#just for more whump fo myself

[veny-many]

Related work :

"You should not move your arm for now, sir."

Wolffe dryly said while examining Kel-Dor's right arm. In collection, it was his General's now mechanical arm that Wolffe was checking. The copula of skin and metal site were dirty with blood and fever, but Plo not even moaned or made sound when Wolffe cleaned blood and pus, and applied a bacta patch.

"Your copula site is infected, this is far more bad than we expected."

'It is not surprising either, considering we needed illegal surgery to avoid Empire's search.'

When he heard the soft yet rumbling voice directly in his head, Wolffe's face didn't soften, only hardened by worry and anger. The anger even Wolffe didn't know where they were from, what they were for. He was exhausted. From the long journey of running underworld, fighting your brothers and whole Empire, and keep lying for everything, and wandering around the world that Wolffe was never able to experience before the end of the war. They were many new dangers everywhere, so many lies and darkness, and Wolffe needed to protect his General, no matter what happened and will happen to them. He needed to be sharp, sensitive and brave to endure all those harsh outside world. But, it was always a difficult mission to him. Even his Jedi General seemed to be more aware of the rules and cruelty of the outer world. He always saved Wolffe when his in problem.

Like before, the time when they were fighting in warfare together.

It never changed. Even after his General now injured and hurt from burnt in his skin, the pain and infection in his lost arm, and loss of his voice. Even the fact that Wolffe and his brothers were the reason now Plo is suffering.

Wolffe never felt this powerless. It felt like the Malevolence, the Khorm again.

And it made Wolffe angry. He was ashamed of this. Because it was not Plo's fault, yet it was him who was enduring when Wolffe broke down. Like that morning.

"I will go to town for myself this time. You will stay here."

Wolffe gathered his package while he ordered his friend in a low voice. Kel-Dor signed behind him, and Wolffe definitely felt more uncomfortable to hear that.

'I do not doubt about your strength and bravery, but I'm afraid that I have bad feelings about letting you go alone for today.'

And Wolffe knew that his General's concern was always collected, due to their Force ability shit or something. He knew that Plo was just worried.

"General, I and trained man. And I know about how to protect myself. It would be harder if there's more injured I need to protect."

After realizing his outburst, Wolffe quickly turned his head to door, opposite of Plo, with much shame and shock from his word.

He would never, ever feel uncomfortable for taking care of his General. He would gladly die, or die trying to save his Jedi. The Jedi who always treated clones as a sentient, a friend, a brave trooper. The Jedi who gladly accepted the place as the leader of the pack, and took the symbol of the wolf. Who fought by their side, healed their wounds and traumas, and remained by their side when they marched away. Who took many blasts and dangers to protect his troopers, always jumped to battle first, and left as the last.

He never deserved this.

He never deserved anything from this.

When Wolffe was about to quickly leave, another word rumbled through his head.

'Be careful, Wolffe.'

Plo never deserved this.

He didn't deserve Wolffe.

Who was just coward, who just watched helplessly in the pod when his brothers and General fought for him in the dard space void, who cried in pain through his eye and desperately cringing in his General's arm, who was not strong enough to fight back the sith twice, who couldn't fought the Order before attacking his General, who never admitted his helplessness and fear and turned them to anger, and always get in General's way and needed his help.

And yet, Plo always kind to him. Always tried to understand him, and wanted to help him for everything.

Wolffe felt like he was a burden. Which was funny, considering that he was the one who saved and patched his General. Maybe that wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to be by side of Plo Koon. To be his friend, his pack, his...

Wolffe shaked his head hard. There was no time for being sentimental. He needed to gather more medical supplies from markets. Plo's wound needed more treatment, and the saved supplies were running out. He couldn't fail this time. He needed to be strong and smart. For his General's sake.

Wolffe didn't come back to their hideout even after the sun went down to the ground.

Plo Koon was very worried. Worried about where Wolffe was, and what he was doing, or what happened to him. Wolffe was a man of the word, he was never late to come back to their place before the sunset. Which meant probably something that Plo always feared had happened to his friend.

Wolffe was a tough man, smart and brave, but never was a good liar and negotiator. He was dragged so many troubles in life as a civilian, and even almost dragged to danger of crimes, including murder and abduction. And yet Wolffe always wanted his General to be behind his back to ensure Plo's safety.

Wolffe always said that Plo's life and safety were the priority. That he would help his General's search and find remaining Jedis. But he was wrong.

In deepest place in Plo's mind, he knew that he would never find any survivors that easily. He doubted how many survivors were even there in galaxy. Plo was saved by the suffering of his Commander, who still had trauma from the Khorm in his eye and head. His survival was the twisted miracle made by tragedy and fondness.

Plo knew that he had no purpose after the fall of the order. Jedi had failed, his family had died, even his niece... He tried to stop her, stop her from reckless and dangerous last mission, through their last remaining bond. But she was stubborn like she always was, and also brave and honored Jedi Knight, who never backed away from what is right thing. When their bond broke for the last time, the shock had knocked down Plo in the middle of the road, which made Wolffe full panic.

After all the grief and mourning, when Plo finally managed to gather his strength to move, he watched Wolffe silently patching his wound, and finally realized.

He was never alone. He still had one purpose. At least he could find one precious priority for now.

Wolffe never managed to experience the world outside the war. The cruelty and the beauty of the galaxy, without the army, and the orders. He still could see all the new world outside. He could live to see them all.

And Plo wanted to help him to live in the world outside from the order. To protect him from the cruelty of the space. And make him experience many joy and freedom. The normal life.

Wolffe deserved it, like all other sentients do. Like all those troopers who marched away did.

And Plo would make sure at least Wolffe will get what he deserved. Because they were Pack. They offered him their space and color.

'Until the war ends.' Wolffe said when he gave Plo the vambraces painted in gray Wolfpack symbol. They're bond were for the war. The war tried to tear and break them. So they sworn to this symbol that they would protect each other as the Pack through the war. And when the war finally ends, they will go back to their home.

Now, their home were gone, and war never ended, not for them. Plo and Wolffe were still fighting in war. For survival, from the Empire, in the nightmare, they always fought together.

And Plo were determined to protect Wolffe from the war. He war not able to do that in the wartime, because they never wanted to run away from fighting for innocent. But for now, they were at least free. Wolffe didn't need to be stay sharp, to push himself off limit. Plo wanted Wolffe to be more honest to his mind and emotions, but it appeared that nothing in this galaxy had an easy road to success.

Plo checked his arm one more time. The bleeding had stopped, but the aching pain never stopped. His body felt like burning, and his breath made his throat hurt every time he breathed.

But something told him to move out.

The Force was telling him to move out. To find him. To help him.

Outside the door, the weather was dark, and tick clouds were gathering above the town. It felt like warning. Like preparing something strong.

Feeling the Force which remained in silence now shifted in air, Plo hurried his steps toward the town.

Considering his experience from his history as a seeker, it would be the hard search for his friend.

[mortifiedatbeingknown]

"First Impressions" (Pt. 2)

Part 1

Taglist: @whump-blog , @octopus-reactivated , @itsawhumpsideblog , @keepingwhumpwiththekardashians , @maracujatangerine , @taterswhump

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Something was wrong. 

He could feel it, down in his bones. The worker lady shouldn’t have walked away. His cage shouldn’t be unlocked. They were supposed to take his food away, now that it was on the ground and ruined. He would’ve eaten as much as he could once her back was turned, if only everything wasn’t so wrong. 

He hadn’t meant to spill. He wasn’t trying to be bad. He was just too big…and he’d been too clumsy to remember where the bowl was. Now something was wrong, and it was his fault. If only he’d stayed still. If only he’d—

Footsteps. His ears perked up at the sound. Not from a worker; they were too light. And not from an officer; they always wore boots. These were new. New, strange…and getting louder. 

Uh-oh. 

The worker lady hadn’t locked his cage. The only thing that separated him from the outside was a thin curtain. And the footsteps were growing louder. 

Every muscle tensed. A growl began to rise in the back of his throat. And before he could bark a warning, or squeal for help, a hand reached out and pulled back his only shield from the outside world. 

“No!” 

The worker lady shouted too late. The bright sun stung his eyes, and every inch of him was visible to everyone.

Before he knew it, the growl had burst free from his throat. 

The stranger gasped and stumbled back. He growled louder, baring his teeth. Stay back. Stay away! 

The worker woman was at the strangers’ side in a blink. “Are you OK?” She asked. 

The stranger nodded, face pale. 

“I’m so, so sorry! I should’ve warned you. I thought he’d gotten over this because he’d been quiet for so long, but…”  

“H-h-h-h-h-h…” 

The stranger talked funny. Her words got stuck in her throat, and sometimes the only thing that made it out was the first letter. She would’ve gotten beaten for that, if she was a pet. 

“H-he…D…dangerous?” 

“No, no! Like I said, he’s not a risk to anyone. He’s just…intimidating. That’s why I—” 

“Scared.” 

His ears perked up. What did she say? 

“H-h-he’s…scared. Not h-his fault.” 

She…knew? 

The growl still rumbled in his throat, but it was softer now. He wanted to hear her every word. 

“I…I did it too.” 

His nose slowly nudged the cage door open. It creaked a little, causing them to gasp. He stepped forward, his eyes curious. 

Go on. Tell more. 

“W-w-when I was a ch-child.” The stranger said. “It was e-e-easier to growl than t-t-t-t-t-talk. S-so I growled. S-s-scared everyone a-away.” 

He didn’t want to scare. He didn’t want to want to scare. But if they came close, they could scream. They could kick. They could add another scar to the collection. He didn’t want that. He couldn’t help it. 

“That's why I w-w-w-w….w-why I wanted to fos-foster. T-they’re just scared.” 

Like me. 

The stranger was moving forward. Her hand was reaching out. He growled. He growled and snarled, and then took a step forward. Another. 

Her hand rested against the top of his head. He loved it. He hated it. He wanted to run. He wanted to stay. 

The stranger cleared her throat. The noise made him flinch. 

“H-h-he c-comes with me.” 

********************************

I am very humbled and grateful for all the support my past snippet has received over the past few days. It was never meant to go past the initial scenario of a part 1 and a part 2, and I'm sorry if I raised anyone's expectation of this being a long-running series. Writing is very taxing for me as of late, and I'm trying to not burn myself out while trying to get back into the habit of creating work. Thank you for understanding, and for your kind words.

[clickerflight]

Dinner and a Show

CW: Pet whump (winged avian character whumpee), creepy obsessed whumper, whumper dressing whumpee, brainwashed whumpee, nudity (not described), mentions of past beatings and starvings, mention of eating food not meant for people, whumper feeding whumpee, dead body and blood (rather well described-not whumpee), whumpee acting as entertainment. I think that’s all of it. Let me know if I missed something.

I wrote this thing giggling to myself. Originally, it was going to be reluctant pet whump but turned into brainwashed pet whump. I love Austin and Jayce, though. IDK if I’ll ever continue this. This was just a bit that I did when I had some extra time on Sunday.

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His cage was too small for him. It was a pretty thing, made in mockery of songbirds cages, pet cages that someone would keep in their house. He didn’t mind it being a bit cramped, though. This was the one place he was safe. His master let him sleep here and that was all he could really ask for, never mind how there was never room for his wings. 

Still, he knew the silence wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t be long before his master came to get him. There was to be a show tonight. If he did well and pleased his master, he would be allowed to sit at his master’s feet and eat from his plate. If he didn’t, he would be brought back here after a beating and be given only a shallow dish of mealworms to eat in his misery. 

Not that he entirely minded eating mealworms at this point. Food was food.

The door to the dim room opened and he could already feel an itching start up in his wings at the thought of what he would be asked to do. 

“Austin,” a disturbingly sweet voice called. “It’s time to get ready for my guests, my pet.”

His Master opened the cage door and Austin straightened his lanky frame from the cage, bowing his head so his collar bit into the underside of his jaw. His owner came around him and threaded his fingers through his feathers. “Mmm, looks like we might need to recolor your feathers before the show.”

Austin only nodded and followed him out of the room. Austin didn’t need to think to stand against the wall, staring up at the ceiling while his master worked on spraying color over his wings wherever he saw fit. He turned when ordered, barely even registering the movement. 

His master finished quickly and called, “Austin.”

Austin stepped off of the tarp covered in colors used on him in the past and didn’t even look to see what color his wings were now. His master started to dress him in clothing that would cover enough, but didn’t leave much to the imagination. Austin never even felt it anymore. He just did as he was told out of muscle memory and thought about his flight, the tricks he knew, the tricks he would try to perform, and what he did last time. His Master didn’t like seeing the same show twice in a row, and Austin knew he liked it when he tried out new tricks to see if they would please his Master. His only free thoughts went towards figuring out what would make his Master happy with him.

“There,” his Master said, putting a choker around Austin’s throat to hide the worst of the bruising and to attach a leash to later. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Austin could tell in the tone of his master’s voice that he was looking for some sort of response this time. He chirped, a neutral tone, carefully trained to keep out ungratefulness or sadness from the tone. He was sad, but he had no right to express it unless his Master wanted him to. He woke up his mind a little, listening to his Master’s chatter to figure out what sort of emotion his Master would want to see in his dance today. His Master was being very gentle with him today, a smile gracing his lips and a carefulness about covering up his marks and bruises. His Master probably wanted a more positive emotion today, then. Perhaps gratitude mixed with an absolute submissiveness. He would have to watch the faces of the guests too, to add little flares to please them as well. His Master always gave him extra good food if he danced well enough to get extra comments out of the guests about how well his Master trained him. 

His wings flicked once as he thought, and stilled in an instant, though his Master’s face turned a bit sour upon seeing it. Fear flooded Austin’s stomach, though he did not change his passive expression and merely got to his knees, his hands folded on the ground and his forehead pressed to them in a silent apology. He needed his Master to be content tonight. He was too tired to go without food tonight and too tired to properly take beatings as demurely as he was supposed to. 

His Master hummed gently. He really was in a good mood. 

“It’s okay, my little songbird,” his master said. “Sit up for me now. I can’t wait to see what sort of dance you will put on for us tonight. I have some VERY important guests with us tonight. If you do your very very best, I will let you have warm water for your bath tonight.”

Warm water sounded so so good. It was always comforting on Austin’s constantly aching muscles. He sat up and looked up at his Master, his eyes still glazed as he gave a soft chirp in agreement. His Master smiled and stroked his bird’s hair. “Well done, little one. Go out and kneel on the starting platform. Tonight's signal will be when I finish making my toast. Understand, my bird?”

Austin chirped again. Easy enough. It seemed like tonight would be an easy night after all. 

Austin followed his Master out of the room, but took a detour as his master went up to the viewing platform where he and his guests would be having dinner. Austin when to the show room, stepping to the middle of the dias, glancing at the viewing platform set with tables and servants guests not yet shown in to sit, and knelt down with his back to the platform, spreading his wings gracefully in perfect angles to show the soft curves of the tops of his wings and the lengths of his painted feathers. 

He waited there, spending a few minutes planning his dance, considering new tricks he believed he could do, and then shut down. He stared at nothing, his hands folded in his lap as he heard the guests filter in as if from a vast distance. He blinked slowly, only twitching his finger occasionally to keep himself awake enough to listen for the words he needed to watch for. He smelled food and knew that halfway through all the courses and conversation was usually when he would be asked to dance. 

He waited in his own world, quiet and obedient. 

“A toast!” 

Austin was awake now. 

“To all of you who came out and to the new members joining our ranks today. It is lovely to meet you, Jayce, and you Kai. Now, I have something wonderful for you all to see.” 

Austin waited one beat to make sure his Master was done speaking (the last time he had interrupted his Master had ended up with him not being able to lay down for a week) and then stood up gracefully, his wings down and smooth in every movement. Yes, he was sore, but he was trained past the point of caring about pain anymore. 

So the show began. There were moments he was very proud of, his deferring grace on the ground, pleading, worshiping his Master and his guests with his wings straightened down, his aerial dance showing just a touch of desperation, though always coming back to praise his Master, to beg from him, and landing on his knees, making himself as small and gentle as he could manage next to his Master, his head bowed and his hands folded in his lap. It was all perfect. 

He did have a couple of slip ups. He got, perhaps, a bit too desperate in his desperate portrayal, perhaps showing a bit too much of a desire for freedom. He’d also failed in one of his tricks, his wings aching, but he felt that he recovered it all quickly enough that only his Master would have noticed. He just hoped the rest of his show was good enough for a decent meal despite those details. 

Careful to quickly slow his breath and steady his heart beat, he felt his Master hook a leash into his collar. 

“Isn’t he wonderful,” his Master said, stroking his pet’s head. 

Austin shivered with delight at the sound of the praise. He took every scrap he could get. A fork appeared in front of him and he nibbled at it, careful not to scarf it down. He was trained. He was polite. He was his Master’s sweet little baby.

“That will definitely be a bath for you, sweetheart,” his Master said, his hand carding through Austin’s feathers. It was so nice that it brought grateful tears to his eyes. “A bath with warm water. Maybe even a sand bath for your feathers tomorrow, mmm?”

Austin chirped, excited. He hadn’t had a sand bath in over a month. He would love to make it so his wings didn’t itch anymore. 

Austin demurely ate from his master’s fork, chirping when it was requested and spreading his wings for the guests to touch. 

Then, it all went wrong.

The guests screamed as a bang shattered the dinner party. People were running, Austin gasped as someone's heeled shoe crashed down on his foot. Tears were quick to drip down his face, his feathered ears pinning back from the outward position his Master liked so much. Then, his leash went slack, the end falling to the ground. He looked up and saw his Master….. His Master was bleeding. The chair, his Master’s clothes, and the tablecloth were soaked in blood, all dripping from a bullet wound in his Master’s head. 

The world went white as panic sparked in Austin’s brain. Austin’s Master was dead. The owner of his literal world was gone. What was supposed to happen now? Who would feed him? Who would wrap his foot? There was…. No one. He wouldn’t get his warm bath or a few minutes in the sand room to preen. His feathers would dull, he would dirty, he would starve and thirst and die. He would die. He was going to die. His Master was gone and surely the world would crumble next. Surely Austin should drop dead. Masters didn’t just die, they-

“Up we go,” someone said, picking him up. Someone with big dark wings that shimmered in the light. Austin turned his sightless eyes and a dim part of his brain said this was one of his Master’s new guests.

“I’m Jayce,” the avian told him, turning with Austin in his arms. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Austin didn’t know what this man wanted. Was he being stolen? His Master told him to struggle if he was being stolen, but his Master is dead and Austin didn’t know how to take care of himself. He was just a pet. 

Austin chirped, confused and scared.

Jayce’s eyes darkened, not with anger, but with grief. “I’m sorry, little one. This should not have happened to you. 

Austin chirped again. He wished he could use words to ask the questions he had, but he was a pet. He didn’t know how to speak. He understood words. That was why he was so well trained, but he couldn’t speak them. He didn’t know how.

“No one is ever going to do this to you again,” Jayce growled, causing Austin to tremble. What did that mean!? 

With that, Jayce turned with Austin, hand tucking Austin’s hand close to his chest before leaving with another man, this one a yata’anu with grey fur. 

Austin didn’t know what was happening and started crying, his pitiful noises trained to be the chirps that his now dead master loved to hear. He mourned the loss of his warm bath and the chance to rest. He mourned his normal and his world now gone. He mourned his Master who would no longer be able to take such good care of him. 

How little did Austin know about how his world would change for the better. 

[green-eyed-whumpster]

My OC Universe: Rowan 95

Chapter 95 Summary: It’s been many years since Rowan and his father spoke. And circumstances were drastically different. Can Rowan handle this new event on top of all his other problems? (Tags: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long, @sky-or-something-idfk and @tears-and-lilies)

Trigger Warnings: PTSD whumpee, references to abuse, alcoholism, references to domestic abuse, threat of death.

Rowan couldn’t breathe. He had been promised a painful death the next time he and his father met.

“I swear if I ever see you again I won’t hesitate to wring your neck like the little runt that you are!”

“No…no, please,” He breathed, hitting the brick wall again.

“No, Rowan, I’m not…” The man sighed heavily and raised his hands defensively. “I know that you have no reason to be happy to see me, but I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you.” This voice was too soft, it didn’t fill Rowan with the dread it used to, and he almost would have preferred his father to strike him so he wasn’t waiting in dread for it to happen.

“Are you all right, Rowan?” Peter asked, moving in-between the pair cautiously.

“I’m sorry, Peter, but Rowan is my son,” The man said in his gentle voice. “We didn’t part on good terms, and I’m afraid I said some things I no longer mean.”

He doesn’t mean them anymore? 

But, how much? How much does he no longer mean? He said so much, how could he change so much?

“Do you want to get out of here, Rowan?” Peter asked carefully, stepping closer to the boy.

“I –“ 

Their attention was caught by the sound of the soldier scrambling to his feet to escape the consequences that trying to rape Rowan would bring.

“Oi! Get back here!” Peter immediately chased after the perpetrator, leaving Rowan alone with his father.

“Rowan,”

“Please, don’t come near me!” Rowan whimpered, reaching for Olivia, who was standing protectively at his side.

“All right, I won’t,” His father conceded, even taking a step back. “Will you please allow me an opportunity to explain myself? I want to justify my actions before you leave again.” His voice was so desperate that Rowan couldn’t even consider the many layers of confusion that were presenting themselves to him before he responded.

“Yes.”

You idiot. You massive, stupid, pathetic idiot! What were you thinking?

“Oh, thank you, my son,” Rowan didn’t like being linked with the man that had terrified him so when he was younger. 

“After…after you left I-no, I’m sorry, after I threw you out, there was no one who was there to look after me and clean up my messes. It was a rather severe wake-up call.” He admitted, scratching the back of his head. “First of all, I was entirely unfair to you, your whole life I blamed you for your mother dying, even though we both knew how likely it was that she wouldn’t survive your birth. I was cruel to you, I only hope - I can’t remember, but I was pissed off my skull for much of your childhood - I only hope I never severely hurt you, I never scarred you permanently.” Rowan shook his head softly and the man breathed a sigh of relief.

“That doesn’t mean you weren’t severe,” Rowan murmured nervously.

“I-I know. I don’t…I have no excuse for my behaviour, but once you were gone I realised how alone I was without you. My friends were nothing more than drunks who wouldn’t judge me, and no one else would associate with me. I blamed you for losing my wife, but,” He paused and looked up at Rowan. “You were really all that I had left of her. I had…I had sold all of her things to pay for the alcohol, and so once you were gone I felt like I had lost her all over again.” Rowan was disturbed to hear his father’s voice crack, and even more disturbed to find that his instinct was to try and step forward and comfort him.

“Without you supporting me I had no choice but to sober up. It was agony the first few days, but I deserved it. I hated you for leaving, even though I made you, accused you of abandoning me like Lucille had, even though I could never stand your presence.”

“You don’t drink anymore?” Rowan asked cautiously.

“No. Not a drop since the month after you left. I didn’t have the money, or the skill you had of exchanging odd jobs for money, sometimes a few people would pass me lying in the street and toss me a coin, but luckily never enough to afford liquor.” He chuckled shamefully and Rowan glanced up.

“In the street?” He asked. “What happened to our house?” His father began laughing and shook his head remorsefully.

“Nothing at all! I just felt more comfortable in the street. It was where I belonged. Homes were for families. I never had one.” He kept trying to catch Rowan’s eye but the boy was adamant that they didn’t meet again.

“Why aren’t you there, then?” Rowan asked softly, wondering where in the hells Peter was as he glanced carefully around.

“No one was going to give work to the abusive drunk that kicked out his own son!” The man scoffed. “There was no future there for me. Let alone the memories that clung to every paver of my wife, and my son, and all the terrible things I had done.” Rowan wanted desperately to believe his father, this man was so much more agreeable than the last one. 

“I drifted around a bit before settling here, I have a new family, now,” He looked up as his father showed off the dull silver wedding band that adorned his left hand.

“You…have a new family?” Rowan asked sadly.

“I do.” The man replied. ���But I never forgot my son,” He stepped forward to touch Rowan’s cheek but hesitated when he saw the look in the boy’s eyes. 

“I had...I always hoped that you had found somewhere better. Had begun a new life that could have made up for everything I put you through.” Rowan began tearing up and bit his lip harshly. “Has life treated you well? Have you been able to find a way to be happy?” Rowan rolled his eyes softly and scoffed.

“Obviously not.” 

He immediately cringed and leant back. His father had never tolerated that tone, or sarcasm, any type of defiance at all. And here he was being disrespectful.

What are you doing? Have you completely given up on life?

“Oh, my poor boy, I’m so sorry,”

He let out a cry when a hand rested against his cheek and looked up, frightened, into his father’s familiar, but much clearer eyes. 

“I’m sorry, you always deserved better.” When his eyes met his father’s, full of sympathy and shame, he finally cracked, tears breaking over his lashes as he felt the rough palm against his soft skin.

“How can I trust you?” He sobbed weakly, studying the man for any sign of malice that remained.

“I don’t think there’s any way to convince you right now,” The man said softly, lifting his other hand to cup Rowan’s face gently. “I prayed for your safety, and your happiness, and it breaks my heart that those prayers went unanswered. But now that I know you are alive, all I want is to make up for the awful things I put you through. I swear.” 

Rowan lifted his hands to his mouth to try and suppress the sobs shaking his chest and the man stepped closer, finally wrapping his arms around his child, gently pressing the boy’s head into his broad chest.

“I missed you so much!” Rowan whimpered against the thick shirt and curled into the embrace gratefully. It was hard to admit to himself that for a long time after he had been forced out he missed his father. It was hard saying goodbye to the only family he had ever known. Even if they weren’t a good family.

“I missed you, too, Rowan,” His father answered softly, rocking gently from side to side, rubbing Rowan’s back soothingly. “I’m so glad you’re all right, even if it took a while,” Rowan nodded weakly and felt his fingers curling into his father’s shirt.

This is all I ever wanted. I had spent days fantasising about my father, about him being remorseful. And now I have it.

But I don’t feel satisfied.

He pulled out of the embrace suddenly, like fire was licking at his heels, his eyes were full of fear when they rested on his father and he fell back against the wall.

“Are you all right, Rowan?” The man asked with concern and Rowan shook his head feverishly, eyes wide and afraid, hands shaking so violently he pinned them under his armpits to stop them, he wanted Peter. He didn’t want to be here anymore.

“N-no! No, go away!” He screamed in as furious a tone as he could manage – even though it came out as a petulant cry. 

“Leave me alone! You are a liar! You haven’t changed! You-you just want to trick me!” He felt his back sliding along the brick as he shifted away. “I won’t fall for it! I won’t! I’m done with people trying to manipulate me!” He fell pathetically to his knees and sobbed desperately.

“I don’t want to trick you, Rowan,” The man’s voice said softly over his hiccups. “But, I understand that this is a lot to take in since it’s been ten years since we last saw each other.”

“Ten years?” Rowan exclaimed, looking up despite his fear.

“You were twelve when I forced you out, weren’t you?” His father asked, crouching to match his level.

“No, I mean, yes, I was, but…I didn’t realise it had been so long.” He hadn’t thought much of his father in years, after the first he had more pressing matters to focus on. 

Mainly eating.

“Rowan!” He turned to see Peter approaching, quickly and slightly out-of-breath. “Are you all right? I’m sorry I left you again,” He fell to his knees beside Rowan and brushed the tears on his cheeks.

“John, what did you do?” He demanded, turning to stand up again.

“I simply told Rowan what had happened since the last time I saw him and told him how sorry I was for everything I had done to him.” The man explained solemnly, making no move to get up.

“Why is he so upset?” Peter asked defensively, pausing when a small hand reached into his.

“Peter, I-I’m fine, can we just go home?” Rowan whispered. “Please?” His voice broke as he begged and Peter’s anger dissipated immediately.

“Of course, of course we can,” He murmured, leaning down and helping Rowan to his feet. “Here, are these yours?” He reached for the quilt and the sewing kit abandoned when Rowan was first shoved against the wall and handed them to the boy.

“I am sorry, Rowan,” John said gently, watching from his distance. “That won’t change whether you forgive me or not. Although I hope you may give me an opportunity to prove it to you, whenever you are comfortable being with me again.” He hesitated as Rowan’s red eyes met his and sighed. 

“I would hate to lose you again.” Rowan’s face crumpled and he took a nervous step towards the man, eyes focused on his hands, watching for any surprise attack. He came a foot away and fearfully reached out to embrace his father once more before leaving.

It was unfamiliar, being hugged by someone other than Peter or Cordelia. His family. But shouldn’t his father be a part of that family? He felt the thick arms wrap around his shoulders and press his head gently against the man’s chest, rough fingers gently slipping through his hair.

“I missed you, Rowan,” John mumbled and Rowan grunted softly in reply, focusing on every place their skin touched, and the comforting smell that parents just seemed to exude. 

But once again the threat of what those arms could, and had, done to him ruined the moment, and he jerked out of the grip suddenly, blushing bright red from embarrassment.

“I-I missed you, too, father,” He admitted and John smiled at him.

“Whenever you like, my door will be open, and it doesn’t matter if you ever forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it. But as I said, I don’t want to lose you again.” He promised and Rowan nodded.

“I don’t…I may not see you for a while, I never, I didn’t think –“

“That’s all right. I only want you to be happy.” Rowan felt his lips twitch up slightly as he regarded the man from his past in a new light, far more comforting when he felt Peter’s protective hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, father.” He murmured, leaning into Peter’s touch.

[acryofpain]

Whump Rewrites: Part 2

Excerpt from chapter 4 of John Dies at the End by David Wong.

•••

An hour later, I pulled my Hyundai into Shire Village. I couldn’t get a hold of John anymore, and every few minutes my phone would ring and then stop before I could answer the call, as if he was trying to contact me but failing. I resigned myself to the hope that whatever I had to do next would be apparent from a look at Robert’s place.

His trailer was one of only two that had yellow police tape over the porch and door, and the other one looked as if it had been abandoned months ago. I parked off in the grass across the lot and walked toward Robert’s abode. Nobody was there, or at least nobody that had come in a car. I knocked for some reason – brain still a little foggy and knee throbbing, producing a slight limp in my step – then went in.

They’d cleaned up the blood and guts. I guess that shouldn’t have surprised me, since I should have known they wouldn’t just let entrails collect flies for twelve hours. Still, I recognized the room from the photos I’d been shown, the scene of Robert’s spontaneous explosion. The carpet was a few shades off from its original colour and the walls were forever stained a faded reddish-brown. And there was a smell, awful and organic, sharp and rotten.

I decided right then that I would leave and go home and watch some TV and drink a –

Thump.

I nearly pissed myself. It was a faint sound, from the other end of the trailer. The kitchen end. I stepped into the hall, expecting to see a flame-shooting vampire, a squid-clown hybrid, the Devil himself.

Nothing. Probably just wind. A micro-earthquake. Sudden termite migration.

THUMP.

It was heavier this time, violent. Adrenaline set my muscles on fire and, like a dumbass, I moved toward the sound. Definitely from the kitchen. In seven steps I crossed the Robert Marley estate and my shoes hit linoleum. I looked around at the counter, floor, and appliances, searching for anything that might’ve been out of place. No elves, no gremlins, no nothing. Not yet.

Dead silence. I realized I was holding my breath and had gotten a little dizzy, still not completely recovered from earlier. I realized I was not holding a weapon.

THUMP.

The refrigerator.

THUMP.

No. The freezer section at the top. The little door up there rattled with the sound, like it was bumped –

THUMP.

– from the inside.

Get out. Get out, David, go, go go, go, GO GO GO

With one last thump, the freezer door flew open. A small, shiny, frosted metal canister zipped out and bounced off the panelled wall above me before falling to the carpet, bouncing, and landing next to my shoe. I steeled my courage, then turned and ran my ass off.

In three flying strides I’d made it to the exit, but a half second before my hand would have ripped the knob off the front door, I happened to glance out the window and see a sedan parked out there where none had been before. Plain white, too many antennas.

Cop car.

Somebody getting out.

Morgan fucking Freeman.

He lit a cigarette outside his vehicle, ten feet away from me. I spun around, eyes searching for another way out, but even if there was one it would mean stepping over the possessed jar or whatever had come out of the freezer. It was now sitting on the tile, rocking back and forth, steaming faintly.

No thanks.

A glance back outside. My cop friend was still there, leaning against the car and blowing smoke into the air like some emotionally damaged black-and-white movie detective.

Pock!

A hollow snapping sound. The canister hopped an inch off the floor and so did I when I heard it. It did it again, jumping higher, and I let out a low whine of frustration.

The rumble of an engine emanated from outside and I had the vague idea that maybe, just maybe, Morgan had changed his mind and was now leaving. But with a glance out the window I spotted the news van that was pulling up next to the cop’s cruiser, and he was straightening up, looking a little more than disgruntled with his visitors.

POCK! POCK! POCK!

All of a sudden being arrested didn’t seem so bad – even if it had to be on live TV – and I should have ducked outside with my hands raised high in surrender. Fear kept me velcroed to the doormat, though. I could hear the muffled voices of Morgan and a news reporter having a terse, forced-politeness contest, the detective very adamantly insisting that he had no comments about the tragedies that had taken place inside.

Without warning, and with an incredible, ear-popping snap, the canister erupted, two tiny black pebbles shooting out and ricocheting chaotically before clattering to a stop on the tile. My heart was trying to punch a hole in my sternum at that point and I craned my neck around to examine the scene outside, the cop turning right to me at that exact second to gesture at the trailer. I threw myself back down, cursing under my breath.

He saw you. Did you see the flicker of surprise on his face? He caught a glimpse of your head. Dumbass.

The two pebble things now sat innocently on the ground, unmoving. Waiting.

You know what those are, right?

Nope. No idea.

You know Robert had a stash of that soy sauce shit.

Faint voices, arguing outside.

He couldn’t just cram it under his bed. That shit moves. It has a will, an attitude. It bites.

And then I realized, all at once, what I had come here for. John led me here, of course. When I was on the stuff, the little hit in my bloodstream I got when it attacked my thigh, I could communicate with John. When it wore off, I could not. My one chance to save him lay directly before me, wicked as it apparently was. I picked up the pill-shaped... things, looking like two coal-flavoured Tic Tacs in my palm.

Suddenly, they launched themselves at me. I didn’t realize my mouth was hanging open until that moment and if I had known I would’ve closed it, I assure you. In an instant one was skipping off my tongue and I coughed, hacked, convulsed. It forced itself down my throat and I could feel it wiggling all the way down to my gut. I clamped my lips shut and slapped my hand over my mouth for good measure, pushing myself hard against the wall behind me as if that would keep the sauce away. The second pill landed on my left cheek and then there was pain, a bright, acidic burn that seemed to radiate down to my toes, mixed with the weird, buzzing itch that comes specifically with tearing flesh, the feel of whole nerve endings being torn from their roots and tossed aside. I tasted the copper flow of blood in my mouth, felt something moving against my teeth.

The fucking soy sauce was digging a hole into my fucking face.

I fell flat on the floor, thrashing and rolling like I was having a seizure. I forgot where I was, who I was, everything in my mind vaporized by a hydrogen bomb of pure panic. My face and shirt were wet and sticky with blood and I felt the second intruder crawl across my tongue and down my esophagus, my stomach wrenching with disgust. I heard footsteps outside the door now, felt relieved, knew I would throw myself at Morgan and beg him to take me to the emergency room, to pump my stomach, to bring in an exorcist, to call in the Air Force to bomb this whole town into radioactive dust and bury it under sixty feet of concrete.

And then, calm.

Almost zen.

Officer Freeman stepped through the door and stopped cold at the sight of me. I climbed awkwardly to my feet with my hand over my cheek as he glanced me over. He had two red plastic gasoline cans with him.

He’s gonna burn this place down.

And he’s gonna burn me with it.

He set the cans at his feet and lit another cigarette, likely because he hadn’t been able to finish his last one when the reporter – who he must’ve finally gotten to screw off – interrupted him. He smoked in silence for a moment, squinting past me like I wasn’t even there.

“So,” I began slowly, grimacing as the movement pulled at the hole in my face. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

He shook his head. “Same as everybody. You’re trying to figure out what’s going on. I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing with these here gas cans.”

“I think I know.”

His gaze landed on the blood dripping from my jaw and trailing down my wrist, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. I took it timidly and pressed it into place, stifling a noise of pain.

“Thank you. I, uh, fell. On a... drill.”

He didn’t acknowledge my lame excuse and picked up one gas can to screw off the cap, then started splashing the thick, rancid liquid around the living room. I watched him for a second before taking a tentative step toward the door. In a blur of movement, Morgan whirled, whipping his hand out. A revolver was now aimed right at my face.

“You leavin’ already?” I quickly shook my head. “Good. Help me.”

“I’ll, uh... I’ll be glad to. But first I want you to tell me what happened to John.”

“I figured he was with you.”

“Me? Didn’t he, you know, die?”

“Sure did. He was in the interrogation room and Mike Dunlow says to him, ‘look, we got dead or missing kids here so you’re gonna stay in this room until I’m satisfied or you die of old age.’ Your boy, when he hears that, he falls over dead. Just like that.”

“Yeah... that sounds like John.”

“And now he’s gone. Hospital says his bed is empty and there’s no sign of him anywhere.”

I carefully picked up the other gas can and Morgan put his gun away. My shoulders relaxed ever so slightly and I began to soak the couch, eyes flicking over to the cop every few seconds to make sure he wasn’t going to try and catch me by surprise. Gasoline dripped from the wallpaper around me, squished in the carpet at our feet, permeating the air. I eyed a half inch of ash that was hanging from the cop’s cigarette, watched apprehensively as it fell onto the floor.

It went out with a soft hiss.

He opened a closet and doused the contents inside and I half-heartedly splashed a few more things before I went down and tossed the half-full can into one of the bedrooms. The survival part of my brain was scrambling for a plan to get the cop’s gun or at least get it away from him, but in my current clarity of mind I understood the certainty of it all. Morgan was going to shoot me and leave me here, no matter what I did. I was just waiting for it now. It was an odd feeling.

The man moved over to the door, blocking my exit, and gestured to his gas can which seemed to be almost empty. “Pick it up and toss it out the door, into the yard.”

I hesitated. He put his gun on me again and I did as I was told, and he pulled out his lighter once more to ignite it. The gasoline fumes burned at my nose now and I was getting lightheaded, a bit unsteady on my feet. Man, I was tired. I hadn’t even slept the night before and then there’d been all this shit to deal with.

“Y’know, everybody’s gotta ghost story,” Morgan said out of nowhere. “Or something of the sort. And nobody thinks it’s real because they figure no one else saw what they did, but everybody’s got their story. Everybody.”

He gazed into the flame at his hand, like he was mesmerized by it. His gun was pointed downward and with a soft click his thumb pulled back the hammer, as if on its own.

“Now what I think,” he muttered to his lighter. “I think all that stuff is both real and not real at the same time. And I think the people who see it and the people who don’t are both right. They’re just like two different radios, switched to different stations. And I think somehow, through some chemistry or magic or voodoo, that faux Jamaican guy opened the door into Hell itself. He became the door.”

I nodded, opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“And me,” he continued, stare hardening. “I intend to close it.”

He raised his gun, and shot me in the heart.

[cetaceans-pls]

Kinktober 2017: (9) Edgeplay

I Would Walk 500 More

What’s this? A love story over a year in the making?

Voltron Legendary Defender, Sheith, Item Check Love AU

-

It’s embarrassing as all hell, to go “I knew it was love when you handed me a hot cup of coffee and I dropped it all over myself because I forgot I have a crap prosthetic where my right arm used to be but you didn’t even blink and just got me a bunch of tissues and made me another cup.”

Convenience store clerks don’t deserve the harassment of having customers coming in and falling in love, especially not at 2:30 in the morning, especially  especially not when the customer is Shiro and spilling the coffee has his nerves so on edge he’s on the verge of a panic attack. 

(It’s a rough night).

Keith, blessedly, is at least semi-familiar with Shiro’s trials and tribulations. Being inadvertent neighbours for the past month has helped; Shiro being forthright and bringing a little fruit basket to his only immediate neighbour in the tiny apartment complex to apologise in advance for any strange noises that might come. Keith had said it wouldn’t be a problem;

He’s acting like Shiro isn’t a problem now. Shiro has a death grip on the fresh cup with his left hand (his only good hand), and that seemed to inspire Keith into action. Keith pulls up the divider and tugs Shiro behind the counter, through a door, and to the informal little office space. He forces Shiro into an old, squeaky office chair, and goes to rifle through his locker.

Shiro tries to focus on what he can see, tries to control his breathing, tries hard to not lose his mind. The soft whumph of something landing across his shoulders startles him a little, but it’s just Keith, laying his motorcycle jacket on Shiro.

It looks ridiculous, probably; Barbie trying to dress an Incredible Hulk doll, but the weight is reassuring, Keith’s intense stare even more so.

“Just take your time. I’m going to go restock the instant ramen, but I’ll leave the door open.”

It’s been a while since someone’s idea of helping him didn’t involve making him talk things out.

Feels warm and rich and a little strange; tastes like hot, freshly-brewed coffee and fits like an undersized jacket on an oversized man.

Barely a month into their acquaintanceship, and Shiro’s mildly overcome in the first throes of a crush.

-

They meet in spring, and a season full of Shiro stopping by the convenience store on Bad Nights and Keith stopping by in the mornings with just barely out-of-date cooked foods and theirs is now quite the admirable friendship.

Keith’s got a bit of a temper, a bit of a bite, but he is unwavering and he is honest. He doesn’t ask for more than Shiro will give, doesn’t really ask for anything at all, so Shiro’s not even sure what he gets out of this relationship aside from homework help and the (questionable) privilege of having Shiro relaxed enough around him to go without his prosthetic when Keith comes over.

No looking a gift horse in the mouth, though. It’s a sweltering hot summer’s day, vacation in full-swing for most students, but Shiro’s a beleaguered graduate student. It’s noon and his room is boiling hot as he stares at his laptop and prays for some insight from the statistics gods re: some sweet, sweet data analysis.

Our Lady Of Variance chooses to answer with a different kind of variable; there’s a knock at his door, and it’s Keith. 

“You haven’t left your flat in 2 days,” the man announces matter-of-factly. “Get changed, we’re hitting the beach.”

It takes way too long for Shiro to understand what’s being said to him, and when he does it mildly horrifies him (no big deal, he’s spent much of his adult life in a constant state of mild horror). “Keith, no, buddy, I can’t get my prosthetic wet in the sea, it’s gonna rust.”

The reply is pretty much instantaneous. “Then don’t take it with you.”

That mild horror? It’s escalating. He has to be shirtless, and armless? It probably doesn’t show in his face, he’s way too good at a poker face, but his heart is pounding right there in his throat, for all to see. “But... My arm. It’s. It’s the only arm I’ve got left there.”

Keith shrugs. “I can be your right hand man.”

It’s only been 3 months, Shiro yells in his head, face completely neutral. And being his right hand has a terrible fuckin’ track record.

Breathe, Shiro, breathe. “I can’t.... Not now. Sorry, Keith.” He mourns it, mourns what might have become an almost-romantic beach date.

They stand in silence facing each other for a while, before Keith seems to figure something out. “We can break into the school swimming pool. I have a copy of the keys from when I used to work in security, you can bring your arm or you can leave, and you can dress however you like. I don’t give a shit, but neither of us are staying in our rooms in this shitty heat. Your brain’s gonna melt right out.”

Oh, geeze. Shiro swallows a few times, because it feels like if he opens his mouth to talk right now, he’ll hurl up his heart, and not even Keith could possibly be willing to deal with him after that.

It’s a hell of an option, and Shiro finds it more and more appealing. “Would you mind if I kept a shirt on in the water?”

Keith flashes a sharp grin. “My only rule is to at least move further away if you’re about to pee in the pool.”

Shiro’s offended. “I would never!”

“That makes one of us. Now just go change already.”

It’s agony and bliss; Keith in just broad shorts, the cool chlorinated water in the heat.

Yearning’s a soppy word, but floating on his back in the pool, prosthetic safely tucked away in his bag and occasionally bumping into Keith who’s doing the same, it’s about all that Shiro can do to yearn that this easy, easy friendship continues.

-

Autumn comes, dragging in her wake his second semester. It’s off to a better start than spring; when it’s not too hot and not too cold, his stump aches less, and now that he’s gotten used to his advisor and school itself, his stress levels aren’t at ceiling-height.

He still stops by the convenience store pretty regularly, laptop in tow. He knows all of Keith’s co-workers by now, and the 3 night-time managers are all mothers trying to fit in work amongst looking after their families, and oh, how they dote.

Shiro’s not super used to it, has always been brought up to be fiercely self-reliant. Sometimes it’s a little overwhelming, because they can get really rather touchy when they’re missing their kids and Shiro’s there on a rough night looking like a soaking wet puppy, but those times Keith runs interference as best he can, once even spectacularly pulling an entire shelf’s worth of potato chips to the ground to get attention away from Shiro.

“It’s no big deal,” Keith had said. “You would have done the same for me.”

This is true, of course. They’re both students at the university nearby, and Shiro makes an effort to meet up when they have empty slots in their schedule; Keith’s finishing his undergraduate thesis and he’s still undecided between furthering his studies and getting a job, so Shiro shares what he knows as someone who’s done both. Once, when Shiro had followed Keith to the administrative office to help Keith book a meeting with the career guidance counsellor, things had gone a little bit south with a clerk insisting that Keith wasn’t eligible for the service since he was a scholarship student, and Keith getting increasingly agitated as the clerk harangued him in front of the entire office for not even reading the fine print in the student’s guide.

It probably wouldn’t have come to blows, but it might have come to words that could land Keith in hot water, so Shiro does the only thing that without a doubt can de-escalate any situation.

He’d reached under his coat with his left hand, fiddling with straps and ports, and just as the arguing voices reached their peak, he unhooked his prosthetic and let it slide right out his sleeve, landing on the ground with a heavy whump.

Shiro hadn’t freaked out, not even a little. The thick fabric of the coat kept the sleeve’s shape; as long as he tucked the end into the pocket, he wouldn’t even need to re-attach his arm before he can get out of here. So making a face that was mildly aghast, he had looked down at his prosthetic and convincingly warbled his voice as he exclaimed (way too loudly even in his own opinion), “Oh my god.”

The clerk had echoed it, but Keith was already bending down to grab Shiro’s arm (oh, were it but attached to his body!), turning around and brandishing it like a club of guilt at the man on the other side of the counter. “Are you just going to let me schedule the meeting, or would it be better for me to take my friend out of here,” he growled as he waved the arm a tad dramatically, “but then leave him one hand down just so that I can come back and argue with you some more?”

Paler ‘n a ghost, the man had handed over a form to Keith along with a time slot, and Keith just barely deigned to thank him for it. Keith had filled it in and slid the paper back, before tugging Shiro out, still techinically holding Shiro’s hand.

They’d gotten as far as the low-key haunted and consistently empty bathrooms on one of the upper floors before Keith had let go of of Actual Shiro, to then fully wrap his arms around Arm Shiro and proceed to laugh so hard Shiro actually got worried.

“What the hell was that? You some kind of gecko? Sense danger and then drop a limb? Fuck.” Keith had had tears in his eyes by then.

Shiro had smiles, still a little jealous of his prosthetic. “Guess that’s my Halloween outfit all figured out.”

In summary, there is not a detachable limb nor a bag of junk food that they would not drop to the ground for each other. Shiro’d take a hit for Keith, probably. This close to the edge of his terrible, all-consuming feelings that he’s been skirting for months now, Shiro thinks that for Keith, Keith who’s always got his back and will always hide away one 4-cheese macaroni gratin for him to have for a late-night snack, there isn’t much he wouldn’t take for Keith.

He’s a hopeless man dancing on a thin wire, Shiro thinks, and he’s a terrible dancer.

Hopefully, desperation can keep him going so that Keith doesn’t find out that Shiro’s a barely-controlled no-good hound dog, and oh, the leash is fraying terribly.

-

Winter is rough, cold, unpleasant, all the usual adjectives used by people who aren’t her biggest fans. Shiro knows that logically his joints can’t possibly be getting iced over, it’s not even dipped below 0 yet, but it’s miserable. 

He’s miserable, and not a heavy wool scarf and warm gloves and long johns under his pants help him leave his winter funk. His therapist says it might be Seasonal Affective Disorder, but Shiro’s got enough regular sad on his plate that unless pushed, he won’t be admitting to having SAD on top of it all too. 

It drags on him like the night keeps hold of the sun; lingering, holding him down long enough that everything’s off-kilter. In a distant sort of way, Shiro knows he’s getting stressed over due dates, and that he’s fundamentally a man who needs sun on his face to feel that everything’s going to be okay.

Shiro’s as calm and measured as he can manage on his convenience store runs, but this is his first winter on his own sans his right arm but plus hideous scars, and he’s just constantly on edge.

Keith had kept his silence through November and most of December, only insisting that they meet for Christmas day.

Shiro’s grateful, because the holidays are frankly an extra type of awful when you’re alone and unpleasantly sad, but Shiro’s irritated because he just wants to lie under his heated blanket in his room and stare at the ceiling.

Keith had kept on insisting, and it’s such a rare sight that he finally relents. Keith was usually happy to support Shiro even through bad decisions, but he had put his foot down when in a fit of all-encompassing misery Shiro had said he was going to quit school and maybe just work at the convenience store too until he died (Keith had called up Shiro’s therapist after ‘comandeering’ Shiro’s phone, and that was how Shiro had a 2 hour long conversation with Doctor Takizawa in the backroom of a 7-11 at half past midnight), and he’d put his foot down now too.

So Shiro had forced himself to clean and neaten up his house, good enough for company, and even makes the effort to pick up a little Christmas cake, with a log house made of chocolate. The candles cheer him up, even if the dark sky outside at just 5 damn p.m. gets to him. He’s making tea when Keith lets himself in with the spare key, holding a large box in his hands. “I have a present for you,” Keith announces, before he’s even taken off his shoes.

It’s a sweet enough a moment that Shiro manages to pull up a smile, all the way from who even knows where, to tell Keith thank you. They head to the main living space, and Shiro pours them teeth.

Music plays in the background, Shiro leaving his Youtube playlist playing. It’s mostly soft folk, good for meditation, good for winding down when he comes back from exerting himself at the gym. They both just listen in pleasant silence, getting through their cake, before Keith starts getting antsy and none-too-gently starts poking Shiro’s leg with his present.

“All right, all right,” Shiro relents, finally, pushing over his own gift to Keith. “I’ll open it now, okay?” It amuses him to find that the gift appears to be wrapped in about 2 dozen flattened paper packages that were meant to eventually house nuggest. He tears it open, to find..... a massive.... light.....thing.

“Keith?”

“It’s a light therapy box. I checked the internet and it said if you’re sad, uh, S-A-D SAD, getting more light might help. The site said you should figure out how to use it with advice from your doctor, but it might be good for you.”

Shiro doesn’t know what to say. Keith’s a goddamn star, and he’s gotten him a literal box filled with light. It’s hard to resist cradling the light box like a sweet, awkward puppy, and he only barely manages to ignore his urges. “You shouldn’t have, Keith, this looks really expensive.”

Keith just rolled his eyes, tearing open his own present and making a deep, rumbly satisfied sound to find a pair of beautiful leather driving gloves, so that Keith can have a winter-version of his go-to fingerless gloves that always threaten frostbite at this time of year. The gloves are jet-black with red trim, made of leather so soft Shiro had almost wanted a fair for himself. “I wanted to. If I thought it would help, I’d buy you light every year in winter.” He pulls on the gloves to see how they fit, and it’s some Excalibur-and-Arthur bullshit, honestly, how perfect they are.

Keith reaches across the little table they’re seated at, to hold Shiro’s jaw between his leather-clad. “You’re worth doing these things for,” he says slow and clear, like Shiro’s a little dim and Keith’s just trying to make him understand.

He’ll beat himself up for it later, Shiro really will, but his reaction to the stern/soft touch on his face had left him so painfully keyed-up it made his head spin as he leaned more heavily into the touch.

Keith is so close, and so far. The light box is heavy in his lap, but a Keith’s touch is so gentle he’s quite sure he’s losing his mind.

Shiro’s going to do it, he’s really going to do, he’s going to tell Keith now and settle it once and for all.

Dancing man’s sick of the edge.

Shiro pulls Keith’s hand further up his face, so that he can press it against his cheek and take pleasure in the touch.

It feels like something’s on the edge of happening, and Shiro just...wants to lean in and-

Suddenly Keith’s pulling away, cursing and patting himself down for his phone. He’s brusque, borderline-rude to whoever’s talking, and when he hangs up, his scowls are deeper than trenches.

“You okay?” Shiro asked, having swallowed his confession. 

“3 people called in sick today, and they wanted me to come in half a shift earlier to deal with the rush of people doing last-minute shopping. I’m sorry, Shiro, I have to go.”

Keith looks as mournful as Shiro feels, but Shiro just shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, I can put the cake in the fridge and we can have the rest of it when you have time. You should go and get ready, Keith.”

Keith still looks conflicted, and if this were a romance novel, Shiro would’ve described it as a man torn between desire and duty.

But it’s not a romance novel, unfortunately, and really is a face touch that much weirder than their frequent shoulder pats?

Shiro shouldn’t put Keith’s actions into romancin’ words. It’ll be okay if all he can manage is a quiet long-lasting unrequited love as Keith’s friend; he refuses to be selfish.

So he smiles and waves as Keith heads to the door, almost late, but not so late that he can’t duck in to give Shiro  a hug. 

“Make sure you talk about that light thing with your doctor. And don’t work so hard, it’s Christmas.”

“Tell that to yourself, bud, I’m just going to be hanging out under the kotatsu and eat instant ramen.”

Keith snorts, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “Don’t go too wild.”

“No promises. I get wild when I eat too much salt.”

Shoes on, Keith’s got his hand on the front door. When he turns to look at Shiro, it’s with an expression so ridiculously fond Shiro reflexively tries to fold his arms.

(He can’t, he hasn’t actually let go of the light).

“Come by later. I’ll make you the last Christmas special peppermint latte we have in the store.”

Great, and also could you please touch my face again? Shiro does not say. He just goes “I will. Thanks for everything, Keith.”

“Embarrassing,” Keith says, but he still springs for another hug, and Shiro figures that like it or not, if Keith keeps on being this unbearably good to him, the confession’s going to happen. He can’t really hold it in anymore, regardless of his intentions.

It’s gonna happen.

Just not today.

-

They come full-circle on one day in early Spring, more or less. Shiro’s stressed with reports, and the stress agitates him into, funnily enough, even greater heights of stress, and he just needs to get out. So he stumbles out of his flat, still in pyjamas because at this point there is nothing left to him that could surprise anybody on the night shift.

When the chime rings to announce that a customer’s come in, nobody looks surprised that it’s Shiro in fuzzy fleece pyjamas and a warm overcoat. Shiro heads straight for Keith’s counter, and they don’t even say ‘Hello’, because Keith’s already turned around to get him a cup of coffee.

“Here,” Keith says. “You’re not looking good.”

“Do I ever?” Shiro asks, reaching for it-

-and knocking it all over the counter with the goddamn hunk of shitty plastic that’s supposed to mean that he’s okay that he’s lost his arm but obivously it’s not because he can’t really even type with it and he can’t even grab a cup of goddamn coffee without spilling it like some child and-

Keith clapping Shiro’s face between his hands bring him out of mid-spiral, and Shiro comes back into himself, unpleasantly slow. “Sorry,” he forces out, because he really is. The counter’s going to smell of coffee again, and there’s already a little bit of a stain on the cash register from the last time (has it actually been a year already?)

Keith doesn’t let him go. “3 days ago, a drunk office worker came in here, asked for help looking for the hangover meds, and then threw up on my shoes. Coffee’s fine. You’re fine. Okay?”

He really isn’t, Shiro knows he isn’t, but Keith does make him feel better, that one’s beyond a shadow of a doubt. Keith’s still holding his face, in a death-grip but gentle, and the only sound is the steady drip-drip-drip of coffee on counter becoming coffee on the ground.

Keith has that frown on his face, the one that means that he’s unsatisfied with something and he’ll be working to make it better some way, somehow. 

Keith already really helps to make Shiro better, that’s also something Shiro doesn’t doubt. He settles a little more into himself, into feeling Keith’s warmth leeching in through his cheeks (boy always runs so warm, even in the dead of winter), and he controls his breathing until his panic isn’t controlling him.

“Thanks, Keith.” Shiro figures he’s as good as he’s going to get for tonight, and tries to move back from this half-lean across the counter.

Keith doesn’t let go.

“Uhm, buddy?”

“What?”

“I’m all right now, and we’ve gotta clean up this mess I made.” 

Keith doesn’t even glance down. “That can wait, and this is nice anyways.”

That certainly is true; it’s so nice that Shiro’s beginning to suspect that if there’s a kink for having one’s face touched, he’s definitely got it. This is way too nice, and he sighs a little, settling lower and closing his eyes.

They startle open when he feels something gently bump against his head, to see that Keith’s also leaned in, now insistently pressing their foreheads together even as he continues to stare at Shiro, trying to figure out if Shiro’s really okay or not.

All at once, it’s too much. His hand’s shaking, as Shiro rests them over Keith’s, nerves shot to hell and flying on adrenaline. He’s terrified, but he’s hit his limit and there’s nothing left to give. “I. I’ve got something I need to tell you, Keith, and I need you to know that I don’t have any expectations, or anything, just, I won’t hold it against you if you turn me down. Okay?”

Keith nods, mashing their bangs together. “You can do it. I’ve got you, so c'mon, just come on.”

And Shiro does.

--------

A/N: Lord fuck this was a struggle and a half. Edgeplay..... where it’s sorta just Shiro..... edging himself. What a mess. Hope you like it anyways!

[feckyeswriting]

Ask meme: Z X V U S R L I D (prove it) C

Send me asks about my fics / writing~!

Z - Major character death–do you ever write/read it? Is there a character whose death you can’t tolerate?

Oh man, I feel like people are SO AFRAID of major character death. We’re in this bubble of fic (or maybe it’s just gotten bigger since we’ve escaped FF.net’s awful publishing system and I was never part of Livejournal) where there’s a lack of purely plot-driven fic. Or, not even “purely plot driven” but even just ship-fic that has a plot beyond THEY FALL IN LOVE IN XYZ SCENARIO. So there’s just not a lot that I find where there’s even a chance FOR anyone to die, if that makes sense?

But I would love to write it. I have a plan for one fic where that may happen. It’s tough though. You need the right buildup otherwise it’s just bleh. My only fic so far with that warning is “Catch and Release” and it wasn’t even Kylo or Rey who died, so I don’t consider myself having truly executed a major character death fic that could wreck hearts.

X - A character you enjoy making suffer.

I would like to say all of them because it’s TRUE. I love making everyone suffer, even if it’s just through an awkward encounter at the mall. So far I’ve whumped the most on Rey just because I could? And it kinda fits with her backstory and putting her into situations with the FO. 

V - A secondary (or underrated) character you want to see more of in fic?

*slams fists on keyboard* …I don’t actually have anyone that I can think of rn where I feel adamant about this?

In Divergent fic there’s a lot of putting the secondary characters into really rigid roles. Will is The Boyfriend to Christina who just treats Tris like a dress-up doll. Tori gives advice and isn’t as badass as VRoth tried to make her (and failed a bit) in Insurgent. Lauren is either a New Bestie for Tris or her romantic rival. 

So I guess just… I want people to break them out of those boxes? Use other characters in those roles (make OCs that aren’t just stand-ins for yourself to romance the character of interest) and give the real secondary characters a purpose that helps the plot in another way.

U - A pairing you might like to write for, but haven’t tried yet.

I need to fill a Reysma prompt for TA hahaha. That should be fun. I also kind of want to go back to The Hollows (an awesome book series which I need to read the last two books and haven’t because dammit I hate the end OTP) and write some Ral because dammit they should have had a chance. 

S - Any fandom tropes you can’t resist?

BEDSHARING. Who can resist? I can’t. It’s universal.

I also can’t resist “retelling the beginning of Divergent” because I just want it to be done for MY SHIPPPPP.

R - Are there any writers (fanfic or otherwise) you consider an influence?

Hmm. I think in my personal writing I’ve been fairly influenced by Kim Harrison and Jim Butcher. I madly respect @tamorapierce for her fantastically built worlds. I’ve kind of lost respect for some of the fanfic authors that I used to talk about so that list is currently empty. There are some like… “classic” fic authors in the A:TLA fandom that I respect and love, but I don’t know their names anymore bc they don’t write. I also had drawn inspiration from the author of “Dark Times” in the SW fandom (treenasthal or something similar) but they update even less frequently than I do so I haven’t re-read anything of theirs in about 2 years now. 

L - What’s the weirdest AU you’ve ever come up with?

That I’ve come up with personally? Oh god. “Sunburn” was hilarious but I had gotten the inspiration from TA. “Sharpest Lives” is my crackiest AU, so that certainly could count. Within my Divergent fics, I guess the whole Colorfest idea is pretty weird and probably the farthest stretch for being a viable event in the canon universe. I tend to not write totally weird AUs.

OH I KNOW ACTUALLY. I haven’t written an actual fic for it, but I had answered an ask from @lucidlucy with a tentacle porn style AU that I turned into “the hunt for the wild space whale” Kylux/reylux concept. I would love to actually write it but ugh. Where is the TIME?

I - Do you have a guilty pleasure in fic (reading or writing)?

There are certain interests that I have when reading lmao. Some are not for polite company so I’ll keep those to myself ;DI do SO adore a well done “good guy is on the bad side” fic. Dark!Rey fics are my fave. Or just any sort of “darkest timeline” sort of feel like how I’m doing Ash and Torment. There’s something about that kind of fic that’s really interesting to me? Probably because we all KNOW what it’s supposed to be like and just want to see how things will ever get closer to that sort of feel.

D - Is there a song or playlist associated with Prove It?

Copied from the other ask

There is! I’m not fancy enough to bother with 8 tracks or actually make the playlist flow, but I have a Google Play playlist with songs that I put on when I’m writing almost anything Eris. Usually shuffled. Here’s the link and I can make a fancy post about the songs for the 98% of the world who doesn’t pay for monthly GPlay service when I’m back home with a mouse :3

C - What character do you identify with most?

I know this is going to sound SO DUMB but I love Eric. My Eric, that is. Taking his aggressive side and toning it down to a realistic character (instead of a caricature of a villain). Because I’m just… I’m that irked? And annoyed? All the time. And if I had earned the role of Leader in a post-apocalyptic era, I too would make my nemesis’ twerp kids fight to blackout like he did with me in our training days. I’m just not a people person unless I KNOW those people and ugh. Yeah. 

I’m not industrious enough to be Rey. I like the concept of people but I don’t know if I could be selfless like canon!Tris to die for a whole city. 

SO MANY QUESTIONS I LOVE IT MOAR MOARRR