a subscription.

“Right,” Obito drawled sarcastically, and Kakashi felt seen. “Anyway, to be honest, I was amazed too,” he fiddled with the straw in his drink, “I don’t exactly consider myself to be fashion model material.”

“You’re hot!” Kakashi was juggling too many surprises, and as a result, dropped his filter. Then he did his best to pick it up and put it back on when Obito’s eyes snapped to his face. “I mean, that’s hot, I mean, good for you,” he wished for the earth to open up and swallow him, or for an assassin to show up intent on taking him out, or—

“You think I’m hot?” Obito asked quietly, tenderly, longingly.

Kakashi licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak but closed it when everyone heard Shikamaru’s groan from the table next to them.

“Mendokusē! Would you two just kiss already?”

Both men sat in silence, staring at each other. Kakashi felt as flushed as Obito looked.

“Shikamaru’s right,” Choji agreed. “You two are worse than a one-hundred-thousand-word slow burn fanfic.”

“Oh, I love those!” Ino gasped.

“A what?” Kakashi asked.

“Who cares,” Obito answered, his eyes beginning to smolder in a way that Kakashi had only dreamed. “Let’s pay the bill and—”

“My place or yours?” Kakashi flagged down their waitress.

“How about ours?” Obito asked, his Sharingan eye already spinning.

[evertriedsoywithyourpopcorn]

5 Reasons Roman Is Infuriating (And Why I DO NOT have a crush on him)

Chapter 5: To A Land Of Our Imagination

Read on AO3 

Chapter 1

Word count: 3471

Tw: Wounds, food, swearing

~~~

Logan planned the second date two days after the first. A picnic in the imagination, that Roman insisted on helping out with.

It took them quite a while to prepare everything. A red gingham print blanket in a field of many flowers on a hill, the sight of a rather giant disney-inspired castle in the far distance, mountains enveloping the horizons; very picturesque, certainly. He even offered to set up an orchestra off the side for them, but Logan declined. Logan was worried that they would get sunburnt due to the realistic touch that he brings, but Roman insisted that wouldn’t happen. And then Logan insisted that he didn’t know that it wouldn’t.

The banter was probably what took the longest time. It started with the back and forth about the likelihood of a sunburn, and then whether Thomas would typically tan or burn, and then it spiralled into nothingness. Obviously Roman made zero sense, but Logan was still determined to prove his point.

“No, Thomas should not get a surgical beauty mark. It’s pointless and expensive when you could have the same results with the smallest amounts of makeup.”

“But it adds character! All of the glamor girls have beauty marks! And besides, why put in the effort of putting on the beauty mark every day when you can just wake up that way?” Roman rebuttals, and Logan cannot begin to express just how stupid that argument is.

“A few seconds of a makeup pencil and maybe some powder isn’t that much effort. What would be an effort is spending a ridiculous sum of money on something he might regret and want gone. It would be a waste of resources for something thought of on a whim. That money would also go into the beauty industry, the industry that profits off of one’s self-hatred.” He argues, because yes, in a world where hating oneself is so common and so profitable, the most rebellious thing one can do is to learn to love themself.

“Makeup is also a part of the beauty industry.”

“It’s nowhere near as harmful and expensive though. It’s not just about insecurities, but also accentuating features that you enjoy in yourself. It also happens to be an art form, so I’m surprised that you’d even try that useless fact.”

Roman huffs. He’s probably not that interested in the beauty mark, but sometimes impulse can make you do stupid things. He does however look upset, and Logan hesitates.

“You know what you can do with makeup?” Logan asks, and they look at each other.

“What?” He asks, still pouting.

“Make many beauty marks. And change their locations when you feel like it.” He offers, and Roman lights up like that very dangerous chemical reaction Remus and himself attempted on bonding day.

“By the fourth musketeer, you’re right!” Roman touches his own face, lost in thought. “You could switch it up daily!”

It took a while longer for him to acknowledge what they were supposed to be doing, and then they were touching up the flowers (which is when Logan notices Bells of Ireland, sticking out amongst the other flowers, and assisting in integrating them into the green fields, like the flowers just popped up amongst nature. He believes Roman had summoned them around for him, and he can’t help but smile.) and then heading to the exit so Logan could get the ‘object of his affections’.

“Are you going to be in the imagination?” Logan asks him.

“Well, duh. I’ll obviously be out of earshot, but duty calls, and I have quests to attend to! Can’t have a realm without it’s heroes, right?”

“I guess not.” Logan nods. Roman’s going to play immersive make-belief then. Very well. That does usually help with Thomas’s motivation. Logan thinks of asking to join him sometime, and then decides that would most likely end horribly. Maybe Dungeons & Dragons would be a better solution.

He leaves Roman at the doorway, going to retrieve Patton. It isn’t very hard; he finds him in the living room holding a picnic basket and smiling brightly.

“That really, isn’t necessary.” He points to the basket. “We have food at the location.”

“What’s a little more? Besides, I have a little surprise to help with the planning.” He leans in and fake whispers.

Logan blinks. “A planner?”

“No, even better. But don’t guess. You know your old Patton-ership Person can’t keep a secret for very long.”

Logan groans at the pun, and they head back through Roman’s door to the imagination. It isn’t long before they reach the flowery hills (Logan wanted it to be accessible, to avoid an awkwardly long walk), and he sits down on the large blanket. Patton coos at the view, and the enchanting flower fields.

“Is Roman here?” He asks, looking around. He sets the basket down.

“He said he wouldn’t be nearby, and I trust his word, but he is in the imagination.”

Patton lets out a sigh in relief and sits down. “Okay. I just know he’d be mad if he found out, buuut…” He opens the petite basket’s lid, and like the objects from Mary Poppins bag sprouts Janus, arms held out dramatically.

“What is up losers? I’m here to foil all of your plans.” He lightly steps out of the basket, and plops down so they’re all facing each other in a triangle. “By making them better. You’ll thank me later.”

Although Logan is surprised, he isn’t really bothered. He’s quite similar to Roman in the theatrics, so perhaps he’ll prove to add ideas that would give life and a charming flair to his own.

“Very well.” Logan pulls out a notepad from god-knows-where. “Welcome to the ‘date’.” He does quotation marks with his fingers, and Patton leans excitedly to Janus.

“I think that’s what we’re calling it now. ‘Date’, but you have to do the thing with your fingers.” He does the finger quotations.

“What a lame concept. I love it.” Janus smiles. “I’m absolutely dreading spectating this ‘date’.” He does the finger quotations, and adds a little more emphasis on the word. At least he seems to be having fun.

“So. First step: The goal.”

“Find out if Roman really does have legs.” Janus answers at the same time Patton exclaims “Marry a pretty prince!”

“That was not supposed to be a guessable statement. And both of you are wrong. Patton, we do not have legal documents and cannot legally marry. The goal is to ‘woo’ Roman.”

“There may be or may not be a very easy solution for this.” Janus suggests, lounging back and checking his nails despite his gloves.

“What would be that solution?” Logan narrows his eyes at him.

“Oh I don’t know… Tell him how you feel.” He looks at him face-on, dead-serious.

“But… He most likely does not feel the same way. Besides, he wouldn’t like something so… Insignificant. He’s embodied himself after a prince, for Newton’s sake.” Logan argues, heart clutching painfully (metaphorically, obviously. If someone’s heart clutches painfully in real life, he recommends they go to a doctor and get it checked), and looking off into the distance, calculating the odds of rejection. He so far has not detected any signs or repercussions in the romance, and with Roman’s celebrity crushes being people like Adam Driver and Orville Peck, how is he supposed to compare? He can make a schedule planner less important than a social engagement.

“Oh come on, cheer up champ! I’m sure he’ll love it no matter what you do!” Patton encourages, giving him thumbs up. Logan looks at him, unimpressed.

“But will he really? These… Unnecessary feelings have rendered me even less functioning around him, so psychologically speaking, I’ve been even less perfect around him. He lives off the idea of a perfect, film-like life. Disney prince… Disney Relationship, Disney prince partner. Why would he like me? I look like a teacher.” As Logan continues his rant, now up and pacing, Janus shoots Patton a knowing look, and Patton eventually looks at him with an unknowing look.

“What?” Patton asks quietly, as Logan rambles.

“You don’t know?” Janus looks surprised.

“Know what?”

“Roman hasn’t told you about… You know…”

Patton looks at him, attempting to decipher what he means. Eventually, he quizzically does a limp wrist.

“No!” Janus whisper-shouts, exasperated. “Of course he’s gay. I’m talking about something else.”

“I’m lost.” He admits.

Janus leans in and whispers into his ear.

“Oh yeah! He has.” Patton gives him a thumbs up.

“I need a new style!” Logan turns and points at them, and they both display their shock easily.

“Dear god no. You’d look more out of place than Remus during the cosplay phase.” Janus jerks back, appalled. (Besting Remus in being out of place while he was in Thomas’s cosplay phase is nothing to roll your eyes at. Stripper Kermit is only one of many horrendous ideas that Janus has had the pleasure of being scarred by.)

“But think about it. You often see someone in a new light when they go through a big style change, whether they’ve changed as a person or not. When we altered our outfits for the first time, it was like a fresh new start. We were new, and more impressive models of our past selves of just three seconds before.”

“I see your point kiddo, but that just isn’t you! It’ll work against you in the long run if you try to be someone that you’re not.”

“Agreed. Seriously. Not to mention you’d be boring no matter what you wear; might as well be more comfortable doing it.”

Logan considers it. He nods, and sits down. “Alright. Thank you for your encouragement. I’m still not going to tell him outright.”

Patton raises his hand. “I have an idea.”

“Alright, hit us.” Janus looks at him.

“If you are to hit us, do it gently please. And preferably on the arm. I quite like these glasses.” Logan nods, accepting his fate.

“It’s an expression.” Janus side-eyes him, and gestures for Patton to start.

“How about… We leave the idea of telling him directly as an option, but also make a plan? That way, you have many options to pick from!” He encourages, looking like a parent bargaining with their toddler.

“That wouldn't be unreasonable.” Logan takes out a pen, and clicks it on. “Now, why don’t we start?”

By the time they leave the imagination, Logan has notes full of ideas. It’s a little bit difficult to have the best brainstorms without a literal embodiment of creativity, but both of them are bad ideas to invite for different reasons, and not being in charge of creativity doesn’t stop the rest of them from coming up with creative thoughts. (If that were the case, the same concept could be applied to himself, and it would have probably killed him by now if he were the only one with an ounce of logic.)

He steps into Roman’s room. Nice as always, if not looking slightly blank. Maybe he’s just used to the disorder now.

He rips out a separate paper, and leaves it on Roman’s cluttered desk, to notify him in the future that he is no longer in his realm. He catches a glimpse of other papers on his desk, and is that-

“Poetry?” Obviously, Logan does not want to disrespect his privacy, but he does read the line he has seen. It was quite good. It seemed to be about jealousy, but he’s not the best at deciphering emotions, so he isn’t completely sure. He also catches a few typos.

He stands straight again, paces a little bit and just as he's about to sink out, he hears the imagination door open.

Roman stumbles in, heaving and drenched in sweat. He looks dull and lifeless, until he looks at Logan. It’s like a switch goes off, and he looks like his usual self again.

“Heading out?”

“That’s right. The date just ended.”

“That’s wonderful! How did it go?” He asks, strutting over, trying hard but failing to hide a limp.

“Are you alright?” Logan looks at him, and the standard first aid courses that Thomas has taken in his lifetime start kicking in.

"I'm-" And a poorly concealed wince. "Okay. Just a scrape from the dragon witch. Nothing a happy pappy prince can't handle."

"That's not something you usually say." Logan squints at him, taking a step closer. "Did you hit your head? You're starting to sound like Patton. I'm not leaving here until you let me help you."

"Ugh, fine." He flails out his arms, and then jerks them back in pain. "But seriously, how did it go?"

"It went well. Thank you for the Irish bells. We discussed things that one would do in a romantic setting, and then we dispersed. There will be another date fairly soon. I just stayed to drop off a note on your desk to inform you of our departure."

His eyes go wide. "My desk? Did you read any of my writing?" He asks, sounding panicked, with a hint of defensive nature.

"I did, actually. Not on purpose, I'm sorry. It was a poem that I believe is about jealousy. I read the third paragraph. It was quite well done." Logan bashfully admits.

"Oh. Thank you." He offers a small smile.

Logan suddenly remembers the wounds. "Now. Let's get to fixing you up. Do you have any cuts? Scrapes? Open wounds?" As he sits Roman down and checks over his injuries, he can't help but hurt a little bit on the inside. Roman's self preservation seems to have left him a long time ago, and he always gets reckless. He can't seem to let anyone see his weakness, and that's perhaps what he and Logan have most in common; although, Logan hasn't been injured physically in quite a while.

He finds a first aid kit (in Roman's nightstand. How concerning.) and helps patch up his wounds. Thankfully, Roman wasn't fully lying, as his injuries mainly consisted of bruises and mild cuts, but Logan made sure to take care of them all the same.

"I just realized." Roman whispers, eyes closed as Logan puts a band-aid on his arm.

"That's a new concept."

Roman ignores that. "You've done so much for me over the last while. To be fair, you always do things for me, but this week... Teaching me how to bake, leaving out cookies for me, which were heavenly by the way, thank you, helping with nail polish even though it was on your bed, this... It's quite a lot. I feel like I haven't done enough for you."

"Oh come on, don't metaphorically sell yourself short. This whole time, you've helped me set up my dates with Patton. Many of them, in fact. I had been nervous to tell him, and you helped me the whole way along. I am quite grateful for your contributions, Roman." Logan chuckles a little bit, because although expressing your gratitude for something that you don't care about may seem pointless, Roman still put in all of the effort. He did the planning, the setup and design, and wherever he was needed, he'd be. Logan had heard that he even managed to convince Remus to keep the funky business away from the 'dates'. That's quite a lot of work, and Logan appreciates every second of it.

"Nooo but that isn't enough! I want to take you somewhere special to thank you."

"Really Roman, that isn't necessary-"

"Thomas!" Roman screams into his ceiling. "You know how you're free in three weekends!? Yeah, well you're going to a planetarium now! Bring friends so you don't look like a loser." And sure enough, he can feel that Thomas has got the idea.

Logan's heart metaphorically explodes out of his chest with how strong it's beating. Thomas hasn't been to a planetarium in ages. It isn't really Logan's role to suggest activities on the fun side, so he's kept to himself, silently hoping for another side to bring it up. They have spare money for it. And here it is. In three weeks from now.

"That's... I don't know what to say. Thank you." He clutches the first aid kit to his chest.

"Well duh thank me, but it's okay. It's payback." Roman gives him two band-aid speckled thumbs up. "Consider it a date."

Uh-

Hm. Well, there goes Logan. On the floor. Dead.

~~~

"More sophisticated and logical word for fuck."

Logan slams open Virgil's door, just as he's putting the last details on his embroidered spider web jacket.

"Dude, what?" Vrigil turns to him, only to see Logan laying on the floor, malfunctioning.

He goes over to the lifeless form. “Logan… You, like, never come to me with your emotional problems. I can’t help people. Do you want me to tease you? Because I can totally tease you.” He pokes him, and Logan rolls over to face the ceiling.

“It’s because I never have emotional problems, Virgil. I believe in you to keep a secret however.”

“Is this about the planetarium Thomas just planned? Because I can totally see why he shouldn’t go, with all those people around, judging his every step, and the chance of being separated from his friends, or seeing someone familiar and it’s just awkward..”

“No, I agreed to the idea. I had wanted to go for quite a while.”

“Does it… Have to do with Roman?”

“Of course it has to do with Roman. Even now, he is still the largest thorn in my side.”

“Apparently you’re a masochist then. So, what’s up with him and the planetarium?” Virgil circles him, seeming bored but willing to hear the story.

“He was the one who suggested it. In fact he said to  ‘a date’.”

“Ahh. So you are here for emotional issues.”

“It’s not an emotional issue. I simply wanted to tell you that I think it is an optimal time to tell Roman about my newfound fondness for him.” He sits up, and Virgil gives him a hand to stand.

Virgil chuckles. “It’s not bad to ask for help, Logan. But that does sound like a good idea, or whatever.”

“Of course it’s a good idea.” Logan says, hand bouncing up and down at a rapid pace. He looks like he’s sweating. Virgil squints.

“But you’re nervous.” He observes. “And you want to talk about it with someone.” He holds up a hand before Logan can protest. “Ah-ah. Don’t lie to me on this one. Sit down.” He takes out a chair, and then looks at Logan. “You know what, maybe not in my room.”

So they go to Logan’s room, and he explains his plans, and some worries, and Virgil nods along and agrees.

“By the way, have you been seeing the way Roman’s been acting lately?” After Logan seems to have finished with ideas, and they were just sitting together, Virgil speaks up.

“No? Perhaps. He did want to make cookies, which is odd for him, and he called me kiddo, if I remember correctly.” Logan recounts the last few days. He’s not completely sure. Roman has always been a slight enigma to him.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about. A few days ago, he came into the living room, and he was wearing a polo! If it weren’t for the colors, I would’ve thought he was Patton. And then.” Virgil stares at Logan, who looks impassively back at him. “Just yesterday, Remus told me that he dumped some of his posters into the trash.”

“Ah, perhaps he’s finally taking advantage of his wall space.” Logan says quite proudly, in a room where there are many cork boards on every left-over piece of wall he has open.

“No, you don’t get it. When’s the last time you’ve seen his room without posters?”

“To be honest, I don’t remember.” Logan admits. Virgil nods along, his eyes staring at him intensely. “Because I barely ever go into his room.” Virgil slumps. “Listen, Virgil, the concern is appreciated, and I support you continuing to collect evidence on this matter, however, it sounds like he’s trying something new out. I have no reason yet to be concerned.”

“Okay, whatever.” He gets up from his chair. “I hope you feel better, nerd. Catch you later.” He salutes, and just sinks out.

Logan continues to stare at where Virgil once was, thoughts jittering. Is Roman really acting that strange? He almost sounds like he’s trying to become Patton. Maybe he’s looking to renew his look for Thomas? He had been rather heart-broken when he misinterpreted Thomas calling him his hero. He also likes costume changes. Maybe he’s preparing something.

Logan hopes that Roman will be alright in the end. And that he himself will be as well. He takes a deep breath. He can do this.

~~~

Taglist: @crossiantgay 

[arkt-nehrim-archive]

                         A Story in Spring : Renewal {1/3} 

"I have a proposition for you."

The walls of the fallen seraph's humble hut had so far been something of a passive comfort, yet Lithirill found no sense of ease.  Her host, and fellow Tel'lmaltath could certainly tell, eyeing her with some hint of concern, slowly rising to his full height, turning to face her once the fire had suitably caught. "Go on."

The encouraging mannerism was commonplace in their interactions thus far, but it didn't do much to make her desirous of speaking her mind, as images played in her head of all she had been plotting in secret, only thinking to bring the matter to him when she -knew- beyond a doubt she could -achieve- her goals. "It is a...personal matter, to you specifically.  I hesitate to even ask, truthfully." At that notion, her company raised  a sculpted brow. How he might've read her words differed from what she seemed to mean by her body language; a normally stood straight, confident woman now half hunched and barely maintaining eye contact.  He simply watched, resting a hand along his hip. It was the only prompt to continue she was going to get. "...Right.  -Arkt-.  I will speak plainly." even then she hesitated, a sigh accompanying an expression of complete honesty, "...I want to reconstruct your wings. I would see you fly again."  

There weren't many things reality could offer him that still surprised, but that had done it, the gentle carefulness in her tone most of all. It wasn't just an offer, but a plea. Arkt's gaze fell to his floorboards, called back to the moment she had seen the tattered remnants, and the conversation that followed where he learned much and more about the individual he chose to champion. Her perseverance in the face of impossible odds had ensured his second chance at freedom from past mistakes, yet here she was still giving. It was not debt fueling her either, but desire, leading him to a thought forgotten sensation; confoundment.

Lithirill only fidgeted in the quiet, narrowing her eyes in passive calculation, half braced for some kind of impact. It took him some several moments to recover, clearing his throat. The ever-present ache at his back he'd still struggled with flared up. Even to this day, the injury pained him, centuries "dead" had been his only reprieve.

"You are firmly familiar with the reasons I lost them in the first place..." he began, watching his company instinctively tense, ready for rejection; instead he would give her a question, "Knowing that, I must ask -why-? To what end would you go to such efforts?" Asked with genuine curiosity, over any manner of accusation; he suspected her of nothing.

Lithirill nodded, crossing her arms and easing her weight onto one leg. "History was one among a few reasons I have debated asking. As for why, well. I feel there are certain wrongs afflicted to those I’ve come to care for, and it is within my power to unravel those wrongs.”

Arkt watched her carefully crafted mask slipping, the woman ever at odds with herself. He wondered if there would ever be a time where she did not engage in the practice, and simply felt at home in his company.

"As you did with Arantheal?"  he questioned, curious to see if he could keep her at that boundary.

Lithirill puzzled over the question for a moment, pondering if it was harmless comparison or an accusation. Foolish to think it the latter, knowing Arkt had no history of resisting her intent.

"...Yes. As I did -for- Narathzul." She corrected, offering a sideways nod and a shrug, "Know I don't need an answer -today-. I only wanted you to know that the idea lingered in mind long enough to...plan for.”

Ultimately, Arkt was touched. Shock still kept a whirlwind of emotions at bay at the mere hint of taking to the skies again, permitting the warmth of the smile behind his veil to only grow as he watched her. She was not having so easy a time, clearly having wrestled with herself on the matter for awhile.

"Is this what has kept you from your usual visits of late?" he wondered, gesturing with a hand in a motion pushing down from his midsection;  'Relax.' he said silently.

Her eyes followed his hand, flicking up to his face like the lash of a serpent's tongue before she took in a breath and let it out, chuckling to herself.  

"In part. Alongside the politicking and the visits somewhere warmer. Thoughts?"

He sighed through his nose as he partly answered with the considering tilt of his head and a prolonged shutting of his eyes, continuing to chew on the notion.

"Too many to rightly voice in a manner composed or remotely understandable. Would you mind returning to Castle Darlan for the moment? I'll have an answer for you come the evening."

"Of course.~"

The professional manner in which she pulled herself together and turned from him showed a wall climbing between them that he had no patience for, the old seraph chuckling when she moved to open the door.

"Lithirill."  

She twitched, shoulders bunching as her fingers fumbled at the doorknob, before she straightened again and smiled a familiar, shy curve over her shoulder. Her eyes lit up a touch when she saw he’d pulled down his veil.

"Yes?"  

"...Thank you."  he spoke, genuine appreciation clear in his expression.

A hint of color, and the wall scattered; his only goal in the moment. She departed with an amused, "See you soon.", quickly on her way.

                                                   ~~~ As promised, Arkt had arrived that evening, uncharacteristically anxious, but Lithirill could hardly blame him. She could not imagine the weight of what her offer truly meant to him.

In times long gone, the loss of his wings, however deeply traumatic, had served a purpose; symbols had power, as much in their creation as their destruction and his fall signaled the end of an era where the Lightborn could rule without fear of repercussion. Yet now that all his battles were over, and this new life lay before him...

It was not long before the old seraph was waxing poetic, teetering back and forth in his words, as was his way. He all but danced between every sentence- whilst Lithirill only offered more wine when his glass neared empty. She refused to rush him in coming to a decision, simply enjoying his company, equal parts devilishly curious and genuinely empathetic.

Such camaraderie came to it's end at the dawn of the following day, Arkt admitting in the quiet of the morning fog that he accepted her offer; even with her many warnings of risk and pain, he had seen firsthand what she was capable of; he knew he was in good hands, even if a fair few of her achievements were with his shadowed aid.

Two weeks had passed since he agreed to her offer, wasting no time in getting started. The first bout had been the hardest thus far- having not yet known just how -much- it took to render a seraph numb, and having the unfortunate task of plucking the feathers he still had. A meticulous, painful, unexpectedly bloody process...but it was safer to start with a clean slate than try to rebuild all that was under them when half the limb had been shorn down to bare bone.

Trippling the dosages from there made things much easier, at least for Arkt. His struggle was not with pain in the familiar sense now, it came instead from a nameless sensation;  the agonizingly slow return of what should never be, able to sense every -tiny- thread of what was lost reconnect. It was as torturous as it was euphoric, and it could only be overcome by sheer force of will.

Tonight would be no different. Lithirill had learned his tells after a few sessions. When in the throes of her spell work, she could spare little attention for observance, but awareness returned as she dialed back, murmuring gentle nothings mostly for her own comfort; though it signaled to Arkt he could stop taking such measured breaths.

The touch of the Sea crept away like the retreating tide, Arkt opening hazy eyes, idly stretching his fingers.  He knew well enough not to move until his companion told him to do so, watching her over his shoulder. There was a slight notion of fear that kept him from immediately looking upon his wings, naked and ghastly as they were. He only had eyes for Lithirill's face, noting the knitted brow and how she clicked her tongue when observing progress, pondering how to proceed.

"I'd hoped to have had bone completely covered by now..." she lamented, drawing again the magicked circles that held his wings in subtle regeneration between sessions, "I've underestimated how deeply the burns go. I should’ve-”

"You need not fret, Lithirill."  Arkt spoke up, a look of assurance crossing fair features, "This shall take as long as it will take, and you have plenty to grapple with without adding the unnecessary elements of haste and worry.~"

"...Perhaps. Still, I don't savor putting you through further pain I could have avoided." she spoke idly, glad he could not feel it as she undid the slings above, gently moving the humble beginnings to rest on cushions whilst she worked tension from developing musculature.

"We went into this knowing it would be difficult. We will endure." he replied, his tone as much an attempt to comfort as it was a statement of fact; she was far too deep in it now to safely -stop-.  "Which for you to manage, requires heady use of those flasks behind you, as I recall."

It was a gentle, but earnest jab to not neglect her own health whilst taking care of him. She might have been Tel'lmaltath, but healing at -this- level for such prolonged bouts tested the limits of even legendary resolves, and Arkt did not fancy the idea of a Shadow God turned Oorbaya.

Satisfied with her ministrations, she sighed and nodded, letting her hand trail down his back as she turned and gingerly stepped away to pluck a flask of Ambrosia from a stockpile. The edges of a smirk tugged at his lips as she made a show of drinking half the vial like it didn't taste awful, raising both brows at him in a silent 'satisfied?'.

"...-Thank- you." he muttered, humming a chuckle, "Do not lose sight of your own well being in concern for me. I must stress, we have nothing but time."

Lithirill tilted her head at him as her eyelids drooped, well accustomed now to the odd heated popping in her ears as the Ambrosia did its work, blanketing the red pressure in her head and quieting the skittering under her skin.

"-Now- whose fretting?" she teased, setting down the flask so she could help him to stand, not letting his wings droop as she supported them from the base, "I don't intend to go hurrying into the arms of the Blue Death, I promise. Come now.~"

Twas a short jaunt to the spare bedroom within her personal quarters, Arkt leading the way and Lithirill matching his steps. The seraph counted his blessings that his pride could not be so easily wounded as she settled his wings into yet another set of slings, these ones arranged to allow them to safely hang whilst he rested. He knew -she- worried about such mental troubles, but he was far too old and that much more taken by fascination in all she insisted upon doing for him to care for foolish things like shame.

"Tell me something, Lithirill." he said, eyes on her as she arranged the vials that would help him sleep, and come the morn, ease his pain,  "What do you suppose I'm meant to do in return for all of this?"  

The question was laced with an undertone of playfulness that reminded her of when the seraph had taken an almost catty tone in Arktwend, all but making -gossip- of the infatuation between those who'd brought Narathzul into the world. She could only raise a brow at him in plain curiosity, willfully stepping into whatever trap this might have been.

"That is hardly a matter to burden the likely recipient, don't you think?  Or am I -supposed- to be reading between some manner of line here?" The teasingly scrutinizing gaze she leveled upon him was nothing to the coy look he gave her beneath the messy strands of his hair, the two locked in a quiet contest before she relented; as she always did where he was concerned. "...ponder and plot all you like, my friend. But hold to that patience you've assured me with. I would say it is early yet to be planning anything more than recovery."  she offered.

Arkt sighed through his nose at that, uncapping the cork to her sleeping drought and drinking it down with a quick chaser of water. Her answer was as good as any. Ponder and plot indeed then.

"Fair enough. Rest well, when you find it."  he bid gently, offering only a smile. For a would be God according to most's definition, who had seen millennia pass and returned even from -death-, he seemed to be handling the life of a crippled patient quite well.

Lithirill could only take that profound patience and trust in her ability to heart; ensure no matter her doubts that she'd finish the job.

She returned the evening farewell and meandered to her own bed, falling upon it like a stone. All too swiftly would the sun rise, and the pair would be again until their great task of renewal was complete.   Lithirill could only hope she'd be done by Spring.

                                                   ~Fin~

[hawkbucks]

LISTEN if you do the language barrier muses from that royal au prompt thingy for buckytony (tony as muse b and bucky as a or whatever you prefer) i will love you FOREVER (i already do but let's pretend that the offer is still somewhat fair)

Thank you for requesting, and I hope this is what you wanted ;; I don’t think I followed the prompt exactly aljadkad ;; 

James hasn’t attended a single of his language lessons ever since they started a couple of weeks ago. Oh, his tutor has chased him plenty, but he’s always found a way to slink around them. It’s petty, the sort of behavior unbecoming of the Crown Prince (and it’s rather embarrassing and childish, so says his dear sister Rebecca), but James can’t find it in himself to care. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care about his feelings before they decided to marry him off to some prince from the South. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care about his opinion on the matter. His parents certainly didn’t seem to care that he’s a person--their son--and not some pawn in their game of political chess. 

They didn’t care about him, so he’s not about to care about this little scheme of theirs. If petty is how he’s feeling, then petty is what everyone is going to get. He’s not above that.

(Pity briefly surges through his chest. Is it fair of him to punish someone who’s barely an accomplice in this crime? It is a betrothal. He’s willing to bet that the other prince had as much say in this as he had--which is, to say, none at all.)

He slouches over in his chair, sighing. 

“James,” his mother, Queen Winnifred, calls out. She grips his wrist as he tries to slip past. “Sir McKenzie has been telling me that you haven’t been attending your lessons. How can you expect to communicate with Prince Anthony? He arrives in a couple of days.” 

“I would prefer to not communicate with him,” James answers coolly. “In fact, I would prefer that we not go through this marriage at all.” 

She squeezes his wrist in warning. “I will not have you bring shame to this family because you want to shirk your duties.”

James opens his mouth to respond, but then closes it at the blaze that starts up in his mother’s eyes, making it more than clear that she’s not in the mood for James’ excuse-making and back-talking. 

“The Starks are sending their only son thousands of miles across the heartland because they need this alliance. They can’t even attend their own son’s wedding because Maria easily takes ill.” James tries to look away. She tugs, forcing him to look back. “This is going to be a trying time for him. The least you could do is provide him some familiarity.” 

Hot shame courses through James’ body, but he made up his mind the second you’re betrothed left his father’s lips. He removes his hand from his mother’s grip and summons every last drop of his courage. “Perhaps you all should have thought about that before arranging this entire affair.” 

An uneasy, thick silence falls between them. His mother looks stunned. He can tell that she’s wondering what happened to the compassionate boy that she helped raise.

His throat clicks as he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Mechanically, he turns on his heel and walks away, his mother’s gaze burning holes into his back. 

His sister says nothing to him as she drags him to every single one of his lessons. Two days is barely enough time for him to learn how to introduce himself, much less become conversational. However, that doesn’t stop his tutor from trying. 

They sit him down in a less than comfortable chair at a years-old desk stained by ink and rings of that coffee drink his mother is so fond of. Scrolls are unraveled in front of him, one half filled with words and phrases that he can read, the other half dominated by characters he finds foreign. 

They say he has to stay. 

They never say he has to pay attention. 

Prince Anthony arrives as the short-lived sun starts to set, staining the gate in front of the castle in pinks and oranges. 

James plasters on a fake smile--he might not be thrilled about this entire arrangement, but he supposes that he could at least let the Prince feel like he’s welcome. Well, he thinks as he presses a quick kiss to the back of Prince Anthony’s hand, at least he’s pretty. He links both of their arms together as he leads the Prince into the courtyard. 

Prince Anthony looks at him and says something in his own tongue, delicate and soft, a contrast against the rough and warm tones of James’ own language. 

James’ smile falters, and he shakes his head, making a looping motion with one of his fingers near his ear. I can’t understand you.

Prince Anthony’s brows furrow, a frown forming on his face. He says something over his shoulder to someone, adding something extra in the beginning--presumably a request to translate--before repeating what he said to James. 

That someone that Prince Anthony was talking to hurries over. They’re a portly man, but the broadness of their shoulders betrays any hidden underlaying muscle. “His Highness would like to know if he is to sleep with you in your quarters tonight,” they translate, “or if he is to wait until after the wedding.” 

“Pardon?” James’ mouth goes dry. He isn’t sure if Prince Anthony means sleep or if he means… sleep. 

Prince Anthony says something, cheeks slightly flushed, probably after taking in the half confused, half shocked look on James’ face. 

The man nods. “His Highness meant it to be purely the two of you sharing a bed. He apologizes if any of his wording made him seem crass.”

“Oh.” James blinks. “After the wedding.” 

The man relays that to Prince Anthony, who simply hums thoughtfully. 

James barely gets more than a glimpse of Prince Anthony as he’s caught in the hustle and bustle of everyone in the castle moving around to get ready for the wedding. He’s forced into coat after coat, the seamstresses hemming and hawing and sometimes accidentally pricking him with their needles. He wonders why they couldn’t have just done this before. 

From what he sees, Prince Anthony’s garments have the intricate, looping embroidery on them that’s indicative of the South. The sleeves are long, with two pieces of loose fabric acting as some sort of flaps that connect from his shoulders to his wrists. 

James’ father, King George, stops by to give him the sash that he wore when he married Winnifred. 

James doesn’t think he deserves it. 

They don’t kiss during the ceremony, thankfully. 

James’ simply feeds Prince Anthony the first bite of a freshly baked bread roll, while Prince Anthony spoons beef broth into James’ mouth. The priest--who James recognizes as the man Prince Anthony enlisted the translation services of when they first met--says a few words in both James’ and Prince Anthony’s tongues, and just like that, they’re married. 

Prince Anthony is the man that James is supposed to be spending the rest of his life with, whether either of them likes it or not. 

As his golden circlet is replaced by a silver crown, rubies glittering underneath the sunlight pouring in through the windows, Prince Anthony mutters something underneath his breath, eyes closing.

James doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but he recognizes the cadence of the Common Prayer. 

Prince Anthony tugs on the sleeve of James’ shirt and points at the cake sitting a foot away from them, decorated with apples and pears. Melted chocolate and caramel are drizzled across the top, criss-crossing over the other. “Is swit?” Prince Anthony asks. 

James tilts his head to the side. 

“Swit. Swit,” Prince Anthony repeats. “Sweet?” 

“Oh.” James’ eyebrows quirk up. He lifts himself out of the seat and reaches over, bringing the cake to their side. “Do you…” he points at the cake, then at Prince Anthony, then he mimes eating, a cupped hand underneath his mouth while the other pretends to be forking something in. 

Prince Anthony nods. 

James snaps his fingers, and a servant comes scurrying. 

The both of them are called forward to share a dance in front of the crowd. Queen Winnifred sends James a look that promises repercussions if he tries to weasel his way out of it. 

With a sigh, he gets out of his seat and offers his hand to Prince Anthony, who takes it with nervousness in his eyes. James supposes that Prince Anthony doesn’t need to understand his language to know when he’s to be no more than a performing monkey for a couple of minutes.

“Sorry,” Prince Anthony whispers when he accidentally steps on James’ toes.

At least he knows that.

Back in their quarters, it comes to James’ attention that Prince Anthony’s sleeping wear is rather unsuited for the kind of weather up in the North. Compared to James’ own heavy cotton garments, Prince Anthony’s breezy, light linens are pathetic. He sees the way Prince Anthony shivers and his mind immediately goes to how cold he must have been the past few days. The South is known for its warm climate, and the North… well, there’s a reason why James’ father is regarded as the Winter King. 

It’s going to be impossible for James to continue not learning Prince Anthony’s language if he keeps feeling sorry for him. Lord. 

“Cold?” he questions, mimicking Prince Anthony’s shiver.

Prince Anthony nods, looking remarkably shy about it all. 

James heads to the chest in his room that stores the fur blanket that he usually saves for the especially cold nights in the dead of winter when his breath is visible and the lake in their garden freezes over. He fishes it out and offers it to Prince Anthony, who takes it with a grateful smile. 

Prince Anthony tosses it on the bed and spreads it out. He places a hand on his chest. “Tony,” he says. “Say me ‘Tony’.” 

“Tony,” James repeats. The name rolls off of his tongue easily. 

Tony walks over and puts a hand on James’ chest. “James.” 

James nods weakly as he desperately tries to tamp down the flush rising up his neck. 

“James,” Tony says again, voice ringing like a bell. 

James wakes up to the feeling of someone’s head on his chest. When they fell asleep, he made sure to put as much space in between the two of them as possible (and it really wasn’t hard considering how large his bed is), but they must have gravitated towards each other anyhow. 

At least Tony has an excuse in the fact that he’s unused to Northern weather and unconsciously sought out warmth from any source. What’s James’ excuse? 

He isn’t sure what to do. He could try and move, but… he can’t find it in his heart to possibly wake Tony up.

Tony starts to move, and James lets out a sigh of relief, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. 

“Food?” Tony asks, tilting his head upwards to look at James. “Morning-food? Hungry, I want...” his face screws up in concentration. 

“Breakfast.” James fills in after a moment’s hesitation. 

“Breakfast!” Tony’s accent is off, but James can tell he’s doing his best. 

So, here’s the thing: James feels like an asshole. 

Tony’s trying to connect with him despite the language barrier, and that’s more than what James can say. 

He’s still miffed about the entire betrothal thing, but he doesn’t feel like his little act of rebellion is worth it. Tony’s still struggling with his language, while James hasn’t even made an effort to learn Tony’s. He should be the one fumbling over his words, trying to get Tony to like him. 

Plus, he’ll admit that Tony… has grown on him. It takes real courage to venture all the way across the heartland to get married to someone you don’t know because your kingdom is in desperate need for power. He wonders if Tony had many friends back in the South, if he thinks about them at night, if he had any pets. He uprooted his entire life coming up to the North, and James…

James can’t even fucking say hello to him. 

Tony places a plate in front of James, snapping him out of his thoughts. On the plate lies a single cinnamon roll, looking beautifully fluffy with its dark brown swirl in the middle, creamy frosting on top. “Made for you,” Tony chirps.

Yeah. James feels like a real asshole. 

James walks in on Tony in the library, face buried in a pillow as he sits on a lounge chair. He assumes that it’s just an extreme reaction to a book that Tony’s reading (although he was unaware that they had books in Tony’s language in the first place--perhaps he brought some from home?) before he realizes that Tony’s shoulders are shaking and all of his breaths sound suspiciously like sobs. 

“Oh, oh, hey,” James says as soothingly as possible, bending himself at the knee until he’s at the same height as Tony. What if Tony is feeling ill but he was hiding it? What if Tony got hurt? What if Tony simply isn’t having a good day? James honestly thinks the least he could do is check in on him. “Okay?” 

Tony removes his face from the pillow. His eyes are rimmed with red, tear tracks shining on his cheeks. His nose is flushed a light pink. “Book made me--” he hiccups-- “sad.” 

“The book made you… sad?” Ah. So, it was just a reaction to the book. Still, he can’t leave Tony like this, can he? “Hug?” 

Tony sniffles as a crease appears between his brows. “Hug?” he repeats sluggishly. 

James blinks. He’s not too sure how to explain what hug refers to. He’s confident that there’s a corresponding word in Tony’s language, but he doesn’t really know it now does he? He runs a couple mental calculations, minutely shrugs, then goes in for the hug. 

Tony inhales quickly, unsure of what to do, and James thinks that he must have botched this big time. 

Then, Tony is hugging him back, burying his face in the crook of James’ neck.

Warmth spreads throughout James’ chest. 

“Flowers,” James says as he gives Tony a small bouquet of hellebores. They just reminded him of Tony, and, no, he doesn’t know why. He does know that he’s grateful that they grow some in the royal gardens, though. “For you.” 

Tony perks up as he accepts James’ gift. “Flowers. Pretty,” he coos. He separates one from the rest and tucks it behind James’ right ear. “For you.” 

“You’re prettier,” James breathes out. He’s not sure if Tony’s able to understand that, but Tony’s smile grows wider.

Winnifred pulls James to the side, curtsying to Tony when he looks at her in confusion. “Anthony has been taking lessons with Sir McKenzie almost everyday while you’re out there fencing with Steven,” she quietly chides, eyes flickering over to Tony. “When are you going to do the same? It’s not fair for him to cater to you the entire time you both speak. There should be equal effort on both sides.”

“I know some words,” James replies. 

Winnifred raises an eyebrow.

James deflates. “I’ll think about it.”

“Think quickly.” 

Sir McKenzie gives him a knowing smirk.

James rolls his eyes.

Tony looks all around him, eyes wide in awe. His hands form cups, small mounds of snow forming in each hand over time. “Wow,” he mouths. “This is snow?” he questions aloud. He’s been getting better and better at the Northern tongue as the days pass, although his accent is still rather glaring. “Only read about in books. Never seen.” 

“Do you like it?” 

Tony nods enthusiastically. “Very like it!” then, he smiles sheepishly. “But very cold.” 

“Do you want a hug?” 

Tony bounds over to him and jumps into his arms.

James recites what he’s going to say over and over in the mirror.

He’s there when Tony starts waking up with a bowl full of steaming oatmeal flavored with cinnamon and brown sugar, plus a plate of apple slices and a dish of honey for Tony to dip them in. “Good morning,” he says in Tony’s language. 

Tony catapults up into a sitting position, staring at James. His mouth starts moving at a mile a minute and the only thing James can understand is speaking and nice. Halfway through, Tony stops himself as if suddenly realizing that James… doesn’t really know what he’s saying. “Sorry. Very happy,” he explains, switching back to James’ language. 

Now, James could continue talking in his native tongue, or he could try to flex what he’s learned. The choice is obvious. “Okay. You are cute.” He feels his mouth turn cotton-y at the last word. Tony is indeed very cute, but to say it to him in his language makes it sound different--feel different. “I like you…” Goddamn it, he practiced for this. “...much?”

Tony claps his hands in delight. “I really like you,” he returns in James’ language and leans forward to kiss James on the cheek.

[orsuliya]

I love everything about this. Not only do they hold hands to walk twenty meters or so, all dignity be damned, it’s also clear that this is no planned and carefully rehearsed action. If if was, we’d see a perfectly regal entrance and then a tense stand-off, brother or no brother. But no, let’s have a family reunion! And you know what? This should make every single noble in the capital even more afraid. Calculated grandstanding is not that difficult to deal with: there are clear lines to be had, it’s a great starting point for negotiations and - although not in every case - it may mean there’s some weakness hidden under all that posturing.

This relaxed approach with no intimidating perfectly synchronized troops snapping to attention? Where smiles and hugs are perfectly permissible and there’s no need for a rehearsed entrance? This means all cards are on the table, no bluffing necessary. Very in style for Xiao Qi, who emanates the same kind of complete yet quiet confidence in everything he does. It also means that Xiao Qi may not care about his image and pride all that much, ergo, he will be hellishly difficult to provoke. Okay, everybody should already know that, but we’ve  established that all those nobles don’t know him at all.

Turnip Wang is pretty apologetic for what’s about to happen. Because, you know, he has a brain (or rather a direct uplink to Daddy Wang), so he knows this particular imperial edict is a Very Bad Idea. Also, I think he must be feeling pretty grateful that Awu is right there; even so he still feels the need to stress that he’s not doing this out of his own will. Is he expecting his supremely self-controlled brother-in-law to go Sephiroth-on-Nibelheim on his ass? He’s not completely excluding that possibility, let’s say that.

But Xiao Qi is not the type to go Sephiroth-on-Nibelheim willy-nilly and he’s no longer holding back on psychological warfare, so...

Now, all this kneeling and bowing matters. For all that most nobles do it purely out of habit, it really does mean something even for them and it means everything when it comes to common people. You might think that the Emperor is the biggest cunt under the sun, you bow; you may be planning to tear him down in about five minutes, you bow; you haven’t seen him in your life and wouldn’t spit on him if he was on fire, you kowtow. The very act of bowing means admitting that no matter what, he IS the Emperor, rightfully anointed, crowned, enthroned - so better, higher-situated, worthy of respect by the very fact of his existence. Bowing before an imperial edict? The exact same thing. Most people will never see an Emperor in their lives; such an edict is an extension of his will and thus is automatically due the same respect.

That Awu goes to her knees is perfectly natural. She’s been raised at court, she’s been bowing five times a day starting from the time she could barely walk. At this point it’s not something she even needs to think about. You know, I don’t think Xiao Qi was expecting her to immediately go to her knees, otherwise he would have caught her earlier (as he will once Zitan enters the scene). But then what would he know about ingrained habits of Cheng aristocracy?

Note who does not move a muscle. There’s no ingrained reaction in Ningshuo soldiers, but still, there should be something to see. For an average peasant the very fact of being in presence of an imperial edict would be enough; sheer fear and awe would do the trick. I don’t even think they’re taking cues from Xiao Qi? I believe that any respect for the throne those guys might have had is gone. And not just because of the Hunt of Doom and it’s repercussions. Those soldiers just spent six months fighting their way across the country, seeing all kinds of misfortune and horror. Where was the Emperor then? They were the ones to bring peace and order; they take hard-earned pride and honor in themselves (and Xiao Qi), humble peasants no more. If they acted on imperial orders, there might have been a chance to save the existing hierarchy, but now that they’ve been empowered? No kneeling, n way, no how. Not for anybody who has not earn their respect and especially not for an Emperor who is pretty much a joke.

Xiao Qi did not order them to stay on their feet. If he knelt himself, they might have done too, but I bet it would have been nowhere near instantaneous. Oh my, I think we have our new social order! Because this stand-off? It’s going to be the hottest piece of news all over the country. And everyone who hears about it will start thinking if they themselves would go to their knees. Hmm, I wonder what the common consensus will be?

Anyway, Turnip Wang has just seen a ghost of his noble privilege swoosh by. He certainly looks like he did. Poor thing, he’s got no idea what to do. And then his scary brother-in-law calmly saunters closer...

...and plucks the sacred edict out of Turnip’s hands. My favourite part?

Ningshuo soldiers immediately perk up. They’re ready and even eager for the show! And a show they will get. Pang Gui the Inept Ninja acts more shell-shocked than eager, but he also didn’t go to his knees. Hey, do you think he might have gotten some lessons in those six months? I sure do hope so!

Xiao Qi reads the edict out pretty matter-of-factly, no obvious gloating or additional commentary needed. It’s so bad and idiotic it speaks for itself. Xiao Qi, the man with the Biggest Baddest Army in town, is graciously allowed to enter the capital and to live in his own house. But he gets none of his titles back, no official post, no nothing. In fact he’s still technically a criminal until Zitan says otherwise. Which he might. Or might not. Xiao Qi has no way to influence the outcome either way. That’s it for the theory.

It’s basically a very unfunny joke. One that would have ended very badly if Xiao Qi was an actual traitor. Or if he had any less authority among his soldiers.

Yup, they are not happy. This is Zitan spitting in all of their faces. Xiao Qi shows anything more that quiet irritation and they may just decide to stuff that spit back down Zitan’s throat. Xiao Qi, being who he is, remains utterly reasonable, showing open anger only when remembering his dead soldiers. Other that that? He lays down the law: he needs the truth. That’s it. Give him that, give him justice, he’ll go away.

He’s all about the truth; what’s more, he has a pretty good guess who is guilty - he’s not shy about it either - and every second the investigation is stalled confirms his suspicions further. Nobody is very surprised, not Awu, not Turnip and not Ningshuo men. This insulting edict may have as well read: WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE. SIGNED: EMPEROR ZITAN.

[stardancerluv]

When You Take Care of Each Other

Part 3

Summary: Roman is having a bad day.

Warning: mentions of emotional abuse, quick to anger, mentions of blood, mentions of torture, mentions of death & implied smut

*Panel from Black Mask Villian on the Year Comic used*

Waking up with a roar of anger on his lips, Roman sat up in his bed. He tore his blankets away. Heart racing, he looked down and remembered just then that you were not there. You had some back to back meetings that morning and had decided not to spend the night with him. It only added to his foul mood.

Starting his morning routine, he eyed his reflection. It made the echos from his nightmares in his head louder. “What are you looking at?” His mother bellowed at him. When he had looked over at her. “You are so ugly and worthless.” His mother continued to berate him from her vanity, as she patted powder onto her face. Her eyes were filled with rage as they met his in the mirror. “Why can’t you be handsome and smart like Bruce?”

“Fuck you!“ He hollered and the memories vanished. All that stared back at him now was his own reflection twisted in anger.

Pulling on a pair of slacks and a simple shirt later, he was getting a shave and a haircut. No point in getting fully dressed, especially if stray hairs may find themselves down his shirt. After downing a stiff drink, he walked over to where his barber always set up. Perhaps this would calm him and bring him some peace.

******

He nodded politely as the man greeted him. He really didn’t care for small talk today. He sat back in the chair and exhaled as the man wrapped the warm towel around his face. He exhaled. His nightmares were finally beginning to fade.

The air felt cool as the man removed the towel and began to shave him. Everything became shattering to a halt, as a sharp pain sliced through him. He leapt out of the chair and away from his barber.

“What the fuck did you fucking do?” He barked. Bringing his fingers up, he winced. Pulling them back his finger tips were covered in his blood, bright and as scarlet as ever.

Roman, closed the distance between the barber and him. He snatched the razor blade from his hands.

The man backed up, he was as white as a sheet. “I am so sorry.” He sputtered out tears already had begun to fall from his eyes. He drew closer to the man, he breathed heavily as his anger thudded in his ears.

“Are you sorry?”

“Yes,” the man shook. “I am so sorry.”

“Stop fucking shaking.”

He man took a deep breath and straightened. “Ok.” He said weakly.

“Now finish the job but if you nick me again...” he swallowed. “I will make you disappear.” He threatened then handed the razor blade back to him. It wasn’t a new threat. The man had heard it once or twice in the last six months.

The rest of the shave and the haircut went on without issue. The man cleaned the small nick. “It stopped bleeding, Mr. Sionis.” He said softly. As he held up a small mirror.

Satisfied with his reflection. Roman nodded, and smiled pleased that the nick wasn’t terribly visible. “Everything looks good all things considered.” Though, he would have to burn his shirt, blood had dripped and landed on the collar.

Getting up, he held out his hand. “Give me the blade.”

Confusion filled the man’s face. He looked at him and back at his hand and back at him. Not hesitating any further and with a sigh of resignation, he gave it to him. “Please don’t kill me.” He said, turning to look away at the last moment.

A short, sharp laugh came from Roman. “Not today,” He smiled broadly. “I like how good you work.“ With a incredibly fast flick of his wrist, Roman nicked the man’s face

The man howled bringing an entire hand to his cheek. Roman shook his head. “Calm down, I barely touched you.” He didn’t mare his face anymore then the man had to him. “Clean up, and I will see you in three weeks. Zsasz, has your money downstairs.”

Turning, on his heal he headed back into his parts of the penthouse. He tore off the shirt on the way.

Making his way into the master bath, he went to further inspect his face further. The minor imperfection will heal in no time but it irked him to see. Opening a bottle of aftershave, he inhaled and splashed some on exhaling when he felt the sting.

His phone buzzed to life. Reaching into his pocket, he looked down and smiled.

Zsasz: Rocco got Pulico. Wanna hold the meeting at the docks?

Me: Yes. I’ll be right down.

Things were looking up. He dressed quickly. Perhaps today was getting better.

“Let’s go.” He said to Zsasz once he slid into the back of the car. His phone buzzed again.

Babygirl: 😘 Morning, Romy! I missed you this morning! 😢

Me: I told you that you would.

Babygirl: I did, my bed was cold and lumpy. 😢

Me: Serves you right. I slept naked last night too.

Babygirl: Don’t tease, Romy! No fair. 😝

Me: I know of better ways for you to use that tongue.

Babygirl: 🥵 Romy, please I won’t see you till this evening. I wanted to tell you, my meetings went flawlessly! And I’ll be arrive at the club after your meeting with Birdbrain.

Me: No one told you to leave. If you were here right now, I had raise the partition in the Rolls, and maybe you’d let me feel that tongue. 😏

Babygirl: I am squirming with excitement. Tonight, I’ll be wearIng my new blue dress. But panties or no panties, that is the question of the night? ☺️

Me: With the day I’m having, no panties. 😏

Roman snickered to himself. You could be quite the minx. He loved it.

Babygirl: Oh no! 😟 what’s the matter?

Me: Nothing, that can’t be turned around with the business I’m about to handle. Had a horrible morning. 🤬 Can’t wait to slip a hand under that long skirt! Be a good girl til I see you. 😎😙

Babygirl: I promise to be. 😘

He smiled then tucked his phone away, then straightened his gloves. Things were certainly about to get better, he thought with a smirk.

******

The hook that held Pulico‘s tied feet to the rafters, hopped and jangled with each move he made, it was metal scrapping against metal.

This was growing bothersome. He tilted his head to one side to meet the man’s dark brown eyes. “There were going to be repercussions for giving Falcone the information about my two major shipments.”

The man blustered and whimpered from behind the duck tape. Blood dripped from where Roman had already stabbed him in the shoulder. Barely even a wound considering what he still wanted to do to the man.

“Will you stop fucking wiggling?” He shouted. “You’ve dealt out worse! I’ve seen you do it. I’ve barely began to give you what you deserve!” He gestured with the bloody blade. “Victor, grab this traitor.”

The metal hook jangled once again but a loud crash bounced and echoed against the cracking, run down walls. Silence soon filled space.

“You stupid ass....” Roman’s words trailed off as a vacant look stared back at him. “Fuck! You stupid fuck!” He shouted and kicked the dead man’s side.

******

Sipping on his second stiff drink of the day was when Birdbrain, finally showed up. He was already terribly late. Roman looked right up his beak nose, through his sunglasses when Birdbrain waddled up to the table. “So sorry Roman. Traffic is horrible tonight.” He blustered.

“You couldn’t call?” He replied dryly.

Penguin, sat himself down in front of him. Roman sat back, his smelled awfully of fish. “I don’t have your number.” He said weakly, as he looked around, adjusting his monocle.

“You could have called the club. I’m a busy man. I don’t like being made to wait.” He spat out.

“Well,” He took out a white handkerchief and dabbed his face. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Roman pointed at him, “If you light that while in my club, I will cut off one of your flippers.”

Penguin bit down hard on his cigarette holder. A sheepish look spread across his face.

Roman, looked past him. His anger mixed with a blossom of relief when he spotted you walking into the club. His girl, lovely and classy as always. Then what he watched made his throat constrict. His anger which had been simmering now was aflame. Taking out his phone, he messaged Zsasz.

Me: Zsasz, meet me by the bar with three other men. We need this quiet. Men are bothering, Y/N.

Standing, he gave Penguin a dismissive look. “We need to reschedule.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, he began walking over to you.

@spn-obsessed-dean @vintagemichelle91 @xxxeatyourh3artoutxxx @ewanfuckingmcgregor @zodiyack @angel98624 @frenchgirlinlondon @nebulastarr @emyliabernstein @thepeachreads @itsknife2meetu @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @nomnomnomnamja @poe-kadot26 @babydoll97 @hazel-nuss @vcat55 @feelthemadnessinside @queenofgotham800 @brookisbi @peachthatdrinkslemonade @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @starwarsslytherin @proffesionalclown @chogisss @shantellorraine @xxinvisiblexx @mxdx8 @blondekel77 @saphic-susperia @drarrylov3r @i-cant-hear-you16 @deadlymistress24 @yesqueenofthelight @lemairepstuff @generallj

[vampiregirl1797]

When You Have a Breakdown at Work

Jake Peralta x Reader

 GIF Not Mine

 Word Count: 3,184

 Warnings: maybe a little angst, & so much fluff

 Click Here For Masterlist

 Summary: Y/N’s having a bad day at work. The brother she hasn’t heard from in five years called to ask for bail money, and it brings back a lot of painful memories. More specifically, the memories of her parents turning her away after she removed the presence of her toxic brother from her life. Work isn’t the best place to have a breakdown, but the evidence room offers some privacy as she slowly falls apart, and when her partner finds her, his warm embrace provides some much needed comfort. As Y/N tells him what happened, he finds himself unable to hold his words back and ends up confessing how much she means to him. How will she react?

 I took another deep breath and forced myself to gently place my phone back on my desk, instead of throwing it through one of the precinct windows like I wanted to. Now wasn’t the time to express my anger and complete frustration—I was at work. Now was the time to be professional and get on with my job, no matter how unbelievably annoying my brother was.

He’d done it again. Gotten himself arrested for having drugs on his person and in his system evidently. His sentence was going to be higher than it usually was because the high quantity of illegal substances he had on him led the cops who arrested him to believe he had the intent to distribute. Hell, I wouldn’t even be surprised if he had turned to dealing—he couldn’t hold down any other work so why wouldn’t he try and make some money to ensure he could keep up his habit.

 I’d really tried with him, he was a year and seven months younger than me, and despite the fact that he towered over me and looked about forty five rather than thirty one, he was my little brother. But I’d disowned him about five years ago, after he’d gone off the rails for the third time, and I’d had to use what little savings I had to bail him out of jail, again. I realised then that I wasn’t family to him. I was a bank that he called up when he needed someone to come and save him because he couldn’t face the repercussions of his actions.

 That was the last time I’d saved his ass, and I told him that from that moment, as far as I was concerned, I no longer had a little brother. I was officially an only child. He hadn’t taken it well and my parents had taken it worse—they’d retaliated by disowning me. It had been hard for a while afterwards, but when I got transferred to the 99th precinct in Brooklyn, I found a new family. One that was better than the one I’d had, and I was incredibly grateful to have them all in my life every day.

 So, after all of this time, it came as a shock to receive a call from him. He’d gotten himself arrested again and apparently mom and dad couldn’t afford to bail him out this time. I idly wondered exactly how many other time’s they’d had to cough up some bail money for their perfect son, especially if it had gotten to the point of them having nothing left this time. I knew mom and dad had a nice little nest egg they’d put aside for their retirement—had he drained it all? I felt my heart clench at what that meant for them, but I didn’t let myself linger on it—it was their choice to keep him in their lives and ignore his toxic tendencies. I was not responsible for their choices and I was certainly not going to suffer the consequences of their actions.

 ‘Hey, Y/N did you finish the report for that B and E?’ Jake’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

 ‘Uh, yeah it’s on Holt’s desk.’ I forced a smile, grabbing some extra files I needed to finish and standing up, ‘I’m gonna go and finish these somewhere else. It’s a little loud in here, I can’t concentrate.’

 I fled before Jake could say anything in response—if I gave him the chance to talk he would comment on the fact that the bullpen was quieter than it ever was because him and I were the only ones there. Well, aside from Sarge and the Captain, but both were always quiet because they had their own paperwork to be getting on with. Rosa and Charles were out on a case and Amy was off for the weekend—apparently she was going to see a TED talk on body language…at least I think that’s what she’d said. Gina was out on lunch, but she’d been gone for at least two hours now—I was anyone’s guess if and when she was coming back.

 So really, needing quiet was a bogus excuse and Jake would pick up on that and start asking me what was wrong, and I didn’t want to talk about it. At least, not here anyway. Jake already knew about the non-existent relationship I had with my family—he was my partner and the stake outs, undercover missions and late nights filling out paperwork led to a lot of time for bonding. It was safe to say that the hyperactive man knew me better than anyone on the squad, or rather, anyone ever. There was just something about the brown haired, brown-eyed boy that made it impossible not to feel comfortable around him. I didn’t know if it was just a part of his personality, or if he was just the first and only person I’d ever clicked with so fast. Either way, I was lucky to have him in my life, as someone I could tell anything to, as someone I knew I could call at three in the morning because I needed to talk to someone who would listen… as someone I was starting to care for as more than a friend.

 I shook my head free of those thoughts and took a seat at the desk in the evidence room. I will only focus on my paperwork. With a determined nod I opened my files and started filling out the relevant information, placing sticky tabs onto the pages I’d need to get Peralta to sign too. It didn’t take as long as I’d thought and in no time, I’d finished the four lots of reports and I was staring blankly at one of the many plain brown boxes piled on the shelves of evidence lock up.

 These were times when I’d distract myself, refusing to linger on the pain and abandonment that sprang up inside of me whenever I thought about my family. Usually it worked great, and I got to a point where I could go months without them even crossing my mind. But I guess hearing my brother’s voice earlier was making it more difficult—he’d opened up the wound and I was going to have to wait for the skin to stitch itself back together.

 I knew I’d made the right decision for me—my brother was toxic and even though it hadn’t been easy, I’d cut him out of my life, because I just couldn’t be happy while I was constantly waiting for the phone to ring to bail his ass out of whatever problem he’d managed to get himself into. The thought of that isn’t what hurt; what hurt more than anything was how easily and quickly my parents had turned their backs on me. How couldn’t they see how poisonous, how selfish he was? Why couldn’t they understand why I had to do what I did?

 I took a deep breath and when it turned into a sob, the tears in my eyes spilled over. I leaned back in my chair, pulling my knees up to my chest and decided to indulge in a good cry. Everyone needed that once and a while, right? I hid my face in my knees and just let the tears, the sobs, all of it out. I’d been holding it in for a long time—while I’d shed a few tears over this predicament over the last five years, I’d never let myself go this much. And while my heart was throbbing painfully and my throat was starting to feel raw, it felt good to purge all of the feelings of abandonment, anger and hurt from my body.

 Being so lost in crying I hadn’t heard someone join me in the evidence room and I just about jumped a mile when I felt a hand on my back. I looked up to see Jake, his hands held in front of him defensively and his brown eyes shining with concern. Without much thought I practically leaped into his arms and buried my face in his chest, the sobs and tears continuing to fall from me—I was too far in to stop now, I had to let it run its course. Jake’s arms wound around me and he rested his chin on top of my head, murmuring soothing things to me. Eventually he sat in the chair I’d been on when he’d arrived, pulling me onto his lap and allowing me to nuzzle further into his warmth. He started to rub the bottom of my back comfortingly and I just about melted into him as the tears finally started to subside.

 I don’t know how long we were sat there for, but he never once complained or pushed me to talk about what had caused this reaction, even after the tears stopped. He just kept rubbing my back and occasionally placing a chaste kiss to my hair, which made my heart skip in my chest every time. I nuzzled my way up to the crook of his neck, inhaling his cologne and not fighting as my eyes fluttered shut at the comfort and security that intensified around me.

 ‘Thank you, Jake.’ I murmured, my voice was low but even I could hear how weak it sounded.

 ‘It’s no problem, Y/N.’ He kissed my hair again and I could sense that he was bracing himself to ask me something that he was worried I wouldn’t want to hear, ‘did something happen?’

 The question didn’t make me stiffen defensively like it would have if anyone else had asked. But coming from him, I didn’t mind, and so instead I sighed and melted further into him.

 ‘My bother called.’ I felt him stiffen momentarily—he knew that couldn’t mean anything good, especially with the state he’d found me in, ‘he was arrested for possession and intent to distribute. Mom and dad couldn’t afford to bail him out this time, apparently I was his last resort.’

 ‘What did you tell him?’ he asked, a little hesitantly.

 ‘I told him that I didn’t care and that it was about time he faced some repercussions for his actions. He told me I was a bitch and that I was dead to him. I told him he’d been dead to me for five years, harsh but true.’ I shrugged and Jake’s index finger tilted my chin up so he could study my eyes. I assumed he was trying to figure out if I was actually feeling as casual and dismissive as I was acting over the conversation I’d had with my brother.

 He frowned in confusion, ‘you don’t seem upset about that, so what’s bought this on?’

 Another sigh fell from me, my eyes fluttering closed as his hand caressed the side of my face, ‘over the past five years I’d gotten good at not thinking about my family, I’d just distract myself whenever a thought about them popped into my head.’ He nodded, but the crease between his brows hinted that his confusion lingered, ‘and I got to a point where they wouldn’t cross my mind for months, but that phone call, hearing his voice just bought it all back. Tore open the wound all over again, and while I honestly don’t care about my brother no longer being in my life… it still hurts that my mom and dad just disowned me so easily. I still don’t understand why. I get that they were pissed at me for disowning him, but why can’t they understand that with him in my life I was only ever on edge? That I couldn’t be truly happy while I was waiting for the phone to ring with him asking for more money to bail him out of whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into?’

 The pain in Jake’s eyes made my eyes tear up all over again, touched that he seemed to care enough that my sadness affected him so deeply. I took a deep breath, determined to get it all out.

 ‘My anger has stopped me from shedding more than a few tears over the years, I never let it out, never let myself properly grieve for the parents I lost. And for some reason I decided that here in the evidence lock up was the best location for that to happen.’ My tone turned a little light-hearted at the end and Jake acknowledged my effort by smiling a little, but the pain still lingered in his eyes.

 ‘I’m so sorry, Y/N.’ He said, his words coming out so quickly that I had to concentrate to catch them all, it was as if he’d been holding it in for a long time and now he was rushing to get it all out, ‘I’m sorry that your parents and your brother didn’t realise how lucky they were to have you in their lives. I’m sorry that they just disowned you so easily, without recognising what a loss it would be and how empty their lives must be without you in it. I’m sorry that they hurt you.’ His eyes were shining with such intensity as he spoke and when he paused to take a breath, a softness appeared in them that made my breath catch, ‘I’m sorry they didn’t appreciate how incredible you are when they had the chance, but I’m not sorry that they’re never going to get the chance again. Because they don’t deserve it, they don’t deserve to have you in their lives. They don’t deserve to know the person you are now because they didn’t realise how kind, sweet, caring and loving you were then. They don’t deserve to know all of the achievements you’ve accomplished in your career and your personal life.’ He gently wiped away the tears as they fell down my cheeks, ‘the truth is, Y/N, I don’t understand how anyone could ever turn their back on you, because I cannot imagine my life without you. It would be empty, a lot less fun, I wouldn’t be as enthusiastic to come to work because I wouldn’t have the fact that I would get to see you to motivate me.’

 ‘Jake,’ I whispered, overwhelmed and I feeling myself fall that little bit more in love with him.

 ‘I know I’m being a little intense here and I hope that it’s not freaking you out, but I wanted you to know that I and everyone in your life now, would never be able to abandon you like they did. You have a family, you have a home here.’ He kissed my forehead.

 His proximity didn’t diminish after, as he rested his forehead against mine, close enough that I could feel his breath mingling with mine, both of us suddenly breathing sporadically. I knew he wouldn’t move close enough to kiss me, he would leave the power in my hands, and if I pushed him away he would immediately get off me and give me space. But I didn’t want space; I wanted to feel his lips moving against mine, I wanted to taste his skin on my tongue. My hands trailed up either side of his neck and moved through his soft brunette hair, Jake’s eyes darkened with lust and I felt my knees go weak—if I’d still been standing I would have crumpled to the floor. I gently pulled him towards me, close enough to close the small gap between us.

 The kiss started off tender, his soft lips dancing gently with mine as we tentatively learned how to move together. Once the shyness melted into the heat of our lust, the kiss became more passionate, me shifting in his lap to straddle him, my hands tightening in his hair when he gripped my waist tighter to pull me closer. I felt a moan tumble from me when he flicked his tongue against mine—I’d never had that kind of reaction when kissing anyone before, but no one had ever kissed me so expertly, so effortlessly as if he knew what I wanted when I didn’t. I felt myself melt into him as his tongue dominated mine, another sound of pleasure leaving my throat. I was overwhelmed with the affect he was having on me—my whole body was tingling with electricity, my bones felt like they’d melted and a knot of pleasure was forming in my belly and growing so quickly that I felt like I was going to burst into flames at any moment.

 Eventually we reluctantly pulled apart, our bodies needing the oxygen we’d been denying it for too long. My forehead fell to his shoulder as I tried to get my breathing under control, and when I felt like I could speak again a breathy, ‘wow’ was whispered into the skin of his neck.

 ‘That was the hottest moment of my life.’ His voice was breathy too and I lifted my head to look at him, a teasing smile on my face.

 ‘Title of your sex tape.’ I winked, laughing with him, though I stopped abruptly when he sat up straighter, his hands tightening on my waist to assure he didn’t drop me.

 He gasped, ‘title of our sex tape!’

 I threw my head back, a loud laugh tumbling from my throat as I slapped the hand he held up for a high five. He entwined our fingers together and pulled me closer, placing a short but passionate and loving kiss to my lips. His eyes were soft when we pulled apart, and I knew that I was observing him in the same adoring way as my free hand fell to the back of his neck, playing with the longer strands of his soft hair.

 ‘I’m so lucky to have you in my life, Jake Peralta.’ I murmured, kissing his nose when he bashfully grinned, his eyes softening even more.

 ‘Not as lucky as I am.’ His hand caressed the side of my face, his eyes tender with adoration and sincerity, and he bought our lips together once again.

 As our lips moved together once again, I couldn’t help but thank whatever deity had bought Jake Peralta and the rest of the squad into my life. Because Jake was right, I did have a family here, one that was better and stronger than the relationships I used to have with my mom, dad and brother. But I was especially grateful for Jake. For his kindness, generosity, for caring about me, for loving me. We might not have said it, but I knew he felt it, just as I knew he was sure that I felt the same for him—it was clear in our eyes as we looked at each other and our touch as we held one another.

 And as our kiss deepened with fervour, I was certain that I would go through all the pain that came with my parents disowning me a thousand times over, if it meant that I would be blessed with having Jake Peralta in my life when it was done.

[leviathanswingman]

killing me softly, chapter 8: heavenly delirium

Lucifer awoke to the barely noticeable scent of honey and smoke. Encased in this calming aroma, he took in a deep breath and let out a sleepy sigh. His body felt warm in that certain kind of way where the warmth started from the pit of his stomach and spread out to every cell of his body.

What heavenly delirium.

As he adjusted his position lazily, he felt something light, yet fluffy tickle the tip of his nose. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes a smidgen and was greeted by the sight of tan skin pressed against his cheek.

To his own surprise, this didn't alarm him whatsoever. Instead, Lucifer felt at home, encased in a calamity he hadn't felt in a long time. To be honest, he wasn't quite sure if he'd ever felt anything quite like this before.

Bit by bit, he began to regain his senses and memories started coming back to him; fraction after fraction flashing behind his eyes like the ending credits of a movie.

Last night, he'd had the most intense hanahaki attack he'd experienced up to this point, right in front of Lord Diavolo. And despite that, Diavolo had stayed and helped him, had held him through the worst wave of it.

Scratch that. As Lucifer raised his head he realized Diavolo was still holding him, supporting him. Cradling him, he corrected himself as he felt his cheeks warm up a bit.

The unexpected warmth and serenity he was currently feeling after all those stressful days were the only thing holding him back from completely recoiling and setting an appropriate distance between the two of them again.

He'd never known how sacred it could feel to be completely enraptured by another person.

So, still caught up in the afterglow, Lucifer allowed himself a moment of selfishness and blatantly stared at Diavolo's sleeping form that was ever so close to him.

Diavolo was still fast asleep, his hair now messy with parts of it sticking up in strange angles, other parts covering his eyes.

For a moment, Lucifer just stayed like that, lying on his side, watching the slow rise and fall of Diavolo's chest. On Diavolo's face was a content expression.

Eventually, Lucifer found himself staring into space, eyes focussed on nothing particular, lost in thought again.

Right. He shouldn't forget himself, he should know his place. The devil himself knew how insolent Lucifer had acted these past few days.

Diavolo had helped him due to the nature of their relationship and contract. Obviously, he needed his right hand man, so it simply had come natural to him to help out in such a dire situation and there was nothing wrong with that.

Suddenly, Lucifer felt a now familiar sharp pain in his chest and fidgeted a bit to alleviate the stinging.

There it was again. Of course, it had never left to begin with, had only stayed dormant to strike in the most unfitting situations. At this point, Diavolo played such an important part in Lucifer's life, there was no way of simply forgetting all the moments they'd shared ever since his fall from heaven. From Lucifer's reluctant obedience to an eventual camaraderie to an unwavering devotion. After centuries of growth and gained trust between the two of them, there was no way for it to just disappear as if none of it had mattered to begin with.

Like your brothers, you're a fool after all, Lucifer found himself thinking as he still lay in bed, his and Diavolo's legs entangled.

This couldn't be healthy for him. Still, something made him freeze in place and refused to let him walk away as if nothing had ever happened.

Lucifer fidgeted a bit more as another sharp pain ran through his lungs, and he could feel another petal make its way up his throat; bloody and wet.

Diavolo was still dead asleep. Contrary to popular belief, he was an incredibly heavy sleeper. Once he'd fallen asleep, it was almost impossible to get him to wake up again. On several occasions  Lucifer had had to team up with Barbatos and multiple other servants to pull their demon prince out of his bed. Afterwards, he'd always been in the foulest of moods.

Now, upon sensing movement, Diavolo instinctively tightened his grip on Lucifer, pulling him flush against his chest. They were so  close, Lucifer could feel soft breaths tingling on his skin and the steady thump thump thumping of Diavolo's heart.

Still, no matter how much he longed for it, Lucifer wasn't meant to be held by these arms. These arms were destined to hold greatness, after all, the devildom's future rested on Diavolo's back.

Just like Atlas had been carrying the world on his shoulders, so Diavolo now carried the devildom on his broad back.

To bring the devildom even further, it would be in his best interest to marry out of political and territorial advantages, this had always been an unspoken truth, which was precisely why Lucifer had always taken a step back when it had been about Lord Diavolo.

In their nature, demons were inherently possessive. If he ever were to allow himself and Diavolo to get even closer Lucifer didn't think he could ever find it within himself to let go again.

He wasn't one to share, not in life and most definitely not in love. What was his was his only.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and once again, Lucifer became too aware of what exactly the situation he was in must look like to an outsider.

After a tumultuous night, him and Diavolo had fallen asleep, Lucifer holding onto Diavolo as if the demon lord was his own lifeline.

To him, the situation was nothing more than that, pure in its intentions, but what it would look like to the visitor waiting patiently for permission to enter, he couldn't fathom.

Then, the door opened. Lucifer had two choices: he could either hide his face in the crook of Diavolo's neck, hoping to stay anonymous or he could face the visitor, bold and unapologetic.

“Lord Diavolo?” the voice rang through the room, accompanied by the creaking of the door.

Out of instinct, Lucifer lifted his head.

Barbatos, holding a candelabra, stopped in his tracks, observed the scene right in front of him.

He had entered Lord Diavolo's chambers to wake him up since they still had much to discuss about the upcoming party.

Yet as he entered the room after precisely two knocks, as usual, expecting to find his lord dormant, stubbornly asleep, he was in for a surprise.

Barbatos scanned the room and laid his eyes on an unusual sight. Lord Diavolo was sleeping in his bed alright, but unexpectedly, he was joined by another person.

The other person in question was none other than Lucifer himself. Diavolo and Lucifer were tangled up with each other, Lord Diavolo holding onto Lucifer for dear life, holding tightly onto his right hand man. Lucifer himself had his hands hooked in Diavolo's hair, lazily combing through the messy locks. It looked too intimate for Barbatos to be here.

He was about to leave as he caught Lucifer's eye. So he was awake after all.

“ Oh, well this is unexpected,” Barbatos said, fixing Lucifer with his gaze.

There was an undeniable red tint to Lucifer's cheeks as he stared back at Barbatos.

Lucifer scoffed and Diavolo pulled him even closer. “Is there anything you wanted?” Lucifer asked, reluctantly embarrassed.

“I just came here to wake up Lord Diavolo, but seeing the situation you're in I don't think there's much need for that,” Barbatos answered smoothly. “If I didn't know better I'd thought you'd finally told him the truth.”

“Stop fooling around. We both know I could never do that. I would never tamper with his success like that.”

Barbatos simply stared at them for a moment. Diavolo, fast asleep, holding onto Lucifer as tightly as he could; Lucifer propping himself up on one arm, still in Diavolo's arms.

“You're tiresome. How come you're usually so smart, yet as soon as Lord Diavolo enters the picture you drop any kind of rationality? How do you not see it?” Barbatos asked, holding eye contact with Lucifer.

“I don't know what you could possibly be referring to. We both know Lord Diavolo will eventually have to get married for political reasons. I'm not enough of a masochist to get what I want to just have it torn away from me moments later. Staying his loyal subject is the only option with no repercussions,” Lucifer growled, not caring about keeping his voice down. Here was no way Diavolo would wake up this easily.

Barbatos fixed the two figures on the bed with an icy gaze.

“And how has that been working out for you? I'm as much Lord Diavolo's loyal servant as you are, yet I can't recall having shared a bed with him like you are at the moment. I don't think there was a clause concerning sleeping together in a way only lovers would do in my contract.” Barbatos cleared his throat and turned away, facing the door. “ I need you to do your job and help with preparations for the party. I know he,” he waved in Diavolo's direction, “ wouldn't care. If it was up to him he'd want to keep you in here forever, but I can't handle all of the workload by myself.”

Diavolo's hand suddenly clenched around the fabric of Lucifer's shirt.

Was he possibly awake?

Lucifer's eyes darted upwards for a moment, but Diavolo still seemed to be sleeping like a baby.

Lucifer let out a deep breath and felt a petal flutter past his lips, landing on Diavolo's face. The demon prince scrunched up his nose in irritation for a second.

Barbatos opened the door and without turning around he said, “that's certainly a new one. Get back to work, Lucifer. Oh, and when Lord Diavolo awakes tell him to come see me. That's all.” With that, he left the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Barbatos was one man that shouldn't be underestimated.

Concerned by Barbatos' last comment, Lucifer quietly glanced down at the petal that was now resting on Diavolo's cheek. It wasn't one of the white rose petals Lucifer had gotten used to. Resting on Diavolo's cheek was the petal of a blue rose.

The petals had changed. This couldn't mean much good. Only in the worst cases of hanahaki a person would end up developing different flowers for one specific person.

Quickly, Lucifer slid his hand across the bed, searching for his DDD, quite sure that he'd left it somewhere on the bed. As soon as he found it he googled the meaning of blue rose petals.

According to the internet, the represented the impossible or the unattainable.

Lucifer snorted due to the irony of his whole situation. It couldn't get any worse than this.

Then, he looked back at Diavolo's sleeping form and was met with golden eyes mustering him seriously.

How long had he been awake for?

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6 , Chapter 7, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

*nsfw chapter

taglist: @el-does-photography

[britesparc]

Weekend Top Ten #474

Top Ten Characters Who Came Back from the Dead

I am stunned – stunned! – that I’ve not done this one before. I mean, come on! It’s right there.

So there’s obviously a thematic resonance going on here. This weekend – the weekend you’re meant to be reading this – is famous where I come from because of a story where someone came back from the dead. Unlike other holidays – Christmas, Halloween, the release of a Star War – I’ve actually been a little slow off the mark in making lists that celebrate Easter. I’ve done eggs and bunnies, but incredibly I’ve never done resurrections, which really is the day’s whole deal. I mean, if you get down to brass tacks, it’s kinda the big selling point of the entire religion really. I hesitate to say “USP” because, well, it’s been done elsewhere, but it’s still supposed to be one of the big Christian takeaways (there’s definitely a chain of Christian takeaways in the States, isn’t there?).

Anyway, resurrection. It’s actually more common than you might think. Certainly in terms of comics there are probably more characters who’ve “died and come back” than have never “died” at all. But! And this is where I get pernickety. Most characters who “die” don’t actually die. Take Batman for instance: he’s shot in the face by Darkseid, and then Superman ups and finds his charred corpse, but – shocker! – he’s not actually dead, he was just sent back in time, where he Quantum Leaps his way back to the present day, accumulating enough Omega Energy with each leap that by the time he reaches the present day he’s blow a hole in reality. Or something, I’ve not read that story for quite a few years. Anyway: he wasn’t dead. Neither was Sherlock Holmes, or for that matter Dirty Den. Generally speaking, if someone dies in a story and then reappears, they’re not dead. Not really.

So this list here is supposed to be people who actually died. Now, even here, it’s debatable; I mean, is E.T. dead, or does his body just go into some kind of hibernation? If Optimus Prime’s brainwaves survive, does he ever really die? Is a clone someone coming back to life or not? It’s all a bit wishy-washy really, which kind of makes sense when you’re talking about resurrection. And let’s not get onto the chief resurrector, the Doctor; do they die every time they regenerate? Or is the regeneration itself a way of staving off death? When David Tennant turned into Matt Smith, did the Tennant-Doctor die? “I don’t want to go,” and all that; there’s always a subtle (or not-so-subtle) change in personality. Does that count? Well, for the purposes of this list, I’ve kinda decided it doesn’t. But it’s an interesting discussion to have, if you’re a big old nerd like me.

So yeah: people who have died – properly, I suppose – and then come back to life. That’s the list. No fakery, to mistaken identity, no alternate universe shenanigans; they were dead but they got better (no Chev Chelios either; sorry, Stath stans). No zombies either! Or vampires! They’re not undead; they were dead, and now they’re alive again. That’s the rule. Also I’ve seriously tried to limit comic book characters. And I’m sure there are some big omissions (like, I know there’s one from Game of Thrones that’s not on here, but that’s because I’ve not seen that far into the show yet; I know, I know). But I reckon these are the best at being back.

Optimus Prime (Transformers franchise, from about 1987): OP is the OG when it comes to coming back to life. Dying and then stopping being dead is pretty much his thing. Technically the first time he came back from the dead was in the original animation; famously being offed by Megatron in The Transformers: The Movie (1986), he came back to life a year later. Subsequent media have frequently killed him and brought him back, even in the live-action movies, but I want to talk about the comics. Because the original Marvel run killed off Optimus at a similar time as the cartoon; he’s blown up in slightly contrived circumstances, but his brain is saved on a floppy disk. Two years later he has his body rebuilt and his brain restored and he’s off to the races once more. Then in 1991, when facing down planet-eating mega-bastard Unicron, he sacrifices himself again, but this time his personality has begun to merge with that of his ostensibly-human companion Hi-Q. Hi-Q/Prime is converted/rebuilt into a new body, and he wins the war. So there you go: even in this one sliver of continued continuity – not including off-shoots or spin-offs, let alone other iterations of the overall franchise – Optimus Prime died and came back to life twice. Beat that, Easter.

E.T. (E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial, 1982): not much to say here that we don’t already know from the Book of Spielberg. E.T., doddery little alien magic-man, grows sicker and sicker as he’s stuck on Earth, until in a thrillingly-edited set-piece he seems to expire, human doctors unable to help him. “I know you’re gone,” says best bud Elliot, “because I don’t know what to feel.” But then! His heart glows! His colour returns! And he positively yells, “E.T. phone hooooooome!” – and Elliot’s euphoric laugh is just devastating. The whole sequence – what is it, ten minutes? Fifteen? – is masterful in every way, from the technical to the performative to the emotional. Bloody magic is what it is.

Gandalf (The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers, 1954): Gandalf the Grey famously leads the Fellowship of the Ring across the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, where he faces off against a Balrog. After a bit of “you shall not pass” and all that, they both fall from the bridge, battling each other on the way down, before both perishing at the bottom. Gandalf, though, is not really Gandalf, but Olórin, one of the Maiar – basically a kind of angel, I guess. He is returned to Earth by the powers-that-be to complete his mission, and is promoted to Gandalf the White, supplanting the corrupt wizard Saruman. This new iteration of Gandalf is a bit more serious and steadfast, although he does retain his fascination with hobbits. Regardless, he gets a terrific death scene and a triumphant resurrection, and how it ties into Tolkien’s wider mythology is interesting.

Superman (DC Comics, 1993): comic book characters die and come back all the time; it’s pretty much a staple of the medium. I guess Jean Grey/Phoenix is probably the most famous, but they’ve all done at some point (even if, like in my Batman example earlier, sometimes they don’t actually die). Anyway, Superman died, very famously, after getting into a tremendous barney with genetically-engineered super-git Doomsday (as famously, and atrociously, depicted in Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice). The whole “Death of Superman” arc is interesting and entertaining as an example of mid-nineties big-panel EXTREME storytelling: as the issues tick down to the fateful scrap in Metropolis, the number of panels-per-page is reduced until the final issue is basically just full of splash pages. It’s a terrific, exhilarating rumble, really selling the heft of the confrontation. Interestingly, the comic spends a lot of time afterwards dealing with life without Superman, as a raft of imitators/wannabe successors emerge from the woodwork; these include the best-ever Superboy, Conner Kent, and Steel, who’s basically Superman meets Iron Man. Eventually, of course, Superman comes back, his body essentially having been sent to a Kryptonian day spa to recuperate; he emerges clad in black and with a mullet, so death obviously has some lasting repercussions. Overall, it’s a whopping arc with long-term consequences, and whilst it’s easy to make Christ parallels when discussing Superman, this story doesn’t really hew that way (unlike the Snyder-verse which really goes all-in on that plot point, much to the films’ detriment). One of the better aspects is how, even in death, Superman is an inspiration, which in itself has a long trail; leading, eventually, to Batman’s famous withering diss, “the last time you inspired someone was when you where dead.” Anyway, I’ve gone on about this far too long.

Spock (Star Trek III: The Search for Spock, 1984): let’s start by acknowledging just how great Spock’s death is in Wrath of Khan. As a plot point within the film, as a piece of staging and performance, and as a landmark moment in this franchise, it was seminal; a death for the ages (as an aside, it’s crazy to think Star Trek as a whole was only sixteen years old when Spock died; the MCU was eleven when Tony Stark clicked the bucket). Anyway, they built an entire film around how to bring him back, and Spock as we know him is absent for much of it; a presence looming over everything as he rapidly ages, going through his Vulcan super-puberty and everything. It’s actually a rather sombre film as Kirk’s son is killed and the Enterprise blows up; bringing back Spock comes with a very real cost. Trek III is not one of the top-tier films – in the loose trilogy that comprises Khan, Spock, and The Voyage Home it’s certainly the weakest – but it’s still pretty good, often underrated. And, of course, it brings back Spock, which is nice.

Agent Coulson (Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., 2013): Coulson’s death in Avengers comes as a huge shock, one of the fan-favourite characters being brutally offed in surprising fashion. In a film chock full of super-people, it’s the ordinary guy who buys it tragically. However, did any of us really think he was dead-dead? And so barely a year later he pops back up in the TV series Agents of SHIELD. However, his reincarnation became a recurring plot point; his references to spending time in Tahiti (“It’s a magical place”) becoming increasingly sinister as we come to understand even he doesn’t know how he’s back up and running. The eventual truth – Nick Fury using painful and transformative alien tech to basically bring Coulson back to life – may be a bit underwhelming, but it gave Clark Gregg a lot of meat to chew on dramatically speaking, and it underscored a lot of his character development going forward (especially when he, yes, died again, and then sort-of came back, twice).

Buffy Summers (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 2001): full disclosure: I never watched Buffy religiously. I think I just missed it at the start and it was only when all my friends were talking about how great it was that I started tuning in more regularly. Weirdly, I think the most I watched it was around the time Buffy died and came back. It’s fascinating, really, and full credit to the show for the way they explored it; in a series full of magic, the afterlife, and the undead, bringing a character back to life isn’t too shocking. Willow, Buffy’s witchy mate, resurrects her with magic; but in an excellent twist, it turns out that she was in Heaven, and is super pissed off to be pulled out of paradise and stuck back on Earth, leading to her feeling depressed and alienated all season. That’s a great hook for bringing a character back, and leads to some meaty stuff for Sarah Michelle Geller to do.

Agent Smith (The Matrix Reloaded, 2003): do you ever feel that The Matrix has slipped from popular culture a little bit? Twenty years ago it was ascendent, rivalling Lord of the Rings for the title of “the new Star Wars”. Everyone was copying it. but now hardly anyone talks about it. probably because it hasn’t had a multimedia shelf-life comprising dozens of games and spin-off shows. Maybe the new film will change that. But I digress; Hugo Weaving is tremendous as Agent Smith in the first film, and is exploded at the end (spoilers) by Keanu Reeves’ Neo. Unsurprisingly – especially as he’s, well, just bits of code – he’s back in the sequel. However, he’s now been corrupted; he becomes, basically, a virus, self-replicating and threatening not just our heroes but the Matrix itself. This builds across two films, as Neo has to fight dozens of Smiths in the famous “Burly Brawl”, before the final conflict in The Matrix Revolutions when it seems everyone in the program has been Smithed. It offers Weaving a lot of scenery to chew on and makes for some great set-piece battles, even if the films themselves are a little disappointing.

Olaf (Frozen II, 2019): let’s not beat around the bush here – Olaf carks it in Frozen II. Okay, maybe Elsa dies; maybe Anna dies in the first film. They’re frozen, right, but I feel like it’s “magic ice” and there’s something going on there. Do they come back to life or were they ever really dead? Anyway, Elsa is effectively “gone” but we get a protracted death scene for the comic relief talking snowman. He literally fades away, slowly dying in Anna’s arms, and melts into a flurry of snow that blows away. People talk about Bambi’s mum all the time, but mark my words; “Olaf’s death” is going to be cited as a major traumatic incident for twenty-year-olds in 2030. His resurrection, truth be told, is slightly less great, Elsa just straight-up bringing him back to life, reminding us that “water has memory” to let us know that it’s the same Olaf and he remembers everything (including, presumably, dying? That’s creepy). And that, to be honest, is where I draw the line; sentient wind and rock monsters I can handle, but we all know homeopathy is bollocks.

Emperor Palpatine (Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker, 2019): look, I hate this. But let’s deal with it anyway, because I have a funny feeling it’s going to lead to some quite interesting stories being told in spin-off Star Wars fiction. I personally feel quite strongly that Palpatine should have stayed dead. And maybe he did? We are led to believe that the Palpatine we see in Rise is a clone; there are jars of stilted Snokes floating in the background. He’s all knackered and broken, eyes blackened and fingers dropping off; clearly he’s not well. So is he really the same character at all? Is his Sith essence somehow fed into this new body, the way Prime’s mind is downloaded from a floppy disk (“run prime.exe”)? Let’s say it counts, let’s say he’s the same slimy Palps we know and love. He is, at least, a sinister presence, and like I say, the whys and wherefores of how he came to be back is quite interesting. There’s a fascinating story to be told about the rise of Snoke and the seduction of Ben Solo – a more interesting story than anything told in The Rise of Skywalker, for starters. Moff Gideon in The Mandalorian seems to be researching cloning and seeks to extract midichlorians from a Force-sensitive being; are we to conclude that this in service of making a new body for the Emperor? All this – stuff hinted at but not explored in the film itself – is, like I say, interesting if not outright fascinating. And I agree, there is a certain degree of circularity in bringing back the series’ Big Bad for the final instalment. But I still feel, hand on heart, that it undoes a lot of the victory of Return of the Jedi (as did The Force Awakens, if I’m honest), as well as throwing away all the development of Rey and Kylo in The Last Jedi. So: Palpatine is cool, his presence and backstory in Rise of Skywalker is suitably creepy and interesting, but on the whole it’s crap and they shouldn’t have brought him back. The end.

Ten people who definitely died and definitely un-died! What could be more Easter-y? Honourable mention goes to the episode of Red Dwarf where Rimmer changes history and ends up not being a hologram, only to accidentally blow himself up in the final seconds.

[rocket-remmy]

Captain Moose and The Vicious Vampire || Otto and Remmy

TIMING: Late September PARTIES: @gravityfissure and @whatsin-yourhead SUMMARY: Remmy tries on their new fair prize for size. Otto needs to stop taking walks at night.

Ever since Bea’s birthday party, Remmy had been feeling an uplift in their mood. There was still a lot to be worried or even upset about, but if there was one thing they had learned, it was that attitude was more important than the situation. If they could just keep their head up, then things wouldn’t seem so bad. Couldn’t be so bad. They would find a way to fix things, and they’d find a way to fit into their new life. Even if they still felt that little tremor of panic when they went outside. Going for walks daily had helped, but Remmy still had an aversion to going outside at night. Today, they’d donned their new craft fair socks and spent most of the day walking around the common. And the more they walked, the more confident they felt. In fact, they began wondering why they didn’t go out more. There were so many people who needed help. A kid whose ice cream had fallen needed a new cone. A woman who had lost her phone needed help finding it. (They found it one of the trash cans wrapped in her sandwich paper). A man was following a girl home and Remmy stepped in to stop him, giving a pleasant, innocent smile and badgering him till the girl was safe inside.

 But there was more to be done. They couldn’t let anyone see their face, though, right? They needed to be careful about this. They needed some sort of disguise. Perhaps a mask. Maybe even a cape, to cover themself with should the need arise. Morgan was out for the night, as was Deirdre, and Remmy took it upon themself to dig through the linen closet, grabbing the first things they could find that looked good enough. Snipped it to fit right, cut out holes or the eyes, and then donned their favorite shirt-- “Home is wherever my dog is”-- a pair of black pants and their only pair of boots. Gloves for extra measure, in case punching needed to happen. It was with this set up-- a cape with little cat’s with witch’s hats on, and a bandana for a mask that was a pink, sparkly galaxy, full of glitter-- that they found themself trouncing through the alleys of White Crest. And when they saw a shadowy figure following someone down an alley, they knew it was time to swoop in. 

It was late and recent events had left Otto feeling more drained than he cared to admit. Being dragged along on Deirdre’s shroom adventures had very real and damaging repercussions. One that had ended in the operating theatre and doctors claiming it was no small miracle by which he’d survived the impaling he’d suffered after his ‘fall’. The pain meds he’d been given took the edge off, but work rolled on and there was hardly any time that could be taken off even for a through and through laceration meaning the walk home at 3AM was inevitable. 

 The pain meds were also the reason Otto failed to notice the creature silently stalking him down the alleyway until it launched itself at his back colliding with enough force that he staggered, tipped over some bins and fell with an echoing clang while claws slashed and teeth gnashed; seeking purchase anywhere they might be capable of rending flesh from bone. “Fuck!” blind fingers scrabbled, seeking anything that might be able to help until they curled around a trash can lid dragging it across and shoving it in the way of the creature’s teeth. “”Help!” as if that would do anything. In a town like this he was almost certainly done for. Hells, what an underwhelming way to go out.

 The poor man in the alley was thrown from his spot by the larger, hulking figure. Remmy swooped down quickly. “Halt!” they shouted, the towel rustling behind them. The vampire, confused, turned to look at them. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own, erm--” Remmy looked the vampire up and down, realizing how much taller they were than them, but swallowed, standing confident again, “--strength!” Yeah, that made sense. That made a lot of sense. The vampire, still confused, dropped the other man and turned to face Remmy. “And who the fuck are you supposed to be, then, huh? This ain’t comic con, kid, go back to where you--” but before he could finish his sentence, Remmy had grabbed the front of his shirt and was tossing him up and over them. He landed hard on his back at the entrance of the alleyway, crashing into a few trash cans on his way. Remmy smirked. “Wanna try that again, villain?” they asked, before turning to look back at the guy. His arm was already in a sling, it was a good thing they’d shown up. “Are you alright?” they asked, holding a hand out to him. 

 Otto tasted asphalt and felt the sting of the ground against his face as he skidded to a stop. He also felt a wet stickiness against the lower right quadrant of his tee and a pain that made him suspect the stitches he’d gotten had popped, his hand immediately went to as voices continued behind him. Pushing himself over awkwardly, Otto propped himself up against one of the walls staring at the weird scenario playing out in front of him. A scenario whereby a masked and caped hero seemed to think it fitting to swoop in and save the day in- was that cape printed with cats wearing witches hats? The fuck? He blinked in apparent confusion, those pain meds must’ve been doing something seriously fucked up to his head. No way was his imagination usually this creative. But then the caped crusader was rag-dolling the vampire into the bins and Otto couldn’t bring himself to question the weirdness of this. “Uh.... sure?” his eyes flickered back to the pissed off looking vampire getting up out of the trash as he cautiously took the proffered hand and clambered to his feet still looking over the figure’s shoulder, “might uh-- wanna do something ‘bout that guy.”

 The poor, innocent civilian looked pretty banged up and scared, but that was okay. Remmy was here to rescue him now. Turning back as the villain rose from his heap on the ground, shaking garbage from his limbs and glaring them down. “Don’t worry-- I’ll take out the trash!” They spoke with a crooked smirk on their face, before running straight at the vampire, catching him off guard. Two punches to the face startled him enough to nearly topple him again, and Remmy spun to give him a good kick straight to chest. The vampire went flying from the alley, landing in the middle of the street and tumbling a few feet before skidding to a stop. “If I were you, I’d give up now,” they said, hands on their hips, as the vampire scraped himself up from the street, skin scored from the asphalt. Shaking his head, fangs bared, he leapt at them. Remmy shook their head, disappointed, before striking up another stance. They quickly moved out of the way, expecting him to turn and follow them but-- “Hey!” the beastly man kept going, charging at the victim in the alleyway. “Oh no!” they shouted, leaping for the vampire, trying to stop him before he got to the man. Fists dug into the vampire’s shirt, yanking, and the two went tumblring to the ground hard, rolling just past the wounded man. “Don’t even think about it,” they demanded, wrenching his arm up behind his back.

 Otto could only stare at the weird scene unfolding in front of him. The corny one-liners ripped straight out of some kind of comic strip that he’d normally roll his eyes at. Hells was this what his life had become? But the stranger seemed intent on fulfilling their caped crusader fantasy and hey? Who was he to stop them from punching his would-be assailant in the face. It was kind of entertaining to watch all things considered, at least, it was until he had a full grown vampire bearing down on him again. “Oh fuck!” he ducked out of the way just in time to see them both go toppling by and feeling the need to help grabbed the nearest thing he could find; a half broken baseball bat sticking out of a dumpster. It would have to do. Rushing up to the duo he slammed the wood with a sickening crack against the back of the vampire’s skull twice for good measure. If he could just get a decent angle it wouldn’t be hard to shove the splintered bat through this bastard’s heart. It was the least he deserved Otto just needed to find an opening.

Remmy ducked and rolled with the vampire, slamming him to the ground, just in time to be thrown onto their own back, slamming against the ground. It didn’t exactly hurt, but the surprise caught them off guard enough to not be able to right themselves in time to dodge the incoming fist to their face. The vampire’s hand curled around the eye patch on their face and yanked, pulling off. Remmy tried to push them off, only to hear wood crack against the back of his skull. The man flopped down, face first into the cement. Ow, that was gonna hurt in the morning. Wincing, Remmy shoved them off and scrambled to stand, stumbling only slightly. They looked down at him, then over to the man they’d been trying to save, watching him raise the splintered bat above the vampire’s heart. “No!” they said, running over and grabbing for the bat. “Don’t kill him! You can’t kill him!”

 The cry for mercy came right at the very moment the splintered wood of the bat plunged downward piercing the flesh of the dazed undead creature. Good riddance. Otto thought, grunting as he put his full bodyweight behind the act before the piercing scream echoed off the walls of the darkened alley. There was a bright flash of flame as though the figure had been doused in gasoline before vanishing into nothing but ash and leaving Otto to fall to his knees breathing hard. The clatter of wood on asphalt rang loud and clear. The tremors came a few moments later as the adrenaline began to subside. “He-- He was trying to kill me!” 

 “No, no, wait--” Remmy tried again, but they were too late. The wood splintered through the vampire’s back, and in an instant, he was dead. They stood still for a moment, unbelieving of their eyes, before dropping to their knees. “You killed him,” they stuttered, “why-- why would you do that? I had it handled!” They stood up again and began rooting around the alley, looking for a container-- something they could scoop the ashes up into. They needed to move them. Even if that vampire had been attacking someone, they needed to lay him to rest somewhere that wasn’t an alley filled with garbage. “You can’t-- you can’t justify killing with more killing! That’s not how it works! You have to-- someone has to break the cycle,” they said to the man, “someone has to be better.”

 “You had it handled? How do you call him almost ripping my throat out two times handled??” There was a minor note of panic in his voice as Otto waved at the pile of ash that was being blown away by an autumnal breeze drifting through the alleyway. He tossed the piece of wood aside, backing up one step and then two away from the strange caped crusader. “Break the cycle?” his expression mirrored his look of disbelief at the sheer faith this individual seemed to have in law, order and justice. He couldn’t help the slight huff under his breath “break the cycle of death? In this town? Good fuckin’ luck with that.” No way that was going to happen after all. But hey if they wanted to hop on that train bound for failure who was he to stop them? “Sorry Captain Washline, that sort of sunshine BS really isn’t gonna fly here.”

 “But he didn’t rip your throat out! I saved you!” Remmy insisted, feeling their chest heave again. This man was yelling at them when all they’d done was help. Sure, they made a little mistake, but everything had turned out alright. Except for the dead vampire. Remmy found a jar and started scooping the ash into it, looking over at the man with a furrowed brow. “Yeah, well, with that attitude, of course you wouldn’t think it was possible. But it’s gotta start with someone,” they muttered, standing up straight. “It’s Captain Moose to you, too,” they snapped, closing the lid on the jar. “And you’re welcome. For saving your ass.” They brushed their hands off and started heading out of the alley way. “You can believe whatever you want to, but I’m going to believe in the good of people. Even you, Mister Stakes-a-lot.” 

 “I don’t count near brushes with death as good things but thanks.” Otto answered shortly still wondering how of all the people in this town to come to his rescue it was someone dressed in a witch hat cat cape. The town certainly knew how to make a niche even its so-called heroes didn’t stick to the norm. His eyes narrowed a fraction, half tempted to ask if there were antlers to go with that name. “Aye, sure,” he tipped a salute from his temple, scoffed and backed into the alley. Hells he needed to stop going out after dark. 

 As the man said his last words-- more like spat-- Remmy stuck the jar in their pocket and sighed. He was backing away and taking off now, not even a thanks in tow. But then again, they hadn’t done it for the thanks, right? They’d done it to feel like they could still help someone, that they still could be worth something. They sighed again, gathering up their cape and brushing off their pants, then turned to head out of the alley as well. They patted the jar in their pocket. “So,” they asked, glancing left and right, “where should we spread your ashes?”

[ghostnebula]

Yes, I want to read the Loser’s reactions!! Can’t wait to read the fic even if it will make me cry 😢

Okay! <3

[Part 1]

It’s Stan who notices first, when they’re all at the quarry together, in nothing but their underwear, lining up along the edge of that little cliff and preparing to jump together. Because Eddie didn’t really think about it, in the moment. They’re all caught up the euphoria of finally graduating, finally being able to escape this town without any repercussions -- finally having an excuse to pack up their shit and go. And they are going, first thing tomorrow; they’re renting a big house together in Portland and they’ve all packed their crap already, excited to be out of here. They’ll be sleeping over at the clubhouse one last time, and in the morning the suitcases and duffel bags will be crammed into their cars and then they’ll be gone.

So Eddie isn’t thinking, “I better not take my shirt off,” while they’re all undressing; he’s thinking about how Bev came back from Portland just to be here for their last “Goodbye” (read: “Fuck you”) to their shitty hometown and the evils therein. He’s thinking about how she said, “Hey, remember the first time we hung out -- like, for real -- and you guys were all too chickenshit to go cliff-diving so I had to show you how it’s done?” He’s thinking about how they’re all going to jump together this time, like a quaint little metaphor for the leap of faith they’re taking together in life. 

When Stan asks him what happened to his back, quietly, like he doesn’t want the others overhearing, there’s a sensation like ice water down his spine and his expression must give something away, because then he’s being drawn away from the rest of the Losers, to the shade of the gnarled mulberry bush they’ve all dumped their clothes under, and Stan is asking him in this soft urgent voice if he’s alright, what happened, doesn’t he know that he can always talk to them if something is wrong?

He does know, it’s just that this time he can’t talk to them. He can’t tell them what’s wrong because then they’ll know, and they’ll tell him all the same things his mom keeps telling him (keeps making him repeat) that he tries so hard not to believe. He’ll believe it for sure if he has to hear it from them. And then, worse yet, they’ll leave him here, to let Derry finish rotting the soul right out of him. They’re not going to want him in Portland with them anymore, not if anything he’s learned in life is true (that he’s filthy and undesirable and deviant and hated, and all manner of other things that have been drilled into his head). He’ll be stuck here, and if someone else doesn’t get to him first, he might just end up dead by his own hand in a few years. It feels like swallowing lead, knowing that he’s so easy to abandon like that.

He can’t stand the idea of being left behind.

He’s worked himself into what must be an asthma attack, he realizes, when he feels Stan’s fingers in his hair and realizes he’s been moved to sit on the ground, forehead against his knees, and Stan is trying to direct his breathing. By now the rest of the Losers are approaching, asking questions, and he’s dizzy from the fear, his breathing picking up again. 

Richie’s just dropping to his knees in front of him when he finds his voice and manages to croak out a, “Don’t leave me.”

“Leave you?” says Richie. “Leave you where?”

It takes a couple seconds of him fighting to just breathe normally in spite of the crushing pressure in his chest, but he lifts his head (realizes he’s crying) and says, “Derry.”

There’s quiet for a moment. Bev sits beside Richie, reaching for Eddie’s hand, and he lets her take it, and then Bill is at his side and Stan is whispering something in his ear, and Bill’s hand on his shoulder twists his torso just slightly so he can get a better look at his back. “What happened?” he’s asking, just the same as Stan, uncharacteristically calm. 

“Can’t--” Eddie has to swallow because his throat is burning, and he shakes his head while more tears slip down his cheeks and says, “I can’t tell you. I can’t. Just please don’t leave me here. Don’t leave me with her. I can’t stay here.”

And the reaction after they’ve made some inferences, in the moment’s following his tearful outburst, is also strangely calm. In fact, it’s Bev who opens her mouth first, and instead of being the voice of reason as she often tends to be, she says, “I’ll kill her.” And instead of leaping at the first opportunity for revenge, as he’s now known to do, Bill says, “What’s the point? We’re leaving tomorrow. And he’s coming with us.”

“And you’re not going back to see her. At all. Not for anything,” Richie says, to Eddie, who’s still staring up at him like he’s going to have the answers. His hands shake when brings them up to Eddie’s face and wipe some of the sticky tears away, and Eddie nods. 

“Okay,” he says, and he feels those last few threads, the ones that had been clinging to this wild idea that maybe, just maybe, his mother did these things out of love, give way. Because love doesn’t feel like hot metal against your flesh and the beads of a rosary between your fingers, the teeth of a vent digging into your sore knees. It doesn’t sound like threats hissed between yellowed teeth or being told you’ll be disowned for the way you are, or names that sting worse than anything your childhood bullies ever came up with. It certainly doesn’t feel like being afraid of your own mother. 

He thinks -- and he can’t sure, but he’d like to hope -- that it’s supposed to feel like this. Like gentle hands in yours and being drawn into an embrace. Like being protected. Like someone would defend you to their last breath (and Bill does promise that, he does, he says so as his arms wrap around Eddie, and everyone else sweeps in around them until they’re all a tangle of indistinguishable limbs). 

He’s sorry about who he is, maybe. He isn’t going to change, even if he isn’t going to tell them. It’s enough to know he feels safer here than he’s ever felt in his own home. It’s enough that Bev keeps asking, quietly (and he hopes jokingly) if he wants her to “deal with that” for him. 

(She did, after all, kill her dad under similar circumstances, so he can only hope she’s kidding.) 

It’s enough, for him, that when he returns home in the morning to get all the bags he packed to move to Portland, he’s got a six-person wall of bodyguards who accompany him inside despite his mother’s rage at the intrusion, and the hatred is palpable to the point that she sits down and shuts up within minutes of their arrival, and they don’t let her try to hug him goodbye. All she gets is a, “Don’t fucking touch him,” from Richie as he’s ushered out the door by Mike on one side and Stan on the other.

And it’s enough that Richie holds him while he cries that entire first night, and swears to any God that will listen that he’s never going to let anyone else hurt Eddie, never again. 

“Not even Killer Klowns from Outer Space?” Eddie asks, through a half-laugh, half-sob, shirtless on Richie’s bed because he asked to see the scars (and then also started crying, and Eddie doesn’t really get why, because it’s not as if he ever felt it, but maybe he’s more empathetic than Eddie ever thought).

“Especially not Killer Klowns from Outer Space,” Richie says, but there’s no trace of mirth in his expression.

Eddie wishes he could tell him how much he loves him. That it’s so potent it almost makes him feel sick, sometimes. But he’s smart enough to know the consequences for ever voicing these things -- educated enough to know that even if Richie doesn’t outright hate him for it, someone else will, and it’ll be difficult for Richie to make good on these promises when there are so many people out there who want boys like him dead. 

Just having him here, like this, in the new house they all share, away from his mother, swearing on his life that he’ll do whatever it takes to protect him -- that’s enough, for now.