#the whole entire card is just me fighting the urge to punch him through the screen

[rose-tinted-kalopsia]

absolutely yelling over the latest 4★ for a sec (necessarily) because the urge to PUNCH THE LITTLE MERMAN IN THE FACE is EXCEEDINGLY STRONG 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

rafayel makes me so fucking SICK like what do you mean!!! WHAT DO YOU MEAAANNNNNNNN he did the chin grab thing!!!

"regret adds character to your life" "repaying my kindness with trickery isn't a good idea" "you've been following me the whole day... with an ulterior motive, yeah?"

"you're my bodyguard, but you also take orders from other people!"

STOP. STOP PLAYING WITH MY HEART LIKE THAT. SIR. JUST SHUT UP.

"i can't believe i got it at such a low price!"

haruhi voice: these damn rich people...

//

tl;dr rafayel is such a little shit by the way, this card is making my tsundere act up so fucking badly, thank you for coming to my ted talk

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Hey 👋

I swear I'm addicted to your writing😁 Thank you for the amazing post❤

Can I request a usually calm reader coming home to Hanni and Wil with n bruise on their cheek and/or blue knuckles from n fight. And when they question reader they find out reader defended their relationship.

Or

Them reacting to reader with cigarette burn scars from childhood or self harm scars.

Sorry if it's specific I had a dream about the first one and I'm insecure about my scars😅 Also if it makes you uncomfy ignore me🤣

Have a wonderful day/night/afternoon💕

Hey anon, sorry it took me a hot minute to get to this. Hope you enjoy!

Gender neutral y/n comes home covered in bruises. Their lovers Hannibal and Will need to know why.

trigger warnings: blood, threats of violence, mention of firearms, stalking

You spit a mouthful of blood into the snow before you even thought about turning the doorknob. Any random passerby would look at you and think you were attempting to rob the place. You couldn't say you disagreed, though: your hood was pulled over your head and you held a tire iron in your singular non-bleeding hand.

You knew it wasn't wise to let the old-money Baltimore socialites catch you in such a compromising position, but you had to double-check your mental map of the house one more time. Hannibal would undoubtedly be cooking; hopefully so in his element that he wouldn't notice you slipping by. Will was the one you had to worry about. When it came to you, he'd become as alert as a German shepherd with protective instincts to match. Where he was in the house was anyone's guess, so you needed to be on guard.

You removed your heavy boots and opted to leave them outside. You then tossed the tire iron behind a nearby planter and slowly, quietly turned the knob. The door creaked as it opened, making you cringe. The sight of neither of your partners immediately running up on you was a bit of a relief; you hadn't been discovered quite yet.

You just needed to make it upstairs so you could barricade yourself in the master bathroom and use that oh-so-rare sliver of privacy to cover up your bruises. Then you could climb down the trellis, grab your shoes and make a proper entrance with hello kisses and whatnot.

"[F/N]?" Hannibal called out before you could even breach the threshold.

With no thought on your mind other than "fuck", you turned your head away from the direction you heard him. "Yeah, I'm home."

"I'd rush to give you a kiss, but I'm a little tied up at the moment." He said, undoubtedly grinning to himself as he trussed a chicken with sturdy cooking wire. "So you'll have to come to me."

"Oh, yeah." You called back. "Let me just get cleaned up first."

"If you insist." He said with a dramatic dip in his voice. "But hurry right back. Dinner is almost ready."

Hurdle one was cleared. Now all you had to do was clear the second, much higher hurdle.

You ascended the stairs, but forgot to skip that one consistently creaky step that always alerted the dogs. A small army of dogs came pouring into the upstairs hallway, blocked only by the baby gate Hannibal had installed as a compromise. Enthusiastic barks filled the foyer as you desperately tried to calm them down from the top step.

"Winston! Max! Harley!" You rattled off as many names as you could remember. "Hush, please!"

"[F/N]?" Will said, turning the corner.

You momentarily considered throwing yourself down the stairs. It would be easier to explain the bruises and you could still soak up that sweet, sweet throuple affection without having to tell a story that even you didn't entirely believe. Common sense, however, kept your feet firmly on the ground.

Will appeared in your line of sight. You pulled the brim of your hat down and stuffed your hands into your pockets. "I, uh- forgot how to open the gate again."

The dogs parted in Will's path and he looked at you with suspicion as he effortlessly opened the gate. "Is everything okay?"

You turned your head to the side. "I'm fine. It's just really cold outside."

"I'm sure those wet clothes aren't helping." Will cocked his head. "We can start by throwing that hoodie in the dryer-"

Before you could pull away, he pushed your hood and your hat off in one fluid motion. He knew what was going on.

"I'm no doctor, but I don’t think busted noses and black eyes are side effects of low body temperature." He said, folding his arms.

You put your hand up, unintentionally revealing the bruises on your knuckles. "You learn something new every day."

You tried to scoot past him, but he grabbed your hand and pulled you back.

"[F/N]--" Will said, a blistering fury beginning to percolate in his chest. "Who did this to you?"

"I ran into a bus stop." You lied, not even trying to make it sound believable.

"That bus wouldn't have happened to be headed to Dacula, would it?"

Your silence spoke louder than any excuse you could think of.

Will sighed. "Right. I think I know what happened."

"Will, I-" you protested.

"Save it for dinner." He scolded. "I'm sure Hannibal would love to hear this."

You'd been found out it was much worse than anticipated. You felt like you were on trial, which, given the circumstances, you could have actually been on trial in a real court of law on the charge of aggravated assault. However, that didn’t make you feel any better.

Hannibal demanded an explanation and couldn't wait until dinner. He was willing to let one of his culinary masterpieces burn in the oven, knowing of course that a much rarer delicacy was in the cards once you gave him a name.

He brushed his finger over an open cut under your eye. A light click of his tongue reached your ears as he examined your face.

"Give us a name, love." Hannibal probed, holding your jaw between his fingers and following the trail of bruises down your neck. "Who did this to you?"

"It's not a big deal, really." You assured him, squirming against his grip. "I started it."

"Now that, I find hard to believe." Hannibal contested. "You're not a preemptive strikes kind of person."

"Nor would you go all the way to Dacula to throw a few punches." Will added, approaching you with an ice pack.

"Okay, so maybe I finished it." You corrected.

Hannibal smiled proudly to himself. "That's more like it."

"What exactly did you finish?" Will asked, gently placing the ice against your bruised knuckles.

You sighed. You mentioned Dacula once and they already knew the answer. They were just waiting to hear you say it.

"My ex-boyfriend, Sidney." You leaned back on your one good wrist. "He was a being a completely irredeemable shit, as usual-"

"Details, darling." Hannibal said in too singsongy of a voice than was really appropriate while wrapping your hand in gauze.

"Acting entitled, talking like I belonged to him-"

"You have no idea how little that narrows it down." Will shook his head.

You were compelled to agree, but couldn't bring yourself to admit that and the fact that you ever dated Sidney in the first place. "Right."

"That isn't out of character for him." Hannibal said.

"And certainly not enough to make you willingly drive back out to cousinfuck nowhere to beat him up." Will finished.

"I didn't go out there with the intent to beat him up!" You contested. "He said that if I could meet him for coffee he'd never speak to me again. I know it's a lot of gas money, but I really was gonna hold him to the whole 'never speaking to me again' bit."

"So what happened?" Will asked, growing impatient.

You looked at the ground, embarrassment stopping the words at the tip of your tongue.

"Somehow, he caught a whiff of our... arrangement." You tightened your hands into frustrated fists. "And he made some really shitty comments about... you."

Hannibal and Will exchanged looks. They let the silence linger, urging you to fill it.

"He went into obscene detail about how mmf threesomes are his favorite category of porn," you tried not to gag as you recalled the disgusting details. "And then said if I 'let him watch', he wouldn't tell the local baptist church that I was a whore-"

"The man is a pig." Hannibal said, matter-of-factually.

"I got up to leave." You continued. "Obviously. Then he said he knew where you lived. Announced it to the whole diner. Started to go through his list of semiautomatic weapons. So to make sure he knew I meant business-"

"You threw the first punch." Hannibal finished the thought for you.

You nodded. "Naturally."

Will smiled to the floor and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I would have loved to see that."

"As much as it pains me to say," Hannibal began, resignedly agreeing. "It's only fair that you stand up for us the way we stand up for you. From time to time."

Will brought your bruised knuckles to his lips. "Though we desperately need to teach you how to dodge. Because the next time you come home covered in scratches, someone will pay."

You took both of their hands. "I should get beat up more often."

[portraitoftheoddity]

So like I really like Steve and all and he's definitely got the right heart and that's what fandom likes about him, how he stood up to bullies and injustice with his fist raised. But recently I've rewatched avatar and Aang got me thinking, is going against the world fist ready really the right thing. Like Aang was no coward he still stopped Ozai but in most of his battles he tries for peace first. In fact Avatar as a whole talks about change in people.

Like Sokka turned from misogynistic to respecting women, and Iroh's love and patience redeemed Zuko. As much as I love Steve Rogers, fist fighting bullies and getting your ass handed to you or successfully beating them to a pulp isn't going to change them, and it sends a wrong message of fighting fire with fire and bullies don't learn when you punch them usually they get pettier. I agree Steve is right at not letting injustice go be it canon or fandom but Iove that scene in avatar when Aang got into a fire nation school and when a guy tried to fight him he was just like nooope but still managed to be on top as opposed to Steve (maybe just fan fic ver) who would try a punch. I mean I can see Steve screaming at the lies of the fire nation school instead of calmly informing the truth and throwing a dance party. Like Aang might be too pacific sometimes but is charging against people really a good lesson. Stand for what's right, but like in a chill way. And I'm not sure if this is just the fandom version of Steve but in TFS we did kinda see him in an alley fight against a just a ride guy. Sorry about the long rant but what do you think about Steve's fight me attitude being completely glorified in his fandom.

I apologize that I’m gonna gonna get a little long-winded here!

I agree with you that peaceful solutions are great to try first, but when it comes to this punch-happy version of Steve you reference, I think you’re kinda looking at a strawman version of the character, anon --  maybe from poorly-written fic or memes, but not exactly the Steve of film or comics.

Now, the respective approaches of both Aang and Steve are in part a product of the media they originated in. A show aimed at kids with a single overall plotline and arc is often going to aim for a peaceful solution and allow for linear character growth -- while comics, movies and shows developed around a character specifically designed to punch Hitler as a statement during WWII are less likely to have a core message of pacifism, and their structure and circular timelines make growth arcs more difficult to sustain. This doesn’t mean one character’s approach or the other is superior, just that they come from different contexts, narratively and in terms of medium. Plus, there are different kinds of fights, and not all are going to offer us the same options as solutions. Looking for ideological purity -- only ever opting for the ‘right’ solution -- can often lead to doing nothing when no ‘right’ solution presents itself, which can result in more harm than taking a less-than-perfect action.

Let us not forget that when an authoritarian army showed up to kill everyone and wipe out the North Pole, Aang does go all Koizilla with the ocean spirit and wipes out the Fire Nation fleet. Aang has fought people. Aang, albeit with the alibi of “a spirit was in charge”, indirectly kills people (Zhao ends up pretty dead as a direct result of Aang’s spirit rampage). This isn’t particularly glorified, but at the time there isn’t a better outcome presented. Doing nothing would have led to the massacre of the Northern Water Tribe.

That said, I LOVE ATLA and its messages of growth and compassion and I think it’s great to have a protagonist who opts to give people a way out.

...Which is what Steve does. 

We see Steve do this more than once. In CA:TWS, Steve recognizes Bucky and tried to get through to him, to avoid a fight. One ensues, but Steve then refuses to fight him anymore once he’s disabled the helicarrier and saved everyone else, willingly putting his own life on the line to gamble on some part of Bucky’s inner self being in there and worth saving. He isn’t willing to put the lives of other innocents and noncombatants on the line -- protecting them is a priority, even if it means fighting Bucky -- but once that factor is out of the equation, he drops his shield and tries to reach him.

In the same movie, a few scenes earlier, Steve appeals to the personnel of SHIELD -- an organization that has labeled him a terrorist and been hunting him -- and paints out the reality of the situation, giving the good people within the opportunity to react and rebel against the element of HYDRA that has infiltrated -- which they do! But there isn’t a magical lionturtle showing up to tell him how to stop the helicarriers from taking off and murdering millions of people without any casualties, so, yanno. He does what he can. 

Heck, Steve is occasionally teased by other characters for his speechifying -- not just to give pep talks, but to try to get through to people. He does this in the comics a lot. You’ve probably seen this page going around:

It doesn’t always work out. But he tries.

You suggest Steve would punch someone who was wrong in Aang’s Fire Nation School, but I don’t agree with that reading on the character based on what we see Steve do. Steve very rarely is the one to completely initiate a fight. Usually he is reactive. He sees a situation where someone is being a jerk, points out the injustice, and if the person is insisting on hurting someone, Steve inserts himself to make sure it’s him instead of anyone else. Whether the jerk in question is a single bully or an entire army.

You bring this scene up, but when Steve confronts the guy heckling in the movie theater (who is making a woman cry, I’ll add), it’s clear from the man’s posture when he stands up and Steve’s look of dread that while Steve has spoken up, the escalation to violence is not his choice. When we see him a moment later in the alley, he’s fighting defensively -- drawing the man’s ire, keeping him distracted. Steve is reactive in this entire scenario -- not the instigator. (and I think if Steve had Aang’s airbending, he’d love to dodge more punches instead of getting his ass kicked!)

The fact that Steve’s primary weapon is a shield -- a symbol of defense, not offense -- speaks to the fact his entire MO is protection. Violence not for violence’s sake, but to intervene in existing violence when there is no other recourse.

But Steve also admittedly has a stronger sense of responsibility than Aang does at the series’ start. Aang dodges, but he also gets called out by other characters for running away from a lot of his problems instead of confronting them. Steve, if he were a bender, I think would likely be an Earthbender like Toph; solid, stubborn, listening and reacting (though ironically, he would lose his shit over the willful obliviousness and apathy of Ba Sing Se’s leadership). Steve feels a deep personal duty to always be in the thick of it where things are already at their worst. 

If there had been no deus ex machina energybending option presented at the eleventh hour, would it have been better for Aang to die and doom the world than to compromise his morals and kill the Fire Lord? It’s a question of hypothetical principles vs reality of harm in that instance. Aang as a character is allowed by the story to adhere to his principles and get a happy ending. Steve as a character does his best, but ultimately has to compromise with reality when he has to, when it’s not just his life at stake, but many others should he fail to act in time. In those high-stakes scenarios, his cards are often limited.

Steve as a character doesn’t arbitrarily start fights. But he goes to where the status quo is untenable, or where a fight is already raging, and he takes a stand. If he can convince someone to step down peacefully? That’s ideal! But usually by the time Captain America has shown up, there are megaweapons primed and loaded and fascists already hurting people or robots trying to destroy the planet or a Titan about to wipe everyone out, so the ideal option is rarely still on the table. No dance party is gonna be enough to change Red Skull’s crazy nazi mind about killing everyone (which is too bad, because I’d love to watch Steve do the lindy hop). There is no ‘chill way’ to stand for what’s right at that point. 

And ultimately, I think we need both kinds of characters! I think it’s important to encourage diplomacy and compassion, to urge people to find common ground and to find nonviolent ways of diffusing and deescalating situations. To look at things from other perspectives, and to give people the option to learn and grow and be better than they were. I love a good rehabilitation arc, and think ATLA does this beautifully and has incredibly important messaging and philosophies.

But I also think we need stories that say, hey, when those options aren’t on the table? When no one is listening no matter what you try to say, when you’ve looked for a way around it and no lionturtles have showed up to save your ass? Sometimes, you have to put yourself in front of the guy swinging punches and raise you shield and stop him. Sometimes you don’t get the nice options that make you feel good; sometimes the world is messy and ugly; but sometimes, even if we can’t do the ideal thing, we can still do the right thing. Take action and put an end to the perpetuation of violence in the moment to protect the helpless. (Then work on rehabilitation and communication.)

[jean-kayak]

Chapter 6

Summary: A relaxing summer at home after your second year of college sounds nice, until someone comes back and makes it anything but

Pairing: Eren Jaeger x black!fem!reader

Warnings: none really, a little suggestive, cursing

A/N: This is once again a filler chapter sort of, but there will be more spicy parts i promise 😂

Word Count: 1753

Tags: @her-majesty-kiara, @iwascrybaby, @styxtm, @bigdaddyzawa, @germfart3, @erensblackgirlfriend​

Chapter Summary: You’re feeling more than conflicted about what you did last night

When you wake up, the first thing you register is the tingling soreness between your legs when you stretch, and it makes you jolt, grimacing slightly before opening your eyes. Which widen when you see where you are.

Your head snaps to the side, not even registering the arm wrapped around your waist, which tightens when you move, and Eren grumbles beside you before nuzzling in his face in your neck, and you stay still until you're sure he's asleep again.

You fight the urge to slap a hand against your forehead, opting to squeeze a hand over your mouth. The events playback in your head and you rub a hand over your face slowly. You slept with him. You fucking slept with him.

You bring your other hand, rubbing both of them down your face, pulling your face with them. God, how could you let this happen? Do you regret it? The fact that you can't answer the question easily is bad, and you have to get out of here.

You carefully slide out from under his arm, freezing to make sure he doesn't wake up, and you get dressed to the best of your ability with the throbbing feeling at your core, thankful that your shirt somehow made its way into his room. You walk to the mirror to make sure you look somewhat presentable, not look you just got fucked by the best dick of your life, and your heart drops in horror when you see marks covering every inch of your skin.

You fight the whine that wants to come out as you fix your twists over your shoulders, hoping that they cover enough, and you collect your stuff before giving Eren one last glance, quickly looking away, knowing that if you look any longer, you're not going to leave.

All you have to do is sneak out. Should be easy enough. You slip out the door, closing it softly behind you before hightailing it to the stairs, your steps quick but light.

"Y/N?" You freeze when you hear Jean's door open, and you pray that most of the marks are covered. "You disappeared last night."

"Yeah, I was feeling a little tired," you respond quickly. "And I'm going to go get in the shower at home, so I'll talk to you later, yeah? And thanks for the party, I really appreciate it." You barely give him time to respond as you practically run down the stairs, grabbing your shoes at the door before rushing out the door, breaking out into a run when you make it outside, and you don't stop running until you're in your room.

You fall down onto your bed, rolling over so that you're facing the ceiling. You just had sex, amazing sex, with someone you were not supposed to, and--shit what about Jean? He saw you walk out of Eren's room or at least saw you coming from that direction. Does he know? He can't know, he'd probably flip the fuck out.

You rub a hand over your face, sighing heavily. You decide that you need to get in the shower, clear your head, and let the warm water run over your body, and every time you close your eyes, images from last night pop into your head, making you open your eyes instantly.

Your fingers brush over the bruises on your hips, and you rest your forehead against the cool tile. Screw Eren and his dick, but the more you think about the more you want to sleep with him again--No!

You don't want to sleep with him again, you can't sleep with him again. That's a bad idea. You're supposed to have a stress-free, dilemma-free summer, and that's nowhere near happening anymore, it hasn't been happening ever since you found out Eren was back.

You let the water run down your face, trying to metaphorically erase the feeling of his hands and lips on your body, and you've never felt more conflicted in your entire life. Your body wants him, and you hate it, it's like it's trying to overrun the voice in your head telling you that it's not a good idea.

The wound that you thought was healed was just opened back up again, and it leaves a weird feeling all over your body. Your brain tells you to drop it so that you can heal again while your body wants to be sadistic and put salt on the wound.

You sigh when you step out of the shower, wiping off the steam on the mirror to figure out how in the hell you're going to cover the marks.

You haven't spoken to Eren since that night, telling Jean to hang out at your house, your reasoning being that you're always at his house. Eren doesn't even text you, call you, or anything. That makes a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and that pathetic feeling from four years ago resurfaces once again, it feeling like a punch in the throat. You certainly don't miss this feeling.

"Hey, you okay?" You jump out of your thoughts, your face meeting Jean's with a look of concern over his.

"Yeah," you say, nodding quickly. "I'm just trying to figure out what else we can do, we can't spend the whole summer at each other's houses."

He shrugs, seeming to take the bait. "I mean, I'm pretty sure we can come up with something."

You shift on the couch, folding your legs under you as you face him, resting an arm on the back of the couch. "You know, you could tell me about Marco." His face turns pink instantly as he shakes his head. "Come on, Jean, it has to be going somewhere," you push, and he shrugs as he rubs the back of his neck.

"I don't know," he says cautiously.

"Hey, you never know unless you try. It seems like he likes you too," you tell him. "Do I need to play matchmaker?" you tease, and he shakes his head. "You sure? Pretty sure I could text him right now," you say, pulling out your phone, and he reaches over the couch to stop you.

"Y/N," he warns, and you chuckle softly as you put your phone down.

"Okay, okay, I'm done," you relent, and he gestures towards you.

"What about you? Anyone in the picture?" You shake your head fast as you wave your hands.

"Absolutely not. I was in a relationship, I guess you could call it, but that ended nearly as soon as it started," you remember, and Jean nods before looking away from you.

"Look, about Eren--"

"It's fine, don't worry about it," you cut him off. "I'm okay now, and it's in the past."

"But he shouldn't have--"

"It was my fault because I fell for it," you cut him off again, and he shakes his head.

"He shouldn't have led you on like that." You sigh, looking at him before you respond, ignoring how this conversation doesn't help the wound close.

"It doesn't matter. It was a while ago, and I'm over it. It'll never happen again," you reply firmly, and he drops it at that. The conversation confirms one thing. That you really won't let it happen again.

You're at Jean's house a couple of days later, and you haven't heard from Eren so you're pretty sure he's either not home or he's just ignoring you. Jean doesn't seem to suspect anything, he's not reacting in any way to indicate that he knows, and you release a breath of relief.

You're playing card games on the floor of the living room, a movie that the both of you occasionally paying attention to playing in the background. You hear the door open, and you assume it's Jean's mom, but his reaction dreadfully tells you differently. You don't turn around, pretending that you didn't hear anyone come in, keeping your attention on the cards in front of you.

Jean does the same thing, and you actually feel like you could do this. It actually doesn't seem that hard to achieve. "I'm going to the bathroom," Jean tells you before he gets up. You didn't take in the fact that you couldn't do it by yourself. You take a deep breath as you nod your head before turning your attention to the movie and your phone.

"So, it does work," you hear come from behind you, and your face changes to confusion, but you don't look at Eren. "I thought your phone was messed up or something."

"What made you think that?" you ask, keeping your back towards him.

"You haven't texted me, like, at all." At the audacity of his words, you turn around, standing quickly to face him.

"You don't get to say that to me. Your phone is working perfectly fine." You feel irritation rising in your chest at his words, shaking your head in disbelief. "What do you want?"

"Aww, come on, you're smarter than that." He smirks, walking towards you, and your tough demeanor starts to shrink. He pulls you into him, the look in his eyes sending a shiver down your spine. "I want you," he says, his voice saying duh.

"Well, I don't want you," you counter, but it comes out weaker than you wanted it to, and he raises his eyebrows at you.

"Really? Well, you were definitely singing a different tune the other night. Screaming, I should say," and you release a deep breath through your nose. "I think it was to the tune of Eren?" He poses it as a question even though he knows it's the truth, and you're more than having a hard time keeping your resolve up.

The sound of footsteps coming down the hallway makes you jump as you push away from him, quickly sitting on the floor as Jean comes into view. You rub a hand over your heated face, keeping your gaze on the cards.

"Eren, could you like, I don't know, fuck off?" you hear Jean say, and Eren responds with a chuckle. You can see him in your peripheral as he walks up the stairs.

"I'll be in my room if you need me to relieve some tension."

"We won't." The innuendo goes over Jean's head, knowing those words were meant for you, and you clear your throat as Jean sits down in front of you.

"How about another round?" Jean offers, and you nod your head as you hand him your cards.

"Sounds good."

|Chapter 5|Masterlist|Chapter 7|

[lopithecusfanfiction]

A Little Generosity Can Go A Long Way

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: General Word Count: 1352 Alternate: AO3 Summary: It's 3:00 am when an intruder enters Bruce's house. Things don't go quite as planned. Warnings: 

Robbery

Intruder

Author's Note: This is for @lovelastart​ who requested “Home Invasion” from the Hurt/Comfort Bingo (I am no longer taking prompts for this.) First and foremost, apologies are in order. Lovelastart, I am really, really sorry this took me an abysmal amount of time to get this done. At first, it was because I was having really bad frequent migraines (which, unfortunately, have not gone fully away but they are a little less at the moment) and then I got let go from my job and I was really depressed from that and… well, time got away from me and before I knew it, 3 months had passed. I’m terribly sorry about that! Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want my excuses and you just want the fic you requested of me, so here you go. I hope you enjoy it!! Prompt: Home Invasion

Bruce yawns tiredly as he makes his way to the kitchen. It’s 3:00 am in the morning and everyone is asleep already, including Alfred. It was a pretty tame night, thankfully, and so there was no need for the older man to stay awake if Bruce was going to come home unscathed. That left Clark, who goes to bed early anyway.

Bruce opens the fridge, looking for something to eat quickly so he can sink himself into bed and finally go to sleep. Although nothing major happened that night, he still had to take care of his fair share of robberies which, depending on the sheer amount, can be pretty tiring in and of itself. Tonight, it had been a lot.

Finally deciding on just getting cereal, Bruce grabs for the milk when suddenly something is hitting his head, knocking him over to the side, and causing him to bang into the refrigerator door. He falls to the floor but quickly scrambles to get up, cupping the side of his head. He can feel a little wetness there now, which probably means he’s bleeding.

Guess Alfred is going to be getting up after all.

Bruce faces his opponent and squares him up. It’s a stocky man, tall, wearing a black ski mask to hide his features and a long, thick jacket. He’s also holding some kind of metal rod that is luckily thin enough that it couldn’t do too much damage to Bruce’s skull. The guy should have picked a different weapon. Bruce would laugh if it was something he did during a fight.

The guy lunges for him and Bruce just barely dodges. He takes note of how slow his body is moving, having worn itself out from his earlier fights. Still, he’s Batman, and Batman isn’t taken out from some lowlife thug breaking into his own house.

Bruce brings his elbow down onto the guy’s neck as the intruder stumbles past Bruce’s sidestep, knocking the man to the ground with a heavy grunt from the man. He groans on the floor, twisting to look at Bruce through the holes in the mask, bringing the bar back up to strike at Bruce. Unfortunately, Bruce isn’t fast enough this time and he manages to land a strike on Bruce’s side. He can take it though. He’s had worse.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Bruce asks as he reaches out for the bar as the man swings again. Bruce catches it in his hand, ignoring the sting of the impact on his palm, and yanks it out of the still wheezing man. Despite his size, he’s not very skillful or strong.

The whole man’s body collapses onto the floor, all tension leaving his body as he flops onto his back. “Damn it…” he sounds like he might cry. “I just…” Bruce stays quiet, letting the man get his nerve up. If he were dressed as Batman, he might have punched him for encouragement but at the moment he’s supposed to be billionaire Bruce Wayne and Bruce Wayne doesn’t go around punching criminals. “How’d you beat me?” the man asks instead.

Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Did you really think, as a rich man, I wouldn’t know some self-defense?”

“I guess not,” the man mumbles.

“What is your name?” Bruce relaxes as well. The guy is obviously no longer a threat.

The man pulls the ski mask up to reveal his face. “George.”

Bruce reaches out, offering a hand. “Well, George, you’re going to be in a lot of trouble soon so you might as well tell me why you did this.”

George takes the offered hand, allowing Bruce to haul him back up onto his feet. “I need the money,” he says quietly as if it’s something he should be ashamed of.

Bruce sighs. “It’s really early. Are you hungry? The police probably won’t give you anything decent for a while.”

“What?” George’s eyes are huge. “You’re… you’re offering to feed me?”

“Based on those muscles, you should be stronger. I take it you haven’t eaten a nice meal in a long time,” Bruce comments, shrugging nonchalantly. 

George looks down at his feet, bashful almost. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

Bruce sighs again. “Look, I’m not that great of a cook, but my boyfriend is amazing. Let me go get him.” He gives George a pointed look. “Don’t go running off. The police will find you and if they can’t, you can guarantee Batman will.”

George audibly swallows hard. “I won’t, Sir, I promise.”

“Right…” Bruce goes to leave but then stops. He turns and opens a cabinet up, pulling out a bottle of wine. He looks at it and then the man’s jacket. “Maybe we can drink a little of this with our meal. I know it’s early but… it’s Gotham.” He places it down on the counter. “You know, this bottle could be sold for up to $10,000 dollars.” He leaves it at that, turning and heading up to his bedroom.

When he reaches the bedroom, it doesn’t take much to wake Clark who is immediately on him, checking his wounds. “You should have called for me. I would have helped.”

“It’s a robber, Clark, I could handle it.” At Clark’s disbelieving eyes, he adds, “I handled it.”

Clark sighs in defeat, knowing he won’t win this argument. “Let’s get you patched up then.”

“Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.”

Bruce leads Clark down to the kitchen once the Kryptonian has put on his glasses, grabbing a business card on his way, and explaining the issue. Clark seems amused by the whole thing but doesn’t comment on Bruce’s generosity. When they get back to the kitchen, Bruce notices the wine bottle is gone. He says nothing.

“Good morning, George,” Clark greets. “I hear you are in need of a meal.”

“A-actually,” he fidgets where he stands. “I think I’ve decided I’m not that hungry.” His eyes dart to the door. Bruce wonders if he’s going to try and make a run for it.

“Okay, how about this, George?” Bruce begins, stepping closer. George takes a step back. “I won’t call the police on you in one condition.”

“What do you want?”

“For you to eat something.”

George stares at him as if he’s gone insane but eventually slowly nods his head. “Okay.”

Clark smiles at him and immediately starts to cook the three of them breakfast while talking aimlessly, mostly about the vacations he and Bruce have gone on together. Once done, they all sit at the island, eating their scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon. George hums appreciatively, eating quickly. When he’s finished, he stands, chugs the rest of his water, and then says, “Well, thanks for the meal, Mister Wayne.” He gives Clark a nod in thanks. “I better get going.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hums, not giving the man much attention until he’s almost out the door. “George,” he calls him back, making George stop in his tracks and turn to face him. “The next time you need money, here.” Bruce hands him the business card that he had shoved into his sweatpant’s pocket. “Wayne Enterprises is always looking for people with your tenacity to work for them.”

George’s entire face lights up red. “T-t-thank you, Mister Wayne!” Then he’s gone, running through Bruce’s yard to get back down to the street.

Clark rubs a hand through Bruce’s hair, on the side that isn’t bruised, carding his fingers through the locks there. “That was kind of you, to offer a job.” Clark turns to look in the direction George is heading. “Do you think he’ll be okay with just that? He seemed not well off, at all.”

Bruce, thinking about the bottle of wine, smiles at Clark and leans over to give him a quick kiss on the lips. “He’ll be fine.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head, not missing the way Clark watches as his shirt rises up to show his stomach a little. “Now help me clean and bandage these wounds so I can finally go to sleep.”

—————————————————————————————————

A/N: So, a little less hurt, a little less comfort, but oh well. I hope you liked it anyway Lovelastart!

I started writing this with one thing in mind but Bruce refused to not be kind to George once he learned of the situation.

Thank you for reading!!

[imjustthemechanic]

The Price of a Soul

Part 1/? - Agent Russel Part 2/? - The Letter Part 3/? - Miss Lake Part 4/? - The Stewardess Part 5/? - An Assassination Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - Face to Face Part 8/? - Deals, Details, and Other Devils Part 9/? - Baggage Part 10/? - Private Funding Part 11/? - Just Passing Through Part 12/? - Party of Four Part 13/? - Resolute Part 14/? - The Wreck Part 15/? - Body Snatchers Part 16/? - Out of the Frying Pan

Out of the frying pan, but into the fire would be a worse mistake than Peggy knows.

-

Part of Peggy’s mind was flying.  How had Masters found out about this?  Thompson would have let him know when Kay escaped, but wouldn’t have had any idea where they were going because Peggy hadn’t told anyone about the coordinates except Daniel and… well, there was Russel, who could probably guess the significance of them but would not have known that Peggy was planning to actually investigate.  She’d only mentioned them to him once.  Had Kay left a note?  Or was her initial theory correct, and he’d just overheard Jason’s radio message to Stark Industries?  What had Jason actually said?

Another part was doing its level best to clamp down on the urge to punch him in the face.

“Agent Carter,” he said.  “Fleeing the country upon finding out you’re under investigation doesn’t look good at all.”

“I had every intention of returning, which you would know if you’d asked my landlord or my employer,” Peggy replied.

He was not impressed.  “And what’s your explanation for assisting in the escape of a known Soviet agent – again – and attempted theft of US Government property?”

“Don’t insult me,” said Kay.  “I escaped by myself.”

Masters glanced at her.  “From full-security police lockup under the noses of the entire East Coast SSR and the CIA?”

“What?  Like it’s hard?” asked Kay, in a mock ‘dimwit’ voice, wiggling her head and shoulders to cement the implication that any floozy could have done it.

“What government property are you referring to, Mr. Masters?” Peggy asked.  She had a feeling she knew the answer, and she didn’t like it a bit.

Masters turned to her again.  “You know damn well I’m referring to Captain America and his equipment.  The shield is the world’s entire known stock of Vibranium, and his body is the only hope we or anybody else have of recreating Erskine’s serum.  And you were about to sell both of them to the Russians!”  He looked her over in disgust.  “Were you already planning that when he was alive, or is it that now he’s dead his wishes don’t matter anymore?”

This time Peggy very nearly did punch him – she actually raised an arm before she managed to get herself under control, leading Kay to grab her around the shoulders to stop her, and several of the soldiers surrounding them to aim their guns at her face.

“They certainly don’t seem to matter to you,” she said through her teeth, shrugging Kay off of her.  “Steve would not have wanted to be an object of study after his death.”

“Captain Rogers wanted us to win the war,” Masters replied.  “We’re fighting a new war now and he’s gonna be our key to winning it.”  He stepped back.  “I want these two put in the brig, Captain Lewis – and don’t take eyes off them for a moment.  They’re slippery.”

The man who must’ve been Lewis nodded.  “Do it,” he told the men.  “And get the Captain straight down to the morgue to thaw out. The scientists are waiting.”

Peggy and Kay were taken unceremoniously by the shoulders and frog-marched inside.

It took a few minutes for the red haze at the edge of Peggy’s vision to fade away and her fists to unclench before she could think about this logically, and when she did, she began to realize she was in very serious trouble indeed.  All this time Masters had nothing on her but suspicions and circumstances, but now she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, so to speak.  Who would believe her story that she and Howard were just bringing Steve back for burial when they’d been so secretive about the whole thing?  Perhaps Kay would testify in her defense… but who would believe her when she was an admitted spy and a murderess?

The soldiers put them in a cell in the brig, far down in the belly of the ship, and left two very large and imposing men to watch over them. Peggy and Kay sat down on the little cot in the cell, and their guards sat down on either side of a small table outside, and dealt themselves a hand of cards.  How ironic, Peggy thought with a barely-suppressed sneer.

Kay had said nothing since mocking the SSR’s security out on the deck.  She did not look particularly inclined to say anything now.  She merely sat looking at her watch.

“Have you anything to say for yourself?” Peggy asked her.

There was no reply.  Of course there wasn’t.  Kay had never explained anything and there was no reason for her to start now. Instead of trying to talk, Peggy decided to try to think.

What were their options at this point?  They could sit here and be taken back to the States for trial – that would most likely end in a guilty verdict and imprisonment, if not hanging, for both of them.  They could try to escape.  Peggy could probably pick the lock on the door but the guards would see and hear her doing it, and she doubted she could take both of them.  Perhaps Kay could take one, but that would just be further evidence that the two were in cahoots.  What a silly-sounding word cahoots was.  Where on Earth had it come from?

If they did escape, where would they go?  They were on a ship.  Peggy could not fly a plane or a helicopter, although she wondered whether Kay might be able to.  Their only options would be to take a lifeboat or to jump into the water.  The former would be easily pursued, and the latter meant death by hypothermia.  The same fate Steve himself had suffered… also nicely ironic.

They could try to escape long enough to go get Steve’s body back, but what would they do with it?  The options seemed to be destroying it or dumping it overboard.  The second was not a good idea – it might still be retrieved.  But the former was deeply distasteful.  Peggy couldn’t imagine cutting him up or… or burning him?  The ship would have huge furnaces to keep the crew warm and provide steam for the propellers.  Those would certainly make a fine crematorium… could she bring herself to do it herself?

Maybe she could, if she were desperate enough.  At the moment Peggy had nothing to lose… but that still left the question of how to get out of this cell…

“You stupid bitch,” said Kay suddenly.

Peggy’s head snapped up.  “Excuse me?” she said.  Her companion had said nothing at all for what must have been ten minutes at least, and now was offering insults out of nowhere?

Kay shot a glance at the guards, then glared at Peggy. “You had no plan, did you? Here I thought you were coming out here knowing what you were doing, but you had no idea and now we’re in here!”

Ah.  “Why should I have a plan?” Peggy demanded.  “I didn’t think we were going to find a bloody thing up here except ice and snow!  Did you really think I was taking your word for something so important?  How can you be smart enough to escape from Thompson and yet stupid enough to think I would trust you?”

“You didn’t need to trust me!  You just needed to have a backup plan!”  Kay gave Peggy a shove.

“Don’t you dare touch me, you daft Russian whore!” Peggy shoved her back, and the two of them rolled off the cot to grapple on the floor.   Having fought with Dottie more than once, Peggy knew the Russian women were ruthless and skilled, but now Kay wrestled like a child who’d never been in a fight in her life, grabbing and pinching and pulling hair.  Peggy did likewise.  If this were going where she thought it was going…

“That’s enough, you two!” a male voice announced. Keys jingled.  Peggy didn’t dare look up as two pairs of heavy boots approached – the men were going to try to separate her.  For an instant she caught Kay’s eye, and saw a smile on the other woman’s face.

Then a pair of hands grabbed Peggy’s shoulders.  She wrapped her legs around the man’s boots and twisted – he fell against the cot.  Before he could right himself, Peggy was on her feet and grabbed him by the hair to smash his face against the wall repeatedly.  By the second impact his nose was bloody, and by the fourth he was limp in her hands.  She let him drop and turned around.  Kay had gotten a hold of the second man’s tags and twisted them tight around his neck. Peggy was just in time to see him turn blue and pass out.

“Well done,” Peggy said, as the soldier collapsed at Kay’s feet.

“Letting them think you’re stupid and emotional is always your best weapon,” Kay told her, brushing off her hands.

“I have some experience with that myself,” said Peggy. “To the morgue?”

“Obviously.”

They helped themselves to the unconscious soldiers’ guns, and Peggy took the keys off one of their belts and locked the cell door on them.

The ship they were on was a Casablanca-class escort carrier.  Peggy had never been on one, but she knew that on large military ships both the brig and the morgue were deep in the interior, far from anywhere the rank and file sailors would normally go.  Left to her own devices, it probably wouldn’t have taken her very long to find the one from the other, but she didn’t have to.  Kay appeared to know exactly where she was going.  She headed down a flight of steps, and then paused in the stairwell, putting an ear to the doors.  Peggy crept up next to her.

“How’s he doing?” a male voice asked.

“He’s free of most of the ice,” a woman replied, “but still pretty solid.”

Peggy put her eye to the gap between the two doors. Two doctors in white coats were talking to a brunette nurse, just to the right of a solid door labeled MORGUE. The door was closed and apparently locked.

“We can’t wait too long, or the blood will start to clot,” said the shorter of the doctors.

“We’ll still have the bone marrow,” the first man reassured him.  “Can you give me an estimate, Miss Harper?”

“They’re saying at least another hour,” the nurse said, and turned to unlock the door.  All three people headed through.

Peggy and Kay exchanged a glance to make sure they were still agreed as to the plan.  It seemed they were, so they both burst out of the stairwell and took the trio from behind. Peggy clocked the taller one on the back of the head with the gun she’d taken off her jailer.  He dropped to his knees, holding his bleeding scalp.  Kay vaulted onto the shorter one’s back and knocked him forward into Miss Harper, spilling both of them onto the floor. Miss Harper tried to scream, but Kay kicked her in the face, and then drove her knee into the second doctor’s jaw. He fell.

Inside the morgue room, two more doctors and three nurses were standing around the gurney where Steve’s body was now lying.  They were, for the moment, too shocked by this sudden and violent intrusion to react to it, which gave Peggy and Kay the advantage. Peggy grabbed the nearest equipment tray and hit one of the doctors in the face with it.  The first blow appeared to merely stun him and he just stood there blinking at her.  She hit him three more times, until he fell.  One of the nurses tried to flee, and Peggy pushed the doctor’s body into her.

While Peggy was occupied with that, Kay had shoved the other doctor into the open drawer that had been waiting to receive Steve’s body. She shut it and turned the lock, then she and Peggy both pulled out their guns and trained them on the two nurses still standing.  Both women put their hands up.

Kay twitched her chin towards the first two doctors and Miss Harper, all lying on the floor in various states of unconsciousness. “Get them out of the way,” she ordered the nurses.

The women didn’t move.

“We have had a very upsetting day,” Peggy warned them.

Terrified, the nurses went to start rolling the bodies of their co-workers away from the door.  Kay kept her eyes and a gun on them, while Peggy took the brakes off the gurney.  There was a white drop cloth over the corpse.  Peggy knew it would be a terrible idea to look beneath it, but she told herself that after all this trouble they had better make sure they had the right body, and lifted it for a peek.

There he was.  They’d cut his uniform off him, leaving him quite naked.  Bruises and scrapes he’d gotten on his last mission were still there.  Peggy recognized one on his arm where a bullet had grazed him.  She’d bandaged that herself, because he’d been too sunken in depression from the death of his friend to do it.  And the cut on his cheek, just beneath his left earlobe. She’d kissed that.  The memory, buried for three years, was suddenly as fresh as if it had happened moments ago.

She reached to touch the place, and quickly drew her hand back upon finding his skin was wet and still icy cold, feeling more like frozen meat than human tissue.  How was he still pink?  As he thawed the blood ought to start pooling in his back and buttocks, like it always did on dead bodies.  Maybe those parts were still frozen.

“Peggy!” Kay barked.  “Is that him?”

Peggy quickly dropped the cloth and wiped her wet fingers on her coat.  “It’s him,” she said.

“Follow me,” said Kay.

“Where are we going?” Peggy asked, as she wheeled the gurney out of the room.

Kay led the way up the hall with the longest strides she could take.  “The boiler room,” she said.

“Oh, good,” Peggy nodded.  Had Kay’s mission perhaps been to either secure Captain America’s body for her own people or, failing that, to see to it the Americans didn’t get a hold of him either?  Peggy decided she didn’t care anymore.  Whatever the reasons, they were going to do right by Steve, and after that, if Masters wanted to hang her, she would go to the gallows with her head held high.

[delennsatai]

DMC Gen Week: part 6

Sonata for Two

Summary: Young Vergil struggles to feel special on his seventh birthday, having to share it--and everything else--with Dante, and their mother tries to keep the peace.

Part of @dmcgenweek Day 6 Prompt: Birthday/Music

Classic DMC this time! AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155810

“Hurry up, Dante.” Vergil pounded on their shared bathroom door with his small fist. Dante always took too long getting ready when they had to dress up. Not that Mother had said so in so many words, but even Dante knew better than to show up to their birthday dinner in shorts and a t-shirt. “I still have to fix my hair.”

“No you don’t, it looks great!” Dante shouted from inside.

“It looks like yours.”

“That’s what I said!”

Vergil rolled his eyes and folded his arms. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Dante opened the door and spread out his arms, doing a stylish twirl. “Ta-da!” he beamed. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re making us late,” Vergil huffed, stepping into the bathroom to carefully slick his hair back in front of the mirror. Dante came in on his heels and made faces at him from behind, but Vergil ignored him. He wasn’t sure why his heart was pounding in anticipation of their seventh annual dinner celebration. He should have been excited. Gifts, fancy food, an expectation that Dante would behave himself…who could ask for more?

“Am not. You’re just jealous cuz I look better.” Dante grinned at him in challenge, but Vergil swept past him imperiously to head downstairs. “Hey, wait up!”

At the bottom of the stairs they stood together for inspection. Mother smiled and told Vergil he looked very handsome, like a perfect gentleman. He gave Dante a smug smile.

“What about me, Mother?” Dante asked eagerly.

“Oh, Dante…stand still, there we are…” She licked her thumb and used it to rub away some dirt that still smudged Dante’s face from his tree-climbing antics earlier (while Vergil had been trying to read quietly but Dante wouldn’t stop shouting “VERGIL LOOK AT ME!” while he performed increasingly stupid stunts). Mother gave Dante a fond smile and cupped his cheek in her hand for a moment, then adjusted a few stray strands of his hair and stepped back. “You look wonderful, Dante. Your father would be proud.”

Vergil’s smile curdled on his face, as his gut seemed to drop out of his body with a lurch. Father would be proud of him? Why, because he’d bothered to run a comb through his hair for once? He’d learned a new word from a poem the other day: “slovenly.” He resolved to use it to describe Dante at every opportunity from now on.

“All right, boys, time to go!” Mother handed them their coats—Dante’s red one had a hood attached, while Vergil had detached his hood and replaced the plain plastic buttons with ornate gold-painted ones, but otherwise they were identical—and put on her own before ushering them outside to the car. Vergil pointedly sat in the front seat, ignoring Dante’s whines of “but you didn’t call shotgun!” and glaring out the window for the entire ride.

When they got to the old-fashioned restaurant, the owner greeted Mother warmly and led them to their usual table in the back, as tasteful candlelight flickered everywhere they looked and carved mahogany pillars reflected in the mirrored ceiling above their heads. Soft classical music played as a backdrop to the low murmur of conversation. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” Dante muttered to him as they followed behind her. “It’s our birthday, bro, have a little fun!”

Why does it always have to be OUR birthday? Vergil thought, wondering what life would be like if he didn’t constantly have to take a back seat to Dante’s craving for attention. Would Mother fix his hair and tell him Father would be proud of him? Would he get to spend a whole afternoon in peace and quiet, and then have a conversation with Mother over dinner without getting interrupted every two minutes?

They sat down in a comfortable booth that curved around its little corner table, so the three of them could easily talk without raising their voices. Mother asked about their day and chatted about her gardening, promising they could have first pick of the flowers when they were ready to be picked. Vergil assured her he would have the actual first pick, since he was older. Dante said he didn’t want Vergil’s boring blue flowers anyway. Mother gently chided them. It was all business as usual, but Vergil was sick of business as usual. He deliberately ordered something totally different from what Dante was having and refused his brother’s offer to trade a bit of his dish for a taste of it. (Even though he had to admit that what Dante was having looked delicious.)

When Mother had a cake with seven candles brought to the table and sang happy birthday to them, Vergil couldn’t help feeling only three and a half of those candles were for him. She cut Dante a generous slice from the side with the red icing roses, then cut Vergil one from the side with the icing bluebirds, and he thought, will I ever get to have a whole cake that’s just for me?

By the time the hour of gift-giving rolled around, he just wanted the whole thing to be over. He’d never felt this way about their birthday before, but after months of their second-grade teacher’s complete inability to tell them apart despite obvious cues, and two years of pestering Mother about when Father was coming back with no solid answer, he was starting to wish he didn’t have a twin at all.

“The first gift is for both of you,” Mother said, setting a small box down on the table between them. The little card attached to it read: “To Dante and Vergil, my beloved sons. Never forget how much your parents love you. With all my heart, Mother.”

To Dante and Vergil. Dante’s name always came first. “I don’t want to share it with Dante,” he blurted out abruptly. Even as he heard himself say it he knew it sounded childish, but he didn’t care.

“What?” Dante’s eyes widened, his shoulders slumped. “Why not?”

“Because I have to share everything with you!” he snapped. “It’s not fair.”

“But…we’re twins.” Like that was all the explanation Dante needed or wanted.

“I didn’t ask for a twin!” Vergil shoved Dante, as though with a simple push he could eject his brother from the restaurant. Or from his life.

“Hey!” Dante scowled and shoved him back. “Well, neither did I! Especially a mean one like you!”

“Boys!” Eva reached across the table to separate them with a firm grip. They were, if she was to be honest, already a match for her in strength; but what she lacked in half-demonic power she made up for with a stern motherly tone. “That’s enough. Vergil, apologize to your brother, that was uncalled for.”

She watched his face darken like a thunderstorm had passed over it. This kid’s stubborn pride…she knew it was going to get him in trouble someday. “But it’s true and I’m not sorry,” he insisted.

Dante looked like Vergil had punched him, hurt and confused but ready to brawl right here in this booth, other diners be damned. “I’m not sorry either!” he shouted. She resisted the urge to hide under the table, as their squabble was beginning to draw attention. “Why can’t you ever just have fun?”

Vergil opened his mouth with a look on his face that said he was about to slice Dante’s feelings to shreds. She pressed her lips together and pounded a fist once on the table, making the silverware and the boys both jump. “I said, that’s enough!” The children fell silent, having the grace to look a bit guilty but still glaring at each other over the wrapped box. She softened her tone. “Vergil, honey, I understand how you feel. But I’d like you to consider how Dante feels, too. Can you do that?”

“I don’t care how Dante feels,” he muttered, but she could tell it wasn’t true, because the guilt in his face intensified and he mumbled his words like he thought he could get away with them if she didn’t hear them properly. Dante tensed and she was pretty sure she’d have a literal fight on her hands if she didn’t nip this in the bud now.

“Yes you do,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument, “and Dante cares about how you feel, too. Don’t you, Dante?”

“No!...yeah, I guess.”

“That’s right. Vergil?”

The elder twin withered before her eyes, his face crumpling into a defeated sulk. She was sure this argument would continue with relish after they were out of her earshot, but maybe presents would help diffuse it. “Fine,” he said eventually. “Sorry, Dante.”

“…do you wanna open the box?” Dante offered. An olive branch if she’d ever seen one, the poor sweet kid. She wished they could get along for more than five minutes at a time. It wasn’t always Vergil’s doing, either—Dante certainly did his share of antagonizing his brother for no good reason—but Vergil was rarely the one extending his hand first afterward.

“Okay.” Vergil slid the box closer to him so he could carefully undo the ribbon and unwrap it with meticulous focus. Dante was literally bouncing in his seat with impatience, but he must not have wanted to start another argument because he didn’t complain about how long Vergil was taking. Finally, he pulled off the lid to reveal two near-identical amulets, pale red jewels the size of the twins’ fists, gleaming in the candlelight. One was set in silver, the other in brass.

Both boys were still and silent for a moment. Vergil broke it first, lifting the brass one out of the box with care. The pendant felt like more than jewelry, heavier in his hand than its physical weight alone accounted for. He was sure it would speak to him, if he had a way to listen. He looked up at Mother with a question on his face while Dante picked up the other amulet with a curious and almost reverent gaze.

“They once belonged to your father,” she said. “Take good care of them. They’re very important.”

“Why?” Vergil asked.

“You’ll understand someday.” Her smile had something faraway in it.

“…thank you, Mother,” he said solemnly.

“Yeah! Thank you!” Dante’s face lit up as he hung the amulet around his neck. It looked hilariously huge on the seven-year-old, but he’d grow into it. Vergil followed suit.

“You said that was the first present, right?” Dante said brightly.

She grinned. “I did say that. But the others are waiting for you at home.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

***

Dante was predictably ecstatic about the new set of Nerf pistols and cowboy hat he received, although Vergil groaned upon seeing them, knowing countless foam projectiles lay in his immediate future. When it was his turn, he entered Mother’s warm, cozy study with his hands stuck in his pockets, remembering and hating the way his face had flushed red when he’d been forced to apologize to Dante.

She smiled at him. “I hope you’ve had a lovely birthday, Vergil.”

“I guess.” He didn’t smile back.

“I’d like to talk about what happened at dinner.” She patted the loveseat next to her. He felt his heart pounding again, but he sat down, waiting for the scolding. Instead, she ran a hand gently through his hair. “Dante’s a handful, isn’t he?”

“He’s loud and annoying. And slovenly.”

She desperately schooled her face; he would not appreciate her laughing right now. But oh, Vergil, that quick mind of yours, and that haughty tone! You’re so much like your father. Will you ever get to see that for yourself, I wonder? “Yes, he can be those things,” she agreed. “But he let you open the box, didn’t he?” He shrugged. “Why do you think he did that?”

“I don’t know why he does anything.”

“I think you do, and you just don’t want to admit it.” She sighed, curling into a more comfortable position on the loveseat, tucking her legs underneath her. “Vergil, your brother adores you. He interrupts your reading because he wants to spend time with you. And he likes sharing everything with you because it reminds him that you’re always there for him.” She waited a moment to see if he would have anything to say, but he steadfastly held his tongue, so she went on. “I had a talk with him, too, you know. I asked him to try to give you a little more space.”

He lifted his eyebrows at that. “You did?”

“Yes, I did.” She looked into the distance for a moment, the corners of her lips turning up in a sad smile. “When I was young, my sister and I were inseparable.” He blinked in surprise. “I doubt you’ll ever meet her. We…don’t speak anymore.” She found out about Sparda and the whole family disowned me. It’s their loss, missing out on these two beautiful children in their lives. “At the time, though, we were always together. And most of the time, that was perfect. But sometimes I wanted some time to myself, and she had a hard time understanding that.”

He watched her intently. “What did you do?”

She chuckled. “Nothing. What could I do? She was my sister, and even when she frustrated me, it was a comfort to know I would never be alone. She was always there for me when I needed her, and I for her. Vergil…” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay to need space. But it’s also okay to rely on Dante and enjoy his company. It’s a blessing to have someone who will always be with you.” Sparda…where are you?

Vergil frowned in concentration, thinking it through. She gave him credit for not just placating her with empty reassurances; the one thing she’d never known Vergil to be was dishonest. Dante would fib at times, but he was so terrible at it she couldn’t really be upset. But what Vergil eventually said was, “Can we stop talking about Dante now?”

“Sure.” She reached behind the loveseat and pulled up an oblong box, handling it with care and laying it across her son’s lap. It was pretty heavy, he noticed, and longer than his arm. “Happy birthday, Vergil.”

He opened this box with the same exactitude as the last one, finding that inside it was a long case made of leather and wood. Could she have…? His eyes widened with anticipation as he undid its clasps and pushed open the lid to reveal—yes. He gasped softly. “Mother…”

“This was my aunt’s,” she said, “and now it’s yours. Your teacher tells me you’ve really excelled, so it seemed like the right time for you to have one of your own.” She smiled widely and handed him a thin book she’d had hidden under her shawl. “What do you think, time for a duet?”

“Can we?” Now he was smiling, too, and she tried not to tear up at his unadulterated joy.

“Of course.” She stood and made her way to the piano, with her piece of choice already spread neatly across the stand. “Page 24, if you would.”

Vergil lifted the violin gingerly out of its case and stood to join her, pulling over his own stand and flipping through the book of Baroque classics until he found the page. It took longer than usual for him to get ready—rosining the bow, setting up his chin rest, tuning with his characteristic look of perfect concentration and insisting on doing it by ear rather than with the piano’s aid as usual. Once or twice she caught him pausing when he thought she wasn’t looking, just to admire the instrument’s lacquered amber maple and the mellow sound his gentle plucking made. Finally, he nodded his readiness to her, and her hands came down onto the keys to begin the accompaniment in a measured moderato.

The pensive, lyrical music filled the cozy little room, as Vergil tried hard not to make any mistakes. She’d chosen a piece of intermediate difficulty that she knew he’d played before, giving him the chance to show off while still offering a challenge he’d appreciate. Once he settled into the rhythm of it, his jaw and shoulders relaxed. The timbre of the old violin was mellifluous and rich, and she could tell how much he loved it just by watching him play. Someday, she thought, he would be a true virtuoso.

As the final notes faded away, Vergil lowered his bow with a flourish and turned toward her to bow deeply with an air of formality, so she applauded with a soft giggle at his showmanship. “That was beautiful, Vergil.”

“Thank you, Mother.” His gaze as he came up from his bow told her he was grateful for more than the praise.

“You’re very welcome.” She closed the fallboard and came over to give his forehead a kiss. “Now, it’s almost time for you and your brother to get ready for bed. If you want a hot chocolate first, you’d better put away your violin and come join us in the kitchen quick, before we drink it all.” She gave him a wink and left him standing there in his contented daze for a moment. Your violin, her voice repeated in his mind. Then he registered her words and hurried to put the instrument back in its case—carefully, carefully—and store it safely in the bedroom he shared with his twin before running downstairs to the kitchen.

Despite his delay, he still made it there before Dante did. When his brother dashed into the room like a firecracker and saw that Vergil had claimed the last of the marshmallows, his face fell into a resigned pout. Vergil looked into his cup thoughtfully. It’s not like Dante will even want me to share my violin, he thought. That’s all mine. “Here,” he said, spooning out half the marshmallows and dropping them into his brother’s mug. “Happy birthday.”

Dante’s face lit up as he grinned. “Whoa, somebody’s in a good mood.”

“Don’t push your luck, Dante,” Vergil said. He sat back in his chair and sipped his cocoa, the melody of the duet still running through his mind. Maybe sharing a birthday with Dante wasn’t that bad.

[mittensmorgul]

It has to be done.

It Has To Be Done

This was the excuse Dean gave to Cas. It's also just one more variant on the Absolute Worst Thing it's possible to say on Supernatural.

"I did what I had to do."

"I don't have a choice."

“It has to be done.”

In a show where Free Will is the ultimate ideal, and where giving in to Fate is not only the ultimate failure, but has consistently been framed as a metaphor for depression, for giving up, for despair and even suicide, I'm incredibly disturbed by some things I've read today about Dean's state of mind, his intention to lock himself in the Ma'lak box, and Sam's actions undertaken to stop him from this.

I’m putting this under a cut, because it actively discusses depression and suicide, so please bear that in mind before reading. The TL;DR of what’s beneath the cut is my view of how the narrative has condemned Dean’s current mindset about his only choice being to throw himself into the deepest part of the ocean to suffer eternal torment, locked in a box with the metaphorical representation of his own worst opinions of himself, is being used as a direct metaphor for depression, self-harm, and suicide. So if this is triggering, please read at your own risk.

The show has even consistently put the actors’ own Meta Narrative Terms into the characters' mouths-- 

Sam: You have one card today! But we'll find another tomorrow. But if you quit on us today, there won't be no tomorrow! You tell me, uh, you don't know what else to do. I don't either, Dean. Not yet. But what you're doing now, i-it's -- it's wrong! It's quitting! I mean l-look what just happened. Donatello never quit fighting. So we could help him because he never gave up. I believe in us, Dean. I believe in us. Why don't you believe in us, too?

They essentially had Sam deliver the Always Keep Fighting motto to Dean here. Because like Cas's experiences with the Empty, like Dean's experiences with the Mark of Cain and then the Darkness luring him with the promise of complete annihilation of self and the end of suffering, like Demon!Dean unable to feel either pain OR joy, THIS IS ALL A METAPHOR.

For anyone who feels that Dean is actually CORRECT and RIGHT that this is the only way, to lock himself into eternal torment at the bottom of the ocean with the metaphorical representation of his daddy issues and self-worthlessness, I humbly suggest you might wish to seek professional help. Because that's just... horrifying.

Yeah, I confess, I am a Dean girl. But in the sense that I actually care about him, and want the best for him more than I need for him to be Always Right, you know? Because... he's definitely not right here.

He’s incapable, trapped in his current mental circumstance, of seeing the light. The same way he was incapable of seeing the reality of his situation while he’d been trapped in the eternal loop inside Rocky’s Bar. The view out those blurry windows was only the darkness of the inside of his own mind, you know? From where he’s sitting, there isn’t even metaphorically a door. Trapped inside the Ma’lak box already even in his own nightmares. That’s not a mindset from which one can find the way out on their own.

That’s depression.

I also do not see anything Sam has done in the last two episodes as abusive or in any way infringing on Dean's agency. Because people who are showing all the symptoms of suicidal depression don't actually HAVE agency. And I would've been DISGUSTED with Sam if he'd sat back and just accepted Dean's choices and actions over the last two episodes.

Everything Dean has done in 14.11 and 14.12 (and even trapped inside his own mind in 14.10, where Sam and Cas had to navigate a space that was identical to The Empty, and served the same function metaphorically as Dean having been "locked away" into this tiny box in an endless loop unable to truly find happiness and only surviving disconnected from reality in every way) has functioned as a metaphor for depression, hopelessness and major warning signs that people who are seriously contemplating suicide exhibit. Sam's reactions bear this out, and everything he does follows the playbook of someone who truly cares about Dean literally helping talk Dean down off the ledge.

Sam saw into Dean's head in very literal ways in 14.10. He heard Michael-- the embodiment of the worst thoughts trapped in Dean's own head-- attempting to convince Dean to give up because they were all doomed by his monsters coming to kill them all anyway. And that NEARLY happened, yes! They were tricked into bringing a monster into the bunker, who let in a flood of other monsters to attack the unprepared hunters. In a horrifying turn, Jack burned up a piece of his own soul to save them all, which allowed Sam, Cas, and Dean working together to lock Michael up, albeit in a temporary fashion.

But Dean is absolutely convinced that the only way to stop Michael from escaping again is to lock himself up in a magical box and fling himself to the bottom of the ocean. At this point, my brain refuses to let me go on unless I add the line, "And I would've gotten away with it too, if it weren't for you meddling kids!"

The plan Billie gave Dean isn't some sort of Safety Measure in case of Last Resort. It was portrayed as the easiest way out. It was the whisper of the void stroking Dean's brow and telling him he can lay down his burden and allow himself to quit fighting, to quit trying, to give up on everything he's ever stood for. It's HORRIFYING.

It’s horrifying in the same way Sam nearly giving in to Death in 9.01 was. Horrifying in the same way Dean going all kamikaze for a large part of early s3 was, knowing he was doomed to die he was reckless with his own safety.

Sam immediately started researching on ways to save Dean and defeat Michael, but Dean refused to even engage with that rational course of action. He'd already succumbed to the seduction of annihilation. He flat-out LIED to Sam about why he was leaving-- I mean yes, he did wanna visit Mary, and the side-trip to see Donna was nice, but Donna did call him out on his motives for seeing her. So did Mary, who was suspicious of Dean from the outset the way Donna had been. But it was that stupid awkward hug Dean gave Sam that he CORRECTLY INTERPRETED as a sort of farewell. It was a WARNING SIGN that Dean was hiding something incredibly dark and selfish, and self-destructive.

What Sam did as a result was ENTIRELY UNDERSTANDABLE. He didn't try to confront Dean directly. He treated him like a man on a ledge. He began setting up safety nets, alerting the people with Dean to his fragile state, even urging Cas not to confront Dean directly yet despite telling him-- because they are WORRIED about Dean-- what Dean's plans were.

This is what family who loves you DO when their loved one shows all the signs of severe suicidal depression.

This is what Cas did for Dean in 12.09, where Dean had textually been suffering torment “worse than Hell” in that prison, to the point where he’d dealt his own life away with Billie to help him and Sam escape. Cas took matters into his own hands, killing Billie to spare Dean from his own stupid choice. Because it was a stupid choice.

You don't just... go along with the depressed person or validate their suicidal ideation, you know? What madness is this that I've actually read with my own two eyes that Sam should've just... actually helped Dean effectively and metaphorically commit suicide? On what planet has this ever been something the show has said would be okay?

Everything Sam has done from that point forward-- from tentatively agreeing to stand by Dean at the end of 14.11 right through punching him in the damn face at the end of 14.12-- has been a textbook approach to supporting someone suffering through a major depressive episode.

His acknowledgement and surface level agreement with Dean in 14.11 was literally his foot in the door. If Sam had attempted to defy Dean in that moment, Dean would've packed up his box and left, and his final memory of Sam would be this feeling of betrayal. Sam needed Dean to accept his presence in order for him to have any hope of getting through to Dean.

I know from personal experience that depression lies. The hopelessness isn't real, but there's nothing more unhelpful in that state than the people around you just agreeing with you as if it is. It's a difficult balance to strike, though, between sympathizing with the depressed person and gently beginning to peel back the curtains they've shrouded themselves with, and revealing the hope and light outside. Just ripping it all down is just as horrific and untenable as letting the person suffocate inside their own hopelessness. So Sam takes the seat beside Dean and begins slowly chipping away at the literal tomb he's built for himself.

Sam tries logic, while Dean faces the horror of what he's condemned himself to in his nightmare-- clawing up the wall of the motel room enclosed in chains (the motif on the wallpaper formed a cage of chains around Dean, while Sam was framed in the doorway of light. Dean tore up his hands clawing at the wall in his subconscious drive to escape the fate he’d built for himself, and yet he keeps his back to that lightened doorway which is the obvious route to escape. He can’t even acknowledge it yet because he’s still bound in those wallpaper chains.

Sam tells him it's likely that Dean wouldn't die, that his suffering would never end, and that what he's suggesting isn't an escape from that torment that he's actually hoping to find. And Dean's mind seems to see this as fact already, demonstrated as exactly that in his own nightmare just moments before-- he's alive in that box that's already developed a crack where the water is drip drip dripping in. He knows the box cannot hold, and that he will not die as a result.

He was terrified of "drowning" inside his own mind when Michael took him over before, yet he thinks the rational solution now is to drown himself literally and in reality, for all time. I mean... this is not the thinking of someone who is behaving rationally. He's chained to his fear, and that fear is dictating his actions now. Should his loved ones simply accept that Dean is right and encourage him to self-destruct? Especially when we've been discussing all season how Dean's possession by Michael, his experiences drowning, his metaphorically locking Michael away, and his earlier drive to kill Michael before he could destroy the universe ALL as metaphors for Dean's own self-worth, his Father Issues, his guilt, his suppression of his whole self?

Dean’s been sharing reminiscences of childhood for a while now-- his story about Winchester Surprise with Mary, his confession to Sam that John had often sent him away and his fear ever since that Sam believed Dean had just abandoned him during those times are clearly the sorts of Dark Thoughts that are weighing on him now. Knowing just a little of the inciting factors we’ll see play out in 14.13 are giving me serious hope that Dean will find the catharsis he’s been unable to get regarding some of his long-standing, incredibly complicated feelings about his father. The fact that Dean will go in thinking his Deepest Desire (a phrase he’s used before to describe his temptation to self-annihilation, in 11.13) is to rid himself of Michael, but apparently manifests John alive instead is extremely telling since Michael has been a direct John parallel all season long.

But back to all the other metaphors and parallels that Dean’s possession by Michael has been used for all season long. How does all of that careful construction of mirrors collapse just because Sam punched Dean in the face? Suddenly none of that stuff matters because on a surface level, Sam Did A Mean Thing. That must be ABUSE! TERRIBLE! Because honestly that sounds just as nihilist as buying into Michael's deluded lies, which preyed on Dean's fears to sustain his belief in them.

Yeah, Sam realized he'd reached the end of his rope in letting Dean continue walking down the self-destructive path. Throughout the episode that Ma'lak box just dragged along behind them, always visible in Dean’s rear view mirror, silently reminding us of what would inevitably await Dean if he couldn't find a way off that path. It functioned as the specter of death, the shadow, boxed up so you couldn't see the Ma'lak box itself, but you just know it's right there under that thin surface.

Sam and Cas both tried patience. They both explored other metaphorical alternatives to active suicide. The situation with Tony Alvarez turned out terribly, but it was just one consequence of their previous mistake in letting soulless Donatello read the demon tablet. If they hadn't done that, then Tony would've fully awakened as a prophet instead of being driven to madness by the half-awakening he was doomed with because of the state they left Donatello in. And sure, they couldn't have foreseen that, but in the end the solution wasn't just to kill Donatello, but to find a way to save him.

Dean had been CONVINCED that "letting him go" would be the solution, and he acknowledged that parallel to himself in text.

Castiel: The natural order's been upset. Perhaps Donatello's state has created a prophet who's not only premature... but malformed. Sam: Okay. But if Tony was wired wrong because of Donatello, then the next prophet will be wired wrong, as well, and then the next, and the next and the -- the next and... How do we end this? Dean: You know how.

But from his position, Donatello was unable to save himself, despite his mind even unconsciously trying to do so. Just like Dean alone can't see a way out of his situation, which is why he NEEDS the help and support of his loved ones. Team Free Will, they're just better together.

This is the narrative the show has been building on in one way or another since the start. When they go their separate ways, they doom themselves. When they stick together, they at least have a fighting chance.

And after Cas provided the help to heal Donatello and break the demon tablet's hold over him, performing what they'd all previously believed impossible, Dean couldn't face that his own metaphor for what he wanted to do himself had completely fallen apart. He was already shaky on wanting to go into that box. He'd essentially spent the entire episode goading Sam into talking him out of it.

He doesn't WANT to go through that eternal torment, but he legitimately is unable to see another way out. Like Donatello's muttering what amounts to a cry for help through the next prophet, Dean was doing the same by harping on the "it's the end of the line!" nonsense that Sam repeatedly had to ask him to stop. He was also goading Cas with the "if you were my friend" garbage, challenging him to do something to stop him. Cas turned it around in the most painful way possible, laying out on the table the ONE THING Dean had said he was unable to do-- say goodbye.

Dean’s harping on the whole “last hunt, end of the road” stuff was the equivalent of a depressed person talking about themselves negatively as if there was something “honest” about romanticizing their depression. It’s fatalistic, and does nothing to help recover. It’s wallowing.

In episode, this was directly contrasted with Nick, who insisted his emotional pain had been the result of his wife never getting justice for what happened to her, but when faced with his wife actively holding out her hand and telling him “this is the way to salvation,” he rejected it, because all he wants now is to drown himself in Lucifer’s false salvation. He could’ve gone into the light, and let go, but he refused. Sam and Cas spent the entire episode trying to break through to Dean and bring him a spark of hope, and he’d been refusing and refusing. Nick was never really sorry. He was only playing sorry. Just like Dean until his final confrontation with Sam, where he finally called Dean out with that exact turn of phrase.

Dean wanted to run away, alone, and off himself. Cas was pressing him into dealing with it, demanding Dean acknowledge what he was really asking for. I think if there hadn't been an attack of Moosus Interruptus there, Dean would've cracked right there in the hallway, but of course they had to save Donatello first, making the metaphor complete.

That left the final confrontation to Sam.

Dean: Well, I would call this a win. Kind of nice. We're going out on a high. Sam: 'Going out' being the operative phrase. Dean: Sorry. Sam: 'Sorry.' How sorry are you? Sorry that you fight to keep Donatello alive, but when it comes to you, you just throw in the towel? Or are you sorry that, after all these years, our entire lives, z-after I've looked up to you, after I've learned from you. I-I-I've copied you, I followed you to Hell and back, are you sorry that all of that -- it -- it -- it means nothing now? Dean: Who's saying that? Sam: You are, when you tell me I have to kill you. When you're telling me I have to throw away everything we stand for, throw away faith, throw away family. We're the guys that save the world. We don't just check out of it! Dean: Sam, I have tried everything. Everything! I got one card left to play, and I have to play it. Sam: You have one card today! But we'll find another tomorrow. But if you quit on us today, there won't be no tomorrow! You tell me, uh, you don't know what else to do. I don't either, Dean. Not yet. But what you're doing now, i-it's -- it's wrong! It's quitting! I mean l-look what just happened. Donatello never quit fighting. So we could help him because he never gave up. I believe in us, Dean. I believe in us. Why don't you believe in us, too? Dean: Okay, Sam. Let's go home.

When the show is actively putting Always Keep Fighting language into Sam's mouth, is there really another way to interpret any of this than as a direct depression metaphor? Dean yells that he has tried everything. But... he’s literally tried NOTHING. He hasn’t tried one single other thing. He hasn’t even cracked another book or done a jot of research beyond the one Billie specifically put in his hands. Dean is just as trapped as Donatello was before Cas intervened to heal him. And he’s so trapped that he actually BELIEVES that he’s exhausted all his options. Because he can’t even begin to SEE any other options with his back turned toward the door focusing only on the wall he can’t seem to scratch his way through.

Suggesting that Sam was violating Dean’s agency in this circumstance is akin to suggesting that Sam violated Dean’s agency in forcing the demon cure on him, or akin to suggesting that Dean violated Sam’s agency when he shoved Sam’s soul back inside him. And yet... Sam and Dean both expressed gratitude after the fact, acknowledging that they couldn’t see just how badly they each needed help while in their respective compromised states. And that’s exactly the same framing they’ve given us to interpret Dean’s current mental status.

Sam had reached the end of his rope, and out of frustration and his own sense of failure to appeal to the part of Dean that should want to survive, he broke down himself. It hurt to watch, both for Sam’s sake because of the frustration of desperately trying to save someone intent on destroying themselves, as well as Dean’s sake because OUCH to have to face his self destructive impulse head-on like that... Sam’s punch hug forced that confrontation in ways none of their words had been able to.

It was the equivalent of Dean brushing the board game off the table in 7.21 and yelling at Cas that he wasn’t sorry, but only playing sorry... It was the sort of shock and shakeup Dean needed. He needed to see how badly his current state was affecting the people he loved, and the people he was deludedly trying to protect through what he felt was his own self-sacrifice. He needed to see first-hand just how wrong an assumption it was that they’d be fine if he went through with this effective metaphorical suicide.

and then when Cas returned, Dean confirmed that he'll let them help him, but he's holding that box in reserve.

Dean: Maybe Billie's wrong. Maybe. But I do believe in us. I believe in all of us. And I'll keep believing until I can't. Until there is absolutely no other way. But when that day comes -- if that day comes... Sam, you have to take it for what it is -- the end. And you have to promise me that you'll do then what you can't do now, and that's let me go. And put me in that box. You, too.

“Maybe Billie’s wrong,” is the metaphorical equivalent of “Maybe this depression is lying to me...”

He's still struggling with this big depression metaphor, but he has stepped off the ledge. He's acknowledged that there might be another way, even if he doesn’t really have much hope that he’ll be able to find it. But he’s accepted Sam and Cas’s help to guide him there.

And it's only one small step in the right direction, but it is a step. I'm betting it's a step big enough for at least a few of those books on Billie's shelves to have begun rewriting themselves. Because when has this show ever taught us to accept that giving in to Fate was the Good and Correct choice?

[silver-wields-a-pen]

Illthdar High: an Au fan fiction

4:45 Wednesday Afternoon Rowdy boys calling dirty jokes echoed through the hallway where Scyanatha was sitting with her posse. They were at the opposite end from the entrance to the boys locker room, but could still clearly hear the ridiculous, hormonal chatter. Some boys are so pathetic. She blew a big bubble with her gum and popped it. She noted Seth’s voice wasn't among them, and that was enough to make her smile. She had a real man while everyone else in this school was messing with immature little boys. It was just another reason why she was better than them. “Isn’t this like, the fifth time he’s circled this way?” Imogen’s voice drew Scy away from her pink cellphone where she was ordering a pair of designer heels with Seth’s credit card. Tripton or Trenfon, whatever the janitor’s name was, was making yet another pass down their hallway, bucket of dirty mop water in tow. How it got dirty was anyone’s guess since Scy had yet to see him mop anything, but she wasn’t concerned with it. She just rolled her eyes and returned to her phone. “Let him look, this is probably the closest he’s ever come to boobs in his entire life.” She said it just loudly enough that he would hear, causing him to scuttle into the nearest classroom in an attempt to look like he had a reason to be here other than ogling her and her friends. “What's the name of the shop we’re going to?” Zercey asked from where she sat opposite Scyanatha and beside Imogen, leaving Laura to sit beside Scy like the good little pet she was. She was in a much better mood today, having made up with Lerki the previous night. He hadn’t been seen flirting with any random girls yet today, so maybe Zercey thought she made her point at last. Good, they were both getting annoying. “Oh my gosh, it’s the cutest place,” Scy gushed, happy to talk about their destination. “Seth’s aunt owns it and she only stocks items from the best designers, she has amazing fashion sense. She used to be a top model! She says I have potential to be a top model too and she’s going to hook me up with some of her connections after I escape this dump.” Zercey tried not to sigh as Scyanatha took her question and turned it into a chance to talk about herself. “Anyways,” Scy carried on, “the boutique isn’t officially open until this weekend but she’s letting us in early so we don’t look like peasants for the dance. We’ll have the entire store to ourselves.” “As long as we don’t mess anything up, everything will be all right.” Seth’s voice joined the conversation, though it didn’t last long since his mouth was soon occupied by Scyanatha’s lips.

She’d jumped up the moment he walked over, practically mauling him with loud and wet kisses.

Both Zercey and Imogen saw the little blob of pink gum that Scy was chewing pass into Seth’s mouth and it took every ounce of self-restraint they had not to gag, the urge becoming even more intense when the couple finally parted and Seth carried on chewing it. “I like this shirt on you,” Scy complemented, oblivious to her friends' existence as she tugged on the white fabric covering her boyfriend’s chest. She licked her lips, eyes lidded as one of Seth’s hands instantly went to grope her ass. The two of them looked set and ready to give that creepy janitor the show of a lifetime until Lerki’s voice snapped them out of it.

“As fun as it is to watch you two put on a peep show in the middle of the school, we should probably get out of here before they lock us in.” Scy rolled her pretty eyes, but relented, grabbing Seth’s hand and tugging him through the door, already chatting about what kind of dress she planned to get.

Laura skipped along beside her, the only one listening.

Zercey and Imogen, wary of seeing any more potentially scarring things, opted to ride with Lerki to the mall while Laura, the poor thing, was forced to endure a  twenty minute ride full of Scyanatha’s hand delving in Seth's pants and nearly causing an accident.    ~*~*~ “Here.” Salem handed over a vanilla ice cream cone topped with pink and green sprinkles to Vyxen, adding, “Yes, the cone is gluten free.” He’d made triple sure it was the right cone since the new guy, Nametag: Cowan, didn’t seem to understand or care much about how to do his job. His poor boss was really trying to train him well, but it wasn’t working. After catching the nerdettes doing their little dance number, he’d spent the rest of his night teasing Vyxen at every possible chance. It was all fun and games until she started to cry, leaving Salem to feel like a grade A jackass. Xyl even looked ashamed and he hadn’t even said anything. So here he was, buying her ice cream and about to lose a good chunk of his money to help pay for her dress in an effort to make her feel better and stop the guilt from chewing away at him. “Can you and your friends try to pick dresses quick when we get there? I don’t want to spend my whole afternoon here.” He wanted to make her feel better, yes, but not quite at the expense of his entire day. “You don’t have to come with me. Maybe we can meet back up in an hour or so to go home?” Vyxen tried, shuddering to even think how mortified poor Nyima would be if she had to try on dresses in front of Salem. “That way you can do whatever you want.” “And miss my darling little sister getting ready for her first dance?” Salem asked, clutching his heart in mock pain and laughing when Vyxen sighed. He pulled his phone out to check the time. He honestly had zero interest in watching her and her dorks try on dresses, but he also knew Date was somewhere in the building and after his last few songs, he didn’t know how much he trusted him being anywhere near his sister without supervision. He was going to have to watch his mouth though, lest he make both Vyxen and Nyima cry and have Rae trying to punch him in the face. They were passing some disgustingly expensive looking store when their path was suddenly blocked by group of people. Salem didn’t need to look up from his phone to know who they were, a cloud of overpriced floral perfume and gross cologne was already seeping into his sinuses and threatening to choke him. Only Scy and her group of nimrods travelled in such a foul smelling pack. He veered to the left to walk around them, not interested in dealing with their petty attitudes and not daring to look at Imogen least he sell her out to her friends. Why she hung out with them was beyond him, but making out with her a few times in hidden locations didn’t give him any right to question her poor taste in friends. He would have been content to steer himself and his sister right past them without acknowledging their existence at all but Scy’s high pitched, deeply annoying voice stopped him right in his tracks. “Watch where you’re walking, albino freak,” Scyanatha sneered, eyes boring into the back of Vyxen’s head.

Vyxen let out a small, involuntary whimper and Scy smirked over her victory. Salem slowly turned around until he was looking straight into the cold, brown eyes of the girl who just insulted his sister. “Why don’t you pick on someone in your own IQ range? Those mannequins look like they could put up a good fight,” he said as he gestured to the window display behind him. Out of his periphery, he could see the rest of the popular kids reactions, though he didn’t dare break eye contact. Lerki stood there with his mouth open, looking fully like the brainless jock he was. Laura and Zercey were frozen in surprise, eyes darting from their friend to the dweeb and then back again. Imogen paled as if she was watching her worst nightmare unfold before her. “What did you just say to her?” Seth snapped, removing his arm from around Scyanatha’s shoulder, taking a step forward and squaring up, ready for a fight. “You heard me.” Realistically Salem knew that he was about to get his ass handed to him, Seth was a moron but a strong one and he didn’t have anywhere near the guy’s muscle or mass. He was doomed if punches were thrown but his pride and anger refused to let him back down. “Salem, we should…” Vyxen started, reaching out to grab hold of his jacket only to have a warm hand enclose around her own. “You don’t want to be in the middle of this.” Date was there, appearing out of nowhere like some kind of ghost and gently wrapping his arm around her to lead her away from what he was sure would turn out to be a murder scene. She didn’t need to get involved in this and he couldn’t help Salem even if he wanted to, Seth would just knock them both out. “Maybe you should muzzle your bitch, or at least keep her on a leash so she doesn’t irritate everyone around her.” Salem's anger blinded him to the danger he was in, he didn’t even notice Date swoop in like a crow to gather up Vyxen when his back was turned. Seth crossed over two Salem in two quick strides. “You think you can just insult my woman and not have to pay for it, you little prick?” he growled before shoving him with both hands, causing Salem to stumble. “Seth, don’t,” came a voice from behind. Imogen knew Seth long enough to understand when he was about to start a fight, and there was very little time to act before it was too late. “He’s not worth it,” she said, lips twisting. “And plus, if you get thrown out of here, how are we supposed to get dresses from your aunt’s store? You don’t expect us to wear something from one of these places, do you?” “She’s right, babe,” Scyanatha agreed with a sigh. “You can kick the Twilight reject’s butt later. I cannot be seen wearing something off the rack at homecoming.” Seth hesitated, unsure he wanted to walk away from such easy prey. Finally, his shoulders relaxed and he unclenched his fists. “You’re lucky these ladies are here to save your ass,” he snarled, shoving Salem one more time before walking off with the rest of the group. Salem stayed there for a moment still seething. The arrogance of those people! He rubbed his shoulder where Seth pushed him, knowing that it would probably leave a bruise, but it could have been worse. No, what hurt more was the cool way Imogen had talked about him, as if he were beneath them, beneath her. He turned and finding no Vyxen in the vicinity, stalked away to locate her. He and Imogen weren’t a couple, he shouldn’t feel bad about the way she talked to him. He knew from the start that this, whatever it was that they were doing, was temporary and only for pleasure. Knowing that didn’t stop her words from stinging though.  ~*~*~ “That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard!” “I don’t hear you coming up with anything better!” Xyl let out a groan. “Will you two stop it, already?” Rhoe and Rhovan had been arguing this way for the last thirty minutes. They were supposed to be working on a project for their history class, but so far the only thing they could agree on was how much they resented being paired together.  His sister sent a glare his way and further slumped down in the worn out leather chair in their living room. “I don’t even know why we’re bothering. It’s a pointless class and I’m barely passing anyway. Getting another F won’t make much of a difference.” “Well I’m not failing and I’d like to keep it that way,” Rhovan retorted.

Rhoe responded by flipping him the bird.  “Let’s take a break and order some dinner. If I have to sit through this, I at least want some food. How does Chinese sound?” Without waiting for either of them, Xyl put down his guitar and crossed the room to pull up the delivery menu on his laptop.

Rhoe took out her lighter, flicking it repeatedly so the flame sparked and then went out over and over again.  “I can’t believe I’m missing work for this,” Rhovan snapped when Xyl was gone, thinking about pulling the lighter right from between Rhoe’s fingers and setting her on fire. He didn’t, obviously, but it was a nice fantasy. He’d never been paired with anyone so insufferable. He needed to get at least a B in this class and she was screwing him over with her attitude.   “Then why don’t you just go to work then and get out of my face?” They could ace this project and it still wouldn’t save her grade, so Rhoe wasn’t going to waste her time on it. She flat out told this idiot that and he came over anyway. As far as she was concerned this was all his fault; she could be getting free ice cream from Cowan right now, and Rhovan could be off pandering to hamsters in the pet store like he usually did. “Because,” Rhovan started, speaking through gritted teeth, “I’m trying to be a good partner. You, on the other hand, are a complete bitch. This is why no one sits beside you in class. You’re miserable and you ruin everyone’s day.” He honestly didn’t care that he was talking to the sister of his best friend, her attitude was awful and so was she. No wonder only one person in the school could stand her. “Aww,” Rhoe cooed, pulling a sad face and pretending to sniffle, “am I ruining your day, pretty boy?” Rhovan grabbed his bag and stood, done with her. “You know what, you can go screw yourself. I’ll talk to Mr. Culvers and do the project myself. Enjoy being a wash-out loser and repeating your junior year.” She was going to end up dropping out and becoming a junkie and he didn’t even feel bad for her, she brought it all on herself. “Later, Xyl!” he called as he threw open the door and strode out, nearly knocking the delivery boy off the steps on his way. He still had time to pick up his shift in the pet store if he hurried, that way he wouldn’t be losing anything this afternoon except a headache in human form. Jingyi, who had been just about to knock on the door, wasn’t fast enough to sidestep as Rhovan bolted down the steps, and ended up dropping the bag with food in it. Hoping nothing spilled, he picked it up again before hastily handing over the order to guy inside and making a fast retreat. Getting back on his bike, he took out his inhaler and took a deep breath in. As he waited for the medicine to take effect, he popped one of the fortune cookies he stashed in his pockets earlier into his mouth. Opening the scroll inside he read, ‘The fortune you seek is in another cookie. Lucky numbers 2, 33, 5, 84, 7.’ “Typical.” He finished chewing his snack and pedalled towards the restaurant. ~*~*~ Nyima and Raemina walked through the pet store, wasting time until they could meet up with Vyxen. They rarely got to go since she would start sneezing the moment she walked through the door, so it was a nice change of pace.

Rae was mentally going over today’s calculus questions and watching Nyima stop to pet and coo at all the animals with a fond smile. It wasn’t often such a shy girl got excited, but animals seemed to bring out the best in her. She would make an amazing vet one day. Their peaceful walk was ruined by the bell above the door ringing followed by a slam and Rae turned to see Rhovan stalk into the shop, clearly in a bad mood. She wondered where he was. She knew he worked there and this was usually the time of his shift. She wasn’t spying on him or anything, but spent a lot of time at the bookstore across the way, and remembered the days and times he appeared. That was actually how she first noticed him. His blue hair was hard to miss and she liked the way he smiled and talked to the animals when he cleaned out their cages. Just like Nyima, the pets seemed to bring out the best in him. Not today, apparently. He looked ready to fight and so she opted to keep her distance. It was tempting to ask him to the dance, but this was probably the worst time to do it and so she wouldn’t. Instead, she kept trailing after Nyima, getting lost once more in her mental mathematics. Her watch would beep when it was time to go meet Vyx,so she allowed her mind to wander and focus on various numbers and equations, running and rerunning them in her head until she was sure that she understood them all perfectly. She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice Nyima stray away from her to go look at the wall of aquariums, nor the tall and solid body that entered her path until she almost slammed into it. “Man, you were really lost in thought right then. Homework troubles?” Rhovan asked, his easy grin back in place.

Raemina was taken aback by the sudden change in temperament, recalling that he looked as though he could breathe fire not even five minutes ago. “Something like that,” she responded simply. “Are you ok? You looked upset a few minutes ago.” It might not be her place to ask, she didn’t really know him, but her curiosity got the better of her. “I’m having some homework troubles myself, but if I keep stomping around the store the animals will get offended and rebel against me.” Just then, the puppies nearby started to make a ruckus and Rhovan waved his hand in their direction, them having just proved his point. “I don’t mind getting a little chewed on, but I kind of need my hands this week and would prefer them unbloodied. My band is performing in the talent show on Friday.” “I know.” Raemina moved away from him, heading towards the puppies to see what set them all off. “Your bass player is my best friend’s brother. I know a lot about your band,” she added when she saw one of his brows raise and a sly little smile appear on his face. She refused to let him think she was a fangirl. The puppies were in an uproar because a small grey one seemed to be on a mission to chew on the ears and tails of all the others. “That’s Loui,” Rhovan informed her with a sigh, having followed her over, and reached into the display case to scoop the wiggly pup into his arms. “He’s my problem child.” He’d have to keep a hold of him until he calmed down before he put him back with the others and hopefully he wouldn’t get peed on this time. Loui was notorious for peeing on people to the point where everyone brought an extra set of clothing and wipes with them to work now. Raemina was amused. “Well, your problem child is very cute.” “You can have him if you want, I’ll throw in a free bag of food if you take him.” “Tempting, but I don’t think my parents would like it.” It was a shame too, Rae thought, she’d like to have a reason to come back here in the future and Loui was awfully cute. “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Rhovan started, finally starting to feel a little better now that Rhoe was a bad memory and he had a pretty girl in front of him. He couldn’t believe that he’d never noticed her before. She was gorgeous and she smelled really good, like a flower. She rocked the school girl look with her polka dotted skirt and cream colored sweater and he couldn’t help but think they’d look hot together. He hadn’t forgotten about those lace panties either. “So are you going to the talent show? I’d love to see you there,” he added in an attempt to seal the deal before she got a chance to say no. “I’m thinking about it.” If she went would ultimately depend on if Vyxen and Nyima went, but she could probably convince them. “Well, I hope you come and maybe if you’re not doing anything afterwards, we could go––” Whatever Rhovan was about to say was cut off by the alarm blaring from her watch. It perked Loui right up and had him squirming so badly that Rhovan had to wrap both his arms around him to keep him from jumping down and causing all sorts of havoc. “Sorry,” Raemina apologized, though the smile on her face suggested that was a lie. It was cute to see this punk rocker struggling to keep a hold of an excitable puppy. “I have to go, I’ll think about coming to the talent show though,” she promised, turning away and going to gather up Nyima so they could head to the dress shop. “Cool,” Rhovan called after her lamely, sighing when she walked out the door without a backwards glance. “Look what you did,” he scolded the puppy in his arms. “That could have been my new girlfriend and you chased her away.” Loui’s response was to bark happily and then promptly pee all over him. ~*~*~ Vyxen was nervous. They were well out of sight of both Salem and Seth now, but Date still had an arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders. It wasn’t as though she hated it, it was just... New. It was new and awkward and she didn’t know how to deal with it. Should she wiggle out of his hold? Would it look weirder if she broke away or just stayed put? He was quiet beside her, relaxed and at ease, not seeming to realize that he was still holding onto her. Unable to deal with the silence, Vyxen attempted to fill it. “Do you think Salem will be ok?” she tried, genuinely worried for her brother and hoping conversation would clue Date into the fact that they were still touching. She didn’t want to have to make the decision of staying in his hold or breaking away as both options made her look bad in her own mind. If she stayed pressed against him, he might think she was desperate, but if she broke away he might think that she didn’t like him. It was a no-win situation. Date made the choice for her when he shifted his hold on her shoulders to be more comfortable for them both, but didn’t pull his arm away. “He’ll be fine. Seth isn’t stupid enough to cause a scene in the middle of the mall, he could get kicked off his beloved football team for something like that.” He knew a fight wouldn’t actually break out, but he’d seen an opportunity to get Vyxen alone and he’d taken it. Watching her blush next to him, flustered by his closeness was extremely cute. He wondered how flustered he could get her if he… “That’s good.” Vyxen’s voice broke his train of thought and it was probably for the best. It was too early to try anything drastic and Seth might be smart enough not to start a scene but Salem was not and Date didn’t feel like getting punched in the face today. Silence settled over them again and he purposely didn’t fix it because he liked watching how nervous she got. She’d run if it became too much for her though and so, eventually, he did have to stop being a jerk. “Your ice cream is melting,” he pointed out, thinking he could safely be a creep for a moment longer and thoroughly enjoying watching her hurry to lick up the trail of melted cream that threatened to drip onto the floor. Tucking that lovely image away for later review, he asked, “What are you doing after the pep rally on Friday?” The pep rally, for reasons past understanding, was a mandatory school event and he already knew she’d be at the talent show because Salem would be there and she tried to be a good sister. “I have a study session with Nyima and Raemina.” “At your house?” Date was disappointed she was already doing something, but he could probably save the situation by convincing Salem to let him stay over on the same night. That would give him a chance to…. “No, Raemina is having us all stay at her house.” To make sure neither she nor Nyima found an excuse not to attend the dance, she was sure. To do nothing, apparently. Vyxen being entirely unavailable to him on Friday threw a wrench into his carefully laid out plans of taking her out somewhere, asking her to the dance and possibly, possibly, getting to make out with her. She was easily flustered so he didn’t know how far he could get before he smacked into her limits, but until proven otherwise he was going to assume that a make out session would have been involved. “That’s a bummer, I was going to ask you to go out with me.” There was nothing for it at that point. He might not have another chance to get her alone like this and so he needed to skip over the date step and go right to the next. “How about we go to the dance together instead?” “What!?” Vyxen asked, stopping dead in her tracks and looking at him with wide eyes. She couldn’t possibly have heard him right, she couldn’t have. The last time she talked to him, he didn’t even know who she was and now he was asking to the dance? Impossible. Admittedly that was a couple of years ago, but it was still totally and completely impossible. She either misheard him or this was some kind of dream. It was probably a dream. She’d had similar ones before and quickly pinched herself to verify, the resulting sting proving her theory false. It’s not a dream, oh my god! Date had witnessed the little pinch and was amused, moving around so he could stand in front of her. He took her hand and kissed the back of it and then dragged his lips up her arm to kiss the spot she’d pinched. “Will you be my date to the dance?” he asked again, kissing his way back down her arm and enjoying the dark red color that stained his his soon-to-be girlfriend’s cheeks. “Yes?” he prodded when she still seemed unable to speak a minute later and smirked in victory when she nodded fervently in reply. “Good,” Date purred, pulling her forward by the arm and leaning in to taste her lips while he still had her stunned. Unfortunately, a large hand slapped directly over his face and pushed him back.

“Can you not?” Salem snapped, pulling Vyxen away from Date and pushing her in the direction of her two red-faced and quickly approaching friends. They witnessed the whole thing. All of his earlier interest faded from Date’s face and he slipped back into his usual, bored appearance. “You act like I was going to start taking her clothes off right here in the mall.” Salem scoffed, not entirely sure that Date wouldn’t have actually gone that far, the creep’s newest song lyrics still circling in his head. “You were thinking about it.” “How did it go with Seth?” Date sidestepped the question, not denying anything and not needing to because they both knew it was true. Salem cursed brilliantly and Date congratulated himself on successfully switching the subject.

“We’re going to do something about him and his pet. It’s about time someone put them in their place.” ~*~*~ Lerki watched Zercey walking around the boutique with the other girls with a hungry look on his face. Beside him, Seth was talking to his aunt about some family drama, but all of his attention was on the brunette trying to play coy. He couldn’t care less about what colors or designs they all ended up wearing so long as Zercey’s dress was short and sexy. He stared at her as she dropped the pen she was twirling in her fingers and reached down to pick it up without bending her knees, not-so-subtly showing off her incredible legs and flexibility. From this angle, he was even able to get the smallest of peeks below her skirt. She was playing with him, and he knew it. Zercey flashed a mischievous smile over her shoulder before turning back to the group. Scyanatha was in the middle, flicking through dresses and judging them one by one, while Laura, Imogen and herself surrounded her and listened as she went on about cut, color, design, and fabric. “It’s like, practically criminal that we have no good stores here. Thank god this place finally open. I would have died if I’d been stuck with something all of these peasants have seen before,” Scy said emphatically, using her preferred term for their classmates as if she were royalty and not just another suburbanite. “I would have made Seth skip class and drive me to the city.” Laura nodded along sympathetically, and Zercey had to work hard to not roll her eyes at how obviously the other girl was trying to be noticed. She tried to make eye contact with Imo, but she was looking at her phone. “Ooooh!” Scyanatha let out a high-pitched squeal, having finally found a dress she liked. “I love this one!” She pulled out a sparkly, pink strapless mini dress that forced Zercey to look away from the glare reflecting off the glitter. Attached under the bust was a gauzy blush coloured train that trailed all the way to the floor. It screamed ‘princess,’ which made Scy bounce with excitement. Now she just had to find something suitable for the others. Scanning the rest of the dresses quickly, Scyanatha’s gaze fell upon a section of dark pink and red dresses, none of which were half as flashy as the one she had in her hand. Perfect, she decided and redirected the group over there.  “What about this, Scy?” Laura offered, pointing to another sequined dress, this one in silver.

Scyanatha halted her forward march to raise an eyebrow at the younger girl. “What about it?” she asked, her question laced with a dare.  “Oh, nothing... Just that it isn’t nearly as pretty as yours is,” Laura finished. She might have been dim, but even she could tell when she was being put back in her place. “Exactly. So why would I be interested in it?” Scyanatha jeered, sticking her nose in the air and walking past Laura without a second glance.

Imogen and Zercey followed behind. Finally in the pre-approved color section, Scy left her two friends to look at dresses for themselves while she busied herself finding one for Laura.  “What do you think about this?” Zercey asked Imogen.  She looked over the hot pink, ruched frock. “For you or me?” “You.” Imogen scrunched up her face. “Too skanky,” she decided with a shake of her head.

Zercey shrugged and put it back.

“Plus, that color clashes horribly with my complexion. How about this one for you?” she offered holding out a bright red dress. “Eh––” she started. “Wait, I know what you’re going to say,” Imogen interrupted. “But look at this!” With a flourish, she turned it around so Zercey could see the back. The front was cute enough – it had a flashy red lace top and a tulle skirt in a matching hue – but it seemed to be more classy than sexy. The back, on the other hand… Zercey’s jaw dropped when she saw the back. Most of it had been cut out and she could imagine the way the uneven line of lace would frame her bare back. Plus, even though the skirt looked like it would pass the puritanical school dress code, the nature of the shape would provide easy access should she need it. “I guess I’ll try it on.”  “You couldn’t wear a bra with it, though,” Imogen said slyly. Zercey gave her co-conspirator a grin. “Oh,” she said with fake realization, “I suppose I couldn’t.” She gave a meaningful look to Lerki standing in the corner. He cleared his throat and moved his messenger bag in front of him. “That’s hot,” Scyanatha agreed from beside them. “You can try this one,” she continued, passing Laura a dress without looking at her. It was still cute  –she wouldn’t allow anyone who didn’t look good to associate with her - but it was a halter and definitely something from last season. After all, she couldn’t let the girl off too easily after her back talk. Imogen was too distracted to remember that she should have felt bad for Laura. She had been going through the motions this whole time, but she couldn’t help but replay the fight that almost broke out between Seth and Salem. She was able to text him a quick ‘I’m sorry,’ after they walked away, but she still hadn’t heard anything back.  “What about you, Imo?” asked Zercey. “Are you ready to try something on?” “Yeah,” she answered as she plastered a smile on her face. She held up an arm full of dresses in confirmation as she followed the other three into the dressing rooms.  “Hey babe,” came Scyanatha’s voice from behind the furthest curtain. “Could you help me zip up my dress?” After another hour – most of which was spent waiting for Seth to finishing helping Scy get into, and presumably out of, her dress – all four girls had successfully picked out their homecoming outfits. Seth's aunt didn’t only sell expensive and one-of-a-kind party dresses, but also had a decent selection of jewelry and accessories, though Scyanatha of course had to approve every item before it was put on the counter to be rung up. Once she was confident that she and her gang would be the best dressed crew at the dance, the group of six finally made its way out the door. As she stepped back into the mall, Imogen felt her phone vibrate. Opening up the text, she read: Meet in 5? ~*~*~ “What took you so long?” Salem demanded as Imogen rounded the corner to meet him by the handicap restroom.  “Shhh! Keep your voice down,” she snapped and led the way into the stall. Once the door was safely locked behind them she continued, “It was difficult trying to get away from my friends without being suspicious. They’re not stupid, you know.” Salem gave her a look that told her he wasn’t so sure about the last part. “They’re not,” she said defensively. Salem rolled his eyes. “Whatever, I didn’t come here to pick a fight.” “Oh really,” she laughed sarcastically. “Then what the heck do you call what happened earlier?” “I call that your douchenozzle friends picking on my sister. My sister, by the way, who never did anything to those idiots. Who gave them the right to drag her down and make her feel like garbage? They do that to everyone to make themselves feel superior, it’s disgusting,” Salem snapped, his earlier anger coming back full force. He’d seen Vyxen, Raemina and Nyima get bullied too often, he’d seen that loner kid get bullied too often and everyone else too. Even Laura, who was supposed to be Scyanatha’s friend, was treated like a servant instead of an equal.  “I’ve had enough of them and so has everyone else. They’re gonna get what they have coming and if you keep hanging out with them, you’re going to end up getting screwed over too,” Salem warned her, not quite thinking that spilling your revenge plans to your targets friend was a bad idea. “Excuse me?” Imogen snarled back and took a step forward so she could get right up in Salem’s face. “Are you threatening me?” “I’m warning you ahead of time so that you might make a good decision for once.”

The sound of skin hitting skin filled the small space as Imogen’s hand connected with the side of Salem’s face. “Who do you think you are?” She placed her hands on his chest and pushed him back against the wall. “I do make good decisions! Don’t talk to me like you know anything about me.” “I know a lot about you, probably more than your so-called friends do,” Salem snapped right back, grabbing onto her wrists. “I know your favorite color is dark blue and that you love your dark blue sweater, it’s your favorite. You wear it all the time even if Scyanatha scoffs about it getting old.” He paid attention to her, more often than he’d like to admit. “I know your favorite cereal is Captain Crunch, you like Shakespeare and that you would probably shank somebody to get to a Rachel Platten concert.” He should have paused to consider how creepy or desperate he was making himself look right now, but he honestly couldn’t be bothered. This was going to go really well or blow up in his face and either way, he was getting kind of tired of being in a secret relationship. “I also know that you work hard to organize events for the school and to get good grades and I don’t understand how someone so smart can be friends with people who are so awful.” He had more he wanted to say, but he didn’t get a chance to finish airing his thoughts as Imogen closed the distance between their faces and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was feverish and desperate with both of them still worked up over the fight. Imogen’s hands moved from his shoulders to his collar, pulling at his shirt. Salem’s hands slid down around her waist and he pressed her body closer to his. This wasn’t like the kisses they’d shared under the bleachers, it was more intense and frenzied. There was no elegance to it and neither of them seemed to mind. Minutes ticked by without either of them realizing it, Salem shifted their position, grabbing Imogen by the waist and lifting her up, so he could flip them around and press her up against the dingy bathroom wall. He lifted one of her legs to wrap around his waist as his lips trailed from her lips to her neck. His vampire thing was totally just an aesthetic, but he couldn’t deny that he got a little thrill out of being able to bite and suck on her neck like this. It would probably be a bad idea to leave a mark there, but he didn’t care. He cared even less when he felt her hand tug on the button of his jeans, the small movement being enough to make his heart beat so fast that he thought it might actually come out of his chest. This is it! This is it! The sudden banging on the door ensured that this was most certainly not it and made the two of them reel back and away from each other. “Hide in the corner,” Salem instructed Imogen before moving to the door and opening it just a crack. Black hair and a stupid, evil grin were waiting for him on the other side. “What the fuck, Date?” “I’m sorry to break up your little rendezvous, but the girls are ready to go home and I’m pretty sure someone is going to come looking for your little miss pretty soon.” Date’s smile only widened, “it wouldn’t be a good idea for you two to get caught like this.” Salem could tell by the smirk that Date’s silence was going to cost him something, but he was still riding too high to care. “Whatever,” he said before turning back to Imogen and having the decency to flush when he saw the small red mark just above her collarbone. “I’ll leave first so no one suspects anything. Also… you might want to cover your neck.” He left before she had a chance to look in the mirror and see what he was talking about. ~*~*~ Scyanatha’s tongue was all the way inside Seth’s mouth when the pair heard a rapping on the window. They had been getting hot and heavy in his expensive car for the last few minutes; so much so, that the windows fogged up. With a sound like a suction cup being wrenched from a wall, the couple disengaged and rolled down the passenger side window. Scy scowled when she saw the person lurking outside. “What do you want?” she snarled without a hint of shame at being caught with her skirt hiked up a full three inches higher than it was supposed to sit.

It was her older brother, Oidhan, looking as annoying as ever. He gave Seth a nod in greeting before turning to his sister and saying, “Mother wants to know when you’ll be coming in for dinner.” She rolled her eyes. It was so like her mom to send out the perfect son to check up on her. “Aren’t you supposed to be in college? What are you even doing here?” When he didn’t reply, she groaned. “Fine. Tell her I’ll be in in a minute.” She turned back to her boyfriend with a practiced pout. “I’m sorry, baby. Whenever my parents send Oidhan after me I know it’s serious.” She wondered if they had seen her latest credit card statement, that would explain them being mad at her. Seth didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. He pulled Scy back to him and kissed her long and hard before finally letting her go. “All right princess, text me when your mom is through being a nag.” It was times like this when he was the most thankful for having parents who were almost never home. Oidhan cleared his throat as obviously as possible from outside the car and Seth was immediately thankful for also being an only child. Fixing her skirt and top, Scyanatha crawled off her boyfriend’s lap and out of the car, sighing in barley contained irritation and trying not to pout when Seth’s car pulled out of the drive and took off down the road. “Thanks for ruining my night,” she spat at Oidhan, flicking her red hair over her shoulder snottily. They headed towards the large, pristine manor that her family inhabited. “Shouldn’t you be off rescuing orphans somewhere?” “I’m an immigration lawyer, I protect people from getting kicked out of the country they think of as home. It’s called being a decent human being, maybe you should give it a try.” Oidhan was now remembering why he avoided coming home to visit. Even the stuck-up politicians he had to deal with through work weren’t quite as insufferable as his sister could be. How their parents put up with her was beyond him, he would have shipped her off to military school years ago. “Whatever.” Scy waved her hand at him as if he was a gnat, not listening to a word he said. A shiny compact mirror was taken out of her pocket so she could fix her smeared lipstick and then closed with a satisfying snap. “You don’t get anywhere in life by being decent, moron, one day you’ll figure that out.” With that, Scyanatha threw open the front door and strode into the hall as if she were walking into a throne room.

By @guardians-of-las-vyxen & @yogiwithabook

[virmillion]

Ibytm - T minus 10 seconds

Masterpost - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter - ao3

Words: 2,102

Logan sifts through his notecard stack again, wishing (not for the first time) that he would’ve had the foresight to holepunch them and run a string through to maintain some semblance of organization. But no, no, past Logan decided that present-Logan should agonize over minute fears while sweating bullets in an empty conference room. He just about screams his lungs to shreds when the door swings open, but it’s only Roman, who displays an encouraging smile and a double thumbs-up. “Am I late?”

“The opposite, war funce—er, for once. I, uh, I start in efflen—eleven nim—minutes. Eleven minutes. Until I start.”

“Why are you so nervous?”

“Because of how many things that can go wrong. Just ask Murphy, I’m basically guaranteed to fail by his logic. Where’s notecard seven?” Logan places the stack of notecards on the table as gingerly as possible, perfectly parallel with the edge as he kneels to search the floor. “I lost the seventh card, what if I forget what’s on it? What if I don’t—”

“Logan, do me a favor and remind me when NASA was founded,” Roman says nonchalantly, taking a seat at the closest chair.

“July twenty-ninth, nineteen eighty—no, nineteen fifty-eight. Where did I put—”

“And how long after that did they reach the moon?”

“July sixteenth, nineteen sixty-nine. I swear, all the information for slide eighteen was on that—”

Logan glances up as Roman swats his head with the missing notecard. “Logan, those questions aren’t even important ones that you have to put any effort into, and you’ve got them down . The stuff you’ve actually been trying with is all just concrete, and you don’t just misplace concrete. You do not need these notecards, okay? You’re gonna crush this presentation, and if you get nervous, just look at me, yeah?”

“How on Earth would looking at you be in any way helpful to me?”

“How on Earth would it not be?”

Logan slumps his shoulders and takes the notecard, reading over it. Well, he was right—it does correspond to slide eighteen. That’s something, at least. “I don’t know.”

“And you don’t need to. You’ve got this.”

“This is literally the single largest—”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“But it does, though. If I don’t completely nail this presentation, I might never move on to the space exploration research tier, much less the actual doing the stuff tier. I’ll just be doing busy work for forever, and all that rides on how well I do today.”

Roman slides down in his chair until he’s sitting on his back and kicks his foot out, rolling the chair in front of Logan aside. “Sit down.”

“But I have to—”

“Siddown.”

He does.

Roman sits back up in his chair and raises his hands as if anticipating a punch Logan certainly isn’t about to throw. “You’ve been working on this presentation for months—”

“A week.”

“Don’t interrupt me. You’ve been working on things that led to you working on this for ages, and you’ve put your entire soul into it—yes you do so have one, don’t even try me—and you are going to crush it. This whole deal is just a formality, yeah? Everyone here knows how good you can do at any job they give you, and even Katie-Lee knows you’d give her a run for her money if given half a chance.”

“Well.”

“What?”

“How well I can do at any job. You said ‘good,’ which is wrong.”

“Seem but on your little grammar tirade, you didn’t correct me not using Katie-Lee’s honorific, which means some part of your subconscious acknowledges that you’re at least on her level, if not above it.”

“Or it just means I’m extremely nervous.”

“That is also a valid possibility.” Roman glances to the door as a cluster of people in very professional looking suits shuffles in. Shooting Logan a quick wink and nod, he stands and moves to a chair at the back corner of the room, where he pulls out a small notepad from his pocket. Logan lurches to his feet, suddenly all too aware of how underdressed he feels in comparison to these newcomers.

He offers nods and smiles to everyone that files in, wondering whether they know how off-putting their cool demeanors are. They probably do. It’s probably on purpose. They’ve probably already written him off as a waste of their time. At the back of the room, Roman crosses one ankle over the other knee and starts taking notes, poking his tongue out as he bends his head over the pad. Taking a few centered breaths, Logan faces the projector screen and closes his eyes.

Roman is right there if you need anything. He has your back. Virgil has your back from a distance. You can do this. You did presentations all the time in school, no problem. You don’t need the notecards, but they’re there if you need a parachute. Everyone in this room is just a human. If you mess up, they’ll understand. There’s always tomorrow. Hearing the voice in his head giving these reassurances to himself, Logan realizes why Virgil always gets annoyed when he hears them. Logan is, in fact, much more agitated now than he was before.

“You ready?” It is extremely difficult for Logan to fight off the urge to launch himself through the ceiling at the sudden sound of Miss Katie-Lee’s voice. He turns and smiles and nods and pretends his legs aren’t still trembling with adrenaline—‘pretends’ being the operative word. “Good, then go ahead and get started.” Miss Katie-Lee takes a seat near the head of the table—stage right, if Logan’s limited theater knowledge serves him correctly. Directly across from her is pretty much the most important person to have ever stepped foot in this building. ( Aside from Virgil, says a cutesy voice in Logan’s head, which he ignores.)

Robin P. Gazebo, director of the Kennedy Space Center. If it weren’t for him, Logan would absolutely still be toiling away in computer engineering classes and looking at the stars with something akin to vague disinterest. He’s never been this freaking close to the guy before.

For those of you keeping score at home, Logan’s heart is hovering somewhere around the planet’s mantle right now.

“Ah, Mr. Walders, is it?” Director Gazebo says, glancing over his clipboard. Undoubtedly full of information that very well might decide how Logan’s entire life plays out from here.

“Actually, I recently got married, so my surname is now Sanders, Director Gazebo, but, um, yes, that’s me,” Logan says, his voice about as panicky as he would expect it to be. He sincerely might just flat out collapse, right here, right now. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

“And you as well. Congratulations on your nuptials, by the way.” The director sticks out a hand, and Logan isn’t sure whether it’s a good or bad thing that it’s warm when he shakes it. Good, because the director is warm and inviting? Or bad, because it means Logan’s hand is cold, which could be off-putting to the most important person in the building? Or worse, because maybe the director peed on his hand to get it that warm? Do people do that? Should Logan start doing that? “And you can just call me Robin.”

“Right, yes, thank you, sorry, and you me Logan—er, you can call me Logan, I mean. If you want to.” Logan is all too aware that he sounds like a preteen meeting their pop star idol right now, but he is also aware that he will never in his life call the director anything less official than ‘the director.’ Take a wild guess which thought is occupying more space in his mind. “Shall we get started?”

“Whenever you’re ready, Logan.” Director Gazebo leans back in his chair and takes out a pen, and Logan debates the merits of sticking his head out the window for some air. Perhaps not the smartest move, but what if he really, really wants to? He doesn’t do it, of course, but the idea is quite appealing. Instead, he flicks on the projector, inhaling confidence and exhaling nerves. Seriously, how has Virgil not just up and smacked him for these inane little positivity slogans?

It takes a solid eighty-seven percent of Logan’s willpower not to glance down at his notecards before he opens his mouth. “Hello, everyone. I’d like to start by thanking you all for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet me here today. My name is Logan Sanders, and I would like to discuss why we as a species need to turn our attention to the stars, not for any sort of escapism, but to advance our understanding of the planet beneath us.”

Partial disclosure, Logan spent the better part of two days coming up with that intro.

Full disclosure, he has absolutely no idea what happens next, and certainly has no hope of translating that into legible words. A cop-out, to be sure, but he can’t help it, so suck it up, buttercup.

Yeah, he gets through the presentation with only a few mistakes (in his defense, ‘faster than light drive’ is much easier to say at a normal speaking rate than a high-on-terror-and-adrenaline speaking rate). He doesn’t forget any crucial information, nor does he need to peek at notecard seven, and he manages to make eye contact with everyone, and he even cracks a few jokes that seem to land well enough. He only has to look at Roman a couple times (whereupon he sees him holding up his phone with a picture of Virgil’s face edited onto the moon, which admittedly does make him smile), but that’s about all Logan can say for sure.

The moment it’s over—finished, done, complete, well and truly over, a wave of relief that Logan is certain his audience can see—he exhales and smiles and powers off the projector. Nothing has ever felt better than the resounding silence in the space now devoid of the projector’s humming.

Well, nothing aside from what happens next.

“That was very intriguing, Logan,” Director Gazebo says, giving him a warm smile and a firm handshake. “I suspect there will be much to discuss tonight.”

“I, um, thank you, direc—sir.” Logan swallows around a tight lump in his throat as the director, along with everyone that followed him in, exits the room, comparing and exchanging notes. Once only Miss Katie-Lee and Roman remain, Logan perches on the sole chair that was empty for the whole presentation.

“That was quite impressive,” Miss Katie-Lee says. “Not to mention how quickly you managed to pull it off, too, even with all those extra assignments I needed from you. You certainly have a keen eye for quality.” Leaving Logan stunned into silence there at the table, Miss Katie-Lee takes her leave. Down to just Logan and Roman.

Logan lets out a long, anguished groan and drops his forehead to the table with a thunk , watching his hands tremble against his thighs. “That could not possibly have gone any—”

“Better? You’re right, you did fantabulous,” Roman cuts in, scraping his chair across the room to Logan’s side. “Man, they loved you. Bet they fast track you to the top after that one. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a solid breakdown of the velocities of space-time travel before, and I’ve certainly never cared about them before.”

Logan allows himself a small laugh through his nose and tries to smile, wondering whether now would be an acceptable time to run amok in the streets, screaming his head off.

“Hey, Logan, buddy?”

“Mmn.”

“You wanna look at me?”

Logan shakes his head, expecting to be left alone, so perhaps you can imagine and understand his surprise when he feels his hair being yanked upward. “Ow!”

Roman laughs and retracts his hand, leaving Logan rubbing at the freshly sore spot at the crown of his head. “What? I needed you to look at me!”

“Why did you need to physically harm the literal hairs on my head to accomplish that?”

“Because it’s important to me that you get how sincere I am when I say what I’m about to say.” The look of unabashed sincerity in Roman’s face is more than a little disquieting, as Logan is far more used to Roman having at least a little humor in his expression. “You did good. You did really, really good.”

Logan looks back down at the table, at the notecards still perfectly parallel to the edge. “Huh. I guess I did, didn’t I?”

[theconfusedartist]

more hunty hunty meta ooh!

anyways, I just finished the greed island arc again (but this time it was the 1999 ver.) and I just realized the whole ‘only killua can hold it’ was a lot different than I remember people talking about it here. 

like, maybe it’s just the 1999 ver., but it’s really obvious that Gon feels terrible that he’s making Killua hold the ball. He won’t look anyone in the eyes the entire time that Tszgerra was telling him that Killua was injured, he wouldn’t take a ‘win’ he wanted absolute defeat, but not for himself. Which, the first time watching it, I didn’t really get it, but watching it again, I kinda understood why he was so mad and wanted a real ‘win’ against Razor. 

He was pissed off because Razor nearly killed Killua. Like, it wasn’t even subtext, or something vaguely hinted at, Gon gets up after taking that fucking METEOR to the face and hands, he’s got a concussion most likely as he’s pissed off to all hell and he’s literally not listening to anything that anyone is telling him. 

Bisky says, don’t kill yourself, don’t overdo it, then asks him what 2+2 is. Like while it does give a bit of humor to this otherwise really serious scene, it really does hit home the point that I’m trying to get at, as he just kept saying ‘yeah’ over and over again to what Bisky was saying and didn’t say ‘osu’ until she said to play as hard as he could even if it meant risking his life. 

Gon gets over to Hisoka and Killua and the first thing he says is that they have to defeat him completely because if Killua had dodged to the right, he would’ve been killed. I didn’t really see the whole issue in the 2011 ver. as it seems less about Killua and more being personally offended and determined to win the game, but in the 1999 ver., Gon had a chance to take the easy route (luckily for them they didn’t they would be dead, but at the time they didn’t even know that Genthuru was the bomber) but didn’t because he wanted to enjoy the game that his dad made with his best friend. 

Even though he was training with Bisky, often put his life on the line in the training, as well as going through that exhaustive process, Gon still wasn’t worried about the whole ‘needing to beat the game as fast as possible’. Gon and Killua saw they were weak and decided to improve on that, which lead to Bisky, which lead to training, to getting stronger, and getting to Razor. Up until this point, I don’t think Gon was taking this game ‘seriously’, in the sense he wasn’t trying to mine up for the spell cards, but just wanted to have a fun time with his friends, and the fight with Razor was really the first time that was threatened. Or second time, as they didn’t know what spell cards were the first time around and thought that Killua was going to die due to the spell card that he had cast on him. 

Up until then, while Gon was (understandably) upset about the mass murder that happened because of Genthuru, he wasn’t going out of his way to deal with it. With Killua’s hands getting trashed and him nearly dying if just out of chance, this little nice time that Gon decided to have with Killua was threatened, just like the first time Killua had a spell cast on him. 

And just like the first time, Gon was fucking pissed, and he gets just as angry this time around. But Gon, doesn’t seem to have very good situational skills, which is most likely due to the fact that he certainly has a concussion, so he just defaulted to what he thought was the most pressing thing at the moment: which he thought was avenging Killua. 

Yeah, Killua wasn’t dead, but that was something just due to chance, Gon wasn’t angry about getting shot into the wall and cracking the cement, but at the thought that Killua might have gotten seriously hurt or injured is just enough to send him over the edge to pushing and pushing for a perfect win, because he wants to beat him down for nearly getting Killua killed with that ball. 

When Tszegerra comes over to tell Gon that Killua’s hands are beaten to hell and back, Gon is very adamant about not looking at any of the people around him, he stares blankly at the wall, refuses to say anything or acknowledge what people are saying right up until the point that Killua gets into his view and keeps telling him over and over that he can do it. 

This isn’t the first time that Gon has went to crazy lengths before and Killua seems to make that protective rage spark to wild levels. And in Killua’s case, this is something that he already knows. How? Heaven’s Arena. When going against Gido and Rehevelt (look I don’t know how to spell it, and they aren’t really all that noteworthy that I care to look them up either, so take the chair guy’s badly put name as just an aside as this is something I’m writing at like 6 am) Gon uses hatsu to deflect the tops and Killua notes that this was a psychological tactic to terrify Gido. Gon gets Gido on the ground and as the man is staring up at him, begging for his life, Gon ignores that and punches Gido while he’s down on the ground as hard as he can without nen and without aiming to really kill him either. He ends the fight saying that Gido better not ever try something like that again or he’ll do even worse. 

Killua is noticeably pleased about it lol, not the major point, but they were in key enough that Killua can tell Gon is legit angry at the three of them and was going out of his way to kick their ass. I just wanted to point out the fact that at Heaven’s Arena, they were both on the same wavelength, whereas here, in the Greed Island arc, they aren’t since Killua personally isn’t slighted at the fact that Razor nearly killed him, but Gon is and while Killua understands this, there is a reason that he’s the cool headed one, after all, he’s not emotionally mature enough to be able to tell Gon that this isn’t something that they have to beat Razor at. Why? Because Gon is angry for Killua’s sake. He’s furious for Killua’s sake, and that’s why he’s willing to go so far. Not because Razor is a real person, not because he wants to play a game and win, but because Killua nearly died and to Gon that is something that he feels he needs to avenge. And when the last time Killua really had someone willing to go to bat for him? 

Killua expresses that to Illumi all he wants to do is be a normal kid and be friends with Gon, but he doesn’t really get to do anything about it when Illumi uses his nen on him to get him to go back home. Killua fully expects to stay locked up within his family’s estate and for everything to go back to the way they were before he ran away, but Gon comes back. Gon feels that he has worth, that he’s worth the risk, that going through all this is absolutely worth is because it’s for Killua, and Gon makes sure over and over again to show Killua (both with words and his actions) that Killua is a special person to Gon, someone he’s willing to fight and die for, if need be, and obviously one of the closest people to his heart. 

The fight with Razor only takes what was there before and amplifies it to a whole nother level. Because this isn’t the first time that Gon’s ‘avenged’ Killua before. Attacking Illumi after the hunter exam for making him feel terrible, then to get the information of where Killua was to take him back, at Heaven’s Arena, doesn’t even give Rehevelt the benefit of a fight, that was a straight ass whooping. Why? Because he shocked Killua with one million watts. It’s something I don’t really see talked about here very often, but I remember seeing one post talking about the fact that Gon did what he did to Rehevelt as payback. 

Gon doesn’t punch or try to do the usual fight thing, he grabs a stone from the ring, grabs Rehevelt, then makes him think that he’s going to shock him with the same one million volts. In the 1999 ver., he even goes so far to make sound effects which (while fucking hilarious to hear Gon’s dubbed voice go ‘zapzapzapzapzap’) is wild because he wanted Rehevelt to go through the same pain that he put Killua through. But Gon’s a nice kid, he doesn’t like killing people. So, he does the next best thing! Makes them think and truly believe they’re about to die. 

This bit with Razor was something that was just building, and after going to Whale Island with Killua, through Heaven’s Arena, and then the months on Greed Island have only made Gon and Killua more fond of each other, to the point that where Gon was willing to let someone go with terrible mental scars, now he has to beat this one dude because he nearly killed someone precious to him, and that person only survived on chance. 

And Killua knows this. He absolutely knows this. He hides his hands and keeps them out of sight, makes sure Gon isn’t thinking about how bruised up his fingers are and puts them in his pockets to make sure he doesn’t see them. And when Gon even has the idea that Killua shouldn’t be the one holding the ball, when Gon for once looks like he’s about to give way to reason and logic rather than determination and stubbornness, Killua goes right in front of him, where he can’t avoid him, and says that he can do this. That he can take it one more time.

Gon knew that Killua’s hands were messed up, but the thing is, Gon wants to avenge Killua, that no longer matters when Killua goes to Gon and tells him to trust in him and believe him when he says that he can hold onto the ball just one more time to win. Gon trusts Killua, with his life and basically everything else (save for more emotional matters, but that doesn’t come into play nearly as much until the CA arc, getting off topic here, excuse me) so hearing Killua give him the go ahead is all he needs to be as reckless as he needs to be. Why? Because Killua is his precious person, who was nearly killed, in trying to avenge him, he’s hurting him worse and worse with every single attempt to make ‘right’ what’s wrong, and Killua isn’t telling him that he should stop, in fact he’s urging Gon on to believe and trust in him, and Gon makes it clear to Killua, the only reason he can do this is because it’s him. He make sure that Killua knows he’s important to him and that he’s going to trust and believe in him, because he’s important to him and he’s not going to second guess him, not when he believes in him so passionately. 

Both characters could’ve avoided these injuries and issues, but they’re both 13ish at this point, Gon is concussed and Killua wants to go along with what Gon wants because Gon is consistently trying to tell him (with words and actions) that Killua is important to him and that he’s apart of his life. 

That’s why he goes ahead with that final blow. And in wanting to avenge Killua, he puts him at more risk as he’s no longer able to defend himself, and Killua who wants the confirmation that he’s important to Gon and a large part of his life, is absolutely willing to go down that path with him because Gon is a special person to him as well.

tl;dr: Gon and Killua are both incredibly important to one another and it’s their own personal flaws that end up getting the other hurt or leading to misunderstandings, despite their best interests and affections that are close to their hearts. 

[redvelvetreel]

Red Velvet Reel 9.1: Blue Ain’t (Usually) My Color

             [Fic Directory]

Pairing: [Married] Spicyhoney (Underfell Papyrus x Underswap Papyrus)

Summary: Stretch feels terrible over that whole death-will debacle, and seeks solace from his brother and brother-in-law. He ends up with a little comfort and a lot of knowledge.

Characters: Stretch (Underswap Papyrus) & Red (Underfell Sans) & Blue (Underswap Sans)

Contains: Mpreg/Skelepreg! Monster pregnancy headcanons, including sympathetic pregnancy symptoms! Mood Swings! Coffee Shops! 

Rating: Teen and up! (I guess?)

Note:  If I were a painter, I wouldn’t change you- just paint you bright. ‘Cause Blue looks good on the sky Looks good on that neon buzzin’ on the wall But darlin’ It don’t match your eyes -- "Blue Ain’t Your Color" by Keith Urban

Stretch had literally been outside the other day, but something about today seemed magical. The air was cool but not biting, not quite time to break out the terrible winter sweaters... but soon. The leaves were gold and red, most of them still attached to the tree-but the ones on the ground still crunched delightfully under his shoes. Too bad he wasn’t in the right frame of mind to enjoy it. Forcing down another sigh, Stretch made his way to the coffee shop across the street. Mt. Ebbot Coffee Co. Store # 6. He had never been to this one before, but store #4 had Austin the Barista who changed his hair color every other week. Maybe this store also had someone who would be willing to pour sprinkles in his coffee, too. Stretch smiled to himself, feeling a little bit better. Actually, a lot better! Sprinkles and coffee were a delicious combination! He was going to have delicious sprinkles coffee with his brother and his brother-in-law, and they were- He jumped when he heard tapping on the window, looking over his shoulder to find... Red. Face pressed against the glass, tongue lolling out of his mouth like a toddler. Was it on the window? Gross. Edge would have thrown a fit- The guilt started up immediately, and he felt bad again. Like really, really bad. Stretch did his best to smile at the baristas, but it felt half-hearted as he made his way to the corner booth. Red was already back in his seat, back flush against the wall with an unobstructed view of the entire establishment. Blue was sitting across from him like a more normal monster. Ugh, that was mean- less paranoid monster. “What’cha mad at, Honey?”

“Me. Myself. I.” He slid into the space next to Blue, leaning most of his body weight on his brother. Blue just held him tight, probably a little worried. Great. “I’m just a huge fuckup and I don’t know how to stop being bad at everything.”

“That’s not true!” Blue gave him a squeeze, only letting go to slide a big Frappuccino in front of him. It was absolutely covered in sprinkles. “You’re good at many things! Why don’t you have a drink-“

“Ya ‘n Edge fightin’ or somethin’?” Red got even more abrasive when he was genuinely concerned, and the table shook with the force of his punch. “The hell ya do this time, huh?!”

“Shut UP, Red!” Blue kicked the other skeleton under the table, “Maybe Edge did something to him!”

“I...” Where did he even start to answering these question? “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, pressing his cheekbone against the top of his brother’s head, “We’ve argued and fought before, but this feels different.” 

He tightened his hold around his brother, staring at the wood, “Like, really bad, really off different. It’s weird- I don’t like it, it’s not like we’re fighting-fighting but it’s not like we’re on stellar terms either. It’s maybe neither of our faults and both of our faults, but I’m not sure. I don’t know how to fix it. All I know is that I don’t want Edge walking on eggshells around me...”

“If it was Papy’s fault, why would Edge be cautious around him?” Blue asked Red pointedly, but in a moment he was back to being coddling, gently rubbing Stretch’s back in concerned affection, “What happened? Is that why he’s not here today?”

“No, and it was kinda my fault too. I overreacted. I left him at home because he was still sleeping.” He shrugged half-heartedly, “He’s been... really sleepy lately. I’m kinda worried-”

Red snorted like he was holding back a laugh, “Pancake’s a greedy bastard, huh? Like their Daddy.”

“It’s-” Yeah, ok, Soulings did need a lot of magic. “Fine, it’s probably a pregnancy thing, but we’re going to the doctor on Thursday, just in case.” He held up a hand, “Anyway, that’s not the point- I left him a note on the dresser, and then I realized I forgot my reward card. But I guess by that time Edge though I left, ‘cause then I could hear him talking with someone on speaker. It was Comic. He was... asking him for advice about missing home...”

“Oh.” Blue patted his back consolingly, sympathizing politely even if it was clear he didn’t quite understand the issue. “I’m sorry, Papy. Sometimes it’s good for monsters to vent to a neutral third party, though. It’s better than bottling it up, right? Maybe Edge didn’t want to talk to you about it because he didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

“Yeah...” Blue made some good points and it sounded reasonable enough. Edge was probably being conscientious, but... “But he’s supposed to talk to me about these things, isn’t he? Am I a bad husband, if he doesn’t feel like he can talk with me freely or directly? Can he not trust me?” Stretch lowered his voice, soul feeling unbearably heavy, “Does that mean he’s unhappy here? Unhappy with me? If he misses Underfell, doesn’t that mean he wants to go back? What if-“

“S’fine.” Red had little patience for tact or diplomacy, rough and painfully dismissive. “Wouldn’t a done speaker if he ain’t wantcha to hear. S’reassurin’ ya he’s dealin’ with that saudade bullshit. S’always been heart over brains for ‘im. He’ll get over it.“

“But-“ Stretch frowned, feeling less reassured, “That’s not-“

“Don’t’cha worry, Honey bunch. I’ll straightin’ yer hubby out.” Red cracked his knuckles in an obvious show of bravado, smile sharp and confident, “S’gotten too touchy-feely, but ain’t nothin’ a nice lil’ chat can’t fix.“

“I don’t want that!” Stretch wasn’t sure how he felt about Red’s flippancy- relieved his worst fears were being disproved, or annoyed Edge’s feelings were being dismissed? “I don’t want Edge to be secretly miserable! I want him to be happy! Not just pretend to be happy for my sake-“

The corners of his eye sockets burned unpleasantly, and he rubbed at them irritably, “I never meant to force him to come here- I would have been just as happy to stay with him in Underfell! But he-“ His voice hitched miserably, shoulders shaking as his brother held him. “I don’t want him to hate me! I didn’t mean to ruin his life!”

“The hell’s wrong with ya?!” Red was wide-eyed, hands hovering nervously like he wanted to slap or shake Stretch. “The fuck ya talkin’ about?! Why the fuck ya bawlin’?!” 

“Papy.” Stretch couldn’t even shrug before Blue was pulling him closer, tucking his face against his chest like he was in stripes again. It should have been embarrassing, but it was actually incredibly soothing. “Edge doesn’t hate you, and he doesn’t think you ruined his life. It just seems like it because the parentMOOD is amplifying your anxiety.”

Stretch felt disoriented and confused, blinking at his brother blearily, “Huh?”

“I’m not saying your feelings aren’t real or anything- I just want you to know that it’s Pancake making everything seem more intense and extreme.” Blue’s tone was calm and patient, and although he let Stretch pull away, he kept a supportive hand on his back.

“This?” Stretch patted at his cheeks, surprised to find them just a little damp. He had forgotten to be upset, too focused on Blue’s comfort and being confused. “This is my parentMOOD starting? I’m not just being unnaturally overdramatic?”

“You’re being naturally sensitive!” All expecting parents go through this, so there’s no reason to be ashamed.

“The fuck ya about, huh?!” Red looked agitated and unsure, “Brat ain’t even here-  they ain’t even born!”  He clutched the table hard enough his claws dug into the plastic guard, nervous in a way Stretch wasn’t used to seeing, “Ya been cursed or somethin’?! Is Edge?!”

“No! No, we’re fine- I’m just, uh, it’s a sympathetic pregnancy symptom,” Stretch cleared his throat, looking away from that strangely vulnerable expression. He had to force down the sudden urge to comfort Red, since he was sure his brother-in-law would probably bite him if he tried. Biology was so weird. “Monster babies are made from pieces of both their parents souls, right?”

Red finally nodded, hesitantly, 

“Since monsters are their souls, and Pancake’s claimed a piece of mine, then it makes sense I get zapped by some side effects, too.” He tried very very hard to keep his tone even, to not give into the urge to start babying his brother-in-law, “Can’t have one parent shouldering the whole thing, right?”

“Fine, fine, no curse-“ Red moved his hand impatiently, still restless and annoyed, “So? What’s a fuckin’ parentMOOD?”

“It’s what monsters call these extreme mood swings.” Blue sighed, leaning on the table, “Basically, the non-pregnant partner becomes super emotional and reacts disproportionately to every little thing. Like, they’ll cry if they’re sad over a movie, or smother you if they’re worried about you. It’s not always as pronounced as Pa- uh, Stretch’s case, something about physiology.”

Stretch knew Blue was talking generally, but that criticism still stung. Was he being overly emotional? Blue just told him it was fine! Besides, it didn’t feel like he was disproportionately reacting to anything- and he certainly wasn’t smothering.

“It’s biological,” Stretch muttered sulkily, crossing his arms over his chest as he sank down, “Sympathetic and empathetic partners mean better care for the pregnant parent! Better care for the pregnant parent means a healthier, happier Souling- so I am being a good Dad!”

“Of course you are, Papy! You’re going to be a great Papa!” Blue patted his brother’s arm indulgently, giving Red a meaningful look from across the table, “You should finish your coffee before it gets too cool.”

“Oh! Right!” Stretch took a cautious sip, but it was lukewarm at best. Ah well. Still delicious! 

“So...” Red rubbed at his face aggressively, speaking slowly, “Back up. Yer mood swings’ makin’ ya scared Edge’s gonna leave ya fer Underfell? Ok. So… why ya tellin’ us? Whatcha want us to do ‘bout it, Honey?”

“Obviously a little R&R- Reassurance and Relief!” Blue looked proud, although Stretch hadn’t actually thought about it that way, “You want me to comfort you, and Red to tell you what Edge is probably planning and thinking, right?”

“Ye-“ Stretch started to say, before stopping himself and frowning, “No? I don’t know? But that sounds really nice.” He turned his most pathetic, helpless pleading expression to his brother-in-law, “Pretty, pretty please?”

“Look.” Red grit through his teeth, holding his hands out on the table stiffly. Stretch recognized that gesture as Underfellese for ‘all cards on the table with nothing up my sleeve.’

“I ain’t know everythin’ in Edge’s empty-ass skull, ‘n he’s real fuckin’ shunsho sometimes,” Red sighed irritably, glaring at Stretch like he was personally responsible for that, “But he fuckin’ sucks at keepin’ his feelin’s quiet. He’ll do shit he ain’t wanna do if he gotta, but he bitches ‘n moans ‘n acts up the whole. Goddamn. Time.”

Stretch smiled at that, rubbing his wedding band fondly. He wouldn’t have put it in those terms, but yeah. Red was right.

“Ya think Edge’d be here if he didn’t want to? Ya think I’d be here if he wasn’t serious ‘bout him wanna being here?” Red wrenched his hands back to grab Stretch by the front of his hoodie, giving him a shake so hard something rattled loudly. Guilt didn’t have a chance to settle before he was being shaken like a maraca again. “Ain’t no goin’ back to Underfell, anyway! Fuckin’ told ya: Edge’s yer problem now, ‘n ain’t no takebacks!“

“But is he happy?” Stretch could read between the lines, but implication was different from confirmation.  “How do you know-“

“Ya real so goddamn shunsho!” Red started cursing unintelligibly, “Why ya askin’ that, huh?” Stretch didn’t have time to answer before Red gave him another hard shake. “‘Course he’s happy! Dumbass!”

Red shoved him backwards, and it was only Blue’s quick reaction time that kept his skull from smacking into the wood. 

“Even in Underfell y’ain’t gonna get no Soulin’ without love in yer heart fer yer partner!” There was an unusually friendly quality to that sharp smile. A lot like a shark might look at a fish it was about to eat. “If yer hubby’s outta sorts, s’cause yer freakin’ him out.” 

[ Part 1 - Here! ] [ Part 2 ]  [ Part 3 ]

[unlucky-watcher]

Run Away, Turn Away, Run Away, Turn Away

‘Pushed around and kicked around, always a lonely boy You were the one that they'd talk about around town as they put you down‘ - Smalltown Boy - Bronski Beat, 1984

(for @billyandsteve and @billysprettyboy)

The beating was bad, it left Steve pretty badly bruised. He'd refer it to the "bad time", but Billy apologized for it. This beating was done with malicious intent. 

"Queer" 

"Faggot" 

 He tried to touch the bruise on his face, but winced. It was so fresh, only minuted prior he was able to wipe away the blood from his nose and mouth. He was still in the holding cell, the one Hop put him in after it took him and three other officers to pull the other young men away from Steve.

 "Kid." He heard from the cell door, he looked up to find Hop with the keys in hand, "Let's get you home."

 The car ride was silent. The tension could've been cut with a knife, it was thick and hung there. It was only a few weeks ago that the whole town of Hawkins learned that Steve Harrington was a queer and with Billy Hargrove nonetheless. No one fucked with Billy, they didn't believe that he was, he didn't look like one, unlike Steve. Plus, Billy could hold his own in the fight while Steve was getting there.

 "Of all the guys, you had to pick the one who beat you up." Hop was the first to speak, his eyes remained on the road in front of him.

 "He isn't like that... He's never laid a hand on me."

 "There's not a whole lot I can do." He admitted, "I'm sorry about that." 

 Steve shrugged his shoulders, pulling his jacket close to his bruised body, "I don't expect you too, you might get sick too." 

 Hop sighed, "You're not sick. No part of you is sick, you've got more strength in you than all of those assholes." He pulled into the drive way of the Harrington home, "I'm just glad you weren't killed. You could've, you got pretty lucky."

Steve got out of the car and slammed the door, "Well, there's always next time." He trudged to the front door and unlocked it. His parents were gone, they were often gone. Ever since the town found out, it felt like they were gone more and more, as if they were avoiding him. 

He managed to keep it together long enough to kick off his shoes that were now caked in his own  blood thanks to a large gash on his leg, and make it upstairs. He shut the door quietly behind him and pulled his jacket off. He could see himself in the reflection of the window. It was faint and slightly distorted, but there was nothing faint about the bruise that marked a large portion of his face.

He sat down on the edge of his bed, he was only able to cover the unbruised side of his face with one hand as he began to sob into it. He felt pain all over his body as he wept. He couldn't hold it in anymore, it hurt so badly.

 He couldn't go to school, he had to drop out of the team due to the threats, he couldn't even go and grab groceries without be terrorized. 

Everyone knew, everyone in that town knew the secret Steve bit back for years. That he was gay, he wanted to be with men or rather one man in particular. Billy.  

He curled into himself an gingerly laid onto the bed, letting the unbruised side of his face rest against the pillows. He kept his arm wrapped around his middle, still sticky with blood and sweat from when he tried to outrun them. "Why." He mumbled to himself. 

There was nothing that could be done, no one could protect him. He was left paranoid about when the next time was going to happen, there was always a next time for people like him. It could be tomorrow, it could be next month. It created a choked feeling in his throat as another sob ripped through him.

"Why me. Why, why, why!" He shouted into the empty room. His eyes squeezed shut as another sob ripped from his mouth, hot tears streaked down his face now flushed red from the sobbing. 

 "You sick or something, Harrington?"

 "people like you are disgusting."

 "Aw fuck, and you saw us in the change room too, were you jerking off while we changed. Fucking pervert" 

 The people who left him bloodied and bruised were the same people who he used to laugh with, party with and play basketball with. The one who punched him in the gut first, Steve remembered sharing his water bottle with. The one who stomped on his leg first was the one Steve drove home a handful of times. The one who spat slurs at him was the first boy he ever kissed.

 "I should be lucky." He thought to himself as he slowly rolled onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling. 

 "I bet you have that gay cancer from all the loads in your ass!" 

 "You disgusting faggot, scum of the fucking earth. Fucking die already." 

 "Am I lucky?" He second guessed himself. He worried when the cancer was going to get him, the one spreading throughout the country. The one who was killing people like him.

He wondered if he was sick too, just from admitted he was like this. He remembered the first time him and Billy made love, on this exact bed, he whispered about being clean. Steve didn't pay much mind to it, it was a time he thought he was straight, immune to the cancer. Immune to whatever was probably going to kill him if the entire town didn't do it first. 

 By the time the sun had began to set, casting a orange light across the bedroom Steve had run out of tears to shed. His head ached along with the rest of his body.  

The doctor they brought in to patch up Steve told him to take Naproxen when he got home. By his estimate that about four hours ago, four hours spent crying and swearing to himself. He forced himself to sit up. He heard the phone ring, but ignored it and sat in bed until it stopped ringing. 

The shrill sound the echoed through the empty house from the kitchen made his head hurt even more. He as deep of a breath as he could due to his bruised side before he slowly got out of bed, softly swearing to himself. He looked to the window once more, noticing that he could no longer see his reflection. 

He made his way out of his bedroom and slowly down the stairs, he tried to softly wipe away the tears on his cheeks, but kept hissing in pain from the bruises.

He grabbed the medicine from the cabinet from the kitchen. He looked at the sleeping pills that were behind it, his gazed lingered on them for a moment as he picked at the label on the bottle in his hand. The label read, "Moira Harrington, take 1 tablet at bed time, Benzodiazepine".

He sighed, remembering the side effects, it was possible, but didn't result in death or coma. He slammed the cabinet door shut and opened the bottle of the pain relievers. He popped two in his mouth and downed it with milk straight from the carton.

He sat down at the dining table, wrapping his arms around himself. He couldn't numb the emotional pain, no amount of drugs or overdosage could fix it. 

The town hated him, his school hated him, his friends hated him, hell the whole country hated him. 

 It was only a few nights ago that he was making dinner with Billy when he heard the new bulletin. 7,699 AIDS cases and 3,665 AIDS deaths, that's what they were calling it now, AIDS. They said it wasn't a cancer, but news like that doesn't spread as quickly in a town like Hawkins. Almost 4,000 dead. That was more than the population of the school, probably even the population of the town, all dead. And not dead from what Steve went through, but from this disease.

He carefully touched his bruised face, he wondered how many died from beatings.

The phone rang again and Steve ignored it, favouring instead to try and reheat some food. He had been left hungry after a hard kick to the stomach made him throw up his breakfast and light lunch. He could still taste the remains of bile in his mouth, but it was nothing compared to the bruises that seemed to have begun to make their way into his bones. 

 The phone rang a third time while he was reheating some pasta he made a few days ago, the pasta he made with Billy. It went around in the microwave while Steve bit back the urge to tell the telephone to just shut up already. He pulled one of the chairs from the dining room and sat it in front of the microwave and waited until it finished cooking. He sighed sadly, nestling the unbruised side of his face into his arms that rested on top of the chair. 

 When he pulled the hot bowl out of the microwave the phone rang a fourth time which prompted him to yell, "Shut up!" as he passed by it, dragging the chair behind him. He sat at the table and gazed down at the bowl. Everything felt so quiet, no television on, no music playing, not even cars on the road outside. It was silent.He stuck his fork into the pasta and began to eat, still in complete silence.

"Why?" he asked himself again, he found it hard to chew due to the hard blows to his jaw. The doctor said he was lucky it didn't break. He didn't feel so lucky, he felt rather unlucky like he'd been handed a bad hand of cards that was going to result in him being killed. 

 He got through two painful mouthfuls before there was a banging on the door, rapid almost desperate bangs against the wood. He slowly got up, wincing a bit. He walked to the door, the banging persisting. He opened the door wide and asked, "What do you want?" until he looked up to see who it was.

"Oh my god." He heard, seeing Billy in front of him. 

 Billy looked for lack of anything else, distraught. His hair was a mess, he looked like he'd been crying and his knuckles were red and cracked, "What did they do to you?" 

  "Billy."

 The blonde stepped inside and looked at Steve once more, "What did they do to you?" 

 Steve felt sheepish in that moment, he wrapped his arms around himself, "They beat me up. Why are you here?" 

  "Hop called, said you got into a bit of a situation and drove you home. You weren't answering." He leaned over to close the door behind Steve before he looked at him again, "I got worried that something happened."

 "Why did you even come here, I'm just a fucking queer." Steve looked away from him. If he could cry anymore he would, but no tears would fall.

Billy wrapped his arms carefully around Steve and kissed the top of his head, "Well, you're a fucking queer. I'm a fucking queer."

"It's going to happen again and again until I'm dead." Steve mumbled against Billy's shirt. He embraced Billy as tightly as he could, he craved the warmth that Billy brought. His personal California sunshine as he called it. He craved it more than ever, he needed Billy, his love and devotion. The one thing he still had.  "No." Billy responded.  

"Yes!" Steve tilted his head up and shouted. The sound echoed through the empty house, "Yes it will. I'm not safe here, we're not safe. It's either going to be them or fucking AIDS."

 "It doesn't have to be like that." Billy shook his head slightly, "I'm here, you're here. They can't get us if we run." 

 Steve looked at him confused, "What? What the fuck are you talking about?" Billy petted the other boy's hair, pushing it back slightly, "We leave, go to California, San Francisco, Los Angeles, hell even Sacramento. We leave if only for a while, just you and me." 

 Steve asked, "Won't get get sick?" 

 Billy sighed, "Well unless you're thinking about sleeping with many other guys while we're there. The answer is no, I'm clean, you're clean. We're safe, just like we'll be safe away from here." He leaned in and kissed Steve ever so softly, "So I can do that without worrying if you're going to come back to me alive."

Steve let go of his shirt, he nodded his head. He paused for a moment before doing it again, "Can I get some of my things?" 

 Billy smiled, "Of course, I know you need your dumb hairspray." 

 Steve gave a weak laugh, "Shut up, it's good stuff. Work wonders on your hair." He leaned up and kissed Billy, being mindful of the bruises on his body. He kissed him a few more times before he simply looked at him. It was his personal sunshine, Billy Hargrove. 

The one who made him honest to himself, he'd give up Hawkins for Billy. He thought he was going to live and die in this small town, have a wife and kids, work a nine-to-five job and eventually die. But that wasn't the case because he loved Billy, the blonde Californian. 

 He guess he was in a way lucky, despite everything. Despite having nothing, despite being hated by what felt like everyone. He still had Billy. 

And with that, they ran.

[green-eyeddragonfanfiction]

Time: Chapter 1

Summary: Soulmate!AU/Reincarnation!AU. Female!Reader lives in a world where alien invasions and hordes of death robots occur and past lives and soulmates are very real. Like most people, she gets brief glimpses of her past. although a person’s past lives and their current life may have little to nothing in common, soul mates tend to transfer between lives, the core of a person staying the same throughout the eons. Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader, Steve Rogers x Female!Reader Warnings: Language, violence, death, guns Word Count: 2,301 A/N: I’m back, friends. I hope you enjoy! Things I never thought I’d be doing at 5 am: looking up gun models and how to shoot them. Also, Steve’s middle name is Grant.

Masterlist // Next Chapter

2012, New York City

You’d thought about moving many times. New York was nice, but way expensive. You owned a small coffee shop in The Village. The property had been in your family for generations. It was stable enough now, after five years of hard work, that you weren’t worried about it falling apart if you weren’t physically there to look after it. You’d looked at some places a little farther north, and even a couple places on the west coast near Seattle, Portland, and San Francisco. A change of scenery was something you needed after living in the Big City your whole life. Now, you’d wished you had.

Debris rained down around you as you ran away from Midtown Manhattan. To where, you weren’t entirely sure. Away from the murderous aliens on speeding hovercar contraptions was a good first step. It was the end of the world, you were sure. Unlike everyone else, who’d gawked dumbly at the sky when a giant beam of light shot up from Stark Tower and ripped a whole in reality, you had run. You’d seen enough horror and sci-fi films to know when shit was about to hit the fan. Some people might have once you thought silly for putting stock into the fantasy world of comic books and movies, but you argued that you practically did live in one with men like Tony Stark and Captain America around. Hell, the Captain even had trading cards.

You weren’t sure how much of a head start you got, but it didn’t feel like much of one. Within two minutes of the portal opening in the sky, the aliens had come pouring through the streets. People ducked behind cars and upturned patio tables in an attempt to survive the barrage of energy blasts coming from the aliens’ guns. Your lungs burned as you ran through the streets of Greenwich Village.

You ducked into your coffee shop, narrowly avoiding the blast of an alien’s gun. A few patrons were cowering under the tables, bags clutched in their hands in front of them like shields.

“May! Get everyone into the back,” you yelled, locking the door behind you. You were thankful you’d sprung for nice, stylish, sturdy metal doors. As much as you missed the beautiful old oak ones, these would hold much better against energy blasts... or so you’d hoped. May and Dean’s heads popped up from behind the marble counter, eyes wide with fear.

“Boss, what’s happen-” May began.

“Now, May! Dean, you start closing the shutters. It’ll be harder for them to get in if there’re metal bars in the way,” you barked. They didn’t move. “Now!” you growled. “Unless you don’t like living anymore!”

That seemed to return the feeling to their legs. May hopped up, urging the customers to follow her into the back room, which led to a sturdy cellar that might hold out if they started dropping heavier artillery. Thank god for World War Two architecture. Dean reluctantly left his spot behind the counter but ran speedily towards the front of the shop and began closing the metal shutters on the two large front windows.

“Turn the tables on their sides once you’re done- they’ll give us some cover and turn into obstacles for those ugly bastards,” you direct him. You pushed past petrified customers and ran into the back room. You silently thanked your Papi for being way too paranoid and a little bit of a hick as you opened the large safe hidden behind some of your store’s merchandise. You punched in the last number and wrenched the door open, eyes scanning the guns inside.

Before he’d died, he’d shown you how to load and shoot all five of the guns. He’d kept a small army’s worth of ammunition inside the safe with them, and as much anxiety as that had caused you once upon a time, you were grateful for it now. You loaded the Glock 26 Gen 3 and placed it on top of the safe as you loaded one of the shotguns- a Remington 870. A hand on your shoulder startled you and you swiveled, ready to fight for your life.

May flinched, arms coming up to defend herself. You breathed out a sigh of relief.

“Sorry, Boss,” she said, eyes wide, dark curly hair messier than usual, obscuring her pretty face.

“It’s alright, May. You know how to shoot a gun?” you asked, picking up the Glock.

“No, ma’am,” she asked, paling.

“Alright, it’s pretty simple. Hold it with both hands, keep your arms straight, aim, pull the trigger,” you said, handing her the gun carefully. “That Glock has no safety. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” you said, giving her a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she stared at you, horrified.

“Dean, get in here!” you yelled through the doorway. He appeared a moment later, cheeks flushed from the exertion of turning the cafe on its head.

“Do you know how to shoot a gun?” you asked him, picking up the Remington.

“My dad took me shooting once when I was ten,” he asked, looking from you to the shotgun in confusion.

“Alright, do you remember what you used?”

“A handgun, I think?” he said, doubtful.

You sighed. “Alright. This isn’t anything like a handgun except in that it also succeeds at killing things with metal and gunpowder. You see this?“ You asked, pointing to the lower tube. He nodded. “This is the magazine. I have four shots loaded,” A terrifying, loud explosion rattled the floor beneath you. May and Dean’s eyes widened in fear, heads swiveling for the source of the noise. “Focus!” you barked. Their gazes snapped back to you. “Four shots loaded. There are eight more on the butt of the gun here,” you said, pointing to the shells strapped to the side. “Keep count of your shots. When you run out or get a minute, you can reload here,” you explained, flipping the gun over to show where one could load it. You popped another shell into the magazine, demonstrating for him so he would hopefully remember. “Five shots, now. Here.” you said, handing it to him. He stared at you blankly, not taking the gun, face pale. You groaned, shoulders sagging. 

“I know, Dean. Shit’s fucked six ways to Sunday, but you need to focus. I’m terrified, too. But if you think those alien bastards are going to take me down without a fight, you’re mistaken,” you said, shoving the gun to his chest. “Fight. For. Your. Life,” you said forcefully, staring him down. He gulped and nodded, taking the gun from you. “Good man. Brace the gun to your right shoulder. Stare down it to aim. Pull the pump back to load a shell into the chamber. Push it back forward into place to finish loading it. Pull the trigger to fire. Rinse and repeat,” you said, turning back to the safe to finish loading the last of the guns. You loaded the Colt Python revolver for yourself, jamming it in the back of your pant’s waistband, internally cringing at the breach of gun safety. You loaded the other Glock, placing it on top of the safe. At last, all that was left was the Ruger 10/22  Semi-automatic. You threw its strap over your head and onto your shoulder, gun on your back, and handed May and Dean boxes of ammunition.

“I pray to whoever might be listening that they don’t make it through those doors, but if they do, we have to be as ready as possible,” You said, grabbing ammunition for your three guns. May and Dean nodded. You could see it on their faces; They were determined but afraid. You internally cursed at the travesty of gun safety as your jammed the Glock into the front of your waistband. Desperate times and all that. You peeked into the store. Whatever had caused the explosion hadn’t seemed to affect your store. You took up a defensive position behind the counter. “May, you’re going to be shooting whatever comes through the windows or door, with me. If it gets closer, let Dean take care of it. The shotgun is better at close range- tiny death pellets’ll rain hell down upon ‘em from that thing. You just focus on trying to make sure they don’t make it that far. Keep your head down as much as possible. Try not to pop up in the same spot- they’ll expect it. Got that?” you said, glancing at the two of them next to you, sitting beside each other. They nodded, unconsciously reaching for each other’s hands. Huh. You wondered when that had happened. “Don’t get dead, guys,” you said, standing to rest your arms on the counter to help steady your aim. “If we survive this we’re going out to a fancy restaurant for dinner- I’m buying,” you said winking down at them. They both gave you a brave smile. You turned your attention back to the door, trying to ignore the fear in the back of your mind. You wondered if you had been a soldier in one of your past lives- it might explain why you were able to stay calm even though every nerve in your body was screaming at you to run. But you had a shop full of customers downstairs. People with friends, family. Who had no hope of defending themselves. You refused to stand by and let yourself and others be killed.

The aliens that had been clambering over their dead companions suddenly dropped, lifeless. You stared at them in disbelief, waiting for them to move again. You hadn’t shot them. After a minute, when they didn’t so much as twitch, you rose up from behind the counter slowly. You raised your revolver and fired a round straight into the chest of the one closest to you that had been alive a moment ago.

Not so much as an eyelid flutter or gasp of breath. No hiss of pain.

Next to you, Dean was sobbing, clutching May’s lifeless body to his chest, gun forgotten at his side. His hand grasped hers, his lips placing tender kisses to her umber knuckles and forehead, begging her to wake up. His fingers tangled into her messy mop of curly black hair. Her dark, glassy eyes stared up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

You sunk down to the floor next to them, adrenaline leaving your body now that there wasn’t an immediate threat in front of you. “She’s gone, Dean,” you whispered, tears filling your eyes.

“No, no! She can’t be- She-” he broke off, sobbing as he rocked back and forth, clutching her to his chest. It was like he didn’t see that a sizeable chunk of her chest was missing, vaporized by a shot with one of the alien’s guns. “She was my soul mate,” he whispered in a choked voice.

“Oh hell, Dean... I had no idea. You never told me,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“We only just found out recently... asked to see each other’s soul brand... We both thought it might be each other, y’know?” He smiled faintly at the thought. It slid off his face as he returned the present. “Sure enough, our initials were on each other’s brand. When I saw D.A.H. there on her skin... I was the happiest man on earth. She saw her own initials and-” he sobbed and tears dripped down onto May’s face. “-I’ll never forget her smile. She-” he broke off, unable to stop the sobs as they wracked his body. You wrapped your arms around them both, ignoring the acrid scent of burning flesh coming from May’s body and rubbed circles into his back. There were no words of comfort you could give him. Losing one’s soulmate was nearly worse than dying. And he had watched it happen in front of him. He’d been unable to protect he and she’d died helping defend him. The only comfort they had was that they might meet again in their next lives. But that wouldn’t be very comforting to him. They were both young, fresh out of high school, working at your cafe to save money for college. He would have to go through the rest of his life without her.

You held him as he cried out everything he had, clutching his dead soul mate to his chest. Something in the corner caught your eye. The TV had turned back on, broadcasts returning to inform everyone of the situation. Apparently a group called The Avengers had closed the portal and stopped a nuke from destroying the city. Allegedly, as soon as the portal closed, all of the aliens had dropped dead. If you hadn’t seen it happen with your own two eyes, you wouldn’t have believed a word of it. Whatever The Avengers did stopped them, though. You felt your breathing stop as a choppy, grainy video of a man and woman fighting in the streets of New York came on. She wore a suit made entirely of black leather and was expertly killing aliens with one of their own weapons.

The man was who truly caught your attention, though. Even though the outfit had changed a bit, you recognized him immediately. You’d heard rumors he was back, found preserved like some sort of human popsicle in a huge iceberg near Greenland or something. You hadn’t dared to believe. But there he was, fighting aliens on New York streets. Your heart ached, one of your past lives recognizing him as the love of its life. You sighed, melancholy. You glanced down at your wrist. In your mind’s eye, you could see the initials S.G.R written there beneath the scrap of fabric you kept it hidden with.

Chapter 2

This series is finished, but if you want to be tagged in my other fics, check out  this post! Sorry, but responses to this post asking to be tagged will be ignored, so send me an ask or like one of the taglist posts!

☕ Buy Me a Coffee! ☕

[artificialqueens]

if i could have you pt.2 (Biadore) - dylann

A/N: thank you all SO much for all the love you gave to pt. 1!!! it’s fucking unbelievable.

this is just a whole bunch of fluff to wrap it all up. I have out-fluffed myself. 

content warnings for this chapter: throwing up, lots of swearing, references to sex but nothing too explicit

Danny has uneasy dreams about screaming and feels the nausea coming on before he’s even fully awake.

The night before comes back to him in nightmarish flashes: 

a pretty boy with orange eyes, a demon behind the wheel of an Uber, yelling at Bianca. 

His head pounds. 

“Fuck,” he groans, and tries to roll over, but theres a heavy arm resting over his ribs. He doesn’t remember fucking anyone but it’s not entirely impossible, and he needs to move, now. 

Danny presses his eyes shut even tighter, and more flashes flood his mind: 

Bianca yelling back, Roy’s hands on his wrists, Danny’s own bloodshot eyes judging him in the bathroom mirror.

He feels sick and the reasonable part of his brain is urging him to get up and get himself to the shower.

Somewhere in the room, a phone rings with a text alert - it’s crisp and high-pitched and feels like a punch to the temple.

“Fuck,” Danny repeats, and forces his eyes open. 

Roy is inches away, blurry, sleeping, and stunning. 

Sobbing in Roy’s arms, the tightness in his chest as he spoke at Roy, crawling into Roy’s bed.

“Fuck.” 

Danny’s ears ring when he darts up and his vision goes almost all black as he stumbles to the bathroom. 

His knees hit the floor with enough force to jolt him fully awake right as he coughs and vomits violently into the toilet. Right now, even having made it there is a victory. 

Danny whimpers and reaches blindly to flush before resting his head against the side of the bowl. The porcelain is cold and comforting and he feels pathetic enough to want to curl up and maybe rest there for a while. 

He doesn’t trust his legs enough to move right now, anyway.

“Do you need anything? Water?” 

Danny forces one eye open just enough to see Roy standing in the doorway. He doesn’t attempt a joke or make fun of where Danny’s at, which for some reason makes Danny’s stomach contract again. 

“Just—“ he starts, slowly. His throat feels raw. He does need water, and he’s embarrassed to ask. ”Uh. How much did I fuck up last night?”

Roy stares down at him and his shoulders drop. He mouths something that looks terribly like Oh— okay to himself and then takes a cautious step into the bathroom. 

“How much do you remember?”

Danny takes his time before answering. He takes a few breaths in through his nose, makes sure he’s not about to throw up again, and shifts carefully to sit with his back against the toilet bowl. The tile is cold against his thighs and he’s suddenly all too aware that he’s almost entirely naked. 

It’s nothing Roy hasn’t seen before but it makes him look even more like an anti-alcohol PSA and he feels so ridiculous he’d probably laugh at himself if he wasn’t preoccupied by a thick cloud of anxiety rising up from his lungs and threatening to choke him. 

“I— fuck. I remember us fighting. And I’m sorry. I uh… I didn’t overstep any boundaries, did I?”

“That’s debatable.”

Roy breathes out his reply in an almost-laugh and Danny is panicking. Why is Roy laughing at him?

(his mind flashes to the orange-eyed boy from his dream. He’d been laughing. Why is everyone laughing at him?) 

“Fuck, I’m sorry, I—“

“You’re good. You’re good,” Roy approaches him quickly to crouch beside him and look him in the eye. Danny holds his breath. “You didn’t do anything bad. Just kinda— said what I’ve been thinking for a while.”

He cracks the smallest, gentlest smile and the flash comes, 

Roy’s lips on his, vodka and cigarettes and cucumber, his mascara on Roy’s face, Roy’s lips, Roy’s lips, Roy’s lips.

“Fuck. Oh,” Danny whispers, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. It’s greasy and gross and his stomach does another dangerous flip. He’d been dreaming about this for literal years and when it’d finally happened, it’d been like this, and he’d been fucked up enough to forget it.

It feels horrible.

“Shit. It came back to me,” he adds, dropping his hand from his hair to the bridge of his nose. Every single part of his body hurts.

“Yeah?” “Yeah—shit. I…wish I could’ve done that differently?”

Roy is completely quiet for a moment, and then he laughs. An actual, genuine laugh which lights up his eyes and brings out the dimples and Danny feels just a little bit less dead.

“I mean, it was very Adore. Wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Anyone else saying that would probably deliver it as an insult. Roy, somehow, makes it sound like very Adore is the most incredible thing a human being can be.

Danny can’t comprehend it at all but it makes his heart swell. 

“We should really talk,” he says quietly. “I wanna— make sure I say it right.”

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s wanted anything as badly as he wants to have this conversation when his head is clear and he can get the words out. 

“Just uh—“ he wants to say let me shower and look less gross but Roy’s ten steps ahead of him. Of course. 

“How ‘bout you sort yourself out and I’ll call up room service and get breakfast? You gonna be okay here?” 

Danny can only nod. 

Roy is still smiling his saint-like smile when he places a kiss in Danny’s messy, disgusting hair and then gets up to leave the room. 

**

Danny stands in the shower for what feels like an hour. He scrubs his skin clean and washes his face twice, until the water runs clear without a hint of last night’s foundation. 

His mind is full of the things he needs to say, and there’s so much. The last thing he wants is to deliver some saccharine last-15-minutes-of-a-romcom speech, but there’s a lot that needs to be said. 

So he formulates and re-formulates it under his breath as he walks back into the room and throws on the first pair of cut-off jeans and a tank top he finds in his suitcase.

Roy is sitting at the foot of his bed with a large cup of coffee, and he’s quiet and patient and Danny can feel him watching his every move anyways.

“Ready to talk?” Roy asks finally, and then adds a lighter, “There’s French toast.”

Danny has a speech prepared. 

Roy is looking at him expectantly, and his eyes are so wide and soft, and Danny opens his mouth to give the speech and, 

“I’m in love with you.” 

“Oh.”

“I, uh— I had this whole thing I was gonna say. But that’s it. I’m in love with you. Have been. For a while.”

Danny’s shaking a little. His hair is dripping onto his shoulders and it’s uncomfortable.

Roy’s quiet for a second and it’s the hardest silence Danny’s ever had to endure. His head is spinning so incredibly fast and he lowers himself onto his own bed because balance is too much to ask for. 

“Damn,” Roy says finally. He’s smiling. 

Danny’s world slows down. 

“Well thank God. I was beginning to think I’d never get to hear that.” 

Danny laughs. It’s sob-like and shaky but he feels lighter now. 

“So does that mean—“ he starts, and his face feels like it’s burning. 

“Jesus Christ. Yeah. Yes. I love you.” 

Roy licks his lips like he wants to taste the words and make sure they’ve been said. Danny wants to taste them there, too. 

There’s a recklessness that comes with the realization that with all of their cards on the table, nothing is stopping him now.

“Put that coffee down,” he says quietly, and uses the time it takes Roy to do that to slide off his mattress, and cross the small distance between the two beds.

Roy leaves his mug on the floor and looks back up at Danny, and Danny places his hands at the sides of Roy’s face and pulls him up into a kiss he’s been fantasizing about for years. 

Roy brings a hand up to Danny’s damp hair and tugs just a little, his other hand finding its way to the small of Danny’s back. It guides Danny down and he ends up with his knees on both sides of Roy’s body, and it’s not even ten in the damn morning, and Danny’s definitely grinding down as he kisses him again and again and again, and his ears are ringing. 

Then Roy pulls back.

His hand traces the side of Danny’s face, and he rubs his thumb along his bottom lip. Danny only half-fights the impulse to bite down.

“We should fuck,” Roy muses, quietly. “Like, now.”

Danny throws his head back and laughs as he nods, and Roy takes that as an opportunity to kiss down his neck. 

**

Katya’s the first to notice.

Adore’s a redhead tonight and she’s basically in lingerie and fishnets with some cut up flannel thrown on top to make it a real look. Her lips match her hair, and there’s a fresh bruise right above her collarbone.

She’s made a half-assed attempt at putting some concealer on it but it’s obvious she didn’t really try or want to hide it.

“Holy fuck, girl, what happened to you?” Katya grins, and she makes a show of leaning forward as if they’re about to gossip in the wings while there’s a show going on on stage.

“I’ve been having a fucking day,” Adore announces triumphantly. 

On stage, Bianca says something that makes the club crowd scream, and Adore joins them and hollers obnoxiously from her spot. 

Bianca glances back at the wings for a split second, and throws her a wink. 

Katya stares.

“No fucking way,” she says, dropping her voice to a dramatic stage whisper. 

Adore bites down on the straw of her cocktail as she tries, and fails, to hold back her grin.

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she mumbles around the straw,

and she looks back at the stage and Bianca,

and she grins, and grins, and grins.

A/N: now that that’s done, pleeease feel free to hit me up with prompts/ideas/all that cool shit, i’m more than happy to (try to) deliver!!

[lethesomething]

A guy walks into a bar... (Haikyuu Space Pirate AU)

Hiya, since you guys seemed rather excited about this in the poll, here is the first of a series of 'Tales from the Outer Rim' short stories set in a Haikyuu Space Pirates Au (if you want more world/au background, you can find the write-up here but it's not necessary, I think, to follow this story).

Small warning: drug talk and swearing

The bar was a squat, windowless building on one of the more infamous moons of Tortuga 7. It violated at least sixteen building codes, and that was just the outside. Iwaizumi had no doubt that once he made it in, he'd find gambling, drugs and more wanted space pirates than he had room for in the hold. But he wasn't here for work. Tonight, he wanted to settle something that didn't involve official business. He was, for want of a better word, going incognito. He pushed open the heavy door and stepped into a thick cloud of heat and smoke that threatened to overwhelm him. A sharp flash of fluorescent illuminated the counter in the back of the room, dropping sharp shadows over everything else. The only other source of light in this godforsaken bar were a few jars of phosphor floating over some of the tables. A jangly sort of music floated through the air, disorienting him as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The sheer amount of smells in the place was baffling. He'd have to be careful about this, he knew. Tracking his target had taken months and he wouldn't get this chance again anytime soon. Navigating a place like this meant precise movements and a clear head. "Ooh," Hanamaki sniffed behind him. "Orthesian Cat Nip! That's the good stuff." "Oh for fuck's sake," Iwaizumi sighed.

He'd left the captain on the ship, of course. That would just be asking for trouble. But he wasn't stupid enough to go to a place like this by himself. Sadly, his choice of back-up had been limited, considering the circumstances. Matsukawa had seemed like a good idea, since he was subtle enough to blend in anywhere, whereas Makki and Kyoutani were legitimate ex-cons. He'd hoped they wouldn't look out of place here, but he may have underestimated what little shits all of his coworkers were. They already looked like they were blending in a little too much. To his right, Kyoutani was glaring at the assembled crowd, ostensibly looking for a fight. Makki, meanwhile, was surveying the room with the eye of a connoisseur and the smug smile of someone who knew his superior owed him one. Groaning, Iwaizumi eyed his lieutenant, hoping for some support. But Matsukawa was grinning widely. "Me and Makki are going to have a chat with that herb seller over there," he said, raising an eyebrow. "I can smell at least three different types of illegal substance and I want to try all of them. We'll keep an eye on you from afar, ok? Don't get into trouble now." With that, he winked. He fucking winked and Iwaizumi was a second away from punching him for insubordination, before he remembered he was supposed to be undercover. "This was your idea… colonel," Makki added, with a grin so wide it could split his fucking face in half. "Yeah, yeah, fuck off you two."

Iwaizumi squinted into the dim room while his companions sidled away. He was sure his intel had been correct. The target had to be here somewhere. With a short nod of his head, he motioned Kyoutani to follow him to the bar. “Two beers,” he grunted at the barkeep. “Import or native?” the woman asked, not looking up from where she was washing glasses. She was tortugan: tall, wide and strategically scaley. She could probably kick the ass of anyone in this room, too, by the looks of her armoured tail. “Import,” Iwaizumi said “Whatcha got?”. Tortugan native beer was only 'beer' because they changed the definition of the word for marketing purposes. The tortugans didn't so much brew, as drink rocks. Literally. They dissolved minerals into water to get high. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like dirt. “Just Stellar,” the barkeep said. Iwaizumi made a face. 'The galaxy's most popular beer' was overpriced and tasted like piss, but at least it had some kind of plant in it. “That's fine,” he said, dropping the credits on the bar. When he turned around to hand Kyoutani his drink, he found the boy staring at a dark corner near the back door. He'd found them. Iwaizumi nudged the man at his side. "Stay close," he said. Kyoutani growled softly in response.

His target was sitting at a table in one of the further corners of the room, playing cards. Judging by the stack of credits by his arm, and the look on the faces of his opponents, he was winning. "Captain Kuroo, I presume?" Iwaizumi said when he'd made it to the table, taking off the hood of his cloak. The guy tilted his head and the single eye that was visible behind a mop of black hair widened for just a fraction of a second. He took one look at Iwaizumi's face, the scar running across his eye, the slight hint of a holster under his cloak and the soft growl of Kyoutani at his side, and gave him a lopsided smile. "Colonel! Care to join us in a game of space poker? Or are you here for something else?" The salutation was enough to put several of the surrounding crowd on edge. A short man next to Kuroo raised his eyebrows, hand inching into his coat. Iwaizumi held up both hands. "I'm off duty," he said. "Stand down, Kyoutani," he added, when his companion bared his teeth. This was the cue for Kuroo's opponents to take what little money they had left and quickly vacate the table.

Iwaizumi sat down heavily in their place. "You just lost me a thousand credits," Kuroo said, amused grin on his face. The short man next to him rolled his eyes. Iwaizumi recognized him from the reports as a man named Yaku, and he was said to always carry a massive shotgun. How he'd be able to smuggle something like that into a bar like this, Iwaizumi didn't know, but he'd rather not find out if it was true. The only other person left at the table was a tall white-haired alien who hung in his chair, giving a decent impression of a dish towel. "Something wrong with your friend?" Iwaizumi said, nodding at the lolling man. "Lev? Not really. He's been experimenting with drinks," Kuroo said casually. Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. "Turns out the turian gargleblaster was a bit much," Yaku added. There was a smirk on his face, but his eyes hadn't left his opponents for a second. Iwaizumi would bet anything that the dude also knew about Matsun and Makki. But he was off duty, so he kept telling himself. He was not here for a fight. At least not that kind of fight. "Take a seat, bud," he told his companion, and Kyoutani tensely sank into the chair next to him.

"Now then, to what do we owe the honour... Hajime," Kuroo smiled, voice smooth and sharp like acid oil. He lingered on the name, lapping at it as if he wanted the taste to last. "I'm here to settle something," Iwaizumi said, resisting his natural urge to scold in the face of so much impertinence. "I heard you've never lost an arm wrestling match." Realization dawned on the pirate's face. "I hear you've never lost one either," he grinned and there was a deep, burning glow in his eyes that lit up his entire face. Smiling, Iwaizumi leaned forward and placed his elbow on the table. "Let's find out who's the best, once and for all, shall we?" “Give us a count, Yaku,” Kuroo said, laying his palm in Iwaizumi's. Sighing, Yaku laid his hand on the knot above the table. “Ready?” he said. “Go!” And he let go. Immediately, the pressure on Iwaizumi's arm was enormous. “Well, well, and here I though you were just hot air and military pomp,” Kuroo said. “And here I thought I was gonna crunch that piece of rust you call an arm to pieces,” Iwaizumi grinned. Neither of them moved an inch while the atmosphere around them turned thick. Iwaizumi's face was red from the effort and heat was starting to build in his arm. He hadn't had an opponent like this in a while and the strain he put on his muscles fucking hurt. People were starting to take notice, too, patrons gathering around to see who would win. Somewhere in the crowd, a small alien was gathering bets. “Go on then! Beat that cheating cat bastard!” one of the bystanders shouted. “Takes balls to take on Kuroo. Try not to break your fucking arm!” another said. The pirate captain across the table grinned, but his face had lost a lot of its natural calm. He was getting red in the face and his breathing was irregular. But then, Iwaizumi was not feeling much better. He could feel the sweat dripping down his neck and he was sure a vein had popped in his forehead.

“Kuro.” A bored sounding voice spoke up to their right, startling Iwaizumi enough that he nearly lost his grip. A small drone was whirring next to the pirate captain's head. It flipped up a screen to show a young man with badly dyed hair. “Kuro we have trouble.” “What is it?” Yaku asked. “Imperial troops.” “Really, Iwaizumi?” Kuroo huffed. “You asked for back-up? Low blow, friend.” And he made a sudden move to throw Iwaizumi off. “I didn't ask for shit,” he grunted, pushing back. “I swear if this is some ruse to get out of a loss, I'll kick your ass.” “Shiratorizawa,” the boy on the screen clarified. “Why would they come here?” Yaku frowned. “Ha! That means your guys are also going down,” Kuroo said, before inhaling sharply. “How long till they get here?” Iwaizumi asked the drone. “Three seconds. Two.” With a sharp bang, the door to the bar shot open. “Now,” said the boy on the screen. “Oh, good job, very helpful,” Iwaizumi groaned.

“Alright, everybody freeze. I have a newtonian ice gun and I'm not afraid to use it!” a high pitched voice drawled from the door. There was a small giggle, before the man continued. “The honorable nation of Shiratorizawa has lost some precious, precious cargo and we'd like it back. As long as everyone sits tight and turn out there pockets, no one gets hurt.” He may as well have set off an explosive. In an instant, the whole place erupted in chaos. People started screaming, drinks flew across the room and the music stopped abruptly. The pressure dropped from Iwaizumi's arm. Next to him, Kyoutani shot up with a heavy growl. When he looked back across the table, Kuroo was gone. Blinking, he found him already halfway to the back door, one unconscious Lev over his shoulder. Yaku was by his side, aiming a massive shotgun at anyone who dared come close. “Looks like we'll have to reschedule,” the captain said, “have your people call my people and we'll have a rematch.” He saluted him with a wink and a grin before he disappeared into the dark. Iwaizumi swore under his breath. “We need to go,” he said, tugging Kyoutani's sleeve. The kid was by now a barely restrained ball of nervous anger and if this lasted much longer, he'd just jump straight into the brawl erupting all around him. They'd have to spring him from jail again, and Iwaizumi wasn't feeling up to it.

A flash bang went off somewhere, causing even more panic. A throng of people stormed the door. “Lovely place, this,” came the soft voice of Matsukawa near his ear. “What the fuck happened to 'we got your back' asshole?” Iwaizumi barked, whirling around to face him. His lieutenant just grinned. “We caused a diversion,” he said. “Mass panic is not a diversion, Matsukawa,” Iwazumi sighed but the guy just shrugged. “Either way, we may want to leave now,” he said. “Yeah,” Hanamaki added, popping out of the crowd, “I don't think we want to explain ourselves to the venerable commander Ushijima at this point.” Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Why....” “Because,” Matsukawa leaned in conspiratorially, “I know where at least part of his precious, precious cargo is.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Wait. Did you? Are you....fucking?” Iwaizumi frowned, momentarily baffled. “Seriously?” The grin on Hanamaki's face was enough to clear up any confusion that, yes, they were indeed very serious, and also that cargo was very much not legal. “We're doing important research on other nations, colonel,” Makki said, “We should be commended for this.” A tinny smell and a flash of cold air wafted by. It seemed the Shiratorizawa agent by the door had started making good on his promise to freeze people. “Later,” Iwaizumi said and the others nodded. He peered into the gloom and found Kyoutani in the middle of a large bar fight, pummelling a man twice his size. The boy was winning by a large margin. Iwaizumi stepped in and yanked his protesting subordinate back, out of the crowd, hauling him along as the four of them slipped out the back door and into the night.

“So, did you win?” Matsukawa asked when they had reached relative safety. He was huffing slightly from the long jog, and he patted his coat to check if all his 'evidence' was still present. “We got interrupted,” Iwaizumi grunted. “Does that mean...” Hanamaki said. “It's a draw,” Iwaizumi said, stressing the last word to make it clear that they'd better drop this particular topic. They walked in silence until they reached the gates to the port where their ship was docked. “So...” Matsun asked, almost casually, “were you winning?” He was looking away, almost innocently checking a nearby sign while his friend grinned from ear to ear. “It was a draw,” Iwaizumi repeated. And with that he shoved his hands in his pockets and ducked through the doors, into the bustling space port.