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[sp0o0kylights]

Part one here:: link

"oh i dunno if Im going to finish this" I say, right before the plot ate me. anyway this was too big to post in full to tumblr. If you want the full, completed fic (with bonus Fun Fic Facts tm) it is finished and up on A03 here:: link

TW vomiting, drug use

Eddie is good.

Eddie is kind.

Eddie does not run over Henderson’s bike, laying haphazardly in Harrington’s pristine driveway, even if it would make him feel better. 

He does slam his van into park with enough force to make the brakes squeal, which he decides is an excellent way to announce his appearance to the entire neighborhood. 

It’s a move he’s pulled countless times. Charging in and making a scene meant people forgot that he couldn’t actually fight for shit, and equally, took their attention off whatever their original target was.

Which in this case, was Eddie’s too fucking nice freshman. 

The rage pulsing through him is white hot and all encompassing, and it’ll get him through a lot--but the switchblade he carries ensures everyone’s safety in these little matters. 

It makes him brave.

Braver than he should be really, but Eddie spent the entire drive over here chain smoking out the window while prepping for this little confrontation and the more he’d thought it all over, the madder he got.

That a washed up jock thought he could still take advantage of actual children. 

Nevermind Hellfire, or Henderson ditching, or Sinclaire’s ranting. 

This was about their relationship with Harrington. 

A picture has been building in Eddie’s head. One that’s only gotten clearer after today, and one he will be putting an end to, because he doesn’t believe for a second Harrington has a headache. 

Henderson might always be the smartest person in the room, but he’s dumb as hell socially. Too honest, too blunt, and frankly, too goodhearted. 

That makes him easy to take advantage of. 

Sinclair was worse--the guy was too easy to guilt trip. 

It was a noted issue with his ranger, and apparently, himself, and Eddie could easily see how Harrington could have twisted the idea of some ridiculous life-debt to keep Lucas in his clutches.  

Even Mayfield, Billy Hargrove’s former stepsister, was wrapped up in Harrington enough to have a go at her own friends over him! 

She wasn’t even one of his flock, but Eddie was her neighbor. Saw how her mom was barely home. How she was practically raising herself, head down, doing her best not to ever let people see her cry. 

Yeah.

Wouldn’t exactly be difficult for a guy like Steve Harrington to swoop in and take advantage there. 

Wheeler clearly wasn’t a fan and Eddie can only come up with reason after reason as to why--King Jackass had the poor kid’s entire friend group under some kind of--of sick spell.

Well. 

Eddie was here to break it. 

Even if it meant storming into the King’s castle by himself and calling him out on his shit. 

Nobody fucked with his people. Especially not douchebag, washed up jocks. 

He’s up to Harringotn’s ridiculous double doors in a flash, banging hard on the wood with a closed fist, positively fuming and uncaring of who sees. 

Surprise, surprise, it’s Henderson who opens it.

“Eddie?” He says, blinking up at him like he’s not sure of what he’s seeing.  “What are you--hey!” 

Hey, because Eddie’s pushed past him, storming into the house. 

“This has gone on long enough.” He announces, loud as he ever has been. “Where the hell’s Harrington?”

Henderson, frustratingly, does not weep or throw his hands up in celebration of Eddie’s incoming rescue. 

Which is fine--Eddie hasn’t broken the spell yet.

Unfortunately he is bitching, in that infamously annoying tone of his.

“Dude, shut up, Steve’s pills really only work for like, an hour--” 

“Fantastic, he’ll be clear headed for our little talk.” Eddie tells him, head sweeping left and  right as he looks for his target. He’s been in Casa de Harrington a few times before to deal, but it was always at night.

He can now say with perfect honesty that the place looks worse in the bright light of the day. 

“Was that Eddie?” Sinclair calls, and Eddie orients towards him instantly, storming down the hall. 

It doesn’t take long to find the kid. 

 Lucas is standing in a kitchen larger than Eddie’s entire trailer, a too-large pink apron drowning his frame. 

He turns, revealing the front of the thing has  ‘Whisk Taker’ written on it in syrupy white font. 

(Baking puns. Disgusting.) 

“Are you cooking?” Eddie accuses with a sneer, though his disgust isn’t aimed at the freshmen. 

This is exactly what he was afraid of finding. 

Lucas just stares at him. “Uh--yeah?” 

“What did I say about too many people, Munson?” Mayfrield spits angrily. It takes a second to locate her--the kitchen is enormous and far too white--but eventually Eddie realizes she’s perched up on a counter next to the largest sink he’s ever seen. 

For a second, Eddie thinks that’s just where she’s chosen to sit. Then she moves, and he realizes she’s washing and drying a series of water bottles. 

He never in his life thought he’d witness Maxine Mayfield willingly do someone else's dishes. 

“Someone get me Harrington.” He’s not trying for anything dramatic, but his voice must sound dangerous because all three freshmen stop dead, eyes wide as if he's just spoken in tongues.

He zeroes in on Dustin with a glare. “Now.”

Who huffs, throwing his hands up in the air like Eddie’s the one being unreasonable here. 

“Absolutely not--we just got Steve to sit down. He’s been following me around the house insisting I’m causing more problems than I’m fixing!”

“Because you are.” Steve says, voice dripping with calm condescension as he appears like a wraith in the doorway. “And I know you’re all into the whole dungeon game, Munson, but this is a little dramatic, even for you.”

Eddie whirls to face him, already vibrating with fury. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who’s treating them like his personal minions. What’s next, Harrington? Gonna make them re-shingle the roof? Paint your house? Wax your car?”

Steve gives him a flat, almost disbelieving stare. “Do you seriously think I had Henderson miss your game just so I could lounge around while he’s doing chores?”

Eddie doesn’t bite, too busy unloading. “Oh we can both see it’s more than that.”

He doesn’t notice the way Steve’s jaw tenses, or how his hand creeps up to the side of his head, rubbing at his temple. 

“Anything else you want done, Harrington? Maybe make ‘em mow the lawn?” Eddie sneers. “Or teach ‘em to plump your pillows just the way you like—”

Steve finally snaps, pushing himself upright. “You know what Munson, you're right,” he says, voice tight with barely-contained frustration. “I’m clearly a terrible person they need to be rescued from so--”  

He cuts himself off with a hiss,  eyes squeezing shut as his hand goes to the side of his head, and spits out his next words like they hurt. 

“You can play the good guy and take them all home.” 

Dustin, with an exasperated sigh, steps between them. “No,” he tells Steve sternly, as if managing an unruly child, before spinning on his heel to say the exact same thing, in the exact same tone--to Eddie. 

(Jackass freshman can’t even appreciate when they’re being actively rescued!) 

“Eddie, I promise that this isn’t what it looks like.” 

For anyone else it would sound like a plea, but Henderosn somehow makes it condescending.

“We can explain, alright?” Dustin says, raising his hands as though coaxing a skittish animal. “Will you let us explain? Please?”

Eddie glowers. 

“You clearly do not, in fact, know what this looks like. Because if you did,” 

Eddie can make himself menacing and he does so now, pulling on every single year of drama and theatrics and lying to cops he’s had, pushing his shoulders back and making his body tall.

“You would know that it looks like a guy who peaked in high school is forcing a bunch of fourteen year olds to do his bidding.” 

He takes an aggressive step towards Steve, boots thunking hard on the floor. “And that isn’t happening on my watch.” 

“Aren’t you like an extra super senior?” Mayfield says, arms crossed over her chest. 

“Irrelevant!” Eddie swats the air in her direction, as if to physically bat away her words. “I’m still in high school and I’m not emotionally blackmailing a bunch of kids into waiting on me hand and foot while I fake a headache!” 

“Oh ew.” Max’s nose scrunches in disgust, a mixture of disbelief and fury warring on her face. “That is not what’s happening here.” 

“Were you even listening earlier?!” Lucas says, like he can’t quite believe Eddie is this dumb. 

(His character will be the next to die, so Eddie swears.) 

“I did.” Eddie points a finger at him, triumphant. “I heard all about how he’s tricked you into thinking you owe him a life-debt!”

“A what?” Harrington’s squinting, like he’s struggling to follow along what is happening. It’s a halfway decent sick act, Eddie will give it to him, but he knows the facade will drop in a moment. 

As soon as the asshole loses his temper and decides to try and throw Eddie out, he’ll switch from the Poor Me act into the usual pompous, rich dick on a rampage persona. 

“How he’s saved you all, convinced you and Henderson that you’re in debt to him.” 

“Could we just---please stop yelling?” Steve says in the background, heel pressing hard against his eyes. 

Then winces like his own voice hurts his head.

“What the hell, Eddie?!” Dustin’s cut across the room, stepping in between the two older teens. “Where did this even come from!?��� 

“Guys.” 

“The mouths of babes, Henderson. Which you would know if you witnessed Sinclair’s rant instead of missing out because King Dickhead demanded your presence at his castle!” 

“Guys.” Steve’s voice abruptly takes on a weird tone, and it’s only Mayfield’s eyes popping wide that has Eddie realizing something is wrong--right before Harrington shoots past him, noisily hurling in the sink.

“Gross!” Max shrieks, throwing herself off the counter. 

Harrington aims a shaky middle finger in her direction. 

“I just washed those bottles Steve, I'm not washing them again!” Mayfield rants, but she’s not fooling anyone. Not with the way she’s already edging back towards him, like she’s afraid he might fall over. 

(Worse, like she might try to catch him, as if Harrington’s broad, barbarian-like shoulders wouldn’t flatten her instantly.) 

“Al-’right.” Harrington slurs a moment later, still panting over the sink. “Everyone--out. Now.” 

“Steve--” 

“Nope. Making it worse. Out.” 

He manages to stand and turn, leaning hard against the counter and for the first time since this all started, Eddie looks at him. 

Properly, and not through the lens of righteous fury. 

Harrington’s pale.

The shirt he’s wearing is stained with sweat marks, his sweatpants clearly old and worn for comfort rather than style. 

His hair…

Eddie has never seen Harrington without his infamously perfect hairdo, and the messy, slick waves plastered to his forehead is more of a shock then him vomiting in the sink. 

He’s got his hands pressed hard against his eyes again, and there’s a slight tremble in his fingers that belay he’s likely in a lot more pain than he’s letting on.

In short, Harrington looks like absolute shit, and Eddie, maybe, possibly, the tiniest bit believes he actually has a migraine. 

Well, it was that or he was really committed to the bit… 

The tense silence that has befallen them all is ruined when Harrington makes a ‘hurk.’ noise.

“I’m going to throw up again.” He decides after a moment of contemplation, before whipping back around to the sink and doing just that. 

“Steve’s right.” Mayfield decides suddenly, over all the nasty noises. “We should leave.” 

“I’m almost done cooking!” Sinclair protests, as if Harrington isn’t presently throwing up the contents of his stomach. 

“You’re almost done burning things, you mean.” Max mutters, but her words can’t hide the blatant concern written all over his face. “I don’t think he’s going to keep anything down.” 

“He needs us to finish what we started.” Dustin argues passionately. “You know how bad he gets, he’s not gonna be able to get up in an hour!” 

(A clear exaggeration, because Harrington looks like he’s not gonna make it across the kitchen unassisted.) 

“What I need is for everyone to stop talking so fucking loud.” Harrington moans, before appearing to give up on life entirely. 

He sort of sags against the counter, resting his head against his arms while bent double, as if that would help things. 

It was at this point that Eddie had the most unfortunate realization that he might be the asshole here. 

Because Harrington looks rough--and if he actually does in fact, have a migraine, then Eddie has done nothing but make it worse.

(Very likely the freshmen have as well, given Dustin is incapable of talking in anything other than a loud yell, and the smell of Lucas’s burnt food has permeated the air.

Mayfield seemed to have accomplished a small amount of actual work, at least.

…If Harrington managed to miss throwing up on the water bottles.) 

“Look,” Harrington interrupts with an audible, thick swallow.“You guys did great, and I appreciate the uh, help. I’m fine, I promise, you can all go home. Munson,” 

He doesn’t turn, but his voice does change into something that’s half pleading, half demanding.

“Can we please fight about this tomorrow? Or next week?” 

“No fighting!” Dustin shrieks, which has the effect of making Harrington cringe into the counter--and that is what finally kicks Eddie over.

Bows to the instincts that now want to wrap up Harrington in a blanket over the ones that want to strangle him, (though both are very much at odds in his head with each other.)

“We can put a pin in it.” He says, all the venom dropping out of his voice,  already knowing what’s going to happen next and hating himself for it. 

Even at his absolute worst, Eddie has never been able to resist trying to fix a problem he’s been presented with--or turn down someone who needs help.

Harrington, clearly, needs help. 

“You heard him.” He tells his freshman, then immediately holds up a hand when all three try to protest at once. 

“Ah-ah, inside voices.” He himself uses a harsh whisper, and then has to fight not to laugh aloud when all three abruptly eye him like he’s lost his head.

He probably has.

(Fucking King Steve.

No one who is that much of a douchebag should ever look that pathetic without deserving it, it’s against the Munson doctrine.) 

“Henderson, have you done anything actually useful while you’ve been here? Like, say, getting a warm washcloth?” 

“I--oh.” Dustin’s on the defense instantly, but for once actually listens before he finishes his sentence. “Uh. No.”

“Go do that then.” Eddie instructs, making sure to keep his voice quiet and even. 

“Sinclair, toss out the eggs, then take the garbage out so it’ll stop stinking up the place. Mayfield, see if these windows open. Harrington…” 

He pauses, watching as Harrington tries to gather himself, moving slowly and deliberately like even breathing hurts. His entire appearance is grating Eddie’s nerves—not because he doesn’t care, but because he does, and that’s infuriating. 

“Go lay down, man.” He finishes lamely. 

He expects the freshmen to listen to him. Knows they will, in his heart of hearts, even if they bitch back, because that’s just how things are when he decides to take charge. So few people truly want to, that others are often relieved when he does. 

Steve Harrington is not most people.

If he argues, he could very well tip things out of control again, which means Eddie is likely going to have to force the trio of fourteen year olds out of the house. 

Henderson and Sinclair he can manage but Mayfield…

Thankfully, Steve pushes off the counter with a groan, muttering something under his breath, but slowly making his way toward the couch without any other protest. 

The freshmen exchange glances, all of them looking just as unsure as Eddie feels. Like they’re waiting for instructions now that their default leader is down for the count.

He clears his throat pointedly. 

“Hello? Did I not give you marching orders?” He bats his hands at them. “Go march!” 

Mayfield mutters something that sounds an awful lot like “hypocrite” but thankfully, does as asked. 

“Are you gonna give us a ride home?” Henderson asks as he finally starts moving around--hopefully to get a damn washcloth. 

“You got yourself here, you can get yourself home.” Eddie scoffs back, taking stock of Harrington’s kitchen. 

He eyes the line of pain pills laid out on the counter, quickly noting not one of them is anything that would help with a sneeze let alone a migraine. 

Typical. 

“Why not?” Dustin disappeared down a hallway, but the fact Eddie can still hear him plain as day speaks to his ability to keep quiet. “You have your van, don’t you?” 

“Because I’m not leaving when you three are leaving.” 

It’s an absentminded comment, given his mind is elsewhere. 

Weed may be his bread and butter but he does have a handful of more serious things on offer. 

Of those things, one or two have some fun little unexpected side effects, and if Eddie recalls Rick’s yapping right, one of said things was stopping headaches. 

Said magic little mushrooms might even be in a pocket or two, here, if he remembers right… 

“Wait, you're staying here?” Lucas protests, far too loudly. 

"Ssszzhh!" Eddie hisses, drawing out the sound dramatically, mostly for the sake of cutting off whatever protests were coming his way. 

“No arguing. Your beloved King clearly needs a nap, and that means you’re all off duty. Unless," he adds with a raised eyebrow, "you intend to watch him sleep?"

Dustin looks torn, but mutters a quiet, "No," his eyes shifting sideways like he's weighing the logic.

"Good. Then if you’re all finished…?”

He waits for the nods he knows are coming. 

“Excellent. Now leave." Eddie says, pointing towards the door. 

They hesitate for a second, but then finally begin to shuffle out, the door clicking quietly behind them. 

And just like that, Eddie’s left standing there, watching Steve breathe shallowly on the couch--with a washrag over his eyes.

(At least Dustin managed that.) 

He could leave now. 

Should leave, really. Giving out drugs for free is not exactly a good business move and Steve will no doubt sleep the headache off without it. But Eddie’s feet don't seem to agree with him, rooted in place as his gaze lingers on the sharp line of Steve's jaw, the slight twitch of his brow every time a muscle aches.

Feels the pull, deep in his gut, to provide the relief he knows he can give. 

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s moving, crossing the room toward him.

“Munson?” Harrington squints up at him as he registers his presence, washcloth nudged upwards by shaky fingers. “Why’r you still ‘ere?” 

“Because I’m stupid.” Eddie mutters, right before realizing he actually said that outloud. 

“What?” 

Thank God for Harrington’s headache. 

“You look terrible, man.”  Eddie says slightly louder. “That hair of yours is so flat I think your crown’s gonna fall right off.” 

He’d meant it as a joke--spoke it like one, but it seems to snap Harrington out of his pity party. 

The sigh that blasts out of him is a whole body affair, and gets his feelings across better than his words do. “I get it. You thought this was something else and it wasn’t. Not the first time that’s happened.” 

He turns, cheek scraping against the fabric of his shirt, red rimmed eyes squinting against the light to look at Eddie. 

“You got your laugh in, so you can go.” 

There’s defeat in his voice. Like he’s accepted this might as well have happened. 

(Like he’s just as beaten down as anyone Eddie has ever saved.) 

“I didn’t stick around to laugh.” Eddie keeps his voice soft, and that somehow, makes the next part easier to say.  

“I honestly thought you were messing around with Henderson and Sinclair, and I uh, I’m used to being the only person who gives a shit. When that kind of thing happens.” 

Harrington grimaces. 

“It’s okay.” he mutters, eyes sliding closed once more. “Most people still think I’m an asshole.”

His tone has gone odd again, wrecked and rasping, migraine clearly trumping whatever strong feelings he had on the matter. 

And the stupid thing was, Harrington himself was never really an asshole. 

Sure he went along with the assholes, and he definitely egged them on if not outright participated in some of the lower tier shitty activities, but he wasn’t the guy slamming people into lockers. 

(Eddie, in fact, has a hazy memory of Steve telling off Hagan for doing said locker slamming.) 

It didn’t make him a good guy--he’d had slung too many insults around to get that label--but in the rankings of assholery, his was of the average variety. 

Which means that Eddie cannot logic himself out of his own stupid desire to help.

Even if he really, really wants to.

“Yeah well, even assholes need assistance sometimes, and since I kicked your help out, it’s on to make up for it.” 

“No offense,” Steve slurs tiredly, “but I don’t think you’re any quieter than Dustin.” 

A smile ghosts over Eddie’s face. 

“I live in a tiny ass trailer, Harrington. Trust me,  I know how to be quiet. I simply choose not to be.” He moves, slow and careful, until he’s seated next to the fallen King on his stupidly huge (and very uncomfortable) couch. 

Steve’s eye follows him over, staring up as he white knuckles his sweatpants, washrag sitting crooked on his forehead. 

“I’m not sure I’m not gonna throw up again.” He admits after a moment. 

“And that right there is one of the things I can help with. Provided,” Eddie waggles his eyebrows, “that you don’t mind taking a more recreational route for your recovery?” 

“....are you offering me drugs?” 

“I am indeed.” Eddie confirms with a real smile, plucking the offending baggie out of a pocket. 

“You ever done shrooms, your majesty?” 

Steve huffs a quiet noise that might have been a snort, had he put any effort behind it. 

“How is that going to help?” 

“Be-cauuuuuse,” Eddie draws the words out, still a showman even if he is doing his level best to talk as quietly as possible, “shrooms are what we call a psychedelic, and those are pretty well known among certain circles as the headache healer.” 

Provided one took the medicinal amount and not the down-the-rabbit-hole amount. 

Harrington’s eyes are back open, only this time they’re looking at Eddie’s fingers the same way a dog looks at a nail trimmer: concerned and not entirely unsure it wasn’t going to bite him. 

“I’m not…” He cuts himself off, frowning. 

“You’ve bought plenty of my weed, Harrington. Trust me this isn’t any different.” Eddie tells him. 

Isn’t offended in the slightest--this reaction is pretty typical for people who have only smoked the ganja. 

Even the ones who asked to try for something with a little more ‘umph.’ 

“S’not that.”Steve admits quietly. “I uh. Had a bad trip. While back.” 

“Ah, gunshy.” Eddie says it without a lick of judgment, because Eddie’s been there.

Or rather in the shower, at two am because he accidentally spilled LSD on his hand and promptly tripped balls for 48 hours after.  

 “I’ll hang around a bit, if you like.” He offers casually. “Make sure things don’t go sideways.”

He gets another huff-snort as Harrington’s watery eyes return their attention to him. 

“And what are you going to do if they do go sideways?”

“Put you back together again.”  

Eddie knows his grin is crooked, but can’t help it. He’s thinking about Humpty Dumpty and the King’s Men.  

Somehow he doesn’t see Steve Harrington cracking that easily—at least, not without putting up a good fight—but drugs did worse things to better people. 

“It really helps?” Steve asks, voice quiet. Doubtful.

Eddie presses his hands to his chest. “Scouts honor.”

“You were not a boy scout.” Steve tells him, but he’s struggling to sit up anyway, looking game. 

“Alright, so how do I do this?” He asks, though he’s already halfway down again, propped up on his elbows.

“First, you lay back down, and I’ll brew it into tea,” Eddie explains. 

“Tea?”

“Well, you could eat them straight, but I don’t think they’d taste too great. Not that I wouldn’t mind watching you try.”

Steve scowls. “Sadist.”

“Guilty,” Eddie replies, biting back the urge to sing-song it, keeping his voice down and steady. “Just a heads-up: they kick in fast, but I’ll go light on you—nothing like the ‘fun’ dose for the usual crowd.”

Which is how he ends up back in the kitchen, this time making tea and humming to himself, before offering the final brewed concoction to Harrington.

Who downs it like a shot, because he’s a fucking frat-bro at heart. 

“I didn’t find a teacup for you to do that.” 

Between a full-body shudder and a dramatic grimace, Steve chokes out “Not gonna lie I didn’t think we owned a teacup.” 

“What, do you think I just have them in my van?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” 

Which is kind of hysterical, and something Eddie may be doing--not that he’s telling Harrington that. 

“And now we wait!” He announces instead of rambling about teacups, nearly clapping his hands together before he remembers the migraine Steve is soldiering through with surprising grit. 

Eddie himself would have turned into a whiny mess, so he can’t help but admire the guy’s restraint.

“Waiting to see if I hurl again, you mean?” Steve mutters, flopping backward onto the couch. “That tasted like battery acid.”

“Think it’s coming back up?”

“No clue.”

They sit in silence for a second, then Eddie pokes, “Maybe it’s best if you crash in your room, man. You look like death warmed over, and this couch sucks.” 

An understatement, if there ever was one. The fucking thing didn’t seem to be made for people to actually sit on. 

Reluctantly, Steve pulls himself up, heading toward his room. Eddie tags along, snarky grin covering the way he holds his hands out in case the jock ahead of him slips on the stairs and takes them both out. 

(Unlike Mayfield, Eddie does not pretend Steve doesn’t outclass him weight wise. The man was built like a brickhouse, and he has to fight to keep his eyes up toward Steve’s hair instead of on his ass.) 

Thankfully, he’s saved from all R-rated thoughts by the sheer horror of Harrington’s bedroom. 

“Harrington, I’ve found the source of all your migraines.” Eddie tells him, tone as serious as he’s ever been.

“Ha-ha.” Steve deadpans, stepping into his plaid fucking room. 

“I’m not kidding, I’m getting a headache and I’ve been here less than five seconds.” 

The whole place truly is a nightmare--like someone took one of those plaid hunting jackets and themed an entire room around it. 

Fucking rich people. 

“Trust me, it’s not the wallpaper.” 

“Given how you’re weaving on your feet, I think it’s safe to say I don’t trust you at all.” Eddie tells him, half helping half dragging Steve towards the bed. 

It’s a comfy looking thing and Harrington falls into it gratefully, immediately crawling under the covers. 

“You know where to find me?” Eddie asks him, refusing to think Harrington snuggling up in his bed is something cute. 

“Yeah?”

“Good. Hit me up next time your head gets bad. I’ll make sure to keep some of this,” He shakes the little baggie, “on hand.” 

Steve’s pulled the covers all the way up past his chin, but he moves it down a little to properly cock an eye at Eddie. 

“Dare I ask what you're gonna charge for that?”

“Let’s call it a fair trade for all those times you’ve driven the freshman home from Hellfire.” 

If Steve even recalls this conversation, that is. Eddie hadn’t exactly given him the “fun” kind of dose, but then, he himself has never tested out what dose is needed to cure headaches rather than simply having  fun destroying one's own ego. 

He supposes that’s something he and Harrington both will have to test, between them--because Eddie meant it when he offered the drugs for free.

No one deserves to suffer from the kind of migraine Harrington clearly had. 

“Think you’re good to drop off.” Eddie tells him, after making sure Steve is happily content in his bed. 

Checks his watch to make sure enough time has passed to safely call it, before beginning to attempt his way out of Steve’s god-awful bedroom. 

Which of course, is when Harrington reaches out, looping his fingers around Eddie’s wrist. 

It freezes him in place. 

In a moment that is so utterly selfish and stupid that Eddie will loudly insist it was a hallucination should Harrington ever dare ask about it, he turns his palm and moves so that he’s clasping Steve’s fingers with his own. 

“Thanks. For all this.” Steve whispers, as they hold hands for a moment. 

Eddie squeezes his fingers against the younger man’s before he moves to make his retreat, flashing a peace sign over his shoulder as he goes.  

“Anytime, big boy.” 

Anytime. 

xxx

The thing no one tells you about creating a doctrine, is that at some point or another, someone’s going to hold you to it. 

In Eddie’s case it’s four very pissed off teenagers.

He has a gold medal in mental gymnastics and a silver in denial. Left on his own devices he could easily excuse everything that happened yesterday. 

Reclassify the fallen King as pathetic, and the kids' weird loyalty to him as a holdover from his babysitting days. 

Blame their nosy-ness on them being involved in Harrington’s life, and happily go back to mocking their relationship with renewed vigor because now he’s not going to handwave their behavior as being afraid of Harrington. 

Nope, they clearly and willingly, have attached themselves to the King, which means Eddie gets to make fun of them for life. 

Pity they don’t leave Eddie to his own devices. 

In fact, the little shits hit him up first thing in the morning, early enough that he's’ a little suspicious that the boys slept over at Max’s trailer. 

“We’re not done talking about Steve.” Mayfield tells him and given the determined (Henderson) angry (Sinclair) and put out (Wheeler Jr.) faces glaring at him from over her shoulder, Eddie figures his chances for getting out of this conversation are slim to none.

“Good morning to you too.” He snarks, voice gravel-deep with sleep. “What do you little shits want?”

“I literally just said.” Max rolls her eyes so hard he thinks about commenting that they may stick back there, only to decide that makes him sound too much like a teacher for his liking. 

(Besides if they get stuck, he’ll have an excuse to whack her on the back of her head without getting murdered for it.

…well. 

An attempt at an excuse, anyway.) 

“And who says I have anything I want to talk about?” He fires back, leaning a shoulder against the old metal doorframe. 

Just because he understood what they wanted didn’t mean he was going to make it easy. 

“Would you just let us in?” 

“No.” 

“Eddie.” Dustin whines, and Eddie redirects his frown his way. “Come on.” 

“Well I suppose if you say it that way,” Eddie hums thoughtfully. “No.” 

“Steve’s sick, you asswipe.” Max snaps angrily. 

“I know,” He volleys back, brightly sarcastic. “I saw him yesterday.”

Because it’s Mayfield, she matches him tit for tat, a mimicry of his sarcastic drawl entering her voice. “Good! You get to see him today too.”

And just like that their little ambush makes sense.

(He’s got to find a new way to get the damn kids to fear him, clearly his usual menacingness  just isn’t cutting it anymore.) 

“And why would I do that?” 

He’s done his good deed. He helped Harrington out, and even offered free drugs to help him get his migraines under control. 

Checking up on the guy was overkill.  

“We were gonna do it, but someone let it slip that Steve was sick.” A cutting glance is given to Henderson, who makes a face but otherwise holds his ground. 

“And his mom called everyone else's parents with instructions that we leave him alone until he feels better.”  

“So now if we go over there,” Sinclair finishes for his girlfriend, “we get grounded.” 

Which neatly answers every question that just popped into Eddie’s head. 

The threat makes sense for the boys--Eddie’s met Claudia Henderson and though she has that bubbly, easy to confuse nature of suburbanites everywhere, there was an undercurrent in her eyes of someone who knew more than she was letting on. 

Or perhaps, someone who simply knew what they wanted, and was happy to settle and wait for it. 

 Likewise the Sinclair and Wheeler parental units seem to want to keep in her--and Steve’s, no doubt, given he carts their kids around--good graces. 

Given Mayfield’s mom wasn’t even home last night, her participation in this farce does not make sense and Eddie narrows his eyes at her in warning. 

“I fail to see how this is my problem.” He says instead of directly calling her out.

She knows he knows, and he’s smart enough to figure out how to relay that without saying it directly. 

(An action taken out of respect for surviving a bad home life, and absolutely not because he’s terrified she’ll crawl through his window to enact revenge in the middle of the night.) 

“It’s your problem because you owe him one.” she tells him firmly. “And us.”

Oh no he does not. 

“How so?” He challenges with a snorted laugh. 

“You did kind of storm into his house and yell a lot.” Sinclair points out. He’s doing better at speaking up, Eddie realizes with a twisted sense of pride and dread. 

Not quite so easy to steamroll after his outburst yesterday. 

A part of him hopes that sticks around--Sinclair needs a spine, and not just because Mayfield will keep running circles around him until he grows one. 

The rest of Eddie is pissed off that he decided to get one now, when it directly impacted Eddie’s Saturday morning sleeping plans.  

Leave it to these dickheads to use a good deed against him.

“Look--we can’t make sure he’s okay. You can.” Mayfield steps up to jam a painted fingernail in Eddie’s chest. “He won’t let us do anything that will actually help him. You, he can't stop.” 

He does not take a step backward and thus lose all the cool points he has left in the eyes of the younger Hellfire members, but only because he’s already leaned up against the doorframe. 

He bares his teeth at her in a silent snarl instead. 

“We made it worse.” She admits, voice sharp. “And I don’t know how to make it better, but you seem to be able to, so congrats Munson--you get to go again!” 

Which gets Eddie’s back right up. 

He pushes off the doorframe, ready to tell Mayfield--and all his little dipshits--right off, except this is when Wheeler Jr., of all people, decides to add in his two cents. 

“If you don’t go, no one else will.” He looks off to the side while he says it, arms crossed tight across his chest and spitting the words out like he's admitting to a crime. “Robin’s not coming back until Monday and Nancy's got some stupid thing, so you’re literally the only person who can go.” 

Well just stab him in the heart, why don’t you. 

“What are the chances of you fucking back off to whatever hole you crawled out of if I refuse?” He asks, already knowing that he’s done for.

Accepted his fate, because he knows what it’s like not to have someone to rely on, when you need them the most. 

“Zero.” Sinclair and Henderson chant as one. 

“Well then.” He tells them with the biggest, most put upon sigh he can manage. “Guess you got me in a box here.” 

Mayfield grins at him.

It reminds him vaguely of a shark. 

A bloodthirsty, slightly demonic, mean shark. 

“Good. Go get dressed.”

“Oh I’m doing this right now, am I?” He complains, but he’s already moving to go back into his trailer. 

“We’re not leaving until you do!” Mayfield yells at him.

Eddie slams the door in her face. 

(He’s never adopting freshmen again, as long as he fucking lives.)

[narnour-momo-007]

another doodle dump for my really talented bud @mack-timelines :]

[deancrowleycas]

meat man

[shares-a-vest]

@steddielovemonth Day 1: Love is... Letting someone take care of you (Prompt by @starryeyedjanai)

wc: 722 | Rated: G | tw: the ever-present possibility of Steve vomiting, migraines

Tags: Sick Fic, Steve Has a Migraine, Caregiver Eddie

Eddie makes his way down the hall, following the sounds of gross, loud and retching coughs, his pace quickening with each step.

Steve was supposed to meet him at the arcade an hour ago. Steve isn’t exactly the most punctual person (despite the guy always looking at his watch with a laboured sigh). He sleeps in more often than not.

But he’s never an hour late at 2 in the afternoon.

“Stevie?” he asks, just narrowly missing the doorframe as he practically spins into Steve’s bedroom.

He doesn’t wait for an answer and tiptoes towards the blanketed form that is spluttering gibberish like Steve is attempting to answer.

Eddie looks around the room, his hand hovering over Steve’s form.

The place looks about the same as usual – a little too clean for the bedroom of a twenty-year-old boy, curtains drawn like they were downstairs. Steve’s work clothes from yesterday are discarded on the floor...

Wait.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, rubbing the blanketed mass now.

The lump moves to reveal a muss of Steve’s hair, sticking on end, looking greasy and tangled at the back. Steve grumbles.

Eddie rounds the bed, hoping the other side will reveal Steve at least a little.

“So dizzy,” Steve mutters as soon as Eddie spots his flush, pained face in amongst his bedding.

His eyes roll back and close, a full-bodied grimace shaking the pile of bedding.

Eddie eases down and reaches to comb his fingers through Steve’s fringe, only to be hit with just how clammy his boyfriend is. He swoops back the sweat-caked hair, patting it down gently.

“Think I’m gonna… throw up,” Steve says clear as day and gulps.

And Eddie thinks this might be the first time he has ever seen someone’s face flush green.

“I’ll go get your bucket,” he says, earning a reedy whine in protest.

Steve doesn’t embarrass easily, but he does when it comes to his (sometimes vomit-inducing) migraines and the yellow bucket Claudia Henderson brought by after Spring Break and demanded he keep close by. It sits under the sink in the ensuite bathroom now.

Eddie makes quick work of retrieving the bucket, plus some tissues and a glass of water. There are more supplies he could do with, he thinks, but they’ll have to wait.

“Come on, Big Boy,” he says, tugging at the covers, “Time to sit up.”

Steve moves at a snail’s pace to get himself untangled from his cocoon and sit upright. The blankets eventually fall away to reveal a flush, bare chest.

“You naked under there?” Eddie teases.

“Clothes sting,” is all Steve says as he swings his legs around with a monumental effort to hang off the side of the bed.

“Feet on the carpet, sweetheart,” Eddie instructs, placing the bucket in his lap and spotting it with his own hands.

“I’s gross,” Steve mutters, head falling into the receptacle, his voice echoing in its (so far) emptiness, “Go... away.”

He sways a little as if those limited, broken words were too much. Eddie wraps his free hand around his boyfriend’s middle.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he begins, “And you are not gross. You need help. I’m here now.”

He soothes his hand up Steve’s back, feeling him relax a touch.

“O-okay,” Steve hiccups, a tear falling onto his cheek.

“I’m here to look after you,” Eddie reassures, his voice barely above a whisper, “And I’ll get you good enough that we can pack you up and get you over to my house. Sound good, hmm?”

Steve half-nods into his bucket before he looks up.

His eyes are glassy. Nose red. His fringe now sticking to his forehead. He looks like a wreck, unkempt and sweaty. Now only a pale, pink-tinged green.

But Eddie leans forward and presses a kiss to his partner’s cheek anyway.

“Just think about your feet on the carpet, okay?” he whispers when he pulls back, “Your feet are planted on the ground – balanced, steady. Focus on that for a while. It’s okay if you throw up.”

Steve huffs and nods.

“‘Kay.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Steve.”

Steve drops his head towards the bucket again and Eddie begins detangling at the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

“Thanks,” Steve rasps after a long while of silence (and him not blowing chucks everywhere), “L-Love you.”

[chaotic-orphan]

Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (5)

Read part one here // Continued from here

Heed the TW (and mind yourselves please <3):

TW: emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, vomiting, forced vomiting, violence, elements of psychosis, psychosis episode-like symptoms, vulnerable whumpee, intimate whumper, older brother whumper, young sibling whumpee, gaslighting, manipulation, sick whump, sickness whump, illness whump, reuniting with whumper, PTSD, facing whumper who gave PTSD, bad family relationships,

~*~*~*~*~*~

Villain eyed Superhero wearily. Despite all their training, all their progress, Superhero had a height and weight advantage over Villain. His broad shoulders stood proud, supporting his stupid head, with his smirk that made Villain’s stomach crawl. They needed to get out of here, to get help.

They wouldn’t make it to the door in the condition they were in, so that was out of the question. His eyes flicked to the couch where he was asleep not a few minutes ago, which felt like a lifetime now. He couldn’t see his phone. He needed to call Hero, but maybe it was tangled in the blankets?

“I can see the cogs turning, Vil,” Superhero said with a happy sigh. “If you’re hoping that your precious Hero comes to save you in time, don’t. They’re too busy saving someone worth saving.”

“Shut up!” Villain growled, pushing at Superhero’s chest with their free hand. “Get off of me!”

Superhero chuckled, tsking and shaking his head at Villain’s outburst. Villain’s heart didn’t forget to beat after that, the guilt at his Brother’s disappointment didn’t still affect him. It didn’t.

“Where are your manners, Vil? Jeez, does Hero just let you run wild? That must be so annoying for them.”

“Hero loves me.”

Superhero leaned in, dark eyes glittering with malice. “Oh yeah? Then why aren’t they here looking after you?”

Villain’s face scrunched up. “Because you sent them away!”

“Or are they just so tired with you that they had to get out of the house for a while. It seems like the latter to me. God, I remember how annoying you were. Nobody, not even Hero has enough patience to handle you.”

“Hero loves me,” Villain said again, this time a little quieter.

“No. They don’t. They probably just feel sorry for you and how pathetic you are. Like a wounded baby bird whose wings are too weak to make it fly.”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore! You don’t have to interact with me on a daily basis! Please let me go. Please, Brother, please.”

Superhero pressed a finger to his lips. “Shush. No begging yet, Vil. It’s unbecoming.”

Without warning, Superhero yanked Villain off the wall and was about to throw him to the floor when the pair froze. Villain’s ringtone played mutely from the bedroom. Villain’s eyes widened.

Hero.

Superhero recovered quicker than Villain, a cruel grin on his face as he started dragging Villain towards the bedroom. He got a hand on the back of Villain’s neck and shoved him down so Villain had to walk awkwardly bent over. Superhero opened the door to the bedroom and saw the phone lighting up on the bed.

He threw Villain to the ground beside the bed, laughing as Villain stumbled before he hit the floor with a groan, grabbing Villain’s phone off the bed.

“Aww, Vil. It’s Hero. Probably calling you to tell you that they’re leaving you.”

“Shut up,” Villain hissed, rubbing their hip that took the brunt of the impact.

Superhero turned Villain’s phone to Villain so they could see the picture of Hero laughing, ice-cream in hand, a dollop of mint chocolate chip on the tip of their nose.

“Cute,” Superhero said with a scoff, then put his finger in his mouth and mimed vomiting. Superhero waited for Hero to hang up before scrolling through Villain’s phone. Superhero raised their brows, glancing at Villain over the phone. “You seriously don’t have a passcode or something?”

“Don’t need it.”

Superhero scoffed, turning his attention back to the phone. Villain moved to get to their feet when Superhero’s stare snapped to them. “Don’t move or I’ll kill Hero.”

That froze Villain in their movements, their heart hitching at Superhero’s easy threat. Superhero didn’t seem too bothered by it and soon his face split into a wide smile.

“Aww, look Vil. Hero text: Superhero,” Superhero paused, grinning down at Villain pointing to himself. “That’s me.” Then went back to reading. “Superhero said that he was short staffed, and sent me to West-point so I will be home later than usual. Sorry for leaving you again, there’s soup in the freezer if you feel up to it. I love you. xx.”

Villain tightened their hands into fists by their sides, clenching their jaw against every word that Superhero read. Hero was going to be home later than normal? West-point, that was at least an hour by metro from here and who knows when they’d get home… especially because—

Villain raised their gaze to Superhero who was grinning above them. “You weren’t short-staffed, were you?”

“Of course not,” Superhero said with a smirk. “I just had to get Hero away from you for a while. Hell, even Other Hero and Sidekick should’ve gone to central hospital but I asked for them to be transferred to West-point so we could have some long overdue family time.”

Superhero tapped on Villain’s phone a little longer and grinned after locking the screen, pocketing the phone in his back-pocket. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

Villain glared at him from the ground, a sudden overwhelming helplessness returning to him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Since he moved out of his family home. Now it came back with a viciousness that threatened to drown him and left him clawing against it just to keep his head above the water and his breathing even.

“Now,” Superhero said, inspecting Villain with his piercing gaze. “What to do with you.”

“Just leave,” Villain tried. “Please. I don’t— I’m not apart of your life anymore. You don’t— you don’t have to do this.”

“Vil, Vil, Vil,” Superhero sighed walking towards Villain. “Family doesn’t quit on each other. They never give up on you. I know I don’t have to try and fix you, the truth is I never did. I just wanted what was best for you.”

“Yeah right! You just wanted what was best for you! Can’t have your little brother embarrass you in public!”

Superhero, to Villain’s surprise, softened at that. Villain didn’t trust it for a second.

“You’re right,” Superhero said with a breath. “I was so worried about what kind of shame or embarrassment you would bring on me. I didn’t want people associating failure with us.”

Superhero crouched in front of Villain, tilting his head to the side. A strange smile on his lips, that Villain couldn’t quite discern. It looked whimsical and yet sad, wait— was that a genuine smile? No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s because I saw our potential, Villain,” Superhero said with a scoff. “Y’know, it’s stupid, but when I worked so hard to be Superhero, to become the best and bring prestige to our family name… well, I pushed you hard too because I always imagined that it would be something that we’d do together. Something we’d achieve together. The best brother Superhero duo in history.”

Villain’s heart cracked a little, a swarm of guilt spilling out like a leak in a dam, constricting his chest. Villain longed to reach out, to close the distance between them to apologise for not being able to live up to Superhero’s expectations.

To tell him that Villain tried. He really fucking tried, but Superhero was always stronger, faster, better than he was and he couldn’t be the same.

He didn’t though. He tightened his hands into fists and stared at Superhero who looked six feet deep in fond memories and regrets.

“I’m sorry, Vil.”

It felt as if time stopped. As if the Earth stopped turning, and the world stood frozen. The moment right before a car crash, or something inevitable happening; the cusp that hides between moments like a trapdoor spider, waiting until you lowered your guard before attacking and killing you.

Villain’s voice was a whisper: “what?”

Superhero swallowed, forcing himself to meet Villain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Villain.”

There was no joke or humour in Superhero’s face as he said that, again. Apologised? Again! But— but— Villain’s brain was fried from their flu because this must be another trick? Another hallucination. Superhero being sorry for something? Feeling remorse?

“I’m sorry about what happened on the outside, how people perceived us, what you said and did outside the house that I didn’t even think about how it all must’ve effected you. I’m sorry that I wasted all that time trying to correct your behaviour outside the house when really,” Superhero’s hand shot out like a viper to grab Villain by the throat, slamming him back against the wall. “Really I should’ve focused more on your manners and knowing your fucking place.”

Superhero stood, bringing Villain with him and threw him across the room. Villain tried to catch themselves before their face hit the wall by throwing their hands out, but they landed awkwardly on their wrist and the pain ricocheted down their arm. Villain hissed, retracting their arm but they didn’t have time to react before a hand was in their hair and bashing their skull against the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Villain went dumb from the impact, their brain struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the pain. They felt the pain spread like wildfire through their skull.

The hand in their hair tightened and Villain cried out as they were dragged across the bedroom, back towards the kitchen. They tried to gain purchase on the ground with their knees, but Superhero was moving too fast for them to keep up.

Superhero paused two feet from the doorway. Villain didn’t know why, they just slumped to the ground like a dog in shade during a heatwave. They just needed to catch their breath. Or pass out. Either was a good option.

Superhero didn’t seem to think so. He lifted his hand suddenly, dragging Villain’s head up to look Villain in the eye. Villain hissed, hands clawing at the strong grip on his hair. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

Villain groaned at the impact, moving his hands to try and dislodge Superhero’s hand from his throat. “God. You really are pathetic, aren’t you? Did I not teach you anything?”

Superhero stepped back, dropping all contact from Villain who struggled not to slump down the wall to the floor.

Superhero took two steps back, running a hand down his face, pinning Villain to the wall with a harsh glare. Villain’s entire body was trembling at them, struggling to keep themselves up in case they needed to bolt. But Superhero’s eyes caught every tremor, every flinch or wince.

“You’re still fucking ruining everything. It’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“You really don’t know, do you? You make people weak, Villain.” Villain froze at the emotion colouring Superhero’s voice. “You make people weak, because they feel like they need to look after you, or take care of you. For fuck’s sake, you can barely stand by your-fucking-self! You needed Hero to take days off of work to mind you while you were sick, like some fucking child! Do you know how embarrassing that is!”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore,” Villain spat, tears pinpricking their eyes.

Superhero scoffed. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Superhero studied Villain’s face, the wince after Superhero spoke. Then recognition flashed on his face, putting two and two together.

“You didn’t tell Hero that we’re related,” Superhero said, tilting his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips at Villain’s silence. “Oh that is… that is hilarious. The person you love the most? You’re keeping secrets from them?”

“We are not related,” Villain said, their voice coming out stronger than they felt in that moment. “You are nothing to me. I left you and Mom, and Dad. I left. I made a life for myself, a life where I’m loved by somebody. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“What, you think Hero actually loves you?”

Villain flinched at the words. “Oh you do, don’t you?” Superhero cooed, walking towards Villain again and grabbing their face in his hands. “Oh. You poor fucking idiot. You have no idea how much Hero hates you, do you?”

Villain’s eyes glistened with tears. Superhero slammed Villain’s head back into the wall.

“Do you?”

“Just leave… leave me alone,” Villain begged, tears finally spilling over his eyes. “Please.”

Villain’s hand reached up and curled his fingers around Superhero’s wrist, weakly tugging at it.

“I can make them love you again,” Superhero whispered. “I know how. I can make you worth something in their eyes, isn’t that what you want?”

Villain sniffled, nodding. Superhero cooed, brushing the sweaty hair back from Villain’s face. “I know. I know you’re scared, but big bro’s here now, hmmm? Come on.”

Superhero pulled Villain away from the wall gently, taking Villain’s wrist in his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we—” Villain asked, their voice hitching, wiping away their tears with the sleeve of their shirt. “Where’re we going?”

Villain’s mind only registered they were walking towards the bathroom when Superhero opened the door. Then they started pulling against Superhero’s hold.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” Villain cried, going limp and yanking backwards. Superhero dropped Villain, cursing at them for the sudden weight. Villain took the opportunity to roll onto their stomach, pushing themselves to their hands and knees and rushing forwards. They threw themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly, almost rolling on their ankles but they were standing. They bolted for the door to the bedroom, slamming their shoulder into the doorframe as they propelled themselves out and towards the front door.

A hand caught the back of their shirt and Villain cried out. They were yanked backwards, their head slamming off the doorframe to the bedroom. Villain fell like a sack of bricks and Superhero let them.

Villain blinked up bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the world swimming in a whirlwind of colour. Two Superhero’s appeared above Villain, shaking their heads, as if they were disappointed parents looking down on an unruly child.

“Look at what you did,” Superhero said, the words coming in and out of focus like pulses. He leaned down, crouched above Villain. Then a hand passed over his face and Villain’s head whipped to the side. They whimpered. “Ah. There you are,” Superhero said, only one of him now. “Still with me, Vil.”

Another slap and Villain whimpered, weakly pushing their hand against Superhero’s. Superhero easily batted it away, opting to instead pinch Villain’s cheeks between their thumb and forefinger and dig their fingers in until Villain’s mouth formed an O and they cried out.

“Listen runt, I didn’t want to hurt you! Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you. You’ve clearly let yourself go since the last time I saw you, and nobody, not even Saint Hero will love you if you’re fat and disgusting. You want to be worth Hero’s love, don’t you?”

Tears welled behind Villain’s eyes and they tried to turn their head away, not wanting to face Superhero and the truth in his words. Superhero didn’t even let Villain flinch in any direction before his grip tightened.

“Don’t you want to be someone worthy of love?” Superhero asked, his voice imperceptibly soft. Villain let out a pathetic yes, their voice muffled by Superhero’s hold on their face. Superhero’s features smoothed out and he nodded sympathetically. “I know. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m just trying to help you be worthy of Hero.”

Superhero helped Villain to sit up, openly crying now. Superhero nodded his head compassionately. “I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay. Big bro’s here now. He’s going to make everything better. Ssh. Don’t worry. Come on, runt.”

Superhero helped the wailing Villain to their feet, guiding them towards the bathroom again. Villain, resigned, followed along because they didn’t want to get hit again. They didn’t want to try and fight back and get beaten again. They didn’t want to be ugly for Hero, they wanted to be worthy of them. Hero was brilliant, perfect, why would they settle for anything less than that? God, Superhero was right.

Superhero gently pushes Villain to their knees, and tells them to: “open up.”

Villain felt the familiar fear creep back up their spine, making their hair stand on end. They shook their head, making to stand up but Superhero kept a hand on Villain’s shoulder, keeping them in place.

“Come on. You said you wanted to be worthy of Hero, right?”

Villain deflated. A part of them wanted to be perfect, to listen to Superhero and just give in, save themselves the pain. The other part was screaming at them, telling them they were worth more than this. That they hated this, and that Hero loved them no matter what. Strangely the voice telling them to fight sounded an awful lot like Hero’s.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all, remember?” Superhero coaxed, his fingers tracing Villain’s jaw and resting at their bottom lip. “Come on, Villain.”

Villain didn’t protest, but they didn’t fight Superhero either, so when his fingers pushed past Villain’s lips, Villain didn’t move. Only when they went far, hitting Villain’s gag reflex did Villain start fighting him.

They shot up from their knees on instinct, but Superhero’s hold kept them down, his other hand going to the back or Villain’s hair and pulling it, yanking their head back so he could shove his fingers down further.

Villain whined, shaking their head. They didn’t want this, they didn’t want this! Villain felt bile climbing his throat and he jerked forward, but Superhero didn’t move his fingers and they hit the back of Villain’s tongue. Villain felt the warmth climbing his throat, gripping the toilet seat and ready to vomit.

Superhero pulled his fingers out at the last second, and Villain heaved. It was only bile that came out, green-hued see through slime, because Villain hadn’t eaten in days.

Superhero clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmm. That won’t do. We’ll go again.”

Before Villain could protest, Superhero’s fingers were in his mouth again, unmerciful as they shot to the back of Villain’s throat. Villain grabbed Superhero’s wrist, pulling his fingers out. “Don’t fight me, Vil. We agreed.”

Superhero’s fingers hit Villain’s throat again, and they felt the muscles in their neck contracting as another wave of nausea hit them. Panicking and wanting Superhero to just let them go, Villain clamped their jaw around Superhero’s hand.

Superhero yelped, then roared and yanked their hand out of Villain’s jaw. “I’m—” Villain gasped, but Superhero cut them off with a punch to the face. Villain’s head veered down, hitting off the edge of the ceramic toilet bowl with a dull thump.

A hand in their hair and their head was wrenched back. Superhero’s fist flashed in the corner of their eye, and struck the same place in their jaw, keeping them straight.

“I thought we agreed that I—” punch. “Know” punch. “Better.” A sharp slap deafened Villain as Superhero released them again, their head snapping to the side. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me to, Vil. I hate to see you like this, but as your older brother I’ll do what I have to do, to make you a better person.”

A sharp kick to the stomach, once, twice, three times and Villain lurched forward, crying out and swallowing hard to keep the rush of liquid crawling like a tidal wave up their throat. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat. Leaning his face in closer to them.

“Come on, Vil,” Superhero said sweetly. “You want to look your best for Hero, don't you? You want to deserve them, right?”

“Pl—please,” Villain stammered, choking on Superhero’s tight grip. “Just lemme— go.”

“Stop fighting me, runt, I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Superhero pinched Villain’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, his nails digging into their cheeks, drawing blood, and forcing their mouth open. His fingers found the back of Villain’s throat, pressing down on Villain’s gag reflex.

Villain felt the muscles in his throat tighten, the bile burning acidic up their throat and they lunged forward, Superhero withdrew his hand from Villain’s mouth, but kept pinching their cheeks so Villain couldn’t swallow. Only when he was satisfied that Villain was about to hurl did he let go, grinning down as Villain spewed into the toilet.

A lot more than last time, their stomach ached as they vomited. A momentary pause and then another bout reared its head and tears streamed down their face, sobbing as they let the feeling run its course out of them.

Superhero patted Villain’s hair like a dog. “Good, see. You did so good.”

“What are you doing?”

Villain froze at the voice. Superhero’s hand stopped rubbing Villain’s hair, but he didn’t remove it from Villain’s head. Hero rushed in, going to Villain’s side and get grabbing their face in their hands, thumbing away the tears.

“Villain, shhh. Shhh, it’s okay.” Hero cooed. Villain sobbed against Hero’s hands, the gentle touches. They weren’t worthy of this kindness. They didn’t deserve Hero’s caring love. This was pity. They pitied Villain, that’s why they looked so caring in that moment. Not out of love. Why was Villain so weak to melt at the kindness, they should be worthy of them! Hero shouldn’t have to see Villain like this. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Hero glanced back at Superhero, eyes narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

“I knew you would be away for a while today, Hero. And I knew you would be worried sick about your ill partner so I thought I would come and look after them for you.”

Hero’s eyes found Villain’s, searching, scanning for any sign that Superhero was lying. Villain was skittish and heaving, not meeting Hero’s eyes. There was something wrong, was it just vomiting? Being sick? No, this was different. Villain was incoherent and violent last time, now they were just… subdued and lifeless and terrified.

“You stepped over the line, Superhero,” Hero said firmly, eyes burning down at their lover. “Please wait in the living room while I help them to bed.”

Superhero’s eyes met Villain’s over Hero’s shoulder, a sadistic smile on his lips. He brought a finger to his lips and pointed down at Hero. Then drew a line across his throat and mimicked Hero being killed.

“Of course, Hero,” Superhero said easily, while Villain’s trembles intensified. Hero waited until Superhero had walked out the door before looking back at Villain.

“Vil, oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.”

They’re just saying that because you’re weak, Villain thought.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask Superhero to come. I didn’t know they would do something as crazy as this!”

They’re tired of you. They don’t love you, if they did they would have never left. You’re exhausting, you wear people out.

“Come on, Vil. Talk to me.” Hero said, leaning forward and pressing their forehead against Villain’s. Villain could feel Hero’s warm breath fanning against their face. They weren’t even worthy of this. “Shhh. Vil, it’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not leaving.”

When Hero wrapped their arms around Villain, Villain couldn’t hold it together anymore and they broke down into sobs that wracked their entire body. Their fingers turned to claws in Hero’s shirt, bunching it and holding on and not wanting to let go.

They were weak, they were so weak that they made the people they loved weak for them. It bled through from Villain into them, and now they were breaking Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve any of this comfort and warmth and love.

Hero held them tightly and kissed their hair and cheek and anything their lips could reach, whispering reassurances and telling them that they loved them.

When Villain’s sobs had calmed down to mere whimpers and sniffles, Hero moved them, putting one hand under their legs and the other under their shoulders and lifted them like they were a baby. Villain curled into Hero’s embrace, a deep red blush filling their face with warmth.

Hero shouldn’t have to do this, to be the strong one. Villain was the strong one! God what happened to them?! Why couldn’t they just be perfect for Hero?

Hero put them into bed, lying beside them under the covers. They tilted Villain’s head down to lie on top of Hero’s chest, hearing their heartbeat. They were a tangle of limbs.

“What about,” Villain sniffed, “Superhero?”

Hero’s eyes darkened. “Let him wait. You’re my priority, Villain. You always will be. Never forget that.”

Villain sniffed, fresh tears streaming down their cheeks. “I love you Hero.” They said even though it broke their heart to say that. Weak! So weak!

“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” Hero whispered into Villain’s hair, kissing the top of their head.

*~*~*~*~*

[peaches2217]

Everything's Okay

TW: PTSD, Dissociation, Brief Description of Vomiting

AO3 link! And a massive thank you to @squagel for your feedback and help!

~~~

“Peach?! Peach!”

The fire Peach dozed by may well have extinguished itself for how quickly her blood ran cold. Blissfully sleepy just moments ago, every nerve and neuron now blared alarm bells that forced her to move before she could even form a coherent thought.

She clambered her way out of the drawing room chaise as quickly as the extra weight she carried would permit, but even so, the ten steps to the bedroom door felt impossibly vast. It would feel no different even if she could sprint with the speed of a Yoshi racing through summer fields.

She was no stranger to hearing that voice call her name. She’d never heard it cried like that.

Just as she reached the door, it flew open, forcing her to clutch her belly protectively as she dodged its outward swing — and there stood Mario on the opposite side.

They stared at one another in shocked silence, and Peach took the opportunity to assess him before making her next move. Outwardly he appeared unharmed. He was still in his daytime attire, though the right strap of his overalls was undone and the adjacent bib corner hung limp from his chest. His hair was mussed, his eyes wild, boring into her with some mix of raw terror and disbelief; glancing over his head, she saw his cap resting on their bed near the far wall, its blankets still made up but visibly rumpled, the sheer canopy still drawn as it had been that morning.

A nightmare. He’d simply had another nightmare. Though she loathed to see him so frightened, Peach breathed a private sigh of relief. She had been so certain he was in legitimate danger from his tone of voice alone.

Honestly, she hadn’t even known he was in their quarters already. He must have snuck in sometime after dinner while she shared evening tea with Toadsworth and laid down to rest, crashing before he could even finish getting out of his clothes and snoozing soundly until his rude awakening.

“Peach…?” This utterance of her name was much quieter, almost quivering, and the weight that had lifted from her chest seeing him unharmed slowly resettled. Even newly awake, she could tell that this nightmare had been more intense than usual.

Indeed, he dealt with dark dreams somewhat regularly, dreams of attacks or disasters which jolted him awake and left him restless unless Peach was awake and available to distract him with lighthearted whispers across the pillow. Yet such dreams paled in comparison to the worst of his nightmares, in which he oftentimes lost her. Never any less painful in their familiarity, he woke from those dreams crying her name, and no amount of chatting could put him at ease; he would remain shaken and a little distant even as Peach fed him reassurances, resting his ear against her chest and listening to her heartbeat until he drifted off again.

The subject of tonight’s nightmare, therefore, was all too easy to discern. He must have panicked harder than usual upon waking to an empty bed.

“I’m right here,” she soothed, dropping her hands from her abdomen to hold him lightly by the shoulders. When he didn’t relax beneath her touch, she stroked his cheek, startlingly pale beneath her fingertips. Perhaps he was still half-asleep as well; maybe he still had trouble in discerning reality from another dream.

That happened sometimes on nights like this, so Peach didn’t panic. She guided him with gentle movements back into their room, leaving the door open so the heat from the fireplace could warm the dark bedroom. When she reached their bed, she situated herself on the mattress’ edge, urging Mario to sit beside her.

He didn’t sit. He remained standing before her, his expression dazed and his breath unsteady, but his eyes at least began to clear. At least she thought they were clearing. The moonlight that filtered in through the curtains was just adequate enough to see and not much more.

Adorning her gentlest smile, Peach took his hands. The rough skin that was normally a touch too dry was now clammy. “It’s alright, love,” she said. “It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay.”

Mario blinked a few times, glancing down at their hands. He made no attempt to hold hers in return. 

“Everything’s…” he muttered vaguely. After a moment, he nodded. “Y… yeah. Everything’s… okay.”

Before she could utter another reassurance or encourage him again to join her, he withdrew his hands, the bulb in his throat bouncing as he swallowed thickly. “J-just a minute.”

“Of course,” Peach said in her same soft tone. With that, he nodded once more before lumbering away, towards the bathroom door; he flipped the lightswitch on as he entered but didn’t bother closing the door behind him. A jab low in her stomach drew Peach’s attention away from the empty door frame, and she smoothed her palm over that area of movement.

Your father, she sighed to her baby, letting her disorganized thoughts finish the sentence. Between the everyday pressures of being a hero and a consort, the apprehension over the rapidly approaching birth of their daughter, and the thousand royal tasks he insisted upon shouldering for her because “We can’t take any chances, Peachy, stress is bad for the baby! So you let Mario do all the stressing for you, okie-dokie?”, Peach had begun to wonder how he hadn’t fallen into a coma from sheer strain. A high-intensity nightmare was the last thing he needed.

But it would be okay, she assured herself. Mario was hardly invincible, but he could still handle more than most. He would feel better once he splashed some cold water onto his face, took a moment to breathe, and when he was ready to return she would give him a safe haven within her arms. By morning his nightmare would be a hazy memory and he’d live to fight another day.

Exhaling sadly and slowly, she relaxed her posture and fetched her husband’s cap where it lay just behind her, tracing the familiar coarse stitching with her index finger. The seams along the brim showed signs of fraying. Perhaps she could convince him to go bareheaded tomorrow, and she could busy herself repairing the beloved article. Give his spirits a much-needed lift. Already she could imagine him beaming and kissing her cheeks over and over as though she had performed some monumental act of charity, and the thought brought a grin to her face once more.

Clank!

Peach looked up. The noise came from within the bathroom, the unconcerning sound of a bottle being knocked over or perhaps a bar of soap being dropped. It wouldn’t have worried her in the slightest, if not for what followed: silence. Perfect, pure silence, no running of water, no padding of footsteps, nothing except for Mario’s breath, still far too labored for her liking.

“…Mario?” she called softly. 

Mario’s response: a quiet, strained groan.

The dread blossoming within Peach’s chest burst violently into bloom at the commotion that followed, a sudden cacophony of distressed noises and the thud of something heavy hitting the floor, and now it was her turn to cry her beloved’s name.

“Mario?!” Abandoning the cap on the covers once more, she leapt to her feet with unprecedented vigor and rushed to where he was, hastened by a strangled cry and the sharp clank of porcelain on porcelain and—

And the unmistakable, nauseating sound of retching.

The sight that met Peach past the doorway froze her to the spot in horror. Mario, on his knees and clinging tightly to the latrine, coughed so violently into the bowl that his whole body shook, his few breaths between coming in pained gasps, and just as soon as he’d filled his lungs he was gagging again. His tongue lolled from his mouth and thick drool dripped from his bottom lip; tears streamed from his eyes, screwed tightly shut; and only when he lurched forward once more was Peach able to come to her senses.

“Mario—” She hurried to him as he vomited again, standing uselessly over his hunched form and running her options through her brain. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck and coated every inch of visible skin in a thin sheen. Okay. First order of business: cool him off and help him calm down. Then they’d go from there.

He went into another coughing fit as she yanked the top drawer of the cabinet open, though it was far weaker now, phlegmy and punctuated with meek gasping. “Breathe, sweetie,” she said, praying he couldn’t hear the panic that bled into her tone despite her best efforts. “Just breathe. You’ll be alright.”

Running the first rag she could find beneath a stream of cold water, Peach tried to focus on the rush of the faucet, and that was almost enough to drown out the agonizing sounds that still spilled from his throat. 

“Breathe,” she repeated as she wrung the drenched rag, returning to him to drape it over his exposed nape. This got a reaction from him at least; he shivered at the cloth’s ice touch, and his death grip on the porcelain loosened, and his shoulders sagged as he did his best to follow her order, and that was all good, she decided. As good as a situation like this could get, anyway.

Next order of business: water.

With the promise of her swift return, Peach beelined to the kitchen to fetch a glass and some sort of sickly syrup made to combat nausea. Nurse Toadessa wouldn’t be in bed for a few more hours. That would give Peach plenty of time to get Mario somewhat comfortable and then have him checked over. And it would probably be wise to receive a checkup herself, just in case…

But there had been no reports of any sort of stomach bug outbreak, and Mario was far too hardy to be among the first to catch an illness. Thinking back through the day, she couldn’t recall detecting any signs that he was feeling poorly, or at least anything other than overworked; she could, however, remember thinking poorly of the mutton served at dinner and politely refusing it, offering her portion to Mario under the (not entirely untrue) guise of wanting to save room for extra cake. He had practically licked both plates clean. (And then he’d belched loudly by complete accident, over which they shared a fit of laughter, albeit with much embarrassed fluster on Mario’s end.)

A sudden pang of guilt struck Peach, not helped by the sharp kick below her ribs she received at the same time. She’d only meant to spare the feelings of the castle’s hardworking cooks. Perhaps, she thought now, it would have been best to speak up. 

But that might also explain his extreme reaction to his nightmare. The few times Peach had experienced food poisoning, her own dreams were uncomfortably vivid. Still, content that she knew the source of his illness, she held her head higher as she returned to the bathroom, medicine in one hand and glass of fresh water in the other.

Mario lay curled on the tiles, his head cushioned on his extended left arm, and now his breath was shallow but fairly steady. The toilet lid had been closed and the cloth Peach had provided him with was clutched loosely in his outstretched hand. Though her heart hurt for him, she couldn’t help but be taken by a sad but fond affection. 

She had become well-acquainted with the bathroom floor during her episodes of morning sickness, and whenever she felt in good enough humor, she would promise to repay Mario’s attentive care if ever a similar sickness befell him. On those days he would challenge that promise, sprawling out on the tile beside her and listing off the endless stream of luxuries he expected to be showered with the next time he so much as ran a slight fever; only when she was giggling too hard to forget about her own misery would he kiss her forehead and assure her that it would be enough just to know that she was there.

Now was her chance to carry out that promise, at least.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to endure a bit of torture now,” she warned, equal parts teasing and sympathetic, setting the water on the vanity so she could pour said torture into the plastic cup that fit over the bottle’s lid. “But I assure you, it’s for your own good.”

The room remained silent as she measured out the syrup. Odd. Mario never passed up an opportunity to complain whenever he was forced to take medicine. She had at least expected a disapproving groan. For a moment she thought he might have fallen asleep, but looking again once the cup was prepared, his eyes appeared to be open. 

“Mario…?”

He didn’t so much as twitch. If not for the quick rise and fall of his sides, he could have easily passed for a corpse.

Peach felt her hands begin to shake even before she could register her own emotions, and she set both the bottle and cup of syrup on the vanity lest they slip from her grasp. She knew this. There were occasions, very rare occasions, in which Mario remained awake yet became unresponsive. But it only happened when…

In a few swift movements, she joined him on the floor, shuffling towards him on her knees and reaching over her swollen stomach to jostle him — and eventually, with some difficulty, roll him onto his back.

He must have wiped his face with the cloth, because it was damp but fairly clean save a few residual tears that trickled down his cheeks, almost normal in appearance. But his eyes… they looked straight up and right through her. Aware, sort of, but glazed and dull, like ocean marble gone cloudy with age, like he could see her but didn’t actually know she was there.

Food poisoning and cloying syrups were suddenly the farthest thoughts from her mind.

“Hey.” She stroked his cheek with an uncertain hand; she felt a minute twitch of muscles in response to her touch, but Mario himself did not react. “C-come back to me, alright? We’re safe, love, everything’s okay! Everything’s…” Her words faltered, her throat closing off and her eyes stinging, staring into his blank gaze and searching for some sign, any sign, that he was with her.

Nothing. He blinked, maybe from her voice and maybe just automatically, but his stare remained as lifeless a stare as someone otherwise alive and well could possess.

The terror with which he’d screamed her name, terror reflected in his face even after seeing her… the daze he’d fallen into then, impenetrable no matter how sweetly she spoke to or touched him…

That was it then. This wasn’t the result of undercooked food or anything of the sort. Whatever images had been conjured up and presented to him in his sleep, they had triggered some sort of trauma response, and the only way his brain could protect itself from the onslaught of anguish, so sudden and unendurable that it had driven him to physical sickness, was to shut itself down.

Peach’s vision went unfocused, and she sat back on her heels. This hadn’t happened in years. What could she do?

Anyone who thought rationally on the matter for more than a few seconds could easily infer that Mario suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, or something like it. One doesn’t become a war hero without going through a handful of near-death experiences and witnessing more destruction and suffering in a single day than anyone should have to see in a lifetime. 

Even so, the semi-frequent nightmares were usually the worst that trauma manifested, and the very worst of those never triggered this. No, these out-of-body (or maybe locked-in-body, he was never sure how to describe it to her) experiences only happened in the wake of considerable events: being crushed or burned until he stood inches from the gates of the Overthere, witnessing the near-death of the universe up close, things of that nature. 

But Mario, through a combination of sheer stubbornness and an insatiable love for life, refused to let even that much take him down. In due time, he always came to peace with these events, or at least learned to leave them in the past where they belonged, at which point nightmares would once more be the worst of his concerns.

Sniffling and swiping her knuckles across her eyes, Peach took in his still-unmoving form, those blank blue eyes still trained on the ceiling. What in the Eight Realms had he dreamed of? A reaction this strong suggested it had been far worse than just losing her.

Or maybe there was more at play than a one-off dream. At present, Mario spent every day giving every last ounce of energy he had to spare (which, mind, is a lot), and for the past few weeks he’d barely even made it into bed before crashing. But he still seemed so happy, and though Peach had her suspicions that he was beginning to struggle, she had never stopped to wonder if he was already crumbling.

Of course. Of course he would hide the extent of his struggles from her more fervently now than ever, content in the knowledge that, for once, she would be too distracted with personal and shared concerns to see the usual signs. Of course he’d happily waste away to spare her concern, until his mental state was so eroded that one bad dream was enough to break him.

The tears she had cleared from her eyes were back just as quickly, accompanied by guilt so immense she could see it like storm clouds in her peripheral vision, but she swiped at her face once more and fought against it with whatever might she possessed. This was no one’s fault, or it was both of their faults; regardless of who was or wasn’t to blame, the only fix was to move forward. Wallowing in regret would help no one.

She considered redoubling her efforts, maybe using her magic to fill his brain with comforting images to coax him back. But what if the fear and hopelessness she felt was too strong to withhold from him? What if she only made it worse? Those thoughts compelled her to scoot across the floor on her backend — awkward, perhaps, but less taxing and risky than trying to hoist herself to her feet — and from the cabinet against the opposite corner she retrieved a rolled towel, the softest in their possession.

Maybe letting this episode run its course was the best option. Dark a thought as it was, Peach wondered, settling the towel beneath her husband’s head, if this forced shutdown of his mind might be exactly the reprieve it needed.

Mario blinked again. Still no focus in his eyes. Peach combed her fingers through his curls, still damp with sweat, and did her best to smile at him, just in case he could register it. Just in case her presence really was enough, just as he’d once said it would be.

A powerful kick to her side made her inhale sharply, and she turned her attention from Mario briefly to soothe their baby. She wasn’t in any mood to be soothed, so it seemed; she kicked again, somehow even harder, and this was followed by a flurry of tossing and turning tantamount to a full-fledged tantrum. Peach held her belly steady in both hands and winced at the barrage of sensation.

“Maybe we could tone it down a bit tonight?” she murmured, more to fill the silence than out of any real hope that she would be heard. Already her little girl threatened to match her father’s boundless energy, and Peach had long since resigned to taking the brunt of it (though Mario sometimes fell victim too — the memory of his expression the first time his unborn daughter had kicked him in the face, eyes wide with the most authentic shock she’d seen from him in ages, elicited a fleeting giggle from Peach). But tonight…

Come to think of it, it was well past storytime by now, wasn’t it? Of course she would throw a fit over the unexpected change in routine. Peach sat back and huffed in sorrowful amusement. 

Every night without fail — at least until tonight — Mario made a point to devote time to bonding with their daughter. Most nights it was a casual affair, humming little lullabies or telling stories in either of his tongues while he and Peach lay in bed together. But the closer her due date drew, the more elaborate those bonding sessions had grown. Last night, he’d laid Peach down on the couch with a mug of spiced cocoa, surrounded her with pillows and blankets, then knelt on the floor and read a colorful picture book to her stomach, complete with over-the-top faces and hand gestures and unique voices for all of the characters and frequent interjections of “How exciting!” and “Ooh, what do you think happens next, albicoccetta?” 

Their baby had kicked and moved about as if bouncing in excitement, just as she did each time she heard her father’s voice before bed, and Mario had chastised Peach for interrupting the sacred ritual of storytime with her delighted laughter, his voice thick with playfulness and his tired face alight with glee.

In the present, the warm fondness of recent memories was chilled by a dark, dawning realization.

He had dreamed of losing a lot more than just her.

“Peach…”

Peach’s head snapped down with such speed that it made the room spin.

Mario was making a feeble effort to raise up on his elbows, though he groaned quietly and his face screwed in discomfort from the effort. The tightness in Peach’s throat returned with a vengeance.

“Relax,” she somehow managed to squeak, one hand finding his hair and the other resting on his chest, where the unhooked denim bib exposed his shirt. “Lie back down, love. Gather your bearings.”

He followed her guidance without protest, which was as comforting as it was disquieting.

The attempt at getting up drained whatever energy he had left, and once more his breath came in labored pants, his eyes shut tightly, sweat beading at his forehead. Peach glanced at the vanity, next to which sat a small refuse bin, and her hands reluctantly left Mario so she could retrieve it. Best be prepared in case he needed to vomit again.

He caught her hand before she could move away.

“Peach,” he whispered again, and even that whisper sounded as if it took a great deal of effort to summon. She had always been entranced by his hands, large and impossibly strong yet warm and careful. But now the hand holding hers trembled, cool to the touch, and Peach knew she could easily break free from his frail grasp if she felt so inclined.

She was not inclined in the slightest. She wanted nothing more than to hold on even tighter and tell her love that everything would be okay — and she wanted just as badly for him to do the same for her.

When he opened his eyes, they finally focused on her, and they looked much the same as they had in the drawing room: terrified, pitiful, pleading.

“Non andare,” he mouthed. If any sound passed his lips within those two words, Peach couldn’t hear it.

She clasped her free hand atop his and willed herself to give him her most comforting smile, even as her bottom lip quivered, even as she lost the battle against her own tears. “I’m right here,” she promised him. “Mario, we’re not going anywhere. We’re safe.”

Mario nodded with small, rapid movements and shakily pulled their conjoined hands to his chest, covering them with his remaining hand and mouthing something like Okay, okay, okay. His pulse hammered away beneath Peach’s touch, yet he released a deep sigh and closed his eyes once more.

And still nothing felt right, not at all, but he was back with her at last, so that gave Peach the strength to feed him the little white lie that it was all okay.

~~~

Peach woke to a Mario-sized indent in the mattress beside her and the sweet smell of melted chocolate and caramel. Still enveloped in the fog of sleep, everything felt disarmingly normal. Dreamy, even.

Ten seconds into her struggle to sit up, she caught sight of Mario exiting their quarters’ small kitchen, his hair and nightclothes dusted in flour and a platter of something that looked like pancakes and a fork balanced in his hands; the cheerful smile he flashed when their eyes met initially gladdened Peach, but uneasiness settled over her just as quickly, and much more strongly at that.

“Morning,” he greeted as he reached her, setting the platter on her bedside table before slipping an arm behind her back. “Here, here, don’t exert yourself. I gotcha.”

Once she was upright, he quickly fluffed her pillow and set it against the headboard, helping her scoot back so she could sit more comfortably. Then he handed her the platter with a quip of “Buon appetito!”, and after brushing the residual flour from his body, he set straight to work smoothing the bedcover over her legs.

Peach paid no mind to the platter in her hands at first. She simply watched as her husband busied himself, humming a familiar tune, and the casual atmosphere only served to heighten her discomfort.

This wasn’t the same Mario she had fallen asleep with. That Mario had eventually been able to pry himself from the bathroom floor and join her in bed, but his eyes remained distant and his movements heavy and stilted. They’d laid together for maybe an hour before Peach drifted off, his ear firmly planted over her heart and his palm following each and every little (and not-so-little) movement from within her belly, her fingers combing his hair and her voice carrying increasingly drowsy whispers of affirmation.

Maybe she should have been relieved, she thought, seeing him move so easily and act so cheerfully after such a troubled night. Anyone else might assume the experience had lifted some great weight from his shoulders and restored his drive. Yet he’d spent far too long fussing over the bedcover, and the longer she watched, the longer she realized he was pointedly avoiding her gaze. Almost like he was hiding from her, hiding in plain sight…

Peach was thus not nearly as excited over the breakfast offering as she wanted to be. A real shame, given said offering was chocolate pancakes with chocolate chips drizzled in chocolate and caramel sauce. Any other morning, she would have happily obeyed her cravings and scarfed the stack down, showering her personal pastry chef in compliments the whole while. Indeed, this was the cleanest, most attractive plate he had ever presented to her… and that told her everything she needed to know.

Mario was no pâtissier — more of a pastassier, really — so the uncharacteristically perfect presentation confirmed that he had been awake and at work since well before sunrise. She sighed heavily.

“What’s wrong?” She could hear the dismay in his voice, hidden beneath a thick layer of partially-feigned concern. “Not, uh, not feeling up to chocolate today? Well don’t you worry! Mario’s here to make you anything you—”

“We can’t just pretend last night didn’t happen, Mario,” Peach said, lifting her head from the plate — and finally catching his eyes.

She caught him unguarded just long enough to see it all in his face: guilt. Embarrassment. Regret. Crushing, crippling exhaustion, the sort that any average person simply wouldn’t be able to function under. And just as soon as she saw it, his guard went right back up, a few milliseconds too late.

“...Peach—”

“Please,” she cut in, because she couldn’t bear to watch him sweep it all under the rug, not after seeing him in such a despondent state. “Darling, I know you. These episodes don’t just happen out of nowhere. Won’t you please just… talk to me? I’m worried about you.”

Mario perked up a bit at those last four words, and immediately she realized, with no small level of annoyance, that she’d given him a perfect springboard for diverting the topic.

“Ah, amore,” he crooned with painful sincerity, drawing closer to lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate, yeah? Let’s leave all the worrying to Toadsworth! You just worry about yourself…” he released her shoulder to tap her cheek affectionately. “...and our albicoccetta…” He brought his hand down to repeat the gesture to her bump, but stopped when he saw the pancake platter Peach still held atop it. 

“And getting you something to drink.” He clapped his hands and smiled brightly, almost brightly enough to outshine the dark circles beneath his eyes and disguise the frown lines barely hidden by his hair. “Mamma mia, how could I forget? What do you want? Tea? Juice? More of that spiced cocoa from the other night? Ooh! Or maybe—”

“I want you to rest, ” Peach interjected, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended, judging by the way his face dropped and he briefly flinched away. But she couldn’t entertain this a moment longer. “I fear you’ve taken on more than you can handle right now. The pressure is breaking you. And I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, but now that I know, I won’t let it go on any longer.”

Mario stuttered uselessly, his mouth opening and closing around nonsense sounds and unfinished words. Peach took the opportunity to recenter herself while he searched for his words; clearly he didn’t disagree with her assessment. Perhaps she could still talk some sense into him.

“Here,” she continued more gently, setting her still-untouched breakfast back on the bedside table and shimmying from beneath the blanket. “Trade me places.”

That kicked him into gear. “You can’t,” he said quickly. “You-you really shouldn’t, Peachy. The baby—”

“Some mental stimulation will be refreshing, and the change of pace will be healthy!” Mario’s meticulous blanket-smoothing work now ruined, Peach carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed. “I promise I won’t overdo it. And, of course, I’ll stay until you can get back to sleep, and I’ll check in with you throughout the day. But trust that Toadsworth and I are more than capable—”

“No!”

Now it was Peach’s turn to flinch, her heart stuttering in her chest and her words dying on her tongue. Mario had never raised his voice at her. Not like that.

She saw her shock reflected in his face. No, it was far more than shock on his face; it was a rush of those same emotions she saw earlier, guilt and shame and humiliation, all interwoven with understated but blatant horror.

“J-just…” He reached out hesitantly, not daring to make direct contact, like he feared his touch might bruise her. Suddenly Peach wanted nothing more than to feel the full strength of his arms around her. “Here.” His left hand ghosted over her side and his right gestured to her legs, urging her to pull them back up. “Lay back down, okay? Lay down.”

Peach numbly complied, pulling her legs back onto the bed, but she couldn’t bring herself to lay down fully. She watched as Mario tentatively pulled the cover back over her legs and forced the wheels in her head to spin, give her the answers for how to make everything right.

Mario eventually found the nerve to glance back up at her. “I’ll just… get you some water, yeah?” He smiled, and maybe it was supposed to look calming or reassuring, but it just made Peach want to cry. He looked so miserable.

The words came to her as he made his way to the kitchen, though they weren’t the words she was expecting.

“Come here.”

He stopped in his tracks, twisting his torso to look back at her. “L-lemme just get—”

“Come here, Mario,” Peach repeated, firm but not cold, patting the empty space on the bed beside her. He eyed that spot reluctantly, but he relented quickly enough; in half a minute’s time he settled in beside her, body angled towards hers, close but not quite touching.

A small noise of surprise slipped his throat as she pulled him into her arms, forcing him to lean forward or else collapse against her.

Trying to talk sense into Mario was as effective as trying to eat a brick. He didn’t need a lecture. He needed safety. He needed to know he could be vulnerable, even when his every last sense told him otherwise.

“Talk to me,” Peach whispered, pressing a kiss to his hair. He remained rigid in her arms, but she could hear his breath quicken, and she laid heavily against the headboard to encourage him to relax as well.

At long last, after several tense seconds, he melted into her. He carefully slotted himself against her side, burying his face into her sternum, encircling his arms around her so that not a single centimeter of space remained between their bodies, and for the first time since the previous evening, everything truly felt okay.

For a while, Mario didn’t say anything. He held onto her and breathed in her scent in silence, though his breath was uneven, and Peach suspected that at any point she’d feel hot tears seep into her nightgown’s fabric. For better or worse, this never came to pass, but eventually he did break the silence.

“I have to protect you,” he said.

“I know.” Peach rubbed small circles over his spine, and he responded not by relaxing further, but by tightening his grasp on her.

“No, Peach, I…” He gathered handfuls of her nightgown tightly enough to constrict the garment around her chest — tightly enough that his arms began to shake from the strain of his muscles. “I have to— I have to keep you safe,” he continued, unable to even raise his voice above a whisper. “Both of you. I-I have to. I have to, don’t you get it?”

Peach continued with her ministrations in silence as she processed his words. He wasn’t talking about any literal obligation, his duty as her guard and her king, her husband and the father of her child. The need he spoke of was pathological. 

Mario had always taken the safety of those he loved upon himself. That innate need to protect had predictably escalated tenfold in the past months, and normally Peach found it terribly endearing, the pains he took to ensure that she faced nothing worse than achy muscles and mood swings for the duration of her pregnancy. But he feared for far more than her comfort or even her health, didn’t he?

Already Peach had deduced that his psychological state was in far worse shape than he’d let on. Now he trembled in her arms, silent once more, and the question of what had triggered his breaking point was answered in full. 

He hadn’t just dreamed about losing his wife and daughter. He’d dreamed that he had tried to protect them and failed. He’d dreamed that they were dead, and it was all his fault. And Peach would stake every last coin in the royal treasury that he had seen it happen, in graphic, all-too-realistic detail.

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighed, and she felt useless to say anything beyond that. She could try to match his fears with facts — that the one entity with any plans for her downfall had pointedly steered clear of the kingdom’s borders for years now, with spies confirming no plans existed for retaliation or ambush, that she also had the protection of the full Royal Guard, stronger and more courageous than any Guard before them with Mario as their commander-in-chief, that anywho who could get through the Guard or even Mario would still have to get past Toadsworth, and no one got past Toadsworth — but she knew it would make little difference, if any.

Facts rarely quelled fear, especially a fear with its barbs sunk deep into an overworked, horrifically stressed, sleep deprived mind. 

“Oh sweetie,” she repeated softly, sinking lower against the headboard so she could cradle Mario’s head against her chest. He went with her easily, sighing shakily beneath her touch, his death grip on her gown easing up. 

A feeble kick nudged against Peach’s side, and then she felt a puff of air against her clavicle, Mario’s lips curling into a small smile against her. Seeing the opportunity for a diversion of her own, Peach suddenly felt a bit lighter.

“She doesn’t like hearing you so sad,” she said, her right hand fishing for Mario’s left and bringing it to the point of movement. “She wants her papa to be happy.” 

Another puff of air. “Pretty sure she’s trying to beat me up, actually.” He laced their fingers together over that spot, and where Peach expected him to grip her hand for dear life, he gently squeezed it instead. “We didn’t have storytime last night.”

Peach hummed in consideration. He was being lighthearted about it, but she knew he genuinely felt bad, and that would be one more weight he’d have to carry through the day. Knowing now just how greatly he toiled to keep himself together, she couldn’t help but fear even that small burden might be too much. If only she could take that weight from him, every last bit of it…

Maybe she couldn’t take it from him, but she could at least convince him to let go of it all for a while.

“I’m sure she can find it in her little heart to forgive you,” she said after a moment’s consideration. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You tell Toadsworth you’re taking the day off. Ask him to move as many of today’s tasks as he can to tomorrow and to take care of the rest himself.”

Mario pulled back at this, just far enough to look her in the face. Was that relief she saw, hidden half-heartedly beneath weary concern? “But—”

“You did say we should leave the worrying to him,” Peach teased, returning his earlier squeeze of their conjoined hands. Toadsworth knew as well as Peach how willingly Mario would run himself into the ground before ever considering a day off. He would know the request was at Peach’s behest, and he’d be all too happy to comply, as much for Mario’s sake as for hers.

And if he wasn’t happy, well, he could take that up with Peach. The old Toad may well have been her father. She was hardly intimidated.

Mario drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly through his lips, and that was most certainly relief she saw in his features. “Alright. I, uh… I’ll get presentable.”

A similar relief flooded Peach’s chest, relief mixed with pride, and she rewarded her husband with a kiss to the nose. Accepting a break when there was work to be done was one of the few challenges he couldn’t face easily. “Hurry back,” she said. “I think we both deserve to sleep in.”

The tired contentment Mario wore lightened into something more upbeat, a familiar wide grin spreading beneath his mustache. “Ah! And you know what sleep means, yeah?” He pulled away fully now, letting go of her hand so he could rest his palm against her belly. “Papà ti darà due storie, oggi! Che te ne pare?”

Peach giggled as he leaned over to kiss her bump. A chance to relax and a chance to make amends for a missed bonding session. Today would be a therapeutic day for Mario indeed.

“...and I’ll grab something from the kitchens for you to eat,” he added as he climbed off the bed, and only then did Peach remember the immaculate-looking pancakes she’d abandoned on the nightstand, now cold and likely going stale.

“Don’t even think about it.” She brought the platter to herself once more, because now that she wasn’t bogged down with worry, her cravings were already rearing their head once more. “You put too much work into these for them to go to waste.” And they were still really good, she discovered and divulged after her first forkful, even at room temperature.

By the time Mario was dressed and gave Peach her parting kiss (after taking her plate into the kitchen, because she had demolished the pancakes with a speed and passion one might consider embarrassing), he looked so much more like the Mario he had tried and failed to emulate an hour ago: the Mario who was truly happy, truly unbothered by even the worst of his problems, because the joy and love he felt for his life and those within it outweighed all else. Her Mario.

Yet once he left and the room fell back into silence, that creeping uneasiness settled over Peach again.

In the end, this was little more than a distraction. Maybe Mario would feel refreshed after today, and maybe he would be more willing, however slightly, to lean on his wife for support. But he would still carry everything that got them to this point in the first place: all of his traumas, all of his duties, all of his fears, his insatiable need to remain a beacon of stability even when he himself was on the verge of collapse.

Maybe he would hold their baby in his arms in a month’s time and remember the images he’d seen in his nightmare. The thought struck Peach with such force that it caused her physical pain, like a dagger plunging into her heart. She took in a sharp breath and forced it from her mind at once.

But even if today was merely a distraction… it was still a distraction. A chance to regroup. A much-needed reminder that, in the end, it would all be okay, somehow. The best they could do was take it day by day. Tomorrow could throw out any challenge it wanted; just for today, they could put their worries on hold. Everything would be okay, even if only for a short time.

And maybe, for now, that was good enough.

[truths33k3r4]

DAY 14- Younger Sibling Uncharacteristically Fighting Back at Older Sibling - SIW - (Sketch version)

PART 1

(Tw for dizziness, nausea, drugging mention, vomiting)

(Part 2 will be linked here once I return to my computer and link it properly) :)

To God be the glory!

~ Melissa

[montammil]

Forever Be Mine, part 3

Masterlist here!

CW: Yandere/creepy whumper, branding, vomiting, murder (not sawyer or rowan), degradation, failed escape, guns, drugging, noncon touching (nothing sexual but still creepy)

...

Four whole days passed by and Sawyer was miserable. Rowan hadn't untied him from the bed once during that time, except to use the restroom and shower every other day. He spent most of his time reading aloud to Sawyer, ranging from classic literature to collections of poetry, almost all about love and romance. Sometimes he'd even read him things he wrote for him, which just made it all the more disturbing.

In return, Sawyer would pretend to be interested in what he was saying.

He was careful not to give into his delusion too much out of fear of getting caught onto, or even worse, encourage him to take it further. It was already torture enough dealing with Rowan's constant cuddles and kisses.

The fifth day arrived, and Sawyer was ready for another dreadful day. He kept his neutral frown when he felt a familiar weight on the bed.

Rowan kissed his cheek. "Good morning, my love," he whispered into his ear. Sawyer's skin crawled at his words and the warm breath ghosting over him. "Sleep well?"

He nodded in response and stretched his legs out as much as they'd allow, flexing his wrists in hopes that Rowan would get the message and untie him already.

The ropes weren't getting any looser after all this time and his hands were starting to go numb. He wouldn't be surprised if he came out with nerve damage from how tight they were tied.

The taller man noticed what he was doing and frowned. "If I untie you, will you behave yourself?"

"Of course," Sawyer assured him sweetly, mustering up a small smile for emphasis.

Rowan eyed him before reaching over to untie his wrists from the bedframe above him. He rubbed his wrists with his thumbs and massaged each of Sawyer's fingers. It felt nice having the blood flowing properly through them again, but the contact made him want to recoil from his touch. He stayed still instead, letting Rowan dote on him as usual.

He remained still while Rowan untied the rest of his bindings. Once all of his limbs were free, Sawyer sat up slowly and stretched out his legs again, letting the muscles relax after being confined for so long.

Rowan watched him intently as he did so, not taking his eyes off of him for even a second.

Sawyer suppressed a shudder of disgust and smiled up at him. "Thank you," he said. 

Apparently, Rowan didn't know him as well as he thought, if he fell for that act.

Sawyer slid out of bed and stood up on unsteady legs. It was the first time he'd been out of bed in a while and he felt dizzy and disoriented.

Rowan placed a hand on his waist to steady him and helped him walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Sawyer stumbled around a bit, but Rowan kept him upright with his grip on his hip.

He sat down at the small round table and watched Rowan make breakfast for them both. They ate together in silence, though Sawyer barely touched his food. He couldn't be hungry even if he wanted to, being so inactive these past few days.

After breakfast, Rowan cleaned up and then walked Sawyer over to the couch in the living room. He sat down and patted the space beside him, motioning for him to sit next to him. Sawyer reluctantly obeyed and plopped down beside him. He immediately pulled him close, wrapping an arm around him and nuzzling his head into his neck.

"I'm so glad we're finally together," Rowan muttered into his skin. "I've dreamed of this moment for months now."

"I'm glad too," Sawyer forced himself to say. Rowan kissed along his throat and sucked gently at his pulse point.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the sensation of lips against his throat. The hairs on his neck stood up at the touch and goosebumps covered his arms and legs.

He thought of himself back in his apartment, curled up on the couch watching movies with a blanket wrapped tightly around himself. Or dancing alone in the dark room with the rain pouring outside. He'd never feel that kind of comfort ever again.

Not until he escaped from Rowan's clutches. It was hard to focus on escape when Rowan kept distracting him, however.

Rowan paused his movements. "Sorry, I'm moving too fast, aren't I?"

At least he had some kind of self-aware bone in his body. "A little bit," Sawyer bleated.

He sighed and pulled away from him. "I just get so excited when I think about us finally being together forever, I can't help myself." He placed a hand on Sawyer's cheek and smiled down at him. "But we have all the time in the world, so there's no need to rush. And since you've been so good for me, I don't mind being a little extra patient." He pressed their foreheads together, "I love you."

No matter what, Sawyer couldn't force himself to say those words. So he remained silent instead. Rowan didn't seem to mind thankfully, he just kissed Sawyer's forehead and pulled him into his lap.

"Let's watch a movie together," Rowan suggested. "How does Double Indemnity sound? It's one of my favorite films, I'm sure you've seen it before."

He was right. Sawyer had watched it hundreds of times, but he liked the thrill of it. From what he knew about Rowan, he probably liked it for the twisted romance.

The movie started playing and Sawyer didn't pay attention to it at all. Instead, he focused on trying to think of ways to escape from his captor. But even after five days, nothing had come to mind yet.

The rest of the day was boring. Rowan would make him more food, then they'd lie on the couch, and sometimes he'd watch him work on his laptop, pausing every once in a while to peck the top of his head.

Sawyer was feeling pretty useless. All he could do was lay around and pretend he enjoyed the attention.

Something changed the next morning. Rowan was in the living room, on a phone call to a client. Sawyer, however, was in the kitchen, looking through the drawers for anything he could use to defend himself with, having told Rowan he was simply going to make them both tea. He didn't want to use any knives because that was too risky, and Rowan had proven to be much stronger than him.

He was about to give up when he opened the medicine cabinet to see something familiar: Flunitrazepam. He remembered hearing about it once on a news article.

The very drug Rowan had slipped into his drinks in the first place, he figured. This would work better than a knife. Rowan was an idiot from what Sawyer knew, so quickly believing in his compliance meant he wouldn't expect this at all.

Rowan was still on the phone when Sawyer returned to the living room with Earl Grey tea for both of them.

"...Alright, that sounds good. I'll start working on your policy. Talk soon," he said, proceeding to hang up. He accepted the cup and took a sip. "Mm, thank you, my dear. I hope you didn't microwave it." His tone was playful, despite his humorously skeptical look.

It became easier throughout his kidnapping to fake a smile. "It literally tastes the same either way."

"No, it doesn't," Rowan complained. "The water should always be heated over a stove. But I forgive you since you're so lovely otherwise."

Sawyer sat down next to him on the couch, with his mug in hand. His palms were clammy with sweat, and he was having trouble keeping his breathing steady.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest as he raised the cup to his lips and took a sip, trying to steady himself before the inevitable. He glanced over at Rowan who was sitting beside him, enjoying his drink as if nothing was wrong.

Rowan gulped down the rest of his tea, not seeming to notice anything unusual about it. Sawyer was relieved that he hadn't suspected anything yet, but it was only a matter of time before he did.

Hoping to speed up the process, Sawyer put down his tea cup and massaged Rowan's shoulder, doing his best impression of an affectionate touch.

"Mmm," Rowan sighed, "your hands feel amazing."

He continued massaging his shoulders and arms for a few minutes until he felt Rowan start to slump against him. Sawyer stood up and helped lower him to the couch. He grabbed the phone out of his pocket, groaning when it required a passcode. He tried pressing the home button against Rowan's thumb, but it did nothing, much to his disappointment. 

Sawyer searched for his keys next but found nothing on him besides his wallet. Damn it. He looked back at Rowan's sleeping figure, weighing his options carefully. He wished he could find his phone, but he had no time to waste.

Pure panic took over his mind, and he threw a chair through the window.

Shards of glass fell onto the ground beneath them as Sawyer climbed out the window. He ignored the sharp sting in his palm as he pulled himself up, feeling glass dig into his skin.

Blood dripped onto the grass below, but he paid no attention to it. His mind was on nothing but running, so that's what he did.

He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He had no idea where he was going or where he would end up, but that didn't matter right now.

The important thing was getting away from Rowan, putting as much distance between them as possible. Sawyer had no idea how long it'd be before Rowan woke up and realized that he had escaped. 

Running was harder than he imagined it would be, especially since he hadn't exercised much at all while trapped in that lake house. Sawyer was already winded after about fifteen minutes of sprinting through the woods and had to slow down to catch his breath.

Sawyer wasn't the most outdoorsy person, but even he knew better than to head deeper into the woods when he had no idea where he was going. So instead, he veered off to the left and began following the lake shore, hoping it would eventually lead him somewhere populated. The sun was already starting to set and the sky was beginning to grow dark. Sawyer pulled his sweater tighter around him in an attempt to stay warm.

He couldn't stop, no matter how painfully irritating the wounds in his feet felt.

...

Rowan woke up groggily, feeling nauseous and disoriented. His head throbbed painfully and he struggled to sit up, still half asleep.

His heart nearly stopped when he noticed Sawyer was no longer beside him on the couch, and even more when he realized that the window had been smashed in.

Rowan's hand instinctively went to his pocket to check for his phone, relieved to find it still there, but that didn't change much.

He scrambled to his feet, nearly falling over from the sudden wave of vertigo that hit him.

Sawyer must've drugged him and escaped somehow. He should've known that Sawyer wouldn't have accepted their love so easily, but he was so desperately hopeful that he believed his lies. And now Sawyer was out there, potentially hurt or lost.

Rowan grabbed his keys and darted out the door.

...

Sawyer finally had to stop when he couldn't run anymore due to exhaustion. His body felt like it was on fire, burning up from exertion and fear. Sweat trickled down his forehead and his breaths came in short gasps.

He was about to take a break when he noticed something in the distance.

It was a blue truck coming across a dirt path. Sawyer waved his arms and limped as quickly as he could to it. "Hey!" he shouted hoarsely. "Please help!"

The car slowed to a stop and Sawyer collapsed while trying to rush to it. A man with blond hair and glasses stepped out and knelt beside him. "Are you okay?"

"Some guy kidnapped me and I escaped but I don't know where I am," Sawyer blurted out in a hurry. The stranger looked unsure of what to do, but Sawyer couldn't blame him for that. It was a pretty ridiculous situation and even Sawyer didn't know how he'd react if the roles were reversed. "Please, just let me borrow a phone, or take me to the nearest town--anything."

"Alright." The man helped him to his feet.

As he was being led to the car, he heard another car skid to a halt, just a couple of feet away. He turned around and his blood ran cold when he saw Rowan stepping out of his vehicle.

"Sawyer," he said, breathless.

The man stepped in front of Sawyer. "Is this the guy you were talking about?" He heard Sawyer mumble a shaky affirmative. "Sir, I think you should leave," the stranger spoke.

Rowan paid him no attention whatsoever, looking directly at Sawyer with pleading eyes. "Sawyer, come on. We can go back home now, just please come here." When Sawyer only remained silent, he dragged out a long sigh. "Sir, I know what it looks like, but my husband here has memory loss. I'm just trying to take him home. He does this all the time."

"I'm sorry, I just can't believe that. You can follow us to the hospital if you're so worried, but that's all."

For a split moment, Rowan snarled but gained his composure. "Sorry, you're... you're right. Thank you." He returned to his car, and the stranger urged Sawyer back into the truck.

"Thank you so much," Sawyer sighed in relief. The man nodded and shut the passenger door to approach the driver's side. 

Just as he pulled the door open, he fell to the ground, followed by screaming from Sawyer. He was still alive, but not for long because Rowan shot him three more times in the head. 

Sawyer opened the door to run away, but Rowan caught him by the back of his shirt collar and pinned him against the truck. He wailed into cold steel.

"Look what you made me do," he snarled. That was the first time Sawyer heard him use such a venomous tone. He slammed the barrel of the gun against Sawyer's skull and he fell unconscious instantly.

...

When Sawyer woke up, his surroundings were dark. There was a dim, flickering light bulb in the center of the ceiling and concrete walls around him. He was on the floor, lying on a mattress that wasn't all too comfortable. His leg was chained to the wall so he couldn't escape again. The image of Rowan murdering someone in cold blood flashed through his mind. The memories made him throw up onto the cold ground next to him.

It took him a few seconds to process what had happened earlier that day. The shock made him retch again, which turned into hyperventilating. He couldn't even focus on his hurt.

He got an innocent person killed. An innocent person trying to help him.

And it was all his fault.

Sawyer knew Rowan was crazy, but he didn't consider he'd go that far. He thought Rowan would be too cowardly to actually kill someone else. He'd been so incredibly wrong about him.

If Rowan wasn't afraid to kill someone, what else was he not afraid to do? What did Rowan have in store for him next? Would he kill him too? 

It wasn't long before he heard footsteps approaching the basement. Sawyer clenched his restrained fists. Keys jangled before a lock clicked. The door swung open and Rowan made his way downstairs, taking his sweet time.

He didn't look angry, not exactly. It was more like his calm demeanor was a facade that would crack any moment.

"You killed him," Sawyer spat out first. His voice trembled. "You murdered him. He did nothing wrong."

"He was stopping you from coming home." Rowan squatted down to meet Sawyer's eye level and grabbed a handful of his hair. "He was going to take you away from me." Sawyer gasped out of pain. Rowan forced his head back and met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "And I can't let that happen. I've waited too long for this just for you to be an ungrateful brat about it."

Tears pricked at his eyes. "You kidnapped me! If you weren't expecting this, you're fucking stupid!"

Rowan's expression darkened. His hand left his hair to clutch his jaw. "You really think you can talk back to me after you pulled that shit earlier?" Sawyer spat in his face in response. "Fine, that's how you want to play, huh? Since you're so insistent on being difficult."

Next thing Sawyer knew, Rowan had left him.

Sawyer thought he could be left alone again, but unfortunately, luck was never on his side, as Rowan came back down just a few minutes later with a metal skewer.

It looked pretty non-threatening on its own, but the glint in Rowan's eyes told him it was not going to be pleasant at all.

"I was going to spare you this, but you pissed me off."

Rowan walked over and yanked him upright by the chains on his wrists. The force on them hurt like hell, but he refused to scream in front of him.

He was suspended in midair, hanging from the wall from a hook, the chain from the cuffs keeping him up. The metal dug painfully into his wrists and his shoulders ached from being stretched out.

A pocket knife came into view and it grazed along his shirt until it ripped through the fabric. A warm hand caressed his skin and moved lower to his abdomen, rubbing his thumb over his right side, just above his hip.

He pulled away and dug into his pocket, pulling out a match. He lit it and placed it over the skewer, waiting until it was red hot. 

Sawyer was surprised his heart was still in its chest. "What are you doing?" He struggled further against the cuffs, but they wouldn't budge at all. "Rowan, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I've been too easy on you," Rowan said. "You're right, I was stupid for expecting this to be easy." He smiled wide at him, and never had Sawyer seen something so crazed in his life. "But I suppose this is just a lesson we both need to learn, hm?"

Before Sawyer could even fathom what that meant, Rowan had stabbed the skewer through his skin.

There was no sound from Sawyer's lips, his voice caught in his throat. The pain was unreal, searing into his flesh, tearing through skin and tissue and muscle. It burned and throbbed and felt like every nerve in his body was on fire. Every cell screamed at him to pull away, but all he could do was hang there uselessly, watching in horror as his skin sizzled around the metal rod prodding his abdomen.

After what felt like an eternity, Rowan finally pulled the skewer away and tossed it aside carelessly. Sawyer would've thrown up a second time if not for his stomach being empty. Instead, he gasped for air, choking and coughing on bile and saliva.

He didn't realize Rowan had unfastened him from the chain until he collapsed onto the floor below, landing hard on his side with a pained groan.

"Are you sorry?"

Sawyer only panted.

His hand snaked around the shorter man's neck, only lightly squeezing, but the threat was still there. "I asked you a question."

"Y-yes," Sawyer stammered. "I'm sorry."

Rowan ran his thumb over his Adam's apple. "Good," he murmured, smiling. "Can you tell me what you're sorry for?"

"For running away," he whispered shakily.

"And?"

"Drugging you, and... lying to you."

His smile widened as he nodded approvingly. "I'm glad you're starting to understand how this works, my love." He scooped him up in his arms with a soft grunt. "Let's get you a nice long bath."

[llamagoddessofficial]

Already posted this on ao3, but I thought Tumblr would like it too. A lovely commission courtesy of Valacre- cecaelia Skull getting to show his spookier and scarier side.

Some TWs, for this! Bleeding, near drowning, kidnapping and general yandere behaviour, vomiting, being pressured into eating. Proceed with caution if these things bother you!

You felt calm. Very calm.

You really shouldn’t have felt calm. You were probably actively dying. Sinking deeper and deeper into an ocean abyss, bleeding from a head wound you sustained from thrashing against coral in a panic, you couldn’t tell if the way the world was darkening around you was from your consciousness slipping away or your depth increasing. Perhaps a bit of both. 

... But... you just felt calm. The toxins had already well kicked into your brain. 

That was the thing, about sinking too deep in scuba gear. At depths, pressure changed the properties of whatever gas was in your tank. Unless you had a special concoction, suited for the extreme conditions, a tank of normal air would gradually become more and more toxic to your body the further down you went.

The regulator in your mouth, the very thing keeping you alive... was also the thing slowly killing you.

Nitrogen narcosis, right? You thought, nearly giggling. We learnt about it in dive class. What a dumb name, for something that’s gonna kill me.

The fact that you were sinking didn’t bother you. The fact that you were dying bought no panic. In fact, you could hardly remember why you panicked before. Again, you nearly laughed... you were so dumb, it was entirely your own fault you were in this position. Chasing a beautiful fish over the reef, further and further, not even noticing your dive group disappearing from sight. 

The nature had been so beautiful, the fish so pretty... the waters so calm.

You went over an edge, the coral shelving away. You hadn’t seen the bottomless, terrifying void until it had already opened up beneath you.

All struggling did was make you hit your head on a jagged coral branch. Nothing could stop the cold current from sucking you down.

You barely registered the plaintive beeping of the dive computer on your wrist. Quietly, uselessly, trying to warn you that you were getting too deep. 

... Eventually, your regulator slipped out of your mouth. 

Huh. Oh well.

...

Lights.

Lights filled your vision. Lights in a rainbow of colours, beautiful and vibrant, catching in the glass of your dive mask and casting across your face. The glimmering tucked around your fading mind, drawing it upward, drawing it away from the brink of nothingness. 

A warm red colour moved closer, and closer, and closer. Pretty. The other nice colours still surrounded you, but the red was the most dominant of them. It was a welcome break, from the endless black and blue that you were sinking into... you felt big hands, on either side of your face, a comforting sensation. 

Is this what dying is like? You stared at the warm red. It’s nothing like what people said it would be like.

You could hear a soft humming. You felt it in your core, too. The drunken, narcotic-esque sensation of the gases was slowly replaced by a much softer and more pleasant emotional state. Less giggly... more peaceful.

Something touched to your mouth. Warm. And suddenly, you could breathe again. A distant, disconnected sense of relief in the back of your head- like despite all of the easy feelings around you, deep down, you were still afraid to die.

... The red glow grew brighter. As it did, the peaceful feeling picked you up, and carried you away.

You were more than happy to let it.

///---///

Your eyes opened.

...

You didn’t expect that.

Immediately, panic rushed through you. It was so dark, so horribly dark - am I dead!? - you sat up, head rushing with a wave of nausea, your lips and fingers were heavy and tingly and your eyes felt as if they were swirling in your skull.

You instantly threw up seawater.

... A cave. You were in a cave. You let out a slow breath, it quivered slightly at the end, eyes darting around the chamber and desperately attempting to gather as much info as possible, hand coming up to wipe your mouth. The walls were black and glossy, seemingly volcanic, and the ground beneath you was dry.

... Wait. You forced yourself to slow down. How can I see?

You turned around. Just behind you, the dry rock shelved away into a large pool. And a faint, blueish-green light emanated from all around its edges, where the mirror-like black water met the stone. Algae? Plankton? Whatever it was, it was just enough light to see by, and it was undeniably beautiful.

... You shuffled over to the water’s edge. Kneeling by it, you leant over, and drew your hand through the still water- the cave grew brighter, as a trail of light followed your palm, flickering across your face and casting soft ripples over the sloped walls.

... The panic didn’t leave you completely. It probably wouldn’t, until you were curled up in your own bed at home. But... something about the bioluminescence helped your emotions settle. It was genuinely beautiful to look at, and the sound of moving water filled your ears, grounding you to the moment. You weren’t dead at the bottom of the seafloor, you weren’t being eaten by some terrible beast. Though you struggled to make sense of the cave’s dimensions in the low light, it certainly wasn’t small and you were grateful to be spared any nightmarish claustrophobia. Not to mention the fact that you were grateful you had light at all.

You took your hand out of the water. Watching the droplets fall, creating their own little flashes of light, made you suddenly realise something. 

... The cave wasn’t the only thing that was dry. You were bone dry, too. You touched your dry hand all over yourself, but felt no damp. How long have I been asleep?

For a moment, you suddenly worried that you shouldn’t be breathing stale cave air, and you reached up as if to cover your mouth. But... you also realised that you had no idea how long you’d been unconscious for. Clearly, long enough for you to dry. 

... Your wetsuit was gone. So was all of your scuba gear. You looked down at yourself, confused; dressed only in your swimsuit and rash vest, your tanks and hoses weren’t anywhere to be found. Even your dive computer was missing from your wrist. 

Looking up only confused you further. No longer frightened about stale air or whether or not you were dead, you noticed there were clothes laid against the rocks closest to the pool edge. Clothes you didn’t recognise- clothes that absolutely weren’t yours. A slightly damp towel, and a very damp shirt, placed neatly and flat... as if someone had taken their sopping wet items off after coming out of the water, and laid them out to dry. Given how warm (yet still somehow fresh) the cave air felt, you could definitely see things drying. 

Possibilities flashed through your mind. Did you do that, then pass out and forget? Or was there someone else here? You weren’t sure whether to be afraid of that possibility.

“... You’re not gonna get much done sitting on the floor.” You murmured to yourself, instinctively wanting to fill the silence. Regardless of your quietness your voice bounced off the cave walls. “Might as well have a look around.”

Eventually, you forced yourself to your feet. You were a little wobbly... but nonetheless, you were alive.

The cave was, to your surprise, empty aside from you. No other signs of life. No spiders, no worms, no bats or flies- just those smooth dark walls and the shine of the reflected pool light. It was a decently sized cave, more than enough room for you to stand to your full height and stretch your arms above your head. Gradually, you shuffled your way into the back; the roof edged down slightly, before rising up again. You supposed that counted as a second part of the cave.

The second chamber was still a good size, but it was much smaller than the first chamber. It felt a fraction cooler. The light from the pool had grown so dim that you had to use your hands to navigate, feeling the walls to make sure you didn’t fall over- very faintly, above you, you could make out a hole. Though no light was coming through, you felt fresh air on your face... you let yourself enjoy some relief at the knowledge that there was a source of breathable air. You weren’t going to suffocate.

... Though you felt around more, there was no third chamber, and no potential way out aside from the crack directly above you.

And... nobody else was in the cave.

The clothes by the pool must’ve been me. You thought, a strange sensation falling over you. Maybe I have a concussion...?

...

Wait. Your head.

You gasped aloud, remembering that you had hit your head on coral. You reached up to touch your head, expecting blood, expecting matted hair, expecting something, anything at all. 

... Your fingers touched dry seaweed.

You paused. The seaweed... it wrapped all the way around your head. Like someone had wrapped it for you. And you felt no pain when you touched the area that you had hit against the coral- in fact, when you moved the seaweed aside, your fingers felt nothing. No scab, no scar, nothing. It was like you had never been hurt.

...

Something wasn’t right about this. The strange sensation grew, uneasiness intensifying. You stumbled back into the first chamber, eyes on the floor to make sure you didn’t trip over anything in the half-darkness, you wanted to look at those damp clothes again to be sure you didn’t recognise them.

You looked up, over to the bioluminescent pool, mostly to see clear light again and partially to try and calm yourself with its gentle blue glow.

... A large, glowing red eye stared back at you.

...

You were frozen. Completely. More than just your physical body- it felt as if the air around you stopped, as if your blood in your veins turned to ice, as if your heart paused in its beating and your breath turned to stone in your throat.

...

The eye didn’t disappear. It wasn’t a stress hallucination, it wasn’t a mirage. As the leadden moments ticked on, the eye remained.

Silent.

... The eye... was in a skull. It twitched faintly. Only half of the head was above the water, the algae faintly shining where the sides of its face met the water. A vicious crack in the top of its cranium... just from the size of the top half of its face, you knew it was huge.

A siren. It must be a siren. A siren big and powerful enough to recover from such a frightening and severe injury as a head crack.

Trapped alone in a cave with a siren.

The realisation filled you with a numb, hollow kind of fear. It spread through every limb like a pale fire eating through paper.

Am I breathing? I don’t know if I’m breathing.

...

The siren, silently, lifted a few more inches out of the water. The only sound was the faint rippling of the pool. Droplets rolled down a smile of razor teeth.

...

You screamed. 

How could you not? Pinned in a small cave, with a beast right out of your nightmares. For a split second, a flash of confusion across its huge face. You tried to scramble away and back into the second chamber, somewhere you’d be out of its reach.

Its smile quickly returned. In an instant, massive black tentacles shot out of the water, sending up sprays of light; though you were aware of the siren’s size you had no idea of its dexterity. Before you could even turn around to run, tentacles seized your arms and legs; wet half-sentient masses of muscle wrapping tight around you. You felt the suckers press your skin, the slimy dark limbs squeezing and twisting, your bones suddenly felt so fragile and your screams so useless. Your voice just bounced off the smooth cave walls.

The tentacles pulled down, and instantly your legs gave way under you. He started dragging you toward him, toward the water- you watched in horror as his grin only grew, razor mouth and feverish red eye growing closer and closer. Death itself, pulling you in, images of those teeth driving into you made you begin to lose feeling in your extremities.

Like a child realising there was nowhere to run from the monster, you squeezed your eyes shut. You didn’t want to look, you didn’t want to see the teeth getting any closer, you didn’t want to see the eye fill your vision. You didn’t want to see it coming. 

The pulling stopped. You were numb, you’d drawn into your head, you didn’t know if you were even still screaming anymore.

Crack.

The sound of something breaking made any sound you might’ve been making catch in your throat.

...

... Except... you didn’t feel any pain. Seconds ticked by, and you didn’t feel the heat of blood, or the sensation of shock setting in. The tentacles hadn’t moved, still holding onto you tightly.

Whatever had crunched, it wasn’t your bones. 

... You were still hyperventilating. But confusion allowed you to, slowly, open up your eyes.

The horrible grin was inches from your face, leering down at you. As was the equally horrible eye, bathing you in an overpowering red glow.

... But also in front of you, was two sides of a cracked sea urchin.

...

You stared blankly. The siren... he was holding them. One half in either massive clawed hand. It was a decently sized urchin, full of golden edible uni. 

One hand was big enough to seize your face, crush your head.

...

The siren, upon getting no response from you, moved the split urchin a few inches closer. Like he was showing it to you. You tried to lean away, but he just responded by moving it slightly closer again.

... You glanced up at his face. It was a horrifying thing to behold. Jagged misshapen teeth, a half shattered skull... scars lining his body. That big iris, unblinkingly staring into your Soul. Not giving you an inch of space, as if he wanted to consume you just through eye contact.

...

Back down to the uni. Moments kept passing. Moments where he didn’t maul you to death.

...

... Wait.

No... 

You pulled in a little frightened breath. 

He didn’t like that, a flicker of something else crossing his expression. That same expression as earlier, when you screamed. Like he didn’t like it- like he was getting upset.

Memories were starting to return, now. Fuzzy recollections of lights filling your vision. Alive in a cave, with new clothes drying on the rocks, your injuries bound and healed... 

... This siren had saved your life. Hadn’t he? Dressed your head wound, removed your heavy gear. He rescued you, put you in what must be his cave.

... He was trying to feed you.

Oh no.

You didn’t have a choice, did you? You felt like if you didn't eat the food, he would eat you. Slowly, your hands came up, they were shaking almost comically... you reached forward, taking one of the sea urchin halves.

Judging from his reaction, it was the correct move. His unbearable smile inched wider. And across his tentacles, a dim pulsation of green and yellow light, for seemingly no reason other than happiness. 

You didn’t have anything to remove the edible parts with, so you had to use your fingers. Your hands were shaking so much that it took a few tries to actually get it out. But you managed, eventually.

... It was good uni. Incredibly fresh, salty, slightly sweet. But you had to force yourself to eat it. You felt intensely sick from the fear, your head was swimming and several times you had to suppress your gagging. Don't upset him. Just eat it. The food, though the sweetness did ease some of your dizziness, was impossible to enjoy in any way; the entire time you ate, the siren stared at you. He had an intensity only a wild beast could muster. Inches from you, so close you felt his massive breaths washing over your face... watching every. Single. Bite.

... It couldn't have taken long. But it felt like it took hours. Finally, you swallowed the last bit, and to your immense relief he didn’t try to make you eat the other half of the urchin. 

He seemed pleased- for now.

... His free hand lifted up. You flinched, closing your eyes again; you felt a large claw trace over your cheek. 

It only confirmed your fears. 

Sirens don't feed just anyone. They fed their children, their family, or their... 

... Their mate. 

The tentacle grip around you finally eased. Slowly but surely, pacified by your eating, he withdrew; though the wet limbs dragged across you as they retreated, like he was savouring every moment of contact. The red light of his eye became less and less dominant, the calming blue of the pool returning to your vision.

... He made a sound. It sounded like a deep growl. But given the grin on his massive face, and his obviously pleased disposition... it was probably closer in nature to a purr.

He slipped under the water’s surface, leaving only a glowing ripple behind.

...

... You forced yourself to slow your breathing. You forced yourself to stop thinking about the terrifying implication of what you’d just experienced, but nothing could stop a few tears slipping down your face, nor a few shuddering breaths escaping from your chest.

A siren... was keeping you. Probably as his mate. Not just any siren- a massive, terrifying cecaelia, who clearly had no intention of letting you go. That's why he left you with most of your things, but took all your scuba gear, wasn't it? So you couldn't dive out of this cave.

No... no, you couldn’t think about that. You swallowed the fear, only letting a few more frightened sobs free before scrubbing the tears off your cheeks.

This isn’t ideal. But... you’re alive, at least. You thought. You wouldn’t have survived if he didn’t intervene. So this is better than nothing, right?

Yeah. Yeah, right. You bit the inside of your cheek. You needed to be thankful you were, at least, alive.

You’re alive. Your wounds have all been tended to and healed. You’re safe, somewhere warm and dry, with a supply of fresh air. The giant siren might be freaky, but he bought you food, and even clothes.

He clearly wants to keep you alive. You’re gonna be okay.

“I’m gonna be okay.” You said, weakly... to nobody except the cave walls.

///---///

Skull watched, silently, as the boat moved further and further away. Only once it was out of sight did he allow himself to move through the water again, iris re-igniting. If it had come too close to the den entrance he would’ve attacked.

... He was closer to shore than he liked to be. But it was important he was close to fresh air, and places he could source human things from. For you.

His chest... it warmed so much, at the thought of you. His mate. He had been alone so long, desperate for so long. Now, he finally had company.

... Sure, you were afraid. But it was only natural for a potential partner to be resistant to first advances. It just meant he needed to keep you in the den, and prove he’d be a strong, capable mate. Right? One of his tentacles lashed out, catching a fish. The other divers with you, the members of your pack, were clearly idiots- they didn’t protect you. They didn’t even notice when you were in distress. They didn’t save you when you were hurt... not like he did. 

He felt himself warming even more, pride returning, tentacle immediately crushing the fish. He rescued you. He held you close in your weakest moment, and filtered air into his mouth for you. He stemmed your bleeding, he cradled you in his arms, saved you from the brink of death. He held you close for hours, blanketing you with healing magic until he was certain you were stable, nearly killing himself from the exhaustion of ensuring you would be safe. 

He was a good mate. Fish blood seeped out into the water around him. You would see, eventually, how good he was. All he had to do was keep you in one place, and prove it to you, no matter how much you fought him.

All he needed was time.

[minty-frost]

So I held a poll on my second blog. A bunch of options, and whatever won - I would draw it being fed to TADC Jax. Somehow, raw rabbit meat won. The comic turned out a bit disappointing in my opinion, but I think I should still post it. So...

TW: Raw Meat (heavily censored because I didn't want to draw it), Force Feeding (Just a little bit), and Vomiting.

I feel like I could've done more. Sorry.

[faeriekit]

#vivisection

:)

I already have two and now I have to struggle for another take on it?? 😩 Hold on. I can do it. ...I think.

👻👻👻👻

tw gore/body horror/medical, tw vomiting

"OW! That's my stomach?!"

"I think it's a liver," Sam replies faintly, looking more than a little green around the gills. The organ drips from where it's pinched between her fingertips. "I never finished the dissection on the robo frogs. "Tucker, can you—"

The sound of Tucker hurling into the bathroom sink stops that train of thought real quick.

"No. Just me," Sam realizes faintly, fingers coated in the slick green of Danny's blood. "Great. Uh. Let me put the light on. I need to know what order to put these back into."

Danny, unhappy to be bleeding out on his bed, groans. He throws his head back on the pillow and tries to ignore the feeling of hands rooting around in his guts. Or...holding them up, gently, while he can still feel them?!

Eew. EEEEEEEW. He wants to be doing what Tucker's doing.

"Just...throw them back in there! They can put themselves back in together!!" Danny finally protests, having no idea if that's true or not. He's getting tired of holding the Y-shaped hole in his torso open for inspection. One of the glass jars of neon green organs falls up against his foot, making him flinch with surprise. "It'll be fine!"

"You want me to throw loose organs into your open chest cavity?!" Sam demands, her voice going shrill with stress.

Tucker, never one to be left out, sicks up again into the sink.

[tastefulvomitscenes]

Kaiju no. 8

Episode 1: The man who became a Kaiju

From 09:49 to 10:26

Episode 6: Sagamihara Neutralization Operation

From 03:14 to 04:03

Only gagging

Japanese / English

[whump-mania]

Decided to write what happens behind the scenes between Hunter and Vincent in this Dark Leader drabble. This one’s sort of intense!

TWs for mentioned noncon (not explicit), eye whump/light gore, torture, beating, drugging, stripping/non-sexual almost nudity, vomiting, cursing)

previous / next (technically this is a prequel tho)

Hunter had Vincent bound to a chair. The man was very, very difficult to take down at first. He needed several doses of a sedative plunged into him to make him fully pliant. It was annoying, sure, but now, Hunter had him right where he wanted him.

“You’re a…motherfucker…” Vincent slurred, still feeling the effects of the sedative. His limbs were jelly and he could barely keep his eyes open. Still, it wouldn’t stop him from showing his disdain for the man.

Hunter snorted. “Okay, buddy.” He walked around to the front of the chair after securing the barbed wire he used to tie Vincent there, removing the protective gloves he had on. “Now, I want you nice and bruised for when little Quinn gets here…where to start…” Hunter scanned up and down the man’s body.

“I think we should start by giving me a little more skin to work with.” Hunter took the scissors he’d used for the wire out of his back pocket. Vincent tried to struggle at the sight of them, but he could barely move.

When his clothes had been cut away, leaving him in his boxers, Vincent didn’t show any shame. He knew what Hunter was trying to do. He wasn’t strong enough to hurt him at Vincent’s best. He was trying to break down his mind. Humiliate him.

“Not…gonna work,” Vincent mumbled, fighting to stay awake. “…’m not afraid of you.” His long hair fell in front of his face.

“I don’t see why not. Look at your situation here, Vince.” Hunter gestured to him. “Which one of us has the power here? The guy drugged out of his mind in his fucking underwear? Didn’t think so.”

Somehow, Vincent managed to laugh. “You’ll…you’ll never be Daniel,” he said, smiling weakly at Hunter. “Fuckin…knockoff.”

Hunter stopped smiling. He leaned over Vincent and placed a hand on the chair, lifting one of his knees and resting it in the space between Vincent’s legs.

“I live in Quinn’s nightmares. You know how I know that? I tied them to my bed one night and watched their night terrors for hours. I counted twelve times that they said my name.”

Hunter leaned in closer. “Did you know that Daniel never even thought about fucking Quinn until I did it myself?” He gripped Vincent’s hair and leaned in so that their foreheads were touching.

“I am the fucking catalyst. I’ll never be Daniel, huh? Well he’ll never be me.”

With strength that Vincent wasn’t expecting, Hunter threw the chair down. Vincent cried out when his head hit the floor and the barbed wire cut into his bare skin. He felt blood in his mouth, but he barely had time to figure out where it was coming from when a kick landed on his mouth. Hunter kicked him over and over, his position allowing him no protection from the assault.

Vincent vaguely felt himself and the chair being pulled back up into its regular position before being dragged to a corner of the room. It had a dirty mirror there, and Vincent was confused as to why Hunter had moved them there.

Hunter leaned over the back of the chair and ran his fingers through Vincent’s hair, pulling at it or scratching his scalp when he had the chance. “Why do you keep it down to your shoulders like this anyway?” He asked with feigned interest. When Vincent didn’t answer, he took the scissors out of his pocket and held the sharp end at Vincent’s throat.

“None ‘f you’re…fucking business,” Vincent said through gritted teeth.

Hunter hummed and moved the scissors up to Vincent’s hair. He opened the blades and held a fistful of it, making sure Vincent could see what was happening in the mirror.

Vincent’s eyes widened a little bit. “W-Wait—”

Hunter smirked evilly and chopped a large chunk of hair from Vincent’s head. He let it drop in the man’s lap and moved onto another fistful. He cut with no care, gleefully making a mess of Vincent’s head.

Vincent tried struggling at first, but the movement just made his skin rip and the forced haircut worse. He sobbed quietly as he let Hunter cut away at his hair, the hair that he’d promised himself to keep long in honor of his mother.

When Vincent’s hair was an uneven mess, Hunter pocketed the scissors again. “What was that again? You’re not scared of me?” He forced Vincent’s head up to look at himself. “Just now realizing how ugly you are, aren’t you?”

Hunter laughed and left the chair for a moment. Vincent stared back at himself. He was barely recognizable. He hated how he looked.

Vincent flinched when he heard Hunter loudly shuffling around. He narrowed his eyes. No. He hated him.

He timed it out. He was able to watch when Hunter walked back to him with the help of the mirror. When Hunter was close enough, Vincent used all the force he could to push himself backward and knock Hunter to the floor with himself and the chair on top of him.

Hunter screamed when the barbed wire scratched his arms and face. He tried to use his legs to kick the chair off, but Vincent kept all of his weight on him.

Biting the inside of his cheek and squeezing his eyes shut, Hunter let the wire cut his arm and ripped himself from under the chair. He panted and kicked Vincent in the throat where he lied on the floor, still bound. Vincent spat some blood out, but he was proud of how much he’d made Hunter bleed.

He didn’t know that pride would be short-lived.

Hunter returned with a bottle of pills. Unmarked, Vincent noticed. That made him nervous. He tried to bite at Hunter’s fingers when four pills were shoved into his mouth, but he was too quick. Hunter pinched Vincent’s nose shut and massaged down his throat to make him swallow the strange pills. A shot of panic surged through him when he swallowed them. What was going to happen to him?

“Seems like two doses wasn’t enough for you. Go back to sleep, bitch.” Hunter knocked Vincent out cold.

~

When Vincent woke up, all he knew was pain. He immediately started screaming at whatever was hurting him so horribly. It seemed all localized somewhere near his head, but it was so intense that he couldn’t place it.

Hunter watched him squirm on the ground where he’d left him. He didn’t bother with restraints yet. He knew Vincent would be in far too much pain to even think about fighting back. He knelt down next to him and covered his mouth, muffling the man’s screaming.

“You’ll learn not to underestimate me again,” Hunter said darkly. Vincent noticed that he was wearing surgical gloves. They were bloody. What the hell did that mean?

“I was thinking that when Quinn comes by, I can give them a little piece of you,” Hunter continued. He walked to a nearby table and held up a small, clear bag in front of Vincent’s face.

When Vincent saw what was inside, he started shaking. He brought a trembling hand up to his right eye, only to find a thick, blood-soaked bandage there.

He had only just realized that he could only see out of his left.

Hunter sighed when the other man expelled his stomach on the floor next to him from the shock of what had happened. He put the bag back in the icebox he had on the table and removed his bloody gloves. When Vincent had emptied his stomach, Hunter dragged him by his now short hair to another corner of the room. He straddled Vincent and held the man’s wrists over his head, staring down at him. He smiled.

“I had fun. I hope Quinn says something stupid and I get to keep both of you,” he said gleefully. “And imagine how much fun Danny will have with you. He’s becoming a real sadist, thanks to me.”

Vincent sobbed and shut his eyes at the sound of Hunter’s devious laughter.

tag list: @tears-and-lilies @whumpasaurus101 @whmp @freefallingup13 @sadistgalore @firewheeesky @authorofemotion @whatwhumpcomments @wingedwhump @mammonsemptycreditcard @eilarchswhump @whumblrwork @ficklefuddle @mylifeisonthebookshelf @lizzydizzyyo @whump-cravings @whumpcreations

[ratective]

Hey, same anon! I was just thinking about smoking and who would and then, I'm imagining a late-20's Steven at a strange point in his life, all grown and wandering like a star through the sky, never on the same path, smoking clove cigarettes in a summer twilight..... Okay, that got kinda poetic, but I AM genuinely curious a) if you have art ideas for a grown-up Steven and b) if you think he'd smoke

i think steven would at some point become tempted to see what all the noise is about (aand to see how his magic-healing body will respond to stuff like cigarettes) but i mean come on its still steven. this boy does not have a stomach for those things lol

maybe he could at least 'smoke' those shitty bubblegum cigars to fullfil your poetic vision 😭

[pmak2002]

Micro prompt "help" - Timmy or character

https://www.tumblr.com/roxygen22/750844187588673536/send-me-a-number-and-ill-write-a-micro-story?source=share

“Babe! Help.”

You’re awoken by Timothee shaking you awake.

“What what? What’s wrong sweetheart?”

The next thing you hear is a loud retch and the sound of him puking.

You turn on the light and see him puking on the bed. Puke also covered his nightshirt

“Oh Timothee baby.”

You rubbed his back as he heaved up whatever was causing his pain and the need to expel his stomach contents.

When the puking ceases he’s crying and dry heaving.

“Oh sweetness come on it’s ok I’ve got you.”

You help him to the bathroom so Incase he feels sick again.

You quickly change the soiled bedsheets as Timothee waits in the bathroom. He’s taken off his puke covered night shirt and he’s sitting in front of the toilet burping as if he needs to get out more from his stomach.

You go and grab the shirt to throw in with the rest of the midnight laundry.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I don’t feel good.”

Timothee whines.

“Hush sweet boy. It’s alright.” You wipe away a tear with your thumb. “You couldn’t hold it and it had to come up. I know it didn’t feel good but it’s ok.”

You kiss his head and go to throw the shirt in and start the laundry then return to the master bathroom. Timothee reaches for you as if he’s a small child.

“Bed?” You ask.

He nods

You quickly replace the bedsheets and help him back into bed with the designated puke bucket right next to his side of the bed for the night.

Then you get back into bed and pull him close.

He snuggles you and mumbles a thank you before falling asleep in your arms. Soon you’re asleep too.

[the-best-bibliophile]

One thing that gets me about BOSAS is the capital citizens reactions to the games. Particularly the sympathetic ones. Like the mentor girl who throws up in the opening moments of the games. Or the nurse who starts crying when Lucy Gray sings in her interview. Of course, Sejanus. But the thing that gets me is that the Hunter Games weren’t automatically natural for everyone. Or if they were, at least some things made just a few people take a step back and go….what the hell are we doing?