#rip to my brain cells & my blood pressure

[hhholycow]

stop using chhinkni every day challenge

[chaotic-orphan]

Helo helo, just asking...r u planning to update heroic betrayal? 👁👁 NO RUSH THOUGH IT'S JUST REALLY GOOD AND I CAN'T WAIT SJSJHSHSH

GOOD DAY!!

Heroic Betrayal (X)

Read part one // Continued from here

This part is dedicated to everyone who commented under the last part, that made me cackle like a maniac, and everyone who asked for a continuation of this series that warmed my heart— I’m so sorry it took so long, and I hope you enjoy <3

*~*~*~*~*

The concrete cut into her cheeks like a sharp edge, her shoulders hitting the walls and her feet tumbling over her head until she crashed and bashed every point in her body on the way down. She ended up on her stomach, blood dripping from the side of her head. She tried to push herself up, but a hand grabbed the back of her neck and dragged her stumbling to her feet.

She felt like she was going to be sick, stuck in a twister of Supervillain’s strong sharp movements that she couldn’t anticipate with her pounding headache raging.

“Now, here we are,” Supervillain said and he shoved Hero forward again. Hero tripped over her feet, her ankle rolling as they tried to stop her momentum in vain. An edge of something metal caught her around the hips and she fell forward, her torso folding with an oomph. A click and the room flooded with light. Hero squeezed her eyes shut, the light burning compared to the pitch black it was not a moment ago.

Hero squinted taking a quick survey of the room, searching for an escape, but no, no, no, no. There would be escape from this room that was just a concrete square of torture devices. Hero’s heart jumped into her throat as she glanced down at the metal bench below her hands. It was a table. A surgical table. Her stomach bottomed out as she gasped involuntary, stepping back and right into a solid chest.

Her blood ran cold and she couldn’t stop the tremors of fear tearing through her. Two strong hands settled on her shoulders and she flinched despite herself, her entire body trembling, her eyes and brain disoriented from the fall and the lack of oxygen and her fucking pounding headache. And she was really starting to wish she didn’t open her mouth.

Hero let out a sharp breath, a claw of panic grabbing at her chest as her eyes scanned the room searching for a window or anything that would tell her she wasn’t underground right now. She couldn’t… couldn’t breathe, oh fuck, there were no windows, there was a window in the cells, she gasped, pushing back against the chest shaking her head.

“Oh that’s right,” Supervillain cooed behind her, his voice painted with sick delight as his fingers tightened on her shoulders. “Villain told me you were claustrophobic. Does being underground trigger it, Hero?”

Hero drove her elbow back wildly hitting her mark, but Supervillain didn’t flinch or even grunt. Instead he grabbed her wrist, twisted her arm up and around her back, the other going to the back of her neck and slammed her down against the table.

“You really have no manners, Hero, do you know that?”

“F—fff— fuck you,” she said between fretful breaths. Every action, every movement was lessening and lessening, she only had a little bit of oxygen left in her lungs that was stuttering out. The walls pulsing closer, shrinking and she squeezed her eyes shut. At least the metal of the table was cool under her cheek.

Supervillain pushed her wrist further up her back until Hero was crying out, trying to kick back at Supervillain to get him to stop but the lack of oxygen in her lungs was dizzying as she scrambled. Her brain was fried, and she couldn’t remember any of her combat training as panic seized her throat.

She splayed her fingers, mind reaching, the invisible pull of her blades familiar as they rushed back to her hands. If she could just— two clangs against the door upstairs and Supervillain straightened, letting up some pressure. Hero pulled and pulled, trying to rip the daggers through the obstacle but Supervillain grabbed her splayed fingers and pushed them back down into a fist, smothering her connection to her daggers.

“No!” Hero wailed, struggling furiously under him, kicking back, trying to do anything, get anywhere away away away away from the danger, be able to breathe again properly. Her tears hit the metal table with wet, metallic drops, like a leaky tap dripping into the sink.

“What did I tell you about using your powers, Hero, hmm?”

“Let go of me, you fucking psychopath!” Hero cried, anger flooding her veins. With Supervillain’s hand off her neck, Hero threw herself back with a roar of adrenaline mixed with fury. Supervillain’s grip tightened on her wrist, about to push it up but Hero wedged a knee up between the table and shoved until the pair went stumbling.

Hero slipped free of Supervillain’s hold in his stunned state, but he recovered quickly, grabbing at her hoodie but Hero was too quick, and she was ascending the stairs, her breaths getting heavier but her breathing becoming even the closer she got to the surface.

She got to the door and grabbed the handle and shoved it open.

Only.

It didn’t open.

Hero stared. No. No. No, no, no, nonononono!

NO!

Hero slammed an open palm on the metal, screaming. “FLYNN! FLYNN I’M SORRY PLEASE! Please!”

Footsteps on the staircase. Hero slid down the door, banging weakly against it and crying out for Flynn to save her as Supervillain advanced again.

“Did you really think I’d leave a handle on the way out of this room, Hero?”

Hero swallowed the lump in her throat, focusing all her energy into the glare she shot at him, hoping he would melt right on the spot. Which he didn’t.

“You can come down and your punishment will be less severe than if I have to drag you down.”

“Fuck you,” she said, her voice cracking halfway through. She splayed her fingers again and wished, hoped, prayed that somehow they would get through the thick metal door she was trapped behind.

Fuck! Fuck! FUCK! What was she going to do? There was only one option for her right now and that was down, down into a tight, underground nightmare that was threatening to kill her. She needed— she needed to be able to breathe to think clearly, but even thinking was difficult at the thought of being dragged back down to Supervillain’s torture chamber.

Supervillain sighed, a few steps away from her. “Okay, Hero. Have it your way.”

He reached down and grabbed her ankle and turned to walk down the stairs. Hero kicked at him, landing a few solid ones on his arm and back before he was dragging her down and Hero’s head smacked off the concrete steps. She didn’t even have time to scream or groan or whine, small gasps at every bounce fogged her vision until she was back on solid ground.

Supervillain appeared above her, grabbing her, one arm under her shoulders, the other her knees as he bent over and scooped her up. She protested weakly, her brain rattled and her reaction time non-existent. Supervillain placed her on something cool under her skin, but she could feel something wet on the back of her head.

She reached a hand up to find the source of the wetness, but Supervillain grabbed her wrist before she could investigate and strapped it down to table in leather. He pulled the cuff tight around Hero’s wrist, so tight she couldn’t move it left or right, just up and down. She whined when he took her other wrist and restrained it the same way by her side. Then he moved onto her ankles and soon Hero couldn’t move an inch, her eyes glazed over and staring blankly above her.

Supervillain grabbed Hero’s cheek, appearing in her scope of vision, but there was two of him now, a shadow or a clone. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“Hmph, you spoiled some of my fun, Hero. I was hoping to teach you this lesson to remember, but, oh well. I guess I’ll just have to leave a reminder for you when you’re more conscious, won’t I? Something you can’t ignore.”

Hero blinked at him, the entire world moved like cotton and she was completely out of it, Supervillain’s words echoing around her head. On loop over and over again, but still seemingly so far away.

“Lemme go,” she pleaded weakly, pulling at her restraints.

Supervillain smiled a wicked smile down at her. “I’m thinking something like a three strike system, Hero. Like tally marks or something to that effect. Something easy to understand, strike one was your insolence at dinner which will not be tolerated. What to do,” Supervillain mused stepped away from the metal table and out of sight.

Hero pulled against her restraints, trying to loosen them as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Flynn… she thought hopelessly. Please, please, rescue me. Please.

Supervillain returned to the table, a hunting knife in hand. “Wait, no, please.” Hero didn’t even know what she was protesting, but the words fell from her mouth anyways as Supervillain grabbed her right hand.

“Three strikes, Hero. While I know I could cuff you in power dampeners and leave you down here to hyperventilate all night I think this will be far more effective.”

“Tell me Hero,” Supervillain began as he started undoing the cuff of her right wrist. “Is it all knives you can summon with your ability?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Any will do.”

“Fascinating. And do they all sharpen your senses when you feel them in your hand?” Hero glared at him as he free her wrist and turned it so the back of her hand was positioned above the metal table. Hero didn’t bother asking him how he knew that, because she knew the answer he would be all too happy to supply. The reason Supervillain knew everything about her; Flynn told me.

“It depends on the knife,” Hero answered, the pained fog of her mind ebbing and flowing allowing some coherent thoughts to pass through her brain. “None are as good as my blades, but that’s because I made them myself.”

“I will never cease to be awed by adepts and their crafts,” Supervillain said fondly, tracing the tip of the hunting knife up Hero’s elbow and forearm before pinching it down slightly on Hero’s wrist. Hero didn’t dare struggle or move, afraid if she did the knife would slip and she would be dead. “But now that you’re more conscious, I’ll repeat your punishment.”

“We will do a three strike system, this is strike one. With every strike I will leave a wound on you, a scar that will remind you not to make another mistake again, okay?”

Hero shivered at how easy he explained his punishment system for her, as if he was telling her that her car needed an service or one day it would just stop. “Three strikes, and I will drag you along to watch Sidekick being murdered and you’ll know it was all your fault. Okay?”

“You’re a fucking—”

“Wonderful.”

In one quick movement, Supervillain slid Hero’s right hand over the rim of the table and plunged the hunting knife in all the way through her palm. A howling, banshee’s scream tore through Hero’s throat as she bucked against her restraints, howling and screaming: please, please, stop! Stop!

Tears and snot clogged her senses as she shook her head, her arm violently trembling against the trauma and Supervillain’s tight hold. Hero splayed her fingers on her left hand, trying to summon the knife out of her hand, but Supervillain’s grip was too strong, or Hero’s pull was too weak, and he twisted the knife in her hand instead, pulling more shrieking screams of pain from Hero.

“There, now. The first two strikes will be in your palms, Hero. To remind you that even if you try to fight back, with your knives or your words or otherwise, you,” he said, stressing the final words, “will fail.”

Hero sobbed as her fingers tried to curl around the blade but could barely move more than a flinch in any direction. Hero wouldn’t be able to summon her blade for this hand for a while, until the wound healed and even then? Would she get physio for the muscles and tendons Supervillain just cut through with a terrifying amount of strength?

Supervillain put a hand on Hero’s hair, brushing the strands from her face like a parent would a child who’s eating an ice cream and threatening to get their hair stuck in it, chiding but fond.

“This doesn’t have to happen again, Hero. We can be civil with each other. You and Flynn, I know you have a special connection. A bond. You can have a nice life here, free from the burdens of being a hero in this city, of always fighting uphill battles hmm? Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Hero was shivering, staring up at Supervillain and she knew she probably looked sickly pale and ashen as she felt the blood harden around the blade in her palm, dripping down to the floor on the other side. She knew it would leave a scar, the reminder that Supervillain wanted her to know in her gut and it made her sick.

“So Hero,” Supervillain beamed, smiling down at her. “Will you behave?”

Hero’s bottom lip trembled as she nodded, warm tears flooding her cheeks as she sniffled. Supervillain’s smile turned softer, comforting, like a concerned parent. “Use your words, Hero.”

Hero sniffed. “Y-yes,” she croaked.

“Yes, what?”

Hero sucked in a breath. “I’ll… I’ll behave.”

Supervillain smiled. “Good. Good. Excellent. Now, let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?”

Supervillain removed her restraints and sat her up on the metal table, and said he’d be a minute getting the things he needed around the room.

Hero sat upright shaking violently and trying to hold her hand steady by supporting it with her free hand at the wrist. She stared blankly ahead, both staring at nothing and staring resolutely at one white painted brick, where the groove was a faded, paler white, less glaring at her while Supervillain gathered supplies.

Before too long Supervillain was in front of her, setting bandages and gauze and rubbing alcohol down on the tray beside the bed. Along with other stuff Hero wouldn’t think was necessary like a ruler and Q-tips and other supplies. He was wearing surgical gloves as well, and despite herself Hero was thinking about what he did for a living.

“Are you a doctor?” She asked, her voice hollow.

Supervillain smiled a secretive smile at the question, as if he just found her out. “Ah. You’ve noticed, have you?”

Every once in a while Hero forgot that Supervillain was her nemesis of the last year, the Moriarty to her Sherlock Holmes, the Joker to her batman, although really more like the Riddler with how elusive he was. When she considered Supervillain’s job back before she knew him, she suspected it would be something as cerebral, like a lawyer, or a judge, or a doctor. She didn’t feel good that she was right.

“Yes, I’ve been a doctor since medschool. Long hours, overworked conditions, but I won’t bore you with hospital tales, snd luckily for you I happen to be an acute trauma surgeon,” he told her, smiling up at her through his lashes. “So your hand won’t have too much lasting damage. I didn’t hit any of the important muscles or tendons.”

Hero gasped, which sounded more like a bewildered laugh, “thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She hissed as Supervillain pressed down on the wound. He smiled. “Sorry, I just have to make sure I didn’t hit anything important. Okay, yes.”

He took a Q-tip from the table and said, “okay, Hero. I need you to remain as still as possible while I do this. Try not to move too suddenly.”

Hero let out a sharp gasp of pain aa Sueprvillain inserted the Q-tip through Hero’s wound until it almost poked out the other side. “You’re doing great Hero.”

But she wasn’t. She was going to be sick as he pulled it out and she saw the blood. The smell had never annoyed her before, but now the metallic kiss hung on the air like a factory that had to suddenly cease operations, a promise of something to come.

He set the Q-tip on the table and measured the blood stain against the ruler. Hero stared down at it, her vision blurring slightly as her mind went woozy and she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Supervillain was standing over her hands on her shoulders sitting her back up again. Hero blinked, bile climbing up her throat.

“Here,” Supervillain said and shoved a bar of chocolate into Hero’s hand, the wrapper already opened. Hero blinked at it dumbly, and Supervillain gently guided it to her mouth. Hero took a small bite of the sweet, velvet chocolate. “You fainted. You’re okay. It’s normal with this kind of injury, but I would like you conscious while I tend to it.”

Hero blinked at him and when he was certain she wasn’t going to faint again he released her shoulders and Hero remained upright.

“If you’re a doctor…” Hero said, her head spinning, but she was determined to get this out of her head. “Didn’t you take an oath to do no harm?”

“Ah,” Supervillain smiled. “Yes. The hippocratic oath. I did.”

“Then how can you justify this?” Hero asked, nodding to her hand. Supervillain was silent for a moment, dabbing at the bleeding of the wound, staunching the blood and cleaning around it. His movements were so methodical, so clean and purposeful, Hero found their eyes drawn to it as she took another bite of chocolate.

“Where I stabbed you, Hero, is a very delicate place to be stabbed. There is a flurry of activity in the centre of your palm.” Supervillain squeezed just below the wound and Hero squirmed with a groan. “Here is your carpal ligament that controls the movement of your thumb, index and middle finger.”

He squeezed Hero’s thumb and said: “and here are all the muscles for full use of your thumb. If I went too far to the right I could risk damaging the ligaments that connect to your other two fingers, or hitting a clump of nerves.”

Supervillain dropped Hero’s hand and held up his own, pinching the spot the dagger went through Hero’s palm. “Here, there is a hole in your hand. No bone, no muscle, no nerves or ligaments. Minimal damage and less time for recovery. No need for more than standard hand physio and six weeks recovery at most.”

Supervillain smiled at Hero. “The Hippocratic Oath is an oath all doctors must take to do no harm. However, all doctors must accept that in order to make something better, there must first be pain. To treat the sick they must make the sick endure the pain, and fight infection, the body must fight.”

“Your defiance, in the long run, will make you worse than if I curb it now. So I am doing no harm, by ensuring that you quit fighting me unnecessarily. The same way I am trying to stop this city from running straight to ruin.”

“I must do no harm,” his smile was warm, “as a doctor. But as a civilian I can’t stand by and watch this city burn. Does that answer your question?”

Hero stared. Then shrugged with their good shoulder. “Not really, but I’m kinda woozy from blood loss right now.”

Supervillain laughed. “Mmm, let’s do something about it.”

Supervillain worked fast, careful to only press too hard when Hero gave him a snarky reply, and later on she would wonder how she got so comfortable with the man bandaging her up being the same man that stabbed her in the first place. She would attribute it to blood loss and Supervillain would bandage her head and help her up the stairs he threw her down before, and when they got into the kitchen he gave her painkillers and water.

Flynn rushed through the doors, his heart racing when he saw Hero. Her head bandaged and her hand bound so tight and thick that Hero couldn’t close her fingers even if she wanted to.

“H-Hero?” He asked, breathless. Hero smiled at him when he came in and waved. Flynn was by her side in a second, while Supervillain stopped chatting to her about the reason they chose to replace the black and white tiles for the floor in the kitchen. “Are you okay? Hero, oh—”

“She’s fine,” Supervillain said lightly. “We’ve cleared the air, haven’t we Hero?”

Hero nodded, smiling at Flynn. Something she’d attribute to her concussion later because everything was just a little too smiley, a little too comfortable, a little too easy, and she wasn’t entirely convinced that Supervillain didn’t give her the floating, high end painkillers.

“I’m fine.”

“I heard the screaming,” Flynn said, his hands going to Hero’s cheeks, checking her over and looking for any sign that she was lying to him. Other than her too large pupils she seemed okay. “I— your daggers— you—”

Hero grabbed Flynn’s hand with her unbandaged one and interlaced their fingers. “I’m okay. I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Tears brimmed on top of Flynn’s bottom eyelids as he looked at Hero, his Hero, acting so unlike herself. So compliant and soft. It made him ill, the fact that he was the reason Hero was injured in the first place. That she was being subjected to the whims of his family.

God, he didn’t think Dad would do this…

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Hero asked with wide eyes.

Flynn ran a thumb over her bruised cheek, his touch featherlight. “Of course. Will you give out to me tomorrow about it?”

She shrugged happily. “Probably.”

Flynn laughed, and leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’d love to.”

Flynn helped her stand, and wrapped his fingers around hers keeping her close. “Be sure she doesn’t sleep for the next hour or two.”

“We can watch a movie!” Hero said, her voice light and chirpy, so like it was when she’d get excited before that it made Flynn’s heart ache.

“Yeah,�� he said, swallowing the lump in his throat as he guided her out of the kitchen, away from his father and up the stairs to her room, terrified that if he dropped her hand for even a second he would lose her forever. “We can watch a movie.”

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call: (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @xenlust @books-are-everything @micechomper @shywhumpauthor @aarika-merrill @0eggdealer @watermelonrandom @tippytappytyping @swift-perseides @gloriousqueen101 @isnortkoolaidpowderteehee @jumpywhumpywriter @bitter-space @lumpofsand

@xxgalgurlxx @silentpotat0 @ladygwennn @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

[shrewtia]

𝕸𝖟 𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘 𝖔𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖚𝖓𝖚𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖕𝖔𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖆𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝕳𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖚'𝖘 𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖉 𝖉𝖊𝖒𝖔𝖓 𝖆𝖗𝖙

Since the release of the third season I've often thought about the upper moons bdas, mainly about Gyokko's and Hantengu's. And I think especially Hantengu's has been really underestimated. In my opinion, it has a lot of potential and is probably even more terrifying than most of the other's blood demon arts if you try to imagine it in a realistic setting. So I thought I'd share some of my thoughts for those interested.

Urogi's scream ⊹ His power is probably one of the most underrated ones. And interestingly, the one power that most of them share - him, Zohakuten, Urami and Hantengu's main body.

A lot of people underestimate the danger of loud noise. Not only is it crucial for demon slayers to be able to hear their surroundings to identify where an unseen attacker might come from - the ear is also the balance organ. Seeing Tanjiro struggling to hold his balance during his fight with Urogi would have been a nice detail.

Judging from the effect that Urogi's screams had on Tanjiro, I think it's safe to say his screams are above 120 decibel, which is when it actually starts to be painful. Sounds above 150 decibel burst your eardrums while sounds above 185 damage internal organs and can be deadly. I am not sure of the total range of his volume, but Zohakuten demonstrated that he coul rip someone apart with his scream. Mitsuri only survived because of her special muscle densitiy.

Also, sound travels faster through water. Urogi could e.g. pick up his victim and drop them into a body of water before diving under and screaming at them, causing a lot more damage. Of course his feathers would need to be water-repellent. And not even taking into account his power, just utilizing his ability to just pick up a weaker slayer and drop them into a lake for example, would already debilitate them, as it's difficult to get out or they might even drown if they can't swim.

Sekido's lightning ⊹ His power would obviously be extremely powerful if it worked like actual lightning. But in the anime/manga he rather imitates lightning. Aside from the obvious fact that physics laws don't seem to exist in most media and we're dealing with a dark fantasy anime, it's still fun to imagine his power as realistic as possible.

Sekido could make people's heart stop, partially blind them and even cause the blood vessels in their brain to burst. Those few who survive to tell of the demon's power would be marked by unique patterns stretching across the skin where lightning hit, known as Lichtenberg figures. Perhaps blinded and deaf, they wouldn't be able to fight anymore.

Even though most people who get hit by lightning survive without major injuries, it's still a unique power that is perfect for stunning an opponent. I suppose the author made him appear weaker for the plot. In a fanfiction it would have a lot of potential though.

Urami's size ⊹ This is mainly about how terrifying his size actually is. He's twice as tall as Tanjiro, standing at about three metres or nine feet tall. Imagine being in Tanjiro's situation and having Urami's giant hands wrapped around your head. The immense pressure would be insane. Genya really was Tanjiro's savior in that moment.

Additionally, it was interesting to see him not burning up immediately when hit by the sunlight. The scene was definitely stretched and felt longer than it actually was, but he still didn't make an effort to find shade. Comparing this to Akaza, who seemed terrified by the upcoming sun, indicating he is likely not as resistant to the sun despite having a higher rank, this seems like Hantengu developed a bit of a resistance to the sun even if only for a few seconds. Or this might be a unique feature about the clones. Since Urami is not the main body, he might be able to regenerate faster than the sun destroys his cells as long as the main body is safe and therefore survive longer when hit by sunlight.

[is-emily-real]

Rest

written for @steddiemicrofic ‘rest’ wc: 387 | rated: M | cw: major character death, gore, blood

Steve couldn’t take it. Vecna wasn’t even dead, and now? Now Eddie went and did the one goddamn thing he told him not to do.

Dustin’s sobs were raking at his skin, ripping it apart, every nerve on fire and every brain cell screaming that no, this couldn’t be real, this was all some sort of sick joke. But when he leaned down to touch the wounds, the blood under his hands was warm, and he could hear the sick way Eddie’s lungs bubbled when he breathed, shallow and slow. 

There was too much blood, and the breaths were too shallow, and his eyelids were starting to droop, and Steve couldn’t do this, God, anything but this.

The fingers on his cheek were weak, trembling from the effort. “Don’t cry, Stevie, not for me,” he crooned. “You have to get them out.”

“Not without you. I can’t do this without you.” He tried to put pressure on the bites, but he could feel how much of Eddie was missing, how much the bats had torn away, and it ruined him to know that he was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“You can.” Brown eyes stared up at him with determination. “You’re my hero.” 

Blood continued to seep through his fingers, no matter how hard he willed it to go back. “I…” Steve’s throat tightened. “I love you. Please, Ed, please stay.” 

The soft smile he got was red like the sky crackling above them, and slowly, like it was taunting him, the light in his eyes dimmed until it was no more.

He let out a guttural wail, throat burning as he clutched all that was left of his heart to his chest. He pressed a kiss to Eddie’s lips and prayed.

Even under the acrid, metallic taste, he could feel how soft his lips were.

After seconds dragged on into millenia, he pulled back, plunging into the icy numbness that was the only existence that remained for him. His hands shook as he closed Eddie’s eyes. 

“Rest now,” he whispered, placing a final kiss to Eddie’s forehead before he let go. 

Steve couldn’t feel the hands that lifted him from the ground, pulled him towards the rift and led him back into the real world.

Topside, he steeled himself. Vecna had to pay.

[lostonehero]

What remains after eternity

Logs

A video flicks to life, and a young man with slick back blonde hair and thick framed glasses steps back. "As you are well aware, humanity has recovered and flourished. Science is at the forefront of innovation, and I just happened to find the holy grail of test subjects."

The camera pans to a man with mechanical eyes who is holding up his middle finger.

"He calls himself Gunpowder Tim, or the Watcher. However, he is truly immortal and human. He claims to be a part of this group of aliens called the mechanisms, a group of immortal space pirates. So such group have come to claim him or ruin this underground lab."

"Fuck you, I'll just out live you and crawl out of these fucking rusted ruins." Tim spits from his cage.

"He needs to be trained, but my group has just caught him and is excited about the possibilities. I believe we will start with his eyes. It's going to be a fun challenge to well see how it works and change them."

"I'm going to fucking kill you." Tim snarls as another man in a lab coat injects him with something and he slumps forward.

.......

"This is year 15 of our ongoing experiments." The blonde scientist seems older, and there are a few strains of gray hair in his blonde locks. He motions to a table where Tim is strapped down. "It appears that methods of sedating and paralyzing the subject are completely ineffective, so we have to resort to restraints."

Tim growls from the metal table. "Will you stop fucking with my eyes! Carmillia already fucked them after the moon war."

"Subject has not become complacent. However, our experiments have worked on the metal and are fused to the optic nerves and are traveling down to his brain. We have successfully created a metal to flesh substance."

"All you've done is stop the pressure in my eyes fuck face. You ain't getting a fucking medal." Tim growls.

"We will continue our experiments."

.......

The blonde scientist's hair was completely white, and he had a cane, there's a young brunette man next to him. "Now, this is my successor. You'll be over seeing the subject, and please refrain from using the subjects name or ask why he has that name he will sing." He sighs. "You are familiar with our advancements, which have moved humanity forward and helped stop the need for organ donations. I hope you can use the subject to help humanity as a whole as we have."

Tim is in his cell, and there is a radio next to him. He is quiet, and his back is to the camera. "Needs of the few over the needs of the masses. I'm going to piss on all of your graves. I'll blow this planet to bits just like the fucking moon."

"Ignore him."

........

"You know Alfred is dead, died peacefully in his sleep." The brunette smiles. "Guess you won't ever piss on his grave."

Tim looks away, breathing heavily. There seems to be a green glow embedded in his chest. "Fuck..... off...." He spits out energy sapped from his being, his hair is gone and he looks starved.

"It's funny how you still keep fighting. Can't wait to see how long it takes for you to adjust to that core in your chest." He chuckles. "I won't be merciful, and I'll make you a good dog." He waves to two assistents in lead lined clothing. "Remove his vocal cords and make sure they don't grow back or fuse them together. I don't want any noise to come from him."

Tim slumps back as the radiation takes hold again.

......

"Sir?" A young scientist steps up to the brunette.

"What is it, Alex?"

"The subject ripped out all the seeds again. They barely rooted. He broke his bones to get out of the restraints." Alex frowns. "We have a few interns cleaning the blood from his holding cell. He is producing his own radiation, as you know, but it seems to have contaminated the entire area."

The brunette sighs. "At least he's quiet. I think it's time for a bit of brain surgery. We are tasked to make a weapon. Tensions are already high between nations."

"Right away, then shall we put the seeds inside?"

"No, we have to test his temperament after we place the three objects inside. The serum is complete, and the uranium is security. Is the camouflage complete?"

"Yes, sir." Alex nods again. "We will bring him back in immediately."

.........

Tim is seen strapped to the table. The top of his skull has been removed, and doctors and scientists in lead lined clothes stant around. He is pulling and tugging at his restraints to no avail. He tries to scream, but his voice is silent. He is silently begging until the first object is pushed through his brain, and he suddenly abruptly stops moving.

The rest of the film is corrupted.

........

The camera turns on in the middle of a conversation. The lab seems old dusty, and most of the metal is rusted and overcome with plants. A woman seems to be trying to coax a man with metal eyes out of what looks to be his holding cell.

"Hey, come on, Watcher. We aren't going to hurt you. It's me, Melissa." Melissa holds out a covered hand. "We've met before."

Tim tilts his head.

"Melissa..." Another woman enters the frame. "His memory is like a child. We don't have the full picture of what was done to him. We have the original works, but everything else was shredded and corrupted."

"Anna, I know, but look at him. We don't even know his name." Melissa sighs. "We just need him to not set up roots again and get him to the surface. When was the last time he saw the sun?"

"I don't know, but we have to try." Anna nods. "Come on, food is always good for him. We have to be gentle."

"I know." Melissa sighs.

......

The camera comes alive for the last time the video is full of static. "That's it, come on." Melissa is seen with streaks of white in her hair as Tim follows her. "Look at that almost there."

Anna is seen next. "Come on. Almost there, big guy. You're being so good."

Tim perks up and has a smile on his lips.

The video ends with the three leaving.

.......

The video starts again it's pitch black as the sound of bombs going off is heard. Then eerie silence before the camera dies.

[cozy-possum]

I have so much love for the way you've written these headcanons! I couldn't help but notice that the abilities more closely connected with the environment (squallers, tidemakers, inferni) tend to be…less consequential? than your thoughts around the talents we'd otherwise consider to be more dangerous like heartrenders or shadow summoners. do you think that their 'horrors' would generally *be* less "horrific" because of how people generally see these elements as less threatening, and therefore the grisha controlling them likely appear less threatening overall??

i am just in love with the idea that the fear of other nations (fjerda, shu han, novyi zem, etc) of grisha and their talents could be built on how devastating or horrific the byproducts of their talents are!

Thank you so much!!!

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This got long again; not sorry.

I don't think non-grisha would see them as less threatening, but the fact that to a degree, non-grisha can control those elements. People can create fire, and channel it into weapons or compressed engines. People can control wind and water to a degree, and non-grisha can create things like fabrikators. Is it easier when a person can control it to exact needs, yeah but it can still be done in a way by non-grisha. I could see in universe them not being views as much of a threat.

Grisha who control the elements are controlled natural disasters waiting to be pointed to the target. Everyone would do well to remember but sometimes reminders are needed.

When it comes to actual threats it depends how much control the Grisha have, so; (This goes like way more into torture than just danger tbh)

Tidemakers, and their ability to control water, can they control blood? Or is it only the chemical make-up of H2O, would they be able to control water within every cell, spinal fluid even? Make someone sick or hallucinate by altering the fluid around and in their brain? Make people think they've had meetings, had arguments, that they've won a victory when everyone around them is dead? Could they puppeteer people if they could control blood? What about snot or vomit? Could they take someone with a disease and spread the infection through manipulation of infected fluids? Beyond the obvious of manipulating infected water, beyond spreading sickness, with enough of them, could you cause a drought? Flood whole cities or towns? Drown villages that oppose your reign? Could they create diseases that spread through livestock? Could they manipulate the water/blood in the livestock and make them leave the area? Could they gather people to safety, or to be used as sacrifices? Body's for canon fodder or to pad out an armies number? And of course, they can only control the physical movement, so all those people can still scream, still cry, still shout warnings but they can't move.

Squallers , could with enough training pull the air out of your lungs. Could they, with enough force rip limbs off? Level entire cities? Could they bring up or down skiffs, houses, pushing the air under and around these things to rip them from their foundations. Using the air pressure could they burst your cells from inside? Could they raise and lower it so fast there's nothing for your body to do to pass out? Could they change it just enough to give you oxygen deprivation? Give you altitude sickness? Can they alter the air pressure to spy? To hear battle plans from cities away? Could they make it so someone hears what they want them to, altering the air so another solider speaks wrong plans into their ear and they think it the truth? Can they puppeteer people by manipulating the air pressure around someone, keeping them in a bubble? If someone is kept in a bubble, how much can the squaller deprive them of, enough wind for them to shut their eyes, to be unable to hear? Can they use their science to strip skin, to 'windblast' someone's clothes to shreds, their skin? Dry out their eyes so they cannot see? If the wind makes in into the body can they dry out your internal organs, wind whipping around and pulling stomach acid till it burns through your throat?

Inferni, they deal with fire, heat, raising the body temperature to create burns or rashes on major joints, so movement becomes uncomfortable, it becomes unsafe but not as obvious as burning someone alive so they could hide in plain sight. They can manipulate combustible elements/particles, so could they neutralize them? Bombs never going off, soldier's checking what's wrong and getting blown to bits. Changing the make-up of things so something benign becomes dangerous if tilted or moved too fast. Adding combustible materials to clothes, to food, so the more the soldiers use, if they're too close a spark will set up the entire camp. Taking those elements away, some of them have to be important to life, like a vitamin deficency but far more deadly. If it's heat focused; raising or taking the temperature to give people heat stroke, destroy livestock or farms with the heat. Could they raise it just slightly, so people thing it's the weather, could they raise it enough in winter for people to forgo fire or heat, so they freeze to death in the night? Increasing heat so people sweat and look sick when they're talking so someone thinks they're a traitor. Heating the air so everything is muffled, or it's so muggy and hot no one can focus.

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[reticent-sanctum]

The Patron Saints of Our Children

I am a mother.

Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually,

Basically all of the “-ally’s” you can think of?

That’s me. 

From the moment of conception,

My life was left at the doorstep of my uterus

To make room for someone else’s life

That by today’s definition 

Is supposed to take precedence over 

Anyone and anything

Including myself. 

What passions I may have had

Withered beneath the drought of my womb.

What luxuries I once indulged

Were stretched thin against the flesh of my belly

Until they were so very thin they vanished.

For nine months

My blood and my organs were taken captive,

My body offered as a ritualistic sacrifice 

To this clump of cells,

This fetus,

This baby,

My Child.

The sacred gate of my womanhood

Gave way and split open

And brought forth another

Human fucking life.

Even after birth my body was not my own.

I carried the moon in my breast,

Pushing and pulling the tides of milk

To sustain this tiny, desperate person.

My weight created warmth and soft places 

For these children to rest their heads

But for me it was just more surface area

For my insecure hands to roam,

Grabbing and squeezing what used to be firm,

Mourning who I used to be.

I am at war with my mind

Because this is supposed to be 

“The best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

But on the particularly bad days, 

It feels like the absolute worst. 

My brain, the captain of this cargo ship of flesh,

Commands my lonely vessel 

Across an endless sea of tears cried

From hollow eyes that I desperately wish

Could see what other people see with theirs. 

The beauty in this madness,

The beauty that’s somewhere buried deep

Within a grave I've dug for my youth.

Society says we aren’t supposed to feel like this. 

That vulnerability is taboo

And showing any sign of weakness makes you easy prey. 

That this is a blessing and how dare I taint it

With complaints, with wishful thinking?

For fuck’s sake, how DARE I have feelings?

I am a slave to comparison, 

Displaying myself side by side

With these Pinterest mothers and 

Their spotless beige houses

And their well-behaved beige children

And their perfect beige lives. 

Mothers who wake up early to do their hair and makeup,

Who make organic vegan breakfasts

And do yoga.

Mothers who can “gentle parent,” who never yell.

Mothers who make it look so fucking easy.

Mothers who, by all accounts, 

Have their shit together. 

Social media covers up the truth with 

Alluring filters and #LIVELAUGHLOVE

And photos of happy, smiling families. 

Happy, smiling children.

Happy, smiling mothers who seconds before that photo was taken

Was wiping spit up off her shirt 

And yelling at her kids to sit down and shut up and take the picture.

But those mothers are praised for doing it all

Because they are just like me. 

Scared to be exposed.

Scared to bare their ugly truths to the world.

And then there’s me and my chaos.

A house of rooms that were 

Lick-the-floor clean this morning

And a nuclear reactor meltdown by this evening.

Me, who can’t remember when she last showered

And is probably wearing the same clothes from yesterday.

I have no one to impress, not even myself,

So why even try?

I work 24 hour days, 365 days a year

With no pay, no benefits, no lunch breaks, 

No vacations, No sick leave, no 401K, no retirement plan.

Other moms are the glue that holds

Their picture perfect families together,

Meanwhile I am a poorly constructed art project

Ripping at the seams, buckling under this crushing pressure.

I have no time for myself and on the rare occasion that I do,

I cry in the aisles of grocery stores because I feel guilty

For leaving the same children I had a mental breakdown over just moments before.

I get no sleep. 

“You shouldn’t stay up so late,” says my husband. 

But you don’t get it, I think to myself. 

At 2:00 in the morning, it’s quiet and no one needs me. 

No one is crying, no one is screaming, 

No one is pressing the same button on the same toy

Over and over and over. 

It’s 2:00 in the morning and I can hardly keep my eyes open

But I swipe up to watch

One more, two more, three more stupid Facebook videos

Just because I can

Just because it’s been a long, mentally draining day

And this is the only time I get all to myself, uninterrupted

Because no one needs me right now. 

I might wear the burden of expectations effortlessly,

But that doesnt mean this shit isn't heavy.

Expected to know what to do in any situation.

Expected to have all the answers.

Expected to drop what I’m doing at any moment.

And don’t even get me started on

The looming burden of responsibility.

Responsible for remembering birthdays, social security numbers,

Doctors appointments, ball games, dance lessons,

Where the laundry goes, how many ounces of milk,

That my toddler put his left shoe under the bed.

I am a mother. 

A chef. A maid. 

I am a nurse.

A teacher. A chauffeur. 

I am a therapist.

A bodyguard. An entertainer.

I am a photographer.

A nanny. An ATM.

I have laid down my life 

To raise my children.

I have sacrificed more than most people ever will

With nothing to show for it except that my kids are alive

Even when it gets so damn hard that sometimes

I wish I wasn't. 

Do not underestimate the women in your life that are mothers.

We are slaves and martyrs to this stigma.

We are the patron saints of our children.

[theteasetwrites]

The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning

Chapter 18: A Mother's Blood

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader ❧ Era: Season 3 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: mild swearing, violence, Season 3 spoilers, character death ❧ Word Count: 5.3k

❧ In This Chapter: A walker attack leads to tragedy as Lori gives birth. Her baby is healthy, but all is not well, leading to Rick isolating himself from the others while Daryl works on finding formula for the newborn. With the new addition to the family, you have a confession to make to Daryl.

❧ A/N: Things are bittersweet this chapter. We get our first introduction to “Lil’ Asskicker,” but we also lose a few characters. We also see Reader fighting off a shitload of walkers by herself which is pretty cool, if I do say so myself. Dude, if I were in her position I’d probably just lay down and cry to be honest. Good thing I’m not living in a zombie apocalypse, I guess (though if Daryl was my boyfriend I feel like that would be a pretty good trade-off).

You were in your cell when you heard the alarms.

Everyone else was outside in the recreation area watching Hershel take his first steps using his crutches after his accident. You were just about to join after you’d tidied up the cell a bit, but that’s not how it happened.

“What is that?” you asked yourself, the incessant wailing of the alarm drowning your ears like a flash flood. You grabbed your ice axe and your gun before jogging down to the first floor of your cell block to meet the others outside.

You didn’t make it far before you were accosted by at least a dozen walkers pouring into the cell block from the common area you’d just eaten breakfast in with Carol not three hours ago.

“Shit!” you yelled, backing up while looping the tether of your axe around your belt and raising your gun to shoot. You kept walking backwards, trying to distance yourself from the jaws of death as much as possible while you shot round after round taking out six of the walkers with each bullet. Then you were out of ammo.

You’d thinned them down, but you could see more rounding the corner and following the others towards you. Panicked, you threw yourself into the nearest cell, pulling the gate closed and tying your belt around the connecting bars where it would’ve been locked if you had had the keys. All the while, that ear-piercing alarm kept going until your hearing became so muffled that the snarls of the walkers clawing at you sounded more like the ones you’d heard in your nightmares than in real life.

Gripping your axe, you started picking them off one by one from behind the bars, your belt being stretched beyond its capabilities all the while. You knew it was only a matter of time before it snapped from the pressure.

Plunging your axe into what seemed like hundreds of walker skulls, you went into a kind of adrenaline-induced killing spree. Every rain of blows from your axe felt like a fever dream, like you weren’t in control of yourself. It was all coming from some deep, inner primordial survivalist whose only mission was to get out of this alive. It was a strange feeling, as though most of your brain was turned off and darkened by the shadow of instinct eclipsing any other thought. It was the most you’d ever felt connected to whatever common ancestor was shared between humanity and barbarism.

No matter how many you killed, there were more closing in, pushing their body weight against the bars and stretching out their rotting arms to grab you. Looking between the monsters and the increasingly thinning belt, you knew the walkers would be flooding in soon. When the belt did snap, your killing kicked into overdrive as you thought of every person out there who might’ve needed your help. You had no idea if anyone else was alive considering the outside was probably being overrun with walkers too, but that was what kept you from letting them rip you to shreds. It was the thought of your friends, your family, out there.

The closest feeling you could compare it to was the night the quarry was attacked. You saw people you knew, people who’d helped you and allowed you to help them, be eaten alive by these grotesque abominations. Seeing that in your head now, coupled with your evolutionarily ingrained desire to stay alive, it fueled each swing of your axe.

The sudden absence of any more walkers in front of you was enough to turn the light on in the less primitive parts of your brain. You looked around as if in disbelief that it was over, that there was no alarm blaring in your ears anymore.

You became keenly aware of your senses again as you noticed that your throat was scratchy and acrid with the excessive amount of air going in and out of your lungs. You raised your free hand up to your hair and combed it back as your eyes scanned the knee-deep pile of rotten flesh pooling around you.

“Holy shit,” you huffed.

Suddenly, you heard the echoes of footsteps coming from the same direction the walkers had come from, but they moved too fast for walkers, and they had a gruff, comforting voice attached to them.

“(Y/N)!”

“Daryl!” you called out to him. You trudged over the bodies, careful not to get bit by any still hanging on for dear life. Emerging from your cell, you dropped your axe as Daryl came barreling towards you, dropping his own crossbow in the process.

He engulfed you in his arms so tightly that you lost all the breath you’d been trying to regain. You threw your arms around his neck and allowed yourself to take in his smell, so vital to you now that you were convinced just one whiff of him could raise you from the dead.

“What the hell happened?” you asked as Daryl pulled away from you just enough so he could look you over and check for any injuries or bites. “Where did all those walkers come from?”

He kept his hands locked on your hips as if afraid you’d fly away without him holding you there. “One of those prisoners, one we thought was dead…” he panted, “opened one of the gates… led ‘em in here.”

“And that alarm?”

“That was him too. He’s dead now.” He placed his hands on either side of your neck, his face still contorted in worry and drenched in sweat. “I had no idea where you were. Rick wouldn’t let me go after ya til we got the son of a bitch an’ stopped the alarm. I’m so sorry, baby.”

He brought you into him again, resting his chin on your shoulder. You rubbed his back up and down in attempt to calm him. “It’s okay, you did what you needed to do. I’m fine. Like you said, I can kill walkers myself now.”

Pulling away from you, he looked around at the damage you’d done. “Holy shit, (Y/N).”

You looked around too, not noticing at first the sheer multitude of walkers you killed.

“Guess librarians really are tougher than they look,” he said.

The two of you met up with Rick, Glenn, Axel, and Oscar in the tombs where you also found T-Dog’s remains as he was being feasted on by two ravenous walkers. Next to his corpse was the headscarf you’d seen Carol wearing only about an hour ago. You all assumed she was dead, too.

You were brought to tears by the sight, but you tried to keep them at bay. You were getting good at that now, pretending like you weren’t crying. It was hard, though, especially Carol. You were close to everyone in your group, but you had a special connection with her since she was the first person you met. In your heart of hearts, there was part of you that hoped she was alive somewhere in the prison, though you knew it wasn’t likely.

Emerging from the depths of the prison, you all met up with Hershel and Beth. You were relieved that at least they were all right. Beth even ran up to you and gave you a hug, a gesture by which you were first shocked, but then you quickly returned the favor.

Now, the only people missing were Maggie, Carl, and Lori. Apparently they’d split off from the rest of the group somewhere in the prison.

Rick was just about to organize a plan to go find them, but he was interrupted by a sound you hadn’t heard since the world fell: the cries of a baby.

There they stood, Carl and Maggie. In Maggie’s arms was a tiny newborn baby, its soft flesh still coated in blood and other fluids from the birth. Maggie’s lips quivered as she tried to speak to Rick, but no words were spoken.

“Where—where is—where is she?” he stuttered, pushing past Maggie’s shivering body before she could say anything.

“No, Rick—no!” Maggie cried.

That was when Rick broke down, looking at his son who just stared at the ground, his hands covered in what you could only assume to be his mother’s blood.

You weren’t able to hold back your tears anymore. They fell for them all—Lori, Carol, T-Dog. As if in shame, you hid yourself in the crook of Daryl’s neck. He wrapped his arm around your waist and allowed your tears absorb into his shirt. He hung his head and listened to the cries of yourself, Maggie, and Rick, whose sobs drowned out everything else.

You tried to be strong, you really did. You didn’t think it was weak to cry, but you felt like you didn’t deserve to cry because you hadn’t been there to save them. It wasn’t rational, they very well could’ve died anyway, but nothing about this world was rational. It was cruel and mean and hard, and yet someone had to live through it. That was you, and everyone else with you. That was the burden of living in this world, one that you could never quite accept, but not for lack of trying.

From that moment, Rick was not the same. Daryl had tried to get his attention, but he was unresponsive, at least until he picked up his axe and ran off into the prison. In his absence, Daryl stepped up to the plate, even organizing a quick run with Maggie for formula.

You volunteered to go with him, but he insisted upon you staying back and helping with the baby and clearing out the walker corpses from your cell block. That, and he already “thought he almost lost you.” It was sweet, but you knew you’d be worried sick until he came back, both about him and the baby.

You sat in the common area turned cafeteria in your cell block as you watched Carl hold the baby girl, crying incessantly while he tried to shush her. She was wrapped up loosely in his jacket, but you quickly scurried off to your cell to get a clean shirt to wrap her in. It was one of those plaid wool flannels you picked up on your travels. It kept you warm on so many cold nights, the least you could do is impart its warmth onto someone who needed it more than ever.

You jogged back into the room with your flannel in hand and spread it out on the table Carl was sat at. He looked up at you curiously, his young and yet so hardened face questioning you.

“Get rid of that jacket, lay her down on this.” You patted your hand on the soft wool fabric.

“Why?” he asked, discarding the old bloodied jacket.

“Because we just cleaned her, and if we keep her in that thing she’ll just get dirty again. Plus, this one’s warmer. Now put her down on the shirt.”

He did as you said, but still skeptical.

“Now, I’m gonna show you how to swaddle her, okay? It’s super simple.”

Usually, when you’d swaddled a baby in the past, you did it with a baby blanket that you could lay out in a diamond shape, but the shirt was the closest thing you had to a baby-sized blanket, so you’d have to make do.

“Take the right sleeve,” you instructed, performing the action as you did so the baby crying all the while, “fold it over her belly and tuck her in.” Next, you moved your hand down to the hem of the shirt, loose threads dangling from it after months of wear and tear. “Now you bring the bottom up over her feet, that way they don’t get cold. Then just take the other sleeve and pull it over tight and tuck it under her.” You mirrored the motions with your words, going slowly so Carl could pay attention to your precise movements. It wasn’t the best swaddle, but it would have to do. “And voilà. You’ve got yourself a swaddled baby.”

You picked her up and held her in your arms, but she was still crying. You rocked her back and forth, and that combined with the new swaddle seemed to calm her down til she wasn’t crying nearly as much.

You carefully handed the baby back to her brother, cooing at her in your baby voice (the one you usually used around your cat) as you did so.

“How do you know how to do that?” he asked.

You sat down next to him at the table. “I had this friend, Katie. She had a baby a few years back, and the guy she had the baby with was a real jerk.” He was also an abusive drug addict, but you didn’t feel the need to tell the young boy that. “He kicked them both out on the street when her little boy was just a few days old. That night, she knocked on my door needing a place to stay. They lived with me for about… six months before she found a new place. Had to learn a bit to help take care of him.”

Katie, you thought. Her little boy…

You hadn’t seen her since she moved out, but you talked to her over the phone every week to see how she was doing. You had a bad habit of thinking about people from the past and wondering how they were doing, if they were even alive. You hadn’t thought about her yet, about all the pain she went through. She was in love with an asshole who couldn’t give a shit about her, and you knew how that felt. In your hopeful mind, you chose to believe she was still out there, with her little boy, safe. It was what you had to believe.

“That was nice of you,” Carl said. “To let her in your house like that.”

“Well, she was a friend, and she was all alone. I found myself thinking about if I were in that situation, how would I feel?”

“It’s like in the Bible,” Beth chimed in from the other table where she sat with her father. “‘Do to others what you would have them do to you.’”

You smiled at her and nodded. “Yeah. Just like that.”

You weren’t a Christian, or religious in any sense of the word. That was your mother. When she wasn’t cooking or cleaning, she was watching Billy Graham sermons on TV or on the phone organizing Bible studies with the other local church ladies. As much as she tried to impart those beliefs onto you and your brother, neither of you could ever get into it like she did. By the time you went off to college, you didn’t believe anymore, and that was one of the reasons your relationship with her became sour.

You didn’t understand how anyone could still believe in God after what had happened in the world, but who were you to judge anyone on how they kept their hopes alive? Your hope was in the people you surrounded yourself with, and anything that provided someone else a little light in this dark world was okay in your book.

Your thoughts were dissipated when you heard the loud rumble of Daryl’s motorcycle followed by the rattling of the gates being opened.

“They’re back,” you sighed in relief. It was already dark out now, so if they had been any later you would’ve gone out looking for them yourself.

Only a few minutes later, you looked up from the crying baby in Carl’s arms to see Daryl and Maggie rushing in with formula and other baby supplies.

Daryl pulled off his poncho and dropped his crossbow before giving you a hug and a small kiss, then turned to Carl and the baby.

“How’s she doing?” he asked.

“Hungry,” you said.

He knelt down by Carl and took the baby in his arms while Maggie and Beth prepared the formula. You watched with amusement as he shushed the baby and held her tiny body in his arms. Standing up, he took the formula from Beth and began feeding her himself, cooing at her all the while.

“Come on, come on,” he said softly, encouraging the baby to drink from the bottle. “There.”

Her crying finally ceased completely as she drank. He chuckled a little and smiled at you as you stood beside him to watch the baby in all her cuteness (though, you did think Daryl was even cuter if you were being honest).

“She got a name yet?” he asked you.

You exchanged a look with Carl. “Not yet. Carl’s in charge of names.”

He looked back at Carl. “I was thinking… maybe Sophia," Carl said. You smiled at the sweet boy. “Then there’s Carol, too. And Andrea. Amy. Jacqui. Patricia.” Your smile faded as you remembered all those you lost, their names etching into your mind like old lovers’ initials on a tree. “Or… Lori. I don’t know.”

Daryl looked back down at the baby in his arms as he rocked her gently back and forth. It was so sweet you thought you’d die on the spot. He smiled the more she voraciously sucked on her bottle. “Yeah, you like that? Huh?” he asked softly, in what you could only assume was the closest he’d ever get to a baby voice. “Little ass-kicker.”

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. That’s my Daryl.

He looked up at you with a big smile. “Right?” You just snorted in amusement.

He looked around the room at the others. “That’s a good name, right?” You all laughed and nodded. It was as good a name as any. “Little ass-kicker,” he repeated, looking back down at her as she ate. “You like that, sweetheart?”

“Looks like someone’s got a new favorite uncle,” you said.

Daryl smiled with reddened cheeks and the others laughed some more, enjoying the peaceful moment and the sense of family between you all. Even the prisoners, Axel and Oscar, were sharing in the joy of watching the little baby have her first meal.

The day had been a tragedy, but at least there was one good, wholesome moment amongst all the death and despair. Life was constantly shifting between intense highs and even more intense lows, but the highs were worth enduring everything else, you thought.

Daryl didn’t have watch that night, so the two of you retired to your cell after the baby was put to bed. As you sat on your mattress, Daryl sat behind your shirtless body and changed the bandages on your gunshot wound with the utmost care and concentration.

“It’s not surgery, you know,” you told him.

“Jus’ don’t wanna mess up the stitches.”

Once he’d finished, he pressed a featherlight kiss to your bandage. You didn’t feel it, but you heard him make an exaggerated “mwah” sound as he did it. “There.”

You giggled and turned to face him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Thanks, honey.”

He nodded. “Anytime.”

He handed you your nightshirt and helped you get it over your head and arms. Laying yourself down and snuggling under the covers, you watched as he stripped down to his underwear in preparation to sleep. He usually kept all his clothes on when he slept, but the added security of the prison made him a little more comfortable letting his guard down. Even so, the man could get dressed at the speed of lightning, so if he needed to get up and go he still could.

“You looked so cute with that baby earlier.” You didn’t mean to say that out loud, but it just kind of happened.

He scoffed as he joined you under the covers. “Should start chargin’ ya a quarter every time you say I’m cute. I’d be a rich man.” He wrapped his arm under you and pulled you in to rest your head on his chest.

“I mean it, Daryl. You’re a natural with babies.”

“Don’ know about that.” He absentmindedly played with your hair as he usually did.

“Uncle Daryl,” you laughed. “Has a nice ring to it.”

He let out a soft chuckle, its delightful lilt fading into a few moments of comfortable silence.

“Daryl, if I ask you something, do you promise not to get mad?”

He looked at you with furrowed brows. “Depends. What you gonna ask?”

You rolled your eyes. “You won’t get mad?” You felt like a little kid about to tell your dad you accidentally cracked the windshield of his 1959 Eldorado with a baseball (you knew the feeling from experience).

He sighed. “I won’t get mad.”

“Have you ever… thought about having a child?”

You knew this was uncharted territory in your relationship, so you were trying to tread carefully. What you did know about Daryl’s childhood was that he hated his own father, so if anything you were expecting him not to have any desire to be a father himself. Still, you were curious, and seeing the image of Daryl, the man you loved so much, holding that sweet, tiny baby in his arms… it got you thinking.

He was silent for a bit, but he hadn’t recoiled. You felt his muscles tense and his heartbeat speed up a little, too. You just hoped he would speak and save you from having to guess what he was thinking.

“Never thought about it,” he said simply.

You nodded. “I’m not saying I want to have a kid or anything,” you blurted out, “just that it’s good to know.”

He looked at your seriously. “Do you want a kid?”

You gulped nervously. Now you were the one tensing up. “I… I don’t know. I used to say I’d only have a kid if I ever met someone I’d want to have a kid with. I was fine with not ever having any if that’s how it ended up.”

“What about now?” he asked. You couldn’t believe he was still even talking to you. Daryl Dixon surprised you more and more everyday.

“Now… it’s a scary world to have a baby in.”

Daryl nodded in agreement. He couldn’t help but be curious about what you said about finding the right person to have a baby with, and wondering if he could be that person.

He never thought about having children. He’d never even been in a relationship before, how was he supposed to think about being a father? Now that he was thinking about it, the idea frightened him, but if he had to have a child with anyone, he knew it would be you.

“Couldn’t live with myself if—” he cut himself off.

“If what?” you asked.

He swallowed hard. “If what happened to Lori… happened to you.”

You were silent for a bit, a distant echo of Rick’s gut-wrenching sobs reverberating in your mind. “Hey,” you sat up to look him directly in the eyes. “I’m not saying I want to have a baby, I guess what I’m saying is… hypothetically speaking, you’re the man I’d want to have a baby with.”

His eyes widened, yet softened as he looked at you. “I’d uh, I’d wanna have a kid with you too… ya know, hypothetically speaking.”

You closed your eyes and smiled. “Thanks, Daryl.”

The night passed by without incident. When the morning came, you were one of the first ones up again (though Daryl had gotten up before you to clear out the generator room) so you made oatmeal for everyone again.

Rick was still acting strange, alienating himself from you all and not interacting at all with the baby or Carl. You hoped it was just his way of grieving and not a permanent state.

Later that day, Daryl, Carl, and Oscar cleared out the lower levels of the prison. You were feeding the baby in the common area when he came in with Carol in his arms.

“Oh my god,” you said, standing up to see if she was really there. “She’s alive?”

Daryl nodded as he hurriedly carried her into the cell block while you followed before handing the baby to Beth. “Barely. Think she’s dehydrated.”

“I’ll get her some water,” you said. It was a miracle. You hadn’t lost as much as you thought yesterday, so that was a relief.

The day wasn’t going too bad up until Rick and Carl came back into the prison with a woman you didn’t recognize.

She was injured, shot in her leg, and carrying a katana. You wondered why Rick had brought her into the prison, but then you realized: she was carrying a bag of baby formula.

Glenn and Maggie had gone out only a few hours earlier to find formula and ammo. The woman said she’d seen them get taken by “the same son of a bitch” who shot her. When they mentioned the prison, she figured it was where they came from.

“How do you know we can trust her?” Oscar asked as you all discussed your next move.

“We can’t,” you replied, “but we can’t take the risk of not believing her, either.”

“This is Maggie and Glenn. Why are we even debating?” Beth asked.

“We ain’t,” said Daryl. “I’ll go after ‘em.”

“Well, this place sounds pretty secure. You can’t go alone,” Rick retorted.

“I’ll go,” offered Beth.

“Me, too,” Axel chimed in.

“I’m in,” Oscar agreed.

“Well, if you all are going, I’m going, too,” you said. It would be a ragtag group, but it would have to do.

About twenty minutes later, you were in your cell getting ready to go. Daryl had given you a funny look when you said you were going to join in the rescue, but you brushed it aside. You knew he hated for you to go anywhere with a chance of danger, but you loved Maggie and Glenn, so getting them back was something you wanted to be a part of.

As you packed a few essentials for the journey, you heard Daryl swing open the squeaky gate to your cell. You felt him place his hands on your hips before spinning you around to face him.

You giggled at his sudden touch, but he just looked at you seriously as he chewed in the inside of his bottom lip. “You ain’t goin’, (Y/N).”

Your eyes widened and your smile faded. “Why not?”

“Too dangerous. We don’t even know if this girl’s tellin’ the truth. And if she is, these people got weapons, military-grade. I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

You forced his hands off of you and stepped away from him. “Are you shitting me?”

He looked at you surprised. “Nah, I ain’t.”

“So you don’t think I can fight? Or do anything useful around here?”

Daryl shook his head in frustration. “No, I ain’t sayin’ that. I’m sayin’ I don’t want you in any danger if I can help it.”

“But what about you?” you asked, your tone getting more and more irritated. “You go out there constantly, alone. You don’t think that worries me? Hell, when you went to get formula yesterday, all I could think about was every possible bad thing that could happen to you.”

Daryl lowered his head. “I know.”

“You know?!” you practically yelled. “I don’t think you do.”

“I do, (Y/N). Back when ya got shot, I wasn’t able to keep you safe. I don’t want anything like that to happen again. If you go with us, I can’t protect ya. It ain’t just one kid with a gun.” He tried to grab your hands but you smacked his away.

“Just go,” you said, turning around and rather petulantly knocking your pack to the floor. “You’ve made your point.”

“(Y/N), listen to me—”

“No, Daryl!” you yelled, turning back to face him and pointing your finger in his chest. “You listen to me. I’m tired of people treating me like I’m useless. I can fight, I can hold my own. I know I can, but you just think I can’t do anything!”

“Hey, that ain’t true!” he yelled back. “I know you can do it. Told ya, I just can’t lose you.”

“Well I can’t lose you either but I guess my feelings don’t matter. And in any case, if I told you you couldn’t go anywhere or do anything remotely reckless then you’d throw a tantrum! So I just suck it up and sit around worrying my ass off til you get back. That’s just how it works. What kind of double standard is that, you get to do whatever you want but when I want to do something it’s ‘too dangerous’?”

“Nah, you don’t get it.”

“I do get it, Daryl.” Your voice turned from boisterous with anger to quivering with sadness. “You’re the most important thing in the world to me, and you going out there alone, or even just not knowing if you’re going to come back… it kills me. But I deal with it because I love you.” You wiped your tears away, ashamed that you let yourself cry again. “So go, please.”

Daryl sighed. “I don’ wanna leave with you like this.”

You laughed. “Well that’s tough. You’re just going to have to deal with it. I guess I’ll just be here waiting for you,” you shrugged.

Daryl tentatively stepped closer to you, not wanting to leave with you being angry with him. “I love you, (Y/N).”

You looked down and away from him, your arms crossed and your tears still falling. “I love you, too. You just get under my skin.” You wiped away a few more tears.

“Next time,” he said.

You lifted your head. “What?”

“Next time, you can go with me. But I don’t have a good feelin’ about this, baby. I don’t want you gettin’ involved. Please, trust me.”

You lifted your head and rolled your eyes, now noticing Daryl was just an inch or so away from you. “I trust you blindly, Daryl. It’s my fatal flaw.”

He brought the back of his hand up to your cheek and wiped away a few more times. “No cryin’ for me. I’ll be back before you know it. Then you’ll wanna get rid o’ me again.”

You laughed. “Not possible. I can’t get enough of you.”

He smiled and leaned forward to give you a long, sweet kiss. “I love ya so much. Don’t ever change, sweet girl.”

He left shortly after that. You watched him, Rick, Oscar, and Michonne, the new woman who would lead them there, climb into the familiar sage green Hyundai. Standing next to Carol as she held the baby, she slipped her hand in yours and squeezed it tightly. “He’ll be back,” she said. “He’s strong.”

You nodded. “Too strong for his own good.”

You were still pissed at him, but you didn’t want him to think you were if he was going to go off and get himself killed. You put on a smiling face and the others waved them goodbye. Daryl stuck his head out of the passenger window and smiled at you, raising his hand to wave back.

You brought your hand to your mouth and blew him a kiss. Carol watched you and laughed, to which you elbowed her gently in her side.

Daryl tucked his head back in the car, then you watched as it went through the open gates and faded behind the trees that separated your world from the outside.

~

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Series Masterlist Next Chapter ➳

~

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[sunflowerharrington]

stitches: chapter 5

chapter 005: i’m screaming, but i can’t wake up

STITCHES MASTERLIST

fandom - stranger things (2016-)

rating - mature, for now

pairing(s) - eddie munson �� reader, steve harrington × reader, billy hargrove × reader

stitches taglist - @vingtetunmars @dallysnecklace @preciousbabypeter @eddiebillysteve @taecube @quickiesgirl @gods-favorite-asthmatic dm or comment to let me know if you would like to be added or taken off!

stranger things taglist - @eddies-bat @friendly-neighborhood-ghoul @sympathyforher dm or comment to let me know if you would like to be added or taken off!

word count - 3455

warnings and tags for this chapter - trauma, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), papa is mentioned, 001 is mentioned, vecna, implied death, vecna’s curse, telekinesis, levitation, blood and violence, gore, cemeteries, fear of being buried alive, hallucinations and visions, the mind flayer.

author's notes - are we all okay? also, i’m… not sorry 🤭 title from ‘simple death’ by chelsea wolfe

can also be found on my A03. @/sunflowerharrington

Respiration: The act of breathing; The process in living organisms involving the production of energy, typically with the intake of oxygen and the release of carbon dioxide from the oxidation of complex organic substances. Or in your case; contaminated air filling your lungs, polluting your body, and the release of air with an even higher mass of toxins.

You concentrated on this process for a few moments longer as the voice filled every inch, every cell in your brain, echoing in your ears, causing a stinging sensation to protrude through your eyes. Your laboured breaths began to still, just as you felt a burning sensation creeping up your spine, around your neck and into your throat, stopping you from inhaling further.

“Help!” You screamed, your voice muffled by something caught in your throat, holding onto your neck and doubling over, trying to release whatever had lodged itself at your diaphragm.

Your breath faltered as you gasped, the sound of crackling getting louder and louder, threatening to burst your eardrums. You got up from your position on your battered and purple-bruised knees and turned towards the loud, booming voice, your back painfully straight as you stood upright.

“Nobody is going to help you, Four,” the voice growled, seething with the same toxicity in the air surrounding you, sending a shiver down your spine. “You should know this by now.”

You rose from the ground slowly, cutting through the sharp air, your brows furrowing. Were you doing this to yourself, or was it somebody else? White rays of light from the lightning played and danced on your arms, creating a ridiculously beautiful scene through the darkness of the rest of this realm.

Through this cycle of Hell, all you could think about was the possibility of being able to escape. You casted a glance towards a clock hanging right in front of you, eye to eye with your reflection in the cracked glass, meeting your own chilling stare.

“I have been waiting for so long to meet you,” he said, his voice shrill, full of hatred and disgust.

The sudden noise forced your body to suddenly freeze up, crackling the pressure in your joints that had already had added pressure to them from floating against your own will. Slowly, you turned your head slightly to the right and towards the noise, his figure catching your eye as he emerged from the shadows, the lightning illuminating each and every tendril and vine covering his badly burnt body, every inch of his body covered except his deadpanned eyes.

He looked almost uncomfortable with your presence, …keeping his distance as he spoke to you with such force you were surprised his vocal chords hadn’t been fully ripped out yet. His cold gaze began to travel over your body, landing on your eyes, his rolling into the back of his head right after.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice rasped as you tried to exhale, choking on the three spores caught in your throat, cutting through your skin like the blade of a sharp knife.

You looked back down at the coffin beneath your levitating corpse, eyes widening as you watched four cloaked individuals place a lid on the coffin, over your slowly disintegrating corpse, a lid with your number engraved on top; in Roman numerals. IV.

The nickname Billy gave you.

Blood pumped through your veins rapidly as you took in the sight; your lifeless corpse covered up by a slab of stone, being dropped 6 feet under by the cloaked and masked individuals, your heart shattering when the grave began to become sealed over by the dead soil, roots and dried and shrivelled up leaves brushing over the surface.

“You should have joined One while you had the chance, Y/N.”

You bit back a quiet weep, watching the blood curdling, content look across his face. Frowning, you squeezed your eyes shut and let out a loud, frustrated scream, and soon you fell to your bruised knees, the thoughts that had been infiltrating your mind vanishing upon impact.

“I really thought better of you, Y/N.” You noticed the familiarity in the way he talked, how he stood with his hands clasped in front of him.

He reminded you of Papa.

“All of those horrible thoughts in your mind… I can make them all go away. You just have to say the word.”

“No, you can’t help me.”

You rubbed at the area where the hooks would have been puncturing your skin if it had been your soul in that casket, your skin burning as the pads of your fingertips caressed the invisible wounds. You stared at him with fire in your eyes, studying the small sections of his blood-covered skin that the circulation hadn’t been cut off from, analyzing the way he blinked, the way his soft, deep blue eyes contrasted with the rest of his being.

Something about him also looked… familiar. Even his presence made you feel at home in your jail cell. But the only three other people to ever be in your cell were Papa, Dr Owens and Peter Ballard.

He let out a contented sigh, now studying your own face for some kind of ammunition. He beckoned something in the shadows to reveal itself with a long, pointed finger, and soon somebody took a place beside him with her arm dangling by her sides, a stern look on her face, her other arm out in front of her keeping you floating in the air.

“Four.”

“Eleven,” you scowled, glaring at the hazel eyed girl.

Eleven rolled her eyes and took a step towards you, her eyes catching your gaze in the dim lights of the lightning above you. You watched as her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she closed her eyes, hearing her let out a sigh. “If you stayed in your room like Papa asked you to that day and didn’t go after One, none of this would have happened. You would be alive. I would be alive. Everybody in Hawkins who has died would still be alive. And it’s your fault that they are not.”

She studied you for a second to see a reaction, the black veins appearing on her neck adding to your growing concern. They looked the same as Billy’s, except more prominent, stronger than before. And something different; blood trickling down her face from her eyes and nose like a waterfall, cursed by the underworld.

“No, you know that’s not true,” you stated, your voice calm and convincing to a normal person, but to Eleven the fragile statement had more ammunition to taunt you.

Soon she also began to levitate, coming to your level to stand eye to eye with you, her hazel eyes burning into yours as if hot, melted candle wax had been poured onto your face. But you couldn’t feel it. Just the sensation created in your mind.

“It doesn’t have to end like this, Four,” she continued. “You can join us like you said you would.”

“Who is this, Eleven?” Your voice shook, riddled with undeniable nerves and confusion.

“A friend.”

Papa never allowed you to have any real friends. Why would he allow Eleven to? Special treatment, you supposed.

You sighed, closing your eyes, attempting to block out the endless taunting from Eleven and her “friend”, concentrating on trying to get yourself back on your feet on the ground no matter how much energy and power it took. You didn’t care about how you looked, rubbing your temples, anticipation rushing through you as you felt yourself starting to lower to the ground.

As your bare feet made contact with the ground, a throbbing sensation began to grow in your head. You hid your face in the palms of your hands, your fingers brushing the soft hair on your buzzed head instinctively as Eleven came to kneel next to you.

You sat down next to her, curling up into a ball, a concealed smile on your face. Make them think you’re weak, then strike. They won’t see it coming.

Eleven gently put her hand on your shoulder and gave it a little squeeze, making you lift your head up to look at her, her calm voice almost startling you. “We will not hurt you, Four.”

We will not hurt you, Four.

How come she didn’t say it when she threw you against a wall, crushing the bones in your right forearm? How come she didn’t utter those words when she fucked with your mind and made you ruin Six’s red block tower? And afterwards when you were sent to electroshock therapy, that little smile on her face told you she didn’t mean a word she said.

“I don’t feel like I belong here, Eleven,” you sniffled, wiping your dry cheeks beneath your eyes. “I don’t belong anywhere. I didn’t even feel right in the lab.”

It was true. There is no denying that. Sitting in your little jail cell with your mentally abusive thoughts, screaming at nothing, just wanting the voices to get out of your head. Wanting, waiting for one of the other test subjects to be so done with you that they just finish the job then and there, suffering consequences, but nothing as bad as being held captive in your own mind.

“What did it feel like when you were brought here?” She asked, avoiding reacting to your statement altogether, switching her position to kneel in front of you.

Pain. Undeniable, excruciating, never ending pain. The feeling of falling like that without dying being something you never wanted to experience ever again. The abysmal sound of police sirens surrounding that burning, broken down car and the sound of screaming filling your eardrums… The mall bursting into flames behind the blue Camaro…

Your body falling through the abyss and heavily to the ground, your bones on the brink of shattering, the blood on your left side. And then seeing Billy Hargrove for the first time; the first boy who ever kissed you, ten minutes ago…

“All I felt was pain— Why are you asking me this?”

“You need to heal, Four. Let us help you,” the entity said, taking his stance next to Eleven.

You decided you were going to dub this entity as Papa, because the way he carried himself was way too similar to be just a coincidence. Maybe this happened when he was attacked by that tall monster with a face like a flower, covered in teeth, blood and a slimy residue.

Eleven took your hands in hers, and the entity rested a hand on your shoulder, the slimy substance trickling down your arm. The familiarity of this act, the uncanny way he stood, it became too much. This… creature couldn’t be Papa. No.

Papa was dead.

But so were you.

Having no idea what to believe anymore, you leaned into their touches, letting Eleven caress the side of your face with her knuckles, pressing a kiss to your lips.

An angel kiss or a Judas kiss. An act of genuine intentions, or intentions disguised as genuine, careful but cunning. You couldn’t tell, and/or were too tired to even care. The latter seemed more likely.

The events of the identification of hostile forces and subsequent execution directly before the prediction of betrayal and the prediction of death. But you had already died.

So somebody else was going to die, and the blood would be on your hands.

Was it going to be Eleven who would take somebody else’s life? Was it the entity?

You gasped when her lips met yours, and you slowly let your eyelids flutter shut, the sensation of strong hands running up and down your body returning as lips caught yours in a kiss. Arms weaving around your waist and another scratching the nape of your neck lightly, reminiscent of the way Billy had done. A betraying tear quickly left your tear ducts, staining your left cheek; you couldn’t join Eleven and Papa.

The kiss reminded you that there was somebody else out there that needed your help more than ever. All alone in the wilderness, or another part of the Upside Down. You didn’t want to have to think of all of the bad things he must be going through right now, but part of you, most of you, wanted to make sure that he was okay.

As you closed your eyes, you couldn’t feel the visions of Eleven and this creature that had been tormenting you vanishing, leaving you in an abyss; pure darkness.

Perfect, one step closer to locating Billy’s whereabouts.

You had only ever successfully entered somebody’s mind once. Two’s. And that place was even darker, even scarier, more horrid than your own jail cell. You promised yourself you would never do it again, but it was your only hope.

An unfamiliar scent filled your nostrils; dancing around your throat, overpowering your senses. Too much of this could potentially mess with your powers and you hated it. Grease and oil and the smell of warmth mixed with something sweet, something savoury, and something that smelled like the earth.

You turned your head to the side, noticing something odd. You were not in Billy’s mind, nor your own. But a little girl’s mind, full of precious memories; good and bad. Maybe mentioned by one of you previously.

Maybe she would be your saviour if you could get through to her.

Your mind threw a picture at you, like a memory, but one you didn’t remember; you, laying in the devil’s arms as a baby, and you felt a blush creeping onto your stained cheeks. You looked at the young girl, grazing your bottom lip between your teeth in thought, trying to figure out what she could possibly have to tell you, and how on Earth she landed in your memories. This little redhead girl you had never met before, sitting with her legs crossed in front of a grave, wiping underneath her eyes with the sleeves of her oversized denim jacket.

“Poor girl,” you mumbled under your breath, watching with soft, concerned eyes as she picked up a piece of paper with shaky hands.

You took a step closer to her. Now you could see the different shades of red in her fiery hair, the yellow details pinned to the blue denim jacket, the yellow scrunchie holding her hair back in a low ponytail. She flinched a little as you sat down next to her, mirroring the way she had been sitting, sitting opposite her as she read from the paper.

Could she feel your presence?

Her tears sparkled in the light as she read, continuing to wipe underneath her eyes with the sleeves of the denim jacket she had been wearing.

Breath hitched in your throat, catching in your windpipes as you read the words engraved on the headstone, sounding out each letter as that was all Papa had taught you how to do. The bare minimum.

WILLIAM HARGROVE.

BORN MARCH 29 1967.

DIED JULY 4 1985.

MAY HE REST IN PEACE.

With no time to process this, you stopped in your tracks upon hearing the little redhead begin to speak, this time her voice loud and clear in your mind.

“Dear Billy…”

Billy. Billy Hargrove. William… Hargrove... Was Billy a nickname?

And was this little girl… a relation? A friend? A stranger who saw his untimely death occur and just wanted to pay her respects? Billy died. He did die. He felt it himself. But somehow he was still alive. Still breathing.

However, you wanted to find Billy’s soul, not his slowly rotting corpse. But if his soul was out of the Upside Down, which wasn’t likely, his corpse would have followed it. He would have had to enter back in some way, the way Chrissy Cunningham did in the Munson’s trailer in the overworld.

A shaky breath left your lips as you read the letter, familiar words popping up on the pages:

Torture.

Death.

Blood.

Sorrow.

Hitting.

Sacrifice.

“Sacrifice,” you repeated, images of fingers curling around your neck circling your mind, squeezing your brain, drawing blood to your nose and eyes. Choking on the spores in the air of the other realm, cutting into your throat, letting the last of your life wither away from the inside out.

You covered your mouth with your hand to muffle your screams, tears running down from your reddened eyes, down your blotchy cheeks, dropping onto your shaking hand.

“…love your shitty little sister, Max.”

Sister? Max? Why did these people have names and you did not?

Another uneven breath left your lips as you gasped, stepping backwards into a small puddle of water, slipping on the wet surface and landing hard on your back.

You placed one hand either side of you and slowly got to your feet, holding your hands out in front of you to balance yourself. Taking one step forward, and then another, slipping like Bambi on ice, yet staying put on your feet.

Your footsteps echoed against the dark, wet surface, feet slapping against the water and the columns protruding from the ground as you stood up, slowly moving closer to the headstone.The ripped fabric of your gown followed, flowing behind you in time with your steps, the blood-soaked fabric slapping against the back of your legs.

You looked down to find yourself holding a blood-soaked shirt in your hands. Scarlet before the blood, crimson dripping down your arms and onto the hard surface beneath your feet, mixing with the water. Pink water lapped at your feet, brushing over your skin as you walked.

Now standing opposite the grave in front of ‘Max’, you knelt, your battered and bruised knees burning upon contact with the water, making you hiss. Tears began welling in your eyes as you placed a hand on the cold, damp stone, listening to the little girl’s sobs.

You painfully turned around on your knees to face her, your skin prickling with a million goosebumps as you did so. You inhaled a sharp breath, just as you extended your arms out to take Max’s hands in yours, giving her emotionless masked face a studying look.

She flinched as you placed her hands between yours, lifting them up to press a kiss to both of the palms of her hands.

“Max?” You whispered, watching her eyes dart around the surrounding area you could not see. “Max. Please nod if you can hear me.”

She glided her gaze slowly from your face to the tips of your blood-stained fingertips, down your hospital gown, across the thousands of cuts. Her intense, glazed eyes caused the hairs on your arms to stand on end, her gaze somehow crawling under your skin.

Her head stayed still for a moment, eyes locked with yours. The dead look in her eyes was an uncomfortable sensation to your skin, the look playing with fire, burning your cells as the hair on your arms and the back of your neck bristled. And you only wished for one thing during that moment; get the hell out of here.

“Four,” a familiar voice whispered, spitting your name out as if it were venom. Poisonous enough even he couldn’t handle it. “What are you doing?”

“I am helping Max.”

He chuckled darkly under his breath, coming to sit down next to you with his legs crossed, the same cuts and bruises on his arms, legs and bare chest. “Max wanted me to die, Y/N. These are fake tears, you see. Don’t help her.”

Run for your life, Max. You don’t need to be here right now. Go. Go now.

Max didn’t budge from her place opposite you and Billy, who somehow landed in Max’s mind. Could he enter minds too? Did he have powers? Why was he not captured by Papa?

“I have been waiting to hear those words, Max. Waiting so very long. But what you said wasn’t the full truth, was it, Max?” He asked, his voice deeper than usual, raspier. He sounded… wrong. “You know, I think there’s a part of you buried somewhere deep, that wanted me to die that day. That was maybe even… relieved. Maybe even happy.”

“Billy, no, that’s not true. I wouldn’t—!”

Suddenly, both Billy and Max vanished, and you were left with the fading sound of Billy laughing and Max screaming.

Oh.

Oh no.

That monster wasn’t trying to save me.

You panted as Eleven pulled away, smiling as much as she could muster, fake written all over her pretty face. Looking down at your hands the shirt was gone, but the blood remained, trickling out of your nose, mouth, eyes and ears.

Why?

Why did you do this?

[lfnr-blog-blog-blog]

White Picket Fence

Pairing | Bucky x f!reader, OC (Cameron) x f!reader

Warnings | Mentions of injury, blood, non graphic domestic abuse, arranged marriage. MINOR DNI. Please don't read if this could be triggering for you, as always my inbox is always open if you need to talk or need help escaping a situation.

Summary | Running from a situation you don't want to be in leads to making a message for the true love of your life.

A/N | Thank you to @riverevelations being there for me tonight. I love and adore you and thank you for letting me bounce ideas off of you. and thank you to @extremelyblackandwhite for encouraging me to use this prompt. Part 2

Angsty prompt: "Know that I loved you, Know that it wasn't enough."

Faith is a funny thing, people always promise that if you have enough faith some higher power will solve all your problems, well I don't subscribe to that theory. Faith sucks, trying to believe in something that has real consequences when you cannot see, touch or interact with it.

You break through the trees, out of breath and soaked to the bone. Your panic shows in the breaths you can see in front of you, the snow falling around the shack you have been sprinting towards as the sun started to dip below the horizon. Nearly falling as you mount the stairs to the one hope of help, Bucky, you can just hear him, “Three more steps doll.” Reaching the door, “Now open the door, step inside and find something to stop the bleeding.” Activating the flashlight on your cell phone you find the towels, pressing them to your side to help stem the bleeding from the stitches you ripped open, running from the monster at the party.

Love should be enough to make faith work, faith that you would find me, faith that I could be saved, faith that we would get our happy ever after, but like I said faith is something that I cannot believe in. The concept of faith increasingly fleeting as I lie here bleeding.

It all started so nicely, a party in your honor, celebrating your engagement to Cameron, you didn’t want to be there but your family insisted on a grand party, drinks flowing, fancy food, and stuffy clothes. You should have felt like a princess in the dress your fiancé made you wear but you felt nothing but trapped, the large skirt with its layers of tulle suffocating, the top too tight, too revealing. This wedding, nothing more than a scheme to keep you quiet, his family happy, and your dad richer, and Cameron in control of you. His method of control more violent as each day passes, the stitches on your ribs from his most recent outburst. It ended with you running out of the roundhouse and into the woods, running from the danger in the room. His hands wrapped around your arm, holding you in a bone crushing grip, whispered threats swirling through your brain, disguised as kisses to your temple. A marriage of convenience and nothing else, everyone to make sure you were aware of that glaringly obvious fact.

Bucky's voice starts again, “Hold pressure doll, I am coming for you. Just tell me where you are. Click the button on your necklace.” You are barely able to press the beacon with the shaking in your hands. He is nearly a day away, stuck at a conference with Steve, but the beacon will alert him. Stripping the dress from your body, trying to get warm under anything you can find, an old tarp, a ratty blanket, and damp newspaper. You pull out your phone, the X at the top telling you that you won’t be able to reach him, which you knew anyways. Looking at the pictures of the love of your life, your Bucky, the pictures he took on top of the Ferris wheel this June, pumpkins in the fall, and the snow that was falling around you now, picture of the two you doing what you loved most, being with the other. The puddle of blood growing despite your efforts to stall it. You click over to the camera, taking one last message for him.

We should have had it all Bucky, all the ups and downs, the fights, the kisses, the white dress and pretty flowers. Three kids and a dog, the white picket fence. But instead we are cut short, nothing but convenience ending our future. Know that I loved you, know that it wasn’t enough. Not enough to save us from this fate, I would have given you the world, but now all I can give you is this, a cold body and a video saying goodbye. Faith can’t save us now. I loved you Bucky Barnes, and I would have loved to be your doll forever.

You click the camera off as you wipe the tears from the darkness growing in your eyes. His voice coming to you one last time “I love you doll.”

[cinemagh0ul]

Sharing some Saw Trap ideas I came up with for my fan-story/spinoff

Don’t ask why I’ve thought of this stuff. I have problems, this has already been established.

-

The Autopsy Trap: The player has a poison in their stomach that will kill them in a certain amount of time. The player must surgically remove their own stomach (which you can survive without if done right, I checked) in a specific amount of time before the poison effects the rest of their body

The Automatic Reverse-Beartrap: The player is put in a contraption around their head that’s slowly ripping their jaw open. In order to get out of the contraption, they must unlock it with a key that is in another blender like contraption that will repeatedly cut up the players hand as they grab the key.

The Anchor Trap: The player is chained at the bottom of a water tank a far distance away from the glass walls. This trap is rigged with no given way out, but if you were to free yourself from the chain, you could break the walls.

The Rat Trap: The player has their tongue trapped in an almost reverse-reverse beartrap that in a certain amount of time will close on the victim's tongue, cutting it off. This trap is rigged, but one of the players has beaten this test by placing their hands over their tongue causing the trap to clamp down on their hands instead.

The Meat Grinder Trap: The players will be put on a conveyor belt that leads them towards a giant shredder that will tear them to shreds. They must run as fast as they can on the conveyor belt until one of them reaches and hits the control panel which will stop the belt and open the exit.

The Acid Vat Trap: A key to an exit is inside a vat of corrosive acid, one of the players must stick their entire arm in the vat and search around for the key at the bottom.

The Reanimator Trap: This trap is more psychological based; a player is set up to fight a reanimated puppet corpse (which will usually be of the player’s deceased loved one). The corpse is real but not alive, rather controlled by mechanical supports attached to their limbs, hands, feet, and spine. This corpse puppet will be controlled to kill the player (and is usually armed with a weapon), so the player needs to fight the corpse until they deactivated the control source on the puppet (usually found in the corpses head).

Hidden in the Sand Trap: The players must run across a floor of sand before the wall behind them crushes them. However, there are explosive mines underneath the sand in randomized locations and they also must look for a key that is also hidden in the sand in order to unlock the exit door.

The Blood Coffin Trap: The players are trapped in a room with a certain amount of time, if they don’t make a decision in time, the door will close forever, and every player will be trapped inside. The decision in question is a coffin like cell in the wall that will crush the person inside, the blood from the player will go through the coffin’s floor triggering a pressure point which will unlock the door. The players must sacrifice one of them in order to exit this trap.

The Quarantine Trap: The players have two minutes until the room they’re in fills with lethal gas, there are safe rooms/ports in the wall that will protect them from the gas and lead them to the next room. However, there are not enough safe rooms for everyone and there’s only room for one person per port, so the teammates must race to get to a safe room for them.

The Liar Liar Trap: The last remaining players are in a room with a puppet, the puppet informs the players that there are microscopic bomb capsules injected in their brain stems and the only way to deactivate the bombs is by telling the truth. The puppet will ask each player 5 personal questions relating to something bad they were involved in, each player can only lie twice and if they still don’t tell the truth, the capsule will go off, killing the player.

[stuckasmain]

Scream 1996 review -

What a Normal friend group. It’d be a shame if anything happened…

Yes it’s my first time watching this movie, and how popular it’s become in media over the years has kind of ruined the :0 who done it? Effect of the movie, huh yeah I wonder if it’s ‘I speak exclusively in movie/horror movie references’ mcdreamy over here.

But in already knowing who the killer(s) is/are it gave me a appreciation? Both for the writers and for their planning as well as I have to give credit for a lot of what they do though the movie to perfectly craft out this ‘grand plan’ and the movie throwing in Red herrings like candy, even if it’s clearly Mr. NC-17.

Falling for tropes while being a parody-

Scream , while very clearly being a spoof/parody of horror movies in the day, also falls for many itself. Which is the point but again I can’t help but admire it? However Casey was mainly just plain stupid and I’ll admit that (keep him on the phone 😫 talk and play along, lock doors , grab something, call someone else etc.) but I LOVE her death scene as something about the tragedy of your salvation being RIGHT there but your screams make no noise is absolutely beautiful?

My favorite play on tropes is In the last act of the movie itself, after Billy’s fairly over dramatic death which features said “to red “ blood (by the way, poor criticism of Halloween, it has little)

When theyre revealed , they fall for the classic formula of any horror movie. They have a extremely complex and practically perfect plan that goes brilliant and then they’re extremely ducking stupid and get killed. As does every villian until ultimately it’s time for a sequel and some BS  explanation is given to how they’re alive. They were caught monologuing smh, never get caught monologuing. That and being overly excited over killing a reporter— it’s just a fun aspect, that and the end with a Tripple sort of jump scare? Also fucking love Sidney for just shooting that milasecond, not even thinking 👏 thank you for having brain cells and just so blank about it sjsksksksksk

Charecters-

Who’s the best charecter and why is is Stu and Tatum

Seriously they completely steal whatever scene they’re in , and since they’re dating it’s often sharing scenes. Which also just? Leads to best parts like smacking him with a lollipop or “oh that movie lol”. Seriously, their dynamic.

Also all my love to randy? Being the movie logic guy and logic in general, that and comedic art (also was NOT expecting him to be the 5th wheel of the group, if anyone I thought it’d be Stu or Sidney, rip randy)

Thought dump-

But if anything, my general question is:

Sidney is clearly dealing with some pretty major issues do to her mother’s murder and her initial jumping (on what she realizes to be the wrong suspect). So why is her friend group PEOPLE WHO TALK ABOUT NOTHING BUT HORROR MOVIES AND GORE ALL DAY? ??? But she does genuinely have some compelling/ messed up stuff going on which I could rant about forever but that’s another time

I’m also thinking about Billy preaching how great and glorious it is to not have a motive at all, isn’t that funny? Etc and then proceeding to just toss in ✨ I have mommy issues✨ while stus’s bleeding out on the counter In the background all ✌️.

Also not a question but I genuinely think they could have done something with stu’s “I’ll be right back” moment, but then again they weren’t out to kill anyone else at the party. Still though, would have been perfect moment for a fake death.

I found ‘liver alone’ funny Stu, your friends just don’t  appreciate humor (seriously this movie is so fucking funny I have at least a full page of good lines)

Also solidly convinced there was something going on between Billy and Stu- they got it for each other. At least Stu  definitely has a thing for Billy ‘peer pressure’ you love him-

10/10

[sonoftatooine]

Whumpay 2021

DAY 9: GENTLE/BRUTAL

It’s a couple of days late but I started writing it dammit so I’ll finish it ha

Characters: Anakin Skywalker, Padmé Amidala

Warnings: Implied/referenced abuse, torture, neglect, blood and injury

Summary: Anakin doesn’t become a Jedi after the Battle of Naboo, but is instead snatched up by Palpatine and raised secretly as a Sith. Years later, known to the Galaxy at large by a Sith assassin in service of the Separatists, Darth Vader makes the decision to rescue Republic Senator Padmé Amidala from execution by the CIS. Injured in the escape, he is left at the mercy of Senator Amidala to treat his wounds.

***

“Stay still.”

The weight of the small, slim hand on his chest was so gentle compared to the usual touches that he was used to enduring that Vader half thought he was hallucinating it through the pain of the blaster wound in his shoulder, but it stilled him just as surely as his master's biting grip promising violent punishment should he not comply. Eyes which he knew to be a soft brown, but which the red lenses of his mask painted a deep black, stared down at him, and the face of Senator Padmé Amidala swam before him, pale and wan and worried. Her Force presence, which had been full of equal parts determination, suspicion, and confusion in the mad dash from the cell which had meant as her coffin, had lit up with a heady mix of fright and concern when he had run his saber through the last of their pursuers only to stagger and collapse to the ground as the pain in his shoulder that he had barely felt in the heat of the fight finally caught up with him. He could feel that concern now, wearing down his tired shields, with all the force and all of the gentleness of a wave roaring up to shore in the wind only to break softly over rough sand like a gentle caress.

“Vader, can you hear me?,” Padmé asked. Her voice was tight and distressed, and he felt a sharp spike of fear from her like a shard of ice through his heart. “I need to know if you're awake. I— You're losing blood. You have to stay awake—”

“I am...” Vader gritted his teeth against the burning pain in his shoulder. “I'm awake.”

Her relief felt like a cooling balm in the Force. It was baffling and pleasant and terrifying all at once, and when he tried to untangle the mess of emotions from one another, he found that he had no idea where one began and the other started. Why should she be relieved that he was awake when him being unconscious would surely have provided the perfect excuse to escape both his company and the Separatist-held space she had found herself in? Why would she be concerned for him in the first place? And what's more, why should he find himself reaching out to the sensation, wanting more, when he knew it was the very antithesis of what he should desire as a Sith?

You know why, said the small, snide voice in his head that had come over the years to sound very like his master's. His master who had always said, between vicious bouts of Force lightning that left his skin painted with a map of thin, spiderweb scars, that his biggest weakness was his need for attachment. It was like a leech bleeding him, Sidious claimed, and that all he did to him was to stem the flow that was draining his hatred, his resolve, to make him strong. Well, if his attachments had been comparable to open wounds, he thought, he had just ripped out his stitches. Rescuing one of Tyranus' prisoners meant for execution, killing his men all because of little more than a week's worth of memories from a past life? Damaging himself fighting against his own side to save a sworn enemy of the Sith? His master would be so angry, and his punishment—

“Good. That's good.” He was brought abruptly out of his spiralling thoughts by the sound of ripping fabric, and with a wince and a bitten down groan, he shifted to see where the noise was coming from. To his astonishment, he saw that Padmé was ripping off sections of her soft white cloak with an expression of fierce determination on her beautiful face.

“Wha—?,” he rasped, then tried again. “What...are you doing?”

Padmé didn't even pause from her task. Bundling up one of the strips into a ball, she leaned down and pressed it firmly against the entrance to his wound. He hissed at the contact, the sound too quiet to be picked up by his mask's vocoder.

“You're bleeding a lot,” she said by way of explanation. Even though her worry sung as loud and clear in the Force as ever, her voice was now as full of determination as the expression on her face. It reminded him of all those years ago when she returned to Naboo—full of her plan of action, ready to carry it out and damn anything or anyone that tried to stop her. “We need to keep pressure on the wound.”

I know that, Vader wanted to say. Of course he knew that. It was hardly the first time he had been hit by a blaster bolt. Nor was it as if he had never had to treat his own injuries. In fact, as long as it was not too far beyond his abilities to fix, his master demanded it—getting injured was a result of his own weakness, and it was only fair that he was forced to deal with the consequences of his own mistakes. What he did not understand about this, however, was why she was bothering to help him. You didn't show your enemies mercy, and you certainly didn't show them care. Her concern and relief had been strange enough without adding this to the mix, and really, he was starting to feel far too dizzy and faint to try and figure out the reasons behind it on his own. But he did not say any of this to her. Instead, what he said was:—

“You're ruining your cloak.”

Not for the first time, he was glad of his vocoder, for it transformed the pathetic almost-whimper the words came out as into the deep, unwavering tones that his enemies knew him by. Yet it didn't seem to make much difference to Padmé's reaction, as he felt a stab of shock in the Force, her lips parting in a soft 'o' and her brows turning upwards in a frown, before his senses were overwhelmed with a heavy, concerned sadness.

“You're hurt,” she said quietly, slowly, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded animal. “That's far more important than keeping my cloak intact.”

Oh. He didn't— He couldn't—

“Do you need that mask to breathe?” Padmé asked all of a sudden.

“I—what?” His brain, muddled and too full of fog to register what she was asking him, stalled.

“Vader,” Padmé repeated gently. “Do you need the mask to breathe?”

“No, it's— No.” The mask was to hide his identity, Sidious had claimed when he had first gifted it to him. He didn't see much point to it, personally, other than perhaps to hide his youth and to give him a more intimidating voice—at this point, not even his old friends on Tatooine would have been likely to recognise his face—but his master was always very insistent upon it, that he never remove it in front of enemies. But why would Padmé want to know? He didn't understand—

“Can you keep this—,” she nodded towards the cloth, stained dark with his blood, that she was holding against his wound, “—pressed against your shoulder while I take your mask off?”

His mind, still too sluggish and slow for his liking, had taken in the first part of her request long before he could take in the second, and by the time he had registered what she intended to do, he had already taken the rag from her hand and was pressing it down against his wound.

“No!,” he exclaimed, somewhat belated, as a sudden sharp panic stabbed through him. “You can't! You can't—”

Padmé frowned.

“Why?” she asked.

He should lie, he knew. He should make up some reason or other, but he couldn't—

“My master,” he said. “He's forbidden me— He will be angry if he finds out—”

Padmé's frown deepened at the mention of his master. The Force was once again flooded with that overwhelming sense of sadness.

“I don't think your master will be pleased with you saving my life either,” she pointed out, not unkindly. “Vader, please. You're losing blood and I can't tell how bad it is if I can't even see you underneath all of— I need to get that mask off you.”

As much as he wanted to, Vader couldn't argue with her logic on either count. He had already made his master incandescently angry by saving Padmé from the execution the Sith had had planned for her—after that, nothing would cool his ire, and keeping his face hidden would have seemed like a poor appeasement in comparison to his crime. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

He felt Padmé's relief in the Force for the second time that day, soft and bright as it was before. It was met with his own apprehension as she reached down, a frown of concentration upon her brow, trying to figure out how to release the helmet's mechanisms. All of a sudden, he was unsettled, not just on account of his master's orders, but by the realisation that Padmé would see his true face. The face that he had kept hidden from all except his master and Tyranus ever since he had been snatched from Naboo as a child. He felt very like that child now, trapped, helpless, caught in the horrible awareness of his own vulnerability—the same vulnerability that he had fought so hard to burn out of himself long ago. He— The mechanisms of the mask clicked and whirred, and the comforting, stifling black plastisteel was pulled away from his face and set on the ground beside him.

“Oh.” Though he could hear Padmé's voice, he could not quite make out her expression—he was still adjusting to the burst of light and colour his eyes had been assaulted with after the dull red of the mask's lenses. “Oh Force, you look pale. Are you usually that pale?”

Vader blinked. The brightness had faded to a more manageable level, and he could now see her face—the first time he had seen it in full colour since the Battle of Naboo, rather than in varying shades of red. She was as beautiful as he remembered, even drawn, white-faced, with dark, tired circles under her eyes, and her expression half one of open-mouthed shock, half one of fierce concern. He blinked again, trying to take in her words.

“I'm usually pale” he said, his words coming out as a soft croak. Years of isolation and darkness in the Works of Coruscant and the deep chambers of Sith temples had rid him of the golden tan his home planet had given him, turning his complexion a pallid white, save for the dark shadows painted beneath his eyes by just as long of fear and stress and lack of sleep. Combined with the limp tangle of curls atop his head and the yellow of his eyes, he was sure he must look quite the wretched sickly creature to her eyes. A far cry from the fearsome image his master had intended him to strike with his enemies.

“Right.” Padmé let out a breath, rubbing the back of her hand against her forehead. Then, before he had time to register what she was doing, she had brushed a few stray strands of hair out of his eyes and pressed the flat of her palm to his own brow. He jerked back in surprise—or at least he tried to. With his head already lying on the ground, it came out as nothing more than an odd little twitch. “You feel a bit cold. Really, I'm not qualified to deal with this kind of injury—especially not without bacta. We need to get you to a proper medic. Fast.”

“My ship,” Vader hissed out. “There's a med-droid and supplies on the ship.”

The ship that he had intended for them to escape in throughout their pursuit from Padmé's cell. It was not so far as to be a problem for two healthy, uninjured people to reach, but with him wounded and losing blood... Above him, Padmé seemed to have seen a hint of his thoughts upon his face, for she frowned.

“Do you think you can reach it?”

“Yes.” No. Perhaps. No, he could do it. He had done it before, pushed through far worse agonies and triumphed against the limitations of his body. He was a Sith—pain only served to fuel his power, give him focus.

Blood loss, however, a snide little voice in the back of his mind that he steadfastly ignored said amid a new wave of dizziness, is rather harder to turn into something useful.

“I'll...have to bind the wound” he said.

“Alright.” Once again, the presence of a solid plan seemed to fuel Padmé's determination as much as pain did his strength, burying her worries beneath a thick wall of resolve. She stripped off another length of fabric from her cloak, and he reached out his trembling flesh hand to take it. She shook her head.

“It will be easier if I do it.” He could still sense an undercurrent of fear beneath her determination. Fear that she would do something wrong, that she wouldn't be able to get him to a medic on time. Despite herself, it scared her in a way that he could not understand, no matter how he tried. “If you can just—”

“I can do it” Vader interrupted as she gestured for him to pull his hand still pressing the cloth to the wound away, so that she might access it. Despite his confusion at her concern, despite the knowledge that she was his enemy, that she didn't know to look upon him as anything but an enemy, he didn't think Padmé would hurt him. She had no active malice in her—not like his master, and the med-droids that followed his orders when he was dealt any serious damages that required attention beyond his own. But the instinct to recoil, to not let anyone near when he was so vulnerable was too strong. He pressed the cloth clutched in his mechno hand tighter to his shoulder, shying away from the reach of her fingers. Padmé frowned.

“Let me, please,” she murmured. “I can't help you if you don't let me.”

He didn't want to let her. He didn't want to let her—let anyone—near. Her worry felt sharp and jagged, like broken shards of transparisteel, and despite himself, he wanted to soothe it. She wouldn't hurt him. She was an enemy. She wouldn't. He sensed no cruelty from her, no desire to cause pain. She wouldn't— Slowly, reluctantly, he drew his hand back, and let her approach.

Padmé's fingers were soft and gentle as she pulled back the tattered fabric of his robe to get to the injury beneath, but he froze dead still at the touch nonetheless. Her concern spiked higher in the Force at the sight, but she didn't waste time in getting to work. The pressure from his hand against the wound was soon replaced by that of the rag tied tight about his shoulder. He couldn't quite hold back a quiet sound of discomfort as she accidentally jostled him tying the knot, and her Force presence gave an odd little flinch in apology.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry.”

Vader blinked, confused.

“It's fine,” he said. Really, what was she apologising for? He couldn't remember having been treated so carefully since the days when his mother had treated his scrapes and bruises after he crashed his podracer, or after the worse of Watto's beatings. But no, he didn't want to think about his mother. He had shown enough weakness in front of his enemy for one day. “We should get to the ship.”

He tried to sit up—they had to get to the ship fast, before any reinforcements came looking for them—but his body seemed to have other ideas. His shoulder screamed in protest, but he barely noticed it through the fierce wave of dizziness that had suddenly overcome him. It was worse than the previous ones—nauseating, causing his vision to swim so violently that the world turned into a blur before him. When his vision finally sharpened again, he was lying on his back, and Padmé was bending over him, white-faced, one hand gripping his prosthetic tight where it lay against his stomach.

“I don't think we're going to get you to the ship,” she said shakily. “Perhaps I could bring it here. If I can get to it—I'll be faster—then I can fly it here and the med-droid can see you—”

“Why?”

It was the question Vader had been burning to ask ever since the injury had overwhelmed him. Why was she doing this? Why did she not take the opportunity to save herself when he would only slow her down? When he was her enemy, as far as she new, a Separatist assassin, a Sith, a danger to everything she had ever worked for and believed him? Padmé, however, didn't seem to understand him, for she frowned down at him in confusion.

“Why?” she echoed.

“Why...are you helping me?,” he insisted. “You...you could escape back to the Republic much easier if you left me.”

Padmé drew back sharply, though she did not let go of his hand.

“I'm not about to leave you here bleeding out on the ground when I can do something about it!” she exclaimed, indignant.

Vader frowned.

“I'm your enemy.”

“My enemy who just saved me from being killed,” Padmé retorted. “You got shot protecting me. That's more than just helping someone treat their wounds. You could have been killed! If anything, it should be me asking you why you chose to help me.”

Vader was silent. For what could he say? What could he tell her? That no matter how much his master tried, he had not been able to fully crush the affection that she had sparked in him when she had stepped into Watto's shop all those years ago and showed kindness to a little slave boy who had thought she was an angel? That despite her opposition to all his master and the Sith intended to achieve, the thought of her death rended his heart in two? He could barely even believe he was that boy most days; how could she possibly believe it? How could he reveal to her the monster that boy that had once risked his life to help her had become? Even if he had wanted to, he would not have been able to find the words. So he said nothing, focusing on the pain and the heady faintness so that he wouldn't have to think of her disappointment reverberating in the Force.

“Alright,” she sighed. “If you don't want to tell me, that's your choice. But whatever your reasons, you still saved my life. I'm not about to repay you by abandoning you. We're both getting away from here. Together.”

She spoke so fiercely that despite the pain from his wound, despite the blackness that threatened to encroach upon his vision every time he shifted, he could almost believe her. It was foolish, the kind of naïve idea he had once believed with all his heart, and a habit that his master had taken great pains to break him of. And yet— And yet, he wanted... He wanted— Padmé squeezed his hand tight. Though small, her grip was strong and steady, and her eyes shone with a fierce light.

“You saved me. Now I'm going to save you. No matter what.”

[thewritingbasil]

First time writing and publishing something like this! I hope you enjoy!

Chrome x modern!Reader

* When you find out Chrome goes out to explore on his own and lives outside the village, you worry about who will notice if something goes wrong. Since you’re curious and also love discovering things and can’t sit still in the village for a long time, you tell Chrome about the modern-day buddy-system idea and start joining him on his expeditions.

* He’d love to take you exploring and show all the exciting things he discovered! He’s never had an exploring buddy before, and while Senkuu does appreciate what he finds, Senkuu spends more of his time creating blueprints and solving problems in the lab and using what he has available, not looking for things that will maybe be helpful in the future. That’s why he trusts Chrome and, now, you to have an eye for materials that will help the Kingdom of Science grow

* At first Chrome has a lot to teach you, like how to notice materials, where to walk, and how to keep track of time and your location especially since you need to get used to not having a cell phone.

* But eventually you become a great explorer in your own right and he has a lot of trust in you as his partner. In fact, he ends up trusting you a lot when the buddy system helps out, like when he once experienced a small cave-in or when he needed emergency first aid.

* You also find things he overlooked because you both tend to look in different directions when you’re searching.

* He loves that someone else shares his love of exploring with him. When he used to search alone, it was very isolating and he could get lost in his head while walking. Now, you remind him about food and he’s willing to take slightly greater risks when trying to reach somewhere because he’s got you as an extra pair of hands and eyes and brain.

* The combined haul is also bigger, which he gets super excited about. You both chatter to each other and compare stashes when you’re organizing what you found into different baskets at the end of the day.

* When Senku compliments you both on the materials found, Chrome proudly grins at you.

* Chrome isn’t just an explorer though, he’s a scientist which means he can’t spend all his time exploring with you. He goes to work with Senkuu while you help out elsewhere because, buddy system! You’re not going on your own.

* If you’re also working in another group like crafts or the power group, you go for a period of time without seeing him because you’re working on different projects.

* However! During your trips, you both became used to showing each other your finds and communicating when working in different sections to know how each other is doing

* He also appreciated the conversations you would bring about the modern world and about yourself, and how you were eager to learn about himself and his village. So he gets used to that routine of you being there to converse with.

* Chrome ends up talking with you during breaks about what the each of you are doing and exciting progress reports and how the materials you found are being put to use. Both of you get excited learning that something you’ve found has a cool scientific purpose/property and you invite each other to stop by and watch it in action.

* He loves seeing your eyes light up in amazement as you watch and praise his work.

* When you show him your group’s work, it’s not as science-y but he acknowledges your skill and hard work and he is also a craftsman and not too strong so whether you’re in the crafting group or power group, you still impress him. He’s not shy about praising you and gives you high fives or says “Baaaad!” This also helps him get along with other people in your group since he and they don’t usually interact.

* Obviously, Chrome would take a long time to realize that he’s fallen in love with you. He’s known Ruri for over 3 years and he still hasn’t figured it out.

* But others start noticing that he goes out of his way to get you to show off something. They’d understand if the project was finished, but when it’s a work in progress, it’s not very impressive to show. But you love it every single time because you’re curious and actually enjoy seeing everything put together little by little. Then, when the project is done, you can visualize the components and hard work that was put in to create it.

* And the villagers watch how he gets more talkative when you show interest and ask questions. He brings up inventions from the modern era that you’ve told him about so you both seem to share a mysterious language that they can’t understand. Some of them start shipping you two long before he notices anything.

* During mealtimes, you sometimes eat together. You talk about your next scavenging trip, new places in the village you haven’t explored, new projects, so many things. You both can get pretty sucked in to your conversations, forgetting the food. However you’re usually the one who finally remembers that you’re eating, and you teasingly shove food in his mouth. Your cheeky grin has blood rushing into his face and he is dazed, until he shakes himself out of it and starts to eat again.

* People are watching and nudging each other.

* Soon, Chrome becomes aware of you in a way he hasn’t before. He can’t help but smile every time you make eye contact. He craves the casual way you touch him and makes sure to be within your arms’ reach so you’re more likely to nudge him or grab him to drag him off somewhere in your excitement.

* When you first met him with Senku and Kohaku, you learned that he liked Ruri and never questioned it since. Whenever he talked about her, you could tell she was special to him. You made teasing jokes like forging a hairpin from iron and giving it to her with the line of “the burning fire in my heart for you was so hot I melted the iron with it” and he got flustered and groaned over the dumb line

* Recently, when you made those types of jokes, he felt conflicted. Part of him still got flustered but when he looked at you grinning and thinking you were oh so clever, he started to wonder why you would act like he liked Ruri when, thinking about it, he liked you...wait what?? He didn’t like you!

* Sure he thought you were cool and fun to hang out with and capable but that’s just something he admires and that’s a good friend, right?

* Right, he thought, shaking his head. You were a trusted partner, he didn’t want to kiss you or anything...

* “What?” You looked over your shoulder at him. “You got quiet over there.” You two were spending the late afternoon before dinner organizing your haul and you had just said that the location today was so beautiful Chrome should show it to Ruri once Senku cured her.

* He stared at your slightly parted lips. Did he want to kiss them? He was a man of science. When he collected rocks and plants, he’d grind, combine, set on fire, and experiment to find out how they reacted. Your mouth was kind of pretty, and yeah maybe he did want to see if kissing you was enjoyable.

* Chrome’s hands stopped working and now he was looking at you with unfocused eyes and a furrowed brow. You paused in your sorting and turned fully towards him. “You got a look on your face. Whatcha thinking about?”

* He is totally used to telling you his ideas so without hesitation, he answers before thinking, “What kissing you would feel like.” Then, he realized what he said. “Noooo! Sorry, that’s creepy right?” He zoomed backwards away from you, almost crashing into a table. How could he say that to you, you were one of his best friends!

* “Uhhh...” Chrome closed his eyes and braved himself for a rejection, ready to be kicked out of his hut for the next hour. “It’s not that creepy, I guess?” He heard you say. Were his ears working properly? He cracked an eye open to peek at you. You grinned awkwardly at him, having one side of your mouth quirked up.

* “Science inquiry, right? Question everything.”

* Maybe it was the afternoon sun or him imagining things, but your face looked a little pink. Kind of tempting. Whoa, did he really like you?

* “I need to figure something out.” He looked at you intensely.

* “Let me in on it, I wanna know.” Before, you had been avoiding eye contact out of shyness but now your eyes looked into his, drawing him closer. His footsteps seemed to be drowned out by the drums in his chest. He was getting nervous.

* He stopped a little ways in front of you. Being so close to you was almost making him lose his nerves. Kissing you? That seemed impossible.

* “Come on, Chrome.” You entwined both of your hands with his and pulled him closer until you were sharing the same air.

* You closed your eyes and patiently waited. Still with his heart beating in his ears, he looked at your long lashes, your eyebrows arched expectantly, and your flushed cheeks.

* You were getting nervous standing there and you bet your hands were all sweaty now. “Did you change your mind?” You did tend to grab him and drag him places. This was something he should be able to choose without being pressured. You started to loosen your hands, and he ripped his hands away.

* Before you could get disappointed, you felt those hands suddenly on the sides of your face and your lips met something soft.

* He was kissing you.

* Despite the sudden kiss, he knew enough to not just smash your lips together. It was much more of a firm press, one that had you craving for more even as butterflies exploded in your stomach and fire rushed over your skin. But you didn’t want to push it. You simply adjusted your lips to overlap better onto his and put your hands on his hips to hold him close.

* After a few seconds, Chrome leaned back with an entirely red face. “Baaaddddd,” he breathed. That had been enlightening. And soft. And pleasurable. Okay yeah, you weren’t just a best friend anymore. If it meant you would look at him like this, wide-eyed and giddy and hungry for more, he wanted to keep kissing you.

* Your hands squeezed his hips nervously, fingers a fluttering pressure on his flesh. “Practice for Ruri?” You asked in the small distance between your mouth and his.

* “Not Ruri,” he said distractedly. His eyes were still dazed and drinking in the tempting picture you made. “I want to kiss you.”

* And your mouth curled up into a pleased grin, looking hard to resist. So he didn’t.

[actress4him]

The Barn 4 - The Pole

(Prompt #1 for Summer of Whump)

Yes, I’m coming in at the last minute with one more Summer of Whump prompt, and yes, it’s prompt #1. Also, if you read more than one of my series I’m sorry that this one is kinda like that one chapter of In Irons...? But I actually thought of this one first, and yes, it was inspired by Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron.

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Warnings: captivity, restraints, dehumanization, references to beating, mild blood, starvation, dehydration, nausea, emeto, fainting, heat exhaustion/stroke, probably medically inaccurate

.

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Stetson dropped Jacob’s foot, and another puff of red dust went up into the air, joining the cloud that his body had created as it was dragged. It would have been the perfect time for him to leap up and try to run again, but he couldn’t move. His everything ached.

A second later a leather-clad hand gripped his arm and yanked him upright. Jacob’s head swam with the swift change in elevation and his nose throbbed. While he was busy trying to get the world to stop spinning around him, Stetson roughly pulled his arms behind his back and started winding rope around his wrists.

Fantastic. He hadn’t even gotten to enjoy them being free.

Once they were thoroughly wrapped and the rope pulled tight, Stetson stood, taking the tail end with him and jerking Jacob’s arms backwards in the process. He cried out in surprise, and tried to get up. His legs only cooperated enough to scoot him back a few inches, but it was enough to let his arms rest against his back again.

Whatever Stetson was doing, he finished up and came back around to squat in front of his captive, arms propped across his knees and brown eyes studying him just as emotionlessly as ever.

“Maybe a few days of this’ll teach you some manners.”

“Doubt it,” Jacob immediately shot back without thinking. “My mom’s been trying to teach me manners for twenty-six years. I wouldn’t count on a few days making much of a difference.”

Stetson huffed very lightly, something that almost could have been taken for a laugh if Jacob wasn’t positive the guy didn’t know how. “We’ll see.”

Straightening with a quiet popping of joints, he turned and strolled away.

There was no way he was just leaving Jacob alone and able to run off. Craning his neck painfully around, he finally took a look at what was behind him. A post. A wooden post, probably coming up to around his shoulders. And the rope that was tying his wrists was looped through a metal hook in the top and knotted.

Okay, no problem. Jacob was good with his hands, he had nimble fingers from spending all day typing code. Struggling to his feet, he bent over forward so that he could reach and felt his way up the rope until he reached the knot, fingers fumbling around it, trying to get a sense of where it started.

Instead, he found a padlock.

Jacob let out a frustrated scream, the first time he’d actually had a chance to vent his feelings since this whole nightmare began. It felt good enough that he did it again. Then he ran forward, as hard as he could, as if he was somehow going to break the rope or pull the post out of the ground instead of nearly ripping his shoulders out of socket when he abruptly reached the end of his lead.

Tied to a stupid pole like...like a horse, or a dog. He was a human, dang it! Who did these people think they were, treating another person like this? The last…forty-eight? seventy-two? He didn’t even know how many hours anymore...had been completely flabbergasting, just seeing the sheer number of people who thought this was perfectly okay. And now he was stuck, in the middle of nowhere, with some psychopath who thought he was gonna what, train him? To do what, he didn’t even want to know.

Night was falling by then. Jacob was beyond exhausted, and resigned himself to sinking back down to the dirt, resting his back against the pole and getting as comfortable as possible.

The next day dawned with little sleep having been found. The sharp pains of yesterday had given way to stiffness and aches that made it hard to pry himself off the ground. His face was coated with dried blood and who knows what else, making him sticky and disgusted in addition to everything else.

He’d really never liked the outdoors that much. He was much more at home inside, in front of a computer. The outside had far too many things that could get you dirty, like, you know, dirt, for instance, like the kind of dirt he was currently sitting on and covered in. Most of his friends growing up had been your typical rough-and-tumble boys who lived for mud puddles and rolling down grassy hills, but Jacob had never been able to stand the feeling of being dirty.

Sweat was a thing encountered more often outdoors, too, and was just as bad as dirt. He could feel it, collecting underneath his shirt as the sun rose higher in the wide, blue sky. There was nothing in the way of shade in this field. Just dirt, dust, and more dirt, all surrounded by a wooden fence. A corral, probably. Meant for horses, not people.

The heat only grew more intense as the day wore on. There was no sign of Stetson, no indication that he would be bringing food or water or coming to untie him. Jacob hadn’t had anything to eat since this whole thing had begun, and no water since before the auction. His tongue was beginning to stick to the roof of his mouth.

He tried pacing around the pole, circling until the rope was tightly wound one way before turning and going the other way. His brain wasn’t used to boredom. There was always something to think about, always something to do. But now the only thing to think about was how absolutely screwed he was, and that wasn’t helping anything.

He tried pulling some more, too, not running this time, but turning until he could grip the rope in his hands and tugging backwards with all his might. Which, to be honest, wasn’t a lot. He was a computer geek, okay, working out wasn’t high on his list of priorities. The moral of the story was, pulling on the rope did nothing but make his back and arms ache even more.

The heat and the lack of stimulation made the day drag on and on forever. Jacob’s stomach moved from groaning to aching to roiling. If there had been anything in it, he was sure it would have been expelled. His head pounded something awful, and he wasn’t sure whether it was from heat or light or lack of water or having it repeatedly bashed in the day before.

By the time the sun finally started to sink beneath the horizon, his clothes were soaked with sweat, which was not only gross but also turned cold once night fell. He never thought that he’d actually miss the sun once it was gone. But now he was shivering, and the headache hadn’t gone away, and his stomach felt like it was trying to turn itself inside out, and he was pretty sure there was dirt in his mouth, and he was completely, totally, miserable.

Day two was somehow even worse than the first. Jacob tried standing up and stretching his legs, walking around the pole again, but he was so dizzy that he collapsed right back to the ground. Groaning, he dropped his forehead against the pole, grinding particles of dust further into his skin.

His...dry...skin. He didn’t know much about health and science, like, at all, but he was pretty sure not sweating in this heat was not a good thing. He almost felt cold still, like the chill of the night was clinging to his skin.

Hours dragged by. Every time he swallowed, it felt like nails going down his throat. Moving his head in any direction made the world swim around him, the blinding rays of the sun making spots dance across his vision. His stomach kept feeling worse and worse until he finally ended up folding over, retching uselessly again and again until every muscle in his torso was on fire and his head felt like it was exploding.

His only vague thought was, am I gonna die? before he fell face-first into the dirt and passed out.

A blast of cold woke him. He tried to gasp for air, but instead inhaled a mouthful of freezing water, sending him into a coughing fit that racked his sore stomach muscles. But the water just kept coming. It was harsh enough that he couldn’t even sit up against the onslaught, not that he was sure he had the energy to, anyway. The spray scoured every inch of his bare skin, leaving it stinging from both the pressure and the cold.

But it was water. Sweet, beautiful water. As soon as he stopped coughing he tried his best to gulp it in, letting the cold coat his scratchy throat.

He wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved when the spray finally stopped. Bringing up weary, unbound hands, he wiped the drips from his eyes, blinking blearily up at Stetson, who dropped the hose and stared him down.

“You didn’t last as long as I had planned.”

“M-maybe…” His voice came out as a croak, and he attempted to clear it. “Maybe you should try some...food ‘nd water. Haven’t...had any of that in a while.”

Stetson continued to stare with crossed arms for another moment before walking over and grabbing onto his ankle again. “You just had your water. Maybe you can have food tomorrow. We’ll see how well you behave.”

Ignoring Jacob’s weak protests and attempts to fight, he dragged him away from the doorway of the barn and into a nearby stall. Iron bars reached from the half wall up to the ceiling, giving it even more of a prison cell feel. The only good news was that he didn’t bother to tie him up this time, just threw him inside and left, shutting the door with a deafening creak and an ominous click.

[keravnous]

- agent 14/agent steve haines; american money

It's a Thursday and it's raining. The raindrops are heavy and loud on impact, running down his windshield like tears. He's on his way to the set and he prays that it'll clear up soon.

"This show will kill you", Warren sits on his bed, sheets lazily draped over his legs. Steve can see where his pubic hair begins and his mouth waters. Warren takes a long drag from his cigarette, blows the smoke into the air.

"It fucking won't, nothing can", Steve's leaning against the door frame, coffee in hand.

"Fuck yes, it can. And it will, lurking around at Forum Drive all day and for what? Two minutes of frightening pictures that will make Karens all over LS go buck wild."

"Who's Karen?"

"Forget about it. Let me suck your dick, Haines, c'mere."

As he arrives near the recreational center and pulls into one of the lots it has indeed stopped raining. The streets are still wet but the sun's coming out again and the air is already mushy with the reblooming heat. There's a lanky man with a dog and he's yelling into his phone - the man that is, not the dog.

He knows who the guy is, even though he most likely doesn't know him, probably he doesn't even know that Steve exists. He's an associate of Franklin Clinton and the Bureau keeps a close eye on him, due to the nature of Clinton being so close with Townley and Philips.

Steve watches Lamar, leaning against the hood of his car, the remaining rain wetting his thigh through the denim.

"Man Frank, you just ain't around no more, homie. That's all I'm saying. Yeah - Yeah, sure whatever, dog - Yeah, fuck yourself too, homie."

He hangs up and stuffs his phone back into his pocket. The dog looks at him. "Man, you get the fool more than I do, Chop. Wassup with him, can you tell me? He always been that fool, but something ain't right there."

Steve knows what ain't right there. Franklin must've picked up by now, or maybe Townley told him, what they were up to that one afternoon at the warehouse. And for what he knows about Clinton and what the intel tells him, the young man probably isn't much of a big fan of government-approved interrogation techniques.

And he probably also won't like what Steve has next in stock. Warren was a little careless the last time around, tongue loosend by sweet kisses and a hand around his dick, when he spoke about a securicar delivering important IAA files soon. It won't hurt 14 but it would definitely aid Steve an awful lot, so he decided to send the boys on the road again, maybe on Tuesday.

The production team's van rolls up next to him and they swarm around him like a stock of bees buzzes around their queen and then there's sound and light checks being run and a woman applies powder to his face. Lamar Davis has not moved a single step. Their eyes meet.

"What are you idiots doing here?", he hollers. Steve wonders if he could be of use.

"We're shooting a show", he replies, while the attach a little microphone to his collar, "The Underbelly of Paradise, you surely have already seen an episode or two."

"You're that Haines-guy then?", something in Lamar's voice makes his skin crawl, his files told Steve that he too is a gangster after all, killing and robbing are some of Davis' favourites. The look he shoots him isn't much friendlier.

"In the flesh", Steve dusts of the sleeves of his polo shirt.

"Yeah, aight. Fuck you then, man. C'mon Chop, we best be leavin', homie. Imma take you back to Frank's crib", oh, there is something in Lamar's voice that Steve definitely doesn't like at all but he just smiles politely at the man, until he's around the corner and out of sight. Steve's smile drops.

"Can we hurry this up a little, people? I don't got all day!" The bees start buzzing again.

_

The raid on the Humane goes by easier than expected. They are in Warren's living room, as the news inform about the incident. Steve is just pouring himself another glass of wine and Warren looks at him.

He knows, that the other one knows. It's a cover story the IAA will buy, but not Warren. Pain shoots through his legs as he slowly makes his way towards the sofa.

Warren mouths a few words at him. Be careful. Steve nods and leans over, places a soft kiss on his shoulder.

"Learned from the best", he whispers and Warren jerks.

"What?", there's panic in his voice.

"The Rashkovsky Job? The breakout and then his research goes missing?"

Warren blinks at him in disbelief.

"So, did he let you know if he likes it in South America?"

They laugh and Steve feels light, his fingertips tingle with it.

_

Steve's on his balcony. There's a saxophonist a few meters down the road, playing some Sinatra pieces and the music wraps itself around him like a blanket. The musician's interpretation reaks of melancholy and reminds Steve of the golden days of Vinewood cinema, noir films and cigarette smoke. Musicians playing at street corners isn't something foreign in a city where everyone has dreams of being the next big national superstar, but Steve usually hates him with his guts. This one's different. It touches him and he finds himself enjoying the dark, warm tunes that float through the cool air. It will be autumn soon and Steve's glad that the heat will be gone.

Warren watches him from the inside, leaning against the kitchen counter, lips curled in a smile.

_

Steve has always hated Michael's bloated and ugly, fat face and now he even gets to point a gun at it. It feels like his birthday and christmas fall on the same day.

"They know or they think they know that I'm the one that was behind the incident."

They stare each other into the ground, guns raised. Steve's ready to fire, has been from the minute Townley walked onto the plaza for the first time.

"Put the weapons down, boys. Fun time's over!", Steve wants to sigh. This is not happening. And then they are suddendly surrounded by their own man Sanchez has sent and then fucking Merryweather's there, too. This is not fucking happening. And so he does the only thing he's always been good at.

"We all know you Agency boys are balls deep in a plot to drive up your fundings by any means necessary", he shouldn't have said that. Warren trusted him with that info, even showed him the intel. He sees something moving behind Agent ULP's eyes, it's fear. He's got him.

Suddendly there's a loud pop and then pain shooting through his left leg. "Same goddamn leg", he blurts out as hell starts to break loose around him. Sanchez blood sprays the concrete in a bright red as the bullet pierces his skull. Steve wishes it would've been Michael instead.

He runs until he can't take the pain no more, then cowers on the ground, slowly robbing behind cover, as Dave and Michael pick up the gun fight. He's bleeding heavily, red liquid rushing out of the wound and drenching his cargos. It seems like the bullet is stuck and maybe has wounded some arteries. He figures that he probably hasn't that much time left. He strips himself out of his shirt and wraps it around his leg, adding pressure on his thigh, just above the bullet wound.

He thinks about Warren. Oh dear God, don't let me die today.

_

"What did you do?", it's Warren, he's sitting at Steve's kitchen table.

"Did you let yourself in, pretty boy?"

"What happend?", he sounds furious now, gets up and his eyes bore into Steve's. He's dizzy with it, with what Warren's gaze tells him, let's him know without saying a word.

"Nothing, it's nothing."

"You got shot!"

"Yeah, the same leg."

"That's - you're-"

Steve wraps his arms around him and presses him close and Warren releases a surprised noise. "I'm still here", he says and it's more for and to himself, than for Warren but the other doesn't seem to care, burying his face in Steve's neck.

The world's a little brighter and warmer and Steve doesn't feel that threatend anymore. He has to make a phone call, but that can wait a few more minutes.

_

He has a team on the way to the plant, it will be alright. They'll be gone for good, just another casualty. He sighs, takes a deep breath and throws the script on the seat across from him.

"Are the cameras rolling? Yes? How do I look, the chin's sharp?"

Warren looks at him, eyes still a little hazy from his last orgasm and Steve turns his head and looks at him. He's so pretty and Steve's heart misses a beat.

"I-", his voice breaks and Warren blinks.

"Yeah?"

"I hate you."

Warren laughs. It's deep and dripping with amusement, running down Steve's body like hot honey. He rolls himself over, on top of Warren, who's still laughing deep in his chest, burying a hand in Steve's blond hair.

"No. No, you don't."

They look at each other and their gazes turn soft. "Sometimes I do", Steve's voice is quiet, honesty seeping through his words, "But sometimes I-, I would burn the world down to protect you."

Warren's hand caresses his neck. "My life would be so very boring without you, Haines. It nearly makes me forget that I just really want to skin you alive, sometimes."

It's not really an I love you - I love you too, but it's as close as they can get without hurting their egos. The kiss is soft and sweet and a promise.

"Hi, I'm Steve Haines. I've tracked down killers, attacked incompetence and taken down terrorist cells, and tonight -"

The gunshot rips through the night and the camera man throws himself back, lands unpleasently on his back.

"My god! The guy! What's-his-name! Fuck, shit, they shot him!", he stares down at the dead man, blood rushing out of the bullet wound in the back of his head. The impact had torn some skin and skull apart and there's a nasty opening, his brain leaks out of it. The camera man vomits out of the gondola as sirens erupt in the night.

_

Warren has his feet up on the coffee table, mindlessly zapping through the programs. It's all shallow and boring and he hopes that Steve will be home soon. Home.

His stomach does a funny little flip and Warren smiles to himself, wraps the blanket around him tighter. It smells of him, his perfume. He closes his eyes and he can practically feel Steve's hand creeping around his neck, resting on his shoulder, heavy and warm. It's always like that, when he comes in on Warren sitting on the sofa. He will lean down and place a feather light kiss on the back of his head, maybe rest his nose there for a moment, taking the other man's scent in for a few seconds, before getting up again and ranting about Norton or another colleague. A fuzzy warmth spreads in his stomach and Warren sighs. A sudden noise interrupts his daydreaming and he lazily opens an eye at the TV. It's a Weazle Broadcast.

"We interrupt our nightly program for an important message. We just recieved notice that FIB Special Agent Steve Haines has been shot on duty at the Del Pierro Pier. Agent Haines died a hero, doing what he loved, which was presenting a TV show. He helped combine the chaos of anti-terrorism and the mindlessness of network television into one highly successful career. Mr. Haines, who was not married, leaves behind his mother."

The world goes silent.

_

He's not moving. Has not in hours, maybe it's even a full day at this point. He has not eaten, has not showered, has not moved at all.

Warren feels like a dead man. The thought makes a bitter laugh splutter over his lips and then has him break out in tears immediately after.

It's a scary thought that people continue to live their lives, acknowledging that an agent passed away last night but they are now out and about, at their jobs, maybe seeing friends or family. A lover, even. They are busy living their life's while Warren's just dissolved in a matter of seconds.

It's a scary thought being ripped off of something so dear so abruptly, it's scary how it ripped a hole it Warren's chest that is now filled with a black, emotionless but equally painful void that nags, tears and claws at him.

It's a scary thought that he's alone again.

His body, his throat gives in and he's rolling on his side, screaming and tearing at the blanket, fingers grabbing at the fabric, as his knuckles turn white. He's screaming and screaming and screaming until his throat is sore and his eyes burn and the only noises that leave his mouth are little pathetic whines of exhaustion and the gasping for air. The pain in his chest takes his breath away, chokes him and makes him want to curl up, bore a knife into it, twist and turn it until it goes away. He feels like vomiting.

_

It's Sunday. It's been a little over 30 hours. Warren is tired, but everytime he tries to close his eyes he sees him, hears his laughter ring in his ears. It hurts. It hurts so much, he has hardly any words left to describe the agony he is going through.

His head hurts too, so does his throat and his stomach, with the constant throwing up and the lack of hydration. But he can't bring himself to get up, to grab a glass of water and drown some pain killers and go to bed. His legs are heavy and he just doesn't have the energy.

Warren feels like dying but he's also so painfully alive.

_

He's wide awake. He'll need to find a solution for how he's going to be able to go to work tomorrow.

But for now he's wrapping himself in Steve's blanket, the one he sleeps in when he's been over, inhaling the fading scent.

_

"Agent 14?"

His eyes are red, bloodshot and his fingers are trembling, seconds away from shaking. He had powder this morning to just make it somehow and it's slowly wearing off. He hasn't been on coke since college and it sent him on a murder high, blood pumping like a race horse only to now let him dive head-first into a killer hole.

It's been three days since Steve left his life both, quiet and eardrum-tearing loudly, and it feels like a nightmare, eternal and burning hot. He's empty inside but there's also just so much pain, it feels like he's breaking into pieces. His stomach clenches and his heartbeat is heavy, vibrates thickly in his chest and he just wants to die, too.

"Mrs. Rackham", his voice is rough, it doesn't bother to hide that Warren had been crying and screaming his lungs out every night since Steve's brain had been splattered onto the ferris wheel.

"I need to talk to you."

This is about Avon and Clifford, he's sure. His hand shakes and coffee spills on his desk. He curses under his breath and reaches for a tissue but Mrs. Rackham grabs his hand with force. They look at each other. Warren blinks.

"You are not in a good condition. I don't need explanations or lies, 14. I want to offer you my sincere condolences on your loss, Mister Jones. "

Warren takes a deep breath but he can't keep his eyes from tearing up.

"Take the week off, Agent", as he's not moving, shocked and dumbfounded, she starts to pick his jacket up, "Go now, I'll cover you up."

He gets on his feet, knees weak and body shaking, takes his jacket from her hands.

"Thank you, Phoenicia", he means it.

She looks at him. "I'm sorry", and she means it, too, "The IAA could've done some-"

"Don't."

She nods sharply and then looks at him once more, eyes piercing.

"I lost my husband in service as well, Iraq in 2004."

And then they're hugging, Warren is burrying his face into her neck and wailing like a little child.

_

It's a weird feeling and it fucks with his head as his gaze falls on the door of his apartment. He could've sworn that he heard the key turning the lock. He stares and stares and stares and it feels like his brain is readying for Steve to come through the door anytime.

He doesn't.

_

It's midnight and he had five more moments like the door-lock one earlier. He feels like he may go insane.

Warren fumbles for his phone on the nightstand and opens up Eyefind, types his thoughts into the searchbar.

At the end of his research he's left with two possibilities: it's either a stage of grief (denial they call it - dying's more fitting, Warren thinks) or the sideeffects of the coke slowly wearing off.

_

It's raining. It's like the heavens above are pissing down on him. Warren's crying while the rain relentlessly pounds on his umbrella.

He's standing a few meters away from the funeral party. Steve's mother bails her eyes out and he would like to go over to her and wrap her im his arms but he would just be a stranger to her.

There's a saxophonist in front of the cementry. He's playing Sinatra's Summer Wind, sounding sad but warm nonetheless. Steve's family probably thinks of that as a weird coincidence but Warren has spent two full nights finding the man again, who has played down at Steve's street corner all those months ago. It was difficult and time consuming, but not impossible.

There's a new wave of tears making their way out of Warren's eyes and he has to clasp a hand on his mouth to stop the painful noises from making their way into the soft air of spring. He feels like he's breaking apart, torn into two pieces.

He cries and cries and cries until the funeral party is long gone any the sun sets. The saxophonist is still playing.

_

When Warren comes home the sun's gone for some while and it's dark out. There's a light burning in his kitchen. For a moment, just a split second, it feels like Steve will swing around the corner. But he doesn't.

He walks into the kitchen to find a bouquet of white lillies sitting on the countertop. He checks the card attached to them.

Sorry about your loss.

He doesn't recognize the handwriting, it looks like it could've been written by someone who's older than Warren, male maybe, but his last Hand Writing and Letter Indentification Course was two years ago. He figures his cleaner, a nice elderly lady, had put them there. He thinks about her seeing the bouquet on the door step and carefully carrying them inside, placing them in the only vase Warren has at home. It makes him both sad and glad, glad that at least she's still around.

_

In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on.

14 would've liked to ask Robert Frost if he was just stupid or naive or both.

_

Two days later he's so angry at the world that he grabs the vase and throws it across the room, where it collides with the wall and breaks in a thousand little pieces.

_

The anger keeps on coming, rage that boils hot and white in his stomach, makes him lash out at colleagues and scream his lungs out, throwing things and fits like it's nothing.

He finds himself beating into walls and furniture until his knuckles bleed.

Mrs. Rackham puts him onto another break, Temporarily Suspended Until Further Notice the record reads.

_

Warren's awake, restless but exhausted, again. It's three in the morning. His head hurts, his bones hurts, his whole body feels heavy.

"I should've stopped you from going", he whispers into the night and his mind conjurs up Steve's voice, consoling him.

"No, really. I should have been more persistent. If you just would've stayed with me that night."

Steve answers him again, but it sounds washed out in Warren's ear.

Oh, please don't let me forget his voice.

_

He's not moving again. Hasn't done so in two days.

Mrs. Rackham continues to call him, but he won't pick up. He can't handle her, can't handle her sorrow and her advices. He doesn't want to hear it. She would probably also bug him about not showing up for work again and that's just something he really doesn't want to hear right now.

It's phone rings again and he picks it up to throw it against the wall with all the force he can possibly muster, so it would just shut up, but it's not Phoenicia calling this time. It's Lester.

"14? This is Crest." He doesn't sound good. Warren doesn't know what to say.

"I am, ehrm, calling to see how you're doing?" Odd. He can't bring himself to say anything back. "You know I, err, saw you didn't clock in to work for a few days? Are you doing, ehrm, well?"

"Yeah", it sounds as broken as he feels. There's an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds, maybe even for a full minute. He hears Lester's inhaler.

"I, well I err heard about Haines."

It should send him into a rage, a fit, maybe even crying manically but there's just nothing. Just the casual numbness that hangs above him like thick clouds these days.

"Yeah, a shame, isn't it?"

There's coughing, then deep breaths being taken. "You're not doing too well, Crest?"

"Can we meet up, 14? I", another cough, "I know a place."

_

The sun's out and it burns in Warren's eyes, on his skin, even though he's wearing both, a jacket and sunglasses. Crest sits across from him at the table, not touching his iced coffee. So isn't Warren, he is neither thirsty nor hungry.

They are at a bean machine on Vinewood Boulevard. It's one of the stores Steve used to buy his coffee at. There should be stining pain at the thought but there's just sadness, blackness wandering through Warren's mind.

"You don't look too good", Crest says.

"You neither", Warren says and to mask the shaking of his voice he takes a sip from the coffee. It tastes like nothing, like liquid paper.

"I don't feel to good either. But you also don't, so what's the matter, 14."

Warren just shrugs. Lester looks at him, a steady and stern gaze, as if he's looking for answers in Warren's eyes, in his fucking soul.

"What are we doing here?"

"Just looking after a, err, friend."

"We're not friends, Crest."

"Associates then, maybe?", the look on his face is a little sad, offended. Warren can't bring himself to care.

"Yeah, whatever."

"Any lead, yet?"

Warren lifts his eyebrows in suprise. "A lead?"

"Yeah, you know", Crest clears his throat and leans in a little, "Who did it, you know."

Maybe Warren's mind is playing tricks on him again, but Crest looks a little concerned.

"No, none. Nothing."

Crest nods and leans back. Lester doesn't offer his help, so Warren decides that he then won't ask for it. Still confused and mouth already opened he wants to know why, as Lester's lungs throw a fit, his body cramping and being thrown forward and then back again by his dry coughs. Warren's up on his feet in a matter of seconds, his heartbeat picking up a fast rate he hasn't feeled in weeks, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He grabs Lester by his shoulders and holds him up, while he coughs coughs coughs. At the end of it there's blood on his chin.

"You're not planing on dying as well, are you?"

The look Lester shoots him, slumped in his chair with other guests on the terrace staring at them in shock, makes Warren's skin crawl.

_

He hasn't been at an attorney's office ever. It's a weird experience.

The people are nice and calm and so is Mister Allan, who has Steve's testament laying in front of him.

"So, Mister Jones, shall we get started then?"

Warren nods. It still confuses him. He wonders what Steve's mother thought, when she heard that she won't inherit everything. Warren doesn't want money, money won't replace anything.

He must've said that out loud, because Allan chuckles.

"Mister Haines hasn't left you money. No need to worry, Mister Jones."

He leaves the office with a black box tucked safely under his arm. He doesn't open it, not in the office, not on the way out in the elevator, not at home. He tucks it away in his closet, deep down where he keeps a ski puffer, that he never wears anyways.

_

He finds himself talking to Steve, or what his mind conjurs up of his memories, more often. It helps him, or so he hopes.

He misses him and the soliloquy is a good substitute, at least for now.

_

They are at a clinic just above the hills and behind the Vinewood sign, far away from the city, the air is dry and crisp nonetheless. Lester sits in a wicker chair, wrapped in a blanket and stares at the fountain in the middle the perfectly trimmed meadow. Warren sits next to him, craving a cigarette, but not lighting one. He'll have to wait a couple more minutes, until the nurse will bring Lester back into the clinic.

"Thank you for stopping by", Crest means it.

"Am I the only one?"

"No, oh no. There's, ehrm, Franklin's coming over too, once or twice a week."

He looks better, rested. Warren doesn't know who Franklin is, but he nods politely anyways.

"That's nice."

"Yeah, he's a good kid." A crook then.

"Are they treating you well up here?"

"It's fine, I- argh, fuck it. The dinner's horrible but the doctor's are good enough. Won't make a difference anyways."

"That's what they're saying then?", Warren looks into the setting sun. From up here Los Santos seems peaceful, quiet, a big, glorious and shining city. It's a hell hole full of shit, Warren knows that now, but he can't leave. Not yet.

"Yeah. No. They don't say it, but they mean it. It's in their eyes." Lester takes a sip of his water.

"Don't say that, Crest."

Lester looks at him. He doesn't say it, but the look on his face says it all. You've been through enough, I won't tell you that I'm dying soon.

"Yeah, well, it was nice seeing you. Getting better and such", Warren gets up, the wicker creaking, his phone in hand and sunglasses back on. They look at each other for a long, quiet moment and then Warren nods, turns around to leave. A surprisingly strong hand grabs his arm.

"I have a project, it's happening right now, Warren."

He stops in his tracks. From somewhere behind the fountain laughter sweeps up the hill. There's an old lady on the meadow with their grandchildren and they're playing ball. She has a bandage around her head.

"A project?", Warren doesn't turn around.

"Yeah, I'd like you to take over. You need something to do."

"I still have a job, Crest."

"That reminds you of him." It's like a kick into his guts and there's sudden rage boiling inside of him, but there's also something else. A certain calmness, that wraps itself around his shoulders like a white blanket. T feels a lot like clarity.

"That it does, yeah."

"I'll have Paige bring you the details."

"Sure. Good night, Crest."

He walks over the little path out of bark mulch, that is overgrown by trees, back to his car. He feels oddly content.

_

See, life does goes on. It's a weird thought that strikes him out of nowhere. He's afraid of forgetting everything that was, since forgetting always seemed easy. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week but who knows what will be in a year? Maybe he'll catch himself sooner or later, not thinking about Steve for a few weeks, months, years.

He's afraid of that, sincerely so.

_

The air in the bunker is cold and damp. Some of his people are moving out the old equipment. He doesn't know Crest's newest associate, it's most likely no one from the Hertz/Clifford-Incident.

I'm sorry I called him a buffoon, if I had only known back then.

He thinks of Phoenicia's concerned face and suddendly he finds himself smiling.

"Oh, he was a buffoon, you weren't wrong, Ma'am", he says to himself and hears a quiet chuckle errupting from his chest. There's sadness floading him, but it's warm and sweet and feels like an old friend.

There's no time for tears as the door of the bunker suddendly beeps loudly, informing him of a visitor arriving.

_

"So, you're getting along, then?", Crest sounds better. Warren lets go a breath, he doesn't even know he held in the first place.

"Yeah. They are quiet, but I appreciate the effort they are putting into it."

"I told you, they're are reliable."

"So you did."

There's a long pause, silence.

"Listen, Crest. I gotta go, speak to you soon."

As he hangs up, he's confronted with his lie, standing alone in his quiet living room.

_

The next time Lester invites him over, he says yes. He lives in a bigger, cleaner house now and Warren can only guess, that he was indeed involved in the robbery at the Casino his team is trying to solve right now. He'll offer them a false trace. Maybe they'll pick that one up.

"Georgina's not home, you just missed her", Lester wobbles down the stairs to the living room, crutch in hand.

"Who?"

"Georgina, he lives with her", Warren looks up, from where he is securing Lester's arm with his own hand and looks into the face of a young man. He looks younger than himself and wears expensive street style clothing.

"Who are you?"

"That's Franklin, Warren. Franklin, that's the friend I've been telling you about."

"Pleasure", Warren's voice still on the edge, while the man's handshake is firm.

"You lost your man, dog? Lest been telling me."

"I did, eight months ago."

There's something moving behind Franklin's face but he's quick to cover it up. Warren wonders: what and why.

"Shame man, I'm sorry to hear that, homie. My girl left me, too."

"He didn't leave me. He died."

Franklin looks at Lester, confused and a little reproachful, too. Then, it seems to click, as Franklin looks at him again. He now looks a little terrified, actually.

"Franklin was just leaving anways, weren't you?", Crest sits down in a beige armchair. Warren notices that he has new glasses.

"Yeah, shit. I mean of course, I was on my way out. Nice meeting you man, I hope you're, you know, doing better soon. See you around."

"Thank you", Warren recieves an awkward pat on his shoulder and then Franklin's steps distance themselves, until the front door falls shut.

_

He didn't leave me. He died.

His own words echo in his skull but they don't throw him into a manic tantrum, he's not crying, not screaming. He's oddly calm.

Is this how it feels, when one comes to terms with something, he wonders. Maybe, it is.

He died.

That he did and it must've been fucking ugly. Blood and soupy brain everywhere. Warren wishes he could've held him during these moments, when the body is slowling shutting down, when something mysterious, unknown happens to the human consciousness.

He died.

And Warren had missed him every single day since then. He leans himself against the closed bedroom door of his apartment and then makes his way to his closet.

The box is still where he has left it.

He died. He died. He died.

"I miss you, Steve", he whispers into the silence of his flat and then he smiles, it's small and sad, and he sinks onto the ground, box clutched in his hands, "Fuck, I wish you were still here."

There's silence but Warren likes to think that something of Steve's mind, his soul is still left on this earth, stayed with him. It's a nice thought, even if it's unrealistic. It's still consoling.

Steve's gone for good, but just because his body doesn't walk the dirty streets of LS anymore doesn't mean that he left Warren's life completely - he still existed, left his footprints behind. And Warren's ready, willing even, to take carefully aligned pictures of them and hang them on his wall. He's ready to look at them every day that may come and maybe he'll stop crying at some point. Or maybe he won't. He'll be fine.

It's an odd feeling. His life still feels empty, incomplete since Steve passed and so does Warren. He feels empty, shallow and sad, but it will pass and he will take the time. It doesn't mean forgetting him, quite the contrary maybe.

He flips the lid, puts it aside carefully with a quiet thump on the carpet below. He takes a look inside and bursts out laughing.

_

"Did he leave you something?", he hasn't seen her in years, since college. She used to be his flat mate.

"Yeah", he smiles to himself.

"What is it?", she looks moved and Warren would love to tell her, but he can't. He really can't. Not all of it, anyways.

"A letter."

"A letter?"

"Yeah, a fucking love letter."

"Warren! Don't say that! It's very heartwarming!"

It's been a year. He still misses him. "He wasn't the type for it, that's all."

He thinks of the envelope he keeps in his safe. It's a document, FIB header and logo, completely official.

Reference: Counter Espionage, Crimes Against National Safety, A Report By Steve Haines to be handed to Misses Phoenicia Rackham In Relation "To Agent 14", Mister Warren Jones

"Oh, was he not, you know, a little a romantic?"

"No, it must've taken a lot for him to write a love letter." It was really sweet and it went well with the attempt to put Warren in a High Security Penitentiary.

"Really?", she looks a little concerned, but she doesn't get Steve, their relationship as it was, like Warren does.

He looks up from his coffee cup and lights a cigarette. He hasn't had a smoke in a long time but at least he stopped with the cocaine.

"Yeah. Sometimes", there's a smile tugging at his lips, "Sometimes I think he would've rather seen me locked away."