#(it's not to be confused with the sobbing corner. that corner is soggy with tears.)
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The Woodchuck Leader Assessment - Chapter 5
DT17 Fanfiction
Summary: When Launchpad’s ability to supervise children is called into question, Dewey tags along on a Junior Woodchuck trip to support his best friend.
Chapter 1
Also cross-posted on fanfiction.net.
***
Despite saying ‘ow’ multiple times, Launchpad had been prodded way more than he was comfortable with. The doctor had kept at it until he’d mercifully declared he didn’t have any broken bones and could go home. Launchpad usually didn’t like hospitals, apart from the food, partly because he could never understand what everyone was doing to him, but mostly because he didn’t like being left alone after his friends had to go home. But today, he would’ve happily stayed overnight if it meant he could just go straight to sleep.
Finally free of his tormentor, Launchpad pushed his soggy clothes into his duffel bag with leaden arms. No broken bones, but his entire body ached. He had bruises absolutely everywhere and his muscles felt like he’d way, way overdone it at the gym. His stomach was still knotting up with cramps and he’d only stopped coughing up water about an hour ago.
And he couldn’t stop sneezing. Launchpad felt another coming on, screwed up his face, but to no avail as it only came exploding out with greater force. It jarred his whole body, and Launchpad groaned.
“Bless you.” Della stood in the doorway to the hospital room.
“Oh, hey. You got here quick.”
“Um, yeah? You dropped my kid in a river and I got a call to say you were both been taken to hospital, of course I…”
Launchpad lowered his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Della held up her hands. “No, no. You jumped in after him! I didn’t mean… wow, I’m bad at this. I mean… thank you. You jumped in after him; you got him out. That’s the important part.”
“Is he…?”
“He was right here…” Della leaned back out into the hallway. “Dewey. Come on, sweetie, it’s okay.”
A sneeze sounded from down the hallway and then Dewey stuck his head around the door. He was far from his usual exuberant self, shivering and wrapped up in one of Della’s spare jackets.
Launchpad swallowed the lump in his throat. They’d said Dewey was fine but it was different actually seeing him standing there. This time, he’d been strong enough to save his friend. “Hey Dewey, how are you feeling? That river was really cold.”
Dewey stared up at him, wide eyes filling with tears, then rushed him. Launchpad dropped to his knees and grunted as Dewey slammed into him, buried his face against his chest, and sobbed into his one dry shirt. “I thought…” Dewey finally choked out. “I saw you go over the waterfall. I didn’t know what happened to you, and you were only in the water because of me, and…”
Launchpad squeezed him back tight. “It’s okay, I get it. It’s scary, huh?”
Della stepped over and gently squeezed her son’s shoulder. “Huey told me the guy assessing you was a real jerk. Both to you and the kids. Why the hell have they got someone like that in the Junior Woodchucks? If I get my hands on him…”
“I’m going to talk to the Duckberg head leader,” said Launchpad, as he rubbed Dewey’s back. “She needs to know he hasn’t changed. I don’t know why they even brought him back.”
“Won’t that look bad? You dobbing him in when he’s probably going to give you a bad report?”
Launchpad gulped. He hadn’t thought of that. “She’ll… she’ll listen to me. And I’ve got to try, even if Jack’s report gets me kicked out. He made me feel like garbage as a kid. I can’t let him talk to kids like that.”
Dewey sniffed as he extricated himself from Launchpad’s arms.
“You okay, honey?” said Della.
Dewey pushed the remaining tears from his eyes and squared his shoulders. “You’re not garbage, LP. If Mr Russell won’t give you a good report, I’ll go in and give you one. I mean, I’m not one of your Woodchucks so I can assess you, right?”
Launchpad ruffled his hair. “I’m not actually sure. But thanks.”
“Come on,” said Della. “The other parents have picked up their kids already. But I figured I could drive the bus back for you. You’ve been through enough for one day. It’s the least I can do.”
Launchpad’s shoulders slumped. “Aw man, thanks Della. I need to sleep. And it’ll be way comfier on the back seat than in the driver’s seat.”
“Um… right.”
***
“Launchpad, Launchpad!”
“Huh?” Launchpad snorted and sat straight up, then winced and put a hand to his stomach. The world spun in a groggy dimly lit soup and, for a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was.
Concern creased Della’s face under the harsh bus lighting. “Aw, man. I’m sorry. You were really out of it. I already took Dewey and Huey home, you slept right through it. But you can’t stay on the bus all night, you’ll be super stiff.”
Launchpad sneezed, then rubbed at his beak. He could already feel his muscles stiffening up, although he wasn’t sure how long he’d slept. It was dark outside.
Della grabbed up his duffel bag and carried it into Mr McDee’s garage for him, so at least he didn’t have to do that. Launchpad trailed her inside. He picked his jacket up where he’d left it slung over his curtain railing, put it on, then sunk onto the sofa.
“You’re… going to sleep in that?”
Launchpad hugged his arms. “Yes.” Somehow, the jacket felt warm and safe.
Della looked about awkwardly, then tucked the duffel bag away into a corner. “Are you going to be alright? You know if you need anything… ?”
Launchpad smiled faintly. “No, I think I just need to sleep. Not on a bus. I’m probably going to feel this in the morning anyway.”
Della winced. “Yeah.” She rubbed at her arm. “Listen, I know you and Dewey are real close anyway. But what you did… I mean, you didn’t have to do that, and…”
Launchpad blinked up at her. “Of course I did.”
Della’s shoulders slumped. “Aw LP, I… stuff it…” She thew her arms around his neck, eliciting a grunt, and her fingers dug into his jacket. “Thank you.” She held him for a long moment, before pushing him back. “Just get some sleep, okay?”
***
As he strode into the Duckberg Junior Woodchuck headquarters Launchpad checked over his prompt cards yet again. He’d written a few of them himself, most had input from Violet and Huey, and they’d had to explain the one to him that said ‘conflict of interest.’ Despite the preparation Launchpad still had no idea how this would go down. But he had to speak up for his Woodchucks.
As he approached the Duckberg head’s office, voices carried down the hall, and Launchpad stalled.
“I’m done I tell you. One ran through camp and…. and I don’t think he was even wearing any underwear. I had to retrieve three items of my clothes from various trees. What the hell does ‘Boomer’ mean anyway? And then the damned kid had to go and throw himself in the river; I can’t deal with crap like that anymore. I don’t need to go on camping trips to do assessments, let me handle the paperwork, and if you need me to chew out any of your leaders who get out of line, I’m your man, but keep those kids away from me.”
Launchpad gulped and forced himself into movement. “Um…” The door to the head’s office was open, and he knocked tentatively on the frame.
Jack whirled around. “Launchpad…”
Behind her desk, Emily Hooterman, head of the Duckberg Woodchucks, stared wide-eyed between the two of them and visibly winced.
How the heck was he supposed to do this with Jack here?
“I’ll… just… yeah, I’ve had my say, Emily. I’ve… paperwork.” Jack moved for the door, stopped, then loudly cleared his throat.
“Oh, sorry.” Launchpad stepped back to let him through.
Jack moved into the hall, slowed, then spun around and stabbed a finger into Launchpad’s chest. “What you did was really dumb!” He glared at him for a moment, chest heaving, then lowered his finger. “But, I guess you can swim through a bloody raging torrent, so… I’m glad you and the boy are okay.” And with that he turned and ambled off down the hallway.
Launchpad stared at his old leader’s rapidly retreating back. What the heck had just happened?
“Wow…” Emily shook herself. “Launchpad, sweetie, you look… it’s okay. Get in here and close the door.”
“Um, sure, Ms H.” Launchpad gulped, shut the door, then sat down in the chair across the desk from the old owl.
She looked at him over her glasses. “Launchpad…”
Launchpad winced. “Sorry. Emily. See, this is why it’s great my Woodchucks can call me Launchpad. It is going to be so much less confusing for them when they’re adults.”
Emily didn’t appear to be listening. She stared at is chest, then a faint smile touched her beak as she looked back up. “You’ve put on your swimming badge.”
“Ah, yeah…” Launchpad fingered his sash self-consciously. The morning after Della had taken him home, he’d woken sore and stiff, and a little melancholic. He hadn’t had the energy to do anything useful, so he’d ended up going through some of his old Woodchuck stuff. He hadn’t realised he’d been looking for something that reminded him of Calvin, not until he’d found the old badge. As he’d held it in his hand, it had seemed silly not to put it where it belonged. Even then, when he’d sewed it on, it’d felt like a tiny hotspot on his chest, something that shouldn’t be there, and any second someone was going to call him on it. “I mean, the kids saw me swim over a waterfall so, I guess, I can’t really pretend that, I, I can’t…”
“Sweetheart,” Emily said gently, “you’ve more than earned that.”
Launchpad straightened. “I need to talk to you about something important.”
“Your assessment?”
Of course. Jack had already handed it in. Emily had read it. Launchpad could feel his guts tightening, but he shook his head. “No. Not exactly. Mr Russell… Jack…” He pulled out his prompt cards and shuffled them shakily. One slipped to the floor. He groaned and looked at it mournfully. He was still too sore to stretch that far. As long as it wasn’t the ‘conflict of interest’ one.
Emily winced. “Launchpad, wait…”
Launchpad’s gaze hardened. He shoved the rest of the cards back in his sash as he turned to Emily. “I don’t like the way Jack spoke to my Woodchucks, and I don’t think he should be in a position where he can make them feel like… like he did to me when I was a kid. I know he’s supposed to be the one reporting on me, and this probably looks bad, but… well, I’m really mad at him.”
Emily sighed. “You wouldn’t be the first leader who’s complained. But I think your Woodchucks may have solved both our problems for us.”
“Huh? How?”
“Did you hear what Jack was ranting about when you walked in here? Your kids scared him, or at least really annoyed him. He just came in here to tell me he’s done going on trips. He still wants to help out with the Woodchucks, just as long as he doesn’t have to deal directly with the kids. And, well, he’ll probably still upset some of the adults but I think they can handle him.”
“So, he’s not…”
“He’s not going to be anywhere near the kids.”
“That… was easier than I expected. I mean, the last time he got kicked out, it took…” Launchpad lowered his gaze and rubbed at one of the bruises on his chest.
Emily chewed her lip. “Listen, Launchpad, lets back up for a second. I need to apologise to you. I don’t assign the assessors. Jack got put with you. When I found out I meant to give you a heads up. But I got busy, and… I’m sorry. Especially after everything that happened with the Duck boy, look, I’m so, so sorry. I know it couldn’t have been a fun trip for you.”
Launchpad shrugged. “So… does this mean I still get to be Woodchuck leader?” He tried to keep the hope out of his voice.
Emily picked up some sheets of paper from her desk. “Well, Jack’s assessment was certainly… interesting.”
That told him nothing. Launchpad gulped as his gaze sat squarely on the far too thick document in Emily’s hands. “I don’t know what he said but… I know what I did wrong anyway. I shouldn’t have left the kids alone with him all night. He just… he just upset me, and I didn’t mean to, but I ended up spending the whole night up on the bus. I dumped them on Jack, and maybe it would’ve been okay if it’d been someone else, but I wasn’t there to stop him talking down to them. They’re my responsibility, and I screwed up. Whatever else he’s got in there, he’s probably being unfair, but if that’s there, then… it’s true…” He hung his head.
“I’m not surprised he upset you, given your history, and, well… Jack. It’s okay, and like I said, I’m sorry I put you in the position. But he doesn’t decide who stays and who goes. I do. Most of his report was, well… standard Jack. Although he rambled on a bit more for you than I’ve seen him do anyone else. He says he still thinks you’re crazy, but at least you’re crazy enough to do something dumb to actually save a kid… I think he intended that as a compliment.”
Launchpad raised his head. “Wait, he said that?”
Emily shrugged. “I think that may have been what he was trying to do when he bailed out of here. And tell you off, but, you know, that’s Jack.”
“So I can stay right? I mean I figured you keep sending me assessors, I probably was doing something wrong.”
“Launchpad, the biggest reason you keep getting stuck with assessors is because you’re the only one of our leaders looking after your Woodchucks by yourself. If you had a parter or two, you’d be able to back each other up, and we wouldn’t have to keep sending someone to check up on you to settle down concerned parents. But,” she winced. “It does help if you don’t wake up hibernating bears.”
“Okay, I’ll try to do better next time…”
“You did plenty good, Launchpad. And I get how hard it must’ve been jumping in that river for you.”
Launchpad smiled faintly. Jumping in the river had not been hard the part. Not to go after Dewey. “Thanks.”
“Look, I think Jack’s gone. But if you need to stay a few extra minutes to be sure…”
“There was… something else I wanted to ask you about,” Launchpad said in a rush, before he could chicken out. He hadn’t written it on his prompt cards because he hadn’t wanted Violet and Huey to see it yet.
“What is it?”
“I… I just wanted to know if it’d be okay if I… look, the kids got a bit stupid, partly to help me, partly because of the stuff Jack said. What they did with Dewey, I don’t think they realised how dumb that was, and I…” Launchpad pressed back into the chair and hugged his arms. “I wanted to ask if I could tell them about Calvin.”
“LP… You… you don’t need to ask me about that…”
“I mean, I think they kind of know what happened from what I was yelling at Jack. But I thought maybe it would help them understand how stuff can go wrong even when you’re trying to help someone? And that how they talk to people matters, and… I’ll leave out some bits but I thought I should ask first, because Woodchucks is supposed to be fun, and, well… I guess its just not a very nice story.”
He looked up, and far from looking horrified, Emily was smiling at him with watery eyes. “I think that’s a great idea. You might even… maybe you could share it with some of the other Woodchuck groups?”
“I… I don’t know…”
Emily held up her hands. “Sorry. Just, yes, of course, just tell your Woodchucks. But let me know how it goes?”
Launchpad nodded as he stood to his feet. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Launchpad, wait.” Emily got up and moved around her desk to meet him at the door. “Is it okay if I give you a hug?”
“Yeah, Ms H. I think I need that.”
This time, as she put her arms around him, she didn’t correct him.
#launchpad#launchpad mcquack#dt17#dt17 launchpad#ducktales#ducktales 2017#ducktales fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#della duck#dewey duck#launchpad needs a hug
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Lakota: Ch 1
yoongi x jungkook (yoonkook) 3-chaptered fic
Prompts used:
The stars have been watching you your whole life, as you laughed and cried, loved and suffered. Today, you’re finally going to do something that none of them can bear to watch. They blink out, the whole night sky turning dark, just as you’re about to do it
When I was younger, I liked to think that at night, there were creatures that came from the stars to walk around on earth, watching over the people while they slept. You suddenly awake and find one standing in your garden.
It’s 3 am. An official phone alert wakes you up. It says “do not look at the moon.” You have hundreds of notifications. Hundreds of random numbers are sending “it’s a beautiful night tonight. Look outside.”
Word Count: 15.5K+
Chapter 1: Ego
Next Part
The garden was empty. The starboy stood alone, waiting….
The night’s presence was unpredictable. Some were scared of the suspicious dark whilst others anticipated night to fall in order to leave their homes and bask in the nightlife. Yoongi was the latter, always preferring night to day, always staying up past dusk into the late hours just before dawn. To him, night meant quiet. Night was peace. Night held the stars and the stars held him.
The first time Yoongi met the boy was when he was young, about nine-years-old at the time. Yoongi had a nightmare that spurred his body to automatically wake up and set his mind into a frenzy. He couldn’t go back to sleep no matter how hard he tried. His entire being was now awake. Young Yoongi chose to glance out his window, deciding the best way to lull himself back to sleep was through his favorite pastime activity: stargazing.
His mother always said Yoongi was born amongst the stars and that’s why he had such a desire for night. Yoongi always went along with it, teasing that that was the reason why his skin was so pale and alight — because he was a star meant to be in the nighttime sky. His mother would always smile and joke back that the sun was his mortal enemy.
Yoongi felt connected to the night, the stars, the moon. He wished for people to be awake at night instead of the day because it was so much more beautiful and serene. His bedroom window overlooked their garden, a pond located in the center that always acted as a mirror to the sky that held the abundance of stars in its reflection. However, that night was different from before. Instead of the serene sight Yoongi was used to seeing, there was a boy reflected in the pond’s depth. Yoongi was awestruck as he watched on, the boy’s ringed fingers gliding over the top of the water, barely creating ripples as he seemed to admire the glass-like reflection as well. Finally, the boy’s eyes snapped up and Yoongi felt all the air leave his chest in one breath, accidentally fogging his windowpane and therefore his line of vision. By the time he smudged away the remnants, the boy was long gone, a single ripple in the pond echoing to the edge of the bank was the only indicator that Yoongi wasn’t hallucinating the whole ordeal.
The boy would return though, every night thereafter to be exact. And Yoongi would always wait for him, despite the boy insisting that it was breaking rules and shouldn’t be allowed (although every time Yoongi asked exactly what rules were they breaking, the other boy never knew the definitive answer). After about a week of stargazing in silence with one another, the boy offered one simple word: “Jeongguk”. That was enough for Yoongi to accept.
After that, Yoongi began sneaking Jeongguk food from whatever he could find in his pantry without waking his mother up. Jeongguk always nodded in thanks and the two boys ate in silence while watching the nighttime sky. More weeks went by before Jeongguk started pointing out constellations that Yoongi had already studied and was well-versed in, but regardless, he still listened diligently to the young boy with his brown-and-blue-hued hair and his slightly protruding front teeth. When Yoongi finally worked up the courage to ask the boy where he came from, the latter appeared to shut down and only measly pointed to the starry sky. Yoongi was confused but didn’t question him any further; something in his gut told him that Jeongguk was being honest in some way.
Eventually, the boys began talking more once they grew comfortable with each other’s presence, they even began playing games during their late hours spent together: tag, hide-and-seek, even UNO. Jeongguk was always better at the games and despite Yoongi’s constant complaints, he always enjoyed the way the other boy’s eyes would fiercely light up; it reminded him of the stars he liked to look at so much.
~
“Yoongi, where do you think you’re going with a slice of bread?”
“I… I’m gonna go feed the ducks in the garden?” Yoongi stuttered. His heart was racing, not expecting to be caught dead in his tracks by his mother at midnight. Is Jeongguk going to think I bailed on him? What if he leaves?
“Is that so? What about the missing chocolate animal crackers that have been disappearing for the past couple days? Are you feeding the ducks that?” His mother questions, an eyebrow raised, arms crossed.
“No, no! Of course not! Sometimes I get hungry myself! I need a snack for myself! It’s a win-win, Mom! The ducks get fed and I get fed. Who doesn’t like that?” Yoongi expresses, the piece of bread in his hand going soggy from how sweaty and clammy his palms are. Jeongguk is waiting for me. He’s probably hungry….
“Min Yoongi, come here,” she beckons and waits for Yoongi to oblige before continuing, “Honey, is this the reason why you’ve been sleeping in school? I’m getting really concerned about you. It’s starting to affect your grades, Yoon.”
Oh no, not the guilt. Anything but the guilt. Yoongi can’t stand the look on his mother’s face. It leaves him completely devastated.
“Yoongi, baby, look at me,” she tilts Yoongi’s face up to look at her. Tears are already swelling in Yoongi’s eyes. He can’t handle his mother’s disappointment. “Now, why are you crying?”
Yoongi can’t explain himself, the tears coming down in puddles and rivers. He can’t stop himself no matter how tight his mother hugs him or how rapidly she wipes them away, they just keep coming like a dam that’s been burst. He’s full-on sobbing within a few moments and his mother picks him up and cradles him, shushing him and gently scratching his back. A light melody brushes past her lips as she whispers a song that Yoongi is all too familiar with. It’s their favorite and they both know every single lyric. It instantly eases and silences Yoongi. His mother begins strolling to her room, Yoongi still in her arms, and soft lyrics still on her tongue. That night, Yoongi falls asleep in his mom’s bed, listening to her gentle voice, and a piece of soggy bread still clutched in his small fingers.
~
“Jeongguk, I’m really sorry for last night.” Yoongi apologizes, eyes averted down to where Jeongguk is circling his finger in the water of the pond.
“S’kay.” He curtly replies, still focused on his minuscule movements.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No,” Jeongguk replies, finally glancing at the other boy. “I can’t expect you to meet me every night. That’s asking for too much. You need your sleep, Yoongi.”
“You sound like my mother.”
Jeongguk smiles. Yoongi takes the opportunity to pass him a slice of bread (a new and fresh piece, not the one from last night) to which Jeongguk smiles even further, bunny teeth making a brief entrance. The boys spend the rest of the night in quiet bliss, just simply enjoying being around the other.
~
As Yoongi grows older, he begins to enjoy the night for different reasons. He discovers places that glow like a personalized rainbow, filled with people similar to him, that play music that Yoongi can sway his body too. It’s intense and fun and Yoongi feels intoxicated every time he steps through the nightclub’s doors, addicted to the way his heart leaps out of his chest and his eardrums pop with the rippling bass that he feels all the way down to his toes. He loves the atmosphere. He loves the people that always stare and he loves it even more when they approach, their rosy lips desperate to formulate and enunciate the syllables of just his name, and their fingertips that ghost over every part of his body in just the right way to make goosebumps form along the base of his neck. He loves it when they’re confident and arrogant and hungry to get his attention because the best way to get his attention is through his liquor intake. When Yoongi gets his free drink and sits back, thighs spread to invite this stranger — who, of course, may have potentially sore feet or legs (Yoongi is doing them a favor) — to have a seat, he receives even more attention. Yoongi discovers things about himself whilst tucked away in the dark corner of the nightclub. Yoongi can’t get enough of it all. The night is one of pleasure, fun, secrets, attention.
Yoongi always begs Jeongguk to come along. But the other boy always declines, opting to sit by the pond and eat snacks in silence. He’s taller and more fit than Yoongi now; however, he still acts the same as when they were nine. Yoongi isn’t sure how he feels about the development.
Some nights, all Yoongi wants is the harmonious peace that Jeongguk offers. Other nights, he just wants an escape; he craves something loud and energetic, a fun distraction that’s away from rules and feelings. Nights that are away from Jeongguk.
~
Yoongi realized earlier on that he had developed feelings for the quiet boy who held the galaxy in his eyes and an appetite that could put an entire animal farm to shame. Yoongi fell helplessly into his cute antics, competitive nature, his peace, his calm, his serene. Jeongguk was everything that Yoongi wasn’t. Jeongguk was warm and safe. Yoongi was cold and gaudy. Jeongguk was the quiet ripple of a pond and Yoongi was the blaring bass of the nightclub. Jeongguk was the soft pastel that filled your home and Yoongi was the striking chrome that blinded you.
It was only a matter of time before things spiraled.
His grades and sleep went to shit. He lost connection with himself. He destroyed himself, shattered every bone that supported him, burst every vein that led to his heart, and crushed the skull that kept his mind afloat. Yoongi lost himself within the maze of his own and he couldn’t find the way out.
How do you fall for a temporary person?
Yoongi needed permanent, stable, steady. He began believing that temporary was the only thing he deserved so he found a way to make it permanent. People come and go, temporary, but the attention always remained on him, permanent. If he was nothing then at least for a few moments to someone he was something worth seeking. He was someone worth approaching and getting involved with. He had potential for permanent despite the circumstances of temporary. And eventually, when the first one left with not only their presence but their attention, temporary, the next one would come and offer up their services to him, permanent.
Yoongi lost touch with not only the world around him but the universe within himself.
“Yoongi, we need to talk.” His mother’s tone was soft, gentle, kind. It made Yoongi feel absolutely sick.
Yoongi didn’t want anything to do with the sickly sweet that spilled into his bloodstream and threatened to poison him. “I can’t right now, I gotta—“
“Now.” His mother’s voice had an edge to it now, the paper clutch between her fingers getting crushed slightly from her tight grasp. Yoongi knew exactly what that paper was-- the school’s attempt to inform his mother how much of an academic failure he was.
There was no fighting, no arguing. It was straight to the point and Yoongi found himself actually desperate for a command. It meant he didn’t have to think for himself. It meant he didn’t have to think at all.
“Yoongi, what’s going on? Your grades are in the gutter. You look like a walking corpse. What’s going on?” Her voice was wavering throughout her questions, eyes trained solely on her son who twitched under her stare.
“Mom, it’s nothing—“ he started.
“Bullshit! Don’t you dare try to lie to me now, Min Yoongi. What do you need?”
What do I need? I need to go away.
“Mom, seriously, it’s nothing. You know how it is, typical teenager things. We’re emotional. It’s nothing I can’t handle on my own.” Yoongi’s composure was cool, stiff, as if he’d rehearsed this a million times.
“Yoongi,” his mother kneeled in front of his sitting form now, head on his lap and tears running down her face. Yoongi was stuck to his place, eyes glued to the precious being in front of him that was in pain because of him. She was in pain because he was in pain. Yoongi’s hands shook as he attempted to lift her back up, to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness for making the person he loved the most upset.
She refused and remained in her position. She repeated herself, “Yoongi…. Yoongi, my baby, what’s happening? You're not the person I know you are. What happened to my Yoon? Where’s my precious starboy? The boy who had excitement in his eyes and enjoyed the world around him, where is he? Why is there a hollow shell sitting in front of me? What's going on, Yoon? I’m here to help and guide you but I can’t even find you anymore.” By the end, his mother was sobbing and his jeans were soaked and his hands and pupils shook from shock.
“Mama…. mama, I’m so sorry.”
~
Yoongi stopped visiting Jeongguk for a while. His mother always consoled him during the night, making sure to keep an eye on her son so he didn’t leave the house in the darkest hours. He was finally able to catch up on sleep, he began caring about school again; however, none of that really mattered to Yoongi. There was still something missing. A part of him was gone and he felt confined, trapped, suffocated. He was still a walking shell, as his mother described. He was yet to be Min Yoongi — whatever the hell that meant.
Yoongi missed the drunk and the high, missed the nightclub and the attention, missed the serene and Jeongguk. Yoongi missed who he was. No matter how badly he wished to go back, he couldn’t. That Yoongi was just a naive child who didn’t know any better. Yoongi is old enough now to understand pain and loneliness. He feels tainted.
It wasn’t long before his night escapades began again. It was the only thing that made him feel alive throughout his stages of numb. Some nights he would go out to the town and find temporary fun, other times he would lay side-by-side with the boy who’s plagued him every night, whether physically or mentally in his dreams. Jeongguk’s eyes gave away his concern but he never prodded Yoongi to open up, always waiting until Yoongi was willing to admit what was happening in his life. Jeongguk would listen with his full attention and Yoongi soaked up every minute that Jeongguk’s focus was solely on him.
Yoongi’s feelings for the other boy kept expanding and he found himself going out less and less and becoming more accustomed to meeting Jeongguk every night, much like how he used to when they were younger. Back then, Yoongi was able to stay awake much longer but now he’s constantly tired and has to physically force himself to keep his eyes open with the younger-looking boy. He eventually fails though, every single time, with his eyes and mind drifting in the quiet serenity that Jeongguk always brings with him.
His mother wakes him up every morning from the garden, eyes no longer filled with concern but with humor and delight.
“You look happier now.” She comments soon after it becomes a regular occurrence.
Yoongi can only smile as he shoves another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
“I don’t know what changed and I’m not going to persist if you don’t wanna talk about it but,” she trails off, deliberately being considerate of her choice of words. “I’m happy to see that shine in your eyes again. I know it’s not entirely the same but it’s a start. I’m really happy.”
“I’m getting happy again too, Mom.”
“I know I said I’m not gonna pry but—“
“Mom! No!”
“Is it a special someone?”
Yoongi almost chokes on his cereal. He considers it for a brief moment, wondering if it’ll get him out of this embarrassingly awkward situation.
“Maybe.”
“Oh! I just knew it! Tell me about it!” She squeals in delight.
“He...I don’t know, Mom. He’s a star.” Yoongi blunty states, recalling what Jeongguk once told him when they were children.
“He’s an idol?”
“No! No he’s literally a star!”
“Wow, you must think really highly of this boy to compare him to a star.” She comments, eyes wide as a smile slowly creeps on the corners of her lips.
“No! Ugh!” Yoongi groans, feigning frustration at his mom obviously not taking him seriously. He isn’t actually upset though, a hidden smile crossing his face as well before he bursts into chuckles that soon turn into a fit. His mother joins in alongside him and when they’ve both settled down, they can’t stop sharing warm grins.
A few months later and Yoongi’s mother casually drops she was surprised that he was so open to admit to her that he was crushing on a boy.
“Why were you surprised?” He questions.
“I know it’s not a common sight or idea present at your school. Plus we’ve never really discussed anything regarding ‘sexuality’ so I know you don’t have a lot of exposure to it. To me, that means I did a pretty damn good job at making you feel safe enough to tell me right away without any hesitation. It’s a hard feeling to express, Yoon, but I’m glad it seemingly came easy to open up to me.” She admits openly, getting a little tongue-twisted in explaining her exact thoughts.
But Yoongi understands. He understands that it’s not always easy for kids to admit their attraction when it goes against the heteronormative standards that everyone is raised in. Yoongi doesn’t recall feeling scared or ashamed to tell his mom about his feelings but he’s not sure he’d feel comfortable admitting to it to some people at his school.
“You know, mom, I’m not gay,” Yoongi starts. “That label doesn’t feel quite right to me. I’m still figuring me out but thank you for being so understanding and loving… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’re thanking me for being a decent parent who loves her child regardless of their sexual preferences…. there’s no need for that, you silly boy.” She breathily laughs, arms opening wide to encase Yoongi in a warm hug. “My sweet Yoon, I’ll love you regardless.”
Yoongi’s eyes get wet of their own accord and it isn’t long before he leaves dark spots on his mother’s sweater from his tears. Yoongi is lucky, he knows. There isn’t an adequate way to describe his feelings as anything other than warm, safe, loved.
Permanent.
“So… do you still have a crush on this boy?”
“Mom!”
-
That night, Yoongi is waiting out in the garden for Jeongguk. He wants to see the boy descend from wherever he comes from. He wonders if the whole “star” thing is bullshit but deep down he knows the answer already. An hour soon passes with Yoongi distracting himself by playing with the ripple of the pond. It’s only when he sees Jeongguk’s reflection in the water that he realizes he missed the boy’s grand entrance.
“Fuck!” He curses, agitated that he missed the ordeal.
Jeongguk smiles, probably confused about why Yoongi is already cursing. “You beat me here today. What’s the occasion?”
Yoongi feels heat flush his cheeks. “Does there need to be one? Maybe I just wanted to see you.”
Now it’s Jeongguk’s turn to blush, his mouth coming together in a small pout and his eyes expanding and dilating to the point Yoongi could mistake it for the clear pond. Jeongguk quickly sits down, hiding his face from Yoongi by turning his head to the ground and feigning interest in the grass.
They sit there for a while, both silent but content in being next to one another. Yoongi finds himself staring at the other boy in awe, always taken aback by how naturally pretty Jeongguk looks.
“You know, I came out to my mom today,” Yoongi starts. “She took it really well. I’m— I’m really happy right now.”
Jeongguk smiles. “I’m happy you’re happy. She seems wonderful.”
“She is.” Yoongi is cheesing right now, “You’d really like her, I think.”
“If she’s anything like you then I have no doubt I will.” Jeongguk admits, facing Yoongi before tucking his head back down.
Yoongi feels the heat spread to his cheeks once again but his grin only gets wider. He stares at the boy still, his hands shaking in his lap as he contemplates his next move. Finally, he decides to be bold. His hand snaps up to gently grab hold of Jeongguk’s face, wordlessly tilting it up so he’s forced to look directly at Yoongi.
Yoongi had to scoot closer in order to reach the other boy so now they sit in front of each other, legs touching, Yoongi’s hand gripping Jeongguk’s chin, and eyes never leaving the other’s. Yoongi’s pupils are moving as fast as they can to scan every inch of Jeongguk’s face while he’s this close. He counts every star in his eyes, keeps track of all the little moles sprinkled on his face, delicately rubs the scar on Jeongguk’s cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. He wants to remember every little detail about the boy he became so enamored with, the one he can’t get out of his head, the one he anticipates and expects every single night. Yoongi is used to bottling his feelings up or tucking them away into the dark recesses of his mind so he doesn’t have to deal with it; however, tonight is when the cork has been pulled, the glass bottle shattering, and with it, all his ignored feelings towards the boy from the stars.
Yoongi can’t look away, is scared too. He’s scared by his own emotions. Jeongguk doesn’t realize just how much power he holds over him, unknowingly has Yoongi wrapped around his pretty little finger. Yoongi can’t breathe.
He wants to let go, to run away, but he’s frozen to his spot. He wants to climb in Jeongguk’s lap, throw his arms around his neck and mold himself to the boy, but once again, he’s frozen in place.
Letting go feels too hard, too much, too burdensome, too final. Yoongi is sick of suppressing his emotions. He wants to feel it all, no matter how much it hurts. It’s why he doesn’t back down from Jeongguk’s stare.
Jeongguk keeps his stare, albeit his pupils wide in shock. “Yoongi….”
And that’s all it takes before Yoongi is pulling Jeongguk in closer to himself by his chin. He tugs him until their lips barely brush, waiting for the star to express his consent. A few beats pass, their breaths both ragged in anticipation as their mouths still don’t quite touch. Their eyes are both half-lidded but retain their eye contact. Yoongi is unsure how much time passes — could be seconds or an hour — but he loves seeing Jeongguk in this dazed state. He traces every curve of the younger boy with his eyes, keeps his fingers gently enclosed around his chin as he feels barely-there stubble, becomes intoxicated on the warm and shallow breath that leaves Jeongguk’s parted lips that are so damn close to meeting his own.
Finally, Jeongguk releases a low whine, long eyelashes meeting the plump swell of his soft cheeks as he closes his eyes and his arms clumsily wrap around Yoongi’s neck to pull him forward to finally finally finally connect their lips.
Yoongi groans, the anticipation leading to adrenaline rushing through his veins straight to his heart. His eyes close, his hearing filled with only that of his heartbeat which soon becomes white noise as he focuses so intently on the boy who’s been his safe haven for years now. The boy who held stars in his eyes and who was a direct descendant from the nighttime sky that protected Yoongi through his worst times. Yoongi’s lips are rougher than Jeongguk’s but the other doesn’t seem to mind as he presses even more into the older, just as desperate for this touch, this connection, this kiss.
It starts with just a harsh press of mouths against one another, both boys just hopelessly wanting to feel the other. Jeongguk’s hands seek refuge in the raven strands of Yoongi’s hair, blunt fingernails scraping against his scalp. Yoongi groans, hot breath fanning Jeongguk’s mouth as he presses the younger down into the plush grass of the garden. His slim fingers grip onto Jeongguk’s hip bones, thumb slowly pressing circles into the upheaval of his body. Yoongi watches Jeongguk’s reactions, watches as the younger’s eyelids barely open and his lips pout, desperate and anticipating Yoongi.
Yoongi doesn’t give in right away, just continues admiring the boy beneath him. Jeongguk’s fingers are now entangled in Yoongi’s hair as he whines and begs. “Yoongi… Yoongi please. Please.”
The noise that rises from Yoongi’s throat is inhuman, as he listens to the pretty boy’s pleas. He can’t resist any longer.
His body bends forward, pressing warm open-mouthed kisses against Jeongguk’s throat, his teeth delicately hovering over his bobbing Adam’s apple. He finds his way to the spot just below his jaw, teeth finally digging into flesh as he bites and marks what is his. Jeongguk’s cries are pretty and addictive and Yoongi wants to hear more as he licks the wound and trails his pink tongue up to Jeongguk’s earlobe. There, his bites are gentler with more kisses intertwined in the mix. Jeongguk is moaning now, the gentle noise reverberates and echoes throughout Yoongi’s body as he presses their chests even closer together.
“Yoongi—Yoongi. I—“ Jeongguk can’t even form sentences, just breathlessly begging Yoongi to kiss the spot he really wants. Yoongi smirks, wanting to tease him more but deciding against it as he’s also waited so long for this moment. His parted lips seek Jeongguk’s own, his upper lip now encased between Jeongguk’s soft and plush ones. They only stay like that for a few moments before Yoongi is turning his head in order to deepen their kiss, deepen their connection. His tongue gently traces Jeongguk’s bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth, teeth grazing it as he snaps it back in place. Jeongguk groans once more, his grip on Yoongi’s hair almost painful as he tugs the older boy impossibly closer to him. His legs have now opened to fit Yoongi comfortably between them and Yoongi can’t help but feel as if they were the perfect mold together.
Their kiss continues, slick noises and gasps filling the space as their tongues intertwine and teeth occasionally clash as lips are tugged and sucked on. Yoongi feels eternal, permanent. He wishes this moment would never seize.
However, the night sky watches on as the two boys continue displaying their love in the company of the bright moon and twinkling stars.
Stars and mortals were not meant to fall in love.
—
The next night rolls around and Yoongi is desperate to see Jeongguk again, wanting nothing more than to reaffirm their feelings for one another as words escaped them the previous night. However, Jeongguk does not show up that night. Or the nights that follow. And neither the moon or stars make an appearance during that time as well.
—
Months have gone by since that fateful encounter where Yoongi and Jeongguk expressed their desire for one another in the inky depths of the night. The world has changed permanently after that night, the moon and stars ceased existing — as well as Jeongguk. He never came back. And Yoongi fell apart.
Everything he confided in, everything he trusted and loved was ripped away from him with no explanation. Everything he believed to be permanent was nothing more than temporary and his spirit broke when the golden beams that accompanied the night darkened. The serenity that Jeongguk brought disappeared indefinitely and Yoongi has long forgotten the feeling of peace. He can no longer quite remember how many stars were in Jeongguk’s eyes or how the scar on his cheekbone felt under the pad of his thumb. He can’t remember the warmth of Jeongguk’s mouth or how blue his hair was. Yoongi has forgotten, much like how he was forgotten.
He becomes numb once more and now his mother’s pleas no longer move his heart. He doesn’t feel guilt or sorrow at her dejected gaze as he continues cruising through the motions that is his temporary existence.
He crawls back to the sanctuary of the nightclubs as they are the only lights in the dark night sky. There, he meets Jimin who comes closest to making any sort of spark ignite within Yoongi but it’s not enough to reclaim Yoongi’s broken heart. But, Jimin feels good pressed against him. He’s so warm and pretty that Yoongi can’t help but to keep his eyes fixated on him throughout the night. It doesn’t help that Jimin seems to be just as frequent of an attender as Yoongi. They both seem to find refuge in the dark corners of the nightclub, desperately seeking any sort of comfort throughout the unknown. As the world flips over twice due to the literal disappearance of the moon and all the stars that accompanied her, Jimin and Yoongi’s mouths mold together in order to find normalcy.
It becomes a common routine for the two of them to meet tucked away from the bright lights and chaos of the night, clinging to any form of warmth they can find within another body. They don’t speak much, only seeking physical intimacy as they escape each of their own heartbreak and ignore the outside world that seems to also be breaking. Yoongi can feel Jimin’s hurt through his kisses just as he’s sure the other can feel his own pain. They openly use each other and neither seem to mind as they each picture someone else standing in their place. Yoongi wishes it was Jeongguk’s collarbones he’s marked while Jimin imagines a man named ‘Taehyung’ that he’s sitting in the lap of; however, they both know their wishes are for naught.
So they continue to kiss. And it was easier to stay like that. It was easier to hide the lonely in a mask of affection. It was easier to kiss someone else than to crave it from the one their hearts desired. It was easier to pretend that their hearts didn���t belong elsewhere together than it was to face the truth of their abandoned love alone.
Perhaps that is the true definition of heartbreak.
~
It’s been eight months since the moon vanished from the sky and on this particular night, Yoongi doesn’t feel like going out. Instead, he curls onto the window ledge as he looks out into the garden. The sky is entirely black, its inky depths looking endless and sending slight goosebumps down Yoongi’s body. He wonders if Jeongguk is somewhere out there in its vast expanse, wonders if he’s looking down upon Yoongi.
The television plays in the background, the news channel the last thing that was on. It’s become redundant and Yoongi can’t even be surprised by the stories as he listens to the reporters who have been covering similar cases throughout these eight months of empty night skies.
Once people discovered that the moon and its twinkling stars had disappeared, it wasn’t long before mayhem spread throughout civilization. Some places were overrun by the people and anarchy spread. Regardless, chaos was evident anywhere you went as no one could explain the sudden change. Cults grew in size and took control in certain areas as they spread the idea of sacrifices to appease the supposed Moon God. What once started as a mere conspiracy theory to be ridiculed quickly spread to the masses the longer the moon failed to reveal itself. Yoongi’s area hadn’t been taken control of by these people but it didn’t mean there weren't people with this ideology present throughout his city. It was dangerous as they were willing to slaughter anyone in order to make the moon reappear — it’s why his mom was so against Yoongi going out anywhere at night and is what caused him to always sneak out in order to find solstice in Jimin at the nightclubs.
The reporters are discussing another murder that took place but Yoongi zones out, continuing his silent stare at the dim world. Gentle and familiar hands wrap around his shoulders as his mother sits beside him on the window ledge. She keeps her embrace around Yoongi tight, kissing the side of his head as he continues looking out.
“Hi baby.”
“Hi mom.”
“Thinking?” She asks, her head now falling onto Yoongi’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” he breathes out as his mother’s presence comforts and soothes his wandering mind.
“Bet it’s just as dark in there,” she lightly pokes him in the forehead, “as it is out there.” She jokes as she now motions to the black sky.
“Maybe just a bit,” Yoongi sadly smiles, his head now falling upon his mother’s as they sit in silence looking out into the abyss of the night.
His mother is the first to break the stillness. “It’s late, you know. Why don’t we go to bed? I’ll even allow you the privilege of sleeping with me like you did when you were younger.”
Yoongi chuckles, nodding slowly in agreement as he remembers the night he slept with his mother after getting caught sneaking Jeongguk a piece of bread. Jeongguk. The memory feels painful when Yoongi remembers that specific aspect of it. He misses Jeongguk. He wonders if Jeongguk misses him.
Yoongi shakes his head. He wouldn’t have disappeared without a trace if he truly missed him. No, instead Jeongguk gave the mere impression of being permanent until Yoongi was used to him before he ran away into temporary. With him, he took everything Yoongi once loved: the night, the moon, the stars. Yoongi hates him. He wonders if maybe he made Jeongguk up as a way to cope with his loneliness. He wonders if all things in his life are only temporary and if it will continue being that way.
His mother nudges him, waiting for him to get off the windowsill so they can go to sleep together in her room. She jostles him out of his reverie — Yoongi is quite thankful for that, not wanting to further spiral into the thoughts that’s consumed him for the last eight months — and follows her to her bedroom.
He feels young again as he lays down on the opposite side of his mom. Such a trivial act felt so comforting to him when he was a child, but now, he can’t seem to feel permanent in any facet of his life. He craves so desperately for things to go back to the way they were but he knows that is just him being wistful and naive. Maybe he was thinking like a child.
He imagines what will happen when the moon and stars return. Maybe they won’t ever. Maybe he won’t survive long enough to witness their return. Maybe he’ll be the next sacrificial lamb in that damned cult’s crazy plan—
“Yoon.” His mother’s word is stern as it is light. “You’re thinking a lot. You look like you’re gonna shit yourself when you think so intently and I swear to God if you shit on my clean bed I’ll—“
He smiles, tilting his head up to look at his mother as she is already beaming at him. He can only shake his head, playing with his fingers to distract himself. “We’re dealing with the apocalypse and you’re concerned about if your bed sheets are clean or not? Talk about not having your priorities in check.”
She snorts, pushing his head to the side as a gentle way to reprimand him. “Shut it. The world isn’t ending.”
Yoongi attempts to remove her palm from his cheek, except she is much stronger than she appears as he fails at his plan. “How are you so sure of that? Has this ever happened in your lifetime?”
Instead of the immediate ‘no’ that Yoongi was anticipating, his mom remains quiet. A few moments pass before she finally speaks, “Once. It wasn’t quite like this though.”
With her sudden change of thoughts, Yoongi is able to easily remove her grip from his face and he sits up, still holding onto her wrist as he waits for her to continue.
“Yoon… I haven’t ever really told you about my parents, did I?”
Yoongi shakes his head, his fingers subconsciously squeezing his mother’s wrist a bit tighter.
“Hm,” she hums, collecting her bearings as she thinks. “Well, it’s quite similar to our own living situation except instead of a single mom, I grew up with just my dad.”
“What happened with your mom?” Yoongi’s voice is quiet, curious about the answer.
“She had to leave.”
Yoongi is confused but doesn’t pry, just waits.
His mom continues, “She left shortly after giving birth to me. My dad always talked about that night as I grew up. The night she left was when the moon and the stars disappeared. But that time, it only happened for a night or two. Never eight months. But we survived then, so we’ll survive now.”
A few beats pass. Yoongi thinks. “Are you implying it disappears when someone important leaves us?”
“I didn’t say that. Did someone important leave you, Yoongi?”
His eyes widen, realizing his mistake, realizing he never mentioned that Jeongguk disappeared or that he even really existed to his mom before. But he’s been found out. So he comes clean. “Yeah. Yeah, he did…. Did you ever see your mom again?”
She shakes her head as a ‘no’. Yoongi feels his heart break just a little further.
It is when Yoongi is about to turn over to his side and let unconsciousness consume him when he hears her whisper. “The reason I know the world isn’t ending is because the stars are made to watch and guide us. Even if we can’t see them they haven’t abandoned us. They’re still watching over us.”
—
Two more months have passed since the moon and stars have disappeared. The country is filled with cultists and Yoongi can’t even bring himself to care in the slightest, still desiring the warmth of another human being to hopefully bring him back down to reality.
He hasn’t thought about Jeongguk recently, only focusing on living day by day. He tries avoiding the news as well as getting killed in the streets. He doesn’t like being alone in his room at home so he escapes whenever he gets the chance to. Jimin is always quick to welcome him into his home, into his bed, into himself. Jimin is warmth and distraction and Yoongi craves him more and more.
-
He wakes up to his phone vibrating underneath the pillow. He groans, untangling his legs from Jimin’s and rolling out his stiff shoulder as he unlocks his phone to check who would be texting him so late at night. Jimin sleepily mutters, rolling over to face the window but continues dozing soundly. Yoongi grins at the sight of his puckered lips and squished cheeks before averting his attention back to his phone.
It’s littered with dozens upon dozens of messages — some from text, some from missing calls, others from news sites. Yoongi is confused as he quickly tries scanning the text from his too-bright screen. A headline instantly sticks out to him: “The Moon is Back!”
Yoongi feels his stomach drop.
He opens his Messages app, instantly flooded with texts from random numbers all telling him that the moon is back and he should look at it right away. He feels queasy as the messages continue coming in before he rapidly texts an old friend from school.
Yoongi: Hoseok, have you heard about the news? Is it true? Is the moon really back? What’s going on?
He decides to read some of the articles while he waits.
The Moon is Back! We’ve all been desperately waiting for this day to arrive but is it as joyous a reunion as we all hoped?
...
Reports coming in from our field agents are all indicating that the sight of the blood moon is incredibly dangerous! We here at the station have been told to tell you all that you should NOT look at the moon. We repeat, do NOT look at the moon. It is imperative that you do not go outside; instead, close your blinds and stay far away from the windows until sunrise.
Yoongi gulps, his fingers visibly shaking as he continues holding his phone. He wants to know if it’s true. If the moon is really back. If the stars followed suit and are also glistening in the depths of the black sky he once loved. If Jeongguk has also returned.
It’s a subconscious plea, a masked question that Yoongi is desperate to figure out. Is he finally back?
But from the news reports, the moon doesn’t seem quite like it was before it disappeared. A blood moon? Yoongi feels hollow. He knows that his moon, his stars, his Jeongguk, have not returned, else this uneasy feeling wouldn’t be so prominent in his entire being. He was silly to have hope in the first place.
Hoseok doesn’t reply to his texts and Yoongi can’t shake the gut-feeling that’s telling him there’s something wrong. He quickly dresses, trying to remain as silent as possible so as not to disturb the peacefully ignorant Jimin. As he approaches the younger’s open blinds, he makes sure to avert his eyes to the ground so he doesn’t see the apparently dangerous moon. But even as he closes the blinds shut, Yoongi notices the reflection in the window pane. There, he sees it. Sees the blood-like red moon that is perfectly full as it sits comfortably in the jet sky. Sees not a single star or cloud beside it.
What’s going on? Where’s the stars? Where’s my star?
It looks menacing and Yoongi shudders the more he thinks about it. Something is definitely wrong.
Yoongi leaves Jimin’s place, popping the hood of his hoodie over his head and tilting his head down to focus on the ground and avoid the temptation of looking at the sky as he rushes back to his own home. Shortly into his departure, he hears it. Hears the hysteria and the mania and the panic and the bloodshed.
First, the sirens alert him. They start far into the distance and make Yoongi believe it is merely the ringing of his own ears but the sound cuts the distance quickly as if to mock him. They blare everywhere and all around him yet nowhere near him all at once. Yoongi can’t keep his bearings about him. Can’t distinguish the different tones of the sirens as there are too many each encasing on him. Is that a cop? Is it a fire? Is it the tornado or hurricane siren? What disaster is it trying to alert him of? They all pound at his eardrums in blaring rhythms that leave the boy all types of discombobulated. It is when the screams and the laughs and the shouts begin is when Yoongi forces himself to sprint.
Next, Yoongi can smell the fire, the smoke, the flesh. It penetrates his nose, forcing him to smack his hands to his face to try to shoo it away but it is too late. It has already burrowed far into his nostrils and made a home deep within the pits of Yoongi’s mind. He can't get rid of the stench as it consumes him fully and burns away at his nose until he is choking and gagging trying to rid him of the sense. He falls victim to it, especially as he passes a burning building. He can smell the brick as it burns, the thick coarse smoke as it suffocates him and seeks refuge within his lungs, desperately clawing at his lungs to make them as black as it is. But the smell of flesh burning is something that Yoongi can’t handle. He drops to his knees on the hard cement as he hurls and gags and vomits everything he had inside his stomach and then some. It’s too much. Especially paired with the screams of those that fall victim to the unrelenting flame. He hears them. He smells them. Yoongi is so fucking scared.
Every muscle within his body is screaming, aching, crying. He shakes with tremors that could be mistaken for an earthquake and the noises he produces as he tries getting everything that went inside him out: the smoke, the burning flesh, the sirens, the screams, the wails, the hysteria, the fear. He wants it all out, gone. Instead it has him in a chokehold and is easily dominating him. Yoongi can’t win. It hurts. He’s scared. He’s crying. And vomiting. It’s not stopping. What’s going on. Whatwhywhywhywhy.
His vision is clouded by his tears as they cling and clump to his eyelashes and blind him. His nose is slick with tears and mucus and snot. It burns from the foul odors wafting all around him and it won’t dissipate no matter how hard Yoongi blows and covers it with his hoodie sleeves. His mouth is strewn with his spit, his vomit, his own blood. He doesn’t know how the copper ended up there but he’s sure he bit himself hard to bring him back to his senses. He feels so utterly helpless. Then, he hears them.
He hears the people he’s heard about on the news for the last ten months.
The cultists who demand and seek out innocent blood in order to appease a fake god to falsely bring the moon back. But Yoongi knows that they are much much much worse now since the moon has returned. The moon that is soaked with all their spilt blood.
He hears their deranged laughs, their sickly chuckles. Can practically imagine their heads coiling back and their tongues darting out of their slack jaws as they find joy in killing for sport. Monsters. He realizes that all the burning buildings, all the dead bodies laying in the street, all the sirens and the screams before him all stemmed from these fucking lunatics. Their wails echo around him. They’re so close. Yoongi is their next target. He needs to run. He needs to go.
Yoongi’s body moves on his own accord. He doesn’t feel in control of his own limbs, instead, the adrenaline acts as his trusty guide and his brain only focuses on the gruesome carnage that rests all around him. He steps on corpses and motionless blobs that were once living, breathing people. He wants to vomit again. He wants to hunch over and just scream and cry and puke and sob and blame this damned moon and stars for cursing him, cursing him into such damnation. Instead, he continues running as fast as he can to put as much distance between him and the wreckage. Despite not looking at the moon, Yoongi knows that the entirety of the sky is now red too.
His legs don’t quit no matter how much they ache and burn. Yoongi runs as fast as he can away from the city and into the hopeful shelter of his more isolated home. But as he approaches the quaint building, his heart plummets and the safety he so desperately sought is cruelly ripped away from him. In front of him, his home lays raw and bare and broken. The windows are all busted, leaving a glittering mound of broken glass everywhere. The front door is completely horizontal as it was ripped away from its hinges. There are missing chunks of bricks scattered about and Yoongi dreads approaching even closer to the scene. But there in the open doorway, he sees his worst nightmare come to fruition.
Yoongi no longer hesitates as he glides over the broken glass, too consumed with the sickly sight of deathly crimson staining the entryway of his beloved home to care about getting pricked by the sharp edges. He follows the trail of blood further into his house and his knees wobble and bend and shake and he quickly drops to them, having to forcibly crawl his way to the ending of the bloodied path.
His mother. His beautiful mother who was Yoongi’s only family, his only home, his only permanent now lays at the end of the trail and Yoongi is crying as he grabs hold of her barely-moving form.
“Yoon?” Her voice is weak and gravely and it takes her eyes too long to focus on Yoongi’s.
“Mama… mama what happened…? Please. Please, you'll be okay. You’ll be okay, okay? Don’t worry, mama, I’m here. I’m gonna fix you, okay? Please. Please, you’ll be okay.” Yoongi is a hysterical mantra, desperately attempting to console himself, probably more so than his mom.
She smiles. Yoongi hates the sight.
“Yoongi, I’m so glad you weren’t here.” Her hand cups his cheek and he feels ill at the sight of her azule veins. They shouldn’t be so prominent. Her skin is too pale.
He’s hiccuping, rocking their bodies together as the sobs continue to rack through his body in immense and violent waves.
“Hey, Yoon. Let me tell you a secret,” Yoongi is shaking his head, not wanting to hear anything. He doesn’t want to hear things that sound like a goodbye. He can’t. Nonetheless, his mother’s soft voice persists. “Way back when, when you told me about your crush, I knew what you meant. I know he’s a star. Wanna know why I know? Wanna know why I knew that the stars are meant to protect us?”
Yoongi’s all-types of muddled but he distinctly remembers the conversation his mother is referencing from a few years prior:
“Is it a special someone?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh! I just knew it! Tell me about it!” She squeals in delight.
“He...I don’t know, Mom. He’s a star.” Yoongi blunty states, recalling what Jeongguk once told him when they were children.
“He’s an idol?”
“No! No, he’s literally a star!”
“Wow, you must think really highly of this boy to compare him to a star.” She comments, eyes wide as a smile slowly creeps on the corners of her lips.
“No! Ugh!”
He’s so confused. She knew that Jeongguk was an actual star? How?
Her smile only grows bigger. “Yoon… my sweet starboy, I didn’t tell you everything about my childhood but—“ she coughs, blood staining her lips and Yoongi is about to pick her up to take her to the first aid kit in the bathroom but his mother stops him. “My mother, too, was a star. She fell in love with my dad and that’s when I was born. She had to leave to go back to where she came from because apparently it’s forbidden for stars and humans to fall in love. That was when the moon and stars disappeared, sorta like how they’re doing now.”
He’s blank. He doesn’t know how to process her words. He’s stuttering and tripping over anything that attempts to form a coherent thought. A soft yet firm grip on his shoulder snaps him out of his reverie, his body tensing at the sudden contact.
His head swivels to look at the intruder but his mouth instantly dries and drops at the sight before him. Jeongguk stands before him, slightly crouched over to peer at his dying mother. The sight of the boy brings back every moment that Yoongi shared with him, playing like a slideshow before his very eyes: the night he first saw Jeongguk out his window when they were boys, sharing bread with Jeongguk, playing tag and Uno with Jeongguk, sleeping beside Jeongguk, opening up to Jeongguk, kissing Jeongguk. It all slaps Yoongi in the face and he feels the biting sting as all the memories come to the forefront of his mind after forgetting about Jeongguk.
“Is this the star you fell in love with?” His mother’s voice is much more frail, yet somehow sounds blissfully light and relaxed. Yoongi looks back down at her in his arms and his tears pool out even more. “It’s gonna be hard, Yoongi. I know baby, shhh, it’s going to be okay in the end. I know.” The smile never leaves her face, even as the light in her eyes fades out and her hand falls limp beside her body.
Yoongi wails and screams and sobs as he clutches her. The one person who remained permanent despite all his stupid bullshit. The one person who loved him unconditionally and provided for him in every way imaginable. She was home. Now she is gone. He squeezes her body tight, falsely hoping that just maybe if he squeezes hard enough she’ll come back together again. He knows his efforts are futile but he can’t help the attempt. She looks so peaceful and beautiful despite the bloodied marks littering her body and still dripping blood. His own hands are filled with the crimson liquid but he still clutches tightly to her limp body as he screams his sorrows into the maroon of the night. Jeongguk lingers behind him, allowing Yoongi to yell his throat raw as he wraps his own arms around Yoongi’s shoulders to consolidate and ground him.
So, Yoongi continues his wails well into the night, letting his body tire to the point he collapses on the spot.
He was never actually a starboy. It was his mother who was interconnected with the nighttime sky and it’s beautiful mirage of stars that decorated it. She was a product of an ill-fated love between those that are supposed to overlook and protect and those that admired them from a safe distance away on Earth. She was the first and only byproduct of star and mortal; the original stargirl. Her DNA was littered and interwoven with the galaxy and it was only right that her untimely death brought back the return of the night sky’s occupants. However, they were angry. They were angry at what they witnessed from their positions up above. Stars and mortals were not supposed to fall in love but the stargirl shared their same blood and genetic code. One of their own was murdered by the ones they were supposed to watch over.
Those reckless and inhumane humans that were so adamant for the moon to return that they were willing to cross an unthinkable boundary of spilling innocent blood were now the ones being killed for sport by the moon and all its stars. They sought revenge for the murder of the stargirl, sought the mortals’ blood that dared spill the blood of one of their own. The humans’ sacrifices to the moon were for naught because now the moon was punishing them by making them the sacrifices and using the stainage of their blood to color her red.
The blood moon was an act of revenge. It was to make the mortals mad with lunatacy in a salvageable attempt to have them atone for their crimes. Those that witnessed the moon in all its crimson glory were filled with the inexplicable urge to commit self destruction and thus paint her a deeper hue of vermilion.
The stargirl has died. One of their own has died. The first and only mortal star has died. And now Yoongi is the only one left with a mere fraction of stardust littering his veins.
~
Yoongi awakens groggily. Everything hurts and he just wants to roll over and go back to sleep. His eyes are swollen, his throat is raw, his legs ache from the soreness that spreads throughout the entirety of his body. His hand naturally reaches up to bristle the hair out of his face but the sight of scarlet has Yoongi halting his ministrations. That’s when the events of last night hit him at full force.
He jolts awake then, physically flinching at the sight of his hands covered in his mother’s dried blood. He chokes and spittles but there’s no tears left in his system to release. His body shakes and it takes him a few minutes to be steady enough to stand from his bed. When did he get into his bed?
He stumbles but eventually makes it to the living area where the stain of blood still lingers but the body that caused it is nowhere to be found. He’s surely lost his mind. He wanders the empty and barren house, checking every room for Jeongguk or his mother. However, he finds neither.
He calls and shouts for them, albeit reopening the wounds in his raw throat and causing a cascade of coppery liquid to flow in its wake. No one responds. The house is empty. He’s all alone. Yoongi feels so fucking lonely. Every step he takes around the beaten house echoes and creaks and it reminds him of how hollow he feels inside. He was hoping that last night had been nothing more than a nightmare or a fever dream or a cruel figment of his imagination but he knows that the emptiness he feels within is too real to be caused from a dream and the blood that still lingers on the floor is too prominent to be a hallucination.
There is no more blood moon, no more Jeongguk, no more of his mother, no more of his home. Yoongi is officially left all by himself.
What now?
~
Eventually Yoongi calls Jimin, hoping for his safety after the night of the deadly blood moon. Fortunately, the younger one picks up and thanks Yoongi for closing his blinds but still scolds him for even daring to step foot outside.
“You’re lucky to be alive, you know?!”
Yoongi doesn’t feel lucky. He kinda wishes he wasn’t alive. Regardless, he doesn’t want to upset Jimin. “Yeah, I know.”
“I’m serious, Yoongi! Apparently if anyone looked at the moon they went all crazy — even more so than usual — and would just kill themselves. All Bird Box-esque. So many buildings burnt down because people just lit themselves on fire after they looked at it. It’s fucking crazy!”
“You’re lucky your own building didn’t burn down. God knows you would’ve probably just slept through it.”
Jimin laughs. Yoongi always did love the sound of the melody. He likes Jimin’s voice. Thinks it’s unique and special.
“You’re probably right. I was knocked out until dawn. Didn’t wake up for anything!” Jimin laughs once more.
Yoongi’s voice is very even compared to Jimin’s. He doesn’t feel well enough to express varying degrees of emotion despite the crazy circumstances. “Have you talked to Taehyung? Is he all good?”
Jimin’s end goes silent for a few moments. “Yeah, he’s all good. How about you?”
“What?”
“You know, Min Yoongi, there’s a lot of things you don’t actually know about me—“ it reminds Yoongi of his mother’s last words. It hurts more. “But I’m an excellent people-reader. I can tell something happened. Is it Jeongguk? Or is it something else?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer. His breath hitches and he can already feel the onslaught of sobs about to wrack through his body again.
Jimin’s voice is hushed, comforting, warm. It is a voice that can be a home in itself. “Come, Yoongi. Please come over.” Despite the appearance of begging, Yoongi knows that the added ‘please’ is more for his own sake rather than Jimin’s. It is to make Yoongi feel like he is doing Jimin the favor instead of the other way around. Regardless, Yoongi accepts right away. He’s desperate to leave this cursed and empty household. He craves the warmth of another human being to empty his sorrows into.
~
A week passes by with no sighting of Jeongguk or his mother. Yoongi also hasn’t returned home since initially going to Jimin’s and luckily, the latter has yet to kick him out. There’s also been no more sightings of any moon or stars — the one night being it’s only appearance as it demanded retributions. According to the news that Yoongi has watched, it is exactly as Jimin explained in the phone call: looking at the moon made you lose your mind and kill yourself. Many people died throughout that night and a bunch of destruction also occurred. The government has been working on cleaning it all up but there is still the stain of blood covering the streets. Yoongi shudders.
Despite the single night of the deadly moon, the cultists are still present — though their numbers have dwindled significantly. Yoongi figured it was them that killed his mother that night before probably ‘offering’ themselves to their sacred and fake moon god.
A nudge on his head snaps Yoongi out of his thoughts. He looks up to see Jimin already staring at him. Jimin. They’ve definitely grown closer over the course of these months and despite their constant cuddling and affection and kisses shared, Yoongi knows that there’s no romantic feelings that linger. Since the week he’s lived here, they both verbally agreed they were probably platonic soulmates who gave their hearts to another. Jimin loves Taehyung and Yoongi loves Jeongguk. They both are aware and agree. Yoongi loves having Jimin. He’s scared to lose him. Scared to lose something he’s beginning to see as permanent.
“Yoongi, don’t you think you should visit your home?” Jimin asks, gently stroking Yoongi’s hair.
“Aw, are you tired of me already? Kicking me out? Is this because Taehyung has been stopping by?” Yoongi pokes fun at the younger, pouting his lips in the cutest way he can muster.
Jimin chuckles, gently pressing a peck to his jotted out lips. “You know I don’t mind you here. Hell, you do the dishes and my laundry so I can’t complain but— but maybe you should try to find some closure. And the only way you can really do that is be there. I don’t want you there that long, it’s still too dangerous especially since your windows got smashed in and you would need to put the door back on the hinges and—“
“Jiminie,” Yoongi cuts off his rambling, interlocking their fingers. “I know. I know I need to. I’m just… really really terrified. I don’t wanna be alone.”
Jimin’s smile is small and sad. “Taehyung and I can come with you. Can probably help you clean the place up a bit but—“ he stops himself. His eyebrows are creased and his next words are uttered gently. “We would probably leave at night to give you your time and space.”
Yoongi doesn’t want that. He doesn’t wanna be alone at any point, let alone inside that wretched place. But he knows Jimin’s intentions are pure and he doesn’t want to intrude any further than he already has. He’s positive Jimin wants a night alone with Taehyung and doesn’t want a guest to bother them. It’s normal. Yoongi is rational. He knows. He also knows this would probably help him cope.
So despite all his doubts and fears, he nods his head along anyway. Thus the next day, he sits in the backseat of Taehyung’s car as they drive to Yoongi’s (destroyed) childhood home.
Taehyung and Jimin take the initiative to clean the carpet of the blood and they task Yoongi with sitting outside until he’s personally ready to step inside. Yoongi knows he will never be fully ready so he forces himself to at least work on reattaching the door to its original position on its hinges. Afterwards, he takes to boarding up the windows so no psychopaths can come inside. He easily loses himself in the work, wanting nothing more than to distract himself from his real purpose at being here. By doing so, the time goes by quickly and before he realizes it, the sun has set. In its wake is the familiarly empty black sky that Yoongi has grown accustomed to over the course of these ten long months.
Jimin and Taehyung give him lots of smiles and warm hugs and reassuring words and gentle forehead kisses before they get ready to depart. Yoongi isn’t ready to be alone. He’s scared. He doesn’t wanna be here. He hates this place. He hates the world. Why must he suffer through this—
“Hey! Look!” Taehyung, ever the observant one, points at the sky.
Jimin follows his lover’s gaze and his mouth drops open before transforming into the biggest grin Yoongi has ever seen on him. It makes his eyes crease shut. “Yoongi, look at the sky!”
Yoongi does. He doesn’t see anything.
His confusion must be evident as Taehyung delicately takes hold of his cheeks, tenderly forcing his gaze to face a certain direction. Yoongi’s breath hitches. He sees why Jimin is so love-struck over the other boy. Taehyung is easily the prettiest boy Yoongi has ever seen. He’s wondrous, analytical, observant, yet so incredibly expressive and in tune with his emotions. When he speaks, his voice is naturally deep and alluring, forcing you to listen to his every word. His hair falls in dark golden tufts and is so fluffy that Yoongi just wants to rub his cheeks against it. Taehyung also has such large and delicate hands that they make everything he holds appear small. He’s beautiful. And when he stands next to the shorter Jimin who’s pink hair stands out in the crowd and who has a voice that is higher-pitched and who also has such smaller and chubbier hands, they somehow look perfect together.
“Do you see it, Yoongi?” Taehyung’s rich voice sends a ghosting breath over the shell of Yoongi’s ear. Yoongi, who was obviously focused on the boy and not the conversation, can only blink. Taehyung chuckles and Jimin vibrates in excitement as he waits for Yoongi to understand.
Taehyung cups his jaw a little rougher now, more determined to get Yoongi to see whatever the hell it is they’re so adamant about. He points up, some distance away. “Squint. It’s pretty far in the distance, but you need to squint.”
Yoongi does as he’s told and then he’s finally hit with the realization of why they’re so excited. He rubs his eyes. There’s no way—
“Are those…? Are those stars?”
Taehyung and Jimin nod excitedly at him, like little puppies.
“Only a small handful.” Taehyung answers.
“But it’s enough! This is a good sign!” Jimin chirps.
“I don’t know. Last time we saw space activity, it killed thousands of people.” Yoongi, ever the pessimist, sighs.
Jimin smacks the back of his head as Taehyung gives him a light noogie. “Ah! Yoongi! You need to have more positivity. Maybe they’re beginning to return!”
He shakes them off, still staring at the barely-there twinkling of the stars. He wonders….
Shortly thereafter, the couple leave him alone at his still-broken house. Yoongi stares at the home. He remembers once finding such joy in being home. He would run home from school, always excited for night to come so he could rush to the garden to meet Jeongguk—
The garden.
Yoongi almost forgot about the garden. He makes his way around the back to where his place of sanctuary used to lay, mostly using it as an excuse to avoid going inside the house of his mother’s murder for as long as he possibly could.
The garden lay untouched, preserved in the exact manner that Yoongi recognized throughout the entirety of his life. The only noticeable difference is that the water of the pond held no reflection of the nighttime sky. Nevertheless, Yoongi found comfort in its rippling tide as he stared at his own reflection. He looked tired. He suspects that’s what growing up does to someone. No longer was he that naive young boy who didn’t understand mayhem and believed love was made up of nothing more than sweetness. He ruffles his hand in the water, thus botching and temporarily erasing his judgemental reflection. He stays like that for a while, tucked away in the quiet of the garden whilst hunched over in the serenity of the pond. He almost wonders if it’s an oasis, hidden from the harrowing and apocalyptic world of anarchy and violence.
Yoongi’s eyes drift slightly in the pond’s reflection, noticing an enticing gleam. He can’t comprehend what it is he’s looking at until his earlier interaction with Taehyung and Jimin surfaces in his mind.
A star.
Yoongi is looking at the reflection of a single, lone star swimming in a sea of empty darkness. He can’t believe it, yet he refuses to blink in fear of it disappearing. He doesn’t even turn around to truly look at it in the sky, opting to watch its reflection in the water.
However, a familiar face soon comes into the pond’s surface. A face that Yoongi has forgotten in all the ten months it’s been away. A face Yoongi only merely glanced at a week ago behind a veil of his own tears.
“Jeongguk.” His voice is hoarse as it croaks the name out.
The boy sits beside him, reminiscent of their childhood antics. Except now, both boys have grown up and experienced a gruesome war. They’ve both changed. Neither can go back to who they once were.
The two sit in silence for a long time, only looking at one another through their watery reflection of the pond’s surface in exchange for words. The quiet that once brought Yoongi peace, comfort, and warmth seems nothing more than a cruel and bitter visage now.
The laugh that escapes him is hollow, dry, and forced. “What the fuck are you doing back here? Here to take more shit from me?”
Jeongguk’s eyebrow twitches. “I didn’t--”
“Bullshit! Fucking bullshit! Why would you do that? How could you do that to me?” Yoongi is crying again, his voice breaking every so often through his frustration.
Jeongguk grabs hold of him, gently shaking his shoulders to force Yoongi to look at him. But Yoongi is hurt and he can’t reason anymore.
“Why did you leave me?” He all but whispers, his soft tone needing to be carried by the wind in order to reach the other.
“Let me explain.” Jeongguk’s voice is calm, even, undisturbed. And it pisses Yoongi off to no end.
“Explain?! What the fuck is there to explain? You fucking left! You vanish off the face of the earth with no explanation for months!”
“Yoongi--”
“You took everything from me!” His shout is sudden as it reverberates into the ever abysmal night. He stands now, desperately wanting to look down at the boy who has caused him so much pain, so much heartache. He wants to at least once be the one on top, standing above his sorrows.
Jeongguk stares, his eyes widening slightly. Yoongi hates how small Jeongguk’s reaction is. He still feels small, still feels incapable. Why is he the only one upset?
“As soon as I trust and confide in you with my truth, you fucking left! And you took the moon and stars with you. You took the only thing I considered stable and permanent and had it all disappear right alongside you. And if that isn’t bad enough,” Yoongi sucks in a gasp, desperately trying to stop his tears of frustration from falling. “You come back after ten months, not for me, but to take my dead mom away from me? What the fuck is that? Star, deity, otherwordly being, grim reaper -- whatever the fuck you are -- you had no right to take her away from me. You have no right to even be here now. You’re a fucking--”
Throughout Yoongi’s rant, Jeongguk had stood up with a fire in his eyes, his fists clenching in anger and finding refuge in the collar of Yoongi’s shirt. He balls the fabric tight between his inked fingers.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jeongguk’s teeth were bared, forehead muscles taut as he stared down at the shorter boy. He had inadvertently lifted Yoongi up off the ground in his anger. “Not everything is about you, Min Yoongi! I know you’ve gone through shit but you think I wanted to leave you? You think I wanted any of this? That last night before all this shit happened, did I ever once give you the impression I wanted to leave you? You don’t know jack shit of what happened to me and what I’ve been through because you’re so fucking blinded by your own damn sorrows. If you want to throw a fucking pity party for yourself then be my guest.”
Yoongi’s nostrils flare. Jeongguk’s once midnight blue hair seems red in his tinted vision. “And how am I supposed to know anything about you when you don’t tell me?! When you leave for months on end?! What am I supposed to think?”
“I was asking you to hear me out--”
“Why should I now? Why should I care what you went through? You left--”
“I didn’t want to!” Jeongguk, ever the stronger of the two, had now forced Yoongi to his knees. Yoongi felt like a damned ragdoll. His fingers tried prying Jeongguk’s own hands off his shirt to no avail. Why was he so weak?
“Let go of me!” Yoongi knows he looks like a pathetic little kid. Sobbing and in hysterics as he resigns himself to his demeaning position on the ground at Jeongguk’s feet, the latter gazing down at his crippled and withered state. It’s always been like this, hasn’t it? Yoongi can’t remember much of the time when he was the stronger of the two. Can’t remember when exactly their roles reversed and he became so damn pathetic and weak.
“You humans are all the same! You are all so fucking focused on yourselves and refuse to see anything else. ‘Oh boohoo~ Oh woe is me~’ that’s all you can fucking say! You don’t know shit about anything that isn’t yourselves. Selfish! That’s what you all are. You’re entitled! You don’t know half of what the world around you consists of. You don’t know about struggles or beings that aren’t immediately in front of you. You’re selfish and short-sighted. You want everyone to stop what they’re doing for you to cry about your own problems but can’t even acknowledge the bigger picture.”
“Shut up! Shut up! Let go already!” Yoongi is flailing, one hand meekly trying to unclasp Jeongguk’s vise-like grip on his shirt and the other attempting to push his body away.
Yoongi has never seen Jeongguk look so angry. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like this new Jeongguk who now knows rage and anger. He feels a sense of fear climbing up his nervous system as it leaves a trail of raised bumps all along his arms.
Yoongi recounts the time in their youth when this garden was one of tranquility for each of them. When they could sit in silence and be happy in each other’s presence. When did they become so enraged at each other? Are they mad at one another? Or are they mad at the world around them? The world that put them in this position and brought nothing but sorrows into their lives.
Jeongguk’s rant eventually seizes and Yoongi belatedly realizes that the other boy also has tears streaming down his face. His grip on Yoongi loosens and his legs wobble until he also slowly descends to the ground in resignation.
Selfish. Entitled.
You are selfish and short-sighted.
You can’t see anyone but yourselves.
Yoongi stares at Jeongguk. He looks upon the fellow broken boy sitting in front of him and wonders why he didn’t see him before. Yoongi spots the dark eye bags that hang underneath Jeongguk’s once starry eyes that have now lost their spark, sees the dried maroon pearls that glide up his now-pale arms and are accompanied by varying spots of sickly yellow or blue and black. Where did he get so many cuts and bruises from? When did he become so tired and worn down?
Perhaps Yoongi is selfish. He only now looks upon Jeongguk after being forced to. A sinking feeling falls into the pit of his stomach and closes around his throat. He realizes how much he didn’t pay attention to the one person who gave him everything. Realizes how gray his own mother’s under-eyes looked or the few white strands that were beginning to take over her roots. How much she tried to get him to open up and how much he was away. He didn’t even care enough about the one person who was his home. He only cared about himself and his own problems. Yoongi is selfish.
Yoongi is selfish and he hates this revelation about himself. He doesn’t want this part of himself. He’s angry at Jeongguk for bringing it to light and he wants to grab the navy-haired boy and yell in his face, yet at the same time wants to fall into his arms and find escape and refuge like he used to as a child.
But Yoongi knows that things aren’t the same as they were when he was younger. Expecting Jeongguk to be his refuge is asking for too much. So he ends up opting for doing neither of his desired actions, instead keeping the distance between them present.
They’re both hiccuping from their wails, both droopy-eyed and flushed cheeks. He’s never seen Jeongguk look so old and tired. He knows it is the same for him.
They both grew up. They both endured shit no one could dream of. They are no longer children who can mindlessly play tag and eat slightly soggy bread beside the pond. Yoongi knows pain and hurt and loss and heartbreak. He knows that love is no longer just a senseless parade of rainbows and gumdrops and all things good. Love is an everwinding battle that can take every fibre of your very core being and still manage to tie the knot of the rope draped around your neck if you weren’t careful. Younger Yoongi lost himself in a maze and expected those around him to rescue him. But this was real life. Jeongguk was not a prince. Yoongi is not a damsel.
But he was selfish.
So, he wipes the tears from Jeongguk’s face without saying a word more.
~~~
There is a bright light. It is blinding and it hurts Yoongi’s still-closed eyes. No matter how much he twists and turns, the light doesn’t dim. He dejectedly awakens, not truly ready to leave the comfort of unconsciousness. His head hurts along with every muscle and joint scattered throughout his body. Yoongi looks around. Sees the pond, sees the sun slowly ascending into its home in the sky, sees his battered house. He doesn’t see Jeongguk.
He sighs. This is nothing new.
As much as Yoongi would like to stay outside, his dry throat and insistent bladder tell him otherwise, thus Yoongi enters the one place he firmly considers hell-on-earth.
The floorboards continue to creak under his weight. Yoongi has never noticed just how old the house is, probably because there was always someone else there to create noise. Now, it is barren and empty and every sound Yoongi makes echoes off the walls as if to mock him.
Despite the bright rays of light streaming inside, it is still so cold. Yoongi has a trail of goosebumps creeping along his arm, licking just underneath the nape of his neck. A chill drapes over him like a cloak and he thinks he feels a sickly hand closing around his throat. He swallows. Moves deeper into the building.
The boards on the broken windows don’t do much to ease Yoongi’s anxiety, merely serving to reaffirm his suspicions that he wound up inside a horror movie. He wonders if this is the part where the killer strikes. Yoongi looks down at the floor. Jimin and Taehyung did a good job at removing the bloodied stain, but the memory of the sight will forever be ingrained inside Yoongi’s mind, branded onto his memory, and seared in his retinas. He realizes that the killer already did.
Another chill claws at the back of his arms and he can’t stop the shudder that ripples throughout his body in waves. He realizes that there is a draft and the prime suspect is his shitty job at fixing the windows. The multiple gaps in the board are now obvious as the light of day shines through them and he sighs in dejection. He runs his fingers over it, feels the bumps in the wood and allows the edge of his fingernail to get stuck in the darkened knots that are scattered on the surface.
Yoongi takes a look around the beaten place. The boarded windows, the broken banister, the furniture still in a disarray, and dust still lingering in the air from the week the house was abandoned. It feels like a still from a horror movie that Yoongi never signed up for. He hates it. It reminds him of his mother. He can almost see the scene of her murder play right before his eyes, no matter how much he shuts them close.
He wonders how she felt when she heard the door break open. Did she think it was him coming home? Or maybe the shitheads broke the window first. Was she standing in the kitchen sipping her nightly tea like she always did? The one that she claimed made her fall asleep faster? The tea held a hint of a citrusy tangerine smell that also encapsulated her. No wonder he always liked tangerines -- they smelt like the late nights he used to spend with his mother. Or maybe she was already asleep, having already given up on Yoongi returning at all for that night. Did she run out to greet the attackers empty-handed? Or perhaps she held a TV remote -- Yoongi remembers how she would sometimes act like she would throw it at him when he got into trouble as a kid. Did she fight back at all? Did she at least fuck them up in the process and make them regret ever stepping foot inside his house? He looks around at the furniture scattered all over. Yeah. There’s no way she didn’t fuck them up at least a little bit. Yoongi smirks. The change of his mouth’s position allows for the salt to graze his lips. He realizes he is crying once again. How long was she in pain? Did she call out for him?
“Yoongi, I’m so glad you weren’t here.”
Yoongi’s face scrunches.
“Selfish.”
Yoongi is selfish because he’s glad he wasn’t here either.
He wonders if he could have even prevented anything. If he could have stopped them. He doesn’t think he could have. He thinks he would’ve died right alongside her. He he--
Yoongi is scared of dying. He really is selfish.
His legs feel weak, his torso feels too vulnerable, and despite no one being around, he feels too exposed. So Yoongi sinks to the floor, curling in on himself like a little ball and sobs into his knees until he has nothing left to give.
“Yoongi, I’m so glad you weren’t here.”
Selfish.
“Come try this tea! I know you’ve been having trouble sleeping too!” Tangerines. Selfish.
I’m glad I wasn’t here either. Selfish selfish selfishselfishselfish.
Yoongi is so goddamned selfish.
-
Yoongi cries himself to sleep. He wakes up eventually when the sun is a little higher in the sky and is just about to start its descent back to the ground to rest. He doesn’t feel like existing at the moment. He’s so tired.
Nonetheless, he stretches out his limbs to lay flat on his back as he stares up at the ceiling. His thoughts wander of their own accord. To himself, to Jimin and Taehyung, to his mother, to Jeongguk.
Jeongguk. Jeon fucking Jeongguk. The boy who walks amongst the stars yet still would touch down on earth to meet Yoongi every night.
He wonders if he ever really loved Jeongguk as much as he thought. Does he still love him? Or was it that naive childhood love that consumes his entire small head and blinds him in believing in such a thing as ‘soulmates’? Did that same puppy love transfer over the course of years because it was all Yoongi had known? Yoongi doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what love really is. He loves his mom. He loves Jimin and Taehyung. He loves Jeongguk. What differentiates all of those? He really isn’t sure. He kisses Jimin. He kissed Jeongguk. What’s the difference? Is Jeongguk just a close friend? Is the only thing that defines romantic relationships physicality? Love is confusing.
He wonders if he loved the thought of Jeongguk. The version of Jeongguk that only existed inside Yoongi’s head. The version that retained his childhood innocence and never expressed anger. The version that knew only good and thus was a figure of peace for Yoongi. Was Jeongguk ever really that? Or did Yoongi just assume he always was?
‘Selfish. Entitled. You don’t know jack shit.’
Yoongi wanted a safe haven so desperately that he projected those feelings onto the first person that never caused conflict or confrontation. It is why he became so frightened during Jeongguk’s outburst the previous night. Yoongi’s version of the starboy never had a morsel of rage built inside him. How foolish of him to think. He wanted a prince or a knight in shining armor to come and rescue him from his overarching emotions and responsibilities and worries without ever expecting that knight to have problems of his own. Yoongi realizes he really doesn’t know jack shit about Jeon Jeongguk, the boy that he was supposedly in love with. But if this wasn’t love, why did it hurt so badly when he left without a word?
He takes another look around the desolate house, smiles -- more like grimaces -- just a little bit.
Yoongi thinks that this state of the house represents him. It represents all of his inner thoughts and turmoil. No matter how much he tried boarding up the windows of his mind, it wasn’t good enough. Despite his best efforts to keep a lid on all of his emotions, it still seeps through the cracks that were masked by the night. When the sun rises, everything comes to light. And Yoongi is still left alone.
He sighs again. Looks around the house. Thinks. Recalls.
He feels nostalgic, seeing the photos on the wall. Of him, of his smiling mother. He misses his childhood self. In childhood, there were no worries or concerns. He was naive and allowed to be an idiot sometimes. He remembers how much more confident and curious and selfless he was.
Selfless.
That’s right. At one point, Yoongi was selfless. He was curious about the boy in the garden and made the effort to visit him every night, food in hand to share. He remembers letting Jeongguk win games because of how wide his smile would be. Yoongi didn’t have worthless pride at that time, he just liked smiling with other people.
Where did that version of himself go? When did it disappear?
He’s disgusted with his current self and how much he allowed a gap to form between him and those he deemed his closest allies. Perhaps he did want a pity party.
Jeongguk is right. He is human. He is selfish and entitled. And he does need an explanation from him.
~~~
With the sun’s kiss upon the earth, an inky screen fills its place within the sky. But it is not always as dim as one makes it out to be. The good thing about darkness is that it is more noticeable when light breaches and permeates its surface; it shines through more clearly. With night, the fluorescent glow of the moon and stars against the midnight backdrop can still guide weary travelers to their destinations.
“Oh how the tables have turned. You’re actually waiting for me?” Jeongguk’s smile is very small and hesitant, the starboy clearly not wanting to disturb the rising tide.
Tonight, it is Yoongi waiting for Jeongguk in the garden in order to greet him first.
Yoongi’s mouth upturns slightly. “It seems only fair.”
Jeongguk’s steps are light as he wanders a little bit closer to the sitting Yoongi, intentionally keeping a bit of distance between them. Once Yoongi has made no intention of reprimanding Jeongguk does he inch just a few more steps closer. They remain in silence.
Finally, Jeongguk plops down just a little ways away from Yoongi on the ground. When he fails to say anything, Yoongi groans and punches his arm.
“Stop being weird.”
Jeongguk rubs his arm. “‘m not being weird.”
“Yes you are. We fought. That’s what people do.”
Jeongguk pauses for a few beats too many. Yoongi looks at him. Sees Jeongguk mouth the word ‘people’ in silence before settling on: “I don’t like fighting.”
“Yeah, well…”
The conversation reaches a null, neither knowing exactly what to say or how to break this weird tension. So they sit in silence, much like they did in their youth. Except now the silence feels overbearing and heavy on Yoongi’s shoulders.
Yoongi looks over at Jeongguk. He is looking down at the pond while he fidgets with a rock in between his slender fingers.
“I don’t like fighting either but,” Yoongi is whispering, his voice quiet and delicate, “the best part of fighting is being able to make up afterwards.”
“Is that what we’re doing? Making up?” Jeongguk asks.
“Is it not? You don’t wanna make up with me? Why not?” Yoongi pouts, opening his eyes widely, exaggerating his emotions once he sees the small smile dotting Jeongguk’s features.
“I don’t wanna fight. It hurts.”
Yoongi ponders over this for a few moments. “Jeongguk, I won’t promise we’ll never fight again. But I promise that the reason we’ll ever fight in the future is because we both just care about the other.”
Jeongguk glances at him, mulling over his words. “You’re saying people fight because they like each other?”
Yoongi’s eyes widen in horror. He’s not good with words. “No! No, that isn’t what I mean! People fight and argue and disagree on things. That’s all normal. Sometimes people fight because they genuinely don’t like each other but -- what I’m trying to say is -- that isn’t us! That won’t be us! Nevermind, I don’t know.” Yoongi sighs in frustration. “Sometimes we won’t agree on stuff, but I want you to know that I’m trying to think more about how other people feel and not just about myself. So know that I care for you, even when we fight.”
Jeongguk nods, his smile widening a bit. “Okay.”
And like that, both boys silently apologize to the other. Jeongguk knows that Yoongi is trying to get better and more aware after what he said during their fight. They weren’t actually mad at one another persay, they were mad at everything. The world, their situations, their problems, themselves. It’s all they can do but to adapt, overcome, and grow. Yoongi thinks he’s finally doing as much.
So the two boys sit in each other’s presence like they did in their youth. They don’t always have to speak to feel comfortable; however, as Yoongi looks up at the very few stars that litter the once hollow sky, he has to ask about his mother.
Jeongguk lets out a shaky breath as he pushes the hair from his face. It takes him a few moments to gather his thoughts to answer.
“What she told you that night was true. Long ago there was a star who fell in love with a human. Once they had a child, the star had to go back to the sky. Your mother was that child. She is a star -- well technically only half but I guess that’s not important but -- yeah. It’s customary for stars to live amongst their own, even in death.” Jeongguk is twiddling with his fingers, the hem of his shirt, the split ends of his hair, everything. Yoongi realizes he is bad at words too. “She is a star who belongs with the other stars -- that’s just how it all works. It’s home. Except...well, it’s not really much of a home anymore.” That last sentence is quiet as Jeongguk mutters.
“What do you mean?”
Jeongguk laughs bitterly, flopping to lay on his back so he can look at the sky. He nods his head up in the same direction. “Up there, it’s anarchy.”
“Anarchy?”
Jeongguk looks back down to Yoongi, grabs hold of his hand to play with his fingers now. The smile on his face feels fabricated, as if holding immense guilt or self-deprecation. “What would you do if I told you that you and I may have accidentally started a war?”
#Sorry annoying tags#yoonkook#min yoongi#jeon jeongguk#park jimin#bts au#kim namjoon#kim taehyung#star!au#star!jungkook#angst#fluff#happy ending
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cake
Pairings: dark!bucky x innocent!reader | (brief) dark!steve x innocent!reader
Summary: You’re just a piece of cake for Bucky to be devoured and so your birthday takes a dark turn.
Warnings: non-con, drugging, unprotected sex, innocent reader. This is dark bucky! please don’t read if you are uncomfortable with any of the topics mentioned above!
A/N: please do not read if you are under 18! happy birthday to me! for my birthday i thought i’d write this! hope you enjoy <3
dividers by @writeyourmindaway
The sun stared blaring into the room, heat radiating off the wall and onto the bed. Your legs started to feel the heat and you curled up into a ball, shielding your legs from the blazing sunlight. A typical day in June.
Your consciousness started taking over and you stretched to the sound of your alarm, stopping the sound with your outstretched hand. It took you a second, but you did remember. It’s your birthday.
Jumping out of bed, you knew Tony had a special breakfast made just for you like he does for all the Avengers. You quickly changed into your favourite blush coloured sundress, running out your room towards the dining room of the compound, you got even more excited about the day ahead. Once you entered, you saw the table filled with all your favourites. Scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes and fresh fruit.
You looked to the people standing at the table, smiling to you, congratulating you on your birthday. Everyone except Bucky. He sat down, shooting you a brief smile, but it was ok. You knew him, knew what he was like and celebrations were not really his thing, nor were you.
Bucky terrified you a little, with his brooding, his deathly glare once he didn’t pay attention to anything, his skills. He was a terrifying man to you. So you kept your distance.
After all the food was devoured, your day was filled with fun Tony had arranged for you. A day trip to the zoo, all the Avengers with you. It was no surprise that people started to surround you trying to catch a glimpse at the earth’s mightiest heroes, but that didn’t ruin your day. Tony arranged for you to feed the sea-lions, take pictured with monkeys and even pet the tigers. He made sure you got all the benefits from being his friend.
The day went by in a whim and the sun sunk between the skyscrapers. You went into your room to put away all the gifts you’ve gotten from your friends and all the souvenirs from the zoo. As you laid out the different packaged items, a clear box caught your eye. You weren’t sure who it was from or when you had been given it, but the item inside made your face light up.
You opened the top to reveal a pink frosted cake with icing made to look like roses. The door clicking shut behind you took your eyes away from the treat. You looked over your shoulder and saw Bucky leaning on the closed door, a shy smile spread across your face.
“You’re not eating this without me, are you?” Bucky spoke, nodding to the cake in your hands.
You looked down at it, sure that this was his gift. “I’m happy to share it with you, Bucky.” You looked up at him as he pushed his body from the door.
“That’s sweet, darlin’, but that’s not what I mean.”
You tilted your head, confused by his words. Bucky came closer to you, taking the clear plastic box from your hands. His close proximity made you sweat and his gaze down at you didn’t help. You’ve never been so close to this man, let alone in a room alone.
Bucky took a small slice, setting the rest aside on your table with the other gifts. He turned to you, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Open up.” Bucky demanded in a low, hushed voice.
You hesitated, but as you saw him raise one of his brows you reluctantly opened your mouth little by little. He only encouraged you as he shoved the piece of cake in your mouth, stuffing you until you couldn’t close it. You tried to chew, but Bucky stopped you. “Don’t. Only swallow when I say so.”
There was a pit forming in your stomach. You knew that something off, but you didn’t want to upset him.
His callused hands cupped your cheeks, a content smile forming on his lips. Bucky guided you to your bed, the back of your knees hitting the bed frame. Your fell back, almost chocking on the cake in your mouth. Bucky climbed over you, his hands running up your sides and finally resting on either side of your face.
You’ve seen something similar in movies, but every time you closed your eyes, looked away or changed the channel once things progressed. But Bucky wouldn’t do that to you, would he?
“Just stay still for me, okay? I’ve got a nice present for you.” Bucky whispered and you slowly nodded your head, heat making it’s way to your face.
Bucky sat up between your legs, eyeing you down. You felt yourself sinking into the mattress, further into the material under his gaze. There was something off and you knew it in the back of your mind. His eyes dilated once he reached the hem of your dress with his gaze. Bucky licked his lips, hands suddenly gripping your thighs and you yelped at his touch. A whimper pushed it’s way up your throat but was muffled by the contents in your mouth.
He pushed the hem up over your thighs, onto your stomach, exposing your cotton panties to him. You hands flew to his, eyes wide, but he simply pushed them away, pinning them to your side with a warning look.
“Enjoy it or I’ll make you.”
You wanted to swallow, the cake getting soggy in your mouth. You felt Bucky’s hands slowly hook his fingers on the band of your underwear, licking his lips as he pushed the thin fabric down your legs, eyes fixated on your core. He stood from the bed to pull the panties off your legs, situating himself back on the bed, pushing your legs further apart with his knees.
Your legs bend and you stared at the ceiling. His thumb grazed over your bud, your legs jerking at the contact. Bucky dipped his head, his hot breath on your pussy before licking a stripe between your folds. Electricity flowed though your body from your core, down your legs. His teeth pulled at the bundle of nerves harshly making you grip a handful of the sheets beneath you.
Looking down you locked eyes with Bucky, you caught a flash in his eyes. A flash of foul intend that passed as quickly as it appeared.
Bucky kept biting until you felt like passing out. He lifted his head and you exhaled through your nose. He unbuckled his belt, pushing his jeans down with his briefs. His cock sprung free, hard and leaking with pre-cum. He made no effort to remove his clothing further, moving to hover over you. His eyes stared down into yours and a chill crept up your spine. A million questions in your head but no way to express them.
There was apart of you that wanted to kick and scram, spit the contents of your mouth into his face, but the way he looked at you, hovered over you told you not to. You felt the tip of his cock over your entrance and you cursed in your head of how desperat you were for him to fuck you.
Bucky pushed forward, filling you slowly. His eyes closed as he dove in further. The sensation overwhelming you. Bucky pulled out with a grunt, filling you back up with more force, making your body jerk back, the metal of his belt hitting your skin.
You could smell his arousal in the air around you. Trapped in his pleasure while you heaved for air, suffocated by his moans.
He did not care.
His pelvis hit your sensitive bud, still sore and stinging from his teeth assaulting the bundle of nerves. The impact making you gasp into the soggy cake as his cock dove further, hitting your cervix painfully. He explored the depth of your pussy like he paid for it, like it was his right. Bucky pushed his torso up, kneeling between your legs while holding your hips up, his hands gripping your flesh tightly and you knew that every crevice of his fingerprint would be engraved on your skin.
He wasted no time, a grin on his lips displaying his enjoyment and he jerked forward, a noise escaping your throat, a noise of pain you’ve never heard. Pieces of frosting dribbled down your chin. Tears welled up in the corners of your eyes, Bucky watching as they rolled down your cheeks that have been painted with shame. His grin widened, teeth showing as he basked in your pain, watching you cry underneath him.
It was too much. He was too much.
You felt dizzy, the relentless pace fogging your mind, pleasure replaced by pain. You cried into the cake while Bucky’s moans mixed in with your sobs. You felt the build up from your climax, your walls clenching around his length.
“You want to cum?” Bucky grinned and you nodded your head. “Cum for the camera, c’mon doll, smile.”
You registered his words and looked over his shoulder. A red dot glowing at you and panic flowed through your body as you came, shaking your head as you closed your eyes. Fresh tears flowed and you felt your cum coat his cock, dripping onto the sheets beneath you.
Bucky groaned as he came inside you, his cum warm as it coated your walls. His movement slowed and he set your hips back down onto the mattress. He pulled out, bending over you as your legs straightened. His hand gripped you chin. “Swallow, birthday girl.”
You did as he said, swallowing the wet, soggy cake down your throat. You cough as soon as your mouth was free.
Bucky pushed himself away from you, pulling his pants back on. He walked over to the camera, taking it from the shelve. He walked over to you, pointing the lens on your core. A sinful smile spread on his lips, his face lighting up as he looked through the viewfinder. A look as dark as nightfall.
Bucky stopped the recording, but your vision blurred, your head spinning. You felt dizzy, sinking further into the mattress as the black spots overtook your vision. Bucky’s words rigging in your ear as you passed out. “Happy birthday.”
You came to your senses, a headache hammering away in your head. You stretched, but the pain in your core made you hiss. You looked down and found yourself naked from the waist down. Scrambling the pieces on what happened you shook your head, sitting up, you pulled your skirt down.
You sat at the end of your bed, a silent sob escaping your lips. How did you let that happen?
A knock on your door stilled your cries and the door opened. Steve emerged behind it, closing the door as he entered, a concerned look on his face.
“Y/n, what did he do to you?” Steve’s soft voice calmed you down and your cries overtook you. You felt the bed dip beside you and you felt his arm wrap around you. “He send the video to everyone in the compound.” Steve whispered and you looked up at him, shaking your head.
Steve pulled his phone out, tilting the screen so you could see it. And there you were, spread wide open for him, face stuffed with wet cake you were now sure was poisoned with drugs. You turned you head away and Steve stopped the video, encasing you in his arms as he embraced you.
Steve stroked your hair and you looked up to him, but you caught it, the glimmer of ominous darkness. You suddenly felt uncomfortable. Not just in his arms but in your room. Steve placed his hands on your cheeks, a little too much pressure.
“Do you want another slice of cake, doll?” Steve’s mouth spread into a sinister smile and you shook your head vigorously.
#dark!bucky#dark!steve#dark!bucky barnes#dark!bucky x you#bucky smut#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky x you#dark!marvel#dark!mcu#clair writes
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Umbrella In the Rain
Pairing: Jake Peralta x fem!reader
Summary: Jake being a light in the dark for Reader.
Word Count: 2.3k
Warnings: implied depression, mentions of trauma
-
A pen tapped lightly on the file in front of me. I looked up to see Rosa settling back into her chair with just a hint of concern resting on her features.
"What's up, Rosa?" I attempted a smile that didn't fully form.
"Are you okay? You look like Boyle when he dropped his sandwich earlier."
"Yeah, just got a little lost in thought there," I forced out a believable chuckle as she raised her eyebrows.
"For the fifth time today?" Her brows dropped again when I sighed. "Look, I'm not saying you have to talk to me or anything because you know I don't do feelings. But I am really good at listening to my friends. When I want to, that is."
This time a real smile broke out. "I know, thank you. I'm just having a bit of trouble concentrating today. I don't think it's anything to worry about."
She nodded and returned her attention to her computer as if the conversation never happened, my shoulders instantly relaxing. Truth be told, I was a little worried. To the outside world, I had no reason to feel like there was a weight on my shoulder. I had a great job working with some of my closest friends and things with Jake only got better with each passing day.
Lately I've been focusing on my past, things that not even Jake knows yet. Cuddling at night with Jake keeps the focus away from them in my dreams, but my conscious brain isn't as easily tricked. I have things I've held onto, things that hurt and only feel heavier when I add on the guilt of not being open with Jake about it. I don't feel that he'd ever leave me for experiencing trauma. If anything, he'd want to be there for me more. But I don't have the heart to invite anyone else to the arms of darkness that welcome me when I'm alone. Especially my ray of sunshine.
Jake was still on a stakeout with Charles by the time I left, so I decided to go to my apartment for the night, quickly texting him when I walked through the door.
I just got home. Please be safe tonight. I love you and I'll see you tomorrow.
Not even a minute later, I received a reply from him.
Sorry I have to work so late tonight, but I guess it's better that you get a break from me so you don't get sick of me! Love you, babe
I cleared the notification after plugging my phone in and turned on Do Not Disturb for the night. I contemplated going to at least make a sandwich for dinner, considering I hadn't eaten since breakfast with Jake. Five minutes later, I found myself in the bed instead, long t-shirt and underwear replacing my work clothes. I couldn't bring myself to care about eating, now that I was alone with so many thoughts.
My alarm went off the next morning, and it took all of my energy to force my eyes open and keep them open. After cutting the blaring sound short, I flipped over onto my back and stared into the ceiling for so long that I forgot why I was even awake. Shit, I have to work.
I picked up my phone again long enough to look at the time, fully aware that thirty minutes had passed. Groaning, I dropped it again as I settled back into the pillows, probably letting another ten minutes or more pass. Without even stopping to think about it, I picked up my phone again and constructed a text to Holt.
I feel awful and can't make it out of bed this morning. Think I should stay home for the day.
I paused with my finger over the send button, reading over the message a few times. Why was I lying to my boss? Just as I was about to erase the words, a little voice reminded me that my paperwork would still be there when I got to work tomorrow, and that I really needed to just lie down and forget the world for a day. So I watched the screen until 'Delivered' popped up, turning off my Do Not Disturb just in case he needed to reach me later. I instantly regretted it when my phone went off with three messages in a row minutes later from Holt, Rosa, and Jake.
Update me on your condition.
Sincerely,
Raymond Holt
Dude I know you're not sick. Am I gonna have to baton whack a confession out of you?
Hey, babe! Holt said you're sick :( Why didn't you tell me? Do you need me to bring anything later? Love you and get some rest!
I let the screen go dark again and turned my back to the phone, wrapping myself up into the covers now that I had no responsibility for the day. A few tears found their way across the bridge of my nose and onto my pillowcase. I simply closed my eyes and hummed 'Funky Cold Medina' to try and keep the incoming thoughts locked outside of my brain.
At some point, I opened my eyes again to the sun shining in a different part of the room. I quickly realized the sound of my apartment door opening woke me up when I heard Jake calling my name and his footsteps heading this way. I buried my face into the pillows and adjusted my breathing right before he gently opened the bedroom door.
"Babe?" I heard him walk around and felt the edge of the bed in front of me dip slightly. A light chuckle fell from his lips as he reached over to tuck some of my extremely ruffled hair behind my ear, rubbing my jawline just under there.
Eventually he stood again and left the room, returning seconds later and bringing a beautiful aroma with him of chicken and spices. I heard pen scratching paper for a second and felt the other side of the bed dip as he leaned over to place a kiss on my forehead.
When I was sure he left, I sat up and rolled over to see a to-go tub of vegetable soup and a box of what I could only guess to be chicken dumplings. My favorite meal from my favorite restaurant.
Before I could even understand why, I'd pulled my legs to my chest and buried my face into my knees as I sobbed louder and louder with each passing minute, not stopping until I was forced to in order to breathe. I gulped big mouthfuls of air, releasing them in rough, shuddering exhales as I attempted to stop the flow of tears with the collar of my t-shirt. I managed to breathe a little more calmly but the tears never stopped. I just let them go on and soak my pillows as I fell sideways onto the mattress.
Through a watery filter I caught a glimpse of the note Jake left. I stretched far enough to grasp the closest corner of the paper and yanked it onto the bed, inhaling deeply because somehow I could smell just a hint of his comforting cologne. I managed to hold in a fresh wave of tears just long enough to read his quickly scribbled words on the page.
Wasn't sure what kind of sick you were but I hope this food helps. I'll be back this evening to help you with whatever you need.
I'd barely reached the final word before I was sobbing again, clutching the note to my chest as my body shook and my heart ached. The more I cried, the more exhausted I felt, and the more I realized that there was no way in the world that I deserved someone like this.
I must've fallen asleep again, because I opened my eyes to a room that no longer held the sun, but a singular ball of light from a nearby lamp. I became aware of the note missing from my hands and Jake's arms around me. When I turned and pushed my face into his hoodie covered chest, he pushed back a little and tilted my face toward his.
I blinked in shock when I noticed his eyes, shining with just a hint of oncoming tears. Unknowingly, I raised my hand to his chest and grabbed a fistful of fabric out of fear.
"Are you okay?" My voice came out faintly and full of crackling from lack of use and the ghost of a smile fell upon his face.
"I should be asking you that," he whispered. He noticed my confused look and continued. "When I got back to work and everyone asked how you were, I told them that I wasn't really sure because you were knocked out when I brought the food. Rosa pulled me aside and told me that she didn't really think you were sick, and that there might be something else going on based on how you were acting before." I tried not to physically react as he searched my face for any signs of that being true. When I didn't give him anything to work with, he continued.
"As much as I didn't want you to be sick, I also didn't want to think that you were going through something alone, especially when I could be here helping you. But then I got here and the food is untouched and my note is soggy from tears and so is your shirt and you were sleeping again and I.."
I closed my eyes as he cut himself off, not wanting to see the tears that were building in his eyes again. Coward move as the one who caused them, but I felt too unstable to face the consequences.
"Baby, please look at me." I forced my eyes to open, nearly sighing in relief at the lack of tears on his cheeks. "Y/N, is there something going on with you? Is it me?"
There it was, my third breakdown of the day. Something about his uncertain tone and the near tears in his eyes were enough to make my own a reality. He coaxed me through it, rubbing my back and kissing my messed up hair as my body shook. He shushed me as I started to cough, reminding me that he was here and that it was okay, and that pulled me from his arms.
"It's not o-okay!" I pushed myself up into a sitting position, looking down at him and trying really hard not to whimper. "I'm pushing you away and all you do is help me anyway when you shouldn't because it's my fault in the first place and—" I cut myself off with a few hiccups and coughs, and he took the opportunity to sit up with me and place his hands on either side of my face.
"Listen to me, Y/N. I love you, okay? I don't care how much you push me away. You're clearly hurting and so I'm gonna be here to help you. I'm not going anywhere so please feel free to talk to me when you're ready."
I took a moment to just look at the man in front of me. I raised a hand and ran it through his curls, dragging the same hand down the side of his face and rested it on his shoulder. My opposite arm met the other one around his neck and tugged him slightly forward, squeezing him into a hug. His arms moved around my waist and rubbed my back as I placed my head on his shoulder. I took a deep breath and started to talk.
I didn't stop until I was done telling him about every violent moment of my childhood year by year and sometimes month by month, aware of his arms tightening around me slightly during certain parts. With each story I told him, I felt my shoulders practically lifting as the straps from my emotional baggage were removed and the weight dropped away. My lungs found it easier to process the air my mouth and nose forced into them, my hands loosening their grip on his hoodie as a sense of security wrapped around us both.
He never once interrupted, and when I finished, he pulled me into a different hold against his chest as he sank into the mattress. He whispered promises into my ear that I knew he'd keep, and I gave him words of trust with my safety in return, as well as assurance that I'd talk to him whenever I felt out of control again.
By the end of the night, Jake helped me find a therapist to call first thing in the morning because—despite his beliefs on therapy—he knew that relying solely on him for my happiness wasn't very healthy no matter how happy he made me. I needed someone who knew more to help me process my emotions so that I wouldn't have such a struggle sharing my mind with him.
I sat there looking into his eyes as I ran my thumb over his jaw, telling him I loved him repeatedly. I wanted to shout it until my throat burned from the force. To make him feel the warmth he sent from the ends of my hair to the tips of my toes every time he was simply there. To be as useful to him as he was to me. To be his umbrella in the rain. He told me that I always was from the moment we met. That he couldn't even see the rain when I was around. I was everything to him, even when I felt like nothing.
Hearing those words filled me like a soothing tea stirred with honey. With his arms around me creating the warmth that kept me sane, I couldn't see the rain either.
#jake peralta imagine#jake peralta x fem!reader#jake peralta x reader#jake peralta#rosa diaz#raymond holt#b99 x reader#brooklyn nine nine imagine#brooklyn 99#brooklyn nine nine#b99 imagine#b99 fic#b99 fanfic#brooklyn nine nine x reader
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Whumptober Day 22
Drugged | Withdrawal
Ao3
Note: Jason is Robin
-o-o-o-o-
It's the same thing every day. The day begins with nothing. Just sitting here, with his hands chained to the wall, watching the table in front of him and waiting for Dick—who's strapped to the aforementioned table—to slowly wake up. Dick's been waking up later and later every day, but that's not really his fault.
It's the drug's fault. But Jason's getting ahead of himself.
Because, after Dick wakes up, the shakes would begin. Dick will insist over and over again, every time Jason asks, that he's okay. But Jason doesn't believe him. He's seen this before in his own mother. As the day progresses, the symptoms would as well. The shakes would be joined by a sweaty parlor. Dick's stomach would grumble angrily. He'd constantly shift and move in his bindings in a clear state of anxiety, tugging at his wrists and ankles to the point that they began to bleed.
By the time they bring lunch, Dick's barely able to keep a sentence, his voice wobbles so much and his memory begins to hold onto less and less. Their captors are practically formless, their faces and body types all hidden behind layers of cloaks and black masks. They don't speak either. They just toss Jason a bottle of water and a wrapped sandwich that definitely came from a gas station. Then, they spoon feed Dick some sort of broth with soggy vegetables and very unsatisfying looking chunks of meat. At first, Jason and Dick both refused to eat, even if the caps were sealed and the packaging untorn.
But days passed. The withdrawal made Dick starving and malleable, willing to eat without arguing too much. With Jason, he started eating because it became clear that if they wanted to poison or drug him, they clearly would have already.
After lunch, they were left alone again. For hours. Hours that Jason spent curled up against the wall, tearing strips into the plastic packaging of his eaten sandwich and tying knots with them… just to keep himself occupied as Dick would begin gagging and sniffing and groaning and trembling. Jason would look up at him every so often to see him deeper and deeper into withdrawal and being able to do nothing about it except writhe.
Hours would pass. Then, the people who captured them would come back with dinner. They'd confiscate Jason's plastic knots and braids, give him another sandwich, then immediately inject an unmarked syringe filled with a yellowish liquid straight into the crook of Dick's elbow.
Dick would immediately go still. Silent. Lax. He'd stare at the ceiling, completely calm and breathing deep. At first, Dick didn't go so still so quickly. It's clear this kind of drug has some sort of tolerance that has to built up to.
Dick screamed and jerked in his restraints the first time. Cried during the couple after. And isn't that strange? The guy is a legend. While Bruce doesn't talk about him often… Jason knows the legacy he's trying to carry while being Robin. He honestly can't believe that he's this guy's… adopted… younger brother. No one in Gotham doesn't know who the original Robin was. Jason's still trying to earn even a smidge of the same respect, even from the criminals.
Sure, in the beginning, Dick and Jason started off a bit rough. But it ended out alright, yeah? Dick gave him his blessing to be Robin, and then handed him a slip of paper with his apartment's phone number. They went skiing a couple weeks ago, and Jason had a lot of fun.
Dick Grayson is so perfect. And Jason's just watched him scream and struggle and sob because of drugs.
Jason really hates drugs.
Now though, Jason's not sure if Dick's instant dissociation is better or worse. They've worked Dick up to a point where his body feels like it needs the drug more than air to breathe. The withdrawal is getting more and more intense every day that passes, to the point Jason's sure that if his mom…
Well... to the point that most druggies would be taking multiple doses a day by now.
"What do you shitheads want?" Jason asks for the billionth time. He tries to ask every time they enter the room.
They don't answer. They never do. They don't even look his way.
Jason's begun to think that he's just there as collateral. They haven't done anything to him. Not even an annoyed slap when Jason screamed his voice raw at them the third time they drugged Dick.
They just use Dick's gagging reflex to put more brothy soup in his mouth, and then they leave.
This is when it gets absolutely awful. Jason's known even before becoming Robin that when someone is this high, there's no point trying to talk to them. It's like his mom- it's like Dick isn't even in the room. It's just Jason, alone, sitting on the moth-eaten sofa and forcing himself to pay attention to Treasure Island even though he's already read it a thousand times.
No. No he doesn't sit on the couch. He sits against the cold wall, his tailbone aching, his wrists stinging against the shackles, trying to work up the energy to eat his sandwich while Dick falls deeper and deeper into a forced addiction.
The night wears on. What Jason assumes is… the end of the ninth day? He's mostly measuring days by meals and when they come to drug Dick. The little cell they are chained up in doesn't have any windows to know for sure. Could be more than nine days, could be less.
Jason does his best to just... ignore Dick, because it's this stretch of hours that has Jason's anxiety spiking the most. There's too many bad memories with drugs. Too many awful moments that conspired because of them. If he looks up, he won't see a completely relaxed and high-off-his-ass Dick Grayson.
He'll see Catherine Todd, foam leaking from the corners of her mouth and her body colder than what it should be. He'll see the syringe still in her arm. He'll see a still chest.
He busies himself by moving as much as the chains allow him. The tether to his shackled wrists is welded about half a foot above his head, and there's just enough length for him to touch a small diameter of stone floor around him. When he stands up, he's not able to lift his hands above his head. He's not able to move more than a few feet towards Dick. He makes the best of it though. He stretches as much as his shackles will allow. He leans forward against the wall and does makeshift pushups. He counts the links in the chain. He goes down to touch his toes.
He keeps going until Dick finally groans, the drugs wearing off hours later.
Though, it feels sooner than normal. Maybe Dick's accidentally built a tolerance and the doses are starting to wear off quicker.
Whatever the case, Dick groaning out of a nauseating trip is the sign for Jason to finally sit down and curl up the best he can on his side. He watches Dick's twitching fingers. Listens to his small whimpers and noises of confusion. He sits there and watches Dick be alive until his eyes fall closed and he doesn't dream of Dick being still. Dead. Next to the body of his mom while his dad (Bruce?) screamed about how Jason's a failure and he should have stopped it.
He falls asleep, wakes up a little while later, and the day repeats.
-o-o-o-o-
"How long…?"
"I think… thirteen days?"
"…"
"Nightwing?"
"N-nothing. It just… it just…"
"Hurts?"
"Yeah… it- I- everything just really- b-but I'm okay. Don't worry about me."
"… You don't have to lie to me. I know. I understand."
"Sorry… I just… hngh- fuck"
"…"
"…"
"Is it… getting worse or-?"
"Ca-can we talk about something else?"
"Yeah. Sure, big bird. I'm okay to talk about something else."
They talk about something else for about fifteen minutes, both of them persistently not talking about drugs or withdrawal or addiction or dead mom's and angry deadbeat dads. They also don't talk about Bruce, because while Jason's still holding out hope that Bruce will come for them, Jason's pretty sure Dick doesn't.
But it's okay. Jason will hope for the two of them.
Twenty minutes pass before Dick simply can't keep a conversation anymore. The stuff he's one must be strong. Severe. The kind of stuff someone like Black Mask would sell. The stuff that would get you so deep on its hooks that you'll lose your job, house, family, everything just to have a single more drop in your system.
Thirty minutes pass. Then more. And Jason sits quietly as Dick falls apart.
It's not even close to lunch yet.
-o-o-o-o-
Something finally changes on what Jason's pretty sure is day fifteen. He knows something has changed when lunch passes without a single visitor. He knows something has changed when the time ticks ever onwards and Jason's left clutching his completely empty stomach and watching Dick suffer. Cry. Writhe. Gag.
He knows something's finally changed when the door finally opens, but it's a long time after lunch; and yet still a little while before dinner.
He knows something hasn't changed for the good when their captors enter in a group of six instead their usual three or four.
He knows somethings definitely changed for the worse when they surround Dick like a pack of hungry cultists around some poor virgin.
"What are you doing?" Jason demands, standing up and walking forward as far as his chains will allow. It's not very far. He's not even within kicking distance of the closest person.
One of the kidnappers reach into their cloak and brings out that stupid syringe. However, instead of immediately injecting it into Dick's practically torn apart arm, they hold it above Dick's head.
Jason feels like he's swallowed something sour when Dick immediately stills.
Oh.
Jason understands now.
"Tell us the name of Batman, and we'll let you have it," the person says. Voice is deep, probably male, but Jason doesn't care. All he cares about is that the man waves the syringe back and forth above Dick's bound form like it's a bone and Dick is a very, very desperate dog.
"You sick bastards," Jason breathes. He can't... even process how much he hates this. It's not fair. Addictions shouldn't be… used against someone like this. They've patiently worked Dick to this point, and then they're going to give Dick a choice between something he never wanted but feels like he needs… or something he cannot tell. "You fucking fuckers."
Jason goes completely ignored. By the kidnappers because they've been ignoring Jason this long, why stop now. By Dick because he's too focused on watching the syringe and licking his chapped lips.
Finally, Dick speaks, and Jason really wishes he hadn't.
"P-please…"
"Tell us who Batman is," the man repeats and Dick immediately dissolves into pathetic sobs.
"Please… puh-please… I- I can't-"
Dick jerks in his restraints, like he wants to jump forward and stab the needle into his own arm himself.
The man repeats his question and Jason finally has enough.
"HEY! YOU CULT WANNABES!" He shouts, tugging on his restraints and snarling. "Get the fuck away from him or I'll tear your throats out!"
"Batman's name, Nightwing. Then you can have this."
"N-no- st-stop- I don't-"
"Listen to me! Stop ignorin' me!" Jason tugs harder on the chains, but all he succeeds in doing is breaking the scabs next to the biting metal, allowing blood to flow down his filthy wrists. "Don't listen to them, N! Ya don't want it!"
And for the first time, one of the kidnappers turns to face Jason. They walk forward so suddenly that Jason takes a startled step back. Before Jason knows it, his cheek is stinging from a vicious slap he didn't expect. He doesn't get a chance to recover from it either, because suddenly his wrists are grabbed and the tethering chain is hooked onto something high above his head against the wall. Something he hasn't even noticed till now. Jason struggles to place his footing as he finds himself almost hanging by his wrists; helpless to the kidnapper as they shove a strip of tape over his mouth.
Effectively gagged, Jason goes back to being ignored while the kidnapper returns to the others surrounding Dick.
Jason growls and tugs in the chains, but he goes nowhere.
He can only hang there and watch as they continue to wave that stupid dose of drugs above Dick's head, asking the same question over and over again with the same steady, manipulative voice.
Jason's seen Dick cry many times these past several days, but never as desperate and broken as this. Jason sorta hopes that Dick just… throws everything away to tell them Bruce's name. Just so this could end. Just so they'll give Dick what he needs so his body will stop torturing itself.
"Br- n-no-"
"Batman's name."
Dick shuts his eyes and shakes his head, tears escape the corners of his mask as he twitches and chokes on gags.
The kidnappers seem to be getting impatient now. The man holding the syringe sighs then bends forward and presses the tip of the needle on the inside of Dick's arm. Dick jolts like he's been electrocuted, his eyes flying open and the tears doubling as the needle enters the already severely scarred area of skin. The man doesn't press down on the needle and Dick wails.
Jason feels like he's going to throw up.
This is so sick. So messed up. He wants to scream but all he can do is throw himself against the chains and slam his back uselessly against the wall. He tries to work the tape off his mouth, but he can't quite move his jaw or tongue the way he wants to.
"Batman's name, Nightwing. And make sure it's honest, otherwise we have smaller needles for smaller people."
Well, at least Jason knows why he's here now.
The bad thing is, it works. Dick shutters around the needle in his arm and chokes back another sob. "Ok-kay- d-don't- hurt Robin- kay- okay-"
Jason falls still. There's nothing he can do. At least, when Dick tells who Batman is, he won't be in so much pain anymore. But that's only if the kidnappers actually decide to let him have the dose.
"Name, Nightwing. We don't have all day."
"-kay- I- n-name… bah- Bru-"
Suddenly, the door bursts open, and Jason sags against his restraints in sheer, knee numbing relief. None other than Batman makes it in the nick of time to slug the closest bad guy straight across the jaw. The kidnappers go down hard, and immediately the rest are scrambling to figure out if they should fight or run.
Batman doesn't give them a choice.
In a terrifying series of events every single kidnapper in the room ends up in crumpled heaps on the floor. Without a single pause, Batman stalks towards Dick. Jason doesn't have a single chance to stop him before he grabs the still full needle in Dick's arm, and rips it out before tossing it across the room. Dick goes perfectly still for a single moment, ridged like his body is desperately trying to figure out what to do. Then, he completely falls apart.
Bruce stills as if he has no idea why Dick is reacting this way.
Jason has enough.
"Rrs!" Jason shouts behind the tape, tugging on the shackles so hard he feels a streak of heat travel down both of his arms. Blood is dripping from his elbows by the time Bruce rushes over to Jason and picks him loose.
The moment Jason's hands are free, he doesn't even bother to rip off the tape on his mouth. He ducks under Bruce's arms towards the disregarded syringe. Thankfully, it's not broken and it's still full. Jason wipes off the needle with the torn remains of his cape as he rushes back towards Dick.
Bruce makes a noise of both shock and questioning when Jason jams the needle into the inside Dick's elbow, pushing in the liquid until only a few drops are left.
Dick lets out a few more sobs, but slowly relaxes, then goes completely still. It's eerie. Jason feels like he's going to be sick.
He pulls the needle out and holds it in his shaking hand. He reaches the other to his mouth to rip off the tape, blinking tears from his eyes. Maybe from the sting of tape. Maybe from guilt.
Either way, he looks at Bruce and holds out the syringe.
"It's not his fault," he whispers. "It's not."
"Robin…" Bruce says slowly, taking the syringe.
"It's not… he… he tried to fight it- but they- and he-"
Bruce suddenly wraps Jason into a hug while Jason finally shatters.
But a good kind of shatter. The kind of shatter that makes you feel like you can make a stained glass window with broken beer bottles and string.
Dick's not okay. Jason's not okay. Neither of them are anything close to okay.
But Bruce is here. He came, even though Jason went against his wishes and went to visit Dick. Even though Dick and Bruce are still fighting. He came.
And it will only get better from here. Jason knows it.
#dick grayson#jason todd#nightwing#red hood#jason todd is robin#dc#dc comics#batman comics#jin writes#fic#fanfiction#whumptober 2020#no.22#drugged#withdrawal#drugs tw#non-consensual drug use#kidnapping tw#torture tw#needles tw#addiction tw#forced addiction tw#cults tw
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Brontophobia (wandersong au fic)
This is my first Fanfiction, and its for my wandersong sibling au.
Characters are kawn baron (the bard) and audrey redheart (the hero)
It’s a stormy night and Kawn and Audrey talk about the past.
It was midnight in the sleepy little village of Langtree. Everyone was sleeping to the sound of a heavy storm passing over. Everyone, but Audrey Redheart.
She sat sharpening her blade, listening as the rain poured heavily on the little shed-turned-house the ex-hero built. Her mind was wandering as she slid the whetstone across the blade. How long has she been in Langtree? One month? Two? It felt like she’d lived here much longer. It was a miracle they even accepted her, after she tried to-
She shook her head. She did not want to relive that.
She thought instead about her job.
Lumber work, Bronson offered it to her. She was very grateful for that, although it’s thanks to the bard she even got a place to live. They offered to let her live with them, and was the one making dinner and all that. She looked over at their house. It was small, barely able for even one person to live in. Her eyes drifted down to Marmalade’s chicken pen.
The witch, Miriam, had gifted a chicken to the bard. According to her, Kawn kept getting confused by egg labels, and was spending 20 Dollars on a 6-egg carton.
Audrey still can’t believe they outsmarted her.
Despite Marmalade being the bard’s chicken, she very much loved her. It reminded her of a simpler time when she lived with the other orphans in the monastery. It was bittersweet, the only people who seemed to actually care who Audrey was, was her sister and the sky seals. She still missed the sky seals. She told Kawn about them, and when she returned from a Lumber work trip from Xia-Tian, Kawn had surprised her with a small stuffed animal sky seal. She never deserved any of this. She tried to hu-
A crack of thunder brought Audrey’s attention back to the chicken pen. Marmalade was probably cold and scared in this storm, The pen isn’t the best at protecting her from rain (Boni promised to come fix it when they had time off work) but it was a good temporary arrangement.
Audrey sheathed her sword and hung it up on the wall before grabbing her scarf and putting her boots on. She didn’t bother with the gloves, They were just to protect from the cold, and to protect her hands from blistering while using a sword.
She trudged out into the cold, dark, and wet night. She was almost immediately drenched by the rain
“Guuugh…” She hated being soggy, it was the worst feeling. But she had to do this
She had to save Marmalade.
She carefully opened the pen, and heard marm’s clucking. Carefully, she reached in and wrapped her arms around the sopping wet bird. The feeling of wet feathers was… indescribable.
“Eugh… Boni had better get time off soon.” Audrey muttered, as she pulled the chicken out of the pen. There was another crack of thunder, and Marmalade started flapping her wings and struggling while making distressed clucking noises.
“Wh- HEY! I’m trying to help you!!”
She ran into the shed, struggling to hold a panicked and very upset hen without hurting it. Audrey was very glad no one was awake at this hour.
She burst through the shed door, and put marmalade on the ground as quickly (and carefully) as she could. Marmalade sat on the ground, shivering while looking around. Her beautiful feathers now depressed looking as the water dripped off of her. Her usually plump and fluffy appearance was now sleek and weighty on her slightly less plump form (she is a well fed chicken, afterall).
She wrapped the sopping hen with her scarf and set her in a corner. She decided to turn in for the night, It must’ve been close to one am at this point. However, as she went to close the door, there was a loud crack of thunder that made her stumble back a bit, and then soon after she heard a very familiar scream.
She jumped into action, grabbing her sword and running towards the small house, and she burst in as another bolt of lightning illuminated the sky.
She was greeted not by danger, but by her friend.
They were on the ground, shaken and trembling. They looked up at her in terror, tears glinting with the brief flashes of light in the sky. Both of their hands were gripping their chest- almost digging into it.
They let out a small whimper, and tried to scoot away
Quickly, Audrey dropped her sword, but didn’t move beyond that. She barely even recognized that disheveled and fearful figure to be the annoyingly happy-go-lucky bard that played along with her antics and helped give her a new life.
After what seemed like forever, Audrey found the strength to break the silence.
“Kawn? Is everything alright?” Audrey you fool of course they’re not alright, they are on the ground shiv-
“Y-Yeah! I’m f-fine!” ...Are you Serious?
Audrey couldn’t believe it. Do they really think she’s gonna believe that??
“Kawn, you are on the floor shaking like a leaf and crying. You can barely even smile!”
The shaky smile that the bard had formed, quickly faded. It didn’t look right, she’s seen the bard without a smile before but there was at least some form of.. Strength? Hope? She wasn’t sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there now. They seemed to be at their weakest point, and she had no idea how to help. She only knew how to fight.
And there was no way to fight this problem.
The bard seemed to know she was at a loss at what to do, they didn’t want to be a burden. They attempted to stand, but their legs threatened to give out under them.
“Wai- No! You’re shaking too much!” Audrey exclaimed as she ran over to go support the shaken singer.
Kawn let out a yelp, and stiffened as Audrey supported them. They were expecting a rush of unpleasant memories, but instead they found themself comforted by Audrey’s embrace. Other than her initial appearance a few moments ago, they didn’t seem to connect their friend with The Hero that threatened to end the world. They softened after a second, before attempting to hug Audrey.
She panicked, she was not expecting this. She started to quickly get Kawn to their bed, but stopped when she heard another whimper. She looked down at her whimpering friend, a wave of more awkwardness and worry washed over her. The whimpering got more frequent as the bard buried their face into their friend. Audrey, now being clinged to, awkwardly shuffled herself and her friend to the bed.
Carefully, she sat on the bed, having to pull the bard onto her lap as they started to full on sob. There was another crash of thunder and the bard dug their fingers into Audrey’s shirt. She swore that they were about to rip a hole in it or something. This was not how she expected her night to go. She should have just gone to bed.
Except… that would have been cowardly. Kawn would have been stuck cowering on the floor!
...Wait what was kawn cowering from?
Audrey looked at the sobbing bard, it occurred to her it probably wasn’t the best time to talk to them about it. Instead, she carefully started to rub kawn’s back, and tried her best to hum the Overseer song the monks taught her and the other orphans. She never had to use it, since the Heart Overseer’s castle appeared in the real world.
Her voice was nowhere near as good as Kawn’s, but they seemed to start to calm down. Their sobbing eventually quieted down, and Audrey carefully started to finish her song.
“...Y..you have a very pretty voice.”
Audrey blushed.
“Thanks.” She wasn’t used to genuine compliments from anyone other than adoring fans, despite however many months she’s been there.
“What scared you?”
“...I don’t want to talk about it.” The bard’s voice was barely audible as they looked away.
Audrey groaned, she would threaten to call Miriam, but it was still dark outside.
“Kawn. It would help me help you if you would tell me what’s up.” That...came out way more aggressive than she wanted.
“I-I can help myself Audrey. I’m ok.”
“Bull.” She would swear if it didn’t put the fear of Eya in her.
The bard responded with silence. She really reminded them of Miriam right now, but they didn’t wanna say that. Instead they debated on wether or not they really wanted to share their thoughts.
“I...I’m just scared of the thunder, that’s all.”
“Oh. why would you hide that from me?”
The Bard paused again. They wanted to word it without making Audrey feel bad. However, before they could speak, A flash of realization crossed The Ex-Hero’s face.
“Wait, it's because of me isn’t it?”
“No! I mean- yes but-”
Audrey glared at the floor, what was she thinking? She could’ve killed them. That was a fully charged shot! They-”
“Please, don’t be upset with yourself…”
What? How could she not Be upset!?
“Kawn, I shot you!” she was mad. Not at him, just… just mad that they were trying to downplay her actions.
“I… I know.” Kawn shifted off of Audrey, now sitting next to her. “But, I ran at you, you just reacted.”
“I was charging that shot long before you ran at me.”
“...”
“Besides-” Audrey was now choking back tears “Aren’t you mad that I hurt Miriam?”
Kawn paused. They were mad, but...not at her. They were mad at what she did, and they were mad at how she reacted. But she acknowledged that she was wrong (albeit, she made him question if she was even sorry after she killed the Heart King) and she obviously wanted to be better now! It felt wrong to still be upset.
“I...Yes. I’m still upset but… I shouldn’t be.”
“...What.”
Kawn was tense, They hated being open about this, but Miriam said that sharing these thoughts helped her. They could help Audrey! They’d just have to take that chance.
“You are trying so hard to change. You have come so far from the egotistical and snooty hero, and actually resemble the compassionate and capable hero i knew you could be!”
Audrey huffed, she did feel like she has improved but she didn’t feel like a hero anymore. She wasn’t saving anyone, she was just a lumb-
“But…”
Oh no.
“I’m still… upset by your actions. I’m upset with Eya for telling you to kill the overseers.”
“That’s bold. Being angry at a Goddess I mean.”
Kawn gave out a small laugh, it somehow sounded musical, and it made audrey feel a little bit better.
“Yeah… but again I’m just mad at her actions. I’m mad that you didn’t listen to Miriam and I, or even Eyala. I know why you didn’t listen, and I completely understand why you did all this! It’s just… It still makes me upset when I think about it.”
Kawn looked at the ground, and swung their feet back and forth.
“I-I know, it’s unfair to you and i have no right to-”
“Are you kidding? You have every right to still be upset.”
Kawn looked up in surprise. Audrey was looking at them with a soft look that they’ve never seen on her before.
“I hurt so many people, and I’ve disfigured you for life!”
Kawn carefully put his hand on their chest.
“It’s ok to still be upset. You can forgive me and still be hurt by my actions.”
She put a hand on Their shoulder. Kawn looked back on the ground and put their hand on the hand on their shoulder.
“But… I don’t even see you and the past you as the same person.”
“Huh?”
“I see ‘The Hero’ as someone completely different. When I see her in my nightmares, I don’t think of you.”
Audrey blinked.
“I...but we are the same person.”
“I know but I can’t see it that way. I don’t think of you when I think of all the things you’ve done. Maybe I’m just broken or someth-”
“Don’t say that.”
“Huh?”
Audrey turned Kawn to make them look at her.
“You are not broken. You are just trying to cope in your own way.”
“G-Gosh I’m sorry I didn’t mean to make you upset!” Kawn cracked a very awkward smile.
Audrey sighed.
“It’s just… I don’t like when you put yourself down. I’m sure Miriam also hates that.”
Kawn frowned.
“I’m sorry, I’ll try not to do that again.”
“...You’re a very funny person, you know that?”
“Huh?”
Audrey Leaned back.
“You were completely willing to help me, just as you would anyone else. Despite everything i’ve done to you.”
“Well… yeah! I believed you could be better and you seemed like you needed a place to stay!”
“...You didn’t even want my money or anything. You help while not wanting or expecting anything in return. Despite me questioning why you would do that, I think I’m beginning to understand why you do it.”
Kawn gave Audrey a confused glance. To be honest it just made them feel good to help others.
“You just like spreading happiness. You want people to remember you for being kind and caring, and maybe even pay it forward by helping someone else.”
Kawn thought about it. It made sense but they didn’t think of it that way.
“Actually it just feels good to help people…”
“Well yeah but still.”
“...Yeah maybe you’re right.”
Kawn stared at the ceiling, thinking about what Audrey had said. Suddenly a snoring sound brought him back to the real world.
“Audrey?”
They looked over and found audrey passed out, half hanging off the bed. Kawn smiled softly and properly tucked Audrey in (remembering to remove her boots). They then pulled the sleeping bag out and set it up, and tucked themself in after grabbing a book and a flashlight.
They weren’t particularly tired, they would probably take a nap today.
For now they would just read through the night, hopefully they’ll doze off soon.
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Damsel & Distressed (Xavier x Reader)
Notes: My first attempt at Xavier fic. I figured I better write this before the show drops more twists on us.
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings: Blood, sort of graphic description of an injury.
You’re fucked.
It’s your first and only thought when your shoe catches on a gnarled tree root in your desperate sprint through the woods. The clumsy mistake sends you spinning off course, plummeting down a steep embankment, a blur of dirt and branches and soggy grass. And fuck, it hurts the whole way—rough earth scraping your bare knees and elbows, twigs catching you in the face, biting into your shoulder, rocks digging through muscle and jostling your bones together. The cherry on top is the awkward landing, the sickening, awful crack that echoes off the trees. You think for a horrifying second that it’s what will finally get you killed. Not the injury itself, but the sound of your bone snapping in pieces, carrying on the wind, giving your location away to a knife-wielding killer.
You shudder and let out a gasping breath once your back slams into the dirt. There was too much adrenaline, too much fear clouding your nerves for the initial break to be painful, but now that you’ve settled, it rushes in all at once. You’re afraid to look down. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe. You try not to make much noise as hot, silent tears run down your cheeks and drip from your chin.
It’s a nasty break. The excruciating pain tells you things are bad, and the unnatural, grotesque twist of your ankle confirms it. This isn’t your first broken bone—you were twelve last time; a reckless tumble off your bike and a hard fall on your wrist—but the homicidal weirdo with a penchant for collecting ears is a new complication.
You know you’re totally and completely fucked.
The flashlight you remembered to grab from the cabin before everyone split up fell the same time you did. It didn’t make it down the embankment with you, and you’re sure that you’re not going to see it again. You push yourself up, suppressing a cry, enough moonlight breaking through the clouds to illuminate the bruises on your skin and the blood running down your legs. A broken ankle may as well be a death sentence. You’re finished. Even if someone else takes pity on you, the group isn’t going to want to drag your ass out of camp. You know you’ll just slow everyone down, cost people their lives.
Fuck you, Camp Redwood, you think bitterly. It’s when you realize that you’re going to end up a missing person case or a news story about another camp massacre or a pile of bones someone finds in the woods five years later that you let the tears flow. You can’t stop. It’s unglamorous and a bit pathetic—the weeping that makes your throat raw and your eyes all puffy and red, the sniffling that leaves trails of snot and spit all over your shirt. You’re a goddamn mess, the pain in your ankle worsening as the minutes pass.
A twig cracks nearby and cuts you off mid-sob. Your breathing is ragged, shallow as you listen to someone moving through the brush, the harried rustle of leaves and quick footsteps. You wait for the slow, torturous rattle of keys knocking together but it doesn’t come: instead, there’s a silhouette moving through the trees toward you, crouched low. Still, you tense and hold your breath and watch the beam of a flashlight bouncing erratically through the woods.
The scream dies in your throat. “Xavier?”
The light hits you in the eyes. You squint and toss up your hands in front of your face. Xavier is almost breathless when he whispers your name back. When he crouches in front of you, your eyes—once they adjust to the dark again—find the blood smeared on his jacket and the front of his shirt. But other than from the sheer terror on his face, he appears to be okay.
Xavier inhales sharply once he sees your mangled ankle. “Shit.” He cringes as the beam of his flashlight sweeps over it. You look the other way and try to distract yourself from the feeling of razor wire wrapped around your foot. Your toes are definitely numb. “Shit, that looks bad.”
“Yeah, thanks,” you answer, all deadpan and snark, even though your bottom lip is trembling and you’re sniffling. You know Xavier means well, but he didn’t immediately strike you as the brightest. More like the human equivalent of an excitable golden retriever. But you can’t really complain about the view. “It feels worse.”
His face is still contorted in a mix of horror and absolute disgust. “Right,” he swallows hard, ice blue eyes wide, “we gotta get you outta here.”
“Whose blood is that?” you ask, though you aren’t sure you want to know.
“What?” Xavier shakes his head, averting his gaze from your ankle. You sniffle, wiping furiously at the tears running down your face. “Ah—it’s not mine. It’s Chet’s.”
“Is he—?”
“Dead? No…no, he had a close call—it’s a long story—but he’s alive.”
You’re honestly surprised by that. Relieved, but…surprised.
You can almost see the gears turning in Xavier’s pretty little head, trying to figure out his next move. But you don’t have much hope. “I was on my way to the mess hall when I heard you.”
“Glad it was you and not Jingles.”
His look of horrified disgusted finally relents, his expression softening. A grin appears at one corner of his mouth, and it eases the panic surging through you. “Your lucky night.”
“Oh yeah,” you answer, your voice unsteady. “Real lucky.”
Xavier flicks off the flashlight and tucks it into a pocket. “C’mon, let’s get you up.”
You grab the sleeve of his jacket as you fall to pieces again. “Xavier, no.” You hear yourself crying and it sounds so pitiful but you’re in pain and tired and already admitting defeat. “You have to go. Just go. Get out of this fucking place.”
“I’m not leaving you here.” His eyebrows pull together. His stare is hard, flittering between confusion and disbelief.
“You have to,” you insist. “I’ll just slow you down, get you killed. There’s no way I can outrun anyone with a knife like this. I can’t. You have to go. Now. Please, just go.” Before long you’re babbling on without any idea of what you’re saying, your words gradually fading into more tears.
Xavier grabs your arms, gently. “Shhh,” he soothes, voice dropping to a whisper. “Hey, look at me.” He touches your cheek and you’re momentarily transfixed by his lithe fingers. “We’re going to get out of here. There’s no way I’m leaving without you, okay? I can’t…I can’t do that. I’m not leaving you to die.”
He looks as scared as you feel, but you believe him. And you think maybe you’ve misjudged him just a little. “Thank you.”
Xavier grimaces. “Thank me when we get out of here.” He slides an arm around your back, the other tucked under your knees. He tosses you a sympathetic, pained glance, his movements hesitant. “I’ll try to be gentle, but this is gonna hurt.”
You nod. And brace yourself. Xavier scoops you off the muddy, waterlogged grass and into his arms with minimal effort. It does hurt—it’s fucking excruciating, the pain that jolts up your leg and down to your numb, tingling toes. You bite the inside of your cheek until you taste iron to keep from screaming, and wrap your arms around Xavier’s neck, hands curled into tight fists.
His voice shakes. “Sorry,” he whispers, nose brushing against your hair. “Shit, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you mutter through gritted teeth, your face buried in his shoulder. You have your eyes squeezed shut, listening to Xavier’s uneven breathing. “Just go.”
The flight through the woods hurts more than anything else. The ground under Xavier’s feet is uneven, and every time he hits a rough patch or a loose rock, agony blossoms up your leg. He apologizes a lot, every time your recoil, every time your grip around his neck tightens and your exhales stutter. You have no sense of direction, surrounded by nothing but the misery in your bones and the sharp, prickling pain. It’s only when Xavier stops short, his pulse thrumming wildly under your ear, that you realize something’s wrong.
“What is it?” Your question is muffled into his shoulder.
“You hear that?”
Your heart pitches violently. “No.” You don’t want to hear it.
The woods are deathly still. Not a gust of wind, a call of a nocturnal creature. You hold your breath to listen, to keep from being found. There’s a shuffle across the earth. A slow, awkward gait. It echoes, filling up the silence, louder than it should be.
A shuffle. A cold, metallic ring of keys.
You lift your head from Xavier’s shoulder to find his wide, bright eyes. “Fuck.”
Xavier moves as quietly as he can possibly manage, flattening himself against the broad trunk of an old tree. You make yourself smaller, clinging onto him for dear life, the jolt of fear that’s shot through your veins dispatching any pain from the broken bone. Both of you are trembling; you don’t know whose heart is racing faster, yours or Xavier’s. When you look up at him again, you see the tears dripping steadily from his chin, forming tracks along the sharp lines of his cheeks.
Jingles shuffles closer—so close that you think he’ll hear your frantic heart. On the path behind you, moving through the dark, nothing but a tree trunk separating you and Xavier from the edge of his blade.
Feet dragging across dirt. Clink. Clink. Clink.
You bury your face in the hollow of Xavier’s neck and stifle a whimper. Xavier’s fingers curl into your side, holding tight. The two of you are pressed impossibly, intimately, desperately close. His breath catches the slightest bit, but it’s not enough to draw attention, not enough to halt the torturous melody of keys jangling in the dead of night.
You wait. Until the trees are silent again, until the wind resumes its soft whisper through the leaves and you’re absolutely fucking sure that the homicidal bastard is long gone. And then you remember to breathe. Xavier exhales and you feel it as if it’s your own. Temporary relief. A second chance. Maybe even your third.
Xavier turns his watery gaze back to you, wordless. Your throat is dry, raw from the spike of anxiety. “You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Are you?”
His breath shakes. “No.”
“Fair enough.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
You don’t argue with that.
***
I don’t know who wants to be tagged, so I’m going with my usual tag list + people I thought would be interested (I hope you don’t mind)!
@lastregasolitaria @mylippo @zeciex @lvngdvns @langdonsdemon @wvntersldr @sojournmichael @gabnelson98 @antichristlangdxn @keavysmithxoxo @batgirlbride @dead-witch-boy @boofy1998 @gentianea @cryptid-coalition @kinlovecody @yuriohoe04 @electricurie @marvel-rpdr-and-ahs @gallxntdean @jcshadowkiss-blog @frozenhuntress67 @sebastianshoe @dixmond-taurus @bookobssesed99 @sassylangdon @queenie435 @holylangdon @angsty-otters-blog @denaexr @mr-langdonn @micheallangdons @lostin-fern @crazedcatcuddler @michaelsapostle @monsucre @ritualmichael @queencocoakimmie @bluelancesredswords @punkysouls @sevenwondr @prettykitten123 @zoebensvn @kylosbabe @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @readsalot73 @americanhorrorstudies @tiny-ruby-seeds @confettucini @xavierplympton @kaetastic @wroteclassicaly @duncvns @langdonsinferno @langdonsoceaneyes @avesatanormalpeoplescareme
#xavier x reader#xavier x you#xavier x fem!reader#ahs fic#ahs fanfiction#ahs 1984 fic#ahs 1984 fanfic#xavier plympton
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hey could we get some fics and the like where the reader is more of a runner type like they just really do not want this shit. maybe they fuck up their ankle and get caught. how would the killers react to escape attempts and how do they get the whole "your mine" thing to start sticking do they hurt them a little to remind them of what they can still do? ( with Brahms and Micheal please)(I'm done with fluff I want to be scared of them)
Big mood anon!!! I like some fluff and taking care of the boys, but I also love some scary, possessive murder men.
Brahms
Wet hair was stuck to your face, cold rain running into your eyes and blinding you. You couldn’t hear anything over the rumble of the storm above you, but you screamed as loud as you could anyways, hoping someone would hear.
Running should have worked. Brahms had the upper hand in the house, knowing all the twists and turns, the shortcuts inside the walls, but he wouldn’t - couldn’t - leave the house. You couldn’t take him on inside, he was stronger by far, but if you could make it outside, that was all the advantage you’d need to finally make a break for it. You wouldn’t need to worry about being hunted down, ambushed in the corridors of the old house, you’d have the whole expanse of the massive lawn between you and him.
But Brahms had left, flying out the door after you, running out into the storm and catching you only a few moments into your escape. His feet were bare, slipping in the wet, muddy grass, but his hands caught hold of you and didn’t let go, long fingers snarled into your hair and the collar of your shirt. You fought against him, screaming loud enough to be heard over the thunder, but his grip didn’t loosen despite your struggles.
“Let me go!” You spat, twisting furiously in his hands. “I hate you, let me go!”
Brahms pulls you inside, through the still open door and into the hall, letting the wind and rain soak the entry carpet. He’s silent, but his chest is heaving, red knuckled hands dug into your hair and dragging you across the floor. You don’t care what he does to you, what cruel punishments he might think up, you’re tired and angry and scared, and this failed escape is only one in a long line of things that have drained your resolve.
He half drags you up the stairs, throwing you against them and untangling his hand from your hair with harsh pulls. You lunge forward, knowing you aren’t going to make it past him, but kicking and flailing anyways, hoping that one of your strikes hits him hard enough to make him hurt.
He drops down over you, knees on either side of your waist pinning you against the hard edge of the stairs, grabbing your wild hands and holding them against your chest. You glare up at him, his red rimmed eyes glaring right back, both of you gasping. Your chest hurts with the force of the anger building inside, you’ve never felt such loathing for someone before. The greasy curls stuck to porcelain, the soggy cardigan falling off his shoulders, the cracked and painted face he wears, it all infuriates you, and you’ve never wanted to see someone hurt so badly before.
“I hate you,” you repeat, trying to get as much vitriol into the short sentence as you can manage. “I’m not your nanny, I’m not taking care of you. You’re a horrible, ugly person and I hate you!”
The words seem to have an effect, his shoulders hunching up and head tilting down, and you feel a burning sense of satisfaction at his reaction. You hear his breath hitch, feel the trembling of the hands that hold your wrists, and with a loud wail he falls over you. His whole body shakes with sobs, his covered face digging into the crook of your neck, and you jerk away from him. The sounds are pitiful, broken little noises that make your stomach hurt and twist, but you feel the grip on your wrists stay firm, the body above you still tense and ready. There are no tears, just cold rain pressing into your skin, and you hate him all the more for trying this trick.
“I know you’re faking, you’re not even crying.”
The sobs slow down, trailing off into silence until he’s simply laying over you, breathing loudly into your ear. You turn your face away from him, but he’s too close to get away from the heat and smell of him. Finally he sits up, pulling away and staring down at you with dry eyes.
“You’re no fun,” ��he snaps at you, and though he only sounds a little put out, you can see his own rage burning in his eyes. “You’re not fun anymore.”
“Get rid of me then,” you say bluntly, writhing under his hands. “I don’t want to be here, just kill me and get it over with.”
He looks surprised at your request, leaning back a little. You try to put all the hate you can into the look you give him, narrowing your eyes. You don’t want to die, not really, but you can’t stay in this horrible house for another moment, and if this is the only way out, you’re ready to take it.
“You killed the others, didn’t you, you told me so. Just kill me.”
Brahms looks down at you, silent for a moment, before you see real tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. You’re not surprised, he might have faked it before, but he’s lured you into a false sense of security with tears more than once. A little whimper leaves him, and when his hands release your own, you’re quick to fling yourself at him, pounding your fists against his chest. He lets you, arms around your back pulling you in until you’re too close to hit him, arms trapped between your bodies. The sobs start up again, but they sound real now, hiccups and gasping breaths breaking up his words as he cries into your hair.
“But I love you,” he whines, stuttering the confession out. “I love you, I want you to stay here with me.”
A cold drop of fear settles into the pit of your stomach. Brahms is a liar, he’ll say whatever you need to hear so that he can have his way, but this isn’t something he’s saying to lull you into calmness. He’s not telling you this so that your compassion and empathy will keep you here, he knows that you’re done with that. You feel your throat tighten and your eyes start to tear up as you think that he might truly mean what he says, a deep repulsion bubbling in your veins at the thought that he might really be stupid enough to think that his desperate, lonely obsession with you is real love.
Michael
He doesn’t smell bad, you think, pushing your face against the curve of his shoulder, heavy arms coming up to hold you there. The house is cold and drafty, but huddled together on a piece of long unused furniture you wait out the night, hoping that the day ahead will be a little warmer.
There is always the tangy undertone of metal and blood in everything that he wears, but it’s not a dirty smell. Mostly it smells like crisp, cold air and the faint hint of sweat on skin, and a sharp, chemical scent the closer you get to the mask. You’re a little surprised that the scent of the old jumpsuit is almost pleasant, but not as surprised as he is when the knife is buried into his side.
Michael screams, the first real sound you’ve gotten out of him, and the arms around you throw you across the room before you have time to bolt away. You hit something hard, you’re not sure what in the gloom and confusion, but your head spins as you squirm on the ground in pain. You’re able to stand just long enough to take a handful of wobbly steps towards the door, but your escape attempt doesn’t last long.
A hand on the back of your neck stops you, throwing you backwards and onto the floor again, where you curl inward. The pain is coming in fast now, your brain finally catching up to your body, and you feel it when a heavy boot lands on your stomach.
“Okay,” you start, gasping in air around the weight compressing your abdomen. “Alright, that was a mistake. I’m sorry -“
You don’t get a chance to continue, the slight pressure he puts on your unprotected stomach knocking the air out of you. You open your mouth, trying to suck in air, but all you get is a few red faced sputters. You must have injured your ribs at some point, because your whole torso burns now, your heaving gasps only worsening the pain.
You can’t even be mad with him, really, not when the handle of that knife is still stuck into the bloody mess you had made in his side. It doesn’t seem to phase him now, although you’re glad that at least you’ve left your mark. You had fought back before but never actually managed to harm him, aside from scratches with your dull nails.
Michael watches you, the dark eyes behind the mask glinting in the dim light filtering in through the grimy windows. You can see dust floating through the air between you, illuminated in the day’s first rays of early morning sunshine, but the black spots in your vision grow bigger and bigger, until your eyes roll back and you can’t see anything at all. You’re sure that he’s going to kill you this time, but the weight is off you just as your frantic thoughts start to fade, body convulsing as you choke down air.
You writhe on the ground, rolling onto your side and curling your arms around your injured torso, but you can still hear the quiet sigh that drifts down from above you. You see the bloodied knife, discarded on the floor behind his feet, but you don’t even think of going for it. You aren’t sure when he removed it, maybe you were out for longer than it felt like, or maybe you were too busy trying not to suffocate to notice, but there’s not a lot of hope that the wound will keep him down at all. He’s come back with worse than that, half bled out and full of more bullet holes than you would think a human could take. It was stupid to think you could do anything more than inconvenience him, but you couldn’t resist the opportunity to try.
“S-sorry.”
You’re not sure why you’re apologizing to him, but now that you’ve gotten your breath back you feel the need to break the silence. You flinch away when he takes a step towards you, but he only crouches down, arms on his knees, and watches you. The red stain on his side continues to spread, but he shows no sign of it bothering him. It makes you feel more than a little hopeless to realize that you’re not going to be able to force your way out of this, that he’s not something that you can fight against and win.
#Slashers#Michael Myers#Brahms Heelshire#Slasher x Reader#im sorry mikeys wasnt edited that well lol#i wrote this so quickly because i was so excited#but then suddenly it was 3am so#Anonymous
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It's late. Rain begins the patter on the sliding glass door to his back yard, and Strickler can see the heavier storm rolling in from that direction.
Angor is gone, and so is the ring.
Clío is quiet, attentively watching the TV, curled up against her mother's chest and nawing at a corner of the blanket surrounding them.
Strickler looks down at her, grabbing one of her tiny, tiny alabaster paws--he smiles when she squeezes it around his finger, but it is tense, too much so to be one of plain happiness.
He feels alone. He feels vulnerable. Without the ring, he cannot call for help if he--... If Clío is ever attacked.
It hurts to think about the distinction. But Angor made it clear, and Strickler knows he must abide by it. Clío is the only reason Angor let him live. She is what Angor cares about. Not him. Never him. Not after what he's done.
It takes a concerned whimper from his fawn to pull him from his thoughs. She is looking up at him, frowning and clutching the soggy blanket corner in one hand tightly. It takes seeing a droplet fall onto her arm for him to notice that he is crying. Because of course he is, over something so trivial and pointless, no less.
He sniffles roughly, leaning his head back and wiping his face clean with his wrist, groaning a curse at himself for this ridiculousness.
"Pathetic..."
The second he utters the word in an attempt to make himself laugh, he is wrought with a sob instead, lurching forward as more tears spill in spite of his wishing. Clío flinches away from the sound, her whimpers changing to distressed and worried cries of confusion. She puts her hand up, reaching to her mother's face to try to comfort him.
Strickler leans into the touch before louder sobbing starts, and all he can do is hug her as tightly as he can, like his life depends on it--because, for all he knows, it does.
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Part 10 of my reaction/commentary to the Phantoms & Mirages fanfic series by @renegadewangs
(Chasing Phantoms): Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
(Haunted Specters): Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6
(Vanquishing Mirages): Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
So moving forward, as I continued to read on, there was a backdrop of salt, apathy & hurt overshadowing everything as established in the previous post. But I was still reading on because “might as well see what happens I guess”. Starting Vanquishing Mirages chapter 20, I was also nervous & intrigued. Nervous about how the narrative was going to go about this and what the result was going to be… So I read on kind of with bated breath.
And it just remains in that interesting stage for a little while, the uncertainty stage where I don’t really know where it’s gonna go, for those first few paragraphs, as I’m waiting and reading on to see how it turns out… and then it takes a downturn when the negative emotions just start POURING in tsunami style and everything just starts crashing down horribly. I go quickly from nervous/intrigued to kind of horrified as it strikes me just. How. Traumatic and overwhelming the entire experience would be for someone who has never really had to deal with emotions of much severity their entire life. I’m just oh no… oh no…….. oh nooooo….. I didn’t foresee this at all, so distracted by so many things up until this point, and yet it makes perfect sense. But it was a real punch huh. This was awful, what a disaster. This was not good… Which is basically what Simon says:
What a mess. What a complete, total and utter mess. […] Perhaps this was punishment for playing god. Perhaps they’d flown too close to the sun. Perhaps they were Frankenstein, responsible for giving birth to a failed creation.
Me:
[hides away in a corner because I think we broke him lads]
Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 21
The Phantom blinked, shedding a few more tears as he did so. Perhaps he hadn’t quite processed Simon’s words. Perhaps he hadn’t quite processed the situation in general. He swallowed and sniffed, then tilted his head backwards.
Am I meant to be picturing this in anything less than stunningly beautiful and fluid animation? Because I am not picturing this in anything less than gorgeously rendered animation.
Whatever it was that’d held Bobby back from touching the Phantom before, it was gone now. He placed a hand atop the Phantom’s clenched fist, hoping it might soothe him. “Whoah, it’s okay. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine! How dare you claim that it’s fine?! YOU did this to me!”
AAAAAAND WE’RE BACK LADIESANDGENTLEMAN HELLO THERE NARRATIVE FRAMING OF HIM AS A CHILD: ACTIVATE
HELLO! this is exciting and new!
“Calm yourself.”
“I can’t! I CAN’T!”
He really wouldn’t know how to or be able to!
AND THEN AT THIS POINT IT JUST HIT ME
THIS MAKES PERFECT SENSE
HE ACTUALLY WOULD HAVE THE EMOTIONAL MATURITY OF A CHILD BECAUSE HE’S NEVER HAD THE OPPORTUNITY TO MATURE EMOTIONALLY, DUH, CAUSE HE LACKED EMOTIONS SO MUCH, THIS IS BRAND NEW TO HIM H
Narrative framing of him as a child during Haunted Specters REALLY paying off even more right now! We’ve already reaped so much from those seeds. But now! Oh boy!
“We would not honor such a request even if it were within our capabilities. Congratulations, Phantom. You are now free to tussle with emotions just like every other human.”
MY FEELINGS/REACTION TOWARDS THIS WHOLE SITUATION CHANGED SO FAST IT WAS LIKE:
“Oh noooo… this is so awful and terrible for him this is too much I can’t handle th… W-wait. Phphhw. Heh. Hah. HahahaHAHAHA MUAHAHA YEEEES ONE OF US ONE OF US DEEEEEEEAL WITH IT HAHAHA SUCKERRRRRRRR!”
The Phantom’s wide eyes followed Fulbright out the room. Apparently, his departure served to rile the man up even further. “Get back here! Bobby Fulbright! You get back here and end my suffering RIGHT NOW!”
This is just so good this is just so good hohoooh!
The Phantom sniffed and huffed. Flinched and scrunched his eyes shut, his breathing turning to more helpless sobs. Tears continued to run down the side of his face, disappearing into locks of hair just above his ears.
Hey yeah just saying it again. This is nothing but pure unadulterated animation mode for me. With REALLY GOOD animation. A really gorgeous 2D anime style.
Simon hesitated for a moment, then placed a careful hand atop the Phantom’s closed eyes. They felt soggy and unpleasant to touch.
“Focus on the sound of my voice and nothing else. Focus on my voice and breathe.”
IT’S WEIRD CAUSE LIKE. I HAD VERY FRESH PHANTOMQUILL WOUNDS AT THIS POINT OF READING BUT. Right up until The Kiss prior to the surgery I had been very firmly in the parental-child dynamic mindset camp and thoroughly enjoying myself. It was the kiss and stuff that I found jarring at first BECAUSE of that before getting up and moving over to phantomquill mode, only for it to turn out to be fake phantomquill. You’d think it might actually be hard for me to go back to “Oh the phantom is a child and Bobby and Simon are his parents” after the phantomquill fiasco but in terms of mindset, it really wasn’t difficult because I’d only been in Phantomquill mode comparatively VERY briefly before it got destroyed. I was already thoroughly versed in the ways of the parent-child dynamic heh and had spent waaaay longer enjoying that lens. Being so used to it, it was easy enough to switch back over to it.
Do NOT get me wrong, I was still VERY upset over it, yet somehow I could still deeply enjoy the familial dynamic between Simon and the phantom in this moment.
So I basically was still grumbling angrily about phantomquill under my breath while somehow simultaneously excitedly going “OMG SUPPORTIVE DAD SIMON!!!”
Me: yeah. Yeah. You’re really just Piling On that family dynamic after that huge mess with the kiss and the baiting??? Just showing me blatantly to my face how wrong I was to ever read romance into anything? You have the gall to?
Also me: …I still love the parent-child dynamics from this series so FIIINE I do appreciate this scene. I appreciate it a lot, actually. HMPH
Talk about being of a conflicted mind. But there’ll be more mention of that to come.
…Oh, and yeah, I have still been referring to him as the phantom, haven’t I? Well that’s simple: it’s what the narrative is still calling him, so I continue to call him by that title until it is dropped by the narrative itself
Besiiides, for all intents and purposes, during this small gap of time until it changes, he is NOT quite Lex yet, because he has not yet accepted the name and nor has the narrative itself.
So we get this awesome little window which is just, he’s still “the phantom” if that’s the only title we have before “Lex” is accepted and taken on. Pure, unfiltered “Phantom” + Emotion and it’s sooo special. Which… yes… Phantom + Emotions = becomes Lex but… argh, it gets confusing very quickly for me. :P
The question seemed to startle the Phantom for some reason. … No, not the Phantom. It was Lex, now. That notion still felt foreign. Perhaps Alexander would be more suitable. More formal. Less personal.
I WAS SOOO THANKFUL FOR THIS ON FIRST READTHROUGH. I was thankful for how jarring Simon was finding it too (because in that respect he certainly wasn’t alone lol – I wasn’t alone). I was thankful that the narrative hadn’t immediately switched over to saying “Lex” after he woke up from surgery. Oh, and I’d even been thankful waaay back when his name being Alexander Luster Jr was first revealed that the narrative switch hadn’t been made then either. I mean, it wasn’t for OBVIOUS reasons but like… Technically that’s his name. So the narrative could have tried making an attempt at it and I was just glad he was still always “the Phantom” even when we knew what his name was when he was born. Cause he sure as hell didn’t accept the name back then.
But I was SUPER thankful for Simon deciding to call him “Alexander” too. It was kind of a real godsend BECAUSE LIKE. The name “Lex” was so heavily entrenched and still attached in my mind to that super mean bald dude that got killed off. It was a name that therefore felt “ugly” that had been attached to a man with an “ugly” personality. And whoever this man was that woke up from the surgery, it sure as HELL didn’t feel like his name. I was kinda like “buddy. If you want me to start calling this character “Lex” you’ve got another thing coming.” So having “Alexander” instead was a relief that helped A LOT at the time lol. It was sooo much easier to switch to. And Simon going for the more formal variant is such a Simon thing to do anyway. XD
Also???? Alexander… Alexander Luster… felt like such a pretty name actually???? BUT I MEAN. I am the first to admit that I am probably extremely biased on that front. And that I’d probably just. End up thinking just about any name applied to him was “pretty”. LOL.
But yeaaahhh although I kinda had a hard time with the “Lex” business at first, after a little bit of time it became easy to accept, as it usually goes with these things. Now I’ve got 0 problems with it. Lex is Lex!
“That makes you nothing more than an ungrateful child,” Simon grumbled, finally stepping away from the window to take his own seat.
Every time the narrative makes a DIRECT reference or draws a DIRECT parallel to him being a child it feels like it adds another 3 years to my lifespan.
“Ahahahah! I-I c-can’t! Hahahahah! Ahahahahah! Irony!~”
…
MEOWZY. YOU. YOU. DID THIS. YOU MADE THE CONSCIOUS DECISION TO PUT A TILDE THERE. H.
I.
TH
You did that. You did that on purpose. What did you doooooo. What’s HAPPENING
I can’t… I… just needed to point this out and take you to task over it. GOSH
The i-intent… the intent of this in the narrative
As if to say,
Look… Look at how… endearing
As if to say,
“Yes, you not only can, but SHOULD find this endearing”…………
Ohooooh it’s too much IT’S.
It’s death by tilde is what it is. You didn’t. Need to. You could have just left the words and such as it was. But you threw it in, intentionally showing off how we’re supposed to take this just in case there’s any mistake.
You’re under arrest.
Vanquishing Mirages, Chapter 22: Epilogue
Still, as he raised the headphones to his ear, he heard enough. It was indeed playing music- and what horrid music it was.
“-When skies are grey. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
“Where the devil did you get this?” he demanded, virtually throwing it into Alexander’s lap.
BRO THIS IS SO UNREAL.
The sheer image of the (former) phantom listening to music was so wild and then it jUST
Alexander’s fingers began to play with the headphones, twirling them around in his hands as he spoke. “You know, it’s funny. I’ve listened to music before, but it’s like I’ve never really heard it. …Does that make sense?”
OH MY GOOOOOSH. THIS REALISATION HIT ME LIKE A TRUCK. THIS HAD NOT OCCURRED TO ME… AT ALL! BUT IT’S SO…! :D HE CAN LISTEN TO AND ENJOY MUSIC NOW. Get immersed in it. That was the most fantastic realisation to me. No, you don’t understaaaand, you see, as a child, getting immersed in listening to music was so central to me that as a kid I’d come up with a bunch of story ideas involving things like other planets/alien creatures that would revolve their entire society around music, or alien creatures that have no concept of music and get introduced to it and subsequently immersed in it for the first time. This just hit so close to hoooome, oh my goodness, I hadn’t remembered or thought about those memories/story ideas that kid me had for maybe a good ten years, and this fic suddenly reminded me with the headphones business. It’s really not related to the fic to mention but I’d looong forgotten about all those scenarios I’d thought about and it was so cool to be reminded. :’D
BUT ANYWAY BACK TO THE FIC-
Me like three chapters ago: WAAAAH, NOTHING THIS SERIES COULD EVER DO COULD EVER MAKE ME HAPPY AGAIN!
Me reading this chapter not too long afterwards: HMMM OKAY I AM KIND OF VERY HAPPY RIGHT NOW.
Oh and it just occurred to me: my guess is the person who “overslept her own execution” was Cammy Meele!
And now, I’m gonna start talking about Lifting Spirits! But at least just for this post, I’m gonna change things up a little and not segment my comments chapter-wise or comment on little things, but rather talk about stuff pertaining to the earlier parts of the fic as a whole. This is necessary because my thoughts were an unbelievable mess and were so terribly bunched together – that is, thanks to reading through it relatively fast, I guess everything got kind of mixed together, so individual reactions to individual parts of it are a little less well-“defined” than was the case with the prior fics at the point of reading.
...I don't know if I could ever do Lifting Spirits justice. I CERTAINLY don't do it justice in this post. Believe me, I want nothing more than to just sit down and gush endlessly about it because that's what it warrants, but for the time being this post seems to be too busy trying to outline just how much my own disposition threatened to botch and ruin it for myself. XD
But it will get better in future review posts, I promise!
Yeah, my thoughts were a contradictory, convoluted, conflicting mess. There was SO much going on at once for me with regards to how I was responding to the text on first readthrough. It’s hard to know even where to begin. So let’s try and tackle some things in Lifting Spirits:
1 - The Transition from The Phantom to Lex
…It does such a number on my brain on multiple levels. XD. IT MESSES WITH ME SO MUCH, it’s a straightforward concept enough in theory but my brain overloads and threatens to shut down when I try to wrap my head around it. XD
I love the phantom, so my instinctive bias at first was to try and cling to the label of “the phantom” as long as I could until it’s finally surrendered.
So, I’ve said already that I was kinda nervous about how this transition was gonna be pulled off. There’s always SORT OF a risk involved when going ahead and giving the phantom an identity and making them no longer the phantom – it kind of wanders straight into the Original Character zone. This New Character who used to be the phantom, in such cases, does get a bit of a complimentary “boost” of my investment in them by virtue of having been the phantom, but beyond that, the new character in the phantom’s place must learn to pull their own weight in the story. They cannot purely rely on having been the phantom – they must develop on their own and give the audience due reason to be invested in the new character. And/or, they must still have some ties connecting them back to having been the phantom too, even with their new characterisation and personality.
So yeah, I had literally no reason to be even remotely nervous. Lex is fantastic. And can very VERY easily stand up in the narrative on his own accord. Not only that, but it’s just… genius… the extremity of his emotions is, ironically, the very thing that connects him back to having been the emotionless phantom…! Because it drives home repeatedly that he really has had NO experience with this level of feeling due to his past. It’s a total pendulum swing to the other end of the spectrum and I love it SO damn much.
Regardless of whether he’s Lex or the phantom, he’s still my favourite character.
1.1 – The phantom as Lex/the phantom becoming Lex
Man, this fic.
I swear to god.
I keep trying to type out my thoughts and it’s so hard to be coherent about it.
Lex is… “the (former) phantom”. So I’ll use this phrasing to really drive the point home. Because such a huge amount of what happens, of what’s going on… derives its impact from this very important fact. From the unbelievable contrast. The seeming absurdity of EVERYTHING given who he was.
The former phantom laughs at stupid jokes, gets given a stash of sweets and a Jokes & Riddles book thanks to Bobby, gets goofily absorbed in a phone game………… The list just goes on.
You are doing this. You are making me read all this stuff involving the former phantom with my own two eyes, I… I…… This flippin’ portrayal. Almost feels like it should be illegal xDDDD
1.1a - YOU ARE WHAT IS KNOWN AS AN ENABLER
I have been… a fan of the character known as the phantom for many years now… I started playing through the Ace Attorney games in December 2014, and played Dual Destinies in the first half of 2015. I’ve had years to jokingly talk about the phantom ironically in an “awwww just look at them, awwww how innocent/”cute”” way, obviously knowing damn well they’re not.
And I basically went into Chasing Phantoms with, on some level, an attitude of “haha you can TRY to make me hate the phantom, I know you will, but I won’t let you”
Big mistake, to head into this series stubbornly guarding a totally opposite area of phantom perception compared to what I SHOULD have been guarding against.
And then you just
Came along and took the character
And did this.
It was fine at first in like, Haunted Specters and then Vanquishing Mirages. It was a big joke that everyone was in on. It was a joke and it was funny and I was laughing along with it. Albeit. An evolving joke.
And then Lifting Spirits just
It jUST
All of a sudden I had to be like wait a minute. I was just like whoa, whoa. Hold up. You can’t – WAIT a minute. No WAIT
I walked into this trap with no defences prepared. I’d walked into this series going “I’d like to see you try and make me truly hate this man, but it won’t work, I’ll make sure it doesn’t work out of spite” and now all of a sudden this was all happening at once and I had to suddenly try and backpedal dramatically out of the trap and be like wait wait wait no this is, this is, he was?? A bad guy was he not? Wait what are we-
The scales were tipping too far for my liking – too far in a direction I was ALREADY biased and predisposed towards and I wanted to stop it but what defence did I haaave
It’s like the narrative was poking me and going “Hey. So. Your favourite character. He’s pretty great, right? Right?” and I’d shake my head and try my best to go, “No… No! He isn’t – this isn’t right! What! There has to be some kind of mistake! This is a thirty-seven year old man who has killed people WHAT IS GOING ON”
And this is also, at the same time, set against a backdrop of me still stubbornly trying to cling to a mindset of not wanting this man to be able to cheat death or the finality of execution.
So here’s the first of many contradictory feelings I was having at once:
“This man must be punished and therefore I can’t abide by such a lighthearted portrayal” vs “I love this man so much and every single moment of this lighthearted portrayal is GOLD and I love it sooo much”
2- The Phantom VS Lex
The portrayal of my favourite character was making me rather pleased, but it felt way too good to be true on three different fronts. Firstly, the amusing absurdity in and of itself made it hard to process this was Really Happening, the levels of it feeling “unreal” were so much and I was so stunned and I was sincerely struggling to process it at first. Secondly, it just felt so catered to me (LOL) and “too good to be true” that I felt like. Like. The narrative surely couldn’t be doing something so great. A similar kind of inability to believe this was “really happening” which had cropped up during Haunted Specters. And this was heavily fuelled by, THREE… My pesky little reactions to our old friend, Fake Phantomquill.
The hurt that I was feeling over the phantomquill unfortunately seeped into and tainted my perception of other parts of the story and caused me to get irrationally defensive in many respects at the time. See, as I’ve implied, part of what was so very appealing to me about Legit one-sided phantomquill coming to fruition just before the surgery is that it felt like the final step in taking the phantom further down from his pedestal and that much closer to “joining the ranks of humanity” just in time for surgery that would have “the phantom” cease to be altogether and allow him to make the full transformation. It wasn’t so much about phantomquill itself as it was about the notion of the phantom being attracted to someone and causing such a big, stupid mess as a result, of being a fundamentally flawed human being but flawed in a vulnerable-
who claimed to be made of nothing but pure logic only to, in his final moments as the phantom act in the most illogical-
It’s silly, I know. First of all, if anything, it can be kind of arophobic, depending on how it’s done, to use “attraction to another person” as a proof or demonstration of a character’s core humanity. It’s just… That’s what I’d tricked myself into thinking the set-up was for, I guess. So when the set-up got so thoroughly negated and didn’t come to fruition, it felt like it had intentionally done the opposite with a bait and switch, and that instead of showing that even the phantom can fall from his pedestal in his final moments before “the phantom” ceases to be, it then seemed the goal was to demonstrate with a great sense of finality that actually, he is despicable and will never be anything but despicable and that we never should have expected anything more up until the very end.
Except… it was silly of me to feel like this first of all seeing as the phantom had already demonstrated during the narrative plenty that he very much does have the capacity to care about other people in his own very odd way. He DID go through character development. Just because none of the feelings he demonstrated were based on attraction doesn’t diminish what he did demonstrate. The Fake Phantomquill Kiss in and of itself is proof of caring because he was ultimately trying to protect Bobby.
But at the time it was hard for me to see that through my hurt. It’s an irrational perspective to take but I wasn’t being rational because of that hurt, and I was distrusting as a result. So, strangely enough, the phantom “dying” as the “filthy criminal he is” after the little show he put on, and then becoming Lex and waking up from the surgery with all these emotions kinda felt to me almost like it was throwing “the phantom” and all the progress as a character he’d made under the bus – of all the potential he’d shown prior to surgical interference.
There was just so much emphasis in the narrative on separating “the phantom” from “Lex” which was fair enough, but it felt to my irrational wounded self like “the phantom” was suddenly being characterised as “Pure Evil” in order to further the ends to which Lex could then be set up as “good”, when we’d previously spent around 2 fics delving into how, while the phantom is very much a villain and none of his crimes can be negated, there is more to him, and he’s, at the very least, not Evil 24/7. Almost like “the phantom” and “Lex” were being pitted against each other which I realise is stupid because c’mon, how can Lex as a character throw the phantom under the bus when Lex was the phantom? When he is merely another huge step – leap – in the character’s evolution? The transformation into Lex can’t negate any of the character development HE made prior to that point, prior to the surgery.
Another important thing to note, which I am extremely grateful to the narrative for, is that Bobby cared about the phantom not only before the surgery, but before the bone sliver was even discovered in the first place. And Simon had also been slipping back then, although he was not nearly as far-gone as Bobby was. But such a thing really helps acknowledge the phantom as a character… and does help reiterate that he wasn’t completely worthless and/or “not worthy of anything” prior to becoming Lex.
I did come to realise that I was, in fact, just needlessly worrying over pure semantics and that there was no point in doing such a thing. Regardless of how one might construe it, this man, Lex, was the same person in the sense that he has all the same memories. There is still a continuity of existence. The "death" of the phantom was only the death of the label itself, the mindset, but the man who had carried the title had still lived on. It allowed, helped that man to shed the worst of what had been part of him before and opened up so much for him.
It's just, the notion of a character actively striving to be good and overcoming themselves vs a sudden fix that gets externally applied, and it felt like any previous striving, however miniscule, threatened to be rendered obsolete by it.
But this was a misplaced notion of mine if there ever was one because not only does it not override previous character development, but the previous character development was necessary for not only making the surgery and its outcome possible, but also a crucial part of the character's arc that can't be overlooked narratively speaking. It is not Lex that characters like Bobby and Athena abruptly start believing in. They'd already believed in him before he was Lex, and they are who campaign for the surgery in the first place. And it is the phantom himself to give the final push and the go-ahead to make it happen through his consent, a vital component to it being made possible. It wasn't erasure, it was never about erasure. It was about continuity and expanding and developing on what was already there. (And I know as well as anyone that the extent of the outcome, and this progress wouldn't have been possible without some form of external interference. It was necessary.)
Whenever I did manage to reconcile it, it was just about the best thing in the world haha.
So yeah, most of this was basically me outlining my distortion of the text and then debunking myself…
I swear my opinions/thoughts/feelings had just about splintered in a million different directions mostly thanks to the shadow cast by my stupid phantomquill pain. XD. My mindset almost threatened to regress to harbouring that foolish unfounded sense that the author didn’t truly care about “the phantom”, and only cared about the person who woke up after that surgery instead. Which is nonsense because Haunted Specters & Vanquishing Mirages clearly indicate otherwise. Why bother spending two entire fics focusing on the phantom so much if the author didn’t care about the phantom? If they wanted to just do away with the phantom and replace him with someone new that they did care about, there were way shorter ways to go about it. I mean, I knew that it was the dumbest concern and that it was incorrect to even consider at this point, but that didn’t stop me from foolishly wasting time on it. It was so hard to believe & trust the story was so attuned to me after being “betrayed” that I semi-adopted/saw the more “hurtful” interpretation as the more “realistic” one.
But reading Lifting Spirits over again so far only reiterates what I realise was the case back then: I only had myself to blame, I was the one vastly exaggerating the perceived distinctions that were being made between Lex and the phantom in the text not only because of my own latent concerns but because of how personally mindboggling I was finding it.
And all the while, I’m SIMULTANEOUSLY borderline scolding the text for how seemingly soft it’s being on the (former) phantom and thinking that the author’s phantom bias is showing. Talk about doublethink!
I had been thinking this entire series that I was perfectly safe to “gush” over this man, because at least the author knew what was what, at least the author still had her senses about her and wouldn’t let it go too astray or let it get out of hand. IF THE AUTHOR IS TREATING HIM LIKE THIS AND I’M TREATING HIM LIKE THIS… THEN WHO’S DRIVING THE PLANE?!
And keep in mind too that I read through Lifting Spirits… Rather quickly. So I’ve got all of these tangled thoughts I’m trying to process at once meanwhile I’m just breezing through the chapters, not really giving myself any real chance to sort through my thoughts and untangle the messes that had formed.
I was somehow managing to feel overwhelmingly thrilled and yet hurt by the narrative at the same time. AAAAALLL the contradictory thoughts and feelings. Contrarian mode was on, it seemed, as I tried to juggle so many opinionated stances and arguments at once that cancelled each other out:
“The phantom was a human being too, with his own issues and he ALSO had (limited) feelings DON’T IGNORE THIS” vs “how dare you portray someone who used to be the phantom, a remorseless killer unworthy of a second thought, in such an endearing manner” vs “ohhhh I love this endearing portrayal so much it’s pure SUSTENANCE to me it’s so entertaining & amazing & makes me so happy” vs stubborn attempts to still cling to “make sure that execution goes ahead, this man still isn’t allowed to escape death” with a slight backdrop of that phantomquill salt-fueled apathy & denial. I was somehow now on the defensive and trying to argue that the phantom hadn’t been 100% despicable and yet also trying to retain the stance that the man in his place still needed to die because the phantom had been 100% despicable. YEP. Walking contradiction. Absolutely wild.
Oh also I just loved Lex in his own right too on top of all this, not just because he used to be the phantom. But because he’s LEX.
It’s all very confusing, I hope I didn’t confuse you too much. XD
Oh, also:
When it came to me feeling that the phantom – or rather, the person who used to be him – was being portrayed too lightly by the narrative given his history – Chasing Phantoms renders completely obsolete any possible argument about the series “skewering one’s perception of the phantom too far off-base”. It renders completely obsolete any possibility that the author was not “aware” of the true depths of his despicableness when going for this angle.
Chasing Phantoms’ existence, to me, makes Lifting Spirits all the more awesome, and strengthens its power. “The Phantom that Lex used to be was ruthless and terrible and awful and caused so much damage and destruction” is not just an offhand acknowledgement that gets referenced back to – it was portrayed firsthand in the first fic, in the series itself. It’s like it goes out of its way to drive home that undeniable fact that the phantom REALLY sucks, and yet Lifting Spirits exists anyway, even with FULL acknowledgement of that. I love that sooo much. It just straight up embraces it and doesn’t try to hide a damn thing. This was who he used to be. This is who he is now. That’s just how it is.
As already established, Chasing Phantoms felt like another universe when I read Lifting Spirits – way before then, even. It was SO hard for me to remember that, he was in fact, actually portrayed in a negative light. It’s actually really great to me that the series didn’t start with Haunted Specters – it did not seek to make the phantom sympathetic or whatnot from the start. He gets to clown around as the villain he truly is for an entire fic before any transition over to protagonist even begins to take place. The story doesn’t briefly go “yeah so we all know the phantom is bad and all obviously but…” and moves straight on, it spends a LONG time elaborating on HOW bad the phantom is back at the very start before proceeding on to anything else.
By the way, I’m aware it would be stupid to make arguments about “not knowing the full extent of how sucky the phantom is” purely on the basis of it not being demonstrated firsthand if that was the case, because like, everyone already knows, so we don’t need to be shown. But I’m merely pointing out how cool I find it that this series does demonstrate it firsthand anyway, because it just further crushes such potential arguments.
If Chasing Phantoms did not exist it would be almost easy to trick oneself into thinking that the full extent of the phantom’s villainy was not truly being acknowledged by the story, given Lex’s portrayal by the narrative (despite him being a “new person”, the fact remains that he was the phantom.) The Phantom is – was - very much a villain, and we know very clearly that the current portrayal of that man who used to be him doesn’t minimise that.
There was another big thing I wanted to talk about connected to much I’ve discussed in this post, but I’ll have to leave it for the next one! I had to cut sooo much from this I’m sorry, I actually did have a bunch of small comments from the beginning of Lifting Spirits. Well, until the next post, which will also get to the middle of the fic too. ^_^
#long post#if this is all over the place it was because my thoughts were all over the place sdjsdnkjsdkj#ghhhh
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Pigments (Plance)
My entry for the @langstronevent2k18! My gift is for @nooowestayandgetcaught, who wanted Plance! I really hope you enjoy!
AO3
Lance cuts her hair before the battle, the soft snipping sounds echoing around the otherwise silent room. Pidge bites her lip, fingers itching to be typing, to be doing something to distract her.
“About what you said-”
“Let’s forget about that!” Lance says, interrupting, laugh cracking mid-swell. He once again focuses on his duty, finally cutting the dead ends he’s been moaning and groaning about in quick, straight lines. Pidge wants to say she’s surprised by how steady his hand is, but he is the team sharpshooter.
“It’s not that I don’t fee-”
“All done! You’re looking great, I mean, not hot or anything but- uhm, better than before. At least not like a hobo, haha!”
Pidge curls her hands into fists, burrowing them in between her thighs for warmth. “Lance. . .”
“Nope, no! We’re totally not gonna talk about my petty feelings right now, not before we kick some Galran asses! And now that you can actually see, you should be right as rain.”
Pidge never does get to speak uninterrupted. She’ll regret it for the rest of her life.
--
Lance pants, gun heavy in his shaking arms. Sweat settles on his eyelids and temples, and his breath fogs the helmet, making every exhale look like frost. He runs as fast as he can, Pidge quick on his heels. They need this information, he reminds himself when his legs threaten to give out and he sees the head count they’re facing. They need this information, no matter what.
Pidge is the one extracting it, Allura is the distraction, Keith and Hunk keep the entire thing in one piece, the halls fracturing as it self destructs, and Lance has Pidge’s back during the vulnerable seconds she has to have her back open.
As the floor parts a few hundred feet behind them, Lance focuses not on the impending collapse and studies Pidge. She’s in her element, brows drawn low and mouth firm; if anyone saw the expression out of context, they’d surely think she must be royally pissed. It amazes him that someone can be so drawn into their work that they forget everything around them, which is why Lance is tagging along in the first place. She’s leaving herself open for attack, and he has to get between her and injury.
When Allura gave him this assignment, he thought for sure that everyone knew. That everyone knew that he finally figured out his obscure affection for the Green paladin to only be immediately shot down. That, no matter how much Pidge
feel for him, he’d get in the way of fire for her. But everyone acted oblivious, even Pidge herself, so he tried to calm the paranoia that nestles into his brain.
Here, in this moment, it’s easy to forget. The constant screech of metal on metal falling apart, gunfire, explosions and grunts of pain making it hard to concentrate on anything but surviving; it is the symphony of war, and the increasing rubble and chaos only makes his head ache and heart pound.
That might be why he’s too distracted to hear it, the lazer brushing against his cheek, narrowly missing Pidge. She jumps, and twists to glare at him. “What part of watch my back do you not get?!”
“Sorry, sorry!”
He shakes himself of any thought, only the tempo of battle, the fluid way in which his muscles bunch and flex and move with only memory to guide him. The next onslaught he’s on guard, actually doing his job this time.
The new wave overwhelms him, the bots now mixed in with real live Galran’s. One such Galran looks like a General from the insignia on his armor, and man, he’s a gnarly one. Instead of charging, the General lifts a fist, and the bots and the few organic soldiers stop and flee, but one. The Galran smirks, and turns on his heel, escaping down the hall.
“Uh. . .Pidge, you gonna be done soon?”
Sweat is visible on her forehead, dyed purple from the offensively bright light of the monitor, her bangs sticking to her temples. “Not. Now, Lance,” she replies through clenched teeth.
He focuses on the bot, shooting it almost point blank, the bullets bouncing right off of it. His breathing picks up then, because if his gun is useless, then *
pretty much useless right now, right?! Shifting his bayard into a broadsword, he lunges, and once again, it’s easily deflected, the sharp edges of the sword scraping off of it, sparks literally flying.
Pidge, still busy, doesn’t notice a thing, her mind completely focussed on her goal. Lance decides that he should be as well, and gets into a fighting stance, legs planted firmly on the ground. It’s only when the bot’s eyes start blinking an eerie red that he knows. He’s seen this before.
With little time, he grabs Pidge from behind, causing her to try to jerk away. He tightens his grip, body shielding her’s; the bomb goes off with a deafening *
rattling his very bones, the force flinging him, and therefore Pidge, sideways, Lance landing on Pidge’s small frame. Once the dust settles and the floor quits it’s scary shaking, Lance sighs with relief.
Pidge has the gall to look irritated, or maybe that’s just the shock. The expression goes lax when her gaze focuses on his chest.
“Lance. . .*
He giggles, his chest feeling engulfed in heat, probably from the close proximity to Pidge. She attempts to shake him, but he has enough strength in him to keep her pinned underneath him where she’s safe.
“Lance, where are you? Talk to me.”
His vision blurs, and he blinks. “I’m right here in your arms.”
Pidge curses through clenched teeth, eyes looking suspiciously wet. Huh, must be the dust swirling around, or even the sticky red wetness that drops on her cheek. Wait.
“Don’t look,” Pidge begs. “Don’t look, and don’t move, okay?”
He looks, and he immediately regrets it. He appears to be impaled, a hunk of metal peeking out right from center. He draws in a shaky breath and whimpers, the air rattling in his lungs wetly. It gets harder and harder to breath. His arms refuse to hold him up any longer, so he rests on Pidge, who is usually too boney to be a comfortable cuddle buddy. Not now -- now she feels like the most comfortable place, his bloody face tucking into the junction of her neck, smearing red traces of him behind.
Lance almost drowned once, when he was only five and small for his age. He’d almost been caught in a riptide, pulled under. He’d tried so hard to breathe, gulping down burning water into dry lungs. It feels sort of like that now, only so so so much worse, his soggy lungs feeling like useless sponges.
He catches the tail end of the pain, his sight fading quickly. Shuddering, he asks, “D-did you ge-get it?”
“Yes, idiot, I got it.”
His hearing goes last, and he swears he hears Pidge sobbing into the comms. It might just be hopeful thinking.
--
Despite popular belief, Pidge isn’t cold. She isn’t crass, nor uncaring. She just tucks the excess feelings into the corners of her heart until she can deal with them in the safe confines of her room, the gentle castle light illuminating tears tracks wetting her cheeks. But, now they don’t even have the castle, so she has nowhere to hide but inside her lion. It only makes it worse, Green’s feelings echoing hollowly in her mind, making the pain twofold. She can’t stay there, hunched over her chair.
They no longer have the Castleship, meaning they no longer have healing pods. The only way Pidge knows Lance is still clinging to life is the thread of connection that is shared between Green and Red. She exits, severing the mirrored emotions, and slumps beside a dying fire. The planet they landed on in a rush is empty and barren, lacking the right amount of oxygen, but Pidge lets her lungs struggle, knowing Lance is far worse off.
She glances at the cordoned off makeshift tent, shielding Lance, Coran and Allura from view. Discarded rags spill out of the opening, stained red. They don’t have a healing pod, and Allura can only seem to revive the already dead, and they can’t risk that, so they have to do everything the old-fashioned way. The dangerous way.
Funny how space has warped Pidge’s sense of death, the healing pods cushioning their fall so many times that it’s all too easy to take the plunge. Now the rug has been pulled out from under them at Lance’s expense.
Keith stokes the fire. The shadows make his face look hollow and sunken in, but maybe that’s just the grief; he can play all he wants, but Pidge notices the stubborn tears lining his eyelids, and as someone known for burying everything behind irritation herself, she knows he fears the worst. They all do. Hunk is distracting himself by showing Romelle how their Lions work, the latter looking confused and distant. And Pidge and Keith try to sear their corneas by the way they stare at the flames.
There is no jovial jokes, no lighthearted jabs; no one is there to make Keith confused, no one to annoy Pidge enough that she actually does her work on time for once. Their dynamic is shattered.
Allura may be the heart of Voltron, but Lance is the soul. A heart and mind is nothing without the warmth of a soul.
--
When Lance confessed to Pidge, she thought it was a joke. Lance’s face was beet red, his words rushing and falling over each other, his fingers fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Someone must have put him up to this, she had thought. Maybe Hunk, that meddling snitch.
When Pidge didn’t say anything back it’s like he blanked out, his face falling slowly and then all at once. He went even redder and fled, leaving Pidge and her traitor heart to wallow it what could be. She knew she wasn’t the kind of girl he went for, pretty and nice smelling and giggly. Pidge snorted when she laughed, big bellowing hiccups, and she sure as hell wasn’t a looker. She forgot to shower more often than not! She totally smelled! Hunk just knew her feelings and meddled, that meddling meddler!
She hadn’t expected him to act so crushed, nor for him to begin avoiding her. She knew the looks they got from Allura and also knew the moment it interfered with Voltron, she’d step in. She hadn’t known the lengths in which he would one day go to protect her. If she had, she would’ve at least allowed herself a kiss.
Now, she tries desperately to put it out of her mind. She emotionally cuts it out, slams a barrier down between her and Lance in her mind, and proceeds to act like he’s already lost to them. And if he’s already lost, gone, than she can skip the grieving process entirely and wait to break once everyone pulls themselves together. Just like she prefers to be the last one awake, she’d also rather be the last one to cry, in the shelter of her own home, nestled under the blanket of her childhood.
So, she hums forcefully as she fries some space eggs, fanning the fire to make them sizzle. She gets an odd look from Hunk, and a knowing one from Matt, but goes about her business. She’s just trying to make breakfast here! Nothing to see! She holds her breath when Coran exits the tent in the corner of her eye, not daring to look directly at him for fear of his facial expression. They’ve begun to be grimmer and grimmer, like Lance’s ghost is getting closer and closer to the surface.
Hunk takes Shiro and Allura breakfast, leaving green in the face. He’s known for his weak stomach, she tells herself, but knows she won’t be able to convince her brain unless she sees it for herself. She’s never had much of an imagination when it comes to these things. But does she really want that to be her last memory of Lance? Would it be any better or worse than the sight of metal impaling him, the same piece that could’ve hit her instead if only Lance didn’t insist on heroics?
She sneaks after the fire dies down and the planet they’ve set up shop darkens, the skies full of unfamiliar stars and two moons that look like reflections of the other. Shiro and Allura are still inside, Allura slumped backwards, head tucked to her chest like she tried valiantly to stay awake, Shiro on the ground, dead to the world.
In between them is. . .a version of Lance. The sick smell of infection -- sweet and sour at the same time -- envelops the confines of the tent, is all that you can breath in. Pidge breathes shallowly, sweat prickling at her skin. He looks so small, skin an ill yellow tinged in white. In some lapse of judgement, someone folded his arms across his torso, like they were preparing him for a funeral. His funeral.
Suddenly Pidge feels too small, despite taking up the entirety of the entrance of the tent. Her lungs feel too small in her chest, like heavy stones that refuse to let even a gasp of air through their thresholds. Heart racing, she says with the last of her breath, “You martyring idiot.”
She turns away. She runs away. She slides next to Matt, her fingers trembling too much to allow her to unzip her sleeping bag, so she just lays atop it, gasping for air, feeling like she’s going to die.
Pidge thought the false realization that Matt was dead hurt her to the core; at least it wasn’t her fault. She had others to blame. The Galra, the universe, bad luck, the Garrison. Now she and the others only have her to thank when Lance slips away to a place she can’t follow just like everyone else.
--
Lance died. At least once. He’s not exactly sure how he knows, besides being blanketed by the brightest and softed blackness, similar to sleep but peaceful, no chance of bad dreams or sleepless nights. He remembers the disappointment he feels when he is pushed out of it, the brightness of life too blinding to be beautiful any longer. Now, the never ending grayness of his eyelids is just a nuisance.
So, he knows he died, and Allura must have brought him back. But, the feeling in his lungs still burn, he can still taste blood on his tongue, and everything hurts. He is forever tense, snippets of talking and crying and retching (Hunk, for sure) the only sense that doesn't hurt. So, when he finally awakens, his eyelids lifting their lifetime ban, he first sees Allura.
Any other time, that would’ve been a plus, right? Especially with how upset she looks, her eyelids red, her eyes tired and face tense. Like she was really worried about him. But he finds himself disappointed. He feels as though someone else should be there, someone less overbearing and more annoyed.
Damn, he has to be a masochist.
“-don’t move.”
“I reckon he-”
“Lance, buddy! LanCE! LAN-”
“Moron.”
He sighs as the voices of his comrades surround him, all but one. He blinks away the tears from the onslaught of light and motion, and sees every color but green. A pigment of their color wheel missing.
His chest tightens and he feels as though he's falling.
“He’s starting to hyperventilate. We need to knock him out, Princess.”
“Coran! We will do no such thing! We don't have the right sort of equipment to do it correctly and safely.”
A sound of frustration above him. “Yes, princess, I understand but he's not lucid enough to calm down on his own--”
“--idge,” He gasps between constrictive breaths. “Pid- Pidge, is she okay?!”
He opens his eyes he doesn't even remember closing. Keith is next to him, burn completely healed. How long has he been out?!
“She's fine, Lance,” he says. “You made sure of that.”
His lungs loosen just enough for him to take a breath. “Good. . .that's good.”
He attempts to sit up, but an ache soul deep makes every muscle tense in pain. With clenched teeth, he settles back down as everyone looks about ready to pounce on him. Coran is frantically shuffling through bottles and books, muttering to himself. Everyone else is frozen.
Quickly, he notes his surroundings. He doesn't remember this tent being here, but he supposes that since he was hurt they had to think of something to fully protect him from the atmosphere and any alien bacteria. It feels humid inside, the cluster of bodies heating up the small tent.
Once he takes in the sights (or the lack thereof) he notices the stench. Sweet, but not the good kind. Rotten sweet. Lance tries to sniff subtly.
“Is that,” he croaks, coughs again, “Is that smell me?”
Hunk turns a bit green at the mention. “Uhm yeah. Don't freak out, but seems you might have a teensy little infection. That we might not have the stuff to treat. But everything else is looking great! Totally surprised too, since I figured Allura is a legit necromancer.”
Keith is rolling his eyes as he hands Lance something to drink. The alien version of a bendy straw is sorta dizzying. He takes a sip, his dry mouth rejoicing.
“Pretty sure I died there again, actually.”
“Wait, WHAT?! YOU DIED BEFORE?!”
Lance clears his throat awkwardly. “Uh, yeah. Guess me and Shiro should get a club going. ‘Was Resurrected By Princess Allura Club.’ Though I guess Shiro was more downloaded than anything. . .”
“How is everyone so chill about this?!” Hunk asks when Allura starts to busy herself, Keith takes a drink from the bendy straw himself and Coran is counting on his fingers. When no one answers he deflates, shaking his head.
Clearing his throat, he continues addressing Lance. “Anyway! We got someone looking for the plant we need, so don't uh, worry!”
“You don't sound so confident, my Hunk. Shiro will be fine.”
“About that…”
--
“FUCK,” Pidge shouts as her comms go out. She's pressed against the ground, gravity making her feel like she weighs a thousand pounds, and her comms won't work! How will she call for backup?! Her brother is gonna freak if he tries to contact her while she's away and finds her unable to communicate!
She stills her jittery hands and takes a deep breath, Shiro’s mantra running through her head. Pidge is doing this for good reason. She's doing this for someone she cares about, and that has to be enough to pull her through.
Grunting, Pidge pulls herself up, her knees screaming in protest; the atmosphere isn't enough to crush her, but it's also harsh enough to make her job that much harder. Green is unsettled in the back of her head, their bond thrumming nervously. Gritting her teeth, she pushes forward. She's so close.
The plant that she needs to save Lance is nondescript. It looks like any average fern, from what Coran told her. They don't have the Castle of Lions to give her a visual, and she really dislikes being outside, but her heart pounds and skin prickles with panic when she thinks of refusing to do it or failing. In no undefined terms, Lance will die a slow, painful death if she doesn't succeed.
It's so quiet on her own. She's used to Lance’s chatter in her ear, usually bantering with Keith or flirting with Allura. She usually scolds or makes fun of him at those times, and now she feels guilty that she didn't do more for him. She may not have the strength to say yes to his confession, but she also doesn't want him to die or go away somewhere she can't tease him.
Pidge clutches her chest, the ache resonating within. She comes to the clearing Coran described, mostly unchanged over the 10,000 years he was asleep. The atmosphere must make it hard for large lifeforms to thrive, leaving gross bugs and dirt and multicolored ferns to take the space.
Examining the plants, she counts the number of barbs that stick out, strong enough to pierce flesh. She makes a sound when she finds it, carefully plucking the fern that also might kill her because Coran was pretty shifty when describing the thorn-like extensions. She tugs, pulls, whacks, but the plant is still firmly in the ground, the stem unharmed. Pidge tries to tear her hair out, only to find that she can't raise her arm over her shoulders, let alone her hand.
She sits back, sweat leaving uncomfortable trails down her face and making her armor stick to the middle of her back. Tears line her eyelids, momentarily blurring her sight. She failed. She failed and for the life of her she can't think of what to do. No amount of programming can help her here, and Green would destroy the plant trying to extract it.
Pidge grits her teeth in anger and flicks the stem with a rhythmic wack wack wack. It won't do anything, but the sound makes her muscles relax minutely, allowing her to think. She still comes up with nothing, but at least the tears threatening to spill no longer fog her helmet and she no longer tries to pull out her hair underneath that helmet.
Suddenly, there is a tremble that shakes the earth. Alarm rumbles in the back of her mind in the form of Green, alerting her that it must be something bad. Before she can make it fully standing, the ground seems to pulse, vein-like intrusions lifting, dark brown dirt spurting into the air like brown blood. The shaking stops, and she feels a thunk on her foot.
Across the ground is the fern, uprooted.
“Huh,” is all she can say.
--
Pidge has been gone for three days, according to Hunk. Lance has to pry the information out of him, the big fluffy worrier that he is. Knowing this isn't going to do him any more harm; fever will still shake his body, a sickly stench will still permeate his stifling tent, and he will still be slowly burning from the inside. What's a little worry? No biggie.
Hunk stays by his side, creating the illusion of healing by dabbing his sweat slick forehead with a chilled cloth like a maiden in a movie. He's sure pretty enough to be one, Lance jokes, but the jest falls on deaf ears.
Even if she makes it, Lance feels himself slipping.
Facing death once gives you a taste of it, but seeing it twice? Looking into the face of your own mortality? That gives you a sixth sense of just knowing, like muscle memory drilled into your brain. It's a memory and sensation that will never truly leave him.
But, as long as Pidge gets back safely, it'll be okay. The zen he feels should be odd, but right now, he welcomes it, is grateful for the clarity it gives him. He's dying, and he accepts it. Instead of staring it in the eyes, he closes his, basking in its bleakness, knowing that he will never be afraid of it again.
As his eyes droop, and after assuring Hunk that he isn't dying (yet), just sleeping, he allows himself to think of home. Of Cuba, the brightness of the sea and the smell of garlic knots fresh out of the oven and just calling him to burn his fingers on. Of his siblings and niblings laughter dancing around him, Veronica screaming behind clenched teeth, her well worn coolness melting down due to grubby hands.
He wonders how she's doing, more than any other sibling. She's smart, and disciplined, but even she will not be happy when finding out what the Garrison must be hiding. And she will. Sooner or later, she will find what she's looking for -- him, he knows that she doesn't believe he threw away his future for anything less than saving the universe -- and he doesn't trust the Garrison enough not to silence her. And when she does figure it out, he knows she will be waiting for him to come back.
Luis and Laura can readily move on. Not a slight towards them, not at all, but he knows they will give up looking. They're strong like that, knowing when to truly give up. He won't blame them or curse them their happiness.
He tries not to think of his mother or father, and especially not his grandparents, who were sickly and fragile when he left for the Garrison.
No, he thinks of his fellow Paladins. Allura is perfect in Blue, and he truly wishes that she was still the object of affection for he knew she was never going to he a reality. Instead, he has feelings for Pidge, who while still way out of his league, is not a warrior alien Princess.
He doesn't have to try hard to think of Hunk, who is still holding his hand as he drifts in and out of consciousness. He's truly an amazing friend, staying with Lance despite his weak stomach. He almost wishes that his buddy didn't have to see Lance like this, but knows that the fingers curled around his is the anchor holding him in this realm.
Shiro and Keith, now, are like distant stars. Now that Shiro is truly back, everything will slot together when Lance finally lets go. Allura can keep her place as Princess and Blue Paladin, and Keith can have Red back. Shiro can have his rightful place at the helm of Black, and the only minus the team will have is no sharpshooter and that no one to tell corny jokes that actually make sense as opposed to corny jokes that no one but Coran can understand, bless his soul.
Lance isn't feeling sorry for himself, not truly. He knows that he is the weakest link. The team could readily replace him with a better sharpshooter, that much is true. And, in this cloudy place of half wakefulness, the pain isn't as severe as usual, just a light blow.
Hunk must notice a change, because Lance feels a few light slaps and hears “Lance? Lance?!” but he just can't bring himself to open his eyes. The heat increases, now on the edge of unbearable, his head ready to pop under the pressure. Multiple pairs of hands shuffle along his body, and he has no energy to make a joke about wandering hands.
Suddenly, his muscles tighten, so tightly he can't inhale a single breath. He bites his tongue harshly, blood filling his mouth. After this, he doesn't remember anything.
--
Pidge almost crash lands Green, jumping out of her mouth before she even lands. She rolls on landing, rising on her feet immediately and running as soon as she hits the ground. The camp is entirely empty, the fire unintended, and as weak as it is due to lack of oxygen, this alone is extremely alarming.
She makes a beeline to Lance’s tent, a stench so cloying surrounding it she almost gags. Once she pushes aside the flap of the entrance, Pidge sees a sight she will never forget.
The entire crew is here, in this cramped little tent, even Matt. In the middle of their close huddle is Lance, on his side, and he's *
, his body shaking with abandon that can only be loss of control. Many pairs of eyes snap up at her, all wet and red and hopeless.
Coran jumps into action first. “Come on, Number 5, please tell me you got it?!”
Air shutters out of her lungs. “I do, I-I got it right here.”
Eyes snatch down to her chest where she's cradling the prickly fern against her armor where it cannot penetrate. Coran ushers her in, making room next to Lance for her to fit into.
“What do I do?!” she asks. She can barely speak between heavy breaths, panic threatening to paralyze her tongue.
“We don't have time to do anything now! Not anything I know!” Coran cries. “But we have to try something. We need to stop this seizure, and we need to cool him down, and the only way to do that is to stop this infection! Nothing else works!”
Her brain stalls, focus locked onto the red, angry wound near his chest. She glances at the thorns, back to the wound, and does the first thing she thinks of. She turns him over on his back despite many protests and shoves the fern into his wound, the prickles piercing the skin.
At first, nothing happens. Pidge is out of her body, looking at her failure, at her worthlessness and the echo of grief it causes. Her chest wants to cave in, the heart in her chest beating so quickly she feels frozen despite the adrenaline it pushes into her body with every pump.
Then a gasp, one that isn't from her, sounds out. A ripple shakes Lance’s body one last time before he relaxes against the mat, like a demon within his body was finally exorcised.
No one speaks for a long time, until Hunk breaks the silence. “Did it work or is he. . .” His voice is heavy with tears.
Coran checks Lance’s pulse. “It's stronger than it has been, but still weaker than I like. But. . .I don’t smell the infection as thickly as before.”
Keith slumps against Hunk, Shiro wipes his face with his hand and Allura’s eyes well with tears of relief. Pidge, well, Pidge can't bring herself to be relieved when she knows someone doesn't come back from an infection like that without injury or disability.
The pressure on her chest doesn't lift and she turns on her heels and escapes the cooling sickness that fills the air.
--
There is no place to hide on the barren planet, so Matt finds her quickly. His gentle hand on her shoulder jolts her out of her unhappy musings, and it could have been a welcome distraction if she didn't know that he had a lecture in mind.
“Pidge,” he starts.
“No. I know what you're going to say. It is all my fault, this is all my fault! Maybe if I told him the truth when he confessed he wouldn't have seen the need to sacrifice himself for me, and if only I had been smarter and quicker and better I'd have gotten here sooner and he would be in better shape!” She stands, then, fists clenched at her sides. “You saw that seizure! There is no way he's coming back from that without going wrong!”
Matt is quiet before he answers. “You just answered my questions. But, Katie, you can't nitpick your every action or you'll always been in the cycle of self-hatred. Do you think I didn't blame myself for what happened to Shiro, because I was weak?”
“But it wasn't your fault!”
Her brother’s look is a cross between exasperated and fond. “Exactly. So, with that logic, this isn't your fault either. Do you think if Lance jumped in front of a bullet -- er, metal projectile? -- after you rejected him, that he wouldn't have done the same if you said yes?”
“But,” she begins, “But, he could've died. . . Might still die, not knowing how I really feel. It's scary, thinking about it, that he'd never know, and die thinking I barely think of him as a friend.”
This time, Matt’s expression is pure exasperation. “Then go tell him! What happened to my genius little brat sister?!”
She only brings herself to stand after some animated shooing from Matt, and darts back Lance’s tent on wobbly knees.
--
Lance wakes in intervals. His consciousness is like a wave, swelling only to retreat as soon as it crests. His eyelids are the beach, his eyelashes the mist of the ocean, and wakefulness the sea threatening to tear his very pleasant dream down like a damp sand castle. He's making some awesome metaphors, so really, that's the first inkling that something must not be right. The next is that when he wakes, Pidge is there at his side, grasping his hand.
“Am I in heaven or hell?” he asks, voice rough from disuse and sickness.
Instead of a playful smack, Pidge laughs tearfully. “Neither, idiot.”
“Forgive an idiot for asking.”
“I-I, er, I want to say something. Before you're completely lucid and I can readily deny it if needed.”
“Am I dying, doc?” That one actually gets him a flick this time.
“Shut up and lemme talk, okay. It's about your confession-”
This feels too much like a dream. ���No, nope, let's not do that. You don't have to act like you like me just because I almost died.”
Pidge visibly grits her teeth. “No, that's not what this is, idiot. I really like you, for some reason. I, I just let my insecurities get in the way, and I realized that you could've died without ever knowing. I know I'm not very girly, even once my gender was revealed, and I'm not polite or a Princess or a hot guy like Keith or Shiro. I'm just a-”
“Wonderful, smart, caring, loyal, fierce person. Should I go on?”
Pidge turns a cute shade of red and Lance wants to make her do that a million times a day.
“I don't see what you see,” she grumbles.
He smiles, feeling his eyes grow heavy. “You will. I'll help.”
Grasping his hand tightly, she says, “You too. We're both idiots, aren't we?”
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A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing Part 2
Part One [x]
Felix trudged through the damp underbrush and mud of the Mount Rainier National Park with a scowl on his face. The dirt, the walking, the work. It was all a foreign concept to him. Going from a life of having hundreds of servants at your beck and call to nothing was a sudden transition Felix was still getting used to. On top of that he had no magical contacts in America. Felix couldn’t simply order someone to get these rare alchemical ingredients for him anymore. Nor did he have the money to buy them. Instead, Felix had to make the journey himself. “Damn those Nossies. If I have to pay them to tell me where it is why can’t they just go get it for me?” Felix grumbled to himself looking around for the cave the informant had mentioned.
Felix’s dress shoe slipped on an exceptionally wet pile of pine needles and he cursed as he reached out for a nearby tree trunk to steady himself. A large sigh escaped Felix as he looked at the large tear in his suit jacket. “I just bought this too.” Felix murmured to himself with a large frown. The sound of rustling in the underbrush caught Felix’s attention and he looked up from his wardrobe malfunction to whatever was stalking the woods in the night. He glimpsed the brief reflection of eyes watching him from the trees before the animal huffed and stalked off somewhere else.
“Whose woods are these anyway? I swear, if that sewer rat sent me out here to get eaten by a werewolf…” Felix griped as his body began to fill with adrenaline at the possibility of a fight. Werewolves were strong. Much stronger than a young kindred like himself and Felix knew he didn’t have much of a chance if he came face to face with one. The ones that stalked the forests in Russia had clear territory lines that the clans did not cross. Perhaps, Felix thought looking for the glowing eyes in the dense thicket. I just wandered across one of those lines.
Despite the possibility of walking into a werewolf den, Felix’s need to finish his clients potion outweighed his fear of encountering a beast. He had already racked up more debts than he would have liked with the Nosferatu and wasn’t about to go asking for another handout. I need the money. It’ll be a quick job. I just need some moss. In and out before anything notices me. Felix rationalized to himself as he felt his figurative heartbeat begin to calm down.
For a long while the only sound in the dark forest was the pitter patter of the rain that pierced the thick upper canopies and landed on the soggy ground and Felix’s own wet footsteps. As he began to approach the area the Nosferatu explained the pungent stench of wet dog assaulted Felix’s nose. “Ugh. Disgusting.” He said and waved at the air in an unsuccessful attempt to dissipate the smell. “But I suppose that must mean I’m almost there.” Felix said in an unenthusiastic voice. Please don’t be home Mr. Werewolf. Please don’t be home. He nervously thought to himself as he stepped out of the trees into a small clearing.
The mouth of the cave was daunting and ominous. It stretched into inky blackness about 10 feet in and even Felix’s vampiric eyes couldn’t see past the curtain of darkness. A few animal bones littered the entrance and Felix wondered if they were put there as a warning or if the creature who inhabited this place simply didn’t clean up his abode. “Warning or not I have rent to pay.” Felix said to himself in an attempt to steel his nerves.
Felix cautiously began to approach the cave and was careful not to step on any of the bones scattered around the forest floor. The damp ground muffled Felix’s steps until he walked onto the stone floor of the cave. With every step his dress shoes made an audible ‘click’ on the rock and Felix cursed as he was forced to remove his shoes and set them next to the entrance to the cave. “Fucking cave. Fucking Nossies. Fucking-” Felix angrily muttered to himself before cutting his sentence short as a low growl reverberated through the cave.
A chill ran up Felix’s spine as the echo of the animalistic warning faded. “Well it looks like someone is home.” He said quietly as he cautiously made his way deeper into the cave. Thankfully it wasn’t a large cave but, according to the Nosferatu, the moss would be found in its deepest parts. With every step Felix felt like he was being watched but no matter how hard he looked, Felix couldn’t find any signs of the beastial eyes that he saw in the woods earlier.
The silence inside of the stone walls was deafening and Felix’s paranoia only grew with each passing moment. Why hasn’t it attacked yet? Is it waiting? Toying with me? He anxiously thought to himself as he continued down the twisting passages. Felix breathed a large sigh of relief as he saw the distinct bright red lichen snaking up one of the damp walls. “Oh thank God.” He exclaimed to himself as all thoughts of the possible werewolf exited his mind. Felix pulled a small leather pouch from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and began to grab the large spores off of the stone and place them inside of the bag.
I just need to fill this bag up then I can- Felix thought before his idea was cut short at the sound of heavy footfalls approaching behind him. He heard a large snort and felt hot breath run down the back of his neck. Don’t turn around just run. Just run. Felix dreadfully thought to himself but his body had other plans. Despite Felix’s best efforts he slowly turned around and came face to face with a horrible hybrid of a monster.
It wasn’t a werewolf but instead a transformed Gangrel. Felix had to crane his head to look the giant creature in the face. His distinct dog like head had two large bat ears protruding from it and it’s fangs were too large to fit comfortably in its horrible maw. The thin membrane of bat wings ran from the monster’s wrist all the way to the middle of it’s torso. At the end of those nightmarish wings were clawed paws the size of Felix’s head. A thick coat of matted and dirty fur covered most of the creature’s body and Felix had to wonder just how long this Gangrel has been in this beastial form.
However, before Felix had any longer to ponder the question, the monster let out a horrible roar that shook the cave and lunged for Felix. He dodged the monsters first strike only barely and winced as the sharp claws grazed the skin of his cheek. The beast turned to face it’s new advisory and crouched down ready to attack again. Felix quickly made the signs on his hands to conjure up a weapon and a spear of blood began to form in his open palm as the Gangrel lunged toward him once more.
Felix was able to parry the monsters attack and stabbed toward the creatures chest. The spear made contact but was stopped short by the monsters thick hide and fur. The Gangrel grabbed the shaft of the weapon and pulled the tip out of himself with a slight wince of pain. “Shit.” Felix said as the monster threw the spear, and Felix, hard against the wall. He hit the stone with a loud ‘oof’ and rolled to the floor. The creature padded it’s way over to where Felix was laying and grabbed the man by the collar of his button up shirt. Felix felt his body leave the ground and his feet dangling in mid air.
The creature looked at Felix and it’s dog like eyes squinted deciding what to do with it’s new capture. Felix’s brain ran crazy with thoughts of how to get out of the dire situation. There was no way to beat the frenzied Gagnrel with strength alone. The only thing Felix could hope for now was his Dominate ability would be enough to get through to the beast’s kindred conscious.
Felix grabbed the monster’s wrist and stared into those horrible eyes. He chanted a soothing tranquil song as his eyes flashed black and his consciousness briefly entered the Gangrel’s mind. Felix saw flashes of the beast’s life and the breaking point that brought him to this isolated cave. A pastel living room, a soldier returning from war, that same soldier’s mutilated corpse on the stained red carpet.
It wasn’t long before Felix’s mind was pushed from the Gangrel’s by the monster’s willpower. The beast howled a long painful howl and dropped Felix to the floor of the cave. He caught his feet just before he hit the ground and stumbled for a moment steadying himself on the uneven cave floor. When Felix looked the Gangrel was holding its head with it’s eyes tightly shut. The sound of breaking bone echoed through the cave and Felix watched with sickened curiosity as the monster transformed back into its original form.
What was left was a scared blonde haired boy who couldn’t have been older than 20. The only difference being is the boy’s ears were pointed and dog like and a long trail protruded from his back. The Gangrel’s painful howls were replaced with sobs as he laid on the cave floor and the last of his bones painfully snapped back into place. Felix stood for a moment watching the scene with a sense of relief and confusion.
Felix was thankful that he wasn’t about to be ripped to shreds but wasn’t expected to be left with a young half naked boy who was probably just as scared as he was. His first instinct was to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation but even someone like Felix could tell how much this kindred was suffering. He reached out a hand to comfort the boy but when he made contact the kindred looked at him with a terrified expression and crawled away so his back up was against the stone wall.
Felix watched as the kindred’s chest rose and feel with panicked breaths and his eyes wildly searched around the cave for something. He looks like a scared cornered animal. Felix thought with a twinge of pity for the kindred. He put his hands up showing that he meant the Gangrel no further harm. “Don’t worry. I don’t mean to harm you nor did I mean to intrude on your...um...lovely home.” Felix said and did his best to put on a comforting smile. The Gangrel continued to look at Felix with that same terrified expression although Felix’s own passive body language seemed to have calmed the boy a bit.
“Are you here alone? Where is your sire?” Felix questioned unable to hide his own curiosity about the Gangrel’s origins. The boy continued to stare at Felix for a moment before quickly looking away almost as if he was ashamed. “Not a big talker it seems.” Felix said with a small sigh. The other kindred responded with a shake of his head and he pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees.
“I’m alone too, you know.” Felix said and sat down on the damp stone floor next to the Gangrel. The boys ears perked up at Felix’s words and he looked to him with curious eyes. “Our world, the world of vampires, is lonely and hard to understand by yourself. Perhaps we could help each other?” Felix asked and looked over to the kindred whose tail began softly wagging against the cave floor. “I could use an assistant like you. Someone who can come to places like this and get ingredients for my spells.” He continued and as Felix spoke the boys tail began to thump louder and faster.
“J-Joseph.” The boy stuttered before looking away from Felix once more. Felix raised an eyebrow in surprise at the boy’s soft voice. “That’s your name? Joseph? It’s nice to meet you. My name is Felix.” He said and put a hand to his chest as he introduced himself. Felix stood back up and reached out a hand for Joseph to help himself up. “But if you’re going to work for me you need some new clothes. The last thing I need is for some young maiden getting over excited at those adorable ears.” Felix said with a cheeky smile.
Joseph laughed and took Felix’s hand and pulled himself up off of the floor. He steadied himself for a moment and readjusted his balance to his new human feet. Felix went and picked up the leather pouch that had been discarded in their scuffle and put it in the pocket of his jacket. “Now come. I have work to finish and four hands can work faster than two.” He said and began making his way back toward the entrance of the cave. Joseph gave Felix a determined nod and followed close behind his heels like a lost puppy with a new master. And a new home.
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C:R ~VE~ Chapter 48
Ned, Conseil, and I received a memo from Barbicane that we are to have a meeting the next morning, so we decide that it would be best to retire early.
How long have we been here? Two days? A week? With the sun hardly dipping below the horizon, it’s hard to tell how time flows here. My mental state hasn’t helped, either. I wonder how much progress we could have made had I not been keeping Ned and Conseil cooped up in here with me. Moping is pointless. I can grieve and lament and cry all I want once I get back in Steel London. For now, the best thing I can do is sleep. I’ll feel better in the morning and will be able to contribute to our meeting.
As I’m smoothing out the bed, my eyes are drawn to one of the corners of the ceiling above me. I shudder when I spot one of the listening devices that Nemo had shot back in the range. I take off my boots before gingerly climbing onto my bed and reaching for it. I’m not very good at balancing, but somehow I manage to grab ahold of the speaker. I give a mighty yank and it pulls free, gears falling onto my bed as I stumble back and fall onto my rump.
The device was attached to a tube of some kind in the wall, so with a sigh I stand back up to investigate. I feel no air on my skin as I stand on my tiptoes to look through the tube, so I guess that its only purpose was to guide the sound. With a disgusted expression, I ball up one of my bedsheets and shove it into the tube.
“Take that, Hatteras,” I mutter as I shakily climb off my bed and fling the listening device into the waste bin.
Without any further fanfare, I begin to undress. Hatteras was… kind enough, I suppose, to provide nightdresses, though they look more like hospital gowns than anything. Still, it’s nice to get out of my work clothes. I fold them out neatly on my desk before going to wash my face in the basin that Conseil brought in earlier.
I barely have time to take off my glasses before I hear the door jiggle. I breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that I had locked it and take a moment to make myself decent. It’s likely one of Hatteras’ men—or perhaps Hatteras himself—come to investigate what had happened to his transmitter.
“Oohhhhhhhhhhhh………. sniff…. uuggghhhhhhhhh….. sniff… sniff…”
That is definitely not Hatteras.
As the sniffling and groaning continues, I consider letting him continue to stand there, alone. That consideration is battling with a burning urge to throw the door open and squeeze him so tight that he forgets all his pain.
Holding power over someone else, huh? Isn’t that what Nemo said felt good?
But listening to him crying like this doesn’t feel good at all.
“Compromise,” I whisper to myself. “Compromise, Pauline.”
I take a deep breath, walk over to the door, and unlock it. A moment later, it hisses open and I’m faced with a soggy scientist with a puffy red nose and tear-stained cheeks.
Hardly a week ago I would have pulled him to my chest and cradled him, letting him cry as much as he needed. I want to do it so badly now! But instead I ball my hands into fists, standing there, watching him evenly.
“Nemo…” I say, trying to keep my voice cool. “What’s wrong?”
I had meant to say ‘How can I help you?’ ‘Do you need something?’ ‘Yes?’ But the words that came out were laced with worry.
He wipes his cheek with the back of one of his gloves and gives a pathetic sniff before straightening up as much as he can muster. Even though he hiccups, he’s clearly trying his best to present himself as a formidable man despite his pathetic aura.
“I…”
His shoulders slump back down and his lip trembles before he opens his mouth and wails: “IIIIII caaaaaaan’t sleeeeeeeeeeeep…!!”
He’s not making it easy for me to hold back, and I feel my stance soften. Still, instead of running forward to hold him, I take a deep breath and ask: “What happened?”
Nemo hiccups again, looking around expectantly. The poor thing probably thought that he would have been hugged by now, too.
“I…. uuumm…” Nemo sniffs before shaking his head. “I—I thooooought I told you… mmm… I gueeess… I shouldn’t have expected you to remembeeeeer…”
He rubs his arm sheepishly before looking up at me with a weak smile. “I don’t sleep well…. withooooout you…. Pauline…”
My chest hurts when he says that to me.
“From how upset you were, I thought you had gotten hurt.”
“I aaaaaaaaaam hurt!” I’m so surprised that I take a step back when he suddenly yells. His face contorts again as he begins loudly sobbing. “Nothing, nobody, no matter how haaaaaaard I try nobody understands! Nobody… nobody even triiiies…”
“That’s not true,” I say. “The world’s most genius scientist must really be hurting if he can’t see the evidence in front of him.”
I take a step back towards him and try to look him in the eye, which is difficult with the way he’s shaking his head.
“What about Barbicane visiting you every day in jail? What about Cardia, Smith, Aouda, even Finis!”
Nemo tries to speak, but all that comes out is a garbled cry. With a sigh I take him by the hands and gently lead him into my room, letting the door slide shut behind him.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” I say as I walk him over to the bed. “Want me to take off your coat?”
“N-No…”
I nod before sitting him down and brushing his hair out of his face. He leans into my fingers like he hasn’t had a gentle touch in years.
I pull over a chair and set it up next to the nightstand across from him. “I’m sorry the water’s a little cold… can you take off your goggles for me?”
Nemo nods and peels his goggles away, leaving red rings behind.
With a smile I sit down in front of him and begin to gently wipe his cheeks.
“D-Don’t expect an apoooology!” he suddenly blurts out. “I never—I never apologize when sciiiiience is involved!”
I rinse out the towel and wipe his forehead.
“Is science involved in the situation with Aleister?” I ask him quietly.
For a moment it looks like he’s about to cry again, so I reach out with my free hand to rub one of his shoulders.
“S-Science… is involved in everything I do…”
I let out a sigh and sit back.
He said before that he was angry with me, and even as I’m sitting here comforting him I know I’m still upset as well.
“I won’t ask for an apology, then,” I finally say. “On two conditions.”
Nemo slowly nods and speaks with an unusual firmness: “Name them.”
“The first is that you don’t expect an apology from me, either,” I say.
Nemo jolts, his eyes burning with confusion and fury.
“I know, it logically makes sense that I would apologize to you,” I continue. “I hurt you. I was trying to speak for you instead of supporting you and listening to you. That’s how you feel, right?”
A few more tears are pushed out of his his periwinkle eyes, but he takes the towel from me and wipes them himself.
“But you must understand that logically… it makes sense that you would apologize to me as well. You hurt me. You frightened me. You took advantage of my weaknesses. … That’s how I feel.”
I jump in surprise when I feel a wetness on my knuckles, white from gripping my nightdress. Tears. My own tears.
I take a deep breath.
“I won’t ask for an apology as long as you don’t expect one from me, either.”
The warmth of my tears is replaced with the warmth of Nemo’s trembling fingers on my cheek.
“T-That’s… that’s faaaaaair…”
He gently rubs his thumb along the bone, and I lean into his gloved hand. Leather, metal, all the wonderful things that are a part of the man I love. They comfort me just as much as lavender ever did.
“Pauline,” he says. It feels so wonderful to hear him say my name like that. “You said that there were two conditions.”
I nod.
“The second is… this… this is a little hard to ask,” I take a breath.
Nemo looks worried, but I quickly reach out to take his cheek in my hand so we’re mirroring each other.
“I’m really not…”
I need to think of how to phrase this.
“I’m… I guess I’m not as good at picking up on signals as you think I am,” I finally manage to get a sentence out. “Could you, maybe, talk to me?”
I scrunch my lips. “I mean. Plainly?”
Nemo tilts his head with that confused ‘mrrrph?’ that I find so endearing.
“You said that I didn’t understand you. I guess I really didn’t. But I … in my defense, I didn’t have much to go on. If you need me to understand something, Nemo… could you try telling me in a simpler language?”
I finally let out a laugh. “I’m not a genius like you are!”
“Hmmmm….” Nemo leans in closer, his eyes half-lidded. He would look very handsome if his face weren’t red and swollen from crying. I’m sure I look like just as much of a wreck. “I do enjoy being ‘senseeeeeei’… I suppose I could tryyyyyyyyyy….”
He’s so close to me, when I open my mouth I’m almost touching him. I keep on glancing from his eyes to his lips, soft and full.
“Please, Nemo,” I say. “I can’t… I can’t try to understand if I don’t know where… to… begin…”
My sentence trails off as our lips are drawn together like they’re magnetized. Gentle, hesitating, warm and wet and uncertain.
“Mm…” His eyelashes flutter as he pulls away to take a ragged breath. “A sound arguuuument. Very well, theeeen…”
We kiss again, and again, slowly, tracing our fingers over each other so we can memorize the sensation of each other’s features.
Eventually, Nemo reaches out to me and I take his hand. He gives me a firm tug and we both fall onto the bed, limbs tangling like always as we make ourselves comfortable. This is normal, this is how we’re meant to be.
Usually he has his head on my chest, or sometimes I’ll nuzzle my cheek into his. But tonight we’re facing each other, hands entwined between our mouths as we gently kiss each other’s fingers.
“What’s a scientist without his heaaaaaaaaart?” Nemo speaks surprisingly quietly, his voice hoarse from exhaustion. “Don’t forgeeeeeet, Professor… it’s yours… I love you.”
“I love you too, Nemo. Always.” I pause to kiss his knuckles before leaning over to kiss him on the cheek, murmuring into his skin: “I mean, for as long as I can.”
He sniffs again before smiling at me.
“Now, can we talk?” I ask.
He slowly indents his head in a nod.
“Aleeeister… really helped meeee,” says Nemo. He sighs before rolling onto his back, recalling memories that make his lips twitch into a frown. I climb over to him and lean my head on his shoulder, putting my hand over his heart so he knows that I’m there.
“Isaac-senseeeei…. he didn’t understaaaaaaand… I couldn’t get through to hiiiim. My science couldn’t get throoooough… h-he had… he had told me that my ideas were briiiiilliant! If I weren’t for him, I ne… I never would have…”
I kiss his shoulder and gently run my fingers over his stomach to calm him down.
Nemo takes a deep breath. “When he disappeared, I thought… I thought I was doooooooone for, but—but then Finiiiiiis--! I… I had hope again but… it was… it was like senseeeei… seeeeeenseeeeiiii didn’t even recognize meeee… i-it was like he had completely forgotteeeeeeeeeen…”
I have a feeling that Isaac’s relationship with Nemo might have been very similar to Aleister’s. Terrible men who discard people the moment they get what they want.
Nemo’s still looking up as though he’s talking about a savior.
“But… but Aleister told me! Aleister toooold me that s-sometimes… sometimes you have to surpass the people you love! If the child is mooooore successful, then that means that the parent did a good job, riiiiiiight? Aleister reminded me of thaaaaaaat! He reminded me of that—and—and showed me that I didn’t have to walk on the path that would destroy the homes of my beeeeeest friiiiiiiiends…!”
I remember Hatteras’ words: ‘Aleister gave me an option outside of the path I had been set upon. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.’
Nemo reaches up and clenches his fist as though he’s grabbed ahold of his own destiny.
“I would bring down the Naaaaaaaaauuuutilus myself! Me, Neeeeeeeeeemoooooo! In the name of friendship, I would go even beyooooooooond Isaac-senseeeeeeeeeei…!!”
Nemo’s eyes widen in surprise when I reach up and wrap my hand around his fist.
“You helped save London,” I say. “Aleister might have influenced you, but he didn’t force you to. Everybody knows you helped, that’s why you had such a light sentence, remember…?”
Nemo looks conflicted and frowns. He looks like he wants to say something, but bites his lip before saying, “T-Thank you, but… I really… reeeeeeally need to … I mean… people saaaaaaay things… because they want me to do certain thiiiiiiiings … that’s what Aleister diiiiiiid and then he… he betrayed me and told Victoria… he… even Cardia-chaaaaaaan…”
He lowers his fist, kissing my hand before resting his own on his forehead. “Did she tell you…? S-She called me… her broooother…. Ohhhh… I’m not letting her forget that ooooone…”
“I don’t think you can really compare Cardia and Aleister,” I say.
“Can’t I?” Nemo’s voice goes dark. “It’s aaaaaall manipulation.”
“Not all manipulation is bad, though,” I say. “I think she was trying to make you feel better.”
Nemo sighs. “… She did ask me somethiiiiing…”
“What?”
Nemo sniffs again, though most of his tears have dried.
“She asked me to think aboooout… what I want to do nooow…”
“What you want to do?” I lift my head to get a better look at him.
“If I had access to the best laboratories, all the funding I needed… for aaaaaaaanything… what would I do?”
“What did you tell her?” I ask.
“I slammed the doooooooooor in her faaaaaaaaaaaace…”
I go quiet for a little bit, hugging his arm.
“You should talk to her, you know,” I say. “Barbicane has assembled a meeting tomorrow morning. You should be there, too.”
Nemo nods. “He told me.”
The silence continues to hang in the air, and I would have thought Nemo was asleep save the fact that there is no snoring.
“I waaaaant… to rebuild the gravity alleviator…” Nemo’s so quiet I can barely hear him. “If I had all the mooooney… the laboratory… everything… I would get my best friend to the mooooooon.”
I smile. “Then let’s get out of here, Nemo.”
“Hrmmm?” he rolls over like he’s ready to get out of bed.
“No, I mean… with everyone. Let’s go back to Steel London and get Barbicane to the moon.”
Nemo looks at me with arched eyebrows, a blush rising to his cheeks. “W-Whaaaaaaaat…? My profeeeessor, he won’t be going to the moon in a submariiiiiiiiine!”
I roll onto my stomach and rest my chin on my hands. “I know. And I do want to go on a proper expedition someday, but…”
Nemo rolls onto his side so he’s facing me.
“This will be a new way to expand my horizons, and…” I’m blushing now too.
Despite everything we’ve done together already, I’m blushing!
“I want to be with you for as long as I can. ...Remember?”
Nemo lowers his eyes so I can barely see them through his long eyelashes. Then he gives a low giggle, his lips stretching into that familiar smile. “Do you meeeeeean… ‘always’?”
My jaw goes slack as I look at him.
“Always?” I repeat.
Nemo climbs over me, rolling me onto my back so his long hair separates me from the rest of the world like a veil.
“Always. I think I could give ‘always’ a try… sloooowly… with yoooou…”
“I’d like that very much,” my voice is quiet as Nemo lowers himself to kiss me. It’s tired and chaste, but bursting with love. Then he lays down completely, nuzzling his face into my shoulder.
His familiar deep snore reverberates in my ears, and I finally close my eyes wrapped in that comfort.
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Hey can you write some Sprace angst thank you! I saw your requests were open so yeah, thought I’d ask!
If I one day write a Sprace fic that doesn’t include an interaction between Race and Jack Kelly, the meddling lil shit, you can go ahead and assume I’ve been possessed.
Race could hear his heart skipping beats. His head was pounding, almost drowning out the boys’ excited chatter. His breath was quickening and his hands fidgeted restlessly at his sides. Really, at the rate he was going, it was a miracle he could read the headline at all.
Most of the fellas were whooping and thumping each other on the back, and there was more than one “Even Elmer could sell this one!”. But the only thing Race had felt when he leaned on the bars of the distribution gates to read the headline was sheer panic.
Fourteen Dead in Brooklyn From Vicious Knife Fight
The gates swung open, just barely startling Race out of his trance in time to jump away from the bars before he could topple over. A few of his friends shot him curious looks as he stumbled, but he just ducked his head and stuck his cigar in his mouth, chewing on it furiously.
Granted, it was no secret that the King of Brooklyn could take care of himself. He was one of the most capable kids in New York - hell, he’d been running an entire city by himself since he was thirteen. But a knife fight could only end a few ways - and judging from the headline, the odds hadn’t been in the fighters’ favor.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and he jumped, spinning around and rearing back. He sighed shakily and dropped his fist as Jack raised his hands in defense.
“You okay, Racer?” he said.
“Yeah. I’m great. I’m fine, Jackie,” Race said.
“You sure? Looks like you’re tryin’ to grind that thing into dust,” Jack said, tapping the corner of Race’s mouth. Race blinked and looked down - now that Jack had mentioned it, the cigar hanging limply out of his mouth was damp and soggy. “C’mon, Racer, talk to me. It’s a great headline for sellin’. You headin’ over to Brooklyn today?”
“Stop,” Race snapped, shoving Jack in the chest. His despondence overruled the malice, but Jack caught his wrists in one hand anyway, keeping him captive.
“What’s goin’ on? Ya see that headline, Higgins? Far as I can tell, today’s gonna -“
“It ain’t gonna be a great day, if that’s what you’re sayin’!” Race shouted. A few voices faltered and some heads turned, and Race sighed, tugging his hands away from Jack to run them through his hair. He lowered his voice, stepping closer to Jack in a futile attempt to stay out of earshot of any eavesdroppers. “Jackie, Brooklyn’s a tough place for newsies. If there was a knife fight over there, there’s a goddamn good chance some of Spot’s guys were involved, and Spot’s… Spot’s the King, Jack. Someone had to have been meanin’ to take him out.”
When Jack had walked in on him and Spot, Race had been terrified - and between the muggers, the cops, and the Refuge, he didn’t get scared easily. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew the kinds of things that happened to people like him. He remembered the day vividly - he and Spot hadn’t exactly hit second base, but Spot’s fingers had been tracing the hem of Race’s shirt and they had been locked at the lips, huddled together on the roof of the lodge on a night too cold for Crutchie and Jack to sleep outside.
Jack must have gone up to get an extra blanket or his sketchpad or whatever the guy did on the roof all the time, and his yelp of surprise had pulled Spot and Race apart quickly enough. After some harrowed confusion and a few death threats from Spot, Jack had rambled through an explanation of his and Davey’s relationship - not exactly what Race had been expecting, but hey, he would take it.
Jack sighed. He put a hand on Race’s shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. “Grab your papes and head over there. Remember, kid, there’s nothin’ tellin’ ya besides your gut somethin’ happened to him. Ya need someone to walk with ya in case the fight’s still goin’ on?”“No,” Race said quickly. He had to do this himself. And if he knocked on the door to the Brooklyn lodge to be led to Spot’s still body, a dark patch of blood staining his shirt, well, he didn’t need anyone there to see him break.
The trek across the Brooklyn Bridge and then to the lodge was the hardest he’d ever made in his life. He didn’t dare read the paper in fear of reading Spot Conlon or even just Conlon written in proud ink.
He rapped on the Lodging House door, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet and fiddling with his cigar. The door swung open, much to his surprise - it was nearing mid-morning, and most kids were out selling. He had already been devising a plan to break in.
“Heya, Higgins.”
Race’s lips quirked up in a forced, half-hearted grin. “Hey, Popper.”
Popper nodded, leaning against the doorframe. “Whatcha want?” she said.
Race rolled his eyes. “What do ya think? I saw the headline. I’m here to see Spot.”
“What makes you think he’s here?”
Race froze, his face dropping. Popper stared at him solemnly, arms crossed, and he could feel his breath picking up again as he gripped his cigar. “Wh-wha’, no, I just… is he here? Popper, is he here?”
Popper lost the stony expression suddenly, like Race’s world hadn’t just crashed and burned.
She smirked, punching him in the arm. “I’m jokin’, kid. He’s upstairs.”
The relief was almost mind-numbing, and Race didn’t even bother to thank Popper as he shoved past her and darted for the stairs. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d complained to Spot about his room being on the seventh floor of the tall building, but he hadn’t even blinked by the time he was standing in front of the familiar door, barely panting. He hesitated before he pushed it open. Snapper hadn’t exactly openly implied whether Spot was fine or hurt or even alive at all, and Race wasn’t as excited to find out as he had been a second ago. He ran his hand over the splintered wood, wasting time, tracing the scratchy letters in the wood: KING OF BROOKLYN, engraved by an adamant thirteen-year-old Spot.
Finally, he took a deep breath and stuck his cigar in his mouth. It was falling apart, but he ground his teeth on it as he shoved the door open.
And there was Spot. He was laying on the bed, eyes shut. His hardened facade was gone, replaced with something more peaceful and calm that he would never willingly show to an audience. He was bare-chested, and his stomach was heavily bandaged with stark white strips of cloth, a dark, gut-wrenching stain of red on his side.
Race kneeled in front of the bed, letting his cigar fall from his mouth. He took Spot’s hand and dropped his forehead to rest on their entwined fingers. “Sean. Christ, Sean, please wake up.”
A hand that came to rest on his shoulder made him jump. He turned around, still clinging to Spot’s hand like a lifeline as Popper gazed at the bloody bandages. Her eyes were hard, and Race couldn’t tell if it was because she was suppressing tears or she felt void of all emotion. Hell, he didn’t know which one it was for himself. “We got a doc in here a little before ya showed up. Said he ain’t sure if he’s gonna make it. Somethin’ about the knife strikin’ a blood vessel. They got his side real bad. It was a gang of muggers that’ve had it out for us newsies since Indie fought his way out of a corner and caught one of their guys with a switchblade.”
Race said nothing, just turning back to brush the damp, tangled hair out of Spot’s eyes. He could hear Popper leaving, but he didn’t care. He never cried. He didn’t cry. But tears were making their way fast down his cheeks, hollow sobs clogging his throat. His head dropped to meet Spot’s hand again. He kissed the bruised knuckles. “C’mon, Spot,” he murmured. “I… I love ya. You’ve gotta make it through. I dunno what I’m s’pposed to do without ya. I’m just a kid livin’ on the streets. I don’t got nothin’ but you. Please, Spot. You’re tough, always tellin’ me that even when you’re patchin’ a little kid up after a brawl or tuckin’ one of them in at night. You can do it.”
Spot didn’t do some much as twitch or flutter an eyelid. Race sighed heavily, resigning himself to hopping up on the bed and crawling under the thin sheet around Spot’s legs. He held Spot like he was the most fragile thing in the world, even if Spot would vehemently deny the opposite if he wasn’t knocked out cold. He drifted off to sleep within minutes. Jack could cover for him for just one day. There were more important things than selling to tend to.
TAG LIST: @bexlynne @crutchieee-morris @fangirlforever5322 @races-erster @sunnylife-yea @whoatethecake @asparagus-the-theatre-sloth @the-woild-is-my-what-now @newsieoftn @sunshine-musicals-yea
#racetrack higgins#spot conlon#sprace#my writing#newsies fic#angst#jack kelly#so sorry this took so long
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The Light and the Dark
Chapter Three: The Doctor
Story Summary: For seven years, Virgil has known nothing but the Doctor and his lab and his horrible tests. For seven years, Virgil has known nothng but the shadows, ever-creeping, and the darkness, all-consuming. But then one day a man carrying fire in his hands and in the brave tilt of his smile breaks down his door and offers him freedom, and everything changes forever.
Pairings: Eventual moxiety and logince
Warnings: panic attack
Taglist: @aliferous-ly @walrus-flail @fandoms-n-ship
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Read on a03
Virgil was ten when the Doctor came for him.
The year had granted him neither skill nor knowledge of his strange powers — only fear, building deep within him, a shadow of anxiety within to match the shadows outside. His powers consumed him, the shadows ever creeping.
But he had to keep up the act. He had to pretend he was normal. He couldn’t let anyone see he was struggling — and he definitely couldn’t let them know about the shadows. What would happen to him if they knew? He’d already had too many nightmares about autopsies to count.
So, he kept up the act. He was a good little boy who did his chores and got good grades and never did anything wrong. He was a normal child, as far as they all knew… but sometimes, the shadows became hard to hide.
Sometimes, he didn’t want to hide.
The Doctor came on a dull gray Tuesday, the kind of unremarkable day that lulls you into a false sense of security, because nothing truly interesting could happen on a boring day like this. It had been nearly an hour since school had let out, but Virgil remained, curled up on a soft beanbag in the library with a notebook in his lap and a bag of chips in the crook of his arm.
He scribbled thoughtfully in the blue notebook, covering the thick pages in scrawling poetry. It was the one calming constant in his life, and he was immensely grateful for it; poetry gave him the room to vent about his problem, but also the room to forget about it. It gave him air when the shadows stopped him from breathing.
The library was silent save for his pen scratching on the paper. He took deep breaths of dusty, paper-scented air, munching quietly on chips and allowing the words to flow from his pen. Each word he wrote took a little of that horrible weight from his shoulders.
“Hello!”
Oh god. Virgil nearly jumped out of his skin, his blood running cold. He knew that voice. Hurriedly, he got to his feet and ran for the door, shaking a snowstorm of crumbs from his shirt as he went.
But it was already too late. A strong hand closed around the neck of his shirt, yanking Virgil backwards with a painful yelp. “That’s rude,” Timmy Williams remarked, his ugly face a mask of false-hurt. “I was just trying to say hello.”
Around him, his friends shook their heads in mock disapproval. Timmy Williams grabbed Virgil’s shoulders, pulling him around to face them.
“I-I’m sorry,” Virgil said quickly. “I didn’t hear you.”
Timmy narrowed his green eyes, frowning. “Sure you didn’t,” he said, his voice a sickly-sweet soup of sarcasm. Virgil took a step back, his hands curling tighter around his notebook.
“I-I didn’t, I swear!” Silently, he cursed himself for the fear in his voice. His eyes darted around the deserted library, searching for an exit, but Timmy’s friends had surrounded them, a circle of bullies. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe through the panic in his lungs. His nails began to dig into the soft cover of his notebook.
“What’s that?” Timmy asked, lunging and yanking the book from Virgil’s hands. A cry escaped from Virgil’s mouth before he could stop himself, and Timmy grinned terribly. “What, is it important?”
No. No, no, no, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t lose his poems! “G-Give it back,” Virgil said, his stomach turning. His hands balled into fists by his sides.
“I will when I’m done with it,” Timmy said offhandedly, pushing his long brown hair out of his eyes and opening the book. His eyes widening, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his lips. “What is this, poetry?”
Around him, his friends burst into laughter. Virgil felt sick.
“Hey — hey, Justin, gimme your drink,” Timmy said, his voice alight with a dawning idea. He took the sparkling bottle of orange soda, stashed the notebook under one arm, and cracked off the cap. “I changed by mind, Virgin,” he said, and horror bloomed in Virgil’s stomach, cold and cruel and sickening.
He held out the book — Virgil’s book, his home, his only solace — and dumped the soda all over it.
The book fell to the floor with a soggy thump. Virgil dimly registered the sound of Timmy and his cronies laughing, but his eyes couldn’t leave the book. The red ink from his pen ran off the pages in crimson rivers, soaking into the library’s carpet. It looked like it was bleeding.
That was his book. That was his book. That was the word of a hundred hours, a thousand moments captured between the covers — and they’d ruined it all in the span of a few seconds. Virgil watched soda drip off the covers, his hands balled so tightly into fists he was sure he was drawing blood.
He felt a tugging in his stomach.
Timmy grinned at him, his eyebrows drawn together in mock concern. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is the sissy gonna cry?”
His fingers began to tingle.
Anger bloomed in his stomach, a red-hot fire of rage. His face darkened. Timmy Williams faltered, a hint of confusion flashing across his face, and Virgil felt a sick satisfaction nestle in his chest.
He wanted to make them pay.
The shadows around his feet began to swirl. This time, he let them, and fear joined the confusion on Timmy’s face, his eyes wide as he stared at the darkness. Virgil had to keep from smiling at the sight. He was done hiding. He was done being picked on.
”I’m not your punching bag anymore,” he said, and his voice was deeper and darker, layered with something terrible and demonic. “No one is.”
Get them.
The shadows shot through the air. Timmy Williams screamed in terror, tripping over his own feet in a desperate attempt to escape, shoving his friends out of his way as he scrambled for the doors. But it was too late; the shadows, fast as lightning, swirled around him and slammed the doors shut with a jarring bang.
Timmy stepped backwards, his face pale with horror — and the shadows surrounded him, shrouding him in darkness as they wrapped around him and his horrible friends. Timmy whimpered pitifully, struggling against the shadowy bonds, his face slick and shiny with terrified tears.
Virgil took a step towards him. Shadows swirled at his feet, eager to get at him; but Virgil kept them back, curling his hand into a tight fist. He wanted to do this himself.
He stepped over the remains of his book and glared up at Timmy. “Wha — what are y-you?” Timmy stammered as the shadow lowered him to the ground.
“I don’t know,” Virgil replied, and punched Timmy Williams in the face.
And then — then, as the adrenaline faded and Timmy Williams fell unconscious and slumped to the floor and the shadows disappeared around the other bullies — Virgil realized what he had done. His moment of power was fading fast, and terror, hot and horrible and suffocating, was taking its place.
“I’m telling!” One boy, the tallest of Timmy’s group, had managed to stay conscious and now stood on shaky legs, pointing at Virgil in fear. “You’re a freak!”
He ran from the room as fast as his long legs would carry him, and deafening silence fell over the library. Virgil’s hands flew to his mouth as he looked around at the unconscious bodies laying across the floor of the destroyed library, as his stomach threatened to twist and turn and send his lunch flying back up his throat.
He’d lost control. Oh god, he’d lost control and now everyone would know how bad he was and how strange he was and they — they were going to kill him! Oh no, no, no no no no —
His thoughts spiraled out of control. He nearly doubled over, his lungs burning with red-hot panic, his legs wobbling and threatening to give way. Visions of autopsies danced in his head.
He took one shaking step back, and then another. His breathing became laboured, desperate, and he clutched his chest fearfully, taking one last look around the chaotic library before turning and fleeing.
Where would he go? He couldn’t go back home. He’d never see his home again. Oh god, oh god, what had he done? He probably couldn’t even stay in the town!
A sob escaped his throat and he stumbled, tears blurring his vision. What had he done?
He raced down the hall as quickly as his shaking legs would carry him, tears running down his face. The shadows swirled at his feet, the tugging sensation in his stomach nearly unbearable, but he made no attempt to make them leave. What was the point? Everyone would know how terrible he was anyway, there was no point trying to hide them anymore!
Someone stepped out into the hall in front of him and Virgil couldn’t stop —
Smash!
He fell backwards, landing painfully on the hard floor, and scrambled back to his feet. A strong hand settled on his shoulder, squeezing gently.
Don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me —
He wrenched out of the grip, swiping tears off of his cheeks as he darted around the person, rushing down the hallway. He needed to get out of there —
Two more people stepped out in front of him, looking tall and imposing in their immaculate white suits. He slammed right into them and stumbled backwards, a cry escaping his lips.
“No!” he yelled, his voice high with panic. This couldn’t be happening! Oh god, oh god, he needed to get out of there!
“Are you alright?” The person stepped up to him, his eyebrows wrinkled with concern. Virgil shook his head, frantically trying to find a way to escape. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I’m not going to harm you. Please calm down.”
Virgil had never felt less calm in his life. Panic seized him, coiling around him like a python coils around its prey. He shoved his way through the two men in suits and raced for the exits, terrified sobs wracking his body.
“I know about the shadows,” the man said, and Virgil sobbed even harder, racing desperately for the doors. But then, the man uttered the words that Virgil had been wanting to hear for nearly a year: “I can make them go away.”
Despite himself, Virgil stopped, skidding against the tile floor. He barely even dared to hope as he turned back towards the man. “Y-You… you can?” he asked, his voice breaking.
“Of course.” The man stopped in front of him, leaning down to Virgil’s height. He set a hand on Virgil’s shoulder, quiet reassurance housed in the deep blue of his wide eyes. “I’m a doctor. I’m studying people like you. When I heard that you were here, well... I just had to come and help you. I can make them go away, Virgil. Trust me."
Virgil reached up to wipe tears off of his cheeks, feeling a tiny blossom of hope appear in the pit of panic in his stomach. Could he really trust this man? Some part of him wondered if maybe he should take a moment to consider, to think about this rationally — but he was a small child who’d been through a great deal of pain, and he didn’t want to think rationally. He wanted this: this small glimmer of hope, this promise of normalcy, so badly that it was like an ache.
So he nodded, slowly, his brows furrowing at he looked up at the man. The man let out a soft, happy sigh, something unreadable hidden in the artificial blue of his eyes. He offered Virgil a smile.
“That makes me very happy.”
#hnng this is barely getting any notes but i love this story so im gonna keep posting#virgil sanders#sanders sides#my fanfiction#angst#panic attack tw#(((pls reblog this aaaaaaaaaaaa)))
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Can I take it back?
(This is a short story I wrote, I hope whoever read it likes it, this story is about suicide so trigger warning for anyone struggling! It’s a story I wrote in my head when I was younger to keep myself from killing myself. It helped me realize that I didn’t want to die and I hope it helps someone else❤️ any and all suggestions and comments are welcome!!)
The wind whipped against my face as I breathe in the crisp air, my bare feet lightly grazing the moss in the woods with each light step. The end was coming near. I gripped tightly onto the cardigan laying heavily against my skin, as I desperately try to find the cliff. My chest holds a ton of bricks as and suddenly, I’m going to jump.
Without even realizing I’ve reached the point, I’m ready to go. So why do I start to cry? Was it an accumulation of all the lies? The deceit? The betrayal that I felt so deep down inside? My dreams were coming to an end, my laugh to never be heard again and my smile was long gone like ashes in the wind. As I take my final step towards the ledge, I’m taken back to when I was a little girl. My mom held me tight as I cried; she warded off the monsters under my bed and had tried to fight the demons in my head, but her tender touch, and caring too much, just wasn't enough.
The wind lurches me forward and suddenly I am drifting above the raging sea below. The sea salt stings my baby blue eyes that once saw this world for its green grass and fairy tales, but now all it holds is heartache and despair. Right as I am about to collide with the glassy sea, waiting for it to suffocate me, I stumble and I’m on solid ground. Confused and teary eyed, I realize I’m surrounded by white light, Is this death? Is this what it feels like? Is it supposed to be this graceful and bright? Flowers spring up from the glowing ground leading me down a springlike path. With each step a new flower would appear, some roses, some daisies, some dandelions until I am in a field of flowers. I laugh for the first time in years, the weight on my shoulders seems to disintegrate. I feel light, I feel free for the first time in ages. I collapse in the grass to look at the sky, but all I see is the white light, which upon examination appears less brilliant and more like harsh hospital lights. I close my eyes to imagine a sky of my own and when I reopen them I am laying on the floor of my bedroom. My books are still neatly placed on the bookshelf and the clutter on my dresser is still organized how I left it in order to save my parents the hassle of cleaning up once I left. Am I imagining this? It seems so real, I can smell the frankincense and lavender my mom used to put in my room to “calm me”. There is a muffled sobbing in the next room so I quickly investigate. Sitting on the bathroom floor is my mother. I have never seen someone look so broken; tears stream down her face as she clutches the note to her chest. She looks like she hasn't showered or eaten in days. I couldn't help myself, “mama? It's me i’m here...” but my voice only echoes back to myself. It is like watching from behind a two way mirror. Tears well up in my eyes threatening to spill over, but I push them back. It is too late, nobody cared about me before, why should they now? They only care in death, I guess. I timidly walk out into the kitchen, the wall calendar displays May 24th, 2015 in bold letters, it has already been a week since my “death”?
My dad is on the floor as silent tears stream down his face, leaving red streaks in their wake. I had never seen him cry before. A bottle of liquor lays at rest beside him, I guess he picked up his old habit again. I couldn't bare to watch as he brought the bottle to his lips again. Shuddering, I turn towards the living room. I see my sisters sitting there, staring blankly at the wall, their cereal soggy from not being touched. My oldest sister holds strong, and as she hears the bottle hit the ground, she grabs our baby sister and they left for school. I follow into the car where Eminem blasts through the speakers. In the front seat sits my seven year old baby sister, her body trembles as she tries to hide the tears on her cheeks. I want to hold her, I want to kiss her one last time and tell her I’m so sorry. How could I do this to her? How could I just leave her suddenly? I snap myself out of it, as it’s too late to apologize or feel bad. It happened and I can’t change it, even if I wanted to.
After my big sister dropped off our little sister, she was supposed to be headed to school, where she would graduate later this year, but I would never see her walk across that stage. Instead, she sits in her car, heat blowing through the vents as she starts to scream and tears begin to fall. She has been staying strong for our sister, but she is just as broken as the rest. I was her first little sister, we were best friends and I never told her what I was feeling. I try to grab her hand but she doesn't feel it. My heart aches. I thought I didn’t matter, but I’m sitting here and all I want to do is hold her, but I can’t and that is the most frustrating part. I can only imagine what happened when they first found out…
I blink and suddenly I am in the hallway of my high school. Students surround me talking and laughing, the chatter bounced down the corridor ringing in my ears. I overhear two girls talking about their algebra test, confused, I go to find a calendar. We were supposed to take that test the week I ended my life. Sure enough, the calendar verified my suspicions. It was the morning after I had jumped. Why am I being thrown around through time like a rag doll? The intercom breaks through the crowds of voices, silencing everyone. A crackly voice breaks through, “Students, today we have some terrible news. We have lost a fellow student last night. Danielle St.Claire was a beloved freshman by many. To those this has affected, we will have counselors in the library if you need to talk to anyone. A memorial service is being planned. Please ask no further questions, her family wishes to keep it private as of right now”. The tension is so thick you could slice through it with a knife, nobody dares to speak or move, I want to scream that I am here. I run through the hallway, some are crying, some stare at the wall not knowing what to do or say. The only sound is my feet slapping against the linoleum floors, hot tears falling onto my cheeks. Finally I come to a halt, I am face to face with my best friend Lily. Her cheeks red with streaks of mascara trailing down, a girl touches her arm to make sure she is okay. She quickly pulls away and walks to the bathroom. There is a group of girls in our grade huddle together, talking about how shocked they are and how much they would miss me, I didn’t even know them. Lily looks directly at them and walks away, too furious to say a word. Word spreads quickly about the story, the cliff, my pale blue lips after they found my small cold body. The world spins around me, giving me motion sickness.
I am standing at the base of the cliff that I had jumped from. Firefighters and police stood at the base as strong men and women search for the frail girl that went missing. My mother and father are there too, and as one Search and Rescue Volunteer came up with a body, my mom buries her face into my father. A white hot lump forms in my throat and I can barely breathe. I continue looking at my limp body in the arms of a man, he performs CPR but only to try and make my family feel better. It doesn't work, and as I watch my own body be zipped into a black bag, I sink to the sand. It was over, this wasn’t a temporary fix. It is permanent.
The ground shaking winds spin me around and it is now earlier that morning, the dates are playing quickly like a roll of film. The class is chattering and laughing, in the far corner I see myself, alive and well. My friends all sit around me talking about weekend plans that I wasn’t included in. I remember sitting there, feeling left out. I remember watching them talk and the numbness taking over my body, and here I am watching it from a different point of view. I want to shake the death out of my own eyes, and remove the thought that I will never amount to anything. I reach out to my still body, my eyes staring blankly at my text book. It all fades one more time and I am back in the field of flowers that now looks lifeless and empty. The light is closing in on me making it hard to breathe. I want a ticket out of here, I want to see the sparkling stars of Wyoming and the painted deserts of Arizona. I want to see the world, but now I’m here, in a field of plastic flowers, watching the fluorescent lights flicker.
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