#it will still collapse without the support of physical reality underneath

[kiralamouse]

Ah, the days when people paid for internet access? (Well, “paid” in many cases with howevermany DVDs of complimentary AOL hours.) The days when people mostly used sites that were written by people who either knew what they were doing or outsourced to those who did? I remember the days when it was considered poor form to embed someone else’s image on your page, not because of credit concerns, but because it meant they had to deal with an unexpected source of traffic.

I hate the ad-based internet, don’t get me wrong. But servers do cost time and resources to maintain, especially with the data-gobbling programs running on sites today, so if we want to break the ads, there needs to be another support model.

The internet was never free. It was just funded by different means.

love when ppl defend the aggressive monetization of the internet with "what, do you just expect it to be free and them not make a profit???" like. yeah that would be really nice actually i would love that:)! thanks for asking

[katy-l1988]

Chapter III: Addicted

As the days turned into weeks and then into months, Carmilla delved deeper into the world of business. Carmine Industries had become a renowned industry, producing high-quality weapons sold throughout hell. Important figures like Asmodeus himself had shown great interest in her innovations, personally designed by the Lady of the house. However, business success did not come without its price. Darkness slowly crept through Carmilla's veins, corrupting her body and mind. Each workday left Carmilla shattered, exhausted by the weight of her responsibilities and consumed by the madness that overtook her. Constant confrontations with startled demons and the political intrigues dominating the realm plunged her into a constant state of paranoia.

Physically, she experienced alarming changes. She felt as if her bones stretched and rearranged within her skin, making her feel as though every part of her body was on the brink of breaking. Her skin burned with an internal fever that seemed endless, while her once bright and lively eyes now clouded with unsettling darkness. There were moments when she feared she would go blind. Luckily, there was someone who accompanied her in her struggle. Zestial became her faithful companion, sent by Lucifer to care for her. Although initially his presence was simply by order of the King, over time, the demon developed his own motivation to stay by Carmilla's side. Whenever she found herself on the verge of collapse, Zestial was there to support her, easing her physical pain and providing comfort in the darkest moments.

Like the time he entered her office, expecting to find her hard at work, accompanied by the sound of her pencil dancing on paper. Reality couldn't be more different, an odd stillness hung between those four walls, interrupted only by the distant murmur of the city. Frowning, he approached Carmilla's desk and leaned down to look underneath. There, in the dim light, lay Carmilla, with a bottle of alcohol in hand. The dim light filtering through the room barely illuminated her figure, but Zestial could clearly discern the lost gleam in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders.

"What are you doing down there, little one?" he asked softly, trying not to sound too surprised or critical.

"It's nothing, Zestial," she murmured, trying to find the right words as she struggled to emerge from her hiding spot. "Do you need something?"

"No, dear, I was just passing by the neighborhood and wanted to see how you were."

"Oh, I'm fine…thank you," Carmilla replied after a few seconds, waiting to see if he would say or do anything else, but Zestial didn't think beyond the formalities.

"Well, now that I know you're okay, I'll leave."

With a farewell bow, Zestial walked away towards the door, leaving Carmilla in her office with her thoughts. In those moments, her feelings were still a mystery, she was such an admirable woman, and so unattainable. She was just a girl, the culmination of thousands of years of refinement, perfected into a delicate silhouette. What was she thinking? She was God's daughter, his favorite after Lucifer, and he considered himself unworthy of something he considered so pure. Despite the murky nature of the business Carmilla handled, she had never indiscriminately killed or hurt those she believed innocent. She remained as just as when they were above, and he knew she would never change.

As his thoughts fluttered in his mind, he stepped into the elevator to press the button for the first floor, but just as the doors closed, someone descended from the continuous elevator and passed in front of him. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Zestial felt a shiver run down his spine as the other man gave him an enigmatic smile. A whisper escaped his lips, "Araziel." What would that infamous man want with Carmilla? The mere idea deeply unsettled him.

As the elevator descended, Zestial couldn't help but look up, to the top floor of the building. He imagined Araziel in Carmilla's office, wondering what kind of shady business they could be conducting. Although he had no concrete evidence, his instinct told him that Araziel's presence boded ill. After all, he was never interested in supporting Lucifer, but in saving his own neck from Michael's sword. Finally, the elevator reached the first floor, and Zestial stepped out with firm steps. Although his mind was filled with doubts and worries, he knew he had to keep his composure and move forward. If Araziel posed a threat to Carmilla, he would be there to protect her, no matter the consequences.

Zestial observed the increasingly frequent visits of Araziel to the building, bringing sweets, flowers, clothes, gestures that he deemed too empty. Worried about what he might be doing, he decided to address the issue directly with Carmilla. He approached her one day while she worked at her desk and noticed some fresh flowers placed in a nearby vase.

"Are these from Araziel?" Zestial asked, pointing to the bouquet with curiosity.

Carmilla looked up, surprised by his question.

"Have you been spying on me?" Zestial frowned, offended.

"No, of course not," Carmilla raised an eyebrow, she couldn't lie. "Maybe. But it's hard not to notice when a man sends you flowers so frequently."

Carmilla became defensive, crossing her arms over her chest.

"And what if he sends me flowers? It's none of your business, Zestial."

"I know, but…" he tried to explain, but Carmilla cut him off abruptly.

"I don't need your opinion on my personal life, understood?" she said, her voice rising with each word. "So I would appreciate it if you stopped sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

Zestial felt hurt by the acrimony in Carmilla's words, but he knew he couldn't back down.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you, Carmilla, but I'm just worried about you. Araziel is not to be trusted, and…"

"And what? Are you now the guardian of my morality?" she interrupted him again, with a flash of anger in her eyes. "I don't need anyone to tell me who I can or cannot associate with."

"Yes. You're right. You're an adult woman and can make decisions on your own."

With a resigned sigh, Zestial walked away, leaving Carmilla alone. He couldn't help but feel a profound anguish for her. He knew Araziel was a danger to anyone, especially after disappearing from their lives, but he also understood that he couldn't force Carmilla to see the truth if she wasn't ready to accept it. Meanwhile, in the office, the seraphim slumped heavily into the back of her chair, feeling the weight of the argument, an unusual event. Part of her was uneasy about Zestial's warnings, and the other was desperate to feel loved again. The sound of the phone interrupted her thoughts, and as she answered, she couldn't help but wonder about the spider's reasons for spying on her. But for now, she decided to ignore her doubts and move forward with her own plans.

The phone call was from Araziel, who invited her out that night. Wanting to distract her mind from work, she eagerly accepted the invitation. Shortly after, the fallen angel arrived to pick her up, and together they headed to a nightclub. The atmosphere was charged with energy and excitement, and Carmilla was swept away by the music and flashing lights. Throughout the night, they shared laughter and conversation, and for a moment, Carmilla was able to forget her worries and enjoy the moment.

Carmilla was carried away by the intoxication and seduction of Araziel, unable to resist his charms in her vulnerable state. Her senses clouded by alcohol led her into a whirlwind of confusing sensations as she found herself enveloped in the arms of one who, until recently, was just a memory in her mind.

In a moment of fleeting lucidity, Carmilla realized that something was terribly wrong. Her mind struggled to break through the veil of drunkenness, reminding her that her tolerance for alcohol was considerable and that she shouldn't be so out of control. But before she could react, it was already too late. Araziel had her cornered against the wall, his seductive words echoing in her ears as she fought to find a way out. Fear gripped Carmilla as she realized the trap she had fallen into. She tried to fight against Araziel's grip, but her efforts were in vain, much like what happened with Adam. Carmilla deeply regretted having fought with Zestial, praying that even after the argument, he would still be spying on her. But at that moment, she was completely alone, at the mercy of one who had once been her downfall and now revealed himself as her worst nightmare.

"What's the matter, pajarito?" Araziel whispered with a mocking smile, his hot breath brushing against Carmilla's ear as he held her pinned. "I thought you'd like to fly again."

Carmilla swallowed hard, feeling disgust and anger mixed within her. Araziel's words made her feel small, defenseless, as if she were prey in the hands of a cunning and ruthless predator. On one hand, she hated herself for being so vulnerable, for allowing herself to fall once again into the clutches of someone like him. She berated herself in her mind, wondering how she could be so foolish, so weak, how she could allow herself to be used again. As her lips met Araziel's in a kiss filled with desperation, tears welled up in her closed eyes. She felt as though she were betraying every promise she had made to herself, every ideal she had fervently defended. But at the same time, there was a part of her that was swept away by the intoxicating sensation of the moment, a part of her that desperately longed to feel desired and loved, even if it was by someone as despicable as Araziel.

Although she knew she was playing with fire, it was as if an irresistible force propelled her forward, as if she were trapped in an endless cycle of self-destruction from which she could not escape. And amidst that emotional whirlwind, there was something unsettling about the way Araziel held her, something that made her doubt her own perceptions, her ability to distinguish between right and wrong. Was there a part of her that desired this, that enjoyed that depravity as much as he did?

Then, she woke up, with a heavy heart and a mind clouded by a pain she had not experienced before. On the nightstand, a note written in elegant cursive accompanied a tray with tea and cookies. With trembling hands, she picked it up and began to read the words printed on the paper. The letter, though brief, was filled with sweet words and compliments, promises of future encounters and gestures of affection. For a moment, Carmilla allowed herself to be carried away by the illusion that maybe, just maybe, she could find comfort in Araziel's arms.

"Carmilla? Are you there?" Zestial's voice echoed through the intercom, full of concern. "Hey, I wanted to apologize. I know I had no right to spy on you, but you must know that I thought I was doing the right thing."

Carmilla struggled to get up from the floor, stopping in front of her friend's image on the screen.

"After all, it's what guardian angels do." He chuckled to himself, awaiting her response. "Milla, are you there?"

The woman's finger hovered a few millimeters away from pressing the button to answer; she knew exactly what he would say upon seeing her in that state, and the last thing she wanted was to face the possible humiliation of admitting her weakness to him. Pride was her greatest sin, just like her brother's. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes as she wrestled with her own conflicting emotions, wondering if she would be able to face the look of disappointment in Zestial's eyes if she showed him her true, vulnerable, and fractured self.

With a resigned sigh, Carmilla finally made a decision, accepting that she wasn't ready to confront Zestial's words at that moment. She watched in silence as her friend's image disappeared from the intercom, feeling a weight of guilt mixed with relief in her heart. Once she was sure she was free from interruptions, she sat down on the bed, feeling the mattress embrace her tired body. Her eyes landed on the tray. With trembling hands, she picked up the tray, and as she savored the breakfast Araziel had prepared, she allowed herself to indulge in a brief moment of indulgence, setting aside her worries and fears for just a moment to simply enjoy the comforting taste of the food. If this was her hell, she would find a way to make the most of it.

Thus, the relationship between Carmilla and Araziel became a decades-long dance, a power game in which both had a role to play. Carmilla, accustomed to being in charge of everything, found a perverse pleasure in relinquishing control to Araziel, allowing him to take the lead in her bed and in her life. Araziel, on the other hand, was like a insatiable wolf, always hungry for more, for power, for dominance. His presence was intoxicating, his touch a drug that left Carmilla craving more, even knowing that each encounter dragged her deeper into the darkness of her own damnation. She became addicted to that toxicity, finding a strange satisfaction in the sensation of danger and abandon that accompanied each encounter with Araziel. Although her rational mind knew it was a dangerous game, her heart longed for the whirlwind of emotions he provided, clinging to it desperately, even when reason told her she should flee.

The routine repeated itself over and over again, each encounter hotter and wilder than the last, each dawn bringing with it a mixture of pleasure and guilt that threatened to consume her completely. Deep down, Carmilla knew she was trapped in a cycle from which she could not escape, that her fate was inexorably linked to Araziel's, and a ring was just a way of letting him see.

"Then you got married," Carmilla had gone with Rosie to ask her for a new dress, since the ones she had were a bit tight.

"I guess it was only a matter of time," she said, looking at herself in the mirror. She had given a part of herself to Araziel, a pact that went beyond the physical and delved into the depths of their souls.

"Are you happy with that?" Rosie was one of the few born in hell in whom Carmilla fully trusted, from the first moment she was very attentive to her. Now, as she adjusted a tape measure around Carmilla's waist, she smiled.

"Happy?"

Carmilla let out a bitter laugh, more a sigh of resignation than a gesture of genuine joy. Rosie's words made her reflect on the nature of her relationship with Araziel, a union marked by passion and intensity, but also by darkness and manipulation.

"I don't know if 'happy' is the right word," Carmilla finally replied, her voice laden with ambiguity. "It's complicated, you know? Sometimes I feel like I'm drowning, like I'm trapped and can't escape. But other times… Well, there are moments when I feel alive in a way I've never experienced before."

Rosie nodded understandingly, her eyes reflecting empathy for Carmilla's situation.

"I understand what you mean. Relationships, especially in hell, are rarely simple."

Carmilla noticed Rosie's understanding gaze, a spark of surprise flickering in her eyes. Although she had always admired Rosie's strength and confidence, she had never imagined that she, too, faced her own personal battles.

"Forgive me. I spoke as if I were the only one with problems," Carmilla asked curiously, feeling an unexpected connection with her friend. "It's just… you always seem to be okay."

Rosie let out an ironic laugh, adjusting the tape measure around Carmilla's waist with a mechanical gesture.

"You can never know the reality behind a smile, dear," Her voice had a somber tone, laden with past experiences. "My ex-husband was a jerk, often crossing my boundaries, and he ended up tangling with someone much worse in the end."

"And why were you with him for so many years?"

"For the same reason you married the jerk Araziel," Carmilla was momentarily speechless, surprised by Rosie's frankness. "Sometimes, it's easier to cling to what we know, even if it hurts us."

Rosie continued to take measurements as she changed the subject, trying to lighten the mood with a touch of humor.

"By the way, it looks like someone has been eating too many chocolates," she joked as she took notes in her agenda.

Carmilla let out a nervous giggle, aware of her oversight. Rosie gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder, softening the tone of her words.

"Don't worry about it, darling. With everything you've been going through, it's completely understandable! Besides, your breasts have grown quite a bit, which is good since before you looked like a board."

Carmilla blushed intensely at Rosie's comment, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed by the direct observation about her body. Instinctively, she covered herself with her hands, trying to hide her body as her face burned with shame. Though she struggled to keep a straight face, she pushed her friend away to make her stop.

"Oh, I'm sorry, honey!" Rosie exclaimed, laughing, as she tried to contain her joy. "I couldn't help it. But seriously, don't worry so much about a few extra pounds. You look beautiful anyway!"

Later, Carmilla bid farewell to Rosie with a warm hug and a forced smile, trying to hide the growing anxiety within her. She appreciated her friend's company, but a sense of unease persisted in her mind as she walked through the dark streets of the city. Nervously playing with the ring on her hand, she tried to clear her mind, but worries continued to haunt her like shadows in the night. Every step she took echoed in the silence of the night, increasing her sense of loneliness and vulnerability. She forced herself to take deep breaths to calm the nausea that was beginning to rise, fighting against the wave of discomfort that threatened to overwhelm her.

Carmilla had barely walked a block when she felt someone following her. Her heart began to pound in her chest, and a shiver ran down her spine as she nervously looked around, searching for any sign of danger in the shadows of the infernal night. Then, suddenly, Araziel appeared at her side, his sudden presence causing Carmilla to come to a sudden stop, her nerves on edge.

"Araziel!" exclaimed Carmilla, feeling a mixture of relief and anxiety at recognizing her husband. "Did you follow me here?" she inquired, her tone reflecting her irritation and distrust.

"I just missed you so much, mi parito," Araziel said, as if it were the most natural explanation in the world, as they continued walking towards the elevator terminal. "Come on, I made a reservation at Ozzie's."

The name of the place made Carmilla shudder slightly. Ozzie's, Asmodeus's house, a venue known for its atmosphere charged with eroticism and lust. It was not exactly where she wanted to be at that moment, she knew exactly what they were going for. Asmodeus was known for his arrogant and boastful attitude, especially when it came to his reputation as the embodiment of lust. There was no doubt that he would seize the opportunity to humiliate her, as he did with other demons. The idea of being exhibited as Araziel's property filled her with disgust, but for the time being, she decided to play his game, even though her heart beat with a mixture of anxiety and disgust.

Araziel didn't let go of Carmilla at any moment as they walked to the terminal, one only accessible to demons born in hell, or like them, born in heaven. His grip was firm, almost possessive, as if he wanted to make sure she didn't escape.

Once inside Ozzie's, it was as if the atmosphere itself was imbued with palpable sensuality. Neon lights blinked in vibrant hues, illuminating the place with an almost hypnotic intensity. The loud music resonated in their ears, mingling with the whispers and laughter of those present. It was a place where the darkest and most sinful desires mingled freely in the air. Asmodeus observed from his position behind the scenes the two fallen angels, as they sat at a table near the stage. The way Araziel ordered on behalf of Carmilla did not go unnoticed by him. He knew that in that relationship, Araziel exerted dominant control, relegating Carmilla to a secondary role.

But the sight of the two wasn't the only thing that caught Asmodeus's attention. He also saw Zestial in the distance, who had spent the last few years wandering in the Ring of Greed. A malicious smile formed on his lips as he plotted a way to play with them. He knew beforehand that Zestial had some kind of interest in the Duchess of Hell, as she was often called in those days, given that the title of "princess" had been occupied by Lucifer's daughter. Asmodeus decided it would be entertaining to play with the dynamics between the three of them. He planned to take advantage of the situation to test Zestial's limits and provoke a bit of chaos in the process. He was a master at manipulating the emotions and desires of others, and this situation promised to be a deliciously twisted game for him. With a mischievous look, he prepared to enter the scene and start his little game of seduction and manipulation.

"Carmilla, my Lady! What a surprise to see you here!" exclaimed Asmodeus theatrically, bowing slightly like a courtier of hell.

"Asmodeus, it will always be a pleasure to see you," Carmilla responded, trying to maintain her composure despite the discomfort she felt in his presence.

"And what brings you to these sinful lands?" he inquired with genuine interest.

"It's our anniversary," Araziel replied with a proud smile, gripping Carmilla's hand tightly.

"Oh, really! How many years has it been?" Asmodeus asked, raising an eyebrow with genuine interest.

"Too many to count," Carmilla replied with a forced laugh, trying to divert attention from the uncomfortable question.

"Don't be modest, dear! For us demons, a century is just a few minutes of our vast existence," insisted Asmodeus, with a playful smile that revealed his enjoyment of putting her in a tight spot.

Carmilla exchanged a quick glance with Araziel before responding cautiously, "A millennium."

Asmodeus put a hand on Carmilla's waist with a familiarity that made her tense slightly. His playful smile widened as he gave Araziel a mocking look.

"A thousand years, you say!" he exclaimed with a tone of feigned disbelief. "It must have been quite a challenge to keep her satisfied for so long, Araziel! Or do you have some tricks to share with us? I would love to hear them."

Carmilla looked away, trying to ignore the intense gaze of the demon. Asmodeus, having set up his play, headed towards where Zestial was. He ordered with a simple gesture to the imps in charge of lighting to turn on a spotlight on Zestial, highlighting his figure amidst the darkness of the venue. The woman, seeing Zestial shining under the spotlights, felt a mixture of emotions that hit her hard. For years, she had wished to see him again, but she could never reach him. Unable to contain herself, Carmilla jumped to her feet, her heart pounding in her chest as she stared fixedly at Zestial, as if time had stopped around her.

[cosmichighpriestess]

Some of us are their karma, we are purposely placed in the way of people who claim to be honorable, high status, people who claim to be providers with integrity.

When we step into the room, very quickly they show us their true nature, their false projections, their own insecurities and doubt in themselves, because our energy will expose any insecurities, false projections and facades they were manipulating and abusing everyone else with.

If we walk in, the sharks start circling us and we are treated differently. These sharks have a choice to make, either to swallow their pride and fear, insecurities and false projections, and envy to treat other's they see as beneath them with respect or would they chose to instead try to bully us, control us, use us, steal from us, blame us, abuse us and manipulate us? We are the Earth Angels placed in their path for God to see which option would they choose?

They chose to use me, oppress me, spread lies about me, abuse me, belittle me, and gaslight me. We also take on their pain, guilt, shame, fear, problems and burdens, and transmute it. They don't even realize that by constantly focusing on tearing us down, they are pulling on our energy and we are taking on their burdens, their blocks, and their pain.

What they don't realize is that I don't get my approval from humans. I get my approval from God, the most high, the creator of the entire Universe, because no energy is more powerful or more my best friend than God. I get no sense of validation or favor from any human. If we relied solely on their approval we would never love ourselves and we would never come back to Source. God is the only validation I ever want because their opinions don't matter because they don't know who I am, and God is the only one who knows who we truly are.

If you cross paths with an Earth Angel, or an empath or someone just trying to survive, and you go against them, without knowing their circumstances, and you use them instead? That's instant karma. It's not a punishment. Always remember all karma is self imposed. Your own higher self is going to teach you a lesson.

They had a chance to see our light, and let the light and the favor come in and they decided to use us, steal from us, and abuse us because our light threatened them. They were used to using lower vibrational energies and getting away with it. They did it knowingly, willingly, and they were unapologetic fools who couldn't support anyone, they could only manipulate, control, gaslight and lie.

They cause chaos because they feel like they have lost control of everyone around them. They constantly gaslight when they feel they need to lie to be seen as the myter, the good guy, the victim to you. They are nothing until you give them power over you. Thank you for showing me God who they really were, thank you for showing everyone else even if they are still in denial. and they believe their fake image is still working on the ones they still use.

Inserting your misery, your insecurities, your abuse and lack on people who do not deserve it will be exposed, and they will see the truth. The rug will be pulled out from underneath you and your faulty foundation will collapse because nothing real based on love and truth was holding it together, only lies and deception which are false, an illusion.

How dare you, hurt these innocent people who only meant to help you and reward them with chronic neglect and smear campaigns. We had to cope with our traumas alone. These narcissists don't realize that they caused physical pain and mental illness in their own children and people that they bullied. They created PTSD and a terrifying life for the people they hurt.

We had nightmares and panic attacks everyday. We felt like we were in constant danger anywhere we went, we attracted more dangerous narcissists like you. There was no safe person in our reality. Chronic anxiety and constant fear was our entire day to day life. We were buried in trauma from every age since we were born, instead of blooming and growing.

Only we bloomed in the darkness, like a rose growing in the concrete. We as the Chosen could not be stopped, our rapid growth is favor from God because we are the light bringers, we are the changemakers because what you learn in one week takes us only one hour to learn.

Your projection of your perfect family image and perfectionism is a lie and you know it. Everyone can see through you, people are not easily manipulated anymore, there's a lot of information on abusive people we all have access to now abundantly. People are stronger than they appear to be. You want to run your agenda and not respect our wishes, our boundaries. Who do you think you are damaging people further than they are already in pain?

We are ten steps ahead of you at all times, that's what you didn't realize when you thought you were manipulating us and everyone around you. You made your choice, you made your bed now lie down in it like the liar and thief you really are. Time will always reveal the real face of you. You have no awareness, no self assessment of yourself. No accountability and you have no boundaries. You just point the finger and blame all your issues and trauma onto everyone else who you view as weaker because of their kindness.

How can you point the finger if your hands aren't even clean and you have all these skeletons in your closet? You did this to yourself and have no one else to blame but the person in the mirror you refuse to look at. Leave us alone, stop stalking us or face your karma, you give us no equal give and take. We're already protected by our ancestors and our spiritual team, our fears are behind us. I only have one thanks for you, thank you for making me into the stronger, unbreakable version I am today, my heart is so pure now because you forced me to love myself, by never supporting me and always treating me like nothing. The life I was born into has humbled me in so many intense ways. I will forever be grateful that I had you as an example of what to never become.

[bestie-enthusiast]

A Means To An End

Summary: After chasing a lead into a neaby building, Sam and Bucky get to see a more... vunrable side of the Baron.

This fic is inspired by @morganbritton132

They had been chasing a lead, one of the cars that supposedly belonged to the Flag Smashers had been spotted outside of a small theatre. They had speculated it was a supply stop, or maybe a place to lay low. Zemo had taken them, in a surprisingly non-attention-drawing car, to about a block away from the theatre, and they started to walk the rest of the way there.

“It is privately owned, from what I understand.” Zemo explained to them. “The owners, most likely powerful and influential individuals, are either unaware of what's going on, or are actively supporting the group.”

Sam nodded, “Makes sense to me. Do we have to worry about them being there?” Zemo shook his head.

“Most likely not. They would have no reason to be inside unless they are also super soldiers.” Sam hummed in agreement and turned to Bucky, who had been silent.

“Are you good, man?” He asked quietly as they grew closer to the theatre.

“This feels like a trap.” Bucky grumbled, glaring at the small, but lavish, building that they had stopped in front of. “They’ve been staying at the camps and keeping supplies there. This feels out of character.”

Sam frowned, “Well maybe they needed a place to lay low, they know we’ve been tracking the houses they’ve been staying at, so maybe this is how they're trying to throw us off?” Bucky nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

Zemo led them into the theatre, effortlessly navigating the building. It was much larger on the inside than it appeared. As they wound their way deeper and deeper into the building, Bucky seemed to grow more and more agitated, until he froze.

“Bucky?” Sam asked worriedly, looking at the range of emotions passing over his friend's face.

“Shh,” Bucky hissed quietly, tilting his head towards a wall. Sam barely had the time to open his mouth when an explosion rocked the building. He felt something hit his head, and passed out.

-

Sam blinked awake, groaning at the dryness of his mouth. It took a few moments for him to remember what happened, but he didn’t feel too bad, so he assumed everything was good. He wasn’t completely covered in the ruins of the theatre, which is good, and after relieving himself of the rest of it, everything seemed to be intact, aside from some bruising and some cuts.

He looked around and spotted Bucky, who seemed to be just waking up as well, and walked over to help him up. Not that he needed it.

After the two of them had (somewhat subty) looked over the other for any signs of damage, they set about scouring the building for anything of use. Bucky was walking with a limp, and Sam had a minor concussion, but they were both still breathing and alive. They stumbled through, leaning on the other or on the nearest (standing) wall whenever they needed it.

That was when Sam remembered Zemo, and Bucky heard a voice.

“Fuck.” They said in unison, looking at the other in surprise.

“Zemo,” Sam explained in a single word, watching as Bucky let out a tense sigh.

“I heard someone.” Bucky said back, looking in the direction he had heard a whimper. It was very faint, but still present. “We don’t know who was in here. Could be a civilian.” Sam nodded and Bucky led them in the direction he heard the cry. As Bucky and Sam grew closer, Bucky was able to discern the voice as a sort of pained mewling, someone on the edge of hysteria that threatened to consume them. Sam also grew more concerned as Bucky led them into a more unstable and ruined part of the theatre.

The pathetic cry’s grew louder as the drew near to the source, and the weakness and vulnerability in them was the reason neither Sam nor Bucky thought that it could possibly be the missing Baron until they laid eyes upon him.

Zemo, in short, looked like a mess. A cut on his hairline was pouring blood down his face as the man curled in on himself. His hands were bleeding, the skin on his fingers rubbed raw after being used to scratch as concrete and metal. His appearance and injuries weren't the worst part though, no the worst part was what he was saying.

“Heike, Carl, Papa.” Over and over, like a mantra. Even as he choked on dust he continued to repeat the phrase. His voice sounded wrecked, ripped to shreds by screams no one had heard. It was very clear that Zemo just wasn’t there. He was not present as he repeated those three words even as he gasped for air and his voice cracked and crumbled.

Sam reacted before Bucky, gently calling out to Zemo. Even as he raised his voice Zemo did not respond, not even a flinch at the volume. Bucky tried next. He gently prodded at the Baron’s hands, once again not even eliciting a flinch. Bucky tried again with more force, pressing both of Zemo’s hands tightly against his chest. It was a very tense few moments as the Baron because lucid once again.

The usual sharpness returned to his eyes, although the tears were still present. Zemo blinked at them, and for once the Baron looked ashamed of himself.

“Apologies, you should not have seen that.” The man quietly apologised, wincing at the way his voice cracked. Sam and Bucky both just shook their heads, helping Zemo up. They all stumbled out of the rubble together, and Zemo spared himself a glance at the two men helping him. Bucky had a sort of empathetic understanding in his eyes, eyes far too soft to be looking at a criminal such as himself. Sam gave him a look of understanding, although it felt more like pity than anything. Zemo knew both men had experience with PTSD, but he never wished for them to know he struggled with it as well.

They staggered through the streets, Zemo carefully keeping quiet about the sharp pain in his ankle every time he took a step. It would be better if they just left him alone for some time once they arrived back at his safe house, and they would not leave him alone if they knew the extent of his physical injuries, let alone his mental ones.

And so he kept quiet. When they made it into the safehouse, Zemo let out a breath that he hadn’t been aware he was holding in. He let himself relax minutely now that they were in a safe location. It had been a taxing experience, and all he wished was for some space to once again grieve and mourn for his family. Unfortunately, it did not appear that Sam nor James would be giving him such a privilege, and so he continued to do his best to hold apart his now fragile mask. “So.” Sam said once they had all settled on the couch in the main room of the house. It was a tense, but not unwelcome intrusion into their silence, nevertheless Zemo flinched at the sudden noise.

“So.” He repeated quietly, knowing that as long as he spoke in quiet, quick sentences they would not be able to tell his voice was still quiet ruined and cracking. Zemo resisted the urge to curl up, to bring his feet into his person and rest his chin on his knees. It would be a very childish position and not to mention, vulnerable. It was a very tense few moments before Zemo decided to speak again.

“Do I have your permission to sleep or-” his voice cracked again as he thought of sleep. No doubt it would be nightmare filled. “Or do I have to sit in this st-stifling silence longer?” He could feel himself flush at his simple inability to speak a proper sentence, but silently hoped it would convince Sam and his sympathetic and pity-filled body to let him go.

“Oh, uhh, sure man. Whatever you want.” That was all he needed. He walked as fast as he could, without making it obvious he was eager to leave, to the closest bedroom. He locked the door behind him, relishing in the comfort the simple click brought him. He toed off his shoes and shrugged off all of his clothes sans boxers, and collapsed onto the bed. He started shaking with the effort that it was taking to hold everything, and so he let it out. Every single bit of pain and grief and anguish that he felt as he was relieving the memory. He could taste the dust in the air, remember the pain in his hands that he ignored as he dug his family from underneath the rubble.

It all felt so real, like it was happening again. Like he was truly relieving the worst moments of his entire life again. Like he was- he was experiencing the destruction of his whole world again, he could physically feel the pain in his heart as he recalled the memory.

He sobbed and screamed into the pillows on the bed, shaking like a leaf in a storm all the while. It didn’t take long for the pain to turn into exhaustion and numbness. For the grief to turn into mourning. He let out a shaky breath as his tears started to slow and his shakes turned less violent.

He felt nauseous but all too tired to even think about expelling energy to have something to drink, so instead he focussed on just passing the fuck out.

And hey! It worked.

Or at least he thought it did. He was pretty certain it did. Especially when he opened his eyes to see his papa’s ruined mansion in front of him. He inhaled the scent of dust and smoke, eyes already watering as he stared at the remains of his once luxurious childhood home. He stumbled down to the basement where he knew his bodies would be, solidifying the fact that this was a dream. In reality, it had taken him much longer to search the basement, holding out hope that the caved ceiling wouldn’t be covering their bodies. He stumbled down until he was directly in front of the spot he knew their bodies were buried, and started to dig. He dug and dug even as his hands screamed at him (or was it him screaming?) and the pain became near unbearable, until he was able to make out a small, pale wrist underneath all the rubble.

He clutched it like a lifeline, checking for a pulse for a very long moment. He already knew there wouldn’t be one, but every time he had this dream he still held out hope. He continued to claw at the remains, more careful now, until his entire family was uncovered. And just like every other time he had this nightmare, he carefully checked for pulses, breathing, anything, and just like every other time, there was nothing.

He allowed his tears to fall in the privacy of his family’s ruined home, and hoped to wake soon. If the dream continued on like this, he would be testing the theory of whether or not dying in your dreams can make you die in real life.

Thankfully, he woke up soon after. Although the way in which he woke up was not the most pleasant. He awoke to a loud thudding on his door and someone shouting his name. He felt somewhat delirious and wondered if he had picked up an infection. He grabbed a neatly folded bathrobe off of a chair and pulled it on, tying it loosely as he unlocked and opened the door.

Sam Wilson stood before him, looking uncharastically concerned. Well the man regularly looked concerned, it was just that he was concerned with Zemo that was abnormal.

“What?” Zemo asked tonelessly. He was too emotionally exhausted to use any snark or sarcasm.

“You were screaming,” Sam replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly. Zemo suddenly felt awkward as well.

“Oh.” He was usually silent during his nightmare, but the day's events appeared to have affected his subconscious more than he had thought. “Apologies.”

“No it's fine, I just… you got me and Buck real concerned earlier, and I thought maybe…” Maybe he had gone into another flashback.

Zemo shook his head, “Just nightmares. I should recover just fine in a few days.” Sam looked nervous, but didn’t push it. He left soon after. As soon as he was out of sight Zemo let out a quiet brief, sagging against his door frame. He knew that the right thing to do would be to talk, to open up and spill out all his vulnerability so that they could pick through it like vultures and decide whether or not he was worth helping. He did not believe he was worth helping, and so he would not do the so called right thing.

He would not bear his soul only to have it crushed.

He would not let himself believe that maybe people did care after all.

Because he was only a means to a necessary end. And there was no need to complicate things further by adding his own emotions into the mix.

No. He would stay strong. This wouldn’t affect his performance on the field, and he would not let it affect his newly acquired acquaintanceship with the two men who assisted him in his escape from prison.

A means to an end. That was it.

[sunseteyes]

HELIUM -  S. TODOROKI

theme/s: aged up!shoto, developed relationship, nsfw, smut with plot, fluff, mild sub/dom play, oral masturbation, gender neutral

this was birthday present for a friend of mine, angelica. she enjoyed it btw haha. feel free to listen to the song whilst reading~

Being vulnerable was something you have never expected of yourself. There were just some things that had made it complicated for you to express much of yourself and not build a wall to separate you and the others.

Yet he is different.

The warmth of his hand envelops yours as he gently pulls you along with him; walking side by side, peacefully and almost in a serene way.

As you look up, a beautiful orange shade, with a hint of pinkish red welcomes you, enticing you into its beauty. Although, it made you remember of the very day you could never forget, the scenes replaying on its mind like a vague movie.

There, the skies were painted of a brilliant color that shadows the unforeseen of what was to happen. Not a single one expected the capacity of the attack nor the changes that would happen after. Laughter and smiles were replaced by screams and cries, voices hoarse and laced with fear for someone to save them.

It was hot, due to the fire that had emerged from the explosions of exchange of quirks and the attack of the villains. Despite the sweat lacing on your skin and the wounds that decorated your arms and legs, those were not what seemed to be circling your mind. Your eyes tried to focus on the figure not quite afar from yours, wondering why it seems far away at the same time. You could remember how you tried to call out for help, but your vocal cords doesn’t seem to cooperate well with you. Not that you use it most of the time anyway so maybe that’s why it’s not working that time, when you need it the most. Though that doesn’t seem to be the right answer, it was what you believed it to be.

Now, the wide view from below were different. Yet, the memory was still there, hanging like the clothes you’re trying to dry under the sun back at your apartment in the present. It was truly an unforgettable experience, especially for a child. You even wonder if you’re thankful or spiteful of it to be honest.

Well, maybe both. But mostly the last option.

You were glad you had been alive after that day, but that emotion wouldn’t even last long for the same reason. You’re the only one alive. No one else in your family had survived due to the fire and the collapsing of the buildings. You watched in dread as each of your love ones died in front of you.

That’s how your quirk was. That was how you survived before you were saved.

The ability to control air was something you should be proud of. It is a constant element in Earth and you could have unlimited use of it since it doesn’t really vanish after you use it like any other quirk that’s not part of the four elements. If things were different, you would have loved your quirk.

But the thing is, you don’t. Because that day, your weakness covered up your strength, and you were not able to use your quirk to save your family from losing breath or be hit by debris caused by the destruction of the buildings.

Fire. You used to hate it the most. With fire, smoke can be emitted and it was your greatest weakness. Smoke is the one thing you could not control and if you inhale it, you’d have a hard time controlling the air around you. Your quirk was simple; breath fresh air and you can control air. Yet that time, it was inevitable and you felt completely useless.

You were thankful of All Might for saving you but you’d rather have burned into ashes with your parents and siblings without feeling like she had not done something to prevent it. She was a child, yes, but it’s unbearable.

Nevertheless, it drew you to the idea of being a hero. To somehow attain that sense of not being able to do something to save someone.

Everything had truly changed ever since you met Shoto Todoroki. You saw the beauty underneath the smokey fire, especially when it’s his doing. You knew he would never use it against you to do something terrible even if he’d known it was your weakness.

His touch, it leaves a tender and loving expression in you, one that could lift you up higher into the clouds like your quirk. His warmth that radiates from his body, it would never fail to make you feel secure, like the sun that heats you up somehow when the cold of winter comes by after the months of spring. You had never expected to feel this way after what had happened.

But it was when you studied heroics that you met him. Sometimes, you would even think the what ifs of not deciding to go to Yuuei and pursue being a hero. What if you did that? Would you have met Shoto either way? Would fate tug and pull you two together like the red strings do when their soulmates are near in the books that you’ve read?

“Is there something wrong, love?” his voice was sultry and alluring, one that he always use on special occasions much like this one. However, you could see the tinge of worry in his unmatched eyes, replacing the hoodedness in it once he had probably noticed your unresponsiveness.

You smile assuringly, raising a hand to touch his cheek and look at him lovingly. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.”

He looked skeptical but he only leaned down, placing a gentle peck on the pulse of your hand, entangling his fingers on yours before bringing it across his lips and kissing the back of your palm.

You’re supposed to be used to it by now, however a rush of heat spreads on your face and chest, wondering in your mind again how you could have gotten a sweet guy like him.

Your skin tingles as he peppered you with kisses; from you forehead, down to your nose, pecking each of your cheeks, before looking at you right in the eyes, a small cheeky smile on his face.

“Why do you look so red, love? Is something the matter?” he asked the same question yet his tone was different from the previous one, supporting the curve of his lips as it sends a different sensation in you.

Gathering up your courage, you found yourself twisting and entangled in Shoto’s warm body as you straddled his pelvis once you got into the position you wanted.

He didn’t look surprised, nonetheless. Actually, he looked like he kind of expected it with the smug look on his chiseled face that is now brightened by the moonlight coming from the window of the room. He looks stunning, handsome. No matter how much you look at him, his own kind of beauty is not just something you can compare to others.

You marveled upon the sight in front of you, and it looked like he did too as his hand raises to softly caress your bare arm, tracing it towards your cheek. You unconsciously lean to the comfortableness and intimacy under the confines of his touch. It felt like you were floating in heaven—but once again, there was this anxiety, questioning you if you ever deserve this—him or not.

You shook of the thought away as you brought your face down to meet his lips on, pulling yourself back to reality at the same time.

Every time you two kiss, it always felt like the first time; breathtaking, making you feel that familiar lightheadedness. Before, it took awhile before any kind of intimate touches were done and yet now, with all of the restraints undone, you have never expected you would feel this way towards a certain person. With both of you sharing a difficult but different family history, there was a sense of completion in being in each other’s arms and expressing your emotions physically.

It did took awhile, but it was worth it.

You pulled away and gazed his beautiful eyes, the words flowing out of your lips easily, “There’s no problem, love.” you respond, using the same endearment he did. “I have you with me so there’s no problem at all.”

Shoto’s expression was unreadable, yet as someone who had been with him for years, you already know every quirk of his eyebrows, every tightening of his jaw, or the smallest curves of his lips. By this time, you know he was touched by what you have said, and as a man of few words, he responds with a gentle push on the back of your head, bringing you close to him as he plants a peck on your lips, gazing at your eyes with a gaze full of emotions.

This man... is truly someone you could call as your “home”; every inch and crevice making you feel that comfortable warmth and welcoming aura that you have never felt for a very long time.

Drifting downwards and making a trail of kisses on your way down, you could hear his heavy breathing as you did so, his unmatched eyes following your every movement.

You look up at him and playfully batted your eyes, making sure he kept eye contact with you as you gently traced the hem of his sweatpants, only pulling it down when you heard that familiar grunt on the back of his throat, indicating the lack of patience at your antics.

You couldn’t help but giggle at his reaction, despite already knowing about it.

“My, my, Sho-kun, I didn’t know you’re already this excited.”

It was his turn to turn beet red at your comment, almost resembling the redness of his hair. This side of Shoto never fails to amaze you. It must be coming from the pride of having one of the top heroes into putty under your hands—and other parts of your body, to be precise.

It was a struggle between you and the sweatpants he wore, but after that, the sight that was displayed in front of you was nothing but extraordinary and just so appealing; Shoto covering his eyes with an arm as it was evident that he was still flushed and quite embarrassed for being so exposed, that shyness doing nothing but increase that drive inside of you to being pleasure to the man in front of you.

He peaks from his arm and before he could even speak, his thighs tenses at the sudden touch of your hands on it, treading its way upwards. You didn’t gave the place where he aches the most to be touched attention though, for your hands trailed towards his abdomen, gliding through the ridges of extremely defined muscles, a result of training throughout the years of his life. You could even remember that time you first saw his bare upper body during that Sports Festival in your first year. Truly, seeing it up close is different than at that time.

“Y/n...” his voice was hoarse and it sounded more like a plead than a demand. If there was something no one else knows, it was Shoto’s inability to be patient whenever you are teasing him—that’s also why it’s entertaining for you to lengthen the foreplay before he loses his mind and just snap to fuck you into oblivion. Sometimes, he would just stay on the bed and let you do it but most of the times, it would be the first scenario. Either way, you’re not really complaining.

“Yes, Sho-kun?” you inquire, looking up at him once again. But this time, a hand sneaks in and slowly tracing the baseline of his cock.

He visibly shudders, almost like he was at the maximum of using his quirk—this time, he wasn’t though.

“What did you want to say, hm?” you speak, watching him underneath your hooded eyes as you drop down, inches away from the tip of his manhood.

He looks at you, about to spit out whatever he wanted to say when you brought out your tongue to do kitten licks on just the tip, from the sides then to the slit, where you could already see precum oozing out of it. The reaction you got was a hiss and tensing on his inner thighs, being able to feel the muscles underneath it as you caress one of your hands on the skin. Then, your tongue was already trailing upwards the length of his cock, from the base and upwards to give the head a generous but quick suck.

Shoto is the kind who’s not very loud in the bedroom; muffled grunts or moans, continual panting, soft whines, surprised hisses. However, with the variety of his reactions, you didn’t have the time to be dissatisfied. There were times when he’d moan out loud when he’s really into it but those were just rare times—mostly when he’s on the verge of coming.

So when he made a low but above normal volumed moan under his throat from your ministrations, you just knew you had to reward him by taking him fully into your mouth, relaxing your jaw and throat, taking in whatever you can and holding onto whatever you can’t reach with a hand. You’re still not used to it since it’s not like you’ve done this with any other man before, but you always push yourself to give your best to give him the pleasure that he deserves.

He chokes at nothing—probably his own saliva. He was panting heavily as he looks down, finding that you’re already staring at him—always been, looking after every twitch and sound he makes, every slight tingle and rush of blood, observing.

“Y/n...” he mumbles, caught in a daze. “-shouldn’t you be the one on the receiving end?”

He’s also more of a giver, making your pleasure and happiness his top priority more than his. However, you truly enjoying teasing the life out of the poor guy when you find yourselves in this position.

You didn’t mind his words as you bring yourself back up, breathing, sucking, then back down again. The tip of his cock reaches the back of your throat and instead of you that makes a noise, it’s him. For some reason, he’s extremely sensitive tonight.

“It’s-“ he tries to form a sentence as you busied yourself. “-it’s your birthday, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you-Ah!-be the one I should-“

“Shhh” you muse, removing yourself from his cock as you place an index finger on your lips. You crawl yourself up to his face, pecking his forehead that was slightly covered by a sheen of sweat, making him look even more alluring.

“I know it’s my birthday,” you start, giving him one more peck on his cheek. “-that’s why I’m enjoying my present now, aren’t I?”

A hand finds its way to his exposed chest, caressing it softly, tracing different random patterns as you kiss the side of his face, just under his ear. Letting your hand travel down, you went back to your previous position and did not resume immediately. Kissing on the side of his pelvis, just on the skin that connects his leg and upper body, you down to his inner thighs, softly massaging him with your fingertips before nipping at it with your teeth.

Neglecting his the glistening genital once more, you shift towards the other inner thigh, doing the same thing as you did to the other. You then moved away to look at his eyes once more, scanning it while caressing his thighs with feathery touches.

The gray and turquoise in his orbs were glazed with an emotion that made your stomach churn and breath hitch in a millisecond. There it was again, the warmth that crawls towards your heart that could resemble the fire that wraps around his left arm whenever he uses his quirk. It made you wonder if this is what he feels too—whenever he looks at you with those eyes.

Pulling away from his magnetism, you focused on your task at hand once again, your hands travel slowly and meet at the middle; one hand massaging lightly on the underside of his cock while the other sweeps the precum on the tip before wrapping her palm on the shaft, using the liquid as a lubricant to make the work easier and more pleasurable.

One thing more about Shoto was that he tends to be quite messy especially when aroused properly. When you noticed it the first time, you didn’t expected it although after a bit of thinking, it might have been something to do from being touch-starved.

You continued to watch his reactions, hovering as you took not and reveled on the way his brows furrow and bite his lower lip to prevent any loud noises to spill out. You wanted to change that thus you dove down with your eyes still focused on him, lightly sucking on the head while trying your best to move your hands at the same time.

A low grunt along with the releasing of his lower lip came out of Shoto’s mouth and you felt a hand by the back of your head, realizing that he’s probably worked up now that he couldn’t handle gripping the sheets anymore.

Deciding not to give him pain anymore, you grip on his base once more as you breathed before going down his cock. His fingers interlaced with your hair but didn’t make a move to push your head, being the gentleman that he is.

“Y/n-“

Your ears perk up at his muttering, motivating you even more to go back up and down, tongue pressing flat on the shape of his shaft. Saliva dripped down to your chin and to your hand that was gripping the base of his cock, yet you continue, urging him to make even more sounds that sends tingles down to your own core.

“Y/n, I’m close... don’t-“

You move up, your hand using your saliva to move up and down his shaft as you focused on sucking the head, tongue swiftly lapping on the right places that you knew would make him lose his mind.

He moans and his hips slightly spasm, but with your free hand, you press him down, even for just one side, palms open. The hand that grips on your hair did not make a move, but you know better that he’s just trying his best not to push with his pelvis and with that same hand to urge you to take him deeper.

You gave him what you wanted, setting aside your hand once again to descend your mouth on his cock. You had to go back up to take a breather before dropping down to fulfill his silent wish and take him deeper than your previous ministrations.

“Y/n... Y/n...” Shoto chants with a breathy voice, his teeth gritted, as if stopping himself from spilling any more sound. By this time, you know he’s near to his release.

You let him go with a pop, accompanying it with a, “Don’t come yet, Shoto.”

His eyes shot wide, “What?”

“Don’t come.” you repeat, licking your swollen lips as your eyes flickered to his, a hint of caution in both your tone and look.

“You’d want to save that later, don’t you?”

Shoto jerkily nods his head, as if trying to convince at the same time.

You offered him a smile, hands gently caressing his inner thighs. “You can do it for me, right baby?” your tone softens, the pet name—one that you rarely use, saving it for private matters and ears only, like this. Both of you are quite reserved people, that’s also why the whole class back then were honestly surprised when you two revealed that you’ve been seeing each other for awhile. You never intended to keep it, you two never just cared whatever people say about the two of you.

Probably sensing you’d need a verbal affirmation, Shoto speaks. “Yes. Yes, I can.” his voice was determined, but you know he’d have a hard time controlling his release.

“Good boy.” you retained your smile and he stared back at you in wonder. Gazing at him one last time, you leaned down, hovering above before pressing your lips unto his cock. With his juices gushing over your lips, you sucked onto the head of his cock, both hands now turning and gripping onto the shaft. It went on for awhile before you let go and without warning, swallows Shoto down until the head of his cock brushes the back of your throat.

Shoto weakly gasps, unable to control his hips at the sudden intense pleasure you’ve given him. Both of your hands held onto each side of his hip while his gripped the hair on your back tightly. It was painful, yes, but it only urged you to go deeper and farther, opening your throat until you reached the base of his cock.

You stayed there before shifting back just a bit, giving you time to recover before going down again, slowly but surely. Then, your tongue presses and licks on whatever it can reach, tracing on the veins and skin of his shaft.

“Y/n, I-“

“Hmm?” your hum vibrates into his entire system and you felt his cock twitch inside your mouth. You pull back finally but you didn’t give him time to recover before you stick your tongue onto the tip of Shoto’s cock, focusing on the slit.

“I’ll come—don’t, Y/n.” he pleads, strained and almost like he had already lost the battle.

You teased him still, sucking on his head as you felt a rush of liquid drip down from his cock.

“No, Y/n, I’ll-I’m gonna come—“

And you stop, raising your head to wonder on Shoto’s state; a hand on the side of his head, his chest going up and down with his heavy panting, a blush adoring his handsome face, his lower lip swollen from likely biting himself and his eyes half-open, staring down at you, hooded with desire. He’s so handsome, so beautiful. And he’s all yours. What have you done to deserve this?

All of a sudden, Shoto sits up and pushes your head to meet his with the same hand behind you, pressing your lips to his urgently, like his life depended on it. The kiss was rough, but you can see through his intentions and energy, already knowing what comes next.

He pulls you onto his lap and you obliged, hands pressing down onto his pectorals and soon travels up to his shoulders, his arms, and anywhere it could touch. An arm circle around your waist, urging you much closer to him until there’s no space left between the two of you—chest to chest, skin to skin, body to body. You could feel the difference in the temperature he emits on each side of his body, as a result of his quirk. You didn’t mind though, it was one of the things that made Shoto unique and different from the others—made him who he is.

He flips you over then, and even if you knew he would, you still couldn’t help but release a slight yelp. He places your head gently on the pillow, like a piece of glass he’d hate to shatter or break. Shoto pulls away from the kiss and looks right into your eyes, almost like he was marveling the way it stared back at him with the same fervor and passion and love.

This time, he presses his lips onto yours softly, filled with the burning intensity of his emotions, pouring it out into you. You kissed him back with the same fervor, closing your eyes like he did and just opened yourself into him. It was always been a give and take for the both of you, and you appreciated him for that. You didn’t mind being vulnerable with Shoto, because he would be willing to expose his own too, making you realize that it’s okay to be vulnerable—to love, to express, to give. It was a silent assurance and a promise; that he’d be there to always lift you up like helium.

He pulls away, a smile adoring his handsome face, never failing to entice you even more.

“Are you done teasing me now, my love?” he questioned in a gentle tone. “Is it my turn now?” he follows, making your heart skip a beat.

Your smile mirrors him as you nod at him with a blush on your face, unable to contain the happiness and joy that spreads on your heart like a wildfire.

And with that, you enjoyed the night with the company of a person you love—an emotion you’ve never thought you’d feel again after that same birthday almost a decade ago. Now, it was just a bad memory, which led you to the person and hero you are now.

i honestly cannot believe i’ve written it that long but well, things i do for friends haha. anyway, feel free to send requests too and i’ll also be posing the guidelines for birthday dedications soon (ones like this) so please check it out!

[paipayaseeds]

without her mask, fumiko was vulnerable.

she recalled the memory of when she first put it on, when her mom was yelling at her from the first floor of their small home, “I DON’T WANT YOU ANYWHERE NEAR ME! FUCKIN’ VERMIN, GET OUT OF MY SIGHT, GET OUT OF THIS HOUSE NOW, DAMMIT!” fumiko was in her room, in a similar state of panic as she was in present time, frantically looking for something to take with her. if she left with nothing... she’d have nothing to live for. the one person in her life that was supposed to nurture her, take care of her, hated her guts, neglecting her and only feeding her every few days. she was hyperventilating, leaning on the wall of her bedroom for support as she clutched her chest, desperate for air. she couldn’t stay there for long as she heard loud footsteps stomp up the stairs towards her bedroom.

she scrambled to the floor, rummaging her closet until her hand hit something. she picked it up, a bunny mask she wore on halloween back when she was allowed to go outside, allowed to have friends. her mom was in the hallway now, so fumiko strapped it onto her face, mp3 player already in her pocket, where it stayed 24/7. she was frozen, though, cowering in fear as she watched her door slam open. fumiko’s mother was clearly under the influence of something, tripping slightly as she walked into the room. she was ready to swing at fumiko, making her instantly bolt. her mom was a terrible person, without a doubt, but not once had she ever physically harmed her daughter. seeing her fist come plummeting down to her face yanked her back into reality. she slipped out from underneath her mother and ran down the stairs and out the door. she sprinted down the block, running as fast as she possibly could until she couldn’t breathe. she’d gotten pretty far before she collapsed to the side, wheezing. she was in an alleyway, hands scraping on the pavement as she fell. it was dark outside, and she was frightened and cold. she scoot back to lean on the brick behind her, pulling her knees to her chest as she cried and cried and cried, world turning black and silent.

she returned to the dreadful place, terrified of what was to come next. her screams echoed in the darkness as she continued to crawl, scraping her hands and knees on the floor, no, void below her. she collapsed back onto the ground pathetically, too weak to lift herself up. she thought this was it, that it was the end for her. she was going to die here, her mother’s words still dangling over her, somehkw weighing her down with each passing moment.

“....sh........sh..............us....just us....”

a kind voice pierced through the silence echoing in what seemed like a never ending tunnel of darkness. she lifted her head up just enough to see a hand reaching out to her. hesitantly, she lifted hers from the ground, grasping onto the one in front of her. this person lifted her up and held her tight.

“it’s okay, it’s just us.... you don’t have to worry anymore...”

she blinked and, suddenly, she was brought back into reality. however, her position hadn’t changed. she was still hugging the man who had reached out his hand. by this point, she was able to take deeper breaths, but her sobbing continued, if not getting louder. she unwrapped her arms from his waist, not giving him any chance to react before she draped them over his neck, pulling him down and resting her chin on his shoulder. well, at least trying to rest it as she stood tip-toed. with her face no longer smothered by his chest, she took an even deeper breath. she could feel her tears drip off her face and into his clothes, but she wanted to stay like this. one of her hands caught itself in his hair as well as she clung to him.

soft, she thought to herself, running her fingers through it some more, occasionally scratching the scalp it laid upon. her sobs quieted, slowly dying down while he grounded her back to reality. bringing the hand down from his hair to his cheek, she hid her face in his neck as she sniffled. she didn’t realize how close she was, how her lips and breath brushed across his skin while she held on. her eye fluttered closed and, instead of the abyss, she was greeted with a pleasant sight.

she was standing in a field, feeling the warmth of the sun hit her bare face and she giggled. she heard someone call from behind her, “c’mon, miko! come sit down with me!” curious who this person was, she turned around. her smile got even wider when she saw a familiar golden-eyed boy lounging on a picnic blanket, waiting for her with a grin.

-teapot anon Xd Xd :D:D;d dadj dnafnfnsj

Shuichi felt more as if he had been the one getting comforted, the tender way she had scratched her head made his knees weak, his stomach doing several flips as he sighed from the feeling. 

“I-Is this okay? Um..” Shuichi hesitated before continuing, hunching his back a little as he realized it may be uncomfortable for her head to stretch so far up. After a comfortable silence, Shuichi finally found the courage to speak about his worries, his feelings. Speaking gently against her hair, he made sure his tone was anything but gentle, “I-I’m going to be honest, I... I-It always hurts a lot when I see you cry.” 

He paused to try and suppress the aching feeling in his heart, not wanting to cry in front of her, “And I.. want to know why you’re crying. T-though, the answer should be obvious, um... your mask, right?” He inhaled deeply, arms locking around her figure, preventing her leave. 

“I k-know you probably didn’t want me to see, but, I think you look... really really pretty without the mask, if.. I’m allowed to say that... S-sorry.” He slowly moved his shoulder little by little away from her, hands moving to cradle the sides of her head. He halted just before he would be able to see her face, giving her the option to say no.

“I think I...” He cleared his throat suddenly, his fingers playing with her hair that he had gotten tangled up in his hands, “I want to...” He stumbled over his words, skin still flushed from the way her breath hit his neck earlier. “N-no, I... I am always going to be there for you, Miko.” Shuichi had been rambling, and that had been at fault for the racing thoughts in his head, the racing thoughts he was too afraid to verbalize. 

He quickly began clarifying, stammering and stumbling over what he should’ve said, what he wanted to say, and what he did say. “I-I only got a glimpse, and.. if you’re not ready to show me your whole face, I understand; I’m still going to be here.” Shuichi tugged her closer to him for emphasis, letting out a sigh of relief; he was just glad she was there.  

[susspirria]

It’s Still You (Rhysothy Fluff)

Ship: Rhys/Timothy Lawrence

Summary: After Jack brands Timothy with the vault symbol, he's in a lot of physical pain and emotionally tattered. Luckily, he's got Rhys to help him pull himself back together.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Scarification

Read below the cut or on Ao3 Here!

It was late when Timothy had staggered into their apartment. He smelled like a sickening mixture of alcohol, burning flesh and Jack’s own scents. The smell of it all mixed together was nearly oppressive and Rhys couldn’t help but let out a distressed whine as it assaulted his senses. He didn’t realize it was Timothy at first, he had assumed that there was some intruder, until he saw him holding onto the wall so tightly that his fingers were white and raw looking. If he didn’t have that support, there was no doubt in Rhys’ mind that he would be stumbling and tripping over his own feet.

Rhys walked over to his bond mate in a hurry. He worried and fretted over him the minute that he was within reaching distance. He tried to be as gentle as possible when he grabbed a hold of Timothy’s arm and pulled him along into the living room so that Timothy could collapse on the couch. He practically hung all over Rhys’ slim frame as they trudged the short distance. Once they were sitting down, Rhys felt less panicked. It was okay. At least nothing worse could happen now, or so he thought. That was when he noticed the metal clasps fused to his temples. It was a mask, held tight to his face. It was nearly identical to Handsome Jack’s mask. “Oh, Tim…” He said, tone overflowing with sympathy. “What did he do to you?” He asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. He ran his fingers through Timothy’s hair, gently calling the alpha to attention.

Before Rhys had met Jack, before he had officially taken on the mantel as Hyperion’s CEO – whether or not he killed Tassiter to get that position was still left up to debate – he had liked and admired the man. He had appreciated what he was trying to do for Pandora. And then he got up close and personal with the man and he started to realize what a monster he really was. “Well…I wouldn’t be a good body double if I didn’t match Jack one hundred percent. Timothy recited what Jack had told him right after he had been strapped down to a medical table and he was helpless to the mans whims, tone cold and withdrawn. There was still a prickling feeling under his skin. He still felt bitter and helpless. Maybe he always did and he always would. Maybe this just made it harder to hide it under a handsome face and a reminder to himself to just be like Jack. Talk like Jack. Walk like Jack.

It was just one more thing, chipping away at whatever was left of him until he became just another carbon copy Handsome Jack clone. He hated Jack. Hated Hyperion. Hated the student loans that threw him deep into debt. Hated himself, for being stupid and desperate to sign that contract in the first place. He was so stupid. He should have figured something out. Anything but this.

Rhys worried at his lower lip. He had never seen his alpha like this. Not when he’d discovered the massive debt that he had been thrown in. Not after the surgery. Not even after Jack had started demanding that he be injected with his DNA. “Can you take it off?” He asked, after a moment of awkward and deliberative silence had passed between the two of them.

Timothy smiled at Rhys, but it was in that Handsome Jack sort of way – like he thought he could flirt his way out of this situation. Like maybe he could flirt his way out of the scars on his face. “Take what off?” He said. The next thing that he knew, Rhys was practically sliding into his lap. His breath hitched, just a bit, in anticipation. Timothy had always been a little bit intimidated by Rhys, by his forwardness, by his confidence and the way that he could just walk up and demand what he wanted from anyone.

Maybe he was just putting him on a pedestal – he probably was – but he thought Rhys was bravest person that he had ever met. Even with Jack’s DNA fused with his own, he never really got over his hard wired shyness. When they first met, Timothy could barely get through a whole sentence without blushing like mad and stuttering all of his words. It took him months to get comfortable enough to ask Rhys out on a date and even then he had been nervous and fumbling through every word and action.

Rhys’ fingers flew to his face, thumbs scraping along the edges of them. “I think you know what I mean.” He said, tone surprisingly patient. He wore a gentle smile, one that only Timothy, Vaughn or Yvette were ever privy to see. One of his fingers twirled playfully at Timothy’s – Jack’s? – fringe in a small attempt to sooth his mate and get him to stop closing himself off. “Can you?” He repeated, softer.

Timothy sighed, “Yeah. I can…” He answered finally. His hands moved towards the clasps at his temple, brushing momentarily against Rhys’ fingers as he did so. “I can take it off. I should warn you first that- it’s just… you aren’t going to like this.”

There had been many times when Timothy felt like a monster, doing Jack’s bidding had a habit of making him feel monstrous. He had killed more people, had more blood on his hands than he ever wanted to have to think about. He stabbed people in the back. Lied. Cheated. And all on Jack’s behalf.

But never had he looked in the mirror, saw his face and thought that not only did he do monstrous things, but that he looked like a monster. Like something out of a horror film. He wouldn’t blame Rhys if he decided that this was enough, that he hadn’t signed up for any of this.

He takes a breath, prepares to accept the inevitable, and pulls it off of his face with heavily trembling fingers. He nearly drops the mask, shattering it. Jack wouldn’t like that. Rhys doesn’t say a word at first. For once in his life, he’s completely speechless. Timothy can feel that this is the end for them. Rhys is gonna go move back in with Vaughn, start ghosting him, and sever ties with him physically until their bond breaks. It’s an… unpleasant thought, but it feels like the truth.

Whatever hurts is true, he thinks, and the thought of Rhys leaving him hurts him more than anything.

Timothy is the first to speak, hoping that maybe he could control the damage here. “It’s a lot. I know.” He said, his hands hovering over his cheeks as if to cover his face from Rhys’ sight. “This,” He gestured towards his face, like Rhys would have had no idea otherwise.

“He did it to all the doppelgangers. I was the last one.” He didn’t explain why, but they both knew. He was the first body double that Jack had commissioned for, and he was Jack’s favorite. He wanted to be able to look at that handsome face for as long as possible, but in the end Timothy needed to match him perfectly. In every respect. Even in ways that he knew that Jack hated about himself.

Rhys’ brows knitted with concern, “Does it hurt?” He asked, knowing that it was probably a stupid question. Of course it hurt. The skin on his face had been marred and burned blue with an inverted vault symbol. It was horrifying, Rhys felt pain tickling at his own skin just from the sight of it.

“Eh? What this little scrape? I’ve had worse.” Timothy replied mostly as a joke, though it came off weak and unconvincing. He tried to laugh it off and when he did, he swore he could feel something tearing underneath his skin. It burned. Then it was just slicing, stabbing pain that left him incoherently babbling for… something. Then he was flailing, he couldn’t see – all he could comprehend was the intense hurt that he was feeling.

Rhys slid off of him, opting to sit right at his side. Timothy felt an ease of pressure, just a slight one, as he tried to force himself to breath right. Rhys stayed right by his side, saying words that he couldn’t really comprehend but nonetheless felt soothed by. He could feel Rhys’ gentle, soft hands petting at his skin, easing him back to reality with every gentle word and soothing touch.

The mask goes back on after that. There were little dopamine receptors fused into the clasp. It made the pain nearly non-existent. Manageable at least. Timothy let out a soft sigh, “Sorry about all this. I know this isn’t…” He trailed off. “It’s not a good look.” He says, tone devoid of all confidence and charisma.

Timothy nearly sounds like he did, back in college, when he was an anxious wreck with a squeaky voice and a passion for writing. “It’s not that bad.” Rhys says offhandedly. He even makes a vague sweeping gesture with his hand, like he’s pushing it all under the proverbial rug.

Because, really, he doesn’t care all that much about how Timothy looks. He never had, really – Rhys had liked Timothy for a lot of reasons. He liked how kind he was, how clever he was, he liked his creativity and the fact that he had always respected Rhys on his own merits and he never looked down upon him for his endotype. His looks had never been a factor in all of that.

Timothy let out a soft scoff at that, completely unconvinced. “Yeah, right.” He grumbled to himself. Even if it was under the mask, he had never looked this awful or this disfigured in his life. The thought that he would end up looking in the mirror every morning, even for just a few minutes, see himself and think “monster” as he looked upon his unmasked face, was warping his thoughts.

He was spiraling, upset and erratic. He knew it but couldn’t bring himself to do much to stop it. Rhys knew it too and he decided that it was up to him to put a stop to it. Rhys pursed his lips and then he moved back over, so that he was straddling the alpha’s hips again and pulled Timothy’s face in his hands and their foreheads pressed together. “I don’t care about what’s under that mask. Okay? It’s still you.” Rhys said, like he always did when Timothy felt overshadowed the man whose face he had been made to wear. They kissed, slow and sweet like dripping honey.

“Yeah?” Timothy replied, still unsure after they finally pulled away from each other. Rhys rest his head on Timothy’s shoulder, eased up close to him. “You sure about that?”

Rhys just nodded, not skipping a beat. “Of course I’m sure.” He replied, “No matter what, it will always be you.” He assured, “And I love you.”

Not Jack. Not your face. You.

[embidoesdreaming]

[ May 30, 2020 --- I ended up sleeping the second half of the day away ]

Series Involved: Boku no Hero Academia Theme(s): aliens; post-apocalyptic; sci-fi

I had an alien invasion-esque AU of an dream where there were these aliens that I want to say looked a little like Xenomorphs but also more anthropod-like in general, and they acted like a hivemind. The aliens were shapeshifters---any person that they saw, they could change their appearance into---and they all came from another planet from probably some other galaxy through this portal they made in order to claim Earth as their new home.

I was Deku, trying to find everyone amidst all the chaos happening when the invasion had begun and was at its worst, though mainly looking for Inko. The details are hazy/blurred together as to how exactly the chaos looked while I was going around the city, but I eventually stumbled upon some machine at some person's house --- my guts tell me that this person was a scientist, part of an organization that dabbled in this kind of sci-fi stuff, so I'm pretty sure the machine held some kind of importance that now evades me. That aside, I must've entered this house either under some kind of belief that Inko was there or for just some other significant purpose/reason that I can no longer tell, but soon after I found thks machine, something happened that cause the whole earth to shake.

The building collapsed, burying me underneath it, which brings us to a timeskip of 3 years later. How I managed to remain preserved alive is beyond me -- perhaps it was some unforeseen force; maybe the machine had something to do with it; it could just also be dream logic, but that's beside the point.

Waking up, I found that my legs were crushed. It took some work to pull myself out from all the debris, but what laid before me when I did was a post-apocalyptic setting where the aliens now roamed the Earth, desolate of the human race, along with some new alien wildlife settling into the remains of urban settlement. The hazy sky was a foreboding greenish hue, I remember seeing a couple of War of the World-esque tripod-looking aliens going around looking for gods know what in the distance --- it was real jarring to say in the least. I spent a solid minute or two at a complete loss and all confused, trying to get a grip of what's happened, when suddenly a portal like the aliens' opened up near me. I saw people coming out of it armed with guns and other protective/military(?) gear. They were survivors either looking for supplies/other survivors, or going on an expedition to investigate more on the alien invaders.

Ochako was one of them. She freaked out when she saw me, Deku. Everyone immediately went on guard -- for all they knew, I was another one of the aliens shapeshifting to look like Deku. It wasn't until they soon started to shoot and I used OFA to dodge did Ochako immediately realize I was the real thing and made everyone stop. Apparently, from what I was told later on, the aliens don't actually copy one's Quirk unless it's displayed. Basically, if they can see it, they can implement it into their system and replicate it, so everyone was eventually advised not to use their Quirks in front of an alien under any circumstances. I'm not sure how Ochako knew it was me -- I can only assume that it's because the aliens never did anything that showed they could replicate OFA for the past 3 years since I was MiA, so it was impossible for them to suddenly use OFA now.

It took some convincing before the others finally listened. It was decided that they'd taoe me back to home base, which was beyond the portal, under the condition that I was placed inside this weird container thingy so I couldn't suddenly attack. Going through the portal brought us to the aliens' home planet (which sort of looked like a jungle, at least where we came out of), except they no longer lived there because they've all migrated to Earth. Survivors have made a home base there, and have been working on reclaiming Earth back from the aliens using their technology and making it their own. The details on how they dealt with me are hazy around here, but they eventually let me out to meet all the survivors and also be brought to the infirmary.

All of Class 1-A had survived, including several important adult figures like Aizawa, All Might and so on. I also learned that not many others made it out, and that included a lot of the students' parents. Inko was.. not among the survivors, either, but in any case, all the classmates were quite shook to see that I was actually alive, stuck between relieved and on edge (which is honestly quite understandable) before eventually just being generally glad.

I saw Kacchan. He had this.. very weird look on his face. Definitely in shocm, definitely in disbelief, but also conflicted, and.. torn over something? I can't quite explain it, but he was definitely in distraught. Rather than letting Kaminari and the others convince him to go greet me, he just.. swiftly turned away and left with a bit of haste. It was confusing, but I had to go back to the infirmary, so after I did and got my legs in casts, I went looking for Kacchan.

I found him in this huge training room, doing that training exercise with those battle ropes thingies. I know I was in a wheelchair and all, but, I guess being the Deku that I was, I threw myself off of it and dragged myself towards Kacchan. At first, it's like he didn't want to notice me no matter how many times I called out to him, but soon enough he stopped and.. well, I wouldn't say ensued a fist fight, but he sure did acted very rash. He pushed me aside, or grabbed me by the shirt and threw me back, etc. We argued for some reason, and I was saying how I was already set on joining the expedition crew as soon as I could so that I could find Mom and also basically be the protagonist that I was with the big idea of solving this mess for humanity. Kacchan wasn't having none of it, belittling me and saying not to even try, especially since my legs were crushed, that I couldn't possibly recover from that. I think he might've even said that I would've been better off dead, but I'm not too sure, but the arguments continued to escalate until eventually he just.. broke down where he stood.

Turns out, his parents also didn't survive, and it was assumed that I was dead was well, so he was convinced that he had lost everyone who were really, really important to him and supported him from the beginning regardless of how he was. The pain hurt so much that he ended up detaching himself from his emotions, distancing himself from everyone and repelling them with his rude behavior, and overall closing himself completely off just so that he couldn't hurt anymore, so that he could just focus solely on killing off the aliens and exacting revenge like a cold machine.

And yet, after 3 years of detaching himself from reality, I suddenly come out of nowhere, brought back hurt but alive. It left him in a whirlwind of conflicted emotions, like: Deku was alive? How is that possible? What about his parents? Is it only Deku? Why couldn't it also be my parents? Why only Deku? Why is this happening? What kind of sick joke was this? Why now? Kacchan didn't want to care anymore, so he ‘turned himself off’, but now...

I let him vent everything out and just listened, let him recollect himself and gather his emotions, fragile as they were now, and eventually had a moment of silence together, with him sitting there eventually picking up the battle ropes if just to busy his hands with the exercise. Eventually, people from the infirmary arrived to bring me back to the infirmary and keep me there for proper treatment, because this whole time I was too scattered and stubborn and wanted to get a grip of everything first and also too hasty to find Kacchan to sit still. Kacchan had them give us 5 more minutes since I wanted to keep him company a little longer. We talked a little, about what I can't remember, but eventually he dismissed me saying to go get treated already.

Kacchan gave me the most genuine, soft, thankful smile then. I'd never seen him with such a relieved face without any sign of him holding back or attempting to cover it up with an irritated behavior or whathaveyou. A genuinely blessed smile. He was just so, so glad that he hadn't actually lost everything.

He still insisted that I don't join the expeditions back to Earth later on as I adjusted to the new life. I wasn't in any condition for it, probably might not ever be. Of course, being the Deku that I am, I was too stubborn to agree, and wanted to prove that I could. A montage/timeskip full of recovery and physical therapy later, and I reached a point where I was finally able to stand without help (save for the bars for me to hold onto just in case), then stand and slowly shuffle forward just a little without help.

There are probably bits here and there that I glossed over in this timeframe, which were just snippets of me adjusting to the new life at the base; talking to Class 1-A, to Ochako, to other survivors; learning what happened during the time I'd gone unconscious for 3 years, how people managed to get a hold of the aliens' technology and use their portal to make a base on their home planet, and what they've all been doing with this current situation. Basically one big open world-esque lore drop.

It was around the time when Deku was working on walking on his own when I separated myself from his character, now seeing him continue his physical therapy in the background while I learn more about this dream world. Apparently, this part of the dream from then on wasn't significant enough for me to remember much of it, I guess, and soon enough, I woke up.

[chiseler]

GERALDINE PAGE: Octopus Lust

In her first lead film role in the John Wayne western Hondo (1953), Geraldine Page takes the space around her physically in a very definite way, but her squinting face and high, persnickety, slightly whiny voice don’t quite have the same authority as her body does yet. She was 29 years old here and already known as a promising theater actress, and she gets a special “introducing” credit for Hondo, for which she was nominated for a best supporting actress Oscar even though she is Wayne’s unconventional leading lady.

“I am fully aware that I am a homely woman,” Page tells Wayne in Hondo, almost boastfully, or at least in a way that seems proud of her own self-awareness. Hers was not a face or even sometimes a sensibility made for the camera, but as a middle-aged and then older woman she made the movies respect her talent. At the Actors Studio in the 1950s, she worked and worked on her thin voice until it became a notably flexible instrument that she could use for practically any effect she wanted.

In a somewhat sparing feature film career, Page would rack up eight Oscar nominations in all, four in the supporting category and four for lead actress, and at least three of her supporting nominations don’t make too much sense. There isn’t much for her to do in Hondo, and she has even less to work with during her jokey short appearances in You’re a Big Boy Now (1966), where she is a cartoon smother mother in an oversized black wig, and Pete ‘n’ Tillie (1972), where she is a society matron in an oversized blonde wig that gets pulled off by Carol Burnett during a low comedy catfight. (Page does have one genuinely funny moment in Pete ‘n’ Tillie where an official asks her age and she gets stuck behind the sounds “For” and “Fi” until she finally collapses, the sort of comic routine that lands precisely because of how overdone it is.)

Page was known for her love of acting, her zeal for it, her lack of shame, and sometimes her lack of control. Critics occasionally chided her mannerisms, the way she strangled words when she was angry or broke them up into separate syllables for hammy emphasis, and as she got older she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off of her face: cupping her cheek, rubbing her eyes, fluttering her hands up and away, almost disconnectedly, from her own deep feelings. She sometimes crosses her eyes slightly when she’s mad but pops them in moments of extreme stress, and she tends to sink into her knees as she walks, as if bright spirits were always being weighed down by worry. Page often falls into physical and vocal grooves and can’t seem to get out of them, and at her worst (and even sometimes at her best) she wallows in peculiarity and freakishness.

She liked food a lot (she called herself “Greedy Gut”), and she made many meals of scenery, too. In the performance that won her a fourth and richly deserved supporting actress Oscar nomination for The Pope of Greenwich Village (1984), Page has only two scenes as former cleaning lady and racing enthusiast Mrs. Ritter, the first of which is a brief interaction with her son. In the second scene, which lasts a show-stopping three minutes and 42 seconds, the police are interrogating Mrs. Ritter about the death of her son. She does not want them to go through his room, and so Mrs. Ritter uses every intimidation and distraction tactic she can think of to keep them out. Page smokes a cigarette here and blows the smoke out of her mouth with a steam engine puff for emphasis, and this isn’t her only prop; she also fingers and kisses a rosary to show her piety and sips from a glass of whisky to show her Irish toughness. Page pours a very broad Noo Yawk accent all over her dialogue and enjoys the outlandish sounds she can make with it, particularly when she says “yoose.”

Page’s Mrs. Ritter looks over and away from the cops but then stares straight at them when she wants to scare them. “My Walter was as tough as a bar of iron…and he didn’t get that from his father,” she warns. In the last 20 seconds of the scene, violins on the soundtrack alert us that she will drop her mask once the police leave, and for about 16 seconds Page shows us Mrs. Ritter’s grief, which is still fairly tough, for this is a woman who exerts control over everything, even her own feelings. Page’s Mrs. Ritter is virtuoso work, like the performance that finally won her a lead Oscar the following year, The Trip to Bountiful, and it is simultaneously absurd and riveting, campy yet also deeply real and imagined.

There is a similar reality to another brief performance she gave at this time that did not get Page an Oscar nomination, her dying poet Jean Scott Martin in I’m Dancing as Fast as I Can (1982), a Jill Clayburgh vehicle about Valium addiction. Page has about twice the time for her Big Scene here as she got for Mrs. Ritter’s Big Scene, and so she really shoots the works and practically shuts the whole movie down with it. A hole seems to open up in the film during this scene and everything else that happens later falls right into it.

Page’s Jean has just watched a documentary Clayburgh’s Barbara has made about her life, and at first she is quietly livid at its sentimentality. But then she begins to tell Barbara off in very profane language, and her anger starts to build and expand, and Page makes the shock of this expansion truly scathing and harrowing, and inescapable. Jean (and Page) can do a lot with words, sticking them like knives and then twisting them, or making them land, explode, and destroy until Clayburgh nearly seems to swoon in response. We see Jean later in the film and she makes up with Barbara, but this doesn’t diminish the intensity of Page’s tirade, or the rage this woman feels about the prospect of dying and then disappearing.

Page had a wide range, but she was typecast when she was young as neurotic spinsters, a trend that began with her performance on stage as Alma Winemiller in Tennessee Williams’s Summer and Smoke in a 1952 production credited with spurring the whole Off-Broadway movement in New York. In the 1950s, Page played on stage with James Dean in The Immoralist and played lovelorn spinster Lizzie Curry in The Rainmaker while making occasional appearances on TV. At 37, she was allowed to play Alma on screen in a 1961 movie version of Summer and Smoke that suffers from the casting of Laurence Harvey as her unappealing leading man and love object.

Page doesn’t let Harvey get in her way in Summer and Smoke, and this is a good case of what might be meant by the word “technique” when it comes to acting. Harvey doesn’t give Page anything at all to work against as a scene partner, but she stays focused and listens and hears what she is supposed to be hearing from him, somehow. She delivers her Alma to the screen with care and tact and occasional sensual detail, helped along by a sensitive score from Elmer Bernstein and the pale blue colors of her clothes, the frozen ground that her Alma retreats across in the penultimate scene, and the florid writing itself.

When she played the faded movie star Alexandra Del Lago on stage in Williams’s Sweet Bird of Youth, Page penciled lines on her face and seems to have emphasized the grotesque and solemn side of the play. But in the 1962 movie version, Page made a crucial adjustment for the screen, steering her part into imperious comedy and doing lots of nutty things with her eyes and with her vocal delivery. The redheaded, egoistic Alexandra is supposed to have been “the sex symbol of America,” and Page almost makes you believe that she was that, but not quite. Daring you to think she is miscast, Page laughs and howls full-throatedly here, always staying highly conscious of her outré effects because Alexandra is conscious of them too, even when (or especially when) she’s drunk or stoned. “The camera doesn’t know how to lie!” Page’s Alexandra cries, but she herself puts the lie to that statement, for this is a risky performance dedicated to tricking the camera, routing it, leading it on a wild goose chase with sinuous poses and emphatic declarations. Everything Page does in the film of Sweet Bird of Youth is primed to make you ask, “Who is that?” or even “What is that?”

This is one of the campiest performances in film history, every word underlined three and sometimes four times in purple ink. Speaking to Paul Newman’s gigolo Chance Wayne, Page’s Alexandra purrs, “Make me almost believe that we are a pair of young lovers…without any shame.” He smiles at that, and it’s easy to smile along with him. Chance in turn amuses her Alexandra, and she is even modestly touched by him, but only modestly, and Page is scrupulous about showing the smallness of that feeling, even when Alexandra is drunkenly calling his name outside their hotel room, each “Chance!” more plummy and piss elegant than the last. Page gives this role an opulent sort of size, festooning it with cheerfully unaccountable and facetious vocal pyrotechnics, but she also somehow grounds it in a recognizable psychological reality, and this balancing act is no small feat.

In her last big scene on the phone in Sweet Bird of Youth, when Alexandra finds out from the columnist Walter Winchell that her latest movie comeback was a success after all, Page overflows with vulnerable yet blissful “I knew it all the time!” nervous relief, and this phone monologue is a real star turn that again is grounded in emotional truthfulness. Page shows that you can go as high, wide, and handsome with over-embroidered acting as you want as long as you have done the work beforehand to make the character real and specific underneath. “Page beautifully intertwines inner steel and insecurity, cannily conceived as two sides of the same coin,” wrote John DiLeo in his 2010 book Tennessee Williams and Company. “Beneath Page’s flourishes of self-centered bravado is the more fragile Alexandra, the woman mired in the indulgences of self-pity and self-gratification.”

Page turned down the role of Martha in the original 1962 theater production of Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, a large mistake on her part. On screen, she played a high-strung spinster with incestuous longings for her brother in a film of Lillian Hellman’s Toys in the Attic (1963), giving the kind of overbearing, headlong performance that doesn’t work well for the camera, though it might have had some power on stage. She was a spinster again in a much softer key for the modest romance Dear Heart (1964), and then she went back to TV to deliver what might be her finest performance of all, the kind and loving Sook in adaptations of the Truman Capote stories A Christmas Memory (1966) and The Thanksgiving Visitor (1967). She won Emmy awards for both.

The remarkable thing about her work in those Capote TV movies is that Page never emphasizes the fact that Sook has the mind of a child, which Capote himself tells us in his narration. She makes Sook mischievous and sly, a good-hearted hedonist like Page herself was, a lover of pretty things and movie stories, and there is never any pathos in her interpretation; she doesn’t underline or show us Sook’s childlikeness but embodies it, a much more difficult thing to achieve than her colorfully overstated yet grounded work as Alexandra Del Lago. In the last scene of A Christmas Memory, when Sook is flying a kite and talking about life and death, Page breathes quietly and totally opens her face up to the camera until a purely soulful expression steals across it, like the sun slowly moving behind clouds, and she lets this happen rather than making it happen, as she does in some of her lesser work.

The Beguiled

On stage she played Olga in the disastrous Actors Studio production of Chekhov’s Three Sisters, and the recording of it shows that she is the only member of the cast who gives an even remotely acceptable performance amid much reckless self-indulgence from the others. She took a rewarding, even daring lead on film in Don Siegel’s The Beguiled (1971), a psychosexual western where she presided over a band of lusty young ladies after the manhood of Clint Eastwood as if she were running her own school for neurotics. Her character is horny for Eastwood but she also has a thing for one of her charges, played by Elizabeth Hartman (at one point she kisses Hartman full on the mouth). After that Page’s career deteriorated for a while to guest shots on TV shows like Night Gallery, The Snoop Sisters and Kojak, where she could be relied on to act up a storm while wearing caftans and frowzy wigs.

But in 1978 Page picked up another lead Oscar nomination for her subversively funny performance as another neurotic in Woody Allen’s Interiors, where she plays Eve, a perfectionist in the domestic sphere who finds herself abandoned by husband and children. In the back of a cab, with her hair pulled back tightly and heavy make-up on her face, Page’s Eve resembles a weary female impersonator. A micro-managing tyrant, Eve descends to grotesque twitches and facial collapse shortly after her husband of many years, Arthur (E.G. Marshall), tells her he is leaving her, but her self-pity and self-destructiveness often retain a kind of physical elegance even in the midst of breakdown.

When Eve attempts suicide after taping up her windows and turning on a gas oven, Page spreads herself out on a divan to await death in an amusingly sulky, almost sexy way. “I have an inner tranquility!” she insists at one point, and the comedy here comes from someone vehemently denying the most obvious reality. When Eve is watching TV by herself and drinking some wine, Page allows her the open face that she gave Sook at the end of A Christmas Memory, because this woman is only free to be like that when she is alone. And Page memorably rises to the grandstanding moment when Eve smashes candles in a church after Arthur squashes her notion of reconciliation for good.

There were small film and TV roles after that, often as exuberantly frumpy women, and these were sometimes little more than bits, but then came the movie she knew would win her that elusive Oscar, The Trip to Bountiful, a 1985 adaptation of a Horton Foote TV play originally done with Lillian Gish, expanded with all the trimmings for Page’s swan song. Her Carrie Watts is a stubborn old woman who runs away to her hometown of Bountiful after living in bickering discontent in a two-room Houston, Texas, apartment with her weak son Ludie (John Heard) and catty daughter-in-law Jessie Mae (Carlin Glynn). Page’s hand-to-face mannerism is out of control here sometimes, but such surface idiosyncrasies do not distract from her inventiveness, her heightened emotions of elation and relief, and the specificity of her performance, the way she can make you see and hear a person from Carrie’s past, as if Page has done extensive back story work for every name Carrie mentions.

Page had a stormy marriage with bad boy actor Rip Torn (the card on the door of their Manhattan townhouse read “Torn Page”) that produced two talented actors, Tony Torn and Angelica Page. In Nazi Hunter: The Beate Klarsfield Story (1986) for TV, Page clearly looks ill and tired, and she died of a heart attack the following year at the age of 62 while playing Madame Arcati on Broadway in Blithe Spirit. At a tribute shortly after her death, Anne Jackson said that Page “used a stage like no one else I’d ever seen. It was like playing tennis with someone who had 26 arms.” And in her best movie work, Page finally made the camera bow to her octopus talent, her greedy, gutsy ardor for acting.

by Dan Callahan

[phan-of-the-pen]

I Dare You To Stay: Chapter 25

almost done my guys! the plot is back and there’s fluff too! enjoy!

Tags for chapter: v minor angst, fluff

Words for chapter: ~3 k

Fic Summary: Dan Howell is a barista working a shitty job, frequenting his shitty apartment, and living a shitty existence, hiding his asexuality and going for a PHD in self-depreciation and depression. Phil Lester is a part-time intern, part-time employee at a local weather station, trying to get experience in his field and make a name for himself, while juggling a second job at the nearby Tesco’s to give him some financial breathing room. Their paths were never supposed to meet, but what happens when they do anyways, one rainy day in Manchester?

(ao3!)

<-- Previous Chapter Next chapter -->

~~~~~~~~~~

Dan let his eyes travel across Phil's face. His gaze traced from the bow of Phil's lips to the slopes of his nose to the morning light fanning across Phil's cheekbones. Dan let his fingers leave the warmth of the duvet and brush away some of the black fringe that had fallen over Phil's face overnight.

Phil had been in Manchester all week for some time with Dan and to tie up some other loose ends that he would be leaving behind with a move to London. Last night had been the last one that Phil would be spending in Manchester for a while, and they had both wanted to spend the time together. Even regarding the fact that Phil had already signed the lease off his Manchester flat and didn't have a place to stay, it had been an easy decision for Phil to spend the night at Dan's. And after an already wonderful day and night together, Dan was more than happy to keep Phil in his grasp a little longer.

But he couldn't keep Phil forever.

Phil had a train to catch at about noon, and it was close to nine in the morning already. The train would take him to London, where he would be living from now on. The thought of saying goodbye to Phil without the assurance that he would be returning after a few days was daunting, and even though Dan wanted to be as supportive as possible, he just wanted to stay in bed with Phil forever.  

Who needed to work? They could both just lie here in their little bubble and forget the world.

Dan moved closer to Phil's still-sleeping form and tucked himself under Phil's chin. He closed his eyes once he was settled and let his body sink against Phil's. After a life of shutting people out and being shut out, Dan still reveled in how good it felt to be vulnerable in the presence and care of someone gentle and trustworthy.

Barely-there fingers running through his hair slowly pulled Dan away from his dreams. Groaning at the light, Dan just buried his face in Phil's naked chest. He felt Phil chuckle at his antics more than he heard it, and he certainly felt Phil's arms curl around Dan's body in order to hold him close.

"Morning," Phil said, his voice deep from sleep.

"G'morning," Dan slurred, rubbing his eyes fiercely with the bottom of his palms. A few moments passed, but their silence was easy and comfortable. Dan let himself drink up the physical contact, a nagging part of his brain reminding him that this was something that he wouldn't get whenever he wanted very soon.

He had just started to feel his eyelids get heavy once again when Phil stirred underneath him. Dan groaned as Phil moved and inevitably disturbed the gentle equilibrium they had achieved. Phil giggled, and his hands stroking over Dan's back stilled.

"You know," he whispered, "as much as I hate it, I'm going to need to get up soon, Dan. It's almost ten and my train is at noon."

This time Dan really groaned. Dan made sure that it was loud and drawn out enough to express the depths of his displeasure. The wounded sound made Phil's eye crinkle in fondness.

"I know, I know. You understand that I don't like it either, right? I want you around me just as much as you do. Leaving is going to suck, but we can get through this. I'm not that easy to get rid of."

Dan hummed to show he was listening. In reality, the words affected Dan more than he let on, and they made Dan's cheeks burn, but not in a bad way.

Phil pressed a kiss to Dan's temple. The action got Dan's attention, and he finally emerged from the comfort of Phil's chest to look up. Phil kissed him on the lips this time, and even though Phil was smiling too much to really make it a proper kiss, Dan was still satisfied and happy at the attention.

"Don't worry, we'll see each other in person before you even know it." Phil let one of his hands bury itself in Dan's curls. "And I'm not even gone yet, so you're not allowed to be sad yet."

"Oh, I'm not not allowed, huh?"

"That's right. Not allowed. You are legally required to be happy until noon today. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Dan laughed and pressed a kiss to Phil's jaw.

"I'll forgive you. When time did you want to leave for the station? I just need to know how much of my cuddle time is going to be missed."

"Mhm, sure," Phil muttered before shifting Dan's body over slightly, "Eleven fifteen? That should give me plenty of extra time to get to the station."

Dan's grin spread wide, and he tightened his hold around Phi's waist.

"Good. You can stay here a little bit longer then."

~~~~~

The ride to the station wasn't terribly long, and it is something that Dan is both thankful for and hates.

Part of him couldn't really stand sitting anxiously next to Phil—while pretending to be fine—any longer, and the other part of him froze at reality catching up with him as soon as the cab pulled up to the curb, waiting for the two of them to get out.

He helped Phil with his luggage, and he was a good boyfriend and paid for the cab before Phil could try and pull his wallet out of his pants.

Walking into the station wasn't that bad. Even watching Phil purchase his one-way ticket to London was manageable.

It wasn't until they were a few feet from the doors, a smattering of people having their tickets inspected by a worker before getting onto the train, that the full weight of what was happening hit Dan like a fucking truck.

His legs kind of stopped mid stride, and a soft, strangled sound escaped his throat. Phil turned, a confused look in his eye, but once he saw Dan's ashen face Phil's own expression softened into one of understanding. He closed the distance between them and dropped his bags at their feet. Phil wrapped Dan in a hug, and Dan collapsed against him. He hadn't realized how much he had needed this hug, but now that it was happening? Dan didn't think that he would be able to let go.

One of Phil's hands slowly rubbed Dan's back, and a sob escaped Dan before he could contain it. Phil only held him tighter.

"I don't want to lose you."

"You won't, I promise."

Dan's body tensed as the five minute warning sounded. They didn't have much time, and the sudden urgency enveloped the both of them.

"How can you be sure?" Dan cried, his white-knuckled fists clenched tight onto Phil's jacket.

"Because you're too important, Dan Howell." Phil responded, pulling away so that their faces were close. "You're too important to me. I'm willing to make this work. I am. I'll skype you as many times as you need me to, call you, text you, the whole package. And we'll visit each other as much as we can. I know that it's not the ideal set of circumstances, but trust me," Phil's hands found their way to the sides of Dan's head, pulling him in, "you're not going to lose me."

The kiss completely swooped Dan off of his feet, and the sheer intensity of it only had Dan kissing Phil back harder, eager for anything that Phil was willing to give. In some other distant life there was another warning for passengers to board the train, but it was so much farther away than Phil.

They broke suddenly, each of them gasping for their breath. Phil's eyes snapped to Dan's, and their celestial blue held Dan's gaze completely.

"This may not be the time or the place, but Daniel James Howell, you're never going to get rid of me because I'm staying. And I'm staying because I love you. I'm not going to give up on us."

Tears sprung up from the corners of Dan's eyes, and he threw himself back onto Phil. The kiss started off just like the last, but it melted into something gentler, softer, and full of emotion.

"I love you too," Dan muttered, "I love you too."

~~~~~

"Daniel!" Mary cried once she entered the shop. Dan had been scrolling on his phone while he waited for customers, but as soon as he heard her he snapped his head up and shoved his phone in his pocket.

"Hey, Mary," Dan said with a smile. He didn't even bother trying to hide his nonchalance because he was too happy to see the old woman. He was also sure that nothing would be able to hide the joy in his voice.

Mary had a cane now, and Dan was sure that it was because of her recovering from her surgery. It made her walk to the counter take more time, but that was okay because as soon as she got there Dan leaned over, and she wrapped him up in a great big hug.

"Oh, Daniel, I've missed you!"

"I missed you too." Dan laughed. "Now I'm certainly not complaining, but I thought you were still recovering from your surgery? And I don't want to hear about you coming all the way over here just to say hello if you weren't supposed to yet."

"Oh those doctors don't know a thing about me. I know when I'm ready to walk around, and I've been going bonkers sitting at home all day." Mary looked around. "Is Jaime working this morning? I was hoping to say hello to her too."

Something inside of Dan twisted at the sound of Jaime's name, and Dan struggled to maintain his composure.

"Ah, no, she's been spending a lot of time in London recently for the play. She hasn't been around a lot."

Dan had been sure that he had done an adequate job at maintaining the notion that everything was fine, but Mary instantly frowned and her lips pursed. Dan watched as she took a seat on one of the counter stools and set her purse down—she was obviously ready to stay as long as needed. When she was comfortable, she met Dan's gaze again.

"What's wrong, sugar? I've never seen you look so sad when we're talking about Jaime."

Dan felt himself deflate; there was no use keeping up the charade if she saw right through it. He scratched the back of his head, trying to find the words to explain to her exactly what was wrong. There were so many layers to the situation, and Dan didn't know where to start. He couldn't exactly think of a way to simplify it down to a clear, concrete this is what's wrong because Dan wasn't too sure that there was one. Things were just….wrong.

"It's a really long story, Mary. Everything's all kind of tangled together right now, and I don't want to take up your time."

"Daniel, I wouldn't worry too much about me having anywhere else to be," she said, laughing a little before turning serious once again, "but why don't you let me worry about that, alright? Tell me what's wrong, love."

Dan hesitated once again, but then he relented. He started from the beginning, and as soon as he started talking, it all came rushing out. Everything about the situations with Jaime—and even Phil—dribbled out of his mouth in a rambling, incohesive mess. Mary didn't interrupt him once, and she gave Dan all of his attention. By the end, Dan felt ten pounds lighter, but he also felt raw and kind of fragile.

"Have you been talking to anyone else about this, or have you just been holding it all inside?"

"I've been talking to my therapist, Gina, about the most of it."

"Good, just you make sure that you start talking to her about all of it. It's not good to hold up the bad stuff inside our hearts because when you keep too much of it there too long it starts to make you sick."

Dan nodded.

"I know, I'm trying."

"I know you are, and I'm proud of you. And in my experience, what Jaime's doing is something that people do an awful lot when they're in over their heads, which doesn't make any sense at all because that's when we need each other the most. But sometimes people get scared or sad, or they're hurting, and they push others away. We're all guilty of it, and something tells me that right now, Jaime is scared or upset, and she's trying hard to deal with it all by herself. It's not healthy and she needs someone to help her see that, but you haven't done anything wrong, Daniel."

"So you think I should show her that she should let people in?"

"Maybe if she was here, but it's horribly difficult to do it at such a distance."

Dan put his head in his hands and groaned.

"So there's nothing I can do to fix this?"

"Now I didn't say that. All you can do is wait right now and give her the space she wants. But once she starts to let you back in, make her feel welcome, and don't hold this against her. Be patient and let her know that you love her, and make sure to tell her that she doesn't have to face things alone. The only thing someone can do in a situation like this is to be there for the other person and let them know that they aren't alone."

"I just wish that none of this ever happened."

"I know hun," Mary said, patting Dan's hand, "I know. Can I ask you something else?"

"Sure, Mary."

"Have you told Phil about you thinking about moving in with him?"

"No." Dan grimaced.

"I think you should, baby. He'd be over the moon."

"But what if moving to London isn't the right decision?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if things between us don't work out? Or if he doesn't want to move in with me? Or if my job doesn't work out, or a million other things. What if moving to London is a bad thing? I mean, I'm fine here in Manchester. I have a flat and a job I can count on."

"Daniel, honey, every decision in your life is going to have a million possible bad things attached to it, but there are also a million good things too. What if this move brings you two closer? What if you find a place to work at that you love? Or what about how this move can ease your troubles over a long-distance relationship? You will never make a decision that doesn't have the potential to backfire, but you can't let that stop you. You can't let the fear of change stop you because then you'll stay put, and that's what I think you've been doing. You're not meant to be a barista for your whole life, Daniel, and you aren't meant to stay in this job and that flat just because it's stable. One of the things about life is that you've got to take risks sometimes."

"You think I should do it, then?"

"I think that you should think long and hard about it, and do what you're heart's telling you to do."

Dan nodded, his thoughts already a little distant.

He knew what his heart wanted. He didn't even really have to think about it, and he knew that Mary was right.

He just didn't know if he had the courage to do it.

~~~~~

Dan slid his luggage under his chair before sitting next to the window. He put his earbuds in and pulled up a playlist that he had made a few days earlier for this exact trip. As the beginning melodies of the first song started to play, Dan rested his head against the glass. Everyone had stopped boarding the train at this point, and how they all just had to take their seats.

He vaguely heard the loudspeaker announce that the train would start moving—he really could only make out the sound of someone speaking over the music playing in his ears, but not any words—and a few moments later Dan felt as the train lurched forward.

It was kind of surreal to watch the station glide past him, and soon they were out of the city and chugging along the landscape. Trees and hills kept flying by to the soundtrack that was playing in Dan's ears, but Dan was tired, so he let his eyelids fall closed.

He was on his way to London for a few days. It wasn't permanent—only a visit—but Dan was still more than happy. He and Phil had been apart for just over three weeks now, and the distance was killing them both.

Dan still hadn't talked to Phil about moving in yet, but he was more than planning on doing it. He just needed a when, and probably a few other possible jobs to make sure that Dan would be able to have one lined up by the time that he moved in. London was expensive, and Dan knew that if they were going to make this work then they both had to be working.

The future still had so many possible outcomes, both good and bad, and Dan still had so many ideas of what he wanted to do. None of them were completely settled, but they were no longer flimsy, transparent daydreams.

With a little bit more time, Dan was sure that something would come out of them.

He had a few hours to go before he arrived in London, and Dan slumped a little bit more in the chair, his eyes still shut. It was late, he had just gotten off of work, and he was tired.

In his pocket, Dan felt his phone buzz, and he smiled, knowing that it was Phil texting him to probably let Dan know how excited he was. Dan didn't take his phone out to respond, he was too close to sleep for that, but he knew what he would say. And he knew that Phil knew too.

Me too, Phil, he thought, I'm excited too.

[milkshakedoe]

At the outset, however, I must first open up what is perhaps the most important contradiction of all: that between reality and appearance in the world in which we live.

Marx famously advised that our task should be to change the world rather than to understand it. But when I look at the corpus of his writings I have to say that he spent an inordinate amount of time seated in the library of the British Museum seeking to understand the world. This was so, I think, for one very simple reason. That reason is best captured by the term ‘fetishism’. By fetishism, Marx was referring to the various masks, disguises and distortions of what is really going on around us. ‘If everything were as it appeared on the surface,’ he wrote, ‘there would be no need for science.’ We need to get behind the surface appearances if we are to act coherently in the world. Otherwise, acting in response to misleading surface signals typically produces disastrous outcomes. Scientists long ago taught us, for example, that the sun does not actually go around the earth, as it appears to do (though in a recent survey in the USA it seems 20 per cent of the population still believe it does!). Medical practitioners likewise recognise that there is a big difference between symptoms and underlying causes. At their best, they have transformed their understanding of the differences between appearances and realities into a fine art of medical diagnosis. I had a sharp pain in my chest and was convinced it was a heart problem, but it turned out to be referred pain from a pinched nerve in my neck and a few physical exercises put it right. Marx wanted to generate the same sorts of insights when it came to understanding the circulation and accumulation of capital. There are, he argued, surface appearances that disguise underlying realities. Whether or not we agree with his specific diagnoses does not matter at this point (though it would be foolish not to take note of his findings). What matters is that we recognise the general possibility that we are often encountering symptoms rather than underlying causes and that we need to unmask what is truly happening underneath a welter of often mystifying surface appearances.

Let me give some examples. I put $100 in a savings account at a 3 per cent annual compound rate of interest and after twenty years it has grown to $180.61. Money seems to have the magical power to increase itself at a compounding rate. I do nothing but my savings account grows. Money seems to have the magical capacity to lay its own golden eggs. But where does the increase of money (the interest) really come from?

This is not the only kind of fetish around. The supermarket is riddled with fetishistic signs and disguises. The lettuce costs half as much as half a pound of tomatoes. But where did the lettuce and the tomatoes come from and who was it that worked to produce them and who brought them to the supermarket? And why does one item cost so much more than another? Moreover, who has the right to attach some kabbalistic sign like $ or € or £ over the items for sale and who puts a number on them, like $1 a pound or €2 a kilo? Commodities magically appear in the supermarkets with a price tag attached such that customers with money can satisfy their wants and needs depending upon how much money they have in their pockets. We get used to all this, but we don’t notice that we have no idea where most of the items come from, how they were produced, by whom and under what conditions, or why, exactly, they exchange in the ratios they do and what the money we use is really all about (particularly when we read that the Federal Reserve has just created another $1 trillion of it at the drop of a hat!).

The contradiction between reality and appearance which all this produces is by far the most general and pervasive contradiction that we have to confront in trying to unravel the more specific contradictions of capital. The fetish understood in this way is not a crazy belief, a mere illusion or a hall of mirrors (though it will sometimes seem that way). It really is the case that money can be used to buy commodities and that we can live out our lives without much concern about anything other than how much money we have and how much that money will buy in the supermarket. And the money in my savings account really does grow. But ask the question ‘What is money?’ and the answer is usually a baffled silence. Mystifications and masks surround us at every turn, though occasionally, of course, we get shocked when we read that the thousand or so workers who died when a factory building collapsed in Bangladesh were making the shirts we are wearing. For the most part we know nothing about the people who produce the goods that support our daily life.

David Harvey, Seventeen Contradictions and the End of Capitalism

[yomo715]

BOTW ONE SHOT New Memory: Broken Hero

SOOOOOOO I WROTE A THING. 

IT’S ANGSTY AS HECK BECAUSE OUR POOR BLUE BEAN NEEDS A BREAK. 

I really hope you guys like it! I had a lot of fun writing this, and I have other ideas so if people like it I’ll make it a mini series. Enjoy! 

******WARNING SPOILERS******

It was a grim sight to behold.

Link sat atop the mound of a small hill south of the central plains. His weary eyes gazed upon what he could see of the decimated castle. The awesome structure, once a beacon of hope, peace, and prosperity, now lay in ruin, engulfed by the swirling blackness of unholy hatred. Blazing fires scourged what was left of Castletown as corrupted guardians carved paths of destruction.

He could still smell the smoke and ash of the burning buildings. Feel the smothering heat of the flames leaping at them from every angle. Hear the cries of countless innocents, unable to escape the wrath of the horrible phantom.

The king. The divine beasts. The champions. The calamity had claimed all to its rage, destroying everything in a matter of hours.

Battered but alive, he and the princess managed to escape the massacre unharmed.

Physically, anyway.

He broke his gaze from the castle for a moment to survey her status. Zelda sprawled on her side underneath a small outcropping of rock hidden from the rain, where she took some much needed rest. It seemed she finally fell asleep, as her once ragged and anxious breaths had evened into calmer, shallow ones.

Link’s normally guarded expression relaxed for just a moment, the slight hints of relief seeping through as he watched her. Something else, too. Sadness? Sympathy?

The princess had lost all resolve as they fled the battlefield. Unable to bear the weight of her grief any longer, Zelda collapsed into a pool of tears. She could do nothing more than cry. A hopeless, painful, agonizing cry that shook Link to his very core. Other than holding her in a tight embrace, something that seemed to keep her very frame from falling to pieces, there was nothing at all he could do to console her. There were no words to speak that would offer any sort of comfort.

On some level, he could understand her pain. It was an immense weight, so heavy that the world seemed to cave in on his shoulders. Perhaps, he thought, that embrace held both of them together in that moment.

Unfortunately that moment didn’t last long enough for them to process their grief. The skittering, mechanical noises of a guardian stirred the surrounding flora, and all too quickly they were pulled back to their horrible reality. The collapsed princess, still reeling in her emotions, had no strength left to support herself. Or she refused to. Maybe she believed this was their fate all along.

That was not, however, something Link was willing to accept. He didn’t allow Zelda the luxury of time to decide for herself, instead opting to carry her in his arms. It was, albeit, a rather unorthodox method, but it proved extremely effective in evading the merciless guardian.

Even after they fled the forest, he continued to carry her for quite some time. Minutes passed like hours. Hours felt like days. Link found himself lost among the fields in the midst of the rainstorm. His body burned like fire and every muscle ached, but he refused to stop until they found shelter.

Thankfully, he came upon a small outcrop of rock atop this hill. The sight of the castle peaks, dreadful as they were, allowed Link to regain his bearings. Only then did he finally feel the slightest semblance of safety.

Despite all the turmoil and suffering the two had endured over the course of the night, Link thought it best if they at least attempted to sleep. They were both pushed to the brink of collapsing, made most apparent by Zelda’s disposition. She did exactly as she was told. Only a shell of her former self, she behaved in a mechanical manner likened to the precise robotic motions of a guardian. Simple nods were all she would give in the form of communication, complying without hesitation as he suggested she lie down under the safety of the outcropping.

It was only when Link turned away to keep watch that he heard a few sniffling noises. He was tempted to look back at her, but ultimately decided to allow her privacy.

The icy sting of the cold rain pelted his body like pin pricks of needles. They bothered him for a while, but before long they faded into nothing but a cold numbness. It was befitting of his own feelings. Maybe it was the ache of his body or the fatigue of his mind, but the dreadful weight he felt earlier had subsided. It felt like nothing at all now.

He turned back to the castle. A few of the fires had disappeared. Snuffed out by the rain, he figured. A new orange glow came to his attention. It was northeast of the castle, and he couldn’t make out the area in question from his current position, but he realized it must have been the fortress in Akkala. The guardians had turned their attack elsewhere of the castle, spreading darkness to new terrains.

There were people there, fighting for their lives. People he knew: knights, friends, acquaintances. But their battle was futile. They hadn’t the first clue on how to defeat the machines. It wouldn’t be long until the fortress fell. Until all of Hyrule would be under siege.

Link thought he should feel something. An emotion should stir. Anger. Despair. Guilt. Anything.

But he felt nothing at all.

He turned again, this time to look over himself. His champion’s tunic was sullied and torn, covered in mud and splotches of crimson from occasional scrapes and gashes here and there. His hands, slightly torn up as well, showed the slightest tremor. Was it from Fear? Sorrow? Or perhaps they were simply shaking from the cold. Link couldn’t tell.

He drew the Blade of Evil’s bane from its sheath, laying the weapon on the grass in front of him. There was always something magical about the Master Sword. Of course, not just in the fact that it was a magical tool, but on the mental pedestal that Link’s mind usually conjured it.

A sword to slay evil. All evil. To bring light back to the world. Supposedly it was to shine with light in the face of evil.

Why, then, did it now appear so dull?

As though responding in reflex, his back straightened. He felt so much lighter without the blade on his back.

Link gazed upon the sword, his eyes glazed over in exhaustion. They were transfixed upon the blade, yet his mind was completely blank. Somehow he felt even more numb than before. Sounds fell away. His vision faded. After a while, he could only feel the constant drumming of his heart, his senses failing to recognize anything else.

“You can talk to me, you know,” a voice from a memory echoed in the walls of his mind.

And then, with absolutely no warning, everything burst at once. Like a pot boiling over, or a fire setting ablaze, he flared to life with a monstrous roar. Emotion manifested itself in the form of a childish tantrum, filled with screams until his voice grew hoarse.

There were many things he did in that moment. Some of which included pounding his fists on the grass, and standing and kicking the trunk of a tree. He was wild like an untamed beast, his eyes feral and mad with rage. Uncontrollable. Unconsolable.

Overwhelmed by his own anguish.

When Link finally regained some control of himself, he was panting heavily. His head leaned against a nearby tree trunk as he clung to it for support. Fury ebbed away, revealing a throbbing pain from fresh bruises. They left him unsteady, a visible tremor running from the bottom of his feet up to his quaking arms. His vision was bleary. He didn’t know if it was from tears, but he didn’t care. Granting the tree one final fistful of anger, he thanked it by whispering a curse before slumping over.

All energy spent, Link was forced to his knees. That heavy weight from before had returned, but now felt like it began to crush him.

Eventually Link realized a pair of gentle hands were grasping his shoulders.

“Link!” Zelda cried out, kneeling to his level. She gave him a little shake in an attempt to rouse him from his stupor.

Link’s reaction was extreme. He abruptly turned, flinching away at her sudden appearance. A strange sound escaped him—something between a choke and a gasp—as he scrambled to move far away.

“What’s the matter?” Zelda asked, her voice trembling. “What happened?”

He refused to look at the princess, but he could hear her crawl towards him by the slapping sounds her hands and dress made against the wet, soggy earth. All he could do was shake his head. His chest tightened as the crushing weight became even heavier. Appearing uncharacteristically childlike, he curled himself into a tight ball, shielding his shameful appearance from the world.

Another gentle touch graced his arm, and again he flinched away. He shook his head for the second time, physically unable to face her. Link’s voice faltered, not sounding convincing in the slightest. “I’m fine, your highness,” he was finally able to croak. “I apologize for waking you.”

“But—” she began.

“Just go back to sleep,” Link protested.

A long silence lingered between the two. Link dared not move, waiting for the princess to return to her resting place so he could relax. However, he never heard her move away. The only sound between them was the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the ground.

“I will do no such thing,” Zelda spoke first. Link heard her begin to move, his body tightening more as she neared. Her voice lacked the usual confidence she always seemed to sport, understandably so in their current situation. “I believe I said once before that you can…you can confide in me. So,” a pause. “Now is that time.”

Link froze as he felt her hand upon his back, becoming still as stone. Even his breathing had stopped, all motions ceasing for a moment as Zelda slowly curled her arms around his shoulders. He knew the gesture was meant to be a sign of reassurance, but it brought him no comfort.

“Tell me what is on your mind,” Link heard her whisper. Her voice was close, closer than it had ever been before.

And yet, it felt so very far away.

“No,” Link raised his arms, uncurling himself from her grasp and moving away a third time. This time, though, he forced himself to look at her in an attempt to regain some of the former courage he seemed to have lost.

The princess was still sitting nearby, one arm stretched out reflexively in response to his rejection. It faltered, returning to her side as she watched him. Their eyes only met for a few seconds, but in that short silence they communed. Words weren’t needed for their raw, unrefined emotions.

Both of them conveyed a few of the same expressions. Their eyes were tired, a heaviness dulling their shine a slight amount as they were weighted with a specific kind of sadness.

Zelda brimmed with another emotion. Concern traced from her wrinkled brow to her pursed lips, breaking through the hollow emptiness of melancholy.

Link’s dulled eyes reacted to this emotion. He couldn’t help himself. It only took one look at her for the pained expression of pure grief to grace his face, one a child would show their mother just before they burst into tears. He grasped his arms tightly at that unwanted reaction, pressing his face into his knees as he returned to safety.

“I can’t,” Link continued after a long while.

He heard her advance once more, the gestures ever so quiet but enough for him to tense again. “You can,” she tried to reassure. “Whatever is ailing you, please allow me to—”

“I can’t!” His fierce shout hushed Zelda’s voice mid sentence. Link threw his arms to the ground in a fit of frustration. His fists pounded against the wet earth, splashing mud on both himself and the princess.

She recoiled, watching as he returned his shaking hands to his head. “Why?” He heard her whisper, her voice as turmoiled as his own.

He shook his head at first, his jumbled thoughts unable to form proper words. After a few moments he answered. His voice was barely audible. “I can’t say it. If I say it, I don't—” he gripped his shoulders tighter. “I don’t think I’ll have the strength to fight anymore.”

As the deafening silence between them grew, so did the intensity of the rain. Light droplets swelled into a downpour. The pitter-patter from before transformed into thunderous applause, drowning them in its rhythm. Link lifted his head, looking back at the blazing orange fires of the fortress. They had dimmed, ever so slightly, perhaps because of the rain.

How could he even begin to explain himself? There weren’t words to describe the staggering sense of loss he felt. Their world had crumbled in a single night. The castle and the town had burned to ash, and there was absolutely nothing he could have done to prevent it. He tried. By the goddesses, he fought with all his strength. But the battle was brief. The fabled hero, the one who wielded the sword—people looked to him with such hope, but he couldn’t smite a single beast or protect a single person. All he had trained for, thwarted by the strength of the calamity in one fell swoop.

And the screams of terror, the cries of fear and despair. Everything had become so overwhelming.

“How much longer,” he heard himself whisper, “until we lose everything?”

Zelda, of course, couldn’t answer.

His eyes flickered to her, watching her retreat as she sat back on her heels. She appeared to mimic him, assuming the same insecure pose he was in. The princess’s eyes fell to her knees, and she stared at a splotch of mud staining her pure white gown.

The two remained in that state for a quite a time, neither moving nor speaking. A moment of reflection, Link figured. His mind had fallen quiet again, probably utilizing the numb feeling as a coping mechanism to combat the stress he was currently facing.

This contemplation, depressing for him, caused him to stare at a particularly uninteresting blade of grass. However, he noticed the small changes in Zelda’s demeanor. After hearing a small grumble come from her lips, she stood. It was an unexpected, abrupt movement that somehow managed to startle the normally unflinching warrior.

Zelda spoke, and she did so with a frustrated huff. “I, for one, am finished mulling around being useless.” The quivering, angry tones uttering from her stupefied Link. He was completely unprepared for this kind of conduct. “We will have time to properly mourn later, but for now we had best make for Kakariko. With haste,” she declared.  

The princess neared once again. This time, blunt and brazen, she shoved her hand into his range of vision. Link blinked at it at first, dumbfounded. If the circumstances were different, he could have been amused by the scene as Zelda began to wag her hand back and forth with increasing impatience.

It was an offering. One to help him to his feet and restore vigor in his soul, and it was exactly what he needed. His own hands were still shaking, but he too decided enough was enough.

This was not the time to fall into despair. If anything, this should have been the time when resolve was at its strongest. They had lost this battle, yes, but there was still a war to be fought. Many had died, many more will die, but even so he would not stop. He would not stop until every demon was vanquished, until all evil was scrubbed clean off the face of the earth. He would only find true peace when he turned the darkness into light.

Was that not what it meant for him when he pulled the sword?

Link uncurled, using his left hand to accept her offering and his right to grasp his blade. He too stood to his feet, and in an instant the world looked just a bit brighter.

“Kakariko?” He decided to ask first, facing her fully.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I’m quite positive most of the Sheikah have recouped there, and we must arm ourselves with knowledge on how to fight the Guardians,” Zelda explained as she started to climb atop the outcropping. Link reached out to hold her hand in support, as her sandals provided little grip from the slippery wet rocks. “I’m sure we’ve moved southeast,” she muttered as she gave her best attempt at directions. “Curse this dress. If not for it I’d still have the Sheikah slate,” she complained.

“Sorry.” Link gave her an apologetic look. “I just started running.”

Zelda returned his expression with a frown of her own, knowing full well the circumstances of their dire expedition. She then pointed in a specific direction, and his eyes followed. “I believe this is the right way. It’s difficult to tell in the rain, but I think I can make out the crests of the Twin Peaks over there.”

The next event happened in a few seconds or less, though to Link time slowed to a crawl. Thank Hylia he glanced back at Zelda, for if not he would have failed to spot the bright red target flickering on her back.

There was no time to yell or shout out. Without thinking he snapped his arm back, yanking the princess from the pedestal to escape the bright blue ray that was sure to follow. The automated beast, sharp as ever, tracked the princess’s trail. As a result, the target just grazed Link’s right side.

The blue beam started to form now. The guardian had enough distance between them to mask its mechanical hum in the rain, but it was just too close for him to properly react.

Link knew he wouldn’t be able to dodge.

His body continued to move of its own accord. Zelda was still falling, though her foot had touched the ground. She was going to land right beside him, and at this rate, also become a victim to the beam. This would not do. Before her weight could sink into the earth, he turned his arm to shove her shoulders in the other direction. She pivoted involuntarily, falling back rather than towards him.

The beam and Link were separated by a few feet. Link took the remaining millisecond of time to glance at the princess he had sworn to protect. If this was his final act, then so be it, but he would never let harm befall her. His hand, still grabbing her wrist, loosened. He watched as she slipped from his grip and fell away, where she would be safe, if only for a few seconds. Zelda’s mouth had begun to form a grimace-a sudden cry of fear, he predicted.

Then he was met with a blinding flash, an explosion engulfing his vision entirely. 

_______________________________________________________________________

Link couldn’t restrain himself from yelling out. The pure shock of pain stole whatever breath he had away, and he fell to his knees. His hands clutched his side, still feeling the white hot burns sear his chest and back.

The memory of this place was cruel. Others had returned with grace or subtlety, but this one left him white as a sheet, covered in sweat and shaking like a leaf.

The pain was horrible, like nothing else he had felt before. A thousand needles pierced his side at once, or perhaps it was more like being submerged in scalding water. His eyes watered. Even the memory of Zelda’s awakening, of his own death, was incomparable to this agony.

Link gasped again, the images still replaying in his mind. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. The taste of blood overpowered his mouth, feeling it well and spill as he recalled choking and gagging.

Then, a tug on his arm. Zelda had pulled him to safety as another beam fired in the spot he had just been. Adrenaline took over, and they ran. As far as possible, until he could run no longer.

Link forced himself to breathe evenly. It took every ounce of willpower he had to pull himself from this horrendous nightmare. The physical pain eventually ebbed, but the dull ache of melancholy would not. It was a stubborn pain that grew with every reclamation, one that left him feeling hollow and sad. This one in particular gave him more grief than the others.

Link closed his eyes, breathing a weak sigh as the princess, who was gathering a bushel of apples from a nearby tree, kneeled beside him. “Are you alright?” Zelda asked. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

“I just remembered something,” he answered, avoiding her gaze.

“Just now?” Her eyes seemed to light up at first, but she then masked her curiosity with a frown. “What was it? If you don’t mind me inquiring, of course,” Zelda added the second phrase with caution.

Link showed her a tiny smile but failed to hide the hint of sadness in his eyes. He gestured to the hill ahead of them, the very hill where his memory happened one hundred years ago.

Zelda, too, fell silent.

“It was my fault,” Link listened to the birds flutter about the greenery. Zelda opened her mouth to protest, but he quelled her by shaking his head. “I think I was broken,” he thought aloud, his voice quiet as his eyes drifted back to the hill. “I felt like such a failure for not being able to do anything. I’d never been so…” he frowned. “So helpless.”

Zelda frowned herself. “The attack was devastating,” was the first, simplest explanation she gave. “None of us knew just how terrible the calamity was, and that is why we lost.” The princess folded her hands neatly in her lap, her posture equivalent to a sigh as an air of loneliness encompassed her.

Link frowned at this. It was more a gesture of sympathy, but a simple yet hopeless wish formed. “I just—” he shook his head. “Nevermind.” He stood, patting the dirt off his clothes.

Zelda’s inquisitive nature broke through the veil of sorrow. “What?” was all she asked.

Link sighed, but entertained her. “It was just a tiny second,” he looked away. “One moment where I doubted myself.” Link walked toward the hill, unsheathing the master sword. It gleamed brightly in the sun, giving an otherworldly glow. “If I hadn’t, I would’ve stopped that guardian, and I wouldn’t have kept you waiting so long.”  Link lowered the sword, his gaze following it to the ground.

Zelda was silent for just a few beats, but answered, “perhaps so.” Link’s eyes flickered back to her, surprised to find the princess staring back at him with just the slightest hint of a pout playing on her lips. “But you must also remember that we are, first and foremost, human.” His eyes widened as she stood by his side on the hill.

“You were not the only one to lose your way that night,” Zelda continued in a hushed voice. She looked to the outcropping, and he could see from her eyes that her mind swam in her own century-old memories. “We are not perfect beings, and we all have our doubts and fears. I would much rather falter once than struggle for an eternity until I have become like an automaton.” She walked forward, holding herself in all her grace and dignity. Just as ethereal as Link’s sword, though it was now sheathed. “And do not forget that we cannot change the past. We are all—”

The princess’s speech was cut short by a little chortle. Her head snapped back to Link, eyes large as his chuckles only grew. “What?” Zelda couldn’t help but ask, frowning.

Link forced himself quiet, but the grin refused to flatten. “You sound like an old wise woman.” He laughed again.

At once, the radiance of her grace disappeared. Zelda flashed him a mean look. “I am trying to give advice,” she crossed her arms. “Besides, I am technically one hundred and seventeen years old!”

“I know, sorry, sorry,” Link raised his hands in defense, but his smile softened as he watched her. “I get what you mean, though.”

“Really,” Zelda shook her head, her own smile forming. “You’ve grown too bold.”

Link laughed again. “‘Too bold’? No,” he joked. “‘Too bold’ would be telling you about the armoranth leaf that’s been stuck in your teeth all morning.” His laughs turned to bellows at the look of raw horror that overcame Zelda. “Kidding, just kidding!” The warrior flinched as the princess smacked his arm, and she too began to laugh.

The light-hearted turn of the conversation, despite being highly inappropriate, was just the change the hero needed. Link flopped to the ground and closed his eyes, at once elated and exhausted. The sun was bright and warm, the sky blue as the sea and the sparrows sung as loudly as ever. He couldn’t have hoped for better weather. The turmoil of the memory began to subside. It was, in fact, just a memory after all.

The princess took a seat beside Link. “You’ve changed,” Zelda’s voice was hushed, yet it sounded like a smile.   

“Have I?” Link breathed out in a hum. He seemed disinterested, but he was genuinely curious. There had been glimpses into the past, yet his memories were almost exclusively of the princess. Not that he was complaining about that, but he was still searching for his own missing life.

He surely had a mother, a home, and friends. What were his hobbies? Where did he grow up? He didn’t even know his true age, he realized. Probably over seventeen, considering he had traversed the Lanayru Mountains with Zelda. Or maybe he had been given the king’s blessing since he was Zelda’s appointed knight?

“For the better, truthfully,” Zelda’s voice cut into Link’s thoughts. He blinked, turning his head a little to give her his full attention. “You used to be so quiet. And,” she turned to him with a bold expression, “serious.” He smiled in response. “When we first met, I admit I was rather intimidated. Wherever I went you would follow, as a chick would a mother hen,” Zelda chuckled at her next thought. “Though I believe you were more the mother hen than I. So very protective.”

“Well it is my duty to protect you,” Link interjected with the manner of a pouting child. He sat upright, wanting to hear more of her story.

“Yes, of course, but it was different,” Zelda laughed once. “You would not speak a word unless you were spoken to. You were proper and poised as a knight should be, however there was never a laugh or even a smile save for a select few moments from what I can recall.” Her gaze softened as she reminisced. “You told me why, eventually. How you felt compelled to become the hero you were claimed to be, and that pressure stole your words and emotions.”

“Sounds kind of depressing.” Link frowned.

“As I said, you have changed.” Zelda looked to him with a small smile. “Perhaps the loss of your memories was a blessing in disguise.”

“What?” Link scoffed. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” Zelda countered just as quickly. “You had forgotten the person you once were, and because of that, you could become the person you were truly meant to be.”

Link fell quiet. He could feel that truth welling inside him from his most recent memory. That tantrum, childish as it had been, was the explosive result of the accumulation of stresses and frustrations he had stored inside himself for far too long. “You’re right.” He agreed. “I hated who I was.”

“I know you did.” The princess’s smile turned doleful.

The two were greeted with a gentle breeze, adding a measure of comfort to the silence between them. It was a kind of tranquility, almost. Link pulled in a deep breath and smelled the fresh spring air that passed them by.

“I still kind of feel like a newborn,” he said without thinking.

Zelda was taken aback by the innocent statement, a wide smile spreading across her lips as she chuckled. “How do you mean?” She asked between laughs.

“When I first woke up, I didn’t know anything,” Link explained as he stared at the outcropping. “Well, I mean I knew what the sky and trees were of course, but everything else was so foreign and new. I thought it was really exciting.” He looked to her with a smile and stood. “It’s been awhile since I woke up, and I know a lot of the world now, but I’m still excited to find out more.” He ran to the hill without warning, unafraid of his old memories as he leaped to the top of the boulder. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…free.” Link’s grin widened, and he looked to the wide open sky. He blinked, a thought coming to his mind as he glanced at the princess. “Don’t you feel like that too?”

Zelda had stood, a faint but warm smile brightening her face. “Yes,” she answered as she neared him.

Link’s smile grew. He outstretched his hand, offering her the same support had offered him all those years ago. She didn’t hesitate, firmly grasping his hand as he pulled her to the top.

“We’re both free now,” Link whispered, his mind adrift in the sky and clouds above them.

The outcropping didn’t provide much of a view. It barely capped the trees of the forest surrounding the hill. Link had scaled the highest Hyrulean mountains during his adventures, and watched the sun rise from tens of thousands of feet above the sea.

But at this very moment in time, he was truly on top of the world.

[suferiorquirk-archived]

The golden specks of light hovering above the palm of his hands violently flickered as a soft crackling noise gently pierced through the air — before it suddenly exploded.

A quirk was not an ability that could be bought with diamonds or gold. It was not a power people could create artificially, and it was not something everyone was given the right to possess. Some individuals received their quirk at birth, and some people's quirk only surfaced to the top after they reached the ripe age of four, but either way, those who could obtain a quirk were born with the potential to do so. 

The quality and type of quirk a child would receive was determined from the very beginning and could not be altered. There were average quirks, quirks more suitable for support, bland quirks, unstable quirks, quirks more fitting for a villain — and then there were special and deadly quirks only a few fated to stand on top of the world would be gifted with.

A child fated to stand on top. 

A child like him.

The lively smile blossoming on his face continued growing as he watched the small explosions on his hands constantly go off. This was his quirk. The distinct power that exclusively belonged to him, and him alone. 

The young boy had been eagerly waiting for this day to arrive. He had been craving to know the nature of the quirk he was destined to use against every scumbag villain out there. It was all he could think about as soon as he turned four years old; and now, here it was — resting on the surface of his small hands. 

The explosions he was releasing were tiny and nothing to be feared of right now, but he knew this power would become a force to be reckoned with once he grew up. Bakugou could already see his future. He was going to someday leave a trail of defeated villains in the wake of his explosions.

The teachers's voices were dripping with happiness as they praised and congratulated their young student for acquiring a quirk befitting for a future pro hero. His ears were being blasted with the sound of his peers applauding and expressing their admiration for his newly obtained power.

When he raised his head to gaze at the people offering all of their attention to him, he noticed that all of their faces suddenly became a blurry mess to him. He couldn't differentiate one person from another. The only thing clear and present in his tunnel vision was the reflection of their astonishment and respect on their unidentifiable faces.

It all made sense now.

He had always been a few steps ahead of everyone his age. While the other kids struggled to reach the level he was standing on, he was already busy climbing higher. Watching them fumble around was entertaining, but also very strange since he was unable to comprehend why they couldn't keep up with his pace. His friends couldn't even achieve half of the things he had accomplished with ease. 

This was especially true for his friend, Deku. He was a bit of a loser. The little guy wasn't courageous, witty or tough like Bakugou. There was nothing remarkable or outstanding about him, so his companion always ended up disappearing into the shadows while the spotlight continued shining down on him. But why? Why was the good-for-nothing loser unable to do all the things he could do? The question invaded his mind whenever someone his age failed a task he believed was extremely simple.

The revelation he received while watching the side characters around him applaud and praise him answered the question that had been plaguing his mind for a long time.

Oh! I see! I'm just amazing and everyone else isn't!

All of his classmates started whispering and uttering words of disbelief and pity while staring at Deku. 

Everyone was just so shocked to discover that he turned out to be quirkless. His friend was an individual whose quirk was never going to manifest because his body didn't even have the capability to give birth to one. In other words, he was the least impressive kid Bakugou was acquainted with. His mouth curved into an amused smirk when he realized what this meant. 

He was a third-rate washout in comparison to him. The differences between their skill, talent, and potential were so ludicrously obvious to even a young child like him. This discovery was almost amusing enough to make him giggle. There wasn't a shred of compassion in his heart as he glanced at his dejected friend. This was the reality they all had to accept since people were not born equals. 

Every being on the planet had a role fit for their status. 

Bakugou was chosen to become the best, while the loser named Deku was picked to be a nobody.

It was why he could never forgive the nerd for the one incident that left an incurable scar on his soul, or more specifically, his pride.

Everyone residing in his neighbourhood knew, and understood that Bakugou was a tough child who could take care of himself while he was out on the streets and when he was at the playground. He was still young, but a lot of adults could already sense that he was going to become the type of individual who would rather use his own hands to push himself on his feet than ask for help — and why should he anyway? 

The ones who needed help were weak, pathetic, inferior; and he was none of those things.

The outstretched hand, voice full of concern and worry clouding over Deku's eyes... The runt was pitying him, wasn't he? The initial shock resting on Bakugou's face disappeared, replaced by a nasty scowl. He was meek, clumsy, weak — and quirkless, so why was he treating him like he was the one who needed help? He was trying to humiliate him wasn’t he? The thought caused the irritation in his heart to ignite with rage and anger. How dare he. A pebble like him had the nerve to underestimate and look down on him, the one with the superior quirk.

This was an insult he could never ever forgive.

At first, the arrogant thought that manifested in his head right after his gifted quirk exploded into his hands was nothing more than a conclusion he reached after realizing his classmates were not as skilled or talented as him — and then it became a statement he strongly believed in after becoming the cause of the quirkless nerd's suffering everyday — until eventually, it solidified and transformed into a fact in his own head.

He truly was amazing. 

The only one who deserved to be number one.

The bridge underneath his feet was sturdy and crafted to be impervious to everything. He made sure of that. It was a feat his little hands could not have accomplished without the help of others. A countless number of individuals had been kind enough to lend him a helping hand when he first started building the path he believed would lead him to a bright future someday. 

Not physically, but emotionally. 

Every single one of the praises, support and encouragements they offered to the young boy ended up getting moulded and transformed into the ground he was going to walk on for the next few years of his life. Their words would become his foundation.

Every time he reached the edge of his unfinished bridge, he would pick up the positive words he received from everyone around him and use it to extend the path — and then continue moving forward. This went on for a long time until one day, he realized that he was skilled enough to use his own strength to make the trail in front of him longer. 

He could do it all by himself, which meant that their help was no longer needed. There wasn't a hint of sentiment as Bakugou rejected the people who constantly praised him for his talent by turning his back on them. Their flattery no longer meant anything to him since they all acknowledged him already. 

He didn't need them. 

All he needed was the confidence he gained from always succeeding.

Every pebble he encountered during his journey to success were nothing more than a small hinderance he could easily kick out of his way. There were a couple of obstacles that were harder to blast through with his explosions, but they were still nothing in front of his growing strength.

Somewhere along the line, he ended up enjoying the sound a pebble created whenever it landed on the bottom of the abyss after getting kicked by him. An amused look never failed to appear on his face every time he viciously sent them flying to the bottom — to the place where they belonged. 

They had no purpose standing on the bridge he created for himself only. This was the path that would guide him to the brilliant future he had envisioned from the very beginning. Nothing was going to prevent him from making his dream into a reality.

When he spotted a tiny rock in the distance, a smirk appeared on his face right before he started running towards it to punt it out of his way like he usually did — except this time, something was different. It remained seated on the same spot. A scowl appeared on the young man's face as he attempted to kick it off over and over again, but it refused to budge. Instead, it grew bigger with each kick. Ignoring its rapid growth, he continued trying to remove it out of his sight; but it was a futile effort. 

How did the tiny pebble he mocked everyday ended up turning into a rock he couldn't move out of his way?

Cracks started to suddenly appear on the ground beneath his feet. The high pitched noise that pricked his head every time a new crack made its appearance caused his eyes to widen with shock. 

How... was this possible. 

The bridge he believed was invincible was on the verge of collapsing because of the extra weight from the rock that refused to move. It was startling and unsettling to find out that a single object was enough to shatter the bridge he built when he was just a child. 

What he once believed was indestructible ended up turning out to be fragile like a porcelain doll. This was his first time experiencing the true meaning of distress and panic — and his first time falling.

All of the encouraging and supportive words everyone around him constantly injected into his system ended up becoming the poison that only made his fall more painful, and more unbearable.

But even as he was watching his ego and pride shatter right before his red eyes, the future he believed he was destined to live in never left his sight.

[hellstate--rp-blog]

↪ b a s i c s ;

N A M E: Brandon Allen Pearce A G E: 23 P L A C E   O F   O R I G I N: Loleta, California G R O U P: V. A. Medical Center O C C U P A T I O N: Hunter F C: Charlie Heaton

❝ I have come one step away from everything. And here I stay, far from everything, one step away. ❞

↪ p e r s o n a l i t y ;

P O S I T I V E   T R A I T S: creative ; independent N E G A T I V E   T R A I T S: withdrawn ; hot-tempered

↪ b i o g r a p h y ;

L I F E   B E F O R E   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Born in a small tucked away town known for it’s Cheese Factory, Brandon Pearce was an only child born to parents, Samantha and Coy Pearce in 1994. A bundle of joy for a newlywed couple who were high school sweethearts.

Growing up in a small town meant you knew everyone, and everyone knew you. You couldn’t walk down the street without receiving a friendly smile or wave, or ‘Hey, how are your parents doing?’. It was a comfortable place that was close to the coast, and Brandon and his friends spent countless hours on the beach. It offered adventure and possibilities, which was more than could be said bout their small stuffy town

One Winter day during Christmas break when the kids were all twelve-years-old, Brandon and his friends made the trek to the beach. Each of their parents warned them not to turn their back on the water considering the ocean was unpredictable and ‘sneaker waves’ were common, and they’d sweep you off your feet before you could even blink. But boys will be boys and one of Brandon’s friends dared him to go out towards the water until a wave started to come creeping up to the shore and then run away, and although he was hesitant, Brandon eventually agreed to the dare after watching another friend do it and make it back unscathed by the cold water. Long story short, Brandon was unfortunately swept away into the freezing water of the Pacific Ocean and pushed under and into the dark waves, his friends watching in terror as one of the four ran to look for help. Luckily, Brandon was washed up onto the shore and able to crawl away from the dangerous waves that were threatening to sweep him away once again.

Being exposed to both the cold water and weather, Brandon caught pneumonia as well as a severe ear infection from the water in his right ear that remained trapped there as he lay on his side on the sandy shore of the beach. Ultimately the infection leads to Brandon growing almost completely deaf in that ear, but that was something he’d have to live with considering he’d nearly lost his life.

Banned from going to the beach without adult supervision, that lead to a strain on Brandon and his group of friends, not only that, but since Brandon spent a few months recovering and being grounded – he was detached from his friends until the next year and by then they were slowly being distracted by the weight of 7th grade as well as the distraction of girls and exploring dating.

Brandon slowly became more of a recluse and turned to video games for comfort, not to mention it was hard to adjust to the loss of hearing in his right ear, others often teasing him, snapping their fingers by his ear, or whispering behind his back knowing he’d hardly be able to hear them.

Losing his friends wasn’t the only shockwave that shook Brandon’s world, his parents began arguing behind closed doors and eventually got a divorce. And the once sweet, adventurous young boy was slowly dwindling down a path of depression.

Still a minor at 15, Brandon was urged to pack his bags and move out to Wyoming with his mom, to live near her older sister, Danielle, who’d moved out there not too long before the arguing between his parents began.

It was hard to settle into a new town, in a new state, and this only fed, Brandon’s reclusiveness.

He began rebelling against his mom by staying out late and staying away from the house in general. And although he would stay out of trouble (his outings mostly consisting of visiting the local bookstore where he’d read comics and read any book that piqued his interest) he stopped doing his homework, and this led to his grade dropping and his mom forced him to go to counseling until he graduated high school and was no longer considered a minor.

Some may say that Brandon was simply a selfish teen who needed a dose of reality, his counselor concluded that his behavior was normal for a child of divorce, and although the counseling didn’t solve the behavioral issues completely, he at least managed to graduate high school with a passing overall grade. Skating by in his own world, where he refused to align himself with many people.

L I F E   D U R I N G   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Brandon had plans to go back to California and live with his dad, go to college at Humboldt State and reconnect with people he’d known most of his life. His mom, although upset she and her son had disconnected from one another over the years after she and his father divorced, she was still supportive of Brandon and wanted him to have a good life, so if he wanted to go live with his dad, she was going to support that decision even if it did break her heart.

They were on their way to the airport when news of the outbreak interrupted the music that was playing on the radio. Immediately Brandon laughed, was this an attempt to re-enact the fear that grabbed a hold of the world when radio stations began to pretend H.G. Well’s War of the Worlds was actually happening in the 30′s as a Halloween special?

His mom, however, didn’t find it as humorous as he did, and all it took was a moment of distraction for her to merge slightly onto the right-hand lane of the highway and collide with another car that had been in her blind spot, forcing both of the cars off the road and into a ditch after the car flipped multiple times, Brandon immediately lost consciousness after banging his head against the car door window (which ultimately ends up saving his life).

The ambulance had been called by a witness to the accident, but all ambulances were already out on call due to the multiple incidents involving the outbreak.

Brandon woke to a killer headache and the weight of his body pulling at the seatbelt as he and his mom remain upside down after flipping over into the ditch. He looks over at her, she’s covered in blood but he can still see her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

Brandon and his mom managed to make it out of the car, however, the other driver of the car they’d collided with hadn’t been so lucky, and that was the first time they both realized the radio broadcast wasn’t a joke.

Both of them were in a daze after that, seeing the man upside down, reaching out towards them, a shard of glass protruding out from his neck, his eyes white as if he had cataracts, and the sickening sound of the growls that emitted from the man were animalistic. It was truly a nightmare to witness.

But they managed to hobble towards a neighborhood in the dark, where they broke into a house (Brandon’s idea) and set up camp for the night. They were weak and injured and his mom was growing weaker by the second.

L I F E   A F T E R   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Although he’d never tell you, Brandon ended up having to kill his mom once she fell asleep that first night and woke up as something completely different. That alone was enough to change Brandon from the rebellious young adult he was turning into. At first, he was riddled with anxiety and depression, he’d holed up in the house with the body of his mother who he’d tucked away in the closet so he wouldn’t have to see her. He wanted to die, but every time he went out to look for supplies and ran into trouble, his flight instinct kicked into high gear and he managed to get away or fight his way out of a sticky situation. Essentially he was on auto-pilot, doing what he needed to do to survive no matter what it took.

His weapon of choice was a sturdy tree branch he carved a point onto at the end.

The last thing he wanted was to find a group of people to be with, he hated the idea of being responsible for others in a world collapsing into ruin, but he’d happened along the Cheyenne VA Medical center by chance. He’d been holding out in the woods nearby when he watched two people with guns walk underneath the tree he’d set up camp in for the night, and he followed them, intending to see where they came from with intention to steal from them, he was low on food and from the appearance of the two walking underneath him they seemed to be in rather good physical shape, whilst he was wasting away from the lack of meals.

He didn’t get far in his excursion into the building he’d followed the two in before he was spotted and although he didn’t want to be a part of a group, he eventually came back to the building after managing to escape and live on his own for a couple more weeks before he gave in and went back. Agreeing to be a part of the group as long as he didn’t have to work with many others, being a Hunter was the best gig.

He could do his own thing, but his plan was to eventually leave the group and head out towards California and try and find his father if he was still alive.

That wasn’t the only thing he was keeping from the group, he also refuses to admit that he’s partially deaf, and he goes out of his way to keep anyone from finding out, he doesn’t want to be stripped of his hunter title and the shred of privacy he’s able to receive while hunting.

[mundieoriley]

An Open Doorway | Stephen Strange x Oc (Part Two)

Summary: Stephen Strange came to Kamar-Taj to repair his hands and return to his old life as a world renowned surgeon. Hayden Jones came to Kamar-Taj to escape her past and the abuse she faced for simply being as she was; a mutant. 

When these two radically different individuals meet, an unlikely friendship is formed. But as feelings deepen and Kaecilius  threatens everything Kamar-Taj stands for, Hayden Jones and Stephen Strange must stand even more firmly together to defeat Kaecilius and save the world.

Masterlist is linked on my profile page

Author's Note: Hey everyone! How's it going? I was so excited to bring you the next chapter, I  just couldn't wait for midnight to come around to upload it. Thanks for reading and all of your support! I truly appreciate it!

Two: The New York Sanctum

Hayden jerks awake at the sound of raised voices. She shoots up from the table she fell asleep at, accidentally scattering the books on its surface and sending her chair tipping backward. She spins around, a stomach dropping familiar warmth coiling inside her hands, just at the surface, ready for action.

The three standing around another desk several feet behind her are too busy arguing to notice her violent awakening.

Taking a deep breath, Hayden quickly makes her way toward Stephen, Mordo, and Wong, the warmth leaving her fingers. Mordo is saying something about time loops and paradoxes, voice alarmed.

"They really should put the warnings before that stuff," Stephen says as Hayden stops on the other side of the desk.

"What the hell is all the ruckus about?" Hayden says, catching everyone's attention.

Mordo points an accusatory finger at Stephen. "He was playing with the time-space continuum!"

Stephen shoots Mordo a scowl. "I was not-"

"We do not tamper with natural law," Wong says, voice lowered and stern. "We defend it."

That's when Hayden notices the familiar eye shaped pendant around Stephen's neck. "Stephen, please tell me you weren't playing with the Eye of Agamotto. "

"I wasn't playing with anything-"

"How did you do that?" Mordo takes a small step closer to Stephen, keen eyes studying the other man's face. "Where did you learn the litany of spells to even understand it?"

Stephen's arms cross. "I have a photographic memory. It's how I was able to get my M.D and Ph.D at the same time."

Hayden momentarily tunes out of the conversation and leans over to get a better look at the book opened on the desk. Her eyebrows furrow as she turns the book around, scanning the sand script and the images on the page. She knows enough sand script to recognize the spell. It's the forbidden one the infamous Kaecilius stole six months ago. Hayden knows very little about the Eye of Agamotto, other than it can bend time, if one knows the extremely advanced spells to do so. Stephen must have used the Eye to put the spell back in the book.

"When are you going to start telling me what we are?"

Stephen's voice catches Hayden's attention and she refocuses on the conversation.

Mordo and Wong exchange a look, some silent message passing between the two of them. Hayden catches a look from Stephen thrown in her direction. She wants to know the answer to that question too. The Masters here, including the Sorcerer Supreme hold their cards close to their chests around the newcomers. Hayden has heard the Ancient One elude to a greater purpose Kamar-Taj serves other than helping lost souls find their way. She still doesn't know what that greater purpose is, but it looks as if she's about to find out.

Finally, Wong gestures for Stephen and Hayden to follow him and Mordo follows closely behind them. The librarian leads Hayden and Stephen up a small flight of stairs in the back of the library and into a large circular room. Three formidable doors are set into the opposite wall, a sizeable globe hanging above an empty pedestal set in the middle of the room. Hayden has caught glimpses into this room, but was never brave enough to venture in without permission. She halts, tilting her head up to get a better look at the globe and she sees as well as feels Stephen stop close beside her. She resists the sudden urge to take his hand and instead folds her arms, watching Wong and Mordo as they move to the other side of the pedestal.

"While heroes like the Avengers protect the world from physical dangers, we sorcerers safeguard it against more mystical threats," Wong says as he looks between Hayden and Stephen. "The Ancient One is the latest in a long line of Sorcerers Supreme going back thousands of years to the father of the mystic arts, the mighty Agamotto." Wong bends a stern look on Stephen and, if Hayden didn't know any better, she'd say he looks the slightest bit sheepish. "The same sorcerer who created the Eye you so recklessly borrowed."

Wong raises a hand and three large, golden spherical designs appear on the globe, encompassing the whole thing and casting light into the room. Hayden chances a glance at Stephen, noticing the way the light illuminates his eyes focused on the globe and the way it makes his cheek bones and facial structure much more prominent. She hastily looks away before any intrusive thoughts can enter her mind.

"Agamotto built three Sanctums in places of power, where great cities now stand. That door leads to the Hong Kong Sanctum, this door to the New York Sanctum. That one to the London Sanctum." Wong gestures to each door in turn as he names them off. "Together, the Sanctums generate a protective shield around our world. The Sanctums protect the world, and we the sorcerers the Sanctums."

Hayden's brain wheels as she processes this new information. The Chitauri attack on New York has made the threat of otherworldly beings more than clear. She just never imagined she'd play a part, however small, in protecting the Earth.

Stephen shifts his weight, probably unconsciously, in Hayden's direction. She can just start to feel the warmth of his hand against hers and she misses a good chunk of conversation thanks to her mind taking her unwillingly down a winding and extremely distracting Stephen filled path. She manages to rip herself back to reality just in time to hear about Dormammu and his quest to invade the universe and bring all worlds into his Dark Dimension.

Finally, Hayden finds her voice. "The pages that Kaecilius stole?"

"A ritual to contact Dormammu and draw power from the Dark Dimension," Wong says, his voice grave.

Mordo looks just as grave as Wong sounds.

"Woah, okay, timeout," Stephen says as he shakes his head, a note of uncertainty and disbelief in his voice. "I came here to heal my hands, not fight in some mystical war!"

Before anyone can respond, ominous bells toll.

"London." Wong says as he turns toward one of the doors.

"Kaecilius." Mordo says, fists clenched.

The door closest to Wong flies open with such force, it crashes violently against the stone wall. A man is running down a long hallway on the other side, but that's not what makes Hayden's eyes widen and her stomach drop. Standing further behind the fleeing man are three people, two in burgundy robes and the third in yellow. Before any of them can react, one person in red throws a strange reflective weapon, killing the fleeing man instantly. The yellow one conjures a large ball of golden energy above his head and raises his hands.

Hayden leaps forward without thinking, one hand extended. She hears Stephen call her name as a ball of fire leaves her palm, but it's too late.

Just as she feels a pair of arms catch her around her waist, Kaecilius strikes.

The energy orb explodes into the ground, creating a monumental blast that shatters the stone door like glass and throws Hayden and whoever caught her back. The duo crash through another Sanctum door, rocks roaring and collapsing, creating a large cloud of debris.

As the dust clears and the noise quiets, Hayden lays on her back half on top of her almost rescuer, eyes closed, too winded and stunned to move just yet, despite the uncomfortable press on her wings. Finally, she forces her eyes open and coughs, just as the someone underneath her lets out a groan and shifts their weight. She rolls clumsily off them and lays on the ground for a moment before forcing her aching body into a sitting position.

Stephen Strange sits up as well, perfect hair actually mused and face dirty from the debris cloud. He bleeds from a cut along one perfect cheekbone.

Before Hayden can even formulate a sentence, Stephen is shooting her a scowl. "What the hell were you thinking, leaping toward danger like that? You could have gotten us both killed!"

Hayden gets unsteadily to her feet. "It was instinctive, Strange and I didn't ask you to grab me." She wipes at her face, wincing when she makes contact with a cut near her hairline.

Stephen stands as well and takes a step closer to her, practically towering over her thanks to how tall he is. "If I hadn't stopped you, you'd be dead! So, you're welcome."

Hayden scoffs, throwing up her hands and turning away from him and looking down the dimly lit hallway leading further into the Sanctum. "Wow, can your head get any fatter?"

She doesn't bother to wait for his comeback.

Hayden begins to walk down the hallway, hoping to figure out which Sanctum she and Stephen were blasted into and get a bearing of her surroundings. She hears Stephen following her and she resists the urge to snap at him further. Now's not the time to be bickering.

The hallway opens up into a grand foyer, a large staircase going up to her left. Stain glass windows let in the afternoon sunlight and, if she listens carefully, she can hear voices outside and the sound of traffic passing by. Hayden turns to head up the staircase, but a warm and shaking hand snagging her wrist stops her.

"I saw what you did," Stephen says, voice lowered, his fingers tightening a bit.

Hayden freezes mid turn, face going pale and blood running cold. It had been a total accident to let that flame slip from her hand. God, it had to be the first time since-

Hayden jerks her wrist out of Stephen's grip and continues up the stairs as if he had never spoken. She hears him catch up to her, but she refuses to look at him.

They reach the top of the stairs and Stephen stops her again, this time by her upper arms and turns her to face him. "Why haven't you used it before now? Clearly you can control it, so why-"

"Stephen." Hayden meets his eyes, her jaw clenched and face tight. She can feel herself beginning to shake under his grip, old memories she's tried so hard to suppress beginning to surface. "Enough."

Stephen has the good sense to let her go. He looks down at the ground, away from her, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

Figuring that's as much of an apology she's going to get out of him and before she lets herself soften toward him, Hayden turns and makes her way further into the Sanctum. Stephen stays beside her, but doesn't try to initiate any conversation, much to her relief. She needs a bit of time to get her head back on straight.

The two enter a large room full of different artifacts kept in glass cases of various sizes. Most of them have some sort of mask or vase in them, all of which Hayden couldn't begin to guess the function of. It's strange, such normal looking items being kept behind glass cases, like priceless artifacts at a well known museum. Hayden passes one especially tall case, a vibrant red cape floating within. She pauses to look at it, admiring the golden clasps and the lovely color of the fabric. After a moment of being under Hayden's scrutinization, she swears the cape turns away from her with disinterest, just as Stephen steps up beside her.

Hayden feels distinctly offended and simultaneously ridiculous for letting a piece of clothing offend her.

Scoffing, she turns away from the cape, secretly hoping a similar reaction it gave her will irk it too. Freaking magic cloths and Sanctums and perfect cheekbones-

Unfamiliar voices drift into the room, causing Hayden to stiffen and prod Stephen with one of her wings. Without looking back, she slowly creeps toward the source of the noise, knowing Stephen is following close behind her. The thought both bothers and comforts her. That kind of emotional confusion is all Strange seems to be doing to her these days.

They pass silently through a large archway and press themselves against the wall, peeking around an artifact at the scene below.

Kaecilius and two of his zealots stand at the bottom of the staircase Stephen and Hayden used earlier, slowly approaching a man who must be a member of Kamar-Taj. She was too far away to see it before, but now Hayden notices the ugly purple scale like texture at the areas around Kaecilius' and his zealots' eyes. Just looking at them makes Hayden feel wrong, like something terrible and evil is leaking through those hideous scales into the real world, corrupting it.

"Daniel, I see they made you Master of the New York Sanctum," Kaecilius says, his calm voice and demeanor a jarring juxtaposition to the wrongness on his face.

"Do you know what that means?" Daniel's posture shifts into a defensive stance.

Kaecilius and his zealots mirror the Master's movement. "That you'll die defending it."

As he says this, Kaecilius presses his hands together before bringing them apart slowly, an oddly shaped and wickedly sharp object forming between his hands. It reminds Hayden of a long piece of glass. The light refracts off its surface, casting a momentary glare in her eyes. Hayden blinks rapidly to dispel the sudden glare and between one blink and the next, the fighting erupts. She jerks forward to help, join the fight, something.

Stephen is already shoving her roughly behind him and emerging from their hiding place."Stop!"

Thanks to the surprising force behind his shove, Hayden stumbles back several paces before falling on her butt with a painful thump. She's just about to get back to her feet, reminding herself to give Stephen a piece of her mind later if they make it out of this alive, but the sound of casual, casual, conversation gives her pause.

"Just Doctor?" That's Kaecilius, voice as calm as ever.

Hayden, with a steadying fist to the ground, gets back to her feet.

"It's Strange," Stephen says.

No, it's irritating, selfless, Fathead Strange.

She begins moving forward with caution, hoping no one down below notices her.

"Maybe," Kaecilius says, a shrug apparent in his voice. "Who am I to judge?"

Just as they come into Hayden's sight, the zealots and Kaecilius leap into action. Hayden is already airborne, soaring over Stephen's head, and full body tackling Kaecilius to the ground. They tumble several feet thanks to Hayden's momentum, grappling for the upper hand .

They come to a stop and Kaecilius gains the advantage over her, stabbing down with the strange glass like weapon. Hayden barely manages to form a shield in time. The weapon bounces off it and Hayden strikes out with her other hand, knocking Kaecilius off balance.

She takes her chance and heaves him away from her.

Hayden scrambles to her feet as Kaecilius stands gracefully, appraising her with slightly narrowed eyes. She returns his stare, unwavering.

Kaecilius winds back his weapon and Hayden dives to the side. She feels the blade stir some of her feathers. She hits the ground and manages a sloppy roll and, using her distraction, Kaecilius bolts up the stairs.

With a curse, Hayden gets to her feet and gives chase, reaching the next level with a powerful flap of her wings.

She dashes into the artifact room and follows the sound of shattering glass off to her right. She clatters down a set of stairs. Hayden rounds a corner and nearly tumbles off an edge that shouldn't logically be there. The hallway has been turned on its head and Kaecilius and one other zealot stands in the middle of it like nothing is wrong at all. Hayden spots Stephen at the bottom, pulling himself out of one of three a doorways.

The hallway slowly turns back to its natural state.

Hayden dashes down toward Stephen, who is grappling with the remaining zealot. He reaches for a glowing knob on the wall next to the broken door leading out to what appears to be a desert. She can just make out a red clad person running through the sand for the door.

Hayden blows past Kaecilius, skids past Stephen and the zealot, and rotates the knob. The scenery changes to that of a peaceful forest.

She whirls back around, just in time to see Stephen shove the other zealot through a second glass door and rotate the knob, turning the landscape from a tropical rain forest to the Grand Canyon. They barely have time to make eye contact before Kaecilius is there, dual wielding those glass like swords.

He slashes at Hayden, forcing her to jump back, before he goes for Stephen. Strange manages to block one blow and Hayden leaps forward to catch Kaecilius' other arm. They struggle with him and, with surprising strength, Kaecilius grabs Stephen by the collar and tosses him aside like so much garbage. He catches Hayden with a hard backhanded blow across the face, knocking her to the ground.

She sees stars as her head spins and then Stephen is there, getting her to her feet and urging her ahead of him as they run. Hayden can hear Kaecilius pursuing them and, as they get swiftly up the stairs, Stephen conjures a glowing whip and Hayden her shields.

As soon as they reach the top of the stairs, they turn around just as Kaecilius jumps the railing and lands before them. Stephen strikes out at him with the whip and Kaecilius deflects it. Hayden, taking advantage of the opening, kicks him square in the chest.

Using his momentum, Kaecilius latches onto a pillar, swings around it and knocks Stephen into Hayden. This causes both their magical weapons to fizzle into nonexistence. They both crash through a glass case and land harshly, Stephen half atop her, in a tangle of limbs among broken glass on the other side. His sudden weight knocks the wind out of her lungs and cracks the back of her head against the ground.

Just as suddenly it was there, Stephen's weight is gone.

Kaecilius throws him through yet another case and steps over Hayden likes she's not even there. She snatches clumsily at his legs and manages to latch onto one. She doesn't see the blow coming until Kaecilius' other foot connects with her ribs.

She cries out breathlessly, the force of the blow rolling Hayden over and disengaging her from his leg. She struggles to catch her breath, every gasp of air she takes sending sharp bolts of pain through her body. Hayden forces herself to her knees, one arm wrapped around her aching side. She catches sight of Stephen laid against the broken case containing the floating cape from earlier, Kaecilius standing over him, glass sword raised.

[lonerkiid-blog]

↪ b a s i c s ;

N A M E: Brandon Allen Pearce A G E: 23 P L A C E   O F   O R I G I N: Loleta, California G R O U P: V. A. Medical Center O C C U P A T I O N: Hunter F C: Charlie Heaton

❝ I have come one step away from everything. And here I stay, far from everything, one step away. ❞

↪ p e r s o n a l i t y ;

P O S I T I V E   T R A I T S: creative ; independent N E G A T I V E   T R A I T S: withdrawn ; hot-tempered

↪ b i o g r a p h y ;

L I F E   B E F O R E   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Born in a small tucked away town known for it’s Cheese Factory, Brandon Pearce was an only child born to parents, Samantha and Coy Pearce in 1994. A bundle of joy for a newlywed couple who were high school sweethearts.

Growing up in a small town meant you knew everyone, and everyone knew you. You couldn’t walk down the street without receiving a friendly smile or wave, or ‘Hey, how are your parents doing?’. It was a comfortable place that was close to the coast, and Brandon and his friends spent countless hours on the beach. It offered adventure and possibilities, which was more than could be said bout their small stuffy town

One Winter day during Christmas break when the kids were all twelve-years-old, Brandon and his friends made the trek to the beach. Each of their parents warned them not to turn their back on the water considering the ocean was unpredictable and ‘sneaker waves’ were common, and they’d sweep you off your feet before you could even blink. But boys will be boys and one of Brandon’s friends dared him to go out towards the water until a wave started to come creeping up to the shore and then run away, and although he was hesitant, Brandon eventually agreed to the dare after watching another friend do it and make it back unscathed by the cold water. Long story short, Brandon was unfortunately swept away into the freezing water of the Pacific Ocean and pushed under and into the dark waves, his friends watching in terror as one of the four ran to look for help. Luckily, Brandon was washed up onto the shore and able to crawl away from the dangerous waves that were threatening to sweep him away once again.

Being exposed to both the cold water and weather, Brandon caught pneumonia as well as a severe ear infection from the water in his right ear that remained trapped there as he lay on his side on the sandy shore of the beach. Ultimately the infection leads to Brandon growing almost completely deaf in that ear, but that was something he’d have to live with considering he’d nearly lost his life.

Banned from going to the beach without adult supervision, that lead to a strain on Brandon and his group of friends, not only that, but since Brandon spent a few months recovering and being grounded – he was detached from his friends until the next year and by then they were slowly being distracted by the weight of 7th grade as well as the distraction of girls and exploring dating.

Brandon slowly became more of a recluse and turned to video games for comfort, not to mention it was hard to adjust to the loss of hearing in his right ear, others often teasing him, snapping their fingers by his ear, or whispering behind his back knowing he’d hardly be able to hear them.

Losing his friends wasn’t the only shockwave that shook Brandon’s world, his parents began arguing behind closed doors and eventually got a divorce. And the once sweet, adventurous young boy was slowly dwindling down a path of depression.

Still a minor at 15, Brandon was urged to pack his bags and move out to Cheyenne, Wyoming with his mom, to live near her older sister, Danielle, who’d moved out there not too long before the arguing between his parents began.

It was hard to settle into a new town, in a new state, and this only fed, Brandon’s reclusiveness.

He began rebelling against his mom by staying out late and staying away from the house in general. And although he would stay out of trouble (his outings mostly consisting of visiting the local bookstore where he’d read comics and read any book that piqued his interest) he stopped doing his homework, and this led to his grade dropping and his mom forced him to go to counseling until he graduated high school and was no longer considered a minor.

Some may say that Brandon was simply a selfish teen who needed a dose of reality, his counselor concluded that his behavior was normal for a child of divorce, and although the counseling didn’t solve the behavioral issues completely, he at least managed to graduate high school with a passing overall grade. Skating by in his own world, where he refused to align himself with many people.

L I F E   D U R I N G   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Brandon had plans to go back to California and live with his dad, go to college at Humboldt State and reconnect with people he’d known most of his life. His mom, although upset she and her son had disconnected from one another over the years after she and his father divorced, she was still supportive of Brandon and wanted him to have a good life, so if he wanted to go live with his dad, she was going to support that decision even if it did break her heart.

They were on their way to the airport when news of the outbreak interrupted the music that was playing on the radio. Immediately Brandon laughed, was this an attempt to re-enact the fear that grabbed a hold of the world when radio stations began to pretend H.G. Well’s War of the Worlds was actually happening in the 30′s as a Halloween special?

His mom, however, didn’t find it as humorous as he did, and all it took was a moment of distraction for her to merge slightly onto the right-hand lane of the highway and collide with another car that had been in her blind spot, forcing both of the cars off the road and into a ditch after the car flipped multiple times, Brandon immediately lost consciousness after banging his head against the car door window (which ultimately ends up saving his life).

The ambulance had been called by a witness to the accident, but all ambulances were already out on call due to the multiple incidents involving the outbreak.

Brandon woke to a killer headache and the weight of his body pulling at the seatbelt as he and his mom remain upside down after flipping over into the ditch. He looks over at her, she’s covered in blood but he can still see her chest rising and falling with slow, even breaths.

Brandon and his mom managed to make it out of the car, however, the other driver of the car they’d collided with hadn’t been so lucky, and that was the first time they both realized the radio broadcast wasn’t a joke.

Both of them were in a daze after that, seeing the man upside down, reaching out towards them, a shard of glass protruding out from his neck, his eyes white as if he had cataracts, and the sickening sound of the growls that emitted from the man were animalistic. It was truly a nightmare to witness.

But they managed to hobble towards a neighborhood in the dark, where they broke into a house (Brandon’s idea) and set up camp for the night. They were weak and injured and his mom was growing weaker by the second.

L I F E   A F T E R   T H E   O U T B R E A K:

Although he’d never tell you, Brandon ended up having to kill his mom once she fell asleep that first night and woke up as something completely different. That alone was enough to change Brandon from the rebellious young adult he was turning into. At first, he was riddled with anxiety and depression, he’d holed up in the house with the body of his mother who he’d tucked away in the closet so he wouldn’t have to see her. He wanted to die, but every time he went out to look for supplies and ran into trouble, his flight instinct kicked into high gear and he managed to get away or fight his way out of a sticky situation. Essentially he was on auto-pilot, doing what he needed to do to survive no matter what it took.

His weapon of choice was a sturdy tree branch he carved a point onto at the end.

The last thing he wanted was to find a group of people to be with, he hated the idea of being responsible for others in a world collapsing into ruin, but he’d happened along the Cheyenne VA Medical center by chance. He’d been holding out in the woods nearby when he watched two people with guns walk underneath the tree he’d set up camp in for the night, and he followed them, intending to see where they came from with intention to steal from them, he was low on food and from the appearance of the two walking underneath him they seemed to be in rather good physical shape, whilst he was wasting away from the lack of meals.

He didn’t get far in his excursion into the building he’d followed the two in before he was spotted and although he didn’t want to be a part of a group, he eventually came back to the building after managing to escape and live on his own for a couple more weeks before he gave in and went back. Agreeing to be a part of the group as long as he didn’t have to work with many others, being a Hunter was the best gig.

He could do his own thing, but his plan was to eventually leave the group and head out towards California and try and find his father if he was still alive.

That wasn’t the only thing he was keeping from the group, he also refuses to admit that he’s partially deaf, and he goes out of his way to keep anyone from finding out, he doesn’t want to be stripped of his hunter title and the shred of privacy he’s able to receive while hunting.