#if its just him and house facing the abyss of nothingness

[holdmymetaphor]

its so fascinating to me wilsons brand of repression, bc we have several in text markers about houses, sort of standard, raised by military dad repression. wilsons in text repression is like so self aware and hateful of the fact he is gay (imo).

like house was like aw fuck im fucking bisexual for real and i have some implicit stuff going on im dealing with.

and wilson is like. very clearly and explicitly mentioning the importance of their relationship and in the same breath lamenting over the fact that hes not heterosexual with 2 kids and normal.

part of it was house always knew (at least since the infarction, if not his whole life) that he was not normal and could never be normal. whereas wilson tries to force himself to do it and cant make it work. and he knows it!! house is the only one he lets himself be who he really is and he hates that, bc he hates himself! which is why we see him lash out and mistrust house (bc if wilson is anything at all like house, he must really be worthless in the eyes of the world)

[thomacrumbs]

you're on your own, kid, you always have been.

childe x gn! reader, soulmate au (flowers bloom on your skin where your soulmate got hurt, they fade away when your soulmate touches them). so like....... i was going through my files and realised i never posted this (i think. at least. its been like a year) so i edited it. enjoy 🥳

“your soulmate flowers-- they’re gone!”

the woman from the docks had pulled your arm towards her and awed, running her fingers over the nicks in your arm, “did you meet them?”

you were notorious for the laurestines that budded upon your arm, seeking to nestle themselves into every crook and cranny of your body. it was worse when you were younger, around 14 was when you first started choking on the white of laurestines, throat erupting in pain as you tried to suppress the bile, terrified at what was happening-- and worse, what was happening to your soulmate?

“i did.”

“what are they like?”

tartaglia-- or sweetheart, as he makes you call him. he clung to you like a drowning man, mouthing at your neck as gloved hands intertwined themselves with yours, the bundle of white dying at his lips and shrinking before turning into nothingness. he presses into you with a chuckle, breathing you in as his hand finds the laurestine that matches the bruise he had gotten in sparring against the traveller, his fingers tracing love hearts around the bud before he strokes his thumb over the flower, finger pressing flat against your skin in a soft smother, idyllic murmurs trailing out of his mouth as he sighs and rubs his cheek against your shoulder.

“he’s… something.”

you had grabbed him by the arm, and with a smile on his face the idea of the perfect soulmate turns to pull you in closer. the snezhnayan breeze cards through his hair. he’s perfect, a reflection of the ideal, tall, handsome, impossibly rich-- not to mention just the right balance of loving & protective. his fingers always found earnestly drawing daisies into your skin and the constant seeking to intertwine his pinkie with yours. his love, delivered & tied so neatly as the bow that adorned the box that accompanied the letter he sent from liyue-- frivolous fancies and trivial dreams spouted across paper in dark ink that had the same highs and rolls as him, with straight lines and stabbed dots.

but under all that is the boy who found himself in the abyss, the one who made you cough up flowers and leave you stroking at your throat and humming pains out years later. the one who does not know the difference between the red on his hands-- whether it is his or someone else’s. but when he sees the red on your hands, and that glassy look you watch him with, he does nothing but kneel at your feet, mumble quiet apologies as he traces the bud, flower not even truly open and in full glory as it dies, silent in its short uneventful life.

“what’s wrong?” he had asked, once, pulling his gloves on as the two of you stand by the door of your house. the world howls outside.

but you can only shake your head, words suddenly stuck in your throat, unable to be coughed out.

“be safe,” is the only thing that slips out, croaked under the veil of moonlight across the cold.

in these plains of broken towers, beyond the cold of the mountains and snow of the loveless land, you found sparking familiarity cradled between your hands and pulled out of your throat.

“its just a fatui meeting,” at your huff, he laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead as if you were made of glass, his gloved knuckles running up and down your arm in a poor imitation at a will for warmth, “alright, i’ll be careful.”

and you let him go, all that is left of him.

[xwonderfuldeath]

.o| Bad Temptation : END |o.

Warnings : Violence, injury, graphic depictions, sex

Please, consider supporting me on Ko-Fi ! ♥

“- How are you, Jimin?

- Bad, Mamie Ivanovich. I feel like a thousand stakes are looping through my stomach and heart.

- That's fine. That's good. Very good indeed.”

The sorcerer is taken aback when the old lady sits down opposite him. Her mischievous little eyes seem delighted to hear this, and Jimin bites his lower lip. He feels caught in an abyssal nothingness that suffocates him, while the old lady laughs. She turns to rummage through the shelf behind her, pulling out several small flasks which she stacks in front of her large, already boiling pot, as if expecting something like this to happen.

Jimin watches, lost, as she tosses the various vials into the pot. His little hands flail about, giggling with pleasure at each added ingredient.

“- Do you know, my little Jimin, what makes a sorcerer a real sorcerer?

- A grimoire? The ability to use it? Doing good, too.

- No, I don't know. Otherwise, everyone would become a sorcerer. What makes a good sorcerer is his innate knowledge of magic and what he does with it.”

Jimin frowns, trying to figure out where this mindless conversation is leading them, as the old lady throws the last vial into the pot. Tiny shards of glass fly out, sparkling like snowflakes before the sorcerer's astonished eyes. His grimoire, hitherto inert, seems to react to this sorcery. It jerks open, magically filling its missing pages. Everything happens very quickly. The potion explodes into confetti, and it's already over. The book rests gently against Jimin's legs, under the amused gaze of the old woman, who beckons him to take a look.

Jimin can't believe his eyes. Spells pile up in the grimoire and he can't hold them back. He feels lighter, even if he's still burdened by the guilt of having caused his parents' death. Mamie Ivanovich watches him in silence, then holds out her own grimoire, worn by life and years.

“- Soon, my dear Elyzabeth will have mine. I'm not eternal, you know? Neither was your mother. Faced with Heisukei, she gave everything so that you could recover her powers and your own. This cursed being didn't steal your mother's powers. He simply copied them, then erased them from your memory. That's what distinguishes the two of you. Go, trust yourself and accept this gift. For now, these are just words, but soon you'll see the path become clearer and the way open to you.”

With these enigmatic words, Jimin leaves the old lady's house to return to Yoongi's apartment. Yoongi seems tense, still preoccupied with running his company under the yoke of Damarro, an odious man who doesn't deserve this power. Jimin places a hand on Yoongi's shoulder, and Yoongi returns a tender glance, their lips softly meeting. Outside, the storm has given way to a shy sun, summer slowly returning to warm the air.

“- I know how to put an end to this charade.”

Yoongi doesn't ask for details and follows Jimin. He beckons the others to join them in the throne room. Jimin gently takes his lifelong friend's hand and places him on one of the last vacant thrones, immaculately dressed in white, before curious onlookers. The sorcerer then opens his grimoire, and hitherto forgotten spells dance in his mind, telling him what to do and what to say. The hitherto white book turns yellow, its pages take on a violet hue, then in a flash of tangerine-scented light, an explosion occurs. When everything calms down, Jimin looks exhausted, but less so than Taehyung, who is breathing heavily. His eyes have become a strange mixture of pure white and black outlines.

“- Taehyung, are you all right? Jimin, what the hell have you done?!

- I've restored him to his original form. And his powers! He was never human.”

Jungkook and the others seem bewildered by this revelation. Jimin, frustrated, launches into an explanation, like Elyzabeth and Yoongi before him. Heisukei had taken over the angels' powers, putting the others into a deep sleep and depriving them of their gifts. This altered their memories, leading to a rise in racism between the different mystical races. Heisukei had masterfully manipulated this weakness, and Jimin felt guilty. Only he has the formula to restore the angels' powers and reveal Heisukei's crimes to the world.

Taehyung quickly recovers from the transformation, and with a resolute expression, he pounds the table, melting Jungkook with his little scowl.

“- Let's put an end to this charade and reveal Heisukei's crimes.

- Now that he's deprived of all power, thanks to Jimin recovering his grimoire, he won't be a smartass for much longer.”

In truth, they don't even have to look hard to find Heisukei. The arrogant man he once was has disappeared. He's now a fallen old man, screaming to be let go as he's dragged onto the stage. The townspeople, realizing the extent of the deception, are horrified. Heisukei is still struggling when the rope is wrapped around his neck, putting an end to all the absurd laws he had imposed.

-x-

Two years have passed since the last mayor took power in a flash. The inhabitants had to adapt to the changes that followed. Everyone has come to accept, albeit sometimes with difficulty, that humans never existed, and that angels have taken their place. Taehyung has expanded his business to match that of the Jeon company, and the Underworld has regained its rightful place. At this very moment, the new mayor is speaking in the office of the head of the local press, Mr. Kim.

“- So, Mr. Jeon, aren't you feeling too much pressure in your new role as mayor? Your predecessor's actions have left some… indelible memories.

- I wouldn't say I'm not nervous, Mr. Kim. But… I feel ready to help our community, as it should be. - You do? And what are City Hall's plans?

- To create new places for Mr. Damarro's orphans. And offer more opportunities to the less fortunate, like zombies.”

Like two magnets, the two Jeons move closer together, observing each other, and finally, the tablet slips away, abandoned on the sofa, as they pick up where they left off earlier in the day. Life resumes its course, in the end not so different from what it was before.

[donovannovak]

Donovan Novak - Lament's Ballad [5.2]

"Where are you going?" Echoes of darkness. "Wait! Please!" Feet chasing after a figment of green. "I don't know what happened, but please don't go!" A cry ripping through the void. "I'm sorry, Tsch..." Donovan laid in this abyss, reaching out for this escaping light that he couldn't quite keep up with. The feelings he had in his heart filled him with hope, but his mind, filled him with dread.

The void stretched endlessly, consuming him; each step he took toward her seemed to take him farther away. His feet felt like they were sinking into nothingness, and the harder he tried to move, the more the darkness seemed to swallow him whole. The light was a mere shimmer in the distance, mocking him. He couldn’t reach it. He couldn’t reach her. Chasing. Chasing. Chasing.

"I miss you so much…" he murmured, his eyes finally finding the vast, nighttime sky. "Oh…" He blinked, realizing he had fallen asleep outside. Steve was still clutched in his arms, tighter than he'd meant to. He turned his gaze to the new moon, its darkness beautiful in its own way, though he knew the dawn would soon bring a sliver of light. He loosened his grip on Steve, though the minion had remained still for over a week. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to shake off the heavy weight of exhaustion. The lack of sleep was wearing him down, hunger for rest mingling with the ache in his heart. He hoped wherever she was, she was safe. But more than that, he just wanted her to come back home.

His head lulled back against the wooden post, clutching Steve in his hands and pulling the plush to his face. "Your owner… Tsch. I—" He sighed, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like never before. "I feel like I shouldn't have confessed, but I couldn't keep it in anymore, Steve." The sentient being still did not stir in his hold. "I know you can't respond right now, buddy, but I really wish you could." His hands, once holding Steve tightly, dropped limply into his lap. His eyes fluttered shut once more, the silence of the night enveloping him.

The night breeze grazed his scalp, ruffling his hair before it stilled. Nights without her presence felt empty. He could go inside and try to sleep, but the stillness of the house was suffocating. The warmth that had once welcomed him with open arms now felt stale, cold, and sharp. He squeezed Steve once more in his hands, hoping for her return, hoping to feel that comfort again, hoping to see that smile. Hoping. Pleading.

A twitch. A small, silent movement stirred his eyes awake. His gaze dropped to his hands, where Steve sat rigid in his grip. Another twitch. Donovan’s head tilted slightly, exhaustion clouding his senses, making him question if he was imagining it. The stuffed animal’s head twitched again, then began to slowly rock back and forth. "Steve?" he murmured, pulling the sentient being closer to his face. His eyes widened in disbelief as he examined the subtle movements. "I’m not dreaming, am I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Steve's slow, yet deliberate lulls returning to their normal rhythm left Donovan in shock.

His eyes swept the front yard with growing intensity. If Steve was moving, it could only mean one thing—she was near. She had to be. "She has to be," he murmured, clinging to the thought. Yet, no matter how hard he looked, she was nowhere to be found. His gaze shifted to the docks, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. Maybe the ferry skipper had seen her? Rising quickly, he placed Steve carefully on the bench, pausing as the stuffed minion lulled ever so slightly in place. "Stay put," he whispered, almost as if Steve could understand, before turning and jogging toward the gate. Exhaustion clawed at him, but the thought of her being close was enough to propel his legs forward, hope burning through the haze of weariness.

With his feet carrying him swiftly across the beachfront, Donovan reached the docks, his gaze darting around for the ferry skipper. The spot was eerily quiet, save for the soft lapping of waves against the pier. "Hmm, must've had to take someone across," he muttered under his breath, his thoughts racing as he stood there, scanning the empty boat slip.

He continued to scan the pier, searching for any trace of her—maybe near the waiting area, perhaps closer to the shops. Steve wouldn’t have woken up if she wasn’t here, right? His gaze swept the area again, but there was nothing. A heavy sigh escaped him. "I just know she’s back. She has to be. I can feel—" His words faltered as a soft glow caught the corner of his eye, emanating from the direction of the front yard. Without a second thought, he left the docks, his feet moving instinctively toward the warm, yellow light calling to him. Ilm by ilm, he crossed the sandy beach, the waves softly crashing beside him under the watchful darkness of the new moon. "Tsch…" he whispered, his voice trembling as his eyes finally landed on the woman he had longed for.

There she was, draped over the back of a glowing golden dog with a radiant mane he'd never seen before. His feet carried him closer, tentative yet hopeful. The dog's luminous eyes regarded him warmly, and as he extended a hand, its wet nose sniffed curiously before a gentle lick brushed his fingers. Donovan let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "…I don't know who you are, little dog…" he murmured, his voice soft as his trembling hand moved to the creature's head, giving it a careful, grateful pet. "But thank you for bringing her home."

He couldn't tell if she was asleep—or worse. A cold dread crept into his chest as his hand hesitated before gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. Beneath it, scars and dried blood marred her cheek, the sight making his electrope heart sink. What had she endured? A soft whine escaped the dog, its glowing form nudging at Donovan's leg as if urging him forward.

Swallowing his rising fear, he slid his trembling hands under Tsch, carefully lifting her into his arms. Holding her close, he finally saw the bruises and marks scattered across her exposed skin, each one like a dagger to his soul. His lips moved in silent prayers to any god who would listen, pleading for her to be alright. And then—a faint stir. A tiny movement in his arms.

Feeling her shift in his hold confirmed she was alive, and his electrope heart felt as if it might burst from his chest. Tears welled up and streamed down his cheeks as he nestled his head against hers, inhaling her scent—a strange, otherworldly fragrance that was unfamiliar yet undeniably hers. "I've missed you so much..." he whispered into her hair, holding her as if she might vanish again.

Turning to the golden dog, he mouthed a heartfelt thank you. The creature, seeming to understand, began to ascend. Donovan’s breath hitched as he watched it rise into the heavens, its glowing form illuminating the night as it returned to the distant moon.

He turned away from the glowing dog, still watching in awe as it ascended into the heavens. The golden creature disappeared into the night sky, its light growing faint as it soared toward the moon. Donovan's gaze softened, mouthing a final thank you before he turned his attention back to Tsch, her fragile form cradled in his arms.

With her cradled in his arms, he moved slowly towards the underside of the stargazer's deck. Each step deliberate as he cradled her against his chest. His heart still raced with relief, but his eyes never left her face, tracing every scar, every bruise that marred her skin. His mind began to think of what could have possibly happened, but that was a question for when she awoke. He carefully lowered himself onto the bench with her head cradled to his chest.

His fingers moved instinctively, brushing through her hair, the soft strands slipping through his fingers as he traced her skin. As his hand continued to travel, he reached her cheek, lingering on the scar that held dried blood. Evident of a fight. He rubbed it softly, as if trying to erase the memory of her pain. The silence between them grew as he continued to hold her close, finding solace in her slow breathing and her warmth. The sense of relief, safety, and longing was now in his reach.

A soft hum escaped her lips, and for the first time in over a week, he saw the gentle hue of her star-filled green eyes. Half-lidded, they met his own, accompanied by a faint cough. His fingers brushed through her hair with quiet fervor, wanting to say so many things yet hesitant to rush her. Then, her hand rose to meet his, guiding it to her cheek with a gentle hold. A deep breath left her lips as her tired gaze remained fixed on his. Silence stretched between them, heavy and profound; even the wind cutting through the night seemed to still. Finally, her voice, soft and worn, broke the quiet. "…I'm sorry."

His fingers slowed their caress, still cradling her cheek as he gave her the space to continue. Her voice, soft and unsteady, broke the silence. "I didn’t… I shouldn’t have run away." Tears welled in her eyes, and her voice wavered as if each word was a struggle. She hated this feeling of vulnerability, but no matter how hard she tried, the tears wouldn’t stop. "I was scared," she admitted, her voice cracking. "Scared of the warmth you gave me."

Her hands moved reflexively to wipe her tears, but his were already there, brushing them away with a tenderness that made her heart ache. His gaze held hers, filled with such understanding and patience that it made her chest tighten. She drew a shaky breath, her trembling voice carrying the weight of her regret. "It felt too real… and I fled when I should’ve talked to you."

His gentle caresses, wiping away her tears, seemed to calm the tremble in her voice. "I was afraid to let you in," she confessed, her voice soft but carrying the weight of her heart. "Worried that you might leave. Worried you might be getting in over your head. So I fled to somewhere that even the thoughts of you wouldn’t pierce." Her voice faltered as her hand rose slowly, pointing toward the darkened moon, its edges kissed with a faint sliver of silver. "But it didn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t craft. I couldn’t do anything because all I could think about… was you. And how I ran away. And how afraid I was… to lose you."

Those heterochromatic green eyes of his never left her own, absorbing every word, every breath. "Afraid. She was afraid," he thought, recalling that night over a week ago. How could he have missed it? But he wouldn't have known. "Tsch…" he started, then faltered. The hand that had been holding her cheek gently moved to her outstretched hand, still pointed toward the heavens. He brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles, now marked with scars. His lips felt warm against her cold fingers, sending a rush of heat through her, from the inside out.

A soft breeze brushed through, brushing their hair against the wind as his fingers gently entangled with hers. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her scarred knuckles, his breath warm against her chilled skin. “You will not lose me, Tsch,” he whispered, his voice carrying a quiet, unshakable promise. He let the words linger in the air, his gaze never leaving hers. His exhaustion was evident in the way his shoulders slumped, but he held on, his resolve steady.

“Do you remember the words I said that night?” He paused, his voice growing even softer, as though he wanted to cradle her in the warmth of his words. “That you are my sword, and I am your shield. That you do not have to fight alone.” Carefully, he pulled her a little closer, his embrace a silent reassurance. “I meant every word, Tsch. You don’t need to be afraid… because there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”

Her breath hitched at his confession, the weight of his words pulling at her heartstrings. Each syllable seemed to echo in her chest, and she felt her tears return in full force. "I'm sorry," she whispered again, her voice trembling. Each tear was caught by his fingers, wiping them away with gentle care as he pulled her to his chest, holding her close. "You do not need to apologize." His voice was soft, steady. "If you are afraid, I will be here to reassure you." He whispered into her hair, recalling her steady presence when the storm had broken him, her arms a sanctuary against his fears. "You were there for me when I was terrified… let me do the same for you."

His own tears slowly trickled down his cheek as he tightened his hold, as if she might disappear right before his eyes. They sobbed in each other's presence, afraid to break this fragile peace. A shiver ran down her spine as the wind brushed against her bruises, making him pull back to look at her, his hands gently cupping her face once more. "I will not leave, Tsch. This I promise."

Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain, but she slowly nodded. "I believe you... yet, I am still scared." Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of her vulnerability. For a moment, the fear lingered in her gaze, but then she saw it—the soft smile that tugged at his lips. Gentle and steady, a silent reassurance she didn’t know she needed. "That's okay. It's okay to be scared. I am too. But if you want... we can go through this together."

The tension in her chest eased as the words sank in, and she exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding in. It came out shaky but lighter, like letting go of a weight she’d carried too long. Slowly, she leaned into his touch, letting his warmth surround her. "Okay." That single word, simple as it was, carried more meaning than anything else she could have said.

That was all he needed to hear. With a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before pulling back. With gentle care, he shifted his arms to cradle her more securely and slowly rose to his feet, holding her close as if afraid to let her go. “Okay,” he whispered, his voice as steady as his embrace. “We can be scared together.” His steps carried them toward the front door, slow and deliberate, with Steve trailing faithfully behind.

“Let’s get inside,” he murmured, his eyes flicking down to Steve nudging his legs. He gave a faint chuckle, the sound warm and light. “I think every plushie inside has missed you… Steve especially.” His smile softened as he glanced at her, his heart stirring at the way she rested so comfortably in his arms. Carefully, he adjusted his hold, freeing one hand to ease the door open.

As it creaked, the warmth of the house welcomed them back, a sense of life returning with every familiar sight—the plushies neatly arranged, the quiet hum of the space filled with the feeling of home. It made him pause for a moment, feeling in awe of how much it had been waiting for her return. With each step he took inside, the house felt more welcoming. The coldness that had stilled here disappeared. The plushies moving from their stagnant arrangement towards the pair as they descended the stairs. His eyes looked to hers with such softness as they made it down to the second floor, towards the bathroom.

The cool air of the bathroom brushed against her skin as he carried her inside, the soft click of the light switch echoing in the quiet. A warm glow filled the room as he balanced her carefully to turn it on with his elbow, then moved toward the counter. He placed her down gently, the chill of the countertop making her flinch with a soft hiss before she settled.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring. She watched as he stepped out, the sound of his retreating footsteps leaving a momentary stillness in the room. He returned quickly, holding a familiar, oversized garment in his hands—his shirt. “Figured you’d want something more comfortable to sleep in,” he said, his smile soft and inviting as he placed it beside her. “I hope this is okay?”

A blush crept upon her cheek as she glanced down at the shirt before returning her gaze to his. "Yeah, it’s okay." The smile he gave her after her response made her heart flutter, and she turned away slightly, avoiding the warmth of his inviting gaze. After a beat, she leaned down to take off her shoes, but his hands gently stopped her. "Let me take care of you," he said softly, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "But I can—" she began, only for his words to cut through her hesitation. "You don’t have to say anything… just let me help."

Her hands paused mid-motion as his words settled in, carrying with them a quiet reassurance that melted her protest. Slowly, she leaned back against the mirror, letting out a small sigh of surrender. "Okay," she murmured, her voice barely audible. Moving closer, Donovan’s hands moved with practiced care, his fingers brushing gently against her calf as he reached for the first shoe.

He worked in silence, his focus unshakable as he loosened the laces and slipped it off. The soft thud it made on the floor echoed in the stillness, followed soon by its pair. His hands lingered for a moment, warmth seeping into her chilled skin before they retreated. He looked up at her then, his gaze steady yet tender, as though silently asking for permission to continue.

With a nod, she watched as he carefully removed her torn socks, letting them fall softly to the floor. The light accentuated the scars on her skin, making his heart ache as he cradled her ankle in his hand, his fingers gently massaging it. She winced, instinctively pulling her leg away, but he held it steady in his grasp, his eyes soft with understanding. She sighed, relaxing as his tender touch eased the tension, the warmth of his hand a quiet comfort against her bruised skin.

After a moment, he stood, his movements slow and tentative. His hands hovered at the hem of her shirt, his voice barely more than a whisper. "May I?" He had an inkling there might be more bruises beneath, but he wanted to be sure she felt safe, giving her the space to say no if she wanted.

She hesitated for just a moment before nodding, her breath shaky as she allowed him to gently lift her shirt, setting it down on the counter. Underneath, her skin was dotted with a mix of cuts and bruises, some fresh, some already darkened with time. Donovan's chest tightened at the sight. "Tsch… what happened?" he asked softly, his voice heavy with concern, as his fingers brushed gently over a bruise, unable to mask the hurt in his eyes.

Her eyes followed his as he carefully examined the bruises on her torso. She looked away, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. "The monsters on the moon..." she began, her voice distant, as his fingers traced lightly over a bruise near her underboob tattoo, just under the edge of her bra. The gentle touch sent a wave of heat to her cheeks, a deep crimson staining her skin. She flinched when his hand withdrew, and he moved toward the sink cabinet, rummaging for ointment and band-aids. He returned with both, his movements slow and deliberate as he applied the ointment to the bruises and gently placed the band-aids over the smaller cuts.

"I can handle anything that's thrown my way…" she continued, her voice trembling slightly. "But I couldn't focus, and kept missing every shot. Their attacks… they felt harder." She let her gaze return to his, then lowered it to his hands, watching as he carefully massaged the ointment into her skin, not overstepping her space. "My mind kept returning to you." She admitted softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Their eyes met once again, and he moved his hand to the deep cut on her cheek, dabbing it gently with ointment before rubbing it in with tender care.

With how close he was to her, it was impossible to miss the dark circles beneath his eyes—the exhaustion etched into every line of his face as he fought to stay steady for her, ensuring she was okay, cared for. After carefully pressing the last bandaid to her cheek, his hand lingered there, warm and steady. Slowly, he let his forehead rest against hers, their closeness offering a fragile sense of peace. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment, he simply stayed there, holding her gaze in the quiet. He wanted to say something—anything—to ease the ache in his chest after hearing her struggles on the moon, but no words came.

"Argos found me," she whispered, her voice soft, yet trembling with the weight of her emotions. "The golden dog? He brought me home because… I wanted to come home. I wanted to confront this fear… I wanted to see you, Donovan." Her fingers moved hesitantly, clutching at his shirt as though grounding herself in his presence. Vulnerability rippled through her words, her voice faltering. "I missed you."

It was faint, almost swallowed by the quiet between them, but he heard it. His eyes opened slowly, their tired depths meeting hers with a tenderness that stole her breath. "...I missed you too," he murmured, his voice low and filled with unspoken longing. A quiet peace settled over them, delicate and warm, as his gaze traced her cheek. His thumb moved instinctively, brushing softly along the line of her jaw, as if committing her to memory in that fragile moment.

As the bathroom grew warmer with the quiet comfort of their connection, Donovan slowly pulled back, his forehead leaving hers with a lingering softness. “I should let you get changed,” he murmured, his voice tinged with hesitation. Scratching the back of his head awkwardly, he added, “I’ll turn around.”

True to his word, he pivoted on his heel, his movements stiff with uncertainty as he faced the door. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel uncomfortable, especially now, but a part of him wrestled with the instinct to stay closer. His hands clenched briefly at his sides before relaxing, settling for offering her space.

Behind him, Donovan caught the faint sound of her soft chuckle, light and fleeting, easing the tension that had settled between them. Then came the gentle rustle of fabric as she moved, the quiet noises filling the warm space between them. The glowing light illuminated the small bathroom, but the true warmth now came from something else entirely—something unspoken.

Her fingers fumbled as she reached for her pants, the fabric tugging against her bruised legs. She winced, the movement sending a sharp sting up her side, and let out a frustrated sigh. Donovan's ears caught the sound, his shoulders tensing instinctively, but he stayed turned away, his respect for her privacy unwavering. She gritted her teeth, working through the pain, and eventually managed to slide them off, her movements slow and careful.

The relief was palpable as she folded her discarded clothes and reached for his shirt. Pulling it over her head, the oversized fabric draped loosely over her, its warmth and scent a quiet comfort. She paused for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his shoulders, feeling a flicker of gratitude mixed with something deeper settle in her chest.

"I should be good now," she murmured, her voice quiet but steady, and he slowly turned around, unable to stop the quick flutter in his chest at the sound. His eyes widened in their tired state when they landed on her—she was wearing his shirt. His breath caught, and he couldn’t help but cover his mouth with his hand as a flush crept up his neck, his electrope heart stuttering in his chest.

"Y-yeah. Okay," he finally managed, his voice betraying the rush of emotions he felt but couldn't quite articulate. He stepped closer to her, trying to focus, though his gaze kept flicking back to her bare legs—bruised, marked with scars, a reminder of the pain she’d endured. Kneeling down carefully, his hands gently began to tend to the fresh injuries, his touch soft and methodical, each movement filled with a tenderness that spoke volumes. He noticed how her gaze softened, the subtle appreciation in her eyes not lost on him.

"Thank you, Donovan," she said quietly, her voice full of warmth. He met her gaze, the simple words a balm to his own exhaustion. "You do not need to thank me. I feel like you would do the same for me." She gave him a soft smile, her voice barely a whisper. "I would do the same for you." After tending to the last bruise, he put away the bandages and cream before letting his hands gently wrap under her again, lifting her with a tenderness that made his heart stutter in his chest. Though he knew she could probably walk on her own, he didn't want to put any strain on her. His feet carried him out of the bathroom, switching off the light with his elbow before heading down the hall toward her room.

The stuffed animals that had been waiting patiently outside the bathroom followed them with quiet patters, Steve leading the way. "They really missed you," he said with a soft smile, his voice carrying a gentle fondness. She glanced over, her lips curving slightly as she noticed the little procession behind them. "I can tell," she murmured, the warmth of his care wrapping around her like a blanket. He turned a bit, letting his back nudge the door open. The warmth of her room felt inviting once again, no longer the cold emptiness that lingered when she was gone.

His exhaustion weighed heavily on him as he guided her toward the bed, his movements unhurried and gentle. As he eased her down onto the soft covers, she shifted slightly, finding comfort in the embrace of the familiar. He lingered for a moment, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her cheek in a quiet gesture of care. “Goodnight,” he murmured softly, his voice a low whisper in the stillness. He rubbed his eyes, every ounce of him pleading for rest as he turned to leave. But he froze mid-step, his breath catching when her hand reached out, fingers curling gently around his wrist.

Her touch was cool and delicate against his warm skin, tethering him to the moment. He turned back, their eyes meeting in the dim light that filtered through the room. She didn’t say a word, but the unspoken plea in her gaze was impossible to miss. With a gentle tug, she urged him closer, her silent request speaking volumes. He hesitated, his heart beating louder than the quiet around them. Was this okay? Should he ask? The words hovered on his tongue but never found their way out. Instead, he exhaled, surrendering to instinct as he toed off his shoes and socks. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his shirt over his head, the fabric rustling in the hush of the room.

Her gaze lingered, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders, the scars that mapped his skin, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. Her eyes traveled lower, drawn to the tattoos that adorned his chest—a masterpiece of intricate designs that seemed to shift in the dim light. She traced the bold lines and delicate details with her eyes, captivated by the stories they seemed to tell. Her hand hovered as if she might reach out to touch them, but she hesitated, her fingers curling inward.

He felt his pulse quicken under the weight of her attention, each moment heavy with unspoken meaning. She wasn’t just looking; she was studying, as though committing every scar, every stitch, and every inked line to memory. It was the way her gaze softened when it fell on the seams she had so carefully mended, a silent acknowledgment of what she had given him—life, strength, and something more profound.

The bed dipped slightly as he crawled in beside her, moving with care as though afraid to disturb the fragile serenity between them. His arms encircled her, his hand resting lightly against her waist as he nestled close. The warmth of her back pressed against his chest, and he breathed in deeply, her scent filling his senses—a soothing mix of something earthy and sweet that grounded him.

Their fingers brushed, and she intertwined hers with his, the small but deliberate act speaking of a trust she couldn’t yet voice. In the quiet, their breaths synchronized, a gentle rhythm that lulled them both toward peace. As her body relaxed fully against him, his lips ghosted a soft kiss against the crown of her head, a quiet promise as they finally let sleep claim them.

Chapter 5 Part 3 Here

[loveaffairxc]

It felt like there had been no dream, no nightmare—just an empty, black void where time ceased to exist. Frank floated in that nothingness until a distant sound reached him. A bell. Faint at first, muffled by the weight of sleep. The second ring cut through a little sharper, pulling him closer to consciousness, tugging him from the abyss. But he wasn't fully awake, not yet. His arm was draped over Esther, or at least, it felt like it. The warmth of her body seemed to seep into his skin, comforting, familiar. She shifted beneath his arm, the movement soft and natural, and he sank into the peace of it. It felt real, like they were still together, like nothing had changed. But then something shifted.

Esther turned slowly in his arms, her face blurry at first, like he was still stuck somewhere between sleep and waking. It all felt drowsy, almost peaceful, as if he could sink back into it. But as her face came into sharper focus, something shifted. The blur cleared, and all he saw was bright red. The dark, open wound on her forehead bled out, deep and wet, the crimson spreading slowly. His eyes tracked the blood as it began to drip from her nose, inching its way down her pale, ashen skin. Her eyes—once so familiar—stared back at him, wide and vacant, completely devoid of life.

It hit him all at once, fast, like the ground had dropped out beneath him. His heart slammed against his chest, breath hitching in his throat as his hand flailed across the sheets, searching for her. He grasped for any sign of her warmth, but there was nothing—just cold, empty fabric beneath his fingers. His breath came heavy, chest rising and falling as he blinked into the morning light, slowly realizing he was alone.

Then his eyes shot open violently, the harsh morning light from the window attacking him, too bright, too real. He blinked hard, his chest heaving, his upper body propped up as the world around him slowly came into focus. His heart still raced, his breath unsteady, but the nightmare was over.

He sat there, his hand still resting on the bed, a strange tremor running through his fingers. The space where Esther should have been was empty. Slowly, he lifted his hand, watching the subtle, involuntary shaking. Frowning, he grabbed it with his other hand, squeezing to steady it. With a deep breath, he pushed himself up from the bed.

He moved toward the bedside table, pulling open the drawer. The gun was still there, just as he had placed it when he first came to this house, meant to protect Esther, meant to keep her safe. But now, looking at it, the weight of the dream still clung to him. He wasn’t sure if he believed in bad omens, but the urge to have it nearby was stronger than ever. He closed the drawer, slower this time, letting the thought of danger recede as his chest loosened. Moving toward the window, he pushed the curtain aside, just slightly. Outside, he saw Emily. Of course. She was here. And in that moment, it hit him—he had completely forgotten. Her voice floated up from the yard, muffled by the glass and distance, but he could just make it out.

"Frank! It’s me, old man!"

The familiar, playful tone barely reached him, as if the world outside wasn’t quite real yet. He squinted down, scanning the yard, and then he saw her waiting, hands on her hips, her lips curling into a smile just as her expression then shifted—surprise flashing across her face when Esther opened the door instead. He hoped the exchange would be brief, certain that after last night, the jealousy and uncertainty had faded. There was no room for it anymore. Not after everything that had been said.

Still, something pulled him to move. He left the bedroom, the familiar creak of the door barely registering in his ears and stepped out into the hallway, making his way to the staircase. The wooden banister, lined with thin, worn-down spindles, offered a point of support as he leaned against it to peer down at the front door, his forearms resting on the polished wood, his right hand dangling loosely, the gun held lightly between his fingers.

From his vantage point, he could see Esther and Emily below, this time, their voices were clear. He could hear the fake politeness in Emily’s tone, a contrast to the sincerity she had shown at the gala. "Oh, Esther, it's good to see you!" she said, her voice almost too cheerful. "Is Frank around? I brought his favorite dog" She smiled, but there was a tightness in her tone. As she spoke, the dog wagged his tail, moving forward eagerly. With a playful smile spreading across her face, she bent down to pet him. She switched to that high-pitched, sing-song voice. "Oh yes, yes, you’re his favorite, aren’t you?"

Esther returned his kiss, silently vowing to make things right between them. He was her husband, her best friend, her lover, her Frank. No one else could ever fill the space he’d carved out in her life, no matter how much time or distance had come between them.

As his hands tightened around her waist, holding her as if she might slip away, she wondered how they’d ever drifted so far apart. She’d always loved him, but the war and the separation had cast a shadow over everything they once shared. Yet now, pressed against him, that distance felt like a memory they could finally let go of.

"Will you stay with me tonight?" She whispered against his lips, her voice soft but filled with a quiet urgency. “Here, in our bed.”

They settled into bed as though the years between them had melted away, folding into each other with the ease of old lovers who knew every curve, every line, every secret of each other’s bodies. Esther pressed her face to the warm, familiar expanse of Frank’s chest, breathing in the scent of him, something she’d thought she’d lost forever. His arms encircled her, drawing her close until she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. Her eyes fluttered to a close, and for the first time in a long while she drifted off into a peaceful slumber, closed off from all the worries of the world outside.

----------

Soft and golden light pooled through the curtains, spilling delicately across the bed. Esther blinked against it, still finding herself tangled in the warmth of Frank’s embrace, his arm slung over her waist, heavy and possessive even in his sleep. She lay still for a moment, savouring the moment and the feel of his breath against the back of her neck like a half remembered dream before slipping from his grasp, her movements slow and deliberate so as not to wake him. Frank stirred briefly, but he didn’t wake.

Downstairs, the house was cool and quiet. She moved through it, her bare feet whispering against the worn floorboards. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, the slow hiss of steam rising as she went about the small, comforting tasks that marked the beginning of each day. Outside, the sun was climbing higher, burning off the last traces of mist as she opened the back door and stepped into the crisp air. She breathed it in, relishing the cold bite against her cheeks, and set to work, her fingers quickly unpinning the washing that had hung overnight, replacing it with fresh linens that flapped cheerfully in the morning breeze.

Thomas appeared from his usual perch on the garden wall, winding himself around her ankles with a grumbling purr. She bent to scratch his head, then made her way back indoors to pour him a small saucer of milk. He gladly accepted it, his rough pink tongue flicking it up.

She reached for the dress that lay draped over the back of a chair. It’d been one of her favourites, but now the hem was torn, the fabric frayed from Frank’s impatient hands the night before. She smiled faintly at the memory, the needle threading easily through her fingers as she set to work. She mended it in silence, the steady pull of the thread a calming feeling to her. That was until the sudden, jarring chime of the doorbell broke the silence.

She jumped, the needle slipping and pricking her thumb. A hiss leaked from her lips, and she brought the finger to her mouth as the chime echoed through the house once more. She hurriedly leapt to her feet to open the door, only to find Emily standing on the threshold.

[deusluxuria]

Concept: Sorbet + Gelato Stands

(Inspirations:

"House of Leaves" book by Mark Z Danielewski

"Curve" short film by Tim Egan

"Skinamarink" film by Kyle Edward Ball)

Stand names:

Gelato: Disposition

Sorbet: Reflection

Combined name: Triad

(all three songs by the band TOOL that are not only next to each other on the album but bleed into one another and are therefore usually listened to in succession rather than individually)

Their Stands are just about powerless individually, but they combine into one Stand.

Disposition manipulates matter into nonsensical architecture (i.e. windows and doors with nothing on the other side, stairs leading nowhere, hallways that continuously stretch into infinity). These structures begin with a threshold such as an ordinary room or a closet. But once the victim is within the threshold, the structure continuously changes at varying degrees and speeds, not visible to anyone outside of the threshold.

Reflection creates a substance that swallows all light, causing impenetrable darkness. Even halogen lamps inside this darkness can't illuminate beyond a few inches in front of the lamps. Victims can only navigate the darkness by touch and movement, and even then, Reflection consumes not only light, but matter and space.

Combined into Triad, an illogical void that destroys hope. Victims unknowingly enter the structure and are cast into ever-changing, growing and shrinking nothingness. Triad's space has arctic temperatures, but the cold is dull and comes on unnoticeably slow.

When Gelato and Sorbet have decided they're done tormenting their prey, Triad, from the outside, collapses in on itself until it disappears. The victim on the inside either experiences this as the structure slowly closing in on them, death by hypothermia, or the complete darkness and silence eating their last grip on awareness of their very existence.

If an enemy of Passione has gone utterly missing with not a shred of DNA left behind -- seemingly swallowed into oblivion -- it was probably Sorbet and Gelato's work.

There is supposedly existing footage taken by a victim who managed to bring a camera into Triad's abyss; a victim who was being tortured by the pair for months on end, and who had left the camera outside of Triad's threshold before the final instance of Triad exiling them out of existence. Even scientists who see the footage usually dismiss it as a pretentious art project wherein the filmmaker left the lens cap on for most of the recording.

Disposition, Reflection, and Triad do not have corporeal forms. However, victims consumed by Triad's void can sometimes hear a terrible groaning somewhere in its impossible tunnels. While it sounds like the roars of a monster to some, others think its the sound of the architecture transforming.

Sorbet and Gelato don't have to be anywhere near Triad for the structure to exist, but they do have to be within range for the victim to enter or exit it.

Any number of Triad's structures can exist at once. The pair can have multiple victims in different locations, and can simply abandon them in these spaces until said victims die of starvation.

The only reason Sorbet and Gelato were successfully murdered despite the strength of their Stand was because Doppio (ordered by Diavolo to murder them -- much to Doppio's dismay since the pair had always been so nice to him) could use King Crimson's foresight ability to avoid being trapped. Although Doppio never showed his face the whole time he took out the execution, no one in Passione who knows Doppio has ever seen his Stand or what it can do. Doppio had only been known to use solid weapons.

Similarly, Gelato and Sorbet like to use solid weapons (particularly explosives, which they were efficient with), and no one in Passione who stays on their good side has seen their Stand in action. Otherwise, the two are known to threaten fellow Passione mafiosi by trapping them, for varying amounts of time depending on how badly they've been insulted.

Most who experience Triad and live to tell are noticeably terrified afterwards, and some develop intense fear of the dark, nightmares, paranoia, and claustrophobia; making a bold note to themselves never to cross those two again.

[duck-in-a-spaceship]

say it back

More House M.D. fanfic! This time with ~chapters~ Also, this is mostly pre-written, so I should update pretty regularly. It's just four chapters, but if anyone wants to be tagged in future updates, lmk

Summary: What if when House tells Wilson he loves him, Wilson says it back?

Well, naturally they turn to humor until “I love you”, “I love you too” becomes the most convoluted, gayest inside joke ever. And then of course they realize they mean it.

Word Count: 2373

Warnings: Near-death experience

Next>>

+++

Chapter 1: Diagnosing the Afterlife

House is dead.

Well, alright, he probably isn’t, but he’s definitely on his way there.

And, in a way, that was his goal, so… hooray for him. If he ends up not-dead, he’ll have to host a celebration. A celebration where he proves that the afterlife, right before it collapses into nothingness, is just his office painted in a stark white.

Every pen, every picture, every fiber of carpet has had its color sucked away. Little details, grooves on the wood and dust on his knick knacks, have been consumed by the startling lack of color. Static, the one exception in the room, fizzles on House’s computer.

Outside of his office there’s true nothingness. A void of white shines on the other side of every window, every stupid pane of glass that surrounds him. If House’s body gives up, it’s easy to imagine me might end up walking out the glass doors and disintegrating into nothing.

It’s a tempting offer, if he thinks about it for too long, so House decides not to entertain it.

Instead, he pushes himself to his feet with his cane (it’s an action of habit, he notes; no pain burns in his leg) and crosses the room to his whiteboard.

“Alright team.” House addresses no one, uncaps the marker with a flourish. “Differential, go.”

“It’s not cancer. If it was, we wouldn’t be seeing-”

“No, not the patient.” In big, messy letters, House titles the board ‘Afterlife’. He taps the marker against the writing, turning around to face his suddenly materialized crew. Every single one of his potential employees is crammed into that room, shoulder-to-shoulder, knee-to-knee. One of the twins is sitting on the other's lap. If he looks at Big Love out of the corner of his eye, he starts to phase into Kutner. Not enough room in purgatory, apparently, for everyone to exist without physics breaking down. It was Cutthroat Bitch that felt the need to start giving him the wrong differential, and House points an accusatory marker her way. “You’re lucky that wasn’t actually you saying that, otherwise you’d be fired.”

She has the skill to look confused and offended at the same time. “That’s our patient. Who else are we supposed to be…?”

House turns back to his whiteboard.

“Right now, there’s not much I can do to help Toto and crippled Dorothy, and since none of you are real-” ‘White nothingness’, ‘Physics breakdown’ and ‘Familiar scenery’ are all added to the list as symptoms. “-there’s nothing you can do either.” The tip of his cane slams onto the ground to punctuate his point. It passes right through Taub’s foot. “Come on people! Differential!”

“You’re dead.” It’s Thirteen that pipes up that time, and House mentally fires her too.

“No I’m not. I’m almost dead. I’m on the tightrope with death, and the next person that says something stupid is going to be pushing me off.” Forget euphoria, forget the most ‘intense thing he’s ever done’, House’s version of almost dying was just a more migraine-inducing taste of reality.

“You’re having a near-death experience,” Taub corrects.

“Obvious, but not incorrect,” House grants him. “So, if this is near-death, then what’s that?” The tip of his cane moves up, through Taub, and points out the glass door into the shining abyss.

“That’s Wilson.”

“What?” House turns his head. Wilson is standing at the entrance to his office, the glass door to death still swinging closed behind him. He looks more real than anything House has seen since he stuck a knife into a socket. The applicants disappear. “Are you happy?” Wilson asks. He steps further into the room, bringing the gravitational pull of reality with him. Color flows into House’s office, shadows deepening every time Wilson’s foot hits the ground, details filling out where House hadn’t even noticed they were missing.

House blinks, and he’s suddenly seated at his desk, one foot propped up like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his cane mid-twirl in his hand. The only evidence that the past several minutes happened at all is the whiteboard still titled ‘Afterlife’, and the unnatural white still shining in from outside.

House fumbles with his cane, and it slips out of his fingers.

“Well?” Wilson demands. “Are you happy with yourself? Did you get your answer?”

“Well I was going to, if you hadn’t interrupted my differential.”

Wilson rolls his eyes. “Oh please, you were practically holding Taub’s hand. You already had your answer.” He leans down and picks up House’s cane, offering it to him by the handle. House drums his fingers on the desk, ignoring the gesture.

“Sure, but it’s more fun if you let them figure it out too. Sharing is caring, that’s what I always say.”

“House, take your damn cane.”

Well, it would be rude to turn down such a polite request. House snatches his cane from Wilson’s grip, and slams it into his foot.

“Ow! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Huh, real enough to feel pain, even. Take that, Taub. “This is the land of near-death,” House announces.

“Was that really necessary?”

Wilson’s question goes unanswered. “And that-” House once again points towards the white void that shines outside his windows. “-is death. All that nothingness. No God, no long-lost family members, no paradise, no heaven or hell. Just nothing.”

“And do you feel better now, with your proof that every dying patient clinging onto a little bit of hope is a moron?”

“Oh for sure, real weight off my shoulders. They’ll be thrilled to hear the news.” Pain runs up and down his leg like wires carrying electricity. It feels like his foot fell asleep, and now it’s waking up again, lighting his nerves on fire. House rubs one hand over the muscles, trying to relieve some of the tension, but it only makes him realize the pain is not limited to his leg. It burns in his hand as well, tingling in the palm and spreading out to sizzle in his fingers.

“Of course! What dying person doesn’t want their final comfort taken away?” Wilson is prattling on. “You should tell them their existence was meaningless next. That’ll really… Are you okay?”

“Well, I’m about to start living again, which is annoying.”

Wilson sighs, a comfortingly familiar sound. “Better than the alternative, at least.”

“We could just compromise. No dying, no living, I’ll just stay here. Become the new Coma Guy that my replacement can use as a table for his sandwiches.”

“Why would you want to stay here? I mean, no cases to solve, no Cuddy to torture, no team to play games with. You’d hate it here. It’s nothingness, it’s banal, it’s everything you try so hard to avoid.”

“Well the lack of pain has been nice. Besides, you’re still here for me to torture. I’d have you.”

Wilson shakes his head, briefly looking up at the ceiling before his eyes settle back on House. The pain in his leg is reaching reality-levels of excruciation, and the pain everywhere else is catching up fast. It makes it hard to focus, when Wilson walks around House’s desk, when he leans down so their faces are nearly touching.

He looks like he’s about to say something. He doesn’t, so House thinks about taking up the mantle instead. There’s something to be said here, he knows that. It’s what that eludes him.

Then again, maybe there isn’t something to say, because all the sudden, Wilson is kissing him.

House’s brain has run over time again. It skipped the part where Wilson settled on his lap, stuttered over the seconds where he placed one hand on House’s cheek, ignored the moment where he moved his other to House’s leg.

They must have happened, because they are happening, but the connective tissue is gone.

House decides it’s not really worth questioning, not at the moment at least.

Imagining kissing Wilson isn’t something House has liked to make a hobby of, but if he had ever given it a shot, he probably would’ve come up with something like this. Something with soft lips, with overeager zeal, with just enough gentleness to make House want more.

After a moment, a moment too long and a moment too soon, Wilson pulls away. House doesn’t know what to do but stare up at him in shock. He’s pretty sure he’s dying, now, but he doesn’t know how to say that, either.

Wilson sighs, pulling his hand away from House’s cheek. House tries to stop him, tries to grab onto his lingering fingers, but he must grab onto his sleeve instead, his hand closing on soft fabric. One of his ears is ringing, pulsating in what sounds like high-pitched beeps.

Wilson shakes his head, at least, he probably shakes his head. It’s getting a little hard to see, through the blinding white suddenly shining through the windows.

“You’re an idiot.”

It takes a moment for those words to sink in. More accurately, it takes a moment for House to realize that Wilson has said them out loud, that the brightness he’s squinting into is not a white void, but simply the hospital’s lights shining above him, that he’s not sitting at his desk, but in a bed. God it’s bright.

“You nearly killed yourself,” Wilson continues, as if they weren’t just having an entirely different conversation, an entirely different scene.

House blinks. Wilson is dressed differently, a simple dark green shirt instead of the lab coat he was just wearing, but other than that, he’s identical to the pseudo-Wilson House was just talking to, down to his expression: frustration mixed with annoyance mixed with concern. “That was the whole idea,” House points out.

“You wanted to kill youself?”

“I wanted to nearly kill myself,” House corrects. Wilson just stares, incredulous, the concern in his expression multiplying. Which is ridiculous. He should be relieved, all things considered. Trying to nearly kill himself was much better than the alternative.

House looks away. “Is he… better?” He has bigger things to worry about than Wilson’s concern. He can’t let this experiment have been for nothing.

Wilson just shakes his head, defeated. “No, but he doesn’t have cancer. We think it might be eosinophilic pneumonia. Maybe you didn’t want to die-” Oh great, he’s back on this and he hasn’t even answered the question. “-but you didn’t care if you lived.”

“You insisted that I needed to see for myself.”

Wilson pushes away from the stand, takes a couple steps to the side. Another admission of defeat.

“Was he discharged?” House presses.

“No, he’s dying.” Wilson comes to his bedside, turning to face him. “You’ve already had two near death experiences.”

“Not that guy.” Why does everyone think House wants to talk about his patient? “The- the guy in the car accident. With the knife. I… I need to talk to him.”

“He… died almost an hour ago.” Wilson says it like it’s obvious, like he’s confused why House would even be asking. “Apparently it’s bad to electrocute yourself within days of suffering massive internal injuries.”

Goddamnit. House presses his head against his pillow, closing his eyes. The one person he might like to talk to right now, have questions for, is dead.

“Why did you need to talk to him?” House doesn’t give Wilson an answer. What the hell is he supposed to say? I diagnosed the afterlife in my office? You were there? We made out at my desk? “Did you see something?” Wilson presses, and if House was just a little less rational, he would’ve swore that Wilson knew, somehow. Knew what he had seen, had been there, even.

“Eosinophilic pneumonia.” House opens his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. It’s easier, currently, than looking at Wilson. The old, dirty tiles are a strange comfort. The blinding lights are all-too familiar.

“House? What did you see?” Wilson asks. House doesn’t need to look at his face to know he’s switched to full-blown concern; it’s practically leaking out of his vocal chords. Can’t be healthy, really, having that much care for another human being.

“Nothing,” House answers on instinct. He looks over at Wilson. “Whose idea was that?”

“Brennan. Nothing you don’t want to talk about it, or nothing-?”

“Which one’s Brennan?” House cuts him off, and they’re back to their old dance, two conversations fighting for dominance. “Is he the ridiculously old guy?”

“House, you gotta talk about this.”

“If it’s aggressive enough, it might have gotten past the steroids.” House flexes his burnt hand, testing how far he can push the pain. “Start him on cyclophosphamide.”

“I already did.” Regret taints Wilson’s voice, although House isn’t exactly sure what he’s regretting. Encouraging him to try and get a taste of the afterlife? Not being able to convince House to open up about what he saw? Becoming friends with him in the first place? “Just looking at you hurts,” he continues, grabbing the clipboard from the side of House’s bed. “I’m gonna order up some extra pain meds.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” It takes Wilson a moment, it seems, to process what he’s just said. His pen slows on the paper before stopping completely, cutting whatever he was writing off short. “I mean- ah. Well you… you know what I mean.” He starts writing again, like that will somehow do away with the pink that has spread across his cheeks.

“Do I?” House tilts his head to the side, like he’s really considering the question, like it’s really something that needs his consideration. “Honestly, I’m not sure I do. Care to elaborate?”

“You’re an ass.” Wilson glares at him, but the effect is entirely ruined by how completely flustered he is.

“And yet, you love me.”

“You said you love me too!” He gestures with the clipboard, brandishing it at House like a weapon. “I can’t-” He cuts himself off with a sigh. “I’ll come back later to make sure you haven’t found some new way to kill youself.”

“I’ll miss every second you’re away, darling!”

“Goodbye House!” The glass door clangs shuts behind him.

House smiles, looking back up to the dirtied tile and bright lights. Maybe his little brush with death wasn’t such a waste after all.

[archived-kin]

to save or sacrifice

this isn’t formatted like my usual writing posts since i don’t think it’s really long enough to qualify as one - i just wanted to post something real quick in the middle of this break i’ve taking

anyway remember all those theories that there was gonna be a point in windblume or the next archon quest where we have to decide beside sacrificing mondstadt to save venti or sacrificing venti to save mondstadt??? at the time of writing that hasn't happened but i thought i’d have a go at writing a little snippet of what might happen

i also made up this entire thing so if the ‘choose between venti and mondstadt’ thing does end up happening, this has nothing to do with it

pairing(s): venti/gn! reader

warning(s): description of blood/severe injury, mentioned death/depiction of corpses, general sad hours

Things were never meant to turn out this way.

It had just been a trip out of the city to take in the views from the peaks of Cape Oath and Starsnatch Cliff. It was meant to be opportunity to relax, to take a break from the constant hustle and bustle of commissions and bounties and everything else in between. Hand in hand with your lover, the two of you had enjoyed a long walk in the wilderness, wandering off the path and getting lost here and there, but never minding because you had each other’s company…

And now you stand in the middle of a ruined city, and the sky is falling.

There are bodies in the streets - bodies of people you do and don’t recognise, some maimed beyond recognition and some lying in such perfect repose that they might simply be sleeping among the rubble. Your city has been razed to the ground, houses burnt to ashes, until you can’t even recognise your own home.

Your chest is tight, legs aching as you run through the streets, searching for someone, anyone still alive, hoping against all hopes that your friends are safe somewhere. In the distance, you can see the hands of the Archon statue in the city plaza amongst the smoke and dust, raised high as if trying to catch the plummeting heavens.

Venti’s hand is in yours, squeezing tight as he sprints alongside you, his breaths coming in short, sharp bursts that disappear into the howling wind as soon as they come. He flinches at every body he passes, recoils at each ruined building, until he’s gasping for air through heaving sobs, but he refuses to stop moving, clinging onto the same hope as you do.

The two of you are adrift in an ocean in the midst of a storm, and this is the only way you can keep afloat.

You come to a stop in the plaza, staring up at the Archon statue’s blank face, eyes closed in repose even as its city burns around it. The smooth stone is untouched by ash or blood - and a painfully familiar figure stands in front of it.

“Good afternoon,” He says cheerfully, as if you’re simply a friend that he’s meeting for a stroll. “How nice of you to join me.”

“Kaeya,” You whisper, and the very wind around you seems to quieten at the name. He raises an eyebrow, smiling blankly. “Why…?”

“I am the last hope,” He answers flatly. “No stone can be left unturned.”

He reaches up to his eyepatch and pulls it away from his face, tossing it aside carelessly. You feel Venti tense beside you, squeezing your hand so tightly that it hurts. Slowly, surely, Kaeya opens his left eye.

Blue. Deep, shimmering blue flecked with gold - something beyond a Vision, beyond a Gnosis, beyond anything you could imagine. This is the power of the Abyss, the power of the deep, endless nothingness, the darkness that swallows the light at the end of the tunnel.

Kaeya looks at you, at the tears coursing down your face, at the way your body trembles, and gives a single, short laugh. “You know what you’ll have to do, don’t you?”

You stare at him. He turns and, without another word, walks away.

A moment later, Venti’s knees buckle beneath him, and you turn to catch him as he sinks to the floor. His arms wrap around your torso in a desperate embrace, his body shaking with barely held-back sobs against yours.

“My city,” He gasps, voice breaking. “My people.”

You gently pull him closer and set your chin on his head, not saying anything in reply. The smell of smoke on the wind is getting stronger.

Venti raises his head and meets your gaze with wide, haunted eyes. The expression on his face is one you’ll never forget for the rest of your days.

“You know what you’ll have to do, don’t you?” Kaeya’s words echo in your mind. You’ve known for a long time now. You know what’s happening, no matter how desperately you try to deny it, and it is your fault for not warning everyone of what was to come, your fault that the city has fallen, your fault that so many lives have been lost—

“[Name],” Venti whispers, face crumpled, “I don’t want to die.”

—and perhaps it will be your fault that the city will never be rebuilt.

The storm wails around you. Mondstadt is falling.

What choice will you make?

[zenith-impact]

Riptide - Part Six

Read on AO3 here!

[1] - [2] - [3] - [4] - [5]

It was Hu Tao who woke you up, tearing off all the blankets and ripping the curtains open. “Come on!” She snapped as she put her hands on her hips. “I’m not letting you sleep the day away any longer.”

“It’s almost dinnertime,” You said, glaring at her. “You might as well let me sleep.”

“Bath. Now.”

So, you got up. And as you settled into the warm water, you felt a strange sense of peace. It had been three days since you’d been kicked out of your home, and you’d spent most of it asleep. Childe hadn’t come by as far as you were aware, though you weren’t certain he even knew where you were. A part of you felt bad, but the rest of you thought it didn’t really matter. He could handle his Fatui business without you. All he’d want to do is spar again, something you weren’t interested in. Though it might do your muscles some good to get back out there. Sleeping away the days hadn’t done you any favors. 

A knocking sound echoed into the bathroom. You heard Hu Tao swing open the door. “Mr. Zhongli!” She yelled. “What are you doing here?”

You got out of the bathtub and reached for your towel, listening. But Zhongli’s voice was much quieter, and you couldn’t pick up on anything. At least, not until a second voice spoke up as loudly as Hu Tao.

“Where is she?”

You froze, surprised at the hint of desperation in Childe’s voice. Had he truly missed you that badly? Surely not. He was a Harbinger and had other, more important things to do than worry about you. Though you did feel guilty. You probably should have told him before vanishing without a trace. But you weren’t exactly thinking straight and hadn’t been for a few days. 

“She’s busy,” Hu Tao said. “So you can either sit down or…”

“I need to talk to her.”

“Sit down then,” Hu Tao said. “She’ll be out in a bit.”

You could practically hear the annoyance in Childe’s sigh, but after a few quiet words from Zhongli, you heard Childe say, “Fine.”

A few minutes passed before you heard a second knock on the bathroom door. “You have visitors,” Hu Tao said cheerfully. 

“So I heard.”

“I can mess with them for a bit if you want.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you put on your clothes. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

“That’s just enough time…”

“He sounds on edge already,” You said. Hu Tao huffed, and you heard her walk away, asking the others if they wanted some tea. You brushed out your hair as you stared at yourself in the mirror. Your eyes seemed duller than usual, and your skin had gone all pale. You sighed, tying back your hair in something that resembled a bun. You were presentable at least, despite the bags under  your eyes that the shower hadn’t managed to dispel. You sighed, lowering your head as you stared into the black abyss of the sink. You wondered how long you’d have to wait before Childe left. 

Forever. You thought miserably. He was stubborn enough that you knew he would never leave. You reached into your pocket, wrapping your hand around the delusion. Was it time to show him? Would he want to take it from you? You weren’t sure what to do with it. Maybe it was best if he did, but a part of you wanted to keep it. Maybe you could learn how to use it. But who could possibly teach you how to use a delusion? 

Did you even want to learn? You saw what happened to the pyro guy. And you could still feel the ice clinging to your skin. You’d never been afraid of your powers before, but you were certainly doubting yourself now. 

You’re no better than her. 

A second knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts. “Are you done yet, girlie?” Childe said, his teasing tone strained by something else. “ You’re not spending all that time in there to impress me, are you?”

You snorted as you opened the door. “In your…” You paused, meeting his gaze. Despite the smile on his face, you could see pure relief in his eyes. But it was only for a second before his emotionless stare returned. You’d forgotten how dead inside he could make himself look if he wanted to, and it was still unsettling. His eyes were simply blue voids of nothingness, the same look he took on whenever he had something important to deal with, or the one he gave you when he was bored. “Dreams.” You finished lamely as you grabbed the towel and pushed past him. “It’s good to see you, Zhongli,” You said with a quick bow. Zhongli smiled, but his eyes drifted past you. 

“I came at his request,” Zhongli said as he sipped Hu Tao’s tea. His brow furrowed as he blinked rapidly for a few seconds before setting the cup down. “I see you have made your special brand of tea again, Hu Tao.”

“Only the best for you!” The woman said with a giggle. “You won’t make me throw it away, will you?”

Zhongli sighed. “No.” 

You sat down across from him as Childe stood awkwardly in the hallway, arms crossed as Hu Tao plopped down beside you. “Mr. Fatui Man is being grumpy,” she said as she ate some rice. “Come sit down!”

Slowly, Childe sat down beside Zhongli, legs crossed and hands grabbing his knees. But he stared at you, his fingers twitching every once and awhile. You decided against grabbing food as you met his gaze with your own. “What’s wrong, Childe?”

“Your father told you something.”

You froze, and you saw a flicker of a smile before his deadpanned expression returned. “Not… exactly,” you said as you glanced at Zhongli. He took another long sip of his tea before gently nodding in what you hoped was encouragement. You fingers twitched, longing to grab the delusion, but you waited, putting some rice on a plate as you took a deep breath. “My mother was killed by a delusion.” Hu Tao hadn’t been able to confirm the marks on your mother's hand, but you both agreed that your father wouldn’t have reacted the way he had if her mother had died under normal circumstances. You’d come to terms with it… for the most part. “One of Shing’s men, the anemo guy that was following me, showed up at my house looking for it.” 

Childe crossed his arms and closed his eyes. “So he was right.”

“Who?”

“Your father is involved somehow.”

You stared into the bowl of rice. You had already assumed such, but hearing it made your heart plummet. So the delusion you had was important, but why would Shing or whoever else the man was working for want it? They had plenty of other delusions. Surely one of them would have been good enough. Zhongli cleared his throat and you looked back up at him. He nodded a second time and you sighed, reaching into your pocket. Childe’s eyes widened when you placed the delusion on the table. “Where did you get this?” He asked, not touching it.

“My father.”

Childe set a new vision on the table, but this one you knew was wrong. It, too, should have been a hydro vision. But the markings inside were cracked and uneven. Even your delusion looked clean compared to that one. He put another one out - pyro - and it too looked broken. “Fake,” Childe said with a shake of his head. “They’re making knock-off delusions.”

“What?”

Childe unclipped his own vision and placed it on the table. You stared as it turned purple and new marks appeared. “This is a delusion,” He said. “Just like yours. But these other two delusions are fakes. I’m shocked they have any power at all.”

Zhongli hummed as he picked up one of the fakes. “They have very little,” he said. “I fear they may pull off of the user’s life instead of any latent powers.” He sat it back down before picking up yours. “Yes… they feel very different. Both are absorbing energy, but the fake delusion is more aggressive. It absorbs life itself… interesting.”

“That’s why that one pyro guy died then?”

“A regular delusion could have killed him just as easily,” Childe said. “But yes. It seems they’re mass making these things,” He pointed at the fakes. “And trying to give them out to as many people as possible.” 

“But why?” You said. 

“That I haven’t figured out yet.” Childe’s delusion returned to its hydro vision state as he clipped it back to his waist and pushed the hydro delusion toward you. You raised an eyebrow and he just smiled. “Keep it. I don’t need a second delusion.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Zhongli said. 

“Of course,” Childe said. “I’ll even teach her how to use it.”

You flinched as a cold feeling seeped on your chest. You reached for it, only to take a deep breath and pull your hand away. Childe’s eyebrow raised, but you quickly looked away. “I don’t know,” You said. “A delusion… is dangerous.”

“It’s easier for vision holders,” Childe said. “You’ve already got a start.”

“You just want another reason to fight me.”

“I’m not opposed,” Childe said with a wink. His eyes were still lifeless, and you could tell that he was thinking about something other than your conversation. For a brief moment, you thought he looked sad. Or maybe he was just tired. You couldn’t quite tell. “Besides, we’ve got a job to do.”

“Childe I…”

“I’m not leaving you alone anymore,” Childe said. “Not until I know what’s going on.” 

“I’m not alone here,” You said. 

“But you’re my partner,” Childe said. This time, his smile actually reached his eyes. “And I’m going to need a lot of help.”

“You don’t need me to fight.”

“But you want to.”

“I don’t know what I want to do,” You said. “And where do you expect me to live?”

“With me.”

You stared at him, mouth open as your brain struggled to come up with a quick response. “What?” You eventually said, shaking your head as you recovered into a scowl. “I’m not living with you.”

“Yes you are,” Childe said as he eagerly began scooping rice into his own bowl. “Because then you’re not putting anyone else’s life at risk.”

Again, you didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t wrong, but you also couldn’t imagine sharing any amount of space with him for a long period of time. Would everything be a competition? Would he drag you out of bed to spar every morning? Did he really want you to be by his side all the time, or would he just leave you at his place while he worked and check in on you? You’d be better off working at the funeral parlor with Hu Tao and Zhongli. But you had an agreement, one you’d made because your father wanted you to be safe. And, as angry as you were with him, you now understood why he’d been so insistent. You wished you had guessed this before. Maybe you should have talked to him sooner, but why would you have ever thought he gave you a delusion? Why would he trust you with something that killed your mother? You had so many questions, but weren’t sure if you wanted the answers. 

“Hey.”

You looked up, only to find that Childe had moved to sit beside you. “Don’t worry,” He said before trying to pick up a bite of rice with chopsticks and failing spectacularly. “We’ll figure this out.” 

“We can try talking to my dad,” You said. “Maybe he’ll know something.” You looked at the delusion and frowned. Childe reached out and pushed it toward you. “Childe…”

“Take it,” He said. “And don’t be afraid of it. You used it once before without a problem.”

You frowned. “When…” He glanced at you with a look of disbelief, and you realized what he meant. “So I was the one who ruined your weapons.”

Childe clicked his tongue and winked. “That’s right. Now hurry up and eat so we can go home.”

“No,” Hu Tao said. “You’re all spending the night here.”

“Why?” Childe said. 

“Because I’m not sending my friend out with someone I barely know.”

“One night isn’t going to change that.”

Hu Tao hugged you and looked up at him with a mischievous look. “But we have chores to do.”

Zhongli sighed. “And I have a feeling that you have somehow dragged me into these chores of yours.”

“They would be easier with help!”

“No thanks,” Childe said. “We’ll be heading out in…” He trailed off as Hu Tao’s smile turned to a monstrous glare. Even Zhongli was looking at him expectantly, and Childe eventually sighed. “Fine… One night.”

Hu Tao giggled. “Good!”

[lavenderdaisyhoney]

Into The Walls

summary: an aot dystopian type au where y/n vows to seek revenge on the people who live in luxury in the walls

Pairing: f-body & pronouns Y/N x Levi (but that is further down the road and not the main focus)

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: death, blood, injury, abuse of power, curse words, dark content. Rated 16+.

A/N: I apologize in advance. Pls forgiveth me.

This is the way of the world. It hunts you from the day you’re born, like a lion hunts a gazelle, and fattens you up with hope for the future. Once it thinks you’re ready, it will chew you up in it’s wide infinite mouth until nothing but an empty shell is left. Once all hope is gone, it spits you out into a dark abyss of nothingness.

This is what you come to learn at the tender age of 19. One more year. Just one more year until your sentence is considered served. One. More. Year.

You swallow, with a heavy tongue, as you gaze upon the Elite Task Force uniform. A loose fitting matte black uniform made from the finest synthetic fibres. With a closer look, you can see many interweaving blue threads that seem to glow. These threads absorb impact and turn it into raw strength. In the upper top left corner lies the “M” insignia. Many would feel a certain pride while looking at that insignia but you felt nothing. With a sigh, you grab the uniform and put it on. Staring at yourself in the small cracked bedroom mirror, you see the light of hope raging bright and true in your eyes. The watch on your wrist indicates you have 20 minutes left until you will be punished for being late.

You quietly make your way down the stairs, making sure the rabbit you caught last night is on the table, wrapped in newspaper. You feed more wood to the wood burning stove. You always do this. Making sure the house is ready for your family to wake up. With ten minutes to spare, you leave your cabin, the rusted mirror hanging in the doorway holding your reflection until the door is completely shut.

You run down the mountain towards the line up of other citizens that are also serving sentences. The people within the wall don’t bother with punishing us as we are maggots beneath their garbage under their feet so they make us punish each other. The commanding officer, an older gentleman, is calling out names.

“L/N?” He calls your last name out without looking up from the tablet in his hands. Another officer standing next to him grabs your arm and scans the barcode tattooed on your arm. With your identity verified, you’re handed a number. You take that number to the weapons dispensary truck. No citizens are allowed to have any weapons of any kind unless they’re being used for hunting.

The officer in the truck grabs the number you hold out, and hands you a stun gun. “The number of stuns in this gun have been verified. If the number of stuns doesn’t match the number on your logs after your shift…well….you know what will be done. Understand?”

You wish you could tell the officer to wipe that sick grin off his face but you can’t risk anything that will extend your sentence. With a bite of your tongue, you nod and grab the gun out of his hands. With the gun safely holstered to your hip, you make your way back to the commanding officer.

“Listen up, vermin.” The commanding officer finally looks up and hands the tablet to the officer next to him and begins walking down the line. “There have been an increase in riots throughout the city. Your jobs today are to make sure no news of riots reach the walls. You see a group of rats, break them apart. You see anyone on the street without identification, arrest them. I don’t care if they are children or elderly. The rules have been the same for years now so there’s no excuse.” The commanding officer pauses in front of you. You have your helmet on but you make direct eye contact with him. “If any of you, for any reason, fail to appropriately punish the rats, you will take their punishment instead. Is that clear?”

With a chorus of “sir yes sirs”, you’re finally allowed to disband. Everyone is making their way to their respective trucks when you hear your name being called.

“L/N.” Your entire body pauses after hearing the commanding officer call out your name.

“Your helmet needs to be adjusted. You’re well aware of how anal higher ups tend to be about appearance.” He walks closer to you and clips the buckle on your helmet. Your eyes haven’t left his since he called out your name.

“A young woman like yourself would do well with a sponsor.” Sponsors are old lecherous men that take advantage of young at risk girls and harass them with the promise that they will take them to live inside the wall.

You take a look at the name engraved into his uniform. C.O Aiken Davis. You mentally take a note of his name and add it to the list of people you’ll eventually kill. Now though, you can’t do anything so you nod and march off into the truck that will take you into the city.

The city is about 45 minutes away from the mountain. During the drive, you see signs of poverty such as broken windows, rusted trucks, people dressed in rags begging for anything and everything. A little boy runs out in front of the truck, causing the driver to curse and hit the breaks. One of the men on your team, Vince Andrus, hops out of the back and grabs the kid. He tosses him into a pile of garbage, and with a quick removal of his belt, beats him. You turn your eyes away from the sight but you can’t stop your hands from making fists.

You barely have time to ignore the cries of the boy before Vince is back and the truck is continuing its course. “That’s how you teach them. My father did the same to me and look how well I turned out”

Everyone in the truck laughs but not you. You scoff. “Is that why you turned out to be so fucked up?” you ask.

“What was that?” Vince asks you as he shoots up to his feet. “You have anything to say, weasel, you can say it to my fucking face.”

You don’t say anything so Vince takes that as a sign of weakness. “Yeah that’s what I thought.” If only he knew what you had planned for him later on.

Finally, you make it into the city. It looks pretty much like a warzone. Tall buildings with broken glass. Cars flipped over. Fires here and there. Garbage litters every inch of the black asphalt. Grocery stores with missing letter signs. The truck makes a stop and the driver orders all of you to hop off.

“Y/N!” hearing your name brings you out of the daze you were in. “Go into that grocery store and survey it. Make sure no one is living inside.” The leading officer of your group orders.

You enter the store, stepping over the broken glass, with your stun gun aimed. Within a second, you already know you’re not alone. There’s signs of life such as a makeshift bed and half a can of corn that still looked good. You’re checking out the aisle where you found the bed when you hear something knocked off a shelf. You run to the sound, gun aimed, ready to shoot when you see a little girl, maybe about five or six, huddled on the ground. She’s dirty and her little dress is ripped to tatters. Her hair that looks blond is very matted and her teeth are chipped. She must’ve been living in this store for a while. Her pale skin is covered in buries from head to toe.

“Identify yourself!” you shout while your gun is still aimed at her.

No response.

“I’m giving you three seconds to tell me your name before I shoot.” You count the seconds in your head, praying that she answers.

“Li-Lilia.” She stutters in a quite voice, eyes filled with fear.

“Lilia, how many people are in this store with you?” Your gun is still aimed.

“Just me.”

How naïve. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Lilia.” You remove the safety on the gun with a click. “How many people are here with you?”

Lilia is now shivering. You hear a small sound and see that she has urinated herself out of fear. While you see the puddle grow larger, you notice her eyes keep darting to the aisle to your left. You finally get it. The bruises. The urine. She’s been kidnapped. You don’t say a word but you signal with your finger to the left.

Lilia nods as she silently cries.

You quickly check your surroundings, making sure you’re the only task member in the store as what you’re about to do will add to your sentence for sure. You signal with your finger to Lilia to keep quiet and you make your way over to the other side. At the end of the aisle, you see a man bent with his back to you, a gun in his hands.

How the hell did a street rat get a gun? With a closer look, you see it’s a task force gun. A growl rings out behind you. You barely have time to react when it jumps at you, teeth bared. A dog. You put your arm out and let it latch on, your uniform absorbing the force of it’s bite. The man you were sneaking up on is now aware of your presence.

He quickly makes his way over to you, gun aimed. “Good job, rocky. You’ve caught us some good task force bait.”

With your head titled, you ask “Who said I said I was caught?”

You rip your arm out of the dog’s jaws, grab the neck of the dog, and throw it on the man. The man shoots, hitting his dog. With the dog now seizing on the ground, you’re able to fully focus on the man. You toss your gun onto the floor, preferring close combat with this punk.

You run full force at the man, as he shoots. Each electrical stun, your uniform absorbs, making you run faster. You feel your blood rushing through your veins as the familiar feeling of excitement hits you. You use one leg to jump on a knocked over display, and you use the height to propel yourself, aiming a kick at the man. Your kick meets his thick head, knocking him out instantly. Wow, what a waste. You were looking forward to a fight.

With the man knocked out and the dog still seizing, it’s just you and the girl. You see her small head pop out the side of the shelf, staring at you in awe.

You pick up your gun, the fear returning to her eyes once again. “Lilia, do you know how this man got this gun?”

She nods and gestures for you to follow. You proceed with caution, gun up and aimed in case another surprise comes flying at you. Lilia leads you to the empty manager’s room. Once you deem the room safe enough, you enter. She heads to a small closet and gestures for you to open the door.

You stand behind the door and slowly open. As the door opens, an arm falls out putting you on high alert. You open the door wider and what’s inside has you gagging.

Inside the closet is a body that has been cut up into several pieces. What has you shocked isn’t the fact that there’s a dead body but that the dead body is wearing a task force uniform. That’s how the man got that gun.

You go closer to the body, in hopes of finding an identifier. In the upper corner is the name Rolf Chasey engraved. You rip off the tag and pocket it. You check the pockets of Rolf and find a half eaten protein bar and a couple of coins. You toss the coins to Lilia, who grabs them off the floor in a hurry.

“Lilia, I never saw you and you never saw me. Is that understood?”

She nods and walks off, leaving you alone in the office. You close the closet door and close the office. Your comms come on.

“Y/N, what is taking you so long?” The leading officer asks in an aggravated tone. Asshole.

You press the button to activate your microphone. “Had a bit of an altercation. Found a man living here, alongside his dog. Also found the remains of a task force soldier. He’s been here for a while.” You report back.

“That’s unfortunate. Bring out the vermin and kill the dog. Retrieve the gun off the dead soldier if you can”

“Yes, sir.” You follow his orders and pick up the gun, but before holstering your own, you shoot out one shot, so it appears you’ve killed the dog. You grab the arm of the unconscious man and proceed to drag him out the door. You notice the dog is gone, probably protecting Lilia.

You’re finally out of the store, two soldiers of the task force run to help you with the man. You head towards the leading officer and hand him the gun of the deceased soldier.

“Good job, L/N. You’re not so useless after all.” You wish you could just knock out this man as well but you have to tread on thin ice and pray that nobody goes into that store before you depart.

“It’s an honour to be useful, Sir.”

He waves dismissively and points to the truck. “At ease, soldier. Get into the truck. Those two idiots will load our precious cargo in it’s cage.”

With a nod, you follow orders like a robot. You learned a long time ago the only way to stay alive is to follow orders and keep your head down.

Once everybody is loaded into the truck, you hear Vince going on about how he was harassing some pregnant woman who tried to steal bread. “If she’s homeless, what business does she have getting pregnant? That’s why women should never be allowed to leave the house, or be part of an elite task force.” He says the last sentence with a glare directed towards you.

Vince. A sexist hot-headed thorn in your side since you were sentenced to the task force. “Vince, you seem to forget that we were ordered to be a part of this force as a punishment, not a reward. Which means that we all committed crimes of some sort. What was yours again? Ah. You got caught with your pants down in a barn.”

You can see Vince getting irritated, the vein bulging on his forehead. “Then again, you’re not really a human right? Makes sense that you wanted to be with the animals.”

Vince gets up and drags you by your collar. “Shut the fuck up, you worthless bitch.”

“I may be a worthless bitch but at least I’m not into animals.” At this point, your hands are on Vince’s applying pressure so he understands that you won’t be bullied by him.

“At ease, soldiers.” The truck has stopped and your leading officer is talking from the front seat. It’s a good thing he can’t see you otherwise both you and Vince would’ve been punished. “Since today was a successful day, I’ve decided to reward you. I’m going to head into this bakery to get us some bread.”

“Thank you, sir!” Everyone in the truck screams. The leading officer leaves the truck, his door slam vibrating the entire vehicle.

“I would let me go within the next five seconds unless you want my foot up your ass.” You warn Vince, tired of his macho man routine.

Vince drags you closer to his face “You’re lucky. Just know, the next time I get my hands on you, I won’t stop until you’re dead.” With that, Vince shoves you away roughly.

You adjust your uniform and sit back down. It’s getting harder to resist killing everyone on this team but you have to hold yourself back. You can’t let anyone find out that you were trained by your mercenary father to be even more deadly than he is. That means only meeting the bare minimum. Hiding your fighting skills, getting treated like an idiot, and being punished.

The officer returns with a bag of bread he has harassed out of the bakery owners, tossing a medium sized loaf at each of you. “Eat it now or later, I don’t care. Don’t you dare get any crumbs in my truck otherwise I’ll make you all scrub it with a toothbrush.”

In silence, the truck finally makes its way back to the mountainside as the sun is setting, kissing the sky.

“I’ll see you back here tomorrow morning, soldiers.”

You all salute and head your separate ways.

You’re finally back home. Standing in front of the door with chipped paint, you take a deep breath and make your way inside. The heart warming smell of rabbit stew greets you as you take off your boots.

“Y/N, you’re back!” Your little brother excitedly jumps into your arms. You grab onto him and swing him on your back, piggy backing him into the kitchen. Your mom stands at the stove, stirring the stew.

“Good evening mom.” You kiss your mother on the cheek. She gives you a nod of acknowledgement and continues stirring the stew. You take the bread out of your bag and place it on the table. Your brother is still on your back, giggling, so you put him down and tell him to play in your room. You go through the narrow passageway that connects to the living room and spot your father in his wheelchair by the window.

“Father, I’m back.” Your relationship with your father is very limited. You’re not affectionate with one another nor do you spend much time together.

“Good. How was your shift today?” He asks while still staring out the window.

You sit on the broken couch and hold your head in your hands. “I found a dead body today. It belonged to a task force soldier. His body was cut up. Barely recognizable.”

Your father finally looks at you. “Did you find anything on the body?”

You grab the name tag from your pocket and hand it to him. “Just this. Does the name sound familiar to you?”

Your father observes the name, no sign of recognition on his face. He clutches the name tag and moves his wheelchair to the door. “Follow me, Y/N.”

You follow him as he rolls down the narrow hallway to the bathroom door. He pauses at the bathroom door and turns the light switch on. You both barely fit into the bathroom when your father maneuvers his chair and locks the door.

“Lead us down, Y/N.” You head to the toilet, lift up the tank cover and let the eye scanner scan your eyes.

“Retina scan complete. Identity approved. Opening wall.” A computerized voice says.

Within a couple of seconds, the bathroom wall disappears and opens up into a computer room. Your father wheels himself in and starts typing on the computer, searching up the name of the deceased soldier.

Bing. A file with the picture of Rolf Chasey comes up. He was a handsome man. Your father is typing away when he pauses and sighs.

“Turns out he was one of ours. I was hoping this wouldn’t be the case.” Your father removes his glasses, rubbing his bridge of his nose in frustration. “We’re going to have to report this. Get ready, Y/N.”

You make yourself presentable, hands behind your back as a sign of respect. The black screen connects to a video call.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” A mysterious voice answers.

“Good evening sir. I’m here to report that one of our soldiers was found dead.” Your father reports, putting his glasses back on.

“Who was it?” the voice asks.

“Rolf Chasey.” Your father answers.

“Hmm. He was a good soldier. That’s unfortunate. That means that someone is aware.”

You chime in. “All due respect, sir, what if it was just a rogue killing?”

“Your uniform protects you from everything, aside for a few weak spots. If a soldier is dead, that means someone knew these weak spots beforehand and planned everything. We’re going to have to escalate the timeline a bit.”

“How fast are we talking, sir?” This really complicates things.

“Tomorrow. I’m going to need you to commit a bigger crime that will get you inside the wall, in the jail here.”

You stand, frozen. A list of the crimes you can commit starts running through your head. The one at the top of the list being murder.

“You want me to kill someone?” You ask for clarification.

“Not just anyone. I heard there is a troublesome soldier on your team. Vince, right?”

Ahh, Vince. Is it finally his time to go? You’ve been waiting for this day. The day you can finally start ridding the earth of it’s filth.

“I’ll make it happen, sir.” You bow and the screen goes black without another word.

“Y/N. Are you ready?” Father asks as he is typing on his keyboard.

“This is what you’ve been training me for, father.”

“I know that but keep in mind. Training to kill and actually killing are two very different things. Once you take a life, you can never go back.” He pauses his typing and looks at you. “I’ll ask one more time. Are you ready for this?”

“Father, I was born to do this.” You answer with a smirk.

Another morning starts, dragging you out of bed with its drug induced embrace. You reluctantly get ready for your shift as you feel more tired today than ever. Last night’s events still run through your head. The dead body, the little girl, the orders. You pause between buttoning your shirt and hope that the little girl is okay.

You head downstairs and as per usual, everyone is still asleep. There was no catch left on the table for your family but you made a promise to bring something home with you. Feeding the fire once again, you head out the door.

The comforting scent of petrichor greets you just as the rising sun does. You begin your daily trek down the mountain. You make it to the bottom just as your name is called out.

“L/N! My son can move faster than you and he can’t even walk yet!” screams the C.O. from yesterday.

“I apologize, sir.” muttering this apology takes quite a lot from you but you have to do it to survive.

“Go get your weapon and get in the truck. We have a long day ahead of us.” He walks away while muttering something along the lines of “bloodbath.”

Huh? Bloodbath? What is he talking about? Curiosity runs rampant in your mind as you continue the procedure to sign out a weapon. Once finished, you’re sitting in the truck as it begins it’s bumpy drive to the town.

“Did y’all hear? Apparently lots of rats were executed last night?” You hear Vince gossip. “They deserve it. Breaking the laws as they see fit. Not following the rules.”

“Vince, do I need to remind you again why we’re here?” You say this in between counting the minutes it takes to get you to town.

“What the fuck did you say? You’re always running your mouth, eh? I’ll show you today what happens when women don’t keep their mouths shut.” With that, he turns his back to you and continues talking about the massacre.

Yes, Vince. I’ll show you today. I’ll make sure you look real pretty. These types of thoughts occupy your mind until you reach your destination.

“Roll out, everyone. It’s a sight to see that’s for sure but don’t forget why we are here. Get to it.”

You hop out of the truck with your stun gun at the ready. With a quick look around, you notice you’re at the same spot as yesterday. Except today there’s red everywhere. On the ground. The walls. The windows. It was as if some giant had painted the town red with it’s paintbrush.

“Go around each body and count them. L/N, you go to the west quarter. The same store you were at yesterday.”

You follow his orders and head back to the store but your heart is racing. You’re wondering if that little girl

Is okay. The dog. If they know you took the name of the dead soldier. You hear Vince behind you and you stop.

“Why are you following me?” You try to keep your expression cool.

“Was told to keep an eye on you. Figures. Can't trust women to do shit.” He shoves into your shoulder as he walks past you.

A couple of minutes pass but you’re finally at the store. Lining the entrance are black body bags. Three to be exact. One of them looks small. You head towards it and gently unzip it. You pause to take a deep breath before unzipping it completely. Laying there, as if frozen in time, is the little girl from yesterday. She looks so peaceful aside from the giant hole in her chest. Your eyes follow her until you notice her tiny hand is holding onto something. Checking your surroundings to make sure Vince isn’t near you, you try to open up her fist. It’s hard as the body has already started decomposing but soon enough you’re able to open her hand. Laying inside, shiny as the day you gave them to her, are the coins.

You zip the bag once again and get up to walk away. Who would do such a thing? Why didn’t she run away? The familiar hot feeling of tears starts to form in your eyes. No. Not now. Not here.

“What’s the matter? Did that sight make you sick, whore? It makes me feel euphoric. Seeing a pest get what it deserves.” Vince continues to rattle on disgusting things about the little girl but you’ve heard enough. You’ve seen enough. You try to control the red haze that is clouding your vision as you cannot afford to lose your temper here. Not when you’re so close.

A small bark catches your attention and the dog from yesterday comes running up to you, whining.

“Let me take care of that, L/N. I’ll let you have your little female moment.” Vince says as he heads to grab the dog by the scruff. Just before his hands touch the dog, you break your silence.

“Touch that dog, and I’ll chop off your fucking hands, Vince.” He pauses in shock and looks at you, eyebrows raised.

“Excuse me?” He sounds to be in shock but you can’t understand why.

“Did I stutter? Do you want me to break it down for your small pea sized brain? You touch the dog. You die.”

Vince slowly walks closer to you, like a predator stalking its prey. “What do you think you can do to me, huh? I’m twice your size. I have more fighting experience than you. I was raised on the streets. What do you honestly think you can do to me, Y/N?” He is now standing toe to toe with you.

You raise your gaze to meet his, eyes darkening. You open your mouth to tell him to back off but he lowers his head right towards your ear and whispers “Do you think you’re all that because you got orders to kill me?”

Your entire body freezes. How did he know?

“Wow. The look on your face right now, amazing. It’s kind of turning me on. Now, you think you’re the only one on some type of mission here but we all want out. Some of us were fortunate to make connections. Others, not so much. Let me give you some advice, girl. You should go home. Take care of your family. Before they’re gone.” He raises his hand to pat your shoulder. “Did you remember to turn off the burner this morning? I think your mother forgot to turn it off last night.”

After the mention of your family, you’re already running. You can hear the dog running behind you, barking, but you're focused on getting back home. Knowing it will take you at least an hour on foot to get back home, you head towards the truck. The driver is asleep on the wheel. You quickly knock your knuckles on the window, waking him up.

“I need to get back home.” He laughs at your requests and tells you to fuck off. Wrong move. You shatter the window with your elbow, unlock the door, and drag him out.

“What do you think you’re doing?” He tries to reach for his comms but you rip it out of his ear and stomp on it.

“You say another word and I’ll kill you.” Shoving him aside, you jump into the driver's seat. Right before you close the door, the dog jumps in, making himself comfortable on the front seat.

No time to kick him out, you start the truck and speed off. In the rear view mirror, you can see the driver attempting to chase you. With your foot on the gas, you press it harder, causing the truck to lurch forward in a burst.

“L/N! Return the truck! That is an order!” Your C.O, yells through your comms. You wince at the volume and just rip it out of your ear.

It seems like forever has passed before you’re at the base of the mountain. Quickly putting the truck in park, you run out and up the mountain.

Please. Please be okay. You keep running at full speed. Tumbling over rocks and forgotten branches. You start to smell the familiar scent of fire. No. God, please no.

Right in front of you, is your small house, engulfed in flames. The fire tore everything in its path, leaving a desolate trail of only ash and rubble. Your mother. Your father. Your brother. You fall to your knees as the flame gets bigger and bigger.

“MOTHER! FATHER! BROTHER!” You desperately scream in hopes that one of them will answer. The scalding heat of the flames start to reach you.

The dog from earlier is barking at a pile of what used to be your wooden shed. It starts to try to drag one piece of wood off but it’s too big. “What are you doing?” you whisper.

“Y/N.” What was that? The ghost of your family calling out to you? Or the wind playing games. You hear it again.

“Y/N.” This time it’s louder and it’s coming from the pile the dog was digging at. You crawl towards it and start digging.

“Y/N, help me.” It’s your brother’s voice. Finally moving aside enough rubble to see his face, you start to cry tears of relief.

“Brother, are you okay?” You ask in desperation but more removal of rubble reveals a horrid detail. Your brother’s body is no longer intact. There’s blood everywhere.

“Where were you, Y/N?” He asks between laboured breaths. “I was waiting for you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Please don’t speak. I’ll try to get help.” You get up to get said help but your brother's faint grasp on your hand stops you.

“Y/N. I don’t think you can find the help I need here. I can’t feel my legs.”

“No. Please don’t say that.” You grab his hand in both of yours and hold it to your forehead. “I can’t. I don’t know how to do this.”

“You can and you will. I know I’m only ten but I’m pretty mature. I know it’s hard for you to interact with people but you’re a good person and an even better sister. Don’t forget that, okay?”

“I will try my hardest not to.” This can’t be happening.

“I think I have to go now. I love you.” Life slowly starts to fade from his eyes right as he finishes his sentence.

You start to cry. Heart wrenching sobs free themselves from your chest. You’re making sounds you didn’t know you were capable of making. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t see. You're utterly and completely broken.

As you sit there, still holding his hand, you move your gaze to your house to see it now completely consumed by the flames. You’re broken. What happened? How did Vince know about your orders? Who executed this order?

With the sound of the dog barking, you make a vow. You make a vow to head into the walls and destroy anyone and anything in your path until the person who killed your family is begging for their life in front of you. You vow.

Taglist: @porcoqalliard @lue-arlert @coffeeforday @sunshinedragonofthewest @oh-theseus @levis-hazelnut

[dazaii-sann]

DAZAI x CHUUYA FANFICTION: ONE-SHOT [LOVE OR GUILT]

Blue.

Brown.

Green.

Yellow.

Orange.

Varied colors blended with each other like a 24-color palette. The wind blew from the west, causing the nearby tree leaves to dance along with the non-existent beat. The blue, clear water rampaged in silence, creating an almost seemingly soft serenade. A huge shining orb in the distance was split in half, projecting its reflection on the calm, unmoving water from below.

The whole place is quiet as if every single living soul had already vacated the area.

Well, not quite.

Two figures stood beneath a tree's shadow, taking refuge and solace after a whole day of struggles. The calm, light afternoon breeze soothe their souls as they look at the orange-painted sky.

Silence ensues but for them, it's what they need.

The quiet rage of the sea.

The hushing sound of overlapping leaves.

The way the remaining rays of the dusk kiss their flesh.

The sound of their even breathing.

Sounds romantic, right?

It is, except for one thing.

Everything, everything seems to retain its brilliance but something decided to exclude itself from that small band of glow.

A redhead's eyes… It's empty. The very exact opposite to his surrounding's radiance.

Meanwhile, the brunet beside him stood still, unmoving, as if he's already accustomed to that kind of scenario.

But is he?

No. Definitely not. Not in a million years.

Seeing his ex-partner like that made his knees wobble. All the remaining courage in his body had left him that even panning his head to Chuuya became an impossible task.

The guilt is slowly consuming him, pulling him into a world far more hellish than hell itself.

They stayed like that for a while, the stillness of the setting sun completely vanished into existence and was dethroned by a huge dark blanket covered with stars. The moon is in its crescent form, seems incomplete but whole all the same.

The coldness of the night embraced the two up to their bones, causing them to shiver.

"It's getting cold, Chuuya. Let's go inside?" The brunet proposed without looking at Chuuya.

He can't. Or maybe he actually can, but he chose not to.

Chuuya nods his head slightly and Dazai saw that movement from his eyes' corners.

Dazai's feet move in front of Chuuya's rear. With a slight push, the wheels on Chuuya's seat were sent into motion, carrying Chuuya's body along with it. Trails of the redhead's wheelchair and the brunet's footprints were engraved in the shore's sand and were immediately erased by the wave's arrival.

In just a few minutes, they reached a small house built near the shore. From its size, one can conclude that its interior can only shelter two people at once.

Upon entering the house, Dazai turned on the lights that he closed before going outside with Chuuya this afternoon. It has a simple structure. A kitchen, two couches and a table in between them, the comfort room, and a shared bedroom.

Dazai carefully lifts Chuuya's body and transfer it to one of the couches.

"You're so light, Chuuya~ Am I not feeding you well?" Dazai tried to annoy Chuuya like he used to back in the days but the redhead's expressions didn't even change. Not even a single move in his facial muscles. The brunet knew from the very start, that he could no longer hear Chuuya's annoyed response coming from his own mouth but he's still hoping, hoping that he could still hear Chuuya's voice one more time.

Chuuya's just like a lump of flesh without a soul inside of it. It is said that the soul is the trigger of an ability.

Maybe that's the exact reason why Chuuya lost his.

Ah no… There's no one to be blamed but Dazai.

Or at least, that's what he thought.

After moving Chuuya in a comfortable position, Dazai left him and went straight to the kitchen.

Dazai was a bad cook. Everyone must ready their pitiful stomach before taking in Dazai's food. Not only that but for the aftermath (puking included). But who would eat those kinds of stuff (can't consider them as "food") in the first place?

Everything changed when he started to live and take care of Chuuya over the past 3 years. He learned how to prepare varied homemade viands. Well, he doesn't want the redhead to eat canned goods every single day!

Dazai turned on the flame and let the ingredients fly and land on the pan's heated surface. He hummed a familiar tune, hoping that Chuuya might remember its tune but to no avail.

Dazai arranged the food into a plate and went to the redhead, utensils in his other hand.

Without a word, he scooped a spoonful and brought it closer to Chuuya's mouth.

"Say ah~"

If anyone could see this kind of scenario, the brunet looks like he's feeding a 3-month old baby.

"Well, he's indeed a baby," Dazai said at the back of his mind while moving the spoon back and forth.

After that dinner, Dazai once again carried Chuuya to their bed. It's not that big, but not too small. Just enough for the two of them.

Dazai then wrapped his arms around Chuuya's body. To give him warmth, a human's warmth to liberate the coldness of the night.

With the brunet's slender arms encircled around the redhead's body, and Chuuya's head leaning against Dazai's shoulder, they fall asleep.

Almost at the same time.

 ***

 For three years, the very same sequence of events happened.

Watching the sunrise and sunset together.

Helping him to eat his own food.

And then finally, cradling each other until they got consumed by the God of Sleep.

Have they grown tired of it, especially Dazai?

Even he doesn't know the answer. He was known as the Demon Prodigy of the Port Mafia, someone who can see through everything. But why can't his superior, almost inhumane mind comprehend this feeling of longing?

Longing for what?

Is it for the return of his ex-partner's glory or the longing to return to his old life?

Maybe, but maybe not.

Dazai thought that the same exact happenings will happen again for today, and the days after that.

But he's wrong.

On with their usual routine, they watch the sun's tiny movement, trying to pull itself up higher in the sky as if it's trying to assert dominance and power. Somehow, the sunrise resembles Dazai every time he rose to bed, struggling his way up like he was being pulled down by the Earth's gravity. To make it less fancy, he's just simply lazy.

"C-chuuya… Is that you?"

Dazai froze, literally.

T-that voice…

Dazai panned his head to where the sound originated.

"A-ane…san…"

Kouyou smiled, but there's hidden remorse in it. The intensity of her eyes changed the moment it landed on Chuuya's frail body.

She looked away and face the brunet once more.

"It's been a while, demon."

 ***

 "So… You're still taking care of him?" Kouyou sat in one of the couches inside of their house.

"Mm…" A simple nod is the only response that he could offer. He's not in the right mood to entertain a conversation right now, especially to those with whom he had ties.

Despite his seemingly uninterested remarks, he's still on the lookout. Who knows? Kouyou might try to do something funny. As for Chuuya, he doubts that this woman will do such a thing.

"I see… I see…" At the same time, a mocking laugh escaped out of her lips. Dazai, on the other hand, painted confusion throughout his face.

"It's all your fault anyway. You've got to clean your own mess and atone with what you had done."

Dazai clenched his fist as tightly as he could.

"Why are you still taking care of him?"

Dazai's lips went agape, trying to utter a word or two but failed miserably.

Why then? What keeps him from escaping and leaving Chuuya behind?

He doesn't know.

"I…"

"Do you love him?" Kouyou's question streak kept on bugging Dazai's feelings.

Dazai's so sure of that fact not until Kouyou retorted once more.

"Or is it because of guilt?"

Guilt, huh?

The brunet said no more and silence governed the two of them.

"Now demon… Which one is it?"

 ***

 Darkness… Just pure darkness…

Or at least, that's what Chuuya sees.

He can't feel anything, nor grasp reality. He's just there, floating in the middle of nothingness. But amidst that abyss, he can feel his bones cracking, his body collapsing, and his blood leaking out of his system. The pain must be immeasurable and unbearable but none of those physical pains can equal his suffering.

He hates the dark, the emptiness because it always made him feel alone.

He can hear a huge crowd of people screaming at the top of their lungs as if their lives are in danger of death.

Yes, that's actually the case.

They're fleeing, away from the young boy in the middle of that immense object and that enemy he's battling against.

Their abilities clashed and the fiery battle caused a deal of damage to the establishments and facilities in the city, but Chuuya came out victorious. Yokohama is safe once again. The civilians already evacuated, thus no casualties recorded.

Everything's fine now.

But Chuuya's still not.

He's on his limit, and his rampage will continue up to the end of his life.

He had already accepted his fate, that corruption will disappear along with his existence but a bandaged hand tamed him.

But it's already late.

Chuuya got hospitalized after that. His life was saved, but his nervous system was badly affected.

Dazai couldn't help but blame himself. He was doing a lot of paper works at the armed detective agency's office (forced by Kunikida of course) but the unexpected foe barged its way to Yokohoma without even knocking.

That's why he's late to arrive at the scene.

Why did Chuuya activate his corrupted form without him?

He's such an idiot, an utter idiot…

But he's far worse than that.

 ***

 "Chuuya~ Let's go outside?" Dazai asked his ex-partner but the latter shook his head weakly, much to the former's surprise. It's the first time Chuuya declined his invitation.

Instead of going outside, Chuuya points his finger to their room's direction, by which, Dazai understood and followed. Maybe Chuuya is just sick of watching the sun's routinary motion every day or he just wants to rest.

To ease his boredom, Dazai cooked for their supper, but a creaking sound came out from Chuuya's location.

Dazai dropped the spatula in hand and sprinted to their bedroom only to find Chuuya scribbling something on a small piece of paper. Because of his malfunctioning muscles, the pen he used created a noise as it dropped on the floor.

"Chuuya? What are you doi-" Dazai is stopped dead in his tracks the moment he saw the letters inscribed on his paper. Beside the redhead is a small calendar with eighteen days crossed out for the month of June.

Today's June 19. Dazai's birthday.

"Ha…" Chuuya struggled to say something with his shivering and shaky voice. "Ha…ppy bir-th-da…y, sh-itt…y mac…ke-rel."

Dazai's heart starts to pound harder as if it wants to leap out of his ribcage. His head feels so fuzzy, but light at the time.

What's this feeling…?

Sadness?

Happiness?

Longing?

But Dazai knew that it's more than that.

"Now demon… Which one is it?"

"Ane-san… I already know the answer." He said at the back of his mind before embracing the redhead. He leaned closer to the former executive's ear and whispered, "Thank you, chibi."

Chuuya might not be able to restore his condition the way it once was but for Dazai, that doesn't matter now.

Whether Chuuya the petite mafia executive who kept on bickering with him back in the days or the Chuuya who's struggling to write a single sentence of greeting over a sheet of paper… Dazai's always fond of him, whatever the version.

And that will not change until the end of time.

-END-

[lovelikedestiny]

2. Nicky: A thousand angels stand waiting for me

I'll kiss you for eternity,

you make me feel complete.

The moment Joe bursts into the room, the whole world comes to a standstill.

Any bittersweet confusion in Nicky's throat, any disorientation that makes his fingertips cold, any fear in his chest, any desperation that has settled in him immediately fades into the background. Everything that turns Nicky's mind into painful chaos falls silent at the sight of Joe, as if his appearance had created a protective bubble in this strange room.

Regardless of what terrible situations they have been in over the centuries, Joe's mere presence always made it less awful. Everything was bearable as long as Nicky had the person by his side whom he had loved for nine hundred years and with whom he faced every challenge.

When Joe rushes in breathlessly, Nicky is flooded with relief for a split second because Joe is something he could rely on every step of his new life. The calming effect Joe has on Nicky hasn't changed, and Nicky forces air into his lungs through his constricting throat.

Oh Yusuf, what did I do to you?

Nicky has seen Joe in every situation: in his happiest moments, in front of a canvas, at campfires, on the beach of Malta, as well as in his worst, when the world was too cruel to his warm-hearted Joe or when memories of the past took their toll.

There is no emotional expression that he cannot read on Joe's face, that he has not memorized down to the smallest detail.

The Joe who supports himself on the door frame with wide eyes, as if he would otherwise lose his footing, is Joe when he slides along the edge of the abyss that would brutally suffocate him with his hopelessness. And it's Nicky's fault.

The worn-out face with the dark circles, the hunted-looking, red eyes and the wild head of hair including the untrimmed beard break Nicky's heart. He pays no attention to the tears that are streaming down his cheeks, can finally run, and bites his lower lip, which doesn't stop trembling, in order to suppress a dry sob.

He is uncertain how long their gazes get caught up in one another, how long they plunge into the depths of their souls without saying anything. After calling the others to alert them, Nile has withdrawn to the fringes and gives them space to process what is happening.

I'd like to know that, too.

Incidentally, Nicky notices Andy and Booker appear behind Joe. Booker immediately stumbles back a step, Andy takes in an unsteady breath, but they don't interfere.

The past days before Nicky's death by Quynh weigh too heavily on Nicky's tongue to utter the words that can't turn back time anyway and also can't make the agony – that Joe's whole form screams at him – disappear.

Nicky cannot speak when his heart grows silent.

I taste your words like honey; its sweetness healing every wound of mine, its spiciness making me feel alive.

Intimacy does not only mean having deep or pleasant, relaxed conversations, but also sitting next to each other in amicable silence. How many times did he and Joe drink tea, side by side, watching the sunrise without speaking, perfectly pleased with their presence?

The now prevailing silence bears no resemblance to peaceful mornings in Malta, seems to be alive and tugging at Nicky, as well as at Joe, whose knuckles stand out white. In their eye contact, they exchange as many words as Nicky can, saying things to each other that, however, have no meaning given the seriousness of the tense situation.

It is Nicky who suddenly releases the tension, and cannot bear to be separated from Joe anymore, even though they are in the same room. "Yusuf,” he blurts out sobbing and Nicky doesn't care that his posture collapses like a house of cards. He has tried all the time to lock everything in himself so as not to burden his family even more.

No broken glass tears his throat, but Nicky still tastes metal, ash and shadow, remnants of what happened, which Nicky has no memories of after Quynh rammed Joe's sword into his chest. Just crushing nothingness, impenetrable, and when he looks at his family, a beaten, tired family, Nicky may not want to know either.

"My Yusuf," he whispers while tears stream down his cheeks, which are long overdue. Nicky wants to get out of bed and go to Joe, but his limbs feel weak and the hands that he helplessly reaches out to Joe are shaking. Not from ice, not from flames; it does not burn or freeze inside him.

They're trembling because Nicky's body is overtaken by what he has stoically endured so far. Because he is missing Joe like a missing piece of a puzzle. "Hayati..."

Nicky can't think of anything but Joe's name, pet names as familiar as the sight of himself in the mirror. Nothing is more important than Nicky's soul mate, whose eyes are widening, shining like the surface of a lake at night.

Nicky's shaky "my love" followed by a sniffing, wet hiccup is what finally detaches Joe from his locked position on the doorframe, jerkily and suddenly, as if he couldn't bear to see Nicky cry.

When he last cried so inexorably, Nicky can't say, but through the veil of tears he can only see Joe blurred, blinking frantically, as if Joe would disappear at any moment because everything was just a dream.

But then Joe's warm, elegant artist hands touch his own outstretched, hesitantly covering them, and Nicky breathes out in a gush. This is real. Joe is real. Joe is here.

You're home.

Continue reading on AO3 ;)

[katsukikitten]

Weighted

A/N @zbops for you bb as per your request. I hope that this lives up to at least half of your expectations. Thank you so much for supporting me and for encouraging me. Enjoy it and may it help you just a bit more. I send my love XOXO Kitten 💋

It was not unlike you to occasionally stay up late into the night. Late enough to see the moon rise high in the inky black sky watching the constellations move by at a lazy pace.

But to lie awake long enough to greet the sun was abnormal.

At least it was supposed to be abnormal now. Before it was your normal to lose sleep as fat droplets slid from unblinking eyes. Thoughts consuming you with nothing and everything at once.

You thought yourself better.

Not cured, not immune, but well.

Fine and level headed for once.

Yet here you lie again unable to will your exhausted body to sleep as you replay failures from pasted years.

Like an old film one must study to improve but every time it is rewatched another haunting flaw jumps out.

And there is nothing you can do to right your wrong.

Frustrated tears well in your eyes now as you watch the clock for the second week in a row burn an obnoxious 3 am into your retina.

Furious as you thought you had put this problem in its place. That you had long ago learned how to make your demon small and to lock it away.

As with everything in life it adapted, slipping through the bars of its cage only to find itself looming over you once more. Delighting in your anguish as it exploits the coping mechanism you developed.

Turning it on its head to haunt you, to hurt you. To put you in your place as you thought you did it.

Although it knows this will be enough to pain you, it wants to do more.

Truly a petty being as it steals your voice, worming into your head just to whisper.

"Did you really think a few extra hours of training a day would make a difference? That you would suddenly be  sought after as a pro hero? You could barely get an apprenticeship and look at how you're failing at that!"*

This dredges up your failure from last week, your first offical mission as apprentice.

What was supposed to be a normal patrol quickly unraveled into a full on street brawl.

You aided your hero holding down the perpetrators bodies with your quirk, straining to keep them in place.

There were tenty or so overpowered drug enhanced strength quirks fighting the pull you placed on them. 

Your arm pangs now, reminding you of how it threatened to snap beneath the own weight of your quirk.

"Useless." Its laugh echoes in your ear.

Your temper flares, fist smashing the small black box that mocks you with the time before you rise. Dressing into your training clothes, sliding on your weighted vest as your bruises groan against it. You push your already consistent 1.5 times Earth's gravity pull to a consistent 2.5 for now.

Hands grab for your phone and headphones before fumbling to find your key in your amassed returning symptoms. Throwing piles of clothes, books, and homework onto other piles of  long neglected items.

Irritation mixed with a twinge of panic sets in as you look for your FOB that accesses not only the gym you are so desperate to use but also it accesses your dorm building as your dorm room key rests on a chain around your neck. Your memory works overtime as you wonder where it could have been placed.

Was it it Kirishima's room?

Or Bakugou's?

Who's room did the three of you spend the night in last?

You cannot remember, time all runs together much like a watercolor painting caught in the rain.

Colors bleed and the world dips into sun bleached greys as you think of the two of them.

Had you even texted either of them good night?

When was the last time you told them you loved them?

You pick up your phone, bloomed bruised hand winking back at you before the phone obliterates into metal and glass confetti at your feet.

"Fuck." You hiss having forgotten that you had the gravitational pull around your hands as well. Damning yourself for being so careless although you are still careless enough to walk over the shrapnel with bare feet.

It is then you find your key FOB lying in the middle of the chaotic room which you snatch greedily before locking your post nuclear bomb room away.

And with that the thoughts of ash blonde and ruby red hair.

You slink on guilty feet in the shadows of the hall, the moon your only witness as you make your way outside.

The air is cool agaisnt your heated skin, hinting that fall is almost over. That winter will be sure to rear its ugly head and harshly at that.

As if to prove a point an icy wind cuts through your skin deep into your bones, you sigh out upping the force on your body.

The gym is a short walk from the dorm, the night caressing you with soft fingers as it guides you to the thick metal door.

A worried gulp echoes back at you as your hand hovers just before the panel. FOB just out of range to be scanned.

Last time a student was on rest probation their key could only work if Sensei scanned theirs as well.

With gritted teeth you bring the key to kiss smooth plastic. For a moment you're sure it will flash red but when it beeps with a flash of glorious green you cannot help the small smile that spreads across your lips.

They must have forgotten to add those restrictions to yours, that or they didn't think you would disobey your physical therapist and other Sensei.

It doesn't take long before you're sweating.

And the more you swing the harder you make the gravitational pull on your body. The floor groans from the pressure as you push the pull towards you beyond limits for a recovering body, 3.5 times Earth's normal pull.  Sweat slides down a bruised nape and drips into now stinging eyes.

You do little to alleviate the pain or sweat that is trying so hard to blind you.

Another swing of your weighted fists has your bones creaking, muscles burning while you have half a mind to add more sand to your wrist and ankle bands.

Hell maybe even more to your vest although it presses against your sternum harshly with each step, threatening to snap a rib. You begin to lose the concentration on the areas you want to afflict as the incresed gravitational begins to spread out. The floor groans harder depsite being designed to withstand many powerful quirks.

A hairline fraction fissures through the smooth wood, attempting to snake up the cinderblock wall.

"None of this is going to change anything. You will still be..."

A heated punch hits the dummy hard, causing it to skid but you advance without letting up, snarling.

"Don't fucking say it."

Another hit to the dummy and you've got it cornered agaisnt the wall but still the voice goes on, a smile dancing along its tone as it purrs.

*"Worthless"*

You begin to jab agaisnt the dummy with enough momentum and force that the padding begins to fall away from its "face" revealing unforgiving metal beneath.

Metal that you pound into anyway.

Metal that warps for a moment from being too close to your pull, still your barrage of fists and feet cease to let up.

You follow up a punch with a round house kick increasing the force on your body subconsciously. As you rotate your vest slams heavily into your ribs and an audible crack echoes around the room. 

"Fuck!" You huff slamming your foot against the cool surface, the dummy implodes as you land on your feet.

In that moment the room pops from the pressure as you let up the force. The floor creaks, almost breathing as it returns to normal although now heavily warped. Suddenly you feel as light as a feather. As if at any moment you could float up to the ceiling like a lazy balloon only to get tangled in the harsh overhead lights.

Crimson splatters the floor from your knuckles and spit, hand feathering over your ribs. Sliding beneath dampened fabric, smoothing over already bruised skin. You're sure it will only worsen now that you count, one, two.

Three fucking cracked ribs. Your breaths come out in heavy puffs all echoing back to you as you right your self, eyes seeking out another dummy, ignoring the pain begging you to stop.

But feeling pain was better than feeling that weighted void in your chest.

As if you were a super nova that imploded, pulling everything around you into the darkened abyss.

Turning it all into hollowed nothingness.

The first sparring dummy you spy seems to look at you funny, you rear your fist but before it can make contact a growl cuts out.

"You've done enough little one."

His voice dips low, borderline pissed. It is a warning and one you must obey as the air permeates with salted caramel.

But you're in no mood to deal with Katsuki, no mood to be submissive, obedient or anything relative to feeling at all.

Regardless if it's clearly for your own good. 

All you wanted, needed, was for everything to fade.

And maybe to black.

But it doesn't instead he advances hand finding your wrist with a sharp grip, that softens only to assess. Turning your wrist this way and that with heated calculating eyes, before he rips off your weighted vest with a growl. Lifting your shirt to reveal blush black painted beneath your smooth skin.  His finger prods your ribs and when he counts them in his head he snarls. You watch his muscles twitch as he holds himself. Muscles that had grown twice their size since first year and yet you were left unchanging.

"Training is futile, you'll always be puny."

You rip your wrist free, teeth bared at an already snarling Bakugou.

"Not. Now." You misread his actions beneath the initial rage. He is concerned but all you see is punishment in his eyes 

Disappointment.

You look over Katsuki's sculpted shoulder to see Kirishima waiting at the door with glistening ruby eyes that seem to be torn.

Who does he support? How can he defuse this? 

"You're fucking hurt." The blonde bites out venom.

"I'm fucking fine. Drop it!" You shove past him slamming your shoulder into his. He wants so badly to reach for you. To yank you back to him so you can look him in his angry scarlet eyes.

"Oh so the blood on the floor means you're fine? Your cracked ribs and bruised to fuck all body means you're fine?!" His temper shows with deadly pops that dance along his skin.

You weight him and Kirishima down gently as you leave, hoping it slows them down long enough for you to return to the safety of your dorm room.

Katuski snarls as he walks with leaded feet, as if walking through mud under the influence of a muscle relaxer.  But he and Kirishima have trained with you plenty of times, not to mention they are exposed to your increased pull.

"Maybe we should give them sometime? They are upset, babe." Kirishima offers only to be met with a glowering glare. 

"I've tried listening to you, I've tried it your way and look what has happened." A snarl so low that Kirishima feels his gut twist.

"But..."

"But what?" He turns on his lover quickly, "We gave them two weeks of no contact. This is clearly a symptom we need to bisect before they kill themselves over some stupid fucking training."

Kirishima can do nothing but follow as Bakugou stalks you up the steps that you stomp.

You're seething, steam rising from your skin with each heavy breath as your vision blurs between rational thought and white hot rage.

Rage that is always so easy to give into. Especially when your only other option is immobilzing sadness. Before you know it Bakugou is barking at you from the jamb of the door while your ruby haired boyfriend presses gently against his back.

Trying to remind him that his own irate reaction could further the situation, Bakugou feels it but it is lost as you strip to change. You rip the velcro from your wrists, dropping the fifty pounds weights with a harsh thud. The floor rattles the items on your desk and even the window before you move onto the hundred pound weights on your ankles.

Grumbling as you think of your two hundred and fifty pound vest abandoned in the gym. How hard had Bakugou torn it from your strong yet sleek frame?

Would you have to take it to the support class?

You strip your shirt and then your pants as two sets of red eyes gauge different reactions. 

Rubies widen, shining with the threat of tears. While blood scarlet narrow with burning, hot, wrath.

Katsuki knew you were bruised, he knew you had those broken ribs and he knew you were set out of rehabilitation probation due to injuries but he did not know the extent of them.

And how the fuck could he? What with you locking yourself away in your room, refusing to text them, refusing to eat the meals cooked and left for you.

Refusing help as you promised you would not do.

Katsuki's warning signs of blowing do not go unnoticed, a strong hand wraps around his hip. Squeezing, hoping to convey the softness the ash blonde so desperately needs.

It works, at least as far as his quirk goes. Bakugou Katsuki  could erupt in more than one way.

"What. The. FUCK?!" He goes to take a step in but Kirishima keeps his grip tight. But that does not stop the tongue lashing you get. Bakugou takes a large slow breath, as you once taught him and snorts it out like a dragon.

"You promised you would stop doing this..." His voice, once soothing now grating your last nerve, "You fucking promised, damn it."

Kirishima gives another small squeeze before piping up.

"We are just worried about you, love. Very worried." His voice cracks at the end, causing Katsuki to look over his shoulder.

The tears well faster over dancing garnets.

From the weight of the guilt something in you finally snaps. The room blurs as you subconsciously pull the force to you, items slowly crushing beneath the weight as you lunge for the first thing you can wrap burning hands on.

Your desk chair to which your hurl while screaming

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

Your hot headed boyfriend catches the chair with ease, exploding it on impact.

With an angry enough blast that the paint on the ceiling and walls peel.

Oh if Bakugou wasn't pissed at you before he was now.

And not angry over the fact that you've thrown something at him.

But over the simple fact that you were hurting in deadly silence. So badly suffering that you cannot even rationally express yourself anymore.

And more over he is pissed he has let it get this far.

The glass of your window shatters behind you, both from your exertion and his explosion pulling you into the here and now.

The room spirals as quickly as you do, suddenly forgetting how to breath. Gasping as a fish does out of water before you fall to your knees. The two men rush to you, fearing you'll lose yourself in your panic. Two sets of strong arms wrap around you both crushing you between them.

"You're okay." Kirishima soothes, "You're okay. Just breathe."

Nails bite into toned flesh though you are unsure which unfortunate mail is receiving the half blood moons as tears prick your eyes. Falling towards the Earth as much as you wish they wouldn't. Your stomach lurches, your side screams but it does not stop the racks of sobs that tremor through your body.

You come undone in the worst way before the very two men you wanted, needed to be strong in front of. There was already a detrimental gap between your development and theirs.  In every fucking aspect you could think of.

Muscle mass.

Durability.

Capability.

The list could go on.

After some time Bakugou coos to you.

"Now tell me what's wrong."

Kirishima places his head between your shoulder blades, reaching out for Bakugou's hand.

"I...I'm behind. I... I cannot even train right." Tears slip over ruddy cheeks that Katuski gently wipes away.

"Behind how?" Kirishima prompts, letting lazy circles trace your stomach.

"On my first mission I get put on recovery suspension, I worked so so so *hard* to even get that hero to agree to take me on and yet I fucked it all up!" Another frustrated sob that has you hiccuping for a moment. You watch Bakugou's face turn to stone as he tries to calm himself.

"I almost died on one of my first big missions. I sat out for a long time, this was a little bit before you transferred." Kirishima admits, "Resting and PT made me stronger."

"Hell I was behind at one point too. I couldn't even fucking pass the provisional!" Katsuki growls at the thought.

"Neither could Todoroki-kun." Kirishima adds.

"But you three...you three are strong. I'm so....weak." With that Bakugou snaps.

"You think I can run with a two hundred fifty pound weight on my chest and keep pace with Iida's jog? Do you think Kirishima could hold down twenty fucking tweaked out villians at once?" His voice is gruff but his hands are soft as he lifts your chin, purposefully making you hold his gaze as he speaks, "Answer me, little one."

"N...no." You sob, Kirishima's strong arm squeezes tigher around your middle, careful to avoid your ribs, as he peppers kisses over your blackened shoulders.

"Just because your body does not reflect mine or Eijiro's does not mean you are weak. You are strong Y/N. Real fucking strong." He kisses you softly, capturing your lips tenderly as Kirishima kisses along your throat.

"Share this weight with us." Bakugou breathes out after pulling away.

"Its not weak to cry or ask for help baby." Kirishima whispers in your ear, your eyes look over your sturdy shoulder before they fall to their hands intertwined. You notice Bakugou's knuckles turning white. Had you really made them worry this much?

"Isn't that right Suki?" Eji asks, resting his chin in your shoulder. Katsuki looks at him for a long time, this man and you have helped him more than he would ever like to admit. But if this is what brought that natural magnetism about you that attracted him in the first place he'd say it 

Fuck, if it brought that blinding smile of yours back to your kissable lips he'd scream if from the fucking roof.

"Yes." He lets out a shaky sigh, "Now please, please let us help you little one."

Searching his eyes you wonder if there will ever be a time when you will stop feeling this way.

When you will stop feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders over little to nothing at all.

When you will stop feeling that black hole that crawled into your chest weighing you down and making you weightless all at once.

When you will stop the haunting feeling of sadness that lingers on the fringes of your every thought, tainting every memory and moment with its shimmering darkness.

You wonder if this cancer, if this demon that has since crawled into your chest and devoured your heart whole will ever die.

Scarlet eyes soften as they rove over your lovely features, strong arms support you from behind and you know what the answer is.

The answer is no.

It will never die, never cease to exist, never leave you alone. It will stay with you until you lie motionless forever and even then it will crawl into your casket cradling your cooling skin.

But you will not stop fighting.

Cannot stop fighting because of the small sliver of a feeling you have now.

The love that resiliently blooms despite the pressure, despite the darkness, despite it being trampled over and fucking over.

You know that these two men are not your worth nor or they your reason for being and even if, Kamisama forbid, you three broke up, you would fight on.

Tooth and nail keeping this demon under the ball of your steel toed boot.

Because in the end, after it is all said in done you will do anything to feel this.

This hope and love that radiates from within. You sigh out a shaky sigh, releasing the tension of your shoulders and the constant pressure you've kept on yourself since that mission, your shoulders sag from relief.

"Thank you, thank you for baring this with me." You squeeze their arms respectively as you speak to them both at once, "I love you."

They speak in unison their two tones melding together and soothing over your skin like an ointment.

"I love you too." 

[whentommymetalfie]

Breathe Again -Chapter nine

-Discovery-

prologue//one//two//three//four//five//six//seven//eight

Chapter summary: It’s raining, and Alfie doesn’t want to go out. Tommy decides to go for a walk by himself. 

Pairing: Alfie/Tommy

Warnings: hallucinations, disordered eating

Wordcount: 3700

It’s raining today, pouring down in large droplets that drum against the roof and obscure the view of the sea. Tommy watches the runnels of water travel down the glass door from his place in the armchair. The wind whistles against the windowpane, wants to pull him back to that night on the beach, the feeling of waves crashing against him, the voices in his ears-

He tries to listen to the book instead of the wind. It’s a bit easier now. He doesn’t lose the thread of the story quite as often, at least not if he really focuses. But most of all he’s just waiting for Alfie to close the book and tell him they’re going out now. Because it’s after lunch and they’ve read two chapters, that’s usually when they take a walk. Now, Alfie’s well into the third chapter and he finds himself getting anxious at the disruption in the routine, a crawling restlessness that creeps up his spine and makes his heart tick faster in his chest.

Carefully organising and putting enough words together to form a question, he musters up the courage to take the plunge and asks, “When can we go out?”

Alfie pauses and raises both eyebrows, watching him over the edge of his spectacles.

“Out?” He furrows his brow and looks towards the glass door and then back at him. “Thomas, if you think that I’m setting my fucking foot outside in this weather then you’ve truly just fuckin’ lost it, haven’t you?”

Oh.

He’s said something stupid. His cheeks feel hot, and he fidgets at the fringe of the blanket to keep his fingers occupied. Alfie clears his throat.

“Well, what I mean is, this really is no weather to be out in. Right? Entirely unnecessary to be going out when you don’t have to.”

“I can go by myself.”

Alfie just makes an unintelligible noise at the statement.

He tries again, “I won’t go far.”

“Fuck, Tommy, you’re not going outside in this, alright?” Alfie snaps. “It’s non-fucking-negotiable. Which, really, I can’t believe I have to tell you. Then again you have absolutely no self-preservation, do you?”

And that’s the end of it.

Tommy pulls the blanket up all the way to his nose and looks out at the rain, trying to ignore the unease and the pressure building behind his temples, the threads of a headache gathering up there.

At some point, Alfie falls asleep. He only discovers it when light snores pull him from the fog of his own mind, and he must’ve missed that he stopped reading. The book is resting on his chest and it’s entirely possible he’s told Tommy that a nap was in order. It’s the sort of thing he could’ve missed.

Alfie looks different when he sleeps. Not younger, exactly; the fine lines and wrinkles are still there. Softer, maybe. The way he does when he smiles. And he looks at peace, hands clasped over his stomach and chin tilted forward. But scars are not something that just fades away simply because a person is asleep, and the contrast is stark against his otherwise peaceful features.

“Anyone you touch, Tommy…”

He tears his eyes away and looks out through the glass doors instead. The rain is still pouring down outside. The room feels stuffy in a way it usually doesn’t, like the air has gone stale, or run out. Like the walls are closer.

He wants to wake Alfie up.

“It happens when you stop, Tommy, when everything stops-“

When it’s quiet and he’s alone…

He takes slow breaths in through his nose, trying to will the headache to settle. Presses the palm of his hand against the ridges of the scar.

If he just got some air, things would be easier.

If he just keeps moving.

Alfie is usually adamant about going outside, even when Tommy is tired and just wants to sit in the armchair and listen to him read. “Why should he always get to decide?” a tiny voice whispers. He barely understands it at first. It doesn’t sound like the others. Maybe it’s his own?

Going out in the hallway to put the coat on feels familiar and completely alien at the same time, as if he’s a child sneaking out past their curfew.

“Can’t be going to the stables at all hours, Tom. Nights are for sleeping. The horses will still be there when you wake up.”

“It’s not night,” he mumbles back, slipping for a moment.

It’s not night, and there are no horses. He moves the chestnut from the pocket of his trousers to the coat, focuses on the smooth surface until his mother’s voice fades back to a hum together with the rest of them, and then he opens the door and steps out onto the front steps.

The rain feels like a relief as it patters over his skin in icy drops and he pulls long breaths of the cool air into his lungs as he sets off towards the small path Alfie usually takes him along. The drops fall heavily against his hair, seep down his temples and seem to soothe the ache and the itch there.

Still, the path feels different without Alfie here. Different without the background hum of his voice, without the presence of his sturdy frame there right next to him. But he trudges on along the field until he reaches the chestnut tree, and then the old oak tree with the hole where the crow doesn’t live. Crows lives in nests and Alfie’s crow lives in a closed cabinet now, but that’s because it’s stuffed. He told him so the other day, because he got sick of Tommy asking about it… He tries to remember the things Alfie’s told him on their walks. He can’t remember too many, but it keeps him from slipping back into the abyss of thoughts and memories that lurk just beneath these new ones.

Soon, he reaches a split in the path. Alfie’s never walked further than this with him. He just stand there, gazing out over the fields and the grey clouds. As far as the rain allows him to see, there’s just that, vast, grassy fields, shrouded in rain and mist. The droplets hang around him like a curtain.

The loneliness of it all is suddenly overwhelming

If he disappeared, if the earth opened up beneath his feet and swallowed him up, nothing would change, and no one would notice. It did out there on the field that day, the mud gave away and devoured him and maybe he’s never really existed after that? No one is looking for him. He should be relieved, like Alfie said. Not looking means they can’t take him away, can’t lock him up somewhere. But instead it just opens up a pit in his chest. Seems to split him apart from the inside and the pain makes his knees go weak. He supports himself against the trunk of the tree, head pressed against his forearms where they rest on the rough bark. It’s for the best, it’s for the best, it’s what he wanted, isn’t it? To simply disappear and fade into nothingness…

“But it hurts now that you have, doesn’t it?”

The wetness seeps in through the knees of his trousers as he curls inwards on himself at the bottom of the tree, the weight pressing down on his shoulders finally becoming too much to carry.

But Alfie said-

Alfie said-

They’re not looking.

“Fuck’em, they’re not worth all this.”

A branch above him rustles. Alfie’s crow is there, watching him with curious eyes, head cocked to the side. Maybe it’s gotten out of its cabinet? “It’s stuffed Tommy, see? It’s not real.” It croaks loudly and flaps its wings, if he takes it back home, Alfie will be happy-

His heart is beating quickly in his chest and the cold is creeping in through his coat. It’s all too much. Everything. Getting up, making his legs obey him, moving at all-

“It’s better if you just stay here and rest for a bit.”

“No,” he whispers. Doesn’t want to hear it. “No, I’m- I have to go back.”

“Why?”

Why? Because he wants to go back to Alfie. Alfie will get angry, he was last time, because he did go out looking- But why would he do that? Tommy still can’t wrap his head around it, Esther tells him he cares and she seems to know most things but she must be wrong about that. Sometimes he can trick himself into thinking it’s true. When Alfie came into the bedroom and read to him, even though Tommy had been annoying and difficult. Or when he lets Tommy hold onto his sleeve. Why would he do that if he didn’t care?

“Well, Tommy, you know you’re not right in the head. Just because you don’t understand his reasoning doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Grace explains patiently. “Alright? It’s better if you don’t think for yourself.”

That’s true, but who is he supposed to listen to then? He’s not allowed to  listen to Grace, because she’s not real, not real, not- He wants to listen to Alfie wants Alfie to be here, just be here solid and warm and loud he shouldn’t have gone out by himself- If he just goes back to the house it’ll be okay, he won’t be alone and Alfie will make the voices stop, but he can’t move...

He breathes, just breathes, in and out and the mud isn’t real and the voices aren’t real, he closes trembling fingers around the chestnut, wills all the other voices to stop and tries to hear Alfie’s, imagine his arms, the feeling of being held, grounded…

“Tommy!”

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t make them stop on his own.

They keep calling, from far, far away, and he struggles to place them-

“Tommy, fucking hell you impossible, absolute bloody idiot…” Footsteps approach, uneven and heavy on the muddy ground. “Esther, come’ere, I found him!” A hand hooks under his arm and tries to pull him upright. “Go on, up you go… I’m not getting my clothes all muddy.”

But his arms seems to have frozen around his knees and he’s shaking so hard and he can’t focus on anything but breathing-

“Fuck, come on now-” The hand, Alfie’s hand, pulls harder, and another grabs onto the back of his coat and he finds himself hauled to his feet through sheer force. But his legs won’t cooperate. Pitching forward, he buries his face in the thick coat in front of him, wants so badly to be close, held- Alfie seems to momentarily freeze before grabbing onto his shoulders and holding him at an arm’s length. Tommy grabs onto the lapels of his coat. Clings.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Alfie barks, shaking him, eyes wide and piercingly sharp as they bore into his. “Just fucking… wandering off without saying a word to anyone! Making us comb through the entire bloody countryside.” He starts dragging him back along the path and Tommy struggles to keep up, while Alfie continues shouting: “You can’t just disappear whenever you fucking please! Have us all in a state. Bet we’ll all catch our fucking death now. And just look at you, absolutely fucking freezing-“

“Oh, thank God!” The call comes first, and Esther soon thereafter, appearing in the rainy mist as she runs towards them, hands outstretched and the grey hair escaping from it’s neat braid. She cradles Tommy’s face between her hands and smiles. “Oh dear, you gave us quite the scare. But you’re okay, you’re alright-”

“Yeah, well none of us will be for long if we keep standing around in this rain,” Alfie grunts and keeps walking, still with Tommy’s arm in a vice like grip. “Fuck, couldn’t you have at least said something? Can’t close my eyes for a few bloody minutes without you doing something stupid, can I?”

“Mister Solomons, please calm yourself-“ Esther protests and hurries alongside them.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says because it’s the only thing that comes naturally. Alfie stops in his tracks and blinks at him.

“It’s alright, love, we were just worried,” Esther says and her voice is soft and kind.

Alfie scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Tommy turns his gaze to the ground.  

“I just wanted to go outside.” The hard grip around his arm softens.

“Yeah, well, if I’d known it was that fucking important to you I suppose we could’ve… taken an umbrella or something. No need to be sneaking off all alone to get all wet and miserable…” Alfie trails off.

Tommy stares at the leaves on the ground and for a moment all that’s heard is the pitter patter of rain.

“Let’s go inside,” Esther finally decides and resolutely puts an arm around his waist, before taking the lead back towards the house.

When they get back, Alfie storms off, muttering curses under his breath and saying something about needing a change of clothes. Esther brings Tommy, shaking and soaked through, to the bathroom where she fills up the tub. He protests weakly but she won’t have it, and soon he’s sat in the hot water surrounded by clouds of bubbles, knees pulled up to his chest arms clasped around them.

When there’s a knock on the door, he still hasn’t stopped shaking.

“Tommy, you alive in there or have you managed to drown yourself?”

Before he can figure out which one of the questions to answer, Alfie has opened the door. He’s got a hand covering his eyes, as if he has to make a show of the fact that he’s not looking. For some reason, the sight makes the corner of his mouth twitch and the half smile feels so strange that it immediately dies.

“Well, go on, make a fucking sound alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says. Alfie snorts.

“Yeah, that’s a fucking lie if I ever heard one.” With one hand outstretched in front of himself for guidance he takes a step into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. After colliding with the stool that’s been left there and cursing loudly, he sits down with his back facing the tub, resting his elbows on his knees. He’s in a dry set of clothes now, Tommy notes, and is wearing the velvet waistcoat that looks so soft that it always makes him want to rub his cheek against it.

“You getting any warmer?” Alfie asks after a bit. “Or will I have to deal with you getting fucking pneumonia on top of everything too?”

“I’m warm now,” Tommy mumbles.  

Alfie hums and Tommy rests his head on his arm, curling up a bit on his side in the tub. He can still fit his knees against his chest because it’s a huge thing. Alfie’s back is broad. Always been. But he looks bigger now, as if this life has made him settle more in his own bones, rooted him and made him grow. Then again, Alfie did say he was a God now, it makes sense he’d be larger-

“You didn’t go down to the sea,” Alfie says suddenly. “I thought- Yeah, well, I thought you might. That’s why we went out looking, innit. I don’t particularly enjoy running around in the rain, you see. But, yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The pipes whistling quietly is the only thing filling the bathroom as Tommy struggles to come up with something, anything, to say.

“See, I figured you’d fucking jump at the opportunity,” Alfie finally says. “Would’ve been a good one too. With a storm like this it’d be enough to just go down there and stand in the bloody sand. Waves would’ve done most of the job. So, why didn’t you?”

Why didn’t you? It’s Alfie’s voice, Alfie asking, but it’s Grace and his father and John and all of them-

“I just wanted to go outside,” Tommy repeats his phrase from earlier, hearing the crack in his own voice. A knot of guilt twists in the pit of his stomach. It feels like a selfish impulse, now. As if he’s taken something he wasn’t allowed to. As if his whole existence is just that, taking up space and breath and attention that he doesn’t deserve-

“You know you don’t deserve any of this. But all you do is take and take-“

But right then all he’d wanted was to go outside to feel the rain on his face and look out over the fields.

Now, he wants to crawl out of his own skin.

“Right, right,” Alfie says. “Well, some restlessness is a healthy sign, innit. You weren’t made to be cooped up anywhere, now, where you, Tommy? Not in your blood and all that. But do me a favour and tell Esther next time you go out on your own, alright? If I’m not around.”

“I won’t go again.”

“Nah, not what I said, was it? Just want you to let someone know next time. And tell her where you’re going, if you decide to curl up at the foot of some tree again and we need to come get you. We clear on that?” Alfie asks and turns his head just slightly. Their eyes meet, and then Alfie’s gaze slips, scrutinizing him in a way that makes him sink down a bit further in the tub. He nods, hoping that will get Alfie to stop looking at him like that.

“Oi, Tommy, what have we said about using words, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Alfie gets up with a sigh. “If you’ve thawed slightly I suggest you get out of that bath. Esther has dinner ready.”

Tommy gets out of the tub as soon as Alfie’s left the room. The water feels too tempting, too dangerous. He dries himself off with a soft, large towel Esther put out for him, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The sight of the gaunt, pale face that meets him behind the glass makes him freeze. The figure staring back at him is barely recognizable. He looks… hollow, cheeks sunken in and skin stretched tautly around his jaw, accentuated by the dark shadow of stubble. His collarbones, ribs, every bony ridge and bump stick out unnaturally. Only his eyes are recognizable. Just barely. Because that dejected weariness was there before. He quickly looks away.

No wonder Alfie keeps staring at him.

No wonder no one can stand being close, or touch him-

But Alfie doesn’t mind…

Grace smiles pityingly at him through the glass of the mirror, standing right behind him. “He puts up with it because it’s the only way to keep you somewhat under control-“  

The urge to drive a fist into the mirror and shatter the reflection bubbles up and he flees the bathroom. He wants to just lay down somewhere, curl up and hide from it all, but the bedroom is terribly empty and cold so he just gets dressed quickly in the dry clothes Esther has laid out to spare himself the sight of his own body. They’re as big as the others, but at least they’re soft and warm. And Alfie’s.

The living room is empty too and he quickly moves on to the kitchen after snatching his blanket from the armchair, and can finally breathe again when he finds Esther there. She smiles at him.

“There you are. A bit warmer, I hope?” She ushers him to the table and sets down a mug with soup in front of him. Right then, Alfie enters the kitchen

“Oh, but would you look at that! Managed to not drown and get yourself dressed in a timely manner, didn’t ya? Incredible.” He grins. He’s got a crooked tooth that Tommy hasn’t noticed before. Maybe it only shows when he smiles like that?

Then, they eat. Or rather, Alfie eats and Tommy tries to.

Swallowing is difficult today. He thinks of that gaunt figure in the mirror and tries, but his throat just closes up. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck and he waits for Alfie to snap at him for-

Someone to pin him down, force him-

But Alfie just keeps talking about the deceptiveness of geese, of all things. And he slowly manages almost half of the soup. Esther wordlessly brings out the jar of honey and hands him a teaspoon. That’s easy. It’s just a taste. No texture and he doesn’t have to really swallow. He licks the spoon first, to avoid having the whole thing in his mouth at once, which is still difficult.

Alfie stops his talking then for a short moment, seems to lose his thread, and looksat him with those unreadable eyes that seems to shift in colour as quickly as his mood. They look green in this light. Tommy quickly turns his attention to the label on the honey jar.

After dinner Alfie simply states they should be getting back to their book, so it’s easy to follow him to the living room where a warm fire crackles. He takes his usual seat and wraps himself tightly in his blanket.  

Alfie begins reading and he tries to pay attention to the words, but that’s difficult too today. As if he’s just all too aware of his own body suddenly, of being in it, feeling all the bony angles jut from his skin, feel how weak and useless all his muscles have become, how he’s just this withered, hollow thing-

No different from his head, then.

The scar itches and he raises a hand to scratch. But another hand grabs it and pulls it back down onto the armrest. He blinks down at the bejewelled fingers holding onto his. Alfie is already looking down into the book again, reading on, but he doesn’t release his hand. The metal of the rings feel cool against his fingers, the warmth of Alfie’s skin contrasting starkly against them. Holding his breath, he waits for the moment when the hand will let go of his, but it doesn’t come. Maybe he should be the one to pull back? But when Alfie’s warm skin meets his, he feels… real and grounded. He doesn’t know why. All he knows is that when Alfie holds onto him like this, he can sink back into the pillows and close his eyes and just be, if only for a moment.

[khromashorts]

Michael, a horror short

He'd definitely heard something. Michael crept out of bed and tip-toed across the room, reaching for the door handle. Slowly, quietly, he eased open his bedroom door and stepped into the hall.

It was in darkness, save for a shaft of intense light cast on the opposite wall at the far end of the hallway. "The bathroom light," he said out loud to himself, realising the door was ajar. "I've left the bloody bathroom light on again."

He took a few paces down the hall, but something was nagging him in the back of his mind. He stopped a metre from the bathroom door, suddenly realising what he'd forgotten: a noise had woken him. Perhaps he'd left the window open as well, and a breeze had knocked something off of the windowsill? His subconscious was telling him he was wrong.

Gingerly, Michael reached out to the bathroom door, feeling the hairs on his arms rise, his scalp tightening. He realised he'd been holding his breath, and silently exhaled. The bathroom door suddenly slammed shut, as if pulled from within, and the sharp crack resounded in the sudden darkness. Michael, stricken by the unexpected shock, found he couldn't get his body to move. His mind screamed for escape, even as his arm disobeyed and reached out to open the door. It was as if he was watching with no control, imprisoned in his own mind and forced to watch when all he wanted to do was flee.

His hand clasped the door handle, pushed it down. The door gently swung open with an almost apologetic creak, and he saw the room was in complete, inky darkness. It was the blackest, most suffocating darkness he had ever seen, and everything about it radiated a sense of wrongness that prickled his skin. As he made to close the door, there was a muffled shuffling sound, as if someone was pulling a heavy, wet sack across the floor, and he froze anew, every nerve on fire now.

He took a sluggish step back, bumping into the wall on the other side of the hallway as a strangled, croaking sound began to emanate from the dark abyss of the bathroom, like some awful death rattle escaping something he couldn't see. This time, he found he could move. He bolted for the front door, throwing his shoulder into it as he pushed down the handle, and he flew out over the threshold, out of the house, away from the hellish sound that was still ringing in his ears. He heard the door slam shut behind him and squeezed his eyes closed for a second to drive out the last echoes of noise.

When he opened them, he was not where he should have been. Instead of finding himself on his driveway, his small silver hatchback in front of him, he was in a dark, narrow red brick alleyway. Tall buildings rose on either side of him, closing him in like some suffocating urban canyon. Black metal fire escapes lined the walls on either side, but none of them looked accessible, suspended just out of reach, and seemingly all bereft of their lower ladders. He spun around. The house was gone, replaced with a solid brick wall. He reached out to it slowly, stroking it with the tips of his fingers before flattening his palms to it. He pushed, and was sure he felt the wall push back. He backed away, putting some distance between himself and the impossible wall where his house had just been before turning back to look at the alley again.

Michael's mind reeled. Was he dreaming? No. No, this was far too real. He'd never experienced such cold, mortal terror in a dream as he had standing in front of his bathroom door just moments ago, and he could feel malice emanating from... from whatever had been in there. Maybe he was losing his mind? Maybe the break-up, piled on top of everything else he'd had to deal with over the last year, had finally caught up with him and just broken him? Maybe his body was locked in a padded cell somewhere, while he - the real he, the lucid he - was trapped here, fighting the nightmares in his head?

He reached out to the side wall of the alley, brushing it with his fingertips, feeling the rough texture of the brick. No. This was real. It was too real to be anything but. He had to find a way out.

The other end of the alley seemed to open up onto a wide street of some kind, and Michael quickly strode toward it. As he came closer, he realised that a chain link fence barred his path. He tilted his head back to look up. The fence reached all the way to the roofs of the buildings. While some logical part of him registered that that was clearly abnormal, Michael's first conscious thought was that there no way he could climb it. He was trapped, and his fear was starting to return, propped up by his mounting frustration. His fingers closed around the metal of the chain link fence, and he leaned forward. "HELP!" he shouted into the street beyond. "SOMEBODY HELP ME!"

No reply came. He pushed his face closer to the fence, trying to peer out into the well-lit street. It was night, but there were still a few cars on the road, their headlights illuminating the asphalt as they drove by, while a couple of streetlights threw sickly yellow pools of light onto the pavement here and there. He saw someone step into the light under one of the streetlights, casually walking along the street wrapped up in a heavy rain mac, hood up, carrying an umbrella. Reflexively, Michael glanced up again, putting his hand out palm up, as if to confirm to himself that it wasn't raining, and wondering to himself why the person on the street was carrying an umbrella. Shaking the thought from his mind, he called out again. No response. He called again. "Hey! Hey, can you hear me? I need help!"

The person slowed, and glanced around curiously, almost as if they could barely hear Michael. Yet they were only about twenty feet from the mouth of the alleyway. He shouted again and the person turned. Michael realised it was a woman, and he called again. Still no reply, though this time, the woman took a few cautious steps toward the alleyway fence, stopping about fifteen feet away to peer into the darkness. How could she not see him? In the darkness, he couldn't make out the features of her face, but he thought he saw something glint where her eyes would have been, as if something shiny had caught the light.

He drew in a breath, intending to call out to her again, his frustration mounting now, though tempered with the tiniest bit of hope that someone knew he was here. He didn't get a chance. In an instant, the woman was right in front of him, her face merely inches from his own, on the other side of the chain link fence. Michael quickly staggered back, tripping over his own feet in his effort to get away, and fell heavily to the ground. She hadn't taken a run at him; she had just appeared there. One second she was fifteen feet away, and then she was just there.

He sat there for a second, stunned, as he began to hear a low, quiet, throaty growling sound from the edge of the alleyway. Wide-eyed, fighting back sheer animal terror and the hardwired instinct to run, he slowly lifted his head to glance up at the woman's face, but there was nothing there. No face, just a deep, dark pool of nothingness framed by the hood of the rain mac. But he could see her eyes, or what should have been her eyes: two intense rings of red peered out at him from beneath the rim of the umbrella, as if they'd been scrawled there by a difficult child with a crayon in its fist.

She cast her gaze about slowly, as if she knew he was there somewhere but couldn't quite make him out. Michael immediately froze, not wanting to move a muscle and give himself away in front of this... thing. He noticed her head was moving slightly every now and then, and focused on the motion. He could hear her breathing. No, not breathing. She was sniffing at the air, as if she were a predator trying to get his scent, and the realisation turned his blood cold. He fought a back rising tide of despair; seconds ago he had thought she might be his salvation, yet now he was being... hunted? And he was trapped here, in the enclosed alleyway. He tried to focus his thoughts. He had to get out of here, he had to escape, and giving in to that despair would not help him.

He edged away slightly, inch by inch on his backside, and realised now that the ground was wet, as if it had been raining. More than that, he could hear the rain now, even if he couldn't feel or see it - not here in the alleyway or outside in the street. The strange creature seemed to notice it though, and shrieked in annoyance, and Michael had to cover his ears as the sound bored into his skull, a horrifying din like someone dragging their nails down a chalkboard while gargling broken glass. The woman stopped screeching and cast her gaze about again, more impatient now, and Michael decided this was his chance. Keeping his eyes fixed on the creature in the rain mac, he carefully stood up and took a couple of hasty steps back. Her head snapped in his direction, those burning red rings staring right at him, and her hands grabbed at the metal of the chain link fence. He couldn't quite make out her hands either, as if they were made of shadow, but her fingers seemed unnaturally long, pointed, sharp. She made no sound now. Could she see him? He froze, not daring to move, and the creature, seemingly frustrated, began casting her head around again, even as she gripped the metal links of the fence. She must have lost him.

He took a few more steps, and the creature began to shriek again, thrashing at the chain link fence as she did, as if she was going to tear it free to get at her prey. Then, as abruptly as she had begun, she stopped, her arms slowly dropped to her sides, and her body turned on the spot as if to leave. Not her head though. It stayed exactly where it was, those angry red rings peering into the dark alleyway, before that too turned, catching up to the rest of her, and she walked away down the street, looking again like a normal pedestrian huddled under her umbrella against the rain. Michael, breathing rapidly now, his heart threatening to burst from his chest, backed up a few paces and glanced over his shoulder back down the alleyway. He couldn't make any sense of this; he wondered again if he was going insane - anything to explain away the things he was seeing - and forced those thoughts out of his head again. He had to focus. He had to escape first, then he could stop, think, figure out whether or not he had cracked. Right now, it wasn't a priority. He had to run. He had to get away. He had to stay alive.

But he couldn't go back the way he came - it just wasn't there anymore - and getting out onto the street was clearly out of the question. He had no choice but to find a way up. He started to walk back down the alleyway, glancing over his shoulder every few paces, suddenly aware of how exposed he was in the middle of the dark alley with nowhere to hide if the predatory creature came back for him.

He noticed that one of the fire escapes about two thirds of the way back down the alley did have a ladder to ground level. Had that been there before? He was almost sure it hadn't, and he approached it cautiously, as if he expected it to suddenly fly up out of his reach to taunt him. He reached out with his right hand, and was almost surprised when his fingers closed around the edge of it. He let out a small, involuntary laugh of relief, and then heard another sound, like stone shifting against stone. He spun around to face the back wall of the alleyway and was sure he saw it move. It was. Almost imperceptibly at first, but then it started to slide in his direction, the entire red brick wall. It was coming for him.

He immediately turned back to the ladder and started climbing, hauling himself up onto the first landing of the fire escape, and pulled himself along the handrail towards the next set of steps. Every time he reached the next landing, he was facing away from the oncoming wall, but he didn't dare glance back to see how far off it was. He had time, he was sure of it. He just had to keep moving, keep running, keep climbing. He allowed himself a glance up to see how many floors were left above him. He was sure he'd cleared five or six now, but the top seemed no nearer. He glanced down as he ran, and saw that the ground was now very far below him - if he fell, he would surely be dead, never mind the wall.

Finally, the top was in sight. "I'm going to make it!" he shouted to no one in particular, just as he heard the groaning of metal. He reached the next landing and turned to see that the wall was now right on top of him. Though the fire escape was slowing its progress, it wouldn't last long. The unstoppable wall was starting to crush the staircase, tearing it from the wall. And Michael was a long way from the ground. He kept running, his lungs burning with the effort, his legs threatening to collapse under him. He pumped his arms, pounded up the final steps and threw himself onto the roof, a split second before the wall - impassive, uncaring - tore the steps from the wall and sent them clattering loudly into the darkness below.

Michael lay on the roof, wheezing, trying and failing to slow his breathing. Every part of him ached and protested. He didn't have the strength to stand now. He needed a few moments to recover. He rolled onto his back and lay panting, staring up at the bright, twinkling stars that dotted the night sky, the sounds of the other falling fire escapes beginning to recede until there was silence once again.

He had no idea how long he'd been laying there. His breathing had steadied enough now, and though his chest ached and his muscles burned, he forced himself to roll onto his side so he could try to stand. He didn't make it that far. As his perspective shifted and his vision focused, he realised he was not alone on the roof. He rose to his knees as a blinding light shone directly into his face, blotting everything out. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, and the intense light suddenly died away. He shuffled backwards instinctively and blinked, struggling to regain his sight, and as his view of the rooftop resolved, he saw...

[marshunter06]

Sad Bitch- Łaszewo (Trentney)

A/N: Sorry I’ve been absent, but my brain has been a bitch lately... I never imagined I would be writing a fic like this, but I had to get it out. The reason why I do have such a soft spot for Trentney is because I have a Trent in my life to keep me grounded and I’m so grateful for him

To be a good artist means one must be burdened with great suffering especially at the hands of oneself. This may not apply to all the arts and typically not with singers, but Courtney understood this more than anyone in the industry. It was never her intention to be this way, dissociating while her manager tried to plan her next move, but the weight of her own thoughts were just too much to carry. Back when Total Drama was still a thing, she hid her depression well, she often exploded into anger to keep people out. No one would dare befriend a fiery volcano just waiting to erupt, no one besides him at least. With a touch of his hand, she was brought back to reality to listen to the meeting with their label. His smile and bright green eyes soothed her dark thoughts away briefly, enough to put on her persona as a successful pop princess. His hand stayed put, right next to hers barely touching. It brings a warm feeling into her heart and soon she’s lost in a daydream with him as the focus. Still the sadness starts to ease into her thoughts making doubts plague her mind. Was she foolish with possibly falling for her best friend? Was it smart to trust Trent with her heart so soon after her final breakup with Duncan? Would it even be the final breakup? Duncan, the name still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. She still remembers everything about their failed relationship, every callous word thrown at each other without regard for the other’s feelings. A primes example of two toxic people made for each other. Their love always sizzled out leading to another prison both were too familiar to let go of. What happened to the young her who welcomed every change with a light in her eyes? Courtney doesn’t know when her old self died only to be reborn into a shell of who she was before, but when she finally realized what happened, it was too late.

“Court, you’re home.”

She blinks once then twice wondering when she got into his car. Her scenery magically changed from a corporate office to her newly purchased home.

“Here, I’ll walk you inside. I think I forgot my guitar pick anyways.”

“The silver one?”

“Yeah, did you find it?”

“No, I’ve been busy, sorry. It should be in the studio though.”

He simply smiles as he walks around to open her door; he doesn’t call her out on her obvious lie. She wasn’t busy, he’s been there with her as her demons pull her away from the real world, she just stares into nothingness. He tries to pull her out of it when possible, usually a nudge will do it, but sometimes the demons are too powerful to keep at bay for long. Lately it’s been worse. They’ve had to reschedule the label meeting several times already. He knows she’s heading down a dark path, it’s why he’s been making excuses to stay over despite him living an hour plus away due to LA traffic.

“Found it, you were right, it was on top of the piano.”

“Oh? Glad it’s not missing anymore, thanks for bringing me back by the way.”

“‘Course, can’t leave my fav girl stranded.”

“I would’ve been fine, really. You can go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Is that a promise?”

“I never break my promises.”

He only hesitated slightly then nodded bidding her goodnight. It was already late, the moon high above the sky with stars twinkling around the crescent shaped light. He was almost out the door when he turned back to tell her to look outside.

“The moon is beautiful tonight.”

“You tell me this every night.”

“And I mean it everytime.”

“We couldn’t even see it a few nights ago.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s not still beautiful.”

“Trent, I think you’ve been awake for too long. Get some sleep tonight.”

“You too. I’ll call when I get home, so you don’t worry.”

“You can just text me, I’ll still be up.”

“It’s better to hear your voice.”

“You hear it all the time, you should be sick of it.”

“You’re kidding right? I get the honor of listening to the greatest singer of our generation, how could I ever pass that opportunity up?”

“Are you talking about yourself again?”

This gets both of them to smile, he knows he’s succeeded in pushing away her sorrow for a moment. It won’t last long though, they both knew this. She can only hope she doesn’t call him crying again tonight. He’s been losing sleep because of her, still he never complains.

After he leaves, she tries her best to get ready for bed. She gets distracted a few times, just managing to slip under her covers by the time Trent calls her letting her know he made it home safely. She keeps the conversation short telling him she’s tired, he wishes her sweet dreams as she tells him good night. She lays in bed tossing and turning until she’s on her side facing her window with the just a glow of the moonlight seeping into her dark room. She closes her eyes willing sleep to take over, but her brain runs wild bringing her further into its abyss.

You’re going to be sad and alone forever.

Trent doesn’t love you, no one does, you couldn’t even keep Duncan.

Your parents are ashamed of you, you’re the reason they divorced.

Cate’s won’t talk to you because you’re too much to handle, your own sister hates you.

You’re only famous because no one’s caught on that you’re talentless yet, the whole world will shun you soon.

The only reason you have hits is because Trent’s the one writing the songs, when he leaves you’ll be nothing.

What’s it like being a hurtful bitch getting karma like you deserve?

Honestly Courtney, you’re pathetic, why do you even try? No one likes a sad bitch.

Everyone’s tired of how whiny you are, just stop with your lame excuses, who cares if you didn’t get sleep?

The self hatred goes on and on until she’s drowning in negative energy. She’s suffocating and breathing isn’t helping, she can’t take in air fast enough, the room feels too confined. She needs to get up and get out, but she can’t, she’s trapped. Tears stream out of her eyes as her body continues to be paralyzed, her heart is erratic and she can barely breathe. It’s too much, the walls are caving in and she can’t do anything to stop it. She closes her eyes again trying to fight back with happy thoughts, but she fails again and again as her mind continues to tell her how useless she is. She’s losing the battle, she just wants it to be quiet, but her thoughts ring loud and clear with every word cutting into her soul. Pain, so much pain leaving invisible scars all over her. If she waits long enough she’ll blackout from the pressure, she just has to focus on her breathing. In then out, in then out, she can do this, she promised she could…

Her eyes snap open and she’s able to move once more. Her first thought is to call him, she should’ve just asked him to stay. She’s always felt better in his arms, his regular heartbeat bringing her back to earth. Why didn’t he fight harder to stay this time? Was he really sick of her too? He’s just like the others, he can’t handle her. The kindest person she’s ever met and even he’s exhausted being near her. The misery takes over and all she wants is to drown herself in alcohol and cigarettes. All bad habits she learned from her ex, though to be fair, she didn’t take much persuading. She’s always known she has an addicting personality, it’s why she tried to stay sober, but she needed an escape. A bottle or two of wine wouldn’t be too bad. It was with this thought in mind that she decided to go into the living room for her secret stash of sherry’s. She rounds the corner heading to her hidden cabinet when she spots it: a silver guitar pick on the coffee table. She stops dead in her tracks.

“Trent.”

She sits on the ground as she cradles the pick rubbing over the letter “T” confirming it was his. She feels restless as she continues to stare at the precious item left behind for her sake. He knew. He must have. Why else would he leave the pick again? She closes her palm and holds it close to her chest, she has an overwhelming urge to do something. She wants to go to him, so she does, she doesn’t bother with a jacket, she simply follows her heart running out in the dead of night. She’s out the door in a flash clearly not thinking as she leaves her car behind and doesn’t lock her door. All she knows to do is keep moving forward as she jogs into a sprint. The cold air hits her bare arms and legs, but she isn’t bothered.

She makes it a block before her brain catches up telling her this is a bad idea; she starts to spiral down in her thoughts again. Do you even know where you’re going Courtney? You’re such an idiot, you just moved. How do you know the way to his house already? He obviously doesn’t want you to disturb him, he’s never invited you over since you moved. Stop with your delusions, Trent doesn’t like you, he only puts up with you because you work together. What are you going to do now? You’re lost. You’re going to lose him just like how you lost everyone else in your life. Face it Courtney, you’re just a loser. All you do is waste time.

She collapses on the hard concrete scraping her knee in the process. She nearly drops the pick in her hands as she hides her face with tears streaming down her cheeks. She doesn’t know what to do and now she’s blinded by a bright light. She drops her hands, it wasn’t the moonlight nor the streetlight, so it must be a headlight. It’s the middle of the night, no one should be out driving in this neighborhood. She should get up and go back home, but she’s lost the strength. She’s not even slightly afraid as the car approaches closer. It slows to a stop right next to her as she continues to stare forward. She doesn’t hear him when he calls out to her. She’s tired and cold, all she wants to do is close her eyes. She opens her eyes when she feels a warm jacket draped over her engulfing her in a familiar scent.

“Sorry I’m late, didn’t realize you wanted to go jogging.”

“Trent?”

“Hey Court.”

He says her name with a smile, he doesn’t question her on why she was out in her pajamas at nearly three in the morning sitting on the ground. He helps her up and into the passenger seat as he drives them back to her place. He doesn’t yell at her, his voice is calm and gentle when he tells her she’s home. She removes her seatbelt and that’s when she notices the duffel bag in the back seat. He catches her gaze explaining immediately even though he would never ask her to tell him what went wrong.

“It’s just some spare clothes. I was going to leave it in the car. I figure I might be here a while since we’re going to start on the new album tomorrow… or today rather.”

“You can bring it inside. I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

She nods. He smiles at her again as he grabs the duffle in one hand with the other holding hers as they walk back inside her place. He doesn’t scold her on leaving her door ajar and unlocked. Once inside is when he notices the scrape on her knee. He immediately heads to the bathroom to grab the medical kit to help clean her wound. When she’s all patched up, he places a kiss on her bandaid as if it was the most natural thing to do. He notices her surprise.

“Sorry, Mom always did that for me whenever I got hurt. It took the pain away.”

She doesn’t say anything, she just opens her left hand where the pick had been the entire time. He takes it from her understanding that she was okay for now. When he looks at her again she’s overcome with another intense feeling, one that she never thought she would feel again so quickly. Panic starts to rise within as her brain feeds her false information. He pulls her out of the darkness as he wraps his arms around her keeping her safe and secure. The intruding fear leaves as she calms down. She pushes him away when his embrace becomes too much, he scoots over to give her more space.

“Are you ready to go to sleep Court?”

“Almost. I know it’s late, but I want to write for a bit. You can go to sleep first.”

“Inspiration strikes at any time. I’ll stay up with you.”

She pulls out her notebook armed with purple ink as it spills out on the page. He doesn’t interrupt, as she continues to put words on paper. It’s not often that she gets to write herself. She writes down all her haunting thoughts and with each line she feels a bit more healed. It’s therapeutic in a way, she wonders why she never did this in the first place, it would’ve saved her a lot more heartache. She passes him the notebook when she’s finished, he scans through the words until he reaches the end. He looks back up at her with a smile and a promise.

We've all been hurt before

If all's fair in love and war

What are we fighting for?

Baby, had the good intentions

Couldn't face another change of direction

Tell me what's the method to your madness

I'm just a fucking sad bitch, show me you can handle it

Save me from my own reflection

I can't take this tight rope tension

Tell me what's the method to your madness

I'm just a fucking sad bitch, show me you can handle it

A/N: This is only a glimpse of how I feel, I didn’t want to make the fic more dark, but it did to write it out. If anyone else is in the same boat know you’re not alone and that you can beat this. I’m still here and you here too.