#god he's such a self centered asshole who only cares about guns and fucking

[autobot-bumblebee]

my brother talking about how people working at minimum wage jobs don’t deserve to earn a livable salary because they didn’t take the opportunities  given to them makes me feel like he’s shitting on my aunts who had to grow up without a mother jumping from foster home to foster home because they couldn't live with their alcoholic father anymore and are still working ‘entry level’ jobs that they’ve had for years because they could never afford college and start a family like they want to. 

he also said that black people deserve to be oppressed and only wont be oppressed when they stop blaming everyone else and realize its their fault. 

[stab-the-son-of-a]

Whumptober No.4 - Taken Hostage

TW: Guns, off-screen assumed character death, sexist character, smoking

Taglist: @whumpers-inc

There is a surprising (and hand-cramping) amount of paperwork that goes into working at a call center, even one as unconventional as 1-877-WHMP-NOW. An annoying, several hour, several stack amount. Bianca will never forgive whoever it was in HR or accounting (the only two departments who actually seem masochistic enough to enjoy bureaucracy) that suggested all these extra reports and encounter summaries and redundancy measures.

In the same way you tune out the world while enjoying a nature walk and only begin paying attention again when your unconscious mind notices something dangerously wrong, Bianca pauses in her muttered curses to the paperwork gods and listens.

“Why of course she’s in today,” Fran says in a tight tone. “I’ll just transfer you right to your personal whump-passionate care coordinator, Dom.”

Not Dom. Not that irritating, overly stuffed up crock of shit again. Dom had run through almost the entire call center, leaving Bianca the only person who had yet to swear to walk if they were forced to deal with the self-impressed asshole. Jerking her head up, Bianca stares Fran down, like a deer willing a semi-truck to change paths. She shakes her head, desperately miming cutting across her throat with a rushed flail.

Their gazes lock. Fran continues to dial, even as they watch Bianca’s distressed pantomime with all the impassive finality of a monarch’s sentence.

“Don’t you dare, Fran,” Bianca hisses. “I swear by all that is good and holy if you transfer him--”

Her line rings, and she answers it with a chipper grin that doesn’t touch her glare one bit. “Well hey, sugar!” If looks could kill, Bianca would be in a whole other line of work right now as she tosses an eraser at Fran’s head. “What can I do for you today, hun?”

Well, she can already tell this isn’t going to be a pleasant call, not if the sirens are any indication.

“Brianna,” Dom cries, “I’m too handsome for jail!”

Bianca mouths to Fran, “I’ll kill you,” even as they duck their head and pretend to be oh-so invested in their latest call report. She tosses another eraser and this one hits the mark, bouncing off the back of their skull.

“Hello! Brianna! I need you to put down the Covergirl or your nail file and do your job, sweetheart.”

Rolling her eyes, she returns her attention to Dom. “I’m awful sorry. What did you say your emergency was?”

“Thank you for the urgency,” he spits.

Bianca waits for him to elaborate. The sirens on his end of the line continue blaring, the voluming growing as they grow closer.

“Did the line cut out, sugar?” she prompts, carefully sterilizing her tone with a thick layer of honey.

“I tried to rob this small town little podunk town store and took this girl--” Dom lets out a short cry of pain and kicks at something. He corrects himself, ”This bitch. And someone had the nerve to call the cops on me!”

At the sound of gunfire- too close to the gun to be from any policeman, Bianca raises a single brow in silent question of his intelligence. In her humble, professional opinion wasting ammo on puerile displays and a lead tantrum is useless, but again, she’s just a professional. She only graduated at the top of her class and has years, if not decades, on Dom in terms of experience.

Of course, Bianca says none of that.

“Have you taken the girl hostage, Dom?”

“Yes! Jeez, do I have to spell everything out for you people?”

“It’s very helpful when our clients are clear and precise, Dom,” Bianca returns, an almost feral edge to the too wide portions of her smile. “Have you read our informational brochure, ‘So You Want to Take a Hostage’? Or perused our FAQs for whumpers?”

“Why should I?”

A year ago maybe Bianca might have been surprised. Now she’s just glad Dom can’t see the various mocking faces and mouthed insults she indulges in due to such a response. That doesn’t mitigate the desire she feels to bash her head against her desk until her mental faculties match Dom’s. Instead, she parrots, “No. Why should you.”

“So, what do I do?” Dom asks, impatience clear in his tone. “How do I get out of this?”

“Well, Dom, could I speak with your hostage for a hot sec?”

Completely ignoring her question, Dom muses aloud, “What if I just went out there with my guns and just started shooting. There’s only one car out there. I can take out some backwater donut cop.”

She loves her job. She loves her job. She. Loves. Her. Job. She may be a masochist.

“That course of action might not work well, sugar,” Bianca says carefully.

“Why not?”

Just as she’s about to answer, said aforementioned cop starts in with the megaphones and the offers for surrender. Quickly, she traces the call while Dom yells back about assholes and what he deserves and specifically what the cop deserves, involving his megaphone and uncomfortable places.

That ‘podunk’ little town is more of a small city, and even if there is only one cop currently there, there are bound to be more en route, and rapidly at that.

“Are you listening to me, sweetheart?” Dom demands. “There’s only one of him and I’ve got two guns. It’s fool proof.”

Oh, it’s something to do with fools alright. “So, to clarify, you’ve got a gun in each hand?”

“I just said that, honey, put your listening ears on and try to keep up.”

Over her ten plus years working with the call center, Bianca has heard plenty of stupid shit in her time but trying to go out dual wielding guns is… a new one. She quickly shoots Fran a short text reading, You SO owe me, Franny.

“What about your hostage? How are you going to keep control over her? Is she bound?” Bianca tries to reason with Dom, the apparent Blade wannabe, even if it’s futile.

“I’ll bring her with and put the gun to her head. Easy.”

Easy. Yes, so easy. Fran returns her text. ‘You’re the absolute goddess of dealing with BS I am not worthy.’

“Dom, could you be a dear and let me speak with her, please? Thank you sugar.”

“God what is it with women always needing to yap yap yap?” Dom complains as he rips the gag out of the hostage’s mouth.

“FUCK YOU!” She howls immediately. “I’ll bite your fingers off, you small dicked piece of shit!”

So, Bianca had admittedly harbored suspicions that the ‘girl’ was actually a grown woman, considering Dom’s typical behavior, but this certainly confirms that. A wistful sigh builds as Bianca listens to the hostage chew Dom out and insult his manhood and intelligence.

‘Damn straight. I expect pumpkin spice brownies and a latte on my desk tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s June.’

“It’s DOM.’

‘Pumpkin spice brownies gotcha.’

A solid, but wet crack jerks Bianca’s attention back to the matter at hand. The hostage is eerily quiet. Waiting for a response from either Dom or the hostage, she picks at the dry skin on her lips and taps her foot.

“Oh shit,” Dom whispers.

Screwing her eyes shut as if that will change what his answer is, Bianca asks, “Dom?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you just pistol whip your hostage?”

“Yeah.”

Nope, this is officially the stupidest, most asinine, bass-ackwards call from a client she’s ever had to suffer through. Clearly having overheard, Fran twists around to get a better vantage point to watch as Bianca places her head in her hands and fights back a scream of frustration.

Collecting herself, Bianca chirps, “I’m sorry, sugar, but you really ought to have read our guide. The first rule of a hostage situation is to keep your hostage alive as leverage. Now, as it stands, you’re a murderer surrounded by... “ She counts up each little blip. “Four cop cars and another two on the way. You have to understand, honey, that it goes against policy to stay involved.”

“What? No! You can’t do this you bitch!”

Bianca grins, sharp and vicious. “Oh, Dom, I can, and I will.” With that, and Dom still shouting injustice, she hangs up.

“I’ve wanted to do that for forever,” she breezily admits to Fran.

They match her smile inch for inch, and then some. “Bee, you’re my hero. I’m throwing in maple walnut fudge pancakes just for that.”

“Of course we’ll have IT burn the connection and remote into Dom’s phone before the incident gets too close to home, blah blah blah, and we’ll look into whether that lady remembers anything after the whole gun to the head thing,” she dismisses, “but for now, I need a smoke break or twenty. Toodles!”

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ part 0.5

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, eventual smut ➻ Word Count: 4.1k ➻ Rating: M ➻ Warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒

mists of celeste act one ➻ part 0.5

​​

“Bullshit! You’re a liar and a cheat!” San cries out, slamming his hand of cards down against the metal table. The others around him cackle at his reaction while the man on the receiving end of San’s fuming words lifts his chin higher.

“I said straight flush! Is that not what this is?” Jongho laughs in response. He waves his bundle of cards before San’s eyes in attempts to mock him, and San smacks his hand away with a huff.

Hongjoong watches on from a distance, standing at the threshold of the mess hall and watching his crew interact with amusement dancing across his features. Mingi stands at his side and watches on as well, although Hongjoong knows the man doesn’t understand the humor behind the scene all too well. It’s not often that they have nights like these. Most are spent in the chaos of a new lead or recovery from a tough mission. His crew has earned the break though, and they’ll need it for what’s to come. Hongjoong knows that. It doesn’t mean he’ll partake in the festivities himself though. He would rather watch on from a distance, Mingi’s cold presence at his side. It’s what he’s used to.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate this damn game?” San grumbles. He slumps forward and shoulders drop in defeat.

“Only every single fucking time we play.” Yunho’s elbow digs into San’s side, teasing the younger man further.

“Then we should get a different game, for fuck’s sake!”

“It’s not our fault that you’re bad at poker, San.” It’s Yeosang who cuts in this time. He shakes his head ever so slightly as he pushes his own cards onto the table, struggling a bit thanks to Wooyoung’s proximity at his side. “Or that Jongho seems to have a ridiculous aptitude for the game.”

“You’re one to talk, shithead! As I recall, you lose every single time we play too!” San pushes up from his seat. His elbow nearly knocks Seonghwa in the eye as he moves, and the lieutenant has to dodge to the side before he gets clocked. San points an accusing finger at Yeosang’s blank expression; the blonde-haired Elitist just blinks back with little to no interest.

“The difference being I don’t throw a tantrum when I do.”

“A tantrum? Oh, you’re in for it.”

“Now, now!” Seonghwa presses a hand to San’s arm in attempts to placate the man. “This is why we can’t have game nights. You two always end up bickering an–”

“Because he’s a self-righteous asshole!”

“You’re the only person causing issues right now, San. Before you go pointing fingers, maybe you should check the mirror.”

Hongjoong shouldn’t laugh at the exchange of words, but he can’t help but release a small chuckle as he listens on. Mingi’s gaze shifts to him; he feels the heat of the Berserker’s stare on his head, but he neglects to speak.

“Should I step in, Captain?” Mingi asks when Hongjoong doesn’t say anything.

“No, no. Seonghwa has it handled. Besides, they aren’t being serious.” Hongjoong lifts a hand only to wave it through the air twice and drop it back to his side.

“Understood, sir.” Mingi’s form goes rigid again. He stands just behind Hongjoong like a statue, and if the captain didn’t understand him better he would ask what the hell he’s doing. It’s Mingi though, and there are many mysteries in his behavior. Hongjoong has merely learned what is okay and what isn’t. That’s all he needs.

A sigh passes through his lips. He’s zoned out and missed parts of the exchange before him, but it seems to still be meaningless bickering rather than anything serious.

“You’re dismissed for the night, Mingi.”

“C-Captain?”

“I’ve got some paperwork to take care of. You can head to bed or ask to join a few games.” Hongjoong turns on his heel to leave the mess hall, and Mingi mimics his movements. His jaw stutters as he watches his captain move. “That’s meant to be an order, Mingi.”

Hongjoong hates to pull that card on the man. He wouldn’t do it if he had any other choice though. Mingi simply cannot function without hearing orders spew in his direction. A work in progress, it’s just a work in progress. Hongjoong has to remind himself of that fact on the daily almost.

“Goodnight, Mingi.”

“G-Goodnight, Captain.”

He still hasn’t managed to get the Berserker to use his first name though. That’s something he’s not sure he can do. At least it doesn’t stop him from trying.

“Hongjoong.”

“I-I, right. Yes. Hongjoong.” Mingi nods, and Hongjoong watches the man with careful eyes. He sends a smile his way, which Mingi does not return, then steps away from the mess hall without listening to the rest of the chaos going on in there. 

He should enjoy these moments of silence. They are hard to come by, few and far between, but even so, Hongjoong can’t help but feel lonely. It’s silly and childish – he is well aware of that – yet he wishes he could just let go and be carefree like the rest of the crew. 

He walks on in silence, eyes trained on the floor, and reaches the bridge in no time. It’s quiet and empty when he gets there. Nothing like how things used to be. Crewmates used to be everywhere at any given time. Some here, some there. There was hardly ever a time when Hongjoong could find some peace and quiet on the damn ship. Now it seems like that’s all he ever gets. 

According to his wristband, it’s late but when you’re in space, you can never tell the difference. Hongjoong lingers at the starboard window and looks out into the vast expanse before him. It’s bright thanks to the sun at the center of the galaxy, and despite the time, Hongjoong doesn’t feel tired in the slightest.

“You disappeared quickly.” It’s Seonghwa’s voice that resounds behind him. Hongjoong nearly laughs; he’s not surprised at all that the lieutenant left shortly after he did.

“I take it you managed to quell San?”

“Just enough to keep him from socking Yeosang in the throat, yes.”

“That’s good…” Hongjoong trails off. Maybe he’s a bad captain for leaving when he did, maybe he should have stayed and been the one to break up the fight, maybe he’s not doing his job properly. So many maybes in his life and so few certainties. That’s how it’s always been. Of course things are this way. All because of his own choices. The crew fears him – rightfully so – and Hongjoong knows when to use that fear to his advantage. Manipulation, as some would call it. It’s just the way things are.

“Joong.” Seonghwa’s voice is soft and spoken in a quiet tone, but it sounds so loud in Hongjoong’s ears. The lieutenant has stepped closer to him, joining him by the starboard window, but he doesn’t admire the view before him the way Hongjoong does. No, he looks at Hongjoong and Hongjoong only. 

“I should’ve stayed to break up the fight myself. Talked San down. That would’ve been a good idea.”

“Hey, you–”

“Am I a bad captain?”

“Not at all.” Seonghwa responds with haste, no hesitation in his tone, and when Hongjoong glances over at him, the lieutenant bears a serious expression. He knows Seonghwa isn’t lying – all his faults, yet the man couldn’t lie to Hongjoong even if his life depended on it. Sometimes Hongjoong wishes he were the same. “You are a good captain, Hongjoong.”

“Yea… yea, I know that.” The words are spoken without confidence though, and it’s easy to see through the lie. Seonghwa lifts a hesitant hand, resting it on Hongjoong’s shoulder. The touch is feather-light as is the gleam in Seonghwa’s eyes. If Hongjoong blinked he would miss it, but he doesn’t trust himself to decipher the emotion in Seonghwa’s eyes. 

“We’re heading to Eros. I think I can–”

“Cut the business talk for one night, Joong. Just… let go a little.”

“I can’t afford to do that.”

“You can and–”

“I can’t afford to do that, Hwa.”

“I know, Joong, I know. It won’t happen again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that I trust you as my captain. I know that I trust the crew as my crewmates, my brothers in arms. I know that I can rely on you and rely on them. I can say with confidence that it won’t happen again because the people here are more than that.”

“Jin was more than that too though.”

“We thought he was.”

“Then we can think the same about everyone here!” Hongjoong protests. He shrugs Seonghwa’s touch away and takes a step back from the man. It’s a sudden burst of anger and frustration, and the emotions roll off his shoulders in waves. Seonghwa’s jaw stutters at Hongjoong’s sudden outburst. He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, just staring back at the man with sad eyes and a sad expression. Hongjoong hates it. He hates it more than anything. The way Seonghwa almost pities him. Pities him. “You trusted Jin too.”

“I did.”

“I-I…” 

Seonghwa steps towards Hongjoong again, and this time, he grabs the short captain by the shoulders and pulls him against his chest. Hongjoong can barely see over the man’s arms, eye level with his chest. This isn’t like him. He’s not normally so weak. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, why his emotions are in such disarray, why he can’t think straight. Maybe he does need a break. God knows when the last one he had was. 

“I’m worried, Hwa,” he admits after a minute in the awkward embrace. Seonghwa’s arms tighten around him.

“I know you are.”

“I’m worried about Jongho. He’s so young and – and I wonder if I’m putting him down the wrong path.”

“You aren’t.”

“A-And Yunho. I know he doesn’t want to be here, if he could be anywhere else he would, I just know it.”

“He’s here because he wants to be.”

“Yeosang too. Half the time I think he would go straight back to the military if they would take him. He’s only here for Wooyoung, to protect Wooyoung, to just keep Wooyoung safe. Not because he wants to be.”

“He trusts your judgment more than he lets on, Joong.”

“And fuck… Wooyoung. What am I – how do I even – I fear for Wooyoung so much. I’m scared of becoming like his old masters or hurting him. I-I’m scared of breaking his trust.”

“You do more to protect him and keep him safe than everyone else. Even Yeosang. You won’t hurt him or become like his old masters. You won’t.”

“Mingi. Oh God, Mingi. I don’t – where do I start with Mingi? I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to him. He needs someone to lead him, guide him, teach him. I can only… order him around because I think it’s what he wants.”

“You’re doing your best, Joong. That’s more than enough. Just trying is enough.”

“San.” Hongjoong pauses to gnaw on his lower lip. “I fear the most for San. What am I supposed to do? I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to fix him. I need to fix him. I need to help him. I just have to do something.”

“None of us do, Hongjoong. I tried, Yunho tried. You tried harder than both of us combined. You’re still trying. That’s enough. Joong, listen to me: that’s enough.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“I know it doesn’t but I promise you it is.”

“Okay…”

“Joong.” Seonghwa pulls back a little to look Hongjoong in the eye. He detects the hesitance and denial in his tone with ease; Seonghwa has always been good at seeing straight through him. 

“I’m worried about you,” Hongjoong spits out without thinking. The lieutenant pauses, eyes going wide upon hearing Hongjoong’s words, and he must lose his train of thought because he says nothing more. “Are you here because you want to be? Do you want to leave? Are you happy being Lieutenant? Do you even want to be Lieutenant? Did you want to leave with the rest the first time? Second time? Third? There are so many uncertainties.”

“I’m here because I want to be. I don’t want to leave. I am your friend first, and your lieutenant second. Being Lieutenant gives me purpose. Makes me happy. I have never once wanted to leave this ship or this crew. I have never once wanted to leave you, Joong.”

“I-I’m just… tired.” Both Seonghwa and Hongjoong know the meaning behind the words, and he doesn’t need to explain it further for Seonghwa to understand. 

“I know. I know, Joong, I know. We’ll rest soon. We’re so close.”

“Yea. Yea, okay.”

“You know, we never cracked open that bottle of brandy from Aera. Special edition?”

“Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Trying to get you to let go a little.”

“Fine.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll actually keep you from jumping out the airlock for a spacewalk this time.”

“I thought we agreed to never talk about that again.”

“It was funny! Especially since we were on the ground. A very nice attempt at a spacewalk. Facefirst on the ground. How did the dirt taste again?”

“Like your ass,” Hongjoong spits out, shoving Seonghwa’s shoulder.

“Oh, Captain! Are you trying to tell me something? If you wanted–”

“Shut the fuck up, you little shit.”

“You’re the little one, Joong. Don’t forget that.”

“I can’t since you’re always here to remind me.”

“Someone has to keep you in check.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you too, Captain.”

“Hwa…”

“Joong… is this some sort of new game?”

“No, shut up. I just wanted to say thank you.”

“Thank me after you’ve had two shots and get drunk.”

“I take it back.”

✧✧✧ a/n: okie dokie hi surprise im back super soon with another extra interim chapter only because I got uber excited to post it and I hope you guys enjoy ;-; this one is all about our lovely captain, a little look into him and his relationship with seonghwa, but the next one will be about yeosang and wooyoung's relationship I think so be on the lookout for that one 👀👀

taglist: @faeriewoobin​ @sugarrimajins​ @atinyinwonderland​ @2504-life @lil7bluedragon @sparklychangbin​ @jeong-uwu​ @jeonartemis​ @anothershorthuman​ @xxbluestrifexx​ @saturatedsan​ @haotheheckk​

[blueeyedheizer]

Alive Again - Billy/Four x reader

TW: Language, Blood

--------------

"Eight, I need a hand !"

"Well I'm kind of busy right now. Why don't you ask Five?" You spat, still keeping an eye on your target from behind your sniper rifle. Four groaned at your answer and you rolled your eyes, holding your weapon firmly.

"Come on Eight, now's not the time to be a little bitch! I need backup!"

"Fuck you, Four."

"For God's sake can you two shut up already? I feel like i'm working with actual children!" One barked from the other side of the mic, and you could tell he was definitely getting angry at your childish attitude. There wasn't a day where you and Four weren't fighting, and every mission ended with you two yelling at each other for the silliest reasons.

"Eight, you go help Four, end of discussion." One continued.

"I'm on the other side of the goddamn building, how the fuck am I supposed to make it without dying !" You yelled, clearly loosing your patience as well.

"Two's got you covered, you're not dying today, got it? Now get a hold of yourself and go!" You let out a loud sigh and checked your surroundings carefully before running reluctantly towards the opposite direction of your target. You hated being given a task out of nowhere. You weren't very self-assured so everything you did had to be planned or you just weren't ready for it. The thing is, One didn't seem to get it and that pissed you off more than anything.

Your race against time was abruptly interrupted as soon as you stepped inside one of the building's luxurious rooms; a guard bursted in the room at the same time as you and aimed his gun at you, his finger firmly placed around the trigger.

That's it. I'm dying today. You thought.

The guy took a step closer to you, the grip on his gun tighter than it was seconds ago making you hold your hands up in defense.

"Drop your gun." the man threatened and you shook your head no.

"I said drop your fucking gun!" before you could even process what was happening, a loud bang was heard and the man's dead body fell on the floor, making you scream. His head was half gone and he was already laying in a pool of his own blood. You let out a scream in horror. "Holy fucking shit!"

"You're welcome." Two said, exhaling a deep sigh of relief. "Almost missed him." She tried to joke, but you weren't in the mood for that. Without letting yourself think too much, you swallowed hard and started running as fast as you could. You were used to seeing dead people since you joined the Underground but it was never easy to witness. You might have been declared dead but your feelings definitely didn't die with that part of you.

"Why did I get myself into this?" you whispered to yourself before continuing your way to find Four. You couldn't help but have some regrets about joining the Underground. Watching your family mourn you at your own funeral was one of the hardest thing to do, and you often felt like all of this wasn't worth it. Most of your missions were complete disasters, and the fact that all of you were still alive to this day was a miracle.

xx

After running for what seemed an eternity, you finally reached the opposite side of the building where Four was supposed to be.

"Alright asshole, back to you. Where are you?" you called.

No answer

"Four! Do you copy?"

"Eight-." his mic was crackling. He was in trouble. Just by hearing him say your code name, you could tell he was breathless, almost struggling to speak. You let out a gasp when a bullet flew right next to you, and you rushed to the closest safe place you could find.

"Shit! Guys, I think I'm surrounded."

"Yeah, there's three guys hot on your heels, but I've got them in sight. They won't follow you for too long. Keep running." Seven answered and you nodded before going back to making your way inside the building. "Four i'm gonna need some indications. Where are you?"

Still no answer.

"Four?" Your heart began to race when you heard fighting sounds and screams of pain coming from your mic.

"Eight...please, help..."

"I'm on my way. But I need to know where you are. Give me a hint. Anything you can tell me."

"He's gonna kill me."

"Fuck's sake...Just hang on. I'm coming to you." The mic made another crackling sound and then went silent.

"Guys we've got a problem" Three interrupted.

"God, what now?" you answered, your heart beating faster with every passing second.

"The cops are everywhere, we have to go now. They'll be surrounding the whole building anytime from now." You started running faster, being careful to check if every corner around you was clear.

"Eight, you have to come back. We're running out of time." One said through the mic.

"No, fuck this. I'm not leaving anyone behind. Just go without me, we'll find a way to get back to you guys."

One let out a sigh and rubbed his face with his hands. He was definitely not approving your decision but chose to let you handle the situation anyway. "Alright. Good luck. Don't die."

You closed your eyes tightly, realizing what you were doing. You were walking right into the lion's den, and you got yourself into it on your own.

Quickly, you dashed behind a wall, hiding from any potential enemy. You tried to catch your breath but your bulletproof vest was making it harder. After a few seconds, you peeked around and made your way towards a corridor where you could hear punches being thrown along with some loud crashing.

xx

You finally found Four after what felt like an eternity. He was being beaten up horribly, and you could hardly believe the scene in front of you. Four looked completely helpless, the pain was so unbearable that he didn't even bother screaming for help. You immediately grabbed your gun and shot the guy on top of him, and you heart sank at the sight in front of you. Four's face was covered in bruises, and dried blood matted his hair against his forehead. You held out your hand for him to take and told the team you'd found him. One, Three and Seven were arguing on the other side, but you weren't listening.

"You good?"

Four groaned and grabbed your hand, standing up painfully. "Yeah."

"What the hell happened?"

"Since when do you care?" he spat and you scoffed, trying to hide how hurt you were after hearing those words.

"Yeah, whatever. Let's go. We're running out of time"

----

Back to the HQ, you were sitting in front of your trailer, watching as Five took care of Four's multiple bruises. You couldn't help but feel angry at the sight of them being together. Was it jealousy? No. It couldn't be. You let out an unintentional scoff when you heard her laugh at something Four had said.

"So....Have you two fucked yet?" Two asked, taking a long drag of her cigarette and getting you out of your thoughts. You choked on your drink, making her chuckle.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Wha- Why on earth would I want to fuck him? I can't fucking stand him." you spat, throwing a cold glare towards his and Five's direction.

"Of course you don't. You just risked your life for someone you hate, nothing weird 'bout that. I would definitely do that too." Two answered as a smirk appeared on her face.

"Oh, fuck off Two. I don't like him. He's- he's selfish, self-centered, ungrateful and he's- he's....he's just a fucking asshole!" You yelled. Two was taken aback by your reaction, not expecting you to take her teasing so seriously. Everyone was looking at you, including Four and Five, and you'd never felt so exposed before. You could feel your cheeks began to burn so you shook your head and went inside your trailer, slamming the door shut behind you.

xx

You were laying on your bed when you got startled by the sound of your door opening. You sat up and groaned when your eyes met Four's.

"Haven't you heard of knocking? What do you want?" You got up from your bed and walked to the opposite direction of him, turning your back at him.

"Five told me I should say thank you for saving my life so, here I am." he was standing awkwardly in front of the door, his hand buried in his pockets. You scoffed.

"Yeah whatever. You're welcome, I guess. Now get out."

"What's your problem, Eight? Seriously. What's this all about?" he suddenly spat, making you turn around. "What did I ever do for you to hate me so much?" he added.

"What's my problem? I risked my fucking life for someone who wouldn't do the slightest for me, that's my goddamn problem !" you yelled, not even caring if the others could hear you. Tears were threatening to fall from your eyes but you fought hard to hold them back. Four stayed silent for a moment, not knowing what to say. He broke the silence after a few seconds.

"You know that's not true, Eight." his voice was soft. So much softer than it had been only a moment before, which only made you want to cry harder.

You scoffed again and shook your head. "Oh come on. You and I both know it's true."

"Eight, come on..." Four took a few steps towards you and reached for your arm but you pulled back quickly, as if his touch would burn your skin.

"Y/N."

"What?"

"My name. It's Y/N."

Four could see how sad and broken you were, and to his own surprise he found himself wishing he could make all your pain go away. You two just stood there for a moment, not knowing what to say. Four was obviously not expecting this when he walked into your trailer. He thought you'd be fighting again like you always did, but finding you so broken was the very last thing he expected to be confronted to. This time you were the first one to break the silence.

"I'm not the person I used to be." You confessed. "I can't even recognize myself and I don't know why I act the way I do." You choked out, as Four watched you with a sympathetic expression. "I'm so fucking pathetic I just-, I'm so sorry."

"Come here, Y/N." He opened his arms for you and you walked into them without hesitation, not caring about anything else at the moment. Him calling you by your real name was enough for you to let go and put all your bitterness aside. No one had ever held you since you joined the Underground, this being one year ago. But that's all you needed. To know that you were still a human being, worthy of being loved and cared about. You allowed yourself to sob against Four's shoulder, something you never thought you'd ever do.

"I just want to feel alive again."

[ziracona]

So last night I wound up reading Amanda's wiki and It made me kind of sad for her, because it very much sounds like she was suffering from stockholme syndrome of a kind there, to me, atleast. Which makes me wonder, what do you think of the pig/amanda? What's your Amanda like in your stories? Do you think she had any potential for redemption (with A LOT of work)? I guess I just wanna hear your thoughts on her character because ur always rly good at it?? - Sleepy

Yeah, whoever wrote the Saw wiki loves Amanda and hates Hoffman and it’s genuinely hilarious. They make a lot of assumptions (like that her motive for killing Adam after he won his game was mercy killing, which is a throughly unconfirmed opinion), and use the most sympthetic & extreme language possible. I’ve watched all the Saw films, and as a character, Amanda is a very enjoyable villain, but as a person? She’s a truly awful human being. (Side note—this typed last— So, mentioning certain Saw characters sends me flying into a rage like a D&D berserker, so this is gonna get angry as hell, but 0 of it is at you. I love you. This is at the Jigsaw squad. WHO I FUCKING HATE. Ahem. Anyway. Felt like the level of unbridled and sudden fury needed a heads up lol.) It’s not Stockholm syndrome. In Saw one, she’s a victim who is put in a reverse beartrap and forced to either die, or cut the key out of the stomach of a paralyzed by drugs but very alive (which she knew) other kidnap victim, whom she cut open and killed. After enduring that trauma and barely surviving, she immediately accepted John’s offer to join him. She was not forced, she was not tricked. He asked, and because she wanted to feel special and important, she agreed to inflict suffering she knew goddamn well the horrible level of on others first hand, and went willingly. She is self-centered to her core, and became dependent on and infatuated with John, and obsessed with his approval. She kidnapped Adam and Lawrence with him, who were kidnapped for fuckall reason (literally John just thought photography was pathetic) and for almost cheating on his wife (lol this was John’s ‘stated’ reason—his real reason was John is the world’s pettiest bitch, and Lawrence was the doctor who told him he had cancer. I’m not fkn kidding he’s that level of petty self-absorbed, self-righteous bastard) respectively. Then killed Adam after he won his game, which should have given him freedom but John reneged on like he always does like the pissy little bitch he is, Amanda killed him for reasons up to speculation. However, given John usually tests people who win a second time or tries to get them to join or some bullshit, it’s more plausible to assume her motive was seeing him as a threat than that it was mercy killing, and it’s only stated in-film to be an emotion based decision, not her actual movtive. Everyone’s opinion on this action is just that—opinion. With varying degrees of factual basis behind the educated level of educated guess.

In Saw 2, she helps John kidnap a bunch of drug addicts like herself who all got false arrests by the same officer at one time or another, along with a poor fucking 15 year old whose crime is having that cop for a dad. She then spent the next two hours watching people whose only crime was drug use, like herself, die horribly of organ deterioration, knowing at any time she could have stopped it and saved them all because she knew how to get the antidotes. Bitch even holds one girl in her arms and stokes her head and pretends to care about her while she hacks up deteriorated lung and blood and fucking dies, when at any moment she could have chosen to let her live. Literally no one should be more sympathetic to them than her. She knows how addicted to drugs feels, and the help you need. Anyway, she doesn’t, she lets them die and plays with them, and then when it’s to her, the 15 year old—who multiple times saves or helps her when hurt by other participants, and is nothing but kind—and one other man, the man shows up to kill her to get an antidote, and the poor fucking 15 year old child kills him with a saw to save her, traumatizing himself to a breakdown afterwords, and instead of being even thankful, she attacks and knocks him out, ties him up and attaches an oxygen tank so he won’t suffocate, and locks him in a fucking like tiny ass safe to be a game piece for another trial and leaves him there. His dad, who admittedly needs to serve jail time but isn’t a fucking murderer at least & does love his son, shows up distraught looking for his kid he’s afraid is dead, and she sneak attacks and takes him down, then leaves him chained up in a nasty lost bathroom to starve slowly to death, and doesn’t even do him the decency of telling him his kid isn’t dead. When he breaks his foot to get free and comes hobbling wounded after her, she sneak attacks again and he nearly wins, but she fucks up his broken foot and starts to leave, then comes back and beats him (she thinks) to death becuase he said she would never be Jigsaw, and she’s that petty and proud. Kid never gets to know what happened to his dad, and even alive, will definitely die young from the complications one, you know, gets from almost dying of chemical organ deterioration.

In Saw 3, the main victim is a man whose kid was lost in a hit and run. Jigsaw has Amanda kidnap his wife because she’s a surgeon and also was once not as sympathetic as he thought she should be when talking to him about his cancer at the hospital (I’m not even fucking exaggerating—side note, I will beat John Kramer to death myself with my huge fucking meat fists and laugh as I watch his bones crumble to dust). This poor bitch just lost a kid, then separated from her husband because he was a fucking mess consumed with revenge against the poor college kid who accidentally hit his son & totally withdrew from the world, and she wakes up with a collar filled with shotgun shells basically a 360 gun blow off your head collar deal on, and Amanda wheeling her around in the wheelchair she’s tied to. They tell her if she keeps John alive until the person being tested finishes his test, she can go free. The whole movie, Amanda keeps trying to convince John to kill the poor woman even though she complies just because she’s a throughly selfish, petty, conceited, self-pitying bastard with no regard for others, and wants this “Bitch” to die for fun. She feels she’s a threat for John’s attentions, and John isn’t even romantically inclined toward her, but she’s obsessed and doesn’t care. Amanda decides between Saws 2 and 3 that people aren’t fixable—even though she herself was supposedly “helped” by her Jigsaw game and this is hypocritical as fuck—and just starts straight up fucking torture murdering for fun. To the point even John thinks she has to be stopped. Like if John fucking Kramer thinks you’ve gone to far? Jesus help you because no one else can. She still does the torture, but instead of like, chopping off your own hand with a paring knife and getting to live, you chop it off and then still slowly get your head crushed between two beams being screwed closer and closer together. She kills Kerry for fuckall reason except she wants to (Kerry is a detective who did jack shit wrong—she was just on the case. It’s utter bullshit). Kidnaps her, straps a thing with hooks in her ribs that will tear out her rib cage when a timer runs out, and kill her that way, and had her hung up above the ground tied by chains, and tells her if she burns her hand up in a bottle of acid to get the key at the bottom which is hard period in the suit—never mind losing the hand—she can live. And Kerry fucking does, ruins her hand, unlocks the lock, and the suit won’t come off becuase the cunt rigged it. Then Amanda shows up to watch her die for fun just to smile smugly at her and watch her fear. Because she’s a fucking soulless, sadistic, evil, self-centered, self-important asshole.

Obsessed dad let’s a fucking bystander whose only crime was seeing a hit and run and running off freeze to death stripped naked and sprayed with water in a freezer slowly, saves a judge who gave too weak a sentence to the hit and run kid after the man begs, and then lets the poor fucking college kid who did it and already feels awful get his arms twisted till they snap off, legs twisted till the same, and then his head twisted around back so far it twist snap kills him. The rack is fucking beyond inhumane death. Amanda monitors this while threading Lynn (the poor doctor lady) for fun and crying over poow wittwe John who is dying of cancer (thank you god for doing what we couldn’t), and being miserable. Eventually, Hoffman sends her a letter saying if she doesn’t kill Lynn, he’ll tell John that she was one of the people there to steal drugs the night his wife got injured and miscarried (he probably already knew 🙄), and becuase Amanda cares about nothing more than Amanda, she fucking monolgauges at John about how special and sad she is how he needs to fix her and she’s a murderer but she doesn’t care because you know—she’s depressed : ( so she gets a pass for her self she’s UwU sad so her poor little crisis can have a massive torture body count bc she’s that special UwU and why is Lynn not gonna die even though she did her job!??? So unfair! No one changes kill them all but tell me I’m special I’m symapthetic because I’m sad and that makes it fun for me to tear people’s ribs out :’( —and then she fucking shoots Lynn becuase she cares less about an innocent woman’s life than the potential for John to be mad at her :’-( you know—such symapthetic stuff! And then John is like “Ok then fkn die :’(“ and Jeff/unstable dad/Lynn’s husband runs in and shoots her and then kills John.

Anyway! I fucking hate Amanda with a passion, and John. I cannot stand humans who hurt each other for fun, especially when they target those who most need help. But above all I cannot abide a person who is a sadistic, selfish, wholly self-absorbed fuck of a human, and refuses to take any responsibility for their actions or admit how fucking bad they are and has the goddamn nerve to act like a victim. Like if you’re going to be an evil son of a bitch, at least have the decency to admit it. If you’re a self-pitying “im uwu special and sad and better and more important than everyone else” —double points for “& becuase I am attractive I can get away with being a soulless shit without any being held accountable” from fandom or the media itself, tripple if from both—? I will kill you myself. I will rip out your eyes and chew on them. I will kill my self on a bomb to take you too. I will chew off my left arm for the sole purpose of getting to beat you to death with it. The wiki writer bends over back so bad they’re gonna need a brace the rest of their life to make her sound sympthetic, but they’re just a fan. She’s not. At all. She doesn’t have Stockholm, and I see people say “she got manipulated and used : (“ all the time, but without fail so far it’s people who think she’s hot and just want a reason to stan that because somehow a hot white woman with short hair even if canonically infatuated with John Kramer is somehow both a lesbian, and excusable for every horrible torture murder she ever did to feel uwu special in her depressed sad times. She wasn’t manipualated. It happened fast, she wasn’t courted into it, and she didn’t even hesitate to say yes. He offered her an out, made sure she was serious, and she stayed. And then she escalated to the point John took her out to stop her, because it was worse than what he wanted to do. I enjoyed her as a villain but as a person I fucking hate Amanda, and don’t really want to see her get another chance. Bastard doesn’t deserve one. I can’t say there’s no continuum in which she could never improve or be redeemed becuase who the fuck knows, and I like to think there’s a smidgen of hope for anyone, but that said, I do think the more evil you willfully do, the more you lose your humanity, and you can hit a point there’s just no person left. So. Anyway, hah, I don’t think she’s redeemable and frankly don’t want her redeemed. I want to burn her to death myself if I have to die that way too. Also! This was a wildly angry answer but none of it is directed at you. That wiki writer does make her sound symapthetic, I’ve read the wiki too—just I go into a blind rage any time John or Amanda is even mentioned and it takes me a half hour to come back down. I fly into a rage. If I ever go into anaphylactic shock, all a friend has to do is start mentioning the names of Saw villains and my adrenaline will start pumping like jet fuel and I’ll be fine. I just have a whole lot of righteously just rage at horrible awful self-righteous self-absorbed malicious manipulative dehumanizing self-pity bastards who take 0 responsibility for their evil or admit it, and Amanda & John are two at the way top of that rage list. It’s a dark but powerful headspace when I think of them. I become very powerful...but also very enraged. Lol, anyway, here’s the breakdown you didn’t need, but it is throrough!

[wingsofkpop]

Finding SKZ - 9: JY01

pairing(s): Hybrid!Bang Chan x Reader, Hybrid!SKZ x Reader

genre: Hybrid!AU, Dystopian!AU, barely any Fluff, heavy Angst, eventual Smut

warning(s): Mature language, mentions of trauma, mentions of abuse, mention of death

word count: 4,5k

synopsis: After rescuing an abandoned hybrid from his fate of death, he has one other favor to ask of you. Not only do you have to find his eight other hybrid brothers, but you have to keep them safe from the deadly dangers of your city: Miroh

chapter directory

You watch the shadows of the night dance across the car window, occasionally disturbed by the flurries of snowflakes dancing through the air. The comforting buzz of the radio carrying from the front of the van brings heaviness to your eyelids, but you refuse to surrender to your drowsiness. As tired as you were, you didn’t feel like sleeping. 

How could you with everything that happened?

A soft whimper steals your attention from the outside view. You peer over your seat into the row behind you, discovering a sleeping Jisung. His spotted ears were compressed back against his brown locks. His long tail wrapped tightly around his waist. You could also see his visible claws, jutting out from beneath his fingernails, scratching at the leather seats. His expression was one of fear, his lips parted and releasing gentle gasps. 

You recognize the signs of a nightmare and swiftly scale over the seats, careful not to kick a snoring Felix in the head. Settling yourself on the floor, you attempt to shake the feline awake, “Sung… Sung, wake up…” 

Jisung’s body convulses against your touch as his eyes snap open. A high pitched scream emerges from his throat. The sound bloody murder within your ears. He wrenches himself away from you, huddling in the corner with violent sobs spilling from his lips. You sigh and cautiously scoot toward the hybrid, “Jisung, it’s just me… It’s (Y/N)...” 

“N-noona..?” Jisung raises his head from between his knees, gazing at you with teary eyes. You barely get the chance to nod before he’s throwing himself into your arms, hands clawing desperately at your back. His tail ties around your own waist this time, almost as if he was afraid you would pull away. You do none of the sort, wrap your own limbs around the trembling hybrid and attempt to soothe his hysterics. 

“It was just a bad dream, Sung. You’re safe.” 

Jisung shakes his head, “I-It felt so real… The collar…” 

“Shhh…” You gather the hybrid into a more convenient position. One where Jisung’s knee wasn’t digging into your hip. You allow the boy to ride out the aftershocks of his traumatic nightmare against your body. Having dealt with your own bad dreams a number of times, you know how these things go. Fear. Panic. Helplessness. You’ve gone through it all. 

The bengal’s cries slow after some time and his body gradually stills. While he was still quivering, it wasn’t as severe as before. You deem it safe to lean backward and peer at Jisung’s flushed and tear-swollen face, wiping away any remnants of liquid sadness. The smile you send him is weak, but genuine. That’s the best you can give him,

“It was so real…” Jisung trails off, thumbing at his throat. “It was like I was back in that club again… God, the shocks-” 

“-Don’t think about it.” You caress the hybrid’s sweaty forehead, ridding a couple stray hairs from his skin. “You’re safe with me, Jisung. I won’t let anything happen to you.” 

“Promise?” 

His whimpered phrase reminds you of Seungmin. An ugly pang strikes right against your heart. You swallow your doubts, replacing them with the fierce determination stirring inside your stomach. You ruffle his hair and murmur, “I promise, sweetheart. We’re gonna get your brothers and then get you the hell out of here.” 

“You’ll come with us, right? To Yellow Wood?” 

You hold back a grimace. This time, an image of Chan manifests within your mind. His pleading eyes. His hopeful expression. His dreamy voice. And you think back to the answer you gave then. Back in that bedroom where for the first time in a long time, you felt truly safe and loved. Then again, with the boys, you always felt like that. Loved. 

This time, you really didn’t want to say no. 

“We’ll see.” You choose this answer before gesturing Jisung to lay back on the seats. “Try to sleep, Sung. Just remember I’m here, okay?” 

Jisung smiles sleepily, “Okay, noona.” 

You hold back a laugh as he falls asleep almost instantly. His face settled into an adorable pout. You climb your way back into your seat, ready to retire yourself for the night, before a curious gaze catches your eye. 

Throwing Minho a pointed glance through the rear view mirror, you maneuver your way into the front seat. It’s a little more difficult this time, since there’s not much space to squeeze through. Luckily, you do so without injury or fault and get comfortable in the passenger’s seat. The two of you sit in silence for a short while. You can feel Minho’s gaze burning into the side of your face, but you keep your eyes on the moving starless sky outside the windshield. 

A sigh sounds, followed by his whisper, “You ever gonna tell me about that gun?”

Surprise shoots through your veins. Your head snaps to stare wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights, at the coyote hybrid. He chuckles at your panic and shakes his head, “You’re not as sneaky as you think. I smelled it on you the second you came out of your room.” 

“It’s-It’s not what you think-”

“-Relax, (Y/N)-ah.” Minho sighs, reaching over to pat your hand on the center counsel. “You have it for self-defense. Just in case.” 

You furrow your brow, “How did you know?”

He shrugs, “Figured as much. Your mother’s boyfriend is in jail and can get out anytime. It’s clever actually.” 

You’re not exactly sure how to reply, but push the issue aside. Instead, your thoughts wander to the aftermath of what happened those couple days ago when you came home to an empty and overturned apartment. The worry over Chan, Woojin, Hyunjin and Seungmin had been slowly killing you from the inside out. Along with the guilt. Maybe if you had called when the chance came up-

“-You’re overthinking again. I can hear your mind fucking itself from over here.” 

“Hardee har.” You cross your arms with a frustrated huff. “This is all my fault-” 

Minho groans, “-Please don’t start with this bullshit again. There was absolutely no way you could have known, (Y/N)-ah.” 

“But I should have.” Your hand raises to your face where you pinch the bridge of your nose with your forefinger and thumb. “If only I hadn’t been selfish and went to see my aunt-” 

“-Then we wouldn’t have found Changbin. Seriously, (Y/N)-ah?” Your companion shakes his head with a snort, “You have to stop blaming yourself for absolutely everything. Your compassion is making me sick.” 

You chuckle, “You’re still an asshole.” 

“Only the biggest.” 

Another comfortable silence stretches between the two of you. You direct your attention back onto the violet sky. The moon peeking through the falling snow. Your mind wanders again to a certain wolf hybrid. Wherever he was, maybe he was looking up at the same moon thinking of you too. 

You hope he’s okay. 

“(Y/N)-ah, can I tell you something?” 

“Of course.” 

A shaky breath invades your ears, and the sound makes you a little uneasy. You keep your eyes on the windshield. Too afraid to turn and find what kind of expression was pulled across Minho’s face. 

“I... I haven’t been... entirely honest with you…” 

“What do you mean?”

“It’s… You know what, nevermind.” You turn back to see Minho feverishly rocking his head back and forth. His bottom lip was pulled tightly between his teeth. Tight enough to draw the beginnings of blood. “Just forget about it-” 

You lean forward, “Hold on a second. Minho, if you need to tell me something, then just tell me.” 

Minho visibly debates with himself for a moment. You can see the cogs running inside his mind, bouncing thought after thought back and forth. A strange chill eases down your spine. One that fills you with apprehension and suspicion. You’ve never seen Minho like this before. Almost as if he was… hiding something. 

Finally, after what seems like eons, Minho releases a heavy sigh before answering, “I… I know Paula Friel. And she knows me.” 

“What?” Your eyes embiggen to moons, recalling that moment back in your apartment building. “How in the hell do you know each other?” 

“It’s complicated,” He cards his fingers through his hair, his other hand tightening on the steering wheel. Anxiety written all across his face as he speaks, “She was… the mother of my owner. The one who abandoned me.” 

You don’t respond, again not knowing what to say. Your heart drops at the sadness that crosses over Minho’s features. His long ears tilting just slightly to the side. The temptation to reach over the counsel and pull him into a hug was strong, but you knew you couldn’t. You had to let him finish first. 

“Her daughter and I were… close… Closer than we should have ever been…” 

Your lips purse, “You were in love. Weren’t you?” 

“Yeah… I loved that woman with every piece of my fucked up heart.” Minho smiles. And you can almost see the happy memories through its sparkle. His expression doesn’t remain and it quickly clouds with anger, “But Paula didn’t like that, so she made her choose. Me or her inheritance?” 

“Minho-” 

“-She didn’t even hesitate.” He hisses, “She left me on the side of the road without so much as a goodbye. I tried to stop her but she just… didn’t care.

“That’s why I’ve never trusted another human since then. Because they just don’t care.” When Minho angles his head to meet your gaze, you swear you’ve never seen so much pain in your life. It makes your heart ache. But also flutter at his next confession, “And then I met you. The first human who was willing to lie and sacrifice everything, even her own life, just so I could see my brothers again.” 

You sigh, “You give me too much credit.” 

“No. You don’t give yourself enough.” The coyote sighs, “I thought… I thought you were just like the others. All talk and no game… But the look in your eyes when you told me about your mom… 

“I’m sorry it took me this long, (Y/N)-ah.” Minho sends a weak smile your direction. A smile that is neither a smirk nor cynical. A genuine, heartfelt smile that brings tears to your eyes and a tightness in your chest. Right over your heavy heart. “I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did…” 

“You didn’t know any better.” A single droplet cascades down your cheek, staining your skin with relief and prowess. “I’m sorry too. For everything.” 

While you didn’t exactly say it, you knew Minho knew that you were apologizing for just as you said: Everything. 

The pain. The loneliness. The loss. 

All your kind has done to hurt him.

“I’m glad you’re here, (Y/N)-ah. Truly.” 

“Me too, Minho. Me too.” 

***

When you arrive at the laboratory, everyone in the car grows silent. Even when Minho drove around the entire facility a few times just to scope everything out, no one uttered a single word. You can’t blame them. They were afraid, and frankly, so were you. 

You soon learned that District 9 Laboratories were located on the literal outskirts of Miroh. You’ve never been this close to the border. It’s crazy to think there’s more beyond the wall that separates you from the outside world. Although, all that’s out there is wasteland from the war. Historians weren’t lying when they said everything was destroyed. 

Minho was able to hide the van in a patch of thick, overgrown brush. It’s not easy to find, but when you need a quick getaway, your escape will be clean and effortless. Hopefully. 

Minho didn’t know exactly where they would be holding the four hybrids, but he had a pretty good idea. The plan was to get into the building and make your way into the confinement sector. Since you were basically going in blind, you trusted Minho and Changbin to lead you there safely which sounds like a good idea… but you were a little apprehensive. 

One wrong move and it’s your ass on the line. 

“Sung, Lix, stay together.” Minho murmurs to the two feline hybrids, “We don’t know how shits going to go down. So just be wary.” 

“Got it.” Jisung nods, placing his hand on Felix’s knee. “We’ll go scope out the front. You, Changbinnie-hyung and noona head around back and see if you can still get into that courtyard vent.” 

The coyote smirks, “Nice thinking, Sungie. Be safe.” 

“Always.” You watch as the two youngsters retreat off into the dark woods, likely using their night vision to weave through the pitch black. Unfortunately, you don’t get the chance to watch them completely dash out of sight because Minho tugs at your arm and starts walking. He didn’t want to waste any time. 

You maneuver your way through the darkness by utilizing the side of the building as a crutch. The cool, jagged bricks scratch harshly against your palms. You wouldn’t be surprised if you received a few nasty cuts in the process. You pay it no mind, too focused on the ghost of paranoia breathing down your neck. 

“Are you sure no one’s watching? This seems too easy…” 

“They station their guards at certain spots. The closest one is miles away. Don’t worry, (Y/N)-ah.” 

You roll your eyes at Minho’s reply, “You telling me not to worry makes me worry more. There’s a lot that can go wrong right now.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s not very wise to think about that, now is it?” You nearly bump into Changbin after nearly tripping over a rock. Minho steadies you before you can fall. You can’t see his face, but you know he had an amused expression judging from his voice. “Careful, (Y/N)-ah.” 

“Don’t you fucking tell me to be careful! I can’t see shit!” You hiss, wrenching your arm from the coyote’s hold. Instead you reach down to lace your fingers through his before doing the same to Changbin. The panther doesn’t seem too happy to be holding your hand, based on his feather-like grip, but you could care less. The last thing you need is losing both of them in the dark. 

“Okay. Lead the way.” Slow and steady, Minho takes the lead and guides both you and Changbin forward through the snow. You nearly stumble again, but with your grip on both of the boys’ hands, you’re able to regain your balance fairly quickly. Each step is taken lightly. Your eyes seem to grow blinder with every one. It drives you crazy. But you persevere. You have to. 

For your boys. 

Minho stops suddenly, nearly sending you spiraling into the snowy ground. You scowl, “Minho, seriously? What the hell was that for?” 

“There’s someone following us.” His inquiry shoots goosebumps across your flesh. Your chest tightens and it’s not from the cool winter air. The hybrid shoves you backwards, “Changbin-ssi, protect (Y/N)-ah.” 

Changbin obeys his brother and shields you behind his broad body. Through the darkness and snow flurries, you can just barely make out Minho’s silhouette leering toward the woods. An animalistic growl emerges from his form, “You have three seconds to show yourself before I drive you into the fucking ground! Three! Two-!” 

“-Minho, relax! It’s me!” 

Your eyes widen. You push past the panther to where Minho is stood, your eyes squinting against the blindness. Once the stranger steps into a more visible line of sight, your assumption proves to be correct. Without hesitation, you rush forward and throw yourself into the larger figure. 

Chan chuckles and wraps his own limbs around you, “Miss me?” 

“More than you could know.” You reply, leaning away to peer at his face. All you could really see were his glittery irises, but just by looking into them, you feel most of your anxiety bleed away. He smiles at you, stretches his neck and places a gentle peck against your temple. Your heart flutters, and as much as you wanted to relish in his touch, you had bigger fish to fry: 

You shake your head, “What the hell happened to you guys? We came home and the apartment was wrecked. The boys said you were taken here.” 

“It’s a long story,” Chan murmurs, his eyes bouncing between you, Minho and Changbin. He raises an eyebrow, “Looks like you’ve got one to tell too.” 

“Channie-hyung...” You barely have the chance to duck out of the way as Changbin rushes toward the older hybrid. The two partake in a tearful and heartfelt embrace, one that reminded you of the reunion between him and Minho all those weeks ago. You remember Chan saying one time that between all his brothers, him and Changbin were by far the closest. 

You can definitely see why. 

“I can’t believe you’re here…” Chan sighs, squeezing the shorter hybrid tight against his body. “God, Binnie, I’m so sorry…” 

“It wasn’t your fault, Channie-hyung.” The panther sighs, “You couldn’t stop them from taking me.” 

The pair grow silent, merely taking in one another’s presence. Their moment doesn’t last long as Minho pipes up, “You guys can catch up later. Hyung, where are the others?” 

“Inside.” Chan answers. “The laboratory guards stormed the apartment that night. Woojin and I tried to fight them off, but they knocked me out. When I woke up, Woojin, Hyunjin and Seungmin were all gone.” 

“Why didn’t they take you?” 

He shrugs, “I have no clue.” 

A frown stretches across your lips. Too many unanswered questions were floating through your mind, creating a hurricane of confusion and frustration. You exhale harshly, “None of this makes any sense. I still don’t understand how they found us in the first place. 

“And what do they want with you boys again? They’re the ones who released you, didn’t they?” None of the boys say anything. They were probably just as clueless as you were. 

“We’ll figure all of this out later. We need to focus on getting the boys out first.” Chan is the first to break the tense atmosphere. His hand appears on your elbow, leading you in the direction you were heading before. “We need to find a way to get inside and make our way into the confinement sector. There should be a vent right up ahead we can squeeze through.” 

“Hang on.” Another hand grabs your hand and keeps you in place. Confused, you turn back to peer at Minho who’s staring at the oldest hybrid. It was too dark to see what kind of expression was strewn across his face, but whatever it was, you could tell by the intensity of his grip that it wasn’t positive. “(Y/N)-ah and Changbin-ssi should go find Sung and Lix first. It’ll be better with more hands-” 

“-There’s no time, Minho. Don’t you remember what they used to do to us?” 

“I’m just saying, hyung. This will be dangerous, we don’t want anyone to get hurt.” 

“And I won’t let that happen.” Chan hisses. His fingers tighten around your arm and something stirs in the pit of your stomach. You don’t know exactly what it is, but something felt off. 

Still, you allow Chan to lead you along the side of the building. Minho refuses to release your hand throughout the journey, keeping his fingers woven through yours. The four of you make it to the back of the large laboratory, carefully avoiding a search light sweeping the area. You keep your back pressed against the wall as your feet carry you through the packed snow. They come to a halt when Chan signals, lets go of your arm and whispers, “Bin, help me with this grate.” 

Changbin passes you to join his brother. You couldn’t see past Chan, but you could tell they were doing their best to haul the cover off of the ventilation shaft. A painful creak emerges followed by a brief clank of metal. Minho curses under his breath before yanking you to the ground, just in time for the beam of light to swing over your head. A shaky breath blows past your lips, “Th-Thanks…” 

“No problem. Did you guys get it yet?” 

“Yeah, Changbin and I can’t fit our shoulders. It’ll have to be you and (Y/N).” 

You nod, “Okay, I’ll go first-” 

“-(Y/N), wait.” Just as you were about to slide into the vent, Chan takes you into his arms. From the searchlights, you were able to see the absolute fear present across his handsome features. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so afraid before, not even for his brothers. It strengthens the strange feeling in your gut. 

“What is it?” You murmur, cupping his left cheek. Beneath your frozen palm, his skin is hot to the touch. You want nothing more then to cuddle in his body and forget all the horrors of your reality. Maybe you would be able to one day. 

“I… I wanted to tell you something, in case anything happens…” He smiles sadly, laying his own hand along the one pressed to his face. “In case we get separated again…” 

You return his smile, “Tell me on the way to Yellow Wood.” 

His eyes widen, “You… You’re coming with us?” 

“You guys are my family. I’d follow you until the ends of the earth.” You chuckle, “I love you, Chan. I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you.” 

A single teardrop emerges from the wolf’s eye and cascades down his cheek. You catch it with your thumb, his relief and sadness bleeding through your fingertip. You lean forward to catch his lips in one last kiss as if to say goodbye. A brief goodbye, that is. 

When you pull away, more droplets were making their way down Chan’s cheeks. The smile he gives you sends a flutter through your chest. He whispers softly, “I love you too, (Y/N). I’m sorry for everything.” 

“(Y/N)-ah…” You peer over your shoulder to see Minho stood in front of the vent with a sad expression on his face. He tilts his head. You understand immediately. 

Turning back to Chan. you murmur, “I’ll see you soon.” 

You don’t have the heart to hear his answer, so you sprint away from him and climb inside the vent. Your body just barely fit inside the metal tube. It reminded you of that stupid garbage chute from when you met Minho for the first time. What a stupid coincidence. 

You hear the coyote shuffle in behind you before saying, “Follow the path forward. When you come to an intersection, go right.” 

“Got it.” You begin to crawl along the metal floor, ignoring the heavy warmth bleeding through your winter clothing. Even so, after a couple minutes, sweat manifests on your skin. You were almost tempted to shed some of your layers, but you doubt you’d be able to with how little space there was. Plus, the faster you move, the faster you can get out. 

At the intersection, you turn right just as Minho instructed. It may have just been you, but the air flow seems to grow even hotter in this particular vent. Your breathing deepens, lung pulling air through the humidity. Minho must have heard your panting, “(Y/N)-ah, you okay?” 

“Fine.” You gasp, quickening your pace. “How much longer?” 

“Down this shaft and take another right. There will be an opening at the end that we’ll be able to get out. Can you make it?” 

You nod, “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” 

You scale the rest of the distance with no issues other than the perspiration pooling in your clothes. When you reach the opening, you have to carefully maneuver yourself stomach first from the vent onto something tall and composed of metal. Minho is right behind you, scrambling to his feet and flicking the sweat from his silver ears. He releases a relief-filled sigh, “Okay. They should be around here somewhere.” 

Your eyes flitter around the area. Similar to outside, it’s completely dark all except for a couple spotlights. The lights weren’t related to security though, instead they lit up the glass cells likely meant for their hybrid creations. Most of them were empty. 

Except one. 

“Minho… Is that Jeongin?” 

Minho’s head snaps to where you point. His eyes widen to saucers, mouth dropping to the floor. In the nearest cage was a young hybrid, maybe a fennec fox based on the large, beige ears jutting out from his blonde head. You never found the chance to read Jeongin’s file, but none of the other boys had any idea where the lab would have sent him. 

What if they didn’t send him anywhere at all?

“He’s been here all along.” Minho hisses. His claws digging into the sides of his trousers. “Fucking bastards.” 

“C’mon, I think we can get over there.” You take a step forward into the center of the square structure, pointing toward a ladder in a nearby corner. “If we get over there, we can head down and-” 

Your plan is cut off by a low rumble. You and Minho exchange a confused glance before peering warily around the dark room. A shudder crawls down your spine, the waver present in your voice, “What was..?” 

Suddenly, the ground disappears beneath your feet. Your body drops along with your stomach. Your fall is brief, because when you look up, you see a panicked Minho holding onto your arm and preventing you from dropping into what looks like one of those cages Jeongin was inside. You try not to panic, but the horror across the coyote’s features makes it so much worse not to do so. 

“M-Minho…” 

“You’re fine, (Y/N)-ah! Just hang on-!” 

Another rumble sounds through the laboratory, obviously catching your companion off guard. Minho’s arm buckles beneath your weight, so he lurches forward to grab you with his other limb. He inhales a deep breath before saying, “...This wasn’t how it was supposed to go! God, (Y/N)-ah, I-I’ll pull you up! Just- No!” 

Minho is wrenched away from you, leaving nothing else to keep you afloat. Your body slices through the air and cascades the rest of the distance into the cage. You land against the linoleum floor with a loud thud. Pain shoots through your hip and shoulders. You pay it no mind and launch back to your feet. Looking up just in time, you see the hole you fell into close up again. 

No sign of Minho. 

“What the hell!?” You screech, hands flying to tug at your hair. Furious and terrified, you glance around the glass barriers, finding a figure standing just opposite where you’re stood. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the bright, fluorescent lighting, but when they do, you swear your brain is still playing tricks on you. 

Your hands fall to your sides as your eyes nearly bug out of their sockets. Once again, the storm of thoughts hits you like a civil war in your mind. The conscious and disillusioned parts of your brains fight for control as the figure moves closer. Even with their face entirely visible, you didn’t know what to believe. 

That, or you didn’t want to believe it. 

With tears welling in your eyes and betrayal forming in your heart, you whimper, not at all liking the name that fell from your lips. 

The name that you’ve uttered so many times before. 

“Ch-Chan…?”

[human-disaster6]

Get ready tumblr I’m about to go on a long ass rant about republicans and why I think they’re the most self-centered assholes around. This rant will mostly feature my dad being an asshat!

Starting with this morning, he wanted to go to a rally. A rally, meaning a group of people crowded together. During a fucking pandemic. What is this rally even for you ask? It was to revoke Cuomo’s emergency powers because according to them, he violated their 2nd amendment rights by closing a different asshat’s firing pin/gun store. (This dude became a meme which was hilarious but I can’t find it at the moment) The real irony of this? They were holding the rally at Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Park. A gun rally. At Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Park.

In the end, my sister and I yelled at him not to go because these are all the assholes that won’t wear masks, and my dad probably wouldn’t have either if he ended up going. When we said don’t go into a crowd, there’s a fucking pandemic, we don’t want to risk even more exposure, he said “Oh yeah I forgot about the pandemic.” YOU FORGOT. ABOUT THE PANDEMIC?? WE BOTH WEAR MASKS TO WORK EVERYDAY, 90,000 PEOPLE IN AMERICA ALONE ARE DEAD AND YOU FORGOT??? His sister caught it and recovered after at least two weeks and they both act like its just over?? (His sister is also republican, her name is ironically Karen and boy she can act like one sometimes) Woman works in a hospital and still lives her life normally and goes to see my grandmother, who has copd, like its no big deal. This woman goes to see her 2 month old grandchild like its no big deal.

Anyway, more horrifying examples. Two days ago, there were two fatal accidents in my small hometown. There’s like 2,000 people here. This was an absolute anomaly, deadly accidents hardly ever happen here let alone twice in one day. They happened on my road about a mile apart from each other. The first accident happened at noon, someone hit a pedestrian, so the odds of us knowing who it was were extremely high. And we did know her. A lovely 25 year old died. We still don’t know the exact reason how somebody completely crossed the road and hit her. The second accident involved 1 car, 2 injured, one dead. While I was still freaked out because we unofficially heard an old friend was dead, and then hearing 7 ambulances go by and mercy flight, he called his sister about it. One of the things he said to her that caught my attention was “I hope they don’t put stoplights out here or something.” A friend of several of your daughters is dead and you care about fucking traffic lights?? HE KNEW HER TOO. AND THIS IS WHAT HE THOUGHT OF. FUCKING TRAFFIC LIGHTS. THERE IS ONE IN THE WHOLE GOD DAMN TOWN.

This isn’t even the first time he made a comment like that. When I was in fifth grade, there was another accident. One of my classmates and his little sister who I believe was in second grade, both died. Again, this is a very small town. This was an absolute tragedy. Everybody knew these kids, how kind and funny they were. 12 years later, it is still the biggest calling hours and funeral I’ve ever been to. There were 2 lines out the door during the calling hours, and the funeral had several rooms set up with a video and projector, before that type of thing was really truly common. I bowled with both of them, my dad and grandpa would always watch us. The intersection they died at used to only be a two way stop. It’s now a four way stop because for any rational fucking person, two kids dying at 11 and 7 years old is the last straw. Years later, while passing this intersection, my dad and papa complained about the four way stop. Again, my friends are fucking dead, I’ll never get to see them again, and they’re complaining about something that’s supposed to prevent a tragedy like that from happening ever again. Just for their own fucking convenience, they don’t want it there.

All of this, I can relate back to gun control and climate change. Guess who doesn’t believe in climate change and wants no real gun restrictions? Like most republicans, my dad. He doesn’t seem to understand, that people’s children are dead from school shootings. He doesn’t seem to understand that people are already dying from climate change. He doesn’t understand because none of this is happening directly to him. None of his kids have ever been shot, our region where we live has not directly felt the impact of climate change.

And that’s really what it seems like it has to take for it to sink in. Maybe one of his kids will need to die from covid, a gunshot wound, or a car accident, for any of it to sink in. He is a white, middle aged, born again christian who will never realize his privilege. He thinks white privilege doesn’t exist because “his father struggled too.” White privilege doesn’t mean our struggles don’t exist, it means race was never a factor. And race should never be a factor.

I know that he, my aunt, and my grandma are just a small number of republicans. But they all think like this. They follow Trump, listen to his every word, still believe that drug that Trump is taking for whatever reason is a cure all despite no evidence. My aunt likes Trump even though her child is trans and Trumps administration does nothing but harm the lgbtq community. They excuse every dumb ass thing that comes out of his mouth. Almost all republicans do. The point of this rant is that they’re all so fucking self-centered and selfish. I truly hope one day they’ll open their eyes and see the harm their beliefs cause. I just really hope I don’t have to die for it.

[tessatechaitea]

Black Canary: New Wings #2

"How about a photo-realistic view of Downtown Seattle and then I'll just scribble in some mountains up top?" -- Dick. "Please add some Black Canary Colorforms too." -- Editorial.

Even after giving Issue #1 an "A" rating, I still can't believe this issue is going to be anything but boring. Just look at this fucking cover! This is the kind of image a D-list publishing house puts on the cover of a biographical comic book about David Faustino. Did editors at DC think highlighting the city of Seattle in 1991 was going to move units? It's not even recognizable as Seattle! Okay, okay, you fucking Seattlites. Great, you recognized your city instantly! I guess this fucking comic book was for you then, you know-it-all twats. For the rest of us, we need the Space Needle front and center, not washed out in the pink morass over Black Canary's shoulder! You never see an artist for DC drawing an image of Paris without the Eiffel Tower. I mean, maybe not never, exactly. Sometimes they'll throw in the Arc de Triomphe or the Louvre or Notre Dame. But that's kind of the point! All Seattle has is the Space Needle! I'm not shitting on Seattle for that. I live in Portland and what the fuck do we have? A big pink corporate office building?! Oh, sure, we have some spectacular bridges! I forgot about those! Portland is better than Seattle when it comes to recognizable architecture. Although we don't have a troll sucking off a VW Bug under any of our bridges or a huge black cock jutting out of downtown (Big Pink is the best we can muster). I don't really care which city has better architecture! I can't stand people who feel pride for living in a specific city and then try to emulate the stereotypical person who lives in that city. If you're wondering who the fuck would do that, just watch any local newscaster in any city and watch how they try so fucking hard to be representative of the stereotypes of people who live there. Local news stations should stop airing promos that say shit like "First. Live. Local." Instead, they should just say, "We have no dignity. But we have the news! Although, to be fair, half of it is composed of viral videos everybody but our oldest of olds audience has seen." Another reason this cover sucks is that it declares the title of this chapter is "Home is Where Ya' Live." Is that some sage Midwestern non-wisdom that people spout in reply to some other person moaning about some problem? Like how when somebody in Lincoln, Nebraska is all, "I was shot in the leg on my way to Runza's!" And then somebody else is all, "It builds character." In California, we didn't have sayings like that. If somebody said, "I was shot in the leg on my way to Taco Bravo!", you would reply, "Dude! That's gnarly!" And they'd go, "I know, right?!" And then you'd be all, "Like, is this going to affect our, like, trip to the beach?" And they'd be all, "Nah brah! I'mma go, like, run some water on it! Good as new, dude!" And you'd say, "Tubular! Gonna go get my board! Catch ya later!" This is because nothing in California builds character. You just start off as a goofy, one-dimensional caricature of a human being and stick with it until you, like, die.

No white male has ever been called uppity and we all know why.

"Uppity" is a great word by which to judge somebody's character. I mean to say, if somebody actually calls somebody else "uppity," you now know way more than that person wanted you to know about what kind of person they are. Especially telling is if somebody doesn't understand why you're judging them for calling somebody "uppity." I stopped associating with way more people than I would have thought possible when they sided against Colin Kaepernick. Maybe they didn't use the word "uppity" exactly but they sure weren't hiding their feeling that some people should keep in a specific place and be grateful for what they've been allowed to have, so to speak. Unfortunately for them, my sister and my dad fell into that camp. Obviously they thought they claimed their dislike for Kaepernick was that he wasn't supporting the troops. But we all know how flimsy that bit of moral legerdemain really is. It takes an awful lot of mental contortion to simply disregard Kaepernick's stated protest of police violence against the black community and decide to believe right wing media that has a vested interest in a continued police state backed by corporate money. The whole "I'm a patriot so I find unpatriotic acts disgusting!" is the worst shell game every invented. All those fuckers who constantly thank members of the military for protecting their freedoms support Trump and Republicans who are fucking our freedoms in the ass (non-consensually! I support somebody fucking my freedom in the ass if my freedom feels like getting fucked in the ass tonight). I would thank a member of the military for protecting my freedom if they were ever fucking used to actually protect our freedoms. As a democracy (Don't you fucking representative republic me, you asshole), it's up to us to protect our freedoms and a good percentage of us are failing spectacularly at that job. Gan isn't just battling the small time crack dealers in his neighborhood. He's got his sights on Senator Garrenger as well.

Gan doesn't realize the opposite is also true.

Senator Garrenger is a white supremacist working with white supremacists to do white supremacy. Some of us have been fighting this shit for a long time. The problem is far more of us have been pretending it wasn't a real thing for even longer. "White supremacist Neo-Nazis infiltrating our police forces? Get out of here! You sound ridiculous!" was probably a thing said a lot in the last forty years. And yet even now that conservatives have found that they don't need to resort to dog whistles because saying the thing out loud that used to cause political backlash doesn't even cause a ripple of concern now. We have learned that a large percentage of our country doesn't give a shit if you're a racist, misogynist asshole as long as you say three things over and over again: "God Bless America," "Owning a gun is a God-given right," and "Abortions are evil." Tick off those boxes and you can dispense with all the dog whistling and just say the racist shit on national television. Dinah begins to dig up dirt on Senator Garrenger so that Black Canary has an iron clad excuse to punch him in the face. Her and Gan decide to work together to stop him and clean up the California drugs in their neighborhood. Not that they believe the two problems are actually the same problem! Not yet anyway! Dinah suspects it but Gan thinks she's seeing conspiracy where there isn't any. Dinah has more experience with how comic books work which is why she sees the entire forest already and it's only the beginning of Issue #2. Gan takes his show to the streets in front of a crack house to shame them out of the neighborhood. He doesn't realize it's run by the Senator's son who murders three of his "coworkers" to make his escape when the cops show. Gan is shot in the shoulder by the white supremacist assassin while Black Canary rushes in to help. A crack addict is blamed for the murders but Black Canary listens to his chaotic rambling, leading her to discover a shell left by the Neo-Nazi assassin. Black Canary: New Wings #2 Rating: B+. All the action is basically the last half of the comic book as a seasoned reader of comic books might expect. If a writer front loads the story with people discussing actual issues, the reader is going to get antsy for some mindless violence! Too bad for some readers the violence in this was't mindless but caused by truly awful people. People think the attitude of Comicsgate is a new thing but if you read the letters pages from the past, you'll see they existed back then as well. A lot of readers didn't want to be reminded that maybe the way they think and the things they believe put them in the realm of the "bad guy." So a comic book where the villain robs the bank or attacks Batman for the hell of it is okay because that reader would never rob a bank or attack Batman. But if you make the bad guy a senator who believes foreigners are stealing the jobs of good white Americans and maybe flooding their neighborhoods with drugs as a good way to fight against their "intrusion" into "white America," some of your readers are going to look up from the comic book and say aloud to nobody, "Hey!" And since most of them aren't in touch with their feelings or have ever really done a good, close examination of their self, they don't know how to deal with hurt feelings in any way but to be angry. It's easier to be angry at the person calling some white people racist than to have a good long think about why you might be upset about somebody pointing out racism.

[ariadnelives]

Chapter 26 -- The Assault

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3”]

Later that day, several dozen heavily-loaded shuttles fell into orbit over Phobos. Ariadne was upset that they didn’t take more time to plan before moving on Dr. Simon himself, but as Spacebreather pointed out, they didn’t have time to stall. If they waited more than a few hours, the cult would have a chance to move him.

Most of Ariadne’s ground forces disembarked about half a kilometer from the facility’s entrance. Several dozen spacesuit-clad armed acolytes were standing outside exactly one of the caves, so the crew figured that was likely to be the door the Zealot was behind.

“Bring the noise, querida,” Ariadne said into her comm and the last remaining ship immediately did several flips in midair and fired off several plasma bolts that, despite the ship’s advanced targeting system, somehow managed to not hit any hostiles. After a beat, she scoffed, “Showoff.”

“You love it,” Spacebreather’s voice returned through the comm. “Get in there and knock these guys out so I can join you on the ground.”

“We’re on our way,” Ariadne chuckled.

“You got five minutes,” Pilar’s voice buzzed back, “and then I stop missing on purpose.”

“Won’t be a problem,” Ariadne replied. “Te amo, terminado.”

“Terminado,” Pilar agreed, and switched off her comm.

“Do you think the Triplets will be okay with Fastwing?” Sasha asked Sweettalk on a private channel.

“Yeah, I mean, you got their chips out, right?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sasha replied, “I feel like we shouldn’t have brought them with us. We just got them away from these creeps.”

“They wanted to come,” Sweettalk said, “If we can get Dr. Simon in custody I’m sure they’ll want the chance to confront him, and if the shit hits the fan, they’re with the best pilot in the system--”

As if by magic, Pilar took this opportunity to do a showy corkscrew maneuver over the crowd of acolytes, narrowly avoiding several shots from their weapons, and releasing a cloud of multicolored smoke to disorient her attackers.

“--Okay, the second best pilot in the system. If we get hurt, Alicia will get them to safety.”

“Plus,” Sasha added, “I’m betting she does something cool with their hair.”

“She has a gift,” Sweettalk agreed. “Point is, we just convinced your sister it was bad to keep people grounded for their own protection, so we sorta screwed ourselves out of the right to object when the triplets want to come along.”

“Heh,” Sasha laughed. “You know, I only just now got why that’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

“Just the idea of keeping someone ‘grounded’ in a spaceship.”

“Mm,” Sweettalk agreed, “and now that you’re not grounded anymore you’re actually, you know, on the ground.”

This went on in this fashion for a little while. The rest of the crew didn’t know how grateful they ought to be that Sasha and Sweettalk were speaking on a private channel. There are only so many jokes on the word “grounded” that two people can make before their friends and loved ones feel compelled to intervene, and there is little point in attempting to quantify exactly how far past this point Sasha and Sweettalk went as the crew took their positions and systematically knocked out each of the acolytes guarding the entrance. By the time they had finished, Sasha and Sweettalk were both breathless with laughter from their rapidfire, almost vaudevillian exchange of “grounded” puns.

“Everyone grab one,” Ariadne called out on the public comms.

“Why?” Lefthook replied, “I mean, there’s a limited amount of air in those suites, can’t we just… let the problem take care of itself?”

“We’re sending a message,” Ariadne replied. “Ghostrunner and Spacebreather killed hundreds of their acolytes in self-defense. These guys don’t pose a threat to us.”

“You know they’ll wake up eventually, right?” Lefthook responded, begrudgingly joining the others in hauling the unconscious cultists through the airlocks.

“Once they’re inside, we’ll cut their air lines,” Ariadne explained. “They’ll live as long as they don’t try to go back outside. Once we’ve got Dr. Simon back on Ship Trap with a gun to his head, we’ll contact the authorities and let them deal with these guys.”

Pilar came marching over the ledge with a very large assault rifle slung over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to take their guns, these things are choice.”

“Fair point. Take their guns, we don’t know how many others are in here anyway.”

“Girls!” Alicia called, coming around the corner with her styling kit, “I thought you might enjoy some new hairstyles! I mean, I like a nice bob as much as the next lady but--”

She was left speechless at the sight of the Triplets. They sat together, glowing a slightly artificial blue. Alicia could not tell which of them had been cybernetically augmented. All evidence of injuries had vanished. It was as though all three girls were simultaneously completely organic and completely synthetic. There was something about it that caused Alicia to want to look away on an instinctive level, but she couldn’t.

“What is this?” Alicia finally stammered out.

“Something new,” all three girls mused in a single voice.

“What did you do?” Alicia asked, starting to rush towards them but quickly recoiling, out of fear that they might be contagious, or even radioactive.

“We touched,” they responded, “and understood. This is what we were built for. Evolution. Adaptation. We were designed to grant our father immortality. Our bodies will incorporate anything that facilitates our continued existence, and adapt to survive anything that threatens it.”

“Whatever doesn’t kill you,” Alicia muttered and trailed off. “I’ll be damned…”

“We have to go into the cave with them,” The Triplets responded. “Their plan is going to fail.”

Several minutes and about fifty unconscious and several seriously wounded acolytes later, Ariadne and Spacebreather reached the door to the throne room with Sweettalk and Sasha in tow.

“Stand watch,” Ariadne directed Lefthook to lead the other other troops in the corridor. “Non-lethal force if you can, but if someone’s going to die, don’t let it be you. That goes for all of you.”

“Yes, cap!” The girls replied, and unholstered their weapons.

A moment later, Pilar kicked down the door to the throne room. “ON THE GROUND, ASSHOLE!”

A single acolyte manned a computer terminal that seemed to have no screen and only two silver joystick-like appendages for controls.

“I SAID GET THE FUCK ON YOUR KNEES IF YOU WANT TO KEEP THEM,” Pilar bellowed.

The Acolyte fall to his knees.

“Where is Dr. Simon?” Ariadne asked calmly, “You’re gonna want to talk fast or else my associate is going to find some creative ways to make you glad those robes are already red.”

“He is here!” He whimpered. “The Zealot is all around us.”

“Babe, do I have your permission to start cutting off fingers again if he doesn’t get serious?” Pilar asked.

“I’d listen to her,” Sweettalk chimed in, “Last guy she took a finger from ended up decapitated.”

“He is all around us!” He pleaded. “Please, look!”

He gestured at an ornate golden table near the center of the room.

“Spacebreather, keep your gun trained on his head. If he tries anything funny, see if you can take it off in one shot,” Ariadne slowly started inching toward the table.

“With pleasure,” Pilar stroked the trigger of her rifle carefully.

Ariadne looked down on the table, through the inset glass to what lay within.

Lying motionless inside the table was an unmistakable face with a neatly trimmed gray beard and a straight, pointed nose.

“This is not Dr. Simon,” Ariadne replied. “This is his body. Where is Dr. Simon?”

“Back up,” Sasha asked. “Dr. Simon’s body?”

“Prescott had to tell me something to convince me it was worth it to help him,” Ariadne replied. “This body has been dead for fifteen years. Dr. Simon, on the other hand--”

“--Viable Lazarus,” Sweettalk gasped. “Lazarus, we should’ve seen it all along. They’re trying to bring him back from the dead.”

“I’m only going to ask you one more time before I let my beautiful associate indulge her itchy trigger finger,” Ariadne replied. “Where is the server containing Dr. Simon’s consciousness?”

“I already told you,” the acolyte began crying, “He is all around us.”

“Look at the walls,” Sasha marveled, “Sis, they’re--”

“Databanks,” Ariadne replied, “We’re standing inside the most massive supercomputer in the system.”

“Do we just smash them?” Pilar asked.

“If you destroy the servers, you’ll kill more than the Zealot,” the Acolyte offered, “The databanks are full of lost souls who’ve seen the light of the Red God.”

“What is he talking about?” Pilar asked.

“He’s using a few thousand human shields,” Ariadne was disgusted. “All those people who took a Suffering Test for this wackjob were signing up to be brainwashed. He hollows out their head and fills it with their programming, and their consciousness ends up imprisoned here. If we unplug the whole system, there’ll be no way to restore the people he’s got under his little spell.”

“You, crybaby,” Pilar jabbed the Acolyte with her rifle, “dial this jerk up, how do you talk to him?”

“If he wishes to send messages, he can, but in order to speak directly with him… without ViLaz as a relay, we have to enter the system ourselves to gain an audience with him. There’s a psionic interface--”

“--And how do you go about deleting individual files from this system?”

“I don’t see a screen or a keyboard or else I might be able to hack in.”

“No synthetic computer can interface with His prison,” the Acolyte whimpered, “Only a human brain has the processing power necessary to access the system.”

Ariadne chuckled. “I’d almost admire it if it wasn’t so evil. He’s actually built a computer I can’t hack.”

“So, how do we get in?” Pilar asked.

“Stands to reason that each drive in these databanks contains one consciousness,” Ariadne said, “So, if I can access the system, I should be able to identify the drive with administrator permissions, then all we’ve got to do is yank that one out, take it home, and format it.”

“Patch in, like, connect your brain to this thing?” Spacebreather asked incredulously.

“Have you ever seen a computer more powerful than my brain?” Ariadne asked.

“Yeah, babe, this one,” Pilar snapped gesturing at the entire room made of computer that they were standing in, “it’s absolutely out of the--”

Ariadne very pointedly said nothing at her, which managed to stop Pilar cold.

“There’s no keeping you from doing this, is there?” Pilar sighed.

“I’ll be safe,” Ariadne promised. “In and out.”

“You’d better,” Pilar warned. “If you die, I’m coming after you.”

Ariadne smirked. “You’d better not.”

Ariadne planted a kiss on Pilar’s lips and then got immediately to work.

[alexhaydenxii-blog]

The Man Who Changed the Philippines

A short story

On a non-descript grey room, there sat a man wearing the orange jumpsuit of a prisoner and opposite him is a man wearing a navy-blue polo with his eyes looking intensely at the prisoner. In his hand he had a ballpen and the other hand is on his lap clenched in anger. As a journalist Martin must learn to control his emotions, or else this jackpot would go away like a fly chased by a human hand.

The prisoner didn't smile, he simply stared at the journalist waiting for an answer. Alexander is studying this man before him, observing every little body language he sends out involuntarily. He noticed Martin's jaw clenched and sweat forming on his forehead. The room given to them has good ventilation, why the hell would this man sweat profusely? He asked himself that. Finally the cold and silent atmosphere improved when Martin finally said something.

He laid out his phone on the table and pressed record. "I am Martin Andreas, the journalist assigned to interview Mr. Alexander Reyes, convicted drug lord and terrorist."

It was at this moment that Alex broke his silence by laughing. "Whoa, terrorist sounds a bit too much, what about a multi-billion drug lord who earned billions of pesos throughout my entire career." He boasted with a huge grin on his face, like a kid who found out that he is the top of his class.

Martin ignored his comment, but it made his heart pump hot blood throughout his veins. He felt an urge that made him rub both of his hands and take a deep breath before speaking. "As you have known I am interviewing you here today about your deeds that changed the country Mr. Reyes." Alex replied by nodding. "You were a notorious crime lord that caused the crime rate of this country to go up by 72%. Tell me, why did you choose the path of crime in the first place? You were an excellent lawyer, who came form a very prestigious schoo. what made you decide to become an infamous criminal in the first place?" Martin asked, preparing to take down notes.

A response was formed right away and Alex answered. "Short answer would be I wanted to change this country for the good, long answer is that I thought being one of the good guys would help me change the system of this country but I was wrong. Do you know who is Senator John Santos?" The reporter nodded.

"Of course you do, you're the one who reported his death on television. John Santos and I were close friends and we share the same passion to change this country. He became elected as Mayor of Manila and he ran for the Senate and won. That victory was the final nail in his coffin. He stepped on a lot of dirty politicians during his term and made laws that actually helped our country. Obviously the corrupt government officials wanted him out of the picture and they succeeded. He was gunned down on his own home with the rest of his familu and up until now no one knows who ordered the hit. Can you imagine that, his wife and three kids lied there bleeding with him." For a second Martin saw a hint of pity on his eyes, but only for a secomd.

"It was you." Martin suddenly said. The sudden interruption caught Alex off-guard, he simply smiled. "Oh wait, yeah now I remember. People thought I did it, but it's all bullshit. When there are no facts present, people turn to rumors and stupid theories which they use as an answer to the unknown." To Martin this is clearly bullshit, but then why would he need to lie since he is already convicted to rot here in this jail. Martin said nothing and let him explain.

"God this interview makes me feel old. If I remember I was a lawyer back then. A lawyer who is pissed off at the system. Can you imagine how many of the fuckers that I nearly convicted but was released due to their deep pockets? Fucking bastards. John's death was a blow to me, and also served as my epiphany. I decided that, in order for me to make real change, I must adapt and beat the assholes in their own game." Martin was surprised to see tears forming on the convict's eyes, tears that he fought hard to hide.

Still his arrogant tone is the same, but Martin could see the sadness in his eyes as he was speaking. "So you believed that by poisoning millions of Filipinos with the drugs you brought to this country, and also instigating a massacre in Binondo that killed defenseless Filipinos children and adult alike, it would change the Philippines?" Martin said, raising his voice. "Yes, I do. I worked so hard to be the drug kingpin of this country. I did what was necessary. Charles Darwin once said that the strong should survive and the weak shall perish. That's what happened. Those weak enough to try the harmful substances I brought died, those strong enough fought back against me and forced the government to do their jobs properly." The sadness he once had is now gone. He was like an artist, boasting his magnum opus to the world.

"5 million Filipinos died because of you Mr. Reyes, 5 million." Martin said, his face now turning red. "So? Should I care that 5 million useless Filipinos died? Filipinos that are what you call in Tagalog "palamunin"? Should I care about--"

"Because of that stupid shoot-out with the Chinese Triads in Binondo my sister died!" Martin shouted, standing up and striking the metal table with his hands. Alex didnt even flinch, he just stared at Martin. "The two guards outside despise me because I did something nasty to their families before, if you decided to vent out your anger on me with your fists you are welcome to do so." Alex mocked.

Martin grabbed him by his collar and raised his fist, clenching tightly. Should he do it? His face deserves to be reduced to a bloody pulp. He deserves so much pain, and all that power lies in his hands. Martin can't, it seems like an invisible chain tightened on his hand that prevented him from punching. He tried, tried so hard but he can't. Martin simply screamed, screamed like a bloodthirsty barbarian. His scream echoed loudly on the room. He punched the metal table instead before sitting down and taking a deep breath.

"Huh, your principles got the better of you. I admire that Martin, I am very impressed. Anyway, back to the main topic. If it weren't for me, those drug lords, crooks and politicians I dumped on Manila Bay would still be alive, stagnating this country. If it weren't for the gang war in Binondo that escalated into masaacre, the President wouldn't have the balls to push the Chinese out of our country. I'm sorry Martin about your loss, but look around you, I greatly reduced crime and corruption due to stricter laws that punish criminals and the sudden boom of rehabilitation centers in this country." Alexander's voice now started to get intense as he explained.

"Because of the great panic I created that disrupted this country, you wouldn't have the strength to fight back against the system. I served as the rallying cry for you to rise up and fight! Look what happened? Senators, Mayors and governors are being imprisoned left and right. They are replaced by Filipinos who have the country's interest first before their own. Yes, I did kill 5 million people, I had to do it in order for the next 5 million Filipinos about to come out of their mother's womb yo have a better life Martin. Now, tell me if I am still a terrorist." Alex said, his gaze now intensifying as all his words were delivered proudly, no inch of remorse present at all.

Martin had a thousand words he wanted to say to him, questions and insults but at this moment he was speechless, as if he accidentally swallowed his own tongue. The alarm rung out and the guards outside announced that the interview is up. Martin turned off the recorder, picked up his notepad and phone and walked out the room, without saying anything. He was in deep thought, he felt like being his teenage self again suffering with existential crisis. Everything around him seemed unreal. He thought of heroes as someone who is the epitome of all that is good in this world, someone who'll preserve life at all costs. But Martin lives in the real world, the real world where the Rules are different and there is no good and evil. Maybe Alexander did save this country, or maybe he was a mass murderer who condemned millions of lives to their deaths. But one thing is for sure, Philippines is vastly different from what it used to be. Perhaps the end really does justify the means.

[hangjie]

whatever it takes. [ peter parker ]

summary: it has been five years since thanos wiped out half of the population and since the avengers killed thanos. so, what’s left for you?

warnings: ENDGAME SPOILERS!!! a lot of crying and a bit of swearing

word count: 3,057

author's note: i deleted the original version of this bc i thought it was absolute crap ;( i watched endgame for the second time, so my mind is refreshed on what happened and what some of the lines are. this is mostly the same tho! it's just rewritten and i added some parts. 

in this one, reader is still skilled in combat, but she mostly uses guns during missions and let's just say, reader is always wearing a suit ;))

(okay but my dumbass self literally forgot scott i aM SO DISAPPOINTED IN MYSELF)

─── • ° *｡✧ ───

snap.

half of the population was wiped out.

most of my friends and family are gone.

he’s gone.

it has been five years since thanos snapped his fingers and turned half of the population to dust and five years since we killed him in hopes of getting our loved ones back, but to no avail.

let’s say, thor went for the head this time.

the punching bag swings back and forth as i punch it with all my strength. i feel the sweat rolling down my temples and dripping down to the ground. i feel my hands ache and my body screaming for me to take a break, but i still continue to swing punches.

“(y/n)? mr. stark? i don’t feel so good.” peter says with fear evident in his voice.

he was so confused and so scared.

he literally was dying, but he didn’t realize until the very last moment and i didn’t do anything about it.

a punch after another, i punch the punching bag faster, making it swing further and further back as my heart starts to pound inside my chest. 

tony runs over to us and peter clings on to us tightly. “i don’t wanna go. please. i don’t wanna go.” he shakes his head as he shakily holds on to us. “i don’t wanna die.”

tears start to cloud my vision and i blink them away, letting them roll down my cheeks and mix with my sweat.

i cradle him in my arms, sobbing and brushing his hair comfortingly. “you’re not going anywhere, pete. you’ll be okay, i swear to God, you’re going to be okay. we’re going to be okay.”

i kick the punching bag and before i knew it, i was punching and kicking, frustrated sobs escaping my mouth and angry tears rolling down my cheeks.

peter drops to the ground, weakly and tony and i kneel beside him, each holding one of his hands shakily. he looks at each one of us with a sad smile on his face. “i’m sorry,” he softly says as he looks at tony who tries to hide his tears, but fails as he looks at the person who he considers as his son.

i picture the big purple asshole who took nearly everyone from me and i feel my blood inside my veins start to boil from the thought. i hear the metal holding the bag squeak, but i still continue, not caring if it breaks or not.

peter turns to me and says the words that i’ve been dying to hear ever since. “i love you.” i sob and kiss his knuckles with tears running down my face and some even getting on his hands. “i love you too,” i say and he smiles before he fades away like the others.

i picture the smug look on thanos’ face after he snapped his fingers and with a final punch and kick, the metal holding the bag breaks, making it throw itself on the other side of the room with a loud ‘bang!’.

i hear a low whistle and slow clap from behind me. i turn around and see the proud face of my #1 superhero slash dad, tony stark.

“wow. that was actually impressive,” he says, approaching me in slow strides. “remind me to not let you hang out with steve because you’re becoming more and more like him and less and less of me.”

i don’t reply. instead, i turn my back towards him and walk away from him to drink some water. dad sighs and i feel him walk closer to me. 

“you can always talk to me about peter, you know.”

i feel my body tense up when i hear the mention of peter. 

“dad, i’m fine,” i quietly say, teeth gritting against each other.

“i know that you want to see him and try to get him back, but–”

“dad, i said ‘i’m fine’!” i snap, finally turning towards him. he looks down at me with a surprised expression. he tries to say something, but before he could, i rush towards him and wrap my arms around his torso.

dad places his hand behind my back, rubbing it up and down in comfort while the other one softly brushes the hair on the back of my head (despite being sweaty as fuck). i press my ear against his chest, sobbing loudly as tears stain his shirt.

“i miss him, dad. i miss him so much.”

“so do i, kiddo.” i hear dad’s voice break, but he quickly hides it with a cough. he kisses the top of my head and he says, “and i know that he misses you too.” i sadly smile at the thought of the dorky smile plastered on peter’s face as he says how much he misses us.

i pull away from dad and he grabs the sides of my face, kissing my forehead before saying, “i’m always here for you, kiddo.” i chuckle. “you’re so sappy, dad.”

“i’m sappy? how about you? crying over a boy who tripped over everything.” i feel dad ruffle my hair, making me push his hand away with a groan and a smile. 

before i could walk away from him again, dad pulls me into a tight hug. i immediately melt into the arms of my father and hug him back just as tight.

“we’ll get peter back. we’ll get them all back,” he reassures, cradling my head like a baby. i sigh and nod my head, knowing that he means what he said.

“i love you, dad,” i say against his chest. “i love you 3,000 times more, kiddo.”

-----

i reload the pistol in my hand and aim it at one of the empty cans several feet away from me. i squint as i readjust my aim before pulling the trigger. the can goes flying backwards with a hole in the center. i focus my aim towards the glass bottle on my right and shoot, making it instantly breaks and sending thousand of glass shards flying in every direction.

i repeat the same actions again until i feel a tug on my shirt. i look down and see my little sister, morgan holding the end of my shirt with big puppy eyes. 

i tuck the gun away and crouch down to her height. “hey, what are you doing here?” i say. “you know you can’t go here. dad will kill me if he sees you here.”

“daddy said to check on you. he said that you were sad.” my heart swells at the innocence of my sister and the concern of my father. “or maybe you just missed me.” i tease, brushing my fingers on her sides. she squeals and tries to get away from me, but dad appears and walks towards us.

he chuckles at the scene of his two daughters in front of him. “i know that i should be mad, but my two girls are just so cute,” he says and kisses our cheeks before inviting us back inside. dad picks morgan up with one hand and he places his other hand on my back, leading us to our house. 

when we make our way towards the patio, we see a grey car parked in front of our house and uncle steve, aunt natasha, uncle scott, and uncle rhodey come out. 

we stop in our tracks and i feel dad tense up beside me.

“tony, (y/n), we need to talk.”

-----

“time travel? quantum realm? are you crazy?” dad shakes his head in disbelief. “so, you’re telling me that your plan is basically ‘back to the future’?” he scoffs when uncle scott nods his head. “it’s not going to work.”

after my uncles and aunt settle on to our patio, they start talking to us about using quantum physics as a way to get the infinity stones in the past and to get the fallen back.

“tony, the stones are in the past. we’ll time travel before thanos got them,” uncle scott says, trying hard to be patient, but it is obvious that his patience is wearing thin. “and when we have them, we’ll snap our fingers to bring everyone that turned to dust back into our reality,” aunt natasha adds.

“we’re not going to come back,” dad protests.

“but i did.”

“that’s because you got lucky!” dad snaps, making everyone speechless. 

intensity runs in the silent air, the only noise being the ripples running along the lake until dad sighs. “listen. do i want to bring everyone back? yeah. do i want what i have right now to remain the same? hell yeah.” dad slouches, placing his elbows on the top of his knees. “i cannot leave my family.”

“but what about us, tony? aren’t we your family too?” aunt natasha says and dad looks on the ground, sadly.

an awkward silence engulfs the air until the door open and closes and morgan runs out, immediately latching herself at dad.

“hey, squirt,” dad greets, picking up morgan from the ground. 

“mommy told me to come save you and (y/n).”

“well, you saved us, alright.”

dad stands up and begins to ramble on about miscellaneous things until uncle steve grabs dad’s arm, restricting dad from moving another step.

“tony, i get it. you have a wife and two kids and i’m happy for you.” uncle steve looks down at the ground, sadly before looking back up at dad with desperate eyes. “but this is your second chance.”

“i already got my second chance right here.” dad motions towards morgan and i and escapes from uncle steve’s grip.

i sit, confused on what to do. i mean, i do want to obey dad and i know that he’s doing this to keep our family safe, but i also want to at least try in bringing them back.  

i glance towards my uncles and aunt and see their defeated and desperate faces. i can see the gears turning inside their head as they scrunch their eyebrows together and think of another way to forego with their plan. i can see the tears in aunt natasha’s eyes, knowing how much the avengers means to her since we are her only family.

i feel the lump forming inside my throat as i take a deep breath. i will probably get my ass kicked for this, but it’s worth the try.

“i’m in.”

everyone’s attention turns towards me and i can feel their eyes widen and bore into my body. 

“w-what? what do you mean?” dad asks, looking more confused than everyone else in the room. 

“i’m time travelling with them, dad.” 

dad freezes and puts morgan down, whispering for her to go inside first. after morgan runs inside, dad straightens his back and crosses his arms against his chest, a stern look on his face. 

“(y/n), you are not going with them.”

“dad, stop. i can do this. i know that i can.”

“are you crazy?! no. absolutely not, young lady. you are staying home with your mom, me, and morgan. end of discussion.”

“dad, you are so selfish!” i snap. hot angry tears run down my cheeks and i aggressively wipe them away with my hand. “half of the population on this planet is gone and you’re not even going to at least help in bringing them back? how could you?” i say, heartbreak and the feeling of betrayal evident in my voice. “after everything the avengers sacrificed, you’re not going to try? i want to atleast do something good in my life and-”

“i don’t want to lose you, (y/n)!” dad grabs my shoulders, lightly shaking me as his glassy eyes lock with mine. he inhales a shaky breath and drops his head down in sadness. “you are my first born. you are one of the reasons as to why i am standing in front of you and you have such a bright future ahead of you.”

i break free from my dad’s grip and walk away, wiping away the tears from my eyes.

before i step into the house, i turn back to my dad and see his red eyes and tear-stained cheeks staring back at me. “i’m doing this for peter, dad.” i say, my lips quivering. “i’ll do whatever it takes to bring him back.” 

i turn my back towards him and step into the house, leaving him, my uncles, and aunt in utter silence.

-----

i lay in my bed, eyes glued on the ceiling as memories of peter flash into my mind, my heart breaking inside my chest.

i miss him.

i roll to my side and my eyes immediately glance at the picture of peter and i on my bedside table. i pick it up and i sadly smile when i see us dressed in our homecoming attire with our wide grins and with peter’s arms snaked around my waist.

i remember how he pulled me close and how he kept telling me how beautiful i am and how much he loves me.

peter’s eyes go as wide as platters and his jaw drops to the floor as i approach him, my dress flowing in the wind. i feel my cheeks flush when i feel his eyes look at me up and down, taking my appearance in.

he continues to stare at me when i am in front of him. it wasn’t until i adjust his collar and tie that he snapped out of his trance.

“cat got your tongue, parker?” i smirk, transferring my focus to his wrongly placed corsage. i chuckle when he tries to say something, but what only came out of his mouth were stutters.

“i-i . . . i’m n-n-not–” i kiss his cheek, making his cheeks turn bright red.

i laugh and peck his lips before peter pulls me into a passionate kiss. when we pull away, he smiles brightly at me before saying, “you’re absolutely breathtaking.”

“you’re not so bad yourself, parker.”

before he could reconnect our lips, we hear someone clearing their throat, making both of us pull away with tomato red cheeks and nervous laughter. my dad rolls his eyes and makes a gagging noise. “pepper, let’s get them out of here before a bunch of peter and (y/n) start running around the house,” i groan as mom hits his arm. “what?” he says, lifting his arms up in surrender.

my parents walk out of the room and when they were gone, peter intertwines his fingers with mine. i turn towards him and he locks his brown eyes with mine as peter lifts our intertwined hands, kissing the top of my knuckles. i feel my heart swell inside my chest and i feel it beat faster and faster each second.

“shall we go, m’lady?” peter says, in a posh accent, making me laugh. i peck him one last time before i say, “we shall, spiderman.”

i hold back a sob as tears drop on the picture frame. i hold the picture frame close to my chest and i whisper, “whatever it takes,” before i head out of my room, determined to change my dad’s mind.

when i walk in the living room, i hear mom and dad quietly talking and i approach them silently. 

right before i could say a word, my eyes glance towards the table in the middle of the room and see a model of a time space gps. my eyes turn towards the ‘model successful’ text above and my jaw drops to the floor.

it’s going to work.

“(y/n), what are you doing up?” i hear my mom ask. i turn my attention towards them and i point towards the time space gps model with my mouth still agape in shock. “it’s really going to work?” i ask still in disbelief even though the answer is literally right in front of me.

dad sighs and slowly nods his head.

he walks closer to me and kisses my forehead, bringing me into a hug. “now we know where you got your stubbornness from.”

-----

to make the long story short, we time traveled back in time to get the infinity stones before thanos got his hands on it. it took several tries, but we eventually got a hold of the stones.

after we got back, we discovered that aunt natasha lost her battle and unfortunately passed away. despite my dad’s arguments of letting me go back home, in fear of the same thing happening to me, i manage to convince him to let me stay.

we were trying out luck with the stones by letting uncle bruce (who now prefers being physically hulk) wear the infinity gauntlet my dad made and snap his fingers.

when the gauntlet is wrapped around his arm, uncle bruce lets out a painful shout, making my blood run cold in anxiety and fear. “turn it off! turn it off!” uncle thor says, scared for his dear friend, but uncle bruce manages to lift his arm up and with one last shout, he snaps his fingers and a bright light erupts in the room.

as the light fades away, i hear a loud thump! and i turn my head towards that direction and see uncle bruce with the arm where the gauntlet was placed burnt. everyone crowds around him, trying to comfort him and asking if it worked. as dad tries to treat his arm, the sound of a phone vibrating echoes throughout the room.

everyone’s breath hitches in their throat as uncle clint slowly approaches his phone. when he sees the caller id, he immediately answers the call with teary eyes and a shaky voice.

“hey guys. i think it worked.”

right before anyone could say another word, i feel myself being thrown back as the ceilings of the headquarters begin to crash down accompanied with explosions and shouts. 

i feel my body being thrown on concrete several times before i feel my body collide with a wet surface. i groan out loud and clutch my sides, feeling my body ache and slowly bruise all over. i try to get back up, but i fall back down.

before i could try to get back up, i feel my body numb and my eyelids start to become heavy. everything starts to blur as my eyes slowly start to close, the darkness engulfing me.

MASTERLIST

[alotta-lovin]

“I Don’t Matter.” - GP N’ FP Canon

I’m okay, im just in the mood for some angst to get some things off my chest-- dont mind me.

Warning(s) : Fighting, Angst, PTSD Mention, Self Hatred, Abuse Mention, Conflicting feelings and trying not to push certain emotions/wants/needs onto the other.(Fluff??????), Realizing feelings?

Word Count : 1,731

Ship : Gun Powder n’ Flower Petals

A/N : There are actually some contents of my past mentioned in this and one of the reasons why i have PTSD, though due to having to change some things as the “parent’s” my SI has are actually based off my Step Mom and Dad. / There are mentions of a song in this, but the lyrics mentioned were actual things said to me. / Yes my actual birthday was mentioned in this. 

Sunny C. Age who gives a fuck and no one needs to know. No one needed to know her last name and no one needed to know her age. adult hood hit her sooner than it should’ve when she was just a kid so age shouldn’t matter in the first place right? that is until certain dates roll around.

It had finally hit Sunny. she was getting older and in just a four to three months the dreaded day was going to come. September 6th. the worst day she could think of aside from all the holidays that were always ruined due to her “family”.

Rubbing her neck with her right hand as her left stayed on the steering wheel she was nudged by the man sitting next to her. This man was named Dean Winchester. Looking over at him she let her arm wrest on the center console as she cocked her eyebrow, “What?” she let out a bit abruptly as she kept her eyes on the road after a minute of him just. looking at her with that look, that look that she knew he had when he had questions. “Don’t “what” me, somethin’ is wrong. now drop it.” he seemed to almost snap at her. rolling her eyes a bit as she bit the tip of her tongue almost in annoyance. letting out a groan, she huffed and spoke up nodding almost in a sarcastic way. “A’ight, wanna know what’s wrong? the dreaded thing called a “Birthday” is gonna roll around here soon and i’m more than likely going to drink like it’s the end of the fucking world, more than likely get drunk because of it and fuck up my liver cause i don’t wanna remember that day. happy now?” she almost snapped that last part out as she looked at him.

Now Dean on the other hand, didn’t and hasn’t known why she hates her birthday so much, the past few years that they spent around each other each time it was her birthday she wanted it ignored and acted like it was any normal day. Why though? she never answered why. Inhaling sharply he nodded a bit to respond and he knew that she was ticked now due to the fact she was speeding when she normally didn’t and how easy it was to send her off the edge with just simply asking “whats wrong”.

Hours later after the music was turned up almost to a deafening caliber. and Sunny loudly screaming she opened the door to the hotel room and tossed her bag onto her bed and sat down for a minute rubbing her face. Dean followed suit behind her and shut the door behind them, dropping his bag on the floor he took his jacket off and put it on the hook. she hadn’t talked to him since he asked her why she was ticked off. biting his lip he groaned and just snapped.

“What the hell has you bent so fucking out of shape about the day that brought you into this fuckin’ world huh? Why are you going to try and drink yourself to death each fucking time it comes around-”

“Shut the fuck up, Winchester.” she snapped back, glaring daggers at him as she stood up, clenching her fists with her keys in hand as her back straightened out. “Excuse me? You never talk about it! you never fuckin’ talk about anything in your life prior to runnin’ into Sammy n’ I! yet some how Sammy knows more than I do!”

“Cause it’s not any of your damned business what happened back then alright?! you don’t need to know about my trauma, my baggage, everything that makes me hate myself and i’m not going to let you fuckin’ stand there and demand you know! Sammy only know’s cause i told him when i was finally comfortable doing so, you fuckin’ asshole!”

“I’m the asshole? Why the hell aren’t you comfortable telling me? huh? is it cause you think i’m not good enough?”, at this point. Dean has puffed up his chest and his cheeks n’ ears were getting red and he was clearly getting more and more pissed off that she wasn’t telling him why. why she didn’t wanna tell him. why she told Sammy, and not him. why Jodie seemed to make sure and ask if she was having “certain episodes” every time they saw each other and all this other crap that he seemed out of the dark.

“BECAUSE DEAN YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW EVERYTHING. YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW HOW MUCH MY PAST HAS MADE ME HATE MYSELF. HOW MUCH MY PAST HAS SHOWN ME AND TOLD ME I DON’T MATTER!”

“But it’s so important for me to know you have PTSD?” he crossed his arms and glared back at her. unclenching her fists she dropped her keys, almost like dropping a pin to a bomb, it set her off.

“Alright, you wanna know why it was so important for me to tell you I have PTSD?? why i got so mad when you brought me back? Fine. fucking fight. here’s your wish fuckin’ come true, dipshit.”

before he had time to respond she had already started talking. “I had to grow up at 5, and play “Mommy” to two kids who weren’t mine. in fact they were my little sisters. cause my parents didn’t wanna play parents anymore. and after the age of 7, my birthday wasn’t celebrated anymore cause “it’s not important”. every time i slipped up i was yelled at. or worse hit. later on after i turned seven after meeting with a counselor at school with some how convincing them to not tell my parents i had seen them, i was diagnosed with PTSD due to thing’s i don’t wanna mention aside from the fucking shit show i’ve already talked about.” at this point she had stepped forward and was glaring pins and daggers at him at this point. once more before he could speak she cut him off.

“ “You’re such a fucking waste of skin. Faith.” “You’re one of gods mistakes, Faith. Remember that.” “honestly you’ve ruined my life, Faith” “stop acting as if you matter to anyone Faith.” “ with each saying she said she took another step forward and looked him dead in the eye and snapping with a deep voice that seemed to be a way to protect herself while her lip quivered and was clearly trying not to cry. “Now imagine being told all of that on a daily basis until you were 18. since you were fucking 3. that’s my earliest memory.”

“And you know what, i truly believe they were right. I. Don’t. Matter. I don’t matter enough to have my birthday celebrated. i don’t matter enough to have a normal fucking thanks giving, Christmas, new years, forth of july. none of it. i don’t matter enough. that’s why i try and drink myself to death every fucking time my birthday rolls around.” finishing her sentence almost with certainty in her voice she took a few steps back and sat on her bed, hunched over, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands. a slow shakey breath was let out as she tapped her foot. this. This is what Jodie meant by “Certain episodes”. those certain episodes were PTSD episodes. 

at this point you can imagine how much of a dumbass and a dick Dean felt. his mouth sat slightly open as he was shocked that she just let it all spill out. though he knew it wasn’t all of it. but he wasn’t going to push. she wasn’t ready for all of that, the whole reason she didn’t wanna tell him was because she was trying to keep herself from going into an episode. “Dammit...” a tone slipped past his lips as he walked over to her and picked her up bridal style and crawled onto the bed and set her in his lap, holding her tight to his chest with his chin on her head. “Thats why you go by, Sunny now... it makes sense now.. i-- i shouldn’t have pushed you. i really shouldn’t have pushed you.. you were right though, i guess i am an ass.”

After an hour of sitting there trying to calm her down, her shaking finally calmed down, she could speak normally, though her speech was still slurred and a bit lispy still. letting out a shakey breath she looked at him and furrowed her brow a bit almost in a worried way “I-- i don’t get why you brought me back... i shouldn’t be here--” she was quickly cut off with a large hand on her cheek and turning her to face to look directly at him. she she was looking at him before but she wasn’t actually doing so. she was avoiding eye contact. “No. you should be here. thats why we brought you back. i-- We weren’t going to lose another person we cared about. not again..”

Sunny’s heart nearly jumped into her mouth as she looked at him wide eyed. surprised to high heavens and back that she was actually cared for by the two notorious Winchesters, by the one man she could actually adapt romantic feelings for, Dean. it took everything in her to not plant a kiss on his lips. everything.

Though little did she know he was trying everything to not kiss her as well, he didn’t know why but for some reason with her in his lap, and the way she was looking at him was making his heart do things he hadn’t felt in a while.

“what the hell--” passed through his head, almost zoned out before he snapped back to find she wasn’t in his lap anymore and actually across the room with her bag in hand and heading into the bathroom “I’m-- I’m gonna shower... thank you for calming me down.”

“No Problem--” he watched as the door shut only to rub his face and rest his head against the headboard. “God dammit....and we have to share a room the rest of the case...” a loud groan escaped his throat as he got up off the bed she claimed and sat on his trying to figure out if it was just a momentary thing.. or maybe it’s been something more. for a long time.

[reddieaddict]

You’re Gonna Live Forever In Me (Part 3/4)

Prequel to Richie’s Eulogy

Official Cast

Part 1 Part 2

A/N: This chapter is when we finally get to see Richie in all his hispanic glory! Haha I hope you all like how I characterized the Losers. I know it’s kinda different than how other people do, but I wanted to spice things up. Bill’s parents are nicer in my fic than in Canon, but I liked to imagine eventually they help and became nicer. Whatever though. I also added a lot more humor into this chapter. I fucking love doing dialogue and really hope you all find it funny. Enjoy. 

Pairings: Reddie with a slutty side of Stenbrough and some implied Benverly 

Summary: It’s senior year and Eddie has began to notice Richie exhibiting strange behavior. He is worried he might be hiding something, but doesn’t know how to confront Richie about it without setting him off and making matters worse.

December 1994

It was Christmas in Derry, Maine, and just as it’s been since the conception of the club, all seven losers found themselves in the Denbrough’s household, preparing for their annual holiday dinner. Eddie, Mike, Ben, and Bev’s parents preferred to celebrate Christmas Eve as a family, which, coincidentally (and conveniently), allowed the Losers to spend actual Christmas Day with each other. Stan was Jewish as fuck, so he could do whatever the hell he wanted on the Christmas; and Richie’s parents didn’t care what he did any other day of the year, so why would Christmas be any different? For some of the Losers, this was rather poetic; since their friends were more of a family to them than anything their parents could hope or care to be.

  Despite having become accustomed to his parent’s active indifference, the holiday season was still an agonizingly difficult time for Richie. This was the time of year when the world seemingly would mock and torture him with imagery of happy families, as if to say “You see this? You will never have this!”  Of course, this wasn’t really the case, but it sure felt like it was to Richie.  Seeing all these families on TV, in advertisements, and even around town indulging in their pseudo-domestic bliss that came with the yuletide had Richie’s heart set ablaze with jealousy. “How can people be so happy? Why couldn’t he have that? Why did his parents have to be so awful?” These questions loomed over Richie, taunting him.

  Unable to make the pessimistic voices in his head dissipate, he figured if he spoke louder and didn’t stop, he could drown them out enough to make the season tolerable. Unfortunately this made him especially intolerable to everyone, except the Losers. Richie has always liked to crack inappropriate jokes and be the center of attention, but this was taking it to a whole new level. Anything and everything out of his trashmouth was either a crass joke or an obscenity, making his nickname even more fitting. The Losers weren’t thrilled about this, but, being aware of his situation, had developed more patience for him throughout the years. This didn’t mean that there weren’t times when Richie crossed thresholds and sent them into a fury.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, ASSHOLE!” Having Richie pestering him all day, had Eddie fed up. “I don’t care if there is a mistletoe under every fucking doorframe, I am not making out with you!”  

“Baby, don’t be such a prude! Es Navidad! Dame un besito! Andale mi nino lindo! Presioso!” Eddie hated PDA and refused to kiss Richie outside of the privacy of their rooms, but it was their first Christmas as a couple and Richie wanted to make it special. So, he decided to bring out the big guns: talking in Spanish. Whenever Richie spoke in his native language, Eddie would melt and Richie could get him to do almost anything. 

Eddie froze in place as fire spread across his cheeks, giving away just how effective his boyfriend’s tactic had been.  “Umm. . . uh. . . ahem! NO! Stop it! I know what you’re doing and that is not going to work this time! I have to get back into the kitchen to help Mrs.Denbrough with dinner! You’ve already distracted me long enough!”

“Bebe, no seas asi! Amorsito! Nene!” Richie cooed as he wrapped himself around Eddie’s shoulders. “Solo un besito chiquito! Aaaandaleeee!”

“Fuck off.” Eddie pushed him away and began to make his way back into the kitchen. “If you keep annoying me, I won’t kiss you for the rest of the week.”

“Hijo de tu puta madre!” Richie mumbled under his breath, crossing his arms over his chest, and a child-like pout settling on his rosy lips.

“I KNOW WHAT THE FUCKING MEANS, DUMBASS!” Eddie retorted as he disappeared behind the kitchen door.

“Oh shit. . .” This is when Richie knew he fucked up.

“So, what happened? Did you get Eddie to kiss you or what?” Stan smirked as he continued to set the table. All of the Losers had been setting up for dinner, while Richie was on his quest for affection.

  “Of course he didn’t! Why do you even bother asking, knowing how Eddie is?” Mike answered, beating Richie to the punch. 

“Because then he has to admit to us that he didn’t, making his failure humiliating as well as disappointing.” Stan looked directly into Richie’s eyes with a condescending self-satisfaction. 

“Wow! You’re evil. . . and I think it’s making fall in love with you all over again.” Bill placed a delicate kiss onto his boyfriend’s temple as he passed by him with a stack of plates in his hands. Through years of speech therapy his stutter had pretty much disappeared, except in the instances when he found himself inebriated. 

Richie was none too pleased with getting ambushed by the people who he was starting to regret calling his friends. “Honestly, I don’t get what you’re being so smug about, Staniel. My Eddie is a classy lady with decorum, which more than I can say for you. Don’t think any of us have forgotten about catching you bobbing for Bill’s apple last Halloween!” 

“CAN YOU NOT!?” Bev interjected, disgusted with the memory of Bill and Stan mid-blowjob being forced back into her mind. “How are any of SUPPOSED to forget about it if you keep bringing it up, Richie!?”

“Yeah, and my mom is in the next room, idiot!” Bill’s parents were aware and supportive of his son’s relationship, but that didn’t mean they were interested in knowing the details, especially such graphic ones. 

“Buscame y me vas a encontrar! That means come for me and you shall find me, Big Bill. I wouldn’t have to put you on blast like that, if you kept your bitch in check.” 

“RICHIE!” Ben was fed up with the conversation. He knew there was no real malice behind any of their words, but this was hardly appropriate banter for Christmas dinner with Bill parents. The Denbroughs knew the Losers had quite the potty mouths, but expected them to cut that shit out on Christmas. “Why don’t you help us finish setting up the table, instead of arguing? Dinner is ready and we need to have everything set up, before Eddie and Mrs.Denbrough bring in the serving dishes!”

“Yeah, I think that is a good idea. God knows the last thing I want to think about during dinner is blowjobs.” Mike was by no means a prude, but was not eager to picture his friends getting it on, either. 

“Agreed.” Bev stated as she finished placing the utensils on the table.

They finished setting up and took their seats just as Eddie entered the dinning room with the first platter.  He placed it in the open space at the center of the table and took his seat beside his boyfriend. “Hola, mi amor!” he said completely butchering the usually romantic Spanish language, with the thickest accent anyone had ever heard, but Richie didn’t care. The sentiment was sweet nonetheless and he thought it was adorable when Eddie tried to speak Spanish.

“Eddie-Bear! My Love! Why are you sitting there, when there is a perfectly comfortable seat here on daddy’s lap?” Richie knew just how to ruin a cute moment. 

“Can you behave!? Bill’s mom worked very hard on this dinner! Don’t be rude and wrangle your trashmouth!” Eddie looked up at Richie, who still comically dwarfed him even when seated.

“Whatever, bitch. Don’t be trippin’ balls, you know I got this shit.” He said with a straight face and not a hint of humor to his voice, knowing this would set Eddie off. God, how he enjoyed teasing his boyfriend!!

“Listen here, motherfuck-“

“Eddie!” just then, at the most incriminating moment, Bill’s parents walked into the room, each with a dish in their grasp. “I am so disappointed in you! You know we don’t allow foul language at the dinner table, especially on Christmas, young man!” 

“I’m sorry, Mrs.Denbrough. It won’t happen again.” Eddie avoided her eyes at all costs, as if to catch them he would cause him spontaneously combust. He reached under the table and gave Richie a hard pinch to the sensitive flesh of his thighs. A vengeance that was subtle, but very much effective. 

“OUCH! You dick!” Richie whisper yelled, only audible to Eddie, and Bev who sat beside him. She giggled.

  “You deserve that! You got poor little Eddie in trouble!” she teased.

“Don’t talk about me like I’m some defenseless creature. I’m a man!” Eddie resented his height, and it infuriated him when anybody made him feel weak because of it. “And, yes, you did deserve that, trashmouth.” 

“Whatever you say, my little love-muffin. Ay que lindo mi bebe henanito!” Richie knew Eddie hated when he talked to him like a baby, which is exactly why he did it so often.

“Uuuuuuuugh!” Eddie was exhausted and just wanted to enjoy dinner. “Whatever.” The Losers exchanged amused looks. Eddie and Richie always knew how to put on a show, even if they didn’t mean to. Well, at least Eddie didn’t mean to.

  “Alright, everybody! Let’s dig in!” Mr. Denbrough said wanting to change topic. Bill’s parents adored having the Losers over for Christmas, even more so since Georgie’s death. It was a pleasant distraction from his absence, though nothing could ever fully make their pain go away. It was still nice to have a house full of children, even if said children weren’t really kids anymore. 

  As they all began to enjoy their dinner, the couples segregated into their own individual conversations. Mike, being the eligible bachelor that he is, dipped in from one conversation to another. Mike was so charming and intelligent, and always adapted so well to any crowd, so it was effortless for him to jump from one topic to another. Ben and him had a particularly strong bond and could find themselves lost in conversation for hours. It was probably due to their similar qualities and shared interests. One could say they were Richie and Bev’s counterpart; both platonic, both incredible close.

  The evening went on pleasantly, as it did every year. Eddie and Richie, surprisingly, bickered very little. Mostly because no one was paying them any attention, so there was no motivation for Richie to rile him up. Their conversation consisted mostly of cute inside jokes and sweet nothings. It would have been perfect, if not for Richie’s constant glances in Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough’s direction. As the boys spoke, Richie would face Eddie, but his eyes would dart towards the parents and linger just a bit too long. Then he’d catch himself, and snap his attention back to his boyfriend. Richie has always had a short attention span, but this was different. It seemed more like Richie COULDN’T get his eyes off the Denbroughs, rather than being incapable of paying attention to Eddie’s words.

Annoyed with Richie’s behavior, he turned to see what it was that he found so fascinating. What he found was a thing of fairytales. There were Mr. and Mrs. Denbrough, leaned into one another with her hands lovingly enveloped within his, as they engaged in their own conversation. The way he looked into her eyes was that of a man who could see the answers to the universe and find treasures untold within her emerald irises. An incandescent luminance seemed to radiate from them, and it was breathtaking in the most understated way possible.

   Eddie was touch by such a display of unconditional love, but couldn’t understand why Richie found it so hypnotizing. It’s not like it was the first time they had seen Bill’s parents being affectionate toward each other. What made this instance so special? Eddie turned back to face Richie, who seemed to realize he had caught on to what he was doing. “You okay?”

“Yeah, totally.” Richie responded as he cleared his throat and sat up on his chair making him seem a whole foot taller.  Whatever it was that Richie found so engaging about the Denbroughs, it was clear to Eddie that Richie DID NOT want to talk about it. Knowing that asking him anything else about it would just aggravate him and ruin what has been a beautiful night, he relented. 

“Okay.” He reached out for Richie’s hand and began to caress his knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. Richie turned to face him again, relaxing into the gesture. Eddie looked into his ebony eyes (noting to himself how much they resembled onyx) with sincere adoration and gifted him with the warmest of smiles. “I love you.”

  A smile grew onto Richie’s face; accentuating the creases besides his eyes, a sign Eddie’s words had meant more to him in that moment than they usually would have. And that was saying a something. “I love you, too.”

“Oh my god, I am so stuffed! Eddie you guys did such an amazing job! It was DELICIOUS!” Ben plopped himself on the couch and patted his belly. After dinner everyone had helped out with the dishes, making the whole process much quicker, and they were now ready to enjoy their movie marathon in the living room. 

“Thank you, but it was honestly all Mrs. Denbrough. I just did whatever she ordered me to do.” Eddie said humbly, seating himself in his usual spot on the floor, next to Richie.

“Hmmm. . . and what is it I have to do to get you to do the same for me, Eds?” Richie draped his arm around Eddie’s shoulder and pulled him closer to him. 

“Don’t be fucking gross! I just ate!” Stan cried from his seat on Bill’s lap. “I swear I’m gonna go all exorcist and projectile vomit all over you, if you don’t cut the shit, Richie!” 

“Okay now you’re the one being gross.” Bev grimaced at Stan’s words. “I’d rather talk about the film selection, than talk on any bodily functions or fluids.” 

“I second that motion!” Mike said as he sprawled out a large selection of VHS’s on the table in the center of the living room. Everyone leaned in to inspect the titles. “What do you guys think about a Christmas movie?”

“Isn’t that a little cliché?” Bill chimed.

  “Well when else are you supposed to watch a Christmas movie?” Ben quipped. “It’s not like we would watch A Christmas Story in July. Well, I don’t know about you, Bill, but we wouldn’t.”

“Appropriate or not, I don’t feel like watching a Christmas movie!” Richie interjected. 

“What about a scary movie!?” Mike suggested excitedly, as he held up the new Nightmare on Elm Street movie. 

“Yes!!!” Bev and Richie cheered in unison, then smiled at each other, proud of just how much they think alike. 

“We can’t watch a scary movie! You know how easily Eddie gets scared, you guys!” Bill warned as he directed a concerned look at Eddie.

“Shut the fuck up! I‘m not scared, you twig-bitch!” Bill was taken back by Eddie’s unexpected outburst. There was a reason Richie and Eddie made such a perfect couple. Amongst many other things, they shared the same lighting wit and venomous tongue. “Don’t project your pussy boyfriend’s fears on to me!”

“I love you so fucking much!” Richie beamed with pride as he hugged Eddie with all his might. “I think it’s so fucking HOT when you get snarky like that! Mmh,” he whispered into Eddie ear, only to find himself chastised by the petite spitfire. 

“I resent that, Eddie. I am not scared; I just think horror movies are stupid! They are all so predictable and exactly the same.” Stan attempted to defend himself to no avail. Everyone already knew what Eddie said was true.

  “It’s okay to be afraid, Stan. It’s not that big of a deal.” Mike assured Stan, sympathetically. 

“I’M NOT SCARED! Put on the fucking movie, I don’t care!” Stan was determined to prove his so-called friends wrong! 

“Are you sure, babe?” Bill asked, his words laced with uncertainty.

  “YES, I’M SURE BILL! WHAT THE HELL!?” Stan was disappointed that his boyfriend, out of everyone, didn’t believe in him enough to watch a horror movie. “Just put on the fucking movie!” 

“Okay, people! You heard Curly Sue!” Richie chanted, earning a leer from his ringlet adorned friend and a giggle from Ben. “Let’s get this shit started!” 

Mike took the VHS out of it’s plastic case and inserted it into the player. Everyone made themselves comfortable, paring into their respective couples, ready to enjoy the horror flick. Before they could begin, though, Bill’s parents entered to say goodnight, both ready to head to bed. “Alright, kids! We’re gonna go to bed. It was nice having you over again this year. Have a good night.” Mr. Denbrough said with the typical paternal formality one would expect from a father.

“There are plenty of snacks in the pantry, if you kids get hungry. Feel free to scavenge through.” Mrs. Denbrough added. 

“WAIT, MRS. DENBROUGH!” Bev yelled, startling Bill’s parents with the sudden exclamation.

“What is it, Bev!?” Concern littered her petite face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you! Ha! Ha! It’s just that you’re both under the mistletoe.” She answered bashfully. 

“Oh, I guess we are, huh?” Mr. Denbrough smiled sweetly at his wife and she mirror his expression.

  “KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS!” Everyone except Richie chanted. His stillness garnered the attention of his boyfriend, but Richie would never have noticed. He was lost; disconnect, but burdened. As the Denbroughs shared a kiss that could not be classified as anything other than a quick peck, Richie stared intensely and Eddie’s heart began to race. Eddie immediately recognized the expression that settled onto his face as the same one that he had on that terrifying September morning. It was unmistakable! It had been so long since he had seen it, but he could never confuse or forget it, even if he tried. It was burned into his memory like a scar.

“Richie. . . “ Eddie whispered warily, forgetting all about the other people in the room, who also seemed to be blissfully unaware of the situation between the two boys, having started to clap and cheer for the Denbroughs. 

“Hmm. Yeah, Eds?” This time around reaching Richie was much easier, as he snapped back into the present almost instantly. Again, just as last time, he immediately tried to overcompensate with smiles and kisses.  “What’s up, baby boy?” he asked nonchalantly as he leaned in for a kiss, which Eddie did not resist. 

“Uh. Nothing.” Eddie learned from his experience last time and decided now was NOT the time to interrogate his boyfriend about what just happened. He would leave it for another time when they could both be alone.  Richie just responded with another smile, only this time, the creases besides his eye did not make an appearance. 

“Hey you two! Are you ready to watch the movie or do we need to give you some privacy?” Mike asked from the recliner he had made himself comfortable on. Eddie took notice of the Denbrough’s absence, surmising they had probably gone to bed in the middle of their exchange, and now all eyes here on them.

  “Ha! Ha! Very funny.” He said sarcastically. “Press play, we’re ready.” 

“Okay, but no making out during the movie!” Mike taunted with a sing-song tone one would expect from a child. 

“Uh, when have we ever done that around you guys? Why don’t you say that to Stan and Bill!? They’re the ones that are always all over each other!” Eddie complained, in his tenor whine.

  “Don’t be a fucking hater, midge.” Stan retorted. 

  “You know, Staniel, I think I like you better with Bill’s dick in your mouth.” Eddie said glaring into Stan’s eyes, a smile spreading on to his lips. “At least then you’re quiet.”

“Oh fuck! Ha! Ha! Ha!” Ben cackled. “Damn, dude.” 

‘Okay! Okay! I’m pressing play now, everyone shut the fuck up!” Bev announced, taking the remote from Mike. She, too, had thought it was funny, but thought Stan had been humiliated enough for one day. 

Eddie found himself unable to pay attention through the duration of the movie, still concerned with Richie’s strange behavior. He instinctively wanted to be blunt and forward, but he knew better. If he just came out and asked what was wrong, Richie would just flip out on him again. No, he needed to be smart about this. He settled on dealing with this on their walk home, which wouldn’t be for few more hours. This gave him plenty of time to figure out how to approach the subject. He knew that no matter how much prep time he had, Richie would still end up upset somehow, but it didn’t matter. This was something that had to be addressed. He silently prayed to whatever deity would listen, to bless him with the same resilient determination when he was force to face off with a furious Ricardo Alonzo Tozier.

It was now a little passed midnight as Richie and Eddie trekked their way over to the latter’s house, their gloved hands laced together and swinging between them. It had been a quiet walk for the most part, but not uncomfortably so. Both of them found themselves content in the other’s presence, even if neither spoke a word. It was strange to see the couple so well known for their loud and heated arguments be so serene. As heartwarming as it all was, Eddie knew this was just the calm before the storm. Guilt began to overtake him and he decided to break through the stillness.

  “You know you can talk to me, right? I mean, like, about ANYTHING! I am here for you.” He said looking up at his raven-haired, statuesque boyfriend, forcing the calmest tone could possibly muster. 

“I know, baby-boy.” Richie responded avoiding eye contact, knowing where this conversation was going and wanting to evade it at all costs. 

  “So, um. . . what’s going on?” That was EXACTLY what Eddie had promised himself not to ask, and then he fucking went off and asked it anyway. He was so frustrated with himself. “Ahem. . . Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything is cool. It was a nice night, right?” Richie asked sullenly. 

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then, let’s not ruin it. I know where you’re going with this and I appreciate it, babe, but I don’t want to get into it.” Eddie was surprised and slightly hurt by Richie’s bluntness.  

“I’m not trying to ruin anything.” Eddie’s eyes darted away from his boyfriend and glued themselves onto the pavement beneath them. “I am just concerned.”

“I know you are, and like I said I appreciate that, but nothing is wrong. If something WERE wrong, I would tell you, Eds.” Richie’s tone was becoming more pointed. “No you wouldn’t.” Eddie said under his breath, which came out as a small cloud due to the freezing temperature of the evening.

“What did you say?” Richie stopped in his tracks and pulled his hand away. “What did you say, Eddie?” 

“Nothing.”

“No, go ahead say what you’re really thinking! You wanted to talk; well here’s your chance! Talk!” There was no going back now. 

“I-I-I . . . um. . . “ Eddie hesitated as he turned back to face Richie, “I said ‘No, you wouldn’t.’”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean, Eddie?” Richie inched himself closer.

“It’s just that you never talk to me. I mean you do, but only . . .like, only when you . . .”

“Only when I what? When I run to you after my dad kicks my ass? After my mom throws a bottle at my head and tells me to kill myself? Hmm?! Is that what you can’t seem to say?” Richie was not holding back any punches. “It’s funny how you say you want to talk, but here we are and you aren’t even able to finish that sentence!”

   “It’s not that I can’t say it! I just have to walk on eggshells for you. If I say the wrong thing you get mad at me!” Eddie was starting to regret having brought the whole thing up.

“Oh, so it’s me!?” Richie widened and narrowed his eyes, pointing towards himself.  “So I’m the bad guy!?” 

“Richie, stop it! That is not what I said! Why does there always have to be a villain!? It’s just you and me; two people who care about each other! I am just trying to help…” Eddie tried his hardest to pacify Richie, but it seemed to make no difference. 

“No, bullshit! I tell you everything is fine! I ask you to trust me and you keep fucking digging, Eddie! Why can’t you just let shit be? Why do you have to keep nagging and bitching!? What the fuck do you want from me? If I don’t want to talk about something, maybe its cause I can’t! Has that ever occurred to you?! No, because you don’t fucking care! No, you just want to martyrize yourself! You want to save me! I don’t need saving Eddie. Just let it fucking go! LET! IT! GO!” Richie was full on shouting now, emphasizing the last three words of his rant by shoving his boyfriend. 

Eddie’s amber orbs began to shimmer with tears, but he refused to divert he eyes from Richie’s. “Why . . . Why are you being so mean? I didn’t mean to . . . I- I -I  was just-Ugh!” He could find a way to finish a thought, so overwhelmed with hurt and frustration. 

“You know what?” Regret had begun to sink in. Hurting Eddie was something Richie never wanted to do, but yet here was his Eds, crying because of him. “I-I-I’m just going to go home.” He turned around to walk back in the direction of his house, but before he could take more than one step he felt a small hand latch onto his arm. 

“Wait! Stop!” Eddie began to wipe tear off his face with the hand that was not grasping on to Richie. “No! Don’t leave! Is this what its going be like every time things get difficult? Are you always going to walk away? What’s going to happen when things get to be too hard? When I get to be too annoying? Are you just going to leave me forever?” 

“Eddie, I just can’t right now.” Richie pulled away and continued towards him house in wide strides; he needed to get out of there before he made things worse.

Without a second thought, Eddie chased after him and wrapped his small arms around the taller boy’s midsection, “STOP! DON’T LEAVE! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY I MADE YOU MAD; I DIDN’T MEAN TO. I’LL LET IT GO, I PROMISE! JUST- PLEASE DON’T LEAVE!” Eddies sobs tore into Richie’s heart. His body trembled as his tears streamed down his cheeks uncontrollably, his voice deteriorating with every word. “Please don’t be mad at me! Please don’t leave me. I love you. I love you, Richie. I’ll let it go! . . . I’ll let it go.”

“Eddie. . .” Richie’s voice was tender and free of the malice that had poisoned it minutes ago. He turned to face Eddie, pulling him into his chest and rocking them side to side. “Shh. . . It’s okay, baby-boy. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I’m sorry. I never wanted to make you mad at me, I swear. I just wanted to help! I’m sorry.” Eddies sobs began to die down, but his face remained buried in Richie’s chest. 

“You have nothing to be sorry about. I’m not mad, bebe. I promise I’m not mad.” Peppering kisses all over Eddie’s head, Richie tightened his embrace. “You did nothing wrong, I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry, I just…It’s just hard sometimes.” 

Moving his arms from Richie’s midsection and wrapping them around his long pale neck, Eddie nestled his face into it’s nook. “I can understand that. I just want you to know that I care. I’m always going care and worry about you. I love you so much, Ricardo Alonzo Tozier! You never have to feel afraid or ashamed to tell me anything. I will always stand by you.”

  Richie pulled Eddie away from him and looked into his eyes tenderly. “I love you too Edward Kaspbrak, so fucking much! I’m not going anywhere, you hear me? I will always stand by you, too!” Eddie’s lips spread into a smile, before leaning in to kiss the taller man.“Your nose is freezing! Let’s go home before you catch pneumonia.”

“Ha! Ha! You’re an idiot, but yeah. I’d really like that.” Just like that, it seemed everything reverted back to normal between them. 

“You know what I’d really like, Eddie Spaghetti?” Oh yeah, Richie had definitely gone back to his normal self. 

“Don’t even THINK we’re gonna have sexy-fun-time, tonight. I am so tired and you definitely need to shower before you get anywhere near my bed.” Eddie foreboded, as they continued their journey home with Richie’s arm draped over his shoulder.

  “Eds, have you learned nothing today? I ALWAYS get my way.” he smirked.

“No, you do not!” Eddie looked up at him with narrow eyes and furrowed brows.

“I got you to kiss me tonight out on the sidewalk. It wasn’t underneath a mistletoe but it still counts as PDA!” Just then, Richie leaned in and stole another kiss from his boyfriend.

“That doesn’t count!” Eddie argued.

“Oh fuck yeah it does! Accept defeat and let me ravage you, Juliet!” Before Eddie could attempt to squirm away, Richie wrapped his arms around his hips and lifted him above him. Tickling Eddie tummy with his nose, Richie began to spin them around, playfully.

Eddie grabbed on to his shoulders in an attempt to stabilize himself as he giggled wildly. “Okay! OKAY! OKAAY!!”

“Does that mean yes sexy-fun-time?!” Richie’s eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he gently returned Eddie onto the pavement.

“Hm, we’ll see,” was all Eddie said as he continued his walk home, leaving Richie behind him.

“Oh, Eds, mi amor! You and I both know what that means.”

Eddie giggled in the distance. 

  Taglist: @bitchardtozier @bloggingandstruggling @11stayradstaybad11 @breakmyreddieheart @reddieformeerkat @purejaeden @julietissue @greywatertozier

[ellana-ravenwood]

Dating Daryl Dixon would include...

As I’m broadening my horizon beyond Marvel and DC stuffs, here’s some “The Walking Dead” things ! Daryl Dixon’s relationship headcanons, hope you’ll like it, and if you want more, don’t hesitate to ask yo : 

You can find my masterlist here : @ella-ravenwood-archives

__________________________________________________

How you met, falling in love, and the first “I love you” : 

✶ You were in Atlanta with your family when the zombie outbreak truly started, and barely managed to leave the center of the city in one piece, loosing everyone you ever loved...But at the time, you were too shocked to realize it. 

✶ You ended up in a forrest nearby...and that’s when you met him.

✶ He was hunting with his brother, and at first, thought you were completely nuts. “Zombies ? This gal’s crazy or something”. 

✶ Quickly though, the reality of what’s happening reaches the three of you, and you end up tagging along with them. 

✶ It helps that you know how to fend for yourself, how to shoot a gun/crossbow/bow  with great accuracy (your father used to take you on hunting trips often). You’re pretty sure they would have left you behind if you were completely useless. 

✶ You’re wrong though, it’s not like Daryl to abandon people behind. Not like him at all. And though Merle is a rough man, it’s not actually his thing either, though he’d never admit it. 

✶ When they ask about who taught you to shoot, you talk about your father, and even though you try to hold your tears in...You break down. Finally realizing you lost all your family in Atlanta. 

✶ “What about friends ? / I don’t have friends”, you tell him. He understands. Besides his brother, he has no one. As your tears run freely, he comforts you the best he can. Not good with words. So he awkwardly pats you on your back, until you burry yourself in his arms. And he lets you do it. 

✶ He doesn’t speak much at first. But whenever Merle is away, he’s more open, and conversation always seem to flow easily between the two of you. 

✶ He feels weird. He never felt the way he feels when he’s around you before. It was easy to become your friend. It’s easy to talk to you. He doesn’t mind spending hours just sitting next to you, not saying anything. It’s just weird for him, to get attach so fast to someone he knows since only a few weeks. 

✶ He knows he’s screwed because the weird feelings he’s been having is love when you, him and his brother meet a group of survivors lead by a certain “Shane”, and he doesn’t like the way that guy looks at you.

✶ His brother teases him about you, not thinking he’s actually right. Until he realizes that yes, his little brother has a thing for you. More than a thing. And then he teases him even more.

✶ You’re too afraid to tell him you feel the same thing about him because...well, sometimes he’s just kind of an asshole to you, so he can’t possibly like you back ? You didn’t realized that he was an ass only when Merle was around. 

✶ The day his brother dies, you give him a shoulder to cry on, and comfort him just like he comforted you months ago when you realized your entire family was dead. Only, you’re good with words, and thanks to you, for the first time in his life, he feels completely free, relieved, of any pain and suffering. 

✶ That night, he tells you about the abuse he suffered from when he was a kid, from his parents, and the one from his brother though he loved the damn fucker...and you suddenly understand. You understand everything.  

✶ “I’m here for you Daryl, and I don’t intend on going anywhere and I”...You don’t even have time to finish your sentence that his lips are on yours. 

✶ Never did he do something that felt so right. Kissing you just seemed so natural, as if he was made to do it. 

✶ For a second, you don’t respond and his heart drops...until your tongue demands passage in his mouth and oh damn is he dead too, and is he in Heaven right now ? It surely feels like it. 

✶ You guys don’t say “I love you” just yet though. You’re already both freaked out that you got attached so fast...Besides, the World you’re living in now doesn’t really give much time for romantic shit. 

 ✶ From that time and on, you guys stick around each other, and everyone know you’re together, but Hell they wouldn’t ever talk about it. They ignore you slipping in his tent at night when you think they’re all asleep, or him rushing out of yours early in the morning, before anyone is awake (or so he thinks). You guys want to keep it private ? Then so be it. 

 ✶ He finally tells you “I love you” after his desperate search for Sophia, Carol’s daughter. Because he realized, when that little girl walked out of Hershel’s farm zombified (dead), that there was no time to waste. Life was too short, even more now in that fucked up world. So : “I love you (Y/N)”, he says, over and over again, as you hug his tired and wounded self. “I love you (Y/N)” he says, over and over again, not letting you go, kissing you all over. There’s no time to waste indeed, and if you guys love each other, why keep it a secret ? “I love you too Daryl”. 

Actual Relationship headcanons : 

✶ When you’re cold, you can be sure that his leather jacket is gonna end up on your shoulder. He can’t have you get cold. If you’re in public and he’s in a good mood, he’ll let you cuddle against him for more warmth, but more often than not, will just throw his jacket over your shoulders, and wait until you two are alone to cuddle. 

✶ Not a fan of PDA, at all, as stated before. But there’s some occasions, when one of you almost died, or when a friend of yours die, where you’ll stay closer from each other. Where he’ll kiss you sweetly not caring about wether people watch or not. It’s rare, but it happens. 

✶ Going on random (and dangerous really) motorcycle rides. You two always use the “we’ll go look for more supplies” as an excuse to go...And end up making love to each other in a place Daryl deems “safe” (he’d never put your life in danger). 

✶ He’s incredibly jealous, especially towards Rick, even though he’s clearly just a friend, someone you consider your brother. 

✶ It’s ok though, because sometimes, you’re jealous of Carol, whom he’s been close to ever since he looked for Sophia. Even though there’s nothing between them but brotherly/sisterly love too. 

✶ He’ll always stick up for you, even if you’re wrong. He’ll defend you to the death. 

✶ Him getting “pissed” when you make stupid jokes and puns, acting as if he’s annoyed when you’re cheery even though you’re all in a shit situation...but deep down, loving the way you brighten up his world. 

✶ He’ll die for you. And hates when you take stupid risks. 

✶Literally all your arguments start because you did something stupidly risky to save a friend or something, and he can’t loose you. 

✶ Make-up sex. 

✶ You two can hold a conversation by just waving your hands around, and looking at each other. Comes in handy when you need to be stealthy. Freaks everyone else out because “How ?!”. 

✶ Him loving when you run your hand through his hair. But hating when you tie said hair in a bun. He looks ridiculous, with a bun...

✶ Pet names that are both cute, but also kinda rude “Love you, asshat”, “Love you too jerkbucket” and other “fartface” or “douchetruck”...it seems weird to others, but you guys like that better than “princess” “babe”, “handsome”...it’s like your inside joke, but also, it’s actually really loving. Pet names.

✶ Being the only person he ever loved. So much it hurts. 

✶ Stupid arguments sometimes, because he’s emotionally retarded and doesn't know how to tell you certain things, which frustrates you. 

✶ When he does talk to you though, your heart sings. For him to trust you that much...it means a lot. You gotta be careful in moments like this though, he can be open one time, and then if you say or do something “wrong”, close himself completely for a long time. 

✶ Knuckle, forehead, neck, cheek kisses. So much of it. 

✶ You almost dying of cuteness when he harshly shoves some flowers in your face. “Picked them up on my way when I was hunting. They made me think of you”. Oh my God. So. Damn. Cute. 

✶ Making sure you feel safe. And you feeling actually safe only when he’s around. You hate to be separated, even though sometimes it needs to be done. 

✶ Sharing a cigarett or a beer, just the two of you, somewhere far from any of your friends. You guys need some times alone, some privacy...and don’t mind being “alone together”. 

✶ Sweet and/or rough sex, depends on the mood, but it happens whenever you get some time alone.  It’s difficult to find time to actually have sex in this zombie outbreak world, so when you guys do, you make it count. Oh yes. 

✶ “A little foreplay goes a long way”. 

✶ He’s bad with words, and rarely says “I love you” (that one night after trying to save Sophia being the only exception)...but every single of his action conveys all his emotions. Conveys what he feels for you. Wether it’s a hug, a kiss, or making love. He tries to make sure you know what you mean to him, but really, he doesn’t have to try hard, just looking into his eyes proves to you how much he loves you. There’s that tint in it whenever you’re around...

✶ He always gives you the best piece of food he brings home. But you always end up giving it to someone else, because “they need it more than you”. Bullshit. No one deserves the best but you...

✶ Always watches over you, even when you think you’re alone. Just in case a walker would surprise you you know ? Or something worst : an ill intentioned man. There’s a lot of those nowadays. 

✶ Since he admitted his feelings to you, he cannot fall asleep without you around. Without touching you in some way. You can’t either. 

✶ His abused past-self sometimes coming back in moments of doubts, sadness and fear, and him letting his tears go just with you. 

✶ “Daryl will be fine, just let me talk to him guys” you tell your friends, as you join your boyfriend who hid somewhere, and you find him curled up in a foetus position, shaking...Only you can bring him back. 

✶ At some points, he realizes he cannot live without you anymore, and that freaks him out...but then you snuggle against him, you’re in his arms, and he forgets all his worries. You’re not going anywhere, you already told him.

✶ Him often wishing the World didn’t go that much to shit, because otherwise, he would marry the hell out of you. But you guys don’t have time for a stupid wedding...

✶ He also wants children, but cannot bring himself to “force” a kid to live a life where he’ll have to survive more than just live...Maybe one day, if things get better ? 

✶ He almost thought things would get better at the prison. There was a life being built there, maybe one where children would have their place. But then the Governor had to come and fuck everything up. So he fucked his tank up.

✶ You and him talking about this impossible future. Marriage, children, a house, dogs, living in a peaceful countryside...

✶ It makes you sad sometimes, to know all of this is impossible...But as long as he’s with you, it doesn’t even matter that it probably will never happen. As long as he’s with you, everything’s good. He’s enough for your happiness, and your enough for his. Just you. Just him. 

If you die (which is likely in a zombie filled world) :

✶ He’s devastated. Even more if you turn into a zombie, because he feels like he HAS TO give you the kill shot...

✶ He buries you in a nice place, a place he knows you’d love. Makes sure nothing can ever disturb your peace. 

✶ Leaves the group for a while, walks aimlessly around, killing any zombies or whatever hostile in his way. 

✶ Thinks about ending his life...But then he realizes that’s not what you’d want him to do. 

✶ You’d want him to fight. To keep living. To move on. 

✶ Eventually, he does move on, but never loves one like you. In fact, he never have another relationship. Friends, yes. But love is gone in the tomb with you. 

✶ Him burning candles on each anniversary of your death. He cannot forget you, and actually fully “moving on” is impossible. He’s always sad when he wakes up from a dream where you were in...

✶ He’ll forever feel guilty that he wasn’t able to protect you. 

✶ You believed in an afterlife, and every day, he wishes that, the day he’ll die to, you’ll be there, waiting for him...

[thestrifeuniverse]

GORETOBER DAY 3 || THE SEAMSTRESS

Today’s theme: Skinning/Filleted Alive Word Count: 6010 words/11 pages Characters: High Officer Rex, The Seamstress, various other mentions of canon charas Pings: @xenoevil, @tepidoil, @snakesnbites

Trigger warning: skinning, heavy gore, vomit mention, body horror, unreality, self harm, intrusive thoughts, needles, graphic eye trauma, tooth trauma mention, general trauma/PTSD themes, drug mention

~*~Let the games begin~*~

They called her The Seamstress.

This is not a mission I need, but I’m here anyways. Doctor’s orders - you have to leave the nest of comfort sometime, right? It’ll be good for you. Some fresh air, especially after all the hardships you and your brother went through - something like that, coupled with a direct order from the Top Gun themselves. There’s more people than I thought would be here, surrounding, crushing me against the shoulders of my fellow soldiers while we’re all huddled together in what could only be described as one of those tents you’d see in the Entertainment squad. It’s tinier than usual though, and the ring of seats that hosts thousands to watch whatever cooky plan our Captain came up with are missing. Usually it’s a kind invite for a distraction, something that’d keep us all calm and stress-free.

In this reality, however, we’ve been herded here along with some nearby civilians by the Seamstress on “friendly” and “inviting” terms. My fellow soldiers and I are supposed to be undercover, but it’s hard not to fear there’s someone nearby listening in for the mechanical hum within our veins, or that any one of those civilian eyes staring at us would see right through the thin rags I bought from a merchant just yesterday. Try focusing elsewhere, Rex. Friendly. Inviting. The Seamstress sounded nice enough, if you’re a fool and an idiot. Friendly. She’s about as real as the faux flesh filling in the two long claw marks across my belly. Inviting: this felt too easy. Too kind. The Seamstress is supposed to be a high level monster, not a kindness. Friendly. Inviting. I can’t be too careful, not like last time. Inviting. Friendly.

Fingertips tap along my thumb as I count the ways I can say friendly and inviting in all the languages and cultures I know. It’s all I can do to keep a level head when I’m stuck listening to my fellow soldiers chatter amongst themselves while we wait.

“Welcome, friends, to my humble abode!” her voice booms over our heads like one of Devoltn’er’s loud speakers.

My head jerks upwards, then left, right. I don’t mean to look so paranoid, but I can’t really help it either. My therapist says it’s just a thing that happens when you witness atrocities like I have, like soldiers do. The trembling out of nowhere. My heart racing faster than Lieutenant Lark does down the race track. The jumpiness, the unexplained tears. Things that you can’t scrub from the remnants of your mind after watching razor-sharp wire peel flesh from bone and hear your twin brother screaming for help. I was lucky, my therapist said. Lucky to be alive. Lucky to still breathe while the corpse of my only living family had to be purged of all its blood by the PROGRAM because of the nanites in his system. Precious, filthy nanites. The tiny robots currently flooding my blood stream, making my veins itch, making my fingers twitch with the urge to gore my inner elbow in hopes of taking them out.

“Don’t be so spooked,” a voice in my ear caused me to jump. It’s my high officer, the one who oversees my familial platoon. He’s here with all the rest of us just to make sure we do our jobs. That’s what he said, anyways.

I can remember the sadness in his tone when he said it, like he knew what I knew. That he knew what it meant when Devoltn’er gave orders for a “full-purge excursion.” I saw the orders, actually. I knew immediately the second I saw her face where we were going. The orders were clear, and my therapist, that damn asshole, had the audacity to tell me I was going to be okay. That this would be a good thing for me, that we were safe, of all things.

Safe! This is the fucking soldier PROGRAM! No one is ever fucking okay or safe around here.

I count how many times I can say safe in all the foreign languages I know. Twenty-eight. Thirty, if I count the ones I made up in class with my brother all those years back.

“Please, please,” the Seamstress’ voice cuts in again and I shudder, “come on in! I know it’s a bit crowded here but I promise you, I will get to each and every one of you as quickly and conveniently as possible.”

Get to us.

My eyes roam, trying to make sense of the place. The tent overhead can’t seem to fixate on whether it wants to be that flimsy easy-to-pack cloth we give our travelling entertainment troupes or if it wants to be a fully-fledged, weirdly convex house. There’s places where wood and plaster exist, aged and brown due to- what, I don’t know (and don’t want to know). Then, there’s gaps; cracked and ripped open like someone was desperately banging and punching through the walls, attempting to hide behind large crates and furniture that just can’t quite get the job done right. The ceiling looks like a tent the most though, what with the fact it’s pointed upwards smack dab in the center and has a row of tassel-like hangings coming off the support beams. I can hear breathing in the walls, I swear it, if everyone around me would just shut up with their quiet chatting.

Can’t say, though, that it’s too unusual to see shifting and struggling architecture anymore, let alone ones run down like this. Would’ve been unusual had this happened a few years ago, but currently? There’s so much shit you see with Monsters that anything’s possible. I’ve seen living trees skin the fur right off the animals they lured in. Watched as that oasis in the far desert became their tomb, the bark of the tree becoming even furrier than before. I’ve seen a bird bigger than our Captain efficiently push the whole skeleton - as if a child’s pop-out toy - right out of a soldier so it could decorate it’s lair with them. I’ve seen my own brother filleted alive and used as a puppet to speak sweet nothings to me.

Shit just doesn’t fucking have the same impact when you’ve been through hell like I fucking have.

The decorations are solid even if the walls are not, that I can confirm. There’s those tall furniture - scaffoldings, bookshelves, screens, an incredibly long couch with a painting behind it. Then the boxes and crates, wood, with trinkets and knick-knacks on display. Delicates such as faberge eggs and music boxes are probably the most innocent things I can see. Stained glass lamps, custom made from a local glass blower, tall vases and badly made cubic sculptures. Looks like an old grandma with an art hoarding problem, mixed with a touch of the nostalgic “antique” theme.

The most disconcerting things, however, are the mannequins.

I’m caught staring at one, unfortunately. It’s had its eyes on me since we got here - eyes I originally thought were civilian eyes, but are instead glass bead ones so hyper realistic I swear to god they might blink at any second. These eyes are green, like mine. Perfectly dark green sclera with a lighter yellow-green iris, a touch of orange for the veins in the corners. Eyelashes are almost nonexistent. There’s no other facial features except for very vague shapes that outline the bridge of a nose and perhaps a little cheekbone (again, like mine - highly raised and cupping the eyes like the prominent ridge of a woven basket). The rest of the mannequin is lifeless, formless. It’s dark grey and made of a hard plaster instead of the cloth ones I’ve seen in the fashion squad. Mitten hands dangle beside missing hips and legs, missing pieces that are instead replaced by a thick iron rod and a broad wooden stand. It stands a little lower than me, making me realize I’m hunching over to keep eye contact even when my fellow soldiers blip in and out of my vision from walking past and shuffling around by me.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

The Seamstress breathes right in my ear, once more causing me to jolt and pull back. It’s hard to relax when I hear her laugh at my reaction, “just simply eye-catching. That one’s going to be my favorite, I can tell.”

She glances round, gathering my curiosity. There’s a few others like me who’d been caught staring at mannequins as well.

They’re still staring.

“Come on, a little closer now, friends!” She calls, waving us to huddle in even closer after she walks through the crowd to the far back of the tent-house, “I’m going to start now, so let’s get ready!”

She’s the definition of long: taller than I imagined, maybe seven foot. Her body is just about a perfect cylinder, no form to it beneath the heavy, hand-made, silk robes she wears. Her needle-like arms stretch nearly to the ground, an unfortunate side effect of her Strife. Something about fearing being stretched too thin by her passion at work, or something like that.

I read the files on her before we left. The Seamstress is a dangerous high-class Monster that disguises herself as a friendly seamstress that offers civilians free clothing in their most desperate time of need. She can appeal to all classes, whether it’s the luxurious lifestyles of the upper class, the modest ones of the middle, or the more destitute and dire situations of the poor. She gathers in a vast array of civilians she feels need her “help” then dresses them to their deaths. There were parts that were missing from them, namely her background, previous life information, how she dresses her prey. The most important information was there, though: a speculation on how to escape her traps alive and possibly defeat her-

Being pushed forward by my friends now felt just about as abrasive as her earlier interruption. The feel of being pushed drives me nuts nowadays; I can’t stop my thoughts from imagining what it must’ve felt like for my brother when those teeth ripped through his flesh. Painful, sure, but was it like running a brush through tangled hair? A piece of floss too hard against the gum? Would it have been similar to the blades I ran through the back of my arm at night just to feel alive again? I haven’t brushed my hair or flossed my teeth in weeks because of thoughts like these.

My high officer has a hold on my right arm, the scarred one (or the one that would be scarred, had I not known how to use those dirty, disgusting nanites inside me to seal up the wound. A fucking curse upon me, they are, I tell you). I can’t yank away even if everything inside me screams too, there’s no room to jerk my arm back. I can’t tell him to fuck off; he’s my commanding officer and my closest friend here. I can’t be mean to him like that. My skin itches and god, it is so hard not to want to scrape myself clean of my own blood. Teeth grit. I can’t feel anything in the dead nerve where I lost one of my teeth. Since my fingers are suffocating in human bodies and the threadbare clothing of my peers, I focus on that instead. Try to “feel the void” within my teeth, try to become that void.

I can’t count how many times I could say void. I can’t breathe.

“Yes, yes, that’s it, dears. Now, stand as straight as you can,” god, she’s herding us into place like cattle, pushing some with her long thin hands and pulling others. “I need to take measurements. Don’t panic, beauties, but you’re about to see something somewhat unsightly. Take note it is perfectly natural, however! I will not be hurt!”

Wish I could’ve closed my eyes just to defy her, but I couldn’t. They’re wide fucking open when she lifts the sides of her robe - a robe I thought had been one piece, but was now revealed to be several pieces sewn together to accommodate something - and begins to rock back and forth. There’s a crack in her spine, a pop, snap, crunch - god, that’s bone - and soon enough her own ribs (or so I can assume) become limbs. Skin-covered grey limbs, lighter than the mannequins behind her but made of that same unsettling plastic-like material. Her hands, all twelve of them, original limbs included, are tiny, elongated. Like a child’s hand, yet as elegant and fully developed as my own. She’s no longer a cylinder in shape, but more like an open ribcage of arms. Her head remains the same size, but her neck is longer, like there’s nothing but spine and rib-arms. I used to think she had legs, but it’s actually just her spine supporting her. God, I knew she was a fucking snake from the moment I set eyes on her in the crowd. Why didn’t I trust that and read into the way her long robes dragged several feet behind her? Fuck.

The Seamstress began grabbing tools from all around the room, tools hidden from the untrained eye, ones like my own who hadn’t bothered taking note that everything’s so thinly spread across the room. Tape measures. Needles without thread. Thick string that doesn’t really move like string. It’s stretchy, pale, almost like elastic but far more organic. I’m thinking some kind of animal fur, but there’s no fur or hair I’ve ever seen that stretches like that.

My fingers are freed when she rips the fabric off my neighbor’s body like it’s nothing. Looking down revealed that there were hands all around us now, clammy, greedy. It took me a moment of glancing down and up so fast my eyes strained to realize she’s buzzing and vibrating, her hands and arms moving so fast they’re practically a blur. The hair on my neck rises a little, then there’s a sharp prick when some of them are accidentally ripped from me when one of her hands cleanly yanks my clothing off. The same hand ruffles my hair and rubs my sore neck, soothing it. It gives me a good pat on the cheek before moving on. When I make eye contact with her, she mouths an apology I can’t hear due to her buzzing being too loud.

She’s sized us all up, literally, and stripped us all down - also literally. Despite being nude among my peers, I fear nothing. Not even the concave scarring in my stomach from my brother’s murderer. The only thing I really wish I had was my binder, the expensive one she ripped right off me. There’s no point in it here of course,considering we’re all hanging out, but the light press of the binder kept me grounded whenever I breathed. Without it, my mind already begun slipping into that dark place again. I can’t count how many ways I can say binder in all my languages because I don’t know the equivalent words. It’s a new term to me, unfortunately.

“There we are! All ready,” the Seamstress clasped her hands together and smiled at each and every one of us, locking her eyes on us. There’s rows of three dots beneath her eyes that trail down to her jawline, “are you all excited for your new clothes? I know I am! I’m going to ask that the few of you I talked to earlier step forward. Yes, all you naughty little ones who I caught eyeing my beautiful mannequins! Please, please, come before your Seamstress so I can address you?”

My high officer is staring at me. He saw me staring at the mannequin to, didn’t he? Now that I’m thinking about it, I can recall seeing a hand waving in front of me in a way that didn’t match the natural way people walked. Was that him?

I’m reluctant to step forward. There’s only a couple that do; they’re the loyal ones, the ones best at following orders. I have no way out. There’s nothing behind us, even when I look. No door where there should have been (how did no one else notice this? Most importantly, how did I not notice this?), where there was. Skin’s itching again. Crawling. I can’t scream like I want to, can’t cry. It’s been a year since my brother died, but I still can’t talk. Can’t utter a single word. It’s like my tongue is sewn to the roof of my mouth every time I try, and there’s really nothing interesting I have to say, anyways.

My therapist is in the process of teaching me sign language, but mostly I just write or text her my responses. I want to finish learning sign language. I finally began to feel like I could actually get my points across this year thanks to it, began trying to talking to people again. Lieutenant Lark really helped me out with that, too, and our Captain - deaf as cee was - knew how it comforted me. My eyes are glued to the wall where the door should be. My overseeing officer is staring at me like he knows and understands why I can’t stop crying in silence.

I really, really want to keep learning sign language.

I really, really can’t fight the hands now dragging me by my arms and legs forward.

“There, there, don’t be upset. I know I pinched you earlier, but I promise it won’t happen again! Even the experts make mistakes, my grandmother used to say, though I’m hardly an expert. More like the all-time supreme, you know?” She chortles. It rings like false guffaw my father used to give me whenever I told him a dumb joke.

Naked and afraid. Isn’t that one of the jokes I’ve seen among my peers’ social networks? Naked and afraid. A real fear of some people. Standing in front of their closest friends, exposed, taking in the judgment. There’s no judgment here, though- we’re all pretty tight-knit in this troop. We’ve seen things in each other no one else would ever see. Many know my ticks so well they help teach me new words or hold my hand when I’m starting to count. Grounding. I’ve seen them at their worst, too. I know Rosie over there, with xir big eyes, cries in the evenings of each 24th day due to her son. I know Evamund loses his sight when he writes due to his stress. I know my commanding officer, RunDun, smokes too much of the medicinal stuff we’re all given after traumatic events to cope. I’ve given him my ration cards for the stuff before. I don’t need it. It just causes my shivers to worsen and my thoughts to darken.

Right now, though, I wish I had it. Wish I could be higher than the ribbed ceiling above us to think. The same ceiling that now seemed to spin as slow as the carousels at our amusement parks. Tassels chiming, wood creaking.

The cathedral ceiling to our eventual tomb.

There was info missing from the Seamstress’ file. Mostly details, things like her background. I’ve said that already. Background, past, history. All missing from her files. There was one detail I noticed, however, that sealed the final tasseled nail in this tomb of ours. The details on how to fight her, namely speculation on how to escape, mentioned a cue, a certain codeword she’d say that would signal us to the exact moment we should fight or flee.

There was no codeword in the file.

I looked, and looked, and looked, scraped through that damn thing for hours. Nothing, not even an inkling. Just the sentence, “at the codeword given, bring up your arms and send your Kallias in to fight.”

We did not have our Kallias. They were taken from us and penned up somewhere. I can feel mine now, even at the long distance, like a waning voice beneath my skin. I can feel it in my arms, in my throat, in the back or my body. It’s crying.

We were never given a codeword either, not even an inkling that there would be anything to look for to save ourselves. I’ve been stripped and now stand shaking in front of countless eyes who now realized what the real ultimatum of this mission was.

This is a full-purge excursion.

We were sent to die here.

Fingers comb through my hair, only worsening the shivering in my body, the prickling in my skin. Tears are so damn painful when they fill your eyes, like glass stabbing into the sensitive innards of your socket. My arms hang beside me like string while I look over the faces of the only family I have left to my name. The only people who, should I die, would miss me. The ones who’ve been there for me more than anyone else when my brother passed, who sung at his wakana alongside me. If only the Captain knew. If only Lark knew.

Maybe they’ll miss us, but I doubt it. We are foot soldiers. No one misses foot soldiers.

The hands in my hair run down to my shoulders and hold me in place, pushing me down like the weight that’s been on my mind since we got here. I can hear her hissing, whining. Sent here to die. Her head looms above those of us in the front - I can tell because, although my back is now facing her massive body, I can feel the stream of her breath falls over me like the mist of a waterfall. My head tries to move, to glance at my family around me one last time, but I can’t stop staring at the spot in the wall where the door should have been. Where I should have been able to get out, to leave.

“It’s time, my dears, for your new outfits.” The Seamstress is whispering so only those of us she’s summoned can hear her. My tears increase.

There’s no warning besides that. No time for screams even. It takes me a literal second or two to realize what I had just witnessed and why there’s no longer people standing in front of me, but masses of red with the occasional blue, green, and silver. The thing started with their feet and took literally nanoseconds to transpire- but I can figure how it might’ve happened now. Their feet, held by those thousands of hands I hadn’t realized existed, were pierced. I don’t know how or why, and I don’t quite know why it was so clean, but I can see the hands that were once on the floor are now on the ceiling holding thin strings where my family’s flesh hung like hide. Skinned completely without a single trace of error. The Seamstress is ancient. She’s been doing this since before I was born.

“Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! OH FUCK! OH FUCK!” My nearest neighbor is building herself up, body shaking despite being forced to stare at the bleeding muscle-like bodies still standing before us. “FUCK! SHIT! FU-”

My entire gut wrenches and I can’t fight a lurch. There’s nothing in there to purge, but the soldier to my right has the same idea and spews a rancid mess across the body feet from him. We can’t bend over; the hands are holding us by the hair and shoulders making us watch.

There’s a second flash, an angry RIP that’s combined with snapping and the rare crack. The muscle and tendons are stripped from bone in waves, sending organs splashing across the ground in a bloody mess that mixes and splashes all across the bones now falling to the ground. It’s only now that I realize we’re standing on a small stage lifted less than a foot higher than the rest of the floor. My feet are splattered with blood, but not coated. My body, too, has been painted. There’s flecks of green on my shoulder from what I can see when I look down. My neighbor to my right is covered in blue.

“FUCK! FUAAAAAAAAAAA!”

She’s just screaming now, struggling hard but unable to escape. I can’t stop shaking. Flesh peels and my focus is drawn to my front just in time to see the tendons being pried from the muscles in mid air. They’re stretchy, elastic, kind of like thick string but all bloody and hard to pick out. After the Seamstress puts them away, opening the crates nearby to reveal some kind of mildly glowing fluid, I watch the hands attached to her rib-arms lower and stretch the string I saw before, threading needles with it. Not string. Tendons, stripped until they were just thick enough to be string-like.

By now I have to watch out of obligation to my family. Their blood glitters and hums, buzzing with life just like my own are. I can hear something in my head, frantic, screaming faintly like it’s at a far off distance. My heart’s racing. The nanites in my skin itch so horribly I can’t help scratching my own fingers together while counting the ways I can say blood and skin in the languages I know. There’s a splash of blood across my face, an accidental flick of a needle missing its mark while multiple hands begin stripping flesh and sewing it together. I lose count.

Screaming never helps, I find. Monsters are only drawn out by it, egged on by the loud noises. Even when I do manage to squeeze my eyes shut and sob, I can’t scream like I want to. It’s pointless to try, so why bother. The sobs of my last surviving family act as backup singers to the frantic and anguished yelping of the woman on my right.

Escape is futile. In reality, in my own mind. My brother’s screaming had been close to her pitch, which makes it even harder to breathe. I can feel the pain I think they all went through after her hands stripped them. Could they even feel it? Was it so fast they couldn’t process it? They stood there after dying, staring. I think I could see my high officer crying just before, or after. Did that mean he felt it? Was he envious I was here? Did he wish it was me instead of him?

There’s more noises, but focusing on them won’t help. Even when I hear gurgling and ripping next to me, I can’t stop counting. Blood. Skin. There’s three. Four. Five. The voice on my left yells in anguish before going silent. I can feel hands smooth over my shoulders and neck, causing my muscles to tense and brace for some sort of impact. Pain, suffering, the feel of my own skin peeling open and off my flesh. It’s here I realize I can’t hear the backup singers anymore, right before the streaming turns to gurgling and a struggle, then a thump.

This is it. It’s finally my turn to die, just like it was all those years ago. Except unlike those years ago there won’t be a savior. No one’s alive here but the Seamstress and me. I’m going to lose my skin and she’s going to dress up herself in it. My hands lift and grip tightly to their opposing arm across my chest, nails digging into flesh so hard it hurts. It’ll hurt worse when she skins me, I know I will. All the cuts and bruises I’ve given myself won’t even compare! I’ll be here all alone, crying, shaking while my back is ripped off my carcass and I’m forced to come face to face with the fact I was the one who shoved my brother into harm’s way to save my own damn self!

The pressure of her hands leave my shoulders. I’m left alone. Sobbing, shaking, waiting for something. She’s still above me, her breaths heavy with the stench of something rotten and I feel something wet and warm hit my head. Is she chewing on the pieces of my family? The family who knew I had done that to my own brother but still continued to comfort me anyways? Who kept it a secret, mourned with me? Who were as guilty as I was for enabling me to save my own skin?

Stitching.

Chewing.

Mumbling, humming, flinging and sloshing.

Silence.

Silence.

Something drags nearby. Slides across the floor, wood on wood. A thunk of something being placed down. Hands straighten my body so I’m my full height instead of the cowering mess I was. Arms are pried to my sides and my head’s tilted up. There’s a wet slap of what I assume to be skin slapping around and being toyed with.

Hands hold me still while things are placed on me. There’s a clasp sealed, my body covered by a warm blanket and my head adorned with something heavy and glassy. My shoulders slouch when she places a heavy robe or something on them. Jewelry is fastened. I’m pushed forward just a tad until my toes can feel the edge of the stage. Something soft tickles my chin.

“There, you’re perfect. Go on! Open those pretty green eyes, look at what I’ve made for you!”

The mannequin I saw before stood before me, dressed head-to-toe in the Seamstress’ handiwork. Skin draped down its chest, covering all the way past its hips, keeping it modest yet powerful. Its hips, which looked a lot like mine, jutted out at the sides of the draping mess over its front and back, but all the important areas were covered in a crudely sewn together mess of skin. Fur and hair lined the neck area, down over the collar bones and the hide the heavy brass shoulder clasps almost perfectly. Behind it, much like the Seamstress’ own robes, rested a long and heavy cape made of the leftover skin, fur, and muscle.

Jewelry made of teeth and bone accented the mannequin's arms and neck, and there was something resting on its forehead I failed to notice before. A string of eyes - the eyes from the mannequins, all but the green ones - rested like a crown over a messy head of tangled messy hair. Hair I’d seen my family brush before, let them brush when I couldn’t.

Then I realized that it wasn’t the mannequin before me, but a mirror. The same dark grey of the mannequin’s skin had spread from my fingertips and toes sometime during this whole process. Maybe it’s why I felt so bold, so unashamed to be naked. I don’t know how it happened, but it did, and now I’m a pretty and dressed-up monster just like she is. The bodies of my fellow “chosen” soldiers lay dead but intact next to me save a strip or two here and there and the wounds used to silence them forever. Their eyes were missing. When I glanced around again, I noticed all the other mannequins had new eyes. All but the one with green eyes. The one I was chosen by.

Fingers rested on my shoulders, weighing me down, further spreading the grey upon my skin. My lungs filled with air, no longer picking up the putrid smell of vomit and blood, but something else. Something akin to dust. The Seamstress’ head lowered until she was right next to me, staring into the mirror right into my vibrant green eyes. Those dots I’d seen on her face before glistened. They, too, were eyes.

“I told you you’d be my favorite,” she breathed.

I can’t feel my lungs anymore. I can’t seem to count, either. All I can see is the thing in the mirror wearing the skin of his own family. My hand lifts, a movement I can’t feel very well, and runs under the skin that covers my torso. There’s two grooves in what feels like plastic where my skin should be; the marks from where I had stripped pieces of my own skin off to attone for my sins.

Scars from my brother’s murderer.

The Seamstress asks how I feel. I don’t know how long I’m standing there staring and feeling myself before I lift my hands to reply. Tears still fall, but I can’t feel them. She asks me why can’t I speak, but I don’t reply. My hands are talking just fine for me. I can’t count, but I can speak. Words I couldn’t count flow through my fingers. My brother is gone. I can’t speak. The Seamstress grows impatient with me. Can’t speak. I can’t talk. But she can’t read sign language, so she pushes me around, trying to get me to talk.

In this moment I remember that I want to keep learning sign language.

It’s also in this moment I realize that I’m yet again the only one not dead, which meant I had nothing to lose. The boiling in my blood at being tossed and turned, treated like a rag doll intensifies. Her hand nearest me lowers, needle still in her grasp. It’s bigger than a knife.

It makes a great tool to stab her right through the eye.

-----

My therapist doesn’t talk to me anymore.

No one really does, not even after my promotion. High officer Rex, a real fucking joke there. My fellow officers don’t look me in the eye anymore, they can’t. I’m missing one of them and the other is somewhat glassy, unblinking. It pierces through anyone who tries to meet it just like that needle pierced through the Seamstress. She’s still alive, you know, walking around in soldier skin and muscle and fur that she hand crafted so lovingly into a robe. She even has the crown of eyes that I wore once. I’ve seen her. I visit her area on occasion. I’m trying to learn what she did to me so I can either reverse it or just embrace it.

So far, I can’t do much of either, so I’m stuck here in unfeeling, unemoting limbo until she teaches me. I’m the only one to have ever survived her attacks. Had she cut my hips off, I would’ve become a new mannequin! Isn’t that funny? But we made a deal. An eye for an eye, they say. Everything comes with a price.

It’s lonelier than ever, but I can’t really feel it as much anymore. Maybe I should thank her. Being a living mannequin with one eye has its perks. For instance, even though I can, I don’t count anymore. I can’t remember some of the languages I used to speak anyways, so it’d only drive me madder than I already am. Instead, I carve patterns into my plastic mannequin body to remind me of the people I’ve killed with my selfish acts of self-preservation and unkindness. My therapist told me it wasn’t my fault, that really it’s a miracle I’m alive. It’s a real miracle alright. I was the only soldier in a troop of twenty to come back different yet alive. Everyone celebrated and mourned. After she told me it was a miracle I was alive and that I should be grateful to still be here, I asked her if she knew what it felt like to feel a needle pierce her eyeball. If she knew how it felt to watch the program you work for carve into the corpse of your own brother just to retrieve the tiny robots living in his skin.

I asked if she knew I was on a suicide mission meant to kill me and all my family, knowing full well that no one would miss me, because we had all seen a Monster hand-crafted by the Leader themselves to kill civilians. The very one that she had told me wasn’t real before my brother and I went out to find. The one that only she knew we were hunting on that exact day at that exact time.

Then, I asked if she’d like to know what it felt like to be skinned alive.

---

My therapist doesn’t talk to me anymore.

[thatparkinsongirl]

WORLDS.

Friends. No one ever told you life was gonna be this way. The apartment complex has seen better days but it’s a roof over your head and that’s more than enough to be grateful about. There’s a pitch-perfect coffee shop on the corner and the people on your hall are actually fantastic.

Disaster. It’s the end of the world. Everything in ruins. You’re running, running, just trying to survive these last days. You sleep fitfully, even then still alert, one hand tangled with theirs and the other gripped around a gun/wand. Or alternately, you’re the crackpot science team that first discovered something was wrong. You’ve all been locked up behind miles of reinforced steel in the CDC? NSA? Area 51? trying to solve this disaster. You were pulled away from your families, not able to save them, not able to take anything. Coffee, coffee, MRE meals. Microscopes, slides, formulas scribbled across white boards trying not to give in to the impending doom.

Inversion. This is not the world you know. Here, Headmaster Riddle pats a young boy on the shoulder and gives some much needed advice. Here, Grindewald and Dumbledore strike fear in the hearts of all the muggleborns. Here, everything and everyone is just a little off center. Your choices define you. (Borrowed from here)

Darkest. Dark magic thrums through your veins, slick and oily. You crave it, live for it. The forbidden section has been your second home ever since the first time you snuck in second year. You are something to be feared. The magic you play with is going to change the world. It’s not about hurting people (sometimes an unfortunate side effect) or taking over the world necessarily (though that is a goal), it’s about this sickly curiosity in magic. How far can you can go? How many lines can you cross? LOOsely off this in which the golden trio go somewhat dark, https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334630/chapters/14514247. Particularly there’s a whole thing in which they bond themselves to each other in a fit of codependency which just yessssss.

Rich as fuck. Money, money, money. Money is the anthem of success. Fast life, shiny diamonds, the best clothes. Speeding too, too fast down the highway, hand out the window. Cops won’t pull you over; they know better. Your lives are a never-ending party. Super Rich kids by Frank Ocean.

Roadtrip bitches. It’s the summer before university. The last hurrah before you all go your separate ways. Long, too deep conversations around a fire while you all smoke. Roadtrip mix blaring through the speakers. Seeing every weird roadside attraction you can. Talking about growing up, childhood, fears, change. About how you could go a year without speaking to someone but they’re still, always gonna be your best friend.

Political. Is it the west wing or house of cards?? Are they corrupt as fuck, bribing and killing and manipulating their way or they earnest and honest as possible, hearts brimming with desire to make the world something worth living in.

PUnk. idk. Hip hop. DJs. Raves. Tattoo artists. Lighters. Smoke rising up into the sky. Motorcycles and a shit ton of leather. Graffiti in the alleyway behind the bar you own.

Therapy. Post-war, and it’s rough. The physical scars are easy enough to ignore. It’s several months before you break down and join the therapy group at St. Mungos. You all swear you’re only there for the free coffee and doughnuts. Phobias, triggers, panic attacks. Recovery. Late night phone calls cause you had the nightmare again.

Olympics. Fencing? Swimming? Hockey? Gymnastics? Ice skating? Or, I mean, alternately, they could be in the Quidditch world cup. Competitors who like mock each other but also hardcore root for each other. It’s a small community and you all have known each other your entire life. It’s been a fight but here you are on the olympic team, favorites for the gold. 

Doctors. Late night hours. 12 hr shifts. Narcissism. The ultimate god complex. Shitty coffee. Stress. Lost a patient today, saved a patient tomorrow. Fighting over who gets to be second on the awesome heart surgery. A quickie in the on call room because damn your ass looks fine in those scrubs. Quizzing each other over a quick lunch. Complaining about your attending at the bar on your first night off in ages.

Unspeakables. They died, struck down during the war and none of you could bear to survive without them. The plan is put together in the early hours of the morning, feverish. It’s stupid, selfish; all this to save one life. You all join the Unspeakables because the rumor is they’ve been working on creating new time turners. None of you care who suffers for this as long as you can get them back.

How to Get Away With Murder/I Know What You Did Last Summer. You’re tied together by an awful, terrible secret. None of you can risk turning on each other. You’ve made sure of that. Toxic people. Guilt. There’s a body in the morgue with your names on it. It was an accident truly but the covering it up that was deliberate. Maybe some unknown person knows and is blackmailing you all or maybe, maybe they’re just trying to get away with it.

Spaceeeee. Inspired by the Wolf 359 and the Strange Case of Starship Iris. Science. Space. Discovery. Futuristic. Bonding because you’re trapped together in a tiny space ship. Conspiracy. Suicide missions. Technology betraying you. The fate of the entire human race resting on your shoulders. 

Parks&Rec/Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Any job-lawyers, firefighters, coffee-shop. It doesn’t matter because they’ve become a tight-knit family. Work hijinks, skinny love probably, I broke your email after I sent you 20 cat memes in a row. office parties. a hint of danger and risk (ok i admit it i like the firefighter one best). My very first day I was driving around trying to find the staff parking and a car honked, whizzed past me, yelling something crude out the window. It turned out to be my new boss.

Dark Post War. With Voldemort dead, Death Eaters being rounded up left, and peace returned to Wizarding London for the first time in more than a decade, it’s easy to believe that all is well. (The problem is that there is no length that people won’t go to protect their peace once they get it back.) Conscription into the Aurors for eligible wizards is enacted to ensure a strong standing against any lingering Voldemort supporters. A man in a black robe is murdered in the street one night because a young, nervous Auror thought he was a Death Eater. Incredibly harsh sentences handed down for any war crime. When Hogwarts finally reopens its doors over a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, it’s to the complete eradication of the Slytherin house (there are rumors about what happens to the children that the Sorting Hat would’ve sorted into Slytherin) and the addition of core classes. It is not a school but a training ground. Certain shops in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade are shut down for “sedition” and “miscreant behavior”, most notably Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Known war hero, Hermione Granger, is tossed in a Ministry cell for two months for sedition, after she attempts to prevent the arrest of a werewolf. Released war prisoners, people like the Zabini family who did not bear the Dark Mark but who were afflicted with Dark families, and “potential dark wixen” are branded by the Ministry as a warning to the public. All the while, the Ministry reports capturing dangerous Death Eaters, spotting war criminals in Hogsmeade, about danger lurking everywhere. The official statement is that they are trying to right mistakes made after the defeat of Grindewald, if they’d taken a stronger offense then Voldemort never would have happened. What it boils down to though is fear and vengeance and the shifting tide of power. 

Darkest Minds. So I’m finally reading this series since the movie’s coming out soon. I’m only 6 chapters in thus far but yes! this plot! would! definitely! want!

Dark Academia. The Secret History!!! Probably, definitely a secret society!! Mystery! The most pretentious assholes you will ever meet. Arguments over classic literature. Speaking latin to each other so no one else knows what they’re saying. Tweed jackets. Fall in New England. Tea. No i don’t own a tv I believe they’re corrupting the youths’ minds. Insomnia. A 40 page treatise on the Odyssey. 

Alternate Fifth Year. In a world where the young slytherin fifth years spend the summer of between fourth and fifth year, watching their parents with disgust and trepidation. They are ambitious, devoted to self-preservation and they are smart enough to see that following the Dark Lord is a road to ruin. Lucius Malfoy comes back from Death Eater meetings, shaken, Mr. Nott Senior with a long cut down his face. No, the slytherins have no interest in a life like that. It’s too bad then that they’re not even being taught Defense in school. It’s luck that they hear about the group of students that have started practical magic in secret. Canon divergent fifth year where the slytherins join Dumbledore’s Army. Can start after fifth year too but like that’s where it diverges. 

Back Home*. When they say you can’t ever go home again, they mean it, because home isn’t a static location, it’s a word full of extra connotation. It’s tied to a specific time and emotion and feeling. A group of friends return to their small hometown for the first time in eight years for the funeral of a mutual friend. Some of them have vaguely kept in touch but for the most part despite how close they were growing up they’ve all drifted apart. A story about loss, growing up, nostalgia, fear, and friendship. You won’t ever the same kind of friends you had when you were young. 

Shadow Children (Margaret Peterson Haddix). Futuristic, dystopian. Every family is allowed ONLY 2 children yet secret 3rd children do exist, living in the shadows and scraps. Some are lucky enough to get a fake identity and freedom. So I read this series when I was like 11 or something and they’ve kind of haunted me ever since. I’d probably wind up disappointed if I ever tried to reread them but whatever.  Anyway, I’ve been thinking about the first book lately, in regards to all the school kids protesting gun violence and the people in power just looking away as more children die, and just viscerely reminds of the horror I had reading the end of the first book in which (SPOILER) one of the main characters goes to a protest on the front lawn of the white house esque government building, convinced that if enough them protest, if they demand justice, they can get it. Each and every person at the protest is gunned down. For   young me who had largely only read books where everything wound up happy as long as you were brave and honest and full of spirit, this was an enormous shock. Idk how this would work but yes!

CONNECTIONS. 

Bodyguard. Mighty, mighty need for this. You’re the ambassador or president or queen or minister’s kid and your parents hire a bodyguard. You resent their protection. Ruining your semblance of a normal life. Judging you. You can’t help slipping their protection. Heart to hearts. Shared truths. Grudging respect and whatever. Ugh and the sexual tension, more alive than a power line. The attack comes out of left field and it’s a mess. (This. So down to play this out as whatever characters in any world)

Death. Straight up angst here. Final battle death scene. One second they’re right there and the next there’s a flash. You hold your hands over the gaping wound, screaming for a healer but you both know it’s over. Tears mixing with blood. Maybe they become a Hogwarts ghost. (Any character, any sort of relationship-married, dating, siblings, best friends, we shouldve dated but now your dying my arms)

Toxic. Do I feel guilty about having a thing for fictional toxic relationships? Yes, yes I do. But does that change anything? no. “Oh, we broke ages ago.” But everyone rolls their eyes when you say it. Because neither of you can stop and everyone knows. A couple of drinks in and you can’t keep your hands off each other. There’s still jealousy and toxicness and protectiveness and posssesiveness. There’s a dent in the wall from the time you threw a lamp at them. And god, if you could just make it work but love just isn’t enough sometimes. I’d tattoo your name on my arm but i wouldn’t marry you(Any characters)

Married in Vegas. You two hate each other’s guts. You’re constantly trying to one up each other in front of the boss. And you both always have a different way of approaching a problem. You steal candy bars out of their desk and they keep getting you locked out of your computer somehow. But your both the best so of course your selected for the Vegas conference work is holding. What happens next?? well?? a lot of alcohol, you know that. Neither of you quite remember but those rings on your fingers might mean something.

Romeo and juliet. Mob vs. cops or Death eaters vs. Order.  Forbidden romance. Secret meetings. My uncle killed your father. You have a body count that would make them blush. Maybe you’ll turn states evidence for them. Maybe they’re just using you. (any)

Softsoftsoftsoft. Bakery and coffee shop across from each other. Skinny love. A lot of Troye Sivan and Hayley Kiyoko playing. Longing stares, blushing, awkwardness. All your friends say they are definitely into you but??? Or alternately, you co-own the bakery coffee shop and you’ve been dating since third year and your friends all want to kill you. Because ughhh noone should still be that in love. Some serious codependency and domesticity here. Like if anyone’s seen How I Met Your Mother-Lily and Marshall. (any)

Misunderstandings. Classic trope. Of course, you thought they were dating. They live together, steal food from each others plates, share sweaters, tease each other relentlessly, constantly physically affectionate. Really what were you supposed to think. Cue the miscommunication and needless pining and hilarity. (any)

Bonnie and Clyde. Gringotts robbers? Who knows but you’re criminals and you’re good at it. Three steps ahead of the aurors. Careless laughter, drunk on adrenaline. Drive it like you stole it by the Glitch Mob!! and End Credits by Eden!! (any)

Siblings. I’m sorry that all the others are relationship plots because I really do high key love a good best friends/siblings plot. Real siblings or we grew up together and i would murder someone for you siblings. They know each other better than the backs of their hands. Secrets are for other people. Soft plot-just them taking care of each other after a tragedy. Tough love-you fucked off to Paris because you couldn’t deal with your life and they dragged your ass back because when you were kids they promised not to let you make any irreversible mistakes. protective-just. they keep doing dangerous shit and risking their life and you have to knock some sense into their thick skull. Ridiculous-they are everyone’s worst nightmare, stuck together like glue, always causing trouble. Spitting gum down at people from the astronomy tower. Finding ways to beat the anti-cheating quills. Actually helping your sibling get rid of a body. (any)

Best friends/Squad. You all meet at the bar religiously after work. Got each other’s back still, always, forever. Growing up doesn’t mean you have to lose them. (all; I watched the whole first season of golden girls last night so I’ve got a lotta squad feelings. )

Parent and child. Honestly just this song. Heirloom by Sleeping at last!!!! You’re both trying your best but there’s always going to be this tension, these mistakes on both sides. Regrets, nostalgia, angst, softness, forgiveness. (any, but this song always gives me Draco-Scorpius and Harry-Albus vibes)

Eighth Year Partners. PostWar. After a review of Hogwarts’ records, it’s decided that the school year of 97-98 will have to be repeated for all students. In an effort to bring the students of all houses together to promote healing and unity, a random buddy system is set up. A Ravenclaw sixth year paired with a Gryffindor fifth year. A Hufflepuff and Slytherin second year paired. So on and so forth. Though Headmaster McGonagall believed it was a good opportunity, she was loathe to force any student into something they didn’t want, certainly not after the past few years. Thus her only fast rule for the partnerships was sitting together for two meals a week. Some took full advantage of the system, studying together, attending each other’s quidditch games. Others sat in stony silence during the required time only.

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