#ignore the overlapping hand and foot for I could not be bothered to clean this shit up

[canaryydragonn]

The kidzz

[spinchip]

I Will Answer to Knife

Word Count: 3600 Pairings: Gen Warnings: Post s11 Ice Chapter. PTSD, mentions of blood/murder, Zane isn’t in a good headspace.

Summary: Zane struggles with weapons he isn’t used to. Zane struggles with what he offers.

Wouldbelove, do not think of me as a whetstone until you hear the whole story: In it, I’m not the hero, but I’m not the villain either so let’s say, in the story, I was human and made of human-things: fear and hands, underbelly and blade.

He overcompensates, loses his balance and skids across the courtyard. His side takes the brunt of it, and if he were human the bruises would be layered one on top of the other, each time he slips imprinted onto his skin in a motley purple-blue-yellow. He’s not human, so all he has to show for his fumbling is radiating pain not unlike cracked ribs, a dirty gi, and tight-lipped irritation that barely masks shame. The impact sends his shuriken out of his hands, arcing in an unrefined fling that has one stuck out of the gate across the yard and the other lying, like him, in the dirt.

He rolls to a stop, flopping back onto the ache of his shoulder blades to stare up at the sky. Without thinking, he balls his hand into a fist and bangs the side of his palm against the edge of the training mat he can reach. Frustration seeps hot across his throat and down his chest, like blood from a fresh wound. He rolls over on his sore side by mistake but doesn’t dare suck in a hissing breath, not with the others watching so closely, gathering his legs underneath him and rising to his feet.

Kai looks sympathetic from his spot on the blue mat that is not big enough to keep his failure contained, the dirt on his gi proof of his mistakes spilling over. The wooden swords in his hands are awkward and out of place, their weight different from his normal weaponry yet even with this disadvantage, he puts Zane down over and over.

Well, Zane does most of the work for him, really.

Lloyd watches with a pinched expression as Zane dusts himself off, his position at the head of the training session a solid presence, “I think that’s enough for today.” He says, and he almost seems apologetic.

“I can go again.” Zane insists, and refuses to stumble as he collects his discarded weapons, wrenching the edge of his blade out of the gate with his dwindling strength.

He’s exhausted. They’ve been running basic drills, ameatuer hour stuff Zane should have been able to do in his sleep- but it’s been years. Decades upon decades stuck on the throne of the Never Realm, and now he’s out of practice and off balance. Nindroids don't have muscle memory, and his regular memory has been shredded enough that things like this didn’t bother to stick. He can’t get through a single move without losing the dexterity that used to come easy and sending himself to the dirt- Lloyd had gone from advanced moves to novice to beginner slowly throughout the day, yet the result was the same: Zane in the dirt of his own accord, aching and weak.

To add insult to injury, Kai is obviously holding back. Jay had been too, yesterday, Nya the day before. In the span of a week he went from the most formidable man in the realm to an uncoordinated child who needed to be treated delicately. He could barely land a hit on the training dummy, and it didn’t even move.

“Maybe you can try your bow again?” Zane can’t meet Kais eyes, the pity he’s trying to mask making his wires curl.

“We saw how well that went.” Jay mutters not uncharitably, another string of disappointments a few days prior where his aim left much to be desired, and quite nearly took his eye when he’d lost his grip.

The others had been training too, but they’d stopped to watch as Lloyd summoned Kai and Zane to spar.

“We need to assess your skills in combat,” Lloyd had said earlier that day, the so we can make up for your shortcomings going unsaid but heavy all the same. Or maybe Zane is the one being uncharitable- but he’s in pain and tired and his mask of calm is harder to keep a grip on now.

And Kai had hesitated on the edge of the mat, holding the steel of his swords, and with his head down had swapped them for wooden fakes. The insult threatened to make Zanes lip curl, but he’d been forced to concede to his foresight when dull wood blades cracked against the side of his thigh and forced him to the ground, in one of the few times Zane had managed to stay on his feet long enough to be taken down by something other than his own shortcomings. He should have been able to dodge.

The shurikens are so small in his hands, and he hasn’t used them in so so long. He's rusty.

“I can go again.” He insists, stepping back onto the mat. In a real battle, he’d be less than useless. They couldn’t protect him, he had to be able to take care of himself. He had to keep going until he could at least survive. He was good at surviving, he’d spent decades hanging on by a thread- countering a wooden sword shouldn't be so difficult compared to parrying the knives from assassins or the swords of dead men walking. He’s weak.

Lloyd gets that look on his face that he only gets when he has to do something he really doesn’t want to do, mostly when he must flex his status on the others when they're being particularly stubborn. It’s a pained stony sort of expression, “That’s enough for today.” he says more firmly, shoulder squaring. He loses the soft edges of the boy he used to be, Master Lloyd filling in the spaces rigid.

Protest raises on his tongue, “The longer I go at the skill level I am at now, the more dangerous it becomes.” fear, frustration, and desperation simmers below the surface, “I am a liability on the field, I cannot stop until I can hold my own.”

“We can continue training tomorrow.” Lloyd says, unyielding. Green eyes trail down to Zanes' sore side, assessing.

He bristles and tries to tamp it down, “You do not need to go easy on me-” he starts.

Lloyd interrupts him, “Yes we do-” frustration cracking the facade of the master, the others looking on in wide eyed worry.

“Lloyd, Zane, enough.” Wu's voice rings out in sharp tones, his presence slamming the lid on the boiling over pot, “I believe I have a suggestion to solve our problem.”

Problem. Zane tries not to let that sting as he spins to face Master Wu.

The man is descending the stairs of the monastery into the courtyard, the others parting like the red sea, his cape trailing on the edge of the steps as he comes down. In his hand is-

Zanes vision tunnels, Lloyd, Kai, the others all fading away as he takes in the smooth metal, leather bound handle, the wicked curved blade- a piece of him howls, jagged and frozen fingers scrabbling at the corners of his mind, the sight of that staff is like going snowblind. All at once he’s standing in the courtyard amongst his friends and the throne room at the same time, realities overlapping in brutal contrast.

His shuriken bounces off his foot and he is thrust back into his body, his hands empty where he’d dropped his weapons in shock. Wu approaches him with the staff and he takes a shaky step backwards, wiping at his mouth with wobbling hands, half expecting to wipe away spit- salivating at just the sight of it. His wrists and fingers ache, begging him to take it in his hands.

Wu disregards his reaction, walking into his space among the group on the mat. He thunks the staff down in front of Zane, the weight of it digging into blue, like it is the answer.

He’s so spooked he doesn’t dare move, looking at it with wide eyes. Now that he’s more present, he realizes it’s nearly identical to the Staff of Forbidden Spinjitzu, except this one is notably missing the scroll that gave it the corruptive power. It’s just a staff, plain and simple.

No one says a word. Zane stares at it, trembling.

Lloyd is quiet, then, “Are you sure that this is a good idea, Master Wu?”

Wu looks sad but he’s trying to mask it, “You are their teacher, Lloyd. When Zane falters, what do you see?”

Zane is listening, sort of. He’s tracing the edge of the blade with his eyes- sharpened to a fine point, clean and perfect. It looks heavy, the whole thing does, he can nearly taste the weight of it on his tongue. He wants to take it so badly it hurts, and in the same breath he wants to cast it off the side of the mountain or freeze it solid and shatter it against the stone under his feet.

“He’s off balance. He’s compensating for a weight that’s not there.” Lloyd looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, “The shuriken are too small.” He admits.

Wu nods to the weapon in his hand, glancing from Lloyd to pin his eyes on Zane, “You’ve had a lifetime of practice with this weapon. You’ve wielded a staff longer than a shuriken or a bow, perhaps it is time to embrace that.”

Zane doesn’t even look at him. He can almost feel the whisper on the back of his mind- it’s not there, the staff is a replica without the extra power, but Zane can imagine it all the same.

He reaches out and takes it.

The feel of it in his palm is like a starburst of agony, an ice burn that jumps up the metal of his forearm and digs into the plane of his chest. Flickers of memories flash in his mind's eyes all like looking through a pane of frosted ice-glass, cold seeping into his skeleton. A memory rises unbidden, a man he did not freeze, who had been close enough to strike with the blade- red red red

He chucks it across the courtyard without thinking, staggering away from it, “I can’t.” he nearly gags, before darting past Wu and Lloyd and narrowly avoiding Coles worried brush of his fingers. He takes the stairs two at a time, throwing open the front door and not bothering to shut it behind him.

He holes himself away in his room, sitting on the floor next to his bed, trying to hold himself together.

Too much too soon, the staff wrenched memories he’d been ignoring and hiding away free.

He doesn’t want to admit it, wants to choke it down and pretend it didn’t happen, but he can’t deny that- even with the pain and shame and bloody wounded guilt overwhelming him- taking that staff had felt like coming home.

Home was supposed to be Ninjago. Somewhere along the way, it became the throne room, too. He’d been split in half, pieces of him trapped in a realm he could never return to. The closest he’d ever get to sating the pervasive homesick itch is to hold a facsimile of his tool of violence.

Perhaps it is time to embrace that Wu had said, holding out the weapon he’d bloodied his hands with.

Evening comes and goes, and he skips dinner again. He’s crawled into bed at some point, staring up at the ceiling, trying hard not to think. He swallows down the threatening urge to crack under it all. In the darkness, he stares at his palms.

Vex is standing at his side, the throne room an open doorway behind them, and the staff is a curling presence he’s never without. It’s hard to think about these memories because he doesn’t form thoughts like he did when he was broken, the memories jagged and warped. Trying to understand is like catching a blade you’ve dropped- a falling knife has no handle. It hurts.

But in this memory he and Vex are walking through the palace hall. Grand windows might as well be painted white with the snow obscuring the now frozen wasteland, but the Emperor had no desire to see the outside world, or anything at all. This is before he had snuffed out the rising rebellions, this is before he’d flexed his power and made the people afraid, this is before they’d even given him the moniker Ice Emperor. He is nameless now, even Vex only calls him by his title. He doesn’t even know he is missing something so vital.

Vex says, “You don’t need to worry about the inconsequential things,” he’s a step behind Zane, and when his emperor slows he can prod him so he keeps moving, “You are an instrument of power, these things are beneath you. I will handle the day-to-day for you, my Emperor.”

The click of his staff ticks across the hall as they walk, “And what am I to handle?”

“Nothing. Simply keep your hold on our eternal winter, and raise your staff when I ask it of you.”

There's a stirring of thought in the empty caverns of his head and not a hint of it is kind, “I am your attack dog, then.”

To his credit, Vex doesn’t falter, “You are my Emperor.” he says immediately, and then- carefully, and almost genuinely curious, “What do you have to offer other than violence?”

Zane lays in bed and stares at the shapes in the dark that might be his hands. Shurikens don’t fit right any more, his arrows shoot askance. If the next threat arises in the morning, what can he do except cost his friends focus?

He is a bleeding wound. They need to treat him gently and delicately- but life is not gentle and delicate, and perhaps it is time to take a knife over a fire and cauterize the injury.

He slips and goes horizontal and his blood spills across the dirt. It’s metaphorical until it’s not and the newest adversary forgoes fake wooden swords for real ones, sharpened blades sinking home. If he were human he would bleed red blood. He’s not human, so it’s oil and coolant and hydraulic fluid seeping into the soil.

He is a liability. Weak-link. He has to learn to fight again. He has to embrace it, even if it feels like frostbite chipping away at him, even if it hurts. Vex had forged him into a knife, forced him into the shape of a blade and sharpened him with blood instead of water, if he can accept these pieces he can make himself useful once more. It was all he had.

He wants to feel strong again.

Morning comes in slanting lights though his window, the blanket is too hot under them. He hadn’t slept enough but he rolls out of bed and changes into a clean gi anyway and trails out of his room. Conversation falls hushed when he comes into the kitchen, and he eats breakfast despite the way his stomach churns- it tastes like it always tastes, bland and unappetizing. The ache in his side had faded over the night, nearly non-existent. He can spar fresh.

“We didn’t think you’d be joining us today.” Nya tries, smiling over her bagel.

He doesn’t shrug, putting his fork down, “I meant what I said. I cannot stop until I can protect myself.”

Nya’s face grows pinched and worried, “You can, though.” She reaches across the table and sets her hand on top of his, and she doesn’t jolt or comment at all about how cold he is, “You can take a break, Zane.”

Wu had called him a problem. Zane knows that’s not what he meant, but it weighs his shoulders like lead, and he doesn’t respond. He stands up and takes his plate to the sink, and her hands falls flat against the table.

The staff is sitting on the porch, leaned up against the wall. He focuses on it the moment they walk outside, and Jay ducks his head nervously- he was probably supposed to put it away so Zane didn’t see it again, but they thought he was going to skip like he had the first few days after he’d come home. Never put off until tomorrow what can be done today.

They do warm-ups, then Lloyd pairs them up for sparring, and his eyes skate over Zane reluctantly until, “Cole… Zane. Come spar.” The others don’t need for Lloyd to supervise them, or the training mat. Zane needs both.

They both go to the weapons and Cole, like Kai yesterday, avoids his hammer. He reaches for the wooden training swords but Zane catches his wrist.

He looks up, startled, “Zane?” He asks, confused.

He manhandles his hand over to the grip of his hammer, “Do not hold back.” He says firmly, and then jogs up the stairs and wraps his fingers around the staff.

Expecting it this time, he compartmentalizes the memories the instant they surface, shoving them back. In the absence of pain there is comfort, the weight so achingly familiar a hole inside of him he didn’t know he had is filled. Like coming home, he’d felt it yesterday. Confidence pours into his system- he knows how to hold this, to swing this, to fight with this. He picks it up and it’s perfectly balanced, a missing limb reattached.

Carrying it down the stairs, he’s aware of their stares.

Kai and Nya break formation, moving back to give Cole and Zane room. Jay follows their lead, and they settle back to watch.

Cole is holding his hammer and his expression is grim, “Are you sure you can handle this?”

He feels like he’s being filled with ice, chill threatening to frost over his eyes. He’s not sure at all, but he says, “Don’t hold back.” Again anyway.

Shurikens are small. To fight, he has to stand back, give space, evade and dodge. Bow and arrows are much the same. They are largely defensive. Before the Never Realm, he was good at defense.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Lloyd says and Zane carefully tunes out the apprehension in his voice.

Now he is more comfortable on the offense.

He moves.

The Ice Emperor rarely fights in close combat- he rarely fights at all, actually. He waves his staff and freezes, he calls ice and allows that to do the work for him, but when he does face off one on one, he does so as brutally efficiently as he can. He is all offense, blow after blow after unrelenting blow- he pours bone-shattering strength into each strike, driving rebellion leaders to their knees, knocking back a town's most elite soldiers, and if they don’t go down on the first hit he wastes no time lashing out again. He rushes his opponent, he overwhelms them, and he offers not a single second of reprieve.

He hauls back, crossing the mat in half a second, and slices through the air in a clean and powerful swing. The crack of his staff against the handle of Cole's hammer sounds like a gunshot with the terrible force behind it, and before Cole can gather his bearing he swings again.

He beats him back faster than he expected- Cole underestimated him, and it cost him precious ground. He tries to put distance between them to get a moment to make his move, but Zane is with him step for step, suffocating any moves before they can breathe.

To fight with his shuriken or his bow is like oil against his water, they don’t mix now that the staff has imprinted itself onto his mind. He cannot reconcile the difference, not yet. He compensates for the weight of the staff, keeps his balance, and advances on his target with brutal efficiency.

He sweeps his leg out while splitting Cole's attention with a strike intended for his side, and Cole goes down with a startled shout. Zane twists the staff so the flat side of the blade is sitting on his chest- the intent is clear, but there’s no danger he’ll accidentally cut him. It’s over in heartbeats, and Cole looks up at him, astonished.

“Holy moly.” Jay breathes.

Zane moves the blade aside, shifting the staff to hold it upright. He glances over at Lloyd, who looks a shade paler than before the fight, whose eyes are a bit too wide. He was the only one who’d seen the Ice Emperor in action, and the last time he’d held the blade against someone's chest it had been him- sharp side down, the intent had been clear then, too. Zane averts his eyes, guilt threatening the progress he’d made even picking the staff up, and focused on holding out a hand so he could bring Cole back to his feet.

Cole winces as he pulls him up, “Zane…” He says, staggering, “That was like nothing I've ever seen from you.” He flexes his fingers, the blows stinging his hands even now.

He doesn’t flinch or shy away from his friends' looks, “It’s how I fought.” He’s hoping he doesn’t have to put any more context to that sentence, he doesn’t want to say the Never Realms name out loud.

“How?” Nya asks, “You left so many openings, how did you win?”

“Overwhelming force.” Zane says.

“The openings mean nothing if I can’t even swing.” Cole shakes his head.

Master Wu smiles from the doorway, “Very impressive, Zane."

The pieces of himself snapped clean down the middle don’t mend, but they aren’t bleeding anymore either. Satisfaction, purpose, strength floods his system. He is not striped with dirt or bruises, he is no longer a failure- he is formidable, dangerous. He can fight, now.

What does he have to offer other than violence?

Zane cannot be the man he was before, but he can be a weapon. He can't remember any other way to be.

The staff sits comforting in his hand.

I like to call myself wound but I will answer to knife.

Underbelly by Nicole Homer

[snowyseba]

Attention

Summary: Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. With how busy Steve was lately, you were feeling neglected. When all else failed, you decided to take a more unconventional approach, but maybe you pushed Steve a little too far. This is my first attempt at a dark!fic, so let me know how I did, or if you’d like to read more of this kind of thing in the future.

Just in time for Halloween, here’s my entry for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor 5,500 follower #athousandwords celebration! Congratulations, Roo, you deserve all the followers for those marvelous stories you write! I’m so happy for you! If y’all haven’t already, you should absolutely check out Roo’s Masterlist for all kinds of amazing dark!fics. 

Warnings: dark!Steve, non-con/dub-con, possessive Steve, jealous Steve, swearing, unprotected sex, Steve is incredibly out of character. This is a dark fic. I cannot stress that enough. Strictly 18+.

Word Count: 2.2k

Steve had been busy lately, not spending as much time with you as you would have liked. This happened every now and then, especially before a big mission.  You understood that he couldn’t help it, but that didn’t mean you liked it. For the past month, you had barely seen your boyfriend, even though you shared an apartment together. He was so wrapped up in researching and planning for the latest mission that he wasn’t even coming home for meals anymore. 

He missed your weekly date nights, something he had never done before, and it stung. At first, he’d call you or break the news to you in person, promising to make it up to you. Now, though, he’d send you a quick apologetic text, and you soon grew to expect them. You would have talked to him about it, but how were you supposed to do that when you barely saw him? The last thing you wanted was to start a fight in front of the team, so during the rare occasions that your paths overlapped throughout the day, you tried your best to prevent the frustration and tension you were harboring from showing. 

You missed your boyfriend, and none of your attempts to get him to ease up even a little bit on work had been successful. Missing him and desperate for any kind of attention, you decided that you might have to take matters into your own hands. Waiting for Steve to come around was getting exhausting. It was going to take something drastic to shock yourselves out of this pattern you’d fallen into.

Despite his friendly and open demeanor, Steve was extremely possessive of you. He would always grip you just a little tighter in the presence of other men, not afraid to glare at any who’s eyes lingered on you a little too long. You were his. You knew just how to push his buttons to get a rise out of him. It didn’t show with the other Avengers, but that’s because he didn’t perceive them as a threat; they knew you were with him, and they always respected that. Not like you were interested in anyone besides Steve, anyway, but you were pretty sure that if you approached them with your problem, they’d be more than willing to help out. 

A few days later, with the help of Wanda and Nat, your plan was in motion. You smoothed over the fabric of your skirt, shorter than you’d usually wear, but you were going to do everything you could to get a rise out of Steve. This outfit had to get his attention. You picked a blouse you knew Steve loved, tucking it in, and unbuttoning it just enough so that if you bent over, the lace of your bra peeked out. A pair of heels, a choker, and the diamond studs Steve bought you for your last anniversary were the finishing touch. You had to admit, you looked good.

Sauntering downstairs, you found Bucky and Sam in the kitchen. Wanda texted you on your way down, saying she and Nat would meet you there in a few minutes. Steve was exactly where you expected him to be; seated at the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in one hand as he immersed himself in the stack of papers in front of him, surrounded by folders he had yet to open. A pang of uncertainty and guilt bloomed in your stomach. Maybe you were taking this a little too far, but you suppressed the thought. 

“Morning boys,” you hummed, giving Sam a coy smile as you purposely brushed against Bucky while helping yourself to some coffee. Steve, however, you completely ignored. If he wasn’t going to pay any attention to you, then he was going to get the exact same treatment. 

“M-morning, Y/N,” Bucky stammered, taking in what you were wearing.

“Well don’t you clean up nice. I heard you’re having a girls day?” Sam was eyeing you carefully, almost as if he was catching on to what you were doing. 

“Thanks, Sammy. Yup, I think Nat, Wanda and I are going out. Superhero life is great and all, but I need a break.” You grinned, batting your eyelashes at Sam as Steve cleared his throat at that particular nickname, finally looking up from the pile of papers. 

His eyes found yours and he flashed you a warning look before his gaze traveled down to your outfit, his eyes focused on the lace of your bra that was just barely peeking out from behind your shirt, how dangerously low you had unbuttoned it. There was a reason it was his favorite out of all your shirts. When he realized just how short that tight faux leather skirt was, he had to restrain himself from grabbing you by the wrist and dragging you back to your shared apartment. 

“Oh, morning, Steve. Didn’t see you there,” you feigned innocence, taking a sip of your coffee, loving the feeling of his eyes on you. 

Steve's brow furrowed, shocked at your response. He swallowed thickly, jaw clenched as he wrestled with his thoughts. Since when did you dress like this? Since when did you call Sam ‘Sammy’? He never wanted to be that controlling boyfriend, but he hated knowing that you’d be going out dressed like that without him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost think you were doing this on purpose. 

Before he could say anything, though, Nat and Wanda entered the room, their eyes on Steve rather than you, but you were sure part of that was due to their desire to see Steve lose his cool. He was normally so levelheaded, but all that went out the window when it came to you. No one had quite the hold over him that you did. “Ready, Y/N?”

“Ready!” 

You set your mug down in the sink, grabbing your purse. Before leaving, you made sure to kiss Bucky’s cheek and give Sam’s bicep a gentle squeeze. You could hear Steve’s sharp intake of breath, but to him, you said nothing, barely even glancing at him on your way out. You didn’t miss the way his arms crossed over his chest straining the fabric of his shirt, his features flushing with anger. “Bye boys. Don’t bother waiting up, we’ll be home late.”

Although you couldn’t see it, you could feel Steve glaring at your back as you left. You’d be in trouble when you got home, that much was clear, but you weren’t quite done teaching Steve a lesson yet.

As you left, your phone vibrated. It was a text from Steve.

You knew you were in trouble just from the tone of the text. But you decided to see how far you could push it. His text went ignored, something you’d normally never do. You loved pleasing Steve, but with how much he’d been ignoring you lately, he deserved a taste of his own medicine.

You got home late, well after midnight. The apartment was dark and you figured Steve had gone to sleep. Knowing him, he’d have to be up early tomorrow, so he wouldn’t have waited up anyway. Maybe you had underestimated his ability to compartmentalize. 

You didn’t realize just how wrong you were. What you didn’t notice, was the figure that slowly stood from the living room armchair, approaching with all the stealth of a trained agent. Out of nowhere, a hand suddenly wrapped around your throat, forcing you backward pinning you against the door before you even have a chance to take your shoes off. The breath left your lungs and you could feel your heart hammering in fear. 

Standing in front of you, tightening his grip on your throat to keep you immobile, was Steve Rogers. He was pissed. He was fuming. That much was obvious. Anger rolled off him in palpable waves. His muscles were tensed, as if ready for a fight, and in the darkness, you could see the scowl on his face. “What the hell has gotten into you lately?”

“Well, definitely not you,” you retorted. “Funny, I could ask you the same thing.” 

“Y/N,” he warned, grip on your neck tightening ever so slightly, now starting to inhibit your breathing. Whether he was doing it intentionally or not, his message was clear; you’re really pushing your luck. “I’ll repeat myself one more time. What. The. Hell,” his knee was between your legs now, roughly spreading them apart, “has gotten into you. Flirting with Sam? With Bucky? Right in front of me as if was invisible. I’m not that scrawny boy from Brooklyn anymore, doll. You don’t get to ignore me. I’m just as good as Bucky Barnes. Better. I’m Captain America, doll, do you know how many people would kill to be where you are right now?”

“Oh, so you did notice then,” you tried to resist the urge to roll your eyes, knowing it would only get you in more trouble.

Before you fully realized what Steve was doing, his hand moved from your neck to your waist, and he hoisted you up over his shoulder, gripping your ass tightly. He took the stairs two at a time, not even bothering to turn on a light. It would only delay him. “You really are a fuckin’ brat, you know that, Y/N? You know how hard I work to keep you safe? To keep the world safe?”

He dumped you onto the bed unceremoniously, stepping back and waving his hands with a slight shrug of his tensed shoulders. “Well, Y/N?”

“Oh, you’re keeping me safe? Sure, Steve. That’s why you’ve all but ignored me for the past month.” 

He stalked closer to you, standing at the foot of the bed, towering over you menacingly, his jaw clenched, fists balled at his side as he took a deep breath. “Oh, I ignored you? You think I didn’t notice you flirting with every single man in your midst? You think I didn’t see how you watched me while you kissed Bucky’s cheek? I saw everything. And you know what I think? I think you’re a goddamn brat who needs to learn her place. I don’t care how busy I am, or how unfair you think I’m being.” 

Steve’s hands were on you then, gripping your hips tightly, yanking you towards him, letting you fall back against the bed. One hand gripped both your wrists above your head as the other found its way between your legs. When his fingers found your core unobstructed, he let out a dangerous huff. “No panties, princess? You think you can just wear whatever you want? I don’t think so. You belong to me, princess. Only I get to see your pretty little pussy. Only I get to touch you,” his thumb brushed against your clit, just enough to elicit a low whine. “You’re mine. Say it, doll. Who do you belong to?”

When you didn’t answer immediately, he gave your clit a sharp slap, the stinging instinctively making you try to close your legs. “I don’t fucking think so,” Steve growled. “You’ll keep your legs open and accept your punishment until you answer me. Who the fuck do you belong to?”  

You could feel your heart beating like it was trying to jump out of your chest. Your skin felt like it was on fire with even the slightest touch, and your cunt was throbbing in a combination of pain and need that was entirely new. The rational part of your brain said that Steve was going too far, that this was a terrifying new side of Steve that you hadn’t known existed and that you should be afraid. Maybe you had pushed him too far, but the sudden feeling of his lips against the nape of your neck, the sound of fabric ripping as he tore your shirt open, well it was enough to chase any rational thoughts out of your head. 

Again, you took too long to answer, and again, you felt the sharp sting of his hand, this time making you cry out in pain. “Steve, stop,” you gasped. “Please.” 

“Stop? You want me to stop?” Steve’s grip on your hands tightened as he ran a knuckle down your cheek before taking your nipple in his mouth, grazing the bud with his teeth.  “You’re the one who started this, princess. You’re the one parading around showing off those perfect tits, not even wearing panties. You wanted my attention, doll? You’ve got it, and I’m going to give you everything you wanted and more.” 

Steve pulled away from you for just a moment, going to the bedside table to retrieve something. Every fiber of your being was telling you to run, but you were petrified. Steve was a super soldier, and you were just a human. Trying to escape would only make things worse. 

You felt it, rough and scratchy against your wrists before you could see what Steve was doing. Rope. “Oh, princess, I’m just getting started. By the time I’m done with you, no one will ever doubt who you belong to, not even you.” 

[jaxl-road]

Scar Tissue, chapter 12

Everything is on the table now, and our boys finally get to talk.

Pairings: Slash/Duff, side Steven/Vince, side Axl/Izzy, side Nikki/Tommy

Warnings: Discussed/implied past abuse (non-explicit)

~~~~~~~~~~~

The alley was dark.

A narrow pocket of shadow amongst the bright neons of the Sunset Strip, ignored by the masses which were drawn towards the lights like moths. Muffled music drifted from within brick walls, and the air was hazy with smoke which seemed to curl and part when the door opened, allowing a tall figure to slip into the darkness to hide.

Duff couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as he ducked out of the club and into the side alley, the pulsing music and overlapping voices softening as the door closed behind him. His PCS was almost completely gone, but he still found himself prone to headaches if he lingered too long around all the flashing lights. Setting his bag and his bass down on a relatively clean looking patch of asphalt, he took out his cigarettes and lit one up as he debated his options.

He had made a decent amount of money from work and gigs this week, so he could probably afford a motel for a night or two. Was that the best use of his money though? If he kept couch surfing like he’d been doing he might be able to save more until he had enough for a deposit on an apartment. That was the better option as far as long term goals. Still, he sighed to himself as he exhaled a long stream of smoke, the idea of not being a burden on someone for a few nights was very appealing at the moment. He was so sick of being in the way.

Before he could come to a decision, the club door burst open, the bassist jumping at the loud ‘BANG’ as it hit the wall, his heart rate skyrocketing at the sudden noise.

“There you are!!”

Standing in the doorway was a scrawny young man with wild blonde hair, grinning widely. Duff found himself looking side to side, trying to find whoever the boy could be talking to, but it was just the two of them in the alley and the other blonde practically skipped over to him. For a moment, Duff was mortified- did he know this person? Oh God, he had no idea who this was, had they met and Duff had forgotten? Had Duff been drunk? Should he just act cool and pretend he remembered him or-

“Hi, I’m Steven!” The cheery blonde offered his hand, clearing up part of Duff’s concerns but not alleviating any of his confusion about the situation.

“Oh, um…” he shook his hand hesitantly, “hi?”

“You’re the bass player from the last band, right?” Steven pointed a thumb back towards the club, still smiling, and Duff is head and shoulders above him but he still finds himself wary.

“Uh, yeah. I’m Duff,” he introduces himself belatedly, “I’m not their usual bass player, I was just, y’know, filling in for the night.”

“I figured, I’ve seen you play with a few different groups. Listen, I’m in a band- I’m the drummer!- and we don’t have a bass player right now.”

“Oh!” Understanding dawns on him, “You want me to fill in for you guys?”

“No, I want you to join us!”

That has Duff blinking in surprise, “What, like, as a regular member?”

“Yeah!” Steven gestures excitedly, “I mean, the other guys will have to approve too- our singer can be a real hardass- but I think you rock!” The drummer must notice his hesitance, because he quickly rambles out, “Will you at least come jam with us? You don’t have to commit to anything right away. If nothing else I think it’d be a good time!”

Duff hums in consideration. He did miss being a regular member of a band. The days with 10 Minute Warning felt so far away now, and jumping between bands was getting tiring. And like the other man said, it wasn’t like he was signing a contract or anything. It was just a jam.

“...Yeah, okay,” he finally answered, “Why not?”

Steven cheered, “Awesome! It’ll be great, you’ll see!” He rattled off an address where his band had been rehearsing occasionally, and they agreed on a time to meet in a few days.

As the drummer turned to leave, Duff had a thought and called out to him, “Oh, hey, Steven?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your band called?”

Turning around, Steven grinned widely.

“Guns N’ Roses!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s just starting to get light outside when Slash carefully extracts himself from Duff’s grip, moving slowly and gently, practically holding his breath in an attempt not to wake the tall blonde. Luckily, he doesn’t stir, and Slash is able to slip out of the room. It’s not that he wants to leave Duff- if anything, he feels a stab of guilt for leaving the embrace- but he really had to piss. Also, he was starting to worry that his growling stomach would end up waking the bassist before his movements would, and Duff seemed like he really needed the rest.

Once he finished with the restroom, he wandered into the kitchen. On the way, he noticed a figure sprawled on the couch in the living room. Pausing, he raised a hand in a quiet greeting as Izzy gave him a curt nod. Continuing to the kitchen, he reached into the fridge and grabbed a slice of leftover pizza, not bothering to heat it up or grab a plate. Taking a bite, he glanced back towards the living room. After a moment of mental debate, he left the kitchen.

Izzy was stretched out on the beat up couch, and Slash dropped down across from him, leaning against the opposite arm and casually letting his legs stretch on top of the other guitarist’s. Tilting his head, Izzy gestured at the coffee table where his rig was laying.

“Want some?”

It was a testament to how shitty the past few days had been, because Izzy never shared his stash.

Shrugging, Slash didn’t even try to resist, “Sure. Thanks.”

After a few minutes, once he had finished his pizza and felt the calm of the dope spreading through him, he felt ready to ask, “So. What’d I miss last night?”

“Not much to be honest,” Izzy replied, “I watched Nikki and Tommy get a few hits in, then they dragged him outside and I had to go stop Axl from destroying the dressing room. They seemed pretty damn pleased with themselves when they got back though, so if I had to guess I’d say the bastard is probably just a smear on the sidewalk outside the Whiskey now.”

Slash snorted, “Good.”

"Agreed," Izzy nodded casually.

There was another long silence, Slash opening and closing his mouth several times before finally voicing the question that had been biting him for hours.

“...How long have you known?”

Izzy sighed, leaning his head back against the arm rest to look at the ceiling. “A while,” he admitted flatly. Before Slash could ruminate too much on his answer, he tilted his head to look him in the eye, “Not because he, like, confided in me or anything. Duff didn’t tell any of us, it’s not like he only hid it from you or something.”

“Oh…” Slash feels a little ashamed at the relief he feels at that, but Izzy only shrugs.

“Axl just figured it out. Then he told me because he needed someone to talk to about it. I’m assuming something similar happened with Nikki and Tommy.”

Slash couldn’t help but snort, “God, what a fucked up club I’m apparently a part of. We should make t-shirts.”

“Don’t even fucking joke about that,” Izzy pointed his cigarrette at him accusingly, “If Tommy hears you say that shit he’ll actually make t-shirts. Then Axl will kill him, Nikki will kill Axl, I’ll have to kill Nikki, our bands will go to war like some fucked up Montague and Capulet shit with fucking Vince and Steven in the middle of it and all of that blood will be on your hands, you fucker!”

It felt odd to be laughing in the midst of all that had happened, but Slash couldn’t help it, “Oh come on, if you’re gonna use that metaphor at least make us The Jets and The Sharks!” he giggled. Maybe it was the heroin. Maybe he just really needed to laugh.

Too soon though, his chuckles died off, and he found his mind wandering back to darker thoughts, “Y’know,” he spoke slowly, “part of me can’t help but wish that I’d met Duff…” he waved his hand vaguely, “before,” he sighed. “I love him now. I really do. But I just… I wonder what he was like. I wonder what things would have been like if I had gotten to him first, y’know?” Izzy nodded knowingly, and Slash turned to him, asking casually, “Do you ever feel that way about Axl?”

Izzy takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette and holds it, keeping it in his lungs for so long it has to burn, before exhaling, “Axl doesn’t have a ‘before’.”

Slash closes his eyes as he mutters, “Jesus Christ...”

Across from him, Izzy shrugs, “Yeah.” He taps on Slash’s leg with his foot to get his attention, “It’s okay to wish he hadn’t been hurt, man. It doesn’t mean you love him less or anything.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed, “it just…”

“Sucks?” Izzy offered with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Slash huffed out a laugh, “Yeah,” he nodded, “It sucks.”

~~~~~~~~

“Hey, Slash! I have a question,” Tommy skipped over to the guitarist, “You have a pet snake, right?”

“Um,” Slash blinked in surprise at the unexpected question, “I have a couple, yeah, but they’re back at my mom and grandma’s place.”

“Cool, cool,” Tommy nodded, throwing an arm around his shoulders, “I’m trying to convince the guys that we should get a pet-”

Duff titled his head curiously, but before he could find out the rest of Tommy’s inquiry, a hand fell on his shoulder, tugging him to a stop.

Nikki grinned, “Hey, smoke with me for a sec. I haven’t gotten to spend time with my bass bro in ages.”

Nodding, Duff turned to let Slash- his boyfriend, holy shit- know what he was doing, but found himself blinking in surprise when he found the other man gone. A quick glance showed that Tommy was ushering him into the Motley Crue apartment.

“Come on, I promise Tommy wont get him into too much trouble,” Nikki joked, getting his attention again.

Duff chuckled, “I dunno man, the two of them together? I don’t think either of them are exactly known for resisting chaos.”

“Fair point,” Nikki laughed, passing him his lighter until they were both smoking casually. “So,” the dark haired bassist drawled with a smirk, “you and Slash finally stopped dancing around each other, huh?”

Snorting, Duff shrugged, “Apparently. It’s still pretty surreal to be honest.” He was still a little embarrassed at how quickly the terror twins had honed in on his crush when they first met, but their teasing had always seemed good natured at least.

Nikki patted his shoulder, “Slash is a good dude, he’ll treat ya right.”

Maybe it was the nerves, or exhaustion from the show, or exhaustion from the last 22 years, but Duff found himself replying softly, “Yeah...hopefully.”

Turning to look at him, Nikki didn’t look remotely surprised by Duff’s comment, but he still raised an eyebrow questioningly, “You think he won't?”

“I- No, not, not like that,” he waved a hand as he backtracked, “That came out wrong.”

“What did you mean then?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” Nikki crossed his arms, and Duff felt like his eyes were staring right through him, “You think he’s a good guy, right? That’s why you like him.”

“Yeah, no, yeah of course,” his hands gestured wildly as he tried to explain himself, “He’s great, it’s just, y’know, even great guys can only put up with so much shit y’know?” He grinned nervously, “I just meant that I hope I don't fuck up. That’s all.”

Nikki narrowed his eyes, but before he could respond, the guitarist in question was jogging over to them.

“Hey guys,” Slash smiled tensely, “I was wondering where you ran off to,” he said to Duff, weaving their fingers together.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Duff gave a nervous laugh. “just got caught up in conversation.”

“Bassist bonding, y’know?” Nikki grinned, taking a long drag of his cigarette and looking at Slash calculatingly.

“Yeah, I’m still trying to convince Mick to join me and Izzy for ‘guitarist get-togethers,” he replied.

“Oh, I definitely need to see that,” Nikki laughed, seeming to relax if just slightly.

Leaning heavier against Duff, Slash turned to him, “I’m pretty beat from the show. I was thinking maybe we could get out of here…?” he suggested with a sly smile.

Duff knew exactly what that meant, and he felt his stomach twist into knots even as he nodded, “Oh, yeah, sure, I-”

“Aw, don’t leave so soon!” Nikki interrupted, giving them exaggerated puppy eyes, “You only just got here,” sauntering around them, put his arms around them both, ducking his head between them, “At least stay for a few drinks.”

As he guided them into the apartment, Duff quietly sighed in relief. He was prepared to do anything Slash asked of him.

But it’d be easier if he had a few drinks in him first.

~~~~~~~~~~~

When Slash returns to his room about an hour later, he is carrying two mugs of coffee and Duff is laying on his stomach with a pillow covering his head.

“...Duff?” Slash whispers, just to be safe, “Are you awake?”

He receives a long groan in response, and he can’t help just let out a snort of laughter.

“I can’t decide if I want to never drink again or never be sober again,” Duff’s muffled voice eventually replies.

Slash shook his head fondly as he chuckled, “Well, I brought you coffee?”

Duff’s movements were tense and hesitant, turning and pulling the pillow away just enough to glance at Slash with one weary, sad eye. After a moment he reluctantly sat up, smiling weakly when Slash handed him his mug, giving a quiet “Thanks” before sipping the drink quietly and staring at his lap.

Sitting on the bed next to him, Slash allowed both of them a minute to just drink their coffee quietly. Duff raised one hand to press his fingers into the side of his head, cringing at what Slash was sure was an impressive hangover.

Keeping his voice soft, Slash jerked his head at the blonde, “How are you feeling?”

Scoffing, Duff ran his hand through his hair, “Fucking mortified,” he replied, voice dripping with self-loathing.

Slash blinked in surprise. He had meant to ask about how Duff was physically feeling, and had expected the bassist to jump at the opportunity to put off an emotional conversation. He wasn’t sure if the unexpected development was a good sign or a bad one.

“Why?”

Duff’s head snapped to look at him, face incredulous, “What do you mean why?” One hand flailed helplessly as he rambled, “My ex showed up and I was a coward and ran off with my tail between my legs, got completely plastered, and then tried to drunkenly jump you like some sort of fucking groupie or something!” He dropped his head roughly onto his knees, his words muffled but no less vitriolic, “And then I fucking cried! Just when I thought I couldn’t get any more pathetic…”

“Hey,” Slash doesn’t raise his voice, but he’s still firm as he tugs lightly on a strand of bleached hair, “stop that. That’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.”

Turning his head hesitantly, Duff’s face was a cross between confusion and hope, “We’re still boyfriends?”

“Wha- of course we are!” Slash cried in dismay.

“...Oh,” Duff sighed, smiling slightly before hiding his face in his knees again as he let out a huff of relieved laughter, “Fuck, man. I figured you were just, y’know, trying to let me down easy,” he waved a hand vaguely, the other still clutching his empty coffee mug.

Slash hesitates for a moment, but then he can’t resist slowly putting an arm around Duff’s shoulders, tugging him closer to lean against his side, “Duff,” he says softly, “all the shit that’s happened this week, and the things you told me… none of that makes me think less of you. None of that makes me... like you less.”

There’s no response at first, and he wonders if Duff believes him. After a minute of just sitting together, Duff finally turns to look at him. He holds his breath, waiting to see how the conversation will move forward. Then the bassist gives a slow, wry grin.

“I need a drink.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

He should probably slow down. He hadn’t eaten since before the show and the bassist was downing vodka like water. That was probably why he barely noticed when Axl linked arms with him and tugged him out of the kitchen.

“Seriously, it’s about time,” the redhead rambled, “Slash has been insufferable ever since you joined Guns. He practically had little cartoon hearts around his head every time you walked into a room.”

Duff chuckled, absentmindedly reaching out to snag another bottle of vodka he saw sitting on the coffee table. “I was convinced I didn’t have a chance with him,” he admitted.

Axl snorted as he scared off some groupies so they could sit on the worn down couch in the corner, “Please. I’m not kidding, day fucking one you could have said jump and he would've said how high.”

“Nah, that’s me,” he grinned, taking another shot from his bottle.

Taking a long sip from his own cup, Axl hummed in consideration, before grinning in excitement, “Oh man, I just realized I totally get to give Slash the shovel talk. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Frowning, Duff looked at him in confusion, “What?”

“The shovel talk,” Axl repeated, “You know, the ‘you hurt him, I’ll hurt you’ lecture that dads give to dudes who date their daughters. Or so I’ve been told,” he shrugged.

“No I, I know that,” Duff shook his head, “I mean why would you do that with Slash?”

“Because Izzy kept saying I was the band mom, I called bullshit, and after like a week of arguing we eventually compromised on me being the dad.”

Duff nearly growled in frustration, “No, that’s not-” he shook his head, trying to pull his thoughts together, “The whole lecture thing is- I mean, if Slash did do something it’d be because I fucked up, y’know? You can’t threaten him or whatever for something like that.”

For a moment, Duff thought he could see actual flames in Axl’s eyes as the singer nearly slammed his cup down onto the coffee table, “Oh yes I fucking can.”

Eyes widening, Duff could only stare as Axl leaned forward and launched into a frantic rant, “I don’t give a fuck what you do, or think you do, or whatever. If he or anyone else ever lifts a goddamn finger towards you, you fucking tell me. Hell, if someone steps on your goddamn foot I wanna hear about it, do you understand? Tell. Me. Fuck, tell Izzy, or Steven, or fucking Nikki, anyone, I don’t fucking care, but you don’t keep that shit to yourself anymore, got it?”

Axl stared at him intently, and Duff could only gape in confusion, not sure how to respond to his snarling words. But before he had a chance, he felt a kiss on the top of his head, jumping as Slash rested his chin on his hair.

“Hey babe,” he sang, “I missed you!”

In front of him, Axl huffed, narrowing his eyes, “Um, rude? We were clearly talking.”

Slash glared right back, draping his arms over Duff’s shoulders, “Hey, he’s my boyfriend, so I get to call dibs.”

Even as he took another sip of Vodka, Duff couldn’t help but smile. Even after everything, he was still a hopeless romantic. Surely it was all worth it for the way his heart fluttered at that one simple gesture.

Right?

~~~~~~~~~

“Why are you with me?”

Slash can’t help but ask. They’re both on their second beers, silently agreeing to forgo the hard alcohol this morning. They also snagged the rest of the leftover pizza, the nearly empty box sitting open on the bed in front of them as they ate casually.

“I just mean,” Slash elaborated, “it doesn’t seem like you’re exactly… comfortable. With the whole dating thing. So why didn’t you just shoot me down?”

Duff shrugged, shooting him a smirk, “Because I liked you,” he says simply. He takes another sip of his beer as he considers his next words, “I couldn’t help it. You’re cool, and sweet, and talented. And despite, y’know, everything,” he waved a hand vaguely, “the fact that you are unfairly hot did not escape me either,” he grinned, chuckling when Slash shoved his shoulder playfully. “And then against all odds you actually liked me back, and I just...”

He looks down at his hands, peeling the label off his bottle as he admits quietly, “You kissed me and all my self-preservation went out the fucking window.”

Frowning, Slash put his drink down, leaning forward to try to catch Duff’s eye, “You know I’d never do anything to you… right? I mean, I don’t even like getting into fights with people I hate. I can’t even imagine…” he trails off, shuddering at the very idea of hurting Duff. He’s never hit any of his partners, and he’s not about to start now.

Duff hums in consideration, tilting his head and replying slowly, “...I know you’d never hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.” Slash feels his chest tighten, but before he can even begin to think of how to respond, Duff smiles slowly, quirking an eyebrow at him as he lifts his bottle to take another drink.

“All’s fair in love and war. Right?”

~~~~~~~~~

The vodka is really starting to hit by the time Izzy pulls him to his feet so Tommy can take his spot on the couch. Does that stop him from tipping the bottle back to get those last few drops?

Of course not.

He lets Izzy tug him to the other side of the room, Nikki already standing and smoking lazily. Duff nods at him in greeting as he leans heavily against the wall, blinking slowly as the room tilts around him. He’s almost drunk enough, he thinks. Almost.

“Duff.”

Shaking his head to try to focus, he turns to give Izzy his attention. The rhythm guitarist is frowning just slightly, “Duff,” he says again, voice soft, “I’m gonna level with you here. We’re worried about you.”

That has him furrowing his brows, “‘m fine, just…” he waves the empty bottle in his hand, “a little buzzed. That’s all."

“Oh we are definitely not talking about that,” Nikki chimed in.

“I meant we’re worried about you and Slash,” Izzy continued. Duff opened his mouth, but Izzy cut him off, “I know Slash. He’s a really good guy- I don’t think he’d ever do anything to hurt you on purpose.”

“What we’re worried about,” Nikki drawls, “is that he’ll do something by accident and you won't tell him.”

“But…” For a moment, Duff just stares, feeling the floor rock back and forth like a ship on the sea. Then he shakes his head slowly, his eyes drifting shut as he smiles softly.

“That’s what love is,” he explains, “It’s… it’s the people who are allowed to hurt you.”

When he opens his eyes, Izzy is looking at him with a sad, tired expression.

“No,” he says, “it’s not.”

~~~~~~~

“...Do you… still want to give this a shot?”

Duff’s head jerks up to look at him. The room is hazy from smoke, alternating between cigarettes and joints once they finished their beers, the empty pizza box shoved unceremoniously onto the floor.

Slash continues, “I really, really like you, man. But… I’d get it. If you’d rather, y’know, take a step back. You can, if you want, I won’t be mad or anything.”

Taking a deep drag of his cigarette, Duff thinks for a moment, exhaling slowly and tapping his fingers against his knee. When he finally answers, he smiles at Slash shyly, “Is it fucked up that I don’t?” He dropped the end of his cigarette into one of the empty beer bottles next to the bed, “I like you, yeah, but I also like… being with you. Even with the, y’know, stress and whatever, the last few weeks have been really… nice,” he explains slowly before glancing up at Slash out of the corner of his eye, “All this shit has kind of been my attempt at not losing this.”

Despite himself, Slash huffs out a laugh, twirling his lighter in his hand, “Is it fucked up that I’m kind of relieved?” He grins at him, “I don’t want to lose this either.”

Duff shrugged, “Eh. Maybe we’re both fucked up.”

This time, Slash laughs fully, “Yeah,” he reaches out to lace their fingers together, “Yeah, maybe we are.”

~~~~~~

The walk home was gentle. It was their arms around each other’s waists, supporting each other as they swayed, Slash peppering kisses along his shoulder and neck. The vodka keeps him loose and relaxed, and Slash keeps him smiling.

Back home, falling back onto the bed, Duff’s eyes drift shut. Even in the dark behind his eyelids everything still spins, but it’s a slow spin, more hypnotic than dizzying. It slows even more when he feels a weight rest gently on top of him, a soft sigh against his chest.

“Mmmm… Slash?” Duff muttered, turning his head to try to look at the guitarist, a mass of blurry curls blocking his view, “I-... ‘re you…”

Slash hushed him, wrapping his arms around his waist and rolling them onto their sides, tucking his head beneath Duff’s chin, “Long day,” he slurred with a smile, “Let’s just sleep now. I’ll take you on a date tomorrow,” he promised.

Duff can’t remember the last time he was on a date. He feels like he’s dreaming, laying in bed with Slash for the second time in as many days, his arms around him and nothing hurting.

“...Oh,” Duff let out a breath that he feels like he’s been holding since the day they met, “Okay,” he laughed a little, bringing a hand up to smooth back Slash’s wild curls, and he feels a kiss pressed against his shoulder, and warmth that he can’t name spreads across his body.

The guitarist’s breath evens out, falling asleep easily. Duff feels himself drifting as well, but he fights it off as long as he can, wanting to savor this unfamiliar feeling, trying to taste its name before it disappears.

Just as he succumbs to sleep, his tongue finally finds the name.

Safe.

[inkstaineddove]

The Pride of Wisdom

Characters: Prussia, Austria, Switzerland, Hungary; mentioned Holy Rome, England

Summary: To create Germany's body, Prussia and Austria must work together using less than typical means. Somehow, their plans are found out and lead to an uncomfortable confrontation with a incredibly upset Switzerland over the morals of their methodology.

A/N: The title comes from a Frankenstein quote '“Man," I cried, "how ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom!”' There's some overlap in themes between this story and that classic which, while unintentional, I decided to lean into in the choice of title. I've also changed Switzerland's name from Bash/Vash to Roland due to neither of those names being actual names and my liking many alternatives for him better that work in French and German. I hope this doesn't impair anyone's enjoyment too much and, if it's bothersome, I apologize. I can also explain why the date for which this is set too, as it's much earlier than any formal efforts by Austria or Prussia to unify, which is acknowledged by Roderich and Gilbert.

Vienna, 1835.

 Prussia knocked impatiently on the door. All was quiet around him save for the gentle patter of rain against the ground. It was the typical nighttime stillness and he found it irritating. No one appeared to be stirring. He knocked on the door again, this time with much more force.

 “Yes, yes, I heard you the first time!” The door was flung open by a flustered Austria. He ushered Prussia inside. “Are you ready? I would prefer to get this over with as soon as possible.”

 “Of course I’m ready. I didn’t come all this way to laze around. Where is it?”

Austria led them to the basement. At the very end, something the length and shape of a child sat atop an old table. It was wrapped in a series of blankets, masking what was beneath.

 Gilbert hoisted it up over his shoulder. He patted the padding around it affectionately. “What’s with all this? Were you really that afraid of people snooping?” For once, his teasing appeared to be good natured. They were acting towards the same goal, eliminating any need for malice between them in the short-term.

 “I wish that were the case. How many years has it been now? It’s been rotting in that crypt for long enough. I didn’t want the stench to fill up my home.” Roderich extinguished the candle he’d lit to illuminate the room. “Carry it up to the kitchen. There’s plenty of room there for what you’ll need to do.”

 “You’re not worried about any of the servants walking in?” Gilbert shrugged, silently impressed at the lack of concern. It seemed uncharacteristic of his host, but there could be hidden depths he had yet to discover.

 Roderich gave him an incredulous look. “You think I would have them here? No, I’ve sent them home to their families for the weekend. Much easier to operate without fearing an interruption.” He shook his head. “Honestly, Gilbert, what kind of fool do you take me for? The risk I’d run to my reputation if any of them saw. Perhaps you can flout the wishes of your government openly, but I prefer to have a bit more tact in my personal rebellions.”

 That was disappointing. And here Gilbert had almost believed he had rubbed off on Roderich, had taught the man the benefits of cutting it fast and loose. He shook it off quickly, imagining the humor in Roderich being left alone to fend for himself. He smirked. “No one to look after you? How have you made it this long? I would expect you to be wasting away by now.”

 That earned him a sharp rebuke. Roderich opened the door leading them out of the basement, casting a foul look over his shoulder. “I am fully capable of navigating a kitchen. For years I got along fine without any help. I can certainly last for a few days. Your concern is misplaced.” A self-satisfied little smile made itself home on his lips. “Besides, I doubt that you would find it very comfortable without them either. Do barbarians know how to use a knife for cutting meats or is it only a tool for bloodshed in your hands?”

 Gilbert laughed. “That says it all. Erzsi’s been doing all the cooking, hasn’t she?” The silence he received proved telling. He laughed harder now, having to lean against the kitchen’s doorframe for assistance holding himself up. He wiped a tear from his eye. “For a second – a second! – you almost had me. Ah, poor Roddy. You’ve grown too soft from all the years of living as a pampered kitten.”

 A loud sigh escaped from Austria before he could contain it. His face burned red. There were more important things at hand, the teasing could be saved till later. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Can we begin this? The sooner it’s over the better. Now, where is that…thing you were supposed to get from Arthur?”

 Prussia set what he’d been carrying down on the counter. Out of his pocket, he pulled a worn and leather-bound book. The cover contained various markings that held no meaning to either man. “Relax, I’ve got it right here. Arthur handed it over without so much as a fight. All he did was warn me to be careful.”

 Panic flashed through Austria’s eyes. “Don’t tell me he knows what we’re doing.” His anxiety only increased when Prussia could no longer meet his gaze. “You absolute moron! Why would you think that appropriate! If France catches wind of what we’re doing – much less our own kings – it will be our heads on the chopping block! The one time it truly mattered for you to keep your damn mouth closed and you couldn’t be bothered! You’re an imbecile!”

 “What would you have done? He cornered me on the damn issue, pressing me for why I needed a spell book with such a thing in it. What would you have me say? The guy’s been reliable enough to me, I felt sure I could trust him.” Prussia shrugged. “All that mattered to him was that it would hurt France in some way. And I never told him the details, but I’m sure he figured out a lot of it for himself.”

 This answer satisfied Roderich somewhat. His worries were still gnawing at him, but he pushed them aside. There was no need to get into them now, there was nothing that could be done. He began undoing the knot of blankets that hid what they carried. Finally, he reached the last one and did away with it. There, amid them all, laid what remained of Holy Rome’s corpse. He gagged on the scent, stumbling away from the counter.

 Gilbert seemed completely undisturbed by it. By now, the scent of death meant nothing to him. He flipped open the little book to the page he needed, skimming the instructions. He had them memorized as he’d been reading and rereading it over the journey here. Still, he wanted to be completely sure of himself. They couldn’t afford to make any mistakes.

 “Where’s the rosemary? We need to burn that first and clean what we’re going to use with moon water.” The absurdity of Gilbert saying such things wasn’t lost on either of them. He suppressed his smile, knowing he needed to be serious.

 Roderich stood on the far side of the room, with his head turned towards the hallway. The air where he was remained pure and not putrid. “It’s not h-” a loud banging on the door cut him off. Irritation prickled his skin as he headed towards the front entrance. “Who in the world could that be? That incessant banging at such an hour. What could possibly be so important that it can’t wait till tomorrow?”

 He threw open the door, surprised to be staring down an infuriated Switzerland. Roland pushed through, backing Roderich up into Gilbert. “You know what’s just wonderful? You two shut everybody out of your little schemes, but word always seems to travel. Both of your damn egos don’t allow you to keep your mouths quiet, huh?” His breathing was ragged, and his shoulders trembled in their fury.

 Roderich threw his hands up between them, trying to gently push the other man away. “What are you rambling on about? You come here, bursting in like a madman, and expect us to have any idea what it is you’re referring to? Outlandish, have some courtesy.” Despite how calm he sounded, his heart was racing in his chest. He supposed this is what a cornered animal felt like.

 His answer was unsatisfactory. He was grabbed by the collar of his shirt. Never had he seen such mania in Roland’s eyes. “Don’t play coy with me! You think that act really works for anyone but your princes, too inbred to have anything resembling a brain left between their ears? You and I both know exactly what I’m talking about! This crime against nature! You both should be ashamed!”

 “Schwarze, the only crime against nature happening here is that Roddy and I are spending a peaceful evening together.” Gilbert gingerly freed a grateful Roderich, moving slowly so as not to enrage Roland further. “There’s no need to burst in here like this. You’d be better served heading home.” He tried nudging Roland away, but the man refused to budge.

 The more they pretended everything was normal, that nothing was out of the ordinary, the more they increased Roland’s rage. He narrowed his gaze on Gilbert now, eyes blazing with a fire that refused to be stomped out. He smacked Gilbert’s hand away with a look of disgust. “Don’t you dare touch me! I don’t need to be corrupted by your influence either!” He noticed the light coming from behind the others and barreled his way into the kitchen, moving faster than they could react to. He skidded to halt before the counter, dry heaving. “This proves it! It’s exactly what I heard from the others!” His voice was weaker now, his words stuttered out between gags.

 Roderich and Gilbert stood in the doorway, sharing looks. Each was challenging the other to extrapolate themselves from this mess. What was there to say or do? While both were skilled at manipulating others to do their bidding or to go along with their schemes, there was no way to trick Roland into disbelieving his own eyes and nose. It would require something more creative, but both were at a loss.

 Roderich dared to try first, stepping into the room. To his surprise, he had grown adjusted to the stink enough to hardly notice it. “Roland, please, you’re hurrying to all sorts of unfounded conclusions. Why not provide us with a moment to explain ourselves? You forget how reasonable we are.” Part of him was weirded out by how implicitly complimentary he was speaking of Gilbert. The pragmatic half of him, the one currently controlling his actions, couldn’t be bothered to care. There was the more important matter of appearances and reputation; any rivalry was secondary to that.

 “Reasonable? You both lost any claim to that when you dug up a grave to work some sort of devil’s magic! Things that are dead should stay dead. Though you’ve never been one to understand that, haven’t you, Roderich?” Roland sneered at him with a look in his eyes conveying how little he thought of both men before him.

 The bitterness stung, melting any of Roderich’s faux politeness away. His fingers twitched, wanting to smack the self-righteous look off Roland’s face. “And yet I’m not the one barging into your home, telling you that which you can and cannot do. Seems like only one of us has moved on from things better left in the past, while the other is still hurt over how easily replaceable he was.” He grinned, seeing that his words hit their intended mark. “What we do should be of no concern to you, being the neutral party and all. Really, what claim do you have in our affairs when you constantly refuse to help either of us? You have no thoughts when we’re trying to destroy one another, but, now that we’re working towards the same goal, that’s what you find objectionable? You truly defy all logic.”

 Roland ground his teeth together, trying and failing to keep from exploding. “Why would I care when you two are out killing each other? If one of you fades away, that’d be a blessing to us all. Maybe this part of Europe could catch a break from the constant warfare if one of you is pacified! But this? Oh, this is beyond belief!” He began pacing, needing to get his excess energy out in a way that didn’t end in a brawl. “This is an act against creation! A sin if there ever were one! Our kind may have incredible powers, but they’re meant to protect our people and not engage in something like this, something so sinister!”

 “Roland, you’re really going to throw around charges like this? Our very existence is a sin. We shouldn’t exist by all accounts and yet-” Gilbert dramatically waved his left hand around, strolling into the room. “here we are. What would you say is the worst sin: taking life so freely as we do, slaughtering many in wars for our own power grabs, or giving back life to what is dead, reviving what is still?” He spoke with the passion of a former zealot. These were questions he’d grappled with while serving as the Teutonic Knights, questions that hadn’t left him since. A mischievous glint appeared his eyes and he smiled, belying that he already knew the answer. “The sin is always in taking and salvation is found in giving. Our work here should be admirable, even if isn’t the most traditional route.”

 “Cut with the choir boy shit! I’m not one of the pagans you can spout a bunch of garbage off to and convert. Have a little respect for my intelligence, Gilbert. You and I both know you’re trying to play God here and it’s sickening! Karl was a failed experiment with a body too frail for this life. It’s cruelty to subject another person to that kind of torment.” He laughed, cold and harsh. “Who am I kidding? As if either of you care what kind of life it lives. This only makes your ambitions more obvious.”

 Gilbert flicked his wrist, batting Roland’s words aside. “Who’s to say we’re not as close to gods as you can get? Think of it, we all have limitless power and can’t be destroyed except by our own hands. Neither of you can stand here and pretend like you didn’t try praying to whichever god we’re told to believe in, desperate to find the meaning of this existence, only to find no answer in response. Maybe you weren’t, but I was forced to walk through fire too many times to where I can still feel the rope around my wrists. And still I look like the devil, as if God’s cures don’t work and His laws were written by men. If we’re not gods then we must be monsters and, either way, that gives us free reign to act as we please.” He realized he was speaking with too much honesty, felt the surprised eyes boring into his skin, and cleared his throat. He smiled, changing tones with a speed that could cause whiplash. “I thought you couldn’t stand Karl, what’s with the sudden concern? If all this goes right, his body should be good as new, nothing to worry about. He’ll be healthier than the last kid and with enough strength that all of Europe will be listening to us.”

 “‘Us?’ You two plan to share him?” Roland snorted. “As if that will last. I shouldn’t be so worried. Both of you will have destroyed him as soon as he’s breathing.” He shot them both a glare. “I don’t have to like someone to do what is right. No one should treat anyone’s body with such disregard, especially one who has no say in the matter.”

 “Ah, so it’s about consent? Well, let’s ask him!” Gilbert moved to the counter, standing over Holy Rome’s corpse. “Karl, do you mind if we use your body for Germany’s? What was that?” He leaned down low, meeting Roland’s gaze with ferocity and manic energy. “Right! It doesn’t matter because he’s dead!”

 It was a grim joke, one that belied his soldier’s sense of humor and one no one else found funny. Roderich wrinkled his nose. “Gilbert, don’t be so crass. That’s distasteful.” He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This conversation was going nowhere, both sides remained firmly entrenched in their beliefs. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted.

 Erzsébet burst into the room, a wide smile across her face. She was unfazed by the stench of decay, grown too used to it on the fields of battle and revolt. She set her bag down, removing its contents. “Really, Roderich, there was no need to send me out so late. I understand that we must be cautious, but this is a bit much.” She smiled sweetly at Gilbert, who was standing in her line of sight. “Gil, what’s with the look on your face? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” She laughed at her own lame joke, before following the Gilbert and Roderich’s gaze. She froze at the sight of Roland, who looked ready to snap again. “Ah, fuck.”

 She barely finished speaking before Roland was carrying on again. “I should’ve known. Even your little whore is in on it too. Anything to follow them to the ends of the earth, right Erzsébet? And you’re supposed to be the moral center.” He had never liked her, for reasons Erzsébet was clueless on, but this was much crueler than his usual treatment towards her. “Grow a spine, dammit. I thought even you could see how wrong this is, but I guess I thought too highly of you. Do none of you really care what the others will think once they find out?”

 “Roland, you realize you’re the only one with any objections, right? Did neither of them tell you that they spoke with Saxony and Bavaria about this, that this isn’t what you’re thinking.” She looked between Austria and Prussia. “You two really didn’t? I forget how helpless you both are.”

 Prussia seized upon this, appreciating where she was leading them. “We probably should have mentioned this earlier, but we do have the go ahead from everyone. A lot of our people are desperate for Germany of some kind. The four of us agreed it would be in our best interest if we, at least, got a body ready.” He laughed, relaxing considerably now that things appeared to be going their way. “It’s been so long since we had a kid in the family, it was getting stale with all the same faces.”

 “That’s it? The four of you decide everything for this family? No one else has any say?” Roland tried to suppress his hurt feelings, desperately not wanting his upset to be on display. And he would’ve as the changes were barely perceptible. But Roderich knew him too well, knew exactly what it meant when Roland couldn’t maintain eye contact, when he began chewing at his bottom lip, when his hands rolled and re-rolled into fists.

 Roderich intended to capitalize. With cool detachment, he smiled. “You know Gilbert, he speaks in generalizations. We did speak to others, some of the lesser states. If he truly is to represent Germany, then his birth must be through a method we all agree on. And, astonishingly, there were no qualms with our idea so long as it was us who got our hands dirty. Which is fair since it will be through our might alone that things will coalesce, but that’s at a later time. As for the present, why we didn’t speak to you is simple.” His smile widened and he paused a beat, relishing it. “You’re not our family. You lost the privilege to be consulted on these matters when you left us. No harsh feelings, of course.”

 His words had their intended effect. Roland stiffened up, his eyes becoming distant to separate himself from the conversation. He looked to Gilbert and Erzsébet and, finding no allies in either of them, turned his attention to the wall. “Of course,” he grumbled bitterly. Recovering slightly, he tried to regain some mojo, but found much of it lost. “And you, Erzsébet. Why do you go along with this?” He needed to believe he wasn’t the only sane man left standing, that she had some wits about her.

 She was caught off guard by him suddenly using her name. He normally only referred to her in derogatory terms, never had he been so respectful. Her surprise led her straight into honesty. “What else am I to do? What say do I have in all this? I had no love for Karl, but if he can be repurposed then what’s stopping us? Besides, perhaps having a kid around again will give me something to do if I’m not allowed to live in Budapest.” She shared a tense look with Roderich, conveying arguments Roland wasn’t privy to. He was unsurprised to see Gilbert’s quick look of contempt towards Roderich, but wondered what else he had missed while attempting to float above the fray.

 He was big enough to admit defeat. He sighed, frustrated by the outcome. But what was there to do when the world was aligned against him? Maybe he was the one with the lopsided morals and that playing with dark forces was now acceptable. He found that, if that were the case, he’d rather sequester himself in the Alps away from the rest of the world rather than try to engage it. “I see how it is then. Fine, have it your way.” He gave one final disgusted glance at the corpse, before turning on his heel. “There’s nothing left for me here. Hasn’t been in years.”

 “Allow me to escort you out,” Roderich offered more out of habit than genuine kindness.

 Once they had left, Gilbert and Erzsébet began preparing everything, unpacking what she had brought and assembling all their tools. Lavender burned in the center of the room, purifying the area. Gilbert lifted the needle from the moon water, threading it carefully. Roderich returned, taking his place besides Erzsébet. Gilbert grinned at them, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “Let’s get ourselves a son.”

[cosmosogler]

it’s weird, the disconnect between how much i prevented things from happening today and how much things still happened.

i mostly avoided talking to people. slept in kinda late because i went to bed so late last night. tonight might not be any better...

it feels like i have the same conversation with myself every morning. where i suddenly think, “i had that dream again.” and then i say, “which dream???” and the only answer i have is “that one.”

except, like, i remember the dreams i am having to some extent, and none of them have been the same! it’s not a recurring dream or anything! i just wake up and make yet another tally mark for absolutely no reason and it bothers me periodically throughout the day.

in the morning i took care of some stuff for snoopy’s rabies tag. then i did basically nothing all day, i had a nice breakfast, and i cleaned up the apartment, and i felt really sick and painful all morning. then i made veggie burgers for lunch and that turned out ok, except the burgers got burned even though i followed the directions.

i also listened to the adventure zone for like four hours. i dunno. i didn’t feel like doing anything else. i felt lonely. not sure about what to do. the podcast is a nice way to pass some time without having a panic attack from being alone for too long.

well, not a panic attack just from being alone. but the things that happen while i am alone and don’t always happen when i am around other people. being with people doesn’t always prevent me from getting really bummed and sometimes upset, but it feels like it helps sometimes. 

i also sat with snoopy for a while... as the day rolled into evening i realized i hadn’t really done anything so i went out to the gym. the gym was closed though so i decided to just take a walk along main street and see the shopping area.

well, it was only a shopping area for one avenue. after that i ended up on like a country road. i felt... exposed. i also got stopped by a woman trying to pay for a ride back to her home in another city before the hurricane arrived. i felt really powerless, because, i only had my water bottle and my keys, because i’d been meaning to go to the gym. i had my ipod but it’s not a phone. it’s an old regular ipod with no cell connection and a cracked and chipped screen because my pockets are always too small and it falls out.

as the woman dumped her life story on me i had to cut her off after a minute or two. i told her i didn’t want to waste her time and i didn’t have any money or anything that could help her. i could walk with her somewhere if she needed that. she seemed really upset, but she shook my hand and thanked me. i kind of put my hand under my bangs when i said i didn’t have my phone, but i don’t know if she recognized that my ipod is not a phone. i don’t know anyone in town who could help her anyway but just having the ability to make a call for her... i dunno.

i kept walking and ended up way out where there were no buildings. i looked at the street signs. i had gone about seven blocks. five? not that far at all. i turned east and kept going for a little while, then i made a loop around. i kind of nodded at people as i walked by to acknowledge them but i don’t know if that actually does anything. i felt like they were glaring at me. one guy was out walking his dog and the dog really wanted pets but i didn’t want to talk to the owner so i just smiled at the dog and kept going.

i was only out for like 40 minutes. well, “only.” maybe 45. it didn’t feel like enough even though i was sweaty and thirsty. i dunno. walking alone is intimidating. walking in cities alone is worse. walking out in the middle of nowhere with a lot of tree and bush cover alone is just not fun.

i hope that woman got what she needed. i hope she’s ok. they always start talking before i can turn off my ipod and i never really catch the first sentence they say to me.

i just don’t have a lot of money to give right now. by not a lot i mean none. my budget’s really tight between mine and snoopy’s meds and the rent payment compared to my first paycheck...

like. i know my parents can bail me out in an emergency. but that’s not spending money, and it’s not money i can take to give to others, and it’s not cash i actively have in my wallet. 

i wish i had the means and energy to volunteer again but i just don’t. and that wouldn’t stop me from getting stopped on the street anyway. it makes me not want to take walks.

i talked to oz about it a little bit afterward, just a little. i spent some of the evening after dinner watching some youtube videos, and then i listened to another taz episode. i got to the end of 52, and i also got through the live episodes today. it’s... a lot. lethargy and procrastination manifest in strange forms. i’ll have all the motivation in the world to clean or to watch something i’ve been meaning to watch, but by god is reading hard! or, i’ll want to do a lot of homework and i won’t have any energy or interest at all for personal projects or feeding myself or keeping my apartment as clean as i like. 

today i swept and washed up the bathroom a bit and did exercise but i didn’t do the dishes. the stuff i do actually finish never seems as important as the stuff i didn’t do. like everyone expects me to juggle with five balls but i can only manage three, or on a good day, four. but even on a good day i still fall behind everyone else.

no matter what i do, no matter how urgent or “adulting” the things i did were, the things i didn’t do were ALWAYS more “real” work i was avoiding. the things i like to do are all “fake” work. sweeping is “fake” work, taking out the trash, securing snoopy’s license, faxing papers to my psychiatrist. dishes would have been “real” work.

ok that sounds dumb when i put everything there like that. but i really didn’t do homework today and that’s upsetting, even though my homework is sitting literally less than a foot to the right of my elbow. my eyes just slide over it and find something i could put away instead. i didn’t want to interact with anyone in person today so i just didn’t buy stuff i might need during the storm. i guess i could deal with it when it happens during the storm but like... i could have prevented that if i’d just tried harder.

ngh... people always joke about binge-watching shows being an “i felt lazy so i watched a lot of tv” thing but that stuff takes a significant amount of energy to start and continue doing. i enjoy it, and i know i’ll enjoy it, but starting is still work for me. when an adventure time episode airs, even when i’m vibrating with excitement over it, watching it is still work. talking to friends is work. talking to friends about things besides frickin black holes or whatever the hell is on my mind is work!!! and it’s super disappointing when i fail to put in that work and people think i’m either ignoring them or steamrolling them. being not “too much” is WORK.

i love taz. i love it so much. but since it takes so much energy to start an episode and get all the way through it (i take breaks sometimes and then have to come back to it), doing that feels like work! it takes energy!! and then when it comes time to do other things that take energy i go to do it and then i suddenly don’t have that energy, because i spent it all trying to do something i enjoy so i don’t feel like garbage for a few hours. 

that’s why watching movies is SO HARD for me. they’re meant to be watched all at once. the pacing and editing don’t work as well when i stop and get up for a few minutes. and i can’t stop and get up when i’m watching them with friends so it feels like a huge commitment even for an 80-minute animated movie about balto. or the iron giant, which is a fantastic movie. tokyo godfathers is a fantastic movie. but it’s still work.

why am i like this. maybe i’m lying to myself. maybe things i enjoy aren’t actually work and i’m just making excuses so i don’t have to do REAL work. or smart work. or creative work.

everyone who isn’t my family (or like two therapists) tells me i work so hard. and they seem confused that i feel like i’m not working hard. but sometimes i have a suspicion that i am so supremely lazy that i just build up depression and anxiety around myself so i’ll have a reason not to do something important. like live my life! all the obstacles are my fault, yes, that’s it!!!

i am confused about my relationship with the real world and my, like, place within it. i don’t get the confused feelings as much when i’m actually interacting with other people, even just over text. sometimes i feel powerless and terrible and i don’t see the point. other times i feel all-powerful and like everything is my fault and i’m terrible because all my problems are my own fault and i’m not good enough to just stop having problems and i don’t see the point.

i feel like i have some kind of other underlying problem that is hiding behind depression and anxiety. 

it’s not... what mom thinks it is. i think about it all the time. i look at symptoms and signs over and over. i don’t seem to have the key lack of social skills, and mother has never mentioned to anyone (she likes to tell my life story a lot) that i suddenly experienced developmental problems, which is like, the big thing for that. there is some overlap in my experience... but i don’t know what’s super important for that diagnosis and what isn’t.

but hey! the internet says a lot of things happen when small children have depression!! and mine went basically untreated until adulthood!!! so!!!! maybe!!!!! it’s just that!!!!!!!

looking at the ways you’re supposed to prevent and treat childhood depression makes me cry because my parents basically failed at literally every level there. my pediatrician failed at literally every level with both the mood disorder and the heart defect. my teachers failed at every level at every school with the bullies and the other students’ parents bullying me. the hospitals and doctors failed me for seven months while i wasn’t able to eat because the first guy just didn’t feel like doing the normal gallbladder test!

and now I’M an adult, and I’M failing everyone! how could i not hate myself???

the storm isn’t projected to really get into full swing up here until sunday. but maybe... maybe tomorrow i’ll try to talk to someone over text. one of my classmates i guess. and i guess i could try to go buy the bathroom supplies and wash my dishes before things get any sort of bad. it might not be fun but it should be ok. the water treatment plant expects to keep emergency power, if not regular operational power. that doesn’t mean it’ll happen, and i still have my extra water in the fridge, but i know that these people have lived here a long time and can generally tell when something will definitely fail and when it won’t definitely fail.

and... at least snoopy likes me. and eve likes me, even though i can’t be with her now. and snoopy is depending on me and she hasn’t starved to death or anything yet. she seems happier and healthier than she was a few weeks ago even. 

barbara, dad’s mom, called me the other day to tell me to be careful during the storm. she seemed to think i was on the coast. i never know what to say to her. i feel dirty accepting any kind of love or concern from her. pet killer. people are multifaceted. i know. but some flaws are just unacceptable. her concern feels insulting at this point. her and mom and dad have gotta have noticed by now that i call her barbara and not grandma. but it’s easy to lie and just say “thanks” in a nice tone of voice where she can’t see my face. it’s easy to lie to mom too and just say my rehearsed “love you too.” keep the wheels greased i guess. 

lying is so easy. i don’t know if other people can tell. maybe they can and i think lying is easy but i’m actually super bad at it. at this point it’s like, i’m following a script, and as long as people expect me to follow that script they won’t think about it. if i really want to lie i just, kind of, omit information. or straight up don’t say anything. i guess that’s not the same as lying.

does that make me bad? does that make me a sociopath or something? that’s not the same as bad, it’s a separate question.

... am i stupid? i feel like i’m stupid. i need someone to tell me i’m not stupid. no, do it again, i didn’t believe you the first three hundred times. dude, i don’t even believe MYSELF and i’ve said it over a thousand times. i can’t seem to validate myself, but it seems like i won’t let anyone else validate me either. i tell the same stupid stories all the time over and over and it’s boring. i’m not creative enough to have any new thoughts or find third options or figure out shortcuts or whatever. and i’m not smart enough to believe it when other people (or me) tell me i’m intelligent or clever or talented.

i mean, i do appreciate it. it feels better for a few minutes. then i just fall into the same dumb hole on my ass like a dunce again.

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine one-shot - “Problem Areas” (Rated PG13)

Kurt comes home from a rare Saturday work day, eager to go out on a date with his husband. But he finds Blaine acting strange, withdrawn, with odd Sharpie marks all over his skin. (2100 words)

Okay, so, I've been a little down on myself, and this is something I've been toying around with. I just recently got motivated to finish it. This is something that actually happened to me a long time ago when I started modeling, I was just way sassier back then with how I handled it xD I don't know for sure if they do it now, but to be honest, I wouldn't be surprised. Warning for angst, body issues, self-esteem issues, and body shaming. Mention of Sam. Kurt and Blaine still attend NYADA, but Kurt works at Vogue.

Read on AO3.

“Hey, honey! I’m home!” Kurt announces while he struggles with full hands to unlock the door to the loft. He’s relieved to finally be home. He hates working on Saturdays. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days he and Blaine get to spend 100% alone with each other. They turn off their phones, stay in bed all day, ignore the occasional knocks on the door from friends who can’t take a hint. Kurt loves his job at Vogue. He loves his boss, Isabelle. But Saturdays are reserved for him and his husband.

Thank God this only happens once in a blue moon.

The one good thing that came from working today was it gave Blaine an opportunity to spend some bro time with Sam. Ever since Sam got signed on at Wilhelmina, he’s been too busy working to stop by. Not that Kurt minds. He’s glad that Sam found his niche in the New York modeling world, especially since it removed him from their couch. But he could tell that Blaine missed him, and all of the creepy bonding stuff they used to do.

Seriously. Kurt doesn’t know what he was more bothered by – Sam’s obsession with Star Wars fanfiction, or Blaine encouraging it, not only reading it to Sam before he went to sleep every night, but also acting out the voices.

One night, after Sam moved out, Blaine had even suggested roleplaying a particularly smutty fanfic he’d discovered to Kurt.

Kurt said no. He wasn’t touching that with a ten-foot pole.

“Blaine?” Kurt calls when Blaine doesn’t answer. “Are you home?”

“Uh, yeah,” Blaine replies in an anxious voice. “Yeah, I’m home. I’m in the bedroom.”

“Good! Get dressed! We’re going out on a date!” Kurt shuts the door behind him with a push of his foot. “Dinner, remember? You chose the spot.”

“No, uh … I don’t think I want to go out to dinner. I, uh …”

“Why not? You’ve been wanting to go to that new Ethiopian place for over a week now!” Kurt drops his belongings on the sofa - messenger bag, portfolios, his reusable lunch bag, his coat - and heads for their room. “Do you feel sick? Ugh! I knew that eating cottage cheese three days past the sell by date wasn’t a good idea.”

“Uh, no. It’s not that. I just …”

Kurt stutters to a stop inside the doorway to their room when he sees his husband sitting on the bed in nothing but his purple briefs. Kurt would normally grin like a frisky cat at the sight of his hot, half-dressed man and then pounce, except Blaine looks like he’s in pain - arms holding his stomach, hunched over, staring down at the floor.

“Blaine? Blaine, are you …?” Kurt rushes in. He’s almost at the bed when he sees strange black marks on Blaine’s skin – circles, dashes, and in a few cases, x’s. “What are … what are those, Blaine?” Kurt traces one mark on the back of Blaine’s bicep – a dark circle that looks like it may have been made with a Sharpie. Blaine’s eyes dart to the mirror to look at Kurt, but his gaze falls short of his face. He looks back at the floor and winds his arms tighter.

“They’re, uh … I got them at … Sam and I, w-we stopped by Wilhelmina so he could show me around. The director there … she said she liked my look. She asked if I wanted to sign on with them, too. I didn’t see the harm. It was kind of flattering. Another thing to put on the resume, right?” Kurt sits and puts a hand on Blaine’s shoulder. Blaine shrinks like he might shrug it off, but he doesn’t. “They had me change into a swimsuit - some little red Speedo thing from the 80s. I … I had Sam take pictures,” Blaine admits with a shaky smile, “in case you wanted to see.” Kurt nods and smiles back, hoping Blaine’s smile will stay, but it doesn’t. It twitches at the corners and slips away. “They wanted to see how I looked under lights in front of a white backdrop. But then …” Blaine stops and swallows, too embarrassed to continue.

Kurt’s brows pull together, an angry, incredulous heat beginning to boil behind his ears and spreading to his cheeks. “You mean, someone from the agency drew those marks on you?”

Blaine doesn’t speak. He simply nods.

Kurt looks the marks over. He’s worked with dozens of models and photographers during his time at Vogue and he’s never seen anything like this. He’s definitely never seen Sam come home with marks like these. What the hell …?

“What … what do they mean?”

“They’re, uh …” Blaine’s voice squeaks when he talks again. He clears his throat in order to continue. “They’re my … problem … areas.”

The heat in Kurt’s cheeks shoots straight to his forehead, his brain inside his skull broiling. “What!?”

“They’re the things they told me I’d have to work on if I wanted to become a model,” Blaine explains. “Places where I need to build muscle … places I need to lose fat … you know …” His voice becomes thin, trails off.

“No, Blaine! I don’t know!” Kurt spits. “How could you let them do this to you!? A-and what about Sam!? Why didn’t he say anything!?”

“Kurt, it’s okay,” Blaine says with a hollow laugh, trying to diffuse Kurt’s temper. “We both know I don’t have the body I used to. I’ve been struggling with my weight for a while. It’s no … it’s no secret.”

Kurt watches Blaine fold in on himself, more uncomfortable now than he looked when Kurt first walked in, and Kurt knows he’s partially to blame for that. He shouldn’t have flown off the handle. But he’s done with judgmental assholes and fair-weather friends. Not that Sam is one. He’s always been one of the most loyal people Kurt has ever known. Maybe he was somewhere else at the time. Maybe he was worried that if he said something, it would negatively impact his contract.

Maybe he didn’t realize how much damage this could do.

Kurt really should give him the benefit of the doubt … and he will.

For now.

Kurt leans forward and kisses Blaine on the cheek. “Give me a minute. Okay?”

Blaine nods in response.

Kurt stands and heads for the bathroom. He soaks a clean washcloth in warm water and grabs a bottle of body wash from Blaine’s shelf. When he returns, Blaine doesn’t seem any better, hunched so far over, his forehead is almost resting on his right knee. Kurt has only seen him this withdrawn a handful of times, none of which Kurt wants to remember.

He stands in front of Blaine, blocking his view of the mirror.

“Stand up, honey.”

Blaine sighs, but he doesn’t move.

Kurt feels his chest squeeze. “Please, Blaine?”

Blaine takes a breath in and slowly unrolls. He stands the way Kurt asks, but he doesn’t drop his arms. Standing upright, Kurt sees more x’s and more circles, but he suspects that the worst of them are hiding somewhere beneath Blaine’s arms.

Kurt puts a gentle hand where they cross and pushes down, doing his best not to react as they fall away.

Seeing them, though, makes Kurt want to scream. He’s definitely going to make some phone calls come Monday morning.

Whoever was in charge of the Sharpie went to town on Blaine’s stomach - circles overlapping circles with x’s and dashes in between. The ink is smeared, having bled onto the palms of Blaine’s hands as he covered himself. Kurt looks at Blaine’s face, but his head is bowed, his eyes closed, a single tear threatening to break from the corner.

“I don’t know who the hell those people think they are, but these are not problem areas,” Kurt says, wiping at the marks with the cleanser and the cloth. The marks begin to fade, but they don’t go away easily. They were meant to make an impression, to bother Blaine enough that he’d force himself to change. “In fact, these areas are some of what I love most about your body.”

Blaine scoffs. “How can you say that?”

“How can you not see it?” Kurt says with a soft, comforting laugh. “For example, there’s nothing wrong with your shoulders.” Kurt scrubs at dashes drawn on Blaine’s traps. “They’re just perfect for squeezing. Your biceps are so well-defined, and your back is exceptional. It makes me jealous.” Kurt inches in, lips hovering beside Blaine’s ear. “And when we make love, what do I grab to pull you closer? Hmm?” Kurt’s hands caress Blaine’s hips. The light touch makes Blaine jump, but he doesn’t pull away. “They call these love handles for a reason, but there’s barely anything there. And here.” Kurt plants his hands on Blaine’s ass, making him yelp. “Your gorgeous behind. If you lost an inch off of this, I’d mourn it forever.”

“You have to think that way,” Blaine mutters. “You’re my husband.”

Kurt rolls his eyes. “I hate it when you say that, but okay. Let’s talk about you then.”

“What about me?”

“Before you left our loft today, did you think you were fat?”

“N-no.”

“Earlier this morning, when I had you in my mouth, were you concerned about how your thighs looked?”

A red stain blooms on Blaine’s cheeks, but his expression doesn’t change. “No.”

“And last night, when we were talking and laughing and making love, did the thought that you had some miniscule amount of back fat ever leap into your mind?”

“No.”

“No. And not that it apparently matters because I’m only your husband, but it wasn’t in my mind, either.” Kurt smiles, showing that he’s kidding, but it doesn’t budge Blaine’s mouth an inch. “You’re perfect, Blaine. Just the way you are. And you were happy with yourself a few short hours ago. I know you’ve had trouble with your weight before, but you’re back on track. And you’ve worked so hard to get here. Don’t let some random stranger take that away.” Kurt continues scrubbing, going back over areas where the black marker is being the most stubborn. “If you do want to change something about yourself, do it for you, because there’s something that you want to change. But if you go on some crazy binge, exercising and losing weight, because a woman you’ve never met before tells you that you have problem areas, you are going to make yourself miserable. And then what? Her opinion’s not everyone’s opinion. Maybe her definition of perfect looks awful to everyone else, and then where would you be? The only person whose opinion of your body matters is you, Blaine. No one else.”

“Well, you, too,” Blaine offers. “I want you to think I’m handsome.”

“Then consider that job done,” Kurt says, dropping a kiss on Blaine’s forehead, “because I’ve thought you were handsome from the moment we met, and I’ve never stopped.”

“You’re right,” Blaine concedes. “I know you’re right. It was just a bit of a slap in the face to hear what they had to say.”

“If you really want to be a model, come with me down to Vogue where everyone knows you and loves you. Isabelle’s got contacts that I know for a fact she’d threaten with complete fashion world blacklisting if they ever pulled a trick like this on you.”

“Deal” – Blaine shuffles forward, standing nose to nose with Kurt, forcing Kurt to loop his arms around his waist – “but I don’t want to be a model. And not because of what happened today. It seems so stressful, exercising three times a day, counting every calorie you put in your mouth. It doesn’t sound like it’d be fun unless it’s what you really want to do with your life.”

“Good,” Kurt says. “I already have to deal with people drooling over you at NYADA. I don’t know how I would handle the whole world falling in love with you. Though, you know, it’s only a matter of time …”

Blaine tilts his head, a subconscious smile lifting his lips. “A matter of time before what?”

Kurt kisses him on the nose, matches his smile. “Before the whole world falls in love with you.”

Blaine chuckles, bashful eyes dropping to Kurt’s collar. “Do you really believe that?”

“Blaine” – Kurt wraps his arms completely around Blaine’s torso and hugs him, not caring one iota when soapy water starts seeping through his shirt – “I always have.”

[wordsofawitheringwriter]

The Key That Binds Us

Summary: Earth Land is dying. The Erlking are rising. At the height of the war, an unconscious and dying Natsu is unknowingly thrust into a celestial portal by his friends in a last-ditch effort to save him. It'll take an old lighter and the remains of a rusted key to get him home, but with his travel cost him his memories. How does one get home when they don't know they're missing? Nalu

Prologue, Part I, Part II

Part I: The Beginning

The heat had always bothered him.

Natsu went up for a layup, already beginning to feel that he was sweating through his cutoff tee. His shoes were rubbing blisters where his socks were rubbing thin.

Ever since he could remember, he'd never been one to handle warmer temperatures.

He kept his weight light, shifting from one foot to the other to prevent the soles of his sneakers from melting to the blacktop as he caught the ball that slid smoothly through the torn net. Around him it was quiet; the school playground behind his house empty for the summer months. The air was dry with not a cloud in the sky to soften the sun's rays.

Just one glance at the scar on his upper left arm and you would know that he and fire had never mixed.

Drops of sweat began to collect at the top of his brow and at the base of his neck, causing the hair there to stick to his skin as he raised off the ground to attempt a three. The ball bounced once, twice, three times on the pavement after knicking the rim.

His palms slapped his knees as he doubled over to catch his breath. From the corner of his eye he could see the ball roll until coming to a soft stop at the edge of grass that bordered the asphalt. Natsu took in a deep breath through his nose, held it, then let it out in a heavy, drawn out sigh.

The heat had always bothered him.

He straightened up and crossed the court to where he left his bag on the wooden bench beneath a large oak. Igneel had nagged him enough over the years to where he never forgot to bring a bottle of water with him, and as he rummaged for it, he felt his phone go off and illuminate the inside of his bag.

The text was from Gray: where the hell are you?

Natsu checked the time and cursed. He was going to make them late for work.

Sorry, he typed. At the court. Lost track of time. On way.

He threw the straps of his bag over one shoulder and sprinted toward the tree line that separated his house from the playground, scooping up the ball as he went.

Waiting for him in the driveway was Gray, his Jeep running. Natsu hurried into the house just long enough to grab his work boots and drop his bag on his bed before finding himself out the door again.

"We're driving there with the windows down," Gray said as Natsu's seatbelt clicked into place. "You reek."

"Can it and drive," Natsu replied, flipping him a lazy bird, "or I'll tell Igneel you decline his next batch."

Gray mumbled a curse as he jerked them in a hard reverse out of the driveway. "Damn that man and his spicy jerky."

Natsu wrinkled his nose as they flew down the road, the trees soon giving way to the interstate. He and Gray were working a summer job with a landscaping company that took them anywhere from down the street to several counties over. The current project had them working roughly an hour down the main highway where a quarry had once been, before the water was removed and the land graded over so that they could be contracted. Several years had passed in the time it took for everything to be approved, however, so some people had used the downtime as a place to throw their trash. It was a work in progress for sure, but the job paid well and the hours were decent. The only downside was the occasional long commute, in which he and Gray would carpool to save on gas.

"I don't know how you guys can eat that stuff," Natsu shuddered. "It's like eating straight fire."

Gray snorted. "Like you would know what that's like."

"Excuse me for not wanting my tongue to taste like charcoal."

His friend had merely rolled his eyes and flipped on the blinker, coasting over into the fast lane to make up for lost time. The rest of the ride consisted of Natsu playing with the radio and Gray complaining about the stations he chose, and Natsu staring out the window to keep from getting carsick.

He stuck his arm out to feel the air at one point when traffic landed them in a near standstill. Clouds had gathered and Natsu wondered if he was only imagining the static charge in the air while Gray cursed their bad luck.

A storm was coming.

Natsu's foster dad was a worrier. He hovered, was constantly checking and rechecking the expiration dates of everything in the fridge, and would text Gray asking if they had made it places when Natsu would forget or leave him on read.

It wasn't really his fault. Natsu couldn't remember much about the years of his life before coming to live with Igneel, but he knew the mother hen act was a result of hearing about the accident that had led Natsu to his front door.

That aside, Igneel seemed to have no problem allowing his son to spend hours outdoors under the sun doing hard labor.

"It does a young man well to get out there," he'd say. "Put some hair on your chest. Rough up those hands. Some hair on your b-" but by this point, he would normally be cut off by Natsu chucking the nearest object at his old man's head.

Now, looking up at the pale sky with its overlapping clouds that billowed out into deeper patches of gray, he could at least be thankful that the sun was no longer beating down on him.

But with dirt caked under his nails and the rough handle of a cheap shovel rubbing against torn callouses and open blisters through his gloves, that was about as far as his thanks would go.

The boy digging beside him grunted, shoving the head of his shovel into the dirt so that it stood upright; as good a stopping point as any. He was taller than Natsu and a few years older, if he wasn't mistaken. His hair was ruddy and flew in different directions, and his glasses always sat awkwardly on his crooked nose that had been broken at one time but never set properly. "I'm off to take my break," he nodded to Natsu. "You coming?" Lewis was his name.

Natsu waved him on ahead and continued his work, praying for rain so they could all be dismissed for the day. Even then, however, he doubted that he'd be so lucky. Boss was a decent guy who paid his workers fair, but he was also a man who liked to exceed any and all expectations. If he promised a client that a job would be done in a week's time, then by golly it would be done in half that. He was like Igneel; he thought the work was honest and built character and was not a leading cause of scoliosis.

Natsu was distracted from his thoughts when his shovel hit something that made a ting and most certainly wasn't dirt. He mumbled a curse when the action jolted his bones after all his weight fell on whatever it was that some moron had planted there.

He huffed and tossed the shovel to the side, dropping to his hands and knees to brush the dirt away.

The first drops of rain began to fall as he unearthed the brass box that was tarnished from years spent beneath the soil. It wasn't large, just barely larger than his palm. He turned it over in his hands a few times and heard the contents shift around beneath the lid, but he soon discovered that opening it was futile at the moment. It was sealed tight.

He brushed some of the loose dirt aside to get a better look at the detailed etching. The carefully crafted indentions were packed with dirt and made it difficult to make out, but he ran his thumb along the design and had the strange sensation that it should feel familiar.

A crack of thunder clapped overhead. Natsu faintly registered the sounds of different conversations around him as others left their posts to seek shelter, but he remained on his knees by the small hole he'd created that had housed the small box. He sat, lost in thought as he grazed his thumb over the etching. The rain was slowly turning the dirt into mud that was easier to wipe away with the heel of his hand and the hem of his shirt.

He squinted at the faint lines, trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. It held a small resemblance to a type of bird, but he was at a loss as to what kind it could be. It certainly looked unlike any bird Natsu had ever seen.

"Natsu! Come on, man!" He was suddenly yanked to his feet by the collar of his shirt and dragged to the overhang where the rest of the guys were taking their breaks and cracking open lunch sacks.

"What the hell, dude?" Gray panted, and only now that he was out of the rain did Natsu feel wet. Soaked, actually. His bones were being washed clean by the rain water as he stood there shivering with the box safe in his hand. Gray had yet to notice it; too preoccupied with his friend's impression of a lighting rod, but Lewis did.

"Yo," the older boy said, raising to his feet. He tried to adjust his glasses, but they remained off-centered. "What's that in your hand?"

"I found it," Natsu replied. "Right after you left."

Someone that Natsu had never spoken to before asked, "Well? What's in it?"

"It's probably his time capsule," his buddy retorted, elbowing his friend in the ribs as the two cackled.

"I don't know yet," Natsu responded, ignoring the two strangers. "Doesn't open."

Lewis grinned, his canines sharp. "Everything with a seal can be opened, my friend."

Someone snatched the box from his hands before Natsu could decipher the boy's words.

"Give it back," Natsu growled, lunging for the man who had made the joke at his expense and was more than a few years Natsu's senior.

"We'll give it back," he chortled, "just as soon as we find out what's in it." He tutted at the sight of Natsu's balled fists. "You wouldn't want to keep all the treasures for yourself, now, would ya?"

"Yes," Natsu replied simply.

The man threw his head back and laughed as though it was the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

"Rimmer!" he yelled, cupping the side of his mouth with a large, meaty hand so that Natsu could see fat fingers and several scars etched into the sun-stained skin. "Get your tools so we can crack this baby open!"

Thunder drowned out the cheers of the men involved while Gray put a hand on Natsu's shoulder to keep him from following.

"Dude, what's it matter? It's just a box with a weird-looking logo. The old bastards probably won't find anything inside other than a kid's old trading card collection."

"I found it," Natsu said. "It's mine." It was more than that, though, and Natsu could tell he was doing a poor job of convincing Gray otherwise. Maybe it was nothing more than morbid curiosity, but Natsu did want to know what was inside the box. He just didn't want everyone else knowing too.

Lewis clapped a hand on his other shoulder, his eyes following the small crowd that was convening around an old picnic table that sat in the far corner of the overhang. His expression was odd, unlike any that Natsu had ever seen come across the boy's features in the weeks they'd been working together.

"Lewis?"

But the older boy merely shot him a smirk and tapped the temples of his glasses before slinking off to join the others.

Gray and Natsu stared after him.

Natsu cocked his head to the side. "Am I wrong for thinking he's a little weird?"

"Probably leftover from whatever happened to his nose. No one can get hit that hard in the head and not be left a little scrambled."

"Nice guy though."

"Oh, totally. Lent me his pair of gloves once."

"Did you use them?"

"Gross, no. If I ever feel like sharing sweat I'll borrow something from your gym bag."

Natsu gave his friend an affronted look, followed by a deadpan, "Gross."

Gray shot him the finger before moving to stand at the edge of the concrete slab they were all gathered on, looking up at the clouds. "Looks like they're rolling out. Storm should be over soon, but the ground will be too soft to get any work done. We're probably done for the day once this lets up."

"Want me to drive home?"

"The day I let you drive my baby is the day you spit fire."

Natsu, having already known the answer, merely shrugged. "Figured I'd offer."

They found a spot nearby where no one was sitting because the wind had blown a little rain in that soaked the concrete, but it was nothing detrimental. They'd left their lunches in the back of Gray's Jeep, so they didn't have much to do other than look around. There was a small commotion breaking out on the other side of the overhang where everyone was waiting to see what was inside his box, but Natsu didn't have the heart to check it out.

"So," Gray said, picking at a callous. "You gonna tell me what's so important about this box that you were ready to throw hands with Wick?"

"You wouldn't of had to jump in."

Gray snorted, "Of course I would've jumped in. I'd just like a heads up when you feel like you're about to be a dumbass. I feel like it's common courtesy."

Natsu scratched at his arm to keep his hands busy. "I dunno, man. I know it's probably just a piece of junk, but…" he trailed off. He couldn't find the words to convey the feeling of familiarity he'd had when he first saw the symbol, not in a way that his friend would understand. Hell, Natsu didn't understand it. Why should he expect Gray to?

"Well, forget them. They can keep the trash inside if that's what they really-"

But Gray was cut off as the commotion on the other side of the overhang was quickly turning into the uproar of a mob. Men were surging forward with their hands raised over their heads as they scrambled for something that neither boy could make out from their sitting position. They both shot to their feet just as something broke the link and sprinted in their direction, the figure's glasses skewed to the side of his bleeding, re-broken nose.

"Lewis?" Natsu asked, but the boy didn't answer immediately. He shoved something hard into Natsu's chest and grinned, the look almost made maniacal by the trail of blood along his hairline and the ambiance of the storm around them.

"It was my fault that everyone noticed the box to begin with," he offered his hurried explanation. "Figured it was only fair if I got it back for you. Now go!" He ushered both boys out into the rain and towards the parking lot. "They still think I have it. I can buy you a little time."

"It's just a damn box!" Gray yelled, but sprinted after Natsu while fumbling in his pocket for his keys.

Natsu jerked the handle and clambered inside as Gray stuffed the key into the ignition and brought the roaring engine to life.

"You're more trouble than you're worth," he groaned, once again yanking them into a hard reverse as the tires spun on the loose gravel before finding purpose.

"Remind me to thank Lewis."

"I'll do that," Gray said, rolling his eyes. "On the card, be sure to include the part where he lent me those gloves. I'm sure he'll love reading it from the hospital bed those jackasses are going to put him in over this."

Natsu pressed his nose against the window to try and make out the crowd in the dense rain, but they still stood in the cover of the overhang, not a redhead in sight.

Natsu flipped on his lamp, illuminating his room and dousing the wooden tabletop in a hazy orange glow that warmed his skin. Mindful of newly applied bandaids on his fingers, he wiped once at his tired eyes and pulled out the top drawer where he'd stuffed the box when he first got home, before Igneel could call him down for dinner and turn it into a game of Twenty Questions.

While he was still nowhere near thankful to the assholes who had knicked it from him earlier that day, at least they had broken the seal. The way the dirt was still caked around the hinges led him to believe that Lewis had retrieved it before they could open it, which would explain the mob mentality.

Curiosity killed the cat, temptation brought it back, and God be with Lewis should those assholes decide for a little retribution come tomorrow at work.

He took a deep breath, wiped his hands on his flannel pajama bottoms in an attempt to stall, and then braced his fingers on either side of the metal.