#the whole time will is torn between throwing himself out a window and smashing the glass right then and there to get hannibal out

[ghostdrinkssoup]

thinking about the first time will sees hannibal after three years. how the highly sophisticated man he remembers now looks wearier, his hair a little shorter, the lines in his face a little deeper. how he’s been degraded but still holds himself with pride and dignity, refusing to be humiliated. how will is a married man and really thought he was doing okay but knew he was kidding himself the moment he laid eyes on hannibal again because it doesn’t matter how much time passes he’s still horribly in love with him and never truly moved on. he knows he lost his heart the day hannibal gave himself up, and it didn’t start beating again until this moment, three years later. and the ache of it hurts so much more than it did before. if anything, the longer they’re separated the worse it gets

[whirlybirdwhat]

crown the king (with bloody flowers) - chapter 37

Hanahaki au drabble series, in which Luffy is in love with the sea.

(Warning for Wano Spoilers before chapter 950!)

Kidd remembers Straw Hat. He had been a brat back then, at Sabaody all those years ago, not even coming up to Kidd’s shoulder and still having baby fat lining his cheeks. The youngest Supernova, the rumors had whispered, only fourteen. 

Kidd hadn’t cared about that back then. Why would he, when the rumors - when the entire world - knew that Straw Hat was a crazy bastard that had taken on the world government and won. What’s an age to a reputation like that? To a power like that? Then - then all Kidd cared about was seeing Straw Hat do some crazy shit. 

When Straw Hat crashed down the ceiling of that auction, not even breaking in his stride as he smashed his fist into the face of a celestial dragon twice his height, Kidd had gotten his wish.

And yet - he had seen, then, the way flower petals stuck in the brat’s lips as grinned. He had seen the way his lips were bloody without a hit on him, and the way he had spat onto the ground after, leaving an entire flower bud in his wake. The rumors hadn’t talked about that. 

Even after the war, with the image of Straw Hat holding his dead brother plastered about the world, petals in his wake, the rumors hadn’t talked about it.

Looking at him now, older but with lips still just as bloodied, Kidd wonders if they do now. It’s a surprise to see him here, in the midst of Wano’s prison camps, but then again - it’s Straw Hat. After two years of absence only to awake to challenge an emperor, Kidd shouldn’t be surprised at where the kid shows up. 

He’s still short. His robes sag a bit too big on him, smothering the muscle Kidd knows still must be underneath. His hands hang in front of him, bloody and scratched and sticky with petals as the sea stone drapes around them, and his feet are unsteady as he walks. Even from his cell, Kidd can see it - the gait that sways from side to side, the shakiness of his step,  the stumbling click-clack of his sandals and the clink of his chains as the guards pull him along - they’re making a spectacle of it.

Pathetic, Kidd thinks, and doesn’t quite know who he’s directing it at, bastards. 

And then - 

Then they throw Straw Hat into his fucking cell as they all cackle so loudly, and it’s all Kidd can do to not break their necks with his bare fists. Annoying bastards. He liked his solitary cell - and now he has Straw Hat to deal with? 

Hell-fucking-no - Kidd needs out of this dump not for Straw Hat to drag him down into another admiral-level mess. 

(His crew isn’t here, his crew is alone, and Killer is out there somewhere, captured just like him. His crew is strong, but they aren’t as strong as Kidd or Killer, and damn if he’ll let them get hurt because some straw hatted nuisance stirred up trouble.

(Or… at least more hurt than Kidd had let them get. What a shit captain he is, dragging them into an alliance like that.))

“DAMN YOU KAIDO!” Straw Hat screams, swears, and it’s muffled by the bandages wrapped around his face and a gurgling in his throat. “DAMN YOU!”  He stumbles to his feet, shoulders hunched, glare bright - the seas stone is dragging at his body, but even Kidd has to respect how the fire in his eye doesn’t seem to burn out even trapped like this.  “COME BACK AND FIGHT ME! BASTARDS!” 

Straw Hat’s chains clink against the prison cell. The wardens just laugh, waving him off, and suddenly, there is darkness again as they shut the cell door. 

Still, Straw Hat continues screaming, raging, an edge of desperation in his tone. He’s angry in a way Kidd has never seen him before - though, truth be told, he’s only seen him once. But if the anger he has now doesn’t top his anger when fighting a celestial dragon of all things - 

Kidd doesn’t know what could set him off.

(Or, perhaps, he does. That anger rides deep in his belly now, after all, days past when his crew was destroyed. Kidd is a pirate. Straw Hat is a pirate. 

Some things don’t change, between men like them.) 

Straw Hat smashes his cuffs against the iron bars - against the sea stone bars, Kidd’s tried to fight against them more than he would admit - but it does nothing but make more blood drip out of his robes and down his face. He starts screaming again but - 

“BASTA-ACK!” He coughs, wet and ragged in the middle of his words, and doesn’t stop. It’s a hacking cough, once that seems to drag at his throat, and he keeps coughing, over and over till it’s almost like he’s choking one it. Blood spills over his lips and onto the floor as his legs - those weak, trembling legs that Kidd already saw - give out from underneath him. He doesn’t stop coughing even then, his entire body hunched to the ground. 

He’s trying to brace himself, trying to hold his chest, but he can’t do both at once. 

Straw Hat wobbles.

Finally, Kidd finds the voice to speak. “Oi.”

Straw Hat keeps coughing.

“Oi!”

Straw Hat keeps coughing.

“OI!” Kidd snarls, and reaches a limb over to smack his back. 

Straw Hat chokes for one, horrible moment, and then blood splatters on the ground as flowers begin pouring out his mouth as ripped bandages dangle around. Beautiful ones, like marigolds and hyacinths and other flowers of all colors that Kidd will never know the name of. They stick to his bruised cheeks, his hands, the floor, his manacles, but - 

He’s finally, finally stopped coughing. 

The choking and the flowers stop too, eventually, leaving Straw Hat gasping for breath on the floor, looking small and huh - beneath the bandages, baby fat still clings to his cheeks.

He’s sixteen, Kidd recalls, a whole seven years younger than himself. 

Pathetic, he wants to think, but can’t quite make himself do so. Straw Hat walked here after all, with bandages choking his mouth and sea stone laid across his hands, and was still fierce enough that most of the guards backed off. Straw Hat has guts. 

And - Kidd realizes, surely and absolutely as Straw Hat drags himself up to sit on his heels - he’s got hanahaki. 

(He’s the first-person Kidd’s ever met that has the disease. He never quite thought it’d be like this.)

“Jaggy,” Straw hat murmurs out, the word scratching at his throat. “You’re here?”

“Tch.” Kidd snorts, not energized enough to snarl against the nickname, and settles back against the wall. “Obviously, brat.”

Straw Hat heaves out again, in and out. “… Thanks.” He murmurs again, voice still ragged. 

To this, Kidd shrugs. He didn’t - he didn’t do it to be kind. “The coughing was a bit annoying.” 

Straw Hat doesn’t say anything to that. He just keeps looking at the small window of light they have, back turned to Kidd and body still - stiller than Kidd had ever seen him. Even in his wanted posters the kid always seemed to be moving.  It unnerves him, ever so slightly.

But - whatever. Straw Hat is being quiet, not coughing, and they’ll be enough nuisances tomorrow. He can ignore the brat’s despondent look till tomorrow, and catch some sleep now.

He’s not in the mood to fight, or puff up his feathers like he would do for his rivals typically. He’s just… tired. And hurt. And he misses his crew.

(Straw Hat is alone now. He’s in the same boat.)

Kidd uses his one hand to pull his coat tighter to himself, and rests back against the wall, determinedly shutting out the world and Straw Hat’s to desperate gasps from the front of the cell. It’s… it’s fine. 

Fine.

Fine.

-

Whatever it is, it’s not fine because Kidd wakes up hours later to near-entire darkness in his cell and a shuffling, hacking in his corner. He has half a mind to lash out, because he’s alone in his cell, and noises in the dark have never meant anything good but - 

Then he remembers earlier today. He remembers Straw Hat being thrown in the cell. So, no lashing out but - 

“Damnit.” Straw Hat is whispering, cursing in his corner, and Kidd doesn’t think it’s out of any consideration for him but rather the hoarseness of his own voice. “Fuck.”

His voice cracks a bit. 

(He’s sixteen and he’s been in more wars and fought more emperors than Kidd can claim to. His own weakness burns at him.)

Kidd turns his head. There, struggling in the corner, is Straw Hat. The bandages have all been torn from his face and now lay in his hands, considerably more bloody than the last time Kidd saw them. Flowers lay scattered about Straw Hat’s entire body, and it seems he’s trying to do something with the bandages and his sea stone cuffs. 

Whatever it is, it’s not working because even in the dim moonlight Straw Hat’s eyes have lost some of their fire. Some of their rage. 

He looks… exhausted. 

(His eyes are rimmed red. Kidd doesn’t look too closely.)

He starts hacking again, not as harsh as earlier but seemingly because he doesn’t have the energy to do so harsher. The purple flowers from before - the spindly kind - fall from his lips and the sight of them makes Straw Hat grow - grow more something. Something like desperation and rage and grief but also not quite. It’s not a sight Kidd thinks he should be privy too, but prison does that to a man. It breaks down the barriers in all the wrong ways and it hurts. 

So, Kidd does something about it. 

“Oi.” He says again, like he did earlier, and yet this time Straw Hat’s response is immediate. His head snaps up, eyes flying wide, his entire body shifting into the defense. It’s easy to tell how the chains wear at him, how red his chest is from that scar, how he halfheartedly used his robes to wipe away the blood, when he’s like this. “The hell you doing, Straw Hat?”

Straw Hat just stares at him, reminiscent of a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. Kidd raises an eyebrow, and Luffy shrugs, stubbornly avoiding Kidd’s eyes as he puffs up his shoulders. “Trying to get the cuffs off.” 

Yeah, right. The brat’s a terrible liar even under the exhaustion. 

“With the bandages?” Kidd prompts, irritated, because he did not get woken up to get lied too. Luffy shrugs again, but this time holds out his hands, cuffs and bandages and all. His shoulders lilt with some unbidden weight. 

“I was trying to stuff the bandages under the cuffs so that it wouldn’t touch me.” Straw Hat says simply. “But I can’t do it like this.”

Huh. That’s… not a bad idea. If the sea stone isn’t touching him, Straw Hat can use his powers. It’s not a bad idea, yeah, except for the fact that the manacles are so skin tight it’s hard to get anything under them, and the fact that the sea-stone would be in such close proximity to the skin that even the tiniest shift would have you back where it started. 

Still, Kidd takes a look at what Straw Hat has done. It’s not much - his manacles are tighter than the others Kidd has seen around here, included his one-cuff manacles. Straw Hat’s are more like stockades, binding his wrists so close that they’re almost touching and giving him very little room to even move his elbows. He’s managed to get the tail end of a bloody bandage under his manacle, but nothing more than that.

It’s futile, and Kidd tells him as much. “It won’t work, brat. Too tight, and you’ll still feel the effects. Sides - they’ll switch ‘em out tomorrow morning with the chain ones so you can do their dirty work for them.” He dangles his own, singular chain and cuff as an example.

Straw Hat stares at him with wide, wide eyes, and then goes back to his hands. “That doesn’t matter. Chopper says I shouldn’t let Sea Stone touch me, or things will get worse. So I have to try or he’ll be mad at me. .”

Chopper - isn’t that his pet reindeer? The tiny guy? Kidd shakes his head, dispersing the thought. Who cares about that, when the brat is still trying to get the bandages under the manacles. He’s letting out noisy grunt as he does so, and it’s clear the manacles are pulling at his skin, leaving it bloody and raw with the skin peeled and everything. It doesn’t even deter the brat - he just keeps on going.

That doesn’t answer Kidd’s questions though. “What will get worse?”

(Sue him for sounding like he cares. He’s bored and Straw Hat is noisy, so obviously he has to do something.)

Straw Hat just gives him a dry look, and heaves into another coughing fit. There’s no blood this time, but it does leave Straw Hat looking even more worse for wear, tired and exhausted . He starts to lean against the wall of their little prison, his hands shaky and his head tilting gently as he still - still - goes to mess with the bandages.

Oh, Kidd realizes with a soft murmur. Oh. 

The hanahaki. The killing disease. The killing love. It gets worse with the sea stone? 

The rumors didn’t say anything about that - but then again, they didn’t talk about it at all when Straw Hat Luffy was the topic. 

Before Kidd knows it, the words are spilling out of his mouth. “Give me that, brat,”

“Wha - I’m not a brat!” Straw Hat says indignantly in that hoarse voice of his. “And no!”

“You just now noticed that I’ve been calling you a brat, brat?”

“Oi-“

“And get over yourself. The sooner you stop coughing the sooner I get to sleep, so get over here and give me that.” Kidd waits a beat. “Brat.”

Straw Hat fumes but its only for a moment before he’s scooting along the wall, too tired to get up properly, until he’s right next to Kidd. He holds out his hands and bandages petulantly, almost skeptically, his eyes piercing Kidd’s own.

Damn the brat has a glare. 

Kidd ignores this, ignores how he’s helping his rival, and grabs the brat’s tiny wrist. It isn’t gentle, isn’t kind, but it lets him see what the brat has been trying to do. Straw Hat doesn’t flinch. Just sits there, wide eyed and covered in blood and muck. 

(It’s harder to avoid the redness of his eyes this way, but Kidd forges on.) 

He’s careful as he starts using his hand to push the bandages through. The brat’s manacles make this act easier at least, a little looser than Kidd’s own cuffs, and Straw hat manages to hold still despite his trembling and shaky breaths. It takes a bit of maneuvering, a little bit of teeth, and more than a few trade backs of Stop moving, brat, and Shut it Jaggy, but eventually - eventually Straw Hat’s manacles aren’t touching his skin any more. He’s breathing easier, skin a little warmer, and there’s something Kidd doesn’t want to name in his eyes.

“That better, brat?!” Kidd bites out, trying to regain some of his image despite the way his hand is twisting the kid’s wrists around, double checking. 

“Shishishi!” Straw Hat laughs, the first real sign of whatever the fuck kind of joy is going on in his wanted poster showing its face. “Yep! Thanks Jaggy!” 

“Whatever.” Kidd settles back into the wall,  bringing a knee up and hugging it in lieu of crossing arms he doesn’t have. “Be quiet now - I want some fucking sleep in this hell hole.”

Straw Hat doesn’t respond. Kidd glances over.

That fucking asshole - he - 

He’s already sleeping on the ends of Kidd’s ratty coat, head nestled one the fabric and too-thin limbs splayed out in front of him.  Sleeping. On Kidd’s coat. The only one who was ballsy enough to do that before was - 

(An emperor, taking his crew away, a blue and white mask falling-)

-is still here, somewhere. 

Kidd has half a mind to shake him off, but - didn’t he say, all those years ago, that he wanted to see Straw Hat do something bat-shit insane? 

This has to count. He’s quiet now, at least. 

Kidd tucks his head down, and copies him, ignoring the blood staining his coat and the ground, and the ghosting flower petals stirred up by the wind. 

(The next day sees Kidd watching Luffy shake as his manacles are interchanged with cuffs that touch his skin. It has Kidd seeing Straw Hat tremble in his cell as Kidd helps him like he did this night, and days later - It seems the tiny reindeer give him a small, thankful nod as he inspects the bandages still wrapped around Straw Hats wrists. There’s an understanding there, a respect that Kidd can’t help but bristle at. 

He - He didn’t - whatever this was, it remains here, in Udon, because Kidd is a pirate and so is Straw Hat. The past remains there, and alliances are doomed to falter and fail. This wasn’t an alliance. Not even close. This was….

Whatever.

(And if there are still immortal flowers, purple and tall, stuck in the pockets of Kidd’s coat, then no one has to fucking know.)) 

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 12

Click here if you are a first time reader.

Summary / TWs: Steve Rogers does not pass the vibe check yet again, le sad face. Loki is a good bro. Bruce fluff but what else is new? Literally everyone is a good bro, yo. Reader has best people. Tony's in there, kind of. Parents still suck.

For taglist: please send an ask if you changed your @! I noticed several people are unavailable :(

As always, my baby gay @miscmarvelwritings is the bestest beta!

"I think I am going to murder your father." Bucky's angry statement didn't surprise me. Neither did Steve's initial reaction, or anybody else's mostly pitying looks.

Bruce, my Bwucie, was calm and dejected. That worried me. I expected him to be at least a little bit green around the edges when Steve forcefully sat me down and made me explain the drunken, drugged stunt I'd done the night before, but alas, it seemed like Jolly Green was just sad. Or disappointed. And I didn't know which was worse.

The more I thought about it, the more defensive and abrasive I became. "And you'll kill yourself trying, he'll drive you fucking nuts" I responded to Barnes. "Honestly, I don't fucking see the problem here. My dad shows up five times a year at best. It's been like that forever. And it's not like I'm some kind of junkie," I defended myself, and my dad, because I really didn't see the huge deal about it. Relaxing once in a while doesn’t hurt anyone.

"It's not right!" Steve exclaimed, loosely banging a fist on the table. The self-righteous prick, seemed like he wanted to pick a fight just for the sake of it.

"And who are you, exactly, to say that? The moral police?" I blew up, standing and turning to the blonde man, hands on my hips. "Or you've decided to be my parent without asking me first? Keep your hopes up and maybe a fuck will magically appear, so I could give it to you."

He stood up in turn, getting uncomfortably close to my face. I was suddenly reminded of the fact that he was a very large, very strong man. "We want what's best for you! Can't you see it?" Rogers was getting red in the face, crossed arms, staring at me down like I was dirt under his shoes.

"How about..." I seethed, having to stop mid-sentence to swallow the scream that wanted to erupt. "How about... You FUCKING ask me what I want?"

"I suggest the Captain leave to go calm down," Loki suddenly piped up. He stayed silent throughout the whole conversation, picking at his food instead. Only after his sharply uttered words I noticed he had stood up. His hand hovered over my shoulder, body discreetly wedging between me and the Captain.

I heard Steve growl before he stormed off, throwing an annoyed look at Loki. A pregnant silence hung in the room. The longer it lasted, the more I wanted to crawl out of my skin, suddenly hyper aware of all these people - strangers, save a few - debating on what to do with me. Like I wasn't a person. Like...

"Ugh, fucking hell," I growled, beelining for my bag. I had definitely overstayed my welcome.

"Where are you going?" Bruce asked, standing up to follow.

"Home," I replied curtly, nodding my thanks to Loki for the intervention. He nodded back, walking off. I would have probably started swinging at the Icicle Dick if not for the raven haired Asgardian's timely interruption.

"I'll drive you," Banner trotted after me like a dejected puppy. I didn't have the mental capacity to deal with this, at all.

"I need to see Tony first. Meet you downstairs?"

Bruce nodded, looking even more confused.

Tony kissed me hungrily, in between promises to kill Steve and cancel my dad and get me my own apartment in the tower. Believing in fairy tales wasn't something I was ever prone to; I smiled, nodded along and did my best to shut him up with my own mouth on his. I left with the promise to text him as soon as I got home.

"How are you?" Bruce asked me as we once again drove through the busy city. This was becoming a nice habit but we really had to meet up when I wasn't going through another one of my turmoils.

"All things considered, I am great. Better than I've been in a while." I answered honestly, meaning it. However brief Tony's attention would be, it still satisfied me. Then and there I decided to always, always cherish what happened during my brief stint in his arms.

"Really?" Banner's warm smile was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. "Care to share?"

It threw me for a loop. I didn't know how much Tony wanted to disclose regarding what happened between us. I didn't know the extent of his friendship with Bruce. I didn't know...

"Tony," I choose the usual option. Admit what you can't deny, deny what you can't admit.

"I know the feeling," The good doctor chuckled, companionable-like and meaningful. "He tends to go all the way for the people he cares about. Too much, if you ask me."

"What do you mean?" I was confused. Sure, me and Tony were friends. But not, like, super close or anything. We'd fucked, or more like messed around, so I expected our friendship to grow colder. That's what happened when friends decided to bump uglies.

"I mean... He'll move mountains and challenge the government and bully them into dropping charges against you," There was a hint of sadness in Brucie's voice. I vaguely recalled seeing something on the news, something about the Hulk and a massive destruction spree. It didn't take long to put two and two together.

I reached out, putting a hand on his knee. He covered my palm with his own, giving it a brief, warm squeeze.

"It must be great having a friend like that. You're both wonderful and brilliant. You deserve no less," The smile threatened to split my face in two.

Bruce returned the smile but the sadness didn't go away. "You realize that extends to you, right?"

"Me? I'm just me, Bruce." I wasn't sure where this was going. "I'm Peter's classmate and the resident hot mess express."

Bruce frowned, deep and long, up until he parked. Life seemed to be taking back all the happiness it gave me previously-in fucking buckets. The strap of my bag was going to get its threads pulled out with the way I was fiddling with it.

"Baby… Princess?" The scientist turned to me, tone torn somewhere between stern and pleading. "Listen to me. You are brilliant. Incredibly smart, talented and beautiful. Don't ever, ever think of yourself as less than any of us." I gaped at him.

Did he mean us as the Avengers? Us as Tony and Bruce? Meanwhile he continued, "In fact, I think you are the one who deserves so much better. I don't know what Tony found in me… Or what you found in me."

Was the man an idiot or yes? That was the question of the day. Cursing Tony's affinity for small cars (bless me and my own SUV), I only hesitated a moment before grabbing the dumb Banner by his face and startling him into looking straight in my eye. "If you don't quit talking all that fake-ass bullshit, I will kiss you. On the mouth. With tongue."

"Uh," Was his articulate response. I watched him squirm, blush and lose the heat to his argument.

"Exactly. I've had it all with you idiots today. Next time someone says some stupid ass fucking thing, I will kiss them. On the mouth, with tongue. Pass it on," I exhaled, releasing his face and dropping my head onto his shoulder.

"Some way of solving conflict you have," Banner chuckled weakly, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "I'd like to see Steve's reaction."

"A boner, probably, because he needs to get laid before he spontaneously combusts," I grumbled venomously, still bitter about his reaction. The Capsicle needed to chill. Hehe.

"I'll pass it on too," Bruce remarked wryly. "See you next week?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Bwucie, you're the fucking best," I kissed the scientist on the cheek, giving him a tighter than usual parting hug and walking up the pathway. Home.

Mother was nowhere to be seen - and the obvious reason for that laid on the kitchen floor. Couple of smashed dishes, a bottle of whiskey laying half-empty in a puddle on the grey tiles. The living room rug bore more stains and the smell of alcohol, bitter and acrid (like my soul, hardy har), hung heavily throughout the whole house.

At least I wasn't the only one who fought for myself that day. Mother probably had landed a good one on dad, too, by God the woman could be ruthless with her icy words. Dad never stood a chance. I've felt begrudgingly respectful of the way mother put people in their place with her words ever since I understood sarcasm.

First things first, I cleaned up the mess and opened the windows a smidge, cranking the air recuperation system to the max. Hanging around a place that smelled like a bum on a good Friday night was a horrible way to spend free time. Having successfully cut myself and bandaged the cuts up, I retreated to my room, not wanting to spend more time than necessary in the quiet, stinky, creepy house that my home had become.

My phone was long dead so I plugged it in, waiting for the 2% to appear, turning it on. A few messages from Peter, first cheerful, then worried and then relieved. Tony must've placated the spider child and told him I was staying at the tower. Good call, Tones, or else poor Peter would've worked himself into an anxiety attack and crashed in a dumpster while patrolling. Or something. I still didn't quite get his spider-hero side-gig.

A text from Bruce - rather, a photo, of a disgruntled Steve with his eyebrows raised, titled "I told him the next time he freaks out, you will kiss him. With tongue. Barnes cackled for about ten minutes until he ran out of air."

And a text from Tony. My chest tightened when I opened it. "Good tactics. Sneaky, clever, I'd give it a B+."

I snorted. Then the phone beeped again and I froze. A text ordering me to be ready tomorrow, for a date night? Unreal. I was torn. A part of me was elated, thinking Tony wanted to keep me around like that. The other, more sensible part, was firmly telling me to chill TF down. He'll most likely kindly reject any further intimate interactions, maybe have me sign a few NDAs.

I still answered positive, mushy and cute and all. Feelings aside, I wasn't about to change my texting style for any man. My God, I was turning into a monster. A horribly cheesy, pink, soft, fluffy monster.

The next day, school was nearly unbearable. People talked. Not to my face, of course, since the rumours of me putting away Flash Thompson were still fresh enough for everyone to be cautious around me, but the whispers followed me throughout hallways, tongue in cheek remarks thrown at me from the bathroom stalls, behind the teacher's desks. Did I care? Nope.

Okay, I did, but not in the way one would think. The little spring in my step, a slight smirk. My thoughts were occupied with my upcoming dinner with Tony.

Peter and his pet nerds stood at my side, the ever watchful guards. I had no idea why they decided I needed reassurance or their comfort (I did not), but I had to admit it was cute. MJ, in particular, glared her Death Ray Stare at any male-identifying student that dared to as much as look wrongly in my direction. I mostly ignored the trio. Pete himself did a great job with entertaining his friends, he babbled on as usual, about everything and nothing in particular. Mouth ulcers. He was going to get them one day.

Dad called me during third period, saying he was flying off to California. I would have been lying if I said I didn't know why he scheduled the sudden trip; mother's total radio silence and the absence of her laptop in her own office spoke volumes about the state of my family's affairs. They had a fight and ran off to the opposite ends of the continent. I didn't understand why mother was upset with me, though. I saved her face during dinner at Tony's, so why is she mad about me going to a party with dad? Baffling woman.

Admitting the house felt like home when either of them were absent was hard. Or, perhaps, I felt nothing at all. Spending so much time around the Brady Bunch- the Avengers made me too soft for my own liking. It wasn't just Tony that lived in mind rent-free all the time now; there was Bruce, with his kindness, Bucky with his overgrown teenager attitude, Wanda with her wit and hair that smelled like cheap shampoo - seriously, I absolutely had to show her the benefits of decent hair products. That was just to list the few little quirks. There were so many people, all of them different and wonderful in their own way.

To summarize it, I was both happy for them and bitter for not having any of that to myself. Although it made me kind of glad I didn't have a sibling - looking after someone in the mess that mother and dad created would've been a nightmare. They say it's always a better place where we are not.

I went through a whole pack of cigarettes in a span of a couple of hours. Plagued by strangely melancholic thoughts, trying to push down the anxiety over my upcoming date, my choice of outfit proved to be a cumbersome task while in process.

Expensive but simple dress with spaghetti straps, in my favourite colour. That was the easiest part. A good base for any accessories. Would Tony like it? Would the press make outrageous comments?

Either way, it would. Dad's comments cut deeper than I probably realized it until now; in a sudden bout of self-awareness and a couple of mouse clicks later... Tony wouldn't care. Tony wears suits with sneakers. The Manolos flew back, towards my shoe closet, and a pair of Chanel trainers made their debut. A Hermes 2002 barely weighed down by my wallet, keys and phone. A nice coat, too, appropriately light and so very conceptual and fashionable.

I spent way too much time deciding on what to wear. A stern talking to, however, didn't help me, and I had to redo my make-up - the "nude", "all natural" look was one of the hardest to nail. Or so Marie Claire said. Whatever, my highlighter game was, as usual, on point.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @gigglyfox01 @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway (it finally let me tag you)!

[sleepless-stories]

The Meeting of Heroic Soulmates

Analogical Week | Day 4 | Alternate Universe

@analogicalweek

Summary: Logan and Virgil are soulmates, and both superheroes. They communicate via something kind of like telepathy. Logan falls through a black hole and is saved by who he realizes is his soulmate, Virgil. Aka a soulmate au, hero au, and an alternate reality/universe au all in one.

Warnings: Violence, fights, drugs referenced

Notes at end

___

Logan sat on the edge of his chair staring at his computer, when he heard an alert from the earpiece in his ear. Logan instantly got up and changed his clothes, he pulled out his black jumpsuit and put on the light armor pieces going over it that were a light bluish metal, there were lines throughout his suit outlining parts of the armor that lit up a bit. “Time to get to work” he thought after getting ready as he went to his secret staircase to leave the building. 

“Mhmm me too”, A voice in his head said after a few moments.

Logan smiled hearing his soulmate, “delay between responses seems to be getting better.”

“It’s still long having a few seconds of silence between responses though.”

“Yes, it could be quite odd.” Logan nodded to himself pushing open the door and walking through the secret door and went to his car as he adjusted his mask, or more like a helmet. His helmet was the same bluish metal that covered his whole head, the eyes glowed blue and also were his prescription for glasses, there were a few of the glowing lines on the helmet too. He got into his car driving to the alert. 

“I’ll talk more to you later, Logan.”

“Yeah… I’ll talk later, Virgil.” Logan smiled and drove to the location preparing to fight his enemy. 

___

Virgil crouched on a roof, his black cloak blowing in the wind behind him. Virgil wore a full black suit with a hood and a cape that could detach. He had a metal staff strapped to his leg that could extend to be his weapon. He had a full face mask under his hood that had purple eyes and had a slight skull design on it. Virgil looked up to the sky smiling as he stood up and untapped his staff and hit it on the ground extending it. The building across the street from Virgil suddenly had one of it’s windows smash outward from the inside. A bunch of people jumping out and laughing about how slow the police were and all that. 

Virgil smirked and jumped off the building landing near the thieves, allowing the wind to help him land. “Having a productive day?”

“Oh look at who it is, the weak little hero.” One of them laughed staring at Virgil. 

“Well thank you for the introduction then.” Virgil smirked under his mask and rushed at the thieves. He jumped and used his staff to keep himself stable as he flew into one person’s face, kicking them, causing them to fall to the ground. As soon as he hit the ground a gust of wind blew at the others. “Who would like to come at me next, or would you all like to surrender?” He asked letting some electricity course through his staff. 

Two of the four left looked at each other and started to run. 

Virgil sighed, shaking his head and stomped on the ground, the ground rumbled and suddenly the street rose, cracking the pavement and creating a wall in the way of the thieves' path of escape. “Well, I see you both chose your choice…” 

The other two quickly kneeled on the ground dropping their stuff and putting their hands up.

The two that had run turned around getting ready as if they were about to fight.

Virgil shook his head walking over to them

___

Logan jumped out of his car walking into the lab, “where is he?” he asked softly looking at the receptionist. 

“Up...up stairs.. Tenth floor… he has… there are hostages.” They whispered trying to act as if everything was perfectly fine. 

Logan nodded and went to the stairs running up there. Logan paused at the 8th floor catching his breath for a moment before continuing the rest of the way up then shoving open the door. He quickly walked down the hall, a hall made of glass windows. He paused when he saw someone walk out of the doorway on the other end of the hall and walked toward him. 

“Well, well, well… Look who came to the rescue… it’s the copycat.”

Logan sighed, “And looks like it's the energy freak here for a drug fix I assume.” 

“Aw, you know me so well, copycat. Honestly it might be you who is my soulmate, oh wait, it couldn’t be… my soulmate isn’t annoying.” He snarked before creating a ball of energy and tossing it at Logan. 

Logan quickly caught the ball and absorbed it, “Now I see we’re on equal playing grounds.”

“Oh you’re no fun, that was supposed to hit you.” he laughed.

Logan shook his head, “Usually you’re smarter than that then.” Logan replied and started to form an orb of energy to attack and fully get to know how to use the power. He was looking down when suddenly he quickly moved back. 

A beam of energy passed Logan quickly. “Come on, copycat! Honestly, how do you even tell when I’m about to attack.”

“You’re obvious.” Logan replied not mentioning his weak precognition. 

The villain glared and shot a beam at Logan. 

Logan quickly started blasting one back. 

The beams of energy collide and cause an explosion. They didn’t stop though, they continued feeding into each other.

“You won’t win, Cat.”

“Neither will you.” Logan groaned slightly, he never understood why this dude constantly called him a cat, he was clearly human. 

Their surroundings suddenly started darkening, only illuminated by the beams of energy. 

“Caught some dudes, small-time bank robbers, you doing anything interesting?” Virgil’s voice suddenly rang through Logan’s mind. 

Logan heard and closed his eyes for a moment before focusing his mind back on his foe, “Just currently in a fight.  I-” Logan paused looking around seeing the room growing pitch black, “What the f-” 

There was a sudden explosion lighting up the room, shattering all the windows, and throwing both Logan and the Villain back. Logan hit the ground and looked up seeing a large black void in the middle of the room, that started trying to pull him closer.

“Logan? Logan!” Virgil called anxiously. 

Logan pulled out a knife stabbing the floor trying to keep himself from flying back. His grip was slowly weakening though. The void started pulling stronger and shrinking smaller. He couldn’t hold on much longer and flew back into the void falling in.

Just as Logan went in, it closed. 

____

Virgil stood in the middle of the road panicking as Logan didn’t respond. 

Cops and paramedics passed by him, some tried to ask questions but he didn’t respond, he just stayed there. 

The thieves being taken away from the scene. 

Then there were screams. 

Virgil snapped out of it and looked around before he saw someone pointing up. Slowly he looked up at the sky, the clouds growing black and starting to swirl like a tornado. “Everyone finds shelter!” he yelled looking around.

Everyone upon hearing their hero ran indoors getting away. 

Virgil stood in the middle of the road staring at the sky, watching.

The eye of the storm grew even darker and darker, until suddenly there was a flash of light.

Virgil covered his eyes shielding them from the light before looking up again and seeing the world was back to normal before he realized something, someone was falling from the sky. Virgil quickly took off running and used air to make himself fly into the air, going to catch the person, save them. 

The person continued falling from the sky, no signs of being conscious. They wore a black suit that was a bit torn up and some blue metal armor pieces over the suit and a helmet that matched. 

Virgil caught up and grabbed them holding them close as he let the air help slow him down as he landed on the ground. 

When he landed he put the other person on the ground and figured out how to take off their helmet and tossed it to the side before checking they were alive. Virgil was relieved to feel a pulse. 

Suddenly the person gasped, opening his eyes and sitting up quickly. 

When the person woke up, Virgil moved back and pushed them back to lay down, “Calm down, you’ve been saved. Could you tell me your name?”

“Saved? Where…” The guy glanced around before staring at his saviour. “Um… call me cat…” he said instantly regretting it and not wanting to let anyone know his true identity. 

“Alright… Cat. Could you explain what just happened?”

“Um… I think I fell through a black hole?” Logan replied and sighed, closing his eyes, “Hey virgil, sorry I didn’t respond before… I think I just hit my head.”

Virgil nodded softly, “Um…” he sighed softly, “Yeah, same with the guy who I just saved, he’s insane, definitely hit his head.”

Logan sighed just breathing, “Hm… no delay… and what did he say?”

“That he fell through a black hole.”

Logan paused and opened his eyes staring at his saviour, “Virgil?”

Virgil stared at him, “Wha-how did you… Logan?” 

Logan laughed, “Nice to meet you, soulmate.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

____

Notes: So it’s not explained well but Logan and Virgil are from different universes, the delay is because of that. Logan going through the blackhole brought him to Virgil’s universe

_________________________ General Tag List @crazy-multifandomfangirl @aceawkwardunicorn @mistythegenderqueermess

[meridiansdominoes]

The Dark and the Loyal

Fives and Echo are decanted out of the same vat. The Force chooses them, as it has done thousands of times before. The Jedi don’t notice... but Darth Sidious does.

I wrote a quick thing for Fives Week 2020, for day 5′s prompt “Enemies”! I’d written out several of these scenes a while ago, and I decided to dust them off and edit them up to support @painkiller80‘s celebration! I’m not completely happy with it, but it’ll do I suppose. ummm... it’s a one-shot, so I’ll post it completely here, but it’s also kind of long for tumblr, so find it on ao3 here too: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24564922

This is kind of dark (it’s not very graphic but be forewarned) and there’s a lot of manipulation going on. Just a heads up!

Fives goes to Coruscant and meets with the Chancellor. It’s his last chance to present his evidence about the chips to someone who can actually help. The Jedi don’t believe him. The Kaminoans are in on the whole thing and can’t be trusted. The Chancellor listens carefully, smiles at him once Fives has said his piece (he’s drugged out of his mind, but that isn’t enough to stop him), and says, very gently, “I believe you, trooper.”

And then Palpatine makes Fives disappear. 

Fives wakes up in a cell, completely alone. There are no windows, and the meals that get pushed into his room are erratic and barely nourishing. Time loses all meaning very quickly. He moves around the room in the beginning, paces and prowls around as he waits for something, anything to happen, but as days stretch on (he thinks) Fives finds himself curled up into the far corner of his cell more often than not.

When Palpatine comes to see him it’s almost a relief, if only because he’s finally getting some form of human interaction. Clones are social, tactile, well-adjusted to a lack of privacy. Without the constant presence of his brothers, Fives feels like he’s drowning in his own thoughts. 

Palpatine is not what he seems. Fives can feel that much. It’s a sensation of wrongness so thick that it roils and clings to his insides like black sludge. Fives hadn’t noticed it before. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know how to explain it or say why he can feel it with such clarity. He pulls himself to his feet with a weak snarl and braces himself for whatever Palpatine is planning on throwing at him.

Palpatine smiles at him in faint amusement. He reaches out a hand and hooks his fingers into claws. A wave of that horrible wrongness expands to fill the room. Fives shudders. He takes a nervous step back. He feels power hanging in the air, nearly tangible and undoubtedly destructive. It clogs up his throat. Palpatine flexes his fingers—the smallest of movements, but suddenly there’s an awful pressure closing in on Fives’ body that rips away his will and forces him to his knees. 

He pants helplessly but doesn’t struggle once he’s down. He knows how to pick his battles, especially now that he finally understands what he’s dealing with. 

“Sith,” he forces out from between gritted teeth. He tries to ignore the cold terror in his gut at the word. Palpatine smiles, slow and knowing. 

“Very perceptive,” he says. “Do you know why you are here, clone?”

Fives sneers at him. 

“The inhibitor chips are your doing,” he growls. Force save them all. The leader of the Republic is a Sith. Fives can barely breathe. So many lies. So many pointless deaths. The man that he’s sworn his loyalty to is a traitor. When he manages a weak inhale, it feels like he’s sucking ashes into his lungs.    

Palpatine doesn’t confirm or deny the accusation. He scrutinizes Fives for a long moment. Fives tries not to squirm under his gaze, but he can’t help but feel like the Sith’s eyes are piercing him to the very core.

“Curious,” Palpatine finally says. “And utterly foolish, that the Jedi did not notice sooner. Do you know what you are?”

Fives works his jaw and hesitates. 

He’s a clone. He’s a soldier. He’s an ARC trooper. But he doesn’t think any of those answers is what Palpatine is looking for. When he doesn’t answer, Palpatine’s eyes narrow a bit.

Something in Fives’ mind snaps into place.

Suddenly there’s a roaring in his ears and fire in his veins. He cries out. Something rippling and tense and alive sweeps over him. It’s unrefined and rushing and rising and it hurts. His mind buzzes and vibrates with sensations that are completely foreign. It’s too much, a persistent and all-consuming agony. He wants to curl up into a little ball and clutch at his skull, but the best he can do with Palpatine holding him down is close his eyes and wait for it to end. 

The pain settles after a while. Fives pants through gritted teeth and blinks tears from his eyes as the sensations subside—but they don’t leave him completely. He can feel odd little waves thrumming through him still, filling him with warmth instead of fire. He doesn’t understand what that means.  

“You are an anomaly, clone. The Kaminoans did not intend for their projects to be Force-sensitive. Yet here we are.”

No. That’s... impossible. 

Fives feels like the floor has dropped out from underneath him. Suddenly so many things make sense. The strange little tugs in his gut that warn him away from danger. The way can move faster than normal when he needs to, the way how the occasional blaster bolt skims right by him when it should score a hit. The awful cloying dark that left him dizzy on Umbara, that he hadn’t known how to explain to Kix when the medic had asked him what was wrong. 

The realization is accompanied by a fresh wave of fear that claws at his chest. If a Sith is taking such interest in the fact that a simple clone is Force-sensitive, Palpatine must want something from him. 

“I won’t help you,” Fives growls. “I’d rather die!” 

Palpatine’s eyes gleam a sickly yellow. 

“Your brother said the same thing,” he croons. “But he did not last long. And you will not, either.”

Fives feels his heart clench. 

“My brother—?”

Except Palpatine doesn’t answer him. The Sith leaves Fives there, pinned on his knees by the awful pressure of the dark side, and Fives has to focus on his breathing to keep himself from panicking.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Palpatine brings him brothers and tells Fives to kill them. Fives could. He knows how. He hasn’t always had the good fortune to only be fighting against droids. 

Of course he refuses. He won’t kill his brothers. The ones that Palpatine brings in are all Coruscant Guards, nothing but terror and horrified confusion in their eyes from the moment they step into the room. 

Palpatine makes them beg for Fives to kill them. 

Their deaths are slow, and their screams seem to echo around the room long after they’ve gone silent. Palpatine doesn’t force Fives to do anything. He allows Fives to turn away and grit his teeth and struggle to keep his resolve and do his best to block everything out. Fives doesn’t know what kind of game this is, but he won’t stoop so low as to kill a brother. 

Except.

Palpatine brings in a shiny. He’s small and afraid and probably just came to Coruscant directly from Kamino. He shakes like a leaf when Palpatine orders Fives to kill him, eyes wide as saucers. Fives just turns away as always, shoving down the urge to vomit, because he knows what’s coming. 

The shiny screams and begs and writhes and sobs and Force he’s so young. He’s so young and he doesn’t deserve this and Fives knows that Palpatine is going to drag it out for as long as the kid’s body will last. The Sith is only just getting started, and Fives—Fives can’t watch this. Not this time. It’s too much. 

Fives takes a hesitant step forward. Palpatine arches one eyebrow at him, unfazed as always. He gestures patiently towards the shiny on the ground and smiles in sick satisfaction when Fives slowly makes his way to the kid’s side. 

Nothing feels real. He knows what he’s about to do but he feels detached from it somehow, like he isn’t even in his own body. When he reaches out to place his hands on either side of the other clone’s head, he realizes that his hands are shaking. 

He’s an ARC. His hands shouldn’t shake. But they do now. 

The shiny jerks at the contact. There are tears still streaming down his face. His expression is twisted in agony. His chest heaves from the force of his sobs, and he’s still begging under his breath for the pain to stop even though Palpatine isn’t doing anything anymore.

Fives doesn’t want to kill him. He doesn’t want to, he won’t, he won’t—

“Please,” the shiny breathes out desperately. Their gazes lock.

Fives breaks.

He makes it fast. It’s the least he can do.

The body slumps lifelessly to the floor. Fives stares at it numbly and blinks back hot tears of his own. 

“Good,” Palpatine tells him, smug and pleased. 

Suddenly, Fives wants to kill him.  

Something surges beneath his skin, red-hot and boiling and angry. He rises to his feet and clenches his fists as the sensation builds and builds and builds.  

He’s afraid and he’s furious and he hates. He hates Palpatine with every fiber of his being. He grabs at the Force and it comes to him easily, like it belongs in his grasp. It whispers to him, feeds off of his fury, grows and ignites into something that Fives can use.

He spins and throws the power at Palpatine with all the force he can muster. To his own inexperienced mind it feels like a tsunami of anger, an impenetrable wall of energy.

To Palpatine, it’s child’s play. The Sith bats Fives’ attack aside with ease and flings out a hand. Fives goes hurtling across the room. He smashes into the side of his cell with a shout of pain and feels the Force immobilize his limbs once more. He gets dragged to his knees again, right in front of the dead clone. 

The anger in him heaves at the sight, struggling to escape. Palpatine laughs. He clamps down on the energy in Fives’ body and rips it from Fives’ grasp. Fives has only just adjusted to the sensation of the Force flowing through him, and to have it torn away from him so abruptly feels like losing a limb. He slumps. His vision flickers.  

“Very good,” the Sith praises. “Your anger will become your greatest strength.”

And he leaves again, keeps Fives pinned even though he’s long gone. Fives stares at the body in front of him and drowns in guilt and fear and regret.

The power that had surged through him had been dark. Fives doesn’t want that. He’s learned enough about Jedi to know that the Dark Side is evil, that it twists and contorts and confuses. He closes his eyes and vows that he won’t do it again.

Except.

Palpatine brings him another shiny. There are intricate tattoos curling around the kid’s jaw that seem brand new. Fives tries not to wonder what his name is, if his batchmates will miss him, what he likes to do during leave. He knows what the Sith is going to asks. He braces himself, steps forwards, and gets dragged to his knees again with little more than a twitch of Palpatine’s finger. He snarls with frustration—he’s doing what Palpatine wants, if only to spare his brothers from suffering, so why is he being restricted? 

“Kill him,” Palpatine orders, and Fives fights, strains against the Force that holds him in place, but he can’t move. 

The shiny starts to scream. The tattoos across his face jump as he does.

And Fives can’t do anything, can’t help, can’t end it, can’t even turn his head away.

The anger builds up again until he can’t contain it. It bursts out of him like a geyser, hot and sharp. He’d vowed not to use it again, but he has to. Suddenly he can grab the Force again. He gathers it around himself until he has just enough strength to fling out a hand and reach. 

It’s instinctual and desperate. There is no finesse, no control. Fives knows that it wouldn’t do any good to attack Palpatine again, but he can use the Force to put the poor shiny out of his misery. The Force swells around him, dark and angry and skittering around his skin as a life is snuffed out. Fives shudders. He drops to the floor. Palpatine allows the motion

“This is progress,” the Sith says in a low voice as he withdraws from the cell. 

He leaves Fives with the body again. He always does, until the cleaning droids come to take them away. Fives is too tired to lift his head and breathe his apology to the corpse like he usually does.

Progress to a Sith is not a good thing. Fives can feel himself fraying, can feel the warmth of the Force inside him beginning to curdle into something dark and cold. He tries to push it away and succeeds for the moment, but he already knows that he’s fighting a losing battle. 

He curls himself into a ball and resigns himself to wait for Palpatine’s next visit. 

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There comes a point where Fives can’t keep track of anything anymore—of how many brothers he’s killed, of how many times he’s forced to his knees in front of the Sith, of how many times he willingly kneels just so that the pain will stop. 

He begs sometimes, but Palpatine doesn’t listen. If Fives strikes out at him, he’s easily subdued and punished. It never works, no matter how fast Fives is, no matter if he reaches for his anger. He can’t compete with a true Sith. 

Palpatine never explains the Force, never gives him a long lecture about how it functions like Fives had heard General Skywalker and General Kenobi give to Commander Tano during various points of the war. Instead, he throws Fives into problems headfirst and waits for Fives to figure it out himself. 

Palpatine lets a Gamorrean into his cell. The Gamorrean is starving and half-mad. It takes great pleasure in throwing Fives across the room until Fives has at least three broken ribs and a large gash in his side that drips blood on the floor. 

He’s going to die if he doesn’t do something. The dark nags at him, reminds him that it could help. Fives hesitates, but… he’s going to die. 

 He reaches for the darkness. He doesn’t see any other options. The Force coils around him, fierce and ready, filling him with the strength to get to his feet. 

After a long, steady stream of torture and humiliation and frustration, Fives takes vindictive glee in slamming the Gamorrean into the wall with the Force. Suddenly he has the power to end his own pain for the first time in… he doesn’t even know how long. Somehow, it’s intoxicating. Fives kills the Gamorrean ruthlessly, and mercy doesn’t even cross his mind once. 

When the power drains itself from his body and his mind is finally cleared of the foggy darkness, he realizes what he’s done and vomits up every last bit of the meager meal he’d been given earlier. 

He knows that it isn't right. He knows that, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how else to survive. He rejects the dark and shoves it away the instant his stomach stops trying to kill him. 

Palpatine comes back. This time he takes great pleasure in tearing Fives’ mind to pieces, shredding into him with sharp edges of Force that send fire rippling through Fives’ skull. Fives tries to call on the Force to defend himself, to put some sort of barrier or buffer against the mental barrage. It doesn’t work. He’s weak and inexperienced and slow. 

Palpatine pulls him apart and puts him back together over and over again until Fives finally figures out how to construct trembling shields around himself, desperate for the agony to end. Palpatine shatters them to pieces anyway before he allows Fives respite. When he leaves Fives’ mind, Fives’ entire body trembles. It feels like there are holes drilled through his brain. He can’t even wrap his hands around the tray that holds his next meal because he’s still shaking too badly. 

He’s long since abandoned any hope of rescue. He’s also submitted himself to the fact that he will never be strong enough to overcome Palpatine. Sooner or later he thinks he won’t have enough of a mind left to do anything at all. 

But Fives has always been stubborn. 

Even through the terrible pain, he clings to a shred of defiance and a sliver of loyalty. Those things have been ingrained in his heart since he could walk, and it’s just enough to keep him from succumbing for now. 

Fives can use the dark, can pull it to him and access that power, but he never lets it stay. He always forces it back down again, and that’s not what Palpatine wants. Every time it’s more and more difficult to get rid of it. The Dark Side clings to him. It doesn’t want to be subdued, and Fives is struggling against it. 

Palpatine knows this. He knows every inch of Fives’ mind by now. Fives has no secrets, no tricks, no ideas that the Sith does not know. 

So naturally Palpatine knows exactly what it takes to get Fives to break.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

At first, Fives thinks that he’s dreaming. The door to his cell opens. Fives rolls and drops to his knees instinctively, because whatever Palpatine has planned for today will only be ten times worse if he doesn’t. 

Someone laughs at him, quiet and fond.

“You don’t need to do that for me,” they say, and Fives’ head snaps up. 

Echo meets his gaze, a small smile playing across his lips. He’s wearing a black tunic, and he looks completely unconcerned by the conditions of Fives’ cell. Fives nearly chokes. 

“E-Echo…?”

Echo approaches him. Fives shrinks back, eyes darting around the room. It’s a trick. It has to be some sort of test. Echo halts, raising his hands non-threateningly. 

“Whoa, hey. I’m not going to attack you.”

“I’m dreaming,” Fives says through chapped and bloody lips. “You’re dead.”

Echo raises an eyebrow and raises a hand, wiggling his fingers at Fives pointedly. A glove covers almost the entire limb. 

“I’m not dead, Fives,” he says. “But I do have a few fake limbs now, if that makes you feel better.”

Fives shakes his head. He isn't convinced. Echo sighs. 

“Feel me, then. You can do that by now, right? Use the Force.”

Fives closes his eyes and turns away from him. He won’t believe this. Echo has been dead for a long time. 

“Alright then,” he hears Echo mutter, and suddenly something taps at his mind, gentle yet insistent. Fives throws his shields up so fast that he sees Echo wince out of the corner of his eyes… and then Fives has to take a moment to process. He turns back to Echo, eyes wide. 

Palpatine is never gentle. 

“Gonna let me in?” Echo asks him, arching an eyebrow. Fives can barely breathe, but when the tapping comes again, Fives lets his shields drop and suddenly he feels. He knows Echo’s thoughts, recognizes the patterns and quirks that he’s understood since Kamino, and that can’t be replicated by anyone else. Their minds twine together. A connection spins into existence.

Fives feels everything. He feels a curl of light amusement from his brother, a flash of pity, a wave of relief. It feels right, it feels good. Echo slides into Fives’ mind like he belongs there. It’s the first time someone has entered Fives’ mind without accompanying pain. Fives relaxes into the sensation.

Echo is not dead. 

He’s real. He’s here. This isn’t a dream. 

Suddenly Fives feels cold terror. 

He yanks his mind away from Echo’s with a cry of alarm. 

“No, no, you can’t be here,” Fives moans. “You can’t be real, please, he’ll make me kill you, you have to leave—!”

Echo laughs again. 

“Oh, that’s right,” he says casually. “I’d nearly forgotten about that part. Don’t worry about it too much, Fives. It’s not a big deal. Besides, he won’t make you kill me. He sent me here.”

Fives recoils. Suspicion sends awful prickles down his spine, because that… that isn’t right. Echo is real, but something else isn’t. 

He reaches for Echo’s mind this time. Echo raises an eyebrow at him but lets Fives dive into his thoughts.

On the surface, Echo’s mind is bright and intelligent, just as Fives had known it would be. Behind Echo’s normal thoughts and familiar attributes, the dark side swells and ebbs like the tide of the sea. Fives narrows his eyes.

“You’re not Echo,” he says sharply. Echo frowns.

“I can reassure you that I am,” he says, coming closer. Fives draws himself up, calling the Force into his grasp and shoving outward. Echo staggers back. Then he grins. 

“That’s pretty good,” he says. “You’re learning faster than I did, I think.”

Fives stiffens. Echo starts to come closer again, and Fives can feel himself crumbling, falling, struggling to remain defiant because it’s Echo. It’s his twin, his brother, his last batchmate, and he’s right in front of him when Fives thought that he was dead. 

When Echo reaches out and pulls Fives close, all of Fives’ defenses topple. He melts into the touch, breath hitching over a sob. Echo makes a soft noise and guides them to the floor. Fives clings to his brother. He knows that something is still horribly wrong but he hasn’t gotten this type of comfort in so long. It’s selfish, but even if this is a trick Fives is still going to take what he can get. 

“Force, Echo.” His voice trembles. He’s shaking. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut, curls his fingers into the fabric of Echo’s tunic and reminds himself to breathe. “How are you alive?”

“The Separatists picked me up at the Citadel,” Echo says quietly. “I was missing three limbs and bleeding out, but I fought anyway. They were surprised to learn that I could use the Force. So was I. Then they brought me here.”

Fives presses his face into Echo’s shoulder. His voice comes out muffled by the fabric. “You’re like me, then.”

“Course I am,” Echo replies. “We came out of the same vat, didn’t we? Why would you have something that I don’t?”

Fives doesn’t have an answer to that. He lets himself drift for a while, burrowing himself in the warmth and comfort and contact that he’s been craving. He can’t remember the last time he was able to hug someone. Part of him is worried that if he lets go, Echo will disappear, and Palpatine will take his place. 

The illusion can’t last forever, because Fives can’t forget what he’s already seen. Echo is real, but he is not the same. 

“What did he do to you?” Fives asks in little more than a whisper. He’s afraid of the answer he’ll receive. Echo shrugs. 

“The same thing that he’s doing to you,” he says lightly. “So I understand, Fives. I know that it hurts. I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“If you understand that, then get me out of here,” Fives says weakly. Echo sighs.

“I know, I know,” he soothes. “I wanted to leave, too. But Fives, you need to understand. It makes everything so much better. It hurts now, but when he’s finished you’ll be better. Stronger. You’ll be free. I promise.”

Echo strokes a gentle hand down Fives’ back. Fives’ stomach heaves. His skin crawls, but he can’t bring himself to pull away.

“He broke you,” he whispers in horror. Echo finally shifts, separating them just enough that Echo can look Fives in the eyes without letting go of him completely. 

“No. He fixed me, Fives. Just be patient. You’ll understand soon.” His eyes gleam yellow in the dark. 

Fives needs to let go. He needs to let go, it isn’t right, if he listens to Echo he’ll break and it’ll be the end. He needs to let go. He needs to pull away from this twisted shadow of his brother and continue to fight. 

But he can’t. 

It’s Echo. 

He curls himself further into Echo’s embrace and sobs. Echo holds him tight, offers him comfort, worms his way into Fives’ mind and sends him waves of warmth and reassurance. 

If Fives closes his eyes and ignores everything around him, he can almost forget that Echo isn’t himself. 

“I missed you,” Echo whispers into Fives’ ear. Fives swallows and doesn’t say anything in return. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Echo is almost always present, after that. He accompanies Palpatine every time Fives gets a visit. He watches, speaks sometimes, and then stays behind when Palpatine is finished to pull Fives into his arms and hold him as Fives tries to remember who he is. 

He’d hoped that Echo’s presence would make things easier, but it makes things worse. He tells Fives to give in, promises him that things will be better, whispers that he can’t wait until they can be together again. Palpatine lets him speak. All of them know Fives’ weakness. All of them know that he’s breaking, that it’s just a matter of time before Fives loses the battle and lets the dark take him as it has his brother. 

Fives, please,” Echo pleads with him, while Fives struggles to cling to his sanity and ignores the dark inside him that’s begging to be used. “Please, the longer you fight, the longer it will hurt. I want you with me, I don’t want you to get hurt anymore. Fives…” 

Fives can’t look at him. Sweat drips down his brow like a river. His mind is combusting. He convulses on the floor, gritting his teeth so hard that part of him thinks that they might shatter. The dark swirls to life. Fives grabs it, pulls it close and feels a bit of the pain fade minutely. 

“You’re so close,” Echo tells him. “Just let it stay, Fives. It’s not just a tool. You have to make it a part of you.”

Fives snarls.

“No,” he hisses. He lets go of the dark and allows the pain to return. 

Dimly, in the back of his mind, he knows that this is the last time he’ll have the strength to rebel. Echo makes a sound of frustration and hurt.

Palpatine doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ever now, really. Fives is sure that the Sith thinks it’s beneath him. He hadn’t spoken much when it had just been the two of them either, and now Echo does the talking. Palpatine’s presence leaves Fives without warning. The sudden freedom so unexpected that Fives gapes in bewilderment. 

He’d been expecting lightning and agony as a result of his disobedience. It doesn’t come. Palpatine’s eyes flicker over to Echo. Echo doesn’t say anything, but he nods once, and Palpatine leaves with a sweep of his robes. 

Fives hauls himself shakily to his feet, confused. 

“W-what—?” he croaks out. 

“You’re not going to like this at all,” Echo says, and for the first time, Fives hears regret in his brother’s voice. 

“What are you talking about—?”

Echo reaches out and grabs him with the Force. Echo’s never done that before. He’ll enter Fives’ mind, press some of the pain away when he’s allowed to, but he’s never used it to paralyze, or to harm like the Sith does. Fives panics, because for a brief moment he’s afraid that Echo is going to pick up right where Palpatine left off. 

Instead, Echo lifts him, brow furrowed, and pulls Fives with him out of the cell. 

Fives doesn’t know what’s going on. He tries to fight. He batters his will against Echo’s because Echo’s strength can’t compare with Palpatine’s and Fives can actually make him flinch. But Echo still has more experience than Fives does, and he keeps mostly Fives motionless as he walks them through a dim hallway and into another room. 

There’s a chair in the center of the room. Echo eases Fives into it and fastens cuffs around Fives’ arms and legs. Fives pants in apprehension. This doesn’t look good. He doesn’t think it could possibly hurt more than Palpatine can make it, but Echo is grim, and that makes him worry.

“You just… need a little push. That’s all,” Echo says quietly. “It’s okay. I needed it too.”

“The kriff is this?” Fives demands, jerking against the metal restraints. “Let me go!”

“You know I can’t,” Echo reminds him curtly. “This is to help you, Fives. Why is that so hard for you to comprehend?”

“If you really wanted to help me, you would have stopped this a long time ago,” Fives gasps out. Echo huffs and ignores that. 

“This device is experimental. Our Master hopes to use it in the future, to show others like us the true ways of the Force. It will let you see things as I do, I hope.”

Echo pauses for a moment. Fives feels him reaching out towards their Force bond, sending him apologies and peace and reassurance that Fives does not want. He recoils from it, pushes Echo away, and he sees Echo’s eyes go wide with shock. 

“You aren’t my brother,” Fives snarls at him. “My brother is dead.”

For a moment, Fives can see past the dark that swirls in Echo’s eyes. Something shatters. Echo tries to reach for him again, tugging at the bond forcefully. Fives flinches and cuts him off. Echo’s side of the bond lights up with confusion and panic, but Fives won’t let him in. 

A moment later, Echo’s expression hardens, and anger replaces the vulnerability. 

Echo slams his hand down onto the control panel at his side. The machine begins to whir to life. Fives glances down and sees needles drawing closer to his skin on either side of him. He swallows.

“Echo...”

“You could have avoided this, you know. You could have stopped it already. You have the power to end it. All you have to do is stop rejecting it, stop rejecting me,” Echo snarls. His eyes flash yellow again. Fives hates it when they do that. It’s a harsh reminder that his brother is gone, that Echo has been replaced by something that has his face but not his heart.

“You don’t have to be afraid. Not of the chair, not of the Dark Side, not of anything. You have me now,” Echo whispers in his ear. “Aren’t you grateful? I didn’t have anyone to get me through these things. I was all alone.” He bares his teeth in a pale imitation of a smile. “It nearly killed me. You’re lucky, Fives. Lucky that I’m here to help.” 

Electroprods blaze to life. Fives hadn’t even noticed them until now, but they’re inching close alongside the needles. Fives trembles. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t. He’s so tired of pain.

“Echo, don’t. Please. Get me out of here, this isn’t you—!”

Echo’s expression twists into a distorted parody of sympathy. He strokes a hand over Fives hair in a motion that’s supposed to be soothing before taking a step back so that he’s out of range of the chair’s influence. “I’m right here. You just have to endure it, and hate. Everything will be alright after that. Trust me. I’ll be right here, don’t worry.”

Fives twists, shakes, closes his eyes and tries to shut out Echo’s words because it’s wrong, it’s twisted and horrible and he’s so, so afraid. 

“Echo, let me go. Echo, please! Please, please don’t don’t—!”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When he wakes up, his world is on fire. He moans before he can stop himself and that just makes it worse. It feels like there are shards of glass down his throat. He’s curled in a little ball next to someone, and he doesn’t need to see in order to know who it is. 

“Sleep, Fives,” Echo tells him. Fives is too tired, too hurt, too beaten down to even think about disobeying. He drifts off again, but when he comes to once more the pain hasn’t faded even a bit. 

Echo is speaking in the dark of the cell, breathing something out in quiet rolling syllables that Fives doesn’t understand. The words grate against Fives’ mind. They’re… familiar, somehow, but not to him. The dark in him leaps in recognition. 

“Nwûl tash. Dzwol shâsotkun. Shâsotjontû châtsatul nu tyûk. Tyûkjontû châtsatul nu midwan. Midwanjontû châtsatul nu asha. Ashajontû kotswinot itsu nuyak. Wonoksh qyâsik nun.”

Echo repeats it once, twice, three times. Fives doesn’t try to speak just yet. Even lifting his head sends lightning pain skittering through his body. Echo must sense that he’s awake. He prods at Fives’ mind through the bond, and Fives is too weak to resist this time. Echo hums in satisfaction as their minds curl together. Fives pushes at him weakly, but Echo bats his protests aside. 

“You want to know what it means?” he asks quietly. “It’s what you could have, if you’d let us show you. Peace is a lie, there is only passion. Through passion, I gain strength. Through strength, I gain power. Through power, I gain victory. Through victory, my chains are broken. The Force shall free me.” He pauses. “Do you want to be free, Fives?”

Fives rumbles out a bitter laugh that vibrates through his bones and makes him ache.

“I am free. You’re the one who isn’t.”

Echo doesn’t say anything for a long, long moment. 

“Maybe I’m not,” he finally admits. “But you’ll join us anyway. If it’s true that I’m not free, you won’t leave me to face servitude alone.”

 Servitude. Ha. 

“I’m loyal to the Republic,” Fives croaks out, but he hasn’t actually thought of the Republic in a long time. Echo laughs at him.

“Maybe you were,” he whispers. “But you’ve always been more loyal to me.” 

He’s right. Fives loves his brother far more than he will ever love the Republic.

Fives is done resisting. He’d known that he was going to give in the moment he’d seen Echo. He’s just been putting it off. He closes his eyes and lets every muscle in his body go slack. The barriers that he’s put up to keep the dark away fade. The dark swells, throbs, billows to life. Fives lets it swallow him whole. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fives understands everything now.

The dark is his friend. The dark belongs with him. It sings contentedly as it thrums between him and his brother, binding them together as they kneel at Palpatine’s feet. When the Sith gestures for them to rise, they do so as one, more in sync than they’ve ever been. Fives shares a victorious glance with Echo as Palpatine’s satisfaction rolls over them.

“You are my prototypes,” he tells them with a slow smile. “The predecessors to my future Inquisitors. Your conversions were successful, and theirs will be, too.”

The Sith presents them with lightsabers. Fives accepts the weapon and licks his lips. The dark curls around him like a blanket. It isn’t cold, not anymore. 

He’s not sure why it had taken him so long to accept it. 

His bond with Echo is alight with energy and power. Fives can practically taste it. He knows that Echo can, too. 

It is better, just like Echo had promised. And Fives doesn’t really care what happens to him anymore, not as long he can stay side by side with his brother.   

[undeadsnorlax]

Cumbersome and Heavy

Archive of our Own link

@badthingshappenbingo​

Prompt: Big Brother Instinct

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (TV Series)

Warnings: hurt/comfort, nightmare sequence (involving temporary character death and blood+gore), referenced self-harm and child abuse

Wordcount: 2514

Big Brother Instinct - where a character has an instinctive desire to act as protector for a younger or smaller siblings. Luther feels he's failed this aspect of his personality too many times over. He's scared of it happening again. And the subconscious sure loves playing with those fears.

Luther was aware, the moment his eyes opened, that he was dreaming. Of course he was – he was back in the Umbrella Academy, the one he remembers, stood in the hallway near their childhood bedrooms, in the same dumb uniform he wore every day until he was eighteen and grew too tall to logically wear it. Except he’s…

He flexed a hand in front of his face. Not the mottled grey skin he’d grown to know, but tan and calloused palms instead. He strokes his face, feeling a scar over one brow and across a cheek, soft long hair…

“What the fuck?” Diego’s voice came out as he spoke.

Yeah. Definitely a dream. Right?

Luther looked around the corridor, a shiver running down his spine. It was…practically demolished. The doors of the rooms either shattered into splinters or hanging off the hinges. Peering in, he saw only wreckage. Toppled bookshelves and desks shattered in half…large sticky red smears on the walls and floor.

His nostrils flared. Blood.

“Shit.”

Luther kept moving, every step feeling as heavy as it did in his normal body, despite now possessing Diego’s. The whole house was dark, not even the faintest of light coming through the windows. It reminded him too much of the days he spent alone here. Every so often he’d recognise something belonging to his siblings, tossed about with disregard on the ground. Dog tags, a ripped up uniform, a snapped bowstring, shreds of a leather jacket.

Now he was in the entrance hall, how it was last time in their timeline – the chandelier that had fell on him smashed in the middle of the room, torn fabric stuck to it.

“Such a disappointment, isn’t he?”

A lump caught in Luther’s throat.

Just a dream he reminded himself, turning his head slowly to see Reginald stood at the top of the stairs.

“Perhaps you would have been the better Number One.”

No more numbers, Luther thought, clenching his fists shakily. But right now, he felt like a child again, like he had back at the supper in the 60s, unable to speak up. How many times had he let the threat of being demoted motivate him growing up? Had Diego heard similar? How he’d never be leader, never be held in the same regard Luther was, but maybe, just maybe if he pushed himself more, he could be?

His attention was drawn towards the living room. Grunts and growls and horrible snaps that made something deep in his stomach churn. Looking up towards the staircase again, Reginald had vanished.

He didn’t want to, but slowly Luther opened the living room door. There was some light in here, a flickering bulb swinging back and forth.

The smell of blood was strong.

And in the corner was…him. His actual body. He wasn’t wearing his shirt, his fur was thick and creating the most unsettling silhouette as he hunched over…something.

Luther felt that churning in his gut again, as if on some reflex as a knife flicked out into his palm.

Allison’s head was limp, staring up at him from the ground with glassy eyes. Vanya was a crushed pile, Klaus and Five’s mangled bodies tossed on top of each other.

His actual self turned his head, tilting it slightly. His eyes were black, his face smeared with blood…he stood, towering.

Luther gulped, taking a step back. Was this what his siblings saw every time he was near them? This hulking form that could block the light, muscles twitching and tensed with even the slightest movement.

His body smirked, showing blood in his teeth. Twitched stained fingers.

And suddenly he was that body, looking down at Diego in the stupid fucking uniform, pointing a single dagger in his direction.

“Luther. This isn’t you,” his brother said, voice shaking.

Luther licked his lips, letting out a soft growl. Inside he was screaming, stop, stop it, he’s right, it isn’t.

Stop being the monster you think you are.

He looked back at the shattered forms of his other four siblings. No, five siblings, because now leaned up against the smashed remains of the bar was Ben, head slumped to his chest and a gaping wound in his stomach.

Oh, all his life he’d been worried about this, wondering just how far his strength could go.

No, he didn’t need to wonder. Because he already knew, with the scars along his skin where he’d tried to carve himself back to normal after his accident, how it started as simple scratches but turned into chunks of gore that stuck under his nails. As long as he kept that damage to himself…

Watching Diego stand his ground, he knew he could tear him apart if he wanted. Snap his neck and rip his arms from his body. Crush his skull with the pressure of one hand, easily. Bite into his shoulder and come back with a mouthful of raw flesh. All manner of horrific acts with barely any effort.

As much as he tried to force himself to stay back, it was like Luther was in the passenger seat and this…beast was driving. He lunged forward, fingers wrapping around Diego’s throat and pinning him several feet above the ground as his knife fell to the floor with a clatter.

Diego struggled, gripping at Luther’s arm and kicking his legs out but he barely felt it.

Stop it, stop it, you’re not-

They were eleven years old and holding this same position. Luther wasn’t as big and Diego didn’t have his scars, and he could hear Ben’s voice yelling near him to calm down, Diego hadn’t meant whatever comment he’d said.

It’s how they found out Diego could hold his breath for so long. He ended up having a hand shaped bruise on his neck for two weeks straight.

Because that’s all Luther could do. He just hurt those he loved. And when he didn’t hurt them, he couldn’t protect them, so they still got hurt, like Ben and Elliot.

“Useless, Number One.”

Back to their adult bodies. Reginald stood in the doorway, shaking his head as Luther strangled his brother.

“You know you’re able to. Why hold back?”

“Because…I…” Luther took a laboured breath, every word being said through gritted teeth as he watched Diego’s eyes dim slightly. His grip loosened. “I don’t want to do this.”

“Yet here we are.” Reginald scoffed, shaking his head in the way that had made Luther’s heart sink for twenty-nine years. “If you truly don’t, you’d let go.”

He wanted to let go, he wanted this scene to shift and his siblings not be dead in a pile at his own hand and for this taunting form of his father to go away, he wanted to wake up-

Luther?

His grip tensed again.

Luther, what’s wrong? Wake up!

Diego looked at him, and it seemed like understanding on his face.

Is he okay?

I don’t know. Hey, hey, Luther, please, wake up. It’s fine.

Sn-a-p.

Christ, hang on.

What are you-

Diego fell limp.

The scene went dark.

…

Luther woke with a gasp as he felt water splash over his face, spluttering as he flailed about.

“Diego!” Vanya’s voice hissed, and in the gloom there was a gentle slap.

“Hey!” Diego whispered back, “Sorry, but I didn’t know what else to do!”

Luther’s eyes adjusted a little, feeling the dull ache in his chest from whatever kind of attack he’d been having whilst he slept.

Back in the motel room, where the springs of the bed dug into his spine. Back in the world the six of them didn’t quite belong in with no Umbrella Academy, a world where their father had formed the Sparrow Academy instead, with brand new children.

Safe. Everyone was alive. Even Ben, even if he wasn’t their Ben.

“Hey. Luther.”

Vanya gently took Luther’s hand, just about visible as she gestured her head towards the bathroom. Luther gulped and let her guide him to his feet, taking him there. The gentle padding of feet just behind told him Diego was following, but he wasn’t sure quite yet if he could look him in the eye.

He shut the door as they crammed into the small bathroom, Vanya sitting on the side of the bathtub as Diego jumped up on the counter. Luther, unsure of where else to put himself, just sat himself down on the floor with his head between his legs. He wanted to feel small.

“You were whimpering in your sleep bro,” Diego said, letting his voice carry a little louder now they were out of the main room, “Thrashing about like crazy.”

“Nearly kicked me out of bed,” Vanya said with a light-hearted smile, getting a towel to rub dry the parts of Luther’s face and hair that had been hit in the water throwing, “Thought I was through with that after Five forced me off the pull-out.”

“Would not have had him down for such a blanket hog,” Diego chuckled, tilting his head to see if that got any response, “…Luther?”

Luther gulped, allowing himself to flop back against the wall, looking up at them. He could feel his hands shaking, his chest starting to tighten once more. “Just a dream,” he said, his voice strained. He paused, swallowed, and corrected himself. “A nightmare.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Vanya asked, now sitting down next to him, reaching out a hand that he flinched away from.

Luther tightened his own hand into a fist, feeling his nails dig into his palm. “I…I hurt you. All of you. Badly.”

“…how badly?” Diego joined them, keeping in a crouched position as his usually scowling face softened.

Luther felt like he could still smell blood when he flared his nostrils. “I’d…I’d killed you all. Torn you to shreds, crushed you up.” He gulped heavily. “I might’ve…I think I ate some of you? There was just…a lot going on. Like a horror movie. And Dad was there, taunting me into finishing you off.”

A moment of silence as Diego and Vanya gave each other a look. It was surprise, Luther was sure of that, but he didn’t know if it was a good way or a bad way.

“But you wouldn’t do that,” Diego said firmly, “You wouldn’t hurt us like that, you know you wouldn’t.”

“But I could.” Luther winced, unfurling his fingers and looking at his palm, though hiding it from view. He hadn’t broken the skin enough to draw blood, thankfully, but enough to leave several red crescent moon shapes. “I-I always manage to hurt you guys. What I did to you, Vanya. What I did to Klaus, and I still don’t remember it happening properly. Ben-“

“You can’t keep blaming yourself for that,” Diego growled, shifting to sit on his knees, “We all messed up there, but even then, there’s nothing we could have done to prevent it. It just happened.”

“But Ben’s alive here. A world without me as leader, and Ben lived.”

“Yeah, and guess what? He’s also a colossal dickhead.”

Vanya reached out and took Luther’s hand again, forcing the palm upwards and showing the marks there. Her expression made him cringe, look in the other direction. Most of his siblings had pieced together his self-destructive tendencies by now, but Vanya had been the one to bare witness to some of them, like that fight he threw back in ’63. “Diego’s right, you know,” she said, turning his hand back over to rub his knuckles, “It wasn’t your fault. It was nobody’s fault.”

“It was Dad’s fault for pushing Ben against his will,” Diego added, getting a smug little glow from being told he was right for once.

“Easy to blame him for everything,” Luther mumbled, staring at the strands of fur poking out from the cuff of his long-sleeved t-shirt, “What did he not fuck us over with?”

“I know we’re having a serious heart-to-heart right now, but I love this bitter Luther who hates Dad.”

He glanced up at Diego then scoffed, shrugging a shoulder. “I love it too. I’m jealous of you guys for realising it sooner.”

His brother and sister both gave him a smile, glad he was calming down. Still, Luther rested his head back against the wall, staring at the flickering light until he saw shapes.

“I wasn’t me at the start of the dream. I was…I was in your body, Diego. And I saw me from your point of view.” He swallowed heavily, turning his fingers so he could give Vanya’s hand the softest squeeze. “I’m…terrifying.”

“Remember when we were kids?” Vanya asked, squeezing his hand back with all her might, “Whenever I found a spider in my bedroom. I’d come to you for help. You know why?”

Luther’s face contorted as he gave it genuine thought but gave up with a huff. “No.”

“Because you were always the gentlest. Klaus and Diego always managed to kill it and Allison and Ben hated them, and Five never managed to catch it properly, but you would get a cup and a piece of paper and release it out your window without hurting it.”

Luther just huffed again, wrinkling his nose. “It’s not like it’s hard…”

“You always made those model kits with all those little bits that snap super easy,” Diego added, sliding up to lean against the wall next to him, “And I’ve never seen a record collection in such perfect condition. Face it, for a guy with super strength, you’re very delicate.”

“…I hate you guys.” It came out dry and sarcastic, through a shy grin. “Okay, I know. I wouldn’t hurt anyone to that extent on purpose, but I still could.”

“And hopefully when you do, it’ll be on the old bastard himself,” Diego said, punching his arm, which got another scoff of laughter.

“I wasn’t the only one whose powers he was holding back,” Vanya said. She reached over to get some toilet paper, not letting go of Luther’s hand as she did, before handing the wad to him. “If he’d just…bothered a little more, you wouldn’t have to be so worried about hurting people.”

“To be fair, that’s all we were taught to do.” Luther blew his nose into the tissue, sighing slowly. “…thanks you guys. For hearing me out.”

Diego threw an arm over his shoulder, pulling his head in close to bump their foreheads together. “Hey. Don’t mention it Lu, okay? We got your back, like we know you got ours.”

“Let’s get back to bed now, huh?” Vanya added softly, awkwardly wiggling closer to give Luther a hug, arms barely reaching around his chest, “Then in the morning, we could…go to that diner on the next block! The one with all those different juice machines?”

Luther closed his eyes, wanting to savour this moment for a little longer as he placed one hand on Vanya’s side and the other at the back of Diego’s head. He was far away from that nightmare now, and that’s all it had been, and all it would ever be. A bad dream.

[brandysawyer]

Pink Motel

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Rafe and Reader have been together for three years, but their relationship is being jeopardized by Rafe’s new lifestyle. Based off the song Pink Motel by The Glorious Sons. (pre-murder, same Rafe).

Warnings: fighting, swearing, mentions of drugs/alcohol

Notes: this is a great song you should all listen to the whole thing. I’m not a writer and I prob won’t ever write again I just wanted to do this and then dip

Word count: ~1400

*not my gif

—-—

“Rafe...stop-- Rafe!” You yell over the sound of a bottle exploding against the wall of your boyfriend’s room. Rafe’s hands go to his hair, running through it anxiously. His entire body is shaking as he paces back and forth. You try to put your arms around him from behind to calm him down, but he quickly pushes you away and picks up another empty beer bottle. You grab it before he can throw it, and his eyes meet yours.

“Baby, we can leave... we can leave right now.” You spoke urgently, leaning towards him and placing a hand on his cheek. Your thumb strokes his flushed skin, his anger nearly bubbling through his pores. His crazed eyes seems to settle for a second as he processed your words, urging you to say more.

“I got a key to a Pink Motel, you know, the one near the beach? We can go there right now, we don’t have to stay here.” You start to pull on his arm, but he resists.

“I can’t just fucking leave, Y/N! That’s exactly what my dad wants me to do, run away like the failure he thinks I am!” The flame behind his eyes returns as he pulls away from you. “I can fucking fix this, okay? I’ll show him! I just gotta push the last of Barry’s coke and I’m set. I- I’ll pay my dad back, and everything will be fucking fine!” Saliva shoots from his mouth with every word, and he clenches his fist until his knuckles go white.

Tears start forming in your eyes as you watch him spiral. You want to hold him so bad but he keeps backing away from you.

“No, fuck Ward!” You snap at him, making his eyes meet yours and then shift to the door where his dad still sits downstairs.

“Y/N--“ he approaches you with a hand out, warning you to stop. You ignore him and cut him off.

“No, Rafe! I’m so sick of this! Every week it’s something else, some problem that you’ve created for yourself. Every week it’s smashed bottles and drugs and screaming matches with Ward. It has to- to stop...” Your voice hitches and bring your hands to your face to cover up your increasing tears. There used to be a time where the sight of you crying made Rafe melt and wrap around you, but he stands rigid in the corner of the room.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N. My life is fucked. My dad thinks I’m useless. I’m the only fucking person on this island who doesn’t have their shit together, and everyone knows it.”

“That isn’t true—”

“Yes it is! They all fucking talk about me like I’m the biggest fuck up around. Are you going to turn on me, too, Y/N? You want to criticize me? Get in line.”

His question stings, making you flinch. He looks like a stranger. You begin to see a flicker of what Sarah’s friends must see in him. Pure, unwavering rage. And hate. He wasn’t always like this. He used to be so sweet. Looking into his eyes now, you try to remember. It’s the only thing you can do when he acts like this, the only thing that keeps you around longer. He used take you to down to the beach at night where you could look at the stars. He would hold your hand as you pointed out constellations. Remember, you urge yourself. Neither of you cared about the country club, or what kind of boat he had. Sometimes he would sneak in through your bedroom window and you would both stay up all night kissing and laughing and trying not to get caught. You remember.

“You're measuring us up against everything and everyone around. You’ll never get yourself together if you keep worrying about what your father thinks of you!”

“Stop…” he warns.

“You’re setting yourself up for failure. You’re setting me up for failure. I’m trying so hard to be there for you but I’ll never be enough, Rafe. There's a voice telling you to be perfect and it's bringing us down.”

You’re breathing heavily now, tears flowing down your cheeks. Rafe holds eye contact for a second and then looks away, his anger morphing into anguish.

“Look at me, Rafe.” His face contorts in pain, his eyes are filled with tears like yours. His gaze stays fixated on the floor as he crouches down with his fingers interlaced around the back of his head like a shield. “Rafe...look at me.”

“I can’t.” He whispers, so low you can barely hear him. Your guard drops a little so you get on your knees next to him and place a hand on his shoulder. You lower your voice with his.

“I remember when we never needed anything at all. Do you? It was just about the two of us. None of this other shit.”

His head turns toward you slightly but he still doesn’t look at you.

“Baby, we can leave. We can leave right now. Please.”

He finally meets your gaze. His eyes are full of pain, guilt, and confusion. You search his face for the answer he isn’t giving The past year has been hard on both of you. The constant pressure from Ward broke Rafe a long time ago, and he collapsed under the debilitating scrutiny. He sought out solace in drugs and booze, waving off your every attempt to comfort him. It was driving you apart, and you weren’t sure he loved you anymore.

“Rafe, please,” you begged.

His silence continued for a few seconds longer than what was comfortable. Finally, his face tightened, “I can’t, Y/N. I can’t just leave. It’s not that simple. It’s not up to you.” His voice came out lower than you expected, and it paralyzed you.

“You’re acting just like him!” Rafe stands up, leaving you on the floor, and towers over you. “You think you can just control everything about me! Don’t think you’re hiding it, Y/N, I see how you look at me. You think I’m useless, too.”

You look up at him and his pointer finger that he has extended toward you accusingly. You can feel the tether between you, that was once unbreakable, loosening with every word. He was pulling away. This was his way of protecting himself. Leave before you can be left. Your stomach swells with a mix of sadness and anger. Three years. You’ve been together for three years and now everything you’ve built is being torn down.

You rise to his level, still landing a full head below him. Your face is puffy from crying and you speak softly now, “I can't help if you want more than love. I can't help you if this is not enough. You have to decide what matters more to you. I care about you. I care about you!” You put your finger against his chest, over his heart. “But I can’t keep doing this. I take a beating every time something goes wrong with you. What happened to us?”

His eyes drop again and his hair falls into his face, no longer gelled back. He doesn’t bother to fix it. His arms hang at his sides and he looks defeated. You wait for him to speak but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“Don't wait for me to leave you, baby, to tell me that I'm enough.” It’s both a plea and a warning. You watch his body language, looking for any indication that he cares at all. His silence is heavy, too heavy, and it forces you toward the door.

Tears start welling in your eyes again as he whispers your name, “Y/N, just wait.” You shake your head slowly and pick up your keys off of the nightstand. He takes a step toward you but you put your hand up to stop him. Your face is contorted in anguish and you stare into his eyes. He looks like a child, and you resist the urge to hold him.

“I don't care about anything at all but you,” you say. “If you care about me, you know where to find me.” You toss a pink tag on his bed, and twist the doorknob with your other hand, leaving him with a key to a pink motel.

[stonecoldjerseyfox]

Jersey on my mind (part 1)

Daryl rams his fist in the roof of the car as hard as he possibly can and swears loudly at his own stupidity; he doesn't even try to tailor the words as he utters a whole bunch of profanity, without its equal. Fucking hell! Of course it was a trap! And here they are, locked inside a car, like a baffled fox stuck in a fox scissors. The difference is that he and Aaron are stuck inside a crappy car with a dead engine, surrounded by walkers. How many are they? Too many. Right now, he’d preferred the fox scissors. With pulsating, burning knuckles he looks at his male companion.

”What?”

The man in the passenger seat observes him calmly. Daryl hesitates at first, but on the other hand; they are sitting in a car that can be devoured, to say the least, by hordes of walkers any second. It would just require that one of those rotten morons manages to smash a window.

”I came out here too, ya know, not feel all close up back there.” Daryl scoffs. ”Even now, this still feels more like me than back in them houses. That's pretty messed up, huh?”

Aaron meets his gaze, nods slightly, with a faint smile. Is it pity?

”You were trying.”

Maybe all in vain, Daryl thinks. He’s been accustomed to surviving day by day; all of his life has been about surviving, often day by day, to the point where this new reality feels completely unnatural to him. Being out in the woods, hunt for food, sleep underneath the stars, wash off wherever he could find water. Nowadays, since the group settled in Alexandria, he feels like a caged, wild animal; shackled, restricted, totally superfluous. To admit that this new way of life doesn’t bring him any calm, any satisfaction, is shameful. But to come clean with it; if this is the end, it doesn’t matter, right?

”Listen-” Aaron says, while a walker presses its face towards the window, smears its saliva, mixed with blood, all over it. ”I saw you with your group out there. You led them to safety.”

Daryl grunts. Yep, he did. But that wasn't enough. Nothing is enough. He couldn't save Beth and it still haunts him in his dreams. No one, not even Maggie, blamed him for it, but it didn’t help him sleep any better at night. He thought the discovery of Alexandria would heal his wounds to some extent, make him feel that he was repaying some kind of debt to the group, a favor of some sort; In vain off course.

A dead bastard grins badly at him through the window. They can’t sit here. They have to get out. Aaron seems to think the same. Daryl takes a cigarette from his pocket, puts it between his lips and starts looking for something to light it with.

”I’ll go.” he says. ”I’ll lead them out. You make a break for the fence.”

Aaron immediately starts to oppose the plan. Crap, they don’t really have time to argue.  

”Just let me finish my smoke first.”

Daryl is about to take a throat flare when he’s interrupted. Somewhere on the outside, gunfire breaks out. Daryl drops the cigarette into his crotch out of pure surprise. He swears out loudly as the cigarette burns a small hole in his pants, while the walkers, whose attention has been directed towards the men inside the car, like kids in a candy store, shifts attention towards the sound. Aaron twists and turns in the passenger seats, tries to get a glimpse of what’s going on outside, but the walkers are in the way.

”What’s that?”

”I dunno.”

Whatever it may be, it can't be good. No one from their group knows they are here. Outside the car, walkers are mowed to the ground like dominoes. This is their chance.

”Come on.”

Daryl grabs the crossbow. With the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and with one last glance at Aaron, they swing the doors open and throw themselves out of the car. Without dropping the cigarette, Daryl swings the crossbow through the air and hits one of the walking corpses right in the kisser. Its jaw bone flies through the air and drops to the ground. At the same time Daryl sees two figures in the corner of his eyes he doesn’t recognize. A male, armed with what looks like the shaft of a broomstick, which he swings through the air like some goddamn- he’s torn from the staff and the man, as the second figure dives into his field of view. A woman, wearing a hat, armed with an automatic rifle that she aims at a walker right behind him; she shoots and the bullet hits straight in the head.

”Let’s go.” the unknown male waves at them to follow his lead.

They start running through the mass, towards the open gate in the fence, surrounding the area. Daryl shuts the gate in front of the remaining walkers just as they reaches it. Daryl and Aaron turns towards the newcomers. The situation has changed in the matter of seconds. From being crammed inside the car, surrounded by walkers and in the belief that their last moment had come, they have been freed by two complete strangers. The deserted street is littered with walkers. The four of them looks at each other, while the remaining dead sons of bitches tries their best to squeeze themselves trough the small squares of wired net.

”That was…” Aaron looks at them with his hands raised in front of him; some kind of peaceful gesture. ”That was… wow. Thanks. I’m Aaron. This is Daryl.”

Without the slightest facial reaction, the woman lifts the rifle at them; over the barrel Daryl meets her steady, yet jaded, gaze underneath the brim. Come on…

”No, no, no.” Aaron waves his hands even more frantically in front of himself and Daryl.

”What the f-”

”Mila-” the man’s dark eyes widen at her bold action.

”Safety precaution, Morgan.” the woman replies, in a thick accent no one of them definitely haven’t heard before. ”You got to save them. Now we’re even.”

”I said no harm-”

”Yeah, ’cuz that went well yesterday?” she scoffs.

Daryl’s tired. Tired of being surprised, tired of being overshadowed and damn tired of having weapons aimed at him; he raises his crossbow at her. That might make her boggle. It doesn’t.

”I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” she says. Without breaking their eye contact she nods the barrel towards the ground, for him to put down his crossbow.

”Ain’t that smart pointing guns at people, lady.”

”Ain’t smart getting trapped either.”

Don’t fucking test my patience, Daryl thinks, focuses on breathing trough his nose; it’s not the right time to fire up, though his temper works against him on that part. He sighs and reluctantly lowers the crossbow. Behind the rifle he’s met with a smirk, whereupon she lowers the rifle.

”Great.” Aaron lets out a deep sigh. ”Thanks, again. Erhm, why-” he turns and looks at the bloodthirsty cluster behind the fence.

Daryl looks at the male with the staff. Why didn’t he kill them? She was the only one who actually did.

”Because all life is precious, Daryl.”

At those words the woman rolls her eyes.

”Wha-”

”Don’t ask.” the young woman interrupts Aaron. ”We have to move. Whoever set the trap will return.”

Daryl looks at the unlucky couple. He’s in his late forties, tall and dressed in cargos; she can't be a day older than thirty, maybe even younger. Short, athletic similar to a long-distance runner; tenacious, lean muscles. Except for the hat, she’s dressed in jeans, denim shirt, a quilted rust colored jacket and a pair of boots. What catches his eye is how worn and pale she looks. The shadows under her eyes tattles that she hasn’t slept for a long time, may need to eat, or even have a cold. At that moment she puts her fingers in the corners of her mouths and whistles loudly. The sharp sound bounces over the desolated road, against the buildings. As on command the back door of an abandoned pickup opens further afield. At first he’s sure it’s an ambush. The next second, and he can hardly believe his eyes, a boy, no more than three or four years old, with long, blonde hair, climbs out of the back seat and runs towards them. He carries a walkman and a pair of headphones in his small hands. A small backpack bounces on his back as he scurries up to them, where he clings to the women's jeans, seemingly calm, curious even with the two newcomers. The extra weight the boy puts on her, while clinging to her right leg, seems to make her sway on the spot.

”He’s yours?”

What a stupid question; the only difference is the blonde hair, unlike hers. Otherwise, he’s a copy of his mother.  

”He is.”

She looks at the boy, then back at Daryl. The gaze is steady, alert; like a she-wolf watching its cub. The boy tugs at his mother’s jacket. She looks at him and shakes her head lightly, making the long hair sway.  

”Schh. I can’t carry you.” she whispers towards him and turns her head towards them. ”As I said, we better get out of here.” she repeats and squeezes the boy’s small hand, while giving Morgan a glance. ”It's dusk soon.”

”Oh, but we have good news!” Aaron exclaims; the former politician returns to his role, in the hunt for voters and supporters. Or in this case, survivors to join them. ”We have a community not far from here. Walls, electricity, it’s really safe. If you’d like to come with us…”

They expect them to look overwhelmed. Maybe surprised even. Instead, Morgan shakes his head and politely abrupts Aaron.

”No, thank you. We’re on our way somewhere.” Morgan nods towards Mila and the boy, whose big blue eyes are pasted on Daryl and the crossbow in his hand.

”Though we are a bit lost-” Morgan continues, starts to search through the pockets of his jacket. ”If you could tell me where we are.”

From the beige weather jacket he takes a folded map, which he hands over to Daryl. He takes it. It’s well-used, worn and stained. Over the big blue field that is the Atlantic, next to the east coast, someone has written a message in blue ink. His eyes are drawn to a certain part of the message. He looks at Morgan, back at the message. ’Sorry, I was an asshole. Come to Washington. The new world’s gonna need Rick Grimes’. Once again he looks up at Morgan. What does this mean? He knows Rick?  

”Ya’ know Rick? Rick Grimes?”

”Well, yes.” Morgan's eyes wander between him and Aaron. ”Do you?”

”He’s with us.” Daryl returns the map. ”Back at Alexandria.”

Morgan and Mila look at each other. The man seems not to believe his ears, whereupon he declares that he found the map at a church, with Rick's name on it.

”That's where I met Mila, and Juri. We decided to stick together, go to Washington.”

”Well, he aint there.”

That’s when the situation, once again, changes rapidly, in a matter of seconds. The pale woman’s pupils dilates, as if a curtain is drawn in front of her, and she collapses on the ground in front of them.

”Mila!”

Morgan throws himself down next to her, followed by Aaron who takes the boy by the arm and pulls him over. Daryl gets down on one knee next to her; while Morgan pats her on the cheek, calling her name, Daryl places the back of his hand against her forehead, while his eyes searches for the cause of this.

”Mila, Mila!”

”She’s burning up.” Daryl states. ”When did you last eat?”

”A couple of hours ago.” Morgan says, and for the first time since they met him, he looks afraid. ”She didn't eat much though. I don’t understand.”

”What’s wrong with her?” Aaron’s eyes are worried. ”Is she hurt?”

Like on command, Daryl once again searches her with his eyes, from top to bottom. She starts to move, or rather shivers with chills, while grunting, like in pain. She has a fever and is pale like a sheet.

”She’s wounded or something? Sick?”

”I don't think so. Don't know. She hasn't said anything.” Morgan meets his gaze. ”We were assaulted yesterday, the same group that trapped you I believe. But we disarmed them.”

That's when Daryl’s eyes are drawn to the tank top; it looks bulky at the stomach, as if it were too much fabric at that particular spot, and in addition, the entire middle part of the garment is somewhat stained, wet even. Without warning, Daryl lifts the top. What’s underneath causes Aaron to put his hands in front of the boy's eyes; it’s not a pretty sight.

”All life is precious, my ass-” Daryl takes a deep breath and sighs. This ain’t good. ”Son of a bitch.”

Her midsection is wrapped in three layers of gaffer tape with pieces of grey cloths, soaked in blood. The skin is swollen and shifts in a palette of red, purple and blue.

”I had no idea.” Morgan exclaims.

”Well, now ya’ do.” Daryl sputters and takes out his knife. ”Gotta remove this. Hold her.”

While Morgan tries to get a word from Mila, Daryl cuts the tape and carefully lifts the bloody pieces of grey melange fabric, seemingly what once was a t-shirt. It’s worse than he thought. A gash, from what looks like a sharp object, like a machete, runs from navel to rib cage, is stapled with a staples gun and leeks fluid. The fact that the wound is stapled and that Morgan had no idea she was hurt, makes it even more bizarre; did she staple herself?

”Gotta get her to Alexandria.” Daryl says. ”She needs a medic.”

Without waiting for an answer, as if there was time for it, Daryl lifts her off the ground. If he, or they, doesn’t act quickly, she’ll die. And considering the boy- she quips when Daryl adjusts her in his arms, most likely in pain; that she was able to walk around an entire day, and ward off walkers with that wound; impressive, but incredibly foolish. How much blood has she lost by now? What was she thinking? That staples and gaffer tape would do the trick? It’s like a goddamn scrapbooking project. She ain’t no surgeon, that’s for sure. Morgan collects their belongings; backpacks and weapons, Aaron takes the boy, who hasn’t said a word during the entire time, in his arms and they start scudding back toward Alexandria.

(I’ll be posting part 2 asap)

[nukyster-blog]

Changing course Chapter 13) Nail to the Cross

.-.-.

The Giant revealed himself to be a very faithful man. As a true Christian, he cherished the evangelical and found it necessary to spread the word of his God. The devotee put all his subjects through the torture of the Sunday services. Every soul living in and near the Castle de Haar was packed into the Gothic splendor of the chapel, built safely within the stone walls of the fortress. Heavy iron bound doors welcomed all attendees, even the forced ones. 

Ivar and Piglet were stored away in the back of the chapel, far away from the altar and crucifix. While the slave maiden used her precious free time to close her eyes and doze off, Ivar used his for observation. 

It surprised him that the Giant wasn’t the master of the castle. The colossal being sat on the second row and made a cross to the statue of the supposed virgin and child. The first row was still empty and remained empty until the very last moment. The ecclesiastical tones and whispers hushed simultaneously as a couple strolled in. Every single soul inside the chapel stood up, all except Ivar of course, who did his best to peek alongside elbows and hips to glaze at the pompous couple. The woman, draped from head to toe in silk with jewelries to match the expensive material, appeared bored out of her mind. Her second chin wiggled with every step she took. Her husband’s belly was as bloated as his ego and was held in place by a leather belt engraved with gold and rubies. 

Ivar’s face fell as he realised that those two spineless, overindulged royalties were his rulers. Of course he’d rather get the plague than bow to the Giant, but at least the man had an imposing build and a personality to match. These two obese creatures matched in size with the pigs he took care of. 

Piglet awoke from Ivar’s squirming to see passed all the bystanders and noticed his focus on the couple. 

“Lambertus de Haar,” she whispered near Ivar’s ear, “ Haedwien de Haar,” she carefully gestured towards the woman before rigorously spitting on the floor. Piglet’s hostile reaction pleased Ivar, as he was forced to participate in a Christian ritual, it was nice to at least sit with a kindred spirit.

The service was endless, the priest mustered up words in such a dreadfully toneless voice Ivar had to pinch himself to stay away. By the time the man slapped the musty old prayer book shut, Ivar had counted all of the sixty two candle holders twenty seven times. But that was not the end, not by far and Ivar feared he was going to lose his mind underneath the eyes of the apostles printed into the stained glass of the high arched windows. 

As a coin box passed between the rows, Ivar was plaguing his brain; the chapel had a few define scents, most he could place. Incense, flowers, musty stench of human sweat. But all weren’t strong enough to mask the rotting scent of flesh in an advanced state of decay. 

Piglet’s eyes reopened and captured Ivar’s scrunched up nose. Yawning, she patted her bare foot on the marble flooring. Ivar drew his gaze down and noticed the imprinted handwriting in the stones. Although he could not read the words, he did notice similarity in the lines and numbers. 

Piglet noticed his struggle to put two and two together. She clutched her own throat and let her eyes roll back, then tapped her foot back down on the floor and waved her hand near her nose. 

Ivar’s eyes enlarged in disgust, were they sitting on top of rotting corpses? Did these people not give their dead a proper burial or burn their bodies? Why keep their corpses so close to their holy house? 

Biting his lip, Ivar tried to will the stench away, but it was all consuming now that he knew the origin of it. Subconsciously, his fingers started to drum on the wooden pew. When he received angered glares from the peasants left from him, he let his fingers slide underneath the seat and clutched at the wood. Puffing his cheeks, Ivar wondered how long he still had to suffer through this Christian nonsense. 

The people around him rose on their feet singing hymns for their one God. Ivar rolled his eyes while his fingers continued their drumming. Until a pinprick in his index finger paused his frustrated fidgeting. 

There was a nail sticking out, right underneath his seat. Ivar inched forward and twined the nail between his thumb and index fingers, giving it a proper tug. The nail moved underneath his fingers and for the remaining time Ivar stretched the nail around and around. 

As the churchgoers stood up for the last time, the nail finally gave in and quickly Ivar clasped his hands together, the rusty weapon-to-be safely hidden inside his palms. 

Piglet brow rose up by his sudden devotion and snorted, probably seeing his act as a betrayal to their shared hatred towards the Christians. 

“Amen,” the slave maiden hissed through her teeth with enough disgust it could have been poison. 

The service ended and slowly the rulers of the castle rose and exited the chapel. Common folk followed like meek sheep. Piglet and Ivar were one of the last ones inside and Ivar took his time ‘getting up’ before sliding down onto the marble floor. With all the ogling eyes of the Churchgoers still fresh in his mind, he tried to silently leave the house of the false God. Piglet loyally walked by him and hissed cattishly to a few scampering kids who were about to throw pebbles at the two of them. 

It was degrading to have a thrall fighting his battles, but Ivar endured the shame in silence since he needed both hands to drag his lower half across. Due to the wounds on his knees, he had to slide on his side and it took the pair forever to get back to the pigsty. 

“Ya Hamar...” Piglet’s voice was filled with compassion as she noticed how his trousers were giving up completely and lay torn and ragged over his scraped thigh. 

Ivar eyes scolded at her and briefly flickered passed her as he noticed the form of the Giant approaching. Alarmed, Piglet turned around, saw her abuser and rapidly scattered off to her duties. Ivar wasn’t so lucky, he had no time to escape. At a snail’s pace, he tried to reach the pigsty, but the Giant caught up with him. Ivar’s arms were being kicked from under him and his chin hit the cobblestone floor. 

His blood hummed in his veins as he overheard the Giant’s amused laughter. Cocking his head up, Ivar was just fast enough to raise his elbows in front of his face as the Giant’s leather boot aimed for his cheekbone. Determination and anger took over as the Giant drew his boot back and stomped it into Ivar’s stomach. His guts smashed together, bruises formed. But he was not going to make a sound. No, he was going to suffer in silence and take the beating like a man. The battering did not continue for long as Ivar played dead, the Giant quickly lost interest.

  Hands the size of shovels dragged him on his feet with ease. Ivar was shoved over the wooden fence of the pigsty and submerged into the gritty muck. 

Feeling water and pig’s urine seep through his haphazard clothing, he allowed his chest to gently rise and sink with every shallow breath he drew in. Laughing cackled over the muddy field and if Ivar had any say, he’d allow the earth to open up and swallow him whole. 

That man standing behind him was a monster and besides despising the Giant, Ivar envied him. Once, he’d been standing on that other side of the fence, being the one torturing his thralls and peasants. As Ivar’s face lifted from the mud, it was like looking into a mirror. 

Glee, satisfaction, it all radiated from the Giant’s smoldering eyes. An Alpha, a dominator of the weaklings, the unworthy. 

Ivar was staring up at a monster, so close to his own image. Yet, so far away from what he’d become. Because he was the underdog now, the pariah and the victim. 

His fists punched the murky floor as he was left to fulfill his duty; taking care of the pigs. Within his right fist the nail dug deep into his flesh and he made himself a sincere promise; this was the first of many he’d be using to nail that bastard to his holy cross. 

.-.-.

A/N: Yes, so I’d like to point out another ‘fact’, in Holland we have a saying ‘rijke stinkerds’ which roughly translates into ‘filthy rich’. Which is the fact of this chapter, the rich used to be buried inside the church, but lacking proper air conditioning...the place at times could stink due to all the rotten bodies (badly) buried underneath the marble. Hope you’ve enjoyed the chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The tagged ones:

@youbloodymadgenius

@xbellaxcarolinax

@saldelys

@shannygoatgruff

@pieces-by-me

@apenas-mais-uma-pessoa

@readsalot73

@lauraan182

If you’d liked to be tagged, please let me know:)

Xoxox Nukyster

[mxvirani]

hate me, | self para

tw: depressing as hell, addiction, overdose, suicidal ideation

This is your mother, and it's 2:33 on Monday afternoon I was just calling to see how you were doing You sounded really uptight last night It made me a little nervous, and a l... and... well... it made me nervous, it sounded like you were nervous, too I just wanted to make sure you were really OK And wanted to see if you were checking in on your medication

the answering machine beeped off in the distance as he stared at the ceiling, his fingers intertwined in a ball of elastic bands. he remembered them bounce across the ground at george’s feet when they were still preteens, that was the day that they had first locked eyes. all of the memories in darkwood were interlaced, cropped together and turned into a never ending reel. it was never the story of his life, it was always the story of george’s, the story of nina’s. mx had never been a main character and now in the shadows where he lay, he wished he could erase himself from the reel altogether. 

his mothers voice was not enough to pull him from the darkness that engulfed him, it had been one year since the fire and as he sat up, he stared at the pictures he splayed like posters across the walls. there they were, laughing. they were always laughing. mx didn’t laugh anymore, somewhere deep inside there was a pain that was tearing him apart and the only light he had ever known had been torn right out of the world.

barefooted he walked to the wall and he tore down a picture, a lighter from his pocket aflame as he watched george’s face burn out from the surroundings. they weren’t laughing anymore, now there he was, just him alone and next to him a burned void where someone used to be. that was all it was, him and his void. together forever, unchanged and alone. that was all he wanted it to be.

I have to block out thoughts of you so I don't lose my head They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that I'm alone

a night out with dean but dean never really saw the end; he saw the legendary parts, the laughs and the excitement. he saw the mx that had once been so bright as a burned out star and god, mx laughed and it shook every part of his insides. it racked his ribcage until it felt it would fall apart. he laughed so hard with dean that he thought one day his head would spin off and the world would finally go dark (or maybe that was what he wished for).

when the door slammed shoot to his studio apartment, his ribs cracked open and his body sunk to the floor. when he knew nobody could hear him he would scream in the middle of his kitchen until he fell to the floor like a scene from a horror movie. he would feel that pain in his ribcage and want to tear himself in two to make it stop. he would realise that all that laughter was never real and every part of him ached for a life that no longer lived. 

he would lay there until the next evening as if he was dead and when the phone rang about another night out he would answer and laugh. but dean didn’t know. dean didn’t know because nobody did.

An ounce of peace is all I want for you. Will you never call again? And will you never say that you loved me, just to put it in my face?

then there was that night. he stared in the mirror, opened and closed the cabinet. his anti-depressants stared back at him through his blurry gaze. they shimmied and moved and when he grabbed the bottle he poured six or seven or eight or twelve into an unsturdy hand. the walls were covered in newspaper conspiracies now, a long running joke that mx talked shit well known all around town. he never made sense. why would he? he was strung out to high hell one hundred percent of the time. 

“what are you doing?”

the voice shook him and pills spilled over the bathroom tiles, a strange clattering sound as he backed into the sink. at first he could barely figure out who was standing in front of him or perhaps he just couldn’t believe it, “nina?” he blurted, “nina? what the hell? what are you doing here? this ca-- you’re dead. you’re dead,” he’d finally done it, he’d finally blown the lid on his own delusions. he felt sick to the pit of his stomach.

“you’re acting kind of funky,” the girl replied.

when he blinked again she was gone and his head was spinning, his anti-depressants lay unswallowed on the ground and he wondered if he should take them at all. he had made two discoveries in that exact same moment, the first was that there was a sweet spot right between being high as hell and wanting to die where his brain released some kind of delusion to make him want to stay and the second was that maybe more than being addicted to being numb, he was addicted to the knowledge that he could find a place where he would see his friends again. where they were more than a burned out picture.

And with a sad heart I say bye to you and wave Kicking shadows on the street for every mistake that I had made And like a baby boy I never was a man

"leave me alone, please,” mx cried, backing into his kitchen cabinets, his knuckles white against the countertop as he backed into the corner. once he had thought that this was the way he wanted to live but now he was haunted in his waking hours by his own thoughts; people that weren’t really there. people he could not get rid of because they were a part of him more than they had even been while alive, “george, i can’t do this anymore. you have to go.”

“you’re the one who keeps bringing me here.”

it wasn’t a haunting, he knew that and yet he couldn’t make it stop. he couldn’t make his brain stop throwing out these images like clockwork. he didn’t want to get better. the drugs had been there to make him numb but now he was being daylight haunted, the flickers of a life that had never existed at all right before his eyes. 

“i can’t do this anymore, i can’t fucking do this,” he ranted, his eyes screwed shut, his hands over his ears. “go away, go away, go away.”

Until I saw your blue eyes cry and I held your face in my hand And then I fell down yelling, "Make it go away!"

when rachel came over she didn’t see what was happening to him, he never told her that when she sat at his kitchen countertop she had a dead friend on either stool. she didn’t tell him that sometimes he caught himself pouring an extra portion of cereal. he didn’t tell her that he hadn’t left the house in three weeks, that he had thrown his mobile phone out the window or that he hadn’t seen his mother in over a year. he didn’t tell her any of that because she didn’t ask. 

instead he told her about something he found on reddit with his words jumbled, he explained how his tv didn’t seem to be recording episodes (not that he’d forgotten what day, week month it was). 

he didn’t tell rachel a damn thing because when he looked at her and remembered how her eyes had been scorched out by flames, he thought, she must be a better person than me. he wanted her to stop coming. he wanted them all to. he wanted to stop seeing it again and again, hearing the voices. he wanted to be numb again and laugh with dean in a bar until his ribs cracked then cry himself to sleep but now he stared absently for hours at a television that was turned off and saw an entire show as george and nina passed popcorn over the top of him.

but the popcorn bowl was empty and there was never a move, there was never even a sofa, just a towel on the floor where he spent hours sweating off highs trying to get clean. he wanted to get rid of them so badly that it seemed like the only choice. he’d make them stop, he’d make it all stop. he’d find a way to get back out of this and get back to numb or something else. nobody had to know. nobody really wanted to; sometimes even he didn’t know if what he felt was real or fake but it crippled him all the same.

he locked everything that was left in a box and flushed the key down the toilet.

nina and george seemed pleased.

Hate me today Hate me tomorrow Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you

he never quite made it, for six days he sat inside his apartment going through a pain so crippling that he thought that his insides were going to shut off. yet, it was nothing compared to the pain he had dulled after the fire. all those memories flooded back like a sea and they took him whole, enveloping like an old home. he felt like he never slept but he was never awake, he was just in a living nightmare, not quite sure what was real or what wasn’t. a hazy descent into hell surrounded by two ghosts who promised they would see him through it; that was when he finally cracked. he realised that they were just ghosts, they were just him and he had never seen himself through a fucking thing. he had never fared a storm, he’d never been through it without breaking down. if there was one person that always let him down it was himself. 

he found the box and he tried to crack it open. he used a nail file but his hands were shaking, eventually he found a novelty mug and smashed it through the wood. later his mother would return the broken pieces of a mug with dean and mx’s faces on to dean in a signed for mailed box. 

the end of his story, it wasn’t sad, it wasn’t numbing, it wasn’t even glorious. it was just about a man who knew he’d never find a way out of his own self inflicted darkness. the ghosts were gone when he stuck the final needle into his veins. in those final moments he finally saw his studio apartment as it really was; EMPTY, CHAOTIC and LIFELESS. he didn’t feel his life flash before his eyes, he didn’t see a single scene, he just stared at a torn piece of newspaper he had taped to the wall and let out a gentle laugh as he finally passed over into the darkness for good.

he hoped when rachel found him that she realised that he had never been worth saving to begin with. he had never WANTED to be.

[shebeafancyflapjack]

First Strike

One last mini-fic before it’s back to work for me. Inspired by something @cecret-with-c said months ago about if Chris revealing himself had been more intense. It’s been a while since I wrote some whump as well.

What if Chris had done more than punch Eleanor in the face? (Sort of a sequel to Let Me In).

Once again, Michael is grateful that he was given a human suit with such long legs to help him sprint in such far strides. He’s had to do more running than he ever expected to do in the past couple of years and the only time he was ever ‘caught’ was when he willingly gave himself up, not that he counts that time as a loss.

He races across the town, ignoring the heads of the Janet babies who turn in his direction out of vague, programmed curiosity, making his way towards the most dull-looking beige bungalow on the corner. It’s the house of the grandmother no kid ever wanted to visit because all she did was sit in her armchair and forbid laughter while she ranted about the noisy ‘illegals’ living next door.

The door is closed. From the outside, there’s no obvious sign of distress. 

And of course, every resident’s home is made to be sound-proof in the interest of privacy (a feature Tahani pushed on when Janet revealed the ‘surveillance’ feature of Michael’s previous experiment. They weren’t happy about that). It explains why the others are all going about town as normal despite being close enough to hear any sort of ruckus.

He braces himself before rushing forward, finding the door unlocked as he turns the handle.

“Eleanor?” He calls, immediately. 

What awaits him inside is as bad as he predicted, furniture turned aside, a few smashed vases and torn, hideous flowery wallpaper. But at least nothing is on fire. Michael feels that’s always a plus to be counted in most situations.

He stumbles in, almost tripping over the leg of an upturned side-table. 

“Shirt...Eleanor?!” Michael tries again, looking down the hall, the house seeming like a small bull just charged through the place.

“I’m here.”

He follows the dejected voice to the living room, finding her sat on the one half that remains of broken sofa. The tiny bit of relief he feels at first to see her in once piece shatters when she raises her head up from her hands.

An uneven pattern of swollen bruises decorate her face, tearful eyes shining between the puffy lids, blood still dripping from a cut on her lip and to the side of her left eyebrow. There’s marks on her throat, her hands and where her jacket has been torn on her arm as well.

One would think Michael had seen enough beaten up humans in his existence for it to no longer affect him, but the sight of Eleanor in this state cuts deep.

“Shirt...”

She braves the smallest smile; “You should see the other guy.” She then winces, possibly regretting speaking.

“Linda?!” He still can’t believe it. It doesn’t make sense!

He’d been leaving his office to head over to Tahani’s when he’d bumped into a furious Janet, frog-marching a pissed off looking Linda in her grip. Before Michael could ask what the fork she was doing, Janet simply ordered him to get over to Linda’s house, for no other reason than ‘Eleanor is there’. He didn’t need more than that.

It was only after he’d left he smelled the blood on Linda’s hands. Eleanor’s blood. The same that is sprinkled around the room in its destruction and still leaking from her fresh wounds.

“Turns out Linda’s not as boring as we thought.” Eleanor scoffs, raising one of her blackened hands and cringing in further pain; “Fork...”

He puts aside the issue of Linda for a moment as he goes to kneel in front of her.

“Here...” He gently takes her wrists, cradling what looks to be an almost crushed set of fingers, delicately; “It’s okay...”

He snaps his fingers.

Eleanor hisses again, in discomfort more than pain this time, as the bones reset and fuse, her cuts seal up and the bruising settles down, hopefully taking the pain away with it. She lets out a deep sigh, now simply looking pained with exhaustion. 

“Thanks, bud...” 

He stays kneeling before her, eyes full of concern.

“What happened?” He asks, carefully; “Why didn’t Janet do that?”

Eleanor shakes her head, “Y’know what? It’s crazy. I don’t even remember...I just came here, wanting to try again with Linda, see if I could have a talk and understand her...For a few minutes she was just quiet, sitting and sucking on her mints while I did all the talking...And then out of nowhere...she got up and...”

She clenches her fingers on her lap, clenching her jaw to the point Michael hears her teeth grind.

“Take your time.” He tells her; “What did she do?”

“Not she...He.” Eleanor smirks again, annoyed; “Suddenly Linda was speaking in a guy’s voice...Calling me an annoying little bench, raging at me about how he got so sick of having to ‘play nice’ around me, and put up with me, when all he wanted to do whenever I opened my mouth was...Well. You saw for yourself.”

Michael takes a breath. He saw the result. He dreads to imagine what actions the clearly-not-human took to leave Eleanor looking like that.

“I just kinda blacked out, I guess. At first it was almost funny...this little old woman picking her chair up and throwing it at the radio, that was kinda neat. Then he started throwing things at me and I wasn’t ready to get out the way. And then, when I tried to call for Janet...his hands were on me and...” 

It might be more terrifying than the scene he walked in on, to see Eleanor Shellstrop this shaken and struggling to form a sentence. 

He flips the coffee table back upright and slides it close so he can sit and take Eleanor’s healed hands in his. He cages them safely in his own, rubbing them warm.

She laughs again, tears spilling; “Fork, Michael....I dunno what’s wrong with me!”

“You just took ten rounds from a demon, no one is going to judge you for not being yourself.” At least, that’s what he’s assuming. If Linda isn’t a human then angel is also very improbable, which leaves one last option. 

“I’ve dealt with ashholes on Earth trying to cup a feel when I wasn’t interested and I had no trouble handling myself or knowing how to get help. But this...” She trembles in his grip; “I was so....frozen. Like I couldn’t do anything! It was only when I thought he was gonna throw me through the window, I managed to call for Janet. She did offer to fix...” Eleanor gestures to her face; “But I just told her to get that motherforker out and somewhere secure...And I asked for you.”

She...wanted him? That causes a selfish little ball of light to glow inside of him, that he was the first one she wanted, out of the others. 

Then he reminds himself that he’s the only one out of them with magic to heal.

“You said this guy talked about having to put up with you before?”

She nods; “Yeah, I can’t remember if he was in those memories I saw...He might have been at that bar in Canada, I don’t remember. Might be the concussion.”

“Ah...I think I know who Linda might be underneath. I...put you with a lot of demons who posed as your fake soul mate and...one of them kept coming to me with a lot of complaints by the end because he was sick of it. It was only because he had the most handsome skin suit out of them all, he claimed I was being objectifying.” Michael waves off that bit; “His name was Chris.”

If he was working for Shawn to infiltrate them, posing as one of the humans, did he agree to it purely for the chance to finally get to physically hurt Eleanor like he always begged Michael permission for? He feels sick at the idea that he contributed to this in a way. 

“Well I’m glad Chrissy got it out of his system, now I know how guys really feel after having to put up with me.” Eleanor lightly jokes.

“No guy who’s been close to you would ever dream of hurting you like this.” He says that, earnestly.

Even before he changed sides, no matter how crazy Eleanor drove him, no matter how often she foiled his designs, he never wished physical hurt on her. Just to make her miserable by pranks and mind games. Nothing like this.

This was the last thing he ever wanted.

“I’m so sorry, Eleanor.” He brings one of her hands to his lips, “This is my fault.”

“No it’s not, dude.” She says, tired; “I should’ve waited for you to be done at Tahani’s before we checked on Linda...We agreed to do these things together...”

Damn, will he and Janet have to chaperone all the humans now until this is over, in case something else threatens them?

“I’m just pissed that we didn’t see through Linda’s whole boring schtick. Tahani even said something was up with her but I ignored it.” She groans and rubs her head.

“Does it still hurt?” Michael frowns. It shouldn’t do, if he did it right.

Eleanor shakes her head; “No...Not from the fight, just...all of this. I was so sure I could handle it but this...I wasn’t ready for...”

“Blame me. You wouldn’t be in this position if I hadn’t had that break down at the start.” Michael tells her, feeling twisted with guilt.

“You didn’t make me choose to take this on, Michael. Stop it. None of this is on you...I’m just glad you’re here now.”

“Of course.” He gets to his feet and offers her his hand; “C’mon. I think we better call Shawn and tell him we’ve got something of his. And the Judge too while we’re at it.”

Eleanor looks up at him and gives a smile, then a nod, before taking his hand and standing up.

They’re half-way to the door when there’s a sudden tug on his hand.

Michael turns, frowning, seeing Eleanor standing motionless behind him. Her fingers are gripping his with such ferocity, his fingers would probably crunch if he was human, while her shoulders tremble, the smallest wince of panic on her face.

“What is it?” 

Her bottom lip wobbles, her eyes on the ajar pink door; “I...I dunno, I just...I d-don’t wanna go there yet.”

“Eleanor, he’s restrained. Janet’s way stronger than any demon, remember? And I wouldn’t let him touch you agai-.”

“I know that, dude, all right?!” She raises her volume, frustrated; “I don’t need your forking rational argument - I know that he’s all chained up and I’m safe and, whatever, because I’m a sexy badash who doesn’t get scared of anything so, fork you, this isn’t because I’m scared because I’m not! I’m fine! You’re the one who’s scared, I’m just protecting you, got it?! So lay the fork-.”

Once Michael has pulled her into his arms, she shuts up. It’s hard for her to keep babbling once her face is smothered into his chest. He waits for the resistance, to be shoved back, but nothing comes. Instead she stills, before her knees buckle, and her arms slip around his middle to cling to him. He places one hand on her neck and the other on the top of her head, stroking gently.

He just holds her tight for a moment, closing his eyes to stop his senses from seeing all the clear signs in the mess around them of what that deckhead did to her. How there’s a dent on the wall from where she was clearly thrown, or how that particular drop of blood stained on the carpet must have come from a blow to her mouth.

“Michael...Bit too tight, bud, you just fixed these ribs...” Eleanor sniffs against him.

“Sorry, sorry.” He loosens a little, still keeping her close, for as long as she clings to him. He pulls back after another minute to touch her face, searching for those green-blue eyes; “Listen. I know you, remember? No one’s aware of what a badash bench you are more than me, okay? But I also know you’re still human...And humans break, that’s what you guys do, it’s what makes you so amazing. That you can be so spunky even when you’re so stupidly fragile.”

And the more vulnerable they are, such as the small woman in his arms, the more courage they seem to hold to compensate. 

“I know how often you’ve wanted to break down when things got tough but you always had to put up a front to save face. You don’t have to do that with me, remember?” He whispers, softly, his thumb brushing a tear from her face; “You were there for me when I collapsed like a Tahani being told she has to fly economy. You trust me to be still be there for you if you do the same right?”

She sniffs again, nodding.

“It’s not just you, bud. God can’t be seen weeping, can she?” She japes.

With a wave of his hand, the blinds close and the door shuts.

“God can have some privacy. You’ve earned it.” Michael smiles at her and brings her back in again, letting her curl into him, one of her hands grabbing at his jacket; “Take as long as you need. I’m sure Janet can have fun with Chris while he waits for us. Make him sweat. We’ll go when you’re ready.”

Perhaps he’ll ask Janet to have some ‘time alone’ in a quiet room with Chris, even after they’ve called Shawn and the Judge. He might not be Chris’ boss anymore but he still feels the need to offer some ‘managerial feedback’. Which is a euphemism, by the way, he plans on eviscerating the forknut.

He hears the smallest hum.

“Thanks, bud. I dunno what I’d do without you.” Eleanor whispers, still shaky, clinging onto him; “We should’ve known they’d be too dumb to use something like a Michael-suit and instead they pull a stunt like this that gives them away. Forking idiots.”

He chuckles with her, resting his cheek on her head as he keeps her close.

“They’re no match for us. Say it with me...We’ve got this.”

“That’s my line.”

“Our line.” He jostles her a little, delighted by the sound of her laughter, more so when she smiles up at him, that fire slowly starting to ignite in her eyes again. 

Michael moves a strand of her hair away before planting a kiss on her forehead. Only fair, as she kissed his cheek last time, and it had felt...oddly pleasant. 

She sighs, “Fine. We’ve got this.”

He looks down at her, feeling ready to burst with admiration. There she is. Eleanor Shellstrop. Holding it together after taking a pummelling from an immortal being. 

Unstoppable, as always. 

Better luck next time, Shawn, old pal. But try to lay a finger his humans again and there will be Here to pay.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Holding Back The Fool Again [B. Hargrove x you]

Series: part 2 of Galapogos

Summary: This is Billy’s definition of extending an olive branch. Screwed and without shrewdness, kind of like him.

Inspiration: Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness by The Smashing Pumpkins (1995) in its entirety.

Word Count: 3073  Warnings: profanity, angst, and mentions of abuse.

Written Date: 07/24-31/2019  Posted Date: 8/1/2019

[PART 1]< >[PART 2]

“Hey.”

He’s not sure if the breathy sigh actually left his lips or if the rustling leaves toyed with his ears. What he does know for sure is that there’s a cool moisture on his upper lip, the impressive one-fifty he lifts is still no challenge to the old tree outside your window, and that even with sleep-mussed hair you’ve never looked better.

The rays of the sun kiss his skin, warming him up to the bone as if home is trying to plunge some needed coaxing through his thick skull. The sun knows he ran once; any discouragement will send him running again. It’s the way God carved Billy’s mechanics—inside the tough exterior is just a lost boy, a coward who’s on the verge of finally having enough of what’s been granted to him before he could even form a coherent sentence.

A reflection bounces off his Virgin Mary pendant, flashing threateningly close to your pupils. It’s the universe giving him a clue that if there’s ever the right time to make eye contact with the one you love, it’s now. Now, in what could be the final moment he has to prove to himself that he isn’t the man his father said he is and prove to you that he’s not just another copy-cat of David.

Is Billy another David? When he first came to your little town, you would have said yes. When you started riding in his Camaro and showing up to social events with his arm around your waist, David hardly crossed your mind. Now? You aren’t so sure, about anything. You don’t even know why you haven’t slammed the window on his gorgeous face. Your best friend Judilyn would have, so what’s stopping you?

Billy Hargrove has never been a perfect suitor. For heavens sake, the heroism he displayed when he saved your camera was soon followed by insulting you on your first date. And, Billy Hargrove’s relationship skills sometimes make you wonder why he’s even with you, or you with him. He has terrible mood swings, sometimes pushing you away so that he can have some time to himself to lift weights and not have a “woman nag at him all the time.” As if he’s not the one who clings onto you about seventy-percent out of a hundred.

He smokes so much that it has created a force-field around him, made up of cancerous fumes. You swear you’ve never inhaled as much second-hand smoke before getting to know him. The smell penetrates into your hair, your wardrobe, and soon your parents water bills were raising through the roof. After your parents started lecturing you and the scent of nicotine made a surprise appearance in your sheets, you had to lay down some strict rules: Billy can no longer smoke with the windows rolled up, Billy can no longer smoke half-an-hour before entering your house, and Billy had to promise to cut back. Not just for your sake, but his as well.

You’re not an unrealistic idiot though. You’ve seen this addiction before with your own grandfather. You’ve seen the continuous cycle of grandpa crushing the cigarette box in his hands and throwing it out only for you to find fresh cigarettes littered in your grandma’s rose bushes the next week. So, it’s not hard to imagine Billy sparking up an extra cancer stick before he’s supposed to meet with you. Especially when he comes over with an extra spritz of cologne and Binaca spearmint masking his breath.

But, as the breeze tickles your nose and wraps loosely around his dirty-blond curls in gentle tugs, you cannot detect the toxic bubble that embraces him. Nor the hours old musk of his favorite Pour Homme, but just the basic nature of the body detoxifying.

He’s here, without the calming of his disgusting addiction nor the courage of a strong drink on his breath.

And his voice. 

You’ve never heard it so…without its punch of beef-packed testosterone, without the fresh singe of tobacco on his vocal cords. So helpless. So vulnerable. So unlike Billy. But, it’s been inside him all along, waiting to be pulled apart by willing hands. Hands willing to tear apart his skeleton, push past the muck of sticky blood and pulsing intestines, and cradle the most important organ of all.  

And he thinks he’s felt—still feels—that pleasant pain of guts being twisted and torn apart whenever you’re around to mindlessly play with his fingers while you two watch a rented movie. To call out on his bullshit when anger either makes him too quiet or too loud. To wrap your arms around him when his father’s had swung the hour before just because Billy had forgotten to pick up one fucking gallon of milk.

Earlier that day when everyone was beginning to gather around in the school’s parking lot to see who’d win the fight between Billy and David, love’s affliction was still harshly pulling at his heart strings. And only when you’d hit the ground was it slowly being replaced by something else—a cold numbing from a lidocaine needle.

He wants to shake off this empty, suffocating, cushionless envelop made by the devil, and repent under your plum-like palms. Repent until you stop looking at him like he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

He’s Billy, and he’ll always be your Billy. But, maybe that only makes it scarier.

The telephone downstairs begins to ring again—you’ve since disconnected yours after just minutes of continuous phone call after the other. You turn to face your bedroom door in temptation, looking past polaroids and the photographs that Jonathan had taught you to develop in the dark room. Memories of you with Judilyn and your group of friends. Moments in time of you and Billy’s blossoming relationship, featuring his douchy friends. All taped along the smooth surface.

Your fingertips get ready to push off the lower sash of the window.

“Please.”

You turn your head back to Billy.

He licks his pink lips and parts them again. “Don’t leave.”

“Why?” You immediately flinch at the croak in your voice. This isn’t how you imagined the confrontation with Billy to go. Actually, you somehow just thought you’d live in your bed forever with your teddy bear and Billy would fall off the face of the earth.

Instead, he’s just outside your window with bits of bark under his fingernails and the setting sun casting a halo around his crown. The whole view is a magnificent renaissance painting; every detail crafted with expertise and purpose, such as the way pink creeps up on the clouds and how you can count every freckle on Billy’s face.

Yet, you cannot find any of this to mean something. Not when classmates you barely talk to are keeping your line busy just to check up on you while he can’t even form the words that are caught in his throat.

His eyes study the inflamed skin of your palms then cut to the smudges that trail along the side of your right thigh. Through clenched teeth, he sucks in a breath of air. “Can I come in?”

You pause for a moment, even though you hadn’t expected anything else after he decided to claw his way up your window with far less grace than Judilyn’s ladder method (or your ex-boyfriend’s favorite: pounding his fists on your front door at two in the morning and waking up the entire house). Your finger tips weigh the odds by tapping on the painted wood, and only when you take a couple steps away from the window does Billy’s glistening pecks gently deflate.

The poodle designs on your sock-clad feet are more interesting than Billy as he extends a long leg through the opening, or so you convince yourself. But you don’t have to watch him to know that Billy’s glancing around your neat bedroom, checking for ripped up photographs or thrown mixed tapes—any sign that tells him that you’ve terminated things on your end of the hemisphere.

The only thing out of place, as he’s come to conclude, are the messed up sheets. The flannel is crinkled in a way that he’s familiar with; he’d never tell anyone that he’s had his fair share of finding comfort between blankets without a girl writhing in pleasure beneath him. Billy can almost picture you on your side with your knees tucked into your chest and your chin to your neck—he’d rather not focus on that.

You’re still standing by your mirror with eyelashes hiding the prettiest pair of irises he’d come across in Hawkins.

Billy’s never understood your damn patience. There was this time when Billy had walked the couple extra yards from your locker to yearbook class to pick you up for lunch, and he’d walked in on Pam Dubinsky giving you backhanded compliments on your poster designs for the new yearbook while you had stood there without saying a word. He knew about the countless hours you’d spent on your bedroom floor sketching up clever concepts while he would drift off and on on your plush mattress, and he knew all that hard work wasn’t just for some jealous bitch to tell you that her’s was better.

He had taken some loud steps forward and his tongue had been ready to snap away at her when you calmly raised your hand at him, prompting him from getting any closer and intervening, and kindly told the girl who had slept with your ex-boyfriend that no one would appreciate an amateur design on their yearbooks, especially not after such a long school year and that Pam should think about David—mediocre head and a mediocre yearbook? Talk about heartbreak.

It took so much of Billy to keep from laughing and humiliating that bitch any further, but above that he was proud of you for sticking up for yourself without sinking to her level. Malice disguised as a sugar cane had become his new favorite flavor.

Except, he quickly learned that your patience combined with his drastic mood swings brought him an unfamiliar peace that frustrates him just as much. He knows how to spurt out insults and give and receive bruises—that’s easy; that’s second-nature. But, keeping his ears from turning red and his breath under control is a whole other field. How does anyone do that?

But then you sniffle, and he realizes your shoulders are trembling as your hands struggle to clasp together. You’re not just waiting for him to make the first move, but you’re cowering. Over the fact that Billy’s so fucking reckless. Over the fact that Judilyn and your other friends were right, that Billy isn’t capable of anything but serving you pain as dessert on a silver platter. Over the fact that Billy’s anger can blind him of your presence, and has caused him to put his hands on you. Over the fact that just his puppy eyes alone can throw out your free will, and allow him into your bedroom. Over the fact that you’re still willing to hear him out.

“Prove to her that everyone in this shithole is wrong about you.”

Max’s voice still rings clearly in his head, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget it. At least not while you shrink into yourself in front of your mirror, but he’s trying to look on the bright side for once: you’re blocking his crumbling tower.

His mouth is so parched that swallowing proves worthless, but he knows he has to keep pushing. The photographs on your door call back to him, and his head rolls on his shoulders towards them.

“Do you remember when your dad almost caught me hiding in your closet?”

Your gaze on the carpet shifts a little closer to him.

A smile almost touches his lips. “You would’ve gotten in trouble if you didn’t have that Mount Everest of stuffed animals piled in there to hide me.”

The stuffed animals from your childhood had been the last thing you wanted Billy to discover about you. You had decided to donate most of them at the local Goodwill on your thirteen birthday, but your sentimental attachment to them kept you from tossing them every time. So you kept them hidden in your closet like a dirty secret, and had meant to never let the tough Billy find them. You were mortified that he’d think you were just some innocent little girl and that he wouldn’t want to be with you anymore, but he didn’t care. Sure it was a little funny, but he revealed he still had a little brown bear of his own that his mother gave him when he was six in his underwear drawer.

“Or that time when my boxers somehow got inside your hamper and your mom washed them, thinking they were your brother’s?” Billy holds in a chuckle. “And your brother was too dumb to realize they weren’t his and wore them for like a week straight.”

A sound leaves your throat. Half-giggle. Half-sob. It’s hard to differentiate whether that’s good or bad. The back of your wrist meets your nose, rubbing softly.

“There was also that one time when no one but Max and Judy knew we had skipped town for a couple days to go see Quiet Riot in Indianapolis,” he scans a particular Polaroid snap shot that was taken at the motel pool, “All we could afford was one night in some sleazy motel room, eating greasy fast food.” He looks at you again, “It was worth it. Never thought you could make a shitty mattress comfortable.”

The corner of your chapped lips tugs up. “Your chest does makes a great pillow, Hargrove.”

The shy smile is gone sooner than it appeared.

His torso appears in front of you as his warm palms find their way to your hair. Thumbs wipe away the sticky streaks on your rosy cheeks, and then gently caresses them.

He wants you to really look at him, but he finds it a small victory when you don’t duck beneath his arms as he envelops you in a desperate hold. When you don’t pull away after he buries his face in your neck. And when you don’t push him away after you hear him suck back the gunk that’s formed in his stuffed nose nor when something wet drips onto your bare collar bones.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled into your shoulder.

Billy knows that your parents have been away, and he guesses by the missing Mustang in your driveway that your older brother must be down at the run-down waterhole with a couple of pig-headed buddies, so he’d been expecting your house to be devoid of its usual mumbling and lively noises that is such an integral part of it. He’d been relieved at first because that meant he wouldn’t have to deal with your angry parents or a careless-yet-overprotective brother, but now that you are keeping quiet Billy has nothing to grasp onto except this energy that’s barely hanging onto life support between you two.

Billy squeezes you a little tighter, praying that you somehow absorb his thoughts, his guilt, his regret, his love, and his fear. “Okay? I’m sorry for…being a piece of shit. I never meant for that to happen—never dreamt of it.”

The saltiness settles on his taste buds. “I promise I’m not David—I’m not my fucking father.”

Your finger nails run up his spine until they’re digging into the curls on the back of his neck. “I know.”

After just moments of softly scratching his scalp, you pull away and bring your arms into your ribs. The apology is left in the stale air around the two of you, but Billy doesn’t blame you. Lord knows that he’d never forgive his father even if he crawled through hell and back and begged him.

Billy untangles your arms from beneath your chest and leads you into the bathroom down the hall with every intention on washing away every negative emotion down the drain, “Come on, I’m gonna take care of you.”

This reluctance that stops you from letting go of the events that transpired in the parking lot is a million time better than being left to choke on the dust of drifting tires. If anything, Billy accepts this as a start in restoring what once was. Your patience taught him that much.

As the cascading water heats up and clothes hit the tiles one by one, Billy swears to himself that the fool inside him will not be in charge of steering the outcome that involves you. And as he takes a washcloth and some Dove soap to your palms, he promises to you he’ll never give you another reason to silence the ugly snort he fell in love with.

Fin.

To everyone who requested a part 2: @whatthefuckkrichard @basic-fragment @toobsessedsstuff @nightshade7117 @banannie25

A/N: This series has quickly turned into a sort of love note to the album Mellon Collie & The Infinite Sadness by The Smashing Pumpkins (1995). Give it a listen; it’s so rich and poetic and fit for everyone’s tastes. And, it’s only 28 songs! Anywho, feedback is strongly appreciated. I tried to keep a similar style of narrative as the previous one but struggled to come up with something both realistic and satisfying. Hope I did it justice.

[stardustaubade]

Heal

It looks a lot like rain, seeing the storm behind his eyes. Sirius quietly stops by the window of their small cottage. The sound of waves crashing down on the shore brings a strange sense of melancholy, like it's been raining for months inside his chest and it's sore. Sirius just wants to cry.

Instead, he pulls out a cigarette from the back pocket of his worn-out jeans and sits on the back porch.

The November sun hangs low, with unbelievable slowness. Sirius takes a deep breath, reminding himself that the War is over. He has come back to life, to Remus. Still, it feels so strange here, like he's living in a borrowed timeline, like it's someone else's life he's living. A salty breeze comes by, a comforting quietness, cold but not as hollowing as the air of Azkaban. Or maybe he's just good at pretending to be warm these days.

"Something is in your mind." ,Remus sits beside him, his honey-warm eyes fixed on the horizon, setting two mugs of tea in the small gap between them. Sirius smashes the butt of the cigarette, and taking up the mug, looks at his lover. Sirius watches him running his scarred fingers on the rim of the mug, eyes still fixed on the horizon, the dusk catching his greyish auburn hair. Remus has always carried sunsets and departure in his eyes. Sirius thinks how there are memories of people, of pain, of cities in Remus' eyes that he wasn't a part of.

He runs hands over his face, as if to wipe the trace of his thoughts.

It's the first anniversary of his return from beyond the Veil.

It just feels odd, living and all. Like he's interrupted everyone's life around, has borrowed time from their lives and duration on earth, like he has wreaked havoc.

Again, when Sirius Black hasn't wreaked havoc?

Maybe it's just wrong, living in Remus' clothes and in his life. All borrowed, without a trace of his own existence. The War is over. Still he trembles in his sleep, the horror of seeing James and Lily dead, the memory of the chilly gust of the sea of Azkaban sends shivers down his spine. Nightmares keep him awake. It's Remus, it's always Remus, saying soothing things in his hoarse sleepy voice, assuring how everything is going to be okay.

Except, both of them know how it's probably never gonna be so.

Their togetherness has been strange, ragged, almost like a routine. It had been a year when Sirius appeared on Remus' doorstep, only to find his hollow pained eyes, almost paranoid. A whisper of "I thought you were dead", choked sob on each other's neck and they fell back into a pattern.

Sirius closes his eyes, inhaling the colours of the sunset and sand, imagining how Remus looks in this particular time. Sunset Remus has always been special to him. Some eighteen years ago, a streak of sunset colour on Remus' face hit him. Looking down at his best friend while flying, Sirius, torn between panic and an overwhelming sense of adoration for the boy sitting on the bleachers, realized that he would give away his everything for Remus' happiness.

"Let's take a stroll.'' Remus stands up, holding out his hand for Sirius.

The sunset today is a symphony of painful memories and bittersweet laughter, Sirius thinks. He thinks how effortlessly he used to say Remus "I love you" before the War and how they have been habituated in death and betrayal and disaster and going away and never returning to each other that even after all these years, he sits with a book and looks blankly at the words and the gaps in between when Remus goes to do groceries, waiting for him to return. He wants to tell Remus how much he loves him and Remus deserves better, someone whole, someone like Nymphadora, but he wants him to stay. Stay to make me forget. Stay to make me remember. He'll stay, probably. At least, that sleepy voice, holding him close to his chest, in every nightmare, those books strewn over the kitchen counter, windowsill, the towel in their bathroom, the stupid grey jumper on their bed say so. In sickness and in health, to love and to cherish.

Sirius still wants to apologize to Remus.

Instead, looking at the sun melting into the horizon and kissing the sea, he whispers, "It's always the rain. I wake up every night, thinking it's Harry or you crying but it's rain, it's always rain."

Remus doesn't say anything, instead stares at the sea, maybe hides tears. He just entwines their fingers with a firmness of assurance, of staying, a gesture that says, "I'm here. We're here. We can't fix everything but we've got each other." The gentleness of Remus' language traces Sirius back to their childhood, the shared pains and sad smiles, those sleepless nights in their dorm, the grey cloud of smoke at the attic of Remus' parents' house, the happy frames of their togetherness on the wall of their flat, an echo of an echo of an echo, coming back and staying like the circle on the still water surface.

He inhales deeply, steadying himself, "I'm always that unhappy Prince we read about in fairytales, Remus. Rain always suffocated me." Sirius sniffles "When I left Grimmauld Place forever, leaving Reg behind, it was raining." Sirius pauses, as if to draw words out of the silence and the gap between them and the horizon and the sun, never leaving, never leaving.

"It rained the day you left our flat," Sirius whispers, looking at his feet. The lilt of his voice sounds almost shattered, his voice thick with emotion and tears. Remus knows, he's so fluent in Sirius' language, the way his aristocratic accent gets sharper when he gets pissed off, the way his eyes get shrewd with every passing disdain he throws, the self-deprecating shit and the way he carelessly holds the bottle of Ogden's firewhiskey. Sirius Black is like a candle in a steady summer night who shouts and cries and fights and hugs and punches and curses and kisses until he can't do anything anymore, he just burns himself to the core without a quiver.

"Sirius.."

"I'm so tired Remus. I'm so tired of thinking I'm living a borrowed life and of feeling sorry for myself.” He breathes heavily, tears stinging his eyes; his chest aches, looking at the man in front of him, the man he loved, the man he loves, a surge of self-pity washes over him. "I don't know, I try to think about what happened at the Veil and I feel like I'm losing my grip on the present… fuck Remus, I feel like I'll lose you all over again…"

"Sirius..."  Remus whispers, standing almost toe to toe with Sirius. There are times when he feels like shouting at Sirius, or being shouted at, because it's better than a fucking silent Sirius by the window, a forgotten cigarette dangling between his fingers, he just looks at the book or the sea or the wall or the vacuum of nothingness and Remus wants to cry and kiss and shout and punch until Sirius reacts. But here he is, standing in front of him, shattered, crying. He wraps his arms around Sirius, and he buries his face in the crook of Remus' neck, his breath relatively slow, his shoulders slumped, and his tears wet Remus' jumper near the shoulders and Remus let him cry and cry and cry until he feels the warmth of his lover, his home inside his chest. Remus holds him closer and whispers, almost inaudibly, "I love you."

Sirius doesn't say it back, just holds the material of the jumper near Remus' back tighter.

Remus looks at the orange and blue and violet hue of the departed dusk, just above the horizon.

He knows Sirius loves him.

That's enough for now.

Thank you @jennandblitz for being such an amazing beta. I love you.

@aimforthedogstar @of-stars-and-moon @confunded-gryffindor @blitheringmcgonagall

[70swonderpoisonstark]

Wait, you survived? ( V )

// You and Steve survive the plane wreck and end up seventy years in the future. Everything’s different and the only person that understands the confusion and pain of losing your entire world is your now dead husband’s best friend. When the two of you are forced to adapt to the world around you, things can get complicated. //

 “If you love someone, tell them.

                         For hearts are often broken 

   by words left unspoken.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Buildings were falling, crashing onto the streets. Aliens flying everywhere. You and Steve were helping civilians get inside or underground. Trying your hardest to keep everyone safe while also fighting for your lives. Your shots were dead on, head shots killed aliens just as effectively as they killed Nazi's. You went down the streets, rushing people away from the action while aiding the team with killing down the numbers. You'd lost Steve at this point, you'd been running up and down the streets, listening for the sound of Tony's blasters as you vigilantly fought the hoard of creatures that had been released through a giant portal in the sky. You were in the main part of the city, at the center of the action, punching, kicking, flipping through the air as you avoided being dusted by the alien weapons.

Steve watched helplessly as you were cornered time and time again by the horde that was unleashed on the city. He tried to fight his way over to you, but they kept coming, pulling him away from you. There were too many, they'd never make it out of this alive if they kept coming at this rate. Giant centipede-from-hell creatures filling the skies with fury, destroying everything in their path, releasing more aliens onto the ground. It was hopeless, but you kept on fighting, with the rest of them.

Energy blasts were coming from every direction, time itself seem to slow as you dodged blast after blast, shot after shot. Pure adrenaline forcing every move you made. Instinct driving you to fight, kill, survive. A crash a couples miles away lead you towards the rest of the group. You circled up, watching as more of them came out of the giant blue hole.

Steve ran off, helping the local police align their plan with his own. Saving the people was what mattered right now and he had to focus.

You fought alongside Natasha and Clint, dropping alien bodies as quickly as they came. Thor made an electrifying entrance, and Steve finally made his way over to you. He looked you up and down, checking for any obvious injuries and silently panicking about you being non-enhanced and not an assassin. He couldn't stop the fight to physically check you over, but by God that would be the first thing he did when this was all over.

Dr. Banner had finally showed, driving on a beaten down motorcycle. His look of shame had been replaced with strength. He seemed ready to do what needed to be done, and make up for his past mistakes in New York. He was ready to be the hero he had always been.

"That's my secret Cap, I'm always angry." A devastating blow demolished the skull of whatever armored alien whale, causing it to fall literally head over heels onto you guys. Steve covered you and Natasha as it came crumbling down. Igniting a fury in what was left of the aliens as they screamed their battle cries at the top of their lungs. Steve took the lead, shouting out a plan as the group fanned out. You, Steve, and Natasha stayed on the ground, taking out as many aliens as you could, bouncing creatures between the three of you as you tired out, working in unison as you ripped throats out. Natasha bounced, clasping onto one of the hover machines being flown by the aliens, flying off to God knows where. You and Steve stayed behind, throwing each other looks as you fought side by side, fighting memories as you kicked ass. They'd redone both of your original suits, his was more vibrantly star spangled and yours a much more abstract collection of dark navy, maroon and gray. It was hard not to imagine the two of you doing the same thing all across Europe before the fall as your moves synchronized together. Every crippling blow, every strike of the feet and hands, it was impossible not to see the symmetry you possessed on the battlefield; mirroring each others move without even a glance.

Steve focused on his fight, shield, punch, hit, uppercut, roundhouse. Fighting his way through squadron after squadron of evil. How was he reminiscing and battling at the same time? Aliens mirroring HYDRA goons time after time, the howling commandos behind and around him, you and Bucky on either side, taking down foe's with ease. His heart ached for the old days when the whole team was together, he'd have something smart to say to Dum Dum, only to be reminded that you were all he had left. He had to adjust to the times and realize he was fighting aliens, not Nazi's.

"Captain, the bank on 42nd past madison. They've cornered a lot of civilians in there." Clint radioed. He looked at you, torn between leaving for another fight or staying here with you.

You grabbed two aliens by the back of the head, breaking their necks in one swift pull forward as you looked at Steve. "Go! They need you, I can handle myself."

After a brief hesitation, he left to defend the civilians, all the worry for you pushed to the back of his mind as he found another clan of invaders. Silencing a bomb as he resourcefully kicked tables and mantles to take the aliens off their feet. Taking the full force knocked him out the window, and shortly he found his way back to another fight.

You looked up just as Tony had flown into the belly of the beast, shortly blowing himself up and flying out into the street.

"Try not to die, Tony. I haven't had a chance to clown your tech yet." You shouted as you continued to fight. He'd smashed into a few signs, slightly injuring himself but accomplishing the task at hand.

"I can shut the portal down." Natasha yelled throughout the comms.Finally, victory was in sight.

"Do it!"

"No, wait." Tony exclaimed, his voice strained from all the damage he'd taken.

"Stark these things are still coming!"

"I've got a nuke coming in and it's gonna blow in less than a minute." Was the last thing you heard before you saw a hundred pound nuke being flown into the sky by none other than Tony Stark. He barely missed his own building, and you heard the cheers of the city as the nuke passed through the wormhole. You and the team knew it was a one way trip, but they didn't. They hugged their coworkers and their families as you watched Tony sacrifice himself for the world. You couldn't move as you watched the portal collapse with Tony inside, as the opening narrowed slowly, Tony's armor nowhere in sight. You wanted to cry, but forced yourself to have hope that somehow he'd show up. The aliens around you powered down one by-

You inhaled sharply, knowing the intense feeling too well, one of the Chitauri had managed to stay up long enough to sneak attack you, driving a blade clean through your abdomen, the blade sticking out the back, you tried to radio for help, but just as the alien soldier fell, so did you.

Steve and the team moved to corner Loki in the tower, you weren't responding, but your coms may have been damaged in battle so there wasn't anything to worrisome about that. Thor handcuffed him with asgardian cuffs, and shortly after muzzled him. The team was given assignments and handed equipment off to other agents as they slowly cleared out the room. Thor kept Loki guarded, with the magic that was entwined in his cuffs he wasn't going anywhere, but nobody was willing to take their eyes off him regardless. Steve went to coordinate search and rescue making his way down the stairs, starting with the Stark tower to look for any survivors. He wandered around the city in a two block radius from the tower, knowing eventually you'd make your way there even with busted comms. After his check he asked the team if anybody had seen you, told them to scan around and see if they could see you walking around lost. Nobody had seen you since Tony fell the first time. A gut feeling told Steve something was wrong, and he frantically searched the surrounding area, praying you were only mildly injured, even though the voice in his head was telling him otherwise. Clint was the first to speak, and his words froze Steve in his tracks.

"Cap. I found her, but you're not gonna like it." And just like that Steve's heart stopped, his blood chilled as he listened, no details nothing as he sprinted to the nearest window. Clint gave him your location and Steve found you immediately.

"Tony. (Y/N)'s down. I need medics on 40th past the deli." Tony didn't bother radioing back as he quickly armored up and flew to where you were, he collapsed next to you, taking his helmet off as he felt the sting of each of his own injuries. He checked your neck for a pulse, hearing the sirens and knowing Steve was on his way, you had to be alive. He held his two fingers on your neck, praying to feel something, anything bounding around. He was dizzy himself from his fall, so keeping focus on something as simple as seeing if you had a pulse was hard when he could feel his own beating his skull. Tony used all his strength to to focus on you, pressing deep down onto your carotid. His head dropped, nothing. With the puddle of blood around you it didn't shock him, but he knew it would unravel Steve. He'd lost hope knowing the reality of the situation was heartbreaking, and then he felt it. Nothing strong, but he felt a slight pressure against his fingertips. You were holding on, barely, he heard the sirens getting closer but they needed to get there soon.

Steve's knees hitched as he saw you, blade impaling your side. You're unconscious body laying on its unaffected side, the sword holding you up unevenly.

"Is, Tony is she.." Steve couldn't breathe, the sight in front of him made him dizzy, he ran five feet and threw up, staring at your pale body he doubled over, hands on his knees. He couldn't force himself to believe the sight that was so real in front on his eyes. He dropped to his knees, grabbing your hand as he watched your chest with scrutiny. You were struggling, but he could see your breathing, it was definitely not as much as it should have been, and your chest shook with every half breath you took, but it was something, right?

"Tony, tony, she, she's not, she's gonna be." He pushed your hair out of your face, you'd taken a beating and a half and still you were the most beautiful woman in the world. He held back the tears he so desperately wanted to cry.

"Steve, it doesn't look good, but let me handle this, I promise I'll do my best." Steve couldn't let go, you were all he had, you were everything, and now you were dying in his arms. He was helpless yet again, watching another person he loved die before him.

Cheeks stained with silent tears, you used what was left of your strength to squeeze Steve's hand, he knew you loved him, he was your best friend, but you couldn't leave him, not like this. Stark pulled you from him and disappeared into the sky. Blasters the last thing Steve saw before he broke. Sight going black, the last thing he see's is Natasha running his way.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

//There goes Tony being the most selfless person on the planet like ALWAYS(Tony Anti’s will be blocked SNS) You’re kind of a badass huh? Who knew, oh wait, YOU DID BECAUSE YOU’RE FUCKING AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU SO NEVER DOUBT YOUR SELF WORTH BECAUSE YOU ARE ALWAYS IMPORTANT, ALWAYS LOVED, AND ALWAYS HAVE A PURPOSE AND A REASON TO BE HERE AND ALIVE NO MATTER WHAT. FIGHT LIKE HELL, BECAUSE AFTER YOU SURFACE AGAIN NOTHING AND NOBODY CAN FUCK WITH YOU. BE PROUD OF YOUR SMALL VICTORIES AND NEVER DOWNPLAY YOUR EMOTIONS. YOU. ARE. VALUABLE. AND NOT BECAUSE OF WHAT YOU CAN DO, JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE HERE, ALIVE, AND BREATHING IN AIR. YOU MATTER, ALWAYS, AND FOREVER. Sorry for the all caps rant but my own personal anxiety/depression has been kicking my ass so I know there’s others who may need to hear that. If anybody reading this needs to talk to somebody, or just vent to an unbiased person I am MORE than willing to be your sounding board. No issue is too big or small. Message me, please. I know what it’s like to have all these feelings and emotions and not have nobody to tell them too because they wouldn’t understand or you don’t wanna be a bother or it’ll go away eventually. SO TALK TO ME, if I can’t help you’ll at least be able to get it out.//

//You guys are going to love this! This is such a fun story for me to write, and all the positive feedback is really helping, so thank you all for your likes and reblogs, every one of them brings a smile to my face and makes my day. Let me know what you guys think, what you’d like to see, what you don’t wanna see, and some crazy vocab words and I’ll write accordingly, thanks for the read, and HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON!!//

[ladyplantpots]

Something I promised to write for @ill-go-with-that-then !

Retirement

Hizashi takes the blindfold off Shouta gently, fingers shaking with nerves, before smiling and stepping backwards.

'Ta.. Ta-da.'

Blinking once, twice, Shouta looks around. He is... Standing in a garden? His fingers loosen around his cane. The remains of the setting sun warm his skin as he takes it all in - he's stood on a tiny cobblestoned path, resting on well-kept grass, surrounded by bright and beautiful plants. A cluster of sunflowers to his right stands proudly by a hand carved wooden bench, just enough room to sit two adults. Hizashi's car waits just at the entrance to the garden, which is surrounded by a simple and sturdy wooden picket fence.

The garden, Shouta quickly notes, must be situated on the very outskirts of the city - there is hardly any noise pollution, and the drive from their city-centre flat had taken a long time, though Shouta did have to wear the blindfold the whole time, so his estimates may be a little wrong. A couple of birds happily sing to one another as a plane lazily flies overhead.

The garden itself quite obviously belongs to the small cottage behind Hizashi. The building is just as impressive as the garden, a warm looking, painted-brick home with two large windows at either side of a simple wooden door. Outside each window sits an array of small potted plants, and Shouta offhandedly notes that they are all sporting colours he's quite fond of.

Hizashi has stayed quiet this entire time, nervously rubbing his hands together as he looks at his feet.

"Are we here to visit someone?" Shouta asks. His voice is soft, confused. Hizashi has been strange for the better part of a month now, ever since Shouta had finally announced his forced retirement to the public. Fifty two wasn't an awful age to retire, he'd supposed. He had certainly done his part, as Hizashi had told him again and again. Hizashi had been waiting on Shouta to retire from hero work, and announced his own retirement one week after Shouta.

Hizashi still does his radio show - after all, he does own one of Japan's most popular stations, and they both drop into UA every now and again to give lectures. But that's it.

In general, Shouta has mainly been working on healing. His leg will never regain full function, and he's coming to terms with that slowly. He has enough wages to comfortably retire with. He's saved an okay amount, nothing crazy, but enough.

Hizashi clears his throat and shakes his head.

"Um. N... No. This..."

Shouta waits patiently, though not without concern. It was perhaps the most nervous he has seen Hizashi, bar the mans' marriage proposal many years ago. Hizashi quickly sucks in a long breath, running his hands through his long hair, which is now a softer yellow than in the prime of his hero days.

"Sho," Hizashi finally says. Shouta smiles. "You... You've been there for me for as long as I can remember. Through every one of my worst days, and every one of my best - when - when I decided to take on three jobs, you supported me even though I know you hated it. When I had to leave Japan for two years, you waited for me. You were right there with me in that first disgusting apartment we ever owned. You sat right by me when I was in a coma. Right there until I woke up. You - God, you've shown me such unconditional love since day one, and every day I wake up next to you, Shouta? It's a blessing."

Shouta furrows his brow, reaching forward and placing his free hand on his husband's cheek.

"You do realise we're already married? You can't really propose again, dear."

Hizashi barks out a watery laugh, before shaking his head.

"Shouta, this... This is the surprise." Hizashi gestures to the garden, and to the cottage. Shouta isn't sure he could be more confused.

"Every paycheck I every got, I put a little bit of it aside," Hizashi continues. "Every late night, every dangerous villain, every marked test - it all contributed to this. To... To our new home. To here."

Shouta tears his eyes away from his husband and looks to the cottage. This quiet, beautiful place away from the hustle and the sirens and the screaming neighbours. Shouta's eyes are wide as he tries to understand, and Hizashi fills the silence.

"I... I've been working on this on and off for years, y'know. Planning with builders and contractors and the odd lawyer or two for the best way to go about this. I never thought just how massive this project would be. And of course, I - fuck, please don't think this was something I would hide from you in a weird, sneaky way! I just - I, I just." Hizashi bites his lip hard.

"I just want you to live your best life, in a home you deserve. No life-threatening hero work. No midnight emergency calls. I want you to wake up safe, warm, and happy. This - every single brick, every single flower, and absolutely every tiny moment of peace - it's here, for you."

Shouta doesn't quite know what to do with himself. So much presented at once - Hizashi had built a home? One that wasn't a dingy cramped flat like they're used to, smashed above and below noisy neighbours? Where did he find the time for this? How? 

Hizashi has turned away from Aizawa and walked to the front door. Unlocking it, still obviously very nervous, he manages a grand bow.

"Perhaps look around?"

Shouta walks into the house, his cane clutched tightly. He feels a lump wedge firmly in his throat, and soon, he stands in a living room filled with diminishing sunlight. Nearly every surface is draped in warm and beautiful cloths and throws, a huge plump sofa is sat under the window before a television. His gaze falls on a cat sleeping in a sunbeam on the windowsill - their cat. Ghost, a one-eyed persian they'd had for years. "I brought her here this morning," Hizashi supplied with a chuckle. 

Shouta can only blink as he moves to the next room - the kitchen, which Hizashi has elected to paint a citrus green. It's full of fresh food, all Shouta's favourites, and there's even a special shelf for juice packets. A small, sweet dining table sits in the centre of the room, placements set for two, with a single rose placed between them. He stands there in silence, until Hizashi clears his throat behind him.

"You haven't seen the bedroom yet."

Hizashi leads Shouta to a wooden door down a very short hallway from the living room, and waits. He looks incredibly nervous again, and Shouta can feel it coming off him in waves. Straightening himself up, Shouta takes a breath and swings open the door.

His cane thumps on the carpet as he brings his hands to his chest. 

Hizashi has managed to model the entire bedroom on the first one they had ever gotten together, just after they had graduated. Shouta feels himself reliving almost 30 years ago - both men had managed to get a flat together, just as they had started dating, and it was awful - an old dingy flat, both men had hated it, until one day Shouta had come home from hero work to find Hizashi had stuck sticker-stars all over their bedroom ceiling, and had bought so many comfy throws and pillows for the bed he could hardly see it. He had even stuck posters of bands they were both into at the time all over the walls to cover the cracks. 

Shouta remembers smiling so wide it hurt that night, and as he and Hizashi had curled up together under the stars that had been painstakingly applied to the ceiling, Shouta remembers telling Hizashi it was the most beautiful room he could have hoped to stay in.

Of course, the room Shouta now stands in has no cracks - instead, it has heating and beautifully wallpapered walls, but, all their old music posters are hung up too, torn and faded with time, each preserved in a glass frame, and the double bed is covered in throws and pillows, achingly similar to what Shouta can remember from so long ago - but it's the stars that really hit him. Each star is painstakingly applied, hundreds of them, though rather than stickers, these ones are all painted on. 

Shouta doesnt even bother asking if Hizashi did that part all on his own, he knows the answer. And at that moment, he's hit with another memory, just as Shouta steps further into the room. When they had first gotten their gross flat, Hizashi at the time had thought it funny to write on the wall. Just above their bed, a note for Shouta. And sure enough, now Shouta can see familiar black writing over their bed, and he already knows what it says before he even reads it. 

 'I, Yamada Hizashi, love Aizawa Shouta forever and ever, more than all the stars in the big dumb sky!' 

Shouta whips around, eyes wider than he thought possible. Hizashi is just standing there with that dorky look he knows so well, pulling at his hair a little, so utterly nervous it's painful. And they stay like that a moment, just one moment, as the summer evening air drifts through the house and Ghost pads into the room and jumps onto the bed. 

 And then Shouta crumples to the floor, his face buried in his hands. 

"Shouta!" Hizashi darts forward, practically throwing himself down next to his husband and wrapping his arms around him, and for the first time in a very long while, Shouta can feel tears freely fall down his face. 

"For me? You did this all, for me?" Hizashi laughs and holds Shouta tighter, brushing his thick dark hair back from his eyes, and of course he’s crying too. 

"Without a doubt, Sho. Everything in this home, I did with you in my heart. It's yours."

 And there's not even a pause as Shouta corrects Hizashi, his voice thick and full of so much love it could construct an entire universe. 

"Ours, ‘Zashi. It's ours." 

[splendidlyimperfect]

Sting’s life has been a mess ever since he was eleven years old and Rogue told when he’d promised to keep a secret. Now Sting is an adult, and the only way he knows how to cope is by getting drunk and forgetting the world. When drinking nearly kills him, he gets a chance to turn his life around, and maybe become the kind of man that Rogue deserves to love. 

Chapter Summary: Terrified of Rogue's parents finding out, Sting runs back home. But home isn't safe, and Sting's running out of options.

Chapters (4/?): 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Rogue Cheney/Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel/Gray Fullbuster, Sting Eucliffe & Natsu Dragneel, Sting Eucliffe & Weisslogia Characters: Sting Eucliffe, Natsu Dragneel, Rogue Cheney, Gray Fullbuster, Weisslogia Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Past Child Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Trans Character, Trans Sting, Friendship, Childhood Friends, Sting-focused story, Sting is a disaster, Natsu’s a great friend, Rogue tries to do what’s right, Tumblr: FTLGBTales Series: Part 2 of i’m still standing

TW for child abuse - scene isn't explicitly described, but injuries as a result are (from child's POV)

-----

dev· as· tate | \ ˈde-və-ˌstāt : to bring to ruin or desolation by violent action

.

ii summer age eleven

.

He’d promised.

Sting runs the whole way home from Rogue’s house. He’s not wearing shoes, but he doesn’t even feel the rocks or pavement or the tiny pieces of broken glass that cut his feet. The sun is already hot, and by the time Sting can see his driveway, his hair is sticky with sweat and he can barely breathe.

Sting feels sick when he looks up to see his bedroom window closed. He’d left it open when he’d snuck out last night.

His dad knows.

Sting looks back down the street toward Rogue’s house, half-expecting to see Rogue running after him, yelling for him to come back. Sting’s stomach hurts and he squeezes his eyes shut to stop himself from crying. Why did Rogue tell? He’d promised to keep it secret.

The front door of the house bangs open and Sting jumps, wishing he could hide. But he’s in the middle of the road, barefoot and dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and his dad is there, staring out at him with blank eyes.

“Get in here.”

Sting obeys quickly, looking down at the ground as he slips past his father into the house. His hands are shaking and for a second, he considers running upstairs and locking himself in the bathroom. But his dad isn’t yelling, and maybe it won’t be that bad.

Continue reading on AO3

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly as his dad slams the front door. “I went to Rogue’s house. You were asleep and I didn’t wanna wake you up, and—”

He trails off because his dad isn’t even looking at him. He’s staring at the wall behind Sting’s head, eyes almost black, worse than they were last night when he’d yelled and smashed his beer bottle to pieces against the wall. Pieces of glass are still littered around the living room floor.

“Dad, please,” Sting whispers, but his dad can’t hear him, so Sting squeezes his eyes shut and backs against the wall, arms up to cover his face. Maybe if he’s quiet, it won’t hurt.

-----

It does hurt.

Sting presses himself against the wall of his closet, wiping tears away as the room swims in front of his eyes. It’s worse than the time he fell off the swing at the playground and landed on his back so hard he couldn’t breathe. He can’t feel his hand and his tummy hurts and he can’t stop crying.

Don’t be such a baby.

Sting’s not a baby. He’s not, but no matter how many times he whispers it, the tears won’t stop falling. A sob tries to break out of him, but he doesn’t let it, pulling his knees to his chest and biting the inside of his cheek.

When the wail of police sirens fills the air outside, Sting’s heart nearly stops.

Go away, he thinks, squeezing his eyes shut and curling up tighter, willing himself to be as tiny as possible. Maybe they won’t find him. Maybe his dad will say that Sting’s at Rogue’s house, and that the broken glass was an accident.  

But Rogue’s parents know, now, and Rogue’s house isn’t safe anymore either.

Sting bites his lip, torn between pushing the closet door shut and not moving. If they don’t find him, they can’t make him leave, and it’ll be okay. Dad will say sorry and they’ll go for ice cream and he’ll let Sting get the one with chocolate chips that’s his favorite.

There’s a knock on the front door and Sting whimpers, pressing his forehead to his knees. The floor’s swaying under him, like the boat he went on with Zach last year, and Sting thinks he might throw up.

“Don’t,” he whispers, wiping at his face with the hand that doesn’t hurt. The front door swings open and there are voices he doesn’t recognize, people coming into the house, and Sting can’t breathe because they’re going to see. They’ll see and they’ll think that his dad’s bad, and they’re wrong.

Someone makes their way up the stairs. A lady’s voice calls Sting’s name, getting closer to his room, and he holds his breath, trying to be as still as possible.

He’s not good at much, but he’s good at being small and quiet.

“Abbey?” The lady’s voice gets closer and she pushes open Sting’s bedroom door. He can see her shoes and the red stripe up the side of her pants. “Abbey, sweetheart, where are you? We’re here to help.”

I don’t need help, Sting thinks. Go away, go away, go away.

The lady’s feet get closer and closer, and when she crouches down and spots him in the corner of the closet, Sting wishes he could melt into the floor and disappear.

“I found her,” the lady says into the radio on her shirt. His dad has one just like it and he uses it to help people because he’s good. Sting just needs to be quieter and everything will be okay.

“Go away,” he whispers.

“Do you think you can come out of there for me?” the lady asks, kneeling down on the floor and reaching out her hand. “My name’s Kelly. It looks like you’re hurt.”

Sting shakes his head, but the movement makes the floor spin again, and he whimpers.

“I’m here to help you,” Kelly says, and her voice is so soft that for a second, Sting thinks it might be okay to listen. She moves toward him and he flinches back, making a scared, angry noise that he can’t control. “It’s okay,” Kelly says, putting her hands out as she moves to sit cross-legged next to Sting. “It’s my job to make sure you’re safe. Can I take a look at you? You’re bleeding.”

Sting can’t answer. All the words are trapped in his chest and if he doesn’t say them, maybe his dad won’t get in trouble.

Kelly talks into her radio again. “We need an EMT upstairs, second bedroom on the left.” She looks back at Sting and explains, “an EMT is someone from the ambulance. They’re going to help you out, okay?”

Sting brings his hand up to the spot on his head that had hit the coffee table. It hurts, and it’s wet and sticky and it makes him want to throw up.

Suddenly there’s shouting downstairs, and a loud crash, and Sting’s dad starts yelling things like, “fucking assholes,” and, “get the fuck off me, gonna kick your goddamn ass,” and, “get the hell out of my house.”

Sting hates it when he says those words. They’re angry words – words that mean Sting’s done something wrong and it’s too late to make it right.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Hey, look at me,” Kelly says gently, holding her hand out between the two of them but not touching Sting. “I know you’re scared, but I’m here, and it’s going to be okay.”

“Why are they hurting him?” Sting asks, and he can’t stop the tears that stream down his face. The shouting gets louder and the sound tumbles through Sting’s head, making him dizzy. His face feels hot and his fingers are numb, and he just wants his dad. “Leave him alone,” he whispers.

“I know you’re confused,” Kelly says, “but it’s not safe for you here right now.”

Sting’s arm aches, and he wants so badly to stop crying but he’s not in control of his body anymore. He hates this, hates hurting but hates it worse when the hurting stops because then he can’t feel anything at all.

“P-please, I…”

There’s another crash and more swearing, and before Sting can think, he shuffles closer to Kelly. Everything’s getting blurry and he’s so, so scared.

“It’s okay,” Kelly says softly as Sting presses himself to her side. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I did,” Sting whispers. “I’m sorry.”

The crashing downstairs gets louder and then stops, suddenly. The front door slams shut and it’s quiet, now – too quiet. Someone else appears at Sting’s bedroom door and for a second, Sting thinks it’s his dad. Before he can think, he curls up against Kelly, pressing his face into her shoulder as she wraps an arm around him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, tears still streaking down his cheeks. It’s like they’re the only words he knows.

“Shhh,” Kelly says gently as the other person crouches down outside the closet. Sting can’t open his eyes. His stomach hurts because he knows it’s not his dad, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel angry or safe.

“Abbey, this is Chris,” Kelly says, nudging him until he looks at the man with the first aid kit. He’s got gloves on, and he’s holding out a piece of gauze.

“We’re gonna put this on your head,” he says gently. “Is that okay? We need to stop the bleeding.”

Sting’s heart is beating so fast that he can barely breathe, and when Chris reaches out slowly to put the gauze on his head, Sting flinches back into Kelly.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, and for a second he thinks of his mom, rocking him to sleep after a bad dream. It hurts when Chris touches his head, and everything in Sting’s stomach suddenly reappears as he leans away from Kelly and throws up.

“I don’t feel good,” he mumbles, and he can’t stop crying. He hates being sick, hates the taste in the back of his throat, hates the way the room won’t stop spinning. He throws up again and Kelly rubs his back, holding the gauze against his head.

Chris starts saying a bunch of words that Sting doesn’t understand, but he does know what a concussion is. Rogue’s brother Gajeel had one once from football.

“I hit my head,” Sting says, wincing as he coughs around the taste of vomit in his throat. “It hurts.”

“I know, sweetie,” Kelly says gently. “We’re going to the hospital, okay?”

Sting wobbles back against her and before he can argue, she slips an arm under his legs and lifts him as she stands. He wants to struggle, wants to tell her that he’s fine, that he can walk, that’s he’s not a baby. But he’s exhausted and dizzy and she feels warm and safe, so he leans against her as she follows Chris out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“We’re going to keep you safe,” Kelly says, turning Sting away from the living room as they walk to the front door. Everything’s broken, and all he can see is gentle sunlight, and shards of broken glass.