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origamiblades · 4 years

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dude, @poewingsdameron is absolutely right that im not gonna edit it because im lazy af so here’s the snip from my story that has the vision factor; free of removing the hondo-is-a-pseudo tease:

With a simple closing of his hand over the old, dusty lightsaber Hux found the very foundations of his world shattering. The small, tucked away room falling into pieces that collapsed onto the ground. Armitage made a bit of a face, not quite registering immediately what had just happened.

And when he did, it was because he was greeted by the sight of two men he didn't recognize. They were clad in robes— akin to what the Jedi took to wearing, if Hux was right— and bickering back and forth. Hux blinked, and the scene changed fast.

Now he was surrounded by the bright white walls of the Empire's old ships, and before him stood none other than Vader himself. It was only then Hux caught onto the fact that something was very… very wrong.

Vader turned to look at Hux when the man found himself uttering a low, confused curse— and Armitage in turn tucked the lightsaber behind his back and attempted to hold the man's gaze.

He didn't retreat when Vader started towards him— not until the shape shifted before his very eyes. No longer was everything bright… no longer was it Vader, but now it was none other than Kylo Ren himself stalking towards Hux.

Armitage couldn't help but flinch when Kylo reached out, already anticipating the pain from his attempt at probing his mind. Mental defenses jumping up to keep the intruder out.

Then Kylo was passing through him, and Hux jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder. Peering over it, he saw it was no longer Ren he was in the presence of but… Ben. He could tell the difference. He could see it in the man's eyes.

And then the apparition shattered, like the room had— crumbling to the floor as darkness swept over Armitage. And a voice rang up from behind him once again.

"But Father—" Armitage didn't dare turn around at the sound of the child, the evidence of the fact the kid was crying betrayed by his tone of voice and the sniffle that followed.

"No," Armitage's blood ran cold and he froze on the spot. The responding voice was Brendol's… "I will not have any child of mine playing with shitty little toys. Grow up, Armitage."

He knew his Father was angry, and despite all the years felt the immediate urge to appease him— as if anticipating his rage to turn on him. Hux found himself whirling around to take in the sight of the child with a mop of bright red hair as he reached outwards and yanked the toy from Brendol's grasp without having to make any physical contact.

When it settled into the child's hands, the kid realized he'd made a mistake and quickly dropped it. Stammering an apology and backing up quickly as Brendol advanced after him.

Armitage closed his eyes tightly. He had repressed so many of his beatings, but he hadn't anticipated a recall to be so… screwed.

"What the kriff did I get into..." Hux muttered to himself, hearing the words echo back to him, "That could possibly make me hallucinate so badly?"

"It's a memory." A voice piped up from behind him, and Armitage snapped his eyes open to look back to watch a cloaked figure with his hood up approach to stand beside him, "Is this why you've cut yourself off from the Force so stubbornly?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Hux squinted to the man, then looked towards where the scene was paused before them, "This didn't happen."

"It did." The man pressed, reaching up to slide the hood off his head. Armitage noticed that it was the same man he'd seen earlier, only much older now, "Exactly like this."

Hux barked a laugh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, "You're delusional, old man."

Instead of taking insult, the man smiled— and it was enough to prompt an exasperated sigh from Armitage as he lowered his hand in favour of gesturing towards the memory, "You're trying to say I'm capable of manipulating the Force."

"And you're so quick to reject that idea?"

"Yes." Hux replied immediately, before holding up the lightsaber to stare down at it, "The mere concept is ridiculous."

"And yet it's true." Hux huffed, looking to the man once more as he stepped closer, "You've been through so much. More than anyone ever should be. Your Father punished you for your gift and you, to protect yourself, repressed the memory of ever having it and refused to allow yourself to connect with the Force."

"Is…" Armitage paused, before holding up the lightsaber and giving it a careful but firm shake, "Is that why it called to me?"

The man grinned now, reaching out to place his hand on Hux's shoulder, "Yes."

Hux frowned, before staring at the lightsaber for a long moment. Then squinting as he turned back to the memory. Watching it dissipate to show his mother. He sighed softly, before noticing the older man ease closer to the apparition. A soft, curious look to his features

"Is this your mother?" The man ventured softy, and Hux nodded before realizing he wasn't looking back at him. Clearing his throat, he found his voice.

"Yes." Armitage reached up and smoothed out his hair, sighing again— before following after the man, "Are you Obi-Wan?"

Bewildered, the older man turned to regard Armitage. And Hux found himself straightening up before continuing on to explain the very specific question, "It's just. I met a weequay and he said something about how. Well." Hux faltered, annoyed that words escaped him.

"Hondo Ohnaka." Hearing the man speak said weequay's name prompted Armitage to actually grin a bit, almost as if in disbelief, "I'm not surprised to hear that Hondo is still alive."

"Oh, he's not dying anytime soon." Armitage couldn't help smirking at the odd look that earned him, "Long story, and I'm on a… tight schedule."

Obi-Wan hummed— Hux knew it had to be Obi-Wan, now— and gave a small nod before making his way back over to Hux. Taking the hand that held the lightsaber in his own and raising it up to be between the two of them.

"You've wanted to shed yourself of your heritage for so long now," It wasn't a question, and Obi-Wan offered a bit of a mischievous grin, "But if you're willing to keep some of it in tact; you are a Kenobi."

Hux snorted in disbelief, giving his head a shake, but Obi-Wan merely removed his hand and offered one last thing, "Do take good care of my lightsaber."

Armitage managed a confused look before everything faded to a deep, thick blackness. Then he vaguely noticed the sound of his name being called over and over…

Poe, it was Poe's voice!

"Armitage!" Hux managed to blink his eyes, staring to the man that was holding him tightly and shaking him slightly. Armitage had been certain he'd find himself sprawled groggily on the floor— but instead he was standing, a death grip on the table before him as well as around the lightsaber that had prompted him to grab it.

"What the hell, man." Poe admonished once he finally noticed that Hux was once more aware of his surroundings, "You can't just go poking around behind hidden doors like that!"

Then, Poe sighed, patting a hand over Armitage's to try and prompt him to ease up on his grip on the table, voice lowering as it took on a tone of concern, "You okay there, buddy? You got really distant for a good moment there. Looked like you'd seen a ghost or something."

#ooc #/jazz hands #tw mentioned abuse #tw mentioned child abuse #it doesnt actually happen but it's made obvious its something in his past so #but it... IS something in his canon past #oof... tragedy baby #armi: dry laugh yeah you could say that #@ the end bit

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turtle-steverogers · 5 years

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Never Quite Settled- pt 1/2 (greaser au)

weeeee back in this universe

if ya want context, go read this , but it can also be read as a standalone

warnings: past suicide attempt, fighting

ship: sprace, brotherly jack/al/race

editing: no

word count: like 1960

Race was running. Wind swept through his hair and pushed against his face, causing involuntary tears to well up as his eyes dried out. His lungs and legs burned, muscles straining as he pushed himself to go faster. He was sure to be sore tomorrow, but it didn’t matter right now. All that mattered right now was escaping.

He grinned, lifting Bumlet’s letterman jacket tauntingly above his head as angry shouts rang out behind him. He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but it couldn’t be anything kind. He spared a glance over his shoulder as he rounded a corner, steadily approaching the West Side, near Spot’s house. The group of Socs he’d previously been tormenting were a good chunk of pavement behind him, putting him at a clear advantage. Already, there seemed to be less boys than there’d been when they first started chasing him down.

Pussies, Race thought to himself, scoffing when the unmistakable sound of someone tripping, followed by a pain yell rose through the air.

The last rumble had done little to remedy the rivalry between the Greasers and the Socs- though Race had hoped stabbing himself, and subsequently driving Spot to do the same, might have been a shock enough to restore some morals. The Greasers had been quick to accept- or at least tolerate- Spot and Race’s relationship, and had even started to assimilate Spot back into their groups since he was shunned from his own back on the West Side. But the same couldn’t be said for Race and the Socs. The taunting had persisted, if not grown more intense. Although, if Race was utterly honest with himself, he did most of the provoking. Could anyone blame him, though? The Socs were easy to get a rise out of.

He spotted a familiar figure down the road, joy at the sight bubbling in his stomach as he approached. The figure looked up, eyes widening as he took in the sight of Race running, letterman jacket in hand and five or so Socs on his tail.

“Race, what-” Spot froze, looking bewildered.

“No time ta talk, Spottie-boy, c’mon!” Race reached out, grabbing Spot’s hand and dragging him along, keeping tight hold of him until he found his footing.

“The fuck didya do!?” Spot demanded, though he sounded fairly amused.

Race jerked his head, indicating for Spot to follow him around another turn, “Bumlets was botherin’ me boutcha, so I tolds him that if he liked the hickeys I gave ta ya, I could let him in on the treat.”

Spot barked out a laugh, “How’d ya get his jacket?” he asked, effortlessly stripping out of his sweater and tossing it to the side as they continued to run. Race never understood his insistence to wear wool, even in Summer.

Race shrugged, “Dunno, really. Think he tried ta strip down ta fight an’ I snatched it an’ ran.”

Spot shook his head, checking behind them to see that only Bumlets and Itey were persisting at this point, “You’s an idiot, Racer.”

Race flashed an even wider grin at him, barreling towards the East Side, away from the Soc’s side of town and into his own. Race chuckled to himself, trying to picture what a sight they must be. Him holding Bumlet’s jacket, Spot shirtless, Bumlets and Itey struggling to keep up behind them. It was a scene straight from a movie.

They passed the Kasprzak’s, where Elmer and Finch could be seen in the driveway, kicking around a can with bare feet. They looked up, confused frowns flitting across their faces as Race passed.

“Heya, fellas!” Race called, waving the jacket at them as Spot saluted them awkwardly while still running, earning perplexed waves in return.

They ran for a bit longer, nearing the Morris’ household. Race ducked down a bit, preparing himself to speed up, when he noticed Spot slowing down. He turned around, about to throw a teasing remark towards the other boy, but frowned when he saw Spot’s warning look.

Before he could call out, a hand grabbed the back of his collar and Race skidded, stumbling a few feet before ultimately losing balance and crashing onto the sidewalk. But before he could hit the ground, the arm grabbed his bicep, straightening him up.

He panted, wheezing to catch his breath as the adrenaline faded out of his system. He lifted his head to see Jack, hands still braced on his shoulders and a scolding look in his eye. Race swallowed, face growing red as Bumlets and Itey finally caught up, also freezing when they saw Jack.

After the rumble, no one dared to mess with Race in Jack or Albert’s presence, knowing too well that they would not leave the scene unscathed. Race hated it. Since the confrontation, he’d been treated as nothing short of glass within his own home. He knew that Jack and Albert were acting out of nothing but fear and concern for him- he’d willingly stabbed himself in the stomach, after all- but it didn’t mean he was going to shatter at any moment. It annoyed him. He was barely left alone and Jack was constantly fussing over any injuries he acquired, demanding to know where they came from and what situation he’d been in. He knew he scared the shit out of them, but he wasn’t a kid. He could handle himself.

Race ground his teeth, holding eye contact with Jack as he was studied with a careful and worried eye. Then Jack sighed, letting up his grip on Race’s shoulders and holding out an expectant hand. Reluctantly, Race handed him Bumlet’s jacket.

Jack took it from him, eyes still boring into his skull as he tossed it to its owner.

“Outta here,” he barked. Bumlets scrambled to catch his jacket, then grabbed Itey’s elbow, pulling him away from the scene.

Spot scuffed his toe on the dusty pavement, lingering awkwardly. Jack sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, allowing Race to let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“You too, Conlon,” he said, though he almost looked regretful, as if he hadn’t minded Spot’s company. Or he was afraid to keep Race and him apart. The latter seemed more likely.

Spot nodded once, flashing Race an apologetic smile before turning and bolting off towards the West Side again. Race watched him go, stomach twisting sadly. He had been looking forward to an adrenaline driven night with him.

“C’mon, kid,” Jack mumbled, ushering Race back in the direction of their house. Race followed him begrudgingly, knowing that he was about to get an earful. Jack never liked his careless ways and taste for troubles, but his enforcement of these worries had been at an all time high lately.

Race rubbed his hand over the scar on his stomach through his shirt, eyes cast downwards as he followed Jack down the road. He was vaguely reminded of the months following their father’s drunken disappearance, when the weight of his past abuses finally crashed down around them. Race had hit rock bottom, the trauma catching up to him and eventually leading him to their dingy garage, rope secured around his neck and trembling legs itching to step off the chair. Jack had found him like that, sobbing and shaking. He had gently coaxed him down, wordlessly helping him back inside. They never really spoke of that incident, but it had been ages before Jack trusted him alone.

And yet, he’d managed to lose the independence he’d worked so hard to regain. Classic.

They made it to the house in silence, entering to find Albert sitting on the couch, a bowl of corn flakes balanced on his lap. He looked up when they entered, about to call out a greeting, but quickly shutting his mouth when he took in Race’s red, sweaty face and Jack’s irritated stature. Jack turned to confront Race, the disappointed look still evident in the dull shadows in his eyes and mouth pulled into a grimace.

He crossed his arms, “Didya start this one?”

Race pursed his lips, averting his gaze as he shook his head, “Nah, jus’ finished it.”

Jack huffed, “Don’ go gettin’ all prouda yourself,” he said, reproachfully, “S’dangerous ya know.”

Race rolled his eyes, starting to cop an attitude, “They’s jus’ Socs, most are weak as hell,” Race shifted, crossing his arms as well, “‘Sides, I had it handled. Was jus’ a joke.”

Albert grinned cheekily, “Ooo, who’d ya soak this time, Racer?”

Race’s eyes glinted as he started to answer Albert, but Jack cut him off.

“He didn’t soak nobody,” Jack said, retreating back to the root of the issue, “What’d they do ta start it.”

Race sagged his shoulders in annoyance. He hated this kind of interrogation. He should be allowed some privacy in his personal battles.

“He were jus’ teasin’ me about Spot n’ bein’ queer n’ alla that,” he said, a pit of defiance forming in his stomach at Jack’s angry face, “I was fine, Jackie! I jus’ spat some shit back an’ then caught ‘im off guard. I won.”

Jack clenched his jaw, “It ain’t about winnin’, Racer. They shouldn’t still be sayin’ that shit to ya.”

Race hugged his arms tighter around himself, “Didn’t bother me none,” he lied. In truth, it had stung. He still hated the fact that he was cursed with this shit. Why couldn’t he like girls like all the other boys in town? Why did he have to be the queer one? He had enough stresses already and to be constantly reminded of this hit like a ton of bricks.

Jack scoffed, “Okay, sure.”

Race straightened his back, “It didn’t! I don’t give a shit about what they say or what they’re thinkin’! They-”

“-They drove ya ta stab yourself, Antonio.”

Race paled, snapping his mouth shut.

“An’ I don’t care if ya think you’re capable ta handle whatever shit they’re playin’ at-”

“-I am!”

Jack held up a hand, “The point is it could turn ugly again one day and I don’t wanna have another close call,” he sighed, “Two’s more ‘an enough.”

Race’s heart started to beat faster, shocked that Jack had openly acknowledged what had almost happened. He heard Albert drop his spoon and tried to look anywhere but his younger brother’s wide eyes. Jack’s worry was one thing, but Albert’s was on another tier. He still felt guilty for scarring Albert, ashamed that he’d put him through that. He had enough shit to deal with, he didn’t need to fuss over Race as well.

Shame bubbled in his chest, quickly morphing into embarrassed anger, “Dontcha dare go there right now-”

“No! I’m tireda leavin’ that shit under the surface!” Jack snapped, “Ya scare me enough, kid, an’ then ya go out and pick stupid fights like an idiot-”

“I’m not an idiot!” Race shouted, arms flying to his sides and hands clenching into fists, “An’ I’m not a kid either!”

“Then stop acting like one!” Jack bellowed, raising an arm in frustration.

Race flinched violently, jarred by the sudden movement. The volume of Jack’s voice echoed through his mind, resurfacing memories he’d rather forget. He took an involuntary step backwards, eyes squeezed shut as he waited for a blow. Logically, he knew it was just Jack standing in front of him and that he would never hurt him, but his body didn’t seem to be listening. He whimpered as his breath left his body.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. Albert had gone completely still on the couch, eyes flicking wildly between his brothers. Jack froze, staring at Race’s trembling form in shock for a moment, before seemingly becoming aware of himself and lowering his arm carefully.

Race fought back panicked, hurt tears as he opened his eyes, “What the fuck.”

Jack looked sick with himself, “Racer-”

Race shook his head, “No, fuck you,” he choked out, hesitating for another moment before turning and bolting out of the door.

Jack deflated as he watched the door close, “Damnit.”

yeehaw brothers i Love This AU So Much You Dont Even Know

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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#newsies #newsies fic #racetrack higgins #jack kelly #albert dasilva #spot conlon #sprace #greaser au #yeeeeeehaw #not my best

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