#i was expecting like some rage tinged nostalgia

[blistering-typhoons]

experiments into rewatching bbc sherlock so far has yielded: about 15 min of actual watch time, it's boring? why is it so boring, i did not expect of all things for it to be this goddamn boring, what was happening in 2017 why was i so enthralled

[lorelylantana]

Compulsion

Ao3

This oneshot was inspired by this post by @snooze-zzz

Oneshot rating: G

His father wasn’t happy when Link was called to his office, a scowl etched into his brow. Link stepped in and stood at attention, expecting his father to grumble about some last minute change to the guard’s rotation before assigning him to a troop to fill in the gaps left by such shifts. Link had been knighted only recently, and as the most junior member in his unit he was expected to pick up this sort of slack. Link didn’t mind, a little sleep lost was a small place to pay to quiet that writhing feeling in his chest. It wasn’t silent just yet, but he was getting closer. When his father got up to walk around the room, Link made no move to maintain eye contact, standing at attention. It was a test of sorts, teaching Link to hold his position until told otherwise. It took some practice to tamp down the instinctive urge to turn towards the speaker, but he was getting it. So when his father walked behind him, he thought he was just checking his form.

“Do you think this is a game, son?”  the Captain’s words were cold, dripping with the kind of disappointment that would make any child’s blood freeze. Link’s pulse began to race. His face flushed, but his training held and he stood rooted to the spot.

“Sir?”

“Do you know how many fourteen year old knights there have been in recorded history?”

“One, sir,” Link answered, bracing for a lecture.

“Right, one. You are the only knight to ever be sworn in so young,” his father continued, coming around to face him again. Link almost flinched when he saw the quiet rage in his father’s eyes. This wasn’t going to be the ordinary scolding for being late to the mess hall or having a spot on his armor.

“I had to jump through a lot of hoops for you to be allowed to swear in early. I stuck my head out for you because I had faith in you. You told me you could handle the responsibility and I believed you. I don’t appreciate you dragging my name through the mud with this little stunt and I definitely don’t appreciate you going back on your word.”

Link racked his brain, still completely at a loss to the ‘stunt’ the Captain was referring to. He’d looked after his armor meticulously, arrived early for morning drills, he even took time out of his break to have a barber crop his hair to match Hyrule’s military regulation, leaving his neck uncovered for the first time in years.

Then again, he did break one of the sparring dummies yesterday, a swing of a sword that landed a bit too hard. The drill sergeant laid into him for that, sending him to run laps while everyone else got a water break.

“I can fix the dummy, sir.”

That was the wrong thing to say apparently, because when his father’s face contorted even further. The Captain shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You knew perfectly well that tattoos visible in uniform aren’t allowed, let alone one blatantly disrespecting the royal family, so what possessed you to undermine the sacrifices made to get you here?”

Link’s hands were shaking behind his back. He couldn’t remember the last time his father was so angry with him, and he still had no idea what he was being reprimanded for. He didn’t get a tattoo as far as he remembered, and he didn’t drink, so it wasn’t a memory lost to wine. 

Justified or not, the Captain’s anger stung after Link tried so hard to uphold the high standard his father held him to. He had been proud to meet that standard, but it was hard to hold his head high when his captain and his father looked at him with such disappointment, whatever the reason turned out to be. He felt his face heat with shame and his throat close. 

The Captain sighed when his son failed to answer, and Link knew that he had fallen in his father’s eyes, and that thought alone was enough to bring tears to his eyes. 

“I don’t understand,” he whispered, his knight’s countenance cracking at long last, “What did I do?”

His father shook his head, refusing to look him in the eye, “If you can’t be honest and own up to your own actions, then I have to put you on probation. Pack your backs and come back when you’re ready to stop treating the knight’s oath like a joke.”

Link saluted, maintaining his silence in a desperate attempt to regain his composure, though he couldn’t stop a few childish tears from leaking out in what would be his last show of emotion for a very long time.

The sun was setting as Link started down the road south to Castle Town where he’d stay the night, wondering what he’d tell his mom. His stomach twisted in dread. He didn’t want to see the inevitable disappointment on his mother’s face. He still didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but whatever it was had to be so obvious that any denial would read as insubordination, so he doubted she would believe any defense he could muster.

He wanted to scream that he didn’t think knighthood was a joke. In truth he wouldn’t even consider it an ambition. He supposed it was an instinct, if anything. Perhaps it was because he was the son of the Captain of the Royal Guard, but that answer tasted wrong in his mind, like it was far too trivial an explanation for the growling dissatisfaction in his chest. 

He’d always had fun swinging the wooden swords his father brought home when he was small, but time and again Link would be overtaken by some deep set sense of urgency to learn and hone any skill he could use in battle. He would be seated at the dinner table or doing his chores when something that tasted like an elegant, tempered version of panic would consume him and demand he rush outside to practice his sword forms. His mother scolded him for it at first, but couldn’t bring herself to reprimand him after she saw how distraught he would be if she stopped him, so she left him be, only calling him in if it was bedtime or if he scraped a knee.  If he couldn’t find a sword, he’d pick up a broom and pretend it was a spear, or he’d make a claymore out of an iron hammer. He’d go hunting even though he’d have to drag a buck along on the ground because he was too small to carry it himself because standard targets simply wouldn’t cut it. Anything he could use to practice he would.

At first it was just repeating basic swings and perfecting technique, but after a few years passed there chime began to sound in the distance when he took up his arms, and soon after that ring grew into words reverberating in his head. At first, Link had thought the voice, ancient and vaguely feminine, was that of the Goddess. He didn’t think that now though. She, if the voice was, in fact, a she, felt isolated, personal. Link had the distinct impression that the voice was interested in him and him alone, and he didn’t think the White Goddess Hylia would play favorites, least of all with him. There was no praise or scorn from the voice, only instruction flavored with an odd sort of affection that felt older and steadier than the land itself, and Link, still driven by a baseless devotion, did as he was told. 

When she told him to hone his agility by shadow sparring on a fence, he obeyed. When she told him to climb Mount Floria to strengthen his body and spirit he obeyed. And when he was told to visit the Spring of Courage to pay homage to his predecessors he obeyed, whoever they may be. Then old and forgotten combat arts were whispered in his ear, and Link began to fight unlike any man or beast in thousands of years. 

It wasn’t long after that his father returned to Hateno on leave and took note of his progress. The Captain made a blithe comment that Link could hold his own against a royal guard, and once again the urgency rose, not to take up arms, but to head towards Hyrule Castle. He’d begged and pleaded with his father, swearing up and down that he would uphold the knight’s standard both in and out of combat, the voice reassuring him all the while.

When he was sworn to Hyrule’s service and he settled into the Military Training Camp the voice quieted down. He felt a tad lonesome without her, though he didn’t miss the mind numbing sensation so close to terror that always preceded her voice. It had been relaxing to train and talk and go about his life without a sense of foreboding shadowing his every action. He was where he needed to be.

As he walked further and further south he could feel it growing again, pulling him back the way he came. Link thought back to his childhood, wondering when this feeling, so much like a sickness, first came to him. Now that he thought on it, he was quite certain the first taste of this compulsion came to him at the late Queen’s funeral. 

Yes, he remembered it clear as day. He had been outside the cathedral in Castle Town bearing lilies on his family’s behalf, since his father was guarding the ceremony and his mother had taken ill that day. Once the priestesses had concluded their rite there was a bid for all those in attendance to leave their offerings if they so wished, and when it was Link’s turn to approach the coffin he caught sight of Princess Zelda.

She was so small, smaller than he was, and though no tears fell Link saw her quivering ever so slightly. The sight of her green eyes and sun bright hair was so familiar even though he’d never seen anything like it. She looked up to meet his gaze, and within her green eyes Link found a fleeting epiphany tinged with nostalgia. In that moment Link could feel something deep within the earth beginning to rumble awake, dark and devastating. He’s certain that’s where his fixation began, and after years of contemplation he deemed the swell in his chest at the sight of her protective, though the nature of such devotion was lost on him. 

Link had come up on Hyrule Cathedral then. He stood there a moment, wondering if he should seek Hylia’s guidance before heading on his way. Who knows, perhaps the voice would return to him and give him an objective to work towards, something to drown out the devastation in his chest.

“You are not to leave that spot until dawn breaks, Zelda. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

And there she was again, all snow white and burning gold in the light of the setting sun. He could see her glowing faintly in the firelight of the torches around her, kneeling in the middle of the Cathedral’s garden to pray. Possessed, he stepped closer to the wrought iron fence that separated them, drawn to her like a moth to any warm, bright light.

 It had been years since he’d seen her shaking at the loss of her mother, but she somehow looked more hopeless and alone kneeling there in the grass. That observation tore at him, momentarily eclipsing his own desolation. In that instance Link wanted to be there by her side, if only to provide a moment’s reprieve from the storm they were trapped in.

His wish struck through him light a flash of lightning as though granted by a higher power.

Link spun around on the street and walked right back to the gate, retracing his steps, though he had no intention of returning to the Military Camp. He didn’t know where he intended to go, only that there was a white hot tether curled around his heart and soul dragging him back north, relentless and daunting. 

He walked on into the night, after the people of Hyrule settled in to sleep and doused the fires lighting his way. The darkness mattered little, because whatever drove Link’s feet, it wasn’t his sight. He walked past the Camp he’d left not hours before, keeping out of the nightwatch’s range. He didn’t know what he was doing, but he didn’t need interruptions, and the guard would just get in his way. No one entered the Lost Woods without a death wish, at least, not before tonight. The fog of the ancient forest was potent, laced with an old magic, but it parted for Link, yielding to a more powerful, primordial force. It was a familiar feeling, Link realized as he passed between two seas of swirling white. He could hear her chime as she led him into the warmth of the Korok Forest. He didn’t hesitate to walk up to the sword where it lay in stone. The massive tree before him began to shift, but Link paid it no mind as he took hold on the blade and pulled. 

The blade came free effortlessly, but Link tumbled back, overtaken by visions of death and destruction and ruin.

He’d heard whispers of a fabled apocalypse brewing beneath the land, but Link hadn’t listened too closely. They were only rumors, inconsequential when compared to the mind consuming drive to become a better warrior. Link had trained himself for years, mastering every weapon he could find, all in preparation to wield this sacred blade of evil’s bane.

But it wasn’t enough. It was nowhere near being enough to stop the horrors the voice in his blade spoke to him of. 

Link didn’t return home after that. He couldn’t, because he knew that if he faced his father and mother just once he would break down, and that wasn’t an option anymore. He needed every hour he could get, and with the Calamity looming over the horizon he couldn’t justify something so selfish. He had to protect the Princess, he had to protect all of Hyrule, and weak as he was now he didn’t stand a chance. With the blessing of the Great Deku Tree he remained in Korok Forest, learning skill after skill. He trained dawn till dusk, sleeping in the Deku Tree’s hollow and cooking meals from the mushrooms and herbs the Koroks gathered for him. 

He appreciated the little forest spirits, their antics helped cheer him when the weight of it all began to crush him.They were helpful in small but essential ways. They mended and refreshed his clothes, told him their stories and sang their songs, and when his hair grew long they found him a band to tie it with. He asked them to send messages to his family that he was still alive even though he had no idea if they were successful. They would listen to the whispers of Hyrule and tell him which monsters were causing the most trouble so Link could gain some real battle experience. Hestu helped him pack enough provisions to make a pilgrimage to Thyphlo ruins, where he stayed day and night until he had mastered fighting blind, and then he returned to the Korok Forest to fine tune his skills until his seventeenth birthday.

He could slow time, and move faster than an arrow in flight, but he still wasn’t satisfied when the Great Deku Tree spoke, his voice painfully similar to his father’s.

“You must leave now, Hero, go and face your destiny.”

Link didn’t look up from his swings, the sword humming in his hand, “I’m not ready.”

“No one ever is, child,” the tree said, sadness and affection melting into one another, “you must go nonetheless. The princess needs you to be her strength. The land of Hyrule calls for your aid. You must answer their call”

The sword whispered in agreement, so he sheathed the blade and said his goodbyes to the forest children before emerging from the fog for the first time in months. He stopped to look at the Military Training Camp, wondering if he should visit his father. He thought better of it, continuing on his way. Even if they allowed a deserter within the barracks, Link didn’t think he could hold himself together in the face of the family he had left behind.

Link’s father stood at attention behind King Rhoam’s throne. He was Captain of the King’s Guard, which meant he had to watch over the weekly constituency. The King sat on a throne while the Princess occupied a plush, though less ornate, chair placed to the right of her mother’s vacant seat. He’d received the promotion a year after his son went missing and he accepted, since he no longer had a reason to stay at the Military Training Camp.

It took him three months to realize his son had disappeared.

When his wife asked after their Link’s whereabouts upon his return to Hateno on leave the Captain had been annoyed, at first. It was easier to believe that his son was simply acting out, surely to return once he’d felt he made his point, then to face the truth. That flimsy belief didn’t hold out for very long, because deep in his heart he knew better. Link had made a mistake perhaps, but he’d never run from the consequences of his own actions. The tears of his distraught wife hammered home the heartbreaking reality. 

Whatever had befallen his son, he wouldn’t be coming home.

There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t regret how he’d sent his son off that final time. He should have told his son that he loved him, protocol be damned. 

There were countless reminders of his son that tore at him. Small things. The Captain would be on patrol and he’d see a doodle of a young man wielding a winged sword that the children of castle town must have scrawled on a wall. He opened a drawer to find a scrap of fabric from the tunic Link was wearing when he left the Training Camp, and he would return to his office to find honeyd apples and other treats his son loved the most. The universe seemed intent on haunting him, and he knew he deserved it. 

He was so proud of his boy, but his final act as a father was to push Link to tears.

A chill went down the Captain’s spine, and he snapped to attention, kicking himself for letting his mind wander when he was supposed to be protecting the most important people in the kingdom. His time as a soldier had tempered his instincts, and he could sense a quiet, oppressive strength that would make a Lynel cower spread throughout the room at the sound of light footsteps padding towards the center of the room. A quick glance around the room revealed that his subordinates felt the same, shifting from foot to foot and hand twitching towards their weapons.

“State your business, boy,” came the King’s command, loud but not enough to drown out the ferocity leaking out from the diminutive hylian standing in the center of the Sanctum, his feet planted on the royal family’s crest.

Link said not a word, only reaching over his shoulder to pull the Master Sword from its sheath. The guards moved to intercept him, but he drove the tip to the ground before they could come close. The Captain stepped forward, swallowing his fear while he drew his sword to face the intruder.

“Stop!”

 The Princess’ voice rang out with an uncharacteristic authority, bypassing the King himself to halt the guards’ assault. The adrenaline seeped from the Captain’s blood, and he took a good look at the swordsman. 

He knew those eyes, their tearstained image had been burned into his memory for years. His son was taller now, though still on the shorter side. His hair was longer, much longer and swept back in a ponytail. The scrap of fabric the Captain had taken to wearing around his wrist was a perfect match for the tunic his son wore. The Captain’s sword clattered to the ground. Link was alive.

His son was alive!

But as he looked at the man his son had become, he felt some of that joy slip away. It was still there, but it was tainted by the realization of just how much Link had changed. Children grow, the Captain was well aware of this fact, but his son wasn’t just grown, he was distant and restrained. He stood less like a man and more like a statue carved to scare off malevolent spirits and sinners.

“Go to him, Zelda,” the King’s voice barely registered as the Captain struggled to reconcile this stoic, intimidating figure with the giggling, infectiously bright child he had raised.

Link hadn’t expected to run into his father so soon, his resolve was beginning to crack at the sight of the hesitant, regretful joy on the Captain’s face. He clenched his fist around the Master Sword’s handle, suppressing the urge to throw himself in his father’s arms and never leave. But then Princess Zelda stood before him in all her gentle radiance, fate given flesh, and he held onto her. Her presence banished any doubt within him. Link could feel her slumbering power, pulsing softly with the rise and fall of her breath. She felt like sunshine, and looking at her reminded him that this is where he needed to be. She too had destiny woven into the very fabric of her soul, the only other one of his kind.

Link knelt on the stones before her, laying the magnificent blade he commanded at her feet.

“That’s it then,” the King said, and the Princess nodded.

“Yes, it’s the Sword that Seals the Darkness,” she said, voice shaking, “We’re running out of time.”

“Not necessarily,” Impa piped up, “the fortune teller stated that the wingcrest would appear on the Hero’s body when the time drew near, I see no such mark.”

The Captain made a choked, distressed sound, but no one paid him any mind. All focused on Link. His hand was indeed blank, but after a moment’s confusion the Hero lowered his head before his princess, brushing his hair to one side so she could see the back of his neck. Her fingers brushed across his skin, sending a warm shiver down his spine. Link found himself relaxing under her hand, the touch felt like sending water from a hot spring rushing down his back and soothing the restlessness writhing inside him.

“How long have you had this?” she whispered, her fingertips lingering on the crest. Link could feel them shake slightly and felt a surge of protectiveness course through him. 

“Two years, eight months and six days,” the Captain answered. 

The King turned to his Captain, nonplussed, “You know this young man?”

“He’s my son,” was his broken reply. King broke into a smile.

“Well what do you know? You must be very proud of your boy today!”

“I’ve always been proud of him, your Majesty,” the Captain replied, “Always.”

Link took a shuddering breath as he felt some of the guilt from the last three years melt away, but his face remained stoic.

“With such a son I imagine you’d have little choice in the matter,” the King laughed, deaf to the thick emotion in the other man’s voice. Link felt the Princess’ hand stiffen before she drew away, a chill replacing the gentle heat he was already starting to miss.

“Rise, Hero,” she commanded softly, and he obliged without a word, sheathing his sword and taking his place by her side, the disquiet that had clawed through him since childhood finally satisfied. The Captain followed the divine pair as they declared the constituency over and the arrival of the Hero of Hyrule was announced, hopelessly at a  loss.

The night was quiet when Link was headed to his assigned quarters below the Princess’ tower, much like the evening he was called to draw the Master Sword. He had put his hand on the door’s handle when he heard steps approach.

The Captain approached his son with caution, consumed with hatred for his own cowardly hesitation. After years of grief, his son stood before him yet again, and here he was, trying to dredge up the courage to give his boy the apology he deserved. He didn’t know how to approach Link like this. He wasn’t his son anymore, it seemed, but the Hero of Hyrule, the answer to the prayers of thousands. Here stood the Knight who Seals the Darkness, the paragon all aspired to the second they took up a sword.

Looking at his son felt like looking over the edge of a cliff, but it was his eyes that concerned him most. The blue eyes passed down from his mother lacked the good nature and mirth once found there, a trait shared with her. Instead there was an emptiness, a great void between the Captain and the Hero far too wide to cross.

No. Now that he looked closer, it wasn’t a void, it was a wall, and that broke the Captain’s heart all the more. Deep down he knew that he couldn’t reach his son like this, but he owed it to his family to try.

“I’m sorry,”

He’s not sure what he expected, he still hadn’t heard his son’s voice, and drawing Link in for a hug felt like crossing some unspoken but no less potent boundary that legendary blade had cut around the Hero. The Hero of Hyrule nodded in acknowledgment of his words, and the Captain didn’t feel like pushing further would be fair on his son, so he nodded his goodnight and walked further down the path with a heavy heart to write a letter to his wife, not sure what exactly to tell her happened to their little boy.

[zuffer-weird-girl]

I say, WHO.IS READY. FOR. THE. CHAOSSSS?!?!?!?!?

Jokes apart, enjoy this piece :D

"Why is that guy wanting to talk to us on the first place?" Midorira asked in worry as Mirio glared at his front as well as Aizawa. The three of them walking on one of the many halls of Tartarus.

The blonde had a sick feeling on his stomach at even remembering the name of the villain they fought months ago. What he had done to Eri was unforgivable, he wasn't even mad about his quirk really, all his rage about Chisaki was only because of the torture he put that little girl through and because he was the main responsible for Sir's death.

"The guards around here said it was a emergency as far as I know of." Aizawa muttered under his breath before he stopped to talk with one of the guards as the two teenagers stayed behind him.

"Togata, why do you think he called us here for?" The green haired boy whispered as Mirio put on a thoughtful face.

"I have no idea. Good things coming from that guy is certainly not." He muttered before he say the worry spread on Izuku's face before he smiled "But he cant cause harm to anyone right now! He is behind those cells, right? No worries."

They walked a bit more before the guard stopped to put his digital for them to enter. Telling them they had 10 minutes before he left. Aizawa entered first as the two students trailed behind with a sick feeling.

There it was the man. The ex young leader of the ruined Shie Hassaikai... but he was by far most diferent them they remembered...

The man was absolutely ragged. His amber eyes seemed empty and numb, as if only his body remained here on Earth, not his soul... he had a faint but visible stubble that grew on his chin and jaw as he rested metal arms over his knees while sitting on his bed of his cell.. not even looking up despite the sound of people entering there.

"What... what happened to his arms?" Midoriya whispered in horror, but before Aizawa could open his mouth Chisaki sighed... loudly.

"Don't waste your breath now Eraserhead. Let myself explain my own misery." He waved his metal hand towards Midoriya, still not looking up at the three, prefering go remain his gaze at the ground. "When you brats destroyed my plan and I was taken away, Shigaraku and the league of the villains appeared and decided to cut my arms, for story short."

At the mention of the blue haired villain, Midoriya widened his eyes and shivered... not expecting that shigaraki would make something like that, even if Overhaul deserved it or not.

"Enough of talk." Aizawa snarled, keeping in front of midoriya (like a father ^^) "You demanded our presence you bastard. Now tell us."

"Trust me. I wouldn't call you heroes if I had a choice.. Despite one of you not being quite sick anymore, isn't that right?" He looked up, but still no change of the dead expression he had on his face at the blond "Lemillion?"

"Why you-" Midoriya felt a arm stop him. Mirio looking at him with a smile telling him it wasn't worth it.

"Just spill it out." Aizawa said nonchantly before yawned "You interrupted our schedule so I at least hope it's worth it for something." He snarled as Kai only blinked.

"Right." He sighed, crossing his arms and leaning on the wall "I know you three have all the reasons to despise me, despite me only trying to cure this hero sickness."

"You hurt a young girl for that!" Mirio shouted as Kai only arched an eyebrow.

"Anyway... Despite what I look like, cruel, unforgiving, a monster, whatever you call... I already loved someone."

The pro hero raised his eyebrows in false shook as Mirio and Midoriya stayed quite in shock. Not quite believing that such a man as Chisaki was even able to do that.

"How romantic." Aizawa muttered, rage taking over him as Kai merely sighed, taking on his metal hand a hidden collar with a ring ont it.

"Before you judge me. It was way before you imagine it... Before Eri even existed." He sighed, looking at the ring with an amount of pain that left all the men in the room suspicious.

"I met her when we were still kids. She was everything that I am could never be... Kind, generous, calm... not sick. With her being quirkless, I was the main one to protect her from this sick world... even from type of people like you." He glared at the three, making Midoriya yelp even.

"One hero when we were teenagers almost killed her from a villain attack. I had to enter that crashing building and use my own quirk... when we got out, the damn hero just snarled at her, telling how stupid a quirkless brat was to even frequent a school... she cried for hours on my shoulder. That day... she gave up on her dream of being a hero, which despite how disgusting that man was, I thanked that she wasn't going to become sick."

Midoriya felt a tinge of nostalgia of only hearing about that part. A quirkless person that wanted to be a hero... just like him was. Not every person was lucky enough to be the next succesor of the All might himself...

"... due to her affiliations with me and her absence of quirk, she suffered so... so much." His tone of voice quivered a bit "And would you believe that once I was given orders to kill her?"

The pregnant silence of the room leaves even the heroes with a unknow some sort of pity for the man.

"But due to how much I loved her, the main leader of the Hassaikai at that time... helped out a bit. Getting rid of her attacker and letting her get on the house for as long as she needed... yet, due to how pure and kind she is, couldn't hurt a fly. A bad place for her was the mafia, yet... she stayed."

He sighed deeply, making a pleading yet infuriated look at the three of them. Scaring the two young boys as Aizawa remained with the same dead look as before.

"Shigaraki. He took her dammit. While you good for nothings were arresting me, (Y/n) was with the old man that the hospital took aND HIS SUBBORDINATES TOOK THE ONLY PERSON THAT MATTERED TO ME!" He punched the wall behind him with so much force with his prothestic arm that made a quite loud noise.

The room went quietly as Midoriya furrowed his eyebrows and Mirio widened hsi eyes that Chisaki was actually in true pain, noticing also the drops of water splashing on the ground.

This guy was capable of feeling?!

"You heroes ruin EVERYTHING." He whispered shouted before frowning and looking at the three "I told this, because SHE isn't involved on this mess. She has nothing to do with the quirk erasing bullets or even Eri, hell I didn't let these two meet for the first place!" He stood up and came face to face behind his cell to look better at them.

"If you truly are heroes, if you sick disgusting people tell you do the good thing. THEN SAVE HER GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!" he shouted between tears as the heroes frowned "please... I wouldn't be here begging if it wasn't for... a person so much important as her."

Would they help him even after everything he had done...?

[hysteriium]

The Irony of Fate [2]

Gif not mine! 

(A/N): Uhhh this gif kills me holy fuck LOOK AT HIM- UGH. OK, SORRY this took so long lmao, my writing has honestly been so slow lately. I’m trying to fix that but idk I guess it’s a work in process. ALSO!!!! I’m so GRATEFUL for y’all! You’ve all been so kind and supportive with the series, I honestly thought I was going to be swamped with hate! I’m really glad you’re all enjoying it, and love Arthur as much as I do. It’s really made me feel better about my shitty writing. So without further ado, I’ll let you read. Sorry for the monster essay! 

Summary: Arthur hated his life. That was no secret. He could pull out a list of the reasons why if someone had to ask. Perhaps he had pissed off fate really badly, a time he couldn’t seem to recall. Or perhaps, not that he believed in it, in a past life he had behaved so reprehensively that he was cursed for the entirety of his reincarnated existence. At this point, anything would make more sense than his continual bad luck - make more sense than his life. Was he doomed to be miserable for the rest of his time on earth? Or would the woman he spotted from his window instigate a rapid spiral of change?

Word Count: 3,400

Pairing: Arthur Fleck x Reader

Warnings: None! 

!! SPOILERS FOR ANYONE WHO HASN’T WATCHED THE MOVIE !! 

Anxiety coursed through (Y/n) like a turbulent storm, its rage coursing throughout her body, numbing her fingertips. Her mouth was abnormally dry and her attempts at swallowing - to try and lessen the prominence of the drought within, were all in vain. Counting down the seconds in her head silently, her jaw ticked. Large multicoloured drapes burned into her eyes, their bright colours harsh if looked at for too long. As she stood behind them, backstage, the familiar, upbeat music filled her ears, a tune she had known since teenagehood. In person, the arrangement of instruments beyond the curtains sounded different. It was raw. Loud. Unfiltered. The difference was something she found she prefered, it’s authenticity shining through. 

Despite the nostalgia, and the thrill of her dreams coming true, the song was hardly comforting, adding to the growing nausea in her stomach. Solidifying the presence of the knot within.  

The fact she was there was surreal. 

The crowd, in response to the anthem, went wild, clapping on cue, along with the song.

“Welcome back, ladies and gentlemen!” Murray shouted. His renowned dance moves, which had him swinging to the beat, were perfectly timed. 

Although (Y/n) was shrouded by the massive curtains in front of her, she could practically hear the smirk on his face. Sickly sweet and, dare she say, sickly fake. While she was eternally grateful to be where she was, the disingenuity unsettled her. It rubbed her the wrong way. 

Good ratings meant more money, and more money meant fewer problems. 

“Now, tonight, we’ve got an extra special guest,” he said.

(Y/n) swallowed.

She felt her fingers twitch in anticipation while the majority of the public oohed at Murray’s news.

“She’s a gorgeous woman…” a handful whistled, earning a soft chuckle from the host, “though I must say, she has an even lovelier voice.”

“It’s quite funny actually, I met her on the street the other day. I was blown away when I first heard her performing. And...I usually don’t do this, but I just had to have her on the show. You all know how much I love talent.” 

“However, there was just one thing that left me confused. I asked her, ‘why on the streets?’” Murray gave a quizzical look, “with such a gift, you’d expect her to be in the clubs!” 

“She shrugged her shoulders and told me, ‘you gotta start somewhere’.” 

“Now while I respect that, starting from humble beginnings and all, I told her, ‘honey with a face like that, you don’t gotta go around singing on the streets for money,’ if you know what I mean.” 

The spectators laughed, and (Y/n) rolled her eyes in response. Suddenly, she was glad she was hidden. She wouldn’t want her annoyed expression to give the wrong impression. She didn’t want to be labelled. The last thing she needed was to wake up and read some shitty news article painting her as a ‘diva’ and ‘ungrateful’. Gotham thrived on negativity, so once that was out there, she’d never recover from the defaming blow. Sexist jokes or not, fighting up against one of the most dominant television personalities in Gotham, as well as the media, was a deathwish careerwise. 

“Now that’s enough from me, you’re all probably sick of my face. Please welcome, (Y/n)!” 

Swiftly, the live band played their tunes, signalling her entrance. Murray directed attention to the infamous curtains, his arms stretching, his fingers wiggling towards the material. Screams of joy echoed off the studio walls.

At the sound, her hands raced to her form-fitting black dress, smoothing out the wrinkles before the curtain opened. When they did, they were slow. A cringe formed its way onto her face as the pully system squeaked along. As ready as she’ll ever be, she cemented a smile, hiding the wince, and walked through the drapes, deciding against waiting. 

Feeling a little dramatic, her form hunched over into a bow. A leg darted behind the other, with one hand in front, another resting against her back. Wolf whistles decorated the air at her arrival, though they were promptly replaced with roaring laughter as she made her way towards Murray and planted two firm kisses on both of his cheeks. Eventually, the clacking of her heels signified movement from the older man as she moved to occupy the yellow chair next to Murray’s desk.

Murray made a face after her display of affection, a look although (Y/n) couldn’t see, with his back towards her, she knew it transpired because of the public’s response. She could only imagine the face: one of shock and surprise, or perhaps confidence, as he winked towards them. Either way, both weren’t hard to envision, and the thought made short, distinct, puffs of air release from her nose in amusement.  

Shortly, he followed her lead and took a seat behind his table. 

“You’ve got some flare kid,” Murray chuckled, and (Y/n) could tell a genuine smile had replaced the false one. A twinge of pride wriggled in her chest at the realisation. 

“Are you nervous?” Murray asked suddenly, his eyes flying to the hands in her lap, fidgeting, “you seem nervous.” 

She shot the audience a look, her teeth clenched as her eyebrows flew up. 

“Yeah,” was all she said, her tone coming out high and unsure. 

Laughter. 

“You’re already doing great. This your first time on live television?”  

The reminder that this was live exacerbated her anxiety, her leg threatening to bounce. The pressure was on; if she screwed up, everyone would remember. 

“Pretty much,” a hint of fear wavered her voice, and the laugh that followed was shaky, “this is really surreal.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” he flicked his wrist at her, “it’ll be second nature the way you’re headed.”

Her hands flew up to her cheeks, a tinge of pink coating the area while she tittered, “thank you, but I’m not so sure of that.”

“So humble!” 

Murray adjusted himself in his chair, his leg crossing over his other. He leaned forward towards the singer, form angled away from the onlookers. His concentration was solely on her.  

“So (Y/n), what have you got planned for us tonight?” 

A diffident expression crossed the woman’s features as she recalled her song.

“One of my favourites. Put On a Happy Face by Tony Bennett.” 

Murray nodded.

“Interesting choice. But, a classic.” 

His formerly interlocked hands were thrown into the air, giving a signal to the band. At this, (Y/n) stood up from her seat, and headed towards the already arranged set up towards the end of the stage. Once she arrived, she gripped the cylindrical microphone with both hands, its body supported by a stand. The object was cool against her heated fingertips.

The music started, the funk infectious and the woman’s hips began to sway.

---- 

Arthur barely held the gasp within him when he gazed upon (Y/n) ’s form, her flattering black dress a spectacle to behold. Her bow, cute and pure, converted the gasp he was restraining into a lovestruck sigh. 

He was sold, struck by the arrow of the little rascal Cupid himself. 

She looked just as good on TV.

He found it endearing how honest she was, admitting to her nerves. In his eyes, she was genuine, not like the scum that riddled Gotham’s streets; not like those who laughed at him; not like Randall. 

Similar to a child who was urgent to take in his favourite cartoon, he moved himself closer to the screen, a meter away at best, as he sat cross-legged. The tickling sensation of excitement shot throughout his slender body. 

As the music started playing, the overly happy tune seized him. When the camera panned on (Y/n) ’s walking form, he took in every little detail. The sigh she let out when she reached the microphone. The wobbling of her hands, which she tried to hide by clutching the device. The movement of her throat, suggesting a swallow. The jaw that clicked. 

Arthur saw it all.

Then, she started singing. 

Gray skies are gonna clear up

Put on a happy face

Brush off the clouds and cheer up

Put on a happy face

The spectators interjected, drowning out a portion of the lyrics as they released sounds of support. 

As Arthur leant into his tv screen, he was absolutely convinced nothing could deter his eyes, his hypnosis. Not even the whining of his mum, who had been entirely obstructed from viewing the screen.

He hadn’t even realised she was there, he’d forgotten all about her.  

Take off the gloomy mask of tragedy

It’s not your style

You’ll look so good that you’ll be glad

You decide to smile

Arthur wished he was there in the room with (Y/n). In the crowd. To see her pretty (e/c) eyes glance over him and shoot him a wink. Or perhaps a smile. Anything - like the acknowledgement she gave him days prior. Just something to know that he really existed. That he wasn’t riding through life like a doormat - invisible, stepped on, beaten up and chucked around. No one really noticed the object, nor cared to, as it dejectedly rested below the door. Day after day.

Pick out a pleasant outlook

Stick out that noble chin

Wipe off that “full of doubt” look

Slap on a happy grin

Arthur began to grin when she saw her nerves were starting to leave her. Oh, how badly he wanted to applaud her. Encourage her. 

And spread sunshine all over the place

And put on a happy face

One hand released the microphone, moving to her face as she traced the outline of her upturned lips, a short, accidental giggle slipping out. It made Arthur’s heart swell! 

The band complemented her style perfectly. Their contrasting deep voices were melodic as they harmonised with her humming. 

Gray skies are gonna clear up

Put on a happy face

Brush off the clouds and cheer up

Put on a happy face

Arthur found his form lightly swaying to the tune, his grin extending from ear to ear, impossibly deeper.  

She was really into it now, and he could tell she could feel the music rushing through her, now a conduit for the art. When he saw the confidence which had manifested, growing with each passing second, his mind swarmed with joy, his mind conjuring a bundle of soothing words he noiselessly projected through the cubic barrier before them - to her. 

And if you’re feeling cross and bickerish

Don’t sit and whine

Think of banana splits and licorice

And you’ll feel fine

She disconnected the microphone from the stand, bringing it under her chin. Quickly she departed from her spot with a small spin, strutting across the rest of the stage - something that got the fans rowdy; wooing. Her body swung to the beat, shoulders moving with her.

I knew a girl so gloomy

She’d never laugh or sing

She wouldn’t listen to me

Now she’s a mean old thing

Now incredibly expressive - antithetical from when she first began - she accompanied her singing by miming the lyrics. A fist rocked below her eyes imitating tears in a burlesque manner, and a fake frown contorted her features. Though, no matter how sad she pretended to be, Arthur knew just by the twinkle in her eyes that she was bursting with happiness.   

So spread sunshine all over the place

And put on a happy, happy face

Put on a happy, happy, happy face

During the final verse, she had moved closer to the camera, dragging out the closing note with a high. 

Oh, come on bubby, smile, it’s your birthday!

She made direct eye contact with the lens and winked. 

Arthur’s chest tightened at the action, and he couldn’t help but take it personally; as if the playful act was directly meant to be for him. Him and only him. 

Applause nearly deafened Arthur as it reverberated around the room, projecting shockingly loud for such a small device. Scrambling, his hands tried to lower the volume. Unfortunately, in his rush, his clumsy hands instead knocked up against another button, changing the channel entirely in the process. 

Regrettably for Arthur, the noise emitted only worsened. Although the tv was no longer on the Murray Franklin show, it was now on a channel playing an old war movie. Explosions and the earthshaking noises of artillery filled his crappy apartment, gunfire jolting his poor, unexpecting form. Letting out his shock with a shout, and a string of curses, his hands automatically moved to cover his ears - a reaction he midway stopped; gaining some control, he felt the device vibrate beneath his fingertips when they finally discovered the volume button. When he had readjusted the strength, he returned back to the station, free from the clamour, the show now on commercial break. 

He sighed, running a hand through his unkempt hair. 

Why was he so fucking clumsy? 

Even the smallest things he couldn’t seem to get right. 

Gentle snoring shifted his awareness from his self-deprecating mental exchange, and when he looked over to the noise, he saw his mother asleep in her chair. Her head was tilted against her shoulder, her mouth open. It was a sight that made him laugh through his nose; something that managed to halt the negativity which began to swarm in his mind, like a vicious cloud of hornets. 

Arthur didn’t know how his mother could one minute be the lightest sleeper on earth, then the next, swing to the other extreme. It was a miracle she slept through his fuck up, but then again, if she were in a deep sleep, he was confident enough to bet she’d sleep through a natural disaster. 

It was honestly impressive.

Emitting a soft groan as his palms pushed himself up from his sitting position, he trailed from one end of his apartment to the other. He opened one of the squeaking cabinets near the bathroom, the small storage space containing miscellaneous items. Though, it mostly harboured their modest collection of towels and blankets. As his eyes skimmed the shelves, from top to bottom, they soon fell onto what he was searching for. On the very bottom, his hands gripped onto an old quilt. It was soft to touch, though when he moved to collect it, he felt small pricks against his flesh as his arms maneuvered to fit its length. 

Feathers. 

The floral pattern, which was a chaotic blend of reds, pinks, whites and cremes was gaudy and straining to look at. Arthur guessed it was a victorian design, and it was quite apparent that it was a style he wasn’t fond of. He didn’t think he ever understood the things his mother liked. It was definitely a selective taste.  

Shaking away his absentmindedness, and the staredown he was giving the blanket in his hand, he moved back to the living room, rounding behind his mother’s chair as he gently placed the cover against her. She was still snoring, some of them morphing into snorts. He honestly did try to contain his giggling, but most of it slipped out. To try and lessen the ache in her neck she was bound to wake up with tomorrow, he lastly righted her position. 

The upbeat music coming from the tv began again, letting Arthur know his favourite show had returned. Hurried, his lips pressed up against his sleeping mother’s forehead before returning back to his spot in front of the tube.  

“Welcome back, everyone! If you’re just tuning in, we have the lovely (Y/n) with us.”

For what was probably the 100th time, the crowd responded to Murray, who was sitting back at his desk, gaze set towards the camera. 

“And I’ve got good news for you, kid!”

(Y/n) looked up at the host from her chair, eyebrows furrowing. 

“What do you-” 

Murray interrupted. 

“I’ve set you up with a few clubs. We can’t let talent like yours go on without reward, it would be a disservice. On behalf of Gotham city, I think we can all agree we need some joy in these troubling times, and your presence just seems to radiate it.”

(Y/n) was evidently stunned. Suddenly, to her, some of his awful jokes had been worth it. 

“This isn’t a prank, right?” she turned to the audience, eyes expanded wholly making the audience explode into chuckles. Arthur found himself joining in. 

“I assure you lovely, we wouldn’t do that to ya.” 

“Your first gigs gonna be at Pogo’s comedy club. And yes, although it is a comedy club, they’ve made an exception. It’s best to start small and work your way up into the bigger names.”

Arthur’s chest constricted. 

He went there all the time! 

He could see her perform!

Talk to her! 

Finally have the chance to introduce himse-

“So what do you say, darling?” Murray piped up, his eyes giving her an encouraging glance.

Arthur leaned forward, nose about to touch the screen in anticipation.

Her hands found her cheeks as she tried to conceal the spreading heat. Even in darkness, she was convinced the crimson flush would be bright enough to light up the room. While Murray had said a few off comments here and there, things she didn’t agree with, he truly had been welcoming to her. She thought maybe, just maybe, she had been too harsh on him.   

“I-I don’t know what to say?!” 

Please say yes - please say yes - please say yes. 

“You could say, yes?” Murray shot her a playful look.  

The woman finally nodded, adrenaline and joy manipulating her quaking frame, “yes! Yes! Thank you so much!” 

Arthur’s fists shook in the air, a sigh he wasn’t aware he was holding, released.

(Y/n) got up from her seat, shooting up like a rocket as she made her way behind Murray’s desk. He followed her actions and removed himself from his chair, and accepted the hug she pulled him into with a ‘whoa’.

“Well, there you have it, folks! Pogo’s, Friday night, at seven. Be there or be square!” 

With a little whisper to (Y/n), she was sent off, back to the area with the microphone. 

“Goodnight, tune in next time, and always remember-”

Instantly, the legendary keyboard tune started playing, and (Y/n) prepared herself to sing once more. 

“-that’s life!” Arthur mimicked.

For one final performance, the camera panned away from Murray, setting on (Y/n) as the credits rolled. Arthur relished in the sound, the lyrics hitting his very soul. 

That’s life (that’s life), that’s what people say

You’re riding high in April, shot down in May

But, I know I’m gonna change that tune

When I’m back on top, back on top in June

I said, that’s life, (that’s life), and as funny as it may seem

Some people get their kicks,

Stompin’ on a dream

But I don’t let it, let it get me down

Cause, this fine old world it keeps spinning around

He sunk into the numbing feeling of the lyrics, forcing himself to close his eyes. He didn’t even realise the song was nearing its end until she reached the final verse.  

My, My!

With the expression of dazed euphoria, Arthur opened his eyes, watching her part from the microphone, the credits now over. 

“Thank you,” was the only thing she said, her beaming expression the last thing Arthur saw. 

The show ended. 

Arthur, who was abandoned by the gentle, radiant hue of the cube before him, was consumed by the darkness. It dwelled within the room as the device had been switched off by his lingering hand. 

He didn’t know how long he sat in silence for. His mother had finally stopped snoring.

He didn’t want to watch television; didn’t feel like it. He wanted to soak in the episode he’d just witnessed - flick through the memorable moments for the rest of the night. 

He wanted to think about what he’d say to (Y/n) when he finally met her officially - he wanted it to be perfect. While the little wave she gave him days ago would have been such an insignificant action to most, it wasn’t to Arthur. It was real.

And the fact that he knew it was, reeled him in like an unsuspecting fish speeding to bait. 

Well and truly, Arthur was bewitched.

The sombre air surrounding him - a mood that always seemed to cling to him - and the dim blue hue which encompassed his apartment, strangely didn’t feel so bad for once. Hell, he didn’t feel so bad for once.

With the image of her smile repeating in his head, he didn’t feel so...

Alone. 

[unavenged-robin]

"Would you believe I fell down the stairs?" With Dick and either Jason or Damian, please, if that manages to spark something ;)

Months (YEARS???) later it has sparked this. Sorry for the angst that it’s about to happen. Here on AO3.

The music coming from the pub is so loud that it’s almost deafening, and the bright colored lights flashing in time with the beats make it even more difficult to have a clear view of who is inside. So it’s only by sheer luck that Dick spots the kid among the faceless crowd, leaning in a corner, a beer in hands, the hood pulled over his eyes leaving only the profile of his face uncovered, but it’s still enough for Dick to recognize him. He freezes.

The bust is just about to begin: the other policemen are ready to break-in, weapons in hand, their commander has the walkie-talkie raised to his mouth to give the order, and for the briefest moment Dick’s ashamed to admit that he actually considers doing nothing about it.

After all, he owes this kid nothing, and sure as hell he owes nothing to Bruce.

Worst of all, he allows himself to bask in the idea of calling Wayne Manor to ask for Mr. Wayne himself to come and pick up his new pupil at the Blüdhaven police station. Even indulges into the selfish fantasy of being the one to welcome Bruce in, make him sit at his desk to list him all the wrongdoings of his unruly kid. It would feel like a retribution, and a nice one too. But it would also be petty, and unfair, and definitely something Alfred would frown upon.

So he runs inside along with his colleagues, badge in one hand and the unloaded gun in the other, and cuts through the now screaming crowd in the most harmless way possible to get right to the kid. It’s not easy, and he manages to catch him by the scruff of his neck just one moment before Jason can climb the pub’s wall and get to the open window above their heads.

Dick brings him back to the ground with little kindness, shaking him enough to make him lose his balance and throw off the punch that, predictably, Jason tries to land on him.

“Don’t even”, he chides with a snarl, and after a quick glance around he tosses the kid into an empty room, away from the ruined disco party behind them. They don’t have that much time, and Dick doesn’t want to have to explain to another officer why he’s hiding what they would see as nothing more than a possible suspect.

“Get off me!”, Jason shouts out, falling on his butt with no grace whatsoever. The beer bottle crashes to the ground, pieces of glass flying all over.

“Shut up!”, Dick snarls, closing the door behind them with a loud thud. “You better have a very good reason to be here, or I swear to god I’ll call B and-”

He cuts himself off when Jason rolls on his side, bounces back up on his feet and into a fighting stance, making his hood slide backwards and exposing his face. The neon lights shine on his swollen skin, and Dick takes in the yellow bruises, the split lip and the black eye all in one single look.

“What the hell happened to you?”, he asks, taken aback.

Jason looks at him with eyes made of glass, but after a moment the fog seems to clear out, and the kid tilts his head to the side and relaxes his shoulders.

“Oh, it’s you”, he says, and Dick can’t tell if there’s relief or disappointment in his voice.

On the other side of the wall the yelling gets louder, more violent as the thugs hidden in the crowd begin to react. The first gunshot echoes high above the music and Dick’s muscles stretch under the adrenaline rush. He should be out there doing his job, not here in this room taking care of one of Bruce’s pet projects.

He swallows a lump of anger and takes a step towards Jason, raising an uncertain hand. He doesn’t even know what to do with it, if he wants to put it on the kid’s shoulder in some kind of reassurance, or just grab him to prevent another escape attempt.

But Jason pulls himself back before he has time to make a decision, slipping away from his reach.

“Hands off, man!”, he hisses, making a show of dusting off his jacket. He looks as angry as Dick feels, and that’s not going to help anything, he expects.

“What happened to your face?”, Dick asks again. “Did you get hurt on patrol?”

Jason rolls his eyes at him with nothing less than contempt.

“I don’t get hurt on patrol”, he sneers, lifting up his chin.

What an insufferable brat, Dick thinks.

“For that to be true you’d have to be a nice, good little soldier who always does what the boss says”, he answers in a scoff. “And somehow I doubt that’s the case, since you were out there drinking beer and not paying attention to your surrounding.”

He’d like to say he doesn’t enjoy watching the kid’s face turn into a beet red under the scolding Dick just delivered. He does feel guilty about it, though, because the flushed cheeks only make the bruises more evident.

“Answer me”, he says, more gently this time, before Jason gets a chance to turn his embarrassment into anger. “Who did that to you?”

It’s the wrong question. Jason’s shoulders slump down and the kid looks away for a moment before catching himself. He snaps on attention almost immediately after realizing what he was doing, straightening his back again. Dick watches the kid shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket and gather the most casual grin he can pull given the circumstances, and he almost can hear in his head the sound of Bruce’s voice lecturing about deception and never giving your real feelings away in a fight.

“Would you believe I fell down the stairs?”, Jason asks, and his smile is wide and bright and it pulls at Dick’s heartstrings.

“No, I wouldn’t”, he answers, but before he can add anything to that there’s a furious knock at the door and Dick turns around, considering what to do. He doesn’t want to deal with this, but there’s no way he can not deal with this. He sighs.

“Take the window and wait for me in the next alley. I’ll be out in half an hour top”, he says, turning back to Jason, who’s looking at him with an almost funny mix of anxiety and fake arrogance.

“I don’t-”, the kid starts protesting, but Dick raises one finger to stop him right away.

“If you’re not there when I get out, I’m going to call Bruce”, he warns him. “And don’t waste your breath trying to convince me he knows about you being in the middle of a drug ring, kiddo.”

Jason looks positively ruffled at those words.

“Don’t call me a kid”, he grumbles.

“Don’t make my night even more difficult than it currently is”, Dick retorts. “Now shoo. I need to take care of the bad guys you were cahooting with.”

“I wasn’t cahooting with anyone!”, Jason yells, looking beyond offended. Again, Dick feels the urge to grin at him, maybe even pat his head, like you do with children and cute dogs. It’s weird to have such conflicted feelings, like annoyance and something that could be almost affection, for the same person.

“Out of here, kiddo. Before I change my mind and haul your ass to jail.”

He wouldn’t do that under any circumstance, but by the panicked look on Jason’s face, the kid doesn’t know it.

Good, Dick thinks with a tinge of enjoyment.

He waits for Jason to start climbing again, then opens the door on the mess that’s still raging on the dance floor.

“Clear!”, he shouts to no-one, before throwing himself back into the crowd.

*

Despite his threats, Dick doesn’t really expect to find Jason still waiting for him when he finally manages to get away from the scene.

He’s almost startled when he finds the kid perched on an upturned garbage can, hands still hidden in his pockets, hood once again lowered over his eyes to hide his face. He looks unnervingly small like this, and Dick forces himself to remember that Jason’s only fourteen. He’s young. Not as young as Dick used to be when he first donned the yellow cape, but still too young to be out and about on his own.

Anger and annoyance shrink without permission into feelings closer to nostalgia and remorse. Dick feels the need to shake his head to clear his thought once again.

“So”, he says tentatively, mimicking the kid’s posture by shoving his fists into his jeans’ pockets.

“Did you call Bruce?”, Jason blurts out, looking at him with wide eyes full of concern and resignation, like a man who fears to be handed over to his executioner any moment now.

Dick didn’t expect the threat to be so effective, to be honest. When he was Jason’s age things like this were almost an everyday occurrence.

“Of course not”, he reassures him. “But I should. I know you feel ready to do things on your own, but you aren’t yet. And coming to Blüdhaven to do the solo Robin thing instead of staying in Gotham may sound smarter to you but I don’t-”

“I’m not doing any solo Robin thing”, Jason interrupts him, scowling and kicking his feet.

Dick blinks and pauses in his lecture.

“…What?”, he asks. “Then what the heck were you doing in there?”

He tries to meet the kid’s eyes, looking for an answer he knows it’s not going to be given out loud. He just doesn’t understand. Jason has no business being here, in one of the pubs only known to Blüdhaven’s lowlife, if he isn’t on a stakeout as Robin.

Again his gaze lingers on the kid’s bruises and the way he’s now biting his lips, waiting for another chastisement. Dick should really call Alfred. Let him deal with this, whatever this is. He’s in no mood to tangle with whatever Gotham mess the kid’s bringing to his door.

He pinches his nose with two fingers, then crosses his arms over his chest.

“Alright, then just tell me this one thing”, he proposes, and Jason looks up, a vague halo of hope in his posture. “Does this have anything to do with Bruce?”

Jason hesitates, then shakes his head no.

Of course not, Dick mentally sighs.

“C’mon, my apartment’s not far”, he offers eventually. He starts walking and doesn’t turn back to check if the kid’s following him or not.

*

“Stay still”, Dick says, tinkering with a pair of tweezers.

“You’re hurting me!”, Jason bellows, trying to wiggle his hand out of Dick’s grasp. Dick’s not having any of that and blocks him by his wrist none too tendery.

“You’re hurting yourself”, he points out, swabbing the cut with a gentler touch. “I need to get all the glass out.”

Jason huffs and by the corner of his eye Dick can see him glancing around his bathroom, trying to distract himself. Funny he should be so squeamish.

“I’m almost done”, he offers with half a smile.

He works in silence for a few minutes, removing shards and the last blood clots, then bandaging the kid’s hand, paying particular attention to his bruised knuckles. He hasn’t asked any more questions about the injuries or the reason why the kid was in a place where he absolutely should not have been, but he can tell a trouble when it’s sitting on the edge of his own bathtub.

“There”, he says, awkwardingly releasing the kid’s hand.

He wonders what he should do about the whole situation now. Calling Alfred still sounds like the most sensible thing to do, but that would mean having a conversation about this, getting involved. And getting involved in Gotham’s drama is exactly what Dick’s trying to avoid. This is something for Bruce to worry about, he tells to himself.

“I have a couch.”

Jason stops fiddling with the loose threads of Dick’s bandage and gives him a questioning look.

“A couch?”, he asks.

“Yes. For you to sleep into”, Dick clarifies. “Tomorrow I have an early shift, I can give you a ride to the bus station first thing in the morning, and you can go back home.”

“Oh. Okay”, Jason says, sounding oddly polite when he adds: “Thank you.”

It feels like he wants to say something else, and Dick waits, uncertain about what he could do or say to make him feel more welcomed. It should be simple, he knows. It’s obvious by the way Jason’s been acting all night - the initial anger at being caught quickly turned into grumpy acceptance, the fact that he waited for Dick and followed him to his apartment, that he let him bandage him up without too much fuss - all of this speaks of a need for acceptance, for someone to talk to, someone that can understand him and his peculiar life. He looks like he needs a friend. A brother.

And it would be so simple indeed. The words are already burning on the tip of Dick’s tongue: you can talk to me. We’re family, you and I. That would be enough, Dick’s sure of it.

And yet those words die prematurely on his lips. He can’t talk about family. Not with Bruce’s new son. It’s too difficult, too complicated to explain it to someone so green.

There will be time, Dick thinks. Eventually, he’ll understand.

He smiles, then pats the kid over his head, hastily withdrawing his hand when Jason tries to slap it. Dick laughs.

“Good night, kiddo. See you in the morning”, he says before walking out of the bathroom without looking back.

[thederailedtrain]

The Mark of Oblivion: City Hall Station [Three]

“Start at the beginning,” Cedric said. This was as much as he’d gotten from Toni when she burst into the shop not five minutes ago. “What happened?”

“Literally, exactly what I said,” Toni replied. “I was coming home from work when I caught Gus’s name over the typical Harbinger chatter.” Toni tapped her head twice. “Did a little digging, and it looks like Bryce was approached by Gus’s girlfriend, Phoebe-”

“Sophie,” Kira corrected.

“Sophie, whatever,” Toni waved her off. “Anyway, she apparently noticed something was up between the two of them and guessed Bryce was involved somehow. Since Gus hasn’t spilled the beans about this whole Otherworld business, she figured Bryce would. So he took her to the old 6 train station beneath City Hall, lured Gus there, and tricked him into revealing magic to her first.”

Cedric could see Kira’s breathing hitch. “You mean they’re fighting right now?” Her voice had risen several notes along with her nerves.

“Well, I would’ve gotten here sooner, but someone sealed off the basement from teleportation magics,” Toni sent a withering glare in Cedric’s direction. He was ready to argue back, but Toni just charged right ahead. “The second I figured out what was up, I made it down as fast as the 4 train would take me. Y’all owe me a subway fare, by the way.”

Ignoring Toni’s last comment entirely, Salazar spoke up. “If I’m remembering correctly, Gus’s girlfriend is mortal.” He received three nods of confirmation. “Then this is a lot bigger than just some battle against a Harbinger. The exposure risk-”

Cedric didn’t wait for him to finish. “I agree. We need to send someone immediately.”

“I’ll do it,” Kira’s response was so quick, she ran over the tail end of Cedric’s words. She jumped from the couch, already going for her jacket.

However, Cedric’s hand on her shoulder stopped her. “Perhaps you’re not ready for this yet,” he said, his voice low.

“What?!” Kira cried. “This is my best friend. I have to go-”

“As much as I hate to agree with him, Mr. Warden’s right,” Toni cut in, giving her what was probably supposed to be a consoling shrug. “You’re probably worse off than he is right now,” she added, throwing a nod in Salazar’s direction. Salazar gave an impressive eye roll for a man with only one eye. “Alright, Cedric, looks like it’s you and me.”

Realizing that he really was the only option they had at the moment, Cedric sighed. He let his hand linger on Kira’s shoulder for a moment, unspoken promise in his eyes. We’ll get him back safe, don’t worry. Just before he let the hand drop, Kira covered it with her own. Cedric was grateful she had to turn away to speak to Toni, because he was having trouble thinking past their points of contact.

“So why come up here in the first place?” The witch asked. “Why not grab Cedric and go? To put me in a situation where I’m utterly useless?” Even Kira seemed surprised by how loud she’d gotten by the end of her rant.

To her credit, Toni didn’t flinch. “Because you were right earlier,” she explained. “Gus is your best friend and you deserve to know what was going on.” She paused, shrugging. “I mean, I could’ve just texted you, but it’s not like I have your number.”

Every time Cedrd thought he had Toni figured out...Kira opened her mouth, but seemed to have trouble getting the ‘thank you’ out. Cedric could feel her stare on him as he shrugged on his coat. “Kick Bryce’s ass for me,” Kira said eventually. “And stay safe, alright?”

“We will,” Cedric assured her. Then he turned and headed out the door because if he didn’t look away now, he knew he would never be able to. It wasn’t until they were out on the street that he found the words again. “There’s an alley behind the shop that will provide enough cover for a transference spell.”

Toni nodded, a couple steps behind Cedric. He figured, given the situation, Toni would want to stay on point. Honestly, Cedric should’ve known better. “So judging by how that went down in there, I’m gonna go ahead and guess you still haven’t told Kira? Like, anything, I mean.” Her voice cut through the nighttime traffic like a well-honed knife. Cedric was glad he was turned away so she couldn’t see him wince.

“How about we discuss this some other time?” Cedric asked, once he’d managed to school his expression back to normal.

Years in court when he was a young man had been good practice for exactly this type of situation. But that training never taught him how to stop thinking about something, or remove the ache it caused from his chest. Cedric actually found himself looking forward to the battle, if only because it would give him a momentary respite.

Toni muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “It’s not me you need to discuss this with.” He ignored it and held out an expectant hand, which Toni took with a shake of her head. “Alright, Mr. Warden, hold onto your scarf.”

Which was all the warning Cedric got to close his eyes before the world dropped out from under him. Over a thousand years living in the Otherworld and Cedric still had yet to get used to transference via chaos magic. Few other things provoked this kind of instinctual fear in him. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Toni’s hand.

At least it was over quickly. The world wasn’t spinning the same way it did for most other transference spells. That Cedric knew how to handle. This was like coming back to consciousness after suddenly falling asleep. Cedric needed a moment to get his bearings back.

The moment he opened his eyes, nostalgia hit him like a tidal wave. Aside from rust and water damage, the old City Hall Station looked exactly like it did the last time he’d stood on this platform over seventy years ago. Cedric only noticed Gus seconds later when the werewolf nearly bowled him over.

Gus didn’t stand fully to his feet, remaining in a crouch. He shook himself off, growling under his breath while his jacket continued to smoke. The intimidating image was completely undercut by the tone of his voice. “Oh, hey, guys! I was kinda hoping you’d show up soon.”

“Thought I said this party was supposed to be invitation only,” someone else said, prompting Gus to switch from friendly to snarling once more.

Cedric followed his line of sight across the platform to where another man was standing. He was a Harbinger, that much was obvious from his appearance and the chaos-tinged smoke of black magic curling around his body. And while Cedric was only vaguely familiar with him, there was an intrinsic loathing tied to his face. It was Gus’s, Cedric knew, still lingering in his mind from when they’d been linked during their last battle against the Harbingers. That same hatred was pouring off of him right now.

“Oh, honey,” Toni simpered. A wide grin broke out across her features as she let her eyes turn black. “I know I’m not your boss anymore, but a little respect would be nice.”

When Bryce’s eyes widened, Cedric didn’t need his empathy to guess why. “Who...who are you?” The air of superiority in his tone did little to hide his stumble.

“Hmm, guess we must’ve just missed each other,” Toni sighed. She turned her head, staring wistfully into the distance. “Too bad. That would’ve been a much more effective threat if you’d been around for my reign of terror.”

While Toni’s gaze was diverted elsewhere, Bryce attempted to strike. It was a desperate maneuver - he must’ve noticed the difference in power between himself and Toni - and even Cedric could sense the spell before it left his hand. He watched in horror as the cloud of black smoke sailed right for Toni, only for her to deflect it casually back at him.

“Everyone’s always trying to use my own tricks against me,” She pouted, dropping the expression to return fire.

Taking that as a sign the battle was back on, Gus rushed back in. Cedric nearly followed suit, until a thread of emotions wandered into his consciousness. It had been there the whole time, overshadowed by everyone else’s because it wasn’t wrapped in a magical presence.

Once Cedric put it all together, he whirred around. The woman standing behind him was petite, with vibrantly red curls and blue eyes that were wide as she took in the scene before her. Cedric already knew that this had to be Sophie, Gus’s girlfriend. With one last glance at the battle raging on the other end of the platform, Cedric turned and ran towards her. Toni and Gus were more than a match for Bryce. Right now, Sophie needed him most.

“Are you alright?” Cedric asked, kneeling down once he got to her feet. Even like this, he was practically eye to eye with Sophie. She jumped slightly at the sound of his voice, pulling back when her eyes landed on him. “Don’t worry, I’m Gus’s friend. I won’t hurt you.”

“I-I’m alright,” Sophie stammered automatically. She was more preoccupied with accessing Cedric’s threat level than telling the truth. The incubus sensed the moment she decided he was trustworthy and watched her begin to backtrack. “No, what am I saying? This sucks and I have no idea what the hell is going on right now.”

Cedric nodded slowly in understanding. “Can you tell me what you remember about how you got here?”

“Umm, I don’t remember much, actually,” Sophie replied. She sounded surprised by her own answer. “I got a message from Gus about him coming back to Henderson, so I decided to go in. But then I bumped into Bryce. I might’ve taken my frustration out on him and he said something about having Gus tell me himself...And then I wound up here. It was really dark for a while, but then Gus was here and they started fighting.” She stopped short, seeming to realize she had been rambling. Cedric was impressed she caught onto his influence so quickly. “Gus…” Sophie trailed off, gaze now on the battle. Cedric was prepared to give her reassurance that he was going to be fine, but Sophie’s next words surprised him. “What is he?”

Of course, Cedric sighed. Sophie was a mortal, she wasn’t used to Otherworld matters the same way his regular clients were. “Much as I hate to admit it, I think Bryce was right about one thing. This is a private discussion for the two of you,” he said.

It was a massive breach of protocol, but at this point, Cedric felt he owed it to Gus. He’d done the same thing when Kira had accidentally exposed Gus to the Otherworld. Of course, Cedric also knew there was a chance Gus would become an Otherworlder himself, so the situations weren’t exactly the same. With Sophie, he couldn’t feel a single glimmer of magic.

What he could feel from her was a confusing mass of emotions. Given the circumstances, that was to be expected. Sophie was putting on a strong face, but that didn’t stop Cedric from sensing the anger and frustration welling up within her. The betrayal. To her credit, Cedric knew she hadn’t shed a single tear.

She’s like Gus that way, Cedric couldn’t help but think. He could almost visualize the close bond between the two of them, stretching out from her to him like a thread. It had become frayed in the past few months, but her concern over him right now was keeping it from snapping.

“You know,” Cedric added after a moment of listening to Sophie’s emotions. “This is something you were never meant to see. If, after this is all over, you want to go back to not knowing...I can help you forget.”

There was a strange look in Sophie’s eyes when she finally turned back to him. The conflict of emotions reigning over her thoughts swirled more furiously. Before she could settle on an answer, a voice cut through the usual sounds of battle.

“Why?!”

Cedric recognized Gus’s accent immediately. Both he and Sophie turned to see the battle still raging behind them.

It was an interesting fight to behold, but it was clearly one-sided. Bryce was perpetually losing ground, trying to get out of range of Gus’s fists while simultaneously dodging the spells Toni threw his way. Cedric could feel his regret at his choice of opponents, even from here.

In response to Gus’s question, Bryce let out a laugh. The sound was quickly cut off by a burst of chaos magic that slammed into his back. While he was still stunned, Gus seized the opportunity. He grabbed a handful of Bryce’s turtleneck, using it to slam him against the nearest support beam. The impact rang throughout the platform.

“Why?” Gus repeated. Even though he was closer to Bryce now, and didn’t have to compete for volume, his voice was just as loud. “Why would you- Sophie did nothing to you! Why would you hurt her?!”

Again, Bryce let out a laugh. There was some fear and frustration in the sound, but it was masked by an overwhelming sense of victory. He certainly chuckled like he’d won. When Gus did nothing, only continue to glare him down, he appeared to roll his eyes - it was difficult to tell if that was the intention when he lacked scleras.

“First of all, I didn’t hurt her. She came to me for help, and that’s exactly what I provided,” Byce answered. “But this really isn’t about her. No offense to you, Sophie. Hope there aren’t any hard feelings after this,” he spoke the last bit to Sophie directly, nodding to her from across the platform.

“Go to hell,” Sophie spat back.

“Actually, I’m trying to bring hell to us, but that’s a little besides the point right now,” Bryce grinned. Turning back to Gus, he added, “But I’m man enough to admit it; you won our fight on Saturday. I had to find some other way to settle the score.”

“You sound pretty confident for someone currently pinned to a wall,” Gus fired back.

The smile that spread across Bryce’s face was directed across the platform. “Yeah, I probably do,” he sighed and the sound was almost wistful. “But the Warden over there looks about ready to bust me for magical exposure, so I think it’s time I ghosted.”

Suddenly, shadows enveloped Bryce’s form, which quickly dissolved in smoke. Toni, who was in the middle of a binding spell, cut herself off with a loud swear.

“No!” Gus cried, claws slashing through the air in a vain attempt to grab anything. They passed harmlessly through the smoke that was left behind, gouging lines out of the paint covering the support beam. The frustrated shout he let out sounded close to a howl.

In the following silence, Toni surprised Cedric by beating him to a comforting statement. “Hey, chill out, alright?” Well, perhaps not comforting, but there was an undercurrent of concern in her voice. She placed a hesitant hand on Gus’s arm, which Cedric could see shaking even from so far away. When she did, the shaking stopped. “There’s someone over there who needs you right now and that’s more important.”

At that, Gus’s head snapped up. His glowing gaze flew right to where Sophie and Cedric were huddled by the stairwell. By the time he’d jogged over, his eyes were back to their natural shade of hazel.

“Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Gus asked. The words tumbled from his mouth so fast, all Sophie could do was nod or shake her head to keep up.

Sophie took a second before pulling Gus in for a hug, which Gus returned with gusto. He picked Sophie up, spinning her away from the stairs. “Gus…” she trailed off, staring up at him. “What just happened?”

[eustochium]

Two fucking years. Drag me by my joints through the familiar haze of autumn, this one tinged with less nostalgia. I didn’t want to lose these shades, but I wasn’t given much of an option. A child fashioned from a woman’s bones and sputtering what sounds like this new, right language. A damp mattress. A shorn lock of unwashed hair, the smell of scalp. A promenade of pavement trodden over daily, twice at dawn and twice at dusk. A bug bite, picked, bleeding, left to fester. There’s excitement in a scab, potential in a scar, and nothing in a smooth, healed skin. Echoes off abandoned concrete, since no one else was here. A narrative, a tragedy, a flax-golden tale spun around a thread of weekend filler. One side easily forgets. The other watches meaning pried from memory by chronological pliers. All that remains; a ghost of late day morning sun, of suspended afternoon. Here’s the greatest cliche: one young lover dreads the sunrise, the other denies it’s even coming. If it’s the greatest cliche, it must be written over and over again—once for you, once for me, once for all the others.

So let’s set the scene. Here’s where the Skyway wind screams in my ears; here’s where flayed men spin fire with their teeth. It’s all an elaborate joke, you see—here’s the part where the audience laughs.

“What’s that noise?”

“I’m rattling the chains.”

“So, I say, “tell a different story.”

Here’s Persephone, still rose-tinged with maidenhood. Here’s where she will venture from her sleeping mother to where the Plutonian lover awaits with the expected array of pomegranates. Here she will hike up her skirts, leave ichor staining Stygian bedsheets. Her mother will wake, rage in the living world, render all the trees skeletal.

You asked me for the sound of kitsch and I said it was the interstate; a stretch of silence, a stretch of static or FM ecstasy, a stretch of late-night yawnings that never sleep. Where are the bodies? Well, you see, it’s not that simple—some are here, some are there, most are mangled. It’s all slick green rocks curled against a tinfoil gulf, a makeshift morgue for the casualties of concrete seven stories up. Roadside flourescence flickers, a B-Movie, a Marlboro Box office, a Marlboro man. A mid-century hero, a great swaggering half-God, haunting peripheral visions and stapling paper wings to my heels. I wish I could still taste the blood.

[kylo-ren-has-an-8pack]

Owning You Kills Me (M - Darkpilot/Kylux Oneshot)

When Poe becomes a prisoner of the First Order once again, Kylo Ren attempts to manipulate his mind so that the Resistance pilot turns to their cause. It goes horribly wrong. Thx to @mob-lake for being an awesome headcanon buddy. We came up with this idea and I was dying to write it.

Word Count: 3k

Warning: Some dubcon via accidental misuse of the Force on a character.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Poe being a prisoner of the First Order for a second time in so short a period had to be a sign. It had to mean something, and whatever that was, it wasn’t an opportunity that Kylo Ren had wanted to pass up.

Throwing his arm out wildly, he swung it in a broad, wide stroke, letting his gloved hand strike whatever was in his way, a vase and books falling off of the shelf to his right. The piece of no-doubt expensive pottery shattered into a thousand, colorful, jagged shards on the smooth flooring of his second in command’s office, a metaphor of multiple meanings that didn’t fall short in his or General Hux’s minds.

The General watched the Supreme Leader’s tantrum with what seemed to be only a vague expression of concern on his otherwise unamused face. His irritation, as usual, must have outweighed any real semblance of fear of Ren’s temper. Ren didn’t care for that.

“We discussed this,” Hux rebuked him through gritted teeth.

Anger that had never been quelled flared anew, stronger. There it was. That tone. That know-it-all, disapproving sneer that was like metal scraping and tearing at metal. He didn’t need that of all things now. Ren struck out again. This time his fist connected with the bookshelf itself, sending tendrils of pain shooting through his fist in a pleasant burst that only fed his rage.

“You said that you had this under control and you broke him,” the other man went on, no less derisive than before. “And not in the way that we discussed.”

“I didn’t break him!” Ren’s shout was so loud he could feel it in his vocal cords, but it did cause the General to start, taking a small step backwards to allow him to knock another vase off of the shelf closest to his head and watch it smash by his feet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He’d wanted to turn him, not–

“Well, the pilot is in no shape to fly anything now, is he, Ren?” Hux folded his arms over his chest. “You can barely leave him in my quarters for an hour without him mentioning your name a dozen times, asking when you’ll return, when he can see you.” Ren flinched, but Hux appeared to only take the physical reaction as a reason to continue. He wished he wouldn’t do that. “If you never wanted him for the First Order at all, all you had to do was say so.”

“And what are you implying, General?”

Hux arched his eyebrows as if his meaning were apparent. “What I am implying is that all you had to do was say that you wanted a bloody whore rather than a pilot in the first place.”

That did it.

“Get out!”

“This is my damned office!” He stood firm, watching as Ren kicked angrily at a book, making it skid across the room. “Perhaps if you didn’t consistently overestimate your own abilities, you wouldn’t go poking around in prisoners’ brains until you-”

“Out!”

——————————————————————————————————

Frustration still pumped through his veins as Ren stomped back to his own quarters where Poe sat dutifully on the edge of the bed, idly reading a book and anxiously thrumming his fingers against his thighs. He nearly groaned when the pilot jumped to his feet, his eyes lit up with something akin to joy that sent an uncomfortable sick feeling to the pit of his stomach. He hated the way guilt knotted in his gut, then travelled and spread up to his chest until he was choking on it. He was tired of choking on the vile emotion. He wasn’t doing anything wrong! This was what Snoke had taught him. This was necessity, all of it for the good of the First Order. He hadn’t known—he hadn’t meant—

“Ben!”

His face was pressed to Ren’s broad chest in a mere moment and it almost felt like old times every damned time he did it. Days when he himself was shorter, scrawnier, innocent, and answered to that name that had been long forbidden within these walls. He hadn’t stopped the man from saying it, not after—but he still wasn’t entirely used to the feelings that hearing it brought up either.

“Hey,” his voice sounded foreign to him now, softer.

“What happened to you, Baby?” Poe’s arms were looped around his waist and his lips were kissing his clothed chest like he’d just returned from war. “You were gone when I woke up and the door was locked from the outside. Had me worried.”  

Poe’s casual chuckle hurt. How could he think this was like then? How could he think this was normal?

(Ren knew exactly how, but that wasn’t the point.)

“Mhm,” was all he replied at first, absently allowing himself to brush his lips to the crown of the pilot’s head, breathing in the floral scent of his hair. Hux’s shampoo. He still didn’t understand why the General insisted on bringing his own assorted hygiene supplies to his quarters when he shared his bed and refresher. “I thought it was safer for you.”

Poe bit his lip flirtatiously as he looked up, meeting his eyes. “No worries there, Baby, not when I have you to protect me, huh?” His hand went to Ren’s collar and then he was tugging him down.

His kisses were almost the worst part of this whole situation. The familiarity, the softness, the intimacy that deep down somewhere Ren craved and pushed away at once. Kissing Hux tasted like need, but kissing Poe tasted of nostalgia. He’d given into it before, when this first began, before he understood it. He hadn’t particularly stopped giving in over the past couple of weeks, even after he understood, even with what he had with Hux, and even though the General knew and disapproved verbally while still sharing the bed when Poe was in it regardless. He shook off the guilt like an odd chill from the cold as the kisses deepened and hands roamed. Poe wanted this. He wanted this. Ren could feel it in their connection, could feel it thrumming through his blood. He wanted this, even if the reason why was murky and buried in ancient history.

He wanted this.

——————————————————————————————————

Ren didn’t leave the room until an hour later with the taste of Poe’s lips on his tongue and the feeling of his tight, delicious warmth around him lingering in his mind the way that the scent of Hux’s cologne clung to his uniform even after a long day.

“You honestly can’t help yourself one afternoon, can you?”

He ignored Hux’s critical tone, continuing to walk forward as the man fell into step beside him. “Jealousy doesn’t become you, General.”

Hux was equally proficient at ignoring cutting quips, a skill they had both practiced to perfection…and yet they still acknowledged them for the sport of it, Ren thought.

“Shall I have a go at him then, since you’ve been thoroughly spent?”

The taunt in his voice was clear, but Ren still growled, his hand going to Hux’s collar just as Poe’s had pulled at his. He yanked him close, his brown eyes meeting green that flashed at him defiantly as if to say “I dare you”. The standoff ended in Ren crushing the General’s mouth to his in a kiss that become something deep and crude and tinged with warning amidst the desire. He released him roughly.

“Do what you wish.”

Hux rolled his eyes, but Ren didn’t miss the way his cheeks had flushed from the kiss as he took his place back at the bridge and distinctly not in his quarters where Poe remained.

——————————————————————————————————

Ren felt it deep in his chest that he should have seen this coming.

He had initially expected it and yet the possibility had loomed so far in the distance, in notions of impossibility even, that he had pushed the concern out of his mind until the day that it happened. There had been no warning and little fight. He assumed that the traitorous ex-Stormtrooper, FN-2187, was to blame for the stealthy entrance to the dreadnought, and he reminded himself to kill him slowly if he ever saw the man again.

The Resistance had returned for their heroic pilot and they had taken him.

“Well, that certainly takes care of things,” Hux had said with a sigh of relief, sitting back into his chair as his shoulders relaxed.

He was wrong. It hadn’t taken care of things at all, at least not for Ren. That name was chanted in his head like a prayer from that day forward. As it turned out, being physically separated by planets from the other only deepened whatever connection he had created. He could feel the heaviness of Poe’s anguish, tap into his thoughts at will, he could feel the need for him, the worry. He felt it all like a weight on his chest, like gravity pressing him into the ground until he could hardly breathe from the force of it.

“It’s okay! He still loves me. He’s still Ben!”

The happily proclaimed words to his enemies stung and embarrassed him, but the more powerful feeling lay in the fact that he knew that the pitiful pleas to the Resistance were useless. Commander Poe Dameron, prize pilot of the Resistance, looked exactly the victim to them that he truly was. Manipulated by the Force, useless, a shell of what he used to be, his old passion and will stripped away to become the needy thing in love with a memory he thought was come true once again. The lie he had allowed him to believe.

(Was it a lie?)

Ren had thought himself clever when the idea of bringing old memories to the surface of Poe’s mind first occurred to him. He thought that he was strong enough to handle them himself, that they meant nothing to him, just memories of Poe and that boy. Originally, he thought to use them to cause pain – which worked well enough - but then slowly, the idea of breaking him with memories of love, of affection, and trust, neatly seeded into his mind took hold.

Only one other time had he felt the same vicious bite of failure and culpability that plagued him the way it had since Dameron’s mind had been breached.

——————————————————————————————————

Hux was in his bed, bare and sleeping soundly, when he first reached out to Poe with his mind.

“Can you hear me?” He hesitated, waiting for confirmation, a sign that Poe was awake and not deep in a sleep as well. “I can feel you.”

“Ben? Ben, is that you? Oh, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.”

The name still managed to prick at him, even after months of hearing it from the other man’s mouth and thoughts. The tired but relieved voice of the Resistance pilot echoed in his own mind and he could tell that the man was simply speaking out loud. Ren wondered if anyone else there could hear.

“Where are you? Why haven’t you come for me, Sweetheart?”

The same, old guilt twisted in his gut again.

“Ben? Ben, hey, Buddy, don’t go. Please.” There was a long pause. “I miss you…I don’t think I belong here anymore, and I don’t know what that means.”

This time, the sincerity was too much.

“Just tell me what to do.”

“Touch yourself for me.”

The words held no power in them, more of a question without much of the usual inflection. There was no Force guiding them into Poe’s psyche, they didn’t need it. Speaking those words was just so much easier than explaining any of this to the man that wouldn’t be able to understand. How do you explain to someone that you’ve irreparably broken them when that was your intended purpose?

(Skewed, but intended.)

There was no need to be able to see Poe to know if he had heard him when he could feel that he was complying. He could hear the soft moans that became low and desperate and the gasps that sounded like his name. Poe spilled into his own hand with a muffled shout and for a moment, all was still and calm. His desire had been to relax him, to perhaps give him some peace after weeks of confusion and pain, but as he listened to the man’s heaving breaths and heard the words “I love you” sighed out in a gentle huff, he felt like he’d only taken another piece of the man instead.

Ren broke contact.

——————————————————————————————————

Nearly two weeks had passed since reaching out to him, though he never stopped listening - he wasn’t even sure that he fully could if he wanted to, and he did. Foolishly, he had nurtured the idea that Poe would slowly regain what he had taken away if he kept his distance, but the pilot persisted. Their connection never wavered, and it seemed, Poe never reverted to his usual self, absent him.

“He loves me, Leia. You don’t understand. He still loves me.”

Every time similar words reverberated back at him, it was like a punch to the stomach.

The nights were the worst of it, whether Ren was jerked from sleep by Poe’s nightmares and screams for Ben, or his mumbled pleas as he tossed and turned. A week earlier, Poe had attempted to steal an X-Wing. That was when they decided that locking him in his quarters was the only option for his safety and theirs, and Ren hadn’t meant for this to happen. Yes, he’d wanted to defeat the pilot in a way. Yes, he’d been angry. He’d wanted to cripple the Resistance, he’d wanted to hurt them all but then why did he feel this way now that he had finally begun to succeed?

He was able to feel the connection doubly when the scavenger feebly attempted to invade Poe’s mind as he had, gently prodding with her limited knowledge of the Force in what Ren assumed was a final, ditch effort to bring him back to his old self. He wasn’t an idiot and he knew there wasn’t much time left. It had been nearly a month since Poe had returned to the Resistance changed, in love or obsessed, manipulated by the First Order until there was no guarantee or even a reason to believe that he could be trusted among them. Why should they trust a man that seemed in every way delusional and no longer seeing their cause as priority? Why should he be allowed close to their leaders? Loyal as they were, he knew that even the rebels knew the meaning of the greater good and the phrase ‘living on borrowed time’.

He felt it when Rey saw images of their intimacy inadvertently pulled from his memories, old and new, images of their pilot with him, with Hux. He could sense Leia Organa’s presence in the room as well, but wouldn’t allow himself to sense anything else regarding her. He could hear Poe’s cries of pain at the clumsy intrusion until Rey broke the connection abruptly, frightened and upset.

Rey’s choked sobs into the traitor she called Finn’s chest were only salt on the wounds as he heard her gasp out, “I couldn’t help him. It’s so much worse than I imagined and I couldn’t help him.”

——————————————————————————————————

His heart was heavy and his head felt blurred around the edges. Sleep didn’t come easily anymore and especially today, he felt the consistent tug of exhaustion as he tromped around the halls, frustrated.

“There’s a reason that they left him on that planet, Ren. He’s utterly useless.”

Ren supposed that was meant to comfort him in a sick way. “Yes. He is.” His answer was slow and even, but apparently, it was neither slow nor even enough to convince the General beside him of his words.

Hux’s face grew slightly red with frustration. “Yes?” he repeated hotly. “And whose fault is that? Honestly, Ren, you should see this as more of a victory rather than stomping about like a child.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“Why not?” he snapped back at him sharply like the clack of a cur’s jaws snapping on air in warning. “Their best pilot is out of commission, their morale more likely than not will be shattered if it isn’t already.” He adjusted course mid step, moving in front of Ren, making the larger man stop just as short. “They���ve seen your power now. They’ve seen the power of the First Order. What more do you want from this?”

His throat felt thick and swallowing didn’t help. Pausing though, did seem to help further irritate his partner and second, especially the longer he waited, and somehow that made him feel better about his own discomfort. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Oh, don’t act like this is a moral dilemma in need of righting, Ren. You absolutely meant to manipulate his mind and you did it wrong. Accept your failure and forget him.”

“Fine,” he replied flippantly. “Then I’m no longer discussing this matter with you.”

Ren attempted to step aside, but again, Hux blocked his path. He narrowed his eyes as if he could read his thoughts rather than it being the other way around.

“You’re thinking of going back for him.” The General waited for a long, deliberating moment, his eyes boring into Ren’s accusingly. “You want him back in your bed.” His words had been chosen carefully. Not our bed. Not here on the dreadnought. His bed.

Ren ignored him - not only because he was wrong about his intentions, but because he was done explaining himself - turning on his heel in the direction of the hangar where his ship was being fueled. 

The joke was on him. He didn’t know what he wanted at all. 

[thesinglesjukebox]

NEON TREES - USED TO LIKE

[6.62]

Seems like we still do…

Alfred Soto: Apparently The Singles Jukebox has a history reviewing Neon Trees, and, interestingly, so have I. The guitar crunch and enthusiastic chorus promise pre-hip-hop pleasures — by a CMJ-beloved quartet in 1986, say. In a timeline devoid of verities, young bands must make their own. Or find them. [4]

Kylo Nocom: When rock radio acts are either annoyingly ubiquitous or complete one-hit-wonders, Neon Trees being a two-hit wonder always seems to make their legacy a bit awkward given that it seems like it barely exists. Of course, “Everybody Talks” and “Animal” remain among the best pop rock hits of the century so far with their incessant twee energy. Even if the title phrase could read as a self-aware Hail Mary attempt à la “Never Really Over,” “Used to Like” has a confidence that suggests a reality in which their style of nervy power pop has always remained en vogue. The highlights include the pseudo-“Fireflies” synth melody and the bridge’s glitched breakdown — certainly features that date the song, yet feel indescribably joyful right now. [8]

Tobi Tella: Less schticky and more honest than I expected from the band, but also trends less interesting. I appreciate the attempt at propulsion and fun in the chorus and bridge, but I think going a little further would’ve given it more impact. [6]

Edward Okulicz: The groove is rubbery, the hook is dinky, the song as a whole is… cuddly? That can’t have been the goal, but like the accidental invention of Teflon, the result sticks, it just works. [7]

Brad Shoup: The line “get back to what you used to like about me” might be… a little emblematic, but hearing Tyler Glenn murder some vowels in the bridge really did send me back. After all this time, Neon Trees’ pneumatic new wave remains more uncanny than one thousand hypnagogic pop acts. [7]

Ian Mathers: There is, of course, a tinge of self-loathing to the idea of going back to what used to be likeable, or loveable, or even just tolerable, about yourself. Not only have circumstances shifted away from what you want (now, although god knows we often don’t know what we’ve got until it’s gone), but we’re placing the blame and the solution strictly on ourselves. Of course, demanding that someone else “gets back to what you used to like about me” puts it in the realm of the person who changed on you showing up at your door and expecting you to act like nothing happened. Which doesn’t make them nice, but nice isn’t always the same as appealing. [7]

Andy Hutchins: The parallel paths of Neon Trees and The Killers — bands of Mormons and ex-Mos from desert lands that toured together because the latter essentially discovered the former — fascinate me. The Killers struck with classically rock songs and have kept both making those songs and getting weirder for 20 years, becoming one of the biggest bands in the world at a time despite their singles having no purchase at pop radio: They haven’t had a top-40 hit since Brandon Flowers immortally wondered “Are we human or are we dancer?” and yet released a platinum album in 2012 and an album that debuted at No. 1 in 2017; a third is due this spring, and it’s probably going to be even more of Flowers making his band the millennial equivalent to U2. It’s probably going to be pretty good and sell even if it barely registers in the pop mainstream. Tyler Glenn, on the other hand, is the kind of former Mormon who’ll spit on Joseph Smith and revel in a lack of sobriety while working toward 15 years of trying to write the perfect pop song. “Used to Like” is not that, but its energy jangles, and its romanticizing of the liquored-up fuck-up Glenn is happy to play is at least trying to make an anti-hero compelling. Especially while The Weeknd is in the midst of working the same gimmick on the other end of the dial as a Vegas tourist, it’s nice to have a local providing the view from the ground, raging against his own dying of the light. [6]

Jackie Powell: Tyler Glenn told Billboard in November that “Used to Like” is about the pain that comes and goes when a co-dependent relationship shatters. That much is clear in the visual treatment. The loneliness is given a very modern image that is overused in our 2020 vernacular: the ghost. A white sheet/ghost figure follows Glenn through the void of his own loss. He meets someone at a bar and the mood changes. The ghost steps aside and stops its pursuit, but by the end of the clip, we see that Glenn didn’t slay the ghost. It greets him in the morning leaving him feeling melancholy. The track itself is a well-mixed solute of the entire Neon Trees discography, giving fans nostalgia while also inviting in newcomers who want to rock out and simultaneously feel a bit droopy. Producer Mike Green mixes the melodic and rhythm guitar of Habits, the dark ’80s synths of Picture Show and a touch of the high energy but depressing undertones of Pop Psychology. Glenn’s storytelling is like a three-minute brisk workout all about modern love that runs circles around the New York Times column and its corresponding Amazon Prime series. It simply does the job with more energy and speed. Elaine Bradley’s drumming keeps the tempo and the track moving because when her beat keeping cuts out with seven seconds remaining, Glenn brings his “yeah yeah yeahs” down the octave and down a dynamic, symbolizing that the marathon has been run. The lesson has been learned. This track aids with the transitional emotional journey that we don’t really talk about. But do we really talk about why people used to like each other anyway? Maybe Glenn is saying we should. [8]

[warofourheart]

An Early Morning Visit

Dawn painted the lightening skies lavender and blue, the birds rising to the sun’s call black against the pale clouds.  The quiet hum of insects promised a symphony later in the day; summer approached and with it the bugs that still clung to the Western Plaguelands’ forests.  A light breeze swept through the pines, rocking the lantern on the stone wall.  Chop.  Chop.  Chop.  Cutting down swiftly, the axe came down on the logs, splintering the wood in clean halves.  Ungloved, scarred, sun-weathered hands grasped the shaft with practiced ease, lifting the tool back up for another blow.

Thud.  Sticking deep into the trunk beneath, the axe swayed in its resting spot.  A clean rag slipped out of Blackwell’s pocket, finding a place on the man’s lined and bearded face and mopped up the sweat beading on his skin.  Truthfully, the wood pile did not need replenishing; the rows of logs held enough fuel to last even through another harsh Lordaeron winter regardless of the fact that summer was just around the bend.  But something had twisted in the veteran’s gut that morning, something familiar that had urged him out of bed before the birds could herald the sun.

If there was anything he still believed in, Blackwell trusted his instincts and if his gut told him to be outside at this hour then he damn well would be.

Tucking the rag back into his pocket, he eyed the remaining logs with thinning lips behind his grizzly beard.  No sigh left him as he dragged up another piece onto the stump and wrenched the axe back out.  It kept him busy as he waited for the Light knows what.  Chop.  Another log found its place on the chopping block.

Halfway through a swing, Blackwell came to a sudden halt, the edge of the steel a hairsbreadth away from wood.  The wards were breached, someone had entered the cottage’s vicinity.  Not a wisp of air entered nor left his lungs, his ears straining for any whisper of sound.  The clicks of insects.  The distant cry of a bird.  The beating of wings.  Wait.

“Heads up!”

Quick reflexes and more than two decades of history kept Blackwell from slicing his axe upward.  Instead, the tool and weapon clattered to the soil and his muscled arms shot out, knees bracing, and caught—

Thump!

Blackwell stared at the death knight beaming up at him in his arms.  Above, the prickly bone beast cackled its Light forsaken laugh, winging away.  Damn that thing.  And damn him.  Grey eyes swept over the small man in his grasp, catching on the cloth and disturbing lack of armor and sword.  Ah, at least, Reya—and it was most certainly Reya, that smile would send cold shivers down his spine if it was Rey—had the sense to bring a dagger.

And yet.

“What in the bloody ‘ell are ya doin’.” Blackwell demanded, setting the knight on his feet.  Reya giggled, swinging about and scooping up the fallen axe.  Spinning it about once without answering, Reya hummed and set it neatly onto the stump.

In the silence, Blackwell took another look at Reya.  The smile?  Not a good sign, it lacked the brightness of a summer’s day.  The deep shadows under the eyes?  He would normally pen that under fatigue if it weren’t for the blue tinge to the knight’s skin and the otherworldly fire to Reya’s eyes.  No, something else plagued the man that brought out the shadows under his skin.

The absence of proper equipment grated on Blackwell’s nerves even if it was only slightly placated by the runed dagger at Reya’s hip.  And what good would that do? It could barely be called a letter opener in Blackwell’s large hands.  Rey would never have left his home without being properly prepared and Reya hardly ever deviated from such a thing unless—

Ah.

Grey eyes took in the shifting of weight from foot to foot, the twitching of fingers before they hid away in pockets.  Sweeping over the unkempt scarf, the iridescent cloth still striking even in the early morning light, Blackwell’s eyes found the edge of the ringed scar before meeting Reya’s lichfire gaze.  A grunt passed his lips and he stepped back towards the cottage, shoving the backdoor open and listening to it quietly close after Reya.

He spoke no words as he gathered the kettle, the only truly clean kitchenware on the counter beside the two cracked cups.  A third lay in the cabinet, dust hiding its fractures.  Water trickled from the faucet, filling up the kettle and he set it on the stove to heat while he found the boxes of tea.  He did not think twice about which one to grab, his hands finding the small box in the dark cupboard with ease.  After a moment’s thought, he snatched the jar of honey as well but left it closed as he prepared the two cups of tea.

Waiting for the kettle to whistle brought back the steady scrape of nerves and paranoia, and Blackwell glanced over to the long table, its surface cluttered with jewel crafting tools and materials.  Reya had found his usual seat without much thought, slim fingers poking at one of the finer gems until it fell upon a ray of sunshine and set glittering rainbows around the room.  The corner of Blackwell’s lip pulled upward.

The sharp shrill whistle of the kettle brought him back to the present and he took it off the heat to pour the hot water into the cups.  Not long after, the sweet aroma of the tea wafted about the room and through the hanging herbs that still dangled, drying, from the ceiling.  Blackwell spared a moment to rue the fact that he had forgone a fire that morning but the fireplace’s stones remained cold and black.  Perhaps later.

Carefully, he set one cup in front of Reya, amused to see that the knight had found the little bowl of sugar cubes in his distraction.  Two white cubes immediately found their home in the steaming tea not even before Blackwell had fully sat across the table.  A wave of nostalgia abruptly swept through his chest but he let it pass without a thought for now.

It was then that Reya began talking, cheerfully bringing Blackwell up to speed on the knight’s life with far more embellishments and hyperboles that the man could barely keep straight if it weren’t for how predictable Reya could be.  At least in these things.  He nodded when he could, shot back gruff questions when Reya derailed, and listened.

It took shorter than he thought it would.  In between recounting some odd adventure that Blackwell mostly tuned out for the confidential nature of it all—he wanted no part in whatever nonsense that cooked up farther west—Blackwell heard the hitch, the faintest of breaks of breath.  His senses immediately latched onto it, immediately focusing on what Reya was talking about.

“—An’ well, Rey’s been out for the loop for a few weeks now, but I’m tryin’ ta be just as professional!  I’m even gonna salute when I see the Executor next.  No, I’ll even call him sir like a proper soldier!  It’s all really stupid though, I just wish Rey felt good ‘nought ta talk ta anyone.  L-Light, I did some talkin’!  It helped!  I think.  It felt weird, I didn’t really like some o’ it but I mean, ya can’t just knock a couple potions back an’ expect everythin’ ta work out fine?  Right?”

Reya paused his flow of his words to look imploringly at Blackwell and Blackwell’s stomach clenched at the expression hiding behind that innocent smile.  He hated being right.

Without pausing, Blackwell replied, “Lettin’ it fester will do more harm than good.” And stared right at Reya.  And Rey.  He stared even through the small hitch of breath again. “Ya didn’t bring ‘em today.”

He stared even as Reya flinched back.  Blackwell had once said nothing.  He wouldn’t make that same mistake again.  “Why.”

Reya’s face twitched violently. “Why, did ya wanna see ‘em?”  Even through the accent coating the knight’s words, Blackwell fought the sudden urge to smile.  Not only would that completely give him away and ruin his reputation besides, he didn’t want Rey to know he knew.

He knew that anger anywhere, the familiar sharpness and slow burning blaze that was kept so tightly under lock and key.  He knew how it made knuckles bleed and young, too young, faces twist into something unrecognisable.  He knew how it marked the floor of the second bedroom’s floor with black char that refused to come out no matter what he did.

So Blackwell shook his head, picking up a scope from the table and peering at it idly.  He felt Reya, Rey, bristle across the table, the word liar on the tip of the knight’s tongue.  Before it touched the air, Blackwell spoke.

“Ya are the one that’s before me right now.”  He took the time to carefully pronounce each word, knowing the effort would not be lost on Rey’s sharp ears. “And ya don’t gotta hide for me.  I know ya both.  Both.” He repeated and knew again the meaning would carry. “An’ I made my choice.  It’s not ever changin’.”

“You don’t know that.” The accent slipped, one mask gone.  A bitter victory.  “You knew him longer, you knew him, you could have done something to stop him!”

Rey’s voice steadily rose.  The bench scraped back and boots snapped on the floor. “You knew what he was doing!  You knew, I TOLD YOU!”  He punctuated the last word with a BANG of his fist on the table.  Gems rolled across the wood.  

The words rung with heavy weight, filling the room to the brim with bitter, bitter black rage.  Apologies would make no difference now, not when the shadows lurking in the corners could literally be cut with a knife.  Blackwell sucked in a tight breath, chest burning at the sight of tears streaking down Rey’s cheeks.

But instead of denying the past, like Rey expected much to Blackwell’s chagrin, Blackwell stood.  He stood and rounded the table till he stood beside Rey.  Then he sat on the bench, lowering his height below Rey’s.  

“Ya did tell me.” Blackwell confirmed and his gaze pinned on Rey with gentler force.  “I was a coward an’ I didn’t do what was right.  Ya have every right ta be mad, Rey.  But I don’t think ya’re really angry at me.”

A dangerous statement.  He could feel the temperature drop in the room, a chill frosting his next breath. “I know ya are right now.  Ya got the right ta be.  But I ain’t gonna ask ya ta talk ‘bout it.  Cause I know ya’re not ready.  I’m real Light damn proud of Reya for sayin’ ‘e did.  But he’s not ya, Rey.  Ya’re not ready, an’ that’s okay.”

Rey’s breath hitched and Blackwell kept going. “Ya’re angry, I know ya are.  Be angry.  No one should ever tell you not to be and if they do ya send ‘em straight ta me an’ I’ll punch ‘em for ya.”  Rey’s lip wobbled and Blackwell held out his arms.  

It took Rey all of two seconds before he collapsed in Blackwell’s arms, painful wrenching sobs squeezing out of his throat.  His nails dug into Blackwell’s back and the man only held Rey tighter, gently but firmly.  Grounding.  Blackwell knew then he shouldn’t speak anymore, lest he accidentally push too far.  

He wasn’t quite sure how long it was before Rey’s breathing steadied and fell silent.  He knew at least that the sun had risen far enough to illuminate the dust motes dancing in the air.  Light, he needed to clean in here.  When Rey at last extracted himself from Blackwell’s arms, the death knight was quiet, storm abated just slightly but still brewing inside him.  It was more than Blackwell had hoped for.  The little things were the ones that mattered; he couldn’t ease the burden anymore than this than he could stroll calmly through the Undercity.  Some part of him relaxed minutely though when he remembered the faces that had come by his cottage over the past months.

And how Rey was picking up small sparkling gems from the table and some metal like he was trying to be sneaky.  As if that would slide past his radar.  Blackwell carefully poured another cup of tea, adding a spoonful of honey before passing it to Rey and took the gems from those thin fingers.

“What do ya want ta make.” He asked as he gathered more alike materials closer to them.  Rey sipped slowly at the tea.

“…A gift.  I haven’t made one like this but…” Rey murmured quietly and went on further in an awfully shy whisper that bespoke a bit of Reya’s own bashfulness.  Blackwell’s bushy eyebrows climbed up his forehead with each word.  A low chuckle escaped him before he could stop it, not bothering to dodge the elbow sent his way.

Blackwell shook his head and glanced at the glittering black and red on Rey’s right hand.  “A gift then.  It will take some time, ya know.”

“I know.  Will you help me?”

Blackwell smiled, lines creasing at the corners of his eyes. “‘Course I will.”

[favouriteworstnightmarexo-blog]

Secrets Over Storms

The gentle pitter patter of the evening's rainfall against the windows of my bedroom soon transforms itself into a foundation shaking downpour. I sit cross-legged amongst the expensive furs laden upon my bed for warmth, simply watching the streaks of water that ripple across the faultless panes of glass. The cacophony of thunder, lightning and rain is like a strange sort of symphony, rolling and cracking so loud that it feels as if the earth might crumble. It is a haunting sound, cleverly plucking a specific memory from the deep recesses of my mind. So many of my memories are painful, but in some there was a certain level of redemption and joy waiting to be discovered. This time I envisage the little girl trapped inside me, the little girl that would tremble and shiver each and every time my family and I retreated for the caves for safety from the wolves craving the skin upon our bones. At that age I had not understood it at all well, only that there were monsters out there in the woodlands I had played in hunting us down and thus the dreadful noises that echoed beneath the full moon had quickly become nightmarish to me. The high pitched howls, the fierce growling, the sounds of teeth setting upon teeth and the commotion from other villagers also taking shelter within the caves had chilled me to the core and terrified me beyond all measure. Father would rant and rave with the other men of our village, screaming that something needed to be done about the Wolves, that revenge for the death of his youngest needed to be gotten. Elijah would simply sit in the shadows, nodding his head this way and that, too afraid to take a side on the matter. Kol would be on the edge of his perch, shaking his fist and grinning wickedly, mischievously edging our father on in his plight for vengeance. Mother would sit well away from the crowd, kneeling and clutching her pendant in her palms as she whispered pleadings words of need to her ancestors, hoping that they might somehow protect us. Finn would be there too, as always, forever the loyal son at mother's side. And yet Niklaus would always be with me, taking my small frame and is shook and shivered into his arms and whispering words of comfort in my ear, reassuring me that all would be well and that I was safe because he would never let anything happen to me. A ghost of a smile appeared on my lips at that thought, at the way that he had so gallantly protected me, his little sister. It filled me with warmth and affection for the brother that I had so often loved to hate.

So much so that when the thunder reverberated across the sky, I was reminded of the caves and the myriad of sounds that had horrified me so. I knew my fears were irrational all these thousands of years later, because I was stronger, braver, more ruthless, and yet still I could not help myself from craving the security of my big brother's embrace once more.

The door creaked faintly at my gentle push, and his head turned from the side he lay at to see her. Strange how after all this time those sleep-filled eyes really hadn’t changed at all. In other circumstances they were different, hard, cold, occasionally amused, but now they were just as vivid as I had remembered them. 

"Bekah, what is it?" he rolled on to his back, prompting me to shrug my shoulders and bound towards him, shoving him aside as only a younger sister would to make room beside him.

groaned in protest but by that time I was already lying next to him. Despite being in bed, he was dressed in dark jeans and even still had his shoes on. His shirt was haphazardly tossed on the nearest chair and his hair was a mess of curls. Nik never slept very often, and it wasn’t for lack of trying. He looked exhausted now, more so than usual.

"Did you need something?" he looked at me pointedly, a slight annoyance creeping into his tone.

"Do you remember how afraid of the caves and storms I was when we were human?"

"Yes of course I remember…" he trailed off, and in his silence the pitter-patter of rain became clearer. A sudden, loud rumbling of thunder echoed all around us.  "It was the thunder," he said, as it came back to him. "You hated the thunder most, didn’t you?"

"I would run to your room every time I heard those first few raindrops begin to fall" I laughed, and surprisingly he did too.

It was a genuine laugh. A laugh from a time when things had been simpler.

"I grew out of that though. Eventually I was much tougher than you," I quipped at him, earning an eye roll in return.

A silence fell between us again, with each of us laying on our backs, side by side, staring up at the blank canvas that was the ceiling for some time while we listened to the steady rhythm of the rain. I grew to love the rain as I'd gotten older, screeching as I'd chased Henrik around in it whenever he had wished to play. Mother would be furious at us for running and jumping in the puddles and seemingly ruining our garments. I would not speak of Henrik to my brother though, his name had never once been spoken between us. Not since the day that Nik had carried our brother, only a broken adolescent then, back to our family. It was me that had held Niklaus then as the distraught sobs had racked through his body and he had whispered hoarsely over and over again how sorry he was. Nothing was ever the same after that day. Even now merely thinking of it provided a sharp sting to the heart. Nik certainly never spoke of it, and I thought that that was also the reason he never spoke of our mother's death, that it had been easier for him to lie to me for years than show any emotion at all. I don't suppose I would ever know the answer. I wasn't even sure if I truly knew my brother anymore. It appeared that time had completely stripped away everything that was once honest and chivalrous in him but then perhaps time had also stripped away everything that was good within me too.

Either way it did not matter. We were bound together, for better or for worse, we would be bound together forever and always.

The silence had gone on too long, becoming an unwelcome and suffocating presence.

"I stayed with you every night it stormed," I found my voice, though it was so quiet that it was barely a whisper.

Nik merely glanced at me, his frame more rigid than normal as he shifted uncomfortably beside me.

"Go to sleep, Rebekah," he turned from me as he spoke. All traces of laughter and nostalgia gone. He was so harsh, so cruel. I should have known better than to expect any different after all these years.

I had often wished I knew what happened to the brother that used to hold me close when I was frightened. The brother that told me everything would be okay even after Mikael had killed us both.

I looked down at him, his face obscured from me, his body stiff and unmoving on the bed. I wanted to speak; to ask him how he could always be this way.

Instead, I did what I always did. I picked up the broken, fragile pieces of my heart, all the tiny little pieces that would never fit together again, and crawled from the bed. 

The door creaked again as I began to pull it closed behind me..

"Sister," he called to me, having rolled onto his side to face the door as he had been before.

I peered back inside, my heart heavy and my breathing shallow as I expected to be reprimanded further.

“Stay.”

It was the last thing I had expected to hear him say as he threw the covers back, and eyed me with a tinge of sadness. It was a barely noticeable sorrow, but so profound it left a bittersweet taste in my mouth. 

Part of me wanted to refuse. He had hurt me too many times without even an ounce of care. But I couldn’t. Not when his eyes met mine in a way that made me feel he was on the verge of breaking. I feared Niklaus was always on the verge of breaking though.

And so, I tiptoed back to the bed. Nik watched me with tired eyes as I pushed my hair aside and settled in beside him. 

I smiled briefly when his eyes fluttered to a close. His breathing softened, and his body quickly relaxed, so close to my own that our foreheads just barely touched. 

For once, it was peaceful between us while the storm raged outside.