#it's very hurt and angsty

[emisnt2]

i'm so unwell after reading this chapter, anyways all of you should read "Area Hysteria" by @c-c-cherry

[sykloni]

DP × Smallville

12. Runaway

(Dani counts as a kind of runaway, right?)

Dani has noticed something is not quite right with her and when flying over Kansas her ghost form becomes unstable and she drops down from the sky. To her luck she falls straight on the path of a woman who has been through this before.

Smallville and DP:

I think there's a lot of potential with this crossover! Let Clark be a cool older bother to Dani. Let him have a little sibling who he can show his powers to and play sports with. Let Dani find parental figures who love unconditionally. Let her find a home. I think Smallville is just strange enough place for her to feel like fitting in.

But also, here my thought was that the timeline diverges from DP canon right before D-Stabilized, so Dani is NOT fine. Her form is unstable. She doesn't know if Danny would have a cure for her in Amity Park. She doesn't know if there even exists something that can help her or if she is destined to end up as a puddle of goo like her siblings. Is there a cure to be found in the middle of Kansas countryside? Does someone with a lot of money and influence show up offering one?

[altocat]

Not me sitting around late at night thinking about Genesis and Lucrecia both being physically immortal thanks to the Jenova cells, both sealing themselves away as a form of atonement, and both eventually breaking free to meet decades after everyone else is dead.

And both regretting the fact that they both loved Sephiroth and will never be able to apologize.

[h-didanart]

My mind be like

Imagine if evil sun and new moon remakes bloodmoon sentient and then puts painful mind control in his body to go torture sun's family and bloodmoon go's over half sentient and bagging sun to kill him so the pain can stop sun decided to get jack-o-moon to rip the wires from the back of bloodmoon's head (they are blue and yellow) jack-o-moon ripping off the wires making bloodmoon fant luckily not killing him bloodmoon now lives with sun and apologies for everything sun forgiving him and evil sun and new moon will follow the tracker from bloodmoon

….

You absolute Angst Lord, I’m in

This is— wow. I love it.

The two current villains bringing back the most recent casualty only to basically torture them into obeying. Sending them over to further traumatize Sun and his family, only for them to beg the person they’re supposed to be attacking to kill them. And he agrees, getting Jack to do it. And they survive. And they join the family. And they inadvertently put their new family at risk?

This is absolutely amazing

Please keep developing this idea, but no pressure, I understand if you don’t wanna. This is just the good kind of angst, it plays into the character’s fears and lets them have a reprieve from the hurt, only for a looming danger to draw near

(Ohkay, I just went analysis mode, I think I should go to sleep right around now)

[dizzybizz]

hi, sorry not sorry for these

[stardustinthesky]

What if I asked you to stay?

[beanghostprincess]

I think when Sanji is going through a rough time he doesn't know how to vent because he isn't used to people asking how he is feeling, so Usopp lets him cry and explain to him in French what's wrong. Because even if Usopp doesn't understand anything, he just hugs Sanji tighter and the cook feels better after venting in the language he talked with his mom

[buckera]

Seven x2 Sentence Sunday 🎄

I was tagged by @disasterbuckdiaz @heartshapedvows @thewolvesof1998 @jamespearce9-1-1 @daffi-990 and @fortheloveofbuddie thank you lovelies 💛

Here's a bit from the hospital fic because this one is technically done and though I finally worked out the puppy fic, I couldn't sleep much last night and now I'm totally useless lmao

“Alright, we’ll take it from here.” The nurse said as someone rolled a gurney in front of Buck and he laid Christopher down on it gently before the medical staff wheeled him away in a rush.

Buck made an aborted gesture to follow them, but the nurse put a hand across his stomach to stop him.

“Are you his father?”

“I’m his— he’s my, my—”

“I’m sorry but only parents and legal guardians are permitted to—”

“I am. Please, he’s my— he’s my kid. Let me through, please.”

She pursed her lips and gave him a curt nod. “Alright. But first I need you to fill out some forms.”

Buck nodded back at her tersely.

“Mind if I make a phone call first?”

✨no pressure tagging: @malewifediaz @spagheddiediaz @jeeyuns @ladydorian05 @jesuisici33 @steadfastsaturnsrings @eowon @nmcggg @rainbow-nerdss @watchyourbuck @eddiebabygirldiaz @theotherbuckley

[gdn019283]

Fanfiction post-canon AU, where Arthur does come back, but Merlin doesn’t want to help him.

I rarely see fanfictions where Merlin refuses to help Arthur, or fics where he doesn’t even remember what he looks like, so here’s my idea.

They didn’t have pictures back in Camelot, and Merlin, the more he grew old, realised that the paintings existing of Arthur, didn’t actually resemble him.

Merlin had forgotten the wrinkles around Arthur’s eyes whenever he laughed, the crooked teeth flashing at him either in a sneer, a genuine smile, or a chuckle.

Merlin couldn’t recount Arthur’s golden hair, shining like an halo under the high, yellow sun, and resembling a crown during the red sunset.

It was soft when Merlin combed it, distractingly running his fingers through Arthur’s silk strands, hoping his lord wouldn’t notice how tremulous his hands really were, how his sweat could have made knots in his soft hair, while his gulps were too loud not to resound in his large ears, red with anticipation.

Merlin had forgotten the fuzzy feeling in his tummy at the mere presence of Arthur in a room, standing proud but unsure, tall but scared, where Merlin would look at him from afar, and feel the quick rush of blood in his veins.

Merlin had forgotten Arthur’s smell, of sweat, chainmail, of the soap he used to wash himself with in the bath, after a tiring day.

He had forgotten his voice. Deep and accusatory, mocking but sweet.

A castle forgotten, people dead for too much time.

Friends, family, strangers.

A king long gone, a memory replaced by hints only, and Merlin’s chest ached, thudded as if it��d been punched from the inside, his heart trying to understand if there had ever been a way out of its ribcage.

And then, one day, as Merlin reminisced his old life, walking to the other side of a lake he had never thought he would willingly get close to again, he saw him.

Arthur was back.

And so was everything else.

Whatever they were Merlin’s lies, or his king’s, after a millennia, the warlock faintly recalled the hurt, the pain, the persecution, the death.

Merlin had lived and died, loved and hurt, healed and killed, stayed and ran, thought and changed.

He felt the call in his heart and mind, of his life in Arthur’s kingdom, of the injustices perpetuated.

Of his own hypocrisy, of his lack of wit, of his insecurity.

Of the people and magical beings manipulating him, and Merlin wrongly accused of actions he would have never had committed.

Merlin had missed Arthur, yet, deep from within his heart, he fairly thought he wasn’t ready to rescue him.

Because on top of it all, Merlin still wept at the reminder of the centuries spent in wait.

And Merlin, on a cloudy day, as mist surrounded him and the trees, green leaves dancing in the air, tiny drops of cold water splashing the warlock’s worn clothes, stood there, his beating heart in his dry throat, lean hands clutching at his bag, round eyes staring at Arthur, did nothing, as his former king emerged from the icy water, gasping and grasping at anything he could reach, moving frantically to get out of the lake, gulping, swimming, still in his shining, but old armour, wearing, on his large hands, rusty, leather gloves.

Arthur’s pale skin reflected the moving waters, as he reached the beginning of the lake, and threw up on the shore, as he had crawled to it with tired arms and legs, laid watching the wet grass underneath him.

Merlin looked at him, swallowed down, wide eyed, and trembling in his own limbs.

And after a moment of hesitation, Merlin walked away, faltering in his steps, as tears strained to keep their position at the corners of his down turned eyes, not to fall freely on the sunken cheekbones.

Merlin was too tired to do anything else.

He had waited too much.

And now, he was angry.

[desired-misery]

So we all know Luis has a scar from Las Plagas, which implies he needed surgery to get it out... but who did the surgery? Did he do it on himself? Did this man perform a major surgery on himself to remove the parasite pieces after he killed it (I assume that he needed to remove the parts that died, as Leon and Ashley seemed to only need the laser machine to do kill it in the game)? Or was his not at an advanced stage yet so he only needed to stun it/mostly kill it before going in a removing it? How long did it take him? Did he have to break because he was worried he was going to pass out/actually pass out from the freakiness of it all/his hands were shaking so bad/he got bloody and didn't want to drop his tools?

[kyouka-supremacy]

Very assorted - and probably disorganized - thoughts on Akutagawa's immediate reaction on the night Dazai left the pm, since it's taken a pretty delineate shape in my mind for some time now.

I didn't use to have many strong opinions on how Akutagawa acted when Dazai left (although “unknown” uses as a concept of its own. Akutagawa disappearing, and no one knows where he was or what he did– until he comes back, but as a different man). That is up until recently, when I found this fic that described Chuuya storming to Akutagawa's place and all but threatening him to come to work the day after, and for all the days to come– and thus, urged him not kill himself. And I didn't think much about it initially, yet the scene slowly, unconsciously got ingrained in the bsd canon I have in my mind. And although one could fairly think Chuuya was spiraling in his own depressive episode that night, I feel like it's feasible to believe he'd still look out for Akutagawa. Not because Chuuya cared about Akutagawa in particular (at that point of the story, I genuinely think he didn't experience any strong feeling of any kind for Akutagawa, much less had a general good impression of him), but simply because that's what Chuuya does: he looks out for his own. He's perceptive enough to grasp that Akutagawa was but a kid at serious risk in that moment, and he's compassionate enough to go out of his way to help him, even though they barely knew each other, even though Chuuya himself was hurting like crazy that night (and perhaps even because that's simply what he does to cope with great distress and impending grief: keeps himself busy, tries to think of others before himself).

And there was, indeed, a very real chance Akutagawa was going to kill himself that night. Maybe he wouldn't, for Gin; but I'm not even sure. Dazai was the man who told Akutagawa he would have found a reason to live in the mafia, and now he's gone, the man who himself had seemingly become his reason to live; what's left for him in life anymore, what's the point of going on?– is probably what he must have wondered.

In my mind, the Akutagawas only have had two houses since they joined the pm. The first one was a small but comfortable, nice apartment that was assigned to them by the pm right after they joined, their first proper house. The second, a bigger, more comfortable penthouse, they had to move in after Ryuunosuke completely destroyed their first one on the night Dazai left– caught up in that kind of uncontrollable rage that only comes from inhuman pain. That night, Ryuunosuke got home blind and out of reason. He asked Gin to go away, and when she refused to, he pushed her out of the house with his ability, despite having always refrained from touching her with it, despite having always paid careful attention to never use his ability near or on her. And as soon as she was out of range he started destroying everything with and without his ability, until he could see nothing but red, everywhere. And once he destroyed everything, once the only thing left to destroy was himself, he cowered in a dark angle and howled, covered in blood, unable to speak, hideous and inhuman, nothing but a rabid dog. And his scream echoed the one he released the night he met Dazai for the first time; and if that day he had experienced his first emotion, now he was feeling a second new, deeply painful one. Maybe that's when Chuuya had come in, and told him he was not allowed to kill himself; maybe Gin had called Hirotsu, and Hirotsu had called Chuuya, and Chuuya stormed in, and ordered him to come to work tomorrow. Because Chuuya is smart; because he knows that orders are something familiar for Akutagawa, something that can help ground him; because he knows Dazai is not worth killing oneself over. And Akutagawa didn't kill himself that night, and he kept hurting for a long time, but eh. Eventually, he'll be okay.

[steviewashere]

3, 7, 14, 20, 29 Numbers for the Drabble! Can I get really angsty here with like Eddie being depressed and almost dying and Steve saving him?!

Okay, I don't know if I went the route you were thinking, but I tried. Also, I definitely think I went a different way with the 'saving' thing, but here we go. This also got way longer than a drabble.

3: "Please, don’t leave.”, 7: "I almost lost you.", 14: "Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always.”, 20: "You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you.”, and 29: "I thought you were dead.”

CW: Implied/Referenced Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Eddie's Sacrifice Being Referred to as a Suicide Attempt

Established Steddie, Pre-Season Four Relationship

——— A voice low and raspy floats through his head. “You need to wake up because I can’t do this without you,” it says. There’s a pressure to Eddie’s hand. The firm squeeze of somebody else. Somebody who doesn’t remind him of his uncle. He can’t pinpoint who it is exactly, but it’s somebody familiar. A person who knows him, most likely. A person who’s willing to talk to him in the in-between of somewhere and nowhere.

Though, it’s not the first time he comes to hear this phrase. Uttered to him day in and day out. A constant reminder that he’s not gone, but he’s not there. Not with this person. This somebody that seems to care about him. And he should know, because their voice is familiar. Strong and urgent and pleading and soft, all at once. It’s the burn of a mid-winter fire in his backyard, tossing butt-ends of cigarettes into its mix, drinking spiked eggnog until he can’t sense the numbness of his cheeks and is lost in the glorious laughter between him and his uncle. It’s the push come to shove.

The shove that he needs to wake up. And wake up he does. Startled and groggy, too. Choking in the back of his throat. Jump the wire with hands out in front of him, clawing at his mouth, at the contraption stuffed down his throat. Then, in a blur of motion and noise and light, it’s gone.

He can breathe. He can blink. He can smack his dry lips and suck down on the plastic straw offered out to him. Offered to him by a shaky hand that doesn’t have the same rugged, aged quality to them that his uncle’s do. He can see, so he looks. Up the person’s arm and to this stranger’s face.

Yet, he’s not a stranger. No, not at all. It’s Steve.

Steve Harrington, the guy he’d been kissing back at his trailer nearly every night before the bullshit came to bulldoze him. The guy he’d held on the couch when he had concussions number one and two. The guy that makes him cry.

The cup and straw is set aside hastily. Outstretched hand to his uninjured cheek. And a thumb, steady and warm wiping at his tears. “I gotcha, baby,” Steve murmurs. Leans tight and close, pressed warm against Eddie’s side. And kisses at his overheating skin, at the tear tracks, and his hiccuping chest. “I gotcha,” he coos again. “I almost lost you, but I have you. I have you.”

Days move like that. Nearly like that. Eddie wakes up sobbing and choking, too warm and agitated. And Steve holds his face, kisses his cheeks, and brushes back his hair.

It works until it doesn’t.

When he’s discharged, he moves into a drab apartment. Too far from his childhood home. Away from a room that was brimming with him and his love for all the people and all the things he’s ever known. He’s lost everything. Lost tattoos, patches of smooth skin, books with margin notes, tapes and records, poster and banners, clothes and old stuffed animals. It’s all gone from him. Anything he’s saved from his and Steve’s time together, that’s all away from him, too.

Even as he unpacks the boxes of things that replace that of which he’s lost, it doesn’t soothe him. Nothing does. He had expected to never see the daylight again. To have left everything behind, with Wayne and Steve and the other people he’s come to know. That he wouldn’t have to see it again, but even if he had to, it would still be there. But nothing is. Then, he doesn’t graduate. Doesn’t even want to try again; just tells everybody, “Oh, it’s fine. I’ll get my GED or something, y’know? Maybe just go to trade school.”

Though, he knows that’s a lie, too.

Because he’s ten times worse off than he was before. Nothing to stick to his name. A distance that stretches between him and everything he’s ever had. It’s noticeable in the way he’s prone to lash out more. Prone to laying in bed, tight under his blanket, not doing anything. How quiet and how unnerving he’s become. Staring off at nothing, caught in flashbacks and blinking lights, holding to himself tightly as if he can will the normal to creep back into his body. He figured if he had died, sure there would be a bad taste to his name, but at least he wouldn’t have to keep making up for things he didn’t do. He wouldn’t have to justify who he is. Or find a way to hide in broad sunlight.

Everything he’s ever known is twisted backwards and shoved up where the sun doesn’t shine. He tries to do the things he loved, but all that it reminds him of is playing a demented concert, creatures come to life, bites and scars and blood and screaming. And death. Sometimes, he wonders why he didn’t just die down there. How he survived.

So, he asks. He asks because it’s his story, too. He deserves to know, right?

It’s during a stay-in date night at his new apartment that he asks. “Hey, Steve?” And part of him grimaces at the last time he used those words, in that exact progression, in the moment that should’ve been his last.

Steve startles on the couch. Untucks himself from under Eddie’s arm. And full body faces him. Wide eyes, tight mouth, and wrinkled brow.

“Nobody’s told me how I…how I managed to survive. Will you tell me?” He asks quietly. Even his voice is as tired as his brain is. He used to be good at masking this. The waves of discontent that flood from his body every once in a while. It was manageable because it was just about his parents, or his living situation, or the bullies at school. But now it’s just him. It’s him as a whole, as a person who shouldn’t have lived. How nobody’s written Zombie Boy on the side of his van, he isn’t sure. He isn’t sure about a damn thing anymore.

But instead of answering, Steve just shakes his head. Tries to tuck back in close.

Eddie won’t have it. He scoots farther away. More distance. Why is there more distance? His emotions are haywire, he knows that. Something sparking red inside his chest, ready to light up in bright shades of orange through his mouth. “Why not?” He questions, though it falls flat and bitter. “Tell me,” he demands. Has practically skipped over the pleading stages, he’s done begging.

“I—“ And something in Steve’s eyes harden. Jaw setting with an unsubtle twitch. “I can’t tell you, Eddie,” he bites.

“You won’t tell me,” he accuses. “Which, I don’t get why you won’t. It’s something I want to know, don’t make me go to Dustin. Or Robin. They’ll fucking tell me.” The words fall from his mouth dark and slow. Dripping from him like the hot churn of tar. And he should regret how sour his tone has already gone, based on the hurt creeping into Steve’s face.

“Eddie,” Steve sighs. “Please don’t make me fight you on this right now. I—I literally can’t bring myself to say it. It’s…I shouldn’t even have to explain this to you, but it was one of the worst moments of my life. Is that not enough of a reason for you?” He could take this all back, really should, but Eddie just shakes his head stubbornly. Furrows his eyebrows and wags his hand as if to gesture for Steve to keep going. Instead, Steve stands from the couch and makes way to the door, hand stretched out for his sneakers. “I’m not fighting with you,” he states calmly. “I know that you’ve been curious or…or that you’ve been trying to come back to yourself or whatever, but it’s not something I’m willing to share. And it’s certainly not something I want to argue with you about.”

“Whatever,” Eddie scoffs. “It’s probably bullshit anyway.” The fight leaves him all at once. As he leans into the couch, head at his lap, picking at his sweatpants. He sniffs, an attempt to rescind the tears that want to fall down his face.

But instead of leaving, Steve stays by the door and sighs. “Why do you want to know so bad?” He asks. Before Eddie can give him the same response, Steve quickly adds, “Don’t tell me that it’s ‘part of your story’ or whatever. I know it is. It’s just…Something’s different about this.”

He used to be unreadable. Unfathomable. Jumping between all kinds of things, unable to pinpoint him in a single way. But he shrugs. Goes quiet again. And mutters, “Just go, Steve. It doesn’t matter.” Even if he wants to say something about how he was supposed to die, or how he should’ve. Even if he wants to show all his cards: I’m lost, I’m different and everybody can tell, I’m falling apart, I’m close to death anyway. 

Steve still doesn’t move.

“Go, Steve. I said that it doesn’t matter,” Eddie snaps. He raises his head. And for some reason, Steve is still there. Concerned and confused and sad all at once. He hates it. “I’m not gonna make you talk about it! Why are you still standing there?! You can go! I’ll find out one of these days, so stop looking at me like that!” He shouts. And he hates that, too. But he lets himself loud and angry, red faced and harsh lines. Because why won’t Steve just—

“You’re being a real dickhead, you know that?” Steve asks rhetorically. “I’m trying to save myself the fucking heartache I went through, and you—What, you think bullying words out of me is going to get you an answer?! I just don’t get why you’re so curious about what I saw! You’ve never pushed before, y’know, back during Starcourt or after Billy or whatever, but now it’s—“

Eddie groans and stands. Interrupting with his own words, “I’m not forcing you anymore, so let’s just drop it!”

“—Why does it matter in the first place?! You know what you did! It’s nothing different from—“

“Nothing different?! God, do you hear yourself?!”

“—Seriously, why does this matter so bad?! I don’t get it—“

“Because…Because I—“

“I thought you were dead!” Steve screams, just as Eddie shouts back:

“I wanted to die down there!”

And then the room fills with suffocating silence. As they stand merely four feet apart from each other. Wide eyed, red in the face, shaking. Immediately, Eddie looks down to the floor as Steve stops closer. Stepping back when he thinks they get too close to touching.

He doesn’t say anything about wanting to die, even now. Doesn’t say how even when Steve is doting on him, massaging his scars with lotion, taking care of him all sweet like—Eddie still wants to crawl outside of his skin and bury himself under the ground. Won’t say something about how he thought about all the ways in which he should’ve died, or could’ve died, or could still die now. Won’t.

Now, he understands why Steve can’t talk. Because he’s realizing he can’t talk either.

Steve’s voice is wet and heartbreaking when he asks, “What? Baby, why would you…”

Eddie just shakes his head. Heaves his own little wet thing. A sigh or a sob, it’s hard to tell. “I shouldn’t have pushed, I’m sorry,” he says first. “Please…Please go, Steve. I think I should lay down.”

“Hey, wait—No, Eds,” Steve calls out, his hand brushing briefly with Eddie’s wrist. But he can’t grasp. Not with how Eddie turns away, down the hallway, and slams his bedroom door behind him.

They don’t see each other for a week after that.

Eddie stays closed up and silent in his bedroom. Under his comforter. Unmoving. Briefly gets up to go to the bathroom. In which he tries to avoid how his uncle stares at him. Doesn’t want to eat, can’t bring himself to eat. Not with the guilt that fills his stomach anyway. Steve shouldn’t have heard that. Shouldn’t know that that part exists inside of Eddie, but it does. And it festers. 

Festers uncaring that Eddie doesn’t want to feel this way. Just lingers heavy on his shoulders, tight in his belly, grumbling in his chest. It, that desire, tingles in his fingertips. As he takes his medications, holding onto the plastic bottles longer than he needs to. When he carries a cigarette between his two fingers, eyeing the embers sparking over his bare skin. It’s in the haunting images in his nightmares, where he lays bloody and exhausted and finally in solitude. But he wakes up sobbing anyway. Grasping to his elbows, rocking back and forth in his bed, biting down on his comforter or his blanket as to not wake up Wayne.

It’s still there when he sees Steve next.

A knock to his bedroom door, hesitant and small. Then, the bustle of movement clambering through. His shadow standing over the end of Eddie’s bed. “Eds?” Steve’s voice is low and cautious, standing on eggshells. “Baby? I—uh—I got a call from Wayne saying you were…That you weren’t feeling good. Just wanted to check on you.” Eddie pulls his head out from under his blanket and just blinks at Steve. He takes that as some sort of cue, though, and comes closer. Hesitantly sitting on the edge of the bed. He lays his right hand over Eddie’s forehead and frowns. “You don’t feel warm or anything. How aren’t you feeling good?” He asks. And his face is all too soft. A little smile. The creases at the corners of his eyes. How his body language is still so sweet and caring and…It just doesn’t make sense with how Eddie treated him last.

So, without a response to give, Eddie allows himself to weep. A quiet thing at first, but that bubbles and pops and explodes from out of him in the next moment. Tumbling from him admits blubbering, apologies and terrible explanations and how he didn’t mean to push. Steve startles lightly, pulls his hand away, but doesn’t get very far. Eddie plunges his hand out from under the blanket, grabs to Steve’s retreating hand, and holds on firmly. “Please, don’t go,” he pleads, “Don’t go, Steve. I don’t—I can’t—“

Carefully, Steve burrows himself into Eddie’s blanket. Flush against Eddie’s torso. Arms wrapping around his shaking shoulders. Lips to his forehead, murmuring, “Hey, hey, Eds. You’re okay. I’ve got you, baby. I’m here.” And when Eddie’s crying only gets louder, Steve squeezes impossibly tighter. “Hey, I’m with you, okay? Always, Eds. I’m right here with you,” he attempts to placate.

When the crying gets hoarse and Steve’s words are just sticky kisses to Eddie’s forehead, does he calm down. Sniffing loud, burrowing in close to Steve’s warmth, scratching his chin with his wild and unwashed hair. “I didn’t mean to say it that way,” he mumbles, “It’s true, but I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

Steve lets out a carefully measured breath. “I just hope that you don’t think like that now,” he murmurs. A tinge of sadness at the edges of his voice.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and the scream in his chest. The quiver in his palms and the thoughts in his head, he tries to steady. Of course this isn’t easy. “I do, sometimes. I don’t like it, though. And I’d never…But I thought my life was over at that point, you have to understand that, Steve,” he begins to explain. “And like—My life now, I may have some things. I may have you still and Uncle Wayne. I have Dustin and Mike and Lucas, our game and whatnot. But I can’t…Things that used to matter to me, they don’t mean anything at all. They just make me think of that place. It’s just…My life feels drastically different now and like there’s nothing to fix it.”

Above him, where Steve’s chin rests on the top of his head, he hears and feels the hum Steve emanates. He swipes one hand down the center of Eddie’s back. The other holding tight to the back of his head. “I think fix is the wrong word. Maybe just…You just need to be guided. But I don’t think I’m the right person to do that.”

“I know,” Eddie mutters. “I’ll have to find something because I’m not putting the people around me through—I’m not going to let you lose me,” he states determinedly. “Just please don’t go. And know that I really am sorry, that I am grateful for what you’ve done for me, but I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“It sucked,” Steve admits. “But I’m right here with you. By your side through the thick of it. And I forgive you, as long as you stick by me.”

All Eddie can do is burrow in closer, nod, and let himself succumb to Steve’s warmth. To be saved from near death is one thing, but to be held away from it is another. And Steve has done that for him. He kisses Steve’s chest, where his heart is, and makes a silent promise that he will find a better tomorrow for himself.

[puppetmaster13u]

DC AU Idea

Imagine if after coming back to life and being dunked in the Lazarus Pits, Jason can see ghosts. The pit rage is all the ghosts possessing him and trying to get revenge on their killers. A lot of them were killed by the joker and aren’t taking no for an answer, no matter who is in their way.  The only reason they don’t immediately do so is that they remember Robin, they remember Jason, and they don’t want to hurt him. It’s hard to remember that he’s alive again and cannot do the same things they can. 

[the-bi-space-ace]

Oh hey how about another snippet of something I'm working on today:

It felt like the weight of the past year was falling onto Rex. He remembered losing Echo, holding Fives as they both lost control. Fives. Not long ago he was holding Fives as he died, begging the Force that he wouldn’t lose him. Not him too. Saving Echo felt like the first true success Rex had experienced in a long time. Those boys had trusted him, came to him for safety, and he had failed them. Both of them.

I promise this is much softer than the snippet suggests <3

[softquietsteadylove]

I just had an evil idea. What if one day Gilgamesh finally had to make good on his promise to kill Thena if the Mahd Wy'ry ever took over her completely? Maybe he deals with it alone or one of the others finds him, up to you. I know you're good with angst so this should be painful

Gil's chest constricted. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He just stared, trying to wrap his head around what was happening. "No...n-no, I-"

The Deviant--the demonic entity facing him dropped its shield onto the jungle floor. Its vines had reached around the Strongest Eternal and retrieved something to serve as a defense. It was a wall of flesh, used only to absorb the shock of a punch.

The body rolled and tumbled, limbs dead weight, blonde hair falling lightly in comparison. Her eyes were still open, and the white colour that had been fogging them cleared to reveal their usual green. It was dark, and they no longer held their shine. The Warrior Eternal was dead.

Gilgamesh's chest puffed as he tried to breathe. He couldn't. What he was seeing didn't make any sense to him. The face of Thena, his lifelong partner, was staring up at him. But it wasn't her. It didn't look like her. His powers dissipated, sparks of gold disappearing into the still and heavy air, a minimal light in the growing dark.

"That is truly a shame," the devil lamented. "Her powers would have been one of the most useful to me."

Gil couldn't understand the words it was saying either. He knelt--fell to his knees. He reached slowly, delicate as he grasped the shoulder of the woman he loved. "Thena?"

She had no response. Her body was heavy as he lifted her into his embrace. He had snapped her spine, destroyed it in a way even an Eternal wouldn't survive. Maybe it was the most merciful way, with Mahd Wy'ry clouding her mind and that thing holding her, maybe she hadn't known it was he who had landed the killing blow.

He didn't know if it was better if that thing was the last she had seen, or if it would have been better for her to see him, only for him to end her life the way he had. As violent as the nature of their powers were, he never wanted to turn that force unto her. Even in all his years thwarting the attacks of her episodes, he always did his best to protect her and himself.

"Oh, Thena," Gilgamesh whimpered. His breath still came sparingly, his throat constricted far too tight. He cradled her head against his chest, the way he would if she were merely having a terrible dream. He ran his fingers through her hair as he watched the golden lines of her energy pull away from her skin, leaving the grey remains of the physical body.

Gold glittered the air again as the Warrior Eternal's life left her in the last way possible. Their own took cautious and unbelieving steps towards them.

"Gil!"

He felt the vines of that thing at his back. Horrific appendages made to do worse than end life: made to steal it. He set Thena down gently, unwilling to cause her any more unrest.

The trees quivered as he turned, roaring out the energy building up in his body. Rage and grief coursed through him as he turned and grabbed the creature. His hands were more than capable of crushing through its flesh, no matter what being of natural make or nightmare of the stars. He ripped its arms from its body.

Gilgamesh arched his hands up. He watched the shadow of his sledgehammer fists stretch over the beast's face before he brought them down. The forest blew back from the impact, even more than the last time he'd landed a punch like this. And he kept going.

Every hit, every strike, every scream he let out of his lungs for a loss of what else to do, that thing would suffer. He would make something incapable of death experience the loneliness of pain. He would make it understand what it meant to be alone--what it meant to fear.

The ground impacted from his strength. He continued. He swung his fists, the air bending around him, compressing and bursting, gold streaking through the dusk as he swung at it like an animal fighting for its life.

The thing was dead. He didn't care. He wanted it to be no more. He wanted to beat it down so small that it disappeared into the wind or bled into the core of the earth. His strength would prove that it was still good for something. Now that he had failed to protect his greatest love, he would enact the greatest punishment he could.

"Gil, stop it!"

They were calling him, but he couldn't hear them. He couldn't understand what they were saying. He kept seeing Thena's lifeless face, the feeling of her Cosmic Energy fading into nothing. Now that there was no more Thena, he didn't even feel like he was on Earth anymore. There was nothing to center and anchor him. He felt as if all of his senses had been shut off and there was only pain remaining.

He had never been without Thena's energy to match the rhythm of his, not in all their millennia together. And now, all the air in his lungs was gone, his blood was no longer flowing because his heart was empty and void. He was afloat, trying to follow what remained of Thena in pure stardust.

Gilgamesh roared one last time as he tore the thing apart. What was once its body cavity was forced open with his fingers like an agate, revealing its jagged insides. Its arms were strewn and its head simply was no more. And yet still looking at it only made him want to do more.

"That's enough," his brothers attempted to pull him away, out of the crater he had created.

He turned away, throwing them off of him. He walked back to Thena, laid where he had left her. Her sisters were leaning over her precious body, but he waved them away.

He picked her up again, cradling her head and her poor, broken back. He held her delicate shoulders, which used to curl into him, seeking his warmth. His fingers slid into the depths of her thick blonde hair. She already felt cold.

His tears fell onto her. Once her hand would wipe them away, but now it lay limp beside her. He rocked them back and forth, his body now unsteady without anything real at all for connection. He pressed his cheek to her hair, "my Thena."

He could hear their family moving behind him. They were building a fire, to release her body, to follow her Cosmic Energy back to the stars and their home. But he held her tighter.

You may have to kill her; that was what they once said. And he had said that was a chance he was willing to take. Because he would take any chance in the world to be with his Thena even one more day. And for beings without natural death, he didn't take it lightly.

But this wasn't right. He didn't want to build her a funeral pyre. He didn't want his eyes to watch a fire consume the life of a woman whose every second and minute and hour he would weave into a beautiful tapestry of if he could.

They should have been home. They would have been in Australia, at the home they had built together. He would bury her in the warm, red sands, under the tree she liked. Life without her would be pain but at least he could continue his mission.

His mission was never to protect earth. It wasn't to kill Deviants or serve some far away god. His mission was to protect Thena. It was to love and cherish the woman who had been by his side from the moment he opened his eyes. And he would have spent the rest of Eternity protecting her, until Earth ripped itself in half to mercifully swallow him up into oblivion.

They expected him to give her up. But this was the woman he loved. He held the body of his wife, as preciously as he would on any day, or any night.

Thena had once said that she didn't want to be the one to kill him. She had begged him to kill her first. He had never agreed, because he didn't want to lie to her, but he didn't think he was capable either. He didn't want to endure the pain of living without her, something surely even his strength couldn't weather.

"I kept my promise," he whispered against her forehead, pressing a kiss to it. What a terrible promise it was. He had taken the chance, but to live with it was something harder.

"Gil," Sersi's soft whisper reached him, her hand on his arm.

"Just wait for me, sweetheart," he cooed to his ever-sleeping wife. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and under her knees, picking her up for the last time. The pyre was ready. Even if it was already lit, he would lean into the fire gently, just to lie her to sleep the way she liked. "I'll come and find you."

[hastalavistabyebye]

Injuries #2

AO3 version

“It’s not so bad, sir, I swear !” Grin was quick to exclame, even with one of the medics still hovering over her. “It’s my fault really, I'm the one who asked for this spar.”

Ponds gave a look to the ARC that made all her attempts at taking the blame dissolve like ice under Tatooine's suns. The Commander had come as fast as he could when the news reached him, face a controlled mask very far from the usual relaxed smile he had during leaves. Nobody made a sound in the medbay. 

“Report ?” He simply said to the medic. 

“Right ankle broken, the left shoulder dislocated, and lots of bruises. The choking didn't leave any damage, sir.” Scalpel valiantly tried to reassure. Or at least appease, somehow. “She’ll be back on her feet in no time.”

Ponds nodded in acknowledgement. He patted Grin’s good shoulder, not even trying to calm the worried faces staring silently at him from every side of the room. 

“Rest. When you're back into shape, I'll take you on the mats and see to your fighting style, if you want to.” He didn't smile as he usually would, but his voice was soft. It always was when he spoke to his troops. 

Grin barely had the time to shakily nod, Ponds was already turning back from where he came. 

He was going to kill him. 

-

It didn't take long to reach the Commanders’ quarters. It didn't take long for the door to open either, which was a good thing. He would have happily torn the kriffing thing out of his way if he had to wait just a minute more. 

Ponds barged in, not caring about Neyo in the corner. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you ?” He screamed at Bacara, before the other man even had time to look up from the bacta patch he was in the process to apply at a cut on his forehead. “In which sith hell sending a trooper to medbay is considered appropriate behavior for a kriffing spar ?!”

“She’s the one who asked for it.” Bacara simply shrugged, focus now entirely directed at Ponds. 

“She’s the one who- do you even hear yourself ?? You nearly choked her to the point of blacking out ! Neyo was trained by fucking Priest and even him knows not to send his men in the medbay over kriffing training fights .” He all but spat, ignoring the other 91st Commander freezing at his words. He’d excuse himself later, right now he had other things to focus on. “You’re a Marshall Commander, if you can't fucking control your strength, I'll teach you.”

Ponds was burning. Rage running incandescent in his veins, giving every cell in his body the ferocity of a fine tuned plasma bomb. He just wanted to explode and slice in that dickhead of an asshole. He would have taken the defense of any vod, but nobody touched his troops. Bacara was observing him intently, bacta patch forgotten in his hand. The simple nod he answered with made Ponds flare with vicious satisfaction. 

“You got two hours to patch yourself up and recover. Same training room where you played the entitled shabuir.” Ponds commanded. 

He didn't wait for an answer. It barely had the time to come before he was out of the door anyway. Bacara stared at where Ponds had been standing a few moments longer. 

“You really kriffed up, ori’tat.” Neyo whistled. The Marine didn't answer, grudgingly grateful to be spared the ‘I told you so’ this time. He turned back to the bacta. 

-

The Vode rumor mill was renowned for its efficiency and rapidity. So it wasn't a surprise to see the training room full of noisy troopers, especially since Ponds hadn't give a fuck about being discreet when he went to find Bacara. It was good, maybe the lesson was going to stick better in the presence of an audience. 

The two Commanders said nothing, simply took place on the mats. Neyo signaled for them to start the fight and that was it. 

Ponds striked, quick as a snake pounding on its prey. He was Recon, trained to be fast in armor. And at that moment, the entirety of the room saw just how fast it made him out of his shell. Bacara may be one of the best fighters of the entire GAR, a rustless mountain of muscles, but it didn't matter for Ponds. Especially not now that he was used to train with General Windu. 

Exactly one minute after the start of the fight, Bacara was pinned down, face first, on the mats, completely immobilized by the other Commander on top of him. 

“This is how to spare.” Ponds growled in his ear. “Don't come near my men ever again until you've learned this lesson.”

With one last jab in the ribs, far from enough to do any damage but enough to send the point across one last time, Ponds got back on his feet and left the room without another look back. 

“Well, good job ‘Cara. You’ve lasted thirty seconds more than what I've bet.”

“Fuck you, Neyo.” The Marine groaned while standing back up.

-

The majority of the GAR thought that was where the story ended. After this day, the Marine Commander started to calm down little by little, less ruthless and more stern. Many believed the two Commanders couldn't stand each other anymore. 

It was one of the very rare cases where the Vode rumor mill went impressively askew. 

The day after this fight, Bacara went to see ARC Trooper Grin and presented his excuses. Or as good of excuses as he could manage. It still got happily acknowledged for what it was. He became more careful when training with other people, even started putting into place new strategies during campaigns to diminish useless casualties. In the safety of his quarters, he even sometimes asked for advice to his batch, when the situation was outside of his specialty. And, a little bit later, he asked Ponds too. 

Ponds calmed down pretty quickly, he never had been one to be angry easy nor to stay like this for very long. He only excused himself to Neyo, who brushed it right away with a cheeky “Oh no, he deserved to hear it”. He did send to the Marine a holo of a purple bird of prey a week later, with the message : I still like your colors .