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youre-all-i-wanted · 1 year

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Hi!! I have a favor to ask, for anyone who's interested, please read this and give me some feedback on this steddie fic. I'd love to hear your thoughts about what I have going so far. (I am aware that some things are inaccurate to canon and the time period but please try to ignore it for the sake of story telling haha) Any advice would be amazing. Thank you to anyone who reads this. Oh and I know I really need to work on characterization but that's just something I need more time to think about. If anyone has any ideas of any plot points or headcanons to add to this fic I'd absolutely love to hear suggestions!!! I'm really stuck right now so it would be highly appreciated. Please don't judge too much, this is my first time writing anything like this in 5 years. To be honest I'm kind of scared to post this but I'm going to take a leap of faith.

A steddie fanfic (name undetermined)::

CW/TW// alcoholism, drug use, mention of a razor (nothing relating to sh), unhealthy coping mechanisms in general

(I also briefly mention what happened when Eddie got attacked by demobats if that bothers you)

It had been months since they defeated Vecna. Things had been rough for all of them, the nightmares, the flashbacks, the paranoia. They were all on edge, hoping, praying, that everything was gone. That the upside down was closed off for good.

All of them had a difficult time adjusting back to normal life, but seemingly more than others, Steve was struggling hard. The insomnia was getting to him. It had been three days with barely any sleep and he was starting to get nervous.

Fear struck him deep and his blood ran cold when he could've sworn he saw something out by the pool last night, but like any other time, there was nothing there but the wind whistling through the trees.

It was driving him crazy, any time he jumped too hard at a flicker of a light or a creak in the floorboards. Overall, beyond the fear, beyond the dread, was guilt. He felt like he wasn't allowed to feel like this. The empty cavern in his chest and the pit in his stomach always made sure to remind him.

Sure he had been battling these monsters from another realm for years now but that had become his new normal. He couldn't compare his pathetic panic attacks to Eddie almost dying there. Bleeding out, laid across Dustin's lap. Eddie was hardly breathing, the way he looked at Steve, with glossy eyes. He looked terrified.

Eddie didn't really want to die, and it was a miracle he didn't. They had gotten back just in time to haul him through the portal and speed him to the hospital. Steve couldn't imagine the pain and the fear he must've felt.

In fact, he couldn't stop thinking about it. For whatever reason, it stuck out to him. Most of Steve's nightmares consisted of him, Nancy, and Robin not getting back in time to save Eddie, or watching his eyes roll back just for him to start floating. Steve hadn't told anyone.

Whenever Robin would ask him about his nightmares he'd just.. shut down. He couldn't talk about it, hell he could hardly stand thinking about it with how it made his chest tighten and his breathing pick up. He felt awful that he couldn't say anything to Robin. The Robin who had always told him about what she was going through, what her nightmares were like, what had thrown her into a panic.

Every single time, she was willing to share so that Steve would feel less alone, and yet, every single time it came up, Steve felt like a stubborn child for not being able to talk about it.

Why couldn't he just spit it out? It was so frustrating to want to talk about these things, to feel the need to talk about them and then have the words get caught by the lump in his throat. He was so tired of fighting the tears back. It felt so humiliating to cry in front of anyone, even Robin, no matter how many times he'd done it in the past.

He needed to drown it out. He'd tried so much so far, but nothing soothed the burning ache like drinking. He hadn't told anyone. Too ashamed to admit he was running away from everything when everyone else dealt with the aftermath in healthy ways.. or at least he thought everyone else.

•••••••••••

Eddie hadn't gone a night without smoking since he ran out of pain meds from the hospital. Everything was too much all at once and he couldn't cope without being out of his own head. Being sober was like a nightmare, time ticking by torturously slow.

He just needed to get out of his head, his body felt too tense, restless. His limbs didn't feel like his own no matter how much he moved around, it was a fruitless effort.

He grew sick of it quickly and started rumaging through his stash. He'd had a good amount of weed when he'd started but through deals and personal consumption, he was running low and with Reefer Rick out of town for the next week, his access to more was temporarily cut.

He only had enough for one more deal, just for enough money to help Wayne with the bills. Since he knew he couldn't smoke anything, he got to thinking. Suddenly, it hit him. He shot up from the couch in the trailer he shared with his uncle, running for his room.

Wayne always worked night shifts so he knew he wouldn't get caught. Heart rate picking up and head spinning he dug around looking for something he'd sworn he saw the other day.

Just as he thought, tucked away in the back of his closet, on a shelf covered by Dungeons and Dragons character pieces, was a small black tin. Bingo. He cracked it open slowly, not knowing whether he had misremembered, but there they sat.

Just a few bars of Xanax. Relief washed over him from his head down to his feet in a misty wave. His eyes settled on the white tablets, he could finally relax. He quickly decided he needed sleep, so instead of just swallowing it down he'd crush it up and inhale it. He took a razor from the bathroom and crushed a bar on his nightstand.

Around fifteen minutes is all it took to kick in, but a long fucking fifteen minutes it was. Finally, the world went quiet. He started to feel sluggish, like dead weight. Slowly crawling into bed and collapsing, is all he remembers.

••••••••••

Rays of light peeked through the gap in the curtains, flooding the room with a dull glow. Steve cracked open his eyes and winced, even the small amount of light feeling like a jab to his brain. This is the worst headache he's had in the past few weeks.

He knew he had responsibilities though so he begrudgingly rolled onto his side, opening his eyes just enough to glance over at his alarm clock, it read 9:24 am. Not bad for having work at 10:30. He groaned dragging his legs off the side of bed, his foot immediately catching on something. He looked down. Right.. an emptied bottle of vodka sat next to the bed frame.

He knew he was going to have to tell Robin eventually. The worried looks she'd given him every morning when they opened was enough to wear him down day after day, the guilt was practically eating him. Working at Family Video was already tiring enough, he didn't need Robin nagging at him to tell her what's been going on too.

••••••••••

Steve pulled into the driveway at Robin's, a little late since he had got caught up making sure his hair looked right. He could at least try to look presentable, as much as he could with the dark circles under his eyes.

"Hey dingus, what took you so long?" Robin said, jumping in the passenger side of Steve's car, settling in quickly. She then noticed how quiet Steve had been. "Are you okay? Another nightmare? You can talk to me you know."

She looked at him expectantly. His stomach dropped but he waved his hand dismissively. "Just thinking I guess." Robin didn't buy it but decided not to push. "If you're sure.." The drive there was filled with silence.

Steve wasn't sure how to bring up his issue without making it sound like a big deal.

So he just.. didn't.

It was a slow day for the first few hours, a couple customers here and there but not nearly a steady flow, typical for a Wednesday. Steve stood staring into the empty parking lot from behind the counter when Robin suddenly appeared next to him.

"Hey, are you sure you're alright?" Steve tinged at the concern laced in her voice. The last thing he wanted was to see her upset. Afterall she would always be his platonic soulmate, "platonic with a capital P", he'd hate to be the source of her sadness.

"Yeah, all good, I just get lost in my head sometimes, you know?" Robin slowly nodded, "Yeah, I get it, trust me it happens more than you'd think. Do you wanna talk about what's going on in your head or,"

She examined his facial expression closely, it looked.. pained? Almost guilty? Fuck, that's not good. She felt her heart clench in sympathy. Sensing she had overstepped, she quickly backpedaled. "you know what? Why don't you just rewind these and I'll get back to stocking the shelves?" Steve took a stack of tapes from her hands, humming a response while avoiding her eyes.

#writing #writers on tumblr #stranger things #steddie #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 #ao3fic #eddie munson #steve harrington #robin buckley

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fillyoursoulxx · 1 year

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silas bishop - trauma headcanons

More often than not, Silas likes to keep things private. If you’re someone he’s ‘open’ with he has perfected the craft of presenting this really warm and personable guy. He still keeps a lot of himself, to himself due to trauma in his past though. Below is a list of trauma headcanons that have come up for Silas. The list’ll be updated as I think of them.

physical trauma;

his father was abusive, physically, mentally and emotionally. He was and still is afraid of him to some extent, but as he got older and more capable of defending himself, the abuse lessened, aka he’d fight back. There were more than a few times he fantasized about watching him bleed out. the abuse only officially stopped when he took off at 17.

he has various cigarette burn scars on his left forearm and shoulder. They are feint now but he was self conscious about them once.

he’s had his arm broken twice in two different places

his nose was broken once

There’s a scar on his left eyebrow where one of his brothers clocked him in the head with a bat ‘on accident’

if his father became particularly rough, he would make silas sit in an ice bath convinced it would take care of the bruising. most of the time he was allowed to get out before things got too serious, but he passed out once. he might’ve drowned/gotten hypothermia but his father wasn’t gonna ‘rot’ in some cell because he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

emotional & mental trauma;

His father enjoyed degrading Silas more than he did anything else. He endured a lot of name calling and disregard.

His father often went out of his way to make Silas think he was in for a beating. He would surprise him coming in a door or wait until he was vulnerable somewhere.

In these instances, if Silas responded with fear, he usually received physical punishment, blow or some sort of chastising.

trauma response;

he doesn’t like anyone to sneak up on him. hates it. and when he’s out, he angles his back to corners/walls.

when he’s surprised, he rarely jumps/jerks but his jaw will flex/will grit his teeth or inhale sharply.

fight/flight/faun - Silas is all fight. It doesn’t matter if he’s out matched, he’d rather bleed out than run. That is unless it involves someone he actually likes, then he’s a runner, sometimes a pusher

he suffers from nightmares and is a very light sleeper. it’s rarer now, but still more often than he’d like.

has had more dark/suicidal thoughts than he’d care to admit. But he’s never attempted/gone through with anything out of sheer spite, knowing then his dad would be right about him

fidgets when anxious and has experienced panic attacks.

he enjoys affection and personal space isn’t a problem with it comes to women or close friends. he’s put on edge if other guys, especially larger guys encroach on his space.

for the more intimate moments, having his back touched/scratched is fine but likes to keep partners in front and tends to favor affection on his right side.

coping mechanisms;

he writes. it helps him get the ‘unhelpful’ thoughts out and make more sense of things. he keeps a journal/sketch book.

he runs a lot as well. whenever he has nightmares, cant sleep or is just having a rough time in general, he just takes off.

reading is an escape for him as well as star gazing.

avoidance in general. he will spend days on the road or alone. if cornered with his emotions, he’ll fight it/get angry and if that doesn’t ‘fix’ the situation, he’ll run.

keeping busy. he likes to use as much of his time as possible & keeps his hands busy with work, hobbies or women. idle hands are the devil’s workshop.

Speaking of keeping his hands busy, he’ll often rub his neck or the scars on his wrist when he’s nervous/anxious. He’ll also tap his fingers against his thumb and other types of stems.

He squirrels away money like no ones business. He doesn’t socialize much and he doesn’t sleep a ton either, so he can work himself until he’s literally burnt out. But he always has to have some sort of money somewhere out of fear that if he ever truly runs out, he’d have to go back to alabama.

#silas::|| hc #(( LOOOOTS OF TRIGGER WARNINGS HERE. NOTHING IS OVERLY DETAILED BUT READ AT YOU'RE OWN RISK ))

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annie-blackhill · 3 years

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Aight, I know that I've been away for awhile but now I'm back and I have ideas babes!

____________________________________

Warnings:

Depression

Anxiety

Past panic attacks

Mentions of past domestic violence

Abusive childhood

Post traumatic events unconscious coping mechanisms

Unconscious flinching out of instinct

Sudden panic when hearing fighting between a man and a woman screaming very near

Loss of breath

Domestic violence

Blood

Panic attack

____________________________________

Dazai Osamu

________________

Safe and Sound

________________

Dazai and (Y/N) have been in a relationship for two years now. They're so in love with each other that everyone at the ADA are questioning the fact as to why they weren't married yet.

Dazai really loves (Y/N) and she loves him just as much back. They both really love each other and they both understand each other the most too.

But there were still some things that Dazai didn't know.

The main reason why (Y/N) and Dazai weren't married yet was because Dazai wanted to get her parents' blessings first. He was so excited to get their blessings, to meet the people who brought his perfectly imperfect lover into this cruel, tainted world.

He was eternally grateful to them for bringing her into this world, although the cruel world had tainted her and made her the broken person she is now, he still loves her for her. She's the only reason he has to live now. And he loves her for that.

Whenever Dazai asked (Y/N) about her family, she would tell him stories about when she was a child and how her dad would bring them to the beach every weekend because they lived near to the beach or when they went back to school shopping together.

But that was it. Her dad never really appeared in her other stories much. He would pop in at some point of the tale and then disappear. Her mum, was mostly the one to witness her achievements.

But (Y/N) has never described her parents' proud expressions whenever she achieved something.

At times, when Dazai did pry lightly, she would turn the story somewhere else, mostly to her friends.

He knew that she didn't really have a good primary school life, seeing as she's told him before that she's been bullied at that time. She's described them as the loneliest years of her life and how much she's hated herself those times.

Whenever (Y/N) talked about friends, it would be about her friends from her high school life. Her high school was much more on the better side.

She had been a prefect in her high school years, since her first year to her last year.

The only bad memories she had was when she realized that being in the first class and being the top of the class meant the other students would sabotage her and the two times in her senior years where she had to fight back as self-defense when she tried to break up a fight and they started to hit her too.

Dazai wasn't daft. Of course, he picked up on all the signs she showed that she wasn't really fond of her parents.

At first, he thought that it was just because of a small fight they had. But two years have passed in their relationship and (Y/N) hasn't cracked even the least to tell him why her childhood stories are only until a certain age or why she's never told him how proud her parents were of her.

Dazai was worried. In the end, he decided that maybe her parents just have a slightly tight relationship with each other.

Dazai decided to not ask. He let it slide and slip past them. He never touched the subject of her parents for the half of the second year of their relationship.

As the other half year of their relationship rolled in, Dazai and (Y/N) had saved enough money to buy a cozy little apartment near the ADA and move out of the ADA's hostel.

The day they were moving in, the couple were greeted by the middle aged woman who lived next door with her husband and 4 year old daughter.

She had been a very sweet auntie that welcome the sweet couple to the apartment complex with open arms and a sweet smile.

More than once had she cooked good food for the duo since they always returned late from work.

"You two kinda remind me of how my husband and I used to be when we were younger and so in love," the auntie would say to the duo all the time.

The little 4 year old would also come by and play around with the loving couple whenever they were on leave.

Auntie would always try persuade her daughter from "disturbing the lovely young couple" as she would always say to her daughter.

"It's alright, auntie! I love kids! (N/N)-chan and I are planning to have a few little munchkins like this when we're married too!" Dazai would assure her, while playing with the little girl.

But there was always something about how (Y/N) would send the auntie knowing looks as though she knew something that he didn't all the time, so he decided to pay more attention too.

When Dazai did start to notice more, he noticed the dark bags under the auntie's eyes and he noticed how tired she always was.

The more he noticed the more concerning she looked to him day by day.

"Auntie, would you like to join us for tea, today? Osamu and I wanted to play with that sweet little angel," (Y/N) invited the auntie.

"WHO'S THAT AT THE DOOR???!!!" the booming voice of the male from inside the auntie's house shook (Y/N) to the core and it ignited old memories that she didn't have to remember.

"Auntie, you really should come. Osamu insists! You know how he gets when he doesn't get what he wants! He'll be whining all day long like a little baby!" (Y/N) tried to convince the auntie discreetly.

"I ASKED 'WHO'S THAT AT THE DOOR'! ANSWER ME YOU USELESS WOMAN!!!" the man shouted from the bedroom again.

(Y/N) flinched. She was regretting sending Dazai to the store now. They had been running low on groceries and she had sent Dazai to the store, as she would say "please contribute you're lazy arse to do something in this household, my love" and he had carried his lazy arse to the store near the apartment complex.

After Dazai had left was when she started to hear the shouts and yells from the next door auntie's house.

Even as the bad memories plunged her being, she had forced herself to go and at least try to save the auntie before anything bad happened to either her or her daughter.

But even then, if you looked closely at (Y/N) you could see that she was trembling badly and that she could barely stand on her two feet.

"Auntie, come on please!" (Y/N) begged in a mutter exclamation.

"I'm sorry," the auntie murmured before closing the door on her with an apologetic smile.

"Auntie, no!" (Y/N) exclaimed.

And that was when she heard the terrible screams and the yell. The cries of the little 4 year old teared her soul apart into the smallest of pieces.

"NO, NO, NO!!!!" (Y/N) yelled as her mind turned blank and the memories flooded her brain.

Her mind turned so blank that she forgot that she was slamming her fists onto the door and that she had an ability.

The memories of how her father would come home drunk and lay on the sofa. Of how her mother had found out that he was having an affair. Of how, he would beat the living daylights out of her mother.

(Y/N) never told Dazai any of that. She felt ashamed to tell him that her childhood was the most terrible thing to ever happen to her.

A blood curdling screamed pierced the air along with a loud cry and that was enough for (Y/N) to snap out of her traumas and remember that there were lives on the stake right now.

She finally regained her senses fully and remembered that she has an ability.

Using her elemental abilities, she bent the wooden front door so much that it broke it half and broke off of it's hinges. The lower half flew to the side of the corridor almost hitting her while the other half flew into the house and hit the middle aged aggressive man that was about to beat his wife over the head with a glass flower vase.

The auntie stood in shock as the younger woman ran to her and hugged her.

"Auntie! Are you alright?! Are you bleeding anywhere?! Do you have any fatal injuries?!" (Y/N) questioned quickly as she held the shorter's woman's face in her hands and looked her over, making sure that she wasn bleeding anywhere majorly.

"Why you little freak show! You must one of those freak shows that are born with those little abilities! How dare you interfere with someone else's family problems?! Youngsters these days don't know how to respect their elders! Let me teach you then!" the man yelled at (Y/N) as she stood in front of the trembling woman, making sure that the older woman was perfectly hidden behind her.

(Y/N) slipped a hand into the back pocket of her jeans. She clutched the holster of her gun.

"Step away, right now before I seriously hurt you," (Y/N) warned as she held her left hand out to stop him from coming any nearer to them.

The man took off his belt and folded it into two, straightening it out with a snap, which caused both women to flinch as more dark memories flooded into (Y/N)'s mind.

"I said STOP RIGHT THERE!" (Y/N) warned yet again. It was against the law for her to shoot him and she couldn't even use her abilities against him as he was a normal civilian.

She was trying her best to not hurt anyone here and let the civilian authorities handle the ruthless man.

The moment the man raised his arm was the same time (Y/N) slipped her gun out of her back pocket and shot his arm.

The man let out a cry of pain and fell back from the sudden pain. He looked at the younger woman, wide eyed as she held the gun tight and pointed the barrel to his forehead.

"Armed Detective Agency member, (L/N) (Y/N)," (Y/N) announced as she showed him her ADA card.

The man backed away more at that. His eyes wide as he realized that she was a member of the authorities.

"(Y/N)?!" Dazai shouted as he entered only to see the bloodied situation of the man and the two trembling women.

"Where's the child?!" Dazai asked immediately.

"Sh-she's in her room," the auntie answered meekly.

Dazai nodded. He looked down at the man, disgust, venom and a desire to kill clear on his face.

The man even then, still tried to gain Dazai's pity as Dazai was a fellow man too.

"S-sir! All I was trying to do was educate my wife to be more better and obedient! I wasn't trying to do anything other than that! I swear!" the man said.

That only made Dazai even more disgusted as he spat on the man's face in disgust. He stomped his foot harshly on the man's hand that was holding the belt.

"You disgust me you old fool! You're an utter disgrace of a human being! I'm disgusted to see people like you are still alive! Terrorizing women's lives! Making them only feel like obedient dolls that should only do whatever you say!

I'd rather kill you then let you go to jail and then get back out after a few months! People like you shouldn't exist at all in the first place!

Your wife is supposed to be your life partner! Not some maid or toy that would do everything you say! You're supposed to live life and do everything together!

I can't believe you even had a child with her only to state your dominance over her and make her unable to run away from you!

You disgust me!" Dazai yelled at the man as he twisted his foot on the man's hand more and stomped it over and over and over again, intent on breaking it.

(Y/N) shielded the auntie's sight form her lover's rage as he broke the man's hand and rendered it completely shattered under his shoe.

"Osamu..." (Y/N) called out for him.

Dazai raised his head to look at his lover, tears streaming from his eyes from utter pure white hot rage.

"Are you alright? Are the two of you alright? Is that little angel injured?" Dazai's voice turned so soft that (Y/N)'s heart broke at the mere sound of it. He sounded as scared as she was feeling.

Dazai went over to the two women and squeezed them into a light hug, he buried his face into the crook of (Y/N)'s neck. (Y/N) hugged his waist, her arm practically limp, but her hand still clutching the gun tight just in case the man tried anything, her ear was placed against his frantically beating heart.

The older woman had wrapped her arm over his back and was hugging him tight, scared out of her life and grateful for the presence of the two youngsters at the moment.

"Osamu... We need to call the police and the ADA, specifically Kunikida-san. We need to explain a hell load to them all," (Y/N) murmured lightly to the shaken man.

Dazai nodded lightly at her statement before pressing a light kiss to the crook of her neck and removing himself from the hold of the two women.

"Auntie, do get your little girl and wait outside of the house. (Y/N) and I will call the police and our co-worker to handle the mess here," Dazai informed the older woman.

She merely nodded, not trusting her voice to be strong enough to answer him as she went to the little girl's bedroom to get her out of the house.

Once the child and woman were safely out of the house, Dazai dialed Kunikida while (Y/N) dialed the police station.

Both at had arrived at the house. The man was brought away on a stretcher by the paramedics as (Y/N) was explaining to the police as to why she had used her gun.

Kunikida and Dazai, both standing on either side of her, trying to justify the reason as to why she did so and the police accepted the reasons in the end.

Dazai said his end of the story and then they moved on to ask the wife and the child about their ends of the story.

"(Y/N), you know you shouldn't have used your gun. I'll have to confiscate it for now. You'll only be allowed to use it on missions. I'm sorry but those are the rules that you need to follow after that little act of 'misusage' as the police says," Kunikida sighed as he took the gun lightly from her slightly slackened grasp on it now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was scared and he raised the belt above me, ready to hit at any moment---" her voice cracked and she couldn't continue the sentence anymore.

Kunikida held her hand softly as Dazai brought (Y/N) into a soft side hug, holding her softly and rubbing her shoulders.

"I know and that's why I'm the one that's supposed to be saying sorry for taking away your gun, (Y/N)," Kunikida said.

"Hey, hey. It's alright, the both of you. I'll pull some strings here and there and make sure, (Y/N) gets her gun back, alright? Easy peasy!" Dazai lightened the mood up a little.

"Sigh, thank you, Dazai. For making this easier for all of us," Kunikida said before excusing himself, saying that he needs to fill out a few more forms at the police station and make sure that neither Dazai or (Y/N) get accused for anything that they didn't do.

Dazai proceeded to lead (Y/N) back to their little home as the auntie and her daughter were led to the second ambulance by the new paramedics.

(Y/N) leaned into Dazai as she curled up onto him. He held her close and tight, knowing full well that she was shaken up from the encounter.

"Osamu... Remember how you always asked for the truth about my childhood... What you witnessed today that was happening to that auntie and her daughter? That's the real truth to my childhood.

But no one saved us. And as I grew and my dad lived his other life with his little affair, he would come and go to let off steam on my mother and my mother started to blame me for how miserable our lives were.

That's why I never had a past occupation like everyone else. I had been working with the ADA ever since I was 18 and I ran away from her.

The president helped me. He helped my mother by providing her safety and a new home.

My father is still out there, somewhere with that other woman.

And I... I've never seen my mother since the day I ran away. She must be happier now," (Y/N) said, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Dazai hugged her closer and kissed her forehead.

"It's alright, love. You have me and the other ADA members for you as well now. Hell, even the Port Mafia is with you right now after how much you helped them out when we were all having trouble with The Guild and Fyodor. You have all of us here for you.

Most importantly, my love, you have me. I won't let anyone so much as hurt you even a little bit and go off the hook.

I swear," Dazai murmured softly into her ear and she snuggled closer to him, their feets touching and their hands interwined with each other's.

____________________________________

"Port Mafia strikes again as a man who was arrested yesterday due to commiting domestic violence was murdered by them brutally in his own jail cell much to the surprise of all the police officers present.

Police officers were considering requesting the Armed Detective Agency to further an investigation at first, but has now decided against it as the chief of the police station has deemed it as a waste since the man was a criminal," the news reporter announced on the morning news as (Y/N) sipped her (bitter/sweet/neutral) (coffee/tea) and Dazai adorable chewed his crab sandwich.

"Who did you ask to do it?" (Y/N) asked immediately as soon as Dazai swallowed.

"Chuuya was more than willing after I told him the story. I didn't even have to tell him which police station and cell that scum was in, he ran off and figured it all out himself and finished the job," Dazai answered before continuing to adorably eat his crab sandwich.

"That scum deserved it," (Y/N) agreed as she continue sipping her (coffee/tea).

____________________________________

Awareness Note:

Stop domestic violence. The pain lingers on even after the relationship has ended. No one should have to be bounded to a spouse that only views them as an object and an inferior instead of a human being and an equal. No one has to go through physical and mental pain with a monster that prefers to take control of everything. No one has to go through such pain.

Marriage isn't pain! Marriage is a bond of two people who love each other!

If it hurts both physically and mentally, then it's not love.

Know the difference.

#stopdomesticviolence #dazai osamu #bsd dazai #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu x reader #dazai x y/n #dazai x you #dazaibsd #dazai oneshot #dazai x reader #dazai x reader fluff #comfort

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saphirered · 3 years

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I Don’t Hate You (Vagrant pt3.)

The lady at the front desk gives you a dirty look as you come straggling in, leaving a wet trail behind you, boots sopping with an equally disgruntled expression on your face. You toss her a coin, if only to be done with it all and go back up the stairs. There you see, Fjord is no longer sitting in the hallway and probably either has gotten himself a room of his own or Molly’s taken mercy upon the half-orc and let him sleep peacefully and undisturbed in their shared room. A sense of dread still lingers as you approach your door and you take a sip from the opened bottle in your hand, hoping to find some courage to push you over the edge and just get it over with. You can see the hint of orange light bleeding through the small gap.

When the door opens Caleb looks up from his book, or well, your book. You look like an absolute mess and he knows you know you do. It’s an unspoken agreement to not comment on this fact made in that brief moment of eye contact, for both of your sakes.

“Do not question my terrible life’s choices, Widogast.” You grumble as you let yourself fall backwards on your bed. You don’t even have the energy to magic away the remainders of the rain that kept you company from your soaked person. Well, that or the fact that the droplets rolling down your skin hid the tears from the panic attack and brief existential crisis you had on that rooftop before you came down.

Caleb puts down the book, gets up from the bed and slowly and carefully inches over to your side of the room. He hesitantly sits down on the edge. You have half the mind to kick him off just because but can’t find the energy to do so. Despite your distaste for magic users like him, being alone after your mental breakdown you just experienced, really sucks. Caleb pats your knee awkwardly in an attempt to comfort but not wanting to cross any boundaries. It’s pathetic, he knows because one can hardly fix a stab wound by slapping on a bandaid. His own past experiences have left him a tad bit at a loss when it comes to comforting a person in pain, especially one so stubborn and crass as you have been towards him.

Still, Caleb has figured out your hatred isn’t directed at him personally. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s people with abilities like him that have played a part in your past causing you pain and suffering and the wound is still very fresh, hence your trauma being reflected onto him, despite his complete lack of involvement in your before the moment you met. It may not have helped that your hostility towards him hasn’t exactly encouraged him to try and build a proper relationship with you. He hardly even knows you yet still he feels as if he knows your tells, the things you go through and why you act like you do. He may not know the details of your life but he feels safe to say he knows you better than any of the others.

It’s not his lack of knowledge and insight into your life beyond what’s surface and what he can read off you that holds him back. It’s the fear of what he might find within you that will tear open wounds of his own he’s worked so hard to cover up. It’s the fear you might be one step ahead of him in a similar story and there is no hope for people like you and him after all. It’s the fear those you run from are the same people he has tried so hard to escape. It’s the fear of you, that you might be each others’ salvation, or undoing because he knows what he has the capability to become, what you could become.

But here you lie, upon your bed curled up, traces of tears long since fallen, possibly even ran out, tightness in your throat, indents of your nails in your palms from clenching too much, frustration and anger in your eyes is still overwhelmed by pain and hopelessness and a wish the void would just come and claim you, where you no longer fear the consequences of running and will be able to obliterate those who caused you so much hurt, or die trying in the process. Caleb is reminded of himself in that cell of his own, for years, a broken mind piecing itself together from the shambles it was left in, barely a shell of what it used to be.

When he promised himself he would do anything and everything in his power to take down these tormentors and their accomplices so no one would ever have to suffer like he had, still is suffering, Caleb didn’t expect to find you. He still remembers himself begging, praying, screaming just to not be alone, to have someone tell him there is still hope and not all is lost. There’s still good in this wretched world and if the world turns bleak, it’s up to you to be that good despite everything. Those were the pretty words and empty promises of a dreamer but does that make them a lie?

“Don’t patronise me. I’m not some fragile broken child in need of mothering.” Caleb retreats his hand, clasping them together in his lap as he studies your face. Your eyes are cold, your expression matching. A mask, he knows. A way to protect yourself.

“Good. Because I have no intention of doing so. I want you to be blunt and truthful and I don’t want you to hold back. I want you to humour me and answer some questions.” You raise an eyebrow expecting there to be something behind Caleb’s request but his stare is unreadable, like a practiced mask of his own.

“You want me to be blunt and give you a peace of my mind?” You humour. You’ll tell the asshole okay. You’ll bicker and fight and quarrel if that’s what he wants no problem. Maybe a battle of wits and words will get you back into your groove.

Little do you know that is in fact not what Caleb is looking for. Not exactly. He isn’t looking for a fight. He’s looking for answers, how to help you despite your differences because no one deserves to go through this, especially not alone. So because of that, he will not humour you in turn with his usual reply to your attempts to push him. He doesn’t intend this to end in another futile empty argument. Not now. So he’ll drop the game and go straight for the jugular.

“Why do you hate me?” You freeze at the abrupt and sudden question. Caleb knows you don’t really hate him personally but coddling you won’t work and some things you’ll have to realise by yourself first. Finding the strength to lean up on your elbows you tilt your head at him as a half smirk creeps upon your lips.

“Because you’re an egotistical self-serving bastard who cares for nothing but himself and the people useful to him, until they outlive their usefulness.” The words are meant to cut like knives and usually you’d get a rise out of Caleb by such a statement but when you don’t see any response to your words, nothing but those blue eyes staring into yours so… unbothered, it feels as if those knives are turned onto you instead. You’re not quick enough to get rid of that tiny hint of guilt slithering across your features.

“Why do you hate me?” Caleb asks again, voice still calm like it’s the most unremarkable question ever. He could have asked you about the weather with that tone.

“Because you’re an asshole.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“Seriously? I already gave you an answer. Was I not clear the first time?” That guilt in your stomach starts growing, festering. There’s something in your mind pushing through but you try to fight it off, not liking the thought of being faced with those emotions. You’ve worked too hard to push them away.

“Just answer the question. Why do you hate me?” Caleb sees you struggle. Your first answers where in the blink of an eye, a defence mechanism slipping into place. That works, for a while, until it doesn’t, until you start questioning it and give yourself a moment to think.

“Because…” Because you’re a coward. Because you run from your problems. Because you leave other people to swipe up the mess for you. Because you’re a monster to blame for the pain of others. Because you’re to blame for your own pain. Because you couldn’t save them. Because. Because. Because. Those are not reasons you hate Caleb. You take in a sharp breath, clenching your jaw in anger, nose scrunching holding at bay the curses from passing your lips and the threat of all your emotions from spilling out like a breaking dam.

“Why do you hate me?” The words now, do not sound void of emotion, but instead are filled with a warmth and pity. Damn him! Damn him to the hells and abyss! When you don’t answer he repeats it again. Caleb gives you amicable time to answer, leaving a long silence to give your mind the time and space to think for itself, analyse and process and you hate every second of it because you can’t stop it. The cracks in the walls you’ve tried to hard to build become more apparent by the second. He asks again.

“I don’t bloody hate you!” You shout, pretty sure you may just have woken up the entire floor. The silence after the words leave your lips is deafening.

“Then what do you hate about me that causes you to act the way you do?” Your hands clench back into fists, your nails pressing down again in the still tender skin from but minutes ago. You don’t want to say it. You really don’t but that pain raging through your body wants to get out and you feel the floodgates opening inch by inch despite your efforts to fight it. Then there’s that voice in the back of your mind; maybe speaking the unspoken will give you some peace.

“I don’t hate you! I just hate what your remind me of. It’s like you’re here to personally torture me so please just leave me alone to suffer, get over it and move on.” You don’t want to remember the last time you pleaded for something, and had hoped to never plead for anything again yet here you are.

“I am going to give you a choice and I’ll only offer it once, so listen very carefully.” You’ve never seen Caleb look so intense, so genuine, and so determined. You can’t do anything but listen so you nod, signalling him to continue and that you’re paying attention to his every word and not to twist them for your own amusement for once. Whatever previous relation, or rather lack thereof you’ve had is gone now. There’s only you two, in a place of vulnerability and without judgement.

“You’ve got two options. One; you tell me to piss off, like you usually do. I’ll go back to bed, back to sleep and leave you alone. We will never speak of this again, never mention this and go our separate ways. We will remain cordial when interacting and won’t let our own grievances get in the way of the others.” You take in the words, nodding to confirm you understand.

“Or two; you and I are going to talk. You are going to tell me what you wish, and can tell me provided it’s the truth and I will listen. If you wish to tell me your life story I will listen. If you wish to tell me all your troubles I will listen. If you wish to share your pain, I will listen. And know that I will help you if you’ll allow me to. Because if you keep doing this on your own, let the guilt and grief and pain swallow you whole, I know exactly where it will lead. Do not allow it to be your undoing, or turn you into a person beyond your recognition.” Midway through his offer your eyes have closed and your brow furrows. You bit your lip and that combined with the movement of your eyes behind your eyelids are the only indication to Caleb you’re still listening to him.

Caleb gives you time. He doesn’t expect an answer right away. That’s not how this works but he does study you, attempting to get an inkling of what’s going through your mind. He feels warmth wrap around his wrist, glancing down to notice your fingers have wrapped around it and hold on tightly. You’re holding onto a lifeline and he knows it.

“Why?” Your, words a pained choke, you don’t dare open your eyes, don’t trust the look in Caleb’s eyes to tear down what last defences you had up and turning you into even more of a broken mess.

“Because despite what people might have you believe, there is still good in this world.” You’re unable to stifle a sob, feeling a tear slide down your cheek.

“I’ve not known much kindness in my life but I feel confident in saying this is the kindest thing anyone has ever offered me. It’s why my pervious actions and words towards you make me feel like an absolute ass even more. I hope you find it in yourself to forgive me.” You release Caleb’s wrist, feeling grounded once more despite the buzzing in your head and twiddle with your fingers awaiting a response, the tense air slowly lifting as you sit in peace and silence.

You nod, wiping at the corners of your eyes before you open them, a bit more red and puffy than they were before you entered the room. You finally look at the wizard and take in a deep breath before nodding again. If it were anyone else, any other moment you might have said no. You’d even have laughed at whoever tried this emotional shit on you. But it’s time. You’re not getting any better nor can you repress everything forever. It’s time to face some of these troubles head on. Luckily you won’t have to do it on your own. It will take time and effort and it’s going to hurt like hell but it has to be done. You have to move on and learn how to live. You owe it to yourself, if not the people you’ve left behind.

“Now this doesn’t mean we’re going to be best friends from now on. You’re still an asshole and so am I so don’t think I’ll let you off easy for your comments and the trouble you cause.” The corner of Caleb’s lips turns up slightly as he speaks and you mimic his expression.

“I don’t think anyone else could handle it, so I’m sorry to disappoint but you’re definitely stuck with me, Widogast.” You muster a smile, exhausted. It’s mutually understood the conversation as per your agreement won’t happen right here, right now but instead when you’re both ready. For now, at least you won’t pretend to hate each other anymore and start over.

“Hey, Caleb?” You ask.

“Yes?” He answers but before he knows it your arms wrap around him and pull him into your embrace. Caleb’s form goes rigid shocked by not only the gesture but by the physical touch itself. After a good few moments he finds himself ease just a little, enough to return the embrace lightly.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

#critical role x reader #critrole x reader #mighty nein x reader #caleb widogast x reader #caleb x reader

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after-witch · 3 years

Text

Title: You Would Cry Too (If It Happened to You) [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader]

Title: You Would Cry Too (If It Happened to You) [Yandere Shigaraki x Reader] [It’s My Party Part 2]

Synopsis: Shigaraki won’t let you go to the bathroom.

For request for a Part 2 of ‘It’s My Party (I’ll Cry If I Want To’)

Word Count: 2100-ish

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, graphic descriptions of eating disorder thoughts & eating disorder behavior

Shigaraki has planted himself firmly in front of the bathroom door, legs crossed, Nintendo Switch in his hand. His back is hunched over and the screen illuminates his face with an artificial glow in the dimly lit bedroom you’d been trapped in for weeks.

You stand awkwardly in front of him, but if he notices your presence, he doesn’t say anything. Finally, you clear your throat and speak up.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

He doesn’t look up at you when he answers, bluntly.

“No.”

You clench your fingers and your toes in an effort to create and release tension, to avoid lashing out. You learned, very quickly, that lashing out only made him lash out, and his man tantrums were something you didn’t want to deal with. At least not right now. Not with your stomach feeling distended and bloated. Not with all the food you’d just shoveled into your mouth. Not with the steady hum of primal thoughts ringing in your head, wanting it out--needing it out, needing it out now.

He’d just left for a while, an hour maybe--he normally refused to leave around meal time (for reasons he shared in explicit detail, to your utter discomfort) but after receiving a dozen missed calls from one of his conspirators, he’d finally answered it and begrudgingly agreed to leave. He said he’d be right back.

You don’t know why you did it. You hadn’t binged and purged since you were kidnapped. The anxiety and fear of what he might to do to you overrode everything else in your system, overrode the need to be full and then empty, rinse, repeat. But it’s been weeks. Maybe more? No heroes are going to save you, that’s what he says, and you believe it. Who would want to look for someone like you, anyway?

And so after he left, the thought crept in. Why not eat? And eat--and eat? You held off for a while, hugging your knees and keeping yourself firmly planted on the mattress; staring right at the mini fridge he’d shoved in the corner of the bedroom.

It was like a switch, when you decided. A switch you are all too familiar with pressing. You calmly got up, opened the fridge, and pulled out all the leftovers (including, you admit, some takeout that was teetering on the edge of still-edible) stuffed inside. Plus a few cans of soda, for good measure. You ate almost all the leftovers, mechanically; it was like riding a bike after avoiding it for the summer, really, old habits hard-wired into your brain from years of use.

You finished just in time to push the trash into the stray garbage bag you’d convinced him to keep in his room. He showed up before you could get rid of anything in your stomach, took a long, slow look at you, then planted himself in front of the bathroom. Did he know? Or was he just being weird again?

And so, your current predicament: Shigaraki, planted between you and the toilet that you desperately needed.

“Why can’t I go to the bathroom?” You keep your voice neutral, low, slightly annoyed. Nonchalant. You want him to feel like he’s ridiculous for denying you access to the toilet.

Again, he keeps his eyes glued to the screen.

“You know why. I’m not stupid.”

“I have to pee,” you argue, whining, shifting on one leg as if you’re trying to keep it in.

He shrugs one shoulder up and down. “Piss in a cup. I won’t look.”

You sigh, then. “Fine. I have to… you know…”

He raises an eyebrow without glancing up.

You pretend to be exasperated, you pretend to be embarrassed. “You know. The other thing. Poop,” you whisper, dragging the word out as if he’s dragged it out of you like a terrible secret.

He scratches at his lip with his thumb and you fight back a wince. When he gets too upset, he scratches. He was bleeding like hell the night he’d kidnapped you. It was from, as he told you later while petting your hair--all the while ignoring your trembling--getting upset from watching you throw up in the bathroom.

But what you did in the bathroom sure as hell wasn’t anyone’s business but your own, though you’d been too frightened then (and now) to say so.

He sets the Switch down and you think for a moment that you’ve won. He stands up, and your stomach flips at the thought of victory; you wonder if you’ll even have to try very hard to get everything back up. But instead of moving, he leans back against the door and props his foot on it. His chapped lips are set in a grim line, and he folds his arms across his chest. A mockery of a casual pose.

“You’ll try to puke,” he says, practically spitting out the last word.

You feel your cheeks growing hot. You hate how blunt he is about it.

“Seriously? I just have to go to the bathroom.” The food in your stomach feels impossibly heavy. How much longer will it sit there, undigested, before it makes its way out of your stomach and out of your reach.

“I know you just…” He murmurs, and waves his hand haphazardly towards the garbage, then brings his fingers up and scratches, again, this time a hard line on his neck that is sure to bleed if he digs in one more time. “The bag wasn’t full before.”

You can feel humiliation, tight and fluttering, blooming across your entire body. No one is supposed to know, no one is supposed to see what you do. But what choice did you have, trapped in some villain’s dirty bedroom? But the fact that he knows just how much you ate makes you feel even more disgusting.

“Let me go to the bathroom.” You cross your arms.

“You’re not fat,” he says quickly, awkwardly. He’s staring off to the side, refusing to meet your eyes, and you wonder if he’s embarrassed. “You’re really… pretty.” He murmurs, low, almost reverential--and you swear you can see pink on his cheeks. You wouldn’t know how to process “a highly dangerous villain calling you pretty” if you wanted to, so you don’t bother.

“It’s not about weight,” you instantly whisper, throat tight with embarrassment. It is--but it isn’t. Not really. Not deep down. But you don’t want to explain that to anyone, and certainly not to some villain who kidnapped you and is currently standing in between you and a rush of vomit-based endorphins.

He thunks his back on the bathroom door. Petulant, slightly pissed now. “Whatever. I’m not letting you puke in the bathroom.”

The thought of keeping everything you just inhaled inside, the thought of it staying with you, growing on you, thick and sticky and heavy, is too much to handle. It reminds you of how helpless you are. And you are helpless, here, in this bedroom, with a villain who could kill you--if he’s merciful, kill you--with a firm touch of his fingers. You’ll never get out of this, not on your own. And no hero is coming to rescue a literal nobody civilian with no friends or family who cares about her, no one to miss her. You can’t even get into the bathroom to vomit, much less find a way to escape.

He’s staring at you, eyes widened, and you realize you’re feeling hot. You’re breathing heavy, erratic. Are you having a panic attack? A heart attack? Years of strain and stress finally coming to bitter end? You dig your nails into your palm and it hurts, and that’s good, maybe you’ll bleed now, but suddenly the wind is knocked out of you and you’re flat on your back, body bouncing slightly from its weight on the mattress.

He pushed you--he pushed you down. His hands, finger up, are pinning yours firmly against the mattress, your palms flat and stinging from where your nails went in hard; your breathing is gradually returning to normal and you stare up at him, face itching from his hair dangling above you while he stares down with an unreadable expression.

“Stop it,” he hisses. “Just… stop hurting yourself. You’re being stupid.”

Your eyes drift towards his neck, towards the scars and thin line that threatens to bleed red with another good scratch.

The words leave your mouth before you can even think them. “And you’re being a hypocrite.”

He scoffs, and you cringe at a bit of spittle that flies onto your cheek. “That’s different.”

It’s your turn to scoff, and the ludicrousness of the situation combined with the uncomfortable fullness in your stomach has brought back your ability to snark, apparently. “No, it’s really not. I puke, you scratch. Wow, we’re really perfect for each other, huh? No wonder you couldn’t resist kidnapping me!”

“Stop being so damn difficult,” he huffs. “I’m helping you and you’re being a brat.”

Your voice is harsh, snapping, as you spit back, “If you want to help me, then let me go to the bathroom and stick my fingers down my throat until I puke my guts out.”

His eyes widen and you stare at each other in uncomfortable silence. You feel nervous sweat dampening your back. You feel terrible. You’ve felt terrible for a long time, even before you were kidnapped. You just want to feel.. okay... for a few minutes, just a few minutes at least.

“I really want to throw up,” you whisper, all snark replaced with softness. Pleading. “It makes me feel better, okay? I just want to feel better for a little while.” You feel tears beginning to prick at your eyes but you can’t wipe them away.

He lifts one of the hands pinning your wrists and brings it up to your cheek. Your heartbeat quickens in fear--despite mantra thoughts of he won’t, he won’t, he said he wouldn’t hurt you like that--as he gently strokes your cheek, then moves up to pet your hair. It would feel nice... if you weren’t kidnapped.

“I’ll make you feel better, you don’t have to do that.”

He continues to stroke your hair, soft and soothing in its intention, until the storm seems to pass.

Finally, he speaks up: “If I get off you, will you try to get to the bathroom?”

“Yes,” you admit, blunt and open. “If the food’s still in my stomach, I’m going to try to puke it out.” You look away, aware of the strangeness of talking about it as a matter-of-fact. “If you didn’t jump on me, I’d probably just have puked it into the garbage bag.”

“How long does that take to get out of your stomach?”

You’re half-tempted to him to Google it, but you bite back your response, not wanting his calmer mood to go away anytime soon. “Um… I think like… 2 hours?”

He sighs, and slumps down on you, his weight heavy and warm and keeping you in place. He reaches for the PS4 controller he’d left on the floor and, as afterthought, grabs the second one before dropping it into your now freed palm.

“Hope you don’t suck at fighting games.”

#yandere shigaraki #yandere shigaraki tomura #shigaraki x reader #yandere #yander x reader #afterwitch writes #shigaraki cockblocking eating disorder behavior was not on my writing bingo card #but I like it

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embrassemoi · 3 years

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No Body, No Crime ✁ 1

AU - Y/N L/N is a second-year law student attending Stanford and studying under Professor Aaron Hotchner. Along with his associate attorneys, Ms. L/N is alongside some of the most ambitious and cutthroat law students in the nation. However, her life gets flipped upside down as she’s thrust into a life of murder, sex and lies.

Main Pairing: Spencer Reid x [F]Reader

Content — Mature themes, blood, major and minor character death, violence, angst, triggering themes, bad coping mechanisms, drugs, mental health shit, alcoholism, lots of smut, language, fluff, mystery, thriller, mentions of cheating, canonical typical themes , dark academia vibes, explicit content - read with caution

DISCLAIMER: This story will contain MATURE content. It will include themes such as smut, violence, etc (see content). If you are not 18+ and unable to handle such themes, respectfully, please exit this story. It is not my intention to make readers uncomfortable or trigger them in any way. If you continue to read the story despite the multiple warnings, I am not responsible for any triggers that may pop up.

Also, based off this blurb!

I am also not a law student, so there is bound to be misinformation!

【 ao3 | Masterlist | Playlist 】

CHAPTER 1: Death and All His Friends

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Blood, she thinks, you never really know how much blood is in a person. Logically, she did know; she had to learn how many pints there were in the human body from med school and the mass amount of profile study cases. From looking at crime scenes, reading textbooks, medical journals and fake charts; blood has never bothered her, if anything, she got used to seeing and being around it.

There are roughly about ten gallons of blood in the average adult, but typically, losing more than forty percent will result in death. That was about two thousand millilitres.

But, you never realize just how much blood a person can hold, not until a human is slaughtered like an animal, eyes glossed over, body turned cold and stiff — splayed out in front of you. It seems like a lot more than what was described.

There’s a saying, bleed like a pig. Well, she understood what it meant now.

God, she sounded like Spencer.

“What are we going to do with the body?”

“Let’s leave it. We need to go back and clean!”

“No, let’s bury it.”

A chuckle of utter disbelief forces its way out of Derek’s mouth in a rush. It’s both strained and ragged and sounds as if he’s about to burst into tears, but the shock and anger seem to immerse deep in his bones and control his actions. His head shakes subconsciously, “You’re — you’re fucking joking, right? It’s the middle of winter! Tell me how the fuck we’re going to bury a body when the soil’s hard?!”

There’s a collective panicked sigh that goes through the group as the implications finally start to settle in.

“Be any louder!” Emily half-shouts. She paces back and forth, the freshly fallen snow crunches under her shoes as they leave footprints in their wake. Her hands make extravagant hand movements, almost in an attempt to speak with her actions. But, the only thing that has Y/N somewhat grounded is the rusty blood on Emily’s hands. The stark contrast of her pale skin against the deep red does nothing but make bile rush to her throat.

“The body is what gets us caught!” JJ cuts in through her half-sobs.

“The one time it snows in California! Since when do we get snow?!”

Sticky, cold, dry, flakey blood. It brings too much attention to the blood painting her body in a cruel, evil painting. Y/N lifts a shaky hand as she turns to observe the way the pads of her fingers were stained red. Underneath her fingernails, she can see the blood caking, dried underneath and can feel the heavy liquid travelling up her sleeve.

Her fingers pressed together before a hand shoots up, trying to pick off the blood in a hasty attempt.

Everything was uncomfortable — too uncomfortable and it was sticky and disgusting and there was too much happening. Her brain was overstimulated and all she wanted to do was yell or cry or strip herself clean from these heavy clothes, hiding the blood drenching her underneath. A hand went to claw at the fabric — she needed to breathe — she needed air and it was too tight and —

The falling snow had finally come to a stop, the ground becomes muddy, wet snow being tracked all around but aside from that, it’s dry out. Panic is slow seep within her body, only just registering the dull, prickling ache that travels up the side of her right arm. Not to mention the pounding in her skull felt like someone had taken a power tool, drilling a burl hole into the side of her head in hopes of creating a make-shift lobotomy. On instinct, her hand reaches up to her temples, massaging small circles in hopes to find relief.

But then she catches sight of her hand again from her peripheral vision, or rather, it’s as if she can feel it laminating her skin. Blood.

Now there must be smeared streaks of dried blood coating her face. Fuck, now she really feels like throwing up.

A soft wail can be heard in the background somewhere, but it sounds distant and underwater. She thinks it’s JJ. Her high-pitched cries are loud and she thinks that’s Derek’s voice yelling at her and god… it only amplifies her headache.

She needed an aspirin, Advil — maybe Spencer had some.

Her mind wanders back to the group. Emily… Emily — she’s — Y/N doesn’t know where Emily went actually. She could have sworn she was by the trees…

She continued to pick at her skin absentmindedly, and now she couldn’t tell where her blood started and the one that was sprayed onto her ended.

And Spencer, he’s pacing and hadn’t muttered a word since they left Hotch’s house. His body language is closed off, his hand rubbing up and down his arms in either a self-soothing method or because it’s cold out. She assumes it’s the former.

The one time — the one fucking time the asshole is supposed to be smart, his IQ magically drops below zero.

Everyone is arguing and they all hear the faint cheers, laughter, early fireworks and music blaring in the background. The sound of the bonfire crackles in the distance and all she can do is drown it out. She was supposed to be having fun. She should’ve been visiting home, or maybe studying of fucking Spencer, not wearing shoes twice her size, gloves to cover up her fingerprints; not trying to come up with an alibi and there definitely shouldn’t be someone else’s blood clinging to her. She should’ve been anywhere but here. It’s too much.

Lightheaded, Y/N stumbles backwards, supporting herself against a nearby tree. The shadows and black coat camouflaged her, engulfing her into the night and she feels an odd sense of comfort by it. But, it does anything but calms her down as her chest begins to rise rapidly up and down.

Oh god, oh shit, shit, shit! They’re all fucked — she’s fucked. Her DNA is all over the crime scene. The crime scene is on her and probably under the body’s fingernails. There was no way she was getting out of this. It wasn’t even her fault and look where she is.

She should’ve listened to her Grandparents; don’t go to law school, it’ll turn her into something she’s not. Y/N smiles twistedly thinking about it, they were right.

You can’t get away with murder.

Shit, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

“We need to stop wasting time,” Emily announces, appearing remarkably calm.

“W-we should call the police,” Y/N mumbles in a shaky voice. Her voice hitches and she sucks in a cry.

All of their heads, besides Spencer’s, whip over to her; she’s on the verge of breaking — possibly even running off and going straight to the local police station. Her phone suddenly feels heavy in her pocket.

“What we’re not going to do is that! Do you want to spend the rest of your life in jail?!” Derek exclaims. His mouth goes to open again before he suddenly halts, looking over to Spencer and shouting. “Ayo, kid-fucking-genius, could you, I don’t know — think?!”

The yelling makes her shrink in on herself. Yes, call the police, turn yourself in. Obstruction of justice; tampering with evidence, manslaughter, attempting to hide a body, invasion of privacy, possible perjury — all this leads to incarceration and more time. Maybe she could even get a deal, say that she was in shock, dealing with PTSD. Immunity! Maybe she could strike herself and Spencer an immunity deal.

God — they killed her. They murdered someone.

Immense guilt bubbles its way through her before she turns to gag on air. Her hands clutches her stomach as she heaves, distantly hearing the arguing background.

“— about Hotch?”

“What about him? He’s going to put us in jail himself. If we’re lucky, he’ll kill us so we can skip a life sentence!”

JJ cries louder. God was she fucking annoying.

“He doesn’t give two shits about her —” “Could everyone just stop for a fucking moment,” a new, irritated voice cuts in. It sounds like it’s been pushed through gritted teeth, muddled by straining and holding back tears. It’s Spencer.

His eyes shut, the palm of his hands pressed harshly on them before rubbing them hard. But, they travel up to his forehead and through his hair, pulling down so hard that Y/N would be surprised if he didn’t already lose a chunk. But within a swift motion, he crouches to the ground in a fetal-like position; the balls of his feet roll back and forth, making his entire body bounce in small rhythms.

He’s having a panic attack, judging by the way his breathing cuts in and out in large volumes, hyperventilation bound to happen soon.

The entire group stays silent before Derek has enough. He walks up to Spencer, a hand clutching his jacket which forces him to stare straight into his eyes.

“Don’t treat him like that,” Emily tries to cut in.

“If you don’t give us something good within the next few seconds, you better pray to god —”

With newfound determination, Spencer meets his eyes with a fiery look, his chest puffed out a bit and his voice is even.

“We burn it.”

━━━━━━━━━༻✈︎༺━━━━━━━━━

Friday, August 29th, 2003

Palo Alto, California. Apartment 7

Four months before

A clanging sound reverberates throughout the empty hallway for the third time within the last five minutes. Her keys.

An annoyed sigh involuntarily leaves her lips as she struggles to lift the stacks of heavy boxes in her arms. Her attention was drawn to a bulletin board near her door. A missing person’s photo was plastered, marked with an eye-catching red border. Printed underneath a photo of a man in bold letters: George Floyet, twenty-five-year-old student at Palo Alto University. Last seen on July 30th, 2003.

When Y/N L/N was fourteen, she vaguely remembered people asking her where she saw herself in the next ten years. Now standing outside her newly rented apartment, sweating as she juggled a stack of large boxes without tripping — well, she certainly hadn’t thought this.

Life had many ups and downs, as cliche as that sounded. She hadn’t expected to graduate university with an English and Human Physiology degree, nor had she expected into medical school before ultimately deciding to take the LSATs, pursuing a career in law.

Truly, had Y/N used one word to describe her career ambitions at the moment, she’d say she’s pretty fucked and clueless. Although, she’d liked to consider herself fairly motivated, resilient, perhaps even strong-willed and quick on her feet. Scratch that, if anything, the one thing she did pride herself on was her ability to compose herself quickly and the want to overcome fear. It was a motto, of sorts, which she’d been sticking close to: going with the flow.

If anything, those were the attributes that built the foundation of what anyone needed to become a successful lawyer. Yes, that made her situation sound a lot less… pathetic.

But certainly, standing in the middle of a corridor in a shitty apartment with walls too thin to save money on rent, she’d consider herself pretty pathetic.

Oh, the joys of moving.

Just as she felt one of the boxes tipping, the sound of shuffling fills the hallway. A pair of large pale hands come out of nowhere, swiftly catching the stacked cardboard boxes with ease.

When she looked up, she hadn’t quite caught a look at the man in front of her as he bent down to pick up her keys. But when he finally stood straight, eyes locking, she took note of his features

He was tall, much taller than herself and dressed in black slacks and a light lilac dress shirt which was pushed up by the sleeves. He was young, probably the same age as her or younger. He was wide-eyed, almost doe-like and wore a nervous yet seemingly gentle expression.

“Hello,” said the stranger. His hair was rumpled as if he’d just woken up as darken eyebags accentuated his face. His face was sharp, features dark — but in a soft sharp way that made the shape of his nose and lips the most noticeable. Pink lips, a tired look, pretty face.

This stranger was friendly and very attractive. That was her first impression of him.

“Hi,” she replied, a bit breathless from the weight of juggling the boxes. But still, she smiled and her head tilted to the side slightly.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were my new neighbour, I hope you don’t mind me helping, you looked like you needed it,” he says nervously, his extra free hand goes back to rub the back of his neck.

Y/N’s eyes shoot over to the door at the end of the hallway, conveniently next to hers: apartment 8. He must've heard the banging against the doors and walls, and suddenly, she felt guilty. She must’ve woken him up.

“Haha, yeah! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so loud.”

“No! It’s fine.”

Now, both stand there a bit awkwardly before she coughs, which has him nodding and fumbling with her keys in his hand, “Er — I have a couple of minutes before I leave for work, do you still need help?”

“Right, yes!”

Y/N hands him over her other box, her hand taking the keys back as she clicks open her door. The smell of cleaning products filled her nose along with the smell of old books. It’s spacious, considering what she’s paying for it. It’s a flat, aside from the bathroom and kitchen and there’s a small balcony that’s connected with another set of railings outside. The view of green trees and flowers could be seen and suddenly, Y/N considers herself lucky when she’s realized the place she’s snagged.

The man trails behind her, setting the boxes down on the kitchen counter before dusting off any non-existent lint off his pants. His eyes quickly scan the area, in an analytical fashion.

He clears his throat, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

She nods too, walking back up to her door to lead him out. “Likewise, neighbour.”

This time, a real smile crosses his face before looking down sheepishly, a small tint covering his cheeks. “Please, I’m Doctor Reid — but please, call me Spencer.”

“Doctor?” Her face lights up with curiosity. This man looks as young as her, younger — and she’s only twenty-four.

“Oh, I don’t practice medicine,” he quickly adds. His hands go to fiddle with each other, “I have three PhDs and an IQ of 187,” he explains. However, it’s not in a blatantly rude manner — like he’s trying to flaunt it. If anything, he looks embarrassed. His head drops to look down at his shoes, trying to make himself appear smaller, seeming uncomfortable. But like she said, Y/N likes to believe she’s quick on her feet.

“Well then, Doctor,” she teases, which has him going a deeper shade of pink, “I’m Y/N L/N, I have no PhDs, I used to practice medicine and I have an IQ of — probably a hundred or less.

At this, Spencer visibly relaxes as a deep chuckle makes its way out. He nods again, making his way out the door and does a small wave before disappearing back into his apartment. Y/N leaves her door open, but her back is faced towards it as she hears his door click back open and she feels the vibrations of his door closing before the tapping of his feet becomes more and more distant.

There are a dozen other boxes she ends up hauling in, but she’s noticed that Spencer must have somehow carried a few of the boxes to the top of the stairs rather than just leaving them in the lobby.

As she wipes down the surfaces, music blasting through her earbuds before unboxing her new bed frame, a smirk crosses her face; cheap rent, enrolled at one of the top law schools in the country, has enough money saved for the next few months and a cute, tall, polite and a fucking doctor that just so happens to be her neighbour — damn, Y/N doesn’t mind this at all.

【 Next Chapter 】

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equestrianwritingsstuff · 3 years

Note

Hey! I just read the last part of the BTHB and I can't get enough of it!! So, if you'd like, for BTHB, is it okay that after supervillain gets all healed up, he leaves. Then when the hero agency gets to know that hero saved him, they want to punish her/execute her by death? And supervillain saves her? But she's still too injured to do just anything

And, if you're not comfortable with this, feel free to ignore!

Thank you for the ask! I changed it up a bit, just a smidge, like a little bit because I think it would make it more dramatic, but not too much. Hope you enjoy!

And this got long... so I apologize. I still don't have the ability to put a readmore.

Muddy Rain Part 4

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 ... if you guys like this series, I will have to make a masterlist for it soon!

@shydragonrider

Warnings: (i made two lists, one for Hero and one for Supervillain for those who aren't comfortable with lady whumpees) alcohol mention, broken bones mention, attempted murder,

Supervillain: chloroformed, drugged state of mind, limping, not healing, past trauma, memories of torture, low self-esteem, shocked by stun gun, tranquilized

Hero: restrained, kidnapped, shocked by stun gun, bleeding, knife wounds, unconsciousness, manhandled

Hero awoke slowly, finding her arms wrapped protectively around her ward. She sighed, looking down at his slowly breathing figure in the darkness. She didn't know if he would ever get better.

Six months later...

"Hero?!" Supervillain called from the other room. "Breakfast is ready!"

Hero smiled, biting her lip as she set down her book, and walked into the horrible smelling kitchen. She wrinkled her noise, taking in the state of her kitchen. The windows were opened with tiny fans blowing the thick, smokey air out of the hot room. Egg yolks and melted butter practically painted the counters with their yellowness. Strawberry juice was splattered across the white sink with at least ten kitchen knives tossed carelessly into a pile, waiting to be washed.

The waffle iron, coated in batter, was steaming hot and did not look like it was properly doused in canola oil.

But, amongst the mess, Supervillain beamed over two plates of charcoal colored waffles and cut up strawberries.

"Why thank you," Hero said and tried to grab her own plate, but Supervillain ripped it out of her reach.

"I got it," he said, smiling a wavering smile. Almost instinctively, Hero looked away, but knowing curiosity got the better of her.

She glanced back at Supervillain, trying to avoid looking at his shaking arm- the bad one, the one with the broken clavicle- as he carried both plates to the coffee table in the livingroom. She tried not to take much note of his funny gait either- the way his knees seemed to buckle as he walked, completely devoid of strength.

She tried not to look because of how hard Supervillain tried. How he tried to cook meals for Hero and how he dealt with jobs that he didn't necessarily enjoy- all to support Hero for all she did. He worked as a graphic designer, playing around with computers, when he would've rather been a baseball coach or an engineer.

"Thank you for breakfast," Hero said, sticking her fork in the waffle and eating it like a popsicle, trying her hardest not to grimace as her tongue was temporarily numbed by a clump of baking powder.

Supervillain blushed, his still pale cheeks turning rosy in color, as he winced at the state of his own plate.

"I could be better," he whispered, more to himself than anyone, so Hero ignored his obvious show of self negativity.

They remained in silence until a loud knocking interrupted them. Hero looked up, heart pounding, as a foreboding feeling rose in her gut. Supervillain half stood up, using his hand to balance his shaking body, but Hero gently pushed him back down.

"I got it," she told him softly and walked over to the door. Her hand hovered over the knob for a moment before she turned it and-

She was thrown backwards onto the ground and before she knew it, she was pressed against someone's stomach, arms pinned.

"Let me go!" She growled, kicking and stepping at her attacker's feet, but someone else came and quickly zipped her ankles up with cable ties.

"Hey!" She cried, using momentum to thrust herself forward. Only, she had no balance with her newly tied ankles and fell to the ground.

Her wrists were tied next and she was lifted to her feet, but suddenly, her attacker froze, giving her time to assess the situation.

There were five of them, masked. One held a bag a cable ties, the others were completely empty-handed, and one was manhandling Hero.

"Let her go, now!" Came Supervillain's familiar voice, though this time taut with rage and fury, but also a hint of fear.

She didn't see it, but felt it. The one holding her nodded and the other four rushed towards Supervillain. One grabbed a bottle of something most likely nasty and dumped it over a rag. Hero's heart jumped. No, no, no, no, no...

Her attacker spun her around, kicking in her knees to make her sit on the floor. She looked up and saw Supervillain with a gun in his hand.

"Knock him out," her attacker ordered. His voice, frighteningly familiar.

"No!" Hero screeched. "Stop! I will do what you want, just don't touch him, please."

Her hair was grabbed, head yanked back.

"I know you will, because if you don't, he will die and you know it," the man snarled. "But he will still fight for you, no matter our terms of agreement."

The four masked strangers attacked Supervillain, pushing him to a sitting position on the floor. He struggled, but only for a moment before a drenched rag was stuffed into his face.

"No," Hero whimpered, hardly able to watch, but her attacker held her head up to watch the whole event.

After a few minutes, Supervillain's frantic struggles turned into sporadic twitches as his body screamed for air.

"Stop," Hero said, voice thick with tears and face wet with them. "You'll kill him." She said the last bit in a whimpering tone.

"Who cares, he'll be out of the way."

Supervillain sunk into the stranger's arm, not yet unconscious. For a moment he hung there, head lolling in the rag and the hand holding it. Then, he looked up at Hero, his gaze faraway and glassy, before his eyes rolled into his head and he collapsed to the ground.

"Please," Hero begged. "At least bring him to the couch, please. He-" She stopped, not wanting to spill Supervillain's weaknesses, but it already seemed that all was lost. "He has a hard time standing up when he wakes and the drugs won't make it easy. Just, please." She melted into her attacker's arms, crying.

"Bring him to the couch," her attacker conceded after a moment’s hesitation. Two men each grabbed an arm. Hero stiffened when one cruelly pulled on his bad one. They dragged him to the couch, his head rolling uselessly on his chest.

"As for you," her attacker spoke. He stood up, walked in front of Hero, and ripped off his mask. Hero's body gave a nervous twitch when she recognized her colleague, Superhero.

"You are going to come with us," he finished, grabbed Hero and dragged her out of the house.

《~~》

Supervillain came to rather slowly, whimpering and crying out in pain as his head banged ruthlessly around. A dense feeling of nausea rose in his throat as the room, when he managed to open his eyes, spun.

For a moment of incoherence, he believed that he was hurt again, laying half-consious on Hero's bed as she gingerly cared for him.

But, as his senses returned, he realized that her touches were vacant and his legs weren't wrapped in the immobilizing padding.

Only then did he muster the willpower to completely open his eyes and draw his memories towards any prior events. Though, he found that if there were any, they were distant and vague- much like his memories of the month in which he hardly woke up, unless for necessities like medicine or food.

He became aware of his breathing, and then the placement of his body. Arms were strewn all over the place as if he had no control where they ended up. He flinched as a few moments of recollection came over him. Panic, rush, and the feeling of many hands on him.

His nose and mouth stung painfully, though he knew he didn't have a cold or a sniffle or anything. Not even allergies.

Then it hit him. His memories. Hero being restrained with cable ties, grabbing the gun, the rag over his mouth, lungs burning, Hero's screams, then nothing. Nothing at all.

He was drugged.

He suddenly pushed himself to his hands, only for them to crumble under his weight as an intense feeling of lightheadedness overwhelmed him. He groaned, hands flailing as they tried to clutch at his rollercoaster for a head.

He had to get up. Hero was in danger.

He swung his legs over the side of the choice, only for them to go extremely weak and splay out from underneath him. He let out a sob, head pounding painfully.

Get up.

He used his arms as leverage to shove himself up, then stumbled towards the wall, leaning against it heavily. He took in a shuddering, deep breath, lips pressed into the cold material.

He didn't know how long it took, or exactly remembered it either, but eventually he found himself slumped over Hero's motorcycle. He felt like he was going to throw up and then collapse.

But he couldn't, had to save Hero.

He swung his leg over the seat, ignoring the agonizing grinding of his still-healing bones, and sat there, waiting for the dizziness to fade.

His vision cleared and he turned the vehicle on. Revving it up, he drove sloppily out of the driveway.

He recognized the voices of the men who came. Heroes, particularly the gang that tortured him all those months ago. Supervillain's thoughts drifted for a moment, but then he found himself veering off the road.

"Snap back into it," he whispered to himself, voice hoarse. He concentrated on the road the best he could, but the way the yellow lines melted into each other was very confusing.

Okay, think, think, think, he willed himself, gripping the handles until his knuckles went white. The garage, a mechanic's garage, where he was kept at was on the far side of town. He knew it because that was where Villain worked, and Villain...

No, stop. He couldn't go that route, but his drugged mind was still traveling down that path. The sledgehammer, food just inches from his reach, the utter helplessness...

A car honked, loud and earsplitting. Supervillain sighed, he had to keep his thoughts under control. So he blocked all thinking and paid attention to the way the road melted under the motorcycle's tires.

Before he knew it, he was pulling up to the familiar building. Old, broken cars guarded the entrance to where his torture took place and with that knowledge, he went there, knowing that was where Hero was.

He crept through the cars, legs throbbing and moving stiffly. Every so often he would stop, grab at a car, and catch his breath. He was so useless, so, so useless.

Don't think that way, you have a job, you make money, you support Hero...

He stood up straighter and walked into the garage, fear clutching his chest. In there was a world of pain- something Supervillain wanted to forget.

For Hero, he would do anything. She saved his life.

Supervillain slid his hand over the doorknob, freezing as he heard the ringing of the bells- a sound that used to bring him such hope. A hope that someone would see him, or care enough about him to save him.

"Be there in a minute!" Came a familiar yowl. Supervillain started backwards, panic rising in his throat as anticipation clawed at his chest. The woman that spoke was not one of the people who broke in. No, she was more sophisticated than that. She was...

Villain.

Supervillain looked at the tall lady in front of him, trying not to glance at her heels- oh the memories of those steel prods digging into his already gnarled flesh.

"Hey honey," Villain spoke sauntering over. Supervillain slid down onto the floor, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear, just as Villain's cold hand ran through his hair. He stiffened, muscles tensing.

"It has been a while. Want some tea to drink as we catch up?" Her petting increased, her fingers pulling at the strands.

Supervillain risked it and shook his head. "I-uh," he stammered. Gosh, he was scared. So scared. Him, the greatest supervillain in the city, was scared to the point of trembling. Maybe he would blame it on the chloroform, but deep down he knew that was a lie.

Oh how he wished he was home, trying and failing to make a batch of muffins.

"What was that, dear?" Villain murmured.

"Where's Hero?" He rasped, instantly cowering in fear.

"Oh Hero? That little bastard? Oh yeah, she's currently bleeding out at an alarming rate," Villain purred and stopped rubbing Supervillain's head- much to his relief.

Supervillain whimpered, his body screaming at him to find her, but primitive instinct kept him rooted to the ground.

But, after a few moments of fighting himself, Supervillain stood up. Villain backed away, face taut with amusement.

"What are you going to do?" Villain taunted. "Hmm? You couldn't even save Hero from five men and now there are ten out there, armed with deadlier things than chloroform."

Supervillain squeezed his eyes shut. Don't listen to her, don't listen to her...

"Her life is worth more than mine," Supervillain growled, as he pushed past his former captor. He could see a smirk rise on Villain's lips.

"Yeah... it really is, isn't it," Villain chuckled. "You worthless scum." She spun around and kicked Supervillain's knees. He tripped, blood rushing through his ears, but stayed upright as he gallantly walked into his old home.

The smell of countless oils and grease hit his nose, and following that, the familiar scent of exhaust. He grimaced, remembering his utter inability to breathe on busy days.

But even those memories washed away at the sight of Hero, bloodied and unmoving, with people shocking her endlessly with stun guns.

"Hey!" Supervillain yelled, grabbing a pipe wrench in one hand. The people torturing Hero, stopped and turned around to face Supervillain who was swaying on his feet- from the lingering fatigue and fear.

"Leave her be," he growled and stalked up to them. One shrugged and zapped Supervillain in the side. His body seized as white flashes illuminated his vision. Gasping, he fell to the ground, right next to Hero's body.

"Well now we have two to have fun with boys! But, let's head in and grab us some whiskey first!" A chorus of cheers followed that.

Supervillain was still out of breath by the time the men left to go get their alcoholic beverages.

"H-hey," he rasped, slowly bringing his hand to caress Hero's face. She was unconscious, but at his touch, her eyes blinked open.

"Hero?" Supervillain croaked, relief flooding his veins. He slowly sat up and dragged her limp body onto his lap. She groaned, and that was when he realized that he jostled a whole array of injuries.

They were tiny, nothing that a strong and healthy person like Hero wouldn't be able to recover from, but they were aimed to kill.

Unlike Supervillain's torture that aimed to cripple and harm him mentally and physically.

Those lethal injuries were knife wounds, some small, others large. They spanned from her chest, all the way through her torso and down her arms and legs. It was to be a slow, and painful death, Supervillain noted. None of the wounds touched a major artery.

"I'm gonna help you," Supervillain whispered, tucking a long, wavy piece of her hair behind her ear. "Like you did for me." When did he get so cheesy? Hero did this so much better.

"Y-you don't need to pay me for what I did," Hero murmured in reply, unfocused eyes focusing for just a moment. "I-i," she winced, groaning loudly, as her bloodstained hands gently brushed a particularly nasty gash.

Supervillain shushed her, putting a finger to her bruised lips. "Quiet," he said, and brought an arm under her knees and another supporting her upper body.

He gasped for breath as he lifted her limp and heavy body. His limbs shook with exertion, but he forced himself to walk... one step at a time.

He was nearly at the door, ready to press the botton to open the large, garage door, when something shot into his neck.

He gasped. Aching pain sprouted from the spot. Glancing down, he saw blue and white feathers.

A dart.

"No," he gasped, using his elbow to press the botton. He knew the tranquilizer. He had maybe ten minutes before the sedative would kick in.

He had to move.

Slipping under the door, he ran. Moving his stiff legs faster than they had in a while. He didn't look back- that would just slow him down.

He sat Hero on the seat, slid in behind her and drove away.

After about ten minutes, like Supervillain predicted, he started getting horribly tired. He glanced behind him to see an SUV slowly following him.

"Think," he whispered to himself, pressing his face into Hero's back. Around him was a dense forest. If he just turned...

His body acted without thinking it through. He turned sharply, only for the motorcycle to crash into the guardrail. Him and Hero went flying, crashing into trees.

Just before their bodies connected with the river below, Supervillain flipped Hero's body over so he would take the full shock of the fall.

His body hit the rushing water. Pain shot through his ribs. But before the tranquilizer fully hit, Supervillain was able to grab onto a tree trunk and throw Hero over it.

Then he blacked out as a wave of water crashed over his face.

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sammy-my-luv · 3 years

Text

Things that Would Be Different if SPN was on HBO-Season 1 Edition

(actually this could just be stuff the writers should’ve done but they were too scared to talk about actual issues kahdfgk)

TW below the cut- season 1 spoilers, throwing up, panic attacks/metal health things, some gory stuff, permanent injury, suicide, brief mentions of r*pe, religion, mentions of drug use

-some of these are just gory details I think would’ve made it more gritty and realistic, some are genuine changes

-also nothing smutty here because that’s not my thing, minors can read this as long as none of the above is triggering for you

PILOT - we see Sam actually mourn Jessica. He stays up all night crying and throwing up while Dean sits next to him on the bathroom floor. I’m talking sobbing so hard it sounds like screaming, grabbing at Dean’s arms so tightly he leaves bruises, snot running, cracked lips, all of it. Dean ends up giving him some painkillers he had stashed away just to get him some sleep.

WENDIGO - the wendigo takes a chunk out of Tommy’s leg and eats it in front of him. He never walks the same again.

DEAD IN THE WATER - Dean flat out SAYS that he relates to the kid because they both go mute during trauma. We also actually see him do this at some point during the show-you don’t grow out of coping mechanisms like that.

PHANTOM TRAVELER - the demon describes how Jessica died in detail, making up gory details about her screaming while Sam goes white in the face and tries not too faint.

BLOODY MARY - blood comes out of ears, eyes, mouth, nose, all of it. Also address the thing about the girl’s abusive ex killing himself.

SKIN - make it clear that the shifter is a rapist and an absolute piece of shit (he is, but they never really said it because of television rules and stuff)

HOOKMAN - Sam and Dean’s religious trauma is addressed, Sam’s devout faith (the hidden rosaries, the whispered prayers to deliver Jessica’s soul to heaven and to forgive him please god forgive him), Dean’s hatred (John drilled it into him that God never would’ve done this to them, ‘he either exists and hates us or doesn’t give a fuck, kid’).

BUGS - doesn’t exist. screw this episode, honestly.

HOME - Mary has cracked and burned skin, her nightgown charred permanently onto her. Dean has a panic attack the first time he sees the house.

ASYLUM - Sam freaking beats Dean until his knuckles bleed, going on and on about how ‘I hate you, I hate you and Dad and your fucking rules and commands and I hate how you make me feel expendable and worthless’. Dean finally understands him in that moment.

SCARECROW - Meg smokes, lol.

FAITH - Dean tries to kill himself in the hospital because ‘I want to go on my own accord, Sammy’. Sam doesn’t sleep or eat and lives off of whiskey and stolen aderall until Dean is cured, where he passes out and sleeps for a week.

Like if you want a part two???

#hbo spn #supernatural #hbo dean #hbo sam #hbo john #spn headcanon #dean winchester #sam winchester #season 1 #spn season 1

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sneakerdoodle · 3 years

Text

"(Not) Alone", Chapter 3

Rated: K

HELLO here are some FEELINGS

<< Previous chapter Next chapter >>>

PDF || ff.net

General warnings: trouble breathing; (states resembling) panic attacks; depression; familial tension, difficult parental relationships

You just wish there was still a place for you in the world.

If only the overarching symphony could accommodate the grating, pained sounds brewing in everything that is left of you. If only your song still belonged.

Even if you were still able to sound your heart, what is your lonely voice against the boundless dark around you? What is it without the crackling metal, without the thunderous echo, without the chorus of adoration pushing you forward, against the overwhelming threat of the cosmos?

Was it them who were a part of your song or were you a part of theirs?.. It seems to matter less now. You just wish it still held you up, anchored you; you wish it was still there to make your approach thick with gravity, pulling everything close. You wish you were still irreplaceable, front and center, the very rhythm of the march.

You wish desperately for the same security, promise of importance, to never, ever be left alone again. Just don't leave me alone again. Don't make me one of the many, forgettable, dispensable, easy to toss aside.

Not alone. Anything but alone.

Eya played a funny little joke on you, didn't she. Hilarious.

What an offer it was, to be given a chance on safety, to dig your feet firmly into the ground that had no choice but to cave. To be able to tighten your grip around the world, to hold onto your place in it as fiercely as your body would allow.

Why would you ever say no? Your every wish fulfilled so plentifully, all the comfort you had ever yearned for handed right to you, how could you ever stop? How could you possibly keep yourself from longing for more, for this to never be over?

Once the world started singing a new song, each heart alight, all equal, yours stood no chance. For the first time in your long, fearful life, it had the choice of control. It would never be able to change its tune in time.

The world made you scared. The world made you shake with the thought of the vast expanse of land, then sea, then bottomless skies, all profoundly indifferent to your pathetic little fate. The world never paid you much mind when you were stumbling through it, still just a kid, bruising yourself at every turn, giving your very best - yet never becoming special enough to draw another into your orbit, to be helped, to be loved.

The world seemed to have redeemed itself, by finally giving you every single thing you deserved. Guidance. Purpose. Adoration. It took you into its arms as the most incredible thing it had ever held within itself.

It took advantage of your every deep desire.

It threw you away with no hesitation once your part no longer served the whole. It branded your heart rotten for daring to want what it offered. It infected you with the bone-deep itch to matter, then flinched away in disgust once you tried.

You despise it with every fiber of your being. You hate everything that is alive and moving.

Your hatred is venom, and life rejects it. Life rejects you.

You wish to tear your bleeding, poisoned heart right out.

***

- Oh-hoh! Down already, muffin!

Kiwi lingers on the last step of the stairs, hand on the rails, an exhausted smile faint on their lips. They nod to Mom, then to Baron sitting in the big chair they watched him drag out of the bedroom and dust off just the day before. The mechanical morning greeting is dry and laboured, like their long-suffering neck has rusted through.

- Thought I'd have to go pester you more to get you out of bed, - Mom laughs, setting a teapot in the middle of the table. - Well, come help, since you're here!

Bard nods again, letting their mother's off-handed remark sink into the pit of their stomach – like swallowing an ice cube - and wordlessly makes their way over to the kitchen counter. Baron stirs and follows promptly, hulking behind his two family members. Bard feels incredibly awkward trying to maintain the appropriate amount of eye contact while handing him plates of porridge, which Baron accepts with another silent nod. Overworking one’s neck joints seems to be the most popular method of communication in the household these days.

Baron lumbers over to the table, and Kiwi follows, a bread basket filled with sugar buns and a little bowl of home-made jam in tow. They wince slightly at the sight of it. Rhubarb.

Mom places a round-bellied steaming teapot in the middle of the table and looks over it with a satisfied little hum.

- Don't let it all go cold, now!

Silently consuming the laid-out meal as Mom chatters over it is about the only experience Kiwi and their... dad can find any sort of solidarity in. Now and then, they exchange a wordless look, Kiwi reluctantly spreading jam on a sliced bun, Baron sending a spoonful of oatmeal behind his cheek. Although Baron's awkward silence has a distinct shade of guilt to it. That makes Bard wonder if they should feel worse about not engaging, too.

Mom watches them reach for another pastry and shakes her head with a laugh that is probably supposed to be affectionate.

- You're so hard to cook for, muffin!

Kiwi tries to mold their face into a noncommittal expression, but can feel it scrunch up around their tensely neutral smile as if they'd just bit down on a lemon. They glare at the bowl in Baron's hands with a weird mixture of resistance and jealousy. Not for the contents, for sure, they're more than comfortable with their preferences, but perhaps... for the freedom to casually share a meal.

Baron seems to intercept that look and puts the bowl down. The ceramic bottom taps against the table, a sound like a punctuation mark. He clears his throat.

- So...

Bard looks up at him, all but horrified. Mom throws a quizzical curious glance over the cup of tea she's holding up to her lips.

During the two weeks Kiwi has been staying at their parents' house, they have barely heard Baron utter more than a word, safe for the extremely awkward welcome the next morning after their arrival. Baron seems to be aware of that, too, shifting in his seat for a couple of seconds before continuing.

- I'm sitting in on some workshops and the community meeting at the Fa...- he stops and covers his slip up with a delayed cough, - the center.

He turns to Kiwi, full-body, brushing against the table in the process and causing the cutlery to clatter. Kiwi feels incredibly small.

- I thought that maybe, uh... - Baron rubs his knees, drying his palms. He looks about as nervous as Bard, if that is at all possible, -...you'd want to come as well.

Bard feels like choking, on food or tea, but there is none in their mouth at the moment. So instead they just glare, feeling their own hands become sweatier and sweatier. Spending a whole... day? With their wayward father, of all people?

- Oh-ho-ho, how wonderful! - Mom chimes in cheerfully. Of course, she does.

Kiwi barely has the bandwidth to ruminate on just how shamefully potent their annoyance is. They never voice it, but the sheer power of it still feels impudent, somehow. And they are growing more and more irritable, lately.

- A great day to go out, isn't it? - Mom continues, not helping at all. - It's about time you left the house, too, muffin!

Bard never even gets to reply. Mom moves on to packing the leftover pastries for the two to take with them, and urges Kiwi to have one more with his tea. Kiwi has trouble conceiving of eating anything at all, his stomach in the process of tying itself into several tight knots. He mumbles excuses inarticulately, speaking mostly with his hands that are held up in front of him in a politely defensive gesture. From time to time, he dares to throw a glance at Baron. The latter is stubbornly cleaning his glasses, bushy eyebrows lowered, obscuring his eyes in the lenses’ place.

This is going to be... a day.

Bard doesn't know what to do with their hands as they are walking down the street next to their... dad. Every usual gesture suddenly feels incredibly childish, and for some inexplicable reason, that feels... wrong. Far too... vulnerable? Is this how Miriam feels most of the time?..

Mom's not wrong, it... has been a while since they've been outside. Which makes her remark only more uncomfortable.

The first few days Kiwi diligently tried to engage. They checked in on all the neighbours; hung around the grocery store, sprawled over the counter as Tanya was detailing the stock on the large board behind it; took part in a cooking class at Beth and Katya's; clapped along to the live performances at the Pub. As their visit continued, however, staying in and endlessly re-reading old diary entries was becoming more and more of an easier choice. It got too wearing, desperately trying to enjoy Chismest's new, friendlier face despite the underlying sense of dread that greeted them every morning.

Now, walking down the streets in Baron's company, they smiled awkwardly at every surprised look or forced casual expression. People have been asking Mom if they had left already, Bard knows they have. Mom didn't fail to mention that.

The two walk in silence, neither of them really knowing how to even start to approach a conversation with the other. But Baron has apparently discovered an unsettling amount of gut to try nonetheless.

He clears his throat once again, and Kiwi feels their stomach drop at the prospect of having to handle small-talk.

- So... - Baron seems to be weighing his words in his mind, judging which ones would be best to follow with. Eventually, he sighs in resignation, the same low rustling sound from the other side of the wall. - Do you... like it here?

Bard is... at an utter loss of words. Does she “like it”?..

She likes what Chismest has become. She likes that every familiar face is now healthier, and happier. She likes that everyone is closer now, and caring. She likes that the children can play outside, without choking on poisonous smog.

Do they like being here? Do they like shutting themself in their room, glumly listening to the sound of snowball fights breaking out right under their window? Do they like the unexplainable, persistent sense of... being left behind...

Kiwi gulps down the sick feeling rising from their gut as all the dream sensations attack their body once again, and shakes their head in an attempt to snap out of it.

Baron seems to take that for their reply. His eyebrows move up a degree, and – weirdly – he seems smaller, for just a moment. The thought of letting a single person, let alone Baron, suspect they are the odd one out, fills Bard with panic. They leap into the energetic equivalent of a 180-degree turn and start emphatically nodding instead, trying to emphasize, somehow, that this is their chosen answer.

Baron seems incredibly confused as to what to make of it. He turns away and rubs the back of his neck before carefully, tentatively continuing:

- Y-yeah. Me as well. - He looks up ahead, wistfully, and adds quietly, barely audible: - Strange to think I'd kept myself from this for so long...

Bard shoots a look at Baron's face, conflicted. Are the two of them... relating? Is Baron just as conflicted over the sight of Chismest's thriving?.. They guess it would only make sense for him to be, given everything, but...

But... something.

Whatever the “something” is, it makes the poorly suppressed flurry of emotions within them intensify. They will not explore that. They are not going down that path.

Bard squeezes as polite of a smile as they can out of themself and turns away, looking right ahead. They seem to be approaching the grocery store.

Tanya sees the weird duo pass by the window and waves, bringing both of them to a stop. Soon, she is coming through the door, a little jar in her hands.

- Well hey there, - she seems to greet Kiwi specifically, only sparing Baron a wary side-glance. He does not waver under it. The step back he takes is almost demonstratively polite.

Tanya turns her full attention back to Bard.

- Haven't seen you around in a while, have I?

Kiwi shrugs with an awkward smile. Tanya shakes her head.

- Now, now, I ain't ragging on you. Just couldn't find a good time to give you this.

She extends her hand holding the small jar. Bard takes it into their palms, confused. The contents of it are beaming bright orange. The word “Marmalade“ is written in cursive on the brown label.

- Special delivery! - Tanya smiles warmly; her particular but welcoming demeanor is something Kiwi has grown to appreciate. - Got a whole crate of those, actually, but those pirate friends of yours insisted I keep one safe for you. No idea how they'd caught the wind of you staying here, - she shrugs, - but either way you're getting something sweet outta it.

Kiwi looks at the jar they are carefully holding in their hands, overcome. They suddenly find themself so tired and so fragile, the unexpected wave of gratitude and warmth make their eyes sting with the promise of tears. They look back up at Tanya, their smile for once genuine and heartfelt.

- Thank you 🎶, - they sing softly, struggling to find more words to express how much this is turning out to mean to them. Tanya interrupts it.

- Don't go thanking me, I'm just passing on. - She does the closest thing available to ruffling their hair: patting and flattening their hat with a similar hand motion. - Be good, hon.

She smiles one more time before heading back into the store. Kiwi squeezes their eyes shut, trying to covertly blink the budding tears away, then turns back to where Baron is standing. He seems to have been studying the paving for the last couple of minutes.

Bard takes a reluctant step towards the ex-factory building to signify they are ready to move on. Baron follows, looking at the jar of marmalade they are still clutching in their hands and attempting a slight smile.

- You have many... interesting friends.

Kiwi tries to smile with the same amount of genuine affection they'd just felt at the unexpected gift, but it comes out awkward and sour. They are suddenly very aware of not having said a single articulate word to their dad the entire morning. They clear their throat.

- Yeah!.. 🎶

Her voice is small, quiet, but it's... something, at least. It is bewildering to think about her recent encounter with Baron, the first one in years. It was so easy to challenge him, back when Kiwi had no idea who he was. Now, the overwhelming discomfort and confusion of having to interact with her long-forgotten... father... render her basically incapable of any solid verbal exchange.

They ascend the steps leading up to the entrance into the intimidating building that now houses the Community Center. Kiwi glances over the schedule as they pass it. Workshops, consortium meetings, training, public discussions... Chismest's busy schedule is a constant, at least.

Once inside the building, Kiwi and Baron take the stairs to the second floor of the factory, away from the narrow, menacing hallway leading into the ground. There is no low rumble echoing through it: the production lines are only brought to life to order these days. Bard tries their best to not feel like they are walking above the lair of a sleeping beast.

The two take their seats in a once-spacious conference room, seating rearranged and reimagined in a way that tiptoes along the thin line between ingeniously efficient and absurdly cramped. The room is gradually filling with people who recognize Baron, some giving reserved nods, few – more enthusiastic waves.

A tall dark figure leans into the space between them for a more conspiratorial greeting, murmuring something to Baron in low tones. Baron chuckles and pats the person's shoulder heavily, then turns to Bard. He is smiling; there is uncharacteristic and... frankly unsettling vivacity in that.

- You have met Vlad…,- Baron assumes, only somewhat sure, and Kiwi can finally recognize the tall person as the Clockwork Pub's bartender. They give a sheepish smile and a nod, and Vlad returns the latter, accompanied by a somewhat wistful look.

The sudden weight of a large, heavy palm on their shoulder, along with the pure emotional shock at this distinctly fatherly gesture, almost knock Kiwi's ghost out of them.

- This is my, – there is only a fraction of a beat before the final word drops, - kid.

Bard stares at Baron's face with enough dumbfounded intensity to notice the subtle signs of nervousness: the furrowing brows, the dry lips firmly pressed together. There is some relief in knowing he feels about as uneasy actually saying this.

Vlad nods, slowly, reflectively.

- I should have noticed the semblance, - he draws out, and, barely giving Kiwi time to recover from that, adds: - Good to have you back, young Bard.

Vlad takes an empty seat a few rows away, leaving Kiwi and Baron to sweat in the aftershock of the sudden f a m i l y m o m e n t. The weight of Baron's hand disappearing hardly registers. Kiwi mindlessly stares at the wooden desk in front of him. Vlad's “back” echoes in his mind, dressing in more and more foreboding tones with every encore. Is this it? Are they... staying?.. The thought makes their stomach churn.

They purposefully shift their attention to the people seated around them in an attempt to fight the sickness. There are at least a dozen conversations happening at the table at the same time, from confidential murmurs to loud exchanges interlaced with laughter. The room is bustling with sound and action, even with everyone sitting still.

A single voice rises above the neighbourly commotion, drawing it to a single focus.

- Hello, everyone.

Bard's eyes follow in tandem with everyone else's, and they shrivel up in their chair, wishing to make their body as small as humanly possible. At the center of the room and everyone's attention, there is Elara – the very person Bard has been avoiding since even before his self-imposed confinement. They hunch behind the desk, hoping to not draw her eye.

Elara glances around the room. Her eyes travel from one face to another, eventually meeting Kiwi's. He succumbs to agony as Elara gives him the same plain, honest look, accompanied by a subtle steady smile, before moving on.

- Thank you for coming. - There is a pause as the head astronomer and now community organizer considers what to say next, apparently less confident single-handedly orchestrating a public discussion. She turns to Elmer and gives him a quiet nod.

Elmer, fully in his element, clears his throat, preparing to project.

- Agenda for the day, - he shrieks out, enunciating: - updates on Chismest's research program; the public library initiative, session 1; trade and barter year plan; sustainability panel, session 3.

Elara throws another look around the conference room.

- Unless anybody has any last-minute pitches, - a second-long pause, - let us begin.

The public discussion turns out to be... draining. The many-voiced conversation ebbs and flows: one moment it is overwhelming with everyone’s impatience, people barely managing to not talk over each other; then it is tedious, the consortium mulling over the routine detail of the town's day-to-day functioning.

The worst part is that Kiwi can actually sense the rhythm of it, the rise and the fall; they recognize a skipping shifting rhapsody in the chain of interlinking exclamations, one prompting another; they feel the steady vital rhythm of cross-referenced numbers and well-practiced schedules. They feel the song of the moment.

It is like sensing the vague outline of a repeating dream, recognizing something that used to be vivid in their mind in a completely different state of it. Some part of them longs to join in, crush into the stream of collective life, move with it, be carried by it, naturally dissolving into the overarching symphony. But it is alien, it is a song they do not share with the rest. If there was a time when they knew how to join someone else’s celebration, – and they believe there was, even though it sounds like something from another life - it seems to have passed. Irrevocably.

Kiwi is pulled into the tidal wave only once, without any initiative on their part, as the sky-mapping project is being discussed. Elara's eyes stay on them, thoughtful, trying to puzzle them out, as she asks:

- Are there any news from Delphi? If you wouldn't mind sharing.

Kiwi thinks back to the letter entombed in the drawer of their bedside table, out of sight, yet still burning in her mind daily and making her shrivel up with guilt, then plunge herself into avoidance. They vividly re-live the sensation of crumpling yet another sheet of colorful paper up, failing to find the words for their reply. Their decision to stay (for a while? ...indefinitely? no, no, surely not) is already obvious. Why do they dread the idea of actually announcing it to Miriam so much?

Bard shakes the thought off, returning to the present moment, to the concerned, questioning looks of everyone who has just watched them zone out, lost in their own mind. They smile pitifully as they shake their head again, more emphatically. Elara nods, slowly, her eyebrows softly knitting together, and Bard makes a mental note to leave the room as soon as the meeting is over, sneak away with the crowd before they can be stopped and questioned further.

The conversation moves on, and Bard is left outside of it, rocked by irregular waves, thrown in this and that direction like old, soggy driftwood. She cannot follow the flow of the discussion, she cannot focus on the words bouncing from one end of the overcrowded room to another, and the unsteady rhythm she cannot keep up with leaves her queasy. She just wants to crawl back under her blanket, let it muffle all the sounds apart from her own breathing - and try not to think too hard about the latter, the tightness in her non-existent chest that haunts her every dream, the persistent pull somewhere out of cosmos--

Okay. She needs something to center herself. One single thing to focus on, to ignore the surrounding chorus.

Kiwi barely gets to think before their eyes stop on Baron's face – arguably, the worst possible subject for them to try to ground themself with half-through their unraveling. But Baron seems to feel out of place in the general harmony as well, and that provides Kiwi with a weird, uncomfortable sort of solidarity, another’s experience forcing itself on them through the sheer familiarity of it. At the back of their mind, they note how this feels sort of like being possessed by a ghost (again), but also… as if they are doing the possession at the same time?.. They could compare it to their nightmares. But they won’t. They are not thinking about those.

The chorus of the consortium is spontaneous, unpracticed, noisy. Kiwi thinks back to the rhythmic thumping of factory machinery, the unified movement of workers, in at nine, out at five. Up until recently, Baron hadn't heard anything but that steady march for more than twenty years. No wonder this is weird for him, too.

There is this specific hesitation to him, as well: how he frowns at something he feels the need to dispute, opens his mouth - but stops before producing any sound. He seems to be marking his thoughts on a piece of paper, but that hardly satisfies him, and he is left shifting in his seat restlessly, exhaling sharply through his nostrils.

All this fidgeting is much less subtle than he probably thinks. His immediate neighbours keep throwing looks in his and Bard's direction, some of them questioning, some incredulous. Associating with their father is not something Bard is generally excited about, but here, in the troughs of difficult history and unresolved hurt, the discomfort is all the more intense.

At one point, Baron leans on the desk with his entire lumbering frame, making it creak, and lets out a loud jingling sigh. The room goes quiet.

Heads turn.

People are looking at the imposing figure with overwhelmingly guarded expressions. Baron notices the kind of attention he has drawn to himself and fixes his gaze in front of him, visibly tense. Next to him, Kiwi is trying to slide under the desk undetected.

They think back to Tanya, to the look in her eyes when she saw Baron. They are suddenly acutely aware of how much of a pressuring, entitled presence Baron must be to many people in Chismest. Even those ready to give him a second chance must feel threatened when the person who once dictated their entire way of life tries to affect it once again, even as an equal.

Baron seems to be aware of this, too. He is demonstratively silent, barely even breathing when he raises his eyes, but there is a weird air of defiance to it. He looks around defensively, as if the room has just collectively reached for pitchforks.

For a moment, Bard sees him again the way they did some months ago, for the first time in many, many years. Prideful, self-righteous, towering over the rest of the world that simply does not know what is best for it.

Back then, that hardly had any effect on them, outside of Chismest's general depressing atmosphere. Now, knowing that this was their father, the very mythical looming presence at the back of their mind, casting its shadow onto every little misstep and every instance of rejection, a constant reminder of their insignificance... The thought makes Kiwi shudder. Nothing scares them more than the idea of this cold, dismissive look inevitably turning to them, saying everything that has previously only been implied.

Kiwi is sitting next to the scariest person this side of a life-sucking void outside of time and space, and all the eyes are on the two of them, and the rest of the word makes no difference between Baron and his lost, odd child, both of them glaringly out of place.

The longest few seconds of their life – not counting the world's impending end, they suppose - pass in deafening silence stretched so thin KIwi is scared it's going to burst any moment. Then the conversation slowly picks up, flows once more, avoiding the now isolated island of Baron's seat. Kiwi dares to look around from where they are half-hidden behind the desk. Have their neighbours to the right and to the left moved just a little bit further away?..

Elara's eyes linger on Baron's face just a fraction of a second longer, with some hint of rapport. Her chin moves ever so slightly in a secret nod intended only for him, before she turns back to the indignant speaker interrupted by Baron's display of frustration.

Baron himself spends the rest of their time in the conference room stone-still. Bard tries to mimic, hoping any further attention slides off of her if she blends into the background. Under the desk, though, her sweating hands are desperately clutching the marmalade jar.

When Elmer calls a break and Baron stands up, intending to leave, Bard all but deflates with relief. They do not have to follow him around, they know it. But, however deeply rattling it is to be around him, especially now, they feel a strange sense of obligation. Like the plan sprung on them over breakfast means both they and their parent are supposed to fulfill a certain quota before either is released from this weird, strained attempt on father-child bonding time.

Kiwi doesn't like this feeling. It's been a long time since they had to be someone's child, and they cannot remember the last time they were their father's. It was hard enough to balance their dreams and desires alongside Mom's off-handed but insistent expressions of all the regrets she quite openly held, about Kiwi's passions, their chosen path in life, their decision to leave and the lack of visits. This new, sudden and alien responsibility for yet another familial relationship feels only heavier with the weight of all the years Kiwi didn't have to bother with it, outside of the sleepless nights by the window or picking at their being in search of apparent faults.

Bard feels his fists clench at his sides as he sinks into a dark, glum state of low-burning anger. It was never his decision to put the two of them into this situation. Why must he feel any responsibility--

He is yanked right out of his thoughts as Elara's voice cuts through the background noise of moving benches and discordant steps.

- Oh, Baron. Good day. I was just about to find you.

Kiwi freezes, for just a second, then chooses cowardice. They look around, hurriedly, and slip behind Baron's wide back, trying to get lost in the crowd against all odds, pulling the glaring beacon that is their red feather hat off their head. Maybe it's their restless imagination, maybe it is the proverbial sixth sense, but they feel two pairs of eyes follow them to the exit. No one calls out, however, leaving them to their expeditious escape.

Outside of the conference room, Kiwi leans against the wall and lets out a long sigh, half-exhausted, half-relieved. The general commotion of the many groups of people moving up and down the hallways, of doors opening and slamming shut, is still hard on their frazzled nerves. They want to go home. They don't want “home” to be their mother’s.

They're not sure how long they stand there for until Baron exits as well, looking thoughtful, scratching his chin. He seems almost surprised to see Bard right next to the door and takes a moment to recollect himself. He clears his throat and attempts to... look cheerful?.. That does not quite work out, and eventually Baron gives up and simply sighs, despondent.

- I will not be staying around for the second half, - he announces with a glum expression. - You're welcome to, if you...

Bard shakes their head, and Baron nods, slowly, processing.

- Well... - he sighs again, then makes his way down the hallway, - this means I'm free to join a couple of workshops. - He looks at Bard, contemplative, then forces out: - Why don't you... try out any? See if there is anything you'd like.

Kiwi weighs her options. They need space, desperately. They do not want to aimlessly wander the streets, prompting polite conversations and letting the cold air freeze them all the way through. They would not be able to deal with the meaningful look in Mom's eyes right now, and it is coming if they return home so early, making their way straight to their room.

They just need a quiet corner.

They find it at the back of a room where a small-voiced, timid-looking person is delivering a lecture in low, unimposing tones. Kiwi leans against the wall, cradling their knee, feeling their eyelids droop with the weight of the past weeks of poor sleep, poor mood and general nervous exhaustion. They let themself node off, the incoherent scribblings on the board slowly blurring into even more meaningless shapes.

They sway on the very cusp of sleep and wakefulness, safe from the disarray of life and the cold thick terror of nightmares. There is an unsettling amount of comfort to be found in not having to deal with existing.

Bard places the marmalade jar on top of the bedside table. Their eyes linger on the handle of the drawer just below the board. Hesitantly, they curl their fingers around it and pull the drawer open.

Miriam's letter rests on top of a chaotic pile of paper and various craft supplies. It isn't folded, and the familiar words call out to them once again.

“Bard,

Kiwi,

Hey, you

Uh. Hi.”

A weak smile tugs at their mouth.

The rest of the letter burns with long-overdue, not very well-concealed urgency, kindling the background sense of guilt that is now pretty much constant.

“...haul boards around on my broom like a mule while everyone is hovering and asking me questions and RUSHING ME. There's a lot of people and

We're holding off 'till you're here anyway, so like, hurry up?? I don't... know what to do with all of THEM wanting something from me all the time, and Saphy's no dang help!!! I don't know why she expects me to... UGH, whatever.”

The haunting vision of Miriam shutting further and further down under the pressure, knowing Bard was supposed to be there next to her, feeling abandoned and alone, starts turning Kiwi's guts inside out once again. But still, there is a bitter sort of comfort in reading this hesitant message from their best friend, examining the familiar antsy corners of her handwriting. Kiwi reaches for it, fingertips hovering just above the surface of the paper. Their eyes linger on the last line, scribbled on rashly, almost like an afterthought. Which means she really meant it.

“...Miss you.”

There is a shout from down the stairs. Bard's hand jolts back.

- Don't take too long, muffin! - Mom draws out, rushing him to take his place at the dinner table. Bard throws one final glance at Miriam's name at the bottom of the page before leaving the room.

He will write back today. Totally! Probably.

It's hard to make their dinner go down when Baron keeps throwing heavy glances in Kiwi's direction. They try their best not to notice, but the unspoken tension pumps their body full of adrenaline. Bard wants to shift and fidget and move their limbs to shake out the pinpricks of restless nervous energy, but hesitates, not wanting to draw even more attention. She is stuck sending one spoonful of veggie stew into her mouth after another in a mechanical, almost robotic motion, only occasionally nervously glancing over to where Baron keeps staring with the air of inexplicable dread.

Once the table is cleared and the unspokenly mandated fifteen to thirty minutes of quality family time begin, things escalate.

Bard is absent-mindedly picking at the stray threads of the couch's armrest when a cough up above calls for their attention. Baron is towering over them, looking sulking and miserable.

Oh no.

Kiwi's head snaps in the other direction, grasping at the last straw of Mom's presence, only to see her thoughtfully leave the room. Of course. Of course.

As Bard feverishly ponders whether Ira's usual lack of consideration is reserved for turning their life into quiet misery, Baron sits down, a full seat over. Kiwi feels the couch sag under his weight and grabs the armrest, scared of getting pulled into this sudden gravity well. They are staring at their knees, desperately hoping this isn't going where this is certainly, absolutely, one hundred percent going.

- So...

Kiwi is now staring holes in the floor, hoping to compel it to open on command and mercifully swallow her whole.

Baron sighs, and out of the corner of her eyes, Kiwi sees his shoulders fall into a tired, resigned posture.

She keeps begging Eya to let her disappear.

When Baron speaks again, the words come out on the exhale, heavy, weary, bare.

- You saw me out there. I... - a pause, as he searches for words, while Bard prays for them to never, ever come, - I... made a great mess of things. Too many mistakes, for too long.

He lets the thought sink in, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of it. He wants Bard to know he means it. He thinks this is better. This is so, so much worse.

Baron continues, eventually.

- Now no one... really knows what to do with me. Myself included.

There's a mirthless chuckle, and Kiwi dares to throw a single glance at Baron's face, a bitter smile cutting hard lines into it.

Bard is silent.

Baron sighs once again, heavier.

- Despite that, what you did... what all of you did, and what you played a large part in... it brought me here, like everyone else. I don't quite know how to move on. But the world has decided it was…, - he hesitates for a second, - better off with me in it. I can't pretend to understand why, but it has.

The last sentence barely reaches Bard's ears through the sounds of blood pounding in them. He is suddenly flooded with panic, his body locking up, leaving him short of breath. No. No, don't make him think of that.

Oblivious to the fact that his child is suffocating, choked by terror, right next to him, Baron continues.

- I've hurt people. In more ways than I can ever hope to make up for. But I'm still... here. And it seems that the only right thing to do is to try, still.

Don't think. Don't think of the implication. Don't consider the fact that the world is trying to force you out of itself every single night. Don't think about what it means, that the man next to you, the one that had haunted the bigger part of your life with unspoken judgment, the one that terrifies you with just how easily he could destroy any semblance of peace you might've managed to gather, just might deserve a place in this universe much more than you ever did.

Is this really how it works? Their father, who spent decades hurting others out of the self-serving notion that he knew what people needed better than them, gets to stay with those he had wronged, while Kiwi is tortured with nightly reminders of what it would be like, to be left eternally alone, for daring to not have had an immediate, magical change of heart. They clench their fists in their lap, trying their best not to shake.

Baron notices, finally. There are a few seconds of silence as he staggers, obviously unsure how to proceed. Out of the corner of their watering eyes (no, no, no, this only makes this worse...), Bard sees him take his glasses off.

Baron rubs his eyes, wearily, then places a heavy hand on Kiwi's shoulder. They shrivel up and look over, sheepishly.

Baron meets their gaze. One would expect his eyes to be a piercing cold blue, to match the white in his hair and his general demeanor, inexplicably reminiscent of frost. Instead, they are brown. Dulled, shadowed by his furrowed brows, yet still... warm.

- Kiwi.

If only there were words in any human language capable of explaining why his father calling him by his name has just made Kiwi so disorientingly sick.

- Things are changing.

Please don't say that. Please.

- I would like to change with them, if I can.

Bard turns away from the eyes that look unsettlingly like their own and chokes down a laugh, too afraid it will come out as a sob. It gargles in their throat, weird and vague and embarrassing. The hand on their shoulder tightens in an attempt to comfort, and Kiwi wants to run miles away from themself.

- I know I have... hurt you. More than anyone else, perhaps.

He should stop. Can he please stop. Can't he see how hard Bard is trying to not think about-

- You don't owe me patience, or forgiveness. But I'm here. ...If there is anything at all that you need from me.

Silence hangs heavy over them, threatening to crash Bard's stiff, trembling body. This is the part where they are supposed to say something. “I understand”, or “I will never forgive you”, or “Why did you do it?”, or “Did you ever miss me at all?”. Instead, they can barely push a single gulp of air down into their lungs. They stopped trying to sing when they discovered it is barely possible to get a spoken word out in their family's presence. How come being under this roof always renders them voiceless?

Baron waits. Patiently. It is terrifying, to think that he will continue waiting, always ready for Kiwi to walk in through this very door, announcing she is ready to mend their ill phantom of a relationship.

He is waiting for an answer. Any answer. Give him something, anything at all, just make it stop.

Bard nods, slowly, shakily, praying that this faint acknowledgment gets them off the hook. He could not possibly want more. He does not get to ask for more.

Baron's hand lingers on their shoulder another second, before finally releasing. Kiwi deflates in relief and immediately jumps off the couch, their legs wobbly, knees weak. Their eyes slide past Baron's lost expression. Without looking at him, they give another frantic nod and tear off towards the stairs, grabbing onto the handrails for dear life.

Her room is swaying softly before her. Kiwi takes one unsteady step away from the door, eyes wandering aimlessly. They catch the open drawer with the letter inside it, and Kiwi feels like she is about to crumble. She grabs the handle with a weak shaking hand and shuts it in a jerky motion.

The marmalade jar rocks with the bedside table, then tips over and hits the floor. The thick glass thuds loudly against the wooden boards. It rolls into the corner.

Bard lowers themself to the floor next to their bed, shaken, nauseous. They pull their hat off and do their best to breathe.

The ceiling light overhead is swinging slightly from the momentum of the door slamming shut just a few seconds ago. Bard's shadow is shifting, the outline vague and blurred. It looks little like themself.

For a second, they could swear they recognize the shape of a long scarf obscuring the line of their neck.

#wandersong #kiwi wandersong #the bard wandersong #baron wandersong #my writing #(not) alone #it's been a whileeeeee i've been. busy >:3c #if you enjoy it do let me know 😌

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

MSA: Take Back The Future (part 1)

Summary: Vivi and Arthur travel back in time to the beginning of Hellbent. Neither of them are okay. (Vivi and Arthur friendship. Time travel fix it. Lots of angst. Hurt Arthur)

(Ah, yeah, its another time travel fic. sorry not sorry)

(Part 2: here)

...

Mystery looms over him even as Vivi is pulled off to the side by a panicking ghostly Lewis. Good. At least Vivi is safe. Vicious jaws curl into a grin, revealing with rows of elongated teeth. Serrated, they glow white against the Kitsune’s blackened fur. Three glowing eyes snap onto him, pinning him with their intensity. Arthur finds himself rooted to the spot, too scared to move. In his mind's eye, he sees those same jaws clamping onto his arm, ripping it free. He feels a phantom sting of pain run down his mechanical limb.

/Well, well, well, if it isn’t my wayward host./

The voice is hauntingly familiar, and Arthur’s mind screams at him to run. Do anything other than stand here! The creature who was once Mystery leans forward so Arthur’s looking right into its central eye. It is coloured a familiar green and seems to be looking into and through him.

/I have to say, this one is a definite upgrade. Nothing personal, just common sense./

There is a flash of movement. Those pointed teeth lock around his neck and upper body, biting into him.

Pain. His vision is inundated with red and green splotches.

Arthur thinks he may have heard Vivi call his name.

Then...

Darkness and…

Arthur jerks, slamming his head against something hard and metal. He flinches back and immediately hits his head on the ground below him. Confused and panicked, he freezes, gawking with incomprehension at the assortment of metallic pipes and metal panelling above him. It looks like the underside of his van but that can’t be right. Slowly, Arthur rolls out from under the vehicle to stare up at a clear night sky. He seems to be lying on the ground next to his van…tired, but no worse for wear.

“Arthur!”

There is the sound of things crashing and tipping over from inside the van followed by the bang of metal doors slamming open. Arthur squints up just in time to see Vivi fling herself out of the van at top speed, skidding to a stop in the middle of the empty highway they’re parked next to. Confused and frantic, her eyes dart around until they meet his.

“You’re alive,” She breaths. Her face is pale with acute fear.

Arthur stares at her, equally shaken. “Ye..yeah. I’m…alive?”

He is almost too scared to talk. He is afraid that this a pain-induced hallucination and he’s actually bleeding out on the tarmac outside Kingsman Mechanics. Arthur struggles to sit and Vivi rushes forward to help, grabbing his hand and yanking up him into a forceful hug. Too dazed to say much, he leans into the physical contact. This definitely feels real enough.

“I had a dream,” Vivi mutters, face burying into his shoulder, arms tightening, “We were attacked by this living tree lady with a huge pair of garden shears. I had this weird vision full of snow and ice. It was so cold. There was a woman in blue, holding a katana and…” He feels her shiver or maybe he is the one shivering.

“Mystery was there as well but he wasn’t a dog anymore. ” She pushes away, scanning him again with increased urgency, “You died! I saw it happen…”

Arthur just blinks, too stunned to move, trying to get his brain to start up again.

“Arthur? It was a dream right?”

It’s the panic in her voice that snaps him out of his stupor. He takes a shuddering breath. He's not sure what Vivi means by 'woman in blue, holding a katana' but he remembers not-a-dog-Mystery and he remembers dying.

“It wasn’t a dream. I remember it as well. Mystery turned into that…thing. Lewis was …I mean the purple fire spirit from the mansion was there…” He starts then stops because Vivi wouldn’t know the significance of Lewis being there and Arthur definitely didn’t want to think about the implications of it for too long. Lewis being there meant that Lewis was dead. He’s not sure he can deal with that revelation right now.

Instead, he asks, “Are you okay?” because he remembers Vivi being injured just before everything had turned from a total disaster into a complete nightmare.

“I was cut here,” She gestures to her side, glancing down, “But I’m fine now. Are you okay? You’re the one who…ah…died.”

He gives a curt nod, only then realising that he’s still holding her other hand with his flesh and blood one. He doesn’t let go, giving it a reassuring squeeze instead. The gesture calms them both and Vivi exhales, glancing around again.

“If it wasn’t a dream, then what was it?” She rubs her forehead, “Where are we? What happened to scary nightmare Mystery?”

Arthur winces and shivers, deliberately focusing on his surroundings and not reimagining the nightmare version of Mystery.

“I think we’re on the interstate just out of Tempo. I stopped here to check on the van because it was having some weird electrical issues. You were asleep in the back.”

Vivi’s eyes narrow in contemplation, “So, we didn’t just crash into your Uncle’s workshop then get attacked by a walking tree?”

They both turn to examine the undamaged van.

“Doesn’t look like it.”

Perplexed, they both wait, too uncertain to move or try anything.

Unsurprisingly, its Vivi who first shakes off lingering weight of dread which has them rooted to the spot. She steps forward, pulling him with her, yanking the door to the front passenger’s seat open. Mystery is lying cured on the front seat, dozing.

“Mystery?”

The dog shifts, lifting his head, expression befuddled. Head cocked to one side, Mystery’s body language screams nonchalance. Apparently, Mystery had not shared in his and Vivi’s vision of …the future??? Arthur’s not sure what to make of it.

“You…" Vivi takes a deep breath, "you asshole!”

Mystery almost goes cross-eyed trying to look at the finger Vivi points right between his eyes. Having made brief eye contact with Mystery, Arthur freezes. Almost immediately, he is lost in the deluge of memories he’d been avoiding. He doesn’t even get to appreciate the fact that Vivi is calling her dog an asshole.

“All this time you’ve been hiding the fact that you’re some super awesome fox spirit! What the hell! You better start explaining or so help me….”

Unlike Vivi, whose preferred method for dealing with danger is to get angry and confront it head-on, Arthur’s first reaction is to panic and run. Adrenaline takes his breath away and he stumbles backward, uncoordinated. Several unpleasant memories via for his immediate attention. A lot of things start clicking into place, forming an unpleasant picture. That night he had lost his arm…he had always suspected it had been Mystery…but now he knew. Mystery had been the one take his arm. Arthur’s sure it had something to do with that sickly green energy that had twisted the Mystery in his Future vision. He remembers that horrible voice, winding around his thoughts, pulling at his free will, leaving him empty. It was all somehow linked to Lewis’s …Lewis’s supposed death.

“Don’t you dare pull that ‘I’m just a dog’ routine. I know your hiding something,” Vivi’s sharp tone tapers off, seeming far away now. “Isn’t that right Arthur….Arthur?”

If they had travelled back in time that meant Lewis was about to come barrelling down this very highway in an attempt to kill him.

“Arthur?”

He blinks and Vivi is standing in front of him, holding his hand. He focuses on the physical sensation again. Mystery is watching them both, expression calculating, bordering on surprised.

/This is wrong./ Vivi whips back around to stare at Mystery, eyes wide. /You are both different./

The voice isn’t quite the same as the green nightmare, but it is similar enough that Arthur’s first instinct is to recoil away.

/What happened./

(Part 2: here)

#MSA #mystery skulls animated #msa fanfic #time travel #time travel fix it #arthur kingsmen #Vivi Yukino #mystery #hurt arthur #all the angst #blood and injury #panic attack #shock #an angsty time travel fic because i object to shiros death #no one is okay

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itsallmightbitch · 4 years

Text

Stitches (Part One)

Villain!Might is annoyingly sexy. God damn. Part One of two, because once again, it was getting way, way too long. The real smut is in part two but this has it’s fair share of naughtiness. *once again the gif is not mine

Pairing: Villain!Might x Reader

Rating: Explicit (Dry humping and dirty talk)

Warnings: Blood, Bad Language

Word Count: 7633

Summary: It turns out that being injured on the job makes the biggest villain in Japan undeniably horny. If only he would quit being so handsy, maybe you could finish his goddamn stitches.

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

You were only just getting used to having All Might stumble in to your apartment at all hours of the day or night.

Only. Just.

That didn’t mean you bloody enjoyed it though! Considering the amount of times it happened a week you should probably just give him a key- but there was little chance of him using it when he seemed so content in picking the lock anyway.

It was sort of like a power play. A ‘look how easily I can break in’ kind of thing.

In the beginning it had been an intimidation ploy and fuck, had it worked. You’d walked on eggshells for weeks until it slowly dawned on you that he was simply having a little fun on your behalf. Breaking in at all fucking hours to loudly watch TV and drink your goddamn milk like he owned the place.

Scaring the absolute bejesus out of you when you went for water in the middle of the night and he was sitting in the dark like an absolute creep.

He did that one a lot. Informed you that your reaction was absolutely priceless and he couldn’t help himself.

You’d threatened to overdose him on morphine when he was asleep.

Quid pro quo.

Now… his intrusions had become more of a semi-welcome occurrence slash inconvenience.

After much nagging and complaining on your part, when you felt confident that he had no real desire to murder you in your sleep of course, he’d stopped being such a prick when he came around and if you were honest, it was kind of nice.

It would be less nice if any heroes or the police caught wind of you harbouring Japan’s Number One Villain but that was a thought best left for when the time came. Your less than legal activities for the criminal class hadn’t been sussed out in the six years you’d been here and you doubted that any of them were planning on ratting out one of their few sources of medical attention any time soon.

Speaking of medical attention…

All Might was certainly not welcome when he was bleeding like a stuck pig all over your new hardwood floor.

He was framed in the low light of the hallway behind him, although he nearly blocked it out as he filled out the doorway with his wide shoulders. One large hand gripped the door jamb and the other crossed his chest, clenched over a wound you couldn’t see.

But you could see the blood pouring from it- seeping out between his fingers and soaking through the tattered remains of the shirt he’d been wearing.

His breathing was hard, eyes dark and guarded and the rain had flattened his hair to his head, making him look absolutely manic.

“Oh my God!” were your only words, fear suddenly coursing through you as you lunged from where you’d been sitting- only stopping inches from him and praying that he could make it to the couch by himself. There was no way you could carry that much weight alone and the thought of calling for reinforcements should he pass out was less than appealing.

The only people you really knew were criminals or your parents. You could see how that conversation would play out and it didn’t end well.

The hand he’d been using to stem the blood flow fell from his shoulder and red splattered in a line in front of your socked feet. You took a step back as he ducked under the doorway, effectively inviting himself in.

“What happened!?” you balked, moving out of his path and shutting the door behind him. A cursory glance told you that there was no-one else around, thankfully.

“Bad business,” he grunted, steadying himself on a dining chair- although the wood creaked worryingly under his thick fingers.

“Bad business,” you repeated incredulously, your voice tinged with mild exasperation at just how easily he could brush off an entrance like that with such a throwaway remark. He shot you a warning glance that you heeded. It was the most you’d probably get out of him so you didn’t attempt to pry further as he trudged tiredly towards the comfort of your couch.

For now, at least, you would leave it at that.

He sat down gingerly, learning from past experiences that throwing his weight around was likely to end with yet another broken bit of furniture and you calling him all the names under the sun. He didn’t look like he quite had the energy for your usual snarky banter.

“Good to know you’re as enlightening as ever,” you frowned, following behind him and flicking on another lamp as you went. You would need plenty of light for what was about to come next. He sank into the soft couch cushions with a sigh of relief that he probably wouldn’t have made if he wasn’t gushing blood from his shoulder.

“Shit,” you said, panicked suddenly at the sight of it coating almost every inch of his chest and arm. While you couldn’t see underneath his shoulder armour, you could guess that it was slick and red as well. His usually golden complexion was pale but besides that, there weren’t any other marks on him..

Sucking in a deep steadying breath, you pushed away the encroaching panic.

You were a medical professional, for fuck sake. Blood was basically a daily occurrence and the fact that it was suddenly pouring out of him of all people, shouldn’t make a difference.

Except it did and deep in your stomach, panic still flitted around and made you quiver uneasily.

“Let me see how bad it is,” you said, a tremor to your voice. But you made no room for an argument as serious mode was firmly engaged. Despite all he was to the rest of the world, you really didn’t want his stupid ass to die.

He nodded stoically, recognising that you were now in your professional frame of mind and that acting up would only make treating him more awkward. Though his dark gaze still fixed on your face as you gingerly tugged the ruined edges of his shirt aside.

You pulled in a hiss of air between your teeth initially, but the more you explored the less you wanted to freak out.

Despite the superficial shock from the sight of so much blood, your stomach settled it’s uncomfortable rolling as you gauged the seriousness of his injury. The gash was fairly deep but not enough to bare the bone of his clavicle- and you guessed that the amount of blood he was covered in was a result of adrenaline and disregard for the injury as he fought.

“How bad does it hurt? Do you need something for the pain?” you asked, not look at him and you tried to move his shoulder pad away gently. The thing weighed a tonne though and you had little success.

He scoffed, pushing you away with a stern look followed by a cocky sneer.

“Don’t be an idiot. I enjoy the pain,” he rumbled, staring you down as if daring you to disagree.

You did more than dare. He wasn’t big bad All Might when he was in your fucking domain and sometimes he needed reminding of that.

“Oh really?” you levelled a look at him. “So, doing this doesn’t hurt at all?”

Without warning, you poked his shoulder just to the left of his injury and he yowled, infuriated and pained at the same time. His whole body stiffened in agony and his yelping quickly morphed into a half growl, low and dangerous- like you’d awakened the dormant dragon from his slumber.

His eyes flashed and he bared his teeth in a snarl at you, a wounded animal trying to hide behind his bluster and bravado.

“You fucking bitch,” he snapped, hand covering the gash once more as though you were about to go in for a second attack.

Instead of cowering in fear like you had the first time he’d ever darkened your doorway, you simply rolled your eyes at his brutish behaviour. This arrogant showboating of his wasn’t new to you. Nor was he even remotely intimidating when he was clearly in pain.

Hell, he hadn’t even attempted to get up from the welcoming comfort of the couch and so you weren’t particularly concerned for your physical safety.

All Might- around you at least- was all bark and no bite. You clicked your tongue at him, as though admonishing him.

“Language you big jerk. Show your doctor a little respect.”

The look he shot you would have cowed a lesser man and had sent heroes in the opposite direction pissing themselves in fear.

You patted his cheek fondly instead.

“Don’t be a big baby,” you murmured, smirking as you wandered towards your kitchen in search of your supplies. “I’ll get you some bourbon. I still have that top-shelf shit you left here a few months ago.”

His bellyaching abruptly settled into an irritated grumbling when he realised that you hadn’t meant your run of the mill Advil and instead meant ‘booze’. He still said something under his breath as you went though, sullen and annoyed at his current predicament and determined to get the last word in as always.

You kind of sympathised? Maybe?

It wasn’t often that he came to you with a serious injury. Usually it was for shrapnel damage or the odd burn when he was less than careful around Endeavor- which again, wasn’t often. You’d never had to really worry about him before, even if he seemed determined to make you.

But it was fun to tease him now that the fear had abated and your mind was a little less on red alert.

You left him sitting there, your cat staring up at him with big curious eyes, while you headed towards the kitchen.

“You’ll give me sympathy, won’t you Marco?” he said, loudly enough for you to hear as you rounded the corner. You rolled your eyes.

After pulling the bottle from your cupboard and setting it aside, you rounded on an indiscriminate blank wall- the one that separated your kitchen and hallway. Eyeing it for a moment, you lightly rested the pads of your fingers in the centre. It felt warm from the thrumming mechanism underneath and a soft beep, followed by a click, informed you that it was now unlocked.

The panel compressed inwards by a quarter inch and you used your fingertips to slide it to one side, your face now illuminated by a soft blue light. God bless your satisfied customers, you smirked as you surveyed the medical equipment now on display.

You had everything from sterilised needles to IV bags, scalpels to a portable defibrillator.

It wasn’t as though you didn’t have all of this shit legally. But having a place to hide it made things easier when you wanted to pretend you were a normal, run of the mill citizen to your (very few) friends and family. They assumed, quite wrongly, that your medical career had been left behind in the army.

You gathered what you would need, including a damn strong needle that glinted in the low light when you settled on it. You’d need something tough to get through his skin and only then did you begin to wonder again about just what had managed to cut him so deeply.

It boggled your mind, the force that some of these people could fight with.

He was staring at you impatiently when you returned.

“You seem calmer,” he observed, sounding almost disappointed. “It’s almost as though you don’t care what happens to your favourite patient.”

You tutted.

“It’s almost as though you just enjoy making me panic.”

“I like to watch you panic, sweetheart. Brings out your eyes,” he chuckled darkly, catching his tongue between his teeth while his own eyes trailed over you. You ignored the sudden surge of heat to your cheeks because as usual, he was managing to make you blush.

Nothing new there.

While you’d been fucking about in the kitchen, he’d had the foresight to remove both his armoured shoulder pads and the remains of his shirt- despite his injury making it painful to do so.

You had an unobscured view of his chest now, blood painting it red and you were suddenly glad you’d invested in a throw for your couch because it was damn near everywhere had he clearly had no qualms about leaving bloody hand prints on it.

“You better not have pet Marco with blood all over your hands,” you warned him as you laid out your supplies on the side table neatly, glancing around until you found your cat lounging on his cat tree- no longer interested in your intruder. Since All Might didn’t have food to sneak him today, Marco wasn’t bothering him any more.

Fickle thing, you thought.

“The cat is fine. I’m the fucking injured party here,” All Might scoffed, apparently irritated that you were no longer fussing around him like you had been. Despite how he always complained and brushed off your worry, you knew he liked having someone fawn over him. Sometimes you played it up just to watch him melt for you.

Not tonight though.

“Oh hush,” you said, leaning in again to examine the wound.

It was angry and still oozing blood like it was the world’s worst slip’n’slide but from what you could see there was nothing in there you would have to dig out. It only really needed to be cleaned and then it would need at least twenty or so stitches but hey, at least he wasn’t dead.

The warmth of him under your palm confirmed your ‘not dead’ diagnosis. How the Hell did one man produce so much heat?

You hummed and debated with yourself for a moment because… well. Leaning over him like you were for twenty stitches would be rough on your back and from experience, you knew asking him to move from his current comfortable position would be met with a firm ‘fuck off’.

This was going to be torture for both of you- for different reasons. You’d never hear the end of it.

With no other way to reach him without being awkward about it, you straddled his thick thighs- grumbling all the way. His eyebrows rose as you climbed into his lap, settling your ass onto his knees before reaching for your things beside you.

You refused to look him in the eye though and absolutely would not think about how far apart your legs had to go to accommodate him.

All Might, despite the pain he was in, clearly hadn’t lost any major brain function. His hands came up and settled on your hips like they belonged there- blood staining your tee-shirt. They were heavy and warm, the sheer size of them covering both hips as his fingers splayed out across your back. He exhaled but said nothing about your sudden position, simply relaxing back to let you do your thing.

His usually slicked back hair was mussed and falling over his eyes but you could still see the shock of bright blue following your every movement with a sharp, ardent scrutiny.

Well.

That was intense.

“What!?” you snapped, annoyed at his incessant staring- and the effect it was having on you. His smirk broadened into a full blown, easy smile.

“Not quite how I imagined you sitting in my lap for the first time,” he rumbled, as though it was a perfectly normal thing to say. Like he was talking about the weather. Your body jolted, head swimming. You prayed he couldn’t read your face but you knew it was a futile hope.

Your expression and blush simply encouraged him more.

His thumbs swept a wide path over your waist while you desperately tried not to think about how big his fingers were. You swallowed hard, attempting to steady the shake in your hands as you wiped away blood.

“I’d always thought… well, hoped actually, that you’d sit on my face first, kitten,” he continued lightly.

Honestly, the fact that you didn’t pop a blood vessel right then and there was admirable.

“If you don’t quit that, I’m going to poke you with this big ass needle and it will hurt,” you managed to choke out, pressing a little harder than necessary as you cleaned his chest. He flinched, body tightening before sagging with relief when you removed your hand.

He heaved an irritable sigh but you weren’t exactly finished berating him.

“Symbol of Chaos my very fine ass,” you continued mockingly, embarrassment spilling out in the form of harsh words. He glared at you with icy, unreadable eyes. “You bleed all over my apartment, scare the shit out of me and then think it’s perfectly acceptable to make a joke about me riding you. You’re being such a dickhead.”

You said it like you meant it.

You already lived on edge half the time without having to worry about him as well. His lack of concern for his own well being was frustrating and you’d often find yourself scouring the news channels after a particularly vicious fight just to make sure he wasn’t dead or captured- seeing as he didn’t afford you the courtesy of a phone call.

Not that you’d ever expect him to.

“Are you finished, sweetheart?” he interrupted your train of thought, his fingers squeezing your hips almost painfully now. The mildly annoyed All Might was swiftly being replaced by the one who you would get into blazing arguments with. At least you knew how to handle this one…

“I think you’re getting too fucking comfortable with me, little bird. You think I’ve gone soft? Huh?” he lifted your chin with his thumb and forefinger, making you look at him while the other hand held you in place. “You and I both know I could snap that pretty little neck of yours with one hand if I wanted to,” he growled, his face suddenly inches from yours and you had the gall to mindlessly think that there was nothing soft about him.

You were a horny idiot with no self-preservation apparently.

He released your chin and rested the side of his hand on your shoulder, open palm angled towards your throat but not touching it.

A warning.

You’d definitely hit a nerve.

All the same though, some dumbass part of you refused to be intimidated in your own fucking home. You scowled up at him, pretending to be unimpressed rather than frightened. Blood thrummed in your ears, keeping pace with your rapid heartbeat.

Looking him in the eye was like was like staring down a fucking lion.

“Maybe I should. It would teach you a lesson.”

But you’d been doing this little song and dance with each other for months now and you’d perfected your ‘you don’t frighten me’ face long ago. It infuriated him, sure, but you had a sneaking suspicion that it also intrigued him.

He knew full well that he wasn’t the Symbol of Chaos when he was in your apartment. He was just… Toshinori.

Although he despised it when you called him that. Shouted and raged and screamed at you every time but let you continue doing it anyway. You didn’t know why he hated his own name so much nor why he relented so easily when you insisted on calling him by it but, it was always your trump card.

“Toshinori,” you said sharply and he nearly flinched. “Stop being such a drama queen.”

His anger withered right then and there into something else, and the beast reluctantly backed down as he seemed to come to his senses.

But once a villain…

“You going to stop being a bitch if I do?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. His brow was still furrowed, making his face look harsh but you could see his scowl lessen.

“No,” you muttered petulantly, mustering up all of your courage to do so. He hadn’t killed you yet, after all. He’d never even laid a hand on you- violently anyway. Light touches and slapping your ass didn’t count. You pushed his large hand from your shoulder and he let you, dropping it back to the couch below. “But I suppose I’ll save it for when you’re not bleeding out on my couch.”

“Gee, thanks.”

And he was back ladies and gentlemen! How to train your villain, in three steps or less.

You brushed off his sarcasm and leaned to one side, reaching for the needle and surgical thread. His hand came back up to your hip- finished with his tantrum. He supported your weight as you rummaged through the plastic container you’d set aside for him.

It took you no time to find a rhythm for your work as you both fell into easy silence- pinching the wound shut with one hand while the other deftly stitched him up. You had to shift a few times in his lap, holding a small flashlight between your teeth when the lamps on either side of the couch weren’t bright enough.

It was thankfully, a clean cut with no ragged edges to it and once again, you could only wonder how sharp the thing that made it was.

There was no indicator that he was in pain other than the occasional squeeze of his fingers but you didn’t bring it up or offer him any other pain medication. He seemed content with the occasional swig of bourbon.

Halfway there, you paused for a breather.

“You good?” you asked softly, noting that you were ten stitches down with eleven more to go. When you looked up, you saw his jaw tick at your concern but he answered you all the same.

“M’fine. Just get it over with,” he grunted, his breath fanning over the top of your head.

He sounded more impatient than pained now but honestly, that was just the norm for him. At least he seemed less woozy as blood started flowing around his body instead of out of it. He’d have another gnarly scar to add to his collection at the end of this but you were doing your best to minimise the damage.

“Almost done,” you said, patting his chest reassuringly. He said nothing but you felt a little of the tension in his thighs abate.

“Good,” he grumbled eventually, as petulant as ever. Your lips quirked in a half smile. He noticed the mood change. “So…” he said, clearing his throat when it became clear you weren’t going to say anything else. “What does the good doctor recommend this time? Plenty of rest and chicken soup?”

“You know, it’s like you read my mind,” you said, focusing hard on the last few stitches. You’d given him some of your best work despite the fact that your hands were shaking with adrenaline. Not to blow your own trumpet too much but you could see why he came back time and time again.

There wasn’t a back alley, hack job doctor in the city who could do work like you could- mostly thanks to your Quirk.

“But, you know, I can’t cook worth a damn so you’ll have to make do with leftover takeout, your highness,” you added, tongue caught between your teeth to hide your smile. He didn’t bother hiding his, grinning at you like the damn Cheshire Cat. “The bed rest is non-negotiable though. I don’t need you running rampant in Kamino and undoing all of my hard work.”

You had already decided that he would sleep here for a few days before you even considered letting him leave again and he could throw all the fucking tantrums he liked because you wouldn’t be budging an inch on it. You knew he would tear the damn stitches the second you let him out of your sight.

He didn’t whine though. Just said-

“Well, there’s always one way to keep me occupied,” he leered, eyes trailing over you and down to where you were seated over his crotch. You rolled your eyes. Even when he was clearly in agony, he was trying to get into your pants. “What do you think, sweetheart? Wanna sit on my cock?”

Um YES!?

“Um, no, you big fucking pervert,” you tutted, rolling your eyes inspite of what your body screamed at you. He chuckled, amused at how fast you’d said no.

“Shame. You’d like it,” he purred, his voice no longer tinged with pain.“I know I’d fucking love it.”

His tone was light, teasing and it did unspeakable things to you. You had to hand it to him. He’d always been surprisingly playful when it came to you- that first meeting notwithstanding.

If there was one word the media would ever use to describe the man who terrorised their cities day in and day out, playful would not be it. When he’d first stooped through your doorway and demanded your services, you hadn’t thought for a single second you’d ever make it out of there alive- let alone have him tease and flirt with you six months down the line.

He’d inserted himself into your life with the sort of ease that came naturally to a wicked, no good villain like himself. Then twisted your worldview until you suddenly couldn’t see what life would be like without him annoying you.

Sure, he made jokes and provocative comments and generally acted like a pervert when he wasn’t in need of medical assistance- but he also never pushed you and you felt a deep appreciation for the weird moral code that he stuck to.

He was a liar. A cheat. A murderer. An absolute fucking psychopath when he wanted to be. He took a tremendous amount of pleasure in causing pain- almost as much as you took in binge watching Netflix on a Saturday night.

But he’d reeled in indignation when it was suggested that he was interested in sexual deviancy.

He insisted that he liked his partners willing and able to participate and then had looked you up and down like he was actually going to eat you on the spot. You’d quickly changed the subject and then when he’d said his brief goodbye you’d changed your panties too because that look had soaked you through.

And he fucking knew it did.

You’d spent years patching up the worst people that this city had to offer. Which, in comparison to other places, was a disturbingly high number per capita. Like, off the bloody charts high. At the end of the day though, you could detach yourself from them. If the army had taught you one thing in your seven year deployment, it was how to stay detached.

Becoming emotionally involved with a man- especially one as universally hated and feared as he was- hadn’t been covered in the handbook.

It had hit you out of left field like a Detroit Smash to the fucking temple.

You had Vagabond- Ivy to her friends, to thank for the entire situation.

She had been the first villain you’d ever patched up. You’d found her, barely breathing and severely wounded, in the alley way behind your apartment complex. It had been a spur of the moment rescue and after you’d nursed her back to health, she’d been surprisingly sweet to you.

After a few successful meetings in which she didn’t murder or rob you and you didn’t shop her to the cops- she’d begun to recommend her ‘friends’, for lack of a better descriptor, to you when they needed something done.

Seeing the money they were offering had put to rest any guilt you might have felt about helping criminals.

All Might… had come to you on his own.

Ivy had never mentioned any affiliation with him and you’d never exactly advertised your services, so when your door had swung open and he’d marched in, you had all but pissed your pants in fear. So had the unfortunate Yakuza member that you had been prescribing muscle relaxers to at the time.

He’d certainly needed them as All Might had literally thrown him out into your hallway, face first and then demanded that you patch up the burn on his hand instead.

Ivy had listened to your tale the next day, wide eyed and mouth gaping as you’d described the most feared man in the world sitting patiently on your couch as you’d whipped up a special salve to combat the sting of Endeavor’s handiwork.

Despite his rude entrance, he’d been gruff yet polite as you talked him through caring for the burn when he was done. Then he’d thanked you for your time and left. Just like that. You’d never thought you would see him again.

Then he’d started to come around more often. Sometimes he wasn’t even injured and while he passed it off as needing a place to lay low for a day or two, you suspected that even a man as intimidating and powerful as him- needed a friendly face sometimes.

Or someone to ogle. Either or.

Now that you were done with his stitches, you wiped the wound clean with an antiseptic wipe but left the gauze on the coffee table. He needed a shower and clean clothes before you would even consider dressing it.

“Not that I’m telling you how to do your job, darling,” he queried, shifting underneath you but keeping you steady with his firm grip. “But don’t I at least get a band-aid?”

You quirked an eyebrow at him, leaning back and away from the heat of his body because it was tampering with your ability to think straight.

You ‘tsked’ disapprovingly at his question, grabbing his chin and moving his face to one side to get a better look at him. He was deathly pale and looked exhausted. Yet he still had the energy to suggest that you have sex with him. Usually you wouldn’t have been so openly pissed at the blatant disregard he had for his own well being but he’d terrified you tonight and had brought all your silly feelings for him rushing back to the forefront of your mind.

“No,” you deadpanned. “You need to take a shower first and get into something clean.”

“I knew you were trying to get me naked. All you had to do was ask you know,” he teased softly, hands sliding up from your hips to your waist.

You grabbed his wrists to push them away but it was like pushing at steel and you narrowed your eyes at him. He made a low, vibrating noise in his chest- half laugh half admonishment for being disobedient.

“You can’t keep teasing me like this kitten,” he informed you, even though you had no idea you’d even been teasing him in the first place. “You make me so fucking hard, d’ya know that?” He tugged you closer without warning until you were plastered against him, almost face to face.

Your heart thundered in your chest and every nerve ending sparked to life under his hands.

His voice was laced with thick arousal. Apparently life threatening injuries made him horny.

Go figure.

“Is that right?” you said, staring up at him while your gut twisted into a million different shapes. He leered at you and then to emphasise his point, he rolled his hips upwards and pressed his erection between your legs.

Your breath hitched despite you trying not to make a sound. He grinned, wolfish and hungry- wanting to chase that sound out of you again.

“Yeah, s’right,” he muttered lowly, eyes flickering to your lips and then lower. He seemed to debate with himself for a moment before he ducked his face to your neck, laying a hot kiss over your pulse point. His mouth was warm and wet and his tongue was thick, trailing in a line along your jaw and back again- until he tugged your earlobe between his teeth and you bucked mindlessly, without even meaning to.

You felt him grin, then the sharp pinch of his canines as he nipped at your neck.

“Come on sweetheart,” his voice was laced with arousal. “Tell me what you want me to do to you. Or do I have to guess?”

Oh where did you even start?

“I- I want-,” you breathed hard, letting him grind you down against his cock. Your thighs shook, the pajama pants you’d worn for your quiet night in, doing nothing to get in the way of the thick shaft that pressed between the lips of your pussy. God, he was big. You’d guessed he would be but this was just ridiculous…

His hand slid along your back and covered your ass and pull you down harder- rubbing you over his cock in a steady rhythm.

Your gasp of pleasure made him grin wickedly and hum a pleased sound in his throat.

“That’s it, kitten,” he said encouragingly, like he was proud of you for being so pliable for him. So easily led into this sinful encounter. It’s not like you’d tried to push him away, was it? No. Because deep down, underneath all of your shaky morals you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

“You’ve always wanted me to fuck you, haven’t you? Always wanted to spread your legs for me? Don’t worry, I’ll make it so good for you,” he murmured, a promise you never thought you’d hear him make.

Gentle and All Might didn’t exactly go together and the thought of him making love to you, whispering sweet nothings in you ear was almost laughable.

…Almost.

It was also incredibly arousing.

“I didn’t think you were the gentle type,” you managed to say, excited by the prospect of having him inside you now. All other issues were pushed out of your mind at the mere thought of him fulfilling all of these promises he was making.

Abruptly, as if to make his point, he slowed the pace that he’d been rocking your hips at- taking on a more leisurely roll that saw him bucking upwards to meet you halfway.

“You don’t think I can be gentle with you?” he asked, hand coming up to cup your cheek and he must have been amused by your rabbit in headlights expression because he laughed. Was this really the same man who you would have blazing, heated arguments with? Who tore down whole city blocks just because he could?

“You really think I’m just a one trick pony? Oh baby, just wait until I get you into a bed. I’ll take my time with you. Fuck you long, and slow and hard until you can’t see straight. Until the fucking sun comes up.”

His words were punctuated by your pathetic whines of pleasure as he ground against you and at the thought of him, not just pounding you into the bed, but actually taking his time? Of seeing a side of him you’d never seen before, loving you slow in all the right places?

Well, you just about melted against him. Boneless would fail to describe how you felt.

How had you gone from stitching him up to dry humping him on your couch? You had no idea but you also knew that it was a long time coming. Him getting all sweet on you was just… speeding up the process. He was still keeping the pace languid and you had no problem with that, the intense build up of winding tension in your stomach twisting ever tighter.

You had soaked through your panties by now and the damp fabric was pressing against your clit with every upward stroke of his cock.

You wanted to kiss him but even now, as close as you both were, his height still put him at an awkward angle.

Vaguely, you remembered that you had goddamn hands.

You reached up and circled them around the back of his muscular neck and tugged softly to indicate what you wanted. He leered at you tauntingly for just a moment before remembering his promise and letting you pull him in.

He was, as you’d rightly guessed, an excellent kisser.

His lips were cool from the rain he’d walked through to get here, but his tongue was hot and as always, he gave you very little preamble before the main event. His tongue was at your lips almost instantly, testing your boundaries of which you apparently had fucking zero tonight.

All it took was a sharp nip to your bottom lip and you were letting him in, letting him take what he wanted from your mouth while you revelled in every second of it.

His groan was music to your ears, deep and almost needy as a palm pressed between your shoulder blades. You didn’t think you could physically get closer to him but you were wrong as he devoured you, your breasts pressing hard into his chest. You kept up with him as best you could but eventually you needed air and to your surprise, he let you pull away when you wanted to.

His eyes were dark and full of lust when you stared back at him, swallowing.

It was then that you finally caught sight of your own hands on him, blood coating them.

His blood.

Your body went cold. Shit! How had you gotten so distracted!?

Fuck. You longed desperately to throw all your inhibitions right out of the window because he was very, very good at this but that niggling voice that had been worried about him from the moment he arrived was suddenly getting too loud to ignore.

As much as you wanted to enjoy the attention and his lips on your throat, he was currently in no state to even think about anything remotely physical. Although… you could do most of the work… No! No, he needed to shower and eat and get some of that strength back.

You knew it and he knew it, despite his attempts to make you believe otherwise.

He made an irritated sound at you when you pulled away.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, amused by your sudden fussing of him as you checked over the fresh stitches. So much for keeping everything sanitary, you cringed. You’d been about ready to ride him into the couch not twenty seconds ago.

“Sorry, big guy but the buffet is closed. As much as it hurts me to say.” And oh, was it excruciating. “Now, get your ass to the shower,” you commanded, levelling a hard glare in his direction and ignoring the whine that your brain gave at the loss of contact.

Usually he would match your glare, not intimidated by some uppity little army doc who whored out her services to Kamino’s underbelly.

His words, the first time you met each other, not yours.

He was clearly more tired than he let on as he reluctantly relented, letting you climb off of his lap with no more arguments. You brushed yourself down, cheeks red all while attempting not to stare at the straining outline of his cock through his blood covered pants. You focused on his injury instead of the ache between your legs.

When you were satisfied the stitches would hold through some light movement, you held out a hand for him to take. He shot you an incredulous look but took it all the same, standing in one swift movement that told you it had been out of courtesy and not necessity. You hadn’t even had to pull.

“We aren’t finished here, I hope you know that,” he warned you and your body sang in response. Your face stayed serious though and you pulled your lip between your teeth. His eyes followed the motion and he dipped down for another kiss-

You really, really wanted to let him but instead, you shoved him as hard as you could towards the hallway and in the direction of the bathroom.

He growled, unimpressed at being denied so abruptly.

It was only seconds ago you’d been whining and hot under his hands and now you were shuffling awkwardly and forcing him in towards the shower. Talk about a cock tease.

“Leave your clothes out,” you said, before he could go. “I’ll wash them. You can’t go around in those bloody things like an animal.”

“You sure you don’t want to wash my back in there, kitten?” he was suddenly towering over you, crowding you with the bulk of his body and you felt heat creep up along your neck. You resisted the urge to say yes and follow him- although it was a battle hard won.

“Towels are in the cupboard and there should be pajama pants and a tee-shirt in your size in the bottom drawer,” you smiled sweetly, patting his stomach and ducking out from under his shadow. You cleared the room in an instant, leaving him in the entrance to the hallway and dancing out of reach of his very bad influence.

He gave you a long, very searching look.

“You had company over or something?” he asked bluntly, never one to beat around the bush.

“Not that’s it any of your business but no,” you replied, tonguing the inside of your cheek as you contemplated your answer. “I um… I bought you some stuff in case you decided to use me as a hotel again. It’s not a big deal.”

So what if you’d picked out a couple of shirts and some pajama pants in his size and colour? It wasn’t like you wanted him to move in or anything. You were being prepared. Which is the hill you’d chosen to die on and you weren’t budging from it.

He shot you a filthy grin, pleased with your answer and the redness in your face.

“Oh stop looking so happy with yourself and get out,” you huffed, flinging a cushion at him. He roared a laugh that shook your walls as he retreated down the hallway- appeased by your current level of affection for him.

A soft, ‘mrrp’, to your left caught your attention and your cat stared back at you.

“Don’t even start your lecture,” you answered, grumpily. “You like him too.”

Marco rubbed himself against the cat post, scratching his own chin on the rough material. He gave another quick meow of agreement before hopping down and wandering away and leaving you wondering what the hell you’d gotten yourself into.

TBC...

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(Part One) (Part Two) (Part Three)

#all might #all might x reader #all smite #all smite x reader #bnha #smut #BNHAFF

1K notes · View notes

doing-an-okay-job-miranda · 4 years

Text

The Night Fellow

AO3 / Masterlist

Warnings: Body Horror, Monster Virgil(he’s a creepy friend right there), mentions of violence and shooting, descriptions of teeth, please let me know if i should tag anything else

Summary:

The Night Fellow is a creature made of both flesh and metal that lives in the long-abandoned mansion on top of the hill outside of town. At night, the Fellow creeps out of their home to roam through the trees and walk along the overgrown path between the mansion and the town.

Logan has a fascination with this (somewhat) passive creature and decides to go find it.

Or, Logan hunts down the town's local cryptid and shoves his hands in their mouth and the thing kinda decides they like him.

-----

Upon first glance on a dark trail, one might think the Fellow is a normal person, a tall stranger out for an evening walk. There aren't have managed to get close to the creature as the moment they sense someone nearby, they drop to all fours and disappears into the trees. The few that have snuck up on the fellow describe black eyes with glowing white dots for pupils, shaggy dark hair, their fingers end at their knuckles, and are replaced by long thin mechanical claws. They say the Fellow's teeth are like knives and they can open their jaw wide enough to fit someone's head inside their mouth.

Logan kinda doubts that last bit.

The night fellow is not inherently violent despite his frightening appearance, they flee at the first sight of people and the only record the town has of an actual attack beyond a few shallow scratches is from a man hunting out in the woods who shot at them, said man had been found with terrifying claw wounds and bite marks after being dumped on the edge of town by the creature.

Logan always finds that part interesting. The town as a whole made it a silent rule that as long as you leave the Night Fellow alone, they'll happily leave you alone as well but the creature could have very much left the man they injured to bleed out in the woods but instead, carried the hunter back to town and left him where he could get help.

Logan knew of the teens that were dared to go up the hill and try to enter the mansion, would overhear a group of friends talking about their adventure during the classes he taught. One had told him that the Fellow had crawled along the walls and ceiling like a spider, another said they barely made it a foot in the door before the Fellow charged at them on all fours and slammed the door as the stumbled back outside. One young girl who had been to the mansion multiple times told Logan that the Fellow is much less likely to chase you out if you knock before you enter and stay in the main foyer, she told the teacher about her friend who tried going through the halls only to have the Fellow follow directly behind them until they left.

The more Logan heard about the Night Fellow, the more curious he became. It could be dangerous, from what Logan understands, the Fellow can get a lot more aggressive towards adults who invade their home then the kids the Fellow simply scares off or let's wonder until either bored or unnerved by their presence but that just makes it all the more interesting.

Logan finds himself trudging up the hill at dusk on a weekend. The creature is aware enough to recognize age differences, the Fellow can tell when someone is a threat and is content to either scare them off or flee from them with only one case of actual harm being argued as more self-defense then anything malicious, especially since the fellow recognized that their attacker would die if left intended and took the effort to get him to safety.

So, Logan stands in front of a mansion that's standing in fairly good shape for a building that's been left to the ages for longer then he's been alive through the gate has been long since destroyed. The teacher knocks on the large door and gives it a few moments before carefully pushing the only slightly rotted wood open and steps inside to the foyer, guiding the door to only be open slightly before he turns around to face the room.

After clicking on his flashlight, he looks around the place. The room looks like it hasn't been touched in ages. Dust and grime coat every surface along with layers of cobwebs that cover everything, accented with the smell of mildew in the air. Logan makes a note that he shouldn't stay inside too long, he hadn't thought about what sort of mold may be growing in this old place and thus didn't bring any sort of filter to breathe through. He'll have to remember that for next time but for now, short term exposure wouldn't do any lasting harm and he came all the way out here for a reason and he'll be damned if he doesn't catch at least a glance of the Night Fellow.

The sun outside is quickly setting, the dirty windows barely probably would barely let light in if it was full daylight so Logan's only left with his flashlight as his only light source in the dark. He only makes it a little bit in, standing in the center of the foyer when he hears the soft ticking of a clock.

It's strange, looking around the room Logan can find an old clock on the floor but it's long broken. The teacher doesn't have to wait long to figure it out as he hears the quiet creak of metal and a ruffle of fabric directly above him.

Logan barely manages to stumble backward in time, shining his flashlight up in time to see a black blur drop from the ceiling and land on the floor where he was standing with a heavy thud. The teacher has no time to think as the creature immediately scrambles onto all fours and charges at him, he backs away quickly dropping his flashlight in panic as the thing comes right at him-

No! Logan locks in his legs in place and holds his breath, his heart pounds as he fights every instinct in his body telling him to flee. He shuts his eyes tightly, arms defensive raising to cover his head but beyond that, he forces himself to stay still and breathe through his nose.

The Night Fellow won't hurt him as long as he doesn't give them a reason to.

Sure enough, the sound of scrambling limbs stop and Logan doesn't feel any sort of pain from an attack. The ticking noise is much closer, directly in front of him but it gets drowned out by an animalistic growl so deep that Logan can feel the vibrations in his ribcage.

"I'm not here to hurt you." The teacher tries to keep his voice even but he's shaking to the core. "I'm not going to cause you any trouble." He doesn't even know if they understand him but he slowly lowers his arms and forces his eyes to open.

The Night Fellow is low to the ground, head bent back at an awkward angle to stare up at him little glowing white dots in their eyes. They're breathing too hard, chest rising and falling rapidly like they're panting but Logan can't hear them breathing. His flashlight is knocked to the side but it provides enough light for the teacher to get a good look at the Fellow.

He has to commit everything to memory, choppy hair, wide sunken eyes, their mouth slightly open, and filled with far too many teeth. It looks like they're wearing some patched up robe with loose sleeves that bunch on the floor, very poorly hiding the beings metal claws. The ticking noise is coming from the Fellow, Logan can tell that much but he's not entirely sure where or why there's ticking.

"Do you speak English?" Logan asks them to receive nothing but their unblinkingly stare. "Can you understand me?" Once again getting no reply which is disappointing as he hoped he would be able to ask the Fellow questions but they seem content just staring at him, he can't be sure if they don't understand or just don't care to answer.

Logan takes a deep breath to calm his nerves before crouching down slowly to be eye level with the Fellow, they back up a step as he moves and the teacher suppresses a shudder at the unnatural angle their legs move in. He meets the being's eyes and feels a chill down his spine but most of his fear takes second place to his fascination.

"You're an incredible being." He mutters mostly to himself but for once his talking to himself is helpful as the Fellow seems to respond. Their pupils shrink into slits as they rear back, their gaze flickering around the room like suddenly he was the scary thing. "It's okay." He tries to soothe as he reaches forward. "I mean you no harm."

The Night Fellow opens their mouth, letting out a low growl as his hand gets too close but the sound cuts off as Logan grips their jaw without thinking, completely forgetting his self-preservation in favor of getting a better look at their teeth.

"Fascinating." Logan breathes, keeping a grip on their chin with one hand while the other pushes on their cheek to tilt their head back. "I was lead to believe that your teeth are made of metal but these are all bone." The teacher strokes his thumb over one of the being's large canines but quickly retracts it as the Fellow tenses their jaw and sharp metal teeth snap down to cover the bone. "Oh, amazing! Retractable teeth, they almost resemble the teeth on a bear trap."

The light from Logan's fallen flashlight did a well enough job at lighting up the room but without it in hand, it's a bit harder to see clearly the details inside the Night Fellow's maw. There's a whirling noise in the back of their throat as Logan let's go of their jaw to reach into their mouth, feeling around the gums to make out the sheath that contained the metal teeth when retracted. The Fellow's bone teeth still stood out behind the metal and Logan carefully maneuvers his fingers past the sharpened metal to rub the duller, more human teeth at the back.

(He makes a note that the Fellow's jaw is stretched unnaturally wide and seems like it could go wider.)

"Is that a..." He mumbles to himself, squinting inside the being's mouth in hopes of making something out in the darkness. "It looks like you have a cavity filling." Logan really can't tell for sure without proper lighting but it does seem like it. Are there dental records of this creature? As far as Logan knew the first confirmed sighting of the Night Fellow was about sixty years ago and they've always been very avoidant of people, only recently getting bolder in scaring away those that wander too close.

Logan pulls back enough to insect the being in front of him. They're wide eyes watching him intensely, at some point while Logan was inspecting their teeth they shifted to rest on their knees and their hands hover near Logan with claws facing towards him like they're ready to strike but hesitating.

It's this moment that Logan remembers that he's in front of a very dangerous creature, figuratively putting his head in the lion's mouth. Sure, the Night Fellow seldom injures anyone but most people don't actively interact with them.

"Ah, I apologize." Logan carefully removes his fingers from the Fellow's mouth and winces as the being's mouth snaps shut near immediately, the metal clinking gives a harsh reminder that the thing could have very well of bitten his fingers off. "Thank you for your patience with me, I got a bit too excited there but I should have asked permission before touching you."

The Fellow's hands lower from their tense position, lowering down to rest on the ground and Logan can make out some of the intricate details of the joints where those thin metal blades connect to their middle knuckle. He nervously wipes his hands on his shirt to rid them of the being's saliva, it's a shame as the teacher would love to collect a sample of it but he hadn't expected to actually get this close to the Night Fellow and thus didn't think to bring a kit.

The Fellow doesn't seem agitated, thankfully. Their head tilted slightly in curiosity as they seem to inspect the human in front of them. Logan's still not entirely sure if they understood anything he said, let alone his apology but they don't seem to hold any ill will towards him which helps Logan not worry too much when they shift closer to him.

He manages not to flinch when the being reaches forward and wraps their "fingers" around his wrist, he doesn't even try to resist as they pull his hand closer as gently as possible. The teacher is rather amazed to find that the finger-like blades aren't actually sharp, their edges dulled down. Logan's sure that they're still dangerous if the Night Fellow put intent behind those claws but at the moment their touch is gentle as they have his hand resting palm up, it certainly helps Logan feel less nervous as they raise their other clawed hand and traces the blade of their pointer finger from the veins on his wrist to the tip of his fingers.

Logan does his best to keep his hand still for them while trying to figure out what they're doing, the glide of the pointed metal across his palm tickles slightly from how gentle the being is and each time his fingers so much as twitch, the fellow lets out a soft warbled noise and stills their motion until Logan holds his hand still long enough.

Logan doesn't realize how much time has past, the teachers legs ache from being in the same position for so long but he doesn't dare move as the Night Fellow traces the wrinkles in his hand. He commits each detail to memory, the being so focused on whatever it's doing gives Logan the perfect chance to observe it's appearance for any missed details. He wishes he could grab his sketchbook from his side bag but that would require moving and also reclaiming his dominant hand from the creature in front of him so instead he just memories to recreate later.

They are both startled when a loud trilling noise rings out from the room, the Fellow drops Logan's wrist as he jerks back in surprise and claw at their chest until the noise stops. They jerk their head up suddenly, looking up past Logan where he's now sitting and upon following their gaze Logan sees one of the dirty windows.

Any trace of light from the setting sun is long gone, the only light source is Logan's flashlight and the Beady little dots that are the Night Fellow's pupils. The teacher scrambles for his phone from his coat pocket, it lighting up and revealing multiple missed calls from his friend but Logan ignores them more the moment.

12:01 AM

Logan must have been here hours without realizing it.

The Night Fellow seems to realize the passage of time skipped over them too as they flickered their gaze between the teacher and the dark window. They almost reach towards him again but draw their hand back, seeming to debate with themself before letting out a huff of air in probably the most human gesture Logan's seen from them tonight. Their claws scrape the floor slightly as they push themself up and onto their feet, standing tall and towering over the teacher.

Logan is not a short man by any means but he certainly feels small as the Fellow steps around him to get to the front door, the being standing taller than the frame. Yes, Logan had known that the Night Fellow is a tall imposing figure when standing but he wasn't expecting the being to be a good bit over seven feet tall.

The Night Fellow looks back at him for a moment after they pull the door open but doesn't wait for Logan to scramble to his feet before they duck out the door and begin their night walk, leaving the mansion's door open. The teacher rushes for his flashlight and follows after them to find them already at the edge of the property and walking past the decrepit gate.

Logan had to run to catch up to them, finally getting close just a little ways past the tree line when the Night Fellow suddenly freezes and jerks their head to look at him. The sudden movement startling Logan enough that he stops himself several feet away from them.

Logan mostly expects the Fellow to drop on all fours once more and flee into the forest but instead the being just stands there and watches him. The teacher takes a breath, figuratively throwing caution to the wing for the hundredth time this night.

"May I walk with you?" The teacher makes a small gesture towards the path in front of them. "I have to return to town and it seems like you're heading that direction."

The Fellow doesn't respond to him but doesn't run from him either, they simply turn their head back forward and continue their walk, though Logan notes that they move slower than before which allows the teacher to catch up and walk beside them.

"So, you can understand me?" He asks only to be met with a side glance from the being. "Have you always lived in that mansion?"

The Fellow immediately looks tense and walks faster, the muffled sound of metal scraping together comes from them as Logan has to jog to catch up to them.

"Wait, I'm sorry!" Logan tries to amend. "I won't ask any questions, we can walk quietly."

The Night Fellow shoots him a look and narrows their eyes at him, which is the first time Logan's seen that their eyes haven't been completely wide open. He wants to ask if they need to blink, if their eyes are mechanical or flesh, how well can they see-

But he keeps his mouth shut and the Fellow slows their pace again for him which at least confirms that they do seem to understand him to some level.

Logan has so many questions ringing in his head as he watches them from the corner of his eye.

What are they? Did their mechanical parts need upkeep? What was the quiet ticking that followed them around? How much of them are flesh and how much are metal? What do they eat? Do they even need to eat? Why do they choose to live in that mansion? Why did they always go for these night walks? Is it easier for them to crawl rather than run?

Logan keeps these thoughts to himself. He instead listens to the sounds of the forest around them, animals tend to fall silent around supernatural creatures and this is no less true for the Fellow. All Logan can hear is the rubble shifting with each of their steps, the occasional strange mechanical noises that come from the being's movements, and the ticking noise that Logan theorizes much be some sort of clock they have under their robe.

The Night Fellow stays with him longer than Logan expects them too, he figured once he hit the main road that they would take off but they stay by his side(though seemingly following him more now that their off their normal path) until the first lights of town come into sight at which they stop.

Logan pauses when they do, turning to face them for a moment. "Thank you for walking with me." He offers a smile to which the Night Fellow nods, the first absolute sign that they understood him.

The teacher watches as they take a few steps away from him before dropping into a crouch, giving him one last look before they disappear past the trees and into the darkness.

There's no way Logan is letting this be his last encounter.

#sanders sides #logan sanders #virgil sanders #body horror tw #violence mention #The Night Fellow #gun mention #monster virgil #I'm also open to ideas if peeps want to see more of this

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delicrieux · 4 years

Note

Hello! May I have a one-shot with Kylo being injured and reader, who is part of the resistance, finds him and takes care of him? Thanks!

idk how this turned out to be 5k words but WHEW i mean if ppl want me to continue it im down so send in sum request of wat u think should happen!! xoxo gossip girl

requests are open! | masterlist | part 2.

Fear. The kind that makes it hard to breathe as if you are kept underwater; the kind that makes your muscles clench and freeze as all senses flow out one by one. Today had been almost too typical — you woke up, you trained, you talked to your comrades and learned battle strategy — and you were certain your evening walk would be just as uneventful. The breeze in your hair was playful; the setting sun provided warm light and set your surroundings in a pleasant, rosy glow. You like the fresh air; you like exploring; you like the freedom that comes with being alone in wilderness. And in turn, it serves as a reminder for why you are fighting in the first place. To preserve this peace, this freedom, that now has been tarnished when you stumble upon a body.

For a heartbeat you think he’s dead — his expression is lifeless and his face, pale as first snow, is bruised, covered in soot and dried blood. Willing your legs to move, you approach cautiously, not breathing, afraid to break the shrill, sudden silence — no birdsong, no wails of wind passing through trees… nothing. Life had, at that moment, stilled completely. But as you draw closer, grass crunching under your feet softly, you intake a breath of both relief and surprise. Dark locks of hair spray on his forehead and obscure the minuscule knit of his brows, his trembling lashes. He’s alive. The thought consumes you and you fall to your knees, skidding beside him, pushing his hair from his face and landing your palm on his forehead.

It’s awfully cold. Chilling. Almost biting at your sensitive flesh, urging you to pull away. It rolls in waves, this sudden cold, sudden sickness, as if it is a virus that spreads and you have caught it with this minimal contact. But you don’t pull away, despite the near overwhelming urge to do so, despite the fear returning with a new blow. Instead you glide your fingers down his jaw and press on his neck, breaking into a small, crooked smile once you feel a slow drum against them. He is alive, but barely. You glance about him, looking around the area. Nothing out the ordinary, no branches broken, no bushes disturbed and no trails left on the grass. How he got here is a mystery that will have to be solved a different time.

You hope he will tell you once he wakes up, if he even wakes up at all.

That, and, his name, too.

Your base is small and tugged away in a dense jungle, the tall trees and heat warding from unwanted visitors — the First Order. The compartments are small; there are barely above a few dozen people here; it serves more as a safe haven for lost wanderers looking for a cause or shelter, or a backup base in case others were destroyed and the rebels had nowhere to go. It is far away enough from war. Everyone here is, to some extent, safe.

You had never been on the front lines. You had never faced a Storm Trooper, had never seen the Force at work — if there even is such a thing, speculations speculations, nothing consistent, merely gossip — and you had never seen a dead body. Perhaps that is why you froze up so terribly at the sight of him. Perhaps that’s why you felt as if a void opened within you, swallowing up the last shred of light, of life, and leaving you hollow.

You should get used to the sight, though. There will be many dead in battle.

He’s the only one occupying a bed in the Medical Wing and he hasn’t woken up for two days now. His vitals are stable — no internal bleeding, no disease detected, nothing out of place as it seemed. But he is lost in deep sleep, constantly dreaming about something that made him tremble and muss and toss and turn, but never wake. It is entirely bizarre how his state is simply there, caused by no injury, no blow, nothing. And the more you take care of him… the more questions you get.

You eat in the cafeteria, a vast enough, pale walled space occupied by few people during lunch time. Next to you sits a blue eyed, blonde haired cherubic woman – she serves as the doctor, the only doctor here. She smiles lightly at you when you catch her gaze. You had always wondered why her name is Vendetta.

The amount of denizens is small here, so small in fact that the only ones serving under this branch is a rag tag team of scavengers, travelers, nobodies that had abandoned their old lives to fight in this war. Rebels, quite literally, with a cause. Many have taken new names. Vendetta, too, had a name before this, a life, a different purpose. Though her odd choice leads you to believe that what ever had happened to drive her here was painful and severe, deserving justice. In front of you sits a tall, bony, brown haired, brow eyed mechanic with a scar running down half of their face – Q. And beside them, July – you had never seen him smiling, had never heard his voice hold a tender note in it. He is always displeased. Always with a frown.

“Seven.” Vendetta calls you, noting your blank stare, the untouched food in your plate. Seven. You chose this because you were the seventh child in your family, and, subsequently, the seventh person to join the Resistance when this base first opened.

“She’s probably thinking about the stranger.” Q mutters, taking a sip, “His origins are…” They glance about, leaning in slightly, “ A hot topic, after all.”

“We get injured wanderers all the time.” Vendetta waves them off, “As if he’s any different.”

“I don’t think we should be so quick to dismiss him, V.” July grumbles, his voice low, the sound of crunching gravel. He sits with his arms crossed over his chest, observing the three of you with something akin to hostility, “You never know who may be working for the Order.”

“You can’t just assume that.” You pipe up, “He might just be another gambler dropped by the Floating Casino because he couldn’t pay his debts.”

“Or he might be a spy.” July stresses, glaring.

“No one knows there is a base here.” You continue, unrelenting, “Half the Resistance doesn’t know it exists, how can someone from the Order?”

“Still, I advice we exercise caution.” Q says calmly, a pleasant smile on their face — if anyone can defuse an argument before it starts, it’s them, “You never know what people are hiding, Seven.”

“Okay,” Vendetta chimes, “I will certainly not disclose this vital information when the man awakes from his comatose state. I shall make sure to confuse and frighten him further by chaining him to his bed.”

“Good.” July says.

“That is not what I had in mind, and you know it.” Q mutters, a tad disappointed, “I was thinking more along the lines of… An interview.”

“Too civil.” July mumbles, “I say we go with Vendetta’s idea.”

“That was not an idea,” She hisses, “it was sarcasm.”

“Fine, interview.” You submit, “Either way, I doubt anyone from the Order would not say they are from there. They are feared. Probably would think he has the upper hand, or something. Plus, our disguise is impeccable. We look like a research facility. Better yet, a shelter if no one wanders up to the main rooms.”

“I also sincerely doubt anyone, Order or not, is so good at lying first thing when they wake up.” Vendetta agrees.

July narrows his eyes at her, “That is an awfully naive observation to make.”

“Really now? It is a known fact that people half-asleep always tell the truth.”

Another hour of this and you feel drained and sore and with a mild headache. As much as their company has helped you, they can be a bit too eager to prove one another wrong. On most occasions you’d enjoy the chatter. Today, however, you feel too distracted to focus on anything. Q makes some good points, July argues, Vendetta and her biting comments pick at your skin. Always the blazing look in her eyes, always a certain gleam of anger hiding within her mellow, sweet tone. You excuse yourself when you finish your meal and they do not keep you from leaving. Perhaps they noticed you being out of it. Perhaps they were too caught up in their new topic – Lo and Chester’s sudden break up.

It does not take you long to come to the Medical Wing. The door shuts with a silent sweep and your heart drops – the bed is empty. Before you can do much else strong arms wrap around you from behind. With a yelp you feel a hand squeeze your throat and your breath leaves you with a helpless whine, sparks flying in your vision. Your reflexes kick in before you can control them. In a panic, you elbow your attacker in the chest and the grip loosens a bit, enough to allow you to escape and put some distance. Inhaling mouthfuls of air, you turn to the man that had been sleeping since you found him in the wilderness.

You never quite realized how tall he is, or how angry he could be. He’s confused and you see fire in his eyes, a sneer on his face, and he stands unmoving, waiting for you to try something, anything, so that he could grab you and try to kill you again.

You raise your hands, palms up —a fragile, harmless motion to indicate you mean no harm. His guard is still up. He’s heaving and his shoulders are tense, his gaze not once leaving your form, “…Hi,” You wheeze, almost voiceless, “I’m not here to hurt you.” You indicate softly. Cold, again, as if thrown into a bottomless ocean; body heavy, like a stone. You gulp. “Are you alright?” You question gently, afraid to provoke him again. “You must be tired. You’ve been out for a while.”

“Where am I?” His voice is deep and scratchy and it seems to set him off. He trembles from anger, you can almost feel the steady build up of rage in his chest, ”Who are you?”

“I’m Seven.” You introduce, “I found you outside our base. Do you know how you got here?”

He takes a threatening step forward and your arms shoot higher, “I’m not your enemy.” You insist, “You are not a prisoner here. You were dying and I wanted to help you.”

He regards you for a silent moment as if unsure whether to believe you or not. However, you sense that he will not try to hurt you, for now at least. You give him a shaky smile, trying to ease him — you cannot imagine how frightening it is to awake in some room among strangers and not knowing where you are or what had happened. “Do you…know your name?” You continue your questions, your arms slowly falling by your sides. After another pause, he nods curtly, “Good. That’s good.” you step away from his bed, “Please, lie down. You’re still recovering. No shady business, I promise.”

You are a bit surprised that he listens, but you don’t show it. He’s cautious, regarding you as if you were some dangerous animal cornering him, and his walk is sluggish. You can tell it’s hard for him to move, but don’t say anything. You doubt it would do any good. He finally sits down and just stares at you. You try to smile again, “Do you know how you got here? It’s okay if you don’t.”

“How long have I been here for?” He asks instead.

“Two full days in the base.” You say calmly, “But out there?” You vaguely motion with your head to the outside world, “I don’t know.”

Your answer unnerves him. For the first time his frown falls and he stares at you with big eyes and a trembling lip, as if a lost child not knowing what to do. That expression warps suddenly and he looks away, his hands gripping the side of the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“Well, if there is…anything you need…” You start mildly, “You can call upon me. Or Vendetta. She’s the doctor here, so if you feel any pain or sickness, you should tell her. She’s sweet.” You smile, “And she will help. But right now, just try to rest…I’ll…leave you to it.”

You bolt past him to the door but– “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

You turn back to him, shaking your head lightly, “No. But it doesn’t matter. A lot of adventures come through here, lost and injured. You aren’t the first one. Now rest, please.”

He’s volatile, is what you learn upon the first days of his resurrection. His mood can change in a flip of a coin and he goes from placid to enraged in a blink of an eye. Tantrums, yelling — all signatures of a spoiled child not knowing what he has but simply wanting to break it. He’s nobility, or so your peers gossip. You hear snippets of all sorts of things, each more outrageous than the one before. The one that he is a prince kicked out of home for adultery seems to be the most popular one.

And he’s egotistical. He had not been, besides the attempted murder, that hostile and untamed towards you — the choking you told no one about as you concluded he simply felt threatened and scared. Though his other tantrums you are not so quick to chalk up as self-defense. Vendetta, exasperated, one evening told you that she somehow offended him — ”All I said is stop pouting because you need my help!” — and he, with a bruised ego, so high and mighty promptly jumped out of bed. Whatever he was trying to do backfired — perhaps he was trying to leave, or trying to grab something and to hit her with — but he slipped and fell and hit his head into the sharp corner of table. “And I said to him, oh I said: look what you’ve done now! Off to bed, quickly!” Vendetta finished bitterly, stabbing her fork idly into her food, possibly imagining his face there. His nose, much to V’s displeasure, was not broken, but an ugly gash and a dark bruise split his skin in half and he laid in bed sulking for at least a day.

As the week passed, he seemed to favor your company the most. It is not that he smiled and joked and laughed in your presence, and you were not exchanging secrets or hugging or even calling each other friends. He simply seemed to be more mellow around you, possibly because you oddly knew what to say and what to keep silent. It is as if you sensed the subtle shift of his moods; could read his expressions in a way no one could, perhaps no one tried. And you would come and visit him as often as you could when relieved of your duties — you felt responsible for him in a way, and you wondered if you would still feel this weight on your shoulders when he eventually left this place. After all it was you that had found him lying in the grass; it was you that had insisted to help him; and now, it is you that brings him food and tries to provide some comfort in a form of conversation. You don’t pry into his past, don’t even ask for his name, because you know he does not want to give it, and you won’t risk questioning in fear of another explosion of his temper. You talk about inconsequential things: what’s happening around the base, what sort of plants grow around here, what bugs could kill him before he took two steps. He especially enjoys hearing the rumors about him, even if he is too prideful to admit that they amuse him greatly.

“And what if I am?” He questions one evening, something akin to a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His eyes, a kind hazel color that could be beautiful if not for the persistent angry spark within them that is now, seemingly, vacant, watch you closely.

You frown softly, “Are what?” You question, “A prince?” He nods. You snort, “Well then, your majesty, I shall make sure to inform the others. What will be your first decree?”

He pretends to think, “No more slacking around.” He says sternly, “This is supposed to be a military base, isn’t it?” He ends on a cheeky note. You gulp. Ah, yes, you might have let it slip that he’s in one of the Resistance’s safe houses, though you did not disclose the coordinates.

“On a mission to make fun illegal, are you?” You ask with a raised brow.

He frowns, “Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too!”

Childish, really, though you suppose it is better than arguing with July.

You feel it before you hear it— rain and thunder. The merciless patter on the roof and on your window. In night the sound is almost deafening — a loud roar of an engine, followed by cracks of lightning and flashes in the dark sky. You would have slept through it if not for the pins and needles washing your skin behind the warm sheets thrown on your body. You stir. Thunder roars and a flash of bright white light illuminates your room and seeps through the cracks of your lashes. Cold, again, as if standing in the middle of a storm.

You finally sit up, rubbing your face and then looking around to see if your friends are playing some sort of joke on you. You were almost certain they had dragged you outside and left you to get drenched. But you are alone in your room and you frown and shiver from the biting cold. Groggily you throw the sheets away and leave your bed, not entirely certain where you are going but there is a pull in your gut and half-asleep you follow it. You think you might still be dreaming —the rain on your dry skin feels real, though all dreams feel real until you awake. You leave the dormitories and take the elevator to the first floor. The base is silent, save for the shrill of machinery. Finally, still in your pajamas and almost fully awake, you step past the main entrance and stop.

It’s pouring, a curtain of rain obscuring the confusing contours of trees and leaves and bushes. The darkness does not help. A bleak light pulses to life once you pass the sensor and your surroundings illuminate. Thunder, lighting, more rain. You stand safe and dry under the roof, and he stands at the very edge of it, half soaking, his face kissed and washed by the rain.

You are not sure what to think. He seems lonely standing there surrounded by darkness and water. It’s whispers, or something akin to that, that urge and beseech that he does not want to be alone. You hear them somewhere in the back of your mind. If he noticed you, and he should have with the light suddenly on, he does not show it. You approach him slowly, your footsteps concealed over the heavy drum of rain.

“Not used to it, are you?” You ask, your voice followed by a bolt of thunder. He stirs, head tilting in your direction. Your heart skips a beat when your eyes meet — there is no hostility in them, no anger, just a distant sadness. You give him a soft smile, “I can tell you don’t see it often. I didn’t, either, at first. I grew up surrounded by deserts and I had not seen a drop of rain for at least eighteen years. But, here… Well, there’s no shortage of it. We have storms at least once a week. You’ll grow sick of it before you leave, trust me.”

He says nothing, still looking at you. The light sniffs out. Both of you stand unmoving.

“Why are you here?” He asks, a note of genuine confusion slipping past his calm tone.

“I… don’t know.” You admit. A frown pulls on your brows and you bite your lower lip, staring into the heavy curtain of rain, “I…I really don’t know.” You turn to him, “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, savoring the silence. Then, “I got bored laying in bed.” Somehow you feel that anxiety has more to do with his sudden nightly venture, rather than actual boredom. Though, you suppose it is quite tedious doing nothing all day. You imagine he is active, judging by his built. He has a strong character and he knows what he wants (most of the time), or rather has a distinct sense of what he doesn’t want. You imagine he’d be a good commander, or leader, with his deep voice and unrelenting stare, if only he wasn’t so sensitive. He’s too unpredictable. Too uncontrollable. His emotions get the better of him too quickly for him to be unbiased. For that reason alone you deem him unfit to be a spy, or a soldier, or a figure of military power. He’d burn all he would build if that were the case. No, him being of noble birth and being stranded here as some sort of twisted punishment sounds believable enough.

“What are you thinking?” He questions, drawing you out of your thoughts. You hum, ponder whether you should be honest with him or not. “Don’t lie to me.” He says suddenly and you jolt, heart drumming painfully in your chest. For a frightening moment you figured he could read your mind. Then again, you have been spending a lot of time together. He must have noticed how gentle you are with him, how carefully you pick your words. His signature frown is back, you see it for a second when lightning strikes.

“I was thinking about your life.” You admit, “Your work. Whether you really are a royal as most of my crew mates seem to think.”

Flash. You see half a smile blooming on his lips.

“But I know you won’t tell me. Don’t worry, I get it. Ladies love a mystery.”

“What?”

It’s your turn to grin, “Oh, please, it’s almost all I hear about. Seven brought a brooding stranger with a secret past into the base. Lo…Michel… Two of your rapid admirers. I already told you that your arrival has sparked many speculations.”

“I…I haven’t…” He sounds uncertain, flustered almost, as if embarrassed, but there is no way he is, you refuse to believe it. He stumbles upon his words and lastly says nothing. You snicker silently. Another flash of lightning and you see the same confused, puppy-like look on his face you have had the pleasure of seeing once or twice. He does not shield it this time, this moment of vulnerability. He probably doesn’t see the point because darkness obscures everything again.

You extend your hand to him as a silent offering. How many things have you offered him now? Life, health, your company. He regards it, ponders a bit, lastly gently clasps his hand over yours. You jerk. Electricity courses through you and your eyes go wide, tingles rushing all over your body. Lightning strikes. You see wonder on his face, a mimic of your own surprised expression.

“Come on,” You stutter, tugging him, “you’ll catch a cold.” He follows after you. The light blinks on. You don’t know what is happening. Couldn’t have been the thunder, the feeling is not as intense. It felt more like a build up of energy; like you accidentally touched a circuit and it zapped you.

Impossible, you hear something alike his voice but not quite — it’s quiet, distant, muddy.

“Hm?”

“What?”

Once inside, the door sweeps shut behind you, “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything.” He sounds a bit ticked now, and you decide to drop it.

“Oh,” You mutter, “must’ve imagined it, then.”

His hand is cold in yours and you squeeze it just a bit, hoping he won’t notice and hoping that you will warm it. When you reach the Medical Wing, you tilt your head and say, “Wait here. I’ll get you dry clothes from the storage.”

But as you turn to leave he doesn’t let go, though doesn’t say anything either. He’s choked up — either he doesn’t know how to say it or doesn’t want to say it at all. He doesn’t want to be alone. Those whispers come again, ringing in your ears so quietly you aren’t sure they’re even there. You give him a soft smile, catching his gaze, “Okay, we can go together. You’ll probably stay here for at least another week, so, it’s best you know where the storage is anyway.” There’s no rush in your words, no annoyance, just simple acceptance. It eases him, relieves him of saying and admitting things he’s not willing to bring to light.

The walk is quiet and you still hold hands. His is much bigger than yours, rough, though not unpleasant. They are hands of a man that uses them often — for better, or for worse — and a twinge in your heart, a sudden thud of uncertainty, informs you that your previous speculations might have not been correct at all. His hand doesn’t feel like that of a prince (not that you would know what that would feel like), no, it feels like a hand of a soldier. But that inching of something amiss is swept away by warmth, silent happiness, a certain deliriousness that starts blooming within you and spreading all around. You feel him, somehow; feel a connection. You can’t put it into words exactly, you doubt you could ever explain it to anyone. It’s fragile. And beautiful. And maddening that such a devout emotion is sprung by something as innocent as holding hands

You wonder if he feels it. You somehow know he does.

The storage room is not big. Your hand slips from his as he chooses to stand by the doorway and you rummage to get his things. You feel braver. Perhaps it’s the tiredness that leaves you so open and bold, but searching you can’t help but ask, “So tell me…” You start, handing him some towels, “What were you actually doing? Besides being melodramatic.” You add, your lips quirking upwards.

He regards you with lively eyes and you see a grin lift his cheeks. He’s smiling, actually smiling, and you know this action is precious and rare and you can’t help but beam at him in return, “You think I was being melodramatic?” He questions.

You laugh a little, a breathless bell-like “Yes” falling from your lips as you fetch him dry clothes from the upper shelf, “All you needed was a cape to swing around.”

His expression abruptly falls and the temperature drops with it.

“Right, no cape.” You mumble, a tad disappointed, handing him his clothes.

As you make your way back, you can’t help but saying, “I just thought it would suit you, is all.”

“What else do you think would suit me?”

You raise a brow, trying to keep up with his drastic shift in moods: again, hes smiling, then he’s pensive, now he seems lighthearted, genuinely curious. “You like to ask a lot of questions.” You conclude.

He shrugs, “I’m just trying to figure out what you think of me.”

“And why are you curious?”

“Now you are the one asking a lot of questions.” He points out. You snort.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

This again, followed by quiet chuckles. You don’t turn to the Medical Wing now, instead stopping by the elevator and pressing the red button. The doors slide open. You glance at him.

“So…” You mumble, “This is not how I imagined my night going, but…” You aren’t quite sure how to finish, how to vocalize the strange swirl of emotions in your chest, “Well, goodnight.”

You step into the elevator, going to push the button—“Ben.” He says suddenly, making you flinch and turn to him. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the floor, “My name. It’s Ben.”

Again, that same energy, that same shock you felt when you first touched his hand ignites your body with something closely akin to happiness. Trust. Bond. He trusts you. The connection you felt was not an exaggeration. He would not have given you his name otherwise.

“Goodnight, Ben.” You say softly, fighting a smile that’s trying to rise on your face, “Sweet dreams.”

“…Goodnight, Seven.”

As the elevator doors shut, you think you hear him say “Thank you”, but that might have just been your imagination.

hope you liked it! xxx

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

Only Traitors Consort With The Damned (Part Nine)

The Lost Boys x reader

Warnings: violence, blood imagery

Context: The first of the SRS has arrived, but thankfully not in large numbers.

A/N: hopefully I'll have a more Halloween-esque part to this out next weekend, so stay tuned for that!😁💛

Masterlist

A shiver runs through my body as I move silently through the back streets of Santa Carla, my hand resting on the gun holstered at my hip, gloved fingers tapping lightly on the deadly weapon as if in anticipation, my muscles taut and ready to spring into action. Unsurprisingly, a cool wind is blowing through town, the late October chill easily seeping into my new, stolen black denim jacket, the new outfit the boys found for me acting as a suitable disguise, seeing as the SRS uniform from before is a little too conspicuous, though the chains rattling quietly by my thigh are a little distracting, and the studs adorning the variety of clothes are a little superfluous, but it does it's part well enough. Thankfully, I got to keep my boots, so at least I'm not getting blisters from any new ones.

Biting my lip, I turn down yet another deserted alley, quickly scanning it for danger, noting the lack of people instantly, though there are a few cars and bins sitting by the surrounding walls here and there, each of them providing sufficient cover for a person, or multiple persons. Slowly, I edge forwards, watching the surroundings for any movement, aware that there could be danger at any moment, my heart pounding as I clock the lack of sound in the area, suddenly aware of the fact that there are no working streetlamps on this particular strip of alley, leaving it completely cloaked in darkness. Uneasy, I stop still, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Very carefully, I take off my gloves, placing them in my pocket as I listen closely to the eerie silence, watching the dark space in front of me, hoping to catch anything, should it come closer.

My head snaps round in the direction of a muted footstep, my fingers wrapping around the stock of the gun, pulling it from its holster and smoothly cocking it, flicking off the safety as I turn towards the noise. Mechanically, I lift the weapon a little higher, calming my racing heart before I step over towards the car the noise came from, holding my breath as I try to make out any shapes in the suffocating blackness, finding it nigh-on impossible to do so.

As I approach the car, I lift the gun higher still, edging around the seemingly abandoned vehicle, keeping my eyes trained on the space in front of me, my training kicking in as a dull calm spreads through me, keeping me from moving erratically, everything around me filtering out as I round the bonnet of the car.

A sudden blow to my upper back throws me forwards into the wall ahead of me, the air leaving my lungs as I collide with it painfully, tears springing to my eyes as my nose makes contact, the gun falling from my hands. Recovering quickly, I duck down before the second punch can come, a stifled yelp of surprise escaping my attacker as their fist connects with the hard surface, their knuckles most likely cracking from the force, causing them to reel back a little, leaving me time to spin around and jump back upright again. Without pausing, I swing my fist round into their exposed ribs, feeling the bones give slightly under the impact, my other hand coming round to land a hard blow to their descending face, their body whipping to the side in response. I move closer, intending to grab them, only for them to suddenly lunge forwards and shove me up against the wall, fists pummeling my sides, low grunts of pain leaving my lips as I grab their shoulders, but to no avail.

After a particularly well-aimed punch to the centre of my collarbones, I have to suck in a sharp breath of air, wincing as pain explodes through my chest, rendering me momentarily incapable of retaliating, giving my attacker the perfect opportunity to grab my hair and throw me away from the wall, my body violently crashing into the car bonnet as they drop me there, pain quickly spreading through me as I make contact. Under my weight, the windscreen cracks and shatters, shards of glass digging into my back as I skid over them, my attacker advancing on me with a newfound confidence, my eyes swiftly spotting the knife in their hand. Ignoring the blood pouring from my nose and mouth, I quickly roll to the side to avoid a sudden downwards thrust of the blade, dropping off of the car and onto the floor, going to get up, only to be stopped by a hand grasping my hair again, yanking my head back and pressing the knife to my throat. Eyes going wide, I take hold of their arm and press against it, feeling the icy sting of the blade just cutting into my skin, panic starting to well up in my body as I fight against their strength, only to find them slowly overpowering me.

With one last push, I drive an elbow backwards, catching them in the knee with enough force to make them buckle a little, giving me the chance to duck out of their grip and throw them onto their back on the floor, swiftly pinning then down as I grab my own knife from my pocket, wincing as they manage to use their's to leave a long gash down one of my arms. Putting my knife to their throat, I press down until they stop struggling, the two of us breathing very heavily as we calm ourselves, both waiting for the next move.

When nothing happens, I go to lean back slightly, only for my captive to suddenly write underneath me, kicking me backwards a little so that I have to stretch out my arms to keep myself upright. In doing so, however, I manage to lodge my knife in their thigh, a scream of agony tearing itself from their lips at their self-inflicted wound, blood starting to ooze out from around the base of the weapon, colourful curses and swears aimed at me accompanying the whines and whimpers of pain that follow. Climbing off of them, I swiftly grab their wrists and use the rope at my belt to tie them together, ignoring their pleas and begging, the voice now distinctly male as they try to appeal to my better nature, seemingly forgetting that they just tried to kill me.

I don't look at their face, turning to their newly sustained wound, thinking things over, before making a split decision. Pulling another rope from my belt, I tie it around the top of his thigh, pulling it tight to stop the bleeding, choosing to leave the weapon in place as I work, eventually telling him to shut up as he continues to ramble on.

"Who the hell is that and why the fuck is he here?!" David growls at me as I eventually manage to drag the Scout into the cave, a trail of dirt mapping out the path I used as I manoeuvre my way around the messy interior.

"This," I start, dropping the man's legs as I find a better source of light, "Is a Scout, someone sent to find me before the rest of the Clean-up Team arrives. He's here because we're taking him hostage."

Kneeling down beside the now-unconscious man, I turn my attention to the knife protruding from his leg, quickly deciding how to go about this. Taking hold of the Scout's knife, I carefully cut away the fabric of his trousers around the wound, gently testing how tightly the knife is wedged into the muscle, before dropping the weapon in my hand and grabbing a piece of nearby cloth.

"A hostage? Why are you taking a hostage?" David continues to interrogate me, scowling at me as I yank the knife from the wound and use the fabric to staunch the flow of blood that rushes out.

"So that I have some leverage over them when they come for me, though I'm not too sure how well they'll react to this." I muse out loud, only now realising that the platinum blonde vampire across from me is having a hard time controlling himself, "Sorry, I forgot that this would be difficult for you guys."

A small part of me is glad that David is the one who volunteered to stay behind tonight to keep watch with me, given that he seems to have the most self control (apart from Dwayne) when it comes to blood; if it was Paul, the Scout would be dead by now.

David just huffs, sitting in his wheelchair sullenly as he waits for me to finish, blue eyes watching me as I examine the wound.

"Hey, do you think you could get the med-kit from my rucksack, please? I need to stitch this or he'll bleed out." I ask him quietly, hoping he'll agree.

The vampire rolls his eyes, but stands and gets the kit anyway, handing it to me with a grunt. Thanking him, I take out a needle and thread, sterilizing them both as I prepare them for use, removing the makeshift bandage from the wound and leaning in to start sewing the edges shut.

"Where did you learn to do that?" David asks suddenly, breaking the silence.

"This? I learnt on the job, a few years ago. Some werewolf caught me with its claws when I got too close. I had to stitch myself up, so I learned from the experience." I explain dismissively, remembering the incident well.

"A werewolf?" The vampire questions, seemingly confused, "Where was that?"

"Somehwere in Texas, I think. I don't really remember the specifics. Why?"

"Oh, I wasn't aware that there were still werewolves in this country."

"Really?! You can't possibly think you're the only supernatural beings left in the U.S?" I ask, incredulous.

"I've been stuck in Santa Carla for as long as I can remember, so I wouldn't know." He chuckles in response, "What're you gonna do with him when he wakes up?"

I shrug.

"Talk to him, interrogate him. I just need to know how close the SRS are to finding me."

"How close do you think they are?" David queries quietly.

I sigh to myself, sitting back on my heels as I finish the job.

"Honestly, I'd rather not think about it."

Part Ten

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #david(thelostboys)#kiefer sutherland #paul(the lost boys)#dwayne(the lost boys)#santa carla #marko(the lost boys)#star(the lost boys)

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silenthillmutual · 3 years

Text

wah i got “lover dearest” stuck in my head

cws: violent intrusive thoughts, unhealthy coping mechanisms, drinking (referenced)

this bar doesn’t feel right on dankovsky’s skin. really, no bar does. even through his coat he feels the griminess crawling on him, itching to get beneath the leather, and if he weren’t wearing gloves he’d scratch it off in great bloody chunks. he scowls at the table in front of him, like if he furrows his brow hard enough the thought will simply vanish. he’s always hated that sort of violent imagery. he’s not innocent, not unaccustomed to viscera or even to the act of drawing blood, but something about turning his claws on himself puts a hole in his stomach.

he’d swallow himself if he could. the image isn’t going away, reel rewinding in his mind. it’s a flimsy moving picture, but it doens’t have to be good to stick to his mind.

daniil crosses his legs, one foot over the other. he came here to think, to stimulate his mind to progress. the change of scenery was supposed to help him through the stagnation he’d hit in the stillwater. the town hall was never conducive to thinking - even its usual occupants failed to do much more than act, to carry out orders based on little more than rumors. and maybe that was the philosophical point behind its arcitecture: a place for the human soul to follow the law, whatever the cost. or maybe the people here are just that stupid.

well. at the current moment, daniil can’t claim to be any better. coming to a bar to think was a moronic decision. he’d only come to bars to escape his thoughts, to drown them out for a while so he could... so he could do anything, really. sleep. socialize. he never did much of either, never did them well, never did them for long. sometimes with the drink, the thoughts would disappear altogether and he could just sit, staring at a wall, enjoying the blessed silence. other times the drink would numb it for long enough for him to make it back to his flat, stumbling over books in the dark, only to be attacked the moment he shut his eyes. images would come at him, blurring into one another, and a small but concise voice he didn’t recognize reminding him he knew the way to open a vein, to slit a throat, to puncture a lung. the best way to practice is on himself.

“fancy meeting you here, oynon.” daniil scrambles in his mind, throwing himself at the sound of burakh’s voice. outward, he’d be embarrassed of his actions, but as it is he can only feel relief. “i’d have thought our humble bar beneath your status.”

burakh says it with a lilt in his voice to indicate a joke is being made, and one at daniil’s expense. daniil clicks his tongue against his teeth and doesn’t quite shake his head, looking towards the bartender. even that hurts. “i’ll learn to make do with the materials provided me,” he says, “but i think you’ll notice i’m not drinking. i never do, on the job.”

“of course not. what a scandal that’d be!” burakh takes his seat across from daniil and plants his elbow on the table, drawing daniil’s eyes toward him. it’s nice to have someone across the way to look at instead of the wall, and it’s all the better that burakh is prettier than their surroundings. he doesn’t seem as out of place here as daniil would have thought, given the owner of this establishment. but artemy does shift in his seat to look at him, and the expression he wears is restless. “what are you doing here though, dankovsky, if not drinking? it’s the middle of the day, and i doubt stamatin has much medical insight to offer you.” his eyes flick to the dancer.

daniil cuts him off before he can make a truly ridiculous suggestions. “you never know. andrey was in the health sciences before he left for architecture. and perhaps the local alcohol offers a modicum of protection against the pest.” burakh’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and some of daniil’s self-assured smugness rushes back. he’s not sure what part of his response burakh is surprised by. “i am here to think,” he offers. “thought a change of pace would help. i’m at a dead end, colleague.”

funny. it feels good to admit it. it’s never felt good to admit to anything before; to failures, to attractions, to the shifting and clouded thoughts inside his head... “i’m flattered, emshen, that you would trust me with such a dark and embarrassing secret. bayarlaa for this precious gift.” daniil thinks about kicking him under the table. then burakh sighs, dropping his hand from his face and sitting up a little straighter. “i have an idea, but i’m not confident in it. feels like i’m missing something, but i can’t put my finger on what.”

"is that why you’re here at a bar in the middle of the day?” burakh gives him an odd look and he feels his insides being tugged down. he’s always been affectless, and never sure if his words come across with the earnestness he means them. in a moment of weakness, he continues: “have i said something wrong?”

and for all of that, burakh snorts. “i don’t know what i’m doing here,” he says. “i don’t frequent bars at all. i just felt -” he stops himself, and daniil watches, transfixed, as his cheeks dust over with pink. he’s on the verge of putting a stop to whatever words were coming next, and daniil is suddenly and desperately invested in their trajectory. he leans closer, almost over the table, hoping his expression conveys his interest. burakh looks baffled, almost shy as he mumbles out, “i felt my line being pulled here.”

“oh.” he doesn’t know what that means. he gets the sense that it’s something important, and something personal, by the way burakh looks at him. he can’t help that his first thought is like a fishing line? but for once he manages not to simply say the first thing to come to mind. he says the second instead, just as honest as the first and every bit as embarrassing as burakh’s admission. “i’m glad.”

whatever it means, daniil’s choice of words seem to have been the right ones. burakh is a little less hunched in on himself now, fingers going lax against the table. daniil vibrates, a sudden impulse to reach out and grab one, to use him physically as the lifeline he’s latched onto mentally. especially as he’s looking ready to jump up and leave, and daniil does not want to be left with his thoughts again. “i shouldn’t have come here,” he says without thinking.

burakh looks at him, brows knit, eyes working through something. daniil licks his lips to try and work on a follow-up, but he freezes. even in burakh’s presence, the thoughts come back. you’ve shot a man already. daniil’s fingers curl on the table, nails against the leather against the wood. you are a violent and ruthless man. his teeth burrow into his lip, digging for blood. you will give in and hurt yourself again. the taste is stale against his tongue. it’s only a matter of time. daniil’s eyes start to flicker nervously. i am patient. “what i said, erdem - when i said that,” burakh shakes is head, puts a hand in his hair. daniil watches, eyes aching to stay focused. “i thought you were calling the kids ‘mutts’. i didn’t realize you meant actual dogs.“ a nervous smile plays over artemy’s mouth. “they left that part out. i guess because they told you?”

“yeah,” daniil says, not sure what it is he’s agreeing to. you could slip the cuff of your glove up and sink your nails in. you could tear at the skin until it bleeds. you could take your hand and slam it down on the table so hard it breaks your wrist.

“i’m sorry. i don’t really think we’re better off without you.”

daniil blinks at him. it takes a moment to process what he means, to work through the layers of awful commands in his head. “i didn’t mean that,” he says, though perhaps he should have let burakh think he did. burakh gestures for him to continue, and he finds himself uncertain. he feels the stress high up in his throat, difficult to breathe for the doubt blocking his airways. he can’t manage even a grimace like this, sweat gone cold along the back of his neck. “the bar,” he says. “i shouldn’t have come to the bar.”

like that, the floodgates open. daniil puts a hand to his temple, muttering almost more to himself than to burakh. “being here brings back such memories. bad habits. destructive habits.” stop where you are. he’ll think you’re a freak. “drinking myself stupid just to keep the -” daniil shuts his mouth so quickly and sharply his teeth ache. “nevermind,” he says, and what should be a grumble comes out just as monotone as all the rest. when it looks like burakh is about to encourage him, he snaps out, “you wouldn’t understand.”

despite the tone, burakh looks at him with soft eyes. it irritates daniil to be looked at this way. it’s uncomfortable, much kinder than he deserves. he could take it if burakh wanted to shout, if this turned into a brawl like his first few years at university. he’s not used to this, whatever it is. “maybe not,” burakh concedes, “but wouldn’t you feel better talking about it anyway?”

“i never have.” even to his own ears, he sounds surprisingly vulnerable. it makes him want to tug the coat tighter across his chest, deflect whatever future empathy comes his way. there’s a mix of emotions flooding through him now: a distaste for pity, a fear that he’s crossed the line, a sense of longing to be understood where it’s impossible. he’s not sure what sort of response he’s looking for or, more to the point, what he needs in this moment, only that it’s difficult to look burakh’s way. he can still feel the other man’s eyes on him, waiting for him to continue, and a panic sets in that he truly doesn’t know what burakh wants. he feels, all of a sudden, so ludicrous like this, when there’s so much else to be worried about. “nothing seems to work anymore,” he confesses. “it’s hard not to fall back on...”

he trails off, but burakh picks up on it. “yeah,” he says. daniil feels something and looks down. he hadn’t realized he’d left his hand sitting on the table until now, hadn’t felt it at all until other fingers grazed over his. he knows there must be a flush to his cheeks, and the urge to take hold of the hand swells up. his own fingers feel a tremor underneath burakhs, and more wild and impulsive thoughts crowd his brain. more pleasant this time, but far more unobtainable.

“i don’t think you can help me,” he says flatly. saying it feels liberating, and the next words come easy. “not with this.” burakh tilts his head. “some battles must be fought with the mind, and not the hands.” burakh laughs. it’s a pleasant, light sound, and daniil’s heart races to hear it. equal parts endearment and frantic confusion. “what? what did i say?”

“nothing i shouldn’t have expected.” burakh’s fingers curl a little around daniil’s own, before they start to slip away as he stands. “you do what you need to, dankovsky. and if you find you want help all the same, you know where to find me.”

“actually, i don’t,” he blurts out, and he knows his face is on fire now. “it’s you who usually finds me, not the other way around.”

burakh blinks at him, and extends his hand. daniil can see where it’s calloused over, and thinks about touching it. the imagined texture is a far cry different from the images he’s conjured to mind all afternoon. not soft, perhaps, but gentle. “have you got a map?” he asks. daniil sets his bag on the table too quickly, eliciting another quiet giggle as he searches for the paper. burakh pulls a pen from his center pocket, circling an abandoned factory not far from where they are now. “i trust that you won’t give out my secret,” he says, and slides the map back over.

he’s gone before daniil can think of something else to hold him in place.

it’s for the better, daniil tries to rationalize, but his body screams that it really isn’t. he’s alone again, in a place that begs him to give in. the thoughts are at bay for the moment, only because daniil’s kept his attention the way burakh’s hand had felt on his. he fantasizes, for a second, what it might have felt like with his glove off, to know the brush of those rought finger pads against the back of his hand. and then, easy as anything, the thoughts are back to torment him. images of broken fingers, of pencils shoved through skin. daniil stands before he can wallow a second longer, and heads for the bar.

#icarus.txt #burakovsky #fanfic #ok to rb #icarus.docx

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