#when they burn out from this its going to be horrible. like. life-threatening levels of horrible. sleep deprived car crash horrible.

[quietwingsinthesky]

crucial to human!au raphael is that they don’t even want the fucking job of dealing with michael, they don’t want that!! that’s their brother!! he’s their older brother and he should not be their responsibility, but between their dad dying/abandoning them and how thoroughly fucked michael is by that, and the fact that gabriel and lucifer are out of the picture to help in any way, raphael is the only one left! and they don’t want this fucking job!!!

but who else is going to do it.

[mandos-mind-trick]

Corruption - Part 1

Summary: Mari's always had darkness in her, threatening to take over in the back of her mind. No matter how much the Jedi tried to train her, the darkness was always there. After the death of her first master, she finds herself under the tutelage of Master Kenobi due to the council's growing concerns about her well being. The sudden return of a certain enemy, however, has some things coming to light. Maybe the darkness was never hers to begin with.

Pairing: Maul x OC (only named, no physical descriptions given)

Warnings: Maul being Maul, bit of an age difference but OC is of legal age in the last section, nightmares, self doubt, some canon-typical violence, mentioned death, sort of forced soulmate link initiation, manipulation, stalking, kinda dark at the end but nothing's given in detail.

A/N: All right, here it is, the original soulmate story that started the whole clone series. This takes a bit of a different look at soulmate bonds from a different perspective. Lots of just setting up the story in this part, the next one will go a lot more into detail about things, and also have a bit more action and also Maul.

Maul and Mari share the soulmate link where it's impossible to harm your soulmate cause I thought it would be not only perfect but kinda funny.

Next > | MASTERLIST

34 BBY

Master Cartia was not one to panic. Like most Jedi, she prided herself in her ability to stay calm even in the most dire situations. Her level-headedness and nurturing nature led her to join the caretakers in the creche, looking after the younglings. Her group were between the human ages 3-4 (or the equivalent in other species) when social and mental skills begin to strengthen and develop, as do Force abilities. Placating tantrums and dodging floating objects (and occasionally floating toddlers) were normal in her day to day life. 

Frantically searching for missing children, though, that was entirely unheard of. 

The creche is in the center of the temple. To escape unseen is nearly impossible. There are always Jedi moving about at all hours in the temple, not to mention the guards that were stationed at every entrance. Younglings sneaking around the temple was not unusual, and they were often returned by other creche masters or other Jedi who happened upon them in passing. 

But four year old Marianni Grarus is not in the temple. 

They had gone over every inch twice, looking in every space she could have gotten into, every place she could hide, but she was nowhere to be found. 

It’s not that surprising to Master Cartia that Mari is the one that managed to elude the entire Jedi temple and its guards. 

One could say Mari had a reputation from the beginning. 

She had been left on the front steps of the temple on Coruscant. It wasn’t common practice, but it had happened before. Her parents likely lived on Coruscant in the underworld and had brought her up to give her a better life. Or, something along those lines. 

Master Billaba had brought the child in near third meal, having noticed the toddler upon her return from a mission. The girl had been so upset, especially once she realized her parents were not returning for her, she had begun to cry and let out a shriek laced with the force so loud it shattered a window in the creche, disturbing the other children and triggering them all to cry. 

It hadn’t taken long to realize why her parents may have delivered her to the temple themselves. 

Mari was uniquely strong in the force for her age. She was also prone to horrible tantrums. Tantrums in young children were not unheard of, even from those in the care of the Jedi. Mari’s tantrums were exceptionally bad. Her emotions were strong, the most prevalent being anger. It burned red hot in her, overwhelming even the most level-headed Jedi if they were not prepared for it. 

She had the perfect makings of a Sith. Perhaps it was best her parents delivered her to the Jedi, and did so young enough they could calm the raging fire inside of her before it was too late. 

Master Cartia had not been surprised when she went to check on her group in the early morning and found Mari missing. She was only surprised how she had managed it. 

An alert was promptly sent out about the missing youngling to all Jedi in the temple, and those outside it as well. She couldn’t have gotten far, not on foot. Of course, Coruscant was a big planet with lots of people. Many things could have happened in the time she was missing. 

***

Obi-Wan was not thrilled about being woken early. He and his master had just returned from a mission and he had been looking forward to a day of rest. Of course, when the alert came in about the missing youngling, his master had roused him and they had set off to search. 

“How does a youngling escape the temple?” He asks as they make their way down one of the market streets. His master thinks they may be close. 

“They shouldn’t be able to.” Qui-Gon answers. “Though I have heard much about this youngling. She is strong in the force, but her emotions are stronger.” 

“You think she left on purpose?” 

“I cannot say.” He says. “Not until she is found.” He pauses at an intersection, looking left then right. 

“How are we supposed to find her?” Obi-Wan asks. There were trillions of people on Coruscant and they were looking for a four year old. 

“Clear your mind.” Qui-Gon says. “Focus on the force.” 

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, clearing his mind as his master said to. He reaches out, scanning the area when something pricks the edges of his mind. It’s hardly more than a needle prick or the sting of a bug, but it’s there. “That way.” He says, opening his eyes, finding himself staring to the right. 

“Yes.” Qui-Gon says. “We are close.” 

They begin walking down the street, Obi-Wan focusing on the feeling as it gets stronger. “There,” He says, pointing down an alley. 

Sure enough, near the end of the alley is Mari. She’s standing in the middle of the alley staring straight ahead. She doesn’t acknowledge them, nor does she seem to even notice them as they approach. Qui-Gon holds a hand out, slowly kneeling next to the girl. He puts a hand on her shoulder, the girl seeming to jolt like she had been drawn from a trance. 

“Easy, young one.” Qui-Gon says, steadying her. 

She blinks, her eyes clearing a bit. She looks up at Qui-Gon before turning her gaze to Obi-Wan. She’s wide-eyed, and looks frightened. Obi-Wan can’t blame her. 

“You had us worried.” He picks up the girl, holding her on his hip. “Sneaking off like that.” 

The girl looks around like she has no idea where she is, like she had no idea what had happened. She looks like she’s about to cry, and Obi-Wan can’t help but feel for her. If he had woken up in a strange place with no idea where he was, even now, he would be upset. He can only imagine what it must be like for someone so young, with so little understanding to be in that position. 

“What were you doing down here?” Qui-Gon asks, starting to walk back towards the temple after alerting them they had found the missing youngling. 

“I dunno.” She says quietly, wiping at her eyes. “I was sleeping.” 

“Sleepwalking?” Obi-Wan suggests. 

“Possibly.” Qui-Gon answers. He turns his attention back to the girl. “Were you dreaming?” 

“Uh-huh.” She nods. 

“What were you dreaming of?” 

“A face.” She says. “A scary face. With yellow eyes.” 

Qui-Gon is quiet for a moment, Obi-Wan trying to make sense of the girl’s words. “What did the face make you feel? Did it feel dangerous? Cold?” 

She shakes her head, leaning it against Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “No. It no hurt me.” 

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan share a look as they make their way back to the temple. Mari is asleep again before they get back. 

*****

32 BBY

Mari is a good student, despite what others may think of her. Her emotions are still strong, but she’s learning. Good Jedi don’t let their emotions rule them. She wants to be a good Jedi. She wants to be a great Jedi. 

Nothing’s ever easy. Not for her. 

It begins in the night, coming out of nowhere. She had been asleep, dreaming of a lightsaber battle. Flashes of red, blue, and green. The fight looks strange to her, almost like she’s the one in it. She can feel anger, feel the burning rage. She can feel it grasping at her, trying to sink its claws into her. She’s scared, desperately trying to keep it away. She’s going to be a good Jedi. She won’t give in to the emotions clawing at her very being. 

They’re stronger than she is. 

Suddenly she’s falling. 

She wakes screaming. 

The creche is in shambles, all of them waking at once. The creche masters swarm in, her own group’s master, Master Inek, is at her side, trying to calm her. She’s afraid, the cold seeping into her very being. She feels like she can’t breathe, like her very life is going to be sucked away by the oppressive cold. 

She wakes again in the infirmary. 

“Worrying, this development is.” She recognizes the voice of Master Yoda. 

“You think they all may be related?” Master Windu. 

A sharp pain jabs through her head, making her gasp. A warm hand presses against her forehead, a moment of warmth flooding through her before it’s chased away by the seeping cold once more. 

“Hello, young one.” Master Allie says. “How do you feel?” 

“Cold.” She answers. She’s shivering under her blankets. “Head hurts.” 

“Can you remember anything before you woke here?” She asks, putting a gentle hand on Mari’s shoulder. 

She relays the dream to them, and the feeling after she woke, like something was trying to take over her. Possess her. 

Master Yoda hums, leaning on his cane. “Correct in our fears, we may be.” He takes a couple slow steps towards the cot. “Protect your mind, we must.” 

“Until you can learn to protect yourself, we will help build a barrier to keep whatever is doing this at bay.” Master Windu says. 

“Don’t worry.” Master Allie squeezes her shoulder, putting her hand back on her forehead. Warmth begins to flood through Mari again, making her sleepy. “This will all be over before you know it.”   

*****

21 BBY

“No, I’m not leaving you!” 

The ship rocks once more with a blast.

“These plans need to get to the Republic.” His hand gently squeezes her shoulder. “I’m not going to sacrifice you or this mission.” 

Alarms are blaring. It’s already too late. They’ve boarded the ship and more are coming. It’s over for them, she already knows. 

“I can’t leave you.” She says, tears forming in her eyes. 

“You’ve been a good student.” He says, opening the escape pod door. R3 wheels himself in, beeping at them. “You’re going to make a great Jedi. I am sorry I won’t be there to see it.” 

He uses the force to push her back into the escape pod, closing the door before she can recover. She calls out, staring out the viewport as he launches the escape pod. R3 uses the scomp link, taking control of the escape pod to get them as far away as they can get. Tears slide down Mari’s cheeks as she watches the cruiser get further and further away. 

Her eyes are closed when it happens, the bright flash still visible behind her eyelids. She sinks to the floor, reaching out in the force but she knows there’s no use. He’s gone. They all are. 

She pulls herself off the floor, trying to gather her mind. She’d been with her master for almost seven years. He had been the only one willing to take a chance on her. She had progressed quickly in her lessons as she grew. She well out-paced those in her own age group, and the council had agreed despite the hesitance of the creche teachers to move her along at a faster pace. 

It wasn’t easy for her. She was picked on, and often found herself having to work twice as hard to prove she was, in fact, worthy of being there. The stress had been tough on her, but she had proven herself time and time again. 

Until it came time for her to take her Initiate Trials. 

Many had spoken out in disagreement about allowing her to progress, but the council had allowed it, and she had passed them all easily. They thought she was too young, too inexperienced. They all knew her, they all knew her reputation. Her abilities in the force were strong, but so were her emotions. She had thought there was no one willing to take a risk on her. 

Until Master Mandphi had stepped forward. He had been there at the trials. He knew of her, but he was willing to overlook the strange happenings in her childhood. It wasn’t that unusual for younglings to have strange experiences as they developed in the force. She knows others tried to convince him otherwise, but he was determined to help her. He saw the potential in her where no one else seemed to. 

He was patient and kind in his lessons, helping her learn to protect her mind from the darkness that always seemed to swirl on the edge. He taught her how to be stronger than the darkness, how to overcome it. He taught her how to use her lightsaber, how to use the force. 

Then the war started. 

Her master had been assigned to the 141st Battalion and spent more time off world than at the temple. In the beginning he had left her behind, as many padawans were left behind, until he was confident she could handle the battlefield. It was different than what they were trained for, but Mari learned quickly and soon became a staple on the cruiser and amongst the clones. 

Until their last mission. 

It had been a risky one. They had been sent to retrieve vital plans from a Separatist base. It had been too easy, and they had been overtaken by waiting Separatist forces. Their forces had been depleted taking the base, and there was no time for reinforcements. 

Mari sinks into the pilot’s seat, taking over the controls. “Relay a distress signal.” She tells R3. “Someone has to find us eventually.” 

She’s not sure where the nearest battalions might be, or if any even knew what had happened. They could be floating for a while. A long while. 

***

Obi-Wan pauses outside the meditation chamber for a moment relaying the past few hours over in his head. He had received orders to return to Coruscant after his last mission. He was glad for the break, but he also knew a summons by the council likely didn’t mean he’d get much time to relax. 

He had been correct. 

He had heard briefly about what had happened with the 141st battalion. They had succeeded in retrieving vital information about Separatist plans, but at the cost of the battalion. The entire battalion had been destroyed, including Master Mandphi. The only survivors had been Master Mandphi’s padawan and the droid carrying the plans. They had been picked up in an escape pod by the 104th two standard rotations later. 

Obi-Wan had planned on taking another padawan after Anakin passed his trials. Of course, the war had changed things. With the dangerous missions he often found himself on, he was glad not to have to worry about a padawan. 

It seemed like that might be changing. 

He knocks on the door, taking a breath to steady his mind. He remembers Marianni, though he doubts she would remember him. It had been almost fifteen years since he and his master had found her on the streets after her great escape from the temple. 

He opens the door at the call to enter, stepping into the small chamber. It’s bright inside, the shades open to let the Coruscanti sun in. Mari is seated furthest from the door, legs crossed in the center of the cushion. 

“Master Kenobi.” She moves to stand, but he holds up a hand, motioning for her to stay where she is. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” He says, taking a step in. “But I was hoping we could speak.” 

“You’re not interrupting anything.” She says, giving him a grim smile. “Master Taa kicked me out of class, told me to meditate until I could gain control over my emotions again.” She scoffs. “At this rate I’ll be here until next week.” 

He takes a seat on the cushion across from her, leaning his elbows on his knees. “It’s never easy, losing a master so tragically.” 

“They want you to help me,” She says, jumping to the chase. “Because you know what it’s like.”

She’s blunt, just as Master Mandphi had been. He knew Master Mandphi well. He had never been one to ease into things. Tact wasn’t his specialty, and it seemed that had rubbed off on his padawan as well. 

“They’re worried about me and my strong emotions.” She continues. “I know they are. I know they’re paying close attention to me.” 

“Controlling one's emotions is the hardest part of being a Jedi.” He says carefully, prodding gently with the force to try and ease her obvious agitation a bit. “Even the most experienced Jedi struggles with it. I know your path hasn’t been an easy one. I promise I will not hide anything from you. The council does wish for me to help you. I cannot know exactly how you are feeling, but I do know what it’s like to lose a master.” He falls quiet for a moment, letting her process. He hates having to throw all of this on her at once, but he knows with the war they didn’t have much of a choice. “They also wish for me to take you on as my padawan.” He says carefully, not sure how she’s going to react. 

Taking on a padawan who had already trained, and bonded, with another master was not an easy task. The bond between padawan and master is a sacred, strong bond. To have it severed so easily, then turn around to try and create another one was difficult not just for the padawan, but also for the new master. 

“I don’t want you to answer now.” He says before she can say anything. “Think about it. Sleep on it. I would be happy to continue to train you, if that is what you decide.” 

She watches him leave, conflicted by the thoughts running through her head. 

****

She wakes suddenly, barely able to hold in her scream. She slaps her hands over her mouth, holding her breath until her ears ring and the pulsing in her head is almost too much. She lets out a long, shaky breath, her trembling fingers closing around the blanket. 

She hasn’t been sleeping well. Not since her master’s death. 

She rises from bed, pulling on her boots. She slips from the room, heading to the fresher. She locks the door, rinsing her face with cool water to try and steady her nerves. She can feel it, the cold darkness at the edges of her mind again. She can picture it, the swirling void of anger and chaos threatening to burst through the walls she had so carefully built over the years. 

No one’s ever been able to explain it completely. No matter how hard she tried, she could never get it to go away. Years and years of practice, learning how to calm her mind, hours and hours of meditation in the force and yet, the darkness still lingered. She’s not trying to keep it there, she doesn’t want it there. 

Her previous master had speculated that perhaps it’s not her at all. 

He had been the first to test it, to try and figure out what it might be instead of just shoving it further and further down as it grew. He had tried reaching out to it in the Force, prodding at it to see what, or who, it could be. 

It had nearly sent her to the healers. 

Whatever it was, it didn’t like him trying to reach it, and it had lashed out. She had felt it, the rage burning hot in her, the edges of her mind beginning to unravel as a sense of madness washed over her. 

Master Mandphi had held her as she shivered from a cold only she could feel, gently easing the barricade in her mind back into place to stave off the swirling madness that threatened her. He had told her later, after she’d recovered, he didn’t think that darkness was her at all. 

Jedi are forbidden from initiating their soulmate links. It’s been that way for thousands and thousands of years. Soulmate links made it impossible to distance oneself from emotion, from connection with others. It led far too many down a path to the dark side, and so Jedi were expected to reject their soulmate when they met. It seemed cruel for fate to give someone destined to be a Jedi a soulmate. 

It was impossible to know all of the ways soulmate links would appear. With the thousands of species sharing such a unique and personal phenomena, no one had ever completely made a comprehensive list. For those sensitive in the Force, soulmate links could develop in strange ways. Dream links were not uncommon, nor were telepathic links. Some shared more common links such as marks or color blindness. Links between two force-sensitives were even rarer and harder to document. They could be connected in many ways aside from just the soulmate link. 

He had thought the darkness may be her soulmate. 

That doesn’t make this any easier. 

Her only hope is to find them and reject them. Then she may be free of the darkness that’s plagued her since she can remember.

Her worst fear is that it’s not her soulmate at all. That darkness may be entirely her after all. 

She splashes more water on her face before leaving the fresher. She debates going back to bed, but she knows she’s not going to get any more sleep. So instead she chooses to walk around the temple, something she often did even when her master was still alive. She’s never usually alone, especially now. With the war it seemed everyone struggled to sleep at some point. Most left her alone, as they too were also wandering to calm their minds. 

Mari wanders the temple, stopping to look out one of the windows at the city. It’s alive even at the late hour, Coruscant constantly moving. It feels a bit like a mirror of her mind, her thoughts constantly racing, constantly moving. She hasn’t been able to meditate since her master’s death, and even before then she had struggled. 

“Trying to escape the temple again?” 

Mari spins, finding none other than Anakin Skywalker approaching her. “M-Master Skywalker.” She says, trying to calm her racing heart. He hadn’t been here when she’d made her grand escape, but of course he’d heard about it. Everyone had heard about it. 

“Can’t sleep?” He asks, coming to a stop next to her. 

She shakes her head. “Haven’t been able to recently.” 

“You’re not alone.” He says. “The war’s taking its toll on all of us.” He stares down at her for a moment. “I’m sorry about your master. I didn’t know him well, but I heard good things about him. It’s an unfortunate loss.” 

She nods. “It hasn’t been easy. He was the only one who believed in me. The only one who took a chance on me.” 

“I know what that’s like.” There’s an edge to his voice, something buried deep, but Mari notices. She notices because she’d heard it in her own voice before. 

They weren’t so different, the two of them. He was brought to the temple later than most, and many thought him too old to begin his training. If Master Kenobi hadn’t been willing to train him, it was unlikely any other master would have. 

He had been too old, and she had been too young. 

He puts a hand on her back, turning her to begin walking again. “I heard the council is assigning Obi-Wan as your new master.” 

She nods. “They think he can help me.” 

“He’s a strict teacher. He can be tough, but he’s loyal to the Jedi code and to his padawan.” He grins at her. “He managed to turn me into a Jedi.” He stops, and she realizes they’ve walked back to the dormitories. “Give him a chance. He may be hard on you, but he won’t let you fail.” 

He puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently before moving to walk away from her. 

“Master Skywalker?” She calls out. He turns back to face her. “Thank you.” 

He nods, offering her a small smile before he continues down the hallway. She slips back into the dorm, making for her bed. She probably won’t sleep, but at least now she had something to distract her mind with. 

****

It doesn’t take him long to find her. Despite it being almost fifteen years since the incident, her force signature is still almost the same. 

Master Yoda had approached him not long after first meal, alerting him that she had made her decision. She had been up early, and had already spoken with the council. 

She was not in her lessons, not that he thought she’d be, and instead he found himself making for the creche. He walks slowly, focusing on her force signature. He remembers how it had felt all those years ago. Most younglings had a soft, round force signature. Young and inexperienced, their force signatures had yet to take true shape, though most Jedi never lost the soft edges and roundness of the force. 

Hers had been sharp, like a shard of glass. 

Though it had been softened a bit by her training, he can feel the sharp edges hidden beneath. It feels dangerous, like it could slice right through him. He’s beginning to understand why the council was intent on watching her, why they were so worried about how the loss of her master could affect her. They couldn’t lose another Jedi to the dark side. 

Even if this one was only a padawan. 

He takes his time, making his way to the creche. It’s a bit odd to find her here, but he had found Anakin in stranger places during his training. He had spent the morning thinking about how to approach this, how to approach her. She’s not like Anakin. He can’t treat them the same. He’d have to start over, while she was already well into her training. 

He waits at the end of the hall, sending one of the creche assistants after her. He didn’t want to impose himself on her space completely, yet. He knows she’s in a delicate place. 

He waits for a while, leaning against the wall while he waits. He considers going in, until one of the doors opens, Mari stepping out. She hurries down the hall, looking flustered. 

“Sorry, Master Kenobi. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. You know how the little ones get, you hold them too long, they scream when you let them go.” She rambles, adjusting her robes. 

He can’t help but smile. She seems so natural in this moment, none of the tenseness or guarded words she’d had the day before. “Interesting choice for a meditation spot.” He says as they begin walking away from the creche. 

“It may sound backwards, but I find it relaxing.” She says. “There’s just something about younglings that’s so...calming. Maybe there’s also a part of me that feels like I need to apologize for all the chaos I caused as a youngling.” 

“I hardly think anyone blames you for that.” He says. “It takes a special temperament to care for younglings. I was never very successful when I was tasked with creche duties. The younger ones spit up on me, and the older ones liked to kick me.” 

Mari laughs, something she hasn’t done in a long time. It’s the first time he’s seen her smile, but even now it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

It’s quiet between them for a few moments as they walk. 

“Master Yoda spoke with you.” She finally says, breaking the silence. 

He nods. “Yes. I am glad that you’ve agreed to continue your training with me.” 

“I ran into Master Skywalker last night.” She says. “We had an...enlightening talk.” 

Obi-Wan smiles. “Oh I’m sure Anakin has plenty he could say about me.” 

“Only good things.” She smiles. 

“Hopefully it stays that way.” He motions for her to follow. “Come. I was hoping to get a jump start on your training. I don’t know how long the council will give me before they send me back out to the field.” 

She makes a face. “Just as long as we’re not going to meditate.” 

He grins. “No, I thought we’d do something more productive today.” 

****

20BBY 

She coughs a bit as the cruiser comes to a stop. The front is smoking, warning alarms going off. She needs to get out before it catches fire, or worse. She pops the top open, looking down. It wasn’t that far of a drop, but as she moves, the cruiser shifts in the tree. She stills, holding her breath. She’ll have to be quick about this. She carefully moves herself until she’s squatting in the seat, the ship sliding forward with every movement. It’s teetering precariously. Just a quick jump and it’ll be over. 

She pushes herself upwards, using the force to propel herself away from the ship as it takes a nose dive to the ground. She lands in a roll, springing back to her feet as her cruiser crashes to the ground. Well, she’s not getting back that way. She looks up at the sky, looking for any trails that could lead her to the other members of her squad. Had they survived the landing? 

She catches a small plume of smoke off to her left, rising slowly into the sky. She sets off in that direction, keeping her senses alert in case there was anything unfriendly on this planet. She’s not even sure what planet this is. 

It had just been the three of them, sent on a quick recon mission. Her master had been hesitant to let her leave the temple with the sudden reappearance of Darth Maul. She had heard the story, even before she became his padawan. The Jedi that killed a Sith. In a time when Sith were supposed to be extinct, that was quite the title to have. 

Since his miraculous reappearance, her master had been keeping her at the temple out of fear that Maul might try and take revenge. That was what he wanted, after all. Her master was worried she might get caught in the crossfire if Maul ever found out about her. He didn’t doubt her abilities, but Maul was not one to underestimate. 

It had been quiet, though, since her master had last seen Maul and he had decided to send her on a small, safe mission. At least, that’s what it was supposed to be. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

They were supposed to be on a simple recon mission, but the Separatists had been waiting for them. It had all been a trap, and they had been forced to jump to the next sector. They had been followed, and the ensuing fight had left them crippled and forced to land on this planet. She hoped her transmission had reached her Master before they’d crashed into the thick forest. 

She stumbles across the ship quickly. It’s mostly intact, but abandoned. She closes her eyes, reaching out in the force, but she can’t feel anyone nearby. She tries not to think about all the reasons that may be. She climbs into the pilot’s seat, powering up the transmitter. It flickers before going dark. She curses, slamming her fist on the control panel. She’d have to look for the other. Hopefully that ship could still transmit. 

She looks to the sky, hoping to see another trail of smoke, or anything, but there’s nothing. She sighs, looking in all directions, reaching out with the force. Nothing. They couldn’t have landed that far apart. She had been in front, with the others behind her. If they fell straight in the formation they’d been in, there should be one just southwest of here. But which way was south? 

Mari glances around her again before deciding to follow the direction they’d fallen in. Maybe the others were looking for her as well. She’d be safer sticking to her ruined cruiser. If no one heard from them soon, then maybe someone would come looking. The squad of cruisers crashing too had to draw some sort of attention if there was any life on this planet. 

Though, as she looks at the dense trees around her, she’s not sure she wants to meet whoever lives here. Something cold runs down her spine, fear starting to edge in her mind. She’s alone on an unknown planet. She puts a hand on her hip, letting out a long breath to steady herself. 

At least she still has her lightsaber. 

All she can do is try to survive on her own long enough for help to come. She could reach out in the force, try to project it far enough someone would notice, but she’s not sure she wants to risk the wrong someone answering. Not to mention it would sap most of her energy to do so. To reach out that far, to cause enough of a disturbance it could be felt possibly lightyears away would take an immense amount of strength. Not that she doubted her ability, she just doesn’t want to put herself in that vulnerable position. 

Not yet. 

She makes it back to her ruined cruiser, feeling more tired than she had before. It’s warm on the planet, sweat starting to soak into her robes. Despite the warmth, she can still feel a chill settling in. It’s not a physical one, it’s something pressing in the back of her mind. 

Something’s wrong. Why had the other cruiser been empty with no signs of life nearby? 

She scans the trees, reaching out with the force once more. Her body shudders as her mind reaches something. Something’s wrong. Something's off.

There’s something out there. 

She can feel it now. It’s an oppressive feeling, making her feel chilled to the bone. She pulls her lightsaber from her belt, holding it in her hand. The feeling probes at her, pressing against her defenses. She takes a breath, calming herself. She’s going to have to fight, and not just physically. 

She grips her lightsaber tighter as the figure finally reveals itself. Her blood turns to ice in her veins. 

“The Force does work in strange ways.” The figure muses, eyeing her with near-glowing eyes. His voice is silky smooth,  “I had no idea you would go on to become Kenobi’s little Padawan.” He’s imposing in the fading sunlight. 

She ignites her lightsaber, taking a defensive stance. “My Master told me about you.” She says, holding the weapon between them. He makes no move to grab his own, eyeing her as he steps closer. 

“I would assume he would tell you.” He says. She can feel him pressing forward, trying to find a weak spot in her barrier. “I’ve been watching you.” 

So he was the presence she had felt all day. It unnerved her, the thought that he was that close and she’d had no idea. He could have struck at any moment. She only hopes at least one of the troopers survived and managed to send out a transmission. She knows she can’t fight him alone. 

She grips her lightsaber tighter as he ignites his own double blade. Her Master had made sure she was a competent dualist. With him constantly running into figures like Grievous, or even Dooku, he wanted to be sure she could hold her own against such formidable opponents. She was always better with a lightsaber anyways. Fighting was one thing. Meditation was another. 

He strikes first, Mari blocking his rapid hits. He continues his assault, and a slow realization begins to dawn on Mari. She’s exhausted. The planet is hot and humid, and she had gone all day without any food or water despite spending most of the day on the move looking for any survivors. She was already in no shape to be fighting at such an intensity. That, and his aura had been draining her slowly. The darkness had been feeding off her, draining her energy. 

She stumbles as he swings at her, his blade just grazing her arm. Her sleeve is singed, but he hadn’t met any skin. It should have. He should have at least singed her skin with her blade, or at the most taken a chunk of her arm. 

It hadn’t touched her. 

He bares his teeth at her, a low growl rumbling in his chest. She tightens her grip on her lightsaber, steeling herself as he comes at her twice as hard. 

She can feel her resolve slipping, forcing her into the defensive. It was taking everything just to block his hits. Forget trying to beat him, she’s no match for him. Not after he’d been draining her all day. 

She accepts it’s over when she trips. Her lightsaber drops from her, just out of reach, but he’s already on her. The ominous red of his saber glows just inches from her face. She can feel the heat of it. Any second now she’d be dead. Just like that he’d beaten her. She really was weak. Maybe everyone had been right all along.

He tightens his grip on the saber, disengaging one end to hold it with two hands. He looks like he’s fighting, struggling against something. She’s waiting, staring up at him, waiting for the end. He’d get his revenge, taking her life to make her master suffer for attempting to take his. 

To her surprise the blade disappears. He reaches out a hand, and she can feel the force pressing down on her, holding her in place. “Fascinating,” He muses, dropping to a knee beside her. “This certainly changes things.” 

She’s breathing hard, struggling against the force pushing against her, but she’s too tired. He wraps a hand around her throat, pulling her up into a seated position. She grips at his wrist, expecting his hand to close around her throat and choke her, but it simply rests there, his grip tight enough to hold her still but not tight enough to hurt her. 

“Let me in,” He hisses, his grip tightening just slightly, but it still doesn’t hurt. Still doesn’t cut the air from entering her lungs. 

She feels pressure against her mind, pressure against the barricade she had spent years building up. A familiar cold chill fills her body, taking her back twelve years ago when she had woken in the night screaming. She gasps quietly, the wall in her mind slipping as he forces his way in. 

“Yes,” He says, leaning in close to her. “You remember.” 

Memories flash through her mind as he looks through them. When she’d woken screaming, waking in the infirmary, then even further back. The time when she’d sleepwalked her way right out of the temple. 

“You were such a strong little thing back then.” He murmurs, leaning in closer. “I had no idea until you were right in front of me.” 

She watches the memory play out in her mind. She had been following instinct, her dreams reaching out, finding him. She’d left the temple so easily, making her way to him. She remembers his face, barely visible beneath the hood as he’d knelt in front of her. Her eyes are awake and aware, like she knew. She had known. It had never been a dream. 

Maul chuckles, shifting his grip to the back of her neck as he forces his way completely into her mind. “I’ve been watching you.” He chuckles as her eyes widen. “Yes, it was always me. My anger kept me alive, but your life force allowed me to live.” 

“No,” She whispers, going lax in his hold. She remembers the draining feeling, like someone had been sucking the life from her. It had been him. It must have been the day her master had tried to kill him. He had drawn from her lifeforce to keep himself alive. 

He leans closer, licking at the tears sliding down her cheeks. “You had no idea did you, little one.” She shivers, the chill of his presence starting to settle into her bones. “The darkness in you, all that anger and hatred the Jedi tried so hard to remove was never yours.” Her eyes widen, lips parting in a gasp. “It was always me.” 

Her former master had been right. 

She begins to feel something bubbling inside her. All those times she’d felt the uncontrollable emotions, all the struggles she’d had trying to calm them, trying to be a good Jedi and not lose herself to them...it had never been her. It was the part of him that resided in her, the part of him that they shared. Tears slide down her cheeks, a quiet sob leaving her lips. It had never been her fault. It had never been her own weakness. No one had bothered to notice. No one had bothered to care. 

He shushes her, smoothing over her skin with his bare hand. His touch is like electricity flowing through her. She feels hot despite the chill that’s settled itself into her bones. She can feel him stronger now. He’s working his way through her defenses, forcing himself into her mind by toying with her emotions, the emotions he understood. Pain, fear, anger. He’s using the bond between them against her, weakening her. 

He forces her down on her back in the grass, hovering over her. His hand moves back to her throat, settling there to hold her still. She’s beginning to feel the fear bubbling up in her, her pulse thrumming against his fingers. 

“You would have made a perfect Sith,” He says, shifting so he’s straddling her. “But the Jedi got to you first. Perhaps it was better this way. We were fated to meet, after all.” 

She lets out a choked sound as he licks along her cheek once more, tracing the trail of her tears. Her former master had been right, the darkness hadn’t been her at all. It had been him. The Sith her current master had tried to kill. He’d survived because of her. Protecting her from him had been useless because he’d already known about her. They’d already met. 

He chuckles, nosing along her jaw. “Oh yes, this is much better. I would have killed you, you know.” His lips brush her skin as he speaks. “Made Kenobi feel helpless once more, helpless to watch as I destroyed his little padawan while he could do nothing to save you. But this,” He slides his hand to the back of her neck, forcing her gaze on him. “This is so much better. You belong to me.” He growls, licking at her throat. “You can never forget my touch. Not now. Your mind is mine, your body is mine. Soon I will have you completely.” 

He’s not lying. A soulmate’s touch is like a drug. Once you had felt your soulmate’s touch, there was no one else in the galaxy that could make you feel the same. No touch would feel as good, and she would constantly be feeling the need to seek him out. The desire to feel his touch once more could never be taken away. He’s ruining her in more ways than one. 

She should reject him. Right now, say the words before it gets worse, before he does something else. It would stun him enough that she may be able to escape and run. She can find somewhere to hide and hope her master will find her soon. It would solve all of her problems. The darkness would be gone, and she wouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life yearning after a Sith. 

So why can’t she say it? 

He leans over her, bringing his face close to hers once more. She keeps her eyes closed, not wanting to look at him. “Your Master is close.” He nips at her bottom lip, dragging his sharp teeth against it. “I will be seeing you soon.” He kisses her before disappearing almost like he hadn’t been there at all. 

She can still feel the ghost of him, the ghost of his presence, the ghost of his touch. She can feel the pulse through her body, already missing his hands on her. Shame burns through her as she feels the dampness in her underwear, the fabric sticking to her. She rolls over onto her side, tears sliding down her cheeks. Her mind is wide open, like a locked crate that had been pried open from the outside. 

Her body burns, but still the chill has settled into her bones. She can feel him in the back of her mind, the edge that always seemed to settle there. She’s exhausted. Drained. She had thought she’d never meet her soulmate, but she already had. She’d shared a deep connection with him her entire life and hadn't known. 

No one could know. No one could ever now. Not now. 

She hears the roar of a gunship, but she can’t bring herself to move. He hadn’t been lying about her master being close. She can’t move. She’s tired. Too tired. 

“Commander?” 

She knows it's him. She knows it's him without even having to look. They may look the same, but they’re all individuals in the Force. She can’t look at him. Not even when he kneels in front of her, his touch soft against her arm. She’s shaking. 

He’s gone, the calming aura of her Master replacing him. He places a gentle hand on her head, the warmth of his presence flooding through her. He probes gently at the broken pieces of the barrier, the crumbled ruins of her mind. 

She lets out a sob, uncaring that her mind is open to him. It hadn’t felt so painful when Maul had burst his way through. It hadn’t been painful at all. 

“Maul.” He whispers, digging just far enough to see who was responsible for putting her in this state. 

He had trained her to hold her own in a physical fight against a swordsman as capable as Maul. She had told him how her skills with a lightsaber were her weakest point. How her former master had spent years drilling her to catch up with her other skills. He had been wrong in assuming her strength in the Force would protect her if her combat skills failed. But her true weakness was her emotions. He should have known a Sith would use them against her. 

He uses the Force to ease her into sleep. Her mind was fractured enough. She didn’t need to know what the troopers had found. “Get everyone back to the ships.” He tells Cody. “Don’t linger here.” 

Taglist: (I know I'm forgetting people that asked to be tagged in everything so if I'm missing you please let me know)

@bobaprint, @star-trekker-0013, @rosechi

[la-pheacienne]

Lol if it was ShOckING then how can it be expected and something "we shouldnt feel surprised by"? Even with shocking character moments in got they were still expected and made sense for them. Events like the jaime attacking ned or cersie putting joff on the throne never left an audience confused after and go on the internet to try scramble an excuse for them because we understood who these characters were and what matters to them as they played on screen. No one was actually thinking that daemon would still be hung up over being replaced as viserys' heir 20yrs later and be so angry as to hurt rhaenyra his brothers daughter and wife over it. Like if the writers had done their job in showing who daemon really is than the moment daemon and rhaenyra started having conflict and were alone together we shouldve felt nothing but dread for rhaenyra. But we didnt and the choke came out of nowhere. Because to us the show was building towards daemon never hurting his family as his one(1) and only redeeming quality that was keeping him away from straight up villain territory. And the fact that even the writers had to come out and explain that scene is proof they either failed to do what they wanted to do or they used a scene of domestic violence as ultimately just for shock value.

"Shock value is the potential of an image, text, action, or other form of communication, such as a public execution, to provoke a reaction of sharp disgust, shock, anger, fear, or similar negative emotions".

Unfortunately American media is full of it. It's kind of their thing. It's easy to provoke an emotional reaction, it's very difficult to create a multilayered story. So they prefer the former.

House of the Dragon particularly suffers from it. Examples:

Viserys ordering the slaughter of his wife and showing that slaughter on screen. No guys it's not a feminist take. Showing a woman's belly being cut in half is not feminism. It's shock value.

Laena ordering her dragon to burn her alive when she was already dying anyway. Again, not feminism, sorry. The quiet tragedy of a woman dying in childbirth and the grief of her husband are obviously not impressive enough for dumb Americans so let's include a totally idiotic suicide that makes zero sense narratively just to provoke a reaction = shock value.

Larys masturbating on Alicent's feet. Adds nothing to the narrative, we already know that Larys is evil as fuck and we already know that Alicent is using him to USURP the rightful heir. These things are already established. A negotiation that should have been meaningful for Alicent's character, by showing her cunningness, determination and plotting skills is reduced to meaningless victimisation, thus objectifying one of the main ANTAGONISTS of the series in order to evoke a reaction of disgust = shock value.

Rhaenys' girlbossification. Added absolutely nothing to the narrative apart from shock, sure, kill a bunch of civilians just to threaten the usurpers? And then leave? What? One of the most stupid scenes in the show.

Crispy Cream killing Laenor's lover. Another extremely stupid scene. Didn't make ANY sense, Crispy got zero conséquence for it, I literally don't understand why that scene was included other than its shock value because it's a game of thrones wedding.

Daemon killing Rhea. Jeez. Horrible, horribly shot, horribly acted, Daemon had less human traits than a fucking Dementor I mean WTF. Am I supposed to care about this woman that appeared on screen for 1 minute? Lol I literally dgaf. It was included merely for shock value and it didn't even shock me because it was just so pointless. That's another level of lame right there.

Daemon choking Rhaenyra, the woman he spent 10+ years pining after, the woman he wanted to protect by exiling himself. The woman that just lost their baby and her throne. That woman. Sure guys domestic violence can occur in a couple that seemed to love each other deeply before the first violent strike, but that's real life. In fiction, it doesn't work that way, sorry. In fiction, when you show a character having a certain trait, you fucking STICK.TO.IT. You don't change that on a whim. If you show that Daemon is loyal to his family, he needs to stay loyal to his family, period. Characters in fiction have an interior logic that doesn't exist in the real world. Real people don't necessarily have that interior logic but fictional characters do. You mess up that logic, you fuck up the story. Aristotle said about tragedy that characters need to be static and that is the most important part. STATIC. It's the narrative that moves the characters forward. They don't just randomly throw a fit out of nowhere because of a random change in personality. But if you use the word STATIC to an American producer they may faint out of boredom because they have literally two brain cells. So yeah again, adds nothing to the narrative apart from shock. Not feminism, just stupid shock value.

Ned's death and Cersei putting Joffrey on the throne were shocking scenes but we ALREADY KNEW that Joffrey is a piece of shit and Cersei wants to put him on the throne. We were only interested in the how the hell are they gonna do that. And when we saw it it was magnificent. It elevated their character arcs by moving the plot forward. That's great storytelling.

[theveryworstthing]

So over on patreon Trevor asked for my take on the Addams Family and I grew up LOVING the Addams family movies so here we are. Instead of doing a straight up style interpretation, I decided to do a full on design challenge, using the characters as bases to make a black southern gothic Addams au. I actually drew the kids first, using the character bases of Wednesday and Pugsley to create some delightful kiddos I'm calling Sunday and Blanche. I of course then redesigned Gomez and Morticia into Carlisle and Mortesha.

The Addams have a very specific high aristocratic goth aesthetic (they've got a butler and nobody really works among other things) so in this re-imagining I wanted to go with vibes that run a little more middle class/upper middle class.  I thought it would be interesting to think about what would be considered weird and off-putting in an entirely different culture, and how being a big ol' goth is way less controversial than it used to be.

I tried to keep this short (HAHAHAHAHAHA) so I didn't spin off into an essay about villain coded families, black people in the horror genre, and normalcy as it pertains to social survival, but just...bits of that are in these designs and lore. Keep that in mind.

Also I made the kids twins because they've flip flopped in age so much in different media and also twins run in my family (i'm the daughter of one). And let's face it, I'm pulling a lot of their southern gothic traits from living as a southern goth so *shrug*.

10 thousand pounds of lore incoming loooooooooool.

The Parents

From the moment he saw her he knew that there was a 50/50 chance of him either never making it out of that swamp alive or marrying the figure that was creeping out from under the distant willow tree in a black cocktail dress. The third time she found him trussed up in one of her traps, he complimented her rope work and asked if she'd like to go out sometime after his head wound stopped bleeding.

Or while it was still bleeding.

If she was into that.

Some kids and a mysteriously burnt down Piggly Wiggly later, their love is still as strong and inescapable as a bear trap in a sink hole.

Carlisle Guillermo (now Addams through marriage but I wanted to give him two first names for a name since Gomez has two last names) makes a vaguely described living practicing ‘law’ around town. A loophole king, people come to him from miles around with contracts signed in blood, fights over chunks of hair buried in their rivals’ yard, dehydrated primate hands, memories that seemed like dreams until the evidence of their happenings became too real, and other regular Legal Items asking for counsel which he is all too happy to give. For a price. Sometimes that price is a homemade pie and sometimes it’s a million dollars, depends on who you are. Whatever you’re asked to pay it’s worth that price, and if you try to scam him out of work or he just plain doesn’t like you? Well. He knows how to twist a contract better than anything at the crossroads.

And he always gets his due.

He doesn’t just serve the local (living)humans though, there are many things that need proper legal representation in this day and age. You wouldn’t believe how many city councils try to build on sacred burial grounds even after he lets them know that his ghostly clients are totally gonna haunt the FUCK out of the ensuing shitty condos and curse their families for all eternity. At least 50% of his energy goes towards dealing with real estate bullshit.

Carl is an excitable and good natured(?) man who loves his family, cigars, dancing, and his many knife-based hobbies. People find him very charming once they get past the feeling that they’re talking to a sultry gator badly disguising itself as a human. I didn’t put a ton of deep thought into designing him, mostly I wanted to make a middle aged dude who looked like he would have been voted ‘most likely to smooch the literal devil’ in high school. Tbh he probably has, but no demonic ex’s can compare to his lovely wife~

Mortesha Addams(her name was already perfect so I just tweaked it)is a woman of many talents. A self proclaimed homemaker, she prides herself on a greenhouse full of Concerning Foliage, a beautiful wasp apiary, and a coop full of what are probably chickens that she keeps for what are probably eggs. She’s also an avid creator of the outsider art that can be seen around the estate. She has taken on the family business of selling her homemade goods in a little stall by the road just outside the swamp with her mom, and makes pretty good money doing so. A surprising amount of poison gets bought in quaint southern towns.

Speaking of poison, people who come out to the edge of the swamp to buy it are usually carrying a lot of secrets around, and Mortesha knows most of them. It’s not like she pries the truth out of people, it just so happens that many nervous hellos eventually turn into the tragic backstory power hour if she’s alone with a client for long enough. She supposes that’s just how people are. Despite the fact that the Addams are very active in the community (whether the community likes it or not) she especially, as a direct descendant of the first Addams matriarch, is seen as…Well not an outsider because the community feels A Certain Way about outsiders and despite it all the Addams are their people, but maybe something like an exception. They feel like whatever weirdness they’re hiding can’t be weirder than any given Addams, so they get a little loose with their words.

This is amusing to her, since Addams’ don’t naturally keep the kind dramatic secrets that their surface level prim and proper neighbors do. It’s much more fun to openly talk about those things.

Do they have a sadly decrepit yet terrifying grandma up in the attic? Yeah, like three. They got a tv, all the creepy porcelain dolls they could want, and they’re close to family. Where do you keep your gram-grams?

Any bodies buried on the property? Yeah some, but most are thrown to the gators.

Any creeping through the balmy summer night with ill intentions? Yeah dude, everyone loves a nice family stroll.

What about dangerous forbidden love? If an adult Addams isn’t incorporeal then they’re either queer or in a torrid romance with some person/thing mysteriously drawn to that awful swamp. Sometimes both at the same time. Most times actually.

Mortesha would know.

The current head of the Addams family is just as outgoing as her husband but a lot quieter and harder to read. She never really seems to get mad about much and always has a genteel smile for everyone whether they deserve it or not. A seven foot tall human shaped “Oh, bless your heart”. A perfectly composed Lady even when she’s, oh I dunno, burning down a Piggly Wiggly. You know. A regular southern mom. Chat her up at the hair salon for 50% off a jar of wasp honey with your next purchase of a mysterious but foreboding packet of herbs.

Designing her was pretty easy because I just drew a lankier Grace Jones and called it a day. I had some problems with her outfit simply because if we were going HARD southern gothic then she’d probably be wearing a white/cream dress with a fuller skirt but I thought keeping the silhouette and the black was more important. She’s supposed to be an anti southern gothic southern gothic character anyway. A woman who looks like she has a million secrets who is actually the most open person you could meet. For better or worse. The red hair came from a coloring error that I really ended up liking (my mom had red hair her whole childhood that only darkened up in high school so I can buy that an Addams can be naturally fire engine red) and the veil was to get more of that classic Morticia silhouette in there.

The Children

Sunday and Blanche are the twin children of Carlisle and Mortesha Addams. Some say the Addams clan got their cursed homestead when a wealthy local businessman made a deal with the devil and lost, leaving his grand mansion to his least favorite maid and cutting his losses once he realized that the swamp would do everything it could to drag the house into the water and take what was owed with its horrible curse. Others say that the family has just always squatted there and no one really cares because man, fuck that particular swamp. Have you been in there? Absolute horror show.

Anyway.

Blanche is the more outgoing sibling and quite the engineer/mad scientist in the making. He started going grey at 2 weeks old but considering he was also rocking some extra fingers, toes, and a tiny tail (he takes after his dad), his parents just put it on the 'not life threatening' pile and decided not to worry about it. He's the kind of smart that teachers find utterly infuriating, less a dog eagerly learning and obeying commands and more a hyena who keeps teaching itself how to pick locks. He has a few friends in his school's robotics club (which they honestly allowed him to make so the school could contain his... creations) but mostly hangs out with his sister exploring the swamp. They find all sorts of neat things in there! wedding rings, suspiciously lumpy garbage bags, cloaked cultists who can't read private property signs, it's an adventure every day!

Blanche is all about experimentation with his creations, his look, and his tether to this mortal coil. Is lipstick a cool thing to try? Let's find out. Can he get out of a strait jacket fast enough after being pushed into the depths of the swamp by his sister? let's find out. He's not dead yet and confused local doctors can attest to the fact that he's rarely attained more than a bad bruise so he's pretty set on continuing to kiss rattlesnakes on their cute little heads and have his sister practice her knife throwing at him until that fact changes.

Blanche is very much a country goth. Cowboy boots (customized by his mom), knife, and lighter are daily accessories. He likes to wear the crusty swamp jewelry they find (the rust adds a splash of color!) and despite appearances he does try to keep himself neat. He's just got  natural Grunge Colors and a tendency to wear clothes he likes until they fall apart. Pugsley always seemed the most modernly styled to me (which might just be because little boys clothes have been the same for a long time) so I wanted Blanche to be the most purposely fashionable Addams. Everyone else is goth by nature, but he's the only one truly familiar with goth as an alternative fashion.

I got really into designing Blanche because honestly, I find Pugsley to be the most boring member of the family. And he was hard to design! I had to mess with his vibe a lot to get him looking how I wanted. I know he's supposed to evoke an " 'evil' little boy next door who's parents never reign him in", but that's just goth Dennis The Menace.  I's 2020. We can at least go queer goth Calvin.

Sunday was much easier to design. Wednesday was my favorite as a child (of course) and I really wanted to keep the spirit of her look while adding things like billowy sleeves (it gets HOT down here), big poofy twists instead of braids, and a nice tie. She's a professional after all, been running the local pet cemetery since she was 6 and the previous groundskeeper met with an unfortunate accident after telling her that tarantulas don't have souls. Her specialty is creating beautiful naturalistic animal funerals similar to those that Maquenda (https://linktr.ee/artofmaquenda) makes, and she takes pride in creating miniature dioramas of her subjects after each burial which she uses as a kind of 3D catalog for future clients.

She really wants to try out her skills on humans one day. Well. Publicly try out her skills. Lotta random bodies float into the swamp. None of them have turned down her requests for diorama models so far. Most seem downright flattered. Plus, she usually figures out which graveyard/crime scene they floated over from and gets her parents to give them a lift back. She'll even help enact terrifying revenge from beyond the grave on whoever put them there if she's not, y'know, busy.

Besides arts, crafts, and pet based funerary arrangements, Sunday is an avid lover of archery (any ranged weapon really), books where little fantasy adventure animals die dramatic deaths, and history. She is That Kid who eagerly raises her hand when asked who Christopher Columbus was and ends up being sent out of class after 15 minutes for making 'a scene'. Her favorite party trick is just picking an item in the room and talking about how it relates to either some obscure historical figure with a buck wild life or a horrible disaster. At least one charity pancake breakfast ended with children in tears after her vivid description of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Social-wise, while Wednesday is the girl that people ask to smile because they think she'd, "look so pretty", Sunday is rarely asked anything at all. People just kind of assume from her quiet nature (in between horrible history facts) that she's angry all the time and that she hates everyone. This is untrue. She hates some people but she's ambivalent to most everyone else and even downright friendly if you bother to talk to her like a person instead of a terrifying cryptid. Like, she IS a terrifying cryptid but she's also a little girl.  

That’s about it for now. One day I might do the other family members but for now I’m happy with the four I’ve redesigned. Making an au! Lurch in a family that doesn’t do butlers could be interesting. Over on patreon I put forth that he could just be Motesha’s mute little brother (similar bone structure) but Amy Crook had the nice idea of quote: “ a mysterious "cousin" that "helps around the house" whose origins are both long in the past and faintly unsettling. He's good for lifting heavy things, like that tank of propane you're about to throw into the burning Piggly Wiggly... “ which i now consider canon. Who's kid is he? How old is he? Not important. Anyone willing to commit arson with you is family.

Annnnyway.  This challenge was a lot of fun! I love indulging in AU’s.

[madfantasy]

I haven't seen you post in a while, I hope you've been doing okay? How is everything? Hope it's been a good year so far for you 💕💕

You're too kind, u & everyone who made inquiries, bless ur hearts.. im sorry for disappearing, but yeah, I don't have net— using my phone credit and hope this posts..

I tried to record my voice answering this, like I sometimes did on tik, suddenly ended up trying to muffle the floods of my burning tears, so now I have an awkward vid of me talking then weeping out of nowhere, which a good reason for me to keep up the no cry habit, heh.. but seriously, I suppose I'm fine till I be conscious of it.. its much easier for not to talk .. even tho I'm aching to be back in thy company, lonely in my foresight to catch on to the present that joins us, hand held out to reach like minded souls but shying from the fear of forgetfulness occurring..

I'm fine tho, did few new stuff, merely drowning in too muchness and nothingness as usual, this month I guess you could say I took an act of mad fury in search of any happy source because the echoing silence and the swarm of sadness nipping on my brain cells thickened, and the reasoning merged with the obscene. So instead of giving my guardians the usual of 3/4 of my earnings last month for net and groceries, I spent it all. Ya know, as it was told to me it mine to do as I please? As being prevented any chance of work if it was possible, 't was supposed to be spent on art supplies & measly delights craved for years ?

Before hand, I've been begging them to take me for months to get any clothing or whatever, be it the first time I ever see a shop, then just to drive around, then just me peaking to the outside when the front door is open, merely seeking change I suppose. They kept vaguely promising me until they refused point blank— getting tired of my nagging, then their car just stopped working till this day. Its in the workshop rn..

Anyway, befouled by despair, needing the mere basics of life and not granted, I was delighted when i found a site to buy from cheap & pretty, I pressed buy without any further considerations, or taking their permission and thrilled to be able get gifts for my siblings too. I say gifts but really they are deprived necessities too and not even much just one each cuz well, they are 5 of my babies and to start with the top of priorities; we all draw

I could already see it, they can't help themselves; heck seeped through the clenched gates of their mouths, trying desperately to poison me with undirect attempts this time, cuz I bought for my sibs they're out of the option of calling me selfish. I was upping the same trance like state of vague existence dealing with them, absorbing their insults and degrading just to make sure my shi arrives safe.

Unfortunate for me, the site chose the worst carrier in this country

I did everything in my power to make it into their convenience, by embarrassingly messaging the carrier daily, they took a week of promising to deliver and flanking so my guardians reached a heated level of threatening, waving their hands nd almost tossing shi at mE saying that they don't care if they came and if i dared to order something again they'll do this and that. Not allowing me to open the door for the delivery guy when he comes, blaming me for missing vaccination dates (they kept missing them even before)& missing going to important places(again, they just didn't go to for ages), made them loose sleep, etc etc— in turn, I seen red and regretfully blew up.

I screamed at them its literally the only time I ever did this, it BECAUSE it easier on them & I'll do what I want whatever anyway, & to stop interrupting me while I try to explain things , then they suddnly back done and be like I'm not mad at u I'm mad at the delivery ppl, that they are proud of me for being able to do all this, and such sort. I left them to cool in my room, Idk how I did it but must have slam-gripped something so hard it chipped most of my short nails & cracked one, was glad I didn't hurt my drawing hand but yeah, goofy mani

They robbed me of the joy of anticipation & the dissipation of apathy, I started to lose sleep again and my liberating dreams left me and I don't think I remember leaving bed.

But still, If not force myself to do things.. there'll be nothing for me if I don't.. at least I know im able of that

I got my guardians happy tho after another tiresome refusal, by trying out one of those Uber-eat like local apps here, since they have no car and being disabled & ill, I ordered McDonald's for the first time. Slythry behind their backs per habit, told them someone coming and they had that look again, but thankfully the guy came through and didn't steal my money, heh. For a big 1800 calories meal I suppose it was passable, the happy fam faces I got was the real treat..

Oh with that thing with the credit card stating I owe them money, waited weeks & nobody got back to us? They started taking from my guardian's account directly to pay it, saying oh we did send you warnings--- TO THE SHADOWY LINES OF THEIR POSTERIOR A.K.A NOWHERE. Thankfully the account is mostly empty nd just for random transactions, i alerted my guardians not to use it. And again, my god, another round of endless calls and promises started, and we wait again so they just don't act as if we owe them a frking 17k dollars that we don't have.. was panicking cuz I have nothing and but my guardians were weirdly comforting about it and told me not to worry

One thing good bout no net is it made me stop thinking about life in general, and stop the tiny unnoticeable prick of misery when I have no input to share, trying not to helplessly compare people just living, in inflated style or not, in media, to my isolated-most-of-my-life style and missing much of that organic "life experiences and chances", heh. At least, my situation would be favorable to me if it was ever possible for it to let me have peace, or have the simple knowledge I'm not virtually imprisoned and have never familiarised with nothing of this world but the surrounding walls.. its nice to have more time to be consumed by muse and day dreaming that flutters life through my dull being and sing chorus of inspiring means for art to flow and finds its way delicately onto my realised canvas.. but no, I continued drawing whilst sight blurred with salty droplets contradicting that happy tintin dance on tiktok I worked so long on just cuz I couldn't stop, not the tears or the mad scribbles of determined intention to visualise the mourned excitement I need, hating everything I make

Somehow the lilac dream still intrudes, visualising me friends, living, in a quaint home, maybe we roommate, arm in arm we go to make every fracture of fate's encounters a disgusting adventurous thrill, like building a maze of cardboard or chasing each other in the dark.. maybe getting that half bleached head and endless ear pericings ... then it dies and I totally forget it..

But what those awesome headphones helped me do, literally blocks all their voices listening to Sev losing it and I can Waltz around not feeling gutted to go and interfere or play the referee each time. But I can't wear them forever, gives me a bad headache, and honestly; I can't be too neglectful.. my sibs hates me for it already hehe

At least these clothing came true to their measurements, felt the new sensations on how everything I wore hugs me & learnt the baffling ways on how "gender" and region plays different tunes on the same measurements. Getting fitting things felt like suddenly there's hope to be, for myself to be me, and ease this severe disassociation between who I am, and what my body is .. from how little I see myself nd consider it worthy of anything because of how long it been living like a phantom among people.. to numb this dysphoria until it be gone one day

Saddened that the only site I can't order from again if they keep using that awful carrier

...

I missed our country's 91 national day, too. They made sales everything 91 riyal so.. but knowing the sellers here, I don't think most of em went true with their offers.. Horrible news tho on the celebrations, sigh

I turned this into a dear diary, guess bothered you enough today, sorry

So thankful to yous, Idk if I can be back, but I'll remain creating, and will keep the thought alive of being tickled when sharing my creations with your viewing pleasure somehow

'till then my precious dears, take care 💛🙏

26.9.2021, 8 pm, sleeping

[negasonicimagines]

Revelation; Part One

warnings/kinks: a/b/o (if you’re penis-repulsed this isn’t for you), smut (duh), brief daddy kink, even briefer mommy kink, cum-eating, cum-marking, cockwarming? (does it count if it’s a/b/o?), light bloodplay, borderline somniphilia (consensual), poisoning, suicidal ideation, allusions to cheating, mentions of conversion therapy, vague mentions of s*xual ass*ult (it doesn’t actually happen in the story, it’s just referred to a lot due to the nature of this universe)

uh… this is another one of those stories that’s just kinda Heavy, please be careful & don’t continue reading if doing so is unsafe for you. I have a variety of other works that don’t have such intense themes, which you can find on my masterlist!

request (+details): Omegaverse: Alphas Yukio and Ellie with a beta reader, but it turns out that reader is a late-bloomer omega who goes into her first heat unexpectedly. / Omegaverse: The setting could be anywhere. The three of them waking up with reader burning hot, believing to be sick but is actually going into heat. The reader could be by themselves when it happens and her alphas come home to a omega in heat / I can’t get this omegaverse idea out of my head, and I hope you don’t mind me telling you this. Reader being alone and confused when her heat came, her alphas gone on a mission. During the time they were gone, Reader made a nest of her alphas’s clothes out of instinct on their bed. By the time Yukio and Ellie returned, Reader is a hot mess from trying to get off, moaning their names and begging for her alphas to help her for she don’t know why she feels like this and is scared.)

synopsis: After Wade discovers you're dealing with suicidal thoughts, he takes it upon himself to help you out, leading to one disaster after another.

author’s note: thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this for spending so much time with me & making sure everything was juuuust right! Fun fact: we pined, started dating, and broke up, started dating again, and broke up again all before this was published 🙃 sorry everybody, it’s been a rocky road for the past… forever.

Standing guard after school for a few extra bucks is a pretty sweet deal, you have to admit. You mostly just sit around with a pair of binoculars munching on your snack of choice, using a gun loaded with tranquilizer darts to drop anyone who threatens the safety of the school and its residents. If given permission, or an order to do so, you can use your bow and arrow to really take down your enemies.

You’re pretty lucky in life overall, you also have to admit, with two alpha girlfriends and a variety of friends and acquaintances, not to mention the advantages your mutation gives you.

It makes you feel even more guilty for what you’re really thinking about right now. Not Ellie, not Yukio, not keeping an eye out for threats, nothing but a simple question:

Would it be more efficient to slit your wrists with the point of one of your arrows, or to fling yourself from the top of this turret? Which would hurt worse? You look from the sharp arrow you hold in your hand to the plush grass below, managed by some of the other students.

It’s far cheaper to pay students to maintain the yard and house, not to mention it gives students like you a way of earning the kind of spending money that other students receive from their parents or from jobs in town. Your post would be snatched up in no time if you were to pass.

Speaking of parents.

Your father’s exact words to your mother were “I hate that you use a highschool mistake to keep me trapped with you forever!” the last time you happened to hear them argue. They were no longer invited to parent-teacher conferences after that.

It’s a fine reason for him to be angry, but, unfortunately, you’re the highschool mistake he was talking about. The one he’s always talking about whenever they fight. Maybe if you were gone, he’d finally be free. Maybe you’d finally be free from his resentment. He, fortunately enough, rarely lashes out at you directly; however… There’s always been a distance.

Would he love you more if you were gone? If you saved him from… Well, you? You’ve always wanted him to love you, to look at you with something other than anger or resentment. Would he finally be proud of you, for owning up to every horrible thing you are and have done by paying the ultimate price? Would everyone?

You’re holding the bladed tip of the arrow right against your wrist, almost like a normal person might hold a bracelet to their wrist -- trying it on for size, without really thinking about it.

Suddenly, though, Wade’s here. And he’s definitely thinking about it. He yanks the arrow out of your hand, accidentally snapping the wood that makes up its length.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I- Uh, I don’t know,” you mumble, embarrassed, because you honestly don’t. Being alone with your thoughts gives them the space to grow from their poisoned roots into something dark you don’t really recognize as yours.

“You- You don’t know?!” Wade questions, and the unusual severity of his tone stuns you to the point of laughter. “This isn’t fucking funny, what the hell is wrong with you? Why were you-?! What were you-?! What the fuck are you doing?!”

“I’m standing guard. What the fuck are you doing?” you echo dryly, resorting to quips to avoid telling him any more than he already knows.

“I’m freaking out! I can’t kill you for apparently wanting to kill you, so that’s all I can do! I thought you were on antidepressants!”

“I am. Have been for years. They don’t cure depression, they make it easier to manage.”

“Apparently fucking not! Come on, let’s go talk to somebody and get you an appointment with a psychiatrist. You’ve been on the same prescription all these years, right? Maybe you just need your dosage upped.” Wade’s not asking, he’s telling, his hand wrapped around your bicep to pull you along, although his grip isn’t as tight as you’d expect for a man of his stature, let alone an alpha.

Why does he care so much? He’s always so gentle, even when you piss him off like this. Tears well up in your eyes but you blink hard. You know he’s been through worse. That most people here have. You have no right to cry.

Wade yells at a surprised Charles Xavier until an appointment is set up, which goes pretty well. Four days after that incident, you meet with the psychiatrist who agrees that upping your dosage is the smartest decision, frankly, she’s surprised it wasn’t done sooner. And, after about a week of your new dosage level, you’re feeling better than ever.

Way better.

“You… You’d really wanna do that? For everyone to know I’m yours?”

Ellie nods, cheeks darkened. You’re straddling her, and the two of you have been trading heated kisses with Yukio. Who would’ve thought more of the medication you were sure killed your libido before you could even develop one would be what rescued it?

“Of course we would. I know you don’t like to stereotype, but some of the stereotypes have truth to them. We’re… Territorial,” Yukio reminds you.

“I’m… A beta,” you remind her in a teasing echo of her tone.

“Our beta,” Ellie cuts back in. “Absolutely perfect.”

“Even if I’d rather not let you guys, y’know…” Your hand rubs at the space between your neck and your shoulder - where they’d likely mark you with their teeth - nervously. “...today? Or go farther than what we’re doing right now?”

“Of course, baby! The fact that you’ve even done this much…” Yukio trails off, looking over you. Your lips are swollen and still slightly parted as you continue to pant a little. The top few buttons of your (well, borrowed from Ellie) flannel are undone.

“We’re so grateful, and so proud of you,” Ellie continues, drawing your attention back to her. “We’re willing to wait as long as you need, even if that waiting only ends because you’ve decided that being with us like that isn’t something you want.”

“I do. I always have, I just… I don’t know.”

“The feeling’s still there, in your stomach, right?” Yukio wonders.

“Yeah, a little. It’s like… I know it’s not wrong, but something doesn’t feel quite right. Maybe I should just try to ignore it, I mean, you two have needs-”

“Hey. You know better than that, Y/N. We don’t, okay, babe? Not like that. We wanna have sex with you, not- Not hurt you. You understand that, right?” Ellie reassures you.

“I do, I just feel bad for being such a- I don’t know, a tease?”

“We love you. As in, you. If you forced yourself to do something you didn’t want to, just for us, how would we forgive ourselves?” Yukio says what she’s said a million times, but every time it surprises you. You tend to see yourself as only being valuable in what you can offer others— protection, a laugh, some good advice every now and then —you never expect anyone to care for you outside of that. But here they are. Absolutely perfect.

And you were thinking of flinging yourself off a tower a couple weeks ago. Should you tell them? They just think you went for an overdue checkup, which is technically the case. You don’t know what’s worse, hiding it or telling them. You’ll have to talk to Wade, he’s good at giving advice. Might not be good advice, but he’s definitely good at giving it.

“Everything okay, sharpshooter?” Ellie hands gently squeeze your hips to get your attention.

You blink back out of your thoughts, smiling a little and blushing at the nickname.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Sorry, I just zoned out. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

“Everything okay?” your alphas ask, again, in unison. Your alphas. They probably couldn’t handle it if you had a problem they couldn’t solve, the guilt of not being able to provide for you would overwhelm them.

“Yeah, totally,” you reply, because it is, now, especially here with them. Ellie starts to button up your flannel.

“Oh, we don’t have to-”

Ellie gives you a pointed look, then looks down at her crotch, then back up at you. Your blush deepens.

“Yeah, I’m guessing a cold shower’s in order,” Yukio agrees. “El, you can go first.”

“We can’t go together?” Ellie asks.

“Well, I don’t wanna leave Y/N alone. Our brave little beta did a lot more than usual. Don’t want you to feel used, baby,” Yukio explains to you both.

“Oh, duh,” Ellie agrees. You give her a quick smooch on the forehead before dismounting her and allowing yourself to be pulled into Yukio’s arms. Ellie grabs some clean clothes and heads off. As soon as the door shuts, Yukio giggles, and you look to her with a curious, confused expression.

“Now you’re all mine to cuddle.” Yukio gloats, kissing the top of your head. “Mm… You smell really good, babe. New shampoo?”

“Ish, yeah,” you agree, despite the fact that you started using it nearly a month ago at this point. Maybe the body heat you built up from the makeout session made it smell stronger, though.

Yukio keeps sniffing you, but you don’t call her out on it. She’s a little bit quirky, sure, but there’s no need to make her feel self-conscious about it when the tickling sensation feels kinda nice. She tosses in a few soft presses of her lips against your skin, too, so it’s not like she’s the only one who benefits.

Yukio eventually stops this, though, instead requesting to scent you. You’ve told the girls before that they don’t have to ask, but they— especially Yukio —seem to prefer to. You figure it’s likely to reassure them that you not only tolerate but appreciate their alphahood.

“I love you, you know that? Not just ‘cause you make me smell like petrichor. I’m surprised Ellie doesn’t spend all day huffing your scent, I… I know I would, if I could smell it.” You didn’t mean for the sad envy to ring so clearly in your words, but it’s as sharp as a knife, cutting deep enough to make Yukio gasp softly with sympathy as she rubs your wrist against her scent gland, eyes snapping open.

“Well, next time it’s about to rain, we’ll go outside, then. Every time it’s about to rain,” Yukio insists. “Who- Who told you?”

“Wade. I was just curious. He said Ellie smells like a campfire, the scent even clings like it. He even said I smell a little weird. Most betas smell like something, but I’m just… A blank canvas.”

You feel her rumble a bit with a growl, and her arms wrap tightly around you… Protectively? You blush.

“Y-Yukio?” you nervously ask, caught off guard. Ellie’s usually more of the growling type. Yukio’s pretty good about keeping her possessiveness and any other “negative” alpha traits in check. This side of her doesn’t come out often.

“What was he doing that close to you?” she snarls protectively, and if the growl wasn’t enough to get your heart racing, that was. “Sm- Smelling you?”

“Yukes, Wade’s the same age as my parents. Honestly, he’s- He’s kinda- He’s nice to me. We’re friends. I think if he was going to hurt me, he would’ve done it by now. You two keep forgetting I’m just a beta. No one wants a piece of this pie except for you and Ellie.”

“You’d be surprised at the way some alphas… It’s sick, but they- Because betas, you know, they don’t really produce slick like omegas do, and they don’t have quite as much give, uh… So, some alphas, um, they… Just let me hold you, okay?” Yukio requests. “I can’t talk about it, it’ll make me too mad.”

“I respect that. Thank you. I, uh, I didn’t realize that at all, so thank you for helping me be even safer,” you reassure her. She’s trembling. “Do you want me to hold you, instead?”

“No, no, this will make me feel better. I just… I love you. Can you just…? Just- Just say you’re mine.” This is a request Yukio has semi-often. When she feels weak in comparison to other alphas, when she feels overshadowed by Ellie, any time she needs reassurance or is just feeling bad, she’ll probably ask. You get it, being hers (and Ellie’s, of course) makes you feel better, too.

“I’m yours, Yukio. Always yours. You make me so happy, both of you. Happier than- You make me feel so-“ You get a bit choked up. These girls, these alphas… They’re so important to you.

“Oh, no, baby, please don’t cry,” Yukio implores, watching your eyes water. You turn so that your face doesn’t just rest on her chest but is buried in it.

“It’s just that no one ever loved me before you two. No one, ever. Not my parents, not my ’friends,’ no one. I don’t know why I’ve been so emotional lately, I’m sorry.”

“No one at all?” Yukio questions, but that’s the missing puzzle piece, she realizes. You’re always treating hers and Ellie’s love for you like it’s something you have to earn, no matter how much they insist being yourself is enough. She fully grasps now that it’s never been enough before.

She holds you even tighter.

“Mm-mm,” you confirm, shaking your head a little. “You and Ellie just mean the whole world to me. And- And… Wade’s my friend, too. Can I still, y’know, spend time with him?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I just- He’s a nice guy, but… I don’t want him to put you in danger. You can handle yourself, though. Can’t you, sharpshooter?” Her fingers trickle up your ribs as she says the nickname, making you giggle and squirm.

“Absolutely, but it is nice to have two strong, sexy alphas take care of me instead every now and then,” you admit, albeit a bit teasingly, blushing softly. You turn back so that you can see her adorable face.

“Really?” Yukio asks, but she knows.

“Really,” you agree with a smile.

“I’m yours, too. You know that, right?” Yukio checks, fiddling with your hair a bit.

“Mhm. It’s nice to hear you say it like that, though.”

“I can think of other ways you might like to hear it,” Yukio flirts.

“Yeah, you think so? Show me,” you tease back.

“I will…” Yukio trails off as she trails her finger along your jaw, tipping your head up to the perfect kissing angle and- “Eventually, little beta.”

“I- I’m taller than you,” you weakly protest.

“Your breath still hitched,” Yukio reminds you with a giggle and a gentle tap on the tip of your nose.

You stutter a little more before giving up, burying your face again and whining.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, I just can’t help myself. You’re too cute,” Yukio half-heartedly apologizes, still chuckling to herself as she strokes your back.

Ellie returns from her shower, inky tendrils of hair ruffled around but with no product in.

“She’s asleep?” Ellie asks, sounding a bit disappointed, but there’s still a significant amount of fondness in her tone.

“She’s not,” you mumble back, and both girls chuckle, Yukio untangling herself from you. You can’t help but pout a little, already missing the bubblegum-haired alpha.

“I know Yukio’s your favorite, but you could at least act a little bit happy to see me,” Ellie half-jokes, and you smile, pulling (though she doesn’t give any resistance) the girl back into your bed. She holds you the same way Yukio did, but you don’t really mind the lack of variety.

“You’re both my favorite,” you argue. Ellie takes a deep breath, likely taking in the way you’re completely embraced by Yukio’s scent.

“I don’t think that’s how favorites work,” she chuckles.

“Out of all the people in the world, you two are both my favorite,” you insist. She takes the hand you have resting on her ribcage and holds it inches from her scent gland. “Please,” you say, before she can even ask. Ellie takes a whiff again.

“Did she leave anywhere untouched?” She wonders.

“N-not really,” you stutter, because now you’re thinking of where she didn’t touch you.

“Well, she’ll have to share a little, then,” Ellie says.

You hum with delight as she scents you.

“You make a new friend?” Ellie questions.

“Huh?”

“You smell… Different,” she responds, looking at you… Well, differently. “Like roses.”

“I have a new-ish shampoo?” You offer, but that just seems to intensify the look.

Your phone rings. It’s Wade. You wriggle out of Ellie’s loose hold on you, answering.

“Hey, you know how I’m your academic advisor?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Well, apparently, thwarting your suicide attempts isn’t my only job. I also have to tell you when they need you in the office, which is now.”

“Seriously?! I didn’t even throw that pencil at Richard, and even if I did, he deserved it for being such a-“

“Oh, right! Should’ve opened with the good news. Your parents are here to visit.”

“What?! That’s-“ You sigh, not wanting to alarm Ellie any more than you already have. “Okay. I’ll be there. Just give me a second to get dressed.”

“Wow, no shame at all. I salute you. Toodles!” Wade hangs up before you realize he misunderstood you.

“What’s wrong?” Ellie asks.

“Nothing, just… My parents are here.”

“Your… Parents?”

“Kind of have to have those to exist, usually,” you remark, and she snorts.

“I know- I- Well, we’ve known each other for a while, and you don’t really talk about them, so I sort of assumed…” Ellie trails off.

“Oh, um, yeah, no, they’re very alive,” you confirm with an awkward chuckle.

“Right. I’ll go get ‘Kio, and we’ll all go, okay?”

“Uh- Um- Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“My parents, they kind of… They- I love you. And I’m not ashamed of you.”

“But they’ll be ashamed of you,” Ellie understands.

“I haven’t seen them in so long, they don’t even know that I like girls, let alone that I’m dating two, or that they’re both alphas… I want you and Yukio to come with me, but, if they start to- If they’re how they are, I-“

“Give my energy to helping you instead of hurting them,” Ellie uses Piotr’s words.

“Perfect,” you agree, and Ellie smiles back, but it falters. You didn’t mean to worry her so much.

“I’ll go get Yukio. You get changed, okay?”

“Mhm,” you agree, and she heads off to the bathroom. You steal one of Ellie’s band tees and an oversized cardigan of Yukio’s for comfort, finding a pair of high-waisted bottoms to tuck the tee shirt in. You throw on a pair of sneakers, and when the girls emerge from the bathroom, you pop in to freshen up.

Once you’re done, Yukio’s caught up on the situation and the three of you make your way to the front offices.

Wade meets you outside.

“Oh em gee, Y/N, you’ll never believe it, I actually went to high school with both of your parents.”

“Uh… Cool?” You respond, because you’re not entirely sure how to.

“Yeah, uh, I get now that it’s probably not really good news that they’re here, huh? No wonder I found you doing that the other day.”

“Doing what?” Yukio and Ellie ask, though for some reason, Ellie’s is tinged with suspicion, maybe even anger.

“I- Listen, it’s not a big deal, I got my prescription updated and all that good stuff, okay?” You prime them. “I was thinking about killing myself the other day and Wade caught me.”

“Thinking?! You’re gonna call holding the fucking tip of an arrow to your wrist thinking?!”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Ellie sounds as angry as Wade does, but she looks pained. This is why you didn’t tell them.

“Hey, she doesn’t need this right now,” Yukio argues, but she looks hurt, too.

“I mean, I was just considering if it would be more painful than jumping off of the turret,” you mumble, your defense embarrassingly weak.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Ellie decides, and Yukio nods. You three follow Wade to Xavier’s office. Wade breezes in, but you’re practically stuck in the doorway, nervous to look at even the backs of their heads, before they turn around.

“Y/N,” your mom says with a grin, but you know all too well how fake that is. She approaches you, pulls you into a hug, and you want nothing more than to push her away and scrub yourself clean. She doesn’t really love you. The second you speak out of turn, or make a mistake, or give her any excuse, she’ll remind you of your worth. (Or, rather, the lack thereof.)

She slips back into her seat next to your father, in front of the desk where Xavier sits, simply observing.

“It’s been so long,” your father says, but his smile is almost blatantly fake. “Your hair, it’s different.”

“Like you said, it’s been a while,” you say, giving a grimace and an awkward chuckle.

“I don’t think I like it,” he says, like he’s giving his opinion on a sculpture in an art exhibit by some long-dead artist who doesn’t care what he thinks. Like it’s something just… Objective.

“Not sure what to do about that,” you reply sheepishly.

You don’t fully realize that you’re holding Ellie’s hand until she squeezes it reassuringly, three times. A secret code. You step further in to make room for the girls.

“So, uh, I have to ask… Why the sudden visit?”

“Well, we got an e-mail about your medicine, and we wanted to come check on you. Make sure this is the right environment for you,” your mother explains.

“You weren’t sure before you stopped talking to me for two years?” You half-joke, playing dumb.

“Has it really been two years?” A normal person would be asking this rhetorically, and they’d be embarrassed. Your mother, though, is simply trying to gaslight you.

“Longer,” you assure her.

“I thought this place was supposed to provide conversion therapy,” your father says, eyeing your hand, then Ellie’s other hand. “You’re such a fucking liar,” he hisses to your mother.

“Wow, maybe my mom dying when I was young was for the best. Better than this for sure,” Wade jokes, gently elbowing your side. You chuckle, grateful for even the slightest ounce of comic relief.

“You’re even more of a freak than you were in high school.” You squeeze Ellie’s hand tight as your father’s expression darkens even further.

“Funny you should say that, considering-“

“Wade,” your mother cuts him off.

That’s weird, to say the least. You just file that away for later. You have bigger fish to fry, like surviving this visit.

“Y/N, why’d you go for a check-up at all? You barely needed the anti-depressants in the first place,” your mother wonders.

“Because it wasn’t barely. Why else would they raise the dosage?” You ask, and the expression on her face is as stupid as the question she asked.

“Don’t speak to her that way,” your father scolds, like he didn’t just call your mother a fucking liar himself. “You are so ungrateful for everything we’ve done for you, do you realize that?”

“I’m sorry, what have you done for her, exactly? Answer quickly, please,” Ellie retorts.

“El-“ you start, but realize this isn’t anger, but advocacy.

“Well, we sheltered and fed her for over a decade,” your father remarks, smirking like he’s won.

“That’s your job!” Wade argues.

“Mr. and Mrs. L/N… I politely asked that you refrain from visiting the campus, and while I appreciate your concern for Y/N’s well-being, I must ask that you remain respectful of her, her fellow students, and my staff. Causing unnecessary conflict is exactly the reason you were almost banned when you last visited,” Professor Xavier finally speaks.

“Almost banned?!” Wade wheezes.

“Yeah,” you sigh, and Wade’s laughter immediately ceases. “I was cheating in school, according to- To Dad.” The word is poison in your mouth.

“Come on, we all know you’re not smart enough to get those grades on your own. Probably screwing some teacher, just like Mom.”

“That’s enough,” Ellie snarls, eyes glowing orange.

“I never screwed a teacher!” Your mother protests at the same time.

“Oh, that’s right, you just blew Mr. Morin. My bad. Wow, Y/N, you really must be something special for all these alphas to be fawning over you. Maybe I did fuck up once or twice, after all, I’ve heard daddy issues-“

“Well, you visited! Now get the fuck out,” Wade chirps.

“Mr. L/N, must I repeat myself? I know you and Mrs. L/N were interested in a tour. Perhaps a less crowded area would help ease your minds,” Xavier reminds you all of his presence once more.

“That sounds like a great idea,” your father agrees.

“I’m starting to get a bit of a headache, maybe you could show us your room first and I could lie down for a bit in there?”

“I-“ You look to the girls, not wanting them to have to deal with her alone.

“Actually, Miss Phimister and Miss Kitsuna would be perfect additions to a rescue team. The orphanage your friend Russell came from was actually part of a network for mutant trafficking, and we found another hub in Maine. The jet takes off in fifteen minutes, and you two will be back in time for dinner. Better get ready and briefed.”

“But-“ Yukio starts, looking to you.

“Go, be superheroes,” you tell them, and they head out. “Uh, how about we swing by the library first, to give them time to change, and then to our room?”

“You share a room with them? Somehow, I’m not surprised.”

“We were roommates before we started dating,” you correct him.

“Dating… Aw, I bet you really think that’s what it is, too. Having parents in a sham of a marriage really did a number on you, huh?” Your father condescends.

“You know, it’s pretty fucked up how fixated you are on her sexuality. Do you like to picture it, you goddamn creep?” Wade defends you, and your skin crawls. You’d never thought of it that way before.

“Let’s just get that tour started, ‘kay?” You squeak. The sooner you get this over with, the sooner they’ll be on their way, hopefully.

“Good idea, Y/N,” Wade says. “Come on, Textbook, let’s go.”

“You didn’t just call me-“

“Oh, but I did, Textbook. Hey, Y/N, did you know that was your dad’s nickname in highschool? ‘Cause he was so fuckin’ easy to shove in a locker.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, trying not to laugh and failing.

“Just show us the library already, Y/N,” your mother says, pinching the bridge of her nose.

You take your parents to the library, as requested. Wade keeps pace with you while your parents fall back. You can’t hear their exact words, but you know your parents are bickering.

“You never said it was this bad.”

“It’s not that bad. It’s definitely been worse,” you admit, busying your eyes with the paintings that line the walls so that you don’t have to meet Wade’s gaze. You might just cry if you do; you can feel the sympathy radiating off of him.

In these past few months, Wade’s been more of a father than your dad, even more of a mother than your mom, but for some reason that doesn’t make you feel more justified in how you feel about your parents. In fact, it just makes you feel worse, and even if you’ve never actually expressed it, you’re still ashamed of the fact that you wish Wade was your father instead. He actually cares, while your parents are simply legally obligated.

From the day you met, Wade’s always been there for you. If you were to tell your parents what you almost did the other day, they’d just call you attention-seeking and insult you in other ways. All they’d do is make you want to try again.

You and Wade stop at the entrance to the library and wait for your parents to catch up. They do, and you open the double doors to reveal the room.

“It’s like Beauty and the Beast,” your mother gapes.

“I thought so, too,” you agree, attempting a smile, but your parents just ignore you, wandering around the large room. Your mother excuses herself after a few minutes of spinning, saying that the dizziness is making her headache worse.

“All these books and you’re still… The way you are,” your father comments, looking at you with such disdain.

“Winner of the science fair with her loving partners, three years in a row?” Wade questions. “Oh, or maybe you’re talking about the fact that she’s a published poet. How embarrassing for you, I’m sure.”

“Wade,” you protest under your breath, embarrassed. They don’t even know that stuff. After middle school, you stopped telling them about your accomplishments. You figured out that all they’d do is ruin them for you.

“No, no, trust me. It’s more about the fact that she’s slutting around with alphas and won’t even save us the embarrassment of them being girls,” you father spats.

“That’s enough,” Wade snarls.

“Oh, that’s right, we can’t forget that she’s yours, too. I guess anything with a dick is daddy considering I was too busy putting food on the table to play dollies,” he remarks, and you suddenly feel light-headed.

“Seriously, Textbook, I really don’t want to hurt you, especially not in front of Y/N, but I fucking will if you make me.”

“Just go,” you urge Wade, starting to feel a bit dizzy, surely from the stress. You brace yourself on him, disguising it as a touch meant to comfort him. He looks concerned as the edges of your vision start to darken a little.“I- What you’re doing, I appreciate it, but-“

“You appreciate it? You appreciate him disrespecting me, disrespecting our family?!”

“Our family?!” You finally snap. “All I ever wanted was for you to love me, and you couldn’t do that. You just couldn’t. And now we’re a family?! No. No, you…” You start to pant, your face feeling even hotter than before. “You… I hate you,” you manage to get out before your world goes completely dark.

“Fuck yeah, Y/N! I’m so prou-“

But when Wade turns to you, you’re halfway to the ground. He catches you, though, and he catches a whiff of something… Familiar.

Lavender. It’s not just the Wilson scent, sure, but it’d be too much of a coincidence. You smell just like him. You are him, or, rather, made of him.

He’s torn between ecstatic and furious.

“Hey, can we get some help over here?” your father calls out to no one. It’s not a school day, and lots of students are out on missions. He reaches out to you for once in your life, but Wade’s now sitting on the floor, cradling you in his arms.

“No,” Wade argues. “Not yours. Mine.”

“What?” You father asks incredulously. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“She’s. Not. Yours,” Wade repeats, and the more he inhales your scent, the more out of control yet calm he feels. Like he’s in the eye of a hurricane. “My baby. Mine.”

“You’re not saying…” your father trails off as Wade gets up, still cradling you. Wade has to take you to your room; help make you a nest, now. He can smell it on you.

You’re in heat.

He gets to your room quickly, practically tossing you onto your bed. Wait… Isn’t your mom supposed to be here?

And that’s when he hears the sound of pills spilling onto the floor.

He nearly rips the bathroom door off of its hinges. Luckily, your mother spilled what Wade quickly realizes is suppressants, and not your prescription.

“You. You could’ve killed her. You are very, very lucky that my baby-“

“Our baby,” your mother corrects.

“No, you take pills, you can’t even smell her, let alone feel her like I can. It- It’s so much it fucking hurts. I’ll say it again, you’re very lucky my baby is in heat, or your arteries would be emptying in that shower. Now, go. Don’t come back.”

You groan in pain, stirring, and your mother takes Wade’s advice. Wade calls Yukio. Then Ellie. Then Yukio. Then Ellie.

“What the fuck, dude?!”

“You need to turn around. Now. I don’t have the time to explain. It’s Y/N.”

“Is she okay?” Ellie, always skeptical, asks.

“Obviously fucking not, or I wouldn’t be calling. She’s in heat.”

“But-“

“I said that I don’t have time to explain, fucking turn around! I’m on the verge of going fucking feral, Ellie. You both need to get here, now.”

“Wade, get out,” Ellie immediately demands.

“I can’t,” he admits.

“Get out! Shit, Wolverine! We need to turn around!”

“I can’t. It’s not like that I swear, it’s… I’m going fucking crazy, just one of you will do, but someone needs to get here.”

“Wade, go.”

“I would never hurt her! Come home!” Wade barks before hanging up. He returns to your room to find you’ve made a nest instinctively - thank goodness for Yukio’s affinity for pillows and blankets - and now you’re curled up in pain in the center of it.

“Wade,” you whimper. He’s scared to step closer, not sure if he’s what you want, even if you despise who you thought was your father. “What’s happening to me? Everything hurts.”

“I really don’t know how to say this, but… You’re in heat.”

“But I’m a beta,” you argue, wrapping your arms around yourself.

“That’s what we all thought. But… Remember how you didn’t smell like anything before? Uh, let me start over. When did you start on your anti-depressants?”

“I was about twelve,” you confirm, not sure what that means.

“Yeah, I think those were suppressants. That it’s always been suppressants, no matter what the bottles said. Until you got a prescription without your mother knowing. Do you understand why your mother would do that?”

You shake your head, and he approaches the bed, sitting down carefully as not to disturb your work.

“Her boyfriend around the time she got pregnant with you was a beta. We know him as Textbook,” Wade teases, before continuing: “But, what no one realizes is that he was at Niagara Falls on spring break around the time when you were conceived, and she was hanging out with her next-door neighbor the whole time. Her next-door neighbor was me.”

“Oh, so I’m your highschool mistake,” you say, connecting the dots.

“Huh?”

“Ha, well, whenever my parents- Well, I guess not my parents, but that’s beside the point, uh, whenever they argue and it gets really bad, my father- Well, not my father, but, uh-“

“Continue,” Wade urges.

“Basically, sometimes he uses ‘a mistake I made in highschool’ as code for ‘Y/N,’” you explain. “But the truth is, I’m the mistake you made in highschool.”

“You’re not a mistake,” he disagrees. “You’re- You’re one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. Lots of things are made by accident, but that doesn’t make them mistakes! Penicillin, potato chips, Post-It notes, popsicles! They were never supposed to exist but they do and the world is much better off with them in it.”

“You really do have a lot of useless knowledge,” you realize.

“So do you, that’s why our team always wins trivia night.” Wade slips off his boots, joining you in your rearranged bed. “C’mere,” he suggests, guiding your head to his neck.

“S’really you,” you mumble, already weary, and Wade worries for what’s to come. He almost doesn’t even want to let the girls in. He could get you pain medicine, he could probably even find sedatives. Then no one would ever be able to even touch you, let alone hurt you. “Lavender. You never mentioned the lavender, just the sandalwood.”

“I didn't think you’d be impressed,” Wade admits.

“It’s relaxing,” you tell him. “It’s nice to have things in common with someone.”

“You smell like roses, too, not just lavender,” he makes sure you know.

“Yeah, but I think that’s mostly concentrated in an area I’d rather not discuss with you.”

“Well, just make sure that if you do decide to do anything more with them than cuddle, which I can gladly go through the rest of my life without knowing, bee-tee-dubs, that the girls are wearing alpha condoms, especially if one of them knots you. Standard condoms work in a pinch if it’s just for one, y’know, go, but for heats they’re basically useless because of everything I just said. If they hurt you, I will make their deaths look like accidents.”

“S’not like I can get pregnant anyway…” You mumble, embarrassed. “I’m- I’m really glad it’s you. I- I wished so many times that it was you instead of him. Ow, ugh, that one was bad,” you groan, massaging your stomach.

Meanwhile, on the jet, Ellie is furious with herself.

“Yukio, you don’t get it, I smelled her. She smelled like an omega, but I thought- I assumed she was cheating on us. That maybe she didn’t want to be with us like that was because she wanted to- I don’t know, to be on top? It seems so stupid now.”

“Hey, I noticed she smelled different, too. There were other signs we both missed, anyways. Think about how emotional she’s been lately, or how much farther we’ve been going in other ways. How clingy she’s been, too.”

“I guess I didn’t really notice it because I liked her being more open and needing us more,” Ellie admits. “She- She almost fucking killed herself. And I thought cheating was what she was hiding. I- I just-“

“You can’t beat yourself up over it,” Yukio insists. “We’re on our way back, and Wade’s there to protect her.”

Speaking of Wade being there to protect you, he continues to comfort you as the pain gets worse.

“S’too hot,” you complain, and he releases you from his hold, rising from the bed. He knows he’ll have to leave you soon, because you’re likely going to need privacy before the girls get home, but it’s hard to part from you knowing you’re in pain.

“I’m gonna get you some water, okay? And after that, I’m just gonna stand guard outside the door until your girls get here. I know there’s some stuff you need to do, and that’s only gonna get worse.”

“It’s already awful,” you admit, and he chuckles.

“Good luck, kid. I love you.”

Wade gets a case of bottled water from the school’s industrial-sized pantry, bringing it to your room and tearing it open for you before leaving once more. You take one, immediately guzzling it down.

In privacy, you take off Yukio’s cardigan and your bottoms, leaving you in Ellie’s tee shirt and your underwear. You decide to go ahead and free yourself from the constriction that is your bra, feeling a bit embarrassed that you’re not leaving much to the girls’ imagination for your first time together. You eventually decide to undress completely, wondering when the hell your girls are gonna get here.

[morganaspendragonss]

if every breath is sacred

When Carlos wakes up, flames and smoke are filling the room, but TK is nowhere to be seen. He knows the protocols for being in a fire: sit tight, stay low to the ground, wait for help to arrive. But, it’s TK. Protocols have always gone straight out of the window when it comes to TK. So, Carlos—

Well, Carlos does probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his  life.

He grabs two t-shirts from a drawer, holds one over his mouth and nose, and plunges into the inferno.

ao3 | 2.1k | 2.12 spec

The air in their bedroom is sour with a rage Carlos knows isn’t directed at him, yet he can’t help but feel guilty for it anyway. TK is curled up on his side of the bed, back to Carlos, his arms wrapped tightly around himself and his breaths far too carefully even for him to be asleep.

Carlos wants to call him out on it, but he doesn’t want to make things worse than they already are.

He knows he’s not the one TK’s mad at - they’ve had that conversation already - and Carlos is angry too. Mainly at Owen for being so stupid, but also a little bit at his dad even though he knows he was just doing his job. It’s more that they put him in the impossible situation of having to explain to his boyfriend that his father was arrested than anything else; seeing TK’s face fall at the news felt like one of the worst moments of Carlos’s life.

They’ll have to talk about this eventually - tomorrow, hopefully - but, right now, it’s better to just let TK’s anger run its course. 

Which is why Carlos bites his tongue when TK suddenly throws the sheets back and climbs out of bed, leaving the room with only a muttered comment about getting a drink. He sighs, listening to TK’s heavier-than-usual footsteps, relieved when he hears the quiet click of the kettle as opposed to the coffee machine. At least now there’s a chance of TK coming back to bed and getting some sleep, albeit a small one.

Carlos throws his arm over his eyes as the sounds quiet. He’s exhausted and, much as he wants to stay up for TK, he can’t resist the pull of sleep. So he lets himself drift off, praying that things will be easier in the morning.

*

He wakes to the scent of smoke invading his nostrils, harsh coughs already ripping from his throat even as he blinks the remains of sleep away. Carlos frowns, his brain taking a second to register the dim orange glow under the bedroom door for what it is.

Fire.

His eyes widen and he turns to warn TK -

But, TK’s not there. 

The bathroom light isn’t on, either, which means… Which means, he never made it back to bed.

Which means he’s still downstairs.

Carlos jumps out of bed and races to the door, yanking it open, only to come to a sudden halt as flames jump up at him from the stairs. The smoke is thick, but he can see enough to tell that the ground floor has already been overwhelmed by the fire, and that it probably won’t be long until it makes its way up here. His heart is threatening to pound out of his chest with fear and worry, but he forces himself to concentrate, to slip into first responder mode; panicking won’t help TK, nor will it get them out of this mess.

Returning into the bedroom, he snatches his phone from the bedside table and dials, sliding to the floor as more and more smoke invades the room.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“My house, it’s on fire. My boyfriend and I are trapped inside, but I don’t know where he is. He went downstairs to get a drink and I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, there was fire everywhere and he still wasn’t back.”

“Could you give me your address, sir?”

Carlos rattles off his details, suppressing the tickle in his throat for as long as he can before he’s overwhelmed by coughing again. He can hear the dispatcher on the other end saying something, but he can’t make out what.

When the coughs die out, he takes heaving breaths of air, already in short supply. The dispatcher is still talking, so Carlos focuses.

“-ir? Sir, are you there?”

“I’m here,” he gasps eventually, closing his eyes.

“Good, help is on the way. For the time being, is there anywhere you can go to escape from the smoke?”

Carlos shakes his head, before remembering that the action is redundant. “No. There’s nowhere.”

“Alright, just hang tight. Fire and medical should be with you in around six minutes.”

Six minutes.

Too long.

Carlos glances back to the door, his mind going to TK and how long he must have been in the flames and smoke for. A chill goes through him as he realises he doesn’t even know, and he just... He needs to make sure he’s okay.

He may be a cop, and not a firefighter, but Carlos knows the protocols for being in a fire. Sit tight, stay low to the ground, wait for help to arrive. But, it’s TK. Protocols have always gone straight out of the window when it comes to TK. So, Carlos—

Well, Carlos does probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done in his entire life.

He grabs two t-shirts from a drawer, holds one over his mouth and nose, and plunges into the inferno.

*

Flames lick at his exposed skin and thick, black smoke clogs his lungs, the thin cloth of the t-shirt doing next to nothing to halt its path. His eyes are burning, vision obscured with how much they’re watering, but Carlos pushes on, squinting through the haze to search for any sign of his boyfriend.

Navigating his house is difficult, everything seeming alien in this strange half-light, but he manages, and eventually he stumbles - almost literally - over a crumpled figure against the far wall.

“TK!” he cries, or tries to. It comes out hoarse, and quieter than he intended, so Carlos clears his throat and tries again and again and again until he drops down on his knees next to TK. 

“TK,” he says again, shaking his shoulder. TK’s eyes are closed, but they flutter when Carlos shakes him harder. “Come on, baby, open your eyes.”

TK must listen to him, because, slowly, his eyes blink open, widening as he takes in the scene around them. Carlos presses the second t-shirt into his hands and he nods in understanding, raising it to his mouth.

“Help is coming,” Carlos says, mouth close to TK’s ear. “Just a couple more minutes.”

TK nods again and lowers the shirt. He opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get a sound out before a round of coughing comes over him, causing him to fold in on himself. It’s loud enough that TK misses the cracking sound coming from right above his head, the thin trickle of dust raining down on them.

TK misses it, but Carlos doesn’t.

His boyfriend’s name tears out of him, and he just has time to shove TK as hard as he can before the ceiling comes crashing down.

Carlos chokes, suddenly finding it even harder to breathe, as if it wasn’t near impossible before. He’s pinned, the only movement he has left in his right hand. If he strains, he can just about see TK, who’s staring at him with a horrified expression. Carlos attempts a smile, but he’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

His lungs spasm as he tries and fails to take a breath, his entire body burning with the weight crushing him. His vision is dimming, and he knows it’s likely only seconds before he loses consciousness—and, judging by TK’s slow blinks, the same is true for him.

Carlos prays that whichever station was dispatched gets to them soon, but if this is the end - and he really, really wants it not to be - then he can only think to be grateful that they’re in it together. Carefully, he inches his hand forward, stretching his fingers out until they meet TK’s, and he grips on with all the strength he has left in his body.

“I love you,” he chokes out. He doesn’t know if TK hears him, but he knows that he understands by the way his fingers close around Carlos’s.

TK’s lips move, the roaring flames and the pounding of his own heart making it impossible for Carlos to hear him; still, he knows. It’s a comfort, and he gives TK’s hand one last squeeze before all the energy leaves him and his eyes drift shut.

A flash of blue lights up the room behind Carlos’s closed eyelids, but he doesn’t get a chance to figure out what it means before the darkness swallows him whole.

*

TK doesn’t know how he got here. 

He comes back to awareness slowly, a sudden panic constricting his already tight chest as he stares up at the night sky, his mind trying desperately to work out what’s going on. The last thing he remembers, he was in their front room, surrounded by fire, and Carlos—

Carlos.

TK gasps, his lungs on fire, his back arching and his fingers clawing at what he now realises is a gurney - whether he’s fighting for air or to get to Carlos, he doesn’t know.

Either way, he’s quickly pushed back down and an oxygen mask is pressed against his face.

“TK, I need you to calm down,” a familiar voice - Tommy’s - says. 

“Carlos -”

“He’s in good hands, I promise you,” she cuts in, an evasion tactic if TK’s ever heard one. “You’re my priority right now; just focus on breathing for me, alright?”

TK wants to fight, but he still doesn’t have any strength in him, and he’s powerless to do anything as he’s lifted into the ambulance and taken away.

*

He hates hospitals. After the kidnapping, after Grace and Judd, TK had hopes not to have to enter one again for a while. 

He should have known that was just wishful thinking.

This is the worst one, he thinks. He’s not allowed to leave his bed for another day at least, the burns he’d suffered are superficial, but he’d inhaled a lot of smoke and the doctors want to make sure his O2 levels are stable before letting him go.

That would be unbearable enough, but it’s made worse by the fact that he can’t see Carlos. All he’s been told is that Carlos’s injuries were far worse than his own and that he’s been put on a ventilator because his body is too damaged. A horrible guilt wells in TK’s gut at that knowledge - it’s his fault Carlos isn’t awake right now. He knows Carlos saved him when the ceiling came down, and he wishes he hadn’t; he really didn’t need to know what being on the other side of a coma is like.

A quiet knock on the doorframe reaches his ears and he looks up, expecting it to be his dad or one of the team. Instead, he’s surprised to see Carlos’s mom standing there, her eyes red, and a terrifying coldness floods his body.

“Mrs Reyes,” he says, voice trembling. “Is everything okay? Carlos, is he -”

“He’s okay,” she replies, giving him a wobbly smile as she walks towards him. “Or, there’s been no change, which the doctors tell us is a good thing. Gabriel is with him, but I wanted to come and check up on you.”

TK swallows guiltily, wincing slightly at the lingering soreness in his throat. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m fine.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Ah. I see Carlitos didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“I raised four children, TK,” she says, a hint of a real smile on her lips. “I know when someone is lying to me.”

TK flushes and looks down at the bedsheets, picking at them idly. “You’re right. I’m not okay, but I don’t think I will be until he wakes up.”

“You care for him a lot.”

“With all my heart.”

She nods and pats his hand, the simple, yet comforting, touch breaking something in TK. His eyes fill with tears and he lets his head fall back on the pillow as his chest heaves with sobbing. It irritates his throat, but he doesn’t care, not when there’s a greater pain that reaches right down to his very soul. 

Mrs Reyes holds him against her without hesitation, not complaining even though his cries must be making a mess of her shirt.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, stroking his hair in a way that makes TK yearn for a mother he never really had. “Everything will be okay. My Carlitos is a fighter, and I know that he is doing everything he can right now to get back to us. To you.”

TK sniffles, and hangs onto her words with everything he has.

Four days later, Carlos’s eyes open and, for the first time since the fire, TK think he can finally breathe again.

[atsushigre]

night terrors III

pairing: dabi x reader

summary: comfort is a two way street; he has a nightmare and you come to his rescue

wc: 3117

warnings: reader briefly gets choked and not in the kinky way (but not intentionally in the abusive way either if that makes any sense), potential manga spoilers for dabi!!

a/n: AHHHH it’s finally done!! cannot believe this is my longest piece yet LMAO if i’d kept it all one part like i had intended it would have been stupid long so. here we are!! hope y’all enjoy and reblogs are appreciated (and i’ll try and be back with more stuff soon!!)

part i / part ii

the third time you really see him is maybe the most shocking of all (though if you’re serious with yourself, you really should have seen this coming). 

the mission had gone bad in every conceivable way, and you couldn’t say you were necessarily surprised. all signs had pointed to things going horribly awry, and yet you had volunteered your expertise regardless, and dabi had been quick to follow (though he maintained that same air of disinterest despite himself). but, even with your best efforts the mission had fallen to pieces and the two of you had barely managed a (fairly) safe retreat- he had gotten pretty badly wounded but all things considered, it could have gone far worse. 

barely holding yourself together as you escaped, you quickly tried to assess the situation, and soon realized that in the state he was in dabi wouldn’t make it back to where you were stationed fast enough. seemingly coming to the same conclusion, he had reluctantly directed you to help him to a place he had, some safehouse or abandoned apartment he kept when he spent time away from the league, and you had done your best to keep him conscious and drag him along with you as discreet as possible; the last thing either of you needed was for the heroes to have caught you in the state you were in - you wouldn’t have stood a chance. 

and here is where you find yourself, in the bathroom of an abandoned apartment, rifling through the near barren medicine cabinet for supplies to dress wounds as your partner in this mission bleeds out on the dusty couch. scooping up a variety of medical supplies (including a staple gun, though hopefully you wouldn’t have to use it - you may be handy but you were by no means qualified to be adding more staples to that man) and rushing out into the living room, you quickly dumped the supplies on the floor before rushing to the (similarly barren) kitchen, looking for any sort of alcohol for disinfecting. snatching the half-empty bottle of vodka, you came back down to crouch in front of the man and get to work. he hadn’t said much of anything since you’d unceremoniously dumped him on the couch and began your search, but those same electric eyes had tracked your movement throughout the apartment, pain clouding them as he grits his teeth. 

you set to work dressing his wounds, hoping and praying that your minimal first aid experience would be passable enough that he would survive the night and be able to see a real doctor (one that had undoubtedly been paid or strong-armed by the league, of course) in the morning. every once in a while he would seem to make a move, almost as if he intended to take over for you and patch himself up, but between the energy he had expended earlier that evening and your quiet soothing, every time he seemed to concede, sinking deeper into the ratty couch cushions and allowing you to continue your work in (mostly) silence. he barely had the energy for remarks, only able to summon a deep hum in affirmation when you would periodically ask him if he was awake. 

you pull back just a bit to admire your finished handiwork before looking up to meet his gaze, half-lidded eyes still watching you in silence. you can practically see the fatigue pulling at him at that moment but he musters up his last dregs of energy to straighten his slumped form on the couch, groaning in pain as he does so. you quickly lean forward, hands securing themselves on his shoulders as you crouch down to eye level.

“i’m gonna move you to the bed, okay? can i?” your eyes search his for an answer, and as you hear him grunt and seem to nod his head, you begin to lean his weight onto yourself as you maneuver him into the bedroom. you busy yourself getting him set in bed, acutely feeling the weight of his exhausted eyes on you as you make your way out of the bedroom once he’s settled, pausing in the doorway to give him one last once over.

“call for me if you need anything,” you sigh, and you hear the sarcastic snort as he faces his head away for you, eyes sliding shut as you linger in the doorway a moment longer. hesitantly you creep back to the living room, setting yourself down on the couch and dropping your head into your hands, waves of exhaustion rolling over you as the adrenaline of the evening seeps out of your system, and its as you run your hands exasperatedly over your face that you are met with the massive bloodstain covering the couch, where you’d intended to sleep this evening. a sigh leaves you as you set to work using the remaining (mostly) unstained cushions to form a makeshift bed of sorts before allowing the exhaustion of the day to settle over you like a blanket.

it’s less than two hours later when you’re woken with a start to the familiar sounds of a nightmare; however, this time, they’re not coming from you. no, instead, you can hear the distressed noises echoing off the walls and emanating from the bedroom, and panic grips your heart as you try and orient yourself, scrambling up off your makeshift bed and over to the doorway.

he’s thrashing around in the sheets, panicked gasps coming out of his lungs, and you can see his face screwed up in an expression of terror before he thrashes once more, facing away from you. scarred hands are fisted in the sheets, and you can hear the sizzling of what you can only assume is his flesh as his temperature begins to rise. you can almost hear him starting to mumble under his breath before the mumbles get louder and he begins to frantically shout. you’re practically paralyzed, standing in the doorway mouth agape as you take him in before something snaps in you and you quickly close the distance.

bracing yourself as you begin to shake his shoulders, you feel his form shuddering under you as he’s gasping for air. you shout his name as you try and still him before he can further disrupt your shoddy stitch work, but nothing could have prepared you for what came next.

electric eyes shoot open and meet yours, wild and feral as he launches himself forward, toppling off the bed with you as the room erupts in blue flame. one scarred hand is wrapped tightly around your throat, fingers digging into your skin as you feel the heat of his fire coalescing in his palm, and the other is reared back in a threatening pose, cobalt flames licking at his skin and casting their sickly glow over the dingy bedroom. his eyes are cloudy and wild, like a feral animal as he keeps you pinned to the floor, chest heaving with exertion, and as you struggle to claw your way out of his vice grip around your neck you barely see the fire growing dimmer as he comes to his senses.

“dabi,” you choke out, prying his fingers away from your throat, and it’s as if your raspy voice breaks the spell that had fallen over him as he scrambles off of you, blue flames extinguishing and leaving nothing more than the faint sound of sizzling in their wake. the room is dark, almost pitch black, besides the faint glow of city lights peeking from behind the curtains, and you take a long moment of pause, gaze glued to the floor as you gently run your fingers over the bruises you don’t doubt are already forming around your throat. you finally manage to lift your gaze, only to find him recoiled up against the wall, clutching the hand that was moments ago choking you out close to his chest, wild eyes flitting around and occasionally risking a glance in your direction.

it’s almost funny, in that tragic way; you know very little about the fractured man before you, nothing of his life before the league and barely anything even now that he is with you. he makes a point to dance around pointed questions (not that you were brazen enough to ask any) and keeps everything besides burning ambition locked inside of him, hidden away and detached from his person. but now you can almost see his edges fraying, that tightly wound façade unraveling, and in that minute he just looks very small and very sad, huddled up like a feral animal backed into a corner. he looks almost like a child; alone and afraid and unsure. you know logically you should turn your back and leave him, especially after what just transpired between you, but between the way he’s looking right now and the phantom feeling of a hand carding through your hair that threatens to overwhelm you, you feel your resolve cracking as you clear your throat.

his gaze jumps up to meet yours, eyes so wide the scarred skin around them is pulling on his staples, and you draw a deep breath in before reaching out a shaky hand, crawling slowly towards him. he flinches backward, and you watch as his eyes linger on the angry markings left around your throat as you hesitantly continue your approach.

“you uh. you had a nightmare. but it’s just me okay? you’re safe; we’re at your safe house.” you speak gently as you crawl right up to him, slowly moving to place your hand on one of his drawn in knees, and when he shows no signs of lashing out you close the last bit of distance, shaky hand resting lightly on the fabric of his pants as you patiently wait for any sort of response. you can feel how tense he holds himself, how tightly wound he is, and in the position he’s pulled himself into it’s impossible for you to get a good look at his abdomen; you’d have to assume that in the struggle he’d done something to disrupt your subpar sutures, and you couldn’t in good faith let him bleed out on the floor in a state like this. it seems like you’re going to have to push a little harder to get any sort of response out of him, shock setting into his bones as his vacant eyes fixate on where your hand meets his form. 

“i don’t know what you saw, and you don’t have to tell me- i don’t want you to tell me anything, okay? all i wanna do is help you right now; so, can you help me help you? is that okay?” your gentle whispers fill the air, and you can see some of the tension melting from his shoulders as his ragged breathing steadies, and that clouded look in his eyes seems to dissolve under the soothing tone of your speech. your thumb rubs gentle circles on his knee, and after a few long minutes of near-perfect silence, you can hear his bones begin to crack as he slowly unfurls himself, allowing you access to his injury. you quickly assess the damages, sighing in relief when you see they’re minimal, and look up to see him staring down at you while you work, eyes swirling with an undecipherable blend of emotions before he angles his head away. 

you know he feels guilty for what transpired; you can feel it rolling off of him in waves, see it in the way his eyes keep finding their way to the marks blossoming on your skin, sense it in the way he flinches away from your touch, almost sitting on his hands so as to not let them come in contact with you again. you can practically hear the apology in the air, but the little you know about him tells you he’d never manage to choke it out, and so you rise and busy yourself with the bed, resetting the cushions and fluffing the pillows before you cross back to crouch in front of him again, hand extended with confidence this time. 

he stares blankly at your extended hand for a long moment before looking up and almost past you, eyes still sparkling with fragments of fear, and a gentle smile creeps across your face as you let out a soft hum. 

“let’s get you to bed, okay?” reaching down you grasp his hand in yours, pretending not to notice the way he jumps slightly at the contact before you gingerly pull him up, resting his weight on your frame before getting him settled under the covers once again. you pull the blankets up to cover him before you hesitate for a moment, locking eyes with him again, and it’s almost as if something possesses you as you reach forward to smooth his hair back and away from his forehead. his eyes widen in surprise, and you can’t help the gentle smile that creeps onto your lips before you pull away, lingering in the doorway and casting one last look over your shoulder.

huddled under the covers, fully and properly exhausted as he comes down off of the fear-induced adrenaline spike of moments ago, it strikes you again just how small he looks; if you were really being honest with yourself, fragile was the word for it. a man held together by staples, body and soul, tormented by what you can only assume are ghosts of his past. 

maybe that’s why you linger in the doorway longer than you should. maybe that’s why instead of shutting the door behind you, you step back inside before gently pulling it shut, creeping back over to the bed and crawling up and on top of the covers. those same eyes track your movement, and you can almost feel him going to ask why you’re doing this as you push yourself up against the headboard and angle yourself towards him, gently carding your hand through his hair. you feel his questioning gaze before you hear the involuntary exhale of relief.

“this is so you’ll go back to sleep, so hurry up and close your eyes already. i don’t have all night.” you managed to make it through the whole sentence before you softly giggle, recalling the flipped scenario no less than a few weeks ago, and you feel him still below you before sighing and shifting his head into your lap, relaxing fully under the feeling of your hand smoothing over his hair. it seems that after the evening’s events, he’s simply too tired to keep up pretenses, melting under your gentle touch, and you can feel a small smile stretch over his face, staples grazing over your thigh where his face is angled into your lap. you think you hear a muttered thanks, and though you weren’t quite sure you wouldn’t dare ask him to repeat it, pleased enough at the prospect of a thank you in the first place.

you’re up for an extra hour, watching the man melt under the repeated caresses and allow sleep to take him (peacefully, this time), before that same exhaustion comes creeping back and sleep comes for you as well.

you wake as the late afternoon sun creeps through the ratty curtains, full-body exhaustion threatening to draw you back to sleep but the nagging urge to get dabi checked by a doctor pulling you back to consciousness. during the night you’d shifted, laying down against the bed, and a blanket previously nowhere to be found had been tucked over you. you push yourself up as you notice you’re sleeping in an empty bed, and as you tighten the blanket around your shoulders and hurry back into the living room, you can’t help the sigh of relief you let out when you see dabi standing in the barren kitchen rifling through a shopping bag.

“you scared me.” leaning up against the counter next to him, you can’t help the small grin that stretches across your face as he produces a steaming mug of tea, gesturing for you to drink before he draws his own to his lips. warmth bubbles up in your chest, doubled as you take slow sips of the tea, and you spare a few glances down at his torso, trying to catch a glimpse of his injury.

“we should go see the doctor,” you sigh, head tipped back, and he makes what you can only interpret as a dismissive noise as he rifles through the shopping bag again before producing a mound of fabric, lazily outstretching it towards you as he gazes out the window and sips on his own tea. you gingerly take it from him and unravel it, coming face to face with a soft black scarf, and you can feel your face heat up as your grin grows wider.

“here. wear this,” he drawls, and you can practically feel the apology stitched into the soft fabric as you wind it around your neck, covering the marks of yesterday. you can see his posture loosen once you finish and turn to him, taking a moment to show off, and a low chuckle and a wolf whistle fills the air as you strike an objectively ridiculous pose.

“lookin good,” he scoffs, eyebrow quirked and smirk tugging at his lips, before he gathers his things and unceremoniously dumps them back in his bag. he moves for the door, gesturing for you to follow, and something in you has you reaching out and catching his arm, fingers gripping onto his coat sleeve.

“we aren’t talking about it after this, i promise, but i get it, okay? i get it. so thanks for what you do for me, and i hope i can keep doing the same for you.” 

“i thought i told you not to mention it,” you hear him say, and before you can quickly rush to drop an apology you notice the small smile on his face, and that now-familiar warmth bubbles up inside of you again.

“you’re right. my bad; won’t happen again,” you grin, brushing past him to lead the way. you hear him scoff once more before following quickly behind, and you know deep inside you that you’ve come to cherish this rather unconventional arrangement the two of you have found yourself in. despite yourself, you can’t help but quietly wish for more opportunities to support and be supported like this; after all, you enjoy it far more than you’d be willing to admit. for as long as the two of you have night terrors, you hope the other will be there to pick up the pieces, night after night.

[preciouspeterbparker]

i wish i were, part 3

part one

part two

summary: it’s getting harder to pretend that everything is okay. 

word count: 4.2k

warnings: step- inc*st, smut, underage sex, suicidal ideation (oops), ANGST, depression, self-harm mention (doesn’t actually happen, just intrusive thoughts), it’s all mentioned very casually so if this is triggering for you please don’t read!! <3 , ambiguous ending 

this is the last part y’all! thanks for going on this ride with me. this was my first multi-chap fic and it kinda gave me the confidence to know that i’m capable of writing longer stuff without it being super shitty lol. sorry that it’s taken me so long!! 

love you all

- bloo 

It's getting harder to pretend that everything is okay.

Peter hates to say it, fuck, the thought physically pains him, but he’s glad the school year’s almost over. He’s glad that it’s almost time for graduation, time for Tony to leave for the special summer program MIT invited him to participate in. 

He just wants to stop feeling like this, never wants to feel like this ever again. He always feels heavy, weighed down, like his clothes are soaking wet. It’s a feeling that goes deep into his bones, leaving him cold, aching, and tired. 

It’s a good thing there’s not really any work left to do for school, other than exams; Peter spends most of his time in bed, headphones on and staring at the wall, the one that separates his room from Tony’s. 

He keeps hearing Pepper’s voice in his head. He thinks you hung the moon, babe. It’s so cute. The words make him burn inside, make him want to dig his fingers in and peel his skin back until the feeling spills out of him. Until his blood spill out, until he doesn’t have to deal with this anymore- Fuck-

That’s how his brain is working, now. The intrusive thoughts have reached new levels. Peter’s always had them, he’s been passively suicidal for most of his adolescence, but it seems that any minor inconvenience has him ready to end it all. But it makes sense, he supposes. He’s already hurting, already weary and withdrawn. It really wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. 

Too bad he doesn’t really want to die. He just wants everything to...stop. So that he doesn’t have to feel like this.

And because the universe is obviously enjoying fucking with him, the first thing he sees walking out of first period is Pepper walking down the hallway, a faded black t-shirt hanging from her shoulders, exposing the bright red of her bra straps. 

Peter recognizes the garment immediately.

It’s the Black Sabbath shirt, the one he’d kept under his pillow for over a week. The one he’d spilled multiple loads of cum onto before finally putting it in his laundry and carefully slipping it back into Tony’s room once it had been washed. 

And now Pepper’s wearing it. Which means Tony gave it to her.

Peter stops, freezes right there in the doorway of Mrs. Flannigan’s classroom. He blinks, staring blankly in the direction the blonde had gone. His classmates protest behind him, pushing forward until he snaps out of it. Taking a few stumbling steps to the side, he leans back against the wall.

He feels like he can’t breathe. Some kid walking down the hall looks at him funny, and he realizes that there are tears rolling down his cheeks. Hastily wiping them away, he slowly pushes himself off the wall and starts making a hasty exit to the bathroom, head down and eyes trained on the linoleum. 

Then- 

“Hey, Peter- Wait, Pete what’s wrong, what happened?”

Shuddering, barely able to contain the sob that threatens to rip its way out, Peter ignores Tony, just pushes past him and doesn’t stop moving until he’s locked in the private restroom. 

With his back to the door, Peter slides down til his butt’s on the cold ground, arms wrapped around his knees as he tries to muffle his cries as he sits there, shaking.

He just wants it to stop.

***

Something’s up with Peter, and Tony has a sinking feeling that it’s got something to do with him. But he doesn’t know what he possibly could have done. 

They’d had such a nice time celebrating his birthday. He even had a new photo in his wallet, a polaroid of him and Peter cheesing goofily into the camera. Looking at it brings a smile to his face. 

He really does love his little brother. Though he was young, Tony can remember life before Richard and Peter came into their lives. He remembers being an only child as lonely hours spent trying to entertain himself while his mom was busy working, trying to support him as a single parent. He’d been ecstatic upon meeting Richard and finding out that he had a little boy, too, that he was going to get a brother. 

Tony knows that he and Peter haven’t been spending as much time together as they usually do, but he just chalked it up to it being his senior year. He wanted to spend the time with his friends, with his girlfriend, making the best of their last bit of time together before everything changes. 

Peter’s words from his birthday ring in his head. I don’t want you to...forget me. Maybe he’s feeling left behind? 

He’s only got a little over a week left until graduation, and then a week after that he leaves for MIT. That’s not much time at all.

The teen resolves to make some more time in his schedule to spend with his younger brother. Rhodey and the guys and Pep can deal for a couple days. 

***

Peter’s pulled out of the clusterfuck of ruminative thoughts that have kept him awake for the past week by the squeak of his bedroom door being opened. He blinks under the covers, instinctively curling in on himself. He’s been under here for hours, but he still feels so cold.

Tony’s voice comes through the small crack he’s created between the door and the jamb, one eye peeking inside. “Peter? Are you….” He pauses and clears his throat before continuing softly, “Are you okay?” 

The lump under the covers that is Peter shifts a little. His voice is dull and monotone when he replies, as apathetic as he can muster. “...Just leave me alone, Tony.” So much for that. Even saying his brother’s name hurts, a lot more than he thought it would, making his voice crack pathetically. Peter pulls his hands up to his chest and tries to quell the sudden surge of emotion that rushes through him, stifling a whimper. Please just go away. 

Of course, instead of listening for once in his fucking life, Tony opens the door further so that he can slip inside. It closes behind him with a soft click and he takes a tentative step towards the queen bed that’s pushed up against the walls in the corner of the dark bedroom. "Pete…" Peter can hear him softly pad over to the nightstand and flick on the small lamp sitting there. His breathing in the quiet room is near deafening to Peter. “I…” He hovers there for a minute before sighing and sitting at the foot of the bed. “I wish you’d tell me what’s wrong. So that I can… I just want to help, Pete.”

The silence stretches on uncomfortably between them and even under the covers, Peter can feel the worried gaze burning him alive. 

His skin is crawling with how badly he wants to crawl out of the covers and into Tony’s lap, the way he would when they were younger and he was upset. He needs to get Tony out of here. He can’t- 

Peter moves so that his head is exposed, but he looks down at the bed rather than the other teen. "No, it’s fine. I mean I-, I’m fine," Peter sniffles, blinking furiously in an attempt to will the tears away. Fuck. His- fuck, his throat is tight, he can't swallow. His mouth falls open, a shuddering breath escaping as the muscles in his throat spasm. "I get it, Tony. I promise I get it, I really do. I do. She's-" 

Fuck. He must really be exhausted, he wasn’t supposed to say that, wasn’t supposed to let on the truth of why he’s upset. Peter's eyes flit around like he's on speed, darting from one focal point to another without him truly seeing anything. His voice is hoarse, thin. It's as small as he feels. Miniscule. Insignificant. He’s gonna ruin everything but he can’t make himself stop. "I mean, I can’t- I can't compete with-" The words come to an abrupt halt, his mouth snapping shut. 

Tony nudges Peter’s foot with his knee. “What? Peter.” He bumps against Peter again until the younger boy looks up to make eye contact. 

That stupid fucking crease forms between his older brother's eyebrows. Peter wants to slap him. Or kiss him. Mostly he wants to scream. 

"Peter, what? Compete with who? Are you talking about Pepper? I know we haven’t been spending much time together, but I’m gonna fix that before I leave, I promise. I don’t want you to feel left behind, not at all but I still don’t get- What’s this got to do with -," Tony starts, placatingly. But there’s something in his eyes, in the barely there tremor in his voice- And Peter suddenly realizes that Tony knows, has to know at least a little bit. 

He swears his vision flashes red for a second. "It has everything to do with her," Peter all but shrieks, nails digging crescent-shaped welts into his palms. He feels overwhelmed, trapped. Like a hermit crab without its shell- vulnerable, horribly exposed. It comes out without his consent, and so does his fucking stutter. Fuck it all. "And I know- I know- I know I'm fucked up, Tony, I know it, but I love you, the way that you love h-huh-her.” 

He takes a shuddering breath, reeling from saying the words out loud for the first time. “I'm sss-suh-sick, and g-gross and you- I know I'm a fff-fuh-freak and nnn-now- now you’re gonna hate me!" Peter sobs, his entire body shaking as he works himself towards an anxiety attack, a panic attack, a heart attack, fucking something. “I can’t even fu-fu-fu-fucking talk-” There’s snot and tears running down his face, he’s upset himself so much he can’t get through a fucking sentence. He knows he’s making a fucking fool of himself. He’s so stupid, why did he ever think that anything could come from this. He just wants it all to stop, he wants Tony to leave so that he can figure out some way to fix this, to make it all go away-

Tony’s staring at him, mouth parted, dark eyes wide and concerned. "Baby, what- I could never hate you, babydoll." It’s like the nickname comes out instinctually, the sound of Peter’s stutter instantly taking him back to the way he would console Peter when they were much younger, pulling him into his arms and rocking him like his own little baby. 

He climbs on the bed and burrows into the nest of blankets and pillows that Peter has created, but he stays sitting up. His arms wrap around his baby brother and pull him up into his lap so that he’s close to his chest, in spite of the younger’s attempts to squirm away. “Calm down, Pete.” Tony presses his lips to Peter’s head when his cries only increase, frowning at how hot the skin of his forehead is. “You’ve gotta calm down,” he soothes. “C’mon, it’ll get better once you calm down, baby, you know that.” One of his hands glides up and down Peter’s heaving back. 

Gasping, Peter shakes his head. He buries his face in the space where Tony’s pec and arm meet, taking a shuddering breath through his mouth. He’s trying to calm down but it’s not working. “I’m so- I’m so ssss-sss-suh-sorry, Tuh-Tony!” He feels like he’s gonna pass out. Shifting a bit, he pulls his head back in an attempt to get some more air. They almost make eye contact but he hurriedly looks away. He’s ruined everything. Tony hasn’t reacted to his confession yet but Peter knows that it’s gonna be bad, it’s gonna be so bad when he does. 

What’s he got left to lose?

Peter can't help himself; he leans in. The tips of their noses brush, and he pauses there for a moment. He can hear Tony's sharp intake of breath through his own heaving as they finally lock eyes. The look in Tony's chocolate depths is- Peter doesn’t really know. Tony's never looked at him like this before, no one has.

“Tony,” he whispers shakily, breath catching in his throat before closing the distance between them. Time stands still for a moment before something breaks, the tension snapping like a rubberband pulled too tight. Their mouths meet and Peter immediately whines at the feeling of Tony’s lips on his, body instinctively arching up against his brother’s, too lost in it to feel embarrassed of how easy he is to get worked up. 

It’s...everything he ever dreamed of.

Tony’s hands move to cup his cheeks, and Peter’s own hands find their way into the other’s dark, wavy locks as their mouths move against each other. There’s a swipe of tongue across his bottom lip, timidly asking for entrance. The younger obliges immediately, letting the warm muscle slide into his mouth where it meets his own. It sends shivers down his spine and he keens when his tongue is sucked into the wet of Tony’s mouth. His dick begins to fill rapidly in his sweats, leaving him feeling lightheaded and a bit disoriented.

Peter’s never made out with anyone before, but this- 

He thinks he understands what all of the hype is about, now. 

They pull apart, both gasping for air. Tony moves his head slightly, taking heaving breaths that blow onto the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, and his entire body seizes. The elder brother pauses, eyes darkening, before he latches his mouth there and sucking, hard- Fuck, Peter swears he’s about to cum in his pants. 

“Tony.” The name is all but ripped from his throat, ragged and wanton and filthy sounding. He didn’t know he could feel this good. There’s precum steadily leaking from the slit at the tip of his cock, and though he can’t see it at the moment, he’s sure there’s a wet spot staining the crotch of his pants. 

More moist air on the sensitive skin of his neck, now slightly red from being rubbed by the stubble covering Tony’s chin. “Shit, Peter,” comes the eighteen year old’s wrecked gasp and his hips shift, nudging his own erection against Peter’s thigh. “Fuck, fuck.”

Peter feels like he’s losing his mind. “Tony, Tony lemme- Wanna touch you, please-,” he says, unable to put together a full sentence. The cock he’s been dreaming about for almost a year is within his reach and he doesn’t know how they got here, has no idea what’s going to happen after, but he’s so fucking close to getting what he’s wanted for so long but thought he could never have. His hands flutter restlessly near the front of his brother’s basketball shorts and the bulge that’s pressing insistently against the loose material. 

“Yeah,” Tony gasps, shifting Peter out of his lap so that he can lie down on the bed on his side and then he pulls Peter down with him, facing each other. “Me too, can I…,” he trails off, the fingers of his right hand running down Peter’s body from his shoulder down to the sharp point of his hip bone. 

All Peter can do is nod jerkily, already reaching to tug at the dark red fabric that’s wrapped around the older teen’s waist. He lets out a desperate, frustrated sound when they get caught, but Tony’s hands take over for him, so he pushes his own pants down to his knees instead. His dick hangs down heavily once it's free of its confines, and there’s a quiet thud as Tony’s slaps against the dark hairs smattered across his lower belly. 

Looking at his big brother’s cock for the first time in the dim lighting makes Peter’s mouth water. He can make out the slight shadow of a vein running the length of it, and his tip is big, a drop of precum sitting there just waiting for him to lick at it. He’s bigger than Peter, in both length and girth. It’s perfect, something right out of his fantasies. 

Tony rocks his hips forward and their erections rub against each other, prompting them to let out synchronous groans. “Holy shit,” Peter whines, his own hips stuttering as they start to rut against each other in earnest. They quickly get into a slightly stumbling rhythm. It feels so good, their cocks both so hot, so hard. He already knows this is going to be over before it really even starts but he couldn’t care less. “Tony, Tony, yes-”

The brunette all but growls. “That’s it, Petey. Fuck, your cock feels so good, I never- Shit,” Tony pants before spitting into his palm and wrapping his hand around both of their shafts. “Fucking hell-” His toes twitch against the inside of Peter’s ankle. “Pete-”

Peter’s movements get jerkier, his hips stuttering at the feeling of Tony’s wet hand, the way their dicks are sliding against one another. He’s so close, so fucking close. “Please,” he whimpers, fingers digging to Tony’s shoulders where he’s holding on in an attempt to ground himself. HIs tongue licks at his brother’s bottom lip. “Wanna cum, Tony, lemme cum-”

“Yeah, fuck, yes Peter, cum, cum for me-” Tony groans, the speed of his stroking increasing. The rhythm is jerky, and it’s so uncoordinated when combined with their frantic undulating, but it feels amazing. 

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” Peter chants as his orgasm slams into him like a brick wall. His muscles lock up, and there are probably crescent-shaped welts in the skin of Tony’s shoulders and back. Thick, white ropes of cum shoot from his cock and make a mess in his brother’s hand. A whine escapes him as he grows more sensitive in Tony’s grasp. 

The feeling of the warm liquid smearing over his erection is what does the older teen in. He crushes his mouth to Peter’s as he cums, fucking into his fist and rubbing against the other’s softening cock, licking lewdly into the wet of his mouth. “Pete,” he sighs, pulling away after he’s ridden out the wave of his orgasm. 

“I love you,” Peter whispers contently, snuggling in and pressing a kiss to a freckle on Tony’s shoulder. This is everything he’s ever wanted, to be held in his big brother’s arms like this: like a lover. Maybe he was worried for nothing, maybe everything will be okay. Sure, they’ll have to hide it from everyone, especially Mom & Dad, but once they’re both in college… They have different last names, no one would ever have to know. They could be happy. Peter just wants to be happy, just wants this feeling to stay. 

Tony shifts slightly and takes a deep breath, the puff of air ruffling Peter’s sweat-slick auburn curls. “Pete,” he says again, softly. “I love you too, I do.” He pauses, pulling back slightly and loosening his hold on the younger boy and rolling onto his back so that they’re both looking up at the ceiling. “But I-”

Peter freezes, the afterglow fading instantly. His heartbeat picks up, and there’s a slight ringing in his ears. He grips the sweat damp comforter in his hands, fingers twitching restlessly, stroking back and forth over the fabric in an attempt to soothe himself. No. No, no no, this isn’t- Tony- He can’t-

Another heavy sigh. “We can’t- We can’t do this again, Pete,” Tony says into the quiet of the night, still slightly out of breath from exertion. His voice is soft, gentle. He’s trying not to hurt Peter; Peter thinks that’s bullshit.

There’s a lead weight in his stomach. He feels like he’s drowning. He feels like he’s gonna be sick. He feels dirty. He feels- 

He’s so tired of feeling.

Tony hesitates before pulling his shorts up and sliding out of the bed. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over Peter’s hand, jerks back when the younger immediately tenses and recoils from the touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispers before hastily making his way to the door, shutting it gently behind him. 

“Just go, Tony,” he croaks before rolling over in the bed, away from the love of his life his brother. 

Peter lays there for the rest of the night, unmoving, staring at the ceiling, tears running down the sides of his face, seeing nothing. 

If only he could feel nothing, too.

*** 

“Where...where ya goin, Pete?” 

Peter is putting clothes in a small duffel bag. He makes a mental note to remember to grab a new thing of toothpaste when he gets his toiletry bag together. “I’m, uh, gonna go stay with Ned. For a few days.” More like a few weeks, but he doesn’t need to tell Tony that. 

It’s only been two days since they- 

Peter’s already had enough. He can’t be here, he can’t skirt around the elephant that is his feelings towards Tony, can’t handle the awkwardness in the air as his stupid fucking brother tries to go on as if nothing ever happened. As if it meant nothing to him. 

As if Peter meant nothing to him, means nothing to him.

Peter can...he can be okay with that. He has to be. But he can’t be here. He can’t.

“What about mom and da-” Tony cuts himself off, and Peter can tell that’s not what he is really trying to ask. Of course he’s so fucking disgusted, so fearful of someone else knowing, that he can’t even say it. No, what he really means is- 

“I didn’t tell them I kissed you, Tony,” Peter hisses, tears burning in his eyes. He yanks the zipper of his bag closed, biting back a scream when it gets stuck for a second. “I’m not stupid. Why would I tell them what we did? I don’t want them to hate me, too. Don’t worry about what I told them, they said I could go.” 

Maria and Richard are under the impression that Peter’s just stressed about his grades and going a little stir crazy. When they’d talked last night, Mom had frowned gently at him, mentioning how down he’d looked lately and letting him know that he was loved and cherished. Dad had actually been the one to suggest spending some time with Ned; maybe seeing his best friend would help pull Peter out of his funk.

If only they knew. 

Tony gapes at him, an incredulous look on his face. “But what about Tuesday? You’re gonna miss my graduation? For what, to fuck around with Ned? Peter-”

Something in him snaps. He clenches his jaw, swallows harshly. Glares tearily at his brother. “Would you please just stop it?” 

The taller boy sets his shoulders and crosses his arms, defiant. “I don’t want you to go.” His eyes are narrowed, searching Peter’s face. For what, the younger has no idea. Nor does he care. 

“It doesn’t matter what you want, Tony,” he yells, glad that Mom and Dad are out at the grocery store, getting supplies for Tony’s graduation party. His voice cracks on his brother’s name. Always on his name. “Not anymore. I don’t- I know you don’t- Do you know how much it hurts me? To- to hear you? To know, to have to listen to-”

Tony’s mouth opens, but no words come out. “Hear us? You- you heard us? When?” His eyes are wide. He must realize exactly what Peter’s talking about, when he’s talking about, and he looks uncomfortable, vulnerable in a way that Peter’s never seen him before. Something ugly deep inside the younger teen feels satisfied for a moment before it deflates. He’s left feeling just as drained as before. 

Tony continues, “Peter, I-” He cuts himself off, looks away. 

Of course he can’t even come up with something to say.

“For fuck’s sake, Tony, you don’t have to explain everything to me!” It comes out as a sob. Peter feels like he’s a volcano; the words are erupting and he can’t do anything but allow it, powerless to stop them. “Nothing you say will make it better! I know you’re straight! I know it’s- that it’s wrong. I know Pepper is-,” he chokes, gasping. Why is this happening? Everything is going so fast. How is he freezing and on fire at the same time? 

“She’s gorgeous and I’m just the path-th-thetic little br-brother who th-thinks you hung the moon.” Peter’s spluttering, flapping his hands at his sides as he tries to do something with the energy humming inside him. He wants out, he needs Tony to go so that he can finish packing. He has to get out of here. 

Tony takes a step towards him. “No, Peter, how could you-”

Peter’s sniffling, eyes squeezed shut. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides, trembling. Why won’t Tony just leave him alone? He just wants to be alone. “I know I’m ugly and I- I bet you can’t w-w-wait to go to MIT, to go away from me!” 

“Babydoll,” is what leaves Tony’s mouth, so soft Peter almost doesn’t hear it. His hands are shaking as they land on his younger brother’s cheeks. Warm tears are gently brushed away by his thumbs. “Pete.” 

Brow furrowed, Peter slowly opens his eyes and blinks the tears back in order to look at his brother. Tony looks...scared? What does he have to be scared of? 

Peter tries to pull away, out of Tony’s grasp but the older teen just clutches him tighter. “Tony- What? It’s fine, j-just stop! Let me go, I need to finish-”

Tony closes his eyes and crashes their lips together.

don’t hate me 

@spidey-sins @silkystark @thegreenmetblue @snailshome @hp-nv-221b @lemondrop313  

if you wanna be untagged lmk 

[a-lil-perspective]

I have been silent for some time now. I have refrained from exhibiting any plaguing thoughts that might warrant me the label of “that person”, but I’m at the point where I’ve had my fill.

Ramble under the cut so as to not... offend or inconvenience anyone. There’s absolutely no obligation to read this. It’s Tumblr. You can block/ignore me. The option to do so is readily accessible.

I’ve been a Bad Batch fan since day one. While I didn’t start creating that very same day, it was relatively close. Point being, I’m a long-time dedicated fan. As the premiere to their series draws closer, I feel like there is going to be a great shift, rift here. That being said, I figured now is as good a time as any to make this post.

I love those boys beyond words. They’ve been the one constant in my life amidst a rapid and debilitating change. I love getting to give them life, even if my interpretations aren’t the most accurate.

Yes, I am a new Writer and yes, I am new to Tumblr, as I am sure both of those things are painfully apparent.

I get that it is impossible to please everyone. It’s something I’m learning more and more with each passing day. It’s something that gets harder to swallow, even more so.

I’d like to say that being here has been a largely positive experience, with all of these great connections and opportunities. But honestly? It’s been more isolating than anything. I’ve actually never felt more isolated than since I joined a year ago.

As a content creator or even just a general blogger, I don’t ask for much. I don’t ask for anything, in fact. I consider myself very low maintenance. I don’t demand/harass/play the martyr for reblogs. I have never mentioned it once, and never will. Some people on here are so damn passive-aggressive about it, and quite frankly, it’s embarrassing. It’s very stigmatizing. While I completely understand the frustration surrounding the like-to-reblog ratio, I think it’s neither tasteful nor reputable to threaten to call people out for not reblogging your fics. I wish I could say I was joking on that one. But I’ve seen it profoundly. Not cool.

And yet, no one says anything or raises any concern there.

Yet I make metas, harmless rambles, and I get shot down? Seriously?

—I need to “chill”, it’s “overkill”, I’m “overthinking”. I and my content are apparently just so damn arduous to interact with.

If you don’t like me, please just move on. There are plenty of other Bad Batch creators for you to enjoy. You know that. My work is absolutely not the final say, and I’ve never claimed it to be.

What is so wrong, with sharing one’s thoughts? Why do people inherently have a problem with other’s creative efforts? I see it time over again. Why do I feel like if I was making a bunch of smutty posts it wouldn’t be as much of a problem, that it in fact would be infinitely more welcome? (Absolutely NO shade to people who create smut, okay? I’ve made my own share. I admire those bold enough to do so regularly. I absolutely love them. Please teach me your ways).

This ramble really has nothing to do with the most recent event regarding my contributions. Rather, it’s a culmination of experiences over the past several months that have brewed and festered to the point where I can no longer keep downplaying it.

Social media, at its core, is one big popularity contest. It always has been, it always will be. But I’m not here to win. That’s never been my objective. That’s not what I’m about. Surprise (or not), I am not a popular blog. Not by a long shot. I’ll never claim otherwise.

I don’t ask people to view/interact with my content, I’m not an activist, I can’t even fathom exuding that kind of confidence. Even though I, admittedly, crave it. I suspect I crave interaction as much as the next creator. It’s a nice feeling. Yet there’s never been any obligation for it, especially with me, so I don’t understand what the problem is. As I’ve said, there are ample ways for you to block/avoid me. It’s the internet. In this day and age, there’s no excuse for viewing anything you don’t want to.

I came here in the hopes of finding like-minded individuals, uplifting and interacting, and exercising some otherwise stunted creativity.

All Tumblr as taught me is that creating and contributing is largely a thankless, empty endeavor. You can give and give and give and be reduced to nothing. There’s a profound imbalance between “giving” and “receiving”, and in regards to both ends of the scale, it’s became apparent to me that if you don’t cater heavily and in unreasonable degrees or get “noticed” by a popular blog, you get nothing, and your efforts are null and void.

Truthfully? I constantly feel like I walk on eggshells here, and it’s all I can do to not crack under the pressure, even though it’s my blog and my headspace. I should feel comfortable and free to express myself here, and I don’t, and I’m unsure of how to achieve that sense of stability. To be completely honestly I feel like a constant bother and a nuisance. When I post, I literally feel like there is a collective eye-roll that comes with people receiving a notification from my blog. Even though I know, rationally, that can’t be true, that’s an absurd level of thinking. I can’t say I can pinpoint exactly where it stems from.

But regardless: I hardly ever talk about/create the things I actually want. I only recently just got ballsy enough to share some metas, and we all know how well that’s going. I try not to have smut out of respect for my asexual/minor mutuals, even though the tag to blacklist is very much an option. I try not to bring up conflicting topics, Tumblr, political, or otherwise, even though with proper tagging I could. But I try not to even bring that into existence. Even though it’s my right to, I don’t.

I don’t actually feel like I fit into any narrative here, especially in the Bad Batch fandom; even though we are all basically the same steadfast group of bloggers. We all know who we are. We all coexist in the same space. It’s nearly impossible to be unaware of each other, at this point.

And yet, I’m not in a bunch of Discord servers or backed by a team of beta readers and all that jazz. It’s basically just me talking to myself out here. It’s very isolating.

Part of that—most of it—is my own crippling social anxiety, and the genuine belief that I don’t deserve to be in the same space/servers as all of these brilliant creators. Because I’m just me, and there’s not a whole lot of value there. With that mindset, it’s hard to actually feel like I belong anywhere. I know that is a mindset I have to conquer alone.

My excitement over my creations has largely dwindled into nothing. I seldom ever bounce my ideas off of others—another issue that stems from the fear of presenting as a burden—and even though I try to write for myself, even that fire has pretty much died out. I’m not even sure how or if I could even reignite it, at this point. It’s really quite sad. It makes me very sad, actually. All I wanted was to safely ramble, project all my thoughts and creativity that has otherwise been repressed through prolonged detrimental circumstances.

More than anything, I wanted to find and hold onto something that makes me feel useful, meaningful, happy. More and more I wonder if that’s even possible. I don’t think it is, not here. I often wonder if joining and sharing on Tumblr was a horrible mistake. I miss the innocent joy of when I first started creating. It was so simple. I’m trying to find that simplicity again.

But I’m burned out. I’m running on fumes. I have been for some time.

At this point it goes beyond just “taking a break” from Tumblr. It’s the fact that it all feels like this meaningless, monotonous cycle. I wonder every day if I am an isolated case in experiencing these emotions.

And yet, come tomorrow I will still be here, business as usual.

I’m not asking for sympathy or playing the victim or attacking anyone or trying to guilt-trip into more interaction. I am very aware of my shortcomings and incorrect mindsets. I’m just trying to make sense of it all. I feel very disconnected from everyone here and it’s lonely. This took a lot for me to share. I will most likely delete this because anxiety will eat me up, as it does with everything I post. Yes, everything.

[hopelesshawks]

Physical Fatality Part 11- Pettiness

18+ Hawks x fem, pro hero!reader

Summary: You’re a rising star in All Might’s agency. Hawks is the darling of Endeavor’s. By virtue of your job descriptions, the two of you are supposed to hate each other, or at the very least be cautiously neutral. For a long time that’s exactly what the two of you did. You stayed out of each other’s way and formed little opinion of the other. One fateful night at an HPSC gala changes all that. Based on the album Hopeless Fountain Kingdom by Halsey.

If you don’t want to see Physical Fatality content blacklist #hopelesspf

This story will have multiple NSFW parts so it is 18+ ONLY minors dni

Masterlist

Ever since your removal from the task force both All Might and Endeavor have decided to be more involved in it on a managerial level. Which is really just a nice way of saying that the two are micromanaging and Hawks has never wished so hard for two people to just fucking retire already. Let Midoriya and Shoto take over and let the agencies finally enter a new fucking era without the ridiculous pettiness. “Hey bird boy,” a voice singsongs.

Speaking of petty...

“Has the fact you’re almost single-handedly ruining her career affected you and (y/n)‘s relationship yet?” Monoma asks Hawks cheerily.

He, Hawks, and Bakugo are standing on a rooftop staking out a nearby building not far from the downtown area that’s suspected as being a new base of operations for the group responsible for the attempted terrorist attack. Midoriya, Todoroki, and Tokoyami are at a different building on the other side of town. This is a perfect example of why Endeavor and All Might’s micromanaging is only making the task force’s job more difficult. The two of them had insisted on choosing the teams and somehow neither of them had considered how bad an idea it was to put your ex fiancé on the same team as your current boyfriend. Brilliant. Truly fucking brilliant. Monoma has made petty jab after petty jab since the moment they left the office and it is starting to really grind away at Hawks’ nerves.

Hawks has been trying to be the bigger person, he really has. Things are finally in a good place with you again and he really doesn’t want to fuck that up, regardless of how much of an ass Monoma is being. He should really be given an award for the immense amount of patience and restraint he’s been showing. But that particular jeer? That particular jeers rings a little too close to home. Because yes things are finally good with you, but the fact your career hinges so much on your relationship now is an undeniable dark shadow being cast upon it. Another reason, Hawks might add, that he couldn’t wait for Midoriya to take over for All Might. “Feeling tongue tied?” Monoma needles again. “Say something worthwhile and I just might fucking respond,” Hawks fires back. “Ah so he does speak! Just admit things aren’t all rosy and perfect in ArteHawks land.” “ArteHawks?” “Your perfectly perfect couple name for everyone’s favorite perfectly perfect star-crossed lovers.” “Don’t call us that.” “Call you what?” “Star-crossed lovers.” “Aww why not? Are the fates themselves not telling you your relationship is doomed?” “Our relationship isn’t doomed.” “Sure it isn’t,” Monoma scoffs and something snaps in Hawks.

It only takes a moment for him to grab Monoma and slam him down against the rooftop, pinning him there. “Watch what the fuck you say,” Hawks threatens. “Hey ease up. I’m not enjoying his bullshit any more than you are but just ignore him,” Bakugo warns. “Yea Hawks, ease up,” Monoma smirks up at him. “Listen here you little-“ “Hawks! I said ease up. If you fuck up and get a bad headline it reflects on (y/n) too remember?” Bakugo cuts Hawks off before he can finish his sentence. Hawks looks over at Bakugo and then back down at a smirking Monoma. God he wants to punch that stupid, smug look off his face. But Bakugo has a point. So Hawks takes a calming breath that does very little to actually calm him down before forcing himself to release Monoma and go back to observing the building across the street; however, the peace is only momentary. No sooner has Hawks returned to his post does Monoma stand back up and ask “So when all this inevitably blows up in your face, how long do you think it’ll take for (y/n) to come running back to me to fix her reputation again? A week? A day?”

There’s only a split second between Hawks registering what Monoma has said and his reaction. He whirls around, fist connecting with Monoma’s face, causing the other man to stagger backwards with the force of it. He rears his fist back to land another one but Bakugo catches his arm and yanks him back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bakugo demands. Hawks wrestles himself free of Bakugo’s grip and redirects his gaze to the younger man. He should calm down, objectively he knows he should, but Monoma’s words are floating through his head and Bakugo had prevented him from fully venting his ire so it continues to burn through his veins. “What’s wrong with me? What the fuck is wrong with you? You just gonna let him talk about (y/n) like that?” Hawks spits back. “He’s obviously trying to get a rise out of you idiot. So stop giving him the satisfaction,” Bakugo scoffs. “Oh so he can just say whatever the fuck he wants and you won’t react huh? Won’t defend your supposed best friend,” Hawks replies and he knows it’s unfair but he’s pissed and so much stress and tension has been building since the moment he told Endeavor about the two of you’s relationship that he needs an exit for it. It was supposed to be Monoma but now Bakugo has stepped into the crossfire. “What the fuck are you implying bird brain?” Bakugo asks, his voice low and lethal as he steps closer to Hawks in warning. “I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying you’re a fucking coward,” Hawks replies, wings subconsciously puffing up to make him appear larger. “Don’t you fucking dare call me that. Motherfucker don’t play with me,” Bakugo warns. “I’ll say it again. You’re a fucking coward.”

Hawks should’ve listened.

The punch to his face is not unexpected and he almost immediately follows up with one of his own. But one punch isn’t enough and the fight starts escalating. One minute they’re trading blows and the next he’s shoving Bakugo off the roof and the other man is dragging him over too. Hawks quickly engages his wings to avoid falling and by the time he lands on the street Bakugo is doing the same, having used a few well timed explosions to control his fall. The fall hadn’t cleared either of their heads though and as soon as they make eye contact Bakugo is surging forward with his palms sparking, crimson eyes rage filled. Hawks sends a few feathers his way but it doesn’t slow the other man down so he pulls out his two large feathers ready to wield them as blades.

On the other side of town Midoriya mutters under his breath as he takes notes on the movements inside the building opposite the one he, Tokoyami, and Shoto are stood on. “Some things never change,” Shoto comments as he goes to take a seat next to his friend. “What? Oh! Yes I guess so,” Midoriya admits bashfully. “How has (y/n) been doing?” Shoto asks. “Better since she and Hawks made up but still difficult. All of the events are driving her up the wall since they take time away from actual hero work,” Midoriya explains. “I wish I could offer some encouragement but my father is just as bad as All Might. Overheard him demanding Hawks invite his plus one to the bullshit agency-only cocktail party he’s having tomorrow,” Shoto replies. “Honestly I’m surprised (y/n) hasn’t killed him and All Might yet,” Tokoyami interjects as he joins the conversation. “Trust me, she’s thought about it. Repeatedly,” Midoriya comments. “Anyway, what do you say Midoriya can we confirm it’s this building?” Shoto asks, veering the conversation back to the task at hand. Midoriya nods, “Yep, I’m certain of it. We should notify the others.” “About that.... we have a problem,” Tokoyami sighs as he shows Midoriya and Shoto a photo Monoma’s just sent him of Hawks and Bakugo locked in combat.

Hawks should stop.

He knows he should stop.

He wants to stop.

But somehow he can’t stop until he wins.

His wings are a fraction of their usual size, his ribs ache, he’s heavily bruised, and there are burn marks where Bakugo has caught him with one of his explosions a few times. Granted Bakugo isn’t looking that much better, equally bruised and bleeding in several places where Hawks has managed to cut him. This all started so pettily but neither he nor Bakugo is willing to back down. They’re both too proud. Both feel as if they’re fighting for your best interest and, as such, admitting defeat would in some way be letting you down. One massive fight that at its core is just two men’s horribly misguided attempt at defending you. The sheer irony of the fight is something both men will come to realize once the dust has settled but for now their minds are far too clouded to consider that what’s happening is exactly what Bakugo had been warning Hawks against. So instead of stopping like he knows he should, Hawks continues to grapple with Bakugo, the two of them locked into close proximity tumbling over each other until finally Hawks has Bakugo pinned beneath him, a feather pressed to the other man’s throat.

That moment it’s like all the air gets sucked out of the area. Hawks has never and will never needlessly kill someone, especially not an innocent or fellow hero. But with Bakugo pinned underneath him, both their chests heaving with exertion and Bakugo’s eyes burning with defiance and a refusal to back down or submit even with his life in Hawks’ hands, Hawks is struck by the realization that he could. He could kill Bakugo right now if he wanted to and that’s a sobering thought. “Shit,” he huffs out and the next word out of his mouth is about to be an apology when suddenly he’s being ripped backwards by an unseen force and Bakugo is being similarly yanked away. As Hawks finds himself suspended in air he finally takes in his surroundings for the first time since he and Bakugo started exchanging blows.

There’s a massive crowd of people around staring and whispering in an attempt to figure out what exactly is going on. He spots with growing dread a news van and several reporters all taking pictures of the scene, including some of the collateral damage to the street. Thank god none of the buildings themselves were damaged. Then finally he finds the source of the unseen force holding him in the air.

In the middle of everything stands you.

And man, oh man do you look pissed.

Author’s Note: Men are ✨dumb✨ but we’ll see how (y/n) reacts next chapter. This is the chapter with the least connection to the associated song which meant leaning more heavily on the overall album’s inspiration (Romeo and Juliet if y’all couldn’t tell lol) for this particular chapter and more trying to have the vibe of the chapter match the vibe of the song.

Taglist [open]: @akkaso @cathy8taffy @eeppff @iikillerkitteh @pixelwisp @pokesosa @lildockel @bread0nhead @lavender-moon13

[yelenasdog]

visions (warren worthington iii x fem reader)

genre: angst

summary:  why must visions become reality?

words: 1.1k

warnings: ANGSTY PURR ✨🗣, x-men apocalypse spoilers, mentions of physical fighting and death, just some sad stuff. in terms of fluff, this is a decrescendo.

a/n: hi! reader is a mutant and has a strand of very very light hair that has a bluish tint and sparkles, as well as extremely light eyes and sharp canines! other than that there is no predetermined factor of appearance! also, y/n was not used so if u wanted to read this an x an oc or x another fem character, that should work well!

��⚔⚔

"Move over!"

"No way, your wings take up the whole bed anyway!"

"That's mutantphobic!"

A loud laugh sounded from the smaller girl resting in Warren's arms, her cheeks growing sore from all the smiling she had (and always was around him) been doing.

"I'm a mutant too, y'know, so I don't quite see how that could work."

He shuffled about for a moment, moving so that one of his beautiful wings would rest over her top half, bringing her an unprecedented level of calm.

She looked over from where she lay on her back, stretching one of her hands to lightly run her fingers over the sharpened tip of his wing.

Warren watched from his position on his stomach, a fond look coming across his angelic features, one that seemed to creep its way onto his face whenever he was in her presence.

Pale moonlight streamed in from the cracked window just above their heads, Illuminating the strand of her hair that appeared as a sparkling sliver of the Arctic Ocean. 

Warren would oftentimes find himself twirling it whenever he would snuggle up to the girl on nights like these, the contrast of the soft texture feeling pleasant on his calloused fingertips. It also shined light on her glorious eyes of the same color, that he could (and has) get lost in for hours, drowning.

A chilly breeze found its way through the glass panel as well, Warren's immediate response to pull her closer, which he did.

His wing that previously was on top of her suddenly curled under her to the best of its ability, pulling her close enough to him to where he could take grip of her with his own strong arms.

She smiled, her sharpened canines glistening faintly in the white hue of the moon's glow.

Then it was quiet for a bit, just some rock song playing softly in the back, accompanied by the howling of the wind. It lulled the pair into a serene state, an implacable emotion filling them up from their tippy toes to the tops of their heads.

And in that moment, with his golden curls all astray, and wings so ethereally spread, she wondered what she was experiencing?

It was love, she had decided. And she could only hope he felt it too.

She, for one, had felt it many times.

Like when she washed his wings for the first time, an incredibly intimate memory she held. She had softly washed away all the dirt and grime, and he had felt comforted to the fullest extent. He had never had someone to help him with that before, and the extra assistance had embarrassed him at first, but now it had become second nature to the pair.

Or perhaps the times that fights in the ring had become too personal for Warren's seemingly stone cold heart to handle alone. The gravity of those he had killed, and the guilt that came from surviving off of it would routinely threaten to crack his confident exterior. 

She would spend her time on those days (or more regularly, nights) allowing him to cry to her, to let his emotions break free.

She would never know how much it meant to him.

"Angel?"

He let out a grunt, his emerald eyes staying shut as he shook around his head on the pillow, trying to find a cold spot (as even with the open window, he never could seem to shake the burning sensation that dug deep through the fibers of his body down to his heart and soul).

"Don't ever let anyone touch your wings, alright?"

His eyes opened at that, curiosity getting the best of his sleepy brain that was begging him to just ask what she meant in the morning. But nonetheless he persisted.

"W'dya mean, sweet girl?"

She looked anywhere but his eyes, running fingers across the top of his left wing. He resisted the urge to giggle at the tickly feeling left behind, though she wouldn't have minded if he had let one of his musical laughs slip.

"I'm not quite sure, honestly."

He laughed, her heart fluttering at the sight of his smile.

"I guess," she took a pause, trying to better articulate what she had such a hard time putting into words.

"That mutants still aren't safe. And I don't want you to ever lose your wings. Y'know, have to hide them..." her voice wavered, and it was fairly obvious that not only what she said held more meaning, but that she still had more to say.

"And?" He asked, now fully awake with concern lacing his features. His head was tilted, eyes slanted, while hers was hung, looking to her fumbling hands.

"I just don't want you to get hurt, Warren."

At those words, his expression softened and his wings instinctively spread out to cover the both of them with a loud swoosh.

He pulled her to his bare chest, cradling her head in his arms.

"You have another vision?"

She nodded, her cries muffled, but her tears very much evident as they wet his ivory skin, leaving a shimmery sheen in their wake. “Warren, it was horrible," she cried, turmoil the only thing on her mind.

"Y-your wings were gone and replaced with, with some horrible metal."

"Well, did I at least look bad ass?" He smiles boyishly, and she only frowned and burrowed her head into his chest. His expression became neutral, an unreadable expression plastered on.

"Who did it?"

"I didn't get a name." She sniffles, sitting up and placing her hands on either side of herself. She closed her eyes and turned to the wall, beginning to recall all she could, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.

"There's 4 other people-"

"Are you one of them?"

A beat passed, tensions in the cool air began to rise.

"No."

Then there was a sigh from Warren, and he wasn't sure if it was of relief or of a despicable anguish.

"That's him."

Her eyes flew open, her pupils dilating. He said her name, taking hold of both of her hands tightly as if his life depended on it. Which in all honesty, it felt like it did.

"Who is he?"

A single tear slipped down her cheek for her lover, for the world.

She was frozen, fear had infiltrated her completely, every cell, every vein, every muscle. 

And thereupon, even Warren's wings couldn't make her feel safe from what was to soon come rain havoc on their lives.

Her voice was only a frightful whisper as she spoke, the usual captivating power it held totally absent. Despite that, there was no room for mistaking what she said, the word remaining completely clear as it fell past her lips.

"Apocalypse."

⚔⚔⚔

ok miss girl! i see u! i did that! i hope u enjoyed that v short angstyness lol. ok now go take an electronics break and drink some water and eat some protein!!!

luv u bye!! xx hj 

[sk1fanfiction]

the many faces of tom riddle, part 5

 - more myth than man... or not? the mortality of tom riddle and the anatomy of a villain-

That leaves us with Ralph Fiennes’ portrayal of adult Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort in movies 4-8.

I generally find adult Tom Riddle disappointing, even in the books, in terms of character depth. Instead of delving into his motivations and the inner psychology of a villain, we get... slight body horror? And in the movies, it’s even more egregious. 

If a story is as good as its villain, adult Tom Riddle is a bit of a let-down, especially on-screen.

“I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost . . . but still, I was alive.”

Perhaps the very first time I watched it, I found this scary, but I must confess that nowadays, Voldemort’s resurrection is more funny to me than anything else. The forked tongue and the nose slits, yes, are supposed to allude to Tom Riddle’s loss of humanity, but I don’t think it...worked out that way in practice.

I know that’s how it is in the books, but ugly equals evil (and vice versa) is a tired trope. not only that, but under the CGI, Lord Voldemort is so difficult to relate to, so inhuman, that it’s hard to (1) see his true depravity (2) connect with him emotionally (3) at least for me, not laugh at him flapping around the graveyard in GOF like an oversized crow. 

Now, the reason I’m going on about this is not (just) me being petty. Lord Voldemort is the Boggart for most of the characters in the HP universe, meaning their greatest fear is Lord Voldemort. He represents Fear; as such, he should be utterly terrifying. Now, I don’t mean horrifying in that sense, but Voldemort’s grand entrance should at least feel somewhat unsettling, have some sort of a Gothic atmosphere...

"But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron."

Visually, this looks great. But it’s not scary. And I’m not a purist by any means, but the words are scarier than the book. Darkness induces fear. 

“The lack of any kind of visual stimuli increases anxiety, uncertainty, and tension.”

So, having Voldemort’s pale body materialize isn’t as scary as it could be.

Furthermore, I think Fiennes’ overexaggerated expressions would actually come across as properly horrifying/threatening rather than funny if they just left his face alone. Yes, Fiennes does manage to emote the fear and the anger through the CGI, but it’s like he’s too alien to be scary, at least to me. The amount of memes with Voldemort suggest I’m not the only one this way inclined.

I think there’s probably a problem going on with the uncanny valley. (Images from the Mori essay linked).

[When things are still]

[Creepy things are creepier when moving]

Now, I assume Voldemort is meant to be zombie-creepy, or at least that how Harry describes him in the books.

"The thin man stepped out of the cauldron, staring at Harry...and Harry stared back into the face that had haunted his nightmares for three years. Whiter than a skull, with wide, livid scarlet eyes and a nose that was flat as a snake's but with slits for nostrils...."

Now, we can’t get Harry’s experience of being haunted by Voldemort in his dreams, because what I think makes Voldemort’s countenance so truly frightening to the other characters isn’t his snake-like nose or his red eyes, but the potential. Voldemort is, in essence, the Grim Reaper. You are at his mercy, and you’re probably going to be dead. 

“This time, I shall enter the fray myself, Harry Potter, and I shall find you, and I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me. One hour.“

And yes, Voldemort can be quite funny and witty, but..

“I will allow you to perform an essential task for me, one that many of my followers will give their right hands to perform.” (To Peter Pettigrew)

...it’s still incredibly dark, sadistic humour. Whereas the teenage Tom Riddle we’ve been discussing has just barely dipped his toes into evil, Voldemort is, well... swimming in it. At this point, he think he undeniably enjoys causing pain.

And much of what makes Voldemort scary is subtle. 

For example, what I personally consider haunting is the fact that he’s got a cave full of Inferi. A cave full of reanimated dead bodies. 

Either he dug them up, which is unlikely... or perhaps, a twenty-seven-or-so-year-old Tom Riddle would lie in wait like a bird of prey, very quietly and patiently, perhaps reading a book, waiting for an unsuspecting Muggle to wander past. Maybe killing is a game to him at this point, when it’s not so personal as killing Harry Potter. Maybe it’s a whispered Avada Kedavra, and then he carries the dead body away to his cave. Maybe he Imperiuses them to walk off the cliff. Maybe he tortures them first.

Shudder.

And I don’t think you can show that kind of horror through any CGI or make-up, so...

You know what is terrifying? Revolting? True crime; real-life people who do unspeakably horrible things. And I think a lot was missed out on, in stripping Tom Riddle physically of his humanity. Yes, Riddle is a monster...

But, as we’ve seen, he’s a human monster, not some eldritch horror from the seventh level of hell or something.

I just think it would be interesting to have this perfectly normal-looking human do all the horrific things Voldemort does. I want to see that sick joy in a human face and feel disgusted. I want to see fear make his bottom lip tremble, and feel a misplaced sense of empathy. (Think President Snow from the Hunger Games -- now, that’s a sick, twisted villain who we can relate to as a human being, but still love to hate -- or what about The Joker?).

And out of everything they chose to CGI, why on earth did they not make his eyes scarlet? That might have made him look at least somewhat menacing, rather than a failed lab experiment.

(Don’t even get me started on his and Bellatrix’s death scenes in the movies-)

Here’s President Snow. He’s got a cute little granddaughter, he sends kiddies to kill each other Battle Royale-style every year, and he poisons all his political opponents. He’s also a master manipulator and has a penchant for white roses. They cover up the smell of the sores in his mouth from eating the poison too, to conceal his treachery.

Heath Ledger as the Joker in Dark Knight (2008), who is, according to NYT (which I totally agree with), the best Joker. Now this is a villain done right, with many Voldemort-like traits. On a scale of one-to-ten, he’s absolutely terrifying. Why? He’s (unlike Voldemort in the movies) incredibly intelligent, shows young-Tom-Riddle-like skills for charm and manipulation, plays with humans like they’re his own personal psychology experiment (and to hell with the Institutional Review Board), and has one, single, very clear goal -- chaos. Like Voldemort, he wears an inhuman mask that’s not horrifying in its own right; but unlike Voldemort, the human is all there -- terrifying, real, and with a bottomless, obsessive desire to destroy. His disordered thinking is all out there for the audience to see. The Joker’s motivation is to enjoy himself; whereas Voldemort seems to lack drive. Why does he want to take over the world -- who knows, with Voldemort? The Joker wants to see it burn.

Let’s try to do the same with Lord Voldemort:

[SLIGHT FLASH WARNING]

I had to go with this because Voldemort isn’t legitimately terrifying in many scenes. And yes, this unrefined anger somewhat speaks to Tom’s immaturity

By this point, seventy-one year old Tom Riddle is a hollowed-out shell of a human being. After decades of building his power, he was defeated by a one-year-old, and ended up slumming it as a spirit for a decade, got defeated again, was a shrivelled-up baby for a year, then finally got his body back.

He’s angry, okay! And Fiennes does a great job of portraying the sheer, destructive, unbridled rage of this character.

The body language. again, since his face is inhuman, this is super important. and Fiennes’ body language is great. Voldemort/Riddle commits to his actions. He is very emotionally-driven.

But yet, he doesn’t feel capable, in the way that the Joker or President Snow do. Yeah, we know anecdotally that he’s incredibly evil, sadistic, and second only to Dumbledore in terms of power, but he loses to a baby, and then that same baby as a teenager. So, we really could have done with seeing Voldemort’s power, cruelty, and evil firsthand a lot more often.

Voldemort is not well-characterized. I don’t understand his motives, and the ones that I do understand are not compelling.

Not to die? Well, he’s already made several Horcruxes. Why not sit back and relax? Why start a war and risk himself?

JKR said that Voldemort’s great desire was to become all-powerful and eternal. But that’s... boring! It does little to tell us about Voldemort, other than that he’s a villain and a wannabe dictator. 

Furthermore, the charm, manipulation, and cunning that are hallmarks of younger Tom Riddle’s personality are gone.

Is Voldemort (to return to Jungian terms) all shadow? An empty creature of simple creation and destruction, perhaps? We’ll discuss this further down...

And this isn’t a problem of having a fantastical world with magic and the like. Grindelwald’s quiet, self-possessed, almost coy “So you think you can hold me?” was infinitely scarier than anything that has ever come out of Voldemort’s mouth. It was chilling. 

OOTP is my favorite book, and the Ministry sequence is one of my favourite in the films. 

This scene where he psyches out Harry, talking so quietly that he could just be a little voice inside his head (and again, during the possession scene)? Absolute perfection. 

Why? Because this showcases what’s truly scary about him. Voldemort can get into your head. He can make you do things. And perhaps, if we had seen that more often, we’d understand how scary he is.

I wish this had been his grand entrance, and not whatever that scene in GOF was. Somehow, him screeching “I WANT TO SEE THE LIGHT LEAVE YOUR EYES!” is not menacing. At all. 

But, I can’t help but think how much greater the emotional affect would be if he had more human features (think the burned-and-blurred, waxy features from Dumbledore’s memory). 

Just imagine these scenes if Voldemort looked human, and spoke as quietly as he did in this one.

Because of the reason that I have little to go on in terms of characterization that I haven’t already covered, we’ll discuss the myth and legend of Lord Voldemort.

I can’t decide if the statue in the films is supposed to be the Angel of Death or the Grim Reaper. He has a skeleton and carries a scythe, but he also has wings. There are so many different interpretations, attitudes towards, and personifications of Death across the world that I don’t want to draw any one conclusion. But I must wonder if Lord Voldemort, with his yew-and-phoenix wand (which carries heavy symbolism of immortality and rebirth) and almost deified figure is meant to be a personification of Death himself? His name, Lord Voldemort, is a shade close to Lord Death.

For years, it has stumped me that wizards and witches are afraid to utter Voldemort’s name, especially since we only see the Taboo in the middle of the last book. It didn’t make sense just based on fear; in the real world, we don’t circumvent Hitler’s name, for example.

Perhaps this may have been obvious to others, but it wasn’t to me.

Here’s a counterargument to myself; why Voldemort shouldn’t look human.

Voldemort, in the Wizarding World, is seen as a literal deity.

I promised to attempt to answer this question in Part 3: 

And so, I can’t help but wonder if the opposite is true… if Tom Riddle creates Horcruxes, would that grant him additional magic powers?

In Part 3, I likened Tom Riddle to a sorcerer in Russian folklore, Koschei the Deathless, also famous for sequestering his soul in objects. This source suggests that Koschei was considered not an ordinary magician, but a representative of the ‘other’ world, the world of death.

So, what if... creating Horcruxes makes you... more than human? Now, I could definitely see god-like status being appealing to sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle. Perhaps, even appealing enough to kill for. Now, his proclivity for Avada Kedavra makes sense. We know it’s an incredibly sinister spell, but at the same time, it’s a very humane way to kill. Why might it be so horrifying?

Here’s a weird theory.

To the best of my knowledge, no one but Voldemort is seen using the Killing Curse more than once or twice. 

Perhaps, ordinary mortals can only cast Avada Kedavra a few times, but Tom, having split his soul and having become in some way a non-human instrument of Death, can cast it however many times as he likes, and that is part of what serves to make him so terrifying.

This makes the idea of Voldemort tossing around Avada Kedavras actually incredibly terrifying, if you take into account what that might mean.

The collective cultural fear of speaking Voldemort’s name supports this theory.

Take the chthonic (underworld) deities of Greek mythology; most notably, Hades and Persephone, the king and queen of the underworld.

Hades, the god of the dead, was feared. 

So feared that the word ‘Hades’ (”the unseen one”) was so frightening, that people came up with all sorts of euphemisms to circumvent actually saying it and he was rarely even depicted in art. For example, they would refer to him as Pluto (”the rich one”), Clymenus ("notorious"), Polydegmon ("who receives many"), and perhaps Eubuleus ("good counsel" or "well-intentioned"), amongst many other names. 

However, he was not seen as evil; just stern, cruel, and fair. Like most Greek gods, he had an associated cult (the Death Eaters, anyone?)

Another interesting connection between Hades and Voldemort is that Hades was associated with snakes.

Persephone (suggested to have a pre-Greek origin and probably pre-dates Hades), who was also a vegetation/fertility/spring goddess, similarly, was referred to as Despoina (”the mistress”), Kore (”the maiden”), etc, because as the terrible Queen of the Dead, it was considered unsafe to speak her name aloud. In mythology and literature, she is sometimes referred to as ‘dread Persephone.’

--Just like how Lord Voldemort is referred to as The Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You-Know-Who... (and if you’re Dumbledore, ‘Tom’.)

Her central myth served as the context for the secret rites of regeneration at Eleusis (which was basically a mystery cult devoted to her and her mother, Demeter), which promised immortality to initiates.

We don’t know for certain what exactly went on, because, mystery cult -- the members were sworn to secrecy -- but it revolved around immortality and rebirth and possibly psychoactive drugs. 

Perhaps ironically, in comparison to the Death Eaters, anyone could join, as long as they could speak Greek and had never committed murder.

And that concludes my assessment!

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

hiya !! i love you lots and lots !!💖 all your writing is absolute gold 🥺💕💕💕 your answers are so detailed and sweet, makes my heart go doki doki — if you’re still taking requests & it’s not too much trouble could i ask for C U Y for mozart perhaps ? many a thank 💖💕💖💕💖💕

Hello!! Omg of course you can sweetheart, thank you for such sweet praise! I do my best, I hope you enjoy these answers for our dearest Mozart~ 💖💖💖 Ily3!! it’s always a pleasure to see you!!! :D 💕💕💕

I placed a cut before the last one because it was long, but all you need to do is click to see the rest! All wholesome, no content warnings ;)

(These are so long you can hear the Mozart stan in me OTL the limit of my Wolfie love does not exist)

Fluffy ABC Headcanons listed here for requests!

C = Cuddling (how does he like to cuddle?)

(Awwwww shit, I’m softe ;-;)

Mozart tends to be a very private man about his love, so I don’t see him cuddling too much in any kind of public space. The only exception to this rule, however, is that blasted carriage! Though he’s a little mortified he needs comforting, he will melt into MC’s arms when they have a particularly bumpy/bad carriage ride. Usually he’ll try to content himself with holding her hand, or just chatting with her--leaning his head close to her shoulder. But she seems to sense how overwhelmed he is this time; how his hands are locked together to conceal their shaking, his jaw visibly tightening. She’ll draw him into her, settling his head against her shoulder/chest--right where he can hear her heartbeat. He’ll freeze at first before he sinks into her embrace, arms wrapping around her waist. His ears are burning with color, his fair skin easily revealing a blush, but she knows now isn’t the time to tease him about it. His breathing will calm bit by bit, and he’ll settle quickly as his grip around her tightens a little. He’s pouting but it’s clear just how much he needed this, murmuring “Danke, Meine Liebe.” She just drops a kiss to the side of his head, signalling there’s no need for any shyness or thanks, she’s happy to do it after all c;

Another way I see them cuddling is at night in their bed no sexy times, get your head out of the gutter kids. Usually he’ll be doing revisions and composing well into the night, mulling over possible adjustments and melodies single-mindedly. He’ll be sitting up against the headboard, sheet music in his lap as he reviews each page. He loves it when she just climbs into bed and settles against him; whether that means fully climbing into his arms and resting against his chest, or just laying her head against his stomach/lap. He’ll smile fondly and stroke her hair, letting the smooth texture calm him into clarity as she dozes off. These are the moments when inspiration finds him most powerfully, the lovely sight of his muse working wonders.

U = Upset (how does he act when she’s upset?)

Oh my god send help, send help he needs some milk!!! 

All jokes aside, I truly think Mozart is at a loss at the sight of her upset ;-;. If he’s not the source of the distress, he immediately goes into comfort and resolution mode. He will try to calm her with all the sensitivity she deserves, offering a hanky and holding her close if she’s crying. He hates to see her cry, but he also understands that in this moment she needs to let it all out, to just feel it through before they can do the work of fixing things. He'll murmur sweet nothings--not that he wants her to stop crying--but that he’s here for her, that it’s all going to be okay and that’s a promise. When she’s ready to talk or feeling up to sharing he will listen intently, silent as a grave, until she’s communicated her feelings. 

When she feels heard and comforted, only then will he ask her to wait a moment. He’ll return with freshly made hot cocoa--only the best for Meine Liebe--and hopes the warmth will be able to help soothe her further, focusing her senses elsewhere. If she wants it, he will play music for as long as it takes to relieve any stress/crying headaches. When she manages to fall asleep from the exhaustion, he’ll tuck her into bed and hold her close. He will turn off the lights, but by no means is he going to sleep. He will spend another few hours seething with rage at whoever/whatever it was that hurt her so that she doesn’t have to see him like that (he doesn’t want to distress her further). Or, if it’s something more abstract, he will spend that time trying to puzzle out a solution.

If she’s only mildly upset, he’ll call Schelm to the balcony and hope the fluffy friend will be able to take her mind off of things. He’ll hug her close and rock her gently, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, waiting until she just relaxes against him. As mentioned before, he’ll make hot cocoa, play music, ask her about the flowers she’s tending; just about anything he knows will make her perk up in an instant. He’s pretty simple and straightforward, but it’s because he pays attention to what works and he’s sincere--he’s very consistent in his affection. From afar it’s obvious he’s concerned because he will smile very gently at her, and whenever she turns around his face drops to his neutral/thoughtful expression; you can hear the cogs in his brain moving. It would be funny if the poor guy wasn’t so worried HAHA

Now then, here comes the real doozy. While it happens less and less the deeper they get into their relationship (their understanding of how the other works solidifies into trust), now and again Mozart pulls a stupid. He will know immediately when he’s fucked up because her expression tightens and shuts down, concealing every feeling from him. (She's hyperaware that she can sometimes be more irrational than him, so she locks down her thoughts and emotions.) 

She’ll walk away because she doesn’t want to explode and needs a moment to just calm down, reassess. He knows she needs time--and so does he to figure out a proper way to apologize--but fuck if those few days don’t make him wither in self-loathing. He hates it when he says things he doesn’t mean, things that were remnants of a bygone era because they were sentiments that deserved to die. He hates that when he gets stressed out he is prone to verbally lashing out; and he needs to learn how to work at a reasonable pace instead of doing too much and hating every second of his life. He needs to find balance, both for his own sake and because he can’t stand that look. The look that says “not you, too. Please, don’t.” You want the quickest way to gut Mozart? There you have it. Part of it was that she had given him that same look when he first yelled at/intimidated her in that first week at the mansion, and it’s still something he deeply regrets doing. He shouldn’t have frightened her when she was already scared out of her wits and threatened by Arthur.  The mere prospect of stooping to that level makes him nauseous and angry he would ever act with such indiscretion; he expects better of himself and he intends to be better than that. He may be a vampire now, but that doesn’t give him grounds to be a monster.

He doesn’t know squat about how to love someone, and maybe he doesn’t even deserve to be with her--but he’ll be damned if he hurts her without trying to amend what he’s done. When she’s calmed down she’ll return to him and try to apologize for the distance, but he won’t let her. He’ll tell her if anyone needs to apologize it’s him, and that he really does feel horrible about what he said. He’s going to promise to be more careful about his workload from now on, since that tends to be what makes him snap. But more importantly, he’s going to try to amend the behavior regardless of that. Anything that hurts her isn’t worth doing; he firmly believes that.

MC doesn’t worry too much after the few times it happens because he crushes the behavior in its tracks very, very quickly in the aftermath.

Y = Yes (how would he propose to her?)

Honestly? Mozart is the type to be a classic romantic when it comes to proposing to his beloved. While one can argue he really only takes music seriously, the same can be said for the person he has chosen to hold dear to his heart. He will spare no expense--no extravagance--in the process of wooing her. He believes that he needs to offer a proposal worthy of her and nothing less if he should seek to secure her hand in marriage. 

He pulls out all the stops. He plans it all out to the minute. Buys her the perfect dress, rouge and assorted accessories, and tells her to prepare to enjoy herself all night--no other plans. She agrees easily, though she’s a little flustered by how much he’s spoiling her. When the time comes for them to head out he enters her room with an enormous bouquet of roses, and she’s just speechless as she seeks to soak them in a vase before they go. Dressed to the nines, he escorts her to a lovely restaurant where they dine together. She’s sparkling in her attire, nothing short of dazzling; it’s not just the champagne that’s bringing a light blush to his face. He spends most of that night psyching himself up, working to seem normal, and losing himself in her beauty. Not that he doubted his course of action before this moment--it just strikes him even more deeply how precious she is to him. He would never be here, smiling and laughing and enjoying himself, if it wasn’t for her.

And more than anything, he doesn’t want to give her up to anyone else. He wants to be the one to spoil her like this, wants to be the person she goes to first when she needs something. He wants to be the only one to know her most intimate thoughts and desires. He wants to be the one to make her smile like this, to make delight shimmer in those eyes--to be on the receiving end of such excited chatter. Every part of her is so very dear to him; the mere thought of giving her up makes him feel like he’s been hollowed out.

After dinner, he takes her to a concert hall he had rented out for the occasion. He plays a moving collection of pieces that she inspired (only the best) since coming to the mansion, since she filled his life with so much color. She’s already in tears at this point, and his heart aches at the sight of her eyes glistening--as moved as he is by music, one of their greatest commonalities.

He dries her tears gently with a hanky when it’s over, rising from the bench and coaxing her up with him. When she gazes at him in question, he drops to one knee and reveals the ring that has been heavy in his coat pocket all night. He considered a more extensive appeal, but something about rehearsing a proposal felt wrong, felt too wooden. Instead, he went with the words that were resounding from deep within his heart, the feeling that had brought him to this moment.

“Meine Liebe, you are the only reason my music can continue to thrive. But more importantly,” he presses a light kiss to her hand, squeezing it gently, “You are the only reason I can thrive as surely as my music does. I spent so long lost to myself; I had forgotten why I loved what I did in the first place.” His eyes are lowered, remnants of a surpassed shame lingering in his features. “If not for you, I suspect I’d still be ripping up half-filled scores, half-mad with frustration.” 

“Wolf…” her voice is soft, but full of sympathy. It was that tender heart that saved him, that made him really able to live again.

“The prospect of life without you...I can’t imagine it anymore. I want to be the one to make you smile for the rest of your life, to ensure that these tears can only ever be happy ones. Will you make me the happiest man alive in return? Will you marry me?”

Needless to say MC goes straight back to crying after managing a breathless yes, and Mozart sags with relief before pulling her tight into his arms. He slips the ring onto her finger with no shortage of pride, as perfect on her hand as he’d imagined it would be. 

Following his proposal, Mozart is even more smitten than ever. Whenever he wakes up before she does, he’ll gently take her left hand and marvel at the sight of the ring throwing rainbows in the morning light, sighing blissfully. When MC stops by to bring him Rouge/Blanc or coffee and a snack during the day, he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the sight of it. “It’s nothing, MC!!! Composing is just...going well today...” Somebody help him his uwus are spilling everywhere

Mozart be like: look at me. serotonin is stored within the MC.

[welllpthisishappening]

First-Line Defensive Pairing

Of all the things they’d done in the last few months, spending the afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream was one of the more ridiculous. Mostly because of the wooden spoons they gave out on the tour. Partially because it seemed Will Scarlet could not stop casting furtive glances at Belle French. Or the heels that always matched her dresses. Maybe because she kept answering his hypothetical questions. And maybe even because he was willing to drift far closer to genuine these days. At least when it came to his feelings for her.

————

Word Count: 3.7K AN: Take two! Ok, so apparently yesterday when I posted this Tumblr thought it’d be a really cool idea to just...reformat the entire story. With whole graphs in totally wrong spots. Anyway, here it is again. Just as ridiculous as yesterday. With just as many Will and Belle emotions. Because that’s a thing I’m doing now, apparently. Writing Blue Line-era Will and Belle. If you’d like more of these flirt-prone idiots, here is their first date and Belle getting annoyed that Will fought someone on the ice. Technically, this was part of the kiss prompts and was “height difference kisses.” I hope the five of you who are interested in this enjoy it. That includes @shireness-says​ and @eleveneitherway​ who are mostly to blame for this.

————

“I’m going to ask you a hypothetical question.”

Belle lifted her eyebrows. Let some of that light creep back in her gaze, a flash of amusement that regularly made Will’s stomach leap dangerously close to the base of his ribs. That’s why he did it. Maybe not the rib thing, partially because he wasn’t even sure that was the correct technical term. The rest of it, though. The eye thing. Sure. Definitely. One-hundred percent. Why he’d also made sure the little wooden spoon they’d been given at the start of this tour was still in the corner of his mouth; to guarantee absolute absurdity, and he figured that started when they decided to spend their afternoon at the Museum of Ice Cream, but he was willing to take it all a step further. 

In the absurdity factor, at least. 

Other things were—

Well, it wasn’t as if they explicitly decided to keep the relationship a secret. Not on purpose. Not really. Or come to any sort of legitimate agreement regarding the use of the word relationship. It never seemed...important, honestly. And that was a potentially problematic and lackadaisical approach to someone who made Will smile with an almost alarming consistency in the last few months, but she’d also sort of snuck up on him, and Ariel was going to be so annoying. 

About the whole goddamn thing. 

She’d never shut up about it, he knew. 

So he didn’t push. Belle didn’t, either. An unspoken agreement, that’s what it was. He had other things to do, anyway. Like get ready for a playoff run and ignore the lingering ache in his calves after the echo of Arthur’s whistle stopped ringing in his ears, and, ok, his apartment was starting to feel a little bit larger than it had in a long time, maybe since Killian had moved out, but that was fine. Cup runs did not come because someone was in a relationship. Will had seen that first hand. With Cap, of all people. 

Watched the way his whole life had fallen apart around his ankles, little shards of hope and possibility that, Will knew, still threatened the structural integrity of Kilian’s internal organs and all four ventricles of his heart, and he did not understand enough basic biology to be making those sorts of sweeping observations, but Robin had lost someone too and that had been horrible and tragic and—

If Will simply did not want to jinx things, then that was neither here nor there.

Relationship’y speaking. 

It was good. They were good. He hated the wooden spoon they gave them to taste test half a dozen ice cream flavors. 

He was legitimately worried about getting splinters in his tongue. 

No excuses could possibly reason away that problem pre-game. 

Belle’s eyebrows were still in the same spot. “You going to follow up on that, or…” “Would you burn a Gutenberg Bible? To stave off the apocalypse and or potential frostbite?” “Those two things go together, do they?” He shrugged. “In this instance, yeah, because—” “—Well, it wouldn’t matter,” Belle said, eyes flitting towards the overly enthusiastic tour guide and the seemingly never-ending history of ice cream, “because I wouldn’t allow myself to be in that position. And I don’t live anywhere near the Public Library. What would I be doing there when the freeze-wave came?” His stomach. Did that thing. Jumped and twisted, got a ten from the Russian judge on its floor routine. He was cautiously optimistic he’d be able to pull off a flawless beam performance too. It was an exceedingly convoluted metaphor. Wrong Olympics, too. 

“Does salt air give you mind-reading powers?” “You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are,” Belle grinned. Moving her hand faster than he was entirely prepared for ensured that he nearly dropped his small plastic cup of churro churro ice cream. He made noise. Without trying. A hiss and a grunt in the back of his throat that then led to a sound escaping between Belle’s half-hearted scowl, and that sound was closer to a giggle than either of them would ever admit and just enough to mess with his mental faculties a little and the tour guide stopped talking. To stare straight at them. 

Color lifted on Belle’s cheeks, ice cream-covered spoon held awkwardly between them. 

“As you were, ma’am,” Will said, all false bravado, and that was something of a trend. In several different capacities. It was far too depressing a thought to have while eating cinnamon-flavored ice cream. 

Belle elbowed him. 

And the tour guide got back to her to spiel. Without a reprimand. 

“Say freeze-wave again without laughing.”

Her eyelashes were more of a problem, honestly. Than the eyebrows. Or the specific jut of her chin Will had rather quickly learned meant she was ready to challenge him on some ridiculous topic, fully prepared to argue a position she might not have otherwise agreed with. Only because it wasn’t what he was arguing, and it was easy to understand why she won that Model UN award. 

Plus, her eyelashes were just stupid long, and he thought she was really pretty. 

Like in a fundamental sort of way. 

“Freeze-wave,” Belle enunciated, pausing between syllables for maximum effect, “are you asking me Day After Tomorrow questions because of the ice cream, because I’m a librarian or because you’re the strangest man alive?” She finally ate the rest of the ice cream. It was starting to melt, that was why. This was very melt-prone ice cream. “Oh, shit,” she mumbled, “this is really good. Better than mine.” Something popped in his shoulder when he reached towards her plastic cup. He wouldn’t tell Ariel about that, either. 

“Which kind is—” Fighting off the objections of a small librarian who resolutely refused to wear anything except heels, no matter what the weather was like, was not usually as difficult as it was in that moment. Will assumed it had something to do with sugar. Or the force of his smile. Robbing the rest of him of energy and the ability to fend off either one of Belle’s fists. “Why are you like this?” “You didn’t want to try peanut and pretzel. With peanut butter swirl.” “Swallowed the flyer for this place while I wasn’t looking, huh?” Sticking her tongue out was distracting. Almost enough that he didn’t notice the absolutely atrocious attempt at impersonating his voice. “Oh, no, no, babe, I don’t want that; you can get peanut butter anywhere. That’s not special.” “Well, it’s not.” “I’m a big fancy hockey player, and I know everything there is to know about ice cream flavors and the potential life-changing palette moment that comes from the sublime combination of salty and sweet.” “Oh, now you’re just taunting me.” Her eyes narrowed, that time. His smile was going to permanently stretch out his cheeks. “You have a disgusting mind.” “You can’t get churro ice cream everywhere, babe.” “I’m going back to get honey later.” Will hummed. Stuck his lower lip out. Noticed that flash return. And hoarded it. Like a relationship—

Ah, fuck. 

“Would you burn the Gutenberg Bible?” Her laugh was quickly becoming his favorite sound. Which wasn’t bad, per se. Was just kind of passably concerning. God damn. It was the heels. All of them kept matching the dresses she wore. She kept wearing dresses. 

Of course, that was going to mess with Will’s head. 

Belle shook her head. “No.” “Historical significance?” “Well, once again, I would not be in that position, would have listened to science and fled to warmer climates, so as not to make myself prey for escaped...what were they? Tigers?” “I honestly can’t remember,” Will admitted. 

“This was your hypothetical!”

Heads snapped their direction. Frustration creased the tour guide’s forehead, and they’d paid extra to learn about the history of ice cream. Will had already known about the origins of the ice cream cone, though. So, the whole thing felt almost like a raw deal, and he was far more interested in preserving the color in Belle’s cheeks. He saluted. Who he was saluting was anyone’s guess, but it very likely was the otherwise unengaged teenage kid trudging behind his family who absolutely recognized Will. 

“That’s going to end up on sixteen different social media sites,” Belle warned, not quite able to get her voice to an appropriate whispering level. 

“So long as he got my good side, you won’t hear me complaining.” “Do you have a good side?”

“Sweetheart, the self-confidence. God.” She squeezed her eyes shut. While practically beaming at him, and Will had to bend his knees to reach, something else creaking in the process, but that was fine, and good, and pretty goddamn fantastic because her lips tasted a bit like chocolate. 

“‘S’not your best work,” Belle mumbled, almost entirely into his mouth. 

“Brain freeze.” “I would burn no books. That’s my final hypothetical answer.” Her eyelashes must have existed purely to torment him. Leaning back made it clear when they fluttered back open, and he swore there were flecks of gold in her eyes. Maybe he was melting, too. With the ice cream. That was almost poetic. “None at all? What if you were going to die?” “Maudlin.” “I don’t know what that means.” “Liar,” she challenged, another smile tugging at her mouth, and Will was clearly staring at her mouth. Stained slightly with chocolate, as it was. “I stand by it, though. The book stuff, not the commentary on your burgeoning intelligence.” “You want to find a corner to go and make out in?” Different laugh. The kind that came with her head thrown back, hair tickling Will’s forearm because at some point his arm had found its way around her, and touching Belle was becoming something almost close to second nature. “I could keep complimenting you if you want,” Belle said, “or I could give you my reason for not burning books.” “You’re a giant nerd, that’s why.” She clicked her tongue. “Very, very cute nerd, though.” “Betcha say that to all the girls.”

His stomach stilled. Dropped a few inches, for good measure. Below where it was supposed to be, and inching dangerously close to his feet, and what Will could not imagine was a very sanitary floor. The Museum of Ice Cream had a giant sprinkle pit. Nothing about that seemed very sanitary. 

“I think stories have a purpose,” Belle said, still not quite whispering but definitely getting there, and he knew. Knew she knew. What he was thinking and feeling and unspoken understanding was quickly becoming the name of this particular game. With them. 

Where it wasn’t a game at all. 

Damn. 

Ariel was going to be so annoying. 

“No matter what they are. Shitty as they can be, all those ups and downs, and ridiculous, often unnecessary melodrama. It’s going to matter to somebody. Someone, somewhere, will be living their life and read those words or see those letters, and they’ll think, wow, whoever wrote this, gets me, and it will change everything for them. They’ll go back to it. Find solace and safety in it. Themselves, maybe. They’ll believe everything will be ok. Even if they only think that while they’re reading.” “Don’t forget audiobooks,” Will muttered, voice strangled and tinged with emotion. In the ice cream museum. Figured, honestly. 

Belle pinched the side of his wrist. 

“Ow. Avoid the bruise further up, please.” “Did you get hit?” Nodding took more energy than it should have, too. She hadn’t been to a game. He hadn’t asked her. What an idiot. “Not bad though, that’s just—” “—Par for the course.” “Mixing idioms, mon trésor.” “Oh, I got that one, actually.” “Slow pitch softball, that’s why,” Will reasoned, some of the tension he wasn’t especially pleased by loosening. 

“I think we’re on a roll now.” He hummed. Nodded, again. Curled his fingers into the back of Belle’s dress. Blue, that afternoon. With matching heels. “It all matters,” she added, soft and earnest, and his eyes snapped. To her and with her and that second one didn’t make sense, not really, but he was and wanted to be and that absolutely terrified him. 

Of it all falling apart again. Of it not being enough. 

He wasn’t enough. 

A story no one was ever all that interested in finishing. 

“You think?” Belle nodded. “Why’d you start playing hockey?” “Quite a transition.” “Tit for tat, or—no, no, c’mon don’t look at me like that.” Red stained her cheeks, now. Making it difficult to concentrate on anything else, although the desire to kiss her again was a fairly strong second, and that kid was taking more pictures. “That’s not fair.” “You’ve brought this on yourself, babe,” Will argued, and he hoped Lucas didn’t yell. At him. He’d never really listened to the social media rules. “It’s a very long, occasionally depressing story about a kid and his single mom, the second of whom often worked her ass off and her fingers to the bone, and all those other delightfully visual clichés. But then! Who would guess, she got a job picking up extra shifts cleaning at the rink in town. Home to the world’s shittiest ice and loudest Zamboni, it instantly drew the attention of our kid-like hero. 

“He was...infatuated, let’s say. With the sounds, especially. Nothing sounds like that first scrape of skates on fresh ice. Full of possibility, you know?” Belle didn’t answer. Will kept talking. “Best noise in the world. And then he learned there were other noises. Pucks hitting the back of nets. Sticks clanging together. Grunts and groans and the game itself, how loud it was. Helped silence some of his thoughts, none of which were ever very good. Lots of worries, some about his very dead sister, then a few more about that mother and her predilection toward clichés.”

“Good word,” Belle murmured. He kissed the top of her hair. The kid was openly staring at them, now. 

“Anyway, the crux of the story is that the guy who owned the rink agreed to let the kid play on the rink. Knew the mother, understood her situation, and hockey is expensive. Like, well, we spout all that bullshit about hockey is for everyone, and I’ve got to stand up there and smile and nod and agree, and it’s fucked up because it’s not really true. Hockey’s for rich kids and families with regularly functioning alternators in their car.” 

He shook his head. Had to. To chase away the memories and the cobwebs, and Cap knew this, too. Understood it, even. Remembered a life before the Vanklads, and not every kid got the Vankalds, and sometimes Will let himself wonder what would have happened if he’d found the Vanklads. Or their upstate New York equivalent. 

Gotten better shin pads, probably. 

“Hockey’s an exclusive sorta club,” Will continued, “gotta know someone who’s related to someone else, and they know someone who played, and it’s six degrees of increasingly desperate separation. By some lucky twist of fate, though, Jimmy Newell knew some bastard who knew somebody else, who saw me play, and you don’t say no to USA Developmental. Spent two years in Minnesota, way before Cap did, so he doesn’t get to claim that state as his own.” Belle’s lips twitched. “Good to know, for argument’s sake.” His stomach was becoming a problem. 

Heart, too. 

Sputtering and slamming, uneven beats that were going to leave another bruise. Will licked his lips. 

“I went to Developmental, declared for the draft, got picked by New York, went to college, stayed in college, and the rest is history. As they say.” “They do say that, yeah.” “What’s the next question, then?” “How do you know there’s another question?” “Shot in the dark,” Will shrugged, but that was a lie, and it was getting increasingly easier to read that pinch between her eyebrows. “So, hit me.” “Literally?” “Please do not literally hit me. Locksley’s been feeling the forecheck the last couple’a practices.” “I know what that means!” Someone shushed them. Will couldn’t imagine the color will ever leave Belle’s cheeks. 

He kissed the bridge of her nose. 

“Who’d you get to teach you French?” “Who said I didn’t just learn French on my own?” “Babe,” she chided, and, well, that was the tipping point. As they say. To his heart and his stomach and—

“You wanna come to a game this series?” Belle blinked. Once, twice. Leaned back. Tilted her head. Likely waited for the camera crew that was inevitably lurking in the corner he was cautiously optimistic they’d make out in eventually. Didn’t happen, though. There was no camera crew. 

Just Will Scarlet, professional hockey player, and part-time sap. Standing in one of the more nonsensical museums they’d been to in the last two months. Although they did go to the transit museum on three separate occasions, and he could honestly say he didn’t expect that. 

So, maybe this was all just—

Par for the course. 

He’d have to make some sort of deal with Eric. To make sure Ariel didn’t proclaim her relationship-plotting victories from a variety of rooftops. Someone in front office had to know someone else with Empire State Building connections. 

Zelena probably did. 

Ariel would use that. 

“Where would I sit?”

He pulled her. Up. With an almost violent amount of force, threatening the safety of both of Belle’s shoulders in the process. But she’d asked the one question he hadn’t totally considered in his half-plotted plan, and getting his mouth back on hers was an acceptable diversion. Plus, she looped her arms around his neck pretty quickly. 

Which had to count for something, he figured. 

One hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him closer. Like he had any intention of being anywhere else, swiping his tongue against Belle’s lip and swallowing her sigh. They were still in public, technically. Her feet trailed the multi-color carpet beneath them, Will’s arms tightening and his palm flat against her back and her spine, and if she kept rocking up like that, he was going to do something drastic. 

Something in the same realm as melting, probably. 

Strands of hair tickled his skin, making him tilt his head and alter the angle, and that was entirely appropriate, but getting kicked out of the Museum of Ice Cream would probably make an absolutely fantastic story. Once they told people they were—

Doing whatever it was they were doing. 

They’d get there eventually. 

“Cap’s sister-in-law is coming,” Will said, not entirely able to catch his breath, “wants to see Kris and—” “—Should I know who that is?” “Works in equipment, and that’s not really the point.” “What is?” “That Little Vankald isn’t super interested in listening to Cap be full older brother on her and, far as I know, is fully capable of getting tickets wherever she wants. Can sweet talk the gold out of anyone’s pockets, and—” “—Wait, wait, are you equating hockey tickets to gold?” “When I’m playing, ma choupette.” “Is that cabbage?” He hummed. Nearly tripped over his own feet trying to hold onto Belle and the mostly melted cup of ice cream and paying for more churro ice cream made perfect sense. At the moment. “One of the kids at school was French Canadian,” Will explained, “used to swear all the time on the ice, and then he’d use stuff like that.” “You’re sharing endearments with a trash talker.” “More or less, yeah. Used to infuriate other guys.” “Who wants to be called a cabbage?” “I think you’re super cute.” Belle scowled. Didn’t argue, though. And Will refused to linger on the beat of his pulse. “I’d really like it if you were there,” he added, “Little Vanklad’ll be cool about it. She owes me. I fed her for a very long time.” “Did you just?” “I make incredible garlic bread; ask anyone.” “Wow,” Belle drawled, “just like people on the street, or…also, do you call her Little Vanklad all the time?” “To her face and behind her back with startling regularity. Not everyone gets my French endearments, babe. Consider yourself lucky.” 

She scrunched her nose. 

Stayed silent. All Will could hear was the soft explanations of the tour guide, and the questions from tourists who probably also thought going to the Museum of Sex made them edgy. After they bought a STRAND tote bag. God, maybe he was a dick. A judgmental dick, who still had too many thoughts and used an occasionally violent game to silence them by making sure he was the one dictating the noises and the trash talk and—

“Hey, uh, Will...Mr., uh—Mr. Scarlet? Do you think we could get a picture?”

Belle’s lips disappeared. Behind her teeth, and that didn’t do anything to temper the sound of what might have actually been joy. At the prospect of the staring teenager and his photo request. 

In the goddamn Museum of Ice Cream. 

Giving a jerky nod, Will quickly scanned the kid for any team-branded, but it didn’t look like he was wearing merch and that was a rather small miracle. Far as those things went. 

Still, he had been in the middle of a pretty intense internal dialogue and potential freakout, and there was going to be ice cream on his hand if he didn’t throw this cup away. 

Belle took the phone. 

The kid’s phone. 

“Smile,” she instructed, and Will tried. Really. He hoped he didn’t end up looking like a murderer on Twitter or Instagram or whatever kids used, and he had no idea when he got that old. When things started to freak him out, and he let the nerves claw back in, and the worry take root and—

“Hey,” he said before the kid could walk back to his parents and their matching STRAND tote bags. “You think you could take a picture of us, real quick?”

No one had ever moved faster. 

In, like, the history of photography. 

Circling an arm around Belle’s waist, Will’s smile came a bit easier and that was good because he was totally unprepared for what happened after that. Another instruction and flick of someone’s thumb, but then Belle was on her toes, even with the heels, and her lips were pressed against his cheek and it was like some sort of really exceptional sugar high. 

Without the threat of inevitable crash. 

Will didn’t think so, at least. He was also pretty positive it wasn’t tigers in The Day After Tomorrow. Wolves, maybe. 

“Tell Little Vankald to save me a seat.” “I mean, I don’t think you should call her that.”

Her teeth grazed his jaw. Both of them were laughing in the picture, the kid’s eyes going impossibly wide as Will thanked him. “How hard you think it is to set up an Instagram account?”

[prismatales]

Bitter Memories

First of all I'd like to thank @bnhabookclub for allowing me to join their server, thanks to them I got the chance to meet so much wonderful people that helped me out with this request. I'd like to thank @honeytama and @samanthaa-leanne for beta-reading this for me as well! You guys were some great help!

Now time for some sibling bonding between The birdbrain and his baby chick!

Warnings: MANGA SPOILERS, INJURIES, MENTIONS OF ABUSE, MENTIONS OF ALCOHOL, ANGST, FLUFF.

Your lungs felt like they were burning with each step you took, blood pressure reaching a terrifying level from the adrenaline running through your veins in a desperate attempt to reach a certain room.

The only command your brain seemed to understand was to look for HIM.

If there was something you absolutely despised was hospitals, the smell of medicine that overwhelmed your nostrils was despicable, hearing the wails of people as they lost a loved one always sent shivers through anyone's spine.

You rushed to the main desk, slamming both hands in front of the receptionist before asking for Takami Keigo's room, at first she only gave you a look, believing you were nothing more than a fangirl who happened to find out the winged hero had arrived to the hospital due to his injuries from the last mission. 

Imagine her surprise when you showed her an ID with the same last name as the current number two hero, that seemed to do the trick as she swiftly began tapping away on her computer with nothing but embarrassment on her face at the idea she almost told one of the hero's relatives to scram.

She didn't bother to say anything as she saw you running away to see him as soon as you were told in which room he was recovering.

The sound of your own heartbeat felt so loud and heavy against your ears it could almost be heard by anyone who happened to get close, the few nurses, doctors and patients that happened to pass by only say a blur passing them like a gust of wind. 

Nothing mattered to you in that moment but a single goal, to find your older brother. 

Hawks may be a pain in the ass most of the time who's always teasing you or trying to scare away any guy who happened to look in your direction for more than two minutes. 

He may have abandoned you with that pair of alcoholics you had the unfortunate luck of call "parents".

He may have left you behind all those years to become a hero.

But in the end he was still your older brother, the same dork that kept trying and trying to spend time with his little sister, even despite the may times his calls were ignored and sent over to voicemail. The same guy who got nothing but corn chips as birthday and christmas gifts and posted it on his twitter account with a smile at his sister's antics.

The same guy who had your back during that mission where you got severely injured, and that almost cost you the one thing that allowed Takami Y/N to follow the path of a hero...your wings.

Doors kept going and going one after another in a seemingly endless row as you ran around the halls.

424...425...426....

426! That was the number! The words "Takami Keigo" written neatly underneath.

You stood in place for a minute....gasping for air and feeling like someone had rubbed sandpaper inside your throat from how parched it felt, but that didn't matter in that moment, the only thing that really mattered was knowing your brother would be alright.

Knocking gently on the door before stepping inside didn't prepare you for the sight laid in front of your eyes.

There in a hospital bed sat your brother looking outside through the window, bandages littered almost his whole body as well as a good portion of his face from the way the left side of his face was also bandaged.

But what really knocked out all of your breath and caused bile to rapidly rise up your throat was the one thing that made people recognize Keigo as one of the best heroes all across Japan, the lack of those beautiful vermilion wings that grew on his back felt like a bucket of iced water had been thrown on your back.

"...Keigo?"

His head, which had been tilted up while admiring the world through the other side of the window, slowly turned back towards you, seeing the left side of his face, including his eye covered in bandages didn't help soothing the growing pit inside your stomach.

Keigo's eyes no longer held that characteristic mischievous energy of his, but they still had faint traces of that comforting warmth he always held for those he held close to him.

"...Y/N?"

Somehow hearing him call out your name instead of that annoying nickname you absolutely despised and he always used just for the sake of riling you up made a huge wave of pain crash into your very soul like a tsunami, never in life did you ever thought there would come a day where not hearing Keigo calling out for his "baby chick" would end up feeling this horribly painful.

Running up towards him caught Keigo off guard, more so when he felt the warmth of your body envelope his upper half and the way your whole body trembled like nothing but a mere leaf in the middle of a storm, somehow it made something inside him break, hands wrapping around your own shoulders to return the embrace before burying his face down.

In that moment Keigo realized just how touch starved he really is, all because of all those years of ruthless and rigorous training his younger self had to endure to become not a hero, but a weapon for a broken system.

"...Was it worth it Y/N?" He murmured sadly in the collar of your sweater, that voice was not Keigo's, but that of a broken man who's life had lost its whole meaning in a matter of hours, after all...that's exactly what happened to him when Dabi burned down his wings to nothing but ashes.

Keigo's words were confusing, but even though you tried to pull away to take a look at him the hold he had on you wouldn't budge.

"What do you mean Keigo?"

His whole body began trembling, for a second it almost seemed like he was the younger brother, the one seeking for the protection one could only get from someone as close as an older sibling.

"I know what you had to endure because of me" each word Keigo muttered made his voice slowly start breaking bit by bit.

"Having to grow up surrounded by trash bags and beer bottles scattered all over the floor, endure all of the yelling and the fighting..." You only held him tighter into your own body, knowing what exactly he was referring to in the first place.

"And after our old man was arrested and Ma left?...you had to deal with that asshole all by yourself 'cause nobody else believed you"

"What are you talking about birdbrain? are you high on morphine or something?" you had a suspicion of where this was going and tried to find a way to change the subject, but Keigo didn't budge one bit.

"Aika, that darned foster sister of yours, I know how much she enjoyed to bother you and make you cry...How she always said your whole family abandoned you"

Of course he knew about that...How the only child of that foster family disliked you, hating the idea of having to share her parents with someone that wasn't even related to them.

Every time Keigo would come to visit she'd try to get his attention, having similar ages made her develop a crush on your brother, and when his visits became less frequent she made it her goal to make your life miserable, spewing cold harsh lies about Keigo getting tired of coming to see you, in the beginning her words would only end up being ignored.

However bit by bit the cruel whispers slowly began digging deep inside your heart, despite knowing she only said those thing to hurt you. It was more painful having to wait for Keigo's visit while sitting outside, sometimes even for hours just to realize he didn't show up that day. 

Even though you tried hard not to, slowly her words began corrupting the image you had of Keigo, until eventually you started becoming bitter towards him. 

It went on for years, and every time you tried telling on her with your foster parents they only brushed it off thinking it was only an exaggeration, Aika was cunning after all and only did this when your parents were not around, or would whisper those cruel words lowly enough for only you to hear.

Aika didn't see it coming when after a fall out with one of her friends, said girl told everything to Hawks after being rescued by the hero during a villain attack, her friend knew you were related to said man because Aika always complained about her annoying foster sister to anybody nearby, much to their annoyance.

Neither she or her family expect the number two hero himself to come into their home shortly shortly after you moved into the dorms, much less with proof and witnesses of everything she had said and done to his sister over the years, saying her parents were upset was putting it low, they were livid to find out what their "sweet" daughter had been doing for years.

The shame when they realized all those claims were true was suffocating, neither of them could even see the hero eye to eye as he gave the young woman a cold harsh glare, all she could do was grit her teeth in rage and shame knowing she had been caught. 

"How did you find out?" Just hearing the name Aika was almost enough to make you want to cry, you'd never forgive that girl as long as you lived...

"I found out through some of her friends, you should have seen their faces when I arrived at their home and confronted her" He chuckled dryly, still bitter at the idea that girl kept bothering you endlessly even after you got accepted into UA.

"You don't have to worry about her anymore baby chick" His hold became softer, and so did the pressure inside your chest when that little nickname came out of his mouth, had he seen the pained smile on your face his brother instincts would have probably kicked in into high alert.

"Just tell me you didn't threaten them" Keigo pulls away to give you an offended look that quickly morphed into a teasing smile.

"What do you take me for? Some kind of monster?" His hands ruffles your hair "I just had a talk with them, besides her parents did more than enough if I do say so myself, you should have seen her face when they took away her car keys, some spoiled brat you had to deal with over the years" 

You huffed in agreement, remembering how she always kept whining to your foster parents to give her money so she could go shopping with her friends, and the glare she sent in your direction if they ever told her to take you along for the day.

"You know, having to deal with our parents and her made me stronger, I may have resented you for a long time Keigo...but I can't really say that I actually hated you in the first place"

His expression changed in an instant, eyebrows furrowed in frustration over the fact you kept trying to lighten the subject.

"Y/N, you were a child, you didn't need to be strong, you needed to be safe and I failed to do the one thing your brother should have done all those years ago, protect his little sister"

The room went silent for a minute, neither you or Keigo said anything else for a while, he knew he was right, you knew he was right, but it's not like you could turn back time to fix everything that went downhill all those years ago...

"I failed you Y/N, but lord help me if I'm not going to make it up to you for everything. Whenever you need help with something, no matter what it is, homework, internships, hiding a body" The last one was obviously a joke by the sound of his voice "just come looking for your big brother"

It was like a switch had been flipped inside your head, all those years of pent up frustration directed towards Keigo disappeared in an instant, even if you tried to force yourself to feel mad it was impossible.

Not like you had anything to be mad about anymore...

"Then...I want to do the same for you birdbrain" Your eyes traveled to the bandages adorning his back, and he knew in that instant where the conversation was heading. Hesitating filled your thought for a minute before mustering enough courage to ask him about it.

"What did the doctors say...about your wings?" 

He didn't answer for some time, and it worried you that somehow the question may have made him upset, but then he finally replied with a tired look on his face.

"They...don't think my wings may grow back again" He sounded lost, and in a way he was, it was because of his quirk that the hero commission took interest in him to begin with, the same reason they took him in to train as one of their best heroes to exist, the very same reason he had left you behind in the first place.

Hawks was their best agent... but now he was Hawks no more, he was just Takami Keigo, nothing more than just another civilian to them, someone that had to be protected from villains. 

The only purpose they had for him was completely gone.

"Is there anything they can try? Maybe Recovery girl can do something about it?" You couldn't let this go so casually, there had to be way to help him out.

"I'm sorry baby chick...but I guess...this is the end for Hawks" His retort was heartbreaking, everything he had worked so hard for was gone in a matter of hours, and there was nothing you could do about it...

There may not be a way to help him out, but there was definitely no way you'd let his legacy die in vain.

"If there's nothing else to help bring them back..." Slowly you started speaking, voice full of determination made Keigo look back at you in surprise once you continued with your speech.

"...Then let me be your wings..."

There might be no way to bring his wings back, but that didn't mean Hawks was gone for good.

You made him a promise you intended to keep no matter what.

No longer after that day filled with pain and tears...years later when a new generation of heroes rose up to protect the world...A new Hawks fleed high through the skies with nothing but a single purpose, her one and only goal was hard, but nothing could bring her down.

To defeat those who brought pain upon this world and protect those people in dire need of help.

If there was something Takami Y/N knew better than anybody was to be strong, and she would use that very same strength she maintained over the years to keep her family's legacy alive.

MASTERLIST

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